Scryer's Gulch

by MeiLin Miranda

  “Me first, what?”

  “You’re the sheriff. You have a responsibility to the town. I understand that. My father did some questionable things in the course of his career, but always for the protection of his men and his city.”

  “So your father really was a cop?”

  Annabelle had lied very little on this assignment, and she answered truthfully, “He really was. He died when I was ten, in a fight with one of the local gangs. Don’t change the subject, Mr Runnels. We’re talking about you, and why I should trust you.”

  “Very well.” He abandoned his somewhat hostile, solid stance, and sat down on the corner of his desk; he kept his arms folded. “I can think of one big reason why you should trust me. You know about Rabbit.” At her look of shock, he added, “Guess you hadn’t thought about that.”

  “No, sir, I hadn’t.” She swallowed hard. If word got out about the deputy, there’d be a lynching. Werefolk, even werefolk who turned into nothing more frightening than big rabbits, were unwelcome anywhere; one bite, and you were one of them. They could not be allowed in civilization. She knew of murders to keep such secrets hidden. In fact, she should have turned in Rabbit herself.

  It might be time to tell John after all. She could use an inside man, someone who knew the lay of things in Scryer’s Gulch better than she did; she hadn’t counted on her role as schoolteacher to be quite as limiting as it had turned out to be.

  Into the heavy silence, a voice from the corner cell like a creaking hinge said, “I can vouch fer him, Miss Annie! He treated me fair right till the moment he stretched my neck!”

  “Thank you, Aloysius,” sighed John.

  Episode 27: No Offense Intended

  “I suppose we’d better sit down if I’m going to tell you why I’m really here,” said Annabelle, taking the chair in front of John’s desk. “Where do you want me to start?”

  John kept his seat on the corner of his desk, bracing himself on the desk edge with both hands. “Well, we’ve squared away your fatherless childhood.”

  Motherless, too, if it matters, she said to herself; aloud, she said, “I was thinking of a more recent beginning to my life, if it’s all the same, though I’m expecting you won’t believe me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She straightened in her seat, raising her chin to a proud angle. “I’m a Treasury Agent.” John’s already intent gaze sharpened further, finally resolving into the incredulity she’d anticipated. “I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t,” he answered.

  “You don’t have to.”

  John crossed his arms and stretched his legs out to the side of her chair to cross his ankles, boxing her in against the wall; on instinct, she calculated the best way out should she need to make a run for it. He tipped his chin down. “Have to admit it’s an unusual occupation for a woman like you.”

  “Unusual doesn’t mean impossible, Sheriff,” she said. “Think about it. Who besides yourself would ever suspect a woman?”

  “Brinkerton has female agents--”

  “Yes, and how many? And what kind of women are they?”

  “Not your kind of woman. That’s my point.”

  Annabelle pushed the chair back; John drew his legs in and unfolded his arms as she stood up. “You haven’t offended me. I’m just going to show you what kind of woman I am. Where can we do a little target practice that’s out of the way?”

  “It would not be wise for you and I to be seen heading into the hills together unchaparoned, Miss Duniway. And folks might hear the shots, decide to check them out. Not likely with all the gunfire around here, but likely you’d be concerned.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  Simon Prake walked away from the jail as quickly as he could. Never, ever again would he let anyone--not the Sheriff, not his father, not anyone--read another’s ethergrams. He picked his way along the muck of Main Street, trying to avoid getting too much mud on his shoes. Was there ever a time when he’d been that humiliated, that ashamed?

  He looked ahead to the ethergraph office. Tony Bonham stood there, consulting his pocket watch. Simon felt his cheeks begin to burn. Ask and ye shall receive, sayeth the prophet, he said to himself. To Bonham he said, “Step aside, you’re blocking the door.”

  “Are you always so polite to your customers?” said Bonham.

  Simon rattled the key in the lock. “I’m always polite to customers. As far as I can tell, you’re only loitering.”

  “Loitering? Oh no, I have business for you,” smiled Tony, following Simon into the office. “I’d be on my best behavior were I you, Mr Prake.”

  Simon lifted the counter gate, stepped through and slammed it back down; he shed his coat and hung it on the coatrack behind him. “What do you want, Mr Bonham?”

  Tony lounged against the counter and handed over a folded paper. “A ‘gram to my brother Junior. He’s in a bit of a fix. Again.”

  “I really don’t care. One dollar.”

  “Put it on my father’s tab.”

  “I thought you and your father were done sharing,” muttered Simon as he began transcribing the message onto an ethergram slip.

  Tony’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Prake,” he said. Tony straightened, tugging his waistcoat down. “Speaking of tongues in heads, how is Mr Morton?”

  Simon took care not to snap the nib holder in his hand and kept his eyes on his paper. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “So sad when love ends.”

  “I can only imagine your grief on your stepmother’s wedding day.”

  “The current Mrs Bonham is my father’s problem,” said Tony. “I wonder whose problem Mr Morton is.” Tony reached across the counter and tapped Simon on the wrist, stilling his pen mid-dip in the inkwell. “It’s a good thing for you, Mr Prake, that I intend to save that embarrassing little scene I stumbled upon for something more important than prompting respect for your betters.”

  Simon flicked Tony’s finger away and resumed writing. “I’m plenty respectful of my betters, when I’m around them.” He paused; unable to resist, he added, “And I’ve told you before, you saw nothing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think your parents would call it nothing. I don’t think the townfolk would call it nothing. I’m sure the New Valley Printing Ethergraph Company wouldn’t call it nothing. And if Mr Morton heard you call your little affair ‘nothing’ he’d be wounded immeasurably.”

  “One dollar, Mr Bonham, and then you’ll please to leave my office,” said Simon in a thick, barely controlled voice.

  Tony looked him up and down, smiled lazily, and slapped a silver dollar on the counter. The watch in his pocket chimed; he pulled it out and consulted the time. “I do hate to leave our conversation on such a sour note, but I must waste not the hour.” He snapped the case shut. “Good day, Mr Prake.”

  Simon followed Tony to the door, slammed it shut, locked it, and flipped its sign to “Closed.” He drew the shades, then walked back to the office, leaving the counter gate open. Once at his desk, he buried his head in his hands and wept.

  Episode 28: A Demonstration of Skill

  “Oh, no! No, no, no, Annie, what have you done?” said Misi, pacing atop the bed. “Why did you tell him? Oh, Dark One help me, this is not good.”

  Annabelle was bending over an open trunk on the floor of her bedroom, carefully removing a panel to reveal a hidden compartment. “You worry too much, kitty.” She pulled out a case containing a set of oddly delicate pearl-handled revolvers, and their gun belt. She removed the guns from their case, cleared their chambers, and methodically went through her routine.

  “You just cleaned those.”

  “Can’t be too safe,” she said, finally loading the cylinders. Annabelle buckled the belt around her waist and placed the guns in their holsters; she practiced a quick cross-draw, and pulled on her least-tailored traveling coat.

  “I don’t understand why you’re wearing your
holsters,” said the cat. “Just carry them in their case. Besides, why do you even want those? You have etheric guns.”

  “I know,” she smiled, patting her handbag. “I’m taking them, too. Don’t think he’s ever seen one. The holsters--I suppose I can’t resist a bit of dash. And I have a point to make.” She looked around the room, and opened the window. “Misi, I’ll need you to play lookout and maybe cause a distraction if it looks like someone might be too interested in me. Scoot.” The demon cat reluctantly climbed out the window.

  Annabelle hurried out of the Hopewell as discreetly as she could. She made as if to go to the schoolhouse, but L. Luther Lockson spied her and came hurrying across the street, planting himself in front of her. “Miss Duniway!” cried the newspaperman. “Whither away?”

  “Whither...? Oh, just to the schoolhouse, Mr Lockson,” she said. “I have some work to do there. Excuse me.”

  Lockson stayed in her path, oblivious to her clear intent. “My reason for inquiring is thus: you are attired as if for an Arduous Journey!”

  “No, sir,” she said, “merely to the schoolhouse. Now, please--”

  “Why, Miss Duniway, you don’t mean to leave our fair municipality, do you? We should be Desolated! were you to depart for other climes!”

  “No, I’m not leaving,” she said, trying hard not to glance around her. “Mr Lockson, please--”

  A great commotion broke out. A team of horses in the middle of the street reared and screamed, the driver struggling to control them. Dogs barked; men yelled; other horses shuffled sideways and snorted. “What’s a-do?” cried Lockson, hurrying toward the noise.

  “Thank you, Misi,” Annabelle muttered to herself. She slipped away down a short alleyway and off toward her rendezvous.

  John waited in the canyon, wondering if this was such a good idea. A Treasury Agent? Was she joking? He’d considered many possibilities, but Treasury Agent hadn’t even been in mind. Why would the government send a woman to do a man’s work?

  He began to scan the hills; this was a good place for an ambush. He hefted his rifle and looked for cover.

  A noise at the canyon’s mouth, and here came Annabelle, carrying a large handbag and swathed in a traveling coat. “You seem a little tetchy, Sheriff,” she called.

  “Only taking sensible precautions. I’m feeling a little foolish, actually. The war taught me better than to show up in a canyon by myself like this.”

  “You picked the spot,” she shrugged. She set down the handbag. “You didn’t think I was leading you into a trap, did you?”

  John echoed her shrug. “Can’t be too careful.”

  Annabelle stooped over the handbag and pulled out an expensive-looking leather case. “What are we shooting at?” she said.

  “The bottles on those rocks down canyon.” He pointed to an assortment of whiskey, wine and tonic bottles, all sizes and colors, placed here and there among the rocks. “Those your guns?”

  “No,” she said, opening her coat to reveal her gun belt slung low on her hips, “these are my guns. Call it.”

  John squinted. “Let’s make it easy,” he said. “Start with that green wine bottle.”

  “That?” she snorted. “Make it interesting. The green wine bottle and the tonic bottle about 20 feet to the left of it.”

  She drew her guns almost faster than John could track; both bottles exploded into shards, and he stepped back in astonishment. “Pretty sharp shooting, Miss Annabelle,” he said, tilting his hat back on his head.

  “You next,” she said. “The brown whiskey bottle.”

  John grinned. “Make it interesting.” He raised his lever-action rifle to his shoulder, and five bottles hit the rocks in fragments, one after another at lightning speed.

  She dipped her head. “We’ve established bona fides, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And why would we need to do that?”

  “I wanted you to see I can shoot with a regular gun.” Annabelle knelt down and opened the leather case.

  Inside were a pair of etheric pistols, the first John had ever seen apart from engravings. “Are those really...? Where did you get them? They cost a small fortune! And you can’t possibly shoot with them!”

  “You try first,” she said, handing one over grip-first. She pointed downrange. “The wine bottle to the right, mid-height.”

  John nodded. “All right, then. I’ve never worked with one before, though.” He aimed at the bottle and reached into the pistol with his mind, as he would to wind his clock or spark his firestarter. He found the hermetauxite hidden in the gun, concentrated on a clear picture of the bottle, and poured all his ability into the ore. He pulled the trigger.

  The bullet in the chamber flew almost silently from the gun, heading for the bottle in a clean, straight line. It was true, it didn’t matter how you aimed: the bullet would take a bead on the target if you pictured it clearly.

  The problem for the Sheriff was, the bullet stopped several yards short and fell to the ground with a meek clink. What a disappointment! “Huh. Not much of a gun.”

  “Not much of a wielder,” she snorted. “Call it.”

  John peered at her dubiously. Let’s make it really interesting then, little braggart, he thought. “The clear tonic bottle, the little one, far end of the canyon.” She lifted the beautiful gun and took casual aim.

  The bullet hissed as it rocketed from the barrel. Down range, the medicine bottle burst into a shower of sparkling glass. The rock face behind it disappeared into a cloud of dust and debris as the bullet embedded itself; when the dust dissipated, a new, rather large hole had been made in the canyon wall.

  Annabelle spun the gun on its trigger guard and blew non-existent smoke from its barrel.

  John stood stunned. “Yep,” he finally drawled, “Pretty sharp shooting, Miss Annabelle.”

  Episode 29: A Demonstration of Knowledge

  You might wonder why the parts where I talk directly to you are written so different from the story parts. Well, I’ll tell you. I talk into an ethercam, tell the story that way, and my granddaughter in St. Louis transcribes the thing and sends it back to me. She’s an English major at Washington University. She cleans things up for me, makes it sound like more of a story and less a babbling old man.

  But she can’t get to it all. There are some parts that I have to tell you on my own. I do my best, and that’s all I can do. You’ll just have to put up with me.

  I put up with you, after all.

  For instance:

  Someone out there asked about etheric guns--how they worked.

  I’m not surprised you don’t know. What with gun control, you’ve probably never seen one outside of an EV show or a flicker. If you’re a cop, or if you’ve done a hitch in the military, you’ve probably fired one--maybe even some of the big artillery guns, if you’re good--but now that the draft’s ended I bet not many of you’ve served your country like that. Not like my generation.

  I suppose my generation fought, though, so yours didn’t have to. Or that’s what we hoped.

  Anyway, this time you’re going to get a little background on the etheric gun.

  How etheric guns worked in Annabelle Duniway’s time and how they work today is different, of course. How can I put it in terms you’d understand--okay, try this:

  A good analogy’d be the difference between Simon Prake operating his ethergraph, and the spellphone you’ve got in your pocket. The basics of etheric guns are the same as for your spellphone. You reach inside for the hermetauxite, picture the thing you want to hit, just like you picture the person you want to call, and pull the trigger. In the old days, you had to be a pretty strong wielder to send and receive messages ethergraphically, or you had to have ridiculously expensive equipment--a chunk of hermetauxite the size of a Buick might make a weak wielder able to pick up a message or two through the ether, but who had the money for that?

  No, you had to have the right combination, the “golden tripod” you probably heard it called at what passes for scho
ol these days. You have to have the right ore; the right etheric engineering; and the right wielder. Simon could operate his ethergraph so well because he had all three. He had high-grade hermetauxite; he had the right engineering, from the engineers at New Valley; and he was a strong natural wielder. Simon could have operated the ethergraph with lower-grade hermetauxite; he was a brilliant engineer and could have boosted its strength himself, for example, and he had wielding power to spare. His name’s on a lot of patents for things we use every--

  But I digress. We’re not talking about ethergraphs and spellphones, we’re talking about guns.

  The “golden tripod” works with guns, too, though. In that canyon shoot-out, you saw the difference: one of John’s legs wasn’t long enough to stand on.

  It wasn’t the hermetauxite. Annabelle’s pistols held high-quality mineral, and good-sized chunks at that. “Government issue” was worse then than it is now, believe it or not--most folks had to buy their own gear, and Annabelle was no exception--but being a Treasury Agent she actually got access to stuff most people could never get near. The hermetauxite that went into her equipment and guns came straight from the Treasury’s vaults. The best, and she didn’t have to pay for it.

  It wasn’t the engineering. The spelling on those guns was pretty much state of the art, and spelled ore contains the same set of instructions for everyone, unless it’s been set to work otherwise.

  No, it was the wielding. Annabelle had it. John didn’t.

  To be fair to John Runnels, Annabelle Duniway was one of the best wielders of her day. Couldn’t spell much more than a simple latchkey, but wielding--she was something else. I often think on what she’d do with some of the contraptions we have nowadays. She’d be tops in artillery--probably end up a three-star general, or teaching at West Point, or both.

  But she was a woman, and that kept her confined to certain areas of life. Even then, though, she couldn’t be ignored, and when Daniel Howman spotted her--