“I, too, seek an answer to a disappearance,” he admitted. “My investigation is the fulfillment of a pledge, in a manner of speaking.”
“Was this disappearance recent?” she demanded eagerly. “Can you tell me more?”
“There was—until a few months ago—a town of freedmen in Kansas called Glory Rest,” he said reluctantly. “I do not imagine you would think its disappearance important, or even worth investigation—”
She sat up indignantly. “Mister Fox! Pray give me some credit for human feelings! These missing—a whole town?—were as much human beings as you and I! Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, living in freedom for the first time! Tell me the details—everything you know is relevant!”
He blinked at her fervor. “If I am to do that, I must begin at the beginning. I am a scout for the Tenth Cavalry out of Fort Riley, Kansas.”
“Ah!” she said in satisfaction at the confirmation of her earlier hunch, “Buffalo soldiers! Brave men, and true—I have read a very great deal about them!”
He blinked in surprise. “Then you already know of the ‘Negro Soldier’ units—”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Of course, of course. Pray go on.”
“I am not myself a soldier, but a civilian contractor to the Army. One of the soldiers of the Tenth, Caleb Lincoln, asked me to go to Glory Rest to discover why his mother’s letters had ceased to arrive, and his Captain gave me leave to do so. Glory Rest is perhaps a hundred miles from Fort Riley. It is a small town—its inhabitants strive—strove—to make their living by farming the land. When I reached it, the town was completely deserted.”
Gibbons chewed her lower lip a moment as she mentally reviewed what she knew of that region. “Not an attack by the Apache or the Cheyenne?” she asked carefully. Both tribes raided, and destroyed settlements when they could. It was understandable—their land and their freedom were being destroyed by Anglo settlement—but it was also lamentable. Innocent people bore the punishment for the Federal policy that the first inhabitants of this land had no claim upon it.
White Fox shook his head. “The settlement was in great disarray, it is true, but I saw nothing I could not consider the work of storms or scavengers. There were a few small fires obviously caused by untended oil lamps, but I saw none of the signs that would tell me Glory Rest had been attacked by a raiding party. But every person who once lived there was gone.”
“And of course, since it was a Freedman Settlement, no one had reported it. Nor would it be mentioned in a newspaper.” She tried not to sound too disapproving, but—facts were facts, and it was better to stare them in the face.
He nodded. “Rather than return to the Fort with a greater mystery, I chose to seek answers. Roughly a week ago I was in San Antonio and heard that an entire cattle drive—riders and cattle both—had vanished. I am on the back-trail of that drive now.”
Gibbons felt the little tingle of excitement that marked a moment when she had hit a true trail. Although a few moments ago she would have waved cheerfully to White Fox’s departing back come morning, from this moment on he would have a difficult time shaking her loose from his heels. “And have you found anything yet?” she asked.
He shook his head again, clearly frustrated. “Nothing. The drovers and the cattle simply vanished, as if—as if your ‘phantom airship’ truly exists, Gibbons. As if the earth swallowed them, or they walked into another world. I have only this—in the last letter Trooper Lincoln had from his mother—”
Suddenly he broke off, turning to stare intently into the darkness. A moment later, Gibbons heard what had summoned his attention; the sound of a horse galloping toward them, as no horse should gallop on so uncertain a road in the dark—unless the case was dire indeed.
They both jumped to their feet. White Fox laid a hand on his pistol, and Gibbons snatched up the coachgun. Either the rider was an outlaw being hotly pursued or an innocent being pursued by outlaws.
And in either case, I want to get off the first shot, not the second, Gibbons thought.
CHAPTER TWO
In defiance of common sense, the further she got from immediate danger, the more frightened Jett became. She’d grown up with tales of the walking dead, for Mister Averell—Court Oak’s overseer—had been a Free Black and turned a tolerant eye to the conjure ceremonies held on the plantation grounds. The Court Oak servants had been happy to recount marrow-chilling tales of duppies and zuvembies for their young charges—but she’d never seen one.
She’d never expected to, either. The Llano Estacado was about as far from the moss-draped oaks of Louisiana as she could imagine. And Tante Mére swore the zuvembie only punishes the wicked, and I cannot believe everyone in Alsop was black with sin—
Jett didn’t know how long Nightingale had been running through the darkness when she saw lights ahead. The warm glow of a campfire, the paler light of kerosene lanterns. She must have made some movement Nightingale interpreted as a command, for he headed straight toward them. She barely had time to realize he might be running straight into a whole nest of zombies before he reached the edge of the circle of firelight. She recoiled in fear, and to her anguish, he took that as a signal to skid to a stop. She immediately realized why, for his head hung down and his breath whistled in his throat. His sides heaved as he struggled for air; foam dripped from his mouth and covered his withers. All she wanted was to spur him on, put more distance between herself and the zombies, but she knew Nightingale had given her his all, and to force him onward would kill him.
Standing before the fire were a—living—man and woman. The man took a step forward, obviously intending to grab Nightingale’s rein. Had the zombies followed her out of Alsop? She had to warn them.
“Stay back!” she gasped. “Get your horses—get out of here—run! Now! There’s”—her mouth spoke the word her mind still couldn’t quite accept—“there’s zombies behind me—a horde, an army of them—they’re killing everything they see! Run, I tell you—run!”
She knew she had to keep going—there was no safety in the darkness. She would lead Nightingale onward. Surely, surely he could walk, at least—anything to take them far from Alsop! She tried to swing down from the saddle, but her body would not obey her. She clawed desperately at the saddle-horn, but she could not close her fingers around it. She felt herself swaying, slipping …
Strong arms caught her and eased her fall. She tried to stay on her feet but only managed to sink to her knees. “Run,” she croaked. “Run.”
“You aren’t going anywhere, my good woman,” the female said briskly. “You’re in no condition to fight off a kitten, and as for your animal, I think he is in worse shape than you. He needs rest and water.”
If there was anything that could have snapped Jett back to full consciousness, it was the stranger’s words. Few had ever seen past Jett Gallatin to Philippa Sheridan, and none in a few moments by only the light of a fire.
“Miss Gibbons is right,” the young man agreed. “If there is trouble behind you, it cannot arrive quickly. And I think we have the means here to answer it,” he added with a glance toward his companion.
He held out a hand, which Jett used to lever herself to her feet. It was the hardest work she’d ever done to walk the few steps to the fire and seat herself on the wooden box the woman had been using for a seat. “My horse—” she said. She needed to see to Nightingale.
“Mister Fox will see to your animal,” Miss Gibbons said firmly.
“He can’t—” Jett began, but Mister Fox was already lifting her saddlebags from the saddle—and Nightingale let him. Has the world gone mad since sunset? Jett thought, numbly accepting the cup Miss Gibbons pushed into her hands. The coffee was hot and strong, and she sipped it greedily.
With a few deft motions, Mister Fox unbuckled the cinch and pulled the saddle from Nightingale’s back. To Jett’s great relief—for it needed to be done and she knew she could not manage to do it herself—he did not stop there but picked up her saddle blanket, rubbed Nig
htingale briskly dry, and then began to walk him.
“Now. Tell us what happened to you. And without any supernatural fol-de-rol, if you please,” Miss Gibbons said.
“If I had a dollar for every damnyankee know-it-all I’ve met in the Territories, I could buy them up at auction and get me a fancy box to put them in, too,” Jett snapped. “You think I’m lying, you just head back up the road to Alsop. You’ll see.” She reached up to tip her Stetson back and hissed in pain as her fingers brushed a bruise.
“You’re injured!” Miss Gibbons exclaimed.
“Had worse,” Jett answered gruffly, but Miss Gibbons was already leaping to her feet. As she hurried off toward the back of her wagon, Jett realized that what she’d first taken for a skirt was actually some kind of odd pantalets. “The world’s gone mad,” she repeated.
“Perhaps it has,” White Fox said quietly, as he passed her. Nightingale walked behind him as tamely as a dog on a leash. “But whatever the cause, your injuries were not inflicted by what Miss Gibbons terms ‘supernatural fol-de-rol.’”
“I told you to call me plain ‘Gibbons,’ Mister Fox,” Miss Gibbons said crisply, returning with a carpetbag in her arms. To Jett’s gratitude, not only was the first item she extracted from it a bottle of French Brandy, but she poured a generous measure of it into Jett’s coffee cup. When she’d finished, she soaked down a pad of cotton wool with the brandy and began dabbing at Jett’s forehead.
“I can tend my own hurts,” Jett snapped reflexively.
“Oh, don’t be unreasonable!” Miss Gibbons scolded. “I dare swear you didn’t even realize you were hurt until a moment ago.”
She made a grab for Jett’s hat and Jett removed it in self-defense. “She always like this?” she called toward Mister Fox.
“I cannot say,” he answered gravely, leading Nightingale back in her direction once more. “My acquaintance with … Gibbons … is only a few hours old. So perhaps we should all introduce ourselves. I’m a scout for the Tenth Cavalry. They call me White Fox.”
“And I’m Honoria Gibbons, and I will take it kindly if you call me ‘Gibbons,’ and not ‘Miss’ or ‘Miss Gibbons.’ And you are …?”
“Jett Gallatin,” Jett answered. “Folks who want a handle call me Mister Gallatin.” She hissed again as Gibbons poked a sore spot. Her neck and shoulders were covered with deep scratches, and she suspected she’d be black and blue in the morning.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby!” Gibbons said irritably. Jett endured further poking in silence until at last Gibbons sat back. “Nothing more I can do without better light. You’re from Louisiana, are you not?” she added, as if the two ideas were somehow related.
“I was,” Jett answered bleakly. She drained the last of her brandied coffee and, to her great relief, felt steady enough to get to her feet. She walked over to White Fox, who put the end of Nightingale’s reins into Jett’s hand—no matter how thirsty he might be, the stallion could not be allowed to drink until he’d cooled out. There was a paint mare browsing nearby, but no sign of a wagon team. She clutched the reins like a lifeline, then threw an arm across Nightingale’s withers to steady herself and continued to walk him. If the other two continued their conversation, their voices were pitched too low for her to hear.
At last, when he was cooled out enough that he wouldn’t instantly founder if left to himself, Jett walked Nightingale down to the creek for a drink. She knelt on the bank beside him and splashed water over her face and neck, then unbuckled Nightingale’s bridle and slipped it off. As he wandered over to the mare, she walked back to her saddlebags and saddle. Her shirt was in ruins, and bloody besides. She located her other “everyday” shirt and tossed it over the saddle while she shrugged out of her frock-coat and leather vest. She turned her back to the campfire as she pulled off the remains of her shirt. Gibbons and White Fox would see the muslin bandage wound around her torso to bind her breasts flat, but there was no help for it. And they already knew her secret. She pulled the shirt on and stuffed the hem into her trousers, then picked up her coat and vest and walked back to the fire. When she sat down, White Fox handed her another full cup of coffee, and she smelled the brandy in it when she raised it to her lips.
“I’d be dead now if it weren’t for Nightingale,” Jett said in a low voice. “He fought them off. I don’t know how many there were. I was in the saloon when they came, but they were all over the town.”
“You called them ‘zombies,’” White Fox prompted quietly.
“When the dead get up and walk again, that’s what we call them,” she answered tartly. “As you say, Miss—Gibbons, beg pardon, ma’am—I am, I was, from New Orleans, from Orleans Parish, and we understand hoodoo there. I’d always heard conjure could call a man up out of his grave and make him do his caller’s bidding, but closest I ever came was coming on a place … after. And if you don’t believe in it, you tell me what could take both barrels of a Winchester in the chest and keep coming. I saw that with my own eyes.”
“I don’t know, Mister Gallatin, but just because I don’t know doesn’t make those people you saw the reanimated dead,” Gibbons said doggedly.
Despite herself, Jett smiled at the other woman’s stubborn fierceness. “Reckon you might as well call me Jett so we don’t get ourselves all tangled up here,” she said. “But I’d take it kindly if you didn’t tell all you know about me,” she added.
“I would never betray a confidence,” Gibbons said severely. “You have my word.”
“’Preciate it,” Jett said. “There’s plenty of rannies who don’t take kindly to this sort of thing,” she said, waving a hand to indicate her outfit.
“Oh, men always object to being shown that a female is just as capable, just as competent, as they are,” Gibbons announced. “But perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me everything you saw in Alsop tonight. And—I am afraid we’ve eaten all the biscuits, but there are some beans left over from our supper, and I can open another can of peaches.”
“’Preciate it,” Jett said again. “Bacon and hardtack gets a might tedious after a time.”
By the time Jett finished her meal, Gibbons had extracted every detail of the attack on Alsop. Nothing Jett had told her seemed to have shaken her conviction that zombies did not exist. “Well, we’ll see in the morning,” was all she’d say.
“One way or another,” Jett said grimly. The devil we will. I’m not going back there, and you’re not going there either, you crazy female.
* * *
A short while later Gibbons announced it was time for bed, and White Fox went to check on Deerfoot and wash up. Gibbons offered Jett space inside her wagon, but Jett merely shook her head, saying she wanted to sit up for a while. Whoever had gathered the wood for the fire had collected enough for a week, and Jett had no worry she’d deprive Gibbons of a breakfast fire no matter how much she burned. Gibbons retreated to the wagon, dousing the lanterns as she did, and soon afterward White Fox returned. Without his hat, and with his hair slicked back and damp from washing, he looked much younger than she’d originally thought.
A Yankee’s still a Yankee, she told herself stubbornly. And I seem to have fallen into a nest of ’em. She couldn’t manage to work up her usual anger at the invaders who’d destroyed her home and her family, tonight, though. Bad as they might be, they weren’t as bad as the unquiet dead.
White Fox unrolled his bedroll under the wagon with a quiet word of good night, and soon the little camp was utterly still. Jett tossed another chunk of wood onto the fire and poured the last of the coffee into her cup, tipping the pot upside down to let the grounds empty. When she finished drinking, she took pot and cup down to the creek to rinse them clean. She’d put her vest back on earlier, but now she shrugged into her frock coat, wincing a bit. She was stiff and aching, and every movement told her about some new place she was bruised, but she knew if she didn’t move around, she’d just stiffen further. And she was alive. That was more than she’d expected earlier.
There
was a full moon tonight, and the sky was bright with stars. In the distance a coyote gave tongue, soon joined by a chorus.
Durned critters always sound like their hearts’re breaking, she thought, grumbling under her breath. Don’t know what they got to cry about. I never heard tell of a coyote army nor a coyote war.
When she came back to the campfire, she stacked the dishes neatly on one of the boxes, then went to collect the rest of her gear and put it in order. Her saddle blanket was still damp, so she hunted around until she found a branch sturdy enough to hang it from. When she took a seat by the fire once more, she shook out her ruined shirt and folded it carefully before tucking it into her saddlebags. Maybe she’d come across some town with a laundry where she could get it washed and mended—if it was worth repairing at all. If it wasn’t, she could always use it for rags.
She was relieved her cigarette case hadn’t been a casualty of her fight this evening. It was gold, with an ace picked out on the front in diamonds, and she’d won it in a card game. Someday she might need to sell it if she couldn’t raise the wind any other way, but until then it added to her masquerade as a prosperous and indolent gambler. She opened it and extracted a thin black cheroot, and picked up a bit of wood to light it.
Mama’d have the vapors to see me using tobacco, Jett thought sadly. And Papa’d whup me till I couldn’t sit down. Gentlemen smoked and ladies did not; before the war, she’d been too young to smoke when she’d been playing the boy. But it was one of the things that helped make her masquerade convincing.
She wondered sometimes if it was really a masquerade any more.
The fire popped loudly, and she jerked in alarm, heart racing. White Fox and Honoria Gibbons were both sound asleep—but they hadn’t seen what Jett had seen. She didn’t think she’d sleep at all, and she didn’t want to, either. She’d keep watch, and kill two birds with one stone. She turned so she was sitting with her back to the fire and stretched her legs out in front of her.
Novel - Dead Reckoning (with Rosemary Edghill) Page 3