The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  “Thomas.” I inclined my head at the saloon. One of the windows stood open, releasing a wisp of cigar smoke into the night.

  He sighed. “This just isn’t our day. I don’t suppose you recall whether anyone was sitting near that window?”

  I did recall, only too well. “Bowie Bill Wallace. Wanted in three territories, I’m told.”

  “Of course.”

  “I guess there’s no way of knowing whether he heard.”

  “Nor anything to be done if he has. Let’s just get the horses settled and head back to the hotel, shall we?”

  It was busy there too, a few of the treasure hunters having splurged on rooms instead of bunking in at one of the boardinghouses in town. “We should try to get ahead of this crowd tomorrow,” I said as we stopped outside my door. “Before there’s nothing left in that cabin to find.”

  “Agreed. We’ll leave before dawn. Just remember to drink some saltwater before you go to bed, in case Mr. Upton should decide to pay another visit.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. I don’t think I can handle any more excitement tonight.”

  “It has been an exhausting couple of days, hasn’t it?”

  “Still enjoying it?” I asked wryly.

  “Immensely.” He took my hand, turning it over under the light. “Though I do wish our evening had been less eventful. That’s going to be a nasty bruise, I fear.”

  Already, dark smudges were forming on my wrist, and I couldn’t help shivering, recalling how close my attacker had come to wrenching the knife free. “I had my revenge, anyway.”

  “You certainly did.”

  Something in his voice made me look up. He stood perilously close, head bent toward mine, his pale gaze drifting idly over the contours of my mouth. Warmth crept into my cheeks. I had only to lift my chin, and—

  “Ahem.”

  We both started. A middle-aged woman in a traveling cloak stood at the top of the stairs, a dramatic arch of her eyebrow conveying her disapproval at this shocking behavior. Thomas dipped into a formal bow as she passed, and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  “Good night, Miss Gallagher.” My hand was still in his, and he raised it to his lips, eyes shining with laughter.

  “Good night, Mr. Wiltshire.”

  A door opened and closed; the woman disappeared into her room, leaving the hallway deserted. Thomas hesitated a moment. Then he lifted my hand again, this time pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist. He lingered there, his breath thrilling along the delicate skin. “Good night,” he said again, this time in a whisper.

  By the time I’d closed the door behind me, my knees were weak, and my pulse frolicked like a day-old colt. There’d been something dangerous in Thomas’s eyes a moment ago. Something I’d never seen before. It was terrifying in the best possible way.

  My thoughts churned deliciously. I daydreamed my way through disrobing, through unpinning and brushing my hair. I turned down the lamp and pulled the curtains, and then I climbed into bed, still picturing that forbidden look in Thomas’s pale eyes.

  I forgot all about the saltwater.

  * * *

  The sweat on my lips tasted of blood. Or maybe the blood tasted of sweat; there was plenty of both streaming from my brow. I was sticky with it, drawing flies from every corner of the room. The drone of their wings blended with the ringing in my ears, a steady buzz that would’ve put me to sleep if I hadn’t already been asleep.

  I’m asleep.

  A fly landed on the tip of my nose. I tried to swat it away, but my arm wouldn’t move. Hadn’t moved in hours. My hands were past numb, and my legs too. Ropes are too tight, I thought. I couldn’t remember why there were ropes, but I could see them, banded about my chest and ankles, binding me to a chair.

  “Just tell me.” The voice came from behind me. Boots tolled against the floorboards as he circled around. “Just tell me and it’ll all be over.”

  I tried to speak, but it turned into a cough—a wet, bloody cough that left foam on my lips. Every breath scorched with pain. Vaguely, I recalled something to do with a shotgun, the butt end of it meeting my ribs. It seemed like the sort of thing I ought to remember clearly.

  “I’m going to find it one way or another,” he said.

  “You’re dreaming,” I rasped.

  I’m dreaming.

  “Am I? I might not have your touch, but I have ways of my own. I read, Ben. I learn. I have resources you’ll never understand, do you hear me? Look at me, goddamn it.”

  I tried to lift my head, but it was so heavy. The room spun on a sickening axis. Who is he? I felt as if I should remember. His face swam before me, unfocused, unrecognizable.

  “I’m through waiting on you to do the right thing. You’re going to die here, and for what? You don’t even need the money. You have more than you could ever spend. Just show me on the map, and you can be on your way. You can go off and buy a mansion and a yacht and whatever else your greedy little heart desires. You can live your life, and we never have to see each other again, do you hear me? Do you?” He was practically screaming now. His face was inches from mine, and the manic gleam in his eye struck terror into my heart.

  I tried to reason with him. “It don’t have to be like this. We can talk about it. If you let me go, I’ll—”

  “LIAR!” The gun he pointed at my face was my own, the silver-plated one with the pearl handle. His hand trembled so badly that the cylinder rattled in its frame. “YOU’RE A BASTARD LIAR!”

  Panic flooded my breast. I wriggled against my bonds—a useless, instinctive gesture. As if I hadn’t tried it a hundred times. As if now, weak and exhausted, with a six-shooter pointed at my head, I was going to miraculously break free and overpower my kidnapper.

  He leaned over me, and when he spoke again, the hysterical note was gone, replaced by an icy calm that was more terrifying still. “You’re the most selfish sonofabitch I ever met.”

  I tried to think of something to say. Anything.

  “Past time you got what’s coming to you.” He put the gun to my head and clicked the hammer back.

  I screamed.

  * * *

  Bang.

  I waited for the pain, but it didn’t come. There was only blackness—and then light, a searing glow as a lamp was lit, sending me scurrying against the headboard in terror. For a horrible moment I didn’t know where I was. Then Thomas dropped onto the bed beside me and I threw myself into his arms, drawing deep, shuddering breaths that were just short of sobs. “He shot me. He killed me.”

  “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe, Rose.” He repeated it over and over, rubbing my back as if I were a small child.

  An unfamiliar voice sounded from the doorway, startling me all over again. “What in blazes?”

  Thomas’s arms tightened around me. “She had a nightmare, but she’ll be all right. Terribly sorry for the fuss.”

  “What happened to the door?”

  “I’ll see that it’s repaired first thing in the morning. Now, please, if you wouldn’t mind…” Thomas’s voice smoothed out into a meaningless drone. I could feel myself being dragged back into sleep; it closed around me like quicksand, toxic and heavy.

  “Not yet, Rose. Drink this first.”

  A cup was pressed into my hand. I tasted salt.

  “That’s it. A little more.”

  I was falling backward, but slowly this time, gently. Darkness wrapped around me, warm and soothing, enfolding me like a lover. I felt safe, protected.

  I fell asleep, and did not dream again.

  * * *

  I woke to an empty room and a pounding headache. Sitting up, I found a cup of tea at my bedside, still warm, and a glass of water that smelled faintly of rotten eggs. Sunlight filtered between the curtains, and I could hear the murmur of breakfast going on downstairs.

  Damn. So much for getting ahead of the crowd. Ben Upton’s cabin would be swarming with treasure hunters by the time we got there, and it was my fault. I’d been careless, to
o wrapped up in silly romantic fantasies to take proper precautions against the ghost. Upton had taken full advantage, showing me the moment of his murder in horrific detail. I’d tasted the blood and sweat, felt the terror thrumming in my veins. I’d even heard the gunshot … Or had I? Twisting in bed, I found the door to my room propped against its frame, hinges askew. There’s your bang. After taking such care to spare my door the night before, Thomas had been obliged to kick it in anyway.

  “Another top-notch performance, Gallagher,” I muttered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

  I washed up and got dressed, huddling into a corner to avoid being seen through the gaps in my doorframe. Then I headed downstairs, where I found my partner loading up the horses. A wooden crate full of dry goods sat beside Luna, and a thick canvas roll had been strapped behind my saddle.

  “How are you feeling?” Thomas paused in his preparations to look me over. “Did you find the mineral water I left at your bedside?”

  I nodded sheepishly.

  “I’m sorry about the sulfur. Wang was out of the brand I usually prefer, but it’s better than nothing. I only wish I’d brought more. We’ll have to ration it carefully.”

  “Thomas…”

  He raised a hand. “No need. What matters is that you’re all right.” He resumed his task, stuffing a can of beans into his saddlebag.

  “That’s not all that matters. You should be able to count on your partner. Instead you’re having to rescue me all the time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. By even the most charitable accounting, I’m decidedly in the red in the rescuing department.”

  “How about the careless mistakes department?”

  He sighed. “Try not to be so hard on yourself. One can’t expect to develop a whole new set of reflexes overnight. Centuries ago, dealing with ghosts and shades was a matter of routine, but we’re brought up differently these days. Eventually, these things will become second nature to you, but in the meantime, you’ve been paired with a more experienced agent precisely in order to cushion the impact of such inevitable lapses.”

  Did he really believe that, or was he just making excuses for me? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  “In any event,” he went on, “I think perhaps solving Mr. Upton’s murder is a little more urgent than we thought. I’m assuming what you saw last night was the moment of his death?”

  I shuddered, which I figured was answer enough.

  “That suggests the ghost is impatient to see his killer brought to justice. Which makes him dangerous. He’ll keep trying to intrude into our minds, and if he becomes sufficiently aggressive, he may succeed in breaking through no matter what precautions we take. I’ve already wired for a medium, but I expect it will take several days, depending on who’s available and how far they have to travel. In the meantime, we now have two pots on the boil, which means we may be in for some very long days.”

  “Hence the canvas bedrolls?”

  “Tents, actually. Upton’s cabin is only a few miles away, but who knows where the day will take us? I’ve packed everything we can carry, just in case.” He patted one of his saddlebags, where a bulky rectangular object testified to the presence of Mr. Tesla’s luck detector. The pocket camera, meanwhile, had been strapped awkwardly behind his saddle. “I’d like to take some books along as well, but I fear that would be too much to ask of my faithful steed, and I don’t fancy navigating some of those canyon trails with a wagon.”

  We finished loading up and rode out. Already, the trail bore signs of heavy traffic; what was hard dirt yesterday had been beaten to mud, and a few new trails branched off the main route, left by riders keen to avoid the muck. I swore under my breath. “It’s going to be Grand Central Depot out there, isn’t it?”

  As it happened, I was only half right. It wasn’t just Grand Central Depot, but the whole of Fifth Avenue at rush hour, with a steady stream of riders clogging the trail in both directions. What could Thomas and I possibly hope to turn up this many hours later, with so many bodies polluting the scene?

  Finding the place wasn’t hard, but only because there were voices to guide us, and the smell of woodsmoke and bacon. Otherwise, the dense brush would have kept the trail well hidden, and the cabin was set far enough back that a casual passerby would never notice it. No doubt that explained why it had taken the better part of a year for someone to discover it.

  But discover it they had, eventually, and in the two days since, a bustling camp had sprung up around the place. Tents and bedrolls dotted the clearing like so many mushrooms. A few trees had been felled, and some enterprising soul had even erected a makeshift privy. A pair of treasure hunters cooked breakfast over a fire, while another poured a canteen of water over his head, sweating in spite of the cool morning air. The surrounding brush was alive with the sounds of digging, branches crackling and spades singing as they met the hard earth.

  “Good lord,” I murmured in dismay. “They’re tearing the place apart.”

  If there was any rhyme or reason to their searching, I couldn’t see it. Holes pitted the ground in seemingly random locations. Rotting logs had been pried up from the earth, and rocks too. They had literally left no stone unturned.

  We hitched up well away from the others, and Thomas made a great show of unloading his pocket camera. There was plenty of glaring and grumbling, but nobody seemed inclined to interfere with us, so we started toward the cabin.

  I’d taken only a single step before I sucked in a breath, my hand flying to my chest as a blade of cold knifed through me.

  “He’s here,” I whispered. “The ghost. And there’s something he wants me to find.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CABIN IN THE WOODS—THE BALLAD OF POOR JONAH—HELL WITH THE FIRES OUT

  “I can’t see him,” I said, doing my best to keep calm. “But I can feel him.”

  Thomas put a reassuring hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. Even if he tried to show himself, neither of us would be capable of perceiving him, not in our current state. Between the saltwater and the mineral water, we’re quite protected for now. Even so, we shouldn’t linger. Let’s see what the scavengers have left behind, shall we?”

  What they’d left behind was a right royal mess—not that the place had been a palace to begin with. Dry leaves and mouse turds littered the floor. The rafters were festooned with cobwebs, the walls spackled with bird leavings. A dingy bedsheet served as a curtain, and the furniture, such as it was, consisted of a crooked table and a pair of mismatched chairs, one of which was actually a stepping stool. For a moment I wondered if there’d been some mistake. What would a rich man want with a place like this? But no, this had to be Upton’s cabin. Certainly the treasure hunters thought so, because they’d torn through it like a tornado. Every cupboard hung open, and every drawer. The floorboards had been pried up, the mattress slashed. Even the stovepipe had a gaping hole in it.

  “One has to admire their thoroughness,” Thomas said dryly. “Do you recognize anything through the clutter?”

  I didn’t, and it wasn’t just the clutter. Everything about the place was wrong. The door was to my left instead of my right. The rafters were too low, the walls too narrow. “I don’t think this is it.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you sensed him?”

  “I do. It’s definitely Upton’s cabin, but…” I trailed off as a man stuck his head through the doorframe. He took one look at the mess, cursed, and withdrew, apparently deciding he’d missed his chance. I knew how he felt. “This isn’t the cabin from my dream. At least, I don’t think so. It was hard to see properly. Everything was muzzy. I think Upton might have been hit on the head before he…” I swallowed. Before we were shot.

  “It’s possible, though it might simply have been a feature of the dream. From what you described on the way here, it sounds as though you were deeply immersed, but not so deeply that you experienced the event exactly as he did. The detachment you mentioned, the confusion, suggests that you retained a part of your
self throughout.” He glanced over. “Which is terribly fortunate. If he’d dragged you down any further, you might never have awoken.”

  I shivered, resolving then and there to drink a glass of saltwater every night before bed for the rest of my life.

  Thomas did a slow tour of the room, taking in the details with a detective’s eye. “You’re right, the murder most likely didn’t take place here. No trace of blood anywhere.”

  “But if this isn’t the scene of the murder, what does the ghost want me to find?”

  “The gold, perhaps?”

  “Why would Ben Upton want a complete stranger to have his gold? Besides, if there was gold anywhere in this cabin, the scavengers would have found it by now.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t gold as such, but rather the means of finding it.”

  “You mean like a map?”

  “You tell me. Can you feel anything?”

  Mostly, what I felt was hungry—at least until my eye fell on the jars lining Bill Upton’s shelves, at which point I promptly lost my appetite. They were so black with rot that even the treasure hunters had left them alone. So I thought, at any rate, but when morbid curiosity got the better of me and I picked one up, what I found surprised me. “What on earth?”

  Thomas came over for a closer look. “I took these for preserves.”

  “So did I, but…” I showed him what the jar contained, which was … well, earth. “What kind of grown man keeps jars of dirt on his shelves?” I turned one of them on its side, but if there was anything buried in there, I couldn’t see it. “Do you suppose he stored earthworms in here, for fishing?”

  “Look here. They’re labeled, one through three. Soil samples, perhaps?” Thomas dropped his satchel on the table and started loading the jars inside.

  As I watched him, my eyes narrowed.

  Seeing my expression, he said, “One never knows when the most humble piece of evidence might come in handy.”