by Erin Lindsey
“Indeed?” Thomas looked impressed.
Personally, I didn’t give a fig what Upton was looking for or how close he’d been to finding it. What mattered was whether the soil samples he collected would lead us to our killer and his pet monster. “Do you think you’ll be able to retrace his steps?” I asked Mr. Burrows.
“I’ll do my best, but it’s going to be a dreadfully slow process. Please tell me you have at least a rough idea where to begin.”
I nodded, spreading a map out on the table. “Upton’s cabin is here, near Painted Canyon. He was using it as his base of operations, so it stands to reason the samples were taken somewhere in the vicinity.”
“We’ll look for changes in the landscape,” Thomas said. “Plant life, geological features, that sort of thing, and sample them as we go. Once you get a taste for the terroir, as it were, we’ll have a good idea what combination of features we’re looking for, and we can adjust our course accordingly. But first…” He pushed his chair back. “We’ll need to sort out transportation.”
Mr. Burrows looked bored already. “Can’t you just commandeer a couple of horses?”
“We are not the cavalry, Burrows. Come along, and bring your pocketbook. I have a feeling anything we purchase will come high.”
He was right about that. As the only place in town with horses left to sell, the livery demanded an outrageous sum for two unremarkable ponies. Mr. Burrows wouldn’t have minded—he was rich as a Rockefeller, and the Agency would reimburse him anyway—but then he laid eyes on Thomas’s horse and began to feel he’d been very hard done by. Peacock that he was, it bruised his dignity terribly to have to “get about on some old nag” while his best friend looked positively regal astride his silver-and-black Missouri Fox Trotter. He fumed with envy the entire way to Painted Canyon, right up to the moment we reined in for our first soil sample.
“For the last time, he is not for sale at any price.” Thomas looked properly annoyed as he jumped down from his saddle—but secretly I think he was a little pleased, too.
“He has a brother,” I pointed out. “They’re practically identical. I’m sure Reid would be more than happy to sell him.”
Both men stared at me, and it was hard to say which of them looked more appalled.
Edith laughed. “As diverting as it is to imagine these two prancing through Central Park on matching ponies, perhaps we ought to focus on the job at hand.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mr. Burrows muttered as he tugged off his glove. “You’re not the one who has to go rooting through the filth like a wild boar.”
Thomas grabbed the hand drill while Mr. Burrows sank to his haunches and ran his fingertips over the ground, deciding on a spot for the sample. For my part, I slipped my Winchester out of its sleeve and scanned our surroundings. Hills crowded around us on all sides, barren flanks of clay fringed with the fresh greens of spring. They ought to have been beautiful, but all I saw was a hundred places to hide—and apparently I wasn’t alone.
“It’s very close here,” Edith said, her glance drifting anxiously over the corrugated slopes. “I feel a little like a rat in a maze.”
“I know what you mean.” Thomas and I had avoided being out on the trail since the day we fled Cougar Ranch. We were exposed out here, much more so than in town. On top of which, we were uncomfortably close to the spot where we’d been ambushed by Bowie Bill—and the alraun.
“You needn’t bother with the drill, Wiltshire,” Mr. Burrows announced. “It’s all wrong here.”
Thomas sighed. “Perhaps you ought to familiarize yourself with these trees. That way, we’ll know if they occur in the area we’re looking for.”
So Mr. Burrows handled leaves and bark and needles and berries, not to mention grass, sand, wildflowers, and anything else they could find scattered about. Then we moved on, only to repeat the ritual about half a mile away. Dreadfully slow, Mr. Burrows had predicted, and so it was. After the second hour, he started to flag, and by the third, he moved like one of Mr. Tesla’s automatons. Edith was bored to tears, and even I was starting to feel a little sleepy under the hot afternoon sun. Thomas, though, seemed to think we were getting somewhere.
“Don’t you see? You’re telling me the presence of juniper and cottonwood is slight. That suggests we’re looking for elevation, since wind and water would carry such material down into these ravines.”
Edith perked up immediately. “One of the later entries in the field journal complains about windburn. We’re sheltered down here in these ravines, but on a plateau, or out on the plains…”
“Which means we continue east. There, you see?” Thomas clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Courage, man. We’re getting—”
A gunshot rang out somewhere nearby, the report ricocheting off the hills. In a flash, Thomas and I had our longarms in hand.
“It came from over there,” I said, pointing. “But it’s a ways off.”
Another shot, followed by a quick answer, and a moment later, a full volley. Thomas cursed quietly. “I’ll go.”
Edith bit her lip. “Are you sure that’s wise? What if it’s the alraun?”
“It may well be. In which case, someone might be in need of aid.”
“You’re not the sheriff, Thomas.” Mr. Burrows looked uncharacteristically grave. “It’s not your responsibility.”
“I appreciate the concern, both of you, but I’ll keep my distance until I’ve a better idea what we’re dealing with. There’s a good vantage point up there.” He gestured at a nearby hill. “I’ll ride to the top and see if I can make something out. Rose?”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Just in case, you’d better take this.” He handed Mr. Burrows the shotgun. “It’s not going to do me any good at that range anyway.” So saying, he spurred Gideon and disappeared around a bluff.
We waited, listening anxiously to the occasional pop of gunfire to the east. It won’t be John and the others, I told myself. They’re well north of here. At least, they were supposed to be. But if plans had changed, or the Buckshot Outfit had found them, or …
Stop it. Edith and Mr. Burrows were staring at me, so I tried for a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just some hunters, or—”
Another gunshot, this one much closer. I took a few tentative steps down the path, listening.
That’s when the screaming started.
“Help!” The voice carried horribly on the wind. “Somebody help!”
CHAPTER 24
A GRIM REMINDER—ANSWERED IN BLOOD—THE UNEXPECTED VIRTUES OF EXPENSIVE COGNAC
Edith gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Is that?”
Mr. Burrows gave a curt shake of his head. “Not Wiltshire. I’d stake my life on it.”
“No.” She drew a breath, visibly steadying herself. “No, you’re right.”
The screaming went on, and for a few terrible seconds, I stood frozen with indecision. What if it’s a trap? Or what if it isn’t, and you leave your friends alone and vulnerable?
“Go,” Edith said. “We’ll be all right.”
“I do actually know how to use this,” Mr. Burrows added, hefting the shotgun.
Still, I hesitated. Then the voice called out again, and I knew I couldn’t ignore it. “Whatever happens, stay together.”
Now I had another decision to make. Going on horseback would make me easy to spot, but I’d be no good to an injured man on foot. I decided to split the difference, riding a little way up the trail before dismounting and leaving Luna to wander in the brush. The voice kept calling for help, though it was growing weaker. Even so, I chose my path carefully, keeping to cover as best I could as I made my way toward the sound.
A cluster of trees lay just ahead; behind it, I heard the babble of water. Custer Creek. Not two miles from where we’d been attacked last time. Swallowing hard, palms sweating against the rifle, I picked my way through the brush.
The ground sloped away toward the creek bed, and that’s where I found him: a lo
ne figure lying crumpled in the sand. “Sir?”
“Oh, thank God,” he sobbed. “Oh, thank you, Jesus.”
The fear in that voice plucked at my heart, but still I moved cautiously, watching for any sudden movements. I couldn’t see his face; he lay half on his side, his forehead pressed to the earth. I couldn’t bring myself to roll him over with my boot, so I lowered my rifle and reached for his shoulder …
He flopped onto his back and looked up at me, and in that same instant I felt both relief and guilt. Relief, because I didn’t recognize him. Guilt, because I’d taken my time getting to his side, and I knew the moment I set eyes on him that he wasn’t going to survive.
“It come outta the water. It was so fast…”
I’ll spare you the description of the poor man’s condition, except to say that I briefly considered putting him out of his misery then and there. Instead, I pressed my hands feebly to the wound, but he pushed me away with what strength he had left.
“Ain’t no help for it,” he said, his breath rattling in his lungs. “Just don’t leave me. I don’t wanna die alone.”
So I held his hand and prayed with him, even though every nerve in my body vibrated with fear. And when he passed, he wasn’t alone.
I’d just made it back to Luna when Gideon came thundering up the path. Thomas blanched when he saw me, but I put his fears to rest with a shake of my head. “It’s not mine,” I said, glancing down at the dried blood on my hands. “It’s … I didn’t get his name, actually.”
Thomas swung down from his horse and grasped my shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“I told you, it’s not—”
“Rose.” He took my face gently in his hands. “Are you all right?”
Tears pricked behind my eyes. “I couldn’t help him.”
“I know. I couldn’t help the man I found, either.”
“The alraun?”
He nodded. “A group of hunters opened fire on it about a quarter mile to the east. The fellow you found must have got in its way as it fled. It headed back toward the river, just like last time.”
I drew a deep breath, blinking the tears back and forcing myself to think like a detective. “Which means John is probably right about it retreating to deep water when it feels threatened.”
“Either way, it’s a grim reminder of how suddenly the creature can appear. Nowhere is truly safe.” He glanced back up the trail. “On that note, we’d better get back to Burrows and Miss Islington. I think we’ve had enough for one day.”
“But the cabin…”
“We’re close.” Reaching into his saddlebag, he produced the map. “Look here. We’re less than a mile from the place the Lakota were camped last year when their horses were first stolen. Do you remember how Little Wolf described it? Where the hills meet the prairie. That fits what Burrows is sensing, and what Miss Islington mentioned from the journal. All of which suggests that Kit’s cabin is east of here, somewhere along that ridgeline. It won’t be long now.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason to keep going?”
“Burrows is exhausted. We all are. Pushing ourselves too hard would be counterproductive.”
He’s right. Exhaustion led to mistakes, and that would only cost us more time. Besides, the sun would set within the hour, and the last thing we needed was to be out here after dark. So we collected our friends and rode back to Medora, filthy and tired and more than a little glum.
“I’ll report the deaths to the sheriff,” Thomas said. “And then I suppose we ought to get supper.”
I glanced down at the dried blood caking my hands. “I need a bath. You go on ahead.”
“I don’t think—”
“I can’t go to supper like this.” It came out more sharply than I’d intended, and I drew a steadying breath. “Don’t worry, I’ll be along shortly.”
The hotel felt unusually cold as I walked in. Had I caught a chill on the trail, or was the ghost of Ben Upton grasping at me, angry at our lack of progress in catching his killer? I tried to put it out of my mind, heading over to the front desk to order a bath. But the clerk was nowhere to be found, and when I rang the ball, no one appeared. Shaking off a grim sense of déjà vu, I headed upstairs.
The corridor was dark. The wall lamps had yet to be lit, and no light seeped under the doors. Even so, when I heard the footsteps behind me, I didn’t think anything of it. The only warning I had was a whiff of whiskey, and by then it was too late: The leather at my waist jerked as someone yanked my Colt free, and I felt cold iron pressed against the base of my skull.
“I been waiting on this moment for days.” Even through the slurring, I recognized the smug tones of Bowie Bill Wallace. He stank to the rafters of whiskey, but the gun to my head felt steady enough. “Pretty stupid to go wandering about by yourself. You musta known I’d be laying for you.”
“I hoped you’d done the sensible thing and got out of town.” It sounded a lot braver than it felt, and it didn’t earn me any points with Bowie Bill. He gripped my arm, hard.
“After what you done? That boy was my nephew.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
His fingers dug into my flesh, and he gave me a shake. “You mocking me, girl?”
“No. He was young, and nobody deserves to go like that. But it wasn’t my doing.”
“Might as well’ve been.”
How did you reason with that? Even sober, I had a feeling Bowie Bill wouldn’t be moved to reconsider. If I was going to live, I’d have to do something rash.
The Colt was pressed to my head, but I hadn’t heard the telltale click of the hammer being cocked. That gave me a split second, and I took it, driving my elbow hard into Bill’s ribs and twisting to grab the gun. Liquor dulled his reflexes enough that I managed to bat the revolver away, sending it skittering down the hall. But he recovered quickly, backing into a crouch and whipping out the blade that was his namesake. Just like that, for the second time in a week, I found myself facing an attacker with a knife. Only this knife was practically a saber, ten inches long and curved at the tip, with the sort of patina that testified to plenty of use.
The outlaw’s lip curled into a sneer. “Better this way anyhow.”
He lunged at me, quick and determined, like the striking of a snake. I met his forearm with my own, driving his attack out wide, just as I’d been taught. Again he came at me and again I turned him aside, this time deflecting the blow toward his body. Now came the hard part, and I did everything Thomas had shown me. I got hold of his wrist and twisted, but Bill didn’t drop the knife. I went for his eyes, but he expected that, batting me aside with his free hand. I tried to lock out his elbow, but he was just too strong. His arm wrapped around my waist, bringing the tip of his blade against my hip; only my leather gun belt prevented the point from plunging into my flesh. Panic arced through me, and for an instant I froze. Bowie Bill saw it in my expression, and sensing his victory at hand, he leaned in until his face was inches from mine, glaring into my eyes so he’d be the last thing I ever saw. He was so close now that I could smell the oil on the tips of his mustache.
That was a mistake, and you can probably guess what happened next.
I drove my knee between his legs, and though he didn’t drop to the floor, he did crumple enough for me to snatch his revolver out of its holster and crack him over the head with it. Now he did fall, and he didn’t move again.
The Five Points variation, I decided, really ought to be added to the curriculum.
I was winded and wobbly and just a little smug, which is probably why I didn’t hear the floorboards creak behind me. I did hear the click of a hammer being cocked, and had a terrible instant to anticipate my death before the gunshot sounded. But it wasn’t me that hit the floor, and when I spun, I found Mr. Burrows standing over the prone figure of one of Bowie Bill’s boys, a delicate wisp of smoke curling from the barrel of his derringer.
“There, you see?” Mr. Burrows lowered the weapon. “A perfectly competent shot.”
I couldn’t disagree. The outlaw howled and writhed, clutching at his wounded shoulder, but he’d live. So would his boss—long enough to meet the hangman, anyway.
We used a curtain sash to tie Bowie Bill’s wrists. That wouldn’t hold him for long, but it didn’t have to; already, I could hear someone downstairs shouting for the sheriff. The second outlaw had dragged himself up to a sitting position, but he was smart enough not to try anything, since Mr. Burrows and I each had one of his boss’s engraved six-shooters pointed at his head.
“Thank heavens you came along,” I said. “I thought you’d gone to supper.”
“I found myself in need of a drink, and I couldn’t bear another drop of that kerosene the saloonkeeper passes off as whiskey. Fortunately, I never leave home without a bottle of my own, so I came to fetch it.”
In other words, I owed my life to Mr. Burrows’s unreasonable affection for expensive cognac. Was there a lesson in there, or did the good Lord just have an odd sense of humor? Either way, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “You saved my hide. Thank you.”
“Not at all. You’d do the same for me.”
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “Why do I get the impression this isn’t the first time you’ve shot someone?”
I knew better than to expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Jonathan.” I turned to him, half exasperated, half pitying. “I hope you know you can trust me.”
He flashed a thin smile. “A man without secrets is terribly dull, don’t you think?”
In which case, Jonathan Burrows must have been one of the most interesting men in America. But that was a conversation for another day.
Sheriff Jones arrived on the scene a few minutes later. It being well past five o’clock, he was nearly as soused as Bowie Bill. And if I thought he’d be pleased to find the notorious outlaw gift wrapped for him on the hotel floor, I was sorely mistaken. “I’ll be having to vacate my half of the jailhouse thanks to you,” he growled.