A Snake in the Grass (31 page)

A clamor of childish voices drew his
attention, and he smirked when he saw Ernst atop a convenient
barrel, surrounded by curious youngsters. He could hear the
jackalope purring over the din, and the children oohed and aahed
obligingly.

“Enjoying yourself?” Caleb leaned against a
pole, grinning at his companion. Any time he lost Ernst, he could
be certain to find him in the arms of the nearest child. The furry
creature just rolled his eyes in absolute ecstasy, carefully
holding still to avoid jabbing anyone with his antlers, which,
Caleb noted, he had blunted for safety’s sake.

“Is he yours, mister?” One of the older boys,
all of seven maybe, looked over at Caleb. “Is he yours,
mister?”

“Well, we travel together. So, in a way,
yes.”

“He’s so cute!” The children seemed to
understand not to pick the small animal up, contenting themselves
to with stroking his downy-soft fur, exclaiming over his long,
supple ears.

“That’s a helluva scar, mister,” said another
boy, sandy-haired and freckled, and he got swatted by what had to
be his sister for his language.

Caleb idly fingered the smooth scar that cut
down his right cheek idly. “It looks worse than it is.”

One of the girls, braver than the others,
went on tiptoe to examine the man’s face. “Can you see out

of that eye?”

Caleb chuckled and nodded. “Perfectly.”
Children were so innocent in their curiosity. Very few adults would
have asked him about the scar, which began at his jawline and
extended upward right into the iris of his eye, leaving a stark
white line across the hazel.

“Abigail!” The alarm in the woman’s voice was
enough to make Caleb alert, scanning for any danger as the woman
hurried across the street to snatch one of the little girls from
the throng. “Don’t you be bothering the Peacemaker now, you hear?
None of you all! Git home!” The youngsters scattered like a flock
of startled crows.

“They weren’t bothering me, ma’am, really…”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she shooed the children quickly
away, darting worried glances back over her shoulder. She and her
daughter disappeared into the dress shop.

“Well, you’re a sure conversation stopper,
aren’t you?” Ernst leapt to the transport’s saddle in one graceful
bound, his ears drooping in disappointment.

“Seems like it.” The curtains twitched on the
dress shop when his gaze passed over them. They were watching.
“There’s a smith just down the street. Let’s see if we can get this
contraption fixed.”

Tripping the appropriate lever, he urged the
transport into motion, cringing at the grind and clank in the
hindquarters. It was a wonder it had made it this far.

The smithy, once discovered, was labeled
simply “SMITHY”, and the heat rolling off the forge made the
oppressive summer day seem positively spring-like. The smith
himself seemed oblivious to it,

wearing a thick leather apron over his shirt
as he labored over the glowing coals. Orange coals, Caleb noted,
not blue. Unusual.

“Hello there!” The smith kept working with no
response to Caleb’s hail. “I was told you might be able to repair a
transport.?”

That at least earned a grunt in answer, and
after a few more moments, the smith laidy his long tongs aside and
stepped away from the forge. He was older than Caleb expected, his
hair already gone white, and there was no warmth in his pale eyes.
“Ja. I can do, yes.”

Ah, not white hair, but very pale blond then.
The Swedish accent gave everything away. Caleb nodded him toward
his malfunctioning machinery. “It’s got some kind of hitch in the
back end.”

Wiping his sooty hands on a rag, the smith
came out to inspect the transport, paying no mind whatsoever to
Ernst perched on its back whatsoever. He made thoughtful noises as
he circled the construct, bending to look along the belly workings,
poking at the transparent casings in a few places.

Caleb finally broke the silence. “Can you fix
it?”

“Hmm. Ja. Maybe. Bearings seized up here.” He
poked with a grimy finger. “Gear stripped here. No parts. Need to
make new.”

“And how long will that take?”

The Swede pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“Week? You come back, one week.”

Caleb’s heart sank. That was going to put him
behind schedule. “You don’t happen to have another transport I
could rent in the meantime, do you?”

“Ja, maybe. Dollar. Tally up price for
repairs when done.” There was humor glinting in the smith’s

eyes, but Caleb was too tired to even guess
at the joke. He forked over the dollar, eyeing the few remaining
bills in his wallet dubiously. If the repairs took the last of his
cash, he was out of luck until he reached a town with an actual
bank.

“I’m Caleb, by the way. Caleb Marcus.” He
stuck his hand out to shake, and for a moment, the smith eyed it
like a striking snake. Finally, the Swede gripped his hand, pumping
it once.

“Sven Isby.”

The Peacemaker fought to keep the surprise
off his face. There was no tingle in Sven’s skin, not even the
faint hum of a low-level power. There was only the warm calloused
hand, and the sense of…nothing. The man had been scoured. The smith
raised his chin in challenge, almost daring Caleb to say something.
Caleb forced a smile. “I’ll check back with you in a couple days to
see how it’s going.”

“Ja. Do that. Rented transport stored around
back.” That seemed to end their dealings, as Sven went back to his
forge and began working the huge bellows.

Caleb retrieved his saddlebags, throwing them
over one shoulder, and his trunk, which he propped on the other.
Ernst hopped up, his slight weight barely noticeable, and Caleb
took his staff out of the scabbard on his saddle. He waited until
they were around the back of the building before he asked, “Ernst,
did you notice—”

“Yes.” Caleb could feel the creature shudder,
even though he was perched on the trunk.

“Could you tell—”

“Looks accidental. Trauma as a child.”

Some of the tension in Caleb’s chest eased.
Accidental scourings were tragic but did happen,

most often before a child learned true
control of their his own power. But better that than someone who
had been scoured deliberately. That was reserved only for the most
dangerous of criminals.

The fact that the town had accepted the
blacksmith as a contributing member and business owner, despite his
disability, only served to highlight the differences between the
borderlands and the urban sprawl back east. In the city—any city,
really—it was nothing to see packs of scoured or barren men, living
rough in alleys or slums, making do with society’s scraps, the
occasional odd job, and the few charities that catered to such. No
one wanted them. No one wanted to see them. They were a reminder of
what could so easily go wrong.

For all that he didn’t have a lick of power
about him, Sven Isby was a lucky man.

The humor in the smith’s eyes made sense as
Caleb surveyed the “transport” he’d been rented. Ernst snickered
from his place atop the trunk. “You paid a dollar for this?”

Well, it was at least a construct. It was
also tall enough that Caleb couldn’t see over its withers. With the
broad back and extra pinion hooks, it had obviously been designed
for hauling, not riding. It was also at least four generations out
of date—it had actual reins instead of levers—and some of the metal
pieces gleamed brightly where they’d been replaced with newer parts
over the years. Still, the soothing blue glow of the arcane power
swirled within the casing as Caleb inspected it. “Better than
nothing, I guess. It could have been a horse.”

Ernst traded his trunk seat for the back of
the hauler. “Comfy up here! Lots of room to spread out.” And he
proceeded to do just that.

Muttering to himself, Caleb took the reins
and led the lumbering monstrosity back toward the tavern. Each
steel hoof was as large as a dinner plate, and Caleb grimaced, just
thinking about getting a foot caught under one.

The streets were largely deserted, an oddity
for this late in the afternoon, but Caleb could feel the eyes on
him as he walked the length of the town. And not all of the gazes
were friendly. He fought the urge to funnel a trickle of power into
his staff. Lighting the runes was impressive- looking, but showing
off would be beneath him. “What the hell is wrong with this place,
Ernst?”

“Must be your innate charm.”

Somehow, Caleb didn’t think so.

With the rented transport left at the tavern
and his things stored safely in his room—he kept his staff, out of
sheer paranoia—Caleb went in search of the one thing he’d been
missing for the last month, without much hope of locating it.
Through some miracle, he found it at the general store.

“Ernst, I may have died and gone to heaven.”
He could see at least two tins of his favorite cigarillos on the
shelf, and if there were more in the back, he might be tempted to
buy those, too, before he left town. He hadn’t had a decent smoke
in longer than he liked to contemplate.

The jackalope, now without a convenient place
to roost, hopped his way around the store, idly sniffing at things
on the lower shelves. “And how much are the repairs going to cost
you?”

Caleb sighed, examining his wallet again. No,
no more bills had materialized into it. Reluctantly, he only
plucked only one tin from the shelf.

The storekeeper had eyed them from the moment
they walked in. His eyes looked like two black beetles under his
bushy, salt-and-pepper brows and, following followed them as they
perused his wares. Ernst got barely a glance, unusual in most
places, but the Peacemaker badge had earned a wary scowl. The
general feeling of hostility was starting to weigh on Caleb, and he
scowled right back as he seat the tin on the counter. “Just this,
please.”

There was no mistaking the surprise on the
storekeeper’s face, his prominent eyebrows rising almost to his
hairline. He stood up from his stool, revealing that he towered a
good four inches over Caleb and weighed a good deal less. Good
Lord, the man was gangly. “Um . . . er . . . six bits.” Caleb
counted out the seventy-five cents from his wallet, pushing them
across the countertop. The storekeeper bit one, then dropped them
into his till and took his seat again.

Caleb leaned his elbows on the counter. “Can
I ask you something, sir?”

“You can always ask.” There was caution in
his voice, but Caleb read curiosity in the set of his lanky
shoulders.

“Why is everyone in this town treating me
like I’m about to eat their children?”

At least the tall man had the good grace to
blush. “Well, sir . . . To be perfectly frank, you’re new, and no
one really knows you yet. But the last Peacemaker . . . he made it
real clear that he wasn’t required to pay for anything. Which was
fine, really! ’Cause this close to Indian territory, we surely
appreciate all you do for us. But . . . sometimes maybe he took a
bit more than folks was really

comfortable with, you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand.” Caleb gritted his
teeth. It explained a lot about the reception he’d received, all
over the circuit. “Maybe you could do me a favor and let folks know
that I’m the new Peacemaker, and I pay my own way.”

The old storekeeper’s face broke into a slow
smile, like he could scarcely believe his good fortune. Good gossip
was better than a bag of gold dust, if everyone came to see what
the storekeeper knew. “Yessir. I could do that.” He offered his
hand. “Hector Pratt.”

“Caleb Marcus.” There it was, the tingle of
faint power just beneath the skin. More than Teddy at the tavern,
but still relatively average. Caleb often wondered what people felt
when they shook his hand.

“Well, Agent Marcus.” The storekeeper offered
him a jar of lemon drops. “Welcome to Hope.”

About the Author

K.A. Stewart
has a BA in English with an
emphasis in Literature from William Jewell College. She lives in
Missouri with her husband, daughter, two cats, and one small furry
demon that thinks it’s a cat.

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