Peacemaker (9780698140820) (15 page)

“And have you?” She fixed him with narrowed eyes.

“Now, Ellen . . . perhaps we shouldnae be askin' about things we've no concern in,” Teddy cautioned, but he too cast a curious glance at the Peacemaker, hoping for an answer.

“I'm . . . not sure.” Caleb thumped his hat against his thigh before putting it back on. “Do either of you know anything about the nullstone in the mountains?”

Ellen shook her head. “Everyone knows it's there. They say that's why the children here are barren.”

“But no one tries to mine it?”

“Why would anyone want to do that? Who would buy it?”

“I've been wondering the same thing myself.” He chewed his lip in thought. “It makes no sense.”

Ellen stood up from her stool. “That's what you found? Warner is mining nullstone? Dear God, if he's storing it on that ranch, the danger he's posing to those children is . . .” Her mouth worked silently for a few moments, at a loss for words. “You have to do something! We have to tell the parents; they have to stop their children from going out there!”

For a moment, Caleb thought she was going to march out the door and do it right then. “No! A few more days won't hurt anything, and if you confront him, he's likely to have you laid out right next to Hector.”

Teddy came out from behind the bar, resting his hands on Ellen's shoulders. “Agent Marcus is right, Miss Ellen. And I dinnae wish ta see anythin' happen ta ye.”

“So we're expected to simply hide away while he gets away with . . . whatever it is he's doing?” Color flared high in her cheeks, and her brown eyes flashed angrily.

“That's exactly what I'm asking you to do. Warner's sitting out there with his own personal army, and until I can get back here with more men, he can do whatever the hell he wants. Pardon my language. Keep your eyes and ears open. Learn anything you can that will help me tie Warner to the men who attacked Hector. More than anything, stay out of sight. Right now, I have nothing on him, even if we all know he ordered it. All I have is you and Jimmy.”

He glanced toward Jimmy, who was doing a poor job of pretending not to pay attention. “And see if Jimmy and Mr. Isby can fix the telegraph. I'm willing to bet, between the two of them, they can rig something up.”

The boy perked up. “I can do that! You just wait and see. When you get ta Tasco, we'll have a message there waitin' for you!”

“Agent Marcus?” Everyone in the room jumped at the sound of the strange voice, relaxing only when they realized it was Dr. Elm looking in over the half door. “Hector is conscious at times, and he's asking for you. At least, I think that's what he's asking. You might want to come see him.”

“I'll be right there, Doctor. Thank you.” Teddy handed him the bundle of food and a dripping canteen. Caleb nodded his thanks and fixed Jimmy with a stern glare. “I mean it. Stay out of sight and away from the windows. Be good for Miss Sinclair and Mr. MacGregor, all right?”

“Yessir.”

“Come on, Ernst.” The jackalope abandoned his dish of whiskey with a forlorn sigh and hopped after Caleb.

Though the crowd had largely dispersed from Hector's store, people were making a point to wander by and peer in the windows. Caleb's arrival elicited a round of excited whispers, but no one stopped him to speak.

One of the townsfolk—a Mr. Granger, Caleb thought—sat in Hector's usual seat behind the counter and nodded to both the Peacemaker and Dr. Elm as they walked through.

Hector looked worse, if possible, than when Caleb had discovered him. The cuts on his face had been stitched up, the black threads sticking up like brush bristles. His bruises were a deeper purple than before, and his eyes and nose were swollen so badly they were hardly recognizable as a face at all. His mouth hung open so that he could breathe shallowly, and the raspy wheeze was loudly ominous in the small room. Always gangly, he looked positively skeletal now.

Caleb slid onto the chair next to the bed, barely touching the shopkeeper's shoulder, afraid to hurt him even more. Ernst hopped up on the other side, carefully nuzzling the man's cheek. “Hector? It's Agent Marcus. . . .”

Hector's breathing went on uninterrupted for a long moment. Perhaps he had lost consciousness again? Finally, he stirred ever so slightly, turning his head in the vague direction of Caleb's voice. “Agent Marcus?” The words were garbled, and Caleb had to lean close to hear.

“Yes, Hector. You shouldn't be trying to talk; you should rest.” The old man mumbled something unintelligible, and Caleb tried to pat his less injured hand soothingly. “Hush. It's all right.”

Hector shook his head, his swollen brow creasing as he tried to convey something. “Sorry . . . told them . . . telegram . . .”

“There was nothing in that telegram that was worth your life, Hector. You did nothing wrong.” Lord, was this what was bothering the poor man? “Rest now. Listen to the doctor.”

He started to stand, and Hector grabbed for his arm, holding him tightly despite his mangled fingers. “C . . . codes! Didn't . . . tell them . . . codes . . .” His hand dropped, his strength exhausted.

“Oh, Hector,” Caleb murmured. In his line of work, it wasn't often that he found truly good men. But this one had almost died to protect a near stranger's secrets. “I'll get them for you. I promise I will.”

Hector didn't answer, his labored breathing the only indication that he still lived.

Caleb put his hat back on and met Dr. Elm at the door. “Is he going to make it?”

The doctor sighed, shaking his head slowly. “It's . . . hard to say. There's internal injuries I can't even guess at. He could be bleeding into his brain right now, and I'd never know it. Sadly, my power has . . . limits.”

Ernst, still on the bed, moved carefully up to Hector's head, nuzzling the salt-and-pepper hair. “He's not bleeding. But his left ankle is fractured. You might want to see to that.”

The doctor looked surprised for a heartbeat, then immensely relieved. “Thank you, Ernst. That information will help a lot.” He gave Caleb a wan smile. “It's too bad I don't have a familiar of my own. They're very useful little creatures.”

Caleb eyed the ailing man and his familiar, huddled so close, thoughtfully. “Ernst . . . how would you feel about staying here to help the doctor with Hector?”

Ernst's raised one long ear. “Are you sure? We've never been that far apart for so long.”

It was true. They'd never been apart for more than a few hours since the day Caleb awoke to find a magical ferret on his chest, and while they'd stretched their bond thin over distance before, it had never been so far. Caleb felt something leaden settle in his stomach at the very thought, but without Ernst's help, Hector could die. “It's up to you. You could do a world of good here, I think.”

The jackalope debated, his nose wriggling as he thought. Finally, he nodded, one decisive bob of his head. “All right. You can always call if you need me, right?” If they both believed they could still feel each other across that distance, perhaps it would be true.

“Right. Be good, Ernst. And check on in Jimmy if you get a chance.”

“I can do that.” He snuggled down in the crook of Hector's shoulder, purring softly.

“Bless you, Agent Marcus.” The doctor pressed Caleb's hand with both of his. “I hope you find the men who did this.”

The Peacemaker nodded. “I hope so, too, Dr. Elm.”

Half of Hope saw him mount up on Sven Isby's rented hauler and ride out of town, so there would be no keeping his absence a secret for long. He tied Teddy's bundle of food to the saddle, tucked his staff into his stirrup, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and headed east.

It quickly became apparent that one disadvantage of leaving Ernst behind was that there was no one to keep him awake. His short nap had not been enough by far, and he found himself dozing fitfully in the saddle as the construct galloped its way over the rough-hewn track.

The heat itself was draining as the sun rose to its zenith high overhead, and he regretted not bringing more water. There were no stops between Hope and Tasco, the few tiny springs having fallen victim to the ongoing drought. What he had was what he'd make do with, and he'd have to use it sparingly.

The one thing he truly worried about was the response from the office in Kansas City. Even if they came straight away, it would be at least a week before the stage could arrive, and a lot could happen in that amount of time.

“No other way around it, though. Right, Ernst?” Belatedly, he remembered that his familiar was not there. The tiny connection that bound them together was dwindling far behind him, but he swallowed hard and pushed on. Ernst would be fine. So would he.

For nearly two hours he rode, determined to ignore the discomfort of the ungainly transport, fighting to stay mostly awake in the broad saddle. The sun beat down on him with the force of a dozen hammers until he could feel every pounding hoofbeat lancing up his spine into the back of his skull. His lips were cracked already, and reluctantly, he reached behind him to retrieve the canteen and his store of precious water.

Half turned in the saddle as he was, he saw the blue light first, a speck no bigger than a bumblebee streaking across the prairie at him. His instincts registered it faster than his mind, but he still couldn't get the shield up before the gunshot echoed in his ears.

He flung himself backward off the hauler too late, and it exploded beneath him in a ball of raging arcane fire. The ethereal blue flames billowed around him, filled his ears, his eyes, and only when he saw the ground rushing up to meet him at great speed did he realize that he'd been blown clear of the inferno.

Then he knew nothing at all.

Chapter 12

The first time he came to, all he could see was a swirl of blue energy before his eyes, bright enough to blind him to all else. Something was pounding rhythmically on his stomach until his entire body jarred with each impact. There was so much pressure in his head, he thought the top of his skull might blow off, and his shoulders were screaming in pain, his arms stretched awkwardly above his head. No sooner had he started to catalog his miseries than the jolting grew worse, pain seared through his body, and blackness once again claimed him.

The second awakening was much the same as the first, save that he thought to actually move his head a bit. The arcane glow dominating his vision resolved itself into the transparent casing on a transport, pressed against his cheek. Seemingly miles below him and yet just beyond his fingertips, he could see the dry prairie grass rushing past at a high rate of speed. It finally occurred to him that he was facedown over the saddle of a moving transport, riding hard.

The mere effort of trying to focus his eyes in his throbbing head brought a wave of nausea, and he retched violently. There was nothing in his stomach to come up, however, which was both a blessing and a curse. Mostly, it felt like his stomach was trying to turn him inside out starting from the toes up.

Nearby, someone cussed loudly. “He's sickin' up again!”

Again?
How long had he been out? And where the hell was Ernst?

“We may as well stop here. It's far enough, and I want to be home before dark.”

That voice he knew, somehow. If he could just clear the ringing clamor from his ears so he could think. Ernst . . . Ernst was with Hector. Helping the doctor. He remembered that, and reached for his familiar out of reflex, only to find . . . nothing. The connection was gone as if it had never been, and he jerked his head up before being reminded quite painfully that abrupt movements were unwise. Lightning and thunder crashed inside his skull, and all thoughts of trying to reach Ernst fled before waves of agony.

Mercifully, the transport drew to a halt, but the stampede in his head kept galloping along. Someone grabbed him by the belt and hauled him bodily off the back of the construct. He hit the ground in a haze of red pain, and darkness threatened at the edges of his vision again. The orange and purple sky swam above him, the sun's last rays piercing through his eyes before it dipped below the distant mountain range.
Sunset.
It had been noon when . . . when what? Oh, yes, the explosion.

Someone had shot his transport out from underneath him.

A slender man with dead eyes appeared in his line of sight.
Schmidt.
That explained the long shot. Ernst would have seen it coming if he'd been there. Where was he?
With Hector . . . remember that . . . He's still in Hope.

Caleb tried to call for his familiar and got no more than a hoarse bark out of a throat parched by thirst and smoke inhalation. It sent him into a coughing fit, and agony lanced through his rib cage, curling him into a moaning ball of pain on the ground.

“Easy there, Agent. No use trying to struggle, since we have you nulled.” Abel Warner knelt beside him, pushing him over onto his back. With a smile, he tapped the amulet hanging around Caleb's neck. It was a simple, unadorned lead casing, but Caleb knew the reverse side, the side pressed to his bare chest, was white and chalky. Nullstone. “You will understand of course that we could not allow you to call your familiar. Or use any of your talents against us.”

He rose to his feet, calling orders to the other men present, and Caleb watched his boots walk away.

Though he knew it was futile, he tried to reach for his power. It felt like reaching through a barrel of cold molasses for one tiny hair at the bottom. The harder he pushed, the more resistance he found, and finally a sharp stabbing pain between his eyes forced him to abandon the effort.

It occurred to him belatedly that he should simply remove the amulet, but the moment he fumbled for it, someone grabbed his wrist in a viselike grip. Another hand captured his left arm, and he found himself spread-eagled on the ground while his wrists and ankles were tied to stakes. His shoulders screamed in pain, nearly wrenched from their sockets so far did they have him stretched.

Bare-chested as he was—and where the hell was his shirt?—the dry prairie grass might as well have been scorching hot nails digging into his back. The analytical part of his mind cataloged those injuries as burns, no doubt from the exploding hauler. He could see blisters on his forearms, as well, surrounded by ugly red welts. Suddenly, he welcomed the pain. Burns that didn't hurt were the worst of all, and almost always fatal.

“Make sure you leave those feathers here, and a couple of those arrows.”

“We scalpin' him, boss?”

Warner answered, “No. The local Cheyenne don't take scalps, and we want this to look authentic if anyone asks.”

The rancher took his time checking the ropes and made sure the medallion was pressed stone-side-down to Caleb's chest. “I wish it hadn't come to this, Agent Marcus. I really do. Your predecessor was more than happy to take his cut and keep quiet, but somehow I don't see you being the same kind of man.” He shook his head, genuine regret on his face. “It's a sad world we live in when scruples become a hazard, but there you have it.”

“People . . . will know . . .” His voice came out in a croak, and Caleb could taste the blood where his lips cracked and bled.

“No, they won't. They think you're bound for Tasco. It'll be at least ten days before anyone misses you.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Unless they investigate the smoke from the explosion, but even then, they'll think the Cheyenne destroyed the hauler and took you. We made sure of that.”

His nonchalance was chilling. Caleb strained at his bonds out of primal reflex, the deeply ingrained instinct of the body to remove itself from danger at any cost, and the exertion left him gasping and writhing in pain.

“Your death will not be a pleasant one, Agent Marcus, and for that I apologize. But I need the army out here to exterminate the red devils, and the quickest way for that to happen is to have a lawman killed. You understand, of course.”

“The . . . nullstone. Hurting the children . . .” It was a long shot, appealing to the man's questionable humanity.

Warner chuckled. “Of course it is. How else am I going to have a ready-made workforce? That gold isn't going to mine itself, and the nullstone surrounding it makes it hazardous under the best of circumstances. Barrens will take any employment they can find, and I'm already known for my generosity to those less fortunate. They'll be more than happy to work in my mines when they're of age.”

Gold!
The secret mine suddenly made much more sense. The nullstone was simply an obstacle to something larger and more lucrative.

“I intend to be mining in those mountains for years to come, Agent Marcus, with wealth to spare. If I can just get the army to eradicate the little infestation problem without finding out about the gold. Can't have the federal government laying claim to something that's rightfully mine, now can I?”

Warner fished his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, checking the time. “Oh, would you look at that? I must be going. I wish you luck in your future endeavors, of course. As short as they'll be.” With a cordial smile, he rose and walked to his transport, swinging into the saddle easily.

“Told them!” Caleb jerked against his bonds again, croaking as loudly as he could. “Told them about the mine!”

Warner laughed with genuine mirth. “No, you didn't.”

Within moments, Warner and his men were out of sight, and shortly thereafter even the drumming of the hooves on the hard-packed soil faded from Caleb's senses. He yanked and twisted at the ropes holding his wrists until they were rubbed raw and bleeding, and his head swam dizzily from the effort.

Gasping, he let his head fall back to the grass, fighting to hold on to consciousness, knowing that the next time he blacked out might very well be the last.
Have to . . . think . . .
After a few moments of rest, he tried flinging himself from side to side to dislodge the nullstone medal, but his arms were stretched too tightly and he had no wiggle room.

All right, take stock.
As far as he knew, he had been without water for the better part of an entire day, presumably while baking in the summer heat. The sun, at least, was setting now, a minor blessing. Thunder still bounced within the confines of his head, and the burns on his back screamed every time he moved. His chest felt heavy, possibly due to cracked ribs, but craning his neck resulted in blinding flashes behind his eyes, so he couldn't assess the damage there.

With the nullstone medallion lying on his chest, not only was he unable to touch his own power, but his connection to Ernst was severed, too. Did the little familiar realize? Was he frantically looking for Caleb even now? Maybe, if he was close enough to hear . . . “Ernst! Ernst, I'm over here!” It set him coughing again, and he couldn't even curl up to relieve the strain on his ribs.

Some tiny biting insects, drawn by the scent of his blood, landed on his wrists and began feeding, their minor irritations only adding to his growing woes. Night was falling. How long before the bigger predators came? Coyotes, foxes, even a stray cougar come down out of the mountains for some prairie hunting.

Maybe that would be better,
he thought. A quicker death surely than waiting for the sun to rise again, roasting him in his own juices.

Above him, the sky slowly faded from lavender into a serene blue and finally into the star-dotted black. The only hint of color rimmed the mountain peaks for a long time before that too succumbed to the night.

Crickets chirped softly in the tall grass around him, and there were rustlings of smaller animals going about their nightly business. To the north, he heard a high-pitched giggle, echoed shortly by four or five more.
Coyotes.
They'd be drawn to the scent of fresh meat, and at this point, that's all Caleb was. How long before they grew brave enough to approach him?

He began counting the seconds between the calls that sounded like nothing so much as deranged laughter, trying to guess the distance and how much time he had left.

Some part of him thought perhaps he should be praying. Surely, of all times, this was one when God's presence would be beneficial. But he couldn't seem to find the words within his own head. He thought instead of his sister, married and happy in Pennsylvania. With ten years' difference in their ages, they had never been close. Paulette had been married and gone almost before he could know her when he was a child. Would she grieve for him, the younger brother she'd barely known? Would her children hear tales of their uncle the Peacemaker, slain by Indians in the wild and brutal west? When had he even spoken to her last?

What of Graeme? Would he come himself when Caleb didn't report in on schedule? Would he be the one to find what was left of his friend? Would there even be anything left, once the coyotes got done with him? His last conversation with Graeme hadn't been the most cordial. Caleb had been angry and bitter, and Graeme had made a convenient target. He hoped Graeme knew that he hadn't meant the things he'd said. It wasn't Graeme's fault Caleb had been exiled to the west. In fact, it was probably through Graeme's influence that Caleb still had a position with the Peacemakers at all. Caleb was grateful, even if he hadn't shown it. Surely his best friend knew him that well after all these years. Surely he knew.

When he dragged his thoughts back from their wanderings, the coyotes had fallen silent. Either they'd given up on their human-scented prey, or they were even now stalking closer.
Or something even bigger scared them off.

It was no surprise to him when the narrow muzzle poked through the tall grass to his left, followed by copper-colored eyes and sharply pointed ears. The coyote, a big specimen, slunk forward one careful step at a time, its dark gray hackles raised in warning.

“Hah!” Caleb tried to yell to scare the thing off, and while it did flinch at the abrupt noise, it seemed to know that he was no threat. It found a comfortable spot and sat nearby, watching him. “Go on, you! Get out of here!”

The animal did not run, nor make any hostile moves. Instead, it simply sat in silence, staring at Caleb with those deep amber eyes, as if it could see right into his thoughts. It was eerie.

“Waiting for your kin to show up?” The animal tilted its head at the sound of his croaking voice, the tip of one ear drooping comically. “Polite of you to wait until everyone's here to start eating.” The thing tipped its head the other way. “Start on the thighs. They're nice and meaty. You might avoid the back, though. Seems to be a bit well-done back there.” That thought spurred Caleb into slightly manic giggles, and he began to worry that his mind might be a bit unhinged.

“You might want to eat me quickly, you know. If I'm mad, it may taint the meat. Wouldn't want you getting all rabid or anything.” His entire body shook with helpless laughter, and no amount of pain could make it stop. Only when the coughing overruled the laughter was he forced to stop, and even then he was riddled with sporadic giggling.

Amidst his laughter, he heard the grasses rustling again, and he looked to his left fully expecting a family of coyotes waiting to sink their sharp teeth into his extremities. Instead, he was greeted with the head of the largest animal he had ever seen. As close as it was, he had difficulty taking it all in, but the pieces of the whole—the deep brown fur, almost like wool; the large sloping forehead, ending in wickedly curving black horns; the bottomless, soulful eyes that seemed to hold all of the world's sorrows at once—added up to one thing.

A large buffalo stood over the bound Peacemaker, its warm musky breath stirring the hair on his head. The creature lowered its head to sniff at him, and Caleb held very still, suddenly beset with images of a large black hoof splitting his head like a ripe melon.