Peacemaker (9780698140820) (22 page)

Gradually, he became aware that someone had lingered nearby. He turned to find Jimmy Welton watching him from the steps of the general store. The boy's pants were still splattered with mud up to the thighs, but someone had captured him long enough to put a clean shirt on him and comb his unruly hair.

He glared at Caleb accusingly. “You're leaving now, aren't you?”

The Peacemaker nodded, stepping up on the sidewalk. “Tomorrow morning, probably. I'm late for my next stop on the circuit.”

“But what if those men come back? The ones who hurt Mr. Pratt?”

Caleb let Ernst hop to the railing and placed one hand on Jimmy's shoulder. “I don't think they're ever going to come back here. They know they'll get caught if they do. I'm going to find them and arrest them.”

The boy looked skeptical. “Maybe they're just waiting around 'til you leave.”

Caleb nodded seriously. “I don't think so, but it's possible. That's why you're going to stay here with Teddy and Miss Sinclair, and if anything happens, they'll get a message to me, and I'll come back, faster than you can imagine.”

“You promise?”

“Swear.” Caleb offered his hand and shook on it solemnly, though he had to smile at the sparks of power that snapped and crackled between their palms. “But you have to promise to keep up your lessons. I want to see what you've learned next time I pass this way, all right?”

“Yessir.” With no further farewell, the boy darted around him and vanished into the nearest alley.

Caleb looked around the dismal street, realizing that he had committed himself to riding the circuit for at least a year. It would take him that long to get back to Hope, even if he had no other delays.

“You'll miss it,” Ernst observed.

“I'll miss the people.” The jackalope had a distinct smirk on his furry face, and Caleb amended, “I'll miss most of the people. They're good folk out here.”

The next morning, the drizzle had ended, and Caleb found River Falls in front of the saloon, her meager belongings already strapped onto a travois behind a sorrel gelding. The glass-eyed paint horse was also standing there, and it whickered when it recognized him. Caleb couldn't help but stop and stroke its silky muzzle. “I wondered what happened to you.” Knowing that the animal had somehow survived the raging grass fire made him feel unexpectedly happy.

Without asking, the Indian woman took his trunk and saddlebags from him, adding it to the collection. Apparently, she was still planning on traveling with him. “I'm going to go settle up with Mr. Isby,” Caleb said, “then we'll be ready to go.”

She nodded, ignoring the blatant stares from early-rising townsfolk as she loaded up the two animals.

The smith was already awake, and looked to have been up for hours. He gave Caleb a scowl when the Peacemaker walked up. “Who is pay for my hauler, huh? Is in pieces, all over prairie, boom.”

“Well, I've been thinking about that.” In fact, he'd been thinking about it for no more than the few minutes it took to walk to the smithy, but a glimmer of a plan had emerged. “How about I leave my transport here with you? As a replacement.”

The old Swede looked at him with narrowed eyes. “What you ride, then?”

Caleb smiled. “I have a ride. Do you want the transport?” He hadn't thought of it until he saw the paint horse standing in front of the tavern, but it quickly seemed like the right course of action.

The smith pursed his lips, looking the sleek transport over critically. “Is used. Repaired once already. Many miles. Not good for hauling.”

Caleb knew very well that the transport was newer than anything else they had in the small town by probably a decade, and it was in excellent condition. He simply waited.

Finally, Sven nodded. “Ja. I take. No charge.”

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Isby.” They shook on the deal, and the Peacemaker managed to keep the grin off his face until he'd walked around the corner and out of sight.

A crowd of children had surrounded the horses by the time Caleb got back, but the large animals were not their focus. Ernst was being passed from tiny hand to tiny hand, each child hugging him and giving their tearful good-byes. The familiar's purr was audible from yards away.

Ellen and Teddy came down off the sidewalk to meet Caleb as he walked. “The bairns are goin' ta miss that little rascal more'n anythin' else, I think.”

“Ernst has that effect on people.” Caleb stopped as more people began to emerge and gather around. “I didn't expect so many to come see us off.”

“You've done us a great service, Agent Marcus.” Ellen smiled, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. The bruise under her right eye had faded to almost nothing, but she wore it like a badge of honor. “When the rain lets up, they're going to start building the schoolhouse. It seems I'll get to make use of my books after all.”

“That's good. I hope you can keep a collar on Jimmy Welton, too. He'll be old enough for West Point in about five years, if he can pass the entrance exams. I'd love to sponsor his admission.”

Teddy whistled. “Can ye imagine? Somebody from Hope goin' to the Point? Who'da thought.”

“I'll see that he works hard.” The schoolteacher pressed a small paper-wrapped package into Caleb's hands. “This is from Hector. To thank both you and Ernst for everything you've done.”

Caleb felt the color rise in his cheeks, and he squirmed. “It's just my job. But thank him for me.”

One of the horses, pressed on all sides by the townsfolk, snorted and tossed its head, instantly clearing a circle around them.

“The animals are getting restless. I guess that means it's time to go.”

River Falls was already astride the big gelding, and Caleb wished there weren't so many witnesses to his clumsy attempt to mount up. To his surprise, it went better than he'd expected, the horse standing perfectly still as he slipped onto its back. He'd have to get used to riding bareback, or find someone in another town who could fashion a saddle for the animal. He patted the horse on its muscled neck, and it turned its head to nibble at his boot.

For a few moments, he looked at all the faces staring up at him. The smiles and calls for care were a far cry from the frightened looks he'd received as he'd ridden into town. “I guess . . . I'll be back next year, about this time. Everyone take care. C'mon, Ernst.”

The jackalope left his throng of followers with one elegant leap, landing just behind Caleb. If the horse noticed, it didn't show.

The crowd parted, leaving them a clear path out of town. At the Peacemaker's nod, the Indian woman clicked her tongue and kicked her horse into a trot, and Caleb's followed hers obediently. He could hear the farewells of the townsfolk long after they left the last building behind.

“We're going south. The next stop is a town called Dusty Wash.” Ernst groaned, and the strange trio rode in silence for nearly an hour before River Falls offered any conversation.

“That is her horse, you know. The medicine man's daughter.”

“Falcon Woman?”

River Falls nodded. “She pays you a high compliment, giving it to you.”

“I'm honored, then.” He kept his eyes on the horizon, hoping she wouldn't notice his blush.

Falcon Woman had come into his dreams every night since the inferno. The first time, he had found himself once again in Crying Elk's teepee, with the Indian woman tending his wounds and singing softly in her way. The old man was there, too, though it seemed he was merely chaperoning, and watched silently.

After that, Caleb remained safely in his own thoughts, but she would find him there, taking walks through his memories. It hadn't been entirely unpleasant, and he was embarrassed to admit that he was starting to look forward to her visits.

Aware that River Falls was watching him with a knowing smirk, he cleared his throat. “Um . . . does it have a name? The horse, I mean?”

“Mo'ehno'ha.”

“What does it mean?”

She chuckled. “Horse.”

He had to chuckle, too. “Maybe I'll just call him Moe.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

The list of people I have to thank on this one is long and illustrious. Anne Sowards, editor extraordinaire and Ginger Clark, my own personal superhero. Scott and Aislynn, always. My plethora of amazing beta-slaves, in no particular order: Alice Loweecey, Ramsey Hootman, Jenn Wolfe, Will Sisco, Alex Harrow, Janet Yantes, Caleb Malcom and Dr. Gita Bransteitter. And a big thanks to Stacia Kane, who insisted that yes, fantasy and western did indeed go perfectly together.

Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in K. A. Stewart's Jesse James Dawson series

A DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

Available now from Roc

 

There's a certain sound the human head makes when it hits the trunk of a tree. Meatier than a “crack”; not quite as hollow as a “thunk”—it's unmistakable. And when it's my head, I tend to take offense.

I leaned against said tree and glared at my opponent until my double vision returned to single and the world swam back into focus. “That one's gonna cost you, Crabby.” If looks could kill . . . well, first off, my life would be a lot easier.

On the other side of the clearing, what looked to be a mutant crab-scorpion crossbreed rattled and hissed at me in annoyance as it tried to wipe the thrown dirt out of its stalky eyes. The silver light gleamed off its knobby black shell, giving it a metallic sheen. Its right pincer, large enough to neatly sever my thigh, clicked and clacked loudly. A drop of venom hovered at the tip of its thick segmented tail, the dangerous appendage arching high over its back and weaving like a snake in thrall.

Taking a deep breath, I tossed my thick braid back over my shoulder, out of reach of grasping nasty things, and adjusted my grip on my sword. My breath and the cold night air combined to create frost in my beard, and I wiped it away with my free hand, flinging aside the pellets of ice. The crab creature got its vision cleared and gave a threatening stab of its tail in my direction.

Now, I'm a believer in the power of positive thinking, but do you ever just have a sneaking suspicion you're not winning?

The distant whump-whump-whump of a helicopter broke the silence as it patrolled the camp's perimeter and kept the paparazzi and innocent bystanders at bay. Any sane person or animal had long since fled the chill and the noise, which left just me and my definitely questionable grip on reality. The full moon was up in the sky somewhere, casting the world in blue-white serenity, while down here under the tree canopy I did the tango with . . . that.

What I had here was a class-two Scuttle demon, the category so named (by me) for the way they . . . well . . . scuttled. Only one rung up from primordial ooze on the demonic ladder, most times they were easily confused and taunted into carelessness. None of them would ever be a candidate for Mensa.

Lack of intelligence didn't mean lack of speed, however, or lack of armor. I was having a helluva time getting past that thick carapace. My blade already held quite a few nasty nicks from the attempts. Marty was going to kill me for hurting one of his precious swords.

Still, the crab-demon had a few wounds. Intangible dark energy, which passed for blood amongst demonkind, slithered across the forest floor with eerie sentience, coalescing into a ball of black nothingness behind the creature. I'd heard that essence called void-blood, nether-essence, or some other poetic-sounding crap. To me, it was just blight, and it would suck the life out of whatever it touched.

I gave the demon the universal “Come get some” gesture and pushed off the tree to resume a fighting stance. The crab scuttled left, testing me, and I carefully placed my feet on the uneven terrain as I shifted right. It was impossible to feel my way through the thick soles of my boots, and I couldn't afford to take my eyes off the demon. My armor jingled faintly, sounding like macabre sleigh bells, and the crab hissed and snapped its pincers in return. Not for the first time, I questioned the wisdom of wearing only chain mail and leather for protection. I'd found that I simply could not move well enough if I added plates to it, but was mobility worth it if I couldn't stop a crushing blow?

Lightning quick, the demon charged, spiny feet carrying it across the clearing in an explosive crackle of dead pine needles. At the last second, I calmly sidestepped right, avoiding the massive claw and dodging the poisonous stinger, bringing my sword down at the juncture of one chitinous leg. The twiggy limb snapped with a gunshot report, and the crab-demon screamed in inhuman outrage. The severed leg dissolved, and dark energy poured from the wound, billowing into the night air to join the rest that had escaped. Slowly it began to swirl, forming the beginnings of a portal.

You don't really kill demons. You can only wear them down until they lose the strength to hold on to this plane. Thanks to the crab's armored form, the fight had already gone on longer than I would have liked, and the trick would be to see which one of us was going to tire first. Next time—if there was a next time—I hoped for a fluffy bunny demon, something pink and easily dispatched.

I let my momentum carry me past and away like flowing water, again finding myself across the clearing. Now, I'm a fairly athletic man in the prime of my life, but we'd been at this for the better part of forty-five minutes, and the running back and forth all night was getting old. “Come on, Crabby. I'm too old to play tag.”

The Scuttle demon limped in awkward circles for a moment, as if the now-missing leg had been the rudder keeping it on a straight path. Its eyestalks swiveled to keep me in sight, and it chittered something furious at me. I'd reduced it to babbling. It wasn't even bothering to speak English in its fury.

The next charge wasn't quite so coordinated. Twice on that pass, my katana glanced harmlessly off the black shell with a jarring clang. I felt it all the way to my shoulders. As I moved to spin away from the tail again, the demon whirled and slammed that massive pincer into my left hip. I went tumbling head over heels into the leafy forest litter, barely managing to keep my sword. The pungent smell of crushed pine needles filled the air.

It wasn't broken. Broken hips happen to old people, not to strapping young men of thirty . . . –ish. But it was going to bruise, and I could feel links of chain digging through my jeans and into my skin where the padding beneath gaped. I didn't have time to ponder the state of my armor or the severity of my injury. I didn't even have time to get up off the ground.

Crabby barreled over me, screeching at the top of its . . . lungs? There was no strategy to its attack. It had succumbed to rage, flailing wildly as it tried to stampede me. I could only curl up and try to protect my poor head. Even so, my braid caught on a spur of carapace, wrenching my neck despite my efforts. I aimed a kick at one leg, trying to make it list harder to port. In retaliation, one of those spiny appendages speared straight through my right calf like a shish kebab. I'm not ashamed to admit I screamed. The crab howled, too, triumphant.

Funny how you can notice key things when you're about to be skewered by a tap-dancing crab-demon—important things, such as how soft and squishy the underside of the thing looked. Its belly was silvery gray, and pulsated with every grotesque movement. In fact, it looked rather like the raw oysters I'd eaten at a black-tie gathering a few years ago. Yeah, I wouldn't be eating those again.

I consider myself a philosopher, an educated man. But there are times when learning and culture are simply not applicable. And should you ever find yourself being trampled by a demonic crustacean, when in doubt, stab the squishy spot.

Apparently, Crabby didn't have eyes on its underside, because it was having a hard time finding me, all tangled up under its legs. And while I was safe from the stinging tail, I was still in real danger of being bludgeoned into mush. A joint cracked against my head as I tried to squirm enough to reach my boot, and colorful streamers darted past my eyes for a moment. My katana was all but useless in close quarters. This is why I carry a plain old skinning knife in my right boot. It may not be pretty; it may not be elegant; but the pointy end goes into the other guy, and that is all I need.

With both hands, I slammed the blade in up to the hilt, then did a little jerk and wiggle for good measure. Instead of oozing, wriggling innards, blight poured out over my hands, which instantly went numb clear to the elbow. I lost my grip on my knife in the frantic roll to keep the void energy from touching my face and chest. Deep in some primitive, instinctive place, I knew that stuff would kill me if I let it wash over me, and no amount of training can erase the first primal imperative to survive.

The crab-demon shrieked and spasmed above me, losing all interest in pursuing an attack. Staggering first one way, then another, it jibbered and chattered in some pitch approaching supersonic. There was no mistaking the sound of abject terror, even in some language I would never understand.

It occurred to me, perhaps a bit late, that being under the thing in its death throes was not wise. I took the easy exit on hands and knees, out through the hole left by the missing leg, not too proud to scuttle myself when the situation called for it.

The blackness beneath billowed up, a dark fog that flowed over the forest floor to join the rest, the portal growing larger, more defined. The crab-demon continued to shriek and twitch even as I watched its own black carapace collapse inward with a sickening crunch, its will draining away with its strength. First the spiny legs dissolved and flowed away, and then the shell, inch by inch. The tail stabbed at nothing in the leaves, one last reflexive effort to save itself. The creature's voice dwindled into a pathetic wail, then into nothingness. The last to go was the giant pincer, clacking to the end, and it finally poofed into an ominous black cloud and flowed into the gaping hole in reality.

The portal itself was a dark mirror, three feet off the ground, as big around as a fifty-gallon drum. It shimmered briefly, the surface going from black to silver to clear in a matter of heartbeats. A faint odor of sulfur tainted the crisp night air, and just out of my range of hearing, something screamed, high enough to make my teeth ache. As always, I tried to get a glimpse through that portal, to see what lay behind. I got no more than a sense of immense heat and terrible soul-killing dread before it vanished with a faint blip and the vague tingle of static electricity. Oh well. I'm probably better off not knowing, anyway—curiosity and the cat and all that.

The only thing left in the battle's wake was silence. In the distance, some brave night bird sent out a questioning chirp. The breeze was cold enough to sting as I gulped air, trying to will my pulse to slow, to keep my blood from pumping out and down my leg.

You never realize how hurt you are until the adrenaline starts to fade. I flexed my hands until the feeling returned to them. My bruised hip screamed with every beat of my heart and, oddly, hurt worse than the pierced calf. Of course, that could also have been the blood loss talking.

I limped across the clearing to pick up my knife. Though it looked clean, I wiped it on some dead leaves and sheathed it in my boot. That put me close enough to examine my calf. I was pretty sure I could poke my finger through the hole and wiggle it on the other side. I didn't. Even my stomach wasn't that strong. I needed bandages and something to stop the bleeding. Beneath the copper scent of my own blood, there was something else, an odd chemical odor. I didn't know what it was, but it couldn't bode well.

My body moved on autopilot, bending to collect my katana. I cleaned it as well, though the blade was likewise spotless. There were three new nicks in the edge. Marty was going to have purple kittens when he saw it. You wouldn't expect a blacksmith to be so damn touchy. I forced myself to stand upright, centering my body a moment before sliding the sword into its scabbard.

Only then did my gaze go to the three men waiting in the tree line. The two on either side, in their identical black suits and earpieces, tensed as I hobbled my way toward them. I couldn't fault them for that. It was their job. But the part of me that loved inappropriate humor wanted to giggle.
Big bad men in black, scared of a scrawny, beat-to-shit samurai.
I had to give the guys credit, though. They'd just seen things that weren't supposed to exist, and it hadn't even fazed them.

It was the man in the middle I focused on. He had salted hair, the lines of many cares on his face, and a suit that probably cost the taxpayers a pretty chunk of change. He pushed his left sleeve up and stared in unabashed amazement at the unblemished skin on his inner forearm. I thought I even saw him blink tears from his bleary eyes. Finally, he shook himself, reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit, and produced a long envelope.

I snatched it with no remorse whatsoever. The medical bills on this one were going to be a bitch, and he could more than afford it. “Thank you, Mr. President. Your soul is your own again. Try to take better care of it this time.” My right foot was overly warm. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew my blood was pooling in my boot. I didn't have time for pleasantries.

“Thank you, Mr. Dawson, for . . . Well, thank you.”

“Here.” I produced a card from inside one of my leather bracers, trying not to smear blood on it. It's a simple card. I print them myself—just white card stock and black letters,
JESSE DAWSON
,
CHAMPION
, and a private cell phone number. “If you ever find anyone else in your situation, you can tell them I might be able to help them. Make sure they mention your name.”

He took the card, looking it over carefully, then tucked it away. “Will I be seeing you again, Mr. Dawson?”

“You'd better hope not.”As far as I was concerned, that concluded my business there. I turned to limp toward the paved road, invisible through the trees. Will, my best friend, was out there in a rented car, waiting to take us both home. He was an EMT. He could patch me up until I could get to a hospital. Then they'd call my doc, and she'd fly out to collect my sorry ass. And there would be the lecture. I hated it when she lectured me. Better the doc, though, than my wife. Will should call her, I thought, and let her know I was okay. I was okay, wasn't I?

Dimly I recognized the rambling of my thoughts as a bad thing. I tried to concentrate, to mentally catalogue the symptoms of blood loss, but anything coherent kept flitting away, just out of reach. I staggered to a halt amidst the trees, disoriented, and wondered whether I was really still walking toward the road or whether I'd gotten turned around somehow. The moon shone on my back, casting my shadow long over the ground. The shadow was a rather handsome fellow, tall and almost too slender, a long braid of hair hanging down past his stooped shoulders. He looked injured.
Poor guy.
I decided to follow him, since he looked like he knew where he was going.