Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny (8 page)

The few folks in the street this early stop what they’re doing and glance my way like wary wildlife. As day wears to night, more and more of those looks will include bared fangs, perhaps the open fondling of a gun. I sometimes find myself wishing I were more like Collins, my predecessor, whom folk actually liked. Then I remember how he ate a bullet. Guess he wasn’t liked quite enough.

Years ago, another Blake was sheriff here—my uncle. His diary drew me here. Some of the old timers like Doc and Charlotte remember him. They sometimes rib me that I’d best start my own journal, just in case I ever have a nephew.

Stepping out of the way of a train of Hayes’ mining wagons, I see old Harland Myers sitting on his porch with his rusty sickle. He refuses to take a whetstone to it, fearing he’ll wear the echo right off. That’s not to say it’s any less sharp— I saw him bury it halfway through a table once to make a point about minding the rules in poker. He’s never started trouble, though, so I’ve had no cause to be anything less than cordial to him. I’m glad.

I call out a greeting, raising a wing.

The old raccoon stares into the aether. A distance wells up in eyes. Thin trails of tobacco drip down the sides of his muzzle. No movement to him at all, save for a gentle stroking of the sickle’s handle. I study him closer, maintaining a polite, out-of-reaping distance, so as to not upset the coon when he notices me. A scattering of glittering rock dust lies in front of his rocking chair and dusts his pant legs, catching the light.

A snap of my wing thumbs draws him back to the world of the living.

After an instant of bewilderment, he tips his hat to me and spits an arc of syrupy chaw in a genial manner. I nod back, but don’t let my eyes linger too long on that sickle. Haven’t known Harland to drift off like that. Could be he’s just tired.

Having never heard so much as a cough from the other world, I put stock in echolocation, not echoes. Of course, it’s far less typical back east than it is here. I’ve heard talk that, because death is so much closer out here on the Frontier, the dead are likewise close at hand.

My aunt insists to this day that inheriting my uncle’s badge when he died is what drove me to abandon law school and become a sheriff myself. I say it has more to do with reading his diaries when I should have been studying. I’m not one to believe in echoes, but I’d not be opposed to the notion of a good luck charm.

Something about the old raccoon’s behavior sticks in my mind, though the place runs so rife with swaying ears and deft paws these days that calm thought seems impossible. If only she weren’t so flighty, not to mention a dyed-in-the-wool—

“Thief! Thief!”

A masked form tears out of a house and down the street with an armful of glimmering treasures.

Mrs. Deloris Wiggins scampers out after him in a fit of ferret hysteria, frilly pink dress in disarray. “Get him, Sheriff! He’s done stole mah shinies!”

I give chase, flapping to beat the band as I catapult myself over a water cart. The thief, another ferret, ducks down an alley. I turn sharp, kicking off a wall and tackling him. As we collide, his horde of pilfered riches flies into the air. We collapse in a heap, long strands of shiny material raining down around us.

Tinsel.

I’ve been chasing a tinsel bandit.

Managing not to resort to profanity, I drag the offender back to Deloris’s, enlisting her young daughter to reclaim the evidence. I keep ahold of the miscreant’s scruff with one hind paw, and he proceeds into an immediate sulk on her steps.

Her long body swoons over her porch rail at the strain of the ordeal. “I declare, Sheriff! It surely was good of you to return mah shinies. Raymond’s taken a shine to that Slippaws girl more ‘an we thought, makin’ off with mah—”

“Wait.” I glance between the ferrets. “You know him?”

“Oh ah most certainly do! He’s mah nephew!”

She doesn’t press charges, though she invites me in for brunch, which I decline so as to avoid an uncomfortable hour talking about the finer points of sparkle in silverware. She does insist on my taking home some of her famous cricket brittle, which horrifies me only a trifle. No doubt she has confused what kind of bat I am, though it’s a nice thought.

It then occurs to me that I flew quite successfully, and for the first time since Six saw fit to put lead through my wing. The relief I feel is worth carrying home any amount of cricket brittle.

The ferret fiasco behind me, I continue on my rounds. The saloon is opening up, taking in a wagon’s worth of spirits. The bardog has an echo item too, he claims, though I suspect it’s just a gimmick to sell more whiskey out of his “lucky” shot jiggers, which he claims have never spilled. He and I are on good terms, though he doesn’t like to spread the fact around. Bad for business, he says. This does not stop him from sending for me every time a fight gets out of paw.

Odder still, the squirrel running the general store keeps the place immaculate, save one for old sea chest on the middle of an aisle, layered in dust. I offered to move it for him once, but he declined with frantic vehemence. Claims that every time he’s moved it, the windows rattle in the wind all night with such fury that he’s not given a moment’s peace. Even Hayes is unwilling to deal with the squirrel’s crazed chittering and leaves it be. Everyone else in town avoids it like a weasel’s breath.

Hayes. Last year, the deputy and I tracked down another thief who robbed Hayes’ store. We found the man in a deep ravine, only a few hours dead. Never could prove Hayes had a paw in the killing, but who else would have? The lion would have us think that he just fell down the canyon and broke his neck.

I stop at the post office and mail a letter to County Records, researching political decisions that went in favor of Hayes. It’s a long shot, but it might give me some hints as to just where his crooked dealings lie. I’ve been trying to track down some of his former cronies, but anyone who falls out of his favor seems to posses the good sense to leave town. I have Harding on the scent of some leads too. Maybe I’ll luck out and find he has history of unsolved robberies, though that seems a bit much to hope for. If Six is right and this was a front for sending bribes around, that money won’t be coming up on anybody’s books. The lion runs a tight ship, more so than his uncle before him.

Were Hayes a less reputable citizen, I’d ask around town. As it stands, I’d get nothing but looks. What’s worse, it would be unprofessional if I just started digging through gossip in the hope of pinning Hayes. Seems likely to earn me a bullet in the guts too.

All in all, I think patience is the way of it. Life’s a prickly pear out here— you have to take time to burn off the spines before you can enjoy it.

If only I could stop thinking about that damn bunny.

Sometimes, you just need to crush the life out of something to feel yourself again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’ve always had a rotten temper, the kind that sears and throbs like a bad tooth. Back east, I was Father’s blunt instrument. The family held me back as a threat, setting me loose when somebody challenged the natural order a little too much. The rest of the time, I was just too eager for violence. I see that now. Had I seen it a decade sooner, I might not have slashed out Big Dog Theo’s eyes and they might not have sent me out here.

I don’t lose control like I used to. Some of it might be age, but I reckon the bulk of it comes from having no one else to stop me. Morris knows I’d relieve him of his lower half if he got in my way. Mary Elizabeth ceased caring what I do long before we came out here, being now much more interested in anyone else’s husband but her own. I don’t care who she lifts her tail for, so long as word doesn’t get around. Challenging a lion’s authority like that is often the last thing a fella does. Or a woman.

Life’s all about control. Control yourself and you’ll stalk down new opportunities. Control your mate and men and they’ll raise you up. Control your enemies and you’ll come out on top. Control your resources and you’ll stay there.

One of the resources I’ve kept over the years is the cult. They’re my blunt instrument. Like a club, they’re unwieldy and destructive, but cheap and ready at hand. For the price of supplies and showmanship and some half-recalled Swahili my grandfather babbled in his toothless years, with a healthy helping of words I made up for good measure, they’re truer than a gold bar. All that acting’s a bargain. Having a few dozen hired guns backing you is one thing, but having that many crazed followers makes other folks in the business think twice before muscling in on you. I can’t count the number of times that hesitation has saved me and mine. All thanks to the ore.

My eyes catch the shine of black lacquer across the red dirt. This is no Wells Fargo coach. I spur my pony around to face it. A team of four sleek ponies pulls the stagecoach into view. A matched set, they’re gray on the top and black-belled as storm clouds. Wherever Mei Xiu found them, they must have cost her dear.

The stage pulls up beside me, covered in a fine layer of red dust. The door opens, and silk flows out like a waterfall, taking the form of a tall, powerful tigress. She moves like a statue given breath: graceful in motion and sculpted in posture.

I drop out of the saddle, jostling the Winchester repeater in the boot of it— sometimes prey is out of claw’s reach. Almost unloop my satchel from the pommel, but then leave it. Though I’m not in the habit of leaving cash lay out, Mei Xiu takes it as an insult if I don’t trust her manservant with my possibles.

Her manservant is a stern-faced Siamese. He’s supposed to be some manner of butler, but I’ve seen him practicing with those funny little daggers of his. He sits there in his tailed coat, derby, and striped trousers. I can feel those steel-blue eyes even when I turn away, as if he’s uncomprehending on the fact that I could rip him down the middle if I were inclined.

Mei Xiu snaps her fan closed.

I face her. She’s a few inches shorter than me, but I’ve seen what she can do with those wide paws, with that refined mouth. A shiver runs through me. Reckon it’s queer how the both of us came across continents just to find so fine a mirror. Were it not for a little fur, a few stripes, we could be of the same breed. Most folks are too thick to appreciate things like this. We appraise each other for a long while before she speaks.

“Mister Hayes.” Her English is clear and sharp as cut glass. To this day, I’m unsure if she’s a genuine Chinese or just of the stock. My inquiries find no purchase on her, and like any good predator she melts into the shadows regularly, vanishing until she wants to be found. Took me a month and more than a few bribes to even learn what she went by. Her real name’s Soon-Hooey-Zong or some such, but after I said it wrong for about the twentieth time she told me to just call her Mei Xiu. Not long after, we began these little rendezvous.

“Madam, you are looking radiant as ever.” I take her paw and bow, kissing it all formal-like. Something about her bearing commands such things. Her paw is at once soft and powerful, just like her scent, just like everything else about her.

“I must admit I was surprised when you sent word to me. We were not due for another hunt until the fifteenth.”

“Much obliged.” I stammer a shade then dig my claws into my palm to regain control. “Need to let off some steam, is all.”

She nods. “Then let us commence without delay.” She slips from her silks with liquid grace. They flow to the scrub grass with unearthly slowness, adding to the peculiar perfection of her form. Her body sweeps in muscular curves. Not a wasted ounce on her. Her bare fur shines in desert, burning like a striped sun.