Under a Painted Sky (30 page)

“I'm sorry about what happened to Tommy. You think Isaac's going to be okay?”

“Yeah. He just needs some looking after. And time.”

I'm about to scale the hill, when she calls back, “Isaac, set some water to boil!”

No answer.

“Isaac?” she yells louder. “Set some water to boil. You hear me?”

Again, no answer.

We double back around the rock and find that Isaac's no longer on the shoreline.

Instead, he stands, shirtless, at the top of the rocky staircase on a platform that overlooks the waterfall, two stories up. His back bears a tangle of tannish scars. Beside him, a pair of pine trees grows stubbornly from the platform.

Isaac steps dangerously close to the edge. Then he spreads his arms wide, like a black crane preparing to dive.

“What you doing up there?” cries Andy. But either he doesn't hear her against the wind, or he chooses not to listen.

She grabs the edges of her hat, then looks furtively around her. “I need rope.”

Both of us search the supply pile, which is a disorganized mess, like Isaac just dumped everything in a hurry. Blankets are unfolded and a sack of nails is half open and leaking its contents. But no rope.

I continue rummaging, and Andy dives into the tent, quickly emerging with two coils of rope.

As she forms her loop, a mocking voice freezes both of us in place.

“Ye going swimming, blackie?” asks a voice in a Scottish accent.

I don't see the person speaking. Isaac turns his head a fraction to the left.

“Always a good day when ye spot a blackie. They're always runnin' from something, nae?” says another voice, followed by a cackle.

With a sickening twist of my gut, I recognize the voices of Ian and Angus MacMartin, the trackers from Mr. Calloway's caravan.

“Where are they?” says the first Scot. “Tell me now a'fore I shoot you,”

Isaac finally turns, giving us a view of his profile. “Who you talking about?”

“The China girl and the Negress. We come a long way fer them.”

They've come for the bounty.

MY UNLUCKY STREAK SHADOWS ME LIKE A BAD
conscience, taunting me, haunting me.

I catch Andy by the arm and pull her toward the tent.

She tries to push me away. “No!”

“They haven't seen us,” I hiss. “Think!”

“But Isaac—”

“You're no good to him dead.”

I feel as though I might drown in my own sweat, but she finally follows me.

The tent's canvas walls shiver at our entry and I worry they will give us away. My skin breaks into itchy tingling as I remember the time Deputy Granger nearly caught us in Mr. Calloway's wagon. Trapped in another canvas prison.

We use the rips in the tent's walls as peepholes.

Ian and Angus come into view at the far left end of the platform, weapons drawn as they slowly approach Isaac. A coil of rope droops from Ian's belt.

“Ah know they're here,” says Angus. “We been trekking them for weeks now. And I seen me old naig a quarter mile back.”

“I killed them,” Isaac says defiantly.

“Kilt?” says Angus. “Why would you do that?”

“S'pect that's my business,” says Isaac in a steely voice.

“Bruv, it's even better than we thought,” says Ian. “I knew this blackie looked familiar. He's one of th' Broken Hand Gang.”

“Weel, bruv, I think yer right. I guess we'll take you for oor troubles, instead,” says Angus. “What'd that poster say? Dead or alive?”

Isaac remains silent.

“I prefer dead,” says Ian. “Less trouble that way.” He shows Angus a rotting-tooth grin, then his eyes catch sight of our tent. His grin fades. I stop breathing.

“Seems to me, you needs a body before you can collect a prize,” says Isaac. Ian frowns and reverts his attention to Isaac, who adds, “And I'd prob'ly fall off this here waterfall, if you shoot me.”

The Dragoon slips in my sweaty hand, and I quickly put it down to wipe my palms, inhaling deeply to tamp my burgeoning panic.

“I'll do it,” says Andy, grabbing for the gun. “Quickly! They'll kill him.”

I shake my head. “My aim is better.” I'll have to fire two quick shots just like I did at the pinecones the boys threw up for us to hit. My targets stand forty or fifty feet away.
Oh please, God, I know I shouldn't be asking you for help in killing, but let these bullets fly true.

I fix my sight line on Ian. Before he moves, I take a deep breath and squeeze the trigger.

It clicks.

Andy gasps. “What happened?”

I sight again and squeeze, but the gun clicks like the
tsk
of a tongue. My stomach sinks as I remember dropping it on the shore. It must have gotten wet and now the powder will not burn.

Raw terror freezes me in place.
Think!

“Isaac carried a gun in his coat!” I hiss.

We search the tent. No coat. I peek out of the hole again. There it is, a folded buckskin near the pile of supplies. I point and move aside to show Andy.

“I'll get it,” I say. “You stay here.”

“No, I'm coming, too. Might be another weapon in that pile.” She crooks her pinkie at me. “We're rattlesnakes, remember?”

Giving her a grim smile, I hook my pinkie around hers. Then, silent as moths, we slip out of the tent.

Angus and Ian close in on Isaac. They don't notice us.

While Andy rummages through the supply pile, I unfold Isaac's coat and feel around the pockets.

Empty.

I pat the rough buckskin a second time, though I couldn't have missed it, a gun as long as my forearm. My eyes rove the alcove, but I don't see the black iron anywhere. I shake my head at Andy.
The gun's not here.

She drops a lantern and it jangles noisily. She hastily silences it. I creep to the opposite side of the supply pile and search the heap with her.

Isaac inches back. The sun outlines his silhouette with a golden halo. “You's cannibals. Living off the flesh of other men, because inside, you's souls are black as my skin and eating you's own bodies away.”

“Now thet's no way to talk, nay, blackie?” Angus's voice turns soothing, putting ants on my skin. “We're offering you yer life. Ye ain't got noowhere else ta' go, noowhere ta' run. We'll pat in a good word for ye, make sure th' baillie don't go so harsh, if you come easy.” He holds up two fingers of his left hand. “Scotsman's word.”

Ian tucks his gun into his waistband and unhitches the rope from his belt. Angus keeps his gun drawn.

In my panic, I can't distinguish one item in the supply pile from the next. Slow down. Cord, saddle, shirt, feed sacks, turkey feather. Turkey feather. I pull it out as gently as I can. It's an arrow.

Jeremiah claimed he could shoot a dandelion from thirty feet. Where is his bow?

Andy squints at my arrow, then plows into the pile again.

“We don't want no trouble,” says Angus. “We're peaceable lads. Just want tae do right by the law. We'll make sure your ride back is comfortable, and that ye get a fair jury, wouldne we, bruv?”

“Scotsman's word,” Ian agrees, mimicking his brother's hand motion.

“You God-fearing men?” asks Isaac.

“Raight, we are,” says Angus. “Church every Sundee.”

“Then stand before me and swear it before God, and I will let you put the rope over my hands,” says Isaac.

Ian slowly approaches his quarry until he stands in Isaac's shadow. “Ah swear it,” he says.

Angus sidles up to his brother. The nose of his gun hovers just an arm's length from Isaac. “Ah swear it, too.”

Isaac looks each man in the face. “Well, I hope you told the truth.” Solemnly, he holds his wrists out to Ian. The Scotsman begins binding them. “That's a good blackie,” Angus purrs.

“God bless us,” says Isaac, suddenly lifting his head to the sky. “A falcon.”

I don't see whether there really is a falcon, because at that moment, Isaac grabs both men by their arms and yanks.

Backward Isaac falls, pulling the brothers off the cliff with him.

“Isaac!” Andy screams, echoing one of the men's screams.

My horrified eyes take in the platform, now empty save for the leaning pine trees and the dust that still clings to the air. He
jumped.
He took his own life, to take the lives of those two hellions. Oh, my Lord, have mercy on his wretched soul. Have mercy on us all.

Andy's eyes are stretched wide. In her hands is the Cheyenne bow. She grips it so hard it might break in two.

She sobs. The sound squeezes a fist around my heart. I rush to her and put my arms around her quaking shoulders. It is a trick of the cruelest type that she came all this way, from a garish hotel to a mythical waterfall, only to have the reason for her journey vanish into thin air. Where is the justice in that?

Covering her head with her arms, she gulps in ragged breaths. My own eyes grow moist, and I shut them to trap the tears inside.

Why, Father, do the angels fly away when we need them most? Left to ourselves, how do we wrestle with fate, a demon casting stones left and right, snuffing out fires before they grow too bright?
If I knew the answer to these questions, I might be of use to Andy right now. But all I can do is hold her while she cries.

I open my eyes again, focusing on the place where Isaac just stood, still not quite believing what happened.

Something moves. I squint to block out the late-afternoon glare. Maybe the sun is playing tricks on my eyes.

There it is again. I gape as a hand comes up and then another, from below the cliff's edge.

“Andy,” the word falls out of my open mouth.

She's still sobbing and doesn't hear me. I scramble to my feet, just as whoever's returned from the dead throws his leg over. In a moment, Angus is lying on top of the cliff, heaving.

“Andy,” I cry, shaking her. She's rocking back and forth, fingers still gripped around the bow.
The bow.

Angus rolls over and finally spots us, a crazed look in his eye. As I pry the bow out of Andy's fingers, the Scotsman gets to his feet, letting out a primal scream so full of anguish all the hairs on my arms stand straight up.

Where's the arrow? I quickly rush back to the pile and collect it.

Angus charges toward us, zigzagging down the rocky staircase.

My fingers move as thickly as if I were learning a new Paganini on someone else's violin. This Cheyenne bow is different from my bow, lighter. I notch the arrow, but where's the arrow rest? On the
other
side?

Isaac's words ring in my head.
Jeremiah made friends with a couple of Cheyenne and they gave him a bow and arrow. Made it special for him.

Jeremiah was left-handed. In desperation, I calculate what's more likely to hit, an arrow notched correctly on the left, or an arrow notched incorrectly on my right? Thanks to Lady Tin-Yin, my left arm can do a thing or two, but an arrow? I switch to my left, but now I have to use my left eye.

Dear God, my fingers shake so bad, I can hardly hold the bow. It's too late to switch back—he's nearly upon us. Quickly, I notch, sight, and let it fly.

It misses.

But it nicks Angus's ear, stopping him for a precious moment.

He wipes his ear, smearing blood down his neck. I fling away supplies in my hunt for a second shaft.

Andy finally understands our predicament and rouses herself. Slipping off her frock coat, she runs at Angus, flinging the coat over his head and kicking him so hard she falls onto the shore clutching at her own leg.

Angus stumbles but remains upright. He frees himself of the coat, then jumps on her. His hands find her throat and squeeze.

I drop the bow and grab the closest object—a wooden spoon. Running to them with my weapon high, I'm reminded of the scrubbing brush I wielded a lifetime ago. As I swing the spoon at his wounded ear, Angus blocks it with his arm. Quick as a cat lick, he snatches my arm and yanks me down beside Andy.

I fight to hold on to my weapon, but he's bending my wrist so hard, he will break it. My bow hand. I let go of the spoon.

He crawls on top of me, pinning me down so heavily I cannot budge my legs. His sweat drips onto my face. I glance at Andy, who has stopped moving. Did he crush her windpipe?

My blood boils, my rage like a demon about to spring out of my chest. I lunge, tearing my nails down his cheek.

“Bloody hell!” His grasp on me weakens and quickly I wrench myself out from under him, calling upon strength I never knew I possessed.

I scrabble back toward the supply pile. If I could just—

The monster grabs me by the ankle and pulls hard. All the breath blows out of me as I land heavily on my front. I try to scream but blood fills my mouth.

Frantically, I claw at the ground but it's no use. He's too strong. He releases his grip on my ankle only to yank me up by the arm. I struggle with all my might. But now he's shaking me so hard, my teeth clatter.

“Yer fault! Ye kilt my bruv! Yer goin te' pay!”

After I think he's broken every bone in me, he stops shaking and hooks his eyes into mine. His empty orbs of blue ice are the eyes of a madman. I do not think he even has a soul.

“I knew it when we saw the bulletin. Where's your nellie boys now? They get tired of ye?” His sulfurous breath blows hot against my face. I'm so dizzy, I can barely stand.

“Almost gave up,” he hisses. “But then we heard ye showing aff with yer fiddle.”

Oh, my God, they were at Independence Rock.

“Five hundred somethin' fer you and your blackie sets me up good. Biggest quarry I ever—”

My heels slip from under me, cutting Angus's sentence short. I fall back, pulling him with me. I expect to feel hard stone as I land, but instead, bitterly cold water engulfs me, cutting off my breath. The ground has disappeared and my feet cannot get purchase.

Angus flails somewhere next to me. In a panic, I kick off my boots and swim away from him. Water clouds my vision and floods my ears. Soon, he catches my ankle once again.