The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(26)
She ran a hand down the fabric of the skirt, frowning. Gabriel had warned her to pack light when they left Flood, but simply airing out her clothing whenever opportunity arose was not the same as a good laundering, and she’d pay all the coin in her purse for a new skirt, one without darns or stains.
“And carrots,” she said, compiling a list. “And fresh bread and butter, and a pillow and linens, too.”
None of those things were likely to appear, not here, and likely no time soon. Unless she felt the urge to tan her own hides and make a deerskin shift, like a native, what she carried would be what she wore.
She thought wistfully of the dresses she’d left behind in her room in Flood, the soft slippers and pretty shawls, and then sternly put those memories aside. Turning to wake Gabriel, she heard a thwick-thwick from behind her, the noise enough like the familiar scratch of cards on table felt to make her pause, thinking her memories were playing tricks on her ears.
Then it came again, real and true, and a breath or two of searching found the source perched on the stub of a tree branch just above her head.
The owl was massive enough to make the branch creak underneath it, brown and white feathers fluffed against the morning cold, golden eyes in a flat face staring down at her, unblinking.
“I’m not a mouse,” she told it, frowning fiercely. She was not a mouse, and odds were, this was nothing more than an ordinary bird, its pre-dawn hunt disturbed by intruders sleeping where they should not be.
The beak opened as though it were going to respond, then its wings lifted and it swooped off the branch, coming close enough to her head that Isobel ducked instinctively. By the time she straightened again, her hands lowering from her head, it was gone.
“Well, then,” she said softly, unsure if she was relieved or not. She wouldn’t deny that advice would have been appreciated, but spirit-animals, in her experience, delighted in speaking things that were utterly useless unless you already knew what you needed to know. Her previous encounter with a spirit-snake had left her more confused, not less.
And an owl . . . No. She had no wish for an owl to speak to her, now or ever.
A firm cough and a clod of dirt tossed at Gabriel’s shoulder was enough to rouse him, pulling the blanket off his head and sitting up slowly, aware, since she had not shouted, that there was no danger requiring immediate action. She waited until he ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair and nodded at her, before going to check on the animals.
The salve on the mule’s side had flaked off overnight—he’d likely rolled on the ground at some point to scratch an itch—but underneath the dust, the cuts looked to be healing, without any heat or pus. She washed them out again with water anyway, paying special attention to the punctures. She didn’t think more salve would be needed, but if Gabriel thought otherwise, there was enough left to cover it and still have some left.
Some, but not much.
“No one else get so much as a bruise,” she told the horses, gathering up Uvnee’s lead and trusting the other two to follow her through the trees, back to the meadow, checking carefully first to see if there was any sign of another predator lurking. The carrion-eaters had gone from the pale blue sky, and the only things she could smell were the sharp tang of the trees and a thin, cold scent she was coming to identify as “mountain.”
The sick, musky smell of the ghost cat was gone, buried along with it.
She staked the horses’ leads to pegs in the dirt and walked a perimeter around them, breathing quietly and listening to the simple sounds of breeze and insects, watching deep blue and pale green butterflies lift and descend, the horses quietly, contentedly cropping at the grasses, moving shoulder to shoulder without alarm. Finally certain that there was no immediate threat, Isobel left them there to graze and went back to their small camp. Before she could see it, she heard noises: quiet, familiar grumbles and thumps that made her smile despite her worry. Like the thump of slippers on hardwood floors and the flickerthwack of playing cards, those were the sounds of comfort, of home, and she had missed them.
Gabriel had gotten a small fire going while she was gone, and started breakfast.
He looked up as she approached. “Horses grazing?”
“Mmmhmmm. Staked their leads, left ’em unhobbled.” If spooked, horses could run enough to lose their way back, and they couldn’t afford to take time to hunt them down or go ahead on foot, but if another cat were around, or a bear, three sets of hooves could mount a fierce defense, time enough for their riders to arrive with loaded guns.
And hopefully, nothing more fierce than butterflies would appear. Isobel wasn’t sure she believed in luck—she’d grown up in a gambling house, where luck had very little play—but she thought for certain they were due some, if it did exist.
“Flatfoot looked good,” she said, taking the offered mug when it was ready, and letting the sharp aroma tickle her nose. “Skin wasn’t warm; there was no sign of pus. I washed the cut but didn’t put more salve on.”
“I’ll check it before we saddle up, but if he’s healing on his own, no need to do more,” Gabriel agreed. “No upsets during the night?” She paused, a bite of corncake halfway to her mouth. “No. Nothing.” No need to admit she’d fallen asleep: the horses had not been disturbed, she’d seen no sign of danger. She simply would not make that mistake again.
“Good. Soon’s you’re done, we should pack and go. Full day’s ride ahead, and we’ve no idea what to expect.”