The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(5)

The stock of her gun, a new acquisition in La Ramée, rubbed against her leg, but its presence gave her little comfort. Gabriel was the sureshot of the two of them. She could hit things most times out of ten, but not always, and she’d never yet had to shoot at a thing that went on two legs.

Only a fool would be riding before dawn, alone, driven by a whisper in the dark. But her life was not her own. She kept riding, north and west of where she’d planned to go, farther away from the campsite where Gabriel was waiting, until the sky began to shift from black to purple, and from purple to streaky red ahead of the sun.

It was full dawn when Isobel rode over yet another low, undulating hill and saw a narrow river cutting through the shallow valley below, the outline of a small farmstead a little ways uphill from it, on the other side. Her destination?

No answer came, either by whisper or sigil-burn.

There were three buildings set in a grassy clearing: two square, low-roofed houses and a barn set around a trampled-down center. Beyond that, there was what looked like an icehouse, half-hidden under the turf, the buildings weathered from both winter’s wind and summer’s sun, doors shut and windows shuttered.

Cautiously, she rode Uvnee into the creek, the water splashing at her boots, soaking the mare’s legs, Isobel’s gaze slipping from right to left and then back again, waiting for . . . something, anything, to appear or attack.

Halfway across, she felt the warding, a dozen prickly slaps against her chest and arms, making her fingers spasm on the reins before the prickling faded and disappeared. The wards had recognized her—or, more likely, the devil’s sigil she carried?—and named her friend and welcome. Isobel’s muscles eased slightly, but she remained alert. There was still no movement she could see, no cows lowing or the enthusiastic he-hon of pigs to be heard, and no one had yet come out to greet her. Was there illness here, as at Widder Creek, or had the farmstead been abandoned under threat?

Uvnee heaved herself out of the creek and up the slight bank, coming to a pause when Isobel eased the reins back, still cautious, still waiting.

Illness or violence. She had been called for nothing else yet.

The knife in the darkness. That was what the boss had called her. Maria was the Right Hand, the open hand. The Left was forever curled around a weapon.

Her right hand rested on the hilt of her knife, the butt of her blunderbuss hard against her thigh, and she calculated how quickly she could reach for the silver in her pocket if she needed it. But those musings were cut off when a woman exited one of the low houses, turning to face the newcomer, and the morning sunlight showed that the woman was native.

Isobel felt a momentary pang of uncertainty: had she given offense by riding in, uninvited? The warding had recognized her, but she had only been in a few native encampments before, and always with Gabriel at her side.

The woman called out then, saying something in a language Isobel did not know. She shook her head, lifting her right hand to her left breast and then out, ending with her palm to the sky, thumb and index finger extended, then swept her hand, fingers extended, to the right. She thought—hoped?—that was the sign for not understanding, that she was doing it right, that they didn’t use another gesture, that she hadn’t just said something terribly rude.

Gabriel would have known.

The woman gave her another glance, then, in clear but halting Spanish, said, “Tu monta temprano, y solo.”

“Lo siento si me ofender,” Isobel said, sliding down from Uvnee’s back, to put herself on equal ground. “Mi nombre es Isobel de Flood. La mano de Diablo.”

Marie had taught them that formality and politeness could head off problems before they became problems. She had been speaking of bar fights, but Isobel saw no reason it wouldn’t hold here, too. The warding had recognized the sigil, but that did not mean this woman would, did not mean that she was welcome.

She studied the woman anxiously, looking for some sign of recognition or acknowledgment. There were strands of silver in her black hair, and lines around her eyes and mouth, cutting deeply into the skin there. She was older than she appeared, far older than Isobel herself, but not elderly.

“I am Jumping-Up Duck,” the woman said, still in Spanish, studying Isobel in turn. “Why have you come here now, Hand?”

That was a fair question, if awkward to answer. She fell back on a question of her own. “Is all well here?”

“Yes. Of course.” The woman’s face was calm, her mouth solemn, but Isobel knew a lie, no matter how well someone hid it behind a smile or a steady look.

But people lied all the time. Some did it to hide the truth, some because they weren’t ready to speak the truth yet, some because they didn’t know the truth yet. The why was what the boss had taught her to discern.

So. She did not think anger lay behind this lie. Isobel breathed, listened. Worry, she thought. And . . . unnerved. Something unnerved the woman, and she felt she could not, dare not speak of it. What, and why?

Isobel tried to remember everything Gabriel had told her, trying to remember the few exchanges she’d had with women in the native villages they’d visited. Few, too few; she’d relied on Gabriel too much. But still, this was no different from what she had done at the saloon, convincing people to trust her, drawing the truth out so that it could be dealt with.

“Another day, I would have nodded and left it be,” she said, leaning against Uvnee and petting the mare’s soft nose, making herself seem gentler, easier to speak with, one woman to another. “I would have nodded and perhaps let someone else dig into the root of your sorrow, thinking it none of my business. But the Master of the Territory sent me in his name.”