The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(63)
“No. Not forgotten.” Her voice dropped, darkened. “Just . . . undone. Waiting.”
He looked at her again, but her head was down, and all he could see was the top of her hat and the edge of her chin before it sank into the collar of her jacket. He was reminded of a turtle he had seen once, half-buried in mud, contemplating the riverbank before him, thinking deep and mournful turtle thoughts.
“We should be through this pass well before dusk,” he said, not looking away. “Plenty of time to find a decent-sized stream for bathing, maybe even one deep enough for swimming. You need another lesson or three before I’m satisfied you won’t sink like a stone.”
That lifted her head up sharply, and the glare he got at the reminder of her single attempt to swim made him urge Steady on to a faster pace, just in case she decided to chuck something at him.
But even that little easing of the tension disappeared when they crested that last bony ridge and saw the warriors waiting for them in the valley below.
Gabriel had been born in the Territory, his father the son of Eastern settlers, his mother the daughter of a Métis woman. Their farm had been successful enough that he’d been sent off to school when it was clear he had no skill for growing things, with his siblings content to stay behind. He had grown up seeing Métis cousins and the occasional Anishinabeg or Dakota come through, either hunting or trading. He had grown up learning hand language, picking up words here and there, had learned what certain markings and attire meant, and when it was a time to speak, and when he should remain silent, and his time with the Hochunk had taught him how to admit that he did not understand a thing.
He had no idea what it meant, that these five men stood in front of them, their chests bare of decoration or design, bows behind them, knives sheathed. Their faces were round and stern, two bareheaded with narrow braids at either side of their heads, three with their heads covered by long fur caps that, when one of them shifted, Gabriel identified as wolf skin.
Warriors, for all that they showed no weapons in their hands. Behind them, dogs shifted?—not bulky travois-dogs but lean creatures who might have shared a grandparent with the wolves these men had killed. They were held on no lead but awaited a command either to stand down or attack.
Apsáalooke, mayhap. Or not. He tried to find some connection to the old man who had traveled with them, but their moccasins were of a different pattern, and the old man’s face had been so ancient, so lined, that he could see no familial resemblance here.
“Gabriel?” Isobel had fallen a pace behind him, shifting Uvnee so that they were half-hidden behind Steady’s bulk, back with the mule.
The girl he’d first met would have lingered, curiosity overcoming common sense; after their encounter with the Spaniards, the Hand might have pushed forward, demanded their respect. Her behavior now was that of a seasoned rider—wary but polite, aware that they would see her only as a white female, without age or status. That she was the Devil’s Hand had no meaning here.
He didn’t look back at her, playing the part as he swung out of the saddle and walked forward to meet warriors on their own terms.
Pausing a few paces away, he waited, watching them without meeting their eyes, then focusing on the man to the left standing half a step ahead of the others. The wolf skin on his head draped over his bare shoulders, and Gabriel guessed that he was in his early twenties, perhaps slightly older, and the others with him were a similar age or slightly younger.
Old enough to be experienced, young enough to still be firebrands. That made them dangerous, no matter what their intent. And without knowing for certain what tribe they were, without knowing the politics of this region, making any assumptions could be deadly.
The Road promised adventure, not certainty. Thrice so, traveling with Isobel.
Gabriel lifted his right hand, palm out and fingers spread, to his shoulder and twisted his wrist back and forth several times, then made the sign for trouble, making it a question. They studied him, and as ever, there was a moment of fear, that he had made the wrong sign, that his innocent question—what trouble exists?—had in fact given offense, unintended.
One of the younger men, one without a wolf’s mantle, stepped forward, an almost violent movement, and was held back by another, his hand on their arm.
The leader flicked his gaze from Gabriel to behind him, then back to Gabriel again, sizing them up. “You have been to the shaken valley.”
His English was rough, with an accent Gabriel could not place, but he spoke it well enough to be understood, which was a relief. If something were to go wrong, he’d rather Isobel be aware of it at that moment, not after he’d had time to translate.
Shaken Valley. As good a name as any, he supposed.
“We have.” Were they going to blame them for what was happening? He did not allow his muscles to ready for attack or his hand to reach for his knife, however much he craved the reassurance of it in his hand just then. He cursed that he had left the carbine latched to Steady’s saddle; not that it would gave been much use against five opponents, but if nothing else, the wooden butt made an effective club.
“The valley shook while you were there. You angered the spirits.”
“Ah . . .” Gabriel wasn’t sure trying to explain that it had been a pack of magicians would go over well. Magicians might claim some of the Territory’s medicine in their madness, but they were still whites, still outsiders. Gabriel’s skin was pale, and he had been in the valley where spirits had been angered enough to send the game away and shake the ground for days in all directions. He was reasonably certain they didn’t need any other correlation to assign blame.