The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(64)

He didn’t want to fight them, but he had no desire to die, either.

“Iz, be ready to ride forward.” He hoped that his voice conveyed what he couldn’t say: that she was not to get off her damn horse, that she was not to hesitate, that whatever happened to him, she was to get the blazes out of there as fast as she could, trampling them if need be.

The men could not catch Uvnee once she took flight, but those dogs would certainly be able to inflict damage if they were given a chance. Four dogs, five men. Steady, given cause, could take one, possibly two of the dogs out, plus one of the men. The mule would be able to protect itself, even with the ghost cat’s scarring on its hide. He could take two of the men out, maybe three, before they dragged him off Steady’s back.

All those thoughts flashed like heat lightning and were gone, leaving him loose for whatever was to come. He gave a quiet command, and Steady’s square head lowered, thick neck curved in a way that would warn anyone accustomed to horses to steer clear of his teeth and hooves. If they could not pass in peace, he would at least buy time for Isobel to reach safety.

Gabriel grinned crookedly; when the devil had promised him peace in exchange for this duty, he should have assumed it would be this way.

His expression must have been fierce; one of the other men wearing a wolf’s mantle drew back, eying him consideringly. Gabriel dropped Steady’s reins entirely and lifted his hands in a gesture that asked, “What are you waiting for?” in any language, and let his grin widen. They might wear a wolf’s skin, but he could be one.



Since leaving the valley, Isobel had focused her attention on how Uvnee placed her hooves, the narrowness of the trail, the blueness of the sky, and the intense irritation of the insect bites on her hands and neck, as a way to?—not to forget; there was no way she would forget—put aside what had happened behind them. Even the demon, normally cause for concern, had been merely a distraction, all the more so when it did nothing but watch them as they rode past.

It was like kneading bread: you let your body do one thing, pay so much attention to it, there was no room for anything else. Empty mind and full hands, Ree had said, over and over, when a loaf turned out badly. If you worried about the baking, you would ruin the dough. And so, she’d focused on the trail and the placement of her hands on the reins and the way she leaned in the saddle to keep Uvnee balanced, until the feel of claws and wet smudges faded.

But when she followed Gabriel down that last rise and saw the men waiting for them, Isobel felt her stomach clench and tighten, hot fingers sliding up her spine and spreading along her scalp. Not anger, not fear, but something beyond that, something fierce and inevitable and closer to, if she had to name it, intense annoyance.

She reined Uvnee back, allowing Gabriel to take the lead as she studied the five the way the boss had trained her to read people—taking in their stance, their expressions, the way they grouped themselves—to see what it was they wanted that they would not allow themselves to name.

They were angry, she decided, and they were afraid, and they were very brave to come this close to where they knew an angry sprit lived. The fact that the ancient spirit was not angry at them did not matter; they had come to see what had angered it, to do what the spirit wished them to do to end its anger.

And they had done it on their own, she thought, watching their faces. If they claimed a victory, it would be theirs alone, but if they came to ruin, the spirit’s anger would not find its way back to their people as well.

She felt a twinge of sympathy for them that faded the moment they made a move toward Gabriel. Her mentor’s hissed warning was heard and ignored. She would not leave him here.

Her blunderbuss was strapped to her pack; even if she could lay hands on it without them noticing, she couldn’t ram shot and powder fast enough to be useful. Her knives, both the one at her waist and the larger one strapped to Uvnee’s saddle, were within reach, but she would not stand a chance against even one of the warriors facing them.

The sigil in her palm remained cool, without an itch of power. The Agreement the boss had with the tribes required only that they maintain the peace so long as no insult was given—and gave them the right to determine insult. Even against the Hand herself, if she were foolish enough.

She had not been responsible for what had happened in the valley; magicians were not under the devil’s authority—the tribes could not hold the boss responsible for what one might do any more than they could blame him for the wind or the rains.

But if a white man had led them here, had meddled in such a way to injure the Territory itself, using magicians as his tools . . . the tribes would be within rights to hold the boss to account.

Isobel wished she’d thought to pack one of Polly’s headache powders as well as her cramping remedy.

The Right Hand might have soothed tempers into something calmer. But Marie was not here, and Isobel saw one of the warriors reach for his bow, while another’s knife cleared its sheath, and Gabriel was just standing there.

Isobel felt her larger knife come to her hand, and then it was no longer in her hand but blade first in the grasses, inches from the toes of the one with the drawn bow.

“Hold!”

She might have shouted the word; she might have cried it. Neither the blade nor the word would have been enough, but she heard their heartbeats pulse in the air and caught at them, stilling them, slowing them to where they could not move at all.