The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(74)

“Magicians are something else entire,” LaFlesche said, and Tousey had only shaken his head, as though he still was not entirely certain he believed anything they were telling him.

Isobel had merely snorted, walking with a hand on Uvnee’s neck as the mare plodded along with one of the magicians weighing her down, still less than pleased with the burden, from the way her ears kept twitching.

“We were warned . . .”

We, Gabriel noted. He didn’t think Tousey referred to the scout with him, which likely meant that other marshals had been sent into the Territory. Had they all been sent to search for magicians? If Jefferson were as canny as was claimed, he’d have more than one spoon to the pot.

“Warned of what? Clearly, not to not meddle.” Isobel had been ignoring the Americans as best she could in such proximity, but that seemed to push her too far. “What did they warn you of, then? Because from here it was nothing useful.”

But that was all Tousey was willing to share. LaFlesche gave Isobel a hard stare, as though to remind her whose prisoners they were, and Isobel snorted again, then walked more swiftly, striding ahead of their group.

“She’s young,” Gabriel said to LaFlesche, watching her go. “And still green as grass, for all that she’s learned since we set out.” And bitter, he thought. That was something new, and unwelcome. Finding the source of the buffalo’s death seemed to have deepened her anger, not lessened it, as though despite fulfilling her promise, something still spurred her on.

“She needs to learn faster” was all LaFlesche said.



Isobel could hear them talking behind her, although the words themselves were too low to be overheard. She knew it was petty, knew that she had snapped when she should have been calm, but neither Gabriel nor the marshal seemed to understand the pressure of warding like this, around two different objects, constantly moving.

And telling them, trying to explain, would make it sound as though she were weak or complaining—and she wouldn’t do that, not in front of the marshal, and of a certainty not in front of outsiders.

She did regret irritating the marshal, for purely selfish reasons. LaFlesche had been on the Road long enough that her stories must be fascinating. Isobel slid a hand under her hat and scratched at her scalp, wondering if the older woman knew a source of the dry washing powder Devorah had given her, if that was a thing women on the road shared, and if she’d annoyed the woman into keeping that secret from her.

But all these, regrets and distractions, were mere irritations compared to the stress of traveling with magicians.

Warded and unconscious, they were currently carried by Uvnee and LaFlesche’s tough little pony, whose Umonhon name Isobel couldn’t pronounce but suspected meant “pain to live with.” The mule had taken one whiff of the bodies and put up such a fuss that they’d decided to leave it with the packs. Flatfoot trailed them now, staying within sight—and within protection range were it needed?—but at whatever distance the mule thought was safe from the threat traveling within their party.

Isobel felt much sympathy for the mule, but she wasn’t allowed to join it. She couldn’t go far at all: while Gabriel and LaFlesche took turns riding ahead to scout the path they were on, Isobel needed to stay close to the bodies, fully aware that if they woke, she might not be able to do anything to stop them again, but she would be the only chance their little party had.

And they were still being watched. If that made her uneasy, the scout seemed ready to jump, twitching like a rabbit, forever looking over his shoulder and muttering under his breath. That, more than Gabriel’s reassuring words, made the unease bearable?—anything that worried him that much couldn’t help but please her.

Still, she watched her mentor finally give in to his obvious impatience with their slow walk, swinging up into Steady’s saddle and trotting ahead, and wished that she were with him, leaving these strangers behind. And if part of that craving to feel Uvnee under her, the wind in her face, was the desire to ride away and never come back, abandon this entire mess . . . surely there was no shame in thinking dark thoughts, so long as you kept control over them.

But with Gabriel gone, she had to drop back and join the others, out of respect to the road marshal if nothing else. Thankfully, the older woman didn’t seem to take offense at her silence, nor did she seem perturbed, but merely strode along, her trousered legs covering the ground more easily than Isobel in her skirts.

“What’s it like to ride in them? Trousers, I mean?” Isobel finally asked, as much to silence the noise in her head as any real curiosity.

LaFlesche seemed surprised by the question, glancing down at her legs as though she’d only just noticed the fitted material. “I honestly don’t recall anything different. Been a while since I wore skirts for anything other than fancy dress for a party, and that was . . .” She laughed at herself. “Well, a while ago.” She sobered then, looking sideways at Isobel, then back ahead to the trail. “When I was younger, there were some as thought I was trying to be a man, and figured they’d remind me otherwise, but most folk, they see the sigil, and they mind their manners well enough. And those who don’t, well, they learn quick the Road doesn’t suffer the weak, not for long.”

“You ever . . . regret?”

“What, taking up the sigil or taking on the Road?”

“Either. Both.”