The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(77)

Were there natives like that? Broken Tongue, he’d said his people ran when the ground shook, but he hadn’t. Why had he been different?

“The creek didn’t stop our watchdogs,” the marshal said, as dry as if they were discussing the weather, breaking into her increasingly troubled thinking. “One group’s been with us since I caught up with the boys; the other joined in after you came along. They’re ignoring each other, near as I can tell, but keeping us under observation.”

Isobel brought her attention back to the problem at hand. Was that second group the warriors who had been waiting for them when they came down the mountain, or someone else? “Do you know who?”

The marshal stretched her arms over her head, fingers laced, and arched her back until something cracked. Isobel envied the other woman her loose-tailored shirt and trou once again for the way they allowed her to move with less restriction. Next mercantile they came to, she was buying a pair with whatever coin they had left.

“No clue,” LaFlesche said. “Suspect one’s Sutaio, but they’ve not let me see them except to tell me they were there, never close enough for useful detail. Other might be . . . well, could be anyone, up here. These hills are where you settle if you don’t agree with how the elders are doing things back home.”

Isobel thought of Jumping-Up Duck and her village, hiding where no one might follow them, afraid to leave even when the ground shook, of the great deer and the Reaper hawk, the way the magicians had traveled to that particular place to do what they did. . . .

“Do you know any stories about the hills behind us, other than that?”

La Flesche cocked her head, thinking. “I’m not from these parts, so I’m not the best to ask. If you mean the tribal stories, I mean.”

“There are other kinds?”

The road marshal laughed. “I’m nearly sixty, Isobel. I’ve heard all sorts of stories, from all sorts of folk. Some truer’n others. But mostly, around here? There’s not much said. Which is odd, come to think of it.”

“Odd, yes,” Isobel said. But she thought she knew why. The great deer—what Gabriel called a wapiti—and the Reaper hawk had not come to her: they had already been there. For the land, not her. Or, not the land but what the land held.

Some places were more powerful than others. Flood was one of those places, either because of the boss or why he picked it. De Plata had been another; she’d felt it when she walked past the silver mines, something deep and strong in the mountains.

She had felt the power in these hills, too. And she had allowed that power to touch her, slip inside her, bind itself to her.

What had happened to her up there?

She reached for her canteen and took a swallow, having to force the water down a suddenly tight throat. “Do you think the magicians knew those hills were sacred? That that’s why they went there to do what they did?”

The marshal tilted her head, giving Isobel a sideways look. “I try not to think about the whys of what a magician does,” she said. “And I’d advise you don’t either. Good way to chase the moon, that.”

“But . . .” She bit her tongue and let the other woman think that she’d agreed. Magicians were none of their concern . . . and none of the boss’s either, he’d said. But they kept being tangled in her concerns, and that meant she needed to think about such things.

She’d trusted the whisper when it sent her into the hills, had led her deeper; she’d first assumed it came from the sigil, from the boss. But it wasn’t. What was it?

“Whatever you’re thinking, Hand, stow it.” The marshal’s voice was hard but not unkind, and Isobel nodded. There were more immediate worries to deal with. First, to deliver the marshal’s prisoners, preferably without anyone else dying.

“Our watchers. Do you think they’ll interfere before we reach your judge?”

“No.” LaFlesche sounded certain of that. “White men, army men, makes it our problem, just as you said. With luck, we remove the problem, maybe things will go back to as they should be.”

Things as they should be. Isobel thought of the destruction she’d seen already, the abandoned homes, the slaughtered buffalo, the empty skies. The way the ground shuddered underfoot, so deeply disturbed by the sorrow and madness it was forced to contain. “That’s a fool’s dream, Marshal.”

That was enough to kill the conversation, and the four of them walked on, occasionally pausing to shift one of the sleeping bodies to keep them from falling, until Gabriel rode back with the news that the town was just up ahead.





PART FIVE


A COLD EYE


Under ordinary circumstances, Gabriel would never have ridden off, leaving only two to guard four, even if two of the four were unable to move, much less attempt escape. Under ordinary circumstances, Gabriel would have been useful if the prisoners attempted to escape. Here, the road marshal was more than competent to shoot Anderson in the knees, should that be required, and Tousey . . .

The American would honor his parole. At least for now.

And that left Gabriel feeling itchy and useless until LaFlesche had flat-out told him to scout ahead, ensure that the way was clear. She was humoring him, but it put him back in the saddle, where a rider belonged. And he felt only a little guilt at the look Isobel gave him as he picked up Steady’s reins.