The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(80)
“Our destination,” LaFlesche said with no small relief.
But despite chivvying the prisoners, it took them most of the available daylight to reach the gates. It hadn’t rained recently, and dust from the road flew up into their faces and into their mouths and noses, forcing them to cover their faces with kerchiefs to breathe cleanly, and slowing their pace.
“I’d near forgotten why they call ’em the dust roads,” LaFlesche grumbled after she’d had to wet down her kerchief a third time, wringing it out with a moue of distaste at the dirty water dripping from the cloth. “Worse than cottonwood. Worse than mud, worse than anything.”
“From dust ye came and covered in dust ye shall remain,” Gabriel said. LaFlesche glared at him from behind the reaffixed cloth over her mouth and chin, while Isobel pulled her hat down further in a vain attempt to keep the dust out of her eyes and hair as well.
When they’d come within a dozen paces of the tall wooden gate, they saw an odd dozen long-barreled muskets aimed at them over the top.
LaFlesche paused, putting out a hand to stop anyone from taking a step closer. “Marshal Abigail LaFlesche, bringing prisoners for judging,” she called out. “And honored guests” was almost an afterthought, and Isobel felt something inside her growl at the insult.
“Hush,” Gabriel said quietly, and she felt herself flush again at evidence it hadn’t been as inside as she’d thought.
Half the muskets were pulled back when they heard her voice, the remaining seven remaining tilted down at them.
“So much for them not havin’ military,” Anderson sneered, looking at Tousey, but loud enough for the others to hear. “Lyin’ savages, even the whites.”
“I will gag you,” LaFlesche said almost conversationally. “Unless you’d rather me simply cut your tongue out?”
The scout glared at her but clenched his jaw shut without another sound.
There were male voices on the other side, and the gate slid open, revealing a small forecourt and a cluster of buildings beyond.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Isobel felt something shiver up her legs; the town’s warding, noting the arrival of strangers. Her throat closed in a panic, realizing that she hadn’t considered that the warding might object to the magicians or to the binding laid on them, but the wooden gates of the town closed behind them without alarm or outcry.
A judge lived here, LaFlesche claimed. Perhaps the warding had been crafted to allow for prisoners coming in and leaving? Isobel took a deep breath and felt the bump of a hand against hers; Gabriel had shifted Steady’s lead to his other hand and now stood next to her, his hat tipped forward against the afternoon sun that angled over the low rooftops of the buildings, reflecting almost too brightly against . . . She squinted, then tilted her head. Yes, there were bits of metal on the roofs, angled against the edge.
“Snow-breakers,” LaFlesche said, seeing where her attention had gone. “Winter here, the snow piles up, gets heavy enough to break a roof if you’re not careful. Ice, too. So you want it to come down . . . but not all at once.”
“The snow slides off the roof . . . The bits are sharp, breaks it up so it doesn’t all come off at once?”
“Mmmhmmm. You ever been knocked on the head by a month’s worth of snow, you appreciate that.”
While Isobel was considering the idea of that much snow, wondering if the woman was making sport of her, the marshal turned to welcome the man who was coming forward to greet them, a gaggle of others just behind him, staring as though they’d never seen strangers before.
Isobel had to admit that maybe they hadn’t, at least not like this.
A single figure pushed through the crowd, elbowing the others aside with casual disdain. “Marshal LaFlesche, isn’t it? I’d say it’s good to see you, but marshals never bring anything but work, and you likely remember how much I hate that sort of thing.”
The man was old, not ancient, but what hair he had left was sparse and white, curled tight against a balding pate, and his face drooped like an old dog at the jowls. He wore a fitted black cloth coat, the shirt underneath it fastened up to the neck, and trousers with a neat darn in the knee, but his boots were polished clean, despite the dust that seemed to settle over all else.
“Good to see you still up and kicking, Judge,” the marshal said in return, shaking his hand. “And yes, I’m afraid I’ll need you to drape the bench one more time.”
The judge pulled his head back, examining the newcomers with an expression that reminded Isobel of nothing so much as a turtle suddenly startled from his log. “All of them?”
“Ah, no, my apologies. Judge Pike, this is Gabriel Kasun, and Isobel . . .” The marshal hesitated, as though uncertain how to introduce her.
“Isobel née Lacoyo Távora,” she said, stepping forward. “Most recently of Flood.”
“Ah.” The old man’s narrowed eyes studied her, giving nothing away. “Come from the Old Man’s lair, eh? Well, you’re welcome to Andreas, despite what you bring, though there’s little to recommend it these days. We’re mostly emptied out for planting and grazing, just us oldsters left behind. And what of these others—are those two dead, or do they sleep as such?”
“Ah. Well, and there’s a story to be told,” the marshal said, rubbing her jaw, a rueful tone to her voice. “These two”—the marshal indicated the Americans, their hands bound in front of them—“are accused of having made false claim of insult.”