The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(9)

He stood in the middle of a creek, the water rushing over his ankles, blood-warm and filled with long, slender fish glinting silver and green in schools thick enough to look solid. He bent to scoop one out, holding it gently in cupped hands, and it looked back at him with eyes too human, set ’round with scales.

“The net comes for us all,” the fish told him. “The only question is who eats you.”

Not every dream was sent to tell him something; only a fool would think that, and fools died early and often in the Territory. But the morning’s unease splashed over him anew nonetheless, and his thumb pushed the sheath’s clasp out of the way for easier drawing, should it be necessary after all.

But he’d already invited the man in; there was no help for it but to brazen his way through.

“I’ve breakfast, if you’re hungry.”

The man shook his head. “Wouldn’t say no to some coffee if you have it, though.” His smile showed teeth yellowed but flat, and when he removed his hat, his gaze stayed steady on Gabriel, no flickering motion to indicate someone watching or traps—or waiting for someone coming in from the other side. But Gabriel had met men in his time who could smile and shake your hand without ever hinting at the knife aimed at your gut, and he fetched the other mug from his kit without turning his back on the newcomer, hospitality be damned.

The handful of silver half-coins weighted his pocket, but he wasn’t so rude as to check them now, to see if they’d tarnished in the man’s company, and the silver buckle at his boot shone the same as it had the night before. Odds were the man was just a Road loner, sheer coincidence his name triggered a memory of the night’s dream.

Odds were.

Jack took the coffee, drained half the cup without care for its heat. Or, for that matter, its taste: it was yesterday’s grinds, down to the dregs and gone bitter beyond any sweetener’s fixing. If Isobel had been here, she would have made him toss it and start fresh. But she wasn’t: four days, and a day late in returning.

The net comes for us all.

“You’ve his hand on you,” Jack said, finishing the coffee and handing him back the empty tin cup.

“Beg pardon?” The stranger might be good at hiding his intent, but Gabriel had played cards at the devil’s own table, not to mention with a handful of would-be Eastern politicians. His own face showed nothing he did not wish it to.

“Like calls to like,” Jack said, and now his mouth twisted in either bitterness or humor. “I could smell it on you, like a whore’s perfume.”

Not a name, Jack. A title. No wonder the man had refused food and not cared for the taste of the coffee; a Jack tasted none of those things, not so long as he was under the devil’s jurisdiction.

But a Jack was also no threat to him.

No threat, but possibly a warning.

“You come down the north trail,” he said, turning to place the cup down and pour himself another dose. “Might you have encountered someone else along the way?”



The Jack did not linger long after that, and Gabriel did not make pretense at regret.

The effort of repacking their belongings onto the mule and throwing the saddle on the gelding left him sweaty, but his knees held and his ribs didn’t hurt, so Gabriel decided he would be fine to ride.

And even if he wasn’t, he would have anyway, after what little the Jack had told him.

Thankfully, Steady lived up to his name, standing patiently while he hauled back into the saddle.

“Just like falling off a log,” Gabriel said to him. “But let’s not rush into any gallops, all right?”

Only a fool or a cavalryman galloped at night, on unfamiliar terrain, and only a fool of a cavalryman would do so while injured. Only a fool would travel before they were ready, too, but Gabriel couldn’t wait any longer.

If Isobel had found trouble, he needed to find her.

When he’d offered to mentor the sharp-eyed saloon girl if she’d the itch to see more of the Territory than the walls of her saloon or the borders of her small town, Gabriel hadn’t known that that slip of a girl was destined to be the Devil’s Hand. He hadn’t known what that meant, what it would drag him into.

Truth, he regretted none of it, not the offer, nor the fact that when Isobel herself turned him down, the devil had said yes. But the irony was not lost on him: he’d made the offer for free, only to have the devil tell him to name his price. To have the devil owe you a debt was a powerful thing, but Gabriel intended to never collect on it. He couldn’t afford to collect on it. To collect would be to accept, to accept would be to bind himself, and that was the thing he could not, would not do.

Not if he was to remain himself, avoid a fate too similar to the Jack’s.

There was a deeper irony in the threads that bound him now, his dream less portent than common sense. If he concentrated, he could feel the slow trickle of water in the creek, low in the summer dryness but still enough for watering the animals, for him to wash and water without concern. As usual, it wanted to heal him, to slough off the scabs and seal the skin, and he couldn’t any more than he could take the devil’s payout. Couldn’t let the water-sense in that deep, so close to his bones.

He’d learned the hard way that what the Territory claims, it keeps. But he would not let it own him. Isobel might yield under the forces reshaping her, yield to the devil’s plans, whatever they were, but he could not. He would not.