Outlawed(44)

“Should anyone require such a remedy,” the Kid said, “I’ll be sure to dispense it carefully.”

Part of me felt guilty making my next request, but another part knew now was the time, when the Kid was already beholden to me for my discretion.

“There’s something I need to do,” I said. “I’ve been planning it ever since I joined the sisters. There’s a master midwife down in Pagosa Springs, and she knows more than anyone I’ve ever heard of about barrenness and childbirth, and I need to go and work with her. I think I can help her.”

I had never said the last part before, and I was surprised to find I believed it.

“Each one among us joined our number freely,” the Kid said, “and each is free to depart. You know that.”

“I can’t get there on my own,” I said. “I need a horse, and money, and someone to ride down with me so I don’t get killed. And I think—” I paused, unused to such brazenness. “I think you need my vote or you’ll lose the Fiddleback plan.”

The Kid’s smile had no joy in it.

“You’ve been talking to Texas.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well, fair enough. What you want will be easily accomplished when we’ve taken possession of Fiddleback. But you have to swear your loyalty until then. Can you promise to fight for our nation, no matter what comes?”

“I promise,” I said.

The Kid reached out a hand and we shook. Through our thick gloves the gesture felt strange, like the Kid was far away.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’ll accept your gratitude one day,” the Kid said. “But I haven’t earned it yet.”

We voted that night. News and Texas and I had gone out to look at the stars. News and I knew the simple constellations—the dippers and Orion—but Texas could point out fish and crabs and women in the sky, and even showed us stars that shone red or blue instead of white. She was tracing Gemini with her index finger when Lo called us back to the bunkhouse. Inside, the Kid was already speaking.

“My friends,” the Kid said, “I won’t insult you by repeating myself. I will only remind you that ‘Faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.’ Now is the time for our good works, my beauties, my heroes. Now is the time for justice on Earth.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment and I thought of Holy Child, the Mother Superior holding us all in silence with her Sunday sermon.

“All in favor of buying the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank of Fiddleback, raise a hand.”

News and Agnes voted right away. Texas waited a moment, then joined them. Lo stared straight ahead, hands in her pockets. Elzy and Cassie clasped hands and didn’t move. I looked at the Kid for some kind of confirmation of our agreement, but the Kid was now totally unlike the Kid earlier that day—shoulders back, head high, voice full of strength and bravado. I lifted my hand. I was going to have to take my chances.





CHAPTER 7




It was early April when Agnes Rose and I rode out of the valley. The snow was melting; if you listened you could hear it, running back into the earth. The smell of wet soil was sweet after so many sterile months, and the scrawny pronghorns and jackrabbits looked surprised by the sunlight, as if they’d forgotten it existed.

Our first stop was Nótkon’s trading post, but he did not have what we wanted.

“Who would buy dynamite from me?” he asked, pushing our pile of bullets and spices—the last valuables we had left after the long winter—back across the counter. “Only someone crazy. I never took you for crazy, Agnes Rose.”

“Maybe one of your suppliers could find some?” Agnes asked. “We could come back in two weeks or a month, with some gold—”

Nótkon shook his head.

“If I sell you a gun, and you shoot somebody, no one’s going to trace that back to me, because everyone sells guns. But nobody sells dynamite. So if I manage to find you some, and you blow something up, the sheriff’s posse is going to come straight to my door—after they’ve taken care of you, that is.”

“We understand,” said Agnes Rose, gathering up our motley offerings. “Thanks anyway.”

But I was not finished. “What if I wanted to make some dynamite?” I asked. “Could I do that?”

Nótkon looked at me the same way he had when I told him about Mrs. Alice Schaeffer, like he was impressed and maybe a little disturbed.

“Dynamite? No,” he said. “But you can make an explosive that will do the trick.”

“What do I need?” I asked.

“That’s outside my purview, I’m afraid,” Nótkon said. “But you seem like a resourceful sort. I’m sure you’ll get the information you’re looking for.”

We met the bookseller at a roadhouse a day’s ride west of the valley, in pine country. The place made Veronica’s look like a palace. It was the remnant of an old house, probably built before the Flu and torn nearly apart for firewood in the years after, when so many houses stood empty. Now only the kitchen and a single bedroom remained. The proprietor, a drained-looking woman named Wilma, had set up the bar on the old sideboard next to the stove, and the whiskey she poured us was warm from the burning wood.