Robots vs. Fairies(81)

The four men are instantly on their feet, but strangely, no guns are drawn.

“Who the hell are you?” mutters the trapper.

The men’s eyes shift and meet, and they swirl as smoothly as hot grease in a pan to form a ring around her.

“I’m Rhett Hennessy. I’m a Durango Ranger, and it sounds like you fellers are an unlawful posse. So what’s this man done to you? Is he a criminal?”

As if on cue, the man wakes up and hops to his feet, one filthy hand cupping his janglies.

“I didn’t do nothin’!” he pretty much yodels.

Nettie instantly realizes he’s dumb . . . as a possum . . . and wishes she’d never shed her bird skin, much less gone poking around in the unicorn’s saddlebag. Whatever it was about the situation that drew her to it was obviously a mistake. But she won’t feel right putting her Ranger badge back on one day if she walks away and leaves him to die, either.

“This man tried to shoot me,” the leader says, his voice just a little too cultured for the outlaw he’s pretending to be. “So we’re upholding justice.”

“That’s not justice,” Nettie says, her dander up. “That’s vigilanteism.”

The doc sniffs. “That’s not even a word.”

“Illegal, then. We got courts for that, and they don’t meet in the middle of nowhere.”

The leader’s eyes narrow. “Are you wearing my cloak?”

Now Nettie sniffs. “No. This is just . . . what I normally wear.”

He starts to turn red with rage before his mouth twitches with a smile. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. What would you do to save this man? Would you . . . make a wager?”

“Oh, please. Not this again,” the doc wails.

“Yee-haw!” the trapper hollers, slapping his knee.

The young one just straightens up a little, like he wishes he could take notes.

“I’ll fight you for him,” Nettie offers. “If you’ll just lend me a gun.”

She knows that these fellers aren’t human, but she also knows that if she can hit the leader in the heart, he’s likely to die. Thanks to her own destiny as the Shadow, they can’t tell that she’s a monster. They think she’s human. As far as they know, she can’t even tell they’re doing magic. So if they hit her anywhere other than her heart, she’ll just heal up around the hole like the possum did and keep on kicking. The odds of winning, as far as she’s concerned, are pretty good. If the Shadow’s instincts brought her here, then the Shadow must have a good chance of seeing tomorrow.

Again, these fellers don’t know that.

“A gunfight. That sounds entertaining.” The leader looks to his men. “But that leaves my three friends here without their own chance for a bit of tomfoolery. Are you man enough for four challenges, winner takes the prize?”

Nettie chews the inside of her lip, considering. What choice does she have? Say no thank you kindly and mosey off into the night in this feller’s pajamas, leaving the possum to die? Even if she tried to mosey off, there’s little chance they’d let her. Folks who feel the need to string up varmints probably feel similarly about random folks who show up out of nowhere begging for gunfights. Leaving her only one choice, really.

“What kind of challenges?” she asks, one hand on her hip like it’s as simple as a game of cards.

“Oh, this and that,” the leader says easily. As if to seal the deal, he pulls a magnificent gold pistol from his holster and holds it to the man’s heart. The naked man freezes, eyes closed, and starts begging. “You’ve got until the count of three. One. Two.”

“Fine, goddamn it! But I get to name a challenge too.”

“Well then. So mote it be.”

The four men reappear in their chairs, at ease. A fifth chair has appeared, just a stump, really. Nettie wonders what a normal human would see, if it would be as confusing as being drunk, the way they’re waving their goddamn magic around.

“Have a seat, lad,” the leader says.

Much to her consternation, her body sits without asking her mind if it’s a good idea. At least she can breathe again, now that the pistol isn’t pressed to the possum feller’s heart. She can still see the indentation of the steel circle in his pasty pink skin. He’s in manacles now, gold ones, as if he’s been wearing them all along. He stares at the chain between his wrists, jaw open. Nettie grinds her teeth and reminds herself never to help a possum, ever again.

“What’s the first challenge?” she asks.

“Sharpshooting,” the leader says. “But I’ll warn you. You’ve heard of Billy the Kid?”

“Who the hell hasn’t?”

“Well.” He pulls out both guns and twirls them. “I am he.”

Nettie snorts. “Whoop-de-goddamn-do, boy. Line up the cans, and let’s go.”

But now she knows why he looks familiar, and now she knows she can’t outshoot him.

Two apples appear in the man’s hands. “Cans? Pshaw. These’ll do.” With a hand to the possum man’s chest, the leader shoves him backward until he’s pressed against the tree, the same one from which the golden noose still dangles. The possum man is shivering in fear, eyes white all around.

“Please, Billy,” he mutters, but Billy just shoves one of the apples in the possum-man’s mouth and puts the other one on top of his head.