Peacemaker (9780698140820) (13 page)

Caleb's distraction almost cost him again. The tree branch above, as big around as his waist, broke with a loud snap, plummeting downward. There was no way to dive free of the reaching limbs, and his shield would not hold against that much weight. With only a split second to decide, he shouted,
“Stoppe!”
and channeled through his upstretched palm.

Not a shield, this time, but a cradle made of energy, catching the limb in midair. The downward momentum was captured, reversed, the energy conserved as it held the tree branch up instead of dragging it down. It swayed there, barely two feet above his head, the thinnest of twigs trailing across the ground near the fire. Though he could have easily launched it some distance, he instead lowered it gently to the ground, mindful of the gathered crowd. Judging by the pallor of those closest to him, he could tell they understood what danger he'd just saved them from.

“That's enough! You're going to hurt someone!” The response was a hail of thorns, ripped from a nearby tree.
“Brand!”
They burst into flame in mid-flight, falling like tiny stars to the soil. Caleb brushed one tiny ember from the brim of his hat, straightening it. “All right. I've had enough of you.”

Ernst was close enough to act as a channel, and Caleb opened up his awareness, reaching for the brave's power. He could siphon it off, feed it out through Ernst and away, squelching it against the nullstone deep beneath their feet.

Only there was nothing to grab. The brave simply wasn't there in any magical sense, and Caleb was left with a flailing metaphysical hand, grasping at empty air. And like any void left wanting, his power went seeking that which it lacked. It moved through the crowd, sweeping over man and woman, young and old, finding each and every one of them an empty void. If he hadn't known better, he would have said the entire village was barren.

The hole within him hurt. It hungered, aching for that which it used to hold. Caleb's own power was stunted compared to its former prowess, but, oh, it remembered. Had there been more magic nearby to snatch, it would have, and what destruction he could have wrought then.

With a tremendous force of will, he wrestled it back in, closing the ravenous maw within his psyche, tying it down, muzzling it. His jaws ached as he ground his teeth together, and his fingernails had gouged bloody crescents into his palms.

The crowd was silent, and his opponent held a frozen fighting stance, hands poised to direct some new torment at Caleb. The dark gazes were wary now, not only from the braves but from the rest of the tribe as well. Somehow, despite the fact that they had no power he could sense, they knew what he'd tried to do.

Shame curled into his stomach, sick and churning. It was one thing to appropriate the energy of one person to prevent harm to others. It was quite another to go seeking it among innocents. Yes, he'd stopped and pulled back. But the fact remained that for that one brief moment in time, he'd lacked enough control to retreat.

Shame quickly turned to anger, both at himself and at the warrior who had forced him to this point. Caleb squared his shoulders. He would end this fight now. Blue flame crackled to life around both hands again.

The man across the clearing sensed the change in his opponent, and the fight was truly on.

A sharp gust of wind met a solid blast of force in the center of the clearing, almost blowing the large bonfire out. Even as the embers flickered and struggled to survive the onslaught, Caleb caught the wind, lit the tiny particles within it on fire, and shoved it back at its sender.

A waterskin hanging on a nearby teepee burst, becoming a thin sheet of moisture between the blast of flame and the Indian brave. It went up in a hiss of scalding steam, but the fire was doused.

Caleb drove his power down, into the ground, and a jagged furrow opened up as the blast powered its way toward the other man. The Indian jerked both hands skyward, and a wall of thick shale exploded from the ground in front of him, shattering into thin splinters as it took the brunt of Caleb's blow. Someone to the side cried out in pain as a sliver of rock found a home in his unprotected flesh.

People were getting hurt, and Caleb had never wanted that. He pulled two large boulders from the already ravaged ground, firing one after the other like the cannonballs of the war. The brave ducked, and both rocks sheared off a tree some distance behind them, and the ancient giant fell with a boom.

The Indian man threw one hand out toward the remnants of the large fire, and the flame answered, rising in one sinuous line like a great serpent, the head weaving back and forth menacingly. In the trees overhead, leaves and twigs popped softly, the sap in them boiling in an instant. The scent of burning foliage permeated the clearing. They had only moments before the entire forest ignited, tinder-dry as it was.

“No!” Horrified, Caleb watched the serpent, careful not to be entranced. Like the snake it resembled, fire could ensnare the mind, luring people to their deaths with false promises of safety if they would just remain still. The trick was not to look it in the eyes.

Regardless of where it originated, fire was pure energy, and this Caleb could grab. The hungry monster within him gleefully launched itself at the serpent of flame, gulping ravenously. He felt the searing heat of it as it entered his body, and the blue flames around his fists turned orange, singeing the hair of his forearms. The fire serpent hissed and writhed, coiling over and over itself in an effort to escape, but Caleb had a large gaping hole within himself. There was more than enough room to capture and hold it.

Dimly, he heard Ernst yelling for him to give it over, to bleed off the power that was never meant to be encased in a human form. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had to. Give it up, or burn with it. But, oh, it felt good, the heat coursing through his veins. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the world tinged in shades of red and gold and, at the very depths of his vision, the blue of hottest flame. If he let go, he could be part of it forever, his energy blended with the eternal energy of flame. He'd known, ever since Chicago, that this would be his fate.

Something struck him across the face, hard enough to jar his senses. When he opened his eyes, he found the ancient Indian standing before him, his hand drawn back to slap him again. Seeing that he had Caleb's attention, he shoved Ernst into the Peacemaker's arms, the antlers gouging him through his shirt. His blood steamed where it oozed from those scratches and others.

“Caleb, please give it to me. Please.” Ernst sat up on his haunches, his quivering little nose nearly pressed to Caleb's. His voice echoed, taking on the crackling sound of a roaring fire. “You have to give it to me, or you'll burn. Please.”

Yes. He'd seen men burn from within. Their fingers turned black, and their skin curled, flaking away as ash. Their fat bubbled, and they smelled like sizzling bacon. That was why he could never eat that particular food again. And to a man, they died with smiles on their faces, seduced by the very power that devoured them alive.

“Yes.” His own voice was barely audible, the air in his lungs too hot for his vocal chords to handle. “Take it!” Inside, the fire roared its denial, and it scrabbled at him with searing claws, not wanting to relinquish a ready meal.

Through the heat, he could feel Ernst's forehead pressed against his, the antlers pricking painfully. The brown fur was blessedly cool to the touch, and it cleared away some of the heated delirium from Caleb's mind. The fire left him, kicking and screaming, but drawn inexorably out nonetheless. That tremendous power funneled through the tiny form that was Ernst and away into wherever a familiar put such things.

Caleb was left cold and sweating, hugging the furry form close to his chest. There was no need for him to say thanks, unless it was to the Almighty for sending him Ernst in the first place. He would be so lost without him.

Someone touched his shoulder, and he looked to find the old Indian peering intently into his eyes. After a long moment, the ancient one nodded firmly.
“Epeva'e.”
Whatever it meant, he was obviously finished with Caleb. He handed the staff back.

Turning from the Peacemaker and his familiar, the old man hummed tunelessly as he gestured with his hands over the shattered earth and rocks left from the duel. His motions were oddly graceful, and before Caleb's astonished eyes, the broken soil folded in on itself, the jagged rocks sinking back to their appropriate depths, until one could never tell that anything at all had happened here. The charred leaves fluttered down from their abused twigs, fresh new buds unfurling as all watched. The fallen tree branch took a bit longer, decaying before his eyes to become a part of the loam and normal forest detritus. All that remained was a noticeable lump on the ground, vaguely the length and width of the branch.

Finished with his work, the old man—a shaman, thought Caleb—ceased his song, and the coyote familiar trotted over to resume its place by his side. The ancient one looked to Caleb once more, touching his arm gently with a gnarled hand, then pointed toward the tree line.

“You . . . want me to go?”

The old man nodded happily when Caleb mimicked his pointing. He rambled off a cheerful string of syllables, all the while gesturing with his hands in between patting Caleb's shoulder.

“Ernst?”

“You'd rather stay here?”

“Point taken.” Still having very little idea what exactly had happened this night, Caleb walked slowly through the village, toward the dark forest. Though he kept expecting to feel an arrow between his shoulder blades, no one moved to stop him. No one even made a sound.

He raised his foot, stepping from the village's cleared circle into the brush and bracken of the wood, and the moment his boot touched the earth again, the village was gone. The light and warmth vanished as if they'd never been, and Caleb found himself alone with Ernst in the timber. The moon had set hours ago, leaving them in impenetrable darkness.

“Great. Where the hell are we, Ernst?”

“I'm not sure.” The jackalope sat erect on Caleb's arm, peering about the darkness. “I think . . . Is that your transport over there?”

Sure enough, the dim blue glow resolved itself into the swirling casing windows on Sven Isby's rented hauler. Caleb had never been so glad to see a piece of machinery in all his life. Even better was the realization that he could clearly see the trail he'd ridden in on and that he knew his way home from here. “Next time I decide to walk into Indian territory alone, knock me in the head with something.”

“Deal.”

Chapter 10

The long ride back to Hope on the hauler only served to emphasize every scrape, gouge, bruise, and burn Caleb had received over the length of his long, strange night. He hurt in places he hadn't known he had, and the only thing worse than riding the transport would be getting off and lying down for the night, when he'd stiffen up.

Of course, if it weren't for the injuries, he might have convinced himself that he'd suffered some surreal hallucination or bizarre dream. He was still at a loss to see what his visit to the Cheyenne village had accomplished. What had the old shaman wanted with him?

He had no doubts that had the old man wanted, he could have erased Caleb from the face of the earth. The ancient shaman Wind Walker had decimated the U.S. Army and thirty Peacemakers. One half-scoured man would prove no obstacle to someone of that power. And the old man
was
powerful. He'd healed the land in the less time than it would take Caleb to think of the proper words to say, not to mention that Caleb never had that kind of finesse. Brute force required less skill than delicate work.

“You're very quiet.” Ernst was curled in front of him in the saddle this time, instead of taking his usual perch behind. His solid weight, no matter how sleight, was comforting.

“I don't have a lot to say just now.”

“What are you going to do about the mine?”

Caleb shrugged, and his muscles protested the unnecessary movement. “Nothing I really can do. I could arrest Schmidt and those miners for violating Indian territory and technically breaking the peace treaties, but no court would convict them. And other than that, I don't know that they're doing anything wrong.”

“You don't think they destroyed that village to clear the way for another mine?” Ernst looked up, his brown eyes shining in the dark.

“Oh, I'm certain they did. But I can't prove it, and no one back east is going to grieve for a few more dead Cheyenne.” Caleb sighed, but it was a sad truth of the world.

“And the children? If Warner's stockpiling nullstone at his place, it's very likely that he's caused all those children irreparable harm.”

“I need proof, Ernst. And I can't take on Warner and his thugs alone.” He ran a hand over his face, feeling the sting of a few forgotten scratches in the stubble on his cheeks. “What I need is an independent medical opinion, some parents willing to let their children be examined, and a few more Peacemakers to do a search of the ranch.”

The jackalope nuzzled his hand. “What you need is a few hours' sleep. In the morning, we'll send a telegram for reinforcements.”

“That's the best plan I've heard all night, Ernst.” He smiled, scratching his familiar's long silky ears.

The sight of Hope rising out of the prairie was one of the most welcome things Caleb had seen during the long day and night. The little outpost was dark, and even the dogs were asleep as he rode in. The sun would rise in a couple of hours, and Caleb knew he had to get what little sleep he could. First light would bring its own set of new problems.

He hoped against hope that Teddy hadn't locked the tavern door, or he'd wind up sleeping in one of the rickety chairs on the sidewalk.

Ernst rose up, paws balanced on the saddle's horn as he peered into the night. “Caleb? The light is on in the general store.”

“Maybe Hector's an early riser.” His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he'd given every bite of his food away. “Maybe he has some breakfast.” With a twitch of the reins, they changed course and headed toward the general store.

Before they'd gone more than ten yards, the silence of the predawn morning was shattered as the doors to the store crashed open, glass tinkling as it scattered over the wooden sidewalk. Three men bolted into the street, dashing around the corner of the building before Caleb could identify them. A fourth man walked calmly through the broken glass, pausing to glance toward the stunned Peacemaker for a moment before following his cohorts. There was no mistaking Schmidt's slight build, or cold-as-ice demeanor, even from a distance.

Caleb kicked the hauler into higher gear, but four sleek transports galloped out of the alleyway and toward the prairie before he could even think of getting close. There was no way his ungainly mount would catch them. Instead, he slid out of the saddle before the machine had even fully halted, his boots crunching glass underfoot as he headed inside. “Hector? Hector, are you here?”

Flour was strewn about the floor like a layer of fine snow, marred with boot prints and the tracks of canned goods that had rolled across it. One set of shelves had toppled over, the contents lying in a heap where it had fallen. The pungent smell of pickle brine permeated the room, and shards of glass jars crunched underfoot as Caleb stepped inside. Somewhere behind the counter, molasses was dripping forlornly, the wet splat keeping time as regular as any clock.

Unsure whether he could channel a spark, let alone any respectable show of force, Caleb drew his pistol out of the holster instead and cocked it. “Be ready, Ernst.”

The little jackalope cautiously picked his way through the debris, his nose quivering so fast it was almost a blur. “I can't smell anything over the damned pickles.”

“Use your ears then.” Caleb himself strained for any sound, but all he could hear was the steady drip-drip of the broken molasses cask and the thudding of his own heart in his ears. A floorboard creaked underfoot, and they both froze for a long, tense moment.

Just when he had decided to take the next step, Caleb heard a soft noise that might have been missed in the rustle of his clothing had he been moving. It could have been the low bleat of a calf, far distant and barely audible, but it came again almost immediately. A man moaning.

Ernst's ears pricked straight up. “Behind the counter.”

The first thing Caleb saw was two long gangly legs sticking out from behind the counter, the dark pants covered in flour and whatever else had spilled all over the floor.

“Dear God, Hector!” Quickly, Caleb scrambled to reach him.

The shopkeeper's face was almost unrecognizable, as bruised and swollen as it was. Both eyes were caked shut with dried blood, and his lips were split and purple, the spittle and other fluids serving to stick his face to the wooden floor. He was breathing, which was a good sign, but the raspy rattle in his lungs spoke of blood there, possibly from broken ribs. As Caleb knelt over him, Hector moaned again, so softly.

“Ernst, fetch the doc!” The familiar was gone before he'd finished the sentence. “Easy, Hector. I'm here. The doc's coming. Just hang on.”

The four thugs had beaten the man badly. Caleb could see the imprints of boots on his forehead where he'd been savagely kicked. His hands were bloodied and scraped, with at least two fingers bent at wrong angles. Who knew what other injuries were internal, hidden by his clothes? The Peacemaker didn't dare try to move him without knowing.

Hector moaned again, louder, as consciousness started to return. “Shh, help is coming, Hector.” The older man stirred feebly, trying to fend off attackers long fled. Caleb did his best to press the shopkeeper's hands down gently, trying to avoid the broken fingers. “Don't try to move. You're safe. I'm here. It's Agent Marcus. I won't let anything happen to you.”

More boots thumped on the wooden planks outside, and Caleb leveled his pistol at the door just as Teddy came bursting through the opening. The bartender immediately dropped to the floor with a startled yell, and Caleb pulled his shot, sending a round into the ceiling. “Sweet mother Mary, Agent Marcus!”

“Sorry, Teddy, wasn't expecting friends.” Caleb stuffed his pistol in its holster before something else could go wrong. “It was Warner's men. Did you see them?”

“Me? No . . . But we were looking for you.”

“We?” The Peacemaker fished a handkerchief from his pocket to try to staunch some of the blood flow, but there was only so much the tiny scrap of cloth could do.

“I'm here, Agent Marcus.” It was Miss Sinclair's voice, with a faint quaver behind it. “I saw them. I saw all of them, and I ran to find you, but you weren't at the saloon. . . .”

“No . . . no, I wasn't.”
Dammit. Damn them all to hell.
If he'd just been there . . . “Did they see you, Ellen? Do they know you saw them?”

She nodded. “Schmidt looked right at me out the window. I don't know about the others. I ran.”

“You did the right thing. Here, come help me hold this bandage down.” As she came to kneel beside him, Caleb pressed her hand down over the sodden handkerchief. “I'll be right back.”

Outside, the night was still. The yellow lights from inside the store vied with the blue glow of his hauler, but other than that, the town slept on, oblivious to the violence done in their midst. And the perpetrators were long gone.

Time dragged on with excruciating slowness as they waited for the doctor to arrive. Teddy took his turn packing Hector's wounds with whatever they could find while Ellen shredded her petticoat to aid in the bandaging, but even that wasn't going to be enough. Several times, Hector tried to speak or sit up, but his words were garbled at best and his body simply wouldn't follow his commands any longer. Every time he lapsed into silence again, Caleb nervously counted the seconds between labored breaths, fearful that each one would be the last.

Just when he was about to go looking for the doctor himself, the bell above the door jangle. It was the sweetest sound Caleb had heard yet. “Agent Marcus? Hector?”

“Behind the counter, Dr. Elm!” As the good doctor bustled around the counter, Caleb stood to get out of the way and helped Ellen to her feet.

“Oh, Lord.” He was still dressed in his nightshirt, but had thrown pants on inside out for the hasty trip across town. He set his black bag on the floor, immediately examining the beaten shopkeeper. “Ernst, are you here?”

The jackalope blinked into existence atop the counter. “I'm here, Doctor.”

“I may need your aid, little friend, once we get Mr. Pratt moved to his bed.” The doctor's hands moved efficiently over Hector's injuries, eliciting small moans of pain when he found something else that had been abused. “Did you see who did this, Agent Marcus?” Though the doctor's voice remained calm, Caleb could hear the suppressed anger there.

Caleb glanced toward Ellen, noting the pallor of her face beneath the blood smudged on her cheek. When she opened her mouth to answer, he shook his head, and she remained silent. “Not a good look, sir. They fled as I arrived.” The fewer people who knew about what Ellen had witnessed, the better.

“Thank the Lord that you happened by when you did. He's been severely beaten.” He spared one glance at the standing Peacemaker. “But of course you could see that. See if you can find a plank of some kind, something we can put him on so we don't jostle the broken ribs when we move him.”

“Yes, sir.” Hector didn't keep a lot of lumber in the store, but inspection revealed a broken shelf half hanging off the wall that might fit the bill. Caleb wrenched it free of its nails, motioning for Teddy to take up the other end.

“Will this do, doctor?” The shelf would apparently serve quite well, and with the doctor's instructions, he and Teddy managed to get Hector's lanky frame rolled over onto it.

“If you gentlemen could carry him up to his room with a minimum of jostling, I have to fetch a few more things from my office. I'll return shortly. Miss Sinclair, get him settled into his bed and find some washbasins and fresh water.” The doctor bustled out, and Caleb and Teddy struggled mightily to get the shopkeeper up to the stairs without causing him more injury.

On the downhill side of the maneuver, Caleb struggled to keep the plank level, holding it nearly at chin level, with his shoulder propped under it for support. There was a great deal of grunting on Teddy's end, too. Hector was not a small man by any means, and his very height made things difficult.

Halfway up the stairs, Caleb paused to change his grip, the wooden shelf grinding splinters into his palm. Quickly, he grabbed a large one with his teeth, yanking it out and spitting it aside. Blood welled in his hand, dark and shimmering red.
“Stretcher bearer! I need a stretcher bearer here!”

“What did you say?” Caleb tried to look over the precariously balanced plank to see Teddy, but all he could make out was the top of the Scot's head as he shook it to the negative. “I dinnae say anythin'.”

“Fall back! They're coming over the ridge!”
Before Caleb's eyes, a battle scene bloomed. Through the smoke and the haze, stretcher bearers in Union blue uniforms dodged cannon fire and arcane blasts as they tried to get the dead and wounded off the field of battle. He could hear the whistle of the incoming artillery, smelled the sulfur and ozone stench of the augmented gunpowder, and for a brief moment, he was there again, deaf to all but the boom of the cannons and the screams of dying men.

“Agent Marcus!” Pale hands tugged at his sleeves, poked and prodded him. “Agent Marcus, you're going to drop him!” Ellen Sinclair threw her shoulder against the plank as it started to slide from his fingers, bracing it as best she could. “Agent Marcus! Ernst, help me!”

Something sharp stabbed into his calf, startling him out of the visions of battles past. Looking down, he found his familiar looking back up at him, Ernst's vicious teeth sunk through the fabric of Caleb's pants. The jackalope shrugged, mumbling something that sounded like “It was all I could think of” through a mouthful of cloth.

“I got it. Here . . .” He muscled his way under the slipping plank, gently nudging the schoolteacher aside. “I'm all right. I have him.”

“Ye got it, Agent?”

“I got it,” he repeated. “Quickly, Teddy.” Before another flashback caught him. He could feel blood trickling down his leg where Ernst bit him. The little creature hadn't been teasing.