Peacemaker (9780698140820) (2 page)

One of the girls, braver than the others, went on tiptoe to examine the man's face. “Can you see out of that eye?”

Caleb chuckled and nodded. “Perfectly.” Children were so innocent in their curiosity. Very few adults would have asked him about the scar, which began at his jawline and extended upward right into the iris of his eye, leaving a stark white line across the hazel.

“Abigail!” The alarm in the woman's voice was enough to make Caleb alert, scanning for any danger as the woman hurried across the street to snatch one of the little girls from the throng. “Don't you be bothering the Peacemaker now, you hear? None of you all! Git home!” The youngsters scattered like a flock of startled crows.

“They weren't bothering me, ma'am, really . . .” She didn't seem to hear him as she shooed the children quickly away, darting worried glances back over her shoulder. She and her daughter disappeared into the dress shop.

“Well, you're a sure conversation stopper, aren't you?” Ernst leapt to the transport's saddle in one graceful bound, his ears drooping in disappointment.

“Seems like it.” The curtains twitched on the dress shop when his gaze passed over them. They were watching. “There's a smith just down the street. Let's see if we can get this contraption fixed.”

Tripping the appropriate lever, he urged the transport into motion, cringing at the grind and clank in the hindquarters. It was a wonder it had made it this far.

The smithy, once discovered, was labeled simply
S
MITHY
, and the heat rolling off the forge made the oppressive summer day seem positively springlike. The smith himself seemed oblivious to it, wearing a thick leather apron over his shirt as he labored over the glowing coals. Orange coals, Caleb noted, not blue. Unusual.

“Hello there!” The smith kept working with no response to Caleb's hail. “I was told you might be able to repair a transport.”

That at least earned a grunt in answer, and after a few more moments, the smith laid his long tongs aside and stepped away from the forge. He was older than Caleb expected, his hair already gone white, and there was no warmth in his pale eyes. “Ja. I can do, yes.”

Ah, not white hair, but very pale blond then. The Swedish accent gave everything away. Caleb nodded toward his malfunctioning machinery. “It's got some kind of hitch in the back end.”

Wiping his sooty hands on a rag, the smith came out to inspect the transport, paying no mind whatsoever to Ernst perched on its back. He made thoughtful noises as he circled the construct, bending to look along the belly workings, poking at the transparent casings in a few places.

Caleb finally broke the silence. “Can you fix it?”

“Hmm. Ja. Maybe. Bearings seized up here.” He poked with a grimy finger. “Gear stripped here. No parts. Need to make new.”

“And how long will that take?”

The Swede pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Week? You come back, one week.”

Caleb's heart sank. That was going to put him behind schedule. “You don't happen to have another transport I could rent in the meantime, do you?”

“Ja, maybe. Dollar. Tally up price for repairs when done.” There was humor glinting in the smith's eyes, but Caleb was too tired to even guess at the joke. He forked over the dollar, eyeing the few remaining bills in his wallet dubiously. If the repairs took the last of his cash, he was out of luck until he reached a town with a bank.

“I'm Caleb, by the way. Caleb Marcus.” He stuck his hand out to shake, and for a moment, the smith eyed it like a striking snake. Finally, the Swede gripped his hand, pumping it once.

“Sven Isby.”

The Peacemaker fought to keep the surprise off his face. There was no tingle in Sven's skin, not even the faint hum of a low-level power. There was only the warm calloused hand, and the sense of . . . nothing. The man had been scoured. The smith raised his chin in challenge, almost daring Caleb to say something. Caleb forced a smile. “I'll check back with you in a couple days to see how it's going.”

“Ja. Do that. Rented transport stored around back.” That seemed to end their dealings, as Sven went back to his forge and began working the huge bellows.

Caleb retrieved his saddlebags, throwing them over one shoulder, and his trunk, which he propped on the other. Ernst hopped up, his slight weight barely noticeable, and Caleb took his staff out of the scabbard on his saddle. He waited until they were around the back of the building before he asked, “Ernst, did you notice—”

“Yes.” Caleb could feel the creature shudder, even though he was perched on the trunk.

“Could you tell—”

“Looks accidental. Trauma as a child.”

Some of the tension in Caleb's chest eased. Accidental scourings were tragic but did happen, most often before a child learned true control of his own power. But better that than someone who had been scoured deliberately. That was reserved only for the most dangerous of criminals.

The fact that the town had accepted the blacksmith as a contributing member and business owner despite his disability only served to highlight the differences between the borderlands and the urban sprawl back east. In the city—any city, really—it was nothing to see packs of scoured or barren men living rough in alleys or slums, making do with society's scraps, the occasional odd job, and the few charities that catered to such. No one wanted them. No one wanted to see them. They were a reminder of what could so easily go wrong.

For all that he didn't have a lick of power about him, Sven Isby was a lucky man.

The humor in the smith's eyes made sense as Caleb surveyed the “transport” he'd been rented. Ernst snickered from his place atop the trunk. “You paid a dollar for this?”

Well, it was at least a construct. It was also tall enough that Caleb couldn't see over its withers. With the broad back and extra pinion hooks, it had obviously been designed for hauling, not riding. It was also at least four generations out of date—it had actual reins instead of levers—and some of the metal pieces gleamed brightly where they'd been replaced with newer parts over the years. Still, the soothing blue glow of the arcane power swirled within the casing as Caleb inspected it. “Better than nothing, I guess. It could have been a horse.”

Ernst traded his trunk seat for the back of the hauler. “Comfy up here! Lots of room to spread out.” And he proceeded to do just that.

Muttering to himself, Caleb took the reins and led the lumbering monstrosity back toward the tavern. Each steel hoof was as large as a dinner plate, and Caleb grimaced just thinking about getting a foot caught under one.

The streets were largely deserted, an oddity for this late in the afternoon, but Caleb could feel the eyes on him as he walked the length of the town. And not all of the gazes were friendly. He fought the urge to funnel a trickle of power into his staff. Lighting the runes was impressive-looking, but showing off would be beneath him. “What the hell is wrong with this place, Ernst?”

“Must be your innate charm.”

Somehow Caleb didn't think so.

With the rented transport left at the tavern and his things stored safely in his room—he kept his staff out of sheer paranoia—Caleb went in search of the one thing he'd been missing for the last month, without much hope of locating it. Through some miracle, he found it at the general store.

“Ernst, I may have died and gone to heaven.” He could see at least two tins of his favorite cigarillos on the shelf, and if there were more in the back, he might be tempted to buy those, too, before he left town. He hadn't had a decent smoke in longer than he liked to contemplate.

The jackalope, now without a convenient place to roost, hopped his way around the store, idly sniffing at things on the lower shelves. “And how much are the repairs going to cost you?”

Caleb sighed, examining his wallet again. No, no more bills had materialized into it. Reluctantly, he plucked only one tin from the shelf.

The storekeeper had eyed them from the moment they walked in. His eyes looked like two black beetles under his bushy salt-and-pepper brows and followed them as they perused his wares. Ernst got barely a glance, unusual in most places, but the Peacemaker badge had earned a wary scowl. The general feeling of hostility was starting to weigh on Caleb, and he scowled right back as he set the tin on the counter. “Just this, please.”

There was no mistaking the surprise on the storekeeper's face, his prominent eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. He stood up from his stool, revealing that he towered a good four inches over Caleb and weighed a good deal less. Good Lord, the man was gangly. “Um . . . er . . . six bits.” Caleb counted out the seventy-five cents from his wallet, pushing them across the countertop. The storekeeper bit one, then dropped them into his till and took his seat again.

Caleb leaned his elbows on the counter. “Can I ask you something, sir?”

“You can always ask.” There was caution in his voice, but Caleb read curiosity in the set of his lanky shoulders.

“Why is everyone in this town treating me like I'm about to eat their children?”

At least the tall man had the good grace to blush. “Well, sir . . . To be perfectly frank, you're new, and no one really knows you yet. But the last Peacemaker . . . he made it real clear that he wasn't required to pay for anything. Which was fine, really! 'Cause this close to Indian territory, we surely appreciate all you do for us. But . . . sometimes maybe he took a bit more than folks was really comfortable with, you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand.” Caleb gritted his teeth. It explained a lot about the reception he'd received all over the circuit. “Maybe you could do me a favor and let folks know that I'm the new Peacemaker, and I pay my own way.”

The old storekeeper's face broke into a slow smile, like he could scarcely believe his good fortune. Good gossip was better than a bag of gold dust, if everyone came to see what the storekeeper knew. “Yessir. I could do that.” He offered his hand. “Hector Pratt.”

“Caleb Marcus.” There it was, the tingle of faint power just beneath the skin. More than Teddy at the tavern, but still relatively average. Caleb often wondered what people felt when they shook his hand.

“Well, Agent Marcus.” The storekeeper offered him a jar of lemon drops. “Welcome to Hope.”

Chapter 2

Caleb had never met Donovan Hazard, but he already knew he didn't like the man. He sat at the bar, sipped his coffee, smoked a cigarillo, and listened to Teddy MacGregor expound on the life and times of the previous Peacemaker for the borderlands region, and he developed a quiet seething hatred.

“So whatever happened ta the mon? We just got word a few weeks ago that a new agent would be takin' his place.” Teddy, like most good bartenders, seemed content to spread whatever knowledge he'd gleaned.

“He was at the Little Bighorn.” Caleb took a swig of his coffee. The urge to grimace had passed finally, but the coffee was nearly mud it was so dark. “Scoured.”

Teddy winced. “I cannae say I liked the mon, but I wouldnae wish that on anyone.”

The Peacemaker nodded his agreement, and whispered the word
vonk
to himself, channeling a small bit of power into his fingertips. The tingles were pleasant on his skin and discharged in a static spark when he touched the metal bar rail. “But for the grace of God, and all that.”

“That's the truth of it there.” Teddy raised his glass of water in respect. “So what brings you out here? I cannae imagine this is a route you'd pick, given the choice.”

“Even the frontier needs law. I swore an oath to uphold that law.” That was the polite answer to that question, but as Caleb finished his coffee and pondered the twists of fate that had put him here, he couldn't help but feel the glimmer of bitterness deep in his chest. “I was an artillery captain in the war. Got injured.” He gestured to the vicious scar down his face. “By the time I was on my feet again, the war was over and the president was forming up this new law enforcement organization. I thought it would be a good place for me to be helpful.”

To say he'd been injured was an understatement. But for the grace of God, he would have been like Donovan Hazard or the Swedish smith. After the battle at Cold Harbor, he'd lain unconscious for nearly a month, and the doctors had all been sure he was scoured clean. If not for Ernst's sudden appearance, he might have believed it himself. The road back had been a long and difficult one; he'd relearned everything from the beginning, right down to the childhood command words that he should have abandoned long ago.

“Brand,”
he whispered, and a tiny flame appeared at the end of his cigarillo, the blue smoke curling happily. When the words had come back to him, they'd been in Dutch, the language of his childhood. Even now, eleven years after the injury, it was easier to think in command words than to simply conjure through force of will. His superiors with the Peacemakers frowned at his apparent failure to regain the most basic of adult skills, and he knew that was a large part of what had gotten him assigned to the borderlands. The only one it didn't seem to bother was his little furry companion.

Ernst was seated on the bar, lapping idly at a small dish of whiskey that he'd managed to wheedle out of Teddy. For a creature that did not actually require food or water, he certainly liked his alcohol, and a properly aged whiskey was his favorite thing in the world. His eyes had sparkled upon seeing the treasures behind Teddy's bar, and he was certainly not above using his furry appeal to get what he wanted.

For his part, the Scot seemed rather enamored of the little jackalope, as most people were. It was hard not to like Ernst, no matter what form he had chosen to take at that moment. Like many familiars, his personality seemed to take on the opposite traits of his partner. A stoic man would have a boisterous and effervescent companion, while a jolly man might possess a taciturn and surly familiar. Ernst, with his charming ways and optimistic outlook on almost everything, was the perfect balance to Caleb's tendency for solitude and cynicism. He often paved a smoother path than Caleb could have managed himself.

“Ye must have an amazing amount of power, Agent Marcus, ta work with artillery. And ta have the little fellow, here. I havenae seen a familiar since I came west. None that werenae tied to a red Indian, I mean.”

Familiars were uncommon, it was true, and by rights Caleb should never have had one. His strength had never recovered to its former level, and yet Ernst had claimed him and refused to be budged. “You run into the Indians a lot here?”

Teddy shrugged. “Sometimes, they raid the homesteads in the foothills. Fools, the lot of them, living so close to the mountains like that. And the young braves, they get to feeling their oats now and again, and ride down into the prairie.” Someone came in through the doors, and Teddy waved a greeting. “But 'til this summer, it was more that we left each other alone, and all was well.”

A few more people filed in, and from the greetings it was apparent this was the usual dinnertime crowd. Teddy excused himself to pull mugs for the tables and take down the dinner orders. Caleb watched the townsfolk, even as they pretended not to be watching him. There was more curiosity in the air than hostility, and he could tell that Hector's campaign had done its job already. At least they were willing to give him a chance now.

When Teddy slipped back behind the bar, Caleb picked up the thread of their conversation. “What happened this summer?”

“Hmm? Oh, the Indians?” The bartender shook his head. “Things hae been unsettled since the battle up north. They say the Indians are stopping the rain at the mountains now, and we hae been getting small earth tremblers even out here. Turned the town well to muck for a week an' a half. We had ta truck clear out ta Warner's ta fetch water from his well.” Teddy's accent got stronger with the frown on his face. “There's been raids, too, around the homesteads. The tribes are pushin' farther east than ever before.”

The battle up north was the Little Bighorn, of course. Thirty Peacemakers had died or been scoured there, along with the entirety of Custer's Seventh. The great shaman Wind Walker had proven that primitive Indian magic was more than a match for the white man's army.

The land itself was a smoking crater in the ground, and nothing would grow there ever again. Caleb had seen the photographs indelibly etched in blue and white. It should have been a cautionary tale for all on the consequences of such unrestrained power, but . . . The expansionists, those back east who had never even seen an Indian, were calling for exterminations and land annexations. It had become the rallying point for passionate speeches and political debates. It made Caleb faintly ill.

“Has anyone been hurt?” Caleb drained his coffee.

“No. They know if they start killing folks, the federals will move in. They do just enough ta try and drive people oot.” Teddy shrugged again, swiping at the bar with his towel. “Personally, I dinnae want their land, and they're welcome to it. I think there's only so much land a mon can use, and I'm happy with what I've got. Greed's one of the deadly sins, after all.”

For dinner, Teddy introduced Caleb to something called a boxty—“The Irish don't get everything wrong,” the Scot asserted—which seemed to be a potato pancake stuffed with some meat and stewed vegetables, and which turned out to be one of the most delicious things Caleb had ever eaten. As more people filed in and out of the bar, a few brave souls even introduced themselves to him, though the conversations were brief and no one joined him at his seat.

Caleb immediately noticed the one and only woman to appear, and she took a seat alone in a corner, exchanging small talk with Teddy and eating her dinner alone. She seemed young, no older than Caleb at any rate, but her collar was buttoned high under her chin and, her dark blond hair was pinned atop her head as neatly as that of any matron he'd ever seen back east.

Teddy noticed his observation. “That's Ellen Sinclair. Schoolteacher. Been here about a year. Keeps a room upstairs next to yours.”

“I didn't even see the schoolhouse when I rode in.”

“That's 'cause it's sittin' out behind the church in a pile a lumber.” Teddy nodded. “Most of the town kids ride clear out to the Warner ranch for school, and the town here hasn't been real receptive to Miss Sinclair and her new schoolhouse.”

“Seems a shame.”

Miss Sinclair finished her dinner and retreated up the stairs to her room without speaking to anyone else.

Hector Pratt slid onto the stool next to Caleb just as the Peacemaker asked, “So who's this Warner? I keep hearing mention of the Warner place, but I haven't actually met the man yet.”

Teddy plopped a mug of beer in front of Hector. “He'll be in around seven. Is most nights, actually. Him and his men.”

The storekeeper nodded his agreement. “They stay until Teddy closes down, then ride back out to the ranch in the dark of night. Ain't no reds tried to bother them yet, so . . .”

“You wouldnae bother them either, nae with that Schmidt riding herd.” The bartender grinned at Caleb with a glint in his eye, happy to be the first to impart gossip to a new listener.

“Schmidt?”

“Abel Warner's right-hand man. I've seen him drop a buffalo at seven hundred and fifty yards, clean through the temple.” He mimed shooting at his own head. “Best I've ever seen with a buffalo gun.”

“Not Kaspar Schmidt? Small man, pale blue eyes?”

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation.” Caleb fought the urge to roll his shoulders as a sudden ominous itch developed right between his shoulder blades. Oh, yes, he'd heard of Kaspar Schmidt.

It was a name that had been spoken in hushed whispers throughout the Union army during the war. Not a single man stepped from his tent in the morning without a small hesitation and the sure knowledge that in the next few seconds he could be dead, and that the shot would come from far enough away it would never even be heard. Such was the legend of Kaspar Schmidt.

He was a sniper for the Confederacy, but as the story went, he felt no particular loyalty to their cause. It was merely a means of allowing him to kill as many as possible. And kill he did. Shots taken from impossibly long distances, in insanely difficult conditions. Straight shooting, augmented shooting, it didn't seem to matter. And once his reputation as a killer was established, he got creative. Arcane rounds, augmented by the shooter's own power, would explode on impact, and he used that ability to good effect. He would shatter a knee, take off an ear, amputate an arm at the elbow, anything to spill blood and cause suffering before he ended it.

Once, Caleb had heard, Schmidt shot a lieutenant's young wife who was visiting the encampment, then finished them both off as the soldier ran to help his bride. Three shots in mere moments, and all for fun.

“I haven't heard that name since the war.” Perhaps something in Caleb's mood told Hector and Teddy not to press further.
What in the world would a man like that be doing out here in the back end of nowhere?

The hum of conversation went on. The smoke from pipes and cigars rose in a cloud to the ceiling until the room was filled with a bluish haze. Caleb watched the townsfolk go about their usual routines. There were card games, debates that had obviously just picked up where they'd been left the night before, the occasional person plinking out music on the piano. Teddy and Hector discussed the weather, the crops, the coming winter, though it was nearly six months off. Ernst, having finished his whiskey, curled up against Caleb's shoulder and snored softly, his antlers tapping the bar with every exhale.

And as the clock in the corner struck seven, the doors opened to admit a dark-haired, dark-eyed man dressed finer than anyone else Caleb had seen in Hope. His mustache was waxed, his boots polished, and he wore no gun. He didn't need to, apparently, since the four men who walked in behind him were all armed with six-guns hanging off their belts.

Those four were thugs. Caleb recognized the type, and no amount of spit and polish would make them anything but. While their boss made the rounds, shaking hands and patting backs, they claimed a table in the corner and sat, looking surly to a man. None of them was Schmidt.

“And I hear our new Peacemaker has arrived!” The dark man offered his hand to Caleb, grinning broadly beneath his elegant mustache. “I'm Abel Warner. I own a ranch just south of here.”

“Caleb Marcus.” He clasped hands with the rancher and felt power shoot all the way up his arm into his shoulder. Only sheer will kept him from jerking free of Warner's touch. The muscles in his neck and jaw wanted to clench into knots, and his own power rose in answer, feeding back along those lines to surge into the rancher's hand in return. Warner raised one brow, his cheerful smile twitching at one corner.

Beside them, Ernst sat up from a dead sleep with a yelp and nearly fell off the bar, his jackalope form flickering wildly in momentary panic. Black fur sprouted, along with a sinuous cat's tail, only to give way to stubby wings with black and white feathers bristling from the coat of brown fur. Caleb moved quickly to catch him, breaking contact with Warner.

The black cat-magpie-jackalope was a quivering mess, but he finally got his appearance under control and was once again furry and be-antlered. He looked about the room with wide brown eyes, his ears flat against his head. Caleb knew how he felt. Warner was powerful. Maybe as powerful as Caleb himself had once been.
A man to be watched.
“Easy, Ernst . . . Have a nightmare?”

The rabbit nose quivered and twitched, and Ernst made no attempt to leave the safety of Caleb's arms. “Nasty thing, whiskey. Must be a young batch, not settled yet. Upsets the mind.” The careful nonchalance might have fooled anyone but Caleb. His familiar was shaken, and though Ernst finally allowed himself to be placed back on the bar, he kept his brown eyes fixed on Warner.

“Your familiar, I assume?” Warner eyed Ernst with a smile. “I always wished I could have had one, but it wasn't meant to be.”

“Ernst has been with me for quite a while.” Caleb rested his hand on his companion's back, feeling the furry creature tremble.