Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny (13 page)

As my eyes adjust, what I saw as shadows over the benches turn out to be folks swaying on the benches. At least twenty of ‘em. All’re facing away from me, but I can see they are of assorted species, all sitting, listening to the lion at the front. Hayes, wearing some kind of robe, yammering on to some of his more wakeful cronies, including an old hare. Beside him stands some manner of stone table with a big pit beyond it. The square chasm yawns with a hunger dark and eternal, lurking in the dim floor, waiting for one careless step.

“—and shall come down from the spaces between the stars to bless us. And I as their conduit to their this earthly plane have received a message from their shining paws. You as my swift claws have done well and thanks to your work and devotions, the Unseen Ones have granted me this vision, this gift which reveals the truth in all things! Do you wish to hear it?”

Murmurs of agreement bubble up from the crowd. A pair of yeses spatter across the room.

“A pathetic response!” He snarls at the crowd, slashing his claws up through the air. “Do you not seek the ultimate truth? The one true glory that only I can deliver?”

“Yes!” Spikes of excitement drive up through the rows of on-lookers. Folk start jumping to their feet. “We want to know!” “Yeah!”

Hayes lifts his great paws into the air, sleeves billowing like sails on the rushing frenzy before him. “If you knew of the vision’s meaning you would beg me for this knowledge!” He roars, shaking my very bones.

The crowd whips into a sea of gnashing teeth and flailing limbs. “We do! We do!” The listeners shout, some collapsing, arms raised, some shoving and howling at their neighbors. “Tell us!” “We must know!” “Please, visionary!”

“Very well, my children.” He speaks all soothing-like and the howls die down. “But first we must bring in the last of our calves.”

The people chatter, all excited, shouting along as Hayes leads them in some gibberish song that catches oddly down the throat of the cave.

I keep real still. Two men come from a side passage I can’t see. One’s the dudded-up marmot, the other some fat boar. They’re leading a calf on a rope. It’s four little hooves clatter against the stone floor.

Talking cheery blather all the while, Hayes meets the two and they lead the dumb little critter up on top of that table. They’re jawin’, all smiles, like this is some business deal he’s closing.

A hush falls over the listeners.

Calf’s just standing there, all placid and witless.

Hayes strokes it along the back.

Then he tears out its throat.

One quick flash of his teeth. That was all it took. Ain’t much noise and the poor thing can’t really run, seeing as it’s slipping on its own blood. Hayes stands there, blood spattering against his fine white shirt, quietly chewing. Watching it die.

The people start to cheer and hoot, but I can’t listen. My folks never kept livestock and the gurgling sounds this is making… I cover my ears. Thankfully, the little thing doesn’t seem to be lasting too long. It collapses, twitching. All the while, Hayes and the marmot are just looking around, taking in the applause. His marmot pal opens a little golden box he’s been carrying, showing off a gleam inside, quieting the fuss. The calf stops moving, then stops making noise. The people listen.

The marmot hands it off to Hayes, who continues his chanting. It’s in some language I don’t understand. Like no speech I ever heard, all full of sputters and clucks and low choking sounds. Meanwhile, his hired muscle’s standing right behind him, watching, paws on their gun. Hayes is dabbing at the gore in his mane with a white kerchief as his voice echoes through room. Beside him, an old, whitening hare in tattered robes is nodding.

The chant gets all low and lyrical. The people rise. They start chanting along, hopping and convulsing in time. Queerest thing I’ve ever seen.

I reckon I’ve seen just enough and duck back into the twisty caves. Really ought to find Blake ‘fore someone finds me. Ain’t certain that they mean him harm, but given the paw to the jaw, they don’t seem impressed overly by his lawsome nature.

I listen, fingers caressing my gun grips. The whispers are blathery now, all hot and urgent. I don’t like this. My vision blurs. I fight my way on, even as my head brims over with molten lead, painful and thick to think through.

I hear folk talking down the hall and slink further into the caves. I creep along the tunnel. Some folk turn the corner so I freeze, all quiet-like, letting ‘em shuffle past me. They’re carrying tools, buckets of that metal ore. A peculiar buzzing fills my head, a hundred whispers now. My paws tighten on my iron. They don’t take notice of me though— from the distance in their eyes, I’d say they don’t take notice of much of anything.

The half-dozen miners pass by. Just about stand up when I hear one more coming. I look up to find a field mouse staggering under a big ol’ bucket of shiny rocks. Doesn’t seem bothered, just stumbles on, spilling a few of the rocks here or there. His fellows have left him behind.

I figure this’ll be my best shot at figuring just what the mine does to folk, and what it’s doing to me. I stand up, ready to sock the little fella if he screams.

Like a grazing cow, he stares at me.

I grab the bucket away from him, ignoring how touching it makes my whole arm tingle. I set it down, not careful if I spill half.

No objection, not so much as a squeak.

“What’s yer name, mousy?”

He grunts, stooping to pick up the rocks.

I pull him up, shake him by the shoulders. He’s limp in my paws, flopping him around like a drunk on payday. “I’m talkin’ to you!”

Nothing. Just stares with the same empty eyes. A coldness steals over me, stinging right into my bones.

I let go.

He goes back to picking up the ore. Doesn’t call out, doesn’t complain, just piles it all back in and staggers on.

I run.

A few wrong turns later, I find two guards: a rat and a big ol’ bull of a panther. They’re standing in front of a locked door. Possible it’s not the lawbat, but after what I just saw, I don’t care much what I wreck up for these folk. I ain’t keen to stay here until I turn out like that mousy.

I hop in and sidle against the wall behind the rat. I kick hard as I can against his back. The rat makes a flight Blake’d be proud of, prompted by my boot. Flies square into the panther. I wince as they go down, hollering and hawing; the rat’s head finds the wall with a sick thud. The big panther gets off easier. I spy him struggling from under his deadweight amigo and introduce his face to the butt of my gun. He goes down too.

Snatching the keys from his pocket, along with a surprising wad of cash, I unfix the padlock on the door cemented into the cave wall. Inside the little room, I find Blake, blindfolded and bound, but otherwise pretty as you please. “Howdy, lawbat.”

His bleary eyes set on me. “Sigth? Ow id ooh ind ee?”

I uncork his gag. “Hush now. We’ve got some gone to get.” My knife chews through his bonds. He tries to stand, but gets up too sudden and stumbles into my arms. I heave him over my shoulder. 

In the space of a spit, the darkness bares teeth and claws. The panther leaps for my foot. I bounce, hopping outta the way and running out the door. He swears some fancy foreign cussing as I slam the door shut and affix the padlock. Seems this is becoming a habit with men. We vamoose down the hall.

We make good time, though I get a touch woozy whenever I pass a shinier part of the wall. Metal-looking rocks are scattered all over and seep into my mind with frantic whispers. How or why is well beyond me— I just figure getting out of here is the surest bet for remedying this affliction. I run through the cave, springing over standing stones as best I can see ‘em. Now I know how Hayes got so rich: skimping on lanterns.

A great bellering kicks up behind us. Seems the guards found their feet. Hard to tell how close, what with all these damn whispers and natural echoes. I drag Blake with me by the shoulder, heading for the light of the mine proper.

A paw grabs my hip. I pound it, thinking it might be that panther again, only to hear the bat’s muffled yelp. I wonder what Blake is doing, then feel the Bowie knife slip from my belt. Won’t do him much good if he can’t see who to stab. My shins bash into one of the rocks. I holler, hitting the floor. Death stares down at me from the blackness. I catch glimpses of impossible faces, rabbit faces, in the dark. One of ‘em even looked like... No. I’m not seeing my dead daddy’s ghost in this skunkhole of a mine.

A velvet wing sweeps past my ear. Strong hind paws grip my shoulders. Wind whips past my face. I hear Blake grunting, flapping like mad. I’m up. My boots are back under me and I’m running, the bat dragging me. We make it through the larger cave, though I get dragged into a few of those standing stones.

We get to the mine tunnels. Blake somehow knows they are too narrow to fly through. I then realize he’s a bat: he can see. We turn a corner. I slam into somebody who smells like a bunny, knocking the somebody on his ass.

His lantern falls to the floor and the sputtering light gives me one look at the hare’s face. He was the old man standing next to Hayes. I feel a pinch of loyalty to my fellow bunny, but not enough to slow me up as I swing back my leg to give him boot to the head—

“Jasper?!”

I freeze. His voice is reedy and ragged, but the name sucks the breath from my lungs. His wide blue eyes are clouded and bloodshot. I reach down and grab him by the chest fur. How can he know that name?

Blake shoves me past the old hare, hollering for me to move it. Running, stumbling, I try my best to remember which turns I took, but my feet move like they’re in jelly. The bat’s got a wing around me and keeps pulling me onward. My thoughts are still with that old bunny. How could he know that name?

Ahead, I see a square of blinding light; the entrance of the mine. We stumble up the uneven stairs. Blake looks around, ears swiveling. I hear nothing, lost in thoughts and memories. I haven’t heard that name in years. Haven’t said that name in even longer. I lead Blake back to my little crow’s nest and we press against the back wall, facing the entrance.

Once inside the lookout, his wings wrap ‘round me, but to comfort me or prop himself up, I can’t say. He sputters, coughs, and in due course gasps “thank you” into the fur of my neck.

I take this tender moment to check my guns, which are covered in the mine’s gunk. I’m rattled bad. Can’t seem to steady my paws, or my wits. The iron slips from my shaking paws to the dusty grit we sit on.

Blake leans against me, all stunned and silent, panting hard.

I curse my weakness and snatch the guns up. Most days, the guns are an extension of my paws, something I can count on in dark or light. Not now. Now my fingers don’t work right, like they’re froze by the same fear chilling my guts. Meanwhile, a wildfire of a headache sears through my brainpan. The hell was in that mine?

On the third try, I manage to get use the ejector rod proper-like, only to knock out all my unused shots like a fool. I cuss. The sheriff tenses against me, giving me cause to hush up. Last thing I need is for anybody who followed us to come charging up here.

I clear the muck off the cylinder, paying no mind to how it sticks to the white fur of my fingers. One by one, I scoop up the bullets, roll the dirt off between my fingers, and ease it back home, keeping a sharp eye on the mouth of the crow’s nest. I click the mechanism back together with both paws— ain’t got the time or the paws for any fancy tricks at present.

I repeat the process with the other gun, while Blake sets a paw on the cleared one. I don’t remark on this, save giving him a little nod. Ain’t generally healthy, letting others hold your iron. I try to think on just what it means that I let him do that, but it only kicks up the wind for my headache. I clean the other gun instead.

Darkness comes on swift. Hayes’ men scurry over the anthill I’ve kicked up, but nobody comes looking further up the mountain. Tiredness seeps into my bones and, real slow-like, I find myself settling in against Blake.