Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny (22 page)

“Figure you can fly outta here in that layered cake?”

Shaking out of my grasp, he gives a clap of the wings, lifting off the ground a ways. Impressive for a man in a dress, but not enough to make a getaway. Then it dawns on him: “I’m not leaving you here!”

“Then we gotta get to the stables!” I grab Blake’s wing again and haul him past some fine leather furnishings. “You fancy runnin’ any quicker, lawbat?”

He grabs awkwardly at the dragging hem with a wing thumb, scowling at me. “You try running in a dress!”

“One a’ the things I aim to avoid in life.” As we hoof it down a hallway, I draw one of my guns from this fine coat, half-cocking it. This won’t be easy. Hayes’ men know the ins and out of the place, plus I’ve got this yammering fool in a dress with me. Come to think of it, they likely can’t tell who Blake is and aren’t likely to gun down some innocent lady.

We turn a corner. Ahead, oil lanterns flood light into the dining room. Various somebodies mill nervous-like, wondering what all the commotion is. Fine-set tables run the room, covered in meat, and with a nice big crystal bowl of blood-red punch at the last one.

My guns rattle. I spin around just in time to see Hayes’ men crash down the stairs in front of us. Before the first one sees me, I crack my pommel between his eyes, knocking him into his compadres.

The big panther and some mutt teeter back, for a moment. Then Hayes bursts into being at the top of the stairs, roaring: “Forget the female! Grab the bunny!”

The other two come leaping over their fallen pal, panther included.

Hayes’ guests look around like panicked prairie dogs. I drag the lawbat through the thick of ‘em. Even Hayes won’t shoot into a crowd of his fellow bigwigs.

The lion roars after us. “Thieves! Grab them!”

A big boar jumps in front of us. Blake snatches a meat tray from a table and wallups the piggy in the temple. The boar goes down, the silver tray clattering, scattering raw fleshy tidbits every which way.

We run past the bar.

The guns tug downward.

I dive, dragging Blake with me. Glass shatters above us, raining down booze. All the ladies scream, lawbat included. I turn to see a scruffy tabby firing at me from near the window. I put a shot in his chest, knocking him backward in a fresh shower of glass.

Fearing more shots, the guests stampede willy-nilly, which does some to hide our escape. I take care not to slip on dropped drinks, blood-red punch staining the floor. Such a waste, and all because Hayes took exception to me.

We come upon some manner of coat room. Last room before the stable. Two feline stable hands stand outside it, guns drawn. The guests cower back, knowing lead is about to fly.

On the last of the tables, the punch bowl gleams at me.

I hop up, landing hard before my target. The crystal bowl soars skyward, twinkling in all the glory of Christmas morning. Cats look on with confusion as the punch bowl sails clear over my head, barreling square down on ‘em. They scatter. A flying mess of red punch swoops out, soaking the guests and their fine meats. The bowl shatters in an expensive heap against the floor.

We skedaddle in.

I slam the door after us. The stink of manure hangs thick. The only ponies here are hitched to a wagon in a team of four. They dance, finicky at the loud noise. Can’t say I blame ‘em.

The guns tug left. I swivel an ear and hear Hayes’ men charging down the hall. I jam my bowie knife in the hinge.

Some fool slams into the door, then bounces off. I laugh, holstering for a breath.

The sheriff pants. “Can we outrun them?”

“Not the both of us.” I push him against the wagon.

His ears pop up, all ungrateful. “I’m not leaving you here!”

“Hell you ain’t.” I shove him. He spills backwards into the wagon in a mess of ruffles and lace. I swipe the cuffs out of his pocket and fix his leg to the rail.

He swims through the fabric, hollering: “Damn you, Six!” Don’t know how the lawbat expects Charlotte to lend him fine dresses if he musses them up so.

I rip James’s pin from my vest and shove it down Blake’s bodice. “Sorry, lawbat, but it’s better this way.” I kick open the stable doors, draw, and fire into the ceiling. One! Two! Three! The ponies scream and scramble, galloping off into the black. Dodging Blake’s free hind paw, I hop outta the wagon’s path, landing on the hard-packed dirt. The lawbat hollers after me over the pounding of hooves on dirt and shouting from back around the corner. The wagon thunders out into the street. Now, just gotta distract them long enough for Blake to get away.

I draw.

Guns pull left.

The first fool to turn the corner gets a bullet in the arm. He cringes back, clutching it and howling.

Guns pull right.

I take out the rat climbing in through the loft window.

Three shots left. Gotta buy some time.

I grab a lantern off the wall, smashing it against a beam. I draw out those fancy matches I lifted off Doc, striking one and throwing it onto the oil and straw. The whole mess goes up in a pleasing roar.

Manure chokes the flames into billows of smoke. Just what I need. I put the thick of it between me and the door.

I holster one, kicking the spent shells from the other. One! Two! Three! Four! My fingers dance across my gunbelt, flipping fresh bullets into the chambers.

Shots ring out.

I duck behind a beam, letting the varmints empty their iron. Smoke’s thick now. Nobody can see. I try not to breathe.

I spin around, letting the guns aim. Gotta be at least a few at the door. Two screams answer that well and true.

A noise above me. Gun yanks upward. All I do is pull the trigger. More hollering.

I catch a fit of coughing. I need to get a way out of this smoke or Hayes’ men won’t have to shoot me.

I scamper across the breadth of the stable, ignoring the lead splintering timbers around me. One good bounce and I’m up in the loft, running. Sure enough, I trip over the fella who tried getting the drop on me. I crash atop him.

Air’s not much cleaner up here and light from the fire downstairs warns me of the hay-chutes, casting a eerie glow, but the moon hangs in an open window, offering escape. I dash through the loose hay, loading my other gun on the way. Gonna want full cylinders when I make my leap. I eject the spent rounds. One! Two! Three—

A screech like all the Earth’s hatred fills the loft.

I turn to see a fat boar with a nail through his boot. I spin my near-empty gun around, grip the barrel, and swing to brain him.

He roars at me, causing me to hit his snout instead. Doesn’t seem to care for that. Goes for his pistol.

I uppercut him with a Colt pommel.

His fangs clatter together as his head snaps back. Stunned, he pulls free of the nail and staggers backward. His beady eyes focus on me as squeals with fury. He’s mighty close to the window, so I help him out with a boot to the chest.

Piggy goes tumbling end over fat end, shattering a wooden trough as he lands.

I pause for the briefest of breaths to reload. Three more bullets make the trip from belt to paw to gun. Below, folks scatter every which way, including that fat marmot dragging an awful familiar bunny behind him. No time to worry on small fry just now.

I catch a glut of cussing behind me. Seems the Hayes goons have found me.

I get a hop on and take the leap.

The air outside is crisp and clear, the moon casting a pale light. Crosses my mind this must be what Blake feels whenever he flies. I see why he doesn’t resent having wings in place of hands.

My boots bounce off the boar’s belly, driving a grunt from his witless body. I scramble on through the mud and dust. Feeling boss as a brass button and fine as cream gravy, I cackle like a hare gone feral. I’m just too quick for these fellas, in all sorts of ways. I turn a corner.

A board wallops me in the gut.

I double over, looking up to see that damn panther again. We have ourselves a little moment. Then he swings the plank around and cracks me in the temple. A sick, heavy thump echoes through my skull.

The world falls to black.

Funny how the world loops around.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Fields surround me. Green, growing life stretching on in all directions. Green in the desert is always a grayish, dull affair; color this vivid hurts my eyes. At least, it ought to. Not overly sure I’m seeing with ‘em presently.

I feel a gentle paw on my shoulder. My father’s scent washes over me: warm, powerful, rich in the only way Daddy ever was. I spin on a boot heel and grab ahold a’ him.

“Whoa! Easy there, Cottonpuff.” He strokes my head fur in fond acceptance. “Yer clingin’ on me like a cocklebur gone lonesome.”

I can’t help but laugh against his chest. He’s warm and real. I can feel his chest rise and fall, feel his fur brushing the inside of his vest. “Daddy…”

“Yeah, honey bun, it’s me. What’re you doin’ here?” He brushes one of my ears all gentle-like, same way he did when I was little, looking on what must be a dandy of a bruise where the board hit. “Look like week-old hell, too. Not that I ain’t grateful seein’ ya again.”

I blink back tears, trailing my fingers down the brown fur of his arm. “This ain’t by my plannin’.”

“Ah. I see.” He chuckles, kicking the toe of his boot into the soft black soil. “So you’re leavin’ about the same?”

I nod. “Well, that assumes I ain’t dead….”

“You ain’t.” He squeezes me a touch tighter. “How’s that bat been treatin’ ya?” He looks me in the eyes. “You haven’t gone an’ shot him again, have ya?”

“No!”

“Well, that’s right decent of you. Ah was with your mother near on twenty years without feelin’ need to shoot her.” He smiles, showing me his buck teeth.

The world presses in on my mind. I look around, seeing in the shadows a great shaft down into the earth, lit at one end only. “Daddy! I think… I think I’m still in Hayes’ mine. I can’t stay with you.”

“Hayes? Could have sworn I shot him…” His gaze slips to the distance for a slim moment, then he grips my shoulder. “As for stayin’ with me, see ya don’t chase echoes when you ought to be after real folk. Okay, ‘Puff? Never seen it end well.”

“Yes, Daddy.” I straighten up, looking him right in the eyes. Just when did I get as tall as him? “I need some things explained.”

He twitches his nose at me, like he’s of a teasing mood. “That is what daddies are for.”

“Straightforward and simple-like. None a’ this ghost-riddle business.”

“Contrary to what you may’ve heard, we don’t get our giggles hassling the livin’. It’s just…” He ponders on this for a breath, or would if he were really breathing. “Just that the world makes less sense the longer you leave it. But I’ll do my darnest not to talk bunkum to ya, square?”

“Square.” I feel my guts get tugged toward the real world. I don’t have an excess of time. “How do you tie in to this business with the mine?”

“The mine, the mine… Lemme see…” His claws scritch the back of his neck, like they always did in moments of hard reckoning. “Back durin’ my stint with the Interior Department, this old bloodhound tracked me down. Said he represented a tribe a’ ‘yotes whose land was being mined without their say-so. Nothin’ new under the sun, ah think, though that changed in a hurry once I poked around the place. Ah’d hid TNT to bring down the whole mine. Likely it’s still there in the supports to this day.”