Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny (3 page)

I’m a hell of a bunny.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As sheriff, I’ve never taken to drink much myself. Makes my wings burn and, besides, a lawman needs to maintain a certain command of his faculties. Doesn’t seem to stop others. The entire town seems to be out in the street, celebrating the Fourth of July. Rowdy folk, loud for my tender ears, but that’s good. Let them get it out now, rather than in the saloon later. The roughness of their voices stirs a longing in me for the nights when my family would sing together after dusk, when the air is clearest. The sweet melodies, too high for other species to hear, permitted us to sing as loud as we wished and not disturb the neighbors.

I buy a sarsaparilla off Doc Richards, and he offers to twist the cap off for me. I politely decline and get it with my hind paw and wing. Most folk never understand why bats don’t take issue with having wings in place of arms. Most folk haven’t ever flown either. Dangling from a rafter by one leg, I take a swig. Feels good to drink upside down again. Another joy of being a flying fox. Just have to keep it out of my nose.

Doc opens one up as well and sips at it. “Tell me, Blake...” His fine white coat gleams against his auburn fur. I can see how he used to be mayor— he looks the part. “You ever going to take Charlotte and me up on that offer for dinner?”

Fiddling with the badge my uncle gave me, I try to think of a way to decline.

He fluffs his tail, shaking out the dust. “Come on. What’s the hitch?”

“I don’t know... Don’t care to have folks thinking I play favorites.”

“Glory be, Sheriff! It’s food, not money. Oh, and on that, I promise we’ll tell you if there’s meat in anything. I know how you fruit bats get.” He nudges me with his elbow.

I smile. Doc means well— I’ve never seen him do anything but good for others since I got here, despite his charming vulpine ways —but if I start getting overly companionable with the locals, where do I stop? As it stands now, nobody can claim I ignore anybody’s offenses. I’d never turn a blind eye, of course, but that wouldn’t stop people from talking. Better to just leave that whole tangle be. Simpler this way.

The fox looks a touch put out at my silence, and again I try to drum up something to say.

Just as I open my muzzle, the sad eyes of my deputy catch me through the crowd. Harding’s a damn good tracker. Could’ve taken the post after Sheriff Collins bit a bullet, but he likes life as a deputy. Can’t blame him. Folks are less likely to shoot you.

“Blake! You’re gonna wanna come see to this.”

I toss Doc the bottle, drop from the rafter, and run through the crowd, following Harding. Already, the hound’s wagging at the excitement of the chase. Once I get up a head of steam, I jump, kicking off his shoulders and taking to the air. Houses and people blur below me, a few merrymakers raising their cups to me in drunken excitement. Few enough bats around here that I’m still something of a novelty. I startle old Harland Myers into spitting out a fresh quid of tobacco as I wing over him.

Harding and I get to Hayes’ General Wares in time to see Tanner Hayes turning all different shades of furious. Hayes is the nephew of an old lion who bought out the mine years ago. Darn fool’s stomping around like his mane’s in a twist, still in his best bib and tucker. His expression is one of shocked disbelief, perhaps that somebody would dare deprive him of money for a change.

I land, stirring up a mess of dust. “What’s the ruckus here?”

“I’ve been robbed!” He bustles toward me, his portly frame pushing onlookers out of the way. Crowds kick up fast when you start yelling in the streets while half the town is out to celebrate.

“When?”

“Just now! I came back to the store and my strongbox is gone!” He roars in frustration. “One of the staff saw a fella run down the alley just before I arrived.”

I hear Harding catch up to me. I turn to him. “Deputy! Head on up to the stables. Search anybody who could be carrying large amounts of cash.”

Harding pants, jowls drooping more than usual. “W-where are you goin’?”

I jump to the overhang of the general store. “I’m gonna fly the outskirts, see if anybody leaves.” I dive off, pumping my wings and making a mad dash for the edge of town. I needn’t have bothered.

I get within a block of the Town Office when all hell breaks loose.

Gunshots and muzzle flashes. All four ponies in the town stables explode out of their corral. The few townsfolk not at the celebration scream and clamor out of the way. Night is falling fast, but I have good eyes. One of the ponies has a rider. There’s my thief. On my pony. A few fools cheer at the gunfire, thinking it’s the start of the fireworks.

I fly hard, but I can’t catch a pony in the long haul. One chance. I dive.

My paws make contact with the body of the rider, knocking him over. I open my wings, softening my fall. I skid into the side of a house and draw my gun. The rider never falls. I look up just in time to see the scoundrel hauls himself back up, still clinging to the pommel of the saddle. Damn. Must’ve heard me dive.

I get up, dust off, and see about catching one of the ponies. Hell if I’m done with this fool yet.

The fireworks start.

* * * * *

Hours later, I’m tracking the trail on a borrowed pony. Harding would’ve been on this trail like a stink on a wet dog, but all the gunpowder mussed with his nose something terrible. Never could catch the scent of the fella who broke in. Poor hound can hardly walk straight when his sniffer’s shot, so I left him with Tanner Hayes to take a deposition like the lion wanted. I don’t envy the deputy: Hayes’ tail was already cracking like a whip when I departed.

My lantern bounces. I’ve never been too good with holding objects in my wing thumbs. Now that no one can see, however, I ride sidesaddle. This leaves my paws free to grab my gun, should I find the need.

Soon enough, I do.

I see faint light in the ridge ahead, down by Skull Creek. The creek runs fast, wide, and deep. The shore consists of stones white and round like bleached skulls. I slip off the pony, douse my lantern, and pick my way through the boulders and scrub brush. Now, either this thief is damned lucky or he heard my wings when I dove on him back in town. Either way, I’m doing my best not to make a sound. I make it to the larger stone nearest to him and just listen, waiting for my heartbeat to come off its roiling boil. The rumble of the rapids in the shallow valley beside us helps hide my footsteps. I keep an eye on my footing —failing light plays off the steep banks of the creek— as well as keeping my ears pricked for any nocturnal creatures drawn to the water.

I hear the sound of exerted breath, only one person, and something else too: digging. The clank of a shovel against stone, the sound of steel biting earth. Now’s my chance— he’ll be distracted.

I roll over the stone, draw my gun, and yell over the crash of the rapids. “Hands up!”

No sooner have the words left my muzzle than the head of that same shovel cracks me in the hind paw. My gun skitters across the sandy dirt, landing near the strongbox. In front of me, a hare grins. My thief.

I dive toward my gun, but the hare hurls the shovel my way. The handle strikes the tip of my right ear. I see a flicker of movement. He’s drawing iron. I forget my own gun and hurl myself at the bunny. He’s a head taller than me, but few folks have ever wrestled a fruit bat. We tussle. I grapple him with my paws while my wings sweep his own paws away from his holsters. With any luck, I can grab his gun.

Turns out I haven’t a sliver of luck. The holster has some trick to it, the kind that only draws a certain way.

The hare punches me in the ear. I scream.

Neither of us like that too much. Seems he can hear the pitches we bats scream at. Serves him right for hearing me coming.

I twist around and grab his paws with mine. This lands my crotch square center on his chest, but, if we cared much for propriety, we wouldn’t be in such a tussle.

I snatch his ear in my jaws and bite hard. Now it’s the bunny’s turn to holler.

“FAAAHHH!” His voice rings high from panic and pain, audible over the crash of the rapids. “Get off me, ya damn bat!”

I let go of his ear. The meaty taste of hare and the prickle of fur cling to my tongue. “Settle the hell down! This dance is over.” My right wing pulls the cuffs from my belt. I struggle to snap them into place. My thief is strong for a bunny. His fur is soft in my hind paws. He kicks at my back, but I’m far up enough that he can’t reach. He growls. Never heard a hare growl before.

With both paws and both wings, I manage to get one of the cuffs on before I hear it. We both do, since the hare freezes as well.

At least three guns cock back. I look around and see steel gleaming in the lantern light. Several dark forms surround us.

I straighten up, still sitting on the hare’s chest. “I am Sheriff Jordan Blake. Stand down, boys. I’ve got this matter handled.”

“Actually sheriff...” A new voice grinds like whetstone. “
We’ve
got this matter handled.” One of the figures steps into the light, leveling his rifle at me. He’s a lynx, and he’s not in a kind mood, judging by the set of his dagger-tip ears. “Get up. The both of you.”

The look on the lynx’s face is a spit’s distance away from being murder made flesh. He’s not on my side. These men are outlaws.

I stand, shuffling back from the bunny, then affirm the distance with a suspicious glance. He stares back, but I can see the unsteadiness in his eyes. Aw hell. He wasn’t banking on this either.

As we stand, I grab his other hand, but click the cuff on air. I pass it to him and step away. For all they saw, I finished cuffing him. The hare looks at me, surprised as a bear with a mouthful of bees. He says nothing, though that little puff of a tail twitches.

My eyes find my gun, but one of the outlaws, a boar, already picked it up. Beside me, the rapids roar.

There are at least three of them, likely another few in the shadows, if they’re smart. I play dumb. “You boys had best ease up. Wouldn’t do to accidentally kill a lawman.”

“Then you’d best shut yer hole, bat.” The lynx leers. “Otherwise, we might just have an accident.”

“Ya might as well drop the act, fellas.” The hare grins. “We all know you’re working for the lion Hayes.”

I turn to the bunny. “We do?!”

He winks. “Ya do now.”

The lynx snarls. “The hell makes you think we work for anybody?”

The hare straightens, edging closer to me, adjusting his unlocked cuffs behind his back. He grabs something from behind his belt. Idiot! He’s supposed to go for his guns! Instead, he just flips up one ear and stands all casual. “I heard your grindy ol’ voice yammerin’ on it back a’ that doggery ya call a bar, tufts. That’s how I knew to steal the money ‘fore you.”

“Enough a’ your wild notions, rabbit.” He raises the rifle. His buddies do the same. His finger slips over the trigger. “Now die.”

In a blur of motion, the hare throws a small bundle at the lynx, kicks off the side of a rock, and knocks me hard to the side. Gunshots ring into the night. The bundle explodes into a dusting of paper bills.

I hit the water.

Skull Creek runs right out of the mountains. It is cold. Deathly cold, and my wings do nothing but suck my heat out faster. The gunshots sound funny underwater. I’m occupied with trying to breathe. The bunny is clinging to me like the last shred of hope and his desperation is drowning me. The water’s quick. We crash against the rocks. I scream and swear, losing what little air I have. I’m certain I’m going to die. My mind offers nothing of real value, save the knowledge that at least I caught this idiot bunny. I then realize: he caught me.

A rock hits me in the head.

* * * * *

Dime novels get two things wrong about a crack to the head: you rarely get knocked out and you always, always wish you had. The world tumbles past me in blasts of pain, rolling water, and finally a strong paw hauling me out of the rapids. I cough and spit to clear the taste of blood from my mouth. I shake the water from my ears just in time to hear a gun being reloaded. I look up. My thief stands over me, out of paw’s reach, with a pistol trained on my chest.

“Hold it there, wings.” Water drips off his muzzle. He’s still shaking, and his ears are too heavy to rise. Those paws keep steady, however. “I’ve got dry rounds in this piece a’ iron, and I don’t got a mind for another wrestling match.”