Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) (18 page)

She’d never encountered a native before, not up close. Once or twice, a party had come to Flood, but they’d stood outside the town’s boundaries until the boss went out to treat with them. They never came inside, and she’d never been allowed to serve the meals he took with them, either; Marie and Rosa had done that.

Why had they been stopped? How had they moved so quietly? And what had they meant about the devil being wary? What had they meant about bones cracking? Was this something she need warn the boss of? And if so . . . how? She had no carrier pigeons, no way to send a letter until they reached the next town with a carrier-box.

Every shred of confidence she’d gathered since Patch Junction seemed scattered again, leaving her shivering with doubt. By the time the sun began to sink into the horizon, casting long red fingers across the sky, Izzy had convinced herself that she’d done something terrible, committed some awful mistake, and to speak of it to Gabriel, to ask any questions, would simply prove her failure further.

“We’ll camp up ahead.” His voice was rough from a day’s disuse,
and he coughed, then tried again. “There’s a spot that I’ve used before, assuming nothing has disturbed it.”

Animals were known to get into caches, Izzy knew, or a winter storm. . . . Izzy could only imagine what might have happened during one of the storms that swept through the prairie during the winter months. But when they came to it, they found a cleared area just off the road, with a thin line of scrub trees behind, a charred circle where previous fires had been lit, and a small stone-built cache of dried chips for fuel. There was no source of fresh water, but it otherwise seemed near perfect.

“Unpack the mule, pull what you need for the night, stash the rest of the packs there,” Gabriel said, pulling the saddle off Steady and placing it carefully on the ground, as though she hadn’t already learned to do just that. Before she could bristle at the reminder, he bent to retrieve something and then walked off without another word into the scrub.

“Huh.” Izzy stared after him, then untacked Uvnee and placed her gear near Steady’s, then turned to deal with the mule, who was waiting patiently for its turn.

“At least you don’t take moods,” she said, petting the smooth hide above its nose-whiskers. “Good boy. And do you even have a name? We just call you ‘boy’ or ‘mule’ all the time. That’s hardly polite.”

The mule flipped one long ear and lipped her other hand, clearly wondering why she was asking about silly matters when there was a hungry mule to be unpacked and fed.

Once the animals were cared for and the packs stacked where Gabriel had indicated, Izzy looked around, trying to find a good place for her kit. Not too far from the fire, for warmth, but not so close she risked sparks catching. . . . She frowned, trying to determine a proper distance, then set about clearing the area of as many rocks as she could find, pitching them away from where the horses were grazing with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary.

Why had Gabriel just gone off like that? Was he was angry with her?

She should have followed his lead, not sassed? But looking back, she thought that the knife the boy had been holding was for show. If the natives wanted her—them—dead, they would have been left on the trail for buzzards and crows, the horses and mule and all their belongings taken or abandoned. That had been . . . a warning? A test?

A test she’d failed?

“If someone would only tell me what I’m sup—” She broke off the complaint midway through, ashamed of herself. If the boss’d wanted her to know things, he would have told her. He’d had the training of her entire life, hadn’t he? She knew how he worked. And Gabriel seemed to go the same way. So, either she would learn what she needed or she already knew and just hadn’t figured it yet.

“So, come on, Izzy,” she said to herself. “What do you know?”

Gabriel wasn’t back yet. She found a flattish rock nearby large enough to sit on, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The stone was cold through her skirt, but it warmed up, and the sun was warm on her arms and face, the faint scent of something spicy carrying over the dust and grass.

They’d spoken English, at least a little, and Gabriel had spoken to them in what she thought’d been French. But he’d then said something else, the same language she’d heard him singing in before. Two Voices, he’d called himself, had mentioned a tribe who’d called him that.

Natives who wanted to trade learned at least a little English, Spanish—or French if they were up north, she supposed. But what if she encountered natives who hadn’t learned? How could she make herself understood?

“No. It’s not the words; it’s what he said. How he said it.” Gabriel had known how to speak to them, how to behave. Like playing faro or poker, there were good cards to hold and cards you folded on. That was what she needed to know.

Izzy tried to recall the map the boss had set her to study, all brown lines and black lettering, sketching out the mountains and rivers,
the borders where Spain pushed in and where the Americans and British lurked, and the names of the native tribes who lived within the Territory. Like she’d told Gabriel, the boss knew them all, the tribes and who they allied with, the treaties and bargains they came to among themselves. Who hunted where and who traded with whom.

He’d shown them to her, and she’d not paid enough attention. She should have studied that map more closely, memorized more. She would, she promised herself, when she returned to Flood.

Assuming she returned. Izzy felt the ghost of the knife against her leg again and reached for the small blade that now hung at her belt, for reassurance. Gabriel had said he would teach her how to better use it, and the larger one strapped to her saddle, how to shoot the carbine, not just load and hold it. She needed to learn all that, and never mind how tired she was when they made camp. If the natives had taken exception to her, had decided they’d . . . What had the other voice said? Given offense? If they had, they’d be dead now.

And if she’d had a gun? If she’d had a knife to hand? She’d probably still be dead. The only thing that protected her was who she was. What she was, whatever that was.

The palm of her hand itched, and she rubbed it against the rough fabric of her skirt, frowning at the sensation. She could feel the sweat forming under the brim of her hat, the weight of it suddenly unfamiliar again. She removed it, wiping an arm across her forehead, and placed the hat carefully by her side. She must look a sight, nearly a week on the road since Patch Junction, but there was no mirror to check her hair, no extra water for even a sponge bath. She would go to bed coated in dust. This was her life, now.

I am the Devil’s Hand.
What had she expected to happen, that they would jump away, that a thunderclap would sound, or the boss himself would appear to scold them? Foolishness. He had sent her away to stand on her own, not to rest on his boots. The thought came for the first time, creeping on the heels of her doubts, that she was not worthy of his expectation.

That she would fail.

“Ho, the camp!”

Izzy felt her heart near leap from her chest and found her hand resting on the blade she’d just been contemplating. She pulled it from its sheath slowly, tucking it against her forearm, the blade out of sight, and stood to greet the newcomer.

“Easy, girl. If I’d meant harm, I wouldn’t have hailed, and I’d not still be standing outside your fire.” The woman gestured to the charred line in the grass around their campsite. Izzy had noted it when they rode in but not thought anything of it. Of course, and now Izzy felt even more a fool. The line was a fire-ring, to establish the boundaries of the campsite. And the woman stood outside it, not intruding—and not presuming on the hospitality required within that border. Either of them could pull weapons, break promises, without censure.

Except, of course, the only weapon Isobel had was the small knife. Hardly effective at a distance, and the carbine was so far out of reach, it might as well be back in Flood.

The woman was wearing an oilcloth coat that came to her knees, her boots rising almost that high, mud-splashed even though there hadn’t been enough rain to wet the dust in days. She didn’t bother with a skirt for modesty, her legs long and unashamed in trousers, and Izzy felt a curl of envy in her stomach that overrode her fear. The woman’s face was round and sun-browned, her hair long, pale brown and braided over one shoulder like Izzy’s own, and as Izzy watched, the woman lifted her hands away from her body, palms forward and fingers up in the sign for peaceful intent.

“My name’s Devorah,” the woman said. “I left my beasts tethered over there”—she jerked her head to the left, where a yellow horse and a brown-and-black jenny with ridiculously long ears were contentedly munching on the grass. “There’s a patch of sweetgrass there; your mule might like it too. Helps their digestion.” She grimaced. “Mules need all the help they can get.”

Something itched against Isobel’s neck again, but this time, she
didn’t try to brush it away. Her palm tingled, and her fingers twitched.
Caution
, they seemed to whisper.
Caution
. Where was Gabriel?

“Cautious girl. But there comes a time, caution turns to pure inhospitality.” Devorah took a step forward and turned slightly, as though to show she carried nothing behind her back, either. “I only thought a girl traveling alone might welcome some company on the road.”

“She’s not alone.”

Devorah turned, and her face went from stillness to surprise and then delight. “Kasun? I will be washed by the Jordan, who knew you were still alive?”

“Devorah.” He was standing a few yards off, and while Izzy noted he knew the woman, he didn’t seem anywhere near as pleased to see her. “I’ve been here and there. Still alive, yes.” He sighed and took off his hat, flapping it at her in vague welcome. “Enter and be welcome at our fire, although we haven’t quite gotten it going yet.”

“The offer is as good as the action,” she responded, stepping over the charred line. “And who’s your companion?”

“That’s Isobel. First year on the road.”

“You’re mentoring?” That seemed to amuse Devorah, and Izzy felt her hackles rise. Gabriel met the woman’s laugh with a stone-still face until her amusement faded, and that made Izzy feel slightly better. “Well. Welcome to the road, Isobel.” She made a gesture to the mule. “I’ve a fresh-caught rabbit to add to your pot, if you’re in need of meat.”

Izzy’s mouth started to water, and she hoped Gabriel said yes. She was awfully tired of beans, dried pork, and charqui.

“We wouldn’t say no,” Gabriel said. “Isobel, if you’ve the need, there’s a patch thataway. . . .” And he jerked his head toward the trees where he’d disappeared to.

She nodded her understanding and headed away from the campsite, curiosity about the newcomer losing to the need to empty her bladder in private, and the awareness that he wanted her away for a reason. After relieving herself, Izzy took her hair down from its braid and finger-combed it out, scraping her nails along her scalp, and then
rebraided it, wishing again for a mirror and a comb. “And while you’re at it, a warm bath and fresh-milled soap?” she mocked herself.

She would settle for rabbit.

Judging enough time had passed, she went back to the camp. If they’d exchanged words, it wasn’t clear, or it had been settled peaceably. A small campfire was crackling, deep red flames licking at the cow chips, the coalstone a sullen black glow in its center. Devorah was cross-legged in front of it, preparing the rabbit for cooking, a pile of bones on a piece of leather at her side. The knife in her hand was small, with a wicked curve that slid through flesh easily, and her movements reminded Izzy of Ree’s, that same casual comfort dismembering things.

She was a rider, Izzy thought. Like Gabriel. Only a woman. Like the woman she’d seen back in Patch Junction, the one with the leathers, and the silvery hair?

Gabriel was knelt down, unloading items from his pack. He frowned at the leather packets and replaced two of them, keeping one out. She studied the newcomer, then walked—practicing her steps to see if she could move as silently as the native—to stand next to him.

“Devorah. You are friends?” She spoke quietly, pitched only for his ears.

“Not so much friends as two people who have known each other for a very long time,” he said dryly. “There’s a difference.” He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “I trust her at our fire. And I’m not about to turn away fresh meat I didn’t have to hunt.”

Izzy hesitated, then plunged on. “What did she mean about you still being alive?”

“Nothing. An old scar she feels the need to pick at, to see if I will flinch.”

It wasn’t nothing. Izzy had learned to read men in the smoke-filled interior of the saloon, to judge their words and actions. Something bothered Gabriel about those words. But she had risked pushing, and he had refused. She dared not push again.

Whatever else Devorah might be, Izzy admitted that she was good company. Hearing a third voice with new stories—and the willingness to share them—had been a pleasure added to the fresh rabbit.