Billie the Kid: The Sky Fire Chronicles Book 1 Page 5

  A predator raised a blood-covered head to sniff the air. Its face was dominated by a long canine-like muzzle and upright ears. Cold, predatory eyes scanned the desert and stopped when they locked with hers.

  It had seen her! Billie froze. She was as good as dead.

  Shit!

  Growls filled the air as several black-furred creatures ripped bloody strips off the mule’s still twitching body. The predators buried powerful jaws into the mule, devouring large strips of meat in loud gulps.

  Unperturbed by its pack mates, the dog-creature’s sight remained locked onto her for several long moments, blood dripping from its furry muzzle. Suddenly, it leapt over the fallen mule, landing lightly. Its ribs showed through its black mangy fur and its shoulders rippled with corded muscles with each step. It was a coyote, mutated and larger than a wolf. With its head held low and its ears back flat, it issued a low, menacing growl from its powerful throat. It stalked toward her, the hackles rising along its bony spine.

  Billie hadn’t heard of coyotes this big this far north before and she knew she’d never outrun one. They were rumoured to be as fast as horses over a short distances.

  Hard up against the boulders, she had nowhere to hide.

  Up!

  Frantically, Billie grabbed onto a boulder and hauled herself up. Without looking back, she dragged herself hand over hand, making it several yards up the rocky outcrop before the coyote reached the boulder’s base. Without hesitation, the creature leapt at her, sinking its teeth into the pack on her back. The pack’s straps strained before ripping. The creature tumbled back to the ground with its prize in its mouth.

  Billie let out a squeal, thinking she was dead, but somehow she managed to cling to the rocks. She hadn’t fallen!

  With the pack in its powerful jaw, the mutant coyote shook its head side to side, scattering the pack’s contents. After several shakes it stopped, realizing it didn’t have its intended prey—her. Bestial eyes looked up, searching for its next meal, just as Billie vanished over the boulders’ top.

  The boulders were a dozen yards wide—there was nowhere for Billie to run. She scrambled across the flat rock to the opposite side and stared down.

  No! It was a ten yard drop to the ground and there was no way she would survive that fall. She was trapped!

  Nails scraped on rocks as the creature clawed its way to the top. A broad, blood-covered face appeared and Billie glanced over the edge again. Maybe I can survive the fall. Then what? She would have broken bones and would never get far crawling.

  Terrified, she stared at the massive beast as it hauled itself onto the top. It was only a few yards away now and she could smell its rancid stink. It growled and she went cold. This was the end.

  “Please, no.”

  The gun!

  She remembered Harrison’s revolver tucked into her belt and reached for the old weapon, drawing it in a fluid motion. The creature leapt at her and everything slowed—the coyote hung in the air for several long seconds as she pulled back the revolver’s hammer.

  Too scared to take proper aim, Billie pointed the gun in the creature’s general direction and hoped for the best. She squeezed the trigger and the revolver recoiled, scattering the silence with an ear-splitting boom. In slow motion a puff of smoke and a bullet left the end of the revolver’s barrel, speeding toward the coyote. Small threads of intense blue lightning weaved and flashed around the projectile, leaving a blue vapor trail in the projectile’s wake as it rocketed through the air.

  The bullet and lightning impacted the mutant creature’s chest and its back exploded, spraying coal-colored fur and crimson blood into the air—the force catapulted the coyote sluggishly backward. It flipped several times before disappearing over the rock edge and all before its gore hit the rock surface. For several heartbeats, the blue vapor trail hung in the air like smoke, before it gradually faded and disappeared. The after air was filled with a strange, bitter-sweet smell and it wasn’t burnt flesh. It, too, slowly dissipated.

  Billie’s heart pounded and her breaths came in ragged gulps. What happened?! It took a few moments to realize that she was somehow still alive.

  She half-expected the coyote to reappear, but the creature had vanished. Dark blood and chunks of meat littered the rocky surface.

  It’s not a dream?

  Aiming the revolver where the coyote disappeared, she crept forward, peering over the edge. Below, at the base of the rocks, was the mangled corpse of the dead coyote and then it sunk in, she had killed it with lightning.

  How?

  The mule’s body lay in the road, half-devoured, and blood and organs scattered across several yards of dry ground. There were no signs of the other coyotes—hopefully they were scared off by the gunshot.

  Billie stepped back from the edge, glancing at the revolver in her shaking hands.

  How? This old gun is…magical?

  Did the gun slow time and create the lightning? The preacher’s wife said magic was a sign of the devil. Was this the devil’s gun?

  A possessed weapon? It sounded crazy. Where would Harrison get a possessed gun? Or did the lightning come from somewhere else?

  Me? Impossible. I’ve never done anything magical before, or even remotely amazing. It has to be the gun.

  She looked across the open desert—flat and empty. The sun cast an orange glow in the western sky as it started to sink beneath the horizon, creating long shadows across the land.

  It was almost dark.

  Shit!

  Chapter 7

  It was after sundown, but the sky still held a faint orange glow as three horsemen topped a small hill and gazed down at a ring of sturdy stone buildings. The riders sat upon desert horses observing the dwellings for some time. Then, without a visible signal, they rode forward in silent unison.

  One hundred yards from the buildings, the center rider raised a gloved hand, pointing right and then to his left. His companions peeled off the narrow track, each trotting off in a different direction. One went left, drawing a repeating carbine from a saddle holster and rested the weapon’s stock on their hip. The leader chuckled. The new guy was cautious—not always a good sign. The horseman on the right didn’t ready a weapon, but that didn’t worry the leader as the man was reliable, proving himself many times before. Cautiously, the two horsemen circled around to the rear of the main building, watching for any movement in and around the structures. In no time, the growing darkness swallowed them up and they vanished from view.

  The lead horseman continued on to the largest building, reining in his mount twenty yards out. He knew the stone walls would be over two foot thick and the door was solid timber and reinforced with iron straps. There were no windows on the outward facing sides of any of the structures and together they formed a strong defensive circle. He nodded. Each building was like a miniature fort, a requirement for living close to the wasteland.

  His saddle creaked as he shifted his weight to dismount. Pausing, he held his breath and listened to the night sounds. There was nothing except a faint muffled sound of laughter nearby. He smiled, they hadn’t heard him. Good. It would make his job easier. Concentrating, he made out snippets of conversations. His hearing was exceptional, it always had been and it had helped him more than once in his current trade—where someone was always looking to stick a knife in your back.

  This rider was a tall, thin man, wiry but not fragile. Leading his stocky horse, he secured it to the hitching railing. Patting his horse’s rump, he moved to the front door, confident the seasoned war horse wouldn’t make a sound. Above the reinforced door was an odd symbol painted in white paint—it was a Native American protection rune.

  He dropped his right hand onto a long-barrelled Navy Colt revolver, checking it was free in its holster. It was. His left weathered hand rested on the worn hilt of a curved cavalry sword. Always check your weapons before entering a viper’s den, he had taught his young recruits many times. He flexed his aching fingers—he was too old for this.

&nbs
p; After a glance over his shoulder, the tall man breathed out and pushed open the front door. His unnatural, yellow cat-like eyes adjusted swiftly to the light flooding out past him and grim faced, he stepped through the doorway.

  The horseman with the repeating carbine dismounted, tying their mount to a support beam near the stables. Gracefully, the gunman move past the stables, their carbine sweeping left and right, prepared for anything that may leap out of the shadows without warning. The gunman was lean and taller than the trio’s leader—taller than most men. Pausing, the gunman surveyed the rear of the main building. Nothing moved in the sheltered courtyard.

  A thin beam of light spilled from a nearby window, only narrow enough for any occupants to stick a gun barrel out and shoot anyone or anything loitering around their buildings. The gunman passed the light, revealing her face’s smooth skin and a single long braid of raven-black hair hanging down her back.

  Where’s Tommy? the tall woman thought.

  She controlled her breathing, tensing for action. Relax and breathe. This was her second mission with these men and creeping around in the dark gave her the jitters.

  From the corner of her eye she detected movement, her instincts kicked in and her gun swung around, sights trained on the shadows. With a finger on the trigger, she waited, resisting the urge to fire blindly into the darkness.

  Just my nerves, she thought and released a long breath.

  “Miss Patricia,” whispered a voice in her left ear. She spun, her gun at the ready, but there was no one there. When she turned back, a tall, dark shape stood in front of her. Surprised, she stumbled back, almost discharging her weapon.

  “Shit!”

  It was the third member of their team, Tommy Red Hawk, a Native tracker and man with an unusual skill set like her and Roberts, their leader.

  “Stop stuffing around,” said Patricia. “I could’ve shot you.” Her nerves were on edge. They were too close to the wasteland and it was making her jumpy. She knew firsthand what was crawling around out there and it would scare the most hardened soldier. She didn’t like this sneaking around in the dark.

  “Sorry, Miss Patricia.” Tommy flashed a smile and even in the semi-darkness he showed off his straight white teeth. The courtyard’s shadows hid most of the wicked scars she knew criss-crossed his entire body. She shuttered every time she thought how he must have got them.

  Tommy spun, his straight black hair swishing freely across his bare muscular back as he moved rapidly toward a rear door. His passing made no more sound than a falling leaf in autumn, aided no doubt by his leather breeches and hide shoes. The Native drew a broad-bladed knife and tomahawk from his belt and waited for her to catch up. In the gloom, his speed seemed unnaturally fast and she followed him across the courtyard as fast as she could.

  Patricia wore close-fitting trousers, a white long-sleeved blouse, a tan waist coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Besides the carbine, a Peacemaker revolver was holstered at her side and a Derringer was strapped to her calf just above her high boot. Unlike other young women, Patricia was dressed for business and her new business often involved violence.

  Tommy turned the door handle, it was locked. Patricia smiled, this was her expertise. The big Native stepped aside and watched the dark courtyard. Patricia gripped the metal door handle and concentrated, after a few moments there was an audible click and she turned the handle. The door swung open freely on squeaky hinges. It was a skill she couldn’t explain—several years ago she discovered she could open any lock by touching it. And this ability had been getting her into trouble ever since.

  “Try harder next time,” she said with a smirk.

  Tommy entered the building first and after a final glance around the shadowy courtyard, Patricia followed.

  Patricia shadowed Tommy down a narrow corridor, passing closed doors toward the light at its end. The corridor opened into a crowded room with a small bar along a wall and round tables at its center. Opposite the bar area were rows of shelving displaying a variety of merchandise—mining equipment, lamps, rope, canvas and various other items. Marshal Roberts called this place the Outpost, it was a combination of saloon and general store.

  The air was smoky and thick with tension. A balding man behind the bar pointed a shotgun at Marshal Roberts as he stood in the front doorway. There were five other men seated at tables and all but one of them had weapons drawn, watching the old marshal. They were scared. Tommy raised his tomahawk and Patricia aimed at the closest man holding a revolver. No one noticed them standing at the rear of the room, they were to focused on Roberts.

  This is his plan?

  Like always, her boss appeared calm and relaxed, his hand resting lightly on his scabbarded sword. Lamp light reflected off his eyes, causing them to glow—she was yet to become accustomed to his unnerving appearance. His yellow eyes marked him as a tainted—a mutant. To normals, mutants were to be feared. And in most cases they were right.

  “Sheriff Bartlett,” said the old marshal. “Do you want to call off your boys? I’d hate to see them all die tonight.”

  “Lower your weapons,” said the man who hadn’t drawn a weapon. “This is our government’s finest. Marshal Roberts. He’s here to help us with these murderous mutants.”

  The seated men lowered their weapons, but they remained tense. A scruffy drifter sheathed his short swords before noticing Patricia and Tommy. He gripped a sword hilt again. Patricia shook a finger at him, like a scolding parent and he released his blade, raising his hands in submission. He then foolishly gave her a wink.

  Oh, great. Another moron that thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

  Marshal Roberts closed the front door, sliding home the deadbolt and moved to the sheriff’s table, where he dropped into a chair. The sheriff leaned back, studying the yellow-eyed man.

  They look like they have history.

  With everyone seated, Tommy and Patricia lowered their weapons. Patricia remained in the doorway, carbine barrel pointed at the floor and Tommy circled around the room, leaning against a shelf full of buckets. With the standoff over, the sheriff’s men turned back to their drinks, but eyed the newcomers.

  These men are nervous, thought Patricia. Why are they here?

  The drifter stared at Patricia for some time and then waved her over, patting the chair next to him. She responded to his invitation by pointing a hand at him in the shape of a gun and mouthing the word ‘bang.’ He didn’t seem too perturbed by her obvious rejection—in fact, he smiled.

  Looks like he’s going to learn the hard way…

  Sheriff Bartlett introduced his posse as Campbell, Stein, Carter and the boy was Joseph Antrim, son of a victim. Roberts didn’t introduce himself, but introduced Tommy and Patricia as marshals. The sheriff nodded and turned back to the old marshal.

  Now forgotten, the barman lowered his shotgun and returned it to under the bar. Sweat glistened on the man’s bald forehead. He returned to wiping down the bar top like nothing had happened, paying no attention to the people in his saloon.

  “Your wire said you needed help,” said Roberts. “I thought the local law didn’t like the government in their backyard.”

  Bartlett returned the older man’s steely gaze. There was no friendship between them, the pair looked more like rivals than people on the same team.

  “Yeah, this time it’s different,” said Bartlett. “Yesterday, the exchange was robbed and three good citizens were killed.”

  “So?”

  “The exchange manager’s son was kidnapped, and you know what that means…”

  “Yeah. It means me and my people have to come out here and pull you hicks out of the shit.” Roberts’ level gaze never left Bartlett’s face. “Is that about right?”

  “They used magic.”

  “Magic?” That was different. “Describe it.”

  “Witnesses saw one of the mutants get two shotgun barrels to his chest and then stand up like nothing happened. And this boy’s father.” He indicated the youngest of his posse
. “Was killed by lightning. And his mother is now affected…by something the doctor ain’t seen before.”

  The young man winced at mention of his parents, but continued staring at the table’s top.

  That boy’s too young for this.

  “That sounds serious.” Roberts put a thin cigar in his mouth, struck a match along the table’s leg and lit it. He flicked the match onto the floor and drew back on the cigar. After a moment, he blew out a long stream of smoke across the table toward the sheriff. “Do you want to go home and let us handle this?”

  Bartlett looked from Roberts to Patricia and then to Tommy. “Just the three of you? There were five mutants.”

  “Sounds like a fair fight.”

  “I wired you…for your expertise.”

  “I reckoned you were just scared shitless.”

  Bartlett stood, his chair screeching on the floor, but before he straightened Roberts had drawn his Navy Colt and pointed it at the sheriff’s ample gut.

  “Sit down, Bartlett,” said Roberts. “No shame being afraid. Shit. I’ve faced many things that have made me nervous.”

  Patricia knew Roberts was lying, the man wasn’t scared of anything. He was putting these normals at ease. Why? This wasn’t something she had seen him do before. The old marshal told her once that you had power over people if they feared you and he always used their fear to his advantage.

  Were these two friends? Or is Roberts mellowing in his old age?

  The sheriff and his men seemed to relax a little and Bartlett sat down again, scooping up his glass and finishing his drink in one gulp. “They were our people.” He glanced over at the boy, Joseph. “And family. We need to bring the bastards to justice—”

  “Justice?” interrupted Roberts. “If you want to survive this, I’d forget about justice if I was you. It’ll get you killed. Revenge is a more worthy cause to fight for.”