Billie the Kid: The Sky Fire Chronicles Book 1 Page 6

  “Why are you here?” said the well-dressed man in his early twenties, Stein, the sheriff called him. It was obvious he had money. He looked out of place from the others.

  Why is he here?

  “Honestly? For the money. We work for the government and they pay us a bounty on any mutants we ‘apprehend.'” Roberts paused. “That’s Agency talk for ‘we get paid to kill.’”

  “What about this tall bit of fluff?” said the grimy swordsman, Carter, indicating Patricia. “She ain’t a mutant, is she? I bet she’s your bed warmer, ain’t she?”

  In a heartbeat, Patricia’s carbine was at her shoulder and the drifter was in her sights. Her finger poised over the trigger—

  “Marshall Garrett,” said Roberts. “Stand down.”

  “Shit, girl, I’m just funnin’ with you.” The drifter looked nervous. “I meant no harm.”

  Patricia lowered her weapon, but kept her finger near the trigger.

  Oh, I’m going to have fun with this fool.

  “Stop stuffing around, Carter.” The sheriff gave the drifter a dirty look before turning back to Roberts. “All right, Marshal, what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest you control your men or Garrett is likely to get pissed off and kill someone.” Roberts made eye contact with Carter. “I’m talking about you, dipshit.”

  Carter held up his hands as a sign of truce, but flashed a smile at Patricia.

  This guy’s a tad slow. Maybe I’ll do the genre pool a favor and just shoot him now. I’ll say it was an accident. My finger slipped.

  “Now the introductions are over,” said Roberts. “I suggest we rest here tonight and leave at first light. Tommy will tracked the mutants into the wasteland. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Not too hard? Patricia had her doubts. Hunting mutants across the wasteland didn’t sound easy to her.

  Chapter 8

  Each step was a major effort for Billie as she trudged through the darkness. She had walked for hours and was close to collapsing. A star guided her, something she learned in school—it’s how the explorers of old navigated. No wonder they got lost…I hope this is a southern star. It felt like she was wandering aimlessly. How did the explorers travel during the day? She couldn’t remember learning about that.

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ her mother said. I hope following this star is a good idea.

  The desert was an eerie place at night—more so than the day as she was drawn to every new shadow and sound. This watchfulness was wearing her down and her nerves were becoming more and more fragile. She was scared something would leap out at her.

  But the night remained quiet.

  She paused, exhausted and footsore. Removing the lid from her canteen, she drank a mouthful of water, too fearful to drink any more. The mutated coyotes had spilt some of her precious water and most of her food was ruined now. It was doubtful she would survive for more than a day in this barren land with what she had left—half a canteen of water and a tin of beans.

  Her hand dropped to the old revolver tucked in her belt, relieved to have a weapon that fired lightning. It was strange that whenever Harrison had practiced with the old gun, nothing happened—except bullets missing their target. Her stepfather was a poor shot and couldn’t hit a thing.

  Harrison, I’m sorry…I never told you…

  She rubbed her weary eyes and started walking, heading toward the distant star.

  Billie slowed, each step feeling like a major undertaking. Her weariness made it harder and harder to travel over the rough terrain and often she tripped in the dark, skinning her palms or scuffing her shins on unseen objects. It must have been many hours after midnight when she finally dropped to the ground, exhausted, battered and sore. For a long time, she lay amongst the boulders and rubble unable to move, heedless of the sharp rocks poking into her back.

  How long she lay there she couldn’t say, but it felt like hours. She raised her heavy head and gazed out into the darkness. A small light was in the distance.

  I’m dreaming.

  It looked like a fire flickering and it was not far away.

  “The Outpost!” she muttered softly and forgetting her injuries, she regained her feet and stumbled forward.

  After fifty yards, she slowed. What if it’s not the Outpost? What if it’s mutants? She stopped, leaning against a boulder and watched the light for some time before moving forward again.

  What choice do I have? I am lost out here anyway.

  Billie tripped and fell several times as she made her way to the campfire—and it was a campfire, hidden amongst the boulders. The smell of smoke floated in the air, it smelled sweet and welcoming. She longed to lie down beside it and enjoy its warmth and listen to the fire crackle.

  And to sleep. More than anything, she wanted to sleep.

  The ground was littered with dead trees, all lying flat as though pushed over by a great wind, or the hand of God. Harrison told her once that the borderland was heavily wooded and criss-crossed with streams, but that was years ago—before the war of the states and the Sky Fires. It was prime growing country then. Looking around, she couldn’t imagine anything growing here now. This area was where the first survivors reported seeing the southern sky on fire.

  Thankful for the darkness, Billie crept forward for a closer look at the campfire. Moving from rock to rock, she kept low and prayed she didn’t make a sound. Her back was wet with sweat and she wiped her forehead with her hand.

  She was surprised how much her hand trembled as drew the old revolver. Was it fear or fatigue? Holding the gun out in front, she moved closer and dropped behind a boulder. With her back against the cool rock, she steadied her breathing and gathered her nerves.

  Come on, Billie, don’t be scared. You have a gun…

  She peered over the top of the rock, gazing into the campsite. Dry wood was stacked beside a small fire ringed by stones, and an empty bedroll lay nearby. The campsite looked deserted.

  They can’t be far—

  There was a metallic click at her ear and she froze. A gun barrel pushed into the side of her forehead, preventing her from moving.

  “All right, lad,” said a deep voice. “Do nothing foolish.”

  I’m a girl!

  “Drop your gun.”

  Billie complied, hearing her gun bounce off a rock and into the darkness. She put up her hands, all the while the gun never left her temple.

  “Slow. That’s it. Now, I’m gunna step back. Don’t move until I tell ya to.”

  Billie, you fool! Why didn’t she watch for a while before creeping in? Weariness flooded over her and she felt close to tears. It’s all too much. She clenched her eyes, expecting the worst.

  The gun barrel left her head, but she remained motionless, expecting the worst. After an uncomfortable amount of time, the man spoke. “Turn around slowly. Any sudden moves and ya dead.”

  Billie did as he asked and turned, keeping her hands high. “No!” she exclaimed, stumbling backward and falling over in her haste. This man was the same man she saw years ago—the man who killed and butchered the sheriff and his deputies!

  He had holstered his long-barrelled revolver and stood staring down at her, rubbing the stubble on his scarred face. He looked amused seeing her lying in the dirt.

  On his opposite hip to the revolver hung a straight-bladed sword with an odd-shaped hilt—it was not a cavalry sword. It looked like the same sword he used all those years ago…

  “Easy, boy.” The man studied her from beneath the brim of his black hat. A realization came over him and he smiled, exposing his white teeth. “Shit. Under that dirt is a girl.”

  “I’m a woman, thank you,” said Billie from the ground.

  “Hell, I’m sorry,” he said with a mock bow. “My mistake.”

  “It’s not the first time you’ve made that mistake.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Yeah. It was years ago—”

  “Shit! You’re the little girl with the flute!” He chu
ckled. “I remember you. You played while I was working.”

  “You killed innocent men!”

  “No one in this world is innocent. And especially not those men.”

  “Will you kill me now?” asked Billie. Why did I ask that? Her hand brushed against metal—it was her revolver. It was laying right beside her hand, hidden in the darkness.

  “Now, why would I do that?” He seemed puzzled.

  “Because that’s what killers do? They kill innocent people.” Billie stopped talking, she had said too much. “I-I’m—”

  “Maybe, I should kill you,” he said, his rugged features showing no mirth. He was unreadable. “No. It’s bad luck to kill a…woman. Before breakfast, anyway.” Grinning again, he moved toward her and she flinched, expecting the worst. But he didn’t touch her, instead he moved past her to the campfire. “It will be dawn in an hour. Let’s eat.”

  The man didn’t pay her any attention as he retrieved a blackened pan from a saddlebag lying over a rock. He placed the pan at the edge of the fire and returned to the saddlebag where he produced a chunk of raw meat. He sliced the meat into thick slabs and threw four slices onto the heating pan. The meat sizzled and Billie’s mouth watered. It smelled like pork and looked more appealing than her tin of beans.

  Her gaze went from the frying meat to the man. He was watching her, still grinning like he knew all her secrets. It made her uncomfortable and she looked away, but not before her cheeks reddened. This man was strange. He was a killer, but for some reason she didn’t feel in any immediate danger from him. Slowly, Billie stood and walked toward the fire.

  “Don’t forget your gun,” he said. “Never be without a weapon out here.”

  Billie scooped up the old revolver, tucking it into her belt and moving to the opposite side of the fire to him. At this distance, she could easily shoot him and even with her lack of gun fighting experience, she was sure she could kill him. With or without the lightning.

  The man sat down on a rock. “This is nice,” he said. “Sit.” He indicated another rock.

  Billie obeyed, sitting on the rock and looking everywhere but him.

  His eyes never left her. It was like he was weighing her up.

  “Where’re you headed?” he asked.

  “I am trying to catch up to my brother. And a posse of thirty sheriffs and deputies.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. They’re looking for me.”

  “That many men. And they haven’t found you?”

  “They’re close. Or maybe they’re at the Outpost.”

  “The Outpost? That’s just over that ridge. A mile or two away.” He pointed off into the distance. “Have you still got my coin?”

  “—what? Coin…yes.” Billie reached into her pants’ pocket a produced the silver coin. She always carried it. It was her luck charm.

  “Keep it close. One day you’ll need it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Good. The steaks are ready.” Standing, he removed the pan from the fire by its long handle and put two of the steaks onto a metal plate. He gave it to her, along with a knife and fork. He ate his meal directly from the pan.

  Billie pushed the coin back into her pocket and started eating. Warm juices ran down her chin as she chewed the tender meat. It tasted great and it almost satisfied her hunger. When she finished, she wiped the back of her hand across her greasy mouth and stared at her host. He had finished eating and was watching her from beneath his hat brim again.

  “Time to go,” he blurted, springing to his feet. “Day is near and your brother will soon leave the Outpost without you.” He collected his pan, plate and utensils and put them back in his saddlebag without cleaning them.

  He gave a shrill whistle and a few seconds later, a large black stallion came thundering in from the darkness and stopped a few yards from him, throwing dust into the air. It was the same horse she had seen years before. A magnificent animal and not like the smaller desert horses the posse rode. It was a true horse. The black stallion flicked its mane and greeted its master, its fur glossy in the fire’s light.

  The man gathered up his bedroll and threw it and the saddlebag onto the horse, then mounted smoothly. “Go over that ridge. You can’t miss the Outpost.” He turned his horse’s head toward the south.

  “My name is Billie,” she said. “W-what’s yours?”

  “I know who you are, kid. My name is Clay,” he said, touching his hat brim. “Until we meet again.” He tapped his horse’s side and the massive animal leapt forward and galloped away. Within a few seconds, he had disappeared into the darkness, leaving only a trail of dust in the air. The sound of the stallion’s hooves faded and everything fell silent.

  The encounter with Clay was over so fast it left her wondering if it was a dream. She glanced the fire. He was real… She could still taste the greasy meat in mouth. He can’t be a dream.

  With food in her stomach and feeling a little refreshed, she started toward the ridge that Clay indicated.

  Until we meet again? I’m not sure I like the sound of that.

  Chapter 9

  It was an uneasy night. The normals didn’t trust the three marshals. No doubt they suspected them of being crazed mutants and watched them—just in case they sprouted fur and turned on them. Patricia didn’t blame them. Seeing Roberts’ yellow eyes and Tommy’s scarred body didn’t help ease the tension.

  The population thought of all mutants as bloodthirsty killers and that was the reason Patricia kept her abilities secret for as long as she did. But not secret enough—although her mutation wasn’t physical in nature, the Agency still found her.

  The Federal Agency for Justice, or the ‘Agency,’ scouted the population searching for signs of mutations, ‘gifted’ people, and turned the poor saps over to the government. Willing or unwilling, all known mutants ended up working for the government or where imprisoned. Many people were driven insane by their body’s alterations and the Agency’s marshals were required to put them down, like rabid dogs. Patricia was a recruit and hadn’t seen much action. Yet.

  Harriot Bradley, the bitch, was Patricia’s best friend during her childhood and the person who reported Patricia for the reward money. Harriot had witnessed Patricia opening a locked door—nothing too exciting—but the Agency still swooped in on her quickly and efficiently. Her friend’s betrayal turned her life upside down and all for twenty dollars. One day, the bitch will pay for her treachery. What does the bible teach us? An eye for an eye? For now, Patricia had no choice but to work for the Agency and round up people like herself.

  At twenty-two, she didn’t have the same amount of field experience as her two companions and was considered an Agency recruit. Her ‘gifts,’ as the old marshal called them, had yet to develop to their full potential and would continue to evolve and strengthen over the next few years. What would she be capable doing then?

  Last night, neither Marshal Roberts nor Sheriff Bartlett wanted to back down and go back home empty handed. For their own results, they wanted these mutants caught. Patricia thought Roberts was only hunting these men for the prestige. The old man was the most decorated marshal in active duty, except for Harris Sullivan, the Texan—who seem to be more legend than a real person. Stories of his exploits seemed unbelievable.

  There was a bounty on non-sanctioned mutants, but Roberts didn’t do this work for the money. No, he liked pitting himself against people trying to kill him. He had a death wish. Not the best person to be around when the shooting started. He was unquestionably a hard, unemotional man who had a history of bringing in people dead if given the choice. If he didn’t work for the government…what would he be?

  Patricia didn’t know this Sheriff Bartlett, but she could see he knew Roberts. Bartlett’s reputation was on the line, people in his town died. That’s got to lower his chances of re-election. The drifter, Carter, was different from the older men. He spoke openly about the reward money and what he planned to do with it. His greed appalled her, but
why else would anyone willingly travel across this hostile land? Everyone wanted to be rich and mining sky rocks or hunting mutants were the quickest ways to achieve wealth—but both career paths required a person to have a fair amount of good luck and be handy with a gun.

  The morning found the sheriff’s posse and the three marshals assembled outside the Outpost—loading saddlebags onto their desert horses and double-checking saddle straps and weapons. Patricia couldn’t help but notice the scared look on the youngest of the posse, Joseph. He’s just a boy. His hands shook as he checked his revolver for the third time in a matter of minutes.

  “First time on a posse?” asked Patricia.

  “Y-yes, ma’am,” he stammered.

  “Ma’am?” She stood back and looked him up and down. “Do I look like your mother?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Joseph, isn’t it? My name is Patricia Garrett, but my friends call me Pat. You can as well if you like.”

  Joseph looked up from his gun, locking eyes with the tall woman. “Thank you…Pat.”

  “Let me have a look at that Peacemaker for you.”

  He handed her the revolver and she turned it in her hands, feeling its weight and balance. It looked new as it still had a good coating of oil over much of its metal surfaces.

  “I’d wipe off that oil if I was you. Where we’re headed, it will only gum up with dust. And you’ll want it working when a two-headed mutant is trying to kill you.”

  Joseph’s face paled and he opened his mouth, but no sound came. He looked like he was going to be sick.

  “Relax, Joseph, I’m joking.” She handed him back his gun.

  “Thanks, Pat. My little sister is better with guns than me.”

  “Is that why you’re here? With this lot?”

  “These mutants killed my stepfather…and wounded my mother. They must pay for what they have done.” He removed his bandana and wiped down his revolver.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Pat, turning to leave.

  “Pat, are you a mutant…like the marshal and the Indian?”