The Gunslinger's Man (9 page)

Someday,
Asher thought, drifting into a dreamless slumber. Someday he would flee.

Chapter Ten

Dear Uncle,

I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize that it’s taken me so long to write.

As you can imagine, my jailers don’t yet trust my intentions. Rest assured, I am treated well at Willowbranch. My new lodgings are comfortable. The food is passable and fresh, and I am permitted as much coffee as I please.

The house is never empty so I am not lonely, though I lack occupation. I have been trying to improve my sewing. Willowbranch is so old and there is so much to mend. I am allowed to come and go as I wish, provided I do not leave the farmhouse.

The sunsets are beautiful here. The nights have begun growing colder, but I when I am visited by my chief jailer, it banishes the chill.

Shall I tell you how he feeds from me? His teeth are long and sharp. I haven’t seen much else yet, but I expect it’s only a matter of time before he takes the rest of me.

Not that you’d care.

I hear you’ve dried your tears and given me up for dead.

Tell me, have you taken on a new apprentice? Make sure this one isn’t too bright. One of Ambrose’s thugs may

I’m sorry I missed the funerals

I’m sorry I ruined everything

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

Asher crumpled up the letter and lobbed it into the grate. It landed among unlit coals and three previously failed attempts at concocting the dispatch.

The first two had veered to ill-concealed resentment from the first few lines. For the third, Asher had managed a light tone until he began to think of Connie and his friends, of the people he’d as good as dragged out of their beds and shot in the middle of the night with his own hand.

Dejected, he capped his pen and tossed it to the writing desk. He hadn’t expected to wake up to Nyle arranging furniture any more than he’d believed Halloran might reward him for last night’s rudeness with ink and paper. But there it all was, waiting for him when he deigned leave the bed.

He had the tools to inform Uncle Howard of his whereabouts but none of the words. Every endeavor was warped when venomous thoughts intruded.

With a sigh, he reached for his lukewarm coffee and gave it another shot.

Dear Uncle,

I would have written sooner if I’d known what to say. I hope this letter finds you in good health. Please don’t worry for me. I am treated well and beginning to adjust to my new life.

I will write again soon.

Your nephew, Asher

More telegram than the letter Asher had envisaged, it would have to do. He folded it and wrote Howard’s full name on the back. There was no point in specifying an address. Sargasso had only one watchmaker. Everyone knew where he lived and worked.

All that remained was for Asher to find Halloran and muddle his way through a request to have the missive delivered.

“Thought you’d be halfway to Redemption by now,” crowed a voice outside his window.

As cool as the nights had become on the arid planes surrounding Sargasso, afternoons still sweltered beneath blues skies and unbridled sunshine. Asher had gotten into the habit of leaving the sash windows slightly cracked in hopes of a draft.

“Not today,” came the answer from down below.

Asher recognized Halloran’s low baritone, but not the other speaker. His curiosity piqued, he crept closer to the window. Salt-and-pepper hair and a thin, lined face revealed Romero on horseback, pacing restlessly in the farmyard.

“Anyone else around?” Romero muttered.

“Just the boy.”

Asher bristled—
wasn’t much of a boy when you were rutting against me, was I?
—but eavesdropping held more pressing importance than defending his useless honor.

“Did you come to chat or do you have something for me?” Halloran asked, a touch of asperity in his voice.

Cigar smoke wafted from the porch into Asher’s room. It made it all the easier to imagine Halloran in his rocking chair, peering up at Romero with those indolent eyes.

Romero would be returning his stare, unafraid. “Ambrose’s got Octavian meeting the nine-fifteen from Mesa tonight.”

“Alone?”

Romero made a faint, acquiescent noise. “Some quack’s coming in from out of state to see Angelita. Ambrose wants to get him to Sargasso in one piece.”

That explained why Octavian wasn’t meeting a stagecoach.

“What’s he want with Angelita?” Halloran asked.

“Does it matter?”

Asher heard Halloran grunt. He strained his ears in hopes that Romero would elaborate. Not only did she say nothing, but a few moments later, Asher detected the clomping of hooves as she led her horse away from the house.

Breath hitching, Asher flattened his back to the wall, hoping that the dusty velvet drapes would hide him from view. He didn’t think there would be much penalty for listening in on Halloran’s affairs, but he didn’t want to find out.

Romero turned her animal and shook the reins to get her going again. With her wide brown hat and poncho, she wavered in the afternoon heat like a mirage before the landscape swallowed her whole.

Quietude settled once more over the house, leaving Asher with more questions than answers. Why was Romero slipping information about Octavian to the Riders? And why did Angelita need a doctor? As best as Asher could remember her—two big black eyes in a round face, her braided hair falling in lush curls from silver pins—she’d struck him as being in the pink of health.

Ambrose was truly taken with the girl to go to such lengths.

The creak of Halloran’s chair promptly snapped Asher from his thoughts. He didn’t know what to make of what he’d heard, only that if it was of interest to the Riders, then it couldn’t do Sargasso any good.

Wheels began turning in Asher’s head before the discarded missives in the grate caught his eye. He couldn’t even find the words to express regret for his last mistake. Meddling in some grand vampire conspiracy was a fool’s errand.

Let Romero bother with that.

Asher had done his bit in the name of anarchy.

* * * *

“Need to put these on you,” said Halloran, brandishing the handcuffs.

Asher’s stomach dropped into his knees. “Why?” He’d just had supper and he was working his way through mending the seams in Nyle’s vest by candlelight when Halloran appeared in the doorway.

Willowbranch had been calm all day, the Riders rustling or harassing neighboring towns—or doing whatever it was they did when they weren’t at the ranch. In their absence, Asher had kept to himself. The few words he’d exchanged with Halloran had been on the subject of the letter to Uncle Howard, and even those were about five hours late by now.

“I got things to do,” Halloran said gruffly. He moved toward the bed with slow, measured strides, as if he expected Asher to throw aside his sewing and bolt. “The others ain’t back yet.”

“Oh.” Asher still wasn’t trusted to keep to the house without someone to watch him. If the Riders had any sense between them, they would never grow complacent in that regard.

When Halloran took his wrist, Asher jerked it free.

“Wait, couldn’t you put it ‘round my ankle? That way I’d still be able to use my hands…”

Halloran narrowed his eyes, his gaze bobbing from Asher’s face to the mending in his lap and back up again. “Nyle won’t mind.”

“I ain’t doing this for Nyle.”
Though I don’t expect you to understand.
“I ain’t about to saw off my foot if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Not afraid of anything,” Halloran grumbled, but he relented, snapping one cuff around the brass bar in the footboard and the other around Asher’s ankle.

The metal link was as cool to the touch as Halloran’s fingertips. Goose prickles spread up Asher’s calf in their wake. He told himself they were from the dipping temperature and nothing else.

“How long will you be?” he blurted nervously, just as Halloran began to turn from him.

“Few hours. Should be back before midnight.”

“All right.” Asher made a point of looking down at the clump of canvas in his lap, his needle sticking out like a flag planted in enemy territory.

He was aware of Halloran staring at him for a long beat before finally making his way out with whirlwind speed. And though Asher pricked his ears, he could detect no sign that Halloran stopped to saddle his horse, much less rode out as he’d done every day since Asher had been brought to Willowbranch.

Wherever he was going, it was on foot.

No, not wherever. The nine-fifteen from Mesa.

Octavian would be there. And Angelita’s doctor, for whatever reason.

None of it was any concern of Asher’s. He repeated that simple truth to himself about two dozen times more before his thoughts began to veer away from what Halloran was up to.

Mending Nyle’s coat burned another quarter inch off Asher’s candle. He yawned as he set aside the bundle. More remained to do—the clothes he’d worn at the mayor’s bash had suffered wear and tear when he had all but ripped them off—but it could wait until morning.

He struggled with getting his pants free of the cuff for a good twenty minutes before he gave up the struggle. It was enough that he could strip off his undershirt and slip under the covers unimpeded. Before he settled, he wet two fingers with spit and pinched the candlewick to snuff out the flame.

A thin filament of smoke rose in the moonlight, curling upon itself like a tortured tree branch. Asher watched its twists and bends as his eyelids began to droop, the creak of the old house lulling him to sleep.

* * * *

“Asher.”

The voice crept through his dreams at a whisper.

“Asher, wake up.”

Something was shaking him. Halloran, probably. Asher groaned and blinked his eyes open—and froze, completely bewildered. “Connie?”

The smile she offered him was tinged with sorrow. “You have to get up. We don’t have much time.”

“What…” Asher began, his mind too sleep-addled to keep up.

Connie took no notice, wrenching the covers off him with a single tug.

“We have to go.”

“Can’t,” Asher said and jangled the cuff.

“Oh, that won’t be no trouble.”

Asher glanced down the bed to find Uncle Howard already jimmying the lock with a pin.

Howard flashed him a nervy smile. “Surprised you didn’t try it yourself, my boy…”

“What’s taking so long?” another voice hissed from the doorway.

Wesley
.

As the cuffs fell away, Asher found himself pulled out of bed and nudged through the door. Pitch-black darkness should have made it easy to trip over the steps, but Asher’s feet knew Willowbranch too well for clumsiness.

“What’re you doing?” he tried again, as the threshold raced ever closer. “I thought you were—”

“Dead?” Connie grabbed his hand. “We will be if we don’t get out of town tonight.”

“Thought you’d have to ride pillion,” Wesley said, “but seems we’re in luck.”

Four horses stood waiting placidly by the hitching post outside. It took Asher a moment to realize one of them was Halloran’s. His heart skipped a beat, steps faltering.

“Where are the Riders? I don’t understand—”

“Ask Romero,” Wesley snorted.

“I’ll explain everything,” Uncle Howard promised, his expression imploring. Starlight did little to disguise the dark circles under his eyes. “Please, Asher. We
must
go.”

If this was a dream, if Asher had finally lost his mind, then he damn well hoped he never recovered it. Seizing the reins of Halloran’s black stallion, he hoisted himself into saddle and rode into the clear night.

Chapter Eleven

Phantom fingertips danced, icy, over Asher’s skin. They slipped under his shirt and stroked down the knobs in his spine like a lover’s caress. An
unwanted
caress. He shivered as the distinction, now foggier than ever, lugged his thoughts back to Willowbranch. He couldn’t say how many miles separated him from his former prison, only that the sun was beginning to creep over the edge of horizon and soon the whole valley would be awake.

If Asher’s absence hadn’t been noted yet, it would be before long.

He shuddered to think of Halloran’s response.

“We’ll let the horses rest beyond the next ridge,” Connie said, the wind carrying her voice back to Asher.

He hadn’t meant to fall to the rear of their little group, but Halloran’s stallion was an unwieldy beast and didn’t much care for its new rider. It dragged its feet sullenly as the other horses obediently leaped forward on either side and, if Asher got any bright ideas about trying to spur him on, threatened to rear up on its hind legs.

Like rider, like mount.
Asher had quickly learned to submit himself to the animal’s whims. As long as they were moving, the speed of their progress didn’t have much bearing on their chances.

The next pleat in the landscape emerged from the crenulated terrain like a serrated knife, its teeth crumbling beneath blustery gales and bright sunshine. They had passed out of their vale some time ago. Asher recognized the road to Redemption, the closest neighboring town not connected to Sargasso by rail. On his previous visits there, he had always traveled by the common route, never cutting across the wasteland like this, never exposing himself to roving bands of bandits and coyotes.

The common, well-traveled route was out of the question tonight.

Connie dismounted at the base of the canyon and took her chestnut by the reins. “Charlie says there’s a watering hole halfway up. We’ll have to go on foot, though.”

“Charlie?” Asher repeated, bemused. “Charlie Wheeler?”

Wesley swung himself to the ground. “How do you think we knew to come get you?”

“But I thought…”
I thought he was Blackjack’s creature. I thought he was just fine and dandy with the Riders keeping me locked up.
Asher hadn’t even held it against him. Who was he to Charlie Wheeler that his captivity should make a dent?