The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

172: Guardians

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.

He heard the hawk whistle again, high in swooping winds above the rocks, the sound echoing down in the gap. It had seemed to be keeping pace with him, and almost felt to Storm as though it were traveling with him.

He hadn't slept at all the night before, and the punishing ride through the arid, rocky desert in his current state of exhausted high alert was grueling. The memory of last night's raid had him expecting to be knocked off his horse by a Shoshone or Ute arrow through the back at any moment.

The nearby villages resented the presence of his military unit. And they further resented the presence of the Absaroka scouts riding with said military unit. So much so that Storm had gotten fairly accustomed to being called "whore" and "dog" and "slave" and "apple" and worse in a wide variety of tribal languages.

They'd probably rather capture me then shoot me, he speculated with grim amusement. He felt as if he were half dreaming, his weariness causing a pervasive deja-vu feeling. I'm sure they'd like a few...words...with me...

Or maybe not. He was being watched. He knew it. He could feel eyes on him, feel the power of at least one arrowhead aimed at his left shoulder blade. A strange, tingling fission rippled over his skin from the point where he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the sharpened stone was poised to pierce him, to shatter the shell of bone behind his shoulder and rip through his heart. He would be dead before he toppled from his horse. If he turned, if he panicked, if he aimed his pistol, he'd never live to pull the trigger. He knew.

Yellow Sky snorted, nostrils flaring at the faint scent of sweat and bear grease and brain-tanned leather hidden somewhere among the reddish buttes and cliffs. The hawk whistled again, wheeling above his head. A single small, striped feather drifted down, spinning lazily on the breeze and glowing in the bright air.

Loose your bow, you who shoots a dog in the back. You who hides from one you think is a slave. He drew in a deep breath and threw back his head, the sharp scent of the earth in his nostrils and the sun golden and warm on his face. His dreamlike trance deepened, fear evaporating like a whiff of smoke. His skin tingled as if with impending lightning. Take your shot if you must. He held out his arms, feeling sunlight across his palms, and whispered "I am made of wind and sky today."

The shot never came. He knew it wouldn't as surely as he knew there was an arrow aimed at his heart. The feather settled, trembling on the rocky earth before him. Yellow Sky stopped beside it, waiting for him to dismount.

He felt the burning knife sliding under his skin at his shoulder and his breath caught in his throat, his jaw clenching, the pain pulling him insistently out of this time and place.

"Pay attention, Chief," the scoured voice in his ear admonished as waves of agony crashed violently into consciousness. "And don't forget to breath."

I'm not made of wind and sky today. He fought to control his halting breath, his clenching hands jerking against the chair back. Cutting the feather from his hair, the feather he'd worn since it was given to him, had left him vulnerable. He'd survived illness, being lynched by the Yarls, and a hanging trial. Hell, so far I've even managed to survive being in love with Fiona, and despite the Old Man. But today...I'm alone. I've got no medicine.

"Fiona does, though..." he whispered, a faint smile touching his lips. Fiona's safe. I know she is. So all that's left is for me to die well. He wrenched his eyes open and spat onto the ruined claw holding the knife.

Hooper stood up, swinging an an arm at his head, anger making him careless. Storm lashed out with his legs, trapping Hooper's ankles and jerking him hard off his feet. The man fell with a grunt of pain, scrambling out of range as Storm gripped the back of the chair with his hands and rolled forwards onto his feet.

"You can't possibly think you can fight while you're..." Hooper cried out as Storm kicked him again. He rolled onto his back and shoved Storm backwards with his legs, throwing him off balance. The chair clattered sideways to the floor again, taking Storm with it.

Hooper staggered to his feet, breathing hard. "You got yourself some balls, don't you Chief?" He spat, rubbing his face.

"It's Lights the Storm." He felt euphoric, detached from his body. He almost felt as if he had the upper hand. "And you're a cowardly worm."

Hooper picked up his knife where it had fallen, scowling at his captive. He surveyed the blade matter-of-factly, sighing tiredly. "Gonna have to heat this up again. Don't want you bleeding to death before I'm ready to let you go on the Happy Hunting Ground. Lights. The. Storm."

The window over the stove shattered, the roar of what he initially thought was a thunderclap rattling the sill. Hooper instinctively ducked, the bullet ricocheting across the iron edge of the stove. Storm heard the distinctive sound of a pistol being cocked in the shattered, rain-streaked darkness just beyond the ruined pane.

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