Deadwood
“Is that an arm?” Wyatt asked, bending at his skinny waist to get a closer look. My tired eyes weren’t sufficient for this task, not in the graying twilight, and I knelt to the cooling dirt and worn grass. “Could just be a branch,” Irma said, but she kept watch over my shoulders all the same. My duster pooled around my boots, retaining body heat as I unholstered my pistol and placed the barrel in what appeared to be the curled fingers of a palm. The object was rigid enough to lift from the tangle of wildflowers. The ring on my left trigger finger suddenly flared blue and I clicked my teeth. “Deadwood.” “Deadwood?” Wyatt asked, his dusty hair catching the breeze. His hat lay crumpled in the dirt where his horse had thrown him, after understandably spooking at the mystery before us. “You mean like your finger?” He was right. Above the glowing blue ring, my finger was only a polished length of dark wood. The curse had been halted with q...
