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 quick magic, the ring fashioned to maintain it, otherwise my arm would have been consumed like the one I lay back in the grass. The hand was barely recognizable, a knot of roots joining a gnarled wooden wrist. Twists of bark frayed the shirtsleeve but the stump ended in a hunk of graying meat. 

 “Must’ve cut their arm off to save themselves,” I muttered, yet there was no blood beneath my boots. 

 I stood, the glow of my ring cooling, and turned to my horse. “Help Wyatt retrieve his horse, would you?” 

 Cross shook her head, mane tousling, as if this task were beneath her. Wyatt’s bay gelding was lathered with sweat, rearing where his reins had become tangled on a particularly large tumbleweed. In contrast, my horse was spotless. Tall for a paint horse, Cross’ dark patches remained a perfect inky black and her overo white as lustrous as pearl. Her appearance was a result of her magic, not mine, as I would not have given her the luxury of a tangle-free mane and polished hooves out in the South Dakota hills. 

 “Please.” Cross still rolled her silver eyes before jogging after the useless bay, empty stirrups slapping against her powerful flanks. 

 Cattle lowed behind us, the rustlers urging them to stop for the night. Irma surveyed them with flashing gold eyes. “Is the Deadwood Gang watching us right now, then?” I looked to the hills, becoming nothing more than the backbones of monsters as the sun set. “Will?” Irma urged when I didn’t answer. 

 “Yes,” I ground out. 

 Wyatt spun on his heel, spurs clanging. “Who’s the Deadwood Gang?”

 I pulled a revolver from its holster along my hip, my exhale more a pained sigh. “The Deadwoods used to just be a crime family robbing prospectors across the Dakotas.” I released the pistol’s cylinder. The bullets that greeted me were etched with glowing red crosses. 

 I nearly smiled. “Somehow, they got ahold of a magical artifact,” I continued. “Although they are capable of casting a mighty powerful spell,” I used my wooden finger to spin the cylinder of my revolver, “it is only one spell. They couldn’t even put a simple hex on this arm.” Wyatt glanced at the arm warily, unsure.

 “They can only hurt you if you get too close,” I said. “They’re nothing to be afraid of.” 

 “With all due respect Mr. Abernathy,” Wyatt said, hand tight along the bullwhip coiled on his hip, “they were able to get a little too close to you.”

 “Fair enough.” 

 “I’m sending Remus to take a look.” Unlike most Witches of the West, Wyatt’s familiar was not a horse. I would never trade Cross, but I had to admit, I was sometimes jealous of the red-tailed hawk Wyatt sent rushing overhead with a simple hand signal. Remus’ outline soon became a speck over the Black Hills, like ash against the fiery sunset. 

 Hoofbeats in the dirt signaled Cross’ return. Wyatt’s bay gelding hung his head as he followed, ears back, as if Cross had berated him for his behavior. I reached into the pack on my hip and held up a treat for Cross. Wyatt’s gelding hopped back, nearly bolting again. 

 Cross was less equine than she appeared. She pulled the jerky in my palm past her thick lips and into sharpened teeth. She chewed slowly, as if mouthing the sweet iron of her bit. 

 “You sure this is the horse you want tonight?” I asked Wyatt. I didn’t know the boy as well as I knew Irma. He was a new Witch and I didn’t want his spooky horse to bring any harm. 

 Wyatt took the bay’s reins, dancing him in a circle. I didn’t miss the spell he whispered, which seemed to calm the beast. “I enchanted him to get us through the pass, I didn’t expect a firefight with a half-magicked gang.” 

 “Neither did I,” I grunted. 

 Wyatt stilled suddenly, his attention wholly on the darkening hills. “Remus spotted them. There are eight people waiting near the mouth of the pass. They’re moving barrels and stones.” Irma caught my eye. “Are they setting traps?” 

 I nodded to Irma. The small woman and I had worked enough cattle drives for her to understand my plan implicitly. Placing her thumb and forefinger behind her teeth, she let out three sharp whistles. Cross lifted her head expectantly. 

 “Does Remus think they’re traps?” I asked. Wyatt nodded. “Then they’re traps.” 

 “They can’t possibly steal Mr. Mckinley’s cattle with just eight people though. Can they?” Wyatt asked. His gelding fidgeted again and he whispered another spell, like a lullaby in the night. 

 I reached for a second gun holstered beneath my arm. “If I were to guess,” I said, checking the sights on my derringer, “they intend to use the pass to gather the entire herd.” 

 “Forgive me Mr. Abernathy, but I don’t follow.”

 Cross nudged my back as a shape broke from the ocean of cattle in the valley below. The lithe little horse picked her way up the hill, headed for Irma. Her familiar, a smart palomino Cross might begrudgingly call a friend. 

 “What did Mckinley hire us for, Wyatt?” I asked. Irma’s horse slowed as she approached, touching her forehead to Irma’s and dislodging her hat, revealing shining blonde hair. 

 “To get the cattle past the time slip in the pass and to untouched pasture on the other side.” 

 “And if the cattle got lost in the time slip?” I asked.

 Wyatt snapped his fingers, startling his gelding. “If you were able to navigate the time slip, you could retrieve the cattle whenever you wanted.” I nodded. “Millions of dollars of cowflesh, stockpiled in the time slip,” he realized. “That’s why they’re placing the traps.” 

 My grin waned. I wasn’t so sure of that last part, and curled the flesh and wood fingers of my left hand. 

 With minimal effort, Irma swung into the palomino’s saddle. I patted Cross’ muscular neck before doing the same. When Irma trotted closer, her horse nudged Cross’ shoulder affectionately. 

 Irma said, “Wyatt, you need to lead us through the pass tonight.”

 Wyatt clutched the pendant at his throat. I was certain it was filled with blood, although who it belonged to, I didn’t know. I only knew it was our sole method of safely traversing the time slip. 

 “Are you sure?” Wyatt asked. “The riders need their rest.” 

 “We no longer have the luxury of rest.” Irma reached into her coat and produced a thin brand. The tip glowed, like a wand in children’s stories, as the shape of the branding iron changed. “Close your eyes,” she told me. 

 I did, crossing my wrists over my saddle horn and focusing on Cross’ warmth as Irma raised her branding wand. A burn flared at my temple, like touching a hot frypan a second too long, before the pain faded. I tried to discern the shape of the small spell etched into my skin. 

 “Night vision,” Irma explained, jutting her chin toward the hill the sun had disappeared behind. “You too Wyatt.” Wyatt closed his eyes as the brand, which would only last the night, was seared into his temple. 

 “Saphira says every head is accounted for,” Irma said, her familiar nodding. “Let’s get the nighthawks moving,” she said of the cowboys tasked with keeping an eye on the cattle in the dark. 

 “Sure, easy enough,” Wyatt grumbled. His gaze flashed with eyeshine, like a coyote’s in the dark. “I’ll talk to the crew near the wagon if you two speak to the nighthawks.” 

 “I’m the only one joining you.” Irma looked to the arm on the ground, which would have been invisible to me in the faded daylight if not for her spell. “Wyatt will meet the gang ahead of us. This is his fight.” 

 I shook my head as the Witches rode away. The Deadwoods weren’t here for me. This wasn’t my fight.

 It was Cross’.

 

 Between the two of us, Cross was the Witch of the West. Her magic was foreign, as she was stolen from her home country of Ireland when she was a small water horse foal. Alone and afraid, I tried to win her in a poker match. When I lost, I stole her from the Deadwoods anyway. It was during our frantic escape that I lost my finger to the Deadwood’s curse. Without Cross’ magic, I would have lost my life. 

 By all rights, I was her familiar, not the other way around. I had no inherent magic beyond her trust. As we climbed the hill, Cross let the illusion of her saddle and bridle disappear. I drew my revolver as she carefully picked over the stony ground, unsure where Remus had spotted the Deadwood Gang. 

 Cross snorted, tossing her head at a familiar smell, and her rage flooded my chest. She recognized two water horses, capaill uisce in her native tongue, beneath the heavy scent of iron. “Let’s get them,” I whispered. Cross reared, hooves flashing in the moonlight, before tearing up the hill. 

 A rumble sounded up ahead. The Deadwoods must have had enough time to set at least one trap, because the stones careening our way were not a natural rockslide. I drew my derringer, aiming down the sights at the largest boulder. Cross did not slow. 

 As I aimed, twisting Cross’ mane in my good hand, the sights atop the derringer glowed a frantic, flickering white. The boulder neared, crunching the stone and bramble beneath it, eager to do the same to my bones. When the sights were blindingly white in my night vision, I squeezed the trigger. 

 With a ferocious crack, lightening leapt from the barrel of my gun and split the rampaging boulder in two. The halved stone thundered past, as if we raced between two freight trains. The Deadwood Gang couldn’t be far. 

 The mouth of the pass appeared near the top of the hill. A tingle behind my right ear, a magic urging from Cross, compelled me to lean out of my saddle and cling to her warm neck. A rifle cracked to my right, a bullet rupturing the air where my head had been. The Deadwood Gang had found us. 

 Another bullet sliced the air overhead before we reached the apex of the hill. Cross whirled at the mouth of the pass, and with my night vision, the hazy effects of the time slip were vertigo-inducing. She lowered her head and turned to face the Deadwood Gang. 

 Two assailants approached from the trees. They were on foot, lazily sweeping lassos ahead of them, as if Cross could be caught by them. 

 “William Abernathy?” a voice asked from my left. “You still associate with this monster?” My revolver was aimed at the voice’s form before she fully approached. She rode slowly, the horse beneath her moving as if carrying an immense weight. Cross snorted as she approached. 

 “Delila,” I said, recognizing the woman who had rigged my poker match years ago, who hadn’t realized I was already Cross’ familiar. “Still a monster yourself I see.” 

 “Very clever,” she sneered. As she left the line of trees, I realized why her horse moved so painfully. The golden creature was laden with iron, as if prepared for a jousting match. Iron was one of the few ways to control a water horse, but Cross did not balk. Instead, her heart hammered beneath my seat, her rage becoming my own. If I had not freed her from her cage as a foal, this servitude would have been her fate. 

 The woman grinned, as if we were here to talk. “Return what you stole from me, Will,” she crooned. “If you do, I’ll even let-” 

 I fired. Unlike the bullets trained on me, the bullet from my revolver left a sparking red trail through the air. The cross etched along the casing exploded, carrying magic and lead into Delila’s head and out the other side. 

 Her body fell with a wet thump from the iron-drenched horse. 

 A savage cry came from the trees. They hadn’t been prepared to fight a Witch of the West and her familiar. 

 But we were ready for them. When Cross reared, I slid down her back, landing on my feet and seeking another target. A man raced to stand over Delila’s body, his rifle trained on me. Before I could scramble for cover, he fired. 

 Cross’ eyes glowed an eerie silver, rivaling the light of the moon. The bullet melted midair, splashing lead along my shoes. She reared again, striking both hooves to the solid earth. A thunderclap shot the man’s broken body into the treetops. 

 The gang members on foot overcame their stupor, swinging their lassos overhead. The rope glittered as the loops swung, growing in size, as if the lassos could call down the stars. It reminded me of Wyatt’s magic. 

 That didn’t stop me from leveling my pistol over Cross’ withers and firing two shots into the approaching gang members. The first shot lodged in the gang member’s chest, causing him to stumble, before the enchanted bullet exploded. The lassos fell dark.  

 If Remus had been correct, half the Deadwood Gang now spilled blood in the grass. I peeked around my Witch, searching for the others, but only found the laboring water horse, its iron armor now splattered with blood. 

 Cross wickered softly as I holstered my revolver and carefully approached the animal. The magic of water horses would not work on the iron prison it wore. I would have to remove it by hand.

 The animal barely acknowledged me as I approached. I drew a short knife, sharpened impossibly through Cross’ magic, and sliced through the thick leather straps along its chest. Plates of iron fell to the grass The creature stood up straighter as I worked. He hopped excitedly as Cross neared, thrilled to move under his own power again. When I reached for the cage over his head, he lowered his mantle willingly. 

 “Where are the other Gang members?” I asked Cross. She mouthed my ear, urging me to listen. 

 The lowing of disgruntled cattle sounded from the base of the hill. The cattle drive was approaching. “Scared them off did they?” I mocked, but the Gang members were justified in their retreat. Delila was dead. Two powerful Witches were approaching, along with a few dozen cowboys instructed to fight alongside them, if necessary. I was almost disappointed by the ease of this fight. 

 The iron cage fell from the golden horse’s head, revealing startlingly blue eyes. As he pranced around Cross, his gaunt form and scars were obvious. Cross noticed too, her gaze flashing to mine, before she looked to Delila’s body. 

 My shot hadn’t thrown her far. One arm was crumpled beneath her, her lacy black skirts tangled around one leg. My enchanted bullet had erased her face. She was absolutely dead yet I felt a warmth, a pulse, from her body. 

 I knelt, peeling back the bloodied shoulder of her coat. “Surely you weren’t stupid enough to-”

 I froze. A black branch, twisted into the shape of a thin wand, was tucked inside Delila’s bandolier. She’d brought the Deadwood wand right to us. 

 Hoofbeats approached. I wasn’t sure how to handle the wand safely so I cut off a piece of Delila’s vest and hastily wrapped it in the calfskin leather. When I looked back to Cross, she had recreated the illusion of her tack. 

 She snorted into my face as I approached, unable to contain her excitement. We’d freed a water horse. We’d liberated a magical artifact from corrupt hands. 

 But we weren’t done. There was still another water horse under the Deadwoods control, one they had scurried off with before losing everything. 

 Wyatt whistled as he crested the ridge. “You managed all this on your own?” he asked. 

 “Cross helped quite a bit,” I admitted, swinging onto her back. 

 The pendant at Wyatt’s throat glowed a brilliant red. The golden water horse watched him intensely. “I guess there was no need to move the cattle then.” 

 “Not true,” I grinned. “You scared the other Gang members off, otherwise I would be in a spot of trouble.” 

 “Pleased to have been of service then, Mr. Abernathy.” Wyatt glanced at the lead riders. They were moving the cattle slowly uphill, but were dangerously near the time slip. Wyatt spun his bay to face them. “Are you coming?” 

 I shook my head. “Cross and I have some hunting to do.” Cross snorted her agreement. 

 Wyatt nodded, his glowing pendant swinging as he trotted away. 

 “They’ll be fine without me.” I patted Cross’ neck. “Right?” As Wyatt crossed into the time slip, his form blurred, as if obscured by fog. The red of his pendant cut through like the shine of a lighthouse. 

 The golden water horse wickered, as if saying Wyatt’s name, before following after him.