Dust--Chapter 8, PG-13
Posted: Sat Jun 27, 2009 6:17 pm
Usual disclaimers…I don’t own Josef. All the plot and the other characters, though, are mine.
Dust
Chapter 8
Sally looked up at the fading light in the window, wishing she could see outside. Mr. Constantine still lay motionless in the deep shadow against the wall, his face hidden. She couldn’t detect any normal motion of breathing in him, but it was very shadowed where she lay. And he’d mentioned, with the oddest smile, that he slept like the dead.
She’d slept much of the day herself, on the single narrow bed he’d insisted she take. But now, darkness was encroaching, and Sally knew the quiet time, the waiting time, was almost over. Even as she looked, Mr. Constantine stirred, rolling to his back with a groan, and covering his face with one forearm.
“Damn,” he said, and then looked over to Sally with a rueful smile. “Pardon my language, Mrs. Watkins.”
“I’d say you were more than entitled,” she replied tartly. Then her tone softened. “Mr. Constantine, what are we going to do? How are we going to get out of here?”
He sat up, looking as though his long rest had not refreshed him much, and gave her a shrewd look. “Over the years, people have called me an opportunist. That’s what I’m going to do. When I see my opportunity, I’ll take it.”
“ ‘Fortune favors the bold’?”
“More like, “Devil take the hindmost.’” He paused. “Mrs. Watkins, when the time comes, you be ready to jump.”
Sally nodded. There was nothing left to do now except wait. She was used to waiting, but this evening, watching the shadows creep across the floor was agonizing. Mr. Constantine seemed to be conserving his energy. She’d never seen anyone sit so still.
The door rattled with the noise of the bar across it lifting, and Josef flowed to his feet, poised for whatever came through the door.
Slade exchanged a word with the guard on the door, and came in with a rough bowl of the inevitable stew in either hand. As soon as he was well inside, Sally snatched the biscuits from the top of each bowl and wrapped them in a bandana from her skirt pocket, as Josef had instructed her. After the biscuits were stowed away, she grabbed a few spoonfuls of the stew for herself, burning her mouth on the tough meat.
Slade nodded approvingly, then turned to Josef. “You’d better eat. You’re gonna need your strength,” he commented.
Josef raised an eyebrow. “Doubtless true, Mr. Weston, but we’ve no time to waste. What’s the situation out there?”
Weston glanced at the open door. “One guard,” he said quietly.
“We’re too close to the center of camp,” Josef said. “Which direction is the main horse pen?”
“Horse pen? Nothing so fancy as that. But the remuda is on the western edge of camp.” Weston replied. “But there will be guards on it.”
Josef nodded. “I’ll handle that. Can you walk Mrs. Watkins through camp? As though you’re taking her somewhere under orders?”
Slade frowned. “Yeah, sure. But—“
“You take her back to the grave. That’s about as far from the—what did you call it?—remuda as possible, and there are some rocks there for cover.” Josef’s tones were low and urgent. “Give me twenty minutes head start, and I’ll meet you there with horses.”
“What about the perimeter guards?”
Josef smiled, in such a way that Weston shivered at it. He’d never seen eyes so cold. “Sitting by campfires, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but—“
“They’ll never see me.” He paused, put a hand out to stroke Sally’s upper arm. “It’s time for us to be leaving, Mrs. Watkins. Are you ready?”
She tried to look as determined as she could, in the near dark of the room that had been such a dubious shelter. “I’m ready.”
“Very well. Twenty minutes, Weston.” He turned and slipped out of the room silently. Sally heard a slight scuffle, and a muffled crack.
Slade waited a minute, then peered out. The guard, sat slumped on a bench, his gun resting by his side. He appeared to be asleep, but Weston knew the man was dead. Josef was nowhere to be seen, and Slade started to think perhaps the plan might work, after all.
When Slade turned back to Sally, he saw by the dim light through the open door that she was concentrating, lips moving and her fingers tapping together. He eased the door closed, hoping any casual glances from passersby would not reveal that it was unbarred.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Watkins?” he asked. “Praying?”
She snorted. “I should be, Mr. Weston, but no. Counting. Mr. Constantine was very specific about us waiting twenty minutes before we set out. And I don’t have a pocket watch. So I thought I’d better start counting.”
“A pocket watch?” Slade was suddenly aware that he had a watch riding heavy in the pocket of his vest. The one he’d taken from Constantine. It seemed like months ago. He’d forgotten it completely. Now, he fished it out with clumsy fingers and clicked open the case. Held up by the window, he could barely discern the miniature portrait of a beautiful woman. He closed it and tried again, this time rewarded by the sight of the white dial. “How much time have you counted off?”
Sally held up a hand, counting to herself, for a last few seconds. “Seven minutes.”
Slade nodded. “Mrs. Watkins, I’m going to leave you for a few minutes, but I’ll be back before the twenty minute mark.”
Her voice in reply floated out of the darkness and struck him between the eyes. “How do I know you’ll be back, Mr. Weston?”
Slade grinned, and pressed the watch into her hand. “Because I’d like to see you return this to Mr. Constantine.” And he was gone.
Left alone, with only the weight of the pocket watch in her hands, warm from Weston’s body, Sally allowed herself a brief moment of wondering if she and her baby would survive this. If she would live to see the sunrise at the end of this night. She’d felt safe, as long as Mr. Constantine was with her, but now, she had visions of him lying somewhere in the darkness, cut down and dying or dead. What if Mr. Weston didn’t come back? What if he did, but Mr. Constantine didn’t show up with horses? Faith in him didn’t mean he could do everything he promised. Sally gripped the watch tighter. She had to believe. And it was such a little time to wait. Such a little time.
The room was growing colder. Afternoons were still warm, almost hot, here in the rolling plains, but the temperature dropped with the coming of night, and her little cloak was not heavy enough to keep her really warm. She wanted to look at the watch again, check the time, but forced herself to keep her hands folded under her wrap.
&&
It had been far too long, Josef thought, since he’d been truly on the hunt. Stalking financial prey was rewarding—in many senses of the word—but this had a physicality that was undeniably pleasing. He’d learned, centuries ago, how to move unseen through an enemy camp, that peculiar combination of speed, misdirection, and sheer audacity carrying him along. Humans mostly saw what they wanted to see, and in his dark clothing, and the hat he’d plucked from a sleeping face, there was nothing to distinguish him in the gloom from those who belonged in the camp. Another thing he’d learned long ago, too: humans feared the dark, shunned it so unconsciously that they stared unthinking like cattle at their campfires, never noticing a blur in the shadows between the circles of firelight.
That was fine with him. He intended to create minimal commotion as he worked his way around the camp to where the horses fretted and stamped on the picketwire.
If he’d been alone, he’d have done his damnedest to cut a gap in the simple rope corralling the remuda, and stampede all the horses. Alone, he could have escaped in the confusion.
Two small problems with that. He’d promised to protect that young, pregnant human, and while he’d lost track of the number of times in his long life that pragmatism had trumped honor, he always tried to at least put off the inevitable moment when that happened. For another thing, and this was both more problematic and more galling, he needed Weston to guide them back to civilization.
So. Stealth. Or possibly a bluff.
His luck was at least a little in. On the edge of the milling herd, several saddled horses were tethered. Nothing special, just tough little mustangs that could stand up to hard riding. Which was what he needed, tonight.
The guard was sitting on a blanket next to a small fire, whittling to pass the time, his rifle by his side. Obviously, guard duty was nominal, with no threats expected, internal or external.
Josef flipped up his collar and pulled the lapels of his coat together to hide his shirt, reflecting bitterly that the coating of dust was almost enough to disguise him, and strode forward, honest purpose in every line of his bearing. “Captain’s sending me with a message,” he grumbled. “I’m supposed to take a horse, and a remount.”
The guard frowned. “Now?”
Josef shrugged. “You know how it goes. He said it was urgent, he didn’t care if I rode all night.”
“Yeah.” The guard was buying it, Josef was sure. Then he gave Josef a sharp look, and asked casually, “So, what’d you say that captain’s name was, again?”
Josef mumbled a little as he replied. “Cap’n Taylor.” Or Tyler, or Miller, or Baker, he thought, if he’d slurred it enough.
The guard stood up, rifle in his hand, the knife falling to the blanket. “Funny thing,” he drawled, “but I don’t believe we have a captain by that name.” He smiled. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Shaking his head, Josef sighed. “Not really,” he muttered, and blurred inside the man’s guard to seize him by the jaw and snap his neck with practiced efficiency. As he eased the body back to the ground, he said, “You know, we could’ve gotten along just fine. But you had to go and ask questions.” He looked off into the darkness, trying to see if anyone had noticed, and kicked a little dirt over the fire to dim its flames.
With no blood smell to distress them, the horses seemed not to have noticed. Sensible creatures, he thought. A quick check among the tied and saddled horses confirmed the judgments he had made from a distance. He passed by a flashy paint, and selected a neat little bay mare and an taller chestnut gelding. Tightening their cinches, he ran a hand down each leg, assuring himself that they were sound. He was pleased when both accepted his touch, seeming to settle at the motions of his hands.
A third horse would have been nice, but leading these two around the perimeter of the camp was going to be dicey enough. Mrs. Watkins would just have to ride pillion with one or the other of them, little as he liked the idea of entrusting her to Weston.
Before moving from the picket line, Josef stood still for a moment, casting out with all his senses for human movement and activity. He wasn’t sure how the Colonel kept his men busy during the day, but whatever they’d been doing, it was evidently enough to keep them quiet in the evenings. Early as it was, all he could sense in the camp was quiet talk around the campfires, a few voices raised in song here and there. The camp was winding down into sleep.
With any luck at all, they’d have several hours head start on any pursuit, and he was willing to bank on his ability to keep a good pace through the night. Looping the reins over his arm, Josef began to walk away from the remuda, pausing only long enough to scoop up the knife from the dead guard’s blanket.
Dust
Chapter 8
Sally looked up at the fading light in the window, wishing she could see outside. Mr. Constantine still lay motionless in the deep shadow against the wall, his face hidden. She couldn’t detect any normal motion of breathing in him, but it was very shadowed where she lay. And he’d mentioned, with the oddest smile, that he slept like the dead.
She’d slept much of the day herself, on the single narrow bed he’d insisted she take. But now, darkness was encroaching, and Sally knew the quiet time, the waiting time, was almost over. Even as she looked, Mr. Constantine stirred, rolling to his back with a groan, and covering his face with one forearm.
“Damn,” he said, and then looked over to Sally with a rueful smile. “Pardon my language, Mrs. Watkins.”
“I’d say you were more than entitled,” she replied tartly. Then her tone softened. “Mr. Constantine, what are we going to do? How are we going to get out of here?”
He sat up, looking as though his long rest had not refreshed him much, and gave her a shrewd look. “Over the years, people have called me an opportunist. That’s what I’m going to do. When I see my opportunity, I’ll take it.”
“ ‘Fortune favors the bold’?”
“More like, “Devil take the hindmost.’” He paused. “Mrs. Watkins, when the time comes, you be ready to jump.”
Sally nodded. There was nothing left to do now except wait. She was used to waiting, but this evening, watching the shadows creep across the floor was agonizing. Mr. Constantine seemed to be conserving his energy. She’d never seen anyone sit so still.
The door rattled with the noise of the bar across it lifting, and Josef flowed to his feet, poised for whatever came through the door.
Slade exchanged a word with the guard on the door, and came in with a rough bowl of the inevitable stew in either hand. As soon as he was well inside, Sally snatched the biscuits from the top of each bowl and wrapped them in a bandana from her skirt pocket, as Josef had instructed her. After the biscuits were stowed away, she grabbed a few spoonfuls of the stew for herself, burning her mouth on the tough meat.
Slade nodded approvingly, then turned to Josef. “You’d better eat. You’re gonna need your strength,” he commented.
Josef raised an eyebrow. “Doubtless true, Mr. Weston, but we’ve no time to waste. What’s the situation out there?”
Weston glanced at the open door. “One guard,” he said quietly.
“We’re too close to the center of camp,” Josef said. “Which direction is the main horse pen?”
“Horse pen? Nothing so fancy as that. But the remuda is on the western edge of camp.” Weston replied. “But there will be guards on it.”
Josef nodded. “I’ll handle that. Can you walk Mrs. Watkins through camp? As though you’re taking her somewhere under orders?”
Slade frowned. “Yeah, sure. But—“
“You take her back to the grave. That’s about as far from the—what did you call it?—remuda as possible, and there are some rocks there for cover.” Josef’s tones were low and urgent. “Give me twenty minutes head start, and I’ll meet you there with horses.”
“What about the perimeter guards?”
Josef smiled, in such a way that Weston shivered at it. He’d never seen eyes so cold. “Sitting by campfires, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but—“
“They’ll never see me.” He paused, put a hand out to stroke Sally’s upper arm. “It’s time for us to be leaving, Mrs. Watkins. Are you ready?”
She tried to look as determined as she could, in the near dark of the room that had been such a dubious shelter. “I’m ready.”
“Very well. Twenty minutes, Weston.” He turned and slipped out of the room silently. Sally heard a slight scuffle, and a muffled crack.
Slade waited a minute, then peered out. The guard, sat slumped on a bench, his gun resting by his side. He appeared to be asleep, but Weston knew the man was dead. Josef was nowhere to be seen, and Slade started to think perhaps the plan might work, after all.
When Slade turned back to Sally, he saw by the dim light through the open door that she was concentrating, lips moving and her fingers tapping together. He eased the door closed, hoping any casual glances from passersby would not reveal that it was unbarred.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Watkins?” he asked. “Praying?”
She snorted. “I should be, Mr. Weston, but no. Counting. Mr. Constantine was very specific about us waiting twenty minutes before we set out. And I don’t have a pocket watch. So I thought I’d better start counting.”
“A pocket watch?” Slade was suddenly aware that he had a watch riding heavy in the pocket of his vest. The one he’d taken from Constantine. It seemed like months ago. He’d forgotten it completely. Now, he fished it out with clumsy fingers and clicked open the case. Held up by the window, he could barely discern the miniature portrait of a beautiful woman. He closed it and tried again, this time rewarded by the sight of the white dial. “How much time have you counted off?”
Sally held up a hand, counting to herself, for a last few seconds. “Seven minutes.”
Slade nodded. “Mrs. Watkins, I’m going to leave you for a few minutes, but I’ll be back before the twenty minute mark.”
Her voice in reply floated out of the darkness and struck him between the eyes. “How do I know you’ll be back, Mr. Weston?”
Slade grinned, and pressed the watch into her hand. “Because I’d like to see you return this to Mr. Constantine.” And he was gone.
Left alone, with only the weight of the pocket watch in her hands, warm from Weston’s body, Sally allowed herself a brief moment of wondering if she and her baby would survive this. If she would live to see the sunrise at the end of this night. She’d felt safe, as long as Mr. Constantine was with her, but now, she had visions of him lying somewhere in the darkness, cut down and dying or dead. What if Mr. Weston didn’t come back? What if he did, but Mr. Constantine didn’t show up with horses? Faith in him didn’t mean he could do everything he promised. Sally gripped the watch tighter. She had to believe. And it was such a little time to wait. Such a little time.
The room was growing colder. Afternoons were still warm, almost hot, here in the rolling plains, but the temperature dropped with the coming of night, and her little cloak was not heavy enough to keep her really warm. She wanted to look at the watch again, check the time, but forced herself to keep her hands folded under her wrap.
&&
It had been far too long, Josef thought, since he’d been truly on the hunt. Stalking financial prey was rewarding—in many senses of the word—but this had a physicality that was undeniably pleasing. He’d learned, centuries ago, how to move unseen through an enemy camp, that peculiar combination of speed, misdirection, and sheer audacity carrying him along. Humans mostly saw what they wanted to see, and in his dark clothing, and the hat he’d plucked from a sleeping face, there was nothing to distinguish him in the gloom from those who belonged in the camp. Another thing he’d learned long ago, too: humans feared the dark, shunned it so unconsciously that they stared unthinking like cattle at their campfires, never noticing a blur in the shadows between the circles of firelight.
That was fine with him. He intended to create minimal commotion as he worked his way around the camp to where the horses fretted and stamped on the picketwire.
If he’d been alone, he’d have done his damnedest to cut a gap in the simple rope corralling the remuda, and stampede all the horses. Alone, he could have escaped in the confusion.
Two small problems with that. He’d promised to protect that young, pregnant human, and while he’d lost track of the number of times in his long life that pragmatism had trumped honor, he always tried to at least put off the inevitable moment when that happened. For another thing, and this was both more problematic and more galling, he needed Weston to guide them back to civilization.
So. Stealth. Or possibly a bluff.
His luck was at least a little in. On the edge of the milling herd, several saddled horses were tethered. Nothing special, just tough little mustangs that could stand up to hard riding. Which was what he needed, tonight.
The guard was sitting on a blanket next to a small fire, whittling to pass the time, his rifle by his side. Obviously, guard duty was nominal, with no threats expected, internal or external.
Josef flipped up his collar and pulled the lapels of his coat together to hide his shirt, reflecting bitterly that the coating of dust was almost enough to disguise him, and strode forward, honest purpose in every line of his bearing. “Captain’s sending me with a message,” he grumbled. “I’m supposed to take a horse, and a remount.”
The guard frowned. “Now?”
Josef shrugged. “You know how it goes. He said it was urgent, he didn’t care if I rode all night.”
“Yeah.” The guard was buying it, Josef was sure. Then he gave Josef a sharp look, and asked casually, “So, what’d you say that captain’s name was, again?”
Josef mumbled a little as he replied. “Cap’n Taylor.” Or Tyler, or Miller, or Baker, he thought, if he’d slurred it enough.
The guard stood up, rifle in his hand, the knife falling to the blanket. “Funny thing,” he drawled, “but I don’t believe we have a captain by that name.” He smiled. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Shaking his head, Josef sighed. “Not really,” he muttered, and blurred inside the man’s guard to seize him by the jaw and snap his neck with practiced efficiency. As he eased the body back to the ground, he said, “You know, we could’ve gotten along just fine. But you had to go and ask questions.” He looked off into the darkness, trying to see if anyone had noticed, and kicked a little dirt over the fire to dim its flames.
With no blood smell to distress them, the horses seemed not to have noticed. Sensible creatures, he thought. A quick check among the tied and saddled horses confirmed the judgments he had made from a distance. He passed by a flashy paint, and selected a neat little bay mare and an taller chestnut gelding. Tightening their cinches, he ran a hand down each leg, assuring himself that they were sound. He was pleased when both accepted his touch, seeming to settle at the motions of his hands.
A third horse would have been nice, but leading these two around the perimeter of the camp was going to be dicey enough. Mrs. Watkins would just have to ride pillion with one or the other of them, little as he liked the idea of entrusting her to Weston.
Before moving from the picket line, Josef stood still for a moment, casting out with all his senses for human movement and activity. He wasn’t sure how the Colonel kept his men busy during the day, but whatever they’d been doing, it was evidently enough to keep them quiet in the evenings. Early as it was, all he could sense in the camp was quiet talk around the campfires, a few voices raised in song here and there. The camp was winding down into sleep.
With any luck at all, they’d have several hours head start on any pursuit, and he was willing to bank on his ability to keep a good pace through the night. Looping the reins over his arm, Josef began to walk away from the remuda, pausing only long enough to scoop up the knife from the dead guard’s blanket.
