Yancey shrugged, looking far more Chess-like than Morrow’d hitherto given her credit for. “Good enough,” she said. “No need for us to be friends; my business here’s done. So you’d best get out of my way, for I will keep on shooting—didn’t come all this distance to swing on any tree but the one outside my father’s hotel, if I aim to swing at all.”
“You may not have much choice in the matter,” Sophy Love replied. To which Yancey gave a singularly bitter laugh.
“I’ll put a ball in my head myself, ma’am, it comes to that,” she assured her.
Morrow didn’t know if he believed her, yet suspected Missus Love did—and he’d lost what little liking he’d ever had for taking chances. But he’d been seized far too securely to interfere. Even the panic thudding through his heart was lead-heavy with exhaustion, and with Chess gone, there was nowhere to turn for a hexacious escape, either.
So he closed his eyes, took the deepest breath he could, and howled his former boss’s name as loud as he had left in him: “Mister Pinkerton!”
It was strong enough to quell much of the noise, though it left Morrow gasping, and the rest of the outcry died away into mutters of confusion as Pinkerton sauntered up. In his wake came Asbury, surprisingly hesitant, while Songbird sat motionless where she’d fallen, not even bothering to lift her parasol. Beneath her unbound white mane, her porcelain face had already begun to redden.
For all his comparative undress, Pinkerton bore himself like a king, and Morrow recognized the aura radiating off him—whether born of his ordeal like other hexes, or stolen via Asbury’s science, Pinkerton’s hexation was beyond denying now. He made him a genial nod, then folded his arms, in such a way as to brook no opposition.
“Wi’ the Sheriff dead,” he asked, “who speaks for this township?”
More or less as one, the crowd’s eyes turned to Sophy. “Sophronia Love, sir,” she said. “And you, of course, would be Allan Pinkerton, of the renowned Detective Agency.”
“Charged with keeping law,” Morrow interjected, “in those parts where civilization has not yet grown to custom. Law, and justice—a proper court, and a proper trial, and an advocate. To speak for the accused.”
Pinkerton’s mouth twitched. “And am I right tae guess who ye’d have in mind to speak for, Edward?” He looked back to the crowd, taking in Yancey and her guns, Love’s and Chess’s fallen bodies. To Sophy, with some regret: “Missus Love, though I well ken ye’ve no taste tae hear this, it must be said. Yuir husband was . . . no’ undeserving of his fate.”
“No, I don’t believe that. My Mesach was a good man—a kind man—”
“The kindest turn most brutal, given a sufficiency of suffering.” Pinkerton glanced at Chess’s body, lying in its massive, drying bloodstain. “God knows Pargeter dealt out pain wi’ a free hand, before and after turning hex. By reports, yuir husband caught up to him in this young lady’s home town—” he nodded at Yancey, who didn’t move, “—and left quite the field of desolation in their wake. Making her actions, in return, wild justice . . . but justice, naetheless.”
The crowd was silent. Yancey stared at Pinkerton. Morrow held his breath.
Pinkerton shrugged, continuing: “Yet . . . tae deal such opens one tae receive it, also, and she’s more than old enough to answer for her own deeds.” He turned to Morrow, spread out his hands, mimicking Pontius Pilate’s classic gesture. “She’s a guid enow lass I’m sure, Edward, but she’s nane of mine.”
“And that’s the end of it? Walk away, leave us both to swing—?”
“Oh, I said nought of leaving you here, Ed.” Back to the Bewelcomers, voice battle-captain loud: “This man is mine—and though his crimes require no less judgement, I claim that privilege for myself, as his employer and commander. Does any here dispute me?” The question was bland enough, but Pinkerton lifted one hand as he spoke, allowing it to flicker with bluish-green were-light—cold and searing—which stilled any further protest. “Then I ask ye to release him to my custody.”
“I won’t be threatened in my own home, sir,” Sophy Love replied, admirably uncowed. “Especially not by a man who claims to represent these United States’ government, while at the same time wielding Satan’s might.”
“As ye say, madam. It’s I who’s the law’s due representative, even here. While ye’re but a lawman’s widow—new-made, tae be sure, and tragically. But without any real power, except what public sympathy may deed ye—temporal, or otherwise.”
Another flash, no doubt designed to punctuate his argument. Instead, it sent whispers spreading throughout the crowd behind her, equally mutinous: Pinkerton’s a hex? When’d that happen? Are we t’be plagued with these creatures forever?
Sheriff would’ve seen to it we wasn’t, he hadn’t been cut down, by her over there. Which makes him just as guilty, that other Pinkerton man, for bringin’ her here in the first place.
Morrow looked to Asbury, desperate for any further aid, but the old man only shook his head; his will was broken, at least momentarily. Back to Yancey, whose frozen fury had finally begun to melt, revealing fear beneath; no immediate solution there, either. Begging might not help, but it was all he had left—and for her sake, he was not too proud to do it.
“Mister Pinkerton,” he began, “please. Missus Kloves doesn’t deserve—”
“There’s blood on her hands, Ed; the price is clear.” Pinkerton came closer, lowering his voice. “Now, if you dinnae wish tae swing alongside her, you’ll come right quick, wi’ nae more struggle.” But here a frown knit his brow; he straightened, turning, toward something only he could see. “And what in hell’s own name might this be?”
Morrow felt the rumble before he heard it, and looked up—just as, on the far side of the open square, the air ripped apart like a torn silk scrim to expel a cold, wet gust of wind, a sodden northern night-storm’s air. With a yodel of alien song, a whole platoon of copper-coloured riders poured through the black gash—arms presented, arrows nocked, with an immodestly open-vested Apache shamaness at their head.
Yiska.
Some woman—not Missus Love—cried out from the crowd’s backside, like she was seeing the Last Days ’emselves dawn bloody, red skies and all: “Savages? Oh great God Almighty, what next?”
A fair enough question, Morrow recognized, though he knew himself sadly inoculated against the miraculous these days, whatever stripe it was.
Yiska reined in her horse with a yip and a flourish, almost at Pinkerton’s feet; he stared up at her, arms pugnaciously re-crossed. Even to the uninformed eye, they certainly seemed to know each other.
“‘The Night Has Passed,’ is it?” Pinkerton said. “Bad day in a bad few years tae go raiding, I’d think—and a damn strange place tae target, too. Unless ye knew somethin’ we nane of the rest of us did, in advance.”