We tell you nothing you do not already know.
“But they couldn’t hold it, could they. It wasn’t only that what they were trying to do was too powerful . . . they turned on each other the moment they had the ancient spirit in hand.”
The churn in her stomach worsened, disgusted by the thought of what must have followed, the raging madness of the spirits, of an ancient being thrust back into flesh only to be trapped once again, of the frothing, possessive madness of the two surviving magicians the judge was determined to let loose back into the Territory. All because of this man.
No. A chill settled over the heat in her bones, and she could see the threads that wove to make the cloth, one pattern overlaid on another. The Americans were fools, but they were not the ones to blame.
Isobel turned her face away, the hall suddenly too close, the air filled with the memory of burnt flesh and soured blood, rage and loss. The magicians had killed the buffalo for power, betrayed the Territory with their greed. Everything the boss fought to keep in check—they’d ripped open.
She could sense Gabriel near her, the feel of him like running water, easing the press of rage. She opened her eyes, forcing herself to observe, the way the boss would expect, to give nothing away.
The judge was speaking again—to Anderson and Tousey, not her. “Acting on behalf of a foreign government, to create dissent and trouble within the Territory.” The judge pursed his lips, shook his head. “Your own words, your own admission. That seems clear enough, however a fool’s way you chose to do it.”
The marshal’s face was still again, his body likewise. “And the punishment?”
“Had you foolishly chosen a settlement to stir, we would have ridden you back to your border and pushed you, naked as a babe, back to the trouble that spawned you. But it was not us you gave insult to.”
“Tolja,” Anderson spat, still slumped against the wall. “They’re gonna hand us over to the savages.”
“Would you rather I chose the mágicos to punish you?” the judge asked, his voice coolly amused. “Creatures of madness and whim?” He turned back to Tousey. “The Kohogue or the Sutaio, they might kill you, they might keep you, but you are a warrior, and while you were foolish, you have not behaved dishonorably. They would treat you with respect.”
The look he gave the guide suggested that the judge didn’t expect so much on Anderson’s behalf.
“You will be given shelter here overnight. In the morning, I will request the presence of the elders of the nearby tribes. They will say what your fate may be.” The judge stepped back to his bench and rapped once on the wooden surface with a fist-sized mallet.
Someone outside must have been anticipating that signal, because the door opened and a shadow filled the doorway even as, in the corner of her eye, Isobel saw LaFlesche step forward, the silver wrist-cuffs dangling from her hand.
Anderson must have seen the cuffs too, or like a cornered animal sensed the trap, because he lashed out, coming off the wall like a storm, head-butting LaFlesche hard enough to send her staggering backward, his left arm swinging up and slapping into her torso.
Isobel saw the glint of metal, heard the sharp gasp of indrawn breath before the road marshal dropped to her knees.
A fight had broken out in the saloon once, when the boss wasn’t there. Someone had gotten too familiar with one of the girls against her wishes, and Iktan had stepped in. The man had thought that because Iktan was old, he wasn’t a threat.
That fight had been fast, over before she was even aware it had started. But this time she saw all of it as though every motion were slowed down, her heartbeat taking forever to go thump-thump-thump. The tang of blood reached her nose, and Gabriel lunged past her to tackle Anderson, Tousey diving for the man’s legs and yanking them back, the judge yelling something garbled over her head.
It took forever to happen, a hundred counts in one beat of her heart, and then Isobel moved, with each step her heels clicking on the planking, cutting through the noise of the scuffle and the yelling like thunder cutting into a storm, crouching next to the wounded marshal and pulling her upright, searching for where the wound had been made, where the blood was coming from.
It all snapped back, and then things moved too quickly.
“Stupid son of a bitch.” LaFlesche’s face was pale, but her eyes were bright with anger, even as her hands pressed against her abdomen, trying to staunch the wound. “I didn’t think to check for an arm sheath; thrice a fool.” She rasped once, a harsh sound deep in her chest. “Is it bad? I don’t want to look; if I look I’ll likely faint, and the judge will never let me forget it.”
“Let me see. Come on, let me see.” Isobel coaxed her hands away, gently. More blood soaked the cloth of LaFlesche’s shirt, accompanied by the smell of shit and urine. She pulled her own knife from her belt and cut the cloth away as carefully as she could.