“This isn’t our trouble,” he reminded her. “We’re only here to watch.”
The silver-haired elder eyed Tousey up and down and then up again, then reached forward to poke one gnarled finger into his shoulder. “You are the one who caused the ground to shake?” Disbelief was clear in his words.
“He brought the idea to the wind-taken,” the judge said. The elder ignored him, staring steadily at Tousey, who seemed to almost smile, briefly. Isobel thought that for the first time, he looked like a man who knew his place and what was expected of him.
“My name is Paul Tousey. I am a United States Marshal, sent here to engage with the individuals known as ‘magicians’ in order to determine if they might be useful allies for my government.” He glanced to where Isobel and Gabriel stood. “It is my considered opinion that they are not, and the results of that contact are . . . regrettable.”
The elder stared at him, then nodded once, as though he’d understood every word. “We will take him.”
And that was that, near as Isobel could tell. The two younger natives came forward, slipping a horsehair rope over Tousey’s head but not tightening it; it seemed a reminder, some ritual of parole more than an actual restraint. But before they could lead him off, he said something to the judge, who gave a sharp nod and made a hand motion. They dropped the end of the rope and let him step away.
Coming toward them, Isobel realized.
“You’ve lived in the States.” He was speaking to Gabriel, not her.
“I have.”
Even with a rope around his neck, the skin of his face rough with exhaustion and whiskers, the marshal had a certain air to him now, an assuredness that was not boastful. He nodded, as though Gabriel’s words confirmed something.
“I would ask you a favor, one I will, regrettably, be unable to repay. If you would, send word across the river to my superiors. Inform them of the events of the past few days. I would prefer that my fate be clear rather than left open to interpretation.”
“You don’t want them to think you deserted.”
Tousey gave a wry smile and a shrug. “In the event of my death, my family will receive my pension. Otherwise . . . Will you do this for me?”
There was a pause, and then Gabriel nodded. “I will do this for you.”
Isobel looked between the two of them, feeling as though she’d come late and missed something important. But she had a more urgent question whispering in her mind just then.
“Do you think they will send others, despite your failure?”
Tousey looked at her then, his eyes clear, and sad. “I am certain that they will.”
Someone coughed behind them, and he took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I will not offer you my hand; we were not friends. Farewell. I do not think we will meet again.”
“The road turns on itself,” Gabriel said, “and we never know where we may end or who we may see there.”
Tousey did not smile again; she thought perhaps he had no more smile left in him. “Very well, then. If so, I hope that we may begin as friends in a less inopportune time.”
Isobel watched as he walked back to meet his captors, then allowed the four to escort him away. “What will happen to him?”
“It depends on which tribe gets him,” Gabriel said. “For three different tribes to come, either they all felt aggrieved by his actions, or—”
“Or?”
“Or they want to know what he knows.” Gabriel’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Magicians aren’t the only ones who might think to benefit from powerful allies, Iz. The Agreement is old, but it’s not unbreakable. On either side.”
Isobel stared at him.
She thought of the buffalo, slaughtered for the power in their blood. Of the great, ancient spirit trapped by greed. Of men far away, poking and poking at the Territory, promises carried on threat of hellfire, or sweet-milk promises that only make your stomach bloat.
She thought of the whisper waking her from sleep, and the way the devil studied his cards, every hand he dealt, and a man who walked to his fate without flinching, though someone else sent him there.
And she thought again of the buffalo, hooves pounding heartbeats against the ground, of cards falling on felted tabletops, of the look in the Reaper hawk’s eye.
Survive. Protect.
She pulled the shawl more tightly once again, although she felt too warm, not cold.
“We need to go back to the valley.”
It might have been proper to stay until the marshal’s bones were reclaimed and safely interred in the boneyard, but neither of them had any desire to stay, and it seemed the town had no desire for them to linger either. The town of Andreas might live by the Agreement, but Gabriel did not think that they had been particularly comfortable with the close-up reminder of it.
They left the marshal’s pony in the stable with the old mare. He’d thought about taking her—a tough little road horse like that would be wasted pulling a plow, but when Isobel looked at her, then looked back at him, he’d shaken his head.