Conspiracy of Ravens Page 3

  “Good! Good, Rhett. Now turn back.”

  With a deep sigh, Rhett turned. It was colder, without feathers, and he quickly tossed the shirt over his head and settled it over breasts that no longer felt like they belonged on his body at all. When he turned around, Earl was grinning like a fool.

  “What the hell is Wheeling?” Rhett said, “And why would I give two turds in a bucket about some old lady?”

  Earl laughed, a remarkably catchy sound, and rocked back. “You did it, lad! You remembered! That, me boy, is the beginning of a dirty poem, and the fact that you remembered it at all means you’re starting to understand. It’s working.”

  Rhett sat back down by the fire and shoved his last bit of snake into the flames. The little bastard was right—finally, it was working. But now he was tired and sleepy and mostly full. Coming to terms with such great truths was exhausting. He was a man of action, not…chewing thoughts like cud. And it made his head ache.

  “I reckon it is working, now that you mention it. I’m going to sleep now, and if you touch me or try to take back this shirt, I’ll—”

  “Kill me with one body and eat me with the other. Oh, I do so certainly get it. Look, I’m an Irishman freshly come from a railroad camp. Even your threats are a pleasant chorus by comparison. So let’s just sleep like friends and wake up alive and uneaten, if you please. You did good, laddie.”

  Rhett wanted to shoot back something smart about how he didn’t need the opinion of some goddamn donkey, but the feller had taught him something valuable. And, as much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Rhett felt better in mind and body than he ever had before. The feller had given him a gift, damn him. Rhett felt the heavy weight of owing settle around his neck like a chain. This was what bound him to Sam and Dan and Winifred and Chuck and Monty and the Rangers. This is what tied lives together and made folks worth dying for.

  Rhett didn’t like Earl. He didn’t trust Earl. But he was goddamned if Earl wasn’t turning out to be a good friend.

  The bastard.

  Rhett slept harder and longer than usual and awoke with a start to find the sun already installed in the sky like a crisp fried egg. Earl was still sleeping, flopped out like a fool with a curious scorpion just about to explore the boy’s open hand. With a heavy sigh, Rhett grabbed a rock and crunched the creature with a satisfying thump that also did the work of waking his companion.

  “What the bloody hell?” Earl mumbled, snatching his hand back.

  Rhett lifted the rock to show him a mess of guts. “Looks like you owe me again, donkey-boy. You ever been stung by a scorpion? Human feller can lose an arm that way. And there’s no sawbones for miles.”

  “Oh, I suspect I’ve lived through worse.” Earl inspected his hand before using it to scratch his nethers. “What’s for breakfast?” Turning his back to the remains of the fire, he unleashed a pathetic stream of piss.

  Rhett turned and walked away in disgust. He was accustomed to waking among the Rangers, each feller doing his part to keep camp harmonious. But Earl was undisciplined and untaught, which meant Rhett had to do everything himself. Hunting down breakfast, smothering what was left of the fire, all while avoiding the quickly drying puddle of piss. A damn inconvenience, traveling with a green feller. Of course, Rhett himself had been green just a few short weeks ago, settling in at the Las Moras Outpost, but most of the fellers had been glad to teach Rhett the necessary skills, if only so they had someone lower on the fence to do the work.

  Seeing nothing all the way out to the horizon, Rhett spat what little moisture he had. “How the Sam Hill’d you get this far without a damn skill to your hand?”

  “Took the easy way out when things got hard,” Earl said. Rhett heard the sound of fabric hitting the sand. “Gonna do it again, too. A donkey can live damn near forever on nothing. Couple of little scrub trees, few slurps of water. Hard little black trotters just keep on trotting. You’d best be doin’ the same. There’s nothing much alive out here, if you can’t tell. And I’m guessing that little rain-creek’s already dried up like me mam’s tit. At least as a—whatever you turn into—blood’s easy to come by.”

  “We need a plan, then. Can’t be two dumb animals, moseying around and fighting over a damn shirt.”

  Earl was busy stuffing his britches in his bag, and Rhett looked anywhere but at his lily-white buttocks. “What we need is you in the air, trying to figure out where we are and where we’re going. Look here.”

  He turned around, and Rhett shielded his eyes. “I ain’t here to look at your parts, donkey. Put on your damn drawers.”

  “You’re a delicate lad, you know.” Earl grinned and held his bag over his danglies. “Sorry. See, when I get thirsty, I just change and let the donkey take over, but I suppose I can wait a bit. This is what I want you to see, though.” He stood and pulled a scrap of fabric from his bag.

  Rhett stepped forward and took the filthy, worn canvas. Brown lines scrabbled all over it, wiggly and lumpy. When he turned it around a few times, he recognized a rough map. On the right was a ladder-type design that must’ve stood for the railroad, and on the left was a little house shape with a star-badge smudged beside it. In between them, there were mountains and creeks and a few blobby dots that might’ve been cities. What he didn’t see was any way to make sense of it when you were in the middle of it.

  “This is San Anton.” Earl pointed to one of the blobs, as if that helped.

  “Ain’t much of a map. How are you supposed to know if you’re even on the right track? These mountains are just little lumps. Now over here’s where Bandera Pass would be. But I don’t know how to tell where we are from where this is.”

  “Fly, then, fool. That’s the whole point.”

  “How the hell do you know I won’t just take off and keep flying?”

  Earl grinned. “You’re gonna give me back that shirt, and I’ll tie it around a stick and wave it at you while you’re flying about. That should get your bleedin’ attention.”

  Rhett’s filthy fingers curled into the rust-red fabric. He didn’t want to give up the shirt. And he didn’t know if Earl would give it back. But he had to trust someone sometime, didn’t he? Earl hadn’t tried anything yet and seemed mostly useless in human form. Between the map and the bird’s-eye view, maybe they could pull it off. He nodded.

  “Can’t believe I’m saying it, but your plan ain’t horrible, donkey.”

  “So let’s turn about, change, eat, and get on with it. You remember how to stay focused, do you then?”

  Rhett nodded. “I reckon I know my business.”

  “Then I’ll be seein’ you on the other side, brother.”

  Once Rhett heard a right peculiar, ripply noise, he turned to confirm that the donkey, bag slung around its neck, was trotting toward what was left of the creek. He slipped the shirt over his head, recalled that line about some old lady from Wheeling, and transformed. It seemed easier now, somehow. Less like being pulled inside out and more like pulling on suspenders. In bird form, he shivered to get his feathers in place, took a few hopping steps away from the shirt, and launched into the sky. His thoughts were simple: dead things, red shirt, Wheeling.

  Up in the air, soaring on thermals, the bird looked down. There: A man stuffed his red shirt into a bag and turned back into a donkey. Not good prey. Too tough to die easy. Annoying, but…a friend? The bird headed toward the rocky cliffs, noting the shape of the mountains. Nothing familiar here. He had to range farther. Flicking feathers, he wheeled…like Wheeling. His thoughts began to shift like that, human to animal.

  The body’s desires pressed against the heart’s needs and memories that were too strong to die. The shadows of trees far below wavered and became Sam, Dan, Winifred. A black splotch of vultures feeding became harpies. Burning with fear and hunger, he dive-bombed the wake, forcing the birds to flee in terror. The horse they’d emptied out seemed small and fat with rot, but there was plenty of clinging flesh, a multitude of delicious bones ripe for cracking in his sharp,
curved gray beak. Back in the air, sated, he looked around with his one good eye. These mountains were familiar—almost. He just had to range a little farther.

  More flying. There. Boxes of wood, fabric flapping on lines. Squat creatures with peculiar shocks of hair. Dwarves, the bird thought. Possibly edible. He remembered them, in any case. Using some interior bird-sense, he retraced his flight path and scanned the ground for that donkey, that shirt. It wasn’t where he’d left it, and he screeched his rage from high overhead.

  My shirt!

  “Hey! Hey, bird! Looky here! I got what you want!”

  Down below, a figure shook a rust-red thing, and the bird circled lower and lower, claws subtly clicking with a peculiar combination of annoyance and triumph. When he landed and hopped toward the man, his beak open and screeching, the man untied the shirt and threw it at the bird’s feet.

  “I’m turning around now,” he said.

  When the feller was facing the other way, the bird chuckled in satisfaction and changed into a man who scrambled back into the shirt. His belly was full, rounding against the shirt’s rough fabric, and Rhett remembered exactly what he needed to know, much to his surprise.

  He spun and pointed toward civilization. “That way. We go that way. There’s a town called Burlesville. On the way to Las Moras, and they’re friendly enough fellers.”

  Earl shot him a suspicious look. “What kind of fellers?”

  “They call themselves dwarves. That suit you?”

  Earl’s freckled nose wrinkled up. “It’s more whether I suit folks than if they suit me, if you get what I’m saying.”

  Rhett snorted. “Son, if you think they’d look down on you more than they’d look down on me, then you’re looking to get punched again. Just go on and be a donkey, if you’re so worried.”

  “But you’ll steal me clothes! And if they’re monsters, they’ll know something’s up. Best to just let them be disappointed from the start.”

  “We can get more clothes in Burlesville, fool. And find out if the Rangers have been through on their way back home. And who cares if they’re disappointed? They’re just dwarves.”

  Rhett didn’t mention everything else he needed to know. How were Sam and Dan and Winifred? Was somebody taking good care of Ragdoll and Puddin’? Where were his goddamn guns and his Ranger badge? And would the Rangers still take him, considering he was a big damn bird? With the Cannibal Owl dead and gone, was he still the Shadow? And that was all before the donkey-boy started making his demands about this godforsaken railroad camp. Just when things seemed like they were getting easy, they went and got all tangled up again.

  “I’ll be a donkey until we’re near,” Earl said. “Keep me feet soft.”

  Rhett looked him up and down. “Say, don’t folks ride donkeys?”

  Earl gave him a dirty look. “Only folks as want to get bitten. I’m not that kind of donkey. You’d be better off flying, yourself.” He dropped his britches defiantly, stuffed everything in his bag, and handed it to Rhett, who wasn’t even vaguely interested in the boy’s body. As fascinated as he’d been by Sam’s various bits and pieces and as unexplainably riled as he’d been by Winifred’s curves and bumps, he didn’t find Earl intriguing in the slightest, and the sight of the man’s giblets just made Rhett feel awkward.

  He was much more comfortable altogether when the feller became a donkey.

  Rhett slung the bag over his shoulder and stared at the furry critter. The donkey stared at Rhett for a moment before letting out a long, impatient bray.

  “Oh, right. I’m the only one who knows where we’re going. Shut your fool mouth and come on. It’s gonna be a hell of a hike.”

  The donkey nudged Rhett with his long, sharp nose, and Rhett shoved him away and paused to stretch before walking. “Give me a minute to gather my thoughts, you testy thing.”

  He acted like it was nothing, going back to Burlesville, but in truth, he was dreading it. Of all the towns to walk into half-naked, why did it have to be this one? The last time he’d trotted down the dusty road, he’d been on horseback, fully armed and surrounded by the most dangerous and righteous men in Durango, and still the fools had shot at him. Now, half-dressed and accompanied by a complete ass, would they still be shooting? And did it matter as much, considering Rhett knew for sure now that he was a monster? Would they even recognize him?

  As his fingers gently prodded the twisted scars of what used to be his right eye, he had to wonder…these days, would he even recognize himself? On the inside, the answer was yes, and that was what really mattered. Inside, he knew himself better than ever, and that was a hell of a thing.

  Feeling the heat of the sun set in for good, he stripped off the shirt, stuffed it in the bag, and slung it around the donkey’s neck.

  “Come on, donkey-boy,” he muttered. “Let’s go vex some damn dwarves.”

  And then he took to the sky.

  Chapter

  3

  Burlesville appeared like a shimmering mirage in hell. The sun was headed down more slowly than usual, a dark orange disk going to ground among stark black buttes. The bird’s eye was drawn to a dusty man waving a red shirt, and it glided down to an ungainly landing and changed.

  Slipping on the shirt, Rhett recognized the church tower, where a shooter had been positioned last time, nearly blind though he was considered the most sharp-eyed of dwarves. In anticipation of such repeated rudeness, Rhett figured they’d wait until the innocent light of morning and tie Earl’s map to a stick to wave once they were in view. The bit of frayed canvas was nowhere close to white, but it was the closest thing they had. As he made the knot, Rhett realized that the crusted brown lines and squiggles were drawn in blood. Earl silently pulled on his pants.

  “You find enough food, while you were a donkey?” Rhett asked.

  Earl nodded. “Something green, I reckon.”

  “Then let’s just sleep here. No fire. No point in sneaking up on blind fellers with itchy triggy fingers after dark.”

  “Mind if I sing a bit?”

  Rhett threw him a dark look. “I most assuredly do.”

  They turned, back to back, equally annoyed, and slept. At some point in the night, they must’ve grown cold enough to change, as they both woke as creatures. The bird blinked, ruffled his feathers, and became a man with a purpose.

  They walked into town, side by side, one pair of clothes between them. Rhett waved his pathetic excuse for a flag of truce. As they entered shooting range, Rhett braced himself for the discomfort of a bullet in a tender place, but no bullets were forthcoming. The bell tower, for all he could see with one eye, was empty. Still, the town seemed unchanged. Steady clangs suggested that maybe somebody was busy in the mine or working on the half-finished schoolhouse where he’d once bedded down beside Sam Hennessy, innocent and smitten like a damn fool. It was strange, he realized, coming back to a place you’d already been to after you’d learned a little something about the world. Now that he’d tasted the sky, Burlesville seemed a small, still thing.

  “What, no welcome wagon?” Earl asked.

  If Rhett had been a horse, he’d have pinned his ears and stuck out his teeth. “Not everybody in the world is glad to see me, donkey-boy. You neither. Only reason they were on the lookout last time I passed through was because somebody was stealing their children, and it wasn’t the sort of lookout that comes with a welcome wagon.”

  As they entered the town proper, squat bearded women looked up from gardens and clotheslines to ogle them suspiciously with gem-bright eyes. Cats halted their washing on porches, and finally a man appeared, slamming the door of the general store behind him and standing before it with huge arms crossed over a tidy apron. The dwarf had the height of a feller who’d get ribbed for being short but made up for it by being twice as wide and made of stone-hard muscle.

  “Well, if it is not the prodigal Ranger,” he said.

  “Hello to you, too, Jasper. I take it that means you saw my people recently?”

  Jas
per strode forward, his hand outstretched. Rhett just stared at it like a fool for a moment before realizing that he was expected to shake. It was an odd feeling, a feller reaching for him on purpose, and the dwarf’s rock-hard hand crunched around Rhett’s fingers. He didn’t flinch, though—he outright refused to show the dwarf any weakness. Broken bones would mend, but a man’s reputation took longer to heal.

  “Came through a few days back. Headed on to Las Moras. Had two Injuns with them, including the girl we shot. Your Captain said you boys took care of our problem.”

  “I reckon we did,” Rhett said, running the tallies on what we meant as compared to you.

  “Then we owe you our thanks.” Jasper’s beard twitched with a grin. “And if that thanks was to come in the form of a pair of pants and some old boots, I suppose you wouldn’t complain, ja?”

  “We’d be much obliged.”

  With a nod, Jasper led them inside the general store. Earl followed, radiating anger. His face was plum-red, shining through his freckles and lighting up his hair. And why shouldn’t he be angry? The damn dwarf hadn’t even nodded at the feller. Rhett was right fascinated by all the different kinds of hate folks could hold in their hearts. A white man, unwelcome where a mutt like Rhett was greeted warmly? The world was truly upside down. At least Jasper still viewed Rhett as a man, even with his legs on display for all the world to see.

  The shop was just as he remembered it, sparkling fresh wood swept clean with nicely stacked goods around the edges. One corner held a selection of used clothes, and Rhett’s heart ached uncomfortably to note that a good deal of it was not in adult sizes. Just as before, the town didn’t feel right without a single child causing a ruckus. They’d all been stolen away by the Cannibal Owl, their neatly folded clothes now useless. Jasper picked out a pair of used boots, comically wide, some hand-knitted socks, and a pair of pants with attached suspenders. Rhett took them with a nod and scooted behind a shelf of goods to step in. Whoever had worn these things must’ve been the size of two Rhett Hennessys plastered together side by side, and the legs ended abruptly above his ankles, but damn if it didn’t feel fine to have something between his tender feet and the ground, something he wouldn’t have to share. If it couldn’t be blue sky under his toes, it might as well be thickly made dwarf socks, leather soles, and hobnails.