Icy rain drizzled as Keech and Duck returned to the Moss farm. They passed through the gate and stepped over the bloodroot barrier. The property was still, the wooden chime on the front porch the only thing stirring.
“Looks like everybody’s still asleep,” Duck said. They sat again on the porch steps and cleaned the bloodroot smears off their faces.
Not long after, the front door squeaked open, and Edgar Doyle stepped out onto the porch, followed by Quinn, who carried a bundle of scarves. The Ranger lugged a bulging knapsack over his shoulder. His stubbly face looked tired and pale, as if he hadn’t rested a second. Nat and Cutter appeared after them, dozy-eyed, their hair in disarray. Cutter’s own face was red and swollen, full of a sadness that no sleep could drown.
Freshly clad in a cotton shirt and boots that fit him snugly, Quinn tipped his forage cap to Keech and Duck. “Mr. Moss had a dandy wardrobe. I found a cabinet full of these.” He tossed them a woolen scarf. “They smell a tad moldy, but they’ll come in handy on the prairie.”
Doyle marched toward the barn with his knapsack. “We move out in ten minutes. Get your ponies ready to ride.”
After the gang had saddled up and Keech took his cantle seat behind Quinn, Doyle trotted Saint Peter into the yard and gave all the young riders a grave look. He had secured his bulky knapsack with two or three ropes to the Kelpie’s cantle. “Listen up. From here we veer west. Be aware, you’ll see strange sights when we near the town.”
“Stranger than this loco weather?” Cutter asked.
“You’ll see darkness. And soldiers that ain’t rightly men no more.”
“Thralls,” Nat said, scowling.
“So you’ve heard of them,” Doyle said.
“We faced them back in Missouri,” Duck said. “A fella named Bad Whiskey raised a whole cemetery full.”
The Ranger’s expression turned both puzzled and circumspect. “Good. Then you won’t freeze up at the sight of them. I reckon you know that regular weapons won’t help, so stay out of their way and don’t draw attention.”
“We’ll stay out of their way, but not because we can’t stop them.” Duck reached into her coat and pulled out her amulet shard. “We can take thralls down with these.”
Though Keech hadn’t wanted to unveil the shards in front of Doyle, he reluctantly drew out his own, and they held the silver fragments up to the dull afternoon light. Doyle’s eyes narrowed when he saw them.
“Yes, I saw you wield one back at the river,” he said. “It took down one of those fish monsters. Good trinkets to have. But no conflict if we can avoid it. Let’s keep the mission nice and quiet.”
The young riders followed Doyle back into the white forest. They passed through a narrow gap in the low thickets and soon veered upon a deer trail that switched back and forth through lanky hickories and twisted red mulberries. The high branches swayed above them as the winds whined down from the north. After a time, they nudged their ponies out of the thickest part of the woods and started up a long slope.
Keech thought about the shared nightmare of the cavern and the strange excursion to the bending tree. The buffalo phantom he and Duck had seen on the ground haunted him. Perhaps the Ranger might be willing to help them figure out what they had witnessed—but first the gang needed to know more about the man. As the troop proceeded through more brushwood, Keech said, “Ranger, I need to ask you something.”
“Fire at will.”
“What are you hoping to find at the end of the bending trees?”
When Doyle turned to look at him, his gaze penetrated into the very core of Keech’s mind. “I suspect you already know the answer, seeing how your troop is headed to the same place.”
“Bonfire Crossing,” Keech said. He had suspected the answer, of course, but he wanted the Ranger to confirm.
“Your company fascinates me, Mr. Blackwood. I’d like to know why you’re seeking such a secret place.”
The others had urged their ponies alongside Lightnin’ and Saint Peter and were listening intently to the conversation. Nat looked worried but held his tongue.
“We don’t rightly know,” Keech answered. “We were told we’d learn something there in order to find and destroy a monster named Rose. Have you ever heard that name?”
Doyle’s expression turned darker. “I have heard it, yes.”
Quinn glanced around at the gang. “So you’re all chasing after the same place—this Bonfire Crossing. But why? What do y’all expect to find?”
“Something of great worth to the Texas Rangers,” Doyle said.
“It’s the fang, isn’t it?” said Duck. “You’re looking for the fang.”
Doyle gave the girl a surprised look. “I suppose I am. And I have to warn you kids, when I find it, I’m taking it. The Fang of Barachiel isn’t some toy.”
“‘Barachiel,’” Duck said, rubbing her cheek. “Sounds like a name you’d find in the Bible.”
“Sounds like a mean liquor to me,” Cutter scoffed.
“I have no idea what it means,” Doyle said. “I’m only charged with securing it.”
Puzzle pieces tumbled into place as Keech considered the Ranger’s words. Some time ago, Sheriff Strahan and another fellow—most likely Doyle’s partner, Warren Lynch—had discussed the hidden path to Bonfire Crossing, and Quinn Revels happened upon their conversation and heard mention of the Fang. Then Friendly Williams and Rose’s gang showed up, and both men went missing, likely imprisoned somewhere in Wisdom. Competing forces were aligning to find the secret Osage encampment and seize what lay inside: the Fang of Barachiel.
These realizations brought up another vital question. “Ranger, what is the Fang? A weapon of some sort?”
“It’s top secret government property.”
Nat asked, “Then what’s it doing in a hidden Osage camp?”
Doyle sighed heavily. “I understand you want answers. But when it comes to matters of the Law, I cannot discuss top secret information.”
“But we are the Law,” Cutter mumbled. “We got deputized.”
Doyle chuckled, as if he didn’t quite believe Cutter’s assertion.
For the next few miles, the company fell into an uncomfortable silence—except for the Ranger, who set to humming a peculiar tune, a refrain of notes as dreary as the weather. It was the same lonely tune that Doyle had purred after they first met him.
The dull melody grew so bothersome, Keech tried to shift his ears to more comforting noises: the steadfast wheeze of the wind, the tromping of hooves on frozen ground. He noticed, with no small curiosity, that Saint Peter’s steps were utterly silent, neither crunching on the ice nor leaving a single hoofprint in the snow. Doyle’s story about the horse being a Kelpie spirit seemed ridiculous, but Keech had to believe his own ears and eyes.
Before long, the group crested another broad hill, and rolling white prairie unfolded before them. The sight filled Keech with both melancholy and wonder. The abundant range bristled with clusters of snow-covered foxtail and reclusive trees, each one shorn bald and helpless by the constant wind. Occasional ridges punctuated the lowland, a series of cliff-like escarpments that gave Keech a feeling of constant motion, as though they were riding over the surface of a vast ocean.
A startling crack of thunder made him glance farther west.
“Looks like another storm,” said Quinn.
Saint Peter suddenly came to a stop. Doyle held up his fist, a signal for the gang to rein back, and the young riders halted their ponies. Keech watched as the Ranger jiggled his head, like someone trying to jar himself from a bitter daydream.
Concern twisted Quinn’s face. “Ranger?”
“No one move,” Doyle barked. “Listen.”
The man resumed his monotonous tune, this time placing a string of words on the melody. They sounded empty of meaning, like the irritating gibberish that Little Eugena and Patrick used to mumble to each other while playing. The noise slipped under Keech’s skin and crawled over his nerves. He inspected the quiet prairie, hoping to see what concerned the Ranger, but save for the occasional set of rabbit prints, he saw nothing of note. He lifted his eyes to search the clouds.
Farther west, a narrow smear on the sky hovered like a dismal bookmark above the land, as if a powerful storm had gathered inside a single, mighty cloud. Keech remembered the Ranger’s warning that they would see darkness and wondered if the terrible smear was what he had meant.
A too-familiar Ack! yanked Keech from his thoughts.
Doyle didn’t stop chanting. Instead, his bothersome song grew louder. The frightful call came again, more urgent this time: Ack! Ack!
A quick movement near Keech’s right flank made him spin. Not far away, a large black shape had perched on a thick sycamore limb. Keech’s breath hitched. He expected the shard to suddenly ignite cold under his shirt, but it did nothing. Next to him, Duck grabbed at her own amulet, her face showing the same confusion Keech was feeling.
The monstrous crow on the sycamore had a rounded torso, bulging and lumpish, and giant wings. The talons that held the creature on the bough resembled the curved spikes of a deer’s antlers, and the crow’s long beak could have passed for a cutting froe. A pair of bloodred eyes scanned the prairie.
The creature looked straight at the young riders, but it was confused, as though a rock had just smacked it across the head.
Abruptly, Doyle’s song ceased, and he whistled loudly at the crow, as if mocking it.
“Quiet, Ranger!” Duck hissed.
“Don’t fret. I’ve made sure this one sees and hears nothing of us.”
The Ranger spun his mount and strolled up to the sycamore tree, stopping a few feet from the crow. “Think of the crows as extensions of a main body, like the teeth of a crocodile. When the teeth strike, they can kill. But if the crocodile is blind, the teeth can’t find their prey.”
Keech considered for a moment. “Your humming. It’s made us invisible somehow.”
The Ranger smiled. “Put a blindfold on the croc, and he can’t strike very well, can he?”
“I wish you would teach us to hum like that,” Keech said.
“It’s not the humming, son. It’s the focus the tune provides.” Doyle grunted. “Anyway, children should learn numbers and history, not enchantment.”
“We’re on a dangerous trail, not at home reading lessons,” said Duck.
“It sure would come in handy,” Keech said.
The Ranger thought for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to share a few concepts.” He cleared his throat. “Energies exist inside everything you can see and smell, taste and touch. Some energies are shallow, like the bubbles that rise to the surface of a pond. They’re the easiest to tap. Others lie deeper and are more challenging to find. The first step to connecting with these buried energies is to clear your mind of distractions.”
“How?” Keech asked.
“Different methods work for different folks. I begin by listening to the songs of the scurryin’ rodents, the whisper of the breeze, the crack of ice as the sun shines on the snow. When I discover the tune of the world, my focus sparks within. That’s the secret: focus.”
“‘The tune of the world.’” Keech took a moment to listen to the prairie.
“Our method of focusing will be special to each of us, won’t it?” Quinn asked.
“Indeed, Mr. Revels. Each person must find his own way to connect.” The Ranger closed his eyes and drew in a steady breath. “Now, let’s learn a more important lesson.”
“Which is?” said Duck.
The Ranger pointed his gloved finger at the crow. “Breaking the crocodile’s teeth.”
The massive bird squawked but remained unaware of the group.
“Bang,” Doyle said.
The crow exploded into a grisly ball of black feathers and muck. The remains of the monster drifted to the ground.
Keech gawked in surprise, unable to speak.
Gravely, Doyle looked at the young riders. “Your first lesson is complete. Now let’s get back to the trail.” Snapping Saint Peter’s reins, the Ranger forged on.