Chapter 2

Caleb had never met Donovan Hazard, but he already knew he didn’t like the man. He sat at the bar, sipped his coffee, smoked a cigarillo, and listened to Teddy MacGregor expound on the life and times of the previous Peacemaker for the borderlands region, and he developed a quiet seething hatred.

“So whatever happened ta the mon? We just got word a few weeks ago that a new agent would be takin’ his place.” Teddy, like most good bartenders, seemed content to spread whatever knowledge he’d gleaned.

“He was at the Little Bighorn.” Caleb took a swig of his coffee. The urge to grimace had passed finally, but the coffee was nearly mud it was so dark. “Scoured.”

Teddy winced. “I cannae say I liked the mon, but I wouldnae wish that on anyone.”

The Peacemaker nodded his agreement, and whispered the word vonk to himself, channeling a small bit of power into his fingertips. The tingles were pleasant on his skin and discharged in a static spark when he touched the metal bar rail. “But for the grace of God, and all that.”

“That’s the truth of it there.” Teddy raised his glass of water in respect. “So what brings you out here? I cannae imagine this is a route you’d pick, given the choice.”

“Even the frontier needs law. I swore an oath to uphold that law.” That was the polite answer to that question, but as Caleb finished his coffee and pondered the twists of fate that had put him here, he couldn’t help but feel the glimmer of bitterness deep in his chest. “I was an artillery captain in the war. Got injured.” He gestured to the vicious scar down his face. “By the time I was on my feet again, the war was over and the president was forming up this new law enforcement organization. I thought it would be a good place for me to be helpful.”

To say he’d been injured was an understatement. But for the grace of God, he would have been like Donovan Hazard or the Swedish smith. After the battle at Cold Harbor, he’d lain unconscious for nearly a month, and the doctors had all been sure he was scoured clean. If not for Ernst’s sudden appearance, he might have believed it himself. The road back had been a long and difficult one; he’d relearned everything from the beginning, right down to the childhood command words that he should have abandoned long ago.

“Brand,” he whispered, and a tiny flame appeared at the end of his cigarillo, the blue smoke curling happily. When the words had come back to him, they’d been in Dutch, the language of his childhood. Even now, eleven years after the injury, it was easier to think in command words than to simply conjure through force of will. His superiors with the Peacemakers frowned at his apparent failure to regain the most basic of adult skills, and he knew that was a large part of what had gotten him assigned to the borderlands. The only one it didn’t seem to bother was his little furry companion.

Ernst was seated on the bar, lapping idly at a small dish of whiskey that he’d managed to wheedle out of Teddy. For a creature that did not actually require food or water, he certainly liked his alcohol, and a properly aged whiskey was his favorite thing in the world. His eyes had sparkled upon seeing the treasures behind Teddy’s bar, and he was certainly not above using his furry appeal to get what he wanted.

For his part, the Scot seemed rather enamored of the little jackalope, as most people were. It was hard not to like Ernst, no matter what form he had chosen to take at that moment. Like many familiars, his personality seemed to take on the opposite traits of his partner. A stoic man would have a boisterous and effervescent companion, while a jolly man might possess a taciturn and surly familiar. Ernst, with his charming ways and optimistic outlook on almost everything, was the perfect balance to Caleb’s tendency for solitude and cynicism. He often paved a smoother path than Caleb could have managed himself.

“Ye must have an amazing amount of power, Agent Marcus, ta work with artillery. And ta have the little fellow, here. I havenae seen a familiar since I came west. None that werenae tied to a red Indian, I mean.”

Familiars were uncommon, it was true, and by rights Caleb should never have had one. His strength had never recovered to its former level, and yet Ernst had claimed him and refused to be budged. “You run into the Indians a lot here?”

Teddy shrugged. “Sometimes, they raid the homesteads in the foothills. Fools, the lot of them, living so close to the mountains like that. And the young braves, they get to feeling their oats now and again, and ride down into the prairie.” Someone came in through the doors, and Teddy waved a greeting. “But ’til this summer, it was more that we left each other alone, and all was well.”

A few more people filed in, and from the greetings it was apparent this was the usual dinnertime crowd. Teddy excused himself to pull mugs for the tables and take down the dinner orders. Caleb watched the townsfolk, even as they pretended not to be watching him. There was more curiosity in the air than hostility, and he could tell that Hector’s campaign had done its job already. At least they were willing to give him a chance now.

When Teddy slipped back behind the bar, Caleb picked up the thread of their conversation. “What happened this summer?”

“Hmm? Oh, the Indians?” The bartender shook his head. “Things hae been unsettled since the battle up north. They say the Indians are stopping the rain at the mountains now, and we hae been getting small earth tremblers even out here. Turned the town well to muck for a week an’ a half. We had ta truck clear out ta Warner’s ta fetch water from his well.” Teddy’s accent got stronger with the frown on his face. “There’s been raids, too, around the homesteads. The tribes are pushin’ farther east than ever before.”

The battle up north was the Little Bighorn, of course. Thirty Peacemakers had died or been scoured there, along with the entirety of Custer’s Seventh. The great shaman Wind Walker had proven that primitive Indian magic was more than a match for the white man’s army.

The land itself was a smoking crater in the ground, and nothing would grow there ever again. Caleb had seen the photographs indelibly etched in blue and white. It should have been a cautionary tale for all on the consequences of such unrestrained power, but . . . The expansionists, those back east who had never even seen an Indian, were calling for exterminations and land annexations. It had become the rallying point for passionate speeches and political debates. It made Caleb faintly ill.

“Has anyone been hurt?” Caleb drained his coffee.

“No. They know if they start killing folks, the federals will move in. They do just enough ta try and drive people oot.” Teddy shrugged again, swiping at the bar with his towel. “Personally, I dinnae want their land, and they’re welcome to it. I think there’s only so much land a mon can use, and I’m happy with what I’ve got. Greed’s one of the deadly sins, after all.”

For dinner, Teddy introduced Caleb to something called a boxty—“The Irish don’t get everything wrong,” the Scot asserted—which seemed to be a potato pancake stuffed with some meat and stewed vegetables, and which turned out to be one of the most delicious things Caleb had ever eaten. As more people filed in and out of the bar, a few brave souls even introduced themselves to him, though the conversations were brief and no one joined him at his seat.

Caleb immediately noticed the one and only woman to appear, and she took a seat alone in a corner, exchanging small talk with Teddy and eating her dinner alone. She seemed young, no older than Caleb at any rate, but her collar was buttoned high under her chin and, her dark blond hair was pinned atop her head as neatly as that of any matron he’d ever seen back east.

Teddy noticed his observation. “That’s Ellen Sinclair. Schoolteacher. Been here about a year. Keeps a room upstairs next to yours.”

“I didn’t even see the schoolhouse when I rode in.”

“That’s ’cause it’s sittin’ out behind the church in a pile a lumber.” Teddy nodded. “Most of the town kids ride clear out to the Warner ranch for school, and the town here hasn’t been real receptive to Miss Sinclair and her new schoolhouse.”

“Seems a shame.”

Miss Sinclair finished her dinner and retreated up the stairs to her room without speaking to anyone else.

Hector Pratt slid onto the stool next to Caleb just as the Peacemaker asked, “So who’s this Warner? I keep hearing mention of the Warner place, but I haven’t actually met the man yet.”

Teddy plopped a mug of beer in front of Hector. “He’ll be in around seven. Is most nights, actually. Him and his men.”

The storekeeper nodded his agreement. “They stay until Teddy closes down, then ride back out to the ranch in the dark of night. Ain’t no reds tried to bother them yet, so . . .”

“You wouldnae bother them either, nae with that Schmidt riding herd.” The bartender grinned at Caleb with a glint in his eye, happy to be the first to impart gossip to a new listener.

“Schmidt?”

“Abel Warner’s right-hand man. I’ve seen him drop a buffalo at seven hundred and fifty yards, clean through the temple.” He mimed shooting at his own head. “Best I’ve ever seen with a buffalo gun.”

“Not Kaspar Schmidt? Small man, pale blue eyes?”

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation.” Caleb fought the urge to roll his shoulders as a sudden ominous itch developed right between his shoulder blades. Oh, yes, he’d heard of Kaspar Schmidt.

It was a name that had been spoken in hushed whispers throughout the Union army during the war. Not a single man stepped from his tent in the morning without a small hesitation and the sure knowledge that in the next few seconds he could be dead, and that the shot would come from far enough away it would never even be heard. Such was the legend of Kaspar Schmidt.

He was a sniper for the Confederacy, but as the story went, he felt no particular loyalty to their cause. It was merely a means of allowing him to kill as many as possible. And kill he did. Shots taken from impossibly long distances, in insanely difficult conditions. Straight shooting, augmented shooting, it didn’t seem to matter. And once his reputation as a killer was established, he got creative. Arcane rounds, augmented by the shooter’s own power, would explode on impact, and he used that ability to good effect. He would shatter a knee, take off an ear, amputate an arm at the elbow, anything to spill blood and cause suffering before he ended it.

Once, Caleb had heard, Schmidt shot a lieutenant’s young wife who was visiting the encampment, then finished them both off as the soldier ran to help his bride. Three shots in mere moments, and all for fun.

“I haven’t heard that name since the war.” Perhaps something in Caleb’s mood told Hector and Teddy not to press further. What in the world would a man like that be doing out here in the back end of nowhere?

The hum of conversation went on. The smoke from pipes and cigars rose in a cloud to the ceiling until the room was filled with a bluish haze. Caleb watched the townsfolk go about their usual routines. There were card games, debates that had obviously just picked up where they’d been left the night before, the occasional person plinking out music on the piano. Teddy and Hector discussed the weather, the crops, the coming winter, though it was nearly six months off. Ernst, having finished his whiskey, curled up against Caleb’s shoulder and snored softly, his antlers tapping the bar with every exhale.

And as the clock in the corner struck seven, the doors opened to admit a dark-haired, dark-eyed man dressed finer than anyone else Caleb had seen in Hope. His mustache was waxed, his boots polished, and he wore no gun. He didn’t need to, apparently, since the four men who walked in behind him were all armed with six-guns hanging off their belts.

Those four were thugs. Caleb recognized the type, and no amount of spit and polish would make them anything but. While their boss made the rounds, shaking hands and patting backs, they claimed a table in the corner and sat, looking surly to a man. None of them was Schmidt.

“And I hear our new Peacemaker has arrived!” The dark man offered his hand to Caleb, grinning broadly beneath his elegant mustache. “I’m Abel Warner. I own a ranch just south of here.”

“Caleb Marcus.” He clasped hands with the rancher and felt power shoot all the way up his arm into his shoulder. Only sheer will kept him from jerking free of Warner’s touch. The muscles in his neck and jaw wanted to clench into knots, and his own power rose in answer, feeding back along those lines to surge into the rancher’s hand in return. Warner raised one brow, his cheerful smile twitching at one corner.

Beside them, Ernst sat up from a dead sleep with a yelp and nearly fell off the bar, his jackalope form flickering wildly in momentary panic. Black fur sprouted, along with a sinuous cat’s tail, only to give way to stubby wings with black and white feathers bristling from the coat of brown fur. Caleb moved quickly to catch him, breaking contact with Warner.

The black cat-magpie-jackalope was a quivering mess, but he finally got his appearance under control and was once again furry and be-antlered. He looked about the room with wide brown eyes, his ears flat against his head. Caleb knew how he felt. Warner was powerful. Maybe as powerful as Caleb himself had once been. A man to be watched. “Easy, Ernst . . . Have a nightmare?”

The rabbit nose quivered and twitched, and Ernst made no attempt to leave the safety of Caleb’s arms. “Nasty thing, whiskey. Must be a young batch, not settled yet. Upsets the mind.” The careful nonchalance might have fooled anyone but Caleb. His familiar was shaken, and though Ernst finally allowed himself to be placed back on the bar, he kept his brown eyes fixed on Warner.

“Your familiar, I assume?” Warner eyed Ernst with a smile. “I always wished I could have had one, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Ernst has been with me for quite a while.” Caleb rested his hand on his companion’s back, feeling the furry creature tremble.

“Well, we are glad to have both of you in Hope for the duration of your stay.” As fixed as his waxed mustache, Warner’s smile never changed. “I would like to invite you both to stay at my ranch if you like. The accommodations are a bit cramped here.” He smiled at Teddy by way of apology, but the Scot just shrugged.

“No, thank you. I’m already settled in.” The Peacemaker forced his own smile to remain as cheerful, despite the fact that his familiar was almost going to pieces beside him. “But I am much obliged for the invitation.”

Something flickered through Warner’s eyes, almost too quick to be seen if Caleb hadn’t been watching for it. It was something dark, calculating. Warner didn’t like to be told no. But the look was gone in a flash, and only the smile remained. “Well, if you change your mind, the place is about ten miles south of here.”

Warner returned to his socializing, making his way toward the table where his men sat. Caleb deliberately spun his stool to face the bar, putting his back to them. Having them behind him, he could feel his skin crawl, but at least he could watch them clearly in the mirror.

Ernst whimpered, burrowing his head into Caleb’s chest. “Don’t let him touch me. Please don’t let him touch me.” The poor animal’s pleas were lost in the din of the crowd, but Caleb could hear him.

“Shh. He won’t hurt you, Ernst. I promise.” Caleb stroked the furry rabbit ears until the antlers ceased their trembling. He’d never seen Ernst so distressed before, and that more than anything spoke volumes about Abel Warner. Caleb lowered his voice and switched to Dutch for good measure, so they could converse privately. “What’s wrong? What is it that disturbs you so?”

“I’m not sure.” His knowledge of languages inherited from the man he was bound to, Ernst answered him in the same language. The rabbitlike creature stood up on his hind legs, bracing his front paws on Caleb’s shoulder so he could peer out at the room behind them. “He’s just . . . wrong, somehow. Very, very wrong.”

It was a declaration Caleb couldn’t ignore, especially when Ernst was always the first to see good in everyone. In the mirror, he caught Warner glancing his way, his eyes not on Caleb’s back but on the familiar peeking over his shoulder. Ernst ducked back down quickly. “Why don’t you vanish up to the room, hmm? No reason to stay here, and I’ll be up soon.”

“Yes, maybe I’ll do that.” The jackalope sat up on his haunches so that he could look Caleb directly in the eyes. His nose quivered violently. “You be careful, Caleb. There’s something dark about that man.” With a small pop of collapsing air, he was gone.

Hector watched Ernst’s departure with concern. “He going to be all right?”

Caleb nodded and cleared his throat before switching back to English. “I think so. He startles easily sometimes. Comes from taking the form of small prey animals so often, I think.” It was a bald-faced lie. Caleb had seen his familiar stare down all manner of dangers without so much as flinching. He’d rather have the small creature at his side in a crisis than most men he knew. But he didn’t know Teddy or Hector well enough yet to question them about Ernst’s intuition. As much as he liked them, it remained to be seen whether they could be trusted.

He motioned for Teddy to pour him more coffee. In the mirror, Warner was very carefully not looking toward Caleb at the bar.

The bartender obliged, shaking his head with a small smile. “They never fail to amaze me, familiars, with their poppin’ in and oot of places without so much as a by-your-leave. Often wished I’d had the same talent as a wee lad. Woulda saved me considerable trouble on more than one occasion.”

Sipping at the coffee without really tasting it, Caleb made some sort of noncommittal agreeing noise in the back of his throat.

Abel Warner ruled the room; that much was clear after watching for about an hour. Every person who entered greeted him first, and he magnanimously bestowed toasts and free beverages on several of them. Caleb watched carefully, but Warner did seem to be paying for everything he and his men used. At least he wasn’t abusing Teddy’s hospitality. “The man has more money than God,” Hector confided before he left to go home.

Still, there was something that set the Peacemaker on edge, something beyond Ernst’s nervous breakdown. There was the face that Warner was presenting to the room, and then there was that faint glimmer Caleb had seen behind his eyes. The two didn’t match. “I’m going to go get a breath of fresh air, Teddy. I’ll just be outside.”

Fresh air was wishful thinking, really. Though the sun was drifting down behind the looming mountains, the evening was no cooler than the day had been. The oppressively hot air sat on his chest like a weight. He lit another cigarillo with a murmured brand and leaned against the railing in front of the tavern. At the other end of the street, a yellow lantern flickered to life, revealing the form of the person lighting it, and Caleb had to smile to himself.

How different life was on the frontier than back east. In St. Louis or Chicago, the nights glowed blue, lit by the cool shine of arcane-powered streetlights. Beneath the aroma of azaleas or whatever flower might be in season, the night air would smell faintly of ozone, a scent so commonplace that no city-dweller would notice it. Crowds of people would still be traversing the sidewalks, the rustle of skirts and click of the ladies’ high boots competing to be heard over the clang of transport hooves and whispery hiss of their pistons as the constructs drew ornate carriages down the cobbled streets.

Here, the streets were dust if one was lucky, and knee-deep mud if one was not. Sidewalks were raised wooden platforms, if they existed at all. The lights were yellow, more often than not, burning oil or perhaps even beeswax. In a community the size of Hope, there weren’t enough people with sufficient power to use arcane lamps throughout the town. There were no fragrant flowers blooming along the sidewalks, and only one or two transports added their blue gleam to the darkness. Most folk had walked here, it seemed, and if Caleb had to guess, the five transports he saw parked at the corner of the building had to belong to Warner and his crew.

So far from home. He drew deeply on his cigarillo, letting the smoke roll around his tongue before he breathed it out, creating a small smoke ring. So very far.

Most of the townsfolk wandered their way toward home as the night grew late, many of them waving farewell to him as they passed his perch on the railing. Even Warner and his quartet of thugs departed, the rancher pausing to tip his hat to the Peacemaker. There was a promise behind his sly smile that Caleb didn’t like.

However, he was also forced to admit that his unease could be just the exhaustion speaking. With a nod to Teddy behind the bar, he made his way up the stairs to his room.

To find his door ajar about an inch . . . Listening, he caught the faint sound of someone moving within. His gun was inside, as was his staff, so he summoned a ball of blue crackling power to his palm with the whispered word kracht and slammed the door open with a bang.

Ernst, on the bed, jumped almost three feet straight up with a squeal, and the young boy kneeling next to Caleb’s trunk whirled and made a dash for the door almost before the Peacemaker could relax.

“Whoa! Hold on there, son!” Quickly dismissing the orb of energy, he caught the boy by the shoulders as he tried to bull his way past.

“I ain’ yer son! Lemme go!” The lad aimed a sharp kick at Caleb’s shin, and the Peacemaker gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath. The kid was gangly, all elbows and coltish legs, and he seemed to wriggle in seven directions at once. Caleb was hard-pressed to keep hold of him.

“Hey, settle down! You’re not in trouble . . . yet.” With a firm hold on both arms, Caleb forced the boy to stand still, fixing him with a stern stare. “Ernst, you all right?”

The jackalope snorted. “Did no one ever teach you to knock? Sparks and gears, Caleb!”

“The boy bother you?”

“I didn’ touch him!” The kid stuck out his chin obstinately. “We was just talkin’!”

Caleb raised a brow at Ernst, who just shrugged. “He wasn’t going to get into the trunk. I didn’t think raising a fuss was necessary.”

The Peacemaker sighed. “What’s your name, boy?” The boy mumbled something sullenly. “You realize I’m the law, right? I can toss you in jail if I want.”

The kid stared up through his shaggy brown hair. “For what?”

“For hindering a federal investigation by not giving me your name.” Ernst snorted, but Caleb ignored him. “I’m Agent Marcus. You are?” He released the boy and offered his hand, more than half expecting the kid to bolt out the door the moment he was free.

Warily, the boy shook hands. “James Welton. Everybody calls me Jimmy.”

There was power in the child, still unformed and untrained. It licked over Caleb’s skin like tiny tongues of curious flame. Impressive for one so young. “And what are you doing prowling around my room this time of night, Jimmy? Won’t your mother be worried?”

“Ain’ got a ma. Or pa. I do what I want.” Jimmy straightened his clothes, pride obvious in the set of his thin shoulders.

“Who takes care of you then?”

“I take care of myself.” The kid did his best to look tough.

Ernst, grooming his long ears, piped up. “Teddy lets him sleep here in exchange for small tasks. And there’s a widow on the south end of town who gives him clothes when he needs them.” That at least explained why the kid’s denim pants were rolled multiple times and he was nearly swimming in the flannel work shirt, with its sleeves folded up past his elbows.

Jimmy blushed to the roots of his hair, casting a glare at the jackalope. Obviously, that information had been given in confidence.

Caleb directed the boy to sit on the edge of the bed and moved to inspect his trunk. As he expected, it was unharmed. He passed his hand over the lock, and the warding runes flickered blue in answer. They were intact. It was keyed to his touch and would open only for him.

“This is a very dangerous box, Jimmy. Opening it could result in some very bad things happening.”

“Like what?”

“Like explosions that would blow off arms and legs and leave you in tiny little pieces splattered all over the town.” Each Peacemaker’s special trunk was filled with things that would enhance their particular skills in times of crisis, and Caleb’s talent had always been sheer, cataclysmic destruction.

Jimmy’s eyes got wide. “Really?” He was, however, lacking the element of fearful respect Caleb had been shooting for. If anything, he looked more intrigued.

“Really. So playing with this is a very bad idea.”

“I was just lookin’. I wasn’t gonna steal nothin’.” His eyes darted toward Caleb’s staff, laid across the bed, and Caleb hid a smirk.

“You want to take a look at my staff?” Jimmy eyed him suspiciously, as if he expected it to be a trap, so Caleb picked up the weapon and held it out to the boy. “Have you ever seen ironwood before?”

Jimmy shook his head, eyes wide as his hands ran over the slate gray wood. “No, sir.”

“That is a very old staff, Jimmy. So old that we don’t even remember how to create them anymore.” The ironwood staff was smooth, not from centuries of hands upon its surface, but from the sheer artistry of its craftsmanship. The wood itself was from no known tree, and couldn’t be broken or marred by any tool known to modern man. The mystery of how the runes had been inscribed into the surface was one that occupied many a scholar and arcanosmith alike, and the runes themselves could be traced back to no written language that had been discovered yet.

The ironwood staves were the weapons of the Peacemakers, and rare enough that they could not afford to bind them to just one user. Each one would be passed on when its current bearer had no more need of it, often posthumously. Caleb knew that there were fifteen going to new homes because of the battle at the Little Bighorn alone.

The boy looked up from the weapon, tilting his head thoughtfully at Caleb. “How come you just let me hold this? What if I blast you with it and just take off?”

“First, I don’t believe you would do that. Ernst likes you, which means that you must be a good person.” Caleb reached to take his staff back, running his thumb over the dark runes on the end. “Second, because you not only have to be very powerful to use one, but you have to have special training. Only Peacemakers can use these, so even if someone was able to steal this from me, it would be useless to them.” With just a small nudge of power, the runes glowed bright blue, casting odd shadows around the room before Caleb allowed them to fade. The look of awe on Jimmy Welton’s face was worth it.

“Now, Jimmy.” Caleb raised a brow. “You break into people’s rooms often, just to look?”

The boy shrugged. “Never got a chance ta see a Peacemaker’s stuff before. The old one stayed out at Warner’s.”

“And you didn’t go snooping while you were at school out there?”

The kid snorted. “I don’ go to school. ’Specially not out there.”

Caleb sat on the bed, and the boy scooted away. “You don’t go at all? Who’s teaching you to control your power, then?”

“Nobody. I just . . . do.”

Caleb frowned. “You’re what, nine?”

“I’m twelve!”

For twelve, the boy was positively scrawny. And if he really was twelve, he was woefully and dangerously uneducated.

“Hold your hand out, Jimmy, palm to me.” Reluctantly, the boy did, and Caleb mirrored the gesture, leaving an inch of air between their outstretched hands. “Zoek,” he mouthed silently. Seek.

Caleb’s power went searching, feeling across the dead space between their palms to tickle over the boy’s skin. Jimmy flinched at the first tingle but didn’t withdraw, and his own talent rose in answer. Soon, flickers of blue electricity were dancing back and forth between them in ever more intricate patterns.

“Are . . . are you doing this?” Jimmy finally asked, his eyes wide under his rough bangs.

“We’re doing this.” Caleb kept his eyes on the display, carefully reining in both his power and the boy’s. Jimmy would be formidable when he was older, but only if he was trained before he accidentally scoured himself. “You’re very strong, Jimmy. You need to learn how to harness this before you hurt yourself or someone else.”

Jimmy’s hand clenched into a fist, and the power disappeared with a faint pop. “I ain’ goin’ out to Warner’s place. He’s got bad men out there.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. But . . . have you thought about Miss Sinclair? She’s right across the hall, and I’ll bet she’d be happy to have a student.” Someone had to take this boy in hand. Soon.

There was a rebellious set to the boy’s jaw, but he at least looked thoughtful.

“Jimmy? Dammit boy, where are you?” Teddy appeared in the open doorway, and the Scot frowned. “Boy, I told you to be scrubbin’ out those pots and pans, not botherin’ my guests.”

“We was just talkin’.” Jimmy slid off the bed, reaching to pat Ernst once more. “Nice ta meetcha, Ernst. And you too, mister.” He gave a nod to Caleb and wandered off with all the nonchalance in the world.

Teddy looked to Caleb. “Was he riflin’ through yer things?”

“He tried. But I’ve got wards on the dangerous things, so no harm done.”

The bartender sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry about that, Agent. Boy’s got a thief’s heart, and I cannae seem to break him of it.”

“Someone needs to take that boy’s education in hand. Before he scours himself or someone else.” Caleb pushed his trunk back under his bed with one boot. “He may be strong enough to get into West Point, with proper training. And a decent education, of course.”

“Really?” Teddy glanced back down the hallway after Jimmy, surprise on his face. “Never knew the lad had that much talent. Most of the wee ones here, they . . . well, they’re nothin’ remarkable.”

“The group I saw earlier was still young. Maybe they’ll grow into it.” With a weary sigh, Caleb started to pull off his boots. “Thank you for your hospitality today, Teddy. By all accounts, I’m not sure I deserved it. My predecessor left a hard trail for me to follow.”

The dark Scot gave him a grin. “You be yer own man, Agent Marcus. Folks’ll learn soon enough. Good night.”

“Good night, Teddy.” The bartender closed the door as he left, leaving Caleb alone in his room with Ernst.

The jackalope snuggled against Caleb’s side as the Peacemaker lay back and threw an arm across his eyes. “I have one question, Caleb.”

“Hmm?”

“What does a rancher, out here in the forgotten armpit of nothing, need with a unit of armed men at his beck and call?”

“And a highly skilled sniper. I was wondering the same thing myself, Ernst.” Caleb stroked the soft fur of his familiar. “Let’s get some sleep. Since we’re stuck here anyway, I may as well do some actual investigating tomorrow.”