Despite their pleas that Travis hurry, the farrier still required several more minutes to finish up her care of the animals. “If I don’t do this right,” she said, “you’ll end up with lame horses and have to put ’em down. Then you won’t have a ride a’tall.”
Once Irving and Lightnin’ were set to ride, Duck and Quinn headed off to Tippets’s to load up their supplies. Keech waited in the barn as Travis finished up Hector’s shoes. Keeping her focus on the stallion’s hooves, she scolded Keech in a rough tone.
“You got to treat yer horse like part of yerself. Better even. A well-tended mount will save yer life in the deep wilderness.” Travis finished pounding a nail and lowered Hector’s hoof. “’Specially a fine stallion like Hector here. When you bring me a handsome steed so ragged, I want to bend you over my knee and spank ya.”
“I understand, Miss Travis, but I need to ask you something,” he said. “Before, when I mentioned the words skeleton and key, McCarty threw you a peculiar look, like you might know the meaning. Do you?”
The farrier set her hammer down. “McCarty’s a private lady, and her business is her own. But sometimes, when she catnaps in the barn, she jabbers in her sleep. A few months back, McCarty comes bangin’ on my barn door. I offered her my cot, and no sooner did that woman hit the pillow, she commenced to kickin’ up hay in a terrible fuss. Started shoutin’ about a skeleton and devils from a Dead Rift. All that talk about monsters sure did spook me.”
“A Dead Rift,” Keech repeated with a shiver. He recalled a few months back when Cutter mentioned tales of monsters from his youth. When I was a kid, mi mamá used to tell me stories at bedtime, he had said. The tales that scared me the most were about the Shifters from another world …
Then later, after the team had met Doyle, the Ranger had spoken of Big Ben’s Chamelia in eerily similar fashion. A creature that crawled up into our world long ago, the man had said.
And now there was this talk of something called a Dead Rift.
“Much obliged, Miss Travis,” Keech said. “Have a good day.”
He mulled over everything Travis had told him as he and Hector waited in the alley for Quinn and Duck. When the pair returned from Tippets’s with their ponies loaded, Keech started to tell them what he’d learned, but Duck insisted they hurry to catch McCarty.
The moment they stepped out into the white expanse, the weather barreled down, pummeling their cheeks with furious cold. The plains drifted forever flat to the east, but to the north and west the ground bubbled and rolled into foothills and mountains. Spikes of granite and Douglas firs rose high against the sky.
“Time to search for the Suffering Bluffs,” Quinn reminded them. “That Texan seemed pretty sure it’s the way to McCarty’s doorstep.”
Two separate trails led away from Hook’s Fort, scarring the otherwise pristine coat of snow that frosted the land. One run of tracks left by a horse and a dog—certain to belong to McCarty and Achilles—ran parallel to a series of deep wagon ruts and a crowd of hoofprints. Keech pointed out both trails. “That must be the wagon train. Looks like McCarty struck out in the same general direction.”
Quinn started humming his Odyssey tune as they rode, blotting out their figures on the trail. For over two hours they followed the tracks, keeping silent except for Quinn’s song. The wheel grooves from the wagon caravan trod a rough path along the slope of the hills, sometimes swerving around difficult terrain, but always holding the same northern direction as McCarty’s passage. At one point, Keech suggested McCarty might be tracking the wagons, too, but no one responded.
Before long, the trio came to a low gulch full of dead brush. They stopped to inspect the caravan’s migration around the deadfall. While they examined the passage, Keech caught sight of quick movement atop the next rise, a sudden blur of gray slipping over the edge of the hill. “Look!” he said. “I think I just saw Achilles!”
When they reached the top of the rise, sure enough, McCarty’s hound was standing on a flat rock a few yards away, watching them, his bushy tail wagging to the rhythm of the wind.
“Is it my imagination, or is that dog waiting on us?” Quinn asked.
“Appears that way,” Duck said.
As soon as their horses took the next step, Achilles leaped off his rocky platform and loped out of view again, vanishing behind a narrow spruce thicket in the distance.
By the time they reached the thicket, there was no sign of the hound. His paw prints showed a northwest track toward the mountains, but the critter himself was too fast and had slipped out of view.
Disappointed, the young riders forged on. When they reached a long, empty field, Duck stopped Irving.
“Fellas, we got a problem,” she said.
Though Achilles’s prints remained in the snow, McCarty’s trail had disappeared. Her mount’s hoofprints ended in the middle of the valley. Keech searched for some kind of sign—perhaps the woman had swept over the snow to obscure her movement—but other than the dog’s prints, the snowpack appeared undisturbed.
“Where in blazes did she go?” Quinn said.
“Maybe she stepped through a magic door, like a bending tree,” Keech suggested.
Duck glanced around. “We’re in the middle of an empty field. No trees. Besides, the bending trees don’t work no more, remember? Doyle and the elders sealed them for good.”
“Then how do you suppose she made her trail vanish?” Quinn asked.
“I don’t know, but I suspect McCarty ain’t just some trapper,” Duck said.
Keech had been thinking the same about McCarty, especially after her forceful words about Rose, but he’d been too irritated with Duck to bring it up. Till now. “I think I know why Horner sent us to McCarty. Horner wouldn’t tell us to gather the artifacts and head to any old trapper. He knew the person would have to be trustworthy, but also somebody who knew things about Rose, important things.”
“Are you saying you think McCarty’s another Enforcer?” asked Quinn.
“An Enforcer named O’Brien.” And now that the name was out, Keech realized he’d seen it written in Doyle’s journal. He pulled the Ranger’s book out of his coat and started flipping through the old pages. “It’s in here somewhere.” He turned to the entry dated 25 July 1832 and ran his finger down the page. “The Enforcers were ambushed by some bandits when two folks showed up to save them. Here it is.” He tapped the page and read aloud:
“‘The pair introduced themselves as Isaiah Raines and Em O’Brien … From the look of their partnership, the two are very close.’”
“Em O’Brien,” Keech said. “At first, I assumed the name had to be short for Emmett, but now I’d wager it’s short for Emily.” After a brief silence, he tucked the journal back into his coat. “McCarty is O’Brien, the sixth Enforcer.”
Duck and Quinn seemed momentarily stunned.
Doyle’s writings claimed that Isaiah Raines and Em O’Brien had maintained a close partnership—yet never in Keech’s life had Pa Abner ever mentioned such a woman. But according to Doyle’s journal, Pa Abner and O’Brien had once saved the other men from a bandit attack up near Lake Superior, and the six had decided to travel together, becoming Enforcers for Rose not long after.
Quinn finally said, “Enforcer or no, we’ve lost her trail. We have no choice but to track the dog.”
Keech agreed. “I say we head to the next rise, see where the ruts lead. The wagon trail’s still following the same path. The caravan can’t be too far. If we pick up the pace, maybe we can catch up to the dog and warn those folks. We can still do some good.”
Duck nibbled at her bottom lip. “All right. Let’s ride.”
The trio resumed their northern trek, pushing the horses to a comfortable trot through the deep drifts. They tried to follow the trail left by McCarty’s hound, but soon the searing, cold gusts that blew off the plains blotted out the dog’s path.
“Dang it all; we’ll never find him now,” Duck spat.
As they ascended a steep grade, they saw a lowland bowl cut by a winding river. Hundreds of large brown animals roamed the valley floor, murmuring and meandering along each side of the water. The Lost Causes suspected they were looking at the same buffalo herd they had spotted near Hook’s Fort. The shaggy brood covered nearly every inch of ground for at least half a mile in every direction.
“The wagon trail slips toward the river,” Keech said. “Let’s head down the slope, but be careful not to spook those buffalo.”
“Achilles wouldn’t have gone anywhere near that herd,” Duck said.
“We’ll find his trail again,” Keech said.
They started down the embankment. When they rounded a large boulder, Keech spotted five large shapes rolling over the landscape to the west of the river. Covered wagons. “There they are!” he said.
Quinn huffed in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be.”
The lonely caravan struggled across the snowy expanse, the dray horses yoked to the tongues tromping at a turtle’s speed. From all appearances, the drivers looked to be heading toward the nearby canyon.
Keech scanned the hills for any sign of Ian and his roughnecks. “The caravan’s safe for now.”
Duck pointed toward a cluster of fir trees along a nearby ridge. Fumbling a hand into her coat, she withdrew her spyglass. “Something’s moving in those trees.” She handed the scope to Quinn. “Y’all better see this.”
Quinn scanned the tree line, wrinkled his brow, then handed the glass to Keech.
Less than a mile from the wagons, four mounted men were gathered on the ridge.
Duck sighed. “You were right, Keech. Sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“We need to send out some kind of warning,” Quinn said. “Maybe the guards can hold them off with their rifles, least till they can reach cover.”
Keech shook his head. “No guns on the wagons. One of the bandits said so himself. Besides, we’re too far out to warn them. You two wait here.” Flicking Hector’s reins, he started back along the ridge, trotting toward the distant desperadoes.
“Not again!” Duck called out. “Keech, get back here!”
But Keech didn’t stop. His instincts, his trust in faithful Sam, had proved right. He would continue to trust his gut to guide him to the end of this task. He released his reins as Hector moved over the ridge, realizing he didn’t need to guide the stallion. Duck’s warning shouts stopped. He glanced back and saw an empty hilltop, the snow as untouched as if it were freshly fallen. He knew, of course, his partners were still there, just concealed by Quinn’s song. The fact that he could no longer see or hear them meant the concealment spell was no longer protecting him. He would have to be careful. If the bandits spotted him, they would surely draw down.
Keech’s heart pounded as Hector ran. He searched for the bright heat living deep in his gut, the power that would spark and grow as he focused. A thrum of energy vibrated under his skin, a dizzying pulse that spiked at the base of his skull.
His focus. He was ready.
Keech held his hand out before him, his fingers fanned wide.
But the bandits were no longer bunched near the firs at the ridgetop. The four men were galloping down the hill, weapons drawn, headed straight for the caravan.
“Follow them, Heck!” Without missing a step, Hector leaned to the right. Within seconds Keech was tailing the bandits, a few hundred yards behind, but closing fast.
Remembering Doyle’s hand motions in eastern Kansas, Keech waved his open palms in circles, working to summon a whirlwind. He aimed his focus at a patch of ground just ahead of the bushwhackers. Discover the tune of the world, he thought, drawing from the Enforcer’s lessons. Clear your mind of distractions. The rugged bounce of Hector’s gallop strained his concentration, but Keech refused to let anything break his focus. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on.”
Churning winds kicked up a wall of snow in front of the riders.
But the men didn’t slow. Instead, they surged right through the bluster as if the frosty barrier were nothing more than a breeze. The bandits hooted and laughed, their spurs driving their bangtails down the hill faster yet.
“No!” Keech thought he’d found his focus, but for some reason the whirlwind had collapsed into a pitiful puff.
The bearded ruffian, Ian, shouted something to his gang, pulled his reins, and peeled away from the group. As the other three bandits continued their charge toward the wagons, Ian brought his horse to a standstill on the ridge. He lifted his revolver and aimed at Keech.
Keech heard a slug whiz past his head, then a loud crack rang across the valley. Anger washed over him. “No!” he cried again, pointing his finger at the shooting iron.
A blue sheen of frost encased the bandit’s glove, and Ian’s revolver turned to ice. The man flinched in surprise and dropped the frozen weapon into the drift. Shouting curses, he hopped off his horse and started digging in the snow to fetch the revolver.
Hector galloped straight at the bandit. “Take him down, Heck!” Keech yelled.
Squawking like a stunned bird, the bearded man lifted his pistol out of the snow. He took aim but the icy metal refused to fire. Hector charged the man. Ian tried to jump aside, but the stallion’s massive shoulder smashed into him. The fellow’s bootheels flipped up as he landed on his back in the snow.
Keech regarded the man in the snow only for a second, then pointed at the other three outlaws. “Their turn, Heck!”
Across the valley, one of the men turned, saw Keech, and called to the others. The gang veered toward a thick stand of junipers. A desperado holding a musket jumped off his mount and dropped to one knee like a soldier taking aim. As he sighted down the musket, the other two found cover behind the trees.
Keech prepared to yank at Hector’s reins, hoping to pull the pony out of the musket’s line of sight, but even as he fumbled for the straps, Hector seemed to read his intentions and bent his path away.
The digression was too late. A puff of smoke billowed from the man’s musket, and a blink later a heavy hammer smashed into Keech’s forearm, punting him off the saddle. The world tumbled around him, a bedlam of ice and fiery pain as he crashed into the snow.