In September 1868, my strange mentor oversaw the last of my training to ascertain that it was conducted to her satisfaction. The ever youthful woman’s languid manners changed drastically as soon as the smell of spent powder caressed her dainty nostrils. She became focused and determined, accepting no less than perfection from every movement.
“You must strive to relax. Contracting too much will make you rigid.”
Embarrassment stopped me from admitting that it was her presence that caused my anxiety, and not for the reasons you would think, dear reader, for although she was dangerous to most, it was her judgement I feared at that moment.
To demonstrate her word, she smoothly drew her own gun and placed a bullet square in the target’s head at a speed that I could barely follow. Her motion showed a precision and predatory grace that the gentle sex ought not possess.
“Who would train so much while your unnatural powers already grant you a speed no mundane person can hope to match?” I asked with some curiosity.
“Two reasons,” the blonde woman answered dispassionately.
“First, you never know when you will meet your match. Never assume you are the best or you will surely be proven wrong. The second, one must always strive for perfection, for stagnation leads to complacency, and complacency, to death.”
She glared then, and I found behind the sapphire of her eyes the weight of decades of strife.
“But you are far from having this issue, are you not, my young friend? Let me see your fanning.”
I planted my feet firmly on the ground and faced the targets with the determination and phlegm that had led my nation through Napoleon’s war. With a sweeping motion, I lay punishment upon each in turn, sending hay and wood up in the air. Bull’s eye! In an instant, all of the strawmen lay defeated.
“Adequate. Next, you will demonstrate your accuracy with a rifle.”
Accepting the veiled compliment, I returned to the table to pick up my repeater gun. The time had come to show the results of months of gruelling practice, and although I chafed at the constraints placed upon me, I knew I must heed the words of my grandfather Cecil. Any weapon a man wields without expertise is aimed at himself! Sitting, standing, and lying prone, I proved my worth by shooting where she indicated. A hundred Frenchmen and Indians did I slay in my mind! A hundred outlaws fell to my bullets, until the barrel smoked like an old sailor.
“Not bad at all,” the mysterious woman finally conceded.
“I believe that I missed a few,” I admitted.
“To master a weapon is the work of a lifetime. Your current skill surpasses what I demand from my security personnel. You have talent, but let us see if that talent translates in a real situation. Come.”
I grabbed more cartridges and followed her with a determined step. The firing range stood outside of the city of Marquette and the empty field it occupied was well-lit by carefully placed lanterns to accommodate the nocturnal habit of its beautiful owner. From there, we made our way to a pair of warehouses I knew were used to store caravan supplies. The old structures stood a lonely vigil in the night, stained by years of rain and snow. To my surprise, multiple lanterns now adorned their dilapidated surface.
“In this exercise, the enemy has occupied the structure. Your task is to liberate it. I will provide illusions that you must take down quickly in order to pass.”
“How will you know if I hit them?”
The stern glare I received was answer enough, and so I made sure that the repeater and revolver were properly loaded before prowling forward like a Bengal tiger.
A Bingle is always prepared!
I moved fearlessly in the shadows of the derelict buildings, carefully making sure not to expose myself to some dastardly trap. My examiner tonight was as elegant as she was devious, drawing on years of experience in careful planning and strategy, no doubt. I had to show a flexible mind and a stiff upper lip if I were to succeed. I finally reached the wall and moved against it to cover my back. I saw her standing slightly behind me like a judgemental shadow as I watched behind me. Her magical glove was out. I had to give a good account of myself!
I strode forward and checked the corner, finding the blurry figures of a pair of sentries in front of the main door. Bam! Bam! They dispersed in the wind while two more popped out from the roof. My rifle roared twice more and they joined their illusory companion. Quickly, I crossed the open space and turned at the last moment, lining a fantastic shot on the roof of the building I just left. Shadows near the shutters! I lay fire and was rewarded with more fading lights.
Then, the doors at my back rattled. I dropped my rifle, turned like the wind, and drew like the thunder, taking out three figures one after the other. A noise like broken glass warned me of my impending doom and I rolled to the side. A shade appeared at a nearby window and I saw the maw of a gun rising. With blinding speed, I shifted my weight and opened on the place, giving it what for, but alas, I was not done. Another figure raced from the side.
Damnation! I was out of bullets!
Listening only to my courage, I rammed the closest door to find the dusty interior devoid of light and activity. I opened the cylinder and let the empty cartridges roll on the ground. A flip of the wrist and I held more, shoving them forcefully into the rotating chambers as if my life depended on it.
I only had the briefest warning before the last shade followed me in. I swear that I felt more than heard its presence, but I was already moving before it could properly materialize. A last detonation, and the place became quiet again.
I would not let my guard down. Scrutating the darkness, I stalked forth. The interior of the warehouse was musty and devoid of any furniture save for a few empty crates, so the danger would either come from the outside… or from up. I kept moving, taking great care not to be heard. My caution and slow progress found its reward when a commotion from the second floor warned me of yet another foe. Footsteps groaned above. I waited, then seized my moment. A couple of blind shots found the last of my quarry.
“Good instincts.”
I turned and aimed out of habit, only for a dainty hand to grip both handle and hammer before I could pull the trigger again. It was her.
“Still not good enough to catch you,” I replied, aware that I had not perceived her presence.
“And you may never be, but it will do for outlaws. I would suggest scouting more in the future rather than firing on the first man you see. Otherwise, you performed well by denying a static target and covering your back. You pass. I have one last trial for you. If you succeed, I shall grant you a gift.”
“A last ordeal?”
“I have verified your aim and your nerves, now I will test your heart.”
I did not let my concern show while we returned to the range. There, we came across a strange man walking out of the woods. What an original he was, I thought, to walk around without a shirt, but then he grinned and in his eyes, there was a savagery that sent shivers down my spine. Even the person’s grin possessed a bit of snarl, as if it could distend and swallow me whole. You might think me too emotional, or even cowardly, dear reader, yet I assure you that the world is so filled with wondrous and terrifying sights that one’s instinct is sometimes all that stands between a brave man and certain death. So it was that I approached the newcomer with circumspection despite his amenable demeanor and partial nakedness, and my weariness proved well-founded! No sooner had I reached handshaking distance that the rogue pulled a large knife from his belt, a weapon he had hidden at his back! You can imagine that I drew this very instant, and took a step back, ready to give him what for.
“What is the meaning of this, sir?” I demanded.
“This man will deliver the last test. In order to pass, you must kill him,” Miss Delaney explained calmly.
My blood boiled in my veins hearing this outrageous claim.
“Me, a cold-blooded murderer? Never, I say. Never! I took on the gun to bring order to this lawless land, but an order driven by justice, not blind violence!”
“You will face many dangerous situations, Mr. Bingle, where to hesitate is to die. This man is under my thrall. I have ordered him to kill you if you do not kill him first.”
I inspected my would-be victim, currently twirling his blade between agile fingers. His disparaging rictus told me that there was a real person under that strange attitude and even stranger apparel. He took a step forward, and I aimed… at Ariane Delaney.
“If you tell the truth, milady, then you are the one who drives this person to murder, therefore it is your influence I must undo to win the day. I know that my chances are slim, yet when the day of reckoning comes, you will not find me wanting! A Bingle always fights with honor, no matter the odds. Release him, if you please.”
I watch the mysterious woman blink with strange slowness until a rakish, accented voice almost made me jump.
“Well he got you there, boss lady. It’s as I told June, I told her, this Bingle lad got some spine and no mistake.”
“Indeed sir,” I replied, “ and I will not pretend that this is just an exercise. I loaded my revolver with real bullets. One does not wield such a tool carelessly.”
To answer, and to my dismay, my beautiful host grabbed her handbag from a nearby post and picked a small gun from its recess. Before I could react, she had calmly shot the strange man in the chest. Now, some of you dear readers might accuse me of writing pure fabrication, so outlandish and fantastic the sight was. The flesh of the man’s chest practically knitted itself before my very eyes! He placed his cupped hand under his chest and recovered the spent bullet as it fell, bringing the macabre trophy up for all to witness.
“Aw, boss lady, you know it tickles!”
“You will recover,” she replied coldly, “as for you, Mr Bingle, I was wrong to judge you according to my own standards. Your family has always been a beacon in the darkness, and if there is a part of you I should never have doubted, it is indeed your heart. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on passing this little formation. I am most pleased with your efforts and will now give you your just reward.”
The lady of the land retreated inside of the range’s storage room while the unknown man pulled on a shirt, looking barely more civilised as he did. He was quite hirsute.
“Had to remove it. It ain’t fun removing blood and sewing holes from your shirts. Or so June tells me and man can that girl scream your ears off.”
“Does it… happen often?” I ask, unsure how to ask the man’s secret. Perhaps some sort of elixir?
“No. I don’t usually wear a shirt.”
“I see.”
“Ah, here she is.”
Miss Delaney returned with three boxes of various sizes tucked under her arms. A normal person would have struggled with weight and balance, yet she maneuvered them like a brawny construction worker. All boxes were polished wood, elegant yet unadorned.
“First, your revolver.”
She gifted me the medium one and I opened it to reveal a gun of exquisite make, a masterpiece of horn, steel, and silvery engraving. The grip fit in my hand perfectly, and its material felt warm under my fingers.
"Buffalo horn. I enchanted it so it does not overheat and the material is not deformed. You will still need to clean it. There is one additional surprise. Whoever grabs it without your consent will be cruelly burnt after a short delay. I calibrated it personally.”
“Miss Delaney, such a gift…”
“Next is the rifle,” she told me. The large box was opened to reveal a gun in the same style, similarly decorated.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“It has similar protection against damage. I added a minor charm to the sight. It will allow you to see your target, but it will not help you hit it. You will need more training if you wish to hit distant targets reliably.”
“What a princely present! I do not know what to say, Miss Delaney, and after I treated you so poorly! What can I do to repay this favor?”
My outburst of emotion forced a curious reaction. The woman smelled the air while her eyes widened and shimmered strangely in the darkness of the early night. Her strangely durable partner coughed to hide his hilarity and she merely shook her head.
“That will not be necessary, young Bingle. Consider it a mark of the friendship I have for your family, including your late grandfather. The best way for you to repay me would be to achieve your ambitions. Make sure I did not make those guns in vain.”
“Those… you made them yourself, Miss Delaney?”
“Yes, I heavily implied it. Do take care of them and of yourself. And now for my last gift…”
The smallest container held a star and some documents, which I read with great surprise.
“Me? A Marshal? But how?”
“I have used this ploy several times before. As long as you remain true to the justice, you will be fine and so will my reputation.”
“But I do not even know the law!”
“It has never stopped the marshals before. Just use common sense and bring your prisoners to a proper judge if you have not killed them yet. Not that those frontier magistrates know the law either…”
“You have my eternal gratitude!”
“Yes, yes, I am sure. Now, it is just a matter of setting you on the proper path. Geographically speaking.”
We discussed some more until the time came to return to the city. I addressed the durable man, whose name is Jeffrey, before he could leave us.
“Good sir, might I know how you were able to heal so fast?”
“Cursed as well, kid. And no, before you ask, I may not use it to heal the wounded and save the planet. Some gifts are not worth the loss, especially for you.”
“You must be correct, and you have my sympathy, sir.”
“You’re a good lad.”
He smiled, more bitterly than before.
“She was right. You cannot join us accursed ones because you are meant to be the best of what a dreaming humanity has to offer. Make sure you shoot straight kid, and make sure you shoot first as well.”
***
With my promotion as an official law enforcer came the question of where to start. Despite my enthusiasm, my knowledge of the frontier remained quite limited, and although I had no doubt that dens of sin and crime existed all throughout the land, I would have to start somewhere. Miss Delaney suggested that I accompany her on a trip west where she intended to solve some railroad-related problems.
Indeed, the ravenous American spirit of entrepreneurship could not be quelled by distance or risk. Railroad companies already planned lines to bridge the populated west and east coast, which were also populated but by savages, a situation they intended to remedy. My gracious host’s convoy would depart Illinois to join the Santa Fe trail through the recently born state of Kansas. More specifically, our destination was to be the town of Council Grove where settlers could pass unmolested, in theory. From then, she told me that she had allies who would no doubt point me to the most heinous perpetrators. And so it was that we departed, fifty people poor enough in appearance yet rich enough in weapons to dissuade even the most daring of bandits. At first, we only crossed tame, cultivated land broken up by vast swathes of wood and wild forest. Only the howl of wolves lent a touch of ferocity to an otherwise calm place, and we often found hotels and inns to rest at night. I knew it would not last. After a week of travel, the landscape around me changed drastically.
The caravan had finally reached that vast expanse of grass the Americans call the Great Plains. Ah, dear readers, words fail to express the sensation of immensity that enveloped me day after day, crossing this sea of green, where the horizon seems to extend to infinity, yet valleys would mask much like a tall wave hiding the hull of a ship. I found myself day-dreaming upon my horse, Valiant, as the trip went on. It was not the exhaustion that pushed me to such languid depths, but the memory of my native Surrey I had left behind without, as the locals call it, ‘a lick of sense’. How the humble meadows felt far when nature ran untamed for weeks on end, lush yet hostile and desolate. To break the burden of monotony, I volunteered to patrol afield, even landing a few birds for my trouble to diversify a diet that consisted of beans, bacon, and boiled coffee. Those lonely trips served as a good opportunity to keep practicing my already formidable marksmanship.
Sometimes, we would come across frontier cities sprouted along colonist routes like mushrooms after the rain. They shared a rough and functional appearance that perfectly illustrated the down-to-earth and somewhat boorish manners of their citizens. A wide road surrounded on all sides by wood structures was usually all of it. Sometimes, two of those made a crossing, but no more! The locals would watch us pass with interest tinged with suspicion, although they were more than happy to take our coin. Fanciness here came from having a school next to the saloon and grocer. I would always see rough men leaving the premises, flush and delighted by the satisfaction of their base instinct. It occurred to me then, that civilisation would plant its earthy roots first before it could bear fruits. In one such town, a caravan hand was directed to the local house of ill repute without a bat of an eye, while my own search for a cup of tea only received dismissive jeers! Truly, the spirit of adventure required a great many sacrifices, and I knew that from now on, I would not leave a proper city without a good supply. Truly, my only intelligent conversations came from the ever-mysterious Miss Delaney.
“How can you stand traveling for so long?” I asked her. “Even with all the chores, I spend so much time with myself that I fear familiarity might breed contempt.”
“I always carry a healthy supply of books, young Bingle. One can travel and see a unique landscape, or travel with books and see ten.”
Alas, I only had so much free space on my saddlebags and settled on writing my observations. Similarly, the mistress of the convoy declined to share her stash with me. Those were precious tomes from a Spanish master, apparently, and she refused to let anyone handle them. I could not help but admire her commitment to the written word.
It was around that time that boredom pushed me to take an interest in the games of cards that the guards played with seemingly religious care, and when I met the person of Simion Nead (no relation to the famous guide I used to ridicule myself, or so he claimed).
Mr. Nead had the appearance of a dapper gentleman you would expect to see in any of the more refined gentlemen clubs of Pall Mall. Even the mud seemed to slide off his beige ensemble and charismatic smile as if the earth itself refused to stain his appearance. Mr Nead oversaw the first game I participated in and in which I was so thoroughly trounced that the players returned part of my loss. Perhaps out of pity, he decided to take me under his wing. He would spend hours showing me how to play hands, and he could guess my cards with such clockwork accuracy that I resolved, there and then, never to bet against him under any circumstances.
“Unlike chess, you do not possess all the information in games of cards, which means that you must consider the human factor on top of the rules themselves. Is your opponent aggressive? Conservative? Does he bluff?”
Mr. Nead revealed depths of wisdom I never expected to receive on a game so mundane. Many of his long-winded speeches started with poker, then shifted to a variety of subjects ranging from theatre, to politics, to the human condition. My peculiar teacher displayed such a strange combination of jaded boredom and benevolent amusement that I suspected he might be of a similar nature to Miss Delaney and Mr. Jeffey. On the contrary to Miss Delaney, however, he kept less nocturnal habits and so I assumed that he did not share her plight.
As days went by, I made the first fateful encounter of what would turn out to be a years-long journey. It happened as the caravan crossed a particularly wet patch of grass following nightly rains. The caravan master, a dour man by the name of Smith, sent me north where a local brook curved around a large rock, giving a commanding view of the valley below where the convoy was currently struggling. I was to make sure that the rock was not currently occupied by a possible scout. Alas, when I arrived, I realized that it was.
By a savage!
No sooner had I lifted my rifle that the summit’s current occupant raised an empty hand in a gesture of peace. He sat upright, his back to me and facing the caravan. Smoke emerged from a long, gnarly pipe in blueish clouds in rhythm with the reddening embers of tobacco. A large cloak of fur protected him from the brisk autumn temperature and masked most of his features, although I knew that he was a man from the muscular arm and a native by the deep black, wild hair.
“No need for that, child of fate. I am not your enemy.”
“Perhaps you are not mine,” I retorted, inspecting my flanks just in case. “But what of the caravan?”
“I am a shaman, child of fate. I know better than to poke that hornet’s nest. After all, like my ancestor…”
He turned and I saw a craggy face made ruddy by years of wind and sunlight. It was lit by two keen eyes as piercing as arrows. The pale sun was reflected in a large metal disc that hung from his neck.
“I can see the future.”
You can imagine, dear reader, that I was perplexed. On the one hand, this was an outrageous statement that no sane man would take heed of. Future sight? I was a lawman now, not some scoundrel spending his last penny on gin and a card reading by a fetching gypsy, no! On the other hand, magic had returned to the world with ever greater wondrous and terrifying displays. Had I not seen a man heal from a chest wound faster than your grandmother can knit a scarf? With my very own two eyes? I had to approach the subject with circumspection, yes, but without disdain. As Mr. Nead said, someone unveils themselves with every breath they take. It was up to me to determine whether this man was a liar, a threat, or a warning.
“That is quite the bold statement there, chap. I don’t suppose that you can back up your claim?”
“Of course, I can. That is why I am here. To deliver a prophecy.”
His voice turned strong and deep, as if echoed by some unseen cavern. His eyes shone in the wan light.
“When you step into the grove, seek jewels and you shall find a rose, but beware, for many seek her charm, and her thorns will not suffice to protect her.”
It took all my self-control not to scoff at this cryptic poppycock. By God, the oracles of Delphi must have received clearer omens than this mish-mash. A rose indeed! I may have been too generous in giving this man credit, I thought at the time, and turned to more serious issues.
“Let us focus on the present now, my strange fellow. What tells me that you’re not a scout preparing some sort of raid, hmm?”
The man puffed on his pipe before giving me an answer. If my accusation aroused his ire, he gave no signs of it.
“I am a Choctaw, from the south. This is Osage land, and it is peaceful.”
“You mean you are an Indian, but not a local Indian?”
There was another pause before the next response. It appeared that the man enjoyed his pauses.
“I have traveled far to deliver this message. Alone. If I wanted to raid, I would have done this closer to home, on Texan cattle traders, I suppose. We are not raiders, we have farms.”
I inspected my surroundings once more but found no signs that this man may have lied. I considered interrogating him more thoroughly, but I remember a lesson my uncle taught me about his adventures in India. How a suspicious and hostile officer had created a rift between himself and a local lord, leading to a conflict where none had been before. Besides, I was alone. If I indeed subdued the savage and he had friends around, not only would I be overwhelmed, but I would fail to warn the caravan of an impending danger. I decided to err on the safe side until I knew more and bid the man farewell.
I stayed for five more minutes, hidden at a distance. A scout would have rushed to warn his friends that the jig was up. The shaman merely prepared food. Satisfied for now, I returned to the others to relay my discovery.
***
Nashoba, named after his grandfather, finished his piece of jerky just as the child of fate returned to his people. He was just a dot on the horizon for now. Funny how one piece of sand could move so much ground, at times.
“I help you as I can, daughter of thorn and hunger. You will have to save us all.”
***
In total, it took us over a week of travel to reach the Kansas town that was to be our temporary base, and I could not help but frown when I realized that this discount prophecy related to this place. Of course, the canny Indian knew our destination. There was only one hub in the direction where we were going and it would not take Hannibal himself to guess what our destination was. To my mild surprise, the city turned out to be more pleasant than I expected. While I imagined slums and there were a few tents by the side of the road, many of the important buildings were two-storey ones made of sand-colored stones resting under the shadows of old elms. Yellowing oak leaves fluttered in the wind and painted the land in fiery tones. So pleased I was to see signs of civilisation, that I almost fell from my saddle when we entered the main crossing and I spotted a building that surpassed all others not just in terms of size, but also in activity. It proclaimed its name boldly in large red letters on its facade: ‘the shiny pearl’.
Ah, dear readers, I must confess that my honest Surrey fellow mind first wondered what a jeweler was doing here, at the edge of the frontier, and how it could afford to occupy such an expensive building. But of course, the laughs and folks that came in and out soon dispelled that foolish notion. How naive I was! The establishment was a house of ill repute, and the pearls obviously referred to the many precious stones the ladies of the night wore around their uncovered necks. And now you can imagine my conundrum, dear reader. ‘When you step into the grove, seek jewels,’ the Indian had said, and I was sorely tempted to see if it was merely an assumption that every hot-blooded young man on the trail would end up here, or if there was some truth behind the ravings of the strange native. Yet, embarrassment seized me when I realized that I would have to get in and be taken for a man motivated by lust instead of curiosity. How mortifying it would be! It was then that Mr Nead placed an arm around my shoulder, eliciting an unfortunate yelp from yours truly.
“We do not need you to set up camp, young one. If you wish to stay a while, you may. Just ask for direction when you leave.”
“I do not… that is…”
“You do not want to be seen as one who pursues base desires?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Well, they also serve drinks. Just walk up to the bar and tell them how thirsty you are. I am sure that they will be accomodating.”
“You speak the truth! Well then, I must make sure…” I told him.
My feet carried me to the open door, past a man smelling strongly of alcohol and perfume. I entered with low expectations and it was then that my entire attention was captured by a rose in the swamp, an ephemeral flash of beauty in a sea of mediocrity. The heavens had picked fire and passion from the canopy of the stars and placed them in a container, under coppery hair and behind eyes like the darkest velvet. It was then that I saw her. THE woman. And my world fell apart.
***
“You know, in the spheres of Likaea, only the oldest ones attempt to pursue this manner of projects,” Sinead says in the darkness of the secured carriage.
I tap a talon against my cup. The improvised chime drowns the sounds of the outside.
“I am merely steering fate in a certain direction. My instincts tell me it must be so.”
“That is what they say as well.”
“This will not hurt anything but their feelings, and I deem the long-term benefit worth it. After all, we are speaking about nothing short of the survival of this world. I must stack the odds in my favor.”
“I hope you do not choke on these words later, my dear, but if you do, I wish to be there to see it.”