Simple is as simple does.
A favourite phrase of mine, but one that gets me a lotta loaded looks. Folks don’t like it when you say something’s simple if they don’t find it as such. Thing is, most of the time, it’s cause they hear ‘simple’ and think ‘easy’, when that ain’t always the case. You can take most anything and make it simple, break it down to its core elements and nothing else. Math is simple, because all you’re doing is putting numbers into an equation, and solving it. You put the right numbers in the right places and solve in the right order, and you’ll get the correct answer a hundred percent of the time. Simple. Not necessarily easy, as getting all those things right in the first place is the hard part, but that don’t make the math itself any more complex. The numbers never lie, so if you need to know how much weight an axle can hold, where to aim to hit a target over two kilometres away, or how many materials you need to build a house, then math can get you all the answers you need. Conversely, if you find yourself coming up with the wrong answers, then it’s almost always a result of user error rather than anything else.
Yea, math is simple. Social nuances now, that’s complex, and ain’t no one ever gonna convince me otherwise. Ain’t no formula to follow, no process to approach a specific problem, no ironclad rules to abide by. There are general guidelines, sure, but those got more exceptions than most nets have holes, and it never fails to trip me up. Don’t make no sense, because social interaction ain’t based on logic, and that’s a fact. I had every reason to come down hard on Tina for what she did, twirling her guns around like toys in front of an armed crowd of nervous Independents. Girl’s lucky no one got shot, yet somehow, I’m in the wrong. I know it, the boots know it, hell, even Cowie knows it, which is why he’s all cuddled up in her lap instead of mine. I can already hear Aunty Ray explaining it to me, that it ain’t that I said anything wrong, but I was wrong to say it how I did. Which makes about as much sense as a soup sandwich mind you, because if I’m right, then how can it be wrong just because of how it’s said? Two times three makes six. Don’t matter how you slice it, and the tone you give the answer in won’t change it one bit. Don’t stop Tina from sulking something fierce as we eat our dinner in silence, or the other boots from keeping their distance for fear of catching strays as if I wasn’t right to chew her out like I did. Worst of all, even I feel like I done wronged her. Can’t say why besides her hangdog expression, and the lack of an explanation only makes me wanna double down and stick to my guns instead of eating humble pie.
Besides, any apology coming outta my mouth is gonna sound insincere. I still can’t accept that I done wrong. Didn’t speak nothing but truth, so why should I have to apologize? She’s the one who done messed up. Almost lost my gourd when her 1911 came out and I spotted five townies in the crowd reach for their sidearms. Was this close to opening fire, and almost did in spite of Vicente’s silent call to stand down. Didn’t figure these townies would listen and wasn’t willing to risk Tina’s life on it, but by then, I realized that if they meant to kill her, they’d have done it already and I’d have been too slow to react.
They got some quick hands here in Pleasant Dunes. Learned that last time I passed through town, even if they ain’t got the best shots. Tina, she’s even faster, as she’s got the quickest hands in New Hope. Shows in her actions today and the multiple records she holds in the speed shooting competitions run by Rudy and the boys back at the gun range. Used to steam me up good, losing to her year after year, but wasn’t like I was a close second. I ain’t ever been known for fast hands, only an extra set of them, so I never even made it into the top ten. My daddy never put much weight in being fast though. Wasn’t big on showdowns, because as far as he was concerned, any fair fight is a bad fight best avoided. Have your gun already in hand before your target thinks to draw, that’s how you stay winning out here on the Frontier, and his gut never steered him wrong until the very end. Problem is, today I learned that sometimes you gotta be quick too, because the cards don’t always come out the way you think they should.
So once dinner is done, I leave all my complex social issues aside to work on something I can understand: being quicker on the draw. While Cowie keeps Tina and the kiccaws company, I head over to the back of camp which faces the north wall and set up to practice. Safety first, so I empty the rounds out of my Rattlesnake before I start. Then it comes down to a matter of visualizing the process, so I know what to look for and pay attention to. To start, I sweep my duster back, then grip the pistol, lift it out the holster, aim it forward, and pull the trigger. Five step process, simple as can be from start to finish, and I go through it a few times while considering how I can improve. Saw the townies dip their hips, which shortens the distance you gotta lift your pistol out the holster before raising to aim, a minor movement that buys you precious tenths of a second. Also saw one lean back a fair bit, on account of how their holster was shorter than normal. Get the barrel over the lip faster, but can’t say I’m a fan, as it means the gun won’t sit as snug as it need to be. For safety reasons and practical ones too, because you don’t want it slipping out when you go tumbling off into the sands.
Wouldn’t that have been a kick in the teeth, if I’d given Kacey a wink and rolled off of Ivory just for her to turn back and see me scrounging round the sands for my fumbled Rattlesnake?
Adding a little hip dip between grip and lift sounds real simple in theory, but ain’t all that easy in practice. Especially keeping in mind how I don’t want to telegraph the draw. It’s same as throwing a punch really. Don’t matter how hard or fast your punch is if your opponent sees it coming from a mile away. Subtle, relaxed, and fast, those are the things to focus on, and it takes a few tries to get it right. Even then I’m still fumbling every second or third try. Gotta dip the right distance. Too short a dip and the barrel gets caught on the lip of my holster. Too far and it messes up my aim. Same if I go too fast, as I’ll pull too hard and have to over-correct to get the barrel pointed in the right direction. No point being quick on the draw if you miss your shot, so I slow things down and get it smooth before speeding up again. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, a lesson I been taught many a time, and one that still pays dividends to this day, so I shut out the world and any errant thoughts tumbling around my mind to focus on the task before me.
This here is the big ‘secret’ behind my quick growth and progress, which ain’t really a secret. Deliberate decisions leads to speed and efficiency. That’s what the mantra means. In training and in combat, you need to slow things down, examine your options, pick the best one, and execute correctly. Pick the right target. Pick the right response. Then, whether you choose to shoot your shot, sling your Spell, or any number of options, you do it slow and do it proper, because doing it wrong will waste even more time. Don’t matter how many Bolts you put downrange if none of them hit, same way it don’t matter how many times you practice drawing your gun if you do it inefficiently. Practice don’t make perfect. Practice allows you make mistakes and live to correct them, so that you don’t make those mistakes when it counts. Deliberate practice leads to improvement, but not perfection, because there is no such thing as perfect.
That’s how my daddy taught me, the big ‘secret’ to my skills everyone always asks about. There’s nothing else to it, a process so simple anyone can use it, but most don’t because it’s boring. Me, I can handle boring, because it helps me survive the exciting bits. Sweep. Grip. Dip. Lift. Aim. Shoot. Repeat. That’s life for the next little bit, and amidst the dull and monotonous exercise, I examine every aspect of the movements with willful purpose and adjust as needed. When everything feels just right, I keep right on practicing, ingraining the details in body and mind both until it feels smooth and second nature. That’s all there is to it, start slow and get it smooth enough so I don’t have to go so slow anymore.
Like I said though, simple ain’t the same as easy. If it was, Errol would be right here next to me doing dry fire and mag reload drills. Hell, most them boots could use the practice putting clips into their Strelkies, but ain’t none of them here neither. Seems like the hard-learned lessons during their trial by fire didn’t stick, so I suppose they’ll just have to learn things the hard way, going through the wringer again and again until they wise up or wash out.
Or worse.
When I get bored, I mix things up and practice with the Model 10 too. Being a smaller weapon with a shorter barrel, I find it even snappier to draw, especially since I can use my left hand to sweep my duster aside while going for the grip with the right. End result ain’t necessarily faster, as my right hand gotta stretch farther to get to the gun if I got my arms at my side. If I got my hands over my belly though, as I often do to show I don’t mean no harm, the Model 10 is actually closer than the Rattlesnake, so I change up my starting posture every few draws in order to cultivate good habits so I don’t ever have to think about which gun to go for. Arms at side, Rattlesnake. Arms over belly, Model 10.
As night falls and the moons rise, my progress slows, but I cast a soft Dancing Light to illuminate my surroundings and keep at it, because any progress is good progress. Sure, drawing my sidearm a few hundredths of a second faster might not seem like much in the grand scheme of things. Not with Spellslingers like Ava who fires off 192 Bolts over the course of a minute. Or Marcus walking around who can churn up a field the size of two basketball courts and leave it nigh impassable. Or Uncle Teddy, who’s got so much control over the Flamethrower Spell, he can spew a ten-metre-long wall of fire out in front of him in a constant stream of incinerating flame, turning him into a one-man wrecking crew who can hold off an entire hordes of Abby for as long as he can sling. It’s something though, and more importantly, it’s something I can do in the here and now, which is better than doing nothing.
“You fit that holster yourself?”
There must be some sorta Ranger lesson on walking soft which I missed out on, because I keep getting snuck up on by a bunch of soft-footed stalkers. First Marcus, and now Sergeant Begaye, who appears next to me with a fancy pipe in hand and matchcloak wrapped around him to ward off the night’s chill. It’s an interesting looking pipe, with a long, straight, wooden stem wrapped in leather connected to a carved antler ‘bowl’. Makes for a long and narrow receptacle to pack a lotta leaves into, and his looks filled to the brim from how he puffing away at it. The sweet, fragrant smoke has an enticing scent to it, with earthy, flowery notes similar to Marcus’ cigars, rather than the harsh, acrid cigarettes favoured by the local townies, or the stinky, pungent wacky tobacky making the rounds and causing all sorts of discourse over its legalities. Whatever it is he’s got in there, it’s got the Sergeant looking and sounding more mellow than I ever seen him, though to be fair, I only known him for less than a week.
Taking a puff from his pipe, the Sergeant gesture at my Model 10 and says, “Never seen anyone carry their secondary like that.”
Only then do I remember he asked a question, so I snap off a salute and say, “Sir, yes sir.”
“At ease.” Waving off the formalities, the Sergeant wiggles his fancy pipe and says, “See this? Means its my happy time, so none of that now.” He got a way of speaking that’s real soothing when he ain’t screaming ‘til he’s red in the face. A slow and steady cadence that hits every syllable without over stressing them like Kacey, which combined with his deep voice and measured stare really grabs your attention. Taking another small puff from his pipe, he blows out a small ring of white smoke that almost glows in the light of my magicked illumination before gesturing at my holster again. “Why carry it like that? Almost horizontally like it is.”
Looking down, I don’t see anything wrong with how it is, though the Sergeant is right. Plenty of folks keep their holster at the 11 o’clock position where I got it, but always vertically, whereas I keep mine angled more horizontally like the dubsies on my back, at about a fifty-five-degree angle. “For a faster draw and better fit, I suppose,” I say, having never given it much thought. “Only ever shoot with my right, and tilting it on a diagonal lets me bend over without the butt of the gun poking me in the belly.”
“So comfort then?” The Sergeant ain’t in any rush to conversate, as he takes another long, slow puff from the pipe. “That’s why you wear it like that instead of how everyone else does it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Hmm.” The Sergeant studies me for a good long second, as if looking at me for the first time, so I square up and respond in kind. Wouldn’t no one accuse the man of being handsome, what with his big, wide nose, high, pointed cheekbones, strong, square jaw, and prominent brow, but it all come together in an agreeable package when taken in as a whole. Especially once he lets his long, salt and pepper hair down, which he usually keeps tucked under his brown, feathered Montana, while his thin wispy moustache and foundation of a goatee adds to his dignity. It’s the eyes that really does it though, soft yet penetrating, like he looking past me at something only he can see while puffing away at his pipe in long, slow breaths.
“Didn’t think you the sort concerned with comfort,” he finally says, speaking around his pipe without letting it affect his speech. “No padding on the wagon seat. No awning to block the sun and rain. No bedroll to sleep in, no tent for privacy. No complaining about the food, or care for any drink. No vice to speak of aside from your bravado and derring-do.” Tilting his head ever so slightly, he adds, “But you wear your holster like a fool because you find it more comfortable that way. Odd.”
Them’s fighting words if delivered by another man in another way, but Sergeant Begaye got a real matter-of-fact manner about him, one so similar to how my daddy used to speak that it’s got my ears burning with shame. Looking down at my holster to hide my embarrassment, I ask, “What’s wrong with how I got it?”
“Aside from looking silly and precariously placed? Risks getting caught on your belt buckle every time you draw.” My first instinct is to argue, but I hold my tongue, which is good because the Sergeant ain’t done talking. “Not so bad, unless it catches on the hammer and half-cocks it.”
Which could lead to an accidental discharge while the barrel’s right next to my dangly bits. Suppose the man’s got a point then.
Nodding as I unhitch the knots holding the holster in place, I do my darndest to avoid meeting his eyes. “Thanks Sarge. I’ll fix it right quick.” And I do that, while he stands there and watches, because apparently our conversation ain’t over just yet. Doesn’t say nothing though, not even when I’m done adjusting the holster and find it in me to look him face to face. I already hate how the gun feels sitting where it is, but I’ll get used to it soon enough. “Any other nuggets of wisdom to share, Sarge?” I ask. “Would be right thankful to hear whatever you got?”
“Nothing yet. Still thinking.” Gesturing at the northern wall with his free hand, he says, “As you were. Don’t mind me.”
Guess he gonna watch me practice then, which is all sorts of weird, but I ain’t ever been one to balk at the limelight. Putting him out of mind, I get to quick drawing my Model 10 in its new position, and immediately realize that if I’m drawing vertically, it might as well be on my 1 o’clock instead of my 11. Don’t take long to fix, and I continue practicing from there. The new position makes it so that the Model 10 is the best option no matter where my hands are at, unless one’s already resting on the Rattlesnake, so I readjust my mindset and get right back into it. Doesn’t take long to see I draw much faster now, a snappy quarter-second gained seeing how I don’t have to sweep my duster as far or dip and lift as much to get at the compact, snub-nosed Model 10 out and ready.
Might even beat out them townies if there ever comes a second time, though I’m hoping there won’t be.
I keep at it for another half hour or so until I feel it’s time to call it quits and hit the hay, only to realize Sergeant Begaye is still watching, sitting cross-legged in the sand with his pipe in hand. “You done for the night?” he asks, and when I nod in the affirmative, he motions for me to take a seat across from him. Once I’m settled in and annoyed good and proper by the new position of my holster, he nods and says, “Thought I had the measure of you, Firstborn. A cocky, reckless hotshot who stands apart from the pack and likes it that way.” Shaking his head with the barest hint of a grimace, he continues, “Today, I saw a different man, so I wanted to study you further.”
“That so?” Sergeant Begaye is a hard man to read, and I’m not really sure how to move forward with the conversation, so I go with my gut and ask, “You liked my dancin’ that much, huh?”
That earns me a chortle, which tells me I made the right move. “Dancing. No better word for it.” Shaking his head, he puffs out another ring of smoke and says, “Can’t say I’ve ever seen or heard of a boot who screwed up on purpose to fit in. Made it much too obvious, marching like you did, but you got the job done. Won your peers over by showing your flaws and made yourself one of them. Fake or not, it was clever, and you are a clever one.” Well, one things for sure. Sergeant Begaye has got me read like a book, and I don’t really know how to respond. Thankfully, our lack of rapport don’t bother him none as we sit without speaking under the soft lighting until he’s good and ready to talk. “What’s more interesting,” he says, after blowing out three rings of white smoke that linger for long seconds in the air, “Is the fact that you did it. Didn’t think you cared to fit in.” Cutting me off before I can speak with little more than a knowing look, Drill Sergeant Begaye lets the silence hang for a long second before concluding, “But you do.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Much as I’d love to deny it, the man ain’t wrong. “Who doesn’t want to fit in?” I ask, shrugging like it ain’t no big deal.
“I never much cared to.” Bobbing his head from side to side to convey his uncertainty, he adds, “Figure your father was the same way, though I can’t say for sure. Only knew him by reputation, as he never came out west.” Which I suppose is where Sergeant Begaye came from, to help Captain Jung teach boots. “You, on the other hand?” he asks, looking me up and down again. “You stand apart because your father did. It’s the same reason why you deny yourself all those minor comforts, because that’s how he lived. When given the choice however, you chose comfort over utility, and integration over separation, all without much thought. That tells me that you do things the way your father did, but you are not him.”
“Yea, already got this speech once before, so don’t need to hear it again.” Leaning back so the holster sit more comfortably to help me through this uncomfortable conversation, I sigh and say, “I get it. I ain’t the soldier he was and got a long ways to go to catch up. Still better than the boots you got though, and it ain’t even close.”
He don’t get upset or engage with my claims, just addresses them and moves on. “I am not talking about your skills. I speak of who you are as a person. Cocky and arrogant yes, but loner?” He shrugs. “Not by choice, only circumstance. Which is why, when given the chance, you did not hesitate to join the pack.” Taking a deep, long draw of the pipe, he blows out a big, white ring and gestures at it as it hangs in the air. Then he blows out a second ring, which collides with the first to combine and rapidly expand into a larger, wispier ring. “This is good. Working together, the pack becomes greater than the whole,” he says, gesturing at the larger ring, then the boots in camp, and finally at me. “They benefit from your wisdom and experience, and you are constrained by their limits. You lead them to right decisions, and take less risks doing so.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“The problem arises,” he continues, speaking right over my flippant response, “When you set yourself apart from the pack again.” Waving a hand at the expanded ring of smoke, he disperses most of it, leaving only a smattering of scattered white tufts behind. “The bond of trust is then broken, and not so easily brought back together. They opened themselves up to accept you, and are left scattered to the winds by your retreat.”
“This about me signing on with the Rangers?” Shaking my head, I tell him point blank, “I ain’t gonna. No hard feelings. Matter of principle is all.”
“You hear me speak, but do not listen.” Tapping his pipe before giving it another puff, the Sergeant looks at me to make sure I’m paying attention before continuing, “This is not about your father or your career, the past or the future. I speak of you and the present, the here and the now.” Pointing at himself with his pipe, he explains, “When I yell at the boots, I do so with the intent to break them down and later build them back up again. I aim to become the enemy. The threat. The danger to the pack, and in doing so, I unite them together against me. By improving and succeeding, they thwart and defeat me, leaving me no weapons with which to attack. When they see this, it boosts their morale and drives them to work even harder. That is how our dynamic has worked these last three months, and how it will continue to work after you are gone.” All delivered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, without any heat or blame to be heard. Pointing at me, he continues, “When you yell at the boots, it is not the same. You are not only their peer, comrade, and ally, but also a leader and role model to the rest. When you cut them down from within, that is a betrayal of your role. This does more harm than good. You break their confidence when they need it most, and leave them no recourse to reclaim it, so if I am to teach and mould them into warriors, then your continued disruption cannot be tolerated.”
Feeling a tad slow for taking so long to catch on, I scratch my head and mull over what he said. Was only thinking about how Tina screwed up, and lambasted her for it, but that wasn’t how my daddy taught me. Didn’t harp on my mistakes and tell me what to fix; he sat me down, asked me questions, and explained it all until it was clear as day. Sorta like Sergeant Begaye doing right now. Ain’t just about Tina neither. I been doing the same to Errol, Sarah Jay, and Kacey too, talking at them and pointing them in the right direction, but that don’t amount to teaching. Guess I got a lot to learn about educating my peers, so I look Sergeant Begaye in the eye and ask, “So what you need me to do?”
“Make a decision on how we move forward.” Shrugging, he gives me a look that seems so uncharacteristically unbothered, it’s got me wanting to try what’s in that pipe of his. Could use a hit of something to help me unwind and relax, and Aunty Ray could too, though I would never outright suggest as much to her face. “Either become a part of the pack,” Sergeant Begaye says, “And remain a part of the pack for the duration of this operation, or stand on the outside looking in so as not to set my boots back. I’ll put you to work scouting the surroundings and hunting for provisions, or anything to keep you busy and out of sight.” In case we end up in an extended siege I guess, but he don’t seem none too concerned about it. “The choice is yours, but decide soon.”
“I’ll stick with the boots,” I say, not needing to think about it. “I would appreciate a chance to learn, Sir.”
“Good.” Nodding in approval, he reaches into his hip pouch and pulls something out before tossing it over. “Give those to Errol. Tough love can only get him so far before it becomes permanent damage.” A quick inspection in the dim Dancing Light shows a set of simple earplugs made of cloth dipped in melted wax, rolled into cylinders, and flattened at one end so they can’t get pushed in too deep. There’s a piece of twine connecting them too, so Errol can hang them around his neck when not in use, and it brings a flush to my cheeks to think I didn’t come up with something like this myself. “And make nice with Tina come morning,” Sergeant Begaye adds. “She’s my best boot, so you best get her back to me in working order.”
“Was your best boot you mean,” I reply, grinning as the Sergeant gets up to leave. “Not anymore, now that I’m here. Officially speaking.”
Hitting me with a look that is both tired and unamused, Sergeant Begaye snorts and says, “Best boot my ass. You’ll be lucky I don’t remember you as the worst, making me come here during my happy time to sort you out.” As he turns to leave, he stops and looks me over one last time, and in the dim illumination of my Dancing Light, his expression is almost unreadable. “Using only Spell Structures and components currently available to you,” he begins, falling back into the stern and stony cadence of the Drill Sergeant, “What Loadout would you consider optimal for exploring the mines and tunnels beyond?”
“As a Scout?” I ask, just to clarify and buy me time to think. “Detect Aberration, Detect Magic, Hunter’s Mark, and Find Magical Traps rounds out the Divination Spells. Grease and Entangle for utility, Misty Step for a quick getaway, and from there, it’s all flex depending on my secondary role in the team.” Which is entirely true, but I also don’t want to outright admit how many more Spell Structures I can hold. Seven is already plenty compared to my peers, most of whom are sitting at three or four, so I don’t need to advertise any more.
Wearing a ghost of a smile, Sergeant Begaye asks, “And you prefer to go heavy?” Meaning Evocation, so I nod in acknowledgement. “Then prepare that loadout starting tomorrow, boot,” he says, adding, “No explosions. Mineshafts and tunnels are unstable enough as is without tempting fate.” Which limits my options a bit, but not by as much as you’d think. Cocking his head, he frowns and asks, “How’s your Spiritual Weapon?”
Between my mounting excitement regarding the implication behind these orders, it takes me a beat to realize he’s talking about the Second Order Conjuration Spell. “Uhh, base?” I reply, not really sure why he’s asking. “That’s the one that summons a floaty sword or whatever, right? I don’t even got the Formula.”
My answer really throws the man for a loop, though I don’t know why, and he spends a good minute looking me over before asking, “I thought you were the Marshal’s pupil?”
“I was.” Shrugging, I explain, “Up until my daddy passed and the Rangers disavowed him. They drew a line in the sand, and I wasn’t about to ask the Marshal choose sides.” Not that he’d have chosen mine. I get it. The Rangers are his life, and even if he did pick me, I’d have felt awful about it.
“You mean to tell me,” Sergeant Begaye begins, studying me with fresh eyes once again, “That you’ve been studying magic without a teacher for three years now?”
“And I’m still ahead of the pack.” None too shy about it neither, as I grin for all I’m worth. “How my ranking look now?”
“Worse, because now you’ve given me even more work.” Sighing, he takes a puff of his pipe and says, “Come find me in the morning for the Spell Formula.” Giving me a dirty look, he cautiously asks, “You have Conjure Weapon, right?”
“Yes Sir.” Never used it though, because all it does is make one simple weapon of a single material. Any added details like leather wrappings for the hilt come extra, meaning you gotta get real good and familiar with the Spell to get them. I don’t say as much, because Sergeant Begaye seems to think it’s a worthwhile Spell, and considering he’s supposed to be some sorta big-name Conjuror, I should probably reconsider my stance on the matter. Can’t bring myself to think nice things about the Spell though, because I still think its stupid to go toe-to-toe with Abby.
Why poke them with a sword when you can shoot them from a hundred metres away? Don’t make no sense is all.
By the time I get back to my sleeping spot, it’s already too late to reclaim Cowie, who’s fast asleep and snoring inside Tina’s bedroll. She’s asleep too, hugging Cowie tight while the kiccaws burrow in close around her, so I lay my head down nearby and follow suit. Ain’t easy, since it sounds like Sergeant Begaye is getting me ready to go delving into the mines, if not down into Abby tunnels themselves. The long day of hard labour eventually catches up to me though, and the next thing I know, the sun’s peeking out from over the horizon to herald the start of a brand-new day. After getting Cowie his feed and water, it doesn’t take me long to get my Spell Loadout ready, as I already had half in place. Was only missing Find Magical Traps, Hunter’s Mark, and Grease from the list I shared, so I drop Eagle Eye, Floating Disc, and Spiked Growth to fit them in. Expeditious Retreat is good to keep, but I ought to switch out Mage Armour, Settle in Shadows, and my Big Spell for more appropriate options when fighting under dark.
Eleven Spell Structures ain’t none too shabby if I do say so myself, but it still ain’t enough to cover all my bases. That’s why I keep Featherfall on one boot and Longstrider on the other after all, because they useful in a pinch, but not useful enough to keep ready for each and every day. Don’t much like dropping Mage Armour though, as the Artifact I worked up can only buy me three hours of protection, but hopefully that’ll be enough. As for Eagle Eye, I won’t need it down in a mineshaft, and while hiding in shadows might sound nice, Abby can see, smell, and sense things better under dark than any human can hope to match.
Without magic or tech at least.
As a last-second decision, I leave an empty space in my loadout for Spiritual Weapon, which I collect from Sergeant Begaye as soon as I see him up and about. Always nice to learn something new, even if it ain’t a Spell on my most wanted list. The Drill Sergeant don’t sit me down to teach me personal though, just hands over a piece of folded paper and sends me on my way. Doesn’t want any Spell in trade either, probably because he doesn’t think I have anything he couldn’t get himself. Which is likely true, so I make a note of his generosity and promise myself I’ll pay it back someday.
There ain’t no time to study it just yet, as there’s still one thing left on my checklist, which is to make nice with Tina. With little time to spare, I cook her up a hot breakfast of beans, bread, and bacon and get it to her just as she wakes. Also got a pot of hot chicory coffee to go along with it, sweetened with four squares of hard honey I keep for occasions just like this. “Mornin’ sleepyhead,” I begin, greeting her with a sheepish smile. “Peace offering?”
“Give it here.” Sitting up in her bedroll, she waves off the hungry kiccaws with a smile while I settle in beside her. We don’t say much as we enjoy our meals, and I tune out the other boots looking on in envy. Cooked extra for Errol and Sarah Jay, but I only had so much bacon and I wasn’t gonna give it up for them. They’re fine though, as they got some canned corned beef which is almost as good, though I suppose I could’ve made even more so Kacey could eat too. Then again, if I did, then I’d feel compelled to cook for a couple others too, so when does it ever end?
Realizing I’m only delaying the inevitable, I face the music head on as soon as Tina mops up the last of the beans and grease with her bread. “Sorry for goin’ off on you like that yesterday.”
“It’s alright,” she replies, unable to meet my eyes. “Wasn’t like I didn’t deserve it.”
Seems so obvious after Sergeant Begaye pointed it out, how my dressing down did more harm than good, and it pains me to see Tina so down in the dumps. Doubly so because I put her there, so I lean in close and throw an arm around her shoulder with a sigh. “Nah you didn’t. I done made far worse mistakes, but my daddy never cut me down to size like that.”
“Like what?”
Was never a matter of earning Tina’s forgiveness, as she ain’t never held it against me in the first place. Shows in how she snuggled up against me, all too happy for a rare moment of physical affection. Knowing this makes me feel even worse, so I dig up an old story to share. “Remember when I first got my Bashere Black Eagle?”
“Sure do.” Beaming bright as can be, Tina bumps me in feigned jealousy. “Bought it for you after you made that mess with the harpies. A tube-fed, pump-action, pistol grip beaut of an Blastgun. Could hardly believe it. You ran out into the streets to sling Spells at Abby, then ran back into Anita’s store when them harpies came looking for payback. Wrecked the place something awful before she put them down hard, and what’s your daddy do? He buys you a new gun.”
Not my proudest moment, especially since I learned it might’ve cost Sarah Jay’s daddy his life. “Well yea. He figured it was high time I started going around town strapped, so I’d have more than harsh language to throw at Abby if it happened again. Already had my Squire, but wasn’t allowed to carry it loaded or hold loose ammo before then, and he got me the Black Eagle for a bit of extra coverage.”
“Mama wouldn’t let me have one.” Giving a petulant little huff, she pouts and adds, “Even though I was the better shooter back then.”
“Because she knew he’d already paid for a matched pair of 1911’s,” I reply, which she’s apparently finding out for the first time today. “Gave them to you on your birthday a few weeks later, didn’t he?”
“…Really?” Tina’s expression runs through the gamut of emotions as she’s reminded of the past, and she eventually settles on a warm smile. “Never thought about it before, but yea. It would’ve taken Mr. Kalthoff at least three months to make a pair of ‘em back then.”
Takes more than blood to make a family, but whatever it is, we got it. After a moment of silence, I continue with my story. “Well, after buying me the Bleagle, he brought me out to the range for a test. Bein’ excited as I was for the first shot, I loaded the tube full of shells, then got the bright idea to do a one-handed pump to chamber the very first round. Make it special, you know?”
“Oh no.”
“Yea, it’s worse than you think.” Rubbing my chin and idly wondering if I’ll ever find hair there, I avoid looking at Tina or thinking about how nice she smells and say, “That first try didn’t go so well. It’s a heavy gun, and I was a small kid, so I put a lot of heft into it and lost my grip. Dropped it butt first right at my feet and watched my life flash before my eyes. Then watched it happen a second time when I realized I survived and my daddy had yet to say a single word.”
“Is that why he had you help pave the main thoroughfare?”
“Yup.” Flattening dirt and laying down cobble is hard work, and my daddy set me to task whenever we were in town for the next year. “To this day, I’m still too scared to rack a pump-action one-handed. Why you think I had the Doorknockers custom made instead of buying an Ashaman or a Fireforge 870?”
We chat a little more as we got the time to spare, until Tina sits up and nods. “Alright then,” she says, hitting me with a sly smile that gets my stomach to fluttering in a way that got nothing to do with beans. “Breakfast was a start, but if you want back in my good books, then I’m gonna need more.” Giving a fake huff of displeasure, she adds, “You said H – E – double hockey sticks, and it hurt my soft, feminine sensibilities.”
“Whatever it takes.” Not just because I mean it, but also because Aunty Ray has a zero-tolerance policy on swearing, and there ain’t no way I care to test it.
“I want you to brush and style my hair for a year.”
“Anythin’ but that.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Lowering my voice to whisper, I lean in and say, “It’s embarrassing, a man doing a woman’s hair.”
Tina’s eyes go wide with resentment as she hits me with the mother of all glowers. “You been doin’ Chrissy’s hair for goin’ on three years now. Even went and asked a bunch of other girls to help teach you, when you could’ve just asked me.”
It started out as mock pique, but she ain’t faking no more, so I feel compelled to defend my actions and decisions. “That was a spur of the moment decision. Me and Chrissy were in the park and we saw a bunch of girls sitting around braidin’ each others hair. She kept lookin’ at ‘em, so I asked if she wanted to join in, but she said no. Then I asked if she wanted her hair braided, and she said yes. I didn’t know how to braid no hair, so I sat down and asked them girlies to teach me. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, that makes perfect sense. Chrissy wants her hair braided once, so of course you gotta do her hair every day for the rest of her life. Need to buy her pretty ribbons and clips all the time too. Got no choice but to.”
“That ain’t it.” Motioning for Tina to calm down and lower her voice, I glare at the grinning looky-loos until they ain’t lookin’ no more. Only then do I explain, “After my daddy passed, the only way I could help with Chrissy was keepin’ her company, so I figured doin’ her hair was one less thing you and Aunty Ray had to worry about.”
“Oh Howie.” Giving me the look she usually reserves for wally joeys who done been rejected by their mamas, Tina shakes her head and sighs. “Chrissy is perfectly capable of doin’ her own hair. Has been since we was ten.” Seeing my confusion, she rolls her eyes. “You don’t give her enough credit. She ain’t half as helpless as you think. Mama’s even got her goin’ out for groceries all on her own, though it’s more like porter work. Hands Anita the money and a list, who puts everything in the basket for Chrissy to bring home.”
“Really?” Frowning at this unpleasant news, I ask, “Isn’t that dangerous? We got all sorts in town these days.”
“And Chrissy can take care of herself.” Rummaging around in her pouch and pulling out a brush, Tina holds it out and gives it a wiggle when I refuse to take it. “C’mon mister. You best get brushin’, else I might just start jugglin’ my pistols in the streets.”
Taking the brush with a sigh, I get to work and try to talk her down from a year of brushing. “I’ll do this just once. Today and today only.”
“Six months.”
“Twice.”
“Every day until the day after we get home, so Chrissy can see you brush my hair.” Holding up a finger, Tina adds, “Final offer. You argue anymore, and we’ll take this to a judge.” Meaning airing this out in front of other people, likely her friends, who’d love nothing more than to consign me to years of hard labour.
“Fine.” Parting the back of her hair into two portions, I hold them up and out to the sides. “So what’ll it be? Twin tails? Side tails? Pig tails?” Meeting her side eye with a shrug, I say, “I got a limited repertoire as is, and your hair much too short for most of what I know.”
“Do something nice,” she says, which is supremely unhelpful, but I suppose it’s just desserts for losing my temper last night. “Leave the back down if you can, as it keeps my neck from gettin’ burnt, and I’d like something elegant, but practical, you know?”
I hate that I actually do, so I keep mum and brush her hair a little more before using my pinkies to collect her side bangs and bring them all the way back to tie off into a short, high pony tail. Leaves her back hair down to keep that feminine look, while keeping the front outta her face so she ain’t blowing them aside ever few minutes. Holding up her makeup mirror so she can get a good look, I ask, “How’s that?”
“I love it.” Her big, bright smile makes all the embarrassment worth it, and the warm hug is extra gravy on the potates, but I ain’t ever gonna admit it. “Thank you, Howie.”
In order to get away from the crowd of amused onlookers, I get permission from Captain Jung to park my wagon out front of the saloon again with Cowie and the kiccaws to watch over it. Still ain’t so sure about leaving them birdies to roam free, because I know how delicious they are and doubt these townies got good restraint. Hate to have to kill a man for shooting a bird, but they’re Tina’s birds, so there’s no way around it. Course, I got other reasons for bringing my wagon out here besides handing out candy and Cantrips. After setting out a jar of candies and putting the Spell Formulas up on display, I climb into the back and open up the hidden floor compartment where I got all my mead stored away. Quickly making sure there ain’t no Rangers around, I carry two cases out and into the saloon to deposit on the bar. Miss Laura ain’t around, which is a real shame, but the bartender don’t need me to say nothing before he starts counting out cash. “If any boots or Rangers ask, you bought these the last time I was in town,” I say, and the bartender nods without batting an eye. I still got most of another case in the wagon, so if need be, I can say I only brought the two, and gave one to Vicente to smooth things over.
Sure it’s illegal, but bootlegging’s a victimless crime. As for trading while riding with the Rangers, that’s fine too. I ain’t no Ranger, and auxiliaries ain’t bound by the same rules and regulations. Man’s gotta earn after all, and a hundred and twenty dollars is a hundred and twenty dollars.
Smiling as I put away a fat stack of fives, I pat the bar to say goodbye and head on out. As I pass by the stairs, I hear a set of footsteps coming down and glance up in hopes of catching a glimpse of a pretty face. What I see stops me in my tracks and steals my breath away as my heart gets to pounding and cheeks flush with heat. My jaw clenches, and my hand goes straight to the butt of my Model 10 before I can think better of it. The fruits of last night’s labour, the action already second nature, but there’s no joy to be had just yet. Taking a deep breath to calm myself before I spook the lovely lady away, I force a smile on my face and say, “Hey there.”
To which the hazel-eyed, caramel skinned girlie stops and smiles back, looking much happier than the last time I saw her, coming out the Sherrif’s office just before I went in and shot the place up. A right pretty girl she is, with her dark, lustrous hair combed to one side so that it cascades over her left shoulder, while her oversized shirt hanging loosely over her coltish frame. Leaves her long, lithe legs bared as she slinks down them steps, hiding her tight daisy dukes just well enough that it’s almost like they ain’t even there. Don’t look a day over fifteen and lovely as a summer breeze despite all the ugliness around her, though I still think she’d look better without so much heavy makeup. Using the front post on the staircase to keep her and the bartender both from seeing my hand on my pistol, I ask, “You work here?”
And God help everyone in this shit-hole of a town if she says yes.