Chapter 2

We spent most of the day in silence. It was clear Emma was bothered by the loss of her town. There had been no doubt in my mind, from seeing her, and the town, that she’d loved it. And the people, their dust-covered faces tear stained as they left through the town’s gate, heading west to an unknown future, had spent a long while on giving her heartfelt farewells. No one had blamed her for the fate of the town. No one had held any ill will towards her. No, as they’d all left, the only person they cursed as they left their homes and livelihoods, had been Bloody Bill.

I couldn’t help but wonder if that man would haunt Emma as we traveled north. Her Uncle, and his blood soaked history, had been one of the many reasons I’d originally protested to her traveling with me. My quest for vengeance was my own, of course, and I didn’t want anything hindering my path towards justice. And while Clint accompanied Emma, which arguably meant I was gaining a powerful ally for the bloody task before me, it didn’t mean I wasn’t potentially gaining an even more dangerous enemy.

Course, that was a bit of a moot point considering I needed her to teach me how to refine my core. And, considering what Holiday had told me ‘bout the Golden Circle, Bloody Bill was likely less of a worry to me than I originally had believed. My hand drifted to my chest as I thought back to the Marshal and my conversation with him. Around my neck, the ruby pendant hung, the jewel warm against the flesh of my chest, hidden underneath my clothing. Holiday had asked me to keep it safe and close. I didn’t know why it was important, nor why some secret organization wanted it. Regardless, the fact it had apparently been something Randal had been tasked with tracking down, meant it was the most important thing in the world to me now, next to of course, avenging his death.

The Marshal claimed Pickam, and the rest of the no-good outlaws who’d killed Randal that night had made off with the gems, of which there were apparently five. According to the good Marshal, each of the bastards who’d had a part in killin’ Randal, likely had one. Considering I was already intent on hunting those men down, well, I’d agreed to collect the gems and keep ‘em safe. Randal had gathered and protected them, and they’d been important enough to him, that he’d kept them with him even when we’d fled my family’s burning estate, and the whole time we’d been on the road. That, had to mean something.

My hand tightened on the hidden gem, and it almost felt like the stone pulsed in response. I felt my anger flare, felt my fire mana rise to the surface as it so often liked to, and I let it. Flames, for the briefest moment, danced across my fingers, before they faded away, and I cooled my mind, and my heart. As my emotions subsided, I let go of the gem, the stone seeming even warmer against my chest than it had been a moment before.

“You alright boy?” Clint asked, pulling his horse, Ghost, up beside Baron. His eyes took note of my shirt. I glanced down and saw the faintest singe marks on the white cotton. I brushed my hand across the material, and the few black spots flicked away, leaving no trace of my moment of anger.

“Just thinking,” I said, not lying to the man, but not offering him anything else. Clint was perceptive. He had the eyes of the most skilled marksman in the world, far as I knew, but beyond those sharp eyes, were his sharp senses. Keen eyed was an understatement. And the man didn’t let anything slip from his gaze.

“Just thinking, huh?” He pulled his pipe from his saddlebag, and with it, a bag of tobacco. With practiced ease, his body swaying in perfect unison with his horse’s gait, he began to load the pipe. Careful and methodical, with hands that betrayed no sign of old age. He looked grizzled and worn, and there was no doubt in my mind he’d lived a long, hard life, and yet, he still seemed perfectly fine. A man his age, should be retired. Yet here he was, riding off once more on the dusty trail. Just what was he made of.

“You know,” Clint began, as if he felt my questioning gaze on him, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all my years,” he shot me a sideways glance, a grey eyebrow raised in a bemused way, as thumbed down the tobacco. Seemingly content with the bowl, he put the tobacco away and continued, “it’s that there’s a time when thinking is helpful and necessary.” He pulled a match from his saddlebag and drew it quickly across his jeans. The white tip lit instantly, and he took a moment, holding the flame over the tobacco, his mouth puffing in, to light the pipe. One it glowed cherry red, and smoke drifted lazily from his nose, he finally finished his statement. “And other times where thinking is damn near the worst thing we can do to ourselves.” He flicked his wrist, dousing the flames from the match, and tossed it to the ground.

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“Is that so?” I asked, trying to puzzle where he was going with this.

“It is,” he said simply, taking a long drag from his pipe. “Judging by your singed shirt, I’d say this time around, the thinking you’re doing is pointless.”

“Ain’t pointless to me,” I countered.

“Maybe you think that now,” another puff. I could smell the tobacco in the air around us, and my mouth watered at the pleasant scents. I had my own pipe of course, but it was buried in my saddle bag. However… I reached my hands into my coat pocket, searching expectantly. Clint, continued speaking, “but was what you were thinking about, anything you can do something about here an’ now?”

I found my prize in my breast pocket. A tube that I popped open without a second thought. Judge had gifted me about a dozen cigars before he’d closed up his saloon and prepared to leave town. I’d sent the box of them ahead, along with the rest of our main belongings, with the group Emma had sent northward to set up our travel plans. Because carriages traveled slower than three people on horseback could, we’d had to send most of our gear and supplies ahead to the next town, while we stayed behind to oversee the evacuation, and destruction, of Emma’s town.

“No,” I said, cigar between my teeth as I bit the end off. I spit the small portion onto the ground, and then held my trigger finger against the end of the cigar. I willed my mana to the tip of my finger, and this time, the flames that appeared were purposeful, controlled, and not a sign of my emotions getting the best of me. Clint shook his head as he watched me light the cigar.

“That’s a bad habit you’ve got there,” he said as he chuckled against his pipe. “It’s going to get you in trouble.”

I puffed on my cigar, letting my saliva soak into the tobacco, feeling the warmth of the smoke fill my mouth as I drew in a breath.

“This?” I asked, holding my hand up and summoning another flame.

“That too,” Clint said with another chuckle, “but the thinking part, is what I was really getting at.”

The flames on my fingers died down. I glared at him.

“You’ve no shortage of bad habits, actually,” Clint continued, ignoring my glare, “and I figure I’ll have to fill in and work them out of you on this trip. One at a time, huh?”

Before I could say anything, Emma’s horse slowed ahead of us, as she masterfully positioned her thoroughbred on the other side of Baron, so I was sandwiched between her and Clint.

“If we’re talking about sorting through Mr. Jones’s bad habits here,” she offered up, her tone light and amused, “It’s only right I aid in those lessons, Clint. After all,” she eyed me up and down. Her lip twitched in a smile, as she seemed to weigh me with her eyes, “I cannot have it being said that one of my bodyguards is lacking in the proper mannerisms of one of my station.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could, she held up her hand. “And don’t you go saying anything about it, Mr. Jones,” her eyes sparkled, “if I’m expected to teach you to refine your core, I’m going to teach you how to refine much more than that.” She sat up taller on her saddle, and even in simple riding clothes, it was undeniable she was a woman from wealth, power, and high class. “By the time we reach the Black Hills, you’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Clint snorted, and immediately started coughing on his pipe smoke. I just stared, dumbfounded at Emma, as she held me with her gaze. There was mirth in her eyes, but her tone, and the way she tilted her head slightly… I was still that poor little mouse, caught between the cat’s paws. Perhaps, Clint was right. My thinking had been pointless. And there was something more important, I realized, that I should be thinking about, than Bloody Bill, or Randal, or the Golden Circle, or even the mysterious Mountain Man. Right here and now, I really needed to start thinking about what exactly having Emma along for the ride was going to entail. I had a feeling, between Clint and her, that she was going to be the one who favored the stick more than the carrot.