A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

“Is that so.”

“It is.” He turned to contemplate her straight on. “Man ain’t right,” he continued, voice pitched low, no doubt for self-preservation. “Never was, not even back before, with no hexation in it. I know why that other fella cleaves to him—he’s sotted, same’s the Rev used to be. But you . . . you seem nice.”

Yancey swallowed. “Might be I’m not, though. Ever think of that?”

“Sure. Maybe you’re already broke past the fixin’, I dunno. But—” He sighed, and leaned against the counter. “Gal, I’ve seen a hundred men swear blood-revenge in here, for you-name-it. Half of ’em, it was just bluster over a bottle; half again got bored, or dead, ’fore they ever came near the ones they wanted. But some found who they were lookin’ for, and ended ’em. Men shot, stabbed in the back, throats cut.” His gaze flicked to Yancey’s feet. “Almost where you’re standing, I saw one get his belly sawed open, guts spilled on that floor like offal. Man who did that died himself three weeks later, in a botched robbery up Utah way.”

“If there’s a point to your discourse, I’d be much obliged, you were to arrive at it,” said Yancey, hating the way her voice quavered.

“Point bein’, ma’am—only men I ever saw didn’t come out the worse for takin’ revenge were like Mister Pargeter. The ones who were already as bad as they were gonna get.”

“Think that means you’ve seen me at my worst, Joe?”

Yancey whirled; Joe turned more slowly, his general sallowness now outright sickly. Chess leaned against one side of the doorway, arms folded, hat rakish—and while he too was smiling, the gleam in his eyes presaged nothing good.

“Means I’ve seen enough to know not to cross you,” Joe told him, voice admirably steady, “and that’s why I don’t propose to. So . . . what can I do you for?”

“Nothing. Young Mister Kloves, on the other hand . . .” Though Chess didn’t quite sneer, Yancey felt herself flush, all the same. “I’ll be needing you outside, missy.”

“If I might inquire—for what?”

Without hesitation Chess cross-drew—and tossed his sinister-side gun to Yancey, connecting straightaway with her upflung palm, an instinctually perfect catch. She stared at it, mouth open.

“Heard you might want to learn to shoot, is what,” Chess said, shrugging. “’Cause Joe’s fine words notwithstanding, there are men out there need killin’, and you’ve got as much claim as any to do it. So you may as well learn the trade right.”

“I need to clean up, first.”

Chess inclined his head. “I’ll be waitin’.”

When Yancey came out, hair still damp and clothes clinging, she found Chess lounging against the hob-rail used to tie up mounts, where a score of Joe’s empty bottles had been carefully set up. He raised one eyebrow at the gun in her hand, which she had chosen to carry by the cylinder, rather than gripping the handle. “Christ, gal, don’t you even know how to hold an iron?”

“Why would I have had cause to learn that particular skill, Mister Pargeter?”

Chess snorted. “What fool wouldn’t teach his kin to shoot, out here? A dead fool, that’s who.” At Yancey’s look, he rolled his eyes. “Aw, don’t take on; dead Pa’s the human condition, far as I can see. Ed’s got one—Rook, too. Hell, mine’s probably dead, for that matter.”

“T

he plain fact that you don’t know makes that a singularly useless statement.”

Chess laughed. “Uh huh. Now get over here, and show me what I got to work with.”

As Yancey crossed to his side, Chess took her arm, guiding her to a stance some thirty feet away. “Most fights blow up inside ten yards,” he said, without preamble. “So if you can hit a target this close, you’ll be good for all manner of shindigs. First thing, hold it proper—straight out from your shoulder. Keep it up there, long as you can.” He stepped back, and watched.

Minutes passed; Yancey’s arm began to tremble, but something in Chess’s eyes warned her against relaxing. Finally, he leaned in without warning, grabbing the gun back. She gasped and let her arm fall, rubbing at her wrist.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’d let it drop, I’d’ve pasted you a good one, just to learn you different.” Chess gave her a shrewd look. “Or did you pick up on me planning that?”

“No—I didn’t think to.”

“Maybe you should. You got an advantage. Use it.”

Yancey nodded. “True. But all that was about the gun’s weight, wasn’t it?”

“Get you trained to how heavy it feels—that’s absolutely right.” He touched her arm, causing her to start; fatigue vanished in a greenish flicker. “Ready to go again?” When she nodded, he put the piece back in her hand, turning her toward the bottles. “Now. This here’s Colonel Colt’s 1861 six-shot Navy Revolver, thirty-six calibre, and if you put a ball from it most anywhere in a man it will drop him. Got a kick like a mule and makes an almighty noise, so brace yourself.”

Yancey gritted her teeth, selected the left-most bottle as her target, lined up the barrel’s sight and tried to squeeze the trigger, which took a startling amount of effort; she ground her finger tight, tighter . . . then relaxed, lowered the gun, eased the hammer down, and after a second’s examination found the loading switch that let her break the weapon open. Wordlessly, she held it up before Chess’s face, showing empty chambers.

Chess clapped, sardonic-slow, but his expression was unlike anything she’d seen before—surprise, amusement, genuine pleasure.