XIII

Agatha Blakely had worked for Leland Heminger since she came to Calavera around eight months ago. She'd hitched a ride on the quarterly train bringing mail and supplies from back east, leaving behind her life without regret. Out here, her daily life was a simple routine of work and rest. She didn't think much of drink, nor those who partook of it. Her free hours were spent in the room she was renting from Mr. and Mrs. Adler, lost in a book borrowed from the schoolhouse library. To say it plain; she wasn't one for revelry. As a result, she'd only seen Everett Swanson in passing. Best she could recall, they'd only ever exchanged nods and neighborly smiles in passing. It was possible, she supposed, that he'd been taken with her. More likely she was chosen because he found her first.

She'd been on her way into work. She'd risen with the gray-dawn, that sort of liminal time between night's end and sunrise's beginning, and done her morning routine. Fortified thusly, she'd set out. That morning she'd gone through the alley behind the storefronts as she usually had. It saved her time, and put her in an easy position to start the day's work. There was a small yard out back, perhaps twenty foot square of flat, dry earth. It was there that the washbins were put at the end of each day to dry out overnight. Eight in all, she had gathered the required strength of grip and forearm to carry them two at a time into the shop. She was on her way up the stairs to the back door, fishing out the key Leland had entrusted to her, when the sound of clopping hooves had turned her around.

It was the horse she noticed first. A squat, barrel-chested old mare. The animal appeared to be frightened or angered near out of its mind: ears pinned flat against a long, equine skull, dark-brown eyes wide and rolling, huge breaths whistling through a flared nose. Streamers of foam ran around the bit behind flat, strong teeth to splat on the dry earth. Despite the visible agitation, the beast was still beneath its rider, who she then saw was Everett. She'd found his skill in a saddle remarkable, at the time. Keeping a horse in such a state under control was no mean feat, and she'd told him as much. It was an effort to break the silence between them more than anything.

It was only later, after all was done and said, that she'd reflect on how still the animal was. How it seemed to be petrified not with anger, but fear, and obeyed him to avoid drawing his wrath.

He had not responded to her compliment in any way she'd expected. In her experience, a young man given a woman's praise would either become an arrogant heel or a bashful child. He had, instead, fixed her with flat eyes and offered to display his skill as a rider. She was well aware that this response could easily fall into the former category, but it was the way he'd said it: flat like his eyes, with a strange absent quality.

“Would you come for a ride with me?”

She had declined, the beginnings of discomfort creeping up her spine. There had been quiet for a long moment, broken only by the whistling gasps of the horse. Then he made the offer again.

“Would you come for a ride with me?”

At that point, that discomfort had raced through her and fully become fear. She felt no shame in admitting it. Retreating backward up the stairs and reaching blindly behind her for the handle was difficult, more so with Everett's flat eyes on her. He hadn't blinked once, she later realized. Not once. He'd brought the horse closer. She'd felt a moment's empathy for the terrified beast. Her hand touched the handle and she felt a moment of exhilaration. Then she remembered it was locked, and would have to turn her back on him to unlock it. That, she refused to do. She'd asked him to leave. Demanded it, really, and he'd not gone. Instead, he said it.

“Would you come for a ride with me?”

This time, she had not refused him, saying instead that she wanted him to leave. The horse brought him closer, its hooves scraping against the wooden stairs. She'd felt the animal's wet, hot breaths on her face. He had bent over its neck, reaching for her. For her face, or hair, she hadn't known. She'd gone to slap his hand away from her. That was when, sidewinder-swift, he'd grabbed her wrist. His grip had been strong, like iron wrapping around her fragile bones and digging in. She remembered screaming, remembered him pulling her towards him, off balance. If he'd gotten her closer, he'd have taken her, and she'd be dead. Agatha knew this. She'd dug her heels in, and pulled back.

He hadn't been ready for her defiance or her strength, and had lurched forward. He'd almost fallen out of the saddle. That was when she'd punched him. She'd balled up her free hand the way Mr. Adler had showed her and driven it into his eye. He'd recoiled, freeing her from his grasp, and that was when she saw it. For that one moment, just after she'd struck him, there'd been emotion in his eye. It was a brief, quiet flicker of a thing, too swiftly gone to name.

She'd never moved so quickly in her life: up the remaining stairs, unlocking and opening the door, then slamming it behind her. She'd thrown her weight against it as she locked it again. Her legs had given up on her as she'd heard his horse carry him away. East, she figured, towards the desert. She'd stayed there, curled against the back door, until Leland found her.

- - -

“And then...well...” Miss Blakely waved her good hand, making the faint bruising on her knuckles clear. It seemed Mo Adler knew his boxing. “we came straight here. Is there something going on, Sheriff?”

Caff grunted and said, “Always, miss. You said east? You're sure?”

She furrowed her brow and nodded. There was a mark of hesitance in her voice as she spoke. “I'm pretty sure. There's a – a little fence in the yard. If he'd tried going west, towards the hills, he'd have to jump it. Figured that'd sound different.”

Fair enough, and he said so. East it was. He'd be a liar if he said he was looking forward to it. The least offensive of the desert's features was the wild swinging between brazen heat and biting cold, which it generously shared with the town. Then there was the vegetation. If it wasn't poisonous, it was covered in thorns, and there was more than one occurrence of both. Then there was the veritable zoo of disagreeable creatures that managed to live out there. Worst yet, it was boring when it wasn't trying to kill every living human within it. A vast, flat expanse of cracked earth, with nary a hill to break the horizon. There was a reason it was traveled by train.

No one in their right mind would think of it as refuge, was the point. Wasn't much use in running to a place more likely to kill than what was being fled. Which tied rather nicely into his thinking that Everett's mind had been changed in a manner similar to, but not quite the same, as Elijah. He snorted. It was so obvious, even a fool like him could spot it.

“Somethin' funny?” Leland asked, pulling Caff from his thoughts. Jennie's departure with poor, distraught Gus Swanson seemed to have settled his temper somewhat, but there was still a grumble about the old man. It suggested his anger wasn't quite spent. He was hovering around Miss Blakely in a protective manner, which she seemed to find all the more irritating as her composure returned.

“Not really,” Caff said. He turned and leaned on the rail fence encircling the Jail's front porch. They'd come out here not long after Jennie'd left, and Elijah's presence began affecting Leland and Miss Blakely. Caff had a thought: strong feeling of any sort beyond fear might protect a person. “Just lost in thought. So,” He turned around to face the pair. “thank you, miss, for telling me. I wish you a swift recovery.”

Miss Blakely returned his nod and said, “Thank you, Sheriff.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “If you require anything further, you can find me at – well...I suppose you know where, now.”

“I surely do, miss,” he agreed, nodding. To Leland, he said, “Leland.”

“Sheriff,” Leland grumbled. “find that boy now, y'hear?”

“I surely will,” Caff agreed. Leland put a hand on Miss Blakely's shoulder, guiding her down the porch's stairs and out into the road. She shrugged his hand off soon after, which prompted a quiet argument between the two. It lasted until they returned to the Laundry. Caff couldn't help the wry smile their dynamic prompted, though he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Leland was a grouch and a curmudgeon, the sort to growl and grumble through his twilight years. He was also good people, and it could be that the hovering, anger, and all else was just him showing it. If that was all, it followed that Miss Blakely would tire of it, once she found her center again. Could be something else, but Caff wasn't willing to think on it just now.

He wondered why this changer-of-minds, whoever they were, had chosen now to reach in and twist Everett's mind. It didn't make sense, not unless the changer knew Caff was onto them. Maybe they panicked, didn't want him learning what Everett knew, so they acted in a rash manner. If that was the case, though, if all they were trying to do was keep the boy away from him, then Miss Blakely's role made no sense at all. He fished out a cigarette – Jennie had been kind enough to share a few of hers – and struck a match from the fence. Smoke pulled deep into his lungs, he tried to make sense of a few things.

First; this business with Everett. Finding him with Ruby, Caff was comfortable calling coincidence. Boy's mind was probably all his own at that time. He'd been found with Ruby. He'd gone looking for Miss Blakely. So until last night, Everett had been free of being changed. As for the timing of it, that was simpler. The changer-of-minds' original agents were in Caff's cells, hopefully and probably out of their reach. They'd chosen Everett because there'd been no other choice, not because he was ideal for their purposes. It also suggested that they couldn't just change any old mind, that a degree of familiarity was needed.

Smoke rushed out through his nose, released in a sigh. He wished that he was just a little bit smarter, that he had the brains to lay this bag of snakes out straight. Sure, he was getting somewhere, closing in on something, it just was not fast enough. He was not fast enough. Now there was a boy being run out into the desert, trapped in his own mind that would not survive the journey. Now there was a possibility, a very good one, that Caff would have to tell August and Susan Swanson that their son was dead because their Sheriff was slow and inadequate. That, he dreaded. That, he did not want. One death on his hands was bad enough.

He wished Jennie would hurry with the horses. As if he was heard by grace itself, he saw her coming. She was atop her mare, a compact beast with a long mane and gray coat: Iris, she was called. There was a rifle sheath resting on Iris' flank, bumping against the horn of her saddle. Jennie and Iris worked together, in the way only a horse and rider long in partnership could, to weave around the passers-by in their way. Behind them ran a second horse, one that Caff knew well: a pale-maned mare with a long, sure stride and a coat of dappled silver. That mare was called Calliope and she'd been his since he was a boy. Or he'd been hers. It was hard to tell with a partnership that old and strong. A rifle sheath lay along her flank as well, most likely lent from Jennie's own arsenal.

They rode up, coming to a clattering halt at the foot of the Jail steps. Calliope tossed her head and stomped the ground once, then twice. He went to her and she butted her long head into his chest. Her large, dark eyes reflected him as he scratched between them and patted her neck. “Hey, girl,” he muttered. “You ready for this?” She answered him by whickering, washing warm horse breath down his front. He took it to mean she was.

Nearby, Jennie had turned Iris in a circle to bleed off the horse's excess of energy. The little beast had always been part-wild, and took no other rider than her. Caff had once tried, as had Claudia. Iris had thrown them both, faster than an irate bull. “Hey,” Jennie greeted. He nodded to her, levering himself into Calliope's saddle. “We know where we're going?”

Caff grunted. “East.” He checked the rifle sheath. It was old, leather cracking, and recently oiled. Inside it was a long-barrel rifle with a bolt action. It looked familiar. He'd last seen it two years back, when Arnie'd tried to win the rifle shoot at the town's spring fair. A walnut stock, worn smooth by polish and use. A gray-metal barrel, clean and oiled. He didn't see any ammunition, and dug around in his saddlebags until he found the shape of a box. He asked Jennie, “I take it you're lending me this?”

She nodded, humming. “You gotta box of bullets in your saddlebag. Figured we might need something in a larger caliber out there.” She patted her own sheath. He thought he recognized the stock of her prized 12-gauge, carved with a rearing horse in profile, sticking out of it. She shaded her eyes and looked east, out into the desert. “What's he thinkin', running off out there?”

Caff turned Calliope with a gentle press of his knee to her flank. She responded readily. “That's the thing,” He answered, “I'm not sure he is.” Jennie frowned, clearly confused, but he was in no mood for further talk. “I'll tell you on the way,” he said, “Now c'mon!” He touched his heels to Calliope and she took off, leveling out into a smooth, long-legged stride that seemed to damn near float over the ground. He had wasted enough time already.

He heard Jennie put Iris into pursuit, a task the compact mare set to with vigor. Together, they raced through town, people hastening out of the way as they saw who it was and how fast they were going. He would fill Jennie in on his suspicions regarding Everett once they got closer. The boy had maybe an hour-and-a-half's lead on them. Even on a horse as old as Trudy, that could be quite the distance. Caff wasn't eager to lengthen it. They passed into the scrublands, a sort of boundary between the chaparral hills in the west and the desert out east. This would be another quarter-mile or so, then the desert in truth would be before them.

It was an anticipation of sorts, mixed with a healthy dose of foreboding, that filled him. He was close now, so close. The answers he wanted, he could practically taste. Everett had them. Caff was certain of it. The earth turned a red-brown and dried out fully beneath Calliope's rushing hooves, cracking and splitting beneath the immense heat of the desert. Miles ahead, scribing a wide circle in the pale blue sky, was a shape. He bent over his saddle, deputy thundering behing him, and raced towards it.