Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier Read online

  She just needed to lay here for a while and hurt. Then she’d get to work. But for a minute, for one sky-blue minute, she’d just lie here and rest, watching the smoke swirling overhead.

  And as she did, a little voice in the back of her head spoke up, wondering what the hell ever happened to her sawed-off shotgun…

  11

  Cards and Steel Hearts

  Pamela Jeffs

  It’s hard going, this midday flight across the yellow, windswept prairie. My throat is dry and my fingers are seized on my horse’s reins. I’m exposed out here, but I can’t afford to stop. The Hawk Riders are hunting for me—the ones who killed my parents and my tribe because they wanted what was not theirs to own. I can still feel the warmth of my mother’s blood leaking through my fingers, still see the image of my father lying face down in the dirt. I want my revenge, but right now something greater is at stake. I need to get to the Allies, cousins to my mother’s people. They will protect me—and the treasure I carry.

  Kohana’s stride is even beneath me until it is suddenly not. He falters, and next thing I know, I am laid out flat on my back. I get to my feet, brushing dirt and grass from my buckskin dress and leggings. I wince. My palms are stinging, grazed where they caught a thorn bush on the way down. I flick my hands, the pain eases. I walk over to Kohana.

  He’s expired.

  His body lays stretched out as if he is still running. Front legs straight, rear bent, and his nose pointed into the wind. The breeze catches the black and white feathers entwined in his mane. I curse at the luck fate has handed me.

  My bone-handled knife slips easily from my belt. I kneel down and dig the point of it into the muscle crease of Kohana’s chest. Pushing down, his blood wells thickly around the blade. It drips onto the grass, looking more black than red. The knife then slides deeper, and in slicing down, I am rewarded with a metallic clink. The blade has found what I am searching for—Kohana’s heart. I pull the knife free and push my fist into the wound. My fingers extend and burrow into the warm flesh. I feel the smooth metal orb, and I pull it free.

  I turn it over in my hand. Seeing it makes my grief surge again. Here, I hold my parents’ legacy: their hopes and dreams for an Indian nation not ruled by white men. It is a weapon, this steel heart. A weapon my father designed for the people even though he was not born of them. He used the technology of his own people, those who live amongst the stars, to build the metal heart. But I can see the stamp of my mother’s artistry in the balanced lines of the steel. Always my parents had worked as a team—my mother the artist, my father the inventor. Their combined efforts were a celebration of art and life.

  I look for the display of digital numbers I know to be on the underside of the orb. They are there, glimmering green beneath the streaks of Kohana’s blood. Four zeros. I, of all people, should have known better. I should never have let his time wind down. If only the attack on my camp had not been so swift, and I not so hard-pressed to escape, I would have remembered to press the small button beneath his chin to reset his heart.

  A keening cry from above draws my attention to the skies. Black pinpricks mar the stretch of watercolor blue. Hawk Riders. No time to lose. I reach into the leather satchel slung over my shoulder. Spare arrowheads clink against my firestones. My fingers travel over the prairie turnips and packets of pemmican I had grabbed during my hurried escape. They finally fall on the buffalo hide string-tie bag in the bottom. I pull it out.

  I place Kohana’s heart on the ground and loosen the string. I tip the bag over and a small wooden box falls out. It is made from a strange white timber, not of this world my mother once told me. The design is simple, low in height with a sliding lid. On top, the image of a star is burnt into the timber. My father’s mark, He Who Came from the Stars. I open it and reveal a small stack of thin leather cards, an image painted on the face of each one. Coyote. Wolf. Buffalo. I shuffle through them, searching for the one that will help me most now. Finally, I find it. She who is the Bald Eagle named Kimimela.

  I wipe my sleeve across the steel heart. Kohana’s blood smears away to reveal the card slot pressed into the metal. Next to it are two small buttons. One green, one red. I, myself, have only ever had occasion to press the green one. I press it now and then flip the card in my hand over and slide it in. Kimimela’s painted eagle eye seems to wink at me before disappearing into the orb.

  There is a click and a whir. Next to me, Kohana’s body begins to fold in upon itself. His legs double back, his head neatly flattens and his barrel chest disappears. Soon he is a leather card with a picture of a horse drawn on the front. I pick him up and put him back into the box.

  The steel heart in my hand begins to shudder. The digital numbers on the side begin to flip, faster than my eye can register. They stop at 9999— as many minutes as to last for seven days. Then an alarm sounds, a low, continuous note. I drop the heart and scuttle to one side. A bright light flashes, and Kimimela burgeons into existence.

  She is larger than a real eagle, large enough to carry me on her back. She shakes the impossible length of her bronze wings, unfurling them like draping sheets of canvas. Her bright eagle eyes catch mine. “Wichahpi,” she says, naming me. “Star Girl. Time to fly.”

  I climb up her side and seat myself between her wings. Her back is broader than a mustang’s, and I feel the difference in the stretch of my leg muscles. I lock my arms around her glistening white-feathered neck. She calls out a long, piercing cry, and then we are airborne.

  The rush of air is deafening, loud and electric all at the same time. The ground falls away beneath us, expanding to reveal the far-reaching prairie that ripples like a golden sea from horizon to horizon.

  In the distance, the serpentine sweep of river marks the border of my people’s lands. Beyond it, gray smoke rises gently against the sky—there lie the tribal camps of our cousins.

  Not far now.

  But, suddenly Kimimela veers right. My legs tighten around her to keep my seat. A dark brown shadow edged with razor claws sweeps by in a gust of air. I see the outline of a man’s back sitting upon it. I glance around.

  Hawk Riders. Five of them.

  Kimimela’s cry is a shriek of fury. She banks left as two hawks bear down on her flank. She spins in the air, her claws raking down the side of one. Blood sprays across the blue backdrop of sky, and the hawk crumples. The man on her back cries out before falling to his death.

  Another hawk swoops by. This time I hear the laughter of the rider on her back. A whip hangs loose in his hand. His wrist twitches, and the end of it curls around Kimimela’s foot. Her wings falter as she is jerked violently sideways. My hands slip from her neck, and I am suddenly dangling precariously by my legs. I grasp the knuckle joint of her wing and pull myself up. She cries out, and I understand her predicament. With me on her back, her fighting prowess is crippled. I do not begrudge her decision as she twists her way out of the whip and then dips out of the sky. This fight will be better fought on the ground.

  Her claws clutch up loose grass and clumps of earth as she lands. I slide off her, feet first, reaching back for my tomahawk as I do. Its weight is comforting in my hand. Kimimela turns and curls her body around me, standing guard at my back. I smell her sweat, a mixture of warm feathers and sun-heated skin. I watch as the four remaining Hawk Riders land in a circle around us.

  Their hawks are huge, easily twice the size of Kimimela. Their fierce eyes are black pools ringed with gold. They jostle on their clawed feet, their leather and iron harnesses jangle.

  The riders dismount. They are white men, dressed in the leather boots, chaps, and wide-brimmed hats typical of the outlaw gunslingers that terrorize the skies. The one with the whip now carries it coiled at his side; the others have guns slung low on their hips. I recognize these men. My gut begins to roil. They are the ones who attacked my camp.

  “Well, looky here, Boss,” says the man with the whip. “It’s the lil’ Indian girl we been looking for.”

  I understand the w
hite men’s words; my father taught me well. And I don’t like the man’s tone. I don’t like that he called me little. I am fifteen summers old. Old enough to hunt buffalo with my father, old enough to kill a man. I shift my grip on my tomahawk. Kimimela shuffles behind me. The prairie is silent around us except for the chirruping of grasshoppers.

  One of the gunslingers, the tallest one with the dark beard takes a step closer. His gaze falls on Kimimela. “That’s not a natural beastie you got there, girlie. Definitely got to have a steel heart, I’d say.”

  The other men begin to mutter and shift. I can see the greed in their eyes, their eagerness to possess the heart, and perhaps to possess me. I will not let that happen.

  The leader smiles; his teeth are yellow and broken. “Hand it over.”

  “Come and get it,” I reply.

  My words are followed by the sharp crack of the whip. I feel the lick of plaited leather fall across my forearm. It slithers away just as fast, leaving in its place a line of blood. I turn toward the man holding the whip. His leering grin is no more attractive than the leader’s. All of a sudden I am acutely aware of the sun’s heat on my forehead, the hot, dry prairie breeze in my nostrils. Of Kimimela, and my mother’s cousins too far away to help me now.

  I lunge toward the whip man and, before he can blink, my tomahawk has split his skull. It cracks like a melon, the features of his face lost in a sheet of hot blood. Kimimela is attacking the next man, but he is fast. His gun is clear of its holster, but his grip on it is uncertain. The weapon tumbles into the grass. He ducks to retrieve it. I have no time to see what happens next.

  The leader grabs me from behind. I let my joints go slack, and I slither free of his grip. I turn and swipe at him with my tomahawk, but he dodges to the side. I follow and suddenly find myself looking down the barrel of his gun.

  “Get up,” he growls. “And lose the tomahawk.”

  I do, letting my weapon slide to the ground. I glance about. The fight is over before it has started. Kimimela is captured. Her bright head is held beneath the talons of one of the hawks, pushed hard into the trampled earth. Her wings are spread out awkwardly across the grass, their surface tattered and marred with streaks of blood. She calls out to me, and I feel as if I have failed her.

  I look back at the leader. His weathered face is stern. The gun he holds has not moved. “Get me the heart,” he says.

  I nod and tip my chin over to Kimimela. “I will need to go to her.”

  The leader nods and moves to position himself behind me. His gun stays aimed on me, but is now pointed at the back of my skull. “Walk,” he says. “And no funny business.”

  My heart breaks when I get to Kimimela. I kneel by her side. Her eagle eye swivels up to meet mine. Its brightness captures the light of the sun overhead. The hawk’s talons have torn at the flesh on her face and neck. Her lush feathers are coated in her black-red blood. I place my hand on her shoulder, wishing I could somehow warn her of what is about to come.

  “Now.” The leader shoves the barrel of his gun hard against my skull.

  My head jerks forward, making my teeth clatter. I turn and glare at him. “My knife.”

  He tips his chin up in consent. I reach down and close my fingers over the bone hilt. I lift it. Kimimela’s eye follows the line of the blade as it crosses her field of view. Her gaze snaps back to mine. Now, she understands.

  I place my free hand on her polished beak. She blinks, and then keens a soft cry. “Fly free,” I whisper.

  Her end is not painless, but it is quick. I draw the blade across her neck. The pupil of her eye widens, her back arches, her claws scrabble at the earth, and then she falls still.

  There is a moment of silence, but then I feel the press of the gun barrel again. The leader’s voice is harsh. “The heart,” he says. “Now.”

  I don’t bother looking at him. Instead, I pull aside Kimimela’s lax wing and plunge my knife into her feathered chest. The blade crunches past her breastbone and into her body cavity. I feel the warm rush of her blood coat my hand. I push deeper. The metallic clink follows. I remove the knife and push my fist into the opening. Kimimela’s heart is closer to the surface than Kohana’s was. I pull it free with a slurping sound.

  I lift the gruesome prize, holding it high for the men to see. My fist, arm, and the heart are coated in dark blood. I smell the iron in it and hear the buzzing of the flies already gathering to drink.

  The leader reaches around and takes the heart from my hand. His skin is rough against my fingers. He wipes at the blood. The heart emerges, colored in patches of silver and red. “We got our prize, boys!” he says.

  His grin is filled with triumph.

  His attention is not on me.

  Stupid man.

  I flip the bloodied blade in my hand. Next thing, it is buried in his throat.

  His cry is short and sharp, quickly fading to a gurgle as he falls to his knees. He is dead in moments. As his grip weakens, the heart tumbles from one hand, and his gun slips from the other. I scrabble to get the weapon, but a gunshot from one of the other men sends it skipping away from me. Instead, I reach for and succeed in retrieving the heart. I twist on my heel and get to my feet. I stop, looking at the remaining two men. One is wearing a red bandana, the other a faded yellow one. Both have their guns aimed at my heart. Yellow Bandana has his gaze leveled at my breasts.

  “That’s a mighty silly thing you’ve gone and did,” says Red Bandana. He is younger than the other man, but seems to hold the authority.

  “Let me at her. I’ll teach her a lesson,” says Yellow Bandana.

  A look of disgust crosses Red Bandana’s face. I can see he doesn’t like the other man. “Give me the heart, girl,” he says. “Show me how to use it, and I’ll let you live.”

  He will let me live? I almost laugh out loud. “Come closer then,” I say.

  Red Bandana moves cautiously. He reminds me of a coyote—sly, wary and clever. In moments, he is standing before me, his gun still held steady. Up close, he is handsome for a gunslinger with his smooth, clean skin and neat, well-tended clothes.

  “Show me,” he says.

  I turn the heart over in my hand. The green numbers are flipping over. 8199…8198…8197... My thumb traces the line of the card slot and brushes over the green and red buttons.

  The red button.

  The answer to my problems.

  “Put the card in the slot,” I say. “Press the red button.”

  “Card?” asks Red Bandana.

  I pull the wooden box out from the satchel still slung across my chest. I open the lid. The Coyote card tops the deck. A good omen, he is the trickster. I pick him up. “A card like this.”

  “So you slot in the card and press the button?”

  “Yes. The red one. The green one will destroy the heart.”

  The man nods. “And when you want the heart back, you kill the beastie and cut it out?”

  His lack of humanity disgusts me. “Yes.”

  “And where do yon cards come from? How can I get more?”

  I am inspired by the Coyote’s trickster nature. “Make them. Leather and paint. Easy to do.” The idea is not so far from the truth, but enough for it to be a lie.

  Red Bandana smiles, and with that simple gesture, I understand he does not intend to keep his word. Given the information, I suppose he feels he has no reason to.

  He moves quicker than I expect, does not even hesitate as he pulls the trigger. I hear his gun fire, see the smoke bloom out of his gun barrel, and then I feel the searing bullet tear though my chest.

  I feel it hit my heart.

  I hear the metallic sounding clink.

  The bullet stops dead.

  I look down at my chest. Blood, more black than red, stains the front of my dress. I look back up at Red Bandana. He looks confused. It’s my turn to smile. “Not all creatures with steel hearts are obvious,” I say.

  Then, I press the red button.

  It is the first time the weapon ha
s ever been used against humans. My father had planned to do it next summer—to go and stand at the center of the gunslinger’s town and use the heart to make the place fold. But his untimely death saw the chance taken from him. Time to even the score. I take a breath and brace myself.

  The heart’s alarm sounds. I place it on the ground and step back. The sound grows increasing louder. Stupidly, Red Bandana reaches down and snatches it up.

  Then—the alarm stops.

  A flash of light, brighter than the sun overhead, suddenly illuminates the prairie. My smile widens as I stand in the blaze, protected from what is happening by virtue of the steel heart that beats in my chest—the heart my parents made for me, so they could have a child when nature failed them in that quest.

  The light fades. Red Bandana stands frozen. His eyes move wildly, but he has no control over his body. Slowly, he begins to flatten. His arms fold in on himself, his face becomes flat. I can see he wants to scream, but it is too late for that. Behind him, Yellow Bandana suddenly falls sideways. He too begins to flatten, arms, legs, and torso losing dimension. Kimimela’s body follows, as do the four hawks, all jerking as they try to fight the process.

  Soon, I am standing alone on the prairie. Scattered on the grass are nine leather cards, an image painted on each one. One is Kimimela, her eagle eye winking at me. Four hold pictures of hawks, and the other four, images of white men—one holding a coiled whip, another sporting a dark beard. One wears a red bandana, the other a yellow.

  I reach down and pick up Kimimela’s heart. It is one of only two that exist, the twin being the one in my chest. Both are weapons that can create life as easily as they can take it away. I reach up and press the button beneath my chin. The steel heart in my chest resets. I bend down and begin to collect the cards lying on the grass. The ones of the men will help to light my fire tonight. But the hawks I will keep. Once re-trained, they will prove useful.

  My thoughts turn to the Allies—of how I will join them, and together rid the lands of all white men. I will finish what my parents started. I place the cards in the box, holding back the one of Kimimela. I slip it into the steel heart and watch as she burgeons into life.