Devon Monk - Dead Iron

Cedar had stared straight into the killing eyes of rabid wolves, hungry bears, and charging bull elk, but Mrs. Horace Small had them all topped.

With dirt brown hair piled in a messy bun on the back of her head, and a pinch of anger between her brows, the storekeepers wife always seemed half a tick from blowing a spring.

Two dollars, she repeated, her fist stuck wrist-deep in the fabric at her hip, her jaw jutted out like a bass on a hook.

Cornmeal, coffee, and a bit of cheese, Cedar said mildly. He knew better than to let his anger show, especially this close to the full moon, in a store full of townsfolk eager to get their hands on the fresh supplies and gears from the old states. Might be Im missing something. He looked back down at the receipt with Mrs. Smalls tight penmanship. How again do they add to two dollars?

He knew math-knew it very well. Hed spent four years back East in the universities and had plans of a teaching life. History and the gentle arts, not the wild metal and steam sciences of the devisers. Hed done his share of tinkering-had a knack for it-but did not have the restless drive of a true deviser, who couldnt be left in a room with a bit of rope, metal, and a hammer without putting them all together into some kind of engine or contraption.

No, his needs had been simple: a teachers life filled with a wife and a daughter, and his brother, Wil. But that life had been emptied out and scraped clean six years ago, when hed been only twenty-two. Leaving him a changed man.

Leaving him a cursed man.

Its written plain enough, she said. You do read, Mr. Hunt?

The part there that says fee, Cedar asked without looking up. What fee is that?

The rail takes its due. You arent part of the railroad, Mr. Hunt. Not a farmer, miner, rancher, or deviser. Not a member of this good community. Ive never seen you in church. Not one single Sunday the last two years. That fee for the rail is less than all those months dues you owe to God.

Didnt know the collection plate took hold to my provisions, he said with a little more irritation than hed intended, and I dont recall offering my wages to the rail.

The mood in the general store shifted. The men in the shop-the three Madder brothers, dark-haired, dark-eyed, all of them short, bull-shouldered, and strong-were listening in. Theyd stopped pawing and chuckling at the new metals and bits in the straw-padded crates, and were waiting. Waiting for him to say the wrong thing. Waiting for a fight.

Rose, Mrs. Smalls seventeen-year-old adopted daughter, stepped down off the stool where shed been dusting. She darted behind Cedar and out the door, silent as a mouse fleeing danger. She had good instincts. Hed always admired that in her.

Mrs. Small lowered her voice and leaned over the counter between them. You are a dirty drifter, Mr. Hunt. Any man out this far west with no plan of settling down isnt drifting toward something-hes trying too hard to drift away from something. The good folk of this town want you to be moving on. Youve brought enough bad luck down on us. First the Haney stock got drug away by wolves. Then the little Gregor boy goes missing. Trouble like you needs to be moving on your way.

Trouble like me? He tipped his hat down just a bit. No offense, maam, but I took care of the wolf before the Haneys lost the rest of their stock. If I recall, there wasnt another man out tracking it. And if Id known about the Gregor boy wandering off, I would have been looking for him too. Animals arent the only thing I am capable of hunting.

This time he did look up. Met her eyes. Watched the fire of her indignation go to ash. It never took much, no more than a glimpse of the thing that lived just beneath his civilized exterior, to end a conversation.

Days like this, he liked it. Liked what his gaze could do. But it was easy to lose his grip, to go from staring a person down to waking up with a dead body at his feet. He didnt want that to happen. Not today.

Not ever again.

Cedar blinked, breaking eye contact with Mrs. Small. He pushed the bloody memories away and gave her a moment, because he knew shed need one.

He took a moment too. Hed meant it when he said hed look for the boy, would have been looking at the first sign of his getting lost. But Hallelujah wasnt made of trusting folk. Theyd seen too much hardship to think a man who kept to himself and came to town only rarely would go out of his way to do them any good.

Except for the dandy rail man, Mr. Shard LeFel. Rumor had it all the town held him in high esteem. Rumor had it, when he or his man Mr. Shunt walked by, folk fought a powerful need to bow down on their knees.

Cedar hadnt yet met a man hed be willing to bow to.

The Madder brothers swaggered up, caulk boots hollow on the shiplap floor. The brothers worked the silver mine. Breaking rock all day never seemed to satisfy their need to bust their way through a mans bones every time they crawled out of the hills.

How I see it, Cedar said, hitching his words down low, quiet, Ive been some benefit to this town, me and my drifter ways. Hunted wolves, mountain lions, and nuisances for ranchers and working folk alike. Ill be hunting for the lost boy. You can tell the Gregors that when they next stop in.

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar and enough copper to settle the bill. Fee included. He placed the coins on the counter, plus a penny extra, and plucked a jar of ink from the shelf.

Mrs. Small raised one eyebrow, but said no more.

The silver filigreed bird perched on the edge of the high window sang one sweet chirp. Its head was the size of a childs thimble. The gears and burner inside it were so tiny, it chirped once every hour and needed only a half dropper of water a day to power it.

Valuable, that whimsy. He wondered where she had come by it. That delicate of a matic, a fine thing of little practical use, never survived this far west for long.

Beautiful things got crushed to dust out in these wilds.

Outside, the steam clock blew the pattern for ten oclock. Town was mighty proud of that whistle. The blacksmith, Mr. Gregor, had put it in place of a clock tower right over his shop at the north end of town. Not half again as nice as the steam bells back East, it was still Hallelujahs pride and joy and could be heard clear on the other side of Powder Keg Bluff.

Is Mr. Hunt troubling you, maam? asked Cadoc, the shortest and widest of the Madder brothers.

Cedar picked up the flour with the two smaller bundles stacked on top. He tucked the ink into his pocket and nodded at the brothers, who all wore overalls, tool belts, and long coats loose enough to cover whatever it was they kept stuffed in their pockets. Just a discussion of good citizenship is all, gentlemen, he said. Afternoon.

He headed out onto the stretch of porch that gave shade in the summer, and the chance of shelter against rain and snow in the other seasons.

The Small Mercantile and Groceries was set on the corner of Main Street-the only street with real gas lamps in the town. The other buildings, thirty or so of them with pitched roofs and walls of milled or plank wood, were laid out in neat rows following the curve of the Grande Ronde River north.

A bustle of people were on the streets this morning, come into town for the new shipment, to pick up mail, or to trade harvest goods to settle their bills. It brought back his memories of the big cities, though there were more steam matics trundling about in the East. Horses, carriages, wagons, and folk on foot added to the clatter of the place, added to the living of the place, and reminded Cedar of things long lost.

Even the ringing of a hammer on wood reminded him of the civilized life that was once his.