American Eldritch, Chapter 8

“So?” Layla prompted excitedly, two days later. “What do you think?”

We were standing in what I now knew was called her parlor, which means “living room,” but fancier. Layla had requested a full length mirror be brought up while I put on my new clothing. I stood in front of it, seeing the transformation Ulysses had begun now completed.

I was standing in a black suit made from a sturdy material that breathed better than wool. A leather vest, the same shade of maroon as my hat, rested over a black shirt, closed with black buttons. A maroon tie hugged my neck. Going down was my new gun belt, stained black with maroon accents. The pants were similarly black. Finally, my boots were polished black with steel caps on the toes. I missed my original vest with it’s hidden sheaths, but Layla said I needed some color to balance all the black and my vest had been too dark.

“I thought the idea was to make me look like I’m not a mark?” I asked.

“You don’t,” Layla said, almost giddy with how much she was enjoying the results of her work. She was wearing a new dress done in golds and browns, her hair in a bun I was told was a different style than yesterdays but I couldn’t, for the life of me, tell in what way. “Do a spin!”

I gave a long suffering look to Mable and did as instructed, to which the Storm Born clapped excitedly. “Polishes up like a new penny, doesn’t he?” She said to Mable.

“Yes,” Mable replied, the professional diffidence she usually adopted replaced with a far warmer, more admiring, tone. “It is quite the change.”

“Oo,” Layla said teasingly. “Seems like you have an admirer.”

I felt my face heat up, seeing a similar reaction in Mable as she stood straighter. “Stop teasing her,” I demanded.

“I’m not,” Layla shot back with a grin. “I’m teasing you.”

I snorted and turned back to the mirror. I reached behind and under my coat and pulled free the dagger—more of a short sword, the blade being fifteen inches and weighing almost two pounds—from the scabbard attached to my new, second favorite possession; my knife harness. The action wasn’t natural. Not yet. I had only had the harness for a few hours, but hadn’t wanted to put it on until everything was ready.

I flipped the knife into the air and caught it with my left, drawing my gun in the same motion while keeping my eyes on my reflection. I have to admit, I liked the way I looked. I looked… dangerous. Competent. Nothing like the scared seventeen-year-old I had been just a few days ago. I spun the revolver into the holster and began to the awkward process of returning the knife to the scabbard.

“That’s going to take some gettin’ used to,” I muttered, finally getting the knife in the scabbard after half a dozen attempts. I had initially balked at Keith’s (the leather worker) insistence in a hard scabbard, as I was rightly afraid it would be uncomfortable. But the older man had insisted, saying I would want one after using it. He had been right. A leather sheath would have made sliding the large blade home even more problematic, and without the reinforced covering, might result in me getting stabbed by my own blade should I fall in a fight.

As I watched myself in the mirror, I began to pull and sheath each of my new knives, one after another, watching the movements of my body to see which ones stood out the most. Layla had been surprisingly indulgent, spending as much on my new knives and harness as she had on my entire new wardrobe. A part of me felt I was taking advantage of her kindness, while another part argued that I didn’t know the value of the favor she would demand once my sister was safe. Both were drowned out by the fact that saving my sister was beyond any compensation, which made me feel more guilty.

After the final blade slid home, I stood and regarded the man in the mirror, resting a hand on the grip of my revolver in a relaxed pose. Yeah. That’s a man who could rescue his sister.

“You approve?” Layla asked. She was trying to hide it, but I could tell she was anticipating my answer.

“I do,” I said with a smile. In a flash, I drew my revolver and pointed it at my reflection. I returned it to the holster and turned to the Storm Born. “Though, all this black will be hell once summer arrives.”

She waved away my concern. “You’ll survive.”

I sucked air in through my teeth. Since we’ve arrived in town, a growing sense of urgency had been building in the back of my mind, ready to boil over. Grigs, Marlowe and I weren’t due to report back yet, but that day was fast approaching. The wiggle room was shrinking fast. Now that our preparations were mostly finished, the itch to make for Sheer Creek with all speed was growing like an untreated rash.

Layla noticed. “We’re almost done,” she assured me. “Just waiting on the last of my orders. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.

I gave a tense nod. Layla gave me a searching look before nodding to herself. “Why don’t you take a walk? Break in those new boots. I’ll see if I can speed us along.”

“Sure,” I said. I tipped my hat to Mable and left the big room.

I stopped by the Ulysses’ work space but he was absent. Layla had gotten me a shaving kit and I had learned how to use it from the older man, the barber’s infectious enthusiasm worming it way into a friendship. Disappointed by not finding him, I left through the lobby and started to walk down Main Street.

Despite being new, the boots actually fit me and were already a good bit more comfortable than my old pair. I was also wearing new, thick socks, which surprised me with how much comfort they gave.

As I walked down the street, I noticed many eyes on me. I felt my anxiety spike and fought the urge to hunch my shoulders and hide my face. I glanced around, trying to find the source of the looks. I was surprised when the majority of the eyes on me were from women. What was happening?

I wasn’t used to attention from the fairer sex. I remembered Layla’s comment to Mable. Hmm. I recalled what I looked like just a few days ago. Scruffy, dirty, wild. Ill fitting clothes, patched many times. Probably wild around the eyes. I can’t imagine the look in my eyes changed much, but maybe without the dirt and grime, the look gave me a hard bent instead of a crazy one.

As I studied my surroundings, I noticed that many of the men who were watching me were mostly clerks and craftsmen. None called out to me, which I found odd. Shopping with Layla had made me accustomed to being accosted by all sorts of merchants trying to catch her eye. I was dressed as finely as she had been, so why wasn’t I being hassled? Is this why she had been so sure I didn’t look like a mark?

I had a sudden urge to get off the street. I wasn’t used to the attention and needed a moment to settle my nerves. I crossed the street, pausing to let a passing coach pass. My target was the Sheriff’s office. I had a habit of checking the bounty boards to see if I or anyone I knew was up there. Normally I had to sneak peaks during busy times or through the window, but I was growing more and more confident in Layla’s “disguise” and boldly walked into the office.

A deputy looked up from the local gazette he was reading on his desk. One of his hands disappeared under it as his eyes narrowed a fraction. I nodded to him. “Mornin’,” I greeted. “Just here to take a look at the bounty board.”

My tone put him at ease and his hand appeared above the desk, picking up the corner of the paper that had dropped. He was young, only a few years older than me. He was trying and failing to grow a beard, the wispy red facial hair growing in unsightly patches. His hair of the same color was plastered to his scalp with wax or sweat, his hat hanging off the corner of the desk. His deputy star was pinned to a suede vest, which itself was over a checkered work shirt.

He jerked his head to the side and went back to reading the paper. “On the wall yonder.”

“Many thanks,” I said and crossed the small room. The bounty board was a good deal smaller than the one in Sheer Creek. My first scan didn’t show anyone I knew, not even Layla. Maybe her bounty hadn’t made it out to the smaller towns in the region.

Not recognizing anyone, I relaxed and allowed myself to study the faces, crimes and bounties. I didn’t consider myself a bounty hunter, but if I ran into any of these folk, I wouldn’t mind trussing them up to earn a buck.

The peaceful morning was broken by a woman’s voice at the edge of hysteria. I turned just in time to see a woman chase an older man into the office, who after a moment I realized was the Sheriff. He had an impressive handlebar mustache and a gun belt with two holsters, both well worn which suggested he could draw both with equal skill. His coat was as old as he was, thick leather worn thin at the elbows.

“I’m doing all I can, Mrs. Hastings,” the sheriff said in a voice like gravel, not turning to look at the woman following him. My ears perked up at her name. “Bill, go wake up the other deputies. We got a missin’ kid to look for.”

Without a word, Deputy Bill dropped the paper he was reading, grabbed his hat and was out the door.

“She’s never not come home before!” Mrs. Hastings said, her eyes red but dry. She was a handsome woman, maybe twice my age. She was wearing a simple, white linen dress that I assumed she threw on for expediency.

“Are you talkin’ about Tilly?” I asked as I approached.

Both Mrs. Hastings eyes and the sheriff’s latched onto me with an intensity. The sheriff didn’t reach for his gun, but I could tell he wanted to. “What do you know, boy?”

I raised my hands. “Nothin’,” I said, nodding toward Mrs. Hastings. “I’m just acquainted with Mr. Hastings. He’s been talkin’ about Tilly’s habit of bringin’ home lizards for the past three days. I’d like to help, if I’m welcome.”

The sheriff’s mouth pinched like he tasted something sour, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Mrs. Hastings. “You’re Patton?” She asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a nod.

“Ulysses hasn’t stopped talking about you since you first sat in his chair,” she said, then turned to the sheriff. “We could use all the help we can get.”

Her statement felt more like an order. The sheriff rolled his eyes but nodded. “You run along, Mrs. Hastings. We’ll meet at your house once I’ve rounded up my deputies.”

“I’ll walk with you—if you don’t mind, ma’am,” I said, walking forward to hold the door for her.

“Please,” she said, giving me a shaky smile that didn’t quite form. As I closed the door, the sheriff’s eyes studied me until it clicked closed.

She latched onto my arm and dragged me at a half-run toward the northern part of town. “Ulysses told me she’s been leaving the house pretty much daily,” I began.

Mrs. Hastings nodded and slowed to rapid walk, slightly out of breath. “Y-yes, she read a penny novel and got it in her head she could be just like that McKendrick woman.”

“You said she didn’t come home,” I prompted. “When did she leave?”

I may not be the manhunter Marlowe had been, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t been paying attention. People think tracking is all about reading the wind or looking for tracks, which is only true if you’re hunting game. When it came to people, it was usually people who told you where they went.

“Just after lunch,” she said, her voice breaking. “She asked me to pack her a big sack lunch, because she didn’t want to have to come home for dinner. She put up such a fuss I did—I did it.”

She was nearly sobbing. I patted her hand. “Do you remember what the lizards she brought home looked like?”

She slowed abruptly, looking at me with wide eyes. “W-what?”

I gently pulled her forward, getting her moving again. “The lizards,” I repeated. “If I know the breed, it could help narrow down where to look for her. What did they look like?”

She blinked rapidly. It took her several moments, but she started to guide me again. “Brown,” she began.

“How big?” I prompted.

“About as long as my hand.”

“With or without the tail?”

“Without. They, they had two stripes running down their back,” she was warming up to the process now. “One hissed, and it’s neck expanded red. It spit up slime.”

“Did it have a crest on its head and neck?” I asked.

“Yes!” Mrs. Hastings exclaimed, looking at me with wide eyes.

“Were they always the same kind of lizard, or did she bring homes many different ones?”

“They—they all looked the same. Except a few didn’t have the crest.”

“Colony anole,” I said with a nod. “The ones without the crest are female. She must have found their nest. How long did she stay out, previously? When would she leave and when would she get back?”

We turned down a street, leaving the businesses of the town behind. The area became more residential. “She’d leave after her lessons, after lunch. She’d leave sooner if I didn’t make her sit down and eat. She’d come back, usually in time for dinner.”

“When do you eat dinner?” I asked, scanning the windows around us.

“A-around seven, when Ulysses gets off work.”

I didn’t spot anyone watching us from inside, though several women called from their porches that they were keeping an eye out for Tilly. Mrs. Hastings thanked each one.

The Hastings’ property was at the edge of the northern part of the town, the backyard open to the wilderness. It was a two story, white washed building that surprised me in that it was owned by a barber. Shaving must pay well.

A younger version of Ulysses was sitting on the porch, his worry hanging on him like a shroud. “Any word?” Mrs. Hastings asked, letting go of me and rushing to her son.

“No, not yet, mama,” the boy replied, eyeing me curiously.

“Did you ever go with your sister to catch lizards?” I asked, studying the ground around the property. There had been a lot of traffic recently. I assumed the husbands of the women we passed had come and started to help look for the lost girl.

When no answer came, I looked up in time to see Mrs. Hastings prompt the boy with a touch on his shoulder. “Answer him, sweetie. He’s a friend of your father’s.”

Bret shook his head. “No, sir,” he said sadly. “I-I’ve been trying to get an apprenticeship at the farrier. I clean the shop in the afternoon so he can teach me.”

I nodded and circled the house, following the myriad tracks left by this morning’s traffic. I heard Mrs. Hastings following me. Entering the back yard, examined the horizon. Back west was the flat expanse of the prairie, which I would hazard a guess wouldn’t hold the attention of a little girl. East tended toward civilization—I could see smoke from a settlement a few miles down the road. Directly north were hills that slowly transformed into the Canadian mountains, which afforded plenty of places for a child to get lost.

I started walking in a zigzag, scanning the ground. In their haste to look for the girl, the neighborhood had destroyed evidence of the girls passing, making my job harder. I didn’t blame them, but I wish the Hastings’ had thought to call a tracker first before calling for a search.

Five minutes later, the sheriff arrived with his deputies. I barely spared them a glance as I continued my work. I heard footsteps approach from behind and caught sight of the sheriff approaching, hands on his hips (and close to his guns).

“You a tracker?” He asked, his voice catching on the last word, prompting him to noisily clear his throat and spit to the side.

“Not by trade,” I said. “Though I ran with a fella who was a deft hand at it, and I like to pay attention.”

“What’ve you found?” He asked. I got the feeling the question was a test.

“Whole lot of nothin’,” I said. “The rush to find the girl destroyed all the tracks near the house,” I gestured north. “I’m guessin’ she headed out that way, as west is flat and borin’ and there ain’t adventure to be found east. Mrs. Hastings said she brings home colony anole, so if you know any trappers or hunters who know the area and can point us toward the nearest nest, we can probably get a good idea of where she went.”

The sheriff grunted and turned toward his deputies. “Bill! See if you can find whatever rock McCormick is under and drag him out of it.”

Again, the deputy wordlessly turned and dashed off.

“The rest of you fan out and see what you can find,” the sheriff instructed.

I kept up my search but there was either nothing to find, or I just didn’t have the skill to pick up the kids tracks amidst so much traffic. I kept at it, widening my search the further I got from the house. The sheriff, annoyingly, stayed close and watched me work.

I was still searching twenty minutes later when Deputy Bill returned with a bleary eyed man in a suede, leather tassled outfit looking like a native. Deputy Bill was practically dragging the still obviously drunk man by his collar.

“Dane, glad you could join us,” the sheriff said. I stopped my search and watched the interaction. At least, that had been my intention, but the sheriff gestured toward me and included me in the conversation. “This young feller says the girl was bringing home—“the sheriff turned toward me. “What’d you call them?”

“Colony Anole,” I said. “I was hopin’ you might be able to point us to a nearby nest.”

Dane blinked at me owlishly, trying to focus his eyes. Deputy Bill shook him, which resulted in Dane violently shoving the deputy away. Bill looked like he was about to respond in kind but paused when the sheriff held out a warding hand.

“Y’want a cliff, or a gully wall,” Dane eventually said, grimacing as he rubbed his head. It was as if speaking caused him pain. “Colony Anole make their nests on walls or trees, but the trees around here don’t take to it.” He gestured vaguely north.

Before I could disparage his information, he continued. “There’s two or three gullies about an hour out, along the old creek bed before they diverted it to make Myer’s Lake. There’s an old granite mine—“he pointed northeast. “About two hours fast march that way. Lotta places for a kid t’hide.”

That was much better. I gestured at the ground around us. “Can you track her?”

The inebriated man squinted at the ground, then shook his head. “M’by if I was sober. Too many folk have been through. Where’s the ma?”

I looked past him to the back porch of the Hastings property, seeing Mrs. Hastings watching us. I waved her over.

“Yes?” She asked breathily upon arriving.

“What kind of shoe yer girl wear?” Dane asked her.

“I—girls shoes,” she said, bewildered.

“Aye,” Dane said, nodding. “With a heel? Flat? Leather? Soft soled or hard?”

“Th-they were leather, with a small heel,” she elaborated.

“They click on the floors?” Dane prompted.

“Y-yes,” she said.

“Were they muddy when she came home?”

“Yes!” She said. “I was constantly scolding her for tracking mud into the house.”

Dane nodded. “That’ll make it easier t’track. Ma’am, if I could trouble you for a cup of coffee, as strong as you can make it, I can add my eyes to the search.”

“Of course!” She said, rushing back to her house.

I resumed my search, adjusting my trajectory based on the information Dane had supplied. Fifteen minutes later, in a clear patch of dirt between two tufts of crab grass, was a small, square indentation. Much too small to be a man’s heel. I called out to the trapper.

“Yup, that’s her,” Dane said once he got his eyes on it. He was nursing his second cup of coffee. “Or there’s another twelve year old wearing Mary Jane heels out here.”

He finished off the coffee with a grimace and handed it back to Mrs. Hastings, who stood nearby with the percolator. “Thank you for the drink, ma’am. Let’s see about findin’ your girl.”

Dane and I took point and began to track the missing girl.