Chapter 10
Dust and Naismith rode hard for the rest of the day. The Paints had stayed together along a circuitous route, one which would have taken them a week to follow. But Dust knew Paints, knew how they moved, and so could trace a straight line through their meander.
They were well on their way to finding Penelope Chalmers, he could feel it. But the sun began to set just when Dust noticed that the Paint’s tracks had started joining with older sets. They were so close but had to stop; taking Naismith through the Badlands at night would’ve been the same as wrapping his hands round her neck.
So he led them to a plateau halfway-up a small mountain, reached into his bag and pulled their tent out. A large canvas with spells written across it, pierced by four poles, its structure was simple but effective. Each pole had been carved from the crucifixes of executed men. Wrapped around them was wire of indeterminate metal, probably copper.
“We’ll set up camp here,” he said.
Naismith shrugged. She was slumped, had deep bags under her eyes. “Okay.”
The Badlands were an oddly-shaped tumour. In some places, they were barely a mile thick but others were almost a hundred miles wide. And the boundaries always shifted as eldritch creatures killed one another or migrated according to their own designs. The Solution had a whole team dedicated to redefining the safe zone every month, a report which businesses like the TTC and locals always awaited with extreme interest. This unpredictability meant the Solution couldn’t know whether Dust and Naismith would have to sleep in the Badlands, a dangerous endeavour without the proper equipment. So they’d been packed with this ‘special’ tent.
And they would have to share it. The tent was plenty roomy but it had to fit Horse and Naismith’s ride too so they’d be packed in pretty tightly. Dust didn’t enjoy the prospect; he hadn’t been in such close proximity with a woman he disliked for… well, since he’d learned to handle his drink.
But needs must. Dust rolled off Horse and drove the poles into the plateau’s soil. After checking the poles were each firmly in place, he threw the canvas over them. The canvas seemed to expand as it unfurled, as though being folded had hidden its bulk, and it settled like icing on a cake, soft and pliant. Dust then arranged it so the right spells were over the right poles and tied the copper wire to the poles, forming a square to close the magic.
Apart from the spells, the tent was not remarkable; it was roughly the same colour as the sandstone mountain, tall enough to admit Horse without him having to duck and just as wide and deep. The canvas had two shrubs painted onto each face, not masterpieces but they’d suffice at range. It almost looked like any other survival tent.
Naismith maintained her weapon whilst Dust built the tent. Dust looked up and her rifle was open as she cleaned it out, made sure that what should be greased was and what shouldn’t be greased wasn’t. It was prudent. Dust approved.
He checked the tent one last time then grabbed Horse’s rein. “Come on boy, in you go.”
Horse gave a soft whinny when they were inside. Like Horse, Dust still found it impressive; the geniuses hadn’t earned their nickname by playing about.
The tent was bigger inside than it ought to be; twelve feet by twelve feet of room had been squeezed inside. There was a small staging area first which had just enough room for two horses and a humble sleeping quarter that lay beyond, which would just about fit the two of them. It was taller than it ought to be too; Dust couldn’t reach the ceiling unless he jumped.
Naismith led her ride inside, then wrinkled her nose. “Where’s the rest of it?” she asked.
“There isn’t any.”
She scoffed. “Then where are you going to sleep?”
He pointed over to the sleeping quarter. “In there.”
Naismith looked at the small canvas room and then back at him. “No you’re not.”
Dust led Horse over to the small ‘stable’ and gave him quick pat to tell him to stay put. Horse relaxed. He knew his day was over. Dust wished his was too.
“I’m not too thrilled with it either,” he said.
“And why not?”
He nearly smiled. That was women for you; she’d been furious at the thought of sharing a bed with him and now she was just as angry that he didn’t want to. Dust wanted to point that out. He didn’t.
“It’s only for a couple of nights,” he said, gently stroking Horse. “We’ve got sleeping bags.”
Naismith sniffed. “I suppose it’ll have to do.”
He gripped Horse, who tensed and gave Dust a disapproving look. His tattoo warned him with a painful shudder. Dust smiled apologetically and patted Horse twice.
“It’s settled then,” Dust said.
He left the tent before Naismith could respond.
Outside, dusk was settling over the Badlands. It had been so long that he almost missed the sight. The sun was lurid pink as it fell below the earth, painting every dune, each valley and mountain, in darkness. It was peaceful and beautiful.
Dust sighed. The Badlands looked so… normal at sunset, like any other part of the South. But there was still a feel that set them apart; a tension in the air, like a stench only your soul could smell. Something was coming to life out there, the grand and horrible power that pervaded and corrupted, and its presence was tangible.
That night there was another flavour mixed in with the cocktail of taint. A very familiar one. Dust sniffed the air, smelling only ozone and pollen, then scanned the horizon to pick out its source. Eventually he saw them.
He smiled to himself; now that was interesting.
Having seen that, Dust decided to activate the tent’s true defences. Those paintings wouldn’t keep them safe for long.
If all the tent did was act smaller than it was then it would’ve been sort-of useful but not really safe, even outside the Badlands. Which was why the space-saving trick was only its secondary function. Dust gave one of the copper wires a gentle pull to begin the magical chain reaction. Before it could start in earnest, he stepped inside the tent.
A moment later, the spell triggered; a compressed feeling surrounded him, like he was an infant swaddled by his mother, followed by a great disorientation. Having not felt such disconnection from reality for a while, he enjoyed the sensation.
“You oaf!” Naismith said. She was standing with her ride, fists balled. “You might have warned me!”
Dust shrugged. “I thought you’d expect it.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I did but not quite so early. Why flip it now?”
‘Flip it’. That was a good analogy for what the tent did; it flipped itself into the ground, merging with the soil to safely hide itself and its contents. Dust didn’t understand how it worked but he didn’t need to; all that mattered was that it worked.
“Safety. It’s best we not get noticed any further.”
She tapped her hip with her index finger. “Warn me the next time you do that,” she said, ignoring his slip of honesty. “I know we’re roughing it but there’s no excuse to act like a damn Indian or something.”
“That’s no way to talk about the Indians,” Dust warned.
“No?” she asked, mocking his gravel voice.
“No.”
Naismith stared at him. He stared back.
Her will broke first. “Anyway… how do we go to the bathroom whilst stuck down here?”
In answer, he reached into his pack and produced a bedpan.
“Surely you jest,” she hoped.
“It’s up to you,” he shrugged. “It’s either the pan or the corner.”
Her privileged eyes gave him a look which would have earned most men a lesson. He returned her gaze with placid honesty. She had no other option if she wanted to take a shit.
“I’m using the pan,” she said slowly. “You’re using the corner.”
“It’s my pan.”
Naismith stamped her foot. “And you’re my father’s man! You will do what I say. This isn’t some survival scenario – I don’t need you to survive this tent – so you are the one who will obey me. Do you understand?”
His tattoo shuddered along his ribs. Dust took a deep breath. “I’m not your father’s man.”
She took a step toward him and leant in, her face an inch from his. “No? You’re owned by the Solution, aren’t you? And my father funds the Solution, more even than the Government. So you are his man. He has bought and paid for you and everyone else there. You will do what he, and therefore what I, say. Do you understand?”
A good slap. That’s what she needed. And that was being kind; anyone else would get a broken nose. But it still wouldn’t be right; it wasn’t her fault she had a bad father.
“No,” he said.
“You don’t understand?” she asked with a sneer. “It’s pretty simple. Even a gun-lugger like you should be able to get it.”
Dust shook his head. He kept his tone even, placid. “No, I understand you but that’s not how this works. I do what I believe is best and nothing else. That doesn’t include bowing to someone just because they’ve got a pair of lungs on them and a rich daddy. So we either share a pan and take turns cleaning it and burying the scat or I use my pan and you shit with Horse.”
“Why you-”
“Horse it is then. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
He smiled when his tattoo remained inert; even it’d had enough of Naismith.
Naismith must’ve had enough of him too because she went to slap him. Dust blocked the attack with the dust pan. The blow rang out with a loud clang and her screwed-up, angry expression transformed into shock.
“I’m pretty sure you know what I am,” Dust said, gently pulling the bedpan away, “so trying to hit me was foolish. You’ll want to work on that temper of yours because it might get you in trouble one of these days.”
All the blood drained from her face but she was still so angry that her cheeks twitched. “Fine. We’ll share the pan.”
Dust shook his head. “Too late. Maybe tomorrow.”
Once again, his tattoo gave no warning.
Naismith curled her upper lip. She was so spoiled; Dust was surprised her skin wasn’t black as a month-old tomato. “Fine,” she said.
With that, she retired to the sleeping quarters. Dust figured she’d need to cool off so he tended to Horse and the other beast; brushed them down, checked their shoes for stones, applied cream to any bites he found. Then he serviced his guns. His other gun barely wore from use but he still cleaned, oiled and tuned both it and the Colt. The chores took maybe two hours. Dust decided to turn in. It was still early but his time as a ranger had taught him to sleep whenever he could.
He leaned against Horse and removed his shoes before stepping into the sleeping area. It smelled of woman, that strange, sweet smell that they give off. And she’d been busy too; her things had been arrayed into a wall, separated them with toiletries and food in case Dust felt an overwhelming urge to roll onto her in the night.
Dust smiled then rolled out his sleeping roll inches from her. Fully clothed, he lay on his sleeping roll, tipped his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. He didn’t dream.
Dust woke around dawn. After a deep, large stretch, he sat up. Naismith was still in bed, her eyes open as she stared at the roof of the tent; she was pointedly ignoring him and having some difficulty in doing so. The wall of her personal items was in tact, if not taller. And the little flap of a door between them and the stable was closed exactly as he’d left it last night.
He stood, stretched again and left the sleeping quarters. Horse was still sleeping, his feet bent at all angles as he lay in a position that oughtn’t have been comfortable. Naismith’s ride was also asleep, though it looked more orderly in doing so; Horse always had been an untidy thing. Dust supposed he got that from him.
A powerful urge to take a piss overcame him. He fetched his pan and was surprised to find it empty and clean. After relieving himself, he checked each corner of the stable; none had been fouled. Naismith must have held her need all night to spite him. That must be hurting by now.
Another man might have let her suffer, let her stay in there with a bursting bladder, but Dust was just pleased she’d stuck to her word. He decided it was close enough to dusk to undo the protection on the tent and went to grab one of the poles.
“I’m going to pop us back up,” he called to Naismith, giving her the courtesy she’d asked for.
After a moment, she replied “Okay.”
He twisted one section of the pole and the disorientation, the feeling of not knowing where he was, returned. Then he felt the world expand around him, a sort of unpacked feeling, as the tent righted itself. A weak hint of sunlight spilled in through the tent’s opening to prove they were above the ground again.
Dust stepped out to empty the bedpan. The sun had almost risen, making the world as rich and golden as a good whiskey, and that feeling of cloying evil was gone. The Badlands was relatively safe again. He walked round the tent; from the lack of tracks around them, nothing had passed by during the night. The geniuses had done it again.
He emptied the bed pan a few feet from the tent then washed his hands with some Abraxo Cleaning Powder. It was time for breakfast.
With some Devilweed, one of the safer unnatural brushes that grew in abundance on the mountains, he built a fire and started to warm the food in a small tin pan. He settled down to cook breakfast; a tin of beans and some jerky.
The tent twitched behind him. He pretended he hadn’t noticed, let Naismith go off and find a safe place to do her business, especially as she had her rifle in hand. He passed no comment when she returned either, merely handed her a bowl of breakfast.
They ate, packed and got on their way again without a word between them.
Twenty minutes after they picked the trail back up, Dust felt the same sensation he’d felt at sunset. He reached into his pack for a small mirror and held it up as though checking his appearance; really, he used it to look behind him. In the distance, a dark shape followed them along the track down the mountain, backlit by the morning light. It walked low to the ground on all fours and so was not human.
“I need you to do something,” Dust said quietly, putting the mirror away.
“Pardon?”
“I need you to do something.”
Naismith frowned. She’d not forgiven him. Maybe she never would; she seemed the type to hold a grudge. “What do you need doing?”
Dust kept his voice low. “We’re being followed. Or, rather, I am. I need you to-”
Naismith interrupted him. “What do you think they’re after?”
“Does that matter?”
She shrugged. “It might do. Let’s ask.”
And then the spoilt brat turned and shouted “Hello back there! We know you’re following us! We want to know why!”
Dust closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath. The tattoo, which had move to just above his pecker during the night, twitched a warning.
Slowly, he turned Horse round. The dark shape stood stock still, as though it hoped it might not be noticed. Dust ignored it and looked across the horizon until he saw the other presence, the stronger one. It was ahead of them, like it’d been following the Paints, and it too regarded them as though it was hidden. He was damn thankful he’d not said anything about them to the kid.
“Well?” Naismith asked. “I can see you back there.”
She pointed a dainty, smooth finger at the lesser presence. It snuck back in response.
“Oh, fine, we’ll come and see to you then.”
Naismith spurred her horse. The stalking presence turned tail and darted away, knowing its cause was lost. It moved like a predator at full pelt, majestic and damn fast.
Rather than give chase, Dust pointed to the other shape and called on his tattoo’s power. It wasn’t just for show or to annoy the hell out of him, no; if the mood took it, his tattoo would let him use small magics. It liked his idea this time and so let him shoot a thought to the other presence like an arrow. He sent this other figure his genuine interest in talking with them.
He got a simple response, a feeling rather than a thought; acceptance.
“Naismith!” Dust called. “Come back, follow me. Please.”
Naismith was just in hearing range, and she seemed to consider ignoring him for a moment, but she turned her ride around. Dust saw annoyance flash across her eyes; she felt she could have won that race If that had been what Dust thought it was, she’d never have gotten close.
Naismith trotted over. “What? Where are we going?”
“We’re going to have a powwow.”
She looked confused but didn’t argue.
Naismith in tow, Dust went to see who he’d contacted. When he was within a mile, he could see them better; they were an Indian, a woman. Her wards, spells and powerful weapons marked her out as a warrior. A powerful one. She surveyed the Badlands coolly, her dark eyes regarding him with dispassion whenever they met his.
It seemed he might get his wish of having a proper fighter along.
When she too could make the figure out, Naismith asked “Is that an Indian?”
“It is,” Dust said.
“Why is one of them following us?”
“Let’s fine out.”
They rode at a gentle pace. When they were within shouting range, Dust bellowed “Hello.”
“Don’t speak White,” the warrior shouted back, her voice deep and full of anger. Her English was garbled enough to prove her statement.
That was a problem; Dust didn’t speak or write any Indian dialect, just their runes. Things just couldn’t be easy, could they? He rode on, tried to work out how to communicate with the warrior; after all, she might know something that would help them find Penelope Chalmers. His tattoo wouldn’t let him use enough magic to have a good conversation… so maybe there was no way to talk to her…
“Damn it,” he said.
“If you mean our communication problem, I should say that I speak Indian,” Naismith offered.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Now that he hadn’t expected, not with her previous comments about Indians. But he wasn’t about to question the providence, especially not when she might get pissy again.
“Could you ask her what the other shape was?” Then he added “Please?” to keep her sweet.
Naismith nodded, then repeated the question. The warrior babbled something in return.
“Her Spirit Wolf.”
Dust’s smile widened. He’d been right. “Excellent. Could you ask her her name?”
More Indian. “Shadows Fade,” Naismith said. She seemed to be enjoying this.
“Tell her she’s been following the Wanted Man.”
This time, Dust recognised two of the words; his stupid nickname stood out even in the seeming nonsense of the Indian tongue. Shadows Fade bower her head as soon as his name was mentioned; the Indians respect Dust, though they do so for very different reasons than ‘white’ people.
“We’ve a lot to talk about,” he said to Naismith.