Dead Iron (2 page)

Around her neck was a little locket the size and shape of a robin’s egg. It looked to be made of gold and silver, though it might just have been the shine of the morning sun upon it. He’d never seen her without that locket around her neck.

She balanced a small wooden plate with gears set flat atop it on the palm and fingers of her left hand. A tiny tin top with a copper steam valve followed the spokes of the wooden gears and gave off a sour little song that changed with its speed as it followed the height and width of each cog. Rose pulled a gear off the plate and replaced it with another from her apron pocket, sweetening the song, all the while talking, talking.

Clever, that.

He’d bet she fashioned it herself. She had the look of the deviser’s knack—a quick mind that trawled the edge of madness, and clever, busy fingers. She had practical smarts too, though, like knowing how to stay away from the back of her mama’s hand.

“Reckon I put your mama in a sour mood, asking her about the Gregor boy,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard when he got himself lost?”

“Last night is all,” she said, stopping the top with her finger and slipping it into her apron pocket. “Didn’t run off, I heard.”

“Didn’t run? Think he flew out the window?”

She tipped a glance out from behind the brim of her bonnet. Those eyes were blue and soft and wide as the sea. She smiled, the corners of her mouth tucking dimples into her tanned cheeks. Folk around town had their opinions of the girl abandoned when she was a babe. Thought she had too many wild ideas spinning through her head than was proper for a woman. He’d never seen her be anything but kind and steady in the years he’d been here. Deviser or not, madness or not, she had a good heart; that was certain.

Didn’t seem the other men in town thought the same. A woman her age and unmarried was almost an unheard-of circumstance.

“No, Mr. Hunt,” she said. “I think he got took.”

“Took? That what his folks are saying?”

She shrugged.

“They saying what took him?” There wasn’t a night predator brash enough to cross a closed door, and there wasn’t a soul foolish enough to go without a lock or brace in these parts. Maybe the boy wandered when he should have been sleeping.

“Said it was the man.”

“What man?”

“The bogeyman.”

Cedar blinked and went very still. She wasn’t lying. That was clear from the curiosity in her eyes. She’d heard someone say that, someone who meant it. He just hoped whoever had said it didn’t know what they were talking about.

Under his sudden silence, Rose clutched the wooden gear plate tighter and pulled her braid back so it fell square between her shoulders. She did not look away, but lifted her chin and studied his face, his eyes, the angle of his shoulders, his clenched fists. She weighed and measured his mood as if he were made of parts and the whole, more curious than cautious, though she rocked up on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt if need be.

And for good reason. He’d been staring at her. He knew what she saw in his gaze. Knew the beast that twisted inside him. He looked away.

“Mr. Hunt?” she asked. “Are you not well?”

Like he thought, she had good instincts. Cedar found a smile and gentle tone left over from better days.

“Well enough. Thank you for your time, Miss Small.”

“Do you think it was?” she asked. “The bogeyman?”

“I think a lady like you shouldn’t need to fret about the bogeyman.”

She did not smile. “They say he came in the night,” she said. “Slick as a shadow. Took Elbert from his bed. Didn’t even leave a wrinkle in the sheets. No one saw him. No one heard him. No one stopped him. Not even his daddy. It’s unnatural.” She nodded and looked him straight in the eyes. “Strange. I think that might be worth a fret or two, don’t you?”

Mr. Gregor was a big man. A strong man with hair and beard as red and wild as the fire he toiled over. Probably looked like a giant from the eyes of a girl growing up in this town.

A crash from inside clattered out; then Mrs. Small’s holler drifted through the doors. Rose flinched, tucked back down into herself, her hair falling once again to cover her face. He didn’t sense fear from her. No, he sensed frustration. She took a breath and let it out like a filly settling to the chafe of bridle and cinch.

“Don’t worry yourself, Miss Small,” Cedar said. “You’re safer here in your home than if you hid away in the blacksmith’s pocket.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m of a positive considerance not even the bravest bogeyman would dare cross the temper of your mother.”

That tipped a laugh out of her, sweeter than the top’s song, and Cedar couldn’t help but smile in response. There was something about Rose that made a man want to smile.

“You have a way with words, Mr. Hunt. I best be going before that temper is aimed my direction.” She started across the porch and opened the door just as her mother yelled for her.

“Rose, get the broom and pan. And I’ll have you fetch the papers from city hall before the day’s gone dead. The rail man’s expecting them tomorrow. Are you listening to me? Rose!”

“Coming, ma’am,” she called back.

Cedar watched her step through the doorway, caught for a moment as a lithe silhouette between the light and darkness, a graceful girl—no, he reckoned she really was a woman now—who paused just long enough to glance over her shoulder at him and give him a curious smile.

Then the Madder brothers came walking out, each calling a hello to Rose, and each fixing Cedar with a hard look.

Cedar got moving, down the steps and out into the busy street. He’d come to town on foot, wanting the walk. But he didn’t want to deal with the brothers. Not today.

A cool breeze pulled down off the mountains and pushed a few clouds across the sky. Signs that summer was back would soon be broken by frost.

No time left to plant, to harvest, to spend the days hopeful and hale. The season of the dead was coming round the way. Maybe the storekeeper’s wife was right. Maybe it was time for moving on to better hunting grounds before winter took hold. Maybe it was time to run again.

Cedar could feel the restlessness in the little Oregon town. Everyone twitching for a bit of sunlight that gave off enough warmth to last a day. Twitching for moving on, moving up to a better place in the modern world, to a better bit of luck. Before winter caught hold and locked the town tight between the feet of the Wallowa and Blue mountains.

The people of Hallelujah had been holding out against hard times for too long now. Killing winters, broken supply trains and routes, sickness. They hung their hopes like threadbare linens on the iron track that was being laid, tie by tie, coming their way with the promise of a new tomorrow and all the riches of the East and South.

No wonder they bowed to the rail man. He was all they had left to hope for.

Cedar strolled down the street, dodging a slow horse and a passel of kids chasing after a pig that must have gotten loose from its pen. The dirt under his bootheels was still hard from a season of sun, and he made good time crossing one street, then another.

Didn’t matter how busy town was today. The Madder brothers followed him like a pack of dogs scenting meat.

He stopped at the end of the street. The western edge of forest crowded up here, making homesteading more difficult. His cabin was about three miles into those trees, up the foothills a bit, by a creek that flowed through the seasons. If the Madders had some business with him, he’d rather deal with it here than at his home.

He didn’t want a fight, and he didn’t want to draw his gun. But he’d do both to keep the brothers off his heels tonight.

“There something on your mind, boys?”

The middle brother’s name was Bryn. Cedar could pick him out of the pack because he was always covered in dirt and grime from the mine—except for his hands, which he kept scrubbed from the wrist to fingertips, clean as a preacher’s sheets. He stepped forward.

“We think maybe you lost something.” He stuffed one of his clean, calloused hands into his overalls pocket and drew out a pocket watch. He gazed down at it longingly until the oldest, tallest, Alun, said, “Go on now, Bryn. Make it right.”

Bryn Madder looked away from the watch and held it out for Cedar. “It’s yours. As much as. I . . . found it. A while back. Broken. I cleaned it. Didn’t fix it, though. Wouldn’t take to fixing, and that’s a curious thing.”

The watch swung like a pendulum, stirred by the breeze: a silver disk, an accusing eye, cold and hard as hatred.

“A lot of men carry a watch.” Cedar’s throat felt like he’d just swallowed down ashes of the dead. That watch was not his. But he would know it anywhere. It was his brother’s. And he’d last seen it on him the day he died.

Bryn nodded. Tilted his chin so he could look at Cedar through his good left eye. “This one you lost. We found it. Maybe eight months ago when that rail man dandy came to town. Thought about keeping it . . .” His voice trailed off on a note of longing.

“But it’s not the sort of thing we’d need,” Alun said, more for his brother than for Cedar. “Now, if it had been something useful to us, like say that striker we’ve seen you carry a time or two . . .”

“Is that what you want for it?” Cedar could not look away from the watch, gently swaying like an admonishing finger.

The brothers paused.

Cedar glanced at the oldest, Alun, who wore a heavier beard than the rest. “How much?”

Alun did not look away. Instead, he did something very few could do beneath Cedar’s glare. He smiled.

“Our blood comes from the old country, Mr. Hunt,” he said. “Before Wales had that name. And our . . . people . . . have always been miners. A man sleeps and breathes and sups with the stone, he begins to understand things.”

A wagon pulled by mule, not steamer, rattled past, taking crates and sacks and barrels of food, nails, mended shovels, and hammers out to the rail work twenty miles south of town.

“All things in this world eventually soak into the soil and stone,” Alun said once the wagon had taken its noise up the street a ways.

“It gets to be where a man, one who knows what to listen for, can hear the stones breathing. It gets to be where a man knows what the stones have to say.”

“The watch.” Cedar didn’t care if Alun thought he could hear rocks conversing. Hell, for all Cedar knew, he was telling true and he could talk to stones. The brothers had strolled into town a year ago, just ahead of the rail man, and quickly struck the richest silver vein in the hills. Maybe they’d gone out and asked the mountain where the metals were hid.

And maybe the mountain had sat down and told them.

Talking to rocks wasn’t near the strangest thing Cedar had encountered on his walk across this country. He had seen the Strange—the true Strange—creatures that hitched along from the Old World, tucked unknown in an immigrant’s pocket, hidden away in a suitcase, or carried tightly in the darkest nightmare. He had seen what the Strange could do when set free in this new land. He had seen it more clearly than someone fixing to blame the bogeyman for a missing child. He had seen the Strange personally, been touched by them.

And he still hadn’t recovered.

It looked like the Madder brothers’ Strange had done them benefit. They were wealthy by any man’s standard, even though they never spent much, never left the hills much, and lived like they didn’t have a penny between them.

They had a way with metal; that was sure. It showed in their buckles and buttons, each carved with a symbol of a gear and wrench, flame and water. It showed in the glimpses of brass and copper contraptions that rode heavy in the pockets of their oversized coats.

And it showed in the customized Colt pneumatic revolvers glinting in handworked silver and brass, holstered at their hips.

He was of a mind they were also devisers, though they’d never come out and said such. Made him curious why they didn’t want to admit to their skill. A deviser could make things of practical applications that stretched the imagination. Yet folk in town always turned them a blind eye, while looking instead with hope to the rail man, LeFel.

“The watch isn’t yours, is it?” Alun Madder said. “Stones say this belonged to someone close to you. Someone gone. A brother?”

Cedar held out his hand for the watch. “Those stones of yours talk too much.”

That got a hoot out of all three of them.

“What is your asking price for the watch?” Cedar said.

“The striker. And a favor.”

“What favor?”

The Madder brothers all shrugged at the same time. “Don’t know,” Alun said. “Don’t need a favor yet. But when we do, you’ll answer to us and pay it.”

Cedar paused. He didn’t like being left owing to any man, much less three. But that was Wil’s watch. Rightfully his now. He wanted it. More, he wanted to know how it had suddenly appeared, all the way out here, almost four years after his death.

“One favor only,” Cedar said, “not one for the each of you. I’ll do nothing that brings harm to the weak, the poor, or to women and children.”

“Yes, yes.” Alun rubbed his meaty hands together. “And the striker.”

“You’ll have it next time I’m in town.”

“Agreed,” Alun said.

The Madder brothers leaned in and extended their right hands as one, palms pressed against knuckles so they all shook Cedar’s hand at the same time. Practiced, unconscious—they’d probably been sealing deals that way since they could talk.

Cedar held his hand out for the watch again. Bryn released the chain and sighed as the watch slipped through his fingers into Cedar’s.

It should be cold, made of silver and brass with a crystal face. But the watch was as warm as if there were a banked coal tucked inside. It didn’t tick, not even the second hand. It was still, dead. And warm as a living thing.

He tried hard not to look surprised or look away from the brothers.