Unlike Clatterstock, who carried just a repeating carbine, Bluesilk had guns aplenty. Petite and buxom with a thick mass of blonde locks tied into a shaggy ponytail, she wore a pair of six-shot repeaters on her hips with a third under her arm. The arsenal was completed by the shotgun strapped across her back. Next to Wittler, Ethelynne found her perhaps the easiest to like. At night, when done cleaning her guns, she would sit cross-legged, one hand holding a small compact up to her face whilst she applied various powders and paints to eyelids, cheeks and lips.
“Where’s your warpaint, love?” she asked Ethelynne one evening, eyes fixed on her mirror and a broad-headed brush leaving a faint red blush on her cheeks. They had come to a small trading post, a collection of huts and storehouses with a long pier extending out into the broad, rapid waters of the Greychurn River, their route to the Badlands and beyond.
“We weren’t permitted make-up in the academy,” Ethelynne told the gun-hand. “It was said to be unseemly.”
“Y’mean they told you it’d make you look a whore, right?”
Ethelynne blushed and looked away.
“You keep on this track, girl,” Bluesilk went on, “and you’ll find there’s much worse people than whores in this world.”
Ethelynne’s eyes went to the holstered six-shooters lying atop Blueskin’s shotgun. “Will you teach me to shoot?”
“Shit, no!” Blueskin gave an appalled laugh. “That ain’t proper for a girl like you. Besides it ain’t your role in this grand company. You’re here for the Spoiled. Those I don’t put a bullet through, that is.” She looked up from her mirror to offer a half-smile, waving her brush in invitation. “You come sit by me though, and I’ll put some rosiness on those cheeks.”
So she didn’t learn to shoot, not from Bluesilk and not from the Crawden brothers. Like Wittler, they both carried long-rifles in addition to the pistols on their hips. “Brother One, this young lady would like to fire my rifle,” the younger Crawden had said to his sibling, mock indignation on his face. He was by far the better looking of the two, clean shaven where his brother was bearded, and with a tendency towards mockery she might have taken exception to but for the evident regard in his gaze. “Surely she must know this is a weapon of great delicacy, only to be operated by the most expert hands.”
“Be nice, now, Brother Two,” the elder Crawden advised before offering Ethelynne an apologetic smile. “Long-rifle’ll take your shoulder off, miss. ‘Sides, it ain’t…”
“My role,” Ethelynne finished. “I know.”
They were on the river now, the wagon’s cargo unloaded onto a large flat-bottomed barge the day before. The trading post’s owner, a man near as broad as Clatterstock but with a genuinely lustful leer to him, had grown angry when Wittler refused a contract to spend a week hunting Greens. “Going for Red, this trip,” he said. “Black if I can get it.”
“My ass you is,” the trader replied. “You goin’ t’the Red Sands again. Didn’t lose enough good people last time, huh? Spoiled’ve got your scent now, Wittler. They won’t be best pleased t’see ya.”
Ethelynne had noted how the trader’s fierceness dissipated and his face grew pale under Wittler’s silent and prolonged gaze. “Grateful if you’d have a care for our animals,” Wittler said eventually, tossing the trader a purse. “We’ll be needing the barge.”
Brother Two found her at the prow of the barge as they came to the point where Wittler had chosen to moor up, a shallow cove where the canyon walls descended to a gentle slope. They had cleared the jungle four days back, the Greychurn now winding its way through high, curving walls of pinkish sandstone.
“You wanna learn a thing, miss?” Brother Two said, putting an arm around her shoulders, light enough not to cause offence as he turned her towards the southern horizon. “See those peaks? Tell me what you see.”
He held up a spyglass which she duly took and trained on the distant heights ahead. She stared at the peaks for a time, seeing only rock, though it was oddly coloured, mottled all over as if pock-marked. “What is that?” she asked.
“Red Hive,” Brother Two said. “Their spit’s loaded with enough bile to eat the rock. Wait a mite longer and you’ll see.”
She did and was soon rewarded by the sight of a dark shape emerging from one of the marks in the stone. It seemed tiny from this distance but she had seen enough of them in the pens to recognise the shape, and knew it was as big as a horse. She watched it crawl from the hole and onto a ledge, wings spreading to catch the warmth of the rising sun.
She heard a metallic snick and turned to find Brother Two loading his long-rifle, sliding the cartridge into the chamber and working the lever to close it. “Just under a mile I reckon,” he said with a wink before raising the long-rifle and firing with only the barest pause to aim.
The range left sufficient time for her to raise the spyglass and find the Red again to watch the bullet strike home, except it didn’t. She saw the Red flinch as the bullet smacked into its rocky perch, mouth gaping and head lowering in an instant threat posture. The beast was too far away to make out its eyes but Ethelynne had no doubt of its ability to discern the source of its distress.
“You missed,” she told Brother Two, a somewhat redundant statement as the Red had now taken to the air, wings sweeping as it gained height, growing in size until it filled the lens of the spyglass.
“Shitdammit!” Brother Two hissed, feverishly working to reload the long-rifle, cartridges scattering across the deck as he fumbled, swearing even louder.
A high, peeling cry echoes along the canyons, the Red flattening its wings as it flew lower, less than two hundred feet away. The scream sounded again as it neared, mouth gaping to reveal rows of razor teeth, and its eyes… First time you gaze into the eyes of a wild one, you’ll know what hate looks like.
Ethelynne tossed the spyglass aside and reached for the box on her belt, extracting the Black and thumbing the stopper free, raising it to her mouth…
A single rifle shot sounded behind them, the drake’s scream choking off as it veered away twenty feet short of the barge. It twisted in the air, flailing wings raising water from the river, before colliding with the slope ahead. The drake slid down the rock and screamed again, the cry plaintive now, desperate. Its claws scrabbled on the sandstone until they found purchase and it began to scramble up, blood trailing across the rock, wings spreading in preparation to fly. Another rifle shot sounded and a cloud of blood erupted from the drake’s skull. It collapsed onto the slope, tail and wings twitching as it slid towards the water.
Ethelynne’s gaze went to the starboard rail where Wittler stood, smoking long-rifle in hand. He turned to her and she saw judgement in his narrowed eyes, perhaps also disappointment, before they tracked to Brother Two. “And the purpose of this?” he asked.
The younger Crawden blanched a little under the scrutiny but quickly rallied to offer a sheepish grin. “The young miss wanted to learn a thing…”
“The young miss is not your concern,” Wittler told him, each word spoken with considerable precision. He jerked his head at the dead drake on the slope. “Three cartridges to take this thing down and we ain’t got time to harvest a single drop.”
“Any cost can come from our share, cap’n,” Brother One said, moving between Wittler and Brother Two. His stance was respectful, but also firmly defensive. “Besides, there’ll still be blood in the heart for when we make our way back. Ain’t a total loss.”