Queer Weird West Tales

By Dannye Chase, Roy Gray, Bryn Hammond and 7 more

Frontiers have always attracted the Other - where they find that the Other is always already there. These 22 stories explore what happens when queer characters encounter weirdness on the edge of the worlds they know.

Authors include: Julie Bozza, J.A. Bryson, Dannye Chase, S.E. Denton, Miguel Flores, Adele Gardner, Roy Gray, KC Grifant, Peter Hackney, Bryn Hammond, Narrelle M Harris, Justin Warren Jackson, Toshiya Kamei, Catherine Lundoff, Bunny McFadden, Angus McIntyre, Atlin Merrick, Eleanor Musgrove, Jennifer Lee Rossman, Lauren Scharhag, Sara L. Uckelman, and Dawn Vogel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dannye Chase
• Release date: Aug 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781925869323

Dannye Chase

Dannye Chase is a queer, married mom of three who lives in the US Pacific Northwest. She writes queer romance, fantasy, and horror. Dannye’s short fiction has appeared in the anthology “Dark Cheer: Cryptids Emerging” from Improbable Press, and will be included in other forthcoming anthologies from other presses, including "Queer Weird West Tales" from LIBRAtiger Press.Find Dannye on Ao3 as @HolyCatsAndRabbitsLinktree: https://linktr.ee/DannyeChase

Book preview

Queer Weird West Tales

An anthology

edited by Julie Bozza

LIBRAtiger

Smashwords Edition

Published by LIBRAtiger 2022

ISBN: 978-1-925869-32-3

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Text: © Julie Bozza and the individual authors 2022

Consulting editor: Bryn Hammond

Proofreading: Sue Laybourn of No Stone Unturned Editing Services; nostoneunturnedediting.co.uk

eBook format: © Julie Bozza 2022

Cover design: © Dianne Thies of Lyrical Lines;

lyricallines.net

Characters and situations described in this book are fictional and not intended to portray real persons or situations whatsoever; any resemblances to living individuals are entirely coincidental.

Rumblings by Roy Gray was previously published in the anthology Asteroids! Stories of Space Adventure, edited by Oren Litwin, Lagrange Books, December 2020.

libra-tiger.com | juliebozza.com

Table of Contents

Introduction

No Mercy Down in the Mine

Lauren Scharhag

Twin-Sun Bayou

Peter Hackney

Camp Bones

Bunny McFadden

Set in Stone

Eleanor Musgrove

Ask the Wind

Toshiya Kamei

Witches of the West

Adele Gardner

Bleb Central

Justin Warren Jackson

Magic Casements

Julie Bozza

A Truce with Evil

Bryn Hammond

A Fearful Symmetry

Angus McIntyre

The Day the Universe Changed

Atlin Merrick

The Endless Night at Promontory Summit

Jennifer Lee Rossman

Derailed

Narrelle M Harris

The Shape of a Man with Peacemakers on His Hips

Miguel Flores

Old Habits

KC Grifant

The Train Ticket

Dannye Chase

Memento Mori

Dawn Vogel

The Frontier of the Heart

Sara L. Uckelman

Grimwood

Catherine Lundoff

Down in the Well

S.E. Denton

Rumblings

Roy Gray

Handguns

J.A. Bryson

About the Authors

Frontiers are always cool.

Mr. Saru, USS Discovery

Introduction

Julie Bozza

Having written a Queer Weird West novel (Writ in Blood) and story (Love in Every Stitch), I realised I just hadn’t had enough yet. There is something undeniably compelling about this hybrid subgenre in which all the key elements play out on the edge or against the grain. Hence this anthology!

I opened submissions to stories that were:

Queer: At least one main character belongs to the LGBTQ+ spectrum, defined in whatever way seems natural to them.

Weird: The story contains a speculative fiction element, drawing on fantasy, horror, or science fiction.

West: The setting is the Old West—or the time and place of any other frontier.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how many submissions I’d receive that included all three aspects. But I was delighted to be inundated! For any other anthology editors out there, I’m pleased to say that there is plenty of life in this subgenre!

I think the three elements work so well together because they all deal with the Other. Many of us identify as other than the norm; speculative fiction often deals with the other in various forms; and we encounter the other on the borders of the familiar. It was soon clear that I wasn’t the only writer to enjoy working in the intersections of this liminal space.

So I had the luxury of being able to choose from a delightful range of quality stories. For a while I dallied with the notion of publishing two volumes, but ended up deciding to focus on one strong anthology, and leave the possibility of a sequel for another year. Not that I didn’t end up with Rejector’s Regret at times, but I am so proud of the collection you’re about to read.

The range and the quality begins with the authors, who come from a variety of backgrounds. Some of them are new or emerging writers, many are well established, and all of them know how to tell a story.

We have a great range of characters across the LGBTQ+ spectrum. It will always be heartening to read about queer protagonists following their own diverse paths, defining their own goals, winning the day, or committing to their choice of love.

Our stories also cover a variety of speculative fiction elements, including cryptids, other dimensions in time or space, aliens, magic, ghosts, demons, supernatural elements from Indigenous cultures, life after death, future technology, and more.

I am particularly thrilled by the range of settings. Many of the stories draw on the American Old West, or an alternate take on that evocative time and place. But other stories range from Roman legionaries building a wall on the edge of their Empire, to skirmishes on the 16th Century frontier between Russia and Siberia, to colonial Australia, to aliens invading New York City in the near future, to archaeological digs on distant planets in the far future—and more, which I’ll let you discover for yourself!

I hope you’ll enjoy reading this collection—oh, even half as much as I’ve enjoyed working on it. And if Queer Weird West Tales inspires you to read, write, edit or publish more of this subgenre, then together we have achieved something truly grand.

#

No Mercy Down in the Mine

Lauren Scharhag

I’d managed to give Emmett and the boys the slip. I ended up nine days in the wastes because of it, but I done it.

I’d never been so far in before, or gotten so lost. I was starting to worry I was gonna end up chow for the desert dogs, no lie. All my life, I’d been pinging around between the towns nestled in the Sasing River Valley, between the river itself—that thin, gunmetal-gray ribbon that separates civilization from the vast Carcosan desert known as the red wastes—and the Shadow Mountains. I knew them all, from Corralejo all the way down to Stull.

On the fourth day, my compass started to go haywire. It was the damnedest thing. I didn’t have nothing stowed in my pack that might throw the needle off. For a while, I tried to navigate by the stars, but somehow, those didn’t seem right either. I thought maybe it was the heat getting to me. That same day, my water skins ran empty. I did what I could—traveled by night, laid my shirt and bandana out to catch the morning dew, squeezed the juices out of cactus and their prickly fruit. But my old mek, Reina, had only the desert grasses and scrub. She was usually good at finding us water—Sergio always said meks can smell it, even underground. But I didn’t have time to be digging no wells. Emmett and the others were probably on my trail already. Emmett’s a mean sonofabitch, but he’s not stupid, and he’s one of the best trackers I ever saw. So, eight days in, my poor Reina up and croaked on me.

By the ninth day, I damn near gave up the ghost myself. I thought I’d been heading south. Instead, I stumbled into the town of Mobley, parched and dizzy. I didn’t spare a moment to wonder how the hell I’d wandered so far afield, nor did I worry about being spotted by Sheriff Rudolfo de Castro—I knew for a fact that my wanted poster was hanging on his wall. Last I checked, I was worth 80 argentos. That’s a lot for a woman outlaw. (On the other hand, a jail cell wasn’t sounding half-bad. At least there’d be water to drink and a bunk where I might find me some repose.) Instead, I saw the trough outside the saloon and went right for it. Tripped over something and went sprawling face-first in the dust. Crawled the rest of the way. Gripping the steel edge (if it had been noon instead of morning, it would’ve blistered my fingers), I used the last of my strength to haul myself up.

Empty.

I sank back down. It took my addled brain a minute to notice there weren’t no meks tied to any of the hitching posts. The street was deserted, covered in shotgun shells, drag marks, blood, and some kind of oily black stuff. The blood looked pretty fresh too. And carcasses—what I took at first to be meks, but the sun and the sand puppies had been at them, so it was hard to say for sure. My thoughts were like sludge. I couldn’t make sense out of none of it. That’s when I noticed what it was I’d tripped over.

It was a head. Sheriff de Castro’s head. His dead eyes stared at me, mouth slightly agape, gray tongue protruding. His cheeks and mustache were dusted with sand from rolling along the ground. My own head, while still firmly attached to my shoulders, had never ached so. The pain was like the glint off a very sharp knife, bright and cruel. Was I really seeing this, or were my eyes playing tricks on me? The last thing I heard was footsteps on the sidewalk boards coming towards me, voices. A man: Well, I’ll be damned! Iffin’ it ain’t Bootheel Sally.

And a woman: Yep. Poor ol’ Rudy—coulda had the chance to slap her in irons and he missed it. Again.

#

I drifted in and out for a while. Soft hands lifted my head, put a glass to my lips. Those same hands moved my limbs gently, wiped me down with a cool, damp cloth.

Presently, I rejoined the waking world. I had no idea where I was at first. In a bed, in itself befuddling. (I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’d slept in an actual bed since I was fourteen.) The blinds were drawn. I could make out that it was daylight, but that was all. How long had I been here? My headache had faded to a dull throb. Some sound had woke me, but what? Then I heard it again—the maa’ing of a goat.

I looked down at myself, covered in a damp sheet. Someone had stripped me down to my unmentionables.

Next to the bed sat a young woman in a calico dress. Even in the dim light, I could see the purplish-brown scar knotting up one side of her face. She went over to the washstand in the corner and poured me another glass of water. I tried to sit up on my own but couldn’t quite get there, so she had to help again. I only got down three or four swallows before she took the glass away. Not so fast, now. Won’t do you no good if it comes right back up again.

Normally, I don’t take kindly to people who try to tell me what’s what, but I was too bleary to argue. She nodded, curt as a schoolmarm, and handed back the glass. I took small, obedient sips.

You need the piss bucket? she inquired.

Not just now, I said. Mobley?

She nodded again.

How long have I been here?

You got here yesterday morning. It’s Wednesday, ’bout three. You slept a long time.

About thirty straight hours by my reckoning. Damn. Somethin’ happened to the sheriff—somethin’ bad?

I thought maybe she’d say it had all just been a fever dream. Instead, she said, Not just the sheriff. Going to the door, she called in a whisper-shout, She’s awake!

I heard a great deal of rustling and shuffling in the hall. A bunch of people crowded around the doorway, all women and little ones, gawping at me. They parted only to let a pair of men through. One was grizzled and bearded, his right arm missing, the empty shirt sleeve folded and pinned to his vest shoulder. The other was younger, maybe only a year or two older than me, leaning on a crutch. His left leg was splinted and plastered from foot to knee.

You Sally Doyle? the older man said.

Yeah?

I’m Amos Fisher, but folks call me Lefty. He indicated his empty shirtsleeve. I’m the proprietor of this here establishment.

And I’m Sam Westfall, the younger man said. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

What fogginess remained in my brain, that cleared it right up—the sight of these people, hats in hand, metaphorically speaking, when respectable people don’t usually give me the time of day. Sheriff de Castro’s head hadn’t been a mirage or nothing like that. Which meant the street outside littered with dead things weren’t no mirage neither.

I knew Mobley was a mining town. No doubt, that was how come Lefty had only the one arm and Sam had a busted shank. Most men here worked the mine, tunneling into and under the Shadow Mountains, mostly for tin, though every now and then, they struck copper. The boys worked too, donning their child-size oil-wick caps and climbing down into the darkness right alongside their daddies.

I pushed myself upright, resting my weight on my elbows. What’s going on? What happened here?

Sam hobbled over to sit in the chair. Lefty stood. Between the two of them, they gave me the rundown.

This here happened two weeks ago, Sam tapped his cast. We’d been dynamiting. Bit of flyrock clipped me in the temple, made me lose my balance. I slid on some loose gravel and went down like a ton of bricks. Wasn’t happy about it at the time, but turns out, this damn leg done saved the rest of me. For now, anyway. But the town—that started five days ago. Thursday. The crew found a vein and was putting in a new level. Everything was going like normal till a side wall gave way. Behind it, was a chamber. The others said it was a bit of a drop from the main tunnel to the chamber floor.

We ain’t never seed it ourselves, mind, Lefty said.

Right, Sam went on. Course, they got some lanterns and went in for a better look. Briggs was one of the ones that made it out that first day—that’s Frank Briggs. His wife, Caroline, is back there, along with their girls. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. And Wade Nelson. There were a hundred and eighty-seven men and boys working the mine that day, Miz Doyle. Only eighty-three made it back to town. We tried to make a stand, the rest of us, but… Now it’s just us here.

But what was it? I asked. What could take out a whole town in less than a week?

One of the women answered from the doorway, Monsters.

Monsters, I echoed.

Sam shook his head. I know how it must sound to you, Miz Doyle, but it’s the God’s honest truth. When they opened that chamber, somehow, they set ’em loose. And they was hungry. Powerful hungry. And that ain’t even the worst part. The worst part is, the monsters don’t live there, in the cave. They come from someplace else. Nelson and Briggs, they both swore there was something else inside that chamber, like a hole in the air. A portal, or a door—but not like no door any of us has ever seen, and it don’t lead nowhere that any of us knows. I know it don’t make much sense, but that’s what they said. That’s where them things come from, and they keep coming. It seems there’s no end to ’em, no matter how many we kill.

But what are they? I asked.

Probably be easier if we just showed you.

#

I got dressed and they took me up to the roof. Looking out over the town, I saw that Lefty’s joint occupied the same block as a barber, a hardware store, and a smith. His front door pointed west, towards the town’s main drag. Across the way was more shops. On the next block was a hotel, a hostler, another saloon called the Bronze Dove, some other businesses. The side streets was all houses. But everywhere I looked…

It was a sight to make anybody’s blood run cold. Main Street, where I’d come in, was the worst, with all them spent shell casings and splashes of red. There were heads, like Sheriff de Castro’s, and other body parts, scraps of clothing. There was the remains of a few dozen meks, goats, and mules, pretty much just heads and hindquarters. Everything else was bones, picked clean as a roast chicken.

And then, there were the monsters, or what was left of ’em. Again, heat and scavengers had already started plying their ghastly attentions, but I could see the creatures were four-legged, bigger than hounds, with lean bodies. Their skin reminded me of this bald cat I seen one time, smooth and gray, only their hides looked much tougher, and had scraggly, bristly patches of hair besides. On their backs, those hairs grew together, longer and sharper, forming a ridge of quills. Their faces looked like a cross between a bat and a dog, big ears, pointed snouts, fangs. They had fearsome claws. The front paws had long, finger-like digits.

From my vantage point, I could see at least forty of ’em, many of which were piled up around this very building. Some had been shot through the chest. Others had taken several hits broadside before they went down. Which meant, like most things, you want to shoot for the heart or the lungs. They leaked that oily-looking black stuff. I reckon it was blood. I wondered if eating ’em made the sand puppies sick. Not that I’d mourn less sand puppies in the world.

I been spending most of my time up here, trying to pick ’em off, Sam said. Some of the girls can shoot pretty good, too, firing from the windows. For all the good it does.

Why not just get out? I asked.

Damn things are fast, Lefty said. They can outrun a mek easy, which is why the only ones you see around here are dead ones. We tried sending some men for help—a pair to Corralejo and a pair to Lupita. All of ’em were good riders, knew how to handle themselves. So far, ain’t a one of ’em come back.

What about the stagecoach?

"Comes through every four days or so. Last one was three days ago, so we’re due for a stop—if anybody’s coming, if they can make it here. Last time, there were three men on the coach. Two stayed and tried to help, and now they’re gone. The driver was supposed to get to Corralejo and send help. So maybe help is on the way, but we won’t know until they show up, and even then…" Lefty trailed off.

"Well… somebody’s gotta figure out sooner or later that the stagecoaches are hitting Mobley then disappearing."

Sooner or later, yeah, Sam said. In the meantime, we’re sitting ducks. The mining company sends payroll up from Siloam once a month. But they come at the end of the month and it’s only the twelfth.

I walked the perimeter of the roof, taking in the view again. How come there aren’t any out now? They like the dark?

Sam nodded. They do seem friskier at night. You’ll definitely see a bunch more when the sun goes down. But don’t let that fool you. They handle daylight just fine.

The ones piled up around the building—looked like they’d been jumping, trying to scale the walls. Can’t climb?

Not so far, and let’s hope they don’t figure out how, Lefty said. They ain’t dumb. We had to board everything up—a few of them came through the windows. I guess a few scratches don’t bother ’em none if it means a meal.

Sam said, We’re low on stores, low on bullets, low on every damn thing. Some of the girls have been making supply runs, but gotta have somebody cover ’em at all times. Fuckers figured out what the water pump is, so they lie in wait. Can’t do nothing routine ’cause they figure out the schedule. And there’s sixty of us. We need more food and water than the girls can carry.

A bit of movement drew our eyes to the mountain. Well, Lefty said. Speak of the devil.

Sure enough, a little over half a mile away, a critter was coming down the mine trail. As it loped along the rocky slope, I saw how depressingly quick and agile it was. At first, I thought something was wrong with its eyes. They seemed to have a pale film over them. As it got closer, I saw it wasn’t a film—their eyes were just strange, flat, blank, and reflective, like coins in the sun. I’d never seen eyeballs like that before. It was unsettling to say the least.

Without further ado, I waited for it to come within range, took aim, and shot it right through one of them creepy goddamn peepers. The beast slumped down onto the stones.

The men broke into wide, relieved grins, and Sam slapped me on the back. And that’s why we were so damn glad to see you.

I was still watching the adit. Sure enough, more emerged, nosing around their dead kin. I saw them raise their heads and look our way, ears cocked forward like a dog’s. I viewed them with the respect due an opponent. With those bat ears, they might could hear me, so I whispered, Hope it was good while it lasted. You best go on back to wherever you came from because I’m here now, and I’m comin’ for you.

#

I’d been too preoccupied to notice before, but the goat I’d heard bleating earlier was tethered in one of the bedrooms. A few chickens wandered freely around. That was good. Milk and eggs—maybe not enough for sixty, but some was better than none. On the ground floor, there was the saloon kitchen. It had been pretty well-provisioned five days ago. Now, they were doing their best to ration.

One of the women—the same one who’d been at my bedside earlier, the one with the purple scar—brought me some beef tea, a hoecake, and a boiled egg. As she set my plate down, she brushed my sleeve with her fingertips. When I glanced up, she gave me a little smile.

Her name was Joan. She worked at Lefty’s, her and seven of the other ladies present. Joan wasn’t the coosie, though—that was a fella named Eddie. He was on the portly side, as you’d expect. Unlike Lefty, he’d never been a miner, nor much of a shooter, and was so timid, he wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. As for the ladies—five of them worked at the Bronze Dove. One was the town schoolteacher, and the remainder, all miners’ wives. Widows now. There was a fourth man they called Slow Tom, whose job was to sweep and empty the spittoons. I counted twenty-six kids. So many names came at me, I don’t remember ’em all. But I remembered Joan.

While I ate, Sam and Lefty spread a map of the mine out on the table. Sam marked where he thought the chamber was. "I think our best bet is to seal that chamber off—seal it, and seal all the ways in and out of the mine. I don’t know if it’ll close the door inside the chamber or not, but it’ll keep those things from getting out. That’s the main thing."

Seal everything off, I said. You mean with dynamite.

That’s right.

Where you keep it at? The mine?

Storage shed. Sam made another mark on the map, to the right of the adit. We got powder, fuses, and blasting caps. Trouble is, the shed’s padlocked.

I don’t suppose you got the key?

He shook his head. The foreman had it.

Can’t nothin’ be simple. Fortunately, I knew how to pick a lock and told him so. But I don’t know the first damn thing about dynamite ’cept it goes boom.

No, of course not. But even if you did, it’s not like you could just sit up there and get it all rigged up with them things running around. We figure, you go, get the materials, bring ’em back here. We’ll get the explosives ready, show you where to plant ’em.

So this plan of yours—it calls for multiple trips up there.

The men nodded, looking like they was scared I’d say no. Well, how could I? We was all in the same boat.

I can’t go by myself. You said some of these gals have been making supply runs? I looked at the women clustered nearby, listening. Who’re the best runners?

#

That evening, Eddie and the ladies fed me another hot meal they could scarce afford, then shooed me off to bed. Tomorrow, we’d do Phase One of the plan. If we succeeded, we’d go on to Phase Two. If not, welp, the remaining citizens of Mobley were probably shit outta luck.

Meantime, I wondered, what if those things widened their range? How far could they travel, how fast could they breed? I thought about the path that brung me here. I’d bailed on Emmett Sunday before last. My fourth day in the wastes was when my compass had gone squirrely, Thursday. The same day the miners had blown that chamber open. That couldn’t be coincidence, could it?

And there was another question—somehow, I ended up in Mobley. Sure, I’d been half-dead, but ain’t no way to reach Mobley from the wastes without crossing the river. So how come I didn’t remember crossing it?

A door—not like no door any of us has ever seen, and it don’t lead nowhere that any of us knows. If a door to some other place could just open up in a cave like that, what did that mean about the nature of things?

A lamp stood by the bed and I’d turned it down while I thunk my thoughts. Then a quiet knock came at the door. Come in, I called.

It opened a crack. Miss Doyle?

I sat up and tipped an imaginary hat. Miss Joan.

She came into the room and closed the door. Joanie.

Joanie. You may as well call me Sally. Anything else would be strange, seeing as how you’ve seen me in my skivvies.

She sat down. It was me who brung you inside, me and Slow Tom. I knowed right away it was you. I seen you before, back when you and the Sturges boys robbed the Huarache Bank. We was staying at the crib across the street. Mama told me to get down, but I wanted to see. You took out three deputies without batting an eye, and you scarcely older than I was! I wanted to be just like you.

Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.

I even stole one of your wanted posters. Kept it till it fell apart.

You did not!

Yes, ma’am, I did. She pulled a flask from her apron pocket, unscrewed the cap, and offered it to me.

I raised my eyebrows. Raidin’ the stores?

No, this was mine from before. I was saving it for in case we got outta here. But I think I’d rather share it with you now.

I accepted it and took a swig.

When she smiled, I saw that her lips were full and rosy, her teeth white and even. She had one of those figures I wouldn’t have minded having myself if my life were a different one—soft and generous, with a high bosom and wide hips. (Whereas I’m all gristle.) Guess I’ll just have to settle for admiring women who do.

This is my room—well, I share it with Carmen, Ruby, and Maude. Joanie looked over at the second bed. But this here’s the bed I usually sleep in.

I scootched over and turned the blanket down. Well, get on in, darlin’.

She lit up at that, and if she wasn’t the loveliest thing I ever did see. I turned on my side to watch as she took off her apron and her dress, toed off her shoes. Underneath, her shimmy was so old and worn, I could see right through it. Her hair was in a braid down her back and she undid it. When she lay down next to me, she fanned it over the pillow, a halo of black satin for me to stroke, sleek as a cat. Can I touch yours, too? she asked.

I nodded and her fingers were careful, disappearing into its woolly depths. Ain’t you got nobody to braid it for you?

Naw. I just shear it down when it gets too unruly.

You want me to? It’s long enough, I think. I do it for the girls here all the time.

Right now?

Well, no. Now, I’d prefer we do something else.

I was sure hoping you’d say that.

Afterwards, we lay entwined, my hand resting on her brown belly. Just before I drifted off to a real good sleep, I thought I’d never forget this night for as long as I lived—the scent of Joanie, the taste of her.

#

The next day, we were up before sunrise. It wasn’t much different from any morning we was doing a job, the gang and me. I was too wired to sit, let alone eat. So I made sure my guns were cleaned and loaded, my knife sharp, my quiver loaded with arrows. The women had fashioned some burlap sacks into satchels, with straps wide enough to sling across their bodies.

Seven gals would accompany me, including Joanie—that might’ve surprised me, but I’d spent half the night between those muscular thighs and calves, had what you might call an intimate demonstration of her stamina. Two were from Lefty’s, one from the Bronze Dove, and three widows. It was two of the widows who had rifles. I found that less surprising—in some ways, wives had it tougher than even the saloon girls, especially out here, at the ass-end of nowhere. They were left to their own devices while the men labored long hours, dealing with snakes and desert dogs and God knows what-all.

Before we set out, I stripped down as much as I could, shedding my jacket, shirt, bandana, hat. This was just like any other smash-and-grab job. Didn’t need the weight, didn’t want nothing to flap or clank. Didn’t want nothing to interfere with my draw. I even took my boots off, the bottoms of my feet plenty tough to handle the hot, sharp rocks. The other ladies did likewise, exceptin’ the barefoot part.

Sam had us wait till he and Lefty were up on the roof, ready to back us up as much as they could. I went first and had the gals stay ten paces behind me. I wanted to give them plenty of time to escape if needs be. Behind me was Cora, toting her rifle. Then the runners, Joanie, Alice, Adriana, Elena, and Martina. Bringing up the rear was Nancy, also armed, watching our backs.

We must’ve made a grim procession, making our way up that mountain path. The sun had already bleached the sky white, bleached the stone and dust around us stark and pale as bonemeal. Where I’d been jacked up before, now I felt a familiar calm slip into place, a well-worn and reassuring garment. My senses felt sharper, aware of every little shift and sound. Beyond this mountain, the rest of the Shadow Mountains loomed, all red and gray, like dull and bloody blades.

When we were within twenty yards of the mine, I gestured for the others to halt. The shed was to the right, its door kitty-corner from the adit. Which meant I was going to have to pass in front of the tunnel to get to it.

Light thoughts, Sergio had taught me. Think light thoughts.

As I tiptoed past the adit, I peeked into it, my own rifle pointed and ready. I could only see about fifteen feet in. Then darkness. I expected to see dozens of pairs of strange eyes gleaming back at me. But there was nothing. All was silent and still.

At the shed door, I eased a hairpin out of my pocket. I didn’t look back, but Cora and Nancy were in position, covering me. The other girls had pistols. I bent the hairpin and went to work on the keyhole. It gave with a soft click, which sounded like a thunderclap to my heightened senses. Opening the door, I gestured for the women to move. They obliged.

Backing away to let the grabbers grab, I joined Nancy and Cora, the three of us standing in a triangle formation, our backs to each other, Nancy watching the trail, Cora watching the shed, me watching the mine.

In the shed, Alice grabbed the fuse, which was wound on a metal spindle. That was the easiest, since it was just sitting out, but it was damn heavy. She stuffed it into her satchel and hurried out. She waited till she was down the slope apiece before breaking into a sprint.

The remaining four had to get the powder and blasting caps. They were stored in barrels and crates, which had to be opened, which made noise and cost precious seconds. Adriana and Martina got the caps. I felt the wind of them at my back as they scurried past us.

That left Joanie and Elena, getting the powder. Without that, the rest would be useless. In their satchels, they had empty flour sacks for double protection—we couldn’t afford to spill too much. They’d brung cups to scoop it out. When I dared to glance away from the mine, I could see the sweat standing out on their brows, their frantic, jerky movements.

I’d just turned to face the tunnel again when I heard a scream. Beside me, Cora began to fire.

It was Adriana screaming. The damn things had come from behind the shed. Cora moved sideways, the barrel of her rifle tracking them. Joanie had the presence of mind to slam the door shut just as one of the creatures was fixing to leap inside. It banged its snoot good on the heavy wooden door and fell back on its haunches, dazed.

That gave Nancy and me time to join in the shooting.

There was the one at the shed door and seven more around the side, snarling and snapping. Nancy and Cora were good shots, better than I’d dared hope for. But my hands had done little else in this life but shoot and undo things. I started with the critter at the shed door, still shaking its head and pawing