We burned her family’s bodies at noon. I paced a ritual circle of trampled ground around the fire and anchored the circle at the cardinal directions. Dawson’s cooking knife to the north; I’d pried that from between a corpse’s ribs. To the south, a railroad spike Cyrem kept from his work on the western fork years ago. East was Ms. Fuller’s knitting needle. She’d nearly finished the birth blanket for the widow’s coming child. Neither she nor the widow needed it anymore. For the west, I set the last bullet from my gun. The raiders’ guns didn’t fit my hand but I still had one at my belt.
When dusk arrived, I threw my dead mare’s silver horseshoe into the middle of ash-bleached bones, and stepped back to the girl.
“What comes next?” the girl asked. She was tall for her age, young enough to cling to the doll made of rags and scraps of yarn, old enough to withhold tears since we didn’t have water to spare. Both her and the doll were streaked with dust, ash, and dirt from the potato pile she’d hidden under while the raiders killed her ma and the farm folk.
“We need a horse,” I told her “One that can carry us to California.” I’d ridden mine to death to arrive too late to do more than shoot the stragglers.
The girl’s eyes were yellow-green like prairie grass and bloodshot from smoke. She hugged her doll and watched the horseshoe melt, spreading through the pile of coal and bones. Her hand crept into mine. I squeezed lightly, mindful that the blood of her family was still caked under my nails and in my callouses’ crevices. The silver webbed over bone and gathered the dead for construction.
Smoke bloomed and obscured silver, bone, and the four trinkets. I heard whispers calling for me. The girl’s hand tightened around mine. So could she.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
I debated fully explaining. “Learning is a choice,” I told her. She was old enough to orphan; she was old enough to decide. “You can’t unlearn what these whispers’ll tell you.”
She gave the question her thoughts and nodded.
I dropped the girl’s hand, pointed at the smoke, and gave the same advice I had learned. “Watch the shapes. Listen to the whispers. Be aware of what seems familiar. Never cross the circle.”
There were other lessons. Never look too long down a prairie dog’s den. Never drink from a watering hole without asking permission. Wheat fields only protect their sower. If you run into a bush fire, be careful where you land. She could learn those later.
The girl whispered, “I think I hear Ma.”
Sometimes people try to jump into the circle, which only traps them with the rest of the ghosts. I held onto the girl’s shoulders with both hands, and she hugged her doll tighter.
I told her, “She ain’t here, not really. Think about what we need. We want a horse that’ll be sure-footed and fast.”
“One that won’t bite,” the girl added in a small voice.
The horse stepped out of the smoke. Hooves with silvered edges like reaping scythes crossed the circle. Its skin was covered in ash and the vivid white patch on its hindquarters had ragged edges like something had been torn from its coat instead of painted on.
Horses raised this way had little flesh to spare. The skin across its body and head was drawn tight to bone, pointed and alien. No lips drew back over yellowed teeth, blunt instead of sharp, and I remembered the girl’s wish for one that wouldn’t bite. The eye sockets were set far forward, like a predator’s, and held no eyes for vultures to pluck.
I pressed my hand to the muzzle, which was gun-barrel hot.
“I wish for safe passage,” I said. Metal clinked against the horse’s teeth, a bit appearing, leather wrapping around the horse’s muzzle.
The wind rose and whipped my words from my lips. “I wish for sure-footedness and speed,” I intoned. “I wish to know my price.” Reins twisted from the horse’s mane and draped over its back. The horse’s ears twitched and listened. We heard far off hoofbeats and yells. It had to be the raiders. We had no neighbors and expected no friendly visitors.
“Come.” I pulled the girl with me and grabbed the saddle I’d set aside and a blanket. She took another in hand, her doll still under her other arm. I padded the horse’s back with both blankets, and then the saddle. The bony ridge of the horse’s back made long rides uncomfortable.
I laced my fingers together and offered my hands to the girl. She only needed the boost because she refused to let go of her doll. I reached for the saddle horn, but the horse tossed its head and pawed furrows into the ash-covered ground. I realized the price the ritual demanded.
“Ride west,” I nodded towards the glow on the horizon of the set sun. “The horse knows where to go.”
“You need to come with me!” the girl begged. She sounded like she did so out of habit. None of her other pleas of the day had been fulfilled.
I shook my head and drew my stolen gun. Fully loaded. I adjusted the stirrups to fit the girl’s legs, and offered her my canteen. “You’ll need this.”
She stared down at me, prairie eyes wide and frightened. Finally, the girl accepted the canteen and stowed it in her pocket. She offered the doll to me.
“Don’t cry for me,” I told her, but I took the doll and tucked it into the now-empty holster. I turned away and waited for hoofbeats. “What’s her name?” I called back only once.
She said mine, and I smiled.