Mining the Horizon

The bandits emerged from the brush like drunk jackals. They formed a jagged line across the road, figures shimmering in the heat and dust, rifles aimed at the oncoming coach. The coach rolled to a gentle stop, close enough now that Merrill, riding shotgun, could see the glint in the lead bandit’s eyes above the dirt crusted cloth covering his mouth and nose.

Smug drunk jackals, Merrill thought. As if the fools impeding his progress west had invented the game of banditry. As if he hadn’t been dealing with highwaymen since his time walking the roads of Wales and Britain. As if he hadn’t seen them from a mile away and thumped the butt of his shotgun against the coach to warn his passengers.

The lead bandit spoke first. “Lower your weapon and no one has to get hurt. I’m going to—”

“Holy shit is that Merrill?” The bandit to the leader’s left pointed at the top of the coach. The other bandits fidgeted as they followed his finger to where Merrill sat. Merrill tipped his hat in response.

The lead bandit rounded on his compatriot, yanking the cloth from his face so the words and spittle could fly with appropriate force. “I told you to stop interrupting me when we’re doing a robbery. It’s unprofessional.”

“What are you doing on the Butterfield Line?” The bandit on his left promptly interrupted again.

“Working,” Merrill said.

“I thought you only worked the Wells Fargo,” another bandit called out. The leader threw his hands up.

Chatty fellows, these bandits. But Merrill would rather exchange words than bullets. He placed a cigarette on his lips, striking the match against his boot.

“Wells Fargo contract is up,” Merrill said, exhaling a cloud of crisp smoke. “Almost done riding shotgun altogether. Butterfield Line takes me where I want to go. Then I’m done.”

“Where is it you heading?”

“West Coast.”

“California? What for?”

Looking for what’s left of the magic on this godforsaken continent.

“The weather,” he said instead.

“Are we done with the introductions?” the leader said. “Can we get on with this here robbery or do I need to go dig up that preacher fella from the last town and have us a wedding?”

“I don’t know boss.” This was the bandit on the leader’s left again, giving his stubble a conscientious rub. “I don’t want to rob no coach with Merrill riding shotgun.”

“Yeah, he’s some kind of wizard.”

“No such thing as wizards.”

“Then how come none of his coaches ever been robbed?”

“He’s just good with the gun.” The leader patted the rifle lying across his lap. “But so am I.”

A third bandit spoke up. “You a wizard?” The leader rolled his eyes.

Merrill shrugged. “If I say yes will you let us pass?”

The bandit looked like he was going to say yes, head halfway through a nod, but the leader took over.

“I thought wizards wore robes.”

So the leader had some brains after all. Shifting from outright dismissal to sowing doubt. Not a bad tactic. Merrill lifted up his duster. “This is more practical.”

“What about a staff?” The leader showed his teeth, warming up to the interrogation. “Every wizard I’ve heard of has a staff.”

Merrill caressed his gun’s stock, the dark wood not found on this continent. “Had to be re-purposed,” he said.

“Alright, say you are a wizard,” the leader said with a cardsharp’s magnanimous wave. “What in the hell are you doing out here?”

What am I doing here? Now there was the question. He remembered the long ride across the ocean. Feeling his power rise. Magic had always lived on the periphery and each wave they topped took them further from the Empire of the isles and brought with it a surge of power. As they approached the coast the power began to dwindle and he realized something was wrong. They had lied to him. There were people here. Civilization. And their magic was strong. Merrill had aged more in his first twenty years in Massachusetts than the previous five hundred before finally learning to tap into the wild magic of this land. Now that magic was all but gone, ravaged like its people.

God, he felt so old.

“Times being what they is,” he said at last, “you find work you take it.”

The bandits murmured their agreement, the one who’d first recognized Merrill giving a hearty “Hear, hear!” and lifting a fist in salute.

“Shut up, everyone!” The leader aimed his rifle in front of Merrill and pulled the trigger for emphasis. The ground erupted, making the horses rear and squeal. 

“Shouldn’t have spooked the horses,” Merrill said.

“You don’t tell me what to do, old man.” The leader aimed the rifle up at Merrill. “Any last words, wizard? Maybe a spell? Abracadabra?”

“I got one or two magic words left in me.” Merrill flicked his cigarette at the leader in a long arch. “Yeehaw.”

At its zenith, the cigarette erupted into a ball of fire.