A Price to My Own Name

By Rachael S. Conte

My photograph hung on the bar’s wall.

“WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE”

“$100,000”

Well, at least it didn’t only say dead. And a reasonable amount of money, too. What had I done this time?

Maybe it was the general stores I’d robbed or the people I’d blackmailed for information. With a shrug, I glanced again at the poster. My name printed in dark ink made me frown.

“ZAIVAR WITZ”

I sidled up to the bartender’s counter, leaned over, and grabbed a pen. Crossing out the V-A-R, I smirked. That was better. I preferred Zai.

No other wanted posters clung to the rough wood slats, so it looked like I was out of a job for the present. Being a bounty hunter could be unpredictable. I skipped from town to town, cleaning up the scum of the west, which apparently included me. Get a little money, have a little fun. It was how I rolled. The icing on the cake was that I could bloodvoice, a magical ability where I could hear people’s thoughts. It made my job much easier. The downside was the endless camping.

When dawn arose the next morning, I shook myself awake, grabbed a large burlap sack, and stole into town. Thankfully, most of the townsfolk were at Sunday service, so I broke the lock on the general store’s back door and crept inside. After loading everything I needed into my sack, I retreated back to my temporary forest home.

I glued blocks of wood to the bottom of my boots, stolen oversized pants hanging over them. Once I was several inches taller than normal, I threw on a baggy overcoat and set an auburn wig on my head. A wide-brimmed hat hid my face, and any bits left visible were covered with a fake beard.

For evidence that I had been captured, I retrieved a picture of a botched bounty that ended with me hog-tied. It wasn’t my best moment, but it was just what I needed now. Slipping it into my pocket, I started toward the sheriff’s office. The passing window reflections assured me that my fake limp helped ease the awkwardness of the wood under my feet. The townsfolk had started back from Sunday service, and thankfully, I didn’t stick out as much as the time I’d accidentally interrupted a ladies’ luncheon.

I clomped up the wooden steps and opened the door, staring at my feet to avoid revealing my face. Fortunately, bounty hunters were a common enough sight at the sheriff’s office. Much less common was a man daring enough to disguise himself and collect the bounty on his own head. I was confident I could get away with it.

A deep, authoritative voice acknowledged my entrance. “How can I help you?”

I faked an accent. “I have Zaivar.” Ugh. Why did I have to be known by my full name?

A chair screeched, and footsteps came close, sheriff’s boots coming into view.

“Do you?”

“Yes sir.” I smiled as the sheriff’s thoughts flooded into my mind.

Does he have evidence? Why should I trust him? But, then, I’ve seen shadier. At least he didn’t coax me to meet him in the forest alone like that other guy.

He seemed to trust me. “Would you like to see a picture?”

“Yes.” Eagerness tinted his voice as I pulled out the photo and extended it.

A second pair of booted footsteps approached us. A deputy? He cleared his throat and spoke in a raspy voice, “It’s him all right.”

“He’s locked in a shed in the woods,” I said. “You may want a few men to accompany you. He’s a feisty one. Only trapped ‘im when I used his gun as bait.” That had actually happened to me once. “Took that picture there, then got ‘im in the shed.”

The sheriff took a moment, I assumed to consider my offer, then responded, “We’ll meet you there. You get the money when I get the man.”

I pinched my lips. “Can I see the money?”

The sheriff sighed and clomped away. “They always have to ‘see the money.’”

I followed him, careful to keep my head down.

A metal box came into view as the sheriff set it on his desk, lid open, revealing stacks of bills. I leaned in. This one was for Ryn.

The sheriff cleared his throat, his thoughts making its way into my head. He better not steal that. Back off, buddy.

I looked up. Mistake.

The sheriff’s eyes widened. Is that Zaivar? It is! What is he doing here?

I threw my hat and wig on the ground. “See ya, boys!” I snatched up the box, slammed it shut, and darted away.

“Get back here!” the deputy shouted, dropping the bagel in his hand. Their footsteps hit the wooden steps as they both followed me.

Being a master of disguises, I was able to knock off the wooden blocks under my feet with ease. The pants were next because they made it so difficult to run. Spraying up pebbles, I turned a corner, glad I had mapped out the town before coming. I undid the belt around my waist and the trousers dropped to the ground faster than that ride at the county fair that always made me sick. Glad I wore my black pants underneath, I darted into a hidden alley, listening for footsteps behind me. None, thank heavens. Ducking behind one more building, I tossed aside my fake beard and overcoat, sure I had set a world record for undressing while being pursued. I liked disguises, but I liked my own skin better. And, apparently, so did other people. Why else would they pay this whole box of money for it?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachael S. Conte has been writing since age twelve and is often found typing away with headphones blasting music. She lives with a rabbit named Crow, two cat-like sisters, her android father, and her mother, a fellow author, who dives with her into the fascinating world of psychology. When not cramming all her story ideas into one, she is often rereading one of her favorite books or watching a TV show for the hundredth time