Larissa took another bite of supper as she considered the professor’s statement. The food grew bitter in her mouth. The Russians were still in America. She wanted to help, but knew there was little a Mexican expatriate and a woman bounty hunter could do to help the war effort. “All right, then,” she grumbled at last. “Let’s go ghost hunting. What have we got to lose?”
Chapter Two
Baggage
When Professor Maravilla suggested riding down to Tucson, Larissa thought they would go directly there from Flagstaff. Instead, they returned to the Grand Canyon and Larissa retrieved a hansom cab she had hidden in the woods. She sighed as she pulled off the pine branches. The cab’s once-shiny black paint was dulled and scratched after a couple of years on the road.
She had purchased the cab from a driver in San Antonio when she realized how good it would be for transporting prisoners. Like most hansoms built since the Civil War, it had doors that would close in front of the passenger’s legs. She had also added doors to the top half of the passenger compartment so that anyone seated there would be completely enclosed.
They didn’t retrieve the hansom to transport prisoners, but to carry Professor Maravilla’s photographic equipment, a tool kit, and some food, which they placed on the passenger seat. With those items packed, he returned to the cave and emerged some minutes later dragging a wooden crate. He heaved it up the trail from the cave, leaving a deep gouge in the dirt, undoing Larissa’s work concealing the entrance. He set one end on the cab’s step, then lifted the back end and shoved it into position at the base of the seat, his muscles bulging with the effort. Taking a deep breath, he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
“What’s in the crate?” she asked.
“An experiment I started a long time ago,” he explained. “It’s how I first met Señorita Karimi and Señor Morales. I was studying wolves at the time.”
Before she could ask anything more about his studies, the professor moved on to another task. She looked at the trunk and considered picking the lock, but decided the mystery could wait.
Although Larissa’s hansom afforded her room to carry more changes of clothes than she could fit in her saddlebags, her bag proved modest compared to the professor’s wardrobe. By the time they were ready to depart, the cab sagged on its axle. She hitched up her horse, gave him a pat, then climbed into the seat and flicked the reins. The animal was a good solid draft horse and he pulled the load easily, but she winced each time a wheel bounced over a rock or the axle creaked, afraid it would snap.
It took a week to travel from Flagstaff to Tucson. After the first day, Larissa relaxed and enjoyed the first part of the journey through Oak Creek Canyon. Spring brought fresh, green leaves to the trees and water was easy to find. The hansom, designed to traverse narrow cobblestone streets, was pleasant enough to drive through the mountainous country. Its spring-loaded seat and large wheels helped to cushion the worst bumps even if the axle creaked ominously.
Once they reached Prescott and turned south, the countryside became much more barren. They took on as much water as they could carry at Lake Pleasant, then made their way southward through a veritable forest of Saguaro Cacti that towered as high as fifty feet above the ground. Sweet smelling blossoms sprouted at the top of the cacti, opening at night to perfume their rough campsites.
Each morning and evening, the professor made notes about the animals and plants he saw. One night, his eyes brightened and his smile widened as he pulled out his telescope. He aimed it at some animals snuffling the ground near a palo verde tree in the distance. He handed the instrument to Larissa, then grabbed his notepad. Looking through magnifying lenses, she saw a small herd of humpbacked animals with coarse hair and noses to the ground. “They’re javelinas.” Larissa shrugged. “What’s so exciting about a bunch of wild pigs?”
“Ah, but they’re not pigs.” The professor’s words tumbled forth as though he couldn’t get them out fast enough. “They’re peccaries. A pig’s tusk is long and curled. A peccary’s tusk is short and straight. They can chop right into a cactus, hunt small animals, and even burrow into the ground.” After scratching out some notes, he went to Larissa’s cab and retrieved his camera. Although he almost vibrated with enthusiasm, he took his time approaching the javelina herd.
Larissa was impressed by how quietly the professor stepped and how close he could approach without startling the pig-like javelinas. She’d joined him to learn about science and engineering, but she realized she could learn a few tricks that would help in her trade as a bounty hunter. He took two photographic plates of the small herd before it grew too dark to see.
“What I’d really like to see is a family of wolves,” declared the professor as they sat around the campfire that evening, cooking supper.
“No thank you,” said Larissa. “I’d just as soon keep my distance from any animal that might want to eat me for supper.”
The professor barked out a laugh. “Oh, a lobo would hardly see you as supper. You’re much too big.”
Larissa glared at the professor.
Unfazed, he continued. “You would only be in danger if the lobo saw you as a threat, encroaching on its territory.”
“And how do I know if I’ve trespassed on a wolf’s territory? Do they post signs?”
“In a way, they do.” He sat up straight, and Larissa could suddenly visualize him in front of a classroom filled with students. “They urinate and defecate to mark their territory. They scratch the ground in characteristic ways.”
“Well, you be sure to let me know if you see any signs that a wolf has used one of these cacti as an outhouse, won’t you?”
The professor laughed again. “I will definitely let you know.”
“So, you told me you were studying wolves when you first met Ramon and Fatemeh.”
Maravilla nodded. “I have developed a special camera disguised as a wolf. It gets much closer to wolves than I can to take photos.”
“Is that what’s in the trunk?” asked Larissa.
“Very perceptive of you.” The professor reached out and stirred the stew.
Larissa narrowed her gaze. “Why in the world did you bring it along?”
“Although I designed my clockwork creation to approach wolves, it could be used in other situations requiring stealth. Maybe we could use it to understand the mystery of the spectral camel near Tucson.”
Larissa pursed her lips and nodded as her stomach rumbled. She ate heartily when the professor ladled stew into their bowls, and soon afterward fell into a sound sleep.
The next day, the professor and Larissa arrived in Tucson. As they rode in along Toole Avenue, they saw warehouses, an iron works, and an icehouse. Professor Maravilla pointed out an office for John Rockefeller’s Standard Oil. “I should write to the Rockefellers, too. They may be interested in funding my experiments.”
At the point where Toole intersected Congress Street, they came upon the largest hotel that Larissa had ever seen, the three-story tall San Xavier. Across the way, masons built a rail depot and a short distance beyond that, Chinese workers hammered railroad spikes into wooden ties. Uncertain whether they could afford the palatial San Xavier, the professor and Larissa turned down Congress Street. They passed saloons, billiard halls, restaurants and an opera house, but no other hotels.
They returned to the San Xavier. The clerk’s eyes widened and he smiled as they entered. Immodestly, he wore no coat and he’d rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. A thin sheen of sweat brightened his forehead.
Professor Maravilla cleared his throat and asked the price of a room.
The clerk quoted a price that Larissa found reasonable, then looked down at the counter. “It is pretty noisy because of the construction across the way.”
“Is that why the rooms are so inexpensive?” asked the professor.
The clerk looked up and tugged on his suspenders. “That, and the fact that there isn’t much of a call for rooms yet. Once the depot gets finished,
I’m sure prices will go up. Right now, we only get a train through every few days.”
“Well, we have no cause to complain,” said Larissa as she lay down money for two rooms. “A new bed at a good price suits me just fine.”
<<>>
Ramon Morales knelt by the windmill’s water pump a short distance from his mother’s homestead. He cleaned out dust and grime that had found its way into the gears, then applied some fresh lubricating oil to the mechanism. He stood and engaged the windmill’s clutch. No wind blew, so he reached out and turned the windmill shaft by hand. Satisfied the mechanism operated as it should, he went to disengage the clutch again, but stopped when something hindered his movement. Looking around, he saw that his shirttail had come untucked and one of his mother’s goats had clamped on, chewing contentedly.
“Ay, get out of here, you stupid goat!” he shouted and waved his arms.
Startled, the goat jumped backward, ripping the shirt from Ramon’s body.
He tried grabbing the shirt, but the goat ran further away. He looked around for something he could use to get the pesky animal to drop its prize. Although tempted to grab a wrench and brain the creature, he realized goats just chewed whatever they pleased.
Someone laughed at him. Ramon looked up and saw Fatemeh standing nearby holding some wildflowers from the field. Her green eyes sparkled as she approached. She held the flowers under the goat’s nose and enticed it away from the shirt.
Ramon bent down and picked it up. He examined the tattered cloth and tried to knock off the mud as best he could, then slipped the shirt on again but the buttons were gone, scattered on the ground. He heaved a deep sigh, then stepped over to Fatemeh and brought her close. She leaned in, but he could feel her muscles tense slightly. She wanted to be near, but felt guilty because of her religion’s teachings. “Thank you, corazón.”
“It looked like you needed rescuing,” she said with a wry, half-smile.
He snorted. “That goat was no match for me.”
She took a half step backward and cocked her head. “I saw you looking at that wrench. Were you going to try to feed it to him?”
“Through the top of his skull,” grumbled Ramon.
“Really?” Fatameh grinned mischievously.
“Hey, I was a sheriff. I’m prepared to take a life when necessary.”
Fatemeh laughed again. “That’s what I love about you, Ramon. You take that very seriously. So, seriously, in fact, that I have never actually seen you take a life.”
Ramon narrowed his gaze in mock anger. “Do you doubt that I would?”
Fatemeh shook her head. “Not at all.” She continued to smile as she stepped back and looked him up and down. “What you are, is a peacekeeper, Ramon Morales.”
Ramon’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t that what being a sheriff is?”
“Are all the sheriffs you know peacekeepers?”
Ramon considered that. Some lawmen ran gambling establishments and brothels on the side. Some did their best to control the towns they were elected to protect. Finally, he shook his head. “No, corazón, not at all.” He turned around, disengaged the windmill’s clutch, then reinstalled the gearbox housing. “So, I’m a peacekeeper,” he said as he worked. “My mom thinks I need to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Maybe you can tell her.”
Fatemeh sighed and stepped around the tools on the ground and knelt, facing Ramon. “Your mother has a point. You’re a peacekeeper, but how are you going to turn that into a living?”
“I was thinking we could buy a farm and I could keep the peace by living a nice quiet life.”
“And all the while, goats will be eating your shirts.” She chuckled again.
Ramon found her good humor at his expense annoying. “So, what do you suggest?”
She looked down at the ground. “I can’t tell you that.”
Ramon finished screwing down the gearbox housing and picked up his tools. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Honestly can’t,” said Fatemeh. “You need to figure out how you can be a peacekeeper. You weren’t happy being a sheriff...”
He stood and picked up the toolbox. “I’m not sure how else to be a peacekeeper.”
Fatemeh stood, following him. “Ambassadors help broker peace. Lawyers and judges keep the peace as well.”
Ramon shrugged. “I don’t have the education for something like that.”
Fatemeh put her hand on his arm. “But you could.”
Ramon stopped and looked at her for a long time. He hadn’t considered that. He looked around at the grassy plain surrounding the homestead. A gentle breeze rustled the grass. The sky overhead was a brilliant blue. “I like the wide open spaces. I’m not sure how well I’d do in a classroom. Besides, that kind of education would take a lot of money.”
“We can figure out money,” said Fatemeh. “The rest, you have to work out on your own. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re a peacekeeper. The part you need to figure out is how that manifests in your life.”
Ramon nodded and smiled. “Thank you, corazón. At least that’s a step in the right direction.” He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
<<>>
Billy McCarty rode over San Augustin Pass on his way toward Mesilla. He’d worked for John Tunstall for a few days, long enough to earn money for supplies to continue his journey. As he rode down from the pass, he saw tall, spindly ocotillos with tiny green leaves hiding thorns and red flowers along the top of the skyward-facing branches. The vibrant desert plants gave him hope he would find a new beginning at the end of this trail.
Ahead, the Rio Grande wound its way through the valley. Cottonwood trees and farms lined its banks. Two towns faced each other across the river. On the near side was Las Cruces, a small village of a few houses and businesses.
The road made its way through the dusty main street of Las Cruces, then over a bridge into Mesilla. There, the road veered to the left into the Mesilla Park. Horses weren’t allowed on the streets of the town itself, so Billy had to find a stable at the horse park. In one respect, Billy liked the law. It meant you could walk the streets without stepping into horse manure. Despite that, it was a damned nuisance having to walk everywhere and his budget was limited. He could think of better ways to spend money than stabling his horse.
As he rode along the row of livery stables and blacksmiths, he spotted a sign that advertised stables for fifty cents per day. After stabling the horse, he walked into town.
A few minutes later, Billy entered the offices of the Mesilla News. Behind the wooden rail dividing the room, two men with sleeves rolled up past their elbows worked at a printing press and a woman set type. Billy cleared his throat. “Can you tell me where I might find a reporter named Luther Duncan?”
The woman inclined her head toward a door. Billy opened the rail, stepped through, then knocked on the door. Hearing the muffled greeting from the other side, he entered the small office. Luther Duncan sat at a desk and pushed keys on a mechanical device. He wore a striped shirt and a bow tie. His bowler hat and jacket hung from a coat tree beside the door.
“Howdy,” said Billy, “I’m not sure you remember me...”
Duncan looked up from the device, his face blank. After a moment, his eyes widened. “Why you’re that kid we met in Silver City. You helped us rescue Ramon Morales from the mine in Socorro.” A look similar to a man who stepped in a cow pie crossed Duncan’s face. True, Billy had killed a man in cold blood that night, but it was clear the man meant to do the same to Ramon.
“I also went to Denver and helped Miss Fatemeh fight off those Russian airships.”
Duncan’s expression changed from one of disgust to curiosity in a heartbeat. “You were at the Battle of Denver?”
Billy smiled. “Yes sir, I was! I flew in one of Professor Maravilla’s mechanical owls and helped bring down those floating arsenals.”
“Well, well,” said Duncan. He stood and indicated the chair across from the desk. “Would you be willi
ng to grant me an interview?”
Billy sat down. “An interview?”
“Yeah, tell me your story. I’ve interviewed a few soldiers from Fort Bliss who were in Denver during the battle. They told me about the mechanical owls, but a firsthand account from an actual owl rider...” Duncan rubbed his hands together as he sat down. “Imagine how many papers that could sell!”
Billy tipped his hat back on his head. “That sounds great, Mr. Duncan and I’d be pleased to help you out if—” Billy sat back and folded his arms. “—you can help me out.”
Duncan narrowed his gaze, studied Billy, then nodded. “All right, tell me what you need.”
“I’m not lookin’ for anything special. Just a place to stay and a job.”
“What are you good at?”
“Last few months I’ve been workin’ on John Tunstall’s ranch outta Lincoln.”
Duncan pursed his lips and sat back. “I’m afraid ranch work has been drying up around here.”
“I heard that from Mr. Tunstall,” said Billy. “I ain’t too particular about it being a ranch. I just need to earn some money if I’m gonna hang around here and tell you my story.”
Duncan thought for a minute and finally leaned forward again. “Any problem with farm work? I know some ranchers don’t care to associate with sod busters.”
Billy considered it for a minute. His first reaction was to decline, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. “Tell me whatcha got.”
“There’s a fellow who moved to town a few weeks ago. He has a story almost as interesting as yours. His name is Masuda Hoshi and he’s trying to get a farm started up north a couple miles.”
Billy leaned forward. “What kind of name is… Masuda Hoshi?”
“He’s from Japan,” explained Duncan. “I gather he used to own a farm there, but he had to move to America suddenly after some… trouble.”
“What kinda trouble?” Billy grinned.
“Let’s just say I think you two might get along just fine.”
Duncan gave Billy directions to Hoshi’s farm and they agreed to meet again the next day so Duncan could interview him for the newspaper. Billy returned to the Mesilla Park and retrieved his horse. He considered some other stops before following up on Luther Duncan’s lead—like a bottle of good whisky or a night at a high-end cathouse—but those could wait until he knew he had a job.
Lightning Wolves Page 3