Lightning Wolves

by David Lee Summers

  Once Maravilla was seated, Larissa looked to the ground. “We apologize for intruding upon your land uninvited.”

  She sensed the warriors took new interest in her. The warrior with the broad face said something to his young companion. “You wear a holster at your hip and a rifle at your back,” said the young man. “We Apaches have had great women warriors. Are you a warrior?”

  “A mere novice compared to your women, I’m sure.” Larissa looked back toward the hansom cab. “We have water and a little food. You are welcome to it, if you would like.”

  “You have much better manners than your friend,” said the young warrior.

  “He is a good man, but he is not schooled in your traditions,” said Larissa.

  The warriors spoke among themselves, then dismounted and sat on the ground in a circle around Larissa and the professor. At last, they lowered their hands.

  “I am called Baishan,” said the young Apache. He held his hand out to the man with the broad face. “Our leader is Geronimo.”

  “Geronimo!” Larissa gasped. For a moment, she stared at the Apache warrior. Remembering herself, she looked away. “Forgive me, sir.”

  Geronimo laughed, then spoke in halting English. “You know me.” He winked, then spoke some words in Apache.

  Baishan translated: “He says if you know him, you no doubt know his brother-in-law, Nana.” He indicated the older warrior with the arthritic fingers.

  “Tú sabes que yo prefiero Kas-tziden,” grumbled the old man in Spanish. Larissa understood enough to know he preferred the name Kas-tziden to the Spanish nickname, Nana.

  Geronimo spoke in Apache and patted the old man on the shoulder. Whatever he said seemed to appease him somewhat.

  Larissa smiled at the camaraderie, but was still uncomfortable that she didn’t understand most of the discussion. She decided to turn the conversation to business. “Last I heard you were in Mexico.”

  “We were.” Baishan nodded. “We came north after the army troops went to fight their new war. It seems they have found something to care about more than killing Indians.”

  “We are honored to be in the company of the great Geronimo.” The professor was calm now that no one pointed a rifle at him. “My name is Mauricio K. Maravilla, formerly of the Pontifical and Royal University of Mexico. My associate is Larissa Crimson.”

  Baishan translated. Geronimo nodded, then spoke. “He wants to know why you are here.”

  “We heard stories of a ghost riding on a camel. We wanted to find out if it really existed.”

  “I have seen it,” interjected another young warrior. “It is truly an evil spirit. It looked right at me, even though I know a skeleton cannot move.”

  A shiver traveled up Larissa’s spine. It was the second time she had heard about the skeleton moving of its own accord. She began to think there must be some truth to the stories.

  The warriors spoke among themselves. Once they quieted, Baishan said, “Three warriors have seen this apparition. The closest sighting was just about a mile from here.”

  Larissa looked toward Geronimo, careful not to meet his gaze. “May I get a map from my wagon?”

  Baishan translated and Geronimo gave a curt nod.

  Larissa stood and walked slowly and steadily to the hansom cab. She retrieved a map and also brought along a canteen and a pouch containing some beef jerky. She handed the water to Nana, since he appeared to be the oldest warrior present, then unrolled the map. “Can you ask them to describe where they’ve seen the skeleton?”

  Baishan translated the request, then relayed the information. As he did, Larissa looked up and followed where the warriors pointed, then made marks on the map.

  When finished, Larissa looked at the professor. “Do you see the pattern?”

  The professor considered for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, it’s been staying on the western side of the Mule Mountains, not straying far from the San Pedro and the surrounding vegetation. If we can set our lobo to travel down and back, he’s likely to encounter the apparition.”

  Nana looked up at the clockwork wolf, appraising it. He said something in Apache, which Baishan translated. “Your wolf, it is very still.”

  The professor stood and walked over to the lobo. He patted it on the head, like a good dog, then opened its side, revealing the clockworks within. “I created it. It can walk like a real wolf and bring information back to me.”

  Geronimo eyed the machine as he reached into the bag of beef jerky. Finally he spoke.

  “He’s impressed with your mechanical wolf,” said Baishan. “It seems just the thing he would expect a clown to create.”

  “A clown, sir?” Maravilla’s brow furrowed.

  “To Apaches, a clown brings laughter… and chaos,” explained Larissa.

  Geronimo’s mouth turned up in mild amusement. He said something to Baishan, then stood and dusted off his pants. Baishan stood. “He says clowns are perfect for chasing evil spirits back to the underworld.”

  Geronimo mounted his horse and pointed to the north as he spoke.

  “He says if you learn something or find you need help, you are welcome to ride to the place you call the Dragoon Mountains,” said Baishan.

  Larissa stood. “How will we find you?”

  “If you enter the Dragoons, you will be seen,” said Baishan. “If Geronimo says you are welcome, he will make sure the Chiracaua know you are friends. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  The remaining warriors stood and climbed onto their mounts. A moment later, they rode northward, a dust cloud in their wake.

  “I will be eternally grateful that you knew something of Apache culture, Miss Crimson.”

  Larissa lifted her coachman’s hat and wiped her brow. “I’m just lucky the authors of Beadle’s Dime Novels did their research.”

  <<>>

  Billy awoke and stumbled out of his bedroll, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold, wooden floor. He padded over to a washbasin, longing for the smell of coffee and bacon. Instead, all he smelled was chicken broth. After washing his face and combing his hair, Billy stumbled out to the kitchen, where Masuda Hoshi stood over the woodstove preparing his usual fare of rice and soup. Although Hoshi had chickens, he tended to reserve the eggs and meat for evening meals. A cup of green tea sat steaming on the table. Billy lowered himself to the floor, then sipped the tea. At least it was hot.

  After breakfast, Billy went out to the porch to retrieve his boots. He shook them out and jumped back when a spider fell to the boards. Feeling edgy, he pulled the boots on, then trudged over to the stable to saddle both his horse and Hoshi’s so they could ride into town for supplies.

  Billy thought Hoshi’s saddle was pretty, but he couldn’t imagine it was very comfortable for either the horse or the rider. The lacquered wood frame allowed the rider little room for movement. Hoshi’s small, well-mannered horse stood still while Billy fumbled with the unfamiliar straps. Soon after he finished, Hoshi arrived and examined Billy’s job. He made a few adjustments, then grunted.

  “Aren’t you going to wear a hat?” Billy noted the simple white bandana his employer wore tied around his head. “The sun gets pretty intense out on the road.”

  “The intense sun and I are old companions. We get along fine, especially for a short ride such as this.”

  Billy laughed. He was growing to like Hoshi despite his aversion to bacon and coffee. They each climbed into their saddles and set out. Hoshi rode tall and proud. Despite his strange flowery robes, he seemed very much at home in the strange saddle.

  As they neared the main road to Mesilla, they heard gunshots and shouts. “Maybe we oughta turn back,” said Billy. “Sounds like something we don’t wanta get tangled up in.”

  “Have you learned nothing from our discussions about the code of Bushido? Perhaps there is something we can do to help.”

  “If you say so.” Billy checked his pocket watch. It sounded like a holdup, but it was too early for the stagecoach to be coming through. Curiosity gnaw
ed at him, but he didn’t relish the idea of being shot for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. He followed Hoshi up a sandy rise to a bushy juniper tree. From there, they could observe the road ahead without being seen.

  The first thing Billy saw was a flatbed wagon. On the wagon, a brown canvas tarp covered half a dozen wooden crates. Four men in blue uniforms lay unmoving on the ground by the wagon. Red blood stained the ground near them and flies swarmed. Two more uniformed men sat on the wagon’s buckboard with their hands in the air. Two civilians on horseback with bandanas covering their mouths and noses faced them. Billy recognized a stickup, and couldn’t help but wonder what was so valuable that two men would risk attacking soldiers to get it.

  Just as Billy opened his mouth to speak, Hoshi dashed forward, drawing his revolver. The two bandits looked up as Hoshi fired. Blood sprayed from the nearest bandit’s hand and his gun flew to the ground. The other bandit, with dark curly hair peeking out from beneath his broad hat, swung his pistol around and fired. Hoshi jolted backward.

  With a curse, Billy drew his gun and rode out from behind the juniper tree. “Drop it, stranger!”

  To his surprise, Hoshi remained in the saddle. He sat up and swiveled his gun toward the armed bandit, who then held his arms out to the side and let the gun fall to the ground.

  The soldiers on the wagon wasted no time hopping from the buckboard and retrieving their weapons along with the bandits’ guns. “Thank you for the help, strangers,” said the one wearing corporal’s stripes.

  “You’re welcome.” Hoshi turned to the man clutching his bloodied hand. “Can you ride?”

  He looked up, eyes wide with terror and pain. “My partner shot you. I saw it.”

  “Shut up, Bob,” said the curly-haired man. “You talk too much.”

  “To be honest, I was kinda curious about that myself.” Billy’s brow furrowed. “I coulda sworn he plugged you right in the chest.”

  Hoshi parted his robe enough to reveal shiny blue lacquered metal with a small dent right over his heart. “If I had been much closer, the bullet would have penetrated.”

  “Much obliged,” said the curly-haired bandit. “I’ll remember that, next time I see you.”

  “I doubt very much that we’ll meet again.” Hoshi returned his gun to its concealed place within the robes. “I suspect you’ll be hung for what you did today.” He ripped some cloth from the inside of his robe and rode close to the wounded man. He examined the bloodied hand, then wrapped the wound.

  Billy looked around. Two soldiers loaded their fallen companions onto the wagon, beside the crates. “Anything we can do to help?”

  “Let me have a good look at these men,” said the corporal. “That way I can testify against them when they come to trial.”

  As Billy rode up and pulled down the wounded man’s bandana, the private bolted forward. “Corporal, why bother with a trial? Let me teach ’em to mess with an army wagon.”

  “Simmer down, Gilroy. We need to get these crates to El Paso before something else happens,” said the corporal.

  Billy pulled down the curly-haired man’s bandana revealing a thick, dark mustache framing a sneer under an aquiline nose. “I think the best thing you could do is take these varmints to the marshal in Mesilla.” The corporal turned to the man named Gilroy. “We’ll have fun enough watching ’em dance at the end of a rope later.”

  “Speakin’ o’ rope,” said Billy, “you got something to hogtie these varmints’ hands together? It’ll sure slow ’em down if they try to do something stupid.”

  “You bet,” said the corporal. He grabbed some rope from the wagon, cut off a piece and tossed it to the man called Gilroy. The two soldiers tied the bandits’ wrists together and checked that the knots were secure.

  Once done, Billy turned around and aimed his gun first at one bandit, then the other. “You heard the man. Ride.”

  The bandits did their best to grasp the reins in their bound hands, then turned their horses toward town. Billy and Hoshi followed close behind. Satisfied that the bandits weren’t going to make a break for it, Billy holstered his revolver. Half a mile down the road, he broke the uneasy silence. “You boys have a lot of cojones to take on six soldiers. That musta been something important they’re carryin’.”

  “What’s it to ya’?” growled the curly-haired bandit.

  “Guns,” said the wounded man. “They’se some kinda special gun invented back east.”

  “Shut up, Bob, you talk too much,” The curly-haired bandit chided his partner a second time.

  “Don’t make no difference to me.” Billy patted the six-gun at his hip. “I got all the firepower I need, right here.”

  “These are special guns,” said Bob with a certain reverence. “They’se supposed to throw lightning bolts. You don’t need to reload them or nothin’. Some scientist built them for the army to fight the Russians.”

  “Sounds like ol’ Professor Maravilla,” mused Billy. “Makes me wonder what scientists did to make money before the Russians invaded.”

  A short time later, they reached the Mesilla Park. Past the livery stables, they came to a large corral where people from the outlying farms could leave their horses for a few cents. Hoshi and Billy dismounted, then helped the wounded man from his horse. As they did, the curly-haired bandit leapt from his horse and made a break for it. Billy turned and sprinted after him. With a lunge and a leap he tackled him, sending him sprawling into the mud and manure. The bandit swore as Billy stood and pulled him out of the muck.

  Billy drew his gun and pointed it at the captive. “Let’s move. I believe we have an appointment with the marshal.”

  As they marched through town, the four men drew stares. Billy wasn’t sure what they found most peculiar—Hoshi’s robes, or the fact that he and one of the bandits were covered in mud and horse manure. When they arrived at the marshal’s office, one of the wanted posters caught Billy’s eye. It showed a man with curly hair and a dark, bushy mustache. “Well, well, well. It looks like we have us the company of Curly Bill Bresnahan according to this here poster. I’m beginnin’ to think you give people with the name of William a bad reputation.”

  “I hope you choke on the reward money,” sneered Bresnahan.

  Billy laughed, casting a sidelong glance toward Hoshi. “There may be somethin’ to that. First thing I plan to buy is some coffee… and some bacon.” He pointed his revolver at Bresnahan. “Now get on inside. I’m getting hungry standing out here talkin’.”

  <<>>

  After the Apache warriors rode away, Professor Maravilla and Larissa resumed their work on the clockwork lobo. The professor opened a hatch on the wolf’s chest and made an adjustment to a complicated series of gears connected to a gimbal-and-rotor assembly he called a gyroscope. “This is the closest thing the lobo has to a brain,” he explained. “It helps him keep his balance and tells him the path to follow.” He pointed to lines and numbers on a set of knobs. “Basically, his path will always be an ellipse.” He pointed to one dial. “This setting tells the lobo how many steps to take.” Then he pointed to two more. “These define the major and minor axes of the ellipse. If they’re equal, the lobo will walk in a circle. Right now, I have them set as far apart as possible. He’ll walk a virtually straight line toward the Mexican border, then turn around and come back.”

  Larissa studied the mechanism for a moment. “You know, that gimbal-and-rotor almost looks like a wagon wheel, or even the wheel on one of those new safety bicycles.”

  “Indeed it does.” Light gleamed from Maravilla’s eye as he closed the chest hatch, then opened another hatch on the wolf’s flank. “In fact, a bicycle’s wheel is a kind of gyroscope. The spinning action helps keep the machine upright just like this gyroscope helps to keep the lobo from either falling over or deviating too far from its course.”

  Larissa stood upright and considered the professor’s words. “What if you took a bicycle and put a motor on it like the one in the wolf?”

  “A
fascinating idea.” Maravilla inserted fuel rods into the lobo’s engine, turned it on and closed the hatch. The lobo began its trek to the south. Every few steps, a little puff of steam would appear from its tailpipe and dissipate rapidly in the dry air. “It might even be practical on level terrain. I would hate to use it on rugged terrain, though. Although the wheels act like a gyroscope, a bicycle can still get overbalanced and tip on its side.”

  “Couldn’t you add a gyroscope like the one in the lobo’s chest for even better balance?”

  The professor nodded, then took out his pocket watch. “I believe we can expect our friend back in about twelve hours.”

  Larissa looked at the professor’s watch. It was a little after six in the afternoon. As she looked up, the mechanical wolf disappeared into a gully, then climbed up the other side. “Do you actually think the wolf will cross the path of this… whatever it is?”

  Maravilla folded his arms. “If our new friends the Apaches are correct and the apparition limits its travels to this side of the mountain range, I believe one of two things will happen. Either the lobo will capture a photograph of the mysterious specter or we shall see it for ourselves.”

  Larissa chewed her lip as she continued to follow the lobo’s progress. It brushed past a mesquite bush, knocking off leaves and bean pods.

  The professor frowned. “You seem concerned by more than this spectral camel rider.”

  The bounty hunter shook her head, then walked over to the hansom cab and sat down on the passenger step where she put her head in her hands and frowned. “It’s just that I’ve flown your owls over the Grand Canyon and Denver. When I returned to the canyon with you, I thought we would be building something new and great. Instead, we’re out here in the middle of the desert hunting something that might not even exist. What’s worse, men are dying in the northwest while we’re here.”

  “Geronimo’s warriors seemed to believe the specter exists.” Maravilla hitched up his trousers and crouched near Larissa. His wide eyes showed genuine concern. “Don’t forget the miner in Tucson who also reported seeing it.”