Lightning Wolves

by David Lee Summers

Professor Maravilla narrowed his gaze. “No!” His voice acquired an unearthly timbre and it echoed from the surrounding rocks. “I will not allow you to murder in my name.”

  Larissa was silent for several minutes. She took a moment and looked back at the camp, then thought about Ramon’s offer a few days before. “Ramon said you’re working on ornithopters.”

  Sergeant Harris blinked a few times. “Yes, and we have some other weapons as well.” His voice trembled slightly, as though the professor had shaken him with his unnatural voice.

  “All right,” said Larissa. “I’ll go with you instead.”

  Both the sergeant and Maravilla looked up at her. “What?” asked the professor.

  “What can you do?” Sergeant Harris narrowed his gaze, evaluating her.

  “I’ve been learning from the professor. I’ve come up with some innovations to improve the mining machine, the professor’s clockwork lobo, and the ornithopters. I don’t know whether I can make the army’s ornithopters useful, but I bet I could come up with a useful weapon against the Russians...and I won’t let you take Maravilla. He has good reasons not to go with you.”

  Harris pursed his lips, as though considering the idea.

  “Child!” Maravilla’s voice cracked. “You don’t have to go.”

  “No,” said Larissa, “but I want to build ornithopters and you want to help the Sheiffelins a bit longer. I might learn more going with Sergeant Harris than staying here.”

  “I agree,” said Sergeant Harris. “You can come along in the professor’s place.” He bent down to retrieve his gun.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” said Larissa.

  The sergeant stood upright again.

  “Walk away from the gun real slow,” said Larissa. “The professor can look after it for you until we return.”

  Harris frowned, but nodded. “My horse is a little further up the wash.”

  “Walk that way. I’ll stay up here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” said the professor.

  Larissa sighed, knowing she could be gone for a considerable time, but there was a war in progress and the professor kept flitting from one passing fancy to another. “I think the time has come for me to study for a while on my own. I’ll be back when I can.” She walked along the flats above the wash, keeping a careful eye on Sergeant Harris.

  Chapter Nine

  A Tombstone in the Making

  Riding along the San Pedro River, Curly Bill took stock of the men he had rescued from the Mexican ranchers. The so-called Cowboys consisted of two sets of brothers, Phineas and Isaac Clanton along with Thomas and Frank McLaury. All were within two or three years of his age, near as he could figure, and all except clean-shaven Tom wore mustaches and goatees.

  Of the four, Ike was the talker, boasting about how he had been mere minutes from pulling his six-gun and taking out those Mexican ranchers. The McLaury brothers shook their heads and rolled their eyes throughout the story as though they had heard this bragging many times in the past. In fact, Curly Bill couldn’t help but notice that it was Tom who had actually shot one of the ranchers. Although friendly, Phin seemed almost oblivious to the bragging, focusing on the rolling desert countryside instead.

  Curly Bill rode up next to Ike. “So, have you seen this marvel that Phin told me about?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ike. “It’s truly a monster! A metal machine that can bore right into the side of a mountain!”

  Curly Bill noticed that Tom and Frank didn’t shake their heads or roll their eyes. There was truth to Ike’s statement. “So what exactly is this machine used for?”

  “Near as we can tell, it’s some kind of mining machine,” volunteered Frank.

  “It’s armored and strong,” interjected Tom. “Just the thing to intimidate Indians.”

  “Or Mexicans,” said Ike.

  Curly Bill narrowed his gaze and wondered how much stock to put into the descriptions. A powerful machine that could bore into mountains could sure be useful if one wanted to liberate funds from a bank or even take weapons from an army wagon.

  Around mid-afternoon, Curly Bill spotted a ranch house and a barn. The Cowboys herded the cattle into a nearby corral so they could be rebranded before being let out onto the range. Closer to the house, a stern man with a long beard streaked gray looked up from a wagon he unloaded with the help of a teenaged boy. Both the older man and the boy eyed Curly Bill with skepticism. When they dismounted, Phin introduced his father, Newman Clanton. “This is Bill Brocius. He pulled our fat out of the fire down in Mexico.”

  The old man’s mouth twitched upward a little and he shook Curly Bill’s hand.

  “Wait till you see the gun he has!” Ike had a gleam in his eyes. “It’s just what we need to teach those redskins a thing or two.”

  Mr. Clanton raised an eyebrow.

  Curly Bill cringed at the way Ike just shot off his mouth about the lightning gun. True, the old man was Ike’s dad, but he wanted people to show some sense before they opened their mouths. He held up his hands. “Boys, I have to caution you, that’s a secret weapon from the army. We need to talk so I can determine whether your cause is...a worthy use of the lightning gun’s power.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Phin.

  The old man eyed the parcel on the back of Curly Bill’s horse with interest.

  Curly Bill cleared his throat. “I’d really like an opportunity to get cleaned up.”

  “Of course.” The old man turned to the boy. “Billy, show Mr. Brocius to the guest room and then fetch him some clean clothes. I suspect your brothers’ll have something that’ll fit him till he can get that uniform washed out.”

  “Yes, Pa,” said Billy Clanton.

  “Another, Bill, eh?” said Curly Bill. “How are people ever gonna tell us apart?”

  The boy’s grimace made Curly Bill laugh. He had to admit, he knew an awful lot of people named William. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick curls. “I’m sorta stuck with the Curly part.” He turned around and hefted the lightning gun onto his back, then retrieved the saddlebags from the horse.

  Billy showed him to a guest room, then led him around back to the bath house. A little further beyond was an outhouse. “I’ll start some water heating for you. Why don’t you get settled?”

  “Mighty kind of you, Billy.” Curly Bill found his way back to his room. He wasn’t really sure how much to trust these cattle rustlers, but the prospect of a bath and a comfortable bed sure sounded good. He placed the lightning gun on the floor between the bed and the window and arranged his saddlebags on top. It wouldn’t keep anyone from stealing it, but he would be able to tell if someone had been poking around. He then took a handkerchief from the saddlebags and placed it between the door and jamb as he pulled it shut. If anyone went inside, the handkerchief would fall silently to the floor. It was no more foolproof than the saddlebags, but only a true fool would take no precautions against snooping.

  Satisfied with the arrangement, he returned to the bathhouse. There he found a metal washtub half filled with water and a kettle heating on a wood stove. Clean clothes lay across an old sawhorse standing near the wall. Curly Bill stripped out of the sweaty blue uniform, making sure to place his revolver where he could reach it, then poured the kettle of water in the tub and climbed in.

  After scrubbing himself down with homemade lye soap and rinsing off, he dressed in the clean clothes, gathered up the dirty uniform, and then returned to the room. As he walked down the hall, he smelled meat searing in a pan and his stomach began to rumble. He found his handkerchief in the doorjamb just as he’d left it and saw no sign that the saddlebags had been disturbed. These Clantons might be rustlers, but they seemed to have a code of conduct that wouldn’t let them steal from a guest. Even if they didn’t have such a code, they were still smart enough to build up some trust first. He’d sleep with his gun under his pillow, just in case.

  Following the aromas of cook
ing food, he found the kitchen. Newman, Phin, Ike, and Billy shuffled around the kitchen, getting dinner on the table. He wondered what had happened to Newman Clanton’s wife, but he also knew that life on the frontier was tough. He could certainly make some guesses. “Tom and Frank send their regrets,” said Newman, “but they couldn’t stay for supper. They needed to tend their own ranch.”

  “I understand. They seem like good men,” said Curly Bill. “Hope I get to see ’em again.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Newman.

  They all sat down to a simple, but tasty supper of steak, beans and spring greens. Curly Bill idly wondered whether the Clantons had a garden or if the greens came from the supplies Newman and Billy were unloading when he arrived. “This is a fine place, Mr. Clanton,” said Curly Bill. “I sure appreciate your hospitality.”

  “It’s a hard place,” said the old man. “Word is there’s silver in the mountains all around. The flats are good grassland for cattle. I was hoping to start a trading post, maybe become the center of a whole new town.”

  “That’s hard to do with a war drawing all the people away, ain’t it?” asked Curly Bill.

  Old Man Clanton nodded. “But they’ll be back once the war’s won.”

  Curly Bill wondered about the old man’s certainty of victory, but let that pass. “This is Apache country.”

  “That’s right,” interjected Ike. “And they ain’t too keen on a whole settlement of white folk.”

  “But that would change if we could keep the Apaches out and convince folks that we could keep ’em out for good,” explained Newman.

  Curly Bill cut a piece of steak and nodded slowly. He saw why the lightning gun appealed to the Clanton boys. The problem was he only had one gun and he didn’t even know how many rounds it held or how to reload it. He could sell the gun and move on, but he had a feeling he could make much more money if he held onto it. Helping the Clantons fulfill their dream could put him at the heart of a wealthy mining settlement. What’s more, he’d rather have the Cowboys with him than against him when the army came searching for their missing gun. That fact alone made it worth playing along with them… at least for a time.

  After supper, Curly Bill offered to show off the lightning gun. He went to his room, memorized the settings, then scratched off the markings. He returned to the kitchen and the Clantons took him behind the house. Curly Bill activated the gun. They all took a step backward as the device began to hum. “Whatcha got that you don’t mind losing?” asked Curly Bill.

  Mr. Clanton pointed to an old broken-down wagon a hundred paces distant. Curly Bill took aim, then, knowing what was to come, closed his eyes as he squeezed the trigger. A flash of blue lightning shot forth from the gun and engulfed the wagon, vaporizing it entirely.

  Old Man Clanton blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots before his eyes. He took two tentative steps toward the wagon’s location and saw only a black spot on the ground where it had been. “Either you’re the strongest man alive, or that thing has no recoil for the wallop it packs.”

  “Aside from the blinding light, it’s very easy to use. You could fire from horseback, on foot, wherever.” Curly Bill smiled. “Think this will help build your dream, Mr. Clanton?”

  “It’s certainly a good start. Let’s go inside and talk some more.”

  <<>>

  Hoshi tracked Curly Bill Bresnahan’s north, following a thin, trickling waterway. Although it was almost laughable to think of it as a river, the former samurai was glad for the greenery. The sight of it refreshed him almost as much as the water itself. He tried to remember his geography. “Do you know what river this is?” he asked Middleton.

  The corporal took off his hat and scratched his head. “I think it must be the San Pedro.”

  Hoshi pursed his lips. As he recalled, the river went right into Apache country. He guessed that Bresnahan must plan to turn northwest when he entered the United States. “I think he plans to go to Tucson.”

  Middleton agreed and they turned to follow the river. Ten miles later, they came upon a grizzly, but interesting sight. A man lay on the ground covered in swarming flies. A turkey vulture ripped a gobbet of meat from the man’s leg, lifted its head and swallowed it down before extending its long wings and taking flight. Near the man lay the body of an animal—harder to identify, but Hoshi guessed it must be a horse. Only hind quarters were recognizable. The rest was blackened ash.

  Middleton dropped from his saddle and vomited into the sand. Hoshi ignored him as he continued to study the scene.

  Hoof and footprints covered a wide area. Bresnahan had come across men already engaged in a confrontation, then interfered using the lightning gun. Hoshi studied the hoof prints. There were two different kinds—the shod prints horses left and a different set of prints. He guessed cattle. That would mean Bresnahan had come across a confrontation between rustlers and the cattle’s legitimate owners. The question was, who had he helped?

  “We’ve got company,” said Middleton.

  Looking up, Hoshi saw a dust plume in the south—riders approaching. “We should move on,” he said.

  The dead man was Mexican, and given the horse’s condition, Hoshi realized Bresnahan must have helped his killers. Horse and cattle tracks went north away from the scene. Hoshi thought it was a good bet Bresnahan went with that party.

  He climbed back on his horse and rode north, followed by Middleton. Fifteen minutes later, the riders from the south came up alongside, drawing their side arms. “Alto! Bajar su caballo!” called one of the men.

  Middleton drew his revolver. One of the riders fired. Blood sprayed from the corporal’s chest as he dropped from the mount. Hoshi ground his teeth, suspecting the corporal was already dead.

  Years of training in battle allowed Hoshi to focus his attention on his two opponents rather than his fallen companion. The two men wore brown jackets with white shirts and neckties. Bandoliers crossed their chests and sombreros shaded their faces. These were President Porfirio Diaz’s rurales—rural officers who patrolled the northern border.

  “Get off your horse,” said the man who had spoken before.

  Hoshi looked at both men and considered the animals they rode. They seemed fresher than his mount. He had no way to outrun these men and they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. He dismounted and put his hands up. The rurales dismounted. “What are you doing here?”

  “My partner and I were hired to track a man,” said Hoshi.

  “You don’t look like any bounty hunter I’ve ever seen before,” said the officer.

  His companion spoke in Spanish.

  “He says the weapon used to kill Mexican nationals was also strange. Perhaps you know something about it, eh?” The officer took a step toward Hoshi.

  Hoshi shook his head. “I know nothing useful to you, nor do I have time to stand here talking.”

  “Very well,” said the officer, “you will come with us.” He gestured with his pistol.

  Hoshi dropped into a crouch, then let a punch fly into the man’s stomach. As the officer crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, Hoshi sprang up and spun around kicking the feet out from under the second man. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the air.

  Once the men were down, Hoshi collected their guns and walked over to Xander Middleton. As he feared, the corporal was dead. He reached in his pocket and took his papers so the Mexican government would not know he was an army man.

  “I suggest you do not follow me.” With that, Hoshi climbed on his horse and rode northward to the American border.

  <<>>

  First thing the next morning, Curly Bill rode out toward Goose Flats with Phin Clanton. The older Clanton brother was as quiet and amiable as the day before. Not burdened by Ike’s near-constant chatter, Curly Bill had some time to think.

  He knew someone must be on his trail. The question was, how many people would the army send? Probably not many unless Colonel Johnson wanted to risk a confrontation with Mexico. Also, with so many troops up no
rth, he figured it would just be one or two men, or perhaps even a bounty hunter. Even so, it wouldn’t take long for a bounty hunter to figure out he’d reentered the United States. After that, a posse of federal marshals would soon be on his tail, if not the army itself. If so, would he do better throwing in with the Clantons and making a stand, or laying low, using the lightning gun sparsely when he got into a real scrape? He supposed the answer depended on this marvel Phin planned to show him.

  “So, how exactly did you boys get into the cattle rustling business?” asked Curly Bill.

  “Rustling?” asked Phin. “It ain’t a crime if you take cattle from across the border.”

  Curly Bill laughed. “I’m sure there’s Mexicans who think differently.”

  “Well, the forts up here don’t seem to care where we get the beef. They’re just happy to have it.”

  “That’s surely true.” A cold chill traveled down Curly Bill’s spine. On one hand, the Clantons were southerners who had no love of the Federal army. On the other, they made their living from that same army. Would they help him or betray him? He took a deep breath and vowed to keep his cool until he learned more.

  As they rode, Curly Bill became aware of a rumbling, growling sound, felt in the back of his head more than heard. They followed the terrain down a gentle slope and Phin held up his hand. Quietly, they stopped and dismounted. A faint vibration ran through the ground up into their guts and the horses looked around nervously, lashing their tails. Phin patted his horse on the flank, calming him. Curly Bill followed suit as Phin hiked up a slight rise.

  The two men stood at the edge of a broad gully. On the other side, great clouds of smoke and dirt flew back from a cave. Curly Bill saw two men standing a ways off. Occasionally one would turn to the other and say something. They must be shouting just to be heard over all the racket.

  They waited half an hour. At that point, the smoke and dirt slowly dissipated and the ground stopped vibrating. The rumbling noise quieted and some kind of metal machine rolled out of the cave. It turned and Curly Bill snorted a laugh. In profile, the machine almost looked like a giant pig. The machine backed over to the wash and dumped a load of tailings. Phin giggled and Curly Bill had to admit it looked like the mechanical pig was taking a dump.