The Jessie James Archives

by Craig Gallant

  The butt of a large pistol cracked against the hatch and snapped it shut under his fingers. Truett spun around, face twisted with anger, but came up short as he found himself staring into the warped reflection of his own angry face in the agent’s goggles.

  “Opening the hatches is against protocol.” The man’s voice was devoid of any tone or emotion, but carried with it a strength and authority that could not be denied. “We must move forward.”

  “Sir!” Stint’s voice was ragged with shock and fear. “That blast took out one of the cavalry boys! He’s – he’s in pieces, sir! In the water! His ‘Horse was torn to shreds! What could have—“

  The young man’s legs, standing on the firing platform below the cupola-mounted gun, gave a sudden, savage jerk and then relaxed. The body slumped back down into the compartment. Its head was a bloody, shredded ruin.

  “Hadley, now!” Truett snarled aside at the agent as he jumped back into the pilot’s position. The Engineer’s Mate was frantically working the controls at the aft of the compartment, bringing the engines back to life. Graff slapped the switch for the anchor mechanism and the small motor growled into life. The deck beneath their feet began to shake slightly to a rattling sound forward.

  The agent took Stint’s body beneath the arms and hauled him back into a corner, sitting the grotesque figure against the aft bulkhead where it would be out of the way. He resumed his position in front of the cargo hatch, blaster held in one steady hand.

  Truett brought the throttle forward and the engines behind him roared back into life. The boat surged ahead just as another explosion tore up the northern bank. Bits of burning wood, twisted metal, and other wreckage arced over the water into the lieutenant’s narrow field of vision. He tried not to think about what some of the softer, more irregular pieces flying into the river might be as he concentrated on the course ahead.

  “Sir!” Graff’s shout could barely be heard over the roaring engines. “The anchor’s not—“

  The boat was wrenched quickly around, throwing everyone off their feet. The agent fell heavily against Stint’s body as the howling of the engines rose several octaves. Truett dove back for the controls, bringing the bow of the boat back up in a wide turn into the current before it could be driven ashore. The engines struggled against the ensnared anchor, digging the boat deeper into the water, before the chain gave way and the Lincoln’s Gift was launched forward, sending everyone but the lieutenant staggering back against the bulkhead. Truett, braced against the pilot’s jump seat, leaned into the thrust and kept his eyes pressed to the vision slit.

  “Get to the gun!” The commander’s shout was lost in the deafening roar that shook the compartment, but his pointing finger was all that Graff needed. He jumped up onto the blood-stained firing platform, his head and shoulders thrusting through the cupola. At once, the gun collar spun around, facing back into their wake, and the stuttering concussions of the Gatling guns pouring fire aft growled beneath the heavier sound of the engines tearing away at the water beneath them.

  Truett navigated the sleek boat around a lazy bend in the river and then pushed the throttle all the way down as he swept on into a straight section, making for the middle of the flow and away from the rocks along the banks. Above them the firing stopped, and the commander gestured for Hadley to check on their escorts. The young man stepped to the port vision slit first, and then hopped to the starboard side, before turning to Truett with a serious face, shaking his head.

  The commander snarled under his breath as he concentrated on the river ahead. Constant slight corrections swayed the boat first one way and then the other as he wove between tumbled rocks. Behind him, the agent pulled Graff off the firing platform and took his place, scanning their wake for any sign of attackers. The signalman and Hadley stood uneasily behind the firing platform, grasping grip rings with white knuckles. Their eyes twitched from the commander’s back to the agent’s legs and back again. Time stretched on, no further attacks erupted from the blurring shorelines, and the three navy men began slowly to relax.

  The agent continued to stand his watch in the cupola, muscles tense and legs unmoving.

  *****

  An hour had passed since they had lost Stint and their escorts, but no further assaults had occurred. Graff and Hadley had wrapped the Gunner’s Mate’s body in a rough blanket and wrestled it into a small unsecured hold forward. The agent had come down off the gun not long ago and was standing once again before the cargo hold, face inscrutable. The signalman had taken his place and was standing on the hastily-wiped platform, keeping watch behind them.

  Graff had been on watch for a few minutes when the boat thrashed violently without warning, there was a tortured screeching of metal, and his body was yanked upward and out of the hatch. Any scream he may have uttered was lost in the continuous roar of the RJ-1027 engines.

  Hadley crouched down in shock and surprise as his friend was sucked from the boat. The agent lunged for the firing platform and Truett shouted soundlessly over his shoulder, demanding to know what had happened. He was whipping his head back and forth between the forward vision slit and Hadley’s pale face when the boat staggered beneath them, the noise from the engines rising in a crescendo of furious howls.

  Lincoln’s Gift careened around in a stuttering arc as the engines whined and screamed. The deck shook to the rhythm of the tormented engines, then jumped sharply as something crashed against the hull. The boat jumped away from the impact but then lurched the other way as something else crashed against the outer armor. An abrasive, grinding sound shook the entire boat and it came to rest, canted up at an odd angle. The engines screamed as if animals in pain and abruptly sputtered into silence.

  The deathly stillness was haunting. Truett and Hadley looked to each other and then up to the cupola. The agent eased himself back into the boat, one arm cradled tightly against his ribs. His face was pale but still impassive.

  “The gun is gone, torn away.” With his good hand he pulled the heavy pistol from its holster. “You will need to open the arms locker.”

  “What?” Truett’s voice was high with disbelief. “How—“

  “A chain strung across the river, secured to boulders on either bank.” The agent bent down to check on the cargo hold’s lock. “It rode along the top of the boat and took out the gun and the gunner.” He looked over his shoulder at Truett. “He’s still hanging from it behind us. I’m sorry, but you will need to open the arms locker now. They will be upon us at any moment.”

  “Who?” The commander knew he need to shake off the confusion of his shock, but his mind would not cooperate.

  The agent turned his blank gaze upon Hadley. “Can you open the arms locker?”

  “I can do it!” Truett pushed past Hadley and the agent and knelt down beside another hatch on the aft bulkhead. He spun several dials on a large lock and then snapped the bar open, pulling on the hatch. He withdrew a long blaster rifle and handed it to Hadley. Another was handed back for the agent. He pulled an additional pistol for himself, then rose.

  “What should we do?” The commander put every effort into keeping his voice steady. “We’re in the middle of the run, hours from anywhere, and we’ve lost our escorts. How can we—“

  The agent held up a small black object with a flaring red light embedded in it. “The Treasury offices in St. Louis know we are in difficulty. They will send help immediately.”

  “What—?” The Engineer’s Mate’s eyes were wide with awe.

  “Never mind.” The agent slipped the box back into a pocket and nodded towards the gaping cupola. “We need to secure the area so we can wait for recovery. This has been elaborate and well-executed.” He tilted his head towards the secured hold. “We cannot allow that gold to fall into their hands.”

  Hadley nodded. “Right. Damn corn-husking dirt farmers.”

  The commander just shook his head. “We’re sure the cavalrymen are down?”

  The agent moved towards the firing platform, the rifle gri
pped by the barrel in his good hand. “Someone took out the ones on the north bank with heavy weapons. The southern team was hit with personal weapons.” He tucked the rifle under his bad arm and reached for the twisted wreckage along the edge of the cupola. “We’re on our own.”

  “Hey!” Truett rose and slapped the roof of the compartment with an open palm. When the agent ducked back down the commander shook his head. “You’re wounded. I go first.”

  The agent thought about it for a moment and then simply nodded, easing himself off the platform.

  Truett stepped up onto the platform, trying to ignore the dark stains still clinging to the edges of the metal’s diamond texturing. He poked his head through the cupola, past the twisted wreckage of the weapon collar, and just high enough to scan the area around his crippled boat.

  The Lincoln’s Gift had come to rest up against the southern bank of the river at a relatively wide, shallow point. The bow of the boat was tilted upward against the shoreline, smoke pouring from the engines aft of the hatch. Truett noticed the sad figure hanging limply over the water about a hundred yards downstream and quickly looked away. There were areas of relatively thick scrub pine clumped along either side of the river. More than enough cover to conceal any number of ambushers.

  The lieutenant lifted himself up out of the wrecked cupola and onto the tilted deck, drawing both pistols as he came to his feet. His weapons were standard-issue Union blasters, heavy weapons powered by clips of RJ-1027 that fired bursts of crimson fire far more devastating than any black powder weapon they had wielded during the War Between the States. With far more accuracy and range than those antiques he had grown up with, Truett knew that if a target presented itself, he would be able to take it down.

  Behind the commander, Hadley lifted himself up out of the boat and onto the deck, a blaster rifle cradled in both hands. Truett gestured for the engineer to keep a watch out over the water and the northern bank as he started to sidle towards the bow, scanning the southern bank for danger. The agent threw his blaster rifle up onto the deck from below and began to crawl up out of the boat as well.

  Truett moved to the bow of his boat and looked down. It was not a long drop to the shallow water below, but he was not sure he wanted to abandon the Gift quite so soon. Glancing behind him, the commander could see that Hadley was keeping a good watch out over the glistening water while the agent was settling against an intake fairing. The man cast his shrouded gaze all around, assessing their current situation.

  The lieutenant looked back down and crouched, preparing to jump.

  “That’s a mighty fine rowboat you got yerself there, mister!” The voice came out of a cluster of low pines off to Truett’s right. He brought his pistols up, arms straight and firm, but he could not see a target within the shifting shadows beneath the trees.

  “Now, that’s hardly friendly, is it?” The voice was light, and the old lieutenant felt his anger rising at its tone.

  “Show yourself, or we’re going to come in and drag you out!” Truett’s pistols were rock steady. He edged back down the slanting deck towards Hadley and the government agent, both of whom were now watching the small grove.

  “Well, I sure don’t wanna be dragged nowhere, an’ that’s a fact!” The voice laughed. “Though, I’m not sure that I’m all that much concerned. You boys look like you’ve been havin’ a bad day.” Somewhere in the shadows, the smile widened. “Looks like you got ten or twenty nets caught up in yer little motor, there!”

  Nets in the water. Truett’s eyes narrowed as he considered the idea. If they were heavy enough, like the metal nets used by some of the fishermen working the Great River back east…

  “In the name of the federal government, come out or we shall open fire.” The agent may have been injured when the boat heeled over and threw him, but his voice was still strong.

  “Oh! The federal government now, is it? Well, that there is certainly a hound of another litter, as they say!” The voice was harder now, and for some reason, Truett was suddenly very aware of how much colder it was outside the crew compartment of his little boat.

  “You heard me.” The agent eased himself to his feet. “Every minute of this inane chatter makes you look more suspicious to me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t ever wanna look suspicious to a man from the federal gov’mint, sir. An’ that’s a fact!” The voice was now a dangerous mix of hard edges and amused disdain, and Truett felt himself grow even colder.

  The figure that swaggered out of the shadows was sneering through its beard. Heavy goggles, similar to the agent’s, but tinted with a bright red shade, gleamed in the sun beneath the tilted brim of a battered stetson. The stub of a hand-rolled cigarillo hung from the corner of the man’s mouth, and his thumbs were hooked nonchalantly in an elaborate cross-draw gun belt. His stance was aggressively casual, and Truett felt the heat rising once again in his chest at the man’s clear lack of concern. He felt his hand lifting the pistol before he heard Hadley behind him whisper. “Oh, damn.”

  The lieutenant was brought up short by the fear and awe in his engineer’s voice. His eyes tightened as he took a closer look at the stranger. The man was wearing a duster, common enough in the territories, although out of fashion back east for years. However, the arms of this man’s coat had been removed, with fancy stitching around the sleeve hems showing that it was intentional and decorative. Truett’s eyes widened as he saw why the arms had been cut away from the long coat.

  The man’s arms, fully revealed by this custom duster, were not flesh and blood. They were sculpted shapes of iron and rubber, armored sheathing protecting delicate-seeming components within that gleamed silver and gold. The telltale ruby-red glow of RJ-1027 power glinted from several points along each arm. As the man lowered one arm and raised the other to tip his hat to the men aboard the wrecked riverboat, the tiny parts inside of each whirred and spun in the sunlight, small bursts of smoke or steam flashing out and pulled away on the gentle breeze.

  Only one man in the world had mechanical arms like that. Tales said they had been crafted for him special by the mad European: Doctor Burson Carpathian himself. Carpathian had discovered RJ-1027 and its many applications and changed the world, and the course of the American Civil War, in the process. The man who might have been viewed as a hero was a monster to nearly everyone in the Old States, as word of his terrible experiments and devastating inventions continued to spread. It was said that a savage, mysterious vendetta against the Union hero, General Ulysses S. Grant, had driven him to horrible deeds. Now, back east, anything involving Carpathian or his inventions was looked upon with suspicion and dread.

  None of the tales were as dark or fearful as the outlaw whose arms, nearly torn from his body by a Warrior Nation chieftain, had been interchanged with metal replacements by the great Doctor.

  “Jesse James.” For a moment, Truett thought he had spoken without thinking, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the agent step up to the edge of the tilted deck, rifle hanging loosely in his one good arm.

  The man on the riverbank nodded. “The one and only, gentlemen!” His smile widened. “And now that the mystery is solved, if you might care to hop on down from up there, we can see about securing you all and liberating my gold?”

  The agent had only moved a fraction of an inch, the barrel of his rifle swaying slightly, before those horrible metal arms had flashed down and two enormous weapons, gleaming with the crimson glow of RJ-1027, filled both iron fists. Each was pointing directly at the agent.

  “Now, old son, I don’t think you wanna be doin’ that.” James nodded. “You had a rough enough day as it is. Why not relax, make it a little easier on yerself?” But the smile had never faltered, and the first signs of emotion crossed the agent’s face as it tightened up behind the thick goggles.

  One of James’ pistols floated out to his left, in line with the stern of the crippled boat. “Don’t be a hero, son.” His voice was flat. “There ain’t nothin’ or no one on that boat worth dyin’
fer. Trust me.”

  Truett looked back to see Hadley lowering his rifle, a look of sheepish apology on his face. The commander looked back down at James.

  “There’s three of us, and even you only have two arms.” The lieutenant’s grip tightened on his pistols and he stood up taller. “You going to shoot all three of us at one time, before we can get a shot off on you?”

  From the corner of his eye, Truett could see the agent and Hadley standing taller as well. He knew, whatever he did at this point, they were going to back his play.

  James’ smile just widened. “Three of you. You new in the territories, there, Billy Yank? You heard o’ me, but you think three men at once is goin’ to pose a challenge?”

  Truett wished he could see the eyes behind those red goggles. The sardonic grin in that trim beard, the careless pose, and the curious tilt to the head were all playing havoc on his mind. The gold on the Gift was important. It was to keep men like this in check. It was to make the territories safer for decent folk. One month’s loss would not cause the downfall of the west, but it was more than he wanted this nasty little road agent to get his filthy paws on.

  “Roll the dice, bas—“ Truett brought his pistols to bear on the outlaw’s sneering face. He saw Hadley’s rifle rise almost at the same time, and the agent’s come up as well. All three of them were going to fire within a second of each other. There was no way—

  The lieutenant did not hear the shot that hit him. He felt like someone had kicked his leg out from underneath him. He went down hard on the deck of his boat. His head slammed into the armor with a thick clang, and a sickening haze rose up over his vision. He felt himself rebound off the deck and fall.

  There was a staccato string of detonations from terribly close by and yet somehow muffled. There was a strobing crimson light that flashed like summer lightning all around him. He heard a dull splash not far behind, and a gentle sizzle in the distance like rain on the surface of a lake. Then he hit.