by Felix Gilman
If he saw the smoke of a Line vehicle ahead he might make us go miles out of our way. Once he heard two little boys speculating excitedly about rumors that a real live Agent of the Gun had been seen in the vicinty, and he made us leave town at once. A woman who said she was a witch sold him a dried dog’s penis on a piece of string, that was supposed to ward off the eyes of the Powers. So far as I know it did not.
He had no interest whatsoever in the Apparatus. He was like a wild animal. What ever he could neither use nor master frightened him. Whenever I mentioned Mr.Alfred Baxter, he scoffed.
“I could have been a businessman,” he said. “Had I chosen to. I was full of big ideas when I was a boy.”
“Is that a fact. For instance?”
He gave the question a moment’s thought then shrugged. “Buy low and sell high, Professor. It’s a simple enough con.”
I didn’t ask him a whole lot of questions. I tried to puzzle him out by tracking and observation and studying his signs.
I was still sure that I had seen him before. Eventually, and quite by chance, I found out where.
We’d stopped in Durham Town. It was the beginning of winter and the wind was wet and cold and we’d paid to sit by the fireplace in a beer hall and un-freeze our joints and wring chunks of ice from our hair. There were old newspapers by the fire and a shelf of even older books, which the proprietors loaned out for a penny. Mostly they were smut. A few concerned notorious crimes. There was a single ancient copy of the Charter of the Red Republic standing stiff-backed on the shelf like a missionary among whores. Miss Harper found the Charter interesting. Old Man Harper read the newspapers. I got talking to a boy who worked in the beer hall about books and I suggested that an ambitious boy might want to read the Autobiography of Mr. Alfred Baxter, or a good Encyclopedia of the natural sciences. And he said that was all very well but he had grander ambitions, and he pointed me to his favorite among his employer’s books. It was called The Captains of Crime: Their Glorious Lives and Their Ignominious Ends.
It was printed on stiff yellow paper and it recounted the escapades of a dozen Agents of the Gun in tones of both righteous condemnation and ghoulish glee. I read about Dagger Dolly, who once burned a whole town to the ground because a man had insulted her. I read about Blood-and-Thunder Boch, whose legend and whose burden it was that he could never say no to a dare, and who consequently stood athwart an onrushing Engine and shot out its headlamp and was killed. I read about elegant Dandy Fanshawe of whom it was said that no dope was dealt in the West without his taking a cut, and Procopio “Dynamite” Morse, Abban the Lion who dueled a hundred men and could talk to snakes, and then I turned the page and read about John Creedmoor, the charming monster who stole away the heir to the Tyrias Transport Trust, who led the Gibson City Mob for five years, who sabotaged the Line’s factories at the Devil’s Spine, who . . .
I did not read most of the words. I just stared at the photograph that was reproduced beneath them.
The book speculated that the man was dead. He had done nothing wicked or grand for years, and surely that meant he was dead. A man of John Creedmoor’s proud restless spirit would not think of retiring, and besides his masters would not allow it. The only way out of the service of the Guns was by means of a noose or a bullet.
I lowered the book to see that Old Man Harper was watching me. Our eyes met but we said nothing.
I was terrified and did not know what to say. I grew up in a town on the edges of Line territory. We were not important or glamorous and we had nothing much to steal and nothing much worth sabotaging. Except for in books and songs I had never met an Agent of the Gun. Not at that time in my life. But I had seen what they left behind at Toro and I had seen one hanged at Secchi. I had been present at a town called Kloan when there was a shoot-out between an Agent and forces of the Line, hiding behind a barrel— I have nightmares about it still.
Anyhow that night he came into my room. I was not sleeping but did not notice him standing by my bed until a cloud moved from the moon and revealed his silhouette. He stretched out his stick and pressed it against my chin as if to close my mouth. It hurt. The back of my skull was pressed against the headboard, so that my head was in a kind of clamp, like I was about to be the subject of dentistry.
“My fame has found me out,” he said.
I could not easily open my mouth to answer, so I did not try.
We stayed like that for some time. I was afraid, and then angry, and then afraid and angry at the same time, and then I started to feel ashamed, as if I had wronged him by snooping into his past. It seemed some of the menace faded from his eyes and he just looked tired.
“That was a long time ago,” he said. “I gave it up. I am no longer that man. My bones hurt in cold weather and my hands shake and I sleep badly. I am not the giant that I was. But do not think I am not still a danger to the likes of you.”
He turned and left, entertaining no questions.
That was at the beginning of winter, like I said, just a few days before we got to White Rock.
CHAPTER 7
THE WOLVES
No yarn of world’s-edge adventure and daring is complete without wolves. If I ever got this far into a story-book without wolves I would demand my money back.
For example: in The Autobiography of Mr. Alfred Baxter, there are wolves no later than the second chapter. As a young man Mr. Baxter set off into the West to make his fortune and when there were rumblings of War he did his duty and signed up— against the Red Valley Republic, which he regarded as unsound and a threat to Property and good order. He was put in charge of a platoon of brave men but they did not make it to the battle at Black-Cap Valley, on account of being led astray by bad weather or maybe the tricks of the Red Republic’s Folk allies. Instead of joining the mayhem at Black-Cap they were harried along frozen plains by starving wolves until they formed a circle, back-to-back, and stood their ground against the snarling fangs. I read all this with great excitement as a boy, though even then I understood that it was only a metaphor for how we must overcome adversity in pursuit of greatness.
It was early winter. There were signs and rumors of impending snow. As the road took us back east it climbed steadily and mercilessly up and into what would soon be mountains. The road was clogged with mud from snow runoff and the woods were glistening and bare. Black clouds leaned in close overhead and were menacing, like policemen. I wore a hooded waxed coat of bilious green that I had purchased in Durham and kept my head covered and did not make conversation. Inside I was in a kind of panic, and had been since that moment the night before, at the fireplace at the World Hotel in Durham, when I learned the name John Creedmoor.
I felt deceived and disillusioned. For weeks I’d traveled with the Harpers and tried to puzzle out their secrets. I’d come to imagine that it would be something grand, something splendid. If they were on the run from the law it was because they were cruelly misjudged, or had stolen from the rich to give to the poor. If the Line hunted them, well that was to their credit, and if they were spies it was in a good cause. I’d been a dupe. I had assisted in a wicked purpose. They were Agents of the Gun. Not only him but also her. I was a fool and the world was worse than I could fathom. It was a terrible injustice. I had been meant to do great and good and beautiful things and this was not my proper fate.
There has never been a man in the West, no matter how upright, who did not sometimes when he was a boy daydream of running away from home and joining up with the Agents of the Gun. I assure you I am no exception. When you are small and weak and poor there are times when your soul seems no big sacrifice to be big and wild and famous and free. But it is one thing to daydream and another to find yourself caught up in the schemes of the Gun for real. It is one thing to see a lion at the circus and another to get in its cage.
How many had they murdered, and how many more would they murder? I was sure that I would be their next victim. I was trouble for them now that I knew and I would be dealt with accordingly. That would
be how the newspapers would report it, the notorious john creedmoor strikes again— another victim— this idiot deserved it for sure. They were toying with me. She’d been polite all day but that was her way, it was her little game. We would get far enough out of town and she would give a nod or that quiet little laugh she had and John Creedmoor would turn to me with a smile and faster than I could get my last words in order or even cry out he would cut my throat and roll me into a ditch. Then he would kill Carver and the horses.
Mr. Carver walked beside me, on the other side of the horses. I could not think of any way of alerting him to the danger that would not precipitate it. Creedmoor would be stronger than I could imagine, faster than I could imagine, and his masters might have given him any number of other wicked tricks. It was not impossible that he could hear what I was thinking. I’d heard it said some Agents had that knack. I had been a fool and now Carver would suffer on my account. Or maybe he knew already. I thought over every word he had said to me since we met the Harpers— there had not been many, there were never many— and it seemed every one was a warning. Loyal Carver!
It crossed my mind out of nowhere that I could probably turn both Creedmoor and Miss Harper in for reward money and that that could be a good start toward making my fortune. The idea made me stop in my tracks and I glanced up to see John Creedmoor looking at me in a thoughtful kind of way. All thoughts of profit fled from my mind. I knew I would be lucky just to survive.
I thought about Miss Harper. That was not her real name. Her real name would be a closely guarded secret. Among her fellow Agents she would have her own gloating criminal alias, like Black Casca or Dagger Dolly or Scarlet Mary, something proud and defiant and vile. Somewhere on her person she would have a weapon. I didn’t know much about the Agents but every schoolboy knows that each of them carries a Gun, and that weapon houses their master’s spirit. I’d never seen her go armed. I wondered where, all those weeks, she’d been hiding it.
It occurred to me in the middle of the afternoon that she might be innocent. I had been duped— maybe she’d been duped too. I started thinking of ways to save her. That helped me to be brave.
She asked me as we walked up the frozen road what had got me so silent and thoughtful-looking and I did not know what to say. I said I hadn’t slept all night for worrying about the Apparatus and how it was not yet perfect. I said I had laid awake thinking about what Mr. Alfred Baxter would say if I ever got into Jasper City and showed up on his doorstep like an unwanted child. She told me I had nothing to fear except fear itself.
“Fear,” I repeated, being able to think of nothing clever to say.
“In another week the mountains will be impassible,” she said. “It’s now or wait for spring. We all have places to go.”
“She’s right,” Creedmoor said. “It’s time.”
I said nothing.
I began to think about how snow was a great thing for hiding a corpse, or how they could shove me off a cliff and pretend it was an accident, and I would go pinwheeling into the cold white light like a bird that never learned to fly, their laughter being the last thing I heard before the rushing of wind swallowed everything.
That was what I was thinking when Creedmoor turned to me and narrowed his eyes and drew his gun.
I did not face Creedmoor’s gun with all the pluck I would have liked, but I did my best. I stood up straight and swallowed and looked him in the eye and tried to think of some last words that would sound good if somehow after my death the Ransom Process were to become famous and biographies were to be written.
He said, “Get down, you fool.”
I looked behind me. A gray beast burst out of the woods. Then there was a splash of red and a whimper and it staggered and fell beside the wagon’s wheels. It was a wolf. Creedmoor had shot it.
He knelt down beside the body, wincing as he bent his knee, and inspected it. He had shot the beast in the skull and the light was going out of its remaining eye. He poked it in its mangy ribs with his gun.
He said, “What the hell are you looking at, Ransom?”
The horses were going crazy and Carver was trying to calm them. He had the ax in his hand again.
Creedmoor and the woman had a hissed conversation. I did not know what to do with myself. There was movement in the woods. The gunshot was still echoing in my ears but beneath it I could hear the sound of running feet, or at least I thought I could.
There were at least a dozen of them. They had encircled us. Two of the bigger ones came lunging out from the trees, one in front of the wagon and one at the back, where I was. John Creedmoor got off three shots and I entirely forgot what he was and cheered for him. One shot felled one of the beasts— the one closest to me. The second shot hit that same beast again, unnecessarily. The last shot knocked sparks off one of the wagon’s wheels. Then Creedmoor scrabbled to reload.
I found that odd. Everyone knows that the Guns of the Agents do not miss, and they are never empty.
The beast at the front of the wagon went low to the ground as Golda reared, then with a strangulated snarl it lunged up at her as she came down again, and then Mr. Carver put his ax into the beast’s ribs with a dreadful thump.
There was a silence that seemed to last for hours. Then John Creedmoor dropped his bullets in the mud and said, “Fuck.”
At the same moment a third wolf came out from the woods. It was noticeably smaller than the other two but seemed eager to make its mark. It was growling and snarling and bounding side-to-side. It had three long ragged scars on its ragged muzzle. It came running across the cold wet muck of the road and toward Miss Elizabeth Harper and I forgot all about my fears and threw myself at her too— the wolf and I leaping at almost the same moment, like ball-players—and I landed on her and bore her to the ground beneath me. At once the wolf was on top of me and its claws drew blood on my leg and my chest, but fortune was with me because its teeth missed their mark. It ripped at my jacket instead, with zeal but little effect. Then Mr. Carver put the ax into its back. The first chop didn’t slow it much but the second hit the spot. He put a foot on its back and pulled the ax out and hit it again for good measure. Miss Harper cried out for the first time as blood warmed us both.
The horses had panicked and run the wagon into a small ditch so that it stood lopsided and some of my scant possessions had spilled, and the horses had stumbled and struggled to rise and for all I knew might have been lamed.
There was a clack-clack-clack and some cursing as Creedmoor reloaded.
The remaining wolves watched us from between the trees. Then they silently turned away.
Miss Harper struggled out from under me and from under the wolf, and sat in the mud, covering her face with her hands and breathing deeply. Mr. Carver wiped blood from his beard with his sleeve, succeeding only in smearing it all over and making himself look quite mad. John Creedmoor’s hands were shaking and he dropped another bullet on the ground again and cursed violently, and in the end left the pistol on the ground as if it had disgusted and disappointed him and went to the back of the wagon, where I had allowed him to keep a shotgun concealed in a blanket. I sprang to my feet and ran jumping over the dead wolf and picked up John Creedmoor’s abandoned pistol and turned it on him, then Miss Harper, then on John Creedmoor again.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” Creedmoor said, and continued unwrapping the shotgun from the blanket.
I fired a wild warning shot, putting a bullet into the ground and raising a little spray of mud. Creedmoor cursed and jumped back and raised his hands.
The pistol had kicked more than I expected, and the bullet had gone nowhere near where I had intended, but I tried not to let either fact show.
“Mr. Carver,” I said. “Come here.”
Mr. Carver ambled over, scratching his beard with one hand and holding the ax loose in the other. He stood beside me.
“This is the end,” I said. “I know who you are. John Creedmoor. I read what you did at, at, well I don’t recall—”
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��You want me to list my crimes for you, Professor?”
“No. No Mr. Creedmoor I do not. I want you to go your own way and I will go mine.”
“Hah! Gladly and good riddance.”
“I want no part of your plans. I’ll tell nobody what I know. Just go.”
Miss Elizabeth Harper stood. She dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. I turned the gun on her and said, “Both of you. Who are you, Miss Harper? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just go.”
“Wolves,” she said, to John Creedmoor, not to me.
He nodded.
“No accident— there was nothing natural or ordinary about that— they’ve found us, then.”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. You, Professor, shoot me if you’re going to or else let me arm myself.” He went back to the blanket and took out his shotgun and I did nothing. He glanced at me with contempt then looked out into the woods, shotgun held ready.
“If I were what you think I am you would be dead, Ransom. I told you I am no longer that man.”
“What do you mean— you quit? Is that what you’re telling me? You just—”
“I’m not telling you anything, Professor. You’re smart, figure it out yourself.”
“John,” Miss Harper said. “Who is it?”
He shrugged. “The Gun. Its Agents. They have our scent.”
“Yes,” she said. “But who? Do you know?”
“No. How would I? One of the ones who talks to wolves. It’s a vulgar trick and not uncommon. I am not a fucking encyclopedia. Ask Professor Ransom, he reads the story-books. I knew an Agent once who called herself the Witch of New Rochelle and she talked to wolves but she’d be a hundred and ten if she still lives. A hundred and twenty. Dogs love Scarlet Jen the way everything else with a dick does but she never leaves Jasper City— from what I hear she rarely leaves the Floating World. Are you taking notes, Mr. Ransom? Abban the Lion fancied himself a brother to all predators but the Line got him last year at Greenbank. We were more rivals than friends besides, even before I turned traitor, and he would show me no special consideration, so what does it matter? We come and go. We die young. Could be somebody new. A tracker. Maybe one, maybe more, doesn’t matter. One is enough. Could be this big son of a bitch who I hear was seen in Carnap making a spectacle of himself and likes to torment the Folk. I don’t know. I was one of the greats. Who the fuck is he? Nobody. In the old days I would have sniffed him out before he sniffed me. I would have heard the whispers and known his name. Does it matter? None of it matters. They have our trail now. We are dead.”