Vacant Graves
Page 31
We stopped beside her train. Wisps of smoke curled out of the stack as the fireman warmed the engine.
“What if I run off again?” she asked playfully.
“Then you do.” I shrugged. “You’ll be okay, I think.” I handed her the .22. “Especially with this.”
“Your Colt .22!”
“So varmints don’t bother you.”
“The kind on two legs?” she asked with a smile.
“Ayep. Don’t forget—”
“Center fire only.”
I nodded. “For a good clean burn.”
She hefted the weapon in her small hand. It was a good fit.
“I always liked this gun, Mr. Schist.”
“Better than the Krag-Petersson?”
She frowned. “Don’t remind me.” The Krag-Petersson was never returned. The Magnates didn’t like weaponry like that in the hands of regular folk. Thankfully, the Pinkertons didn’t try to charge us or anything, probably because we were far from any major city.
The depot was crowded, so Phoebe hid the .22 in the pleats of her skirt like she had in Liuttsburg. “I won’t go back to the wolves,” she said firmly. “I’ll face Mama and tell her so. I’ll hunt game to support myself if I have to. Why, I bet I could get enough hides to buy my ma’s mortgage. Can you imagine if I were her landlord?”
“You could shoot game,” I conceded. “Or you could enter shooting contests. There are folks that make a career out of sharpshooting. They might even get you out of Darke County.”
I left out the third alternative—shooting unionists for a detective agency.
Her eyes lit up. “I’m that good?”
I steeled myself. “You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen, Phoebe.” It was true. Hard for a man to say, especially one like me, but true.
To my embarrassment, she threw her arms around me right there on the platform in front of everyone. “Thank you, Mr. Schist.”
Despite the impropriety, I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her back. Usually I avoided such behavior, not just because we were in public, but also because of my deep fondness for the feminine race. My wife was aware of that fondness, so I generally kept female interactions to a tip of the hat and a smile. Luckily, Moira wasn’t around to observe us.
The conductor bellowed his first “All aboard!”
“Better get going. You miss this train and your ma is gonna think we eloped or something.”
Phoebe giggled. The conductor yelled again. She sobered instantly. “I’ll do like you say.” She hesitated. “And...I’ll never forget you, Mr. Schist.”
I grunted and cleared my throat. “It...it was a pleasure to know you, Phoebe.” I nodded gravely and tipped my hat.
“I’ve been trying to tell you since we met,” she sniffed. “I’ve never liked that name.”
“Phoebe?”
“I’ve always preferred my middle name, Anne. My sisters call me Annie.”
“Sorry,” I said with a laugh. “It must’ve irritated you something fierce.”
“Among other things,” she said, rubbing the wrist I’d chained on the trip from New York.
“Well, goodbye...Annie.”
She hopped onto the steps, turned, and despite a look of irritation from the conductor, gave me one last smile. “Goodbye, Donovan. I’ll write.”
She did, too. I get postcards from Annie like clockwork. She got a job with that Buffalo Bill character, shooting plates and bottles and things. The crowd loves her. She also met this nice fellow named Frank at her first shooting contest. They got hitched and now he’s her manager. That little girl from Ohio met Queen Victoria herself. She even shot the ashes off a cigar held by the Kaiser. With my old sixer, no less.
It was only natural that in a world this absurd, the best marksman who ever lived was a woman.
* * * * *
Looking for another steampunk noir story featuring a hard-boiled detective set in an alternate history? Check out the first installment of the Magnocracy series, available now!
Cruel Numbers
After the North loses the War of Southern Secession, money buys power in the Magnocracy, and people can disappear in a blink. War veteran Donovan Schist’s specialty is finding these missing persons. There isn’t much money in it, but he sleeps a little better.
This time, Donovan is looking for a girl named Bridget Cleary. Her family’s had no word from her for months. Donovan’s certain he’ll find her belly-up, but it seems her talent for analytical machines has made her a valuable asset to the powers that be—an asset that they’re determined to keep hidden and out of reach. In over his head, Donovan enlists his friend Verhalen to help. The eccentric inventor may be unstable, but his steam-powered gadgets give Donovan the edge.
Donovan’s no stranger to the rougher edges of society, but when the usual threats turn to attacks on his life, it quickly becomes clear that someone very important does not want him to find Bridget Cleary….
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About the Author
Christopher Beats has had a lifelong passion for both history and writing ever since his father first took him as a boy to see the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Florida. He has taught American and world history at schools such as the University of Central Florida and Rollins College. An avid traveler, his current base camp is in Hollywood, Florida. He enjoys tabletop RPGs and hiking with his dog.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9508-1
Copyright © 2013 by Christopher Putchinski Beats
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