Better Off Dead

by William W. Johnstone

  Shawn made a quick decision. “Maria, we’re striking camp, getting out of here. Now. Tonight.”

  “You’re in no condition to ride, Shawn,” Maria said.

  “I can make it. The Abaddon assassins found Crop, and I can almost guarantee that we’ll be next.”

  “Where will we go?” Sedley asked.

  “The one place they’ll never suspect—Crop Hermon’s old camp.”

  “Hell, Shawn, it’s a two-hour ride,” Sedley said. “You can’t sit a horse that long.”

  “I can if my life depends on it. And it does.”

  Sedley drained his glass. “God help us.”

  * * *

  The trip to the Hermon place, undertaken in darkness, took far longer than Shawn had anticipated. Because of his weak condition, he had to stop and rest often. The sudden appearance of a belligerent black bear spooked his horse and he was thrown to the ground with an impact that rattled every aching bone in his body. It took an hour to recover and even then, he was hurting bad.

  Sedley, a man with an eye for the ladies, would normally have enjoyed the sight of Maria Cantrell’s shapely thighs as she hiked up her black skirt to straddle her horse, but the death of Crop Hermon had affected him so badly he hardly noticed.

  The first light of dawn had banished the long night when they rode into the Hermon camp. Exhausted, Shawn stretched out in the lean-to and immediately fell asleep. He slept so soundly that he was unaware that Maria changed the bandage around his broken ribs and cleaned blood and grit from his face.

  They’d used the dead Abaddon man’s mount as a packhorse and Sedley set up the tent and started a fire for coffee. After that, he scouted around the camp as far as the graveyard but saw no one.

  When he returned Maria said, “All we can do is hide out here until Shawn recovers. I can go into town in disguise to buy food.”

  “You’re taking a big risk of being recognized,” Sedley said, pouring himself coffee.

  “We have coffee for two days, food for three. I don’t have any choice.”

  “Then I’ll go,” Sedley said.

  “You’re badly hurt yourself, Hamp, and the Abaddon toughs are sure to recognize you as one of the men they beat. No, I’ll do it. I’ve done it before. Oh, my God. What is that noise?”

  Sedley put down his cup and slowly rose to his feet. He drew the dead man’s Colt and looked around him, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound, a steady, pulsing drone louder than a highballing steam locomotive. The racket grew as the thing . . . whatever it was . . . drew nearer, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.

  Maria grabbed the rifle that Sedley had propped against an oak and racked a round into the chamber. “Is it an oso?” she said, her beautiful eyes wide. “Is it a big growly bear?”

  Sedley shook his head and yelled above the increasing din, “No, it’s not an oso, it’s a machine! Look!” He pointed to the sky above the wild oaks.

  Maria turned and stared upward. “A flying machine!” she yelled above the roar. “It’s a flying machine!”

  The dirigible was a beautiful sight. Under a bright scarlet balloon hung what appeared to be a graceful wooden boat and at the stern of the craft, a spinning disc gleamed silver in the morning sunlight. Adorning the bow was a large bronze anchor and amidships a single chimney belched black smoke and showers of sparks. Small cannons lined both sides of the aerial ship, betraying its purpose as a weapon of war. A man wearing a closefitting leather helmet and goggles looked over the side at Maria and Sedley and made a rude gesture with the middle finger of his gloved hand.

  Then slowly, a rudder at the end of the canopy swung to its right and the machine made an elegant turn and headed west at speed.

  For a while, Sedley and Maria watched the flying machine until it disappeared into the distance, then she said, “What is that thing?”

  “It’s a flying warship, is what it is. And it means big trouble for somebody, maybe us.”

  “I don’t like it, Hamp,” Maria said. “The thought of a flying machine scares me. It’s a monster.”

  Sedley smiled. “You’re not alone. It scares the hell out of me as well.”

  “What do they call it?” Maria asked.

  “My dear, they call it the future.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “She flew extremely well, Mr. Perry,” the pilot said. “She has an excellent turn of speed and maneuvers like a cutting pony.”

  “We’ll try her with a third of her eventual crew,” Perry said. “We must deploy and fire the guns, Mr. Killick. For every action there’s a reaction and I fear that, say, a full port broadside could send the craft hurtling out of control across the sky on her starboard track.”

  “And away from any target,” Egbert Killick said.

  “Exactly. I’m an accountant, not an engineer, but I believe it could happen.”

  “She’s ready for such a trial. She’s a ship sailing on air, not water, but I’m convinced she’ll act like a man o’ war and remain stable when her cannons fire. Send me the gun crews and a couple overseers and I’ll get it done.” Killick was a small, wizened man who wore a leather coat fastened with buckled straps. He’d switched his helmet for a top hat and goggles and his blackened leather gauntlets in the shape of his hands lay on his lap like massive paws. He spent all his time tinkering with his steam engines, didn’t drink, and never lay with the Abaddon women offered to him. “The sooner we carry out the trial the sooner you can put your concerns to rest, Mr. Perry.”

  “Should anything go wrong, the test crew is expendable, but I can hardly afford to lose you, Mr. Killick.”

  “And you won’t, Mr. Perry. I am so confident that the air frigate will perform flawlessly that all souls onboard, myself included, will return safely to earth. I’m quite certain of this.”

  “Then I must hope that is the case,” Perry said. “I will arrange for a test crew at the earliest possible moment. Now, how was your voyage?”

  “Just a routine cruise at treetop level with a few tight turns.”

  “See anyone of note?”

  “No. There was a man and a woman by the cemetery, that was all.”

  Perry frowned. “Mourners?”

  “No, they seemed to be camped. I took them for rootless trash.”

  “Still, they might be worth investigating.”

  “Better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

  Perry smiled. “Now, Mr. Killick, are you sure I can’t interest you in a couple hours with Lizzie Skates? Call it a little reward for your outstanding efforts on what will soon be the world’s most fearsome terror weapon.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Perry, but I think I’d rather spend time with my engine and the rudder assembly. She’s a bit tardy answering the helm.”

  “Suit yourself, but you’re missing a rare experience. Lizzie is a very inventive girl.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Killick said, but felt no sense of loss.

  * * *

  If a man died and wakened up in hell he would have found himself in the Abaddon cannon foundry, Jacob O’Brien decided. It was a place without windows, a vast cavern of darkness lit only by the glare of cascading torrents of molten iron and bronze, sparks filling the air like fireflies. The sweating men, thin as matchsticks, toiled under the eyes of foremen, hulking, whip-wielding brutes who had the power of life and death over them.

  Jacob O’Brien was part of it and the thought horrified him.

  Valentine Kilcoyn pushed workers out of his way as he led Jacob across the foundry floor to the bay where the flying machine was kept, opened the steel door, and clanged it shut. “Since you’re a new man you’re getting an easy job to start, Buck. This is where the flying machines will be built.” He nodded in the direction of the prototype. “Like that one, only four times bigger.”

  “What the hell is it?” Jacob said, his eyes moving over the dirigible.

  “They call it a steam frigate, but it doesn’t sail on the ocean. It flies through the air
.”

  “What’s its purpose?”

  Kilcoyn smiled. “You’re an innocent, Buck, for sure. The flying machine—squadrons of them will be built right here—is designed to destroy cities and their populations from the air. The owner of the foundry calls it a terror weapon and I guess it is.”

  “Don’t tell me the United States is buying these,” Jacob said, appalled.

  “No, not yet, but I can tell you the frigates will be delivered to a foreign government.” Kilcoyn gave Jacob a long look. “That’s all you need to know.”

  Wary of pushing too hard, Jacob smiled and nodded. “I’m a curious man. Gets the better of me sometimes.”

  “A word of advice. When you’re at Abaddon, don’t let your curiosity get the better of you. You’ll live longer that way.”

  “I got your drift, Val. From now on I’ll keep my questions to myself.”

  That statement drew yet another assessing glance from Kilcoyn. But then the big man’s face cleared. “Well, you’re new and everything seems strange at first. You’ll get over it. Right here in this bay you’ll oversee the laborer trolls and you’ll also be dealing with steam engineers, mechanics, and carpenters, all of them white men.”

  “How can I tell my laborers from the rest?” Jacob asked.

  Kilcoyn gave a lopsided smile. “You’ll be able to tell, Buck. The ones that have to stand up twice to cast a shadow are yours.”

  “When do I start?”

  “A couple days from now. In the meantime, feel free to walk around the foundry and get acquainted with how it works. You can ask the foremen questions but don’t talk with any of the laborers. Most of the Mexicans won’t understand you and the others that know some English won’t answer. We have a canteen, a saloon, and a brothel and all three are free to the foremen. I’ll show you your living quarters later.”

  Kilcoyn opened the small burlap sack he had been carrying. “Wear these at all times,” he said, handing Jacob a pair of oversized goggles. “If you’re eating, drinking, or screwing, push them up on your hat.” He pulled out a pocket watch. “This is set to factory time. Wear it around your neck. And finally and most important”—he pulled out a small gun—“slip this Remington derringer in your pocket. You may be called upon to dispose of a sick or rebellious worker and the belly gun has a more discreet bark than the Colt you’re wearing on your hip.” His gaze was searching. “Any more questions?”

  “No. I guess you laid it out just fine.”

  “Good. Then I’ll talk to you later.”

  Jacob O’Brien watched Kilcoyn leave and his face was troubled.

  In Dante’s Inferno the Seventh Circle of Hell’s outer ring is a river of boiling blood and fire where the damned suffer for eternity. Jacob wondered if the great poet had the Abaddon foundry in mind when he wrote those verses.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Without of word of explanation, Hamp Sedley walked into camp, picked up the coffeepot, and threw its contents into the fire. He stamped out the few remaining embers and only then said, “Riders in the cemetery.”

  Shawn O’Brien raised himself painfully on one elbow. “How many?”

  “Two that I could see.”

  “Recognize them?” Shawn was hidden in darkness.

  “Nope. Maria, where’s the Colt?” Sedley said. “And the Winchester.”

  “What are your intentions, Hamp?” Shawn asked.

  “I aim to stop those two men getting at you and Maria. They’re looking for us, Shawn, sure as shooting.”

  “Hell, Hamp, you can’t hit anything in daylight. You’ll be even worse in the dark.”

  “They’ll be here soon,” Sedley said, taking the Colt and rifle from Maria. “I got it to do.”

  “No you don’t got it to do,” Shawn said. “Gunfighting is my line of work.”

  “Shawn, you’re not fit to take on two men in a gunfight.” Maria still wore her boned corset, skirt, and knee boots. “I’ll go with Hamp. I’m a pretty good shot with a rifle.”

  But Shawn was already on his feet. He’d rested and seemed steadier. “If the riders are really a danger to us, I’ll get my work in fast and close. Let’s hope it’s only a pair of lost punchers. If it is, and knowing cowboys like I do, you can bet the farm they’re spooked at finding themselves in a graveyard. They’ll be riding hell for leather and long gone by the time I get there.”

  “Suppose it’s Jed Rose and the El Reno Kid?” Sedley put in.

  Shawn frowned. “Those two won’t spook worth a damn and I wish you hadn’t said that. Load all six chambers, Hamp, and give the Colt to me. Quickly now.”

  Sedley did as he was told and Shawn shoved the revolver into his waistband. “Maria, you see me hightailing it in this direction it means there will be two men with bad intentions chasing right after me. Don’t worry about me, just cut loose with the Winchester. Got that?”

  The woman nodded. “I’ll cut loose all right.”

  “Well, maybe not too loose.” Shawn turned and walked unsteadily into the perilous night.

  * * *

  His breath wheezing in his chest and feeling light-headed and weak, Shawn was glad to see, against the backdrop of stars, the silhouettes of two riders sitting their horses at the edge of the cemetery. He could stop walking, or as he told himself, staggering. He stood still, listened into the night, and caught the end of a conversation between the men.

  “. . . that is if the woman is pretty. If she ain’t, we’ll just gun her with the man.”

  “What did Egbert Killick say about her?”

  “Hell, he didn’t say anything about her. He don’t set store by women, if you catch my drift. Now let’s get it done. I’m looking forward to spending some mattress time with that little Lizzie Skates gal.” The man kneed his horse forward.

  Shawn said, “You boys hold up right there.”

  The man drew rein, sat forward in the saddle, and peered into the darkness. “Show yourself.”

  “So you can drill me? Uh-uh.” Shawn moved a couple steps to his right as silently as he could. He didn’t want anyone shooting in the direction of his voice.

  “We got no quarrel with you,” a younger voice said. “Stand aside and give us the road.”

  “I’m only guessing, mind,” Shawn said, “but I’d say your name is Hank Locket, the El Reno Kid. And the ranny beside you must be Jed Rose.”

  Silence stretched for a few moments, then, “Yeah, I’m Rose. Who the hell are you?”

  “Name’s Shawn O’Brien. One time my brother Jake near blew your guts out. Remember?”

  That was met with silence again then Rose said, “Is Jake out there hiding in the dark with you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. That’s a thing you’ll need to find out for yourself.”

  Shawn knew he had to get closer. Sick and puny as he felt, shooting in darkness, his aim would be an uncertain thing. He took a few steps closer until he could see the faces of the two gunmen.

  The El Reno Kid wore dusty range clothes and looked like a harmless young, freckle-faced puncher. But no thirty-a-month cowboy could afford his horse and saddle and none had his poised self-confidence, like a rattler waiting to strike. By contrast, Jed Rose wore the frock coat garb of the gambler and at a time in the West when men wore mustaches or beards, his jowly face was unshaven.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Rose said, looking Shawn over. “We’re facing a dead man.”

  “Correction. I’m only half dead.”

  “You look like hell, O’Brien, all beat-up and bandaged. And I don’t like shooting a man who isn’t wearing a shirt. It’s ain’t mannerly.” Rose stood in the stirrups and yelled, “Jake, you back there? Don’t have me send you to hell as a god-cursed yellow belly. Come out where I can see you. Have some pride, man.”

  “He isn’t there,” Shawn said. “I’m by myself.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Rose said. “I’d like to even the score with ol’ Jake. I’m still carrying his lead and I’m looking forward to payback time.�
��

  “Seems like you’ll have to settle for me. I’ll settle Jake’s score,” Shawn said.

  “Hell, do I have to draw down on a sickly man? Yeah, I guess I’ll have to.” Rose went for his gun.

  Shawn drew, but ignored Rose, figuring that the El Reno Kid was faster. He shot the Kid’s horse to take him out of the fight and then took a step back into darkness. Rose, wearing his gun high, horseman style, had to pull his Colt from midway between his waist and armpit, slowing his draw to a full second. Aware of that, he hurried the shot. In the uncertain light and distracted by the Kid’s downed horse, Rose was still the consummate professional and his bullet stung Shawn’s left ear.

  But sick and woozy as he was, Shawn O’Brien was still a shootist of the first rank. He fired and fired again, both shots sounding as one. He scored two hits. Rose took a bullet in his upper chest, then as Shawn’s Colt lifted higher in recoil, the second slammed into the gunman’s throat and exited at the back of his neck, punching out flesh and splinters of bone.

  Shawn didn’t wait to see Rose fall from the saddle. The El Reno Kid was on his feet, but groggy from the tumble he’d taken when his mount went down. He was scrambling for his gun when Shawn shot at him. The Kid was a few steps too far away, half-hidden in gloom, and the shot was a clean miss.

  Locket made a bad mistake. His draw fighter instincts drove him to close the distance and he staggered a few steps forward, firing as he went. Shawn took a hit, a painful burn across the inside of his left thigh, but he stood his ground and fired steadily—three shots, two scores—one a grazing wound to the Kid’s shooting arm, the second a solid hit to the chest, dead center and fatal. Locket, knowing he was a dead man, screamed out in anger and pain and fell.

  His ears ringing, gray gun smoke drifting around him, Shawn stared at the destruction he’d caused in the space of less than ten seconds. Two men dead, a horse kicking in its death throes, and that strange, green curling in the belly that happens to a man after a gunfight. His gun was empty. He picked up Rose’s revolver and put the wounded horse out of its misery.