“How’s the weather?”
Kilcoyn grinned. “Windy and raining. That’s why a new man gets all the rotten jobs, Buck.”
* * *
Jacob was glad to see Manuel Cantrell among the men assigned to the test flight and they exchanged a nod as the trolls were loaded into the gondola. The roof was already open, revealing a black sky, and Killick had the engineer and technicians in place so no time was lost in getting the craft airborne. The tiny frigate drifted upward, and then the propeller drove it north. From the start, high winds buffeted the airship and Killick had a difficult time keeping it on course. The rain wasn’t heavy, just enough to soak everyone onboard. Miserable, the trolls huddled together, a few of them already airsick.
Jacob sat at the helm with Killick, who’d pushed his goggles back onto the crown of his top hat and was constantly glancing at the gray sky.
“A couple more miles and I’ll do some maneuvering, see how she handles. When I say the word, have your gun crews stand by their cannons.” Killick’s wizened little face broke into a rare smile. “Despite this damn gale, so far she’s handling well.”
“Like a bucking pony.” Jacob’s lurching belly made his attempted smile twist into a grimace. He’d never in his life been seasick, but he’d never experienced anything like this. The ship was bouncing all over the sky, but Killick and the technicians didn’t seem to notice.
Later, the sick, wretched gun crews at their stations, Killick forced the small frigate into a series of fast turns, climbs, and dives and soon the bottom of the gondola was rancid with vomit.
But he was ecstatic. “Wonderful!” he yelled to Jacob, rain running from the brim of his hat. “She handles the extra weight perfectly and I predict the full-size ship will be even more stable.” The little pilot grinned. “A great day, Mr. Ross! A day that will be remembered in history.”
Jacob nodded. He felt as sick as a poisoned pup.
Killick helmed what, in his unbounded joy, he’d called “the dragon cub frigate” low over the Abaddon Foundry so that Mr. Perry would hear the clattering clamor of the engine. His goggles back in place, top hat pulled down to his ears, Killick looked like a demented gnome as he roared away from the foundry and lost altitude as he made a triumphal pass down Big Buck’s main street, the dragon ship’s gondola just six feet above the ground.
The morning crowd on the boardwalk stopped and marveled at the speeding flying machine and dear Mrs. Honoria Hatton, a nervous soul who dressed out at around three hundred pounds, fainted into the arms of her diminutive husband and flattened him like a pancake into the muddy timbers.
One of the onlookers who rushed to the groaning Mr. Hatton’s help was Shawn O’Brien. As the airship roared past, parting the wind and rain, he caught a glimpse of a startled, unshaven face and a pair of icy black eyes and then Jacob was gone, his flying machine on an upward climb into the realm of the birds.
Shawn whispered, “What the hell?” and then had an awful thought. Has Jake sold his gun to Caleb Perry? If that was the case, he and his brother were now enemies. Shawn felt his heart sink as he fought to regain his composure. Sired by the same father, taught to live by the same code of decency and the doing of what was right, he refused to believe Jake would stoop that low. There had to be some reason for him to be in the flying contraption. Is it his way of freeing Manuel Cantrell? Shawn gave an imperceptible nod. That could be the only answer.
“Help me get poor Mrs. Hatton to her feet,” a woman said.
He put Jake out of his mind until later. A far weightier problem needed his immediate attention.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Did you tell Adam Ready about the preliminary gun test?” Caleb Perry was mighty pleased with Egbert Killick and eagerly awaited his reply, but he was doomed to disappointment.
“I didn’t see the inspector after I landed so I sent Buck Ross to knock on his door and rouse him,” Killick said. “But he didn’t wake up and after a while Ross left.”
“Damn that Englishman. I want him to take a good report back to the British in Washington about the potential performance of their steam frigates.” Perry shook his head. “Too much brandy last night. I’ll wake him.”
Accompanied by Valentine Kilcoyn, Perry pounded on Ready’s door. No answer. He tried again with the same result. “Inspector Ready, open the door!” His demand was met with silence. Louder, he yelled, “Open the damn door!”
There was still no response and Perry cursed under his breath. “Do you have a key for this door?”
“Blaine Keeners has the keys to all the guest rooms,” Kilcoyn said. “I’ll go get him.”
“Stay where you are,” Perry ordered. “Kick the damn door down.”
“But—”
“Kick it down!”
Kilcoyn shrugged, raised his booted foot, and slammed it into the thin timber paneling of the door, smashing it open in a shower of flying splinters. He followed Perry inside. Adam Ready lay on the bed, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. His face was a bloody mask and had stained the entire surface of his pillow a glistening scarlet.
As a youngster, Kilcoyn had gone up the trail a couple times and had never lost the puncher’s superstitious way of thinking. “Lizzie came back from the grave and done for him,” he said in a stunned whisper.
“This wasn’t Lizzie. It was murder. Is Blaine Keeners the only man with a key to this room?”
“As far as I know, boss.” The quaver in Kilcoyn’s voice revealed that he still pegged the dead woman as the killer.
Perry’s face was like stone. “Go get him. Bring him here. First give me your gun belt.”
The boss was in a strange mood and Kilcoyn knew better than to question him. He unbuckled his gun and passed it over.
“Bring him,” Perry commanded.
“Boss, I don’t think—”
“Bring him!”
* * *
Kilcoyn returned with Blaine Keeners.
Perry let the big foreman’s eyes move to the dead man on the bed for a while. “You have the only key to this room?”
“It wasn’t locked.” Keeners looked defiant and rock steady, a man with sand.
“Did you kill him?”
“Yeah, I killed him. He had a faster death than the one he gave Lizzie.”
“Keeners, do you know what you’ve cost me?” Perry kept his anger barely contained. “You’ve cost me the entire British contract for twenty-one air frigates. They won’t want to do business with a company that murders their representatives.”
Kilcoyn said, “Boss, maybe we can explain to—”
“Explaining leads to government investigations and government investigations take too long, sometimes years.” Perry took a newspaper from his coat pocket and waved it in Keener’s face. “Have you heard of the Fontanette Falcon? The French say it’s a fifty-gun flying warship that will be ready for testing in two years. Spain, the same story, only their ten-gun prototype is currently being built. According to this paper, our own country is considering a flying platform that will carry two cannon batteries and a regiment of infantry. I read that President Cleveland is very interested in the project.” Perry threw the paper into Keener’s face. “Avenging your harlot could destroy me.”
“She was yours, too, Mr. Perry,” Keeners pointed out. “Lizzie belonged to everybody, but I loved her.”
“Yes, of course you did. We all screwed Lizzie, but we all loved her,” Perry agreed. “All right, I’ll study on this and see if I can make things up with the British. I can tell them Ready died of a heart attack and was buried with full military honors, or whatever the hell Scotland Yard detectives are buried with.” He placed a hand on Keeners’s shoulder. “I understand how you feel, Blaine. In your shoes, I would have done the same thing. Now return to your duties.”
“Sorry, boss. I’m sorry it happened.”
Perry nodded and smiled slightly. “It’s all right. No hard feelings.”
Keeners turned and got as far as the shatter
ed door before Perry fired. Three bullets slammed into the big man’s back and two of them went through his body and splintered into the doorjamb.
Keeners was dead when he hit the ground.
“Burn him.” Perry picked up the newspaper and tossed it onto the body. “And use that as kindling.”
Kilcoyn stood where he was, like a man turned to stone, unable to move. “In the back . . .”
“Yes. I executed him. Now get the trolls to burn both bodies, but save some ashes. I need something to give the British. Talk to the undertaker. What’s his name?”
“Dorian Steggles,” Kilcoyn said as though he was speaking to himself.
“Yeah, Steggles. Ask him for a nice cremation urn, the best he’s got, and we’ll scoop Ready into it. Maybe old Queen Victoria will put it on her mantel.” Perry brushed past Kilcoyn then stopped and turned back. “Send one of the harlots to my office. I always enjoy a woman after I kill a man.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
There’s nothing wrong with killing a man. Everybody dies and a bullet only hastens the deceased into the grave a little early. That in a nutshell was the philosophy of Frank Tansey, probably one of the deadliest gunmen in Texas. Even the half-crazy, homicidal Dave Rudabaugh stepped lightly when Tansey was on the prod and Bill Bonney admitted that of all the pistoleros he’d known, Tansey was the fastest on the draw and shoot.
However twisted his reasoning, the tall gunman lived by a code. He drew the line at killing women and children and he never abused or ill-treated animals. For years, a little calico cat had ridden in his saddlebag and accompanied him everywhere. When the kitty died of old age, he’d never sought another.
The killing of Shawn O’Brien, the Town Tamer, was just another chore to be done. It was strictly a business proposition that would put money in his bank account.
Tansey considered Big Buck a cow town like any other and he’d seen dozens of them. The warm beer and overpriced whiskey would be the same. It would have the same creaky-floored hotel room that filled up during the day with flies and dung dust from the cattle pens and mosquitos at night. No one would be glad at his coming or sad at his leaving except the saloon girls and the bartenders.
Abaddon gave him pause. The cannon foundry thrust out of the ground like a gargantuan steel fist and dwarfed everything around it—the town, its people, and even the surrounding prairie that was the creation of God. A chimney taller than any tree erupted thick smoke and defaced the blue sky with its own black cloud. The foundry sounded like a hundred locomotives highballing on the same track, a never-ending clanking, clanging, racketing roar.
Some towns are so pleasant that they invite a man to linger. Big Buck was not one of them. Tansey decided to get his business done, collect his bounty, and ride the hell out of there and bed down under the quiet stars.
He left his horse at the livery stable and walked across the rainy street to the saloon. A bartender was the font of all knowledge and he’d know if Shawn O’Brien was in town or not. If so, it would be just a matter of calling him out and getting the job done.
Tansey gave himself an hour to get his work in, collect the bounty, and light a shuck. Looking around at the men in the street, he didn’t see anyone who was likely to try and stop him.
He stepped inside and ordered a beer. “So how come everybody in town wears those spectacle things on their hat brims?” he asked Ambrose Hellen.
The bartender smiled. “They’re called goggles. The workers at Abaddon wear them and it’s how the folks show their support for the foundry and what it’s done for the town. I got cheese and crackers. You like cheese?”
“Yeah, cheese is just fine.”
“Passin’ through?” Hellen set a wedge of cheddar in front of Tansey. “The cracker barrel is at the end of the bar. Help yourself.”
“I’m looking for a man,” Tansey said.
“Anyone in particular?”
“Feller by the name of Shawn O’Brien.”
As soon as Tansey walked though the door Hellen had pegged him as a gun. He had that stillness about him that some draw fighters acquired and the ever-present aura of danger. And had no doubt that the man was dangerous.
His voice even, Hellen said, “He’s the new law around here.”
Tansey didn’t react. “Been a lawman myself a couple times. Good employment if a man has sand and is suited to it.”
“O’Brien has sand. You can depend on that.”
“I know he has. And so does his brother Jake. Good cheese. Nice and sharp. Where can I find him?”
“Right here. He usually pops in around two for a bite. Well, he’s done that a couple times at least.”
“He eat cheese and crackers?”
“Well, his taste runs to caviar and crackers, but since I don’t have any of that, yeah he eats cheese.”
“Then I’ll wait for him,” Tansey said.
“Mister, I suggest you ride on,” Hellen said. “Whatever you got in mind, it ain’t worth dying for.”
“I’ve got a job to do.” Tansey took a bite. “Where does this cheese come from?”
“Wisconsin, I guess. Lot of dairy farms up that way.”
“I have nothing against O’Brien. I’m just here to do business.”
“You heard about the reward, huh?”
“Sure did. Man can’t turn his back on five thousand dollars. Who is this Caleb Perry anyway? A rancher?”
“He owns the cannon foundry,” Hellen explained.
“Judging by the size of that place, he’s got to be a rich man.”
“Well, I reckon he’s got five thousand dollars and other money besides.”
Tansey nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Damn, this is tasty cheese, best I ever ate. I see you have a cat.”
“Yeah, her name is Susie.”
“I had a little cat once, never gave her a name though. I just called her Cat.”
“What’s your name, mister?” Hellen asked.
“I don’t mind putting it out. Name’s Frank Tansey.”
“I’ve heard of you. As I recollect, you ran with some hard crowds.”
“The Texas Rangers were the hardest. Most of them were all right, but a few were dangerous when they got to drinking.”
“Like men everywhere, I guess. I can’t convince you to ride on out, huh?”
Tansy shook his head. “I’m a businessman, and today my business is with Shawn O’Brien.”
Hellen looked up. “Well, speak of the devil . . .”
Shawn stepped into the saloon, the star on his faded blue shirt glinting in the gloom as though it had absorbed sunlight. His eyes traveled around the room, stopped and then dismissed the handful of patrons at the bar, but his stare lingered on Frank Tansey.
The gunman grinned. “Takes one to know one, huh, Mr. O’Brien?”
“And who are you that I should know you?”
“Name’s Frank Tansey.”
“I’ve heard of you. Finish your lunch and get out of town.”
“I recommend the cheddar, Mr. O’Brien. May I buy you a piece?”
Shawn nodded. “Yes, you can. And then light a shuck.”
“A nice piece of cheddar for the gentleman,” Tansey said to Hellen. Then to Shawn, “Would you care for crackers?”
Shawn nodded and Tansey said, “I can’t leave just yet”—his eyes moved to the star—“Marshal.”
Shawn’s smile was wintry. “And why is that?”
“Why, here’s your lunch at last,” Tansey said. “A beer?”
Shawn said nothing and the gunman sighed. “The fact of the matter is, I’m here to kill you, Mr. O’Brien. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a bottle of Bass?”
“I drank Bass in England and enjoyed it, but it doesn’t travel well. I know about Perry’s reward.”
“Indeed? Well, as I told the bartender here, a man in my line of work doesn’t turn his back on five thousand dollars. It’s not good business.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Shawn said.
&
nbsp; “This is just about earning money, Mr. O’Brien,” Tansey said. “There’s no ill-feeling involved and I’ll see you get a funeral that befits a gentleman.”
“There’s only one problem with that. On your best day, you can’t shade me.”
“Then that matter needs to be resolved,” Tansey said. “But, please, eat your lunch first.”
Shawn, when a man threatens your life, don’t talk the talk. Walk the walk and put a bullet into him. Shawn recalled old Luther Ironside’s advice and decided to act on it. Frank Tansey was not a man to trifle with.
Shawn stepped away from the bar. “Seems like you’ve already spoiled my lunch, Mr. Tansey, so let’s resolve it right now.”
The gunman frowned. “I thought we could settle this like gentlemen. You know, after lunch and a few beers, but I can see that you’re determined to get it over with. Oh well. Good-bye, Mr. O’Brien.”
Tansey’s right hand blurred as he went for his gun. He was good, very skilled and fast on the draw and shoot, but Shawn O’Brien had been tutored by the best and had come up against some of the fastest shootists in the West. He was more than fast. He was one of those rare men who had fully mastered the Colt and its ways. He was one in ten thousand, Luther had once told him. The old man was not given to empty praise.
Shawn pumped two shots into Tansey’s chest, both bullets clipping arcs out of the tobacco tag that hung from the man’s shirt pocket. Tansey had cleared leather, but was too late to get his Colt into action. He fell backwards, slammed against the wall, and stared at Shawn with wonder in his eyes. “Splendid work, Mr. O’Brien.” A look of astonishment frozen on his face and as dead as he was ever going to be, Tansey slowly slid down the wall into a sitting position.
As men crowded around Tansey’s body, Shawn holstered his gun and then turned to Hellen.
The bartender said, “I liked this town better when Abaddon wasn’t here. One of you men get Dorian Steggles. Tell him he’s got business with a dead businessman.”
“Is that what he called himself?” Shawn asked. “A businessman?”
“Yeah. He surely did,” Hellen said. “Drink?”
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