Anstruther Breens was one of three foremen present, all of them named gunmen. He leaned over Perry’s desk and said something so quickly and quietly Jacob couldn’t hear him.
Perry looked up at the man. “Is that the case?”
Breens nodded. “He whipped them into shape.”
Perry’s cold blue eyes fell on Jacob again. “Mr. Breens tells me that you’re making a good job of training the gun crews on the prototype frigate.”
Jacob nodded. “I whip the trolls into shape and take no sass.” He tried to look tough, which wasn’t a stretch.
“Then go back to the construction bay, damn you. Get out of my sight, Ross, before I change my mind and order you shot.”
Jacob beat a hasty retreat, relieved he’d had no need to draw and kill Perry. After that shot, his life would have been measured in seconds.
On his way to the construction bay, he stopped and watched a dozen new employees being pushed into a bewildered line. Deafened by noise, blinded by scarlet furnaces and the white-hot dazzle of cascading molten iron, the new men stood openmouthed and looked around them. Apart from one black man, all were Mexicans, ragged and skinny refugees from the two-year drought and famine devastating central and northern Mexico. Foremen pushed and pummeled the peons into a shambling walk and led them to what Jacob had come to regard as the slave quarters.
The black man, in better shape than the Mexicans, understood what was happening and made a break for the door. He never made it. A foreman Jacob didn’t recognize pumped three shots into the fugitive’s back and then stepped beside the writhing body and fired a fourth into the man’s head. The terrified faces of the Mexicans who’d watched the whole thing got the message loud and clear—attempted escapes from Abaddon would not be tolerated.
It was yet another atrocity Jacob witnessed, but he did nothing, his face empty. He had to consider the greater good and could only silently regret the killing of yet another human being Caleb Perry considered expendable.
* * *
Egbert Killick and the engineer Garrett Mallard sought out Jacob as soon as he walked into the hammering clamor of the construction bay. His mouth close to Jacob’s ear, Mallard pushed back his cap and goggles and yelled, “Egbert and I have something to show you, Mr. Ross. Please come this way.”
Jacob followed Mallard to a small corner office and stepped inside. The interior was furnished with a desk, chair, and an easel with a chalkboard that was covered by a rectangle of canvas.
“What is that thing?” Jacob pointed to a cylindrical metal object about the size and shape of a Jamaican rum keg supported by a wooden beam on top of a pair of sawhorses.
“That thing is a wonder of the modern age,” Mallard said. He smiled at Killick. “Will you do the honors, Egbert?”
Killick smiled back. “Indeed I will, Garrett. This, Mr. Ross, is an aerial bomb. Once dropped from a steam frigate, it will detonate when it comes in contact with any solid object. It looks harmless just sitting there on a board, but it’s packed with nitroglycerine and has the explosive power of five hundred sticks of dynamite.”
Wary, Jacob stepped back from the bomb and opened his mouth to object.
Mallard smiled at Jake’s reaction, explaining, “The nitro is combined with diatomite earth and is perfectly stable. It needs a blasting cap to detonate the explosive.”
Killick said, “When the bomb hits a solid object, the cap goes off and detonates the nitro and then boom !”
That last was so loud, accompanied by a handclap, that Jacob nearly jumped out of his skin. When he’d recovered his composure, he asked, “And why are you telling me this?”
“Good question.” Killick was a little gnome with crazy eyes. “By God sir, an excellent question. Mr. Mallard and I have had several conferences about your role in this project. But let me say this first. It is our considered opinion that the frigate’s broadsides will destroy Big Buck and most of its population.”
“After all, we’re talking about two batteries of cannon,” Mallard put in.
“That is indeed the case, Mr. Mallard, and succinctly stated,” Killick said. “After the destruction is complete, Mr. Ross, you will then drop the bomb in the middle of Main Street. Mr. Mallard and I believe that the ruins of the town and the wounded and dead humans appertaining thereto will be blown off the face of the earth.”
“Oh dear lord yes,” Mallard said, shaking his head. “The destruction will be . . . if I may use the word . . . epic!”
“A fine choice of words yet again, Mr. Mallard.” Killick consulted his pocket watch. “Before I go, I applaud you, Mr. Ross. You are a pioneer on the very cutting edge of modern weaponry and warfare, After the bomb is tested and shown to work, your services as an instructor will be eagerly sought by governments around the world.”
Mallard smiled. “As Egbert says, the world will be your oyster, Mr. Ross. A man who has the ability to destroy great cities will be much honored and revered.”
“Well, and what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Ross?” Killick said.
“I don’t know what to say.” Hating himself for mouthing words as vile any he’d ever spoken, Jacob offered, “I guess all I can say is thank you for this wonderful opportunity.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Ah, but it was grand to be on a horse again with a vast land stretching out before him and a blue sky overhead. Shawn O’Brien wasn’t going anywhere specific. He had no destination in mind. His intention was to get out of Big Buck for a while, away from the stink of the Abaddon Cannon Foundry and the soot and dust of the town. Jake had told him to lie low. Out in the empty brush, cactus, and mesquite country was about as lie-low as a man could get.
After an hour’s ride toward a far horizon that rippled constantly in the heat haze, Shawn thought he saw something move, heading north toward the piney woods. A black bear, he figured—one already thinking about finding a cozy berth for winter. The movement stopped as though the creature, whatever it was, had fallen. Intrigued and having nothing better to do at that particular moment, Shawn kneed his horse into a canter, intent on solving the mystery. Besides, it served to take his mind off Maria Cantrell and the sense of hopelessness and loss that accompanied his thoughts of her.
As he rode closer, he made out what looked like a human figure lying facedown on the ground. Three doglike creatures slunk out of the brush and nipped and snarled at the body—coyotes determining how much fight was left in their potential prey.
Hooting and hollering, Shawn galloped straight at the animals and they quickly decided to seek an easier dinner someplace else. He drew rein in a cloud of dust, swung out of the saddle, and stepped to the . . . woman. He shook his head. “What is a slip of a girl doing out here alone in the wilderness?”
The manner of her dress, short skirt, knee-high boots, and laced blouse added to the mystery. Beside her lay a blue top hat, goggles on the brim.
“So she is from Big Buck.” Shawn looked around him but saw no sign of a horse and the only tracks he saw were the girl’s. He grabbed his canteen, took a knee beside her, and cradled her head and shoulders in his arm. She seemed unhurt, but her lips were swollen and cracked. He uncorked the canteen and put it to her mouth.
She drank a little and then her eyes fluttered open. She looked at Shawn, let out a little shriek, and promptly fainted.
“Not the usual effect I have on women. I must be slipping.” He eased the girl back onto the ground and retrieved his slicker from behind the saddle. He made a pillow of it and put it under the girl’s head. That done, he sat, built a cigarette, and waited.
Clouds passed the bright face of the sun and their shadows raced across the open ground. In the distance, he watched a small herd of white-faced cattle graze on a patch of sparse grass and then move slowly west into the rippling haze. Bees droned in the undergrowth and a green lizard did pushups on a flat rock.
The girl stirred and sat up, her head in her hands.
“Glad you’re back with us. You had me worried for a spe
ll.” Shawn handed her the canteen. “Drink.”
She poised the canteen at her mouth. “I seem to remember coyotes.”
“Uh-huh. They figured you were on the lunch menu.”
The girl shuddered. “You chased them away?”
“Sure did. I have no regard for them.”
She drank deep.
She’s rather plain, Shawn thought, although she’s dressed in an outfit that puts a lot of her on show. But that doesn’t suit her. Her eyes—golden brown laced with green—are her one redeeming feature.
She interrupted his musing. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me, cowboy?”
Shawn smiled. “That ‘ask me’ covers a whole lot of territory.”
“Only a man would say something like that. I meant along the lines of, ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’”
“I could say that, but reckon I’ll ask your name first. It’s much more polite than saying, ‘Hey you.’”
“My name is Flora March. You don’t talk like a cowboy, more like a swell. What’s your handle, Professor?”
“Shawn O’Brien.”
Flora was shocked. “You’re the one Caleb Perry wants dead.”
“There’s no doubt about that. Do you know Perry?”
“I am . . . I was his kept woman.” The girl smiled slightly. “That’s putting it politely, Professor. I was his harlot, but only for a while.”
“So why did you leave him?”
“Because he’d kill me one day. I gave him what he wanted and he used me for convenience’s sake. As soon as he found someone prettier, he’d put a bullet in my head.”
“That’s one way to end an affair,” Shawn muttered.
“It’s Caleb Perry’s way.”
“How did you escape Abaddon? It couldn’t have been easy.”
“It was easy. It was real easy. I told the guards at the gate that I was going into town because Perry wanted me to buy garters. They laughed and let me go. I just kept walking and found myself here, weak from thirst and fright. I thought Perry might come after me.”
“He still might,” Shawn said.
“Oh please don’t say that. I’m scared enough as it is.” Flora glanced at Shawn’s shirtfront. “Does the star mean anything?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“It says Marshal.”
“I know what it says. Where did you think you were going?”
“I thought I’d head for the piney woods.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Hide, I guess.”
“If Perry didn’t find you, the wolves, bears, coyotes, and snakes certainly would.”
“Are you going to leave me here?” Flora looked frightened. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving me with the wolves and stuff.”
Shawn shook his head. “No, I guess you’d better come with me.”
“Not back to Big Buck?”
“No. I know a place where you can hide out for a while.”
“And then?”
He shrugged. “And then I’ll think of something.”
“What’s that noise?” Startled, she looked around her.
“I think that’s the sound of some mighty big trouble.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Shawn O’Brien shaded his eyes with a hand and studied the sky to the east. The small steam frigate that had first appeared as a black dot rapidly grew in size. Sunlight flashed on its spinning propeller and gleamed on rifle barrels. He grabbed Flora March’s hand and pulled her to her feet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I reckon it’s Perry coming after you. In his flying machine.” He dragged her to his horse, mounted, and pulled her up behind him.
“What are we going to do?”
“Find some cover,” Shawn answered.
“There is none. Shawn, I’m scared.”
“I know. But hang on and let me be scared for the both of us, huh?”
Around them lay mile after mile of barren open ground. Shawn knew his only hope was to head back in the direction of town where scattered wild oaks and the occasional cottonwood would provide cover of a sort. He kneed his horse into a gallop and behind him he heard Flora yelp in fear as a bullet split the air above their heads. He drew his Colt and charged straight for the flying machine. If he could get under the craft, the half dozen riflemen onboard would have a problem bringing their rifles to bear.
But someone, probably Perry himself, was as smart as Shawn was.
The little frigate made a sharp turn to port and suddenly Shawn found himself galloping into the fire of six rifles. Bullets ripped past him and a few kicked up dirt in front of his running horse. He thumbed off shot after shot at the gondola, but as far as he could tell, he scored no hits. It seemed that the flying machine was not a steady gun platform because the riflemen were not scoring hits, either.
Then Flora cried out in sudden pain and put the lie to that statement.
“Hang on!” Shawn yelled. He holstered his revolver and pulled the Winchester from the boot under his knee. Again, he rode directly for the machine as a couple gunmen stood to get into a better firing position.
The reins trailing, he fired from the shoulder and levered a couple shots at the standing riflemen. Hit, one of them threw up his hands, pitched over the side, and screamed all the way down until he thudded onto the ground.
Shawn didn’t wait to see what effect his fire had on the other gunmen. He galloped under the keel of the gondola, firing into its bottom as he went. “Hold on!” he yelled to Flora.
Instead of riding straight out from under the steam frigate, he cut a fast left turn. His mount, trained as a cow pony, could turn on a dime and swung so fast Shawn was at the stern of the gondola. A man wearing goggles and a top hat peered down at him. Shawn snapped off a fast shot and sent the man’s hat soaring into the air. The flying machine, momentarily out of control, veered to port, the dragonhead on its prow pointed east. The riflemen onboard seemed confused and there was no more fire from the gondola.
Shawn took advantage of the lull and hammered shot after shot into the steam frigate’s woodwork and canopy. He heard a yelp as another man took a bullet . . . and suddenly it was over. Belching smoke from its chimney, the airship headed back the way it had come, rapidly gaining height to get out of range of the deadly rifle fire.
Anyone but an O’Brien brother would have let it go. But the Colonel, recalling the lessons the War Between the States had taught him, had raised his sons to believe that the best defense was attack and hard old Luther Ironside had shown them how to put that dogma into practice.
Shawn gently let the wounded girl down from his horse and then swung away, galloping to attack again. Keeping to the stern of the gondola, he levered his Winchester dry, slamming shots into the flying machine before it gained sufficient altitude and picked up the speed to finally leave him behind. He was the only one grinning as the frigate scudded away, trailing smoke and leaking steam, smearing soot across the blue sky like a dirty thumbprint.
It seemed that Caleb Perry had anticipated a pleasant hunting expedition that would bag him a fine trophy—the head of a frightened girl—but he and his sportsmen had come up against a trained fighting man who didn’t know the meaning of cut and run and had sand enough for a dozen others just like him.
Shawn smiled to himself as the steam frigate was lost in the distance. He had certainly spoiled Perry’s day and he felt good about that.
Remembering Flora’s cry of pain as she was hit, he swung his horse around and rode back to her. She stood and watched him come, her left arm hanging loosely by her side. The shoulder of her white blouse was stained with blood.
“You hit bad?” he asked.
“What does it look like, Professor?”
“Let me take a look.” He pulled down the shoulder of her blouse. “I beg your indulgence, ma’am.”
“It’s all right,” Flora said. “You’ve seen it all before, I reckon.”
“T
he bullet is still in there. I’d better get you to a doctor.”
“Can’t you dig it out with a knife?”
“If I was Daniel Boone, maybe. But all I’d do is make the wound worse.”
“If Caleb Perry sees me in Big Buck, I’ll be dead,” Flora said.
“He’ll have to kill me first, and so far he hasn’t done a good job of that,” Shawn said. “I’ll help you onto my horse.”
Once she was in the saddle, he led the horse to the body of the man who’d fallen from the flying machine. The dead man lay on his belly and Shawn used his boot to lever him onto his back.
Touching the still vivid bruises on his face, he said, “I never forget a face. He’s one of the Abaddon men who gave me this.”
Flora had no pity for the man. “His name is Anstruther Breens. He was mean and arrogant, but Perry set store by him so now we’re dead for sure.”
Shawn smiled at her. “Nothing is ever sure, lady. Don’t count us out just yet.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It’s a pretty sure bet that a man who foams at the mouth and chews on the leather of his desk blotter while snarling like a wild animal is somewhat irritated. The group of foremen assembled in Caleb Perry’s office watched the man with expressions ranging from horror to, in Jacob O’Brien’s case, suppressed amusement.
Finally exhausted, Perry tossed the blotter away from him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I want him dead. You hear me? I want him dead, dead, dead!” He jumped to his feet and pointed to the picnic basket in the corner. It was covered with a blue and white checked cloth and smelled of fried chicken. “It was to be a fun little hunt, a pleasure jaunt for my best foremen and technicians. But no, Shawn O’Brien had to go and spoil it. Anstruther Breens is dead. Val Kilcoyn took a bullet up the ass, and the prototype frigate is all shot to pieces.”
“Ah, just minor damage.” Egbert Killick looked shrunken and timid.
“You shut the hell up!” Perry cried. He swung on the foremen. “I want O’Brien’s head. Bring it to me in a sack so I can piss on it. Have I made myself clear?”
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