Better Off Dead

by William W. Johnstone

  “It feels just fine.”

  “Good man.” Perry beamed.

  * * *

  “There are no changes to the standing arrangements.” Egbert Killick wore his top hat, goggles, and leather gauntlets and hopped around the small frigate like a rather scraggly bird. “We will go at noon, Mr. Ross, and the day promises to be fair and bright.”

  Killick adjusted a boiler dial and then stepped back to the stern where he sat down beside Jacob and put his hand on the tiller. “Mr. Ross, I did suffer a little disappointment when it came to munitions. As you no doubt are aware, when cannons are loaded with canister, the grapeshot does great execution among the enemy. Is that not so?”

  “I guess the artillery in the War Between the States proved that many times over,” Jacob said. “My father talked about the effect of cannon fire on attacking infantry.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Ross. You corroborate my case and I admire your sagacity. Now, I approached Mr. Perry no later than yesterday evening and asked in a most respectful fashion if I may load the starboard battery with canister. I said, ‘I wish to determine the effect of grapeshot on a fleeing civilian population when delivered from the air.’ But said he, ‘Not this time, Mr. Killick. My customers are interested in building-busters, not taking potshots at peasants. If in the future we can find an Indian village or a collection of hovels the Mexicans call a town, then by all means go ahead and shoot it up with canister. But until then, I want only ball.’”

  Killick looked peevish, like a man who’d been wronged. “Soldiers obligingly stand in line and defy grapeshot to do its worst. But what about civilians? That is my question, Mr. Ross. Under an air attack, mommy and daddy and the kids will panic and run, so how effective will canister be against such fleeing targets? That is the question I need answered.” The little pilot shook his head. “We can only find out what the ratio of number of rounds fired to human units killed is through trial and error. It’s all pluses and minuses, cost effectiveness, et cetera. You can readily see my problem.”

  “It’s a puzzle to perplex any man.” Jacob was really looking forward to putting a bullet into the little gnome, an accountant who considered the lives of men, women, and children only as statistics penned in a profit-and-loss ledger.

  “It is indeed a mystery, and thank you, Mr. Ross, for your kind understanding.” Killick smiled. “Now I must be about Mr. Perry’s business and what he calls the dawn of a glorious new age that will last for a thousand years.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  By the low standards of Abaddon, the hard work in the construction bay and extra food had put weight on Manuel Cantrell though he was still more living skeleton than man.

  Jacob O’Brien sought the young man out. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  Manuel nodded. “As I’ll ever be, me and a group of starved Mexican scarecrows.”

  “Can your men handle the guns efficiently? Fire and reload in reasonable time?”

  “You can depend on that. It’s about all you can depend on.”

  Jacob stepped closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Remember, escape through the construction bay. The roof will be open and every man in the place should be able to climb the wall over there by the workbenches and make a run for it.”

  “The men are very weak and we could lose a lot of them,” Manuel pointed out. “When they start climbing the wall, they’ll be sitting ducks.”

  “Defend yourselves. Grab whatever kind of club you can find. Surprise is your best weapon and when everything comes down, the foremen will be busy trying to save their own miserable skins and may not try to stop the escape.”

  “Do you think all this is going to work? It sounds thin.”

  “Let me put it this way . . . it’s got to work. There will be no second chance.” Jacob’s face was bleak. “Yeah, you’ll lose some of your people, but there’s no way around it.”

  Manuel nodded. “A quick death is better than slowly rotting away in this hell.” From out of the blue, he asked, “What news of my sister?”

  “I believe she’s gone back to Mexico.”

  “You believe?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I can’t say it any surer than that.”

  “Maria deserves some happiness. She’s had a hard life.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I liked her a lot.”

  Manuel’s eyebrows lifted. “You didn’t love her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like.”

  “Then you didn’t love her, Jacob. If you had, you’d know what it feels like all right.” Manuel removed his goggles from his face and pushed them up to the brim of his hat, leaving two white circles in his blackened face. “Have you ever heard of Santa Muerte?”

  “Yes. I’ve felt his closeness a few times.”

  “He came to me a few hours ago. I felt his wings flutter past me.”

  Jacob smiled. “Sometimes a bullet will do that.”

  Manuel shook his head. “It was the Angel of Death. He left his mark on me.” He pulled up the sleeve of his ragged shirt and revealed an angry red welt on his right forearm. “Look there.”

  “It’s a burn, Manuel. A burn and nothing more.”

  “It’s the mark of Santa Muerte. Tomorrow night the moon will come out and he will look for me, but he won’t find me. I will be gone.”

  “Damn it, Manuel. I’ll be on that damn flying contraption,” Jacob said. “I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  Manuel pulled his sleeve down. “Look, the cannonballs are being loaded. They look so small, no bigger than an apple.”

  Glad to change the subject, Jacob said. “The cannons are small because the guns had to be light. But they’ll get the job done.”

  “I better get back to work and supervise the loading of the ordnance.” To Jacob’s surprise, Manuel managed a smile. “Now I sound like the raving lunatic Killick.”

  “Maybe the Angel of Death came for Killick and just brushed past you. “

  Jacob left the floor and again climbed the ladder into the steam frigate. The billowing canopy had been painted on each of its sides with a black bat on a red background. The dragon’s head on the prow was the same shade of red, its fangs bright silver. Though small and armed with only eight cannons, the airship was a fearsome weapon of war. He felt like David in the presence of Goliath.

  Egbert Killick found him again, clutched him by the arm, and took him aside away from the ears of the laboring trolls. “I’ll load the bomb last, since we don’t really know how stable it is.” He took a brass key attached to a thin iron chain from his pocket. “The bomb’s firing mechanism is clockwork. Once it’s wound up with this key, you will hear the device start to tick. You will have thirty seconds to get rid of it. I will be totally involved steering the ship so it will be up to you to activate the bomb and drop it on the ruins of Big Buck.” He hung the key around Jacob’s neck. “It’s an important job, Mr. Ross, but I think you’re up to it.”

  “Thanks for your confidence in me.”

  The little man smiled. “Do you feel it, Mr. Ross? Tell me, do you feel it all around you?”

  Jacob frowned. “Feel what?”

  “A sense of history . . . that and the excitement of course. Tomorrow will be a splendid day, Mr. Ross. Mark my words.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Shawn O’Brien had no desire for sleep. The events of tomorrow preyed on his mind and gave him no rest. The coyotes drew closer, yipping their hunting cries, and he was startled when the fire flamed and sparked by a sudden gust of wind that flapped like bat wings. Uneasy, he rose to his feet, adjusted the lie of his holster and stared into the darkness.

  From somewhere hidden came the creak of a wagon and the footfalls of a walking horse. The sounds stopped and a voice cried out, “Hello the camp.”

  “State your intentions,” Shawn said. “I’m not a trusting man.”

  The man’s voice was not unpleasant. “Coffee, if you got it. Companionship on a dark night
if you don’t.”

  “Come on ahead like you’re visiting Grandma.”

  “My grandma is with the Lord,” the man said.

  “Then good for her,” Shawn said.

  “Walk on,” the man instructed to his horse, and a moment later, a wagon materialized from the gloom. When he was a few feet from Shawn, the driver drew rein on his bony nag. “Don’t smell no coffee.”

  “Don’t have any.”

  The unexpected visitor was a pleasant-faced man wearing a threadbare black suit, a round-brimmed hat with a low crown much favored by country parsons, and a clerical collar. Over his left eye, he wore a black leather patch decorated with a silver spider and to Shawn’s surprise, the man carried a bone-handled Colt in a shoulder holster.

  “I have coffee,” the man of the cloth said, for that’s what Shawn deemed him to be. “And a seedcake made by a lady of this parish. Do you like seedcake? Ah, I see you have a young lady with you.” The parson doffed his hat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  Flora pulled her blouse up over a naked shoulder. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  As though he was extremely pleased by this exchange, the clergyman smiled. “My name is the Very Reverend Matthew Mark Luke John Lombard-Fullbourne the Third. But you can call me Matt.” He looked at Shawn. “And you, sir, if I may be so bold?”

  “Name’s Shawn O’Brien. The lady’s name is Flora March.”

  “Not to pry,” the reverend said, “but are you one of the Dromore O’Briens out of the New Mexico territory?”

  “Yes. My father owns the Dromore ranch.”

  “And how is Jake? I assume he’s your brother.”

  “He is.”

  “One time, Jake helped me survive a shooting scrape up Albuquerque way. It was three against one until he took a hand and then it was just one against one. So, what news of your brother?”

  “Mister—”

  “Call me Matt, please. Any brother of Jake O’Brien is a friend of mine.”

  “I think you’d better ride on. You don’t want to be around Big Buck tomorrow.”

  “Do I sense evil?” the reverend asked.

  “You do.”

  “But evil is my business. My dear sir, I am death on evil. I smite the lawless wherever I find them. As the Good Book says, “If the wicked will not change their ways and heed holy scripture then let them heed the thunder of Sammy’s Colt.”

  Shawn frowned. “I never read that in the Bible.”

  The reverend grinned. “It’s not in the Bible. I just made it up.”

  “I think you should ride, mister,” Shawn said.

  “Coffee? Seedcake? No interest?”

  Flora said, “I’m interested in coffee and seedcake, Reverend . . . um . . .”

  “Lombard-Fullbourne, ma’am. But please call me Matt.”

  “Shawn, I’m hungry,” Flora said.

  “You’re always hungry.” To the reverend, Shawn said, “I guess you’d better light and set, mister. Miss March is hungry.”

  * * *

  The seedcake was good, the coffee better, and the Reverend Matt Lombard-Fullbourne basked in Flora’s effusive thanks.

  For his part, Shawn was suspicious of anyone who came near Big Buck without a valid reason. He voiced his reservations to the preacher. “What exactly do you do, Reverend?”

  “Matt.”

  “Right, Matt. Are you a circuit preacher of some kind?”

  “You could say that, since I go where I’m needed. I received a wire . . . well, let me ask you, Shawn. Have you ever heard tell of a town by the name of Falcon Haven down in the Glass Mountains country?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Neither has anybody else, it seems. It’s an outlaw town, run by a lady gambler called Drusilla McQuillen.”

  “A woman?” Flora asked. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “Right or not, it’s true and she rules the roost in Falcon Haven, mostly thanks to her right-hand man, a killer by the name of Morgan Ashmore, and his fast gun.”

  It was Shawn’s turn to be surprised. “Morg Ashmore out of Killeen? Ran with Cole Younger and them back in the day?”

  “That’s him,” Matt said. “He never could get along with Frank James and quit the gang. He became a lawman in the Arizona Territory for a spell and then took to selling his gun. For sure, he killed Johnny Kirivan and Hiram Coin, reckoned to be two of the fastest guns in Texas, and they say he gunned a draw-fighting Ranger named Burns or Bourne in El Paso back in the spring of 1884. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but a month later Ashmore was hired by Drusilla McQuillen, so she must have given him credit for the Ranger killing.”

  “Reverend, Morg Ashmore is bad news,” Shawn said. “My advice is that you steer clear of him. He did kill Frankie Burns but at a saloon in Fort Griffin not El Paso. Burns was a hardcase and mighty sudden on the draw and shoot. Stepping away from a fight never entered his thinking. He was wounded three times in the line of duty and after the smoke cleared, buried three men.”

  “You knew him?” Matt asked.

  “I met him once. Frankie Burns was something, a man to step around.”

  “Well, here’s my thinking on Morgan Ashmore.” The preacher held up a long-fingered, muscular left hand. “This is the hand I use to hold the Holy Bible when I read it to bad men. I will do so again when I confront Ashmore and do my best to turn him from the ways of violence, drunkenness, and harlotry.” He raised his hat. “If you will excuse the expression Miss March.”

  Flora had her hand cupped under her chin to catch seedcake crumbs. Chewing, she shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me none, Reverend.”

  “Now to this hand,” Matt said, holding up his right. “This is a terrible, avenging weapon of the Lord. When the wicked and the lawless persist in their iniquities, I use this hand to smite them down. The Colt you see on my breast has destroyed seven such men and there will be more ere I am done with the Lord’s work.”

  “Preacher,” Shawn said. “Do you know you’re crazy?”

  “Yes, as a bedbug. But it’s the price I pay to be the sword of the Almighty.”

  “Being nuts doesn’t make him a bad person, Professor,” Flora remarked.

  “Professor?” Matt asked.

  Shawn smiled. “She calls me that.”

  “He looks and talks like a professor,” Flora explained.

  Matt shook his head. “No, dear lady. Our friend Shawn O’Brien has the look of a warrior angel. Will you accompany me to Falcon Haven, Shawn?”

  “To tame a bunch of outlaws? I don’t think so.”

  “There are some decent, hardworking people in the town, but without help, I fear they are doomed. The wire I received was from their pastor, Deacon Galahad Smolley. He says his flock live in terror of Drusilla McQuillen and her hired gunmen.” Matt stared hard at Shawn. “Helping those poor folks is a Christian duty.”

  “If I’m alive this time tomorrow, talk to me again,” Shawn said.

  “You are facing danger? Do you wish to tell me about it?”

  “Sure. But it might be long in the telling.”

  The reverend smiled. “I have cigars and something in a bottle to keep out the night chill. I’ll go get them and then you can recount your story.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “So all you know of Jake’s plan is that he’s staging the equivalent of a mass jailbreak?” Matt Lombard-Fullbourne asked.

  “That’s about the size of it. He wants me on the street with my guns at noon.”

  “I’ve listened intently to what you’ve told me, Shawn, and I agree that the Abaddon Cannon Foundry is a place of evil. Slavery, cannons, and flying machines are indeed the devil’s work.”

  With his little finger, Shawn O’Brien knocked ash off his cigar. “It’s no concern of yours, Reverend. Heed my advice and head on out of here.”

  Matt disagreed. “Ah, but it is my concern. Very much so. My covenant with God is to confront evil wherever I find it. And in that regard, I’ve c
ome up with my own plan.”

  Flora March grinned. “This is going to be good.”

  “I don’t want to hear your plan, Reverend,” Shawn said. “Jake has a plan and we’ll go with that.”

  As though he hadn’t heard, Matt continued. “Tomorrow morning, I will take my Bible and demand admittance to the foundry. I will tell whoever is in charge that my business is with Caleb Perry and him alone. When I meet him, I will introduce my left and right hands and demand he make a choice—Bible or Colt. And then I’ll say, ‘Perry, you are the baddest man in Texas. Listen to the Word and repent of your ways or face the righteous wrath of my pistol.’” The man smiled. “That will make him sit up and take notice, I’ll be bound.”

  “That will make him sit up and put a bullet in your belly,” Shawn said.

  Matt shook his head. “No, such will not be the way of it. ‘Let my people go,’ I’ll say. And with the power of God behind me, Perry will see the light and do as I say.” The man shrugged. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll raise my Colt like a fiery sword and blow his brains out.”

  Despite his irritation, that last made Shawn smile. “We’ll stick with Jake’s plan and so will you. I don’t want you to go putting Abaddon on guard and spoiling everything.”

  “Is that your considered opinion?” Matt asked.

  “That is my order.”

  “Then I’ll stand beside you in the street. You might be glad of my gun at your side.”

  “Yes, do that. I want you where I can keep an eye on you, Matthew Mark Luke John. You’re a few bricks shy of a full load and that concerns me.”

  “Well, perhaps I misled you, Shawn. I’m just a little bit crazy.”

  “That’s like being just a little bit pregnant,” Flora said. “Any of the cake left?”

  * * *

  Disquieting and terrifying thoughts cartwheeled through Jacob O’Brien’s mind as he lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. My God, will morning never come?

  He wanted to get this thing over with. Count the dead and then see if his conscience can cope with the slaughter. He was keenly aware that it would take only a tiny flaw in his plan—a locked door, a closed window, a stampede across the construction bay that turned to disaster after men fell and others piled on top of them—to make everything go wrong and his mistake would be measured in dead Mexicans. He envisioned Perry’s grinning gunmen slaughtering scores, hundreds, at their leisure....