The corpses closed in.
She struggled to her knees, only to be felled by another blow. They weren’t fast or nimble, but they were impossibly strong, and nothing she did could hurt them. If any of them had possessed a weapon—a club, a stick, a length of wood—she wouldn’t have survived the next few minutes. But the ones in the street were obviously the ones who hadn’t had weapons, and the ones who’d come to join them had dropped—or lost—theirs. She scrabbled backward on heels and elbows, dragging out one of her Colts as she did. When the nearest zombie reached for her, she held the pistol out at arm’s length and pulled the trigger. Her arm flew up with the recoil; a Peacemaker had a kick like an angry mule. She’d seen what happened in the saloon: bullets hadn’t stopped them, but the impact knocked down whatever it hit. Her attacker spun away into the advancing mob.
She tried to get to her feet—to keep moving—to run—but she was outnumbered. Dead flesh pummeled her, dead fingers clawed at her face, her neck, her clothes. Soon one of them would hit her hard enough to snap her neck or knock her out. Soon the ones with weapons would arrive.
Rescue arrived first.
She didn’t see Nightingale until he burst through the zombie mob and stood over her protectively. The stallion was covered with foam, his eyes white-rimmed in terror. But he’d come for her. She reached up, dazed by the blows she’d taken, to claw at the stirrup-leather and use it to drag herself to her feet. She was almost knocked sprawling again when he reared to strike out at the nearest enemy, but she clung to him, clawing her way upward into the saddle, using her gun butt to pull herself up because she was clutching it too tightly to let go, even if she’d wanted to. The moment he felt her weight settle, Nightingale bounded forward. She felt cold dead hands grab her legs, her saddle, anything they could reach, and she battered at them with her gun butt until their hands were so ruined they could no longer grip.
Then Nightingale was through them. She finally got her feet into the stirrups as he galloped blindly into the night. It took her both hands to get her pistol back into its holster.
Only then did she let herself realize what had just happened.
* * *
Ten miles outside Alsop, a stream the locals called “Burnt Crick” cut across the Staked Plain. In summer it was no more than a dry streambed, but winter rains turned it into a broad torrent fast enough and deep enough to drown unwary cattle, and in spring it still filled most of its bed. Cottonwood trees lined both banks. Beneath their shelter sat a wagon.
On the far side of the stream a young man stood beside his brown-and-white paint mare gazing across the creek, just as he had for the last hour. The two of them were concealed from view by the trees and scrub. The young man wore fringed buckskin breeches and moccasins, a cavalry hat without hat-cords or creased crown, and a blue Army coat. He’d arrived at Burnt Creek in late afternoon only to find his favorite camping spot already occupied. He had business in Alsop, but by the time he got there it would be dark, and he didn’t want to try to find a bed in the town. He should have ridden on, but something about the wagon held his attention. It was a Burton wagon, the same kind the traveling drummers sold their snake-oil tonics from, but instead of being brightly painted, it bore a sober coat of whitewash. That wasn’t enough to draw his scrutiny, but the fact there was no wagon tongue to hitch the horses to was. In fact, there were no horses in sight to hitch to the wagon even if there’d been a way to do it.
The Burton’s only occupant seemed to be a young blond female in an outlandish costume—loose blue serge trousers gathered at the ankle, a short dress of the same stuff, and a poke bonnet hanging down her back by its ribbons. If he needed any further proof beyond her costume to tell him the girl was from somewhere far away, the poke provided it. No woman in the Territory, from sodbuster to townie to rancher, would uncover her head while the sun was above the horizon.
If her team had run off before he got there, it didn’t seem to worry her. He’d watched as she lit her fire, and she seemed to be perfectly comfortable out here all by herself. The tin coffeepot she set out was commonplace enough, as were the iron griddle and cookpot. The one held flatbread and the other held beans. Soon enough the aroma of coffee and beans drifted across the stream, and she was piecing out flatbread to bake on the griddle. But despite her obvious competence, his concern only grew. The only thing she had to defend herself with was a Remington coach gun, and even though it was within easy reach, there were plenty of dangers out here for a man, never mind a lone female.
The sun was already on the horizon. You should ride on if you want to make camp while there’s light left, he told himself, but somehow he couldn’t make himself mount up and head out. You surely don’t mean to leave her all alone out here, he scolded himself. Perhaps she doesn’t know there’s a town so near.
He could go and tell her. He could bring her with him to Alsop—Deerfoot could carry double—and take his chances there. She could rent a buckboard from the livery stable, and tomorrow Sheriff Mitchell could ride back here with her and help her look for her missing horses.
It seemed like the best plan. He lifted himself onto Deerfoot’s back and sent her toward the stream with a nudge of his knee.
* * *
Honoria Verity Providentia Gibbons looked up at the sound of splashing and reached for her firearm. A handsome pinto mare was crossing the stream. Gibbons wasn’t a very good shot, but that was why she carried a coach gun. With a coach gun, you didn’t have to be good—you only had to be willing to pull the trigger. At first Gibbons didn’t think the mare wore either saddle or bridle, but then she realized she was tacked out Indian-style, with a blanket for a saddle and only a single braided leather cord for a bridle. Most observers would see the horse, the rider’s darkly tanned skin, and think, “Indian,” but the rider was no Native—even from here Gibbons could see his hair was wavy, and a few shades lighter than his skin. Well, that’s interesting. I wonder if he’s an Army Scout? She watched the horse and rider approach with curiosity tempered with wariness.
“Hello, the camp,” the man called when his mount reached the bank.
“Hello, stranger,” she replied, setting down her gun and waving to him to approach. “Welcome. I have coffee—” She broke off to rescue the flatbread before it scorched, wrapping her hand in the end of her rather bedraggled shawl to pull the griddle away from the fire. “And bread and beans,” she finished rather breathlessly. “You’re welcome to share them.”
“That’s kind of you, ma’am,” he replied. He signaled to his mare to halt and slid easily off her back. She followed him as a dog would as he walked toward the campfire.
No matter his appearance, he has lived some time among the Natives, Gibbons thought. No one accustomed to wearing boots walks toe-heel instead of heel-toe, in boots or out of them.
“Honoria Gibbons,” she said, extending her hand. “But you must call me ‘Gibbons,’ as my friends do. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister …” She paused expectantly.
“Wapeshk Wakoshe,” he replied, shaking her hand gingerly. “But I think it will be simpler if you call me White Fox.”
She narrowed her eyes a bit in concentration. To her pleasure she recognized the language-group—Algonquin—and his pronunciation gave her the dialect. “Your accent is Meshkwahkihaki, I think?” she said. “But you are far from home for a Red Earth man, Mister Fox,” she added, for the westernmost of the Sac and Fox tribes lived in the new state of Nebraska.
She smiled when she saw his pupils dilate a little. It was the only sign of his surprise. Raised among them from childhood, I think, and not some frontiersman who has merely lived as their guest. Most people would miss the subtle clues she’d noticed, but Honoria Gibbons took no small amount of pride in the fact she was not “most people.”
* * *
White Fox was startled. The wasichu said there were no spirits, but either this girl spoke to spirits, or she saw as truly as one of the Red Earth People. But even if she was more than she see
med, she was still alone out here.
“Perhaps you do not know there is a town up the road,” he said, politely averting his eyes from her face. “It is no more than ten miles from here. I was headed that way myself, and I would be glad to take you there. Tomorrow you can return to search for your horses. They will not wander far from water.” She said nothing, and he hesitated, not wishing to frighten her. “Not everyone in the Llano Estacado is friendly,” he finally said. “You’d be more comfortable in town. And safer.”
Honoria Gibbons smiled as if he’d said something amusing. “Oh, I think anyone who attempted to interfere with me would discover it to be a very bad idea.”
Her left foot moved a little as she spoke, and he froze as a slat dropped down on the side of the wagon. The muzzles of three deadly Gatling guns extended from the slot and pivoted to his position, though he was certain her wagon was unoccupied.
Perhaps she wasn’t as helpless as she appeared, he decided.
There came the same scraping sound of wood on wood he’d heard a moment before. The muzzles retracted and the slat popped back up into place. “Yes,” she said. “A very bad idea indeed.”
“I reckon you know your own mind, ma’am,” White Fox replied calmly. “Would you mind if I stayed tonight and shared your fire?”
“Not at all!” Gibbons replied cheerfully. “Coffee?”
He turned to Deerfoot, whisking the saddle-blanket free and slipping the loop of her bridle from her lower jaw so she could graze freely. The mare wandered off to the river, and he coiled the rein between his hands, the blanket tossed over one shoulder as he squatted down beside the fire and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I should be quite glad of the company, actually,” Gibbons continued. “You seem like a gentleman who can make intelligent conversation.”
As she regarded him with utter fearlessness, White Fox realized this eccentric and possibly mad female might be the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, from her flawless skin and golden hair, to the dark eyes—blue, he thought—alight with a fierce intelligence. And he sensed she was utterly unaware of her beauty.
“Beans, Mister Fox?” Gibbons asked brightly.
* * *
“If you were to go in search of my horses, Mister Fox, I am afraid you would search in vain,” Gibbons said, handing him a plate of beans and flatbread. The night had fallen swiftly, and she’d lit the kerosene lanterns on the near side of the wagon before settling to her own meal. White Fox looked politely puzzled, but Gibbons knew enough about the Red Earth People to know he wouldn’t do anything as rude as ask a near-stranger a direct question.
“This is an Auto-Tachypode,” she said grandly, gesturing at the wagon. “Papa and I built it together. It does not require horses to provide its motive power.”
“I do not see how that is possible,” White Fox said doubtfully.
Gibbons laughed gaily. “I shall give you a demonstration in the morning, Mister Fox! Then you will see.”
“Perhaps I shall,” White Fox agreed.
Gibbons stifled a grin and applied herself to her meal. She paid little attention to the taste—food, after all, was merely fuel for the brain, and unimportant except in that bad food was difficult to choke down—but White Fox devoured her cooking with relish, and even asked for seconds. When supper was over, he indicated his tobacco pouch and looked at her inquiringly. She nodded her permission, and he busied himself rolling a cigarette. She was grateful they were outdoors. While she wouldn’t dream of dictating someone else’s behavior, nicotine was a drug, and a pernicious one at that, and Honoria Gibbons did not ingest any mind-altering substances such as tobacco, alcohol, or opium. She prized clear thought far too much.
And besides, tobacco smoke stank.
By the time he’d gotten his cigarette made and lit and taken his first draw, he’d obviously decided their acquaintance had progressed enough that he might ask her some questions.
“You say you built this device with your father,” he observed, nodding toward the Auto-Tachypode. “Will he be joining you soon?”
Gibbons shook her head, pouring herself another cup of coffee. Coffee, after all, stimulated mental alertness. “I travel alone, Mister Fox.”
White Fox shook his head. “This seems unwise to me. You are certainly quite clever, but against wild beasts or outlaws, cleverness might not be enough.”
Gibbons stifled a tiny sigh of exasperation at hearing the familiar sentiment. In her experience, there was no obstacle that did not fall before the power of the mind. Far be it from her to point out yet again that the majority of the lady pioneers here in the West spent the greater part of their lives either alone while their husbands were out hunting or trapping or tilling the soil—or performing those tasks themselves when one of the perils White Fox had listed carried that husband off. Both men and women had lectured Gibbons on the unsuitability of her chosen vocation, and when she marshaled her arguments, said, “But that’s different!” (How it was different, no one was ever quite able to explain to her satisfaction.)
“I am afraid I cannot share your opinion, Mister Fox,” Gibbons said tactfully, wiping her tin plate clean with the last of her bread and setting it aside. “And Papa needs … a certain amount of protection from himself,” she added carefully. “America is full of charlatans, and he is forever hearing from people who want him to invest in all manner of idiotic schemes. That is why I am here.”
This was oversimplifying things to the extreme, for to say Jacob Saltinstall Gibbons was a genius was rather like saying Leonardo da Vinci had been a passable painter, and with such genius came a certain amount of eccentricity. Those eccentricities had moved the wealthy Gibbons family to provide their youngest son with all the money he wanted so long as he stayed far, far away from Boston, but soon their remuneration had been overtaken by events. The gold fever of 1849 had drawn her then-widowed parent and his infant daughter westward—for Jacob Gibbons had eagerly sought the opportunity to test some theories he’d formed regarding mining equipment—and very much to his surprise, he’d gained a more-than-respectable fortune from his engineering patents.
But his newfound wealth brought problems of its own. In San Francisco his dear friend Doctor Rupert Arthur Gordon kept him from being taken by charlatans, but soon the con men began to cast their nets from afar.
“Idiotic schemes?” White Fox asked.
“As many as there are leaves on this cottonwood tree,” Gibbons said, sighing. “Finding the Lost City of Atlantis, creating the Philosopher’s Stone, building a mediumistic telegraph to communicate with the dead … I was just in Kansas City, exposing a gentleman who claimed to be able to summon twisters at will.” She snorted inelegantly. “I assure you, such was not the case! I soon discovered he had confederates further west, who would telegraph to him when the right sorts of storms were on the way.”
The charlatan’s “spotters” had possessed clever rigs they could use to tap into telegraph lines wherever they could shinny up a pole. What had gotten him slapped into jail was not the fraud—for her father was to have been the first paying victim—but the purloining of the messaging service without paying for it.
“And before that, I was in the Arizona Territory, looking for some bizarre creature called a ‘chupacabra.’ Its would-be captor had sent photographs of it to Papa, wishing to be compensated for the expense of tracking the beast down and shipping it to San Francisco. The photographs were faked, of course, and though the Mexican farmers assured me the creature truly existed, their ‘chupacabra’ turned out to be merely a wild boar.”
“I have heard of the chupacabra,” White Fox said doubtfully. “I have never seen one, nor did the tracks shown to me belong to anything but beasts I already knew well.”
“So you see.” She shrugged. “It is my job, self-appointed though it may be, to track such villains down, uncover them as frauds, and send Papa the proof. At least sending me keeps Papa from sending money instead. And I confess, I do enjoy this far more than I wo
uld going to operas and plays and other such nonsense.”
“And what are you pursuing now?” White Fox asked boldly. Apparently he’d forgotten she was a female, in his interest in her tales—momentarily at least.
“Mysterious disappearances,” she told him. “Papa believes great phantom airships sail the skies, contraptions like aerial clipper ships. The crews of the phantom airships are said to have abducted individuals and even entire communities … and of course there is a man who swears he can put Papa into communication with the captain of one such airship—for a modest fee.” She shrugged. “It is true there have been many unexplained disappearances here of late, but I have yet to see a sign of anything even remotely like a clipper ship in the sky.”
“Nor have I,” White Fox answered. He tried to keep his tone light, but Gibbons realized his interest had sharpened the moment she’d begun to speak of disappearances. “And you do not believe in these … airships?” he asked.
“I am keeping my mind open to the possibility,” she admitted. “After all, Papa and I built this”—she patted the side of her wagon fondly—“so others might have built airships. But I am a Scientist and a Skeptic—all I know for certain is there have been enough unexplained disappearances of late to engender stories in the newspapers. Most of them came from this area.”
Now White Fox looked genuinely startled. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. His cigarette had burned down nearly to his fingers; he flicked the end absently into the fire and continued to regard her closely.
“Do you have some intelligence touching on these disappearances, Mister Fox?” she asked bluntly, hoping he might be able to put her on the right track. He regarded her for a very long moment indeed, and Gibbons began to believe she might have misjudged his character. Finally—though grudgingly—he nodded.
“I, too, seek an answer to a disappearance,” he admitted. “My investigation is the fulfillment of a pledge, in a manner of speaking.”
Dead Reckoning Page 2