Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles)

by P J Thorndyke

  “Who’s askin’?” Vasquez said, rising slowly.

  He got the same greeting Lazarus got, only lower. It missed him as well, tearing loose a chunk of the crate he was hiding behind. He fired back, but the woman swung behind a corner, all billowing skirts and shotgun smoke. Lazarus saw Vasquez rise and hurry towards her position, gun held outwards.

  He got up and dashed towards him. Vasquez cried out a curse as he barreled into him, and they struck the railing as one. Loosened by the Mecha-guard’s recent departure, the railing gave way. Lazarus just had time to catch a glimpse of the woman’s enraged face before the water hit them like a sheet of glass.

  Down, down they floundered, bubbles of air rushing up around them like fairy lights. By the time they rose to the surface, the Mary Sue was far downstream, its single remaining paddle turning it in slow circles. Gunshots cracked through the night air.

  “Christ, you idiot!” Vasquez howled. “Why didn’t you let me pop her?”

  Lazarus didn’t have an answer to that and struggled to keep a grip on his hostage, but the current was too strong and Vasquez managed to wriggle out of his grasp.

  They drifted further and further apart. Lazarus could make out the shape of a small boat making its way towards them. Men in dusters stood aboard. Guns spoke out and Lazarus dived to avoid being hit. When he rose, he saw that the bounty hunters had apprehended Vasquez and were dragging him aboard their small vessel. He cursed and headed for shore.

  Chapter Two

  In which an appointment is kept in Yuma

  Lazarus sat in the saloon that overlooked the railway depot and watched the mechanicals loading and unloading the trains. Steam drifted about the platforms, obscuring the gargantuan Athena-class locomotives as they sat cooling their engines. He sipped his IPA slowly and frowned as the door opened. A man walked in wearing a bowler hat and carrying a briefcase. He stood below the sign that read, ‘No Mechanicals or Colored’ for a bit before spotting Lazarus.

  “I had hoped that I was missing in action,” Lazarus told the man as he came over to his table and drew up a chair.

  “You’re not all that devilish to find, you know,” said the visitor in a voice that marked him out as another Englishman. He set his briefcase down and motioned to the bartender for another two pale ales.

  “What are you doing here, Morton?” Lazarus asked. “There’s nothing out here but warm beer, bandits and dust. Whores too, of course, although I suppose you aren’t interested in them.”

  Morton frowned. “I’m here because we need this job finished.”

  “I can’t do it. Vasquez is in the hands of the bounty hunters. I failed and I’m sorry.”

  “We need you to try again.”

  “Then get somebody else.”

  “And what are you going to do? Sit in here and drink yourself to death?”

  “Actually, I thought I might return home. I’ve got plenty to occupy my time with back in England. I might write another book.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to start writing trashy fiction like Agent Haggard.”

  Lazarus had met Haggard in Africa, and it was through that particular English operative that he had been approached by Morton with an offer to work for the bureau. Haggard had indeed written a novel that closely mirrored their adventures in southern Africa, but the plot of the bestselling King Solomon’s Mines had been altered enough for its author to avoid being hauled over the coals by Morton’s bureau.

  “I don’t think I’m the novel-writing type,” Lazarus said. “But I had great plans before I began working for you, Morton. There’s still a few tomes in me on the subject of ancient civilizations.”

  “Yes, well there’s one ancient civilization in particular that we’re currently interested in,” Morton replied.

  “I keep telling you that it doesn’t exist,” Lazarus replied testily. “And I’m not your bloody bounty hunter.”

  Morton narrowed his eyes. “You’re not swanning around Africa for the Royal Archaeological Institute now, old boy. You are whatever Whitehall says you are and what’s more, you’re here. And nobody else is. Can’t you understand the importance of this?”

  “Morton, you know I spent over a year up to my arse in yellow fever and irate natives in South America looking for El Dorado on your orders. All I found was a lake and a myth. And all I got for my efforts was blood on my hands.” He took a gulp of beer, letting the sourness of it numb the sting in his throat.

  “You know that I regret that whole business more than anybody, Longman…”

  “Not more than I. And not more than the people who lived on the shores of Lake Guatavita did. My point is that it will be the same story here. The natives made up these fantastical fairy tales like El Dorado and Cibola to keep the Spaniards on the trot. They didn’t want those damned fellows making off with their women, so they kept telling them stories of golden cities and sunken treasures that were just over in the next valley. And the next. And the next. Not a bad scam, really,” he added, sipping his beer thoughtfully.

  “How can you be so cynical?” Morton said. “You—an archaeologist who has devoted his life to uncovering the secrets of antiquity.”

  “For God’s sake, Morton, this isn’t like the pyramids at Giza, or the ruins of Pompeii. There is simply no academic evidence to support its existence.”

  “Now, you know as well as I do that Cibola was mentioned by Cabeza De Vaca and Marcos De Niza...”

  “Both of whom were Spaniards. It was all a swindle, Morton. The legend of seven golden cities was a Spanish bedtime story before Columbus ever got lost at sea. When America was found, they believed that it was the fabled land seven of their bishops had fled to following the Moorish invasion of Spain in the eighth century. The legend was that these seven bishops took all their wealth with them, and each established a city in this land across the ocean. The American natives either seized on this wishful thinking and exploited it, or by simple coincidence used the number seven in their own fairy tale for the conquistadores. When Coronado followed De Niza’s footsteps, all he found were poor pueblos. Those are your cities of gold.”

  “De Niza claimed to have seen the golden cities from afar…” said Morton.

  “No. He claimed to have seen Cibola but he mentioned nothing of gold. Either he deliberately misled everybody or they leapt to conclusions.”

  “But,” continued Morton, not to be perturbed, “Gerard Vasquez is said to have seen a map of Cibola with his own eyes. An ancient map.”

  Lazarus rolled his eyes. He had heard all this before. Vasquez and his travelling companion Hok’ee had gone looking for Cibola themselves in their stolen dirigible. They had a map, but had been unable to complete their search for reasons unknown. So they had hidden it. The Confederates wanted the map, and the British were more than willing to help them get it. If the gold could be found, then the stalemate between north and south could be ended. The Confederacy would take over the whole continent and become a powerful friend for the British.

  “Chaps boast a lot when they drink as much as Vasquez does,” said Lazarus in a tired voice. “This could all be pipe smoke.”

  “The President doesn’t think so,” said Morton. “And neither does Whitehall. We need Vasquez delivered into the government’s hands. That’s the only way this dreadful war can be brought to a close.”

  “By obliterating the other side with war-machines paid for by stolen gold.”

  “Don’t be such a damned bleeding heart, Longman. Somebody’s got to win.”

  “And we’re backing the C.S.A.”

  “Britain needs the cotton. There’s bother in Egypt as you’ve no doubt heard. General Gordon is fighting some mad Mohammedan and his dervishes in the Soudan as we speak, and the supply has currently dried up. And besides, by helping the C.S.A we might stand a chance at getting our hands on some of their mechanite. The United States certainly wouldn’t let us get a look in. With a trade agreement between the C.S.A and Britain, we could become the greatest power in
Europe. Bigger even than Russia.”

  Mechanite was the new big thing. Discovered in 1861 not long after the firing on Fort Sumter by the Confederacy, it had revolutionized the war. No mineral had ever been discovered that could match its efficiency. Originally found in California, veins had also been discovered in the southern states, and with both sides in possession of the energy source the war looked set to continue indefinitely. But the Americans guarded their mechanite jealously. Despite extensive mining operations in Europe, Africa and Asia, no sign of the valuable ore had turned up. It seemed like North America was the only spot on Earth blessed with the mineral, and they weren’t sharing, placing embargoes on it that made it exclusively a domestic commodity. The powers of Europe were in a desperate bid to gain access to America’s deposits, but despite their wish for open European support, neither the U.S.A nor the C.S.A were willing to see their exclusive mineral become a commodity across the Atlantic.

  “The only problem is that Vasquez is long gone, I’m afraid,” said Lazarus.

  “No,” Morton replied. “He’s here. In Yuma. His captors are planning on taking him aboard the 3:10 to Great Salt Lake City.”

  “The State of Deseret? What do the Mormons want with him?”

  “It was they who paid those bounty hunters to snatch him. He apparently committed a grievous series of crimes in Deseret. Their governor and president of their church want to hang him.”

  “I’d be tempted to let them.”

  “Get him, Longman. Its orders, I’m afraid. Once you have him, your best bet is to get him to Fort Flagstaff. There’s a general there who’s in the loop.”

  “I bloody well nearly froze to death in the Colorado River trying to get him two nights ago,” Lazarus told him. “I lost my hat. I lost my gun. And it was a good gun. Given to me by General Wolseley in the Ashanti Campaign.”

  Morton lifted his briefcase onto the table and clipped it open. Shiny brass and polished iron glowed within. He lifted out a weapon and offered it butt-first to Lazarus. Lazarus took it.

  “A Colt Starblazer...” he mumbled. “Are these available in London?”

  “They’re available to us,” Morton replied with a knowing smile.

  “My Enfield was inscribed...”

  Morton drew out a second pistol. It was a snub, and had a barrel about two inches in diameter with a wicked caliber. “This just came out of Belgium,” he said, smiling at Lazarus’s slack jaw. “The most powerful pistol about. It has explosive rounds.”

  “More powerful than a Golgotha?” Lazarus asked, feeling the hefty weight of the thing.

  “Yes. And you can’t hide a Golgotha in your boot. Now then, I believe that should be adequate firepower. The train leaves tomorrow afternoon. Be ready. You won’t be able to snatch him at the station, there will be too many of them, but once they are out on the open plains you should be able to get aboard with a fast horse. How you go about extracting him, I leave to you.”

  Lazarus considered mentioning the woman with the eastern European accent who had thrown a spanner in the works aboard the Mary Sue, but refrained from doing so. Morton did not seem to know about her, and for some reason Lazarus felt keen to keep it that way. She would no doubt attempt to kill Vasquez again, and then he would make sure to find out who she was and settle the score.

  “Yes...” he said, as he slid the Colt Starblazer into his empty holster and tucked the Belgian snub into his boot. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to recruit some help.”

  Chapter Three

  The 3:10 from Yuma

  The vast stretch of iron rails that cut through the burning landscape twinkled up at Lazarus in the morning sun. The land was silent, save for a light wind that rolled across the plains. From his position high up on the cliffs, he viewed the arid panorama with distaste. The railroad led to the State of Deseret, formally known as Utah, and the speeding hunk of steel and steam that thundered along its glistening path carried Gerard Vasquez to his appointment with the hangman.

  Lazarus’s horse nickered softly, and he rested his hand on the butt of the Colt Starblazer, aware of the dark patch of shadow that darted quickly behind a rock, ghostlike in the shimmering heat. It could have been a bird, but Lazarus knew better.

  He had been aware that he was being shadowed ever since he had crawled out of the Colorado River, freezing, hatless and extremely grumpy. It had followed him down the dusty streets of Yuma, hovering outside saloons whenever he took a drink. It was outside the shop when he had bought his new bowler hat. Lazarus wondered if the shadow had been loitering outside his hotel at night, looking up at his window while he had been sleeping. It was an unpleasant thought.

  Wherever Lazarus had gone, he had been watching and following, his dark features concealed by a wide-brimmed hat and a long poncho concealing much more than just a powerful frame. In Yuma there had been no opportunity for him to make his move on Lazarus, but out here in the desert, where not another soul’s shadow fell for miles around, now it was different.

  A light footstep—no more than a whisper—fell behind Lazarus. He whirled around, drawing and cocking his revolver with lightning speed. For a while they stood staring at each other.

  “If you’re going to kill me, then you’re wasting a good ally,” Lazarus said.

  Hok’ee glared at him from beneath the rim of his hat. His hair was long and jet, not greasy and matted like a white man’s would be at that length, but sleek and shining. Enormous muscles rippled under his coppery skin, and he wore enough ammunition to fend off an army. Whatever his plan, it extended to more than merely killing him, and that pleased Lazarus.

  “We’re after the same chap, friend,” said Lazarus, holstering his Starblazer. Whatever was concealed under that poncho was more than a match for a revolver, anyway. “How about we throw in our lot together and go at it as a deuce?”

  The giant Navajo continued boring his hateful eyes into him. He evidently spoke no English or chose not to. Lazarus wondered if Vasquez communicated with his first mate in Navajo.

  “Look, there’s plenty of people aboard that train for us both to shoot,” Lazarus continued. “I just want to get Vasquez off alive. I’m not a bounty hunter. I’m with the British government.”

  Hok’ee’s eyes softened a little and he appeared to relax, although not showing complete trust.

  “Vasquez will be in the second carriage,” said Lazarus. “If we can get on board, I think we should be able to pop in and surprise them without getting killed in the process. But we have to be quick. I take it you brought your own horse.”

  Hok’ee spat on the ground and beckoned Lazarus to follow. A fine mustang stood patiently further down the hill. They mounted up and descended the cliffs.

  The train thundered through the landscape, belching steam like a mythical dragon. Lazarus and his new comrade galloped down the incline, hooves kicking up clouds of dust that would surely be visible from the train.

  “It’s too fast for us to match its speed for long, so we’ll have to cross the tracks and fall back to the carriages,” Lazarus shouted over the drumming hooves. “Our horses won’t be able to keep up with us so we’ll have to uncouple the carriages or disable the locomotive somehow. The driver will only be a mechanical,” he suddenly realized what he had said and hurriedly added, “Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean...”

  Hok’ee snorted. “I’ll cross first and draw their fire, sound good?”

  Lazarus nearly fell of his horse in surprise. “You speak English!”

  “You think all Navajo are dumb?”

  “Well, no but... you’re just a bit quiet, that’s all.”

  “Why should I speak a language that is sour to my tongue? English is the language of those who have oppressed my people for generations. I use it sparingly.”

  Lazarus nodded sagely. “White man has not been good to your people.”

  Hok’ee grinned. “But white man gave me this to fight him with,” and he whipped one side of his poncho away to reveal his right arm.<
br />
  Lazarus gaped at the mass of bronze gears and iron plating that had been grafted on to his elbow. Like the Mecha-guard aboard the Mary Sue, it tapered into the muzzle of a Golgotha rifle with an automatic ammunition hopper. Too heavy for an average-sized man to carry, it took Hok’ee’s massive strength to carry such a weapon, and on one arm at that. He broke away from Lazarus and crossed the tracks.

  The train was coming up fast on their heels, and Lazarus could hear gunshots as Hok’ee made himself a target for the bounty hunters on board. With a deafening roar of air and chugging pistons, the locomotive passed. Lazarus caught glimpses of surprised faces in the first carriage, peering and pointing at him from the windows. He urged his horse closer and let the first two carriages drift by, making ready to duck should any of the bounty hunters take a shot at him.

  No shots were fired. Hok’ee must have been making enough of a spectacle of himself on the other side of the tracks for them to pay much notice to Lazarus. The end of the third carriage appeared and Lazarus made ready to jump.

  He seized the metal bar and swung his left leg over his saddle before leaping, seeing his horse vanish in the dust behind them. His foot nearly slipped on the runner, but he managed to get a firm grip and swung himself over the bar into the carriage.

  He drew his Starblazer and flung open the door. Rows of startled faces met him but nobody stood to challenge him. He made his way along the swaying carriage to the door at the end. Passing from one to the other, he entered the second carriage and ducked just in time to dodge a bullet that splintered the woodwork by his left ear.

  Taking cover behind some seats, he edged around to get a view of the carriage. Somebody stood up and fired again, but Lazarus was more concerned by the fact that they were wearing a dress. It was the woman from the Mary Sue.

  “Well I’ll be goddamned!” cried out Vasquez from somewhere. “I sure am popular these days. You’re the fella that saved my life aboard the Mary Sue, ain’tcha?”