by Ginn Hale
For his part, Lucky appeared oblivious to the stir he caused. His attention remained on the statuesque Black woman standing beside him. She too drew stares and inspired whispered speculation. Most people knew of the deadly amazons of the African kingdom of Dahomey. They’d become renowned after crushing Napoleon III’s attempt to drag his sunken French empire up onto West African shores. However, very few Americans had actually laid eyes upon one of the famed warrior women—at least not and lived to tell about it. But the cerulean-striped uniform just visible beneath the woman’s long leopard-skin coat combined with the beaded emerald crocodile emblazoned across the woman’s tall white cap were legendary.
At sixty-six, Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh was drawn and white-haired but still looked like she could run a man through with the sword that hung from her bejeweled belt. Though in truth, she’d come at the behest of her young king, to negotiate the import of custom-made Moreau airship engines. She and Lucky smiled at each other, exchanged a few words and then both laughed. Three younger Dahomey guardswomen, all with revolvers holstered at their hips, appeared amused as well.
Dalfon turned his attention back to Tom, who scowled at Lucky and Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh, making a show of appearing unimpressed. “Some people get it easy from the time they’re born till the day they die,” Tom muttered.
Dalfon almost laughed at the idea that either Lucky or Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh had numbered among the pampered few who navigated life without knowing a single hardship.
“When there’s bitterness inside you, not even a mouthful of sugar will taste sweet,” Dalfon replied, not that he expected Tom to recognize the proverb. It had been one of many that Dalfon’s mother had repeated, though only recently had he actually realized the wisdom in it. Men like Tom were bitter every inch of their beings. No amount of good fortune or kindness would ever be enough for them.
Dalfon looked away from the man to see their waiter approaching the table with the glasses of golden pisco and dishes of oysters that Tom had ordered.
“You might as well take them over to the table there.” Dalfon gestured to the poker players slumped in their seats near Miller. Tom scowled at Dalfon, and the waiter stood, looking uncertain.
“I got company on the way. So you’ll just have to scoot on back to Miller and tell him I don’t care what bait he puts on his hook I’m not biting,” Dalfon told Tom.
Tom didn’t budge. They both knew Tom had divulged a little too much to him for this all to end amiably. But Dalfon wasn’t willing to fight here and now. He suspected that even Tom didn’t relish the prospect of attempting to silence this many witnesses.
“Look,” Dalfon said, “if you and Miller can’t take no for an answer, then I’ll be more than happy to settle this at forty paces after this airship sets down.”
For a moment Tom just sat there, and Dalfon could almost feel resentment and hate rising off the man like steam wafting up from a boiling pot. Tom’s right hand twitched and Dalfon’s fingers curled around the grip of his gun. The waiter tottered back, and somehow managed not to spill either drinks or dishes.
Tom held up both his hands and pulled a grimace of a smile, then he stood.
“We’ll finish this on the ground. Only decent to give you time to write your final will.” Tom strode back to Miller and rejoined the other men playing cards. Oddly, the waiter offered Dalfon an almost conspiratorial little wink while Tom’s back was turned and quickly followed the man to serve the table.
Dalfon scowled at the twilight gloom and the growing black silhouettes of the mountains outside the portal. At best he had an hour to figure a way out of this mess. Chances that Tom would fight fair, or even alone, were slimmer than an onionskin. Not that Dalfon wanted to engage in some idiot duel. Winning would only make him an outlaw and losing… Well, a corpse wouldn’t have much of a future traveling the world and making love to Lucky.
“Mind if I join you?” Lucky’s voice pulled Dalfon back from his grim contemplation of the twilight.
“Of course!” Dalfon almost cringed at his own far-too-hearty response.
Lucky sank down into the seat Tom had vacated seconds before and cocked his head, considering Dalfon.
“Your friend didn’t run off on my account, did he?” Lucky asked.
“Tom Horn is no friend of mine. And across the room isn’t nearly far enough away.”
Lucky’s expression shifted from concerned to surprised, and then settled into a look Dalfon didn’t think he’d seen before—almost a guilty excitement.
“Tom Horn.” Lucky stole a sidelong glance to where Tom sat slugging back his pisco. Dalfon could hardly stand to look at the man.
“Is Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh going to join us?” Dalfon asked, to get his mind off the heap of trouble Tom Horn would doubtless cause. He was going to have to explain it all to Lucky but he felt too riled up to keep his voice low and restrain himself from hurling something at that son-of-a-bitch Miller. Of all the flights why did the bastard have to be on this one? When had riding the rail become too common for him and his gang?
“No, she wanted to talk more with the security chief up on the bridge,” Lucky replied. For no reason that Dalfon could understand, he flicked another quick glance over to Miller’s party, and a sly little smile lit his face.
Dalfon considered Lucky for a moment then leaned a little nearer to him.
“Is there a reason you’re looking so smug and sneaky?”
Lucky nodded.
“Do you recall any of that conversation in the carriage concerning the radio spectrum?” Lucky asked.
“Only that the newest airships have been fitted with wireless telegraphs, or something of that nature,” Dalfon replied.
“Well, we decided to test the range of ours out, for Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh’s benefit. And we were able to pick up signals all the way from the Lakota Island station to Fort Arvada…”
“And?” Dalfon prompted.
“It turns out lawmen are tearing through every train leaving Chicago, trying to lay hands on a Mr. Miller and a fellow traveling with him called Tom Horn.” Lucky lowered his voice. “They’re wanted for desecrating sacred ground and five counts of murder. They even shot a fourteen-year-old boy in the back.”
Dalfon was not surprised. Though he did feel a little more resolved to do all he could to put Tom in a grave. He supposed he ought to describe his own encounter with the man to Lucky since they were already on the subject. But Lucky got that sly look again and went on.
“As it happened, the chief steward was on the bridge when we picked up the transmission, and he recognized the description of Miller and Tom Horn as well as four other felons in Miller’s pay. Then the boson shows us a note that a maid slipped to him when they passed in the hall. It just said ‘Miller is here’. He couldn’t make heads nor tails of it till that instant.”
Dalfon thought again of the worn-looking maid and felt a surge of admiration for her audacity. Surrounded by cold-blooded killers and still she’d done what she could to stymie them. Fist and pistols weren’t the only weapons that could kill a man, sometimes it only took a girl who kept her wits.
Though considering the situation, he and the ship’s crew would need firepower to take Miller and his boys before they could flee back to the fortifications of Miller’s ranch.
“Of course, right off, Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh offered to bring her women down here and blow the criminals’ brains out. The ship’s engineer almost fainted and started talking a mile a minute about cabin pressure and ricocheting bullets.” Lucky shook his head, his expression wry. “Then the wireless telegraph operator informs us that she’s contacted the airstrip in Fort Arvada and that they’ll have the sheriff and his deputies waiting for our arrival.”
Dalfon nodded. That was good, better than he could have hoped for.
“Having the sheriff at the airstrip will make things easier,” he said softly. “But it’s going to be tricky to kee
p all of these other passengers out of the crossfire if Tom or any of the others decide they aren’t going to be taken alive.” Dalfon felt certain no one would think anything of it if Lucky stayed back, safe, aboard the airship. But he wasn’t certain Lucky would accept the proposition. Dalfon glanced across the room at the men and women gathered around them. There had to be some way to protect them.
“I reckoned it would be best if nobody fired off a shot at all.” Lucky smiled. “So I had the ship doctor spike their drinks.”
“Their drinks.” Dalfon’s thoughts had been so occupied anticipating the inevitability of a gunfight—and trying to work a safe way through the gunsmoke and searing lead whistling through the air—that it took him a moment to grasp the full implication of Lucky’s words and put that together with the wink he’d received from the jumpy waiter.
He stole a glance over to Miller’s party. Three of the poker players were already dozing in their chairs. Tom and the man across from him both studied their cards with half-lidded eyes and seemed to nod off as Dalfon watched, laying their heads down on the tabletop.
Miller still sat slumped, staring out at the night, but now Dalfon recognized the slack, glazed quality of his expression as that of a man deep in a stupor. Then with the timing that would have done a seasoned comic proud, Mrs. Miller began to snore.
The women near her lifted their chins, sniffed and moved to another table.
Dalfon laughed and Lucky grinned at him.
“You think it’s safe for me to fetch Seh-Dong-Hong-Beh and the ship’s officers to tie these scoundrels up and lock them in the brig?” Lucky asked.
“I think so.” Dalfon stood along with Lucky. “I’d be delighted to lend a hand, in fact.”
In less than a quarter of an hour they’d disarmed, roped and incarcerated Tom Horn, the Millers and their four gunmen. The greatest hardship was lugging Tom’s deadweight into a cold cell in the brig. The man weighed nearly two hundred pounds. But when they were done, Dalfon felt exuberant with relief and also more taken with his lover than he would have thought imaginable.
“The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone,” Dalfon quoted once they were alone in their adjoining rooms. “It is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.”
“I suppose someone fancy said that.” Lucky kicked off his glossy shoes and sat down on the big bed.
“Patrick Henry,” Dalfon supplied. He sat beside Lucky. He wished he had words—his own words—to express just how vastly Lucky had enriched his life. How caring about Lucky had awakened ideals in him he’d thought long lost to a lifetime of rapacious self-interest. He could have so easily become a man like Tom Horn, or worse, because Dalfon knew how to sweet-talk and hide lies beneath the dazzle of a silver-tongue. His capacity for brutality and treachery could have made him a true monster.
One may smile and smile and be a villain, wasn’t that how Shakespeare had put it?
Instead he was beginning to see ways of winning his fights without ever raising his fists. And he was learning that the most powerful words were often disarmingly simple—honesty laid bare. The idea frightened him some, but what was courage other than confronting fear?
“You know what I say?” Dalfon asked.
“What?”
“I love you.” There it was, simple as salt and awaiting an answer.
Lucky flushed and put his arms around Dalfon. He said nothing but his kiss was beyond eloquence, while outside the night sky lit up with countless stars.
Acknowledgments
I’ve been very fortunate to receive historical pointers, feedback, encouragement, editorial insights and cup after cup of black coffee just when I needed them most from many generous and talented people.
In particular I want to give thanks to Nicole Kimberling, Tenea D. Johnson, Anne Scott, Carl Cipra and Gwen Toevs.
I also owe a debt to Tracy Timmons-Gray of Read With Pride for inspiring me to publish The Hollow History of Professor Perfectus as well as to Elizabeth North and Tricia Kristufek at Dreamspinner Press for taking on Get Lucky in its first incarnation.
Last but not least, thanks to The Team and my family for just being here with me. And to Alexarc Mastema. (Alex’s Maniac Coffee has played a vital role in the generation of many of my projects and I hope it will continue to fuel inspiration for many more to come.)
About The Author
Award-winning author, Ginn Hale lives in the Pacific Northwest with her lovely wife and their ancient, evil cat. She spends the rainy days observing local fungi. During the stormy nights she writes science-fiction and fantasy stories featuring LGBT protagonists. (Attempts to convince the cat to be less evil have been largely abandoned.)
Ginn Hale’s publications include:
Maze-Born Trouble
Swift and the Black Dog
Wicked Gentlemen
The Rifter Trilogy
The Shattered Gates
The Holy Road
His Sacred Bones
The Cadeleonian Series
Lord of the White Hell Book One
Lord of the White Hell Book Two
Champion of the Scarlet Wolf Book One
Champion of the Scarlet Wolf Book Two
Anthologies
Irregulars
Charmed & Dangerous
Magic & Mayhem
Once Upon A Time in the Weird West
Hell Cop
Hell Cop2