The Time Hunters and the Lost City (The Final Chapter in the Time Hunters Saga Book 5)

by carl ashmore

  ‘Hands on your heads,’ Calhoun said. ‘Or the first person ter move’ll get a hole in his skull as big as Wyoming.’

  ‘Now, Mister Calhoun,’ Uncle Percy said. ‘There’s no need for –’

  ‘There’s ev’ry need,’ Calhoun snarled back.

  Joe’s body stiffened as if priming himself to attack.

  Uncle Percy noticed and said, ‘Drop your bow, Joe … now!’

  Reluctantly, Joe did.

  ‘Now I dunno who y’are or where ya from, Halifax,’ Calhoun said. ‘I dunno wha’ the hell that thing is out there shootin’ up my men, but I do know -’

  Uncle Percy lowered his hands. ‘Listen, Clint … May I call you Clint?’

  ‘No. Yer can put yer hands back on yer head.’

  ‘But I’ve got crippling arthritis,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘I mean if you look closely at my hands you’ll see -’ In the blink of an eye, he jerked his right forearm, triggering a mechanism up his sleeve, and - CLICK - a small Derringer pistol shot into the palm of his hand.

  Calhoun didn’t even have time to register shock when Uncle Percy fired.

  A single blast struck Calhoun’s chest, encasing him in a blinding spectacle of light, before – CRACKKK! - he disappeared.

  Silence.

  ‘Wasn’t that exhilarating?’ Uncle Percy said.

  ‘That – was – so - cool!’ Joe breathed.

  ‘Yeehaw, Brother Percy!’ Bruce howled. ‘I know you got plenty of surprises up your sleeve but I wouldn’t have a guessed a Derringer was one of them.’

  ‘Where did that gun come from?’ Becky asked.

  Uncle Percy pulled up his sleeve to reveal a rig strapped to his forearm. ‘It’s an old fashioned contraption – a telescoping rail, some springs, a trigger mechanism - yet surprisingly effective. Now shall we get going?’

  Just then, Kenneth flew down and landed beside them. ‘Sir, I can confirm Clint Calhoun’s men no longer present a threat.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Uncle Percy replied.

  ‘Well slap me sideways with a Bluegill,’ Bruce exhaled, staring at Kenneth, before his eyes returned to Uncle Percy. ‘You’ve only gone and made yourself another metal buddy. Wasn’t Barbie enough for you?’

  ‘Barbie is enough for any man, Mister Westbrook,’ Kenneth replied, ‘… or machine.’

  Bruce chuckled. ‘She surely is, little fella. And can I assume you’re Kenneth?’

  ‘You can indeed, Mister Westbrook. And I am very pleased to meet you. I have heard so many wonderful things about you.’

  ‘Didn’t know there were any wonderful things ter be said ‘bout me, but it’s mighty kind of you to say that. And thanks for whatever help you’ve given me with Calhoun’s boys.’

  ‘The pleasure was mine.’ Kenneth turned to Uncle Percy. ‘Sir, my Alto-Radar indicates the barman has wakened and is in the process of fleeing town. Perhaps it might be worth another Memorase to ensure he doesn’t recall seeing me?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘As long as he’s safe from tomorrow’s earthquake that’s all that really matters. Besides, if he tells anyone about any of this they’ll think he’s been drinking too much of his own stock.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘Listen,’ Bruce said. ‘I just wanna send out a big thank you to y’all for helping me out here. Calhoun wanted my guts for garters and no mistake. Without you, guys, I woulda been as dead as a gopher in a coyote den.’

  ‘Not a problem, old friend,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘You would have done the same for us, as indeed you did last year in 1920s Chicago. Besides, you’ve been off the radar for some time and there have been some recent developments you may be able to help us with.’

  ‘I know. I was following up a few leads in this timeline about the Sacred Chalice. I’d got it into my noggin it might be something to do with the sixteenth century priest, Marcos de Niza. Anyhoo, before I knew it, I was in a situation with Clint Calhoun and his wife and I ends up in here.’

  ‘Marcos de Niza?’ Uncle Percy replied, his curiously piqued. ‘Wasn’t it his claim to finding the city of Cibola that made Francisco Vásquez de Coronado embark on his famous expedition across North America?’

  ‘That’s the fella.’

  ‘Then you may well be closer to the mark than you think.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Uncle Percy proceeded to tell Bruce about the events that had led them to this point – about Sir Walter Raleigh and the letter, about Bess Raleigh, about Sir Oliver Fisher following Coronado’s trail and the connection with the Lost Dutchman’s Mine.

  Throughout, Bruce peppered the recitation with ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’, unable to conceal his childlike excitement.

  By the time Uncle Percy had finished, Bruce looked gobsmacked. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You think the Sacred Chalice is located at the actual El Dorado, which is protected by headless giants … You think Sir Walter Raleigh had a map to El Dorado he hid in a strongbox … and that strongbox might be in the Lost Dutchman’s Mine with a dead Sir Oliver Fisher.’

  ‘As a theory it’s not at all far-fetched, is it?’

  ‘Not with all you seen lately … no.’ Bruce exhaled loudly. ‘Wowwiee … that is one helluva story.’

  ‘We know. And we know so much of it is speculation, but there does seem some logic to it all. Besides, as you quite rightly say, we have witnessed some rather implausible things over the last twelve months.’

  ‘So now you’re trying to find the Lost Dutchman’s Mine to see if there’s any truth to any of it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘And we wondered if you knew anything about the Mine or the Dutchman, Jacob Waltz.’

  Bruce laughed. ‘I’m a born and bred Arizonian, sir – what I don’t know ‘bout the story of the Lost Dutchman’s Mine ain’t worth knowin’.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Uncle Percy replied.

  ‘Have you ever been there?’ Joe asked. ‘I mean, since you became a time traveller you must’ve been tempted to follow Jacob Waltz and see if the story was true or not?’

  Bruce shook his head. ‘You know that’s one thing I’ve never done. As a boy, I just ‘bout loved hearin’ the story. My pappy musta told me the tale a million times. But when I became a traveller I always thought if I’d have known the truth it mighta ruined those wonderful memories. Nah, I never went looking and I ain’t ever had no interest in gold.’

  ‘So how do you fancy looking for it now?’ Joe asked.

  Bruce’s eyes gleamed. ‘You just try and stop me.’

  ‘So what’s the best place to start?’ Becky asked.

  ‘What date is it again?’

  ‘April 23rd 1869,’ Uncle Percy replied.

  ‘Perfect,’ Bruce replied. ‘Then let’s go and see Jacob Waltz. He’s alive, well and livin’ in Phoenix, Arizona.’ His face creased as if something had occurred to him. ‘In fact, I can just ‘bout tell you the very saloon the old viper’ll be drinking at … and Sweet Lord above, what were the chances?’ He began to laugh.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Oh, you’ll laugh, too, Missy, when I tell you the name of the landlady that runs that joint … not to mention what it’s called.’

  Becky was confused. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘D’you ‘member last November we visited Nassau and went to an old Buccaneer bar on the docks? It’s where we met Blind Hugh Livesey.’

  ‘Yeah, course,’ Becky replied with great affection. ‘The Soggy Flannel.’

  Bruce grinned. ‘That’s right. Now d’you ‘member the name of the lady who owned it?’

  Becky would never forget her for as long as she lived. ‘Battle-Axe Beattie.’

  ‘Correct,’ Bruce replied. ‘Well, as I may have told you … every now and again I gots the mind to partake in a touch of gambling … you knows … stud poker, Faro, chuck-a-luck, twenty one. All the classics. And many’s the time I frequented the saloons and gambling halls of the
Old West - Tombstone, Virginia City, Deadwood … but one of my favourites was right there in Phoenix. The saloon was called ‘The Drenched Towel.’

  ‘The Drenched Towel?’ Becky laughed.

  ‘Yes, sireee. And that saloon is owned by one helluva lady known as Tomahawk Tessie and she’s the dead ringer of Battle-Axe Beattie. Anyhows, I did my research and found out that gal is only the great great great great granddaughter of ol’ Beattie.’

  ‘You are kidding me?’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s as true as my nose,’ Bruce replied. ‘It turns out that after they took their share of Blackbeard’s treasure, Ol’ Beattie and ‘Stinky’ Mo Baggely got themselves hitched and had a brace of kids. And believe you me … Tomahawk Tessie is beyond doubt Ol’ Beattie’s kinfolk, they’re the God’s honest double of each other!’

  ‘And Jacob Waltz is a patron of The Drenched Towel?’ Uncle Percy asked.

  ‘Every single day when he ain’t prospectin’,’ Bruce replied. ‘And it was well known he only went in the winter months, returned in early April and spent his hard-earned at Tessie’s joint.’

  ‘Then it seems we have our next port of call,’ Uncle Percy said.

  ‘I think we do,’ Bruce replied. ‘Hell, if it’s the 23rd April 1869 we wouldn’t even have to time travel there. We could take Bertha and drive cross country this very day and that old reprobate will still be sitting at his usual table sure as eggs is eggs, a bellyful of rotgut whiskey stewing inside of him.’

  Becky had what she considered a fantastic idea. ‘Then let’s do it!’

  ‘Do what, dear?’ Uncle Percy replied.

  ‘Drive. How many miles is it to Phoenix?’

  ‘Over a thousand.’

  ‘Well we’re not in a rush,’ Becky said, her excitement growing. ‘By the sounds of it, Jacob Waltz will still be there tomorrow. Let’s have a Roadtrip.’

  ‘There are a few things wrong with that idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There aren’t any roads as such.’

  ‘So it’d be an off-road Roadtrip.’

  ‘And much of it is Indian country. What happens if we’re ambushed?’

  ‘They’d be on horses and Bertha could outrun any attack. Please, Uncle Percy, it’d be great. You’re always harping on about wanting us to expand our educational horizons... well this would do it.’

  ‘I certainly think it would be a wonderful experience.’

  ‘Let’s do it then.’

  ‘But you’re forgetting one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Bertha is a petrol fuelled vehicle. I don’t think there are any BP garages between here and Phoenix.’

  The smile left Becky’s face.

  ‘Moron!’ Joe sniggered under his breath.

  With a huff, Becky sat back and kicked his shin with the force and accuracy of a professional footballer.

  Chapter 21

  The German Dutchman

  As Uncle Percy and Kenneth examined Bertha for signs of damage, Bruce went to the gunsmith’s, returning soon after with a pearl-handled Colt revolver strapped to his hip. He gave Uncle Percy the coordinates to a destination point in Arizona and they all boarded the campervan and left.

  The next thing Becky knew they had arrived in a small shadowy cave, her eyes set forward on a fissure three feet wide, beyond which a honeyed sun dominated a flawless sky.

  ‘So how far are we from Phoenix?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Just a short walk,’ Bruce replied, as everyone climbed out of the van. ‘We’re at the base of Camelback Mountain in the Phoenix Mountain Range. I first came across it a few years ago and always use it as a Safe-port when I’m in town.’

  ‘What’s a Safe-port?’ Becky asked.

  ‘It’s a traveller’s term,’ Uncle Percy replied, ‘for a location they can guarantee no witnesses to their arrival. Travellers often identify new ones on their time trips and report them back to GITT, for other travellers to benefit from. We’re very fortunate one of yours is here, Bruce.’

  ‘Y’ain’t wrong, Perce.’

  Uncle Percy looked at Kenneth. ‘Could you return to Bowen Hall, please, and contact Charlie Millport to ask about the situation with Catherine of Aragon?’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you, sir? At this point in history Phoenix can be a boisterous town and you may require my particular skill set.’

  ‘We’ll be fine, Kenneth,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘Besides, your presence may trigger some awkward questions and we don’t want that, do we?’

  ‘Then good luck everyone,’ Kenneth replied. ‘I shall see you shortly.’

  Uncle Percy led the group out of the cave.

  Emerging onto a steep slope of layered sandstone, Becky felt a wall of heat surround her like a blanket. Squinting, she scanned the area to see the greenery of Kansas had been replaced by the sun-scorched scene of a desert, peppered with Saguaro Cacti and wide patches of thornscrub. Turkey vultures flew overhead, their broad wings barely moving as they soared toward a distant mountain range which bordered a valley, at the centre of which was a town.

  ‘Phoenix,’ Bruce sighed happily. ‘Risin’ grandly from the parched earth like the imaginary bird she’s named after.’

  At his words, a terrible memory entered Becky’s head. She was standing in the Great Temple of Ptah in Ancient Egypt, staring with revulsion at an actual Phoenix imprisoned by the ex-Nazi doctor, Aribert Heim. ‘The Phoenix is not an imaginary bird, Bruce,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It was very real … we freed one from the hands of a psychopath.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Missy,’ Bruce replied. ‘I didn’t know. Sometimes I forget some of the crazy ass things you’ve seen over the last year … stuff no young ‘un should ever see.’

  ‘It’s been what it’s been.’

  ‘I know.’ Bruce curled his arm around her shoulder. ‘And the way yeh’ve handled it just shows there ain’t none finer than you and your baby bro. And I’ll be telling your pappy that when we see him very soon.’

  ‘Do you think we will?’

  Bruce leaned in and whispered in her ear. ‘Sure as my Auntie Alice was as bald as a billiard ball.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Bruce gave a curious smile. ‘Now let’s mosey over to one of the greatest towns in the Old West…’

  After a few minutes of walking something occurred to Becky. ‘Bruce, how long have you been in the Old West … your time, I mean?’

  ‘‘Bout a week, I reckon,’ Bruce replied. ‘But ‘fore that I was in Ancient Babylon, Neolithic China and Medieval Denmark followin’ up leads on the Sacred Chalice.’

  ‘Then you’ve no idea what Drake’s been up to?’

  ‘What d’ya mean?’

  Becky proceeded to tell him about the attacks on the government buildings and the following chaos. Throughout, the colour in Bruce’s cheeks faded, and by the time she finished his face was the shade of chalk.

  ‘So that’s it? He’s shown his hand,’ Bruce said. ‘He wants the world … and he’s goddamn got it.’

  ‘Not so, Bruce,’ Uncle Percy said. ‘We can fix it. We shall fix it.’

  ‘The only way to fix it is if I put a bullet in his brain,’ Bruce replied. ‘And I’d be mighty pleased to do that...’

  The walk to Phoenix took much longer than Becky had expected, but soon they approached the outskirts of the town, passing a school, a church, a steam mill, before entering the bustling main street. Men and women, from the outwardly well-heeled to the poor and unkempt, scurried in and out of the many buildings that included the Rockridge Saloon, Thomas’ Ice Cream Parlour, a Chinese laundry, J. Bauerlein’s Bakery, Hancock’s General Store, a post office, and a number of hotels.

  ‘So where’s the Drenched Towel?’ Joe said.

  ‘Over there.’ Bruce nodded at a large two story building at the end of the street. ‘Now before we go in there are a few things you gotta know ‘bout Jacob Waltz. First of all, he’s a bad man … a real bad man. Ain’t an ounce of human dece
ncy in his bones. And he’s dangerous.’ His eyes found Joe. ‘So if anythin’ happens then you let me deal with it. This ain’t no time for heroics.’

  ‘How dangerous?’ Becky asked nervously.

  ‘If this is 1869,’ Bruce replied, ‘then I know sure as eggs is eggs he’s murdered six men so far, and two of them were soldiers. And in seven years’ time he’ll murder his own nephew just to keep the location of his mine secret.’

  Becky’s face fell.

  Bruce noticed. ‘Yeah, Missy, Jacob Waltz ain’t exactly your kind, lovin’ Uncle Percy type dude, that’s for darn sure…’ And as his words hung in the air, he veered left and strode over to the Drenched Towel Saloon, pushed open the double doors and entered.

  Becky, Joe and Uncle Percy followed him in.

  Inside, Becky was relieved to find the sizeable bar sparsely populated. To their left, five burly cowboys were playing cards, the largest of the men glanced up at Bruce for a brief moment, before returning to the game.

  Becky’s gaze moved over to the bar where a fleshy woman, her greying hair coiled in a ponytail, stared back at them. She knew straight away Bruce was right: Tomahawk Tessie was the spitting image of Battle-Axe Beattie.

  ‘Well … well …’ Tessie beamed at Bruce. ‘Look what the cougar dragged in.’

  ‘Tess Baggely,’ Bruce grinned. ‘The finest filly in the Copper State. Ain’t you a sight for weary eyes.’ He marched over, his heels clomping against the timber floor. With each step, his smile broadened on his face.

  Tessie flung her arms around Bruce and pulled him close. ‘Words like that’ll get y’in trouble in these parts,’ she cooed. ‘I might take you for my beau, and you know your scrawny frame couldn’t handle a woman like me.’

  ‘Don’t rag me, girl,’ Bruce replied. ‘Just say the word and we’ll be wed by dawn.’

  Tessie’s eyes shone. ‘You’re such a honey-mouthed scoundrel, Bruce Westbrook. Anyhow, how are ya?’

  ‘I’m as fine as a chipmunk with a walnut for seein’ you. How you been?’

  ‘Keepin’ well,’ Tessie nodded. She stared at Uncle Percy, Becky and Joe, who had joined Bruce at the bar. ‘Now who’re these good folk? They look too upstandin’ to be keepin’ your company.’