Bodacious Creed: a Steampunk Zombie Western (The Adventures of Bodacious Creed Book 1)

by Jonathan Fesmire

  He allowed Malcolm to trot to the end of the wharf then pulled on the reins when they came to a cross street. One dirt road veered right toward the Flats and left toward the cliffs. Cantrell pulled out and unfolded a map to find that he and Malcolm were on Beach Street. Straight ahead, leading to the wharf and nearly parallel to the railroad tracks, he found Center Street on the page. A few blocks up that road was The Grand Western, the hotel where he planned to stay.

  Cantrell had chosen the hotel for good reason. It sat across the street from the federal marshal post. It gave him the option to watch their movements and try to beat them to his prey, or even to work with them.

  A few blocks from The Grand Western, the map showed a large stable house. Cantrell figured he would keep Malcolm there. Best to reach it before settling in. He rode a bit and turned right on Lincoln, a street already named for the sixteenth president, and Malcolm clopped toward the stable.

  A big sign in front proclaimed “Smullen’s Stables and Livery,” indicating it kept horses for individuals and had rides men could rent.

  The large red building across from the stables had an arching sign above its awning with the words, “The House of Amber Doves.” Well, easy enough to guess what sort of establishment that was, a parlor, or bordello, depending on what word one preferred. No place for a married man like Cantrell. Then again, he had slept fitfully after taking the earliest night time train possible and had no appetite on the trip down. Maybe Amber Doves was also in the restaurant business.

  Ott Smullen turned out to be a man in his mid-fifties of middling height with steel-rimmed glasses and the bib shirt, jeans, and boots of a cowboy.

  “Howdy,” Cantrell said in his baritone. He swung a leg over the saddle and dropped from Malcolm's back. “Got room for my boy here?”

  The men shook hands. Cantrell made sure to keep fit, exercising in his down time when traveling, so he didn’t squeeze too hard when he shook, but Smullen’s grip impressed him.

  “I do,” said Smullen. “Fee's fifty cents a day, three dollars for a week, up front. That's to keep him here, whether you take him out for a ride or not. We’ll take him out for a trot every couple of days, either way.”

  Cantrell thought about this. How long did he expect to stay? Blake had been known to vanish in a heartbeat. If Cantrell couldn't catch him immediately, would the killer stay in town, or escape? No way to know. Cantrell pulled twelve dollars from a pouch, the coins clinking. “Don't know if I'll be here this long, but you take good care of Malcolm, and I'm sure it'll be worth the money.”

  “It will, sir, I assure you.” He had Cantrell sign a simple document, then the bounty hunter crossed the street.

  Cantrell stood on Pacific Avenue outside The House of Amber Doves to get a good look inside. He saw mostly men sitting at tables with plates and mugs. A few women in tight dresses chatted with them. Bosoms heaved, fans opened, and hips swished.

  As he had suspected, a saloon with food and a classy parlor. A tune started and with a smile, Cantrell made for the door. Beyond the tables a band played on a rounded, raised stage, blending violin, mandolin, and other stringed instruments.

  Cantrell patted his belly, the smells of potatoes, butter, roast, pork, and onion stirring his hunger. Besides the ten or so prostitutes in their fancy dresses, hair done up in buns and curls, most of the visitors were men in cowboy or rancher outfits. Some wore wool trousers and ties, perhaps factory workers from Miles Morgan’s companies.

  Against the left wall beside the foot of the stairs stood two steelies from the Morgan’s Automatons Auto Sapient line, marvels of modern manufacturing. For simple security, these made a solid investment.

  Cantrell couldn't help but smile at the band, several men and one woman playing an uptempo version of When Johnny Comes Marching Home, so jubilant that a few of the parlor ladies had grabbed diners by the hands and danced with them.

  The bounty hunter approached the bar and took a free seat. He had no need of a full table, just a tall stool, a hearty ale, a cut of steak, a couple of scrambled eggs, and some vegetables. After the train ride, any would do.

  “What can I get for you, sir?” For a moment, Cantrell couldn't avert his gaze from the young woman. He assessed her ancestry as perhaps half Spanish, the rest English, Scottish, and Irish, curly black hair hanging over her shoulders. Her red dress and black leather bodice left her arms bare. She gazed at him keenly as if to say they had no secrets at Amber Doves. He saw beauty in that gaze and a sharp mind behind it.

  “Got a menu?” he asked over the music.

  She handed him one from beneath the bar. Cantrell caught his own reflection in the mirror behind her. He disliked looking so tired. Since he had bathed before the trip he looked clean, but his eyes had developed shadows.

  Before looking over the menu, he asked, “Got sourdough?”

  “'Course we do.”

  She went back to the kitchen. By her demeanor, Cantrell thought she might be the madam. Yet she had to be too young for that. Still, brothel madams, especially those who ran establishments as fine as this, tended to know a city’s secrets. Might she have heard something about Blake?

  “Well howdy there.” A prostitute sidled up to Cantrell. “I'm Lorraine.” Elegant and slender, she turned to give him a full view of her cleavage.

  “I'm married.” Cantrell pulled the chain along his neck out from under his shirt and revealed his wedding ring.

  “That's dandy with me,” she said.

  He turned in his seat to face her. “Any news about town, Lorraine?”

  She put her hands on his shoulders. “I'm not in the news business.”

  “Three dollars says you are.”

  “Well now, these legs don't part for less than five, and neither do these lips.”

  Cantrell cracked a grin. “Five, then.”

  “News about town. You'd pay a lot less for a local paper.”

  “Oh, I'll get that, too, but somehow I think the citizenry might know more.”

  Lorraine put out her palm, and Cantrell placed a half eagle coin into it. She snapped her hand shut, satisfied, and shoved the money into the small purse on her belt. “You've heard of Bodacious Creed.”

  Though Cantrell prided himself on rational reactions, his heart seemed to skip. “Of course. The famous marshal. Always gets his man and all that malarkey.” Cantrell knew, however, it wasn’t malarkey at all. No lawman could best James Creed, except for maybe Bill Hickock.

  “That's him. He rode into town on Saturday. No one knew for sure why until just a few hours ago, when his partner, Ben Nelsen, came right here to Amber Doves. They went all over town, I guess, gathering as large a posse as they could.”

  “What was that for?” Cantrell asked, though he thought he already knew.

  “They're after Corwin Blake.”

  “Where are they heading?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Cantrell thanked her. Lorraine patted his shoulder and sashayed to a table of cowboys at the far end of the room. When the woman with the curly hair returned to the bar, Cantrell ordered his meal and soon sat eating, and thinking.

  He had sampled plenty of beef that had clearly been past its time, salted heavily to hide the rancidness that crept in. This steak tasted fresh, lightly salted and peppered, with thyme and basil, and a pat of butter on top. The bread might be a day old but was soft under the crust. The eggs had come out fluffy and a bit wet, just how he liked them, and the carrots, celery, and cucumbers added refreshing crispness. Such a meal was even tough to find in San Francisco. The dark ale, drawn from the tap, washed it all down nicely.

  Still, he rushed through the food, eager to start his investigation. Of all the federal marshals in the United States, James Creed was after Blake. Cantrell figured he had three options. He and Malcolm could head back to San Francisco. After all, Creed probably had Blake in custody already. Yes, Blake had escaped others, but no one eluded Creed for long. For his second option, he could join Creed's posse. He’d get a sma
ll stipend for his help, even if he caught Blake himself.

  The third option, the one he had taken with other outlaws, was to capture Blake, no matter how much it annoyed the marshals, and claim the reward. If no one had brought the man in today, he still had time.

  Even if Creed had already arrested Blake, Cantrell could stay for a day or two, maybe take in the fireworks. At least another killer would go to the gallows. Yet Cantrell needed the money for his family. Though he had brought in nearly as many men as Creed during his career, money had grown tight.

  The black-haired woman addressed him from behind the bar. “Food alright?”

  “More than alright. You got a moment?”

  “Sure, for my newest customer.”

  “You are the madam, then?”

  “That I am. My name’s Anna.”

  “I’m Rob Cantrell.” He extended his hand, and she shook it.

  “Bounty hunter?” she asked.

  “Right. Some only know me by my handle.”

  Anna winked. “I hear a lot of things. Most know you as El Tiburón. Well earned, I gather.”

  As a child, Cantrell had been a white boy growing up in Northern Mexico. The other children called him El Tiburón, The Shark. White as a shark’s belly, the others said. The moniker had taken on a powerful new meaning when he fought back against the bigger boys who bullied him. By fourteen, he stood at four inches above six feet, a giant among his former rivals.

  “What’s this about a posse?” Cantrell asked. “Do they need more men?”

  “Oh, I'm sure they could use anyone they can get with Corwin Blake out there. They took about half our clientele at around eleven in the morning. They must have a good twenty men with them or more if they swept the rest of Santa Cruz.”

  “And still, your place is so busy. I’m impressed.”

  “Yes, still busy, music still playing. Not all men are inclined to join a posse, others are working. You want to help the marshals,” Anna said, “head to Railroad Flats. I think I have a map somewhere.”

  “Don’t bother. I have one.” Cantrell unfolded the parchment beside his meal.

  “Here,” she said. “That's Railroad Flats, by the ocean. I can't say if you'll run into Creed or not, but you're sure to find some members of the posse. They might be around here, at Iron Nelly's, or maybe by the wharf.”

  Though he had gone over it several times on the train, Cantrell hadn’t noted Iron Nelly’s as important. He chugged the rest of his beer and left for Smullen’s Stables and Livery.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Maxwell Gregg stood beside Corwin Blake’s bed, the Tesla bulbs in the ceiling dim. Why had he bothered to give the kid such fine guest accommodations? Did Blake need a bed large enough for three? Did he need two quilts and six pillows, the rocking chair, the wide table, or two shelves full of books? The air smelled of Blake’s sweat, alcohol, and the red roses in a vase on the table. Blake lay naked atop a soft quilt, a red-tinged bandage around his leg, a sheet draped over his hips and crotch.

  The outlaw stared up at Gregg, blinking lazily. He had finished half a bottle of single-malt scotch, again more than Blake deserved, while the medic removed the bullet, then cleaned and sewed shut the wound with silken thread.

  “We had you covered,” Gregg said. “You had to have your fun though, didn’t you?”

  “What did you want me to do? Go to the back room?”

  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.” Gregg wrung his hands behind his back. In Iron Nelly’s, Blake had ducked behind the bar just as James Creed and Bennett Nelsen had entered. Somehow, the young killer had remained quiet, though Gregg imagined he had probably worked hard to suppress laughter.

  Jason knew that Gregg would evade the lawmen, and had done just what Gregg would have wanted. Seamless work for a well-run organization.

  “You’re not here to tempt the law, Corwin. They’re not your playthings.”

  “Ain’t they, though?”

  “One more stupid move like that, and you won’t like your accommodations.”

  “I don’t think your sister’s gonna like how you’re talking to me,” Blake said.

  “Melba doesn’t run the Syndicate.” Gregg glared.

  Blake squinted at the light above. “Well, you gotta, ah, you gotta let me do something for you. I don’t want to stay down here all the time.”

  “Show me you can behave as expected.”

  As Gregg headed for the door, Blake called out, “I will. You’ll see. Whatever you need.”

  Creed slept soundly on the night of July third, even though the posse had not caught Blake or his accomplice. If anything, Creed suspected their search had driven the men deeper into hiding.

  After a few hours of gathering deputies around town, they had a posse of just fifteen, thirteen of them from Nelsen’s trip to The House of Amber Doves.

  They had worked in shifts. First, half the men rode into the Flats to ask questions of the citizenry while Creed checked records in city hall to see who owned the smoking building. The deed belonged to a Steven DeGraw, but when he asked the clerk about the man, she informed Creed that DeGraw had passed away three years prior with no heirs. The property belonged to the city.

  Nelsen oversaw the investigation there, while Creed returned to Iron Nelly's.

  Jason Nash, the proprietor and bartender, claimed not to know the name of the stranger they had followed, only that the residents called him Heilong. According to rumor, he ran a criminal organization. Nash claimed that crime in the area didn’t seem organized. Creed thought it interesting that Heilong, despite the Chinese moniker, was a white man with medium brown hair and a plain, shaven face.

  Rather than speak, Nash wrote all this on a note and tore it up after Creed read it.

  Creed returned to Nelsen just as the men they had recruited began heading out to ask questions around town. Nelsen showed him their findings. Deputies had pried boards from the walls and floor. In the very wall where Creed had pulled off the first board, they had found a furnace, tall, flat, wide, and wired to a small power generator. A switch beneath the window activated it.

  The generator had no brand markings and didn't match any made by Morgan's Mechanicals, making it illegal.

  Next, Creed and Nelsen checked the buildings that surrounded the flower shop, where Blake had climbed the wall. The residents had no issue with letting the men look inside, though darting eyes and shaking hands gave away their fear. A helpful negro couple explained they had heard noises on their roof a few times in the last year, but thought that cats were scratching up there.

  After about an hour’s search, Creed found a trapdoor hidden under the shingles on the roof of the flower shop. It opened to a space no larger than a coffin. Were there many like this?

  Creed found a deputy leaving a pipe store and sent him to retrieve the rest of the posse. Within the hour, they had gained entry to a dozen buildings. Three hours later, they had found five more rooftop compartments, one where the couple had heard occasional scratches. None opened to the buildings, however. Someone had built them for the sole purpose of hiding.

  Around midnight, Creed and Nelsen headed out, just as the shift of night time deputies entered Railroad Flats. Creed spotted a big man, even taller than himself, with broad shoulders, a black coat, gambler’s hat, and hair to match. That meant the night posse had done more recruiting. Good. Perhaps the big man would put some fear into Blake’s heart.

  Nelsen had ridden off toward the woods, where he lived in a cabin with Heidi, just far enough out of town to enjoy the forest calm and fresh air. Had he not shied away from marriage, that might have been Creed’s life. Instead, he lived and worked alone. Family lost. Love lost. He wondered how much longer he could push aside the ache.

  He washed in a bath house on Pacific Avenue then returned to the federal post to bunk down for the night. Some men, after a day like Creed's, might have had trouble sleeping, weary but worried. Creed had worked hard on July third. Though Blake remained hidden, the
y would find him. He shut his eyes and within a few minutes, entered a dark sleep.

  On July fourth, Creed spent the day seeking leads in Railroad Flats. Some deputies kept watch in the area while others put up wanted posters. One announced a bounty of two thousand dollars for Blake, another, one thousand for Heilong. The artist had produced a good likeness of Blake using a photograph that had made it into various newspapers. The picture of Heilong looked like a generic, beardless white man, even after Creed had brought Jason Nash in from Iron Nelly’s to describe him.

  Around seven in the evening, hundreds of citizens, many in their best Sunday clothes, rode or walked through Railroad Flats to the boardwalk. American flags flew all along Beach Street. Just after eight, the fireworks started, rocketing up from the wharf over the bay. Booms, crackling, whistles, stars exploding into constellations, and fiery flashes of light filled the clear sky.

  Creed rode Johann uphill on Center Street and back into town to the marshal post. Both Nelsen’s and McClary’s steeds stood hitched outside. Creed tied Johann beside them and stepped into the office where a bulb in the ceiling cast sharp light over the men, McClary sitting at the desk, spectacles half-way down his nose, Nelsen leaning over it as they studied a pile of papers.

  The alluring scent of fresh coffee nearly tempted Creed to pour himself a mug, but he decided food and drink could wait for his scheduled meeting with Anna Lynn Boyd. That afternoon, Mayor Cooper had confirmed the engagement and promised that El Cuarto Trasero, where Anna would treat him, was one of the best restaurants in the city, even better than the fine food at Anna’s own parlor. Creed needed a good meal after such a dull day. The clues seemed to have dried up entirely.

  “What have you learned?” Creed nodded at the notes that he, Nelsen, and their posse had taken. “Anything we’ve missed?”