Wild Cards and Iron Horses

by Sheryl Nantus

  Jon got to his feet, feeling that somehow he had just been disciplined. “That’s all I can ask, that you keep an eye on him.” He flinched inwardly as Robert crushed his hand with another firm handshake, much like his brother had done a few minutes ago.

  “May I ask what the item was that he was curious about?” William turned to one side, hitting the spittoon again without even touching the brass edges of the container. “Not to pry or anything, but just for the record, what’s so special ’bout this?”

  “My hand, as you can see, has need of some assistance.” After taking off the black glove, Jon rolled his fingers, one by one, up into a fist and then back down again. “Miss Weatherly was able to repair it.”

  William frowned, showing little surprise at the mechanical brace. “What, he don’t like clockwork things? I mean, I’ve heard tales of whole legs and arms made of these things. Lots of strange things coming out of those workshops these days.”

  “It’s a growing area of expertise.” Jon nodded. “Unfortunately, the war has only encouraged expansion and research in these areas.”

  Now it was Robert’s turn to shoot dark tobacco liquid across the floor. He wasn’t as accurate, nicking the edge of the stained metal container. “Let me give you a warning, sir, man to man, deputy to civilian. If you and Mr. Morton want to play out some sort of grudge between the two of you, you’re going to take it elsewhere, anywhere but here in town. Go out into the desert, head for the Free Nation, we don’t care. Just tell us where to send the undertaker.” His eyes locked with Jon’s. “But don’t take the law into your own hands while within city limits. All those stories you hear back East about vigilante justice are just that—

  stories. We’ve got a law here in Prosperity Ridge and it works just fine, so don’t go sticking your nose into trouble.”

  “I understand.” Jon bowed towards the two men. “I just want to make sure Miss Weatherly is safe.”

  William grinned, showing off a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “You and half the available men in this town, sir. Ain’t anyone wants anything to happen to Miss Sam. We’ll take care of her. You just take care of yourself and don’t worry about Victor Morton.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jon stepped out of the shack and back into the street. Gil walked out of a narrow alley, chewing on an apple core. “You spoke to Bill and Bob, then?”

  “Yes.” Jon started to move back towards Mrs. McGuire’s house, choosing his steps carefully due to the fading daylight. The gas lamps set at different intervals along the streets hadn’t been lit yet, and the dusk was already turning everything and everyone into various shades of grey. “They said that they would have a talk with Mr. Morton and protect Miss Sam.”

  The street urchin made a noise, something between a cough and a snort. “Yeah, they’ll do that. Just like they stopped Crazy Bill Cunningham from stabbing his missus. Told them he was going to do it and everything. Showed them the knife. They thought he was just drunk again, didn’t want to lock ’im up

  ’cause they wanted to go home to their own beds to sleep. Bob, he says to Cunningham to go home and sleep it off and he goes off and cuts her up bad ’nuff that they thought it was the Ripper.”

  Jon stopped so quickly that the youngster bounced off the backs of his legs, scrambling to keep his balance. “What?” The sense of security he had felt upon leaving the shack vanished in a puff of dark smoke. “They did what?”

  “They’re good fellas, don’t get me wrong.” Gil regained his balance, rocking on the balls of his feet.

  He tucked his hands into his pockets as if he’d planned the maneuver all along. “But they’re all talk and no action.”

  “Well, that’s all I can do.” Jon began to walk again, traveling a bit quicker. “I can’t just kill Victor Morton.”

  “Be a whole lot easier,” the small voice beside him groused.

  Jon couldn’t help grinning at the youthful wisdom. “That it might be, Gil, but I’ve no wish to spend the rest of my life behind bars. Or have that weight on my shoulders.” He patted Gil’s shoulder. “You’ll understand when you get older, but you cannot act on your emotions. It’ll only bring you trouble.” With a turn and a twist, he found himself heading for the Weatherly workshop, his feet leading where his heart needed to go. He’d left her not long ago, long enough for Victor to have his temper tantrum at the saloon.

  She should have gotten home by now, where it was safe and sound with her father and a plethora of tools to defend herself with. A last visit before turning in for the night would put his mind at ease, really. It was the polite thing to do.

  “Thought you were going home for dinner.” Gil’s words held a hint of laughter, as if he were suddenly wise beyond his young age. “Or are you lost again?”

  “A gentleman always checks on a lady to make sure she got home safe if he couldn’t accompany her there for some reason,” Jon weakly protested, seeing the smile spread across the urchin’s face. “Besides, I’m too full between the visit to the café and that teahouse that Sam took me to.” He stared at Gil. “What’s wrong?”

  The grin grew large enough to devour three raspberry tarts and two creampuffs. “She took you to the teahouse?” Gil whistled. “She must like you, sir. She don’t take anyone there, not since her father got hurt.

  He used to go there all the time with ’er, no one else.”

  Jon’s cheeks grew hot. “Well, it was just for a few minutes after we went to the bank.” He huffed as Gil beamed. “Are you coming to the workshop, or are you going to stand there grinning like a fool?”

  “Better a fool than a man in love, says I.” Gil laughed, falling into step beside him. “And that’s my wisdom for the day.”

  Jon chortled, playfully cuffing the boy on the side of his head. “You are, indeed, quite an interesting young man, Gil Grassfeathers.”

  Samantha tapped the electric light bulb set in the back wall with one finger, scowling. It flickered and then went out again, leaving the fireplace as the only source of light in the room. “This is intolerable.”

  “File another complaint with the Council.” Her father yawned. He poured himself his third cup of coffee from the metal pot before settling down in the armchair in front of the fireplace. The thick leather boots came off, along with a pair of dreary grey socks with holes ventilating the heels and toes. He stuffed them into the boots, glancing at Sam to see if she had spotted the torn socks. She had, but didn’t feel like pursuing it at the moment. “This coffee is at least three hours old. About to reach its peak of flavor, you know. Sure you don’t want another cup?”

  “Intolerable,” she repeated, continuing to tap on the thick glass bulb. “We pay our taxes. We shouldn’t have to worry about the electricity like this, even if they are still laying wire to the outer spokes.”

  “We also take much more from the grid than the average household, so I wouldn’t be mentioning it too much in public.” Her father shifted his weight, stretching his bare feet out and wriggling his toes. “Ah.

  Nothing like a bit of rest after a hard day.” He glanced at her. “You’ve been quiet since you came back.

  Everything went well at the bank, I hope.”

  “Yes, of course. Paid in full.” The small filament grew in brightness under her touch. “Paid in full, no problems,” she echoed.

  “And you went to the teahouse, I’m assuming, since you didn’t come straight back here and I know you like to visit Annette.” He watched the fire. “Interesting.”

  “Mr. Handleston is a valued customer. There’s no reason why I couldn’t show him a bit of hospitality before he leaves town,” Sam replied, feeling the lame words die on her tongue.

  “I didn’t say a word.” He held his hand up and smiled. “I’m sure Mr. Handleston was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Yes, yes he was.” Sam beamed as the bulb came to full power, adding to the other lights in the workshop. “Ah, there we go. He also included a bit extra in his payment, just so you know.”

&
nbsp; Her father’s eyes narrowed. “How much extra? And why?”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to put up her hands. She knew his temper and that he would have no qualms about hunting down Jon if he felt the Weatherly name and pride had been slighted. “He wanted to give us a bit more because of our fine work.” She waited a minute before continuing, letting the words settle in. “Jon also offered to give some good references if you wished to seek some sort of assistance.” Her gaze drifted to the loose sleeve, saving her the brutal words.

  “I’d hoped he was a good man.” A sudden softness appeared in her father’s eyes as he turned his attention back to the fire. “And I understand his eagerness to help out. But I don’t think I’m ready right now to consider that sort of accessory.” A grin crept across the older man’s face. “Ooh, maybe I can get a hook.” He held up his one good hand, pawing at the air. “I could be some sort of air pirate.”

  Sam giggled, feeling the tension ease away. “Oh yes. You’d be a terrifying air pirate, Father.

  Especially the part where you toss wrenches at your enemy.”

  “Arrgh, I would be.” Her father leaned forward in his chair, swiping at the empty air in front of him.

  “Tossing the wenches off the airship, left and right.”

  “Wenches?” Sam’s nose crinkled up.

  “Well, an air pirate never travels alone…” he chortled, “…and you know how women love pirates. I’d have my own entourage, I would.” He continued to jab the air, slicing through imaginary enemies. “And Gil could be my first mate, herding the wenches and wrenches on the side.”

  The two of them burst into fits of giggles. Her father rocked in front of the fire clutching his stomach while Sam leaned on the mantel for support, giggling uncontrollably. The effects of the “tea” hadn’t fully worn off yet, and the mental image of her father swinging from the lines of one of the pirate airships rumored to be running off the West Coast was too funny to contain.

  Finally he wiped tears from his eyes, gasping for air. “However, with the departure of Mr. Handleston, we need to focus now on more demanding projects.” The man nodded towards the shadowy figure in the corner. “That equimech is ready to go out for testing, but I don’t know if it’ll be as powerful as the engineers propose. The gearshift is a bit sticky.”

  “Well, their blueprints were horrible.” Sam dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I mean, the ratio was all off and I don’t know what they were thinking, other than arranging for the thing to break down on a routine basis, generating more work for the repair shop.”

  Her father tilted his head to one side. “You might have something there, Sam. It’s possible the original engineers could have been paid off to leave in problems in order for their associates to win the maintenance bids.” He waved his hand in the air again. “Bah! Listen to your old man talk. That’s what comes of reading all those stories in the paper about conspiracies and mysteries and the like.” His voice dwindled off as he peered behind them, towards the front door that now swayed open in the night air.

  Pulling his feet back from the fire, he stretched towards the worktable nearest to him. It was bare of all possible weapons, the crowbar tantalizingly out of reach in the brackets on the wall. Sam whipped around at her father’s motion, snatching up a thick piece of wood from the pile next to the fireplace. She squinted into the dim light, trying to make out the figure.

  “I don’t think so.” The familiar voice shocked the pair into silence. “And if either of you wish to survive this night, you’ll comply with my demands.” The rifle barrel poked out of the shadows, gesturing for Sam to drop the branch. “Now, I believe we have a conversation to finish and a deal to conclude.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Night in Prosperity Ridge was much like night on the battlefield, Jon mused. You had the same smoky lights in the distance, but you didn’t know if they were friendly or not. He squinted to see through the creeping darkness to the nearest street lamp. Even at night the air never seemed to clear, not enough to stop reminding him of London and the ever-present fog. The sputtering of the gas lamps matched the low hum of the public electrical lanterns usually attached to official-looking buildings.

  He had gotten lost again. Twice, to be precise, the street urchin snickering behind him as Jon tried to retrace his steps and correct his course. Finally he asked Gil to lead him to the Weatherly workshop, hoping his face wasn’t too red in the dying sunlight.

  For his part Gil hadn’t gloated too much. Especially after Jon offered him another coin to be silent.

  “We’re almost there,” Gil volunteered, his sure-footed steps leaving Jon a few feet behind as they came out of yet another alley. “Now I was thinking. I like cards and I figure that you—” He suddenly halted and flung out his arm, catching Jon across the midriff. “Somethin’s wrong.”

  Jon stopped, a curse on his lips that died when he spotted the front door swinging open again. “Go get the sheriff,” he croaked, “right now.”

  “Sheriff’s—”

  “Get somebody.” Jon’s hiss startled Gil almost as much as himself. “Get a bobby, get a deputy, just get someone here now.” He slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket. The two-round derringer was cold to the touch, even through the gloves. It was like the past few hours hadn’t happened, that he was caught in some sort of vicious cycle that kept bringing him back to this door and Victor Morton’s threats.

  Gil disappeared into the shadows as Jon moved towards the door, picking each step with care. In his mind’s eye he replayed the earlier encounter with Morton. His finger tightened on the trigger. This time he wasn’t going to let the man just walk away. This time he couldn’t afford to let Morton continue to harass and terrify this innocent family. This time was going to be the last, one way or another.

  The heavy oak door stayed still as he pressed his right hand against it, his light touch not enough to send it crashing back. Inside he saw the faint light of a fire threatening to go out and the small but steady hum of a handful of electric lamps around the shop. Shadows bounced around the walls, feeding his imagination. Was Victor in a corner, waiting to attack anyone who entered? Was he armed with something more than just a sword cane? Was he alone?

  Some of the Southern officers bragged about being able to slice a hair from a man’s head with their swords, claiming it as proof of their superior character. Some of the Southern officers argued that swords were of the past, the future being the metal monsters and hardware that held the power, most of which were on the Northern side. They carried pistols and cursed the rain and laughed at those who put their faith in a cold piece of steel. Some of them died horrible deaths, swords in lifeless hands plowed under rolling steel boxes that never halted their advance. Some had lived, cleaning their blades first on the grass around them before striding back to the campfires, bleary-eyed and in shock.

  Jon now wished for such a blade in his hand. With only two bullets in the derringer, and those being of limited stopping power, he would have to move fast to take out his enemy. If only he had a sword to accompany his weapon.

  His left hand shook slightly as he moved around the edge of the door, the pistol leading the way into the workshop. His right hand rolled into a fist, tensing to throw the best punch possible.

  The breath caught in his throat as he stepped through the opening, getting a full view of the room.

  Jake Weatherly lay on his stomach, his swollen face pressed to the ground. His good arm lay twisted around to his back in an awkward position. The thick rope holding it tight pulled the older man’s feet up towards his back, reminding Jon of a hogtied calf. He looked up at the gambler, wheezing through a rag stuffed in his mouth and kicking feebly at the knots holding him. Nearby a broken ceramic mug had dribbled the last few drops of coffee onto the floor, a few inches away from two overturned chairs.

  “Oh God.” Dropping to one knee, Jon put the derringer carefully to the side, making sure the barrel pointed away from the man.

  Jake bli
nked through a bloody and puffy eye, wincing as Jon pulled the rag free. “Thank you,” he panted, sucking in mouthfuls of air. “Sam…”

  “Gil’s getting help. Let me get this off of you.” Jon fumbled with the knots, the coarse rope hard to untangle even with two hands. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just my pride,” the older man croaked, moving into a sitting position as the ropes fell away. “If you could rub my arm for a second, please. It’s gone numb.” He fell against Jon’s chest with a strangled moan.

  “Oh Lord…”

  Jon massaged the arm for a minute, seeing the relief and pain in Jake’s face as the blood began to circulate again. “Was it Morton? Where’s Sam?”

  “That bastard.” Spittle flew across the room from Weatherly’s mouth, a trace running down his chin into the white whiskers. “He said that we knew the secret of your hand and were holding out for more money.” A coughing fit overtook the man, and he leaned forward, spitting a dark liquid onto the floor.

  Jon drew in a deep breath, trying to remember the remedial medical knowledge he had picked up.

  There was too much blood, too much… The acidic tang of tobacco caught in his nose. It wasn’t blood, thank God. Jake coughed again, splattering the floor with chunks of chewing tobacco, confirming his diagnosis.

  “He still thinks there’s something we know. Took Sam by the arm and said he’d get the truth out of her, one way or another.” A new set of curses broke free as he got to his feet, leaning heavily on Jon for support. “He’s a madman, I tell you. A madman.”