“Gil, you are a never-ending source of interesting, if not at times depressing facts.” He motioned him onwards. “But I’ll keep looking for a campfire, if you don’t mind.”
The young boy frowned, stopping again. He leaned over and studied the indentations in the dirt. “He was running the horse hard. Not good, not with that horse. Guy sold him a horse with only three horseshoes. Easy as pie to track.”
“Well, that’s some good news at least. I’ll assume that the rescue party will be as adept at finding it as you have been.” Jon walked on. He undid the buttons at the top of his white shirt, inhaling the clean night air. The black gloves were next, tucked into his back pocket as he kept moving. Looking down at his right hand, Jon curled his fingers into a fist. The metal bands sparkled in the moonlight. He held up his hand, studying the little finger and the spot where the spring had disappeared from, now sealed. Something so small, and yet the lack of it had created so much trouble.
Gil ignored him, moving along the trail. Jon found his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He could pick out the boulders scattered haphazardly around them, the sagebrush no longer a set of threatening fingers pointed at him.
“It is lovely out here.”
“Aye.” Gil smiled. “I come out here once in a while, sleep away from all the noise.” He stopped and looked back towards the lit skyline, the only sign of civilization diminishing with each step they took farther into the wilderness. “The gangs, they don’t like you staying in any spot for too long without joining up with them. So I sleep out here and stay safe.”
“With all the snakes and that?” Jon replied. “I’d feel safer in a proper brick house, thank you very much.”
Gil cocked his head to one side, a smile touching the young boy’s lips. “And that is why you’re not an Injun, sir. We’re of the land, not trying to conquer it like you is.”
He nodded. “Yes, Gil, but don’t forget how technology can serve mankind. It’s done a lot of good which I hope outweighs the bad.”
The youngster shrugged. “I ain’t that much of a thinker.” He stopped abruptly and grinned, lifting his right hand to point at the distant horizon to their left. “But I am a damned good tracker. Over there.”
Jon frowned, staring into the darkness. “I don’t see anything.”
“That’s ’cause you’re not looking. Look, sir.” The young hand waved in front of his face, flashing light and dark in the shadows. “Look.” The commanding voice startled Jon, the words of experience forcing him to concentrate.
Squinting hard, he stared into the desert night sky, focusing on where the boy’s hand led. There, a faint flicker against the darkness, a flame. If he blinked he’d lose sight of it; if he’d looked a few inches to each side, it would have been impossible for him to see the dim illumination.
“Good Lord,” Jon whispered.
“No, Good Gil.” Gil thumped his chest with a fist. “Now we’re going to save Miss Sam.” He turned around. “You brought a gun, right?”
Jon touched the pocket where the derringer sat. “Yes.”
Gil shook his head, a disapproving scowl on his face. “Oh, that’s not going to be enough to stop him.
No, no, not going to be enough. I thought you had one of those six-shooters hidden somewhere, or maybe your hand there changed into a saw or a hook or something. That ain’t gonna be enough to save Miss Sam.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be.” Jon moved towards the distant light, stepping confidently across the rough ground. “I’m not going to have Victor’s blood on my hands unless I absolutely have to.”
“I bet he won’t mind having yours on his,” Gil mumbled, racing to catch up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You, Miss Weatherly, are one of the most difficult women I’ve ever had to deal with.”
Victor stepped back, looking down at her. The new bindings were tighter than before and Sam felt her hands already going numb, her fingers limp and useless. She was in the wagon now, lying on her side. Her head ached, both from the initial hit that had knocked her out, and now from Victor’s rough handling. He had only cuffed her about the ears a few times, but it was more than enough to make her dizzy, unable to fight back as he bundled her into the wagon and restrained her.
“You are lucky that I do not do more to you, woman.” Victor leaned in. “A less scrupulous man would have taken his delights and left you to die.” He sneered, his upper lip curling into his moustache.
“A less scrupulous man wouldn’t be so scared of a mechanical hand,” she shot back, spittle flying from her lips.
Victor reared back, his right hand rising to hit her again. Samantha braced for the impact, closing her eyes.
The horse neighed, stepping forward and rocking the wagon. Victor reached over Sam to grab the reins.
“Stupid beast!” He cursed, climbing into the front seat. A short jump had him on the ground. Sam listened to him continue swearing as he smashed his fist into the side of the horse’s head, sending the beast skittering to one side. The wagon shook with the gambler’s rage, pitching her back and forth.
She drew a deep breath, forcing down another bout of nausea. If she had just been a little stronger, more able to damage Victor, to knock him out completely… Her conscience pointed out that she hadn’t meant to kill the man, even if he was a scoundrel. Even at her worst she couldn’t bring herself to inflict such pain on another human being, much less kill one. Unfortunately Victor didn’t seem to hold the same beliefs as he stomped around the fire, yelling at shadows and cursing the moon, her, the horse, and Jon in that order.
Unbidden, the blueprints of Jon’s brace swam into her mind, the diagrams spinning as she tried to see if there was anything she had omitted. Some small gear, some little thing that she had passed over intentionally or unintentionally, neglected because of her attraction to the man. The logical part took over, rotating the image around and around, trying to see any possible aberration that could exist. If she was going to perish for this beautiful invention, she could at least be honest with herself about the exoskeleton and die with a clear conscience.
And yet, nothing. Nothing at all special about the brace, not through her physical inspection and repairs to the device or her mental evaluation of the blueprints. The only thing special about it was the man it belonged to.
Her thoughts went to Jon and the danger she had inadvertently put him in. If he lost the money he had spent securing a spot for this tournament, if he failed in his quest, how would he feel about her?
“Bitch!” Victor roared, out of sight. “If I have a scar from this cut, I’m going to take it out of your hide.”
Sam rolled her eyes. She wasn’t worried about the lump on the side of her head, now was she? And here he was all yelling and upset about not looking too good for the ladies, when everyone knew a scar always came with a story and usually a good one, if not a true one.
Suddenly a youthful face popped up over the edge of the wagon. Sam began to scream, stifling it at the last second.
“Miss Sam!” Gil grinned, scrambling into the back and lying down beside her. “We’ve come to save you!”
Jon crept around the edge of the small clearing, his eyes on Victor. The older man sat on a large rock by the campfire, the repeating rifle across his lap. He lit another cigarette with a smoldering twig, coughing as he drew on the narrow tobacco stick. A fresh wound on the side of his head trickled blood down over his cheek, already smeared over his skin with Victor’s vain attempts to clean it up. The horse stood nearby, still harnessed to the wagon.
The derringer was heavy in his left hand. He dared not fire it with his right. Even with the repaired brace, there was a possibility of the bullets going wild with his diminished control. Jon began to creep towards the man, using the shadows as much as possible to hide. If he could get close enough, if he was lucky enough, he could achieve total surprise and the entire situation would be over and done with in a matter of minutes without any violence. But if there were
to be violence, he would do whatever it took to save Samantha.
His mother’s words came back to him, their last conversation before he left for the war with his father.
“Don’t be goaded into a duel for a woman’s hand,” she had said. “It doesn’t take that much to die for a woman. It takes a lot to live for a woman.” Her words had burned into his memory. “Find a woman to live for.”
Samantha Weatherly was a woman to live for.
Victor dabbed at the side of his face with a damp handkerchief, cleaning off more of the blood. He stared down at the scarlet stains, muttering a curse. After folding the rag, he tucked it into a pocket. He turned towards the wagon, shuffling his position on the rock with an annoyed grunt.
Jon grimaced. He’d been waiting for a sign from Gil that the boy had gotten Sam free from the wagon and to safety before dealing with Victor.
Victor looked up just in time to see Sam’s head pop up from the back, followed by Gil’s dark mop.
Jon ran into the clearing, spinning the derringer in his left hand as he charged at Victor. He let out a roar, his own version of the battle cry he’d heard so many times on the battlefield. The cool metal pressed into the palm of his hand, the pearl-handled grip now the aggressor.
The older man spun around to stare at Jon, his eyes wide with confusion. He glanced at Jon, then back at the wagon, frantically grabbing at the rifle’s trigger. The rifle still sat on his lap, the barrel horizontal and pointed in the general direction of the wagon.
“No!” Jon crossed the twenty-odd feet to Victor in seconds, slamming the ivory-white butt of the pistol into the man’s head with all his strength, crashing into the right temple. The skin split open easily, matching the gaping wound on Morton’s left side.
Victor’s eyes rolled up into his head. He slid sideways onto the ground, the rifle still in his hands. His finger tightened on the trigger reflexively.
The bullet went wide of the wagon, spiraling into the night sky with a sharp shout that echoed in the darkness.
The horse reared up with a whinny and a snort of fear. The reins pulled free, releasing the mare. Gil fell to the ground from the wagon, barely rolling clear of the flailing hooves. The wagon bounced away behind the startled creature as it fled the scene.
“Son of a bitch!” Jon looked down at the unconscious man and snatched up the rifle from the ground.
He pushed the derringer back into his waistcoat pocket. “Gil! Gil!”
“I’m fine.” The call came from a dense pile of brush to one side. “Get the wagon. Miss Sam’s not got the reins yet.”
The wagon bounced along the rough ground as Sam reached for the leather straps tantalizingly just out of reach. The horse lurched to the left, sending her sliding along the wooden seat as the wagon spun in a tight circle. The reins danced under the terrified horse’s hooves, twisting around the rest of the harness.
Grabbing the wooden brake set on the side of the wagon, Sam yanked it back with all her remaining strength. The wood screamed as it forced the concrete pad against the wheel with a high-pitched scream.
The various wooden beams under the buckboard flinched and trembled at the effort, the entire structure shaking.
The brake snapped with an ominous crack, the wooden lever in her hand giving way with ease.
Yanking the stick up, Sam stared at the jagged edges. The wood was rotten, eaten through with mold and age. She let out a loud curse mixed with a yell as she tossed the remainder of the stick away, turning her attention to the runaway horse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Gil, get the horse!” Jon sprinted towards the buckboard, shocked to see the wooden carriage suddenly change course. The horse was now charging directly at the street urchin. Jon glanced at the rifle in his hands, mentally calculating the odds that he could shoot the horse dead without hitting Sam. His fingers twitched around the wooden stock, giving him the answer. He knew when the odds were against him.
Tossing the rifle to the ground, he ran as fast as he could towards the wagon.
Gil leapt at the mare as she passed close by, grabbing for the horse’s bridle despite the threat of being run over or trampled. His hands brushed against the slick, sweaty horse’s withers before he fell back, somersaulting back into the dirt away from the wagon wheels.
Jon was now running alongside the wagon, his strength waning with every step. Sam glanced down at him, a mixture of relief and fear in her eyes. The leather straps hung down from the horse’s back, spinning in the dust.
The horse bucked, twisting in the harness. The rotten leather gave way, sending even more stress on the wooden tongue holding the mare to the wagon.
Jon took a deep breath and jumped with the last of his energy, catching the edges of the wagon. His feet dragged along the ground, the bouncing and jarring sending shockwaves up his legs as the wagon bucked and bolted, trying to throw him free. His fingernails scrabbled to get a grip, splinters digging under the finely manicured creations and tearing through his flesh.
A pair of firm hands took hold of his shoulders, one snaffling his belt in an almost intimate way, the other bunching the shirt and waistcoat at the center of his back and dragging him into the wagon bed. Jon grunted as he landed face-first and rolled to his right side. The brace dug into his skin with a terrifying screech of metal on metal. He gritted his teeth at the shock, forcing his eyes open.
Sam stared at him, their noses almost touching. Her blouse was torn and stained, the blonde ponytail long since destroyed and the tresses now flying free in the air. The remains of the ropes that had bound her hands and legs lay in the bottom of the wagon. She took hold of his hands, pulling him into a sitting position.
“About time you showed up,” Sam gasped. “Victor’s not much fun to talk to.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” Jon coughed out in reply. “He’s probably not as much fun to undress as I am.”
The horse stumbled and almost fell as they headed down a hill, now far from the small clearing. The panicked animal turned a sharp left, then right. The wooden tongue at the front of the wagon gave a loud snap and shattered, freeing horse from wagon. The mare spun left and galloped off into the darkness, the discarded reins dragging in the dirt behind it.
Jon held Sam around the waist, steadying both of them as the out-of-control wagon continued to pick up speed, rushing down the hill.
“Can we jump?” Samantha yelled, her voice torn away in the rushing air.
He shook his head. “Too fast!” Jon gave a nod towards the ground speeding by them. “We’ll never make it!” His right hand found hers, squeezing it tight. “We’ll just have to wait for it to slow down and pick the right time to jump. I’m betting it won’t take long.”
“Jon!” Samantha caught his arm, staring ahead of the wagon. He turned his attention from the ground rushing by them to look up. The red and yellow hues in the sky signaled dawn’s arrival, only a few minutes away. The full moon still hung high in the sky, but now mixed its own illumination with that of the rising sun to give them a better view of the terrain they were racing over.
Now they could clearly see the deep gouge in the earth only a few minutes away from them.
The crevasse ran across the ground like a jagged scar on a soldier’s face, the rough edges disappearing into dark shadows that not even the mixture of moonlight and sunlight could reveal.
Jon looked down at the wheels spinning faster and faster as they bounced along the rough ground.
There was no sign of any slowing down, not in time to avoid going over the edge. Jumping would definitely result in serious injuries if not death, and there was no chance of medical assistance arriving in time. Without some way of braking, the wagon was sure to keep going on its destructive course. There was only one thing he could do and it still might not work, but it was better than doing nothing.
“Follow me.” Grabbing her hand, he led her into the back of the buckboard.
“When it’s slow enough, jump,” Jon yelled. �
�Tuck yourself into a ball and roll when you hit the ground.”
“What are you going to do?” Sam shouted back, not letting go of his hand.
“This!” Jon slammed his right hand down against the remains of the brake system, directly pushing the brake pad against the wheel.
The concrete pad screamed as it came in contact with the spinning wheel, sparks flying as he increased the pressure. Jon gritted his teeth as the smell of burning wood filled his nostrils. He prayed that it wouldn’t actually catch fire and make their situation worse. The metal brace around his hand molded itself to the curvature of the brake, shielding his hand from the sparks and wood splinters flying up. He wished that the brace gave him extra strength, but all it could do was provide the framework for his efforts.
A loud buzzing noise filled his ears as he continued to press against the wheel. The wagon seemed to be slowing down, but he knew there was no way they could stop in time. The best he could hope for was to push the odds in their favor when they had to jump.
A shudder ran through his arm, a sharp yank pulling him forward with such strength that he instinctively began to pull back, away from the mangled brake and wheel. Jon looked down, letting out a moan when he saw what had happened.
His hand had slipped a fraction of an inch forward.
Jon’s fingers were now curving over the top of the concrete block, the result of a minute shift with the bouncing of the wagon over the rough terrain, and now the brace itself was trapped between the brake pad and the wheel, the metal frame grinding against the wooden wheel. A swift tug showed the futility of trying to pull free. If he did pull away, it would mean certain death for the two of them. He let out another cry, trying to steel himself against the pain.
The metal fingers sparked and flared bright in the dying moonlight, now caught in a horrible ménage a trois between the brake pad and the wooden wheel, which was dragging Jon’s hand down.
Wild Cards and Iron Horses Page 19