Wild Cards and Iron Horses

by Sheryl Nantus

  “I know you’re good, but you’re not that good,” her father said softly. “You can’t rebuild it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” She looked down at the pieces. “But you can’t blame me for trying.”

  He nodded, hugging her close. “Girl, you’re more of an engineer than I’ll ever be. Let’s get back to town and see how your boyfriend is doing.”

  She stiffened just slightly in his grip. “Boyfriend?”

  “Well, isn’t he?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or are you suddenly letting every man kiss you like that?”

  The airship captain let out a cough and turned away, yelling at the grinning crew to start climbing back aboard. The men scurried up the rope ladder.

  Heat rose in her cheeks. “Father…” She tried and failed miserably to look insulted, a wide smile spreading across her face.

  “Let’s get aboard and find a bit o’ privacy before we get started. Although I do want you to know that I do like the boy…” her father laughed, “…he’s got quite the fighting spirit in him.”

  The captain gestured to someone in the gondola at the front of the airship. A low platform with chain-link walls appeared from the side of the airship, lowering not far from where the couple stood. The captain turned towards the two. “If you please?” He waved at the metal basket. “We’re not going to make you scramble up a ladder.”

  Her father let out a chuckle, striding towards the platform. “At least we’re going to travel in style.”

  Sam nodded, pocketing the last bits of the brace. As she walked to the waiting transport she couldn’t help but check around her one last time for any remaining pieces. In her heart she knew reconstructing the brace would be impossible, but she had to at least gather up the remains. Looking towards the horizon, she wondered how the town would welcome both hero and machine.

  There weren’t many people walking around Prosperity Ridge so early in the morning, but those who were scattered in all directions as the equimech burst through the streets. It spewed steam that cut through the muggy fog, the wheels sending up clots of dirt that struck more than one curious bystander. Jon laughed as he pulled back on the control stick, thinking that he must look like a madman riding into town on a hell-spawned creature, shirtless and all. He’d already seen a few scarlet glares tossed his way.

  The small crowd in front of Deadeye’s Dodge splintered up the center when he slowed the beast to a crawl. It rolled up to the swinging doors with a burst of steam, the weary beast giving one last gurgle and screech of gears and liquid before sliding into rest mode. A few older cowboys shook their heads and stared at the ground while the children gathered around the creature, poking at it with sticks, or for those braver, their fingers.

  Hopping off the equimech, Jon tossed a coin to the largest of the street children. “Watch it until Jake Weatherly shows up for it.” He didn’t fear the construct being stolen. The last vestiges of energy had been spent getting him there. The dials on the animal’s neck showed low water levels and low pressure. And no one person could drag that heavy beast around without help. The equimech was done for the day, there was no question about that. Now the question was if Jon was as well.

  He pointed at another urchin. “You there.”

  The young boy stepped forward. The sullen look changed to one of curiosity as he studied the bare-chested man.

  “Here.” He reached into his pocket, finding a stray coin that had avoided being lost. “Go over to Mrs.

  McGuire’s and tell her that Jon Handleston needs a spare shirt. I’ll give you another one after the game if you make it back within the half-hour.”

  The blond youngster nodded enthusiastically before disappearing into the crowd.

  The first bell rang from inside the saloon, calling the tournament players to their tables and for the spectators to give way for the professional gamblers. Jon stood up as straight as his aching back would let him. His day was just starting. The weariness of the chase and the fight suddenly fell onto his shoulders, giving him pause. He hadn’t slept for over a day and had done so much. Could he possibly go for up to eight hours more of poker?

  An image of Samantha came to mind. He looked down at the crippled hand lying limp at his side.

  Yes, he could do this. For her. And for Sotherly.

  He strode into the building with a broad smile. “So, where’s my seat?” Jon lifted his bare arms, noting the whispering from the showgirls and disapproving looks from the other gamblers. “And, as you can see, I have nothing up my sleeve.” The joke brought laughs from the spectators, settling the tension in the room.

  Odder things had been seen in Prosperity Ridge, and now this was just one more tale to add to the book.

  Jon just hoped his tale would have a happy ending.

  Standing on a table near the crowded bar, Mr. Tribiolte gave a sigh of relief. One of his hands rested on the rope attached to the bright brass bell which signaled the start of the tournament, the other wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. His voice boomed out over the crowded room.

  “Jonathan Handleston, folks! Jon Handleston!” He gave a sideways glance at the chalkboard set over the bar and then his attention went back to Jon. “Table three, sir. Table three and Godspeed.” He rang the bell. “I pronounce the Ridge Rocket Stakes to be officially begun.”

  Jon strode through the crowd, ignoring the snide remarks and more than one perfumed hand reaching out to touch his bare skin. Sitting down at the round table, he nodded at the three other players and the dealer. “Gentlemen, let’s have us a game.” His limp right hand landed hard on the green velvet tablecloth.

  He laughed, feeling a bit lightheaded as the first cards began to fly. It was a good day to have the odds in his favor, and he’d already won the biggest prize of all—a woman’s heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jon looked at the thin cardboard cards in his hand. Two aces, a jack and two tens. Across the table sat the one remaining player for this round, a youngster with more luck than common sense. The redheaded kid laughed, slapping the ample behind of one of the showgirls. She giggled and then ducked out of range.

  “I’m going to take this round and then take your crown, Handleston,” Billy Luger sneered. “The only rookie they’re going to remember here is going to be me.”

  Jon nodded, watching the kid’s hands. His left little finger twitched, tapping out a rhythm on the table.

  “Yankee Doodle Dandy”, to be precise. For only the second time this game.

  And that’s all he needed to know.

  Pushing all of his remaining chips into the center of the table, Jon smiled. “Raise you all I have.

  About three hundred, I figure.”

  A gasp went up from the table, sucking attention away from the other finalists’ play. Spectators shuffled around, peering over shoulders and heads to see the latest upheaval.

  Luger looked at his hand then down at the pile of chips in front of him, which were almost equal to Jon’s. “You’ve got a lot of balls to toss that my way.” His yellowed front teeth sucked up his lower lip, chewing on a flap of loose skin.

  “Well, you know—put up or shut up.” Jon pulled his right hand off the table and rubbed the palm against his thigh.

  The kid tossed all his chips into the center of the table. The roughly circular pieces of wood slid to one side. “I call.” Leaning back in his chair, he waited with a smirk.

  Jon flipped over his cards with a quick snap of his wrist, tossing them atop the stack of chips. “Two pairs. Aces and tens.”

  Luger’s finger stopped tapping. He glanced at the upturned cards and then down at his own. The left side of his mouth twitched for a second before he threw his hand down with a snarl.

  A pair of jacks.

  Amidst the applause, Jon gathered the last of the pot, sealing his victory. He let a smile escape as he focused on the chips, nodding politely to the other player.

  Luger got to his feet, a dour look on his face. He shoved away the woman at h
is side and glared at Handleston.

  “Damned lucky,” he snarled. Luger drove his way through the spectators.

  “Damned good,” Jon said quietly, stacking up his chips. His palm began to ache, then sharp pains started shooting up his arm. As the crowd moved on to see the end of the other round, he brought up his hand and laid it flat on the table, inspecting it.

  A few cuts and bruises, mostly at the joints where the bands tore free, but nothing that explained the throbbing that came and went without warning. The doctors had warned him that he could experience the mysterious pain for years—one of their reasons for suggesting amputation.

  He pulled the fingers up, rolling them into a fist with the assistance of his good hand. The limp fingers fell back when he released them, flapping onto the green velvet with a sickening sound. What could he do if he weren’t playing cards? What skills could he offer a potential employer, much less a potential wife?

  A roar went up from the crowd gathered at the other table. Pushing the hand down into his lap, Jon closed his eyes, feeling the weariness threatening to overwhelm him. The initial rush of excitement from the chase, the rescue, even the ride back—it was all gone, replaced partially by the thrill of the tournament.

  Now it was just one more game. He wondered where the Weatherlys were, if they’d arrived back in town yet. And if Sam would come see him, or if she had changed her mind about being associated with a gambling man.

  Sam emerged from her room, her long hair neatly tied up in a bun at the back of her head. A cream-colored blouse sat on her shoulders, the edges tucked into the top of her long skirt. A pair of black boots completed her outfit, and she walked out carrying the dark brown duster in her arms. The bump on the side of her head had shrunk from the size of a billiard ball to a marble, although it still throbbed like a demon.

  “Father, I’m ready to…” Her voice faded away as she stared at the two strange men standing in the middle of the workshop talking to her father. She approached them warily, her gaze darting around the room seeking any dangers. A day ago she wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but that was then and this was now.

  “Gentlemen, my daughter, Samantha.” Her father stepped away from the pair, beaming while he waved his hand towards her. A curt nod confirmed that she had nothing to fear from these visitors.

  The two gentlemen doffed their bowlers, nodding politely. The first was an older man about her father’s age with long, pale grey hair. The second was in the same age group, with a thick bushy white moustache that she remembered reading in the papers was all the rage back East. Both were dressed fashionably with matching jackets and waistcoats, their boots and pants amazingly mud and tobacco free.

  All eyes landed on Samantha, the two men inspecting the younger Weatherly. She shuffled her feet, feeling very self-conscious. It wasn’t as though she was on display for the young men of the town, like her first horrible dance. It was as if she was a fine piece of machinery, being inspected to see how hard she could work.

  A banging came on the front door. Sam jumped back a foot, one hand reaching for a weapon, any weapon. Her father scrambled towards the noise, putting his hand up.

  “Don’t worry—it’s just Gil with our delivery.” After unlatching the main door, he went about unlocking the second door beside it, creating a larger opening into the street. Her father kept talking as he yanked up the thick iron bolts holding the doors closed. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at this morning exhibition.”

  A small, shrill voice came from outside, matched with an odd, grinding noise as if a boulder was being dragged across the ground. Sam flinched at the sound.

  “Ah, Gil.” Her father beamed as the urchin appeared around the corner of one of the open doors. “Just pull that one, yes…” He took a step back, waving at the opening with a dramatic flourish. “Gentlemen, your equimech.”

  The young boy stepped in, standing tall and proud. A wide grin flashed across his face when he motioned behind him to his unseen company. “Bring ’er in, boys.”

  He stepped out of the way as four beefy workmen strode in. The thick ropes tied to the sides of the beast groaned at the weight while they dragged it through the door. In a few minutes they had shoved the machine back into the far corner. The wheels whined at the effort, but still spun cleanly and easily, allowing them to maneuver it into its original resting spot.

  Samantha flinched at the iron horse’s appearance. The once-shiny copper sheets that covered the majority of the body were stained with mud, dirt and more than a little horse manure, giving it a definite equine aroma. Nothing had actually been torn off the beast during the rough ride back to town, but it was definitely not the pristine creation she had hoped to show off to the businessmen.

  Her father flipped a few coins to the men, who rapidly disappeared from sight. He nodded to Gil.

  “Thank you for your help in getting this back here.”

  Gil smiled, giving Sam a sideways glance. “He’s playing and winning. I’ll see you at the saloon.”

  The urchin sped out of sight before Sam could respond, her face growing red as she met the curious stares of the two businessmen.

  “Anyway, gentlemen…” Her father walked over to the immobile machine. He pulled a panel open to show the delicate innards. “As you can see, it survived the test run with flying colors.” He picked up a small set of tweezers from the worktable and reached inside as the two men moved closer. “We adjusted the gears just a bit, but I think you’ll agree that the productivity increase was well worth it.”

  Samantha let out a sigh as her father launched into more details about how they had modified the beast, pointing out with tact where the original plans needed modification and how the equimech was obviously a much better horse for it. Finally he fell silent, letting the two men digest the information he had tossed at them.

  The two men moved closer, inspecting the machine themselves as her father backed off.

  “Excuse us for a minute.” The older man peered inside at the dark interior. The second man withdrew a small notepad and pen and started scribbling notes as the first mumbled comments.

  Her father nodded to Samantha, moving towards the open doors. She joined him in closing and locking the double doors again, coughing only slightly in the morning mist and fog that was already creeping in along the workshop floor. Turning around, they waited for the inspection to finish.

  The clean-shaven man poked a finger at the dials, muttering to his mustached friend who jotted numbers down with a steady hand. Walking around to the back, both men flipped up the thick horsehair tail that had been added to give the beast some semblance of normality, and glared at the exhaust port. Another circuit around the beast split up the two men, one inspecting the wood and steel wheels while the other studied the control stick intently, jiggling it experimentally from side to side. Sam rocked on her heels, ignoring the warning looks from her father to calm down.

  Finally the first man turned towards the pair. “And your daughter did most of the work? You don’t have an apprentice?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll not deny it. She’s a mighty fine engineer and mechanic and I’m proud to have it run in the family.” Her father glanced at the closed doors. “I’ve considered taking on an apprentice, yes, sir.” His left hand came up to rub his chin. “As you can see, I’m a bit short-handed at present.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  The second man frantically scribbled on a notepad as the man walked around the equimech again.

  Sam frowned, taking a closer look at the man who stood near her filling page after page with notations. His white moustache twitched once, twice as the pen jumped across the page.

  “How is she?” Sam asked.

  He blissfully ignored her, turning his attention to the other inspector.

  She glanced at the other man, now partially hidden as he poked his head inside the beast. Sam cleared her throat.

  “My father did tell you that he lost his arm repairing this machine, did he not?�
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  The note-taker’s hand paused for a second and then continued taking notes. The businessman stood up, looking at her as if she had materialized out of nowhere.

  “We received the news. Unfortunate accident.”

  Sam stepped forward, pressing the point. “I would submit, sir, that you consider our redesign of the gear mechanism. That’s what he got caught in, and that’s what we fixed.” She motioned at her father, whose scarlet face showed his annoyance with her speech. “I’m willing to bet that if you keep the original design, you’ll have many more accidents like this happen to your employees.”

  His eyebrows rose as he turned to look at her straight on. “Really? And you think you can design a better machine than our experts?”

  “Yes, yes I do,” she shot back. The last thing she liked to do was get into an argument with a customer, but she had to speak up. Not only for her father but for all the other engineers who would be working on these machines. “And if you wish us to maintain such creatures, I suggest you include better instructions. As it was, we had to rewrite a majority of the blueprints to increase their efficiency and safety.”

  “Really?” The older man frowned, tugging at his pale gray ponytail. “That’s most interesting. Let me see them.” He glanced over at his companion, who shrugged in response.

  Her father leapt in, taking control of the situation back from Samantha. “They’re over here, Mr. Smithston, sir.” He pointed at the far worktable. “Let me show you the originals and our modifications.”

  As the two men moved off, Samantha peered again at the man taking notes. He glanced at her from over his spectacles and gave a wistful smile before turning away so that she couldn’t see his notes.

  Silence followed for a few minutes as they studied the blueprints. Sam held back an impatient sigh, thinking of Jon and the tournament. Finally one of the representatives spoke.

  “These changes are…impressive.” The businessman walked back to the equimech, tapping his chin with his index finger. “I must admit that our own designers never thought of such things.”