“You don’t want to know,” Teagun said and hesitated with rare indecision. He made a small, negating shake of his head, and instead of answering, went to rummage in his chest of goodies, finally pulling out a Glock 9mm.
Now, if there are any words sure to convince me of just the opposite, he’d just used them. “You’re probably right,” I conceded. “But I guess you’d better tell me anyway.”
Instead, he tried to push the Glock into my hands, pointing out what he thought was a problem with the gun. When that didn’t work, he said, “I didn’t bring you here to tell you a history of the world or list the inventions from the last fifty years. I brought you here to work on guns.”
I pushed the pistol aside. “No, you didn’t. If that’s all you needed, you could’ve brought the gun to me at the same time you brought the Weatherby. Or later, like when you kidnapped me. And that’s something else. I want to know how you can hop back and forth in time the way you do.”
“You mean you can’t?” he asked, intent, I’m sure, on diverting me.
“If I could,” I told him, “as you can damn well guess, I wouldn’t be spending another minute here. I’d have gone someplace where you weren’t able to find me. Until the coast was clear, anyway, and I was free to go home.”
“But if you can’t, how do you—” he started, but I interrupted him.
“Cut the crap, Teagun. What is this thing?” I shook the coiled wire in his face.
“Besides some kind of weapon? Nasty, I expect.”
He yanked his head away. “Very nasty,” he agreed, and mumbled, “It’s a garrote light whip.”
“A what?”
“A garrote light whip,” he said, louder this time, each word distinct. He must have decided this was a better subject than the one of hopping through time.
I knew what a garrote is. What it does. Not my weapon of choice, either from the dishing out or the taking end of things. And this one?
“Whip?” I asked. “Light?”
His jaw clenched hard enough for his dimple to flash, though not in a smile. Far from it. Snatching the object from me with an air of distaste, with obvious reluctance he pressed a flat button in the end of the rubbery handle. To my astonishment, the wire lit, pulsing red and gold. He allowed the wire to drop free of the coil, then with a smooth, quick flick of his wrist, the wire lashed out and curled around the remains of the sage branch.
There was a soft popping sound, multi-color sparks flew briefly, and once more, the sage splintered into two parts. A little jerk and the wire came free. With Teagun’s next motion, the light went out and the wire coiled itself into his hand once more, ready for another round.
I still didn’t understand. “So, it cuts sagebrush into firewood. What else?”
His face bleak, he turned off the red light. Slowly, gently, and by hand, he curled the wire around my neck. I felt my eyes going wide. Teagun’s mouth twisted.
“If I were to turn this on,” he said, almost whispering, “and poured on the power, your head would come off and go rolling away.”
My hand flew up to tug frantically at the wire encircling my throat.
“If a man or woman is practiced enough with the whip, they can flagellate a body with such precision the flesh is cut away in strips, pick the bones as clean as a vulture or an oscillator knife.” His wrist twisted. The wire dropped from my neck.
With unexpected violence, he threw the wire, the garrote light whip, as far and as hard as he could into the rocks beyond the campsite. Afterward, he rubbed his hand on his pant leg, almost as if he’d stuck his hand in offal and was trying to rub off the taint.
“Ni—” I had to try twice to force words past numb lips. “Nice stuff. Garrote light whips, oscillator knives, explosives for the common man. What next? What about guns?”
He shrugged. “Lasers. Super stunners. They work on the same principle as the whip more or less. Burn hell out of you. There are no new projectile guns. Not for eighty years.”
“I see.” I picked up the Glock from where he’d laid it when he began his demonstration with the whip. “And I suppose gunsmithing has gone the way of the Maytag repairman.”
His shoulders rose, rolled. In other words, he didn’t know a Maytag from a skeet. I suspected that also, he didn’t know a lot about guns. Guns like the Glock and the Weatherby at any rate. Which left me wondering what he was doing with them now.
Hesitantly, I said, “I couldn’t help noticing you . . . um . . . that the whip disturbs you. Not that I blame you, but⏤” I trailed off, fearing I was being too intrusive and incautious. “I also noticed you’re quite good with one. I don’t know anything about these, of course, but in the old days—my old days—I understand the use of a whip was real tricky to learn.”
“My father was killed with a garrote,” he said, sounding far away. He avoided my eyes, staring instead into the night, out to where the Crossroad Hotel was hidden from our view by a high ridge.
“Oh.
“Twenty years ago. I was four.”
He was younger than me by about three years. I’d assumed him older.
“I’m sorry,” I said, certain I didn’t want to hear the details and hoping he wouldn’t continue the story. I might have known that once started, there’d be no stopping him.
“My father and I had gone out to the farm to take care of the livestock we kept there,” he said. “A warning had come over the web a week earlier about a gang roaming the Empty, so Dad had been staying close with Petra and me, guarding the hotel and the guests. Then news came through that the gang had been captured.
“Some were, I guess. Not all. Three of them had escaped the Old Denver Police and they ran west. On that day, as my father and I were getting ready to return to the hotel, they came upon us. Oh, Dad saw them coming. He had time to hide me. Told me to stay put no matter what. I was not come out until the outlaws were gone. So I didn’t. My father’s head rolled to within five feet of my hiding place, but I stayed still. I pretended his open eyes were telling me I must do as he’d said, though I knew I was just afraid to fight.”
I made a sound and his eyes swivelled around to me. A self-deprecating smile turned up the corner of his lips. “Oh, yeah. I was only four. Too young. If my father, legendary in his time could not prevail, what could I, a mere child, think to achieve?”
A new crispness entered into his story. “Eight years later, Petra and I hunted them down and exterminated them, one by one, like the filthy vermin they were. We were surprised when the state of Colorado paid us good bounty for doing so. Dead or alive was the deal. The state paid for the dead.
“Those three were the premier catches of our bounty hunting career. There have been many more in the years since, though none so important to us. We’ve begun to think every one of Minneapolis’s or Denver’s riffraff will show up eventually, here in the Great Empty. But this time, we have no one but ourselves to blame. We invited them in.”
His tone spoke with bitter disgust of such a foolish slip.
“So now you’re on the hunt again,” I said.
“As you see.” He indicated the gun I’d unconsciously been working on. “Have you found what is wrong with the Glock?”
Startled, I looked down. Sure enough, I’d dissembled the Glock, my fingers on automatic, my brain involved in the horrible story of his father’s death. I’d felt badly about old August von Fassnacht suffering a hard life when he was young, in 1910 or thereabouts—until now. Certainly August’s mother had been no prize, but the more Teagun told me about existence in this age, the more convinced I became he was right when he said we were soft, in my time. And so had August been, in comparison, although I’d believed him hard and tough when I’d met him.
The difference was August and I had both had the luxury of thinking the world would get better. We could have ambition, be confident. I saw no room for that kind of confidence in Teagun’s world. Did people, the leaders—there must be leaders—believe the damaged environment could be restored? Would it be possible for
civility to prevail? This wasn’t some distant unchangeable past I was in. This was the future of the world.
The question of why the power had selected me to its service came back in full force. Was I here to make a difference to the world, not just to Teagun? I discounted the fact Teagun had kidnapped me, ostentatiously for his own purposes. I didn’t believe he could have, if I weren’t meant to be here. But did that mean it was possible for me change this history and make it better? Or were events inevitable as the world wound down to the end?
Oh, God. The words seemed to roar inside my head. I don’t have the wisdom for this. I don’t have the strength. And I most certainly don’t have the heart.
I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until Teagun said, sounding coolly amused, “Then you’d better find those qualities, Boothenay Irons, if you want to live.
Only with the greatest restraint did I manage to keep from lashing out at him, although one might wonder why I bothered. All the same, we gunsmiths—at least this gunsmith—do have ways of getting back our own.
CHAPTER 8
“The Glock?” Teagun said, reminding me of the matter at hand. “Have you found what part is broken?”
My attention, which had been drifting to nearly everything except the gun, jumped back into focus.
“Off hand, no,” I said, coldly, because I was still torqued with him. “I don’t see where anything is broken. What seems to be the trouble?”
“It doesn’t eject the spent casing,” he said, with an annoyed gesture toward the pistol. “I needed a second shot, only the fired case got trapped in the barrel.” He pointed to the opening between the barrel and the slide. “A mistake like that could get a man killed.”
It could indeed. “Upright in the barrel?”
“Yes. Does it make any difference?”
“Well, certainly,” I said, relieved because I wouldn’t need a whole collection of smithing tools to fix the problem. The cleaning kit he supplied would be enough. “Shows the problem is most likely a simple matter of limp-wristing. The only other thing I’ve found is a gawd-awful case of neglect.”
Teagun interrupted. “I beg your pardon. Limp-wristing?” If ever a man looked affronted, he did.
I suppressed the smirk threatening to grow wide on my face. I repeat, we gunsmiths—this gunsmith, in particular—have our ways.
“Yes,” I said. “Limp-wristing. Which is just what it sounds like. But see here? Someone has let corrosion build up. This is unburned powder and bullet lube that badly needs cleaned out. I might polish the area from the feed ramp to the chamber as well. If there are any rough spots, they can occasionally cause a hang up. But I’m fairly certain the cure is as simple as locking your wrist when you take the shot and holding it in follow-through.”
Automatic pistol mechanisms work on a reciprocating basis. The slide moves while the frame remains still. If the frame is allowed to move with the slide, the impetus from the cartridge being fired will be absorbed and lose the momentum necessary to eject the spent casing. In other words, a malfunction caused by shooter error and easily remedied. Cheap, too.
He still seemed doubtful, distrusting this advice because he sensed my amusement.
“Listen to me,” I told him, sharpness edging into my tone. “I’m the expert. Or why else have you brought me here?”
A sullen silence resulted, with no answer forthcoming. I waited a few heartbeats to make sure.
“Don’t take it personally.” I relented, still fighting the smile that threatened to insult him more than he was already. “There wouldn’t be a name for the problem if the condition were rare. It’s a very common bad habit. Lots of people are afflicted with it.”
The explanation served to mollify him to a degree and a guarded stiffness in the set of his shoulders relaxed. He was a proud man, severe in his aloneness. I questioned whether he had the ability to laugh at himself.
I finished with cleaning and reassembling the Glock quickly, feeling a wave of relief as I realized that although the it dated from the same period as the Weatherby, no trace of power lingered within the metal. Not yet anyway. Not on this side of the time barrier.
With the sun fully risen now, and the campsite exposed to the easterly rays, heat was being trapped and already building to almost unbearable heights. Glare reflected down on us from the rocks guarding the entrance to the shelter. Future respite would only come when the afternoon brought shade.
Licking my sun-dried lips, I stretched, arms high, back arched, enjoying the release of tension. An involuntarily yawn drew my mouth wide, the oscillator cut on my jaw pulling painfully as the muscles worked.
“Ow,” I complained, turning to speak with Teagun. “Does that stuff you used on my face for sunburn do anything for cuts?” My voice trailed off.
He was looking at me. I mean, really looking at me. Now, ordinarily, I’d have no objection to that. I’m as susceptible to a man’s admiration as the next woman, though only on my own terms. His expression, his shadowed dark eyes, spoke of too much longing, too much loneliness, too much need. I didn’t know how to deal with his reaction. I wasn’t sure of my own.
“Teagun?” The question in the way I said his name must have warned him he was exposing too much of himself. He wised up fast. All expression wiped from his face as though it had never been, passing so swiftly I wasn’t certain myself any longer of what I’d seen. Should I, or should I not, say anything? Warn him off, so to speak?
Not, I decided, as he flushed a dark red. Teagun was talking to himself and didn’t need my help. But I resolved to be on my guard from now on. Too many raw emotions were loose between us, both from him and from me. I had never meant any of my actions to be provocative. I’d make sure they weren’t from now on.
Without a word he fetched the cream, setting it beside me on the chest where I sat, before retreating swiftly to his place. With extraordinary care, he made sure our skin did not touch, our glances not meet. In return, he took up the Glock. On my guard, did I say? Well, so was he. The personal service I’d enjoyed yesterday had gone the way of the dodo.
“That stuff is only for the sun,” he mumbled at last. “But might keep the skin soft so it doesn’t scar. I don’t know. I’m going out to the farm. I’ll bring you back something better.” Suiting action to words, he stuck the Glock into the belt at his waist and headed for the opening in the rocks.
Off to the farm again, was he? That fast? It looked more like flight to me.
“Hold it!” Springing to my feet, I caught him before he made good his escape. Leave me on my own in this miserable hot camp all day with my head up my rear, would he? All because he was shy? Not on a bet, pal.
I said, “This farm of yours. I want to go there with you.”
He stopped. “Why?”
“Why not?” I could have given him a dozen reasons why I wanted to go along, none of them having to do with flirtation. And I wasn’t trying to torture or tease him either. Mainly, I didn’t want to be alone. I had very nearly been killed this morning. My head lobbed off or at the least, my body, my face, horribly mutilated. The intention to do just that had shown through the outlaw’s eyes. Even now, the slice along my jaw ached and throbbed relentlessly, although the bleeding had stopped an hour ago. In retrospect, the ordeal seemed more terrifying than it had at the time. I’d been a little too busy fighting for my life to worry about the means of death. Well, I hadn’t known, and probably couldn’t have imagined, the means. Now I could.
Along with the purely girly-girl fears came another anxiety to twist my heart. What about Teagun? What if he left me here alone? Or went out and never came back? As a speculative scenario, it seemed logical and more than likely. The outlaws were actively looking for him. They’d kill him without compunction, and if he lost the Weatherby to them, I’d be stranded here, high and dry, dead meat, toast.
“Why not go with you?” I asked again when he hesitated. “What’re you hiding? Where is this farm anyway? Why is the farm . . . wherever it is? Why is t
he hotel in one place and your camp here? Why are they all separate?”
“You’re too suspicious,” he said, relaxing with a faint smile. “And you ask a great many questions. The farm is where it needs to be, the hotel is where the road is, and my camp is in-between. I could hardly camp at the hotel gates, could I?”
Put this way, the explanation sounded perfectly reasonable, though I still felt evasion in his answer. “So,” I said, “tell me, Teagun, what do you grow on your farm?”
Marijuana? I wondered. Opium poppies? Did they still use these drugs in this century? They’d been in use for hundreds of years before I was born. It was possible they were as avidly demanded in this day.
I guarantee I wasn’t expecting him to answer simply, “Water mostly.”
“Water? You grow water?” Relief made me giddy. “Good. I could use a bath.”
WE WALKED, hard and fast, across the hot barren landscape. Teagun knew where we were going. I followed in his footprints.
Any activity, especially an activity as strenuous as walking, is not considered advisable under the unrelenting heat of the sun. Without adequate protection, dehydration, severe radiation burns, impending skin cancer, cataracts or retinal inflammation, and impaired lung function are all potential problems caused by overexposure to the natural elements.
Which is why, as Teagun explained to me, the sunscreen/repair cream is best applied before one goes out, not after the fact. This was also the reason he, and everyone else wise in the ways of the desert, wore the all-encompassing burnoose. In a few thousand years or so, no one had found a better garment than the Bedouin-styled robe for protection against the heat and sun. With the radiation-proof fabric, it made life possible in the Great Empty.
“Be sure to blink your eyes frequently,” he advised as he clasped dark-lensed goggles around his own head. “Helps keep the cornea wet.” He urged a spare set of goggles onto me, but I took a pair of close- fitting, polarized Revos with blue lens from my purse instead, feeling an immediate relief from the sun’s glare as I put them on. They were small; my eyebrows rose over the tops. I could see the big goggles Teagun wore provided better protection, but I felt comforted in using an item from my own time.
Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 9