"He had a knife," Ger said.
"We all have knives."
"Ripley was reaching for his."
"You don't know that," Kellen replied. "He didn't pull it. He never did."
She repeated the words a few more times in her head, willing herself to believe it. Ripley's hand had dropped toward his belt. But he wasn't reaching for his knife. Not necessarily.
"Ripley may be big and he may be mean," Kellen said. "But he's not dumb enough to do anything that'll really get him locked up."
Ger took a deep breath and let it out again in a slow sigh. Kellen dared to relax.
"That was a nice shot." Ger smiled wanly. "You practice, or are you just that good?"
Kellen quirked a quick smile back at him. She opened her hands, let the two remaining chunks of cobblestone clatter to the ground, and brushed her hands against her trousers. Then she nodded up the street toward Chester's Alley and home and raised her eyebrows at him.
Ger shrugged, cast one last look down the alley, and followed Kellen.
Chapter 18
The Ellis .36 caliber revolving pistol featured a rotating cylinder with five chambers and a single, stationary barrel. Firing it was beautiful simplicity: Thumb the hammer. Squeeze the trigger. The sweet stink of gunpowder and smoke accompanying the force of the bullet's discharge shuddered up Vincent's arms and sang down his spine.
Every time Vincent fired the gun, pleasure tingled in his belly. Shooting the .36 was like harnessing a sliver of pure power. He'd have stayed at it all day, if he could.
Ellis had other plans for his men, of course. They mustered every morning, up with the sun to drill before breakfast, but after that, they worked. Ellis didn't put them up to anything all that special—they chopped wood and hauled water and finished whitewashing the boards of the barn-turned-barracks. They laid stonework and raised a second, larger barn, and after Ellis filled it with horses, the animals became part of their chores and learning to ride and drill on horseback became part of their routine. They only paused long enough at noon for dinner before returning to work.
And finally, an hour before a late supper of leftovers, came more drill time with the revolvers. Those hours with the .36 became the pivots around which Vincent's days turned. He'd have done every minute of work for free, all the chopping and whitewashing and mucking out stalls, just so he could walk like a man across the grounds of a place where he belonged, with a gun like no other on his hip and no need to hunch his shoulders or cower inside frayed clothes. Let the Burke Ripleys of the world come at him now.
About the only thing that gun couldn't do for Vincent was help him figure out exactly what to do and say that would impress Ellis. Vincent took great pains to be sure his ever-improving skill with the .36 was on display whenever Ellis looked his way. Ackermann might have had an edge when it came to reloading a musket faster than anyone, but the .36 was about aim. Accuracy. Vincent had everyone beat on that count. Everyone.
Ellis never said a word about it, not to Vincent or to anyone else. He might have been watching the sun rise and set for all the attention he seemed to be paying to Vincent's shooting.
"Something is not going well for our Captain Ellis," Ackermann remarked one evening. He said it in earshot of half a dozen other men, but everyone other than John Rawle ignored him.
"What do you mean?" Rawle fixed Ackermann with wide eyes. His mouth hung open just enough to make Vincent want to slap him for a fool.
"He is tense, lately. He is never smiling."
Jennett barked a laugh. "Old man, I'd be more worried if Ellis was smiling all the time. Who do you think you're talking about?"
"No, no. What I mean is he is frowning more than is usual, even for him."
But by then even Rawle had lost interest in Ackermann's gossip, and they all moved on to the supper table, leaving Ackermann to frown at their backs.
Every evening, when Vincent sat down to the supper table, elbow to elbow with the other men and surrounded by their talk and laughter, he thought of Kellen. The barracks was bigger, with a loft overhead full of fresh air that always smelled of clean hay, but sometimes he missed that dingy cellar room they'd shared. He felt a vague sense of guilt as he ate his portion of boiled beef and cornbread, left over from the larger midday dinner but still more meat than made it into a month's worth of Widow Howland's soup.
Someday he could go back for Kellen. And when he did, when she saw Vincent, her face would light up. Maybe he could even get her into a better place soon. Maybe someday she could grow out her hair and wear dresses and wait home for him instead of working the docks. A gauzy daydream formed of of him, clad in uniform and gun belt, striding through the door of a house he owned and into Kellen's waiting arms. Her hair would be longer, and a dress would make her curves look curvier. And once he got that dress off of her...
Vincent chewed his cold beef and his cold cornbread and smiled.
"What're you grinning about?"
Vincent jerked his head up and looked across the table, right into Robert Langston's pretty face.
"It's kinda creepy, Bradley," Langston said. "You never smile."
"That'd be none of your fucking business." Vincent fought the urge to punch the smug right out of Langston. "Go be a horse's ass to someone else."
Langston pursed his lips. "Oooh. Must've been something real good. Bet you were thinking about a girl."
"Just because it's the only thing you think about, Langston." Jennett plunked his food and himself down beside Vincent.
"What would be wrong with it, if he was?"
Tomas Poanski spoke so little that at first Vincent wasn't convinced it had really been him. But Poanski, seated across from Vincent and beside Langston at the long plank table, leaned forward and fixed Vincent with a frighteningly earnest expression. His hair, as always, spilled in a curl across his forehead.
"There's nothing wrong with having a girl back home," Poanski said. "That's the whole reason I'm here. If I can prove myself worthy, maybe her father will give permission for us to marry."
Poanski nodded, and that one curl of his bobbed in agreement.
Vincent just stared. Did this loser really think he was helping?
Langston hooted and slapped Poanski on the shoulder. "Married? Christ, why would you want to do that? Bradley, I hope that's not your sob story, too. Am I sitting at the little girls' table?"
Poanski's serious face puckered into a deeply wounded expression. For less time than it took Vincent to think it, he felt sorry for Poanski.
Then irritation dragged a snort from Vincent. Poanski needed to learn to keep shit like that to himself, and he'd better learn fast. Vincent knew—there was only one person who'd ever look out for you, so you better do a damned good job of it for yourself. You didn't do that by slapping your heart out onto your sleeve, and sure not in front of people like Langston.
~
After supper, the other men stayed around the table for their daily gill of whiskey and more talk. Vincent had first watch, which suited him. Let men like Ackermann and Poanski do their bonding. Vincent needed none of them.
In the chill darkness outside, the wind carried the scent of rain. Clouds mostly covered the moon and stars, but Vincent's feet were accustomed to the slants and slopes of the land around the barracks and the gardens surrounding the kitchen and house. A lack of light wouldn't impede his patrol.
Colley was the second man on watch. Vincent couldn't have said he was fond of the Irishman, but at least Colley never pressed Vincent with small talk. They parted ways without a word, and Colley turned south from the barracks while Vincent went north to make a circuit up near the house. His steps made no sound on the springy turf. The heaviness of the air seemed to absorb all sound.
As Vincent rounded the corner of the kitchen, he heard voices. He froze mid-step, listening.
There. Not along Vincent's usual route but toward the front of the house. He couldn't identify anyone or make out the words, but judging by the strident rise and f
all of the voices, they were arguing.
Vincent hesitated, but only for a second. Then he eased along the side of the kitchen, quietly crossed the paving stones of the veranda that ran the edge of the house, and stepped into the shadows of the trees that marched along the house's side.
"Because we're moving too fast." A male voice, but not one Vincent recognized. He sounded to be standing near the front corner of the house. "You can't rush science."
"Oh, Mr. James. But I can."
Ellis. Vincent had no doubt about that voice. If Ellis was present, then no trespassing was involved and everything was under control. Tension eased from Vincent's shoulders and he shifted his weight to turn back toward the kitchen and his usual evening walk.
"Stealing ideas isn't science," the voice Ellis had addressed as Mr. James said.
Vincent hesitated.
"Taking that 'stolen' idea and pushing it forward to produce guns we can use now is progress." Ellis's voice held a steely edge but also a note of amusement. Vincent could easily picture the man's smug smirk. "That Collier boy would have mucked around with his diagrams and daydreaming for years. We have hard metal and real power in our hands now. Today."
Ellis laughed.
"And truly, Sam? You'd call me a thief? After all you've done?"
"Recovering artifacts for scientific study is not thievery."
"That's not how the Indians saw it, I seem to recall."
Between the trees, clouds swirled overhead, dark against a darker sky. Vincent could see nothing of the men whose words he heard, had no idea if James was the man he'd seen with the girl a few days before or someone else entirely.
They couldn't see Vincent, either. A desire to hear more—to know more than Ackermann and his suck-up questions would ever learn—warred in Vincent's gut with the desire to not be caught eavesdropping and sent packing.
"My project is far more complex than a simple gun," James said, from the darkness ahead. "Clockwork automata in themselves are intricate work. If I can discover a reliable method to activate the power source, they will become the most advanced weapons ever known."
A chill breeze whipped around the corner of the house and shoved through the weave of Vincent's coat. He forgot to wonder if he ought to be listening.
Clockwork and automata. The only thing Vincent could think of was a toy he'd glimpsed when he was just a boy, so long ago that it seemed more dream than memory, a tin shepherd that blew air through a flute and moved its fingers, all by itself.
"'If' is not a word our client enjoys hearing," Ellis said. "'When' would be preferable. You have funding for your little pets. And no reason at all to be stalling. Governor Harrison—"
"Yes, yes. I know." Where Ellis still sounded faintly amused, James's voice sparked with obvious irritation. "Governor Harrison has put his trust in us. In you."
Vincent had still been struggling to envision how a tin toy could become a weapon, but mention of Harrison knocked those thoughts away and yanked Vincent's attention a different direction. He put out a hand and pressed it against the side of the house. Ellis had referred to Harrison before, but Vincent wasn't sure he'd completely believed. How important could twelve men really be?
Important enough, maybe. Maybe that made Vincent's longing to get Ellis's attention, to really prove his worth to Ellis, all that much more important. And maybe, if he just stood here long enough and listened, Vincent might figure out exactly how to make this all work out really well for himself.
"Of course he has," Ellis replied. "I fought in the Revolutionary War, with distinguished service. I graduated from Dartmouth. I held a commission as a captain in the Legion during the Indian wars in the new territories."
"You don't mention the rumored suspension for profiteering," James snapped. "How many of those claims are actually truthful?"
Ellis laughed, a sinuous sound that still seemed genuinely amused. The skin at the back of Vincent's neck crawled and a strange, cold sensation blossomed in his chest. "It only matters how many the people with power and money believe, and they believe all of them. They want to believe, because they know I'm the only man who can give them what they and their precious new country need most."
Vincent inhaled sharply, cursed himself for the slight noise it made, and held his breath. There was eavesdropping, and there was knowing things you shouldn't know.
"What you need to worry about right now," Ellis said, "is getting that power source working for our weapons. What are you calling them?"
"Crows."
"Apt enough. Get your precious Crows flying. Harrison is all aflutter because The Prophet is working miracles."
"You don't believe that."
"Of course not. But Harrison hired us for the Indiana Territory, and we can hardly whip these fools into shape if we have no working weapons. You've a brilliant mind, James. If you could be less infuriatingly slow."
James uttered a strangled, frustrated sound. A darker shadow in the clouded gray at the corner of the house moved, and Vincent realized James was walking away.
Vincent also realized that he remained, in the shadows along the house and obviously eavesdropping should anyone spot him there. He peered toward the darkness at the front corner of the house. Had Ellis left, too? Or was he still there?
The house's brick itched under Vincent's hand. The wind skittered goosebumps up his sleeves, and tree branches rasped over Vincent's head. The darkness ahead waited in silence, but Vincent couldn't take his gaze away from it, couldn't make his feet move.
No one had seen him. No one had heard him. He could simply slip around the corner of the house, back the way he'd come, and resume his patrol. No one would know.
Ahead of Vincent, the darkness cleared its throat.
Chapter 19
"Questions are better asked directly than by lurking around corners and hoping to accidentally overhear them." Ellis spoke quietly, as though whispering to a lover or speaking to himself.
Vincent's throat closed just the same. His pulse raced.
Ellis spoke quietly because he wasn't sure anyone was there. He didn't know. He didn't know who. Vincent could still be gone, could still preserve his job, could keep the gun and the power and the life. All he had to do was get out before Ellis discovered who had eavesdropped and heard too much.
No. The voice of Vincent's instinct, as quiet and calm as Ellis's voice, spoke before Vincent could flee. Vincent envisioned Ellis's eyes, seeing everything, watching everything, weighing and judging and weighing some more. He thought of Ellis's deliberate testing on the day Vincent had stood on Centre Square's frosty ground and watched Ellis grin as he determined men's fates.
This was another test. The instinctive choice was to flee before he could be caught, but the other choice was to step forward. Man up. Admit he'd been listening, confess all he'd heard, and put his fate in Ellis's hands.
As if his fate had been anywhere else since the day Ellis showed up at the wharves and Vincent first heard the power in that brandy-smooth voice. There was only one way forward, if Vincent ever hoped to make anything of himself, and that way didn't involve slinking or bowing.
Vincent took his hand away from the support of the house. He sucked in a deep breath, set his jaw, and stepped through the shadows toward the sound of Ellis's voice.
Moonlight seeped through the clouds, unblocked by the bulk of the house, and illuminated Ellis just enough for Vincent to see Ellis's head turn as he fixed his gaze on Vincent. Vincent didn't need to see Ellis's eyes to sense the weighing and measuring.
Vincent thought maybe he should say something—offer an explanation, an apology. But no words that didn't sound like an excuse came to him, so he simply stopped and stood and waited.
"I appreciate your honesty." But the amused lilt of Ellis's voice confirmed what Vincent already knew. Ellis wasn't looking for honesty, but for guts. They both knew that Vincent hadn't come forward because it was the right thing to do.
He'd done it because it was the action most likel
y to get him what he wanted.
"Sir," Vincent replied. Not a question. Not an apology. Merely an acknowledgment.
"Do you have any additional questions about what you heard?"
Ellis's face was mostly hidden by darkness, but Vincent knew his own was at least partially revealed by wan moonlight. He tried to keep his expression unreadable as his mind raced, searching for the right words.
"No, sir," Vincent finally replied. "I think I understood it all pretty well."
Ellis laughed, quietly but with the delighted note of a child discovering himself in possession of a coveted toy, and Vincent suffered another flash of insight. Ellis was not only tolerating Vincent's actions—he approved of them.
A sense of power blossomed in Vincent's chest, not unlike the feeling he got when he pulled the .36's trigger and felt its power leaping in his hands and flowing through his body. He knew, instinctively, what to say next. The trick was in keeping his voice from trembling as he spoke.
"Those new weapons," Vincent asked. "Is there an estimated time on them being ready?"
Ellis tilted his head back and laughed again, more loudly than before.
"Oh, Mr. Bradley. Vincent." Ellis nodded. "Such promise."
Ellis shifted his stance, and moonlight revealed that he was grinning openly at Vincent. It was all Vincent could do not to grin back at him.
Let Ackermann top this.
"Not soon enough." Ellis waved his hand dismissively. "But soon."
Vincent nodded.
"I've had some concerns about this project," Ellis said. "Building a regiment from scratch, from untried and untrained men. Entrusting them with such advanced weapons. I am reassured to know I've made at least one good choice."
Vincent swallowed and nodded again. His eyes met Ellis's, and Vincent saw what the man's sly smile had already revealed.
Maybe there was some truth in Ellis's words, but mostly it was bullshit. Ellis just knew what to say to make things go the way he wanted them to go. Even now, Vincent understood, Ellis didn't try to flatter Vincent because he thought Vincent would believe him. He did it so Vincent would understand. Ellis might appear charming, but in truth he was cunning—and probably dangerous.
A Stillness of the Sun (Crowmakers: Book 1): A Science Fiction Western Adventure Page 13