Blood Ties

by Quincy J. Allen

  Jake and Cole moved to a table near the door, and Jake proceeded to empty the spent cartridges from his Colt, replacing them with fresh ones. He started to put the spent one into one of the pouches on his gun belt and then caught sight of Marshal Sisty in the doorway. The marshal stepped into the brewery, scanned the interior, and locked eyes with Jake, giving him a concerned nod. Jake slid the Colt back into its holster and deliberately left a single, spent cartridge sitting on the table.

  Folks drifted down in twos and threes from the zeppelins above, many of them craning their necks as they gawked at the artwork lining the grand staircase. Some of them walked straight out of the brewery, but many sashayed up to the bar or sat down at tables. Clara wove her way through them and set two dark brown bottles on the table before Jake and Cole, giving Jake another sultry wink before returning to the bar. As Sisty approached, Jake ran his finger over the character on the beer label, reminiscing how he’d come up with the idea of a cross between a pirate and a platypus for the brew.

  A stern frown crossed Sisty’s round face as she strolled over to Jake’s table. She straightened her black vest and took her bowler off, holding it in her hands in front of her.

  “Jake,” she nodded. “Cole,” she added, giving him a friendly smile.

  “Marshal,” Cole said cordially, but he tried not to look at Sisty. He knew what was coming.

  Jake tipped his hat. “Morning, Billie.”

  “How’s Lumpy?” Sisty asked, motioning to the beast hitched outside. “He in a good mood?” Lumpy had caused a bit of a ruckus a few weeks prior, pulling out a couple of hitching posts the last time Jake was in town.

  “Lumpy?” Jake knew Billie was beating around the bush just to be polite. “He’s fine. Calm as a baby at naptime.” He smiled.

  Billie had kept her job as marshal because she knew how to make a person feel comfortable before getting down to business. She’d done it with the mayor and every local business owner in Denver. It wasn’t Jake’s style, preferring a more direct approach, but he respected people who could speak softly and still know how to work a leg iron when the situation required it. And Billie Sisty sure as hell did.

  “How’s your ass?” Sisty’s smile broadened and her eyes sparkled mischievously. She knew full well that Lumpy was not the gentlest ride on the prairie.

  “Well, Billie, let’s just say it’s not as good as Lumpy.” Jake sighed and motioned to the beers on the table. “Can I interest you in a libation?”

  “That wouldn’t be prudent, Jake.” Sisty’s voice went serious.

  “So, what can we do for ya?” Jake sounded as innocent as can be. “Is this about them fellas last night?”

  “That? No. Everyone in the bar saw that big fella follow you out, and the three men with him clearly had nothing but bad intentions. Self-defense. Case closed.”

  “Then what’s on yer mind?”

  “I think you know I’m here on official business.”

  “I suspected as much. In that case, have a seat,” Jake offered kindly. Sisty eased herself into a chair and set her hat on the table. She sighed, sounding as if she had something to say but didn’t really want to say it. “No need to hold back with me, Billie. You know that.”

  “Well, not to put to put too fine a point on it,” she said, pointing at the spent cartridge, “but that spent shell is what’s on my mind. You know folks aren’t supposed to go shooting within city limits any time they please … excepting in cases of self-defense, of course. Last night is a no-brainer, but what you pulled up on Grand Avenue this morning is not as cut-and-dry. I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before.”

  “Do you know what happened?” Jake asked a bit more seriously.

  “Let’s just say that I talked to enough people to know that you did the wrong thing for the right reason … or is it the right thing for the wrong reason. Officially I have to tell you that if your guns go off within city limits again without someone fixing to kill you right then and there, I’ll be obligated to put you in the pokey till a judge sorts things out.”

  “I think I understand, Billie.”

  Sisty lowered her voice. “Off the record, I’m damn glad you did what you did. You ever want a job around here, I might be able to see my way clear of having me another deputy.”

  Jake and Cole both laughed, and Sisty joined in.

  “You know damn well that I ain’t cut out for law enforcement,” Jake managed between laughs, “and I swore off takin’ orders when they cut that uniform off what was left of me.”

  “I know, Jake … but the offer still stands, if you ever change your mind.”

  Jake put an edge in his voice. “Billie, one of these days Moritz Sigi is gonna crash that contraption of his right into something … or someone. If we’re lucky, he’ll only kill himself.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Sisty rubbed her forehead worriedly. “I’ve talked to the mayor about it, and he says hands off. Sigi is a bigwig around here and you know it. I won’t be able to touch him till he does just that. And then, maybe.”

  “Rich man politics,” Jake mumbled, shaking his head. “Like I said, I ain’t cut out for law enforcement. Somebody needs to shoot the bastard … just do it legal, is all.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is …” Sisty’s voice trailed off as she froze, mouth open as she stared at the staircase. Her eyes went wide. “Jesus Palomino,” she finally said. “Would you look at that gruesome son-of-a-bitch?”

  Jake and Cole turned towards the staircase, and Jake’s face went pale as he recognized the part-man mostly-machine dressed in black walking gracefully down the grand stairs of the terminal. The last time Jake had seen the mercenary was during the war, and they weren’t on the same side.

  The man scanned the Grand Staircase as he descended. He had intricate oculars set into a brass faceplate that covered the upper half of his face. The oculars resembled short, stocky telescopes, narrow end out. The faceplate they attached to was bolted directly into his cheeks and forehead. A black shroud covered the rest of his skull, and the cloth seemed to encase something larger than just his head, as if he had on a close-fitting helmet under the taught fabric. An intricate, brass breathing mask covered the lower half of his face. It had several dials running down the side and stocky mesh cylinders protruded on either side of his jaw. It also had clasps along the neckline that secured it in place.

  “Oh shit,” Jake muttered, and his voice had something Cole had never heard before … dread. “It’s Ghiss.”

  Chapter Eight – Civil Enemies

  “Ghiss was a son of a bitch, there’s no doubt about it. But, then again, so was Jake.”

  ~ Cole McJunkins

  “You know that guy?” Cole asked, his eyes locked on the black-clad figure standing at the bar. Ghiss waved stiffly at Clara and waited for her to finish up with another customer. Nearly every pair of eyes in the brewery had locked on the man in black, a man clearly accustomed to ignoring stares. Jake and Cole took heavy swigs of their beers, and Jake did his best to keep his back to the thing standing at the bar.

  As Cole watched, Ghiss turned his head, and the oculars lingered briefly on the Silver Star pinned to Sisty’s vest. Cole swore that the oculars rotated all by themselves as Ghiss focused on the glinting symbol of law and order.

  Not an inch of skin showed on what Cole had to believe was a man, but the cloth of his sleeves and pants looked like they were draped over a skeleton. The man’s torso, however, was bulky and angular. Ghiss stood taller than Jake, and he wore a mortician’s top hat rising higher than a normal topper, exaggerating the effect. The hat had a narrow black scarf tied around it that draped down the middle of his back nearly to his waist. He wore two pistols, one on his left hip and one across his belly for a cross-draw, but the weapons definitely weren’t Colts or any other kind of revolver Cole had seen. The grips were brass wrapped in black cloth and their design reminded Cole of the Thumper.

  “Cole,” Jake started quietly, keeping his back to Ghiss, “back in th
e war, did you ever hear of Colonel Ghiss?”

  Cole thought about it for a minute. “Not that I recall. It’s a strange name, though. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I had.”

  “How about the Night Stalker?” Jake’s tone was deadly serious, and Cole’s eyes went wide, nodding slowly.

  “Yeah … him I heard of.”

  “What the hell’s a Night Stalker?” Sisty asked, bewildered.

  Jake got tight-lipped, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

  “He was a …” Cole’s voice went sour, as if he was talking about smallpox, “mercenary … for the Confederacy. Did a lot of nighttime, behind-the-lines work … all on his own, they say. And he was very good at it. Blowing munitions, assassinating officers, gathering information … he did it all.”

  Sisty eyed Jake thoughtfully. “You act like you know him.”

  Jake took another pull from his beer and set the bottle down slowly. He spoke almost in a whisper. “I do. Personally. You could say we have the same tailor.”

  “Tinker Farris?” Cole asked.

  Jake nodded. “Yep, before Farris hired on Maggie Mae to chant up the gear he made. What you’re looking at behind me is basically a Mark One version of me, but all mechanical—none of Maggie’s magic—he got damn near the whole works replaced, though. Arms, legs, and more. Plus he’s armored over his torso and head. He’s as tough and dangerous as they come.”

  “He looks like a skeleton,” Sisty said, “at least his arms and legs do.”

  Cole nodded in agreement.

  “Look, Billie, if Ghiss stays in town, it can’t be for any good. You gotta promise me you won’t try and take him alone if there’s trouble. Those limbs of his are lighter than mine … and both of his hands draw faster than my left. You understand what I’m saying? Both hands. Be real careful with him.”

  “Faster than you?” Cole asked, incredulous. “But I thought you said you came after him.”

  “Yeah, I did. My arm and legs can take a real beating … even repair themselves up to a point on account of Maggie’s magic. Ghiss’ works are mostly hard, light metal casing and clockwork, though. He was built for function rather than form. There was never any attempt to make him look natural. He was designed to kill … efficiently. That means he’s faster, but not nearly as durable as I am. And if he really gets messed up, he’s got to go back to Farris for repairs … or find someone in Farris’ class to do the work. I’m also stronger than he is, but in a gunfight strength don’t amount to a pile of dusty fly crap.”

  “True enough,” Cole agreed.

  Sisty got a worried look on her face. “Boys, I gotta go. I want to get someone following that nightmare while he’s in town.” She turned to Jake with a worried look. “No offense, Jake, but sometimes I wish they’d never come up with them artificial limbs and all. They sure do make things tough for a poor, old marshal like me.”

  Jake nodded. “None taken, Billie.” He raised his left hand and flexed the fingers, the clockwork gears whining quietly. “There are times when I would agree with you.”

  The truth was, there weren’t many people who had the money for clockwork limbs, and there was still a lot of resentment by normal folks against the men and women who did. Machiners were considered both dangerous and at least a little bit less than human. “Just make sure your man knows what he’s doing,” Jake warned. “Ghiss is a pro. He’ll spot most tails a mile away, and he ain’t got much conscience when it comes to his work.”

  “Look.” Cole nodded towards Ghiss who was making his way along the bar, following Clara. “Seems as if he’s going someplace. If you don’t want to be seen, Jake, now’s our chance.”

  Jake gave a sidelong glance, peering through his ocular at the retreating figure of the mercenary. “Hey, Billie, can you have someone get Koto and Lumpy aboard the zeppelin for us? They’ll just need sweet-feed to get Lumpy moving. I was gonna do it, but I’d rather get on before that bastard spots us. You know I’m good for it.” Jake put a silver dollar on the table.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sisty said.

  “Much obliged. Come on, Cole. Let’s go.” They stood and shook hands.

  “Thanks for the warning, Jake,” Sisty offered. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Billie,” Jake replied seriously.

  Sisty grabbed her hat and headed for the doors as Jake and Cole walked briskly towards the grand staircase. They rushed up the stairs, disregarding the fine art around them and wove their way between the paisley vests and bright, blossomy dresses that adorned folks moving down to the brewery. They made it to the top without a hitch and Jake purchased an aft cabin on the zeppelin docked above them.

  As Jake and Cole stepped away from the ticket booth, Jake spotted a tall, curvaceous woman exit the grand staircase and walk towards them. She wore an elaborate maroon dress, huge bustle, burgundy top hat, and opaque veil. Long, dark curls draped down her back and over her shoulders. She turned to peer up at a framed map that hung on the wall.

  Jake paused for a moment, watching her as she ran her finger along a contour on the map.

  “What is it?” Cole asked.

  Jake shook his head, turned back to Cole, and walked towards the stairs leading to the airship. “Nothing. Just seems like I know her from someplace. Can’t seem to place it.”

  “Who?”

  Jake pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “The tall brunette in the maroon dress back there.”

  “But she was wearing a veil. How could you tell?”

  “I don’t know … just a feeling, I guess.” Jake shrugged.

  “Well, you do get around,” Cole pointed out mischievously.

  “Yeah, I suppose.” Jake shook his head again to dislodge the strange feeling and then led them up the last, much smaller spiral staircase that opened onto the passenger platform.

  “Hey, Jake, it’s the Jezebel,” Cole said, pointing at the gold lettering painted on the side of the gondola.

  “No kidding?” Jake turned his good eye to the golden letters. “I guess it makes sense. There can’t be too many trans-con zepps that get into San Fran from Denver. Hopefully no one will try to kill us this time.”

  “Yeah … the last time didn’t work out so well, now did it?”

  “Sure it did … we’re breathing and them Tong fellas ain’t.” Jake grinned and winked his eye.

  “Good point,” Cole conceded.

  Two sturdy-looking stewards towered on either side of the entrance to the Jezebel, and a small, frail-looking old man stood inside, holding out his hand.

  “Tickets, please,” the old-timer said with a faint, gravel-filled voice. Jake handed them over. The old man inspected them closely and punched holes in them with a small punch he pulled from his pocket. “Welcome aboard the Jezebel.”

  They stepped aboard the gondola and found the interior exactly as it had been months earlier on their way back from San Fran. Everything was smooth, dark walnut, and the window frames, handles, and accents were brightly polished brass. Electric lights made the interior of the gondola warm, bright, and welcoming—as plush and inviting as any Chicago hotel.

  They wove their way through passengers from many walks of life. It was mostly affluent businessmen in their white spats, paisley vests, black top hats, and sheer frocks or plaid suits. Many of the gentlemen were accompanied by elegant ladies, most of them with corset-sculpted figures and blossom-bright dresses covered in lace and satin. Few heads went without a hat of some kind, and several of the women sported petit top hats decorated with enough plumage to rival any peacock. A handful of children milled and scampered about, darting between the legs of their affluent parents.

  There were also a few merchants settling into their seats, with bowlers, wool frocks, and briefcases of every kind. Jake spotted a few cowboys in the mix, only a few of them dingy-looking, and several who, like Jake, had the distinct look of professional gunslingers and gamblers.

  Jake also saw what appeared to be a tinker with a lovely lady upon
his arm. He was short, frumpy, and had a bandoleer across his chest with every tool Jake could think of stuck in it. Bandoleer aside, he looked plain as oatmeal. The lady, on the other hand, wore an eye patch with a bright ruby gem set in the middle that seemed to glow and sparkle with a strange, inner light. She had on a simple, black dress. The intricate, gold-looped belt about her waist, however, was far from simple. It had a wide assortment of dangling pouches, and set into belt loops, several vials full of colorful liquids glinted in the soft lighting. She also had a necklace decorated with crystals, bones, and feathers. Jake knew a witch when he saw one.

  Jake and Cole made their way along the central passageway of the Jezebel and finally reached the end of the aft passenger compartment. The compartment was elegant by any standard. A deep, rich, burgundy carpet swallowed their feet and dark walnut covered every wall. All the fittings were polished brass—the garment hooks, railings, window frames, light fixtures … everything.

  Both men slung their saddlebags just inside the door, on hooks made for that purpose, and Cole stowed the Thumper in an overhead compartment. Jake pulled out the sleeper bed set into the wall, stretched out on it, and pushed his hat over his eyes. Cole followed suit on the other side but had the forethought to take his boots off.

  “What in hell would the Night Stalker be doing in Denver?” Cole asked.

  “Damned if I know.” Jake pushed his hat up. “I didn’t know he travelled past the Mississippi, but it has been a few years since the war. He’s the kind of guy to find work whenever he needs it, I suppose … or wants it.” Jake propped his hat back over his eyes and leaned back. “I’ll tell you, Cole, if I had any sense at all, that guy would scare the shit outta me.”

  “But you don’t have any sense, Jake. Everyone knows that,” Cole chuckled.

  “True enough. I still hope I never have to face him down. Those arms of his are like greased lightning, and those pistols …”

  “Yeah, what the hell were those? They looked kinda like the Thumper.”