Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (19 page)

Most of the Big Hats in Cowboytown had gone for revolvers because that’s what they’d seen in the moving pictures. As Robinson scanned the weapons on the wall, he locked onto a black .45 automatic and knew it was the one.

It came with a magazine that carried eight rounds instead of six and could be switched out with two additional magazines in seconds. The reason so many had passed on it, the armorer said, was because it carried something called a laser sight underneath the barrel that made it heavy and unwieldy.

Wellie even called it ugly, but Robinson thought it was beautiful.

After the visit to the armorer, Robinson traveled to the leatherworker’s shop, who was surprised to hear what Robinson wanted in a belt.

“A loop?” he asked.

“Yes,” Robinson said. “On the opposite side. About the diameter of your wrist. And around the back, as many .45 rounds as the belt can carry.”

The leatherworker shook his head but asked for two days.

While his gear was being crafted, Robinson spent most of his time at the blacksmith’s. Boss had prodded him about his knowledge of explosives, and Robinson suggested he could craft something more reliable than the ones the marauders had used.

“The detonators aren’t the tricky parts. Those I can build no problem. It’s the amount of gunpowder and how much damage you want done.”

“I’m not planning on using them, understand?” Boss asked. “They’re a whatchamacallit?”

She snapped her fingers, but Mr. Dandy wasn’t around.

“Deterrent?” Robinson offered.

“That’s it. To make sure this deal doesn’t go off the tracks. As for the amount of powder, let me worry about that. As long as these can be set anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes. And be reliable.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Robinson said. “As long as you don’t try to throw them.”

“Have you ever ridden a horse?” Boss asked.

Later that afternoon, Mox came to fetch Robinson at the blacksmith’s and take him to the corral.

“You might have pulled the wool over Boss’s eyes, boy, but I see you for what you are.”

“What’s that?” Robinson asked.

“Trouble, and heaps of it. Just know I spent five years working my way up the ladder here, and I’m not about to let no fresh-mouth whip come in and count and leapfrog me. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Twenty percent maybe.”

“That’s right. You got jokes. But I’ll have the last laugh. Bank on it.”

The corral was behind the saloon. The field was full of black oak and cottonwood trees, from which hung a dozen human forms held by cables. They were pocked with holes.

“They’re called mannequins,” Boss said.

“I’ve seen them in ancient stores,” Robinson replied.

“Those are similar,” Boss said. “But of inferior quality. These are called crash test dummies. The automobile industry used to drive into walls.”

“Why?” Robinson asked.

“Not really sure. But they make great target practice. Give it a shot.”

Robinson took out his pistol and aimed at the nearest target. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

Mox and two Big Hats sniggered.

“Button on the left is called a safety,” Boss said. She clicked it off and told him to try again.

Robinson took aim a second time and fired. The target remained untouched.

“This time,” Boss said, “line up the sights up top.”

Robinson did. He struck the foot of the dummy.

“Important thing is to visualize where the bullet’s going. It’s repetition, of course, but you already got the one ingredient a good shooter needs.”

“What’s that?” Robinson asked.

“Temperance. Calm under fire. Lotta fellas, once their hearts get pumping, get so damned jumpy they end up pulling the trigger as fast as they can and don’t hit anything.”

Boss stepped behind Robinson, reaching her arms along his, guiding the pistol up until her chin touched his shoulder. He could smell the oils of her hair, and that made him more nervous than bullets flying at him.

“See the X on the target’s chest?” Boss whispered, her fingers reaching over his hand. He felt the muscles flexing underneath. “That’s center mass. Some aim for the head, but you want to shoot where you can’t miss.”

Robinson swallowed as her free hand ran alongside his ribs.

“Get a feel for the rhythm of the dummy’s rotation. You can’t always shoot where a thing
is
, but where you
expect
it to be. Don’t lock your wrist. And don’t tug the trigger. You want to use the tip of your finger. When you’re ready, take a breath, see the path of the bullet, exhale, and fire.”

Robinson touched the trigger, but Boss was too much of a distraction. His adrenaline and hormones were going crazy. He felt himself losing control when something struck him. Boss’s words. He had heard them before. Not in regards to shooting a pistol, but for the battle itself. Regulate your body. Take complete control of the moment and focus on the task at hand. Perform the action only when success was assured.

Suddenly, the breath on his neck no longer belonged to Boss. Gone was the country lilt, replaced by something familiar, intimate. Suddenly, it was Friday’s hand that guided him.
Her
breath warming his neck.
Her
body leaning against his.

Robinson’s blood pressure slowed. His hand drew still. His eyes steadied. The target slowed even as the wind began to pick up.

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the dummy in its chest and sent it bucking up and down.

Boss clapped and stepped around him.

“And that’s how it’s done, kid,” she said.

“I want to do it again,” Robinson said.

After target practice, Robinson joined the Big Hats in the saloon. He had two glasses of beer, which made him feel lightheaded and happy.

Then a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

“May I have this dance?” Wellie asked.

Robinson agreed. Wellie took his hand and led him to a dance floor full of couples. The piano player worked a jaunty tune.

“She fancies you,” Wellie said.

“Boss?” Robinson asked.

Wellie nodded.

“She won’t admit it, but I see the way she watches you. She’s sweet on you.”

“We have a business arrangement, nothing more.”

“Everyone who comes to Cowboytown starts with a business arrangement. But once Boss gets you in that book of hers, it’s hard to get out.”

“Is that why you do what you do?” Robinson asked.

Wellie looked into his eyes as if deciding something.

“My people were fishermen, lived a ways up the river. One day some savages came through and killed everyone but me. Few days later, a man in a boat pulled ashore and offered to take me some place safe. He brought me here. To Cowboytown. I was thirteen. The guy that run things before Boss gave me a choice. Work or leave. I’ve been here ever since.”

“But what you do …”

“There’s worse ways to live.”

“But you deserve better.”

Wellie’s eyes watered. She looked down so no one could see them.

“You’re the first man who’s come to this town that didn’t see me as a piece of merchandise.”

“I’d rather see you as a friend.”

When the music ended, Wellie saw Boss watching them from the doorway.

“I should get back,” she said, but paused for a moment. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find your girl. And I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

After Wellie left, Robinson made his way outside. He was staring at the stars when Boss approached.

“We’re moving out first thing in the morning,” Boss said. “Mox’ll go over the layout on the train. Deal is you ride into the Flayers’ village with us, but once you’re inside, our bargain is complete, and you’re on your own. If they catch you or if anyone asks, you sneaked aboard. Agreed?”

Robinson nodded. Then he noticed something in her hands. It was a big black hat.

“Not many fellas go for black. Not sure why. In the picture movies, the stranger always rides into town wearing one. I figured it might suit you.”

She held it out and Robinson took it and put it on.

“How’s it look?” he asked.

Boss fought back a grin.

“Not bad for a Brit.”

Robinson knew ‘Brit’ was a word once used to describe his countrymen.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“It takes more than will and a firm hand to run a town, kid. You need vision. You need to see beyond the trees and beyond the fields. Not just what’s in front of you, but what’s behind and beyond. When my predecessor was first forming this town, strangers would come from far and wide, and I used to like to ask where they come from. I’d hear tell of the big cities like Boston, Dallas, and Chicago, but the ones that interested me were always the ones people had only heard about. London was one. The Big Apple was another. Paris, Lost Vegas, the city of glass.”

“What do you know about the city of glass?” Robinson asked, leaning forward.

“Most say it’s myth. But I met a man once said he’d been there. Said he seen the most incredible things inside.”

She stared at him as if considering something. Finally, she nodded. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

They went back to the theater, only this time it wasn’t a Western they watched, but a color picture show with sound.

It was the story of a young man from Britain who traveled to the desert to understand the dwellers there. Through many experiences and many adventures, his life, and the lives he touched, were greatly changed. When speaking of their future, his desert companion said, “Nothing is written.”

And Robinson thought,
That’s how I feel. I’ve come to a strange land by accident, but it’s changed me. I’ve seen terrible horrors and incredible beauty. Both have shaped who I’ve become.

Even now, on the eve of his foray into the lion’s den, hope still resided within him. That Friday was alive. That he would find her. And together, they would escape against all odds. Because no matter what the world pitted against you, men had always achieved greatness if they were brave enough to face the future head-on.

It was true. In this world, nothing is written.

The knock came just as Robinson finished dressing. He opened the door to find the leatherworker holding his new pistol belt. He wrapped it around his waist and cinched it. Then he slid his pistol into the holster.

The craftsmanship was incredible. It was dyed black, with a small gold star in the center. Ornate stitching interwoven with a pattern made it look rough and beautiful.

“How do you like it?” the leatherworker asked.

“It’s amazing,” Robinson replied.

The man beamed.

“It’s called a Ranger Concho. Lawmen in the old west used to wear ’em, complete with the gold star. I did a split drop loop, seeing as how your pistol has that doohickey beneath it. Make it easier to pull in a pinch. Also did some barbed wire edge stamping with full tooling. Holds eighteen cartridges. The loop you requested’s there too.”

“You’re an artist, Ser,” Robinson said. “I’m honored to wear it.”

The man was too old to blush, but Robinson could tell the compliment meant something to him. He turned to leave but hesitated.

“Lotta fellas out here dress the part, but you look like a real one. Cowboy that is.”

Robinson didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. The leatherworker tapped the doorframe and left.

Once he was gone, Robinson filled the gun belt with shells and slid his pistol into the holster. He picked up the black hat Boss had given him and put it on his head. A mirror in the corner revealed his reflection. The old guy was right. Robinson looked like a different man.

I wonder if Tannis and Tallis would recognize me,
he thought.
Would I want them to?

By the time Robinson reached the train yard, the Big Hats had loaded the bags of gunpowder onto three train cars. Still, the engine was nowhere to be seen.

“Aren’t we missing something?” he asked Boss.

Mox snorted.

“That old engine you rode to the caves on is only good for short hauls,” Boss said. “I doubt it could reach the Flayer village in a month, if at all. Plus, it’s got uh …”

Snap, snap.

“Vulnerabilities,” Mr. Dandy said. “Which would render her incapable of rebuking attacks from other hostiles.”

Boss nodded to Mox. He put two fingers into his mouth and let loose a loud, screaming whistle.

At the far end of the yard, a smokestack plumed to life, the sound of its engine hungry and strong.

When it finally emerged, Robinson’s breath caught in his chest. The engine was nearly twice as large as the one he’d ridden on before. And this one was seriously fortified. The main body was covered in plates of metal, made up from ancient cars and signs that read: Welcome to Nashville, Coca-Cola, FedEx, and something called Geek Squad.

The top was reinforced with the frame of an ancient yellow bus, creating slots through which a defense could be mounted.

At the front of the engine, someone had welded on two I-beams with sewer plates on the end of them. This ride wouldn’t be stopping for any impediments.