Teancum (6 page)

“Remove yourselves from the vicinity of the door,” Poe
suggested.
 
He leaned on both Roxie
and Burton to limp across the room himself, and Tam retreated into the far
corner.
 
Whatever was happening was
beyond him, and sounded dangerous.
 
Mother O’Shaughnessy had taught him not to be a coward, but she’d also
taught him not to be an idjit, and only an idjit ran
towards
the danger he didn’t need to.

Then Poe blew his silent whistle again.

CRASH!

The plascrete door snapped in half and something big and
shiny and metallic and monstrostastic, the size of a small horse but with a
strange head not quite like a dog’s, punched through and slammed into the
room.
 
It landed on its four claws
and stopped, staring at Poe.
 
Tam
thought he could see and hear the thing breathing, and he shook himself.
 
It’s your imagination, you idjit, he
told himself.
 
The thing is
obviously clocksprung, like any plantation worker or twenty-four-hour-mule.

Still, it made an impression.
 
“Bloody-damn-hell,” he observed.

“Ha!” Burton said, and slapped Tam on the shoulder.
 
“Well done, O’Shaughnessy.”

Tam peered around the corner and out into the hall.
 
Two men lay on the ground, mangled
beyond any ability of even their mothers to recognize them.
 
“How did you do that, then?” he asked
Poe.
 
“You couldn’t even see them.”

“I didn’t have to see them,” Poe shook off Roxie’s efforts
to help him and shuffled towards the door on his own wobbling ankles.
 
“The machine is very sophisticated.”

Tam grunted appreciatively, remembering the little
beetles.
 
“This machine, on the
other hand, is simple enough.”
 
He
bent and picked up one of the Pinkerton’s pistols.
 
“Point and shoot.”

“An important desideratum in any thing, and especially in a
weapon,” Poe agreed, then burst into coughing.

“You look like hell, Poe.”
 
Tam squinted closer at the gun as Burton picked up the other
man’s firearm.
 
“There’s something
wrong with this pistol.
 
Where do
the percussion caps go?”

Burton laughed.
 
“It’s a good thing you Irish are so amusing,” he snorted.
 
“It goes a long way to make up for your
ignorance.”

“Fine!” Tam snapped.
 
“Then where does the percussion cap go, Mr. English Genius?”

Burton snapped open the cylinder of his pistol and shook out
six brass cylinders.
 
“This is the
Smith & Wesson Model 1,” he said, and he sounded smug and holier-than-thou
as any priest.
 
“Its bullets come
in brass cartridges, with powder and percussion cap built right in.
 
They load thus.”
 
He demonstrated, reloading the cylinder
and snapping it into place.

Tam examined his own pistol.
 
“Bloody hell,” he marveled at it.
 
“You can say this for the Pinkertons, they have interesting
guns.”

The dog-machine
clicked
past him and out into the plascrete hall, Poe limping in its trail with Roxie
fussing at his side.
 
Tam and
Richard Burton both ransacked the Pinkertons’ bloody pockets, coming away with
handfuls of shells and a scattergun, which Burton passed to Roxie.

“Only two shots,” the Englishman said.

“That’ll do nicely,” she nodded, taking the scattergun on
one hand and wrapping the other arm around Poe’s trembling chest.

Ahead of them, a man in a long coat turned the corner into
the hall.
 
He had just enough time
to look up and reach for his gun before the dog-thing was on him, knocking him
to the ground under its weight and biting for his throat.
 

“Aaaragh!”

Blood spattered the walls and the Pinkerton fell silent.

“How did it do that?” Tam asked, astonished.
 
“You didn’t even touch the whistle.”

Poe spat blood on the floor and nodded shakily.
 
“It’s a very sophisticated machine,” he
agreed.
 
“Horace Hunley is a true
genius.”

“I think I’ve seen enough of true genius on this trip to
conclude that it’s overrated,” Burton growled.
 
“If every true genius were shot on diagnosis, we wouldn’t be
in this pickle.”

“There’d still be a war in the offing,” Roxie reminded him.

“What do you call the thing, then?” Tam wanted to know.
 
“I can’t keep thinking of it as a
doggie.”

“Are you blind, O’Shaughnessy?” Burton barked.
 
“It’s obviously a Seth Beast.”

“Obviously,” Tam muttered.

“Also called the Typhonian Animal,” Poe added.

“Or the sha!” Burton finished, with a trap-like snap of his
heavy jaw.
 
He grinned a row of
teeth at Poe, and the American grinned back.

Tam felt left out and a little bit disrespected, but he was
still impressed.
 
“It’s
tremendous,” he said.
 
“Have you
got another?”

*
  
*
  
*

Crack-ckz-ckz-ckz-ckz-ckz-ckz!

The men of the Third Virginia danced spastically like
puppets before they fell, blue sparks running along the metal of their belt
buckles and guns and in their teeth.
 
Triggered by sparks in their cylinders, their guns started going off.

Bang!
 
Bang!
 
Bang!

Bullets ricocheted off the metal deck of the
Jim Smiley
and shattered glass windows in the streets
storefronts.
 
The show was
spectacular, but getting shot in the bargain was not part of Sam’s plan.

“Shut it off!” he shouted to the dwarf Coltrane, who
complied.

Instantly, the sparks stopped, and the cavalrymen lay
still.
 
Sam smelled ozone and
gunpowder and burnt flesh.
 
“I hope
they aren’t dead,” he said, looking around himself at all the fallen men, “but
either way, we need to get them off the deck.”

Upon inspection, though some were burned severely, none of
the cavalrymen turned out to be dead.
 
They thudded as they were trundled off the steam-truck and hit the
ground below.
 
Sam would have
preferred a gentler treatment of the unconscious men, but, after all, they had
been trying to kill him, and he had saved their lives, or at least some of
their lives, by keeping Rockwell in check.
 
Really, they owed Sam a debt of thanks, and one that they
would never acknowledge, so on balance he didn’t feel too bad.

“Should we take their horses?” Rockwell asked, staring at
the burnished metal beasts.
 
“If
they were… uh…”

“Meat?” Sam suggested.

“Flesh,” Brigham Young growled.

“Alive,” Rockwell agreed, “I’d take ’em.”

“Do you know how to operate one of those machines?” Sam
asked the mountain man.

“No.”

“Then now’s not the time,” Young decreed, and resettled
himself in the wheelhouse.

Sam took the wheel again.
 

“You’ve got good timing,” he said to Coltrane.
 
“You’d be a good mate on a steam-truck.”

“Yeah?” the dwarf kept running his eyes around the streets,
expressing a nervousness Sam felt.

Sam released the brake and the
Jim Smiley
rolled forward.
 
“I might be looking for a mate after this is all over.”

“You’re the second steam-truck man to offer me a job
tonight,” Coltrane scratched the stubble on his jaw.
 
“I ain’t used to this much favorable attention.”

“Would it feel more comfortable if I rode you out of town on
a rail first?” Sam quipped, turning the truck back in the direction of the Beehive
House.
 
“I could demand a bribe,
shut you down anyway, rough you up and then warn you never to come back.
 
Would that make you feel at home?”

Coltrane chuckled.
 
“Yeah, it would.
 
You ever
worked as a carny, Clemens?”

“Call me Sam.
 
No, my heart was always on the river.
 
But I’ve never turned down a good show, and it’s hard to get
a better show than a carnival.”
 
He
sucked at a Cohiba and offered another to the short man.
 
“Just have to avoid the gaffed
games.
 
Of course, even the rigged
games are part of the show.”

“Damn straight,” Coltrane agreed, and took the cigar.
 
“And call me Jed.
 
But I don’t figure you for a fellow who
gets hoodwinked much.”

“I’m certainly a fellow who does his best to avoid it,” Sam
agreed.
 
“That doesn’t stop the
hoodwinkers from trying.”

The edge of the Beehive House rolled into view and Sam
braked the
Jim Smiley
.
 
Shooting continued on the far side of
Young’s two conjoined houses, but it was more sporadic now.
 
“Is it worth me driving the truck
somewhere else to draw off attention?” he asked.
 
“Or hiding it?”

Brigham Young smiled fiercely.
 
He looked an awful lot like a heavier, Yankee version of
Richard Burton, Sam thought.
 
Minus
the scars on the sides of the head, and plus approximately fifty wives.
 
“Not worth it, Mr. Clemens,” Young
said.
 
“In fifteen minutes we’ll
have sent our message and it will be too late to stop us.
 
Everyone will know that I’m alive,
you’re innocent and John D. Lee is a scoundrel.”

“I could drive the
Jim Smiley
across the yard,” Sam offered.
 
“Crash it right into the window of the message room.”

“There are still men fighting over there,” Young said,
sounding grumpy even at the suggestion.
 
“This is my house, Clemens, with my family inside.
 
We’ll just walk through.
 
If anyone tries to resist, my family
will help us.
 
Besides,” he hefted
a pair of pistols he’d taken from electrocuted cavalrymen, “we’re armed.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sam agreed.

They crossed the north lawn of the Beehive House with guns
in hand, other than the dwarf, who carried a big vibro-blade, thumb on the
switch.
 
A man with a long coat and
rifle stood on the porch, and Brigham Young walked straight up to him and
leveled both pistols at his chest.

“Welker, isn’t it?” he asked.

“President Young!” the man gasped.
 
He was barrel-chested and tall despite short legs and Sam
thought he looked like he ate surprisingly well for a man who lived on the
frontier.
 
“You’re not dead!”

“Are you with me or Lee?” Young asked, cocking his
guns.
  
Sam looked around the
porch, half-expecting to be spied on.
 
Coltrane must be sharing his suspicions, he thought; the dwarf looked
itchy.

Welker promptly turned his rifle around and handed it to
Young, stock-first.
 
“I’m your man,
President Young,” he said.
 
He
turned and knocked three times at the door.
 
“Thank God you’re back.”
 
He opened the door, revealing a parlor lit only dimly by
electricks turned down low.

“Not everyone!” Young snapped.
 
He uncocked one pistol, stuck it into the waistband of his
pants, and handed Welker’s rifle back to him.
 
Just in case, Sam cocked his own guns and kept an eye on the
guard.

Welker nodded and stepped aside, and Young stomped into his
home.
 
Rockwell snatched back
Welker’s gun and pushed himself into the man’s face.
 

“You’re coming with us,” he growled.
 
Welker backed away, nodded and
following Brigham Young.

The chairs and sofas in the parlor were very nice, and the
room was empty of life.

“Why did you knock, Welker?” Sam asked.
 
“Everyone’s asleep.”

Welker hesitated, then shrugged.
 
“Manners,” he said.
 
“It isn’t my house.”

“People knock on doors before entering in the Kingdom of
Deseret, Mr. Clemens,” Young growled.
 
“For my bodyguards, it’s protocol.”

“Yes, but he didn’t enter, did he?” Sam pointed out.
 
“And this is your house, isn’t it, Mr.
President?”

“In ten minutes it won’t matter,” Young said, barreling
through the parlor and down a long hall.
 
“In ten minutes they’ll be able to shoot me dead and it still won’t
matter.
 
Lee will be held
accountable, and the Kingdom will avoid entering this ridiculous war.”

The long hall was lined with doors, all of them shut.
 
Sam wondered what time it was, and
guessed the hour must be nearing six in the morning.
 
If this were a farm, everyone would be up by now.

One door opened in the hall, directly in front of them, and
a young woman appeared in it.
 
She
wore a long white nightgown that covered everything but her head and hands, but
Sam still blushed and looked away, out of habit.