Timpanogos (13 page)

“The blood of Brother Brigham would make this a holier
temple than you’ll ever set foot in, John Lee!” the farmer’s wife snapped.
 
“Don’t you worry about my floors!”

“My Brother Joseph died in a jail cell,” Young said quietly,
“surrounded by his friends.
 
Dying
in a cabin surrounded by my friends would be no less honorable.”

“Move!”
 
The
shouted instruction came from the Danite by the nearest window, the man Jed had
been planning to slip past.
 
Now he
pointed a pistol at the prisoners and urged them to their feet.

Jed pretended to wake up, then carefully held his unbound
hands together as he scrambled to his feet and followed the Kimballs as they
shuffled across the creaking floor to the far wall.

“You happy?” he grunt-whispered to Fearnley-Standish.
 
“Now we ain’t by the chimney.”

The Englishman had a look of pure consternation and worry on
his face.
 
“He’ll die,” he
whispered.

“Who, Young?” Jed shot a look over his shoulder.
 
The President of the Kingdom of Deseret
stood with his back to the chimney and his hands over his head.
 
John D. Lee stood in front of him with
his pistol drawn but not yet raised.
 
All eyes in the room were on them.
 
“Yeah, he might.
 
But he’s
only getting what he chose.”

“He’ll die.”
 
The Englishman patted the waistband of his pants like he had an upset
stomach.

“Hey,” the red-headed Danite Robison said, “what about
Wells?”
 

“Do I get last words, John?” Young asked.
 
He stood directly before the stone
column of the chimney, his arms spread wide like wings, and he edged forward
slightly, taking small steps that brought him closer to the man holding a gun
on him.
 
His eyes were calm, Jed
noticed.
 
He was one steel-spined
son of a bitch, Brigham Young.
 
“A
last meal?
 
Brother Heber is tone
deaf, but will you let him sing
A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief
for me, anyway?”

“You’re no martyr,” Lee said.
 
“You’re no Joseph Smith.
 
You’re just in the way.”

“The chimney,” Fearnley-Standish murmured, and suddenly Jed
guessed what he was worried about.

John D. Lee raised his pistol—

and Jed tackled him.
 
He hit the man knuckles-first, missed his grab at the jug ears and
tumbled to the floor.

Bang!

Lee’s shot went wide, the bullet biting into the wooden
ceiling.

Jed rolled, racing for a window.
 
The room around him bustled into action, guns swerving and
men barking, but unfortunately all the guns were in the hands of the men who wanted
Jed dead.
 
He came out of his
somersault reaching to plant his foot on a chair and leap for a window and
freedom—

and a booted foot caught him in the midriff.

Jed crashed hard into the log wall of the cabin.
 
The room tipped to one side before his
eyes and then spun around in a greasy yellow kerosene swirl and when he could
see again, he was looking up the barrel of a heavy rifle at the snarling face
of the Danite Robison.
 
Behind his
attacker, Young and Clemens and Rockwell and the Ambassador all stood still,
guns to their heads.

So much for the little rebellion he had started.

So much for worrying about other people.
 
You should have run when you had the
chance, Coltrane.

“Go to hell,” he drawled to the Danite in his best Cracker
accent.

“Kill the dwarf,” Lee said.

The powerfully-built Danite raised the rifle and
grinned.
 
“This is for Wells,” he
snarled.

Pip!
 
Pip!
 
Pip!

Robison’s head exploded, spurting a fountain of blood out
one temple.
 
He dropped the rifle,
took two jerky steps forward and then toppled to the floor.
 
Jed turned to stare at the source of
the shots, with everyone else.
 

They had come from Absalom Fearnley-Standish.
 
He stood upright, if trembling a bit,
and in his outstretched hand he held a tiny derringer, a little four-shot lady’s
gun.
 
In any other moment, Jed
might have found him silly looking, with his scalloped hat brim and badly
scuffed city boy shoes and the look on his face, part scared, part determined
and part totally insane.
 
Trembling
as he was from the close scrape with death, though, Jed was happy to have a
champion of any appearance whatsoever.

The short yaps from the derringer faded and
Fearnley-Standish lowered his gun.
 
His face shone with sweat and his eyes trembled and Jed wondered if the
other man might be just a little bit drunk.

“Mr. Lee,” the Englishman said slowly, tugging at his
waistcoat and jacket in effort to smooth them that was doomed to failure.
 
“The first step in any successful
negotiation is the making of an offer.
 
We are all reasonable men here, President Brigham Young more than any of
us.
 
Please tell us what you want
and why you want it, and I’m sure that together we shall all be able to find
common ground.”

“Kill them both!” John D. Lee barked.

Danites cocked pistols all over the room.

KABOOM!

The chimney exploded.

Chapter Fifteen

KABOOM!

Two Danites standing nearest the chimney collapsed under the
barrage of flying stones.
 
Then the
ceiling around the fireplace caved in, and Young, Armstrong, Rockwell and
Clemens all disappeared from Absalom’s view.
 

“Not that easy!” John D. Lee raged and waded into the mess
of fallen timbers, one hand clawing at the rubble and the other holding a
pistol high.

“Get outta here!” the dwarf Coltrane shouted.
 
He wheezed a bit and sounded generally
thrashed, but he had a knife in his hand and he started cutting ropes off the
hands of the Kimball family.

A Danite with a scattergun stepped close to the knot of
prisoners and raised his weapon.
 
“Stop right there!” he growled, aiming at the midget.

To Absalom’s own surprise, he didn’t hesitate.
 
He raised his derringer and took aim at
Scattergun’s neck.

Pip!

Scattergun toppled sideways and then Coltrane was on him
like a dagger-wielding ape, stabbing him twice in the face before Absalom
pulled his gaze away—

and found himself staring down the barrels of three long
pistols in the hands of two furious-looking men.
 

For a split second, Absalom considered the very real
possibility of his own death and found that he wasn’t terribly troubled.
 
He’d carried out his duty to his family
and he’d served his country well.
 
If he died on the errand of his Queen, he joined thousands of greater
men than himself in a shared patriotic glory.
 
A faint smile crept across his lips.

Crunch!

A long, laced-up boot spun sideways crashed into the temple
of One Pistol, flipping him over like a rag doll thrown by a petulant
child.
 
A swirl of skirt like a
pinwheel followed the boot, and a flash of petticoats and sleek legs, and when
Annie Web landed her other boot came down hard on the Danite’s throat.

Snap!

Two Gun’s eyes slipped sideways for a moment in surprise as
his comrade vanished under an onslaught of petticoats.
 
When the moment ended, his face twisted
into a snarl, his eyeballs rolled forward again to target Absalom—

boom!
—

and his head exploded.

Blood and worse spattered over Absalom’s face and
chest.
 
He resolved not to think
about it; he had business to take care of.

He heard the shouting of men and gunshots outside the
farmhouse.

He tucked the derringer into his waistband and strode across
the floor towards John D. Lee.
 
The
square-headed man shoved a timber out of his way and unearthed Brigham Young,
who stared up at him with a fierce, unyielding brow.

“I’m not leaving!” he heard Heber Kimball shout behind him.

Men with knives closed in on either side of Absalom.
 
One spun suddenly backwards in a nearly
perfect circle as Annie Webb’s toes crunched into the underside of his chin;
the other disappeared in a cloud of red mist that spattered Absalom even
further.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Through the missing wall, Absalom glimpsed one of the
Striders only a dozen paces away, and he realized that Master Sergeant Jackson
was watching over him.

John D. Lee straightened up.
 
He cocked and aimed his pistol at Brigham Young’s forehead.

Absalom had vaguely imagined that he’d pick up a fallen
pistol or other weapon from the floor as he crossed it, but there hadn’t been
any.
 
So when he reached John D.
Lee, he simply punched the man as hard as he could in the jaw.

Bang!

Lee staggered sideways.
 
His gun went off and the bullet sank into the wreckage of
the roof and disappeared.
 
He
turned, off-balance, raised his pistol—

and Absalom punched it aside, sending the gun flying.

The Danite stared.

Absalom took off his hat and tossed it aside.
 
He raised his fists into guard position
in front of his face.

“Son of a—”

Boom!

Indistinctly out of the corner of his eye, Absalom saw Heber
Kimball blast with a scattergun, knocking down a Danite who came charging into
the farmhouse door.

Shooting and shouting continued outside, but inside the
farmhouse was as still as the eye of any hurricane.
 
Soft groans came from the rubble.
 
Absalom knew that Young was still alive, and felt optimistic
that Armstrong and Clemens might be equally lucky.
 
It wasn’t that heavy a roof, after all.

John D. Lee eyed his pistol where it lay, across the ravaged
room.

“Are you man enough to fight without it, Mr. Lee?” Absalom
dared him.
 
“Fisticuffs, like
gentlemen, though I hesitate to sully the word by associating it with you!”

Lee flared his nostrils.
 
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it aside onto the
floor.
 

“My ancestor Richard Lee emigrated from England and made a
fortune on this continent in tobacco,” he snarled slowly.
 
“Thomas Lee founded the Ohio Company
that opened up the great inner reaches of this land for the civilizing touch of
the white man.
 
Francis Lightfoot
Lee and Richard Henry Lee signed the Declaration of Independence that severed
the noxious umbilical that tied us to the tyrants of Old England.”
 
He pushed his shirtsleeves up over his
forearms, revealing a surprising amount of wiry, corded muscle.
 
“And when your whining grandfathers
objected, Lighthorse Harry Lee rode roughshod over their lobsterback underlings
at Paulus Hook, Camden and Yorktown, and sent them weeping back to their kidney
pies.”

Lee spat on the floor and raised his fists.

“Then you can consider this a repayment,” Absalom said.

He punched first, straight for Lee’s nose.
 
It was a light punch, to which he
didn’t fully commit, because he wanted to test Lee’s guard.
 

Lee turned it aside easily and punched back, hard, turning
with his shoulders and throwing a fist at Absalom’s stomach—

but Absalom easily stepped aside.

He punched for Lee’s temple with a right cross that glanced
off the other man’s shoulder, and then they both pulled back into defensive
stances.

Lee started circling to his right.
 
He had a wary look in his eyes now.
 
Absalom saw the dwarf Coltrane scramble
over the rubble of the fallen roof, so he circled to the right too, and drew
Lee away into the center of the room and away from Brigham Young and the other
trapped men.
 

Lee charged, hurling punch after punch at Absalom’s
sternum.
 
Absalom caught the flying
fists against his forearms, again and again—

ducked under the punches—

slammed his own knuckles into John D. Lee’s belly—

and caught a sharp punch to his own jaw.

Absalom staggered away.
 
His vision spun and he fought to keep his guard up.
 
By luck more than by skill, his
flailing hands managed to slap away two more punches before his vision calmed
enough for him to focus on Lee.

“You’re in over your head,” Lee barked.

Outside, the battle continued, many reports of handguns and
the booming of the larger firearms mounted on the Striders.

The thrill of the fight rushed through Absalom’s body,
almost making up for the blow he’d taken.
 
He saw Annie watching from the side of the room; she looked like a
coiled spring, ready to hurl herself into action.
 
He saw the Strider outside, too.
 
It traded shots with a knot of men in the farm’s outbuildings,
but it held its position, and Absalom felt it was keeping an eye on him.

Absalom didn’t want to be rescued, especially by beautiful
women.
 
He wanted to rescue
them
, by George.

“Ha!” he spat out his contempt, and jumped forward punching
again.

Lee stood his ground and met Absalom’s jabs with his left
hand guarding and a right uppercut for Absalom’s jaw.
 

Absalom swerved, took the punch on his shoulder.

He buffeted Lee on the cheek, backhand.
 
It was a little irregular and bad form,
but it connected.

Lee headbutted Absalom in the forehead.

The attack was so fast, Absalom didn’t see it coming.
 
One moment, he was swiping the other
man across the face, and the next, the space inside his head felt infinite and
echoed with pain and his vision narrowed to a tiny tunnel the only image in
which was the sight of John D. Lee’s hammer-hard head pulling away after the
blow.

“Ugh,” Absalom said, and fell back.

He kept his feet under him, though not by much, and he
staggered and slipped like a dancing marionette.
 

“Ouch!” someone yelled as Absalom stepped on him.

He lurched forward again, trying to raise his hands to
intercept the—

POW!

The punch hit him squarely in the nose and it was bigger and
louder and more painful than the exploding chimney.
 

He punched back, without form or discipline.
 
His head heart so much, he couldn’t
even feel his hand and he had no idea if his fist connected.
 

Thud!

Lee punched him in the stomach.

“Unnph!” Absalom gasped, and he doubled forward.
 
He was still on his feet, but only
barely, and he knew the killer, bout-ending punch was inevitable now, was
surely about to land on his face.
 
He felt humiliated.
 
Annie
would rescue him, or if he fell maybe Master Sergeant Jackson would simply
squeeze the trigger and blow John D. Lee to smithereens, but he, Absalom
Fearnley-Standish, had personally failed.

Abysmally.

The expected punch didn’t arrive.
 
Instead, Lee grabbed him in a clinch hold, pulling Absalom
tight to his own chest.

Absalom dimly heard a snick and then felt a cold, metallic
line against the side of his neck.
 
Is that a knife? he wondered.

“I’m leaving now.”
 
John D. Lee’s voice was gigantic and booming in Absalom’s ear and inside
his empty, quivering skull.
 
“Anybody tries to stop me, I kill the Englishman.”

*
  
*
  
*

Hishhhhhhh!

The rock surface skimming past the accordion gate and
punctured glass of the lift door disappeared first at the top, and then the gap
in the stone slid down until it filled the entire door.
 
Tamerlane O’Shaughnessy stood beside
Richard Burton in the center of the lift.
 
At Burton’s suggestion, they didn’t try to hide, and just stood with
their heads down.
 
Hopefully,
Burton had lectured during the lift ride, their concealed faces would create
enough uncertainty to give them a small margin of initiative if anyone were
waiting for them.
 
Hopefully, Tam
thought but didn’t say, the bloody-damn-hell Pinkertons wouldn’t just shoot
first and then examine their faces later.
 
After all, Burton openly held a saber in his hand.
 
The sword and the man’s mustache made
Tam feel like he was in some mad piratical pantomime.
 
He half expected to be made to walk the plank at any moment,
and he was half tempted to shoot Burton the first moment the man turned his
back, only he didn’t think Sam Clemens would like it, and after all, he and
Burton were on the same side now, more or less.

Tam had punched through the linings of both pockets of his
coat, so he could keep his hands in his pockets, each filled with a loaded
Maxim Husher ready for action.
 
He
was beginning to feel sober again.
 
He itched all over, ached and was grumpy.
 
He didn’t like the feeling, and he disliked it even more
than he usually disliked the sensation of sobering up.
 
He felt light-headed and a little
sick.
 
He wondered if something was
wrong with him.

Besides the two gunshots and the missing chunk of his ear,
of course.

No one waited for them at the Bay level.
 
Burton quietly slid the doors open in
two quick movements and they both looked out.

The Bay was a single vast chamber, thirty feet tall at least
and large enough to hold several good-sized village greens.
 
It was lit by the blue light radiating
from Franklin Poles that jutted from the ceiling upside down like iron
stalactites, illuminating everything and leaving the floor unobstructed.
 
Obstruction was provided by the stacks
of lumber and iron and brass and piles of crates that stood all around the
chamber like toys in an untidy child’s room.
 
Several steam-trucks, of various sizes and no consistent make
or appearance, stood haphazardly in the Bay as well, motors stilled.
 
To one side a plascrete ramp, wide
enough for two steam-trucks to drive abreast, led up through the ceiling into a
darkness that looked like the darkness of night outdoors.
 
There’s your exit, me boy, Tam thought.

Directly across the Bay was another opening in the cavern
wall.
 
As Burton and Tam watched, a
steam-truck rumbled into the Bay and ground to halt, idling its engine.
 
Half a dozen tall men in long coats
stood around it with guns, and one old man with hair so white and wild that Tam
could see it from the lift.