Wild Cards and Iron Horses (19 page)

Jon moved to stand beside him, watching the last of the firemen exit through the doors. The smoke was gone, mingling with the low smog cloud. There was nothing to indicate that there had ever been a fire, other than the scorch marks on the upper window and the trickle of water out the front doors dribbling onto the street.

“Going to take a bit of paint to cover that up,” Jon mused out loud. “As in, a bucket or ten.”

Tribiolte turned towards him, a wide grin spreading across his face as he recognized one of his headliners. “Mr. Handleston. I’m glad to hear you’re well.” He squinted, staring at Jon. “You may have made the right decision, staying over at the McGuire place. I’d have hated to see you hurt or unable to play.”

“I’m just glad no one was hurt.” Jon looked up at the empty window, the bare square wide open to the destructive elements. “And don’t you worry, I’ll be there tomorrow.” Lifting his right arm, he wriggled his fingers through the black glove. After not having any control over one of them for what seemed so long, he felt like a child with a new toy. “Going to be a great tournament and I’m looking forward to beating Victor again.”

“I’m glad to hear that. No offense, but there’s plenty of people be wanting to see you and Mr. Morton get into it.” He grinned. “So to speak. Now, if you want to arrange a boxing match, I’d be glad to set up a ring for you two. Make another few dollars if you’d be interested.”

Jon let out a low laugh. “I’ll have to turn you down on that one, sir. I’m a lover and a poker player, not a fighter.”

The man laughed, the attempt turning into a loud cough. He bent over, doubled with the effort for a full minute before standing up and continuing. “Well, can’t blame me for trying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I better see about getting some workmen in there and putting the word out about the time change.

Remember, eight o’clock tomorrow morning, sharp. We can’t be waiting for any stragglers. When that bell rings, the cards start flying.” He stepped away from Jon, moving towards a group of men farther down the street. The saloon owner yelled orders at the bemused workmen, gesturing wildly at the broken window.

Jon looked at the building, still flexing his fingers. At least Victor hadn’t been hurt. That would have weighed on his conscience despite it not being his fault. Still, he’d never seen the older man so angry, not even after losing his fiancée’s love and later on, her life. Jon had heard rumors that Victor was at the end of his rope financially, running out of money and unable to secure further financing. His short temper seemed to bear the rumors out.

Gil stepped out of the remnants of the crowd. “Hey, Mr. Handleston, sir.” He strode forward, playing with his suspenders. “I came to see the fire.” He let out a sigh. “Didn’t go up half as much as I thought it would.”

“You didn’t set the fire, did you?” Jon whispered, bending down.

“No, sir!” The urchin pulled himself up to his full height. “I was the one who rung the fire bell, I did.

Went to the square and turned it on.”

“Ah. Good boy.” He glanced towards the saloon now swarming with workmen. “I don’t suppose you happened to see who did?”

The youngster shrugged, kicking a stone into the street. “Heard that it was an accident, someone tossing some drink where they shouldn’t have. Your friend Victor, I think.”

“He’s no friend of mine.” The tone came out harsher than he had planned. Gil flinched as surely as if Jon had slapped him.

Handleston dropped to one knee, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just…well, I’m worried about Victor.”

Gil tilted his head to one side. “But he hates you. And he hates Miss Sam and Mister Jake.”

“Well…yes.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “But just because you don’t like someone doesn’t mean you have to hurt them.”

“I know that,” Gil huffed. “If I hurt everyone I didn’t like, the town’d be half empty.”

Jon couldn’t help laughing, despite himself. “And that, dear boy, is why you don’t act on impulse.

You think things out, you plan…” The words trailed off as he thought about what he was saying. Victor was willing to bribe Sam and her father to have them reveal the secret of his artificial hand. He offered them money to destroy it. He threatened them with possible violence when they declined.

Exactly how far would Victor go to make sure that Jon didn’t win that tournament tomorrow?

Getting to his feet, Jon asked, “Gil, when the sheriff’s not around, who’s in charge?”

“Well, that’d be the two town deputies. But they’re dumber than nails, at least that’s what Miss Sam says. And brothers to boot.”

“Hmm. Well, let’s go see them in their offices.” Jon looked down the street. The fire wagon, loaded with hoses, slowly trundled by, black smoke chugging out of the funnel at a less-frantic rate. “I want to talk to them about Victor.”

Gil frowned. “What can they do? The sheriff said that there wasn’t enough to arrest him on.”

“No,” Jon admitted, “but I think if the deputies let Victor know they’re keeping an eye on him and suspect he may be out to cause trouble, he won’t.”

The boy scratched his head, a puzzled look on his face. “You foreigners sure think different than we do.”

Jon smiled. “Sometimes we do, don’t we?” Putting his hand back on the urchin’s shoulder, he pointed down the street. “Let’s see what your deputies have to say.”

Gil explained more about the town layout as he led Jon through the alleyway and small lanes running from one spoke to the other, heading towards the inner buildings. “See, the sheriff’s office is at the center of the wheel right by the train station and the airship tower so that he can get anywhere he needs to.” He sidestepped a dark puddle of liquid, forcing Jon to shuffle to one side. “But the deputies have offices in the other areas that they patrol ’round to cover more of the city. Give them a chance to see more of what’s going on and for them to be seen and all.”

“How organized,” Jon mused, noting the air getting thicker and dirtier with almost every step. The smell of dirty bodies, of burnt oil and coal and wood was stronger here, the scent of progress hanging in the air. “But it won’t mean anything if they can’t help deal with Victor.”

“What do you want them to do?” Gil ducked into another alleyway, tugging Jon’s arm to follow.

“Can’t go down that street. That there is one nasty baker. He always thinks I’m stealing bread from him.”

Jon smiled down at the boy. “Well, do you?”

“Only on Mondays and Fridays, when his daughter’s at the counter. She’s sort of sweet on me.” The urchin grinned. “I have that effect on some wimmen.” He trotted into the dim light and back onto the wooden sidewalk. “This way.”

“I see.” Jon twisted away from a herd of ladies descending on them in a chittering mass of femininity.

One glanced at him from over her fan, the thin fabric fluttering in an effort to encourage interest from Jon.

“The fellows are just around here. But whatever you do, don’t call them Bob and Bill. They hate that.” Gil pointed a finger at the small wooden box on the corner. The painted names and the gold star signaled some sort of authority inside the dismal-looking shack. A small candle sat atop the box, encased inside a dingy yellow dome of glass. “See, they’re inside right now. William and Robert, that’s their names.

Phillips.” He stepped backwards, letting Jon move into the stuttering daylight.

“You’re not coming?”

Gil stuck his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumping. “I keep not going to school and they’re kinda grumpy about that sort of thing.”

“Ah.” Jon nodded. In another time and place he would have lectured the boy on the value of a good education for a good future, but Prosperity Ridge seemed to run on different rules. “Then you can wait for me here.” Digging in his pocket, he came up with a coin. Jon handed it to the boy. “See what sort of trouble you can get into with that. But don’t go too far. I’ll probably be needing you soon enough.”

Gil beamed at him, eyes bright with anticipation. “Thank you!” Before Jon could say anything more, the boy melted into the shadows. Alone again, Jon turned to inspect the police station.

Shoved into a gap between what appeared to be a private residence and yet another store, this one selling various types of footwear, huddled the shack pretending to be a law-enforcement post. This wasn’t any short, squat police box that had so recently become all the fashion in London, offering assistance to law enforcement as a miniature police station.

Instead, the square box reminded Jon of the prefabricated homes shown at the latest World’s Fair, tiny, chunky wooden structures of just one room that barely passed for accommodations. Heralded as “The Settler’s Friend”, hundreds had been sold to travelers and even more to the military of various nations, serving as a guard post or as impromptu barracks. The only problem, Jon recalled as he walked up the steps, was that they tended to fall apart rather easily in severe weather. Something about the mixture used for the walls, the less-than-ideal material, deteriorating as fast as the sellers evaporated from sight.

The door swung open on a single hinge and even that seemed prepared to give up the task if asked by a slight breeze. Holes left for windows were papered over with thick, black shingles. The walls were stained with a variety of liquids, all sinking into the thin wood and beginning to warp the fabric already. A faint musty smell hit Jon’s senses, fighting through the sooty air, reminding him of moldy bread.

A man stepped out through the open door before Jon could enter. “May I help you, sir?”

He stood at least six feet tall, with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail that reached down just past his gun belt. The belt itself was made of fine Spanish leather, the two pistols with pearl-handled grips easily visible at both hips. A tan shirt was neatly tucked into his jeans, a dingy grey handkerchief tied around his neck. He peered at Jon from under a large cowboy hat. “Sir?”

Jon extended his right hand. “I’m looking for the deputies, sir. Are you one of them?”

The man stared at him before giving Jon a handshake that threatened to undo all of Sam’s hard work.

“I’m William Phillips, and my brother Robert is around the corner, picking up some coffee. Please, come in.”

Ducking to enter the shack, Jon took a second to adapt to the shaded room, the only light a small lantern precariously perched on a short table in the far corner. The deputy waved him towards one of the three chairs in the room. He took a seat behind an ancient desk that seemed more structurally stable than the building around it.

“What can we do for you?”

“I’m here in regards to an incident that happened between the Weatherlys and a recent visitor to your town, Victor Morton.” The chair was solid, sinking into the floor under his weight.

“Ah.” He looked past Handleston. “’Bout time. Did you have to grind the beans yourself?”

Jon turned to see what he assumed was Robert Phillips, a man who could have been William’s twin.

In an alternative negative universe, that was. William was tall; Robert barely topped five feet. Robert had short blond hair, in contrast to his own dark-haired brother. Robert grinned at the pair, shifting the two mugs of coffee in his hands.

“Had to milk the cow, silly. And what’s going on here?”

“This gentleman wants to talk about a problem with the Weatherlys.” He took the offered cup and sipped the light brown brew with a grimace. “See you added in the mud as well.”

“My special flavor.” Robert winked at Jon as he moved to stand beside his brother. “So what’s going on with the Weatherlys? Haven’t heard much about them since the accident.”

“Oh that.” William looked down, studying his coffee. “That was an awful thing. Can’t believe he’s still working on that beast. And his daughter’s pretty easy on the eyes, I have to admit that.”

“Yes, well…” Jon cleared his throat. “I’m here because of Victor Morton.” The blank looks from the deputies encouraged him to continue. “Recently Miss Samantha did some repairs on an item for me, and because of it Mr. Morton threatened them.”

William took another sip. He pushed his hat back over the jet-black hair to the point that it was almost falling off. “What sort of threat?”

“He wanted them to break it before returning it to me. He offered to pay, but when they refused to do so…” Jon raised his voice, “…he threatened them.”

Robert put up a hand before William could speak. “What did he say? Exactly, as best you recall.”

“That he would ruin their business.” Jon looked from one brother to the other. “And then I find out that it’s likely he caused the fire at the saloon, and…” The sentence trailed off.

Robert turned towards his brother. “Hmm. The fire at Deadeye’s. I heard about that. Didn’t you send a runner to the fire chief, get the story ’bout what happened?”

“Yep. Something ’bout sloppy visitors, someone probably knocked a lamp over and started the fire.”

Turning to one side, the blond man spat into the brass spittoon in the corner. “Drunks can’t hold their liquor. As if we need many more coming into town on the train.” He looked back at Jon. “Did he physically attack either of them? Or are we just talking a verbal threat?” He chewed on the word verbal like the wad of tobacco wedged in his cheek.

“Well…” Jon’s stomach lurched. Suddenly he felt like a young soldier trying to explain to the grizzled veteran why he couldn’t load his rifle as fast as the other men. “He seemed very determined to get hold of my property. And he said that he would destroy their business after they refused. That seems like a very definite threat to me.”

William let out a low grunt. “That’s not exactly uncommon around here.” He studied the bottom of his cup for a minute before continuing. “Mister…”

“Handleston. Jon Handleston.”

“Mr. Handleston, you have to understand that around here, threats are sort of a way of life. People compete for everything, contracts for this and that, women, land rights.” He lifted a hand towards the thin and buckling roof. “Heck, a day without someone threatening to take my head off is a rare one indeed.”

“Old Charlie, he’s as regular as clockwork.” Robert laughed. “He’s thinking that he’s got the rights to the sky over the town, wants to charge an air toll for all the ships moving through. Has papers that says so.