Wild Cards and Iron Horses (21 page)

Gil disappeared into the shadows as Jon moved towards the door, picking each step with care. In his mind’s eye he replayed the earlier encounter with Morton. His finger tightened on the trigger. This time he wasn’t going to let the man just walk away. This time he couldn’t afford to let Morton continue to harass and terrify this innocent family. This time was going to be the last, one way or another.

The heavy oak door stayed still as he pressed his right hand against it, his light touch not enough to send it crashing back. Inside he saw the faint light of a fire threatening to go out and the small but steady hum of a handful of electric lamps around the shop. Shadows bounced around the walls, feeding his imagination. Was Victor in a corner, waiting to attack anyone who entered? Was he armed with something more than just a sword cane? Was he alone?

Some of the Southern officers bragged about being able to slice a hair from a man’s head with their swords, claiming it as proof of their superior character. Some of the Southern officers argued that swords were of the past, the future being the metal monsters and hardware that held the power, most of which were on the Northern side. They carried pistols and cursed the rain and laughed at those who put their faith in a cold piece of steel. Some of them died horrible deaths, swords in lifeless hands plowed under rolling steel boxes that never halted their advance. Some had lived, cleaning their blades first on the grass around them before striding back to the campfires, bleary-eyed and in shock.

Jon now wished for such a blade in his hand. With only two bullets in the derringer, and those being of limited stopping power, he would have to move fast to take out his enemy. If only he had a sword to accompany his weapon.

His left hand shook slightly as he moved around the edge of the door, the pistol leading the way into the workshop. His right hand rolled into a fist, tensing to throw the best punch possible.

The breath caught in his throat as he stepped through the opening, getting a full view of the room.

Jake Weatherly lay on his stomach, his swollen face pressed to the ground. His good arm lay twisted around to his back in an awkward position. The thick rope holding it tight pulled the older man’s feet up towards his back, reminding Jon of a hogtied calf. He looked up at the gambler, wheezing through a rag stuffed in his mouth and kicking feebly at the knots holding him. Nearby a broken ceramic mug had dribbled the last few drops of coffee onto the floor, a few inches away from two overturned chairs.

“Oh God.” Dropping to one knee, Jon put the derringer carefully to the side, making sure the barrel pointed away from the man.

Jake blinked through a bloody and puffy eye, wincing as Jon pulled the rag free. “Thank you,” he panted, sucking in mouthfuls of air. “Sam…”

“Gil’s getting help. Let me get this off of you.” Jon fumbled with the knots, the coarse rope hard to untangle even with two hands. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride,” the older man croaked, moving into a sitting position as the ropes fell away. “If you could rub my arm for a second, please. It’s gone numb.” He fell against Jon’s chest with a strangled moan.

“Oh Lord…”

Jon massaged the arm for a minute, seeing the relief and pain in Jake’s face as the blood began to circulate again. “Was it Morton? Where’s Sam?”

“That bastard.” Spittle flew across the room from Weatherly’s mouth, a trace running down his chin into the white whiskers. “He said that we knew the secret of your hand and were holding out for more money.” A coughing fit overtook the man, and he leaned forward, spitting a dark liquid onto the floor.

Jon drew in a deep breath, trying to remember the remedial medical knowledge he had picked up.

There was too much blood, too much… The acidic tang of tobacco caught in his nose. It wasn’t blood, thank God. Jake coughed again, splattering the floor with chunks of chewing tobacco, confirming his diagnosis.

“He still thinks there’s something we know. Took Sam by the arm and said he’d get the truth out of her, one way or another.” A new set of curses broke free as he got to his feet, leaning heavily on Jon for support. “He’s a madman, I tell you. A madman.”

Jon helped Jake to the nearest chair, turning it back upright for the old man. “Did he hurt her?”

“She made for the brute, swinging a piece of wood at him. He caught her over the head with that damned rifle in his hands. Knocked her out, he did.” Jake started to shake uncontrollably, twitching frantically from side to side. Jon snatched a blanket off the floor and wrapped it around the man. Taking another log off the pile, Jon encouraged the embers to come back to life with the fresh addition. The orange and red tongues licked the dry wood, the flames rising to a decent level.

The shivering man lifted his hand towards the fire, flexing his fingers. “My daughter…” He lowered his head, giving a shaky sigh. “Samantha…”

“I’ll bring her back,” Jon whispered, poking the blaze into an even higher rage. “I’ll take care of Victor once and for all, and I will bring Samantha back to you.” He growled over the growing fire, “I will.”

Gil skidded into the workshop with the two deputies in tow, his little face red. Skittering to a stop by the fire, the boy bent over, hands on knees, barely able to stay standing.

Robert whistled as he stared at the beaten man’s face. William scowled.

“It was Victor Morton.” Jon tried to keep the accusing tone out of his voice. “I told you he was dangerous.”

William nodded. “That you did, but we’ve no time to argue over the details. Gil, get Doctor Weston.

I’m pretty sure he’s over at the Mayfair Hotel. He’s got a girlfriend who performs there. Tell him to get here now or I’m gonna be annoyed.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Very annoyed.”

Gil shot a nervous look at Jon before he ran out the open door, still huffing. William knelt by the chair holding Jake. The older man had stopped shaking and now just studied the fire with a blank expression.

“Was it that Morton fellow?” He looked at Jon, then back at Jake. “Was it, Jake? Are you sure?”

“Of course it was, you damned fool,” Jake growled. He pushed the deputy to the ground with a firm shove to the chest. “I’m not an idiot. I know what I’m talking about. Jon, get me some of that whiskey.”

Jon scrambled to his feet. The old man still had a lot of fight left in him. He trotted over to the workbench, retrieved the bottle of amber liquid and one shot glass and filled it to the brim before returning with both bottle and glass.

He glanced at the two deputies. William had gotten back to his feet and was now standing by his brother, both muttering to each other. Robert nodded while William shook his head. William waved a hand in the air while Robert’s arms stayed at his sides. True brothers, probably arguing over what to do and how to do it with the least effort on their parts.

Jake took the glass and emptied it in one swallow. Wiping his mouth, he held it out for a refill.

“You get out there and find my daughter, you bastards.” He began to cough, leaning forward out of the chair to pound his chest with a fist. Jon snatched the glass before it hit the floor and filled it back up.

The fit lasted a minute until Jake recovered. Reaching for the glass, he grabbed the whiskey from Jon’s grasp. “What are you all waiting here for, staring at me? I’m fine.”

The two brothers finally separated. Robert pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Dally’s out at Deer Ridge, waiting for the military to get there. I heard they sent out a unit, should have gotten to the outpost by now.” He glanced at his brother. “I’ll send a runner, but he’s not going to reach them all ’til morning, easy.”

“Can you get the military involved?” Jon glanced from one man to the other. “Can we use the airships?”

The two brothers stared at each other, then at Jon. William spoke first. “You don’t seem to understand how things work out here, Mr. Handleston. We can’t just call the military and have them come running for a missing woman.”

“A kidnapping,” Jon corrected him, his voice rising. “A woman kidnapped by a madman who assaulted her father and is threatening to kill her.”

Jake spat into the glowing fire. “Idiots.” He stared at Jon. “They won’t go out into the dark. Scared like little children to go out at night.” He scowled at the two deputies. “All they want to do is curl up in the dark with their women and play at being lawmen.”

“Sir.” Robert drew himself up to his full height, tucking his hands into his gun belt. “We are not afraid of the dark. What we are, sir, is aware of the dangers of traveling in the dark outside of the town.” He glared at Jon. “Once you get out of the range of the city lights, it’s pitch-black out there. We won’t have a hope of finding any sort of track until dawn, at the earliest. Running out there with a bunch of lanterns ain’t gonna do anything other than tell this Morton fellow exactly where we is and where he can’t be.”

“The local airships won’t fly at night, not low enough to see anything worth seeing. And before you ask, the long-distance ones do fly at night, but high up to stay safe,” William added, shooting an angry glare Jake’s way. “You know that.”

“That’s my daughter out there,” the engineer shot back. “If it were one of your women, you’d be on your way out the gates without looking back.”

Robert stood his ground. “That might be, but we’re not talking about anyone but your daughter.” He turned his attention to Jon. “Do you think that this Morton fellow will hurt her? Really…hurt her?”

“He’s already knocked her out. I don’t know what he’s capable of. I thought I knew the man, but…”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“I can guess,” Jake groused, finishing the second glass of whiskey. “He’s going to keep asking her what the secret is and if she doesn’t tell him what he wants to know…” He closed his eyes. A single tear dribbled down the leathery face, falling to land on the back of his hand. “Oh, Samantha.”

Jon spun around, facing the two deputies. “We’ve got to do something.”

“And we will.” Robert put up his hand before Jon could continue. “At dawn. He can’t have gotten too far with her anyway before the sun set, so it’ll be easy to pick up his trail in the morning. We’ll get the men together, meet up with Dally out on the road as he returns, and we’ll find her.”

“I could find him now.” The small voice floated through the air, filled with a confidence that startled Jon with its maturity. “I could find ’er now.”

The four men turned to see Gil. He stood beside an older man, obviously the doctor. The young boy nodded, his head bobbing.

“I can find ’em,” he announced. “I know I can.”

Sam opened her eyes slowly, blinking as the shadowy images came into focus. A rock, a few scraggly shrubs, a man standing nearby, his back to her. The dark sky was clear, stars sparkling overhead. He tossed a bundle of twigs on a fledgling campfire, encouraging the hungry sparks with fresh fuel. The dry wood coughed and then burst into flames, sending a rush of heat over her. The hard ground pressed into her cheek, jabbing the delicate skin with small, sharp rocks. She was definitely not in the workshop anymore.

Turning her head to one side, she vomited up the last of the teahouse’s delicacies. Her head ached and she could taste blood in her mouth, along with the faint, bitter aftertaste of moonshine.

She closed her eyes, trying to pull up her last coherent memories. Morton had stepped out of the darkness. He had come through the door when they weren’t looking. It must have been left unlocked when she returned from the teahouse, too happy and giddy to remember the most basic of rules, that you always lock the door behind you.

A burst of pain shot through her head, causing her to cry out. The man-shaped shadow detached itself from the other side of the fire and moved closer. She squinted hard, trying to wipe the fuzziness from her vision.

“Don’t panic, my dear, don’t panic.” A damp, cool cloth mopped her forehead and wiped her mouth, dabbing away the foul-smelling debris. “You’ll be fine in a few minutes. My apologies for the bump on the head, but I had to make sure you would be quiet for the trip out here.”

Her eyes focused on Victor’s face, an odd look of concern on the older man’s features. His dark brown eyes locked with hers as she forced the dust out of her eyes with fresh tears.

Victor continued his monologue, oblivious to her tears. “I’m so sorry about this, but you have to understand, it’s not your fault. It’s not my fault either. It’s that dratted Handleston’s fault. All his fault.”

The strong hands around Sam’s waist shifted her upwards and backwards as she gritted her teeth against another wave of nausea. Something solid forced itself against her back, likely a boulder. Her hands were tied behind her, legs stretched out in front of her, all securely bound with some sort of thick material.

In the back of her mind she thanked her father for allowing her to wear pants whenever she worked.

The idea of being dragged into the wilderness wearing petticoats or whatever long skirt was in fashion would have made the situation almost intolerable, not to mention embarrassing and possibly dangerous.

She couldn’t run worth a damn in a skirt. But she definitely could move in pants, and she planned to at the first opportunity. After thumping Victor Morton in the head.

“I assume you like coffee. My apologies, I didn’t think of bringing any milk with us, so you’ll have to have it black.” Morton moved around to stand by the campfire, giving her a clear look at her abductor as he knelt down to pluck the coffee pot from a flat rock next to the flames.

The older man held little resemblance to the sharply dressed man who had appeared only hours earlier in the workshop. His jacket was torn and frayed in spots, brambles and straw sticking out at odd angles.

The well-oiled hair was ruffled and a mess, salt-and-pepper strands pointing straight up and out to all sides, reminding her of a jester’s cap. All in all, he looked like a man who had been in a fight.

And if she could just get free, she’d finish it right up.

Victor poured some coffee into a steel cup and blew on it as he walked back around the campfire.