Wild Cards and Iron Horses (26 page)

Sam watched the iron horse speeding away, lifting her hand to wave one last time.

“Don’t forget to throttle back when you hit the city limits. Throttle back!” her father roared at the rapidly diminishing figure.

He turned back, tilting his head to one side. “Now, before I have a heart attack or your mother comes back from the grave to haunt me, what was all that kissing about?”

Sam knelt, picking up a small metal spring from the dirt. After wiping it on her sleeve, she put it into her coat pocket. “It’s a long story, Father. But we’ll have time to talk on the way back to town.” She studied the dust trail. “It’ll be a bit of a walk, I figure.”

“Hmph. I think not. I’m too old to go traipsing through the wilderness.” He put up his hand to shade his eyes, peering at the sky. “Looks like our ride’s here.” He waved at the military airship creeping towards them, the thick dirigible burping its way with engines belching out smoke. “Which still don’t mean we’re not going to talk, no matter how fast we get back to town.”

The mechanical horse leapt forward through the light brush, knocking down any impediments along the way with little hesitation. Jon gripped the control stick with his left hand as tightly as he could, trying to catch his breath as he bounced from side to side and front to back at a dizzying pace. His dark hair plastered to his face with sweat, he leaned forward in the saddle, letting the cool air rush over his bare chest. The open cuts and bruises ached, but it was nothing worse than he had dealt with in younger, more foolish days of brawling.

He spotted Gil in the clearing, the young orphan standing tall with the rifle cradled in his arms. The boy was talking to the two deputies. William and Robert stared at Gil with newfound respect.

Victor sat nearby, his hands tied behind his back, propped up against a boulder. The blood had dried on his face from both attacks, the red streaks running down his cheeks in a parody of war paint.

All four men stared as Jon raced by, the three older men’s jaws dropping open. Gil waved and shouted something.

Jon would have waved back but didn’t feel confident enough in his ability to stay on the beast with only his weak hand offering support. Still, he allowed himself a wide smirk as he flew on by, trying valiantly to appear as if he was comfortable with the furious ride.

The sun had just cleared the horizon fully. The city lay only a few more minutes ahead, the steel beast huffing and puffing wildly in its exertions. In his mind, Jon did the calculations, distracting himself from one problem with another. If he got to the saloon before the second bell rang signaling the official opening, his seat would still be open, according to the rules. The first bell was to alert players to move to the tables, the second heralded the beginning of the actual competition. Without Victor Morton breathing down his neck it would be a very different game. Few other players were his equal.

His right hand throbbed.

Yes, a very different game. An ache started up in his chest, a sudden tightening that sucked the breath from his lungs. Could he win the tournament without the brace?

Sam sat on a rock watching the sun rise. She waved off the military medic who loomed close by clucking his tongue and playing with his canvas bag of bandages. “For the last time, I’m fine, thank you very much,” she snapped at the young man, who shrugged and walked back towards his commanding officer.

She slid off the rock and walked over to her father, who stood with the airship commander. The large craft hovered over them, the cigar-shaped shadow dwarfing the handful of men who had come down to the ground via the rope ladders that danced in the dust, dragging strange trails that would surely confuse future trackers.

“We can fly you directly back to the town, if you’d like.” The captain glanced between father and daughter. “From what I understand, the suspect has been taken into custody by local law enforcement and will be transported on his own. There’s no need for you to stop halfway.”

“Good with me,” her father grunted. “Dragging the bastard back behind a horse would be fine with me.” He raised a finger. “Let me speak to my daughter for a minute, and then we’ll be ready to go, if you please.”

The grey-haired military man nodded, bowing slightly to them both before turning to shout orders at the small group.

Sam stooped down, plucking another long thin rod from the dirt. She added it to the small pile in her hand. Her pockets were already full of cogs and gears, springs and twisted metal.

“I know you’re good, but you’re not that good,” her father said softly. “You can’t rebuild it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She looked down at the pieces. “But you can’t blame me for trying.”

He nodded, hugging her close. “Girl, you’re more of an engineer than I’ll ever be. Let’s get back to town and see how your boyfriend is doing.”

She stiffened just slightly in his grip. “Boyfriend?”

“Well, isn’t he?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or are you suddenly letting every man kiss you like that?”

The airship captain let out a cough and turned away, yelling at the grinning crew to start climbing back aboard. The men scurried up the rope ladder.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Father…” She tried and failed miserably to look insulted, a wide smile spreading across her face.

“Let’s get aboard and find a bit o’ privacy before we get started. Although I do want you to know that I do like the boy…” her father laughed, “…he’s got quite the fighting spirit in him.”

The captain gestured to someone in the gondola at the front of the airship. A low platform with chain-link walls appeared from the side of the airship, lowering not far from where the couple stood. The captain turned towards the two. “If you please?” He waved at the metal basket. “We’re not going to make you scramble up a ladder.”

Her father let out a chuckle, striding towards the platform. “At least we’re going to travel in style.”

Sam nodded, pocketing the last bits of the brace. As she walked to the waiting transport she couldn’t help but check around her one last time for any remaining pieces. In her heart she knew reconstructing the brace would be impossible, but she had to at least gather up the remains. Looking towards the horizon, she wondered how the town would welcome both hero and machine.

There weren’t many people walking around Prosperity Ridge so early in the morning, but those who were scattered in all directions as the equimech burst through the streets. It spewed steam that cut through the muggy fog, the wheels sending up clots of dirt that struck more than one curious bystander. Jon laughed as he pulled back on the control stick, thinking that he must look like a madman riding into town on a hell-spawned creature, shirtless and all. He’d already seen a few scarlet glares tossed his way.

The small crowd in front of Deadeye’s Dodge splintered up the center when he slowed the beast to a crawl. It rolled up to the swinging doors with a burst of steam, the weary beast giving one last gurgle and screech of gears and liquid before sliding into rest mode. A few older cowboys shook their heads and stared at the ground while the children gathered around the creature, poking at it with sticks, or for those braver, their fingers.

Hopping off the equimech, Jon tossed a coin to the largest of the street children. “Watch it until Jake Weatherly shows up for it.” He didn’t fear the construct being stolen. The last vestiges of energy had been spent getting him there. The dials on the animal’s neck showed low water levels and low pressure. And no one person could drag that heavy beast around without help. The equimech was done for the day, there was no question about that. Now the question was if Jon was as well.

He pointed at another urchin. “You there.”

The young boy stepped forward. The sullen look changed to one of curiosity as he studied the bare-chested man.

“Here.” He reached into his pocket, finding a stray coin that had avoided being lost. “Go over to Mrs.

McGuire’s and tell her that Jon Handleston needs a spare shirt. I’ll give you another one after the game if you make it back within the half-hour.”

The blond youngster nodded enthusiastically before disappearing into the crowd.

The first bell rang from inside the saloon, calling the tournament players to their tables and for the spectators to give way for the professional gamblers. Jon stood up as straight as his aching back would let him. His day was just starting. The weariness of the chase and the fight suddenly fell onto his shoulders, giving him pause. He hadn’t slept for over a day and had done so much. Could he possibly go for up to eight hours more of poker?

An image of Samantha came to mind. He looked down at the crippled hand lying limp at his side.

Yes, he could do this. For her. And for Sotherly.

He strode into the building with a broad smile. “So, where’s my seat?” Jon lifted his bare arms, noting the whispering from the showgirls and disapproving looks from the other gamblers. “And, as you can see, I have nothing up my sleeve.” The joke brought laughs from the spectators, settling the tension in the room.

Odder things had been seen in Prosperity Ridge, and now this was just one more tale to add to the book.

Jon just hoped his tale would have a happy ending.

Standing on a table near the crowded bar, Mr. Tribiolte gave a sigh of relief. One of his hands rested on the rope attached to the bright brass bell which signaled the start of the tournament, the other wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. His voice boomed out over the crowded room.

“Jonathan Handleston, folks! Jon Handleston!” He gave a sideways glance at the chalkboard set over the bar and then his attention went back to Jon. “Table three, sir. Table three and Godspeed.” He rang the bell. “I pronounce the Ridge Rocket Stakes to be officially begun.”

Jon strode through the crowd, ignoring the snide remarks and more than one perfumed hand reaching out to touch his bare skin. Sitting down at the round table, he nodded at the three other players and the dealer. “Gentlemen, let’s have us a game.” His limp right hand landed hard on the green velvet tablecloth.

He laughed, feeling a bit lightheaded as the first cards began to fly. It was a good day to have the odds in his favor, and he’d already won the biggest prize of all—a woman’s heart.

Jon looked at the thin cardboard cards in his hand. Two aces, a jack and two tens. Across the table sat the one remaining player for this round, a youngster with more luck than common sense. The redheaded kid laughed, slapping the ample behind of one of the showgirls. She giggled and then ducked out of range.

“I’m going to take this round and then take your crown, Handleston,” Billy Luger sneered. “The only rookie they’re going to remember here is going to be me.”

Jon nodded, watching the kid’s hands. His left little finger twitched, tapping out a rhythm on the table.

“Yankee Doodle Dandy”, to be precise. For only the second time this game.

And that’s all he needed to know.

Pushing all of his remaining chips into the center of the table, Jon smiled. “Raise you all I have.

About three hundred, I figure.”

A gasp went up from the table, sucking attention away from the other finalists’ play. Spectators shuffled around, peering over shoulders and heads to see the latest upheaval.

Luger looked at his hand then down at the pile of chips in front of him, which were almost equal to Jon’s. “You’ve got a lot of balls to toss that my way.” His yellowed front teeth sucked up his lower lip, chewing on a flap of loose skin.

“Well, you know—put up or shut up.” Jon pulled his right hand off the table and rubbed the palm against his thigh.

The kid tossed all his chips into the center of the table. The roughly circular pieces of wood slid to one side. “I call.” Leaning back in his chair, he waited with a smirk.

Jon flipped over his cards with a quick snap of his wrist, tossing them atop the stack of chips. “Two pairs. Aces and tens.”

Luger’s finger stopped tapping. He glanced at the upturned cards and then down at his own. The left side of his mouth twitched for a second before he threw his hand down with a snarl.

A pair of jacks.

Amidst the applause, Jon gathered the last of the pot, sealing his victory. He let a smile escape as he focused on the chips, nodding politely to the other player.

Luger got to his feet, a dour look on his face. He shoved away the woman at his side and glared at Handleston.

“Damned lucky,” he snarled. Luger drove his way through the spectators.

“Damned good,” Jon said quietly, stacking up his chips. His palm began to ache, then sharp pains started shooting up his arm. As the crowd moved on to see the end of the other round, he brought up his hand and laid it flat on the table, inspecting it.

A few cuts and bruises, mostly at the joints where the bands tore free, but nothing that explained the throbbing that came and went without warning. The doctors had warned him that he could experience the mysterious pain for years—one of their reasons for suggesting amputation.

He pulled the fingers up, rolling them into a fist with the assistance of his good hand. The limp fingers fell back when he released them, flapping onto the green velvet with a sickening sound. What could he do if he weren’t playing cards? What skills could he offer a potential employer, much less a potential wife?

A roar went up from the crowd gathered at the other table. Pushing the hand down into his lap, Jon closed his eyes, feeling the weariness threatening to overwhelm him. The initial rush of excitement from the chase, the rescue, even the ride back—it was all gone, replaced partially by the thrill of the tournament.

Now it was just one more game. He wondered where the Weatherlys were, if they’d arrived back in town yet. And if Sam would come see him, or if she had changed her mind about being associated with a gambling man.

Sam emerged from her room, her long hair neatly tied up in a bun at the back of her head. A cream-colored blouse sat on her shoulders, the edges tucked into the top of her long skirt. A pair of black boots completed her outfit, and she walked out carrying the dark brown duster in her arms. The bump on the side of her head had shrunk from the size of a billiard ball to a marble, although it still throbbed like a demon.