“I’ve heard they’ve dug in deeper than before.” Harris sipped the coffee. “The army met heavy resistance up there. It’s as though there are more troops than expected.”
The colonel grunted. “Yes. Either we underestimated the number of troops the airships dropped or they’re recruiting people somehow. Whatever the case, we’ve thrown almost the entire army at them and they haven’t even budged.”
“What about Canada, sir? Have the Russians shown any interest?”
Johnson shook his head. “None at all, and both the Canadians and the English have shown no signs of getting involved, either.” He waved his hand through the air. “Oh, the British ambassador has filed protests, but that’s as far as it’s gone.”
“Sir, I’ve heard rumors that a scouting party was captured in Oregon and the Russians are continuing their advance southward.”
“That’s right.” The colonel folded his hands. “Our mission here at Fort Bliss is to find something that will help us stop the Russians. Professor Maravilla gave us the plans for his owl ships. We’ve built some and deployed them in Oregon and Washington, but the problem is they’re not very effective. People can’t take heavy munitions up with them. Hell, even if the pilot fires a rifle, it’ll throw the damn thing off course, it’s so lightweight. The forests are so thick up in the northwest that the Russians just hide among the trees and become invisible, so the owl ships aren’t really effective for spying.” The colonel paused and sipped his coffee. “We either need to make the owls more effective, or we need a new kind of weapon that will help our men. We can’t let this invasion spread.”
“I understand,” said Sergeant Harris, “but how can I help?”
“We need Professor Maravilla. He is to science what General Grant was to the Army, a man who doesn’t follow convention. I have no doubt he’s the man to help us.” Johnson pointed to Harris. “Bring Maravilla here.”
“Yes sir,” said Harris. “Where can I find him?”
“That’s the problem.” Johnson shrugged. “I don’t actually know, but there is someone who can help. Remember the former sheriff I mentioned?”
“Morales?”
The colonel nodded. “He’s up north in Estancia. Find him. Get him to help you find Maravilla.” The colonel grabbed an envelope from his desk and pushed it toward the sergeant. “That’s a letter of introduction. It explains what Morales needs to know.”
“Very good, sir.” Harris grabbed the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket.
“Get yourself some breakfast, check out a good horse and get going. We need help as soon as we can get it.” He wrote out a note on a slip of paper. “Give this to the paymaster to draw some petty cash for the trip.” The colonel stood and Harris leapt to his feet and saluted. The colonel returned the salute and Harris turned to leave.
“Sergeant Harris.”
The sergeant paused.
“Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir.” Relieved to be on his way, Harris strode from the room. As ordered, he stopped off, grabbed breakfast, and the petty cash. Within the hour, he spurred his horse onward, out of town and past the carpet of poppies that had sprung up overnight.
<<>>
Billy McCarty sat at Hoshi’s low table, cross-legged and sore after planting chile peppers all day. Despite the hard work, Hoshi treated Billy well. He cooked for Billy and gave him a comfortable place to sleep. Still, Billy found it difficult to adapt to some of Hoshi’s ways.
The old man insisted that Billy walk around the house barefoot and his table was low to the ground. Moreover, Hoshi did not own forks. Instead, he ate all his meals with a pair of sticks he called hashi. At first, the notion of “Hoshi’s hashi” amused Billy but he soon found them difficult to use. It was infuriating since Hoshi made it look so easy. Billy would have given up if Hoshi’s cooking wasn’t so good. After a couple of days, Billy started to master the hashi sticks.
Hoshi arrived a few minutes after Billy had situated himself on the ground. He set out three bowls. One contained steamed rice. Another had chicken in a rich, shimmering sauce. The third held bright, crisp spring vegetables. Billy helped himself to a little of all three and the older man gracefully folded his legs below himself and settled in at the table.
“How do you do that so well?” asked Billy.
“Years of practice.” Hoshi reached for the rice.
“If you’ll let me, I’d be happy to whip up some Mexican grub when those peppers get ripe.”
“I would enjoy that.” Hoshi gave a gracious nod.
Billy took a bite of the chicken, then followed it with some rice. The first time he sat down to a meal with Hoshi, he’d mixed all his food together to his employer’s horror. Hoshi explained that the rice should be kept separate from the rest, so it could cleanse the palate.
“The thing I don’t understand is why are you growing chilies?” Billy shrugged. “They’re popular around here and they sell well, but I don’t really think of them as something you’d grow in Japan.”
Hoshi laughed. “On the contrary. Peppers are very important in Japanese cooking. My family has grown them for years.” He paused for a moment, considering something. “I have enjoyed the flavor of American peppers when I’ve had the opportunity to partake of them, but it strikes me they could be hotter. I would like to see if I could breed such a pepper.”
Billy narrowed his gaze. “You sound like some of the ranchers I know breeding cattle. How can you breed chile peppers?”
“That’s simple,” said Hoshi. “You can grow different varieties next to each other. You can work with the soil and adjust the amount of sun they get. Plants and animals are really not so different.”
“You seem like you know what you’re doing. What brought you out here to this little chunk of land? Maybe you could have done better as a farmer in Japan.”
Hoshi inclined his head and smiled. “You’re assuming I was a farmer in Japan. I was not.”
“You said...”
Hoshi held up his finger. “I said my family grew peppers. Indeed that is true. I have cousins and uncles who were wonderful farmers and when I was a child they showed me much of what they knew.”
Billy’s eyebrows came together. “If you’re not a farmer, then what are you?”
“I am a farmer now.” Hoshi poured a cup of tea and passed it to Billy. Then, he poured a cup for himself. “When I lived in Japan, I was a warrior following the code of Bushido.”
“Warrior I get, but code of Bush...”
“Bushido. I am a samurai.”
“What kind of farmer is that?”
Hoshi laughed again. “Samurai were warriors that maintained the law throughout Japan. Bushido is the code of conduct a samurai follows.”
“Ah,” said Billy. “You mean you were like the sheriffs and marshals we have around these parts.” He remembered a couple of dime novels he’d read. “That Bushido sounds something like the code of the west.” He shook his head. “Only problem is that’s just something made up by writers back east. I can tell you, there ain’t no code out here… at least none anyone takes seriously.”
“The Code of Bushido is quite real.” Hoshi’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “However, I fear it is in danger of vanishing with the samurai.”
Sadness for the old man made Billy’s gut feel full for a moment. “Vanishing? What do you mean?”
“The world is changing, Billy. A few years ago, the Meiji Emperor took the throne in Japan and created an army much like yours here in America. Some samurai joined the army and became officers. Others are currently involved in a struggle to resist the Emperor.”
“What about you?” Billy leaned forward, any pity for Hoshi banished by the old man’s calm.
“I have no desire to be part of an army. I was part of the rebellion against the Emperor in the Akizuki Domain. When the rebellion collapsed, I decided to come to America and apply the lessons I learned from my uncles and cousins so many years ago.”
The two ate in sile
nce for a time while Billy considered what Hoshi told him. Once they finished the meal, he looked up at the old man. “You know, being a warrior could come in handy around here. There are loads of bad men who would take advantage of a farmer like yourself.”
Hoshi nodded. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Well, you did pretty good with that pig-sticker you poked me with the other day, but if someone really is out to do you harm, you better know how to defend yourself from a distance.”
Hoshi smiled. “You mean I need to know how to use a gun.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Billy patted the rig at his hip. “Now, maybe I could show you a thing or two...”
Before Billy could finish his thought, Hoshi stood and gathered the bowls. “Follow me,” he said.
Billy grabbed the teapot and the cups, then followed Hoshi into the small kitchen. Leaving the dishes by the basin, they stepped out through the backdoor. Hoshi pointed to a small rock on top of an adobe wall some distance away. Faster than Billy could follow, Hoshi withdrew a handgun from his robes and fired, knocking the rock from its perch.
Billy’s eyes went wide. He looked at the Smith and Wesson Army revolver in Hoshi’s hand. “That’s a nice lookin’ piece you have there.”
“It was aimed at you as you approached my farm the other day,” said Hoshi.
Billy swallowed. “So, why didn’t you call out and have me tell you my business. What’s the deal with the sword?”
“Bushido teaches courage, politeness, and honesty. I could not take your measure by yelling at you while you were on the road. By looking in your eyes, I could tell you were courageous and honest.” Hoshi checked that the revolver’s barrel had cooled down, then returned it to its place within the robes.
“This Code of Bushido sounds interesting,” said Billy.
“I would be happy to teach you more.” Hoshi looked toward the sun, perched on the horizon. A few clouds hovered against a vibrant orange sky.
“I’m ready.”
“Very good,” said Hoshi, “but we must go to sleep early, for tomorrow, the weeds will need tending.”
<<>>
The wind had kicked up by the time Larissa and Professor Maravilla rode out of Tucson. It whipped sand and dust to a thick miasma, limiting their visibility. Despite the inconvenience, Larissa realized the wind would provide valuable cover, masking their incursion into Apache territory. Perhaps they would be able to solve the mystery of the spectral camel rider and get out before the Indians saw them. Larissa unpacked the goggles she had worn during the Battle of Denver to protect her eyes from the blowing grit. The professor rode tall in his saddle, wisps of hair blowing around his head. Like Larissa, he opted to secure his hat inside the hansom cab.
As they rode, images from her recent dreams flashed unbidden into Larissa’s mind. She tried to shut out the picture of Alethea holding the beautiful porcelain doll in her thin arms. Instead, she tried to focus on the memories of flight. Her skin prickled, not just from the relentless wind but because they chased ghosts rather than trying to make something to help people. Ghosts were the last things she ever wanted to capture.
She allowed her thoughts to drift to the Christmas goose of her recent dream. The dream brought back memories of the heavenly smell, but she remembered the goose itself proved a disappointment. It was a scrawny bird that cooked up dry. Even worse, when she bit into it, she jarred her teeth on buckshot. It seemed her life was full of promises that failed to materialize as expected—kind of like riding through a sandstorm on a ghost hunt after she’d known the joy of flight. She supposed it was a wild goose chase all its own.
She shook her head, and tried to find a more productive train of thought. With a sigh, she considered the professor and his one-sided conversations. It seemed like he had been speaking to some invisible person. If she hadn’t already seen his brilliance, she would have dismissed him as crazy. Maybe talking to himself was a way for him to work through problems.
Fording the San Pedro River required all her concentration, a welcome break from her depressing loop of thoughts. They turned south on the far side of the tricky crossing. As they climbed the foothills, the air cooled. The trees along the river broke the wind somewhat, giving them a little relief. The vegetation changed. They saw fewer of the tall, saguaro cactus and more mesquite brush. A few prickly pear and cholla cactus peaked out from the rocks. Flowers had opened atop the prickly pear pads. The spindly chollas almost looked soft and downy to the touch, but Larissa knew that was an optical illusion created by their long, translucent needles.
A few miles further on, they came upon a few head of cattle huddled together. One cow moved away from its companions and lapped muddy water from the river. Larissa pointed to them. “It would seem not all the settlers have been driven away. Presumably someone owns that livestock.”
Professor Maravilla retrieved the telescope he carried on his belt and studied the animals. “I’m not so sure. Take a look.”
Larissa studied the cattle through the telescope. A moment later, she realized what Maravilla had seen. “They have no brands,” she said at last. “Just scars.”
“Abandoned, I’m guessing,” said the professor.
“More likely stolen. Men in a hurry to abandon a ranch wouldn’t bother to blot out their brands.” Larissa passed the telescope back then snapped her reins, persuading her horse to move a little faster.
They continued on until they came to the remains of several adobe buildings, surrounded by a crumbling wall. The compound’s layout approximated a square. The sunbaked bricks crumbled away and most of the roofs had collapsed, but the walls were tall enough to provide shelter from the wind. They rode through an arched gate into a courtyard. Professor Maravilla dismounted and found a sturdy wall facing east. Pulling himself to the top, he scanned the area with his telescope. “I see the Mule Mountains. We’re just a few miles away. This seems like a good place to make camp for the night.”
Tired as she was from riding in the wind, Larissa agreed. “What exactly is this place, Professor? Are these Indian ruins?”
“I’ve never heard of pueblos in this region.” The professor looked around at the walls. He pointed to some letters and numbers etched into an adobe brick. “No, Europeans built this. I’m thinking it must have been a Spanish presidio. Perhaps Mexicans used this as an outpost before Arizona was ceded to America.”
“As long as the walls hold up, it’s good shelter.”
Larissa unpacked the gear from the hansom cab. She would have liked a campfire. Although the walls might conceal a fire’s glow, the smoke would give them away, even on such a dusty evening. Larissa settled for dried fruit and beef jerky, then collapsed into her bedroll.
They awoke to a bright, calm morning. Larissa packed their belongings while the professor hiked from the presidio to the San Pedro and filled their canteens. By mid-morning they reached a point about six miles east of the river. The Mule Mountains rose up from the rolling desert floor to the south. “This is a good place to conduct our experiment,” the professor said and Larissa agreed.
Together, they hefted the crate containing the clockwork wolf from the hansom cab. Once they removed the creature, the professor retrieved a satchel and a box of photographic equipment. He covered the wolf in a black blanket and crawled underneath. Larissa followed him. They had to work entirely by feel in the darkness.
The wolf’s head contained a sophisticated camera, with a lens for one eye. Small hand-cut photographic plates sat behind the eye, flash powder behind the other. The clockworks within the wolf counted out one hundred steps, then opened the shutter and ignited a portion of the flash powder. The exposed plate would then drop into a compartment within the wolf’s body.
Larissa loaded the glass photographic plates into one side of the wolf’s head. She checked that the emulsion faced the lens by licking her finger and checking which side of the plate was sticky. Professor Maravilla measured flash powder and loaded it into
the magazine with a funnel.
“All finished?” he asked at last.
“Ready to go,” said Larissa.
They pushed the compartment on the wolf’s head closed, then threw off the blanket.
A dozen Apache warriors mounted on horseback surrounded them.
Larissa and the professor rose from their crouch, hands in the air.
Chapter Four
Interrupted Plans
“Who are you people? What are you doing?” A young warrior with hair tied in two braids down either side of his head spoke, while an older warrior with a broad face and hair that fell just to his shoulders pointed a rifle at the professor.
“Miners told us stories of an apparition,” sputtered the professor. “We came to investigate.”
“What do we care for miners who desecrate our land?” growled the young warrior.
“We heard this specter was frightening you as well. They described it as a skeleton riding a camel.” The professor pantomimed a large animal with a hump on its back.
The young warrior narrowed his gaze and spoke to his companions in the Apache language. An old warrior with fingers crooked from arthritis spoke thoughtfully. The young warrior nodded and asked, “Who do you hear these stories from?”
Maravilla shrugged. “We read it in the newspaper.”
“The newspaper,” scoffed the young warrior. “Since when do the newspapers of the whites say anything good about the Apaches?”
“They said you were scared… of the apparition.” The professor seemed to make a plea with his expression and direct eye contact.
Larissa remembered the Apache people considered it bad manners, and even a challenge, to look directly into another person’s eyes. The professor’s words weren’t helping. She worried that the warriors might take them as an accusation of cowardice. Larissa reached out and grabbed the professor’s shoulder causing him to look at her, instead.
She slowly put her hands back over her head and considered other tidbits she had heard about the Apaches. Careful to avoid startling the men on horseback, and to keep her balance, she lowered herself to the ground by crossing her legs beneath her. She motioned downward, hoping the professor would follow her example. His brow furrowed in confusion, but he did as she suggested anyway.
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