Lorenzo looked Hoshi up and down, opened his mouth to speak, but shook his head. “Look, I have a man ready to go. I can’t delay him any longer,” said Lorenzo, clutching his horse’s reins and backing toward the saddle. “I’m sorry to have taken your time.”
“Why exactly did you want Billy’s help?” Hoshi asked.
“We need a good tracker… someone who isn’t afraid to act should the situation require it… not an old farmer.”
Hoshi drew his pistol and aimed it between the sergeant’s eyes before he finished speaking. Lorenzo swallowed. “Merely a demonstration.” Hoshi holstered the gun in his voluminous robes as quickly as he drew it. “You must want a minimal contingent to avoid a diplomatic incident, otherwise, you’d send your own men.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“I was a samurai warrior,” said Hoshi. “Like Billy, I have experience tracking men. What’s more, I am not an American soldier, nor a United States citizen. If I am caught pursuing Bresnahan, I will be responsible for only my actions.”
Lorenzo finally agreed to let Hoshi join Xander Middleton in the hunt for Bresnahan. Hoshi left immediately to find the mayordomo of the acequia and arrange for him to water the crops while he was gone. He hoped he would be back in a matter of a couple of weeks at most.
Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Hoshi examined the campfire’s remains and guessed they were no more than a day behind Bresnahan. Across the stream, Bresnahan’s tracks continued roughly southwest. The outlaw followed the American border, indicating no desire to sell the lightning gun to the Mexicans.
Hoshi’s horse drank from the stream. He took the opportunity to take another drink himself, then he climbed back into the saddle and continued on. Middleton splashed some water on his face, then climbed on his horse and followed.
Bresnahan was a wanted man in New Mexico and Texas. He would likely avoid returning to those two places. If he wasn’t going to sell the device to the Mexicans, Hoshi guessed he would eventually turn north into Arizona.
<<>>
Hot, tired, and ready to collapse, Curly Bill Bresnahan still wore the dark blue army uniform coat. He’d unbuttoned it, revealing his bare, sunburned chest. His horse dragged. He had stopped riding, only using the horse to carry the lightning gun for him. Even at that, he hoped the horse would not expire before he found more water and some food for himself.
Just when he was about to give up hope of finding a good source of water, he stumbled into a stream. Although shallow and sluggish, it held more water than other trickles or seeps he’d encountered since leaving Fort Bliss. He put the army hat in the water and collected up as much as he could and drank it down. His stomach rebelled, cramping, but he didn’t care. His horse took a long drink, then moved forward to chew on the nearby mesquite brush. Bresnahan’s stomach growled. He took another drink of water, then washed his face. With a sigh he sat up and looked around. As far as he could tell the source of the little meandering stream was far off to the north. He had lost track of how far he had come, but he was pretty sure he was south of Arizona by this point. He patted his horse on the flank and led her north, following the river, letting her stop to eat and drink when she wanted.
An hour after he started along the river, he heard people shouting in English. Some words were clearer than others, but he didn’t hear enough to know what transpired. All he could tell was that he approached an angry group of people. He looped the horse’s reins around a mesquite branch, giving her enough room to wander to the stream and drink as well as munch on the nearby bushes. He then lifted the lightning gun from the saddle. He adjusted a set of gauges on the back. The machine let out a high-pitched whine which soon settled into a steady hum. The horse nickered and skittered backward. Fortunately, the last person who used the lightning gun had painted red arrows by the gauges to note the optimum levels.
Bresnahan pushed forward, concealing himself near the stream as much as possible. By his estimate, he traveled about two hundred yards when he came upon a group of people on horseback near several head of cattle. Men wearing sombreros and loose fitting shirts aimed guns at white settlers wearing broad-brimmed hats, gingham shirts, and leather vests—a rustling in progress.
As best as he could tell, the Mexicans were stealing the cattle from the settlers, but really he could care less about the argument’s details. “Let’s see what this baby can do,” he said with a sneer.
He aimed the gun at the closest Mexican on horseback and fired. A loud crack pierced his ears and a lightning bolt flew from the gun. The man evaporated into a black cloud and the horse ran away, its saddle scorched. The cattle bolted after the horse.
The Mexicans and the Americans did their best to keep their own horses under control while searching for the source of the mysterious lightning bolt. Bresnahan stood and fired again. This time, he missed the person he aimed at, but hit the horse. The man fell to the ground. Without missing a beat, one of the American cowhands fired, killing the fallen bandito.
The Mexicans snapped their reins and rode south along the river. Two of them took potshots in Bresnahan’s direction, but missed by a long way. Bresnahan knew how difficult it was to aim a gun from the back of a moving horse. The American cowhands rode out and rounded up as many of the cattle as they could find. Bresnahan walked downstream and retrieved his horse. He shimmied out of the lightning gun pack, then hefted it onto the horse, who snorted a complaint. After climbing on himself, he resumed the northward journey.
He didn’t hurry to catch up with the cowhands, but he didn’t work hard at keeping his distance. If they wanted to thank him, great. If they wanted to keep their distance, that was okay, too.
Once they had the cattle lined up and marching northward, one of the cowhands rode up to him and tipped his hat. “Much obliged to you, sir, but you’re on the wrong side of the border to be in that uniform.”
Bresnahan chuckled to himself, realizing he had misinterpreted what he’d stumbled across. He hadn’t yet crossed into Arizona. The Mexicans were the cattle’s legitimate owners and these boys were the rustlers. Perhaps they could help him out. “Well, I ain’t exactly ‘regular army.’ ”
“We don’t care much who you are as long as you buy our beef.” The man evaluated him then flashed a cautious smile. “Name’s Phin Clanton.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Bresnahan hesitated a moment, not wanting to give his real name. Not caring whether or not he was a soldier wasn’t the same as not caring that he broke out of jail. “Name’s William Brocius.”
“That’s some fancy hardware you got there, Mr. Brocius,” said Clanton. “Where’d you pick it up?”
“Same place I got the uniform,” said Bresnahan.
Phin Clanton laughed. “Where you headed?”
Bresnahan shrugged. “Right now, any place where I can get some food, water...maybe a bath.”
“You seem all right, Mr. Brocius,” said Phin. “We’ve got a ranch a little ways over the border. Once you’ve rested up a bit, maybe you can tell us more about what you’re up to, maybe see if there’s a way you can help our little outfit.”
“What outfit would that be?”
“We call ourselves the Cowboys.”
“Catchy name.”
“We’ve got big plans for Southern Arizona, Mr. Brocius. Let me introduce you to my brother and partners.”
“So, what makes you think I might be interested in helping your outfit?”
“Let’s just say that gun of yours is the second interesting marvel we’ve seen this week. I think you’d like to see the other one and we’d certainly like to know what would happen if we brought the two together.”
“Things are sounding more interesting all the time.” Curly Bill grinned. “Depending on what you’ve seen...there might be ways I could help out.”
<<>>
Ramon sat beside a stagecoach’s window, dozing lightly early in the morning. Fatemeh rested her head against his shoulder. They had planned to change trains in Los Angeles but th
e coastal passenger service had been cancelled to allow military trains exclusive use of the track. So, they took the stagecoach north. Occasionally Ramon opened his eyes to see pine forest encroaching on the road. After a while, the forest gave way to the greenest, most lush farmland Ramon had ever seen. He found himself wondering what people would do with all that food.
They rumbled into a town of clapboard houses and brick buildings. The driver brought the stagecoach to a stop. Ramon stretched. “Where are we?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Fatemeh. “It looks like a pretty small town. Probably just a stop to change horses and pick up the mail. You can go back to sleep.”
Billy hopped out of the coach. Luther Duncan took advantage of the situation and stretched across both seats. Ramon let his eyelids flutter closed again.
The driver appeared at the door. “Folks, we have a problem.”
Ramon’s eyes snapped open and Luther Duncan sat upright.
“This is Salinas. The stationmaster just received word that the Russians are advancing on San Francisco. We’re turning back. You can get out here and get a refund for the uncompleted part of the trip, or you can continue back with me. You’ll have an hour to make up your minds.” With that, he closed the door and returned to the building.
“Salinas,” said Duncan. “We’re still quite a ways outside San Francisco. We’ll need to see if we can find some other transportation north.”
“First thing we need to do is find Billy.” Fatemeh looked at Ramon. “Why don’t you check along the street and see where he went. Luther and I can pick up our baggage and see what our options are for continuing the journey.”
Fatemeh climbed out of the coach. Duncan looked at Ramon and shrugged, then followed her out. Ramon climbed out of the coach and stretched, then took in the town. There was a general store, a couple of saloons, and one place called Kitty’s Boarding House that looked like it rented rooms by the hour. All seemed like places Billy might have gone.
As Ramon walked down the street, he considered the driver’s words. If the Russians already approached San Francisco, they were making incredible progress. He wondered how large the Russian force had grown. As he understood it, virtually the entire United States Army was on the West Coast. Even if they found another stagecoach line or someone else that would take them to San Francisco, they might encounter roadblocks or fighting. They would need a map and some alternate routes to Windsor in case they needed to go by horseback, or even foot. Of course, they were near the coast. Ramon supposed they could hire a boat.
As he peered into the general store, Ramon’s thoughts turned to the being called Legion. Professor Maravilla referred to it as a swarm. Ramon imagined a swarm of bees, all acting in concert as though they had one mind, but even then, different members of a bee swarm had different functions. Was Legion organized like that as well?
Luther Duncan said having Legion in his head was like being possessed. Fatemeh and Billy said Legion had possessed the Russians. This made Legion sound more like a spirit or an entity. Raised in New Mexico, Ramon knew plenty of people who believed in spirits, demons, and angels, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen evidence they existed. He preferred the image of Legion as a swarm. That sounded tangible. With that thought, Ramon looked in the first saloon. There weren’t any patrons, just a couple of people getting ready for the day.
Returning to his original line of thought, he asked himself, “Who’s in charge? Legion or the Russians?” If it was the Russians, the army had a better chance of stopping their advance than four lone wanderers. If it was Legion, he still didn’t know what they could do about it. Fatemeh had only talked to it once and that happened because the part of Legion now with Professor Maravilla wanted to talk.
The second saloon’s door was closed up tight. Ramon peered over at Kitty’s. It didn’t seem any livelier than the saloons this early in the morning. Although he could believe Billy might wander off for a quick round of cards, Kitty’s entertainments would take long enough to risk being left behind. He’d wait to check that out until he exhausted other possibilities. He returned to the stagecoach office where he found Fatemeh and Duncan. “Any sign of Billy?”
Ramon shook his head. “What about transportation north?”
“No other stagecoach lines,” said Fatemeh. “In fact, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s heading that direction at all. People are leaving San Francisco in droves, trying to get out of the army’s way.”
“We’ll need horses, then,” said Ramon. “I’d rather not walk. If I remember right, Salinas is at least twenty, thirty miles south of the city.”
“Did someone say horses?” Billy walked up, leading four beautiful animals, all saddled up and ready to go.
Fatemeh opened her carpetbag and retrieved an apple. She held it out to the black horse, who nibbled it tentatively, then took the whole thing in its mouth. The other three pushed forward, looking for apples as well. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I can get more.” Fatemeh turned to Billy. “Where did you find these lovely creatures?”
“You didn’t steal them, did you?” asked Duncan.
Billy laughed. “Nothin’ like that. Hoshi’s been paying me pretty well and I found a farmer who was in a hurry to get out of town before the Russians made it this far south. He wanted to sell them to good owners rather than leave them behind.”
“There is no remover of difficulties save God,” said Fatemeh.
“Amen,” said Ramon.
<<>>
The Javelina burrowed deep enough that the Sheiffelins and Richard Gird realized they needed more supplies including timbers to shore up the tunnel. They took the silver they had collected so far and loaded the wagon for the trip to Tucson. Larissa asked if they would show her where the Clantons had their ranch. “I just want to get the lay of the land,” she said.
Professor Maravilla decided to scout along the wash bordering Goose Flats to see if he could find other promising sites to burrow into the rocks for silver while Richard Gird watched the camp.
Larissa rode with the Shieffelins along the San Pedro River. It had cut a ravine through portions of the desert, and she estimated they were about a hundred feet above the river itself. A few miles from Goose Flats, Al Shieffelin pointed across the ravine. “There’s the Clanton place over there.”
She looked. A few cows dotted the open range. In the distance—far enough away they wouldn’t have noticed it when she first came down the river with the professor—was a ranch house.
“Don’t get too close, Miss Crimson,” cautioned Ed. “Those Clantons don’t like people poking into their business.”
“I’ll keep my distance.” Larissa tested the grip on the revolver at her hip. “If they decide to make trouble, I can take care of myself.”
The brothers tipped their hats and rode on. She suspected they were going to spend a good portion of the silver celebrating their early success. What they did with their money was their business. They had already paid the professor and her a share. It wasn’t quite enough for them to return to the Grand Canyon and finish the ornithopter. They would only need a few more sessions with the Javelina before they could make the trip.
Larissa backtracked a mile to a point where she could easily cross the river. She made a long arc around the Clanton place, trying to pause near the tall spindly ocotillo plants or mesquite bushes so her silhouette wouldn’t stand out to someone watching from the house. After a couple of hours, she was satisfied she’d learned all she could. It looked like any one of the dozens of ranches she had seen in her travels through the southwest.
She crossed the river and returned to the mining camp, where Richard Gird cooked supper. “Is the professor back?”
Gird shook his head. “He’s still up the gully. That soldier probably delayed him.”
An icy lump formed in Larissa’s gut. “Soldier? Did he say what he wanted?”
Gird shrugged. “Just that he wanted to talk to the professor. If you find them, it would be goo
d to know if we’re getting an army contingent back in this area. If not, we probably need to think about something new to scare people away.”
She nodded and set out in the direction the professor had gone. A mile up the wash, she heard two people talking. Although they sounded friendly, she didn’t want to take chances. She drew her revolver, cocked it silently and searched for a good route to approach. She climbed to higher ground, then circled around to the source of the voices.
“Professor, if you won’t come willingly, I’m afraid I’ll have to arrest you for trespassing on United States Territory.”
Larissa reached a point where she could observe the speakers. A man in an army uniform had just drawn a pistol and aimed it at the professor. She stepped forward and aimed at his chest. “Drop your weapon, Mister, and put your hands where I can see them.”
The soldier looked up and barred his teeth, but he dropped his pistol and raised his hands. “I’m Sergeant Michael Harris from Fort Bliss,” he said. “We’re trying to develop some means for our soldiers to fight the Russians along the Pacific Coast.”
“Yeah?” Larissa cocked her eyebrow. “Ramon Morales was just through here a couple weeks ago making the same offer. We told him no. The answer’s the same for you.”
“Ma’am, soldiers are dying. We need help, badly.” He shook his head. “I’ll do what I can to get it. If you chase me away now, I’ll just come back later with more men.”
“Who says we’ll be here?” asked Larissa.
“You’re not going to abandon all that mining equipment, at least not until the Shieffelins return. That buys me a couple of days, right there. Even if you left, my guess is you’d return to the Grand Canyon to finish your work up there.”
“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Professor Maravilla. “I should just go with him.”
“There’s another choice,” said Larissa. “I shoot him and we bury his body right here in the wash. It would be a long time before anyone discovered him.”
Lightning Wolves Page 13
