Veil of Time: A Paranormal-ESP Thriller (The Wizards Series Book 4)

by Jack L Knapp

  Nevada Territory had experienced an influx of people in 1875, miners from California whose claims had played out, cattlemen from Texas hoping to profit by supplying beef to the Army, and newly arrived settlers. These were mostly farmers from the eastern states who were looking for a fresh start. With them came the boomers, the speculators, the gamblers and saloon-keepers, the claim jumpers, prostitutes, and grifters that infested the frontier.

  Inevitably, the Indians resented the new arrivals and clashes were frequent.

  Not all the clashes were between the natives and the newcomers; veterans of bloody Civil War battles and Indian fights were armed and whiskey was the drink of choice. Roostered-up miners and cowhands fought, and some were killed. Men handled their own affairs in the west, including deadly ones. It was expected, a behavior so usual that it was seldom marked.

  “Cabin up ahead. Nobody stirring, and Emmitt’s horses are gone.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out when we get there, but we need to spread out. Josh, you circle around to the left, Pete look after the right side. I’ll give you a couple of minutes, then I’ll go straight in.”

  The two men nodded and rode away. Andy, the leader, waited.

  Judging that he’d waited long enough, he gigged his horse and rode slowly ahead.

  Pausing, he glanced around but saw no sign of danger. “Emmitt? It’s Andy.”

  He waited, but there was no reply.

  Andy dropped the reins as he walked toward the cabin, leaving the horse ground-tied. There was a peculiar sweetish smell in the air and the whir of insect wings, very faint, from inside the cabin. Pushing open the door, he understood why Emmitt had not responded.

  He walked outside, then called his companions.

  “You boys come on in. Emmitt’s cashed in his chips.”

  “Injuns?” asked Josh. Pete, as usual, had little to say. He listened much, spoke seldom.

  “Maybe. He was shot through the body, more’n once too. Looks like he got to his bunk and bled out there. No sign of arrows, and he wasn’t scalped.”

  “Don’t mean much. Only the poorest Injuns still use bows. Them that can buy or steal one have Spencers, and some even have Winchesters,” Josh said.

  “Look around for tracks. I’ll see if there’s anything in the cabin, but I ain’t lookin’ forward to digging a grave. All those tracks, no shoes, I figure if we hang around here, we’ll end up like Emmitt.”

  “You ain’t gonna just leave him! Dammit, he’s our brother!”

  “No, but us gettin’ kilt won’t change nothin’. I figure to set the cabin on fire and let that finish the job. Looks like Emmitt’s been dead a week.” Andy pulled up his neckerchief and adjusted the cloth to cover his nose and mouth. It wouldn’t help much, but it would at least keep the flies out.

  He made a quick, but thorough, search of the small cabin.

  “Nothin’. Emmitt’s rifle’s gone too.”

  “Injuns would do that. They won’t leave a gun behind, ever.”

  “Neither would the trash that’s been comin’ in from California. Mighty poor specimens, some o’ them drifters. But we can keep a lookout for Emmitt’s rifle. He carved that mountain lion on the stock hisself; plumb proud of it, he was.” The others nodded.

  A half-filled can of kerosene provided the means of firing the cabin. Splashing the last of the liquid on the floor beneath the bunk, Andy tossed a lighted lucifer inside, closing the door as the match-head flared. He walked back and waited with his remaining brothers until the cabin was engulfed in flames.

  “Time to go. Any Injun in a hundred miles will see that.”

  “Yeah. Right curious they be, too. They’ll come lookin’.”

  “So long, Emmitt. Reckon we’ll see you on the other side.”

  Replacing their hats, the three mounted and rode south, heading for Sandy Flats. The village was small, but it might just keep going, unlike so many of the small villages that sprang up sometimes with no rhyme or reason. the California routes branched a day’s travel east and the southern branch came through Sandy Flats. Trade was a better predictor of a town’s longevity than even a rich mineral strike.

  #

  Ray circulated, spending a few moments here, a few moments there. Men now looked at him warily and he soon understood why. One of the drinkers had helped bury Bill, the man he’d killed in Charlie’s Saloon. Ray nodded at the man and walked on.

  People gossiped; stories went the rounds, seldom losing drama even as they gained ‘facts’ in the telling. Ray soon confirmed his new reputation with a snipped gleaned from the mind of a man who watched him pass. The phrase was short but clear: ...killed Bill with one punch!

  Ray watched the gambling and soon understood why he’d been warned to keep quiet about what he saw. The games were rigged.

  The Chinese man came in after midnight, wheeling a box that contained his broom, mop and bucket, and dustpan. He wore the queue that Ray had been warned about, but not hanging down his back where it would present an irresistible challenge to a half-drunk customer. Instead, the queue lay alongside the man’s neck and hung down in front. A hand reaching for it would be in view before it could touch the thick braid.

  Ray had two opportunities to see how the Chinese man protected his long hair. A reaching hand was deflected and slammed into the table, eliciting a muffled curse. The Chinese glanced at the owner of the hand long enough for a silent message to pass; this had been a relatively-friendly reminder that his queue was not to be touched.

  The second encounter had been more serious. One hand held a knife while the other hand reached to grab the queue. The Chinese man had twirled the heavy handle of his push-broom, striking the forearm that held the knife with an audible crack. The knife clattered to the floor. A thrust of the broom-handle’s end, punched into the drunk’s midsection, ended the fight. His angry friends glared at the Chinese, but backed off when Ray walked up. The Chinese man glanced back at Ray as the man’s friends led him away. The Chinese then moved to clean up the vomit, result of the midriff strike.

  Ray filed the information away. The Chinese was fast and wasted no movements. Had he studied martial arts at some point, or was he just naturally faster, better coordinated, than most men?

  Ray watched the man from time to time as he went about his job. Periodically a fast motion of his hand swept a loose coin, left on the table when the drinkers departed, into the damp rag he used for wiping. The owner might not be paying much, but likely the Chinese made more from his gleanings than he was paid. Did the owner know? If so, he apparently didn’t care. So long as the Bucket was profitable he was happy, and since the gamblers paid for the privilege of operating a faro bank or poker table, there was no way the Bucket’s owner could lose.

  The owner likely understood that too many problems might see him run out of town or lynched, as happened frequently to men who became too ambitious. So he collected his profits, accepting that fights and occasional killings were just part of doing business on the frontier.

  During the course of his first day on the new job, Ray avoided confrontation. Adroit use of psychokinetics did what no amount of bluster could. Angry drunks found themselves unable to stand. A chair might slide back, leaving the man’s planted feet unable to support his weight, and sometimes those feet skidded as if the floor was covered with oil.

  Ray’s words sounded soothing and very reasonable: “It’s time to go sleep it off, friend. There’ll be a new game tomorrow.” He then assisted the puzzled men to the door and helped them move off along the boardwalk.

  #

  “You’re slick, Ray, I’ll give you that.” Muddy, the owner, paid Ray enough the next morning to buy a new outfit. “I ain’t sure how you did it, but nobody got killed and nobody even got cut up. You keep this up, you might even last a while.”

  Ray nodded and accepted the money. “I expect to be around.”

  “One thing, Ray. If you decide to buck the tiger, don’t whine about losing.”

  “I won’t.” T
he meaning was clear. The games might be rigged, but Ray could expect no help from Muddy. If Ray was cheated, that was his problem.

  Ray went looking for the Chinese man who cleaned up the gambling hall after most of the night’s customers had gone.

  “You speak English, friend?”

  “I speak. You Ray. I Fon.”

  Ray nodded. “I’m looking for clothes, Fon. You have a place I can get a shirt and trousers? These are good enough for the stable, but I need something different for working at the casino.”

  “I know place. You come.”

  #

  The bucket of water soaked T through his leathers. He sat up and looked around. His head ached worse than anything he’d experienced in recent years. Only the side effect when he’d attended the School compared. The headaches back then, in hindsight, shouldn’t have been surprising; the computer, the interface, and the AI programming that directed those things had forced his brain to change.

  “How did you get in?”

  The speaker was tall and well-dressed, wearing a black suit, white shirt with tie, and a tall hat. He was pale skinned with very black eyes beneath prominent black eyebrows. A roughly-dressed man stood by him, holding a bucket. He had doused T with water, a rough-and-ready means of waking him.

  T shook his head, trying to remember. What had happened? Had he been struck by lightning?

  But the well-dressed man was waiting for an answer.

  “Get in where? Where am I?”

  “You’re on my property. The gate is locked and there is no other way through the fence. I say again, how did you get in?”

  “I have no idea. I think I was struck by lightning. I don’t remember a gate.”

  The man nodded. “There was a storm. It blew up quickly, right after my transmitter began working. This was not unexpected; I anticipated that my towers could be used to control weather phenomena. Still, the only lightning inside my property came from my coil, so if you were inside the fence it’s possible that you were struck by a discharge. You are very lucky. Men have been killed by such bolts. Which brings us back to the question: how did you get inside the fence?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t even know where this place is.”

  “I have named it Wardenclyffe. You have never heard of it?”

  “I--.” T stopped, puzzled. The name seemed vaguely familiar. “I don’t know if I have. Is this Bridgeport?”

  “No. Bridgeport is across the Sound; Wardenclyffe is on Long Island.”

  “You say this is your property? May I ask your name?”

  “I am Nikola Tesla. Wardenclyffe is my most important invention and the site of my laboratory. Who are you?”

  “My name is...Tom. I don’t remember more than that.”

  “Amnesia has been reported after a lightning strike, so it’s probably what happened to you. I find that periodic exposure to electrical currents are stimulating to the body and brain. Too much such stimulation is dangerous, however. It is not something for novices to attempt.”

  “You expose yourself to electricity?”

  “Yes. In time you come to understand that the small sting you experience is but the price to be paid for well-being. One must be careful, of course; only very high frequencies are safe to use.”

  “I think I’ve had enough electricity for a lifetime!”

  #

  Three weary riders rode up to the saloon and dismounted, tying their mounts to the hitching rail out front. Two other horses waited there, switching at the ever-present flies.

  Pushing up to the bar, Andy said, “Whiskey.”

  The barman set a bottle and a glass in front of him and glanced at his two companions. At their nod, he added two glasses to the one already there. “That’ll be six bits, gents.”

  Andy put a half-eagle on the bar. “Leave the bottle. We lost a brother last week, I reckon a couple of drinks will help.”

  “Sorry to hear that, friend. First drink’s on me.”

  “I’m obliged.” Andy raised his glass to his brothers and said, “To Emmitt. He was a damned good man.”

  “Emmitt.” The three tossed off the drinks and shuddered at the bite of the raw alcohol. Andy poured the glasses full again, but left them on the bar.

  “If I ain’t intrudin’, how did it happen?”

  “We’re not certain. He’d been dead a few days by the time we found him. Shot, more’n once. Whoever done it took his Winchester.”

  “Injuns, you think?”

  “Wal, maybe. They’ll take anything they can find, that’s for sure.”

  “There’s a camp about a day and a half’s ride north of here. Paiutes, I heard.”

  One of the men sitting behind them at a table had come up and overheard the conversation. “Paiutes, you say? You reckon it’s Bad Face’s bunch?”

  “Might be. The feller I talked to didn’t say. He just said it looked like Paiutes.”

  “That old snake has been causing trouble as long as I can remember. It’s about time somebody put an end to him. If you boys are a mind to, we could find enough men to wipe them devils out once and for all. Mind if I have a drink of that whiskey, gents?”

  The talk went on and the bottle was soon emptied. The barkeep put another on the bar, collected the price from one of the other men, and the discussion went on.

  What had been a possibility, that Indians had shot Emmett, soon became certainty.

  The posse, a dozen men armed with pistol, rifle, and ammunition, rode out just before noon the next day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hotel room was comfortable, despite being more ornate than T liked. Tesla had prevailed on the desk clerk to assign the room to his new acquaintance, ‘Tom’. The clerk had been dubious; Tom had no luggage and was strangely dressed in leather clothing. He’d left the leathers in the hotel, then rejoined Tesla.

  The two had then gone to Tesla’s favorite restaurant, Delmonico’s. Tesla had opened up after they’d eaten, explaining the tower T had blundered into during his last teleport.

  “This is my greatest invention, the broadcast power transmitter. It does much more than that, of course; it allows all of humanity to connect with others, such that anyone can immediately speak with a friend anywhere in the world. With only slight modification, the transmitter can send voices and even pictures to a receiver at any location.

  “It will end war, the ancient scourge of my country and of mankind. When men may speak freely with others, there is no possibility of misunderstanding. With this goes the promise of electrical power in any amount desired and wherever it’s needed, from the great cities of the world to darkest Africa! Just think of the good my invention can accomplish!”

  “This is what you’re working on now? I’d like to hear more about it. You’ve already invented other devices, have you not?”

  “Certainly; I invented the rotating magnetic field, and from that I developed multi-phase alternating current electrical power. The dynamo, the brushless motor, the transformer, all worked just as I visualized them before I built the working models. The bladeless turbine also works, but it’s not yet as reliable as I’d hoped. The discs overheat and warp, causing them to contact the adjacent disk. Steam is the most efficient medium to spin the turbine, but using it brings on engineering problems. The disks must be closely positioned each to the others, and they must also be quite thin if the principle of adhesion is to function. Heavier disks would resist warping, but at the same time the added weight materially reduces efficiency as does warping.”

  “Didn’t you invent a kind of high-frequency coil too, one that’s useful in radios?”

  “I did, and patented it too. Not that my patent has stopped the thieves who would profit from my work without paying for that privilege! For that matter, they refuse to credit me with my initial success in sending signals wirelessly!”

  “But what about Marconi? Isn’t he...” T began, before Tesla cut him off.

  “Marconi is using my patented devices and he fails to even
understand how to use them to their fullest potential! He’s a charlatan, no more than that. He uses my work but refuses to credit me for my discovery, something a friend would not do. He’s an experimenter but he is not really a scientist in the purest fashion.

  “Edison is doing this, providing Marconi the money to develop his devices! I don’t understand it, because I believed Edison and I were friends! But friends do not betray friends in such a manner!”

  “Edison is well known, you know. People call him a wizard, because so many of his efforts have been successful.”

  “He has also had failures, something the public chooses to ignore. I once worked with Edison, but in time I was forced to leave. He would not permit me to develop my own ideas, even though I was prepared to share them with him.”

  “Did you work with him on his light bulb? I believe that’s one of the great inventions of the modern age.”

  “It’s quite useful, no doubt about it, but it is still quite primitive. I have invented a light that needs no filament, but it will only work with my alternating current electricity. Edison’s development depended on his discovery of a better filament, and while his lamp will work with his direct current system as well as with my system, my invention will work only with alternating current. In that respect Edison’s bulb might be more flexible, but in any case it’s no more than an improvement on the work of others. Many of his machines are just that, improvements, with no real scientific breakthroughs. My work is original!”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Tesla. Other diners are looking at us.”

  “Yes, you’re correct, but I find it infuriating to be treated with such disregard. I have so many intellectual properties already patented, so many other inventions I’m thinking of, but none of that matters. I lack the funds for further development. I had hoped that Mr. Morgan would help, but he withdrew some of the promised funds and refuses further sponsorship. Do you know him, J. Pierpont Morgan?”