by Anthology
Trust brushed off his pants and adjusted his jacket. They were well fitted and of a dark sturdy material. He slapped his straw derby against his thigh and replaced it on his head.
“That is not a hat for a Pinkerton Man.”
Trust pushed the hat to a jaunty angle. “I’m not a Pinkerton Man, I’m a Pinkerton Boy.”
And with that statement, he set up the path into the cavernous hills where he was sure he would find the man he planned to arrest. Meat Cleaver Morgan had robbed the First Bank of Baxter Mills City and vanished in the winding trails and peaks of the Catskill Mountains. At first glance Trust looked like a normal lanky 12 year old boy with a mop of curly blond hair. But if you met his gaze, you saw the grit and determination of a cagey hunter in his green eyes.
“Yes, I stand corrected,” said Bucephalus. “I feel much better now.” Bucephalus scampered ahead of Trust and began sniffing out his quarry. The ground was chalky, and clouds of dust erupted at every step.
“Be careful of the dirt,” said Trust to Bucephalus.
The hound gave a small wheezing cough. “I can handle it.”
“I don’t have time to polish and dust your innards.”
“Mind your own innards,” said Bucephalus, stopping and raising his nose into the air. His nostrils whistled as he gained the scent.
“There,” the hound nodded uphill. The path was wide but bordered by dry scrub and a tall cliff. A large outcropping concealed the path where the hound had indicated.
“Obediah Morgan,” Trust cried out. “Surrender your weapons, and come down with your hands in the air.”
After a moment’s hesitation a voice growled back at him.
“You’ll have to take them from my . . . what are you, some sort of midget?”
Trust leaned up on his toes. “I’m normal size for my age, mostly,” he said a little defensively.
“Yer just a boy!” said Morgan with a laugh, and stepped out from his cover a few yards from Trust, “Go home to yer mother.”
Trust fired his Cap Gun, an ornate bulbous weapon with a muzzle like a tuning fork. The dart of electricity shot out and struck the outlaw. He shook as if a thousand bees were stinging him and collapsed to the ground, drool foaming around his lips.
Bucephalus snorted, “That is not a gun—”
“For a Pinkerton Man. I know, I know.”
“Boy, whatever the hell that is, drop it.”
Trust straightened and peered behind himself at the sound of the voice, cursing that he had assumed Obediah Morgan was alone.
“It’s a Capacitor Gun,” answered Trust. “It sends out an electric shock that knocks a person out.”
“I don’t care what it is. Just drop it.”
Trust dropped the Cap Gun and turned around, his hands in the air.
Three men stood there. One was big and ugly, his belly straining over his gun belt and mean eyes black as murder. Another was tall and thin and dressed in a battered suit. The third had an evil smile marked by gaps of missing teeth. His chin was surrounded by a patch of hair that bristled like a wire brush.
“So he’s alive?” asked the tall man.
“He is,” answered Trust.
“How did you find us, boy? I thought we escaped every law man sent after us,” asked the gap toothed man.
Trust glared defiantly at him.
“You’re Bill Savage. And that’s Charlie the Bear and Skinny Frank, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And that person on the ground is Meat Cleaver Morgan, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s also known as Mountain Man Morgan. All the other lawmen assumed he’d take off for the northern border. But I knew Morgan spent years in these hills as a trapper. He knows every square inch of the place. Once I found the likely trail into the hills, Beau picked up his scent. You must have been waiting for him here; we didn’t see any signs of Morgan travelling with anyone else.”
Bill Savage nodded approvingly. “It’s too bad for the law that the only person to figure it out was a kid. You should have told a grown up instead of coming yerself.”
“Hey, I got Morgan!”
“And he wasn’t the only lawman to figure it out.”
They all turned to the powerful voice, and a man stood there pointing a rifle in their direction. Next to him was a Pinkerton Metalliferous Hound.
“Jasper Horn!” said Bucephalus with respect. Trust glared at his hound, but if anyone deserved Bucephalus’s approval, it was Pinkerton’s top agent.
“Horn?” squealed Skinny Frank, trembling.
“Drop your guns,” commanded the imposing Pinkerton Man. He was dressed in close-fitting dun colored pants and vest. His white shirt was starched and spotless. The brim of his hat tilted so that his eyes were shaded, but they seemed to glow through with confidence.
The outlaws were about to drop their pistols, when Mountain Man Morgan suddenly regained consciousness and grabbed for the gun that lay nearby.
Jasper Horn turned and fired and Morgan toppled backwards to lie on the ground again. Charlie the Bear and Skinny Frank both aimed and fired at Horn. Horn’s Metalliferous Hound, a sleek machine with the appearance of a whippet, had already covered the distance and pounced at the men. Skinny Frank’s bullet glanced off its body, and they tumbled together. Charlie had fired, but Horn darted sideways and rolled to his knees.
Ignored during the exchange, Trust ran and leapt at the Bear to tackle him. The man was so dense, though, that the small form of Trust merely slammed into him. Trust uselessly wrapped his arms around the legs and slid down to the feet. When Charlie the Bear looked down to see what had hit him, Horn fired. The Pinkerton Agent wounded the outlaw in his right arm, forcing him to drop his gun as he roared with pain.
“Where’s Savage, blast it?” asked Jasper Horn.
Trust looked around, but Bill Savage had disappeared at the first shot.
“I’ve been tracking this gang for months,” said Horn as he bent down to his hound to inspect the gunshot mark. It had made a dent but did no serious damage. Trust admired the Metalliferous Hound. It was nearly as tall as Trust, smooth and lean and looked like it could run 100 miles per hour.
“I’m fine,” said the hound. Her voice was precise and business like.
“Thanks, Artemis,” said the Pinkerton Agent as he gave a pat to the head of the mechanical creature. “You’ll get an extra load of Spark when we get back.” Spark was the special coal fed to the steam powered hounds, which they consumed like any ravenous dog.
Horn turned to the young boy, “What’s your name, son? And why are you hot on the trail of dangerous outlaws?”
“My name’s Trust Worthy. And I’m a Pinkerton Detective, like you.”
Horn seemed nonplussed. “Are you now? How’s a young shiner like you employed by Mr. Pinkerton?”
“I’m older than I look,” lied Trust. Bucephalus gave a tin snort. “Here is my badge, if you want to look at it.”
Trust boldly held up the bent and scarred piece of metal, trying to hide his nervousness that Horn might recognize it. Horn stared at it for a moment and smiled, handing it back.
“That’s a mighty unusual shooting iron you have there. Where’d you get it?”
“It was invented by a . . . friend of mine. It’s a Capacitor Gun. It shoots electricity like lightning, and KO’s whoever you shock.”
“Right. You know, that badge of yours has seen some history.”
“I’m not its first owner,” admitted Trust.
Horn unpinned the badge from his belt. It was new and shiny and well-polished. Like Trust’s, it was in the shape of a tiny shield and said “Pinkerton National Detective Agency.” In the center was the Pinkerton eye, always open to portray their motto “We Never Sleep.” He hand
ed it to Trust.
“Take this one; you’ve earned a proper badge.”
Trust was surprised by the gesture. “Thank you, Mr. Horn.”
As Jasper Horn and Artemis went about the procedure of shackling the outlaws, Trust strolled up the trail.
Bucephalus followed. “Mr. Worthy, where are you going? Mr. Horn deserves your help. He did save your life.”
“I could’ve handled the situation,” said Trust, but he mumbled it so that Jasper Horn wouldn’t hear.
Trust followed the path that Obediah Morgan had come from. It ended at the wall of a hill and some closer investigation revealed a small cave. It was cramped, barely big enough to hide the stolen strong boxes of gold bars. There was a third parcel, a thick leather portfolio with a lock broken open. Curious, Trust lifted the bag and pulled out sheets of paper.
“Mr. Worthy, what are you doing?” asked Bucephalus.
“I want to know what this is.”
“None of your business,” said Jasper Horn, with a friendly smile and authoritative tone.
Horn seized the papers and the satchel from Trust’s hand. The boy saw briefly a set of blueprints for what appeared to be a wheel-less train hovering above the ground before Horn tucked them back into the satchel.
Bucephalus looked smug, “That is what you get when you overstep your duties,” the hound whispered to him.
“Well done, though, Trust,” Horn nodded at the boy. “You outsmarted every law man between here and Baxter Mills City by tracking down Morgan. I’ll be sure to remark about your first-rate assistance in the apprehension of the Gang.”
“Assistance?” said Trust, annoyed. “I tracked down Morgan all on my own.”
“You did,” smiled Horn, perhaps a little too condescendingly. “Partners then?” He held out his hand. “After all, I did do some of the work.”
Trust took the man’s hand, feeling a little sorry for his outburst. “Partners. This once.”
“We should be so lucky to work with the Scourge of Evil-Doers again,” said Bucephalus, longingly. Trust winced; he thought Horn’s moniker too over dramatic. He wondered how people would call him when he became a famous Pinkerton Detective.
The two Pinkerton agents returned with their prisoners and the gold. Horn had held on to the leather briefcase and had even replaced the lock. Trust suspected the papers were more important than the gold.
Trust returned home and put his balloon and hound in the old shed. Inside the house he found his father sitting at a work table, making precise notes in a ledger.
“Romeo, is that you?” asked Mr. Worthy, without looking up from his numbers.
“Yes sir.”
“There is food in the icebox. Mother is at the telegraph office.”
Trust went to the kitchen. His father was an accountant, and his mother worked as a telegraph operator. Trust respected the work they did and understood that it paid the bills. But it also made him realize from an early age that he needed something in his life that was more exciting than numbers or letters.
“How was camp?” asked his father.
Trust had stuffed part of a ham sandwich into his mouth.
“Erm . . . good.”
“What did you learn today?”
Trust hesitated, because his parents thought he was attending the Pinkerton Young Detective’s Camp for Clever Boys, not actually tracking down infamous outlaws.
“Well, we learned all about decoding secret messages,” Trust thought his father would like that one.
The boy felt confident he had disguised his adventuresome activities until his mother returned home from work.
“Mr. Worthy, your son is famous.” Trust’s mother was a dutiful woman who was plump in a pleasing fashion. She excitedly popped in through the front entrance holding a newspaper in the air like a trophy she had won. Trust gagged on a piece of bread.
She continued, “As Hamlet said in Henry V, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness printed in the news’.”
“I think Hamlet was in Hamlet,” said Romeo. His mother enthusiastically quoted Shakespeare, but more often than not mixed up her quotes and characters. His mother had chosen the name Romeo because she loved Shakespeare. Trust supposed he was glad it wasn’t Coriolanus, but he still found the name awkward and preferred people calling him Trust.
“What has our son done? Trust, you didn’t mention anything,” asked Mr. Worthy.
“It was nothing, really,” said Trust.
“Don’t be modest, Romeo. You were the talk of the switchboard. Mr. Worthy, your son met Jasper Horn, and even helped him on a case.”
Trust looked at his mother with disbelief. She was not alarmed, and even seemed glad.
“Helping Jasper Horn, eh? The Scourge of Evil-doers. You are becoming quite the detective.”
“Could I see the paper?” asked Trust. As he read the article he understood why his mother was not upset, and why he getting angry as a hornet.
“After singlehandedly apprehending three dangerous outlaws,” Trust read aloud. “Jasper Horn mentioned that a young student named Romeo Worthy helped him to recover the stolen items, including gold that belonged to the First Bank of Baxter Mills and important documents owned by the General Railroad Agency. The spunky boy assisted the famed detective in securing them in at safe location.”
“You weren’t there, were you, when Jasper Horn caught the outlaws?” his father sounded worried.
Trust bit his tongue.
“Do you think Jasper Horn would let that happen?” said his mother with the assurance that it would have been unthinkable.
“Of course not,” agreed Mr. Worthy.
Trust swallowed hard.
“Well I tell you, I was flooded with messages about my Romeo. That’s a good boy.” Mrs. Worthy squeezed him with an affectionate hug, which Trust did not resist.
* * *
After he finished eating, Trust decided to visit his friend who had made the Cap Gun, a young man who was a unique and tireless inventor. Trust went to the shed where he hid his detective equipment and uncovered Bucephalus. He turned the activation knob on the Metalliferous Hound.
“Is there criminal activity to be dealt with?” asked the hound eagerly, immediately coming to attention.
“No, we’re going to Tom’s, to get you cleaned up.”
“Humph,” grunted the steel mutt. He did not approve of Thomas Edison’s eccentricities, but he followed his owner as he marched on foot to the inventor’s private laboratory.
It was dark when Trust and Bucephalus arrived. Trust knocked on the door, and it swung open with an ominous creak.
“The door was open…” said Trust in a worried whisper.
Bucephalus uttered a whirring growl of clinking gears. The Pinkerton Boy still had his Cap Gun, and he pulled it out of his belt and held in front of himself. The room inside was dark, and felt empty of life.
“Beau, what do you smell?”
“The laboratory. There’s so many chemicals in here I can’t distinguish any odor.”
“Tom?” called out Trust. It was too dark to see anything but the faint outlines of moonlight around the windows. They heard a noise from the other room, then a voice, low and deep and menacing.
“Who is there?” it said, and suddenly changed to a normal tone. “Trust Worthy? What are you aiming your Capacitor Gun at? Be careful, there’s plenty to ignite in here.”
“Tom? Is that you?” asked Trust.
“Of course it’s me,” Thomas Edison hesitated, “Oh, right. The lights are off. Did I leave the door open again? Just a minute, Trust.”
The lights abruptly burst on, and Trust covered his eyes as he cringed from the sudden brightness.
“Sorry,” said Edison.
“These are my photoreceptor eyes.”
“Photo what?”
“They can pick up and amplify any light sources so that I can see in the dark with them. I was testing it when you came in.”
“Ridiculous,” said Bucephalus.
“How’s your Metalliferous Hound?” Tom rubbed Bucephalus underneath his rubberized neck, and despite himself the hound responded by wagging his tail and tapping a paw on the floor.
“Feels like he needs some cleaning up.”
“I was hoping you could take a look at him,” said Trust. “We were on our first mission in the Hills. The roads were dusty.”
Edison put on a different pair of goggles and grabbed some tools and cloths. “Were you successful?” he asked.
“Quite successful,” said Bucephalus, as if the answer was obvious. Trust told his friend the story of the outlaws and Jasper Horn.
“Jasper Horn? Really? The Scourge…”
“Don’t say it,” said Trust.
“Well, let me give your hound a good once over, then. Can you leave him here tonight?”
“Sure,” said Trust, “I’ve got to get home. Tomorrow’s a school day, and I still have homework.”
“I’ll send your hound home in a few hours, all pretty as a pinwheel.”
Bucephalus humphed.
Trust left his friend’s lab as dusk settled in to a moonlit evening. He was still stinging about Jasper Horn getting all the credit for capturing the outlaws. Trust reached into his pocket to give his new badge a good luck rub, and remembered his Cap Gun needing charging.
