Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2)

by E. J. Robinson

  Valud only grinned.

  “There are ways to punish without leaving bruises or scars, Princess. Who do you think taught me?”

  As Valud strolled out, Friday promised herself, when the time came, and the bodies of her enemies began to fall, his would be the second she counted.

  The small room Friday shared with seven other women was stifling when she returned. As she settled into her spot against the far wall, an old woman with more wrinkles than hair pulled half a bread roll from her sleeve and offered it to her.

  Friday looked at the roll sadly.

  “You keep it, Grandmother,” she said. “You need it more than I.”

  “We’ll share it,” the old woman said.

  The old woman’s eyes were rheumy and her skin was pallid, but her mind was still spry. Still, Friday wondered how much longer the Bone Flayers would keep her around.

  “Where are you from?” Friday asked.

  “We lived on the bank of a river, but we were not a village, or even a people. Just a few souls drawing life from dark waters. The same waters that brought us death.”

  “How long ago were you taken?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed in reflection. “I was older than you. But not by much.”

  “You are strong to have survived all this time.”

  “One does what one must,” the old woman said. “But I often ask myself why the river gods cursed me with this life.”

  Friday had never heard of the river gods before, but she knew better than to question the beliefs of others.

  “Maybe you are meant to do something yet. My Goddess believes there is always a time for redemption.”

  “Redemption? I am too old for that,” she said. “At my age, the best I can hope for is to die before I’m cast out. Or worse.”

  Friday refused to feel pity for the woman. Pity is the battle cry of a frail heart. Instead, she drew closer to the woman so the others in the room could not hear her.

  “What are they preparing for outside?” she asked.

  The old woman hesitated before answering.

  “The fête,” she finally said.

  “Can you tell me how it works?”

  “Once a year, the master hosts a gathering of merchants and traders from all across the land to sell the ships, food, and slaves his people have killed for. Some buy back the very things stolen from them.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “A few days, a week; no more. The celebrations go day and night, as does the entertainment.”

  “Entertainment?”

  “You’ve seen the fighting pits outside? When I was a girl, it was only men who fought to the death. But the last few fêtes, the master has begun to include women and children too.”

  Friday drew a heavy breath. Her next question was the important one.

  “Tell me, Grandmother. What business do the pale strangers have with Baras’Oot?” The old woman looked at her warily. “I am Aserra. I would sooner end my life than betray another.”

  It was good enough for the old woman. She leaned in and whispered.

  “I have heard they seek a prize. A relic of the past, though I do not know what. In return, they have offered something the master greatly covets. I believe …”

  The old woman hesitated.

  “Go on,” Friday said.

  “It is a location. But what awaits there, I cannot say. They leave before the sun rises and return late at night.”

  “Aboard a ship?”

  “Yes, but not of the sea.”

  Friday understood.

  “They have a flier,” she said.

  “Yes,” the old woman said. “That is the name they use. It is kept in a building to the east, marked by lights and guards. Guards stand outside to protect it.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  Friday laid back, a lightness filling her heart for the first time in a long time.

  She had just discovered the method of her escape.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Marauders

  “We’re under attack!” one of the Big Hats yelled before he went down in a hail of gunfire.

  Those on the ground returned fire at a band of marauders storming in from the eastern fringes of the train yard.

  The Big Hats in the yard had taken cover behind a wagon, as had Trog. He’d scooped up a dead cowboy’s pistol and was returning fire with glee.

  Robinson looked down from the safety of the train car to see the seven-fingered man lying prone on the ground. Trog had a knee buried in his back. Even in a battle against multiple enemies, Trog refused to lose sight of his charges.

  The marauders numbered somewhere between twenty and thirty. Their attack was well coordinated. Their focus appeared to be the supply barn at the northern ridge of the yard. Three Big Hats had taken up position to defend it, but their enemies were quickly gaining ground.

  Atop the hill, Boss and her crew had dismounted and were firing rifles from prone positions. Only Boss’s shots hit with any regularity.

  The leader of the marauders, a man dressed entirely in black himself, gave a signal, and the group moved forward in unison. One of the guards from the barn stood up for a better angle, but was quickly gunned down.

  When Trog saw this, he took command of the Big Hats on the ground. He had gun belts stripped from the dead and given to the seven-fingered man to carry. Then he turned back to the car and waved Robinson out. Robinson refused. Trog waved again, but he quickly understood Robinson was not the groveling lackey he had pretended to be. Trog pointed his meaty finger at him. Implicit in that simple gesture was a promise of retribution. Then he gave the order, and his party hunkered low to run across the yard.

  Robinson jumped down to retrieve one of the vacated pistols. He tried to release the cylinder, but couldn’t figure out how. In the dirt nearby lay a wounded man. Robinson crawled to him.

  “How do I load the cartridges?” Robinson asked.

  “Water,” the wounded man gasped.

  Robinson looked around and saw a canteen lying nearby. He grabbed it and shook it so the Big Hat could hear the water inside.

  “First, the pistol,” Robinson said.

  “Clasp. On top. Snap … then pull,” the man said.

  Robinson did, and the pistol opened.

  The man on the ground tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was dry.

  “Please,” he muttered.

  Robinson unscrewed the canteen’s cap and poured the remaining water into the man’s mouth. His eyes went still before it ran out.

  Robinson dropped the canteen and reloaded the pistol before rising to survey the field.

  The marauders had moved to a berm thirty paces from the barn. Trog and his group had reached the middle of the field and were exchanging gunfire with them.

  Robinson looked west and saw that Boss and her men had descended the hill to take up position behind a hand cart, which they used for cover as they maneuvered forward on the tracks.

  Robinson ran west, circling the outer ring of train cars until he arrived at the marauders’ flank. There, he climbed one of the car’s steel ladders and laid down on top of it. From there, he had an excellent view of the battle.

  Trog and his group worked their way through the center of the yard toward the barn. The marauders had taken shelter behind a score of old drums. Half their men engaged Trog’s group, while the other half also set their sights on the barn.

  Robinson took several deep breaths and aimed the pistol at the back of the nearest marauder. He’d never fired a gun before, so he didn’t know what to expect. He relaxed his grip and pulled the trigger.

  The blast was deafening. The pistol recoiled back and hit Robinson in the head, immediately opening a cut on his forehead that sent blood trickling down his face. His first shot had gone wide.

  Robinson aimed and squeezed the trigger again. This time, the bullet struck the dirt a foot behind his target. The man wheeled around to return fire, but Robinson emptied his pistol into
him.

  Robinson rolled over to reload, but cursed when he saw Trog sprint ever closer to the marauders’ front line. He was probably the only person in the world who wanted to keep this brute alive.

  Robinson continued to fire, his bullets rarely hitting their mark, but they did a good enough job distracting the men fighting with Trog. Then he felt the car jolt beneath him and flipped around in time to see a marauder’s head poke up over the edge. Robinson had no time to aim, so he pulled the trigger just as his enemy’s gun was rising. His fire was low, but the bullet bounced off the roof and blew a hole in the man’s face, propelling him off the side of the train.

  Robinson quickly reloaded and turned back to the battle. With all three forces converging on the barn, he knew the outcome of the battle was about to be decided, and he was in no position to affect it. He could continue to fire at the marauders’ backs, but hitting them from this distance would be blind luck. His talents, the ones Friday cultivated, were hand-to-hand combat, using movement, evasion, and speed. To play any part, he needed to be on the ground.

  Vaulting off the train, Robinson ran toward the marauders, shooting two men in the back before the others turned. Their gunfire forced him behind corded stacks of willow. There, he reloaded the gun using the last of his bullets. He knew if the marauders charged him at that moment, he’d have no chance of escape. But his fate was decided when the last of the barn’s guards was killed.

  Robinson heard the leader of the marauders call out and watched as two of his men pulled hand-held devices from a satchel before activating them. He suddenly understood the enemy’s plan, and it all hinged on what was in that supply barn. If Robinson was correct, their action would likely mean the end of Boss, the Big Hats, and most importantly, Trog.

  When the marauders broke for the barn, Robinson took off after them. He heard a whistle as a bullet flew by his head. He looked back to see the leader of the marauders aiming at him. Fire and smoke erupted from his gun, and Robinson felt the meat of his forearm go hot. The leader narrowed in for the killing shot, when he was unexpectedly catapulted back, his chest blooming like a flower. Robinson looked across the yard, where Boss looked up from her rifle.

  Robinson continued after the men as they closed in on the barn. He aimed his pistol and fired twice, striking the first man in the leg and back. As he collapsed, the device fell out of his hand onto the ground.

  The last marauder was quicker. Robinson knew he had no chance of closing the distance, so he fired his remaining bullets. All sailed overhead.

  An instant later, the man threw the device as hard as he could. It slammed against the barn’s facade and slid down into a nest of barbed wire. In full run, Robinson plucked up the gun of the dead marauder, firing its remaining bullets into the second one until he dropped dead too.

  Robinson fell to his knees to scoop up the first device. There was a dial in the center of it numbered in intervals of fifteen. It was winding down through the final quarter.

  Robinson immediately yanked the sling cord from around his waist, wrapped the device in it, and swung it around twice before letting it fly back toward the remaining marauders. When it landed in the center of them, the men screamed and turned to flee, but the device exploded, tearing them to shreds.

  Robinson was already kneeling down for the second device when he heard Boss shout, “No!” A bullet pinged the barn somewhere above him. He reached through the barbed wire for the second ticking device, but couldn’t pull it free fast enough. The dial was almost fully wound down, so he did the only thing he could. He reached for the long, metallic plunger and yanked it out.

  The device stopped ticking.

  Oxygen flooded his lungs. He felt like he’d been holding his breath forever. Behind him, Boss approached, and when she sighed with relief, he almost smiled.

  Then a gunshot rang out.

  Robinson turned in time to see Trog stumble forward, holding his throat. He wheeled around and fired on the seven-fingered man. They both pulled their triggers until they fell in a cloud of smoke.

  Robinson cried out, but by the time he reached them and the smoke had cleared, both men were dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Mark in the Ledger

  Robinson tore the necklace of finger bones from around Trog’s neck and clenched it in his hands.

  “Wanted to kill him yourself?” Boss asked.

  “Actually,” Robinson said, “I needed him alive.”

  This surprised Boss. Then again, everything the young man did surprised her. He’d walked into town like a ghost, only to be shipped out to a place most never returned from. And here he was, nearly two weeks later, saving her butt. Maybe all of Cowboytown. Even Mox was at a loss for words.

  “Put that away,” Boss said to Mox, whose gun was still on Robinson. “This time, he rides into town as my guest. Gilt and Shoehorn, you’re on warehouse detail. One-Eye, Sallymae, and Henry Hold’em, you’re on cleanup. The rest of you, ride after the survivors and put some lead in them. Then hang ’em high down by the docks. I want everyone up and down the Missup to know what happens to enemies of Cowboytown.”

  The Big Hats acknowledged their orders before setting off.

  Robinson stood over the body of the seven-fingered man. He had wanted freedom, but he was not above revenge. Robinson couldn’t fault the man—he’d been a victim of Trog’s for so long, he was blinded to any other outcome. But Robinson valued life more than death. And he would as long as Friday remained alive.

  Some time that evening, Robinson was sitting down at the saloon bar, upending his fourth glass of beer, when the explosive device was slammed on the bar front of him. Boss held up the plunger.

  “How did you know how to dismantle it?” she asked.

  Robinson shrugged. “I’ve always liked to tinker.”

  “Did your father teach you?”

  Robinson shook his head. “My mother.”

  This time Boss laughed. She knew the Doc had been to see him. He’d taken a bullet to the arm. It was a flesh wound, but she made sure it was clean and properly attended to. This boy, man—whatever he was—was an asset she didn’t want to lose.

  “How’d you know what was in the barn?” she asked.

  “I assumed if men were willing to throw explosive devices at it, there must be something valuable in there.”

  “Un-uh.” Boss grinned. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  Robinson took another swig of beer. His head felt light, but his heart felt heavy. The only link he’d had to the Bone Flayers was gone now.

  “In the caves, Trog had us collecting guano. Bat waste, which I believe is full of nitrate. And upstairs at our first meeting, your Dandy man mentioned salt mines. Probably looking for saltpeter, am I right?”

  “Go on,” Boss said, before taking a pull of her own beer.

  “On the outskirts of town, I saw a few brick kilns belching smoke. If I had my guess, they were burning willow at low temperatures to suck out the oxygen.”

  Boss shrugged, but she couldn’t stop the edge of her mouth from turning up.

  “Saltpeter, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. The three ingredients used to make gunpowder. You’re in the ammunition business.”

  “I am indeed,” she said. “Though those men almost put me out of it.”

  “I take it you keep it stockpiled in the barn.”

  “More than anyone’s seen in two centuries. Did you hear about it upriver?”

  Robinson shook his head. “I told you before,” he said. “I never heard of Cowboytown before your men walked me in.”

  “Then how’d you know about the gunpowder?”

  “I like to read,” Robinson said simply.

  Boss looked at Mr. Dandy, and they both broke out laughing.

  “You are something, Mr. Crusoe,” Boss said. “Mr. Dandy still thinks you’re a threat, but clearly, if the barn had blown, we’d all be dead. So I owe you a mark in the ledger.”

  “And you always pay your debts,”
Robinson said.

  “That’s right,” she said firmly. “But first, tell me why you wanted Trog alive. Did you two … make friends in the caves?”

  Robinson’s smile faded. He held her gaze as he spoke.

  “I never heard of Hell before I came to this continent,” he said. “But if it exists, it does so in the belly of those caves.”

  Boss swallowed and asked, “It’s that bad?”

  “Worse,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. Trog came to me a few years back, looking for work. I was afraid if I didn’t hire him, he’d join one of my competitors. That’s part of why I put him out there. Close, but not too close. So, what did you want from him, anyway?”

  “Information.”

  “About?”

  Robinson tossed the necklace of bones onto the table. Mr. Dandy paled, but Boss studied it with cool detachment.

  “The savages that took my girl collect trophies like this. Trog not only wore it proudly, but he boasted a body full of scars. Only one race tortures its prisoners in that fashion.”

  “The Bone Flayers,” Boss said. “They’re the ones you’re looking for?”

  Robinson nodded.

  “All this time I thought you were reckless. Turns out you’re just suicidal. The store of gunpowder you saved today … remember how I said we were making a delivery to someone special?”

  Robinson’s throat constricted. He scarcely managed a nod.

  “Seems I might be able to repay that debt after all.”

  After Robinson left, Boss and Mr. Dandy remained at their table nursing their beers and listening to the piano player on the stage.

  “You believe his story?” Mr. Dandy asked.

  “Does it matter? There’s no evidence one way or the other. But if I was foolish enough to fall in love, I guess I’d want a man speaking of me the way he speaks of her.”

  “That makes two of us,” Mr. Dandy said.

  They laughed.

  After a long, hot bath, Robinson dressed in his old clothes and headed to the hotel lobby for a breakfast of eggs and pork belly. There, he saw Wellie.