“My, oh my, Mr. Crusoe,” Wellie said, “you do clean up well.”
“As do you,” Robinson said.
After they’d eaten, they walked across the street to the mercantile shop where they met a dowdy older woman named Sal.
“This man needs a new set of clothes, Sal,” Wellie said.
“’Course he does,” Sal returned, her nose twitching with disfavor. “And who’s expected to pay for it?”
“Boss said it goes on her account.”
Sal made a harrumphing sound but said no more. She directed Robinson to the rear of the store and had him stand on a box in front of two mirrors.
“Clothes off,” she said.
Wellie let out a giggle.
“This just gets better and better,” she said.
Robinson fought back the urge to blush as he stripped to a thin pair of undergarments. When Sal rolled out a line of tape, he shuffled his feet, and she slapped him on the rump with a tapered stick and said, “No fidgeting.”
Sal spent a quarter turn listening to Robinson’s requirements. Once he was done, she pulled out bolts of leather and denim. He asked for them to be dyed black, like the leader of the marauders had worn.
Sal muttered something about “wanting to dress a proper gentlemen,” before rounding out his visit in front of a wall full of leather boots.
“Do you have anything broken in?” Robinson asked.
Sal muttered and shook her head again.
Once the fitting was done, Sal promised the clothes would be finished by the following night. Wellie escorted Robinson back across the street as the morning crowd was arriving. Somewhere down the street, Robinson smelled fresh biscuits and his mouth watered.
“Where are we going now?” Robinson asked.
“It’s a surprise,” Wellie said with a wink.
She guided him back to the saloon, but this time, they made their way upstairs to a formidable-looking door. Wellie knocked, and a bolt window in the door slid open.
“Boss wants this man hooked up,” Wellie said.
The bolt closed, and several loud locks clicked before the door opened and a diminutive man welcomed them inside.
Robinson’s mouth fell to the floor as he wheeled around in wonder.
“See anything you like?” the man asked.
Robinson did a 360-degree turn, taking in the walls covered with pistols and rifles.
“Yeah. Everything,” he answered.
Chapter Twenty-Six
An Unexpected Ally
Her days had become defined by petty acts of defiance.
A well-placed stone under a shoe left scratches on the floor. Hidden food left to stink up a room drove its inhabitant crazy for hours.
She wasn’t allowed near meals, but she could leave a jug of wine near a window where the sun could sour it.
So many ways to pass the time.
Arga’Zul had been busy preparing for the fête, but he kept tabs on Friday through Valud.
Friday’s loathing fueled Valud. He took great joy in tormenting her in ways big and small, especially when the other servants were around to see it. He often sent her on errands into the bazaar, where he knew the villagers mocked her. But she always held her head high. Arga’Zul’s guards protected her, so why shouldn’t she taunt those out of reach?
Her walks served another function: they allowed her to see the other Aserra slaves, the ones wasting away in cages. When they saw their princess moving freely, unbroken, it emboldened them and reaffirmed their belief that you could take an Aserra’s body captive but never their heart.
While Friday’s clothes remained ragged and torn, she was forced to wear a decorative chain around her neck bearing Arga’Zul’s sigil. It was a garish thing, crafted of steel. Friday dreamed of using it as a brand to mark Arga’Zul’s corpse once she had finally purged his soul from it.
Her role as messenger led her from one corner of the village to the other, where she continued to scope out its borders, noting the schedule of sentries on patrol. How many forces were on hand during the day versus those at night. Who was armed and with what. After several weeks, she had gathered a fair approximation of the size of the Bone Flayer army and their routines.
Then, one day, she was sent to an area she had not gone to before. She noticed an open metal door on a large building. Inside, Jaras and Vardan Saah were looking over boxes being unloaded for inspection.
Friday recognized the instruments inside. Her people called them thundersticks, but Crusoe referred to them as rifles. Since the foreigners were bringing them in for inspection, Friday reasoned they were their part of the bargain Arga’Zul spoke of. But what had he scoured the lands for them in return?
“Looking for something, Princess?” A voice behind her whispered. “A weapon from the armory, perhaps?”
Friday turned to see Valud had slipped out without drawing the attention of her guards.
“Is that what it is? I thought it was a museum.”
“Maybe you’re right. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between a trifle and a treasure. Does your master know you’re here?”
“I have no master,” she said. “Unlike you, dog.”
“Unless my eyes betray me, it’s your leash standing guard outside, not mine.”
He stepped closer until his breath was hot on her neck.
“I wonder,” he said. “Would they rush to your aid if you cried out? Or would they join in?”
A wave of goosebumps tickled her flesh. She saw how tightly he was gripping the wooden rod in his hand.
“Call them, and you can all bleed together.”
Valud grinned and tapped the rod to his palm lightly.
“So confident of your abilities. Just once, I’d like to put them to the test and find out how good you really are.”
“Once is all you would get. You’ve done well in your time here, traitor. But I could never fear a man who wields a stick for a weapon. It usually means he lacks one elsewhere.”
Valud snarled and was on the verge of striking her when a voice behind him spoke.
“Valud, isn’t it?”
Valud turned to see Jaras standing a few feet away.
“Yes, m’lord,” Valud answered. “What service may I be?”
“My father wishes to know where your master is.”
Friday smiled. Valud held his anger in check.
“I don’t make a habit of revealing my master’s location, m’lord, but in this case, I am permitted to say he is overseeing maneuvers from his fleet in preparation of the fête.”
“Will he be back tonight?” Jaras asked. “As you can see, we’ve delivered on the first stipulation of our agreement. We wish to move forward quickly.”
“Of course,” Valud said. “A banquet is scheduled for tonight. My master and his brother will both be in attendance. If you like, I can bring him your news now.”
“I would like that very much, thank you,” Jaras said.
“Very well. First, I must see this slave gets back to the temple.”
Valud took hold of Friday’s arm.
“Slave? I thought she was a princess.”
“A meaningless title for a meaningless girl.”
“Well, if she’s so meaningless, then you won’t mind my escorting her back. I’m going that way anyway, and I could use the company.”
“M’lord?” Valud said.
“Unless you think your master’s fit to wait for our news?”
Valud simmered but offered a false nod. He glared at Friday before walking away.
“Politics are not his strong suit,” Jaras said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“What do you want?” Friday asked.
“I wasn’t lying when I said your company. This place is dreadfully short on civility, but at least you’re easy on the eyes.”
“Your insults are sweeter than your compliments. And if you’re looking for civility, you came to the wrong continent.”
“Forgive me,” he sai
d. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Would you walk with me, please?”
Friday shrugged and started toward the bazaar. Jaras walked alongside her, with Arga’Zul’s guards falling in behind.
“We got off on the wrong foot the other day,” Jaras said. “Talking about Robinson. You see, he wronged me.”
“He wronged you?” Friday asked, incredulous.
“Yes. And my family. It might be difficult for you to believe, but Robinson has always been a skilled manipulator. Back home, he was quite the prankster, always up to mischief. My father called him subversive, though I doubt he ever put much thought into his actions. Following in one’s parents’ footsteps is what we do. Unfortunately, their schemes were pernicious, and Robinson got caught up in them. When he fled and left his family behind, I truly never expected to see him again. Imagine my surprise when the boy I knew appeared here one day, with you.”
“A boy who had become a man,” Friday said.
“Yes. But I’ve since wondered if that was that a result of his exploits or of his meeting you?”
“Experiences do not define who we are. They merely reveal who we were always meant to be.”
“Poetic. And yet I posit that if Robinson was really the man you believed him to be, wouldn’t he have rescued you by now?”
The question shook her. Friday had remained steadfast in her belief that if Robinson was alive, he would come for her. But for the briefest moment, Jaras’ comments had stirred a scintilla of doubt somewhere deep inside her. She secretly cursed herself, as if even considering such a thing was a betrayal of their love. But, some doors once opened aren’t so easily shut again.
“He will come. He will find me. And if he does not, then I will find him.”
“Might be easier said than done. He’s half a world away. Likely married, starting a new family, and having no trouble forgetting all about this wretched place. Present company excluded, of course.”
“You’re wrong,” Friday said.
Jaras shrugged easily.
“It wouldn’t be the first time. But I am only trying to help. You see, I understand that your people and these savages have a long history, but you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for us. And that weighs on me. And I don’t like to see you relying on false hope. My father and I took the last flier from our homeland. There’s no other way back. You should forget Robinson.”
“He’ll come.”
“How? Even if he managed to scrounge up a ship of old and traverse the Atlantica by water and wind, how would he find you here?”
“He would follow the river.”
“To the heart of your enemies? You really believe he’s capable of that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then, for your sake, I hope he comes. But I don’t begrudge you the outcome.”
Jaras kept walking, seemingly oblivious to the angry eyes of the villagers.
“Where do you keep this flier?” Friday asked.
“In that building over there,” Jaras answered. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
“Will you show it to me?”
“Sure. If you like,” he answered. “I’ll even show you how to fly it. Not that it will do you much good. My father has the only key. The question is: what do I get in return?”
“What do you want?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Only the pleasure of your company,” he answered.
She blinked back the harshness of the sun to study him. The boy had changed, though she couldn’t say how. She knew he was dangerous, and yet he might provide her the freedom she needed to succeed in her escape.
“My father says the war chieftain is smitten with you, but these are dangerous men. Having an ear on the inside might prove beneficial for both of us. Should the time come to hasten our departure, I’ll save a seat for you.”
Later that night, Friday worked the service detail collecting plates and discarded food from the banquet table. Vardan and Jaras Saah were in a jovial mood. Baras’Oot must have approved of the weapons. Their agreement—whatever the terms—would be fulfilled soon.
And then the door opened, and Valud entered. Friday sensed his tension. The room went quiet as he walked up and whispered into Arga’Zul’s ear.
Baras’Oot watched curiously as his brother’s brow furrowed. Valud signaled someone to enter.
A Bone Flayer stepped in, but not one Friday had seen before. He was filthy and pale, as if he’d come a long distance. He was marked with a horrible burn that covered one side of his body. But the thing that stood out most was the red handprint on his face.
The warrior crossed to Arga’Zul for a report. Arga’Zul’s faced darkened. Friday stepped closer, but she couldn’t hear what was being said. Baras’Oot’s face registered disgust. Arga’Zul’s anger. But it was Jaras’s look that changed everything. When he glanced back at Friday, she saw shock and fear.
That’s when she understood.
Crusoe was alive.
And he was coming.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Black Hat
Most of the Big Hats in Cowboytown had gone for revolvers because that’s what they’d seen in the moving pictures. As Robinson scanned the weapons on the wall, he locked onto a black .45 automatic and knew it was the one.
It came with a magazine that carried eight rounds instead of six and could be switched out with two additional magazines in seconds. The reason so many had passed on it, the armorer said, was because it carried something called a laser sight underneath the barrel that made it heavy and unwieldy.
Wellie even called it ugly, but Robinson thought it was beautiful.
After the visit to the armorer, Robinson traveled to the leatherworker’s shop, who was surprised to hear what Robinson wanted in a belt.
“A loop?” he asked.
“Yes,” Robinson said. “On the opposite side. About the diameter of your wrist. And around the back, as many .45 rounds as the belt can carry.”
The leatherworker shook his head but asked for two days.
While his gear was being crafted, Robinson spent most of his time at the blacksmith’s. Boss had prodded him about his knowledge of explosives, and Robinson suggested he could craft something more reliable than the ones the marauders had used.
“The detonators aren’t the tricky parts. Those I can build no problem. It’s the amount of gunpowder and how much damage you want done.”
“I’m not planning on using them, understand?” Boss asked. “They’re a whatchamacallit?”
She snapped her fingers, but Mr. Dandy wasn’t around.
“Deterrent?” Robinson offered.
“That’s it. To make sure this deal doesn’t go off the tracks. As for the amount of powder, let me worry about that. As long as these can be set anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes. And be reliable.”
“Won’t be a problem,” Robinson said. “As long as you don’t try to throw them.”
“Have you ever ridden a horse?” Boss asked.
Later that afternoon, Mox came to fetch Robinson at the blacksmith’s and take him to the corral.
“You might have pulled the wool over Boss’s eyes, boy, but I see you for what you are.”
“What’s that?” Robinson asked.
“Trouble, and heaps of it. Just know I spent five years working my way up the ladder here, and I’m not about to let no fresh-mouth whip come in and count and leapfrog me. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Twenty percent maybe.”
“That’s right. You got jokes. But I’ll have the last laugh. Bank on it.”
The corral was behind the saloon. The field was full of black oak and cottonwood trees, from which hung a dozen human forms held by cables. They were pocked with holes.
“They’re called mannequins,” Boss said.
“I’ve seen them in ancient stores,” Robinson replied.
“Those are similar,” Boss said. “But of inferior quality. These are called crash test dummies. The automobile industry
used to drive into walls.”
“Why?” Robinson asked.
“Not really sure. But they make great target practice. Give it a shot.”
Robinson took out his pistol and aimed at the nearest target. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.
Mox and two Big Hats sniggered.
“Button on the left is called a safety,” Boss said. She clicked it off and told him to try again.
Robinson took aim a second time and fired. The target remained untouched.
“This time,” Boss said, “line up the sights up top.”
Robinson did. He struck the foot of the dummy.
“Important thing is to visualize where the bullet’s going. It’s repetition, of course, but you already got the one ingredient a good shooter needs.”
“What’s that?” Robinson asked.
“Temperance. Calm under fire. Lotta fellas, once their hearts get pumping, get so damned jumpy they end up pulling the trigger as fast as they can and don’t hit anything.”
Boss stepped behind Robinson, reaching her arms along his, guiding the pistol up until her chin touched his shoulder. He could smell the oils of her hair, and that made him more nervous than bullets flying at him.
“See the X on the target’s chest?” Boss whispered, her fingers reaching over his hand. He felt the muscles flexing underneath. “That’s center mass. Some aim for the head, but you want to shoot where you can’t miss.”
Robinson swallowed as her free hand ran alongside his ribs.
“Get a feel for the rhythm of the dummy’s rotation. You can’t always shoot where a thing is, but where you expect it to be. Don’t lock your wrist. And don’t tug the trigger. You want to use the tip of your finger. When you’re ready, take a breath, see the path of the bullet, exhale, and fire.”
Robinson touched the trigger, but Boss was too much of a distraction. His adrenaline and hormones were going crazy. He felt himself losing control when something struck him. Boss’s words. He had heard them before. Not in regards to shooting a pistol, but for the battle itself. Regulate your body. Take complete control of the moment and focus on the task at hand. Perform the action only when success was assured.
Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) Page 13
