Then Cane was turning down the hall, one revolver out of its holster and firing. He sunk a shot towards Dr. Angell, but the scientist ducked low and it whistled over his head. “Try and run!” Dr. Angell shouted. “You can’t escape! I’m in your bones, Clayton! I’m in your blood!” Cane turned away from him and dashed down the hall.
Uriel’s shotgun thundered after him. Cane threw himself onto the ground, but still caught some buckshot as it ripped past his side. He pulled himself up, gritting his teeth as he felt blood under his coat. Cane kept running, hurrying for the door at the end of the hall. The Archangel was still swinging to the side, tilting as Cane ran. He ignored it and reached the door, kicking it open and stepping onto the deck.
It was chaos, as the patchwork soldiers ran to the railing and poured down fire on the rocky hills below them. The Apache were there, shooting up at the scarred gunmen with flurries of arrows and blasts from their rifles. The Apache took cover amidst the rocks and crevices of the jagged hills, and they were almost invisible until they launched their attack. They were lean fighters, wearing the shirts, trousers and breech cloths the same color as the dust around them. They wore their hair long, sometimes tucked back behind a headband. Their leader was indeed Pablo Rojo, the feared war chief who had ridden with Magnas Coloradas and Cochise, with the streak of gray in his dark hair and the red paint slashed under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose.
Cane had battled Apache before – and fought alongside them – and he knew how impossible it was to pick them off from their carefully chosen bits of cover. Even though the crew of the Archangel had height, they still wouldn’t succeed. More and more of the patchwork men died, picked off by Apache snipers. One patchwork soldier was struck near the railing and tumbled off of the airship, hurtling down to the hard earth below.
But the Archangel could fly away and Cane knew that was what Dr. Angell would do. He wouldn’t have time to escape then. Cane scanned the desk, his heart pounding. The Archangel was trying to right itself and it was still low to the ground, so that a jump from deck to earth might be survivable. Cane wasn’t sure, but he was going to find out. Then there were his friends, still locked in the hold. He’d have to go and get them out, but he’d secure the wagon first. Cane cursed to himself. They shouldn’t have come along – not into the clutches of his monstrous creator.
Then he saw the Coyles’ wagon, still lashed to the deck near the Archangel’s prow. The mules had been taken below, but the wagon remained. Perhaps that would survive a jump better than a body alone would. Cane made for it, drawing out his second revolver. He hurried past the main mast, with patchwork soldiers not even looking at him as they poured down their rifle fire at the Indians below. They hadn’t been ordered to watch for escaping prisoners, so they didn’t even stop to notice him. Cane figured they were stupid as turkeys.
He reached the wagon and ducked low, considering his next move. “Mr. Cane!” he heard Emma’s nervous voice, coming from behind. Cane spun around, wondering if was he was hearing things, but there she was, with Orestes and Maxwell Coyle by her side. Orestes stumbled on the sloping deck, and Emma grabbed his arm and held him as they neared the wagon.
“You busted out?” Cane asked, motioning for them to crouch down near the painted wagon.
“That we did!” Orestes agreed. He pulled an empty vial from his coat. “Medicinal acid melted the lock and our nimble feet and stealthy tread did the rest.” He nodded to Cane and then patted his wagon. “But I’m afraid we have reached a slightly troublesome juncture in our plot to escape.” He grinned weakly. “Do you have an idea of how to proceed?”
Cane drew out his saber. “Get on the wagon,” he ordered. “Ride it down.”
“C-can we do that?” Maxwell stared nervously at the adults, his eyes wide and frightened. “Right into those Indians shooting at us? I don’t know if we’d really be okay, after we landed and—”
But Emma patted his shoulder. “Just stay close, darling,” she said calmly. “And all will be well.” She looked up at Cane. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah.” Cane slashed down at the ropes, hacking them apart. The wagon rolled to the side and Cane grabbed its edge. “Now get on board!”
They hurried into the wagon, Orestes and Emma helping Maxwell to get into the back. The boy seemed confident now, though he closed his eyes and shivered a little. Cane wished he could improve his own confidence with a word from Emma. He hacked off the other ropes and then clutched the wagon and held on, as the wheels began to turn. The Archangel was still leaning to the side, turning the deck into a slope. The wagon started to roll down.
“Stop them!” Dr. Angell’s rasp cut through the gunfire and the whistling wind. Cane looked up and saw Dr. Angell and Uriel racing onto the deck, both armed. “Don’t let him flee, you dullards! Stop their escape! Bring them to me!”
Some of the patchwork men started to run towards the Coyles’ wagon, but it was already too late. One patchwork soldier grabbed onto the side and tried to haul himself up, a heavy revolver in his hand. Cane drove his boot into the soldier’s face, sending him moaning back to the deck. He tumbled down and hit the deck, bouncing twice before crashing into a bulkhead. Now it was too late. The wagon was rolling down, gaining speed and heading for the railing.
“Hold on tight!” Cane roared, as the wind sounded like thunder in his ears. The wagon’s wheels clattered over the deck and then they were smashing through the railing and falling through the open air. Cane held on as best he could, his duster billowing around him like a pair of wings. Orestes held onto his bowler hat and crouched low, while Emma clutched Maxwell’s hand, as much to ease his fear as to stop him from falling off. For a few seconds, they just fell freely.
Then the ground slammed into their wheels. The whole wagon creaked and some of the wood splintered. The jolt nearly knocked Cane off and Maxwell released a yelp of panic. But that wasn’t the end of their descent. They had landed on a slope and the wagon kept rolling, zooming down the hill. Bullets rained around them, as the patchwork men opened fire. Cane turned and fired back, emptying his revolvers at the airship. They passed a few Apache, who seemed very surprised to see the strange painted wagon rolling down the hill.
“Can we stop this conveyance?” Orestes shouted to Cane, as the wagon bounced and rolled down the slope. “My bones are rattling worse than the wheels! I fear my wonderful ride shall fall to pieces!”
“We ain’t gonna stop here! Not with Apache on the warpath all around!” Cane shouted. The wagon hit some rock in the trail and leaned to the side, nearly tilting over. Cane kept his grip and held on, but Maxwell slid to the edge of the wagon. Cane leaned over and grabbed the boy’s coat, hauling him back and setting him down. Maxwell nodded gratefully to Cane, thanking him without words.
The wagon finally began to slow as the slope leveled out. They were speeding over open ground now, rolling through a wide prairie pockmarked with tall standing stones of red rock and swathed with tan clumps of high grass. Cane looked into the distance and then he saw it, looming out against the night sky like a piece of the moon fallen from the heavens – Silver Mesa. It was a towering rectangle of silver stone, with sheer, high sides all around. Cane didn’t know how anyone could clamber to the top of that plateau.
Finally, the wagon’s rattling came to a stop. The wheels stopped turning and the vehicle became still. Cane felt battered from the descent and he was still bleeding from the shotgun blast to his side. He leaned back in the wagon and sighed. For the moment, they were safe.
“Ably done, I’d say,” Orestes said, stepping gingerly down from the wagon. “We’re all in intact, I take it?”
“I am, Uncle Oscar,” Maxwell said, accidentally using his uncle’s real name. “Sorry, Uncle Orestes, I mean.” He smiled weakly at Emma and Cane. “And thank you, Mr. Cane and Miss Finch, for helping me and my uncle to make it out of there and keeping me from falling off when we were falling down.”
“You’re very welcome, dear,” Emma said. Sh
e leaned over and nudged Cane, giving him a sharp look.
“Yeah,” Cane added. “You’re welcome.” He was staring into the distance, watching some dust approach. It seemed that someone had noticed their arrival. “But I told you folks to clear off and you didn’t listen – and this is what comes of it.”
“Well, we chose to ignore you,” Orestes explained. “And I think we’ll stick with that decision – and by your side. It’s a matter of loyalty to a friend, who has helped me and my nephew –as well as my own desire to do a little good in the world by stopping Dr. Angell’s machinations. Besides, you may have need of my medicines, soon enough.” He followed Cane’s eyes and looked at the approaching cloud. “Oh,” he whispered. “It seems we’ll soon have company.”
The riders came into view, hurrying to the wagon. Cane reached for his rifle, though he knew he couldn’t outfight that many guns. They were Mexicans, maybe two dozen in number, all wearing sombreros and bandoliers over their chests. Cane watched them silently as they slowed their horses, his repeating rifle set across his knees. They were banditos, doubtlessly keeping close to the border while they planned their latest score. He wondered what they’d think of the gringos who had fallen from the sky.
Cane came to his feet, standing up in the wagon. “Don’t want any trouble,” he said. “And we ain’t got nothing worth stealing. We’re just riding to Hellfire. Best you clear on out of our way, or maybe some of you won’t be riding back to your hideout.”
“Clayton Cane? El Mosaico?” The bandits parted to allow their leader to ride close to the wagon. “Ah, by my father’s tangled beard, so it is. Truly, there can be no one who shares your ugliness, amigo!” Cane knew the bandito leader. It was Tarantula, a notorious Mexican outlaw. Cane and Tarantula had found their guns aligned in the past – and Cane counted him among his few friends.
“Tarantula,” Cane said evenly, nodding his head. “What are you doing out here?”
Tarantula had a weathered and craggy face, with tangled hair going down to his shoulders. He wore a sheepskin vest, with two revolvers and a machete at his belt. Gold glittered in one of his teeth. “Hiding from the law, El Mosaico – what else? But what are you doing here?” He nodded to Emma, Orestes and Maxwell. “And who are your friends?”
“It’s a long story,” Cane explained.
“Then come to our camp. We are lying low in a canyon, not far from Hellfire. You can spend the few remaining hours of the night with us and go to that little village in the morning.” Tarantula looked at Cane’s side. “You must see to that wound, amigo. And I assure that you will find us better hosts than Pablo Rojo’s gang of Apaches.”
“That’s Rojo’s band?” Cane asked. “He’s a good man.”
“Let us not talk of him.” Tarantula raised his hand. “Come. We will pull your wagon – though I think it may fall apart – and let us return to my camp.” He shouted to his men in Spanish and they hastily complied with his orders. They had two of their horses pull along the wagon and hauled it deeper into the desert that surrounded the gleaming peaks of Silver Mesa.
The banditos were camped in a small ravine, a dried river bed not far from Hellfire. They had a few tents set up, with fires smoldering to keep them warm from the night. Orestes patched up Cane’s wound, and then joined Maxwell and Emma in one of the tents to catch some rest before morning. Cane and Tarantula remained at the campfire, watching the flickering flames die down.
That’s when Cane told him the story. Tarantula had already heard rumors about what Cane was and it wasn’t hard to explain the rest. Then Cane talked about meeting Dr. Angell and discovering the plot to take Silver Mesa’s strange ore and use it to power his army of living corpses. He explained everything, thinking back to the coldness in Dr. Angell’s voice and the madness in his eye, as well as the doctor’s warning that he could never escape what was in his own blood.
Tarantula handed him a dusty glass bottle of tequila. “Drink deep, El Mosaico,” Tarantula said, with a twinkle in his eye. “You seem like you need it.”
“Yeah.” Cane upended the bottle and sucked back the tequila. It seethed down his throat like liquid fire and settled in his belly like a pile of steaming coals. “Reckon I do.” He looked over at Tarantula, the flames sending flickering lights across his weathered face. The sun was rising in the distance. “Am I a killer?” he asked quietly.
“Oh yes, you are.” Tarantula shrugged. “But so am I. And so is the world.” He held out his hand and took back the bottle of tequila. “When I was as old as the young Maxwell Coyle, I watched my father hang. We were peons in a southern hacienda and my father disobeyed his master. A year later, I crept into that rich man’s bedroom while he slept and cut his throat.” Tarantula smiled. “And I have known how hard the world is ever since.”
Cane stared into the fires. The first rays of dawn were arriving, spreading out from the distance and making Silver Mesa gleam. “I don’t remember anything at all, mostly,” he said. “From before the war. I remember fighting in too many battles to count and a little bit more, but everything that ain’t red with blood is shrouded in mist.”
“We all have our memories and our pasts.” Tarantula emptied the tequila bottle down his throat and hurled it behind him. “But we keep on living, do we not?”
“Yeah.”
“And our character chains us into a course that we do not like.” Tarantula looked at Cane and smiled. “But what chains cannot be broken?”
“So you think I can just stop then?” Cane asked. “Stop being a killer?”
“Have you ever really tried?” Tarantula asked. “And perhaps you do not have to hang up your guns completely. Perhaps you can find some new use for them. Stopping this Dr. Angell seems worthy cause enough.” Tarantula rested a hand on his chest. “Mosaico, I offer you the services of myself and my gang. We were going to rob the bank in Hellfire, but now we will defend it instead.”
“Mighty kind of you,” Cane pointed out.
Tarantula shrugged. “I help when I can.”
“That’s how you get by?” Cane asked. “Does doing a little good now and then make up for what you do as a bandit and gunslinger?”
“Hah!” Tarantula came to his feet and stretched. “Mosaico, I love being a bandit. I love the smell of gunsmoke and listening to the screams of dying men and I love stealing to my heart’s content and spending every last penny on tequila and women of low character. I steal and I smile.” He pointed to Cane’s face. “But you – when was the last time you killed a man and smiled?” He shrugged. “Ah, it is the tequila, no? It makes me philosophical.”
Cane stood up and joined Tarantula. “Still, I’m obliged to you. And to the others, for standing by me.”
“They are your friends. That is what friends do.” Tarantula slapped Cane on the shoulder. “Borrow an extra horse and as many bullets as you need. The pretty schoolteacher can have a horse, and I’ll find two for the painted wagon. When the sun has risen, we will ride into Hellfire.”
He headed off to his own horse, leaving Cane by the remains of the fire. Cane looked over at Silver Mesa, watching the sunlight gleam off the sheer sides. He wondered if it was possible, to stop being what Dr. Angell wanted him to be – or even to try to break away from the soldier that he knew he was. Perhaps he could. After all, he’d always traveled alone and now the people who he had helped were coming back to help him. If they didn’t mind standing by his side and taking up his fight, then perhaps anything was possible.
It was morning when they rode in Hellfire, Texas. Clayton Cane was at the head of the little cluster of riders, with Tarantula and Emma flanking him. Orestes and Maxwell Coyle followed on their wagon. They had thought it best to leave Tarantula’s gang at the outskirts, waiting for their boss’s word on when they should enter Hellfire. A large group of armed Mexican riders might give out the wrong idea.
Hellfire was a small town, situated right at the foot of Silver Mesa. Rough wooden buildings were stretched out on both sides of a single dirt s
treet, with more houses sprawling outwards on connecting paths. There were saloons and gambling dens in gaudy colors and lurid signs at one end and more respectable houses and businesses in sober bold tints at the other. That was a sure sign of a town halfway between frontier and civilization. The single dirt street led up to a narrow path that reached onto a gentle slope, which in turn led to the top of Silver Mesa. It was the only way to get to the top of Silver Mesa’s plateau. If Dr. Adolphus Angell wanted Silver Mesa, he’d have to take Hellfire.
Cane scanned the street, just filling with the town’s citizens as they went about their morning business. They were men in broadcloth suits and women in fine calico gowns, but most were rough prospectors and cowboys, wearing dirtied work clothes and sporting beards that hadn’t seen razors for some time. All of them stared at Cane and his odd procession. The scarred gunslinger, young schoolteacher, Mexican ruffian and nearly broken painted wagon driven by a dandy and a little boy must have been an odd sight indeed.
Emma leaned closer to Cane. “Who should we contact, to alert the whole town?” she asked. “The mayor?”
“The sheriff.” Cane pointed down the street, to a white wooden house that was exactly between the sinful and respectable sides of Hellfire. A wooden sign swung above the door, with a sheriff’s star marked in gold paint. “Mayor runs the town, but it’s the sheriff’s job to protect it.”
The white cabin had a small table out front, where two men were sipping coffee and taking the air. Cane urged his horse on, riding ahead of his friends, until he was close enough for them to hear his voice. He raised his hand. “Which one of y’all is the sheriff?” Cane demanded. “I got to have words with him.”
The Road to Hellfire Page 16
