by David Boop
Lorents stared, then stood up and clapped slowly.
“That,” said Lorents, “was a very smart play. You saw the opening, and you went for it. I do believe I am impressed at your level of gumption, Mr. Representative. But I know when a man right in front of me is lying. Given your situation, I take no particular offense to it, mind you. Now, you are a representative of the company, that much is true. So, the question becomes…what will they pay to get you back? And, come to think of it, who the hell else is out here with you? Because they sure as damnation didn’t send you after a summoner packing only this little toy.”
George’s derringer appeared in Lorents’s hand. George patted at his vest pocket in futility as Lorents stuck the small pistol under his belt, crosswise in the front.
“So, let’s see. Boys!” Lorents shouted.
A couple of gruff-looking men stepped into the tent. Lorents gave them a quick gesture toward George, who shortly found himself hauled to his feet and dragged outside.
“You men keep a watch on our Company Man, here. I need to look for something else.”
And, with that, Lorents sat on the ground and closed his eyes. From atop the ridge, George once more heard the hooting of owls.
“A Pinkerton,” said Lorents. “Now that makes sense. Let me guess: long bullet in the morning, kill me before I have a chance to get my Sense up? George, you are traveling with an awful clever man, and it is to my great benefit you had to see me for yourself. Now, let’s take care of this.”
Lorents took out a stick and scribbled some symbols on the ground. George looked at them, but could not make sense of the strange, angular writing. Lorents then took out a large hunting knife and stepped to George. A lance of pain shot through George as Lorents quickly opened a sizable gash through both shirt and flesh on the back of George’s left forearm. George inhaled through clenched teeth, desperate not to show weakness before this predator.
“I am sorry about that,” said Lorents. “But I need me some blood, and better it come from you than me. Now, step over here. That’s a good lad.” The two goons dragged George over to the markings, and Lorents held George’s arm above them, shaking it so that he bled onto the script. George saw an additional three men stepping out of their tents to watch as his blood dripped to the earth.
“That’ll work,” said Lorents after a moment. Then he took a deep breath and, after only a moment, the prone, snoring form of Leonard Neilson, Lorents’s assassin-to-be, appeared on the ground, laying atop the symbols. George felt his last shred of hope vanish, as he knew now that nothing was going to save him from captivity and likely death at the hand of these bandits.
Neilson, bereft of his warm bedroll, gave a snort, then groggily opened his eyes.
“Well,” said Lorents to the waking Pinkerton, “likely you weren’t imagining that the two of us would ever converse.”
Neilson sat up straight, blinked a couple of times, looked around, and saw George held captive. He gave a half shrug.
“Nope,” said Neilson to the bandit, still blasé. He fetched one of his cheroots out of his vest pocket, then struck a match and lit it, taking a deep draw. “I can’t say as this here falls under the category of Plan A.”
Lorents gave a chuckle at this. “You’re a man knows how to keep his demeanor, Mr. Pinkerton. I respect that.”
Neilson shrugged, taking another puff off his cheroot, then looked past Lorents at George. “Mr. Hoinschauffer,” he said, “I ain’t too sure what happened, but I reckon you and a mighty large dog have recently engaged in unnatural relations with one another. Do you have a mind as to how exactly you plan on living through this here predicament?”
Lorents turned back to George with a wry smile on his face. He gestured toward Neilson with both hands, as though encouraging George to answer.
George could think of nothing. He’d ceased to hope, and merely hung his head, then shook it.
“Right,” said Neilson. “Well, I am sorry about that, George. I do believe that this is your fault, but still I ain’t pleased at the consequence.”
“I would imagine not,” said Lorents.
Then Neilson whispered something. George couldn’t hear what it was, and apparently neither could Lorents, as the big bandit crouched down to look at Neilson up close.
“What was that, Mr. Pinkerton?”
Neilson didn’t say anything. He didn’t move, except to look Randall Lorents, master of dark magics and scourge of South Mountain Mining, directly in the eyes and smile.
Then George’s derringer, ensconced in the waistband of Lorents’s pants, simply discharged itself into Lorents’s leg.
“Son of a—” Lorents shouted, as he staggered back up with his good leg.
“Mr. Lorents, what I said was,” said Neilson, rising to his own feet, “you half-trained bandit summoners never seem to think about what others can do to you. No defense. You thought you had a captive in front of you, and you left yourself wide open.”
The owls hooted once more from behind George, closer now than they had been before. In front of him, Neilson slapped Lorents on the leg, directly on the wound. Then he pushed up his left shirt sleeve with his bloodied hand, coating a tattoo that appeared to be more of those strange symbols. As the feathers of the owls rustled above George’s head, a massive bear appeared between Lorents and Neilson, pushing Lorents to the ground. Now in George’s line of sight, the owls dove for the ursine combatant. The bear easily swatted down one owl, then another, but the third dove for its face, clawing at the bear’s eyes. The big animal reared back on both legs, roaring, as the sharp talons blinded it.
“Jesus!” said the big man holding George’s left arm. The goon to George’s right remained silent; neither appeared motivated to move into a fray between the two summoners.
Lorents had his eyes closed. George couldn’t tell what exactly he was focused on, but he felt a surge of hope as Neilson sidestepped around his ursine companion with his revolver drawn. Behind Lorents, a gateway opened in the air, and something massive and shadowy formed on the other side. But Neilson’s gun belched fire and thunder, and Lorents’s body simply crumpled to the ground as the portal behind him closed without anything emerging.
The other bandits, including the ones holding George, finally reacted. Judging by the panicked noises the ones next to him were making, George figured they knew any move would be pure desperation.
Each one reached for his pistol. None of them cleared their holster.
Neilson didn’t even move the barrel of his gun; he simply pulled the trigger five more times, and the bandits all fell with Neilson’s lead in their skulls.
George staggered backward from the carnage, stumbling to the ground.
“You, you’re—” he said, looking at Neilson and gibbering.
“A summoner?” asked Neilson, calmly thumbing bullets back into his revolver. “Yes, I am. The Pinkertons don’t hire non-summoners to chase summoners; that would be suicide. But we don’t let it be known, as folk don’t really like summoners now the war’s over. And we certainly don’t want them we’re chasing to know what we can do. So, it’s agency policy to keep this secret, you understand.”
“Well, yes,” said George, thinking about it. “That makes sense. And you’ve collected your bounty, here. Well done, I suppose.”
“No,” said Neilson. “You don’t understand. The agency does not allow it to be known. Generally, we ain’t accompanied on these little expeditions. I did try to discourage you, George. Told you not to come. Then, after that didn’t work, I tried to do things the way the agency tells people we do them. Tried to get the long shot on Lorents without showing my powers off. But you mucked that too, didn’t you?”
“Well,” said George, “I’m sorry about that. But you should know that I’m very pleased with your eventual result.”
Neilson sighed. He shook his head as he slapped the revolver’s cylinder back into place. Then he pointed the big hand-cannon point-blank at George’s face, and George felt his
stomach drop in a sudden rush of understanding.
“No,” said the Pinkerton, one final time. “You’re not.”
THE RELAY STATION AT WRIGLEY’S PASS
Derrick Ferguson
Sebastian Red paused at the Wakarusa River for two reasons. To let his horse, Ra, rest and take a long drink of water. The second, and equally important, was to get his bearings.
It had been quite a while since he’d been in this part of Kansas. And while getting lost rarely happened to him, it still was a possibility. As a rule, Sebastian generally tried to stay out of Kansas. He found Kansans in general to be a cantankerous lot. But the purpose that brought him here was dire enough that Sebastian could put aside his dislike for the locals.
He slid off the large bronze stallion, ran his hand down along his body until he reached the ebony tail—a match for his mane—and gently slapped him on his rump. Ra trotted over to the river and bent his head to drink. Sebastian Red pushed back his sombrero, shook his head to allow his dreadlocks to hang around his shoulders. Small silver and gold coins the size of pennies and hand-carved wooden idols the size of his thumb were woven into the dreadlocks, but not as decorations. They were protective charms, blessed with prayers and enchantments by his wife while she braided them into his hair the night before he left her and their daughters.
Sebastian Red squinted at the sun, fixed his position, and contemplated where he was in relation to his destination. He reckoned another two hours or so would bring him to the relay station at Wrigley’s Pass. It was a destination he’d never expected to willingly go to.
Sebastian heard the soft crackling behind him at the same time Ra did, and the horse’s warning whinny sounded at exactly the same time he whirled around, smoothly drawing the huge black seven-shot revolver from the well-worn holster on his right leg. One hand hovered over the hammer of the Leone Nightmaster while Sebastian waited until he knew for certain he would be firing upon an enemy.
The man and woman emerging from the thicket didn’t look dangerous. But long ago Sebastian learned that out here, everything and anything could be dangerous. “That’s far enough. State your names and your business.”
The man raised both hands to shoulder height, standing in front of the woman. From their style of clothing, Sebastian took them for easterners. “We’re not armed,” the man said tentatively, but with no fear. “May we approach?”
“Yeah. But slowly.” Sebastian lowered his gun, but did not replace it in the holster.
The man and the woman walked toward him. Slowly, as commanded. “My name’s Finch. Harry Finch. This is my wife Melody. We’re from back East. New York.”
“I can tell. What are you doing all the way out here? And unarmed at that.”
“I don’t know anything about firearms. I hired a man to guide us out here. A day ago, he robbed us, took our wagon,” Finch said, embarrassment clearly below his calm words. “He did leave us food and water, though.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t blow your fool heads off.”
Finch managed a half-wry smile. “That’s what he said as he rode off. Said that it was a sin to kill fools and women, and that’s why he left us alive.”
Mrs. Finch looked at Sebastian Red. Dressed in his buckskin, the wide-brimmed, sweat-stained sombrero with the tall conical crown, necklaces gold and silver woven together hanging around his neck, she seemed to regard him as if he were something escaped from a carnival show.
“You still ain’t said what you’re doing all the way out here in the middle of nowhere,” Sebastian asked, to get her eyes off of him.
“We were on our way to the relay station at Wrigley Pass.”
Sebastian Red’s eyes narrowed, and the hand holding the big black revolver raised again slightly. “Why you want to go to that station? What you know ’bout it?”
And Mrs. Finch spoke up. “We’ve heard stories.”
“Lotta stories about a lotta things. What stories you heard about that station?”
The Finches swapped looks before the husband answered for the both of them. “There’s a stagecoach we want to catch there. We understand it’s a stagecoach that can take you anywhere you want to go.”
Sebastian returned his gun to the holster. He rested his left hand on his other weapon, a scabbarded sword. “Depends on where you want to go. I heard tell that stagecoach may drop you off somewhere you might not cotton to.”
“We’ll take that chance,” Melody Finch replied in a voice leaving no room for Sebastian Red to continue to debate the subject. “And it seems to me we’ve answered enough of your questions, mister. How about you answering some of ours?”
“Fair enough. I’m Sebastian Red, for starters.” He walked closer to shake Finch’s hand.
“And what’s your business in these parts, Mr. Red?”
“Luckily enough for you, I’m on my way to the station.”
“Is it close?” said Mr. Finch, finally getting in a word.
“Not more than a couple of hours. Mrs. Finch can ride on my horse while we walk, Mr. Finch.”
“That’s mighty kind of you.”
Sebastian shrugged. “We’re goin’ the same way. No trouble on my part.”
Melody Finch spoke up again. “And are you going to Wrigley’s Pass Station to meet the stagecoach, Mr. Red?”
“Me? No, ma’am. That stagecoach can’t take me to the place I want to go. Least not yet.”
“Then why are you going there?”
“There’s a man I need to see. Got some business with him.”
Melody looked at the gun and sword riding on his hips in well-worn holster and scabbard. “Are you some sort of gunfighter, Mr. Red?”
“There’s some who might call me that. Me, I only fight when there ain’t no other way out of a situation.”
“A bounty hunter, then?”
“I hunted some bounty in my time. Reckon I’ll hunt some more. But my business with this man don’t got to do with no bounty. Now, I suggest we get moving while we still got plenty of light. We’ll have time for palaverin’ when we reach that there station.”
* * *
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Sebastian stood on the left side of Ra, lightly holding the reins. Finch stood on the stallion’s left. Mrs. Finch rode sidesaddle, holding onto the wide pommel.
The relay station consisted of four buildings, all constructed from lumber. The main building, the stable, the outhouse and a storage shed. It wasn’t as dirty or as run-down as other relay stations Sebastian had seen, but then again, this wasn’t a relay station like those others. Finch assisted his wife in dismounting from Ra while Sebastian lifted his voice; “Hello the station!”
After about two minutes the front door opened and a stocky, full-bearded man stepped out onto the porch. He squinted at the trio and the horse through square-framed glasses. He shouted back, “Who be ye?”
“My name’s Sebastian Red and this be Mr. and Mrs. Finch. We ask the hospitality of the station.”
“Come on ahead, then. Hospitality has been asked and so must be given.”
“Seems like a whole lot of jibber-jabber,” Finch said. “We could have just walked up and knocked on the door.”
“And very likely been blown outta your shoes by a shotgun blast through the door. Back East, them politenesses are what you do. Out here, you stop a respectful distance from any dwelling and make yourself known first.” Sebastian let go of the reins and pointed at the stable. Ra trotted in that direction.
The trio walked up to the main building and went on in, the two men removing their headgear as they crossed the threshold. The building had a genuine wooden floor—another surprise. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. A communal round table occupied the center of the room. Several comfortable chairs had been placed around the fire. More sat by the window where those waiting for the stagecoach could look out if that was what they wished.
The bearded, bespectacled man stuck out a hand. “Name’s Conroy
. I manage this here station.”
Sebastian took the older man’s hand, looked at him narrowly. “Pleased to know you. How long you been managin’ this station?”
Conroy looked back at him just as narrowly. “Quite a while, Mr. Red. Quite a while. Come on in and make yourselves to home. It ain’t fancy, but it keeps out the cold and the wet and that’s enough.”
Finch shook Conroy’s hand. “You’ve got food and drink, I assume?”
“Got a pot of slumgullion on the stove. You’re in luck. I caught a couple of rabbits in my traps last night, so there’s fresh meat in it. There’s water and there’s corn liquor to drink. Name yer cherce.”
Mrs. Finch was quick to say; “We’ll both have water!” Her husband nodded in confirmation, but judging by the expression on his face he’d cheerfully have accepted the corn liquor.
“Save the corn liquor for me,” Sebastian said. “Stage is due in tonight, isn’t it?”
“You know it is. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Tonight is the first night of the full moon this month, kee-rect?”
“That it is.”
“Then the stage will be here.”
Sebastian nodded. “Excuse me while I see to my horse.” He replaced his sombrero on his head as he went back outside. He didn’t go out alone. Conroy followed him.
“Mr. Red.”
Sebastian turned back around. “Mr. Conroy.”
“That was a silly question you asked me back there. About how long I been managin’ this station. You can make a good guess. You got a touch of The Sight. I can tell. Knew it the moment I clapped eyes on you. Not much, though. A smidge of it, sure. Enough to give you the edge in your profession, I warrant.”
“As you say, just enough. You’ve got a good deal more of it, I wager. Born with it?”
“I was. Me mam had it and her mam before her and so on. You?”
“Learnt how to use it in my travels here and there.”
“It lettin’ you See anything now?”
“Such as?”
“Is it?”
Sebastian shook his head.
Conroy sighed. “Back before I became manager here and was out roamin’ around doing what men do when they roam wide and free, sometimes The Sight wouldn’t work for me. And when that happened I knew somethin’ awful bad is about to happen. But The Sight wouldn’t let me See what it was because The Sight is wiser than me and knows I would take a hand in tryin’ to change what it is I saw. An’ right now The Sight ain’t working for me and that hasn’t happened in more years than I’d care to tell you. What be your business here, Mr. Red?”
