So there’s a silver lining to that cloud, at least.

It’s been a while since I’ve started writing so, if you’ll forgive the dry recitation of facts, the following account is based off what I planned for the start of this year:

Obtain new weaponry:  Check!  Finally I have a two-handed sword and it is magnificent.  Good length and weight, well crafted with exceptional balance.  Also I have a buckler which, it has to be said, I’m not as excited about.  Easy to rust, signs of bending in the handle, little panache.  So I shall have to get a new one…

…its worth mentioning that it will be the same size as it predecessor.

Obtain new computer:  Big check on that too.  I’m typing on it which is a different method of posting the year’s account on the Pocket Brain at the laundromat or restaurant.  There were some problems with how its running, one of which I’m not yet ready to attribute to the computer itself, but it is good and fast and I’m not waiting for interminable periods for simple tasks.  Also it allows me to develop my skills with Windows 7.

Continue mingling groups of friends:  While Munchkin Royale (oy, I need to get that sorted) served as a decent opportunity for that to occur, what has been interesting has been the mingling of friends at the gaming and roleplay level.  Neil is running a Wednesday game for the roleplay group, which I can only imagine his concern and hope that his enjoyment outweighs it.  Fencing friends are meeting Steampunk friends.  It’s small, but its working out well.

Get a new apartment:  And a big damn check on that too!  Finally out of the sweatbox that, while conveniently located to shops and transport, would have killed me if I had to post yet another account of how I missed that goal.  I’m living in a bigger and better place, located close to shops and, while I miss the restaurants the old location boasted, the new place is close enough that I can frequent them when money permits.

Attend a photography course:  Nope…  Need to review that goal.

Do better in Swordplay ’10 (or at least beat Justin of ACA):  In terms of ranking, I fell short of what I accomplished last year, but considering who I lost to, I can’t say I feel that disappointed.  I do feel disappointed that I caught a sprained wrist from it, but the people attending the tournament from schools across the nation are of such good spirit that its hard to be angry about it.  I didn’t face Justin but, if it’s possible to believe, he’s improved over the year that I doubt I could have made it interesting, let along win.  Congratulations to him for winning the tournament and, hopefully, I’ll have a chance to cross blades with him next year.

Continue losing weight (rather than losing kilos this goal shall be to get down to a size 72):  I don’t think I’ve made it.  In fact, I’ve likely gained weight, particularly over Christmas.  I shall have to weigh myself at some point and then comfort myself with something fattening.

Develop consistent routine of updating the Manifesto once a week:  Again, a big negatory.  I still have Colt Apollo games to transcribe.  I don’t know what happened toward the latter half of this year but I really haven’t been writing at all.  Could be time, could be that running two games is enough of a creativity outlet, though that’s not the case anymore.  Do I even want to write?

Put aside $100 a fortnight to meet these goals:  Turned out it was a little bit more than that, but, yes, the goals that needed income got it.

To hedge my bets, clear credit card debt by end of year:  Technically, no, a consolidated loan is addressing that goal nicely.

Continue Tae Kwon Do (etc):  I ended up quitting Tae Kwon Do.  Mostly its to do with getting back some time, partly its to do with money and partly its to do with the new location.  I have ideas about a new martial art for 2011 though.

Get to Provost Terza by end of year:  Checkity check check check!

Spend at least one Friday a month catching up with old friends:  I haven’t done the math yet, but if its not a check, then it was close.

Travel to Dracula’s by limousine (because its simply better):  No.

Make or do something new:  I was a Principle Policy Officer for Queensland Health this year.  The challenges, not just of the position but an entirely new environment were a mix of good and bad experiences.  Still, so much of the above goals I could not have accomplished were it not for that role and Jason deserves my thanks for his support, encouragement and friendship during that time.  Thank you.

2010 not only saw the delivery of some goals, but also some of the best and worst times this year.  The worst is easily that I am friends no more with someone who was very dear to me.  And as much as she is angry with me and I with her, there isn’t a day where I don’t miss her.

The best is equally as easy to identify:  I love Samantha and she loves me.  She is someone I’ve waited for, for so long and I’m glad she’ll be here with me to see 2011 begin.

Another friend was able to, if not put a several years long nightmare completely to rest, at least got the justice she fought so hard for.  I’m so happy that she can hopefully move on with her life.

And the oldest of my friends, those back from primary school, got in touch with me after fourteen years.  It’s amazing to see how much has changed yet how much has stayed the same.

It’s been a year of trials, a year of riches and poverty, a year of worry and triumph.  It has been change on a scale unlike most, save for 2006 where I moved to Brisbane.  It, on the whole, has been a good year.

I hope 2011 will be as interesting.

Each of the four smaller airships in the Aces High Fleet was spacious and comfortable in their own right.  With quarters for ten people and servants, a living room and a kitchen, Airships Hearts, Diamonds, Spades and Clubs were a heavy burden of luxury held aloft by a titanic balloon that stretched far beyond the girth of their attached gondolas.

The Colorado, however, was Missouri Class.

Biggest of the fleet, the dreadnaught of the skies had been purchased lock, stock and canvas; and while their new owners had removed much of the weapons to accommodate luxurious, and weighty, improvements, The Colorado could still repel the most dogged of sky bandit.  The balloon was made up of a steel-reinforced skeletal super-structure, over which the material was pulled and stretched.  Inside the cavernous framework, smaller balloons were inflated with helium, partitioning the airship and ensuring that it would not send its passengers to their deaths through accident or design.

The width of the balloons made the prospect of docking a delicate endeavour.  Pulling up alongside was unfeasible as there was a yawning gap unable to be bridged by anything capable of supporting a passenger’s weight.  Sailing too close risked tearing the canvas as each airship forced itself upon the other.  That left a diagonal approach to shuttle the winners of the tournament aboard the larger airship.  The smaller vessel would dock at a fifty-degree angle below The Colorado and a stout gangplank was deployed from both zeppelins to meet at the centre.

It was a risky endeavour, even with the steel-woven mooring lines anchoring the two ships together as strong winds could rip the airships apart and send anyone disembarking to a swift death.  Precautions – to the extent that each passenger was harnessed to the stairway as well as provided with a parachute – were in place before anyone made their ascent up the stairway to heaven.

It was a climb that Jac Lightning, winner of the Airship Clubs Poker Elimination Round, was not planning on undertaking alone.

“Miss Grimwheel?”  She called out at the flustered and blushing industrial heiress who was fumbling with the lock to her cabin door.  The key dropped from her hand with a start and she whirled around to see her former opponent, Bethany Cartwright, catching up to her.

“Ms Cartwright,” she said between tight pursed lips, indignation evident even to the Lightning Marshal.

“Please forgive my manservant’s boorish behaviour,” Jac said, drawing her lace fan across her eyes in a gesture that Wilhem had assured her was code for an apology.   “He is new to my service.”

“I should hope that he won’t be long in your service,” she replied as she retrieved her key.

“You can be assured that once we’re back on the ground he will be no longer,” Jac smiled.  Not entirely a lie.  “Is there any way I can make this up to you?”

“It has been a disappointing day, Ms Cartwright and I doubt you have the power to change that.”

“Even if I invited you aboard The Colorado as my guest?” Jac whispered. 

The small fortune Constance Grimwheel lost trying to buy her way aboard The Colorado indicated that there was a lot more at stake than the prize money. Watching Constance Grimwheel’s reaction now, as she had during the game, Jac looked for a sign that signified the industrialist had just been dealt a winning card.

Constance hid her expression now with the same control that had lost her the game as relief washed across her face.  “You would do this for me?”

“Of course,” Jac replied.  “I’m told it will be only men aboard and I would not be starved of decent conversation.”

Constance Grimwheel gave a giggle– less at the joke and more at the notion of going to the final airship.  Jac wondered if she were to search her cabins if she wouldn’t find two-hundred-thousand-dollars or more.

“I would be delighted,” Constance beamed and her hands shot out to clasp Jac.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” Jac replied, fighting the instinct to dodge out of the embrace.  After all, it was good to keep all their suspects in one zeppelin.

…

The entourage of the James Lovelace and Jack Lightning taxed even the refurbished comforts of The Colorado:

William Henry Baker, who didn’t stay long by his bodyguard before swanning off to talk business with the tournament organisers; men of wealth and industry who were pulled toward a desire to risk all over a hand of cards.  The kind of people Baker wanted to deal with.

Major Henry Klondike had made fast friends with Lovelace as each debated the merits of the U.S. Army versus the British.  In an effort to explore all avenues of the Major’s character, Lovelace had spoken on a career level, on a personal level and, in one awkward moment, on a very personal level:

“Were you a member of the British army?”  Klondike asked as the Pinkerton had been trying to defend the innovative tactic of beating spear-wielding natives by gunfire.

“No, I didn’t have much interest in that.  In the British Army, one’s only in it for the drinking or the buggery, and I’m only half-interested in that.

Major Klondike’s face turned a very dark crimson as Lovelace raised his tea cup for a toast.

“Let me buy you a proper drink then,” he snorted.

Hans Octavius Wilhem, masquerading as the Baronette Von Wilhem, in addition to Bethany Cartwright’s financial advisor, was Jac Lightning’s other guest along with Constance Grimwheel– leaving Wendel Caine stuck with the role of manservant in order to be allowed aboard. 

This had meant that Annie – provided by Madame Ether to aide the Lightning Marshal in her disguise – had to be left behind for space and weight considerations.  Considerations which had left the petite escort in a venomous state as the Lightning Marshal explained it to her in those exact, and regrettable, choice of words.

“Baronette Von Wilhem?” 

The Iron Marshal looked over his shoulder.  “Ja?” 

Standing before him was Constance Grimwheel, a stunning figure of powdered blue satin and silk as she had changed from her playing attire into elegant and, one hoped, luckier gown.

“Or should that be Lord Von Wilhem?”  She asked.

“Octavius, please,” Wilhem replied.  “It is a pleasure to meet you Ms Grimwheel.”

“You are familiar with me, Octavius?”

“Vis your company,” Wilhem replied.  “Grimwheel Industries have been innovators in ze field of hydraulic machinery for decades.”

“Why, thank you.  Your client, Ms Cartwright, spoke highly of your business acumen.”

That wasn’t all ‘Ms Cartwright’ had spoken of.  The brief conversation between the Iron and Lightning Marshals had focused on Ms Grimwheel’s fervent desire to get aboard the Colorado.

“Zhough I’ve not seen much from your illustrious company of late,” Wilhem continued.

The Iron Marshal noticed Constance Grimwheel eyes flicker off his for a moment, searching, with trepidation, for a suitable response.

“The direction of my company has been under discussion,” she replied, almost concealing the bitterness in her voice.

Before Wilhem could press further, the young industrialist’s eyes glanced off him again and toward an approaching Wendel Caine.  This time the sour feelings were displayed as she turned away from the Mountain Marshal and sought conversation elsewhere.

“I got this from some fella’s room we thought was cheatin’,” Caine said, producing the small tin of powder.  “Thought you might make somethin’ of it.”

Wilhem stared back at him.

“What’d I do?”  Caine shrugged.

“Vhat did you do?” Wilhem frowned.

…

As she had done earlier, and now becoming quite accomplished in the task, Jac Lightning mingled with the other contestants and guests to find out if there was anyone aboard familiar with Bethany Cartwright.  It wasn’t long before she found someone.

“Bonjour Senorita.”

Bethany Cartwright turned and found her hand taken in a rough and swarthy grasp as Jacque Sanchez’s lips brushed her knuckles.  Jac Lightning fought down the instinct to send those knuckles down his throat.

“Mr Sanchez,” she replied instead, taking her hand back behind her before years of muscle memory won over days of etiquette lessons.

“A pleasure to see you made it this far, chere.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.”

“I admit, I wasn’t sure you had it in you to enter the tournament, let alone get here.”  Sanchez remarked while ordering her one of those fancy drinks the ladies seemed to like.

Jac Lightning thought about this for a moment.  Just how much did this ex-gun smugger know about her?  Not enough to identify her, though Bethany Cartwright had masqueraded as Spokey Sampson with none being the wiser, but whatever the reason, she’d been willing to risk printing counterfeit notes, as well as her anonymity, by involving herself with Jacque Sanchez…

“I’m a woman of my word,” Jac ventured.

“Indeed,” Sanchez smiled, passing the drink to a stoic, though relieved, Jac Lightning.  “You’ll have to excuse me as it would not do well to be seen being too familiar with a client.”

“Of course,” the Lightning Marshal replied, ignoring her first instinct of grabbing the Frexican by the collar, slamming him down on the bar and interrogating him on the spot.”

“Hasta Manyana, mademoiselle,” he said, leaving her with too few an answer and a drink with too many olives.

Seeking answers himself, but to questions much more dangerous, James Lovelace ordered his own martini, turned away from the bar and, with an action uncharacteristic of British refinement, let the glass slip through his fingers to shatter across the floor.
People whirled about at the crash – that much was expected – the Pinkerton Detective though wanted to know how else everyone reacted to surprise.

His employer, William Henry Baker, scowled at the interruption to his negotiations with Constance Grimwheel– the industrial heir herself raised a lace fan to her face to cover her shock.

Edward Stokes’s mouth hung open, the corpulent antiquities owner not in the possession of a fan, or manners, to conceal it.

Major Henry Klondike’s hand flew to his hip in a reaction cultivated from years of military service rather than going for a gun.  No such weapon was permitted aboard and there was none at his belt.

And the most Jacque Sanchez moved was his eyes to take in the damage; much the same as Jac Lightning did; as cool a customer then.

“My apologies,” Lovelace demurred as servants scurried to the scene, cleaning implements at the ready.  “The altitude appears to have gone right to my head.”

All of his suspects offered a shrug or a smile before returning to their business, none the wiser that they had revealed more of themselves than the Pinkerton would have gained after an hour’s conversation; and none the wiser that it hadn’t been just the Pinkerton paying attention. 

Hans Octavius Wilhem had seen the ploy for what it was and, spared the embarrassment of creating the incident, took the opportunity to study the assembled guests with anonymity.  Reaching the same conclusions that Lovelace had, something else piqued the German Marshal’s suspicions.  The shock of Constance, Wesley and Klondike’s reaction was because each of them had been paying rapt attention to Bethany Cartwright and Jacque Sanchez when they’d been talking. 

With neither Klondike nor Constance in the final round, what other interest would they have in that conversation?

…

Ordering another drink, with assurances that he’d keep a surer grip on it, James Lovelace’s scan of the crowd was interrupted as his eyes were drawn to Jac Lightning.  She stared at him across the room, her eyes flickering to the promenade that jutted outside the gondola, before returning her gaze back to him.

Lovelace’s eyes flickered to the promenade and returned as the Lightning Marshal swanned her way toward the deck.  Grabbing the martini out of the bartender’s hand before it could be set on the bar, the Pinkerton wasted no time joining her.

Jac was waiting for him leaning out against the rail that separated her from the sea of clouds that roiled below.  The rushing wind accentuated the Lightning Marshal’s figure as skirts and petticoats fluttered behind her and both of them were bathed under the sapphire light of a full moon.  It was a picture of perfect beauty marred solely by Jac Lightning frowning and fidgeting within the tight confines of her garments.

“Nice to know that I’m not the only one on this deck who wants you out of that dress, Jacqueline,” Lovelace smiled.

There was a choking sound from behind the Pinkerton.  Lovelace turned to see Hans Octavius Wilhem closing the door behind them.

“Perhaps here iz not zhe opportune moment,” he commented.

“So,” Lovelace sighed, “it’s to be business then.”

“What else did ya expect,” the Lightning Marshal said, graces lost to the air.

Lovelace gave a wan smile to both marshals.

“Right,” Jac began, “I hate this dress and I want my guns back.  Let’s get this thing done so that can happen.  Whatever’s goin’ on here, we know it involves Cartwright and The Frexican.”

“Indeed,” Wilhem agreed and Lovelace nodded.  “und it haz zhe attention of zhe Major, Mr Stokes und Ms Grimvheel.”

“If it were just Cartwright and the Frexican, it’d be simple,” Jac drawled.  “He’s a weapon smuggler, she’d be wantin’ weapons…”

“Perhaps ve should ve get Caine out here?” Wilhem interrupted.

“Suspicious enough with just us, I think,” Lovelace answered.

“We’ll catch him up later,” Jac said.  “Back to the point; Constance seems to be here for business.  Might be she and the Frexican’s got some kinda deal.”

“That doesn’t explain the Major or Stoke’s antiquities interest,” Lovelace frowned.

“Vhatever it is, I doubt it’s for zhe money,” Wilhem added.  “Vith zhe exception of zhe Major, two-hundred zhousand is hardly vorth zhe trouble.”

“Perhaps it was an opportunity for Ms Cartwright to exchange her counterfeit notes with the real deal,” Lovelace suggested.

“Might be,” Wilhem mumbled.  “But zhat hardly explains vhat zhe others have to do vith it.  Zhis business is of interest to everyone aboard und I hardly zhink it is money or simple guns und knives.

“Then it may be for one weapon,” Jac said.  “Somethin’ unique and very expensive.”

“That rules out the Major,” Lovelace replied.  “I hardly doubt he’s carrying the kind of coin to compete with Grimwheel, Stokes or the late Ms Cartwright.

“Perhaps the Major’s here in a more lawmakin’ kinda way,” Jac shrugged.

Lovelace nodded.  “I had considered that too.”

“Ve need to learn more information!” declared Wilhem.  “His story iz zhe only vone that does not add up.”  He turned toward Lovelace.

“Ov all of us, I believe you to have zhe best chance of finding out about zhe contestants.  If you can get into zheir rooms, ve might find gain some clue as to vhat zhis is about.”

“I’d sneak in myself if it weren’t for this damned dress,” Jac scowled.  “I can see why the ladies keep faintin’ all the time.”

“Because of my ravishing personality,” Lovelace smiled.

“Cause of how tight everythin’ is,” Jac snapped.  “And since when did you have a personality?”

Before Lovelace could reply, Wilhem stepped in.

“Get Caine to go along vith you.  Have him act as a lookout und inform him ov vhat we suspect.”

“Well that’s great and all but I seem to have left my lockpicks behind,” Lovelace smirked, denied his opportunity to retort.  “I don’t suppose you’ve got some on your person?”

The German Marshal’s response was to reach into the lap of his tweed jacket and produce a palm-sized leather satchel that he passed to the Pinkerton, returning the smirk.

“I’ll keep talkin’ with Grimwheel,” Jac suggested.  “Might be she’s willin’ to confide in me now that we’re all close and whatnot.”

“Do nozhing to arouse her suspicions,” Wilhem warned.  “If zhis is a veapon, zhen zhis may be our only chance to find it.  But if you can confirm it, zhen ask Sanchez for proof of its existence.  Ve might yet be able to deal vith zhis quietly.”

“I’ll put my lady-face back on,” Jac scowled before the affectation of Bethany Cartwright returned to her voice.

“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the stupid plain,” she said, following Wilhem back inside.

…

Lovelace stepped in from the promenade and scanned the sitting room.  All of the guests appeared to be present and were engaged in business or sizing up the competition for the next day’s game; a perfect time for breaking and entering.

“Wendell, my good man,” the Pinkerton whispered as he drew up next to the Mountain Marshal.  “Your fellow marshals wanted you to accompany me on a search of the rooms.  Feel up for a bit of a foray?”

“Sure,” Caine replied, not at all sure, in fact, what it was they were doing.

Lovelace filled Caine in on what had been discussed on the promenade as they sneaked out of the sitting room.

“Whatever this all about, it’s somethin’ big,” Caine agreed as they arrived at the door of Jacque Sanchez’s cabin.

“Well, let’s give this the old college try,” Lovelace said, unzipping the satchel to reveal a collection of well-maintained tools.  Caine positioned himself between the Pinkerton and the entrance to the sitting room, shielding Lovelace from anyone looking to get an early night.

The tools made short work of the door and with a soft click, it swung open.

“Slump down on the floor and pretend you’re drunk,” Lovelace said.  “If anyone comes along, start blustering and make a racket.”

“Sounds fine,” Caine said as he produced a hip flask.  Taking a swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his massive hand.  “May as well smell right.”

“You’re a credit to your job,” Lovelace smiled.

“I’m what you call a ‘method actor’,” Caine replied, getting comfortable in the hallway as Lovelace disappeared inside.

Jacque Sanchez’s cabin was meticulous.  Nothing was out of place, no item left out and even the bed was so well made that it could bounce a sprocket of the sheets to the satisfaction of most cog-wranglers.  Investigating the room would be challenge enough but the Pinkerton would have to be just as meticulous to ensure he was undetected.

With so much wealth aboard, a safe would have to be included in the luxurious cabin but, between socialising and investigating the guests, Lovelace hadn’t had the chance to locate it in his own quarters, let alone another’s.  Still, the Pinkerton was prized by his agency for his deductive skills and it wasn’t long before he uncovered the safe, secured behind one of the paintings.

Reaching into his jacket, the Pinkerton produced a small tin box of snuff and, taking a pinch, he applied it to the dial of the safe, scrutinising it for any sign of fingerprints or oil to ascertain the combination.  Confident of the combination, he spun the dial, listening to the soft ticking of gears until he heard a louder click.

James Lovelace froze.  That hadn’t come from the safe.  It had sounded just behind his head.

“Reach for the sky, pilgrim,” came a low growl.

There were many thoughts that raced through the Pinkerton’s mind but there was one that beat the rest.

“As far as lookouts go, I’ve had better.”

…

Hans Octavius Wilhem and Jac Lightning moved about the room, drawing people into conversation the moment it looked as if one of the guests was leaving.  The marshals were buying the Pinkerton time, unaware that somebody had already left the party.

“You vould not zhink zhat any drink made from charcoal und potato vould have such a smooth und inoffensive taste und yet, zhat is zhe craft behind Russian vodka.”

Wilhem’s audience nodded, murmuring their remarks at the charming and informative Baronette who entranced everyone with tales of the old country.  Nobody aboard The Colorado had ventured beyond the borders of the United States and so the stories of gypsies and royalty and strange cuisines kept most of the guests in their seats.

Jac Lightning, even with her recent schooling etiquette, couldn’t do so grand a job, but she was able to keep those guests looking to leave corralled in the sitting room like an Irish sheepdog.  Any time that a guest moved to stand up, there was Ms Cartwright, ready with a smile, a breathless excitement to return them to Wilhem’s stories and a presence that made it clear to any of the more persistent guests whatever they were about to do, could wait.

…

Not making any sudden moves, James Lovelace raised his hands and turned to meet his assailant.  He was a short man, face unkempt with greasy brown whiskers and wearing the clothes of one of The Colorado’s guards, doubtless the way he got aboard.  The Pinkerton hadn’t had any dealings with him; he matched the face to a number of posters back at the agency.  This was the gambler, gunslinger and suspected murderer, Wiley Pete.

Lovelace glanced down at the sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun – a weapon the outlaw was notorious for loading with phosphorous buckshot – levelled at his stomach. 

He smiled.  “Why Mr Pete, is that for me?”

Lovelace’s smile was met by the outlaw’s squinty glare.  “That and everything in it,” he hissed between yellow teeth.

“I don’t think you’re meant to be here,” Lovelace remarked, maintaining composure at the business end of a gun that would doom him to agonizing death.

“Don’t reckon you’re meant to be here either,” Pete shot back.

“Ah, but I’m not the one who’s armed.  If one of us screams, you’ll be the one in the most trouble.”

“You could scream and you’ll be dead shortly after.  I’m pretty sure I can get myself out of this predicament.  And I’m pretty sure you can’t.”

Unbeknownst to Wiley Pete, the cabin door opened as Wendell Caine crept inside, stalking the outlaw with a silent stride unnerving a man his size.

“I reckon you’re here for the same reason I am,” Pete accused.

“And what might that be,” Lovelace replied, his poker face unreadable by the outlaw.

“Or maybe not,” Pete smiled, not willing to show any cards.  “I ain’t been big on sharin’,”

Lovelace shrugged as a mountainous shadow fell over Wiley Pete, who had just enough time to realise someone was behind him before Caine felled him in one punch.

“Where’d he come from?” Caine asked.

“I have no idea, but I find your American notion of ‘look-out’ very interesting indeed!” Lovelace replied.

“Well he didn’t come through the door,” Caine shrugged.

Lovelace noticed the bathroom door was, unlike before, now ajar. 

“Never mind,” he said.  “Ransack his clothes, I’ve got the safe.”

The Pinkerton finished his work as Caine took the outlaw’s shotgun.

“Not like this thing worked anyway.”

“Hmm?” Lovelace said, still engrossed with cracking the safe.

“I threw the firing pin overboard earlier.  You had nothing to worry about.”

“Well, sure, I know that now.” Lovelace sighed before throwing open the door.

Both Pinkerton and Marshal peered inside and were confronted by an empty safe. 

“Well, guess all that’s left is to take Wiley Pete back to our cabin, tie him up and smack him around some.” Caine shrugged.

“Brilliant idea, Mr Caine, I haven’t interrogated someone in years!” Lovelace said as Caine crossed Sanchez’s quarters to the door. 

The Mountain Marshal checked the coast was clear while Lovelace closed the safe and cleared any evidence that any of them had been in the room at all.  Using Caine’s flask, they doused the outlaw in whiskey and, disguising their intent as helping a drunken friend back to his cabin, Lovelace and Caine, with Wiley Pete slung between them, marched down the hall and into the Pinkerton’s cabin.

Wiley Pete’s eyes fluttered open and he let out a groan as Caine tightened the last knot binding the outlaw to a chair.

“Wha…  What’s goin’ on?  Who are y*,” he mumbled.  “Wait, you’re that damn bellhop that weren’t watchin’ where he was goin’!” he yelled.

The Mountain Marshal loomed over him.  “Why don’t you tell me what you thought was gonna be in that there safe.”

The outlaw shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.  Realising the predicament he’s woken up to, Wiley Pete lowered his voice.

“Very well, I’m a reasonable man and don’t want no more trouble,” he said.  “I’ll tell you what I know and then I can be on my way.”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” Lovelace said nodding; again his poker face was unreadable.

“I’m here representin’ a number of interested parties who have business with Sanchez.  They trusted me with a large sum of money in order to secure a purchase.  Word has it the Frexican’s got a line on a salvageable wreck of a Steam Man.”

Both lawmen looked to each other.  The weapon that ended the Civil War had a reputation mired in death and destruction.  So catastrophic a weapon ever devised that the US government had forbad its use in any future conflict and had destroyed every one of the metal titans.  Or so they thought.

“And where did Sanchez get it from; Father Christmas?” Lovelace scoffed.

“Sanchez wouldn’t lie to any o’ my customers.  The amount of cash he wants, if he were pullin’ wool over their eyes, there ain’t no place he’d be safe,”  Pete responded.

Even if Sanchez was lying, it was clear to Lovelace that Wiley Pete wasn’t.

“Sanchez got himself a reputation,” Caine said to Lovelace.  “I reckon he’d have one rather than lie about it.”

Lovelace pursed his lips, not yet convinced.  “So what were you hoping to find in his safe, a twenty-foot steam man?”

“Well thanks to my luck in not gettin’ board The Colorado legit, I figured so long as I was sneakin’ that I’d save my clients some money and find out where it was.  But that damn Frexican’s got nothin’ save for shirts and socks.”

Lovelace mulled it over.  The story fit.  Even if Sanchez were lying, it was a prize worthy of attention from Constance Grimwheel and Major Klondike.  Wesley Stokes didn’t strike the Pinkerton as having grand designs for the Steam Man but such a piece of history was priceless as it was deadly.

Returning his attention to Wiley Pete, Lovelace continued the interrogation.  “Those clients of yours; I don’t suppose you’re inclined to tell us who they are?”

Pete jutted out his jaw in a sneer.  “Don’t reckon I am if I mean to be living.”

“Of course, you’re not meant to be aboard so you’re in just as much risk either way.”

The outlaw nodded.  “That may be, but taking the long walk would be quicker and painless than squealin’ on those folk.”

“That’s true,”  Lovelace replied.  “Let’s do you a favour.” 

The Pinkerton turned to the Marshal. “Wendell, kill him.”

Caine blinked a couple of times at how sudden things had come to such a grizzly end.  It wasn’t that he had a problem with administering justice, but there was a difference between that and what the Pinkerton was asking.

Then Caine caught the waggling eyebrows of James Lovelace.  “Oh right, it’s a bluff,” he exclaimed.

Lovelace rubbed his temples realising he had the wrong marshal for this kind of game.  Maybe it wasn’t too late to send him to get Jac Lightning.

“What about you?” Wiley Pete frowned, somewhat surer that he was going to survive this.  “I’ve seen you hangin’ around that Baker fella.  What’s his interest in this?”

Lovelace managed to keep the sudden brilliance of an idea off his face.  “Gee, let me think:  The head of Ithaca Rifling company, one of the biggest seller of weapons in the country, is shopping around for something that’ll make everything in his catalogue obsolete.”

“Ithaca Rifling Company wants the Steam Man?” Pete exclaimed, not believing it.

“Baker wants his guns to keep selling.  How’s that going to happen with something like the Steam Man on the market?”  Lovelace shot back, smiling to himself as Wiley Pete bought the lie.

“Now that I’ve given a little, I should get a little.  What else do you know?” the Pinkerton continued.

“You know everythin’ I do,” Pete shrugged as much his ropes allowed.  “What more are you after?”

“How about who the other buyers are,”  Caine suggested.

“Constance Grimwheel’s got wind of this and got herself invited to the bidding.  Word got back to my buyers about it.”  Pete replied.  “Apparently there’s still some advanced technology on the Steam Man that’ll keep her company on top of everyone else in the hydraulics business.”

“Anyone else?”  Caine asked.

“That fat fella, Stokes,”  Pete continued.  “He’s been after somethin’ like this for a while.  Been goin’ about sayin’ he’d pay top dollar for word about a Steam Man.  Ain’t the first time he’s looked outside the law for somethin’ collectable.”

“Is there anybody here to play cards?”  Lovelace exclaimed.

“Not that Cartwright gal,” Pete said and again Lovelace had to keep his face stoic.  “Not sure what her business is but anyone askin’ ain’t around long enough for  an answer.”

Lovelace and Caine looked to each other and shrugged.  There was just one question left:

“So when does this auction take place?”  Lovelace asked.

“Tonight, at one o’clock,”  Pete growled.

“I guess you’re pretty unhappy you won’t be attending,” Lovelace smiled.

The look on Pete’s face was poisonous.  “Is it that obvious?”

“It could be worse,” Lovelace said, as he and the Mountain Marshal grinned. 
“Wendel, show him how much worse it could be.”

…

James Lovelace and Wendell Caine strode out of their cabin and down the hall toward the sitting room; the Pinkerton Detective just making out Wiley Pete’s tirade as he hung suspended out the porthole and over several thousand feet.

Say what you would about Caine, he did know how to tie a good knot.

“We’ve got just under forty-five minutes,” Lovelace said.

Caine grunted and both of them entered the sitting room and into hour two of Hans Octavius Wilhem’s recitation of German culture and humour. 

…

The guests were on the edge of their seats in part because the Iron Marshal was a compelling orator and in part because they were eager to get back to their cabins for ablutions and a few hours rest.  Coiled like springs, they waited for a lull, a lapse, a moment where Wilhem would take a breath to offer apologies and hurl themselves to bed.

It didn’t help.  Any time somebody tried to get up from the chair, Jac Lightning covered the ground to them in a blink and turned their attention back Wilhem.  At the beginning of the night, her lessons of polite behaviour had been sufficient to compel people back to the chairs; now it just took a look– a tacit understanding between wolf and deer that if you left the herd, it would not end well.

One person remained unperturbed to being held hostage to conversation; Jacque Sanchez had stretched his lanky form out and listened with a half-interested ear.  His clients, Constance Grimwheel, Wesley Stokes and Major Klondike fidgeted, nodded so to hurry things along or would, on occasion, risk making a break for it with no success; but for the Frexican, it was if he would be content for Wilhem to expand his lecture to the rest of Europe before showing a flicker of impatience.

Splitting up, Wendell Caine strode toward the assembled passengers, up next to Wilhem and, in keeping with his role as a manservant – as well as contrary to every mannerism Wilhem thought he knew about the Mountain Marshal – leant toward his ear.

“We need to talk.”

Wilhem nodded and turned his attention back to his audience.

“Oh my, is zhat zhe time?”

He didn’t get to finish the rest as the passengers shot out off their chairs and went either for the bar or the bathroom, depending on if they’d had a drink before or during the dissertation on Germany.

James Lovelace was about to suggest the same to Jac Lightning but Constance Grimwheel managed to reach her first.

“Ms Cartwright, would you mind if we took a walk?’

The Lightning Marshal looked as Wilhem and Caine were headed for the Promenade.  Lovelace shrugged and turned to join them.

“Normally I wouldn’t, but I did want to speak to Mr Von Wilhem about some things.”

 “It was the Baronette I’d hoped to talk to you about,” Constance replied, raising her fan to her cheeks.

Her companions outside and already huddled together in discussion, Jac returned looked back to the Grimwheel heir.

“Certainly,” she replied.  “I should warn you though, I hope you’re not planning on taking him from me.”

“Oh!  Are you and he…”

“As my financial advisor,” Jac shot back with reflexes far from akin to Bethany Cartwright.

“No, not at all,” Constance smiled and she led the Lightning Marshal out of the sitting room and down the hall.

“Then what did you…”  Jac frowned and then her eyes widened.  “Oh!  You mean*”

“He is an interesting and knowledgeable fellow, I’m sure you’ll agree,” Constance smiled, blushing behind her fan.

“Um, yes…” Jac said creeping her way through unfamiliar conversational territory.  “He sure does know a lot.”

“And he is…”  Constance searched for the word.  “Available?”

“Oh yes!  Yes.  Uh huh, absolutely available.”  Jac replied.

They walked the rest of the way to Constance Grimwheel’s cabin door in silence.  As she fumbled about with the key, the heiress clasped her hands around the Lightning Marshal’s.

“Ms Cartwright.  You have been a strange travelling companion, but a good friend.  I thought I was cursed with bad fortune on this journey, but I feel lucky to have met you.”

“Why thank you, Ms Grimwheel,” Jac replied and her smile was genuine.

Leaving Constance to her cabin, that smile stayed with the Lightning Marshal all the way back to the promenade and her companions.

Lovelace had been briefing the German Marshal on what they had learnt from Wiley Pete while Wendel Caine became lost in the twisting words that Wilhem and the Pinkerton used.  So when Jac closed the door to the promenade, he took the initiative in filling her in.

“The Frexican is selling a Steam Man in his room at one o’clock.  You’re buying.”

“Well, yes.  Anyone without a grasp of the subtle nuances of interrogation and deduction could say that…” the Pinkerton mumbled.

“Gotcha,” Jac replied as Lovelace produced the outlaw’s confiscated shotgun.

“Are you all armed?” he asked the marshals.  Wilhem nodded, Caine cracked his knuckles and Jac Lightning scoffed.

“Of course,”

“Good.  Then make this work,” Lovelace said, thrusting the weapon into Wilhem’s hands.  One improvised firing pin later and the shotgun was lethal once more.

“Of course, a shotgun full of buckshot has as much chance as wounding any of us as whomever I’m aiming at.”  Lovelace muttered.

“Well we’re not killin’ a wealthy heiress, that’s for damn sure,” Caine replied.

“Reckon one of us needs to her warn her off,” Jack thought aloud.  “Somebody she’d trust.  Someone she thinks is smart.  And funny.  And handsome…”

With typical Lightning subtlety – enough that Wendel Caine shared in the huge grin Lovelace was sporting – her eyes locked with Wilhem’s.

“Really?”  He said, taken aback.

“That’s what she said,” Jac grinned.

“Vell…”  Wilhem said, chewing his bottom lip in thought.  “Perhaps I should call on her before it’s too late.

…

After some bustling noises that could only be the sound of somebody scrabbling into clothes, Constance Grimwheel opened the door to find Hans Octavius Wilhem outside.

“Baronette Von Wilhem?”

“Ms Grimvheel,” the German Marshal punctuated it with a click of his heels.  “I realise zhis is quite improper but may I talk vith you a moment?”

“Has Ms Cartwright been speaking with you?” she asked , a pink tinge rising to her cheeks.

“Only in part,” Wilhem replied.

“Oh…  I was about to retire.  Your talk, while very interesting, did tax my mind overmuch…” she said, circling the end of that sentence like a bird not sure where to land.

“But please, come in,” she finished.

Closing the door behind him, Wilhem came straight to the point.

“Ms Grimvheel, doubtless you’re avare of Mr Sanchez und zhat vhich he plans to auction.  I presume your interest is in zhe technological innovations of zhe Steam Man.”

So taken aback Wilhem’s forthright deduction, the industrial heiress didn’t even try to lie.

“Yes,” she said as fell to her bed and hung her head.  “Grimwheel Industries is uncertain about its future.”

“Particularly with a woman in charge,” she added between her teeth.  “What could be salvaged from the wreckage could restore much of my company’s ailing confidence.”

“I understand,” Wilhem said, taking a seat next to her.  “Your company has lead zhe vay in hydraulic manufacture und could do so again.  But to enter into zhis auction risks your place at Grimvheel Industries.  It risks your life!”

“There is nothing left that I can do!”  Constance wailed.  “It is either this or I place my father’s business in the hands of whoever would be my husband, and I would not see his work reduced to a dowry.”

“Perhaps…”  Wilhem ventured.  “Perhaps you would permit me to act as your agent in zhis.  Zhere is much more to zhis auction zhan eizher of us know und to enter into it is a risk I vould take for you.”

Tears sparkled in the lamplight as Constance raised her head to meet eyes with Wilhem.  “Why would you take such a risk, Baronette?”

Wilhem sighed and, pulling aside the lapel of his tweed jacket, revealed the shining star of the US Marshal’s office.

“It is not just Baronette, Ms Grimvheel.  Und it is not just my job eizher.  It is because I vill not permit that you to come to harm.

…

With twenty minutes to go James Lovelace was not yet finished stacking the deck.

After being released from Wilhem’s presentation, Major Henry Klondike had went to the bar for a nightcap.  As the lawmen returned to the sitting room, and Wilhem went to call on Constance Grimwheel, the Major had finished his brandy and left the sitting room to return to his cabin.  But rather than turning in for the night, Klondike removed something from a secret compartment hidden within the lining of his suitcase.

“Going somewhere, Major?” came an Oxford-educated voice.

Standing behind him was the fellow responsible for getting him aboard The Colorado and that large manservant belonging to the German chap.

Klondike raised an eyebrow.  “I was going off to bed, in fact.”

Lovelace stepped into the room as Caine closed the door.
“Major, there comes a time in every poker game when it’s time to put our cards on the table:  You’re here to attend an auction hosted by Mr Sanchez. 

“How the hell would you…  What on earth are you talking about?”  Klondike spluttered.

Wendel Caine glanced toward a clock.  “Can we hurry it up here?”

“You’re involved in this too?”  Klondike said aghast.

“I’m assisting several US Marshals to prevent the sale of the Steam Man,” Lovelace said but he was interrupted by Klondike reaching under his coat for that which he’d removed from his luggage.

The Pinkerton Detective was no Lightning when it came to the art of the quick draw, which is why he preferred to have his weapon out and ready before it came to that.  Moving his coat revealed the double-barrelled shotgun level with Klondike’s stomach.

“Oh ho ho, I don’t think so,” Lovelace warned, thumbing the hammer back. 

Klondike took his empty hand back out of his jacket and scowled.

“I want to know what your intentions with the Steam Man are.”  Lovelace said.

“Even if you are working with Marshals as you claim, I can still have you arrested so fast, you’ll never see another part of America, let alone England, again!”

“So you’re here for the army, then?”  Lovelace deduced.

“After a fashion.”

“How, specifically?”

“Why the hell should I tell you.  Who are you, really?”

The Pinkerton Detective grinned.  “Lovelace.  James Lovelace.  Pinkerton.”

He gestured to the Mountain Marshal looming behind him.

“And this is Marshal Wendel Caine,” he continued as Caine flashed his badge.

“What does the Marshal’s office have to do with this?”  Klondike asked.

“My questions first, my dear Major,” Lovelace interrupted.  “Whom do you represent?”

Major Henry Klondike lowered his hands toward a collection of medals pinned to his lapel.  “I’m not as retired as I had otherwise wanted you to believe.”  Releasing a hidden catch on the medals, a secret compartment opened revealing Klondike’s credentials:  Military Intelligence.

“I’m here to ensure that the Steam Man does not fall into the wrong hands; either by outbidding the secret out of Sanchez, or following the winner to wherever it’s located.”

“We was just goin’ to arrest Sanchez,” Caine shrugged.

“Leaving the Steam Man for someone else to find,” Klondike scoffed.  “The retrieval of the weapon is paramount.”

“In that case, achieving both our objectives should be a simple matter,”  Lovelace suggested.  “The other Marshals aboard are ensuring that nobody else attends the auction.  With just us present, bidding the secret out of Sanchez should be a simple affair and once we accomplish that, you get the weapon and we get the Frexican.

“Very well,” Klondike agreed.  “How are we to do this?”

“You’ll bid just enough to make things appear legitimate, but you’ll let ‘Ms Bethany Cartwright’ win and claim the information about the Steam Man’s location.  Once we’ve docked, we secure both the weapon and the smuggler,” Lovelace explained.

“So Cartwright’s a Marshal too?”

“She is indeed, so try to refrain from shooting her,” Lovelace continued.

“It’s the last mistake you’ll ever make,” Caine added.

“I remain a gentleman, sir,” Klondike frowned.  “But I believe we have an agreement.”
…

Wesley Stokes had remained at the bar while everyone else had returned to their rooms or moved to the promenade.  Mulling over a coffee, the antiquities collector was content to wait the time of the auction in the comforts of the sitting room.

This made the prospect of confronting Stokes an easy task for Jac Lightning, who sat down next to him.

“Mr Stokes, I’ll be brief,” Jac began, maintaining her refined affectation.  “I know why you’re here and what you intend to do.  I’m sure you mean nothing more than to add the Steam Man to your collection; but if you go to that auction, chances are you won’t leave alive.”

“What…” Stokes spluttered, red blotches crawling across his face.

“This ain’t a request or an debate,” Jac continued, her drawl talking over Stokes and her own disguise.  “I’m Marshal Lightning and your dealer is a hardened criminal.”

“The Marshal Lightning?” Stokes exclaimed.

“Yup.  And if this goes down the way I’m expectin’ it to, ain’t no way you’re gonna survive it.”

Stokes gulped and wrung his hands like laundry.  “The Steam Man is piece of American history, however hard we may try to forget it.  I just hoped to preserve some small part.”

“That may be, but I’d focus on preservin’ yersself first.  Stay in your room and I won’t have to watch out for you,” the Lightning Marshal warned.

“Or arrest you”

Wesley Stokes nodded and, abandoning his coffee, shuffled off to his room faster than anything he’d done before.

…

The hour of the auction arrived with Marshals Lightning, Wilhem and Caine; Pinkerton Detective Lovelace; and Major Klondike in attendance.  Not wanting to tip their hand, it was agreed Caine would represent Wesley Stokes and Lovelace would stay outside and guard the door.

The cabin’s furnishing had been cleared and a collection of chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, facing toward one set near the opposite wall.  The chair was occupied by the languid form of Jacque Sanchez.

“Bonsoir, amigos,” he smiled as they each took their seats.  “I am already familiar with Senor Klondike and Senorita Cartwright, but not with you, monsieurs…”

“Wilhem,” The German Marshal explained.  “I am Ms Cartwright’s financial advisor.”

“And I’m here for Mr Stokes,” Caine added.

“I was not informed of this,” The Frexican frowned.  “Why would Senor Stokes not be here himself?”

“He was concerned for his safety, but he’s got the money.”  Caine replied.

“I see,” Sanchez murmured.

“Apparently, I’m expendable,” Caine shrugged.

“How good for you,” Sanchez sneered. 

“Well, with the absence of Senorita Grimwheel, let us not delay proceedings,” Sanchez continued, his French and Mexican accents grinding together.  “You know that which you are bidding for.  The winner shall receive the location of the prize and I shall guide them there to claim it.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, not noticing that the smuggler’s long thin fingers had snaked around the underside of the armrests of his chair.

“The bidding begins at a $100,000!” he said.

As discussed amongst the assembled lawmen, the bidding would be staged with Caine dropping out when it reached $180,000 and Klondike at $190,000, leaving the Lightning Marshal with the winning bid.  Sanchez’s eyes darted from bidder to bidder, caught up in the fervour of such large sums of money to see the auction as a farce.

“Two-hundred thousand; uno!  Deux!  Tres!  Sold!”

And with that, the wall behind the Frexican exploded.

A deafening boom faded and a cold whistle filled the room from a gaping hole left in the wall.  Moonlight poured in and almost everyone was afforded a spectacular look at the night sky.

All, that is, except The Frexican.

Triggering the explosive he’d set earlier that created an opening out into the night, the weapon smuggler coiled his legs and launched himself backward in the chair, causing it to rock and sending Jacque Sanchez tumbling out the hole at thirty-thousand feet.

Except that Jac Lightning was already moving.

Details flashed in her mind as she dived for the Frexican:  The position of the chair, the trigger under its arms, the explosion designed to face away from the room.  This was a precaution in case someone, much like they themselves, tried something at the auction.

To everyone else, it was a blur of skirts and lace before the Lightning Marshal’s hand latched onto the Frexican’s belt and slammed the chair back on the floor.

“Goin’ somewhere?” she drawled.

Hands went to weapons as the last second caught up with everyone.  Jac Lightning saw Sanchez doing the same and her hand moved from where she kept her derringer to snatch up what the Frexican had.

There was a loud twang and Sanchez produced a gun.

The Lightning Marshal was stunned.  Her hand wouldn’t reach, trapped within the confines of her damned clothing.

“I hate this dress!”

Sanchez shot from the hip as Jac hurled herself to the side; the bullet punching through layers of petticoats before lodging itself near the door as James Lovelace rushed in.  The Pinkerton wouldn’t have a chance though as Wendel Caine charged toward the Frexican, spared the chore of drawing a weapon.

A meaty hand latched around the Frexican’s head and drove it through a side table, slamming the weapon smuggler into the floor with such force he almost bounced to his feet.  It would have done him no good though as Jacque Sanchez wouldn’t be waking up for a while.

Major Klondike sat stunned at what happened.  “I have to say I’m–,”

There was a loud long rip as Jac Lightning freed herself of her skirts.

“Finally, I am done with this dress!”

Major Klondike spluttered and turned away.  “Madam, some propriety, please!”
…
The Colorado returned to its dock in Phoenix, Arizona, where Military Intelligence awaited.  They took custody of Jacque Sanchez – divested of his gun and a small parachute found on his person – leaving Major Henry Klondike on the docking platform with the lawmen.

“I am truly grateful for your assistance,” Klondike said, shaking each one by the hand.

“Just wished they hadn’t cancelled the dang tournament,” Jac Lightning grumbled.  “I was enjoying that.”

“I vould have settled for a look at zhe remains of the Steam Man,” Wilhem said with equal disappointment.

“For reasons of national security, you know I can’t allow that.” Klondike said, arriving at James Lovelace and taking his hand.

“Of course if you were interested,” he whispered in the Pinkerton’s ear, “I might be able to arrange something.”

The handshake lingered longer with him than it had with the marshals.

Lovelace gave the Major a wink as he left with the military police.  “Don’t worry, Wilhem,” he muttered.  “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard.”

“I believe it can vait,” Wilhem replied as he spied Constance Grimwheel waiting for him.  “Zhere is a dinner’s vorth of engineering to discuss.”

“Marshal Lightning?”

Jac turned to see Wesley Stokes approach her.  He carried a large suitcase with him.

“I’d like to thank you properly for your warning and for the risk you took on my behalf.”

“T’weren’t nothin’, Mr Stokes,” Jac shrugged.

“Nevertheless, I hope this will suffice,” the antiquarian continued as he opened the suitcase.

Inside, enclosed with velvet lining was the prized steam pistol awarded to officers who had won the day during the Mexican-American war.

Jac Lightning’s stoic composure slipped a little as she let out a low whistle.

“It’s yours with my compliments.  Only seems fair you should win something from the tournament.”

“It’s a very expensive gift,” Jac breathed.

“True.  But I’m pretty sure I got more than one,” Stokes replied as he left the suitcase with her and ambled off the platform.

The lawmen, as one, followed after him, Constance Grimwheel locking arms with Hans Octavius Wilhem.

“I can’t help but feel we’ve forgotten someone…” Lovelace frowned.
…

Still suspended in the air, anchored by a web of mooring ropes, The Colorado was disgorging its collection of supplies and passengers; all except one.  Gagged, bound and still dangling from the porthole the muffled curses of Wiley Pete went unheard.
THE STORY CONTINUES (EVENTUALLY) IN THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO:  3RD SALVO!

Cards fluttered from deck to hand and chips splashed in pools of red, white and blue at the centre of the green-felt table, as the 7th Annual Aces High Poker Tournament went into full swing. The table was for the best gamblers, or those who could afford to lose their $10,000 stake; and the speed of play was such that it ran on greased rails. Eyes glimpsed at cards as they fell to the table, glances took in the assembled opponents, sifting tells from bluffs, and chips appeared and disappeared in their hands, dancing through their fingers before they were thrown into the pile.

It was a quality of skill that would have made Jac Lightning smile if her stoic poker face allowed it. Thoughts of the mission and the discomfort of her disguise were ignored as her attention focused on the game. An accomplished card-sharp in her own right, The Lightning Marshal found herself on even footing in the company of hydraulic magnate, Constance Grimwheel, professional outlaw, Wiley Pete and another gentleman whose eyes had been replaced by a series of rose-coloured lenses implanted into his sockets.

Wendell Caine didn’t play poker. It was, in part, to do with his inability to read and the rest was a conviction never to lose money to duded-up city-slickers who could. With Jac focused on the game, the Mountain Marshal focused on everything else, studying the life of the ship from bartenders, to waiters, to dealers and specifically, the janitors. Wandering from his place near the table, Caine made a note of when cabins were cleaned and when they would be left unguarded.

Aboard a neighbouring airship Hans Octavius Wilhem treated the hands as more of an amusing diversion. The Iron Marshal didn’t gamble, he calculated, and a mind gifted in advanced mathematics predicted the fall of the cards as if they’d been dealt face-up. The first couple of hands saw him break away from Major Henry Klondike, William Henry Baker and the rest of the players at his table, save for the Pinkerton Detective, James Lovelace.

Lovelace, while possessed of a calculating mind in his own right, didn’t play odds– he played people. The Pinkerton could read most people like a newspaper while remaining unfathomable to the canniest scrutiny. It was a skill that resulted in his secure employment with the detective agency and it was a skill that kept him at least a couple of thousand dollars ahead of the German Marshal.

With the stakes being the opportunity to put to rest the last scheme of Bethany ‘Spokey Sampson’ Cartwright, each lawman was determined to make it aboard the fifth airship: The Colorado. Yet none of them knew what purpose the former criminal had, save that involved outrageous sums of money and a former weapons dealer named Jacque Sanchez

Jac Lightning was breaking even when the first round of the tournament was called, doing better than Wiley Pete and Constance Grimwheel. The winner, through a collection of minor victories, was the man with the rose-coloured lenses named Four-Eyed Bill. He hadn’t talked much, outside of betting vernacular, but he was shrewd enough to know when to call a bluff.

Too shrewd, Jac thought having noticed the shutter irises tightening when he regarded the other players, or rather, their cards. The Lightning Marshal had shifted her cards around, testing the scrutiny of Four-Eyed Bill, but even with her quick hands, she wasn’t able to obfuscate him for long. Wiley Pete, save for a wild cheer when fate delivered him a king-high royal flush, had spent most of the game growling at the dealer as he lost hand after hand. But under even worse luck was Constance Grimwheel, whose losing streak was bankrolling Bill, Jac and, on occasion, Pete like a paying gold claim. When the round was called, Constance kept a steady face, but a quick step as she left to her cabin.

“How’re y’doin’?” Caine asked as Jac left the table.

“There’s somethin’ strange about that four-eyed fella…” Jac replied, her refined affectation dropped like a dead horse the moment they were out of earshot.

Both of the marshals paused at Constance Grimwheel’s return, a small lacquered box clutched in trembling hands and a pale drawn look across her face. Even from across the room, Caine and Lightning could see the gleam of gold and a pool of pearls stacked within the box, when it was presented to the tournament officials. Hushed words were exchanged and the result was a collection of poker chips delivered to Grimwheel’s chair.

“Somebody’s lookin’ to stay in,” Caine muttered.

“Mighty interestin’,” Jac agreed. “But it won’t do squat if Four-Eyed Bill keeps gettin’ away with whatever he’s gettin’ away with. Can you check his room and see if you can find somethin’?”

Caine, who had continued to monitor the comings and goings of the cleaning staff, had worked out that the cabins on the left of the airship got done in the morning. The cabins on the right were cleaned in the afternoon. In the event of undertaking investigations, the Mountain Marshal hoped to time his intrusion before the cleaners arrived, relying on them to cover his tracks. It was a good plan, except that Four-Eyed Bill’s room was on the left and it was near midday.

“That’s gonna be a problem,” Caine growled. “I ain’t one for tidyin’ up after myself, and ‘sides, I don’t know what I’d be lookin’ for.”

“Well it ain’t like I can do it,” Jac hissed back. “Normally I’d just punch him out and show my badge, but you lot said to do the opposite o’ that. Well, what the fuck does a lady do?”

Caine thought about it for a moment. “Call for help?”

Jac Lightning’s jaw dropped so far it could plough the dirt several thousand feet below. Lightnings’ did not call for help. Not unless it involved writing, arithmetic or, in this case, lessons in etiquette. Not for sorting out some cheatin’ sonovabitch. They would, on occasion, form a posse, but it was clear to everyone that this was the Lightning’s show and everyone else was along for the ride.

She studied the guards. Each had the menace of sharks, circling the room with a smooth gait and showing only a fraction of their assortment of weapons. In addition, each man had one of their ears replaced with a curving horn capped with wire mesh– enhanced hearing no doubt.

Jac Lightning wrestled with the dilemma. If she whispered her suspicions, then she wouldn’t be ‘calling’ for help. She’d just make a suggestion, helping the guards out. That was a little bit more what a Lightning would do…

Caine had kept on talking, ignoring Jac’s dilemma. “…’sides, if he’s cheatin’, it ain’t like they’re gonna let him back into his cabin ‘fore he gets “dropped off”.”

The rumour about the Aces High Poker Tournament was cheaters never prospered. They weren’t too good at flying either.

“I’ll take care of it,” Jac scowled.

“I reckon I could get a look at Wiley Pete’s cabin,” Caine replied. “His ain’t been cleaned yet.”

Jac nodded in agreement and Caine stopped off by the bar for a whiskey – unaware that none of the other servants were drinking, and not caring so much either – before positioning himself by one of the entrances near the hall. When the game resumed, he’d make his move.

Jac got herself a Manhattan , raising the glass to her lips both mask her voice and to steel herself for what she was about to do.

“The gentleman in the bi-focals might be cheating,” she murmured, returning to her ladylike affectation. There, done!

A quick glance over the glass revealed nobody else had heard her whisper, but whether the guard had depended on the quality of their enhancements. None of the guards reacted. Maybe they were playing it cool. Maybe they hadn’t heard.

Jac finished her whiskey and squirmed in her bustle and corset. She hated these clothes, she hated the implication of asking for help and most of all she hated waiting for justice when she wasn’t delivering it.

…

Aboard Airship Two, the table had already cast off two of its players leaving James Lovelace, Hans Octavius Wilhem and, though lacking in winnings but still hanging in there, Major Henry Klondike. The old man, despite his cavalier claims to play like there was no tomorrow, kept his cards close to his vest and played like tomorrow was when he’d get around to betting more than the table bet.

One of the eliminated contestants hadn’t been bitter about the loss. William Henry Baker, who had to be reminded to return his attention to his cards on numerous occasions – distracted while talking business to other wealthy fat cats – found that the tournament got in the way of business deals regarding Ithaca’s Space Gun Project. That his Pinkerton bodyguard was winning made his removal from the contest even more graceful as the weighty industrialist clapped a plump hand on Lovelace’s shoulder.

“Looks like I picked the right man for the job,” he boomed, even though he hadn’t the slightest inclination to let his bodyguard play, and had let Wilhem’s family fortune provide the registration fee.

Tight lips stretched around his teeth approaching a the practicalities of a smile. “Thank you, Mr Baker.”

“No, thank you m’boy! Your win, gets me aboard The Colarado.”

“It does?” Lovelace asked, keeping incredulity from his face with the skill that had carried him to victory thus far.

“Indeed. The winner is allowed to invite two guests: That’s me and, I suppose, that Kraut lawman.”

The notion of how to get everyone aboard the Colorado to continue their investigation had eluded both Wilhem and Lovelace, each deciding to play to win and deal with that problem later. Now there was an answer. All the lawmen could get aboard so long so long as Jac Lightning won.

A necessity that wouldn’t matter at this table provided whether he or Wilhem won the round.

Of course, that was no reason not to go easy on the German.

…

With the break over and all players back at the table – including Constance Grimwheel with her fresh stack of chips and Four-Eyed Bill who seemed free to continue cheating – Wendell Caine took the opportunity to start his search Wiley Pete’s cabin. However there was the matter of a locked door barring the Mountain Marshal’s way.

No much could withstand Caine if he wanted to get somwhere but twisting the door off its hinges might leave folks suspicious. With neither German nor Limey aboard to pick the lock, the Mountain Marshal needed a new plan. Fortunately there was one other way inside.

Returning to Bethany Cartwright’s cabin, Wendell Caine walked up to a large porthole that offered a magnificent view of the landscape several thousand feet below. A quick test of the porthole revealed that it would open and, after making sure it could be done both ways, Caine climbed out onto the side of the airship.

With fingers digging into a thin ridge that ran along the hull of the gondola, Wendell Caine shuffled down the length of the ship as winds bellowed and buffeted him at every inch. It was cold, the ridge was smooth and it was a long way to the ground. To the Mountain Marshal, it was just like being back in West Virginia. Passing two other portholes – neither occupied allowing the hairy daredevil to clamber unnoticed – Caine arrived at Wiley Pete’s window. Dangling by four fingers, he popped the seal of the porthole before dragging himself inside.

Back at Jac Lightning’s table, the state of play had continued same as the last round. Four-Eyed Bill continuing his slow climb to victory, Wiley Pete whispered threats to anyone in earshot, Constance Grimwheel dolling out cash one hand after the other and the Lightning Marshal playing it more cautiously than she ever had in poker before. The guards continued their patrol, disinterested in the advice they’d been offered about Bill’s suspicious behaviour and while Bethany Cartwright maintained her composure, Jac Lightning was almost through her last nerve.

“What use is there bein’ a lady if you can’t punch a fella out?” She thought as Bill called her bluff, beating her three-of-a-kind with a full house.

With Bethany’s stony face reflected in red, the bionic-enhanced gambler reached for his winnings as two shadows fell over the collection of chips.

“Sir, could you come with us, please?”

Everyone looked up at two of the guards flanking Four-Eyed Bill. The gambler’s face turned as pale as the white thousand-dollar poker chips that tumbled from his hand.

Not waiting for a response, or perhaps sensing that he would try something desperate, the guards’ hands clamped down on Four-Eyed Bill’s shoulders and, with effortless and gear-enhanced ease, yanked the gambler out of his seat dragging him across the lounge and out the door.

The dealer appeared unperturbed. “There will be a small recess,”

Bethany Cartwright stood up and murmured something about taking the opportunity to replenish her funds. Jac Lightning, though, went out the same door as Four-Eyed Bill.

Inside Wiley Pete’s cabin, already a mess from the slovenly outlaw, Wendel Caine’s search left little evidence that he’d broken in, but it had revealed much. Distributed about the room in small hiding places were bundles of cash that, at least to Caine’s illiterate sensibilities, looked about as much as what they had found in Bethany Cartwright’s hideout. It could be that the Wiley Pete didn’t trust his luck and, given the rash of bad hands, there was evidence supporting that theory, but no outlaw could carry that much money even after a month of robbing trains and rustling cattle.

Caine had also found something else.

Contrary to the rules of the tournament, Wiley Pete had managed to smuggle a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun aboard. Small enough to hide under a stack of travel-worn and yellow-stained britches, the Mountain Marshal also spied the infamous white-phosphorous ammunition stored next to the gun in a bedside drawer.

Wendell Caine didn’t know why or how the outlaw had so much money, or whether it had anything to do with what Spokey Sampson had planned, but he did know plenty about guns. He knew guns well enough that all it would take to break it was the removal of the tiny firing pin. Doing just that, and then replacing both gun and cash to their hiding places, the Mountain Marshal popped the porthole and climbed back outside the airship.

And while he safely made it back to Bethany’s cabin, the same couldn’t be said of the firing pin.

…

Aboard the second airship, the game had been called to a sudden halt. Both Wilhem and Lovelace noticed the casual patrol of the guards had changed to deliberate surveillance, though they did not prevent Major Klondike from retiring to his room to obtain more funds.

They also didn’t stop James Lovelace from following him.

Hoping to keep unnoticed, Lovelace was caught off-guard as the elderly officer turned on his heel, catching the Pinkerton shadowing him.

“Something I can help you with, Mr Lovelace?” he said with caution.

The Pinkerton had been planning on keeping tabs on the Major, hoping to learn more about the inconsistencies between what Klondike said and how he acted. Sneaking, unlike poker, had never been the Pinkerton’s strong suit.

Time to turn on the old Lovelace charm, he thought. “Why Major Klondike, it’s more how I would be willing to help you.”

“Help me?” Klondike replied, suspicion thick in his voice.

“You’ve played a good game to last as long as you have,” Lovelace continued. “And while you have stated that the opportunity to participate in the tournament is reward enough, I can’t help but feel guilty depriving you, of your retirement.”

“The game’s not over yet, son.” Klondike harrumphed as blood rose to his face. “Ask anyone in the army and they’ll tell you nobody is as tenacious as I.”

“Indeed, Major; and it’s to your credit. You have been an exemplary player and it has been my pleasure to match cards with you. But my conscience ruins this joy and I had hoped, now that we’re away from the table, that you listen to my offer.”

“Which is?”

“Should I win,” Lovelace said, hurrying to make his point as Major Klondike looked ready to interject, “it would please me to refund part of your losses in the spirit of good sportsmanship.”

Lovelace watched the Major like a hawk. He could already tell what the response would be as pride filled out Klondike’s chest. Money was far from the reason to the Major was here, so that left one other hunch.

“Of course, I’d also be willing to invite you, as my guest, aboard The Colorado as well.”

What response the Major was going to deliver stuck in his throat at the invitation. Lovelace watched, fascinated, as Henry Klondike wound back his retort, sealing his pride beneath a wide smile.

“Mr Lovelace, your generosity is faultless,” he replied.

So what’s aboard The Colorado, then? Thought the Pinkerton.

“I had my doubts about you, what with you and your other friend being from overseas, but I apologise for the snap judgement. I have clearly underestimated you, sir.” Klondike continued.

“Think nothing of it, old chap,” Lovelace smiled. “And, should your luck see you the winner instead, I do hope that you’ll make the same offer in return.”

“Of course, of course,” Klondike replied, not believing for a moment that, even if he had the luck of every Irish man, would he be victorious.

“You’ll allow me the honour of buying you a drink, sir,” Klondike smiled.

“Only if you allow me the same,” Lovelace replied as they retrieved the Major’s wallet and returned to the game.

The stakes had gotten higher now. And Jac Lightning would have to win to get herself, Caine and now Wilhem aboard the Colorado.

…

Jac Lightning was less focused on the game though. She was more interested in the fate of Four-Eyed Bill.

Better at sneaking than Lovelace, she had tailed the guards and the hapless gambler as they dragged him into one of the cabins down the hall. Hitching her skirts and quickening her step, the Lightning Marshal caught up and pressed her ear against the door.

“What’s goin’ on?” And such was Jac’s control that she didn’t spin on her heel and punch Wendell Caine on the spot.

Returned from his investigations, Caine had emerged from their cabin to see the Lightning Marshal listening in on something and, even more stealthy than her or Lovelace, had drawn up alongside her.

“That Four-Eyed Snake’s gettin’ what’s comin’ to him,” Jac hissed.

Caine listened in to the sounds of a wet length of cowhide getting pummelled.

“I thought we had an understanding,” said a voice between the blows. “We allowed you entry on condition your lenses were a medical requirement.”

There was the tinkling of glass and a loud moan of pain.

“Not so you could cheat your way in our tournament,” the voice continued. “You know what happens to those who cheat.”

“…no! Please!” the begging was reduced to choked sobs as another punch landed.

Both the Lightning and Mountain Marshal drew back from the door as each heard footsteps approaching it from the other side. Jac quickly spend down the hall, rounding a corner while Caine sauntered down the other way, whistling as he walked.

The door opened and a guard checked the hall, thinking to have heard something, but nothing he could confirm. With little more to worry about than some manservant slacking off, the guard closed the door and went back to his work.

Jac Lightning was expected back at the table, and so, returned to await the commencement of the game. Caine lingered a while longer, waiting for the guards to emerge with their prisoner. He didn’t have to wait long as they frog-marched Four-Eyed Bill between them, past where Caine was hidden, and into the cargo section of the gondola.

Where the baggage could be unloaded.

…

Across brass speaking tubes, snaking throughout the gondola, there was a voice.

“We wish to remind contestants that cheaters are not welcome aboard the airship.” And all eyes at Jac Lightning’s table focused on the empty seat.

Satisfied the matter was resolved; the dealer distributed Four-Eyed Bill’s winnings amongst Pete, Constance and Bethany and continued the game, as did Lovelace, Wilhem and Klondike.

With Klondike’s fear of missing The Colorado allayed and Four-Eyed Bill out of the tournament and, likely, the airship, the final round was heavily in the marshal’s favour. Wilhem was able to draw closer to Lovelace with a Jack-high straight. Wiley Pete bet high in the final round, going all in with Bethany Cartwright, to learn that this woman never blinked first. Constance Grimwheel’s stake had diminished yet again and when the last round was called, Jac Lightning and James Lovelace held the winning hand.

“Varmint! Miserable belly-crawlin’ varmint!” Wiley Pete spat at the dealer before storming out of the lounge.

“Well, that was rather abrupt,” said Cartwright while Jac Lightning grinned inside.

Constance Grimwheel’s departure was much more polite as she got up to leave.

“Geez, I’d feel really awful if I’d lost that much money,” said Caine a bit louder than either he or Jac would have liked.

Constance turned a furious shade of red at this and stormed out of the room. Jac, shaking her head, got up from the table and, dodging around well-wishers, followed after her.

Aboard the 2nd airship, amidst much more civilised congratulations, James Lovelace shook hands with everyone aboard. William Henry Baker and Major Henry Klondike were at either shoulder, almost for fear that he’d leave for the Colorado without them.

“Well done m’boy!” Baker boomed. “Your salary is the best damn money I’ve ever spent.”

“I’m here to look after your interests, Mr Baker,” Lovelace responded in a coy manner that managed to hide the sarcasm behind it.

“And in that manner, you have succeeded. I’ll have to write to your office.” Baker beamed.

Across the speaking tubes, the winners of each airship were announced, Lovelace breathing a sigh of relief as Bethany Cartwright’s name was called. The other contenders included Wesley Stokes, the antique dealer and owner of the prototype steam-driven pistol. Someone that Lovelace hadn’t met yet, but would have to investigate when they were both aboard The Colorado to see how desperate he was willing to get aboard. And the last winner was none other than Jacque Sanchez.

Whatever grim purpose drew these people together, it had to be aboard The Colarado, and chances were good that Lovelace would be the only person not in the know.

Which was why he was keeping three of a kind up his sleeve.

TO BE CONCLUDED IN THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO 2ND RELOAD PART 6

Posted by Wordmobi

This was lost to Marshal Wendell Caine who, operating under the guise of Bethany Cartwright’s manservant, was surrounded by valets, maids and luggage as they entered through the less glamorous cargo hold. Baggage handlers heaved and sweated as they hauled trolley after trolley of luggage, under the imperious direction of stately servants in pressed suits of black and grey, starched shirt collars unyielding under the perspiration of high noon in Arizona.

The Mountain Marshal’s attire was fighting on a losing war on more than one front though. While Caine had capitulated to wearing more layers than his usual garb of a pair of overalls, he had been unyielding in his views of bathing and grooming; the result a forgone conclusion as starched cotton was no match for the sweat and grime that had been gathering its forces for a little over a year. Wool and tweed were slaughtered under a two-part assault of a heavy lunch of bacon and beans as well as two heavy crates – laden with the late Spokey Sampson’s counterfeit money – that Caine insisted he was capable of carrying aboard.

Annie, on loan from Etheric Delights to aid Bethany Cartwright, refused to meet any of the agape stares of porter, manservant or maid as she followed Caine aboard. Her role was to ensure that the other Marshal was able to carry herself as a lady of society and there were customers back at the whorehouse she’d rather bed for free than supervise both Wendell Caine as well as Jac Lightning.

“And what keeps you busy, Ms Cartwright?” asked Constance Grimwheel, ad-hoc owner of Grimwheel Hydraulics until some suitor could be found to take the reigns of business.

Happy that her quick wits and poker face didn’t reveal her first answer – prostitution, drugs and extortion being Spokey/Cartwright’s business before she ran afoul of the Marshals of Ascension – Jac Lightning remembered the most important piece of advice that Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wilhemina Ether had given her.

Take your first reaction or instinct, and do the exact opposite.

“I’m in investments”, Jac replied, keeping her black lace fan at, what she hoped, was the appropriate angle.

Being the only two members of the fairer sex aboard the airship, Jac and Constance had struck up a conversation, the former hopeful in practicing her brief lessons of etiquette on the latter’s eagerness to discover more about Ms Cartwright’s independence.

“Investments! How fascinating!” Ms Cartwright exclaimed as Jac allowed a genuine smile to peek out around the corners of the false one she’d maintained since the painful hours of early morning.

“Whom are you engaged with at the present,” Miss Grimwheel continued and Jac’s smile scuttled back behind her fixed lips and teeth.

“What possible use could I have for a husband,” Jac retorted fearing as soon as she’d spoke that, unlike her unerring aim with a gun, her answer had once more missed its mark.

Constance Grimwheel sharp breath turned to a relaxed sigh though and the Lightning Marshal half-expected the airship to shoot up to the sun from the weight shed from the young lady’s shoulders.

“I too wonder at the necessity of marriage, though it seems plain to those in my business that I be saddled with a husband without delay,” Ms Grimwheel said with an uneven smile. “I’ve made it plain that Grimwheel Hydraulics could hardly operate without a Grimwheel in charge, but I appear surrounded by those who believe it to be men’s business. Hence I am here, I suppose. To prove I am the equal of any man”

Jac agreed but wasn’t sure Bethany Cartwright would and, as such, decided to play it safe and continue smiling.

“But that wasn’t what I meant,” Constance continued. “What businesses are you invested in, Ms Cartwright?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That’s the job of my advisor,” Jac smiled and with that, the thought of finding another suffragette comrade, along with Ms Grimwheel respect, leapt overboard.

…

With the luggage aboard the airships took to the skies, the second zeppelin carrying Jac Lightning and Wendell Caine, while the fourth vessel counted Hans Octavius Wilhem, James Lovelace and William Henry Baker amongst its passengers. The portly representative of Ithaca Rifling Company had no interest in the poker tournament ahead, having set his sights on grander ideas.

Wilhem and Lovelace watched as Baker managed to ride herd on three transport magnates of stagecoach, rail and airship into intricate dealings about Ascension’s destiny and the secret project Ithaca had stationed there. The talks continued for over an hour, Baker unwilling to let anyone leave until he was convinced that a deal to transport supplies and people was hashed out and agreed in principle.

Both Marshal and Pinkerton had never been happier to exist beneath the Ithacan’s notice.

Over the airship’s loudspeaker, everyone’s conversation was interrupted as the vessel’s captain announced that the fleet of gamblers was passing over a site of historical importance: The final battle of the American Civil War.

While Baker could care less about history, Wilhem and Lovelace sped toward the nearest window, peering down at the battleground and its scarred terrain.

The final battle before the surrender of Confederate forces had been terrible, with the development of steam-powered and propelled technology skewed toward destruction. While The South had boasted more military-minded leaders and soldiers, The North had both numbers and industry on its side and it was over four years of innovation and invention that concluded in the catastrophic culling of brother versus brother; the most destructive force, and the final coffin nail, being The March of the Steam Men.

Those that survived, on either side, did not often speak of it. Those who watched and directed the battle from afar, speak of it as route wholesome in horrid effectiveness. So great, the damage wrought, both sides of the war vowed that the United States would not be party to the development of such tools of destruction again, regardless of the enemy being foreign or domestic.

Wilhem and Lovelace could each see the solitary footprint, gigantic even from their altitude and both suppressed a shudder for once, there had been many footprints of that final march.

…

Constance Grimwheel, unwilling to speak with the collection of cigar-chomping men assigned to the airship, had remained content in discussion with the peculiar Bethany Cartwright. The investor, from New York it seemed, maintained such a distracted air toward the state of her business; alluding to a financial advisor called Von Willenheim aboard who, aboard another vessel, was gambling with her money. Yet despite the scatterbrained understanding of business, there was something that sparked behind her lighting blue eyes; a resolve or intensity at odds with her vague accounts of dealings and minor faux-pas. Hoping to glean some insight into Ms Cartwright for use across the poker table, she found herself pinned under a scrutiny unlike any woman or man she’d met before.

“Perhaps we could talk further back in New York, I have offices there as well,” Miss Grimwheel said; ready to break the conversation off.

“Once I confer with my advisor, I would be happy to,” Ms Cartwright responded as Constance’s ears latched onto something that had been bothering her since their introduction. Her words seemed forced, as if she were speaking around a large cherry pit in her mouth and did not want to spit it out. It was a careful phrasing, charming, but forced.

“Should he win, of course,” Miss Grimwheel said, feeling as if she’d stumbled across a mystery.

“Of course. Otherwise he wouldn’t be a very good advisor, would he?” And with that, Miss Grimwheel let out a smile that didn’t quite match the wide grin of Bethany Cartwright. She had finally figured it out.

Ms Bethany Cartwright was a half-wit.

During the take-off and journey Wendell Caine, not about to set foot in the state room where the contestants mingled, had decided to explore the rest of the airship in the event that he needed to break out of, or into, any part of the room. During his investigations he hadn’t succeeded in making many friends amongst the maids or gentlemen’s gentlemen, but he had rubbed elbows with a few of the porters and crew, who were happy to talk shop about the airship to somebody not afraid to get his hands dirty. It was, just after he’d finished up with one of the engineers and on his way back to his cabin that he felt somebody bounce off his massive frame.

“Watch where you’re walking, cocksucker!” The Mountain Marshal heard and he glared down at the small hairy man who belonged in a tuxedo as much as Wendell Caine did. Standing shoulders above hadn’t done anything to shut the guy’s mouth and, to Caine’s reckoning, wouldn’t stop him settling the matter with fists or whatever weapon that was stashed out of sight.

Punching a man out for rudeness was something Wendell Caine would have leapt at knuckles-first. But judging by his manner and the collection of gold rings, the Mountain Marshal figured this could be a contestant. And that meant he could be a suspect.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Caine deadpanned.

“You will be if I see you again,” the man shot back, fists balled and waiting for any excuse to take a swing.

Inside, Caine was waiting for the same but, neither willing to launch the first punch reduced things to a staring contest that ended as Caine unlocked the door to his room. The contestant stormed down the hall, unaware that Caine hadn’t closed the door and was peering through the crack, making a note of where his cabin was. Unnoticed, Caine left his cabin and, after seeking one of his new friends, learnt that he had been accosted by the infamous Wiley Pete: suspected outlaw, gunman and gambler.

Caine cracked his knuckles and grinned.

…

After a sumptuous five-course banquet, Bethany Cartwright wished her opponents a good evening, returned to her cabin and, with a explosive gasp of air once Annie had loosened her corset laces, let Jac Lightning out.

“I swear I’m fixin’ to shoot everyone on suspicion o’ somethin’ illegal then go back inside that blasted thing agin!”

Wendell Caine, who had scrounged up some leftovers from the kitchen, looked up from his cleaned plate. “Reckon you could start off with that Wiley Pete, fella?”

Already familiar with Wiley Pete’s exploits, Jac Lightning shook her head. “Small fry. Don’t reckon there’s much cause for him bein’ here than cards. That Jacque Sanchez though…”

“Who?”

“The Frexican. Gun Smuggler my Pa wrote about. Can’t think o’ anyone else cause ain’t nobody on this ship heard’a Bethany Cartwright.”

“Might be that Wilhem and the Pinkerton dandy got us some news,” Caine said as headed for the door while Annie set about freeing The Lightning Marshal.

…

Both Wilhem and Lovelace had trying to put names to faces and faces to wanted posters with no success. The luck of the draw, which had split the lawmen amongst two airships, had kept a large clutch of businessmen together, making up most of the contestants on the ship. Their luck came to a sudden stop when they learnt they were trapped high in the sky with William Henry Baker, who stalked each of them with the ruthlessness of a polecat.

One of the contestants managed to escape the attentions of Baker, however: A retired Major from Connecticut, who fought in the Civil War. Approaching fifty, Henry Klondike was a collection of medals and stories, recounting anyone showing interest about various battles he’s participated in; a topic that found an audience of two: Hans Octavius Wilhem and James Lovelace.

“You vere at Zhe March of zhe Steam Men?” Wilhem asked, having noticed the campaign medal pinned to the lapel of his faded formal dinner jacket.

“Indeed,” the stout, white-whiskered man replied and, for the first time in the evening, he went quiet.

“Ve had been talking about zhis since ve passed zhe battleground,” Wilhem continued. “Ve vould be indebted to you for a first-hand account…”

“There’s nothing on that day worth remembering, son,” Klondike muttered. “It was a day of misery. A group of tired worn and weary men who were beat in all but name versus a terrible thunder from the fog of early morning.

Both Wilhem and Lovelace saw the Major pale and his eyes go wide.

“Red embers peering out as the thunder drew closer. The men started firing and those that didn’t miss heard the ring of metal and knew it tolled for them. Fifteen-foot iron golems strode out of the fog and the sky went black above them. Rotating guns cut down those that weren’t crushed beneath them. And those machines just kept walking.”

Lovelace fetched a glass of water as Wilhem eased Major Klondike into a stuffed chair. The water shook in his hand to some monstrous internal beat.

“Nobody won that day. We forged devils and bad them to fight in wars of men.”

Klondike realised the glass was in his hand and gulped the water down in gasps. Not trusting him to do himself injury, Wilhem took the glass away and was relieved to see Klondike compose himself.

“Whatever happened to these machines?” Lovelace asked while Wilhem, seeing the Major was alright, turned his mind to devising schematics of such weapons.

“Destroyed,” Klondike said in a long sigh of relief. “Both sides agreed that war must never escalate to such a travesty again.”

Gathering sidelong looks from the servants and other contestants at Klondike’s loss of composure, the noise of conversation returned when it was clear that the Major had said all he intended to.

“What brings you to the tournament, Major?” Lovelace inquired eager to change the topic.

“I’m a man of leisure now, lad,” Klondike replied through a thin smile. “Retired from soldiering and eager to sample life; it’s always been a dream of mine to take place in this tournament.”

“You’re a poker player then?” asked Lovelace.

“After a fashion,” Klondike shrugged. “I’ve had some luck with cards but plenty of enjoyment. I get my allowance, I’ve saved my money and it is my intention to get one shot of the high life before my time is done.”

The Major seemed more a grandfather than a soldier and the wan smile that had grown as he talked away from the topic of the war would be one to bring relief to anyone listening. But Lovelace and Wilhem, ever the investigators, couldn’t help but notice something behind the touching story; the certain sense that this was far and away not the reason he was here.

“So you really mean to say you’re going to gamble away your entire retirement savings?” Lovelace asked, keeping the accusation out of his voice with disarming charm.

“I lead a modest life. I have the savings for such an occasion. I am an old man, sir, and just once I would live a dream,” Klondike said, and again both Marshal and Pinkerton’s instincts tingled at the falsehood.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, the conversation appears to have taken more out of me than I would like,” and this, the lawmen knew was the truth.

Retired Major Henry Klondike shuffled off to bed, leaving Wilhem and Lovelace with more questions, but with somebody whom to ask.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO: RELOAD PART 5

Posted by Wordmobi

A full day of travelling in a stagecoach across Arizona desert would make most acrophobes seek the luxury of an airship. As there was no such vessel available that would see the lawmen as speedily delivered to Phoenix, the Marshals had to endure the hot, dusty and bumpy conditions of the coach.

On top of this, and all around them, Lightning and Wilhem also had to endure the companionship of Marshal Wendel Caine, who filled the interior either in bulk or in odour.

The situation could have been worse, though it beggared belief as to how. One would only have to ask James Lovelace who, despite travelling in more luxurious arrangements, had the company of Henry William Baker. A constant string of complaints about the heat, dust and anything else that caught his attention mapped the miles of desert with landmarks of categorical discomfort.

Masquerading as Bethany Cartwright, The Lightning Marshal had managed to avoid riding with Baker, insisting that her fellow marshals be included in the carriage for her protection. It had not been a flawless escape, though. The stagecoach offer had been traded for Baker’s insistence that “Ms Cartwright” join him for dinner in his private cabin.

In keeping with appearances, as well as ensuring that the Lightning Marshal continued keeping with them, in spite of Baker’s boorish charms, Marshal Wilhem attended as her escort.

“Ms Cartwright, it seems the dust of the road has not tarnished your beauty,” Baker said, searching for her hand to take and finding it not at all forthcoming. The German Marshal was to thank for this as Baker would have ended up kissing her knuckles in a manner far less pleasant.

“A delight to see you. Again.” Jac replied between taut lips while just above the lace fan she’s snapped open, her stormy eyes sparked.

Both Wilhem and Lovelace, hairs on the nape of their necks at full attention, stepped next to their charges.

“We never did learn the purpose of your journey, Ms Cartwright,” Lovelace said, trying to force some levity into the atmosphere with Sisyphean effort.

Wilhem took up the labour. “Ms Cartwright plans to attend zhe Aces High Poker Tournament.”

“What grand luck!” declared Baker. “I intend the very same.”

“How. Delightful,” Jac replied as her dreams of decent poker were swallowed by the overblown industrialist.

With one hand rubbing his wrist, chafed by the shackle connecting him to Baker’s substantial entry fee, Lovelace suggested that a practice game might pass the time over dinner.

It might well divest him of his burden as well as both lawmen would be merciless in emptying Baker’s wallet.

In the dining carriage, another burden was being relieved by Wendell Caine. Informed that he could help himself to what he liked on the buffet, both cook and waiters shivered when the Mountain Marshal had looked from the mountain of food, and then straight into their eyes.

“I’ll have… everything.”

None of it were beans and only some of the dishes had bacon, but it was good fare and for a man who had been raised on not wasting perfectly good food, both staff and other travellers had to work fast to ensure that no one else was left starving as the West Virginian trencherman worked the buffet with gastronomic devastation.

Under refrained manner and sterling silver, Lightning, Wilhem, Lovelace and Baker concluded dinner and, with the table cleared, began dealing cards.

“Given how much you’ve obviously spent on your outfit, Marshal, we’ll keep the stakes low,” Baker offered without the slightest hint of charity.

Wilhem, who had attended the carriage in finery that bespoke of his nobility back in the old country, set a fine example for Jac Lightning by not pointing out that he could buy the train the rode on and gamble it away tonight without a care.

“Very kind of you,” he replied instead. “I vould suggest zhen ve keep zhe low bid at fifty und stakes at vone-hundred.”

He then reached into the jacket pocket of his tuxedo and produced a stack of bills that he divided between Ms Cartwright and James Lovelace.

“Your funds, madam,” he offered. “Und stakes for Herr Lovelace as Poker is somevhat more fun vith four players.”

Baker blinked twice before he caught himself and nodded. Wilhem felt himself being audited by the industrialist as he shuffled and dealt the cards.

Both Jac Lightning and James Lovelace had played poker for years and fleeced William Henry Baker of his cash like a balding sheep. But it was Hans Octavius Wilhem who had found his charity returned to him with interest as he took hand after hand.

“An impressive display, Marshal. One wonders where you found the time to master such craft at cards,” Baker commented with no small bitterness.

With meticulous care, the German Marshal sorted his winnings. “It is an easier game zhan zhe type I play in zhe homeland,” he replied with a shrug. “Using just vone deck of cards does keep zhings simple.”

“I’ve heard marshals possess all manner of skills,” Lovelace smiled, his gaze drifting toward Ms Cartwright.

“Indeed,” Baker replied between tight lips as the Pinkerton’s gaze went right over his head.

The game continued late into the evening, long after the snores of a very contented Wendell Caine competed with the steam train in scaring the animals away. Baker, eager to recoup his losses, removed his stake in the tournament from a grateful James Lovelace, and used its contents to back a small resurgence of luck in the later hands, though hardly sufficient to call it a wash. Lovelace dominated the middle, winning some $3000.00, while Ms Cartwright managed to break even. It was clear though that Wilhem had enjoyed the most success of the game, increasing Baker’s disdain that he was willing to let Ms Cartwright free of his clutches to see the German Marshal quit his cabin.

Wilhem and Lightning managed to get halfway to their beds before both lawmen split their sides laughing.

…

With a screech of steel and a fierce whistle, the train pulled into Phoenix Central Station. The platform was clogged with passengers and, as the Marshals, Pinkerton and Baker stepped onto the side walk, the throng of people were headed under the shadow of five massive airships that floated with a majestic lull overlooking an expensive hotel. Those that filled the streets were a combination of onlookers, beggars and gambling hopefuls, eager to see those that could afford to fritter away the riches of Aces High. Patrolling the porch, heavy repeater rifles at hand, were intimidating guards; hulking with brass and silver enhancements. Showing their invitations, the residents of Ascension stepped into the hotel where things were much less crowded.

There were an assortment of people, some who filled the finery of suits, tuxedos or gowns with tailored skill, while others appeared to have been shoe-horned by prodigious cash and little taste. The bar bustled as glasses were handed over and, in the corner, a large table had been set up where a queue waited upon a small clerical man under the protection of two of the larger guards.

Caine, Lightning and Wilhem joined the line, along with Lovelace who had been freed of the satchel and under instructions to register in Baker’s name.

“Given zhe suspicion ov foul play,” Wilhem mused under his breath, “zhere might be prudence in adding anozher pair of eyes.”

Having wired ahead before leaving Ascension, the German Marshal had been able to secure funds from the allowance his family provided and, producing the stack of bills once again, added to James Lovelace’s winnings enough money to buy him a place at the tournament.

“That’s exceedingly kind of you,” said an astonished Lovelace.

“Not really. It mostly belongs to your employer,” Wilhem smiled.

Ahead of the line, Jac Lightning, almost forgot her disguise as, when asked if he possessed weapons, the gentleman ahead of her produced a large-calibre pistol with six valved chambers. It was polished to a gleaming shine and etched with care, but to the Lightning Marshal, it was not the appearance but rather the antiquity of the weapon. It was a Steam-Powered Repeating pistol– one of the earliest applications of gas-powered technology and a piece of history.

The clerk behind the table showed the same appreciation. “Sir, that is a most valuable means of protection!”

The owner of the gun, standing over six-and-a-half feet, broad-shouldered and bellied, with gun-metal grey thinning hair boomed his reply. “It’s a priceless means of protection, and I trust you have the security worthy of it.”

The engineer in Wilhem and Lovelace stomped their conversation to a close and wrestled their eyes onto the pistol. What had gone unnoticed by Jac Lightning was the engraving amongst the filigree. It was a ceremonial pistol presented to officers who had won the Mexican-American War forty years ago.

“If I vere you,” Wilhem suggested somewhat breathlessly, “I vould insist it deserves zhe same care und security as your deposit.”

“An easy arrangement and one that would make me more comfortable,” the clerk agreed and, at his behest, one of the guards produced a heavy iron strongbox laden with cash.

The owner of the pistol turned to face the Marshals and Pinkerton. “I see I’m not alone in appreciation of history.”

“It vas a marvel ov its time, sir, und vone zhat should be cherished,” Wilhem replied, his voice heavy with reverence.

“Edward Stokes,” the man announced, thrusting out a large hand now that it had been divested of the pistol.

“Baronet Hans Von Wilhem,” the German Marshal replied, taking his hand, as the shock to Lightning and Lovelace stayed hidden behind their practised poker faces.

“You’ve travelled far to be here,” Stokes smiled.

“Cards are an entertaining distraction from history und engineering,” Wilhem smiled back.

With promises to meet aboard the airships, Edward Stokes ambled to the bar while Ms Cartwright registered for the tournament. To the relief of Wilhem, the counterfeit stakes of the late Spokey Sampson went unnoticed and were added to the the strongbox, with the rest of the cash secured with the luggage, ready to be loaded aboard by Ms Cartwright’s manservant, Wendell Caine.

“Baronet?” Lovelace whispered once registration was finished.

“Anozher time, perhaps,” Wilhem whispered back as the two gentlemen chose a spot at the bar, far away from William Henry Baker who was already chewing the ears of a group of wealthy contestants.

Jac Lightning’s electric-blue eyes surveyed the crowd in a manner, she hoped, was ‘softer’ than searching for an outlaw. She was, in fact, doing just that, waiting to see if anyone approached or took interest in Bethany Cartwright. Aside from polite nods, there didn’t appear to be anyone who paid her much attention, which could mean that these people hadn’t arrived; or would approach her later aboard the airship; or knew Bethany Cartwright on sight.

She hoped it wasn’t the latter.

Hans Octavius Wilhem similarly scanned those assembled. His education in things mechanical and industrial identified a number of different contestants, most significantly Miss Constance Grimwheel, heir – or caretaker until she got herself a husband – of a vast business of hydraulic manufacture. Just turned thirty, she kept herself prim, though no amount of dress or make-up could conceal the hawkish glare as she circled groups of other wealthy industrialists, ready to descend into conversation.

Both marshals recognized a face that had graced many a wanted poster. An outlaw and suspected, though never convicted, gunman named Wiley Pete– so named for his signature weapon of a shotgun loaded with white phosphorus buckshot that had dispensed agonizing death to those who crossed him at cards.

Further scrutiny was interrupted as the clerk banged a gavel on the bar. Aside from his flanked security guards, the small bespectacled man stood in front of a blackboard, chalk poised in his hand and appearing as the best protected schoolteacher in Arizona.

“Good morning and greetings to all our contestants,” he bellowed. All conversation stopped in the hotel.

“Welcome to the seventh annual Aces High Poker Tournament. For those who have attended in the past, I ask your indulgence as I familiarise our new guests with the particulars of this event.

“Contestants will be randomly assigned to one of the four airships where they will play until a winner has been determined. Those winners will then be transferred to The Colorado to play in the grand final.”

“Only the winners and entourage will be allowed aboard The Colorado, though there will be updates via messenger to those interested aboard the other zeppelins. However, I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say that you’ll want to be there in the thick of it, am I right?”

A resounding cheer filled the room with one or two “Yee-haws!” by some of the less cultured contestants.

The clerk set about drawing the contestants, assigning them to their first table. By chance, Wilhem, Baker and Lovelace would be aboard the second airship while Ms Cartwright had been selected to play on the fourth airship. With the potential of the lawmen being divided, it was already agreed that Wendell Caine would act as Ms Cartwright’s servant, ensuring the Lightning Marshal was not without backup.

All that remained was for each of them to win against the richest or canniest poker players of the country to see what legacy Spokey Sampson had left behind.

As the contestants filed out of the hotel, to be conveyed to their respective airships, a name on the roster stopped Jac Lightning in her tracks. It was a name she had seen before and, given her lack of interest in reading, meant she could only have seen it on a wanted poster or in her father’s journals. And it was in such a journal that she remembered a weapon’s smuggler who worked during the Mexican-American War to deliver explosives to the enemy inside the border. Suspected of masterminding several underhanded and explosive chapters of the war, he had been captured, imprisoned and, obviously by his presence, had been released and acquired considerable wealth.

His name was Jacques Sanchez.

The Frexican.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO: RELOAD, PART 4

Posted by Wordmobi

It was not an unfamiliar sound to hear inside Etheric Delights, even from the professional girls of Madame Ether’s employ. But this was no dulcet tone or scream of high-pitched indignation. There were two-dollar banjos that had less twang than the drawl dripping off that shout.

Jac Lightning had never been cleaner, or more uncomfortable in her life. The bath had smelled funny, the scrubbing brushes stung like hell, there were at least three layers of clothing that, to the Lightning Marshal’s reckoning, all did the same blasted thing; which was cover up the unmentionables and seek to confound her at every step. The hat was so small it had to be pinned in place and there was nowhere she could find that would give her quick access to her gun.

Then Wilhemina Ether had showed her the boots.

Jac Lightning had worn riding boots for about as long as she’d been able to walk, so the notion of a heel wasn’t strange to her. Why, though, somebody would want to walk on such an uneven and tiny scrap of leather, balanced on point sharper than some knives she owned, for any length of time beggared belief. She’d have just as soon have Thunder’s horseshoes nailed to her feet.

Madame Ether was both unperturbed and undaunted. All three of the Marshals had explained the vital importance of her tutelage, and the proprietor of Etheric Delights owed her business and her life to the actions of these lawmen.

Jac Lightning squeezed her foot into the boot, lost her grip and skewered through the plush velvet settee nearby.

Madame Ether figured this would make them about even.

With as much grace as a newborn foal, the Lightning Marshal descended the stairs of Etheric Delights, feet arched like never before, breaths coming in short gasps and sweat beading on her forehead. Off the stairs and sighing as much as her garments allowed, Jac peered around the lobby and saw the other girls in the whorehouse had been busy.

There was a long table laid out and covered in a shining white tablecloth. Motes of silver danced off fine polished cutlery from the candlelight arrayed between delicate crockery. It was the most crowded Jac Lightning had seen a table that didn’t have any food on it.

Adjusting the silverware with fastidious attention was Hans Octavius Wilhem, who had, along with Wendell Caine, decided discretion to be the better part of valour and had returned to the office. The Iron Marshal had divested himself of his armour and was wearing a tightly pressed dinner suit.

It was possible that Wendell Caine had combed his beard but none were eager to study close enough to prove it.

“Holl-y… She really is a woman!” Caine exclaimed under his breath. Wilhem, for his part, demonstrated diplomacy by not showing amusement at Jac’s discomfort.

There would be plenty of time for that over dinner.

Jac Lightning approached the table, watching the candlesticks and collection of utensils with a wary gaze in case she were to stumble over them. To the assembled crowd of lawmen and prostitutes though, the steps came more confident, more balanced. The Lightning Marshal was making a case for being the fastest student in the west.

It didn’t stop her complaining.

“These things pinch my feet like the deepest darkest circles of Hell! Why would you wear ‘em at all?”

“It adds a wonderful swish to your hips though,” Madam Ether offered. Jac looked down.

“Hey look at that!” Jac exclaimed.

“Yeah, you got ‘em!” Caine said equally shocked.

Wilhem took out Jac’s chair, which earned him a severe frown but she took her seat at the table, shifting about as she tried to arrange the countless folds in her dress so that she wouldn’t put her heel through them. Wilhem then did the same for Madame Ether, noticing that she had watched with a forlorn stare as Wendell Caine had marched straight to his chair and slumped into it. The Iron Marshal sat last.

“Vhile ve vait for dinner, zhere is zhe matter of your diction,” he said.

“What’s wrong with my fuckin’ diction!” Jac snapped.

“Do you even know what ‘diction’ is?” Ether asked.

Jac thought about it for a moment, “nope.”

“Let’s begin there. It is what makes up your speech and pronunciation as to how easily you are understood.”

Jac Lightning already looked lost.

“How Marshal Wilhem talks,” Ether continued. “I believe the more familiar vernacular is ‘Hoighty-Toighty’?”

Wilhem interjected. “If you’re going to look like you’re rich, you need to sound like it too.”

Having looked like she’d caught up with the idea, Jac listened as Madam Ether continued.

“Try saying this: The rain, in Spain, falls mainly on the plain.”

Madame Ether’s eardrums hummed like a plucked guitar string as Jac repeated the exercise.

“Why would it just fall in the fuckin’ plain! It would fall everywhere else in Spain too! This is fuckin’ stupid!” she said almost before she finished up.

“…okay.” Madame Ether looked helpless.

“Try zhis instead,” Wilhem suggested. “She sells sea shells by the sea shore.”

“Zhee zells zhee zhells by zhe zhee zzzzzzssshore.” Jac attempted. Wilhem pinched his brow.

“Let me try that again,” and then all traces of weariness and accent were lost as Wilhem repeated the phrase like he’d been schooled in Oxford. The German Marshal had always been gifted in languages, speaking more than either of his partners reckoned, though it was only in English Wilhem maintained his German affectation.

“She sells sea shells by the sea shore.” Jac repeated. Madame Ether’s eardrums hummed less that time.

“Shore,” she corrected.

“Sure,” Jac parroted.

“No. Shore!” Ether repeated.

“Sho-reee,” Jac apologised. Ether sighed.

“I got one!” Caine called out. “Moses supposes his toeses are roses.” And then everyone’s jaw dropped as he continued. “But Moses supposes erroneously.”

Wilhem nearly fell of his chair while Wilhemina Ether raised her fan above her nose to hide her blushing cheeks.

“That ain’t bad!” Jac said, lessons already gone like water of a duck’s back.

“Just somethin’ I heard once,” Caine shrugged.

The lessons continued until the first course of dinner arrived, and the curriculum changed to topics ranging from ‘What Utensil Gets Used for What Dish’, ‘Yes, There Will Be More Food, Just Not in This Course’, and ‘It’s Not Water, It’s Gin!’ Resorting to his upbringing, Wilhem would admonish the Lightning Marshal with a smack on the wrist each time she did something ‘unladylike’ and the lessons were obviously taking because Jac didn’t respond by decking the German Marshal.

There followed a number of simple dances and it was here that Jac Lightning stunned everyone gathered as she swayed, turned and stepped in both perfect time and perfect poise, the shoes no longer appearing to hobble her; and as the evening drew to its close, Madame Ether bad the marshals farewell, confident that Jac Lightning would be seen as ladylike or, at the very worse, eccentric.

…

Pinkerton Detective, James Lovelace, had not had the most pleasant of evenings.

It was bad enough that there was all manner of ungodly cursing taking place in the House of Etheric Delights, which was interrupting what had started out as a relaxing day. Madame Ether had made the Pinkerton swear by everything he held dear that he not enter the lobby, no matter what he heard. In return, a girl had been given to him, free of charge, to attend any of his needs beyond the room. This had been pleasant enough that was until his client and partner of Ithaca Rifling Company, William Henry Baker had summoned him into the ostentatious bedroom.

The corpulent businessman was huffing and puffing as he moved from cupboard to suitcase and back again. The day had seen the most exercise Baker had ever undertaken, making laps between Etheric Delights and the telegraph office.

“Where you are going, Mr Baker?” Lovelace asked, catching him mid-stride.

“I think you mean ‘where are we going’,” Baker said over his shoulder, retrieving a tent-like dinner jacket and pushing it into the overflowing suitcase. “We got an appointment with a number of very wealthy folk attending the Aces High Poker Tournament.”

Lovelace, having been in the country for some years, as well as being a keen poker player himself, had heard of the grand game and the type of wealth or skill it took to enter. The Pinkerton Detective Agency had made him further familiar with the event as a number of agents had been hired to provide security. Unfortunately his employment, or his skill, had seen him attend until now.

Playing down his excitement with the very same card skill-set, Lovelace calmly said “I didn’t know you played poker.”

“I don’t. Well not really. I know how to play the game but I make my money using my head, not throwing it away to luck.” Lovelace frowned at the obvious scorn his client held.

Baker continued. “But there are a number of industry representatives in attendance who would be of great assistance to the company and the Space Gun project. So much so it demands a face-to-face meeting and so long as they don’t care what happens to their money, it might as well benefit me some.”

Baker froze, then spun on his heel toward his safe, spun the combination and produced a sturdy, reinforced, and locked leather bag. Approaching the Pinkerton, Baker ignored propriety by cuffing the bag to Lovelace’s wrist.

“Entry fee,” was all he offered by way of explanation.

Lovelace looked down his nose at the latest attachment and his treatment. Baker had no regard for anyone in his employ. The Pinkerton bit his tongue though as that same assignment might get him a seat at the tournament if he, to use the phrase, played his cards right.

“We got an early start tomorrow. Aces High picks up the contestants in Phoenix and we need to be there in less than two days,” Baker finished, and then continued to pack, having all but politely dismissed Lovelace for the evening.

Left holding a bag with what would be a vast sum, James Lovelace fought down the urge to start fresh and returned to his room where a bed and a very large scotch was waiting.

…

Breakfast had turned into another opportunity to continue Jac Lightning’s lessons in etiquette, with Wilhem having prepared a four-course repast and cutlery for each meal.

“Which one’s the bean-fork?” Jac asked, still struggling to get comfortable in her new clothes.

“Zhere is no bean fork. Vone vould eat beans vith a spoon.” Wilhem replied.

“Okay, which one is the bean-spoon?” Jac asked.

“Zhere is no beans!” Wilhem said, making his point with another smack to her wrist.

With Jac was sullen and Wilhem annoyed, only Wendell Caine looked to be enjoying breakfast. So was Smokey, who had been given all four courses Wilhem had painstakingly prepared while the Mountain Marshal had made himself to chilli.

“Mighty fine, this,” Caine beamed around each overflowing spoonful.

Jac glared across her pitifully small plate.

“Reckon there might be some cornbread left too,” Caine grinned.

Under the reproachful glare of Wilhem, Jac bit back her first response and negotiated her way around something more civilised.

“Wouldn’t that be… delightful,” she replied tight-lipped. Smokey’s ears went flat at that as he looked to the door.

Wilhem’s gaze left Jac and focused on Caine. “Zhere remains the detail ov vhat your role in zhis vill be.”

“Simple,” Caine shrugged. “I’ll be goin’ as one of them fellas which carry all the baggage.”

“Vell, zhat shall require a bath, a suit and a trim of both beard und hair.”

Chilli spilled off the spoon as Caine froze. “I meant one of them whatchamacallits. A porter.”

“So did I,” Wilhem replied.

“I ain’t doin’ all that just to haul luggage” Caine growled.

“You vouldn’t pass as vone othervise,” Wilhem growled back.

Smokey picked up her bucket of very delicious breakfast and carried it to the porch as each of the lawmen started shouting at one another.

“At zhe very least, you vill have to wear pants, shirt und jacket. Not ‘overalls und pie’!” Wilhem ordered.

“But pumpkin’s my favourite!” Caine protested, fishing errant chunk and popping it into his mouth.

“How could you tell?” Wilhem yelled, disgusted.

“It was orange!” Caine shouted back. “If it were apple, it would be brown!”

For a brief moment, Jac Lightning was the most civilised person at the table. In the end, a grudging truce was reached where Caine would dress to the role and at least comb his hair and beard.

Breakfast finished, the lawmen set out to the stagecoach Wilhem had arranged to convey them across the half-day desert journey to the train to Phoenix. The boxes of counterfeit cash had been transported from the Cartwright house and were loaded, along with Jac’s new parade of luggage, Wilhem’s suitcases – as he would also masquerade as somebody rich enough to participate in the tournament and keep a watch for anything suspicious – and Annie, who Madame Ether had been gracious enough to assign to the Lightning Marshal as a maid and clothes assistant.

Ready to depart, they saw both William Henry Baker and James Lovelace making the same arrangements.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jac said in a voice much smoothed by the diction lessons.

James Lovelace turned and beheld a vision of white silk and lavender, a coiffed and refined lady who peered through her lashes at him.

“Well, well,” Lovelace began. “I don’t believe we’ve been intro-erk!”

His throat seized up as he deduced who stood behind the parasol and petticoats.

“What on earth…” Lovelace asked or at least tried to before he was cut off.

“Why, I  don’t believe we’ve met, young lady,” Baker interrupted.

Both Lovelace and Lightning repressed a shudder as the otherwise reprehensible industrialist attempted to be charming.

It was going to be an even longer journey.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3

Posted by Wordmobi

There wasn’t anything of woman-born that got the Lightning Marshal to do more than raise an eyebrow or narrow a stare – being that the Lightning clan were possessed of a confidence that meant any surprise could, at worst, be shot dead – but for Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wendell Caine, the prospect of racing to their partner’s aid was outdone by the fact that she’d be fixing to shoot somebody and what had caused her to gasp was, in part, their fault.

There were even fewer things got Jac Lightning into petticoats, dresses and corsetry.

One knee braced against her back, two hands pulling back on string that would make any beast of burden, no matter how mistreated, thank its rider for their kindness; the Lightning Marshal swore things to Annie, one of the girls of Etheric Delighs, that would turn the most vicious desperado into a whipped cur.

Annie kept tugging, Jac’s epithet lost as air bolted out of her lungs like a stallion near a wasp nest. The girl had something on her side that trumped a Lightning’s curse:

A Lightning’s pride; and Jac Lightning was going to be a lady, dammit!

EARLIER

It was the other side of Pay Day in the small town of Ascension. The workers of Colt Industries and Ithaca Rifling Company had, once again, descended on the town like cash-laden hurricane and had cleared it of almost every bottle and woman bearing a price tag. Despite the frivolity, no laws were broke and people made sure to tip their hat or shake the hands of the marshals when they saw them patrol. The lawmen, as well as Pinkerton Detective James Lovelace, had saved the town from fiery ruin while dooming perpetual menace ‘Spokey Sampon’ to that very fate.

With the town safe, though shy a marshal’s office resulting from the battle, the town hadn’t been this quiet since the death of Harry Winsome. Spokey’s criminal empire in tatters made the job of upholding the law a lot easier in Ascension. The most contentious affair to occur was the growing battle between Buckshot Buchannan of the Ignit-Inn and James Brasshorn of Brasshorn’s Tavern as each campaigned for the office of Mayor of Ascension. The town was inundated with posters, banners and ribbons that proclaimed the virtues of one and extolling the vices of the other. It affected the town insofar as it meant each drink seemed to come with a campaign pledge, which hadn’t done each business very well until it was announced by each bartender that their first act of office would be a free round for whoever voted for them.

Other than slower whiskey and some name-calling, it was a war that, in light of everything that had happened to Ascension since their arrival, the marshals were content to let lie.

Jac Lightning and Wendell Caine lazed on the porch while Hans Octavius Wilhem was busy finishing the new office around them.

“…as in person ov ill vill, or a chicken,” Octavius was explaining in between hammering nails into the shingles on the roof.

“Why don’t you just call them a chicken?” Jac Lightning asked, a pen in her hand staining an already ink-blot heavy piece of paper addressed to Ma Lightning.

“It’s a family name zhat’s spelled differently: F-O-W-L,” Octavius continued, as did the hammering. “Like tigers and cats.”

“Tigers and cats are of the same family?” Jac asked agog at the revelation.

Octavius sighed. “Surely even you can tell zhe similarities between zhem.”

“Well yeah,” Jac retorted, a little indignant at being treated like a fool. “I just figured cats grew into tigers,”

“What, while you weren’t looking,” Caine shot back. Above them the hammering continued which, to both marshals, sounded louder than before.

Deciding to pick it up later, the Lightning Marshal abandoned the letter and went to the stables, mounting her horse Thunder and riding out, once more, to the former house of Bethany Cartwright and hideout of Spokey Sampson.

Since the revelation of the outlaw’s true identity, only Jac Lightning had taken some time to investigate the cottage on the far outskirts of town. Wilhem being occupied with resurrecting the office as well as mollifying the workers of Colt and Ithaca about their inability to vote in the elections by suggesting the formation of a town council that would accept applicants of either camps, while Caine had no interest in either pursuit and had settled for lifting or holding things that aided construction efforts. There wasn’t much to find though as the Mountain Marshal had thoroughly destroyed the shed where spare airship parts, explosives and who knew what else were kept. The house had revealed little about Cartwright herself or the occupants she’d, no doubt, stolen it from, until Lightning had searched the basement. Something that would have been a cursory glance for the Wilhem, had taken most of the day in investigation from Lightning but had, nonetheless, revealed letters between Cartwright and her former husband; shedding a little more light on the recently deceased crime-boss:

Bethany Cartwright had been Bethany Sampson, once upon a time. Her husband, Samuel, had been an inventor, engineer and ruthless head of outlaw activity across the new frontier until, being caught cheating in a poker game, had died under gunfire from a disgruntled player. With no means of supporting herself or her son, Bethany had covered up the death of her husband and masqueraded as him as she took over the criminal activities for ten years. Harry Winsome, who changed his surname to protect his mother’s identity, ensured the secret by acting as liaison and enforcer to Spokey Sampson and the rest was history and, now, obituarary.

It was back in the basement that Jac Lightning found herself, poking around with the toe of her boot and more pleased about getting out of town and doing something, rather than listen to Wilhem go on about ‘gee-net-tics’ again. Other than the letters, the basement had been a workshop for Cartwright, who was the equal of her former husband as far as cog-wrangling went. Plans and half-finished designs had been shipped lock-stock to the new office for Wilhem to study when time permitted. All that was left was shelves and benches.

The Lightning Marshal finished a circuit of the basement as the sun descended on another day and rays of golden light streamed through the small window overhead, spotlighting the dancing dust motes and drawing Jac’s eye to a heavy shelf placed against a wall. It might have been a trick of the light but she could swear that the light continued past the shelf and the brick wall behind it.

With a heave, Jac Lightning pushed at the shelf, discovering that it was, in fact, bolted to the wall and that both wall and shelf hadn’t budged an inch under her shoulder. Regardless of the wall’s stubbornness, she could see that there was something behind it that swallowed up the sunlight. Unable to do anything about it, the Lightning Marshal decided she needed either brains or brawn to do the work and was back atop Thunder and racing back to Ascension in no time.

Tired of listening to the sounds of either Wilhem’s yammering or hammering, Wendell Caine decided to patrol Ascension; the focus of his patrol being a loop between any place still offering him free whiskey, making the streets between the Ignit-Inn and Brasshorn’s the safest place in town. There had been one other place only too happy to provide anything he desired, but it weren’t proper for him to be visiting Etheric Delights or Wilhemina Ether who had extended him the offer.

The ‘patrol’ came to a halt as Jac reined Thunder up next to him.

“Howdy Jac,” Caine drawled.

“Howdy Caine. Something strange goin’ on out by the old Cartwright place. Wanna check it out?”

“Yeah, pretty quiet here.”

The two marshals gathered Wilhem along the way, catching his interest at the mention of a secret door, and arrived back at the basement.

There was a click and a whirr as Wilhem’s magnificent armor lowered a spidery collection of magnifying lenses over his eyes and the Iron Marshal studied both wall and shelf intently.

“Y’know if we just grabbed it and pulled, that should get it open,” Caine suggested.

“Und likely our heads blown off,” Wilhem replied, not looking up as each knot of wood was brought under his intense scrutiny.

“Seems like Spokey was a big fan of explosives,” Jac added. Caine let Wilhem go about his work. A short minute later, the combination keen perception and intuitive engineering prowess revealed the mechanism and the door swung on greased rails, revealing the room beyond.

Thee marshals stood at the doorway, sunlight now pouring in and revealing a very large and complex-looking machine, possessed of two large rollers and a conveyor belt dominating the centre and four heavy wooden crates stacked against the wall.

“It’s a printing press…” Wilhem said, frowning at the machine’s very presence, “how odd.”

Caine, meanwhile, turned his attention to the crates. The boards were nailed shut, sealing its contents inside until the Mountain Marshal found his grip. With a wrench, the boards were pulled back and off the lid, revealing the largest sum of money Wendell Caine had seen in his life.

“Whooeee,” he whistled as the other marshals gathered around him. Reaching inside, Caine produced a thick wad of hundred dollars bills that was plucked out of his paw by the Iron Marshal as he fished around the machine with his other hand, producing two embossed and shiny plates of metal.

“Counterfeit, if I’m any judge,” Wilhem declared and the magnifying glasses crawled over his eyes again. Currency of the United States had certain identifiers both in the pattern and the paper that proved its authenticity and Wilhem was proficient enough to distinguish each of them. The paper was not authentic, but it was close enough. A casual handler might think the notes crisp or new but not suspicious. The patterns and designs were remarkable feats of replication and more than once, Wilhem had to check the plates to confirm they weren’t the real thing.

“Remarkable counterfeit though,” Wilhem concluded. “I daresay Spokey vas using this to bankroll her criminal activities. It vould be a serious concern, had ve not already dealt vith zhe perpetrator.”

“How much is in there?” Jac asked, keeping the breathlessness out her voice.

“If zhe rest are like zhis, perhaps two-hundred zhousand dollars.” Wilhem replied, the incredulity more than present in his.

“We can’t tell anyone about this,” Caine spoke up. Both marshals whipped around to him. “We take this thing apart and burn the rest.”

It was a while before Jac spoke. “You sayin’ we should burn the evidence.”

“Word gets out that Cartwright’s been passin’ around funny money and we’s got ourselves a riot.” Caine said with flat solemnity. To Jac’s right, she saw Wilhem carefully nodding.

The Lightning Marshal looked down at her boots, considering what this meant for her honor as a marshal versus what it would mean for the town and the hundreds of workers either side of it when something under the printing press caught her eye. Thinking it a discarded counterfeit bill, she picked it up and found it to be thicker, heavier and gold-inlaid. Not the product of this machine.

The other marshals gathered around her, eyes catching the sparkle of sunlight as it bounced of the golden gilt borders and caused the embossed zeppelins at each corner to shine. Reading the intricate and expensive calligraphy, Wilhem announced what it was.

“It’s an invitation. A tournament called Aces High.”

Wilhem and Caine had heard rumor of Aces High: a tournament for poker players who gambled vast sums of money. Jac Lightning knew more;

“Got me a brother who played in that tournament once; said it was held aboard a fleet of fancy airships. Winners get to go to the biggest airship of ‘em all: The Colarado. Aint’ nothin’ but two types of people who get close to playin’ in a tournament; real good or real rich.”

“Vich vone vas your brother?” Wilhem asked.

Jac fixed him with a look. Lightnings’ were known for being loaded, just not with cash.

“Jedidiah Lightning got hisself a big re-ward ‘bout the time them airships had docked. One of the better gamblers of us, he was able to use it for entry fee when he got invited. Ten thousand dollars it cost him. Told me it was fan-cy!”

“I vould hope so,” Wilhem replied. To the German Marshal, it was not an inconsiderable sum of money – him being of minor Prussian nobility and the benefactor of a healthy inheritance – but it wasn’t the kind of number you threw away on chance.

“Ma gave him hell for wastin’ it all but Jedidiah told me he’d do it all over again even with the whuppin’. Best game and time of his life though some shifty fellas up there. Heard tell cheaters get dropped off the side.”

Wilhem took it all in as Caine spoke up. “So all this is her stake in this here tournament?”

“Perhaps, but unlikely,” Wilhem said as much to himself as to the others. “Vhile zhe amounts of money for such a game vould be considerable, two crates vould easily bankroll such an event.

“Two participants then?” Caine suggested.

“But vone invitation,” Wilhem replied. “She vas a secret crime-boss who stashed zhis in a secret room vithin a secret hideout. She vas not a big spender. Zhere is a larger purpose to zhis.”

“So what do we do about it?” Jac asked.

“Vell, I suppose ve should contact zhe Aces High organizers und find out more about vhat is happening,” Wilhem shrugged.

Jac turned the invitation over in her hand, quick fingers made the sunlight dance across the gilt writing until it shone on the, as yet, unnoticed name.

“This ain’t addressed to Spokey Sampson,” Jac frowned. “This here’s for Bethany Cartwright. Why would she get an invitation?”

“Perhaps she meant to circulate her phony cash vith zhe real thing. But even zhen, zhere is vay too much money, including buy in and stakes zhat she could get avay vith that. Zhere is no profit in it,” Wilhem said, the problem needling at his considerable intellect.

“Too bad we can’t ask her,” Caine said with no remorse whatsoever.

Wilhem look up to the stone ceiling at that and then, as if propelled by one of his inventions, turned to regard Jac Lightning with a look.

It did not go unnoticed.

“I’ve seen that look before, Wilhem,” Jac said with wary caution.

“You’re only a small amount taller zhan her,” Wilhem muttered, thinking out loud rather than answering her.

“I’d keep thinkin’ if I were you,” Jac warned. Wilhem didn’t seem to hear her.

“You could possibly fit into her wardrobe,” he continued. Jac Lightning eyes got wide at that but before she could snap off her opinion of the addled German’s idea, she was interrupted.

“I don’t know, Wilhem,” Caine said glancing for one brief moment at the tense Lightning Marshal. “If anybody knew what Bethany Cartwright looked like, there’d be trouble; might be too risky.”

Risky.

Jac Lightning always left consideration and thought for when the ozone cleared and the shooting stopped. Often it was that instinct and reaction which saved her. This time, though…

“Too risky for a Lightning!” she rounded on the Mountain Marshal. “Ain’t nothin’ too risky for a Lightning, I’ll have you know! What, you think I can’t pull off a dress?”

“I think you can’t put on a dress!” Caine snapped back and Jac not only swallowed the bait, she asked for seconds.

“I’ll have you know I am a lady, and what’s more, I can act like one too when I want,” she spat. Wilhem squeezed his eyes shut at that while it began to dawn on the Lightning Marshal what she just agreed to.

“I mean, if that’s what the situation calls for…”

“I zhink ve can assume zhat, given the sums of money, zhere is a situation here,” Wilhem sighed.

“A situation worth about $200,000.00,” Caine added.

“Might be she was looking transfer zhe cash.” Wilhem suggested.

“Or hold the place up,” Caine said.

“Not with the security on board,” Jac replied. “Cross these guys and you cease to be ballast.”

“Zhen zhe poker tournament is a front for something else,” Wilhem declared. “Perhaps she meant to meet more ov zhe criminal element and garner more power. If so, ve have an opportunity to bring zhose people down as vell.”

“Except it all depends on Jac wearin’ a dress,” Caine shrugged.

“I can wear a dress just fine!” Jac shouted, her dander up. “I am, after all, a fe-male!”

It did not go unnoticed to either of them that ‘fe’ was nailed on like a fifth wheel to a carriage. But it was clear that Jac’s pride was now on the line and whether she could or couldn’t masquerade as a lady, let alone Bethany Cartwright, the cards had been dealt.

“How long we got?” Caine asked

“According to zhe invitation, two days.” Wilhem replied.

“Only one person who can turn Jac into a lady in that kinda time.”

…

Madam Ether considered the request, her black lace fan approaching hummingbird speed.

“…does it come off?”

“Does what come off?” Jac drawled.

“…anything?” Ether stammered.

NOW

“Each curse is can bring that waist down another inch,” Madame Ether said as Annie continued to tug. After the trouble of getting the Lightning Marshal to give up her father’s hat, the Madame of Etheric Delights was wholly without mercy.

And so began the schooling in the one skillset avoided at large by the Lightning clan:

Etiquette.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2

Posted by Wordmobi

Those outlaws were under something much worse now. They knew it. And they knew that the only casualty in a fight like this was the landscape and anyone on it.

Jac Lightning and Wendell Caine glanced away for a second as the bandits, to a man, abandoned the battle and rode hard for the horizon. Neither of them pursued.

A cold gust blew a tumbleweed across the dust, it’s haunting whistle the only sound. And then a voice, distorted by speakers and distance, boomed from the heavens.

“Consider this your only warning if you try anything, Marshals!”

The airship hung overhead, out of the range of the Lightning Coil Throwers and the Wave Mortar, but maybe not of the other weapons about. Wendell Caine looked about the ruined tank for any weapon that hadn’t been pulverised. Jac Lightning cantered toward the half-train where Hans Octavius Wilhem had his gauntleted hands poised over the control panel.

And James Lovelace edged toward the harpoon gun.

“If you had just played along like Sheriff Benson did, we wouldn’t have ourselves in this mess!” The voice echoed as Jac Lightning tried to pick out the voice through the distance and distortion. Both were too much to give up the airship pilot’s identity.

“We could have kept this civil, quiet and be rich, but no! No you had to turn up in Ascension and ruin everything!’

Wilhem allowed himself a trace of a smile. Money had never been a concern for either of the Marshals. Lightning did the work because that was all what their family did. Caine didn’t need anything that he couldn’t eat, drink or fight and he himself had only seen his wealth as a means to continuing his inventions. Lovelace though…

Wilhem looked over his shoulder to see the Pinkerton Detective at the harpoon gun, doing something with the very long length of cable attached to it. Whatever his history, Lovelace had helped the Marshals out at each turn. Wilhem kept the boiler hot and the half-train ready to move.

Aboard the ruined tank, Caine sifted through broken and shredded metal but nothing of the tank’s armaments had survived Wave Mortar’s onslaught. His rifle unable to find the range of the airship, the Mountain Marshal sat astride Smokey, whose flank while injured, was able to bear the weight, and made his way toward the half-train too.

At a thousand metres up, it might not be clear what any of the lawmen were doing on the ground, but it clearly wasn’t surrender. The voice boomed again, playing its hole card.

“Be advised, marshals: the bomb I planted in your office wasn’t the only one I left in Ascension! If you don’t surrender, that town and everyone in it get blown to kingdom come!”

Gathering around the half-train, the Marshals looked to one another for an instant at the news that Ascension could end up a smoking crater. It was only for an instant though. It could be a bluff and even if it wasn’t, the bombs, if they were the same as the one in their former office, would be on timers as well. If they acted fast, they could catch Spokey and get back to the town in time to defuse them all.

Quick as the marshals considered this, James Lovelace had been even quicker. Standing up from the harpoon gun, he kicked the lock out from the trigger and said one word.

“Talley-ho!”

And with an echoing twang, both harpoon and Pinkerton shot into the sky at the airship.

It was a risky venture to say the least and none knew that more than the man tethered to the soaring harpoon. First he had to have judged his target correctly, and then be dexterous enough to grab onto the gondola together, as well as strong enough to hang on and tough enough to take what he expected to be a very hard stop. In essence, he needed each of three marshals singular talents to ensure he survived this idea.

And when the harpoon ploughed into the gondola and his tether snapped, leaving him with nothing but a thousand yards between him and the ground, James Lovelace needed a new plan.

Back on earth, Hans Octavius Wilhem, seeing the harpoon sink home but not the beginning of Lovelace’s fall, slammed on the half-train’s brakes to leash the airship. The jolt sent a slow rippling wave up the length of the steel cable a moment before Jac Lightning, still astride Thunder mid-canter, reached out for the taught cable between half-train and airship. With her trusty Lightning Coil Thrower in the other, The Lightning Marshal was an instant too late as the cable snapped out of her reach and lashed against her gun, sending a charge along the cable. There was a heavy thump to her left as Wendell Caine had leapt off Smokey and onto the cable winch and spool, reading to climb up himself.

The result high above was the electric blast travelled into the Mountain Marshal’s body, leaving only a small current to travel the length of cable and into James Lovelace’s arms. Muscles clamped shut like a steel trap around the cable, until the whiplash from Wilhem’s piloting bodily flung the Pinkerton off his perch like a bucking bronco and into the webbing of the airship’s balloon. His hands scrambled with fury though it was more because of the tangled mess he’d been flung into that kept Lovelace aloft and anchored to the airship.
Muscles twitching, bruises forming and blood pooling around his feet, the Pinkerton Detective froze, hanging upside down on the side of the balloon but safe from the vagaries of gravity. After a minute of stark terror, he decided that it was safe enough to start breathing again.

“Keep it steady, Wilhem!” Jac Lightning called out. “That fool Englishman’s still up there!”

Wilhem released the brakes and stoked the boiler, the half-train picking up speed again and travelling south.

“Where are you going?” Lighting yelled over the machinery, having drawn Thunder into a gallop beside the cabin.

“Ascension!” Wilhem yelled back. “If Spokey has rigged zhe town, he’ll tell us vhere zhe bombs are or he gets a close look at his handiverk.

The Lightning Marshal nodded and then her eyes went wide as inspiration struck like her namesake.

“I’ll meet you there!” She cried, digging the spurs into Thunder and storming ahead toward town.

Hand-over-hand Wendell Caine began the herculean task of climbing the cable. The half-train was moving at break-neck pace that the airship was unable to maintain, the result being that Spokey’s vessel trailed behind like a kite. Further helping the ascent was the mechanical winch that fought against the airship as it wound the cable, dragging the airship down. With the rope at a somewhat more comfortable angle and getting shorter, the burly lawman was making decent time as he swung from hand to hand, legs dangling over an ever-growing drop.

Breathing established and limbs willing to trust him again, James Lovelace explored the ropes and cables that kept him from falling head-first off the airship. It hurt to move or breathe so the investigation crawled, but the thoroughness made him a little more confident when he, with ginger care, extricated one leg from the webbing. Certain that he had wrapped ropes around his arms three times over, he disentangled the other leg and in a terrified jarring movement, found himself right ways up. Against better judgement, the Pinkerton looked down and was relieved to see that the ground was, in fact, getting closer. So was Wendell Caine who was nearing the centre of the harpoon’s cable. It was then that Spokey had enough.

Mounted at each corners of the gondola was a light belt-fed machine gun, designed to repel that which the bombs did not obliterate. The Mountain Marshal’s quick ascent had brought him into range and Spokey made no bones at firing at the dangling target. The distance remained considerable as the opening salvo went wide but over the whistling wind, Wendell Caine could hear the buzzing of bullets getting closer as the machine guns were finding their mark.

As fast as he was able, Lovelace scaled down the balloon and toward the gondola. He needed to find a way in to disable the guns before they riddled the Mountain Marshal’s hairy bulk. The door at the side of the Gondola was obstinate, locked to prevent intruders even from this altitude.

Hot lead stung the shoulder of Wendell Caine and blood poured down his arm, matting his beard in red clumps. Despite this, the Mountain Marshal’s hands stayed locked around the cable and, over the agony of his shoulder, continued to swing hand over hand, getting closer to the airship. The bullets would get closer to him before that happened but the only reason Caine’s hands would leave the cable was when Spokey’s throat was in reach. Another bullet spat into his leg, kicking him around like a bed sheet on a clothesline and still he climbed.

Gunfire caught Wilhem’s ear over the pounding engine and the Iron Marshal looked up to see the line of bullets picking off pieces of his partner. Trusting in his vehicle to keep travelling straight and true, Wilhem fed another shell into the Wave Mortar and, with the airship having been pulled into range, fired it into the machine gun. A white-hot explosion rocked the airship but the harpoon remained lodged into the gondola and Caine remained attached to the cable and still climbed!

Unable to attempt picking the lock while one hand gripped the shaking rope with white-knuckled fury, the Pinkerton Detective, over the roar of exploding ammunition, searched the gondola for another means of entry. There was only one door, the bomb hatch that in likelihood would be closed until Spokey found a target, the hole where the harpoon had torn through the wood walls and the newest hole that now on fire. Locked, burning or too small to use, James Lovelace cursed between gritted teeth as his eyes scoured the length of the airship.

It was then he saw that Jac Lightning had found a way in.

Dragged to the outskirts of Ascension, where pillars of towering rock reached to the sky, the Lightning Marshal had left the half-train and airship in her dust as she urged Thunder across the desert night and up the tallest pillar.

One the airship would inevitably float past.

Having been reeled in, the airship was at just enough altitude that Jac Lightning could fling herself off her galloping horse, over the precipice of the plateau and, with Lightning Coil Throwers blazing before her, through the shattered glass window of the cockpit. She rolled to her feet, guns trained on the only seat in a cabin off buttons levers and dials.

In the centre, hands looped with lengths of wire that manipulated the machine guns like marionettes, periscopes affording a magnified view of the ground only a glance away and securely buckled to the chair sat the marshal’s housekeeper: Bethany Cartwright.

“You,” she hissed and rage poured out her lips that had, until then, held nothing more than a smile and a kind word for the marshals. “You have ruined everything!”

Having climbed around the gondola, James Lovelace crawled through the broken windscreen and into the cabin.

“Wilhem would positively have a German helmet if he was here,” he said as he took in the copious amounts of instruments. Then his eyes landed on Cartwright.

“What the deuce?” he exclaimed as furious eyes locked onto his.

“Meet Spokey Sampson,” Jac Lightning said with cold and grim finality, the Lightning Coil Throwers not budging and inch from their target.

Sore, bleeding but having reached the harpoon itself, Wendell Caine pounded his fist into the wood, ripping out planks with one hand to make the hole big enough that he could crawl through. Feet grateful to be reacquainted with something solid beneath them, The Mountain Marshal found himself in the back half of the gondola, surrounded by racks upon racks of black-shelled bombs.

A smile formed beneath blood-soaked whiskers.

“This can all end peacefully if you tell us where the bombs are,” Jac Lightning said in a voice as hard as tombstones.

“I’m done with peace, Marshal,” Spokey rasped back. “You took my town, my men and my son!”

“Your son,” Lovelace interjected. “I’m afraid you might have to be more specific.” The Pinkerton slammed his mouth closed then as he could feel anger upon him from two of the deadliest people in Arizona.

“Harry,” she whispered. “My poor, dear Harry…”

There was a twitch across Jac Lightning’s face. Harry Winsome, the only person who had known who Spokey Sampson was, the only person good or lucky enough to outdraw the Lightning Marshal, the one who Jac had gunned down in the middle of Ascension after a furious battle.

“Harry, who protected me. Kept my secret. Did my business until he met you, marshal,” she said. “And without him now you’ve found me.”

“The bombs. Now,” was the Lightning Marshal’s only response.

Silence filled the cabin, the airship having been dragged low enough that there was no longer a howl through the broken windscreen. And then…

“Attention citizens of Ascension!” The voice of Hans Octavius Wilhem thundered through a bullhorn.

“Evacuate zhe town, immediately!”

Inside the bomb bay, Caine searched for an opening to the cockpit, but the two rooms remained wholly separate, accessible to each other only when the airship was on the ground. Short of climbing outside and searching for another entrance, the Mountain Marshal was stuck here.

Which suited him fine as this room was armed with possibilities.

Hefting one of the black shells and pondering how to set it off while escaping to safety, he heard, beyond the wall of the armoury the words of his partner and that Limey Pinkerton. Jac and Lovelace were onboard. That complicated things.

And then he heard another voice that made things simple again.

“I’m going to see my son now,” Bethany Cartwright said and something under her hand on the armrest of the chair clicked.

“And you’re coming with me!” she screamed as one of the dials switched on, counting down from five, four…

“Everybody out!” Jac yelled and she ran for the broken windscreen with Lovelace close behind, his narrow brush with death forgotten as he leapt out the after the Lightning Marshal and scrambled to the harpoon.

Wendell Caine heard everything but hadn’t finished in the bomb bay yet. With titanic strength, the Mountain Marshal wrenched the floor-mounted bay doors, twisting the catch until and they were wedged shut and ensuring the bombs wouldn’t drop on Ascension below.

Jac and Lovelace leapt to the cable, her hand catching onto it. Lovelace fell short and while the airship wasn’t as high up before, it remained a fall he wouldn’t walk away from. Just as gravity asserted itself upon the Pinkerton, Jac Lightning let go of one of her father’s precious Lightning Coil Throwers and grabbed his hand as the gun shattered on the streets below. For one precious second they both hung there before Lovelace managed to grab the line.

One second too late.

With the bomb doors sealing the shells inside, the explosion above Ascension was the biggest and loudest yet. The townsfolk, having acted immediately on Wilhem’s orders, watched as a fiery cloud billowed out before washing across the night sky with the brightness of the sun. Shielding their eyes, they did not see Jac Lightning or James Lovelace sliding down the cable.

They did, however, see someone ablaze who slid, quite literally, hot on their heels.

Wendell Caine’s beard, hair and overalls were on fire, he was shot and tired.

He was alive though. And Spokey Sampson, clearly, was not.

All three lawmen landed in a tumbling heap, bruised and battered but still able to feel out. Hans Octavius Wilhem leapt out of the cabin of his half-train and deployed the chemical fire extinguisher, coating Wendell Caine in white foam.
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “Zhere are still zhe bombs to vorry about.”

Nobody wanted to move but each of them did as the lawmen split up. Wilhem took the blacksmith. Caine, the Ignit-Inn. Lovelace, the doctor’s surgery and Lightning ran for Etheric Delights.

Wilhem and Lovelace knew what to look for and quickly located similar bombs to that which had blown up the marshal’s office. The timers had two minutes remaining but each of them were proficient enough to defuse the explosives with time to spare.

Where time would work against them would be covering the entire town. Which is why Lighting and Caine had gone ahead to scout the bombs’ locations.

Jac Lightning stormed through the foyer of Etheric Delights and, on the briefest of briefings, headed for the cellar where, in all likelihood, the bomb would be found within the foundations. Barrels of wine and liquor were stacked in long rows and Lightning sprinted from end to the other, looking for anything that didn’t fit. She found it in the form of a heavy steel door that had been double-locked and padlocked, built into the brick of the building.

Returning to the street, Wilhem heard his name yelled and joined Jac at the whorehouse, running down the stairs with only one minute remaining. He was shown the door and its solid foundations and shook his head.

“Nein,” he said. “Not enough damage.”

Leading Jac through the rows of the wine cellar, the Iron Marshal found the bomb on the third load-bearing post and, with mechanical precision, defused it.

Having dealt with his bomb at the surgery, James Lovelace ran toward the Ignit-Inn where Wendell Caine emerged, the explosive in his hand. So focused on the urgency of the situation, the normally perceptive Pinkerton hadn’t noticed that the foam had spilled off and the fire had burnt his overalls to ashes.

“Give it here!” Lovelace yelled, but Caine shook his head.

“Check the tavern,” he called back. “I got this.”

Less than a minute left no time to argue with the naked mountain man and Lovelace sped into the tavern and straight for the foundations. He defused the bomb just as heard an explosion outside.

Lovelace, Lightning and Wilhem returned to the street where cinders rained down from the heavens. Caine hadn’t bothered trying to defuse the bomb. He had simply hurled into the air as far from Ascension as he could. And thanks to his and everyone else’s quick actions, the town had been spared of everything but a night of fireworks.

Grateful citizens returned to town, dousing the last burning embers and offering free drinks to the lawmen for removing the menace of Spokey Sampson.

All that is, except for Wilhemina Ether, the Madam of Etheric Delights who took one look at the naked Wendell Caine and fainted right there on the street.

JAC LIGHTNING, WENDELL CAINE, HANS OCTAVIUS WILHEM AND JAMES LOVELACE CONTINUE IN THE ONE-SHOT RELOAD, BEFORE RETURNING IN THE NEXT INSTALLMENT:

THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO: 3RD ROUND, FIRST SALVO.

Posted by Wordmobi

Away from the orange stained horizon, Jack Lightning and Wendell Caine rode hard toward Ascension. At their heels no less than a dozen gunmen pursued, their horses galloping as much to get away from the towering inferno as to bring the lawmen down.

“What the hell was that?” Jack Lighting called over the rain of hooves pounding the dirt.

“Explosion,” Caine replied.

“Explosion of what?”

“Dirigible.”

It was five minutes to Ascension and Marshals Lightning and Caine had a head start but while The Lightning Marshal’s mount, Thunder could keep up this pace until they reached the town, the grizzly bear that Caine sat astride wasn’t built for speed.

But then they weren’t trying to reach Ascension.

Booming from the outskirts, their partner, Marshal Hans Octavius Wilhem, stoked the boiler of his transport, the steam gushing out of in furious clouds as he and Pinkerton Detective James Lovelace sped toward the fire. The steam tank, Wilhem’s vehicle and invention, dragged both of its trailers skipping along the dirt, one of them sporting a long-barrelled cannon with an even longer harpoon at its side. A weapon of singular purpose:

Bring down the airship of Samuel Spokey Sampson.

The bandits, also in Spokey’s employ, were closing on the furry mount and it’s equally hairy rider, guns drawn and hammers cocked. This wasn’t quite according to the plan, chasing down the lawmen who, they were assured, would be off their mounts and out of luck when they arrived at the Cartwright Cottage. Instead they were trying to catch up to the infamous Jack Lightning and her savage companion: What any outlaw in the west would avoid.

Still, at least they outnumbered them fifteen to two, and once they had the range of that gambolling bear, the odds would get better.

Then they noticed that the lead horse no longer had a rider!

Synapses fired at the alarm in the same amount of time for the Lightning Marshal to loose two bolts, shooting from Thunder’s flank and out of sight from any sharpshooters amongst the bandits. Her aim, even clutching to the side of her horse was unerring as each shot slammed into one of the bandit’s mounts, the voltage sending it into a spasmodic kicking frenzy that, in one shot, claimed another bandit who fell under the lashing hooves. The other buzzed past another three horses’ flared nostrils, pulling them up sharply as their riders fought to get them under control and stay in the saddle.

Upright once more, Jack’s sharp gaze saw that the bandits had fallen back, out of range of her guns but also out of range of Caine. But they hadn’t given up yet. With muted shouts, the bandits split up, riding hard to present less of a group target and more to outflank the lawmen. This was not over yet.

And then, with a piercing whistle, reinforcements pistoned down the dune.

The German Marshal took it all in: the bandits, his friends and the ranges of each. The light machine gun Wilhem had mounted to his armour retracted and with a whirr and a clunk, it was replaced by his Wave Mortar. Sighting a clump of three bandits, Wilhem’s armour deployed hydraulic pistons into designed slots on the floor to anchor him into place before it let fly with a FOOWOOSH!

Dust and dirt fountained into the sky just ahead of the riders, raining debris down on the spooked mounts and their equally spooked riders, but harming neither.

And then there came another piercing whistle.

Another group of bandits rode in from the west, much closer to the Wilhem’s vessel. They were ten in number but they had brought something with them. It was old, but it still moved and, in likelihood, could still shoot.

A tank from the Civil War.

Still locked to the floor, Wilhem turned to Lovelace stared agog at the reinforced reinforcements.

“Move!”

The shell sped down.

Lovelace snapped an arm out to the control panel.

And the half-train tore off an instant before they were pelted with rocks from the latest explosion that pockmarked the desert, just where they had been.

Lovelace’s hand stayed firm on the big red button that triggered the rockets underneath the vehicle, trusting in German craftsmanship to keep him anchored in the cabin. Wilhem, secured to the floor, engaged a crank wheel and rotated his footing to orient himself with the pursuing tank.

Jack Lighting glanced at the battlefield.Anywhere between two dozen to thirty bandits filled the area to the south and to the west and riding toward Wilhem would just put her in range of the tank and the other horsemen. But the bandits behind her, while mitigating the risk of a group target had also meant that someone quick enough could pick them off one at a time.

The Lightning Marshal pulled hard on the reigns, taking Thunder in a tight wheeling turn and put them both into a charging course toward one of the flanking outlaws. Best to leave the tank to Wilhem, she thought.

Wendell Caine disagreed.

Smokey’s powerful strides sent him and the Mountain Marshal on a direct course for the tank. He still had a ways to go to catch up to it, but he figured Wilhem could keep it busy until he arrived to take it off his hands.

Wilhem had bigger plans than just keeping it busy. The tank was powerful, somewhat quick and packed a wallop, but it was a relic. Wilhem, on the other hand, had thought of bigger things and while it was true that his vehicle sported no weaponry whatsoever, the German Marshal had found the inclusion of guns to be a wasted effort when he himself was a weapons platform.

Lining up the Wave Mortar was going to prove a challenge though. The weapon was meant to be fired from a stable position and while he was, in effect, stapled to the iron floor of the vehicle, it was rocketing across rough Arizona desert, bouncing from ditch to dune. Add to that the speed of their pursuers and it was a shot that was nigh impossible but a Lightning to make.

Wilhem wasn’t a Lightning but all one ever needed in a crisis was a cool head and calculus.

The half train blasted along at 90 miles per hour.

The pursuing tank trundled at 45 miles per hour.

The distance between them was 240 yards and gaining.

The range of the Wave Mortar was a good thousand yards.

Two hundred and sixty yards flashed by and at that moment, Wilhem hit the trigger.

The Wave Mortar launched its shell in booming yet graceful ark as the enemy tank crested another dune. At the apex of its trundling descent, advanced weaponry collided with the relic to a catastrophic explosion.

Debris shot out across the dusty ground, kicking it up and mixing it with an acrid black smoke that billowed out and swallowed the charging Wendell Caine and Smokey as they continued headlong toward the tank.

Lovelace nervously removed his eyes from the control panel and the rapidly approaching horizon to glance at Wilhem.

“Well?”

“Zhat vent better zhan expected…”

The clouds were swept away to reveal the tank dead in its tracks, its armoured hull shredded away and three very confused, and fortunate bandits, alive inside.

Fortunate for a moment.

Wendell Caine leapt off Smokey and landed atop one of the bandits, his arms reaching out for one as he drove his knuckles into another. Dragging the last bandit toward him, the outlaw was introduced to The Mountain Marshal’s forehead with an echoing crack, fell pole-axed.

Caine, like Wilhem, kept a cool head too, though he did use it knock others out cold.

Galloping toward one of the isolated bandits, Jac Lightning, with weapons drawn, sent a bolt dead-centre into his chest, the shock travelling down the horse who reared up and kicked its rider off before he could tumble out of the saddle. At the same time, one of the Lightning Marshal’s legs kicked out over Thunder’s head, placing her side-saddle in the closest instance she’d come to riding like a lady. In this case, the practicality of aiming at the rider behind her left propriety standing at the gate. Her other weapon in hand, another sizzling crackle sounded and another bandit fell.

Another dozen bandits were closing on the Lightning Marshal though and as good as the legend of the Lightning was, it would be even more impressive if she survived. Thunder stayed at full gallop as Jac’s legs kicked again, spinning in the saddle with both hands filled with the Lightning Coil Throwers. The moment she found the stirrups, Thunder pulled a hard right and she set her eyes upon the next outlaw urging his horse and himself to his doom.

The Civil War tank was dead, its pilots knocked out, but there remained the outlaws who were only now catching up to the smoking husk with Wendell Caine still inside. Hurling himself over the jagged metal, he landed and charged the approaching posse, hurling himself right and left as the bullets flew past him.

But some weren’t aimed at him.

Smokey, gambolling after his master wasn’t deterred as dust spat in front of him, but even the 10 foot grizzly bear came to a roaring stop as lead stung his flank. The Mountain Marshal froze in his tracks, head whipping toward his longest companion and oldest friend.

“Smokey! Cover!” he cried as he ran back toward his bear.

Smokey turned and limped his way to the remains of the tank, joined a moment later as Wendell Caine skidded next to him. The bullet was in there alright, but it was not too deep and was a small calibre besides. Smokey let out a rumbling growl.

“Good thinkin’,” Caine said as he cracked his knuckles. “Let them come to us.”

The rockets now spent, Hans Octavius Wilhem disengaged the spurs and stomped back to the control panel. Lovelace managed to unclench his hands and let the Marshal take over.

“Time we headed back, I’d say,” Lovelace said, his keen eyesight taking in the numbers of the outlaws.

“Coming about!” Wilhem called out and the half-train made its turn toward the carnage.

Bullets spat every which way but into Jac Lightning as she spun, twisted and leapt from side to side, her acrobatic riding lost to the approaching outlaws as blue lightning left spots in their eyes and their companions twitching in the dirt. At the exploded tank, Caine hurled himself at the bandits who circled the remains, tackling both horse and rider and not caring a jot about either. Smokey roared and while more bullets flew at him, panic overrode the outlaws’ aim and each swat of his claws left riders clinging both to their horses and their innards. Wilhem’s half-train powered toward the battle, steam billowing out behind him.

There came another piercing whistle.

Both Wilhem and Lovelace looked up.

And both saw, high above them, the underside of an airship moments before an explosion, sent a rain of dirt over them.

Spokey Sampson had arrived.

To be concluded in Part 2

Posted by Wordmobi