The next morning found Edward Lewin well removed from the streets of Polaris. Walmsley felt a bit put out by that fact as he worked on his breakfast. Still, it showed Lewin was at least smart enough to realize Walmsley wasn’t making idle threats over the dinner table last night. It would probably make Walmsley’s mission a little more difficult, since Lewin would almost certainly report to the line boss heading for Polaris, but Walmsley had never been promised the job would go smoothly.
Chance came up from the basement with a small brass birdcage in one hand. Inside was a clockwork canary, its polished feathers gleaming as the mechanical head turned randomly and let out ringing little metallic chirps. She set the cage down on the table with a smile and a flourish. “Behold, your medicine.”
Walmsley cocked his head to one side. The bird mimicked the motion and chirped twice. “And what, pray tell, is this?”
“The bird will withdraw aetherine from the air and process it into your medicine. The process will take two days, so you’ll likely start feeling a bit woozy before the first dose drops.”
“In what form will the dose be delivered in?”
“A small gelatinous capsule. Something easily swallowed and quickly absorbed in the stomach. It will be a single capsule which will take effect within about ten minutes. I don’t imagine you’ll want to lose that capsule. Otherwise, it’ll be a long two days before the next one drops.”
Looking up from the table, Walmsley scowled at Chance. “Madam, when this business is done, you and I are going to have a very vigorous and altogether unpleasant conversation.”
“I look forward to it,” replied Chance with a smile which was far too serene for Walmsley’s peace of mind.
Scowling more deeply, he drank the last of his coffee, then stood up. “I should probably get down to the livery, make sure my horse is ready.”
“And your guide,” Chance added, the smile growing slightly.
“My what?”
“Your guide. It occurs to me you may need some extra assistance moving around through the Rockies. Accordingly, I have arranged for a native guide to help you around.”
“Ma’am, I appreciate the thought, but I’ve been through the Rockies before with several passages from one side to the other and back again. A guide, particularly a native guide, is not necessary.”
“Do you have a problem with any of the tribes?”
“No, Ma’am. A few of them might have a problem with me, however.”
“I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless, I fear I have to be inflexible on this particular point. Just because you’re on a very unusual sort of parole does not eliminate the need for some sort of authority from the town to keep an eye on you. I assure you, he will not interfere with your efforts. He is simply—”
“My prison guard,” Walmsley spat. “Very well, I will not contest this unexpected addition, but I do believe it will be an additional topic for that conversation when we have it.”
“Of course.”
Walmsley picked up the birdcage in his right hand, left the dining room, and strode out the front door. Not for the first time, he cursed himself mentally for having gotten caught. Since being informed of his task, Walmsley had tried to picture how they were going to keep him dosed and functional, and the presence of an unrequested companion seemed the only practical solution. The bird was a bit of a surprise, but it made things easier from Chance’s perspective. The guide would be able to help him get from point A to point B and probably keep his scalp intact. But keeping the guide separated from the medicine ensured Walmsley was in no position to escape. As he stalked down to the livery, Walmsley considered anew the idea of leaving the patent medicine game. He knew enough to make a few actual medicinal products, but not enough to improve their effectiveness or even develop brand new ones. That, coupled with a lack of funds to try and seek education back East, ensured he would probably still be in the game for the near future. Once his debt to Polaris had been cleared.
The doors to the livery were wide open. Walmsley walked in and headed straight for the hostler. “I’ll be needing my horse,” he said, trying not to sound curt and angry.
“Of course, Mr. Walmsley. Be just a moment,” replied the hostler, his voice sounding almost as reasonable as he headed over to the stables. A few moments later, he came out with Walmsley’s horse and two others on a string.
“Think there must be a mistake. I only came into town with the one horse and a pack mule.”
“The mule will be staying here, along with your other belongings. The extra horses are to help speed you along. Mayor Chance figured you’d probably cover more ground if you rode relay, so two extra mounts. If you’re smart with them, you’ll probably make twenty miles or better a day. Just let Black Beaver tell you when to swap.”
“I assume Black Beaver is my guide. Where might I find him?”
“Waiting for you outside the South Gate. Good luck, Mr. Walmsley. For what it’s worth, I don’t much care for you on account of what you done to Eldon, but it is on Mayor Chance’s word you’re fixing to help us out, and I hope you succeed.”
“Thank you,” said Walmsley, slightly taken aback from getting even that much well wishing. He mounted up, making sure the birdcage was secured to the saddle horn, then cantered out of the livery with the other horses behind him. As he passed through the South Gate, he saw an Indian with his own string of horses waiting for him.
“I take it you’re Black Beaver?” The Indian nodded slowly. “Well, then, I suppose we better get going.” Again, the Indian nodded, then squeezed his knees against the sides of his horse, putting it into a solid canter. Walmsley easily caught up and kept pace.
“How well do you speak this language?” Walmsley asked in slightly rough Comanche.
“Better than you do,” replied Black Beaver matter-of-factly and with far better fluency than Walmsley.
Walmsley frowned in irritation. “Well, that’s just dandy,” he muttered to himself in English.
“Pretty sure I’m better than you speaking this language, too.”
The well enunciated English from his guide surprised Walmsley. “Oh this is just going to be the most pleasant little trip. Three hundred miles to Denver with the most uppity Indian in the Territories. You’re going to piss me off every step of the way, aren’t you?”
Black Beaver smiled thinly as he rode just ahead of Walmsley. “I’m not going to do anything. And the only person you’re really going to be angry at is yourself.”
“Gonna be a long and loud conversation once I get back.”
“So, are we heading straight for Denver?” asked Black Beaver.
“Lemme mull on that a bit. Meanwhile, I gotta ask. What terrible crime is Chance holding over your head to make you go with me?”
“I’ve committed no crimes. Burning Ice Eyes is a friend to me and my people. She’s given us a great deal of help since she got here. She doesn’t rip up the land the way other white men do. Takes only what she and her tribe need. She’s given us hope.”
“Hope? Hope of what?”
“A new tomorrow.” Black Beaver reached into a pouch and pulled out a chunk of jerky, biting off a strip and chewing on it slowly. “There are stories of great cities people like mine built across the Great River. They were dimly remembered stories among us before she came. She’s helped us to remember. There are some who believe they can make people like you go away just through the Ghost Dance. They’re fools. But I see clearly. We know you’re not going to go away. You’ve buried parents and parents before them. You’ve had children and they will have children. You’re here. You have no place where your ancestors came from. So we’re going to have to show you we can build cities, that we can be just as gathered and mighty as you are, live better lives than you do.”
“Well, you don’t lack for ambition, I’ll give you that. Kinda makes me want to introduce you to somebody I know. Imagine you two would get on like a house afire. Or kill each other dead.”
“Who is this person?”
“A man down in Oro City, name of Tabor. Come to think of it, Oro might not be a bad place to make a stop, see if we can find any help there. The very least, we’ll get word of who might be looking for work and isn’t overly picky about the amount of danger involved.”
“Will this man Tabor help you?”
“Pretty sure he will. He and I were on good terms, last time we spoke.” Walmsley turned his horse southeast, heading for the mountains.
It was perhaps a little grandiose to be using the word in its name, but Oro City was certainly big enough that “village” was entirely incorrect and “town” was an uncomfortably loose fit. Of the small clutch of permanent structures along the main drag, the busiest was probably the post office, which was doubling as the assay office when it wasn’t pulling extra duty as a laundry or restaurant. Walmsley and Black Beaver tied their horses to the hitching post out front, then walked inside.
Behind a counter stood a man of middling height with a thick mustache and a heavily receding hairline. His eyes widened as the two men walked in. “Eli Walmsley, as I live and breathe!”
“Afternoon, Horace,” said Walmsley as he extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’m kinda pleased to see you as well,” replied Tabor, taking Walmsley’s hand and shaking it thoroughly. “Though I don’t think you want to be here when Augusta gets back.”
“How is she doing?”
“Doing well enough. But she’s holding an awful grudge against you, and I can’t say as I blame her.”
“Now why would she be holding a grudge? I seem to recall I helped her when she got bound up the last time I was here.”
Tabor nodded ruefully. “Oh, you definitely helped her get unbound. But she’s holding a grudge because she damned near shat herself to death, and she hasn’t forgotten who it was that helped her get to that state.”
Walmsley glanced over his shoulder at Black Beaver. “See, this is the kind of unwarranted hostility I am constantly exposed to as I make my way through the Territories.”
“You are so badly put upon,” Black Beaver remarked dryly.
Tabor laughed. “Everybody’s got their cross to bear. Eli here just seems to attract people throwing stones at him to make his depiction of our Lord and Savior really authentic.” He leaned forward on the counter. “What brings you to Oro, Eli?”
“Business, I’m afraid. Bad business. You hear of a town called Polaris?”
Tabor nodded, then scratched behind his right ear. “Heard the Authority is trying to lay track right through them.”
“You hear correctly, as I knew a man in your position and of your stature would.”
“I’m guessing they’re getting pretty desperate if they’ve got you for their advocate.”
“Giving the Devil his due, I’m not entirely certain they just lucked into me. It’s been something I’ve been pondering while I was on the road here. There’s a tiny little feeling in the back of my mind that makes me think they knew I was going to show up there, certainly their mayor if nobody else. And if that is the case, she at the very least has been thinking very far ahead of her constituents. Let’s talk straight for a moment, Horace. Can you think of a better person who not only knows what sort of threat the Northwest Authority poses, but knows how best to effectively fight them and defeat them?”
“Can’t say as I do, Elijah. Though honesty compels me to admit your one decisive victory against them has been charitably described as ‘gutless’ and ‘cowardly’ by those who’ve heard the tale.”
“Well, they are entitled to their opinion and I am entitled to think they’re jackasses.” Walmsley leaned on one elbow on the counter. “Horace, I need the hardest calibers in the Rockies. I need bad, bad men who are oh so good with their hands. I don’t need a lot of them. Hell, half a dozen or so, leading up formations, helping tighten up their defenses, I’d turn that town into something Darby would break all his damnediron teeth on.”
“I don’t doubt you would. Problem is finding people like that who aren’t already affiliated with a railroad or some outfit working around here. You may have noticed only the very brave or the very mad are willing to risk riding the Rockies by their lonesome. And as a rule, there’s usually a very good reason folks like that aren’t riding in company, and it’s not because they prefer solitude.”
“I am aware, Horace, but I also know even those folks have to eat. And riding alone makes one awful chatty once they reach some sort of civilization.”
“True enough.” Tabor frowned in thought for a few moments. “I know you may not be overly enamored of the suggestion, but there’s a scientist doing some work up around some leaded silver deposits I’ve got a stake in. She’s French and she’s . . .something of an acquired taste as far as personality. But she is razor sharp when it comes to brains. I’m a reasonably educated man and I have the damnedest time trying to keep up with her.”
“She speak any English?”
“Better than you and me together. And she’s not shy about demonstrating her command of the language. Woman could strip rust from century old steel and have it shine like sunlight with that tongue of hers. Don’t know if she’ll be overly interested in taking time from her research to play mercenary, but then again, she might just see it as a challenge. A chance to put theory to the test in the real world.”
“I assume she has a name I can address her by.”
“Name’s Adeline Bayeaux. Just don’t address her as ‘Doctor’ or ‘Professor.’ She will get right pissed off at you. And let me tell you, that woman’s got a fuse shorter than a gnat’s pecker. It’s a sore spot for her. Apparently, the Sorbonne hasn’t seen fit to give her a degree which she knows full well she’s earned.”
Walmsley stood up straight and smiled. “Sounds like an enchanting young woman. Don’t suppose you have some flowers?”
“Hell, Eli, if I wanted you dead, Augusta’d have first crack at you.”
The sun was starting to set when Walmsley and Black Beaver rode into the work camp. Leaded silver deposits were something of a fortunate find. The lead itself could be used for bullets and the silver could pay for guns to shoot with. It didn’t surprise Walmsley Tabor had a stake in the prospecting operations around here. An unfortunate run-in with a mountain lion had half-crippled Tabor’s left leg and shoulder years earlier and they’d never properly healed. Prospecting, particularly up this high and in these conditions, demanded a fully healthy body. Since Tabor himself wasn’t quite up to it, and he’d never stoop to letting his wife swing a pick, the best he could do was get a partial stake through trading tools and supplies. It wasn’t much, but if somebody hit the right lode, it could conceivably add up to a fortune.
Walmsley walked calmly through the camp, Black Beaver half a pace behind, feeling the eyes fall on him with a mixture of fear, hate, and curiosity. He picked one of the prospectors and came up to him with an easy smile. “Pardon me, but do you know where I might find Adeline Bayeaux?”
“What’s it to you?” sneered the prospector. “The little French slut decided she needs to try riding a savage for her research?”
Black Beaver stared impassively at the prospector, aware that several of his fellows were starting to gather ominously. Walmsley must have sensed the same thing, his smile growing a little bigger and his voice becoming more jovial. “Sounds to me like the lady didn’t give you much in the way of encouragement. ‘Course, fine educated woman like her, hard to picture her finding much in the way of something interesting about you.”
“I got plenty of ‘interesting’ right down here,” snapped the prospector, gesturing at the crotch of his overalls.
“Charmer like you couldn’t get her to open up with your tongue, I rightly can’t see your prick having much more success.”
The prospector’s eyes narrowed. “You making fun of me, arbuckle?”
Walmsley began to laugh. “Naw, I’m not making fun of you. I’m flat out insulting you.”
The prospector tried to draw a knife from his belt, but found his wrist seized by Walmsley, the arm twisted behind his back and the knife forced from his hand as he felt sharp metal digging into the soft flesh at the base of his throat. Walmsley scanned the crowd, using the prospector as a shield while holding a fountain pen right in the hollow where the neck met the collarbone. Even Black Beaver was momentarily taken aback by the speed of Walmsley’s move.
“Boys,” he said steadily, eyes shifting from one person to the next, “there are so many easier ways to commit suicide than picking a fight with me and my friend here. A little courtesy and a touch of indifference would have saved your friend a lot of embarrassment. Now he’s gonna have to work to get back in my good graces.” Walmsley applied a little pressure, the pen nib starting to draw blood. “Now, I’m going to ask again. Answer straight, and you walk away with some shaky nerves for a little while. You decide to sass me, and your friends are going to lose the rest of the day having to bury your ass. Where’s Bayeaux?”
“On the little hill there, to your left!” the prospector stammered hoarsely “Tent’s got a funny flag on it!”
“He’s telling the truth,” confirmed Black Beaver. “Looks like a French flag.”
“A moment’s wisdom. Hold on to it.” Walmsley released the prospector, then looked over at Black Beaver. “Let’s make our manners.” He turned and started towards the hill, Black Beaver in tow.
The prospector growled softly and picked up the knife. He looked at Walsmsley’s retreating form, then growled more loudly and drew his arm back, the tip of the knife held between his thumb and forefinger.
Walmsley snapped around, the fountain pen whistling through the air to bury itself in the prospector’s throat. The knife clattered to the ground as the prospector clawed at his neck, unable to get the right amount of purchase to pull the pen out, falling to the ground with a choking gurgle. Walmsley stepped over to the corpse and yanked the pen out deftly, then fixed a basilisk gaze at the other prospectors. “Anybody here think I can’t pull that off a second time?” When nobody spoke, he snorted and turned back towards the hill with the French flag on it.
Chance came up from the basement with a small brass birdcage in one hand. Inside was a clockwork canary, its polished feathers gleaming as the mechanical head turned randomly and let out ringing little metallic chirps. She set the cage down on the table with a smile and a flourish. “Behold, your medicine.”
Walmsley cocked his head to one side. The bird mimicked the motion and chirped twice. “And what, pray tell, is this?”
“The bird will withdraw aetherine from the air and process it into your medicine. The process will take two days, so you’ll likely start feeling a bit woozy before the first dose drops.”
“In what form will the dose be delivered in?”
“A small gelatinous capsule. Something easily swallowed and quickly absorbed in the stomach. It will be a single capsule which will take effect within about ten minutes. I don’t imagine you’ll want to lose that capsule. Otherwise, it’ll be a long two days before the next one drops.”
Looking up from the table, Walmsley scowled at Chance. “Madam, when this business is done, you and I are going to have a very vigorous and altogether unpleasant conversation.”
“I look forward to it,” replied Chance with a smile which was far too serene for Walmsley’s peace of mind.
Scowling more deeply, he drank the last of his coffee, then stood up. “I should probably get down to the livery, make sure my horse is ready.”
“And your guide,” Chance added, the smile growing slightly.
“My what?”
“Your guide. It occurs to me you may need some extra assistance moving around through the Rockies. Accordingly, I have arranged for a native guide to help you around.”
“Ma’am, I appreciate the thought, but I’ve been through the Rockies before with several passages from one side to the other and back again. A guide, particularly a native guide, is not necessary.”
“Do you have a problem with any of the tribes?”
“No, Ma’am. A few of them might have a problem with me, however.”
“I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless, I fear I have to be inflexible on this particular point. Just because you’re on a very unusual sort of parole does not eliminate the need for some sort of authority from the town to keep an eye on you. I assure you, he will not interfere with your efforts. He is simply—”
“My prison guard,” Walmsley spat. “Very well, I will not contest this unexpected addition, but I do believe it will be an additional topic for that conversation when we have it.”
“Of course.”
Walmsley picked up the birdcage in his right hand, left the dining room, and strode out the front door. Not for the first time, he cursed himself mentally for having gotten caught. Since being informed of his task, Walmsley had tried to picture how they were going to keep him dosed and functional, and the presence of an unrequested companion seemed the only practical solution. The bird was a bit of a surprise, but it made things easier from Chance’s perspective. The guide would be able to help him get from point A to point B and probably keep his scalp intact. But keeping the guide separated from the medicine ensured Walmsley was in no position to escape. As he stalked down to the livery, Walmsley considered anew the idea of leaving the patent medicine game. He knew enough to make a few actual medicinal products, but not enough to improve their effectiveness or even develop brand new ones. That, coupled with a lack of funds to try and seek education back East, ensured he would probably still be in the game for the near future. Once his debt to Polaris had been cleared.
The doors to the livery were wide open. Walmsley walked in and headed straight for the hostler. “I’ll be needing my horse,” he said, trying not to sound curt and angry.
“Of course, Mr. Walmsley. Be just a moment,” replied the hostler, his voice sounding almost as reasonable as he headed over to the stables. A few moments later, he came out with Walmsley’s horse and two others on a string.
“Think there must be a mistake. I only came into town with the one horse and a pack mule.”
“The mule will be staying here, along with your other belongings. The extra horses are to help speed you along. Mayor Chance figured you’d probably cover more ground if you rode relay, so two extra mounts. If you’re smart with them, you’ll probably make twenty miles or better a day. Just let Black Beaver tell you when to swap.”
“I assume Black Beaver is my guide. Where might I find him?”
“Waiting for you outside the South Gate. Good luck, Mr. Walmsley. For what it’s worth, I don’t much care for you on account of what you done to Eldon, but it is on Mayor Chance’s word you’re fixing to help us out, and I hope you succeed.”
“Thank you,” said Walmsley, slightly taken aback from getting even that much well wishing. He mounted up, making sure the birdcage was secured to the saddle horn, then cantered out of the livery with the other horses behind him. As he passed through the South Gate, he saw an Indian with his own string of horses waiting for him.
“I take it you’re Black Beaver?” The Indian nodded slowly. “Well, then, I suppose we better get going.” Again, the Indian nodded, then squeezed his knees against the sides of his horse, putting it into a solid canter. Walmsley easily caught up and kept pace.
“How well do you speak this language?” Walmsley asked in slightly rough Comanche.
“Better than you do,” replied Black Beaver matter-of-factly and with far better fluency than Walmsley.
Walmsley frowned in irritation. “Well, that’s just dandy,” he muttered to himself in English.
“Pretty sure I’m better than you speaking this language, too.”
The well enunciated English from his guide surprised Walmsley. “Oh this is just going to be the most pleasant little trip. Three hundred miles to Denver with the most uppity Indian in the Territories. You’re going to piss me off every step of the way, aren’t you?”
Black Beaver smiled thinly as he rode just ahead of Walmsley. “I’m not going to do anything. And the only person you’re really going to be angry at is yourself.”
“Gonna be a long and loud conversation once I get back.”
“So, are we heading straight for Denver?” asked Black Beaver.
“Lemme mull on that a bit. Meanwhile, I gotta ask. What terrible crime is Chance holding over your head to make you go with me?”
“I’ve committed no crimes. Burning Ice Eyes is a friend to me and my people. She’s given us a great deal of help since she got here. She doesn’t rip up the land the way other white men do. Takes only what she and her tribe need. She’s given us hope.”
“Hope? Hope of what?”
“A new tomorrow.” Black Beaver reached into a pouch and pulled out a chunk of jerky, biting off a strip and chewing on it slowly. “There are stories of great cities people like mine built across the Great River. They were dimly remembered stories among us before she came. She’s helped us to remember. There are some who believe they can make people like you go away just through the Ghost Dance. They’re fools. But I see clearly. We know you’re not going to go away. You’ve buried parents and parents before them. You’ve had children and they will have children. You’re here. You have no place where your ancestors came from. So we’re going to have to show you we can build cities, that we can be just as gathered and mighty as you are, live better lives than you do.”
“Well, you don’t lack for ambition, I’ll give you that. Kinda makes me want to introduce you to somebody I know. Imagine you two would get on like a house afire. Or kill each other dead.”
“Who is this person?”
“A man down in Oro City, name of Tabor. Come to think of it, Oro might not be a bad place to make a stop, see if we can find any help there. The very least, we’ll get word of who might be looking for work and isn’t overly picky about the amount of danger involved.”
“Will this man Tabor help you?”
“Pretty sure he will. He and I were on good terms, last time we spoke.” Walmsley turned his horse southeast, heading for the mountains.
* * *
It was perhaps a little grandiose to be using the word in its name, but Oro City was certainly big enough that “village” was entirely incorrect and “town” was an uncomfortably loose fit. Of the small clutch of permanent structures along the main drag, the busiest was probably the post office, which was doubling as the assay office when it wasn’t pulling extra duty as a laundry or restaurant. Walmsley and Black Beaver tied their horses to the hitching post out front, then walked inside.
Behind a counter stood a man of middling height with a thick mustache and a heavily receding hairline. His eyes widened as the two men walked in. “Eli Walmsley, as I live and breathe!”
“Afternoon, Horace,” said Walmsley as he extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’m kinda pleased to see you as well,” replied Tabor, taking Walmsley’s hand and shaking it thoroughly. “Though I don’t think you want to be here when Augusta gets back.”
“How is she doing?”
“Doing well enough. But she’s holding an awful grudge against you, and I can’t say as I blame her.”
“Now why would she be holding a grudge? I seem to recall I helped her when she got bound up the last time I was here.”
Tabor nodded ruefully. “Oh, you definitely helped her get unbound. But she’s holding a grudge because she damned near shat herself to death, and she hasn’t forgotten who it was that helped her get to that state.”
Walmsley glanced over his shoulder at Black Beaver. “See, this is the kind of unwarranted hostility I am constantly exposed to as I make my way through the Territories.”
“You are so badly put upon,” Black Beaver remarked dryly.
Tabor laughed. “Everybody’s got their cross to bear. Eli here just seems to attract people throwing stones at him to make his depiction of our Lord and Savior really authentic.” He leaned forward on the counter. “What brings you to Oro, Eli?”
“Business, I’m afraid. Bad business. You hear of a town called Polaris?”
Tabor nodded, then scratched behind his right ear. “Heard the Authority is trying to lay track right through them.”
“You hear correctly, as I knew a man in your position and of your stature would.”
“I’m guessing they’re getting pretty desperate if they’ve got you for their advocate.”
“Giving the Devil his due, I’m not entirely certain they just lucked into me. It’s been something I’ve been pondering while I was on the road here. There’s a tiny little feeling in the back of my mind that makes me think they knew I was going to show up there, certainly their mayor if nobody else. And if that is the case, she at the very least has been thinking very far ahead of her constituents. Let’s talk straight for a moment, Horace. Can you think of a better person who not only knows what sort of threat the Northwest Authority poses, but knows how best to effectively fight them and defeat them?”
“Can’t say as I do, Elijah. Though honesty compels me to admit your one decisive victory against them has been charitably described as ‘gutless’ and ‘cowardly’ by those who’ve heard the tale.”
“Well, they are entitled to their opinion and I am entitled to think they’re jackasses.” Walmsley leaned on one elbow on the counter. “Horace, I need the hardest calibers in the Rockies. I need bad, bad men who are oh so good with their hands. I don’t need a lot of them. Hell, half a dozen or so, leading up formations, helping tighten up their defenses, I’d turn that town into something Darby would break all his damnediron teeth on.”
“I don’t doubt you would. Problem is finding people like that who aren’t already affiliated with a railroad or some outfit working around here. You may have noticed only the very brave or the very mad are willing to risk riding the Rockies by their lonesome. And as a rule, there’s usually a very good reason folks like that aren’t riding in company, and it’s not because they prefer solitude.”
“I am aware, Horace, but I also know even those folks have to eat. And riding alone makes one awful chatty once they reach some sort of civilization.”
“True enough.” Tabor frowned in thought for a few moments. “I know you may not be overly enamored of the suggestion, but there’s a scientist doing some work up around some leaded silver deposits I’ve got a stake in. She’s French and she’s . . .something of an acquired taste as far as personality. But she is razor sharp when it comes to brains. I’m a reasonably educated man and I have the damnedest time trying to keep up with her.”
“She speak any English?”
“Better than you and me together. And she’s not shy about demonstrating her command of the language. Woman could strip rust from century old steel and have it shine like sunlight with that tongue of hers. Don’t know if she’ll be overly interested in taking time from her research to play mercenary, but then again, she might just see it as a challenge. A chance to put theory to the test in the real world.”
“I assume she has a name I can address her by.”
“Name’s Adeline Bayeaux. Just don’t address her as ‘Doctor’ or ‘Professor.’ She will get right pissed off at you. And let me tell you, that woman’s got a fuse shorter than a gnat’s pecker. It’s a sore spot for her. Apparently, the Sorbonne hasn’t seen fit to give her a degree which she knows full well she’s earned.”
Walmsley stood up straight and smiled. “Sounds like an enchanting young woman. Don’t suppose you have some flowers?”
“Hell, Eli, if I wanted you dead, Augusta’d have first crack at you.”
* * *
The sun was starting to set when Walmsley and Black Beaver rode into the work camp. Leaded silver deposits were something of a fortunate find. The lead itself could be used for bullets and the silver could pay for guns to shoot with. It didn’t surprise Walmsley Tabor had a stake in the prospecting operations around here. An unfortunate run-in with a mountain lion had half-crippled Tabor’s left leg and shoulder years earlier and they’d never properly healed. Prospecting, particularly up this high and in these conditions, demanded a fully healthy body. Since Tabor himself wasn’t quite up to it, and he’d never stoop to letting his wife swing a pick, the best he could do was get a partial stake through trading tools and supplies. It wasn’t much, but if somebody hit the right lode, it could conceivably add up to a fortune.
Walmsley walked calmly through the camp, Black Beaver half a pace behind, feeling the eyes fall on him with a mixture of fear, hate, and curiosity. He picked one of the prospectors and came up to him with an easy smile. “Pardon me, but do you know where I might find Adeline Bayeaux?”
“What’s it to you?” sneered the prospector. “The little French slut decided she needs to try riding a savage for her research?”
Black Beaver stared impassively at the prospector, aware that several of his fellows were starting to gather ominously. Walmsley must have sensed the same thing, his smile growing a little bigger and his voice becoming more jovial. “Sounds to me like the lady didn’t give you much in the way of encouragement. ‘Course, fine educated woman like her, hard to picture her finding much in the way of something interesting about you.”
“I got plenty of ‘interesting’ right down here,” snapped the prospector, gesturing at the crotch of his overalls.
“Charmer like you couldn’t get her to open up with your tongue, I rightly can’t see your prick having much more success.”
The prospector’s eyes narrowed. “You making fun of me, arbuckle?”
Walmsley began to laugh. “Naw, I’m not making fun of you. I’m flat out insulting you.”
The prospector tried to draw a knife from his belt, but found his wrist seized by Walmsley, the arm twisted behind his back and the knife forced from his hand as he felt sharp metal digging into the soft flesh at the base of his throat. Walmsley scanned the crowd, using the prospector as a shield while holding a fountain pen right in the hollow where the neck met the collarbone. Even Black Beaver was momentarily taken aback by the speed of Walmsley’s move.
“Boys,” he said steadily, eyes shifting from one person to the next, “there are so many easier ways to commit suicide than picking a fight with me and my friend here. A little courtesy and a touch of indifference would have saved your friend a lot of embarrassment. Now he’s gonna have to work to get back in my good graces.” Walmsley applied a little pressure, the pen nib starting to draw blood. “Now, I’m going to ask again. Answer straight, and you walk away with some shaky nerves for a little while. You decide to sass me, and your friends are going to lose the rest of the day having to bury your ass. Where’s Bayeaux?”
“On the little hill there, to your left!” the prospector stammered hoarsely “Tent’s got a funny flag on it!”
“He’s telling the truth,” confirmed Black Beaver. “Looks like a French flag.”
“A moment’s wisdom. Hold on to it.” Walmsley released the prospector, then looked over at Black Beaver. “Let’s make our manners.” He turned and started towards the hill, Black Beaver in tow.
The prospector growled softly and picked up the knife. He looked at Walsmsley’s retreating form, then growled more loudly and drew his arm back, the tip of the knife held between his thumb and forefinger.
Walmsley snapped around, the fountain pen whistling through the air to bury itself in the prospector’s throat. The knife clattered to the ground as the prospector clawed at his neck, unable to get the right amount of purchase to pull the pen out, falling to the ground with a choking gurgle. Walmsley stepped over to the corpse and yanked the pen out deftly, then fixed a basilisk gaze at the other prospectors. “Anybody here think I can’t pull that off a second time?” When nobody spoke, he snorted and turned back towards the hill with the French flag on it.
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