Around the World in 100 Days (14 page)

It was a feeling that he had experienced before, on the cricket field and rugby pitch. As much as he loved the taste of victory, acheiving it meant an end to the game. There were times when he would have liked to go on playing endlessly, for the sheer enjoyment of it.

By the same token, winning this wager would mean that the journey would end, that he would return to his life in London. It was not a bad life, by any means. But even he, with his talent for living in the moment, knew that the aimless, irresponsible existence he was accustomed to could not go on indefinitely, any more than the seemingly boundless prairie could.

Harry felt his sense of elation fade and the ache in his arms return. He shook the sober thoughts from his head and struck up a determinedly cheery chorus of “There's a Good Time Coming.”

Near dusk they spied a windmill in the distance, spinning furiously in the rising wind, pumping water for some remote ranch. “There's what Morrison needs!” said Harry. “He could erect one on the back of his car and run a dynamo with it.”

“He'd generate plenty of power today.” Elizabeth clutched at her hat, which threatened to take flight. “It's a pity you didn't equip the
Flash
with a sail.” She leaned forward so the breeze wouldn't whip her words away. “Didn't your father travel in a wind-driven vehicle at some point? Sorry, I forgot. You don't like talking about his exploits.”

Harry sighed. “It seems there's no escaping it. As he described the thing, it was a sort of sledge with sails.” He surveyed the boundless expanse of grass, undulating like waves in the wind. “As a matter of fact, it would have been on this very stretch of the prairie.” Harry was silent for a time. Though he seldom gave a thought to the future, he couldn't help wondering whether his own children—assuming he had any—would be asked continually about the epic journey of the
Flash
, and whether they would resent it.

“I'm afraid a sail wouldn't do us much good, in any case,” he said. “The wind's blowing in the wrong direction.”

SEVENTEEN
In which

T
wo days out of Omaha, there was still no end to the prairie in sight. Harry's wish to go on driving across it forever had given way to a festering impatience. He felt as though they were stuck in a stage play, with the same bit of scenery being cranked past in the background, over and over. He found himself almost wishing for some sort of trouble, just to break the monotony.

Ever since Des Moines, Johnny had had the vague feeling that something was not right with the
Flash
. But the engine kept chuffing along tirelessly and the big wheels rolled without hindrance over the sandy soil and across the few shallow streams they encountered.

At Lexington, a hardware dealer sold them ten gallons of expensive kerosene from a rusty-looking drum. Later that day there was a flurry of excitement when they overtook a prairie schooner; though caravans of these wagons had once stretched from horizon to horizon, now it seemed like a quaint relic of an earlier age. On the flapping canvas cover was painted the motto THE PAXTONS, ILLINOIS TO OREGON. The driver stared at them in awe, like someone who has caught a glimpse of the future.

“Well, finally,” said Elizabeth, “something mildly interesting for my next dispatch. If this keeps up, my editor may decide my stories are too tedious to print.”

“Why don't you invent something?” suggested Harry. “You could have us meet up with Buffalo Bill, or perhaps the Dalton Gang.”

“I am a reporter, not a novelist. It's rather a shame, really, that the Indians have all packed it in. An Indian attack would be just the thing to capture my readers.”

“Provided
you
weren't captured first,” said Charles. He laughed, then—an event so rare that Harry turned to see whether something was wrong. “I was just thinking about a story I read when I was perhaps nine or ten,” said Charles. “I can't recall the title, but I remember it was absolutely rife with Indian attacks. Curiously enough, it also featured a steam-driven vehicle. What was it called? Something about a hunter ...”

“
The Huge Hunter; or, the Steam Man of the Prairies
,” said Harry.

“That's it! You've read it, then?”

Harry grinned. “Only about fifty times. I wouldn't have thought it was your sort of book.”

“Oh, it was ripping!” Charles turned to Elizabeth. “The hero is a fifteen-year-old dwarf who also happens to be a genius. He invents a huge mechanical man powered by steam and capable of pulling a wagon and he drives the contraption all over the West, fighting off Indians at every turn.”

“It sounds fascinating,” said Elizabeth.

Harry and Charles failed to notice the sarcasm in her voice. They proceeded to recall all their favorite scenes from
The Huge Hunter
. Even Johnny put in a few words; though he had never learned his letters, Harry had told him about the boy genius—also named Johnny—and his Steam Man so often that it seemed he had read the book himself.

Elizabeth let them go on for half an hour before her patience ran out. “Oh, for heaven's sake! If you're going to discuss books, at least talk about something with a shred of literary value!”

Harry gave her a wounded look. “It may not be great literature, but that book made a profound impression on me.”

Elizabeth's disapproval had put a damper on Charles's enthusiasm. “No, she's right, Fogg. We were mere boys when we read that. Now that we've studied the classics, I daresay it would seem like pretty poor stuff.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Harry. “I didn't manage to make it through many of the classics.”

Charles laughed rather disdainfully. “Of course not. You were too busy playing rugby and cricket.”

“How do you—?” Harry turned to glance at him. “Oh. You were at Eton, were you?”

“I didn't suppose you would remember me. I was a year ahead of you, and we didn't move in the same circles. Besides, as I recall, you weren't there for long.”

Their feeling of camaraderie had faded. They fell silent. Elizabeth seemed unaware of the tension and of her role in creating it. She seemed, in fact, quite cheerful, pointing out the few sights that appeared on the mostly featureless plain—a patch of wildflowers, a prairie dog village, a herd of pronghorn antelope, the gloomy clouds gathering on the horizon.

“It looks as though we may be in for another typhoon,” she said.

Charles unfolded his latest map purchase. “Perhaps we can make it to North Platte before it hits.”

“How far is it?” asked Elizabeth.

“Twenty or thirty miles.”

“Oh, dear. I'm afraid I can't wait that long.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him an uncomfortable look. “
You
know.”

“Oh!” Charles blushed deeply. “Oh, I see.” He tapped Harry on the shoulder. “Fogg, I must ask you to stop.”

Though Harry had overheard their exchange, he saw no harm in making Charles squirm. “Stop? Whatever for?”

“For . . . for personal reasons.”

“Don't tell me; you've lost your map.”

Elizabeth spoiled the fun by saying brusquely, “If you must know, I require a bit of privacy. I won't be long, I assure you.”

They stopped next to a small rise—what passed for a hill in these parts—and Elizabeth disappeared over it. “We're running low on fuel, anyway,” said Harry. “We may as well fill up the tank.”

“Maybe we should strain it,” suggested Johnny.

“I don't see the point. Every other batch we bought has been clean enough. You worry too much, lad.”

Though Johnny had lit up his pipe, he wasn't smoking it; he sat rubbing his forehead with one large hand. “Are you all right?” asked Harry. “Do you want another dose of Dr. Pemberton's Syrup?”

Johnny shook his head. “I still feel something wrong.”

“We checked everything on the car that can be checked. Maybe it's the weather that's bothering you.”

Elizabeth scrambled over the rise, holding her long skirt aloft to clear the tall prairie grass. “Look over there!” She pointed to the southwest. Beneath the dark gray storm clouds was a lighter band the color of smoke. “I think the grass is burning!”

Harry gave a low whistle. “Hang me! Into the car, everyone! Now!” He upended the kerosene can, then tossed it into the back of the car and sprang into the driver's seat. “The fire is still a good way off,” he said, as they gained speed. “I'm sure we can outrun it.”

“If nothing goes wrong with the car,” Elizabeth added.

“Nothing will. She's running fine.”

“I hope you're right.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. She gave him a quick smile that seemed cheerful and confident, but it was undermined by the look of anxiety—alarm, almost—in her blue eyes. It was not like her, Harry thought, to be daunted by danger. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll make it.”

“I'm not worried,” she replied, so carelessly that he almost believed her.

At first they seemed to be heading out of harm's way. But the wind picked up, urging the flames into a faster pace. And then, so gradually that Harry scarcely realized it, the
Flash
began to lose power. Harry pulled out the throttle as far as it would go, but the car didn't respond.

“The pressure's dropping,” said Johnny, consulting the gauge. “'Tis down to two hundred.”

Elizabeth gripped Harry's shoulder with surprising strength. “What is it? What's the matter?”

“Deuced if I know. It's not the water; we're showing over half a tank.”

“You were having problems with the differential. Could that be it?”

“I shouldn't think so. We'd better stop and have a look, eh, Johnny?”

“
Stop
?” cried Charles. “You can't
stop
! The prairie's on fire!”

“You can keep going if you want,” said Harry. “I only hope you're a fast runner.”

It took Johnny no more than a minute to locate the problem. “Burner's clogged. Dirt in the fuel, is my guess.”

Harry groaned. “You were right, lad. I should have strained it.”

“Can you clean it?” asked Charles.

Johnny ignored him and fetched his toolbox.

“We could,” said Harry. “If we had a couple of hours to spare.”

“A couple of hours? We're lucky if we have ten minutes!”

Harry glanced at the line of flames, which was so near now that they could hear the crackling of the parched grass as it caught fire. Rabbits and mice and prairie dogs scurried all around them, heedless of humans when a greater danger threatened. “Perhaps less than that,” said Harry. He snatched a large knife from the toolbox and thrust it it into Charles's hand. “Here.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Start cutting grass.”

EIGHTEEN
In which

W
hat good will that do?” demanded Charles. “We can't possibly cut enough for a decent firebreak!”

Harry unfolded the serrated blade of his sports knife. “It's not for a firebreak. It's for fuel.” He grabbed a bunch of the tough prairie grass and sawed off the stems. “Twist it together in a tight bundle, like this, then double it over and tie it with one of the stems.”

“I'll help.” Elizabeth fished a wicked-looking stiletto from her carpetbag and began hacking off grass and twisting it deftly into miniature sheaves.

Charles fumbled awkwardly with his bundle. “You really think this is going to work?”

“I'd prefer to use wood, but I don't see any trees, do you?”

“What about buffalo chips?” said Charles.

“Buffalo chips?” Elizabeth echoed.

“Dried manure,” explained Charles. “That's what the wagon trains used.”

“I don't see any buffalo, either,” said Harry.

“Got it!” Johnny called, triumphantly holding up the disconnected burner.

“Excellent work, lad!” Harry tossed his grass bundles into the firebox.

Johnny struck one of the lucifer matches he used to light his pipe; the wind promptly blew it out. A second was snuffed out just as fast. “The devil take it!” he muttered.

“Here, I'll shelter you!” Elizabeth raised the hem of her long skirt high in the air, creating a barrier that blocked the wind. The third match did the trick. The bundles burst into flames, which licked at the bottom of the boiler.

The prairie fire was now no more than a hundred yards away. The smoke from it set them coughing and rubbing at their eyes. Elizabeth transformed her skirt from a windscreen into a basket, scooping into it the rest of the grass sheaves.

“We'll need to feed them in a few at a time,” said Harry.

“You drive. I'll feed.” She climbed onto the running board.

“It's too dangerous!” protested Charles. “You'd better let me—”

“Get in!” she ordered, in a tone that forbade further discussion.

There was enough steam pressure to get them rolling, but just barely. “We would have been better off running!” said Charles.

“Give her a minute or two,” Harry replied calmly. “Johnny designed her to heat up quickly.”

“If we don't get moving, we're all going to heat up
very
quickly!”

“Let's have some more fuel,” Harry called. Elizabeth clung to the car with one hand and, with the other, stuffed a bundle into the firebox, singeing her fingers.