Wild Cards and Iron Horses (27 page)

“Father, I’m ready to…” Her voice faded away as she stared at the two strange men standing in the middle of the workshop talking to her father. She approached them warily, her gaze darting around the room seeking any dangers. A day ago she wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but that was then and this was now.

“Gentlemen, my daughter, Samantha.” Her father stepped away from the pair, beaming while he waved his hand towards her. A curt nod confirmed that she had nothing to fear from these visitors.

The two gentlemen doffed their bowlers, nodding politely. The first was an older man about her father’s age with long, pale grey hair. The second was in the same age group, with a thick bushy white moustache that she remembered reading in the papers was all the rage back East. Both were dressed fashionably with matching jackets and waistcoats, their boots and pants amazingly mud and tobacco free.

All eyes landed on Samantha, the two men inspecting the younger Weatherly. She shuffled her feet, feeling very self-conscious. It wasn’t as though she was on display for the young men of the town, like her first horrible dance. It was as if she was a fine piece of machinery, being inspected to see how hard she could work.

A banging came on the front door. Sam jumped back a foot, one hand reaching for a weapon, any weapon. Her father scrambled towards the noise, putting his hand up.

“Don’t worry—it’s just Gil with our delivery.” After unlatching the main door, he went about unlocking the second door beside it, creating a larger opening into the street. Her father kept talking as he yanked up the thick iron bolts holding the doors closed. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at this morning exhibition.”

A small, shrill voice came from outside, matched with an odd, grinding noise as if a boulder was being dragged across the ground. Sam flinched at the sound.

“Ah, Gil.” Her father beamed as the urchin appeared around the corner of one of the open doors. “Just pull that one, yes…” He took a step back, waving at the opening with a dramatic flourish. “Gentlemen, your equimech.”

The young boy stepped in, standing tall and proud. A wide grin flashed across his face when he motioned behind him to his unseen company. “Bring ’er in, boys.”

He stepped out of the way as four beefy workmen strode in. The thick ropes tied to the sides of the beast groaned at the weight while they dragged it through the door. In a few minutes they had shoved the machine back into the far corner. The wheels whined at the effort, but still spun cleanly and easily, allowing them to maneuver it into its original resting spot.

Samantha flinched at the iron horse’s appearance. The once-shiny copper sheets that covered the majority of the body were stained with mud, dirt and more than a little horse manure, giving it a definite equine aroma. Nothing had actually been torn off the beast during the rough ride back to town, but it was definitely not the pristine creation she had hoped to show off to the businessmen.

Her father flipped a few coins to the men, who rapidly disappeared from sight. He nodded to Gil.

“Thank you for your help in getting this back here.”

Gil smiled, giving Sam a sideways glance. “He’s playing and winning. I’ll see you at the saloon.”

The urchin sped out of sight before Sam could respond, her face growing red as she met the curious stares of the two businessmen.

“Anyway, gentlemen…” Her father walked over to the immobile machine. He pulled a panel open to show the delicate innards. “As you can see, it survived the test run with flying colors.” He picked up a small set of tweezers from the worktable and reached inside as the two men moved closer. “We adjusted the gears just a bit, but I think you’ll agree that the productivity increase was well worth it.”

Samantha let out a sigh as her father launched into more details about how they had modified the beast, pointing out with tact where the original plans needed modification and how the equimech was obviously a much better horse for it. Finally he fell silent, letting the two men digest the information he had tossed at them.

The two men moved closer, inspecting the machine themselves as her father backed off.

“Excuse us for a minute.” The older man peered inside at the dark interior. The second man withdrew a small notepad and pen and started scribbling notes as the first mumbled comments.

Her father nodded to Samantha, moving towards the open doors. She joined him in closing and locking the double doors again, coughing only slightly in the morning mist and fog that was already creeping in along the workshop floor. Turning around, they waited for the inspection to finish.

The clean-shaven man poked a finger at the dials, muttering to his mustached friend who jotted numbers down with a steady hand. Walking around to the back, both men flipped up the thick horsehair tail that had been added to give the beast some semblance of normality, and glared at the exhaust port. Another circuit around the beast split up the two men, one inspecting the wood and steel wheels while the other studied the control stick intently, jiggling it experimentally from side to side. Sam rocked on her heels, ignoring the warning looks from her father to calm down.

Finally the first man turned towards the pair. “And your daughter did most of the work? You don’t have an apprentice?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll not deny it. She’s a mighty fine engineer and mechanic and I’m proud to have it run in the family.” Her father glanced at the closed doors. “I’ve considered taking on an apprentice, yes, sir.” His left hand came up to rub his chin. “As you can see, I’m a bit short-handed at present.” He chuckled at his own joke.

The second man frantically scribbled on a notepad as the man walked around the equimech again.

Sam frowned, taking a closer look at the man who stood near her filling page after page with notations. His white moustache twitched once, twice as the pen jumped across the page.

“How is she?” Sam asked.

He blissfully ignored her, turning his attention to the other inspector.

She glanced at the other man, now partially hidden as he poked his head inside the beast. Sam cleared her throat.

“My father did tell you that he lost his arm repairing this machine, did he not?”

The note-taker’s hand paused for a second and then continued taking notes. The businessman stood up, looking at her as if she had materialized out of nowhere.

“We received the news. Unfortunate accident.”

Sam stepped forward, pressing the point. “I would submit, sir, that you consider our redesign of the gear mechanism. That’s what he got caught in, and that’s what we fixed.” She motioned at her father, whose scarlet face showed his annoyance with her speech. “I’m willing to bet that if you keep the original design, you’ll have many more accidents like this happen to your employees.”

His eyebrows rose as he turned to look at her straight on. “Really? And you think you can design a better machine than our experts?”

“Yes, yes I do,” she shot back. The last thing she liked to do was get into an argument with a customer, but she had to speak up. Not only for her father but for all the other engineers who would be working on these machines. “And if you wish us to maintain such creatures, I suggest you include better instructions. As it was, we had to rewrite a majority of the blueprints to increase their efficiency and safety.”

“Really?” The older man frowned, tugging at his pale gray ponytail. “That’s most interesting. Let me see them.” He glanced over at his companion, who shrugged in response.

Her father leapt in, taking control of the situation back from Samantha. “They’re over here, Mr. Smithston, sir.” He pointed at the far worktable. “Let me show you the originals and our modifications.”

As the two men moved off, Samantha peered again at the man taking notes. He glanced at her from over his spectacles and gave a wistful smile before turning away so that she couldn’t see his notes.

Silence followed for a few minutes as they studied the blueprints. Sam held back an impatient sigh, thinking of Jon and the tournament. Finally one of the representatives spoke.

“These changes are…impressive.” The businessman walked back to the equimech, tapping his chin with his index finger. “I must admit that our own designers never thought of such things.”

“If they had, my father might still have two hands,” Sam answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I shall take my leave of you. My father will conclude this discussion, since you don’t seem to need me around.”

She glanced at her father, daring him to make her stay any longer. “If that suits you, Father.”

“Ah, yes. The poker tournament. Your father mentioned you would be attending after our discussion.”

Mr. Smithston smiled. “May I ask if you have a particular player you’re supporting in this game?”

“Jon. Jon Handleston.” Sam stood up as straight as she could, keeping eye contact with the man. She wasn’t going to be embarrassed about this. “He’s one of the best players in the area.”

“Actually, he was the one who rode the beast back into town,” her father interjected, shooting Sam a warning glance. “He took it for a final test drive, in a matter of speaking. At top speed it was a stable ride and completed its task in record time.”

Both inspectors suddenly stood still. Mr. Smithston spoke first.

“You let a poker player take out our machine to…to play with?” The long ponytail bounced over his back as he moved from side to side. “You let this man just joyride on this precious, expensive creation?”

“He saved my life,” Sam snapped at him. “He damn well deserved to ride your equimech back into town to get to his game in time.”

Her father stepped out, putting his hand between the two men and his daughter. “Sam, let me explain to them.” He let out a sigh. “Gentlemen. Last night my daughter was kidnapped by a madman who took her out into the desert. Mr. Handleston, along with the young boy you’ve already met, went out in the middle of the night to find and save her. In doing so, Mr. Handleston jeopardized his ability to make it to the start of the tournament.”

The note taker nodded. “That much we understand, sir. The local gossips have been afire with the news of your daughter’s abduction and recovery. But how did he come to be riding our iron horse?”

“I…” Her father rubbed his chin. “I took the beast out at dawn to find my daughter. The deputies were riding horses and the military had an airship about to launch, but she is my only daughter, sirs. I couldn’t sit by and wait.” Head held high, he continued. “I used what I had at my disposal and that included your equimech.”

“Totally understandable, Mr. Weatherly.” Mr. Smithston pressed his lips together. “But how did he end up riding the horse back?”

“I gave it to him once he had rescued my daughter,” her father said with a note of pride in his voice.

“He deserved a chance to make it to the tournament in time. And he did, thanks to your magnificent creation and our adjustments.”

“Improvements,” Sam said under her breath.

“Really.” The businessman looked at his associate. “I think I’d like to meet this Mr. Handleston. Do you agree?”

The man flipped his notebook shut with a loud snap. “It would be interesting to see what passes for entertainment in this town, I believe.” He nodded towards her father. “We shall have our final decision in a few hours, sir. After we discuss these notes and your comments.”

The two men bowed as one and walked out of the workshop, closing the door behind them.

“Now, that could not have been any stranger if we had tried,” her father muttered.

Sam was breathless, mentally running over what she had said. If she ruined this chance for them because of her eagerness to get to Jon, she’d never forgive herself.

“They arrived while you were still washing up. I couldn’t hide the truth from them about the equimech being out on the road, obviously. And Gil showed up only a few minutes before they did, yelping about getting some fellows to drag the darned thing back from the saloon.”

Sam closed her eyes. “And now we wait.”

“No.”

She opened them to see a wide grin on her father’s face. “Now we go watch your man play poker.”

The cards flitted across the table like misshapen flower petals, delicately falling to the green velvet in front of the players. Jon picked up his five with his left hand, leaving his right palm-down on the table. At this level he hated putting the cards face down and picking them up again and again, but he couldn’t risk having them fall out of his limp fingers. Some gamblers might look away or “forget” that they saw the cards, but this was the final round—no one was going to give any quarter, including himself.

A murmur ran over the crowd as William and Robert appeared, the two deputies sliding through the mob with little effort. William touched the brow of his hat, nodding to Jon. Robert just stared at the table.

Jon didn’t return the nod or pay them any attention. Two fives, a three, a jack and a ten. Hearts, spades and diamonds, no chance of making it work to a flush. He glanced around the table at the other players, running their identities in his mind as he debated the workability of his hand.

Harry Drummond had made it to the final round, no surprise to Jon. His left eyebrow rose just a fraction before settling down.

Ivan Trenblinko sat across from Jon, the Russian wearing enough cologne to knock out a man at thirty paces. It was already making Jon’s eyes water. The man scratched his bushy red beard, dropping a handful of white flakes onto the felt in front of him. The man never moved except to drink another shot of vodka or to scratch.

Peter Bakersfield grinned as he looked at his cards. He was new on the circuit, a brash youth much like Lugar and Tannetum, but with more brains. He wore a flaming red waistcoat over a brilliant white dress shirt, the top few buttons undone to show off a handful of blond downy chest hair that matched what little he had on his head.

And Harry Felcher, a Civil War veteran who still wore the tattered remains of his uniform jacket, the light grey fabric now mottled with sweat, oil and a thousand other stains that would never come out. The gambler wore his cavalry hat as well, the thick white feather nothing more than a limp mockery of itself while the CSA logo had been torn off sometime in the past.