Teancum by D. J. Butler

me Sam.   No, my heart was always on the river.   But I’ve never turned down a good show, and it’s hard to get
a better show than a carnival.”   He
sucked at a Cohiba and offered another to the short man.   “Just have to avoid the gaffed
games.   Of course, even the rigged
games are part of the show.”
    “Damn straight,” Coltrane agreed, and took the cigar.   “And call me Jed.   But I don’t figure you for a fellow who
gets hoodwinked much.”
    “I’m certainly a fellow who does his best to avoid it,” Sam
agreed.   “That doesn’t stop the
hoodwinkers from trying.”
    The edge of the Beehive House rolled into view and Sam
braked the Jim Smiley .   Shooting continued on the far side of
Young’s two conjoined houses, but it was more sporadic now.   “Is it worth me driving the truck
somewhere else to draw off attention?” he asked.   “Or hiding it?”
    Brigham Young smiled fiercely.   He looked an awful lot like a heavier, Yankee version of
Richard Burton, Sam thought.   Minus
the scars on the sides of the head, and plus approximately fifty wives.   “Not worth it, Mr. Clemens,” Young
said.   “In fifteen minutes we’ll
have sent our message and it will be too late to stop us.   Everyone will know that I’m alive,
you’re innocent and John D. Lee is a scoundrel.”
    “I could drive the Jim Smiley across the yard,” Sam offered.   “Crash it right into the window of the message room.”
    “There are still men fighting over there,” Young said,
sounding grumpy even at the suggestion.   “This is my house, Clemens, with my family inside.   We’ll just walk through.   If anyone tries to resist, my family
will help us.   Besides,” he hefted
a pair of pistols he’d taken from electrocuted cavalrymen, “we’re armed.”
    “Yes, Mr. President,” Sam agreed.
    They crossed the north lawn of the Beehive House with guns
in hand, other than the dwarf, who carried a big vibro-blade, thumb on the
switch.   A man with a long coat and
rifle stood on the porch, and Brigham Young walked straight up to him and
leveled both pistols at his chest.
    “Welker, isn’t it?” he asked.
    “President Young!” the man gasped.   He was barrel-chested and tall despite short legs and Sam
thought he looked like he ate surprisingly well for a man who lived on the
frontier.   “You’re not dead!”
    “Are you with me or Lee?” Young asked, cocking his
guns.    Sam looked around the
porch, half-expecting to be spied on.   Coltrane must be sharing his suspicions, he thought; the dwarf looked
itchy.
    Welker promptly turned his rifle around and handed it to
Young, stock-first.   “I’m your man,
President Young,” he said.   He
turned and knocked three times at the door.   “Thank God you’re back.”   He opened the door, revealing a parlor lit only dimly by
electricks turned down low.
    “Not everyone!” Young snapped.   He uncocked one pistol, stuck it into the waistband of his
pants, and handed Welker’s rifle back to him.   Just in case, Sam cocked his own guns and kept an eye on the
guard.
    Welker nodded and stepped aside, and Young stomped into his
home.   Rockwell snatched back
Welker’s gun and pushed himself into the man’s face.  
    “You’re coming with us,” he growled.   Welker backed away, nodded and
following Brigham Young.
    The chairs and sofas in the parlor were very nice, and the
room was empty of life.
    “Why did you knock, Welker?” Sam asked.   “Everyone’s asleep.”
    Welker hesitated, then shrugged.   “Manners,” he said.   “It isn’t my house.”
    “People knock on doors before entering in the Kingdom of
Deseret, Mr. Clemens,” Young growled.   “For my bodyguards, it’s protocol.”
    “Yes, but he didn’t enter, did he?” Sam pointed out.   “And this is your house, isn’t it, Mr.
President?”
    “In ten minutes it won’t matter,” Young said, barreling
through the parlor and down a long hall.   “In ten minutes