nostalgia.
“Yeah, Sam,” he agreed, “only I was coming to rescue you,
don’t you see?”
Clemens ignored him and turned to join the circle with the
others.
“So it wasn’t right to mock me, is all I’m saying.” Tam sighed. He shuffled in close to listen, too, careful that he wasn’t
leaning over the head of the louse-sized midget. The little bastard had armed himself with every knife he
could find.
“It’s time for reciprocal revelation,” the man everyone
called Poe was saying. He was saying it to Sam, and he was
wiping blood off the corner of his mouth with a white handkerchief. The man looked like a walking corpse. “You’re the Boatman, and you brought a
delivery of rubies to Orson Pratt. How many were there?”
Sam Clemens might not always be nice to his associate, but
he knew how to keep his cool. “I’m
not saying it’s true, Mr. Poe, and I’m not saying it isn’t. But I would like to understand your
reasoning a little better.”
“I took Pratt a delivery, too,” Poe explained. “My codename was to be the Egyptian , but he accidentally called me the Boatman . I’ve
seen your amphibious craft, and I think the Boatman must have been you. You looked uncomfortable when I mentioned
rubies to Hickman. How many did
you bring him?” The bony-faced
Mormon woman looked fascinated by Poe’s every word, and Tam wondered what her game was.
“How many did you bring him?” Sam asked belligerently.
“What I gave Pratt wasn’t rubies,” Poe said.
“What was it?” This question came from the more manly of the two Englishmen. Tam thought his name was Burton. He looked a little offended, like all
this was new information, and he wasn’t happy that people had been keeping
secrets from him. “In the spirit
of reciprocal revelation, I brought Pratt nothing.”
“I don’t know what it was,” Poe said.
“Your profession of ignorance doesn’t exactly inspire
trust,” Sam joked.
“They were some kind of clocksprung devices,” Poe
explained. “I don’t know what the
devices were designed to do, but there were four of them, and they were built
into canopic jars, little Egyptian-looking jars with animal heads.”
“We know what canopic jars are,” harrumphed Burton.
Poe ignored him. “They might be ether-wave devices of some sort,” he said, “but that’s
almost pure conjecture on my part. How many rubies?”
“Didn’t you say that Mr. Pratt has built four of his
air-ships?” the Etonian bastard asked. Since the fight ended, he’d been followed around by two women, the
Mexican gunner and the young Mormon morsel. Tam would happily have instructed either girl in the secret
beauties of the Irish avian population, but they stuck to the effete little
prat with his maimed headgear like blight stuck to a potato. Just the sight of the three of them
made Tam want to spit.
The aristo weasel had two women slobbering over him. Poe had the bony Mormon lady making
eyes. Sam Clemens and Burton
yukked it up like they’d been hatched from the same egg and known each other
all their lives. Even the dwarf
had the little kid. Tamerlane
O’Shaughnessy was the odd man out.
He felt alone. It surprised him how much the feeling bothered him. Stop moping, you stupid bastard, he
told himself. Mother
O’Shaughnessy’d die of embarrassment over your womanish ways.
Of course, on top of being lonesome, good old Missouri Sam
Clemens had as much as blamed him for kidnapping the child. Sure, Tam had had the child in his
possession at one point, but for that matter, so had Sam.
It had been the dwarf who committed the kidnapping.
It just wasn’t fair.
“So what?” he interjected himself into the
conversation. “Four ships and four
jars, so-bloody-damn-hell-what? Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Four cardinal directions, by Brigit. Four arms and legs on a man, four fingers to a hand if
“Yeah, Sam,” he agreed, “only I was coming to rescue you,
don’t you see?”
Clemens ignored him and turned to join the circle with the
others.
“So it wasn’t right to mock me, is all I’m saying.” Tam sighed. He shuffled in close to listen, too, careful that he wasn’t
leaning over the head of the louse-sized midget. The little bastard had armed himself with every knife he
could find.
“It’s time for reciprocal revelation,” the man everyone
called Poe was saying. He was saying it to Sam, and he was
wiping blood off the corner of his mouth with a white handkerchief. The man looked like a walking corpse. “You’re the Boatman, and you brought a
delivery of rubies to Orson Pratt. How many were there?”
Sam Clemens might not always be nice to his associate, but
he knew how to keep his cool. “I’m
not saying it’s true, Mr. Poe, and I’m not saying it isn’t. But I would like to understand your
reasoning a little better.”
“I took Pratt a delivery, too,” Poe explained. “My codename was to be the Egyptian , but he accidentally called me the Boatman . I’ve
seen your amphibious craft, and I think the Boatman must have been you. You looked uncomfortable when I mentioned
rubies to Hickman. How many did
you bring him?” The bony-faced
Mormon woman looked fascinated by Poe’s every word, and Tam wondered what her game was.
“How many did you bring him?” Sam asked belligerently.
“What I gave Pratt wasn’t rubies,” Poe said.
“What was it?” This question came from the more manly of the two Englishmen. Tam thought his name was Burton. He looked a little offended, like all
this was new information, and he wasn’t happy that people had been keeping
secrets from him. “In the spirit
of reciprocal revelation, I brought Pratt nothing.”
“I don’t know what it was,” Poe said.
“Your profession of ignorance doesn’t exactly inspire
trust,” Sam joked.
“They were some kind of clocksprung devices,” Poe
explained. “I don’t know what the
devices were designed to do, but there were four of them, and they were built
into canopic jars, little Egyptian-looking jars with animal heads.”
“We know what canopic jars are,” harrumphed Burton.
Poe ignored him. “They might be ether-wave devices of some sort,” he said, “but that’s
almost pure conjecture on my part. How many rubies?”
“Didn’t you say that Mr. Pratt has built four of his
air-ships?” the Etonian bastard asked. Since the fight ended, he’d been followed around by two women, the
Mexican gunner and the young Mormon morsel. Tam would happily have instructed either girl in the secret
beauties of the Irish avian population, but they stuck to the effete little
prat with his maimed headgear like blight stuck to a potato. Just the sight of the three of them
made Tam want to spit.
The aristo weasel had two women slobbering over him. Poe had the bony Mormon lady making
eyes. Sam Clemens and Burton
yukked it up like they’d been hatched from the same egg and known each other
all their lives. Even the dwarf
had the little kid. Tamerlane
O’Shaughnessy was the odd man out.
He felt alone. It surprised him how much the feeling bothered him. Stop moping, you stupid bastard, he
told himself. Mother
O’Shaughnessy’d die of embarrassment over your womanish ways.
Of course, on top of being lonesome, good old Missouri Sam
Clemens had as much as blamed him for kidnapping the child. Sure, Tam had had the child in his
possession at one point, but for that matter, so had Sam.
It had been the dwarf who committed the kidnapping.
It just wasn’t fair.
“So what?” he interjected himself into the
conversation. “Four ships and four
jars, so-bloody-damn-hell-what? Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Four cardinal directions, by Brigit. Four arms and legs on a man, four fingers to a hand if
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