Like a Wisp of Steam (13 page)

The first Trista heard about it was when a stranger found and told her that "Lansdale" needed to see her.

The man was a scowling, scarred fellow. Trouble, if Maggie had ever seen it. She did not argue. As they walked to Heck's wagon, she saw others prowling among the shadows, arms filled with firearms and weapons that had been taken from her crewmates.
They're pacifying us.

In Heck's wagon, Trista found a very nervous show boss sitting with a portly, unshaven man with greasy black hair and a sour complexion. "Uhm, Trista," Heck said by way of introduction, "This is Black Paul, and he has a bit of a, uhm, proposition. How fast can you get Benjamin up and running?"

She had seen the posters with an artist's rendering of the man before, though the pictures did not capture the cold fire of desperation beaming out of his piggish eyes, nor the lusty grimace that twisted his lips when he saw her. Or a shirt wet with the blood of a recent gunfight.

"Well," he said, "Aren't you a s-s-s-
sight
?" Had she heard that correctly? Yes. Black Paul, the accused murderer and robber and general ne'er-do-well, the scourge of law and propriety, suffered from a bad stutter. Still, she found no humor in it, with the silver six guns on the table in easy reach.

"He wants old Benjamin," Heck explained, "and so long as we cooperate, he won't hurt anyone."

"You're probably w-w-w-wuh-
wondering
,"—the words that tripped him up, came forcefully when he finally got them out—"w-wuh-
why
you should trust m-muh-
me
. I'm a m-muh-muh-
man
of m-
my
w-wuh-
word
." A sweat broke out across his forehead. He angrily gestured to one of his men, a stern-faced fellow with wrists no thicker than tent spikes.

"Black Paul gives his word," the man said. "The big steam man, he will do a job for us, and then we will leave you in peace. Your Mister Heck has agreed to do as we say, and so long as no one here tries to thwart us, then we will not kill everyone in the Show. We are not completely without honor."

Black Paul showed a set of filthy teeth in a feral smile as though to demonstrate his honesty.

Heck 's eyes never once left Black Paul's pistols. "Do what they say."

She had no choice. At least, not at the moment. "I will," she said, ashamed of the weakness in her voice. She wanted to be like Maggie, wanted to make these men tremble at her strength. She was the one trembling.

Black Paul enjoyed her fear, savoring it like a heady wine.

"G-guh-
good
g-guh-g-
girl
."

* * * *

Trista discovered how little actual intelligence or foresight was required to become an outlaw when she heard Black Paul's plans.

"You want to use Benjamin to rob a bank?" She could not keep the incredulity from her voice. It seemed a preposterous suggestion, the likes of using shotgun blasts to kill a particularly pesky horsefly.

"That is what we wish," the thin-wristed man, named Sykes, replied.

"I don't think this is going to work." Before the outlaws'

scowls could turn deadly, she added, "Benjamin does not ...

think. No matter how it looked in the Show. He follows very specific instructions. That's all he's capable of doing. His actions are all determined in advance. He is not a real man, he—"

"No problem," Sykes explained. "We have a map of the bank we wish robbed. Scaled to the last inch. He need only walk through a door, down to the safe, rip the door from its hinges and then ... We can come in after him."

Trista wondered if an earlier attempt on this same bank was when Black Paul had been injured. Benjamin would be impervious to those same bullets that could fell a man. He need only be a walking target for any sheriff's men, she realized. Was it something she could do?

Yes.

For the safety of the Show folks, her family these last six months, she could. For Maggie, she could. However, using Benjamin for such a thing ... It offended her, not merely for the crime being perpetrated, but the perversion of science to do it ... If a man wanted to risk catching a bullet for a pocketful of loot that was likely to be lost in bottles or whorehouses, then who was Trista to stand in his way? No Sheriff she. Yet, the attempt to use science to make such a dangerous lifestyle somehow less life-threatening was ... It really steamed her up.

Still, what could she do with the lives of her crew at these cutthroats' mercy?

As she listened to their plan she found herself starting to think outside of their short-sighted parameters. Black Paul would stay behind with two of his men, while Sykes led the others to the Brisbane Bank. She would accompany the men.

Should Benjamin need some kind of adjustment, which Black Paul's men did not understand that she could not easily perform on the fly, then she would be on hand. She would also be a hostage.

She longed to see that Maggie was okay. Sure, Black Paul's men gave their word that no one was going to be killed, but what did that promise really mean? She could not see Maggie, though. Not at all. She had to listen to these men, listen to their fool's errand, and try to make it work.

Or did she?

An exceptionally dangerous plan occurred to her. It was beyond risky, and yet it was her only chance. As she created the punch cards, she started putting her plan to good use. If it succeeded, this would undoubtedly be Benjamin's showstopper, and if it failed, well ... Failure was not an option. She could only hope that the skills she had picked up both at the CCST School of Engineering, which seemed a whole lifetime ago, as well as the six months on the road with the Show, would be enough.

* * * *

The wee hours came alive with man-made thunder.

When Benjamin stormed through the front doors of the bank, Sykes and his men let out a whoop of joy. When Benjamin stomped his way inside, ignoring the hail of gunfire directed his way, they were even more pleased. When they finally heard those weapons run dry and the great, cogwork monstrosity tear a path through the counter and the hallway to the safe, they were raring to go. They charged into the bank, Sykes shoving the engineer ahead of him. The men with guns, a pair with stars on their chests, were watching Benjamin when the outlaws arrived, so Sykes' men got the drop on them. With Trista presented as a hostage, the lawmen dropped their weapons.

Sykes had his fellows quickly (and poorly, Trista noted) bind them and then followed Benjamin's progress.

The great cogwork man was standing before the safe, his massive iron head leaning against the still sealed door.

"Why hasn't he broke it open?" Sykes demanded.

"I didn't expect him to get shot quite so much! Benjamin is a delicate creation, not accustomed to such violence—"

"Make him work!" Sykes practically threw Trista at the great iron man, and she felt a flutter of hope in her heart.

She jammed another punch card into his mouth, triggering the next phase of her plan.

Sykes had left two of his men to guard the prisoners, but there were enough present that any success would prove good enough. Benjamin stomped again into action, following Trista's routine. The iron man rotated until he faced up the narrow hallway, the steam spilling from his seams making him into an incredibly life-like demon instead of some mere automaton. He strode toward the stunned outlaws, faster than he had been designed for, arms extended as wide as possible, stooped and rushing like a bull. Benjamin bowled right into Sykes and the first of his men, plowing them effectively into the ground before something seized up inside his leg joints, loud as gunshots. Momentum carried him forward, right into the others, pinning many of them beneath several hundred pounds of iron. The last of the men in the lot was thrown backwards to the floor, where he sat staring in shock and terror as though he could not wrap his brain around the notion that the cogwork man had betrayed them.

By then, Trista had Sykes' guns in hand, holding it as Maggie had shown her. Her stance was impressive to behold, though she could not hit a rain barrel at five paces. "Give up,"

she said, a little of Maggie's ice finding its way into her voice.

Sure, she felt as frail as a daisy in a tornado inside, but she scared the man. He thrust his hands up.

Out front, she heard a fresh volley of gunshots. The lawmen were putting things to right, and she heard their calls for surrender. When they came back to find her with the others, they scratched their heads and wondered just how a gal like her could have undone the plans of so many tough hombres.

"A little knowledge," she replied, absolutely out of context but somehow appropriate, "is a dangerous thing."

"Isn't that Black Paul's man?" one of the lawmen asked, indicating Sykes.

"Yes," Trista said, "and I know where Black Paul is holed up."

When the other lawman said to his partner, "Well then, let's go get him," Trista stopped them.

"He says he'll hurt the crew. That might not amount to much for you, but I've lived and worked with these folks for

... for quite a time. They're important to me."

When the first of the lawmen asked, "Got a sweetheart there, huh?" Trista blushed.

"Let me try to flush him out," she said.

"You have a plan?"

She looked to the captured outlaws and nodded. "Yes I do," she said, though she was still assembling the particulars.

* * * *

Maggie's eyes were wide with concern and more than a little relief when Trista snuck into her wagon before dawn.

"Are you alright?" was quickly followed by, "Wherever did you find
these
?" when Trista pushed Sykes' pistols into her hands.

"I believe..." Trista wet her lips, but they still felt dry as her tongue rasped across them. "I'm about to do something absolutely stupid, Maggie. And I need to know if you can keep me safe."

"Of course." This was a simple matter of fact and needing no soul searching. It raised Trista's spirits enough for her to keep heart and hope. Not that she expected a different answer, but hearing her own faith validated was something indescribably uplifting. Maggie continued, "Is Black Paul really in Heck's wagon?"

Trista nodded. "And I'm going to lure him far enough from our camp that the law can take him away without too much of a ruckus."

"You don't sound so confident about that last part."

"You ever notice how a man," Trista asked, "sometimes doesn't think too clearly when he's relying on a woman?" For a moment, Trista was not quite sure if she was speaking about Black Paul or her lawmen allies. "Best to have someone I trust watching out for me."

Maggie inspected the cylinders and loads and then nodded once. Hardness found its way into her face and eyes. "I'm your gal."

* * * *

Nerves and pain made the stutter even worse. "W-
where
are m-muh-
my
m-muh—"

"Your men have been caught out. Benji didn't quite help out as much as they hoped." Trista said. "Sykes sent me to fetch you. The law shot him, but he—"

Black Paul's silver six guns came out in a flash, shaking in his trembling paws. "W-wheh-where?"

"I can take you to him."

Black Paul stared hard enough to look into her soul.

He'll see my treachery
, she thought.
Even Heck must see
it
. Heck was sitting mum silent, but speaking volumes with his body. Heck, who had possibly inappropriate affection for the man whose job she now held. Heck, who had lost that man and who seemed to be preparing himself to lose another steamwork engineer, even now.

"I don't," Black Paul paused for nearly a second, face stern, defiant against the stutter that threatened his next word, "trust," prematurely emphasized, "you."

"I can understand that." She spoke softly and slowly, hoping that this might help to keep the terror that shook her insides out of her words. "But if you want to see your ... your friend again, well..."

Black Paul's eyes softened at her use of that word,

"friend." Was Sykes truly this outlaw's boon companion?

"If you want to see him," she added, "then you'll have to come with me."

Was it her earnestness that convinced him? Was it the pain of his wound? Regardless of motive, he weakly tottered after her. Outside the wagon, he howled for his men to come help him to his horse. Then, he spotted something he did not like.

Trista soon discovered what captivated his attention: A couple of men crept through the shadows beneath a nearby supply cart. The stars upon their chests need not gleam for her to know them to be the lawmen. So much for the plan.

"Traitorous b-b-bitch."

"I'm not sorry," she said, though that was a bald-faced lie.

The wounded man looked like some kicked puppy.

"K-kih-kill—"

Of course, his men were already ahead of him. They brought their rifles to bear on the skulking shapes. A pair of nearly simultaneous reports broke the predawn still. Not Black Paul's men, not the law, either. These came from Maggie's wagon. The outlaws dropped their weapons, gun hands ruined.

The outlaw leader himself brought his guns to bear on Trista. The engineer stood her ground, brave in the hope that he would not shoot her in the face. He stared her in the eyes and aimed lower before he squeezed. Gut shots, the sort of damage that would leave her in agony for hours.

If they had drilled their way into her guts, that is.

Old Benji came through for her one last time; at least the piece of iron she had taken from his thigh and beaten into a rough half circle around her torso did. Black Paul's rounds ricocheted, one digging a groove across his right cheek, the other smacking up dirt between his feet.

"It's over," Trista said, and Black Paul's pistols rolled down his fingers. A vast relief filled his face as surrender dropped his shoulders. He might have actually laughed, if the lawmen's guns had not roared, dropping him where he stood.

Trista reached a single hand toward him, her eyes wide and unbelieving as the outlaw crashed to the earth, twitching and kicking up grit for three horrible seconds.