Goin' South North of the Border
By Sarah O'Donoghue
This story was originally posted on The Unofficial Nicodemus Legend Homepage
This story copyright 1999 Sarah O�Donoghue. As with everything else on the
Steampunk Central Website no profit is derived from this work, and all contents
are for entertainment and educational purposes only. See main index page for
full disclaimer.
Based on a story idea by Paul Mitchell & Sarah O�Donoghue
The Legend characters are owned by Paramount Television and Gekko Film Corp/ This fanfic is in no way intended to infringe upon those rights and is written solely for the entertainment of others. No profit is made from this, or any of my other Legend stories. Acknowledgements � With thanks to Bill Dial for the fun tidbits he passed on to me. �Legend� the dog was a real animal on the set of the TV show that �adopted� Richard Dean Anderson. Thanks as always to my fabulous editors Mark & Paul for their support & advice. Some of the snippets on the history of Niagara Falls are taken from Encarta 99. Historian�s Note � This story makes reference to previous stories in Legend Season Two "Rhyme or a Reason" by Sarah O�Donoghue and "Dark Double" by Paul Mitchell and Sarah O�Donoghue. Apologies � John Wesley Coe the ex-gunfighter was portrayed in "Birth of a Legend" by Tim Thomerson. I�m a big fan of Mr Thomerson�s low budget SF movies and I couldn�t resist some really bad puns. Major apologies if you understand them!
The terrible sand dunes of Texas greeted our hero as he struggled longingly over the endless blinding desert � a gun in one hand and the reins of his dying horse Buckoo in the other. The old stallion had been with Coe for three years � a record as far as he could remember. Buckoo had carried him from one coast of this great land to the other, but now thanks to a no-good coward, with less backbone than a squid, Coe was being forced to drive the horse towards it�s death. "I�m going to get you Dirty Dog," he muttered from around his last cigar, held with gritted teeth. The smoke was burning his parched throat, but he didn�t care. He had more important things to think about, like exactly how creatively he was going to make McShane beg for his no-good life.
"I don�t believe this stuff!" growled Pratt, throwing down the dime novel he had been reading in disgust. He sighed and glanced at the cover. It proclaimed The Hunt for �Dirty Dog" McShane, by J. W. Coe. "I can�t believe John Coe put his name to such a deathly-dull book," Pratt mumbled to himself. "Buntline must have got a hold of him and put him into a trance!" He smiled to himself and intoned, imitating his rival Buntline in the silly situation he had just conjured up: "You will write as badly as I do�you will write as badly as I do�." He laughed. "Come on, John, I know you can do better than this!" he thought and pushed the half-read book back into his bag on the seat beside him and glanced out of the window at the breathtaking Montana scenery, the mild spring day fading into a deceptively cold night. Ernest Pratt, AKA Nicodemus Legend, was currently on board a Union Pacific railroad train, heading for the ranch of his publisher, E.C. Allen. His colleague and friend, Janos Kristoff Bartok, had taken him to Cheyenne by balloon, where Pratt had boarded the train. Pratt frowned and cast his mind back to the situation, just two days ago, that had led him to be taking this journey�
Spring had come to Sheridan. It was early May: the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Ernest Pratt, AKA Nicodemus Legend, had the worst allergic reaction Doc Larkin had ever seen. "I don�t understand it, Mr. Legend," frowned the old doctor as he prowled his office. "We�re in the middle of the desert � hardly any trees to speak of, and you go and get this - problem." "AITCHOOOOOOO!" Pratt snuffled miserably and blew his nose, then wiped his streaming eyes with the corner of the sodden handkerchief. "Mother Pratt, I mean Legend," he corrected himself, "always warned me that the family had noses that were sensitive to pollen. That�s why we stayed in the city and Uncle Nick went to sea. You can�t get hay fever there!" He sniffed again miserably. "Well, Mr. Legend," said Larkin, putting away his stethoscope, "I can tell you that it�s not hay fever � there�s hardly any green stuff round these parts. Maybe it�s the tumbleweed that�s giving you the sneezes or you could just be allergic to Bartok or Brown�s fangled chemicals." Pratt frowned. Bartok was always fastidious in keeping volatile and corrosive chemicals in sealed containers, but Chamberlain Brown had become almost intolerable to the town since retiring from being Mayor. While the undertaking business was slow, now that Nicodemus Legend helped to keep order, he had taken to his taxidermy hobby with a vengeance. He had not only cleaned, but completely restuffed Sylvester, the eponymous buffalo head at the saloon, as well as stuffing Three Fingered Joe�s beloved mutt, Jack (after Daniel�s) and even Widow Simmons beloved cat, Fluffy. Now he was resorting to making contacts among the trappers and hunters further North, and Pratt thought he had even seen a poor expired Husky sitting on Brown�s workbench. He shuddered. "Y�know, I think you could be right about Chamberlain, Doc. He�s so keen on his taxidermy you don�t dare sit still for a minute, in case he thinks you�re dead and he takes you on as his next project!" The Doc smiled ruefully. "You�re right there, Mr. Pratt. All the dogs in town have run away and even little Legend has started hiding in the hotel." Pratt shook his head. Legend was a lovely little brown mongrel that had �adopted� the author when he had first come to town. Skeeter had agreed to feed him, and now the little fellow stayed at Skeeter�s side. Because he was so faithful, Skeeter had named him Legend, much to Pratt�s annoyance. Pratt put his jacket back on and swung himself off Larkin�s examination table. "Thanks for the advice, Doc. I think I might head back to see my good mother in California. We haven�t seen each other for at least a year and if I don�t visit her soon, she�ll inflict herself on me and move into Sheridan!" Doc smiled and opened the door to let Pratt out. "Next patient!" he called cheerfully. A middle aged woman stood and shook out her skirts, stepping forward, but she took no more than a step before the front door burst open. Bartok entered with a grim look on his face, a filthy bedraggled man hanging over his back. Pratt jumped forward to help and aided Bartok in setting the obviously injured man on the floor. He saw the man�s left arm and right leg hanging at strange angles, obviously broken, and dirt and blood caking his face, but he recognised him instantly. "Milton Faber!! What in heaven�s name happened to you?"
Faber drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few hours while Larkin treated him as best as he could. Once Bartok and Ramos had set up the experimental Bartok Osteocoagulator (some kind of electrical bone-knitter, as far as Pratt could tell) to aid the mending of Faber�s broken limbs, Bartok adjourned to a side room with Pratt and the hastily summoned Sheriff to explain what was going on. "Ramos and I were just checking some damage to the Compound�s electrical fence when we heard what sounded like gunfire coming from over the hill. Ramos went to get some fulminators while I went to investigate. I saw Mr. Faber trying to fight off at least four attackers. As you can see, he fared rather badly." Bartok ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture. "I tried to attract their attention but there was little I could do. One started to take pot shots at me, and I had take cover until Ramos returned with the fulminators. We opened fire on a heavy stun setting and, fortunately, scared them off. Then, Ramos and I brought Mr. Faber straight down here." "Who would want to attack this fellow?" asked Sheriff Motes. "Well he�s not the most pleasant man I know," conceded Pratt. "But apart from being a pain in the butt for me from time to time, he doesn�t really mean any harm. Whatever happened, he ticked someone off pretty bad." At that moment Mrs. Draper, Larkin�s nurse, summoned the three men back into the main examination room. "Well, he�s going to be mighty sore for a while," said Larkin as he washed his hands in a nearby basin, "but this Mr. Faber is going to be all right." The doctor turned to Bartok and adjusted his spectacles. "I don�t know how that gizmo of yours works, Professor, but his arm and leg are healing already." Bartok smiled smugly. "The Bartok Osteocoagulator is merely an experimental application of electrical stimuli on fractured bone structures, conducting a highly charged stream of negative particles at a specific frequency that- " Pratt nudged him. "Save it, Bartok!" he whispered out the side of his mouth. Bartok lapsed into stony silence. On the bed, Faber moaned and stirred. "Wh � what happened?" he muttered weakly. Everyone rushed forward, but Pratt got to his side first. "Easy Faber, you�re safe now," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. He hadn�t seen Faber since before Christmas when he had given Allen�s slimy right-hand man his newest manuscript � Legend and the Plunge of Doom. Faber had threatened Pratt with breach of contract, as the book was just over two months late, but Pratt had just put the comment down to Faber�s usual unpleasant demeanour. Bartok stepped forward. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked the patient gently. Faber struggled to focus as he looked up at the men�s concerned faces. "E.C. Allen sent me," he whispered. "Maureen�s been kidnapped!" "Maureen?" questioned Motes. "My publisher�s niece," Pratt clarified. He turned back to Faber. "What do you mean, kidnapped?" Faber coughed. "Ten days ago, Mr. Allen was holding a ball at his ranch. It was Maureen�s thirtieth birthday. Some men got into the buildings�shot five of the guests, and grabbed her. Allen sent me to get her back." "Well, you�re not doing a very good job," said Pratt kindly but not completely keeping the sarcasm from his voice. "Yes, well," said Faber, "I was doing a good job of following the kidnappers until they organised an ambush for me." "Why did they stop you here?" queried Bartok. "Because in the ransom note they left, they said that Mr. Allen had to fulfil two demands if he wanted his niece back: to deliver ten thousand dollars cash, and �" he hesitated. "Well?" Pratt insisted. "What was the other demand?" Faber finally met Pratt in the eye. "And you, Mr. Pratt."
Pratt frowned as he went over the events again. Faber thought that the ambush had been orchestrated to "get his attention," and to show Pratt how much the kidnappers meant business. Pratt had never particularly liked Faber, but he couldn�t help but feel sorry for the man who had been ordered to follow the kidnappers and place himself in harm�s way. E.C. Allen had always treated him badly, worse than he had treated the writer, in fact. But Faber had just kept going back for more, like a puppy that knew no better than to keep going back to the owner that had kicked it.
As soon as it was ascertained that Faber would recover, Ramos had gone to wire the publisher while Bartok had made some refinements to the Osteocoagulator and Pratt had continued to question him. Before the day had finished, they had received an answer from Allen. Pratt had been asked, very firmly, to take over from Faber and make all haste to Allen�s Montana ranch to collect the ransom from the publisher. Allen had hinted that if he could get Maureen back safely, he would seriously consider giving Pratt permission to marry his niece, and while Maureen had recently shown an interest in him, Pratt assured his friends that he wouldn�t dream of taking up that part of Allen�s offer. "Even though you could get a good portion of your Uncle-In-Law�s publishing empire?" asked Ramos with a playful smirk. "Well, since you put it that way�" said Pratt, knowing the reaction he could expect from Bartok. "Ernest!" admonished Bartok. "Bartok! I would never dream of becoming a gold digger!" said the writer with a wink and reassuring smile. Pratt had set off as soon as he was ready, Bartok agreeing to take him as far as Cheyenne where he could get a Union Pacific train into Utah and then a connecting stagecoach north. The journey so far had been remarkably smooth with only minor hold ups to hinder the train so, rather than worry about what he would do when he reached Montana, Pratt had settled down to make notes for a new book and to catch up on his own reading. However, that all changed once he found a stage going north. The driver was deaf, and the company (two gunslingers whom Pratt overheard saying how much they hated dime novel authors) was rude and potentially hazardous to his health. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and tried to catch some sleep. It was going to be a long journey.
Finally, by mid morning on his fifth day of travelling, Pratt reached the Allen ranch. Finding no-one at the entrance he decided to take the direct approach. Having been to the ranch on several occasions, he knew his way to the main house and struck out in that direction. Suddenly a bullet whistled by his head. He dropped to the ground. "What do you want, stranger?" demanded a rough voice. "We shoot trespassers round here." Pratt risked shuffling around 180 degrees in the dust which only aggravated his allergy once again. "I assure, AITCHOO! Sir, I am no, AITCHOO, trespasser. My name is Ernest, AITCHOO-" "Pratt?" finished the man with the rifle. He was huge, dressed in black and looked very, very mean. "Why, AITCHOO, yes!" snuffled Pratt. "Get up, Pratt," grunted the man. "The boss wondered when you would show up." After trying to brush off as much dirt as possible, Pratt was escorted to the parlor in the big house, and made even more aware by his glamorous surroundings just how filthy from travelling and scrambling around in the dirt he really was. Finally he risked sitting on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, praying that the orange dust on his pants wouldn�t come off on the expensive looking cream coloured upholstery. Just as he was getting comfortable, his publisher walked in. "So, you finally got here, Pratt," said Allen, his bald head gleaming dully in the midday sun. "Yes, sir," said Pratt smartly, "I�d never hesitate to aid my publisher and benefactor at such a trying time." Allen frowned, not believing Pratt�s sincerity for a second. "Stow it, Pratt. I need your help, and if you value your contract, let alone you�re life, you�ll do anything in your power to turn your devious little mind to the problem at hand." Pratt gulped. Honey coated compliments never had got him anywhere with his publisher. The man was more manipulative than Machiavelli and probably far more ruthless. "All right, Sir," he said with renewed respect, "What do you need me to do?" Allen gave a small, grim smile once he realised that he had Pratt�s co-operation and left the room for a moment, returning with a large and obviously very heavy carpet bag. He handed it to Pratt. "This is the ransom, Pratt, all ten thousand dollars of it, you�re to deliver it to the kidnappers at the Canadian border at Niagara Falls at midday on the twenty fifth of May. That�s where they�ll exchange the cash for that no good niece of mine. I guess they want to take the money and run." "Niagara Falls?" Pratt�s eyebrows shot up. "It would take at least a week to get up there by stagecoach!" "Well, you�ve only got five days � you�d better find a quicker way hadn�t you!" said the publisher, glaring. "You might want to wire those scientist friends of yours to come and get you. Not only will it be quicker to fly up to the East Coast, but it will be a great publicity stunt." Pratt frowned. "My driver will take you to a telegraph office," said Allen, turning to leave. He stopped and fixed Pratt with a glare. "And, Pratt, don�t lose the money. That�s your royalties for the last Legend book. Lose that and you lose a year�s wages!"
Ernest was able to have a rest after all. E.C. Allen let him stay, albeit reluctantly, in a guest room for the two days it took Bartok and Ramos to reach the ranch, as it had when they had last made the journey for E.C. Allen�s writer�s gathering eight months earlier. As in the previous October, the weather was cold, but was tinged with the warm promises of a good summer, and not the chill of winter. Pratt heard the shouts of some of the ranch hands as he was tucking into a wonderful breakfast that Allen�s housekeeper, a jolly widow in her sixties, had prepared for him. Polishing off his fried eggs over easy, he rushed outside to the front lawn. "Bartok! Ramos!" he yelled in greeting. "Hello, Ernest!" a familiar accented voice replied. Pratt marvelled again at the magnificent new Legend balloon, it�s russet canvas billowing in the strong updrafts wafting up from the warm soil below. After a breakfast of their own, the two scientists sat down with Pratt to catch up on each other�s news. Faber was apparently almost back to normal, and had fervently wished to come with the scientists in the balloon. Bartok had wisely vetoed that idea, thinking that Faber was generally more trouble than he was worth. Pratt couldn�t have agreed more. "By our best calculations it will take 96 hours to get to Niagara Falls," began Ramos, a map of North America spread out on the table in the parlor. "That�s four days, Ramos!" exploded Pratt. "Today�s the twenty second � that will make us a whole day late! Need I remind you that not only is an innocent young woman�s life at stake, but also my entire pay packet for the year!" "Easy, Ernest. We will have to make up some time but we will manage it. We have never failed to find a solution before," soothed Bartok. "The rendezvous is at midday on the twenty fifth. If we can leave within the hour we will have 71 hours to traverse the distance." Pratt made a swift count on his fingers. "Don�t you mean seventy three?" he queried, "it�s not like you to slip up on basic math, Professor." Ramos rolled his eyes. "Mr. Pratt, do I need to remind you that, firstly, you have failed to take into account the fact that the East Coast is two time zones ahead of us, so we are losing two hours of travel time and secondly, the longer we sit around here arguing, the less time we have anyway!" "I quite agree," chipped in Bartok. "We must make all haste to the rendezvous. I have been working on some modifications to the balloon recently. If we get airborne immediately I will try a test burn of the new Bartok Maxi Manoeuvrable Multi Person Propulsion Engine." Pratt put his head in his hands. "I don�t even want to know, Bartok," he mumbled. After retrieving the ransom money from his unpleasant employer, Pratt hastily packed and raced out to the balloon, knowing that the clock was ticking. Bartok and Ramos completed their pre-flight checks in record time and within minutes the Legend Balloon was ascending into the deep azure sky of a Montana morning. It turned out that Bartok�s latest innovation was based upon the Micro-Light engine that Pratt had tested the previous winter in their encounter with Bartok�s old nemesis, Christopher Ratcliffe. Bartok and Ramos had refined the reliability of the engine design and adapted it for the balloon. Bartok explained that, if turned on for short periods of time, it could double the speed of the balloon. "I call it jet propulsion," announced Bartok proudly. The next few days were a blur for Pratt. The balloon stayed aloft for the entire time, the three men taking it in turns to take shifts in command. The two scientists switched on the engine whenever they judged it wise but Pratt didn�t even attempt to use it, figuring that with his luck he�d probably manage to destroy it. When he voiced these fears to Ramos, the Aztec couldn�t help suppressing a smile. "I don�t know, Mr. Pratt, your luck seems to be changing. I haven�t heard you sneeze since you left Sheridan!" "Perhaps you�re just allergic to a dull life, Ernest." Pratt looked round to the back of the basket where Bartok was curled up under a blanket presumably dozing on his rest period. "Go back to sleep, Bartok," he said gruffly, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice, and not bothering to explain his embarrasing sneeze-fit upon arriving at the Allen ranch. "We�ll need your smart comments to get us out of the problems we�re going to find at Niagara. Save your sarcasm �till then."
Despite Pratt�s pessimism, the engine seemed to make all the difference to their journey time as they crossed the vast American continent. Mountains, valleys, homesteads and rivers all appeared over one horizon and swiftly disappeared behind them. Pratt finally started to dare to believe that they were going to make it. Finally, on the evening of the twenty fourth of May, Bartok and Ramos decided that they could risk stopping for the night, being only eighty miles from the rendezvous. "We�ve made excellent time, Ernest, so we can afford a good night�s sleep on solid ground." "It�s better than sleeping in that basket, Bartok," said Pratt crossly. "At least the earth doesn�t move under me." An impure thought crossed his mind. "Not, that is," he added with a smirk, "unless I�m with a beautiful lady, then the earth always moves!" Bartok shot him a death glare and stirred up the camp fire. Ramos just sighed and turned back over in his camping roll on the opposite side of the fire. The day of the exchange dawned cold and clear. The three men quickly dismantled camp and set off for the last leg of their journey. At around ten o�clock, just as Pratt was trying to eat a mid morning snack, Ramos, who was on duty, gave a shout. "Look! It�s Niagara!" he shouted. Bartok and Pratt jumped up and peered over the side of the balloon. Sure enough, on the horizon was the huge gorge that was the last frontier of America. To the north was the young land of Canada stretching out ultimately to the very top of the world. Pratt marvelled at the view before him. The gorge was impressive, but what really took his breath away was the sight of the two waterfalls, the American Falls and of course, the Horseshoe falls, curving around in a massive, churning veil of water that plunged into the waiting river below. While Pratt marvelled at the aesthetic beauty of the sight before him, the two scientists were both simultaneously appreciating the scientific applications of the power nature was unleashing. Bartok turned to Pratt. "You see those mills and factories over there, Ernest?" he asked, waving at the spread of buildings below them. "Those are actually powered by the Falls. I have read about the hydraulic canal that was built to harness the hydro electricity generated here. It was only finished three years ago, but it powers all of the new industry down there." Pratt was impressed. "I�m surprised you didn�t have a hand in it yourself, Bartok, it seems like something right up your street." Bartok looked slightly embarrassed. Ramos smirked at his colleague�s reaction and explained. "Janos was actually consulted on the design of the motor to be used, but the financers didn�t think his design was practical." Now it was Pratt�s turn to go red. "I�m sorry, Bartok. I�m sure your design was up to your usual excellent standards." The Professor sniffed. "My design was efficient, effective and, once it had been running, economical. Unfortunately the financers were too short sighted to see that." "Professor," remonstrated Ramos, "You designed the motor to need a million dollars worth of parts made out of diamonds!" "Yes, well, diamond is the hardest substance in existence. The motor would have run in perpetuity, instead of that slipshod affair they finally used," huffed the Hungarian. "I predict that the entire creation will fall apart within the decade." Ramos and Pratt exchanged glances. It was futile to argue with Bartok once he got so righteously indignant. Bartok finally brightened and turned with a small smile. "Would you like to see the falls up close, gentlemen?" Taking the controls from his colleague, he expertly operated the multitude of ropes, pulleys and dials that operated the balloon. Within moments, they were approaching the canyon and then Pratt gaped as he realised exactly what Bartok was planning to do. "You�re crazy, Bartok," he breathed. Bartok just smiled. "Not crazy, just enjoying the adventure!" he shouted as they swept in low over the crest of the falls. Suddenly, the balloon started being buffeted from side to side. "Air currents," explained Ramos as he aided Bartok in bringing the balloon back under control. As they swung north Pratt sucked in his breath sharply, for suddenly, with the change in direction the spray shooting up was caught in the high spring sunlight causing.. "A rainbow," he breathed. Not only were the three friends seeing a rainbow, but they were surrounded by it, the spectacular cascade of colors appearing to start below the back of the basket, shooting up over it and then disappearing into the churning, boiling water below them. The effect only lasted for a scant second, but Pratt was sure he would remember the sight for the rest of his life. The two scientists swung the balloon back around in a wide arc, landing the balloon back on the American side of the border opposite the famous Table Rock natural viewing platform on the Canadian side. After safely landing, Pratt anxiously checked his pocket watch. By his reckoning they had little over an hour before the rendezvous. The three men clambered down the sides of the embankment to near the river, the crashing waterfalls obliterating the sounds of their plans. It was decided that while Pratt made the exchange as demanded, the two scientists would commandeer one of the small boats that chugged up to the base of the Horseshoe Falls and back to shore. Bartok had fitted a telescopic sight arrangement to the ball lightning gun which, he claimed, when set upon a tripod would allow him to act as effective cover for the writer. Pratt had received instructions that the exchange was to be made on the Canadian side of the gorge, just downriver from Table Rock, in a secluded area where the river began to bend left and wend it�s way further into the country. The kidnappers were evidently planning a quick getaway. After sneaking past the border guards (not entirely difficult since a group of children and their harassed teacher were struggling to negotiate passage themselves) Pratt checked his Body Bullet Barricade, Disarmer and the fully charged Fulminator that Bartok had furnished him with. He knew from bitter experience just how easy these sort of events could get dangerous. He glanced down into the river, and thought he could see the tall lean figure of Bartok, and the shorter more compact frame of Ramos standing at the prow of a small boat. He let out a slow calming breath, and told himself that everything was going to go smoothly, but he couldn�t help subconsciously hefting the bag with the ransom inside. He looked up, squinting into the sun that was now directly overhead. Suddenly, Pratt felt the unmistakably hard barrel of a gun pushed into the base of his skull. He froze. The Body Bullet Barricade was not going to be any use if someone tried to shoot him in the head. Someone grabbed the bag. "I�ll take that Mr. Pratt," said a low menacing voice from behind him. Pratt stiffened. He silently prayed that Bartok was covering him effectively. He was not entirely sure he was going to get out of this alive. "It�s�it�s all here," he said, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking. "I don�t doubt it," muttered a second voice, from the other side, "Allen wouldn�t risk his little Maureen, now would he." Pratt couldn�t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. "Well, she�s not exactly his favorite relative�" he began and got a sharp kick to the back of his knees as a reply. He gasped and fell. Suddenly the two men who had been behind him came into view. Pratt blinked rapidly, trying to compensate for the bright overhead sun that was stopping the two men from appearing as anything more than black shapes. He received another kick to his side and went down gasping. "Well, we�ve got the money, now I say we enjoy the second part of our ransom," said one of the men to the other. "Do you have any idea how long I�ve waited to make you suffer, Pratt?" Pratt struggled to his knees. "Who are you?" he asked. "I don�t care what you want with me but let the girl go, guys." "Well, Mr. Pratt," said a new, female voice as a third figure came round in front of him, finally blocking the glare of the sun allowing him to see clearly again, "What if I don�t want to go?"
Down on the boat, the two scientists were growing increasingly worried. Bartok had his modified ball lightning gun trained on the scene that was unfolding above them but was growing increasingly frustrated as he could not get a clear shot at Pratt�s assailants. Ramos was also watching with the aid of a telescope. "Janos, do you see that woman?" he asked his colleague. "I assume that�s Maureen," replied Bartok shortly, trying to concentrate on rescuing his friend. "Well, don�t you think she looks a bit relaxed for a kidnap victim?" asked Ramos. Bartok slowly looked away from the eyepiece and turned to his colleague. He swallowed. "I think you�re right, my friend," he whispered. "Ernest may be in a great deal of danger."
Ernest looked up at the young woman in front of him. "Maureen?" he asked. "Oh, yes, Ernest, it�s me," said the newcomer. "I�m so grateful you got the money from my dear Uncle. You see, I�m going to need it," and, she added, her eyes narrowing, "I earned it." Ernest looked puzzled and struggled to sit back on his knees. "You earned it? " he echoed. "Well, if my dear Uncle hadn�t taken you on as a writer all those years ago, I may have had a far happier life," she snarled. "Don�t you know anything about your publisher, Pratt?" One of the men stepped forward again. "This idiot doesn�t understand, precious, let�s just get rid of him." "No, Joe," replied the woman, "I want some fun first." Maureen turned back to Pratt. "I am an excellent novelist, Mr. Pratt" she said haughtily. "If my uncle had given me the chance I would have been able to prove it to the entire country. But, because he believes it is not a woman�s place to write, he gave you a contract instead of me." She swallowed. "He ignored his own flesh and blood to employ a stranger. Have you any idea what that feels like?" Pratt looked down. "I�m so sorry, Maureen," he began, "But it�s not my fault. I have no control over who your uncle�" "SHUT UP!!" she yelled, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "It is your fault! I�ve had enough of you and my Uncle�s all-men�s writers club! Do you know how hard it is for a woman to get published in America, Mr. Pratt?" Pratt looked down. "Anyway," said Maureen, recovering, "I�m going to start again, with Joe and his brother." They said they�d help me get to Canada to start a new life, if the price was right, and thanks to you and my Uncle�s cooperation, it was." She lifted the bag and turned. "Do what you want with him boys, I�ll meet you back at the hotel." And, with that, she began to walk away. The two men towered over the writer once more. "Well, Deek, what shall we do with Mr. Pratt then?" The other thug pretended to think. "Well, I guess we could always throw him over the cliff," he began. "Perfect," snarled the other man, Joe. "A few kicks in the head and he�ll tumble over like sack of grain." A foot came up. Pratt held his breath and closed his eyes. Suddenly a blue ball of glowing energy shot over his head. Pratt looked up in time to see Bartok�s excellent marksmanship proved once again as first one, then the second of his two assailants flew back with a shriek, being hurled at least twenty feet into the air before crashing down into some scrub. Pratt struggled to his feet, jumping up and down and pointing frantically at the escaping woman. Bartok evidently understood the wild gesticulating as a third shot of ball lightning shot out towards Maureen. Too late, Pratt realised that she was running too close to the edge of the gorge. Suddenly everything slowed down as, in excruciating detail, the bolt hit the woman and, instead of knocking her over, threw her off balance towards the edge of the gorge. "NOOOOOOO!" shouted Pratt, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do as the screaming woman slipped and plunged down the side of the gorge. Pratt shut his eyes but couldn�t suppress a shudder as a small splash signalled her final death. And then all he could hear were the waterfalls.
While Pratt supervised the arrest of the two thugs, Deek and Joe, Bartok and Ramos used their boat to retrieve the body of Allen�s niece. When they finally brought her on shore, Bartok was carrying her body in his arms, a look of horror and sadness on his face. It took all of Pratt�s resolve to look his friend in the eye. The look they exchanged spoke volumes. Ramos came up behind Bartok and stood between them. He laid a hand on both men�s shoulder. "It wasn�t your fault, Janos," he said softly, looking at his colleague and friend. He turned to Pratt, "or yours Ernest." Ernest returned Ramos� steady gaze. "Maybe so, Ramos," he began, "but I�m going to feel guilty for a long time, and so is Janos, I�m afraid." Bartok simply gave the body gently to one of the Mounties who were on the scene. "I am indeed, Ramos." He began. "Whatever this woman had done, she did not deserve death, and we cannot fix this terrible mistake with a scientific miracle or a few kind words." He began to walk up the path, towards the Legend balloon. He turned. "Come on my friends," he began, "let us go home."
Fin.
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