Dark Double
By Paul Mitchell & Sarah O'Donoghue
This story was originally posted on The Unofficial Nicodemus Legend Homepage Disclaimer The Legend characters (except Helen Franklin & Katherine Trent created by Sarah O'Donoghue, and Max Garrett & Christopher Ratcliffe created by Paul Mitchell) belong to Paramount and Gekko film corp. This story is written purely for the entertainment of others. Copyright 2000 Paul Mitchell & Sarah O'Donoghue. Historians' Note: Dark Double is set approximately four months before Once Upon A Q In The West, and is set at the same time as A Winter's Tale. Ramos is currently in South America, leaving Pratt, Bartok and his other friends in Sheridan. Prologue
As the last shafts of daylight disappeared behind the distant ridges that surrounded the valley the signal was given and the good townspeople of Sheridan, Colorado began to light the torches surrounding the makeshift town square. The torches spat and crackled in the frigid temperatures - Skeeter guessed it must be getting near freezing point as he lit his last assigned torch, teeth chattering. The small group of black clad widows brought out plates of steaming food for the arriving revelers from huge makeshift kitchens in the Buffalo Head saloon and Pharmacy that they had commandeered for the day and people quickly made a bee line for the baked potatoes, pies and other delights. Tonight was the first of December: a night of festivities in the town. Mayor Brown had initiated all kinds of festivals in the first year 'Legend' had come to town, mainly for the tourists, but everyone had agreed that the December Night was a great excuse for a celebration:: close enough to thanksgiving to keep a party atmosphere in the air for a whole week, but far enough away from Christmas to allow people's waistlines to recover before the next big festivities. Ernest Pratt, celebrated writer (at least in this corner of America) of the fictional hero Nicodemus Legend commandeered a space on the bench where his young friend Skeeter was tucking into a steaming, greasy chicken leg. Ernest had a laden plate too and was struggling to balance it with the huge (and obviously heavy) jug in his other hand. "Hi, Skeeter, having a good evening?" he enquired cheerfully. "Hmmmph," said Skeeter, nodding vigorously as he chewed on a mouthful of chicken. He quickly finished his mouthful and swallowed so he could join in a conversation properly. "Yes, thanks Mr. Pratt," he clarified, "How about you?" "Oh I'm just dandy," replied Pratt, cheerfully. "I'm pleased to say that the good people of Sheridan have partaken of a seasonal treat very near to my heart - mulled wine!" He lifted his steaming jug in toast, and now Skeeter could see that Pratt had a healthy glow about his cheeks that couldn't be completely attributed to the cold. Skeeter grinned. "Where's Mrs. Custer?" he enquired. "Ah, dear Libbie and Helen have gone to Denver to help Miss Parkes with a school trip," he replied. "It's a shame they're missing tonight though, Libbie loves a good dance." "Ah, there you are Ernest!" shouted a voice behind them. The two men swivelled around on the crowded bench to be greeted by the sight of Professor Janos Bartok, resplendent in his warmest heavy woven cloak and with his driving goggles pushed up onto his head. "Welcome, Professor!" shouted Pratt in greeting. "Grab a plate and come and join us!" Bartok saluted and quickly made his way to the food tables to get something to warm himself after the cold drive down from the Compound. "Have you heard from Ramos?" asked Skeeter. Pratt's cheery expression darkened slightly for a moment. "No, Skeeter, we haven't," he replied. "We left him on the Brazilian border two weeks ago. Helen has assured us that it could take him weeks to survey he area he wanted to look at, we just have to give him some time." "Couldn't you just go down and find him if you are worried, Mr Pratt?" asked Skeeter. "I couldn't do that to him, Skeeter," said Pratt. "This expedition means too much to Ramos. If we went running after him he would think that we didn't think him capable of doing something alone. He needs the independence this trip is giving him, and besides," he said with a small smile, "Bartok's got a remote version of his Bartok Long Distance Emergency Electrical Signal Transmitter with him - if Ramos activates it we'll know within seconds." The writer's gaze drifted over to where his Hungarian friend was placing a modest amount of food upon his plate. Even while engaged in such a simple activity Pratt could see Bartok's hand hovering over a small unit clipped to his belt; like a cowboy twitching his hand over his gun in a shoot out. He hoped that wherever Ramos was, he was safe. Bartok soon crossed the square to his friends, and the other people on the bench obligingly scooted along to make room for the Professor. Bartok had hardly sat down through, when Skeeter nudged Pratt in the ribs and pointed to the food tables. "Look Mr. Pratt, they're bringing out the deserts!" Pratt's eyes lit up as he saw all sorts of sweet pies and puddings being laid out on huge trestles. He and Skeeter almost bounded off the bench, nearly upsetting Bartok who, being a latecomer, was only just starting his first course. Pratt and Skeeter seemed to be returning to childhood as they greedily picked the largest slices of the toffee pudding, custard slices, treacle pie, chocolate cake and everything else they could see. Bartok looked over at them and sighed before returning to his more modest portions. A few minutes later they returned to the table, stuffing their mouths with sweet treats even before they sat down. Pratt picked up a huge gooey slice of hot treacle tart taking a huge bite. He bit down and winced noticeably. Bartok looked up inquiringly from his hot fruit dessert Skeeter had kindly picked up for him. "Are you all right, Ernest?" Pratt gingerly chewed his mouthful and swallowed, giving a watery smile. "Fine thanks, Janos, one of my teeth just twinged, that's all." "Well, you know Ernest, you do have a particularly sweet tooth. You really should take good care of your teeth." "I do look after my teeth, Bartok," said Pratt with a scowl. He took another bite from his pie and visibly cringed as his mouth hurt. He put the tart down, looking up guiltily. "Well, I guess I've eaten enough for one night," he observed. "The dancing's started!" He addressed Skeeter. "Shall we go charm the ladies, Skeets?" Pratt quickly drained his jug and went over to the large clear area in the middle of the square and, within moments had charmed one of the prettiest girls in town to giving him a dance. Bartok looked over and frowned. It may just be an innocent dance, he thought, but it was well known in the town that the writer was 'spoken for' these days. People would not approve if they thought Nicodemus Legend was 'fooling around' behind his lady friend's back. Bartok's thoughts drifted to his own 'lady friend', Helen Franklin, and he smiled. He had only met her two scant months previously, but theirs had been a whirlwind romance. The normally shy Hungarian scientist was totally smitten with her, a beautiful, intelligent scientist who was funny, warm and caring. In a daydream-like haze, Bartok dared to dream of the future, of marrying Helen, of raising a family with her. They could live at the Compound and conduct research together: they would make a formidable team... Bartok's hand slipped down to the Bartok Long Distance Emergency Electrical Signal Transmitter and he started guiltily. It was all very well making romantic plans, but how would Ramos fit into all of this? Bartok considered this for a moment and then thought back to the observations Pratt had made a few weeks previously, just prior to Ramos' departure: the younger scientist needed to spread his wings: Ramos was far more than an assistant to Bartok these days. If Bartok was honest, Ramos had always been his assistant in name only, the prejudice of a white-oriented society forbidding the Aztec descendent to be considered openly as an equal. In reality, their work had been far more of a partnership, with Ramos being quite happy to contribute equally to their research but allowing Bartok to take the credit. Bartok started guiltily. Was he in danger of doing to Ramos what Edison had done to him? Taking Ramos' ideas and taking the credit for them? The Hungarian scientist sighed. Perhaps he and Ramos were indeed growing apart. When Ramos got back (not 'if,' he reminded himself firmly) he would encourage him to perhaps set up his own facilities and pursue the work he wanted for himself, not just to aid his friend Bartok. Whilst Bartok was soberly contemplating his present and future, Ernest was having a whale of a time on the dance floor. He was swinging the pretty young Emily Green around in a jaunty dance to the stirring tune the makeshift band were playing. Pratt quickly glanced at Skeeter who was dancing with his sweetheart Lucy. While Pratt swapped dance partners at every opportunity, Skeeter had remained with Lucy all evening. Pratt smiled: it really was rather sweet. Suddenly his mouth began to throb painfully. Pratt gingerly prodded his jaw with the hand that should have been resting on his partner's back. His mouth was getting more painful by the second, and as he lifted Emily's hand to kiss it gallantly after their dance he almost cried out in pain. He gloomily concluded that he'd have to get Doc Larkin to have a look at it in the morning. The evening was over all too soon and as the revelers began to drift away, Skeeter and Pratt went back over to join Bartok. "So ... have you both had a good evening, gentlemen?" enquired the Hungarian scientist. "Great, thank you Professor!" beamed Skeeter. Bartok's gaze drifted over to the writer who was now holding the right side of his face and was visibly in pain. "Ernest, your toothache has got worse?" enquired the scientist. Pratt sighed. "Yeah, I guess it has," he said miserably. "It's such a shame Ramos isn't here," said Bartok shaking his head, "he studied elementary dentistry for a semester at Harvard. I don't hold any qualifications in dentistry, but I may be able to remove the tooth that's bothering you." "Nooooo, thank you!" said Pratt quickly. "I heard what you did to poor Mrs. Baker when you tried to fit her with dentures. The poor lady couldn't speak properly for weeks!" "Mind you," Pratt added thoughtfully, "considering what a gossip monger Mrs. Baker is, perhaps that was no bad thing." Bartok sniffed. "Yes, well," he continued, "If the pain increases by a significant increment overnight, be sure to come up to the Compound in the morning and I will see what I can do." "I'll just go swig a bottle of the saloon's best whisky," said Pratt as he stood. "Ernest!" "In my room, Bartok! Don't worry, the good people of Sheridan won't see the image of Nicodemus Legend tarnished!!!" Skeeter cleared his throat. "Well I'm off to hit the hay. I had a great time Professor, Mr. Pratt," he nodded at them both. "I'll see you both in the morning." "Oh! Skeeter, Ernest, I would very much like you both to join me up at the Compound in the morning. I have a new invention that I'd like to show you both," said Bartok. "Will do," smiled Pratt, which turned into a wince as his mouth began to throb once again. The three men went their separate ways in the still, cold blackness of the wintry night.
The compound was deathly silent. Even the lightning tower was dormant for the night, Bartok having postponed his rain seeding experiments for the few days prior to the night of the dance. Small lanterns hung at regular intervals outside the numerous buildings, each providing a small pool of illumination in the otherwise pitch black of night. At the entrance to the compound one such lantern gently lit the stone marker baring the words 'Bartok Scientific Laboratories.' Into this pool of light strode the lone figure of a man, the light covering of snow crunching under his boots as he walked. He moved over to the marker and, using it's rough surface to strike a match, lit the stub of a cigar. The man was in his late thirties, his close cropped dark hair just starting to recede. He turned his unshaven face slowly towards the shadowy buildings, surveying the compound with an expert eye. His name was Max Garrett, and he was not in the best of moods. He'd always prided himself on the fact he and his men only took on the most challenging thefts. Petty break-ins such as this one were usually below them, but these were exceptional circumstances. "Let's get this over with," he called out to the darkness from which he'd emerged, his breath forming a small vapor cloud in the freezing night air. "You know what we're here for. The sooner we find it the better." Two other men strode into the light, and Garrett indicated the two larger buildings at the far side of the compound. "You two try those, I'll take the main building," he ordered. The two men hurried off into the shadows once more in the direction he'd indicated. Garrett sauntered towards the main building. If the information he'd been given was correct they'd be out of here in no time. Garrett walked around to the far side of the building where he found a small side door. It was locked but a single shot from his revolver was as effective as a key and he was soon inside. The single, large room that he found inside was a mass of equipment and gizmos Garrett couldn't identify. Every surface was cluttered with half finished experiments, hand-written notes and diagrams. Purposefully he began to search through the numerous sheets of paper and strange equipment, discarding one item after another with increasing irritation. His only concern was to find what he'd been employed to retrieve. Finding nothing on the desks he moved onto the many draws and cabinets that stood around the room. Finally, after many precious minutes of searching, at the bottom of one deep draw he found it: a large sheet of paper covered in diagrams and notes. The diagrams were of a small device about half the size of a rifle but a lot more bulky. Neatly scribed at the top of the paper were the words "Bartok Ball-lightning Gun". Garret smiled to himself and he quickly folded the plans and stuffed them into his jacket. As he emerged from the building he saw his men heading back towards him. One carried two large wooden boxes, one under each arm, the other carried the item they needed most, the Ball-lightning gun itself. Garrett could see splintered wood on its base, the remnants, he guessed, of whatever the gun had been mounted on before being forced off by his men. "Good work. Now lets get these back to the hideout. There's still a lot of work to do." The three men hurried away from the Compound and disappeared once more into the cold darkness that surrounded the compound. Part 1
Pratt slowly stirred into wakefulness: a gentle relaxed warmth suffusing his body as he slowly drifted up into consciousness. He turned over, completely relaxed. "AUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!" he screamed sitting bolt upright in bed, clutching the right side of his face. His mouth was on fire as his chronic toothache took hold once more. Pratt shuffled around the bed miserably and went to stand up, only to find his head was still recovering from the whisky he'd swigged as a painkiller the night before. The day was not shaping up too well. After forcing down a little oatmeal (the only food his sore mouth could cope with), Pratt cajoled Skeeter into giving him a ride to the Compound. He arrived in an even worse state than he had started out in, as the frigid air made his jaw throb with ever increasing intensity. "Are you going to be okay, Mr. Pratt?" asked Skeeter as he thoughtfully helped the pathetic writer down from the cart. "Oh, I'll survive," sighed Pratt through a half open mouth. He shuffled pathetically towards Bartok's laboratory and Skeeter shrugged as he saw to the horses.
"Ah, good morning Ernest! Up with the lark I see!" said the Hungarian scientist cheerily as he crossed the lab and offered Pratt a steaming mug of hot coffee. "Not by choice, Bartok. My toothache hit again early this morning, and I had no chance of getting any more sleep!" Pratt waved off the proffered drink and flopped down on a nearby couch. The door opened and closed again as Skeeter came in, stamping snow from his boots. Seeing the cup of coffee still in Bartok's hands he helped himself to it before it was even offered. "Thanks Professor! Boy, it's gonna be a cold day again!" "Yes, it is, Skeeter," said Bartok absently, his attention still on the suffering form of his friend. "You know, Ernest, you really will have to have that tooth out, it's been bothering you for weeks. Do you really think you can ignore the pain and make it go away?" "Well, I'm sure gonna try," said Pratt grumpily as he held his mouth. "I'm not entrusting any of the quacks in town with my health." Bartok began pacing the room. "You know, Ernest, with some slight modifications, the Bartok Electrical Nerve Displacer that I've been working on could be adapted for orthodontology." "Huh?" said Skeeter and Pratt in puzzled unison. Bartok sighed. "A pain neutralizer, gentlemen. I've been researching the possibility of constructing a nerve message blocker to relieve the pain of arthritis and rheumatism. Many of the older citizens of Sheridan are really suffering in this cold weather at the moment, and if I can construct a suitable device, it may aid them in leading a normal life and not being trapped indoors. It simply works by sending minute electrical impulses subdermally through a suitably focused point of contact." Through his haze of pain Pratt put two and two together. "Do you mean sticking needles in people and then electrocuting them?" he asked slowly. "Hardly, Ernest. I simply insert a needle into the effected area and send a mild electrical impulse through it to numb the nerves. I have had excellent results on mice." "Mice!!!" Pratt exploded. "Ernest, I can assure you the procedure is quite safe. If we could anaesthetize the affected area I could remove the tooth for you myself and save us all from your complaining." Pratt huffed, or tried to, but his jaw began to throb again and he had to settle for a pain-filled glare. "Oh, so what? What have I got to lose?" he grumbled. "Excellent. Skeeter, would you assist me please?" For the next ten minutes Pratt watched with increasing trepidation as Skeeter and Bartok attached a huge device to a nearby chair that was bristling with wires, nuts and bolts. It looked, Pratt thought, like a horrific medieval torture device. Finally, Bartok waved him over. "All right, Ernest. This is the full-scale prototype of the Bartok Electrical Nerve Displacer. I've fitted a head unit that should serve our needs quite adequately. I've set up a Bartok Microscopic Sterilization Unit for the tools I'll need to remove your tooth, so now we just need to numb the area. Skeeter, will you plug the Bartok Electrical Storage Devices into the back of the unit please?" Skeeter carefully joined the clamped cables to the chair and slowly a low humming filled the room. Hesitantly, Pratt sat back in the chair. "Very well, Ernest," said Bartok, bending over him with a horrendous needle-tipped device in one hand. "I will place this needle in the gum below the infected tooth and then we'll be able to remove it without causing you any discomfort." Bartok's face, a mask of concentration, filled Pratt's vision and he gulped. "YEEOW!!!" Skeeter and Bartok tried to calm down their 'patient' who was obviously still very much in pain. "Are you experiencing much discomfort, Ernest?" asked the Hungarian scientist. "BARTOK!!!" shouted Pratt around the device that was attached to his mouth. "Oh dear...Skeeter, check the power gauge will you?" "It's reading zero, Professor," answered Skeeter. "Oh dear, the Bartok Electrical Storage devices are exhausted," sighed Bartok. "I'll have to get some freshly charged units from my stores." He looked across at Pratt and carefully took the device out of Pratt's mouth. "I'm sorry Ernest, I'll only be a moment." And with that he fled before the vengeful Pratt could inflict any pain of his own. Bartok shut the laboratory door behind him and wrapped his jacket tightly around his chest to fend off the sub-zero temperatures. He crossed to his stores and unlocked the door quickly going inside. It took Bartok a few moments to realize that several of his shelves were empty. His lightning-quick brain soon processed what was missing. "Oh no," breathed Bartok, "I've been robbed!!!"
Bartok raced back to the main laboratory, slipping and sliding on the icy paths. Without any preamble he announced "Someone's broken into my stores! My spare Electrical Storage Devices are gone. Skeeter please come with me. We need to check if anything else has been stolen from the outer buildings." Pratt looked at Bartok, his pain and the farce of the last few minutes forgotten. "What can I do?" he asked seriously. Bartok gave him a half smile. "Check in here for me, Ernest? All of the paperwork for the research Ramos and I have conducted is in this room. This could be a casual theft, but it could also be espionage. You know much about what we've been doing here. I need you to see if anything is missing." "Will do," said Pratt, and he began to scrabble around the multitude of scrap notes and diagrams that his friends had been working on. Skeeter and Bartok went back outside. The Professor directed Skeeter to the transport workshops to check if anything was missing while he searched the house and the packed storage buildings, where prototypes, half-finished projects, and spare parts were located. Bartok's memory was excellent, and he was able to ascertain that nothing but the Electrical Storage Devices had been removed. He quickly returned outside to find a very gloomy Skeeter waiting for him. The younger man led him over to the transport workshops at the other end of the Compound. "The velocipedes and velocipede carriage are fine, Professor, but I think you should look at the balloon basket." Bartok's stomach turned as he strode over to the balloon basket that had been placed under cover in storage when it was not needed during the frigid weather to prevent frost damage. As soon as he saw it he knew: A huge chunk of the wicker and stabilizing wooden planks had been ripped off one of the longer sides of the basket, and the Ball-Lightning Gun was gone. Skeeter cleared his throat; shaking Bartok out of his reverie. "There's something else, Professor," he began. "I circled round the back of the main laboratory to check everything was all right there, and I found that the lock on the back door had been shot off. The doors been propped up from the outside, and in the dark I guess you didn't notice last night, but someone has definitely been in there." Without another word, and with a cold fear in his heart, Bartok and Skeeter made their way back to where they'd left Pratt. "DANG!!!" shouted Pratt as he managed to bang the side of his face yet again on a swinging cabinet door. He'd searched the room as thoroughly as he could, but nothing obvious seemed to be missing. Finally, he'd slumped down on a couch in defeat to wait for the others. He didn't have long to wait. The door groaned and slammed as Skeeter and Bartok returned. "Sorry, Bartok, I didn't find ..." Bartok ignored him, making a beeline for a half-covered desk at the back of the room, pulling open the bottom drawer. Skeeter and Pratt could see his shoulders sag in defeat. He straightened and turned to face them. "As I thought, the plans, power units and the only working prototype of the Bartok Ball-Lightning Gun are gone. I think we had better go and inform the Sheriff that there are some very dangerous thieves in town." Despite the treacherous conditions on the trail between the Compound and Sheridan, Bartok set a new record time for the journey in one of the velocipedes, leaving the inexperienced Skeeter struggling to keep up, with Pratt hindering more than helping with his driving advice. "I don't know why Bartok wouldn't let me drive," grumbled Pratt. "Just because I've still got a little whisky in my system doesn't mean I'm not a perfectly capable driver." "Come on, Mr. Pratt," said Skeeter from behind his driving goggles and hat, "Do you really think that all that liquor in your system isn't going to effect your reflexes? Besides, I love driving. Maybe Professor Bartok will let me take Lucy out in one of these. It'd be great to pick her up in one of these babies!" Pratt sighed. At least the driving helmet was keeping the kid's hair under control, he reflected. Bartok easily beat the other velocipede into town, and pulled up outside the Sheriff's office, but before he could even get out of the driver's seat, Sheriff Motes had come out to greet him. "Aah, Sheriff, I'm glad you here. I need to ..." "Great, Professor, you're already prepared for the shipment then?" "Shipment?" echoed Bartok. "I know nothing of a shipment, I need to discuss..." "Never mind, never mind," said the old Sheriff with a dismissive wave of the hand. "You're here now. Say," he continued, looking up, "Where's Nicodemus Legend?" Right on cue, the other velocipede pulled up with a smug Skeeter and a disgruntled Pratt in tow. "Bartok, don't you ever let Skeeter drive again! He drives like a maniac! I nearly fell out twice!" complained the writer. "Serves you right for letting a kid drive," said a low female voice in the shadows. All four men looked up, but motes smiled. "They don't know about the shipment, Miss Trent, I thought you'd wired ahead with the news?" A black clad woman with long raven hair and piercing blue eyes appeared from the shadows: Katherine Trent, general law enforcer and bounty hunter. "Well, hello again," she said. She looked each of the men over carefully, and they visibly shrank under her gaze. "Say, where's that cute guy who shot me?" she asked, turning back to Motes and raising a quizzical black eyebrow. The sheriff cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Mr. Ramos is away at the moment, Ma'am. Perhaps Mr. Legend could explain?" He looked at Pratt with a 'please-get-this-terrifying-woman-off-my-hands' expression. Pratt opened his mouth (or rather, half opened his mouth, as his tooth was giving him heck once more) to answer, but Trent interrupted. "Never mind," she said, "I'd better fill you boys in on our job." "Our job?" queried Bartok, who was irritated that events were stopping him from telling Motes about the robbery. "Yes, Bartok, our job." She sighed and continued. "In two days time, a major shipment of gold will be coming through Colorado, bound for the Coast," explained Trent. "It's scheduled to pass near Sheridan, but for security reasons, only the driver and armed guard escorting the coach know the exact route. The problem is, my current employer, the Chairman of the bank the gold is destined for, has received intelligence that a group of bandits are after the shipment. I, or rather we, are gonna track down the shipment and warn them." "Why are you roping us into this, Miss Trent?" asked Pratt, in an irritated tone. "You boys were quite useful to me before. Well, you were after you released the murderer I'd been sent to capture from Arkansas, so I thought I could use your help again." She turned to Bartok." Those gizmos of yours are very impressive, Professor. Do you think any of them could help us locate the shipment?" Bartok smiled as he focused on the new problem at hand, forgetting his own difficulties. "Yes, Miss Trent. I believe I do."
Back at the Compound, Bartok led Trent, Pratt and Skeeter, who had tagged along once more, round to the largest of the vehicle workshops. Once inside, he crossed the room to a large irregular oilskin-covered shape in the dark recesses of the room. "May I present..." he announced, ripping off the cloth with a flourish, "The Bartok Light Body Aerial Passenger Maxi-Manoeuvrable Micro Transporter!!" The others looked, before them was the strangest machine they had yet seen to spring from Bartok's vivid imagination. Mounted on top of what looked like a stripped down velocipede shell, was a larger version of Pratt's Legend Wings which, Bartok demonstrated, could be opened and collapsed by the simple turning of a brass wheel. On the back of the contraption was a large propeller that looked as if it had been heavily adapted from the largest cartwheel Bartok could find. Pratt sniffed. "Why don't you just call it the Bartok Micro-Light?" he asked. Bartok rolled his eyes Heavenward. "Ernest, I expend a great deal of time, energy, and effort to create names for my inventions that are both concise and accurate. Why do you continually try to truncate scientifically accurate titles?" Pratt snorted. Bartok ignored the author and continued. "It's based on the advanced aerodynamic research Ramos was working on before he left. I believe it provides an excellent solution to Miss Trent's problem of locating the gold shipment as quickly as possible." Trent ignored the dubious looks from Pratt and Skeeter and decided that, based on her previous experience with the Hungarian scientist, she would give Bartok the benefit of the doubt. She circled the machine, examining it with a cool expression. "Does it run on steam?" she casually enquired. "No," began Bartok, "It was impractical to fuel it with steam as we do with our other transport. Ramos and I decided to use a batch of whisky from the Buffalo Head as a concentrated combustible fuel." Pratt stumbled back in shock. "Sacrilege!" he breathed. Bartok sighed. "Ernest, it's the batch that was confiscated by Sheriff Motes after old Three Finger Joe went blind from drinking it last month!" Pratt relaxed slightly and shrugged. "Yes well," he conceded, "Perhaps it posed a minor health hazard, but I can think of far better uses for such a well-matured spirit." Bartok raised an eyebrow. "At 95% proof?" Skeeter suppressed a laugh as he saw the downcast look on Pratt's face, but Trent just rolled her eyes in despair. Perhaps it had been a mistake, she reflected, to hook up with this group of eccentrics again. Part 2
Pratt followed Bartok as he walked slowly around the Micro-Light, pointing out the more important features and controls of the vehicle. Bartok was in full lecture mode as he explained every detail of his and Ramos' latest creation. Pratt was listening intently as he continued: " and the control stick operates in a similar way to that of the velocipede. Left and right movements control the horizontal rotation of the vehicle and a small amount of pressure forward or back will increase or decrease the altitude. We've included a harness on the seat for greater safety while airborne." "That was thoughtful of you," commented Pratt sarcastically, but Bartok ignored him and continued with his explanation. "There is also a small storage compartment under the seat," explained Bartok as he pulled a small drawer that had been almost hidden during the rest of his lecture. "I've included a few items that you might find useful during your flight." Pratt looked at the contents of the compartment: a small brass telescope, two flasks of water, and a fulminator were among the collection of items that Bartok had deemed as essential equipment. It was only then that Bartok's words penetrated Pratt's study of the items. "My Flight!?" he exclaimed, "I thought Trent would be flying this contraption?" "My dear Ernest, you cannot possibly expect Miss Trent to undertake such a flight. She is unused to this type of vehicle, where as you have had many hours experience with the velocipedes, as well as using the Legend Wings. You are the perfect choice." "I'm sure I could manage if the great Nicodemus Legend is too busy to help out," Trent told Bartok. "Mr. Legend wouldn't allow you to endanger yourself in that way," said Skeeter, eager to defend Legend's good name. "Er no, of course I wouldn't," stated Pratt defensively. Pratt continued to survey the Micro-Light, passing close to Trent. "That was sneaky and underhand," he hissed at her through gritted teeth. Trent just smiled smugly in reply. Bartok reached into the storage compartment and retrieved a helmet and goggles that they normally wore when driving the velocipedes. He handed them to Pratt who reluctantly stepped into the vehicle and sat down before pulling on the helmet. Bartok carefully made sure the harness was securely fastened around Pratt before going over the controls one more time. Pratt was struck by a sudden realization. "The soldiers escorting the shipment won't know who I am. What if they shoot me down before I have time to explain?" "Don't worry, Ernest. I have considered that eventuality and I believe I have a solution. It will be a simple task to modify one of the smaller of my rain seeding rockets to carry a message from Miss Trent. All you would have to do is drop the message over the gold shipment for the soldiers to read and everything will be fine." "And what if they shoot me down before they read the message?" Pratt asked. "You don't know what I'm going to write yet. You should be more worried about them shooting you down AFTER they read it!" said Trent. "Details, details," Bartok waved a hand dismissively at the very thought. "Have a little faith Ernest. Now let's get you into the air and you can try the Micro-Light out for yourself." After only a few more minutes of familiarization, Pratt signaled Bartok to start the Micro-Light's engine. Bartok moved to the rear of the vehicle and gave the large propeller a sharp turn. The engine spluttered once but then fell silent. Pratt turned as far as the harness would allow and glared at Bartok. Smiling weakly, Bartok stepped back up to the propeller and tried once more. Again, he gave the propeller a sharp turn but this time the engine spluttered into life. Pratt took a deep breath. The smell of the Micro-Light's "fuel" was strong in the air. Pratt shook his head sadly. "What a waste," he muttered to himself. Reaching for the small lever next to the seat, Pratt released the break and the Micro-Light slowly began to gather speed. At first, Pratt's steering of the vehicle was erratic, the controls were a lot more sensitive than the velocipedes he was used to, but after a few minutes he was able to keep the Micro-Light under control. Taking a deep breath, and privately hoping it wouldn't be his last, Pratt slowly increased speed, gently pulled back on the control stick, and the Micro-Light soared gracefully into the air for the first time. At first Pratt limited himself to just circling the compound, keeping only a few feet above the rooftops, as he got used to the Micro-Light's controls. He had to admit that Bartok had outdone himself this time. The new vehicle had the maneuverability of the Legend Wings, along with the exhilaration Pratt always felt while flying, but without the heart-wrenching initial plummet that the Legend Wings always required. Eventually he felt comfortable enough with the new vehicle to try a few more daring maneuvers. Gaining height slowly, Pratt turned the Micro-Light towards the center of the compound, and made a swooping pass over Bartok, Trent, and Skeeter, causing them to scatter and duck for cover. After a few more passes over the compound, Pratt decided that it was time he tried the difficult task of landing the Micro-Light, hopefully without breaking every bone in his body in the process. Bartok had assured him that the vehicle would be as easy to land as the Legend Wings were. Given Pratt's first experiences with the Wings, that was only partially reassuring. Pratt headed away from the compound for a few minutes before turning back and following the long dirt road that led from Sheridan, up to the compound. Carefully, he pushed the control stick forward a touch and the Micro-Light began to descend towards the relative smoothness of the road below. Pratt held his breath as the Micro-Light continued to slowly lose height. Finally the vehicle reached the ground, and after only a slight jolt upon impact, Pratt was safely back down to Earth. Reaching above him, he spun the small brass wheel and the wings folded neatly together above him as he drove the Micro-Light back into the compound were Bartok and Trent were waiting for him. Bartok was already checking over the Micro-Light for damage even before Pratt had managed to unfasten the safety harness and get out. "Don't worry, Bartok. I brought it back in one piece," he assured the scientist. "Good. This is the prototype you know. It took Ramos and I months to perfect. Now, if you'll both excuse me I have to make a few modifications before you continue with the test flights tomorrow." "I can hardly wait," Pratt commented as Bartok and Skeeter slowly wheeled the Micro-Light back towards the workshop from which it had emerged. Pratt led Trent over to the nearest of the velocipedes and the both climbed in. With a final look towards the rapidly closing doors of the vehicle workshop, Pratt steered the velocipede out of the Compound and back towards Sheridan.
When Pratt and Trent returned to the compound early the next morning, it was to find that Bartok had already brought the Micro-Light out from the workshop and was making minute adjustments to various parts of the vehicle. Pratt noticed that the Micro-Light was suspended several feet into the air, and that there was now a large tube-like device fastened snugly under the body of the Micro-Light, emerging at the front to the right of the main wheel. "Good morning, Ernest, Miss Trent. You both had a good night's sleep I hope. We have a busy day ahead of us." Bartok led them up a scaffolding to the modified Micro-Light, where Pratt looked dubiously at the new addition to the vehicle. "I've modified one of the smaller of my cloud seeding rockets to allow you to deliver Miss. Trent's message to the soldiers guarding the shipment, explaining your presence." He indicated a small button that he'd added near the control stick of the Micro-Light. "This button will trigger the rocket which, after being propelled a short distance from the vehicle, will descend to the ground for the soldiers to read. Allow me to demonstrate." Bartok reached into the vehicle a lightly pressed the button. The explosive sound of the ignition echoed off the surrounding buildings, as the rocket shot from the pipe at the front of the Micro-Light. Instead of dropping to the ground a few feet from the Micro-Light as Bartok had explained it would, the small rocket flew across the compound and smashed through the window of the building opposite them. "Well, at least I won't need to get too close to the soldiers using that!" said Pratt. Bartok recovered quickly. "It just needs a little re-calibration, that's all," he assured them. For the rest of the day, Bartok insisted that Pratt should practice using the rocket delivery system again and again. Bartok set up a large red target in the compound and had Pratt make pass after pass over it in the Micro-Light dropping the now re-calibrated rocket repeatedly until Bartok was happy that Pratt could hit the target dead center almost every time.
By the time the following day arrived, Pratt had become well versed in the operation of the Micro-Light and the rocket delivery system. Trent had a rough idea of the route the shipment would most likely be taking and, after being briefed with the direction he should head, Pratt was airborne and heading North, away from the compound across the vastness of the snow covered landscape. Once he was clear of the Compound's buildings, Pratt increased the height he was flying at until he had a good view of the horizon. Keeping the Micro-Light steady with one hand he reached under the seat and carefully removed and extended the brass telescope that Bartok had given him. Slowly, he started to scan the horizon for any sign of the gold shipment. After a while he spotted the distant shape of a stagecoach and guided the vehicle towards it, carefully retracting the telescope and returning it under the seat. Before long the dust cloud had resolved itself into the forms of a large stagecoach and a dozen armed soldiers on horseback. This could only be the gold shipment that Trent had told him about. As soon as the soldiers saw the unfamiliar shape of the Micro-Light heading towards them the convoy halted and all rifles were instantly trained on him, waiting for the slightest hostile move on his part. Pratt waited until he was within range of the convoy and pressed the rocket release button. The rocket shot from the pipe at the front of the Micro-Light and flew majestically towards the soldiers for a few seconds. Then, just as it passed over the heads of the confused soldiers, the rocket's limited fuel was spent and it fell to the ground, landing right next to the leading soldier. "Perfect," said Pratt. The previous day's practice had paid off after all. He continued to circle the shipment as the lead soldier read Trent's message contained within the rocket. He was glad that none of the soldiers were trigger-happy, as their rifles tracked his every move. Finally, the lead soldier called out to the others and the rifles were lowered. Pratt breathed a sigh of relief and carefully landed the Micro-Light nearby. The lead soldier, who Pratt could now identify from his uniform as a Captain, hurried over to him. "I'm Captain Jackson. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Legend," said the soldier as he shook Pratt's hand firmly. "And from Miss Trent's note, I understand you'll be accompanying us until we're clear of Denver, is that correct?" "Yes, that's right," Pratt agreed, recovering from the unexpected news. He made a mental note to have a word with Trent when he got back to Sheridan. A few minutes later Pratt was airborne once more. He began to circle the stagecoach as best he could as it moved along, keeping a lookout for any trouble the shipment might encounter.
A short distance ahead of the shipment, Max Garrett impatiently scanned the horizon with the aid of a small telescope. Suddenly, he spotted the dark shape of a stagecoach heading towards him. "Hey, Doc, here it comes," he called out to a figure standing a little way away from where he was crouching. Garrett looked up as the figure made it's way over to him. The man was in his late thirties with a neatly trimmed black beard, dressed in an elegantly tailored black outfit with silver trim. His shoulder length dark hair billowed out behind him as he walked over to Garrett's position. This was Christopher Ratcliffe, Garrett's latest 'business partner' and the source of Garrett's information about the gold shipment. As he watched Ratcliffe approach, Garrett wondered, not for the first time, how this strange partnership could ever have come about. Ratcliffe took the telescope from Garrett and raised it to his eye. He quickly surveyed the stagecoach and soldiers in turn before raising it to view the airborne form of Pratt. "It would appear the shipment has a guardian angel," he told Garrett in an impeccable English accent as he studied the aerial form that circled the shipment. "Courtesy of Janos, if I'm not mistaken. It changes nothing though, Mr. Garrett. You and your men concentrate on the shipment as we planned." Garrett watched as Ratcliffe lifted a large canvas pack from the ground and slipped it onto his back, fastening a buckle across his chest. From a much smaller pack, he produced a large gun-like device which he attached to a thick cable running out from the first back. It was the ball-lightning gun that Garrett had stolen two days before. "I'll take care of our new arrival." Garrett glanced around at where his men were hidden, scattered along the rocky mountainside: every one of them was watching for his signal. His attention returned to the rapidly approaching forms of the stagecoach and soldiers. "Just a little closer..." he whispered to himself as the shipment continued to advance towards them. Garrett waited until he could clearly make out the escorting soldiers before signaling his men to start the attack on the shipment.
The next few minutes were chaos as far as Pratt was concerned. One minute all was peaceful, the next, bullets were flying everywhere. Even from his elevated position he had trouble making out where the shots were coming from. Reaching under the seat he retrieved the fulminator and began searching for the shipment's assailants. As the first shots had been fired, the soldiers had dismounted and used the coach as cover as they returned fire at their unseen attackers. With surprise on their side, Garrett's men managed to pick off over half the escort before they knew what was happening. Pratt flew over the rocky outcrop that the attackers were using for cover, but only managed to disable a few of the attackers with the fulminator's electrical bolts. With his attention fixed firmly on the battle raging below, Pratt didn't notice Ratcliffe as he brought the ball lightning gun to bear on the Micro-Light, and fired. The first shot punched a fist-sized whole in the wings above Pratt's head and drew his attention to where Ratcliffe was standing. Turning the Micro-Light towards the figure, Pratt raised the fulminator, having to wait until he was in range before could fire. But he didn't get the chance. The next shot went wide as Pratt, seeing the bolt heading for him, pushed the control stick hard to the left and the Micro-Light banked sharply as the lightning bolt flew past him. Just as he pulled the vehicle level once more, another shot hit the front of the Micro-Light full on, melting the metal control stick and causing the wicker material of the basket to catch fire. Pratt valiantly tried to regain control of the rapidly descending Micro-Light, but to no avail. The harness held Pratt safely in place as the vehicle crashed to the ground. Pratt silently thanked Bartok for his foresight, although the impact stunned him for a few moments. He shook his head to clear it as he reached for the clasp at the front of the harness. Then the smell hit him. The alcohol was leaking from the tank behind him! Pratt desperately pulled on the harness and clasp trying to get free of the now highly flammable vehicle. Finally, he managed to free himself and, still a little stunned from the crash, started to stumble away from the Micro-Light as the fire began to take hold. He only got a few feet away before the fire found the leaking alcohol and the Micro-Light exploded in a ball of smoke and flame. The explosion was close enough for the force of it to lift Pratt off his feet and throw him to the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there, face down for what seemed like an eternity, the explosion still ringing in his ears. Finally, after what could only have been a few minutes, he managed to muster enough strength to turn over onto his back. And came face-to-face with the barrel of a rifle. Garrett lowered his rifle, ready to shoot Pratt clean through the heart. Ratcliffe, who was at Garrett's side, quickly held up his hand to stop him. "We don't want our guest injured unnecessarily, Mr Garrett. He's more valuable to us alive in case dear Janos should decide to interfere in our plans." Ratcliffe turned and walked back towards the stagecoach. Garrett watched him for a moment before turning back to Pratt. Pratt looked up at Garrett and smiled, "I guess we know who's in charge here, don't we?" In one fluid motion, Garrett reversed the rife and brought it's butt down sharply onto Pratt's forehead. As he slipped into the oblivion of unconsciousness, Pratt heard Garrett's voice. "Personally, I found that very necessary." Part 3
"Mr. Legend? Mr. Legend?" Pratt slowly ascended through layers of unconsciousness, hearing his name being called as if in a dream. He opened his eyes and was immediately confronted with the concerned face of the captain from the shipment. As soon as it was obvious that the writer was coming around, the Captain sighed with relief and tried to reassure the obviously disorientated man. "Take it easy Mr. Legend, that's quite a bump on the head you've got." As Pratt became more aware of his surroundings, he also became painfully aware of the throbbing in his head. "Ow, that goon hit me good," he said thickly. "At least it'll take my mind off my toothache." He tried to look round but quickly fell back in the dirt as his balance went. "Where are we?" he asked the Captain. Jackson looked grim. "My men are dead, Mr. Legend, that filth murdered them in cold blood. It looks as if they kept us alive as hostages. We're in a tent at the center of their camp and, by my reckoning, it's about eight o'clock in the PM." "Your powers of observation do you credit," winced Pratt, "I guess we can't do much but wait." As it turned out they had to wait a very long time. One of the bandits threw in some moldy bread and a flask of water soon after Pratt had woken up, but after that they were left for the night. They seemed heavily guarded, hopelessly outmatched and outgunned. Pratt realized all they could do was sit and wait.
The late cold dawn illuminated the tent next morning as Pratt and the Captain awoke. Winter had truly come as they struggled out from under their coats finding a thin layer of frost over them. These men must be insane, Pratt reflected, to camp out regularly in this frigid weather. Soon after waking, Pratt was dragged from the tent and found himself face to face once more with the black-garbed Englishman and his associate. "Ah, good morning Mr Pratt," began the Englishman, smiling tightly from under his neatly trimmed beard. "I trust you slept well?" "Hardly," said Pratt glowering, "I find being near cold blooded murderers tends to keep me from getting my beauty sleep." The accomplice made to hit Pratt again with his rifle but the Englishman held his arm. "Easy Max, Mr Pratt may not appreciate the true value of what we have done but we have to treat him as our guest." "A cup of coffee, Mr Pratt?" he offered a cup of steaming liquid, which despite the low temperature, Pratt refused. "Who are you and what do you want?" Pratt demanded. "My dear Mr Pratt, all in good time," said the Englishman, sitting down on a wooden crate. He gestured for Pratt to do the same and after some encouragement from a rifle butt Pratt complied. "First, please tell me how my old friend Janos is. I haven't seen him in an age." Pratt looked up, startled. "How do you know Bartok?" he demanded. "Oh, Janos and I go back years," said the man airily. "Hasn't he ever told you about his old pal Christopher Ratcliffe?" After Pratt's denial Ratcliffe continued. "Bartok and I met at Oxford oh, I suppose twenty-odd years ago. He was brilliant, brilliant, but sadly so limited. You see, Mr Pratt, Janos was never able to grasp that the true potential of scientific endeavour can only be fulfilled within the criminal sphere." Pratt looked at the madman he was facing in mounting horror. "Criminal sphere?" he echoed. "Why, yes, Mr Pratt. Please don't tell me you're another of those bleeding hearts who think that science should be used to *improve the human condition.* How can you be so na�ve!?" "So what do you think scientific advancement should be used for, Mr. Ratcliffe?" asked Pratt slowly. "Why to advance those with true potential! Those of us with true natural brilliance! Why waste skills and resources on those who will die anyway? On the vast majority of the population that will never achieve anything!?" Ratcliffe stood and began to pace as he outlined his argument. "Governments, Mr Pratt have only just begun to grasp this idea. Pouring funding into the military is a start, but only within the criminal fraternity have I truly seen the idea of the strong leading reach its true potential. Governments try to keep control under the pretext of defending against foreign aggressors, but criminals are at least honest about wanting to wrest control from the farce of democracy. What an irony!" he laughed almost to himself, "Criminals, being the only truly honest people!" Pratt's mind was racing. This Ratcliffe was obviously a very dangerous and unhinged man, but until he knew a little more about what was going there wasn't much he could do except keep him talking. "So what's all this about, Christopher?" He asked casually. "Why stop the gold shipment? Why the interest in Bartok?" "Oh, the gold is merely a means to an end, I can assure you. Mr Garrett," he gestured to the head thug, "and his men understandably agree with my sentiments and have agreed to help me fulfil the full potential of my theories. But, I must confess that my work would be much easier with the aid, or at least the absence of opposition from, Janos. I was hoping that his public disgrace at the hands of Edison would have woken him up to the hypocrisy of the scientific establishment, but instead I find him in this little backwater trying to help people. It really is most distressing. Knowing that his dear friend Ernest Pratt is in my power may help him to see things my way." "Of course," continued Ratcliffe, "things would be so much easier if he were working with me." He hefted the Ball Lightning Gun. "This device really is most ingenious you know," Ratcliffe continued, "Although it could probably be improved to a more deadly firepower. Of course, Janos never did like to really hurt people." Pratt looked on in horror. "Bartok really could have been the best, Mr Pratt." He smiled. "And if he agrees to help me he still could be."
"Sit down, Bartok, you're making me nervous," growled Trent, looking up from carving a scrap of wood with her carving knife to while away the time. "We should have heard from Ernest many hours ago, Miss Trent!" retorted Bartok angrily as he paced the length of the laboratory. "I truly fear for Ernest's safety. I knew the Micro-Light might need more testing. He could well have crashed." "Well, time is money," conceded Trent. "What say we go and do a little recce Professor?" Within the hour, Bartok and Trent were trundling over the scrubland that surrounded the town, Bartok having stocked up the velocipede that they were taking with full medical supplies in case Pratt had seriously hurt himself. Catherine Trent carried only her gun. "Are you sure you know where we are heading?" asked Bartok through gritted teeth as he tried to minimize the skids the velocipede was making on the icy surface. "Well, I do have a vague idea," admitted Trent. "As long as we keep making regular stops to check for tracks, we should find where Pratt landed by dark. After all," she said, quirking an eyebrow flirtatiously, "I have many skills." Bartok just rolled his eyes and kept driving. As the early winter night began to draw in, Bartok seriously considered calling it a day and returning to the Compound while there was still some light. He neither wanted to risk driving across a treacherous surface in frigid temperatures nor having to camp outside with his dangerous companion. However, his friend could be out in the open, hurt. Bartok felt torn. He was just about to try and broach the subject of whether they should continue or not when he spotted something that made him slam on the brakes of the vehicle so hard that Trent was thrown violently forward. "What is it, Bartok?" she snapped, instantly alert from the violent maneuver. Bartok unfolded his long legs from the drivers' seat and leapt from the velocipede. "Look," he said. Trent warily climbed from the vehicle. "It looks like the Micro-Light landed here," she observed. "The frost has helped the ground to keep the impact shape intact. "Precisely," said Bartok, pulling out what looked like a large pair of mounted binoculars from his coat and strapping them over his head. Ignoring the frozen ground he crawled onto all fours and began examining the site in detail through his magnifying lenses. "It would appear that Ernest was forced to land," said Bartok as he fingered an indented section of the ground. "Maybe that message delivery system didn't work, Bartok," said Trent as she tried to examine the evidence for herself. "The men guarding the gold are well trained, They would know better than to take any chances." "I think not," remarked Bartok. "I can see evidence of melted polycarbons and even a few fibres of canvas. My canvas. No commercial producer impregnates their material with crystallised iron. I added it to the microlight's wings to increase stability." Suddenly Bartok stopped. "Oh, no," he breathed. "What is it Bartok?" snapped Trent. "The polycarbons have been melted by an extreme heat. They're completely galvanised. No ordinary fire or bullet could produce such a signature. Only one form of energy that I know could produce such a shape from melted polycarbons: a bolt of lightning." "Or your Ball Lightning Gun," finished Trent. "Exactly." "Well, it looks as if we may have answered two questions" observed Trent wryly. "Whoever took your gun would appear to have taken Mr. Pratt as well." Part Four
The corner of the tent was swept aside and Pratt was awakened to his second day of captivity with a sharp kick aimed at his ribs. "Wakey wakey sleepin' beauty," smirked Garrett. "The boss wants a word with you." "Ah, good morning Mr Pratt," greeted Ratcliffe, extending a hand which Pratt pointedly refused to take. "I must confess, Ernest, Bartok has disappointed me. I issued a message a while ago, asking him to meet me here at 9 o'clock with various blueprints and sundries and here we are at," he made a show of checking his pocketwatch, "half past ten, and still no Janos! I'm very disappointed." "Maybe Bartok realised what a lunatic his old pal was," observed Pratt trying to make a show of bravado through cracked lips. "Well, I suppose that is possible," remarked Ratcliffe airily, "but I am rather upset. It would appear that maybe a small token of my affection is needed." He looked at his henchman, a small smile playing across his face. "Mr Garrett, cut off one of Mr Pratt's fingers. I don't care which one."
The reason that Bartok hadn't arrived for a little rendezvous with Ratcliffe was that, instead of returning to the Compound the previous night, it had been decided by a gun toting Trent that they should stay out and camp under the stars in order to make an early start the next morning. The two companions were up at dawn with Trent using her finely honed bounty hunter skills to track what they had identified as the assailants' horse tracks from when they had dragged the gold shipment and their prisoners away. By nine o'clock, they had reached a high bluff overlooking a rudimentary camp. A quick check with Bartok's telescope had revealed the presence of a dozen rough looking men and a face that Bartok never thought he'd see again. "Christopher," he breathed. "What is it Bartok?" hissed Trent as she readied her guns for a dramatic surprise attack on the encampment. "We've seen the gold wagon and the rough graves. This slime has obviously stolen the gold and killed the men guarding it. I say we go in there with guns and," she glanced at Bartok's fulminator "electric gizmos blazing, and do our duty." "NO!" hissed Bartok in such a sharp way that Trent caught herself flinching. "I know who their leader must be. Christopher Ratcliffe. I so hoped I would never run into him again."
Garrett's knife flashed in the low winter sun.
Trent had begun to scout the camp using Bartok's telescope. Suddenly, she saw Pratt, battered and bruised but alive, and about to get badly hurt by one of the thugs, as far as she could judge. They needed to act quickly. "Bartok!" she snapped. Janos whirled and grabbed the telescope. "Oh, my," he breathed. He jumped up and grabbed a handful of canisters from the velocipede, which he began to quickly unscrew. "What are you doing!" hissed Trent. "These are Bartok Visual Inhibiting Gaseous Precipitation Emitters" he explained. Noting Trent's puzzled expression he clarified "Smoke bombs! I'll throw them and cause a diversion. You go and rescue Ernest and any other prisoners who are still alive." Trent grinned. "Gotcha Professor!"
Pratt prayed and steadied himself for excruciating pain. Suddenly the air all around him was filled with thick grey smoke, shouts and gunshots. Pratt opened his eyes and experimentally wiggled his fingers. They were all there. All ten of them. He breathed a sigh of relief (and regretted it immediately, coughing violently) and looked up to see himself in the midst of chaos. Men were running all around him coughing and choking in the sudden gloom trying to get away from the yells and gunshots. . . of a woman? Pratt stumbled backwards and found himself looking up at the imposing figure of Katherine Trent. He smiled and took her hand kissing it gallantly. "The fair princess comes to save her true love!" he quipped. "Shut up, Pratt," scowled Trent snatching her hand away from Pratt's lips, "I've come to get you out of here." Trent put an arm around Pratt and half carried, half dragged him away from the confusion. "Is there anyone else still alive?" she yelled into Pratt's ear above the confusion. "Yes! Captain Jackson!" shouted Pratt. Trent nodded understanding and set the weakened Pratt down behind a boulder at the edge of the fray hunching her shoulders and going back in. Pratt turned over and peeked above the boulder to watch the drama unfold. Within moments, he saw Trent returning, the Captain of the shipment slung over her shoulders like a buffalo carcass. Suddenly, she stumbled. Pratt tried to stand to help, only his weakness from imprisonment slowed him down. He saw Jackson suddenly jerk to life, kick Trent to unbalance her and then pull out a hidden gun. "NOOO!!" he yelled. Trent was fast, but not quite fast enough to kick the weapon out of the treacherous Captain's hand. She ducked and kicked as the gun fired, jerking her body back as a bullet went into her shoulder. With a furious shriek she struck out like a wounded animal, grabbed the gun and fired point blank at the traitor, killing him instantly. Pratt was stunned at this unfortunately necessary brutality and ran forward to grab Trent, who whirled around, a dazed look on her face, and blood pouring from her arm. As Pratt reached out to take the gun Trent's eyes rolled back and she collapsed in a dead faint. Suddenly the stunned Pratt heard a familiar yell. It was Bartok! He turned. "Ernest!" shouted Bartok as he leapt from the velocipede. "Are you all right?" Pratt managed a small weak smile. "I'm fine, Janos, but Trent's hurt. She's been shot." Bartok looked at the unconscious woman and quickly felt for her pulse. "She's merely unconscious Ernest. We'll look at her back at the Compound. I've managed to stun and bind all the villains Miss Trent didn't get, and I believe I have their ringleader incapacitated. Pratt waved aside the rapidly dissipating smoke. "Ratcliffe said he knew you, Janos." Bartok pursed his lips. "It's a long story Ernest. Let's go home and try to get to the bottom of all this."
Suddenly the ground a few feet before them erupted in a shower of dirt and dust, stopping them in their tracks. "Leaving so soon, Janos? And I was so hoping we could catch up on old times," came a voice from behind them. Bartok turned at the sound of the cultured English tones, Pratt followed suit as best he could while still supporting the semi-conscious Trent. Ratcliffe stood at the top of the slope leading down to the encampment, near Jackson's body. While Ratcliffe kept the Lighting Gun pointed toward them, Garrett checked for any signs of life. Garrett quickly stood up from the body and gave a sharp shake of his head to Ratcliffe before training his rifle on them. "I do wish Miss Trent hadn't deemed it necessary to stop Captain Jackson quite so permanently. Good help is so hard to find." "He was a dishonorable man. He betrayed his unit for a share of the gold," Bartok stated. Pratt couldn't believe he'd trusted Jackson as far as he had, and nearly got Trent killed as a result. Pratt felt Trent tense slightly and guessed she was awake once more, listening to the heated discussion going on around her, but biding her time. "The men of his unit died for the furthering of science, Janos. Don't you see that? Without this little ... donation on behalf of the government, it would be impossible for my work to continue." "You haven't changed at all have you, Christopher? Still valuing money over the lives of others?" "If a few must be sacrificed for the benefit of mankind, then so be it. You however, dear Janos, do seem to have changed. In the old days you never managed to think up something like this." Ratcliffe hefted the Lighting Gun to emphasize the point he was making. "You used to be all 'better methods of transport' and 'Improved communication.' Never anything as interesting as this little toy of yours." "The Ball Lightning Gun was designed purely for defensive purposes," Bartok replied haughtily. "Of course it was, but you never were able to see the full potential of your inventions, were you?" "I wasn't the one selling off our ideas to the highest bidder," the Hungarian retorted sharply. Pratt had never seen Bartok so venomous towards another person in the whole time they'd been friends. "We needed financing, our grants had stopped, and without me our ideas would never have reached the stages they did. And how did you thank me? You destroyed all our notes and research and left without a word." "I never wanted our work used for criminal purposes. You knew that." "They weren't *all* criminals, Janos. It's taken me years rebuild the research we'd done when you 'liquidated' our association. This gold is just the final step to getting what little of our research I managed to salvage up and working once more." "You know we'll never let you take that gold," Pratt chimed in, "We've already beaten the rest of your men. There's only the two of you left." "And how precisely are you going to stop us? The two of you are unarmed and Miss Trent there," Ratcliffe gestured to the apparently unconscious form supported by Pratt, "is in no condition to do anything." As if taking her name as a signal, Trent sprang into action, drawing her gun and firing at Ratcliffe before anyone had a chance to react. Unfortunately the shot missed Ratcliffe completely, instead slicing through the cable connecting the Lightning Gun to the backpack he wore. Ratcliffe dropped the gun in surprise as the severed cable crackled and sparked with raw electrical power. The Gun hit the ground hard, causing it to release the remaining stored charge as a single shot. The glowing blue-white ball of electricity hit the ground near Ratcliffe, throwing plumes of dirt and dust into the air, and sending out a shockwave powerful enough to lift them all off their feet, throwing them to the ground a short distant away. Pratt, Trent and Bartok landed hard in a confused heap of arms and legs with Pratt taking the brunt of the impact, including a sharp blow to the face from Trent's elbow. Garrett lay dazed, some distance away from when the ball of lightning had struck, but Ratcliffe, who had been closest to the point of impact, was less lucky. The blast lifted him high enough into the air to carry him over the edge of the bluff on which they'd been standing. Pratt clambered to his feet, holding his jaw tenderly where Trent had, inadvertently, struck him during the confusion. "Ever considered a job with Doc Larkin?" he asked Trent sarcastically, spitting out the bloodied, rotten remains of his tooth that had finally been knocked loose.. "You'll have to work on your technique a little though." "It just needed a woman's touch, that's all," replied Trent with a smirk. Bartok frantically got to his feet. "We have to get to Ratcliffe quickly." "What's the rush? After a fall like that he's not going anywhere in a hurry," said Trent as she stood up, shakily. "It's the chemicals in the Electrical Storage Devices I'm worried about. They're very unstable and highly flammable. If one of the sparks from the cable were to set light to the backpack it could cause..." Bartok was cut short by the echoing thunderclap of an explosion as a cloud of black smoke issued above the spot where Ratcliffe had plummeted only moments before. "...an explosion?" prompted Pratt, joining Bartok and Trent as they walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down at the devastation below. The only thing Pratt could see as he looked down were a large area of scorched ground, and a few boulders covered in burning patches of chemicals. Of Ratcliffe's body, there was no sign. Epilogue
Trent stubbornly insisted that they make sure Garrett and his gang were securely bound in one of the tents, before she would allow Bartok to look at her wound. Even then, she wouldn't let the men out of her sight for a second. Once he'd retrieved their velocipede from hiding, Bartok cleaned and dressed Trent's wound with the medical supplies he had stored in the vehicle. "So how are we going to get these guys back to town?" Pratt enquired, indicating gang members. "I've already thought of that," replied Trent, almost back to her usual self. "There are more than enough horses around the camp. We can tether them one in front of the other and put one of these thugs on each horse. Simple." "And what about the gold?" he added, pointing to the large strongbox nestled in one corner of the tent. "It looks like it's all there. We can put the box on the back of the velocipede and get it back to town that way." It took a while to round up the horses that had been scattered around the camp by the smoke and noise of Trent's rescue of Pratt, but soon they had enough horses for their purposes. Not long afterwards, the small caravan of horses, with Trent at it's head, started its trek back to Sheridan, followed closely by Pratt and Bartok in the velocipede. "I just hope Sheriff Motes has enough room for these guys," Pratt told Bartok as they began to follow the horses back towards town.
"Make yourself at home boys," Trent told Garrett and his men as Sheriff Motes closed the cell door and locked it securely. "You'll be moving to Denver as soon as I can arrange an escort for you all." Trent looked over at the occupant of the other cell. All she could see were a mass of old cloths topped with an unkempt mass of dark greying hair, curled up on the bunk at the far side of the cell. Just some old miner, she though to herself. So many miners had come to Colorado during the recent silver rush. Not everybody had struck it rich. This was apparently one of the unlucky ones. "What's the deal with him," she asked Motes, as they returned to his desk. "I found him passed out outside the saloon a few hours before you arrived. From the smell of him, he'd been in there most of the day too. I put him in there so he could sleep it off. I'll see if he's sobered up in a while, before I send him on his way and move some of Garrett's men in there instead." "I'll see you in the morning then. If you need me, I'm staying in the hotel across the street." "Sure thing, Miss Trent," he called after her as she left, closing the door behind her. Motes move to the cell with its single occupant and unlocked the door. He moved over to the bed against the far wall and gently shook the sleeping figure by the shoulder. "Time you were going, old timer," said Motes as the figure rolled lazily onto his back. Motes noticed a strange black box in the old man's hand. "That's exactly what I was thinking," replied the figure with a strong English accent as he pressed the small red button set into the top of the box he was holding. Motes had no time to react before, as the air between himself and the figure of the bed rippled, he felt an invisible force throw him against the cells bars opposite, knocking him unconscious. The old man jumped to his feet quicker than his frail form suggested could be possible, and crouched down next to the Sheriffs body. "Still alive," the old man muttered to himself, shaking his head in disappointment. "Oh well. Looks like it's back to the drawing board with you." He added putting the black box into his pocket and unhooking the cell keys from Motes' belt. "Ratcliffe?" Garrett called out to the figure in disbelief. The figure stood up and walked casually over to the cell where Garrett stood. "You were expecting someone else?" came the sarcastic reply. "They said you'd been killed in the explosion." "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," Ratcliffe responded as he removed the wig and false beard to reveal his own dark hair and neatly trimmed beard. "How did you survive the explosion?" "My dear Mr Garrett, I always plan ahead. That whole area is covered with old mine workings. I chose that area for our camp in case we should need better cover for any reason," he explained. "When I was blown over the edge by that damned gun of Bartok's, I managed to scramble into a nearby mine shaft before those power cells ignited." "Now, as the good sheriff said," Ratcliffe began as he unlocked the cell door and swung it wide open. "I believe it's time we were leaving." "What about the gold? You're not going to leave it here are you?" asked Garrett in disbelief. "As always, Mr Garrett, you're a man after my own heart. I took the liberty of removing a substantial amount of the gold from the strongbox and replacing it with painted metal bars. I always expect the unexpected. By the time they realise what they've got, we'll be long gone." "That just leaves Bartok and his friends. I have a score to settle with those three." "I, too, have a score to settle, especially with Miss Trent, but patience is a virtue, Mr Garrett," Ratcliffe explained as he led Garrett and his men to the door, glancing outside to check the street was clear for them to leave. "We have more ... profitable things to discuss first. Bartok and his new friends will just have to wait for now." And with that Ratcliffe, Garrett and his men slipped silently out into the dusky night. ---- Fin ---- This story copyright 2000 Paul Mitchell & 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.
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