Legendary Hunter
By Sarah O'Donoghue
This story originally appeared at The Unofficial Nicodemus Legend Homepage
The Legend characters are copyrighted by Paramount Television and by Gekko Film Corp. This story is in no way intended to infringe upon those rights and is written solely for the entertainment of others. Story copyright 1998 Sarah O'Donoghue.
This story is set several weeks after "Fool's Gold", my earlier story.
The hot midday sun was beating down mercilessly and Nicodemus Legend knew he was in trouble. He should have never come down into this box canyon in the first place, especially without his ever faithful horse, Morrie. But Morrie had been injured by the villains he was now pursuing. Legend stumbled over the uneven rocky ground and looked ahead, struggling to make out his quarry through the heat haze. He cursed the unnamed robbers who had ambushed the wagon train he had been defending. It had been a brief but ugly battle: the brave men of the wagon train had fought well and had disabled over half of the outlaws. Legend himself had disarmed four, and all of their horses had been scattered. The remaining three had fled on foot with Legend in hot pursuit, but since the cowards had shot Morrie in the flank and the settlers could spare no horses, he had followed in the same manner. After all, he was the famous hero Nicodemus Legend. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his eyes and looked ahead again, seeing the black clad figures disappearing into a cave in the canyon wall. Legend picked up the pace and soon found himself at the cave entrance. 'Here's the robber's roost', he thought to himself, 'this shouldn't prove to be a problem'. He was picking his way through the boulders when suddenly the sky went dark. Legend looked up: hundreds of rocks were cascading down the sides of the canyon. An avalanche! It was an ambush! A trap! Would this be the end of the great Nicodemus Legend?
"No, no, NO!" shouted Pratt, throwing down the pen and looking at the paragraphs he had just written. "This is wrong! Legend would never go into a canyon, on foot, and get caught in an ambush! I can't even write a simple pursuit anymore!" Ernest Pratt, "ink stained wretch of a dime novelist," as he called himself, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was half way through his latest book, "Legend and the Trail to Freedom", the tale of a group of emigrants struggling through the frontier to reach the promised land of the West, but he was finding it very hard to create obstacles for the wagon train that weren't already clich�. Indians, dust storms, lack of water; it had all been done before. But, since E.C. Allen had personally asked him to write a novel in this genre, Pratt had no choice. After all, how else was he going to get money for life's little necessities like liquor and cigars? Still, Pratt decided, if he had to write a story that had been done before, he would at least find a new way to do it. His book sales had been increasing over the last eighteen months since he had moved to Sheridan, and he was actually starting to like the place and its quirky inhabitants. If sales started to slump again, his publisher might move him to somewhere that was even more remote. Pratt decided that he needed a break. He had already turned out four pages that morning and, since it was almost one o'clock, he thought he might as well take a break for lunch. Besides, he still had another two weeks before Harry Parver arrived to collect the manuscript. Ernest left the Silver King Hotel and headed for his home away from home, the Buffalo Head Saloon, to get the real nourishment he needed: a glass of whiskey. Heads turned as he walked into the saloon, but everyone quickly got back to their own business when they saw that it was Legend who had come through the door. Lamar nodded to him from behind the bar and a few minutes later arrived at Pratt's table with a cup of 'freshly brewed tea'. Pratt sipped the liquor and sighed. This was the good life. The day was going well he decided: the book was progressing well, he had whiskey in his hand and neither Bartok or Ramos had showed up yet to involve him in a heroic adventure. "Mr. Legend!" said a familiar voice from behind. 'Oh no, Skeeter!' thought Pratt, 'why didn't I remember Skeeter!'. Ernest turned around and smiled at his young friend. He didn't really mind Skeeter, it was just that his enthusiasm often got him into trouble. He still remembered the 'Tom Legend' incident from a few weeks back. People were still asking him how his 'nephew' was doing. "Sit down, Skeets!" he said brightly. Skeeter took the seat opposite him. "How are you today, Mr. Legend?" he asked with a rather forced smile on his face. "Why Skeeter?" asked Pratt suspiciously, "What's going on?" "Well, the Glover brothers were wondering if you could come over to the Legend Memorabilia shop. It turns out they've got in a load of bowls that Willie Evans is going to paint your face on. They think your fans will love them. Anyway, they were hoping you would go over and scratch your signature on the back of fifty so that they can sell them at double the price." "Oh please," retorted Pratt. "No one will want to buy a limited edition picture bowl. Besides, you know Willie Evans hasn't been able to draw straight since he lost his eye last year. He'll draw me with beady eyes, I know he will." "But, Mr. Legend, you have got beady eyes!" said Skeeter innocently. Pratt just glared. Skeeter was saved from the writer's anger by the arrival of Mayor Brown, who walked up to the table where the two men were sitting. "Ah, there you are, Skeeter!" he said. "Have you finished painting the Widow Fuller's fence?" "Yes sir," replied Skeeter, "I was just on an errand for the Glover brothers. Ever since they started running the Legend Memorabilia shop on top of the wax museum they've been really busy, so I said to..." "SKEETER!" bellowed the Mayor, "I was trying to tell you that there's a man just arrived on the stage who needs help with his bags. As that's supposed to be your job, get to it!" "Yes Mayor," said Skeeter. He took his leave but made Pratt promise that he'd go and sign the Glover brothers' bowls. Ernest sighed. He thought it was only E.C. Allen who wanted to make money out of him, but sometimes it seemed that the whole town was using him as a cash cow. He turned to Chamberlain Brown. "So, Mayor, how can I help you today?" he asked. "Mr. Legend, I have some wonderful news!" exclaimed Brown. "Our town council has voted that the new retirement homes on the East side of town should be named after you. When we open them next month the East of Sheridan will be known as Legend Street!" 'Oh swell!' thought Pratt, but he tried to smile at the ever enthusiastic Mayor. "Mayor Brown, that would be ... an honor... but I really couldn't accept. My 'code' doesn't allow me to er..." 'Think, Pratt, think!' "...have locations named after me", he finished weakly. "Mr. Legend?" Brown was surprised. "I knew your famous code stopped you from drinking and smoking, but not allowing places to be named in your honor...?" He shook his head in confusion. Pratt could see that he was hurt, but he really didn't like the way his name (his *pseudonym*) was used in this town. If he wasn't careful they'd want to rename Sheridan itself after him. He decided to try another tack. "Chamberlain, aren't you due to step down from office at the end of the year?" he asked. "Why, yes", Brown replied. "I've been Mayor of this town for nearly five years, all told, and I thought it was time to let in some new blood. Besides, I have a whole lot of taxidermy projects I've been wanting to work on for a long while, and of course Sylvester really is due for a good overhaul..." "Yes, " said Pratt quickly. He really didn't want to hear about the gruesome taxidermy Brown did. He changed the subject back to his more pressing problem. "Anyway, why don't we get the council to name the new housing after you? What about 'Brown Street' or even 'Chamberlain Street'?" Brown was visibly moved but tried to appear modest. "Oh no, Mr. Legend," he protested feebly, "It should be your honor." "No, no," said Pratt cheerfully, as he could see this was going to be an easy battle to win, "I will go and talk with the others right away. We'll make sure you're given all the honor you deserve, Mayor!" With that he smiled, stood up and beat a hasty retreat. Walking back out into the sunshine, Pratt saw Skeeter acting strangely over by the entrance to the hotel. He had an air of panic about him, so Ernest hurried over. "What's up, Skeeter?" he asked. "Mr. Legend," Skeeter began, "You know that the Mayor wanted me to help a man getting off the stagecoach? Well, he's Michael Parker!" Pratt was stunned. "The bounty hunter, are you sure?" Parker was one of the most feared bounty hunters in the West - completely ruthless and with the reputation of always getting his man. "Oh, yes, Mr. Legend. I checked with Amos Watt over at the Sheridan Weekly Trumpet. He's got photographs of all sorts of famous people. It was definitely him!" 'Oh, wonderful,' thought Pratt. Here was someone who could make real trouble in the town. Parker was a notorious, ruthless killer who only just operated on the right side of the law. Who did he want in Sheridan? Eighteen months ago, Pratt would have walked away from the problem, and maybe even left the town, but his alternate persona of Nicodemus Legend was becoming more and more a part of Ernest Pratt these days, and so Pratt grudgingly let his fictional hero take over so that he could do something about this dangerous visitor. After getting the room number from Skeeter, Pratt climbed the stairs of the hotel and knocked on the first door on the right. The door opened a crack and Ernest saw a shadowy figure appear. "Who are you?" the figure demanded. Pratt drew himself up to his full height. "My name is Nicodemus Legend", he declared. "Legend, eh? OK, what do you want?" "I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Parker," said Ernest. The door opened fully as the figure stepped away. "All right, you can come in," he said. Pratt steeped inside and turned to see a man of medium height and build, in fact a very average looking man, watching him. "Please, take a seat, Mr. Legend," said Parker politely. Pratt did so, all the time keeping a close eye on the other man. Parker's appearance belied his reputation. He really was very average looking, except for his unusually piercing eyes, which were obviously always alert. "I must say, Mr. Legend, I am surprised you found me so quickly", Parker began. "I was hoping to have been able to arrive and leave this town without anyone being aware of my presence." "I make it my business to know about the visitors to Sheridan, Mr. Parker," said Ernest, "Especially those visitors with reputations such as yours." Parker smiled disarmingly. "I'm just a businessman, Mr. Legend, like yourself. I will conclude my business here as quickly as possible and then I will be on my way." "Who are you after, Parker?" said Pratt suddenly. "Are you going to capture or kill? What has your quarry done to be hunted down by the most famous bounty hunter in the West?" Michael Parker scowled at him. "I'm sorry Mr. Legend, but I can't tell you that. I know your reputation as well as you apparently know mine. If I tell you who I have to retrieve, you will warn them, and I will lose my money. " His expression softened. "I'm not a bad man, Mr. Legend, as much as you may have been led to believe otherwise. I will allay your fears though: the man I'm after isn't from Sheridan, so your friends are safe. When my target appears, I will capture him and leave as quickly as possible." Parker stood and reopened the door. "I'm sorry, Mr. Legend, but it has been a long trip. Will you excuse me?" Pratt stood, simply glared at the other man and left.
"...so any ideas gentlemen?" concluded Ernest as he came to the end of his story. He had gone straight up to the Compound after his little talk with Parker, figuring that his friends Bartok and Ramos may have some ideas as to how to deal with the bounty hunter. "Your story is very intriguing, Ernest," said Bartok. "I had no idea that America was so barbaric. Why can't they just arrest criminals here as they do in Europe? "It's a big country, Professor" said Pratt. "Sometimes prisoners escape jail, and here in the West it's often easier to send a freelance bounty hunter after a man than a whole posse. The men they go after are usually convicted criminals." "Will Parker kill his man or capture him?" asked Ramos, looking up from the circuitry he was working on. "Oh, kill him, I should suppose," said Pratt, "that's how its usually done." "Of course, you cannot allow this to happen, Ernest," said the Professor., "People expect you to protect Sheridan and those who live here: not to let some ruthless killer murder one of their own." "Well, that's the thing, Janos," said Pratt, "Parker said that the man he was after wasn't local. My guess is that he's after an escaped criminal: someone who's trying to get as far West as he can." "May I suggest that we take two approaches to this, gentlemen?" said Ramos. "Perhaps Mr. Pratt could try to find out about any notable escaped prisoners who could be heading this way while the Professor and I devise a way to track our bounty hunter." "That's a good idea, Ramos," said Bartok, "after all, Parker's target must be a very dangerous and famous fellow to have such a notorious bounty hunter after him." "Agreed," said Pratt. "I still don't think it's any of our business, but perhaps this guy could use a fair trial. After all, Parker will probably just gun him down and drag him away. I don't think that's very polite, do you?." He smiled. "Right, I'll head back to town and get Amos Watt to help me: one journalist to another." Ernest stood and was just heading towards the door of the laboratory when someone started knocking frantically on the other side. Pratt opened it and a young man stumbled in, his clothes torn and covered in blood. He looked up at Ernest, with huge pleading eyes. "Mr. Legend, you've got to help me!"
"He's going to be all right," said Ramos, as he crossed back over to the other men. "He's suffering from exhaustion and dehydration, but he will recover in a few days." "Good," said Bartok, "it would seem that we have another problem now, wouldn't you agree?" Pratt looked at Ramos. "Can he talk yet?" he asked. "He seemed lucid, Mr. Pratt," said Ramos. "It would be all right, but don't push him." Pratt crossed over to the improvised sickbed. He touched the young man's arm. "Hi. How are you feeling?" The patient opened his eyes and tried to smile. "Thank the Lord I found you, Mr. Legend. I didn't know where else to go. I had heard that you lived here, so I knew that I had to try to get here. I've been on the run for over two weeks, Mr. Legend. If they find me they'll kill me." Pratt started to get worried. This man's appearance was beginning to tie in with their friend Parker. If he was the bounty hunter's quarry, one question had been solved, but a whole heap of trouble had just landed on their plate instead. He decided to try and get some information. "What's your name, friend?" he asked. "Lucas Bolton," whispered the man. "They say I killed my family. I come from Wichita." "You're from Kansas?" said Pratt, "how did you get here?" "I had a horse, but they caught up with me near the state border, so I had to come the rest of the way on foot." Ernest whistled. This man had traveled over four hundred miles to see him. "Why did you come to me?" he asked. "I've always loved your books, Mr. Legend," whispered Bolton, "you always help people in trouble. The sheriff didn't believe me, and I was due to hang ten days ago. You're my only chance." Pratt sighed. Why did people always get him confused with his fictional creation? Here was a man putting his life in his hands - a man who had never met him, and yet believed that he could help. Of course, he would have to. How else would he ever live with himself? This Lucas Bolton seemed so sincere that Ernest decided that he would accept his story, and then proceed on the assumption that he was innocent. He beckoned over Ramos and Bartok as the man told them what had happened. "I'm just a storekeeper, Mr. Legend," he began. " Me and my wife Beth and our little baby lived above the store in the center of town. We had a few problems from some of the cow hands passing through, but it was usually from them drinking too much." He swallowed hard. "Go on," encouraged Ramos. "Well, about three weeks ago I had gone to one of the local saloons to talk business with a few friends. We often traded goods between us, and only got a chance to talk after we had closed for the night. Anyway, I was on my way home when I saw some of the cowboys who'd been causing trouble hanging around my store. I ran up to them to tell them to get out of there and a fight started. Next thing I knew, I'd been thrown through the shop window and was on the floor. I must have been stunned or something. I saw this ball of fire coming towards me - one of the men must have thrown a lit rag in. I wasn't thinking straight, because instead of going upstairs to get my family I climbed back out the window to catch the men. They were long gone, but I ran to get help. When I got back the whole building had gone up." His voice broke. "They found my family's bodies the next morning." As hard as this must have been for the man, Pratt knew that they needed more information. "Lucas," he said softly, "why did they think you did it?" Bolton looked him straight in the eye. "No other witnesses, Mr. Legend. Business had been slow lately and...well, things hadn't been great between Beth and me either." Janos nodded. "So, the sheriff thought that you had burned your property down to annul your debts and to get rid of your wife? That hardly seems credible, Mr. Bolton." "Well, the sheriff of Wichita and I go way back, Sir, " said Lucas. "A few years ago, I found that he and some of the trail drivers had a little scam going to cheat the cattle owners. I could never prove anything, but the sheriff knew that there was a chance that someday I would. He saw this 'incident' as a chance to silence me for good and get me out of the way." The others were silent. The sheriff of Wichita was obviously not a man to be pushed. Janos gave Pratt his 'well you have to help him: say something!' look. Ernest took the cue "OK, Lucas, we'll help you. Just try and get some rest. Gentlemen," he looked at the two scientists. " I think we had better organize a trip to Wichita." While Bolton slept, the three retreated outside. Dusk was falling and the hot late summer sun was giving way to a chilly night. They walked around the side of the laboratory to the tower. Ernest asked the obvious question. "Do we tell him about the bounty hunter?" "No, it will only make him worse," said Ramos. "What good will that knowledge do him in the condition he is in?" "Ramos is right," said Janos. "There is nothing he can do about Parker. I think the best thing we can do is hide him up here at the Compound while he recovers, and then take the balloon into Kansas and try to clear his name." "The sheriff of Wichita must really have something to worry about if he's gone to the expense of getting Michael Parker on the case," mused Pratt. "Perhaps Lucas had more proof than he thought." He smiled as an idea struck him. "Perhaps we can finish the job and get this sheriff put away himself. Despite Parker's reputation for ruthlessness, he is only a businessman who kills those he's paid to kill. If we can prove the sheriff is crooked, the bounty will no longer stand and Parker can be called off." "Would it be worth talking to the bounty hunter at this point?" asked Ramos. "Perhaps this man's testimony will be enough to make Parker back off." "It doesn't work like that, my friend," said Pratt. "Men like Parker work for dollars, not for honor. He'll only back away if the bounty is called off." "Very well," said Bartok, "Mr. Bolton can stay at the Compound laboratory: it's the easiest place to fortify. Ramos and I can build some defenses and hopefully keep this man safe. I suggest that you go back to the hotel and keep an eye on Mr. Parker. We will contact you in the morning." Ernest helped himself to one of the velocipedes outside of the laboratory. He started out on the long drive back to town and could just about hear Bartok shouting: "Ramos! Let's set up the Bartok Luminescent Emanations and Movement Detector!"
It was fully dark by the time Pratt arrived back in town. He left the velocipede at the back of the hotel and nodded to Gilroy, who was on the front desk. He climbed the steps carefully and quietly, going straight to Parker's room. He bent down and put his eye to the keyhole. He could see nothing: the room seemed to be completely dark. Ernest knew that he shouldn't. He knew that it was stupid, dangerous and completely unnecessary, but he couldn't resist. He opened the door and went in. As he had thought, Parker's room was in complete darkness, but after a few seconds his eyes began to adjust. He could see that various weapons had been placed around the room: the shadow of a gun here, the slight gleam of a knife there. Suddenly he heard a sound behind him and whirled around only hear a heavy object singing through the air. There was an explosion of pain in his head, and Ernest Pratt slumped to the floor unconscious. The shadowy figure moved over to the dresser. There was the sound of a match being struck and then the warm yellow glow of an oil lamp. Michael Parker looked down at the unconscious writer on his floor. "Nicodemus Legend," he shook his head sadly, "Why couldn't you have stayed out of this?"
Meanwhile, up at the Compound, Bartok and Ramos had set up practically every offensive and defensive invention they could. Ramos had even jury rigged a fulminator to a trip wire so that anyone stepping through the door would get hit by a powerful electrical charge. After they were satisfied they could do no more, Bartok retired to the house leaving Ramos sitting behind the door for the first watch. After only about half an hour, Ramos felt his eyelids getting heavy. It had been such a long day and he was so tired...he would just close his eyes for a few minutes...yes, a few minutes wouldn't hurt... Michael Parker regretted having to knock Legend out, but he knew that the writer would only try to protect his quarry. He had a job to do, and it was time to get started. Parker had been following Lucas Bolton for the last week, picking up his trail quite quickly once the Wichita sheriff had offered him the bounty. He wasn't enormously surprised that the poor wretch had sought out the writer - Nicodemus Legend had recently been gaining himself quite a reputation as a real hero, as well as a fictional one. Once he had deduced where Bolton was heading he traveled to Sheridan as quickly as possible, so that he could prepare himself for the kill. Earlier that evening he had skirted around the town, looking for signs of Bolton, and had seen footprints leading to a series of buildings on the outskirts of town and now, under the cover of darkness, he traveled there again: his long years of experience and skill enabling him to cover the ground quickly. He reached the Compound after an hour or so and only saw one man on sentry duty, and a man who was already asleep at that.
Poor Ramos didn't know what had hit him. Once the butt of the gun connected with his head, he went down without a sound.
Once he had taken care of the sentry, Parker worked his way around the building to the back, reasoning (correctly) that the front would be booby trapped. He opened the back door and slipped quietly inside...only to be greeted by a piercing alarm. A few seconds later the adapted Bartok Trojan Cow net had done its work and Parker was floored. Once that particular defense had been triggered, the fulminator that had been carefully placed on one of the back workbenches was set off, and the most terrifying bounty hunter in the West lay both trapped and stunned. The screeching alarm shattered the silence of the night all around the Compound. Bartok, who had been sleeping lightly, knowing that he would have to relieve Ramos from sentry duty, leaped up from the couch where he had been dozing and raced across the ground to the laboratory. His long legs covered the short distance in a matter of seconds, but when he saw his friend and colleague lying unconscious on the ground he pulled up quickly. Ascertaining that Ramos was at least breathing, he decided to investigate inside the building and cautiously opened the front door. He carefully stepped inside but only remembered the trip wire a second too late. The wire went taut, the second fulminator was triggered, and Bartok found himself flying through the air and towards his electrical generators. The scientific part of the professor's brain found the whole experience fascinating, the little boy in him found it exhilarating, but the largest part of his brain was consumed with terror as he flew towards a very painful crash. He landed with a loud thud. 'I must remind Ramos to reduce the charge on that fulminator,' he thought distractedly as he crashed into the equipment, and then he slid into cold darkness.
"Professor! Professor Bartok!" Janos opened his eyes. His head was throbbing, but he didn't seem to be badly injured. He looked up and saw Lucas Bolton standing over him with a look of concern on his face. The bright sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls told Bartok that he had been unconscious for a very long time. "Mr. Bolton, you appear to be in better condition than I am this morning." Lucas helped him to his feet. "Yes, Professor, I am felling a lot better, but it seems that you other fellows haven't faired so well." Bartok looked around his laboratory, his focus blurring every so often, but he could make out Ramos sitting on a couch and a figure lying trussed up in a corner. "Mr. Ramos seems to have taken a nasty blow to the head himself last night," said Bolton, "but that fellow over there was obviously up to no good. I saw him over there out cold when I woke up a few hours ago, so I thought I'd tie him up properly before he woke up too. He seemed to have lots of guns and knives on him as well, so I got rid of them." "Guns and knives?" questioned Bartok out loud, "Well then that must be..." "Who, Professor?" asked Bolton. Bartok was just about to try and explain when the door burst open and Ernest Pratt walked in: a big bandage on his head and an arm around Skeeter, who was obviously helping him to stand upright. "My head hurts!" complained Pratt as he slumped down in a convenient chair. He looked around the room noting the two injured scientists and the bounty hunter in the corner. "OK, so what did I miss?" he asked.
Leaving Skeeter to guard Michael Parker, the other four men went over to the house to discuss what had happened the previous night. Ernest decided that he should tell Lucas Bolton the whole story, and tried to explain to the fugitive just how badly his enemy in Wichita wanted him dead. Bolton took it surprisingly well, replying to the news with a resolute faith in his hero, Nicodemus Legend and his friends. After some further discussion they decided that it would be best to head for Kansas straight away so that they could arrive under the cover of darkness and conduct yet another night raid on the sheriff's office for evidence that would exonerate Bolton. "Should we hand Parker over to Sheriff Motes?" asked Janos. "No, that wouldn't do us any good," said Pratt. "Besides breaking and entering and, oh, of course, our injuries, Motes wouldn't have much reason to hold him. No, he'll just smack his wrist and boot him out of town on the next stage east." He paused. "Do y'know, I think that we should take our famous bounty hunter with us, and discredit the Wichita sheriff right in front of his eyes." "Actually Ernest, that might not be such a bad idea," said Bartok. "Ramos and I could set up some security features in the balloon so that he could never escape or kill us." "Forgive me if I don't place complete faith in your abilities," said Pratt sarcastically. "After our adventures last night I would be happier if we just disarmed him, tied him up and had someone covering him with a fulminator at all times." In the end they compromised. After checking Parker for any other weapons, Ramos fitted him with the Bartok Electro-Magnetic Restrainers (otherwise known as handcuffs) and sat him down in the balloon. The now completely recovered Bolton was put in charge of covering him with a fulminator, since Pratt reasoned that he had the strongest motive to make sure he didn't get free. Skeeter returned to town and the other three men got the balloon ready. By mid morning they had dropped the sandbags from the balloon and were heading south east towards the Kansas state line. It was a pleasant journey, with the desert and scrub lands giving way to the tall prairie grass and hillsides and, finally, to the Santa Fe Railroad, part of the network which was being rapidly built throughout the country. Places like Wichita relied on the newly built railroads and the cattlemen, finishing their long drives from Texas and wanting a good time. Ernest knew that Wichita was probably quite a rough place: he had been to Abilene, another cattle town, nearly ten years ago and he could remember stories that would make a person's hair stand on end. Yes, they were going to have to be careful when they landed: high spirited cowboys were not the quietest of people. They finally arrived on the outskirts of Wichita at about eleven o'clock. From down in the town they could hear the cheers and whoops of the men making the rounds of the many saloons and dance halls. Ramos stayed with Parker and the balloon while Bolton lead Bartok and Pratt into the town. Since a cattle drive had only come into town the day before, there were plenty of brawls and crooked gamblers for the sheriff and his deputies to deal with. Finally arriving at the town jail, Janos and Ernest slipped inside while Bolton stood watch. As they expected, the jail was pretty full, but all of the prisoners were asleep and snoring loudly: probably sleeping off the large quantities of alcohol they had consumed. A staircase ran up the side of the building and at the top the two men found Sheriff William's office. In the past, Bartok had had to saw off hinges, spread acid around doors, and even use dynamite to gain access to the offices of the villains that 'Nicodemus Legend' investigated. Tonight, Pratt simply turned the door handle. "That was no challenge", whispered Bartok to his friend, "I was hoping to test my new Bartok Lock Electro-Disruptor." "Sorry to disappoint you, Janos," said Pratt sarcastically, "I'll try to get us into a life or death struggle as soon as I can, OK?" "Freeze!" barked a voice from the darkness behind them. "Told ya so!" said Ernest gleefully. He quickly whipped around and stunned the Deputy who had been on guard with his fulminator. The poor man slid to the ground unconscious. "Let's hope that we haven't woken the charming guests downstairs," whispered Bartok as they started to search the room. After a minute or two of ferreting through the Sheriff's papers, Pratt discovered a strongbox hidden in the corner. The Wichita Sheriff was obviously not too concerned about security as the box was locked, but with the key still inside the mechanism. Bartok looked most disappointed. They were still looking through the papers when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs...but there was nowhere to hide.
"There's only one thing for it, Ernest," said Bartok, "We'll have to jump through the window!" "I never thought I'd actually want to put the Legend Wings on," said Pratt as he followed Bartok through the window and the considerable drop from the first floor of the jail. "Oof!" He landed with a thud. Bartok, who had already recovered from the fall offered him his hand. Pratt pulled himself up and dusted himself off. "The Wings wouldn't have helped, Ernest," said Bartok. "I designed them to open a minimum of twenty meters above ground. So, if you had been wearing them you would have run the risk of breaking your neck, whereas the fall we just took only gave us the chance of breaking our backs." 'Swell,' thought Ernest. 'Why do I even bother saying these things?' Bartok and Pratt quickly and quietly worked their way back around the building, avoiding the odd unconscious cowboy slumped against the wall. They found Lucas and soon the three of them were heading back out of town to the balloon. Along with Ramos they began planning an alternative way to get the proof they needed. Suddenly Bartok had an idea. "Ramos, did we pack the Bartok Automatic Magnetic Voice Transcriber?" he asked. "Yes, Professor," said Ramos, "but I'm afraid I still haven't had a chance to test it." "No matter," said Bartok briskly, "this may be the perfect opportunity." He dove into the balloon and emerged a few seconds later with a heavy looking leather satchel. He pulled out all manner of wires and metal objects which he and Ramos began to quickly assemble. "'Scuse me! Mind telling us non-scientists what you're doing?" asked Pratt. Bartok rolled his eyes and looked at his assistant with a 'you tell them' look. Ramos sighed and began to explain. "Well, Mr. Pratt," he looked at Lucas, "and Mr. Bolton," he continued, "Professor Bartok and I were thinking that since there is no written evidence of the sheriff's embezzling we may have to gather our own. This device we are assembling can record and play back sounds and voices. If you can find the sheriff and somehow manage to make him confess, and we record it, we should have all the evidence we need to clear Mr. Bolton's name." Ramos looked at the silent bounty hunter in the corner of the balloon. Michael Parker had been sitting in silence throughout the day, watching everyone intensely and obviously trying to plan a getaway. Ramos continued. "Mr. Parker, if we can prove that Mr. Bolton is innocent and get the bounty money dropped, will you agree to stop pursuing him?" Parker glared. "Oh sure," he said sarcastically, "if someone can pay me the eight hundred dollars I'm due." "A businessman to the last" said Pratt. He smiled sadly, and continued. "Mr. Parker, I give you my personal guarantee that if we can prove this man is innocent you will get your money." Bartok and Ramos looked at him in shock. Pratt returned it with a guilty expression. "Oh, come on guys, Legend can't let an innocent man be killed, can he". Since it was now well into the early hours, they all set up camp around the balloon. At first light Pratt, Bartok and Bolton set out into the town once again. 'This is obviously a town where people are out late and up late,' thought Ernest, as they didn't see a single soul on their return trip to the jail. Again climbing the stairs at the side of the building, they retraced their steps to the office and were about to continue further down the corridor to the sheriff's rooms when they heard snoring coming from inside the office. Quietly opening the door they found the sheriff, Tyler Williams, slumped over his desk fast asleep with a half empty bottle of bourbon on the desk before him. "This makes our job easier," whispered Pratt. Bolton stepped forward and grabbed Williams by the scruff of his neck. "You animal!" he shouted. Pratt and Bartok tried to stop him but it was too late. The obviously disorientated sheriff whipped round with a roar and drew his gun. Ernest couldn't believe what was happening. Right before his eyes, in seeming slow motion, Sheriff Williams drew his gun and fired, ripping a hole through Lucas Bolton's body. It was obviously a reflex action: being in charge of law and order in such a rough place you obviously learned to stay armed at all times. Pratt threw himself at the sheriff and knocked him to the ground and between them, Bartok and Ernest managed to wrestle the gun from the man. Pratt stood up shakily, unloaded the gun and threw it to the far side of the room, and pointed the fulminator at the sheriff. Meanwhile Bartok went over to Bolton and dropped down beside him to assess his injuries. He was obviously badly hurt; blood pouring from an open wound in his gut, but at least his heart was beating and he was breathing. "Ernest," said Bartok urgently, "we have to get this man to hospital." "I know," said Ernest, his back to his friend, his full attention on the sheriff and his eyes cold. "OK, Williams, unless you want things to become even worse for you I suggest you start talking. Two witnesses saw you shoot that man and we also know that you had a motive. I think that this could add up to a charge of attempted murder." He decided to bluff. "We also have proof that you arranged the murder of this man's family and that you were fixing the books on some of the cattle coming through town." He changed tack. "I'm sure you know who I am, Sheriff, and what my reputation is, so I think you'd better tell us what you've been doing." Williams looked at him and tried to decide if he was indeed bluffing. If Bolton died many of his problems would be over, but he also knew that Nicodemus Legend, the man standing over him, could have him jailed or even hung. "Ernest," shouted Bartok in warning, "Mr. Bolton hasn't got much time!" Pratt decided to push harder. He fixed Williams with a glare. "You might like to know that we've got your bounty hunter with us, Sheriff. He's just after money and could easily be persuaded to change his target from this man," he indicated at Bolton, "to you." "All right!" The sheriff broke. "It's true! I've been making a little cash on the side from the cattle coming through town and that man," he looked accusingly at the man he had shot, "was getting far too lose to the truth. " He indicated his desk. "There's a hidden compartment in there, " he said, "you'll find papers proving what I've said is true." "But I didn't mean to kill his family," he continued, "I just paid those boys to put him out of business, not to kill anyone." "Well, unless you want to kill a third member of that family, I suggest you tell us where the nearest hospital is, and quickly!" said Bartok. The sheriff gave him directions under Pratt's gaze and Bartok went outside and called for help. One of the deputies raced up the stairs and took in the scene in an instant. He went to draw his gun but Williams shook his head. "A er...man's been shot," he said, "just get him to the hospital, it's all right." The deputy looked suspicious but said nothing, just helping Bartok to carry the injured man out of the room. Pratt turned back to the sheriff. "Right, Williams," he said, "start talking..."
By midday, just forty eight hours after the whole adventure had started, Bartok, Ramos, Pratt and Parker were sitting in one of the better bars in Wichita. Ernest sipped at his drink: real tea for once, since he'd been unable to persuade the barkeep to give him liquor in any way, shape or form. "So how's Lucas doing?" he asked Bartok, who had recently returned from the hospital. "He will be all right," smiled the scientist. "The doctors have considerable experience of treating gunshot wounds. He is out of danger, but he will need time." "Poor Mr. Bolton," said Ramos, "he's lost everything." "But at least the perpetrator is behind bars in his own jail, " said Pratt. "The strong box in his office contained enough evidence to jail Williams and several of the cowboys who have been helping him. A lot of ranch owners are going to be without some of their most experienced hands from now on." Pratt opened his coat and took out the bulky recorder Bartok had given him, the thin flexible wire inside coiled up tight. He pushed one of the buttons on the front of the contraption and the wire began to unspool at one end and be taken up at the other. Pratt's voice drifted out of the miniature loud speaker that was attached to the front. "OK Williams, unless you want things to become even worse for you I suggest you start talking..."
Michael Parker took a sip from the bourbon glass in front of him. Once the never-to-be-questioned 'Nicodemus Legend' had delivered the evidence, and the sheriff, to a very surprised looking deputy Pratt had raced up to the balloon site and played back his recording to the bounty hunter who had sat in grim silence. Of course, with this evidence, and the obvious fact that the newly promoted deputy Barnes was not going to honor an illegal bounty on an innocent man, Parker had consented to back down, although he was obviously unhappy at his treatment. Once everything had been explained to him, he admitted that Pratt and the others had done him a roundabout favor in showing him how sloppy he was becoming, by the ease in which they had captured him, and had decided to take the experience in relatively good humor. After all, he was only a businessman. Ernest looked at the bounty hunter and took a large bag out of his coat. "Mr. Parker, as promised, here are your eight hundred dollars." Parker was obviously surprised, but tried hard not to show it. "Thank you Mr. Legend, you are obviously a man of your word, as I am of mine. I consider my business with Lucas Bolton to be concluded." He drained his glass and stood, looking at Pratt again. "Mr. Legend, you and your friends have proved to be most worthy opponents. I hope that I have the honor of doing business with you again." He started to head for the door. "Mr. Parker, what about your property back in Sheridan?" asked Bartok. "We can give you a lift back so that you can retrieve it." Parker turned and gave him a cold smile. "No thanks, Bartok, I'm not traveling with you anymore. Besides, I don't need those things. I have plenty more." He turned and left the saloon. Ramos turned to Pratt. "Mr. Pratt, that money was from your own savings, wasn't it." Ernest smiled. "Yes, indeed, Ramos," he replied. "I figured that it was better used to get rid of that 'gentleman' than on my pathetic lifestyle." "I am genuinely surprised, Ernest," said Bartok, "it would appear that you are becoming more and more like Legend." "Oh, I hope I don't become too much like him," laughed Pratt, "or I'll never have any fun. Besides, our recent adventure will get me out of the dilemma with the book I'm working on. A man on the run from a bounty hunter in a wagon train gives me lots of good possibilities. As long as E.C. Allen doesn't cheat me out of my royalties, I'll be back on the wine, women and song before you know it." He stood. "Now let's get back to Sheridan," he grimaced, "I've got some bowls to sign!"
This story copyright 1998 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.
Back to
the Platforms Back to the Ticket
Office