A Rhyme or a Reason

By Sarah O'Donoghue

This story was originally posted on The Unofficial Nicodemus Legend Homepage
The Legend characters are copyrighted by Paramount Television and by Gekko Film Corp. This fanfic is in no way intended to infringe upon those rights and is written solely for the entertainment of others. Story Copyright 1999 Sarah O'Donoghue
Acknowledgements
This story was partly inspired by the Amy Grant song "Galileo".
With thanks to Paul M. (Scannerman!) and Mark W. for all their ideas, help & support as always.

Part One

"Mornin' fellas!"

Without ceremony, Ernest Pratt, creator and sometime impersonator of the fictional "Paladin of the Prairies," Nicodemus Legend, breezed into his friends' workshop.

"Good morning, Mr. Pratt," said Ramos as he looked up from a complicated schematic. Anticipating the writer's next question, he went on, "Professor Bartok is over in the laboratory. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you went in."

"Thanks, Ramos," said Pratt with a smile. He glanced at the schematic. "Just out of curiosity, what are you working on?"

"These are the original schematics for the fulminator," replied the Aztec scientist. "The Professor and I have been discussing certain modifications for it. The fulminator has proven to be a very useful item," he paused for a smile, "but there is always room for improvement."

Pratt nodded thoughtfully. "So, what are the modifications going to do?" he asked.

"Hopefully, we'll be able to vary the intensity of the fulminator charge."

"Oh," smirked Pratt, "will it make coffee now, too?"

Ramos scowled and chose to ignore the writer's levity. "It should be possible to use the fulminator on a mild shock, heavy shock, and stun settings. After the incident where you were accused of killing with the device, the Professor and I thought it prudent to have variable settings."

Pratt sobered. He remembered only too well his trial the year before. He had been framed for murdering a farmer who's daughter he had become 'friendly' with. The fulminator had been put forward as the supposed murder weapon, and the Legend team was forced to concede that if fired at a man with a weak heart, it might indeed prove fatal. Even though the charge of murder had eventually been retracted, the possibility that a hit from the fulminator might kill a person, however remote, was a real danger. As a result, Pratt, Ramos, and Bartok had used the device as little as possible ever since. If these modifications proved successful, Pratt was sure that they could use it as a primary means of defense again.

The writer chatted with Ramos for a few more minutes, and then walked over to the neighboring building on the Scientific Compound to find his other friend.

"Ah, Ernest! I'm glad you could join us today." The Hungarian Bartok greeted Pratt enthusiastically and propelled him over to the workbench where he was working on an intriguing looking collection of glass bulbs and cylinders.

"Dare I ask what you're up to, Bartok?" asked Pratt.

"Oh, don' t worry, Ernest," reassured Bartok, "This is merely a little creation for my own amusement and curiosity." He placed the various glass bulbs in one of the cylinders and filled the container to the brim with a handy jug.

Bartok bent down and studied the glass thoughtfully. Pratt leant over and looked too, trying to figure out what was supposed to happen.

After a moment, Bartok sighed and straightened. "Oh, well," he mused aloud, "I suppose the reaction takes some time to become apparent."

Pratt was mystified. "What is it, Professor?" he asked.

"Well, hopefully, it's a working model of an intriguing thermometer designed by the astronomer Galileo," began Bartok. "Each of the glass bulbs is of a different size and mass and, when suspended in liquid, the bulb that floats to the surface will tell me what the ambient temperature is." Bartok looked up and seemed to fully register Pratt's appearance for the first time. He changed tack.

"Anyway, what brings you here, Ernest?" he asked.

Pratt sighed. "Well, Libbie's gone to Oregon to see her sister, and I'm kind of at a loose end. E.C. Allen owns a ranch up in Montana and he's organizing a get together for some of his writers. It could be fun." Pratt face changed expression. "And besides," he admitted, "Allen threatened to make me write a Nicodemus Junior book if I didn't turn up." He shuddered, but carried on brightly. "Well, if Allen himself is running the show there should be plenty of complimentary refreshments. What say we take the new balloon for a spin?"

Bartok smiled to himself. He had been surprised and pleased when he found out that Pratt had begun a romance with Libbie Custer, the widow of General Custer and a very old flame. Although Libbie had only returned to Sheridan a few scant weeks ago, it was obvious to all that the relationship between Ernest and Libbie was going to be long lasting. Pratt had noticeably calmed down even in that short time, and Bartok was quite relieved that Pratt seemed to have given up his old womanizing ways. He wished his friend every happiness, but was amused to see that even this new turn of events couldn't stop Pratt's love of a good party.

Bartok thought for a moment. "I must admit, there hasn't really been much to do around here lately, and neither Ramos or I are at crucial stages in our research." The Professor did some rapid calculations. "It is about four hundred miles to the Montana border. We can easily transverse the distance in a day or so."

"Wonderful, my friend," Pratt beamed. "We could all use a vacation."

Ramos also greeted the idea enthusiastically, but couldn't resist adding, "Perhaps the trip will enable you to carry out a little research, Mr. Pratt. I must admit, your prose in Wheels Across Montana didn't do justice to the majesty of the Montana landscape."

Pratt chose to let that one go.

The three men decided to leave the next day, but when Pratt returned to the Compound the next morning, he was greeted with bad news. Late the previous evening, Ramos had been making final preparations on the balloon when he had slipped, gotten tangled in the ropes, and broken his leg. Both Pratt and Bartok told Ramos that they would cancel the trip, but Ramos insisted that they go without him, insisting that he would be fine. After notifying Skeeter and their other friends in the town, and asking them to check in on the scientist when they could, Bartok and Pratt reluctantly decided to go. By mid-morning they were following the breathtaking Rocky Mountain range northwards, towards Montana.

Part 2

The northern journey was uneventful, and Bartok spent much of the time explaining the multitude of long standing ideas that he and Ramos had put into the new giant Legend Balloon. Pratt had to admit he was impressed, and already his overactive mind was beginning to process the improvements to one of his primary forms of transportation for Legend into fodder for new stories.

After the spectacular demise of the original balloon a few months previously, during their quest for the Caesar's Eye, the two scientists had gone back to their drawing board and designed a truly wondrous machine. Gone was the traditional spherical balloon, and in its place was a huge cylindrical canvas painted russet with "LEGEND" in bright yellow. (Bartok had also assured him that the new material was bullet-proof, to prevent another sharpshooter bursting the canvas). The basket that they traveled in was much larger as well, with an enclosed section that could be used for storage, shelter, or even to sleep in if the need should arise. At the moment, Bartok had spread a map of the area they were traveling over on top of this box, and had weighted it down with a customized sextant and his brass telescope.

Pratt peeked over the edge of the balloon to enjoy the spectacular view. The sides of the balloon were now constructed of a dark, wicker like material; much more solid than the old bamboo cage structure. The old design had done nothing for Pratt's occasional vertigo.

Bartok set a leisurely pace for the journey: E.C. Allen's gathering didn't begin until the evening of their second day of traveling, and they arrived at his ranch at dusk. Looking below them, Bartok and Pratt could see Allen's massive compound: large fields and ranges radiating out from the central buildings, all framed by the magnificent vista of the Rockies range. At this time of day, the permanently snow-capped peaks had taken on a dusty pink hue from the fading sun. In front of what they took to be the main house were the stables and a line of carriages which some of the other guests must have arrived in. Evidently, someone spotted their approach, because as Pratt and Bartok came in for the landing, a huge gathering of people congregated outside the main house. Pratt smiled smugly to himself. Nicodemus Legend made a far better entrance than any of the other hacks that worked for E.C. Allen.

"Speaking of which.... " he murmured under his breath.

Bartok looked up from calculating their descent angle. "Speaking of whom, Ernest?" he asked.

Pratt pointed towards the crowd on the ground. "There he is," he said in a resigned tone, "E.C. Allen."

Bartok let go of the balloon controls and peered down into the gloom. They were quite low now, and he could see a small, balding male figure wearing a fine Eastern-style suit.

As they came onto land, the crowd of people surged towards the balloon wearing a variety of expressions, ranging from open amazement to hostile jealousy. The man Pratt had identified as his boss approached them, his expression more of the latter.

Pratt jumped out of the balloon and faced his publisher.

"Ernest," greeted the shorter man, neutrally.

Pratt put on a decidedly fake bright smile. "Mr. Allen," he said warmly, pumping the other man's stubby hand, "Thank you for inviting me, sir, it's been too long."

"Now I remember why," said Allen. He looked across to Bartok.

"This must be your professor friend," he said. Bartok scowled to himself but knew that he had to stay on the right side of this man, for his friend's sake.

"It's good to finally to meet you, Mr. Allen," he said, "I want to thank you for supporting my suggestion for Mr. Pratt to move to Sheridan and work with me.'

Allen harrumphed. "Well, it wasn't my first choice as a fate for Ernest," he admitted, "but your little jaunts down in Colorado have made sales rise." He laughed. "Heck, as long as the books are selling, you could go and live at the North Pole for all I care, Pratt!"

Pratt shuddered. His publisher's naked avarice was legendary. So was his mercurial personality and reputation for backing all sorts of crazy ideas to the hilt. Pratt remembered his wholehearted initial backing for Nicodemus Junior stories.

E.C. Allen lead the crowd back into the house. Pratt half-recognized a few faces, various other put-upon dime-novelists like himself, and one person he had hoped to never see again

"Mr. Pratt, how lovely to see you again," said a voice behind him.

Pratt jumped and turned. "Milton J. Faber," he grimaced, "I thought you were in show business now."

Faber smiled. "Oh, I am, Mr. Pratt, and I have wonderful news. Miss Durn has agreed to be my wife."

"Swell," said Pratt. He remembered only too well his last run in with Faber, one of E.C. Allen's chief lackeys. Last time they'd crossed paths, Faber had not only proven to be a completely useless lawyer, but had also stolen Pratt's girl.

Pratt pushed ahead and had nearly caught up with the people at the front of the gathering by the time they entered the house. It was beautiful: the large hallway the doors opened into was fitted with fine oak panels and flanked by a dozen or so servants. Despite his faults, Pratt had to concede that Allen was an excellent host as he lead them into a large drawing room and amicably circulated among his writers and other employees as the servants served wine and cheese.

Bartok sidled up to Pratt as he was concluding a conversation with an attractive brunette secretary. "This is all very nice," he said, a note of surprise in his voice, "I thought you said Allen was an unpleasant man?"

"Oh he is," Pratt assured. "He's definitely softening us all up for something, but I'm not sure I want to know what."

A few more moments were spent in pleasant chatting before a general hush began to fall over the gathering. The diminutive form of E.C. Allen could be seen taking to an impromptu stage at the end of the room. As a final hush fell, he cleared his throat and began his speech.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," began Allen, then theatrically corrected himself, "Friends. Thank you all so much for being here tonight for our little gathering. It warms my heart that so many of you gladly gave up the time and traveled all the way up here to my ranch".

"Right, " whispered Pratt to his friend. "As if we had a choice."

Allen continued, oblivious to the interruption.

"I really wanted to thank you all in person for your hard work and dedication to E.C. Allen Publishing over the years. It has been such a joy to work with you all, and it just makes it even harder to say what I need to say."

"Here it comes!" whispered Pratt.

Allen's face took on a somber expression. "It is my painful duty to announce some minor resizing to my publishing business." A ripple went through the crowd before he could continue, and he held up his hand to quiet the gathering down. "Please, everyone, please be quiet."

He continued, and tried to look as many people in the eye as possible to reinforce his apparent sincerity.

"I'm truly sorry to announce that I'm cutting my staff at the Chicago Headquarters of my publishing house by half. They have already been told, as I couldn't expect them or their representatives to travel all this way. All of you, my writers, illustrators, assistants and specialists have been gathered so that I can explain how these unfortunate cutbacks will effect you."

He took a deep breath. "Effective immediately, no writer on my payroll will have any kind of support staff back in Chicago. No researchers and no secretaries, and any writer who has a research budget will find that it has disappeared, as of tonight." A murmur of alarm rose up, but he continued relentlessly. "All editing will now be performed by a common editing pool, and there will be no more extended deadlines for those writers of mine who feel that they want to take a little vacation in the middle of a book. Finally, " he took a breath and looked directly at Pratt and Bartok. "All fan mail sent to an author or their fictional characters will have to be dealt with by that writer. This really only effects our famous Nicodemus Legend." He addressed Pratt directly. "Ernest, I'm fed up with having to pay six secretaries just to deal with letters from cranks for Legend. From now on, you answer them!"

A sly chuckle could be heard from certain elements in the crowd. Legend's recent surge in popularity had been greeted with resentment from some of the other writers. Bartok stole a glance at Pratt. He was fuming so visibly that Bartok expected steam to come out of his ears at any moment.

After making a few more points that didn't really effect the two friends, Allen left the stage and the room, letting his employees vent their anger without him.

"That does it, Bartok! So help me, I'll go and work for Ned Buntline's publisher!" said Pratt through gritted teeth. "Answering my own letters! No more research budgets! I've had it with that nasty little man!"

Bartok was confused. "But, Ernest, I thought that you enjoyed getting fan mail yourself. I remember that you had made a ritual of going to the post office every day to get your mail. I'd hazard a guess that we never would have been warned about Buntline's visit to Sheridan if E. C. Allen's secretaries had handled that letter."

"I didn't have to answer that letter myself, Janos." Pratt complained. "I used to be able to read through my letters, then forwarded most of them to Allen so that he could send the customary signed photo or standard reply. Now I have to handle all of that myself. I'll never have time to write!"

Before Bartok could say any more, Faber oozed across to Pratt's side. "I wouldn't make a hasty decision on moving to another publisher if I were you, Mr. Pratt. You know that Mr. Allen could easily blackball you from every publisher in North America." He smiled brightly. "Now why don't you enjoy the rest of the evening and the wonderful dinner that Mr. Allen has provided."

Faber moved off and Pratt glared daggers into his back.

"You know, Ernest, this might not be so bad," said Bartok.

"How can you say that? You're losing money too!" complained the writer.

"Well," said Bartok reasonably, "the research budget from your publisher was an unexpected bonus that we can do without, if necessary. Remember, Ramos and I are used to relying on college research grants, philanthropists and patent royalties." He looked pointedly at Pratt, "As long as you continue to split your royalties for Legend merchandising, Ramos and I will cope quite nicely."

Pratt sighed. "You're right, my friend," he conceded, "but what about the fan mail? Do you know that Allen answers over six hundred letters a week addressed to Nicodemus Legend? We'll never be able to cope."

"We?" asked Bartok with a smirk, "But you pose as Legend, not me."

"Oh, no you don' t! " said Pratt. "You' re going to help me out with this one, Professor!. Why should 'we' be Legend for the good stuff and 'I' be Legend for the bad?"

"Don' t worry, Ernest," he reassured his friend, "We'll find a solution to the problem, we always do."

Part 3

A few moments later they all adjourned to the next room for dinner. Afterwards, the sociable mingling continued, and Pratt and Bartok gradually separated: Pratt found an old reporter friend who was now in E.C. Allen's employ, and Bartok found himself talking to a fellow Hungarian who was a senior editor in Allen's San Francisco office. Bartok spent a pleasant few minutes reminiscing in his native language about Budapest and the beauty of the Danube in Spring. The conversation was just beginning to wind down when the scientist felt a small tug on his sleeve. He turned round to see a slight blonde woman in an elegant emerald dress at his elbow and automatically switched tack to English.

"Can I help you?" he asked, curious.

"Professor Bartok?" the woman queried.

"Yes, can I help you?" Bartok was intrigued. He was sure he'd never met this woman before and, if he was honest, beautiful women normally flocked to Ernest Pratt, not to him.

The woman's face split into a smile. "I'm so glad to meet you Professor! I've been following your work for years, and I just want to say that your work with steam propulsion has been an inspiration to me."

Now the Bartok was curious. His expression obviously reflected this as the woman laughed and elaborated on her comments.

"My name is Helen Franklin," she began. "I'm a contributor to the Scientist journal and, since it's published by E.C. Allen, I was invited up here for the meeting."

Bartok was impressed. The Scientist journal was a well respected publication that he himself had submitted articles to from time to time, but try as he might he couldn't remember this woman's name attached to any of the articles.

Helen Franklin seemed to sense his unspoken question. "I write under the pen name of John Dayton," she offered by way of explanation. "It seems that no-one in this country is ready to take a female scientist seriously."

Bartok could sympathize. He and Ramos had both encountered enough prejudice in the scientific community and outside, because they had the wrong ancestry or accent, and Bartok knew that many women writing all kinds of material were forced to write under male pseudonyms to avoid similar prejudice.

Bartok's excellent memory immediately recalled several outstanding articles he had read by a Doctor J. Dayton.

"I've read some of your work, Miss Franklin," he politely replied. "You have some truly excellent insights into the workings of electricity which I have found most useful in my own research."

Helen smiled. "I should," she replied. "Hare-brained experiments with electricity seem to run in my family."

Bartok did a double take.

"You don't mean...Franklin... " he mused.

The woman beside him laughed. "Yes, Professor. Benjamin Franklin was my great-great-grandfather! I have some reputation to live up to, don't I?"

The scientist was astounded. He had read everything that he had been able to find on all of the scientific greats, including Franklin, as a child. The great American statesman, printer, journalist, scientist, and fierce defender of democracy had fired Bartok's imagination as a young boy in Hungary. And when Bartok could find no more translated works, he had learned English so that he could understand great academic works in their native language. He remembered traveling to the great libraries, first in Budapest, and then in London, to read books like the great "Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society," huge old journals printed in beautiful copperplate script and full of speculations and imaginative theories of the brightest men of their day. His formative years had been heady indeed, as he had immersed himself in the dreams of great men like Franklin.

Bartok shook his head forcing himself to come back to the present. Helen Franklin was smiling at him, he noticed. He was just about to offer an apology for daydreaming when she said "It's all right Professor. I know what it's like to suddenly drift into your imagination. Happens to me all the time."

The two scientists talked long into the evening, and Bartok became more and more taken by this woman: a rare equal in knowledge and expertise of the nature and potential of electricity and steam. Bartok was just explaining the work that he and Ramos had been conducting into new applications for steam propulsion when Pratt sidled up to the chairs they were sitting on by the fire.

"Well, I hope you two kids are having fun, but I'm off to bed." he announced. Bartok looked up and to his surprise the room was almost empty. He glanced at the grandfather clock by the door and saw that it was almost two in the morning. He looked at Pratt with a shocked expression, but his friend had a very sly smile on his face. Bartok was saved from further embarrassment as Helen spoke up.

"Well, I think that I need to get some sleep too," she announced. "Janos, I would love to continue this chat at breakfast." She visibly hesitated. "That is," she continued, uncertain, "if you'd like to?"

"Absolutely." Bartok blurted out. "It has been an absolute pleasure talking with you this evening. I would love to speak with you further at breakfast."

"Steady, Janos!" whispered Pratt sotto voce. "Calm down, won't you?" The writer could see that his friend was completely smitten with this woman, but if he continued to act like this Pratt was sure that he'd scare her off.

Helen merely smiled. "Then I will see you then. Goodnight, Mr. Pratt," she nodded towards him and then turned her attention back to the scientist. "Goodnight, Janos," she said with a smile and then she was gone.

E.C. Allen's ranch was huge, and there were many bedrooms in the main building and in the surrounding smaller complexes. Every guest had been assigned a room for the night, as the publisher knew that the convention would go on too long for everyone to get home. Pratt and Bartok trailed across the courtyard to the building they had been assigned to.

"What time are we heading back tomorrow then, Janos?" asked Pratt as he found his room number.

"Oh, sometime in he the morning," muttered the scientist absently continued down as the hall. Pratt smirked to himself. He was exhausted, and knew that he would be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But Bartok? Well, Bartok evidently had an awful lot to think about.

Part 4

The next morning dawned bright and clear. Pratt slowly floated back to consciousness and rolled over, falling out of the tiny guest bed he had slept in. With a yelp, he landed with a thud on the thinly carpeted floor. Struggling upright, he walked across to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The weather looked fine for flying, but the writer could see the glitter of a frost on the fences just below him. It was going to be a cold day. He let his gaze wander and could suddenly make out two figures past the meadow. He squinted and tried to make out who they were. Suddenly, he saw the taller figure move: unmistakably Bartok, he thought, and the other... a woman. Pratt sighed. Seemed as if his friend had got up very early indeed.

Pratt quickly dressed and went to breakfast, keeping a eye out for the Hungarian. He was very amused at how flustered the usually calm scientist had been the previous evening, and was anxious to find out all that he could about what was going on.

Unfortunately, he didn't see Bartok come in, and ended up sitting next to Milton Faber, who spent the entire time telling Pratt about how fabulously successful he was now as a theatrical director, and how Pratt and all the other writers should be thankful that they had such a great publisher. Pratt sighed.

As soon as breakfast was over, Pratt made a dignified escape and went to find Bartok.

"Good morning, Ernest," the scientist greeted him jovially. "Sleep well?"

"Fine, thanks, Bartok, now can we get out of here? That Faber seems to be following me, and I know that if E.C. Allen finds me, he's going to squeeze even more money out of the pitiful income that I get."

Pratt was quite surprised to learn that the reason he had seen Bartok and Helen Franklin out so early was because she was interested in seeing the famous Legend Balloon. Indeed, the female scientist had helped Bartok with the pre-flight checks, and Bartok told the writer that they could leave as soon as they wished.

Within the hour, the balloon was soaring into a cloudless Montana sky.

"Well, I'm glad that's over, Bartok," admitted Pratt.

"Didn't you have a good time?" asked the scientist.

"Of course I didn't!" Pratt thought back to the announcements Allen had made the previous evening. "Answering my own letters! Six hundred a day! Can you tell me how I'm going to handle that? I'm a respected writer of dime novels, not some two-bit secretary!"

As was often the case, Ernest Pratt's tirade was over as quickly as it had begun. He looked at his friend with a sly smile. "You certainly had a good time, didn't you, Janos?"

Bartok became even more engrossed in the charts he was studying. "Miss Franklin is an intriguing woman," he admitted. He finally looked up.

"Bartok.. . . " said Pratt slyly.

"Oh, very well," snorted the scientist. "Miss Franklin and I had a most pleasant evening, and I have invited her to come Sheridan, at her convenience, to see the Compound and the town. There." He finished defiantly.

"I'm really happy for you, Janos," said Pratt with a genuine smile. "She seemed like a really nice lady." To stop his friend from suffering further embarrassment, he changed the subject, and the balloon continued its long journey southwards.

Due to favorable winds, Bartok was able to get the Legend Balloon home in record time. As the Sheridan valley finally came into view, Pratt muttered, "Home sweet home."

Bartok looked across with a smile, musing on the dramatic change in Pratt's attitude towards this charming town in the last couple of years. People certainly change, he thought to himself, Perhaps even me. He would never admit it, but Bartok found his thoughts returning to the beautiful scientist, Helen Franklin, again and again. He knew he wouldn't see her for some time, but he was certain that he would see her again.

Bartok made a typically excellent landing in the assigned clearing at the Compound and, as the two men finished tying everything down, they saw Ramos, on crutches, coming out to meet them.

Pratt climbed out of the basket and went over to greet his friend. "Ramos! How are you?" he asked.

Ramos gave a rare smile. "Much better, thank you, Mr. Pratt," he replied, "However, I am the bearer of bad tidings." His gaze took in both Pratt and Bartok, who was just leaving the balloon. "Sheriff Motes is inside, gentlemen, and he has a rather serious problem."

"Mr. Legend, glad to see you're back!" said the eccentric old sheriff. "The last few days have been chaos. This gunslinger came into town, has been throwing her weight around, and now she's taken a poor man hostage in my office!"

"Threw her weight around?" queried Pratt.

"Yep," verified the Sheriff, "The hostage is a poor traveling salesman named Albert Moreton. Man's scared out of his wits."

"Who is she?" asked Bartok, intrigued.

"Says her name's Katherine Trent, and that she's been..." Motes tailed off and pulled a notebook out of his pants to check that he got the next part straight, "that she's been authorized by the sheriff in Little Rock, Arkansas, to bring Moreton back alive on charges of robbery and murder."

Pratt was impressed. "Well , what have you to say to all this, Sheriff?" he asked. "Hadn't you better let the lady do her job?"

"Well, I've wired the sheriff in Little Rock, and he says he knows nothing about this," replied Motes. "The point is, Mr. Legend, I need your help to stop this stand off. This woman has a gun and she's already punched out three of my deputies who were trying to stop her from getting this man."

Pratt sighed. "Very well, Sheriff. Give us an hour and we'll meet you in town."

As soon as Motes had left, Pratt turned to his friends. "Well, Gentlemen, any ideas?" He asked.

"I've completed the modifications on the fulminator," offered Ramos. "It should be relatively easy for someone to distract her so that one of us can stun her with a clear shot."

"I agree," said Bartok amicably. He turned to Pratt. "Ernest, if you can try to talk her into leaving the Sheriff's office, Ramos and I will incapacitate her with the fulminator. "

"No fancy gizmos?" teased Pratt trying to keep a straight face.

"Ernest," said Bartok in a resigned tone, "I see no need to employ the full resources of the Bartok Research Facility merely to stop a bully gunslinger."

Within the hour, the three men had met the Sheriff outside of the office he'd been evicted from. As soon as "Nicodemus Legend" and his friends arrived in one of the velocipedes, a crowd of townspeople began to form. Pratt sighed. "The price of celebrity," he said theatrically.

Both Ramos and Bartok rolled their eyes.

While the two scientists hid themselves around the corner of the Sheriffs office, Ernest Pratt, in his immaculate yellow Legend costume, stepped up to the front door looking as confident as he could.

"Miss Trent, can I have a word with you?" he shouted.

"Who are you?" came a fierce female voice from inside.

Pratt drew himself up to full height. "My name is Nicodemus Legend" he proclaimed. He heard a dry laugh from inside.

"The dime novelist?" asked the woman.

"Why, yes," admitted Pratt, taken aback. He tried to change tack. "Miss Trent, our good sheriff says that you' re wrongfully holding an innocent man in there. I've got to ask you to let him go and come out peacefully. "

"No way, Legend," came the retort. "This man's a killer! He took out two guards and three customers when he robbed one of our banks. Let me come out and I'll leave quietly, with Moreton. He's going back to Arkansas with me."

"Look, Miss Trent," said Pratt with a pleading catch in his voice. "I appreciate that you believe this man has done something wrong, but our sheriff has checked your story. This man is a traveling salesman. That's it."

"I don't know who your Sheriff talked to, but it wasn't the Sheriff of Little Rock" retorted the voice from inside, "Now, I want the area cleared and I want two horses. You seem to have a nice little town here, Legend. I don't want to hurt any more people, but if I have to use force to leave, then I will."

Pratt sighed and looked at the sheriff, who shrugged. This created a problem. What if Trent's story was true? Motes was not known for his dependability, but he was an honest man. If Pratt had to choose between his story and a total stranger's, he'd have to take Motes' word that Moreton was just a traveling salesman. Pratt glanced over to where Ramos and Bartok were hiding. Bartok mimed that they could get a clear shot if the front door was open. Pratt sighed. Once more, Nicodemus Legend would probably be getting a gun in the face.

"I want to come in and talk to you, Miss Trent!" he shouted.

There was silence for a few moments as the woman considered the request.

"Very well, I want this over as much as you do!" she shouted. Ramos and Bartok readied themselves as the door was slowly opened. Ramos aimed the fulminator ready to fire but Bartok knocked his hand down. A very scared looking man was standing in the doorway, not Trent. Ramos looked closely and then, before either Bartok or Pratt could react, fired a bolt of blue energy towards the doorway, but over the hostages head. Suddenly there was a sizzling noise and a yell.

"You got her!" said Bartok, surprised, as he and Ramos raced to the doorway.

Ramos looked smug. "Rebound shot," he explained. "I simply shot the fulminator at the mirror above Mr. Moreton's head. I could see Miss Trent in the reflection, so I knew I would hit her!"

Pratt, being nearer, reached the doorway a few seconds before his friends. Ignoring the terrified man on the step, he raced inside to secure the gunslinger, who he found to be out cold. Suddenly, Pratt heard a thump and a shout from outside. Checking to make sure the ropes he'd tied around Trent's wrists were secure, Pratt raced back outside to find Bartok, Ramos, and Motes, all in a crumpled heap. He looked up and saw a figure grab hold of a horse at the stables, mount and ride round to in front of the Sheriff's Office. It was Moreton.

"Thanks, Legend!" shouted the "salesman." "I couldn't have escaped without you and your friends."

He'd obviously picked up Katherine Trent's gun, as he now pointed it in the air, shot off a couple of rounds in salute and then rode off out of town before anyone could stop him.

Pratt raced back to his friends, who were just beginning to regain consciousness. Bartok rolled off the top of the heap massaging his jaw. "That hurt!" he complained. Ramos managed to drag himself up favoring his damaged leg more than ever. "I think we may have miscalculated," he admitted, looking at his two friends. Motes was the last to get up as he had been crushed under the two other men. "What happened, Legend?" he shouted.

Pratt rushed back inside the sheriff's office to see if at least the gunslinger was contained. He found her exactly where she had fallen, fully conscious and squirming against the ropes he'd tied her up with.

Pratt fully noticed her for the first time. Tall when she was standing, he guessed, slim, with long flowing brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Those eyes were now turned upon him and Pratt actually took a step back under that hateful gaze.

"I'm going to kill you, Legend!" she spat at him.

Part 5

By lunchtime, the confusion surrounding exactly what had happened during the stand off had been cleared up. Pratt had eventually dared to untie Katherine Trent, who had scowled at him and stormed off to wire the sheriff of Little Rock, the real sheriff of Little Rock, about what had happened. Motes had accompanied her and, when he returned, he was looking rather sheepish.

"There was a message waiting for me when I went with Trent," he admitted to the bemused Legend team. "It was from the real sheriff of Little Rock, telling me to give Miss Katherine Trent my full co-operation. Turns out that the first message was a phony. "

"Your original wire must have been intercepted by an accomplice of Moreton's," mused Bartok, "Ingenious. Of course," he added smugly to no one in particular, "Ramos and I accomplished a similar feat over a year ago."

A few minutes later, Trent joined them, obviously in a very bad mood.

"Well, thanks to you boys, nearly three months of investigation has been wrecked," she stormed. "Sheriff Davies in Little Rock is livid. I've been ordered to bring Moreton down and capture him, dead or alive."

"We'll help you," offered Pratt, "It's the least we can do after the er ... misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding!" fumed Trent. "I've spent the last fifteen years stopping scum like Moreton from hurting people. Then a group of interfering...people," she ground the word out, "like you, think you can do a better job just to sell some more books. Well," she changed tack, "Seems like you're going to get a chance to try it. Some of your Sheriff's deputies..."

"You mean the ones you didn't punch out?" said Pratt innocently.

Trent glared and continued. "Some of Motes' deputies saw Moreton heading out towards Rockland Pass, where they're building the railroad. Do you boys want to help me catch him or not?"

Pratt and Ramos headed back to the Compound in the velocipede while Bartok and Trent took horses. Within an hour, after furious debating, they had formulated a plan to recapture Moreton. As they all began leaving for their assigned positions, Trent stopped Pratt with a hand on his arm. "Since Morton took my gun, I'll need to take one of yours, Legend."

Pratt was taken aback, but answered her honestly. "I'm afraid I don't carry a gun, Miss Trent, and neither do my friends. I learned a long time ago that there are much better and more creative ways of fighting the wrong in this world. Guns kill instantly, and sometimes you can kill the wrong people, don't you agree?"

Trent reluctantly nodded, but Pratt wasn't sure that she really agreed. "So how are we going to stop Moreton?" she asked.

Pratt didn't give her an answer.

Bartok and Trent took one of the velocipedes out to Rockland Pass to scout the area for any signs of Moreton. They had a further report from Motes' deputies who said that Moreton hadn't left the Pass areas. Presumably he had blended in with the railroad workers, and was probably going to try to make a break for it after dark.

The injured Ramos took charge of the balloon, since he couldn't drive a velocipede, and with Pratt's help loaded up the balloon with the various equipment they thought they'd need.

Pratt saw Ramos struggling with the Legend Wings. "Oh, no, you don't," he shouted, and attempted to take the Wings from Ramos.

Ramos misunderstood. "Thank you, Mr. Pratt, I can't get these aboard by myself," he said.

"I mean you're not getting me in those again!" said Pratt.

"I don't think there is any alternative," said Ramos reasonably. "You did agree to the plan, didn't you?"

"Well, yes," admitted the writer, "But isn't there another way for me to make a dramatic entrance?"

"Not that I can think of," replied Ramos in an impatient tone.

"Well, can' t you make it your next project?" asked Pratt, "I'm fed up with being thrown out of the balloon at great heights!"

The balloon journey took a matter of minutes and before he knew it, Pratt could see Rockland Pass, a lovely area that had once been a disputed border between the Hungarian homesteaders and the unlamented Vera Slaughter's land. Within the last few months one of the major railroad companies had begun building right through the Pass, making a route out of Denver and reaching right down towards El Paso. The land below them was swarming with activity, and Pratt knew that it would provide perfect cover for the fugitive.

Ramos left the semi-automated steering mechanism and joined Pratt at the side of the balloon by the newly installed Bartok Extreme Magnification Viewer unit. Ramos and Pratt were making full use of the new tool, while Bartok and Trent relied on the small brass telescope on the ground.

"Can you see him?" asked Ramos.

"Not yet, but I see Bartok and Trent," Pratt replied. Suddenly he gave a shout, "Ha ha! Bartok just gave the signal. He's spotted Moreton!"

"Right," said Ramos, hobbling over to the storage compartment. He dragged the Wings out and Pratt reluctantly climbed into them. Ramos went back to the viewer unit and waited to see the beginning of the second stage of their plan. He kept the viewer trained on the velocipede, waiting for the pre-arranged signal that would tell the railroad foreman to signal 'down tools' for a break. Within moments he saw Bartok fiddling with the electrical signal device that would set off a buzzer in the foreman's hat. Sure enough, within seconds the insistent metallic hammering of spikes and rails had stopped and the Pass below them was silent. Ramos concentrated even more on the view he was getting through the unit. He knew that the next part of the plan was dependent on him. He scoured the workers who were lining up for their lunch and finally spotted Moreton slouching towards the very back of one of the lines.

"Are you ready, Mr. Pratt?" he asked the nervous writer.

"What the heck, lets do it," replied Pratt in a resigned tone.

Ramos picked up the new Bartok Instantly Illuminating Targeting Device from the floor and aimed it carefully through the cross hairs in the viewer. "Can you see that, Mr. Pratt?" he asked as he struggled to keep his aim steady.

Indeed Pratt could. A glittering beam of blue energy was out of the device in Ramos's hands, forming an iridescent streaming path in the air for him to follow down in the Wings. He squinted and could see that the light beam ended on a man's head. Moreton's head.

"That' s great, Ramos" said Pratt. "I can see exactly where I need to go. However," he added, "Getting there is a different matter entirely."

Pratt took a deep breath and jumped.

As soon as Bartok saw Pratt leap from the Balloon, he and Trent set off at full speed in the velocipede towards where Pratt was heading, also using the beam as their guide. Because the beam was coming from directly above them, the workmen, and Moreton were oblivious as to what was happening until it was too late. Suddenly one man gave a yell, and Moreton looked up to see a strange man wearing a pair of wings crashing into him.

Trent leaped out of the velocipede before Bartok had even brought it to a stop. She ignored the prone Ernest Pratt, and grabbed the semi-conscious fugitive by the scruff of his neck. "Time to go, Moreton!" she said briskly, bodily heaving him to his feet and dragging him off to the velocipede.

Since Trent had ignored Pratt, Bartok got out and jogged across to his friend to help him up. They both looked with a kind of awe at the fierce gunslinger. "Bet she won't have any more problems with that fella," mused Pratt.

As soon as they had all returned to town, Katherine Trent turned her prisoner over to Motes with strict instructions to keep him under guard, and then went up to the Compound on horseback to say goodbye to the men who had helped her.

Pratt, Ramos, and Bartok all felt a little guilty over the earlier "misunderstanding," and had decided to offer to take Trent and her prisoner back to Texas in the balloon.

"It will save you a great deal of time," said Bartok as he explained the idea to her.

"No thanks, boys," said the gunslinger, a small smile playing at the edge of her mouth. "You did pretty well out there today, but I think I'll do things my way from now on." She put down the cup of coffee she'd been offered when she had arrived and stood to leave.

She looked across to Pratt. "You know, you've got an interesting set up here, Legend, and a nice little town. Make sure you don't screw up again." With that she turned and strode out the door.

There was a collective sigh as the door slammed behind her. Ramos finally broke the silence. "What an amazing woman," he admitted.

Bartok and Pratt just looked at him.

Suddenly the spell was broken by a knock at the door. Pratt leaped to his feet, wondering if Trent had returned for some reason, but he opened the door to find a rather bemused looking young man.

"Skeeter, my friend," he said jovially.

"Special delivery for you, Mr. Legend," said Skeeter. He gestured over to the hotel cart that he had obviously driven up from the town. Pratt stepped out of the laboratory and looked across.

"Oh no," he breathed.

Bartok and Ramos joined him by the doorway and, as soon as they saw what had provoked such a horrified reaction, began to laugh.

There on the cart were about a dozen huge mail sacks.

"It's your fan mail, Mr. Legend," said Skeeter by way of explanation. "I've been told to deliver these directly to you from now on." He looked at Pratt slyly. "I'm making two dollars for every load I have to bring up here."

"I don't believe it," said an astonished Pratt. "There's never been so much before, and it arrived so soon!"

"I hear Mr. Allen ran a Legend Poetry competition recently," said Skeeter. "I got special instructions from him explaining what you had to do. It says that every letter has to be answered personally, and that he wants you to pick three overall winners for the poetry competition by the end of the week."

Bartok and Ramos had already been opening sacks and were falling about laughing.

Bartok began to read out one of the poetry entries: "The sun comes up over Prairie land/The buffalo search for the sea/Brave hero Legend stalks the sand/Looking boldly for some tea."

"Noooooo," said Pratt backing up quickly, "I can't do this!"

Ramos pulled out another letter. "Here's another one, Mr. Pratt," he grinned and began to read. "On a fair high mountain far away/A beautiful lady awaits/To see the Paladin of the Prairies once more/While a dreadful villain he baits."

Skeeter joined in the fun and pulled out a third one. "He fights, he wins, he fights again/he writes so well and true/All wrongdoers flee when Legend's around/Except when they've got the flu."

Resignedly Pratt pulled out one for himself and began to read under his breath: "Once more the Legend Balloon rises high/Who knows what adventure lies in store/Ladies below dream and sigh/Not realizing their hero is such a bore!!!!" He threw the letter down.

"That's it! I need a drink!" he declared, marching back towards the laboratory.

"Well, just remember, Mr. Pratt, " said Ramos innocently, "There' s a rhyme and reason for everything!"

Ramos, Bartok, and Skeeter dissolved into laughter while Pratt went in search of a bottle of whisky.

The others were just beginning to follow Pratt when Skeeter pulled Bartok aside. "I picked up a telegram for you while I was collecting the mail, Professor," he said, handing Bartok a small folded note. Bartok, intrigued, unfolded it and read the contents:

Janos.
Would like to come and visit you in two weeks. Can't wait to see you.
Love Helen.

Bartok smiled and refolded the paper, his heart thudding. "Yes, there's a rhyme and a reason for everything," he whispered to himself as he went back inside where his friends were waiting.

THE END

This story copyright 1999 Sarah O�Donoghue. As with everything else on the Steampunk Central Website no profit is derived from this work, and all contents are for entertainment and educational purposes only. See main index page for full disclaimer.

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