Cold Copper: The Age of Steam (16 page)

He tossed the reins over a low branch and the horse nibbled at the few leaves still clinging to the brush.

The wind shifted, drawing like a slow finger across the water. The scent of copper and the Strange filled his lungs.

Cedar made his way carefully down to the frozen bank. There were footprints here, several dozen frozen in the mud and snow. All small enough to belong to the children. But they disappeared just before the edge of the water. None of the footprints were pointed back toward the road.

It was as if they had walked into the water and disappeared. Or perhaps fallen in.

He glanced at the river, frozen at each bank nearly out to the center,
where water ran a thin ebony ribbon around stones and ice down its middle. Ice that could be easily broken, though he saw no signs of that now.

On the other side of the river, the bank was much the same as this one: ice, snow, dried brush, and beyond that, trees. No footprints that he could see, and the ice was far too dangerous to cross.

The smell of the Strange was strong.

Strange had been known to lure children away for the wicked sport of seeing them lost and suffering. But he’d never heard of them taking more than a child or two. Father Kyne had said it was dozens missing. Nearly all the children of the town.

Were there that many Strange who delighted in the suffering of children, or was it something else? Revenge against their parents? Could the Strange have a use for the young, like Mr. Shunt, who used little Elbert Gregor’s blood to power the spells of his devices?

Or were the Strange innocent of the children’s disappearance? Men could have stolen the children.

It didn’t make sense. He’d spent years hunting Strange, killing them whether they wore a physical body or none. But he’d never run across even a single Strange who had gathered up children like a shepherd herds sheep.

Wil tracked up and down the bank and returned without indicating he had found any evidence of the children there.

It was a dead end, then. Cedar turned toward the road and heard the soft sorrow of Strange grieving on the wind.

Wil heard it too, and growled, a low rumble rising in his chest.

Nothing about the children’s disappearance, or the weeping Strange, made sense.

And there was no trace of the cursed cold copper here. Maybe if he found the mines where the demons were rumored to dwell, he would find answers. Cedar swung back up into the saddle, and started toward town.

“Afternoon,” a man called out from down the road a bit.

The man himself wasn’t all that remarkable. Square face under a low derby hat, and clothing warm enough for the chill. It was the rifle he carried that caught Cedar’s eye. Made of equal parts walnut and steel, copper tubes wrapped around it from the overwide muzzle to the stock. Those tubes fed into a square box about the size of a large tobacco tin, hooked to the saddlebag behind the man’s leg.

Possibilities of the gun’s use rolled through his mind, but Cedar could not suss what might be contained in that box, or what ammunition the gun fired. Not for the first time, he wished Rose Small was with them on these travels. Her quick eye and devising mind would have easily worked out what that gun could do. She probably would have come up with several improvements and modifications for it too.

“Afternoon,” Cedar said.

“Name’s George Hensling,” the man said. “Lost, are you?”

“Not much.”

George brought his horse alongside Cedar’s and paced him toward town.

“Most people new to town don’t realize the bridge washed out years ago. Some maps still show it, but there’s no way to cross that river except for south a ways.”

“Looks traveled for a trail no one uses.”

Mr. Hensling pushed his hat back just a bit. “Like I said, people get lost.”

“I heard there’s been a lot of children gone missing this winter.”

“Maybe. We have our share of runaways. Parents don’t like to admit to such a thing.”

“Dozens of runaways?” Cedar asked. “Sure there isn’t something, or someone, stealing them in the night?”

The man laughed, but it was humorless. “Someone’s been telling you ghost stories, I’m afraid. Where exactly are you staying in town?”

“The Kyne church.”

If Cedar had been expecting the man to be angry at that, which he did since that seemed to be the reaction of anyone who heard the mention of Kyne’s name, he was fully disappointed.

“Well, that explains it. Father Kyne hasn’t been the same since Kyne Senior passed away. Started up with such nonsense tales about ghosts and blood drinkers and strange things wandering this land out for revenge. Any person of a reasonable mind soon realized he’s gone quite mad.

“Sad state, but then, he is a savage; what can you expect? They’re not made for a civilized world, don’t have the constitution for it. And don’t you believe that act of him being a preacher. There isn’t a single person who attends his church. Not a single soul in this city who thinks he stands on the side of God Almighty.”

“You think he’s insane?” Cedar said.

“I’d say there ain’t no wheels turning in that head of his. He’s made up the story of missing children. For months now. Ever since some kind of star fell out of the sky.” They had reached a crossroads. Off to Cedar’s left he could see a flat field where two large structures and metal towers stood. Beyond that were barns and silos, airship sheds, probably storage sheds too, and half a dozen tether towers.

The road that led to the structures was cut down the middle with a single, wide metal rail that had a slit down the length of it. The single rail continued to Cedar’s right, into town.

“Is that an air-rail cable line?” he asked.

Mr. Hensling nodded. “The only one this side of the Mississippi. Better than the ones in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, or Chicago. Ever seen one?”

The man started into town and Cedar followed.

“Not while it was in use,” Cedar said. “Saw one being built once, lines laying down. Is this air rail for passengers or freight?”

“Bit of both,” he said. “Ever since the coal mines went into full production and the Transcontinental hammered the spike in Ogden,
Des Moines has gone from a farming town to a genuine high-class city.” He nodded toward the rise of brick buildings ahead of them. “Had to be replatted a dozen times already to take on the growth. Hear even Smith & Wesson are thinking of putting in a production warehouse. Building a new theater too, since the three we have are busting at the seams.”

“You must think highly of Mayor Vosbrough then,” Cedar said.

“I get paid on time every week. Got a paper every evening, telegraph’s cheap, and there’s enough jail space for those who like to cause trouble. That’s enough for me,” he said.

“What about the mayor before him? Atkinson, was it? Did he treat the town well?”

The man went quiet for a bit, and the brush and trees were replaced by buildings, sheds, a farrier shop, a blacksmith for matic work, and shops turning wood, casting clay, melting glass.

“Don’t remember much about how Atkinson ran the town. Had just come out of the battles down south when I started paying attention to such things.”

“Was his death suspicious?”

“His murder?” He shrugged. “I suppose any man in power is setting himself up to stand in another man’s sights.”

“You know who did it? Who killed the mayor?”

“They say it was a gang of brothers, riding rough. Broke into his manor demanding gold, glim, and anything else of value. Atkinson didn’t have servants other than the cooking and cleaning staff. He started off as a farmer and didn’t take much to people waiting on him. There were no guns that night to defend him.

“Found him dead the next day flat on the floor by his safe, all his riches gone.”

“Who found him dead?”

He thought a minute. The road had brought them solidly into town now, and every cross street grew busier and busier. There were still a lot of horses in the street, carrying riders or pulling wagons and coaches,
but the closer they came to the center of the city, the more devices and steam matics crowded the roads.

People on foot rushed between the steamers and animals, narrowly avoiding getting run over.

Cedar couldn’t help but smile. He’d missed this: the hurried pace of city life. While the wilds spoke to his blood, this was the life of his memories. Of his happiest days as a husband and father, back when he was a teacher in the universities, with a wife and daughter. Back before they had died and he and Wil had struck out west, escaping Cedar’s grief.

There was a small break in cross traffic and both Cedar and the man urged their mounts out into it.

“I think it was the mayor,” the man said.

“What?” Cedar had lost track of the conversation to the memories unfolding in his mind.

“The mayor, Vosbrough, found Roy Atkinson dead. Declared a manhunt for the killers and put a price on their heads. They were never found as far as I recall. Vosbrough took up where Atkinson left off.”

“What about the copper mine?” Cedar asked.

The man shrugged. “Not much of a vein, but enough not to waste. That’s just north of town back along the crossroad where you saw the air-rail line. But since there’s more money in coal, and more coal to be found here, that’s what we mine. They pull lead up around Dubuque and gypsum out Fort Dodge way, ship it all by rail east and west, river north and south, and anywhere else by sky. Hold up, now.”

He heeled his horse to sidle over to Cedar’s mount. Cedar noted everyone else was making a clear path down the left side of the street too, leaving the center of the street empty.

For good reason. That single rail cut a straight line down the bricks of the street.

The distinct plucked-bow hiss of a heavy wire moving through the air was immediately drowned out by the rumble of overhead fans.

He glanced up and over his shoulder.

A dirigible floated toward town, the stacks puffing slow, low smoke as it navigated the sky above the buildings.

A long cable hung from the airship, latched down inside the rail, rolling on metal wheels and guiding the dirigible through the town as easily as a needle pulling thread. Too many ships had crashed into buildings buffeted by winds between tall structures. But ever since some wild deviser had invented an air trolley system, people and goods could be delivered by airship more quickly and safely than by carts on the ground.

No wear and tear on the roads; no adding to the already traffic-heavy street. It opened up an entire sky full of shipping lanes.

Good for precious goods or particularly heavy freight too.

The fat shadow of the ship bobbed down the street, then was ladled up the sides of hotels, restaurants, and shops. The cable sped down the road, fast as a horse at full gallop, smooth and mindless as the wind.

As soon as the cable passed by, the townspeople went back to business, barely pausing for it to be out of the way before moving on.

There had been some arguments over the safety of installing air trolleys. Fears that the racing cable would cut horses and carts in half. But the accidents and deaths caused by collision with the cable had been fewer than expected. People quickly learned to stay out of the way of the device, and animals already had the good sense in their heads to do the same.

“This is the end of my ride,” the man said. “It was nice meeting you, Mr.… ? I don’t believe I got your name.”

“Cedar Hunt.”

“Well then, Mr. Hunt. Enjoy your stay in Des Moines.” He kicked his horse into a quick walk, taking one of the side streets along which signs advertised lodging, laundry, and cheap hot lunches.

Cedar had kept an eye on Wil and knew he hadn’t entered the crowded city. Too easy to be seen. Too easy to end up a trophy on the wall.

But he didn’t need Wil to lead him to the place that would give him the most answers. The copper mine was just north of town. Cedar clicked his tongue against his teeth and set off at a trot.

There’d be answers at the mine. Answers to the copper in his pocket. Answers to the demons beneath the city. Because even though that man thought Kyne was insane, Cedar knew the priest was right about one thing: the children were missing, and the people of this town were wrong to think that nothing Strange was involved.

R
ose clung to the side of the railcar, her head tucked down to keep the worst of the smoke, ice, and snow out of her face.

She wanted to climb to the top to see if Hink was still up there or if he had fallen to the ground, now a long distance below, but she couldn’t seem to force her arms to unlock from their death grip around the ladder rungs.

She usually loved flying. Wasn’t a bit frightened of heights. But she preferred to be safely inside the ship rather than hanging below it like a bobber on a fishing line.

“Hand!” a voice yelled, barely breaking through the noise of the overhead fans.

She looked up.

Captain Hink lay flat at the top of the train car, one hand held out for her. The first thought through her mind was relief that he was alive. The second was disbelief that he thought she would unlatch her hold on this crate even if she could.

She shook her head.

“Damn it!” he yelled.

Then he backed away from the edge and in a moment a rope lowered down, the end of it knotted in a loop big enough to fit down over her shoulders and latch up tight around her ribs.

She’d have to let go to get the rope in place. A terrifying thought.

“Rose!” he yelled.

She didn’t want to let go of this slight safety, but had no idea how far the frigate was transporting the train car. And once they landed, they might not take into account the fact that there was a person on the side of the car, especially if they were taking it somewhere like a forest or a dock with other freight stacked upon it.

Just her luck, she’d get scraped right off the side.

The top of the car didn’t seem much safer. But there might be a way down into the inside. She liked that idea. Liked it very much. And even if Hink hadn’t gotten around to finding a way in, she’d be more than happy to do so.

Rose braced her left arm tight and uncoiled her right. She reached up for the rope and guided it one-handed over her head, then under her arm. She relocked her right arm over the rung, then positioned the rope under her left arm. The rope fit nicely around her ribs, and even though it was only a slight improvement in her situation, it lent a strong feeling of security.

The rope tugged, and Rose reluctantly let go of one rung, reached up for the next, and convinced her feet to do the same. She did not look down. And she tried very hard not to think about just what, exactly, she was doing.

Then she was over the top. Hink walked backward with the rope over his shoulder, then expertly tied a knot in it around the huge loop where the main cable attached between the freight car and the airship. He walked back over to her and bent, his hand extended.

He wasn’t tied down to anything, not a safety line in place, and yet he strode around up there like he was stomping across a barn floor.

His days as a glim pirate were paying off. He was as steady on his feet as any seagoing captain.

Rose reached up for him, and with his help, was soon standing on
the roof of the freight car, a rope still tight around her, and Captain Hink glaring down at her.

“What in the blazes are you doing here?” he yelled.

“Let’s get inside,” she yelled back.

He looked up and around, obviously completely unconcerned that any hard gust of wind would send them toppling, or worse, that the weather would drop and the whole of the thing would be covered in ice.

“This is not a game,” he yelled.

Rose held up one finger to silence him. Then she pointed at her feet. “Inside.”

His lips moved through an impressive array of cusswords, which Rose ignored. Then he took her by the arm and stomped along the top of the crate to a hatch.

So there was a way inside. Good.

Her heart leaped at the thought of having four strong walls safe around her.

Hink kicked the hatch open with the toe of his boot and held her arm as she crouched at the edge of it. She held her breath and dropped down inside.

A soft landing was out of the question with the entire car swaying in the wind. Her ankle shot with pain, and she barked her knees, but she was on the floor, the rocking floor, more whole than less.

In a moment, Hink dropped down over the edge, a much shorter fall for him since the tall of him took up a good chunk of distance between the top of the car and the floor.

“What in
hell
are you doing here?” he repeated almost before his boots hit the floor.

“Where did you expect me to be? Back on that train while it was getting robbed?”

“I told you that wasn’t a real robbery.”

“There are two dead men back there who might think otherwise.”

“Yes. Two men
I
shot,” Hink said. She pulled her shoulders back and stood up to him, craning her neck so she could stare into his stormy blue eye. “They were robbing the train, and you left me there. With them.”

“They weren’t breathing much when I was done with them. You’d have been safer there.”

“I saw you jump on this…on this blamed train car and then the ship yanked it off the track. I thought you were going to die.”

He closed his mouth around whatever he’d been about to say.

“Rose.” He said that much softer than before. “You know I have a dangerous job. You throwing yourself into danger after me doesn’t make it any easier. Or safer.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I know what I want, Lee. And it’s you.”

She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him.

He stood there for a second or two, caught by the surprise of her bold move. Then his arms wrapped around her possessively and for that world-erasing moment, she was once again right where she most wanted to be.

“Ain’t that sweet?” a man’s voice said from the corner of the car.

Hink broke the kiss and swung himself between Rose and the man, the whole of him wide enough to set Rose completely in the dark.

“Get both your hands out where I can see them and drop your gun on the floor,” the man said. “Slow and easy.”

Rose made to step out from behind Hink, but he had snuck his hand around his back. In it was a flare with a flint-and-steel starter.

“We have no quarrels with you, friend,” Hink said, as he adjusted his hold on the flare up to his fingertips, offering it to Rose.

Rose took it and stuck it up her sleeve.

“I ain’t no friend of yours,” he growled. “Now show me your palms. Both of them. And, miss, I know you’re behind him. Won’t do you any good to hide. Step on out.”

Rose couldn’t get to her gun at the bottom of her bag without an
awful lot of maneuvering, but she unlatched the top of her satchel so if there was a chance, she’d be on it faster.

“Don’t get her involved in this,” Hink said. “She tumbled out the window and caught on hold of this box by accident.”

“That so?” the man said. “Don’t believe a word of it. I’ve seen just as many women in this war as there are men. Step out.”

War?

Rose stepped out from behind Hink, her hands clenched together, and tried to look frightened and helpless. The frightened part wasn’t all that hard to manage, but the helpless had never come very easily to her.

“Please, don’t shoot,” she said.

The man was in dark clothing from hat to boot, just like the robbers. Only he didn’t wear a kerchief over his mouth. Rose made a point to memorize the wide angles of his face, narrow-set eyes, and large nose.

“We don’t mean you any trouble,” Hink said.

The man jerked his gun. “Put that peashooter of yours on the floor, and kick it to me,” he said.

Hink reached for the gun under his coat.

“Slowly.”

Hink reached slower for the gun under his coat.

He pulled it out, holding it by one finger, then dropped it on the floor.

“Good. Now kick it.”

Hink put the sole of his boot on the gun. He didn’t say anything, but there was tenseness in him, like a coil wound too tight.

Rose knew that was her signal. It was time to throw the flare.

She slid her hand up her sleeve and struck the flare, then hurled it at the man. The crate filled with blinding orange light.

Rose ducked and dug in her satchel for her gun, but Hink was already rushing the man, then was on him, fists slamming into his face and stomach.

The man got off a shot or two, then both of them fell to the floor,
just as the entire crate tipped alarmingly to the side, forcing everything not tied down to slide from one end of the car to the other.

Rose slid too, but held tight to her gun as she thunked against the crates and coffins. The flare went out and darkness thumped down so thick it felt like a blanket fell over her eyes.

The freight car leveled somewhat, and she stood with the help of the ropes tied around the freight.

She couldn’t see anything. But she heard someone breathing heavily. Then a groan.

“Rose?” It was Hink.

“I’m all right,” she said. “The gunman?”

“Out cold. Find a light, will you?”

He groaned again, then moved off to her left, probably toward the man. Maybe to tie him up.

Rose felt her way along to a wall, and then felt for the lantern that should be hanging there. Found it. It only took a moment to bring the wick to a cheery yellow fire.

Hink sat back on his heels, looking down at the man, who was not moving. She didn’t think he was alive.

“Is he dead?” Rose asked.

“Hope to hell he is,” Hink said. “Don’t feel like breaking my knuckles on his face again.”

Hink stood, and lifted his hands out to the side for a second, gaining his balance. But the car was level and smooth at the moment.

That’s when Rose noticed the blood on his shirt.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said.

“Not my blood,” he said.

Rose got around in front of him and pulled his coat open. Steam from the heat of his blood wafted up from his shirt, which was soaked. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Sit down and let me try to stanch it.”

“Stanch what? I said I’m not wounded. I feel fine. We need to knock out one of these boards so we can see where this crate is flying.”

Rose pressed her fingers against his ribs and he hissed in a hard breath.

“Good God, woman. Why you have to be jabbing at me like that?”

“Let me take care of the bullet hole in your hide.”

He shook his head.

“Paisley Cadwaller Hink Cage, “she said sternly. “Sit down before I kick out your kneecaps.”

He blinked hard, then gave her half a smile. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Faster than you could say Nelly.”

“Don’t know what I did to deserve the likes of you,” he muttered as he made his way over to a stack of crates and carefully—very carefully—lowered himself to sit in the dust.

“Well, it wasn’t all those years of you being an altar boy,” she said, kneeling beside him.

He chuckled and pressed his hand over his side. “Never quite got the hang of spiritual purity. Or any other kind of purity for that matter. Too many interesting things that needed being done.”

“Move your hand.” Rose set the lantern down and dug in her satchel. She didn’t have much in the ways of medicine, but had kept the black salve Mae used on her shoulder wound when she’d been hit with that piece from the Holder, and she had her sewing kit.

“Hold this.” She placed the jar of salve in his palm and then unbuttoned his shirt.

“Had dreams about this sort of thing,” he said in a soft drawl. “Me, you. A dark train car. You ripping off my shirt…”

“You’re delirious,” she said.

“I’m clear as a bell.”

“Well, then your bell is cracked,” she said. “A fact I’m willing to ignore since you are also bleeding. Oh.” She lifted the lantern to better see the wound. A wet, stone-red gash in his side was pouring blood rather freely.

“I think it went straight through,” she said.

“Told you it was just a graze.”

“You said no such thing.”

“Huh. Did I mention me dreaming about you pulling off my clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to die without you knowing that. The things I think about you.”

“You are not going to die.” She twisted the lid off the jar and dipped her fingers into the mixture. “And I know exactly what you think about me.”

“I really don’t suppose you do.”

She spread the salve on as gently as she could, and he held his breath through it. Even though there was no bullet buried in his gut, that gash had to hurt. She pulled out her sewing kit, grateful she’d left the needle threaded.

“You think I’m young, untested in the world, and innocent,” she said as she pushed the needle through the skin as quickly as she could.

Hink winced, but remained silent, watching her.

“You think I don’t know what a man can have on his mind when he looks at a woman. Or visits them in their parlors for weeks at a time.”

She tied a knot and then cut the thread with her sewing scissors. The stitches should help slow the bleeding. But this was not a minor wound. She reached over for another fingerful of the salve.

He caught her wrist gently. “Rose Small. There aren’t many people who bring the truth out of me, but you are one of them. I did not sleep with those women. There’s only one woman who has the key to my heart. Only you.”