The Oilman's Daughter (18 page)

“No!” Jonathan scrabbled through the dirt, desperate to find a weapon. And even as he located his pistol, in the back of his mind he wondered why she’d called out to the pirate instead of to him. She must not have seen Jonathan. That had to be it. “I don’t have my gun, Phinneas! Stop them!”

Phinneas raised the shotgun, but then he cast it aside. “Bloody hell. I’m empty.”

The surviving attackers hopped onto running boards and into the carriage van, and the driver dialed up the pressure, making the India rubber tires spin in the dirt. One of the kidnappers raised a pistol at Jonathan.

Jonathan grabbed the body of the man beside him and used it to shield himself against the bullet aimed at his heart. Then as he shoved the body aside, he spotted Frank’s discarded Spencer rifle. He scrabbled across the dirt for it. The carriage’s boiler sang and it careened out of the yard, making for the road as fast as an express train. Jonathan retrieved the rifle and, still on his knees, raised it to his cheek. He worked the lever down and back to chamber the next round as the carriage skidded onto the road, fellows hanging onto the outside for dear life. He was a Texan, goddamn it; he could make that shot.

Phinneas slapped the barrel down just as Jonathan fired, sending the bullet harmlessly down into the dirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jonathan roared.

Phinneas yanked the rifle from Jonathan’s suddenly nerveless grasp and threw it to the ground. “Are ye daft? Ye’d just as likely hit Cecilie as one of them sons of whores.”

Jonathan’s yell turned inarticulate and he lunged at Phinneas, catching the older man with a surprise left cross. The shock of the blow traveled all the way up Jonathan’s arm to rattle his own head almost as much as he felt he’d rattled Phinneas. He steeled himself, expecting the other man to answer with a heavy blow of his own, but Phinneas only nodded and wiped away a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll give ye that one for free, lad. Someday ye can be sure I’ll repay it with interest. But the truth is we’ve lost this round.”

At first, he was all for saddling up the Clays’ remaining horse and going after the kidnappers, but Phinneas pointed out that an old farm horse would kill itself trying to catch a much faster target. And what would he do even if he did manage to catch them? Take on a half dozen heavily-armed thugs with a half-loaded Spencer rifle?

The enormity of their defeat and losses they’d sustained finally sank in, and Jonathan felt ill. The Clays had taken them in without question or suspicion, and as a reward they’d lost their house, their livelihood, and their patriarch. Frank was kneeling in the bloody dirt, oblivious to everything except his silent father’s head cradled in his lap.

Jessie raced out of the barn screaming, and fell to the ground beside Grant. Anita had fallen to her knees in prayer or despair or both, while Georgette squeezed young Louise tightly, comforting the girl.

Jonathan had never felt so helpless in his life, but he followed Phinneas’s lead and started fighting the fire, throwing clod after clod of dirt onto the remains of the armored carriage to try to keep the flames from spreading into the dangerously dry prairie grass.

Neighbors arrived from two nearby farms: a childless Swedish couple and a family of Jews with the boys sporting dark curls under their hats. The women immediately took charge of the surviving Clays, helping to treat Frank’s wounds and consoling everyone through their grief. The rest joined in the fire fight.

“Elijah saw the smoke and came to get me,” said the father of the clan, who’d introduced himself to Jonathan and Phinneas as Samuel Rosen in solemn tones, as if he felt raising his voice would be disrespectful of the dead. “He’d heard what he said was thunder from a clear sky, but when I listened, I knew. I served the Union in the War.” He shook his head and threw another shovelful of dirt onto a burning patch. “Terrible when folks and their guests can’t be safe in their own homes. I’ve known Grant Clay for fifteen years. His farm has kept my family from starving in these lean times. I’m indebted to him.”

“As am I,” said Jonathan. “And believe me, I intend to repay his family as handsomely as I’m able.”

The Swede came over to join them, wiping his bloodstained hands upon a rag. “I’ve got the bodies stacked,” he said in his peculiar, lilting accent. “What to do with them?”

“Burn them,” said Jessie Clay, vicious tears tracking down the dirt on her cheeks. “Burn them all and let the wind take the ashes away. They don’t deserve no Christian burial.”

“I’m so sorry that this happened,” said Jonathan.

“No, don’t you say that. I don’t want to hear any apologies, and I don’t want your pity. I want you to get the sons of bitches that did this.”

Jonathan bowed his head, his shame hanging over him like a shroud. “Whatever I can do to make things right, Jessie, I promise I will. You tell me what you need and it’s yours. Money, tools, laborers. I will foot the bill.” He took a deep breath. “I hope you will consider it a meager penance for the hardship I brought upon you.”

Jessie sniffed but said nothing. The Swedish woman wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and took her aside, murmuring soothing words in her native tongue.

“Lad,” said Phinneas quietly. “Ye are a good man. A better one than me. But now ain’t the time to get all mushy. We ain’t even out of the woods with this particular battle yet.” He cocked his head towards the road. “Looks like we’re about to have company. We best hope they’re not more of them bastards comin’ to finish the job.”

Jonathan followed Phinneas’ gaze. At first he saw nothing on the road, but then his gaze drew upward toward a small dirigible approaching them. He recognized the proud logo painted across the vessel’s nose and relaxed. “Maybe we’re not completely out of luck,” he said. “That’s an Orbital Industries derry.”

The dirigible was a small model. Really only a courier, built for speed and maneuverability. Its apparent progress was slow, but Jonathan could tell the ducted fans were running at top speed the way the craft’s shadow raced across the prairie. As it approached the ruined Clay household, it shed altitude and velocity rapidly, the pilot actually using the fans to push it down faster, a skill Jonathan recognized as one used by Air Army pilots.

Nevertheless, he kept the Henry he’d claimed from one of the bodies at the ready, and Phinneas had the shotgun reloaded. Without a cradle or airship dock at the ready, the pilot had to drop lines, trusting people on the ground to tie down the ship.

“Secure those lines,” said Phinneas in his captain’s tone of command. The Rosen boys and their father hurried to wrap the lines around the sturdy and undamaged fence posts by the barn. Thus secured, the pilot set the fans into station-keeping. He opened the lightweight aluminum cockpit door, tossed down a rope ladder, and shimmied down it.

Jonathan’s eyes widened as the man loosened his leather skullcap and raised his goggles up to his forehead. “Jefferson!” All decorum forgotten, Jonathan embraced his oldest friend. “I feared you’d be dead.”

Jefferson Porter suffered the affection of his boss with a smile before stepping back. “I nearly was, sir.” He glanced over at Phinneas and his smile vanished. Nevertheless, he said, “It’s good to see you alive as well, Captain Greaves.”

Phinneas nodded but said nothing, and then turned away to help Jessie with the bodies of the Arabs.

“What happened to you on the
Albatross
?” asked Jonathan. “And how in God’s name did you escape that deathly tomb?”

“I presume I was mugged. Someone dragged a bag over my head and knocked me silly. When I came to, my brother and I had been locked in a storeroom filled with decomposing bodies. We tried to break out, but with no success. Then when the Fulton crashed into the station, the wall buckled enough for us to squeeze through. We managed to get to a stovepipe and Lincoln flew us to Roosevelt Station.”

Jonathan nodded. “Our own escape was risky as well. How is your brother?”

“He kept the stovepipe. We presumed its former owner most likely wouldn’t come looking for it. I checked at the station for you, but nobody had heard from you there. I sent a telegraph to Pinnacle Station and likewise there was no news. I wouldn’t accept that you were dead, so I went down the elevator to Houston and contacted your father. That’s when I learned of your telegram. Your father pulled this courier derry from service and placed it at my disposal.”

Jonathan recalled that Porter had served as a pilot for Britain during their war with Egypt. He’d never had the occasion to see his butler at the helm of a dirigible before. “But how did you find us here?”

Porter smiled. “I was making for Kansas City at top speed. Your father suggested that as the best place to begin my search for you, or at least to determine where you might have gone and by what method. I spotted the smoke from this fire and heard the gunfire. Sound carries well across a prairie like this, and I was in enough battles over North Africa to know this was no mere house fire or hunter shooting at squirrels.” He took off his goggles and polished the smoked glass lenses. “Somehow, I just knew if there was trouble, you’d most likely be embroiled in the middle of it.”

“Well done, Jefferson.” Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, Mademoiselle Renault has been kidnapped in a steam carriage. Can we pursue them in your derry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ye best make room for me, Mister Porter,” said Phinneas. “I risked my neck too, and I’d like to see the job be finished.”

Porter nodded, but looked at Jonathan for confirmation. “Sir?”

Jonathan gritted his teeth. If only he could leave the pirate with the Clays. Jessie seemed to have more than a passing interest in the spacer. But despite his crass speech and boorish behavior, Phinneas had proven to be a valuable ally today. He was comfortable with weapons and useful in a fight, and there would certainly be more of both in the days ahead.

However, Jonathan’s interest in keeping the pirate close had a shrewder bent. It all came down to keeping his enemies closer. What if Phinneas still had designs upon Cecilie, and not just financial ones? Something had clearly happened between the two of them, though it was unclear exactly what. She had called out his name while the men were herding her to the carriage. It was probably nothing, but Jonathan couldn’t shake it from his mind. “Phinneas, we would be grateful to have you join us.”

“Very good, sir,” said Porter. “We’ll be heavy, though. It’s best we unload as much weight as possible.”

Jonathan nodded. “We can do that. Do you have pen and paper aboard?”

“Yes sir.” Porter climbed up and retrieved it, and then handed them to Jonathan. Phinneas then proceeded to help unload spare supplies from the gondola while Jonathan scribbled out a letter on the paper and signed it. He folded it and wrote an address on the back. “Jessie, mail this letter to my father. I’ve asked that Orbital Industries cover the costs of rebuilding your farm as well as provide a stipend to help you along.”

Jessie raised her head. He could see the pride, desperation, and grief fighting a battle on her dirt smeared face. “We don’t want charity, Mister Orbital.”

He shook his head. “This is not charity. It is payment for services rendered. You rescued my friends and me. You sheltered and fed and defended us to great hardship of your own. There are some things money can’t buy, like a father’s love, but others that it can. Like good shelter and his dream. Take the money, please. Rebuild your home and your farm. Continue your father’s work and gather up everything he wrote on his research. Once I’ve rescued Cecilie, I will see about what we can do about patenting it and continuing the work on a larger scale. Grant wanted to help change the world, and he can still do that with our help.”

Jessie sighed. “I’ll do my best. I weren’t never much of a chemist, but he kept a lot of notes, and I can keep those safe for the right people. You dropped out of the sky onto our farm for a reason, and I think Daddy would have agreed.” She turned to Phinneas, who had just finished unloading the gondola. “And what about you, Space Man? You going to come back afterward, too?”

Phinneas shrugged. “Can’t say I will. I belong up in the Big Black. Ye don’t want a bloke like me hangin’ around.”

She turned away. “You ain’t half as bad as you think.” Her voice was so soft it almost disappeared in the hum of the dirigible fans.

Phinneas’ reply was equally quiet. “Maybe I’ll come by sometime.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and the three men boarded the dirigible. The cabin was spare, with only the thinnest of padding over the lightweight aluminum seats. Dirty cotton batting lined the bulkheads, doing dual work as insulation and noise reduction. Nevertheless, Jonathan didn’t think it helped all that much, for he could barely hear Porter at all over the roar of the fans and hiss of the boiler to the aft.

“Strap yourselves in, gentlemen,” shouted Porter. “We’ll have a rough ride to Kansas City.” He pointed to the gathering clouds over the fields. “There’s a storm coming.”

Somehow, Jonathan didn’t think he was referring solely to the weather.

Phinneas watched the burnt wreckage of the Clay farm grow smaller as Porter took the derry up and away toward Kansas City. What a bloody mess they’d left behind. After twenty years of pillaging and marauding, it seemed guilt and grief had become staples in his emotional arsenal. He just hoped it wouldn’t make him as useless as damp gunpowder when the next battle arose. Even as the derry fans roared in his head, the memory of Jessie screaming for her dead father was louder. It reminded him of his own dad’s murder at the hands of a loan shark when Phinneas was twelve. Unpaid gambling debts had hung over his family like a cloud, and was what eventually drove Phinneas into his own dark line of work. But unlike old Vincent Greaves, Grant Clay had been a good and honest man who’d put his wits to good use helping his family and neighbors. He had deserved a good and honest death, not being blown up in his own yard by a bunch of thugs.

He was surprised Jessie hadn’t shot him dead for vengeance. If she’d asked, he would have handed her the gun himself and taken his punishment fair and square. But that family was made of better stuff than he. Even though he didn’t think he was worthy of their mercy, he’d make sure Jessie’s grace and mercy wasn’t wasted.

Orbital stood behind Porter in the pilot’s chair, but it was obvious he was favoring his left hip. “How badly are ye injured, lad?”

Jonathan glanced at Phinneas for a second before turning back. “I’m fine.”

“Give it to me straight, boy. Ye did good back there and I no longer doubt yer valor, but ye ain’t gonna be of much use to us with a limp like that. Is it bad or not?”

Orbital sighed. “The shotgun kicked back into my hip when I fired from the ground. It isn’t broken. It’s just sore. I’ll be fine. Now keep your eyes to the ground. She’s down there somewhere.” As if to prove his point, he changed position to stand squarely, dividing his weight evenly between both feet.

Phinneas had spent enough time around men who were unwilling to mention injuries that he could tell it hurt Jonathan to put on such a show. He wouldn’t embarrass the boy further by calling attention to it, but he would keep an eye on his gait nonetheless. It was part of a captain’s duties, and even if he wasn’t the captain of this particular vessel, old habits never died.

“I’m watchin’ for her, but none of them carriages on the roadway down there look much like the one she’s in. For all we know, they ain’t even makin’ for Kansas City. There are a lot of points on the compass.”

“They have to be.” Jonathan raised his voice. “That’s where the rail is, as well as all the airship docks. If they’re going to smuggle her somewhere, they’ve got to use more than a damned steam carriage!” He stamped his foot in impatience and his face went pale from the pain.

Porter looked back at his employer. “If you like, sir, I can examine it for you. I’m experienced in treating field injures. Mr. Greaves, I can also take a look at any of the wounds you have.”

“That’s kind of you, Jefferson. I think we’re both fine. A little beaten up, but at least we’re alive, which is more I can say for Grant Clay.” He cleared his throat. “This is why it is imperative we find Cecilie. If we lose her, then Clay’s work may never get off the ground. Those responsible will not escape with their lives, I can tell you that.”

For once, Phinneas agreed with the man, but he had a feeling that Orbital’s motivations went much deeper. Whatever the two of them had done in Kansas City, it was clear he thought of her as much more than a girl with an oil refining process. His infatuation had probably been the reason he dove into this mess in the first place. The thought of the two of them together both angered and mystified him a little. Jonathan had stars in his eyes, and they were blinding him to her manipulations. If the boy had seen the way she had tricked Phinneas in the stovepipe, or even back in the grotto, when she’d been tied to the bed, he might see Miss Renault a bit differently.

But Phinneas was the last person in the world who would be able to convince him, and if any notion of courting the lass kept him going for now, he would continue to be valuable. Phinneas just had to make sure the hot-headed lover boy wasn’t going to rush headlong into an unwinnable fight and get them all killed.

“I think I see smoke!” Orbital cried. “Right ahead, maybe a quarter mile off the road. Jefferson, slow down if you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Phinneas peered in the direction Orbital was pointing. A black smudge of smoke rose lazily into the sky. He found a telescope lying in front of Porter and used it. He recognized the carriage, or at least pieces of it, from the Grant farm. Several dead men lay around it, bloodied in their heads or chests. A couple of them were Arabs, judging by the head scarves. That was interesting.

“What do you see?” Orbital asked. He sounded like he was about to lose his lid. “Is she down there?”

“Nay, lad, I don’t see her,” Phinneas said.

“Give me that!” Orbital snatched the telescope from Phinneas’ hand and put it to his eye. It took every ounce of restraint Phinneas possessed not to clock him one. “I don’t see her, but she could still be amid the wreckage. Jefferson, take us down.”

“Already on it, sir.”

“I’m tellin’ ye, she ain’t down there.”

Orbital glared at him. “Oh yeah? How would you know?”

“Bloody hell! Do ye really think the ones who shot them bastards would’ve left her for dead, what with everyone in the known universe tryin’ to kidnap her? Quit thinkin’ with yer pecker and use that lump of overcooked gruel ye call a brain. There’s dead Arabs down there. They had themselves a fight, and the Texans lost. She’s changed hands.”

Orbital closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. “You’re right, Captain Greaves. Cooler heads prevail, as they say. Now how do you suppose they ambushed them?”

Phinneas already had an idea, but Porter spoke up first. “Had to be someone in a derry, sir. We would have spotted another carriage or ground vehicle from this vantage point.”

Phinneas took back the telescope. “I’ll see if I can find out.” He scanned the horizon in the direction of Kansas City, but he knew he wouldn’t see anybody. The people they were after weren’t heading east. He looked to the south and saw exactly what he’d expected to see: a large dirigible going much faster than their own little puffer could.

“Bugger me for a blind monkey’s uncle. Turn south, Mister Porter. Looks like our kidnappers have a different destination in mind.”

“What? What do you see?” Jonathan asked. “And why are they heading away from KC?”

“Because they’re goin’ to Houston,” said Phinneas.

“Houston? But why?”

He went easy on the lad, given how much they’d just been through. It was tough to put two and two together with a rattled brain. “Because they’ve got to get her back up into the Big Black. It’s the fastest way to the Middle East.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Of course! And they will take the first car up the well at Roosevelt.”

“Aye. We already know they’ve got themselves Fultons.”

“Which means they’ll be halfway around the world before we catch them. If we catch them.” Jonathan drew himself up to his full height, even though he winced at the pain in his hip. “It’s them and people like you who have brought this trouble into so many lives. Why do men feel the need to steal what isn’t rightfully theirs?”

Phinneas laughed. “Aye, and men of business such as yerself and yer father are so lily white and innocent, are ye? How many thousands have ye all exploited over the years, all in the name of makin’ an easy buck? What, just because it’s legal on paper? Don’t kid yerself.”

Jonathan’s face reddened. “Don’t you dare try to compare us. We’re nothing alike. I’m in this to save her. You’re in it for the money. How much do you stand to make for the price of Cecilie’s head, anyway?”

Phinneas knew a good goading when he saw one. He leaned down into Orbital’s face and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, lad. Was she crazy in bed? I got that sense about her when she kissed me, but then I realized I didn’t want me willy in a steel trap and wised up fast. You might want to do the same.”

Jonathan rushed at Phinneas, grabbing his shirt and slamming him against the wall of the cupola, where a stronger man could have easily thrown him out the open window. Phinneas pushed him off and righted himself, just as Porter spun around in his seat. “Sir!” The butler ran over to protect Jonathan.

“Stay out of this, Jefferson. The pirate has had it coming from day one, and I plan to deliver it myself.” He raised his fists and assumed a competent enough boxing stance that Phinneas’ trained eye could find at least half a dozen ways to break.

Phinneas barked laughter. “Did they teach ye how to fight in finishin’ school?”

Jonathan tried for a left hook, but Phinneas was prepared for it. He caught Orbital’s fist in his left hand and delivered a quick right cross to his nose. Jonathan pitched backward, crashing into Porter, blood squirting from his nostrils. Phinneas didn’t think he’d broken the bone, but it would swell and ugly up his mug a bit, and that was just fine.

“I told ye I’d pay ye back, didn’t I?”

“That’s quite enough, Captain Greaves!” Porter lowered Jonathan gently to the floor and pressed his handkerchief to his master’s spouting nose. “Both of you need to stop this now! Sir, we won’t be able to rescue Miss Renault if we’re all fighting each other.”

Jonathan was silent for a few minutes as Porter’s handkerchief stanched the worst of the flow of blood from his nose. “Thank you, Jefferson. You may return to steering us on course for Houston.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to have to come back here again to break up another fight.”

“Yes, Jefferson, I am sure. We are prepared to act civilized. At least, I am.”

Porter crossed his arms and glared at Phinneas. “Fine, yes, I’ll behave meself. Great Willy Wright’s ghost,” Phinneas muttered.

Porter glanced between the two of them for a few seconds before returning to the pilot’s seat. Orbital sat with the cloth on his nose for a few more minutes, although Phinneas was quite sure it had stopped. He leaned against the wall and sagged down to the floor opposite him, a lot more battle weary than he’d realized. There was less satisfaction in punching Orbital than he’d expected. It had been a little like stepping on a desperate kitten. Jesus, he was going soft.

“It ain’t broken, is it?”

Orbital shook his head and winced. “I don’t think so. But it was a good punch. I suppose I deserved it.”

Phinneas didn’t disagree. The two men sat in silence as the airship’s fans droned on. He was just about to drift off to sleep when Jonathan spoke again. “She came back to the Clay farm for you. She also called for your help when the men grabbed her. I think it’s clear she prefers you.” There was no accusation in his voice this time. He just sat there staring into his lap. His nose had indeed quit bleeding, but his nostrils and septum were outlined with a red crust.

Phinneas sighed and squirmed uncomfortably where he sat. Now he understood what Orbital’s little outburst had been about, but that didn’t make it much easier to deal with. Matters of the heart were not a strong suit, but it seemed Orbital needed some sort of response, so his tired brain worked to think of one. He hadn’t heard Cecilie call for him at the farm, so that was a surprise. Why had she done so? Could Orbital have a point? Maybe the lass did feel something for him. Nay. It couldn’t be that. She hated him, and he wanted nothing to do with her, even if she did have the guts and steel of a pirate. He could easily see her commanding her own ship. A whole fleet of them, actually, but that was beside the point. “Look, lad. She probably called out for me because I was the one she’d most like to see get shot tryin’ to save her. Don’t let it bother ye.”

“Did she really kiss you?”

“It weren’t romantic, boy. Trust me. It was all a distraction so she could escape. She ain’t got any eyes for me.” And she might not for Orbital either, but the boy was determined to learn the hard way.

He actually seemed to lighten up a little bit at that, looking at Phinneas with the sort of shining eyes one might see on a tortured dog who had a fighting chance at table scraps. “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate that.”

“Aye. Now can we cut out this mushy crap?”

Orbital grinned. “Sure, okay.”

Phinneas caught a flash of light to the derry’s starboard. When he looked out through the windows, all he could see beneath the disappearing curve of the airbag’s underside was a wall of dark, roiling clouds. Lightning flickered between cloud nodes and rain streaks blurred beneath them. “That’s a nasty looking storm, Mister Porter. Do ye have enough steam to outrun it?”

“I believe so, Captain Greaves, but truth be told, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near Kansas City when it hits. I’m glad we’re heading south. Lucky for us the wind’s shifted as the front approaches, so we’ve got us a fine tail wind pushing us along the edge of the storm front. Long as I keep her nose pointed in the right direction, I don’t believe we’ll run into anything except some turbulence.”

Phinneas nodded. “So ye were in the Air Army?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See a lot of action in Africa durin’ the War?”

“Yes, sir. Mostly over Egypt. I started out copiloting a bomber and towards the end was piloting a fourteen-gun escort.” His smile grew fond with the memories. “I loved that airship. I could set her down on a dime and still give you nine cents change.”