In my time of dying, p.7
In My Time of Dying, page 7
part #1 of Savant Series
They came around a corner to the train station which, despite the lateness, still had a score of people milling about. A locomotive chugged at the gate, sending black smoke raining down upon the city. A chubby porter was loading the baggage car when they rode up.
“Sir, when is the next departure?” asked Elizabeth.
“Right now, you could still catch it,” he said.
“What about the next one, we have to wait for some… luggage.”
“Then that would be the 6:30. At dawn, heading for Sacramento.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth dismounted and tied her horse to a rail. “P—I’ll get the tickets.” She smiled that she remembered at the last second not to use his name.
He tapped his brim at her, watching the street and milling night folk. “I’ll snag a wagon.”
Elizabeth checked the routes and times with the station master then purchased tickets for them, the horses, and an undisclosed crate of some size. Porter had already negotiated to rent a wagon for the next hour. “We’re ready, I spent just over three hundred dollars, but we have first class passage as far as Omaha, we can renew our tickets from there.”
“Good, wouldn’t be bad to stop there and exchange the horses either. Well, let’s go get him.”
They sat together on the wagon and Porter whipped the reins to get the mules heading back toward the wharf.
Elizabeth said, “Do you think the gold could be blood money? Do you think Mr. Methuselah killed someone for it? Are we on the right side?”
Porter took a swig from a bottle he had lying behind the wagon’s seat. “Can’t we talk about something else? If you had a good enough feeling to go with this—and I’m trusting you did—let’s not worry about what those killers said.”
“All right. Fair enough. I did have a good feeling about Mr. Methuselah despite his ghastly appearance.”
“Good.” Porter took another pull.
“You said you would tell me later about why you weren’t in any danger at the saloon. You had bullet holes in your coat and hat. That’s pretty lucky.”
“Don’t much believe in luck,” grunted Porter, over the top of his cigar.
“So is there another explanation?”
“Yup.”
Elizabeth waited a long moment. “Well?”
“I’ll tell you when I feel ready and we’re good enough friends. Right now, you’re my job.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Excuse me for thinking we had been through some rather remarkable things together tonight and were friends already.”
Porter looked at her and smiled. “We’re getting there.”
She shook her head.
Soon enough they reached the wharf on Brannan Street. Porter noticed a pair of men that looked like Knights of St. Germain standing at the warehouse right beside the one they needed to get to. “We could bluff our way past, but if we try and get the crate, they’re a gonna notice.”
“What do we do?”
“Probably take ‘em out.”
“Do you mean kill them?”
Porter looked her in the eye. “You gotta problem with that? They tried to do you in didn’t they?”
“Yes, but—”
“This is the same thing. Who do you suppose them Bone Marauders are?”
A flash of recollection went through Elizabeth’s eyes as she realized what the Knights had been doing in their hunt for Mr. Methuselah. “They’ve been desecrating bodies and killing to find him?”
Porter nodded. “And the sooner we leave, the sooner everyone in town will be safe. We’ll have the trouble on our tails but…” He shrugged.
“What do we do?”
“I’m gonna drive us right past them, unless you recognize them?”
“No, it’s not the same ones, besides, one will never see again.”
“Right, you stuck him.” Then Porter understood what she said. “What’d you stick him with?”
“My hair needles, Chinese chopsticks.”
“You are a hellcat.”
“Thank you, I think. What’s the plan then?”
Porter chuckled. “You seem pretty good on your feet, maybe you should come up with the plan.”
“That’s your job!”
“All right,” Porter said, with a grin. “Keep your head down so they don’t get a good look at you no matter what I say, got it?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Porter brought the wagon right up to the warehouse as if he owned the place and settled it against the landing ready to load at his leisure. He looked right at the two smartly dressed Knights of St. Germain. Each wore a long dark coat, suits, and fancy bowlers. “Hey, you two! How about helping me load a crate? I’m a bit low on cash and can’t find any good help at this hour.”
They looked at him with surprise. “What did you say?” One asked in a thick accent.
“I said I could use some help and you two are just standing there so I thought maybe you’d help a man out. The boy here is no help at all.”
“No, we are not common laborers to work loading boxes,” snarled the other. “Swine Hund.”
The first agreed with him and they walked away, cursing under their breath.
Elizabeth kept her head down stifling a nervous laugh. “I cannot believe that worked.”
“Never underestimate people’s willingness to avoid work. But we better be quick, they’ll be back in the neighborhood soon enough,” said Porter. “Besides, it didn’t hurt giving them a false impression of us. They didn’t get a good look at you and will assume you’re a boy because I just said so—so we are not who they are looking for.”
They crept back into the warehouse and warily hurried to the basement. Mr. Methuselah’s crate was still there, looking undisturbed. Rats remained the only companions.
Giving it a shove, Porter said, “This thing is heavier than it looks. I’m pretty sure he has more coin if you know what I’m saying. Let’s see if we can’t find a hand truck of some kind.”
They glanced around the darkened corridor until Elizabeth found a cart. Struggling, they were able to put the crate upon the cart and wheel it to the stairs.
“Now what?” asked Elizabeth. “Are you all right in there Mr. Methuselah?”
A muffled thump, thump from inside was the only reply.
“I’m going to tip you sideways and push it up the stairs,” said Porter to the crate.
Another thumping made them wait a moment. Porter stood back as the crate started vibrating and it lifted itself off the cart and floated a few inches off the ground.
Elizabeth’s eyes could not have been wider, and Porter’s teeth clicked as he slammed his gaping mouth shut.
“Maybe this is the strangest night I’ve ever had,” he mumbled.
Though the crate was floating in the air, Porter still had to guide it up the stairs to the ground floor level. Once up, it settled back down to the ground. Elizabeth brought the cart up and they repeated the process of putting the weighty thing back on.
“How did he do that?” asked Elizabeth.
“Damned if I know. That was some sorcery, I’ll tell you what.”
They brought the crate to the outside doors and, looking about for any sign of the Knights of St. Germain and sighting none, made ready, wheeling it out the door to the wagon. They carefully put the crate in the back and threw a tarp over to conceal it.
Porter shut the tail gate and untied the reins of the mules. “Let’s get going before we push our luck too hard.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”
“I don’t, we were blessed, but blessings only get a man so far and the rest is up to you.”
Porter had just joined Elizabeth on the seat when a voice called out in a light Irish brogue. “Hold on there.” A man revealed himself from the shadows. “I’d like a word with you.”
“Can’t, busy,” answered Porter gruffly, as he whipped the reins. He wheeled the wagon about to head back to the train station, but the man stood in the road blocking them.
The Irish stranger was dressed smartly in the latest fashion with a pin striped suit, fancy wide brimmed hat, and an ivory walking stick, a long black cloak covered his shoulders like a cape. “I need to talk to you, and you need to listen,” he said.
“You got nothing I need or want to hear,” answered Porter with a snarl. “Kindly move out of the way, Irish.”
The Irish stranger held out what looked like a pocket watch, but it wasn’t. Elizabeth made out a small crystal attached to the gold chain, it spun and turned like a pendulum. The tiny thing swung unnaturally toward them with some momentum.
“It seems we do have business,” answered the stranger with menace. “You have property belonging to me, I have divined that it is indeed here, in your wagon.”
“Like hell,” answered Porter. He cocked a six-gun inside his coat.
“Brothers,” called the stranger. Several pairs of the Knights of St. Germain appeared from the alleys and surrounding streets. Elizabeth counted a dozen and guessed more were on the way.
“Get your piece ready, Liz. Scattergun is best. Keep low and behind me,” Porter whispered.
She nodded and clambered over the buckboard to take cover behind Porter with the crate behind her.
“No need for alarm now,” said the stranger. “I am quite willing to make you a most generous offer. Walk away and leave the wagon its contents and the girl to me.”
“And?” barked Porter, surreptitiously cocking a second pistol in his coat.
“And, I’ll let you live,” answered the stranger, signaling his men in with a wave of his darkly clad arms. Like a tidal response, the dark Knights of St. Germain drifted closer with an inaudible shuffle.
We are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is our only anchor. — Bram Stoker
9. Trampled Underfoot
Men closed in all around them, like deep waters rushing up to drown Elizabeth like the pharaoh and his charioteer army.
“What do we do?” whispered Elizabeth.
“Say your prayers and keep low,” grunted Porter softly.
Elizabeth counted at least nine men surrounding them not counting their insidious and arrogant leader. Several hung back as if on lookout. She did not see the blinded Klaus, his brother, or the other two she had overheard when her father’s home burned down, and this caused concern in the sense that there must be a lot more of the Knights of St. Germain in the city looking for her than she initially guessed. They all were dressed in fine dark clothing and wore pistols at their belts, a few even had sabers. They looked malicious and ready to attack, even hungry, hoping for such a confrontation despite their Irish leader’s admonition for her and Porter to simply walk away.
Porter, as usual, was undeterred. “I don’t care to do business with a man I don’t know the name of,” said Porter, with more than a hint of disdain.
The stranger stepped closer and looked Porter in the eye. “I have had many names in my time, but for now you may know me as the Count of St. Germain, and these,” he signaled to his approaching men, “are my Knights. They are more than ready to shoot you and your companion down, if you stand in the way of what is mine any longer.”
Porter let out a sinister chuckle.
“What is so funny?” snarled one of the Knights.
“Kinda funny how much folks think threats might work on a man like me,” said Porter. “How about I make you a deal, Irish.”
The Count frowned but beckoned with his hand holding the ivory walking stick for Porter to continue.
“I pass on by, as I was already going to do, and I let you and your boys live another day.”
“We outnumber you three to one,” said one of the Knights.
“Throw down your guns!” ordered another.
The Count shook his head. “Must we do this the hard way?”
“I don’t drop my guns,” Porter shook his head, “but I’ll cut you a deal on the business end.”
“Business end?” asked a Knight, confused at the American terminology.
“Take them!” cried the Count.
Lightning does strike twice.
Porter drew his two pistols and shot the Count square in the chest before aiming at the nearest pair of Knights and shooting each of them in turn with flawless precision.
Elizabeth saw the look of horror and surprise on the Count’s face as blood jetted from his white shirt and he fell backward into the dust.
Porter turned his attentions to more of the Knights, shooting bowlers off heads or vice versa. The remaining Knights returned fire in kind.
The bleak twilight erupted in the thunder of guns.
Parts of the buckboard splintered and flew away as whistling bullets struck on both sides of Elizabeth right behind Porter.
“Stay low!” shouted Porter.
Elizabeth blasted twice from the shot gun, but never knew if she hit anyone.
The Knights returned fire but ran for cover at the same time, as Porter’s shots had been deadly for the first few rounds. Several Knights lay on the ground, as did the Count with two gaping wounds in the dead center of his chest.
Porter fired more rounds from his right-handed pistol then dropped it to Elizabeth in the back as he took the reins and took control of the panicked mules. “Reload!”
A Knight charged the wagon with a saber. Porter kicked him in the teeth, sending the man flying backward.
The wagon raced down the street but faltered and dragged to the edge of the lane as one of the mules collapsed.
Porter leapt down, drew his Bowie, and cut away the harness from the dying animal.
“Liz! Gimme the scattergun!”
She tossed the shotgun to Porter. He caught it in an instant.
“It’s empty!” screamed Elizabeth.
Porter grimaced in dismay.
A Knight lunged but took the butt stock in the face as Porter swung the shotgun like a club.
Reloading from a pocketful of shells, Porter blasted two rounds at closing Knights.
“Liz! Take the reins! Let’s git!”
Elizabeth took the reins and whipped the lone mule to a dead run, which was not nearly as fast as she would have hoped. She decided to turn a corner to better escape the Knights.
Porter jumped in the back and shot two more rounds at the Knights who now stayed well behind cover.
Elizabeth looked back and saw at least five men lying in the street. One of them stood up. It couldn’t be possible! It was the Count! But she had seen him take two shots to the chest! She saw the blood spray from his heart and lungs. He had fallen backward from the force. But he was standing! He was calling after them and his men to pursue her!
“Wheat! That don’t happen every day.” Porter took a shot at the Count who stumbled but got back up and continued toward them.
She gasped to see the Count running after them. He had lost his hat and his white shirt was a bloody red mess, but he was running with a fiendish grimace upon his face!
Porter took a couple more shots at the foe until they turned around the block. He dropped down beside Elizabeth and took the reins, whipping the mule to quicken their pace.
“Are you all right,” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m none the worse for wear. You?”
“I was behind you.”
“Safest place to be.” He glanced over his shoulder at their pursuit.
“How did they miss you? They did miss you, didn’t they?”
“Oh yeah, I’m not hit. I’m fine, if not a little winded from jumping down and back up on a moving wagon, been awhile since I done that.”
Elizabeth looked at the buckboard again. Even in the shadowy moonlight there was no hiding that it was peppered with bullet holes everywhere except where Porter sat.
“You ever going to explain that?” she asked.
“When we ain’t on the run,” he answered, whipping the reins on the lone mule.
They raced through the thoroughfares and back alleys, every which route Porter decided on a whim to speed their way back to the train station and away from the Count and his men.
“I looked back and saw the Count rise after you shot him,” said Elizabeth, hoping for an explanation.
“Yep, I admitted this might be the most fantastical night of my life earlier.”
“Do you think you just winged him?”
“Oh no, he got them square in the chest. He is something else all right. Something I’m hoping you can get Mr. Methuselah to tell us about later. I’m sure we’ll tangle again.”
“Well, I have to ask, is he like you? You seem immune to being shot.”
Porter laughed. “Naw, I’m nothing like that Irish feller, whoever he is. I just didn’t get hit!”
Elizabeth pondered for a moment at the mysterious new things that had come into her life this night, the revelations from her father about her mother, skeletal Mr. Methuselah and his powers of levitation, Porter Rockwell, and this Count of St. Germain and his killer Knights. “I will do this service as I have promised, but Mr. Methuselah has a lot to answer for if we get on the train.”
“If?”
“We have a long way to go yet, don’t we?”
“Another mile or so,” answered Porter. “Why?”
“They’re coming,” said Elizabeth. She pointed behind to the dark riders coming like a pack of howling, ravening wolves.
“Then I suppose we had best make them feel real welcome. Reload the scattergun for me, soon enough I’ll be tossing some more lead downwind.”
“Are you always this nonchalant about being shot at?”
“Heh, I’m always being shot at,” he answered, full of mirth.
Who does not understand should either learn, or be silent. — John Dee
10. Traveling Trainside Blues
Elizabeth could see at least five men on horseback swiftly gaining on them through the black cloaked alleys. Dawn reddened in the east and played tricks on the eyes.
Porter sounded like he could use such to his advantage. “We’ll have to make do as best we can. Liz, take the reins, keep us a going straight. I got an idea.”
