black falcon 2 part 2 the man who liked women

 

2 the man who liked women Part 2

 

Luke read contour lines on a map well enough. The railway line was graded as far as possible, made flat, for the most economical use of the coal to fire the engine; but inevitably there were some changes of gradient. The detonators which had stopped the train had been set off just over the highest point on the line, where the driver’s whole attention would be on stopping before the weight of the train coming behind him had a chance of forcing him forwards.  Which meant that the caboose was out of sight of the engine. A vicious thug like Fillies would have no hesitation in blasting the guard; indeed, the guard and the extra man had been found beside the line.

Once uncoupled, the caboose would travel down the incline, and having the momentum of its own weight and the weight of the gold, would likely continue a fair way onto the flat, and even up the slight incline going the other way. It would take a cool hand to wait until it had gone as far as possible before throwing the brake, so it did not go back to the lowest point on the rail again, where a search might be expected to take place, if anyone thought of it running downhill. Very few people understood the principles of momentum.

Without doing any calculations, hard without more specific data, Luke had made an educated guess where the caboose might have fetched up.  Here, if he were Fillies, he would offload the gold, in a methodical manner into the woodland which covered most of Oregon, and any other goods of value, and set charges, well tamped, to cut the bogies in strategic places, which should break up the wooden structure of the van as well. Tossed into thick undergrowth in pieces, the destroyed caboose might never be found; and the boards would, eventually, rot. Of course, Fillies might had burned the wooden upper part, but being treated with tar, this would give off enough smoke to attract interest. No, scattered it would be. He might even have used the boards to build somewhere to hide the gold, covered in earth and moss until he was ready to collect it. Luke would have done so; after all, that much gold was not easy to carry any great distance. It would take an engineer to re-use the wheels of the caboose to build a cart, and to use as block and tackle as a rough crane to lift the gold.  But then, Luke had been reared to look at any solution which made life easier; and he was not a stranger to mathematics and engineering concepts. He doubted, however, that Fillies would know where to start. If he was wrong, then the man might take the gold further, but not by much. Old tree roots militated against too easy a passage. A native travois would work better.

However,  there was a small settlement in a clearing in the forest, and the stage coach would go through it. If Fillies was holed up there, and if they got the newspapers, it would be a good place for him to make the acquaintance of the charming Jane Brandon, and hope to make the more personal and intimate acquaintance with her inheritance.

There were a lot of ifs in that plan; but sooner or later, Fillies would hear of Jane Brandon, and would head for Pendleton.

In the meantime, it made sense to travel as if he was Jane, and hope to surprise Fillies somewhere near his base. What was annoying was having to leave his horse; but it could not be helped. Luke doubted that he could ride side-saddle for any distance, and riding astride might show up any male mannerisms. Blackwind could stay in the livery stables. And Tommy had permission to exercise him – if he could stay on.

Whimsically, Luke wondered if Tommy could stay on, and he smiled to himself at the thought of the youngster’s likely determination to do so. He had won the use of Blackwind at Tommy’s age by doing just that, when the creature was an unbroken colt. His father had said he might have the colt, if he could break it to ride.

Blackwind and Luke were old friends, and understood each other. And it was understood that Luke needed a good horse to make his own way, as his older brother, Daniel, would inherit the ranch.

Luke remembered that a lady never yawns in public, and swallowed the yawn, dabbing at his delicate lips with his lace-trimmed handkerchief.

It was going to be hard to hide the growth of stubble on so long a journey, but at least he could lower the veil, as if for privacy, and moreover, it was quite dark within the coach.

 

Luke found himself with two travelling companions. One was a matronly woman; the other a gruff and taciturn homesteader.

“Going far?” asked Luke.

“Only to the next stop, my dearie,” said the lady. “Pore young thing! A shame you have to travel alone! I’m Martha McClarron.”

“I am sure I can manage well enough,” said Luke.

“You’re that widder-woman in the paper,” grunted the farmer.

“Oh! I hate how the press seize on any small story!”  Luke dabbed delicately at his eyes with the frivolous confection of lace and linen purported to be a lady’s handkerchief.

“I never heard of no Thomas Brandon in Pendleton, and I come from there,” said the farmer, suspiciously.

“Poor Tom, he was always something of a recluse,” said Luke. “I doubt he spent much time in town.”

The farmer sniffed.

Well, he was going to be a fun companion all the way to Pendleton.

 

Luke hated every moment of the journey. He disliked being on the inside of the wagon, he hated the proximity of the other people, one garrulous woman of uncertain years, who appeared to have a budget of news she thought of as interesting to everyone else; and a taciturn, suspicious farmer who said nothing, and watched Luke narrowly. Luke did his best to doze in his corner of the bumpy carriage.

“If I ever meet anyone who says they travel for pleasure, I’ll call them a liar,” he muttered, when jerked awake, and having to hang on to his bonnet which was almost knocked off his head as he was thrown against the door.

“Oh, my dear, the roads are much better than when I was a girl,” said Martha. “And almost no danger of being ambushed by redskins!”

“Or Johnny Rebs,” said Luke.

“Oh! What a terrible time the war was!” Martha agreed. “I’ve only heard that terrible Rebel Howl once, but it nearly stopped my heart! So help me, the only thing ever skeert me worse was when there was a panther screamed in the woods when I was a little girl, milking the cow, and bless me, how I kept the milk in the pail running in, I do not know.”

“How terrifying!” said Luke, reflecting that it probably had been.

“Well, there are more people nowadays, and mostly wild beasts keep themselves to themselves,” said Martha, comfortably. “And the same can be said about the injuns.”

Luke could reproduce the Rebel Howl; because he had practised as child, during the war, and his father had taken on a rebel deserter as a hand. He had used it to terrify an officious marshal once.

He could imitate a panther’s scream as well. His father had hired on a sufficiency of natives that meant that the young Sokolovs had learned a lot of native craft; the ranch had been a place without frontiers, though Luke could only guess how hard the years of ‘Bleeding Kansas’ had been, when his parents and those who looked to his father, Dmitro, as their ataman, or leader, fought for the rights of the blacks fleeing slavery who fetched up on the ranch. As Cossacks, they believed in freedom; ‘Kozak’ meaning free man. It gave Luke a cosmopolitan outlook.

This came in useful when, at the first stop to change horses, when the passengers might make themselves comfortable, they were joined by a black man.

Martha gave a little cry.

“Oh, dear!” she said.

“I ain’t sittin’ next to no...” the farmer finished his sentence with a derogatory word.

“I’m sure I don’t mind the colour of a man’s skin; it’s the colour of his soul which is more important to me,” said Luke, shifting closer to Martha, who also refused to sit beside a man if she had an option.

“Whar d’your folks come from, then?” sneered the farmer. “You po’ white trash as can put up with anything?”

“My mother’s English,” said Luke. “And therefore less primitive than the fools who consider the colour of a man’s skin has anything to do with what sort of a man he is. My father’s a Cossack, with all that stands for. If you look carefully, you will see that the gentleman has a dog collar, and is presumably a reverend gentleman, putting him well above an unwashed, illiterate sodbuster.”

“Have some tolerance for the farmer, sister,” murmured the black man. “William Jackson, doctor of divinity.”

The farmer subsided into sullen silence at having a black man call for tolerance towards him. Luke thought it delicious.

It was crowded for the next stage, but at least it meant that those on the crowded bench were less jolted.

Martha left them on the next stage, and Luke took the opportunity to swiftly shave his upper lip and chin, and re-apply makeup, taking a private room in which to eat.

There were two passengers taken up. First was a drummer of fancy goods, mostly such metal goods of a delicate nature which were hard to make or come by, like scissors of all kinds, thimbles, fine needles, lengths of chain for jewellery and watch-fobs, folding knives, and tableware. Second was a dapper man with too many fobs on the chain across his fancy brocade vest, and too many rings to be a gentleman.

Luke marked him down as a professional gamester, who might, or might not be dangerous with the single pearl-handled revolver he wore. Just because it was a thing of beauty did not make him less dangerous; Luke also had pearl-handled revolvers. He liked the feel of them in his hand, and considered that the smooth mother-of-pearl assisted a fast-draw. Moreover, it felt warm and organic, and he liked that.

“Hamilton Burd,” said the drummer. His southern accent was slight, but apparent. “Pleased to make the acquaintance of y’all. Ma’am, can I interest you in any fine metal goods? Any size of scissors you could name, thimbles, needles, whatever takes your fancy. Needlecases with fine metal covers, chased, inscribed....”

“I’ve all I need, thank you,” said Luke. He carried his hussif in plain view, rather than tucked away in his saddle bags as he usually carried it, on a set of chains, as country ladies still wore such things, a pair of fine scissors, a folding knife, a pincushion set inside horn, which he had carved himself, and a darning mushroom, which he had also carved himself, the handle being hollow to hold needles on a sheet of rolled flannel, the end unscrewing to become a thimble, should he need one. He was more accustomed to use a leatherworker’s palm, which fit over the thumb and middle finger with a dimpled tin inset in it for pushing leather needles, with their triangular ends, through heavy leather, to effect mends to tack. That, however, was not on display.

“My name is Charles Dance,” said the dapper man. “I am a businessman.”

“And here was me thinking you were a nobleman,” said Luke, seeming to admire the man’s style.

“Oh, really?” said Dance, preening, and twirling his curled moustache. Luke thought it looked ridiculous.

“Yes, I thought you might be a Knave of the Cards,” said Luke, simpering.

An ugly look crossed the face of Dance; it might not be a general term for a card sharper, but the inference was clear.

“Dames don’t know nutt’n about a man’s recreation,” he said.

“Oh, well, of course, you’re so right,” said Luke. “I just read warnings about men who seem to be too good to be true.”

“Well, now, suppose I teach you how to play,” said Dance. “Can I cut anyone in?”

“You have to be kidding,” growled the farmer. “Missus, I don’t take to you, but don’t you play with his sort.”

“Cards are the devil’s handbook,” said the preacher.

“I... uh, I don’t gamble,” said the drummer.

“Just you and me, then, Mr. Dance,” said Luke, brightly.

It passed the time on a dull journey, and they used the drummer’s sample box as a card table.

The next stage was coming up in an hour or two, and Luke was seven hundred pounds up on the card sharper, having taken both his ground bait and then noted his methods of cheating.

There needed to be a way out, however, as the man had several cards up his sleeve. Luke fumbled putting an ace in his tight female sleeve.

“Hey! You can’t do that,” said Dance.

“Oh, I thought you were teaching me the rules, so it must be legal,” said Luke, opening his fine sea-blue eyes wide with dissembled innocence. “And as you have the ace, king, and queen of spades in your sleeve, I thought it must be quite in order.”

The farmer grabbed Dance’s arm, and shook out the cards.

“I want my money back!” said the sharp.

“Why? I won using your rules,” said Luke.

“Sometimes, brother, you have to pay for an education,” said the Reverend Jackson. His dark eyes were laughing.  “Now, I’m sure the lady will put some of her new-gained wealth towards charity.”

“Oh, I probably shall, reverend,” said Luke. “When I find a charity which suits me.” He stowed the money very carefully inside the inside pocket of the ridiculous little jacket which he wore. He had needed to take it apart and steam the seams to put it back together again, being rather broad across the back; and it hid where he had opened the back seam of his gown for the same reason, and inserted a flap of plain black. And if the stitches of the jacket were not so fine as those of the tailor who had made them, and if they had bias-cut strips from a piece of plain black linen down them to make a seam, it would do for a few days.