the whole bloody-damn-hell world?
“Kill Poe,” Tam had agreed. “Kill Pratt. Kill them all, if I have to.”
Sam Clemens had scowled and looked uncomfortable. Good old Sam Clemens, rugged Missouri
hard-arse that he was, he was still a bit of an innocent, a bit of an old
maiden auntie. “If you have to,”
he had agreed reluctantly. “But
I’d prefer that you steal the ships yourself first, or destroy them.”
Then he’d ridden off with His Mormon Majesty Brigham Young
and the nasty dwarf and the Mexicans, without so much as a please,
O’Shaughnessy or a thank you,
friend Tamerlane, for coming to rescue me from the godawful Danites who wanted
to shoot me dead . Tam understood that the man had to go show the people of the
Great Salt Lake City that he was alive and an innocent man, but still, manners
were manners.
“Why the make-up?” Tam asked. “Are we going dancing, and no one’s told me? And here I left me best frock behind on
the Jim Smiley .”
The wheelhouse of the steam-truck they’d stolen from the
Danites had two long benches that could have fit four men each in a pinch. Richard Burton sat on the front bench,
behind the steering-wheel, and drove, his sword across his lap and Roxie Snow
beside him. The truck rattled and
bounced along a rutted rocky road up and down low hills, a beam of light shot
out by its electricks splitting the night in front of it. Burton held tight to
the wheel, and the others held tight to the benches’ arms.
Edgar Allen Poe sat with Tam on the second bench and worked,
mostly one-handed, at affixing a false nose to his face with spirit gum. Tam watched the others and tried to be
sneaky about the sips of whisky he was taking from the bottle in his coat
pocket. He’d borrowed the liquor
from the galley of that great dead shrieking behemoth the Liahona , and if anyone minded, to hell with them.
He deserved a little drink for his efforts (what man
doesn’t? but especially clever, dogged Tamerlane O’Shaughnessy), and besides,
the alcohol helped dull the throbbing pain in his arm, leg and ear. He’d been having a rough time of it,
these last few days.
“I’m impressed that you can do it without a mirror,” Roxie
smiled.
“I’ve spent long hours carefully observing women to learn
their secrets,” Poe said. “Though
I have not yet mastered the legendary art of painting my lips using my cleavage
instead of my hands.”
Tam laughed sharply. He sort of liked Poe. He’d
miss the man, if he had to kill him. He patted the Hushers to be sure he still had them both, and checked the
stiletto against his forearm. Whatever came, he was ready. He’d just have to be sure to take Poe by surprise—the man had
taken back his scarabs of death and was carrying them in his coat, now. Tam didn’t want to get crosswise with
those nasty little Creation-disassembling buggers.
“Maybe you ought to poke into that fearsome huge box the Liahona’s boys humped into the cargo bay of this truck for
you, Mr. Poe,” he suggested. “Maybe
there’s a spare cleavage in there that you could spirit gum onto your knobby
little torso and use to put on your lipstick.”
There, that’d teach the ugly southerner that he had to keep
an eye on Tam O’Shaughnessy, that the Irishman was not a man to be slighted or
ignored. Poe would have to know
now that he was being watched with an eagle eye.
But Poe just looked at Tam with a dry stare as he squeezed
the nose into place. “ Knobby is a such a pedestrian word for a body this ravaged
by time and illness, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.” He coughed several times, hard, to make his point. At least this time he didn’t hack up
big gobs of blood. “I had expected
better from an Irishman. Really,
where is that Gift of Gab so famously proprietary of the sons of Eire?”
“I never kissed the Blarney Stone,” Tam complained. “I’m a Dublin lad. Never even been to County
“Kill Poe,” Tam had agreed. “Kill Pratt. Kill them all, if I have to.”
Sam Clemens had scowled and looked uncomfortable. Good old Sam Clemens, rugged Missouri
hard-arse that he was, he was still a bit of an innocent, a bit of an old
maiden auntie. “If you have to,”
he had agreed reluctantly. “But
I’d prefer that you steal the ships yourself first, or destroy them.”
Then he’d ridden off with His Mormon Majesty Brigham Young
and the nasty dwarf and the Mexicans, without so much as a please,
O’Shaughnessy or a thank you,
friend Tamerlane, for coming to rescue me from the godawful Danites who wanted
to shoot me dead . Tam understood that the man had to go show the people of the
Great Salt Lake City that he was alive and an innocent man, but still, manners
were manners.
“Why the make-up?” Tam asked. “Are we going dancing, and no one’s told me? And here I left me best frock behind on
the Jim Smiley .”
The wheelhouse of the steam-truck they’d stolen from the
Danites had two long benches that could have fit four men each in a pinch. Richard Burton sat on the front bench,
behind the steering-wheel, and drove, his sword across his lap and Roxie Snow
beside him. The truck rattled and
bounced along a rutted rocky road up and down low hills, a beam of light shot
out by its electricks splitting the night in front of it. Burton held tight to
the wheel, and the others held tight to the benches’ arms.
Edgar Allen Poe sat with Tam on the second bench and worked,
mostly one-handed, at affixing a false nose to his face with spirit gum. Tam watched the others and tried to be
sneaky about the sips of whisky he was taking from the bottle in his coat
pocket. He’d borrowed the liquor
from the galley of that great dead shrieking behemoth the Liahona , and if anyone minded, to hell with them.
He deserved a little drink for his efforts (what man
doesn’t? but especially clever, dogged Tamerlane O’Shaughnessy), and besides,
the alcohol helped dull the throbbing pain in his arm, leg and ear. He’d been having a rough time of it,
these last few days.
“I’m impressed that you can do it without a mirror,” Roxie
smiled.
“I’ve spent long hours carefully observing women to learn
their secrets,” Poe said. “Though
I have not yet mastered the legendary art of painting my lips using my cleavage
instead of my hands.”
Tam laughed sharply. He sort of liked Poe. He’d
miss the man, if he had to kill him. He patted the Hushers to be sure he still had them both, and checked the
stiletto against his forearm. Whatever came, he was ready. He’d just have to be sure to take Poe by surprise—the man had
taken back his scarabs of death and was carrying them in his coat, now. Tam didn’t want to get crosswise with
those nasty little Creation-disassembling buggers.
“Maybe you ought to poke into that fearsome huge box the Liahona’s boys humped into the cargo bay of this truck for
you, Mr. Poe,” he suggested. “Maybe
there’s a spare cleavage in there that you could spirit gum onto your knobby
little torso and use to put on your lipstick.”
There, that’d teach the ugly southerner that he had to keep
an eye on Tam O’Shaughnessy, that the Irishman was not a man to be slighted or
ignored. Poe would have to know
now that he was being watched with an eagle eye.
But Poe just looked at Tam with a dry stare as he squeezed
the nose into place. “ Knobby is a such a pedestrian word for a body this ravaged
by time and illness, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.” He coughed several times, hard, to make his point. At least this time he didn’t hack up
big gobs of blood. “I had expected
better from an Irishman. Really,
where is that Gift of Gab so famously proprietary of the sons of Eire?”
“I never kissed the Blarney Stone,” Tam complained. “I’m a Dublin lad. Never even been to County
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