Beyond the Pale -Part 139
Hola again, dear readers!
Without further comment, 'cause I'm busy with many things, here is the latest installment.
*****
Jenning’s Tannery Makes a Killing: Owner Seeks Unknown Heroes
A stampede that threatened the lives and safety of Salt Lake City residents yesterday ended without undue bloodshed thanks to the timely intervention of three individuals who have yet to be identified or to come forward. Witnesses say that several cattle cars containing a small herd destined for a local slaughterhouse literally exploded under the impact of a panic. No one has been able to determine the cause of the panic, which occurred moments after the passengers began to disembark.
The three unlikely heroes were two men, one of whom was described as being dressed as a cowboy, and the other clad in a long black duster, and a young woman dressed in men’s clothing, with long black hair. Upon seeing that the herd was panicking, they immediately sprang into action, witnesses said, targetting the two bulls that appeared to be leading the charge. Putting their own lives at risk, they threw themselves into the path of the enraged animals, and put them down.
Walter Jennings, the owner of Jennings Tannery, has taken possession of the two bull hides for a modest sum. He is sending out a public request to the three individuals to come forward in order to collect a reward that he is offering in return for their heroic self-sacrifice. Anyone with information concerning their identity is also requested to come forward. It is believed that the young woman in particular may have been injured during the fracas, and may therefore have sought medical treatment. Anyone with information can contact Mr. Jennings at his shop.
Stone snorted to himself as he flipped through the rest of the “Deseret News.” Still, he decided he ought to tell Victoria and Monroe about this. Monroe in particular would be strapped for money right about now, since he had been stripped of most of his possessions after being sentenced in Carver’s Landing. Victoria was less of a concern for now, since she was ultimately Stone’s responsibility until he brought her to Denver. After that, she would be the Agency’s problem. It wouldn’t be fair to withhold this particular bit of information from them. Blanton would be put out at being left out of the article, he thought with some amusement. Insult to injury.
He pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket to check the time. Mullwood had told him to come by at noon, when the shop would be closed to most customers. It was just past eleven thirty now, which meant he had plenty of time to get there. He stood up, stretching out his six-foot-three frame for what felt like the first time in weeks. Train travel, as cramped as it was, didn’t agree with him, especially after the injuries he’d sustained in the desert. The injuries were almost healed over by now, but just the memory of the gaping maw of the Rattler coming out of the sand made him shudder in revulsion. He’d almost reconsidered coming to Salt Lake City when he’d heard that the smaller, meaner cousins of the Mojave Rattlers lurked in the salt flats, but common sense had prevailed.
He walked along First South Street, the thick cloud of soot and smoke that covered the city casting a pall on his mood. He noted a few people wearing masks fitted over their noses and mouths, but there were far fewer here than in the Junkyard, and he saw also that those who wore masks were almost all Gentiles. The Mormons appeared to be unaffected by the unclean air of the city, as though their faith somehow protected them from the lung rot that plagued the area. He turned left down Fifth West Street, the imposing Mormon Temple rising like a great stone giant to his right. He had read so many reports about Salt Lake City that it felt as though he knew it as well as his own home, except that this city had a decidedly alien feel to it, as though no one really belonged there, save perhaps for the Mormons themselves.
Across the street from the Restful Arms he found a small shop half-hidden between two buildings. Carefully stencilled in a half-circle in gold-leaf paint on the grimy windows were the words “Warwick’s Books and Manuscripts.” He ducked through the front door, from which dark green paint was peeling off in long scripts, and a musical chiming of tiny bells accompanied his entrance. A stout older woman was sitting hunched behind a low table, busy writing in a large ledger in careful, cramped writing with inkstained fingers. She didn’t look up from her work until he went up to her and cleared his throat expectantly.
“May I help you?” she had the voice of someone who has spent a lifetime smoking, or a few years living in Salt Lake City.
“I’m looking for Sydney Warwick. I have an appointment.”
“Mr. Warwick is out at the moment. What’s your name?”
“Stone. I believe Mr. Mullwood may have told you that I’m expected.”
She gazed at him with flat grey eyes that told him she had his measure and wasn’t particularly impressed. Whoever he was, she’d seen his type before and would see it many times again. He got the impression that she wasn’t overly fond of Mr. Mullwood’s business associates. Nonetheless, with a long-suffering look she heaved herself out of her chair and beckoned to him.
“Come with me, please. They’ll be with you shortly, as soon as they’re back. You can go up.” She showed him to a rickety ladder that led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. “Have a seat wherever you can find one.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her smirk before she turned her back on him. Shrugging, he went up the ladder, feeling slightly foolish, and found himself in a low-ceilinged garret. He ducked his head so as not to knock himself out against the low-lying beams, and eventually found a wooden chair amidst piles of books, papers, and rolled parchments. While he waited he amused himself by leafing through what appeared to be an early edition of Hoyle’s Book of Games and trying to figure out the arcana that was supposedly hidden between the lines of the book.
“Find anything interesting?”
Stone jumped involuntarily. Mike Mullwood was standing on one of the higher rungs of the ladder, a smug expression on his face. He clambered up the rest of the way, then turned to give a hand up to another man not much taller than he, but who was much stouter. So stout, in fact, that he looked a little bit like a turnip, Stone thought uncharitably. He got up, very nearly cracked his skull on the ceiling, then shook both men’s hands as Mullwood introduced Sydney Warwick. They got down to business immediately.
“You’re here for a package, yes?”
“Among other things,” Stone agreed, thinking of his promise to Courvoisier.
Warwick arched an eyebrow at him. “Please elaborate. That sort of statement usually comes with some sort of surprise, and surprises are not our allies in this business.”
Briefly Stone outlined what had happened during the eventful voyage from Fort 51 to Salt Lake City. He felt very little need to go into what had transpired before, since it had little to no bearing on the current situation. He was further aided in keeping his narrative brief by the fact that he knew that, as operatives, Warwick and Mullwood would both understand him when he spoke of certain events and people without needing an elaborate explanation. When he’d finished, Warwick looked pensive, steepling sausage-like fingers above his paunch.
“I wonder where Courvoisier heard the name Allman,” he mused. “It can’t be connected to the Revenant, as far as I can tell.”
“No?”
Warwick shook his head. “He’s a professor at the Deseret College of Engineering. Specializes in photography. He’s done some excellent work for the Agency in the past, not that he necessarily knows it. You should pay him a visit while you’re in town, as he’ll be able to tell you exactly what it is you’re meant to recover.”
Stone frowned. “What do you mean, recover?”
“The photographic plates that Samuel presumably told you about?”
Stone got the sinking feeling that once again his superiors had left out a few crucial details. “I was told that Smith has them.”
Warwick grimaced. “Yes, well, that’s the problem. Nevada Smith hasn’t been seen or heard from in over two months.”
*****
Without further comment, 'cause I'm busy with many things, here is the latest installment.
*****
Jenning’s Tannery Makes a Killing: Owner Seeks Unknown Heroes
A stampede that threatened the lives and safety of Salt Lake City residents yesterday ended without undue bloodshed thanks to the timely intervention of three individuals who have yet to be identified or to come forward. Witnesses say that several cattle cars containing a small herd destined for a local slaughterhouse literally exploded under the impact of a panic. No one has been able to determine the cause of the panic, which occurred moments after the passengers began to disembark.
The three unlikely heroes were two men, one of whom was described as being dressed as a cowboy, and the other clad in a long black duster, and a young woman dressed in men’s clothing, with long black hair. Upon seeing that the herd was panicking, they immediately sprang into action, witnesses said, targetting the two bulls that appeared to be leading the charge. Putting their own lives at risk, they threw themselves into the path of the enraged animals, and put them down.
Walter Jennings, the owner of Jennings Tannery, has taken possession of the two bull hides for a modest sum. He is sending out a public request to the three individuals to come forward in order to collect a reward that he is offering in return for their heroic self-sacrifice. Anyone with information concerning their identity is also requested to come forward. It is believed that the young woman in particular may have been injured during the fracas, and may therefore have sought medical treatment. Anyone with information can contact Mr. Jennings at his shop.
Stone snorted to himself as he flipped through the rest of the “Deseret News.” Still, he decided he ought to tell Victoria and Monroe about this. Monroe in particular would be strapped for money right about now, since he had been stripped of most of his possessions after being sentenced in Carver’s Landing. Victoria was less of a concern for now, since she was ultimately Stone’s responsibility until he brought her to Denver. After that, she would be the Agency’s problem. It wouldn’t be fair to withhold this particular bit of information from them. Blanton would be put out at being left out of the article, he thought with some amusement. Insult to injury.
He pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket to check the time. Mullwood had told him to come by at noon, when the shop would be closed to most customers. It was just past eleven thirty now, which meant he had plenty of time to get there. He stood up, stretching out his six-foot-three frame for what felt like the first time in weeks. Train travel, as cramped as it was, didn’t agree with him, especially after the injuries he’d sustained in the desert. The injuries were almost healed over by now, but just the memory of the gaping maw of the Rattler coming out of the sand made him shudder in revulsion. He’d almost reconsidered coming to Salt Lake City when he’d heard that the smaller, meaner cousins of the Mojave Rattlers lurked in the salt flats, but common sense had prevailed.
He walked along First South Street, the thick cloud of soot and smoke that covered the city casting a pall on his mood. He noted a few people wearing masks fitted over their noses and mouths, but there were far fewer here than in the Junkyard, and he saw also that those who wore masks were almost all Gentiles. The Mormons appeared to be unaffected by the unclean air of the city, as though their faith somehow protected them from the lung rot that plagued the area. He turned left down Fifth West Street, the imposing Mormon Temple rising like a great stone giant to his right. He had read so many reports about Salt Lake City that it felt as though he knew it as well as his own home, except that this city had a decidedly alien feel to it, as though no one really belonged there, save perhaps for the Mormons themselves.
Across the street from the Restful Arms he found a small shop half-hidden between two buildings. Carefully stencilled in a half-circle in gold-leaf paint on the grimy windows were the words “Warwick’s Books and Manuscripts.” He ducked through the front door, from which dark green paint was peeling off in long scripts, and a musical chiming of tiny bells accompanied his entrance. A stout older woman was sitting hunched behind a low table, busy writing in a large ledger in careful, cramped writing with inkstained fingers. She didn’t look up from her work until he went up to her and cleared his throat expectantly.
“May I help you?” she had the voice of someone who has spent a lifetime smoking, or a few years living in Salt Lake City.
“I’m looking for Sydney Warwick. I have an appointment.”
“Mr. Warwick is out at the moment. What’s your name?”
“Stone. I believe Mr. Mullwood may have told you that I’m expected.”
She gazed at him with flat grey eyes that told him she had his measure and wasn’t particularly impressed. Whoever he was, she’d seen his type before and would see it many times again. He got the impression that she wasn’t overly fond of Mr. Mullwood’s business associates. Nonetheless, with a long-suffering look she heaved herself out of her chair and beckoned to him.
“Come with me, please. They’ll be with you shortly, as soon as they’re back. You can go up.” She showed him to a rickety ladder that led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. “Have a seat wherever you can find one.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her smirk before she turned her back on him. Shrugging, he went up the ladder, feeling slightly foolish, and found himself in a low-ceilinged garret. He ducked his head so as not to knock himself out against the low-lying beams, and eventually found a wooden chair amidst piles of books, papers, and rolled parchments. While he waited he amused himself by leafing through what appeared to be an early edition of Hoyle’s Book of Games and trying to figure out the arcana that was supposedly hidden between the lines of the book.
“Find anything interesting?”
Stone jumped involuntarily. Mike Mullwood was standing on one of the higher rungs of the ladder, a smug expression on his face. He clambered up the rest of the way, then turned to give a hand up to another man not much taller than he, but who was much stouter. So stout, in fact, that he looked a little bit like a turnip, Stone thought uncharitably. He got up, very nearly cracked his skull on the ceiling, then shook both men’s hands as Mullwood introduced Sydney Warwick. They got down to business immediately.
“You’re here for a package, yes?”
“Among other things,” Stone agreed, thinking of his promise to Courvoisier.
Warwick arched an eyebrow at him. “Please elaborate. That sort of statement usually comes with some sort of surprise, and surprises are not our allies in this business.”
Briefly Stone outlined what had happened during the eventful voyage from Fort 51 to Salt Lake City. He felt very little need to go into what had transpired before, since it had little to no bearing on the current situation. He was further aided in keeping his narrative brief by the fact that he knew that, as operatives, Warwick and Mullwood would both understand him when he spoke of certain events and people without needing an elaborate explanation. When he’d finished, Warwick looked pensive, steepling sausage-like fingers above his paunch.
“I wonder where Courvoisier heard the name Allman,” he mused. “It can’t be connected to the Revenant, as far as I can tell.”
“No?”
Warwick shook his head. “He’s a professor at the Deseret College of Engineering. Specializes in photography. He’s done some excellent work for the Agency in the past, not that he necessarily knows it. You should pay him a visit while you’re in town, as he’ll be able to tell you exactly what it is you’re meant to recover.”
Stone frowned. “What do you mean, recover?”
“The photographic plates that Samuel presumably told you about?”
Stone got the sinking feeling that once again his superiors had left out a few crucial details. “I was told that Smith has them.”
Warwick grimaced. “Yes, well, that’s the problem. Nevada Smith hasn’t been seen or heard from in over two months.”
*****