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"The Clockwork Man"
"The Clockwork Man"
10/28/1883
I.
Johnny Packard rode into Blind Nag, Arizona Territory well before dawn. A gorgeous October moon hung full in the purple sky. The tiny burg was dark and silent. Blind Nag struck the Brimstone Kid as not much of a town, just a few houses astride a dirt road, with one building that served as combination post office and general store. There was a restaurant that claimed to be a saloon but which was too small to have offered a floor show or upstairs girls. Johnny headed his black stallion Terror over to a watering trough and let the animal slake his thirst before dismounting to splash his face and wipe his neck clean from the grit of the trail.
Hopping back up into the saddle, the Kid decided to head back a mile or two to where he had seen a likely spot to make camp for the next few hours. On his way here from Alkali Wells, he'd noticed a number of small farms and homesteads in the area. He guessed that Blind Nag was not so much a real town as merely a gathering spot for the locals. That suited him fine. A quiet few days here eating food cooked by someone else and hopefully finding a room for rent with a decent bed sounded like Heaven after a long ride such as he had just finished.
A young man still in his early twenties, Johnny was thin and wiry, not more than five feet four inches tall and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds at most. He had shaggy brick-red hair over a bony face, with green eyes that seemed more sullen than usual. The Kid's outfit of well-worn boots, black Levis and a red flannel shirt under an open denim vest were all stained and dusty. Holstered at his hips were matched 1873 Colt Peacemakers, but the real danger to others from this wanderer was the red metal disc tucked away in the beaded band of his Stetson, which hung down by its cord between his shoulder blades. That was the cursed Darthan token which made him the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name.
"Let's go make camp and grab us a few hours sleep, Terror," he said as he wheeled the black horse around. "Be a shame to roust these good folk from their slumbers, huh?"
Movement between two houses caught his peripheral vision. Johnny clapped his hand down around the butt of his right-hand gun but did not draw. Not at that split-second. It was an automatic reaction to him by now. In the gloom, all he could make out was the bulky silhouette of a big man moving. The Kid did not tense up, he kept breathing normally as he slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard. Lightning reflexes might be all that would save his life now. Then he inhaled audibly as he saw as a strange figure move out where it could be seen better under the stars.
It seemed to be a man in dull grey armor made of iron plates, hinged at the joints, with a cylindrical helmet whose only features were four lenses gleaming at equal spaces. The left arm ended in what looked like a shotgun barrel while the right arm ended with a pair of sharp-edged claws big enough to cut through a human wrist. As Johnny watched in complete confusion, the bizarre armored man walked stiffly across the street and disappeared around the corner of the saloon. The man moved oddly, as if drunk and trying to compensate or as if he was new to walking. Something uncanny in those clumsy steps troubled Johnny.
Only after the apparition had vanished did the Kid whistle to himself. "The Wild West, folks back East call these territories. Truth be told, the Weird West would be a more fittin' handle."
II.
He had been wearier than he had realized by the way he had slept deeply under a tree while Terror dozed nearby. It was well past noon when Johnny rode back into Blind Nag to find no one on the street. Not a door nor window open, no one walking by, not a voice to be heard. Was this a ghost town? He had once stumbled across a mining camp in the Rockies that had apparently been abandoned as completely as if by evacuation order and he felt the same uneasiness now. The Kid dismounted in front of the restaurant, tied Terror's reins to a post near the trough and checked out the plain unpainted boards which made up the structure. There was no patio or porch in front, just the wall of the building and a single three-legged stool by the door. On a plank nailed over that door were the simple words ROOMS and EAT, with no elaboration.
Rapping sharply with gloved knuckles, Johnny called out, "Hello? Anyone in thar, you got a customer!" He repeated the procedure more loudly and the door swung open the barest crack.
"Get out of this town," said a low voice with no menace in its tone but only apprehension. "Ride on while you can."
"Aw have a heart," the Kid persisted. "I got money. All's I want is a simple meal and to wash my hoss down. Open up."
In reply, a woman's face peered out to stare in all directions while seeming to ignore him. She was in her forties, handsome rather than pretty, with weather-worn skin and dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. "Did... do you see anything out there?"
"I seen a hungry cowboy and his hoss, both of 'em dusty and dirty," he snapped. "Are you in business or ain't you?"
A hand grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside a dim room with only two tables and chairs. The air was warm and stuffy. "You didn't spy anything out of the ordinary out there?" she begged.
Although he opened his mouth to start detailing the strange character he had watched before dawn, Johnny immediately thought better. There was nothing funny about the fear in this woman's voice. "I rode into town just now," he said. "All I see is empty streets and closed doors. What exactly is your ailment here?"
She backed away, wringing her hands together. A stout short figure in a heavy gingham dress with a white apron, she shook her head rather than answer out loud.
"You folks got outlaws here? Injun war parties? I know there's been some Comanche stirring up the pot not far north of here." The Kid took off his black Stetson and held it in front of him. "Mebbe I could help. I been know to settle troubles before."
"You a hired gun? Papa, you hear that?"
Limping through an open doorway on the other side of the room came an older man bent half over. He supported himself with a roughly-hewn walking stick. Only a crown of white hair around his ears kept him from being completely bald. "I heard," he said in a surprisingly vibrant voice. "What's your handle, son?"
"Packard. Johnny Packard, formerly of West Texas. Sir, I haveta say that I don't take payment for any rough play. I haveta do what my conscience bids me. Mebbe if I knew more about yer troubles here?"
The old man snorted. "Sit yourself down, son. Have a coffee. Ingrid, them beans is still hot. Fry up a double handful of bacon and cut some cornbread for our guest here."
As Johnny pulled out a chair and plopped down, he thought of checking on Terror but decided to hold off for a second. Ever since they had both been cursed, the black stallion had been acting less like a working horse and more like an equal partner. He was sure Terror was waiting right outside the door, eager for violence. As long as these people were starting to open up, Johnny figured he shouldn't interrupt.
The old man carried over a blue-white china cup and saucer, putting them down in front of Johnny along with a battered iron coffee pot. He lowered himself gingerly into the chair facing the Kid. "I'm Amos Loeffler," he announced. "Me and my missus ran this joint until she passed away three years gone. Now daughter Ingrid helps out."
Tasting the strong black coffee and liking it, Johnny chugged the cup in one gulp. As Loeffler gestured for him to help himself, the Kid refilled his cup. "Sir, I purely wish you would cut the cards and deal 'em out and get this over with. What's the problem in this town?"
But any answers were delayed again as Ingrid brought him a warm tin plate holding beans with brown sauce, strips of bacon and two squares of cornbread. The Kid's stomach rumbled embarrassingly. He yielded and dug into the food with a vengeance. All he had eaten the day before had been his final stick of beef jerky.
Watching him, the old man nodded in approval. "I believe I have heard tell of a young wanderer with red hair and two Colts, riding a big black horse, bringing death and destruction where it is deserved. Perhaps Providence has sent us the Brimstone Kid when he is most needed."
Dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin, Johnny mumbled, "Might be. Stranger things have happened."
"The farmers in this area neglect the crops and livestock, they stay locked in their houses," said Loeffler. "The townspeople don't venture outside except when they must. They don't dare."
Outside, a deep vibrant gong sounded. Loeffler and his daughter gave visible starts. "It's here."
Jumping to his feet and shoving the chair back, Johnny Packard jammed his hat back on his head. "You folks is gettin' on my nerves big time. WHAT's here?"
"The Clockwork Man."
III.
Hearing voices outside, Johnny yanked open the door and vaulted out into the main street. He found eight men and three women in unimposing clothing, assembled in a loose cluster. They were staring in mixed hatred and dread at the strange apparition that the Kid had seen the night before.
In the afternoon sunlight, the iron plates remained dull and unpolished. The armored man stood with feet braced well apart, raising the arm which ended in a rifle barrel. Standing beside him was an enormously fat man whose belly stretched the vest of his three-part suit to its limits. He was announcing in a sharp abrasive tone, "Now you will your orders receive. Tend your fields and go about your normal tasks, my friend will not molest you if you behave."
As Johnny moved into sight, the cylindrical head of the Clockwork Man spun on its axis so one of the round lenses was facing him. That's a clever trick, the Kid thought, wonder how he does that? Aloud, he called over, "Mind if I cut myself in on this game, mister?"
"You will address me as Herr Doktor, if you please!" roared the obese man. His bristling red-gold beard and long hair parted in the middle made his appearance distinctive enough to be long remembered by anyone who glimpsed him. He stood with his thumbs stuck in his vest pockets, thick legs well apart. "Doktor Gerhard Luchenbach of Vienna."
"If'n you say so. It don't make no never mind to me," the Kid replied without deference. "I must say it 'pears to me that your amigo in the flattened tin cans is givin' these good folks a hard time they don't deserve."
"Do not kill this child, Uhrmann." Doktor Luchenbach took a few steps to the side as if expecting gunplay. "He may be useful, I suspect."
Standing with his lowered hands brushing the butts of his twin Peacemakers, Johnny Packard planted his boots at shoulder width and took a deep steadying breath. "Mebbe I shouldn't give fair warning. But everybody knows you can't make armor plate that'll stop a .44 pill 'cause it'd be too heavy to dance around in. You'll feel my slugs lettin' fresh air through yore innards if yo--"
Before that word left his lips, the Kid's right hand Colt was up and blasting out five shots so closely together that they echoed as one. He had seen the rifle barrel-arm swing up toward him. From long habit, Johnny automatically hooked out his left hand gun and switched it over to his right hand while tossing the now empty Colt into his left. He was not nearly as good a shot with his left hand, but then he had never met a gunfighter who was really ambidextrous. Wearing two guns was a way to give him ten possible shots without reloading.
But the Clockwork Man had not dropped, had not even reeled back from the impacts. Dents showed in the metal over his chest. The rifle barrel remained extended at the end of an arm as steady as a metal bar. Johnny squeezed off two more shots with the fresh gun, going for the head, but then he froze in horror.
The face plate had been dislodged from the cylindrical helmet and fallen aside. There was no Human head inside, nor any place within that nightmare for a person's head to be hidden. Instead, dozens of gears and cogs were slowly turning. A central piston rose to lift the clockworks higher. The Kid had never expected this. He vaguely realized his mouth was hanging open and he closed it with an effort. The sound of the crowd muttering and whispering seemed to come from far away.
"Do not kill him, I say! Young man, put that toy away. Surely you see my Clockwork Man is not to be daunted by mere bullets." Luchenbach stroked his beard and studied the Kid. "You drew and fired with remarkable celerity and accuracy. I may find some use for you. Will you take fifty American dollars to return with me to my cottage and to discuss possible employment?"
Holstering his gun, the Brimstone Kid was at a loss for only an instant before replying, "I ain't saying no to that, Some greenbacks would suit me to the ground, mister, I mean Hair Doktor."
Behind him, Johnny heard Loeffler gasp. "Johnny! We were counting on you to protect us. Have you betrayed those who trust you?"
Turning his head over one shoulder, the young redhead frowned and kept his voice hard. "A man's gotta act in his own interests, grandpa. Being noble don't put money in yore pockets. All righty, Herr Doktor, I believe I won't be needin' much time to mull yer offer over."
An open two-horse wagon had pulled up from between two buildings. Holding the reins was a mean-looking man well over six feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds. Aside from his surly stare and greasy brown hair, his distinguishing feature was a white scar which ran from the side of his chin up his right cheek and stopped just short of his lower eyelid. Judging from the ropy raised texture of that scar, the wound had been deep.
"This runt looks like bad news ta me, Herr Doktor," growled the driver. "I heard of him on the trail, the Brimstone Kid from Texas. He's trouble."
"So are you, Michah. That is why I employ you. Young fellow, how should we address you?"
"Johnny'll do," said the Kid. He had been quietly reloading his guns and now adjusted them in the holsters. Having a weapon empty annoyed him as much as having a pebble in his boot. Johnny watched as the German scientist refastened the battered plate on to the Clockwork Man's helmet and made sure it was secure.
"If'n that don't beat all," the Kid remarked with admiration. "A mechanical man. I never heard tell of such a thing."
"Hah. I am the greatest genius alive today." The Doktor stepped back and stroke the bristling golden beard as he surveyed the Clockwork Man. "My Uhrmann here will not be my most significant achievement. See, he begins his patrol."
The armored figure turned around in a clumsy three moves and stalked off down the street. Its arms swung only slightly to keep balance. As the monster strode along, its cylinder head rotated so that the four lenses were in constant motion.
Climbing up onto the wagon next to Micah, the colorful scientist picked up a wide-brimmed high-crowned hat from the seat and tilted it back onto his golden hair. "I believe I must discuss this with my employee here. Remain in town, Johnny, I will be back soon."
IV.
As the wagon rolled away toward the north side of town, Johnny stood watching it as his heartbeat slowed to normal. It seemed somehow that dangerous situations sought him out. He felt like a magnet for the weird. The young wanderer wet his lips and was wondering what his next move would be when he heard Loeffler yelling behind him.
"Coward! Traitor!" screamed the old man. "Don't you dare set foot back in my inn. I will throw yer belongings out in the dirt where they belong." He spun on one heel and stomped back through the open doorway. Hesitating only a moment, his wife Ingrid fixed a glare of utter reproach before following him.
That look from Ingrid gave Johnny a cold pang in his chest. He was young and not as hardened as he would be in time, and the warm treatment from her had drifted cheered him. But that seemed another broken hope now. As the Kid's shoulders slumped, he was further disenheartened to witness the townsfolk quickly turn away from him too, returning to their chores.
The Kid opened his mouth to call out that he was stalling for time but he bit his tongue. For all he knew, some of the townsfolk might have sold out to this Luckenbach snake. If he explained he hoped of finding a way to get rid of this Clockwork Man, one or more them might go running to rat him out.
Johnny's spirits had seldom been lower. What to do, what to do... He headed over to the watering trough where Terror was still waiting in the shade of the porch's overhang. "You still believe in me, don't ya, amigo? Yeah, yore my compadre. Let's get my gear and go think?"
A low voice behind him said, "There is more to you than meets the eye, Mr Packard."
Johnny could not say why his hand did not drop to his gunbutt. Something in that calm, even voice reassured him. The voice was deep and controlled, with a smoothness of the well-educated. The Kid turned around without haste. "I'd like to think so, Mr...?"
"I am using the name Garrant," came the answer. He was a tall, slim man an inch or two over six feet in height. Garrant wore plain dark clothing suited to a bigger town than Blind Nag, including a long coat that reached past his knees. No sidearm was visible. The stranger had a face stern rather than handsome, with short black hair and dark deepset eyes that watched Johnny thoughtfully. "We have been following your career with great interest. You have ventured into the edges of the Midnight War."
"Have yuh now?" asked the Kid. "And who might this 'we' you mention be?"
"Let us move further down the street, where we may not be overhead." In a wide alley between buildings, where a rain barrel was the only eavesdropper, Garrant continued, "I represent a group called the Trom. We try to remain as unknown as is practical. Mr Packard, the Trom have advances in science beyond what Humans have yet to even envision. I do not carry any such items on me for reasons of secrecy."
Johnny Packard leaned back up against the side of the building. The boards against his back were hot from the sun. "I'm a-listening, sir."
Stepping in closer, Garrant said, "I have concluded that this Doktor Luchenbach has somehow obtained information from a Trom in the area. That automaton should be well beyond what even the brightest Human could devise at this time. At some point, he gained access to the notes or workshop of a Trom here in the West, and he has put that information to use."
"Tarnation. Nothin' is ever simple in my life. All right, Mr Garrant, are you gonna help me against the loco redbeard and his tin can soldier?"
"Not directly," said the Trom. "I would prefer to keep low visibility. But I will mention an invention which might be useful to you. The pulley."
After a mere second, Johnny grinned broadly. When he smiled like that, he seemed like a mere youth again. "Wallll, I'll be roped, thrown and branded!"
V.
An hour later, the ominous figure of the Clockwork Man moved stiffly back up through Blind Nag. To counter the slight uphill trend of the street, he lurched from side to side. The cylinder of the head stopped its slow rotation and the construct halted near the two-story building that served as saloon and steakhouse. Eleven men stood in his path. They held axes, pitchforks and bill-hooks and sledge hammers in their grimy hands and they stared at the Clockwork Man with furious hatred.
From within the barrel-shaped metal chest, a low whirring sounded. A tinny, flat voice said, "Return to your duties. Return to your duties," before cutting off with a click. The monster extended his right arm toward the crowd and clashed the blades on its claw hand twice to act as intimidation.
From directly overhead, the noose of a lariat dropped down to tighten perfectly around the upraised arm and helmet of the construct and instantly, a crash sounded on the other side of the building as a two hundred and forty pound cast iron anvil thudded to the dirt. Hauled up off the ground entirely, the Clockwork Man twirled around and dangled with its legs at head height.
"Watch out, boys!" yelled a voice from atop the building. Even as he spoke, the thick barrel on the monster's left arm blasted twice and pellets sprayed the air but at angle that hit no one. A click sounded as the Clockwork Man tried to fire his weapon again.
"He's dry," someone in the crowd laughed. They plunged forward to begin smashing at the creation. Arms made sinewy by lifetimes of hard labor crashed hammers and axes into the iron being. In a minute, parts began flying away, then the main chest plate clanged to the dirt and the complex internal workings were exposed to be hacked apart in spurts of broken metal bits and pieces.
Behind the enraged mob, Johnny Packard had clambered down from off the roof of the saloon and he hitched up his Levis and tucked his shirt back in. "Haw haw. You ever see Mexicans at a party hittin' on a Pinata, sir?"
Emerging from the shadows of the doorway of the adjoining house, Garrant said, "You have done well, Mr Packard. These people were too intimidated to chance sneaking out of town to get help. That mechanism had killed several of them in brutal ways to break their defiance."
"That so? Appears to me he'll be used as scrap metal now. The blacksmith who helped me get that anvil up on the roof might be makin' horseshoes and nails outta that thing." The Brimstone Kid took off his hat and wiped his grimy face with the back of a gloved hand. "Whew doggy, I gotta admit my heart was a-poundin' when I pulled THAT little trick."
"Doctor Luchenbach remains at large," the Trom remained him. "There is high probability he has devised some unusual weapons with the knowledge he has stolen from my Race."
Johnny Packard nodded. He loosened the matched Peacemakers in their holsters and settled his hat firmly on his head. "I got my hoss tied up where he wouldn't be hurt by that critter's shotgun arm. I believe it's time to ride over and visit the Herr Doktor."
V.
The body of Micah sprawled face down in the grass, his rifle still held by one finger in the trigger guard. Two raw holes in the center of his back hardly leaked blood. His heart had stopped pumping instantly as he had died. Still holding his gun with a stink of cordite drifting up into his face, Johnny came to a halt. Gerhart Luckenbach had emerged from his cottage and was pointing a bizarre weapon directly at him. It looked like a carbine that had been cut down at barrel and stock. Fixed to the butt was a round metal drum, and the gun was so heavy that the old man had to brace his holding hand at the forearm.
The round moonface was grimy with sweat, and furious anger lit the small piggy eyes. "The fact that you have returned alive does not bode well for my Uhrmann," he said in his heavy accent. "Fortunately I have finished my lightning-firer barely in time."
Straightening up, the Kid pointed his left hand to hopefully distract the madman's attention away from the fact Johnny had lowered his right hand down to touch a thumb to his belt... not touching the holstered Colt but a bare inch away. As he jabbed his finger forward, the gunfighter said indignantly, "Oh, pull the other leg as well, mister. Are you fixin' to tell me there's lead pills in that round doo-hickey on the bottom of that fool thing?"
"That is exactly what I say!" Luckenbach retorted. "Listen to me, this magazine holds two dozen cartridges of the .38 caliber and it can fire them all in under a...URK!"
The crash of the Peacemaker in Johnny's hand drowned out the grunt from the wounded man. That slug punched deep into the center of the fat man's chest. Luckenbach dropped his strange weapon and fell to his knees, then over onto his side with a wheeze as the final breath left his lungs.
Watching suspiciously, ready to send a follow-up shot, the Brimstone Kid edged in closer and kicked the 'lightning-firer' away. He was satisfied by the open unblinking eyes and unmoving chest that the German inventer was indeed dead. "Too late for you to profit from it, but my daddy told me that one well-aimed bullet was worth a dozen that missed. Or in yer case, never got fired."
Hearing the faint crunch of dirt to his left, the Kid whirled in a crouch with his Colt extended and ready. Then he eased up and lowered the barrel to point downward. "Well, Mr Garrant, fancy you turning up at this auspicious moment."
That somber face still showed no emotion as Garrant strode over to pick up the discarded lightning-firer. "I will confiscate this, as well as any other devices he had made. He had no right to the concepts of the Trom." Straightening up, Garrant fixed his deepset dark eyes on Johnny. "Mr Packard, Humans are not ready for such advanced technology. Would you want to see an army of so-called Clockwork Men attacking your country? Or flying craft large as locomotives which would drop explosives on cities?"
"Hayll no," the Brimstone Kid snapped back without hesitation. "I calculate we do enough harm to each other as it is. I been wondering, sir, how many of you Trom folk are? You have your own country?"
Was that a slight hesitation before answering? Garrant moved toward the side of the cottage and Johnny followed to see a one-horse open wagon standing by the rear. A sheet of canvas was rolled up in the back compartment and the Trom wrapped the strange gun inside it carefully. "Our policy is to remain as secretive as possible, Mr Packard. I will make an exception because you have done our interests a service. We Trom are few in numbers and we live unnoticed among you, in every country and resembling every race. Let me assure you that we are helpful to Humans. We value knowledge, progress and peace. Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity?"
"I reckon," Johnny said without enthusiasm.
"I am going to search that building for any Trom-inspired inventions," Garrant said. "It might be best if you moved on before anyone might chance by and you would have to explain that man's death."
"Yep, that's not a bad idea." The Brimstone Kid decided that the Trom would not welcome an offered handshake, so he simply turned and headed to where Terror stood impatiently stomping his hooves. He glanced back over one shoulder. "Vaya con Dios, Mr Garrant. You figger we'll meet again?"
Now that Johnny had observed a little about the Trom's habits, he could see that Garrant was making himself smile faintly. "There is a high probability of that," the man said.
3/29/2020
10/28/1883
I.
Johnny Packard rode into Blind Nag, Arizona Territory well before dawn. A gorgeous October moon hung full in the purple sky. The tiny burg was dark and silent. Blind Nag struck the Brimstone Kid as not much of a town, just a few houses astride a dirt road, with one building that served as combination post office and general store. There was a restaurant that claimed to be a saloon but which was too small to have offered a floor show or upstairs girls. Johnny headed his black stallion Terror over to a watering trough and let the animal slake his thirst before dismounting to splash his face and wipe his neck clean from the grit of the trail.
Hopping back up into the saddle, the Kid decided to head back a mile or two to where he had seen a likely spot to make camp for the next few hours. On his way here from Alkali Wells, he'd noticed a number of small farms and homesteads in the area. He guessed that Blind Nag was not so much a real town as merely a gathering spot for the locals. That suited him fine. A quiet few days here eating food cooked by someone else and hopefully finding a room for rent with a decent bed sounded like Heaven after a long ride such as he had just finished.
A young man still in his early twenties, Johnny was thin and wiry, not more than five feet four inches tall and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds at most. He had shaggy brick-red hair over a bony face, with green eyes that seemed more sullen than usual. The Kid's outfit of well-worn boots, black Levis and a red flannel shirt under an open denim vest were all stained and dusty. Holstered at his hips were matched 1873 Colt Peacemakers, but the real danger to others from this wanderer was the red metal disc tucked away in the beaded band of his Stetson, which hung down by its cord between his shoulder blades. That was the cursed Darthan token which made him the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name.
"Let's go make camp and grab us a few hours sleep, Terror," he said as he wheeled the black horse around. "Be a shame to roust these good folk from their slumbers, huh?"
Movement between two houses caught his peripheral vision. Johnny clapped his hand down around the butt of his right-hand gun but did not draw. Not at that split-second. It was an automatic reaction to him by now. In the gloom, all he could make out was the bulky silhouette of a big man moving. The Kid did not tense up, he kept breathing normally as he slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard. Lightning reflexes might be all that would save his life now. Then he inhaled audibly as he saw as a strange figure move out where it could be seen better under the stars.
It seemed to be a man in dull grey armor made of iron plates, hinged at the joints, with a cylindrical helmet whose only features were four lenses gleaming at equal spaces. The left arm ended in what looked like a shotgun barrel while the right arm ended with a pair of sharp-edged claws big enough to cut through a human wrist. As Johnny watched in complete confusion, the bizarre armored man walked stiffly across the street and disappeared around the corner of the saloon. The man moved oddly, as if drunk and trying to compensate or as if he was new to walking. Something uncanny in those clumsy steps troubled Johnny.
Only after the apparition had vanished did the Kid whistle to himself. "The Wild West, folks back East call these territories. Truth be told, the Weird West would be a more fittin' handle."
II.
He had been wearier than he had realized by the way he had slept deeply under a tree while Terror dozed nearby. It was well past noon when Johnny rode back into Blind Nag to find no one on the street. Not a door nor window open, no one walking by, not a voice to be heard. Was this a ghost town? He had once stumbled across a mining camp in the Rockies that had apparently been abandoned as completely as if by evacuation order and he felt the same uneasiness now. The Kid dismounted in front of the restaurant, tied Terror's reins to a post near the trough and checked out the plain unpainted boards which made up the structure. There was no patio or porch in front, just the wall of the building and a single three-legged stool by the door. On a plank nailed over that door were the simple words ROOMS and EAT, with no elaboration.
Rapping sharply with gloved knuckles, Johnny called out, "Hello? Anyone in thar, you got a customer!" He repeated the procedure more loudly and the door swung open the barest crack.
"Get out of this town," said a low voice with no menace in its tone but only apprehension. "Ride on while you can."
"Aw have a heart," the Kid persisted. "I got money. All's I want is a simple meal and to wash my hoss down. Open up."
In reply, a woman's face peered out to stare in all directions while seeming to ignore him. She was in her forties, handsome rather than pretty, with weather-worn skin and dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. "Did... do you see anything out there?"
"I seen a hungry cowboy and his hoss, both of 'em dusty and dirty," he snapped. "Are you in business or ain't you?"
A hand grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside a dim room with only two tables and chairs. The air was warm and stuffy. "You didn't spy anything out of the ordinary out there?" she begged.
Although he opened his mouth to start detailing the strange character he had watched before dawn, Johnny immediately thought better. There was nothing funny about the fear in this woman's voice. "I rode into town just now," he said. "All I see is empty streets and closed doors. What exactly is your ailment here?"
She backed away, wringing her hands together. A stout short figure in a heavy gingham dress with a white apron, she shook her head rather than answer out loud.
"You folks got outlaws here? Injun war parties? I know there's been some Comanche stirring up the pot not far north of here." The Kid took off his black Stetson and held it in front of him. "Mebbe I could help. I been know to settle troubles before."
"You a hired gun? Papa, you hear that?"
Limping through an open doorway on the other side of the room came an older man bent half over. He supported himself with a roughly-hewn walking stick. Only a crown of white hair around his ears kept him from being completely bald. "I heard," he said in a surprisingly vibrant voice. "What's your handle, son?"
"Packard. Johnny Packard, formerly of West Texas. Sir, I haveta say that I don't take payment for any rough play. I haveta do what my conscience bids me. Mebbe if I knew more about yer troubles here?"
The old man snorted. "Sit yourself down, son. Have a coffee. Ingrid, them beans is still hot. Fry up a double handful of bacon and cut some cornbread for our guest here."
As Johnny pulled out a chair and plopped down, he thought of checking on Terror but decided to hold off for a second. Ever since they had both been cursed, the black stallion had been acting less like a working horse and more like an equal partner. He was sure Terror was waiting right outside the door, eager for violence. As long as these people were starting to open up, Johnny figured he shouldn't interrupt.
The old man carried over a blue-white china cup and saucer, putting them down in front of Johnny along with a battered iron coffee pot. He lowered himself gingerly into the chair facing the Kid. "I'm Amos Loeffler," he announced. "Me and my missus ran this joint until she passed away three years gone. Now daughter Ingrid helps out."
Tasting the strong black coffee and liking it, Johnny chugged the cup in one gulp. As Loeffler gestured for him to help himself, the Kid refilled his cup. "Sir, I purely wish you would cut the cards and deal 'em out and get this over with. What's the problem in this town?"
But any answers were delayed again as Ingrid brought him a warm tin plate holding beans with brown sauce, strips of bacon and two squares of cornbread. The Kid's stomach rumbled embarrassingly. He yielded and dug into the food with a vengeance. All he had eaten the day before had been his final stick of beef jerky.
Watching him, the old man nodded in approval. "I believe I have heard tell of a young wanderer with red hair and two Colts, riding a big black horse, bringing death and destruction where it is deserved. Perhaps Providence has sent us the Brimstone Kid when he is most needed."
Dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin, Johnny mumbled, "Might be. Stranger things have happened."
"The farmers in this area neglect the crops and livestock, they stay locked in their houses," said Loeffler. "The townspeople don't venture outside except when they must. They don't dare."
Outside, a deep vibrant gong sounded. Loeffler and his daughter gave visible starts. "It's here."
Jumping to his feet and shoving the chair back, Johnny Packard jammed his hat back on his head. "You folks is gettin' on my nerves big time. WHAT's here?"
"The Clockwork Man."
III.
Hearing voices outside, Johnny yanked open the door and vaulted out into the main street. He found eight men and three women in unimposing clothing, assembled in a loose cluster. They were staring in mixed hatred and dread at the strange apparition that the Kid had seen the night before.
In the afternoon sunlight, the iron plates remained dull and unpolished. The armored man stood with feet braced well apart, raising the arm which ended in a rifle barrel. Standing beside him was an enormously fat man whose belly stretched the vest of his three-part suit to its limits. He was announcing in a sharp abrasive tone, "Now you will your orders receive. Tend your fields and go about your normal tasks, my friend will not molest you if you behave."
As Johnny moved into sight, the cylindrical head of the Clockwork Man spun on its axis so one of the round lenses was facing him. That's a clever trick, the Kid thought, wonder how he does that? Aloud, he called over, "Mind if I cut myself in on this game, mister?"
"You will address me as Herr Doktor, if you please!" roared the obese man. His bristling red-gold beard and long hair parted in the middle made his appearance distinctive enough to be long remembered by anyone who glimpsed him. He stood with his thumbs stuck in his vest pockets, thick legs well apart. "Doktor Gerhard Luchenbach of Vienna."
"If'n you say so. It don't make no never mind to me," the Kid replied without deference. "I must say it 'pears to me that your amigo in the flattened tin cans is givin' these good folks a hard time they don't deserve."
"Do not kill this child, Uhrmann." Doktor Luchenbach took a few steps to the side as if expecting gunplay. "He may be useful, I suspect."
Standing with his lowered hands brushing the butts of his twin Peacemakers, Johnny Packard planted his boots at shoulder width and took a deep steadying breath. "Mebbe I shouldn't give fair warning. But everybody knows you can't make armor plate that'll stop a .44 pill 'cause it'd be too heavy to dance around in. You'll feel my slugs lettin' fresh air through yore innards if yo--"
Before that word left his lips, the Kid's right hand Colt was up and blasting out five shots so closely together that they echoed as one. He had seen the rifle barrel-arm swing up toward him. From long habit, Johnny automatically hooked out his left hand gun and switched it over to his right hand while tossing the now empty Colt into his left. He was not nearly as good a shot with his left hand, but then he had never met a gunfighter who was really ambidextrous. Wearing two guns was a way to give him ten possible shots without reloading.
But the Clockwork Man had not dropped, had not even reeled back from the impacts. Dents showed in the metal over his chest. The rifle barrel remained extended at the end of an arm as steady as a metal bar. Johnny squeezed off two more shots with the fresh gun, going for the head, but then he froze in horror.
The face plate had been dislodged from the cylindrical helmet and fallen aside. There was no Human head inside, nor any place within that nightmare for a person's head to be hidden. Instead, dozens of gears and cogs were slowly turning. A central piston rose to lift the clockworks higher. The Kid had never expected this. He vaguely realized his mouth was hanging open and he closed it with an effort. The sound of the crowd muttering and whispering seemed to come from far away.
"Do not kill him, I say! Young man, put that toy away. Surely you see my Clockwork Man is not to be daunted by mere bullets." Luchenbach stroked his beard and studied the Kid. "You drew and fired with remarkable celerity and accuracy. I may find some use for you. Will you take fifty American dollars to return with me to my cottage and to discuss possible employment?"
Holstering his gun, the Brimstone Kid was at a loss for only an instant before replying, "I ain't saying no to that, Some greenbacks would suit me to the ground, mister, I mean Hair Doktor."
Behind him, Johnny heard Loeffler gasp. "Johnny! We were counting on you to protect us. Have you betrayed those who trust you?"
Turning his head over one shoulder, the young redhead frowned and kept his voice hard. "A man's gotta act in his own interests, grandpa. Being noble don't put money in yore pockets. All righty, Herr Doktor, I believe I won't be needin' much time to mull yer offer over."
An open two-horse wagon had pulled up from between two buildings. Holding the reins was a mean-looking man well over six feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds. Aside from his surly stare and greasy brown hair, his distinguishing feature was a white scar which ran from the side of his chin up his right cheek and stopped just short of his lower eyelid. Judging from the ropy raised texture of that scar, the wound had been deep.
"This runt looks like bad news ta me, Herr Doktor," growled the driver. "I heard of him on the trail, the Brimstone Kid from Texas. He's trouble."
"So are you, Michah. That is why I employ you. Young fellow, how should we address you?"
"Johnny'll do," said the Kid. He had been quietly reloading his guns and now adjusted them in the holsters. Having a weapon empty annoyed him as much as having a pebble in his boot. Johnny watched as the German scientist refastened the battered plate on to the Clockwork Man's helmet and made sure it was secure.
"If'n that don't beat all," the Kid remarked with admiration. "A mechanical man. I never heard tell of such a thing."
"Hah. I am the greatest genius alive today." The Doktor stepped back and stroke the bristling golden beard as he surveyed the Clockwork Man. "My Uhrmann here will not be my most significant achievement. See, he begins his patrol."
The armored figure turned around in a clumsy three moves and stalked off down the street. Its arms swung only slightly to keep balance. As the monster strode along, its cylinder head rotated so that the four lenses were in constant motion.
Climbing up onto the wagon next to Micah, the colorful scientist picked up a wide-brimmed high-crowned hat from the seat and tilted it back onto his golden hair. "I believe I must discuss this with my employee here. Remain in town, Johnny, I will be back soon."
IV.
As the wagon rolled away toward the north side of town, Johnny stood watching it as his heartbeat slowed to normal. It seemed somehow that dangerous situations sought him out. He felt like a magnet for the weird. The young wanderer wet his lips and was wondering what his next move would be when he heard Loeffler yelling behind him.
"Coward! Traitor!" screamed the old man. "Don't you dare set foot back in my inn. I will throw yer belongings out in the dirt where they belong." He spun on one heel and stomped back through the open doorway. Hesitating only a moment, his wife Ingrid fixed a glare of utter reproach before following him.
That look from Ingrid gave Johnny a cold pang in his chest. He was young and not as hardened as he would be in time, and the warm treatment from her had drifted cheered him. But that seemed another broken hope now. As the Kid's shoulders slumped, he was further disenheartened to witness the townsfolk quickly turn away from him too, returning to their chores.
The Kid opened his mouth to call out that he was stalling for time but he bit his tongue. For all he knew, some of the townsfolk might have sold out to this Luckenbach snake. If he explained he hoped of finding a way to get rid of this Clockwork Man, one or more them might go running to rat him out.
Johnny's spirits had seldom been lower. What to do, what to do... He headed over to the watering trough where Terror was still waiting in the shade of the porch's overhang. "You still believe in me, don't ya, amigo? Yeah, yore my compadre. Let's get my gear and go think?"
A low voice behind him said, "There is more to you than meets the eye, Mr Packard."
Johnny could not say why his hand did not drop to his gunbutt. Something in that calm, even voice reassured him. The voice was deep and controlled, with a smoothness of the well-educated. The Kid turned around without haste. "I'd like to think so, Mr...?"
"I am using the name Garrant," came the answer. He was a tall, slim man an inch or two over six feet in height. Garrant wore plain dark clothing suited to a bigger town than Blind Nag, including a long coat that reached past his knees. No sidearm was visible. The stranger had a face stern rather than handsome, with short black hair and dark deepset eyes that watched Johnny thoughtfully. "We have been following your career with great interest. You have ventured into the edges of the Midnight War."
"Have yuh now?" asked the Kid. "And who might this 'we' you mention be?"
"Let us move further down the street, where we may not be overhead." In a wide alley between buildings, where a rain barrel was the only eavesdropper, Garrant continued, "I represent a group called the Trom. We try to remain as unknown as is practical. Mr Packard, the Trom have advances in science beyond what Humans have yet to even envision. I do not carry any such items on me for reasons of secrecy."
Johnny Packard leaned back up against the side of the building. The boards against his back were hot from the sun. "I'm a-listening, sir."
Stepping in closer, Garrant said, "I have concluded that this Doktor Luchenbach has somehow obtained information from a Trom in the area. That automaton should be well beyond what even the brightest Human could devise at this time. At some point, he gained access to the notes or workshop of a Trom here in the West, and he has put that information to use."
"Tarnation. Nothin' is ever simple in my life. All right, Mr Garrant, are you gonna help me against the loco redbeard and his tin can soldier?"
"Not directly," said the Trom. "I would prefer to keep low visibility. But I will mention an invention which might be useful to you. The pulley."
After a mere second, Johnny grinned broadly. When he smiled like that, he seemed like a mere youth again. "Wallll, I'll be roped, thrown and branded!"
V.
An hour later, the ominous figure of the Clockwork Man moved stiffly back up through Blind Nag. To counter the slight uphill trend of the street, he lurched from side to side. The cylinder of the head stopped its slow rotation and the construct halted near the two-story building that served as saloon and steakhouse. Eleven men stood in his path. They held axes, pitchforks and bill-hooks and sledge hammers in their grimy hands and they stared at the Clockwork Man with furious hatred.
From within the barrel-shaped metal chest, a low whirring sounded. A tinny, flat voice said, "Return to your duties. Return to your duties," before cutting off with a click. The monster extended his right arm toward the crowd and clashed the blades on its claw hand twice to act as intimidation.
From directly overhead, the noose of a lariat dropped down to tighten perfectly around the upraised arm and helmet of the construct and instantly, a crash sounded on the other side of the building as a two hundred and forty pound cast iron anvil thudded to the dirt. Hauled up off the ground entirely, the Clockwork Man twirled around and dangled with its legs at head height.
"Watch out, boys!" yelled a voice from atop the building. Even as he spoke, the thick barrel on the monster's left arm blasted twice and pellets sprayed the air but at angle that hit no one. A click sounded as the Clockwork Man tried to fire his weapon again.
"He's dry," someone in the crowd laughed. They plunged forward to begin smashing at the creation. Arms made sinewy by lifetimes of hard labor crashed hammers and axes into the iron being. In a minute, parts began flying away, then the main chest plate clanged to the dirt and the complex internal workings were exposed to be hacked apart in spurts of broken metal bits and pieces.
Behind the enraged mob, Johnny Packard had clambered down from off the roof of the saloon and he hitched up his Levis and tucked his shirt back in. "Haw haw. You ever see Mexicans at a party hittin' on a Pinata, sir?"
Emerging from the shadows of the doorway of the adjoining house, Garrant said, "You have done well, Mr Packard. These people were too intimidated to chance sneaking out of town to get help. That mechanism had killed several of them in brutal ways to break their defiance."
"That so? Appears to me he'll be used as scrap metal now. The blacksmith who helped me get that anvil up on the roof might be makin' horseshoes and nails outta that thing." The Brimstone Kid took off his hat and wiped his grimy face with the back of a gloved hand. "Whew doggy, I gotta admit my heart was a-poundin' when I pulled THAT little trick."
"Doctor Luchenbach remains at large," the Trom remained him. "There is high probability he has devised some unusual weapons with the knowledge he has stolen from my Race."
Johnny Packard nodded. He loosened the matched Peacemakers in their holsters and settled his hat firmly on his head. "I got my hoss tied up where he wouldn't be hurt by that critter's shotgun arm. I believe it's time to ride over and visit the Herr Doktor."
V.
The body of Micah sprawled face down in the grass, his rifle still held by one finger in the trigger guard. Two raw holes in the center of his back hardly leaked blood. His heart had stopped pumping instantly as he had died. Still holding his gun with a stink of cordite drifting up into his face, Johnny came to a halt. Gerhart Luckenbach had emerged from his cottage and was pointing a bizarre weapon directly at him. It looked like a carbine that had been cut down at barrel and stock. Fixed to the butt was a round metal drum, and the gun was so heavy that the old man had to brace his holding hand at the forearm.
The round moonface was grimy with sweat, and furious anger lit the small piggy eyes. "The fact that you have returned alive does not bode well for my Uhrmann," he said in his heavy accent. "Fortunately I have finished my lightning-firer barely in time."
Straightening up, the Kid pointed his left hand to hopefully distract the madman's attention away from the fact Johnny had lowered his right hand down to touch a thumb to his belt... not touching the holstered Colt but a bare inch away. As he jabbed his finger forward, the gunfighter said indignantly, "Oh, pull the other leg as well, mister. Are you fixin' to tell me there's lead pills in that round doo-hickey on the bottom of that fool thing?"
"That is exactly what I say!" Luckenbach retorted. "Listen to me, this magazine holds two dozen cartridges of the .38 caliber and it can fire them all in under a...URK!"
The crash of the Peacemaker in Johnny's hand drowned out the grunt from the wounded man. That slug punched deep into the center of the fat man's chest. Luckenbach dropped his strange weapon and fell to his knees, then over onto his side with a wheeze as the final breath left his lungs.
Watching suspiciously, ready to send a follow-up shot, the Brimstone Kid edged in closer and kicked the 'lightning-firer' away. He was satisfied by the open unblinking eyes and unmoving chest that the German inventer was indeed dead. "Too late for you to profit from it, but my daddy told me that one well-aimed bullet was worth a dozen that missed. Or in yer case, never got fired."
Hearing the faint crunch of dirt to his left, the Kid whirled in a crouch with his Colt extended and ready. Then he eased up and lowered the barrel to point downward. "Well, Mr Garrant, fancy you turning up at this auspicious moment."
That somber face still showed no emotion as Garrant strode over to pick up the discarded lightning-firer. "I will confiscate this, as well as any other devices he had made. He had no right to the concepts of the Trom." Straightening up, Garrant fixed his deepset dark eyes on Johnny. "Mr Packard, Humans are not ready for such advanced technology. Would you want to see an army of so-called Clockwork Men attacking your country? Or flying craft large as locomotives which would drop explosives on cities?"
"Hayll no," the Brimstone Kid snapped back without hesitation. "I calculate we do enough harm to each other as it is. I been wondering, sir, how many of you Trom folk are? You have your own country?"
Was that a slight hesitation before answering? Garrant moved toward the side of the cottage and Johnny followed to see a one-horse open wagon standing by the rear. A sheet of canvas was rolled up in the back compartment and the Trom wrapped the strange gun inside it carefully. "Our policy is to remain as secretive as possible, Mr Packard. I will make an exception because you have done our interests a service. We Trom are few in numbers and we live unnoticed among you, in every country and resembling every race. Let me assure you that we are helpful to Humans. We value knowledge, progress and peace. Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity?"
"I reckon," Johnny said without enthusiasm.
"I am going to search that building for any Trom-inspired inventions," Garrant said. "It might be best if you moved on before anyone might chance by and you would have to explain that man's death."
"Yep, that's not a bad idea." The Brimstone Kid decided that the Trom would not welcome an offered handshake, so he simply turned and headed to where Terror stood impatiently stomping his hooves. He glanced back over one shoulder. "Vaya con Dios, Mr Garrant. You figger we'll meet again?"
Now that Johnny had observed a little about the Trom's habits, he could see that Garrant was making himself smile faintly. "There is a high probability of that," the man said.
3/29/2020