Timpanogos by D. J. Butler Page B

scrambled stiffly out of the scrub oak and onto the
gravel, pressing himself against the plascrete wall of the Dream Mine.   The knife wounds in his leg and his arm
agonized him, and he kept careful control over the fencing saber he carried in
a scabbard on his belt, so it didn’t scrape the plascrete.
    The building rose above him like a staircase in several
tiers, with windows overlooking the valley.   At Burton’s level were a wide veranda, a front door and
windows as for an office building, but only if the office in question belonged
to a bank or a police station—the windows were all covered with long iron
bars.   Oiled paper blinds behind
the glass kept Burton from seeing any detail, but he heard the voices and
footfalls of several men inside.
    Below Burton was the lowest tier, which had a large bay
door.   According to Roxie, it
opened and closed to permit vehicles entry.   Now Roxie and Poe emerged from the trees on the other side
of the veranda.   Poe coughed, as
gently as a man dying of consumption could, and spat into the bushes, carefully
not emptying his lungs into the white cloth he held.   There was something mysterious about that cloth—Poe
had warned Burton not to look directly at it during the fray.   Roxie came behind Poe, carrying the
canister of scarabs.   Burton hadn’t
seen them in action, but Poe seemed to think they were deadly.
    Burton had encouraged Roxie to join him on his side of the
fracas; after all, he was armed, and an experienced fighter, and Edgar Allan
Poe seemed to be more of a spy than a warrior.   Burton drew his Colt 1851 Navy revolver and checked the
cylinder to be sure each chamber was loaded and capped.   Oh, well.   The woman was in love with another man.   It was her choice, even if the man in
question was doomed.
    And besides, he told himself, Burton was in love with
another woman.   Or at least, he was
committed to her.   He was committed
to going home and marrying Isabel and settling down.   He was committed, and he was starting to think that he even
almost wanted to.   His bandaged arm
and leg both twinged at the thought of more action.
    All he had to do now was survive the Kingdom of Deseret.
    He cocked the pistol as Tamerlane O’Shaughnessy came
lurching up the steps onto the veranda.   The man held a crumpled sheet of paper in one hand and a whisky bottle
in the other.   Burton would have
sworn he’d seen that bottle full when he’d taken the wheel of the steam-truck
and left the Hot Springs Hotel & Brewery, but it was empty now.
    The Irishman was tipsy, and he was singing.   Burton thought he recognized the tune
as an old war-ballad.   “If the song
should come, we’ll follow the drum, and cross that river once more…”
    Burton could still hear the men inside talking, and he
thought he could make out one of the voices say, “did you hear something?”   He grinned, preparing himself for the
moment of decision.
    As he stumbled onto the top of the stairs, O’Shaughnessy
dropped the bottle.  
    Crash!   It shattered instantly on the plascrete.
    The talking inside stopped, and O’Shaughnessy dragged
himself to the front door.   “That
tomorrow’s Irishmen may wear the sash my father wore!” he finished with
flourish, rapped hard on the door, then took two steps back.
    He flattened the paper, smoothing it out against his own
chest, and grinned.
    The door opened and two men stepped out.   Two was the perfect number, with two
men the plan would go without a hitch, even if they were tall, strong-looking
gents, with serious, square jaws like Burton’s.   One held a rifle in his hands, a Henry, and the other a
double-barreled scattergun.
    “What do you think, lads?” the Irishman asked in a sliding,
imprecise voice, stabbing one finger into the calotype on his chest.   “Doesn’t look like me at all, I
reckon.   Besides, what kind of
idjit detectives are you, if you haven’t figured out yet that my name isn’t
bloody-damn-hell