Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables (42 page)

But what drew most of Stovepipe’s interest was a second fantastic vessel, an immense silver-gray ascension balloon. It was similar to those he had seen used for military observation during the war, only much larger, and its immense hot-air bag was shaped like a giant lozenge instead of a bulb. Moored in place by a series of long ropes, it hovered silently several dozen yards over the camp, creating an eclipse of the moon that cast a massive oval shadow near the riverbank. Beneath it hung a large wooden carriage shaped like a miniature whaling ship, with long wooden fins protruding from either side. Mounted on each of these short wings was a three-bladed propeller. Small trails of steam wafted from the bulges in the wing behind each propeller, leaving no doubt as to how the device was powered.

Studying it through the telescope, Stovepipe made out the shapes of two small men, both clad in brightly pied garments, walking casually around the bizarre vessel’s wooden deck.

After a moment he spotted the Pied Piper himself emerging from the cab of the ironclad. As the odd little fellow climbed down the handrails, a darker shape appeared, following him down the ladder. When the dim figure reached the ground and turned toward the firelight, Stovepipe was certain who this was.

Crooked Scar….

Standing nearly seven feet tall and clad in ragged buffalo capes, his belt adorned with dozens of scalps, Crooked Scar had long been a terror of the region. Dead or alive, he carried a higher federal reward than any white outlaw. Apparently he and the Piper were still in the midst of negotiations.

Stovepipe dearly wanted to eavesdrop, but there was no time. Scrambling back down the outside of the canyon wall, he rejoined Frau Freiburg at their horses. “The Piper’s got the children in there, but he has Comanches as guards,” he told her. “Can you find the woodcutters’ camp from here?”

She looked hesitantly in several different directions. Finally she pointed in what Stovepipe believed was the correct one.

He smiled. Swinging himself up onto Thursday’s back, he said to the big woman, “Try to keep the North Star always ahead and to your right. Once you see the Glass Mountains, you’ll know where the camp is.”

“
Und
vut vill I say to zee woodchoppers?”

“Bring every man who can handle a weapon. Also, get them to bring a loaded log wagon and position it on the plateau above the canyon entrance. Whatever happens, we can’t let the Piper drive his machine out of there!”

“
Und
vut vill you do here until I return
mit
zee woodchoppers?”

Stovepipe grinned. “I believe I’ll go for a swim.”

I
t was difficult to navigate the dark tributary that ran behind the Piper’s camp, but Stovepipe slogged along beneath the surface of
the rapid, chilly water. The speed of the current kept the river bottom clear of loose debris, so he stepped with sure footing, but he had to work hard to keep from being swept forward and pushed off his feet. He marched with awkwardness because of the long Henry rifle stuffed into the diving suit’s left leg, between the canvas of his trousers and the heavily waxed cloth of the submarine costume.

Stovepipe bit down on the oval breathing valve, wrapping his lips tightly around its polished wooden surface, slowly drawing air and trying to calm his overworked heart and lungs. It tasted pleasantly of varnished pine as his teeth found the familiar grooves pressed there. Eventually he stopped and raised the periscope, studying the scene in the camp from the reverse of his canyon rim perspective, and from a much closer vantage.

The camp lay still, aside from the airship’s occasional impatient tugs against its mooring lines. The flying machine’s shadow created a natural pool of darkness at the water’s edge. Beyond this was the Steampiper, still issuing its strange music, and on the other side of the ironclad stood the corral where the dazed children were imprisoned. It appeared that Crossley and the Comanches were all at the bonfire.

Stovepipe climbed out of the river, taking care to make as little sound as possible. Dripping and shivering, he lumbered stiff-legged across the sand until he reached the pool of shadow cast by the airship overhead. After struggling to shed his diving gear, he emerged in his boots, trousers, and shirtsleeves, with the Henry rifle slung over his shoulder and his throwing knife gripped in his right hand.

A small, slender man wearing a pied outfit approached, oblivious of him, carrying an empty bucket in each hand. Stovepipe watched silently from the shadows as the costumed fellow scooped both buckets full of river water and began retracing his steps. He did not make it.

Stovepipe made a quick adjustment to the dial on his knife and threw it with pinpoint precision, piercing the man’s neck and dropping him in his tracks. The target fell, grasping at his severed
jugular, and lay writhing on the ground between the drool from the spilled buckets. Stovepipe retrieved his knife, wiping the blood on a wide red triangle of the dead man’s costume.

A whistle sounded from above.

Stovepipe looked up and saw a metal hook, about the size of an upside-down walking cane, descending from the sky on the end of a rope. Realizing that its purpose must be to raise the water buckets, he quickly packed both of them half-f of sand and, after a brief search of the accessories box on his diving suit, tucked one of his clockwork grenades into each one, winding the first bomb’s fuse to its ninety-second setting and twisting the other to the two-minute mark. He covered the explosives with a final sprinkle of dirt.

The whistle came again from overhead.

What’s the signal that these buckets are ready to lift?

Stovepipe stepped over to the dead man and made a quick search, discovering a metal whistle on a chain around the corpse’s severed neck. Although the links were thick with spilled blood, the whistle was untouched. He raised it to his lips and mimicked the whistling from the sky. To his relief, the hook immediately began its ascent, carrying the two buckets aloft with their deadly cargo ticking inside.

He reached down and grabbed the pied cap from the dead man. He pulled it onto his head, hoping it would serve as a sufficient disguise, however briefly, from the eyes of whoever was aboard the airship. Acting quickly, he scampered over to the ironclad and climbed up one of its ladders, pulling himself hand over hand until he arrived at the cabin. Finding the machine unguarded, he scrambled over the scuffed metal ridge and landed with a dull clunk on its upper surface. A quick twist of the pipe organ’s one protruding knob made the instrument falter and then fall silent, immediately breaking its spell on the corralled children.

Stovepipe could see the little ones snapping out of their trances, rubbing their eyes, getting to their feet, clearly baffled as to how they had arrived at this strange destination.

Swiftly he slid down the metal ladder on the opposite side of the ironclad, boot heels hitting hard against the sandy surface below. Staggering upright, he turned and ran toward the gate of the corral.

The first bomb exploded overhead.

The burst itself was not especially loud, but it echoed off the high canyon walls with a sound like a dozen cannons, and the flash of its detonation was like a bolt of lightning ripping through the night sky. The ponies panicked and reared, tugging against the thin rope line that secured them. The Comanche braves abandoned their bonfire and came running, all of them looking up in wonder at the wobbling airship.

Stovepipe threw himself against the tall wooden post at the edge of the corral gate. Unslinging the Henry rifle, he used its butt stock to push the huge latch up and free the gate to swing outward. It trembled, gravity opening it a few feet on its own before Stovepipe’s kick sent it flying the rest of the way. He saw Berta Freiburg, towering above the other children, pushing her way through the mass of them as they came stumbling out.

“Herr Stovepiper!” she shouted excited. “Why are you wearing zat hat?”

Ignoring the question, he asked her sternly, “Can you ride a horse?”

She nodded. “Certainly!”

“Bareback?”

“Yes!”

He pulled his knife from his belt and extended it to her, handle forward. “Take this and cut loose a Comanche pony. Every child who can ride, get ’em aboard a horse. If they can’t ride, they can hang on behind.” He tugged the pied cap from his head and extended it to her. “Here. Now
you’re
the Pied Piper. Lead ’em out!”

Berta snatched the hat from his hand, turned, and began waving at the children. “
Kinder! Kinder!
”

The second bomb burst overhead. This time, in addition to the lightning flash and the reverberating echoes, there was a
ripping, wet human scream. Stovepipe suspected his explosive had shredded the metal bucket, blasting steel shards into some unfortunate crewman aboard the flying machine.

The Comanche warriors continued to run his way, but so far none of them had spotted him. Stovepipe dropped to his knees and, crouching behind the lowest rail of the corral gate, opened fire. Thick clouds of black powder smoke from his blazing rifle added to the chaos of the scene before him while behind him the children of New Hamelin ran for the row of ponies, following Berta Freiburg’s lead.

With thick goggles protecting his eyes and a green kerchief guarding his face, Cruces Crossley stepped clear of the gun smoke clouds far to Stovepipe’s right and ran for the Steampiper. Crooked Scar emerged a moment later, following fast behind the little man. Stovepipe started to turn and shoot at them, but at this point a fresh wave of Comanche braves, advancing on him with Winchesters and tomahawks, made a more pressing demand for his marksmanship. He laid down another volley with the Henry and then ducked as the braves’ erratic return fire zinged around him, kicking up dirt and chipping at the wooden rails. A stray arrow whisked by overhead and another struck with a loud crack, its chiseled stone tip sticking into a post nearby.

To his left he glimpsed the children swarming over the Indian ponies. Berta had done an impressive job of rallying the little ones and was now hastily putting them atop the horses’ backs, sometimes three or four per pony. So far the Comanches were too distracted to notice their animals being stolen.

The Steampiper’s whistle roared.

Stovepipe saw Crossley at the helm of the ironclad, signaling to the airship above by means of semaphore flags. Stovepipe wondered fleetingly what the Piper’s escape strategy was, and if anyone was still alive aboard the balloon to pilot it.

Behind Crossley stood Crooked Scar, rapidly inserting cartridges into the loading gate of a Winchester carbine. Stovepipe knew it was only a matter of seconds before the warrior would
begin shooting at him from behind, trapping him in an inescapable cross fire. Then something astonishing happened.

Crooked Scar’s head shattered.

In one moment the legendary warrior was working the lever on his rifle and bringing it up to his shoulder, and in the next his entire skull flew apart in every direction like an egg struck by a hammer. A second afterward came the distant sound of the rifle that had done the deed.

Stovepipe glanced up to the canyon rim and spotted the telltale puff of white gun smoke, revealing the shooter’s position. As the cloud drifted, he thought he discerned the silhouette of Frau Freiburg perched at its source. There was another burst of white, then a third, and subsequently the entire canyon rim blossomed with cottony tufts. Bullets zinged into the camp, clanging as they bounced off the ironclad, cracking as they split railings, and thudding as they connected with Comanche flesh.

Although splattered with Crooked Scar’s blood, Crossley was uninjured. He immediately set the Steampiper chugging, its iron wheels slowly beginning to turn. The huge machine crept forward, gaining speed as it turned toward the canyon entrance.

Way ahead of it was Berta, astride a pinto pony, leading the mounted children out through the escape route. The few remaining Comanches made no effort to fire upon them, but instead directed their shots at the canyon rim.

Stovepipe fired the Henry twice, taking out a brave with each shot. He drew a bead on a third, but the rifle clicked empty. Setting it aside, he scrambled from cover and ran toward the Steampiper, which was quickly reaching its top speed. Running alongside it, he managed to get hold of a handrail and swing himself aboard. He climbed quickly to the edge of the upper deck and took a tentative peek over the side.

The Piper was fumbling with his belt. From its big leather cartridge loops, he withdrew two of the glass tubes that held sparkling crystals, one blue and one green. He discarded the corks from both of these and, with his right hand, poured their
contents into his cupped left hand. Stepping over to open the iron door of the engine’s furnace, he cast the blue-green mixture into the fire and slammed the door closed again, levering it shut. There was a delay of approximately three seconds before a rumbling explosion sounded from inside, after which the great ironclad abruptly lunged forward at nearly double its original speed, dense black clouds spraying straight up from several of its smokestacks.