Page 2 of Blowing Off Steam

“Twin stacks. A hundred fifty feet long?”

Field narrowed his eyes and nodded tersely.

“Rich red upholstery in the texas saloon? Marble-topped tables in cabins? Brass chandeliers?”

“Land’s sake!” Rushy exploded, taking a protective half step toward his partner. “Ain’t that just too precious and convenient, these crackers coming here like it was a monkey show, waving papers about? There are two hundred side-wheelers in America with walking beam engines and red velvet upholstery. I’ll stake my affidavit they’re just wandering about San Francisco harbor hoping some muttonheaded lummox is going to hand over their wheel to them! Cap’n Fulton, we’ve got to get ahold of Mr. Fosburgh.”

But Mike Hunt only pressed the gun barrel to Rushy’s temple now. “Tobias Fosburgh is your solicitor? Ha ha.” What kind of cracker actually said “ha ha” aloud? “That figures. Only lawless thieves and hustlers use Tobias Fosburgh.”

Field said with a bit more urgency, “This document appears to be legitimate, but your sidearm is most convincing of all, sir. Could you please lower it while we negotiate?”

Mike Hunt did so, but scowled. “Negotiate? What’s there to negotiate? This vessel belongs to our employer, and we aim to take it.”

“Where do you think we’ll go?” Field said logically. “You can’t hide a five-hundred-ton steamer.”

Mike snorted. “Captain Kidd here succeeded in hiding her all these months in San Francisco Bay.”

Field tilted his head. “Well. Your man”—he indicated the sallow Grundman with the beady eyes—“seems to know a thing or two about steamers. It would be helpful if I show him some of the modifications I’ve made to the new engine. I’ve replaced the old worn water tank, most of the piping, rods, and cams, as well as completely rebuilding the steam cylinder. It would probably help if I showed it to you.”

Grundman’s tiny eyes lit up with excitement. “Ja, boss, ja! Let us go see the engine room!”

Had Field gone loco? He was going to give these jackasses the particulars of their beautiful boat without even trying to block their game? “What are you doing?” Rushy shouted at his partner. “You’re just going to give up without a fight? What makes you think those documents are legitimate?”

Field calmly said, “The barrels of these revolvers make me think they’re legitimate, Captain Kidd.”

Now, there seemed to be some import in Field’s eyes, and Rushy certainly didn’t want these smelly pirates to get the drift there was dissention among the El Dorado’s crew. But Rushy had worked hard and risked his life many times over for this paddle-wheeled packet, only to have these two highwaymen come running all over him like fire in dry grass. With no legitimate representation whatsoever, any out-and-out shit sack could commandeer any vessel he wished, as long as he had enough powder!

“Yes,” said Mike Hunt greasily. “Show us the engine room. I don’t think we need this louse of a thieving helmsman, though.”

He was about to shoot Rushy! Without thinking, Rushy cried out, “Run, Captain Fulton! Run!”

The jig was up. Rushy struck for the rail with several long-legged strides, cleaving the herd of barnyard animals like the Red Sea, intending to fling himself over the rail. A ball exploded so close to him that his ears rang loudly. He didn’t think he was hit, though, and continued running in place through the sulfurous cloud of black powder smoke, gripping the spines of two cows that flanked him.

He was a bigger target propped up by the beef ribs, so he dropped to the deck with feet already wheeling in a blur. However, three steps out he had the misfortune to slide right into an enormous pile of cow shit. It was like trying to run on water, and he immediately flopped to the deck face-first, probably breaking his jaw in the process.

It didn’t matter, though. Because one of the highwaymen came up behind him and clobbered him over the head with a revolver handle, and that was the last thing he remembered for awhile.

* * * *

These men were contemptible buffoons, but Field wasn’t accustomed to dealing with gunmen. The Mariposa mining region where he’d toiled until recently had certainly been peopled with enough staggering, soaked doughheads to satisfy a lifetime’s requirement, but never had a piece been leveled at his head before. He didn’t blame Rushy for trying to make a break for the rail. Rushy Wakeman was gentle at heart, with a great love of children and furry critters, but he wasn’t the most astute businessman in California. A bit of a lunkhead, actually, but the best damned pilot on the Sacramento River.

And Field had fallen in love with him.

Now he rushed to examine his prone partner’s body but was stopped by the gaping maw of Mike Hunt’s gun barrel right between his eyes.

Mike squinted. “Show…us…the engine room.”

Field had frozen solid in midstride. “We do need the pilot—he’s the premier pilot on this entire river.”

Mike was such a hard case his mouth barely moved. “I hadn’t heard the illustrious name Captain Kidd in these waters, before today. I thought Rushy Wakeman was the best pilot on the Sacramento.”

Damn those code names. Wasn’t Mike Hunt, Agent, sharp enough to have asked any blubberhead ashore who piloted the El Dorado before storming it like a jackass castle? Still, Field could try. “You didn’t think Captain Kidd was his real name, did you? His real name is Rushy Wakeman.” Field straightened up slowly. “Piloted out of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Later he piloted on the Hudson, which you’d know if you’ve heard of Rushy Wakeman.” He glanced down. “May I at least remove him from being stomped on by the beeves?” Grundman’s ball had only hit a sow, and although poor Rushy still breathed, he was facedown, his fashionable burgundy velvet frock coat smashed into a pool of shit so fresh it was already festering in the hot Indian summer air.

“No.” Only half of Hunt’s mouth moved this time.

Man alive, Mike Hunt laid in the shade every heartless toad Field had ever come across. Rushy was right—how did they know these papers displayed a legitimate claim to the El Dorado? Field was just trying to stall for time to come up with a plan—a meticulous, intelligent plan that didn’t involve doing a bunk through a steaming hillock of steer dung.

“All right,” Field said slowly. “Let’s look at the engine room.”