CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The day was shading into evening and Dan Caine had ordered a halt to make camp when the sharp young eyes of Holt Peters spotted the dot of scarlet in the darkening sky.
“What the hell is that?” Dan said. He used the ship’s telescope he’d taken from a dead Apache and studied the phenomenon. He shook his head and said to Clint Cooley, “What do you make of that?”
Cooley took the glass, studied the sky for a few moments, then shook his head and said, “Beats me.”
“It’s getting bigger,” Holt said.
“Maybe’s it’s a firebird,” the Kiowa said. For the first time ever, he looked worried.
“I know what it is,” Cornelius Massey said, surprising everybody. “It’s Professor Lazarus Latchford and Miss Prunella in their balloon.”
“Crazy Professor Latchford?” Holt Peters said.
“I don’t know of any other,” Massey said.
“He’s dropping,” Holt said. “Coming down fast.”
“Dropping with the north wind,” Massey said. “Holla, what’s this?”
The red balloon was now close enough that Latchford could be seen leaning over the side of the basket, a cylindrical object in his hands. Latchford waved to Dan and the others and then tossed the barrel-shaped cylinder over the side. The vigilantes watched the thing fall until it hit the ground. A couple of seconds passed and then an ear-shattering explosion accompanied by a V-shaped gout of flame, smoke, and shrapnel about twenty feet high erupted into the air. Dan Caine and the others hugged the ground as the blast wave hit the balloon, and the gondola swung wildly like a censer swung by a drunk altar boy. Horrified, Dan watched the basket hit the ground hard and violently tumble on its side, and then the rapidly deflating silk envelope slowly sank and settled over it. In the aftermath of the explosion, an eerie silence ensued, eventually broken by Fish Lee who said with great solemnity, “Well, that’s it. Latchford’s done broke his damn fool neck this time.” Then waxing philosophical, “If the good Lord had wanted us to fly through the air, he’d have given us wings.”
Dan Caine and the others got to their feet. Caine stepped toward the downed balloon, only to stop as the envelope bulged and a tiny woman, no more than four feet tall, crawled out from under the silk. She wore a specially tailored safari suit consisting of a belted tan jacket, long skirt of the same color, and brown, lace-up boots. She scouted around, found a pith helmet that she jammed on her short, blonde curls and then got to her knees and quickly burrowed like a gopher under the collapsed envelope again. The silk then bulged in several places like a crimson snake that had just swallowed a litter of pigs, and moments later the tiny woman crawled out from under, followed by a man in a black suit, white shirt, and black four-in-hand tie. The man was tall, impossibly skinny, with an unruly shock of white hair, and he stood and grinned when he saw Dan Caine and the others. Then he dived back under the envelope again and pulled out an iron ship’s anchor that he spiked into the ground.
“There, that will hold Icarus in place. What do you think?” Professor Lazarus Latchford said.
“About what?” Cornelius Massey said, looking testy. “The anchor, the landing, or you?”
Latchford’s grin widened. “My descent was a bit rough, wasn’t it? The north wind dropped suddenly and for a moment there, I declare that Miss Prunella was quite shaken. No, I’m talking about the bomb. Went off splendidly, didn’t it? Oh, yes!”
“You could’ve killed us all,” Massey said. “Latchford, you’re a raving lunatic.”
“No!” Miss Prunella said, and stomped across the grass and landed a kick on Massey’s shin.
“Ow!” the newspaperman yelled, hopping on his good leg. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Don’t say bad things about Professor Latchford,” she said, her voice high and squeaky, her cheeks rose pink with anger. “He’s a great man who will take us all to the moon one day.”
Latchford grinned again and poked the air with a skeletal forefinger. “Someday. Oh, yes.”
As Estella Sweet first commiserated with Massey and then told a defiant and unrepentant Miss Prunella that she was “very naughty,” Dan said, “Latchford, come over to our camp and have a cup of coffee. You, too, Miss Prunella. And then tell me why the hell you’re here.”
After he was settled with his coffee, Latchford said, “The reason Miss Prunella and I are here is to help you catch the vicious Kyle gang, as I promised,” the professor said. “That is, if I can catch a north wind again. I have two more splendid bombs ready to go.” He saw the perplexed expression on Dan’s face and said, “A metal case packed with powder and lead balls that uses a contact fuse to explode on impact. A couple of those on Clay Kyle’s gang, and they won’t murder another rancher and his family.”
“Latchford, you don’t expect us to fly in that thing?” Massey said, scowling, rubbing his shin.
“Oh, dear no,” the professor said. “I’m sure come morning, you’ll wish to get back on the heels of the murderous fugitives, but myself and Miss Prunella must wait for another north wind. Until then, we’re earthbound with broken wings, and I fear the balloon’s burner is also damaged and must be repaired.” Latchford shrugged. “Besides, there’s no room for all of you.”
“When will you get a north wind, Professor?” young Holt Peters said.
“Ah, good question, my boy,” Latchford said. “Back in Thunder Creek, I constructed a machine that forecasts the weather and it assured me the prevailing wind will blow from the north for the next week or so.” He smiled. “But since it’s accurate less than half the time, Miss Prunella and I must wait and see, oh yes.”
Suddenly, Clint Cooley peered into the gathering darkness and said, “What the hell is that crazy Indian doing?”
Vaguely visible in the gloom the Kiowa danced beside the collapsed balloon, hoppy little steps combined with a “Hi . . . hi . . . hi . . . hi . . .” chant.
“I’ve seen that before,” Professor Latchford said. “Our red brethren always treat a balloon as a sacred object. I think they believe it carries the Great Spirit from the heavens or something like that.” He sighed, shook his head, and said, “You know, I never did blame that Indian boy for killing the vile Lem Jones, and neither did Miss Prunella.” He smiled and dug his sharp elbow into Dan Caine’s side. “And speaking of Miss Prunella, I believe she could be persuaded to entertain us with a song or two before sleep, couldn’t you, my dear?”
“Anything you’d particularly like to hear?” the little woman said.
Dan didn’t really want to hear anything, but he went along, smiled, and said, “Your choice.”
Miss Prunella was a dwarf, but her voice was big, bold, and tuneful. She removed her pith helmet, laid it aside, and sang “Mrs. O’Farrell’s Cow” and the plaintive “The Fishmonger’s Daughter.” And then, her head on Latchford’s bony shoulder, “He’s Just Like a Father to Me.”
After everyone complimented Miss Prunella on her singing, Dan decided it was time to dig into his dwindling supplies and prepare supper. But Latchford dived under the balloon envelope and emerged with a loaf of not-yet-stale bread, slices of ham, and canned peaches.
“A veritable feast,” Latchford said, holding high his provisions. “The best that Pete Doan’s store has to offer.”
“You’ve redeemed yourself, Latchford,” Massey said, eagerly eyeing the ham. “I forgive you for bombing us.”
* * *
Later Dan lay on his back, courting sleep that was long in coming. The nearer they got to Clay Kyle and his gang, the more he feared for his people. Only two of them, Clint Cooley and Fish Lee, were fighting men. The rest, Estella Sweet, Cornelius Massey, and Holt Peters, would be sheep among wolves. He’d told them to go back to Thunder Creek, but they’d refused. Well, he’d try again tomorrow. Maybe they’d see sense.
A shooting star blazed across the night sky in a southerly direction.
Dan Caine frowned. That meant bad luck . . . for somebody.