Like a Wisp of Steam by Thomas Roche (best reads of all time txt) 📕

Trista nodded. "And I'm going to lure him far enough from our camp that the law can take him away without too much of a ruckus."

"You don't sound so confident about that last part."

"You ever notice how a man," Trista asked, "sometimes doesn't think too clearly when he's relying on a woman?" For a moment, Trista was not quite sure if she was speaking about Black Paul or her lawmen allies. "Best to have someone I trust watching out for me."

Maggie inspected the cylinders and loads and then nodded once. Hardness found its way into her face and eyes. "I'm your gal."

* * * *

Nerves and pain made the stutter even worse. "W- where are m-muh- my m-muh—"

"Your men have been caught out. Benji didn't quite help out as much as they hoped." Trista said. "Sykes sent me to fetch you. The law shot him, but he—"

Black Paul's silver six guns came out in a flash, shaking in his trembling paws. "W-wheh-where?"

"I can take you to him."

Black Paul stared hard enough to look into her soul.

He'll see my treachery, she thought. Even Heck must seeit. Heck was sitting mum silent, but speaking volumes with his body. Heck, who had possibly inappropriate affection for the man whose job she now held. Heck, who had lost that man and who seemed to be preparing himself to lose another steamwork engineer, even now.

"I don't," Black Paul paused for nearly a second, face stern, defiant against the stutter that threatened his next word, "trust," prematurely emphasized, "you."

"I can understand that." She spoke softly and slowly, hoping that this might help to keep the terror that shook her insides out of her words. "But if you want to see your ... your friend again, well..."

Black Paul's eyes softened at her use of that word,

"friend." Was Sykes truly this outlaw's boon companion?

"If you want to see him," she added, "then you'll have to come with me."

Was it her earnestness that convinced him? Was it the pain of his wound? Regardless of motive, he weakly tottered after her. Outside the wagon, he howled for his men to come help him to his horse. Then, he spotted something he did not like.

Trista soon discovered what captivated his attention: A couple of men crept through the shadows beneath a nearby supply cart. The stars upon their chests need not gleam for her to know them to be the lawmen. So much for the plan.

"Traitorous b-b-bitch."

"I'm not sorry," she said, though that was a bald-faced lie.

The wounded man looked like some kicked puppy.

"K-kih-kill—"

Of course, his men were already ahead of him. They brought their rifles to bear on the skulking shapes. A pair of nearly simultaneous reports broke the predawn still. Not Black Paul's men, not the law, either. These came from Maggie's wagon. The outlaws dropped their weapons, gun hands ruined.

The outlaw leader himself brought his guns to bear on Trista. The engineer stood her ground, brave in the hope that he would not shoot her in the face. He stared her in the eyes and aimed lower before he squeezed. Gut shots, the sort of damage that would leave her in agony for hours.

If they had drilled their way into her guts, that is.

Old Benji came through for her one last time; at least the piece of iron she had taken from his thigh and beaten into a rough half circle around her torso did. Black Paul's rounds ricocheted, one digging a groove across his right cheek, the other smacking up dirt between his feet.

"It's over," Trista said, and Black Paul's pistols rolled down his fingers. A vast relief filled his face as surrender dropped his shoulders. He might have actually laughed, if the lawmen's guns had not roared, dropping him where he stood.

Trista reached a single hand toward him, her eyes wide and unbelieving as the outlaw crashed to the earth, twitching and kicking up grit for three horrible seconds.

When Maggie called her name, Trista ran to her, found safety in her arms and wept. So very cold.

* * * *

When the lawmen came by later to give her a commendation and reward for the capture of Black Paul and his gang—no small sum—the cold returned.

Maggie had tears in her eyes when she saw the money.

She got even sadder when the story appeared first in the local paper and then in papers all the way back to New York City. Girl Scientist Stops Bank Robbery, the headline read.

Shortly after that, letters found their way to Trista, offers of patronage, of a government position as part of a new Marshaling force using steam engineering and science, and even a letter from Wayne Foglio, begging for her to return to the CCST School of Engineering as an assistant professor.

One night, after the flood of letters began pouring in, Maggie found a smile, one that proved to be rich with misery.

Trista asked, "What's wrong?"

The Shooting Lady indicated the letters with a sweep of her hand. "This is your chance, honey. With the right one of these and the money you've been saving? You're done with this Traveling Show."

Trista thought on this and her head began to bob. "I doubt anything short of a miracle will get Benjamin up and running again. I don't know what Heck would want me to do around here."

"Remember what I told you, sweetie? About leaving this life. This is your big chance."

Trista felt a pang of loneliness. "Come with me? We can both live pretty easy on any of these—"

"I'm no kept woman." That puckish glow appeared for a moment, until Maggie shook her head in slow and gentle negation. "I can't get away, just yet," she said. "Without Benjamin, Heck needs me more than ever. Sure, we have the kitschy shows and the tricks, but without either the cogwork man or the Shooting Lady? There's nothing that Buffalo Bill can't offer ... Maybe he'll sell, but I don't see that happening."

She noisily swallowed, pride maybe, and added, "They need me