Free Timpanogos by D. J. Butler Page A

don’t rightly know
what bauxite is worth, but in big enough piles anything is worth money.   Even shite, don’t you know?”
    “Buildings ahead,” Burton rumbled, “and there’s a light in
one window.   Better explain
yourself.”
    “Slow down,” Roxie told him, and she hit a switch to kill
the electricks.   The bluish beams
of light shooting out the front of the steam-truck died instantly, and Burton
yanked on the brake lever to slow the big truck to a crawl.   Tree branches scraped up ominously
against the sides of the wheelhouse, but the Englishman kept the truck on the
road and moving forward, crunching the trees at the road’s edges to splinters
as it ground over them.
    “Jesus and Brigit,” Tam cursed, “give the poor bastard a
warning next time.”   He took a
drink that he intended to limit to a sip, but that turned into several good
swallows.   Ah, well.   Tam might not have the Gift of Gab, but
he was enough of a true son of Eire to be able to hold his whisky.
    “The poor bastard doesn’t need a warning,” Burton
growled.   “The poor bastard is a man .”
    “What are you saying, English?” Tam demanded.   “I don’t make the mistake of thinking
you’re the same as that milksop Etonian shite you ride around with, don’t you
make the mistake of believing I’m afraid of you, you—”
    “The mine is operated!” Roxie shouted, cutting them both
off.   Burton turned his attention
back to the road, now a ghostly-silver trail barely discernible in the
darkness, and Tam satisfied himself with staring holes in the back of Burton’s
head.   Throttle , that was another word for strangle , though it wasn’t fancy enough to be emotionally
satisfying to Tam.   Suffocation , that was it, but somehow that sounded too sterile.
    “The mine is operated,” Roxie resumed, “but it’s a
front.   One of the tunnels is a
back door, it goes right through Timpanogos Mountain and up to Emerald Lake,
where Pratt has his facility.   It
lets him drive supplies up to the top of the mountain even in winter, and it
also lets him drive things up unseen.”
    “Like what?   Like gold?” Tam asked.
    “Like rubies and canopic jars,” Poe said quietly, “or anything
else.”
    “Who guards the mine?” Burton asked.   “Who are you worried about?   More of these Danites?”
    Roxie shook her head, a motion Tam could only see in the
darkness as the glittering of moon- and starlight in her earrings.   “Brother Pratt has always expressed
concerns to Brigham about the Danites, and about the need to protect his
facility, in case some Danite faction tried to seize power.   He’s contracted security to a private
firm.”
    “Melqart’s fire, it seems the Madman Pratt had more
foresight than all the rest of the Salt Lake hierarchy,” Burton commented.   “So what private firm’s bullets will I
have the honor of dodging, then?”
    “Brother Pratt insisted he had to have the best,” Roxie
continued.
    Tam felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.   He tried to drive it out with more
whisky, but it persisted.
    “His facility is also the Kingdom’s central office of the
Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
    “Aw, fook,” Tam cursed.
    Burton chuckled.   “Something wrong, O’Shaughnessy?” he asked.   “Would you like to borrow one of Poe’s false noses?”
    “Brigit and Anthony fook me right to hell, I’ve had enough
trouble with the Pinkertons to last me a lifetime.”   Tam felt tired and irritated.
    Poe turned to look at him.   He looked like a complete stranger, all scarred and hairy,
but then he broke the magic of the transformation with a wet, guttural
cough.   “Of course you have,” Poe
said.   “That gives me an idea.”
    *    *    *
    Absalom Fearnley-Standish quite enjoyed the night ride.  
    He had little success sticking with Abigail; he wanted to
convince her to leave her brute husband and this desert wasteland and come away
with him back east and home to