Free Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone

client.”
    The lawyer was shocked. “No! That will not do! I will not tolerate humor in any form, Mr. Flintlock. I detest it. It is the sign of a weak mind. Jokes should be banned from this country and the people who tell them.”
    Constable was a tiny, birdlike man and his pale face had splotches of brown all over like a sparrow’s egg. He wore a Prince Albert frock coat of the finest broadcloth, a scarlet cravat and carried a silver-topped cane in the shape of a Chinese dragon. The dragon had two fine rubies for eyes.
    â€œYour lives are in the greatest danger,” he said. “The doomsday clock is ticking.”
    â€œDon’t I know it,” Flintlock said without smiling.
    â€œIt is therefore a matter of the greatest moment that you leave Open Sky just as soon as it’s feasible. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Speak up, now.”
    â€œBut how, Mr. Constable?” McPhee said. “The hotel is under constant watch. There are armed men everywhere.”
    â€œMr. Flintlock is not the only ruffian in my employ,” the lawyer said. “I have arranged for horses to be brought to the waste ground behind the hotel tonight.”
    â€œWhen?” Flintlock said.
    â€œAt the darkest time of the night when the restless dead walk,” Constable said. “Midnight by the clock.”
    Anticipating Flintlock’s next question, he said, “You will be guided to a place south of here named Bobcat Ridge. I have a cabin there that you will find comfortable.”
    â€œGrub?” Flintlock said.
    â€œAll you’ll need. The cabin is well supplied.”
    â€œGood fishing?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know, Mr. Flintlock. The cabin was a place of business not pleasure and will be again. Besides, you will have no time to fish. You must be on constant guard.”
    Then, a glint of pride in his eyes, Constable gave Flintlock more information than the moment required.
    â€œI spent my three years in the cabin attempting to perfect an infernal machine, a weapon that utilizes the elemental powers of steam and fire. Oh, it is a terrible weapon.”
    Realization dawned on McPhee’s face. “That’s why folks say the ridge is haunted by a fire-breathing dragon.”
    â€œLike this one.” Constable held up his cane. “Yes, quite so. And it made me happy to hear such stories. They kept the curious and the thrill seekers away.”
    Like a man warming to a favorite subject, the lawyer said, “A year ago, almost to the day, I had a conference in Paris with the prophet Mr. Jules Verne, that genius of science and the literary pen. He assured me that one day soon, without doubt before the end of this century, the same steam power that drives our great locomotives across the endless prairie will also take us to the moon. Mr. Verne invited me join the first lunar expedition and, gentlemen, such times we’ll have.”
    Tapping his cane on his gloved hand for emphasis, his eyes as wild as those of an Old Testament prophet, Constable was almost shouting.
    â€œBy the year 1900, no later, steam shovels will mine the moon’s surface, steam hammers will crush its ores and steam interplanetary ships will carry its riches back to earth. Should the miners encounter hostile Moonlings, steam-driven infernal machines like mine, roaring fire, will keep the lunar savages at bay. I believe—”
    Constable abruptly stopped talking and blinked a few times.
    â€œBut I digress,” he said. “In this parlous present, I should not talk of an astounding future.”
    â€œSuits me fine,” Flintlock said. He angled McPhee a look that said louder than words, Your lawyer is nuts.
    But Constable seemed to have regained his usual composure. “Before I leave, Mr. McPhee, I must say a word.” He took just a single step toward the door, then stopped and removed an envelope from his pocket.
    â€œFor you, Mr. Flintlock, a month’s