The Gun God

A change in latitude could affect a man’s outlook, Saul Monroe thought as he climbed down from the steam coach. Back east, politicians were feuding over indentured servitude while immigrant boys labored in the factories that made the steam coaches that chugged across the West. The skies were more often gray, and so were the people, in both dress and manner.

Out here, things were different. The sky was a wide expanse of blue, more like what he’d known in his Tennessee childhood. Here, where small forts had become cities to rival those of Europe, people could move at their own pace, not as slaves to a schedule spit out by a Babbage machine.

Of course, some of that was changing-here in sun-baked Yavapai, for example, the signs of progress were making themselves known-a saloon that had been turned into a Faraday theater, a Chinese bath house had become a wireless postal exchange. Saul himself felt a bit out of place as he walked down Central Avenue, towards the main sheriff’s office. Yes, Yavapai even had a constabulary, made up of mostly Russian-born officers. He saw a few of them outside the building as he walked in, looking out of place and uncomfortable in their white Pith helmets and uniforms, standing at attention in the hot Arizona sun.

“Marshall Monroe,” the sheriff, who himself was of mixed Mexican, Moor, and Chinese descent, greeted Saul in his office. A Chinese air fountain, its wheels spinning away in one of the office windows, provided some welcome relief from the heat. “Welcome to Yavapai. I understand that you’re here on, shall we say, a courtesy from your government?”

“You could say that.” Saul withdrew a sheet of paper from his longcoat. “Have you seen or heard of this man in your territory?”

The sheriff looked at the photograph on the page. “The Bandit General? Who hasn’t heard of Marquis Fremont? The man who raided the Oregon territory and captured Brigham Young in Deseret? Yes, he is as famous here as he is back East. So, it must be true, that he is now considered an outlaw…”

“Not my place to judge. I’m only here to find him and bring him to ground. It’s my understanding that he was last seen north of here.”

“A few weeks ago, yes. He was in Flagstaff, recruiting mercenaries for some sort of an expedition. We thought he was going to try a raid in Alaska-which would no doubt make the Russians unhappy, eh? But at his age, it sounded more like a pilgrimage. Specifically, to the desert. Why, we don’t know, but he killed four of my own deputies before he got away.”

“There’s been no word of him since then, has there?” Saul looked thoughtfully at the image of the bearded, weathered face of the man he’d personally admired during the War, when Fremont raided slave convoys in Missouri as revenge for Bleeding Kansas. He was rumored to be something of a religious man, and had reportedly treated Young with great respect when he captured him. “So, that means he’s probably still there-for what? Building an army?”

“As I mentioned, he was recruiting. Some of them actually came from Yavapai itself-he has admirers here, as he does elsewhere. I would start at the local cantinas; we have many Russian expatriates here that he has been drawing ranks from.”

Saul nodded. “Thanks for the information. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. You could even share in the credit for his capture, if it comes to that.”

The sheriff chuckled. “No, senor, I don’t think that would be wise. As I have said, he does have followers here. Allah be with you, then.”

Saul bowed and left, taking the sheriff’s advice to head for the largest and closest cantina first. It doubled as a hotel, for the Russian and Chinese laborers who worked the territory’s copper mines. In this, too, the West was different-out here, labor guilds only went on strike when they were in competition with each other, and rarely rioted…

The cantina was crowded. Most of the customers were, as expected, Russian and Chinese workers, but there were a few Prussians here, too, owing to Mexico’s close ties with the Hapsburg Empire. The place was ornate by Western standards; it even had an imported mechanical orchestra, with a Da Vinci piano that played jig music and a clockwork band that played what were called electric harps, Spanish guitars run on Franklin batteries.

Saul ordered a glass of German ale to give the appearance of being a customer and looked around. He couldn’t tell how many of the workers were armed. The Prussians most certainly would be, with either pistols or short sabers, the Russians usually carried repeaters, and the Chinese would have knives or blow darts, a practice imported from their Asian colonies. Saul himself always carried only two weapons-his service repeater, a Colt machine pistol, and his Swiss knife, which was as much a tool as a weapon.

“Excuse me, friend,” Saul casually asked one of the Russians, who was contemplating a shot glass of vodka. “Have you got a minute?”

The Russian scowled. “I don’t talk to police,” he rumbled.

Saul’s expression was neutral. “What makes you think I’m a lawman?”

“I have not seen you before,” the Russian said. “And you stink like police.” The Russian stood up. “Maybe you stink even more now.”

Whatever conversation had been going on around them halted. Other customers backed away as the Russian and Saul eyed each other.

“I’m just looking for Mr. Fremont,” Saul said. “I heard he was looking for men in the desert, up North, and thought I might like to join up.”

“Fremont wouldn’t hire police!”

The Russian had his repeater out, but Saul wasn’t caught off guard. He’d produced his knife, and the Russian had just enough time to appreciate its workmanship before Saul buried it in the man’s shoulder. He then threw the man against the bar, holding him firmly in a vice-lock.

“Now then, friend, as I was saying, I’m looking for Mr. Fremont. Perhaps you could give me some idea of where he is, before you bleed all over this nice mahogany counter?”

“In…North Yavapai County,” the man gasped. “I go there myself, but Mr. Fremont tells me he is no longer hiring. He has everyone he needs…”

“Why are they there?” Saul applied pressure to the man’s shoulder.

The Russian winced. “He say…he have revelation after talking to the Mormon, Brigham Young. He says…he will meet God there.”

“There, now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Saul motioned with his free hand as two deputies entered and helped the Russian out, after Saul had carefully removed his knife.

Saul turned to the bartender. “You wouldn’t happen to know when the next steam coach to Flagstaff is, would you?”

The ride to Flagstaff, and then to the desert area in a steam rickshaw rented from a Chinese dealer, was uneventful. The landscape was as barren as any, with only rock and sagebrush around for several miles.

Saul saw a figure standing in the open ground, looking up at the sky. Saul recognized him immediately. After a moment’s consideration, he walked up to him.

The man turned to face him. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said. “Well, perhaps not you specifically, but someone like you.” John C. Fremont, the so-called Bandit General, regarded Saul with calm appraisal. “A Marshall, I take it? Well, I suppose I should feel honored that my former homeland should think so highly of me at this late hour in my life.”

“Mr. Fremont, I have been charged with your arrest,” Saul said, deciding to dispense with any formalities. If Mr. Fremont was going to be familiar, then so would he. “Are you armed?”

Fremont spread his arms. “As you can see, I am not. I no longer have need of the gun or the sword. My god is now here.” He glanced up at the sky again.

“I’m glad to hear of it,” Saul said. Was it really this easy? Fremont offered no resistance as Saul clamped him in irons. “It’s a shame I have to do this, sir, but you are wanted. I appreciate the cooperation you’re giving me. I’ll note it in my report.”

“I have no reason to fight or run anymore. I seem to have been doing one or the other for most of my life, and now my life is coming to an end.”

“Are you sick?” Saul asked. “I can get you a doctor when we return to Flagstaff. After that, I’ll cable Washington for a dirigible to carry you back East.”

“That should be appropriate,” Fremont said, more to himself than to Saul. Looking at the sky once again, he added, “You know, I wonder if the beasts that roamed this land when it was still wet knew what was happening when their time came. Some say a rock from the sky sealed their fate, too…”

“Too?” Saul looked at this enigmatic man. “Sir, is there something you’re trying to tell me? Are you in fact dying?”

“No more so than anyone else. Tell me, Marshall, do you know anything about astronomy?”

“Stars and planets, and such?” Saul asked.

“And meteors-the debris of our solar system. They hit the Earth frequently, you know. One might have hit here, long before recorded history, when hairy elephants and giant sloths roamed this land. But it didn’t…”

“I’m afraid I don’t…”

Fremont looked almost sadly at him. “The sky is falling,” he said.

Saul stared at him, then looked up. At that moment, he was not a lawman, and Fremont was not his prisoner. They were, instead, two men sharing the experience of knowing that their time together had come to an end.

Together, they watched as the sky began to glow.