Sherpa Holmes

By Tim Baer

Shalik Chandela Holmes, born in the jungles of India, raised in Jolly Old England, and schooled in the Americas, was content in her role as surgeon for the United States Army. She was a little brown person helping to protect the white people from the red people.That was, until she was framed for a murder she did not commit.

But the army made a fatal mistake. They attacked her, and the Navajo people she had been befriended by. This made her angry. Very angry.

An Alternate History/Steampunk Fantasy story set in the turn-of-the-century Wild West.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Baer
• Release date: Nov 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310971433

Tim Baer

After wasting close to 30 years of his life on Wicca and a life of paganism, Tim, now in his 50s, came to know Messiah in 1998. Since then, he has done as much as possible to make up for those wasted years. A disabled US Navy Desert Storm veteran, he lives in Texas with his wife of 30+ years plus a pack of critters. When he is not at work, or at home busy pounding out more Sci-Fi on his laptop, his time is taken up serving his cats, the LORD, his wife and his dogs--not quite in that order (but don't tell the cats).

Book preview

Sherpa Holmes

by Tim Baer

Sherpa Holmes

by Tim Baer

Published by Tim Baer

First edition, November 2013

Copyright 2013 by Tim Baer

Cover design by Tim Baer

Editing services provided by Marjorie Koenig and Grammatic Effects

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters appearing in this work, other than those who have their place in history, are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No animals were harmed in the making of the stories contained within—although, millions of electrons were severely inconvenienced, and Gizmo, my rat terrier, was incensed that I would not move my laptop so he could sit on my lap. I have mortally wounded 2 computer mice, worn out 3 laptop cooling pads, worn out one laptop, and the current laptop no longer has any ink on the left ctrl, A, S, D, or E keys.

Also available by this author:

Will Write SciFi For Food

Will Write SciFi For Food, Too

Phobos

Toys in the Attic

Things that Go Bump in the Night

Dedication

For my Lord and Savior, Yeshua. Thank You and bless You for giving me the skills to make this story happen.

For my wife and children. Thank you for putting up with me as I sat on the sofa wrapped around my laptop like one deaf and dumb.

For my friends. Thank you for believing in me and my dream.

For my fans. Thank you for being patient with me. It has been a long 2 1/2 years.

For my Alpha Readers. Thank you Cindy Bazzel, Kathleen Gabriel, and Morgan Souch. Your input was invaluable.

For my new readers. Thank you for joining me as I spread my wings and fly from the safety of my short stories, to the heights of this full length novel.

For Lindsey Stirling. Thank you for the hours I spent listening to your music on Pandora while I wrote this. I apologize for what I am about to do to my Alternate History version of your alma mater's city.

For my mother. Thank you for instilling in me your love of the written word.

For my dad. I miss you.

A wise man once said that we should dream until our dreams came true. Thanks, I did.

Chapter 1

Wednesday October 19, 1892

Dineh Village, Northwest of Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory

The brat was truly getting my knickers in a bunch, and she hadn't even been born yet. The baby had flopped back over into a breech position after I had righted it inside the mother's belly for the seventh time, and once more was coming out feet first. She was giving my stubborn streak pains. It had to be a female. Males never had this much tenacity.

"Push, Mosi, push!" I implored the mother, trying to get a grip on the baby's slippery feet inside the Navajo woman's birth canal. Mosi bit down on the strap of mutton rawhide I had given her. She lifted herself up off her back and leaned forward with her elbows, moaning as she pushed; her hair was plastered to her face and neck with the sweat of her labor.

Again, Mosi. Push!

"No, Hataalii! she whined, using the title for medicine men and women the Navajo had given me. I cannot! You do not know what it is like. You have yet to birth a child. You are too young!" She fell back supine, panting.

"What folderol! Yes, Mosi. I have never given birth. In that you are correct. But too young? Mosi, I have thirty winters behind me. Now, push!" I got a grip on one of the infant's feet, quickly losing it as the slimy extremity jerked back inside. I growled to myself in aggravation, trying to shove my wavy black hair up out of my eyes with my right upper arm. I needed a towel. I had a myriad of Ben's clockwork mechanical creations at my beck and call, but I doubted their capabilities in understanding a vocal order to retrieve a specific item. I glanced over my shoulder at the young girl cowering by the opening to the hooghan—the traditional cone-shaped Navajo hut made of wood and packed mud we were within.

"Doli, in Kashmir . . . my steam carriage—the machine with wheels. In it, next to the seat, on the floor—there is a bundle. Unwrap it and bring me the cloth towels that are within." The girl's brown eyes went round with the thought that she would have to go near my steam-powered machine. I did not remember the actual name the Dineh, or People as the Navajo call themselves, had for it. I just knew it meant something about a fire-breathing monster. Was there a dragon myth with the Navajo? I could not keep track of all their myths and taboos.

I shook my head to clear the stray thought and focused on my patient. If I could just grab ahold of that little rapscallion's foot and give it a hearty tug, this poor woman's labor would be much shortened.

Push, Mosi. Deep breath, and push, I said as another contraction took the woman. In the back of my mind, I registered the report of a cannon volley. I wondered for a split second at that. Fort Wingate had no artillery, did they? Not that I recalled. Only cavalry and infantry, and a couple of Hotchkiss guns—but being of the medical field, and not a true combatant, I did not pay much attention to the weapons of destruction that were splayed around the fort.

Mosi screamed as she got to the end of her endurance with that round of pushing, again falling back supine on the birthing mat. Doli ducked back into the hooghan at that point. I turned reaching for the towels in her hands when a blinding flash and a roar overtook the hooghan. Something kicked me in the hip, and I flew sideways into the hooghan's wall. My head hit a hard surface and I blacked out.

I came to. I knew not, at first, how long after. It was still daylight, or perhaps daylight again. I propped my elbows under my back and levered my torso up and looked about. The hooghan was a roofless smoking ruin. Where the birthing mat and Mosi had been was a black crater. Of Doli there was no sign. Here and there throughout the Dineh village were members of the Fifth US Cavalry riding down the Navajo, concentrating solely on women and children, slashing at them with their sabers, or shooting them in the back with their Colt revolvers. My eyes fixated on one—Major Abel Gein—as he rode down a girl child and trampled her to death with his mount's hooves. The horror of it all drained the last of my energy, and my elbows collapsed beneath me. I tried to roll over to one side in order to rise, but found a mangled mess where my right thigh should have been—the artery electing at that moment to begin spurting my life out in great gouts. Evil begets evil. My last thought as the world again faded to black around me was that God willing, should I survive this ordeal, I would do everything in my power to run the Yankees out of the West. If war was what they wanted, then war was what they would get. So help me, I would return all the land west of the Mighty Mississippi to the natives and make the white men rue the day they had messed with Doctor Shalik Chandela Holmes!

Chapter 2

Monday July 18, 1892

Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory

Unfortunately, those portions of my anatomy that most define me as mammalian are rather . . . capacious. This is quite a handicap in the male-dominated field I have chosen—medicine. Compound with that the region of the world where I have elected to work, the wild West of the Americas, and you might be better able to appreciate my plight.

For the life of me, I cannot fathom the American male's puerile obsession with the female bosom. All because I am, as one illiterate buffoon quipped, Stacked like a brick outhouse, that one is! Outhouse was not the exact word he used, but I refuse to repeat his coarse phrasing. If my aim was true—and my force sufficient, which with my training, I know it was—he shall be wearing my hand print across his face for quite some time.

My apologies for referencing a topic quite so base—but writing a light and airy tale, and addressing you as, "Dear Gentle Reader," is not within my abilities, or my temperament. Not to mention that the topic ahead is not light and airy. But it is a tale that needs must be told—and from both sides of the conflict, no matter how morbid or horrific the details contained therein.

My name, as I stated earlier in this missive, is Shalik Chandela Holmes, although my adoptive father always called me Sherpa Holmes. I found this folderol rather insulting. I am not a Sherpa. I am not from anywhere near the north-eastern border of India, and certainly nowhere near Nepal. My family name comes from the northern and central parts of India. We are of the Chandravanshi peoples and, as such, are Kshatriya. We are warriors, not mere pack mules. Alas, he thought it a humorous play on names with his favorite pulp fiction character, and a recent character at that!—all because I solved one infinitesimal case within my medical college's township involving the massacre of some feral cats by that horrific Tuttle boy, Percival. Perhaps "beast is more apropos than boy". But I did not start this tale to pick nits in the proper nomenclature of this referenced monster—even if the Siamese cat (whom I named Mongkut after the King of Siam,) that I rescued from him became my constant companion in my posting to the Western United States.

By-the-by, if you are expecting this tale to be about me solving a crime in the manner of the fictitious character my father nicknamed me in honor of, you are going to be sorely disappointed. It is not. There is a crime. But the tale does not meander in quite that direction. It is more about the crimes man commits against man. And those are many.

My father came to adopt me in the Year of Our Lord, 1864 when during the Bhutan War he was witness to my biological parents' murder by Thuggee. It was at that point—and after the instant death by his hand of the murderers who had strangled my parents to death in a ritualistic honor of the Hindu goddess Kali; the same caste of thuggee who had been declared eradicated by 1840—when he adopted me for reasons known only to him. I was two and had no idea who this tall, pale-faced man was that snatched me up with rough, thick fingered hands.

My very first interaction with him was to bite his left thumb. Hard. He is fond of telling the world that that simple act cemented his love for me. I remember the outcome in quite a different manner. I remember those huge, coarse hands tilting me over and soundly thrashing my bare bum. I believe it was my lack of tears and indignant glare from my brown eyes at this point that endeared me to him. Quite the little trooper, what? were his exact words.

My formative years were spent in England with my father and stepsister Vanessa. I never knew the mother of my adoptive sister. She had passed on during her daughter's birth. My sister never lorded her blood ties to our father over me. From the onset, we were the best of friends, sharing in everything—even the sound thrashings that my father doled out for the various crimes I committed in what he would refer to as my heathen youth. I always took the blame, even when the act had been perpetrated by Vanessa. This was not by any deception on her part. This was always by my own admission to our father. Perhaps that is why he thrashed both our bums? He knew she was guilty, but could not overrule my own admission of guilt.

I do not speak with a Hindi accent. To hear me, one would be of the impression I had been born in the country of my father. Alas, my skin-tone bears witness to the fact that I am not of the Anglos. Nay, I am one of the little brown peoples from deep within the boundaries of the British Raj, and I quite look the part. Dark brown skin, equally dark eyes, and shining, wavy, jet black hair mark me as anything but Anglo.

My father, instead of being content with Vanessa and me living the typical feminine lifestyle of puppies, ponies, bows, bustles, and bonbons, filled both of us with classical educations, eventually sending us off to Somerville College; my older sister attending three years before myself. I took to education as a nightingale takes to singing, while my sister took to the new woman's suffrage movement. But Somerville was not enough for me. I craved more. With my sister's goading, and our father's blessings, I applied to, and was accepted by, the Geneva Medical College in a portion of the Americas known as upstate New York. My sister could have her vote, and more power to her in this endeavor! Education, however, is what I needed! But it was on her prompting and talk of men and women becoming equals that I did actively pursue my medical doctorate degree.

Acceptance on the quaint campus by the faculty was one thing—acceptance by the remainder of people in the form of the student body was another. Fortune was with me during those trying times, in that my father had elected during my youth to allow the continued martial training that was the legacy of my family name, even if I was of the fairer sex. The student body was allowed—by me—to harass my personage about being a woman in a man's field . . . up to a point. When they crossed that point—most times by laying a hand upon my personal student body—I endeavored to let them know that a line had been drawn in the sand, and if they wished to continue across it, they would needs meet me on the field of honor.

It did not hurt my case that said line was usually drawn in the sand as I dragged their unconscious forms across the ground by one arm—or ankle. The first time a fellow student elected to call my bluff on this soon found himself in a foetal position on the ground, trying to hold his groin, vomit, cry, and inhale all at the same time. It had not been my intention to end our discussion in quite such a manner, but he had hurried me. My boots were, and are, quite pointed and tipped with brass.

In the Year of Our Lord 1890, I graduated and was declared a Doctor of Medicine. My proud father sent me as a graduation gift a La Rapide steam-powered automobile manufactured in France by the brilliant inventor Amedee Bollee. I shudder still at the thought of the money my father wasted having that amazing mechanical beast shipped across the Atlantic—although I dearly love my little shiny black horseless carriage, which, in proper schooner fashion, I christened Kashmir. Why not? Were not the Conestoga wagons that sailed across the prairies to populate this vast American land referred to as land schooners? Is not a horseless carriage a form of land schooner? I so designate mine!

For reasons not even known to myself—call it impulse, call it stupidity, call it an act of utter defiance in the face of the entire male ego and sense of self-import—I signed on soon after that event with the Army of the United States of America to be a surgeon. Perhaps my sister's Woman's Suffrage had delved its wicked tendrils deep into my heart after all? That is pure hypothesis on my part. I truly do not fathom what possessed me to join the army. I am not sure who came to rue it more—myself, or the army.

It is now the Year of Our Lord 1892. I am in Fort Wingate, just a little west of the capital of the New Mexico Territory, Sante Fe. I, as part of the 5th Cavalry, am a peacekeeper between the white settlers pouring in along the Sante Fe Railroad, and the Navajo, Zuni Pueblo, Hopi, and Ute Indians. Me, a little brown person, guarding a white people, from a red people. I believe my warrior ancestors would declare me Dalit, or untouchable. My father would just roll his eyes and declare me insane—and hug me. My sister would nod, and encourage me to, Give them all holy hell, Dearie!

As I sat in the rocking chair on the veranda to my dispensary with Mongkut perched on a crate to my left, I puffed a long draught off of my huqqa, holding the smoke from the opiate-laced tobacco a few seconds in my lungs before exhaling. I had become addicted to smoking black opium balls courtesy of some hold-outs left over from the East India Trading Company. One of their so-called gentlemen had offered to smoke on it Indian-style, in order to conclude our trade agreement for the opiates I needed to carry out my profession. It had felt good. It had felt too damned good. Damn him! After losing too many days, nay, weeks! from smoking straight, black, opium tar balls, I had weaned myself down to a milder form of laudanum-soaked tobacco. I still managed to attain a euphoric state without losing track of my life. I craved weaning myself off of the horrid stuff completely, but we all have our evils, I suppose. This is mine. Such are the little things that make up life.

Nurse, came a call from further out in the fort. Glancing up out of my daydream and forcing my eyes to focus, I spotted one of the returning scouts. He had a wicked gash over his left brow that was bleeding profusely down into his eye. He was being helped along by a very large, dark skinned Navajo, also in a scout uniform. There was no sign of their mounts, which I found peculiar. Perhaps they had already stabled them? I shrugged to myself. It mattered not.

Surgeon, I automatically corrected.

Yes, I require the surgeon. Please fetch him, nurse.

No.

No? See here, lassie! he snapped.

"No, I am the surgeon. Come here. Let me see to your wound." I put down the hose to my huqqa and grabbed my medical kit, stepping from my rocking chair over to them, ensuring as I did so they would be to my left.

I had not truly expected to see any more patients. Sick call had been over for several hours. Luckily for him, I had not imbibed in that much of my mixture yet . . . I hoped.

Mongkut stared at them with his sapphire blue eyes from where he was perched atop the crate. His right ear twitched for no visible reason.

The Navajo scout helped the wounded man sit on the edge of my building's veranda. He gazed down at me as I knelt next to his comrade, his huge black eyes taking me in for a moment before allowing his gaze to wander over to the huqqa. His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

Are you Indian? asked the wounded scout. I nodded as I wiped some of the blood from his gash with a piece of cotton. Which tribe?

"Chandravanshi, of the Kshatriya. You will need to have this stitched."

I've never heard of those tribes. Are they related to the Apache?

I shook my head. India Indians, not American Indians.

His eyes went round, as did his mouth. Oh.

Scouts. They spend too many months alone with their horses. They forget their own language it seems.

His eyes got a glint in them that I did not like. "Then you know the Kama Sutra?" he leered. I dug my thumb deep into the cut.

Ow! he cried causing Mongkut to hiss.

Yes. I sighed. "I know of that folderol. I do, however, know Sastravidya. I am extensively trained in all twelve of its weapons in four classes. Most especially, I know sixty ways to kill you with a khanda, I said, using the proper nomenclature for the Indian martial arts, and the straight, double-edged sword favored within it. Some of them do not kill you instantly, but allow you to bleed out while contemplating your own entrails. I cocked my right eyebrow at him. Any more inappropriate questions or comments?" He looked down at the ground between his feet, shaking his head, flinging blood droplets as he did all over my blouse. His partner gave a snort of a laugh, and just as fast, the humor vanished from his countenance.

No, ma'am, the wounded man mumbled. I gave him a shot of cocaine right next to his wound. I used my dullest hypodermic needle. I believe the previous victim of that needle had been one of the horses. Yes. Yes it was. I remember. He had kicked me. Ow! the scout yelped. Mongkut hopped down off his crate, his ears flattened against his skull. He strode over and began to sharpen his claws on the wounded soldier's left boot.

That's for the pain.

"To make it worse?" he asked while trying to push Mongkut gently away with a hand. I grabbed his wrist and pulled the offending hand up out of the Siamese's reach before I had to give the man more stitches.

To make it better, I corrected. I do that. A lot. Correct men. They seem to need it. A lot.

When? he whined. Mongkut stropped against his other leg, daring him to try to touch his royal personage before striding back over to hop back up on his crate. He licked his left forepaw in preparation to cleansing himself of the stink of being in such close proximity to humans.

I stood, stepping back and placing my balled fists on my hips. Do you require stitches to close that cut, or a bottle, a diaper, and a nap? He faced forward and gritted his teeth. I waited for a couple more moments for the drug to take effect, cleaning the wound some more with the cotton and some medicinal whiskey. I know it stung like the dickens, but he did not even cringe. I gently poked his skin by the cut. How does that feel?

His eyes went round, and his eyebrows arched up. It doesn't hurt!

Good. I handed him a leather tooth strap. Put that between your teeth. If the drug wears off, I don't want you biting your tongue off. That would require more time to stitch back in, and be even more painful. His eyes went round once again, but he obeyed. I stitched the wound closed with seven neat stitches. He would have a small scar.

Come see me in seven days. At that time, I may take those stitches out, or have you keep them for a couple more days. Keep them dry, and clean. If they get infected, I'll have to amputate.

Mongkut sneezed as I sat back in my rocker, picking up the stem of my huqqa.

The scout and his Navajo partner had begun to walk off when I said that. He took several stumbling steps, stopped, and turned to look at me. Amputate? he repeated after a small hesitation. His voice cracked in the middle of the word. I drew a line across my throat with the nail of my left index finger while making a squick noise in the back of my throat. I didn't know a white man could turn that white, or that a Navajo could belly laugh that loudly. I suppose these wild west white men do not understand a dry sense of humor. Alas. I shan't lose any sleep over it. Kama Sutra, indeed!

***

Monday July 18, 1892

Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory

Major Abel Gein reporting for duty, sir! said the cavalry officer, his back ramrod straight, saluting as he presented himself to his new commanding officer.

At ease, Major, said Colonel Eugene Carr with a flip of his right hand in a return salute. He said nothing for a few moments, allowing the new major time to squirm. Finally looking up, the colonel cast his eyes down the spotless uniform on the soldier. Welcome to Fort Wingate, he said, rising to shake the Major's hand.

Thank you, Colonel, said Gein. Carr noticed his handshake was firm, without trying to be overpowering. Exactly what a commander should be greeted with. He wondered again why this young major had been sent out here to the frontier fort. The Indian wars were over. The papers were even now claiming that the West had been won. This was no longer a coveted assignment as it had been back in earlier days.

If you don't mind my asking, Major, why did you request assignment out here? Carr asked, giving in to his curiosity.

Major Gein acted surprised. Surely you jest, Colonel! Why, it is an honor to serve under as great an Indian fighter as yourself! You, sir, are the last of the greats who fought against the heathen savages!

Colonel Carr smiled, and let the flattery stand, unanswered. His eyes went down the major's record. Graduated fifth in your West Point class. While not too exemplary, that is not too shabby, either. He peered up at Gein.

The major grimaced before answering. I had a . . . difference of opinion with one of the instructors.

Colonel Carr glanced down at the note about how the major (as a cadet) had been reprimanded for beating an elderly Negro servant nearly to death for not making the creases on his dress uniforms crisp enough.

Mm, yes, said the colonel. Hopefully there won't be any differences of opinion during your service here at Fort Wingate, and I'll be able to send you along with a glowing report. He thought about asking the major if