Home on the Strange_A Brewster and Brewster Adventure

By Murray Lindsay

Abigail Maye "Blackie" Brewster can't believe her luck—schlepping around in the summer heat as the assistant of a high-maintenance movie producer.  When did her life become a mix of flat and irritating?  What's a world- wandering nomad from Saskatchewan to do?

Abagael Mae "Magpie” Brewster can't believe her luck—spending the summer sailing the skies in a prototype steam blimp, flying a circuit of the Western Domains, engaging in a little light espionage.  What more could a University of Saskatchewan Academician desire?

Blackie's life veers in a direction that threatens to snap her mind.  Magpie's light-hearted spying takes a hard and dangerous direction that threatens to snap her spirit.  When the paths of these identical twins born of different mothers intersect and tangle together, their lives become a race across a rolling prairie landscape both familiar and strange.

Home on the Strange is a rootin'-tootin' daredevil tale of far-fetched fiction in a west that does not share our history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cabin 4 Books
• Release date: Nov 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992124212

Book preview

Contents

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Glossary

About the Author

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The sun peeked past the bulk of the green SUV in a sadistic blaze of heat. Abigail Maye Blackie Brewster squinted at the abrupt glare reflecting off her tablet’s glossy screen. She scooched her bum sideways on the grass to get back into the truck’s shade, frantically keyboarding and collating GPS coordinates from scribbled paper notes. Where was the other page? Blackie sighed and lifted a butt cheek. She pulled the crumpled paper of her notes free. This tipped her water bottle over. Snatching it up before the dusty dirt drank it, Blackie snorted in annoyance and jumped to her feet.

She paused. She inhaled the sweet prairie air for a long five count and took a sip from the bottle. She exhaled. Another sip, another deep breath and she had to get back at it. Blackie squatted and sorted her gear into the shade before the Great and Powerful Vargas turned his attention her way again.

Said personage currently stood like some interpretative dancer doing his Ode to Modern Frustration. Tense and reaching as high into the clear air as he could, Achille Vargas waved his phone to summon the God of Bars. Blackie doubted the small bulge of ground would help his reception, even as he went up on tippy-toes.

Dammit! He brought the phone down and glared at it. Blackie winced, hoping he didn’t throw it in frustration again. It had taken her an hour to find it last time, and strangely enough, the reception still hadn’t improved.

This time the movie producer controlled himself, tucked his phone in his pocket and smoothed his hair back. He then reached into the other breast pocket. Blackie was already in motion, dipping into her own vest pocket to snatch out some matches. Vargas had set the fresh cigarillo between his lips as Blackie struck a flame and lit the smelly thing. With only the barest nod of acknowledgment, he fumed clouds of smoke and raked the horizon with hard eyes.

Blackie slipped back, keeping away from Vargas’ sight lines. When things went his way and he had plenty of details to chew on, the legendary motion picture producer from once-upon-a-time shone through. The work was hard then, but Blackie felt like an appreciated member of a professional team. When life threw too many curve balls, the petulant, demanding, aristocrat took over and Blackie understood why it had been years since Vargas had had a big movie. He was running out of people who would have anything to do with him. He had finally kicked one too many egos. Each time she did the cigar-lighting flunky routine, that Blackie worried she might do some kicking.

She emulated her boss, trying to absorb the wide open country around her and chill out. Here on top of the Cypress Hills, she felt sure she could see the entire province. Yellow and green pasture land blended to the horizon, sharply cut by roads and farmsteads. A warm breeze swept up the tangy scent of summer-baked grasses to her nose. A multitude of peeps, cheeps and whistles issued from the waving stalks and low bushes. It all helped soothe her, bringing back sweet childhood memories. How had a kid from Saskatchewan ended up in the crazy industry called Hollywood?

Ted Kowalchuk stood up from under the open rear hatch of the SUV, shaking his head and wiping his hands. Everything in the back compartment now lay in a fan across an unfolded tarp atop the wild grass. The chubby Location Manager adjusted his khaki flop hat, running a hand across his sweaty, thinning brown scalp and setting the hat back. He cracked his back and shook his head.

No luck, Ms. Brewster. Nothing I can fake a patch with.

Blackie surveyed the loot herself. She’d patched a couple of flats in Serbia, but nothing available would macgyver this tire.

This doesn’t bode well for filming in this part of the world, Kowalchuk. Vargas strode up, his lean and expensively maintained body stiff, hands clasped behind his back. If he could get away with carrying a swagger stick, Blackie knew he surely would.

It’s wild bad luck, Mr. Vargas. I mean, a flat tire and a flat spare? That’s a million to one. Ted sighed and bit his lower lip. I really apologize. Every vehicle coming out here for location shooting will have a repair kit, I promise.

I have to take part of the blame. Blackie nearly choked on her water when her boss said that. If I hadn’t wanted to revisit this site, we’d be nearly back to Maple Creek with the others now. Or, at least we’d be broken down on the highway proper and not up here in the wilderness. However, I have a very important conference call tonight with Spielberg and Levy and that is just the beginning of the evening. I need to return to Maple Creek as soon as possible.

I’ll see if I have any better luck with my phone, sir. Ted wandered along the twin tracks in the grass that made up the road, trying to find a connection.

Vargas puffed hard on his cigarillo. Blackie shifted around the van to be upwind of the skanky clouds of smoke. The motion caught Vargas’ attention and he came back from wherever a movie mogul’s mind goes when the world annoys them.

I believe I have all I need in the way of reference material. I’ll need all my notes and photos assembled into a suitable presentation format before my meeting, letters drafted to keep the investors calm and a suggestion list of suitable souvenir gifts for close friends, investors and to help entice talent.

I’ve made a good start on all of that, Mr. Vargas, but…

The hard, black eyes glared at her over the sharp nose. His voice dripped frost. But?

Blackie shrugged, opening her palms and putting on her best puppy dog eyes. My tablet’s battery has about two minutes of power left.

I understood you to have the capability to recharge it on the road from a vehicle.

Only if the vehicle is running to keep its own battery alive.

A vein bulging in Vargas’ neck betrayed the otherwise granite cool exterior. He turned and watched the distant form of Ted for a long moment. He spat the cigarillo on to the ground and ground it out very thoroughly with his boot.

Very well. Achille Vargas accepts the whims of a callous world. We’re off the clock until this wretched bus runs again.

Blackie’s thoughts ricocheted around her skull. Hanging around an idle and increasingly frustrated Vargas? No thank you.

I think I’ll take a hike around. Please don’t come along, please don’t come along...

Vargas raised an eyebrow, giving the rolling hilltop wilderness a scornful appraisal. Apparently it would serve as a movie backdrop, but nothing else. My company grows stale, does it?

Oh, no, not at all. It’s just that it’s only been a month since they took the cast off my leg. Blackie slapped her bare thigh. I still take any chance to exercise the thing.

Vargas ran his piercing gaze up and down her, and then shrugged. He pulled a silver flask out of hip pocket and worked the tiny cap with long fingers. Stay in earshot should we be able to depart.

Yessir.

Blackie dove into the hatchback of the van. She rooted out a couple of lemon-flavour waters from the cooler and fistful of trail bar munchies. She found places for them in her vest-of-many-pockets. Jamming her brand new souvenir Canadian flag hat on to her black hair, she picked a direction and started walking. Each second she lingered might mean he’d reconsider and join her.

It also might mean he’d find out her tablet had a good half-charge left. It wasn’t much in the way of revenge, but it helped her past the cigarillo-lighting crap.

She tried not to break into a run as she passed Ted. He looked jubilant and waggled his phone at her. I got a bar and fired a text through to my wife! Help will be coming.

Great! Blackie started walking again. I’m going to explore.

Have fun. It’s lovely country. I’ll honk when we’re ready to go.

Long grass whipping at her bare legs, Blackie didn’t breath until the van had disappeared behind a ridge.

The sun crested the rim of the tethered aeroship in a triumphant blaze of summertime heat. The abrupt glare off the white page of her notebook made Abagael Mae Magpie Brewster squint her eyes nearly closed. The sun’s heat poured in quickly alongside the glare. Magpie sighed. She lifted her pen from describing the newly discovered Brewster’s Freckled Bluebird to scooch her bum across the tough grass, chasing the airship’s retreating shade. The holster of her gunbelt twisted under her hip as she slid, jabbing her rudely. With a vexed snort, Magpie gave up on casual remedies. She snapped the leather-bound notebook closed and put the fountain pen back in its sheath on the cover. She stood, readjusted the twisted gunbelt and collected her satchel bag. A simple step into the airship’s shadow came up short as the toe of her boot caught the hose snaking through the grass. A lurching skip managed to keep her from an undignified sprawl, but Magpie felt her face flush hot regardless. Her principal chore this afternoon had been to oversee the filling of the airship’s water tanks and she’d all but forgotten it. Earth and Sky, but she could be such a ninny. Trying to make amends, she quickly inspected the length of hose, scuffing along in small steps.

No kinks or other mischief blocked the steady gurgle of water to the thirsty steam engines. From its brass nozzle deep in the bubbling brook, along its plump and damp grey length, all the way to the Thunderchild Express tugging at her moorings. Her dignity and honour recovered, Magpie let her eyes run over the great ovoid. Huge as a city block but as light and dainty as a tethered cloud. The red and black stripes led the eye along the sky-cutting arch to the quartet of huge rudders at the tail. The white pennants fluttering in the stiffening breeze had some gaps in their ranks, and looked a little ripped and torn, but they had held up well in the weeks of flying the prairie skies.

Back along the underbelly to the gondola that had been her home away from home, or rather, cozy nest away from home. The twin props at the rear stood quiet and would remain so until that wretched valve assembly could be repaired. Again. Not that Magpie would know a valve assembly if she saw it on a table, but she had heard Phillipe and Anton curse it often enough to feel on a first-name basis. Still, the two inventors seemed very pleased with the debut of their steam-driven-enhanced-inflated blimp prototype. She could follow the basic physics of the design, but the details of the mechanics left her standing on the ground.

Magpie finished her admiring tour of the sun-haloed aeroship’s shape at the gathering beneath the prow. There, Philippe Thunderchild ladled out his charm to a trio of Wanakota dignitaries. The whole purpose of Philippe’s prototype was the freedom to set down virtually anywhere for business or repairs. Normal dirigibles could do so, but much preferred proper aerodromes. Forging friendly relations with whoever and whenever ranked as high as any mechanical shakedown, if Philippe wanted to sell his design. After a month’s circuit of the Flatland Kingdoms, Magpie knew Philippe yearned to return to grease and wrenches and be done with the diplomacy.

Philippe began handing out glass jars from a crate near his feet. Magpie smiled. The appearance of Bolt & Sons Premium Preserved Produce meant a conclusion to the meeting. The jars of pickled preserves made nice little gifts. For the privilege of having her product distributed near and far across the west, Ms. Bolt had underwritten a nice percentage of the trip’s costs. Still, Magpie looked forward to a meal without the esteemed pickled beets.

The swarthy nomads made their thanks and farewells, packed their presents into saddlebags decorated with colourful beadwork and mounted their ponies. Magpie’s gaze followed their cantering progress down the slope where her eye moved past them to the breathtaking panorama beyond. Here atop the Cypress Hills, she felt she could see the entire prairies. The great herds of the Wanakota bovalo peppered the landscape, moving and munching in a world of dry golds, lush emeralds and dusty browns. Her eyes drifted out and beyond through the clear summer air until dust and heat waves blended everything at the horizon.

A warm breeze swept up the scent of summer-baked plants to her nose. A multitude of peeps, cheeps and whistles issued from the waving stalks and low bushes. As wondrous as the view might be, Magpie had become perhaps a bit jaded. Such Olympian vistas were a regular feature from her cabin aboard the Express. The wonder lay in the opportunity to walk the hills and smell the crushed grass beneath her footsteps. She hoisted her satchel over her shoulder.

How tiresome, to be treatin’ such buckskin savages as equals. Back in my beloved homeland, the lesser species are kept in their place.

Magpie’s warm delight with nature chilled to a greasy lump. She laboured to fix a polite smile in place. When that failed, she tried at least for a neutral mask. She turned to face the uniformed man who had slipped up behind her.

Major Samson, you never cease extolling the virtues of your homeland. If you are that homesick for its glories, perhaps you should return there, to restore your natural humours.

The soldier’s white teeth flashed in a smooth grin, highlighted by his full, black moustache. Tiny laugh lines crinkled around his cold, blue eyes. Your advice is not without merit, Professor Brewster. I’d be delighted to escort you there to sample the wonders and sights. Sadly, my duty remains with my regiment.

How unfortunate for you. Hopefully you can return to their warm camaraderie in the very near future. Please excuse me. I need to tend to my chores.

Magpie walked alongside the hose towards the airship. The mercenary had boarded at Calgary at the request of his current employer, Emperor Murdoch III, ostensibly to evaluate the potential of the Thunderchild Express, but mostly to cadge a ride to Regina. She could not be shed of his vile foreign attitudes and oily blandishments soon enough.

By the time she had checked the water tank and stowed away the coiled hose, Magpie’s peace of mind had returned.

The roly-poly Philippe Thunderchild peered up into his creation’s engine compartment. His fancy meeting jacket lay folded carefully on the ground, hat atop it. The boots of Anton Kowalchuk protruded from the access opening, standing on the ladder created by the open hatchway.

Philippe! I assume the Wanakota left with happy smiles?

The man straightened up, the sweat on his balding head catching a sun gleam. He cast a quick glance to the open prairie. All is well on that front, my dear. The real challenge would be to match that success with the Keepache.

A muffled bang of metal on metal came from the mechanical compartment.

Tunder and fury! Dis miserable... Anton Kowalchuk slid down to stomp heavily on the ground, sucking furiously on the base of his left thumb. Boss, dis stinkin’ son of a smirch... The lean beanpole of a man broke off his tirade at the sight of Magpie. Anton had a quaint idea that forbade harsh language in front of women. She gave a small quirk of a smile as he throttled his tirade.

What’s the verdict, Anton?

Dat assembly be puttin’ up a fierce fight, him. I tink we can waddle to Regina, but den it be better to replace him wit proper parts.

Is there anything I can do to help? Magpie fervently hoped nothing would come to mind. Though she would help if needed. She had every determination to honestly earn her keep.

Philippe rubbed his beard, scowling into the mechanics now that Anton didn’t block the view. No, my dear. No doubt even I will be in Anton’s way. There isn’t room for a third person to help much.

Well, I would like to go for a hike. I’d wager that the Cypress Hills haven’t had a scientific eye on them for nearly a century.

Philippe turned to her, then cocked his head to take in the grassy hillocks and tree bluffs shimmering in the afternoon sun. I don’t see why not. We have a good two hours of work ahead of us, eh Anton?

Anton grunted sourly. At least.

Take proper care. We’ll sound the whistle when we’re near done. Philippe paused. I’d like to urge you to take the Major along as escort, but I know Anton hates to hear women curse even more than to curse around them.

Very considerate of you, boss.

Magpie nodded and ran to sort out some gear. Satchel bag with note and sketching materials. Full canteen. A couple of apples. Pith helmet. Gun belt...she paused and looked around for any witnesses. She quickly unlaced and rolled back her right sleeve. Ceaseless drilling from her instructor in the winter months and practice during the trip had her strap the slender, lethal contrivance on her forearm in no time flat. Making sure it was loaded, she replaced her billowing sleeve overtop. So far she hadn’t had to fire it, but better to be prepared.

Giving a wave, Magpie Brewster strode off in eager anticipation. Philippe gave a distracted wave and returned to peering over Anton’s shoulder. Standing near the mechanics, Major Jebediah Samson likewise gave a little nod of farewell. Magpie fought a shudder at the mercenary’s smile. He actually twirled a length of his moustache.

Blackie scrambled up the side of a small coulee, gripping the tough brush for support. Puffing a bit, she squatted, plucked a purple flower and twirled it to her nose. She stood and patted her flat stomach. She snorted derisively. This broken leg convalescence had left her sadly out of shape. Her normal muscle definition had blurred.

Massaging her right thigh more out of habit than need, Blackie parked herself down on a cushion of dry grass, swallowing some flavoured water. Was the movie business worth it? Now that her 28th birthday had whistled by, did she really want to keep collecting sprains, bruises and even a broken bone as a stuntwoman? And, leave us not forget that each year saw the need for real stunt people shrink in competition to the newest whizbang computer graphics.

She gazed off into the infinite horizon and tried to think. Blackie had forgotten how good the prairies were for that. Something about being on the wide flatlands of her youth put the puffed up self-importance of movie big shots into perspective. If this sweep of checkerboard prairie didn’t make a person feel small, that person had the sensitivity of a brick. If the response wasn’t to stand up straight and demand a place in the world, then a person better find a nice windowless basement in which to hide.

Her original plan had sparkled with ingenuity. She would slave away as a personal assistant to a major mover and shaker to score valuable insider points. Her leg would be officially healed for a return to stunt work at the same time the new Vargas blockbuster adventure had its wrap party. Very solid resume material with great gobs of cash.

The idea now sparkled like a night light in a fog bank.

A bird soared across the wide blue cloudscape, cutting across the high white line of a jet contrail. Down on the grasslands, a dozen antelope bounced along. Blackie drained the bottle and returned it to its vest pocket. Back to the Army? Not a chance. Go to school? Just the army without uniforms. Travel the world on her rich inheritance? Oh, wait. She had to wait for somebody to die and pass on a rich inheritance. She shook her mop of hair and replaced the cap on her head. Maybe this prairie view had opened her mind too wide. Thinking so hard might sprain something.

Blackie reached and backhanded a dandelion puffball, scattering the flurry of little seeds. The breeze kept trying to graduate to a gusting wind and whirled the fluffy seeds away. Blackie twisted and looked over her shoulder at the thin line of black clouds on the western horizon. Better head back. She stood and patted the dust from her blue cargo shorts.

She half-slid into a gulley for a bit of protection from the gusts. Picking her footing carefully, she hoped the van had been fixed by now.

Puffing a bit at the top of the ridge, Magpie grinned, hands on hips. She immodestly patted her flat stomach. The amazing events of this year had toned her condition and muscles to a level she hadn’t experienced since a teen, if then. She squatted easily to examine a wide sweep of Trifolium Pratense. The clover flowers looked more violet-purple than red. Magpie occasionally wondered if the original taxonomists were colour-blind. The small face of a burrowing owl abruptly peeked out of its hole. After a shared moment of surprise, the little animal disappeared back into the ground. 

Magpie smiled and took a seat on a patch of thick grass. She sipped some water from her canteen, gazing off into that infinite horizon. Perhaps she was not as jaded as she believed. How could anyone grow jaded of that sweeping expanse? It opened the mind wide. She grinned yet again, savouring the sun and the scents on the wind. Life could not better be.

As her 28th birthday came and went, the forces of conformity had tried to corral her. Spinster and other hard shots came from elements of her social circle. Flighty, gadabout and generalist shot from her superiors at the university. Choose a suitable husband. Raise children. Pick a proper scientific discipline and specialize. Conform, restrict, focus, choose.

But where’s the fun in that? Magpie snorted and stood, reslinging her canteen and brushing the dust off her canvas denim trousers. In this bright, new 21st century, old habits faded slowly. A century of hard, focussed labour didn’t easily turn to the abstract mulling for the sake of mulling. Delights and wonders lay at every turn, some hidden like odd little owls that believed themselves to be gophers, some soaring majestically in the firmament like the Thunderchild Express.

The Thunderchild Express expedition had been a grand opportunity. Who would have thought that it would then result in a clandestine meeting with none other than the Mayor of Saskatoon and the Chief of City Defense! Life had been a whirl since then, exciting and important. The corral fence of conformity had been kicked down and the mustang had galloped for freedom.

Magpie sobered. The intelligence she had gathered on this circuit of the prairie domains would have major consequences for Saskatoon. Thankfully, she could unload this dire information in less than two days. She did not envy the decision-makers their jobs. That sort of weight on her shoulders she did not need.

The breeze had gained some strength and a slight chill. Magpie turned to the west and grimaced at the distant line of dark clouds. She patted a hand over her hair, checking to see that the black bun hadn’t come undone, then replaced the pith helmet on her head. Best start back. She half-slid into a gulley for a bit of protection from the gusts. Picking her footing carefully, she hoped the Express had been repaired by now.

And at the third quarter, the Roughriders have the game all tied up...hopefully they can pull off a win before this weather advisory stops the game. Environment Canada has issued a wind warning for south west Saskatchewan, with possible tornado activity. This includes Maple Creek, Eastend, Shaunovan and Cypress Hills areas. The van’s radio sputtered with a blast of static.

Ted reloaded the gear into the SUV while the mechanic, Bob, tightened the lug nuts on the new tire. The rising wind blew bits of grit and made the men squint at each other.

That’s got ‘er. Bob wiped his hands on his all-purpose rag and shoved it back into his pocket. I figure with that kind of crap luck, you should make sure it starts up before I head out.

Ted laughed half-humorously and nodded. He climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine roared to life.

That’s it buddy, I’m outta here and I suggest you do the same. Bob lobbed his tools into their box. Ted gnawed his lip, nodding in agreement. He looked up at the dark clouds clawing away at the pretty blue sky. He leaned on the horn, hoping the bleat could be heard over the wind. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Where did you two get to?

The propellers roared smoothly. Philippe Thunderchild nodded with weary relief. He waved a wide arm to Anton to throttle back. He stooped, his back protesting, and began to sort the tools into their bag with all due haste. The Express groaned and strained at her hawsers. One peg ripped free in a small explosion of black sod.

Philippe ran forward and bellowed to make himself heard over the wind humming across the ropes and the airship’s engines. Sound the whistle again, Anton!

The blast of the steam whistle wailed out over the grassland. Anton shouted back. We have to launch soon, boss! Permission to reel in de secondary hawsers?

Philippe gnawed his lip as he looked up at the dark clouds clawing at the pretty blue sky. He signalled assent to Anton.

Where are you, Abigail? He scanned the surrounding landscape. Oh, and Major Samson as well, of course.

Blackie heard the faint blat of the truck horn and sighed in relief. The sky looked like rain. She might manage to be only half-soaked by the time she found the van. A few damp hours riding back to Maple Creek and then, a shower and dry clothes before she climbed back on the treadmill of chores. Life could not better be.

Very cozy down here out of the wind, I must say.

SHIT! Blackie spun around to see Achille Vargas lounging against the grassy wall of the gulley, softly smiling.

What the hell are you doing, scaring me like that? Sir.

Scaring you? Is that any way to talk to the leading man in your big love scene? Vargas effortlessly moved his lean body upright and moved towards her.

Okay, Blackie thought to herself, let me correct that. You startled me before. NOW, you’re scaring me. Uhh...um...what?

Vargas’ thin smile grew wider. The lines around his eyes crinkled deeply, but his eyes didn’t seem too merry. A sniff on a wind gust worried Blackie. Was he drunk?

I seem to have miscalculated. I thought you to be a bit smarter than to require it spelled out. His soft accent purred on as he removed his jacket.

Blackie was starting to smell something distinctly more rotten than expensive booze on the wind. She wasn’t naive about the Industry.

Sir, I’m sorry if I gave any wrong impression...

Vargas chuckled. Your impressions, or lack thereof, are irrelevant. I examined the applications for assistant, saw that you were an attractive woman with a train wreck of a career. Perfect entertainment with which to amuse myself. How else do you think I bear up on these wilderness movies?

Blackie took a step back, cursing at the loose dirt and broken rock on the floor of this overgrown ditch. Her heart pounded, but she managed to keep her voice level through gritted teeth. That’s a very bad attitude you’ve developed, Mr. Vargas. You’re damn straight you miscalculated. I’m not interested. Touch me and the cops will throw you and your dick into separate beds at the hospital.

Vargas’ smile hardened and his dark brows came together. This is no time for ad libbing, Ms. Brewster. I set the stage carefully by having us driven to this private locale and the necessary time by slicing our tires. All to give you the perfect...audition. Pass it, and perform adequately in the coming days, and your career will relaunch itself into the stars. Deny me and the only movie-related work you’ll ever find is selling popcorn.

Major Samson, I don’t care for the insinuations you’re making.

The military man’s white teeth flashed in a grin against his bronzed face and black moustache. The wind snatched apart his carefully greased hair. My dear little Abagael Mae. Such claims of modesty are not necessary out here. The malicious sneer in his foreign drawl caused cold lumps to bounce in her stomach.

Magpie took a step backward, cursing the loose rock and debris at the bottom of this gulley. To think, scant moments ago her greatest fear was a soaking in the rain.

Was that the Thunderchild Express whistle or the wretched wind?

Child, I am well aware of your espionage activities. Watching for such business is why Emperor Murdoch engaged my services. He stepped closer, drawing his sidearm. I’m now certain that Thunderchild and his expedition are your most excellent choice of dupes. That leaves me free to concentrate on learning all you know.

Her heart thudded a drumbeat. Major... The squeak embarrassed her thoroughly. She swallowed quickly. Major, Magpie pushed on, You are making a great miscalculation. I am Academician Abagael Mae Brewster, on sabbatical from the University of Saskatchewan. How you came to believe otherwise is a mystery to me.

Samson’s eyes narrowed and he chuckled ruefully. I see you’re going to be recalcitrant. So be it. Here, in this cozy little nook out of earshot of, well, anyone, I have all afternoon to wring some answers out of you. His gaze took on a lecherous gleam as he boldly looked her up and down. Let’s not tarry, shall we? We’ll begin by you dropping your gunbelt.

Heart pounding with terror, Magpie obeyed, unbuckling the belt and freeing the leg tie down. The revolver and leather crunched heavily in the debris by her feet. She gave it a hard kick in his direction. Samson’s gaze dropped as the leather and firearm flopped towards him across the ground.

Magpie flung her right arm forward in a sharp, deliberate motion that snapped the sleeve gun up and out of its groove. She gripped her hand. The single shot rang surprisingly loud.

The bullet ripped a piece off the Major’s thigh. He bellowed and staggered back against the dirt wall behind him.

You little whore! Oh, how you’re going to pay... His own pistol came up.

Usually her overactive imagination and intellect were Magpie’s downfall in emergencies, but today they graciously stepped aside. She feinted a kick to Samson’s groin. Instinctively, he twisted his hip to counter the thrust, which meant the toe of her boot fell squarely on his new, bloody wound. Shrieking, the Major went crashing down, a shot from his gun heading for the sky.

Magpie turned and ran. Her sleeve gun had but the one shot. She had three bullets in her bag, but reloading the concealed spy weapon took a lot of time. Otherwise, she might find the gumption to make her first ever human target her second, third and fourth as well.

This cliché couldn’t be happening to her, it just couldn’t. Blackie felt the crushing choice twisting