Page 43 of Blowing Off Steam

“Sure, sure!” Field said heartily. “Bixby? It’s been grand. See you on the river. Are you coming, Rushy?”

“Leave Calliope here?” Rushy asked.

“I’m in good company. Tobias is here,” said Calliope. “It doesn’t look like Brannan will be bothering us anymore. But, Field…”

“Yes, my puss?”

Calliope whispered into his neck, glancing from side to side at her former coworkers. “Are you sure about this fellow? After that Chinese man rigged our boat, are you sure it’s smart to allow this stranger to see your engine?”

Field patted her reassuringly on the arm. “It’ll be fine, Callie. We’ll be right back here in half an hour.”

Field had been correct in that letter he’d written to her when he thought he was going to die. His pride was getting the best of him. He just wanted to brag about his engine and be admired by this stranger who meant nothing to him. Calliope would have followed, but Clara, Aggie, and Gussie were pressing her for more champagne and peppering her with questions about working on the boat. Calliope had to buy them their champagnes before she could extricate herself, and by that time the three men were halfway to the El Dorado.

As she skittered to catch up, she saw the two river men gamboling, carefree. The blaring November sun silhouetted the white paintwork of the boat like a sharp cameo, her men two happy little gnomes next to its bulk. When they shied off behind some stacked crates, Calliope imagined they were inspecting a shipment of oranges or something. But when a couple of flailing punching limbs appeared around the corner of the wooden boxes, Calliope broke into a sprint.

Suddenly four thugs were beating on Field and Rushy! They all had metal pipes in their hands and were walloping the hapless river men about the head and shoulders. After his recent ordeal with the pirates, Rushy was already prone on the ground while a buffalo stomped his arm. Calliope had been in the middle of so many brawls in her time, it was instinct to shriek, “Stan! Cincinnatus! Sharwood!” before raising her skirts and whipping out her Arkansas toothpick from her garter.

Gripping it tightly, she put every ounce of her being into the thrust. She jammed it into the kidney of the bruiser who was thrashing Rushy, jiggling it around for good measure. He instantly froze in a splayed, dramatic manner that would have been comical in different circumstances, and she had to put the sole of one slipper against the back of his thigh to wrench her blade from where it had sank maybe four inches, nearly all the way to the hilt.

As he collapsed on top of poor Rushy, Calliope turned her attention to Field just as he succeeded in getting his revolver from his holster. Oddly, one of the criminals was shouting at him, “This’ll teach you to steal a train engine from Mr. Hopkins!”

Was this all about Mark Hopkins and the engine Field had been supposed to bring to him? The engine hadn’t even belonged to Hopkins. It was none of his business if Field had decided to do something different with the engine.

The thug who was so concerned about Hopkins bashed Field over the head with his pipe while another kicked the revolver from his hand, sending Field crashing back into a wall of crates. Dozens of oranges rolled about, and the original mild-mannered brute fell on his ass, rolling on them. Men didn’t usually take women seriously, as was the case now as the two remaining shit sacks set upon Field once more. So no one noticed when Calliope again took a powerful leap, forcefully driving her dagger into the soft tissues of a neck.

The blood that spurted was surprising, and as the fellow reeled back in shock, Field was able to retrieve his revolver, leveling it at the head of the remaining jackleg. This time, it was he who kicked the pipe from the fellow’s hand and backed him into the stack of crates. It angered Calliope that blood trickled down the side of Field’s beautiful face, so she stamped on the testicles of the fellow who rolled on the oranges—the one she’d stabbed in the neck was already reeling down the wharf, eager to flee.

She turned to assist Rushy, but he was already on his feet, one arm hanging at odd angles. Calliope knew it was broken. Enraged, Rushy drew back his left fist and pummeled the ruffian in the face. But Field stayed him from repeating the punch, saying, “Wait, Rushy. I want to find out what this shit sack knows.”

“Good idea,” Calliope agreed. “Hold him up, Rushy.” The shit sack was on the verge of collapse.

So Rushy propped him up while Field demanded, “Who paid you to ambush us? What does Mark Hopkins have to do with this?”

“Mark Hopkins paid us!” the ignoramus blubbered as Stan Sitwell came barreling onto the scene. There wasn’t much for Stan to do other than kick the fallen man in the balls again.

“Oh, yes?” Calliope snarled. “I’d be guessing it’s more likely that Soquel Haight paid you.”

“Who’s Soquel Haight?” Blood gushed down the thug’s chin, and Calliope was gratified to see Rushy had knocked a tooth loose. “It was Mark Hopkins who paid us. Wanted to scare you into giving back his engine.”

Out of habit, perhaps, or not having anything else to do, Stan Sitwell punched the fellow now in the face. While the criminal floundered about in the pieces of broken wood and oranges, he cried out, “Soquel Haight is a good fellow!”

Calliope hissed at Field, “So he does know Haight.”

Field nodded briskly. “Yes. That’s odd.” He shouted, “What is so great about Soquel Haight?”

Stan wrenched the jackleg from the pile of rubbish and forced him to stand before Field. “Soquel Haight employs many people!” he wailed.

“Many people? Like you?”

“Yes! No! He’s a good businessman! He would never pay anyone to thrash a stranger!”

“What’s even odder,” said Rushy. “Look at these stains on his elbows and knees.” Yanking an arm to his face, Rushy sniffed at the elbow. “Chicken shit.” He tossed the arm away. “And look at those feathers stuck there. It’s the exact same shade of red as those rare chickens in Haight’s chicken yard. Remember those chickens, Field? Tobias kicked one of them.”

“You’re right.” Field nodded and jammed his revolver into the thug’s gut. “All right, buster. Spew. Why did Haight send you to whale on us?”

“It was Mark Hopkins!” the fellow insisted, seemingly on the verge of tears to add to the deluge of snot and blood.

But unexpectedly, the fallen man squealed, “Oh, just tell them, Bill! It was Mark Hopkins who handed us the gold dust, but we heard some whisperings that Haight was behind it.”