Robin and Little John drew up chairs and sat facing each other. The two always conferred on major decisions; the former president was a wise man, brilliant in many ways, and his advice carried a great deal of weight with Robin.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of this Capone fellow,” Little John said.
“We’ll handle him easily enough.”
“Edmond—listen to what you’re saying.”
“I heard myself.”
“You’re an actor, not a hero. I admit it’s been fun to play this game with you, to romp through the hills as Robin Hood and his men would have done. It’s been grand, a chance to live out my childhood daydreams. But perhaps the time has come to end this charade. We aren’t
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bandits from the greenwood, we’re civilized men. And Capone will not be easy to scare off.”
“I don’t want to scare him. I want him locked up—or, lacking that, dead and resurrected a million miles away.” “I doubt we are capable of doing it.” “Have you forgotten all we’ve accomplished?” Lincoln’s bushy brows knit together. “We’ve scared a few peasants into giving up grail-slavery. We’ve broken up a few drunken brawls. We’ve explored a thousand miles of this damned endless River. That’s all. We aren’t an avenging army, and we’re not the fist of God. This man Capone is a dangerous criminal. He has surrounded himself with a private army, if what Verne told you is true. Twenty against two hundred is suicide.”
“So you’re saying we should leave him there, building the biggest criminal empire in the history of mankind?” “I’m not saying that, either. I’m saying we can’t recapture a city by treating it like a romp. It will take planning, strategy, and a lot of patience.” “What about luck?” “You’re impossible!” “Little John—” “Call me Abraham!”
“Little Abraham, then. I’ve always felt I should have a calling. My life was more or less forced on me—first by my parents, then by my acting troupe, then by a string of agents. I’ve always known I was meant for something greater. Since our resurrection, that feeling has come over me stronger than ever. My assuming the role of Robin Hood, our finding Verne and this riverboat, everything—it’s all been leading up to this moment. It’s destiny. The dice are rolling, and I can hear them.” Lincoln stood. “It’s time to put away your childish
John Gregory Betancourt
dreams,” he said. “If we are going to take New Chicago from Capone, we will need a man to lead us, not a character from storybooks.”
“Are you sure?”
“That I am.” Abraham Lincoln turned and stalked from the room.
Robin Hood, n6 Edmond Bryor, sat alone for a long time, deep in thought.
Will Scarlet’s prognosis was promising: he had cleaned and dressed Jules Verne’s wound, then sewed it up properly, and now felt certain his patient would recover completely in time. “His problem was loss of blood and a bad infection,” he reported. “Luckily no vital organs were damaged.”
It was welcome news to Robin. “Is there anything else you can do?” he asked.
“Let him sleep. It’s the best thing for him right now.”
“Good,” Robin said, nodding. “Stay with him. Let me know if you need anything.”
Two days later Jules Verne sent word that he wished to see Robin again. Verne looked vastly improved, Robin thought when he entered the cabin. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his voice was stronger and more authoritative.
“I have decided to agree to your plan,” Verne said with no preamble. “We will return and try to win back New Chicago. I will leave the details to you—I am a man of science, not violence, as recent events have shown. Whatever you need, I will arrange it. Now, what are your plans?”
“I have none as yet,” Robin said. “Little John and I
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must study the town, count our resources, and estimate the enemy’s strength before committing to anything.”
“Very wise.” Verne nodded slowly. “I have instructed Claude de Ves to give you any help you need. Our diverse talents stand at your disposal, sir.”
“Thank you,” Robin said. “Your trust in me is not misplaced. You won’t be disappointed.”