“But something must be done!” Lane shouted.
Another captain stood, a grizzled sea dog with weathered skin like canvas. “I was born here, my lord, but I’ll be leaving on the next high tide. Living be hard enough without working every other day to feed that hell demon!”
“Give us the secret of the black powder!” another shouted.
“We’ll make blasters and hunt it down ourselves.”
“Then turn against me,” Polk stated.
“To kill ole Frank!”
“Don’t bother,” Ryan called, walking down the center aisle. “We already chilled the gator.”
Murmurs ran through the crowd of people, some frightened, others disbelieving, as the ville sec men led the way for the heavily armed outlanders. The strangers were carrying more blasters than anyone had ever seen before.
Drawing a flintlock pistol from under his blanket, Polk used both hands to cock back the striking hammer. Their leader was a big man with hair black as midnight, and a patch covered one eye. But Althea spoke of a black man with one eye. This fellow was close, but clearly not the killer she spoke about.
“Who are you?” Polk demanded.
“Outlanders from the north, my lord,” Anson announced. “They had some trouble with Fat Tom, a horse merchant who tried to steal their weapons.”
“And they chilled him first,” Polk deduced. “The man was a coward and a thief. Good riddance.”
“What was that you said about ole Frank being dead?” Lane asked. “Is it true?”
“Lies,” another sailor said scornfully. “They’re not from here, why should they care?”
“We don’t,” Ryan replied. “It attacked, so we chilled it. Nothing more.”
“Big words,” Polk said slowly. “Prove it. Bring the body in here.”
Ryan met the man’s gaze. “How much is the reward?” A public statement was what the one-eyed man wanted, something the baron couldn’t pretend had never been agreed upon. A man’s word was often only as good as the number of people who heard it.
The baron rolled to the very edge of the stage, the front wheels of his chair hanging off the edge. “Everybody from the Dead Swamp to the ravine knows I posted a bounty on the mutie. What is it you want? Blasters? I’ll pay you blasters.”
“Got them, and better than you have,” Ryan said in frank honesty. “But we could use some horses.”
“One each,” Polk stated. “My very best, with full tack.”
“We also need to carry supplies.”
Polk grew grim. “Enough haggling. Ten of my top animals and all the ammo and food you can carry without breaking your bones. Just prove to me it’s dead!”
The man threw off the blanket, and his pant legs were flat with nothing inside. “He took my legs and my son on the same day. If you knew my hatred of the beast, you’d shit with fear. Now, if you truly took care of Frankenstein, I’ll pay your price. But if this is a trick, you won’t leave this room alive.” Somehow, only those last words echoed throughout the auditorium.
Sliding the duffel bag off his shoulder, J.B. tossed it onto the floor. “There, all the proof you should need.”
Impatiently, Baron Polk snapped his fingers, and servants rushed to gathered the bag. Opening it under his supervision, they removed the leathery roll and spread it across the stage.
It was thirty feet long, eight wide, the colors matched and there was the scar from his own pistol! The baron couldn’t believe it. This was the hide of the monster, every bullet hole and ridge layer of rough hide forever burned into his memory from that awful day.
“How?” he weakly whispered.
“We joined forces with the beetle warriors,” Ryan said. “They helped a lot. Mean fighters.”
Lane sneered. “The clicks? Bah, man, nobody has seen them in years. They’re breathing dirt.”
“We fought side by side with their chief yesterday afternoon,” Ryan stated. “Nice folks, once you get to know them.”
Polk waved the trifle of the beetles aside. He didn’t care if they laid claim to the Dead Swamp and Salt Lake. They were of no conceivable use to him.
“So it’s finally over, the beast is dead. Truly dead.” Polk sat up straight in his chair. “Name your price.”