Mr. Tesla shrugged. “Batteries.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Batteries. I have recently perfected a dry-cell variant of the Leclanché cell, which is quite convenient for portable use.”
My mouth fell open. “Why, but only six months ago, we had to go to all sorts of trouble to transmit power wirelessly!” By all sorts of trouble, I meant risking our very lives to attach an antenna atop the Statue of Liberty. To this day, I can’t even look at Lady Liberty without feeling a little weak in the knees.
“Such is the relentless march of progress, Miss Gallagher. It is what makes science so very exciting. Now, is there anything else you require?”
“That should do nicely, thank you.” Smiling, Thomas added, “Unless you happen to have a device that might prove useful against an alpha predator of mythic proportions.”
He’d been making light, but Mr. Tesla took him quite seriously, tilting his head with interest. “Are you referring to werewolves?”
“Wait.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Werewolves aren’t real, are they?”
“Of course not,” said Thomas.
“Hmm,” said Mr. Tesla.
Thomas laughed, but it sounded a little nervous. “Come now, Tesla, the matter has been thoroughly investigated by science.”
“My dear Mr. Wiltshire, nothing in this world has been thoroughly investigated by science.”
Which remark has haunted my nightmares ever since.
We parted ways after that, Mr. Tesla returning to his experiments while Thomas and I saw to our outfitting needs. Thomas would visit his tailor while I headed back uptown in hopes of borrowing a riding habit from my friend Edith. I might look a little strange prancing about the Badlands in a frock designed for a stately ride through Central Park, but I was pretty sure none of the stores on Ladies’ Mile had a cattlewomen’s department. And whereas Thomas’s tailor could just adapt his existing designs to a more rugged fabric, I’d need more time than I had to find a pattern and a team of seamstresses ready to stitch it together in a day.
Boots, I thought as I made my way to the el. I’ll need sturdier boots, and a riding coat. And there was one more thing, I realized, recalling the yellowback novels I’d read about the Wild West.
I was going to need a bigger gun.
CHAPTER 5
LITTLE MISERY—STONE AND SAGEBRUSH—A FANCY FELLER
The train pulled into Medora at two o’clock in the morning, a full four days after we’d departed New York. I was sleepy and stiff from the journey, so it took me a moment to absorb my surroundings, and when I did, my first thought was that we must have missed the station.
The window beside me framed a dark canvas of wilderness. Not a single building obstructed the view, which stretched unbroken to a distant horizon sketched in starlight. Thomas was obliged to open the door of our sleeping car himself, and I had to pick my way carefully down the steps in the dark. It wasn’t as though I’d expected white-gloved ushers to help me from the train, but a platform would have been nice. Instead, I hitched up my skirt and jumped down onto dry grass, sending a puff of dust into the night air. The station, such as it was, revealed itself to my left, in the form of a log cabin about the size of Augusto’s Grocery. It stood dark and shuttered, and I realized that Thomas and I were the only passengers getting off the train.
This really is the middle of nowhere, I thought. Then I glanced up, and what I saw took my breath away. “Thomas,” I whispered, instinctively reaching for him.
The night was ablaze with stars, tiny pinpricks of cold white light scattered across an impossible canopy of sky. The moon had sunk below the horizon; in its place, a glittering band of light traced a clear path through the heavens. At its center, a black void yawned, as though the sky itself were torn. I knew this for the Milky Way, but I’d never seen it. In New York, you could barely make out the stars at all, what with the smoke and ash of steam trains and factories, not to mention hundreds of thousands of homes heated with coal and wood. They were clearer in Newport, but this … The sky wasn’t just above us, it was all around us, as if poised to swallow us whole. The thought made me a little dizzy, but Thomas was there to steady me.
“Magnificent,” he murmured as I leaned against him.
We stood there a moment in perfect silence, contemplating the vastness of the universe. Then the train blasted its whistle and I nearly leapt out of my skin.
With a clang of bells and a puff of smoke, the train chugged away, leaving Thomas and me alone in the grass. On the far side of the depot, the blocky outline of a town carved itself out of the gloom.
“Thomas Wiltshire?” A figure stepped out of the shadows. “Charlie Morrison. I’m the foreman down at Maltese Cross. Mr. Roosevelt asked me to see to you. These yours?” He nodded at a jumble of trunks in the dirt. Some thoughtful soul must have dumped them from the train while Thomas and I were admiring the sky.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morrison,” Thomas said. “Thank you for making the journey, especially at such an uncivilized hour.”
“No trouble. Wagon’s over here.” Grabbing a trunk at one end, Morrison started dragging it through the dust.
Thomas hastily picked up the other end. “Apologies, but there is some rather delicate equipment in here.”
The foreman grunted. “Boss says you’re a photographer?”
That was the cover story we’d agreed on with Mr. Roosevelt. Pinkertons being about as popular as plague in these parts, we figured it would be best for all concerned if we kept our true business here under wraps. Usually, Thomas posed as an attorney when he was on a case, but this time, we’d decided on a wildlife photographer and his assistant. Rumors of the mysterious beast prowling the Badlands had reached New York—so our story went—and Thomas and I were there to capture it on film. “I can’t tell you how exciting it is to be here,” Thomas said brightly. “I’ve long wanted to document the great American frontier.”
“Well, you’re welcome to it,” the foreman said, sliding the trunk into the back of the wagon. “What’s left of it, anyways.”
We finished loading up and climbed onto the buckboard. “So,” Thomas said as the wagon rattled into motion. “This is Medora.”
“What’s left of it,” Charlie Morrison said again, with a sour twist of his mouth.
“We’ve heard about the difficulties out here,” Thomas said. “Hard times.”
“You could say that. Half the town’s upped stakes. Newspaper’s gone, and the hardware store. Not to mention the billiard bar, the oyster grotto … These days, about the only concern going is Granger’s Saloon. That and the hotel. Speaking of which…” He hauled on the reins, bringing us to a halt outside a white clapboard building.
“We’re here already?” I glanced over what would be our home for the next few weeks, a bland structure of two floors with small, grimy-looking windows.
“Ain’t a big place, ma’am.” Mr. Morrison jumped down and offered me a hand. “I’ll be here midmorning to take you down to Cougar Ranch. If you’re looking to get a photo of whatever’s been taking them animals, that’s the best place to start.”