“So how many times have you made it rain?” Booth asked curiously.
Hostlebeck gave the question a dismissive wave of his hand and said, “To date, not even once. Science though, is a matter of experiment and adjustment, my boy. One cannot expect success on the first try, or even the tenth.”
“Oh,” Booth said, a little disappointed. Then a thought occurred to him. “Have you ever though about using craft in your works, sir?”
A look of indignation crossed Hostlebeck’s face and he hotly replied, “I’ll have nothing to do with that deviltry, Mr. Booth. That sort of nonsense may be practiced in the barbaric North, but this is God’s land. This,” he paused for dramatic effect, and then proceeded with a stamp of his foot, “is Kansas. I’ll trust to my hands and the science of men like Doctor Franklin and Matty Baldwin.”
He took a moment to collect himself. Seemingly embarrassed by his outburst, he lowered his voice and he continued, “There are those who would seek to undermine my work even here. I’ve thwarted two attempts to sabotage my machinery already, and I fear there’ll be more before this business is done.”
“Sabotage?” Booth asked, tasting the unfamiliar word.
Hostlebeck nodded, clearly mistaking Booth’s ignorance for conspiratorial incredulity. “Oh yes. This great country was built on man’s ingenuity, but there are those who would see us become slaves to magicians and unscrupulous powers.”
Before Booth could question him further on the matter, there was a sudden exaltation from the nearby crowd. Both men turned to see what had excited them. Booth was at a loss until Hostlebeck clapped his hands together like a happy child and jumped down from his wagon.
“Clouds, Mr. Booth! Altocumulus if I am not mistaken,” he said, cheerfully gesturing to a point in the eastern sky.
Looking over, Booth caught sight of the leading edge of a mottled sheet of puffy white cloud. With the strong winds driving them, he figured they’d be overhead in no less than an hour.
Dashing to the front of the wagon, Hostlebeck unloaded a large iron-bound box, and carried it over to his rockets. Gingerly setting it down, he opened the lid. Curious, Booth followed him. Inside were a dozen or more fabric bundles, each about the size of a man’s fist. He began pulling them out and setting them down on the hard-packed earth. Then, unwinding a length of cannon fuse he started cutting it into segments with a jackknife.
Booth watched in fascination as Hostlebeck began the process of installing propellant and fuse into the base of each rocket. He was so enthralled by the action that he nearly missed the arrival of the stranger.
His first warning was just a prickle at the base of his neck, nothing more than a gentle caress of intuition, but enough to put him on alert. Turning, he scanned the crowd and eventually spotted the newcomer. Tall and lean, the man had the wary movements of an animal, like those of a bobcat or a cougar. Booth might not even have noticed him save for the fact that the man was making such a conscious effort to stay at the crowd’s outer edge. Booth had a trained eye for that sort of behavior, though.
Temporarily forgotten by the excited Hostlebeck, Booth stepped away and drifted back into the gathered throng, all the while keeping an eye on the stranger. Something was definitely not right about him, Booth decided. It wasn’t just the posture or the wariness in his movements. It was something else, but Booth couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Drawing in as close as he dared, he took a good long look at the man, storing the tanned face away in the tidy recesses of his young mind.
The stranger was maybe thirty or thirty-five, and Booth noted the strong nose and curling lip. Greasy black hair spilled out from beneath a wide concho-hat whose brim drowned the man’s eyes in pools of shadow. He also had a leather thong strung around his neck and Booth caught a flash of cut glass or crystal peeking out from beneath the woolen shirt. Like Booth he wore a single gunbelt, and the rosewood grips of a dragoon pistol jutted out of the holster. His right hand was swaddled in tight black calfskin and the fingers drummed lightly atop the gun.
After a few moments, his interest seemed to wane and he turned to walk away. Passing the hostler’s stables he paused. Slowly craning his head around, he looked directly at Booth, meeting the younger man’s gaze. There was a mute exchange between the two. It was of the ‘I have seen and marked you’ variety, and Booth nodded ever so slightly. The stranger returned the acknowledgment and continued on his way.
Feeling his skin rise up in gooseflesh, Booth shook himself. There was a promise of violence in that look and he wasn’t at all eager to meet it.
A minute or two later, Hostlebeck jogged up behind him and anxiously said, “There you are, Mr. Booth. I could use your assistance if you’re amicable to it.”
Still looking at the place where the stranger had stood moments before, Booth responded, “Sure thing, Mr. Hostlebeck. What can I do for you?”
Clapping him on the shoulder, the rain-maker spun him around and pointed at the rockets, “You said you’ve handled these before, yes?”
“Well,” Booth hesitated, “not handled exactly, and I never fired one.”
Hostlebeck ignored the caveat and pressed on, “Yes, but you saw men working with similar and for what I have in mind that should be sufficient. See, once that bank of cloud is above us I’ll need to launch my rockets and quickly at that. Unfortunately, due to previous experiments, my supply of fuse is rather low at the moment and Mr. Harding’s store is currently out of stock.”
Booth nodded slowly. “So you have to light each one individually, instead of just one long fuse. Is that it?”
Hostlebeck smiled showing two rows of perfect teeth. “Exactly, my boy. It’s a job any illiterate farmhand could do, but from my experience, men who have never seen a rocket launched frequently react poorly to the… ah, vigorous display of pyrotechnics.”
Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure the stranger had not returned, Booth nodded and said, “Well now, I think I would be happy to help you out, Mr. Hostlebeck.”
