Act Four,The Gravity of the Situation
"So, you want to explain to me what it is you're doing out here?" Ernest Pratt asked, grasping Mary Jane by the elbow as they were marched out into the plains. Wylie and Jenk-- the up-and-coming industrial spies-- were trailing behind them by a few paces, guns out and eyes everywhere.
Mary Jane had never been in such a situation before, and she was scared. She was dressed like a boy and walking next to a man who seemed anything but a legendary hero, obviously as scared as she was; they were both unarmed and at the mercy of two cold-hearted bandits. All her troubles with Gutridge seemed quite insignificant now. She wished in her heart that Pratt really was Nicodemus Legend and that he might save her, but that wish seemed more impossible now than ever.
Jenk and Wylie were paying no attention to what their two prisoners were saying, looking over their shoulders for any pursuit and trying to remember where they had hidden their horses.
"It doesn't seem important now," she answered, fear in her voice. Pratt put his arm around her to steady her. She leaned into him, grateful for the support. "I wanted to ask your help. I want to get away from Sir Franklin."
"Well, I can't say I don't understand why anyone would want to get away from him," Pratt said, softening his sarcasm with a dimpled grin, "but what can I do? He's your uncle."
"No, he isn't. I am not his niece, and he is not Sir Franklin Gutridge. His name is Cuthbert Dambridge, and he doesn't write his own books. I write them."
Pratt nearly missed his footing in surprise, earning him a jab in the back from Jenk's pistol. He grimaced and hurried forward, shielding Mary Jane from their attention.
"You wrote them? But how... Sir Franklin had been publishing books for thirty years or more."
Mary Jane snorted in derision. "He had paid others to write his books for him before he found me. He is always threatening to let me go and find a new 'research assistant', but he knows he'll never find anyone as good as I..." Mary Jane paused as she realized that she was speaking with arrogance. "Well... he was bluffing, anyway. I wish he would find another writer. I am sick of writing books so that someone else can claim the credit."
Then suddenly she was furious, all her fear forgotten. She stopped and turned toward Pratt, shouting, "And I am especially sick of seeing the work of my hands published for Gutridge, when the very same books were rejected by the same publisher, just because he is a man and I am a wo--" she cut herself off, eyes darting toward Wylie and Jenk, who had halted in confusion when she had begun shouting. She glanced down at herself, still clad in baggy trousers and a button-down shirt. Pulling down the brim of her hat, she weakly added, "Just because I am a boy."
Wylie waved his gun at them. "Get on, there! And stop shouting. There's no one around to help you anyway."
Mary Jane and Pratt marched on in silence for a while. Mary Jane was flushed from anger and humiliation, and Pratt was stunned to learn that the historian that he admired was a lovely young woman. It seemed that he would have to rewrite some prejudices of his own.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mary Jane saw that Pratt was grinning. "What is it?" she asked in a curt whisper. "What about this situation can you possible find to smile about?"
"Sir Franklin is a fraud." Pratt's grin became broader. "Oooh, what I'm gonna do when I get back to Sheridan..."
"We have to get out of this mess first," she reminded him. She looked at him again, and found her own mouth curving upward. His smile was so very infectious.
They walked on until they came to a place where the land dipped into a trough, overgrown with trees and long grasses.
"I know'd we left the horses around here somewhere..."
"What are we goin' do with them? We can't just let 'em go!"
"O' course not! You two... stop there!" Wylie commanded sternly.
Pratt and Mary Jane halted, their backs still to their captors. The walls of the trough rose steeply to either side of them, leaving no path of escape except straight ahead. Pratt looked around wildly, hoping to see something that he could use to distract or disable Wylie and Jenk long enough for Mary Jane and him to get away, but he saw nothing but scrub brush and reddish dirt.
A cloud passed over the face of the sun, darkening the narrow world, and there came a sound like heavy rain drops falling. "Great," thought Ernest, shifting his shoulders inside the biting straps of the harness he still wore "Just when you think things can't get worse, it starts raining."
But as the drops continued to fall, Pratt noticed that they weren't getting wet. He held out his hand and several pieces of grain fell upon his palm.
Resisting a mighty urge to look up, Pratt turned slowly and brought up his hands. Jenk and Wylie aimed their pistols at him. Above them, Pratt saw the huge globe of the balloon hovering right overhead. The propeller was beating rapidly, trying to maintain a position against the strong wind blowing off of the prairie. Out of the corner of his eye Pratt saw all this, as well as the large bundle that Ramos was struggling to lift over the edge of the balloon basket. He heard Mary Jane's soft gasp from behind him.
"Hey, fellas!" Pratt said, hoping his voice would drown out other distractions. "You can't just kill us, you know. You haven't done anything but steal a book. If you shoot, that's murder, and they'll never stop looking for you. Do you really want that kind of attention?"
"Killing Nicodemus Legend will make us famous," Wylie said, waving his gun for emphasis. "No one will dare come after us!"
"Yes, but if you kill me, who will tell of your exploits? How will your story reach the thirsty ears of the public if you shoot the man who writes the books?"
Wylie and Jenk looked at each other in confusion. "Mebbe we can hold off shootin' him until he writes it all down?" Jenk offered.
Wylie frowned at his partner, then looked at Pratt. "How long will that take?"
Pratt looked between them, at a loss of words in the specter of their monumental stupidity. He was saved of having to make an answer, however, when a large man-shaped bag of grain dropped from the sky and landed on both gunmen, knocking them to the ground and sending their weapons flying. There came from the heap of burst burlap, spilled grain, and bad-guys the sound of a pop, and Ernest leaped backward to avoid being draped in the tardy deployment of the silk canopy of the descent parasol.
Overhead, Janos Bartok and Ramos waved heartily from the balloon basket. Pratt gave them a double thumbs-up. Bartok pointed toward the place that they intended to land. Pratt waved to show he understood, then borrowed Jenk's knife to cut cords from the parasol with which to tie their ex-abductors hand and foot.
Mary Jane seated herself on a tussock, taking off her hat and wiping her face with shaking hands. Pratt turned to her in concern.
"Are you all right, miss?"
Mary Jane laughed weakly. "This is why I write histories... I just can't handle contemporary excitement."
Pratt gave her his winningest smile. "Just another page in the life of Nicodemus Legend! Why write about history when you canlive it?"