The Falling Machine Read Online Free PDF Page B

jumped after him as the dynamite exploded with a deafening bang. A rush of air and smoke blew over their heads. The Bomb Lance rolled over to look at him. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.” He stood up and checked that his frame was still in working order.
    Doc Dynamite's features were so rugged and leathery that it seemed impossible to tell whether he appeared to look old for thirty or was a young-looking man twice that age. But he had an easy smile and blue eyes that would have seemed almost friendly if not for the scar that traveled across his face from the left side of his forehead to the right of his chin. He wore a plain striped shirt, a worsted cloth jacket, and a bandana around his neck, with a faded yellow duster over everything. His denim jeans were tucked into a pair of red cowboy boots with two large yellow letter “D”s stitched onto each one. “Tell it to the frog. He could barely get that contraption of his up into the air.” He pointed behind him, where the balloon sat parked on the roadway thirty yards behind them, belching black smoke from large engines on either side. “The decrepit Frenchy kept bitching about how the cold made everything impossible to do.”
    He reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed the Irishman a bandana. “Look atcha. You're a mess.” He winked at him. “Even for a Mick.”
    “It's good to see you, too, Jay, now the job's almost done.” He wiped away some of the blood. “‘Almost’ being the main word in that sentence there.”
    He stood up. “Now let's see if my little friend solved your problem, because someone shot up a rocket, and the rest a’ the Paragons are on their way.”
    They walked up the steps in time to watch the severed end of the footbridge slide away from the bridge frame and land with a distant crash into the construction yard below. The other end was still attached to the tower above them, and the remains dangled straight down toward the river.
    The Bomb Lance wiped his eyes again and then peered down over the edge of the anchorage. “Looks like we destroyed the damn thing.”
    “I don't think so, partner,” the Texan replied. He had pulled out another stick of dynamite from inside his duster and was using it to point over to the left side of the bridge. The Automaton balanced on top of the suspension wire.
    “Well I'll be damned.” The Bomb Lance held up his left arm, aimed his harpoon, and fired. Tom moved a few steps down the cable toward them and the harpoon sailed harmlessly past him.
    The Irishman grimaced as he watched his attack miss.
    “I'm going to reckon that there is the famous Automaton,” the Texan said as he grabbed the Bomb Lance's right arm. Pulling out a roll of gauze from his coat pocket, he used it to bind a stick of dynamite to the harpoon, tying it in place with surprising grace. “Too bad we're going to have to blow him to hell. I've always wanted to see what that thing looked like up close.”
    “That must be a damn shame for you, cowboy, missing out like that.” The Bomb Lance pumped his arm again, and then held it up to fire.
    “Just try and get it somewhere near him,” Doc Dynamite instructed, drawing deeply on his cigar and making the ember glow bright red. “And it's a short fuse,” he said as he touched it to the paper, “so fire fast.”
    The harpoon wobbled as it flew, and the Automaton was clearly going to dodge it easily. When it exploded, the Texan let out a war whoop followed by a “Kaboom!”
    The concussion shredded Tom's clothes and threw him off the cable. As he fell, his arm snapped out to snag one of the vertical supporting wires that dangled down, waiting to be connected to the roadbed that had yet to be built. The leather glove covering his hand shredded and burned as his momentum was violently redirected. For a moment he almost seemed to be floating in the air; then he swung his other arm around and grabbed the wire with both hands. He swung slowly back and forth as he