Tag: history
Agents of the Vault – Part 20
Part 20 of The Agents of the Vault is here! Was anyone hit in the opening gunfight between Jane and Grisom? Listen and find out!
If you want to subscribe to the Grantcast, you can do so with iTunes, or by using this feed in your favorite podcatcher. Enjoy! And let me know what you think of the story in the comments here, as we go along.
Also, if you prefer a PDF version of this part to read, CLICK HERE for that.
Finally, if you’d like to support my projects, visit www.patreon.com/saturdaymorningmedia
Agents of the Vault
Part 20
By Grant Baciocco
Charlie scanned the street outside for signs of Jane but could only see her horse. In the gunfight, she must have bailed off of it and it now stood still in the middle of the street.
Seconds later, Grisom came stumbling into the room, gun in hand, holding his belly. Charlie could see a red stain spreading on Grisom’s pale linen shirt.
“Grisom!” Charlie said, crossing to him and helping him sit on the edge of the bed. “Is it bad?”
Grisom winced and for the first time, pulled his hand away from his wound and looked down. The blood flowed faster now that he was not applying direct pressure. He quickly placed his hand back over the wound and pressed down hard.
“Kid,” Grisom said between winces. “Gut shots ain’t ever good.” Grisom took a deep breath. “Fetch my bag over there.” He indicated his saddle bag which was next to the trunk that held the writing desk.
Charlie crossed the room, snagged the bag and quickly brought it back to the bed. Charlie flipped it open and look expectantly at Grisom.
“There’s a small vial in the bottom.” Grisom grunted. “Filled with dirt.”
Charlie rooted around in the bag as Grisom lie back on what was left of the bed. Charlie’s fingers found a small glass vial at the bottom of the bag and held it up in the dimming sunlight. It was filled with dirt as Grisom had said. Charlie looked at Grisom who was hoisting up his shirt, exposing the gunshot wound.
“Take the top off the vial and hand it to me son.” Grisom said breathing heavy. Charlie followed his directions, tossing the lid to the vial onto the floor and handing it over to Grisom. Grisom took it and bunched his shirt up to get a better view of his wounded stomach. Charlie stepped back, nervous, but ready to help if he could. “You ever hear of Samuel Whittenmore kid?”
Charlie, perplexed at the sudden change of topic, shook his head as he watched Grisom slowly begin to tap out little flecks of dirt onto the pulsing gunshot wound. “Whittenmore was 78 years old when he fought in the Revolutionary War. He caught some British soldiers returning from the opening engagements at Lexington and Concord and, all alone mind you, took some shots at them. Killed one redcoat with his rifle, pulled out his pistols, killed another and mortally wounded one more. The British rushed him and this tough son of a bitch pulls out his sword to fend them off.”
The vial was now empty, a small pile of dirt on the wound was soaking up the blood making it a dark muddy brown. Grisom threw the vial aside and began rubbing the dirt into his wound, gritting his teeth with every movement.
“What happened?” Charlie ask, instinctively crossing to the corner of the room where some discarded bedsheets lie. He began to rip them into strips to form a bandage. Charlie didn’t know much about medicine, but everything about rubbing dirt into a fresh wound seemed absolutely wrong.
“The British laid into him.” Grisom replied. “Shot him in the face. Bayonetted him repeatedly. Left him for dead.”
Charlie crossed back to the bed and began helping Grisom bandage the wound best he could.
“Hours later, when, Colonial soldiers found him,” Grisom continued. “Whittenmore was, amazingly, still alive. They took him to a doctor who said there was no hope of his survival.” Grisom let our a pained chuckle, “Tough old bastard lived another 18 years, finally stopping at 96 years old.”
“Sounds like a tough old man.” Charlie said, binding the bedsheets tight around the wound.
“He was.” Grisom said, attempting to catch his breath. “There’s not doubt he was tough as nails. But he had also happened to fall into patch of dirt there that the natives use to use as a healing area. Legend had it that the dirt in that area had healing powers and it’s said to have kept him alive.”
Charlie nodded and helped Grisom tie off the knot of torn bedsheets now circling his midsection as a makeshift bandage. “And that’s what was in that vial?”
“Yeah,” Grisom replied, with a slow measured exhale. “Theres another vial of it in that bag. You might as well take it and put it in your pocket, just in case.”
Charlie picked the bag up again and rooted around inside of it until he found the duplicate vial. Feeling the cool glass in his hand, he regarded the small flecks of dirt tumbling within for a moment and then slipped it into his pocket. Putting the bag down he walked over and helped Grisom sit up on the edge of the bed.
“That dirt going to heal you?” Charlie asked.
“Heal me?” Grisom said with a cough. “No, but it might just keep me alive until someone gets to me that can.”
Charlie nodded and the prairie silence filled their room. There air was still.
Suddenly sensing an absence, Grisom whipped his head around and scanned the room. “Where’s Doris?”
“She took to ground, right after you left. She heard something and took off.”
“Charlie, if anything happens to her—“
Charlie held up his hands, “I know, Grisom, I know. But she had it in her head to do something and she went to do it.”
“Dammit.” Grisom said, wincing and grabbing his side as he did. He sat quiet for a moment then turned towards Charlie, “You trust her enough on her own?”
“I do.” Charlie said, nodding. Confident he was right.
Grisom smiled weakly and then winced, putting a hand against his side. He let out a long slow exhale.
“What do we do next?” Charlie asked.
“We wait and see what Jane does.” Grim grunted.
©2015 Grant Baciocco/Saturday Morning Media – www.SaturdayMorningMedia.com
Agents of the Vault – Part 18
Part 18 of The Agents of the Vault is here! Grissom reveals the secrets of the writing desk as he attempts a last ditch play to even the numbers agains Jane.
If you want to subscribe to the Grantcast, you can do so with iTunes, or by using this feed in your favorite podcatcher. Enjoy! And let me know what you think of the story in the comments here, as we go along.
Also, if you prefer a PDF version of this part to read, CLICK HERE for that.
Finally, if you’d like to support my projects, visit www.patreon.com/saturdaymorningmedia
Agents of the Vault
Part 18
By Grant Baciocco
“I guess you weren’t kidding. There wasn’t nothing in that trunk but an old writing desk?” Leland scoffed as he, Charlie and Doris entered the hotel room. They had found Grisom seated at a chair, the writing desk from the trunk, on the moth eaten and threadbare bed in the middle of the room. Grisom sat hunched over it writing quickly on a piece of paper. “You writing out your last will and testament, Grisom?”
“This desk belonged to Thomas Jefferson.” Grisom answered, ignoring Leland’s barb. “You know who that is?”
“I’ve heard of him.” Leland replied, crossing his arms.
Grisom continued, “He wrote the Declaration of Independence. Funny thing is though, he didn’t want to write it, he thought John Adams should write it, so did a lot of folks at that time. Problem was, Jefferson didn’t have much time to write a draft and then take it around to all the other committee members. You know the Committee of Five?”
Leland stared blankly at Grisom as he wrote.
“The Committee of Five,” Charlie piped up, “Adams, Sherman, Livingston, Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. They drafted the Declaration of Independence and brought it to the Continental Congress.”
“Smart kid.” Leland said with a sideways glance towards Charlie. “So what about this desk?”
“This desk was built from wood from a forest deep inside Virginia, a forest some say was enchanted.”
“Bull crap.” Leland said.
“Some say that as well. Anyway, five of these desks were made. One for each of the Committee of Five. Anything anyone wrote on any of the five desks would appear on paper kept on top of the other four desks.” Grisom explained, finishing up the letter he was writing. “So as Jefferson drafted the Declaration of Independence, it appeared on paper on the other four men’s desks.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Leland scoffed.
“I could care less if you did.” Grisom went on. “Jefferson wrote, ‘We hold these truths to be sacred and undeniable.’ Seconds later, those words were scratched out as Franklin edited, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident.’ They were miles from each other.”
“I see,” said Leland, still not believing, “What are you doing, writing a letter to the rest of the Committee of Five? Hoping they read it and Ben Franklin will come rinding in and and save your hide?”
“No.” Said Grisom, standing from his chair. “There’s only two desks left, this one and one at The Vault in Yankton. I’m hoping someone there reads the message and they send in the calvary. Other Agents of the Vault to help even up the fight. The Vault in Yankton is only 30 miles or so away, so they could come help us even the odds.”
“If I was in your shoes,” Leland said, poking a finger at Grisom, “I’d spend less time writing a letter to your pen pals and more time figuring out how you’re gonna defeat the Pinkertons headed this way to kill us.”
Grisom reached down onto the bed next to the desk and handed Leland a revolver. “Here. You guard the bottom floor of the hotel. Charlie will stay up here with the trunk.”
“And if I don’t.” Leland said, checking to make sure the gun was loaded.
“Then I’ll shoot you.” Grisom said, matter of factly.
Leland had no comeback, he dropped his arms, the pistol at his side.
Grisom began placing the writing desk into the trunk. He made sure the desk was secured to the inside, then he closed the lid and began running his finger across the padlock, which began to glow and it locked itself. After he was sure it was secure, he stood and crossed to Leland.
“You can’t let them up the stairs.” Grisom said, looking Leland in the eye.
“I reckon now’s the time to ask, what do I get out of all this?” Leland said with a smirk. “For saving you, your trunk and the kid too?”
Grisom sighed. “We make it out of this alive, you go free and you get the gold.”
Leland was quiet for a second, but then a smile crept over his face, “You got yourself a deal, Grisom.” He twirled the gun in his hand and then shoved it into the waistband of his pants.
Charlie crossed to the window and looked out. He saw four black marks moving across the prairie that were rapidly becoming the recognizable shapes of Jane and her men on horseback. “Here they come. About a mile out.”
Grisom sighed, “Well, I reckon we get set. Charlie, you stay here. Leland, you’re downstairs. I’ll go meet them in the street.”
Doris let out a low, ominous whistle. Grisom turned and looked at her. “And you, remember what I told you.”
Doris nodded and skittered back across to the saddle bag. There was a moment of silence and Grisom turned out the door, with Leland behind him. Charlie and Doris listened as they thumped back down the stairs.
Charlie set a hand on Doris’ head and scratched behind her left ear.
“Here we go girl.” He said softly and then crossed to the window.
Below him he saw Grisom exit the hotel and stand in what there was of Main Street, Trinity. Grisom’s hands were on his hips as he watched Jane and the Pinkertons approach.
©2015 Grant Baciocco/Saturday Morning Media – www.SaturdayMorningMedia.com