When the showman Fergal O'Brien and his assistant Randolph McDougal help a damsel in distress who has been attacked by the bandit Van Romalli, she repays their kindness by riding off with their display of authentic historical memorabilia.

So somehow Fergal has to find a way to earn a living, and an opportunity arrives when Jim Broughton sells him an attraction called the Treasure of Saint Woody. All is not as it seems. Jim is really a US marshal and the only person he wants him to attract is Van Romalli. Blissfully unaware he is being used as bait, Fergal is starting to rebuild his fortunes when Ezekiel T. Montgomery rides into town to promote the wondrous maiden voyage of a flying wagon.

Faced with a seemingly unbeatable competitor, Fergal tries to solve all his problems with a reckless wager, which leaves him facing his greatest ever challenge. He has twenty-four hours to learn how to fly or he'll lose everything!

The moth-eaten bay was wheezing again.

Randolph shook the reins, encouraging the horse to speed up, but it plodded along the trail at a pace only marginally faster than he could walk, when he wasn't in a hurry, and if he had both legs tied together.

With no choice, Randolph and Fergal had commandeered Morgana's buckboard, but aside from discovering that it was debatable whether the horse would collapse before the buckboard fell apart, they'd only gained a way of getting to Harvest Pass--albeit slowly. And at this speed, Morgana would be getting further away with every pace.

She had taken everything they owned: the supply of universal remedy bottles, the authentic display of historical memorabilia, the wagon, and with it, any chance of them making a living.

But from the set of their jaws, Fergal and Randolph conveyed to the world that every slow pace onwards strengthened their resolve that they'd reclaim their property in a way that'd make the bushwhacker regret ever tangling with them.

But no matter how resolute they were, it didn't help to speed the slow horse. So, the sun was already dipping towards the horizon when their dawdling pursuit trundled them into Harvest Pass. It was a large frontier town. The railroad had arrived and the town had burst out in all directions in a manner that from outside the town appeared random, but which, as they reached the main road, proved to have a block structure.

On the edge of town, they pulled up outside a stable, or to be more precise, the horse livened up for the first time and dragged the buckboard to the trough then began guzzling water, forcing them to stop there.

Randolph gazed along the main road, then jumped down.

'I'll ask around and see if anyone's seen Morgana pass through,' he said.

Fergal nodded, but on noticing that two men were chatting outside the stable, he grabbed his medical bag and removed two bottles of his universal remedy.

'And I'll start to rebuild our finances,' he said, grinning.

Randolph provided a quick nod, then stood back to let Fergal make his approach to these people before he questioned them.

Fergal shook the bottles causing the amber liquid inside to sparkle in the reddened rays of the lowering sun.

'Welcome, friends,' he shouted, throwing his thin arms wide, revealing his bright green waistcoat. 'Would you like to buy a tonic?'

The two men continued talking then flinched on realizing that Fergal had been addressing them, and turned.

'What does it do?' the clean-shaven of the two men asked.

'It's a universal remedy. No injury is so bad, no ailment is so painful, no condition is so embarrassing that this amber liquid cannot cure.'

'Sounds good, but I ain't got anything wrong with me.'

'Then it'll cure you of that.'

The man stared back, his brow furrowing as he probably tried to deduce whether he'd heard this right, then shrugged.

But the bearded man paced forward. 'I've got me a painful boil. Will it cure that?'

'It sure will. It is a universal remedy and it will cure anything. And all for one dollar.'

'You got proof it'll work?'

Fergal shook the bottle and favored the man with his most generous smile.

'You can buy a bottle, and if it doesn't cure your boil within a week, I'll give you your money back.'

The bearded man eyed the bow-legged bay, probably weighing up how far it could get in a week, then shook his head.

'You got proof before I buy a bottle.'

'I reckon so.' Fergal glanced around, but then flinched as he apparently noticed Randolph for the first time. He pointed at him. 'Young man, you seem to have plenty of ills.'

Randolph furrowed his brow, then turned to face the potential customers.

'Yeah, I've got plenty of ills,' he said, forcing a pained smile as he tried to put as much enthusiasm into his performance as he could. He removed his hat, then hunched his shoulders and shuffled from side to side. 'I'm a poor man, but if I had me a dollar to pay for this stranger's tonic, I sure would buy a bottle to cure me of 'em.'

'Oh, you would, would you?' Fergal said, holding the bottle aloft. 'And what's wrong with you?'

Randolph rubbed his chin as he considered the hundreds of ailments he'd claimed to have suffered from over the last few years--before Fergal had cured him--then settled for a new one.

'I'm deaf,' he said.

'You're deaf?' Fergal intoned.

'Sure am.'

'And that means you can't hear a thing?'

'Nope.'

'And how long have you suffered from an affliction that means you can't hear anything anyone says to you?'

'All my life. I just can't hear...' Randolph winced. He glanced at the expectant potential customers, then at the glaring Fergal. 'I just can't hear anything that you're saying on account of me being deaf.'

Fergal cracked a smile. 'But if you were to drink my tonic, for free, you would be cured.'

'What?'

'You,' the bearded man shouted, 'would be cured if you drank his tonic.'

'Nope,' Randolph said, 'I still can't hear nothing anybody's saying.'

Fergal jumped down from the buckboard and pushed the tonic into Randolph's hand.

Randolph glanced at the tonic, then mimed being shocked by opening his mouth wide and staggering back a pace.

'Are you really so generous as to give a poor man a free bottle of tonic to cure his affliction?'

'I sure am,' Fergal shouted, then lowered his voice so that only Randolph could hear. 'And hurry up and drink it. You ain't that good an actor.'

Randolph nodded and stood before the customers with the tonic cupped in his hand, then slipped out the stopper and put the bottle to his lips. He took a deep breath then sipped the tonic. He winced as his tongue shrank back, rebelling against the rotted polecat taste. But then a sly grin appeared and, to avoid drinking the rest of the foul brew, he emptied the bottle into his right ear, then shook away the excess and put on his largest smile.

'Well?' Fergal asked.

'I heard that,' Randolph shouted, opening his eyes wide. 'Say something else.'

'It's a miracle,' Fergal proclaimed, throwing his arms wide.

'And I heard that, too.'

As Randolph danced his usual celebratory jig, Fergal turned to the bearded man.

'There, I told you that it works.'

'And I heard--'

'Enough,' Fergal grunted then shook the other bottle. 'So, do you want to buy a bottle?'

'I sure will.' The man took the bottle. As he fished in his pocket for money, he held the bottle up to the light to consider it, then frowned and withdrew his hand. 'But I've already got a bottle of this. It ain't a universal remedy. It's a universal cleaner.'

'It is not a cleaner,' Fergal muttered, his eyes flaring, but Randolph stopped celebrating his sudden ability to hear and patted the bearded man's arm.

'Where did you buy a bottle of this cleaner?' he asked.

The man pointed to a junction about halfway down the main road, beside the bank, after which Fergal snatched back the bottle.

'Young man,' he said, turning to Randolph, 'as I have now cured you of your deafness, would you consider joining me--'

Randolph dragged Fergal round and pointed him at his ex-customers, who had returned to their conversation and were showing no interest in whatever story Fergal was about to concoct. Fergal nodded and jumped on the buckboard, leaving Randolph to drag the bay away from the trough. At the usual slow pace, they headed down the road to the junction.

When they pulled up at the corner, Randolph saw that their wagon was standing at the far end of the road. Randolph glanced at Fergal, but Fergal was already rolling his shoulders and snorting his breath through his nostrils.

'You reckon we should see if there's a lawman in town?' Randolph asked.

'Nope,' Fergal said, 'that woman is the kind of foe even I can take on. Come on. We're getting our wagon back.'

'And getting rid of this moth-eaten horse.' Randolph shook the reins, but the horse just looked over its shoulder and considered him with an appraising eye. For long moments, they shared eye contact. 'I mean, and returning this noble beast to its rightful owner.'

The horse returned to looking down the road and headed off at a speed that was almost up to walking pace.

As they trundled down the road, he saw that Morgana stood on the front of the wagon facing a circle of people as she presumably sold Fergal's tonic. Randolph couldn't help but notice that she was no longer disheveled and all signs of her former apparent distress had gone. He pulled back on the reins, but even before the buckboard had stopped, Fergal was alighting.

'And what do you think you're doing?' Fergal demanded as he stomped to a halt before his former wagon.

Morgana looked over the shoulders of her circle of customers and her gaze didn't flicker with even a moment's concern as she just smiled.

'And how can I help you?'

'You know exactly what you can do.'

'Always pleased to meet a new customer.' She held up a bottle of Fergal's amber universal remedy. 'Would you like to buy a bottle of my cleaning liquid.'

'Cleaning liquid,' Fergal spluttered, staggering back a pace so that he stumbled into the advancing Randolph.

'Yes. I sell a universal cleaner to remove all stains. No mark is so deep, no stain is so large, no blemish is so embarrassing that my amber liquid cannot clean.'

'Cleaning? Cleaning! Clean...' Fergal waved his arms above his head as he battled to form the right words to convey the insult she'd just delivered.

'Yeah, and it sure works.' She held up a towel, half of which was mud-coated, the other half being clean. 'And I can prove it.'

'You not only stole my wagon, stole my display of authentic historical memorabilia, and stole my tonic, but now you're... you're selling my tonic as a cleaning product.'

Morgana darted her head back, frowning. 'What do you mean about stealing your wagon?'

'That is my wagon,' Fergal screeched, pointing, 'and that is my universal remedy and that is my wagon. And did I say that that's my wagon?'

'You did, but I don't understand what you mean.'

'Then understand this.' Fergal set his feet wide. 'You have precisely three seconds to get down the road and reclaim your moldering buckboard and your bow-legged horse or I'll do something that no lady should ever have to witness.'

Morgana placed the bottle and towel on the seat behind her.

'And you have precisely three seconds to get down the road and get on your buckboard or I'll do something that no man should ever have to witness.'

'And what could you possibly do that'll stop me reclaiming my wagon?'

Morgana set her hands on her hips and raised her chin.

'One, two, three.' Morgana looked down at Fergal with her eyebrows raised and her eyes blazing, and when Fergal just returned her gaze, she rolled her shoulders, then threw her arms wide.

Then she screamed at the top of her voice, the reverberations being loud enough to rock Fergal back on his heels and knock his hat to the ground. He rescued his hat and stood but still the screaming continued.

Her customers backed away to get out of the eardrum splitting zone while they waited for her to run out of breath. But she appeared to have an inexhaustible lung capacity and presently everyone had to either stick their fingers in their ears or take refuge in the nearest buildings. And when it ended, one of her customers was impressed enough to burst into applause.

'That man is right,' Fergal said, then, along with Randolph, waggled a finger in his ear to confirm that the ringing he was still hearing was just the after-effects and that she wasn't still screaming. 'That was an impressive performance.'

'I thought so, too. You want another burst?'

Fergal returned to stand before her and forced a smile.

'I'd prefer not to, but now that you've frightened away your customers, we can talk in private and you can stop pretending. You have stolen my property.' He beckoned Randolph to join him. 'My friend here is a gentle man, but even so, I suggest you give it back before he gives you a whole heap of trouble.'

Morgana shrugged. 'Then if you want plain speaking, I'll give you some. Your cleaning product is--'

'It is not a cleaning product. It is a genuine universal remedy to cure all ills.'

'If you say so, but either way, I'm selling it as a cleaning product and it's selling well. So, I have no intention of giving up your wagon and, unless you leave, I'll do something you won't enjoy, again.' She threw open her mouth, but then closed it as Randolph and Fergal danced back before the onslaught started. 'But maybe I won't have to. The law's arriving.'

Fergal glanced over his shoulder. A man with a star was striding down the road towards them. He and Randolph turned to face him.

'At last,' Fergal said, urging Sheriff Johnson to hurry with a frantic hand gesture. 'This here woman has--'

An ear-splitting screech erupted from behind him, the shock tumbling him to his knees and forcing the lawman to skid to a halt. He edged forward with his fingers in his ears until he stood beside Fergal and presently the noise petered out.

'What seems to be the...?' The sheriff patted his right ear, then continued. 'What's happening here?'

Fergal swung his arm up and, with a trembling finger, pointed at Morgana.

'This here woman stole my wagon.'

'I did not,' Morgana said, then snuffled.

Her bottom lip trembled. She threw her head back and bit her lip, but the trembling worsened. So, she threw a fist to her mouth and bit her hand, but by then the tears were cascading down her cheeks. She swiped them away, but they were coming too fast and, with a strangulated screech, she hunched her shoulders and relented from her attempts to be brave. In a seemingly endless torrent, she bawled out a flood of tears as she climbed down from the wagon and held out her arms.

With a bemused glance at Fergal and Randolph, the sheriff also held out his arms and let Morgana fall into them where the crying continued unabated.

'Oh, come on,' Fergal said. 'You can't believe that performance, can you?'

The sheriff glanced over his rapidly dampening shoulder.

'She's awful unhappy.'

'She's not. That's just... just... just plain pathetic.'

'I reckon someone's made this right pretty woman real sad.' The sheriff patted Morgana's back. 'So, guess what I'm going to do?'

'You're going to make her give me back my wagon?' Fergal asked, smiling hopefully.

'Nope.'

'You're going to make her prove that's her wagon?'

'Nope.'

'You're going to make me prove that's my wagon.'

'Nope. And you've got one last guess before I go and do it anyhow.'

Randolph sighed. 'You've decided we're the ones who've troubled her and so you're throwing us in jail?'

'Almost right. You trouble her again and I will throw you in jail, but I don't want the likes of you littering up my nice clean cells, so I'll just run you out of town.'

Randolph glanced down the road at the moth-eaten bay, whose bow legs and bowed back, if anything, bowed even more as he looked at it.

'All right,' he said, 'but for the sake of our old horse, could you walk us out of town?'

So I searched for the get-out clause. Perhaps there was something in 19th century history that would let me stick a flying wagon in a Wild West setting without straying into complete fantasy territory. Luckily there were a few options.

Balloons were around and some people had experimented with steerable dirigibles, so maybe there was an option. Then in a moment of joy I found out that a popular activity at fairs was to attach people to balloons and send them shooting up in the air. That didn't sound like fun to me, but Fergal O'Brien was a showman and he would be intrigued by the idea. Sadly it didn't feel like much of a possibility though as I kept coming back to the fact that steerable dirigibles just weren't around in the way I'd like them to be in the late 1870s.

I was about to give up when a bit of finger-twitching on the tv remote one night suddenly presented me with one of those popular science programs. A bunch of bearded enthusiasts were building a flying machine, and it was a steerable dirigible. Apparently some French scientist came up with the blueprint in the 1850s but never got round to building it, so they did to see if it worked. And it did. It required lots of cranking and peddling but they were able to steer a dirigible and attain speeds of several miles an hour. The thing had never been built in reality, but then again who is to know for sure that it hadn't...?

So that let me be free to give Fergal his greatest challenge: 24 hours to learn how to fly or lose everything.