The Great West Detective Agency (5 page)

“You caught him cheating. Rather than calling him out, you began cheating him.”

“Anyone watching could see how he palmed cards. I pushed two aces on him so he showed a hand with five.” Lucas smiled at the memory. The cowboys in the game with them had not been amused. Conklin would have been strung up if the three from a Wyoming ranch had carried a rope. As it was, they whupped up on him. Lucas had divvied up the pot with the three men, keeping a fair amount for himself. The evening had been both profitable and entertaining.

Cheats irritated him. Clumsy cheats like Amos Conklin infuriated him because they never expended the effort to do it well.

“Tonight?”

“What's that?”

“You will introduce me to Miss Thompson tonight. After her debut?”

“If Conklin had anything to do with stealing the dog.”

“I must find myself appropriate clothing,” Otto said, already miles distant although he still sat in his chair.

Lucas grumbled and left the Merry Widow. At this time of day, Conklin would be hustling any cowboy he could find in any of a half dozen dives. He set out to check the gambling dens and found Conklin in the third one. Without drawing any attention to himself, he went to the bar and ordered a brandy, swirling it around in the glass when he was served by the taciturn barkeep. Positioning himself carefully, he got a better view of Conklin by looking into the cracked mirror behind the bar.

The man was arguing with two others over a poker hand. The pair got up and left. Lucas had to smile. Conklin ran off his marks rather than stringing them along. All the while he watched the man, he wondered why Conklin would steal Amanda's dog. More than this, what had he done with it?

Little Otto took too much pride in his information being accurate to send anyone on a wild-goose chase. More than this, he wanted the introduction to Carmela Thompson. If Lucas found he had been given punk information, that presentation to what amounted to Western royalty would be in jeopardy. Whatever sparked Little Otto to mention Conklin had some element of logic, if not truth, to it. But what?

Lucas sipped at the brandy and let it burn his tongue and throat before puddling warmly in his belly. He had drunk worse. The barkeep cut it with only a little nitric acid for kick and actually added a fresh peach for flavor and color. As he lifted the glass for another sip, Lucas froze. He put the glass down and turned.

Conklin had disappeared.

The gambler hadn't passed through the front door. Lucas found the back. The door stood partially open to let in a small breeze. He ran to the door and pushed it open with the toe of his boot. At the end of the alley, just off Colfax, two men poked at Conklin, pushing him back into a wall.

Conklin protested loudly, but Lucas couldn't hear any part of the argument, which ended abruptly with a gasp. Conklin bent over and grabbed his belly as one attacker drew back a bloody knife.

Lucas considered what to do. Talking his way out of being a witness to murder seemed unlikely when the second man nudged the first. They had seen him. He carried his Colt New Line, but both of them had six-shooters slung at their sides. In terms of firepower, they had him dead to rights.

“I say, where's the outhouse? The barkeep said it was back here, but I think he only wanted to get rid of me.”

The men arrayed themselves on either side to cut off his escape in the alley. If he ducked back into the Merry Widow, he had a chance. Lucas tugged on the door, but it was stuck.

“You with him?” The one without the knife in his hand jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Conklin's direction. The man lay in a heap, not moving.

“I only want the dog back,” Lucas said, thinking to shock the men. He wanted a reaction to see if Conklin had run afoul of disgruntled losers or had found even more desperate men in the dog napping.

Lucas expected a reaction. He got it. The one with the knife lunged. Lucas twisted sideways like a Spanish bullfighter and let the blade slide past. In this position his punch to the man's cheek held little power, but it was enough to stagger him. Lucas had won a bet once going six rounds bareknuckle with a touring bruiser named John L. Sullivan.

He drew back and shot a second jab that took the man too high on the head. He had wanted to strike him in the temple for a possibly killing blow. Being off balance robbed this punch of real potential, and then he grappled with the second man, who caught him up in a bear hug and slammed him back against the door hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Using the impact, he snapped his head forward. His forehead smashed into the other man's head. The arms weakened. Lucas kicked out and caught the man in the knee. A second kick drove hard into his groin.

By this time the first man was recovering his senses. His eyes showed he was still groggy. Lucas feinted right, then drove a left hook into the man's ribs.

As he sat down heavily, the man grated out, “Gonna kill you if you don't back away. The dog's not for the like of you!”

Lucas hopped over the downed man, then hesitated. He needed to find out where Tovarich had been taken. More to satisfy his curiosity, he wanted to know why a puppy brought out a pair of killers. Finding who they worked for solved Amanda's problem and earned him more money.

Before he could kick the knife out of the man's hand or draw his own pistol, though threatening these two could backfire, he looked up. Not only didn't they look like the type to pony up information at the mere threat of being shot, but they were being joined by three more men intent on dragging out their pistols.

Lucas left them, ducked into a store, and waited for them to give up chasing him. Only then did he retrace his route to the laundry to get his cleaned coat. Little Otto had not steered him wrong. Conklin had something to do with Tovarich's theft and stood at the front of the line as being the thief. Only he was now the dead thief. Did the men who had killed him know where the dog was, or was he now in a race to find the pup?

It began to look as if a hundred dollars wasn't adequate for the job. He needed to find out more from Amanda. But after he paid off his debt. Though the way the day had gone, Carmela might not even talk to him, much less be amenable to politely greeting Little Otto.

A
fter a bath and shave, and a few hours sleep, Lucas Stanton felt like whipping his weight in wildcats. Or at least telling whoever would listen that he could. With the freshly cleaned and repaired coat once more gracing his broad shoulders, he strolled down Colfax warily looking for the men who had killed Amos Conklin. It came as no little relief that they had hightailed it after stabbing the man. To his disgust he saw that Conklin's body still lay where he had been killed. Both coat and vest were gone, as were his shoes. The city scavengers were as efficient as any buzzards circling above the plains waiting for something to die.

He went to a pair of policemen leaning against a lamppost, politely coughed to get their attention away from a ribald joke one was telling the other, and then pointed.

“What's botherin' you?” The short one closest to Lucas had pupils the size of pinpricks from chasing the dragon. The cloying odor of opium hung about his heavy wool uniform, as if his behavior and appearance were not enough to alert Lucas to the addiction. “Spit it out. Me and my partner ain't got all day.”

“The man in the alley appears to be somewhat deceased,” Lucas said. He held out his hands, palms toward the police. “I had nothing to do with it. I am simply pointing out that a corpse is unsightly along such a major street as this.”

“Nobody else's complainin'. Why are you? You have somethin' to do with the killin'?”

The second officer was as large as his partner was small. He peered down at Lucas, tapping a slung shot against his left palm with meaty whacks. From the callus there, he habitually did this. If he intended to bully whomever he faced, he succeeded wildly. Lucas was sorry he had ever mentioned the body.

“The two men running down the alley in the other direction must have alerted the others to the body by now,” Lucas said, edging away. As he backed off, he described the man with the knife, hoping this would deflect interest from him and direct it where it belonged.

“Mr. Dunbar's boys, you saw 'em snuff somebody?” The short one looked around as if the devils from hell were galloping down on him and he couldn't find a proper hiding place.

“Keep up the good work, men. I'll let Mr. Dunbar know you're doing a fine job.” Lucas slapped the opium fiend on the shoulder, then thrust out his hand to shake with the larger copper. For a moment, the man couldn't decide what to do and finally tucked his slung shot under his left arm and shook. His hand engulfed Lucas's but was curiously feeble.

“You tell Mr. Dunbar we're on our toes. We'll get that body all hid so nobody'll ever find it.”

Lucas touched the brim of his bowler and strode off. He had done what he could for Conklin and, by doing so, had found yet another thread to follow. To the north in the Capitol Hill section lived the bluest of the blue bloods. A cute little puppy dog might be found there, though why a man as powerful as Jubal Dunbar would send out his thugs to kill for it posed something of a problem begging for an answer.

He dickered a few minutes with a pretty young girl selling apples, more to enjoy her company than for the apple itself or the extra nickel it cost him. When another customer came by, he paid and buffed off the red skin. He bit into the astringent fruit and almost spit it out. The taste matched that of a persimmon. He turned, judged distances, then heaved the apple at the two coppers with great accuracy. The big one whirled around, face livid. Lucas pointed down a side street, sending the policemen running away. Lucas took a moment's amusement at how the hopped-up officer had wobbled awkwardly and fallen off a curb into a mud puddle. It was small enough payment for them not going after Conklin's murderers.

His steps took him back past the Great West Detective Agency office, where the man and the woman paced back and forth, waiting for the owner to show up.

“. . . the ad,” finished the man.

“It's not a fake, and we're not leaving. We need this job.”

“Dear, we can look elsewhere. In a town the size of Denver, there must be others who will hire us.”

“After you were caught with the goat? I don't think so.”

Lucas kept walking, never breaking stride although he wished he could get a more complete description of the affair of the goat and the man who looked so sheepish. Eventually the detective agency owner would return and the couple would beg him for whatever job had been advertised. He wished he could be there to see not only what the owner looked like, without any of the disguises he apparently used in his work, but also to find if the persistent man and woman were hired. If it were left up to him, he would hire them to run the office.

If for nothing else, his curiosity about the goat ran wild.

He made his way through the maze of streets and finally stood in front of the Emerald City Dance Hall and Drinking Emporium. The green paint used on the front had begun to peel after a long winter of fierce blizzards and a summer of baking heat and little rain. The doors were propped open to let in what breeze could be found sneaking off the distant mountains as a steady rush of cigarette smoke and bad music came from inside.

A quick step avoided a drunken cowboy who found the double doors too narrow. As he entered, the cowboy fell face first into the watering trough with a loud splash. Lucas never looked back. He made his way to the bar. Lefty might as well have been a permanent fixture behind it. He never seemed to leave, making Lucas wonder if the man owned the saloon. All his dealings were with the one-armed man, and until now he had never wondered who the owner night be.

He chalked up the sudden interest to his hunt for Amanda's missing dog. Questions that went unanswered never troubled him as long as he sat across the table from a man with a big poke and a small hand.

“He's been here looking for you,” Lefty said. “Blood in his eye. Him and
four
men with the look of gunslingers.”

“The rancher?”

“I don't want trouble in here. If you can't take care of him, clear out.”

“You know your revenue would drop through the floor if I left for another gaming parlor.”

“Prying up the floorboards might expose gold dust and money these liquored-up sots have dropped over the years.” Lefty scratched his chin, nodding to himself as he worked over the notion. In a voice almost too low to hear, he said, “That's not a bad idea. Gold dust in the dirt.”

“Carmela getting ready for the show?”

“Hell, Lucas, I don't know if she's even in town. She might be. I'm not paying her to go onstage a minute before ten tonight.”

Lucas glanced at his watch. Twelve hours until the light of his life made her grand entrance to a throng of cheering, jeering men.

“Deal some faro. Jenny's not up to it right now.”

Lucas knew better than to ask why the woman had skipped work yet again. Lefty might tell him. The last time he had asked after a coworker, he had learned more than he ever wanted to about the effects of malaria on the human body and soul. Short of Rocky Mountain spotted fever, that had been the scariest description of symptoms he had ever heard.

“Usual split?”

“Whatever you can steal is yours, unless I catch you. It's a slow day, but I don't want to pass up a single sucker. Keep them in the saloon however you can for tonight's show.” Lefty walked down the bar to serve another beer to a man dressed in tatters. As he went, he evaluated what he might find under the Emerald City's floor.

Lucas went to the faro table, pulled back a tablecloth covering it, and found a deck of cards wedged into a small compartment beneath. He shuffled, then began his spiel to draw the willing victims into his web. Faro was a simple enough game, or so the players thought. A pretty woman dealing, leaning forward over the table in a low-cut dress, gave them their money's worth even as their wallets were picked clean. Lucas's appeal had to be different to keep them pressed along the far side of the table as he worked.

A young cowboy came up and worked at building a cigarette. From his clumsy attempt, he'd either had little practice or he'd had a snootful of whiskey already. Lucas saw the man's yellowed teeth and realized the cowboy had likely pushed through the door first thing when Lefty opened that morning.

Such a guess gave him the way to hold the cowboy's interest.

“You're good enough with that smoke to do it on horseback,” Lucas said.

“Have done it while stretched over a horse's back,” the cowboy allowed.

“Then I'd better tell you how dangerous that might be,” Lucas said. He motioned for the cowboy to lay down a bet. He took a deep breath and remembered what he had learned from the Preacher about spinning a web of words to keep his audience intrigued. Then he began telling his story to keep the cowboy distracted from the cards.

“My partner got consumption from smoking and upped and died on me last January. Don't think I'm prone to that.” As if to put his words to the lie, he coughed, then spat, hitting a cuspidor at his feet with reasonable accuracy.

“Not what I mean. You ever hear of Glue Bottom Backus?”

“Can't say I have. That's a mighty odd name.”

He lost another hand but wasn't budging. Lucas had him hooked.

“He came by it honestly. Glue Bottom could ride any horse, no matter how the son of a bitch bucked.”

“Ain't never been a horse that can't be rode, and there ain't never a rider that can't be throwed.”

“You're wrong about that,” Lucas said. “Once old Glue Bottom plopped down on a saddled horse, no amount of sunfishing or quick spins ever unseated him. He was up in Wyoming on a ranch outside of Cheyenne when he about met his match, though.”

“What I said. Any rider can be throwed.”

“Glue Bottom set himself down on this maverick and was bounced about, jerked this way and that,” Lucas said, all the while dealing faro and scooping up the coins the cowboy lost because he paid more attention to the story than his odds. “He thought he was a goner when the belly strap began to groan under the strain of the varmint's heaving. The leather stretched enough so daylight showed between saddle and the lathered up horse's back.”

“Sure sign Glue Bottom's name got to change. He might stay with the saddle, but when the cinch loosens—”

The cowboy clapped his hands together loud enough to draw attention from the more serious gamblers and drinkers. Even Claudette looked up. Lucas shook his head. He didn't want her to break the spell he wove. Another quick move pulled in sorry bets. The cowboy put down more without even considering how he bet.

“That's so,” Lucas said to string him along. “But the effort tuckered out the horse. That maverick settled down and Glue Bottom rode it out of the corral. I tell you, the other wranglers stared at him as if he was a bronco buster who'd go down in history as the best ever.”

“Sounds like it,” the cowboy said with more than a touch of skepticism.

“Of course, Glue Bottom got a mite arrogant about his skills when he rode that mustang out, thinking it was just another horse.” Lucas lowered his voice for effect. “It wasn't anywhere near broken.”

“Didn't think so.”

Lucas saw that he had drawn a crowd as big as any Jenny could, and he didn't have her impressively displayed chest. The bets came fast and furious. Lucas paid out some winners, but the money mattered less than the tall tale he spun.

“Old Glue Bottom started to build himself a smoke, the reins draped over his left arm and not gripped properly. The horse knew and rocketed forward, straight over a cliff. Glue Bottom let out a yell as he and the horse plunged over the brink going straight down toward the river.”

“If his body was swept away by the river, they wouldn't have to bury him,” the cowboy said.

Lucas motioned for Claudette to start working the crowd and sell as much whiskey as she could. He worked his table, the cards flying so fast the faces blurred as they slapped down on the green felt. The speed of betting increased, and he finally continued the story.