Power in the Blood (113 page)

The marshal opposite him, who insisted on blowing his cigar smoke directly into Drew’s face, asked, “What the hell have you got to smile about?”

“Not a thing,” Drew said, smiling even wider.

The marshal leaned forward and slapped him hard across the face.

“Then quit. I don’t like to see it.”

“Anything you say,” Drew said.

Leo had several things to be thankful for now. The model for his gold elk had been prepared in record time by a Pittsburgh sculptor of some renown, with the assistance of a team of willing students, and preparations for the creation of a mold had begun. The gold for the casting was on site, guarded around the clock by a team of Pinkerton detectives, and reports of the golden elk already were becoming part of the nation’s daily gossip. Most press articles on the fabulous beast erroneously stated that the elk would be made of solid gold, which had indeed been Leo’s original intention, until he was informed it would weigh too much for competent handling. He had given permission by wire for a hollow elk, which would be far cheaper and more manageable, but had not passed this revision on to the general public. An elk of solid gold had about it the stuff of legend, and Leo was determined that it should achieve such status.

He had chosen to forget that it was his lying mistress who first proposed the creation of the elk; Leo took that role for himself, and on the one occasion when she sulked over the absence of her name in all of the press coverage relating to the elk, he had hit her very hard and told her to mind her business. He had seen fear creeping into her face more often lately, and that pleased him. Leo was still unsure what her ultimate punishment should be, once he revealed to her that he knew everything about her she had attempted to hide. It should be something interesting, unusual, original.

He also had the capture of Lodi to exult over. There was some difficulty with the state regulations over where Lodi’s trial should be held, but certain members of Big Circle were working on his behalf to have the usually applicable statutes waived in favor of a trial in Glory Hole itself, the right and proper place in which to administer judgment and justice on the fellow, in Leo’s opinion. Lodi was currently being held in the county jail in Leadville, while the necessary legalities for a transfer to Glory Hole were under way. Leo had been told it was a secure building, with well-armed men in attendance. News of Lodi’s capture had received as much ink as the golden elk, and rightly so.

The one blot upon these prospects for imminent personal satisfaction was the outrageous manner in which Zoe had helped herself to her annulment settlement in Denver. The manager of Denver National Bank and Trust was under investigation by Big Circle for possible complicity in the case. Blye’s unacceptable excuse for having handed the money over was that he simply could not remember the event with any clarity, a ridiculous defense. Blye had even been so bold as to suggest that Leo was a fool to set aside a cash settlement of such proportions if he was not prepared to let the lady take it, a statement of such obvious malice it served to implicate the fellow even more. No word of the incident had been made public, of course, nor would it ever be. Membership in Big Circle certainly had its compensations. Leo wondered sometimes if being a member of the Praetorians was not foolhardy, given the conveniences of the larger body. He felt a twinge of guilt over his association with the revolutionary kernel slowly gathering strength to burst through from within, but for the moment was content to wait and see what might transpire. He shared none of his misgivings with Rowland Price.

When Lodi robbed a train up in Montana less than a week after his own supposed capture, there was consternation in Leadville. Within the space of a day it was ascertained that the prisoner being held as Lodi was in fact one of his men. Confronted by marshals, Drew told them he was John Bones. Two of the marshals held him while a third beat him senseless. By evening the federal contingent had withdrawn, leaving Drew under no more than the usual jailhouse guard.

Nursing a swollen jaw and a closed eye, Drew told himself the ruse had been worthwhile, even if it left him bruised. He was surprised that Lodi had been able to organize a job so quickly, and assumed the train had been stopped solely to let the world know of the law’s mistake. Drew could imagine the panache with which Lodi announced himself to the passengers as he robbed them, and he wondered if Lodi would take a chance and attempt to spring him from jail before his trial began, in order to thumb his nose at the law again. Drew wondered also how he might react to his next meeting with Nate, if such a thing should occur. Nate had deliberately left him stranded, an outright violation of the outlaw code, and could not be permitted to go unpunished. That alone was a good reason to hope for escape. It was a hope worth nurturing, since it was all he had.

Otis Trevitt was a disappointed man. He had bragged to his girl that he was part of the group guarding none other than Lodi, and now that it was known a trick had been played on everyone, Otis was left in charge of a nobody. His girl wouldn’t be impressed at all by that. The town marshal had said another deputy would be given double duty with Otis, beginning the next day, in case the real Lodi should attempt getting his man out. But for the moment, with Lodi having robbed a train less than twenty-four hours earlier in another state, there was no possibility of that happening, so Otis was on his own, and would be until dawn.

When the woman and the girl came in, he was not fully alert, having been awakened from a catnap by the sound of the opening door. Otis was aware of his own drowsiness and its cause, but he could not understand why it was that when the woman asked him for the keys to the cell containing Lodi, he pointed to the key ring on the wall without a second thought. Why had he done that? He was sleepy still, and the girl watching him had a blue mark on the side of her face, which should have piqued his interest, but didn’t; he was just as tired as tired could be, and when he saw the prisoner walking past him with the woman, he couldn’t raise a hand or open his mouth to let the woman know it wasn’t even Lodi she had released, just some nobody that rode with Lodi, but by then they were out the door, the girl leaving last, and Otis felt himself slipping back into a comfortable sleep. Everything that had happened was probably a kind of catnap dream, so he had nothing to worry about.

For Drew also, the arrival of the woman at his cell door had a dreamlike ambience. She said not a word, had simply unlocked the door and beckoned with her one arm. He could swear he had seen her somewhere before, but the time and place eluded him. He rose, put on his boots and jacket and went with her out to the office, where a deputy sat with hanging jaw and glazed eyes, staring at a young girl who stared at him with equal fascination. Drew thought the girl was also familiar somehow, but again, he could not recall where he might have seen her, despite the blue birthmark on her face.

Then all three were walking along the sidewalk, the woman’s arm through his, and his other hand in the clasp of the girl. They were the very picture of a family out for a late night stroll, and the citizens of Leadville gave them hardly a glance. When they came to a buggy and team hitched to a rail, the woman told him to get in. Drew was handed the reins. He drove slowly out of town, still dazed by the hope of escape that had been so promptly answered.

They were well beyond the last houses when the girl said, “Mama, it isn’t him.”

“Isn’t who?” said the woman.

“It isn’t the robber man.”

“Sir, are you Lodi?”

“No, ma’am. I guess you haven’t heard the news yet. Lodi’s up in Montana, just robbed a train there last night.”

“But … you are a train robber yourself, are you not?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am. I just told them I’m Lodi for a joke.”

“Well … this is most disappointing, if I may say so, Mr.…?”

“Bones, ma’am, John Bones. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, ma’am, but I have to tell you I’m grateful, and not disappointed in the least.”

“Yes, to be sure you are, but … Oh, botheration, this is not what I wanted at all.”

“His name isn’t what he says, Mama; it’s something else.”

“Not Lodi, by any chance?”

“No, Mama, something else. He keeps hiding it. I think it’s … Doogle.”

“Leave the gentleman alone, Omie.”

“Well, he should tell us the truth if we got him out of jail, shouldn’t he?”

“Uh, ma’am, she’s right. Bones is an alias. My line of work generally sees a lot of them.”

“It really doesn’t matter to me what your name is. It was Lodi I wanted. Now I don’t quite know what to do.”

“Ma’am, it probably isn’t my business, but are you kin to Lodi?”

“Certainly not. I’ve never met the man.”

“I was just trying to figure why you wanted him out so bad, ma’am, excuse me for asking.”

“I’m going to call him Doogle.”

“Omie, be quiet. Mr. Bones, are you an expert robber?”

“Ma’am, I’d have to call myself experienced, but maybe not expert.”

“I assume it was Lodi who planned the work you performed.”

“Yes, ma’am, mostly. Ma’am, how did you get me past that deputy?”

“It really makes no difference now. Is it possible for you to make contact with Lodi, Mr. Bones?”

Drew understood then that his escape had been arranged by the marshals, so they might extract from him some code or meeting place by which he intended reuniting himself with the gang. Such a procedure did exist, but Drew intended to reveal none of it. The breakout should have been staged in a much more believable form than this, with masked men posing as sympathetic bandits, not a one-armed woman and a girl.

“Doogle thinks we’re fakes, Mama.” Omie laughed. “He thinks we work for the marshals.”

“No, Mr. Bones, we do not, and my question is sincere—are you able to rejoin your friends?”

“I … ma’am, I’m not understanding half of what I hear tonight.… Little girl, how do you know what I’m thinking? And ma’am, do you want a train robbed … or something?”

“Yes, oh, yes indeed.”

“Mama, look at his hand! He’s the one that tried to take your ring!”

“Pardon me?” Drew was becoming more confused than ever.

“His pinkie, Mama, it’s gone, and so was the pinkie on the man who tried to take your ring on the train that time, only I wouldn’t let him.”

“Why, so it is! Mr. Bones, what a small world we do live in. Was that Lodi’s work, outside Buena Vista just a short time ago?”

“Yes, ma’am, that was him, and it was me that wanted your ring. Sorry about that, ma’am.”

“You didn’t get it,” crowed Omie. “I wouldn’t let you.”

“Omie, stop this nonsense. Mr. Bones is our friend now, or so I assume.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m beholden to you both.”

“It was Indians that did it,” announced Omie. “They cut off his finger and laughed about it.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly them who did it.… Little girl, that’s three or four times now you’ve done that. Ma’am, can she … see inside my head?”

“Omie, one more word from you and I shall be most displeased. You’re simply showing off.”

Omie snorted undaintily.

After another mile Drew was told to direct the buggy into a stand of trees beside the road, where three saddled horses were waiting.

His deception appeared to be working. The Sleeping Savage lay in eternal repose inside the casket of glass, a close facsimile of the original. Nevis was pleased with himself; not a single paying customer so far had done more than gape at the sight and declare himself amazed at the thing’s ugliness. Carlson’s Patented Mortuary Putty had borne out the faith Doc Pfenning placed in it, and had caused Nevis no creative difficulties whatever, even when the time came to stain the Savage with old coffee grounds. The color had taken well, and after several applications the twisted limbs of the artifact had darkened to an acceptable hue, with just the right amount of unevenness and mottling to grant it the appearance of the original. The horsehair wig was not quite acceptable to Nevis’s meticulous eye, but nobody seemed eager to question its antiquity. The customers came rolling in, their dollars collected by a scrubbed and coiffured and smiling Winnie at the door.

A customer late on that first afternoon of the exhibition brought to Nevis’s attention a small detail: the glass case was becoming misted, creating a haziness inside that made viewing the Savage less interesting than it might be. Horrified, Nevis went to the case and examined it; the glass was indeed misting over. What was causing it? The bogus corpse had been placed inside the case and all air extracted by a fine-nozzled vacuum pump less than twenty-four hours before. Had the process of extraction been performed inadequately? Where was the moisture coming from? It seemed to be spreading even as he watched, obscuring the object within even more.

“What’s wrong with your Injun, mister?”

“I … suspect the … the ancient gases trapped in his tissues are … are escaping, due to the … unnatural state of airlessness in which he has been placed.”

“Being in ice, though, ain’t that the same thing?”

“No, sir, it is not. Examine ice closely and you will discern fine bubbles of air, usually of an elongated variety.”

“He’s fogged up pretty good in there now. Lookit that stuff crawl along the glass. Mister, I want my money back. I can’t hardly see him at all.”

The customer’s demand was echoed by others pressing around the case, some of them rubbing on the glass in an attempt to erase the mist forming on the inside.

“Please, please … no touching of the crystal casket, ladies and gentlemen! No touching, please …”

“Well, we want our money back. That thing isn’t worth looking at now.”

“Give us our money back, mister!”

“Yes! Yes, you may all collect a refund! Certainly you may, one and all! Please return to the door and take back your money. I do apologize for this disappointment, ladies and gentlemen.… Please, no touching the crystal cabinet!”

When the room was empty and the doors bolted, Winnie came to Nevis with a pile of cash much reduced from its encouraging bulk a half hour before.