Power in the Blood (39 page)

She knew the place, and went directly to apply. The desk clerk directed her to room fourteen, with a look that told her she was not the first to arrive.

“How many have there been so far?” she asked.

“Dozen or so, maybe. It’s early yet.”

She knocked on the door to room fourteen, and was told to enter. Zoe closed the door carefully and turned to meet her interviewer. She saw him in profile, since he was staring out the window. When he faced her, Zoe saw an unremarkable man in his early thirties, neatly dressed in brand-new outdoor clothing, with a very recent growth of beard sprouting along his jaw. There was something not quite right about the way he looked at her, and Zoe decided he was slightly walleyed; it was difficult to be sure in the lamplight. She made a point not to shift her gaze from one eye to the other, in case he was self-conscious about his defect. He had the look of a man unused to mining, or any other kind of hard labor.

“Good evening,” he said, without enthusiasm.

“Good evening.”

“Can you cook?”

“I happen to be an excellent cook.”

“Is that so.”

“It is. I would not have said it otherwise.”

The man made a wry face. “Then I must believe you, I suppose.”

“That would be the correct response,” said Zoe, aware of the asperity in her voice, but unwilling to control it. She was not in the mood to be patronized by yet another inferior male, even if he had legitimate work to offer her.

“No doubt you’re a seamstress beyond comparison.”

“I would not make that claim for myself. I am adequate for straightforward sewing and stitching. If you need a wedding dress, I can’t help you.”

He seemed to find this amusing. “I’m in no danger of marriage, ma’am. Are you possessed of a healthy constitution, by any chance?”

“I am seldom sick, and I recover quickly.”

“What line are you in currently?”

“I am without employment, and have been so since my savings were stolen from me.”

“Leadville is riddled with thieves, to be sure. My partners and I are of a mind to leave, and try our luck at Glory Hole. Are you able to walk with us to that place, carrying a fair share of our load?”

“I am. Is it a cook and bottle washer you’re after?”

“And nothing more. We have no interests other than finding a fat vein for ourselves. We are honorable persons, I assure you. I won’t offend your ears with descriptions of most of our applicants. You’ve doubtless noticed this place is a small piece of Sodom. Your duties are to be strictly domestic. We want to waste no time performing any task not directly associated with our search. Preparing food, maintaining an orderly camp, keeping the fire supplied with wood, that’ll be your job. Assuming I choose you, of course.”

“What wages are you paying, may I ask?”

“You may, and the answer is five dollars a week, and a bonus of some description if we make a strike.”

“Give me two dollars more, and my daughter will help me. She’s a very intelligent girl.”

“How old?”

“Six.”

“Strong?”

“As I am myself. She’ll be no burden at all.”

“Assuming I choose her mother.”

“As you said. When might you be making up your mind, Mr. Brannan?”

“Oh, I should say sometime tonight. We’re anxious to be away. Are you able to conclude your affairs by morning?”

“I have none to conclude.”

“Very good. Your name, ma’am?”

“Zoe Dugan.”

“And your husband is where?”

“In a better place, I’m sure.”

He laughed. “I like your style, Mrs. Dugan. I believe I can recommend you to my partners. Are you positive this is the job for you? I want no backing down at the last minute.”

“You’ll get none from me.”

“Then pack your bags, and welcome aboard the limited company of Brannan, Brannan, Chadbourne and Yost. We call ourselves the El Dorado Engineers. Our approach to mining is strictly scientific.”

“How interesting. Should I present myself here in the morning?”

“You should, and must, if you’re to come with us. Is five o’clock too early for your girl?”

“She can rise at any hour.”

“Then we’ll meet, one and all, in the lobby.”

“Thank you.”

“And thank
you
.”

He came forward to shake her hand, and she saw his face more clearly. He had one eye of brown, and one eye of blue.

21

Before he could leave the state, Drew fell in with low company. He had no wish to become involved with Cecil and Carl, the Rucker boys. He changed his mind, at least temporarily, when they told him he was a dead man if he wouldn’t come with them to rob the stage near Croker Flats.

“It’s your horses we want, to tell the truth,” said Carl. The brothers rode sorry nags. “We could take ’em from you easy, but you can make the choice for yourself, I guess. There’ll be money in it for you.”

“Why not just trade your worst horse for the best of mine and leave me out of this,” reasoned Drew. The Ruckers had introduced themselves in an open and friendly manner before suggesting he join them in their proposed criminal act. Drew judged them to be several years older than himself, but not particularly bright.

“Could do it that way,” Cecil admitted, “but with the extra man along we can keep ’em covered much better. There’s a mean dog rides shotgun on this line.”

“Be better with three,” agreed Carl. “What’s your name anyway?”

“John Bones.”

“Bones? Naw, not Bones, not truly.”

“That’s my name, and I wear it with pride.”

The Ruckers were laughing softly.

“Heard of a dog one time, had that name,” Cecil recalled.

“Skinny dog,” said Carl. “Dave Mullen’s dog, weren’t it?”

“Naw, his cousin’s, and it was called Boney, not Bones.”

The conversation took place on a stretch of west Texas, a landscape without feature or scale. Drew had seen the brothers coming toward him for an hour or more before they finally met under a sky that bore on its invisible currents no trace of cloud.

“Hell,” said Cecil, growing impatient, “are you gonna throw in with us, you and the horses, or do we lay you out right here and now?”

He pulled a pistol from his belt for emphasis, and aimed it in Drew’s general direction.

Drew sighed. “Care to tell me more about the plan?” he asked.

The stage route lay two hours’ ride north of the place where he made his bargain with the Rucker boys. They rode together in amiable company, Cecil’s temper having improved the moment Drew agreed to participate.

“Got plenty of time yet,” said Carl. “She don’t come through till near about noon.”

Neither of the Ruckers possessed a watch, and Drew hoped they might arrive too late at the place designated for their attempt at robbery. There was no sign, when the stage road was reached, to indicate any recent passage of wheels, and Drew accepted the situation. He could always hope the Ruckers were cut down fast, leaving him to turn tail and gallop as far from the scene as he could. The road itself was nothing more than a dusty trace cut through a plain peppered with low sagebrush.

“Anyone on the stage will see us a long time before they get here,” he said.

“We thought of that,” declared Cecil.

“We come prepared,” Carl said. “You watch this.”

The brothers dismounted and made their horses lie down on their sides. “See? When it gets near the time, we throw a little dust over ’em too, and won’t nobody see ’em at all.”

“We’ll be right down on the ground alongside,” added Carl. They both looked to Drew for approval, and he saw they had, after coercing him into their little band, unconsciously made him their leader. A headache was beginning to gnaw at his temples.

“Boys,” he said, “I bring you bad news. My horses won’t lie down like that, either one of them.”

Drew had no idea if the animals Marion de Quille had provided would lie down on command or not, but the Ruckers apparently trusted his word to the extent that they didn’t consider trying to prove him wrong. Watching the consternation on their faces, Drew felt there was a reasonable chance he could dissuade them from their plan.

“You’ll have to do this some other day,” he advised.

“No, we sure can’t. We need money, don’t you?”

“Everyone needs money, but if my horses won’t lie down, we’re not going to be able to hide ourselves before the stage comes along, now are we?”

Carl’s face was made sad at the thought of abandoning their scheme for fast riches; Cecil’s face registered bafflement and anger. “Well, there’s got to be a way,” he said, talking loudly to reassure himself.

Drew shook his head and assumed a doleful expression.

“I know!” Carl shouted, and began to perform a shuffling, kicking dance in the dust.

“What the hell idea you got there, Carl?” demanded Cecil. “Quit that and tell me!”

Carl tripped himself and fell. He sprang up again and began knocking dust from his hat.

“It’s real simple,” he said. “Boney here waits by the side of the road with his horses, only he won’t be mounted, he’ll be standing next to ’em, like they’re lame, see, and when the stage comes along he lifts his hand like he wants it to stop for him, and when it does, we come up out of nowhere and take ’em by surprise!”

Cecil’s look of doubt faded instantly. “By God, Carl, that’s right! That’ll do her! Hear that, Bones?”

“I heard.”

The Ruckers grabbed each other’s forearms and began a whirling dance, shouting and whooping in celebration. Their horses, made nervous by the spurs being whipped past their noses, regained their feet without being told to, and stood shaking dust from themselves with rapid twitchings of their hide. Drew wished they were nervous enough to dash away toward the horizon, obliging him to set out after them.

Allowing his eyes to wander in the direction of his wishes, Drew noticed a distant plume of dust to the west; the approaching Croker Flats stage. He nudged his horse sideways, so the plume lay behind his shoulder. With luck, the Ruckers would fail to see it until too late, and wouldn’t be able to blame Drew for lack of attention.

“Lookit!” Cecil broke off dancing and pointed. “Here she’s comin’!”

“Too soon!” howled Carl. “I bet they seen us already!”

“Maybe not,” said Drew; from his higher elevation he could make out the top of the coach and the two flyspecks of its driver and guard. They, being higher still, could certainly see him.

“Shitfire!” Cecil spat. “Now what do we do? They seen us yet, Bones, you think?”

“Well, I’d say so. Thing to do now is pretend like we just happen to be on the same road as them. You’ll have to cancel your raid and set it up again some other time—that’s what I think.”

“We already set it up for right now,” Carl whined. “Hell, now we’re gonna have to do it all over again.”

The brothers mounted their horses and slapped dust from themselves while the stagecoach drew nearer.

“See Middlebusher?” asked Carl, whose eyesight was less keen than his brother’s.

“He’s up there on top, same as usual,” said Cecil. To Drew he said, “Man’s the next thing to a rattlesnake, just pure bad through and through. Loves to kill ordinary folk if he can. Stage line keeps him on so’s no one tries to rob ’em. He got Rufe, that’s our friend, jest a couple months back. Deserves to die, Middlebusher does.”

“But not today,” Drew suggested.

“Anytime atall,” corrected Cecil, his face hard.

The stage was slowing as they spoke, and came to a dusty halt directly in front of the trio. Several passengers stared at them from the windows, one of them a woman. Drew looked at Middlebusher, the one with the shotgun, and was surprised at the man’s bland appearance, just a skinny fellow with a long mustache, nobody to look at twice.

“Ho there, boys,” called the driver. “We thought you was laying for us till we seen who it is. How’s your mama, Carl—still got the misery?”

“Doin’ real poorly, thank you.”

Drew knew then, with a sinking heart, that he had been coerced by something even worse than amateurs; the Rucker boys were local amateurs. Their stupidity was beyond belief. They would have had to kill everyone on board the stage to avoid being identified as the perpetrators. Drew felt himself break into a light sweat at the thought of what had been avoided. It had been the narrowest of escapes for them all, and it had been accidental, nothing more than a misjudged sense of time.

“Middlebusher!” Cecil yelled. “You sorry turd, when you gonna lay down and let a wheel roll over your goddamn yellow back!”

“Afternoon, Cecil,” responded Middlebusher, seemingly unfazed by the insult. The woman inside was heard to gasp at Cecil’s language.

“You better run next time I see you, you sorry piece of shit.”

“Got a lady on board don’t want to hear you talk that way, Cecil,” said Middlebusher. “You mind your tongue now, boy, or I might have to mind it for you.”

It was a mild enough warning to Drew’s ears, but Cecil chose to be insulted. He snatched up his pistol and aimed at Middlebusher. “Throw down the shipment!” he barked.

“Awww now, Cecil, don’t be making the same mistake Rufus done,” advised the driver. “Just you cool off about that.”

“You shuddup, Will. What you think we’re doing out here—huntin’ jackrabbits? You throw it down directly.”

“Don’t have no shipment this trip, Cecil. The express box went yesterday, and I ain’t lying.”

“You are too!”

“He isn’t,” said Middlebusher.

“I believe I’ll kill you right now,” Cecil told him.

“All right,” said Middlebusher, leaving Cecil confused.

The driver said, “You boys cool off now, and don’t make this any worse’n it is already.”

“This is between him and me,” Cecil insisted.

“Not if I say it isn’t,” said Middlebusher, sounding tired. His shotgun was aimed nowhere near Cecil, Drew was glad to see, since he was right beside him.

“He’s just joking,” Drew said. “Cecil, put the gun down, please, and quit this nonsense.”

“Nobody asked you!” Cecil shouted at him, taking his eyes from the stage, and it was in the split second when Cecil turned to look at Drew that Middlebusher raised and fired his shotgun, blowing away the side of Cecil’s neck. The second barrel was discharged into Carl’s chest. Both the Ruckers were on the ground before Drew was aware of the sharp pain in his upper arm. Looking down, he saw three small buckshot holes in his sleeve. The blood had not had time yet to soak through the cloth. If the shotgun had had more than two barrels, Drew would also have died, important parts of himself mangled or removed by Middlebusher.