Power in the Blood (62 page)

The latest man under consideration for membership, did he but know it, was an individual of tremendous fortune, acknowledged to be the richest man in Colorado. Leo Brannan, it was confidently stated, was the richest man in the western half of the nation, and likely to be the richest man in America by the turn of the century, if his fabulous mines maintained their current phenomenal output. There had been hesitation for a year or more, among some of Big Circle’s more influential members, regarding the inclusion of Brannan among their ranks. He was rumored to be a queer duck, reclusive by inclination, not given to moving among others of his ilk. Brannan virtually owned a valley high among the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and he seldom ventured outside his fiefdom. He smelted his own gold, rather than ship it by rail to the furnaces of other companies, and bought coal from the mines around Durango only because the stuff did not exist in his own part of the state.

He was his own man in every way, and while the members of Big Circle lauded the fellow for his fantastic earnings which had sprung from an unlikely claim located halfway up a mountainside, they were a trifle suspicious of Brannan’s exclusivity, the way he ran his little empire. He could not be ignored, dominating the gold market as he did, but it was a matter of opinion whether he should be drafted into Big Circle to become one of their own. He might well refuse, if the stories about his independence were true, and then where would the members be? It was unthinkable that someone should refuse their offer, but the one man capable of doing just that was Leo Brannan. They would not be able to coerce him, or intimidate him, rich as he was.

It was the custom of Big Circle to be sure of every move it made, a process that required the casting of votes in a democratic manner, and Leo Brannan’s name had twice been put up for membership, only to be voted down by one or two of the members in longest standing, who tended to be more cautious than the rest by virtue of their wider experience. Wait and see, was their advice, and since inclusion as a member of Big Circle could be brought about only when the membership was in complete accord regarding the suitability of the latest name offered, Leo was rejected. Eventually newer members insisted that Leo be the next to be offered a seat among them. The nay-sayers produced evidence that Brannan was not right for inclusion, despite his success. There were stories, they said, of strange goings-on at Brannan’s mansion overlooking Glory Hole, peculiar happenings laid upon the unlikely shoulders of his stepdaughter, who, it was rumored, had powers that would have earned her a place at the stake in an earlier century. There was something not quite right about the man and his family and the way he ran his business; Brannan was not Big Circle material, not yet.

A secret meeting was convened, and an emissary brought to Walter the decision arrived at by this smaller circle within Big Circle: Walter Morrow had been selected as unofficial ambassador to approach Leo Brannan with a view to offering him membership. If he refused, no more would be said, and those members who did not advocate his acceptance would be none the wiser. If, on the other hand, he accepted the offer, those supporting him would make sure he became a member of the new splinter group within Big Circle. With Colorado’s richest man admitted into the inner sanctum of the initiated, the smaller circle would, in time, engulf the larger circle and emerge as its new voice.

It was an assignment that made Walter proud, a sign his star was rising within Big Circle. He had been selected for this clandestine task, he was told, because he radiated an earnestness of manner that was not to be found among most members. It would be a tricky assignment, but Walter had invested in him the confidence of the secret enclave. If he brought Brannan home, figuratively speaking, his status within the fold would be considerably enhanced. There were changes afoot, and he was not too old to be included among those orchestrating the revision. The excitement he felt over the task ahead was almost sufficient to erase from his thoughts the subjects of Lovey Doll Pines and Jared. Walter would leave for Glory Hole the day after next, and he felt that Columbus could not have been more excited at the prospect of what lay before him.

The muted shattering of glass somewhere nearby intruded upon Walter’s thoughts in a manner not sufficiently alarming to cause him concern; he assumed one of the servants had dropped something, and was in such an expansive frame of mind he could not be bothered investigating so trivial an offense. He planned the speech he would make to Leo Brannan, emphasizing the benefits to be enjoyed as a member of the clandestine offspring hiding within Big Circle. It was a speech that might possibly change his life, and he wished to perfect its tone well in advance of the encounter.

He did not hear the study door open, nor see the slender young man who slid through like a shadow. The soft click of the lock did alert Walter, and he turned from the fire just as the intruder approached. He wondered at first if this was some new servant hired without his knowledge, and was angry that the fellow had entered without having been summoned, and without knocking.

“What the devil do you mean by this!”

“Mr. Morrow?”

“Who are you?”

“I have a message from Jared. I thought it best, sir, to deliver it in private.”

“Who let you in! This is outrageous.…”

“Jared’s over there,” said the young man, nodding toward the far side of the room. When Walter turned, Tatum took the pistol from his pocket, held it close to Walter’s temple and fired one shot. Walter died instantly, still searching the area near the bookshelves for evidence that his son was there.

Tatum placed the pistol near Walter’s right hand, then walked quickly to the French windows. He unlocked one, extracted the key and stepped outside, locked the window behind himself and ran for the high wall around Walter Morrow’s mansion. He was over the top and strolling along the street beyond while servants were still knocking at the study door.

28

Clay caught up with Dr. Maxwell in 1884, in southern Arizona, where the dentist was on trial for having administered so large a dose of nitrous oxide to his patient the recipient did not awaken. That the deceased had been a girl of only eleven years did not bode well for Maxwell, nor did the fact that he had attempted to depart town by way of his hotel room’s window, leaving the girl’s mother in a separate room from that in which the surgery for extraction took place. It was only because the mother finally lost patience and entered the second room to make sure her daughter was not suffering any pain that the alarm was raised. Maxwell was found under a wooden sidewalk, blubbering with fear.

His trial was immediate, and had just begun when Clay Dugan entered town. Finding the saloon empty, Clay inquired the reason for such unusual abstinence in a sizable town like Dry Wash. A quick summary of events from the bartender sent Clay down the street to the courthouse, where he stood at the back of the courtroom along with dozens of others, every available seat having been taken. Testimony from the mother was crisp and uncluttered, her final statement being that a hanging was too good for such a snake; she suggested he be made to inhale a sufficient amount of his own poison to send him to perdition, and there was much shouted agreement. The judge admitted such punishment made sense, but let it be known that death by gassing was beyond the law, and would not be considered by the court should the accused be found guilty.

“Any further witnesses?” asked the judge.

Clay pushed forward through the crowd, made bold by two fast whiskeys and a need to see Maxwell’s face when he came closer. “Your Honor, I believe I can contribute something here,” he said, and was beckoned forward. Sworn in, he gave his name, and stated the facts pertaining to his own unsatisfactory usage of Dr. Maxwell’s professional services. He was asked by the defense to produce evidence that he had ever had dental treatment, from Maxwell or anyone else, and Clay responded by emptying his mouth of the rubberized plates that had smiled at him when he awoke after Maxwell’s less than complete ministrations in Pueblo. The courtroom was swept by laughter, which Maxwell’s lawyer attempted to quieten by insisting that there was no proof the dentures on display had been manufactured by his client, and just who, he asked, was the witness anyway? Once the laughter had died away, the judge requested that Clay tell a little something about himself, just for the record.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” Clay stated, and the last ripples of mirth among the crowd were silenced.

“I hunt down men who broke the law and got away. They don’t get away from me. It’s big country out here, and plenty can get clear of the law and what the law demands of them for what they did, namely punishment, but I get them. Scum like that,” he said, pointing to Maxwell, “they keep on doing what they do until someone stops them. That’s what I do. It isn’t pretty work, but someone has to round them up. Bounty hunter, that’s a nasty thing to be, most people think, but I don’t think so. I do what I do, the same as criminals and degenerates do what they do, only I do my job better, so I’m whittling them down, slow but sure. I make no apologies, ladies and gentlemen. I am the man I am.”

Someone at the rear of the courtroom began clapping, and the sound became contagious. The judge allowed it to continue for a minute or so before banging his gavel and calling for order in the court. When it came, he said, “Mr. Dugan, I believe I speak for most of us here when I say that your line of work is necessary but unappreciated. Most justices of my acquaintance, they won’t touch the hand that deals sudden death to criminals if they don’t come along easy, but I’m not so sure that men such as yourself aren’t an essential ingredient in the service of the law hereabouts, unpretty though it may be, as you said. Mr. Dugan, I’d be proud to shake your hand, sir.”

There was much cheering and general approbation as Clay stepped forward to take the judge’s hand in his. Maxwell’s lawyer sat down, shaking his head in disapproval, and Dr. Maxwell was seen to smile a ghostly smile, as if having seen the end to his trial and determined its outcome. When the clamor had subsided, Maxwell stood and demanded the opportunity to present his side of things, and the judge allowed it.

“Townspeople of Dry Wash,” Maxwell began, “you think nothing of your teeth, except when they cause you pain, and such is the attitude of all Americans. Who is there to grant you relief from your oral ailments? Only professors of dentistry such as myself, good citizens, and where would you be without us, I ask. The oral science is not exact, I admit, and there remain many advances to come, among them a means of ascertaining precise dosages of painkiller for the patient. That day has not yet arrived. I am a sailor in uncharted waters, an explorer among the cavities of America, and yet I am victimized for having been found less than perfect. Is this the fault of myself, some flaw in my character, or is the tragedy that has brought us all here today the result of an infant branch of learning o’erreaching itself, perhaps, in pursuit of succor and easement among the suffering of the nation? A life has been lost, but am I solely to blame? Where is the evidence of malice aforethought? Good people, there is none. I am myself a victim in this matter, an emissary among you, a pilgrim of pain, doing what little I can to ward off dental hurt and loss.

“Nature, it has been said, is red in tooth and claw, but those same teeth may also be brown, men and women of Dry Wash, and that is the color of decay, from which there is no retreat, only the choice of extraction, which as you know is a painful process, made less so by the stringent application of scientific gases that render the sufferer oblivious to the wrenching and yanking which must accompany the removal of the decayed article. Yes, I play my part in the scheme of things, but it is a part imperfectly written, therefore imperfectly executed—I should say, imperfectly performed—and so I ask of you that you bear witness to my imperfection as a man, one of God’s suffering creatures, and see reflected in me a part of yourselves, for who among us is without sin … not that I have committed any such crime as sin, but … we are none of us expert in our field, I maintain, else every farmer would create a crop of grain without equal, and every rancher be the proud owner of herds beyond numbering. So it is with the oral arts, ladies and gentlemen, and I throw myself upon your charity and mercy and good sense in this matter, which I was in no way responsible for at all but am myself a victim of as heretofore stated … and I thank you for your indulgence in this matter, good and wise citizens of Dry Wash.”

Maxwell waited for some kind of response, but none came.

“Final arguments, if you please,” said the judge.

These did not take long. Maxwell’s lawyer was less eloquent than his client; the prosecutor borrowed heavily and without apology from Clay’s speech about catching up with criminals. There was little tension in the courtroom when the jurors retired, since everyone knew what the verdict would be; there were an uncle and a second cousin of the dead girl on the jury, and the uncle, who ran the general store, held notes of credit against at least seven of the other ten jurors. But most important, everyone knew the dentist had done wrong; it was there in his thin face and weaselly mannerisms, and the way he had run like a coward from the scene of his tragic misdeed. The town would have its revenge, and community spirit would be revitalized as a result.

While a verdict was awaited, a process most people calculated would take no more than ten to fifteen minutes, Judge Poudre invited Clay into his tiny chambers at the rear of the courtroom for a quick snort, to celebrate their mutual yet exclusive approaches to the solving of society’s ills.

“Mr. Dugan, sir, I’m a blunt man, so I’ll ask you in a blunt manner if you’re a successful manhunter.”

“I make a living.”

“And is it your intention to continue in this profession indefinitely?”

“One of these days I’ll quit.”

“What if a better offer should come along, some job requiring skills at tough law enforcement but without all the traveling around that goes with your current line of employment?”