The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel (39 page)

On July thirtieth they set out for Evanston—Trace and Boz, Hanky and the Kid—with twenty-two horses in tow. It was two days’ ride at an easy pace along the Sweetwater River, and they stopped to camp at the halfway point on the first night. They staked out the horses, cooked and ate supper, bickered amiably about who would take the first watch. Boz drew the short straw, and everyone else stretched out to sleep.

Trace had not had the chance to meditate for several days, and although he’d planned to do so during his own watch, apparently his power—or something else—couldn’t wait that long. As soon as his eyes were closed the vision began to lap over him, soft as velvet and enticing as perfume.

It was clearly and specifically a dream. The massive banquet hall, which might’ve been suspended in the cosmos, for all he could see; the walls were lost in darkness. The table groaning under its bounty of flowing wine, sculpted pastries, and quivering golden aspics. The laughter and indistinct conversations—that sense of important things being discussed just out of earshot.

He sat at the end of the table, his view of the other guests mostly obscured by a massive bouquet of fruit and flowers, but he could see the dusky-hued lady to his left, her tangled black curls falling over her decaying finery, and beside her a round, jolly Irishman, making merry with the wine despite the gaping wound in his chest. To Trace’s right sat Kieler, dressed in rich robes and a ridiculous turban that did not quite disguise the misshapen concavity of his brow. While Trace watched, Kieler lifted his napkin and dabbed at the trickle of blood that ran down his temple.

“Do excuse me,” he said to Trace. “My mental powers aren’t what they used to be.”

“More wine, Mr. Tracy?” said Reynolds, at his elbow. The reporter wore a waiter’s uniform and his usual feral grin. He held out a bottle with a smudged label. “With the lady’s compliments.”

Trace followed his glance down the table, to where Miss Fairweather sat, regal in scarlet velvet, her face as white as wax. One frail arm lay stretched across the white tablecloth, and some awful wormlike creature, like an oversized leech, was fastened onto her wrist, pulsing as it sucked the life out of her.

All
the diners had leeches, their long tails coiling and throbbing across the tabletop, weaving over and around plates and goblets, feeding into the towering, bubbling fountain in the center of the table. Trace could smell the iron reek of blood from where he sat.

The man beside Miss Fairweather took her hand, raised it to his lips, but she made no sign she appreciated or even noticed the gesture. She reached for her glass, turned it so Trace could see the skull and cross-bones marked on it, and held his eye as she took a deliberate swallow.

“You really should try some of this, young’un,” Reynolds said, holding out the bottle. “It’s the lady’s own vintage.”

Fairweather ’71,
said the label on the bottle, in her familiar handwriting.
Panacea, Protegeum, Defensio.

“I had some of that.” He held up his hand, to show the scar. “Didn’t care for it.”

“Didn’t you?” Reynolds said. “Oh, look, here come the entrees.”

All the guests were cooing and applauding, and the man beside Miss Fairweather stood, lifting his goblet, smiling benevolently and accepting the accolades, as a whole platoon of servants marched into the room, bearing masterpieces of cooking and chicanery: cockatrices, mermaids, phoenixes; homunculii with apples in their mouths; a whole roasted keung-si, charred black around the edges …

“You might wanna wake up now, young‘un,” Reynolds advised. “You won’t want to see this.”

The last salver was as big as a coffin, carried on the shoulders of six enormous wolves, and on it lay Boz, naked and hog-tied, gagged with a bit in his teeth. The wolves set the tray down before Trace, and Boz began to thrash, screaming against his gag. Trace saw all eyes turn toward him expectantly, found a carving knife and fork in his hands. The Russian held out his glass in salute, waiting, the promise of threat in that cruel smile.

Venenum Fatalis, Contagii, Clades Inevitabilis.
He heard her voice as if she were whispering in his ear. He looked down the table again, saw her raise her left hand and pantomime thrusting a knife into it, at the same time as the Russian glanced down at her and fury crossed his face—

Trace was thrust away from the table, yanked away as if by a river current, awash in cold and tumbling confusion. He felt her hand clawing for his, trying to hang on, but she slid away like candle smoke—

—and he thrashed awake in a swaddle of blankets, cold night air bearing down on his lungs, neck and shoulders aching with the strain of reaching, trying to understand.

He fell back with a hard sigh, panic cooling in his blood and condensing to the weight of guilt.

“You all right?” Boz said, low, from across the fire.

To Trace’s left, Hanky was snoring and senseless. To the right, the Kid whimpered softly, twitching in his sleep. The sky spread out above them, vast and black, with a band of stars across its middle. A few yards away, the horses stood patiently on their tethers.

Trace rolled on his elbows, rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Just dreams.”

“Was I in ’em?”

Trace shook his head. He got his knees under him and stood, wincing at the stiffness in his joints. “You might as well turn in. I ain’t sleepin any more tonight.”

That had been two nights ago. He had not slept much since, though he had spent long hours meditating while the others were asleep, searching in ever-widening circles around the river valley and through the wilds of Wyoming, for disturbances, portents, signs of any kind … but there was nothing. Or at least nothing he could recognize as threatening.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, was the problem. This dream had been more pointed and cryptic than the others, full of things he recognized—the wine, the leeches, the words of Miss Fairweather’s protection spell—but didn’t know how to interpret.

Had she been trying to send him a message? But if she could do that, why didn’t she come closer in the gray space? If he was such a powerful psychic then why couldn’t he talk to her?

Their first day in Evanston was Sunday, but there was still plenty to do: renting a corral from the stockyards manager, arranging lodgings for himself and the boys, getting the horses settled. Boz handled the customers at the corral with thorough competence, and Hanky leapt like a frog to do anything Boz told him. Even the Kid was lickspittle diligent, although he was edgy and had twice reminded Trace of his promise to telegraph his friend.

So here he was, on the second of August, almost three months after he’d stormed out of her library, sending a telegram to St. Louis and praying to God she’d forgiven him enough to answer.

“Is this … Latin?” the telegraph clerk asked, frowning at Trace’s handwriting.

“She’s European,” Trace said. He’d composed the message in a mishmash of Latin and French, in hopes the sending and receiving offices would not grasp its meaning and assume it was written by a lunatic. “Just send it as written.”

“What service do you want?” the clerk asked, counting letters.

“The quicker the better.”

“You want to wait for a reply?”

“No, I’ll come back in the morning.” He didn’t allow himself to suppose she might not answer.

*   *   *

T
RACE LEFT THE
telegraph office and made his way along the crowded sidewalk, dodging ladies in fishtail skirts and cowboys in batwing chaps; the cowboys gave him berth and the ladies looked him over from the corners of their eyes. He felt awkward about that, particularly since he was wearing the suit Miss Fairweather had bought for him. He had to turn out respectable for his duties as Miller’s agent in town. Hanky had made appreciative noises about his fine duds; Boz cocked a knowing eyebrow and said nothing.

He passed a mercantile and a café, the feed store and the pharmacy, stepped down into the street and headed toward the livestock yards. The air smelled of burning coal. Evanston was a mining town, supplier to the railroad that had birthed it, and the air was constantly full of smut and smoke from the charcoal kilns. A dozen trains a day passed through town, carrying beef back east and horses to San Francisco, quality folk from Denver to California, military to and from Fort Laramie, and Chinamen out to the head of the line. There was a sizable Chinese population in Evanston, crowded into ramshackle slums where the streets were rife with strange smells and stranger speech.

As Trace got closer to the stockyards, the earthy bleating and surging of men and animals swelled to drown out the rhythmic clang and clatter of the rail yard. He skirted a flock of sheep, along with their shaggy Basque tenders, and sauntered over to join Hanky and the Kid at the rail of their rented corral.

“Where’d you get off to?” Hanky said.

“Bank,” Trace said. “What’s happening here?”

In the corral, Boz was putting a palomino mare through her paces before a well-dressed lady and gentleman. The man was a slicked-up dude in striped pants and a beaver hat; the girl was dolled up in virginal white and blue ribbons, though the rouge on her cheeks and the hardness in her eyes suggested she was not as fresh as advertised. Nevertheless, the Kid was eyeing her as if she were a steak dinner at the end of the trail. She had noticed his interest and kept darting glances over her shoulder, while her protector spoke to Boz.

Trace could tell by Boz’s posture that he was running out of patience.

“Lady wants the horse,” Hanky explained. “Gent don’t wanna pay for it. Keeps tryin to talk Boz down on the price.”

“You don’t say,” Trace murmured, as the slicked-up dude noticed his arrival.

“Sir! You must be Mr. Miller.” The man strode toward Trace with his hand out. He was affecting an English accent, Trace guessed, though his flat, nasal tones bore little resemblance to Miss Fairweather’s cultured speech. “Sir Ashley Ravens, newly arrived from London, to rusticate in your fine mountain air.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Trace said, “but I’m just a visitor like you. That fella there is Miller’s chief trainer, he’s the one you wanna talk to. Hey, Boz!” he hailed, as if they hadn’t clapped eyes on each other in a year. “Miller ain’t fired you yet, you old so-and-so?”

Boz picked up the cue right away. “Why, Jake Tracy, ain’t the law caught up with you?” He came over and they shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulders. “Here for your new racers?”

“Yeah, you set me back the number we agreed on?”

“Sure did, six of Miller’s best with your name on ’em.” Boz glanced at Ravens. “Just let me finish up with Mr. Ravens, here, and we’ll talk.”

Trace said that was fine, and turned to lean against the rail while Boz led Ravens back toward the two or three horses they had been discussing. Ravens’ ladybird, meanwhile, sidled over to the Kid, all bold eyes and tossing curls. The Mormon boy, interestingly, seemed to get taller, more relaxed, more
there
under her attention. It was like watching the mismatched images of a stereoscope slide into focus, as the Kid focused in on the girl. He bent his head close to hers and said something Trace couldn’t hear, but her eyes lit with a dark heat that he could read as easily as a scent.

“What was
that
about?” Hanky said, dragging Trace’s attention back to Boz and Mr. Ravens.

“Fella’s a four-flusher and a screw,” Trace explained, “tryin to get as much as he can by claimin the stock ain’t up to scratch.”

“So why’d you act like you were buyin—?”

“Cause swindlers are the easiest to swindle. My guess is, he don’t have a feather to fly with, but he’s tryin to start a game here in town, showin folks he’s got money with a prime fancy and a flash horse. So Boz gave him the idea
I’m
in a dishonest business, too, and that makes Ravens figure, if Boz’ll do some under-the-table dealings with me, he’ll be likely to knock down his prices for Ravens.”

“Oh,” Hanky said, chewing his tongue. “But you don’t
want
Boz to knock down his prices—”

“Just watch,” Trace said.

Sure enough, Boz called out, “Kid? Go bring Black Iron out here from the stable.”

Black Iron was a five-year-old gelding that belonged to the ranch remuda, and he was the laziest, most contrary thing on four legs. He would lie down if anyone tried to saddle him. He would fall asleep if left to stand for even a few minutes. He had a tendency to lag when harnessed in tandem. The only thing he showed any interest in was food, and he would nip at the mares and other geldings to steal their grain.

Despite all that, Black Iron was a handsome brute, gleaming black with an undercurrent of red in his coat and a fine arch to his neck. Trace had brought him to town in hopes of meeting a buyer like Mr. Ravens.

When the Kid returned from the stable it was obvious he had taken a moment to run a brush over the animal’s hide: Black Iron usually had a smudge on one side where he had been lying, but that was gone, and he wore one of the better halters. He looked very much like a pampered show-horse.

The girl cooed and exclaimed over him, and cooed and exclaimed over the Kid, too—how skilled he was, how kind and patient he must be, how brave—horses quite terrified her, they were so big—despite the fact that Black Iron had snuffled once over her hands and then stood there, lock-kneed and dozing. The Kid took her fawning with surprising aplomb, watching her with an intense, low-lidded expression that would have credited an experienced lady-killer.

Mr. Ravens made a show of examining Black Iron’s teeth and feet, while Boz helpfully lifted the horse’s hooves and opened his mouth.

“He is truly a beauty,” Ravens said. “What do you think, my dear?”

“Oh, he’s a beauty all right,” the girl purred, without taking her eyes off the Kid.

“Is he what you want?”

“He’s
exactly
what I want,” the girl said in a throbbing voice.

“Very well, Mr. Bosley, I’ll give you fifty-five dollars for him.”

Boz shook his head. “I dunno…”

“Sixty-five.”

“Really, Mr. Ravens, I don’t—”