The Great West Detective Agency (7 page)

From this angle he saw two more guards on the front porch. One paced restlessly while the other sat at a small table cleaning his pistol.

Bluffing his way past these men would prove dangerous. The one on the street had roughed him up. Lucas didn't recognize either of the others. Jubal Dunbar employed a small army to protect him. Unlike a real army with a competent commander, this one had left itself open to an attack from the rear. For all the guns pointed outward, the flagstone path to the back porch was unattended.

Lucas went up the path, wary of being seen from the second-story windows. Most had curtains or blinds drawn against the afternoon sun. As he stepped up to the kitchen door, a small black woman opened it. She hauled back and started to throw a pail of slop on him.

“I apologize! Are you the lady of the house?”

“Go on. What you sayin', mistuh? I'm not lady of this heah house.” She lowered the bucket and set it at her feet. “I was fixin' to scrub the back porch. What you doin' out heah?”

“I was told there was work to be had and to inquire of the loveliest lady in all Denver. You're saying that's not you?”

In spite of her words, the woman warmed to him.

“You don't got no reason to be comin' round back heah. You go up to the front and announce yo'se'f all properlike. What job you lookin' for?”

“A small puppy requires training. I specialized in such tasks.”

The maid scowled at him.

“We ain't got no dog heah.”

“I must be mistaken. There isn't a puppy? A wolfhound.”

“Not heah. The folks what live down the street, they got a bloodhound, but he's a cap'n in the police.”

“I have been led astray. A prank played on me.” Lucas hesitated. “Mr. Dunbar hasn't brought
any
dog home recently?”

He saw the woman's eyes widen and ducked, trying to avoid what he knew was coming. The club crashed down on his shoulder rather than his head. That was all the fight he put up before a fist like a mallet drove into his gut, doubling him over. In the far distance he heard the maid complaining. The answer she received quieted her. Through tears of pain, Lucas saw the back door close. The roar of blood and the fierce hammering of his heart filled his ears.

He wished he had been totally deaf so he wouldn't have heard, “Kill him?”

Another blow, this time to the top of his head, left him stunned. He was aware of being dragged along the streets, then dropped on his face in the dirt. Strong hands grabbed his wrists and ankles and lifted him. He swung back and forth then sailed through the air to land in a sewage canal.

T
he sucking noise he made as he pulled himself free of the sewage sickened him almost as much as the stench. Denver had become a big town, pushing more than thirty thousand residents at the time of statehood a couple months back. Along with this came the civic duty of both town and state to provide sanitation. The solution had been the open ditches running away from the town. Where they drained, Lucas didn't care, nor, he suspected, did anyone else in Denver. All he knew was that his clothing had thoroughly absorbed both substance and smell.

He rolled over and sat up as the sluggish current moved past him. It took another minute to get his feet under him and slide over the earthen lip to drier land. He now was covered with shit, grass, and dirt. Lucas swiped at the drying filth in his eyes to get a better view around him. A trio of young boys came closer, whispering among themselves and laughing.

“Might I ask where I am?” Lucas called.

“You fell in and don't know where?” The boys snickered. “Who are you?”

“Your new schoolmaster,” Lucas said, standing. Muck dripped off him as he struck a pose. “When I find out who you rapscallions are, you will clean the thunder mugs all year long.”

This sent them running away, but not before one of them chucked a rock at him. Lucas caught it, weighed it, and then returned it with more skill than the boy, who rubbed his arm and garnered derision from his friends.

None of this made Lucas feel any better as he stripped off his coat, looked at it a moment, then gingerly dropped it back into the canal, where it caught the current and slowly worked its way to oblivion. After a careful search of his pockets, he removed what could be salvaged. A few greenbacks the men had not seen fit to steal. He hadn't put his Colt into a pocket so he had that waiting for him back at his room. His pocket watch and a soggy piece of paper with unreadable writing completed his inventory.

He stripped off his shirt and tossed that into the canal and would have added his pants but he already drew stares from people driving by on a narrow road paralleling the sewage ditch. He watched the looks from a few freighters, then chose one with an amused look. After flagging him down, Lucas got a ride back into the heart of town, where he had rented a room when he got to town several months ago.

Washing himself off the best he could, he sneaked up the back stairs to his room. The filthy remnants were quickly tossed out the window into the backyard. He wiped himself off and put on old clothing for a trip to the barbershop and a bath. Lucas paid the extra ten cents and got fresh water to go along with the lye soap. Even then he felt slimy and unclean.

The whole time he scrubbed his skin raw, he let thoughts tumble freely, trying to decide what to do. Finding Amanda and getting any further information he could seemed his best course of action, other than telling her he was going to chuck the hunt for her dog.

That rankled because he had promised—even sealing the deal with a wad of money failed to match him giving his word. But too many powerful people wanted the dog. If he couldn't find out why Dunbar sent out his bullyboys, breaking his word became a possibility no matter how much that offended his sense of honor.

“She hasn't told me everything,” he said to himself as he walked toward the Emerald City.

“Mister, they never do,” called a man sitting on the boardwalk, his back against a wall. “You spare enough so's a man can get a square meal?”

Lucas fished out one of the bills that had taken the plunge with him into the sewage and passed it over. The man's nose wrinkled. A sharp look at Lucas almost amounted to the man's entire response. He mumbled “Thanks” as Lucas went on.

As he pushed into the saloon, he saw the man trying to get change from another passerby. Lucas decided that wasn't a bad idea. He bought a stack of chips and went to find himself a poker game. Lefty nodded at him from behind the bar, then inclined his head toward the stage. Sitting dead center of the front row, Little Otto stared at the closed curtain with an intensity that should have burned holes through the fabric.

Before getting down to serious gambling, Lucas went to sit beside the giant.

“The show doesn't start for another hour,” he pointed out.

“I wanted a good seat.”

“Why not watch from the wings? Carmela would invite you back.” Lucas didn't say it, but he doubted any of the stagehands would try to stop Otto. They were not stupid, and the man was a force of nature. “Or would she?” Lucas tried to keep the hopeful note from his voice and knew he failed.

Little Otto turned to him and made a face.

“You stink.”

“A poor choice of toilet water,” he said.

“I prefer to watch her from the audience. The view is better.”

“When she does the high kicks?”

“In all ways,” Otto said.

His mood turned dourer, and Lucas realized he was poking fun at the man's behavior toward his paramour. He quickly changed the subject.

“I need to know more about why Dunbar wants the dog. He doesn't have it, but his men are inclined to go to great lengths to keep me from finding it.”

“He doesn't have it. I hear rumors.”

“What do they say?”

“You don't have anything to trade for that information.”

“I introduced you to Carmela!” Lucas shot to his feet. “What more do you want from me?”

“That was a fair trade. You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted. Anything new is to be negotiated.”

“I'll get you a copy of the new book from that writer you like. Mark Twain.”

“You can get a copy of
Tom Sawyer
? How?” Little Otto turned from his vigilant watching for the slightest wrinkle in the curtain and focused completely upon Lucas. The dangled carrot worked.

“I don't ask where you get your information. Don't ask me how I can get books from literary luminaries.”

Little Otto nodded and got a far-off look.

“I did enjoy
Roughing It
. He is a good speaker. I went to a lecture when he came through town a couple years ago.”

“Who else is interested in the dog?”

“I know better than to give out information without payment first. Such facts are curious. Some are timeless, others evaporate when they're told. Still others are like a keg of blasting powder with a burning fuse attached. They blow up after a given amount of time.”

“This is likely to blow up if you don't tell me,” Lucas said.

“You miss my point. Whether I tell you or not, that information will blow up.” Otto frowned until ridges formed halfway up to the top of his skull. “Gamblers. That's all I can tell you. Since you are a gambler, it ought to be easy enough for you to figure out who has the dog.”

“Why would gamblers want a puppy dog?”

Otto no longer paid him any attention. He stood and started toward the green-felt-covered tables, where chips fell and cards whispered with the soft promise of wealth.

“Don't forget the book.”

Lucas smiled wryly and never looked back. He found a table with a spare chair and soon enough fell into the ebb and flow of stud poker. A few players left when Carmela came onstage for the evening show but two remained. That provided Lucas the chance to make a few more dollars before the two, a tinker and a clerk at a mercantile over near Larimer Square, called it quits.

He leaned back and ran his fingers through his long brown hair. In spite of himself, he looked at his hands to be certain nothing else brown had come off. He had scrubbed furiously, but Otto was right about the stench remaining. When he saw no takers for another hand because Carmela was swinging into the finale of her performance, he went outside into the crisp, cold air. Autumn's bite grew sharper. The Front Range was hidden by night and buildings towering up as many as four stories, but he knew clouds swirled about the highest peaks carrying a hint of snow that would come into town soon enough.

He had weathered the prior winter just fine in Denver, but drifting south might give a needed change of luck. Pretty señoritas in El Paso plying him with tequila could take his mind off Carmela being with Otto. He glanced back into the Emerald City. Dalliance with Claudette might be interesting, but a complete change of scenery revitalized a tired man's vanity. If anything, Claudette was too easy a conquest.

As a touch of wind kicked up, forcing him to pull his thin coat closer around his body, he wondered how grateful Amanda Baldridge would be if he returned her dog. She lived in a boardinghouse filled with transients. That meant she did not consider Denver home but only another stop along her travels to . . . where?

It would be interesting to find out.

Only he needed to retrieve her dog, unless he could console her grief at having lost Tovarich.

The sound of a scuffle came from around the side of the saloon. Lucas put his hand into his coat pocket. He had brought his Colt tonight, if Dunbar's men decided to press the matter of him remaining in town. Carefully stepping away from the building and standing in the middle of the alley leading toward the back, he saw the flash of a shining knife blade. He caught his breath. For an instant he thought the man clutching it had driven the tip into his victim's belly.

The guttural grunt convinced him the knife only nicked the man pinned against the wall and hadn't gutted him.

Such a showdown wasn't any of his business. Taking the pistol from his pocket and holding it at his side, down along his leg, he went to see what the fuss was about.

“You red ni—” The man used his free hand to grip the Indian's throat while keeping the knife jammed against his belly.

“Do you need help?”

The man said, “Ain't none of your business, but thank you kindly for the offer. I'm collectin' a debt from this thievin'—”

Lucas turned, lifted his pistol, and used it as a club as he swung in a wide arc that connected with the man's temple. He dropped to the ground as if he had been robbed of his leg bones. As he struggled to sit up, Lucas placed his boot squarely on the man's wrist and shifted his weight until he forced open the hand. He quickly kicked the dropped knife away.

The entire time the Indian stood against the wall, watching and not saying a word. Lucas had expected him to take off running. A quick look at the man's belly showed the knife slit in his shirt. It was too dark to tell if a drop of blood oozed out from a wound.

“What's the debt?” Lucas asked. He put his thumb on the Colt's hammer, ready to cock it. A .22-caliber was deadly at this range if he put the bullet into the man's eye. Even if he missed, a small caliber bullet tearing around an ear or forehead would put the fear of God into him.

“He owes me ten dollars.”

“You'd kill him for ten dollars?”

“Damned straight I would. Ain't no Injun doin' me out of my money.”

Keeping his Colt ready, Lucas rummaged about in a coat pocket and found two five-dollar bills. He tossed them down onto the supine man's chest.

“That square the debt?”

“Hell, don't much care who pays me as long as I get paid.” He crumpled up the two bills in his fist, edged away like an upside-down crab, and reached for his knife.

“Leave it.”

The man growled but obeyed. He lit out running and disappeared into the night.

“You need money to tide you over?”

“No.”

Lucas looked more closely at the man he had rescued. From the complexion he was a half-breed, black and Indian. The nose was thin but the skin was darker than midnight. His hair had been pulled back and held with a beaded band.

“Creek?”

The man blinked, then nodded once.

“You're a long way from Indian Territory. You should avoid thieves like that.” Lucas pointed carelessly into the night with his pistol.

“No thief. I owed him the money.”

Such candor surprised Lucas. He had expected denials and even anger at the thieving white man. He wasn't sure which took him aback more: the admission of debt or the fact that the man who'd fled had loaned money to an Indian.