Power in the Blood (115 page)

“Split down the middle with Miss Torrey here?”

“I have a separate arrangement with Miss Torrey.”

Clay looked at his knees. He understood nothing.

“Count me in,” he said, looking up. “How am I supposed to find them?”

“Your partner will provide the necessary information. John has funds for your immediate requirements. Thank you for accepting my offer, Mr. Dugan.”

“Pleasure.”

When Dugan and Miss Torrey were gone, Mr. Jones allowed himself the luxury of satisfaction over a plan successfully launched. Tatum was still searching for the same prize, but Mr. Jones was a believer in placing more than one iron in any fire that intrigued him. One or the other of two such determined fellows as Tatum and Dugan would bring back Omie Brannan. The involvement of Zoe with Lodi, by way of Bones, and the affair between Bones and Fay Torrey, all formed a web of improbable complexity. Mr. Jones did not comprehend the overall design, but did not worry himself over it; the important thing was Omie, who would place him in contact with his departed wife, if she could. That alone would be worth every penny he provided to the hunters now put on the scent.

Mr. Jones had not been interested in Lodi until Zoe Brannan and her daughter took the outlaw’s henchman from jail. A member of Big Circle, whom Mr. Jones knew, was privy to the doings of federal marshals. This man learned that the deputy left in charge of Bones at the Leadville jail claimed a one-armed woman and a girl with a blue face had taken the prisoner away, causing the deputy to fall asleep somehow, both during and after the abduction. The story was ridiculous, and the deputy was himself imprisoned as an accomplice to the unlikely duo, but his story still had not changed. Mr. Jones’s informant knew the one-armed woman and the blue-faced girl could only be the Brannan females, whom Mr. Jones had let it be known he was very much interested in. The same informant also made Mr. Jones aware of a coincidence he thought might prove diverting; following the botched ambush mounted against Lodi outside Cortez, a young woman thought to have had dealings with the outlaws had been placed in custody, but thus far had not been thoroughly questioned.

Mr. Jones had smelled the tantalizing odor of opportunity, and made arrangements for the young woman’s immediate release and transportation to Denver. She was everything he required, a gift from whatever gods directed the affairs of men, and he hired her to his cause with a minimum of resistance on Fay’s part. He wanted a man with her on such a potentially dangerous assignment, naturally, and by good fortune (those nameless gods again) learned of the presence in Denver of a man who was little known but reputed to be among the most dogged in his pursuit of outlaws. Though Dugan was an occasional drunkard, it was said, he seldom mixed liquor with business. He was not an ideal choice, but he was available, and broke.

Now the cards were shuffled and dealt. The game, or rather a new game within the larger, never-ending game, had begun.

Clay and his new partner rode out of Denver on a night train. Clay was uneasy in the presence of Fay Torrey, and did not entirely trust her; any woman who chose to love a man who was beyond the law was probably not reliable, yet he had to depend on her for the deception he intended using to worm his way into Lodi’s exclusive circle of felons. He studied her with sideways glances. Her face had the appeal of a nervous vixen, alert to the dangers surrounding it. He was shocked when she offered him a drink from a silver flask.

“Don’t look so flabbergasted, Dugan. You like a drink, I like a drink. Jones isn’t here.”

Clay accepted the flask, drank from it and inspected its quality.

“You’ve got expensive tastes.”

“Jones’s money bought it. He gave me plenty when I told him about Bones. That old bird scares me. You look in his eyes and you can tell he knows more about you than you’ll ever know about him. Jones and Bones. Why would he want this little Omie girl, do you think?”

“Can’t say.”

“There’s men that like girls that age.”

“He’s not that kind.”

“I don’t like him anyway.”

“Then why’d you take his money?”

“I’ll tell you, Dugan: I was scared not to.”

Clay knew what she meant. He had formed the impression that if he refused Jones’s offer, he would not have lived very long. He had no proof that the large man called John would have lifted a finger against him, but that is what he believed. Since wandering in the desert, Clay had virtually ceased to apply logic to anything, including the events of his own life. Whatever twists and turns appeared in the trail ahead of him, he would accept them all and travel willingly to whatever lay at the end of the road. It made no difference if he understood what was happening to him; the trail itself was his guide.

“Think Bones’ll believe you about the ambush?” he asked.

“Not at first, but he wants me, so he’ll come around.”

Clay wondered what it might feel like to be wanted. Fay seemed a surprisingly blunt female; maybe he could get along with her. She swigged liquor like a man, and looked out the windows into the passing night like someone searching for something, and not expecting to find it. Clay suspected she was not so sure that Bones wanted her, and was whistling in the dark, prepared to confront him for the sake of Jones’s money. Clay was in much the same position himself.

“You’re sure about this place we’re going?”

“Mama told me about it when Papa was on the owlhoot trail with Lodi and a bunch of others. She used it to pass letters along to him from time to time, just letting him know she was still alive and wanting the same message back from him. He even did that a time or two. Johnson, it was always Johnson, the way the letters were signed, like a code.”

Clay had heard of such practices, letter drops that sometimes were a safe house, sometimes a hole in a special tree: the silent telegraph, the subterranean post office of the men and women who rode outlawry’s dark horse.

They finished the flask and prepared to sleep in their seats. The lamp above them was turned down low, and the rocking of the car was soothing. Clay tipped his hat over his eyes and wondered what kind of reception such an unlikely couple would find in Carbondale.

Leo told her of the golden elk’s speedy progress toward creation, but he did so in a voice curiously flat, as if the news was scarcely worth conveying. Lovey Doll had noticed something else about Leo of late—besides his coarsening tastes in acts of love—and that was a reluctance on his part to use her name. It had required several weeks for her to become aware of this new development in their relations, but once she did so, the frequency with which he avoided calling her by name became obvious. He sometimes would stop partway through a sentence and begin again, and it was clear that the re-forming of his thoughts was prompted by a conscious desire to hold a conversation, however brief, without allowing the name Imogen past his lips. What had caused this inexplicable reluctance, and why had he become so brutal when they came together in nakedness? Her allowance for dresses and so forth continued to be paid, but Leo looked at her with eyes gone cold: fish eyes, Lovey Doll called them, but only in her thoughts. To Leo’s face she was sweetness itself, although this time-honored tactic seemed also to misfire. Whenever she smiled at him, Leo would smile in return, but with a twist to his mouth that made her think of sour lemons. What was wrong with the man?

“I think perhaps you love me less,” she said to him, her face and tone forlorn.

“You do?” he asked, the question deadened by lethargy.

“I most certainly do, my darling, because you so seldom use my name anymore. Does it pain you, shaping your lips to my name? Have I done you some careless wrong? You avoid my eye and address the walls when we talk, and that isn’t often anymore, my sweet. I ask you, what have I done to deserve such callousness?”

“What have you done?” echoed Leo. “My dearest one, what have you not done, is the question.”

“I don’t understand you. What do you mean, Leo?”

“Nothing,” he said, turning his face from her in the same infuriatingly dismissive way she had begun to notice.

“Leo, you’re hiding something from me.”

“I’m doing no such thing, my precious darling.”

“Is it the news of that fellow escaping from Leadville?”

“Not even who we thought he was,” said Leo, his laugh brief and hoarse, “and the scoundrel got away anyhow. I ask you, what hope is there in this world for justice to prevail when a second-rate robber like this Bones fellow can walk free from custody without effort?”

Rowland Price had informed Leo that the breakout was effected by a one-armed woman and a girl with a blue birthmark on her face. Why, Leo had asked, would Zoe do such a thing? It was a puzzlement and a mystery, and it gave him no peace of mind, especially when his false mistress insisted on conducting herself like someone cruelly used, instead of the whore she was. He would confront her with her crimes when he felt the moment was appropriate; until then he would use her body as she had elected to use his wealth and fame—with a heart free of guilt and a soul without remorse. But he could not speak aloud the name she had given him, the name that was not true.

“It should never have happened, Leo. You should take steps to ensure that the people responsible are punished.”

“Do you believe in punishment for wrongdoing, my buttercup?”

“Oh, yes, most certainly I do.”

“And I am in agreement. The trick, though, is to inflict the punishment when the guilty party least expects it. There is nothing so shocking as surprise.”

“How will you do this?”

“I haven’t yet made up my mind. What is that object in your parlor, might I ask?”

“The cabinet designed for use as a coffin by the Sleeping Savage, my dear.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure it is. Why do you have it here?”

“I truly cannot answer. The owner left it with me. I have heard the venture was not a success. I suppose he wished to thank me for my suggestion to you that his disgusting Indian be mentioned in your newspaper, Leo.”

“How sad to see someone’s plans go astray.”

“Sad indeed.”

“The thing is airtight?”

“So I have been told, to preserve the body of the object from corruption.”

“Fascinating.”

“Shall I refresh your cognac, Leo?”

“You may, and why not have one yourself.”

“I’m afraid strong drink does not agree with me, dearest.”

“A pity.”

She handed him a brimming glass. He tossed it down and swiveled his eyes to rest upon her, those cold fish eyes she lately had begun to notice more and more.

“That’s a lovey … a lovely dress you have on.”

“I believe peach is a color that becomes me.”

“Take it off.”

Clay anticipated trouble. Whoever it was in Carbondale that took responsibility for the Johnson messages would think twice before accepting him. He had no proof he was an outlaw; Clay’s sole credential was his being beside a woman who had slept with one, and even this woman was under suspicion regarding the Cortez incident. Both of them were fools for Mr. Jones’s money. It couldn’t possibly work. If their bluff was called and they were killed, it was no more than could be expected for their having dared to enter a den of thieves.

Fay did most of the talking, asking at every saloon if she could leave a message for Mr. Johnson. Every barman told her he knew of no Mr. Johnson, and she was asked for her name and the name of the tall man who accompanied her.

“Fay Torrey, and this is Mr. Zeebub.”

“Zeebub?”

“B. L. Zeebub,” said Clay. “You tell Mr. Johnson that B. L. Zeebub wants him bad.”

Some of the barmen laughed, but others did not; Clay’s face encouraged no levity. “Fay Torrey and B. L. Zeebub, yes, ma’am, yessir, I’ll tell anyone called Johnson that comes in you’re looking for him.”

“Do that,” said Clay, and they went on to the next saloon.

By evening, every likely place in Carbondale had been seeded with the universal alias, Johnson. They ate a meal and paraded up and down the main street several times, aware of the glances their unusual appearance together created. No one approached them, and as darkness came, they were faced with the obligation to provide a night’s shelter for themselves. Two days spent together on train and stagecoaches had not served to make the pair more intimate; Clay had asked no questions concerning Fay’s past, and she was equally closemouthed. Sharing a hotel room was unthinkable, so they paid for two, and said good night.

Lying on his bed, Clay was inclined to think the Carbondale lead had been too much of a long shot. Fay’s mother may well have sent letters here for the Johnson grapevine while her husband rode with Arch Powell, but that had been years before; everything could be different now, and even if it was not, their clumsy dropping of the Johnson name everywhere in town betrayed an unfamiliarity with the system, which doubtless would work against them. Chances were they both had been spied on for most of the day, but would not be approached unless bona fide credentials of true Johnsonship could be produced. It had been a poorly conceived plan, poorly executed.

He dozed for a while, but was awakened by the sounds of conversation heard through the wall. The room next to his was Fay’s, but no matter how hard he pressed his ear against the wallpaper, Clay couldn’t understand a single word that was said. He could distinguish Fay’s voice, but that of the man she spoke with was less distinct.

Clay pondered his options; should he simply wait to see what happened, which might result in a second interview being held with him when Fay’s was done with; or should he walk into the next room and see what was going on? Waiting was probably the more prudent option, but Clay was feeling reckless.

When she heard the knock at her door, Fay had assumed it would be Dugan; instead, she confronted John Bones, and stepped aside to let him come in.

Drew looked around. “Your friend’s in the next room, they tell me.”

“And he stays there,” said Fay.

Drew went to the window and raised a hand to someone in the street below, then turned back to her. “I’ll bet you’ve got a piece of explaining just busting to get out of your mouth.”