Wild Justice Page 6

  As the band neared the song’s maudlin finish, I squared my shoulders. Part of my unspoken responsibilities was to spare the widow the ordeal of facing the newspapers; and while the closest I’d come to politics was when I cast my first vote for Abraham Lincoln, the trip East had made me a fair hand at directing a press conference. I was about to step down to the platform when a ripple stirred through the straw- and bowler-hatted throng and a bell-shaped figure in black made use of the stepping-stool brought by a porter, with the young conductor supporting her by an elbow.

  The wind, a Dakota staple, stirred her heavy veil and warped the verbal exchanges so I caught only snatches of the questions and responses, but I pieced together the rest:

  “What sort of husband was he?”

  “Having no other husband to compare him with, I could not say.”

  “Did you attend many hangings?”

  “None; nor did he invite me to any. We lived our marital life apart from the court.”

  “Did you approve of the severity of his decisions?”

  “I disapproved just once…”

  The scribblers leaned forward on the balls of their feet, pencils cocked.

  “… when he allowed the installers to hang the wrong curtains in our parlor.”

  Grumbles accompanied the scratching of graphite. Rossleigh alone grinned in his beard.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised at how well she comported herself, although I would have had I not spent as much time with her as I had since the night of the Judge’s vigil. She was no hothouse flower, sheltered from the unlovely details of meting out justice on the frontier, but a thorny growth on her own, more than capable of defending her mate’s memory by denying trespass upon it. And I’d had experience sufficient of women existing in a place where the men outnumbered them twenty to one. Some withered for lack of gentleness and the companionship of others of their gender, others fled back to the gaslights of the East. Of the rest, many stuck and grew more bitter by the day, the week, the month, the year, until there wasn’t a dime’s worth of difference between them and their grim partners; as many more assumed bright plumage and lived off the pent-up lust of cowhands, prospectors, teamsters, and highwaymen, for as long as their looks and their health held up. The more stubborn ones dressed and cussed and worked like men and kept their secret to the grave—or the first spill that put them in a doctor’s care with their clothes off; they found their own notoriety between red-and-yellow paper covers of the nickel novels.

  The tiniest percentage kept its womanness, met men on their level, and either came out ahead or broke even. Beatrice Blackthorne was one of those. What were the odds that I’d have known yet another?

  * * *

  The experience was fresh, and stung like a running sore.

  “It’s routine,” the Judge had said. “But you know how far you can trust that.”

  We didn’t know then, but it would be my last assignment for his court, a prisoner pickup that had gone south faster than the usual; before I got there, in fact. An army deserter who’d doubled back to bushwhack his Sioux tracker had fled west with California in mind, but had gotten only as far as Vinegar Hill, Idaho, where he got into a fight with a waiter who refused to serve him liquor in a restaurant. The waiter gave as good as he got; sent silly by a wicked left, the deserter knocked over a lamp on a table and set fire to a beard growing on the face of an elder from the Mormon community in Lemhi County. By rights the waiter was responsible for the arson, but that side of the street was dry by local ordinance and the founders were almost as serious about temperance as they were about fire. The local law recognized the belligerent from readers; however, the same voters who’d backed selective prohibition had vetoed a tax hike to build a jail, so he was locked in a tool shed pending a response to a wire to Helena.

  I figured out later I was just over halfway there by rail when the killer got loose. Using a discarded plank, he dug himself out of the shed by way of the dirt floor and encountered the owner, who picked up a potato fork the officers had removed from inside as a precaution and leaned against the back wall. The escapee charged him, swinging the plank; but the fork was eleven inches longer. I found my man still waiting for me stretched out on a patch of burnt-out buffalo grass. No one had found the ambition to jerk free the fork, so it was still sticking up from his chest. Leaning over to compare his features to the description in the reader I hit my head on the handle, which did nothing for my temperament. In cases where local authority declined the expense of burying a federal fugitive, Blackthorne held his deputies responsible.

  Which was one of the reasons, when I got back home, I intended to stick him with the full treatment at the King Alexander barbershop. We all know how that came out.

  So the trip wouldn’t be a total loss I booked a room in the Coeur d’Alene Hotel and ordered a steak and a bottle in the restaurant. The meat came burned to a crisp and a goldfish could have swum in the bottle without getting woozy. I was calculating the odds on the coconut cream pie when I spotted an old acquaintance dining alone in a dim corner.

  She’d aged; we all had, but there were purple thumbprints under her eyes, she’d wound a telltale scarf around a neck I remembered as long and flawless, and her auburn hair had a brassy tint unconvincing even in the weak glow of the lamp on the table. I brought over the bottle and my glass and said: “Maybe between the two of us we can find out how to raise a ruckus from this mountain runoff. How have you been, Colleen?”

  She went on stirring a shallow bowl of consommé with bits of green floating in it for a moment, then looked up. I saw recognition and no surprise. “Page.” There was a pause, then she inclined her forehead—it at least was unlined—toward the vacant chair opposite.

  I sat, gestured with the bottle. She looked at it, staring as if trying to make out what it was; shook her head. A dyed tendril came loose from her chignon and drifted in the current of air in the room like tassel on an ear of corn. “I need a rock just to hold down what’s in this bowl. But don’t stand on ceremony. Neither of us ever did, as I recall.”

  She was dressed as well as ever, in a starched shirtwaist closed at the throat with a cameo pin that peeped out around the fringe of her scarf when she tossed her head to tame the stray lock. It floated free for a moment, then slid back down into the eddy.

  “It’s been a season,” I said. “Where was it, Utah?”

  “I can’t say. They all run together. I was dealing faro, I remember that.”

  “You never did learn to deal square.”

  “The owner of the saloon didn’t care. He set me up under a Chesterfield lamp so I’d be the first thing a customer saw when he came in.”

  “Not like today.”

  She glanced at the flimsy flame in the chimney, showing a brief flash of teeth in a smile bitter as sulfur. “The light isn’t as kind to me as it used to be. I’m poorly, but I don’t expect it to last.”

  “Is that what the doctor said?”

  “I shopped around until I found one that would; that’s what brought me to this wide spot in the road. I expect he meant I’d be under worse than the weather by Christmas.” She shipped a spoonful and blew on it. There wasn’t a bit of steam rising from the soup. “It isn’t that,” she said; although she wasn’t looking at the expression on my face. “I was always careful about that, at least. Too many smoky rooms, not enough blood in the alcohol system, too much faith in chance.”

  She let the spoon drop back into the bowl without tasting it and looked up again. In that moment I saw a flash of the Colleen Bower I knew, the old sureness just shy of arrogance; but it was as artificial as the coloring in her hair. “I’ve always been lucky, Page, you know that: cards, risk, survival. I should have laid off more, stored it up. Luck’s like water, it runs out. You have to sip it so there’s some left when you need it most.”

  “There’s nothing can be done?”

  “Short of dealing from a fresh deck?” She shook her head, smiling with her lips tight.

 
She’d done me dirt so many times I’d lost count, but I’d always come back for more, and I was far from alone. She’d been making her own way in the world since she was in pinafores. Wild Bill—Indian scout, bullwhacker, outlaw, lawman, whatever direction the wind was blowing from—had had nothing on her, without her ever raising so much as a callus on her slender white palms. I filled my glass to the rim and slung it back as I hadn’t in years. There was just enough busthead to burn my stomach; not enough to climb higher than my rib cage. Not near enough to my head to do me a service. I felt hollow.

  “That’s what’s new with me,” she said. “Are you still carrying tin for that bastard in Montana?”

  “I’m still riding for Blackthorne’s court.” I didn’t know then he was living out his last hours, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’d lived past the point where it amused me to gripe about the man who paid my way.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something else?”

  “Every day since I signed on.”

  In the little silence the hum of conversation and clicking of utensils was as loud as pounding surf. Then she placed both her palms on the table. The impression was she’d need all the strength in both her arms to push herself upright. “I’ve been saving a bottle of Old Gideon. It’s up in my room. Just leave me enough to take the edge off and we’ll see if we can work up some of the old ground.” Her expression changed, to one I’d never seen on her face. It was fear, but not of death. “That is, if you’re not too particular.”

  “Only about one thing.” I rose and offered her a hand up.

  * * *

  Too much train travel had fostered bad habits. I was coddling regrets like the old man I was getting to be. Before long I’d be one of those maudlin wretches you saw on benches streaming tears into their laps. I got up and went back to look in on the Judge. I’d been doing it so long there was no tapering off.

  An icy blow off the mountains, combined with the wind of our passage, stiffened my face when I stepped onto the vestibule of the caboose. I knocked twice. When the conductor didn’t open up I grasped the handle. The door was unlocked. I stepped inside. I was alone with the pine box. Turning to go, my foot slipped on something. I stepped back and looked at a smear of blood on the floor.

  II

  DEEPER TOWARD DAWN

  ELEVEN

  I looked from the crimson smudge to the cord that ran the length of the car below the roof, which activated the Westinghouse brakes. My hand was halfway to it before I looked back down at the floor. It wasn’t much blood; the conductor might have just nicked himself and gone looking for a bandage. Most chefs kept simple medical supplies handy. His first destination would be the dining car. There was no reason to bring the train to a screeching halt over what might be a cut finger.

  To be cautious, I drew my revolver in the sleeper and checked all the berths. This took no more time than when the conductor and I had made the same search earlier; we’d left the curtains spread. Nothing in there but stripped beds—except those used by the train’s tiny manifest of passengers—the smell of rosewood, and soot on the windows.

  Mrs. Blackthorne was in the dining car, drinking tea and nibbling a cornbread biscuit. The buttery smell was fresh. She’d said that of the two chefs under consideration for the trip, Caspar was the better baker. The homey atmosphere made the drawn gun seem ludicrous. I scabbarded it, but not before the man behind the counter spotted it; not that by expression (and certainly not by word) the weapon meant anything more to him than the crusty spill he was scrubbing at on his griddle.

  I leaned across the counter and asked him in a low voice if he’d seen the conductor lately. Out the corner of my eye, I watched the widow dividing her concentration between her light meal and the small clothbound volume she had spread on the table with splayed fingers. It appeared to be a book of household hints; evidently she was preparing for a more modest style of living.

  Lips pursed, Caspar directed his attention to the concave ceiling, then shook his head.

  “Not to ask for a bandage or sticking-plaster?”

  He shook his head again, this time widening his eyes slightly.

  “Have you been here all day?”

  He glanced toward the water closet. I nodded and left him.

  The woman looked up from her book as I approached. “Mr. Murdock, have you given any more thought to that odd telegram?”

  I’d forgotten all about it; but I said, “There didn’t seem to be much point until you’ve met with this Morton and find out what it’s about.”

  “Hum. I don’t like asking questions I don’t know the answers to.”

  She sounded just like the Judge, right down to the “Hum.” I made my tone casual. “Have you seen the conductor in the last half hour or so?” Much longer and the patch of blood would have begun to dry.

  “No; but he might have passed while I was reading and I didn’t take note. Is it something about the train? It’s awfully slow going up these mountains.”

  “I don’t know how the farmers here manage to grow so many potatoes without falling off their patch.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Nothing important. I just wondered if he expects us to be across the border before sundown. It’s been a long time since I was in Minnesota. I’d hate to miss it in the dark.”

  “I should have thought your wanderlust a thing past.”

  “Maybe I’m just restless.”

  “All the more reason to sit with me for a few minutes. Harlan didn’t place a time schedule on this mission.”

  I couldn’t beg off without alerting her to a situation that might not have been dangerous; if so, there was no point in causing alarm. I slid into the seat opposite, drawing the Deane-Adams under the table. Fortunately she was facing the rear of the train, allowing me to face front. The caboose and sleeper car were deserted, and there was no place to hide in the dining car. If trouble came it would be from the direction of the day coach.

  “Are you hungry? Caspar is the only man I’ve ever known who is handy with cornbread. I believe he was raised by a widowed mother with a chronic condition of some kind. Of course, communication with him is challenging.”

  “No, thank you.” It was true we were moving slowly, laboring up a long steep grade, giving an uninvited passenger the opportunity to step off. His complaint may have been with the conductor only. But I couldn’t count on either possibility. A grudge against a private citizen is best carried out where an armed lawman isn’t present, and coincidence is no match for instinct. I’d never gone wrong assuming the worst was about to happen.

  “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do with the rest of your life?” she asked; then, hastily, “Of course, I don’t mean to suggest that you are leaving the marshals’ service, but…” She bit into a flaky yellow slice, as if that were the direction of her commentary.

  “It’s a young man’s game, ma’am. I had a friend who said luck has limits. As I see it, I’ve been traveling on borrowed steam since forty.” I shook my head. “The answer to both your questions is no. I’m leaving the court, but I’ve no idea for what.”

  She watched me in that same way Blackthorne used to, like a cat crouched on a fence post waiting for a chipmunk to stir from its hole. Whether they’d had so much in common before they wed, or had been married long enough to take on each other’s qualities, was fodder for someone with better education.

  I gripped the handle of the revolver hard enough to crack it. It wasn’t the pressure of the interrogation; I was pretending to concentrate my attention on her face while taking in the length of the car between her and the door behind her.

  “You are a Christian, are you not?” she said.

  She shifted subjects instantly, the way Blackthorne had done, but in his case it was his courtroom training.

  “I am.”

  “Tomorrow is the Lord’s day. Is there a Presbyterian church where we are going?”

  “Minneapolis, maybe. It’s a good-size
town, I hear. But we won’t be there in time for services.”

  “Someplace closer, then. So long as the church is Christian, and so long as it isn’t Methodist. I would sooner it be even Catholic. Would you accompany me?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” I contemplated the antipathy to Methodists among the God-fearing community. They were the Jews of the faith. I’d preached Unitarian in New Mexico Territory during a robbery investigation, rediscovering my interest in the immortal soul while finding tolerance for every path to Paradise. Why there should be so much dissension between people who studied the same Testament mystified me.

  I excused myself, putting on an abashed face as if I needed the water closet; remembering to holster my weapon before I slid off the seat. She returned to her reading, and I to my search.

  TWELVE

  The coach was a Pullman parlor, paneled in inlaid mahogany, the windows swagged, the seats upholstered in plush red velvet, and carpeted deeply enough to pull the boot off your foot; the steel wheels clicking over the joints and the steam whooshing from the jets might have been going on in a daydream. Cigar-shaped as it was, the apartment on wheels was a collection of alcoves and shadows, as tempting a place for hide-and-seek as a Queen Anne mansion. A herd of teamsters could have ridden there undetected so long as they stayed put.

  I shut the door behind me as quietly as possible, even though anyone crouching in the silence would have heard the rattle and creak of the other cars the moment I’d opened it, and stood for a moment, straining my ears and also my nose; the drawing of a breath, the smell of fresh sweat, the bitter-iron stench of blood, the residue of tobacco smoked or chewed would have assured me I wasn’t alone in the coach.

  I heard and smelled nothing that wasn’t built in to the enclosure, which didn’t signify anything. Anyone capable of boarding a train in motion, and of surprising the conductor—if that was the case—would have been clever enough to dissemble any outward evidence of his presence. Although young, the conductor seemed to be no stranger to a coupling-pin and its potential as weapon. If I wasn’t tracking a ghost of my own imagination, I was up against a serious reckoning.