Of Grave Concern Part 6

"I'm fine," I stammered. As I removed the gla.s.ses, shards of one lens fell to the ground. "Just lost my wind."

"Ah," the strange man said. He removed the glove from his right hand and bent down to pluck a marble from the ground in his pale fingers. He held it up, where it caught the rays of the setting sun, and beneath the mud the marble swirled blue and yellow and violet.

"A prize," he said, again speaking in that accent that was vaguely Old World. He took a leather bag from his belt, opened it, and dropped the marble in with the others, where it grated with the unpleasant sound of gla.s.s on gla.s.s. "I must have dropped it."

I gave him a tight smile.

"It is a childish habit, but I have become a collector," the strange man said. "The days are many and my diversions few."

As bad as Dodge City smelled, this man smelled worse, like a dead mouse that has been in a wall for three days. I thought I was going to be sick. My vision was narrowed, as if I were looking down the wrong end of a spygla.s.s.

"I am Malleus," he said.

"Charmed," I said weakly.

Who wears a heavy coat and gloves on a warm spring day? I asked myself. No wonder he smells.

Also, he was perhaps the ugliest man I had ever seen, with features pale and protean. I tried to soothe Eddie, but he was furious.

"I own this modest freight enterprise," he said. "You must accept money for the broken spectacles and bruises, I implore-"

"'Nevermore!'" screeched Eddie.

"The birds speaks," Malleus observed without inflection.

The whiskey trader in the dusty black shirt rode up.

"Everything okay, boss?"

"Go," Malleus said. "Help Shadrach."

The whiskey trader looked uncertain, seemed about to say something, and then thought better of it. He turned the horse and rode back.

I took a deep breath, trying to clear my head. It was as if a mist had shrouded my mind. My hand still felt cold where the odd man had touched it.

Malleus shoved his hand in his pocket and came out with some tarnished silver dollars.

"No," I said. "The train . . ."

"As you will," Malleus said. "Safe travels."

Then he tipped his hat and grinned, revealing rows of teeth the color of tusk.

11.

The Dodge House dominated the southeast corner of North Front Street and Railroad Avenue, just across from the depot and not far from the jail. Not only did it seem to be the biggest concern in town, but it also appeared the neatest, with a broad porch and steps affording the best refuge from the Ganges of mud flowing through town.

"It's not the Palmer House," I told Eddie, "but it will do."

Police Judge Frost had agreed to the terms of my release, as outlined by Potete, pending the hearing in district court. However, Frost did not consent to release the injured tramp to my employ. The city would have its five-dollar fine for vagrancy first, Frost said. I objected, saying that if a man were fined for having no money, the city was compounding the crime. I declared on principle that I would not contribute to such insanity. Of course, my principle was based on not having the five dollars to begin with.

I registered at the Dodge House, but made a fuss about having to inspect the rooms first, so as to think I was doing them a favor by reluctantly staying there. Of course, we'd settle up the bill later.

I chose a corner room, with windows that looked south and west. When I took a glance, my heart sank.

Potete had been right-the gra.s.s, which was rippling fiercely in the wind, seemed to roll on forever. Bisecting this field of green was the railroad, which shot like an arrow to the west. Southward, a trail led out of town, crossed a wide toll bridge spanning a creek, then disappeared into a series of low green hills.

I placed Eddie's cage on a table next to the bed, then lifted the cloth. He scrambled about and regarded me with a black seed of an eye that was decidedly critical.

"Don't worry, love," I said. "Another tight spot, I know. But we'll get ourselves out of this one, and then-"

"'Nevermore!'" quoth Eddie.

The sun was red in the west and the town was beginning to stir in antic.i.p.ation of the night to come. More cowboys were about, and music was drifting from some of the saloons. Already I could hear an argument over a card game had spilled out the front door of the Saratoga Saloon into the muddy street.

A teamster straddled a cowboy and was attempting to cut the other's right ear off with a Bowie knife, but the cowboy was jerking his head so vigorously, the teamster couldn't get a good angle on the fleshy prize.

The teamster was a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and little of it was fat. He wore buckskin and denim, and his long brown hair flowed over his shoulders like water.

"You cheated me out of ten dollars gold and I aim to have my satisfaction!" the teamster bellowed, the knife flashing overhead. "Now hold still, so I don't take more than's fair."

I shrank back and pressed myself flat against the wall of the Saratoga.

"You're crazy, Gary," the cowboy protested, showing far more pluck than his position would suggest. "It's not my fault if your luck is as rotten as your teeth."

Gary held the cowboy's head down with one meaty hand while the cowboy fought and kicked and chewed on the fingers caging his jaw. The teamster drew back the knife-and it was a wicked knife, with a bra.s.s guard and a blade that must have been ten inches long-and took a sweeping stab at the cowboy's ear. Just as I thought I was about to see the blade pierce the cowboy's skull, the teamster was jerked explosively backward by somebody who had grabbed a fistful of his long hair.

The blade sliced empty air.

"Drop it," the man holding the hair said, and I thought I could hear a bit of Texas in his voice. He was tall and lean, wore a blue shirt under a black vest, and on his right hip was strapped an absurdly large handgun. He knelt and drove one knee into the small of the teamster's back.

The teamster bellowed in rage. A string of expletives flew from his mouth that threatened to peel the green paint from the bat-winged doors of the Saratoga.

"Is this how you want to finish your hand?" The Texas drawl became more p.r.o.nounced. "Down in the mud, with me on top of you like you was a steer? Or do you want to get up and walk away from here like a human being? Your choice, Garuth." The man drew out the name, getting almost four syllables out of it.

"Don't call me 'Garuth,'" the teamster roared. "n.o.body calls me that!"

"If you don't drop that knife, everybody'll be calling you 'the dearly departed.'"

"You think you're something just because they let you carry your iron north of the deadline," Garuth said, his eyes narrowed to hateful slits because the man in the blue shirt was pulling the skin of his face toward the back of his head. "If you didn't have that horse pistol strapped to your leg, you wouldn't be so brave."

The man in the blue shirt sighed and nodded for the cowboy to come over.

The cowboy, who had the blood from Garuth's fingers smudged across his lips, edged over and carefully drew the gun from the holster. I don't know guns-I hate guns-so I can't tell you what kind of firearm it was, except to say it was shiny and one of the biggest revolvers I have ever seen.

"All right, Garuth. Now we're even."

"Get off'n me!"

"You're between hay and gra.s.s now."

"You can suck eggs, Jack Calder!"

"Drop the knife before somebody gets hurt."

"Just try and make me."

Calder sighed.

"Hit him on the crown of the head with the b.u.t.t of the gun," he told the cowboy.

"What?" Garuth shrieked.

The cowboy turned the gun around so that he held it by the barrel and began lining up the handle with the back of Garuth's head.

"Do it already."

"I want to do it right," the cowboy said.

Garuth dropped the knife.

"Shucks," the cowboy muttered.

"Thanks," Calder said as he took the gun and returned it to his holster. Then he rubbed the palm of his right hand on his jeans. "Garuth, you have to take a bath every so often. Your hair is full of. . . I don't know, smells like horse apples and axle grease."

"But I just hit town."

"You could take the time to bathe. If you can't afford a hotel, there are plenty of cheap tent baths."

"You going to take me to jail?" Garuth asked.

"No," the man said.

"But-"

"Shush up," the man said. "I don't have all of tomorrow morning to spend testifying to Judge Frost about how Garuth insulted your person."

"But he tried to kill me!"

"You could have lived without your ear."

"But it was my good ear."

He told Gary and the cowboy to take off and plan on spending the night at opposite ends of Front Street, or there would be h.e.l.l to pay. They sprang away as if magnetically repelled.

Then Calder glanced over and saw me still pressed up against the saloon.

"Are you all right, miss?"

"Just startled," I said, peeling myself off the wood. "But thank you for asking."

"Sorry about that," he said. "They're not wicked boys. Just stupid."

"Well, Mister Calder," I said. "Are you an officer of the law? I don't see a badge. Perhaps you just go about town dispensing justice as sort of a public service?"

"Hardly," he said.

"Are you a Pinkerton, then?" My voice broke only a little.

"No," he said, and coughed. "But I'm a member of the Vigilance Committee. I also work for the businessmen who put up surety in exchange for bail at the district court here."

"You work for them? How?"

Calder smiled. He was looking down, inspecting my clothing, and I could guess he wasn't thinking anything complimentary. It occurred to me that I'd rather have this man as an ally instead of a foe, considering how decisively he broke up the aural a.s.sault.

"I track down those who fail to appear and deliver them to the court."

"You're a bounty hunter."

"Some call me that," he said coldly.

"Do you also collect rewards?"

"At times."

"Then you're a bounty hunter. That's why you can carry a gun on this side of town and the others can't. What did Garuth call it? 'The deadline'?"

"The tracks are the deadline," Calder said. "North of the tracks, you can't carry firearms. South of the tracks, anything goes."

"Dodge City is full of demarcations, isn't it?"

"If you'll pardon me," he said, "I have business. . . ."

"Of course, how rude of me," I said. "Do you have an office?"

"Across from the courthouse," he said. "Frazier and Hunnicutt. I work out of the back."

"Ah, I'll remember."

"Why?" He seemed puzzled and somewhat alarmed.

"I may have to turn myself in," I said. "There's a considerable reward, they say."