“Find him?”
“He’s here. I swear this ain’t the place we dropped him.”
“Like I said, he got up and walked around awhile.”
“Quit that joke. All right, I got the boots off of him.”
“Did his toes twitch, Levon?”
“No, they never. Quit it, I said.”
The figures passed back through the window light, and Clay’s ears followed their footsteps around to the door. It opened and closed, and he began moving toward the window again. When he had positioned himself directly beneath it, he began slowly to rise, bathing his hat, then his forehead, in its light.
The first thing he saw were the boots, three pairs on the table. Two men had their backs to him and a third was drinking from an upended bottle; the fourth man was nowhere to be seen. Clay waited for the two with their backs toward him to reveal their faces. The drinker lowered the bottle and wiped his lips; that one at least was not a Bentine. The fourth man passed in front of the window, a young man in a blue shirt, and he sat down at the table to clean his gun. The other two still had not turned. Clay heard rumblings of conversation, but could understand none of it. He felt a small sensation in his belly and knew the latest stone had passed from his bladder into the tubes leading to his penis. He had pissed out a broken fraction of stone earlier that day, and so was not surprised that the main body of the thing had at last moved. He hoped it wouldn’t scratch and sting on its way through the way the last big chunk had, despite the oil Clay had squirted into his urethra. Kidney stones were something to be handled while taking one’s ease in a cane chair, with a plentiful supply of drink nearby, Clay thought, not while peering through a window into a cabin full of killers.
The one with the bottle was pointing at him, yelling. Clay ducked and ran, avoiding the window’s light. He moved as fast as he could away from the cabin until he heard the door open, then fell to the ground and lay still, knowing that this time they would all come out looking for him, and they would bring along the lamp. He hoped the place where he lay was lower than the earth around it, but couldn’t risk lifting his head to find out; if it was, he was probably safe, considering the ground he’d covered with his long legs before the door opened behind him. If it wasn’t, he could consider himself dead.
Four voices passed across him from different directions as they fanned out to search for the face at the window. Two voices expressed doubt that there had been such a face, considering how drunk the one who saw it was, but another voice (Clay recognized it as belonging to one of the boot removers) insisted there had been “a skellington face lookin’ in at everyone! Like death, he was, so help me!” A fourth voice (the other boot remover) said, “Levon, I don’t believe old man death has a face, and if he did, it’d probably be more like a good-looking woman’s, to tempt you close so he could catch hold of you. Something like you described, that’d make a man run like a rabbit to get away. Death’d be smarter than that, if he existed, which he doesn’t.”
“I did too see him!”
“I can’t see a goddamn thing,” said one of the first voices.
Too much darkness, thought Clay, and not enough lamps. He just might get away after all. The voices thereafter merged together around the lamp bearer and moved back around to the side of the cabin where Clay had looked through the window. “They’re still here,” he heard someone say, “and all dead, so it wasn’t them either. You better quit sucking that bottle, boy.”
“I seen him, I did,” insisted a disgruntled Levon.
“Well, he’s gone now. Most likely he’ll come back and haunt your dreams, at least till you sober up.”
“I seen something.”
“Then you go look for it, only we’re keeping the lamp, Levon. You want to go looking for death in the dark, huh?”
“We can look for his tracks tomorrow,” said Levon.
“Should be easy. They’ll be split-hoofed and kind of burned into the ground.”
The laughter silenced Levon completely, and Clay soon after heard the cabin door close. He stayed where he was, in case one or more men had stayed outside to trick him into betraying his position by movement, but when time passed without the least sound reaching him, he slowly lifted his head. The cabin squatted in darkness, a darker block with light flowing from the window at one side. They all were too drunk to take seriously the claim that a face had been watching them. Death indeed. Clay knew he was ugly, but that was a goddamned insult.
He stood up and made his way back up to the watching post in the trees, stumbling and banging his knee badly once he was among the rocks there.
“Hold it,” said Aemon Jennings’s voice.
“It’s me,” Clay told him, “old man death.”
“Dugan? What the hell are you saying?”
“Nothing. The bald one’s dead, and I’m pretty sure the other two are the Bentines. The others almost got hold of me, but they’re drunk.”
“Saw them come out and look. You were lucky, Dugan.”
“Always have been,” said Clay, untruthfully.
They planned more reconnaissance for the following day, and took turns at keeping watch until the sun rose, in case the four unknown men below should suddenly leave. Clay offered to take the first watch, since his abdomen was clutching at him, making sleep impossible. He was still on watch well after sunrise, moaning softly to himself, when there was movement below.
“Jennings, wake up. Looks like a burial party.”
Clay trained the binoculars on the men. “Well, that makes it definite. The ones on their feet are the same four that rode up last night. The Bentines are getting ripe over by the stable. Someone did our job for us, looks like.”
A grave was dug at some distance from the cabin, the body of the bald man lowered into it and covered. No words were said over the grave when the job was completed. The four men saddled all the horses in the corral and rode away with them toward the west. When they had disappeared from view, Clay and Jennings rode down to the cabin, where Wiley and Casper lay under the open sky like forgotten packages.
“Dugan, your luck runneth over and rubbed off on me too. If we can get these two back to Thermopolis before their faces fall off we’re due some cash money. Get the pack animals down here.”
Clay did it, and performed most of the tying down necessary to keep the Bentines from kissing dirt on their way to Thermopolis. He had tied quite a number of dead outlaws to packhorses in his time, and knew how to do it the right way. Jennings knew how also, but was Clay’s employer, for all his talk of partnership, and so allowed Clay to complete the task unaided. Clay had to pause often and wait for the pain inside him to pass.
“Them stones again?” asked Jennings.
“I double up this way out of boredom, mostly.”
“You’re an unusual fellow, Dugan. Care to work with me some more? We could be riding a lucky streak.”
“I believe I’ll pass.”
“Thought you’d say that. You’re too proud, Dugan, for a man in your position.”
“What position’s that?”
“Word is you’re pretty much all washed up. Liquor, they say, and I’ve seen it for myself, but you could still be useful to me, Dugan. It’s likely the last serious offer you’ll get, from me or anyone else.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“You should listen to opinions sometimes, you might learn something.”
“Jennings, I already learned as much from you as I care to, so take it and push it as far up your ass as you can, which should be about as far up as your lips.”
Jennings laughed, and Clay hated him for the confidence he heard in the laughter. “Dugan, you’re not long for this kind of life, my friend. I was you, I’d look for some other line of employment—hotel detective, maybe, something where they won’t expect too much.”
“I told you already what to do with those opinions.”
Clay tugged at the final knots; the Bentines were secure. He asked himself if he despised Aemon Jenn
ings enough to kill the man in a fair gunfight, and decided he did not. They would split the money as agreed, Clay receiving only half of what Jennings would collect, even though Clay had done most of the work and taken all of the risks, despite his pain. He would never work for another man again. It was going to be an expensive lesson, but he wouldn’t need to learn it twice.
40
The telegram was blunt:
Trip canceled arriving home soon.
ZOE.
Leo panicked on receipt of it. What had happened to make Zoe change her mind; how soon was soon; and what would he do with Imogen Starr now that his wife was homeward bound? Rowland Price’s plan for Leo to remarry Zoe in a ceremony masked by sentiment was clearly a necessity, but Leo had anticipated another year of physical enjoyment from his mistress before being obliged to take that necessary step.
He would have to tell Imogen immediately, to ensure that Zoe caught no whiff of her once she returned. His wife (his soon-to-be-legitimate wife) had to be kept sweet and pliant and in deepest ignorance, or he would lose everything. Price was shown the telegram, and instructed to hire a minister to marry Leo and Zoe all over again. The ceremony would take place at Elk House, Zoe’s atheism being no secret, and there would be flowers, entire rooms filled with flowers, to make the occasion memorable. Having taken care of those arrangements, Leo was faced with a far more difficult task. He dispatched Jenks to the bank, then visited Imogen at her home.
Lovey Doll was aware the instant he set foot over the threshold that Leo was in the grip of considerable agitation. She smiled winningly as he surrendered his coat, and asked, “My darling, is anything wrong?”
“No, no … certainly not. I should like a drink, if you please, Imogen.”
He fidgeted on the sofa while she prepared a whiskey and lemon, and drank the glass down in one gulp when she brought it to him. Lovey Doll suspected it was not the first drink Leo had taken that day, and the sun had barely passed behind the valley rim.
“Leo, you can’t hide trouble from a woman who loves you. What is it, my dear?”
“I … received a telegram today. My wife is … on her way home.”
“Oh, but I thought she was to tour Europe with your daughter.”
“I thought so too, but there has been a change of plans, I’m afraid. Imogen …”
“Yes, Leo?”
“You realize this places me in the most awkward position, do you not? With my wife returning so abruptly, I must … we must … Imogen, you must leave Glory Hole!”
“Leave, my precious? And go where?”
“Here, this will take you to any destination of your choosing.” Leo took from his jacket an envelope and thrust it at Lovey Doll, who viewed it with a perfect facsimile of consternation on her face.
“What is it, Leo?”
“Ten thousand dollars. With this you can go anywhere, start over again in any way you desire.”
“I desire only one thing, Leo, and that is you.”
“I regret, I truly regret, Imogen my dear, that it cannot be.”
“Cannot?”
“Must not. She is my wife. I have strayed from the straight and narrow path, and must retrace my steps to righteousness. I blame you not at all. The mistake was my own, and that is why I have given you this.” He waved the envelope at her impatiently. “Take it, please.”
“Leo, you’ve come to me with dreadful news, and on the very day I was so looking forward to giving you news of my own, but news of an altogether different nature. The happiest of news, Leo.”
“Happy news?”
“I carry our child inside me.”
“Child …?”
“Yours and mine. Our own darling baby.”
“But … no, Imogen. No, no, no!”
“Leo, my love, isn’t this what you wanted of me? I’m confused, Leo.…”
“I cannot acknowledge this thing. I have told you what you must do, Imogen. The money—take it, please—will allow you to have this … child in perfect comfort and safety, at some distant location. Imogen, I’ll arrange for a further ten thousand, since this … news of yours is so unexpected and … and inconvenient for us both. Fifteen thousand! There, I can do no more.”
“But Leo, our baby will be a boy.”
“A boy? How can you possibly know such a thing?”
“I … feel it. Call this feeling a mother’s instinct, Leo, but I do know. I’m carrying your son. Will you give him up so easily, out of … sheer expedience? You have no other son, Leo. I can give to you what your wife cannot. Had you considered that for even a moment, you would never have hurt me in this … cruel fashion. I am to be the mother of your son,” she insisted, tears welling in her blue eyes, “and all you wish for me to do is fly to some far-off place so your wife, who does not love you and by your own admission can give you no more living children … so your wife can come home to the castle, the palace you provided for her, but which she cannot fill with love or sons. Oh, Leo … how can a man of your integrity do such a thing!”
“Imogen, my dearest darling …”
The envelope fell from Leo’s fingers. Lovey Doll’s face was covered by her hands while she thought frantically, summoning all her skills as an actress. The instantaneous pregnancy had been an inspired piece of work, but she must now concentrate on building Leo’s guilt, and his hopes for an heir. For all Lovey Doll knew, she could not conceive; she had abandoned douching her vagina from the moment she began sleeping with Leo, but there was not the slightest indication that his seed had found lodgment inside her. Such an event was not impossible at some future time, but Lovey Doll had need of Leo’s offspring at that very moment, to sway him, to persuade him from the folly of accepting the one-armed shrew back into his home before the year they both had anticipated had elapsed. Given the full twelve months, Lovey Doll was positive she could become pregnant, or else find a newborn male child somehow and convince Leo it was his. But this sudden return of the shrew had left her plan in tatters. It could not be abandoned now, not when the man was hers, body and soul. Some other fear was at work within him, she could tell, some secret terror that had to do with his wife, but Lovey Doll could not tell what it might be. With time, she could, and time was the thing she would insist he give her. Twenty-five thousand dollars was nothing, a single feather on the great bird of fortune, and she would not allow herself to be sold so cheaply, just because the man of her choice was a weakling and a fool.
She placed a hand against her forehead and swooned to the carpet. Leo was on his feet instantly. “Imogen! Oh, my dearest …” He scooped her clumsily into his arms and held her tightly, swamping her nose with his whiskey breath.
“Imogen, Imogen …”
She opened her eyes, allowing them to roll a little in their shapely sockets. “Oh, Leo … I felt him stirring within me.… Our son, Leo, tiny as he is … he made himself known to me.… to us!”
“My darling …”
“I … I feel quite faint, Leo …”
“Rest yourself, Imogen. Here, take the sofa.…”
He wrestled her onto the sateen cushions and sank down at her knees, suddenly filled with reverence for her exalted state. His offer of extra cash if she would go away to bear the child elsewhere had been truly shameful, and he hoped Imogen would forgive him. There was to be a son after all! He had all but given up hope for such an event by way of Zoe, and now here was Imogen, with the most wonderful news he could imagine—an heir for the Brannan empire! Provided, of course, that Leo retained the lion’s share of the company, following his remarriage to Zoe. Provided Zoe never learned of his other child, his son, and took steps to ensure that the boy would not gain what would be denied her own daughter. Zoe and Omie, what nuisances they were. If only they could have sailed away for the world’s far side and never been heard of again, the nasty business concerning Bryce Aspinall need never have arisen, and the boy growing inside his darling Imogen would come into being as his rightful son, his blood heir without a doubt, the natural recip
ient of power and wealth that had been years in the making.
Leo was already scrambling among names of masculine gender for his boy—David, Benjamin, perhaps even another Leo! Leo Brannan junior. Leo Brannan the second. It had a dynastic ring to it that Leo found irresistible. But there was Zoe, there was Omie.… The problem was insoluble, it seemed, and he was cast into despair by its serpentine coilings, the tenacious grip of the actual over the possible, the hold of past over future, misery over happiness. Zoe was causing Leo great pain, and the faithless creature was not even his legally wedded wife! It was intolerable! Zoe had betrayed him, yet it was she who stood to reap the richest harvest of golden dollars from the situation. Where was justice? Where were order and reason and the natural rightness of things for a man who had done no wrong and the woman who loved him enough to bear him a son? The world was indeed a topsy-turvy place, godless, without moral equilibrium of any kind, if Zoe, who had knowingly posed as a widow in order to snare him, was allowed to claim the prize that was not rightfully hers. It would be a triumph for the forces of darkness and deceit, and it must not be allowed to happen.
Rowland Price’s personal investigation into the background of Imogen Starr had borne no fruit of any kind. His contacts in Colorado Springs were unable to place the name into conjunction with any person known to them, yet Colorado Springs was the place Imogen had come from, by her own admission to Leo, who had casually passed the information on to Rowland. The conclusion to be drawn from such anonymity and lack of verifiable public record was not a pleasant one: Leo apparently had found himself another liar. Rowland decided he would say nothing for the moment, and await the results of deeper inquiry. The first liar was already providing sufficient headaches for now. It was disturbing enough that Zoe was returning almost as quickly as she had departed, allowing Leo no real opportunity to burn out his lust for liar number two; the difficulties ahead had been exacerbated by the startling news that Imogen was expecting a child. Rowland had demanded the name of the doctor who told her this, but Leo was opposed to such acts of unsubstantiated suspicion; if Imogen said she was pregnant, then she was, but even Leo could not convey total conviction when speaking of the mother-to-be’s certainty of her baby’s sex. “It isn’t possible for her to know, Leo, it just isn’t,” Rowland said, but Leo insisted women were creatures of instinct, and her prediction would very likely prove to be true. Rowland saw he was arguing with a man not only smitten still by Cupid’s dart but desirous of having at last the one thing he had until now lacked—a son and heir. There was no reasoning with him over Imogen and her progeny-in-the-making, so Rowland decided to pursue other alternatives in an effort to open Leo’s eyes before any of this came to the attention of the Praetorians.
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