Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  “I … whip you? Nonsense!” blustered Leo, for whom the idea was suddenly very appealing. Ashamed of himself, he said, “I could never hurt you, my dear, not for the world, but you must cease these accusations, indeed you must! What have I done to be so deserving of your scorn?”

  Lovey Doll became contrite, and suggested meekly that Leo might consider making her happier than any woman on earth by the simple expedient of proposing marriage to her, especially since she was carrying their child, their son.

  Leo had a ready answer. “I am not yet legally separated from my wife,” he stated. His attorney was arranging matters, but not very quickly; Leo was reasonably confident that Rowland’s assassin-for-hire would locate Zoe faster than any legal document of separation.

  “But why, Leo?”

  “These things take time, my dearest one. The mills of jurisprudence grind exceeding slow, you see.”

  “But when you have your annulment, what will happen then?”

  “Then? I suppose … I intend to make you my wife. Yes, that will certainly be my intention. We’ll be married when I am free of … her. There now, does that make you happy, Imogen? You have my promise, my word on it, and I see no reason why the question should be raised again until that time, by God, do you hear?”

  “Yes, Leo. Leo?”

  “Well?”

  “You have made me the luckiest woman in creation.”

  “Just so.”

  “Leo?”

  “Yes? Yes?”

  “Might I have some token of your intent?”

  “A ring, you mean? That might not be seemly, under the circumstances. Would you like a necklace or tiara?”

  “You have been so generous already, my darling, but Leo, there is something that has been thrust into my thoughts lately. I hesitate to make this suggestion, because I’m not yet your wife, but the house, Leo, it concerns the house.”

  “This house?”

  “Your house. Elk House, Leo.”

  “What of it? Naturally you’ll take up residence there, when things have been formalized. A wedding ceremony with all the trimmings—how does that sound to you?”

  “Wonderful, my love, but the purchase I had in mind is of a kind that will require considerable time for preparation in advance of that wonderful day. I should so like to see it there when I arrive at Elk House as your bride, Leo.”

  “Find what?”

  “A statue, dearest, for the front yard.”

  “Statue? What kind of statue? A fountain, you mean?”

  “A stag.”

  “A stag …,” said Leo, his concentration failing. His fever was becoming worse, much worse. It was the various worries he currently faced that were causing his gradual debilitation, he was sure. It had been a mistake to visit Imogen that night, feeling as he did. He had already proposed marriage, in a roundabout kind of way, and he had intended no such drastic step when he raised the knocker on her door. His mind was becoming unhinged, incapable of fully understanding the words that reached it. Now Imogen was talking of a statue, but all he could think of was whipping her naked buttocks to a fine pinkness.

  “I have a model here. Wait one moment and I’ll fetch it.”

  “Model …” said Leo softly.

  Lovey Doll was gone from the room for less than a minute, returning with a statuette in her hands. She set it down before Leo, and he dragged his attention from the beguiling images quivering in his brain to take note of what it was. The thing stood ten inches or so high, and was made of heavy brass, a proud stag with its head lifted, the tremendous rack of antlers tipped back almost to its spine. It was a fine piece, and Leo stared at it for some time.

  “Just like that,” said Lovey Doll, “but large as life.”

  “Ah, yes … certainly.”

  “You’ll get it for me?” Lovey Doll beamed.

  “To be sure.”

  “Oh, Leo, how generous you are! Did I tell you the other thing?”

  “Other thing?”

  “Its metallic structure, I suppose one would call it.”

  “No, you didn’t tell me.”

  “It should be of gold, solid gold, Leo, to be the symbol of your mining business. Your first mine was named after a deer, was it not, and from that mine has come more gold than from any other in the entire nation. A gold deer, Leo. It would be so perfect for Elk House.”

  “Deer are not elk, and elk are not deer.”

  He wanted very much to lift her skirts and bend her over like a naughty child, and lay on with a whip until she begged him to stop, at which point he would be ready to mount her.

  “A gold elk, then,” she said, “as big as a real one, a big bull elk, Leo, of solid gold taken from your own mine. Wouldn’t that be the most thrilling statue in the world?”

  “Yes indeed, and you shall have it, my dear, but you must first allow me to be your big bull elk.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He lunged at her and began reaching beneath her skirts to pull down her pantaloons. Lovey Doll pushed against his shoulders. “Leo, what are you doing …? Leo, kindly allow me to attend to it.… Leo!”

  There being no whip available, he used a length of silken drapery cord.

  He was a home-loving man by inclination, but sometimes Smith wanted to mingle with his fellows in a saloon. On those occasions, generally no more than two or three times a year, he would visit a bathhouse for a slow soak and send his clothes across the street to the Chinese laundry for a quick cleaning. It was understood that he would pay double for these services, since the presence of himself or his clothing tended to be bad for business.

  On this night, made presentable for inclusion among the public, he entered the bar of his choice and began tossing drinks down his throat with a machinelike regularity. He did not want to drink at home because Nevis and Winnie both were irritating him, Nevis by way of his long face and fretful manner, and Winnie on account of her told-you-so smirk. To hell with them both. He wanted rough company, and the Big Bear Saloon was the place to find it. While he drank, Smith wondered if he would be fortunate enough to be included in a fight. He would never pick a fight solely to give himself satisfaction, since that would not have been an honorable thing to do, but he knew that if he lingered long enough among the drinkers of the Big Bear a fight would be thrust upon him, and Smith dearly wanted to push his fist into the face of anyone who deserved it. He was not a violent man as a rule, but recent events had soured his temper considerably.

  “Smith.”

  He turned. Two men unknown to him had slid along the bar. The one who had addressed him wore a smile Smith found offensive.

  “What of it,” he said.

  “Heard about you and the other feller’s Injun getting stole. Too bad about that.”

  Smith turned away. He didn’t want to discuss the Sleeping Savage with anyone.

  “Worth money, they say,” said the second man.

  “Most likely still worth it, if you could find the dang thing again, I figure,” added the first.

  “Find it?” Smith asked. “Find it where?”

  “Wherever it’s at, friend.”

  “And would you be knowing that place, friend?”

  “I might.”

  “We both might,” said the second man. “For the right price, like they say.”

  “I’d give money, sure,” said Smith, “but only to fellers that made me believe they’re not just looking to take my dollars for nothing, see.”

  “Oh, that ain’t us.”

  “We know, we do.”

  “Know what?” insisted Smith.

  “Where it’s at.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “Can’t be telling without a sight of some green.”

  “Can’t expect us to give away what’s for sale, Smith.”

  “Not interested,” Smith told them, creating consternation on the faces of both men.

  “But … don’t you want him back?”

  “You fellers don’t know bea
ns about that old Indian, now do you. Get away from me. I don’t like fools.”

  The two men retired to a corner and spoke between themselves, then returned.

  “Smith, we figure if we tell you who told us to take it, you’ll believe us about knowing where it’s at.”

  “That way you wouldn’t have to be trusting us so much,” said the second man.

  “Who was it?” Smith asked.

  “Well, it was a woman, a lady.”

  “She had herself a carriage. Took us inside of it to talk it over about robbing you and your partner.”

  Sensing that Smith had begun to believe them, and sensing also that he was becoming angry, the first man said, “It was cash money she give us, and we both of us been looking for work lately and not finding any, see, so it was hard to say no.”

  “We couldn’t say no,” agreed his friend, “but now we feel badly about what we done, we do.”

  “So we’re wanting to make it up to you and your partner about the Injun.”

  “What woman?”

  “A real fine looker, she was, with feathers in her hat and fluffy stuff all around her.”

  “I never seen a better-lookin’ piece.”

  “She’s big man Brannan’s whore, they say.”

  “Is that right,” Smith said. He laid some money on the bar, but kept his meaty fingertips on top. “Where’s the Indian?”

  “A couple miles outside of town. We know where exactly.”

  “We put him there, we did.”

  Smith set the money free, and it disappeared.

  “The same again when I see the Indian in one piece.”

  “Sounds like a square deal to me. You ain’t mad about the taking, are you? You’re gonna get him back.”

  “She give us plenty. It was temptation.”

  “We spent it already,” admitted the first man.

  “Drunk it, mainly,” confessed the second.

  “Gentlemen,” said Smith, “we’re going to go fetch that Indian right now, and when we get him we’ll bring him back to town where he belongs, and then you’ll tell my partner what you told me, and after that you can go get yourselves a fresh bottle of the best, on me.”

  “Square deal, all right. I reckon you’re a gentleman yourself.”

  “Amen.”

  The Sleeping Savage, when delivered by wagon to Smith’s yard after midnight, was unrecognizable and unusable. Nevis and Winnie stared at the pitiful remnants while Smith explained, and the two strangers confirmed the story. Smith paid them and they left. Nevis felt close to weeping. Wolves had torn apart the ancient but well-preserved flesh of the Savage, devouring most of it and separating the skeleton into disparate sections that could never be reassembled, given the missing leg and arm.

  Even worse was the revelation of Lovey Doll’s perfidy. Nevis wanted to disbelieve, but could not; the halting and shamefaced sincerity of the body snatchers was too credible for that. Lovey Doll, his special friend, the very one who had persuaded Leo Brannan to include an article on the Savage in his newspaper. Why had she done it? Smith and Winnie were watching him, aware of some shocking betrayal behind his grief, yet too polite to inquire after its origins.

  Smith poked at the remains. “It’s rotten now. Even if he was all there we couldn’t use him.”

  Nevis turned away and went inside. Winnie said to Smith, “He’s hurt bad about this. What’s the woman to him?”

  Smith shrugged. “Best not to ask, I say. I’m taking this mess out to the shit dump.”

  When he had driven away, Winnie went inside, fully expecting to see Nevis with a bottle and glass before him at the table. She found him instead with a look of great concentration ridging his brow, and a revolver she had never seen before in his hand.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Her.”

  “Brannan’s whore?”

  Nevis said nothing. Winnie fetched a bottle and glasses and poured two shots of whiskey. Nevis ignored his.

  Winnie said, “That man, he had a good woman for a wife, and he trampled on her. He never should’ve done that to Zoe. What other woman would have given him a chance that way, gone off and let him make up his mind if he wants her or not. How many wives would do that, do you think?”

  “Most of them, if their husband has the kind of money he has.”

  “That wasn’t it with her! She gave him the chance to come to his senses because that’s the kind of woman she is!”

  “You talk as if you know her.”

  “I … just know how she feels. This other one, this Imogen Starr, what a shitheel. She’s the one wants Brannan’s money. Zoe Dugan’s a woman in a million. She’s better off without him now. He’s welcome to the slut he’s got. Don’t look at me that way. That’s what she is. So I’ve been a whore myself, but I’ve never been like her, not for anything. There’s whores, and then there’s real whores, and that’s her kind, and I don’t care if you think her asshole smells like petunias. What’s she to you anyway? Do you love her or something stupid like that? She’s a shitheel, and now you know it. You believed those two, didn’t you, that it was her as had them take your precious Indian? Well, did you believe them? Don’t go all sulky and childish—you’re a grown man.”

  Nevis slowly nodded his head. Winnie poured herself another drink.

  “Don’t waste a bullet on the likes of her. She’s not worth the trouble. Her and Brannan, they’ll make each other miserable. Two bad people together, that’s my recipe for hell on earth. You know how many good people I ever met in my life? Three, that’s how many. You and Smith and Zoe Dugan. Oh, and a boy back in Galveston, he was a good boy, so that’s four. That’s not many, Nevis. Did you think the shitheel was one of the good people in your life?”

  Nevis nodded again, his mouth turning down.

  “It’s better to know the truth,” said Winnie, “even if it’s hard.” She came to him and put an arm around his narrow shoulders. “Don’t you be sad over someone like her.”

  “How could she have done it? Why …?”

  “Shitheels are like that. Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  “She encouraged me.…”

  “Lovey Doll, that’s her real name?”

  “Yes. I suppose it is. It’s the name she used to use anyway. I painted her picture years ago. Everyone used it, but I never saw a cent.… I was so disappointed, Winnie. I think … I think that’s what made me turn to drink, I really do. I turned into who I am because of her.…”

  “Not her; the painting that no one paid you for.”

  “Reproductions of it,” corrected Nevis. “But all this time she was … special. I thought about her so often … and now, after I found her again, she did this to me. I did her no harm, Winnie, none at all.”

  “She’ll get hers in hell, if there’s such a place, and if there isn’t, she’ll make one of her own when her looks go, you rest easy about that.”

  Nevis swallowed his whiskey, and two whiskeys after that Winnie cajoled him into bed, where they spent a sorrowfully pleasant hour until Smith’s return.

  46

  The order had been placed, Imogen’s brass elk sent along with it to a foundry in Pittsburgh, with instructions to reproduce the beast in all its magnificence to actual scale. Gold for the casting process would be forwarded to the foundry at the last moment for pouring, and the entire project was to be shrouded in the utmost secrecy for obvious reasons. When the golden elk was ready for public display and transportation to Colorado by rail, then would be the time to make the world aware of its existence, not before.

  The train carrying the finished statue would be guarded by a contingent of handpicked Pinkerton agents, all heavily armed; Leo even considered requesting a unit from the army for additional protection, but Rowland Price convinced him this was not a good idea. “You’re a man of the people, Leo, and not beholden to Washington for any favors. You can supply the necessary gunmen for your elk out of your own pocket. It’s so much more impressive that way.”

>   Leo agreed, and the creation of the elk had begun, all conflicting projects at the Pittsburgh foundry having been set aside for this most prestigious of commissions.

  While a mold was assembled far away in the east, Leo enjoyed Imogen in any way he pleased. The elk had been a wonderful idea, a stroke of self-indulgent genius, but he would make her pay for her extravagance. He had promised her, after a severe beating that left her plump buttocks quite bruised, that when the golden elk caught the first rays of sunshine outside his home, he would make Elk House her home also, by way of marriage in the front garden, with her shining brainchild in splendid attendance. Leo reasoned that by then, his first wife would have passed on in good time to allow the taking of a second. Zoe was in fact his ex-wife now, the necessary time having elapsed since Leo’s attorney filed the papers of annulment, but he saw no reason to mention this to Imogen.

  Leo was not as happy as he should have been. A letter had arrived, marked for his personal attention, and in it he was informed that his unofficial fiancée was in fact a whore by the name of Lovey Doll Pines, whose portrait in a state of brazen nudity could be seen in half the saloons in the country, if he cared to look. Leo did not care to look. He summoned Rowland Price instead, and showed him the letter.

  “Can there be anything of substance to this allegation?”

  Rowland paused a moment, to phrase his response in the correct manner. “As a matter of fact, Leo, the name has already been mentioned to me, by accident, as it were.”

  “Are you saying Imogen is who this … filthy document says she is?”

  “As a matter of fact, Leo … yes.”

  Rowland had already begun an investigation into the identity of a woman called Lovey Doll a week earlier, when Nevis Dunnigan let slip the very name Leo was now confronted with, and Rowland’s cohorts among the Praetorians had promptly sent back by express mail the information he sought. Not only was Lovey Doll Pines the ex-mistress of a former Praetorian—one Walter Morrow, whose task of recruiting Leo Brannan had fallen to Rowland after that gentleman’s unfortunate murder—but she was known to have been the mistress of several wealthy figures in California before then. In short, she was soiled goods of the most self-serving type. Rowland had been pondering the approach he should take with regard to his findings, and now, as if orchestrated by the gods of fate, had come independent accusations of a similar nature.