Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  “A capital idea, gentlemen, deliciously inventive, and a rare challenge to boot. There is, though, an insoluble problem inherent in the plan.”

  “What problem?”

  “The nature of mortal flesh is your enemy. The Indian as you’ve described him to me seems indeed to have been a frozen remnant of the long ago, and his appearance will be impossible to duplicate in a body of more recent vintage.”

  “So we can’t just use a dead man dressed Injun style?”

  “I regret, you cannot.”

  “Damn! We were kind of counting on you, Doc.”

  “And I appreciate your trust. Fortunately all is not lost with regard to this proposed venture. There is one way that presents itself, but the chances for success are slim indeed, I fear.”

  “Trot it out.”

  Pfenning took from a shelf along the wall a large can, and handed it to Smith, who deciphered its label.

  “‘Carlson’s Pat … Patented Mort … Morterary …’”

  “‘Mortuary Putty,’” Nevis said, reading over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” Smith asked, wishing Nevis had allowed him to finish unaided.

  “In essence, a means of filling in the holes created by accident and disease. Marvelous stuff! I had a fellow the other week, complete syphilitic, no nose at all to speak of, like something from a leper colony, you know, and I gave him a nose the Duke of Wellington would have been proud to own.”

  “It’s modeling clay?” asked Nevis.

  “Of a highly specialized kind. With this, a sculptor of great talent might fashion a figure in replication of your Indian, were he familiar with its characteristics, alas now gone.”

  “A sculptor,” said Smith. “That’s a feller as makes statues?”

  “The same.”

  “And one of them fellers, he’d be called an artist, I guess.”

  “Assuredly.”

  Smith was eyeing Nevis. “Dunnigan, you listening to this?”

  “I won’t,” said Nevis. “I won’t profane the gift that was once held precious by me.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Are you of artistic inclination, Mr. Dunnigan?” asked Pfenning.

  “You bet he is,” assured Smith. “Why, he done a picture of a lady friend you could see right off was her. Oh, he’s artistical, all right, you bet—aren’t you, Nevis?”

  “I refuse. This will not happen.”

  “It’d work if you done the Injun in this morterary clay. He’ll be under glass, all sealed off. Won’t be any way someone can touch him and see it’s a cheat.”

  “I will not cooperate.”

  “Winnie, she’d be all for something like this.”

  “Smith, you can’t possibly ask this of me. The past is gone beyond retrieval, and with it my artistic aspirations. I will not revive so personal a side of myself for fraudulent purposes. I absolutely will not.”

  “Aaaww, now that’s no way to be thinking. Doc here, he’ll supply the stuff, and you can just shape it into the Injun all over again. You studied him enough when we had him to do the job blindfold. You don’t have to put your name on it or nothing, just make the Injun over again so we can put him in the case where he belongs, so folks can see him.”

  “No.”

  “Hey now, don’t you think it’d make a certain party as did you wrong go all white around the lips to see us open up the Sleeping Savage like she never intended should happen? Know who I mean? Don’t that make it worthwhile? She’d be the loser, see, and you’d be the one had the last laugh, by God, don’t you think?”

  Smith and Pfenning waited for Nevis to make up his mind.

  Leo surprised himself by being unable to stay away from Lovey Doll Pines, despite knowing of her past. He hated her for the ease with which she had inserted herself into his life, and for the relentless pressure she had applied to make him send his wife away and propose marriage to Lovey Doll instead, and for inveigling him into ordering for her a life-sized golden elk to be placed on the front lawn of what she assumed would soon be her house.

  The woman’s gall was truly staggering, yet recognition of the wrongs perpetrated against him by her could not erase Leo’s need. He wanted her still, in the ways he was fast becoming addicted to. The humiliation he experienced, knowing himself incapable of staying away, was assuaged by the simple expedient of beating her often in the course of their lovemaking. Imogen (he still thought of her as having this name) would submit without more than a modicum of complaint to the increasingly bizarre demands he made on her, without being aware that Leo must do what he did in order to forgive himself for remaining silent over what he had learned.

  He would not confront her with Rowland Price’s report, would not accuse her of mendacity and false pretenses, but he would whip her with a silken cord, and manhandle her breasts so as to cause visible bruising, and demand that she utilize for his pleasure certain objects capable of insertion into the vagina. Lovey Doll did all this, not knowing it was deliberate punishment. Leo felt himself absolved of weakness—was he not punishing the woman who lied to him?—and at the same time was able to despise Lovey Doll a little more with each outrage upon her body, since it made plain her willingness to endure shame and bodily hurt for the sake of the millions she believed would be her reward. A whore in the truest sense of the word, thought Leo, as he carefully slid a sash weight into one orifice, and his index finger into the other.

  47

  There was a woman with them now, despite Lodi’s often-stated maxim that females and felony never mix. Her name was Ellen Torrey, and she was the widow of one of Arch Powell’s men from the Montana days. She had been something of a mother to Lodi when he rode with Arch, so he broke his own rule and allowed her to cook and clean for himself and his men in their new hideout near the Utah line. Ellen was forty-eight years old and past her prime, so Lodi didn’t expect there would be any fights over her.

  The new place had been purchased under a false name with a small part of the proceeds from the Brannan Mining payroll holdup. That job had proven to be Lodi’s most successful work ever, and the gang had dispersed to spend their shares. Drew went with Levon on an extended vacation to Chicago. Nate accompanied Lodi on a shorter break from outlawry to Saint Louis, where they chanced to meet Ellen Torrey in the street. Ellen was down on her luck, having lost her job as a cleaning woman. Nate was opposed to hiring her on out of sentiment, but Lodi overrode his protest. “There’s not one of us can cook worth a damn, and my stomach’s getting older than the rest of me. She’s coming back with us.”

  Drew and Levon returned to western Colorado by rail and stage and were met by Lodi, who informed them the new place now came equipped with a woman to meet their needs. “An old woman,” he stressed.

  “They’re the kind that make the best food,” said Levon.

  The spread had a few head of cattle to lend an air of legitimacy, but Lodi was not expecting any company that had not been invited. The place was so distant from civilization no stranger could approach without announcing himself as the sole speck of activity in a landscape largely inert. The place sat high above country composed largely of wind-carved rock ledges and broad expanses of alkali flats. The view from the main cabin’s front door commanded many miles of impressive nothingness, baked nine days out of ten by cruel sunlight. It was a harsh place, and lonely, but it was safe. Lodi planned on lying low there for some time, until a job worthy of his attention should present itself. The days were peaceful, uneventful, and remained that way until Ellen declared herself running low on supplies.

  It was Drew who went with her in the buckboard to Cortez, twenty-three miles away. Ellen had picked him for the job, and Lodi said he had to go. Drew didn’t mind; his existence had become so tedious that even a routine trip for supplies was an opportunity to ease the monotony of life between holdups. They started out at dawn, and made their own trail across sagebrush and red earth to town. Drew knew Ellen favored him above the rest only because he was the youngest, the most
ready to listen politely while she talked of inconsequential matters.

  Arriving a little after noon, Drew left Ellen to organize their purchases at the store while he went to the post office to see if any mail had arrived for Mr. Sampson, Lodi’s alias as a landowner. Living in temporary isolation as he was, Lodi relied upon a tight network of outside informants to apprise him of work that might appeal to his talents. There was not a single letter, to Drew’s disappointment, and he wandered back toward the store, but was diverted from his path by the smell of beer wafting from an open saloon door. Ellen could handle her end of things without him, he decided, and went inside.

  “A tall one,” he said, and the barman produced a foaming brew from the spigot behind the counter. Drew drained it quickly and ordered another. A young woman sat by herself at a table near the window, using its light to knit by. Drew had known whores to knit patiently while awaiting the attention of customers, but the young woman appeared uninterested in the few drinkers there. Drew ordered a lemonade and sauntered over to satisfy his curiosity.

  Approaching the young woman’s table, he asked, “Miss, could I get you a cool drink on a warm day?”

  “Looks like you already did,” she said, glancing up without allowing her needles to pause.

  “Mind if I sit with you while you drink it?”

  “I didn’t say yet that I’d drink it.”

  She talked a lot harder than she looked. Drew was intrigued, certain now that she was not a whore. He set down his beer and the lemonade, and pulled out a chair for himself.

  “Don’t sit in that till you’ve been told you can.”

  “I already asked, but I didn’t get an answer. I’ll ask again, if that’s what it takes.”

  “Go on and sit.”

  Drew pushed the lemonade closer to her side of the table. She ignored it and him.

  “You live in Cortez?” he asked.

  “Not if they paid me to.”

  “Me neither. I work on a spread a long ways from here. We’re in for supplies.”

  “Take that stuff away and get me a beer, if you don’t mind.”

  “Be happy to oblige.”

  “Be happy if you want, but be quick.”

  Drew got her what she wanted and sat down again.

  “See how every man here’s keeping his back to me?” she said, after a long pull at the beer.

  “I do, now that you’ve pointed it out.”

  “They don’t want me in here unless I’m for rent.”

  “That’s generally how it is.”

  “Well, I don’t care for things in general. The place I’m at is hot as a stove, and there’s no beer to cool it down.”

  “What place is that?”

  “Hotel across the street. Don’t bother remembering where; I’ll be gone before you get back in town.”

  “You talk like I’ve offended you.”

  “I talk the way I talk. You’ll know when you’ve offended me.”

  “I’m John Bones.”

  “Do you rattle when you walk?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. What’s your name?”

  “Fay.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Fay.”

  “I can’t see what you’re so pleased about.”

  “That’s because you’re in that chair over there, and I’m in this chair over here. The view from this chair’s better.”

  She laid her knitting down and took a swallow from her beer. Drew admired the movement of her long throat as the beer went down. He liked her more with every passing minute, even her hard talk, and found himself unwilling to accept that she would be gone from Cortez the next time he came by.

  “Bones,” said Fay, “you’re trying hard to be a gentleman, and not doing too bad of a job, but I’m not for rent. Thank you for the beer.”

  She picked up her knitting again.

  “That going to be a shawl, or what?” Drew asked.

  Fay began to laugh, then stopped. “Only a persistent man asks a woman about her knitting. You must be serious, Bones, to make yourself look so foolish.”

  “I don’t feel foolish, so that doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Doesn’t it? You’re blushing.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes you are. You look about fifteen right now. No, it’s not a shawl, it’s a comforter, or will be someday if I care to finish it. You’re red as a fresh-pulled carrot.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been compared to a vegetable before.”

  “Then this is a day to remember. Do you know a Mr. Ferguson who runs the livery stable?”

  “No; I’m new here.”

  “He was supposed to have a horse ready for me before noon, and I still haven’t seen it.”

  “Riding somewhere today?”

  “No; I just like horses for their company.”

  “Fay, I’m beginning to see why all those fellows have their backs to you, and it doesn’t have a thing to do with not being for rent.”

  “You can go away, then, if you don’t like it.”

  Drew wished he could, but her needles had him hooked. He would no more have willingly left the table by the window than poured a cool beer into the dust outside. She was right about the blushing, though, only now it was caused by a slowly rising anger, with her and with himself for sitting there and being talked to that way. The best thing would be to deliver a stinging remark capable of setting her face afire like his own, but “Another beer?” was all he could say.

  “If you want to.”

  Drew went to the bar again and returned with two glasses and a pitcher. “I only want one drink,” said Fay.

  “I’ll take care of the rest. Where were you intending to ride on Ferguson’s horse, if it’s not something you’d prefer to keep secret?”

  “Some place called the Rim. Do you know it?”

  Lodi’s spread was immediately below the Rim, a mile-long red and yellow sandstone ledge that jutted like a frozen wave behind the cabins and corral.

  “Believe I’ve heard of it. Can I ask what it is you want to do there?”

  “I’m looking for my mother. She works there, or somewhere near there.”

  “What might her name be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Ellen Torrey.”

  “From Saint Louis?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She’s just down the street right this minute, at the store.”

  Fay dumped her knitting into a tote bag and stood up.

  “Thank you,” she said, giving Drew a quick smile, then she was out the door. He watched the foam slowly settling on his pitcher, then poured himself another beer. Lodi wasn’t going to be happy about this, but Drew felt good. She had called him a fool and a carrot, but had also called him serious, so although there was much room for greater friendliness between them, he was fairly sure Fay Torrey liked him. He wanted to leave the saloon and go down to the store, but that would have made him appear too eager for Fay’s company, and in any case, mother and daughter would appreciate his thoughtfulness if he kept out of the way while they became reunited. Ellen liked him, and Fay liked him; his prospects for advancement were better than fair.

  Some time later, mildly drunk, he went to the store. Ellen was waiting on the sidewalk, but Fay was nowhere to be seen. “About time,” Ellen said. “There’s a pile of goods inside for you to bring out.”

  “Didn’t the store man help you?”

  “I told him I had a strong young man with me and not to bother. That was before I found out the young man was work-shy.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  He began loading sacks and cans and kegs onto the buckboard. Where was Fay? Ellen was in a bad temper, and he felt it was more than his absence that had stoked it.

  “Young lady come along looking for you, Ellen?”

  “You hush up and keep working so we can get back before dark.”

  “Said she was your daughter.”

  “Just you get things loaded, that’s your busines
s, and let me mind mine.”

  “Seemed like a nice young lady.”

  Ellen ignored him, and Drew couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to Fay when she did that. When everything was aboard he asked, “Is that all that’s coming?”

  “What else would there be?”

  Drew climbed up and took the reins.

  “Where is she?”

  “Mind your business. She’s where she’s best off—away from me, that’s where.”

  “She’s your daughter, and she came all this way. How’d she know you were here if you didn’t let her know?”

  “It wasn’t me, it was a friend of the family. Now get going, or I’ll drive myself.”

  They were a quarter mile from town when Drew looked behind and saw a rider following. The angle of her hat told him it was Fay. He decided to say nothing, but Ellen turned also and saw her daughter.

  “Stop right here.”

  Drew set the brake. Fay caught up after five minutes.

  “Go back,” her mother told her. Fay looked past her and said nothing. “I’m not going to let you come after me,” Ellen warned. “You turn around now and go back.”

  “You can’t make me do anything.”

  “If you follow us you’ll never find your way back after dark, and then the liveryman will have the marshal go after you for stealing his horse.”

  “It’s my horse. I bought it. Bones, you might as well get moving, because I intend sticking right behind you.”

  Ellen said to Drew, “You think he’s going to let her go out there and see what there is to see?” She meant Lodi. Drew thought there might be difficulties if he brought a stranger back, but Fay was Ellen’s kin after all, and so would not be too surprised by anything, her own father having lived and died an outlaw. He slapped the reins and started the buckboard moving again.

  “None of my business,” he reminded Ellen. “We need to move on and get there before dark.”

  “This is your fault, going in that saloon.”

  “She knew where to go anyway, more or less.”

  Halfway to the Rim, Ellen had to get down and walk some distance away to relieve herself, and while she was gone, Drew spoke with Fay, whose horse had never been more than a few yards behind.