By midnight, Case is shaking with chills. No matter how Ada piles the blankets on him, he complains of being cold, says that every breath he takes slides a painful blade between his ribs. Both of his cheeks are flushed a hectic red, and he is racked with fits of coughing. By morning, he is burning with fever. Ada summons Joe and sends him to find a doctor. By the time McMullen returns with a physician, Case is delirious.
The diagnosis is pneumonia. “I will apply a linseed poultice to the affected side,” the doctor informs Ada. “And it is imperative his temperature be lowered. See to it Mr. Case is sponged hourly. A little Dover’s powder should help him sleep. When he wakes, dose him with brandy in milk. That will stimulate the action of the heart.”
Ada merely nods. She does not inquire what Wesley’s chances are. She is terrified what the answer might be.
Dunne senses things slipping out of his grip. Since the fiasco on Mullan Road, Figgis has grown ever more saucy and disrespectful. He hands Dunne the same looks his father used to, as Mr. Hind used to, as Mr. McMicken used to – the face you show to a soft-brain. Worse, Figgis encourages Toomey and Priest to treat him likewise. When Dunne asks how could he be expected to know that Case would fall in with other travellers, Figgis retorts that’s not the int. And he doesn’t say it to him, but directs his comment to Priest and Toomey. “Some carpenters measure twice and cut once, but Mr. Dunne is a carpenter who measures and measures and measures and measures. A board is safe with him. It ain’t never going to feel the saw’s teeth” is what that scoffing bastard says. And Toomey giggles. And Priest contemplates his white hands and long, shapely fingernails as if he were admiring a string of pearls.
“There’s time yet,” Dunne replies.
Of course Figgis jumps on that. “Same answer you give Priest on the Mullan Road. I suppose there’s time according to your calendar. One thing is sure. I ain’t going to need to tell my grandchildren about this exploit. They’ll be here to see it.”
Dunne lies awake all night, reheating Figgis’s insults, seeing again the scum of derision on his face. He knows he must assert himself, regain control. He must general them. Generals search the terrain for opportunities. They construct a strategy from facts. This is what he will do.
Next morning, he saddles his horse and heads off to Helena to survey the ground. These are the facts he winnows after he pays a visit to the Franklin House and takes a prowl about the premises. Case is quartered in room number 208, at the end of the hallway near a door that gives access to a fire escape. The door is secured from the inside by a flimsy hook. The fire escape descends to a narrow alley. The alley is shadowy and dark. Only by peering directly into its mouth could anyone make out a wagon parked there.
Better still, when he asks the man on the desk if Case is in, he is told, “Yes, but he’s not to be disturbed. We don’t even clean his room. He’s caught some ailment or other.” This is cheering news. With Case an invalid, it seems that they will have only one able-bodied man to deal with, in the person of Joe McMullen.
When Dunne gets back to the cabin he states his plans with the authority and confidence of a true commander. This is the situation. This is what we will do.
But when he finishes, he sees the dunderheads haven’t understood. No one congratulates him, no one even asks a question. Toomey gently stirs his coffee as if it were a cup of blasting oil. Priest looks up at the ceiling as if he expects to see the sun shining down on him from there.
Abruptly, Figgis says, “We took a vote. We ain’t taking orders from you no more. You dilly and dally like an old woman. When we snatch Case, Priest’s in charge.”
To no one in particular Priest says, “ ‘Let this cup pass from me.’ I do not want it, but I bow to the wishes of the majority.”
“Oh no you don’t,” says Dunne. “This is my show. From the start. I give Collins the idea. Collins put me over you.”
“Collins ain’t here,” says Figgis. “He don’t know you for the muddler we know you for.”
Priest says, “No need to humiliate Mr. Dunne, Figgis. Tomorrow we will accomplish this thing and we will all be friends in. Won’t we, Mr. Dunne?”
Dunne says, “Nobody is running this but me.”
Priest gives him a cleric’s understanding smile. “Mr. Dunne, you do not have the temperament of a man of action. Certainly, once we get this Case fellow, you can take care of the other arrangements – set things up with the young gentleman at the bank to approach Case’s father, see to details concerning the delivery of the money. We all appreciate your acuity in such matters, but in matters where physical risk is involved you have proven most hesitant.”
The general has been deposed, his insignia ripped off him. He has been broken to the ranks. His eyes sting with the shame of it.
For thirty-six hours Ada has hovered by Case’s bedside. Joe has volunteered to share the nursing, urged her to catch a little shut-eye, eat a scrap of food now and then, but she won’t listen, not to a word of sense. When he scolds her, she says there’s no point in eating, food sticks in her throat. There’s no point trying to sleep. As soon as she drops off, the silence jolts her awake. If she can’t hear the creak and whistle of Case’s breathing, she fears the worst.
For the past twelve hours, Case has been hacking up rusty-red phlegm. The doctor won’t commit to whether this is a dire sign or not. All he will say is, “It is not unusual.” Ada sponges Case diligently, but the fever still rages. The doctor says, “It is not unexpected.” Nothing is surprising or significant to him. Ada says to Joe that if Wesley were to levitate and fly about the room, the quack would purse his lips and sagely observe, “It is not unheard of.”
Joe feels almost as much apprehension about Ada’s state as he does about Case’s. Several times he has seen her teeter from dizziness, snatch a piece of furniture to keep upright. Morbid thoughts possess her. Holding Case’s hand while he mutters delirium-scrambled words, Ada says bleakly, “I knew it would all go wrong if I married him. And now it has.”
“Maybe you ain’t noticed, but you ain’t married to him yet. So what you said don’t follow. And don’t say it again because I don’t care to hear hopeless talk coming out your mouth. He ain’t going to die. If the angel of death wants Wesley Case, he’s going to have to wrassle you for him. I put my money on Ada Tarr. Why, you’d chew the feathers off that angel’s wings and spit them in his face, wouldn’t you?”
Ada rewards him by forcing a weak smile to her lips. “I suppose I would.”
“But angel-wrasslers got to keep their strength up. So why don’t you go downstairs, have a bowl of soup, a piece of bread and butter? Sit quiet for an hour,” he coaxes.
“Perhaps,” she says, uncertainly. For the first time, Joe sees her tempted to follow his instructions.
“Not perhaps,” says Joe. “Do it.” He takes her to the door and gives her a gentle shove into the corridor.
Ada drifts off down it, one hand trailing along the wall, feeling her way to the stairway like a blind woman. She calls back to him, “Don’t forget to give Wesley his Dover’s powder! At five o’clock! Ten grams in warm water! Make sure the water’s warm, Joe!”
But when Joe examines the vial of powder, there’s nothing left in it but a skim of dust. That she has overlooked how low she was running on medicine testifies to how dazed she is by exhaustion. McMullen glances at Case, who, for the moment, seems to be passing a tranquil spell. Knowing how Ada would upbraid herself for her negligence, he decides to dash out and get more medicine. A ten-minute errand, and Ada will be none the wiser.
Dunne, Toomey, Figgis, and Priest are headed for the Franklin House crouched in the buckboard like refugees fleeing the sack of a city. Dunne is grateful the soft grey light of late afternoon is guttering out and that there is so little traffic on the roadways.
Saloon and shop lamps are already lit against the encroaching darkness. Condensation on the windows diffuses the light cast on the street in a jaundiced blur. A man Dunne recognizes steps into one of these y
ellow pools. He gives a tap to Priest’s shoulder and points him out. “McMullen,” he says. “There’s some luck. We move fast, we can carry off Case while he’s out.”
All Priest says is, “Whatever arises, we will manage.”
But Toomey, who has been assigned to drive, has trouble manoeuvring the wagon into the tight confines of the alley. Precious time is lost while he clumsily gees and haws the horses into place. Dunne is halfway up the fire escape before Figgis and Priest even clear the wagon box. With a stiff jerk of a crowbar he pops open the door just as they join him on the landing. The three men pause to pull on their hoods. Dunne squints through the eyeholes of his, peers into a corridor stained with snuff-coloured shadows. No one is in sight. Priest gestures to Figgis, who has the role of lookout, and he tiptoes to the end of the hallway, positions himself at the top of the stairs that lead down to the lobby. Priest and Dunne move to the door of Case’s room. Priest’s arms are crossed at the small of his back. Each fist grips a surgical knife.
“No harm to the woman. Whatever happens,” Dunne insists, voice muffled by the sacking covering his face.
Priest gives a little hitch to his shoulders and says, “If you would open the door, Mr. Dunne. My hands are occupied.”
Dunne slowly turns the knob. His right hand is inside his jacket, resting on the grip of his Schofield. Priest’s eyes gleam hungrily in the holes of his hood. If Priest menaces Mrs. Tarr in any fashion, Dunne is prepared to blast his brains to smithereens.
Dunne can breathe again. There is only one occupant, Case, lying insensible, barely conscious on the bed.
Holding up the knives as if he were lifting steel candles to light the room, Priest intones, “Dress him.”
That’s easier said than done,but Dunne gets Case’s clothes on him, his feet stuffed into boots, his arms through coat sleeves. For seconds at a time, Case is aware of being manhandled, mumbles fitful protests. At last, Dunne slings the sick man’s arm over his shoulder, steers him out of the room, and begins to drag him down the stairs, Case’s boot toes clattering on the steps. Priest follows, knives once more tucked behind his back.
The instant the victim is bundled through the fire escape door and Dunne and Priest are clear of the scene, Figgis strides quickly down the corridor, ducks into Case’s room, and starts rifling drawers. It will take Dunne some time to get their unwieldy prize down the stairs and stow him in the buckboard. He suspects a man like Case has something of value lying about, money, maybe a gold watch.
Figgis has his head buried in the wardrobe when McMullen steps into the room. Joe is baffled. What is Case doing out of bed? Why is he rooting around looking for clothes? “Wesley?” he calls out. The shoulders flinch, the head snaps around. He is confronted by two black eyes staring out of a white sack, sees a hand creeping to a pocket.
Joe drives at the man. Figgis’s revolver barely clears his pocket before McMullen clamps down on the wrist, pins it to the wall, and sinks his teeth into the arm. Figgis gives a groan, shudders, the revolver falls to the floor. Joe heels it away, sends it skittering under the bed. With his other hand, he claws at the hood; a finger hooks in an eyehole, he gives it a wrench, feels the cloth rip. Figgis is flailing at him with a water pitcher. Battering him with desperate blows to his spine, trying to pop open the jaws locked on his arm. Each time one thuds into his body, Joe’s nostrils whistle pain. But he stays clamped on the muscle, grinds it in his teeth, tries to burrow his hand between the trespasser’s legs, latch on to his privates, give them a good mauling. But the intruder keeps switching his hips from side to side, dodging the attack.
The pitcher cracks hard into the side of Joe’s head and shatters in a shower of crockery; his legs turn to aspic and sag. Figgis bucks them both off the wall, sends them reeling across the room, banging into furniture, ricocheting off walls. They trip on the threshold of the doorway and crash heavily to the floor in the hallway. The impact bounces Joe’s teeth off their hold on the arm and he discovers himself lying face to face with a carrot-top son of a bitch whose skin is covered in fly-shit freckles.
Figgis lurches to his feet, injured arm dangling, pitcher handle still clutched in one hand. He eyes the fire escape. But Joe is blocking the way, still on his hands and knees, crouched, bristling, one foot weakly pawing the floor for a purchase to help him rise. Suddenly, he makes a scuttling crab-like rush at the interloper, swipes at his ankles, and Figgis turns tail, flees for the lobby.
Joe shouts after him, “Where’s Case? What you done with him?”
If there’s anyone in any of the rooms lining the corridor, they don’t dare stick a head out to investigate the commotion. Joe’s ears are still ringing from the blow to the head. He crawls to the door of Case’s room, pulls himself up on it, but his legs sag under him. He waits a few moments and then he staggers to his own room, buckles on his pistol belt, shuffles down the hallway, and, clinging to the banister, eases himself down the staircase, step by step, to the lobby.
The deskman shrinks a little when he sees the livid, swelling knot on McMullen’s head, and faces a blunt question. “Mr. Case been down today? You seen him?”
“I have not. You mean to say he’s recovered?”
Joe ignores the inquiry. “A red-haired fellow came through here just now. Which way did he go?”
The deskman is severe and disapproving. “I can’t say. But he was going like blazes. This is a respectable hotel. We don’t tolerate rows. We had to put that fellow out of here once before. If he’s an acquaintance of yours, I’d ask you to entertain him elsewhere.”
Past the desk, Joe can see Ada at a table in the dining room. She has fallen asleep in her chair. Without removing his eyes from her, Joe says, “He’s a stranger to me, but you seem to know him. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name,” the deskman snaps. “All I know of him is that he and another stranger brought a local girl in here for supper one night – a girl who don’t belong in the Franklin – and we had to ask them to leave.”
“What’s the girl’s name? Where can I find her?”
“There’s no welcome for girls like her here. So don’t get any ideas about bringing her into this establishment for a frolic because –”
When McMullen swings his furious eyes back on the deskman, they stopper his words like a cork smacked into the mouth of a bottle. “You talk a lot but you don’t talk what I want to hear,” says Joe. “I said, what’s the girl’s name? Where do I find her?”
“Betsy Eberhardt. She’s touched in the head. Came in here with those two fellows and had about a dozen different-coloured ribbons in her hair and was wearing men’s galoshes –”
“I ain’t interested how she bedecks herself. What I want to know is where do I find her.”
“Lives with her granddad,” the deskman says primly. “They got a shack behind the blacksmith’s shop on this very street, eight, nine doors down to the right.”
Joe glances back to Ada, still nodding in her chair. She’ll stir soon. He consults the clock on the lobby wall. Ten minutes short of five. “If Mrs. Tarr comes out the dining room before I’m back, try to delay her from going up to the room. I need to get somebody to keep her company.”
“It’s not in my place to interfere with a guest,” says the deskman.
“Do what I tell you,” says Joe, “or I’ll be interfering with you.”
He goes out of the Franklin; his legs are still shaky as he crosses the street to the bank. Peregrine is behind his teller’s cage, counting cash. When he sees Joe moving unsteadily towards hiis fingers rise from the bills and flutter about his waist. “Mr. McMullen, whatever is wrong? Don’t tell me that Mr. Case –”
“No he ain’t dead. But you’re needed. Now.”
Peregrine doesn’t hesitate, quickly gathers his coat and hat. The other tellers look up from their work; the manager rises from behind his desk to protest, but before a word clears his throat, the two are out the door.
Walking quickly towards Franklin House, McMulle
n sketches for Peregrine what has happened, gives him instructions to break the news to Ada and to afford her all the comfort he is able to give. He has business to attend to regarding the red-haired man, but will be back as soon as he can.
The shack behind the smithy looks like an apple crate. It doesn’t even have a window, but the chinks between the rough planks ooze a little light. Joe raps on a door hinged with old boot soles. The girl who answers is a little mite of a thing with a rat’s nest of sandy hair and eyelashes so pale at first he thought she had none at all. Despite the time of year, she is bare legged and wears a thin cotton dress. But she’s bright and cheery enough. “Hello there, mister!” she cries.
“Miss Eberhardt, I’d like a word.”
“Do come in,” she says. “In the dark, I get lonely.”
The shack is a dismal place, reeking of a slop can in the corner, and so cold that Joe can see his breath. There’s a rusty unlit stove and a coal scuttle holding a few tiny chips of coal hardly bigger than his thumb. Betsy Eberhardt apologizes for the chill. “I don’t light a fire till Grandpa gets home. The blacksmith lets me pick through the scraps of coal that fall by his forge.” She displays two small grimy paws and laughs heartily. “See! I just done harvesting!”
“Well,” says Joe, “I’m lucky to find you home then.”
“Let’s visit,” says Betsy, as if he’s some old family friend.
“I met your red-haired gentleman today,” says Joe.
“Was Mr. Figgis in town?” she says, giving a delighted clap of her hands. “Why ever didn’t that blamed rascal come see me?”
“I reckon he would have liked to but he was occupied.”
“Was Mr. Toomey with him?”
“I didn’t see Mr. Toomey.”
“They’re rivals,” Betsy confides. “First Mr. Figgis wanted to marry me and then Mr. Toomey did. I say, let them fight it out between them.”
“That’s a good policy,” Joe concedes.
A Good Man Page 43