by Ralph Cotton
Chapter 15
Beck and the men looked down at the large blocks of ice in the hole in the barn floor. The blocks had been wrapped in their insulated quilt covers, and in turn covered with a thick layer of fresh straw. A few yards away the center of the barn floor had been raked and swept and covered with blankets to keep down dust. A five-foot-long wooden workbench had been set up, Soto’s equipment and supplies sitting atop it.
‘‘That’s all we can do here,’’ Beck said as he and the others rolled their wet shirtsleeves down and buttoned their cuffs. Gesturing toward Soto, who stood bowed over two buckets of chipped ice and a bucket of the boiled, cooled water atop the workbench, he said quietly, ‘‘We best get out of here, so our genius can work.’’ A few feet from Soto, Clarimonde stood watching Soto intently, ready at any moment to turn her face away as if fearing he might look around at her.
‘‘Now we’re ready,’’ Soto said, hearing the barn door close behind Beck and the men. Clarimonde watched intently as he took two glass laboratory measuring beakers from one of the buckets of chipped ice and set them on the bench. One beaker contained what Clarimonde, not standing close enough to read the measurement on the side of the beaker, could only determine to be three fingers of sulfuric acid. The other beaker contained half as much nitric acid. Soto had set the beakers in one bucket of ice to cool before mixing them together.
‘‘Come closer and watch how I stir this together, very slowly, very carefully,’’ Soto said to her. ‘‘When I get everything mixed together, your job will be to keep everything stirring for the next two hours.’’
Clarimonde only nodded, stepping in closer. She watched him slowly pour the two acids together into a glass flask sitting half-submerged in the other bucket of ice. When the two were in the flask he stuck the glass thermometer in it and said, ‘‘This mix grows warm, but it will cool quickly. When it reaches the right temperature, we mix in the glycerin.’’
Clarimonde didn’t dare ask what that temperature would be and alert him that she might be trying to learn the process herself. Instead she kept a secretive eye on the thermometer. Moments later, when Soto raised it, read it and said, ‘‘There, that is cool enough,’’ Clarimonde could only note that the temperature was somewhere under the fifty degree mark. ‘‘Now,’’ he said, ‘‘I add the glycerin, slowly.’’
She watched as he added the heavy, syruplike glycerin to the acid mixture, committing every detail she could to memory, knowing that anything she missed she could never ask about. She had to learn the process on her own or not at all.
‘‘Now, we wait,’’ he said, after several minutes of blending the glycerin into the acid mixture. Carefully, he pulled the flask up out of the ice and set it on the bench. Putting the thermometer down into the flask, he stepped back, rubbing his hands together, and said with what she read as a cruel smile, ‘‘The complicated part is done. You’ll be doing most of the mixing now.’’
Clarimonde didn’t respond. She was ready. She could do this, she told herself.
A half hour after he’d mixed in the glycerin, Soto stepped back to the bench and examined the milky mixture closely. ‘‘Pour the water into the funnel,’’ he said over his shoulder to Clarimonde.
‘‘Done,’’ she said, when the last of the water had been poured.
‘‘Now, carefully pour the mixture into it,’’ Soto said, watching the milky substance of acids and glycerin without facing her. . . .
While the two worked deep into the night, on the front porch, Beck and the Tall Texan stared now and then at the light glowing through the cracks in the barn walls. The rest of the men had given up over the past two hours and gone inside to bed. After a while, Kirkpatrick sighed and took the last swig of rye from a whiskey bottle. ‘‘Does it always take this long to make nitro?’’
‘‘How would I know?’’ Beck replied, his eyes going back to the image of a silhouette passing back and forth through the light inside the barn. ‘‘How long has it been?’’
Kirkpatrick checked his pocket watch, then shoved it back down inside his vest pocket. ‘‘More than four hours. I didn’t know anything took this long to make.’’
Beck started to answer, but his attention went instead to the barn door opening and closing. The two stood up, watching the pale, grainy image of Clarimonde walk toward them in the moonlight.
‘‘May I get some coffee?’’ she asked upon stopping at the edge of the porch.
‘‘Of course you can,’’ said Beck. Before he could turn to Kirkpatrick, the Tall Texan had already turned toward the door. ‘‘It’s going to be stout.’’
‘‘Stout will do,’’ said Clarimonde.
Beck noted a difference in her voice. It sounded stronger, more confident—the voice of a woman taking the reins, he thought. As Kirkpatrick stepped inside the house, he asked her, ‘‘How is it going out there?’’
‘‘It’s finished,’’ she said, a certain amount of relief coming to her voice. ‘‘Suelo said to tell you we’ll test some of it first thing in the morning.’’
‘‘That’s great news,’’ said Beck. His tone lowered as he asked, ‘‘And how are you?’’
‘‘I’m fine, thanks,’’ she answered cordially, in the same manner anyone would have replied.
‘‘I see,’’ Beck said, understanding that she was not going to take a chance at saying the wrong thing. Deciding not to push the matter, he said, ‘‘Then, I suppose we’ll see just how good you and Suelo Soto both are at this come morning.’’
‘‘Yes, we’ll see,’’ she said.
The front door opened and closed, and Kirkpatrick stepped out, carrying a hot coffeepot, a rag wrapped around the handle. ‘‘Watch it, ma’am. This is hot,’’ he said, handing the pot to her carefully. ‘‘Take a good grip on the handle here.’’ He held the pot around for her to take from him.
‘‘I’ve got a good grip on it,’’ Clarimonde said, her eyes moving across Beck’s as she spoke.
Beck smiled, getting her message. He touched his fingers to his hat brim toward her and said, ‘‘Night, ma’am,’’ and he and Kirkpatrick watched her turn and walk away in the moonlight.
‘‘Well, that’s good news,’’ said Kirkpatrick.
‘‘Yes, good news indeed,’’ said Beck. ‘‘I think I’ll turn in now, see what tomorrow brings us.’’
At dawn, Denver Modale, owner of the Big Diamond tent saloon, pulled his gallowses up over his thick shoulders and stepped out of the privy. He’d walked across the littered alleyway behind the big tent and started to step inside when a hand reached out of nowhere, grabbed his collar and slung him to the ground.
‘‘Whoa! Don’t shoot!’’ Modale cried out, looking up the open bore of Davis Dinsmore’s cocked Colt, two inches from his nose. ‘‘I’ve got no money on me! I swear I don’t!’’
‘‘Shut up, Denver, you pig! It’s not a robbery,’’ said Dinsmore, tipping his hat up enough for the saloon owner to get a better look at his beard-stubbled face.
‘‘Damn it, Davis,’’ Modale said, almost wishing it were a robber instead of his former brother-in-law. ‘‘Why’d you knock me down like this? Are you crazy?’’ He started to get back on his feet, but Dinsmore’s dirty boot pressed hard onto his chest, holding him down.
‘‘Not so fast, Denver,’’ said Dinsmore. ‘‘We want some information. I’m hoping you’re not going to make us beat it out of you.’’
‘‘Not if I can help it,’’ said Modale. ‘‘I’ve got nothing to hide and nobody to hide it from. Ask what you will.’’ Lying back beneath the Dinsmore boot, he saw Neil Deavers step into view. ‘‘Detective Deavers?’’ he asked, looking surprised and puzzled. ‘‘You’re working with Davis Dinsmore?’’
‘‘Yeah, he is. What of it?’’ Dinsmore cut in. ‘‘You find something wrong with that?’’
‘‘No, it’s just that—’’ Modale’s words turned to a grunt as Dinsmore raised his boot and stomped it down hard on his chest.
‘‘All right, Dav
is,’’ said Deavers, ‘‘that’s enough of that.’’
‘‘Enough?’’ Dinsmore gave Modale an evil look and said to Deavers, ‘‘If you knew this sumbitch like I do, you’d want me to kill him and do it slow, the things he did to my sister, Belle.’’
‘‘Back off, Davis. I’m warning you,’’ said Deavers. He stepped in between the two and reached a hand down to Modale, helping him to his feet.
‘‘That was all uncalled for, Davis,’’ said Modale, brushing himself off. ‘‘We’ve seen one another other times. You never acted like this!’’
‘‘It just dawned on me this morning how bad I hate your worthless guts, Denver Modale,’’ Dinsmore growled.
‘‘The fact of it is,’’ he said to Deavers, ‘‘I didn’t run out on his sister. She ran out on me. She comes from a long line of crazy—’’
‘‘That’s it. You’re dead!’’ said Dinsmore, cutting him off. He tried to shove his Colt around Deavers to pull the trigger.
‘‘Damn it, put it away!’’ Deavers shouted, clamping his hand down over the Colt to keep the hammer from being able to fall.
‘‘He’s got no sense. You’ll have to knock him in the head to stop him,’’ said Modale.
But Dinsmore took a breath and stood back, letting Deavers take the Colt, uncock it and shove it back down into his holster. ‘‘There, now leave it holstered!’’ He turned back to Modale. ‘‘We’re looking for Memphis Beck and some of his men. We tracked three of them near here on a handcar. We found the handcar on the siding near town. Have you seen any of them?’’
‘‘I hope you try lying,’’ Dinsmore said under his breath, getting one more threat.
Modale ignored him and said to Deavers, ‘‘I have not seen Memphis Beck, and that’s the gospel truth.’’ He looked back and forth along the alleyway. Then he said in a lowered tone, ‘‘But I did see the Tall Texan and some others.’’
‘‘Yeah? When?’’ Deavers asked, attentively. ‘‘Who were the others?’’
‘‘Two days ago, Kirkpatrick and Billy Todd Carver came to town, Billy Todd on a saddle, the Tall Texan holding down a buggy seat.’’ He looked back and forth again. ‘‘They met a funny-looking fellow with his head shaved and tattooed, and a woman who acted like she didn’t know last night from next Sunday morning.’’
‘‘This was two days ago, huh?’’ Deavers rubbed his chin, trying to put things together.
‘‘Yep, two days,’’ said Modale. ‘‘They stood right at the bar, the tattooed fellow drinking shots of rye like the sky was falling. Kirkpatrick just watched him like they halfway had a mad-on.’’
‘‘Which way did they ride out?’’ Deavers asked, starting to wonder if maybe the gang was holed up nearby.
‘‘Up toward the hill trails,’’ said Modale, pointing toward a hill line in the distance. Looking past Deavers at Dinsmore, he said, ‘‘Now, see, I said all that without all the threatening and bullying, didn’t I?’’
Dinsmore didn’t answer. Instead, he looked away as if boiling with anger.
‘‘You’ve been most helpful, Modale,’’ said Deavers, ‘‘and I appreciate it.’’ He turned to Dinsmore and said, ‘‘Come on, we’ll ride up along the high trails, see if we can get lucky and pick up some tracks.
‘‘Any time I can help, Detective Deavers, you let me know,’’ Modale said. ‘‘I see lots of strange folks come and go. Lately they’re hairless with tattooed heads,’’ he wheezed and laughed.
‘‘He’s not a detective, you dimwit!’’ Dinsmore growled at him, ignoring his words. ‘‘He’s a bounty hunter! We both are. We make our living facing bad men, not pouring whiskey and lighting cigars!’’
‘‘You go to hell, Davis!’’ Modale said, hurrying toward the tent fly as he spoke over his shoulder.
Deavers gave Dinsmore a shove to keep him from going after the saloon owner. ‘‘Come on, I think we might be onto something. One of the men with Kirkpatrick yesterday was most likely Billy Todd Carver, since Modale said they were both here in town together. We need to tighten down on Kirkpatrick and Carver. I’ve got a feeling they’ll lead us to the rest of the gang."
Chapter 16
An hour later, at a seldom-used rail siding outside of Rusty Nail, the two bounty hunters came upon the handcar sitting out of sight between two steep hillsides where Flannery, Carver and Cruzan had left it. They approached it with caution. ‘‘How do we know this is the same one?’’ Dinsmore asked, his Colt in hand, his thumb over the hammer as they put their horses forward at a walk.
‘‘Oh, this is the same one all right,’’ said Deavers, both of them looking around as they rode in between the hillsides, each wary of a trap. ‘‘Look around you. It’s the only thing sitting here not covered with a year’s worth of dust.’’ They looked around at the dust-covered remnants of a tin mine operation. A loose corner of corrugated metal roofing chattered on a morning breeze. At the corner of a weathered building, a scraggly jackrabbit peeped around a corner at them, then looped out of sight.
At the handcar, Deavers stepped down, his gun poised. He laid a gloved hand on a damp spot on the rough plank floor as if gauging what had been sitting there. ‘‘It’s been wet,’’ he said, speculating, remembering the two covered blocks of cargo. ‘‘What do you suppose they were hauling . . . ?’’ He let his words trail as he rubbed his damp gloved fingers together and stared at them as if searching for clues.
‘‘It sure as hell wasn’t water lilies,’’ Dinsmore said almost in a whisper. He looked spooked at the idea of getting caught in an ambush in a narrow space between the two hills. ‘‘I say we had better back out of here while we can.’’
Deavers couldn’t argue. But he took the time to look down at the wagon tracks leading in beside the handcar, and leading away to a narrow switchback trail up one of the hillsides. ‘‘One of them must’ve pulled a wagon in here, unloaded the handcar onto it, then ridden off up into the hills. There must’ve been something they needed awfully bad up in Rock Springs.’’
‘‘Sounds right to me,’’ said Dinsmore, not wanting to be there. ‘‘Why don’t we do the same before we get our ears shot off? This is just exactly the kind of place where a man gets killed in an ambush.’’
‘‘What were they hauling that would be so wet?’’ said Deavers, still pondering the matter as he stepped back into his saddle and nudged his horse forward between the buckboard tracks.
‘‘I’m not going to guess,’’ said Dinsmore, settling some now that they were headed up toward the switchback trail. ‘‘The tracks are fresh enough we’ll able to ask them in person real soon,’’ he said. Booting his horse a little, he added, ‘‘As soon as I get in kicking range of Memphis Beck, I’m going to nail his nuts behind his navel.’’
They kept on the wagon trail for over two miles until the tracks swung down a long hillside thick with pine and dotted with sharp drop-offs that fell straight down over a hundred feet. ‘‘I’ll say one thing for Kirkpatrick and those boys,’’ Deavers commented. ‘‘They will travel some dangerous ground.’’
‘‘In the dark too, when they came down this way,’’ said Dinsmore. ‘‘Do you suppose they knew we were following them?’’
‘‘I don’t know how they could,’’ said Deavers. ‘‘I think they just play things close to the vest all the time. That’s why they get away with so much.’’ He nudged his horse carefully down into the thick pines. ‘‘They sure don’t make themselves easy to find or follow.’’
Twenty minutes later, just as they had lost the wagon tracks and stopped and looked all around in bewilderment, an explosion resounded beyond a long stretch of hills lying before them. ‘‘That’s them!’’ said Dinsmore, having to rein his horse down to keep it from rearing beneath him.
A look of revelation came to Deaver’s face as he collected his frightened horse and held it in check for just a moment. ‘‘It was ice! They were hauling ice!’’
‘‘Ice? What the hell for?’’ Dinsmore asked, his horse skittish, s
truggling against the reins.
‘‘They’re cooling dynamite,’’ said Deavers. ‘‘I’d say we’re catching them right before they make a run on a bank or express car somewhere.’’ He gigged his horse. ‘‘Come on. We’ll catch them unexpected while they’re busy testing their equipment. . . .’’
Two miles away, in a valley a hundred yards beyond the barn, Memphis Beck put his boot down on a twenty-foot uprooted cedar that lay on its side, its upper branches still shivering from its fall. ‘‘I call that some good hot nitro,’’ he said with a smile of satisfaction.
‘‘If it’s all that good, we could soon be owning the railroads instead of robbing them,’’ Kirkpatrick laughed. He tipped a mug of coffee toward Soto, who stood up from examining the cedar and dusted his hands together.
‘‘It’s good,’’ said Soto. ‘‘But the next batch will be better, stronger.’’ He looked at Beck with a trace of a smug grin and added, ‘‘I’ve been out of business for a while.’’
‘‘Are you saying you need some practice?’’ Beck asked. He nodded down at the cedar. ‘‘It doesn’t look like it to me.’’
"Explosives are my art," said Soto. "I know when it is good, but I also know when it is perfect.’’
Billy Todd stepped in, looking down at the tree, and asked, ‘‘What about opening a safe? I see it’s strong enough. But what’s going to keep it from blowing the money all to pieces?’’
‘‘What we just used is far too powerful to use on a safe, unless we are launching it into the sky,’’ said Soto, taking to the attention. ‘‘I knead a measured portion of this into some good stiff clay. I stick a handful of the clay on the lock and on each spot where the safe has a hinge. The compressed impact of the explosion cracks the hinges and the lock, and the door drops off. It’s all very smooth and easy.’’
‘‘Will we try it out first on a safe, before we go on the job, Memphis?’’ Carver asked, his eyes carrying the question to Beck.