“We’ll keep it in mind. Anything else?”
“The colonel’s got another fellow traveling with him, kind of a mysterious hombre. Name of Markand. Not a moneyman. He’s an agent for a European arms maker. Got some kind of invention he’s touting to Davenport, trying to get him to invest. Some kind of fancy gun or something, but that’s all I know.”
“Foreigner?” Matt asked.
“No, he’s American. Creole from New Orleans, but he’s been around. Looks like he can take care of himself in a pinch,” Buckskin Frank said.
He changed the subject. “How about that Wells Fargo robbery! That sure was some sweet haul.”
“Twenty-seven-thousand dollars,” Matt said.
“I’d like to get my hands on that!”
“Who do you think did it?” Sam asked. “You get around, Frank. A bartender hears all kinds of things on the grapevine. Any ideas who the robbers are?”
“It happened an hour after sunup. I was with you at the time. So I know you didn’t do it and you know I didn’t do it. Ringo and Curly Bill were there with us, so that lets them out. Otherwise, they’d be the logical choice.”
“We know who didn’t do it. Who did?”
Buckskin Frank looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot. “I’m not making accusations, mind, and you didn’t hear it from me, but it sure would be interesting to know where Doc Holliday was when the bullion wagon was hit.”
“Doc’s on the posse hunting the robbers,” Matt pointed out.
“What of it? The posse didn’t go out till two in the afternoon, if not later. Plenty of time for Doc to get back to town and set up an alibi.
“And here’s another thing: The robbers burned down Cooper, the shotgun messenger, right straight off and tried to kill driver Simms, too. Cooper and Simms both know Doc pretty well. Could be they recognized him even with a mask on, or Doc thought they did, so he decided to take care of them permanentlike.”
Matt looked thoughtful. “I’m not saying Doc wouldn’t do it if he had the chance, but what about Wyatt Earp? Doc’s his right-hand man. I’ve got no love for Wyatt, but I can’t see him tieing into something as raw as this. . . .”
“Wyatt looks the other way when it comes to Doc. There’s a lot about Doc Holliday that Wyatt don’t know because he don’t want to know,” Frank said.
At the bar the bartender gestured to Frank, motioning for him to come over. “I jawed long enough. I got to get back to work,” Frank said.
“We better get moving, too, or we’ll be late for our meeting,” said Sam.
“You don’t want to do that. Davenport’s supposed to be a stickler for punctuality.”
“One thing puzzles me,” Matt said. “You never gave away something for nothing in your life, Frank. What’s in it for you for steering us to the colonel?”
“Just doing you a good turn. If you close the deal, you might do me one by paying me a finder’s fee.”
“Now it makes sense.”
“If it’s a go, we’ll cut you in for a slice, Frank,” Sam said.
“I knew I could count on you. Good luck, men. Let me know how it comes out.” Buckskin Frank said so long and went back behind the bar.
“Frank’s a slippery cuss. He’s probably got it rigged for Davenport to pay him a finder’s fee if the deal goes through, too,” Matt said.
“Let’s not keep the great man waiting,” said Sam.
Colonel Davenport’s room was upstairs, on the second floor: Room 208, the so-called Presidential Suite, best room in the house. Sam and Matt stood outside the door. Sam knocked on it.
The door opened almost as soon as Sam finished knocking, as though the person within had been standing there waiting. Beyond the threshold lay a short narrow vestibule opening on a large drawing room.
The doorkeeper was lean and lank, with bony shoulder knobs, elbows, and knees.
Thin, spidery, colorless hair webbed his high-domed head. His face was long, mournful, with close-set eyes, turnip-shaped nose, and a tight mouth pursed in an expression of disapproval. He was clean-shaven, but with prominent “mutton chop” side whiskers.
He wore a black frock coat, stiff white collar, and a gray-patterned cravat.
“Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves to see Colonel Davenport. We’re expected,” Sam said.
“Come in, please,” the doorkeeper said. They went in.
“I am Arnholt Stebbins, Colonel Davenport’s confidential assistant,” the doorkeeper said.
“Glad to know you,” said Matt.
“Quite. This way, please.”
Stebbins turned, moving forward. Matt was glad he hadn’t expected a handshake. Stebbins probably would have ignored it and that would have been irritating. He and Sam followed Stebbins into the drawing room. Other rooms opened off it to the left and right.
The drawing room was large, expansive, well appointed and furnished. Framed engravings of the Capitol building and White House hung on the walls. A sideboard was well stocked with an array of bottles holding a variety of whiskeys and wines. Cigar smoke hung heavy in the room. The windows were open and the curtains parted, but it was a still night with barely the breath of a breeze.
Two men stood standing and talking, with well-filled glasses in hand, puffing away on fat, aromatic cigars. One was white-haired with a white mustache; the other, a younger man with black hair and finely cut features.
“Colonel Davenport, this is Mr. Bodine and Mr. Wolves,” Stebbins announced with a show of formality.
“Two Wolves,” Sam corrected him.
Stebbins looked like he’d been told his fly was open. Matt toyed with the idea of doing just that, to see his reaction, but he stifled the impulse.
“The name is Sam Two Wolves—Mr. Two Wolves,” Sam said.
“Whatever your name is, I’m damned glad to meet you,” the white-haired man said, stepping forward.
He was sixty-five, short, with short, neatly parted snowy hair, tufted white eyebrows, a bushy white mustache, and shiny pink skin. He looked well set up in the ways of good living, comfortably padded, custom tailored.
He was Colonel Holland Davenport, celebrated plutocrat and promoter. He’d achieved some minor success as a Union Army commander in the War Between the States. Since then, he’d been a banker, Wall Street financier, railroad builder, bridge builder, and mighty master of several million dollars.
The front man for a group of Eastern money brokers, he was making a grand tour of the Southwest in search of investment properties, concentrating on mining and timber holdings.
Tombstone was in need of an infusion of large outside capital. A large fortune in silver ore lay beneath the ground, but it would take a small fortune to develop it properly.
The hard rock mining required to wrest the ore from below required heavy earthmoving equipment and a legion of men to work the diggings.
The local prospectors and speculators who found and claimed the deposit sites simply didn’t have the money to haul out the ore in a big way, loosing a flood of Eastern bankers and moneymen to remedy the lack.
Earlier today, Buckskin Frank Leslie had sought out Sam Two Wolves, finding him horse-trading at the corral. He alerted Sam that Davenport was in town and staying at the Hotel Erle where Frank tended bar. Davenport’s fascination for Western gunfighters was well-known, giving Frank a wedge to arrange a meeting between the colonel and the duo.
Davenport reached out to shake Sam’s hand. The colonel’s hands were smooth and uncallused, but his grip was strong. He shook Matt’s hand, too.
“Allow me to introduce an associate of mine, Mr. Remy Markand,” Davenport said.
Markand, forty, was several inches above medium height, with an athletic build.
He had black hair, blue eyes, and a black Vandyke mustache and goatee. His hair had blue highlights. It was so shiny, it looked lacquered. His skin was bronzed, weathered, the skin of an outdoorsman. His eyebrows were arched in the centers and his goatee came to a sharp point, giving him some
thing of a Mephisto look. A good-humored Mephisto, with a quick, friendly smile.
Like Matt and Sam, he wore a gun. It was worn on his left hip in a gun belt made of fine reddish-brown Moroccan leather—he was a left-hand draw, a fact duly noted by Sam and Matt, whose livelihood and lives depended on noting such important details.
Markand and the duo shook hands all around. Markand’s grip was firm, dry.
“A historic encounter,” Colonel Davenport enthused, “the Brothers of the Wolf meeting the Panther of the Atlas!
“Yes, I’m well acquainted with your background, gentlemen. One white boy, one red, both raised among the Cheyenne, the Brothers of the Wolf. Blood brothers and fighting men, roaming the West in search of adventure!”
Actually, Sam was born of a Cheyenne warrior and a New England schoolmarm, making him half-white and half-red, but both he and Matt independently decided it was more politic not to correct the colonel in his outburst of enthusiasm.
“It’s my distinct pleasure to present you to Captain Remy Markand, late of the French Foreign Legion, whose bold exploits against the Riffian Berbers and the Blue Men of the Tuareg in the colonies of Algiers and Morocco earned him the sobriquet ‘Panther of the Atlas Mountains.’”
“That was long ago and far away, Colonel,” Markand said with a small smile.
“Valor lives forever, my fine young sir, as you and Messers Bodine and Two Wolves will come to realize in the future, if you don’t already.”
“In this day and age it seems one is only as good as his next exploit,” Markand said.
“Well put. Doubtless more exciting adventures lie in wait for all three of you.”
“I hope not. I could use a rest from being shot at.”
“I know what you mean!” Matt said feelingly.
“What’re you drinking, men?” Davenport asked.
“Whiskey!” Sam and Matt said simultaneously.
“Hop to it, Stebbins, serve them out. We’ve got some thirsty men here. Markand and I could use another round, too.”
Stebbins hovered over the sideboard, pouring the drinks: whisky for the duo, bourbon for Markand, brandy for Davenport.
“A toast, gentlemen,” Davenport said, hoisting a glass. “Adventure!”
Sam’s idea of adventure was somebody else having a hell of a tough time a thousand miles away, as a wise man once said (he forgot whom). He kept his thoughts to himself. Sam didn’t want to tell his war stories; he wanted to pitch the Spear Blade Spur claim. The subject would have to be introduced with some finesse, he realized. Hard-charging tycoons like Davenport weren’t in the habit of being led around by the nose—or even being interrupted, for that matter.
He and the others drank up, draining their glasses. Stebbins hovered around the edges, not drinking. He refilled the glasses.
“I want to hear all about your thrilling exploits, shooting your way across the map from Hell to Texas—”
“Sometimes there’s not much difference, Colonel,” Matt said.
“Eh? What? How’s that again?”
“Not much difference between Hell and Texas.”
Davenport barked a laugh. “Ha! A jest! I get it—I’ve been to Texas, ha-ha! And I’m destined to spend the afterlife sizzling on a hot spit in the Other Place, if you believe my critics! Personally, I don’t even ignore them. Have a cigar, Bodine.”
“Thanks, Colonel.”
“They’re Cubans, Monte Cristo, specially cut, cured, and hand-rolled to my specifications. Have a cigar, Two Wolves.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.” Sam held the cigar under his nose, rolling it in his fingers. Its fragrant aroma tantalized his senses. Stebbins held out a lit match and Sam and Matt puffed away, lighting up.
“Damned fine cigar, Colonel,” Matt said.
The foursome smoked and drank for a bit before Colonel Davenport started up again. “You Brothers of the Wolf being fighting men, I’ve got something to show you that’ll fill you with awe and wonderment—awe and wonderment, I say!
“Or, rather, Markand will say. He’ll do the talking—it’s his baby.”
“Hardly that, Colonel Davenport. I’m not the inventor, merely the sales agent for the North American region. I will concede that nothing sells like sincere admiration, and I have all that and more for our product,” Markand said. “I’m a true believer in the Montigny Mitrailleuse.”
He pronounced it “mon-tee-nee mit-ray-yoos.”
Matt and Sam exchanged blank glances. “I don’t know the name,” Matt said. Not only did he not know the name, he doubted he could pronounce it correctly. “Is it some kind of gun?”
Colonel Davenport convulsed with mirth, his face reddening. “Is it some kind of gun? That’s a good one, eh, Markand? Is it some kind of gun—why, it’s the very devil of a gun, Bodine, the very devil!
“But seeing is believing. What say you give them a peek, Markand?”
“I’d be delighted, Colonel. If you gentlemen will come this way,” Markand said, crossing the drawing room and passing under an archway. The others followed. Beyond the arch lay another room, part of the suite. Its far wall had several windows in it that opened on a balcony and, beyond that, Allen Street. The windows were open. Shadowy figures could be seen on the balcony.
Sam began, “Men outside—”
“They work for me,” Davenport said, “standing guard over the Mitrailleuse. Can’t risk a hotel sneak thief making off with the mechanical wonder of the age!”
“A wise precaution,” Sam said.
“Colonel Davenport leaves nothing to chance,” Stebbins said primly.
The room was a dining room, its centerpiece a large, sturdy table covered with a white linen tablecloth. Instead of being set with plates and cutlery, the table served as a platform for a unique piece of weaponry.
It was the height of incongruity, this futuristic armament laid out for display on a white-covered dining table. The piece was all gleaming curves and sharp edges, reflected lamplight glimmering along its shiny surfaces.
Matt and Sam moved in, circling the table to eye the piece. A three-foot-long metal cylinder was mounted on a tripod stand. One end of the cylinder was encased in an oblong housing or shell, taking up one-third of its total length; the other two-thirds consisted of the cylinder itself, a pipe barrel six inches in diameter. The muzzle was covered by a metal disk sieved with several dozen regularly spaced holes.
A square plate hung down from the underside where the barrel met the oblong receiver box. The bottom of the box was supported by a short, thick, vertical rod girded round with wheels and springs. The rod fitted into a housing at the top of the tripod. A curved handle rose vertically out of the top of the rear of the housing.
“I give you the Montigny Mitrailleuse,” Markand said, beaming, a proud papa presenting his pride and joy.
“Looks like a vest-pocket Gatling gun,” Matt said.
Davenport said. “Hear that, Markand? ‘A vest-pocket Gatling gun!’ Not bad, eh? He’s got you there!”
“In truth, it is not unlike a Gatling gun, though profoundly improved, lighter, more portable,” Markand said. “At the home office, we like to call it a machine gun.”
“A machine gun!” Sam breathed, realizing the implications of the concept—of the piece.
Matt, fascinated, lightly fingered the many bores in the circular muzzle disk. “These bores—they’re each part of a separate barrel.”
“Correct,” Markand said. “The cylinder holds thirty-seven barrels inside. They are connected to this metal plate”—here, he indicated the square-shaped case, not unlike a cigarette case in size, which fit into a receiver below the cylinder, where it met the oblong housing—“this plate, which holds thirty-seven cartridges. The cartridge plate can be quickly removed at the press of a button, extracting an empty plate and loading a full one.
“The Mitrailleuse is a multi-barreled, man-powered piece. The gunner turns this hand crank to fire the weapon. A switch permits either single-shot firing or a single tre
mendous volley.
“In either case, the effect, I assure you, is formidable—devastating.”
“Markand is the North American sales representative for the arms maker,” Davenport said. “What say you, men?”
“One of the damnedest things I’ve ever seen,” Sam said. Despite the whiskey he’d drunk, he felt cold sober.
“It sure does beat all, if it does what you say,” Matt said.
“It does all that and more,” Markand said.
“I’d buy one right now, except I can’t fit it in my holster,” Matt joked weakly. He was transfixed, mesmerized by the machine. Guns were his vocation and his avocation, his livelihood and his ruling passion.
“I’m going to put on a demonstration tomorrow. I invite you both to attend as my guests,” Markand said.
“I accept,” Sam said gravely.
“I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it,” Matt said.
“I knew you fighting men would appreciate the piece. I’m thinking of acquiring the North American rights for my combine,” Davenport said. “But speaking of acquisitions, I’m given to understand that you men have some sort of a proposition for me—something about a silver mine claim?”
Sam and Matt had difficulty getting their heads out of the machine gun to pitch the prospects of Spear Blade Spur.
Sam came to himself first. “You’re a businessman, Colonel, and time is money, so we’ll get right to it. As you said, seeing is believing. Why don’t you show him the samples, Matt?”
“Huh? Oh, right.” Matt shook his head as if to clear it. Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, he took out a cloth pouch. Opening its drawstring mouth, he upended it, emptied its contents on the white-linen covered tabletop, spilling out a handful of silver nuggets. They rattled like dice, coming to rest in the shadow of the machine gun.
The silver-rich nuggets had been cleaned and polished for presentational purposes. They scintillated, striking glints and glimmers of reflected lamplight.
Precious metal exerted its age-old lure on the company, fascinating them. Davenport, Markand, and even Stebbins moved closer, crowding the edge of the table for a better look.
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 8