by Max McCoy
“Not a thing,” Jaeger said.
“Anything useful in that letter?”
“No, not really. Do you smoke?”
“Hell, who doesn’t?”
“Then lend me a match.”
Jaeger struck the match against his heel, then held it to the bottom of the envelope. He held it until the bright orange flames nipped his fingers, then flung it away.
EIGHTEEN
Jacob Gamble was quite drunk by the time he fell into bed in his room on the second floor of the Texas House. Between bolting the door and actually pitching headfirst onto the mattress, he had managed to do a kind of staggering pirouette in which he shed every stitch of clothing except his right sock. He fell instantly and deeply asleep.
In his dreams, his mother was waiting.
He was seven years old and she stood behind him, her hands clasped over his eyes, pressing his head back against her waist. Her fingers felt cool on his eyelids.
“Don’t open your eyes, Jacob,” she murmured. “Don’t open your eyes.”
“But I can’t see,” he protested.
“Don’t open your eyes.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Don’t open your eyes, Jacob.”
“But how will I know what to do if I can’t look?”
He reached up and grasped her wrists and pried them, one at a time, from his eyes. They were standing in their cabin of forty years ago in Missouri and it was the depth of a summer night. The only light came from the open window. Outside, a full moon had turned the yard into a weird monochrome landscape—the rail fence and the woodpile and the maple tree were rendered in the silver tones of a tintype. There was a breeze from the south, and the curtains made from flour sacks rippled inward.
On a pair of sawhorses in the middle of the room rested a coffin of unvarnished white oak. The lid was on the floor, but Jacob was too short to see into the coffin.
“Mother,” Gamble said, over his shoulder. “Who is in the casket?”
She put a finger to her lips to shush him. She was dressed all in black, but her veil was pulled up to reveal her face. Her eyes glittered in the darkness.
He turned back. Gradually, he became aware of other figures in the dark corners of the room, human figures in frayed black robes but with the beaks of buzzards for faces. Fighting the fear rising in his chest, he asked:
“What are those things?”
“This is a wake,” she said.
“But those are monsters.”
“I told you not to look, Jacob” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I told you not to look.”
“Who’s in the coffin?”
His mother was suddenly at the table, shuffling a deck of cards. The leather-bound family Bible was open in front of her. The breeze blew stronger, riffling the thin pages of the Bible and scattering most of the cards on the floor. She dealt what she had left in her hand, one at a time, placing them under the edge of the Bible. She clasped a hand to her mouth.
“What is it?” he asked. “What will happen in the future?”
“All things,” she said.
He knew he must look inside the coffin. He took two steps forward, and the bird creatures began hissing and shaking their heads.
“Don’t, Jacob. Stay here with me until morning. Come to bed and I will keep you warm.”
“I’m not cold.”
He took another step forward.
Buzzard heads were cocked and beaks were snapping, confused, threatening. He was close enough now that he could nearly peer over the side of the coffin. He could hear curious wet clicking sounds coming from inside.
“Father?”
“Don’t look, Jacob,” his mother called.
He took one more step and looked into the coffin.
It was a mass of things—land crabs—swarming over a corpse. The stench of rotten flesh was overpowering, but Jacob forced himself to look closer. The crabs had stripped most of the flesh from the face of the dead man, revealing a grinning skull. One eye socket was empty. An eyeball dangled from the other socket, but it was soon plucked by a voracious claw.
“Is it father?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “Your father had no death watch, no funeral. You have already looked once—you had better look again.”
Jacob looked back.
The skeletal hands were crossed over the stomach, and in one hand was a revolver—a cap-and-ball revolver with a brass frame, the Manhattan.
Jacob backed away, shivering.
“How do I die?”
“Like all men,” his mother said. “With a final breath, a last look, a dying thought. All men are finite, Jacob. Each has a limited number of heartbeats. It is a kindness that the number is a mystery, least the knowledge drive them mad.”
“But you know,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, inspecting the cards. “The dead know.”
“Tell me.”
“Ask me something else.”
“Did you truly love me?”
She handed him two cards—the seven and three of spades.
“You will live seventy-three years beyond the age when your father died.”
“That is nonsense.”
“Close your eyes, then.”
“I’d be more than a hundred years old.”
“You are nearly halfway there,” she said.
“No, I’m seven.”
There was a knocking on the cabin door.
“Tell me why my father is haunting me.”
The knocking was louder.
“You said the dead know. Tell me.”
“I must go,” she said. “My sister has come.”
Gamble woke, turned onto his back, and ran a hand over his face, which was moist with sweat. He sat up, disoriented, burning with thirst. There was just enough light coming in from the window to see that he was still in the room at the Texas House. He swung his feet to the floor, walked over to the nightstand, and poured a glass of water from the pitcher there. He drank it, then poured himself another.
There was a tap at the door.
“Sonuvabitch,” he muttered.
The tap came again.
He snatched up the shotgun from where it leaned against the nightstand, crossed to the hinge side of the door, and asked who was there.
“Anise.”
“Wormwood,” he said. “You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Just a minute.”
He put the shotgun on the bed. Then he found his jeans, pulled them on, and unbolted the door. She stepped inside, and Gamble locked the door behind her.
She was wearing a robe over a chemise.
“What time is it?”
“Just after four.”
His head was throbbing.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t think I’m your man. Your treasure hunt is either a half-baked scheme or a truly imaginative con, I don’t know which—but I was drunk last night. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Shut up and listen,” Anise said. “The Pinkerton man is here, at the front desk. He has roused the night manager for a room, and is asking questions.”
“How do you know?”
“I had to go to the water closet down the hall, and I saw him from the landing,” she said. “I know he’s the Pinkerton, because he’s asking a lot of questions about you.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Description,” he said. “Whether you had one eye or two, your hair color, your age—and how many weapons you had. Lieutenant Dunbar, is there something you haven’t told us?”
“Damn Pinkerton,” he said. “I didn’t expect him until noon.”
“He’s not here to congratulate you, is he?”
Gamble was gathering up his clothes and stuffing them into the haversack.
“Do you see my other sock?”
“No,” she said.
“To hell with it.”
He sat on the bed and began pulling on his boots.
“You’re lik
e me, aren’t you?”
“How’s that?”
“Not what you appear to be.”
“Act like you haven’t seen me since last night, that I had plans to leave before dawn, but that I didn’t say where I was going,” he said.
Anise reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a sheaf of bills.
“Here’s the five hundred,” she said, putting it in his hand. “The other half when we get to the treasure cave by the twentieth.”
“How do you know I’m not going out that window and jump down to the sidewalk and you’ll never see me again?”
“Because we have a deal,” she said. “Because you weren’t that drunk. Because you want to see the treasure cave with me, even though I scare the hell out of you.”
“All right,” Gamble said. “But only because I’m out of ideas. Don’t be in a hurry in the morning. Talk to the Pinkerton, be polite, but don’t mention the gold coin.”
“Do I really look that stupid?”
“When you get a chance, get yourselves to the depot across town and take the first westbound train. Change trains at Santa Fe. Go south. I’ll meet you in Engle at noon the day after tomorrow.”
“Engle,” she said. “Day after tomorrow.”
He folded the map Weathers had given him and put it in the haversack. Then he threw the haversack over his shoulder, picked up the shotgun from the bed, and started for the window.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?”
“I don’t think so.”
She walked over, took his free hand, and guided it beneath her robe. Then she kissed him, her tongue darting into this mouth, her body pressing against his.
NINETEEN
Just before dawn, Jaeger slipped the pass key he had gotten from the night manager into the lock, slowly turned the key until the latch clicked, then swung open the door as quietly as possible. Then, revolver in hand, he sprang into the room.
Seeing the empty bed, he holstered the gun.
“Damn you,” he muttered.
He walked around the room. He glanced out the window, paused at the half-full glass of water, then knelt down and looked under the bed. He stretched a hand out and retrieved a red-and-gray wool sock.
“Where is your other sock now, Jakob Gamble?” he asked.
“Who is Jacob Gamble?”
Anise was leaning in the doorway. She was dressed in a flowing green dress, a green veil covering her face.
“Ah,” Jaeger said. “Excuse me. It is an old German expression, a name invoked to frighten children, much like the American boogeyman.”
“And this Teutonic boogeyman wears just one sock?”
“That’s why he steals socks,” Jaeger said.
“And what is your excuse?”
“Pardon me, miss. I forget myself,” Jaeger said, stuffing the stock into his pocket. “I am Max Jaeger, a Pinkerton man.”
“I am Anise Weathers.”
He came forward, took her gloved hand, and kissed it.
“I thought you might be.”
“The veil.”
“Because you were described to me as a beautiful young woman,” Jaeger said. “I have been anxious to meet you and your uncle, and this hero soldier—this Lieutenant Dunbar—but it appears he has already vacated his room.”
“I’m not surprised,” Anise said. “We dined with him last night and he mentioned pressing business and much travel.”
“Did he say where this business was taking him?”
“Sadly, no,” Anise said. “The lieutenant seemed an intensely private individual, and it would have appeared rude to ask, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Jaeger said. “But I am pleased that we early risers have found one another. It is a habit hard to break, no? May I invite you and your uncle to share breakfast with me? I am anxious to hear your account of the attempted train robbery.”
TWENTY
Jacob Gamble stepped down from the passenger train onto the station platform at Engle, the haversack slung over his shoulder and the Model 97 balanced in his left hand. Even through the smoke-colored glass, the glare made him squint—the town, like the landscape itself, was twenty-three shades of white, all baking in the midday sun. On the eastern horizon were the San Andres Mountains, adding a bit of mauve to the scene.
As Gamble walked past the Santa Fe depot toward the town’s main street, the station agent peered at him from the bay window. Gamble looked in his direction and tugged the brim of his hat, but the agent returned no greeting.
“There’s trouble,” Gamble said.
Gamble watched his shadow pumping on the hard ground in front of him as he walked toward the town’s main street. He stopped to allow a herd of cattle to cross, heading for the pens near the railway tracks.
“Where you boys from?” Gamble asked one of the cowboys.
“Texas, yee-haw!” the rider, a boy of twenty, said while using his coiled lasso to nudge the cattle in the right direction. “But these fat beeves are from the Tularosa Valley. Where you from, mister?”
“Missouri.”
“Missouri!” the cowboy said. “You’re a long ways from home.”
“I’ll allow that I am,” Gamble said.
As the dust from the cattle settled, he scanned the row of storefronts. Nearly all were rock, with wooden fronts. Some had been built when the town was founded, nearing thirty years ago, and Gamble thought they hadn’t seen an ounce of paint since.
The most weather-beaten of the structures was the Conquistador Saloon. A hand-lettered board outside promised a cold beer and a ham sandwich for two bits.
Gamble opened the screen door and stepped inside. The place was empty, except for the bartender.
“Howdy.”
“Howdy yourself,” Gamble said.
“What’s your pleasure?” The bartender was about thirty-five, had a pressed white shirt, and his blond hair and beard were neatly trimmed.
“The special,” Gamble said, walking up to the bar.
“I have to warn you, the beer’s not that cold,” the man said. “We haven’t had fresh ice in a week—the icehouse is just kind of a soggy mess. So, the special is warm beer and a ham sandwich.”
“Forget the beer,” Gamble said. “How fresh is the ham?”
“I’d eat it.”
“All right, bring me a ham sandwich. What else do you have to drink?”
“We have whiskey.”
“No whiskey, it’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Um, how about some water?”
“All right,” Gamble said. “A ham sandwich and a glass of water. No, make that a pitcher.”
“That I can do,” the bartender said. “My name’s Dave, by the way. What brings you to Engle? You’re not a cowboy. That uniform looks to me like you might have seen some action in Cuba.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Just passing the time.”
Gamble took a silver dollar from his pocket and placed it on the bar.
“No offense,” he said. “I’m just a naturally private sort of person. I’d like things to remain that way.”
“Absolutely,” the bartender said.
Gamble left the bar and found a table by the front window. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, put the haversack on the floor, and sat down in the straight-backed chair farthest from the door. The bartender brought the pitcher of water and a glass, and Gamble drank slowly, looking through the dusty glass at the street.
Then he took the map from the haversack, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table. The map was hand drawn, in ink. The Jornada was a solid line snaking from top to bottom, and to the west of that was a wavy line that indicated the Rio Grande River. Near the river was a childish-looking drawing of an elephant. From the elephant, a dotted line ran to the southwest, into some triangles that indicated mountains. There were a cluster of ovals with wavy lines rising from them, Hot Springs, and not far from that a jagged peak with a hole near the top labeled, Eye of the Needle.
Beyond that was a drawing of a house with a T-shaped window where the door should be. There was no scale or other indication of how far it was between any of the locations.
“Terrific,” Gamble muttered, folding up the map.
The bartender brought the sandwich.
As he ate, Gamble thought about heading back to the Oklahoma Panhandle—and to Agnes. He had nearly five hundred dollars in his pocket. That would last a couple of years in No Man’s Land, perhaps more, as long as nobody showed up with a writ for his arrest. But even if nobody came for him it would be a mean life, a scarecrow life.
“You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”
“I just shoulder my share,” Gamble said, thinking he may have to reach for the shotgun. But the man standing near the table was unarmed and wore the dusty clothes of a working man. He was about thirty and had keen eyes that seemed to drink the world in.
“Sit down,” Gamble said.
The man sat down. The bartender brought another glass.
“Thanks, Dave.”
“You bet, Gene.”
“You from these parts?” Gamble asked, as he poured the water.
“I wasn’t born here, if that’s what you’re asking,” the man said. “But been here for a spell now. Born in Nebraska, came here by way of Kansas, with my folks.”
“You a cowboy?”
“Punched some cows on the Bar Cross,” he said. “Pretty fair stone mason. Helped build the road from here to Tularosa. Don’t know what I am, now. Leaving for New York soon.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Getting married,” Gene said. “Wonderful girl. But she doesn’t love this country like I do. Maybe I’ll come back some day. Maybe not. Quién sabe?”
“Lonely will drive a man to do strange things.”
Gene smiled.
“You don’t speak like a working man,” Gamble said.
“I’ve had just enough learning to ruin an honest man,” Gene said. “And it’s made me want to write. Ever know anybody who made their living writing? Me, neither. But I want to write, to capture the way this country looks and feels and how men talk when they think nobody’s listening.”
Gamble shook his head.
“That’s a tall order,” he said. “Maybe you should warm up on dime novels first. You can think of fifty ways to describe the same gunfight, can’t you?”