The Eye of the Devil

by S A Falconi

  “My God …” Kraus uttered.

  “What?”

  “Do you recall what one of the passengers in Georgetown said when we asked if anyone saw anything unusual?”

  “The Paddy or the toad?” Donaghue inquired.

  “Neither,” Kraus answered. “The comment right before Wilmont stepped forward.”

  Donaghue was momentarily silent as he recalled the memory. When the realization finally struck him, he smacked his hand upon the table and grumbled angrily.

  “We missed him…” Donaghue whispered.

  Kraus nodded. “Yeah – ‘the big fella with an eye patch’.”

  XIV.

  Donaghue watched the blurred landscape as the locomotive scaled the incline of the narrow gauge railway between Idaho Springs and Georgetown. Now that he and Kraus had no choice but to sit and rest, their exhaustion was beginning to wear on both of them. Kraus was asleep in the aisle seat next to him, his head craned to the left in the most unpleasant position. Kraus’ breaths were short and frequent as if his thoughts, despite his slumber, were still racing at breakneck velocities. Although Donaghue was just as fatigued, sleep was an impossible luxury. His thoughts swirled about his psyche as he continually considered the details of the investigation. Added to that was the briefly forgotten truth that he and Kraus were still being hunted by Abernathe. In the haste developments in their hunt for the Ripper, their anxieties of capture had been momentarily diverted. Sitting in that train though, the reality was all too sobering.

  How long would it be before Abernathe was notified about the fourth victim? How long would it be before Abernathe was combing every street and alleyway of Georgetown for the former detective and his crackpot associate? Donaghue could only hope that word had yet reached Abernathe’s ears, and if it had, that his and Kraus’ legs were swifter than the detective’s.

  Another hour lethargically passed before the small train finally shuddered to a halt at Georgetown Depot. Kraus was jolted from his slumber and he looked about anxiously. Several frantic moments passed before he finally regained his bearings.

  “Damn,” he muttered, “what a dream.”

  He glanced at Donaghue, who rose from his seat along with the other passengers. The train, as was typical, was confined and packed to the gills with travelers. They were seated right in the middle of the car, so it would take several minutes before they could exit.

  Kraus inquired, “You ever have your dreams interpreted, Detective?”

  Donaghue gave Kraus a quizzical expression. “Excuse me?”

  “Dreams … ever have them interpreted?”

  Donaghue shook his head as he impatiently glanced down the aisle. “I don’t want someone knowing my dreams no less interpreting them.”

  “It’s actually quite intriguing,” Kraus retorted. “Dr. Freud recently published a book on the subject. Die Traumdeutung – The Interpretation of Dreams. Marvelous work really. Truly marvelous. ‘The royal road to the unconscious’… that’s what he calls dreams. In fact, he claims, one of the only ways to extract the content of one’s psyche is to analyze the unfiltered content of one’s dreams.”

  Donaghue nodded, neither listening nor caring in the slightest. But Kraus’ enthusiasm and his general curiosity interested Donaghue greatly. Such qualities were what separated extraordinary minds from feeble minds. Donaghue imagined that the great minds of humanity – Aristotle, Socrates, DaVinci – all possessed such inquisitive natures. Their mental faculties were as limitless as the heavens, and the things they could conjure and discover were revolutionary. That was yet another reason why Donaghue preferred such an associate.

  The swarm of travelers finally began to file out of the train, and soon Donaghue and Kraus were marching down the aisle toward the exit. Upon breaching the threshold, that invigorating blend of coal smoke and alpine air filled Donaghue’s nostrils. He stepped down onto the platform, the exhaustion quietly returning to the deep recesses of his being.

  “If Grafton is in fact the Ripper,” Donaghue said when Kraus joined him, “he’s clever enough to know that remaining in Georgetown would be fatal. He was on that train with us; no reason he wouldn’t take a train out of here.”

  “Right,” Kraus agreed. “We need to speak with the depot attendants.”

  The line for the ticket counter was relatively short and within a few minutes, Donaghue and Kraus were speaking with a slight, youthful attendant.

  “Detective Armstrong and Dr. Pennleton of the Pueblo County Sheriff’s Department,” Donaghue said to the young woman. “Could you tell us if you’ve sold a ticket in the last day to a Mr. Perry Grafton?”

  The woman thumbed through her passenger logs for several moments before shaking her head. “I’m afraid not, Detective.”

  “Perhaps,” Kraus interjected, “you’ve noticed a man with a very unique expression?”

  “Unique?” the woman muttered. “How so?”

  “He only has one eye, miss. He’s also quite physically apt.”

  The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Of course I have. You can’t miss that dreadful man. And crude? The rudest passenger I’ve yet encountered.”

  Donaghue probed, “Do you recall to where he was going?”

  “I don’t,” she uttered, “but I do recall the name he purchased the ticket under …” She thumbed through the passenger log briefly before tapping her finger on a page. “There,” she said, “Herman Schneider.”

  “Which train’s he on?”

  “Train 26 – it makes the full loop from Georgetown to Denver to Leadville.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Donaghue muttered with a nod of his head.

  Donaghue and Kraus hustled away from the ticket counter, their sights now set on Leadville.

  “Detective,” Kraus uttered from behind Donaghue, “don’t we need to catch that next train?”

  Donaghue stopped and turned. “We can’t go back to Denver, Doc. We’ll be taken into custody long before we reach Leadville.”

  “How will we get there then?”

  Donaghue glanced over at the monumental flank of the southern alpine ridge. “Up and over the mountainside. The Denver, Leadville and Gunnison Line runs along the other side of the mountain about twenty-five miles away. On foot, it shouldn’t take but a day.”

  Upon inquiry, a depot worker told them of an outfitter just on the west fringe of town. Donaghue and Kraus proceeded out of the depot and plodded down the main street. Georgetown was slightly more civilized than the rest of its boomtown contemporaries. In addition to numerous trade shops and mills, Georgetown had the luxuries of two banks, five churches, two weekly bugles, and a school house. The fact that such a place tolerated, no less accommodated, the presence of children was a surprise to Donaghue. Such towns, by their very nature, were built for the sole purpose of extracting ore from the granite and supporting those foolhardy enough to perform the extraction. But, Donaghue supposed, that was the beginning of all civilized municipalities at one point or another. Even the great cities of the East had to have their savage, boomtown beginnings before they had their sophisticated advancements. Having just bore witness to the haven of harlots and Cyclopes though, it was difficult to imagine such gems could ever be found within the slurry.

  As they passed through the heart of town, they saw the stone expanse of the town hall, the only true indication of the town’s architectural sophistication. But the classical details of the hall’s façade were of the least importance to Donaghue, for standing atop the granite staircase was one of the specters that haunted Donaghue’s every dream. The slight form and paradoxically haughty manner could be not mistaken. It was Detective Abernathe in the flesh.

  “Move,” Donaghue uttered, seizing Kraus by the lower arm.

  Donaghue’s reaction was for naught though. Just as his fingers curled around Kraus’ forearm, Donaghue saw the specter’s arm shoot outward, pointing directly at Donaghue and Kraus.

  “Donaghue!” Abernathe howled, “Halt!”

  Donaghue did
no such thing though. Grasping Kraus’ arm in its entirety, Donaghue yanked his associate and tore south down the bisecting avenue.

  Behind them, Donaghue heard Abernathe screaming, “Halt! Halt! Stop those men!”

  Passersby were confused, dumbfounded by the hysterics of the anonymous lawman. Onlookers simply gawked as Donaghue and Kraus raced down the street.

  BANG! The blast of a revolver echoed from behind, but Donaghue and Kraus didn’t even risk glancing back to witness from where the shot came. It was quite clear that Abernathe was haphazardly firing his revolver with the hope that a fortunate slug would strike his prey. No such fortune would ensue, of that Donaghue was certain. Donaghue and Kraus continued down the street, the gunshots and shouts from Abernathe seemingly fueling their limbs.

  “Stop them, now!” Abernathe roared.

  But the onlookers simply continued to do as they always did – nothing save for senseless gawking.

  Donaghue and Kraus dashed down the street for three blocks before swerving right down an alleyway. The alley, nothing more than a skinny corridor bordered by two menacing structures, dumped out onto another avenue. At the mouth of the alley, they stopped, Donaghue glancing about for the next best direction to scramble.

  “There!” Kraus barked, pointing down the street toward the edge of town. “We’ve gotta get into the hills if we’re ever gonna lose them.” Kraus didn’t even wait for confirmation from Donaghue; he galloped down the street toward the flanking mountainside.

  Donaghue didn’t budge, still glancing about in all directions, attempting to decipher the best move. Should he wait and engage the foolish lawman in a gunfight? Should he scramble into a nearby building and hide out? Or should he follow Kraus into the foothills and blend into the wilderness?

  “Halt, Donaghue!”

  Donaghue turned, catching sight of Abernathe on the other side of the alley. Shoot or scramble? Shoot or scramble? Donaghue was paralyzed as he considered the possibilities. If he shot Abernathe, then it would just confirm that he was the Ripper. If he ran and hid within the town, how the hell would he ever get out without someone seeing him? He had no choice – it was blend into the foothills or get captured. Plain and simple.

  Abernathe raised his revolver. Donaghue turned and took off after Kraus.

  BANG! The slug tore the air just near Donaghue’s head. There was no time for fear, no sensory faculty for fear. All Donaghue could focus on was Kraus’ form as it reached the base of the mountain and clambered gauchely into the mosaic of granite boulders and towering Evergreens.

  BANG! Another shot rang out, this one kicking up a cloud of dust to Donaghue’s right.

  Donaghue didn’t glance back at all though. He kept his eyes fixed on the foothills as they grew larger and larger with each passing second. As he sprinted, he weaved to and fro so as to deceive Abernathe’s ironically tenderfoot aim. Up the mountainside, Donaghue saw Kraus’ head bobbing sporadically behind boulders and tree trunks.

  BANG! A fourth shot echoed against the mountainside, the slug striking a boulder at the base of the mountain to Donaghue’s left. When Donaghue reached the boulder-strewn slope, Kraus was entirely invisible. Donaghue scrambled, initially straight up then side to side in a tight weaving pattern as he used the boulders for cover. The gradient was steep and the loose gravel gave false footing to his frantic steps.

  When Abernathe finally reached the base of the mountain, his chest heaved with exhaustion. Rather than take chase after Donaghue’s agilely scrambling form though, Abernathe raised his revolver and tracked Donaghue’s intermittently emerging head as it bobbed amongst the boulders and Evergreens. He couldn’t get more than a split second of time though, for just as his finger put pressure on the trigger, Donaghue’s head disappeared again, only to appear fifteen feet in a different location. Abernathe would have to anticipate Donaghue’s pathway, anticipate it and fire just as his head reemerged. Abernathe aligned the muzzle with a gap between two Evergreen trunks just above the scalp of a boulder. In his periphery, he sensed Donaghue’s movements but kept his eyes fixated on that gap between the trees.

  Seconds transformed into what seemed like minutes and still no Donaghue. Then, just as Abernathe thought Donaghue might’ve ceased his scramble for good, the drunken sleuth’s head rose in direct alignment with Abernathe’s muzzle.

  BANG! Abernathe’s final shot tore the pure alpine air and disappeared into the gap on which he fixated. No indication of the bullet striking its target came though. No red mist. No scream of agony. Nothing aside from the resonance of the gun shot against the towering alpine ramparts.

  Abernathe waited, eyes scanning the mountainside for any movement as he blindly reached into his pocket for ammunition. As he snapped the revolver cylinder open to reload, he heard a muffled groan. Indistinct, but a groan nonetheless.

  “Got him,” Abernathe breathed, shoving the fresh bullets into the chambers and returning the cylinder to its firing position.

  He attacked the mountainside, stumbling, bumbling, and sliding over the loose terrain. Over his own panting and scrambling, he tried to listen for more groans or other signs of stricken prey. He heard nothing though, just the eerie silence of the untamed wilderness.

  “Donaghue!” he hollered, clutching an outcrop of vegetation and yanking himself onto the backside of a boulder. “It’s over, Donaghue!”

  Abernathe glanced over his shoulder and down the slope in an attempt to judge the proximity of his location to that of the stricken Ripper. He can’t be more than ten vertical feet away, Abernathe thought. He continued to scramble, ignoring the burning sensation of the crisp, thin air in his lungs. With his unarmed hand, he groped exhaustedly at a tree trunk. He seized a prickling pinecone though, gasped in pain as the cone’s contours tore into his palm, and stumbled headlong into the rocky slope.

  “Agh!” he barked as he lay with his face buried in a mix of sharp gravel and coarse vegetation.

  A surge of anger quickly overpowered his exhaustion and he shoved himself away from the ground. Just as he was about to stand and continue his scramble up the mountainside, his eyes fell upon a thin but fresh drop of blood. Then another. And another. They were small, each no larger than a miniscule coin, but they were there, painting the gravel slope in a defined pathway leading directly to their source – Donaghue.

  “I got you now!” he roared, leaping to his feet and scrambling along the crimson trail.

  Meanwhile, fifty feet up the embankment was Donaghue, leaning against a boulder hidden by a thicket of Evergreens. His right arm dangled limply at his side as the hole in the front of his upper arm seeped blood down the length of his sleeve. His vision spun and his guts twisted with the pain. He glanced about the blurring wilderness for Kraus, but the doctor was nowhere in sight.

  Donaghue could hear Abernathe’s bellows from below though, each one closer than the previous one. He knew he had to keep moving, but every step sent an indescribable pang throughout his arm that nearly brought him to his knees. He pushed himself away from the boulder. His vision spun wildly as he stumbled forward for several steps before finally falling to his knees.

  Just when he thought he was going to fall completely forward and pass out, a pair of hands caught him. He looked up, and although his vision was severely distorted, he recognized the descript under bite of his contemporary.

  “Pete,” Kraus grumbled as he bore Donaghue’s weight. “We gotta get outta here. I’ve found a place to hide.”

  Kraus stifled a grunt as he hoisted Donaghue up onto his uncertain feet. He slung Donaghue’s uninjured arm around the length of his own shoulders, bearing the detective’s weight on his back like a yoke. The slope levelled off a few feet higher and Kraus was able to slowly guide Donaghue in the direction of his hiding place.

  They followed a mildly-worn game trail for several minutes before the expanse of the Evergreen forest finally stopped at the base of a granite wall. The cliff was a dead end, but roughly ten feet to the right was an oblong hole roughly
the diameter of a short man. It was an abandoned mineshaft, one likely dug by the fortitude and tenacity of a few desperate prospectors. Kraus reshouldered Donaghue’s half-conscious form before dragging him the remainder of the way to the mine entrance. The mouth of the mine breathed a rather putrid odor, a halitosis that marveled any stench that Kraus had yet smelled. Taking one last breath of pure air, Kraus leaned forward and hauled Donaghue into the reeking darkness.

  As Kraus and Donaghue blindly navigated the pitch black mineshaft, Detective Abernathe finally reached the boulder against which Donaghue had rested no more than five minutes before. He stopped momentarily when he saw the trail of blood become larger, more distinct, until it trailed into a stone-sized oval. He’s lost a great deal of blood, Abernathe thought. He can’t outrun me now. It’s only a matter of time before I find him.

  Abernathe continued to follow the blood trail. Finally, the trail turned and its slope became level. The blood traced the thinly-worn game trail before forming another oval stain. Abernathe looked up. Before him was the towering granite rampart. To the side was the mineshaft, the trail of blood leading right into it like a serpent’s tongue.

  Abernathe hurried over to mouth of the mine. Revolver drawn, he peered around the edge. Although he saw nothing, that rancid stench belted him in the face and he stumbled backward, gagging. The smell was even more repulsive than the shikaakwa upon which the city of Chicago was erected. After several fruitful hacks and sputa, Abernathe returned to the mouth of the mineshaft.

  “Donaghue!” he barked into the hole. “I know you’re in there and I know you’re wounded! Come out and you’ll live to see another sunrise.”

  Abernathe waited for a response but he heard nothing except for his echoing proclamations.

  “Donaghue! You gotta come out at some point! No oxygen down there for ya!”