The Great West Detective Agency (20 page)

“That's one of my . . .” Lucas tried to find the proper word to describe Good. “He's a scout. Come on in, Good. These good people were just leaving.”

Good stepped forward, then spun to one side, hands crossing his waist so he gripped both six-shooters in the cross-draw holsters.

“You, you're the one I want to see!” A man came in from the street and pushed Good aside.

Lucas tried to imagine how crazy anyone could get to irritate Good. Then he saw two others who remained outside in the street, tapping clubs against their palms. Good versus three men evened the odds, Lucas suspected.

“What is it, sir?” Felicia Northcott stood and interposed herself between the intruder and Lucas.

“I got a bone to pick with him. He's the owner, ain't he?”

“He is.”

Lucas groaned. The woman was tying him down to the agency when all he wanted was to snatch the gold out from under Clifford, Dunbar, and Vera Zasulich. And Amanda. He couldn't forget her.

“I'm gonna sue!”

“Mrs. Northcott, why don't you and Mr. Northcott take care of this matter?”

She fixed him with her gimlet stare, then smiled just a little. Lucas felt a cold chill at the sight. He knew what a happy vulture looked like now. She pointed to the chair she had just vacated, ordering the man to sit, then circled and sat where Lucas had been only seconds earlier.

“Tell me what you feel is your problem. We will discuss the matter.”

Lucas left Felicia Northcott to work out the problem, whatever it was, and inclined his head, indicating Good should join him in the back room. Good moved as if he rolled, no sound of his moccasins as he preceded Lucas. Once there, Lucas heaved a sigh of relief.

“She'll take care of everything,” Lucas said.

“There is trouble,” Good said. “We must return to the Russian camp immediately.”

“What's wrong?”

Good scowled then said, “Everything.”

L
ucas Stanton wanted to moan but kept the misery to himself. He was more suited for riding in a stagecoach or on a train than by horseback. Aching and building blisters where there should never be any, he shifted in the saddle and pointed to a cut in the foothills.

“That leads to the Russian camp. Why are we going farther into the mountains?”

“Moved camp.”

Lucas hadn't minded Good's silence or even the curt answers to the few questions he had asked on the ride from Denver, but now he felt as if they'd thrust their heads into nooses and all the Indian had to say was “drop.”

“I understand why you think the Russians are in trouble with Clifford's gang. It's the gold. Each wants it, Vera Zasulich thinks they are going to use it to hire Clifford's army to overthrow the czar while Clifford has other ideas.”

“Dunbar wants it, too.”

“So do I,” Lucas muttered. He looked at Good. Was there another runner in the race to find the gold? Five people wanted the gold. Did Good make number six? Watching his back when Dunbar's men, Clifford, and the Russians were about had become second nature to him. He found it harder to think of Amanda as an adversary willing to kill him, too, though she had double-crossed him and shown how little she wanted to share the bounty.

For whatever reason, he felt a little sorry for her. She had recovered Tovarich and lost him. So much gold must have turned her fingertips yellow and then . . . gone.

But how he felt about her had to be tempered with more caution. Not only was she the only one to have double-crossed him by making off with the dog, but she might be responsible for murdering Vera's brother and stealing the dog in the first place. Not a one of those struggling to find the gold was trustworthy. And Good? He had plans that didn't include any gambler. They had crossed paths accidentally and Good's insistence that he owed for saving him hardly held water.

Lucas usually knew when to fold a hand, but even if Clifford was wrong and the gold wasn't worth a million dollars, he would be happy with only a hundred thousand. That would give him a solid stake for the highest stakes games at the Union Club. Lucas stared ahead as he rode but he didn't see rock and scrubby vegetation. He saw San Francisco's richest men gathered around a green felt-topped poker table. A lovely lady in evening attire dealt to him, Huntington, Stanford, and other railroad magnates worth millions. He could risk a few thousand—more! He could take the deeds to their railroads and—

“Sentry.”

He jerked around and hunted for the guard Good warned of. All he saw was acre upon acre of rocks and emptiness.

“There.” Good pointed, lifting his chin to indicate the proper direction.

Lucas still didn't see anything and said so.

“Outline against sky gave him away. Gone now.”

“Was it one of the Russians?”

Good grunted, which could mean anything. Lucas took it to mean he didn't know.

“What are we riding into? What's the big problem?”

“Dog escaped back to its pack.”

“The one Amanda Baldridge had? Tovarich? How could the dog possibly have found the pack over such a long distance?”

“Dogs are good at sniffing out trails.”

Good imitated a dog, his nose wrinkling up as he sniffed out a trail. Lucas had to laugh. To his credit, Good laughed also. Too late Lucas worried his companion might have simply left his body for the buzzards if he considered the laugh a blatant mocking.

“What do we try to achieve when we find the Russians? What do
you
intend to do?”

“Find dog, find gold.”

“How do we divvy it up? Do you want half?”

Lucas worried that Good would double-cross him and take it all. He was a fair fighter and a decent enough shot, but the breed was better than fair at fighting, and from the look of the weapons he carried, he was a better than decent marksman. They had been used long and hard but were in top-notch condition.

“First, find the dog.”

“That is reasonable enough. Do you know how the dog can sniff out where the gold is hidden? Metal doesn't have any scent unless it's heated. I can't imagine there is a pot of melted gold sitting around anywhere.”

“Dog can find its way back to pack. Why not find gold?”

Good abruptly left the trail and worked his way up the steep side of a hill. Lucas stayed well behind, occasionally looking along the ridges for any sign of the sentry that Good had seen earlier. As far as he could tell, they were the only humans within twenty miles.

His horse began struggling with the steep climb, forcing Lucas to dismount and walk alongside. The blisters he had accumulated pained him with every step until they reached the top of the hill. From here they looked down on the Russian wagons, and all discomfort vanished as he spotted a half dozen wolfhounds cavorting about, snapping and barking, playfully wrestling and then running away, only to skid to a halt and charge back into the fray.

“Which one's Tovarich?”

“Why do they camp here? It is not far from other encampment.”

“You think the gold is nearby?”

Good pursed his lips but said nothing and never took his eyes off the dogs. Lucas forced himself to stop trying to identify Tovarich in the pack. At this distance they all looked the same. He studied the location of the wagons and their occupants. Two low fires kept tea brewing. Even at this distance he caught the scent and remembered the sharp taste of the cup offered him by Vera.

“Sharp scent,” he said aloud. Good paid him no attention. His mind raced as things began to make more sense.

The strangely pungent perfume both Amanda and Vera wore was distinctive. No other woman in this country was likely to use spikenard. Tovarich might have found his way back to Vera's camp following her unique scent. If the gold—or the crates or sacks it was stored in—was similarly treated, Tovarich could sniff it out.

Lucas sagged. Why Tovarich? Why not any of the wolfhounds? Then he remembered how bloodhounds could be trained to go after individual animals exclusively, bears or deer or other creatures. Tovarich alone might have been disciplined to find that odor, no matter how faint or distant.

“Go into camp and warn her of Clifford and Dunbar.”

“Why me? If you want to warn Vera Zasulich about them, do it yourself.” Lucas doubted his reception would be cordial after he had ripped out the flooring and run off.

“She will listen to you. You talk like an eagle flies.” Good made a smooth, sweeping motion with his hand.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He thought over what had been said. “You don't care about Dmitri or any of the others? Just Vera?”

Good stood a little straighter but said nothing. He stared into the camp below.

“Where did the two of you meet before?”

“Go, warn her. Clifford will kill her if he finds the dog. If you do not, I must kidnap her to get her away. That would not be good.”

Lucas pondered this. Whatever their history, Good and Vera had not parted amicably. She wouldn't listen to Good, but the Indian still felt some obligation toward her. This made Lucas trust him a bit more, even if his relation with Good was unlikely to ever be as intense as between a Native American and a Russian revolutionary. He was a man who honored his commitments.

“I have to think about how to approach her. If I say the wrong thing, she'll think I'm only after the gold.”

“Clifford will come soon. She thinks they are still allies. When he sees the dog, he will kill her and the others.”

“I know, I know. Let me think.”

Lucas felt as if his head was about to explode. His body ached—hurt!—and his life was on the line if Vera didn't speak up for him to keep Dmitri at bay. Being fed to the pack of dogs that had once attacked him wasn't the fate he had ever envisioned for himself. He doubted he would die in bed, but something more heroic than being ripped to bloody strips ought to be in the cards. Even if he had to stack the deck, a noble end should be his.

He mounted and started down the far side of the steep hill.

“You know what to say?” Good looked anxious.

“Hell, no. I'll think of something before I get to their camp.”

But he didn't.

Lucas rode in with a half dozen Russian rifles and shotguns trained on him. Not being killed outright meant something. He feared it was torture and then death rather than a clean shot through his head.

“Good day,” he greeted as Vera rushed from her wagon looking flustered. “I wish to speak with you on an important matter.”

“Kill him,” she ordered.

“Wait! Good sent me to tell you—”

“Good?” Vera came over and put her fists on her hips. She glared at him. Her breasts rose and fell with heavy, angry breathing. “Good?”

Lucas knew he had no way to retreat. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went.

“Yes. He has a warning for you.”

“He is too cowardly to speak to me himself? I thought there was a yellow streak in him!”

“Are we talking about the same man?” He was honestly startled at her denunciation of Good as a coward. The man would walk through hell backward and never flinch, though he had wanted Lucas to speak with Vera.

“Get down. We talk over there.”

She pointed to a spot where the grass had been torn up by a half dozen paws digging at the ground. The sharp white of a broken bone poked up from one hole. What or who the wolfhounds had buried there was something he hoped never to discover. He swung his leg over the saddle horn and dropped. He held back a groan when he hit the ground. Never show weakness. That gave your opponent an edge.

Lucas fleetingly wondered how much more advantage Vera could gain over him. The revolutionaries all kept their weapons trained on him, the dogs yelped and barked, and after the long ride, he wouldn't have licked a newborn kitten.

“Why do you commit suicide returning?” She stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and outright hatred.

“Good wanted me to tell you that Clifford is going to kill you. He's a double-crossing son of a . . . czar. Trust him and you'll end up dog food.” He couldn't keep his eyes from roving to the sharp-edged broken bone poking out of the ground where a wolfhound had buried it. It looked suspiciously like a human thighbone.

“Good, Good, is that all you can say? I should kill you out of hand, but I won't.”

Lucas relaxed a little, then went numb all over when she added, “I won't kill you immediately because I want to torture you. When I am finished, Dmitri will take his turn. You are not likely to live long. He is brutal where I am subtle with my infliction of pain.”

Lucas yelped when she came over and gave him a swat to his rear end. Blisters popped. He went weak in the knees from the lancing pain but she pulled him erect with surprising strength.

“So, do not talk to me of Good. Talk to me of other things.”

“What do you want to know?” Lucas saw no reason not to spill everything he knew—or thought he knew. If he couldn't get the gold, he wanted to walk away with his hide in one piece.

And all his bones exactly where they belonged. The dogs edged closer, baring their fangs and eyeing him like dinner.

“There is so much hidden from me.”

Before she said anything more, a loud shout went up. She reached for one of the knives sheathed at her belt and stepped back. With a quick lunge she poked the tip into his belly less than a quarter inch, but he got the message. Move and he would be spitted like a shish kebab.

Vera erupted with a long string of Russian, then drew another knife and left Lucas standing alone. He took a single step and found himself in the center of a ring of snarling wolfhounds. He carefully twisted his head around and saw two of the Russians flanking Good. There went any hope of salvation.

“I tried to tell her, Good. I tried,” Lucas shouted.

He waited for a reaction. The smallest distraction could be turned into an escape. The Russians were too well trained to pay him any heed. He started to try again when he heard a rapid exchange of Russian—between Good and Vera. Whatever the Creek said infuriated her. She slashed at him with a knife. He stolidly allowed her to cut his cheek. The shallow scratch leaked blood.