The Great West Detective Agency (23 page)

H
ow he did it was a mystery. Lucas rode hard and barely kept up with Good. He had to believe the Creek followed the trail left by Tovarich and the pursuing filibusterers, but in the dark all spoor disappeared. For him, at least. Good might be faking his ability to trail but Lucas doubted it. The Indian didn't seem like the type who would puff himself up like that or lie about his abilities.

“How can the dog run so far?”

“Clifford hunts for the trail. He has no idea where the dog went.”

“South,” Lucas said. “The dog lit out going south toward Colorado Springs. Does that mean anything?”

“Yes,” Good said. “It means the dog is running south.”

Lucas fought the feeling of helplessness and outright ineptitude. He was out of his pond. Give him a poker game and he was prince. Put him on a horse and blisters popped up where they shouldn't and made him less efficient dealing with life. He was a crack shot but carried a small pistol unable to match the .45s men like Clifford sported. And on the trail, Good showed supernatural power tracking men and a dog in the pitch black of night.

“Is it actually hunting for the gold?”

Good didn't answer. If anything, he rode faster in an attempt to leave Lucas behind. Realizing he would be dealt out of receiving any of the gold if he let Good capture the dog and he was nowhere near, he lifted his butt off the saddle to remove some of the friction, put his head down by the horse's neck, and rode like a jockey. This put intense strain on his legs but allowed him to keep from sliding back and forth along the saddle.

Eventually his legs began to shake and he sank back down with a moan. Good had outpaced him and wasn't near enough to caution him to silence. Then Lucas knew being quiet didn't matter since the pounding hooves alerted anyone ahead along the road. When this occurred to him, he slowed and finally came to a complete stop. The blood pounded in his ears and then he became aware of the night around him. The sounds came to him so that he turned toward a spot far ahead and off the road.

Hooves. The sound of horses neighing. Then his heart jumped in his chest. A dog barked.

Lucas walked his horse away from the road across the rocky ground, trying to make sense of what he heard. The sharp yelps of a dog drowned out the other sounds. He wanted to hurry but kept the pace steady to save his horse from blundering into a gopher hole or otherwise stumbling and throwing him. It was a long way back to Denver, and Lucas wasn't inclined to walk if he could avoid it.

Ahead he heard loud voices and more barking. He looked around, wondering what had become of Good. The Creek had been so intent, it hardly seemed possible a citified gambler had found Clifford and his gang and an expert frontiersman had not. When he was a few hundred yards away, Lucas dismounted. His legs almost collapsed under him. Riding like a jockey might not have been the smartest thing he'd ever done, even if it had saved his inner thighs and rear from more blistering.

He secured his horse, drew his Colt, and advanced as carefully as he had ridden. The horse could break a leg in an unseen hole. So could a human. He approached the dismounted riders in a ravine. Flopping onto his belly near a cottonwood, Lucas steadied his gun hand so he could get Clifford in his sights. The leader of the filibuster had roped Tovarich and avoided the dog's nasty snaps at him.

“Stop him,” Clifford called. “No, you idiot. Don't shoot the damned dog. Get another rope around his neck and hold him back.”

The man who had ridden from Denver with Clifford made a loop in his rope and easily tossed it. Tovarich snapped at the rope but freedom wasn't to be had. The dog was easily held between Clifford and his henchman. A dozen strategies ran through Lucas's head. Gunning down both men would let the dog run free and forever ruin any chance of finding the gold. He had no illusion about his chances of ever finding Tovarich once the dog raced off into the night.

But Clifford used the free end of the rope to lash the wolfhound. Being held so securely prevented Tovarich from dodging the punishment.

Lucas centered his pistol on Clifford's back. What the man had likely done to humans probably made this torture pale, but Lucas had never thought well of cruelty to animals. It was hard enough shooting rabid dogs or injured animals to put them out of their misery, but what Clifford did had no purpose other than to vent his own rage.

Before he squeezed off the shot, he heard horses behind him. He scrunched down amid the gnarled roots, and in the dark, he became a part of the tree.

“That you, boss?” The challenge came from behind Lucas. A half dozen riders passed by him, made their way down into the ravine, and joined their would-be general.

“Took you long enough to find us,” Clifford said.

“We got bad news. Dennison was dead when we got to that shanty. The woman was nowhere to be seen.”

“None of that matters. I got the dog.”

“Might be the dog's got you. He don't seem too inclined to let you scratch his ears. Not without you losin' a hand.”

As if on cue, Tovarich renewed his ferocious barking and snapping. Clifford used his rope lash while the others jeered and shouted. This only further infuriated the dog. Clifford showed no sign of understanding how he needed the dog to find the gold. Everything he did drove the wolfhound even crazier with fear and rage.

Lucas considered a shot at Tovarich to put him out of his misery, but if he did that, the gold would be lost forever. Without thinking how suicidal it was, he stood and fired his pistol. The tiny
pop!
was barely heard above the din, but Clifford noticed.

“Get him. Cover him!” Clifford whipped the end of the rope he had been using to beat the dog around a rock and secured it. The man holding the other rope did the same, then slapped leather to get his pistol drawn.

Lucas realized then he had only postponed the dog's torture—and had signed his own death warrant.

Desperately, he shouted, “Wait! The officer's jacket isn't the way to find the gold. The dog can't follow that. I know how to make him hunt!”

Clifford drew a bead. His cocked pistol never wavered.

“Toss down your gun, if you call that pea shooter a gun. Don't ventilate him yet, boys. I want to hear what the man has to say.”

Lucas did as he was told. With his pistol too far away for him to hope to dive, grab, aim, and fire at even one of the filibusterers, he slid down the bank and kept his hands high in the air.

“Who the hell are you?”

“That doesn't matter, Clifford.”

Using the man's name almost got him shot. The guerrilla motioned for him to move around closer to Tovarich. As he did, the dog quieted his frantic barking.

“Sounds like he's taken a shine to you, mister. Why'd you want to tell us a damn thing about finding the gold?”

“I want a share. It's a million-dollar cache. Give me a few thousand and I'll be happy.”

“Now then, it might be you're gonna be happy if you don't end up with a few ounces of lead in your gut. Tell me how to find the gold.”

“Promise me,” Lucas said, forcing himself to hold down the desperate tone in his voice. “I want a share. What do you have to lose? You get the bulk of the gold and sally off to Nicaragua.”

“Boss, he knows too much to have just come on us,” one of the six who had ridden up said. “Let me shoot him right now. He might have the cavalry on us.”

“I don't cotton much to the law, marshals, or soldiers,” Lucas said. This carried a ring of truth since it was gospel. “I got on to the treasure because of Amanda Baldridge.”

“Dennison was dead,” said one. “Might be he killed him and let the woman go.”

“She wouldn't run to the law. And Dunbar's all ready for the bone yard. I saw to that. She doesn't have anywhere to go—except maybe for this one.” Clifford lifted his six-shooter and aimed straight for Lucas's head.

“I know how to make the dog find the gold.” Lucas looked at Tovarich. The wolfhound had stopped its frantic barking and just stared at him, as if he understood everything going on.

“Do tell.” Clifford's six-gun never wavered.

“It's a scent,” Lucas said. “I have a jar of the perfume here in my pocket. Let me get it out.”

He reached slowly for the spikenard and drew out the glass jar and held it up. In the dark it was indistinct.

“What's that?” Clifford looked away from Lucas when the dog sat on its haunches and let out a long howl. “You just might have the key there, after all. Throw it to me.”

“You might drop it in the dark. You don't want to do that.”

“Bring it to me. I'll shoot you down if you make a funny move.”

Lucas hesitated. Curious noises reached his ears. He closed his eyes to better focus on the distant sounds, trying to make sense of them. Opening his eyes again, he looked at the knot of Clifford's men. The number had been whittled down by one. Where had the filibusterer gone?

Then the night ripped apart with fierce howls and snapping. He looked at Tovarich. The dog came back to his feet and snarled again but was still firmly held by two ropes around his neck. Motion from the corner of his eye told the story. A pack of wolfhounds stormed out of the black night. One of Clifford's men got off a shot that wounded one dog. Two others attacked him, one going for his crotch and the other his throat. He died before he collapsed to the sandy ravine bottom. But the hounds never slowed to rip and tear at the flesh of their victim.

They charged on and grabbed at wrists, legs, and exposed parts on the other filibusterers.

“What the hell!” Clifford swung about and fired. He missed the lead dog.

The wolfhound took to the air and crashed hard into the man, driving him backward so he landed flat on his back. Lucas tried to look away but couldn't. Clifford had fallen directly in front of Tovarich, where the dog could sink its fangs into his throat. Tovarich gripped powerfully, then gave a toss of his head. Strong neck muscles corded as the dog pulled away. Blood flew into the night.

Lucas knelt and scooped up his Colt, not sure who to shoot. All of Clifford's men had died or were so close to death that it didn't matter. He held out his pistol if any of the wolfhounds came for him. His experience with the big, powerful hunting dogs told him of the futility of shooting them and hoping to escape, but he had done stupider things that night.

Showing himself to Clifford to save Tovarich from being tortured was as dumb as it got.

“Don't move.”

“I won't.” Lucas put his hands in the air but still clung to his pistol in the futile hope he might use it to save himself.

Tovarich stood with blood dripping from his jowls. The dog's eyes fixed on him but Tovarich made no move to come for him. He wished that could be said of a half dozen other wolfhounds. They circled him, backed him against the ravine wall, and began coming closer. Snarling, drooling blood from jaws that had already killed all of Clifford's expeditionary force, they advanced.

A sharp command in Russian stayed the dogs' attack. They remained in a ring around him but only barred his escape.

“You saved Tovarich.”

“Good evening, Vera,” he said. Taking his eyes off the dogs was hard but he did. The Russian revolutionary strode out. Trailing her were several men from her band. “Sorry to hear about Dmitri.”

She spat. “He was a traitor. How dare he sell out to
them
?” She spat in the direction of Clifford's body.

She went to Tovarich, used a knife, and slashed at the ropes holding him. He nuzzled her, and she patted him, soothing him, trying to rub away the torture already endured.

“Could you call off the other dogs?”

Vera called something in Russian that caused the wolfhounds to back away, then trot over and lie down beside her. As she turned, Tovarich broke free and ran for Lucas. He lifted his Colt but wasn't able to fire before he was bowled over. The dog pinned his shoulders to the rocky ground with both paws and started licking him with a bloody tongue.