Then I saw his eyes grow wide as he stared over my shoulder. I turned slowly to see a blood-chilling sight.
This time it was Whittlin Walt. And his two ugly pards were with him.
Ledger Sheet 21
WHITTLIN WALT STOOD in the doorway looking in & for the first time I saw his face properly. He did not have the droopy mustache from the wanted poster on the table before me, but I recognized him anyway from the powerful smell of Bay Rum Hair Tonic that pervaded the room. He had icy blue eyes & a broken nose & a scar across his chin. His long biscuit-colored coat did not quite hide a special belt with two holsters: one for his bone-handled Colt’s Army Revolver & another for his big Bowie Knife. I could not be sure, but I thought I saw two bloody scalps hanging from his belt.
Walt stepped into the lamplit room & I could hear his spurs jingle as he moved. His pards followed close behind. One was tall & scrawny with the biggest Adam’s apple I have ever seen. I learned later that he was Dubois “Extra Dub” Donahue. The short one with the squinty left eye & busted nose was whiny-voiced Boswell “Boz” Burton, the villain who had chased me & Belle through Chinatown.
Would he recognize me in my disguise as a prim and proper girl?
I looked at Dan and saw his gaze flicking from Walt to the wanted poster and back.
I put my plate down on top of the poster so that Walt would not see it.
This seemed to snap Dan De Quille out of his trance. He stood up & said, “May I help you fellows?” He sounded calm, but I was close enough to hear him swallow hard.
“Yeah,” said Walt. He was chewing tobacco. “We want to report a crime. Some Indians kilt the preacher down in Temperance. Kilt his wife, too. Scalped ’em both.”
“Crimes should be reported at the Marshal’s Office,” said Dan De Quille. His fingertips were resting lightly on the table & I noticed they were trembling.
“Marshal ain’t there,” said Walt. “Nor his Deputy neither. Just a note says they’ve gone out.” Walt spat a stream of tobacco-stained saliva onto the floor.
“Then you should go see the Sheriff in Gold Hill,” said Dan.
“We wanted to give you a chance to publish this tragic news first. Ain’t you interested? Shall we take it to the newspaper down in Carson?”
“Of course we’re interested,” stammered Dan. “Come in.” Then he looked down at me. “Maisie,” he said, “you’d best get home now or your mother will be worried.”
I nodded & stood up.
“In return for our news,” said Walt, “we were hoping you might give us some information.”
“Information?” said Dan. With trembling hands, he put his plate on top of mine & picked them both up & held them out to me. He had scooped up the wanted poster with the plates, like a place mat.
Walt said, “We are looking for the preacher’s kid, a twelve-year-old half Indian who goes by the name of Pinky. You seen anyone like that around here?”
“No,” stammered Dan. “I have not seen a twelve-year-old half Indian called Pinky.” To me he said, “Tell your mother the dinner was delicious. Now run along home.” Then he patted the top of my bonnet.
I held the wanted poster up against the bottom of the plates as I took them from Dan. Then I walked steadily towards Walt & his pards, keeping my bonnet down.
“The kid we are looking for,” said Boz, “has cold black eyes and a muddy complexion. He smashed me in the face with a cold flat iron. He is about the same height as your little girl there.”
I froze.
Dan said, “I have not seen him.” But his voice was shaky.
I resumed walking towards the door. The sides of my bonnet were like the blinkers horses sometimes wear: they kept me from getting spooked by the beady eyes of the three desperados scrutinizing me.
All I could see of them was their legs. I prayed that those legs would carry their owners away. Sure enough, they began to move aside to let me pass.
But then, just when I thought I was out of it, a spurred boot came out to block my path. A whiny, nasal voice said, “Just a minute, little girl.”
I knew the boot belonged to Boz, whose nose I had broken. I knew if I looked up at him he would recognize my “cold black eyes” and my “muddy complexion.”
So I threw down the plates and ran for it.
I heard a shout. “After her, boys!”
Their spurred boots sounded like gunshots on the boardwalk behind me.
Then I heard a bullet whizz past my ear & realized they really were gunshots.
Ledger Sheet 22
EVEN AT NIGHT the streets of Virginia are busy.
As I sped across Sutton without looking left or right, I nearly got trampled by a two-horse buggy. The horses reared and pawed the air only inches from my head.
But I had only one thought: “I must get away from those bullets!”
I turned to head south on B Street.
As I rounded the corner at a run, I saw open double doors and light pouring out.
I charged inside and up some carpeted stairs, then left along a corridor with numbered rooms on both sides.
I thought, “This must be a hotel.”
I could hear spurred boots jangling up the stairs behind me, so I began to try the doors.
I found one unlocked & flung it open & ran through a dimly lit room.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman in a puffy lime-green dress and a man in a brocade waistcoat. They were bouncing up and down on the bed. Ma Evangeline would not have approved. She always rebukes me when I jump up and down on a mattress. She says it is hard on the bed-frame.
“Hey!” said the man, & the woman squealed, “Oh! A little girl!”
I ignored them & charged straight through some double glass doors before me. I had a good head of steam going and caught myself just before I plunged over the rail of a balcony & onto some horses tied to the hitching post below. I staggered back and looked around. There was another balcony over on the building to my right, but there was a fair-sized gap between the two balconies and a drop of about twenty feet. I would have to jump that gap if I wanted to escape being shot.
Cursing my little white boots and wishing I had my moccasins, I clambered up onto the rail. For a moment I teetered. Then I found my balance. Then I jumped.
I landed on the other balcony awkwardly, slightly twisting my right ankle.
“Dang it!” I said as I limped to the glass doors. Thankfully they were unlocked. They opened into a dark room with a thread of light on the far side, marking the bottom of an inner door. I could hear the muffled sound of a hurdy-gurdy playing “Aura Lee.” I ran across the dark room and as I opened the far door I sent up a prayer of thanks and also of petition. “Help me, Lord,” I prayed. “Oh, help me escape these desperados!”
The sound of the hurdy-gurdy grew louder as I stepped out on a wooden walkway.
I could smell whiskey and cigar smoke. That, and the jolly music, told me I was in a saloon.
I went to the rail of the walkway and looked down on a big, brightly lit room. There were lots of round green tables and men sitting at them playing cards. There was a long mahogany bar at one end of the room and a Negro hurdy-gurdy player and some half-dressed ladies at the other.
I stood there for a moment, looking for an escape route. Then I saw some stairs to my left.
As I turned to go towards them I saw Walt coming up.
As I turned to go right, a door opened & Extra Dub stepped out.
They were both smiling at me and they were taking their time.
They knew they had me trapped.
“Well, well, well,” said Walt. “You must be Pinky. Looks like I have got the bulge on you. Give me that Letter and you will come to no harm.”
“I don’t have it,” I said. “A Soiled Dove stole it off m
e. A Soiled Dove by the name of Belle Donne.”
Walt had reached my level. “Tell us another story like that,” he said, cocking his revolver, “and I will fill you full of lead.”
I looked over the railing of the walkway to the room below. Directly underneath me was a round green table. The men sitting around it were looking up at me. There was a pile of coins in the middle of the table & some drinks & some playing cards.
On my left, Whittlin Walt was drawing a bead on me & on my right Extra Dub was taking careful aim, too.
I did not have many options.
In fact, it seemed to me there was only one.
I vaulted over the railing down onto the table below.
A moment after I leapt, twin shots rang out.
I was expecting to crash down on the table & you can imagine my surprise when I found myself safe in a man’s strong arms. One of the gamblers had got to his feet and caught me. Thanks to his quick reflexes, I had escaped being shot or bruised.
The gambler and I stared into each other’s eyes. His were so dark they were almost black. He showed no emotion.
The hurdy-gurdy player had stopped playing and for a moment everything was silent, apart from the dying echo of the gunshots.
Then from the walkway above came Walt’s harsh voice. “Dub, you Fool! You creased me! Don’t aim at me! Aim at her!”
More gunshots rang out & some women started screaming & I found myself set on my feet as my rescuer took out his own piece & commenced firing up at the men in the gallery. A moment later everyone else had their guns out & blazing, too.
As far as I could tell it was a Free-for-All.
I did not linger to see the outcome.
Quick as a telegram I ran underneath the walkway to the bar and hurried along behind it at a crouch. It formed a useful barrier between me and the flying balls of lead.
When I got to the end of the bar nearest the door I paused, straightened my bonnet, took a deep breath and then charged the swinging saloon doors with my arms stuck out stiff before me.
As Providence would have it, the left-hand door smacked a man in the face as he was running in. He crashed backwards onto the boardwalk, out cold. The flickering torchlight showed me that it was Walt’s broken-nosed pard: the unlucky Boz.
For the second time that day I had smashed him in the face.
I could hear gunfire coming from the saloon but nobody had yet burst out after me. I tipped my head down and limped along the torchlit street as quickly as I dared, not wanting to attract the attention of the people hurrying this way.
Keeping to the shadows on the west side of B Street, I walked faster and faster until soon I was running. I sped across one of those steep side streets, looking neither right nor left.
I was lucky not to be run over by a cart or buggy. I was in such a daze that I trampled on the tail of an old brown dog sprawled on the boardwalk just past the Old Corner Saloon. He uttered a shrill yap and then leapt to his feet and started to bark. The poor creature had been minding his own business chewing a bone in front of a shuttered-up meat market when I trod on his tail.
That dog’s yelp brought me to my senses.
I slowed to a walk again but as I crossed another steep side street I realized that if I kept on going I would probably leave the shelter of the town behind. I stopped and backed up against a rough plank wall beside a barrel. I suddenly felt exhausted & confused. I was shivering, too, for it had begun to snow. I did not have a cloak or a coat over my thin calico dress.
A few hours ago I had possessed a Letter that might have made me a Millionaire. Now I was standing in the middle of a strange and sinful town, with three murderous desperados on my trail. To add insult to injury, I was wearing little white boots, a bonnet, a pink dress and bloomers underneath.
“Please, Lord, help,” I prayed.
Then I lifted up my eyes and at once two Solutions presented themselves to me.
Across the street I saw a torchlit sign that was as welcome as a watering hole in the desert. It said, ISAIAH COFFIN’S AMBROTYPE & PHOTOGRAPHIC GALLERY.
I had the key to that Safe Haven in my medicine pouch. I thought of the warm buffalo skin and the soft couch. How I longed to be safely wrapped up in the one & lying on the other.
But another sign just two doors along read: COLOMBO RESTAURANT—TITUS JEPSON PROPRIETOR, PRIVATE ROOM FOR LADIES & CHILDREN.
The Colombo Restaurant was the name of the place where Belle Donne sometimes took her meals.
I could either use my key to take shelter in the Photographic Gallery and lie low till morning as Ping had recommended, or I could continue my search for Belle Donne and my purloined Letter.
I decided to be brave and pursue my Quest for that Letter. But first I had to do one important thing in Isaiah Coffin’s Ambrotype & Photographic Gallery.
Get out of those girly clothes.
Ledger Sheet 23
OIL LAMPS ON THE TABLES & walls gave the dining room of the Colombo Restaurant a pleasing golden glow. It smelled of cabbage & roast pork & also of wood smoke from the cherry-ripe cast-iron stove in one corner. The room was full of tables & every seat was occupied. Most of the men were bearded. There was a comforting sound of cutlery on china when I first entered, but then it grew quiet as the diners stopped eating & turned to stare at me.
I had changed into a new outfit.
I thought, “Maybe they don’t serve people dressed like this here at the Colombo Restaurant.”
My suspicion was confirmed when a Mexican boy carrying empty plates stood before me.
“Get out!” he said. “Chop, chop! You can’t come in here!” He made a flapping motion at me with his free hand.
I stood firm and in a low voice I said, “I am looking for Belle Donne. I have an important message for her.”
The young waiter stared hard at me for a few moments, glanced around at the diners, then nodded. “Follow me,” he said. “We have a special room for women and children.” Then he added in a low voice, “Next time you come here, use the side entrance by the privy.”
I followed him across the crowded dining room and through a door into another, smaller dining room, also lit by a few oil lamps & warmed by a wood-burning stove. There was a family of six at a rectangular table & a woman in black who sat alone at a small round table.
Still holding the dishes, the young waiter showed me to a small square table in one corner by an east-facing window & a potted fern. It was warm in there & I sat down gratefully.
The young waiter said, “Wait here. I will get the proprietor and owner, Mr. Titus Jepson.”
A moment later he returned. “Mr. Jepson says that any friend of Belle’s is a friend of his. What would you like to eat?”
“I have just eaten,” I said. “But I am partial to black coffee.”
The waiter nodded. “Coming right up.”
While I waited, I studied the other people in the dining room. The blond family were talking to each other in a foreign language. They looked & sounded like Olaf, the bully from Temperance. From this I deduced they were Swedish. They were of solid build & had heads shaped like dice.
The woman in the corner reminded me of my teacher in Dayton, Miss Marlowe. But Miss Marlowe is pretty & this lady was plain. She was crinkling her nose at me to make Expression No. 3: Disgust.
The kitchen door opened & a redheaded man poked his head out & looked at me for a while. Then he retreated.
A few minutes later the redheaded man reappeared with a wedge of white-frosted chocolate cake and a thick china mug of black coffee. He put them both on the table and then took a seat opposite me.
“My name is Titus Jepson,” he said. “Owner and proprietor of this establishment.”
He was plump and wore a greasy white apron. From these clews I guessed he was the chief coo
k as well. “Gus tells me you’re American,” he said. “In spite of your getup. And that you know Belle?”
I nodded and looked down at the piece of cake.
It looked good.
It made me think of the cake sitting at home. The cake with the chocolate frosting & licorice writing that Ma Evangeline had baked. My birthday cake that nobody would eat. I could hardly believe it was still my birthday. In the past four hours I had witnessed my foster parents’ death & rid on top of a stagecoach & hid under the skirts of a Soiled Dove & been robbed & been shot at, too.
“Go on and have some,” said Titus Jepson. “The cake is on the house. Like I told Gus, a friend of Belle’s is a friend of mine.”
I took a forkful and lifted it to my mouth. Then I hesitated.
What if Titus Jepson was in cahoots with Walt and knew who I was?
What if the cake was poisoned?
Had I learned nothing from my time in Satan’s Playground?
I lowered my fork.
“Don’t you like chocolate?” said Titus Jepson.
“I love chocolate.”
“Then why don’t you eat it?”
I said, “I am afraid it might be poisoned.”
Titus Jepson chuckled. “That cake ain’t poisoned and I’ll prove it.” He pinched off a portion and ate it. “That there’s my special Comstock layer cake. Chocolate with a ledge of silver frosting.” He grinned & showed a missing front tooth. “Course the frosting’s not really silver. It’s icing sugar flavored with vanilla, you bet.”
I took a bite.
It was delicious.
Maybe even better than Ma Evangeline’s cake.
Titus Jepson said, “The frosting is supposed to represent the silver under the mountain. You can probably guess that I am a Uniledgarian.”
I said, “Beg pardon?”
He said, “A Uniledgarian is a person who believes in One Ledge.”
“Everybody talks about ‘ledges,’” said I, taking another bite. “But I don’t understand what a ledge is.”
“Why, a ledge is a vein of silver, only it’s more like a sheet than a vein. Some people around here adhere to the doctrine of multiple ledges, like a little stack of pancakes that have fallen over. But most of us believe there is one single ledge under this town, like the frosting in your cake.” Titus Jepson pointed a chubby finger at my cake & he said, “May I?”
The Case of the Deadly Desperados Page 8
