by Cameron Judd
“But we’ve got a car of our own to go to. There’s no crowds, no noise, no cigar smoke. There are padded chairs instead of these benches. Why can’t we go there?”
“I don’t feel right there. It’s too fancy, too uppity.”
“Then the Illustrated American has paid to have your father’s own private car joined to this train for no reason.”
“The Illustrated American can afford it. And it hasn’t been wasted. We slept in it last night, didn’t we?” He paused. “Frankly, Roxanne, that car is my father’s domain, not mine. I just don’t feel right being in it. I’m used to more rugged modes of travel.”
“Only because Brady Kenton always insisted on roughing it.”
“Not always. At times Kenton loved his luxury. But he always said that to practice good journalism, he had to be among the people, not cut off from them. So he looked for the cheap hotels and the cheap railroad tickets and the roughest barrooms. That’s where he found his best stories.”
Roxanne took a fresh faceful of cigar smoke and hacked for half a minute. “Alex, I think I should note that we’re not looking for stories. We’re simply traveling to New York. There’s no particular reason to be ‘among the people’ this trip … especially when they smoke cigars as smelly as the one that man over there is afflicting us with.”
He smiled at her. “I’m sorry, Roxanne. Old habits die hard, and I’ve not been thoughtful. Tell you what: why don’t you go on back to our private car? I’ll join you shortly.”
“Come with me now! How can you abide the smell of that cigar?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of smoking one myself.”
She frowned. Gunnison had recently taken up the habit of smoking a cigar a day, and she didn’t like it. Nor would she accept his explanation that his father had actually suggested he smoke more often, because it made him seem more professional, more one of the upper crust of the magazine world. In the publishing world, anyone who was anyone smoked cigars.
“If you’re going to sit here and add to the foulness in the air, then indeed I will go back alone,” she said. “Perhaps you will join me later … after the smell has had time to fade off your clothing.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Enjoy your cigar … in that you evidently prefer the company of tobacco to that of your devoted wife.”
“You’re very unfair, you know.”
“Yes, indeed.” She patted his knee, rose, and was gone.
* * *
He was halfway through his cigar when she was back again.
“Roxanne? You look pale.… Is something wrong?”
“Alex, we’re not alone on this train.”
“Of course we’re not alone.”
“No! What I mean is, someone is on this train because of us. Someone is following us.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because when I went back to our car, I saw someone trying to enter. I stopped and watched long enough to be sure.… I sat down in one of the empty seats in the passenger car and watched him at least two minutes. It was only when the conductor walked through that he stopped. He pretended to be looking for something he’d dropped at our door. He came walking back through the passenger car, but he didn’t see me. There was a newspaper there and I lifted it and pretended to read, and hid my face as he went by.”
Gunnison’s heart was pounding faster. He dropped the cigar onto the dirty floor and crushed it out. The car swayed and rumbled.
“Maybe it was just a common thief, trying to break into the nearest private railroad car.”
“I don’t think so. I saw the same man in St. Louis, as we were getting aboard.”
“It’s not that surprising.… He’s on the same train as we are, and he had to get on somewhere.”
“He was looking at you before we boarded.… I noticed it at the time but didn’t think much of it. You are becoming better known in the city.”
“Where is this man now?”
“Not in here … but he must have passed through.”
“Several people have passed through here; I paid no heed to them.”
“Let’s go back to our car. I don’t feel safe here.”
“I’d like to get a look at this fellow you saw. Maybe have a word with him.”
“No! No, don’t do it. I’m too scared for you to do that right now. But why would anyone be following us?” she asked.
“Who knows? Perhaps he is just a common thief after all, and thought I looked wealthy enough to be worth robbing.”
“Could it have anything to do with Kenton?”
“Surely not. I can’t see how. I mean, nobody knows what we’re up to except ourselves and Billy.”
“Maybe somebody else is trying to find Kenton, somebody bad. Maybe Kenton is in hiding because of that. And maybe whoever it is decided that Kenton might get in touch with you because you are his publisher and his old partner.”
“This is an awful lot to surmise just from somebody trying to break into our car. I’m sure that robbery in private railroad cars is nothing all that unusual.”
“Let’s go back to our car. Let’s stay there. I’m scared, Alex.”
CHAPTER 10
The road up the mountain took a bend, and as soon as he was around it Billy Connery suddenly veered his horse into the woods and down into a ravine. He followed it a hundred yards, then dismounted and tethered the horse to some brush. Here it was well out of sight from the road. He gave it oats from the feed bag he’d brought from the livery, then cut a straight path toward the road, not the angled path by which he’d reached this point.
He lay in the brush by the roadside and waited. He was there hardly a minute before the approach of two horsemen confirmed the suspicion that had developed about a mile out of town.
This was the pair he’d seen in the gun shop. He shook his head as he watched them pass. He should have never flashed that roll of money so carelessly.
They rode within fifteen feet of where Connery hid, one of them urging the other to hurry because he feared their prey was moving faster than they were.
Ride on, scoundrels, Connery thought. You’re chasing phantoms now.
They went on and he debated what to do. They probably would figure out before long that he had evaded them and might turn around. So he didn’t want to get back on the road and take the chance of meeting them on the return.
Nothing to do but stay out of sight and wait it out, then. That could mean he’d not make Culvertown tonight.
Well, there could be worse fates. Such as being robbed at gunpoint.
He went back to his horse and removed its saddle. He rubbed the horse down as best he could and fed it some more.
Too bad he didn’t have a bedroll. He’d not anticipated needing one unless his search for Kenton took him into the mountains beyond Culvertown. In that case he’d planned to buy what he needed in Culvertown.
He’d spent other nights in harder situations. He’d make do, if it came to it.
Maybe he’d get lucky and his followers would come back sooner rather than later and he could ride on and maybe make Culvertown before nightfall.
Connery returned to his hiding place beside the road to keep a hopeful watch.
He dozed off, though he didn’t realize it until sound on the road made him wake up. He looked around, then ducked low as he realized that his followers had indeed given up and reversed course.
Connery kept quiet and grinned. Once they were past, he could saddle up again and head on into Culvertown. He’d get there in the middle of the night, but what the devil? At the worst he’d sleep in a barn loft or woodshed, better than the open woods without a bedroll.
The two riders were moving slowly and drinking.
“Too damn bad he give us the slip,” one said.
“Hell, yeah. I never seen such a roll of bills. I can’t figure how the hell he got away from us.”
“Heard us following, betcha. Heard your damn mouth blabbing on. I told you to be quieter.”
“Hell, you was making more noise than me. Hey, why you stopping?”
“Gotta wet.”
One of the pair slid out of the saddle and headed straight for the woods, only a few yards from where Connery hid. Connery held still as he listened to liquid splattering the ground. Thank heaven the man wasn’t any closer than he was.
There was a loud thump out on the road. The other man had fallen out of his saddle.
The first one headed back out to the road, staggering badly. Connery realized just how drunk this pair was.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” the staggering man said.
The other was trying to pick himself up and not doing a good job of it.
“I’m drunk, Wayne. I fell off my horse.”
“Ha! You never could hold your whiskey, Hamp. Get up off that ground.”
Hamp tried hard but wound up on his rump again.
“Hell, Wayne, I can’t go no farther. We got bedrolls. Let’s just lay ’em out and sleep it off here. We’ll ride back down in the morning.”
Connery winced. If they camped where they were, he was stuck where he was.… He dared not move for fear of making noise.
“Come on, Hamp. Get back on your horse. You can make it.”
That’s right, Hamp, Connery thought. You can make it.
“I can’t. I can’t. Let’s stay here and go in come morning.”
The debate continued briefly, and in the end Hamp won out. Connery shook his head sadly. An entire night hiding in the brush mere yards away from a couple of drunken thieves! The prospect was miserable.
Maybe they’d pass out and he could sneak off to his horse.
But they didn’t pass out. They built a fire right in the midst of the road and sat drinking and talking, their voices growing more slurred. Billy wondered how much they could drink before finally succumbing. Their capacity seemed boundless.
Their conversation was about women, past crimes, and ambitions for future ones that would make them wealthy men. Connery had his doubts about that. These were losers, probably destined to die young and broke and still dreaming of that big crime.
He wished they were dreaming somewhere else tonight.
“Take a look there,” Hamp said, pointing in Connery’s general direction and giving him a scare. But he realized quickly that Hamp was not pointing at him but somewhere beyond him. “You can see the light of Jack Livingston’s place from here.”
“Nah. That ain’t Livingston’s place. It’s too far away. Besides, I hear the place is empty. Livingston died last year.”
“He ain’t dead. I’ve talked to three men who seen him in Culvertown not three months ago. And six months back, he come into town and walked into a saloon and bought three rounds for everybody in the place. Told them to drink up hearty. Then two of them followed him back toward his mansion and dang if he didn’t shoot at them. He’s loco as can be, Jack Livingston is.”
“Loco, maybe, but rich, too. They say that place has gold hid all through it.”
“Just a story. Jack Livingston used to be rich, but he ain’t no more.”
“Who told you that?”
“Bunch of folks. He made a big strike here at Culvertown and got rich as Beelzebub and married himself off to a woman who had to have herself a fancy big mansion. So he built her one, and filled it all full of tunnels and passages and such.”
“That’s just another wild tale.”
“Hell, no, it ain’t.… I’ve talked to folks who say they’ve seen ’em. His wife liked book stories with big old houses and secret tunnels and such, and so he built her house that way. Then she up and dies on him, and he goes loco and lives up there alone. Except sometimes he goes off here and there and gambles. So he loses most his money, but every now and then wins him a big hand and gets a lot of it back. That’s when he shows up in Culvertown, buying drinks and all.”
“I don’t believe none of that.”
“Well, I’m just telling what I hear.”
“Tell you what: if there is money or gold hid up in that mansion, I’d sure like to put my hands on it.”
“Amen. That would be a place worth robbing. But you’ll not catch me trying it.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know? Everyone who’s tried to rob Jack Livingston ain’t come back from the effort.”
“Just more stories, that’s all.”
“The hell! You go into the Livingston mansion, you don’t come out again.”
They talked longer, dreaming out loud about the wealth they would someday steal. They drank, too, growing drunker and drunker, until finally they did slide into unconsciousness.
By then Billy Connery was asleep as well. He did not waken until the next morning. He awakened abruptly, though, startled into awareness by something … but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Popping sounds. That’s what it had been. Like pinewood snapping in a fireplace, but louder. Gunshots? Faraway ones, maybe. The pair on the road were gone, their fire nearly cold. He was glad to see the last of them.
He got up, rubbing the back of his stiff neck, and headed off to where his horse awaited.
CHAPTER 11
Connery had been closer to Culvertown than he had realized. After only a couple of hours of riding he rounded a bend and saw the town spread out before him.
It was a beautiful and clear morning, but that only served to better define the town’s remarkable ugliness. It was a rambling, undefined, mostly unpainted, smoke-stained town, streets muddy, boardwalks uneven. All around the town, rude cabins marked the hills, which were lined by a network of footpaths and wagon trails. To the west, a huge water cannon blasted away at the mountainside, laying bare rock and adding abundant filth to the wide stream that flowed through the center of town.
Welcome to Culvertown. Connery shook his head as he rode in, thinking that Brady Kenton couldn’t have picked a less appealing place in which to hide.
He yanked his horse to a halt, however, when his eyes fell on one unexpected exception to the rule of ugliness that governed the town.
On a mountainside stood nothing less than a mansion, looming over the town. Connery let out a low whistle. This had to be the Jack Livingston mansion that the two scoundrels on the road had talked about.
Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing.
He found three hotels and picked the best-looking of the three. The man behind the counter was fleshy and bearded but had eyes that were bright and friendly, at least until Connery asked for a room.
“Ain’t got none,” the man said coldly.
“Your sign outside says you do.”
“Well, what do you know? An Irishman who can read.”
Connery understood then, debated mentally whether to fight it or just say the devil with it. The latter. He had better things to do with his time than try to overcome the prejudices of some mountain hotel keeper.
He left the hotel and headed for the second-best one. This time he disguised his brogue, just in case, and got a room with no problem and also arranged for the hotel livery boy to take care of his horse.
Baggage in hand, he headed upstairs to his room.
* * *
He was on the street again before long, in his hand the envelope bearing the apparent Kenton sketch. Briefly he admired the technical quality again, then glanced at the front to remind himself of the cafe name. The Buckeye. He set out to find it.
In a town this small he didn’t expect it to take long, but Culvertown was cluttered and patternless, and he searched for more than an hour before at last he found the place.
The Buckeye was a nicer place than Connery had anticipated. He walked in and found a vacant table in a corner, from which he had a good view of the entire room. Settling there, he looked around for the waiter depicted in the sketch. But he didn’t see him.
A different waiter, bald, short, and plump, approached him. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Coffee. A piece of apple pie if you’ve got it.”
; “We’ve got custard, sir. That’s all the pie we have today.”
“Custard it is.”
When the coffee and pie came to him on a tray, Connery slid the envelope toward the waiter.
“If you would, sir, take a look at that picture. Is that someone you know?”
The waiter picked it up. “I’ll be! That’s a picture of Walter Wheelan.”
“A waiter here?”
“Not anymore, sir.”
This was not good news. “Is he gone from town?”
“Not yet. But in a day or so he’ll be moving to Chicago. Walter has gotten married, and his wife doesn’t much like small mining towns.”
“I see.”
“May I ask you if you drew that picture, sir?”
“I didn’t draw it. In fact, I’m trying to find the man who did. It was drawn in this very cafe.”
“It’s quite remarkable.… It looks exactly like Walter. Even the way he stands.”
Connery took a sip of coffee and picked up his fork. “Have you seen anyone in here doing sketches like this?”
“Indeed I haven’t, sir.”
“Do you think that Walter Wheelan might know who did this sketch?”
“You’d have to ask him, sir.”
“Can you tell me where I can find him?”
For a moment the waiter seemed uncertain, maybe a touch suspicious. “Why do you want to know?”
“I think the artist might be someone I know professionally. I’m an illustrator for Gunnison’s Illustrated American.”
“No! I do love to read that magazine. Though I miss Brady Kenton’s touch. It’s sad that he passed away.”
“Yes. But about Walter Wheelan…”
“He lives in a rented room above a hardware store one street over. Unless he’s moved away already. I’ve lost contact with him since he quit working here.”
“What’s the hardware store?”
“Smith’s Hardware and Dry Goods.”
“Thank you.” Connery took his first bite of pie.
The waiter lingered a moment, looking at the sketch again. “I would half-believe that this sketch was done by Brady Kenton himself!”
“It is remarkably good.”
