“Tule.” Good settled his belt, moved his knife around to where he could whip it out in a hurry, then pressed his hand over the medicine bag. “I killed the Apache. He was Lipan. I do not like Lipan. I am Creek.”
“Eastern Oklahoma?” Lucas heaved a sigh of relief that he wasn’t wrong. Good might hail from somewhere close to his own hometown in Kansas. For some reason Lucas couldn’t immediately identify, this made him more comfortable with the man. Trust never came easily, and he warned himself to be wary or something of his might go into the dead Apache’s medicine bag dangling from Good’s belt.
Good simply stared.
Before the war, the Creek had been slave owners but not in the way white Southerners tended theirs. The Creek slaves had been a part of an extended family, but they had been chattel nonetheless. After the war, many of them and their offspring had left Indian Territory. It wasn’t out of the question to find a black Creek in Denver seeking his fortune.
Lucas was damned lucky Good had been there.
“Did you take that knife off the dead Apache?” He pointed to the horn-handled knife that had gutted the wolfhound so intent on ripping out his throat.
“You take your coat off a circus clown?”
Lucas was taken aback, then laughed. It wasn’t his place to interrogate the man.
“You’ve been watching over me, haven’t you? Did you see the woman who was following me the other day?”
Good nodded slightly, then ran his finger under his nose.
“She wears a strong perfume,” Lucas said. “Spikenard. That’s what it’s called. It’s made from some plant found only in the Himalayas.”
“I know of those,” Good said. “Tall mountains on the other side of the world.”
“You do get around,” Lucas said, standing. His leg felt strong enough for him to walk. “Thanks for the help.” He started back toward the detective agency. Good fell into step beside him.
“You go after them?”
“No pack of dogs is going to chew me up and spit me out without paying for it.”
“Dogs were killed. That is enough.”
Lucas wasn’t going to explain to the Creek what he felt. He had been attacked, but more than this, he thought this was the only chance he had of finding Amanda’s dog. A wolfhound puppy had to come from a wolfhound sire and bitch.
“Not for me. I’m going to find the pack—and the woman siccing it on me.”
Good started to speak. He shook his head no, then stared straight ahead as they returned to the detective agency office. The dead dogs had already been removed from the street and the back room. From the footprints left in the dogs’ blood on the floor, a woman had come in and taken the carcass. Lucas went to the far end of the alley and saw deep ruts left by wagon wheels. Of the dogs, woman, or wagon, he saw nothing.
“I need to get a horse.”
“You cannot go alone.”
“I won’t say a word against it if you’re offering to come with me. Sitting in a chair all day long is more my style than astride a horse.”
“Then stay. I will follow them.”
Lucas tried to figure out the reason for this strange offer. Good had been ready for the dogs’ attack. He wanted to ask how that came about, but the offer to ride after the pack by himself gave Lucas more reason to wonder.
“I owe you,” Good said, as if trying to answer the question before it was asked.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m mighty appreciative of what you’ve done. If you think you need to do any more to pay back the ten dollars, consider the debt paid. My life’s worth about that much.” He grinned crookedly. “And the magic dust you used on my leg is worth even more.”
“You will go after the dogs?”
Lucas used the Indian’s method of answering. He nodded once. Good sagged a little, as if in resignation, then straightened.
“I will get horses.”
Lucas stayed at the alley while Good fetched horses for them. He spent the time staring into the distance at the Front Range. The wagon had rattled off in that direction. If they rode hard, they would overtake the dogs and driver before noon.
That had seemed a reasonable estimate, though Lucas had overestimated his own endurance in the saddle. Parts of him hurt that he didn’t even know existed, and the places he knew about blistered after an hour on the trail. For reasons known only to him, Good said nothing. If Lucas could read the man’s thoughts, he was happy for the delay. That made no sense, but Good was always ready to continue when Lucas forced down his pain enough to hit the trail again.
“There,” Good said as the sun dipped behind the tall Rockies.
Lucas shielded his eyes and tried to make out the wagon tracks. Good proved himself a far superior tracker. All Lucas saw were scrapes on rock. Left to his own devices, he would have never chosen this route.
“Camp on far side of hill. We can look from the crest.” Good indicated a game trail going up a steep knoll.
“How do you know there’s a camp anywhere nearby?”
Good snapped his reins and worked his pony up the trail without replying. Lucas took a deep breath and thought he caught a hint of wood smoke. That might have been all the hint the Creek needed, but Lucas thought it was chancy to bet on a camp on the far side of the hill.
Twilight held the land when they topped the rise. Lucas caught his breath as he looked down into a gentle, grassy bowl.
“I bow to your expertise. That’s a good-sized camp.”
“Four wagons,” Good said. “Ten men.”
The baying of the wolfhounds added to the count below. How Good came to his tally on the men was another tribute to his skill—a skill Lucas did not possess. He kicked his leg back, winced as skin stretched over burning muscles, then he dropped to the ground.
“What do we do now?” Good remained astride his pony.
Lucas damned Good for asking the question before he could. Now he had to find an answer rather than see what the Creek came up with. He had no chance of finding Tovarich in Denver. Locating the source of the puppy gave him a new thread to track back so he could find the wayward canine.
“First, hold the reins.” Lucas passed them up to the Indian. “If I get into trouble, come get me.”
“No!” Good’s cry fell on deaf ears.
Lucas stumbled and slid down the far side of the hill, going directly for the camp below. He reached the grassy bowl and walked with more confidence than he felt, the nearest campfire his destination. Dark forms rose and he felt eyes fixed on him as he came within a few yards of the easternmost wagon.
He worried about the men throwing down on him. Death came from a direction he should have anticipated.
11
His hand went to his pocket with the loaded Colt, but the onslaught from the dog would make a shot impossible. Lucas was a good marksman, but it was past twilight and all he saw were fleeting shadows and chimeras dancing about as the wolfhound thundered toward him. He heard its paws smashing into the ground as it gathered speed and saw the fangs in its huge mouth. One quick snap on his throat would kill him. Waiting until the dog came close enough for a decent shot would mean his death.
He had been lucky back in Denver, killing two and injuring another. The power and ferocity of the attack would overwhelm him.
The wolfhound jumped. Lucas dropped to one knee and jerked hard to the side. Once a four-legged animal launched, it couldn’t change its direction. There couldn’t be any fancy footwork as it launched either. Straight on. That was it. The dog plunged past, twisting its head and snapping its jaws in an attempt to catch him. The wolfhound landed hard and skidded in the dirt, its momentum carrying it away from him.
“Stop!”
He had half drawn his pistol. His only chance was to shoot the wolfhound before it recovered its balance and brought the attack back to him. The sharp command froze
him. To his surprise it also caused the dog to hunker down on its haunches. It still pulled back its lips and snarled, but it had stopped its attack.
The woman walking up would have been prettier if she hadn’t worn a mask of black fury.
“I should let Sasha kill you.”
“Why not?” Lucas got to his feet, warily turning to face her. The dog at his back presented a constant threat. “You loosed your dogs on me in Denver.”
“Is that why you followed me? Because of that?”
“One dog ripped my pant leg.” Lucas held out his injured leg. It throbbed dully now as Good’s medicine wore off. “You owe me a new pair of pants.”
She stood with her mouth agape, her confusion obvious. Lucas decided she was prettier confused than angry. Her brunette hair had been pulled back and held in place with an intricate silver band. Her wide-set eyes and sallow appearance made him wonder if she was part Celestial. Her skin was tanned but might carry a hint of a xanthous hue. The closer he looked, the more he imagined epicanthic folds around those eyes, giving her an exotic look. She was shorter than he by a few inches, but her real height was something for him to determine later since she wore glossy, high-heeled leather riding boots that added a few inches to her. What intrigued him most was her clothing.
It was gaudy to the point of being funny, but he didn’t laugh. At her waist, tucked into a broad black leather belt snugged about her, she carried no fewer than three knives. Those blades took away the circus mien to her tight riding britches and flaring embroidered jacket that looked like a confused rainbow with its reds and yellows vying for attention from the bright greens and cobalt blues.
Most fascinating of all was her perfume. He inhaled deeply.
“Spikenard,” he said.
She stared at him, her confusion growing. Then she understood what he had said.
“How do you know this? It is a spice that grows only in the Himalayas. You have not been there.” She spoke with contempt.
“Unlike you, I wasn’t born there,” he said. “But I fancy myself a connoisseur of fragrances, especially those used by such a lovely lady.”
Behind him the dog growled so loudly he fancied he could feel it shaking the ground. He knew how to run a bluff. Looking nervous now wasn’t the way to stay alive. Expecting Good to pull his fat from the fire wasn’t a strategy he wanted to rely on.
“You know a great deal about me,” the woman said.
“There is much about you that is still a mystery shrouded in secrecy,” he said. Keeping her talking kept him alive for another few seconds. The longer she listened and responded, the better his chance was that the dog wouldn’t dine on him.
“My business is my own.”
“I referred to your name.”
“Why do you want to know it?” Her suspicion told Lucas a great deal.
“I do not intend turning you over to the authorities.” From her reaction, he had hit the bull’s-eye. She and her gang were on the run from the law. “I expect a lovely woman such as yourself to have a lovely name. Katarina? Alexandra?”
“Vera,” she said. “Vera Zasulich.”
Lucas bowed deeply, doffing his bowler and sweeping it in a grand arc. He regretted the movement because the dog barked and edged closer.
Vera snapped her fingers and said something in Russian. The wolfhound settled down, but it had crept a foot closer. Lucas held his hat in his hand but hid his Colt inside the bowler, just in case. The small pistol wouldn’t slow the dog, but a shot in Vera Zasulich’s direction might produce more results—if necessary.
“You already know me.”
“I don’t,” she said, surprising him. “You go about town asking questions. That is all I know.”
Lucas introduced himself but said nothing about the Great West Detective Agency. He moved to better see her face, the wrinkles, the grins, the movement of her eyes, the tension, all the small signs he studied while playing poker. The cards only meant riches or ruin for him, with the exception of the rancher who had lost the deed to his ranch. Somehow, Lucas thought Vera’s reaction would prove more dangerous if she turned on him.
“A gambler? I can see that. What is your purpose coming into our camp without introduction? You followed us from town.”
“Your dogs almost killed me.”
“Three died.” Vera’s tone turned steely. “You were responsible?”
“Having one of your dogs trying to rip out my throat made the fight simple enough. The dog or me.”
“I would have preferred to have the dog live.”
“I’m sure,” he said. “Those are magnificent animals. Do you have any small ones? Puppies?” There had to be more of a connection between Vera Zasulich and Amanda than the shared perfume. The obvious one was the breed of dog. Tovarich might only be a puppy but Amanda had said he was a Russian wolfhound like these.
“You are not the type to care about dogs,” she said. “Why are you here?”
“You know why.” He watched her closely for any hint of what to do next. If he hadn’t stared so intently, he would have missed a curious movement of her hands, fingers moving in a quick pattern.
Lucas wondered if he had blundered into a Freemasons’ meeting with secret symbols and passwords, but he duplicated the woman’s sign. Her eyes widened and she started to speak but no words came out.
“Yes,” he said. “We share more than meets the eye.” He refrained from invoking the secret hand signal again. That might have been too much. One of his acknowledged faults in poker was overplaying good hands, spooking his opponents and causing them to fold before he’d milked the most from them.
Vera Zasulich had to fill in all the missing pieces and then Lucas had to ease the truth from her to find out what was going on.
“This country never ceases to amaze me,” she said. “Revolutionaries in Mother Russia do not dress as you or look as you.”
“I’m sure they cannot be as handsome,” Lucas said, bowing slightly. He moved his hat around so he could slip his pistol back into his coat pocket. With both hands he settled the bowler on his head at a jaunty angle and gave her the biggest smile he could muster.
She seemed immune to his charm, so he changed tactics.
“Feed me to the dog or let’s talk business.”
Vera called out something more in Russian. Two of the men near cooking fires came over, rifles held in the crooks of their arms. They dressed in a manner similar to the woman, in a style Lucas struggled to identify. He had seen gypsies leaving New Orleans in a small caravan. These wagons were of similar construction. The clothing differed, though it had some details in common.
“Cossacks,” he said in a low voice.
The woman snapped at the men, who backed away. She circled Lucas and took hold of the dog’s thick leather collar. A quick tug got the dog to its feet. With a few whispered words, she let the dog go free. It trotted past Lucas, but the way it sized him up for dinner made him put his hand back in his pocket. His fingers stroked over the varnished rosewood butt of his pistol, but the dog gave a yelp, then raced off.
“Many of us are Cossacks. We have no love for the czar, but you knew that.”
“The smell of your brewing tea reminds me how thirsty I am. Could you spare a cup?”
She gestured for him to precede her. Lucas worried that she would use one of those knives when he turned his back, then realized the number of times she had already passed up to kill him if she wanted. He settled down on a smooth rock near the fire, where a pot of boiling water hung over the flames.
Vera called to one of the men to bring her cups and a samovar. The boiling water was carefully decanted into the samovar, which she put on the ground between them before adding a few fragrant tea leaves.
“The big pot is too cumbersome. The samovar is more convenient.”
“And traditional,” Lucas added. He watched
the vapor curl from the spout and be spirited away by the growing breeze. “Very fine odor.” He sniffed deeply and caught not only the brewing tea but the woman’s perfume.
This set off a confusing series of thoughts of Amanda and Tovarich and the pack of hounds Vera commanded so expertly. He forced them all away. Being in such a dangerous position required all his wit. Charm hadn’t played well with the woman, so he had to rely on other ways to find out what he needed to know.
“We are revolutionaries. Tradition means little.” Vera poured the tea into a cup and handed it to Lucas. She poured for herself and raised the enameled cup in salute. “Death to the czar!”
“Death to all tyrants.” Lucas sipped the tea, expecting it to be undrinkable. To his surprise, it was nothing like the tea a British companion had forced on him as they idled away the time one winter in Kansas City. “Very good.”
“It comes from Nepal. The Shah Dynasty allows very little to leave the country, but I have friends there.”
“Your home?”
“My grandfather’s. I am Russian!”
“How long before you overthrow the czar?”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. She used the teacup as a way of hiding her mouth in an attempt to keep her reaction away from him. That turned him cautious.
“Not that it matters to me one way or the other,” he added. “Our concerns only overlap on other matters.”
This eased her suspicion. Tribes always had strong bonds. The Russians were every bit as loyal to their tribe as any Indian, and any outsider pretending to believe as they did was just that, an outsider.
“It is good belonging to a group you are loyal to and that is loyal to you.” He heaved a sigh. “I am something of a loner.”
“You are loyal to no political philosophy? How strange. That is even alien to me, but you Americans are loyal to money.”
“Gold is good.” Again he was surprised by her reaction. She accepted him more now, thinking he sought only money rather than ideology. Who were her allies?
She poured him more tea.
“Mr. Dunbar would appreciate this tea. It is that good.”
The Great West Detective Agency Page 10
