The Great West Detective Agency

by Jackson Lowry

  “You lookin’ for a job? Come back after midnight. Got a full card runnin’ all day long.” He gave Lucas a once-over, then dismissed him.

  “I want to buy one of your dogs.”

  “Not for sale. All my fighters are top of the line. They’ll make me more fighting than they ever could bein’ put up for sale.”

  “A wolfhound,” Lucas said. “I’ll give you more for him than he could ever earn.”

  This caught Makepeace’s attention. He carefully placed the chalk on a ledge, wiped his hands on his thighs, and looked up at Lucas curiously.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s just a puppy. Such a small dog can’t stand up for more than a few seconds to a cage of rats.”

  “I only got one wolfhound, and he ain’t shy.” Makepeace jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the pit.

  Lucas missed the yelping dog being tossed into the pit but not the four cages filled with rats. They were dumped squealing and snapping. Not realizing he did so, Lucas drew his pistol and spun to the edge of the pit to protect Tovarich.

  He stared at the large Russian wolfhound in the pit, lunging, snapping, and killing with a cold methodical fury that put the other dogs to shame.

  “Tovarich?” The name escaped without him realizing it.

  “Best ratter I’ve seen in a month,” chortled a bettor. “I made twenty dollars on him so far. Never seen a mutt that vicious.”

  “Tovarich?”

  “Don’t know if he has a name. Makepeace don’t put names to ’em.”

  Lucas stood with the pistol drawn, then realized how the guards were coming for him. He lifted the .22 and fired into the pit. He was a crack marksman and his first three shots each dropped a large rat. The dog, if it was Tovarich, looked up as if thanking him, then went back to its bloody task.

  “Stop him. He’s ruinin’ the odds,” complained a man halfway around the pit.

  Lucas looked up and saw Amanda frantically shoving men out of the way. All she saw was the dog in the pit. The jeers and cries of protest drowned out her voice, but Lucas read her lips.

  “Tovarich!”

  Then he was bowled over, hands reaching for his pistol. He fired again and was rewarded with a grunt. The slug had found its way into a guard’s chest. Lucas kicked out and sent another man tumbling into the pit. This produced pandemonium in the barn. Fights broke out on either side. Another guard swinging an axe handle came for him. With a hand far steadier than it had any right to be, Lucas leveled his Colt and thumbed off two more rounds. Both struck the guard in the face. One cut a deep groove in his cheek. The other creased his scalp and snapped his head back.

  Jerking about, Lucas got to his feet. In time to duck under a roundhouse swung by a drunk bettor. He grunted, lowered his shoulder, and drove forward. Both he and the drunk tumbled into the pit. Lucas landed on top of the man and knocked the air from his lungs. When he looked up, he saw a fierce red eye. A rat. He fired and killed the rat. This drew the unwanted attention of the other rats.

  Lucas scrambled to sit up and get his back against the dirt wall to restrict the directions of attack. He found himself with an unlikely ally. The wolfhound snarled and snapped—at the rats. Lucas fired until his pistol came up empty, then relied on Tovarich to keep the rats at bay as he reloaded. He began firing with deadly accuracy. Seven shots, five dead rats.

  He winced as one fastened its teeth into his leg. He used the butt to hammer at the rat’s head until it released its grip. If it hadn’t been for the wolfhound, he would have been overwhelmed. Lucas fumbled to reload one final time. He hadn’t brought that many spare cartridges with him.

  He looked up and saw the guards in the hayloft trying to draw a bead on him. Resting his right hand on his left forearm, he took careful aim and fired. The Colt New Line made a tiny chuff! sound. The guard in the loft let out a scream as the slug tore along his right arm, and he dropped his rifle.

  “Lucas, hoist Tovarich up to me. Hurry!”

  He looked directly above and saw that Amanda had dropped to her stomach and reached down with both hands.

  “This is the ‘puppy’?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s Tovarich!”

  Her idea of a puppy was very different from his. He tucked his pistol back into his pocket, stamped on a couple remaining rats, then got both arms under the dog’s belly and heaved. Lucas almost lost his balance. The full-grown wolfhound weighed more than he could lift. He braced himself and fought the dog’s struggles. Amanda tried to calm the dog but all she did was further confuse the animal.

  Getting his feet braced, Lucas strained and got the dog’s front paws lifted so Amanda could grab them. She tugged and got half the dog over the lip of the pit. Looking up at the dog’s rear, Lucas placed his hands as best he could and shoved hard. The sudden release of weight caused him to smash his face against the dirt wall. Amanda had drawn the dog up and out of the pit.

  Lucas got back to his feet and called up, “Give me a hand. Help me out of here!”

  All he saw was the ebb and flow of fighting bettors. Amanda and the wolfhound had disappeared in the crowd. Lucas stepped back to catch the woman’s attention—to find her in the crush.

  A man came flying down, flapping his arms as if he could fly. Lucas swiftly jerked aside and let the man land hard on the dirt floor.

  “You,” the man grated out. He spat dirt from his mouth. “You ruined the fight. I was winnin’ twenty dollars!”

  Lucas judged distances, the man’s fury, and then jumped. His right foot caught the man in the chest. His left foot rested on the man’s shoulder and then he launched himself into the air. Flailing about, Lucas caught the edge of the pit and heaved up and out of it. He knocked over two men swinging wildly at each other and found himself on the receiving end of more than one hard fist. Instinctively blocking, he prevented the blows from connecting with his face until he climbed to his feet and returned a punch with scientific precision. The man’s nose broke. As he tried to flee, he collided with the other fighter, giving Lucas the chance to get out of the barn.

  Gunshots sounded above the din, warning him that Makepeace wasn’t going to take the dog theft lightly—or the huge loss of revenue from the gambling. Ducking low, Lucas bounced from side to side and found the door.

  He looked out in time to see Amanda running away, Tovarich loping along at her side. He started after her, only to find Makepeace blocking his way.

  “You owe me. You owe me big time for all this.” The small man loosed a left jab that caught Lucas on the ribs and sent him reeling back. “Come on. I want to thrash you good. Then I’ll see how long you last in the pit against a pack of dogs.”

  Lucas widened his stance and waited for the gambler to come for him.

  15

  Lucas dug his left heel down into the soft dirt, reached into his pockets with both hands, then watched as Makepeace came forward. The man moved like a prizefighter. The broken nose hinted at more than one match lost—or perhaps won—after a furious exchange of blows. Lucas had done his share of bare knuckle fighting and was decent, but his head spun from lack of sleep and food, as well as all that had happened in the pit. His legs hurt, and any fight with Makepeace would be short lived.

  As the ratter moved forward with murder on his face, Lucas yanked both hands out. One strewed greenbacks into the air, startling Makepeace. The man’s eyes widened, and he instinctively grabbed for the fluttering bills. Lucas pulled his pistol from his other pocket and swung it with all his strength. The barrel collided with an exposed temple. Lucas felt bone break and saw Makepeace’s eyes roll up into his head. As the ratter staggered, Lucas kicked hard. He aimed for the man’s knee but hit higher and to greater effect.

  On his way to full unconsciousness, Makepeace writhed about on the ground like a snake with its head cut off. He grasped his groin until the last vestiges of awareness l
eft him.

  “Didn’t even have to wait till sundown for that snake to die,” Lucas said, gasping for breath.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw two guards coming for him. He pointed his pistol, made a show of cocking it, and then kicked some of the greenbacks in their direction. Having to choose between snatching up the money or helping their boss wasn’t a long debate for either man. They fell to their knees and grabbed wildly for the bills, giving Lucas the chance to hightail it.

  By the time he was far enough away from the barn to be out of breath, he looked around for Amanda. She and Tovarich were nowhere to be seen. He checked his Colt, worried that smashing it into Makepeace’s head had knocked the cylinder out of true, but not seeing any way to find out short of firing it or having a gunsmith dismantle it, he made a beeline for the detective agency office. Lucas tried to decide if he was surprised that Amanda and the dog, which was certainly no puppy, were not there or if this was the obvious conclusion to a dangerous hunt.

  He worked at the back door and jimmied it open, pulled the blanket from the corner of the main office into the back room, and stretched out. As tired as he was, sleep eluded him. Amanda had paid him well, in spite of being beaten up, shot at, bitten by a dog, and almost fed to famished rats. He should simply walk away now, with the money he had in his pocket.

  Lucas pulled out the remaining greenbacks and counted them on the floor. He had carried Amanda’s fee along with the money he had won at Emerald City the night—two nights?—before and only had a few dollars more than thirty left. It had been necessary to divert Makepeace and his men. Lucas considered that money well spent, but so little left for all he had been through seemed increasingly unfair.

  He lay back, the bills clutched in his hand as he stared up at the ceiling. A crack extended from one side of the storeroom to the other, somewhat larger in the middle and showing signs that the roof leaked during rainstorms. That ought to be fixed. If he intended to keep intruding on Jacoby Runyon’s office so cavalierly, he ought to make a key for the back door. His mind seemed to slip to more interesting things as sleep sucked up his consciousness. A smile came to his lips. Amanda. They would make such a good couple. And gold. There was a huge treasure trove out there that both Vera and Clifford sought.

  Revolutionary. Filibuster. Dogs.

  He finally slept with dreams of Russian wolfhounds burdened with burlap bags stuffed with brightly shining gold filling his night.

  • • •

  He lost another hand and hardly noticed, but Lefty did. The barkeep waved him to the bar from the faro table, put a shot of whiskey in front of him, and said, “You’re costing me money.”

  “You’ve got a stack of my chips in a box behind the bar. Take it out of that.” Lucas knocked back the whiskey, tasted the gunpowder and rusty nails Lefty used to give it kick and flavor, then put the empty glass back on the bar.

  “I don’t care about them,” Lefty said. “You’re not doing your job. If you keep losing at a game like faro that favors the house, I’ll have to boot you out.”

  “You don’t have any other dealers.”

  “The way Claudette watches you, I could put her there. If she pulled down her bodice and did that little wiggle with her ass that she does whenever you come into the saloon, she’d triple your take on your best night.”

  “Things aren’t setting well with me right now.” Lucas almost bit his lip as the words slipped out. He wasn’t the kind to make excuses for his own failures. What Lefty said about Claudette didn’t worry him much. There were dozens of women faro dealers in Denver and their appeal was physical. He was a gambler, and he made more money for the house because the cowboys were systematically fleeced in a hurry. They left feeling like Lady Luck hadn’t been with them rather than angry that Claudette—or any female dealer—wasn’t interested in them after they lost all their money. After all, they shoved that money across the faro table to impress, not to gamble.

  “You ought to take a day or two off. She’s going to be on her way by then.”

  “She?” Lucas frowned, wondering how Lefty knew anything of Amanda. Then he realized that wasn’t who the barkeep meant. “What Carmela and Little Otto do isn’t much interest to me.”

  “You’re the only one sayin’ that. I’ve heard customers betting on what it’s like to roll around in her bed all night long.” Lefty chuckled. “There’s even a pool building up to damned near twenty dollars on whether you get your chance with her before she’s out of Denver and off on her tour.”

  “I ought to join in. I know which way I’d bet.”

  “See? That’s not the old Lucas Stanton I’m familiar with. You’d be taking the good side of the bet and winning both girl and money.”

  Lucas wasn’t going to tell the barkeep about the Russians or Clifford’s men and especially was not going to mention a mountain of gold out there somewhere that only Tovarich could sniff out. That worried him as much as beating the anarchists and filibusters to the hidden treasure. How was the dog going to find the gold? Had Amanda already given the dog its head and found the gold? Dogs had an incredible sense of smell, but why was Tovarich better than any of the others in Vera’s pack?

  “You’re getting that far-off look again. Your mind’s not on gambling, Lucas. That’s costin’ me a mountain of money.”

  “It’s not,” he admitted. “I’ve been dabbling in politics. What do you know about Jubal Dunbar?” Lucas surprised himself with the question. Amanda had no reason to take the dog to the crooked politician, yet their relationship remained something of a mystery.

  He hadn’t slept at his own boardinghouse in days since Dunbar’s men remained across the street. What they would do if they spotted him was another of those mysteries he didn’t want to discover. If he waited long enough, the dust would settle. He just wished he could find Amanda.

  He wished he could find Tovarich to take him to the gold.

  “Get you anything, Lucas?” Claudette sidled up and pressed herself warmly against him.

  “Go deal faro. He’s taking the night off.”

  “You’re getting the night off?” Claudette looked at Lefty in disbelief. “You’re not firing him! I won’t let you.”

  “Not cannin’ his ass like I should. But I will yours if you don’t get to the faro table and start dealin’.”

  “You’re not fired?” Claudette’s soft brown eyes fixed on him. “That’s good. If he fired you, I’d quit, too.”

  “Why do I bother with this place?” Lefty said, throwing up his one good arm in resignation. “It’s not because I make any money from it.”

  “It’s because you love us all,” Lucas said. He turned and found himself pressing fully into Claudette. The feeling was nice but not what he wanted now.

  The customers roared and made a dash for the stage. Carmela’s show was beginning, and they all wanted a front row seat. Not a one of them dared try to remove Little Otto from his in the middle of the row, but that didn’t stop them from crowding on either side of the shaved-headed giant.

  “I’ll check back later and see how you’re doing,” Lucas said, not sure if he spoke to Claudette or Lefty. Claudette answered.

  “There’s a big dance going on at the Palace. When Lefty finally lets me go, we could—”

  “Work!” The barkeep bellowed again at the other pretty waiter girls to work the audience and sell more whiskey.

  Lucas bent and gave Claudette a quick peck on the cheek. She grabbed him by the ears and pulled his face down firmly for a more passionate kiss. When she released him, his ears burned. Her face was flushed, and her eyes remained closed for a moment. She slowly lifted the lids and looked at him in her sexiest manner.

  “It won’t matter if the dance is still going on. Come for me when the Emerald City closes. Lefty won’t let me go an instant before then.”

  “I know,” he said.

  He put his
hands on her trim waist, lifted her easily, and sat her on the bar. A touch to the brim of his bowler in Lefty’s direction told the barkeep he wasn’t competition for Claudette’s affections. And yet he was, not wanting to be. If Carmela said frog, he’d jump, asking how high on the way up. For all that, Amanda intrigued him in spite of the trouble she had caused for him and the hints that she and Dunbar were more than acquaintances. Even the fiery Russian revolutionary with her pack of dogs interested Lucas more as a romantic partner.

  The ones he wanted were all out to humiliate or kill him, and the one who wanted him was too . . . easy. There had to be an element of challenge to make the conquest perfect. Lucas found himself whistling as he stepped out into the cool night, happier than he had been in a few days. Everything came together for him. Gold, women, dogs. It all made sense now.

  He hurried to the livery stable and took a quick glance around before opening the door. From the rear came heavy snoring sounds that drowned out the occasional horse’s nicker or idle kick at a stall wall. Lucas pulled the door shut behind him.

  “Lester, wake up. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Wha?” The sleeping stable hand rolled off the planks he had balanced between two sawhorses and fell into the hay on the floor. He scrambled and got to his feet, rubbing his eyes. “You said it was fine if I slept, Mr. Justin. I remember you sayin’ that if ’n I warn’t tendin’ the horses, I could sleep and I ain’t and—”

  “It’s all right, Lester. Settle down. It’s me, Lucas Stanton.”

  “Lucas? You scared me somethin’ fierce. I was havin’ a dream and thought you was the owner and—”

  “I want you to do a job for me.”

  “I got one. Here, muckin’ stalls and feedin’ other people’s horses.”