He turned the box over and over, then discarded it. Whatever had been here was gone. The rider whose tracks he had seen had come here and beaten him to the contents. Another map? Why would anyone create such a chain of clues? He had no answer for that.
Lucas leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the warm sun soothe him. He had dared everything and lost. But so had others who were less inclined to have stardust blind them. Dennis Clifford had given his life hunting for this. So had Jubal Dunbar. Gregor and Dmitri. He tried to imagine the tracks coming here as belonging to Good or Vera Zasulich. That hardly seemed possible. All of them had hunted for gold and lost far more than he.
He opened his eyes and squinted. Not everyone had lost. There was one other player in this treasure hunt who might not have lost.
Lucas picked up the cigar box, tucked it into his saddlebags, and then mounted. His search wasn’t quite at an end. Not yet.
26
Lucas moved his pile of belongings and rolled over onto his back. The crack in the ceiling had grown larger in the week since he’d been thrown out of his boardinghouse. The landlady complained of Dunbar’s henchmen being rude to her, demanding to know not only where he was but where all her other boarders were. No matter how Lucas tried to assure her that Dunbar and his men would never be a problem again, she would have none of it. He had picked up his belongings on the street and considered where to stay.
The Great West Detective Agency had an empty storeroom. He’d bedded down there, getting up before the Northcotts came in to work at 9 A.M. Felicia Northcott had proven almost as insistent as his old landlady, wanting to open the office at seven. Lucas tried to fire her and Raymond, but the conversation always twisted away from it. Looking at Raymond and seeing his hangdog expression kept Lucas from pressing the point, although Felicia finally relented and agreed to open the office at a time when Lucas could reasonably be awake after working at the Emerald City all night long.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture Carmela Thompson, but already she faded in his memory. She had continued her tour while he was out in the mountains trying to get rich from a hoard of Confederate gold. Lefty replaced her with a half dozen cancan dancers, real crowd pleasers, but not a one of the dancers had the talent or stage presence of lovely Carmela. When he finally sidled up to the faro table for work once more, he expected to see Claudette. Lefty said she had pined for him and disappeared after a couple nights. Lucas tried to picture the two of them together, but couldn’t.
Lefty had been distant, probably because he had been sweet on Claudette and blamed Lucas for her going.
And his run of luck had been poor. Losing at the faro table meant he not only cost the house but wasn’t being paid since there weren’t any earnings to share. After his shift, he had tried his hand once more at the poker table. No matter how he played, loose or aggressive, he simply could not win.
That summed up his life from the minute Amanda Baldridge had walked through the door. He hadn’t heard a whisper about her either. Or anyone unearthing a huge trove of gold.
He wished her no ill though she had involved him in a world of trouble and double-crossing. If anyone found the gold, he wanted it to be Amanda.
The rapping on the front door brought him to his feet. He looked out and saw Good pressing into the plate glass until his nose flattened and his face took on an otherworldly aspect. The Creek knocked again. Lucas padded over, not bothering to put on his boots, and opened the door to let the Indian in.
Good stepped in and stood, arms crossed and looking glum.
“I never expected to see you again,” Lucas said. “You didn’t find the gold.”
“No.” Good glared at him. “The dog did not hunt. Vera tried everything but nothing.”
“A shame. Where is she?”
“On her way back to Russia. Revolution means everything to her.”
“You aren’t up for overthrowing the czar?”
Good glared at him.
“It’s not my fault you—Vera—didn’t find the gold. I came away empty-handed, too.”
Good grunted.
“You could always catch up with Vera,” Lucas suggested. He wondered why Good had stopped by like this, but he lacked the will to ask. He was a bit intimidated by the man.
“She is gone. All my Russian tongue is wasted now.” Good looked around, grunted, then said, “You stay here?”
“I’m bedding down in the back room until I find a new place.”
“You have no money.”
“That’s a fair way of putting it. I spent everything Amanda gave me in bribes, for information, getting supplies.” He considered leaving the office before he had to pay the Northcotts because he barely had two nickels to rub together. That wasn’t fair, but then they hadn’t done much more than file papers left by Runyon. There hadn’t been any new business to generate money to pay salaries.
“I will work for you.”
Before Lucas could do so much as laugh, Good clapped him on the shoulder, smiled wickedly, then said, “She will be at Governor’s Ball tonight.”
“Amanda?” Lucas spoke to thin air. Good moved with surprising speed and lost himself in the crowd outside.
He closed the door and considered how much he wanted to see Amanda again. He went to the storeroom and pulled on his boots. The door opened again, and he heard Felicia berating her husband. He settled his coat, walked out, touched the brim of his bowler to them, and said, “Carry on. You’re doing a good job.”
Before Felicia Northcott could reply, he followed Good into the street and put as many people between his back and the detective agency as possible. Lucas spent the day walking around Denver, taking in the brisk air, enjoying the crush of the crowd about him, even stopping on the edge of the crowd and listening to the Preacher spin a wondrous tale of rejuvenation and all for the price of a two-dollar bottle of Professor Drosselmyer’s Somatic Potion, straight from the Old Country and responsible for men and women in the Black Forest living to age one hundred and beyond.
Whatever the Preacher sold probably had a bitter taste—it was medicine, after all, and medicine had to taste bad. Otherwise, only the cheapest of ingredients went into that bottle. Lucas walked on, whistling now. Somewhere during the day he came to a conclusion.
That night he found himself outside a large private house on Capitol Hill. He remembered the last gala he had crashed. Amanda had been there, too, but this time she wouldn’t have Dunbar escorting her—as a prisoner. Lucas had never come to a satisfactory conclusion as to whether she had been a willing prisoner or he had coerced her. Now Jubal Dunbar was moldering in a grave and she was free.
He caught his breath when he saw a carriage stop and a tall, slim man in a tuxedo reach up to take Amanda’s gloved hand. She was resplendent in a gold dress decorated with tiny pearls. The neckline was daring, even for a frontier ball, and she still made him stare at her face. She was achingly pretty. Moving like thistledown, she floated up the flagstone path on the man’s arm, paused on the porch, and turned to look back. For an instant their eyes met. Lucas thought she opened her fan and waved it a few times as she studied him, then laughed and went inside amid orchestral music billowing out into the night.
Lucas went around back. A dozen servants worked to bring in cases of liquor and prepare food to maintain the flow of gaiety inside. He found a carriage house and opened the door partway. The carriage seat was comfortable enough to sit in while he waited. An hour later he heard the soft whisper of cloth brushing the ground and looked up.
“Hello, Amanda,” he said. “I figured I would find you where there was a party—or rather, when you were heading out for a grand ball.”
The woman stood silhouetted in the carriage house door, the bright lights from the house behind her. The light highlighted her dark hair and turned it into a halo. Here and there a sparkle betrayed a hidden gemstone. She had done well for h
erself in the last week.
“Hello, Lucas. I never thought I would see you again. I’m happy to say that I was wrong.”
“Are you?” He stepped down from the carriage and went to her. “You are still using the same perfume.” He pulled her closer and took a deep whiff.
“Spikenard,” she said.
“Perfume you stole from Vera Zasulich.”
“That is a bit strongly worded. Let’s say I sampled her exotic scent.”
“You hitched a ride with her caravan?”
“I was down on my luck.” Amanda shrugged her shapely bare shoulders.
“So you stole it. Is that when you heard about Tovarich, Gregor, and the gold?”
“How’s a girl supposed to close her ears to such wild talk? The Russians gathered around their campfires.”
“They’d be speaking Russian.”
“Not when your friend joined them. He spoke poorly so they often used English, even when he wasn’t nearby.”
“Good?”
Amanda smiled. She pressed against him and put her arms around his neck.
“That’s all in the past. What are your plans?”
“You didn’t find the gold, did you?”
A flash of disgust crossed her face, then she smiled again.
“No. If there ever was gold, it is long gone. More likely, it is only another tall tale built up by retelling.”
“A million dollars,” he mused.
“See? Never did anyone claim a million dollars in gold had been hidden away. They began by saying ‘a prize beyond value.’ That translated in the revolutionaries’ minds as gold. What else could it be?”
Lucas laced his fingers in the small of her back. Whenever she spoke, he imagined soaring dreams and honeyed lies. He kissed her. This took her aback. She tried to push away, then melted into his arms and pulled his head down for an even more passionate kiss. They broke off.
Her bosom heaved, and he thought she was flushed.
“If only it could have been different between us,” she said.
“Fate can be cruel, but we are both penniless. We—”
He looked up. Amanda’s escort stood a few feet away. Lucas had sought out the man most likely to have a future and knew that Amanda would end up at his side. Hearing of the gala tonight made this the likeliest time and place to find the woman. Lucas wished her new beau had dallied just a few minutes longer.
“There you are, my dear. I missed you.” He stepped closer, studied Lucas, then said in surprise, “You’re the one she won’t stop talking about. It’s so good to meet you, Mr. Stanton.”
Lucas tried to find words to give him a few seconds to think. His thoughts tumbled and churned. Nothing came but a tiny ulp.
“He came to give a final report about . . . the matter we spoke of,” Amanda said.
“Dunbar,” the man said angrily. “What a yellow dog. The state of Colorado owes you a great debt of gratitude.”
“I should send my bill to the governor,” Lucas said. Amanda hid a grin.
“Don’t do that. He is up to his ears in dealing with other matters affecting our statehood. If the Eastern politicians caught wind of what Dunbar intended, it would put us in a bad situation.”
“Certainly,” Lucas said. “I can understand that.”
“Send your bill to me. Mark it personal.”
“Yes, send it to Lafe.”
“Lafe?” Lucas was adrift.
“Lafayette Head, our lieutenant governor.” Amanda clung to the man’s arm. He beamed at her.
“I’d never heard you called that,” Lucas said. “Only the lucky gent with the lovely woman on his arm.”
“From all my darling Amanda has said, the state would be willing to entertain a bill of, oh, say, one hundred dollars for your efforts.” She squeezed his arm and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. He nodded. “Becoming a state has turned everything into a morass of paperwork. It might be some time before payment could be made. Send along your bill, and I will see to it personally.”
“That’s very generous.” Lucas couldn’t take his eyes off Amanda. She flashed him an impish smile.
“Considering your part in this sorry matter, it would be well to keep your agency on retainer.”
“The Great West Detective Agency,” Amanda cut in. The look she gave him was undecipherable.
“Yes, that,” Head said. “I am sure we can find new investigations to keep you busy. Colorado is a brand spanking new state and corruption will be rife. Where there is opportunity, there is also excess.”
“I can appreciate that, sir,” Lucas said.
“We must get back to the ball. Governor Routt wouldn’t understand if we weren’t there to greet him when he makes his grand entrance.”
Lucas watched them go, arm in arm, back to the house. On the back step Amanda blew him a kiss and then disappeared. If he collected the promised money, his luck had indeed changed, and it was at least partly due to Amanda Baldridge. He touched his lips. The wine of her kiss remained all the way back to his pallet in the back room of the detective agency.
By sunrise, he found himself wondering if Amanda had made off with the gold, then decided it wasn’t possible. The tracks weren’t what he’d expected from carrying out a great amount of gold. He yawned, sat behind the desk, and looked at the cigar box on his desk. Whatever had been inside had been taken. Small, not a million dollars if it had contained a few gold coins.
The sudden wind of the door opening startled him. He was sure he had locked it the night before. Good had his hand on the knob. Before Lucas could say a word, the Creek half turned, waited a moment, then closed the door.
Lucas heard the click-click of claws on the floor and then Tovarich jumped up and pinned him back in the chair to lick him.
“Down, boy. Down.” He pushed the wolfhound away and shouted for Good. The Indian had left. “I can’t keep you. I don’t want to keep you.” The dog barked once and dropped to the floor beside the desk, head on outstretched paws. Mournful, accusing eyes stared up at him. “I can’t keep you around. I’m going to take what I can out of this place and—”
Lucas turned and clumsily banged into the cigar box with his elbow. His arm went numb because he had hit his funny bone. He rubbed circulation back, then reached for the box. It had been empty when he brought it here from the mountains. The weight now belied its being empty.
He flipped it open. Inside lay an oilskin-wrapped package. String had been tied around it, and then retied with big knots. He turned the box over and looked at it. Tovarich climbed to his feet and sniffed. He shoved the dog away and unwrapped a thick manuscript.
He held up the book so it caught a slanting ray of sun. In faded ink he read the title. Wealth Beyond Imagining. He carefully opened the cover and saw it had been written by Jefferson Davis during his two years of imprisonment by the Federals.
“No gold, just this?” He rocked back and stared at the memoir.
When Tovarich growled, he looked up, thinking Good had returned. Little Otto came in. The huge man stared down the dog, then marched over to the desk.
“I heard you had it.”
“It?”
“This.” Little Otto reached over, turned the book around, and began leafing through the pages. Only when he had examined each page of the manuscript did he look up. “How much?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a valuable book. The only copy of Davis’s memoir. Rumor has it he is writing another, but not mentioning his years in prison. How much would you sell this for?”
Lucas scratched his head.
“How did you know I had it?” Then he realized it was a silly question. Little Otto was the spider in the middle of the web. The slightest vibration along the strands communicated directly to him. Lucas changed the question. “How did I get the book?”
“Her. She’s found a gold mine and isn’t interested in such dross. I am.”
“Did you enjoy the Twain novel?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“For this?” Lucas put his hand on the book.
“It’s one of a kind. I am working on its provenance. Men died smuggling it out of prison for Davis. It was lost when a courier died somewhere in Kansas on his way to New Orleans. I need to learn more of its route to our state.”
Lucas saw how those trying to recover the book would spin tales of how valuable it was. Even the title lent to the legend. Someone had mistaken the title for real gold, and another had built on that until the value grew to a million dollars. Boomtowns grew from a few lost souls to thousands in a week. The prattle over the book would cause those who wanted to believe to kill to retrieve it. Clifford and Dunbar had staked their lives on the booty being gold. So had Vera Zasulich. She had lost a brother and others before returning to her home country.
“She?”
“Three hundred,” Little Otto said.
“Sold,” Lucas said. To his surprise, Otto pulled out a thick wad of greenbacks and peeled off the money before showing a delicacy of touch surprising in one so large as he wrapped the book in the oilskin, placed the package in the cigar box, and then left.
“Tovarich, old friend,” he said, “I have a decent stake. Let the Northcotts collect the bill from the state as payment for their services. I can walk out of here and leave everything behind to—”
The door opened again. Lucas came to his feet. The woman was small, a face like Dresden china, ruddy cheeks, and lips meant to be kissed. Her eyes darted about before locking on his. He had never seen a lovelier woman.
“Can I help you?”
“Why, yes, I am looking for the office of the Great West Detective Agency.”
Lucas remembered his intent on walking away from the detective agency.
The Great West Detective Agency Page 22
