Private Dicks

by Samantha M. Derr

  McCoy looked up from his can. "What're you doin' with my boy?"

  The Gentleman turned back, picking up his mug for Wilton to fill with a helping of beans. "I have it figured like this: you and Wil will ride the train, the boy and I'll pick you up somewhere before Big Timber."

  "Like hell you will."

  "McCoy, I assure you, this is the best course of action. It makes total sense. We need someone on the train who can actually do a shakedown—no offense, Wil. But we also need someone who looks like he belongs on a train so we don't arouse any suspicions." He gulped down a mouthful of the soft, flavorful cooked bean mash, speaking around it as he continued. "It'll take more than one person to run all four horses up along the tracks to pick up the others, and with my reputation and your boy here's ill health, we're the most sensible candidates. Ain't nobody gonna let us on a train."

  McCoy still looked less than impressed, staring down at him from under the brim of his hat.

  The Gentleman sighed. "Look, maybe tomorrow I can explain it to you in a way that you'll understand. But we don't have a lotta time for debate. That train rolls through Thursday morning—that's the day after tomorrow. If you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear it sooner rather than later."

  "Hmph." McCoy turned his attention to his meal and didn't look up. He poured a piddling portion into a mug and handed it to Elliot; then he commenced to fill his own gullet.

  The Gentleman picked up the biscuit he'd left resting on his boot and bit into it, tearing a piece of it off and taking out all his frustrations on the poor pastry. He swallowed and then cleared his throat. "It's gonna be a long ride tonight. We've got a lotta miles to put behind us still, so we probably won't bed down until past dark again. Then it's back up at first light. That's the only bad thing about these trains; they don't wait for ya. If any of you wants to take a little siesta before we head back out, that's fine by me."

  "How do we know you're not gonna ride off and leave us?" McCoy asked.

  The Gentleman grinned at him lopsidedly. "Has the Virginia Gentleman ever shorted his boys?"

  "Not that I've heard of," Wilton answered.

  "Exactly." He took another bite of his biscuit and then put what remained atop the beans in his mug. "Besides, I can't pull this off with any fewer than four boys. And where else am I gonna find a crew like you three?" He slapped Wilton's back heartily, sending him into a fit of sputters as he choked on a dry piece of biscuit. Then the Gentleman grabbed the feed sack and stood, crossing the distance between himself and Elliot to offer it back. "I am entrusting you with this." Elliot looked up at him, eyes growing slightly wide, darting to check McCoy's reaction. "It is your responsibility to look after this. Don't let the bears get into it, don't let any of us eat more than his fair share, don't let it fall in a creek. You look after it. You got that?"

  Elliot took the sack and held it close to him as though he were cradling an infant. "Yes, sir."

  The Gentleman ruffled Elliot's hair and headed off to check on the horses as they grazed on the dry grass. "Take 'er easy for a bit, boys. These old nags are still restin' up," he called back. He moved among their horses, listening to them rip at the grass, inspecting them all thoroughly. His own mare lifted her head to watch him for a moment with her ears pricked in curiosity before returning to her meal. Elliot's paint also looked up to greet him. It was then that the Gentleman noticed the poor creature had the face of a mule, and a dumb one at that. God had not been kind in painting it white to draw further attention to it. He ran a hand up the shoulder of McCoy's towering steed, attempting to touch the curve of its cheek flat-footed and very nearly succeeding. He ran the hand back down the horse's neck to give it a solid pat. "I think I could sell you for a fair price," he whispered to himself. Wilton's horse came up behind him to steal the remains of his biscuit from where it sat in his mug. The Gentleman pushed his muzzle away but looked on the black gelding fondly. "Might keep you, though. Anything but that paint. Lordy sakes."

  *~*~*

  They rode until the cloud-obscured moon overhead was no longer enough to light their path. As much faith as the Gentleman put in his trusted mare, if he couldn't see what lay in front of her hooves, he doubted she could either. If the terrain had remained flat and rolling, he'd have pressed on for another hour or so, desperate to make it to Laurel in time. But with the mountains beginning to form under them and the terrain turning rocky, there was no choice but to make camp until daybreak.

  The long hours in the saddle had left them all stiff and weary, eager to join the Gentleman as he tended to his fire that night. The four of them gathered around to ease their aches in the soothing heat of the flame's glow before dozing off for a few hours. The Gentleman looked around the circle at all the tired, slack faces staring into the flames. "Don't none of you boys know any songs?" he asked. "Yankee Doodle? Clementine? Dixie?"

  Wilton looked too tired to be his usual eager-to-please, nervous self. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not much for music."

  "What about you, McCoy?" the Gentleman continued, finding it hard to keep the twisted sense of glee out of his voice. "I'm sure you've got a lovely voice."

  McCoy spat into the flames, a patch of them dying down before springing back to life as the moisture evaporated in the hot, dry climate of the fire. He leaned his head back to look out from under his hat. "You've got a pretty smart mouth, you know that?"

  "It's all a part of my charm," the Gentleman said. He looked at Elliot pointedly. "The ladies love it."

  "I think I'll turn in for the evening," Wilton said as he stood, carrying his bedroll with him and scratching at his behind lazily. He turned to the Gentleman. "We'll want to get an early start tomorrow, I suppose?"

  "We've gotta make Laurel by Thursday." The Gentleman stretched and settled in against the large rock he'd found for his lean-to for the night. A wry smile curved under his mustache as he added, "I guess tomorrow's as good a time as any."

  "Right. Good night, all." Wilton turned to go but could hardly put one foot in front of the other. His legs refused to meet up as they once had, bowing out to either side at an angle that was unnatural for a person of his disposition. His hips had suffered in the remolding of his lower half that day as well. What had once been a set of fully rotating ball and socket joints now swung like the doors of some of the fancier saloons. He planted one foot, then swung his entire body around to plant another, and so forth. He didn't make it much more than a few steps from the fireside before deciding he'd found the perfect spot for the night.

  The Gentleman watched him go, an amused concern overtaking him at the sight. "'Night."

  McCoy also excused himself from the firelight, saying, "Try not to oversleep this time," as he backed off in search of his own rock to lean against.

  "Oh, I won't." The Gentleman watched Elliot rise and go with him, his heart giving a small leap of joy when Elliot turned back to look at him before lying down at McCoy's side. Before long, the valley was again filled with the snorts and snores of McCoy's sleeping form. Elliot joined in the symphony with a coughing fit not long after he'd bedded down, and he remained racked with a dragging hack long after his breath had caught up with him again. Wilton slept through the whole of it, too tired to be awoken by anything less than the Rapture itself.

  The Gentleman had pulled his hat down over his eyes in an attempt to succumb to his own weariness, but before his mind could settle itself to sleep, he felt those eyes upon him again. He sat up, tipped his hat back, and gave a small wave of his hand to beckon Elliot over. Without so much as a glance over his shoulder to see if McCoy was still asleep, he came, quietly sitting down beside the Gentleman with his back to the rock and the warm fire climbing skyward in front of him. The Gentleman smiled; he'd taught him well.

  The Gentleman slipped off his duster and offered it up once more. Elliot readily accepted it, pulling it over his shoulders and holding it closed in front of him. He whispered a quick, "Thank you." They both watche
d the fire in silence for a moment; then Elliot turned to the Gentleman, asking flatly, "Is Gentleman Blankenship your real name?"

  The Gentleman leaned back on his rock and intertwined his hands to lay them on his stomach. "What makes you ask that?"

  "I'll answer, but you'll have used up one of your questions."

  The Gentleman laughed. "You're a born bandit, kid. Go ahead."

  "It sounds made up. It's a nickname, right? No one really names their kid 'Gentleman.'" The Gentleman nudged a log on the fire with his boot. One side of his mouth turned down in consideration as he rubbed a finger under his nose, brushing at his mustache. Elliot's expression turned somber. He looked away from the Gentleman to watch the fire dance along the moved log. "I told you my name."

  "But I don't use it in front of the others, you've noticed."

  "I won't use yours, neither."

  The Gentleman sighed, and then he checked to see that Wilton and McCoy were asleep as best he could tell. Wilton was so beat, he didn't so much as move to draw breath, and all the while McCoy snored on. "Laurence," he said. "My real name's Laurence. I'm not sure where all this 'Gentleman' nonsense ever got started. And my last name's not Blankenship; it's Collins. But I am from Virginia originally. So at least that part's correct." He grinned, suddenly overtaken by mischief. He nudged Elliot with his elbow. "And since you said I used up one of my questions—"

  "Why'd you leave Virginia?" Elliot asked, still watching the fire.

  "I dunno. Same reason anyone leaves home, I 'spect. I wanted something different. Why'd you leave home?"

  "I didn't have any choice."

  "Oh …" If the Gentleman could have kicked himself, he would have—spurs on and all. "'m sorry to hear that."

  "S'okay." Elliot looked at him once more, a subtle, light hearted change coming over his tone. "How old are you?"

  The Gentleman snorted. "Boy, you're gettin' personal tonight." He leaned forward, casting his glance about camp nervously just as before. He answered, "I am thirty-two. Which I know sounds old, but …" He met Elliot's gaze. "How old are you?"

  "Eighteen."

  The Gentleman snorted to himself. "Maybe it is old."

  "D'you really do all the things people say you've done?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like kill three men with the same bullet and things like that?"

  "I'd say …" He skewed his face, tilting it to the side while he looked to the sky, as though he were giving the question much thought. "… About a third of the things people claim the Virginia Gentleman has done are true."

  "That's not bad."

  "It's not bad, but it ain't good either. What about you? What do you do, Elliot?"

  "Whatever I'm told to do, I guess."

  "So, you're more of a hired hand than a partner in yours and McCoy's arrangement?"

  "I guess." Elliot showed no emotion at the mention of McCoy. The Gentleman was almost disappointed.

  "Not much of an occupation if you ask m—"

  "You ever think about going back home?" Elliot cut him off. "Back to Virginia?"

  The Gentleman leaned back against the rock and crossed his arms over his chest, a tired expression molding his features. "Oh, sometimes. My folks are still back there. I guess I owe it to them to pay them a visit every ten years or so. It'd be sorta hard to do my work from there, though. Suppose I could always switch professions."

  Elliot joined him in leaning against the rock, resting his head ever so lightly on the Gentleman's shoulder. "No trains to rob?"

  The Gentleman laughed, keeping his wits about him enough not to let it grow too loud. "That's right, no trains to rob. Plenty of people that need killin', but no trains to rob." He cast a cautious glance down at Elliot where he rested his head on his shoulder. Elliot had the slightest grin on his face while he stared into the fire. "Where's home for you?"

  "St. Louis."

  "Ol' St. Louie. I know that city very well."

  "Oh yeah?" Elliot looked up, catching him watching.

  "Mm-hmm."

  Elliot sat up to face him fully, a small thrill of excitement lighting his features in the fireside glow. "We used to live in Lafayette Square. You know where that is?"

  The Gentleman smiled. "I do indeed."

  Elliot's smile faltered suddenly, and he laid back on the rock, his head resting fully on the Gentleman's shoulder. "That was a long time ago …" Wrapping the duster more tightly around himself and inching closer to the Gentleman, he asked lazily, "Can I sleep here?"

  "Might as well." He felt Elliot's breathing begin to slow as he curled up against him. Fearing he'd not have another chance to ask, the Gentleman whispered, "Why doesn't McCoy like me?"

  "He doesn't like anyone," Elliot mumbled through the collar of the duster.

  "'Specially anyone who pays attention to you?"

  "I dunno."

  The Gentleman tilted his head to the side to rest lightly on top of Elliot's for a moment. "Long as I'm around, I won't let him do anything. You hear me?" Elliot gave a very faint "mm-hmm" in recognition. The Gentleman righted his head and pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes once more. When he slid down against the rock to give his back a more comfortable posture, Elliot's head came up to rest by his own. "G'night, Elliot."

  "Night, Laurence," he mumbled softly.

  Come morning, the Gentleman found himself once more covered by his duster with Elliot faithfully by McCoy's side.

  *~*~*

  By the Gentleman's calculations, another five miles or so and they'd be to their destination. Thank God. "Hey, McCoy," he drawled, calling back through their small riding party.

  "What?"

  The Gentleman looked over his shoulder at McCoy where he rode beside Wilton, his gargantuan height making Wilton look like a well-dressed child out for a ride on his prized pony. "What is your favorite thing in the entire world to eat?"

  McCoy balked. "Why you wanna know?"

  "Honestly?" The Gentleman frowned and turned back in his saddle to stare forlornly again at the trail ahead of them. "I don't. But you and Wil here are apparently incapable of starting conversations on your own, and I'm getting tired of listening to nothing but horse hooves."

  "Hmph."

  The Gentleman sighed, his attempt at dialog having died a swift death. He lifted his hat to scratch at his head. "Well, what about you, Wil?"

  "Oh, well, I, uh—" Wilton scrambled, nearly dropping the pencil and paper he'd been using to scratch out a sloppily written note, using his saddle horn for a desk. He tucked them both back into his breast pocket for safe keeping. He cleared his throat authoritatively. "Mr. Blankenship, err, Gentleman, sir? I was wondering, once we've, well, once we've done what we're setting out to do up in Laurel and all that, how long do you think it will be before we can head back to what we were doing before all of this?"

  Unseen to the others, the Gentleman cocked an eyebrow. "Wha'd'ya mean?"

  "Well, I have this girl back home that I correspond with—I've not breathed a word of what we're doing to her, on my heart I haven't!" Good ol' Wil, the Gentleman thought. "I was simply wondering when to tell her to expect me home."

  "I guess that all depends, Wil."

  "Depends? Depends on what, sir?"

  The Gentleman spun around in his saddle, resting one hand on his mare's dappled gray hindquarters, to look at Wilton once more. "On whether we get caught on our way home, as you put it."

  Wilton tensed. "Well, surely … Surely we won't be caught. I mean, you've done this before, right?" He looked around nervously as if hoping someone would chime in with a differing opinion. McCoy and Elliot remained mute.

  "That's the thing about outlawin', Wil. Eventually, everybody gets caught. And when that happens, you're either shot or hanged." The Gentleman pulled his three lower fingers into his palm to make a finger pistol. He pointed it at Wilton, firing once before turning back in his saddle. "Me? I'm kinda hopin' I get shot. Anything but havin' that rope strangle you. Ain't no way for a man t' go."
/>   "I see …" Wilton's hand went instinctively for his breast pocket, lingering there.

  "How 'bout you, McCoy?" the Gentleman called over his shoulder. "Which would you rather? Shootin' or hangin'?"

  "Hangin'," McCoy answered plainly, his voice ringing out through the surrounding mountainsides like cannon fire.

  "Really? Why?"

  McCoy grinned. It was a lopsided, evil-looking expression that made Elliot and Wilton cower, however unintentionally. "Always a chance a big ol' boy like me'll break the rope."

  The Gentleman laughed, a hearty, ringing belly laugh that didn't fully dissipate until they'd reached their final destination in Laurel. He was still chuckling to himself as he dismounted on the wide small-town streets early that afternoon. "'Hangin',' he says. Ha." He motioned for the others to dismount as well. "C'mon down, boys; rest your horses a bit. We're here." No sooner had the others' boots hit the ground than the Gentleman started in with the next phase of their plan. "McCoy, you and your boy can wait here with the horses. Wil, you're gonna buy our tickets for us. You're the most respectable lookin' of the bunch."

  Wilton touched at his coffee-stained collar. "Oh, uh, thank you, sir."

  The Gentleman fished in his pockets for a few folded bills, handing them to Wilton with a cautious eye. "But I'm gonna go with you, just to make sure everything's going smooth." The Gentleman tugged on the edges of his duster, making sure his pistols were covered. "We've come too far for somethin' to go wrong now."

  The depot in Laurel was small compared to its sister stations in Livingston and Billings, but seeing as it served far fewer passengers, it needn't be as large. The only reason it was more than a ticket booth was because the small building also housed the town's post office. "Convenient," Wilton commented as they entered, noting the wall of ornately decorated mail boxes. The Gentleman put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm Wilton's pent-up case of nervousness, but the gesture only seemed to intensify it. "Easy, Wil. Easy."