“Patrol coming! We must leave!”
“I’ll never get up there in time. Save Rachel. Save Marshal Ney. You have Beauregard?”
“Yes—will come back for you.”
Then he was gone and I was in a fix. Somewhere up there was a Larsen patrol, and beneath, I could see cowboy hats tilted up. No one had spotted me yet, but if they sent a search party, I had no place to go—with the canyon wall behind me and a bush between me and a drop to the bottom. And then things got worse. Some bright jasper got the idea of shooting at the bushes along the canyon wall. Soon, inevitably, bullets would come crashing towards me. I had three choices. I could stand up, wave my arms, and surrender; I could charge; or I could try to make a fighting retreat with enemies fore and aft. A charge would be suicidal. And a fighting retreat on level ground was one thing, pinned to a canyon wall was quite another. There was nothing for it but to stand and shout: “Hallo down there! It’s Marshal Armstrong! I’ve come to see Larsen!”
“Well howdy-do, Marshal. Watchya doin’ up there? Front door’s around t’other side. You’re welcome to come on down. Been wonderin’ when I’d see you again.”
“Good to hear your voice, Dern. I was hoping to stumble across someone I knew.”
“Well, you stumble on down here, Marshal, and we’ll make you feel right at home; we’ll be right hospitable.”
I stepped carefully at first, but, like a rolling snowball, I gained momentum and finally half-ran, half-slid down the embankment. When I stood at the canyon bottom, dust swirled around me.
“Well, Marshal, you surely do know how to make an entrance.”
I brushed off my sleeves. “You fellas don’t make it easy.”
“Easy way’s up that way—a nice, gentle slope. There’s a welcome committee up there too.”
“Well, Dern, no need for anything special. I just came to see Larsen. We have some unfinished business.”
“Oh, yes, you surely do. Those scalped Indians, Marshal—you didn’t bury ’em. That was mighty impolite. They were Mr. Larsen’s clients and he’s none too happy—especially since the others ran away.”
“You know who is happy, Dern? Every honest man, woman, and child of Bloody Gulch—that’s who’s happy.”
“For now, Marshal. That’ll change. Mr. Larsen has plans.”
“I do too,” I said, marching toward the house. “What’s he got in mind?” Dern fell into step beside me. A gang of gunmen followed us.
“You won’t like it, Marshal.”
“If it’s illegal, I’ll stop it.”
“By your lonesome?”
“If necessary.”
“You got no friends here, Marshal.”
“I’ve got you, Dern.”
He snorted in amusement, and we finished the walk to the house in silence.
The house was surrounded by a picket fence. Two guards stood at the gate, two more stood on the porch, and when Dern led me through the front door we were greeted by two gunmen sitting at a table in the entryway—Larsen wasn’t taking any chances.
“Whatchya got there, Dern? Is that the marshal?”
“Sure as shootin’. I reckon Mr. Larsen might like a word with him.”
“Ain’t you gonna disarm him?”
Dern pulled my revolvers and put them on the table. “Sorry, Marshal, house rules.”
One of the gunmen at the table got up and ambled back to another room. He returned a moment later saying, “Okay, Dern, bring him back.”
The room was a study, stuffed with books and bric-a-brac to which I paid little attention. My eyes were on Larsen. He sat behind a large table wedged into corner. He wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
“What’s your name again?” he said. “I refuse to call you Marshal because I know you’re a fraud.”
“Armstrong—Marshal Armstrong Armstrong.”
“Armstrong Armstrong, eh? You’re not a very creative impostor, are you? I know why you’re here—the same reason that I’m here; the only reason that would draw anyone but a cretin to this place. You heard about the Delingpole Treasure, didn’t you?”
“I know nothing about Delingstone—never met him; never heard of him—at least not until I came here. Then all I heard was that you killed him and stole his land.”
“You’ll meet him sooner than you think. He’s buried outside here. There’s room for two. If you think I killed him, what makes you think I’ll spare you?”
“I represent the law.”
“You represent nothing but your own greed. Delingpole wasn’t just an Englishman, he was a rebel against this country. He deserved what he got. Now you tell me, Mr. Armstrong, just exactly what you know about the treasure. Your life depends on your helping me find it; so, you better be forthright.”
“What if I know nothing?”
“Then you’re of no use to me—or to anyone else. Talk, Mr. Armstrong. Talk for your life.”
Well, as you can imagine, Libbie, I was momentarily lost for words because I knew nothing about the treasure besides what Beauregard had told me—and I am opposed to lying on principle. But I am also opposed to dying when it interferes with my duty, and I was ever mindful of my duty to save Miss Saint-Jean, her showgirls, and the people of Bloody Gulch. Unwilling to let them down, unwilling to lie, I had but one alternative—to inhabit a role, to be an actor, to play a part, to be a dramatis persona, to be the character Larsen assumed I was. And so I proceeded.
“All right, Larsen. I’ll tell you what I know—but it comes at a price. We split the treasure fifty-fifty.”
“You are in no position to negotiate, Mr. Armstrong. If you cooperate, you save me time, but you’re hardly necessary. I’ll find the treasure with or without you.”
“You won’t find it, Larsen. I didn’t come all this way on a rumor. I know exactly where it is—and I know why you haven’t found it. I know where it is, because I met Delingfoot’s partner. He had one, you know. They were together in the First Virginia Cavalry. I met him dying in the wilderness, scalped by an Indian, maybe one of yours. He told me where the treasure was.”
“Why would he tell you?”
“Because he was dying, and he knew Delingpile was dead. He didn’t want the treasure to fall into the wrong hands. He judged me for a good man; he gave me the secret; and apparently the treasure is enormous.”
“Well, out with it; where is it?”
“Like I said, Larsen—we need to make a bargain.”
“We’ll make a bargain all right. You’ll tell me so I don’t torture you to death. There’s a basement in this house. I made a dungeon, a prison out of it; and if you won’t talk willingly, then we’ll use force.”
“Unlike your minions, Larsen, I’m not easily bullied.”
“Dern, take him away. I’m done wasting time with this idiot.”
The barrel of Dern’s revolver nudged my backbone. “Let’s go, Marshal.” We left the room and proceeded to the entryway corridor. Behind the entryway guards were three staircases, two going up and one going down. We went down the flight of stone steps to a doorway that opened up into a dark, dank room. I couldn’t easily make out its dimensions. All I saw was another of Larsen’s henchmen sitting on a chair behind a square table on which were arranged a candle, a spittoon, and a game of solitaire. A big black dog—short hair, long teeth—snapped to attention beside him and snarled at me. The dog wore a studded collar and was chained to one of the several, stout, wooden pillars that ran floor to ceiling. The henchman’s face was squashed between a beard and a low forehead; his hat was tilted back (he was scratching his head), and he spoke around a chaw the size of a baseball. “Who you brung me this time—don’t look like one of ours.”
“Look at that tin star, Buford. This here’s Marshal Armstrong.”
“The marshal?”
“No worries on that account. Mr. Larsen reckons he’s not a marshal at all, just a common chancer, no better than the rest of us—maybe no use at all, if he’s not willing to tell us what we want to know
. But Buford, here,” he said to me, “knows how to make people talk. He gets lonely down here. He knows all sorts of tricks to make the shyest man the most conversational man you’d ever want to meet, and you ain’t the shyest of men, Marshal. You’ll be talkin’ soon enough. Buford’ll see to it. His helper there is Bad Boy—and it don’t seem like he’s taken a shine to you.”
Buford said, “He don’t take a shine to no marshals—I taught him that—and no Injuns—that come natural. You mind your manners, Marshal, or I’ll sic him on you.”
Buford pulled a pair of handcuffs from a drawer. Dern jabbed his revolver and I stepped deeper into the darkness. Buford ambled alongside. He was short and stocky and stank of cheap, old tobacco.
“Now hold steady there, Marshal. I reckon you’ve clamped these on plenty another man.”
My hands were behind my back. The handcuffs clicked shut.
Buford said to Dern, “You can just set him by that beam for now and help me with the rope.”
I was shoved to a dirty stone floor, littered with hay, and then pushed against a wide wooden beam. They secured me against it with a thick rope.
Buford said, “I’ll attend to you later, Marshal. I reckon I got time to finish my game—might even play me another; let you get used to things down here. We got us plenty of rats; they can get mighty familiar. You’ll feel ’em before you see ’em. You let me know if they bother you. I could turn Bad Boy loose on ’em. He hates rats—but, as I say, he don’t like marshals either; might rip you up by mistake.”
Dern nodded to me. “Be seein’ you, Marshal. Sooner than later, I hope. Buford’s an old miner. He doesn’t mind it down here. I reckon you will, though. It ain’t just the rats you gotta worry about, or Bad Boy getting unchained. Buford can get plumb angry when people don’t talk, can’t you Buford? Likes to hit ’em with a shovel.”
“That’s a fact, Dern, that is surely a fact. Always keep my shovel handy for hittin’ folks with—mind you, only if they deserve it.”
“You know, Marshal, when stubborn folks won’t talk, Buford gets pretty ornery. When he’s done with ’em, they sometimes don’t talk forever. Now, that would be a shame in your case, Marshal, because you’re such an educated man with a lot to say. So, you play nice with Buford, and he’ll play nice with you.” To Buford he said, “Marshal here’s going to tell us where the treasure is.”
“Well, that is surely nice of him. Save you boys up top a lot of digging. I’ll let you know.”
Dern closed the basement door and the darkness, outside the pale glow of Buford’s candle, grew inkier. But, Libbie, you know I fear nothing—least of all dogs or rats or any other furry creature; I’ve always had a way with animals, and if a rat came nibbling up to my ear, I believe we’d get along quite handsomely, just like I did with my pet field mouse (you remember him); and I’ve never met a dog that didn’t love me.
As it was, I didn’t hear the scurry of little rat feet but only Buford’s sighs and grunts, the ping of liquefied tobacco hitting the spittoon, the creaking of his chair, and the shuffling of cards. I had the distinct impression that he had already forgotten me, so absorbed was he in his game, but staring in my direction, visible through the darkness, were the glowing canine eyes of Bad Boy. He was no longer snarling; he just sat prone, his long, dark face resting on his big, dark paws, regarding me attentively, as Rachel often did—and that gave me an idea: As I had helped effect Rachel’s escape from the Boyanama Sioux, I wondered whether Bad Boy could help me escape from the tobacco-dribbling Buford and his torturer’s shovel.
Beauregard, when I first met him at the saloon, had attempted to blink at me in Morse code. I doubted that at this distance, and under these circumstances, Bad Boy, even if he knew Morse code (which I had to concede he probably didn’t), could have deciphered my blink-blinks. But I have long held the belief that horses secretly speak French (which is why it is on the curriculum at West Point) and dogs speak German. In the Army I have learned to speak fluent Irish, but my German remains scant. Still, if I could cobble together a few German phrases, I could plead my case. Buford would hear me, of course, but I decided I had to try.
“Achtung!” I said.
“Whatchya say?”
“Nothing, pardon me. Just a cough.”
“Damp down here sometimes affects people like that. You want a chaw? I don’t mind sharin’.”
“No thanks. Ich bin trappenzied. Ruff, ruff—needinzie your helpen.”
“What’s that?
“Sorry, just clearing my throat. Gnawinzie das ropen, bitte, to freeinzie me? Ich bin ein nicen master, ich leben das hunden.”
“Listen here, mister. You keep clearin’ your throat like that, and I’ll turn Bad Boy loose to tear it wide open for ya.”
“Ich bin ein hunden freunden. Helpenzie me, bitte.”
“What the heck you doin’ over there?”
I coughed dramatically. “Sorry—like you say, it must be this damp air. Ich leben hunden. Mucho leben. Feedin generous. Helpenzie me.”
“I’m warning you, Marshal. My patience has its limits. And I ain’t finished my game yet. And Bad Boy ain’t been fed yet. You wanna be his chow?”
“I fear no dog, Buford, just as I fear no man. Das Master ist meanen, ja? Ich bin molto kinder No strikenzie mit das shovelen; only petenzie.”
“That so? Well then, how about I set Bad Boy loose? I’ll keep my shovel handy to beat him off when you start screamin’.”
“Do your worst, Buford. Ven du bist freeen, ven die chain ist offen, helpenzie me.”
I heard the chain clank. “Get him!”
The dog sprang. His fangs shone across the room; an instant later they were at my face, tearing the air as he barked; his breath hot; his eyes fierce; his growling like that of a bear tearing into an elk—yet it was all a tactical feint; his jaws clamped not on my flesh but on the rope that bound me. He put on a ferocious show for Buford—teeth gnashing, neck shaking violently—but it was my freedom at which he labored. “Bad Boy!” I shouted. “Bad Boy!”
“Heh, heh, they’re usually screamin’ about now,” said Buford, rising from his chair. I heard the clang of a shovel blade on the cold stone floor.
Bad Boy’s frenzied attack on the rope had shredded enough of it that I reckoned I could at least wiggle my way up to a standing position even if my hands were still cuffed. With my feet planted firmly under me, I pushed hard and shot up to my full height.
“What the devil?”
“No devil, Buford, but an avenging angel.”
He swung the shovel at my head, but I ducked down, and threw myself at him. My legs were tripped by the still-binding rope, but I smashed my head into his chest. We both fell—he directly onto his back, I onto my side, rolling onto my back so that I could defend myself with kicks if need be. Before Buford could rise, Bad Boy was upon him. With a brutality I can scarcely describe, he took Buford’s neck between those fearsome teeth and shook the life right out of him. I believe I actually heard his neck snap, and after a gargled yelp, Buford lay still and limp, like a giant smelly dishrag. Bad Boy trotted over to the table, pulled open the drawer with his teeth, clamped them onto Buford’s ring of keys, trotted over, and dropped them in my palms. “Bad Boy!” I said, “Bad Boy!” He licked my face and waited patiently while I struggled to find the right key and remove the lock from my wrists. When I had done that, I took his paw with one hand and stroked his head with the other. “Well done, noble Bad Boy!”
Directly above me were Larsen and his army of gunmen. I needed a strategy—and for this I had to rely on my own wits. Bad Boy might be a great trooper, but he required leadership.
I stripped Buford of his gun belt. At least now I had a weapon—or two, counting Bad Boy. I bade him follow me and I opened the basement door. Slowly and carefully we tiptoed up the winding stairs. I knew that at the top we’d have Larsen’s office on our right and two gunmen seated at a table in the hallway with their backs to us. With each cautious step we took, different courses o
f action raced through my mind.
I saw the gunmen’s backs; I saw Larsen’s closed door; and Bad Boy and I made our leap, bursting into Larsen’s study, shouting (or I shouted; Bad Boy remained silent), “Aha!” Before us was an empty room. Quick as lightning, I slammed the door and jumped, Bad Boy beside me, behind the desk. We curled beneath it and I put my finger to my lips. “No barkenzie,” I whispered. The two gunmen charged in.
“What in blue blazes is goin’ on? Was they comin’ or goin’?”
Boots pounded across the wooden floor; the gunmen inspected the big windows at the opposite end of the study.
“He didn’t leave this way—and only a ghost coulda got by us.”
“Don’t make no sense nohow.”
“But you heard it and I heard it.”
“Maybe best forget it. Folks’ll think we’re crazy from sittin’ out there so long.”
“They might be right at that.”
“Mr. Larsen ain’t here, so it don’t matter to no one but us.”
Boots creaked on the boards, and the door closed.
“Well done, brave and noble Bad Boy,” I whispered to him, and he licked my face. “Now we must find a way out.” The two of us crawled on all fours, edging around the desk and into the main part of the study. I dared not stand lest one of Larsen’s innumerable gunmen should see me through the window. We dared not smash through the window, because we would fall into the enemy’s clutches. And we dared not just sit and wait, because I am not one for sitting and waiting. Instead, I decided to pull a practical joke—one of my greatest strengths, as you know. If those two clodhoppers outside thought we were ghosts, we might as well act the part. I crawled to the door and, as eerily as I could, moaned, “Whaaaa! Boooo! Whaaaa! Boooo!” and Bad Boy joined my chorus, howling like a coyote.
Boots came running down the corridor, and Bad Boy and I hid behind the door. It came swinging at our faces.
“I don’t like the look of this, Elmer,” one of them said.
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