The Eye of the Devil

by S A Falconi

  Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. He wondered if the deputy and the sheriff had gone too far, too deep and passed out from oxygen deprivation?

  “Sheriff Lusk!” Abernathe hissed. “Deputy Narr!”

  No response came though.

  “Sheriff Lusk! Deputy Narr!”

  Several moments of silence came before the deputy finally coughed, “Sheriff’s down!” The deputy hacked several more times before adding, “Oxygen’s too thin!”

  “Can you drag him up?” Abernathe called.

  The deputy answered, “Should be able to.”

  As Abernathe waited, he could care less for the safety or health of the sheriff. All he cared about was the Ripper. Either Donaghue was a monster that needed no oxygen to survive, or he too had gone too far and suffocated. Clearly the latter was the only logical explanation, but Abernathe needed him alive. Certainly the murders would cease, but the subsequent disappearance of Donaghue would be viewed as yet another circumstantial coincidence. Nothing more. The East Side Ripper investigation wouldn’t be solved. It’d just go cold like so many other failed investigative pursuits.

  But just as the commotion of the deputy dragging the sheriff’s unconscious body began to near, Abernathe considered one last possibility. It was outlandish certainly, but not entirely beyond the realms of reality.

  “An airshaft,” Abernathe gasped. He could’ve found an airshaft. Just as the deputy had said, a man’s instinct to survive could long surpass the faculties of his body under extreme conditions. The sheriff had passed out from oxygen deprivation, but that didn’t mean that Donaghue did. If he’d found an airshaft, he could’ve escaped.

  Abernathe did an about-face and scrambled up the slope of the mineshaft.

  “Detective,” Deputy Narr panted, “where are you going?”

  “He found an airshaft,” Abernathe hollered over his shoulder. “We need to comb the hills and find it!”

  XV.

  Although the airshaft hadn’t put more than a few hundred feet between the predators and the prey, Donaghue’s and Kraus’ escape from the mineshaft had granted them the greatest element of evasion – ignorance. Although Abernathe speculated the presence of an airshaft, he hadn’t a clue as to its whereabouts. Donaghue and Kraus, no longer burdened by the immediate threat of capture, were able to ascend the alpine slope hundreds of feet until reaching a haven in which Kraus could properly care for Donaghue’s wound. It was a flattened clearing, a massive boulder on one flank and the crystalline waters of South Clear Creek on the other.

  After building a meager fire, Kraus put his deft hands to work. He first examined the wound with the luxury of afternoon daylight. Although the bullet had done a substantial job of destroying flesh, it struck neither bone nor blood vessel. The bullet had passed straight through the deltoid muscle, and although a significant amount of blood had been lost, it was a wound that could heal if cared for appropriately. Kraus took his flask and cleaned the wound with the liquor despite Donaghue’s protests. It was easily the most pain Donaghue had ever endured, the cleansing process. But, Kraus explained, that was the fragment of infection being destroyed that caused so much pain. It was the Hippocratic paradox – only with pain could healing occur.

  Once the wound was thoroughly cleansed, Kraus formed a medicinal paste from unknown herbs and vegetation and smeared it liberally throughout the gash. He then tore a section of Donaghue’s other sleeve and knotted a bandage as if expertly knotting a bow on a yuletide gift. Donaghue, both sleeves missing and dress adorned with dried blood, effectively appeared as the vagabond he now was. But he was alive.

  Kraus knew that pure water and slumber were the two things needed by Donaghue’s body to recover. Kraus fetched ample amounts of the former, forcing Donaghue to drink despite his protests. Only once Donaghue was sufficiently hydrated did Kraus allow him to fall asleep on a bed of grass and leaves.

  Despite his own fatigue, Kraus had assumed his youthful duty as practitioner and as such, conquered it with the ease of a great knight. Throughout his medicinal training, Kraus had worked in Philadelphia General for days on end without sleep. He’d disciplined himself to not be weakened by fatigue, but to be empowered by it. And so he waited by Donaghue’s side, watching the exiled detective’s chest heave peacefully as daylight transformed into dusk and dusk into twilight. All the while, Donaghue’s revolver remained fixed in Kraus’ grasp, for although he’d hardly handled a firearm no less fired one, he knew that his instincts of loyalty and perseverance would endow him with the ability to defeat any adversary.

  The night was whisked away as swiftly as the waters of the nearby creek. Kraus’ lids hadn’t even shuddered with slumber. He sat there for hours on end alert as a sentry as he listened to the symphony of South Clear Creek. He imagined himself listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 from the comfort of a lush balcony in Theater an der Wien. The creek’s current became the stringed instruments manipulated by the most expert fingers in history. Kraus found that with the mere company of Beethoven’s music prancing through his head, he could stand guard for days on end and not even think twice about it.

  Donaghue didn’t awake until the light of morning broke through the tree limbs and splashed onto his face. He saw Kraus sitting nearby, the doctor’s eyes scanning the scenery attentively yet peacefully.

  “You stay up the whole night?” Donaghue asked, slowly propping himself up on his unwounded arm.

  Kraus nodded. “Had to make sure Abernathe didn’t find us right?”

  “Or a bear …”

  “A deer stumbled upon us around midnight. Nearly shat myself when I heard him,” Kraus grinned and added, “but I think he was more frightened than I.” Kraus sighed and rubbed his eyes momentarily. “How do you feel?”

  “Surprisingly good.” Donaghue attempted to move his injured arm and grimaced, adding, “But my shoulder still hurts like hell.”

  “It will for a while. Didn’t have the appropriate instruments, but it should heal well enough.”

  Donaghue glanced about the scenery as he gathered his thoughts and his bearings. A great deal had transpired in the last few days, and now more than ever, alacrity was of the essence.

  Donaghue strained and stood.

  “What are you doing?” Kraus interjected. “You need to rest.”

  Donaghue scoffed. “I rested all night and all morning. That’s twelve hours we’ve already wasted. It’ll take us at least one full day to get over the hogback and reach the Denver, Leadville and Gunnison Railway. We may already miss Grafton – we just gotta hope we find him before he slaughters another.”

  “What if he’s gone?” Kraus muttered.

  “Like any other hunt, we find out where he’s going next and track him down.”

  They broke camp quickly, destroying as much evidence of their presence as possible. As of now, Abernathe hadn’t even a trail to follow; however, a flattened blade of grass or a charred remnant of a fire could very well be the head of that trail. While Kraus fixed the surrounding vegetation to appear as nothing more than a resting place for deer, Donaghue gathered the fire’s remnants and tossed them into the creek. He dipped his hands into the water and embraced its nearly freezing temperature. No matter how hot the air was, alpine water was always just above the point of freezing. He cupped his hands and splashed the water against his face. Any shred of slumber that remained was shattered, and despite the aching wound on his shoulder, he felt reinvigorated.

  Using the tributary as their guide, Donaghue and Kraus scrambled over the contours of the mountainside. The trek to the Denver, Leadville and Gunnison Line was roughly twenty miles away, and if they hiked all day and all night, they just might reach the line before noon the next day.

  As they gained elevation, the air became noticeably thinner and their progression noticeably slower. The forest began to thin as well, and they knew they were within a few miles of the spine of the hogback when there were suddenly no more trees at all. During this progression, the tributar
y’s girth dwindled and became nothing more than a sizeable trickle at tree-line. This trickle fanned out beyond the threshold of vegetative life, disappearing into the snow and ice that was scattered across the rocky landscape. Atop the hogback, Donaghue and Kraus marveled at the expanse of the Rocky Mountains, the view of which was completely unimpeded. The wind tore across the landscape violently in much the same way that a powerful locomotive with a light load tore across a flat and straight stretch of line. It wasn’t that the wind was hostile though, just free to gallop as it wished.

  Donaghue and Kraus rested upon a stony outcrop atop the pass’s summit as they watched the sun fade into the distant crags on the horizon. The temperature subsequently dropped, forcing the two to huddle against the mere clothes on their backs. They proceeded down the southern slope of the hogback, seeking the navigatory aid of a run-off tributary. About a mile from the summit, Kraus finally heard the solemn babble of running water and, using the unfiltered light of the full moon, located the creek with reasonable ease. Although their descent was impeded by the darkness and the high elevation air, the luminance of the heavenly bodies was more than sufficient to light their path.

  By the time the new day’s first rays of light began to emerge, Donaghue and Kraus were well into the thick of the forest, the substantial girth of Geneva Creek carving a passable trail towards their destination. Also by this time, Detective Abernathe had a team of fearless miners search every inch of the abandoned mine by torchlight, and although the airshaft and its point of exit were discovered, the only sign of Donaghue was a dark crimson stain on the gravel deep within the mine. Abernathe, assisted by Deputy Narr, scrambled a makeshift search team to track and hunt down Donaghue and Kraus. But with no visible sign of trail, the teams were left to rely exclusively on the noses of their hounds. The teams combed the forests and embankments of the northern slope flanking Georgetown, but no sign of their prey was discovered.

  Mid-morning found Detective Abernathe resting in a backroom of the eminent town hall awaiting developments of the search. In the meantime, he sent a telegram to Chief Chapman summarizing the events of the last twenty-four hours as well as requesting a task force consisting of the best investigative minds the Denver Police Department had to offer. Unbeknownst to Abernathe, when the telegram was finally received, Chief Chapman crumpled the notification and filed it in his waste bin. As for Donaghue and Kraus, the youthful daylight found them stumbling along the fractured terrain of the banks of Geneva Creek, the once trickle of snowmelt now the width of an avenue.

  A monumental roar reached the ears of Donaghue and Kraus as the slope of the embankment became less steep. Upon emerging from the final thicket of trees, they were faced with the awesome confluence of Geneva Creek and the north fork of the South Platte River. For several moments, the two sleuths stared wonderingly as the clear water of Geneva Creek crashed into the muddied current of the Platte. The unification of the two contrasting waters was beyond seamless; it was nature at is most perfect. And there, bisecting the confluence and proceeding along the banks of the raging South Platte River was the iron lattice of the Denver, Leadville and Gunnison Rail Line. Donaghue and Kraus stared in wonder and in relief. The two stumbled down the remaining length of the Geneva Creek bank until they reached the flattened surface of the railroad bed.

  Donaghue genuflected at the side of the rail and kissed the iron line in an uncharacteristically dramatic fashion.

  Kraus laughed as Donaghue said, “Thank God, I never thought I’d be so happy to see a rail line.”

  Kraus joined him, perching himself on the railroad as he rested his legs and feet. They sat there for a quarter of an hour, savoring the greatness of immobility as well as the warmth of the sun radiating on their backs. Donaghue’s shoulder still ailed him greatly, but the relief of much needed rest was glorious.

  When they finally rose, every joint on their bodies creaked and cracked.

  “How far’s the next depot?” Kraus grunted.

  “Not far,” Donaghue answered, “’bout a mile west in Webster.”

  They proceeded along the railroad, slow at first then gradually gaining momentum as their joints shook the exhaustion and their strides became less labored. They reached Webster within half an hour. To say that Webster was a town would be as great an insult to the word as calling Blackhawk the Paris of Colorado. Webster didn’t even have a population to claim save for the few rail workers forced to lodge in the back of the depot during the off-hours of their shifts. In fact, the only civilized structure was the depot itself, a shack that just happened to be bordering the rail line. But such details were trivial for Donaghue and Kraus, for that randomly constructed shack provided them with a legitimate means of boarding a train.

  The next train was as cramped as the one they took from Georgetown to Blackhawk, but the company was far more affluent and tolerable. Again though, such things mattered little to the exhausted sleuths. The moment each was seated, they fell into deep and heavy slumber, rapidly passing the time between the depots of Como, Breckenridge, Dickey, Frisco, Kokomo, and Climax before reaching the bustling platform of the Leadville Depot.

  XVI.

  Leadville, Colorado was arguably the first town formed as a result of the Colorado Silver Boom. Originally christened “Slabtown” by its founders, Horace Tabor and August Meyer, in its heyday Leadville was one of the world’s largest and richest silver camps in the world. Like all mining boomtowns, Leadville’s infrastructure was erected upon and sustained by saloons and brothels. As the precious ore diminished though, Leadville became the premier site for mineral swindlers of all types of breeds. Mine owners, whose deposits had gone bust, tried to hide the barren nature of their investments as they sold the mines for lucrative profits. Some attempts of deceit were fruitful, while others resulted in vicious bloodshed reserved only for the Wild West. Leadville had even become the haven for infamous U.S. Marshal-turned-outlaw John “Doc” Holliday. During the era that Donaghue and Kraus entered the town, it was yet another boomtown on its last leg.

  When Donaghue and Kraus departed the train that next morning, the depot platform was bustling with passengers and conversation was rampant. It seemed the townspeople, both travelers and inhabitants alike, were frantically discussing a rather frightening and peculiar topic. It wasn’t that the people of Leadville were foreign to the realities of crime. On the contrary, crime was as rampant there as it was in any other confine of civilization. But a crime such as this? This went far beyond the typical crimes of theft, prostitution, and murder.

  The two men noticed many of the people were reading copies of The Chronicle, the town’s only daily newspaper. Several copies of the paper had been abandoned on the platform, their front-page headlines seemingly shrieking at all who read them.

  Kraus bent over and grabbed one of the copies. The headline was horrifying and simultaneously exhilarating.

  “Extra,” Kraus read, “Denver’s East Side Ripper Slaughters Fifth in Leadville.”

  “Oh my …,” Donaghue muttered. “He’s here.”

  Kraus continued, “One of Leadville’s own, a Miss Catherine Edmont, was found in the early hours of this morning in the alley neighboring her place of employment. Although details of Miss Edmont’s mortality have yet to be disclosed, sources reveal that the circumstances revolving around her slaughter are consistent with those of Denver’s East Side Ripper murders. Law enforcement has requested that any civilian with information regarding this ghoulish murder come forward immediately. Investigators of the crime would also like to request that the people of Leadville keep vigilant watch out for a potential person of interest. This person is a white male of average age and superior physical aptitude; however, witnesses were able to identify one particular characteristic that is quite distinct – he only has one eye, the other hidden by a patch …”

  Kraus’ fingers became momentarily paralyzed and the newspaper fell to the planks of the platform swiftly.

  “My God,” Kraus muttered, glancing u
p at Donaghue. “Grafton.”

  “Let’s go,” Donaghue answered hastily, hustling to the nearest exit.

  The one-eyed man had to be Perry Grafton, just had to be! And for the police to call him a person of interest could only mean that he was the lead suspect. Donaghue wondered precisely what the details and circumstances of the sighting were? Was he seen evading the crime scene? Was he seen beforehand with the woman? Or was he implicated simply because he looked like a monster? The first thing that Donaghue and Kraus needed to do was find the victim’s place of employment; that was likely where the eyewitness testimony originated. But how would they discover such information without drawing suspicion?

  As Donaghue and Kraus hustled through the busy depot, it seemed everybody was talking about the murder. As luck would have it, Donaghue overhead one such discourse as he scuttled past.

  “I knew Catherine,” one voice said.

  A second asked, “You did? How?”

  “I visited her on occasion.”

  “Visited?”

  “You know … enjoyed her company.”

  “She was a shake?”

  “Shh,” the first voice hissed, “lotta people don’t know that.”

  “Where’d she work?”

  “One of Mattie Silks’ places – Dorset’s.”

  “You went to Dorset’s?”

  “Yes, what man hasn’t?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You should. Well, maybe not anymore.”

  The information quickened Donaghue’s heart beat as they exited the train depot and proceeded down 8th Street. The victim was a prostitute, one connection to the Ripper murders. Donaghue wondered if there were other connecting details that The Chronicle left out. A slashed throat perhaps? Or the one detail that seemed to be the Ripper’s trademark – the extracted womb. Donaghue and Kraus had to find out. If the victim’s womb hadn’t been extracted, the chances of the culprit being the Ripper were slim.