by David Boop
“Did you check the time?” I asked.
“No, too busy coming downstairs to see if some drunk was trying to break into the place, but the club was dark and empty. Checked the safe to be sure and found the back door to the office was open. So was the coffin.”
“And the safe?”
“Sealed up tight. No sign of messing with it neither.”
“Did you check the street or alley?”
“Sure did,” Pete Burns said amiably. “And there she was.”
“Maggie Maslow,” I said.
Pete Burns clucked sympathetically. “Knew she was dead soon as I saw her. I reckon she ran across the thieves. Probably coming to find Soapy, but he wasn’t here anyhow.”
“Anybody with you?”
He snorted. “All still sleepin’ their whiskey off like babes in a manger.”
“You don’t drink?”
He shrugged. “I can hold my liquor.”
By the size of him, I didn’t doubt it. “I’d like to see her body.”
“Whoever done it left her a right mess.”
“Even so.” It wouldn’t be the worst I’d seen. The only thing more shocking than spending three thousand dollars on a dead man was the way people made each other dead in the first place. I wanted to see her room, too, if it wasn’t already occupied by another dance-hall girl.
Pete Burns pointed. “The man you want to see is Clyde Lewis, over there. Self-appointed Creede mortician. He’s taking care of her.”
“He get a lot of work?”
“Where there’s minin’ there’s dyin’,” said Pete Burns. A philosopher and pugilist. “Come on, I’ll introduce ya.”
Clyde Lewis was wiry and held himself like he was old and lame, leaning an elbow on the table and holding the other arm close to himself. After an exchange of pleasantries, the conversation turned to Maggie Maslow.
“I’d like to see the body,” I told him.
“She’s nailed up inside her coffin, and I already got Reverend Fraser to say a few words tomorrow morning between shifts. I’m burying her after.”
I reckoned mortician work was a way to tide himself over until he struck silver. “I’ll come early then.”
“Got to check with Soapy first,” Clyde Lewis said.
“Can’t imagine he’d care. Besides, he’s the one who asked me up here from Denver.”
“I’m still gonna ask. Heard tell he was half in love with her. Even paid to bury her.”
* * *
“I told you Maggie Maslow has nothing to do with McGinty,” Soapy said again. “Leave the poor woman in peace.”
“Right. Except she was beat to death right along the time Big Pete says McGinty disappeared, and right along the path the thieves took to escape. You have enemies, Jeff. Who hates you enough to come up here, steal your sideshow, and murder your lover?”
“She wasn’t my lov—”
“You paid for her casket and funeral. Don’t tell me she meant nothing to you.”
Soapy reached for his drink. “I saw her sometimes. Not that night.”
“Often enough to pay for her funeral,” I said. “Where were you that night?”
“Not with her,” Soapy growled. “If I had been, she’d still be alive.”
He wasn’t boasting. Soapy was good with his fists and pistol. “Who was the lady with, then? Were you jealous?”
“She was no lady, and I’m no cold-blooded murderer. You know that, David.”
I didn’t actually, but the men he killed had it coming and I’d never heard otherwise. “What about this?” I tossed the latest edition of The Creede Candle down. “Seven disgruntled men trying to steal McGinty?”
Soapy glanced at it, then turned it around to study the story I had it folded to.
“It’s all trumped-up bullshit to sell papers.”
“They report there was a witness.”
“There are no seven men. It’s fake news.”
“If I know you, there are seven-score men who’d like back at you one way or another.”
Soapy’s lips thinned. “None of this is finding McGinty.”
I took off my spectacles and rubbed them free of the dust with my handkerchief. “Oh I have a hunch on that.”
Soapy groaned. “You and your hunches.”
“I have a hunch,” I repeated, “that if we find Maggie Maslow’s murderer we find McGinty’s thief.”
Soapy scowled, but he just drank down a glass of one of the four kinds of fine whiskey behind the bar and ordered another.
* * *
The next morning I stepped out of the Creede Hotel to a bright, busy day. Some ten thousand souls called Creede home, and it felt as if most of them were out on the street. Throngs of men walked to a shift at the Alpha Mine while others trudged to their beds. Denver rarely felt as crowded.
Miners are a tough, dirty lot who don’t show their hurts. These men were no different…all but one. He staggered along like a drunk about to topple, gaze skittering across people in his path, one hand pressed to his head, the other arm wrapped around his middle. People walked around him, intent on their own destinations, but gave him the occasional suspicious look.
I strode out to him and caught his arm. “Here, now. Step over this way.”
He looked at me, mouth open. Curious I didn’t smell spirits on his breath. But he was bleeding under the hand pressed to the side of his hatless head. “What happened to you, fella?”
“Some…thing…beat me up.”
He must not be quite right since he took a knock to the head. I gentled my tone. “What’s your name?”
“Robert Ford. Who’re you?” he mumbled through swollen, bruised lips.
The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. “General David Cook.”
“I need the law.”
“I am the law.” I led him into the hotel, shouldering open the door, and deposited him on a sofa.
Mr. Zang, the hotelier, started forward. “Now, General, don’t you be bringing that sort in here.”
“We need a bowl of water and a towel, please. The man has been attacked.”
Zang scowled his disapproval, but he scuttled off.
I turned back to Ford. “Mr. Ford, what can you remember?”
His eyes took a bit to settle on me. “One of those dead things come at me in the dark.”
I exchanged glances with Mr. Zang, who’d returned with the items. He shrugged.
“Dead thing?” I asked.
“Gotta nail the coffins shut or they’ll get out.”
“Did this happen outside?” I asked him. Fires lit up the streets for building at night.
“Behind my dance hall. I tried to fight back but it felt like hitting a brick wall.” His knuckles were bruised and bleeding, but that could happen over a man’s face, all right.
“Ford’s Exchange, General,” Mr. Zang said shortly. For all his irritability, he’d brought salve and a bandage too.
Years in the army, doing law work, and dealing with dangerous people had given me some skill at patching up a man. I got to work. “Mr. Ford, anyone got it in for you?”
Ford’s lips went thin and white. “General. I remember now. You’re friends with Soapy Smith.”
And after that he wouldn’t say another word but a gruff thanks when I was done bandaging his wound. He took a drink at the hotel bar and staggered off back the way he’d come. I thanked Mr. Zang, who shot me another ill-tempered glare in response, and I followed Ford. But he just shut himself inside a little house at the end of town. Hopefully he’d sleep off the damage done. So I headed off to my date with Miss Maggie Maslow.
Clyde Lewis shook his head. “Soapy said no.”
“No? Why?”
“Not mine to question.”
I could go hassle Soapy about it or I could handle this here and now. “I don’t give a damn what Soapy Smith says. I’m going to see this body.” I gave him a speculative look and raised a fist. “If you’re worried about trouble from him, he might believe I
overcame you in a fistfight if there’s evidence of one. A good crack to the jaw ought to convince him.”
Clyde Lewis glared at me and stepped back, still holding his crowbar. “Don’t you hit me or…”
“Or what?” I held his skittish gaze. “Give me that before you hurt yourself with it.”
He scowled and slapped it onto my palm. I used it to pry up the pine coffin lid, and the smell was about rank as you’d expect. Soapy had wasted no money trying to make her pretty again. Her bloodied face had swollen over broken, misshapen bones. Blood from her shattered nose and teeth stained the lace of her dress and her hair, including two crooked blue ribbons. Her hands rested at her sides rather than crossed over her chest, but she was a gruesome sight. I expect Clyde Lewis had wanted to touch her as little as possible.
I reached in to lift up her skirts.
“Hey now—”
“She’s dead. She doesn’t care anymore. And Soapy doesn’t have to know.” But there was no bruising on her thighs that I could see. Maybe she’d been punched in the stomach, but her corset kept me from doing a more thorough search. I reckoned it no longer mattered and smoothed the skirts back down over her puffy, pale legs. A necklace around her neck glittered in the low light. I reached in and pulled the pendant around to her front. It was a locket with a picture of an older lady in it. I laid it gently on her breast and reached for the lid to close it over her again.
Scratches marred the soft pine. I looked at Clyde.
He shrugged. “I use scraps from the buildings. I sanded the top though,” he added defensively.
Indeed he had. I tried to pick up one of Maggie’s cold, swollen hands.
She was hard as stone and it wouldn’t move, her fingers curled into fists.
“She’s still in rigor. That puts her less than eighteen hours dead.” I looked at the scratched inner lid again. Damn it.
Clyde Lewis tsked. “She was well past dead yesterday morning when I put her in here. I checked her myself.”
Despite his reassurances, I placed my fingers on her throat and fell still. No pulse. Then I held the back of my pocket watch to her nostrils. No condensation marred the shiny silver surface. I was inclined to believe him. Dead bodies did strange things, and spring nights were cold in the Rockies. Maybe she was a bit frozen. Clyde put the lid down and hammered her back inside.
“Do you nail all the coffins shut?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Seems like extra work for a body going in the ground.”
“Soapy ordered it done.”
“Indeed?”
“He’s camp boss.”
I decided Lewis was the sort not to question his betters, especially those who paid well, and dropped the issue. “It is fine work on the box,” I lied, by way of making amends for threatening him.
He shrugged. “I’m getting good at it, unfortunately. Second one I’ve built inside a week. What’d you learn from her, General?”
I sighed. “Precious little. I want to see her rooms.”
“She had a tent out back of Zang’s,” he said.
But it had already been taken over by someone else, so that was a useless endeavor. None of the soiled doves nearby knew who Maggie Maslow had been with on her last night or who might have attacked her.
I didn’t much feel like drinking, but I needed to visit Ford’s Exchange. I wanted to take a look around the saloon and see if I could find a witness to either beating. The place was empty but for one man guarding the liquor, chair tipped back with his boots on another, hat tilted down over his eyes. He didn’t appear to be the most alert guard, but he shoved his hat back and peered up at me when I entered.
“Not open yet,” he growled.
I introduced myself, but he didn’t return the courtesy. “Your boss got attacked this morning,” I said to him. “Early, still dark. See anything?”
He shook his head and spat some chew. “Who done it?”
“He says he doesn’t know. You have any ideas?”
He shrugged. “Plenty of people’d like to see him dead.”
“Why is that? Does he water down his alcohol?”
“Nah. Ford killed Jesse James.”
I stared at him. “I’ll be damned.” I knew I’d recognized the name.
“I heard you’re here for Soapy anyways.” His lip curled.
“We go back a ways, yes,” I said cautiously. “Someone stole his petrified man.”
“Why don’t you ask him, then?”
My brows raised. “I can’t, seeing how McGinty is dead.”
He ignored my lame attempt at humor. “Ask Soapy who beat up Ford. Rumor has it Soapy Smith is trying to get someone to do him in.”
* * *
“I know you admired Jesse James. You got a beef with Ford over killing him, Jeff? Enough to pound on him a bit?”
Soapy shrugged and got up to put a stack of bills in his safe. “He’s a murderer. But like I said before, I didn’t try to kill him or hurt him, and I didn’t kill Maggie.” He gave me a dark look. “I know you went to look at her corpse.”
“Don’t blame Lewis. He threatened me with a crowbar.” Remembering that made me think of something. “Why’d you order the coffin nailed shut?”
“Seemed the thing to do. She’s being buried in a gold locket from her mama. I don’t want anyone to steal it.”
“Lewis says you ordered all the coffins nailed shut. All the corpses got gold lockets from their mamas?”
“It’s just the men talking. Don’t know a damned bear when they hear one.” Soapy slammed his safe door shut and spun the dial with an irritable twist of his fingers.
“What are you talking about?”
“They walk by the cemetery at night after shift and think they hear something. They can’t see straight after being underground, so they think they see things. It’s bears or some other animal. Or nothing at all. But Coltrain nearly got himself killed when he started shooting in the dark, so I told them we’d start nailing the coffins shut.”
“So the corpses couldn’t escape?” I raised my brows.
“To pacify a bunch of drunk miners, yeah.”
“Is that what you meant by something going on in this town, Jeff? That the dead come to life? So you have to nail them into their pine boxes?” The coffin caught my eye like a bad omen, even if I’m not a superstitious man. “Except for this one. You didn’t nail this one.”
No lock on the box, just a row of cabin hooks. Soapy hadn’t cared to protect his investment that much. Why didn’t the thieves take McGinty in the coffin? Surely it’d be a safer way to transport a petrified body, which I imagined was rigid and brittle, prone to damage. And surely carrying a box would draw less notice than the stiff, dead body of a man.
I lifted the lid.
And stared.
The inside of the lid was scratched all to hell. Just like Maggie Maslow’s had been. I examined the sides. They were scratched too. But the outside was well sanded.
I sat back on my heels, my pulse kicking up until I could feel it in my throat. “Maybe you have a good explanation for this, Jeff.”
Hell, in that moment, I’d even have been square with learning Soapy Smith stuck an enemy in that coffin. Maybe just to scare him. Soapy was wild and rough and criminal.
But he wasn’t sadistic.
Soapy gritted his teeth. Paced a few steps and spun on me. “I tried to tell you when you got here. You wouldn’t listen.”
“Can you blame me after you concocted that fool story about the witches?”
“You were supposed to believe me after what we’ve been through together.”
“That lie nearly got me killed.” I ran my fingers along the scratches. “We have to catch him. Destroy him.”
“How? I don’t think an axe would even go through him. He’s hard as stone.”
Like hitting a brick wall, Ford had said. “We burn him to ash, then.”
“We can’t. It’s too dangerous. We could set the whole valley on fire.”
Soapy cursed low but his shoulders fell. “Right. What do we do?”
* * *
The cemetery was quiet as we approached it in the dark. I stopped the horses several times because I kept thinking I heard rustling amid the trees, boulders, and dried grasses on either side of the narrow dirt switchbacks. Soapy, for his part, kept watch, even though he was irritable about being here, irritable about capturing McGinty, and really irritable about locking him up for good. I didn’t have to urge him at the end of my revolver, but I was ready to if it came to it.
We set up near a low crypt that was already looking the worse for wear from the Colorado winters, got some tools and weapons out of my pack, and scouted out the cemetery. There was no sign of McGinty, giving us time to make our preparations. I watched the shadows of neighboring woods and the rise of the hills.
“What if he went back down to town? He could be anywhere.”
“We’ll go along back down if we don’t see him here,” I said.
“Why would he hang out here anyway? This is a fool plan.”
“Because the dead know they belong in graveyards.” I lifted my hand to shush him. It sounded like someone might be riding up to the cemetery, or several people, like the tattoo of hooves against the hard dirt. But it didn’t change in volume, like it would if horses were approaching.
Our horses shifted and lifted their heads from nosing around for grass. One tossed his head and stamped. “Do you feel that?”
Soapy shook his head. “Feel what?”
I got to my feet and walked a bit, avoiding graves but the noise kept on. The sounds were muffled, dull, and a coldness seeped into me that had nothing to do with the drop in temperature as night fell in the mountains. I stepped onto a grave, knelt, and put my hand on the dirt. Random vibrations seemed to seep up through the ground into my hand. “My god. It’s true.”
Soapy snorted and started to say something when the mare I’d been riding whinnied in fear. The other pinned his ears and tugged against his lead, which I’d secured to an iron railing, hindquarters shifting. Soapy hurried over to him. “Whoa, boy.” He patted the gelding’s neck and checked the tie. It wouldn’t do to have the horse slip loose or break its lead—
