N
INETEEN
Just before dawn, Jaeger slipped the pass key he had gotten from the night manager into the lock, slowly turned the key until the latch clicked, then swung open the door as quietly as possible. Then, revolver in hand, he sprang into the room.
Seeing the empty bed, he holstered the gun.
“Damn you,” he muttered.
He walked around the room. He glanced out the window, paused at the half-full glass of water, then knelt down and looked under the bed. He stretched a hand out and retrieved a red-and-gray wool sock.
“Where is your other sock now, Jakob Gamble?” he asked.
“Who is Jacob Gamble?”
Anise was leaning in the doorway. She was dressed in a flowing green dress, a green veil covering her face.
“Ah,” Jaeger said. “Excuse me. It is an old German expression, a name invoked to frighten children, much like the American boogeyman.”
“And this Teutonic boogeyman wears just one sock?”
“That's why he steals socks,” Jaeger said.
“And what is your excuse?”
“Pardon me, miss. I forget myself,” Jaeger said, stuffing the stock into his pocket. “I am Max Jaeger, a Pinkerton man.”
“I am Anise Weathers.”
He came forward, took her gloved hand, and kissed it.
“I thought you might be.”
“The veil.”
“Because you were described to me as a beautiful young woman,” Jaeger said. “I have been anxious to meet you and your uncle, and this hero soldierâthis Lieutenant Dunbarâbut it appears he has already vacated his room.”
“I'm not surprised,” Anise said. “We dined with him last night and he mentioned pressing business and much travel.”
“Did he say where this business was taking him?”
“Sadly, no,” Anise said. “The lieutenant seemed an intensely private individual, and it would have appeared rude to ask, don't you think?”
“Of course,” Jaeger said. “But I am pleased that we early risers have found one another. It is a habit hard to break, no? May I invite you and your uncle to share breakfast with me? I am anxious to hear your account of the attempted train robbery.”
T
WENTY
Jacob Gamble stepped down from the passenger train onto the station platform at Engle, the haversack slung over his shoulder and the Model 97 balanced in his left hand. Even through the smoke-colored glass, the glare made him squintâthe town, like the landscape itself, was twenty-three shades of white, all baking in the midday sun. On the eastern horizon were the San Andres Mountains, adding a bit of mauve to the scene.
As Gamble walked past the Santa Fe depot toward the town's main street, the station agent peered at him from the bay window. Gamble looked in his direction and tugged the brim of his hat, but the agent returned no greeting.
“There's trouble,” Gamble said.
Gamble watched his shadow pumping on the hard ground in front of him as he walked toward the town's main street. He stopped to allow a herd of cattle to cross, heading for the pens near the railway tracks.
“Where you boys from?” Gamble asked one of the cowboys.
“Texas, yee-haw!” the rider, a boy of twenty, said while using his coiled lasso to nudge the cattle in the right direction. “But these fat beeves are from the Tularosa Valley. Where you from, mister?”
“Missouri.”
“Missouri!” the cowboy said. “You're a long ways from home.”
“I'll allow that I am,” Gamble said.
As the dust from the cattle settled, he scanned the row of storefronts. Nearly all were rock, with wooden fronts. Some had been built when the town was founded, nearing thirty years ago, and Gamble thought they hadn't seen an ounce of paint since.
The most weather-beaten of the structures was the Conquistador Saloon. A hand-lettered board outside promised a cold beer and a ham sandwich for two bits.
Gamble opened the screen door and stepped inside. The place was empty, except for the bartender.
“Howdy.”
“Howdy yourself,” Gamble said.
“What's your pleasure?” The bartender was about thirty-five, had a pressed white shirt, and his blond hair and beard were neatly trimmed.
“The special,” Gamble said, walking up to the bar.
“I have to warn you, the beer's not that cold,” the man said. “We haven't had fresh ice in a weekâthe icehouse is just kind of a soggy mess. So, the special is warm beer and a ham sandwich.”
“Forget the beer,” Gamble said. “How fresh is the ham?”
“I'd eat it.”
“All right, bring me a ham sandwich. What else do you have to drink?”
“We have whiskey.”
“No whiskey, it's ten o'clock in the morning.”
“Um, how about some water?”
“All right,” Gamble said. “A ham sandwich and a glass of water. No, make that a pitcher.”
“That I can do,” the bartender said. “My name's Dave, by the way. What brings you to Engle? You're not a cowboy. That uniform looks to me like you might have seen some action in Cuba.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Just passing the time.”
Gamble took a silver dollar from his pocket and placed it on the bar.
“No offense,” he said. “I'm just a naturally private sort of person. I'd like things to remain that way.”
“Absolutely,” the bartender said.
Gamble left the bar and found a table by the front window. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, put the haversack on the floor, and sat down in the straight-backed chair farthest from the door. The bartender brought the pitcher of water and a glass, and Gamble drank slowly, looking through the dusty glass at the street.
Then he took the map from the haversack, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table. The map was hand drawn, in ink. The
Jornada
was a solid line snaking from top to bottom, and to the west of that was a wavy line that indicated the Rio Grande River. Near the river was a childish-looking drawing of an elephant. From the elephant, a dotted line ran to the southwest, into some triangles that indicated mountains. There were a cluster of ovals with wavy lines rising from them,
Hot Springs,
and not far from that a jagged peak with a hole near the top labeled,
Eye of the Needle.
Beyond that was a drawing of a house with a T-shaped window where the door should be. There was no scale or other indication of how far it was between any of the locations.
“Terrific,” Gamble muttered, folding up the map.
The bartender brought the sandwich.
As he ate, Gamble thought about heading back to the Oklahoma Panhandleâand to Agnes. He had nearly five hundred dollars in his pocket. That would last a couple of years in No Man's Land, perhaps more, as long as nobody showed up with a writ for his arrest. But even if nobody came for him it would be a mean life, a scarecrow life.
“You look like you're carrying the weight of the world.”
“I just shoulder my share,” Gamble said, thinking he may have to reach for the shotgun. But the man standing near the table was unarmed and wore the dusty clothes of a working man. He was about thirty and had keen eyes that seemed to drink the world in.
“Sit down,” Gamble said.
The man sat down. The bartender brought another glass.
“Thanks, Dave.”
“You bet, Gene.”
“You from these parts?” Gamble asked, as he poured the water.
“I wasn't born here, if that's what you're asking,” the man said. “But been here for a spell now. Born in Nebraska, came here by way of Kansas, with my folks.”
“You a cowboy?”
“Punched some cows on the Bar Cross,” he said. “Pretty fair stone mason. Helped build the road from here to Tularosa. Don't know what I am, now. Leaving for New York soon.”
“For God's sake, why?”
“Getting married,” Gene said. “Wonderful girl. But she doesn't love this country like I do. Maybe I'll come back some day. Maybe not.
Quién sabe?”
“Lonely will drive a man to do strange things.”
Gene smiled.
“You don't speak like a working man,” Gamble said.
“I've had just enough learning to ruin an honest man,” Gene said. “And it's made me want to write. Ever know anybody who made their living writing? Me, neither. But I want to write, to capture the way this country looks and feels and how men talk when they think nobody's listening.”
Gamble shook his head.
“That's a tall order,” he said. “Maybe you should warm up on dime novels first. You can think of fifty ways to describe the same gunfight, can't you?”
Gene laughed.
“None of the cowboys I know have ever fired their guns in anger,” he said. “You remind me, stranger, of somebody I met a few years backâa man who showed up at my ranch, going by the name of Hawkins, always looking over his shoulder. He liked it here, said he wanted to come back with his wife and baby boy.”
“So what was his real name?'
“I think he was Bill Doolin, escaped from the federal jail at Guthrie. When he left here, he rode back to Oklahoma Territoryâstraight to his death.”
“Heard about that,” Gamble said.
“You have the same look about the eyes.”
“Are you saying thatâ”
“Not saying a thing, friend. We mind our own business here in the Tularosa basin, not that of our neighbor, as long as it doesn't pinch us anywhere tender. And Mister Hawkins was a friend of mine, so the only tender place it pinches me is that he's gone.”
Gamble nodded.
“Tell me about the country to the south and west of here.”
“It's extra special rough.”
“It couldn't be anything less,” Gamble said. “Also, does an elephant mean anything to you? As in a place name or a geographic feature orâ”
“Yes,” Gene said. “There's Elephant Butte, about twelve miles from here on the Rio Grande. Named for a huge outcropping that's in the shape of an elephant. There a ferry across the Rio Grande thereâone of the only places to cross, in fact, for many miles.”
“That's it,” Gamble said. “I'm obliged.”
“You must be planning some silver prospecting, if you're asking about crossing the Rio Grande at Elephant Butte,” Gene said. “Good luck. I tried my hand at prospecting, but went bust. The story of me and money is a sad one.”
“Not everybody can be a Hearst.”
“Or wants to be.”
Gamble laughed.
“It's about time for me to get moving, Gene. I have supplies to gather.”
“Go to Walton's, across the street. Tell them I sent you. They'll give you a fair deal. Make sure you buy some warm clothesâit's hotter than hell now, but it gets cold at night, especially when you get above six thousand feet.”
Gamble nodded.
“Really think Bill Doolin hid out on your spread?”
“I do.”
“So you think his mistake was in going back to Oklahoma Territory?”
“No,” Gene said. “I think his mistake was in taking up bank robbery as a profession.”
T
WENTY-ONE
That night, Gamble bedded down outside of town, on a little flat spot with a juniper tree. He lay on his back beneath a blanket and a rubber tarp, a few yards from the lingering embers of a fire he had made for frying bacon and boiling coffee for his supper.
Lightning flickered in the San Andres, and thunder shook the Tularosa basin. The rain started slowly, in big drops that splattered into the white sand and made the dying fire hiss and gush smoke. Then it began to rain in earnest.
Gamble sat up, holding the rubber tarp over his head.
Laughter came from the other side of the fire, where the ghost of his father sat on a rock, a bony finger pointing at him.
“Sonuvabitch,” Gamble muttered.
The skeletal jaw opened and closed.
“What do you want?” Gamble asked.
“Speak, I charge thee, speak!”
The ghost gathered its crutch and stood, but remained silent.
“Not even for Shakespeare?”
Lightning arced overhead and the ground trembled. While the bolt flashed, the ghost became invisible, but took form again with the darkness.
“I am becoming weary of this madness,” Gamble said. “It has become monotonous. For some reason, I had thought insanity would involve more variety. I am ashamed to have a father that has made such a dull shade.”
The ghost shook with fury.
“Speak, damn you!”
The ghost lurched forward, the crutch knocking sparks from the fire. Gamble immediately regretted having cursed the thing, even if it was a thing of his own imagination.
It drew close to him.
Pausing less then a foot away, the ghost leaned down and peered into Gamble's face. The rain beat upon the stony white cranium and pooled in the eye sockets. The jaw dropped and rested limply upon the breast of the ragged butternut jacket.
Gamble threw off the tarp and blanket and stood.
“It has been thirty-seven years since I last laid eyes on the living you,” Gamble said. “What offense have I committed that has summoned you from the grave? What commandment did I break that has interrupted your slumber? It cannot be murder, for I have killed since I was but little more than a child. It cannot be adultery, for I have long made fornication a science. Stealing? Ha! I have made my living by theft. Armed robbery is a specialty. About the only thing I will not do is bear false witness or deny God although the old bastard makes me mad enough to spit!”
Lightning struck the juniper tree. The blast knocked Gamble to the ground, unconscious, and sent a geyser of sparks into the air. When he came around, it had stopped raining. The ghost was gone.