Journey into Violence Page 5

  “Mr. Lowery, you’re a grown man and may do as you please, but I wish you would reconsider. The gambling houses in this town are rough and dangerous places, and I wouldn’t want to see you come to harm.” Kate’s beautiful face brightened. “I know, we can order a deck of cards and play Loo. I’m told it’s all the rage of the British aristocracy.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that game.” Lowery looked anxious to leave.

  “Loo is very simple, really. The dealer deals each player five cards and he or she is given the opportunity to stay in or drop out. Any player who stays in takes a share of the pot for every trick he takes, but he must pay an amount equal to the whole pot if he fails to take any tricks.” Kate smiled. “Isn’t that a hoot?”

  “What are the stakes?” Lowery said.

  “Since we’re in Dodge and all feeling a little reckless, I think we can go as high as two pennies a trick,” Kate said.

  “Loo promises to be a sweet distraction for a future time, dear lady,” Lowery said. “But the poker table beckons and I must heed its siren call.”

  “Then do be careful, Mr. Lowery. Don’t stay up too late and do avoid the ladies of the night who are all too willing to part the unwary gentleman from his hard earned money.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Lowery said. “I’ve been in cow towns before.”

  “Want me to hold his hand, Kate?” Frank said.

  Kate said, “That will be quite unnecessary, Frank.”

  After Lowery left she stopped a waiter and ordered a pack of cards. “Now we’ll play Loo. And we’ll have more tea and some scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream. Isn’t that better than frequenting some hot, smelly saloon, Trace?” She smiled as the waiter returned. “Ah, and here are the cards at last. I’ll deal.”

  Outside, as the evening shaded into darkness, Dodge was ablaze with light—a glittering beacon in the darkness of the plains. The saloons, dance halls, and gambling dens were doing a roaring, boozy trade and somewhere close a drunken rooster took potshots at the rising moon.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hank Lowery chose the newly opened Top Hat Saloon, figuring his guise as an over-the-hill puncher would stand him in good stead with the high rollers. They’d peg him as just another hayseed to be fleeced.

  He had been around and had gambled on the riverboats and in some fancy places, but the Top Hat, still smelling of raw timber, impressed him as a pleasure palace where a man could commit every mortal sin in the book had he the time, money, and inclination.

  A large dance floor, a massive mahogany bar, and an elevated stage dominated the vast interior space and seemed designed to make a tall man feel small, as well as awed by the brass and red velvet splendor. A balcony shaped like a horseshoe was compartmentalized into small rooms closed by violet-colored curtains. Paintings of naked women in suggestive poses hung above each crib, advertising the varied pleasures to be had within. Tables and chairs surrounded the dance floor, each with its own small oil lamp, and from the timber ceiling, illuminating all, hung a great crystal chandelier.

  But it was the score of saloon girls who doubled as dance partners and waitresses that took Lowery, a man of some sophistication, aback. He found himself staring like a slack-jawed rube just off the farm at glorious girls who had obviously been chosen for their dazzling looks. They wore laced and buckled boned corsets in every color of the rainbow, gauzy little skirts that served no useful purpose, fishnet stockings with embroidered tops that came to mid-thigh, and high-heeled ankle boots. A tiny top hat dyed to match the color of the corset perched on each girl’s upswept curls, and their painted, scarlet mouths never ceased to smile.

  Lowery feared that surely their faces must hurt. He summed the place up by deciding that, depending on a man’s religious point of view, the Top Hat Saloon was either a heaven or a hell.

  In snowy white shirts and brocade vests, eight magnificent bartenders with slicked-down hair complete with kiss curls stood behind the bar jammed with patrons. They were mostly big-hatted Texas punchers, but also prosperous merchants in broadcloth, drummers of all kinds, cattle buyers, and the usual assortment of gamblers, goldbrick artists, dance hall loungers, and smart young men on the make.

  The man who caught Lowery’s attention stood at the end of the bar in the place of honor beside the serving hatch. He was very tall, close to seven feet. His shoulders were ax-handle wide and he had a broad powerful chest. He was dressed like a sporting gent in white linen trousers and a pearl gray frockcoat and like the saloon girls, he wore a top hat. The hat was full size and matched the gray of his coat. He had a wide, handsome face as stoical and watchful as that of a cigar store Indian, but there was a hint of bemusement about his wide, thick, and sensual mouth. It was as though he found the antics of his patrons droll and his restless green eyes moved constantly, seeing everything.

  Standing next to him was a man Lowery recognized from a back trail. Drugo Odell was the essence of evil condensed into a five-foot-five, hundred-and-twenty-pound frame. Odell was a killer for hire, a man who notched his fast guns, and as far as was known, he had no conscience. That the big man was his boss Lowery had no doubt.

  A five-piece orchestra walked on stage, settled themselves onto folding chairs, and launched into a lively version of “Poor Nellie from Cork.”

  Lowery looked around. His gaze settled on a table to the right of the stage where the stakes seemed to be high but not out of his reach, and he stepped in that direction.

  His way was blocked by a huge bouncer with a broken nose and an attitude. “We’ll have no loungers here. Show me your coin.”

  Lowery reached into his pocket and produced three gold eagles.

  The man nodded. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

  Classy place, Lowery thought.

  * * *

  After three hours of playing careful poker, Hank Lowery stepped away from the table fifty-three dollars richer and had made no enemies. When he bellied up to the bar and ordered a whiskey, he caught Drugo Odell watching him. He saw the little gunman’s eyes flicker with recognition but then dismiss him and slide away, leaving a snail track across Lowery’s face. Drugo had no interest in the man he’d met only once in passing down El Paso way. He wore a blue ditto suit with a high-button coat, a celluloid collar, a red and black striped tie, and a bowler hat. He disdained gun belts as cumbersome and uncomfortable, but Lowery knew he’d have a revolver about him someplace. Odell was bad news and a man to step around.

  A pretty brunette with huge brown eyes looked at Lowery like a startled fawn when he refused her offer to dance. “Would you like me to send over another girl more to your taste?” She wore a shiny black patent leather corset done up on both sides with a dozen silver buckles.

  Lowery said, “How long does it take you to get into that thing?”

  “A lot longer than it takes to get it off.”

  “It must be hot.”

  “You’d be surprised how many men like sweat.” She turned on her heel and left, her heels clacking like castanets on the wood floor.

  Lowery finished his drink and stepped outside into bustling Front Street. Reluctant to seek his bed, he decided to take a stroll around town and take in the sights. Dressed like any other cowboy, he attracted little attention as he made his way along the crowded boardwalk, stopping to read the banner hung between two posts in a vacant lot. Dodge was full of signs, advertising everything from dyspepsia pills to lawyers and land agents, but he figured this one was king of them all.

  GOLEM—THE AMAZING MECHANICAL MAN The Wonder of the Age

  He walks! He talks! He bows to the ladies!

  For 50 cents he’ll tell your fortune!

  A barker in a striped shirt, a bandana tied tightly around his thick neck, stood under the sign and yelled in the voice of God, “Come one, come all. Come no one at all! Returned to these shores after his triumphal tour entertaining the crowned heads of Europe and the pashas of the Orient, we present Golem, the amazing mechanical man.”


  A fair-sized crowd had gathered, but the barker picked out a young couple. The girl was plain and respectable, and her pale beau looked like an accounting clerk. “Come right up, young lady and gentleman, soon to be Mr. and Mrs., I’ll be bound.”

  That drew a laugh from the crowd and a couple ribald comments from its more inebriated members.

  Emboldened, the barker said, “Come, sir, don’t be shy. Introduce your ladylove to the amazing Golem, who kissed, not a three month ago, the hand of the Empress of China.”

  The clerk was shy, blushing, and bashful, but he led his equally coy girl into the lot to meet the Wonder of the Age.

  Golem stood about eight foot tall, an automaton made of steel, brass, and copper piping. His round head was large as a nail keg. Covered over with iron mesh, his red eyes, false nose, and O of a mouth gave the impression of a human face. His chest was large as a beer barrel and covered in copper pipes and brass valves, several leaking jets of steam. His arms and legs were of also of metal, somewhat patterned on the limbs of a suit of late medieval armor.

  The barker yelled, “And now, without any further ado, I present Professor Abraham Woodmancey, the creator of the mighty Golem and his master!”

  The growing crowd cheered apart from one whiskey-sodden rooster who eyed the blushing bride-to-be and shouted, “Do ’er!”

  Professor Woodmancey was a small man, wrinkled as an overripe pippin. He wore a long canvas coat, much oil stained, and a battered top hat with a pair of goggles parked above the brim. He bowed to the crowd and then placed his hand on the mechanical man’s back. “Bow to the ladies and gentlemen, Golem.”

  The automaton bowed stiffly and raised his top hat at the same time. This drew many huzzahs.

  When Golem straightened, the professor said, “Now say how-de-do to the pretty young lady.”

  In a tinny voice, the mechanical man said, “Hello young lady.”

  More cheering, except from the rooster who’d yelled, “Do ’er!”

  The barker said to the clerk, “I know you want to learn what fortune awaits you and the young lady. Cross my palm with silver. Fifty cents’ worth.”

  The young man, who looked as though getting his fortune had been the least of his intentions, nonetheless paid the money, a considerable sum for a lowly clerk.

  Professor Woodmancey placed his hand on Golem’s back. “Now, tell the nice couple their fortune, Golem.”

  “Happy marriage,” the mechanical man said.

  The girl blushed, the young man grinned, the crowd cheered, and the rooster yelled, “Do ’er!”

  Woodmancey escorted the clerk and his girl off the lot.

  The barker again turned his attention to the crowd. “Who will step right up and meet the Mechanical Man, the Wonder of the Age? Why, Golem just recently had tea with Queen Victoria and advised the Czar of Russia that there was a poisoner in his midst. Saved the Czar’s life, Golem did, and was awarded”—with considerable drama and flourish the barker waved a hand in the professor’s direction—“this!”

  Professor Woodmancey withdrew from his coat pocket a round medal the size of a clock dial and held it up to the crowd.

  The barker yelled, “Solid gold, encrusted with precious jewels, made for Golem by a famous French jeweler on the express orders of the Czar of all the Russias. Ladies and gentlemen, in his hand Professor Woodmancey holds a fortune, enough to buy the entire town of Dodge City with all its cattle and fine buildings. Now, who will step up and meet Golem, the hero of all the Russias? Perhaps he will order the professor to surrender his medal to one lucky member of the audience. In Golem’s world, stranger things have happened.”

  Hank Lowery suspected the medal was made of base metal and paste stones, but the mechanical man fascinated him, and he stayed to watch as a score of people happily paid their fifty cents to meet Golem and have him tell them their fortunes . . . if Good luck . . . More money . . . Happy home . . . or New romance could be considered fortunes.

  Lowery was about to move on when the barker spotted him and yelled, “Ah, there is one of the booted and spurred gentry come to visit our fair city. Cowboy, will you speak to Golem, the Wonder of the Age, and perhaps be able to call his coveted medal your own?”

  Lowery smiled and shook his head, but the crowd cheered him on until he finally relented.

  The mechanical man lifted his hat and said “Howdy” in a tone convincing enough to please the crowd.

  “Now our Texan friend would like to hear his fortune,” the barker said. “What great perils or pleasures await him on the trail to home? I’m sure he wishes to know.”

  The crowd gave a loud huzzah. Eager to get the thing over with, Lowery paid his fifty cents. He saw Professor Woodmancey put his hand on Golem’s back and was sure the man was manipulating the automaton’s speech and actions.

  “Now Golem, tell the handsome cowboy what lies on the long trail ahead,” the professor said.

  The mechanical man’s eyes glowed red and he rocked back and forth on his massive feet. A crackling sound came from his mouth and a blue spark flashed across his brass chest.

  “Tell the cowboy his fortune, Golem.” The professor sounded puzzled and irritated.

  Finally the automaton spoke . . . one word. “Death.”

  The crowd was shocked. A few of the woman shrank back in alarm and an angry man yelled, “Here, that won’t do!”

  “Death . . . death . . . death . . .” Golem said, his voice as hollow as a drum.

  Forcing a smile, the flustered barker yelled, “No, Golem, that’s not the cowboy’s fortune. Now tell him his real one.” He held up his hands. “Hold on, ladies and gentlemen. I think Golem was just having a little fun.”

  “He’s got a strange sense of humor,” the angry man said.

  “Death.” Golem gave a great sigh and collapsed in a heap with a sound like tin cans being thrown down a coal chute.

  Professor Woodmancey rushed to the front of the lot where the crowd was dispersing and threw up his hands. “Wait, wait. Ladies and gentlemen, this has never happened before.”

  “That was a mean trick to play on the cowboy,” a stiff-faced woman said. “He wasn’t doing you any harm.”

  “It wasn’t a trick! No trick,” the barker yelled, but he was talking to empty space. He turned, reached into his pocket, and withdrew several dollars. “Here, cowboy, take this. We didn’t try to trick you. Something happened to the machine.”

  “Breath. It said breath, not death. See, cowboy, Golem means that you’ll keep on drawing breaths for many, many years to come.” Then to the barker, Professor Woodmancey said, “Isn’t that so, Charlie?”

  “As sure as shootin’, that’s what he said all right. I heard breath as clear as day.”

  Hank Lowery grinned. “I don’t know why you boys are getting so worked up about a tin man and a cheap carnival trick. Professor, I think you pulled the wrong lever.”

  “That’s it,” Charlie said. “It was just the wrong lever.”

  “Thanks for returning my money.” Lowery’s grin widened as he shook his head. “You pair of crooks.”

  After Lowery walked away, Charlie said, “It was death all right.”

  Professor Woodmancey said, “Here, you don’t think Golem can really tell the future, do you?”

  “Damned if I know,” Charlie said. “Just don’t ask him to tell mine.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The night was warm and humid. Heat lightning flashed without sound in a starless sky as Hank Lowery walked along Front Street in the direction of the Drover’s Rest Hotel. The air smelled of penned-up cattle, horse dung, crowded, sweating humanity, and the ever-present odors of spilled beer, overused outhouses, and vomit. The boardwalks and streets were still thronged. For the cowboys and sporting crowd, the night was young and getting younger.

  His spurs chimed on the boardwalk as he walked closer to the hotel. After he passed the Bonnie Blue Pool & Dance Hall, the crush of people thinned and he found himself alone except for a drunk wearing
a dark suit and necktie who buttoned up his pants as he stepped out of an alley and then lurched across the street.

  The floor of the alley had been raised with dirt and then covered over with crushed rock, an attempt to prevent the mud of Front Street from entering when it rained. To the right stood the blank wall of a furniture warehouse and opposite it was a series of five shacks that shared adjoining walls. Lowery had been in enough cow towns to know those were the abodes of women who worked the line. They were too old, too plain, or too drunk or drugged to grace the saloons and dance halls. He’d been told that in San Francisco’s Barbary Coast the average life expectancy of the Chinese girls who worked the line was two years, and he didn’t think the white girls doing the same in Dodge would fare any better.

  Lowery was about to walk on when a woman’s piercing shriek knifed through the night, stopping him in his tracks. A moment later, another, just as loud, came from a girl down at one of the saloons. He recognized the difference. A drunk had probably grabbed the saloon girl as she’d sashayed by and she’d screamed. It often made a drunk feel good and was excellent for business. The first wasn’t that kind of scream. It was a strangled cry of terror and pain and it came from one of the line shacks.

  Instinctively, Hank Lowery’s hand dropped for his gun. Then he remembered . . . oiled and wrapped in sailcloth, it lay in the bunkhouse back at the Kerrigan ranch. And there it would remain.

  His boots crunched on gravel as he stepped slowly to the shacks. The first was dark. A dim oil lamp glowed in the second, but the third cabin’s door was ajar. He detected the odor of whiskey and cigar smoke coming from inside.

  “Anybody to home?” he called.

  Silence.

  A crowd of men roared in a nearby saloon. Above the din, a tinny piano and a banjo played “The Ballad of Jesse James,” a song that was all the rage in Dodge. From the second shack in the row a man grunted and an iron cot squealed.