Private Dicks (25 page)

"I'll answer, but you'll have used up one of your questions."

The Gentleman laughed. "You're a born bandit, kid. Go ahead."

"It sounds made up. It's a nickname, right? No one really names their kid 'Gentleman.'" The Gentleman nudged a log on the fire with his boot. One side of his mouth turned down in consideration as he rubbed a finger under his nose, brushing at his mustache. Elliot's expression turned somber. He looked away from the Gentleman to watch the fire dance along the moved log. "I told you my name."

"But I don't use it in front of the others, you've noticed."

"I won't use yours, neither."

The Gentleman sighed, and then he checked to see that Wilton and McCoy were asleep as best he could tell. Wilton was so beat, he didn't so much as move to draw breath, and all the while McCoy snored on. "Laurence," he said. "My real name's Laurence. I'm not sure where all this 'Gentleman' nonsense ever got started. And my last name's not Blankenship; it's Collins. But I am from Virginia originally. So at least that part's correct." He grinned, suddenly overtaken by mischief. He nudged Elliot with his elbow. "And since you said I used up one of my questions—"

"Why'd you leave Virginia?" Elliot asked, still watching the fire.

"I dunno. Same reason anyone leaves home, I 'spect. I wanted something different. Why'd you leave home?"

"I didn't have any choice."

"Oh …" If the Gentleman could have kicked himself, he would have—spurs on and all. "'m sorry to hear that."

"S'okay." Elliot looked at him once more, a subtle, light hearted change coming over his tone. "How old are you?"

The Gentleman snorted. "Boy, you're gettin' personal tonight." He leaned forward, casting his glance about camp nervously just as before. He answered, "I am thirty-two. Which I know sounds old, but …" He met Elliot's gaze. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

The Gentleman snorted to himself. "Maybe it is old."

"D'you really do all the things people say you've done?"

"Like what?"

"Like kill three men with the same bullet and things like that?"

"I'd say …" He skewed his face, tilting it to the side while he looked to the sky, as though he were giving the question much thought. "… About a third of the things people claim the Virginia Gentleman has done are true."

"That's not bad."

"It's not bad, but it ain't good either. What about you? What do you do, Elliot?"

"Whatever I'm told to do, I guess."

"So, you're more of a hired hand than a partner in yours and McCoy's arrangement?"

"I guess." Elliot showed no emotion at the mention of McCoy. The Gentleman was almost disappointed.

"Not much of an occupation if you ask m—"

"You ever think about going back home?" Elliot cut him off. "Back to Virginia?"

The Gentleman leaned back against the rock and crossed his arms over his chest, a tired expression molding his features. "Oh, sometimes. My folks are still back there. I guess I owe it to them to pay them a visit every ten years or so. It'd be sorta hard to do my work from there, though. Suppose I could always switch professions."

Elliot joined him in leaning against the rock, resting his head ever so lightly on the Gentleman's shoulder. "No trains to rob?"

The Gentleman laughed, keeping his wits about him enough not to let it grow too loud. "That's right, no trains to rob. Plenty of people that need killin', but no trains to rob." He cast a cautious glance down at Elliot where he rested his head on his shoulder. Elliot had the slightest grin on his face while he stared into the fire. "Where's home for you?"

"St. Louis."

"Ol' St. Louie. I know that city very well."

"Oh yeah?" Elliot looked up, catching him watching.

"Mm-hmm."

Elliot sat up to face him fully, a small thrill of excitement lighting his features in the fireside glow. "We used to live in Lafayette Square. You know where that is?"

The Gentleman smiled. "I do indeed."

Elliot's smile faltered suddenly, and he laid back on the rock, his head resting fully on the Gentleman's shoulder. "That was a long time ago …" Wrapping the duster more tightly around himself and inching closer to the Gentleman, he asked lazily, "Can I sleep here?"

"Might as well." He felt Elliot's breathing begin to slow as he curled up against him. Fearing he'd not have another chance to ask, the Gentleman whispered, "Why doesn't McCoy like me?"

"He doesn't like anyone," Elliot mumbled through the collar of the duster.

"'Specially anyone who pays attention to you?"

"I dunno."

The Gentleman tilted his head to the side to rest lightly on top of Elliot's for a moment. "Long as I'm around, I won't let him do anything. You hear me?" Elliot gave a very faint "mm-hmm" in recognition. The Gentleman righted his head and pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes once more. When he slid down against the rock to give his back a more comfortable posture, Elliot's head came up to rest by his own. "G'night, Elliot."

"Night, Laurence," he mumbled softly.

Come morning, the Gentleman found himself once more covered by his duster with Elliot faithfully by McCoy's side.

*~*~*

By the Gentleman's calculations, another five miles or so and they'd be to their destination. Thank God. "Hey, McCoy," he drawled, calling back through their small riding party.

"What?"

The Gentleman looked over his shoulder at McCoy where he rode beside Wilton, his gargantuan height making Wilton look like a well-dressed child out for a ride on his prized pony. "What is your favorite thing in the entire world to eat?"

McCoy balked. "Why you wanna know?"

"Honestly?" The Gentleman frowned and turned back in his saddle to stare forlornly again at the trail ahead of them. "I don't. But you and Wil here are apparently incapable of starting conversations on your own, and I'm getting tired of listening to nothing but horse hooves."

"Hmph."

The Gentleman sighed, his attempt at dialog having died a swift death. He lifted his hat to scratch at his head. "Well, what about you, Wil?"

"Oh, well, I, uh—" Wilton scrambled, nearly dropping the pencil and paper he'd been using to scratch out a sloppily written note, using his saddle horn for a desk. He tucked them both back into his breast pocket for safe keeping. He cleared his throat authoritatively. "Mr. Blankenship, err, Gentleman, sir? I was wondering, once we've, well, once we've done what we're setting out to do up in Laurel and all that, how long do you think it will be before we can head back to what we were doing before all of this?"

Unseen to the others, the Gentleman cocked an eyebrow. "Wha'd'ya mean?"

"Well, I have this girl back home that I correspond with—I've not breathed a word of what we're doing to her, on my heart I haven't!" Good ol' Wil, the Gentleman thought. "I was simply wondering when to tell her to expect me home."

"I guess that all depends, Wil."

"Depends? Depends on what, sir?"

The Gentleman spun around in his saddle, resting one hand on his mare's dappled gray hindquarters, to look at Wilton once more. "On whether we get caught on our way home, as you put it."

Wilton tensed. "Well, surely … Surely we won't be caught. I mean, you've done this before, right?" He looked around nervously as if hoping someone would chime in with a differing opinion. McCoy and Elliot remained mute.

"That's the thing about outlawin', Wil. Eventually, everybody gets caught. And when that happens, you're either shot or hanged." The Gentleman pulled his three lower fingers into his palm to make a finger pistol. He pointed it at Wilton, firing once before turning back in his saddle. "Me? I'm kinda hopin' I get shot. Anything but havin' that rope strangle you. Ain't no way for a man t' go."

"I see …" Wilton's hand went instinctively for his breast pocket, lingering there.

"How 'bout you, McCoy?" the Gentleman called over his shoulder. "Which would you rather? Shootin' or hangin'?"

"Hangin'," McCoy answered plainly, his voice ringing out through the surrounding mountainsides like cannon fire.

"Really? Why?"

McCoy grinned. It was a lopsided, evil-looking expression that made Elliot and Wilton cower, however unintentionally. "Always a chance a big ol' boy like me'll break the rope."

The Gentleman laughed, a hearty, ringing belly laugh that didn't fully dissipate until they'd reached their final destination in Laurel. He was still chuckling to himself as he dismounted on the wide small-town streets early that afternoon. "'Hangin',' he says. Ha." He motioned for the others to dismount as well. "C'mon down, boys; rest your horses a bit. We're here." No sooner had the others' boots hit the ground than the Gentleman started in with the next phase of their plan. "McCoy, you and your boy can wait here with the horses. Wil, you're gonna buy our tickets for us. You're the most respectable lookin' of the bunch."

Wilton touched at his coffee-stained collar. "Oh, uh, thank you, sir."

The Gentleman fished in his pockets for a few folded bills, handing them to Wilton with a cautious eye. "But I'm gonna go with you, just to make sure everything's going smooth." The Gentleman tugged on the edges of his duster, making sure his pistols were covered. "We've come too far for somethin' to go wrong now."

The depot in Laurel was small compared to its sister stations in Livingston and Billings, but seeing as it served far fewer passengers, it needn't be as large. The only reason it was more than a ticket booth was because the small building also housed the town's post office. "Convenient," Wilton commented as they entered, noting the wall of ornately decorated mail boxes. The Gentleman put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm Wilton's pent-up case of nervousness, but the gesture only seemed to intensify it. "Easy, Wil. Easy."

The station agent, an elderly gentleman of considerable beard but not much else, approached the counter as they entered. "Good day, gentleman. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, yes, I, um," Wilton took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. The Gentleman thought to intervene, but then he spied a piece of paper and pencil on the counter. He picked up the paper, holding it at arm's length and squinting his eyes. Wilton cleared his throat and began again. "I, uh, I need two tickets for tomorrow's train to—into Livingston if you please … please."

"This your telegram paper?" the Gentleman asked, waving the slip of paper in the air.

Taking his attention from poor stammering Wilton for a moment, the station agent looked up at the Gentleman. "It is indeed, sir."

"Can't see a damned thing up close without my glasses," the Gentleman admitted conversationally, doing his best to stall for Wilton and his scattered thoughts.

"I'm the same way, sir, the same way." Bringing his attention back to Wilton, the station agent asked, "Two for Livingston you say?"

While the station agent and Wilton completed their business, the Gentleman picked up a pencil and began scribbling a quick note. He cupped the paper in his hand, writing against his palm. Twice he scratched out what he'd written and started again before finally perfecting his short message.

Taking his tickets from the agent, a thought occurred to Wilton. "Oh!" He fished a carefully folded letter from his breast pocket, offering it to the station agent. "I also have a letter here I wanted to mail if it's not too much trouble."

"What're you mailin', Wil?" the Gentleman asked.

Wilton flushed. "Just a letter. I penned it last night before we bedded down."

"No trouble at all, no trouble at all," the station agent cum postmaster said. He took the letter and pulled a small pair of glasses from his breast pocket to read its destination. "Says here it's bound for St. Louis?"

"That's right."

"That'll be two cents." Wilton held up his coins and offered them to the station agent, who took the change and pulled out a drawer behind the counter to find a stamp for Wilton's precious letter. "I thank you," the agent said.

"No, thank you." Wilton turned to leave, relief apparent on his face as he waited for the Gentleman at the door. The Gentleman waved him on with a smile.

"Be there in a minute, Wil. Got my own little piece of business to attend to." As Wilton stepped outside, the Gentleman turned back to the station agent, offering him a folded telegram sheet. "Would you mind sending this just as soon as you're physically able?"

The agent took the sheet and unfolded it, a ten dollar bill lying over the message. He lifted the bill and, taking his glasses once more from his pocket, scanned the message that had been covered beneath. His mouth dropped open, and he looked up at the Gentleman with wide eyes.

The Gentleman smiled, tipped his hat, and headed for the door. "Much obliged, sir." Wilton was waiting for him on the depot steps. Like a dog, the Gentleman thought to himself. He smiled at him and clapped an arm around his shoulders. "Who you mailing letters to, Wil?"

Wilton flushed, his cheeks turning pink as if they were sunburnt. "My fiancée, Anna. The girl I told you about? Her father says I won't be able to support her. Ha! Boy, is he wrong! After tomorrow, I'll be able to buy her anything she wants! Isn't that right?"

The Gentleman patted Wilton's back. "Oh, you'll be living in a big house before long, that's for sure."

"I've got her photo right here if you'd like to see her." He took the photo card from his breast pocket, holding it up with pride. A girl with dark, ringlet hair stared off to the right side of the photo with a soft, angelic glow around her. The Gentleman had to admit she was beautiful: plump with very rounded features, almost cherub-like.

"That your girl?" he asked in wonderment.

"Oh, yes. That's my Anna."

"She's a looker, Wilton. What're you doin' ridin' with us when you've got somethin' like that waitin' on you at home?"

Wilton laughed nervously.

Making their way back to the hitching post where they'd left McCoy and his boy, they found them arguing in hushed tones. Or, more accurately, McCoy spoke in an agitated, harsh whisper while Elliot made the occasional one- or two-syllable reply, short sounds that fell on deaf ears. McCoy turned to the Gentleman as he came back into view, spat tobacco at his feet, and slowly drawled, "I still don't see why you ain't ridin' the train, too."