The Case of the Petrified Man (15 page)

“Why do those bogus horses have names written on their sides?” I asked Major G.W. Topliffe.

He stopped tapping his walking stick in time to the music. “Why, they are the famous horses from the song. Flora Temple is the name of the ‘bobtail nag’ and Brown Jim is ‘the bay.’”

I stared at him.

In my mind, something slipped into place, like the missing letter in a typesetter’s tray.

“What is it?” he said. “Do you know who committed the crime?”

“No,” I replied, “but I think I know where the Eye Witness is hiding.”

Just to make sure my reasoning was logical, I opened my Detective Notebook, took out my pencil stub & wrote,

I HAD FINALLY FIGURED OUT
where Martha was hiding. All the clews had been there. But I had been too dull to put them together.

Martha was not hiding in a Bear Cave in a Forest 15 miles away.

Martha was hiding in a Livery Stable right here in Virginia.

And which one?

“The Flora Temple Livery Stable!” cried Major G.W. Topliffe, who had been looking over my shoulder. “That must be where your Eye Witness is hiding!”

I glanced around to see if anybody had heard his cry, but everyone seemed to be entranced by the music. I nodded & put my finger to my lips.

The Flora Temple Livery Stable was where Sally had kept a fine rig and a pair of white mares to pull it. It had been named in the Notice in this morning’s paper. Also, one of Gussie’s girls had mentioned it.

Martha had probably gone there with Short Sally from time to time, or at least heard of it. I knew Miss Sally had a pair of white mares. Perhaps Martha was fond of the horses and counted them among her friends.

During my week in Virginia City I must have gone past the Flora Temple Livery Stable a dozen times. It was just a block away from where I now stood.

I thanked the Major for his help & left Topliffe’s the same way I had come in.

The sun had sunk behind Mount Davidson about one hour before. The mountain’s shadow may fall like a coffin lid, but dusk lasts a fair time in Virginia City.

I hurried along to the west side of C Street near Sutton Avenue. Sure enough, there was the big sign saying
FLORA TEMPLE LIVERY STABLE
. It was hanging over big, wide-open stable doors.

As I headed for the entrance, I saw two stable hands standing there. I did not want to attract attention so I turned around & pretended to go back the way I had come, but secretly hid behind a barrel and waited till they turned to talk to a high-tone man and a woman. Then I snuck in.

Although it was dusk, nobody had lit any lamps in the stable so that it was dim & warm inside. I could smell horses & sweet hay & leather. I like horses & I like that smell.

Short Sally’s two white mares were right at the back in a corner stall. I could see their heads, like ghosts in the gloom.

As I made my way silently towards Sissy and Sassy, a soft nickering to my right brought me up short. I turned to see a mustang pony looking at me over the door of his stall. I went over and stroked his nose.

His hide was the exact color of my buckskin trowsers but his mane and eyes were as dark as chocolate. He reminded me of the ponies I had known in the Black Hills, so I greeted him in Lakota. I was surprised to see his ears prick forward. Had he once been an Indian pony?

As a test, I whispered, “Stand!” in Lakota. To my astonishment he reared up a little.

He came back down with a thud & gave a soft snort, as if to say, “See! I understand you perfectly.”

I stroked his neck and noticed that his coat was rough. He was well fed, but nobody had groomed him in a long time.

“Who is your rider, boy?” I said in Lakota.

He dipped his head & snorted sadly, as if to say, “My rider has not visited me in a long time.”

“I will come back and find out,” I said. “But right now I have to find a runaway girl. You don’t know if she is hiding around here, do you?”

The pony gave a soft snort & a nod & his ears pricked towards the corner stall, the stall of Sissy and Sassy. You can
tell where a horse is looking by the direction their ears are pointed.

“Thank you,” I said in Lakota.

He nuzzled my neck.

I do not like being touched by people. But I do not mind being touched by horses. His breath was sweet. I blew into his nostril, so he could get my scent, then I gave him one last stroke and went deeper into the gloom, to the stall in the corner.

Like the buckskin mustang, Sissy & Sassy had not been brushed in a while, but they were well fed. They had oats & a trough for water & plenty of hay piled up at the back.

I sniffed the air.

Sure enough, I thought I detected the scent of Martha’s ammonia, clove and lavender pomade.

I opened the door to the stall.

The mares nickered softly. I moved forward and stroked their necks & got to know them a little.

One of the mares kept turning her ears towards a pile of hay in the corner.

I went over to the pile of hay.

Most people would not suspect anyone could be hiding in there, but my keen sense of smell & the horses’ ears were powerful clews as to Martha’s whereabouts.

Sure enough, as I pulled some of the hay away, I found Martha all curled up like a wood louse in the straw. She was wearing her pale nightdress & night bonnet, but no coat or shawl. The light was so dim that had I not been looking, I would never have seen her.

“Martha?” I whispered. “Martha! Wake up!”

There was no reply. She was lying awful still.

“Martha?” I reached out to touch her shoulder, expecting to feel the cold chill of death. But she was not dead & cold. Beneath the thin cotton, she was burning with fever.

In his nearby stall, the mustang gave a whinny of alarm.

I peeped over Sissy & Sassy’s stall door & saw a hatless man in a cloak silhouetted against the square of pale dusk formed by the big open doors of the Livery Stable. As he looked left and right, I caught a glimpse of his profile.
He
was tall & slim with a billy goat beard
. Was it Short Sally’s Killer? Had he followed me?

If so, I had led him straight to Martha.

I QUICKLY TOSSED SOME HAY
over Martha and scrouched down behind the water trough. I had promised my foster ma Evangeline never to kill a man but that did not stop me getting out my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter. If that man came back into the stable and tried to hurt Martha, I would throw down on him.

I sat there on the straw-littered beaten-earth floor, with my back against the rough, wooden water trough so nobody passing by would see me. Then I listened as hard as I could.

I heard the cloaked man’s footsteps come closer and closer, pause, then hurry away as another pair
of footsteps came through a squeaky door at the back of the stables. I reckoned the second footsteps belonged to a stable boy; I heard him go into the next-door stall and lead out a horse. The cloaked man had already gone quickly back the way he had come.

A few minutes later it was quiet, with only the snuffling of horses and faint sound of a fiddle from a nearby saloon and the deep steady thumping of the Quartz Mill Stamps, a sound that never ceased in Virginia.

When I was sure the coast was clear, I went to Martha and uncovered her.

“Come on, Martha,” I whispered. “I think the Killer followed me here. I have got to get you to safety.”

She neither stirred nor moaned.

I gently slapped her cheek & pinched her arm, but I could not rouse her.

So I covered her up with straw again & quickly went out of the stall to look around.

At the back of the stables was a small wooden door. The stable boy had bolted it from inside. I unbolted it and it opened with a squeak. I looked out upon the steep mountainside & the backs of some buildings on B Street up above. It was getting dark now, but I could see a woodpile & a few privies & a big pile of horse manure.

That gave me an idea.

I went back in and pulled Martha out of her hay burrow.

I tried to get her to walk but she was as limp as a sack of turnips. So I eased her onto the ground & grabbed her wrists & dragged her out the stall door. There I saw a gunnysack
of feed that was almost empty. I took it & emptied it into a bucket & went to Martha & managed to cram her inside the bag. Then I dragged the bag with Martha in it across the hay-littered earthen floor of the stable & out the back door & up the slope to the far side of the manure pile. Standing back, I tried to see it with a Stranger’s eyes.

In the dusky light, it looked like an old rubbish sack behind the manure pile.

I thought, “She will be safe there for a while, until I can get her to a Safe Haven.”

Then I thought, “But where can I take her?”

Doc Pinkerton might help, but he was ten minutes away, even if I ran, and there was no guarantee he would be in.

Then I had an idea of someone soft-hearted & kind who might take Martha in. The only problem was that I might have to submit to a kiss.

I scrambled up the slope between a bath house & a saloon to B Street, and carefully crossed at a break in traffic & then went up the next part of the slope between buildings to A Street. I had come this way once before when I had been chased down the mountain by some boys from the dump of the Mexican Mine. There was no sign of them today and I was glad.

Five minutes later I reached a big wooden house up on A Street. It had a white picket fence & gate. Lights shining through the windows & the sound of someone practicing piano made it seem cozy and welcoming.

I was breathing hard from the speed of my ascent & the thin air, but also from anxiety. I opened the gate & went up
the path & mounted four steps & crossed the porch & knocked on the door.

The piano stopped and a moment later the door opened.

“Why, hello, P.K.,” said Bee Bloomfield. “What a pleasure it is to see you. We will soon sit down to dinner. Shall I ask my ma if you may join us?”

“That is a kind invitation, but I have a favor to ask of you. Can you step outside for a moment?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Are you finally going to give me that kiss?”

“Do not josh me,” I said. “This is important.”

“P.K.,” she said, “are you in
danger
?”

“I am not in danger, but my client is. She is a poor ex–slave girl about your age. Can you take her in? Can you protect and care for her?”

“Just let me ask Pa,” said Bee. She turned away and then turned back. “P.K.,” she said, “did you say she was an ex–slave girl? Is she a…Negro?”

“Yes,” I said. “She witnessed the murder of a Soiled Dove and now the Killer is after her.”

“Oh,” said Bee. She made no move to go, but hung her head and stared at her feet.

“Ain’t you going to ask your pa?” I said.

“I already know what he will say. He hates Negroes and he hates Soiled Doves. I am sorry, P.K., but we cannot help you.”

I gazed at her for a moment, then turned away.

There was no time for me to indulge in disappointment. I had to find someone to help Martha.

I went down the stairs & through the gate.

I heard a loud bell start clanging somewhere farther down the slope & at the same moment I smelled the smoke.

Bee was calling something after me and I thought I heard her father’s deep German-accented voice, too.

But I did not really hear what they were saying. I was staring at a thick plume of smoke, darker than the twilit sky, rising up from C Street below me. Even before I heard the frightened screams of the horses, I knew the building on fire was the Flora Temple Livery Stable.