The Case of the Petrified Man (30 page)

EVEN THOUGH IT WAS SUNDAY,
the Quartz Stamp Mills were pounding out their song & the hoisting works were sending up clouds of steam from their tall chimneys. The mine whistles started to go off. It was noon.

My acidulated drop had almost dissolved when Rev. C.V. Anthony finally came up to me.

“Ready for our excursion?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I decided not to tell him I had briefly suspected him of murder.

“Good. My wife is picnicking with some lady friends. We will have our own picnic.”

Ten minutes later I was sitting beside him at the front of a buckboard pulled by a big roan & a gray and we were clipping south along D Street. The road climbed up to merge with C Street and soon we were going over the Divide. It is a kind of hump on the mountainside that separates Virginia from the village of Gold Hill. The Reverend had been talking about the weather & such things but now he grew silent. The road went sharply down now—steep & winding—and I reckoned he wanted to concentrate on his driving. He slowed down to pay a coin at the Toll House and immediately after that we passed between the towering & demonic rocks called Devil’s Gate.

We continued down the winding canyon road through Silver City & we saw the stage from Carson City letting off passengers in front of the hotel. I thought we might catch up with Zoe Brown and Martha but we didn’t. I guessed they were making good time towards Frisco.

After Silver City, we forked left onto that nice new toll road. It was smooth as silk but as twisty as a snake. It was a hot afternoon, almost like summer, only the Cottonwood trees were golden and trembling, which told you it was autumn. We had both taken off our coats and sat there in just our shirtsleeves with the breeze on our faces & the smell of horse & sage & the taste of dust in our mouths.

When we finally reached the flat, straight part of the road, the Reverend breathed a sigh & said, “There is a picnic basket behind you with some ham sandwiches and bottles of lemonade. Why don’t you bring them out?”

I did so & he looped the reins around his left wrist & we sat eating the ham sandwiches & drinking lemonade as the buckboard clopped south.

We finished our sandwiches & lemonade just as Dayton hove into view. The Reverend picked up the reins & guided the buggy through the town & past the Toll House & across the bridge over the Carson River.

“Tell me,” said Rev. C.V. Anthony, “about Absalom Smith.”

I said, “His real name was Deforrest Robards. He liked the idea of being a soldier so he gathered together a band of volunteers from among his friends. He became a Confederate Lieutenant. But when he faced the enemy at Shiloh, he froze with terror and then fled, causing a rout of his men and great loss of life. He came here and adopted the false name of Absalom Smith.”

“Absalom,” said the Reverend. “Perhaps the most heroic coward in the Good Book. ‘O Absalom, my son, my son!’” he quoted.

I said, “He went to Topliffe’s Theatre on Friday afternoon and they asked him to stand in for Mr. Woodhull, who was ill that evening. Sally knew Robards from Mobile, Alabama. She happened to be at Topliffe’s that night. When she saw him, she went to greet him. He had to finish the show but he arranged to meet her later down at her crib. Short Sally loved a brave man but despised a coward. Also, she had a tongue as sharp as an acidulated drop. I reckon he told her what happened, but instead of consoling him, she taunted him. Martha heard her shout ‘Flicker, flicker. Yellowhammer!’
That was about the worst thing Short Sally could have said. Deforrest Robards went crazy and throttled her.”

“War is a terrible thing,” said the Reverend. “It drives some men crazy.”

I said, “I should have guessed sooner that he was the killer. He must have followed Martha to my office and used the duel between Farner Peel and Murphy as an opportunity to try to break in. But the door held, so he followed me and struck up a conversation with me in the Fashion Saloon.”

“You frequent the Fashion Saloon?”

“Sometimes,” I said, and hurried on with my account. “Anyway, Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Robards, froze when El Dorado Johnny challenged him. If I knew how to read people better I’d have known he was petrified with fear.”

“You witnessed a gun duel in a saloon?”

“Not that time. Absalom Smith left, but when I went out back to talk to someone, I think he must have been in the other privy. If I was better at conundrums I would have known that.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Just before Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Robards, left the Fashion Saloon that day, he posed me a conundrum. He asked me what the difference was between roast beef and pea soup. Before we could answer, he said, ‘Anyone can roast beef.’”

The Reverend frowned for a moment, then chuckled. “But not everyone can
pee soup
!”

“Correct,” said I. “If I was smarter, I would have known he was going to the privy just like Poker—my friend. The
murderer himself was sitting less than a foot away as I discussed my plan to investigate his Crime.” I shook my head, amazed at my own stupidity.

“Ironic,” said the Reverend.

I was not sure what “ironic” meant but it sounded good so I nodded & continued my account. “I first realized that Absalom Smith was Robards the Killer when I sniffed his tobacco at Sal’s crib. I remembered he carried a Confederate revolver. That was also a clew confirming that he was Deforrest Robards, the petrified Lieutenant of Shiloh.”

“Brilliant,” said the Rev. “Quite brilliant.” And to the horses, “Gee up there!”

Another quarter hour’s trotting brought us to the tiny hamlet of Temperance out in the hot, sagebrush-dotted desert.

It was the first time I had been back since my foster parents were scalped & murdered there.

THE REVEREND HAD GOT
a key to my family’s cabin from somewhere & he opened the door of the cabin & went in first.

I followed him in. It smelled stale in there but I caught a faint whiff of Bay Rum Tonic & blood.

I tried not to look at the stain on the bare wood floor. I guess they had burned the rug Ma Evangeline loved so much. She had made it from scraps of old calico braided together and then sewed in a big spiral like a squished but colorful snake. It made the place seem bright & cozy. Without that rug, the cabin seemed sad & bare. There were already some cobwebs up on the ceiling near the beam where I had cowered less than two weeks ago.

Someone had packed up the china & cooking things & bedding into wooden tea chests. In one chest were Ma Evangeline’s books; I saw the Bible,
Bleak House
& Worcester’s Elementary Dictionary lying on top.

“What is this?” The Rev. C.V. Anthony was holding up a flat wooden case with a glass top.

“That is my Bug Collection,” I said. “I also have a Button Collection. I like collecting things,” I added. “Ma Evangeline said it was one of my Eccentricities.”

“Do you want to keep your bed?” said the Reverend, gesturing towards the smaller of the two beds.

“No,” I said. “It is too big for my back room. Mr. Bloomfield left me a camp cot and I can sleep on that.”

“As you wish,” he said. “What about the cabin and the remaining furniture therein? Do you want to keep it or sell it?”

“Sell it,” I said. “I will never come back here. If you get any money for it then put it towards the cost of my foster parents’ burial, which you paid for. Anything left over can go in the church collection box.”

“That is very Christian of you, P.K.,” said the Reverend. “You are storing up treasure in heaven.”

I nodded to myself. I had donated about $100 of my own funds to help Martha but my share of the reward for Extra Dub had been twice that, for they had doubled his reward money to $400 since his first escape. You cannot outgive God.

We carried the tea chests out of the cabin & put them in the back of the buckboard. I also took my school shoes, a few extra cups, a pitcher & washbasin and a dustpan & broom. But
we left the big bed & the small bed & the dresser & the table & chairs & the potbelly stove.

We climbed back up into the buckboard & the Reverend flicked the horses with his whip & we drove back along the dusty desert road & crossed the Carson River & paid the toll & took a left fork at Main Street of Dayton & drove up to the graveyard.

The Rev. C.V. Anthony left the horses by a water trough as there was no shade anywhere. I had never been here before, so I let him lead the way through the dusty gravestones. By the time we stopped in front of one, my throat felt tight and my vision was blurry. I knew it was the grave of Ma and Pa Jones, who had been kind to me & had taken me in & loved me & had died on account of me. The chorus of that song “Kiss Me Good Night, Mother” was going through my head:

I blinked & my vision cleared & I was able to read the inscription on the stone:

I swallowed hard & took a deep breath & let it out slow. Their race was done & they had gained the Victor’s Crown.

I looked around at the barren graveyard on the hill and the sage-dotted mountains around and the blue sky above.

I took another deep breath.

“P.K.?” said the Reverend C.V. Anthony, who stood beside me still.

“Yes, sir?” I replied.

He said, “My wife and I have had a talk. We do not think it right that a twelve-year-old child such as yourself should live alone in a former tobacco store and frequent saloons and pursue such a dangerous occupation as being a Detective. We think you should be fed, clothed, educated in school and also protected.”

I did not know what to say, so I kept my eyes fixed on the tombstone & said nothing.

“We intend to start a family soon but we would like you to live with us.”

I looked up at him in surprise.

He smiled down at me. “And if it happens that you do not want to live with another Methodist preacher, Doc Pinkerton and his wife said they would be pleased to take you in, too. Tom says you have the makings of a fine doctor. He told me that you are adept, inquisitive and not at all squeamish. So, you see, you have two families vying for you. Which will it be?”

I looked back at the epitaph on my foster parents’ tombstone.

Nobody could ever replace Pa Emmet or Ma Evangeline in my affections.

Also, I must confess I like being Boss of Myself. I can
frequent as many Saloons & Music Halls as I like. I can take my meals at the Colombo Restaurant & eat layer cake for breakfast every day, if I so desire. If I want new clothes or shoes, I can just mosey on down to Wells, Fargo & Co., withdraw a few $20 gold coins & buy myself a new outfit at Wasserman’s Emporium.

There was also the matter of a certain Secret I did not want anyone to discover.

I said, “I reckon I am fine where I am.”

I could see he was downcast by this reply, because he gave a quick nod & looked down & pressed his lips together.

I tried to explain myself in a way that might lift his spirits. “Your offer is very kind. Doc Pinkerton’s, too. But I have a Course to Run, just like Ma and Pa Jones. I guess being a Detective is my calling. God gave me a Thorn, but also Sufficient Grace. And He gave me some strange abilities that suit the profession. Where else could I have used my skill at identifying over one hundred types of smoking, chewing and leaf tobacco to bring a criminal to Justice and save the life of a frightened Eye Witness?”

“I admit you did well,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony. “You were inventive in your reasoning and brave in the execution of your plan. But your exploit almost got you killed.”

“This earth-life is temporary,” I said. “It is only a preparation for the next life, which is Eternal.”

“Amen,” said he. “But, P.K., are you not lonesome in that little room without anybody to tuck you up at night?”

I said, “No. I like living by myself and being my own boss. Besides, whenever I want people I can just go out my front
door and there is the whole World. Even if it is Satan’s Playground.”

“Bless my soul,” he said with a laugh, “you have almost convinced me. I believe you would make a mighty fine preacher. Or Lawyer.”

“No,” I said. “But one day I just might make a Good Detective.”

ambrotype
—an early form of photograph made directly on glass.

Antietam
—The bloodiest single day of the Civil War was a battle that took place near Antietam Creek and Sharpsburg, Maryland, on September 17 1862. More than 23,000 were killed, wounded or missing.

bail
—a sum of money deposited to allow a prisoner to go free until they can be tried in court or released. If the prisoner runs away, the money is forfeit.

caliber
—the diameter of balls and bullets measured in hundredths of an inch.

Celestial
—slang for Chinese, because the imperial court in China was known as the “celestial court.”