The Two Devils (25 page)

To put things another way, I was finding myself in a quandary. I was getting to be a good enough barber I could actually make a living at it, certainly a living that was better than kitchen boy at some camp.

On the other hand, I had less time to ride Paul or give him much attention when working a full time job. So, I was finding myself approaching a crossroads in my life. However, the roads I cross in my life usually have their share of bumps in them.

I was strolling home from work one Thursday evening. I stopped by the shed. Paul was gone. Not only was he gone, but so was his saddle and even his barrel of oats. I ran around the neighborhood like a fool for an hour. Then I questioned everyone at the boarding house. No one had seen anything.

He was just gone. I reported it to a policeman with liquor on his breath. I did not leave that experience feeling particularly confident.

Paul, as I'd long since learned, could easily run off somewhere if he wanted. I'd given up tying him up almost since I'd had him. He went where he went. But, the idea that he'd just run off, complete with barrel of oats, just did not seem right.

A week went by. Those people around me started trying to sell me on this, but I was just not buying it. My horse was gone, and I wanted him back. The problem was, I had no clue of what had happened to him. No one had seen anything. No one knew anything.

Then, I took a look in the dresser drawer in my room. As a city slicker, I had not been carrying my gun to work. I wish I had. Then, at least, I would have noticed my horse was not the only thing missing. My prized revolver was gone as well. “Ah Puch!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

There was little point in trying to explain myself at the boarding house. They were not likely to even believe there was an Ah Puch, let alone that he was not really dead. I decided to set out and find a more sympathetic ear.

To my surprise, the United States Treasury actually had an office in San Francisco. I was also amazed there was a full-blown mint stamping out coins there as well. But my interests in the treasury were of a different nature. I found a second floor office that should have done the trick. It was listed in the building directory as Miscellaneous Services.

I opened the door and entered a small, dimly lit office with only person inside. “I'm Miles O'Malley,” I said.

The one employee—a small, squirrelly man—looked at me oddly, as if he was not used to having visitors. “Are you lost, Mr. O'Malley?"

"No, I think this is the right place."

"How so?” he asked. “This is more of an administrative office. The tours for the mint are handled downstairs."

"I have a matter more for the Secret Service,” I explained.

He stared at me oddly. “The Secret Service is based in Washington. They protect the president. As much as we certainly don't want another president assassinated, like Lincoln, that has nothing to do with us here."

"Then, I know I must be at the right place,” I said. “I'm urgently in need of getting word to a female Secret Service agent named Angel."

"Female agent? Preposterous. Mr. O'Malley, I think you're seriously misinformed. Maybe you had better be leaving now?” The employee looked down at his desk.

I started for the door.

"If there was such a person, what sort of message did you wish to convey?” he asked me without looking at me.

"Ah Puch stole my horse.” I opened the door.

"Good day, Mr. O'Malley."

"I live on..."

"We know where you live, Mr. O'Malley, or at least we probably do, if we had reason to be in touch with you."

Oddly, as I strutted down the shiny marble steps of the mint, I felt rather satisfied with that encounter. I went home.

The next day, I went to work. The day after that, I went to work. By week's end, my satisfaction was beginning to wear off. It was just about closing time when a buggy stopped in front of the barbershop.

"What have we here?” the Captain asked as he gazed out the window.

The door opened and Judge Wilbur Hastings of the United States District Court strolled inside. “Good day, gentlemen."

"Good day, your honor,” I replied. “Captain, this is Judge Hastings. He's the man who keeps having marshals arrest me."

"I see,” my employer said. “How do you do, sir?"

"Mr. O'Malley, I am in need of a haircut. I have a speech to give and wanted to look my best this evening,” the judge declared.

"Well, you should have the Captain do it if you want to look your best,” I said. “I mostly do the drunks and little kids."

He looked at me oddly, “Well, I was a little kid once.” He climbed up in the chair. “Couldn't hold still if my life depended on it. They'd see me coming and go out to lunch, even at nine in the morning.” He gave the Captain a look that sent him retreating to the back of the shop. “Mr. O'Malley, there may be something to your belief that common criminals are not responsible for your horse being stolen."

"I knew it."

"There are certain indications,” the judge continued, “that certain irregularities are being committed."

"Irregularities?"

"Irregularities,” he said. “I want to assure you, this is being looked into."

"I appreciate that, your honor,” I said. “I really do."

"Maybe, we might have some more information in a few days.” He stood from the chair. I'd never even touched his hair. “I must be off, now. Have a big speech to give."

"Good luck on your speech,” I said.

"Thank you, Mr. O'Malley. I'm sure it will go well.” He headed out the door and embarked to wherever he was going in the buggy.

I was beginning to understand them. They said volumes by saying nothing. At least someone besides me was concerned with what had become of my horse.

Then, my enthusiasm waned a bit. Two more days went by with no progress or action. I, once again, was on my day off and I, once again, did not have any horse to go riding with. I found myself out on the beach, a place Paul detested because of the sand and lack of anything to graze on—all without really knowing how I got there. As I sat there, tossing sticks into the surf, somebody plopped down beside me. It was Angel.

"Miles, there is no longer any investigation underway. The United States Government only investigates federal crimes. The only crime, that we can determine, is horse stealing, and that is not a federal offense.” She tossed a stick out into the surf. The waves soon brought it back to her. “I cannot even convince Judge Hastings that Ah Puch is still alive. The ship was sunk by the navy. There is no way he could have gotten out of the hold and escaped. He is underneath some very deep water."

"Only Ah Puch would go after my revolver. He thinks it's
his
gun,” I said. “And he thinks Paul is a super horse of some kind."

"He is a super horse of some kind,” she said.

"I know that. So,” I tossed out another stick, “I guess that's it."

"That's it,” she said. She tossed another stick and waited for it to flow back in. “Judge Hastings once sent you off into the wilderness on the ridiculous belief you would stumble on to them."

"I remember. And I did stumble on to them, as I recall."

"You certainly did,” she said. “Miles, that was hardly his idea. Someone at the Secret Service suggested it."

"Someone?"

"Someone,” she said. “And, there may be secret hideouts the Gray Army used that have not been found yet."

"Someone?” I asked.

"Someone once suggested you just wander off out there and you'll find them.” She tossed a stick. This one did not come back. “Oh, well.” She stood. “Tide must be changing. There have been Gray Army sites in California, Arizona and Nevada. To my knowledge, nowhere else."

"Nowhere else?"

"Nowhere else."

"I was kind of thinking of my days in Nevada, just before you got here,” I said.

"There's a train that leaves at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, from Oakland,” she said. “It goes to Reno, as I recall."

"I guess I'll have to take the ferry, then. Probably an early one.” I stood and dusted some of the sand off my trousers.

"Good night, Mr. O'Malley. Sleep well."

Before heading back in, I asked her, “How come you don't call me Miles?"

"I'm not comfortable with informality, Mr. O'Malley."

"Oh.” This was a woman who had once taken her clothes off and crawled in bed with me. This was a woman who had once lectured me that people need not be married in order to sleep together. But, she was not comfortable with informality. At moments like that, I began to think Paul might have been right about her. Still, she was the only person in the universe willing to buy into my theory about what had become of my horse.

As I marched along in the dark, while trying not to trip on any holes or driftwood, I found myself wondering why anybody would steal a horse and a revolver to transport it to Nevada. It would be far simpler to steal, or even purchase, either one over there. But, as cockeyed as this idea was, I would go to Nevada because the alternative of doing nothing was completely intolerable.

So, I managed a few hours sleep, then started on my journey. First, to the ferry to Oakland, then I managed to get some fellow to give me a ride on his bread wagon over to the train station. The people who build trains always want them to be completely independent of boats and such. I'll never understand why they will not put them in the same places for the convenience of passengers.

I bought a ticket, which just about cleaned out my finances, and found myself a window seat in the rear car. I'd only ridden on a train once before, when I'd first traveled out west. They hadn't changed any. The seats were still hard and uncomfortable. The washrooms—well, I lack the words to describe them.

The alternative of walking or taking a stage was the driving force for people using the railroads. One was awful, but the other was intolerable. Many Californians still called it the new railroad, even though it had been in place for a number of years. But, twenty minutes late, we were underway as the train lurched forward, and we started our journey eastward.

Just as the train jerked us forward, a woman sat down next to me. It was Angel, dressed very conservatively in a dark gray dress and matching hat. “Good morning, Mr. O'Malley. I nearly didn't make it."

"I didn't think the government investigated missing horses?"

"It doesn't, Mr. O'Malley.” She looked around our car for a moment. “Then again, it doesn't have women working in the field, either."

Gradually, our train picked up velocity and began to believe it might actually make it to our destination in my lifetime. We had to stop periodically to take on water and passengers. I remember Stockton and Sacramento. There were other, less populous, stations as well. As the hours rolled by, we gradually began our ascent up into the Sierra Nevada foothills, then the mountains themselves.

Angel had the habit of dozing off. This usually meant my shoulder was the preferred pillow for her. I didn't mind, and actually wished I could doze off. The rocking motion of the train bothered me. I knew I would get little rest until our destination, and perhaps not even then.

In the mountains, we would pass through stretches of covered railway and tunnels. I kept remembering I once entered the gates of hell by traveling inside such a tunnel.

So, we plodded along and into the night. I suppose, being able to arrive in another state early the next morning is a major achievement in the field of transportation. With stops for water and such, I figured we'd averaged about twenty miles per hour. Still, I was quite tired when the conductor announced Reno just as the sun was coming back up. And the train had not been robbed or even crashed into anything.

I started to suggest we look into an otel, then I remembered there apparently is no such thing, if assassins and shadow creatures are to be believed. Angel talked me into heading directly out into the sagebrush. She said we could camp out. So, we rented a wagon with two incredibly slow-moving horses and headed out into Nevada's scenic countryside.

We found a grove of tall trees bordering a small stream that was fed by Sierra snow runoff. This was a good find, as much of the standing water, I'd learned the last time I was in Nevada, was very alkaline.

As I stretched out next to my campfire, I realized things just did not seem right without my horse. “Where do we head tomorrow?” I asked Angel.

"I don't know, Mr. O'Malley. You know this terrain better than I.” Angel sat down next to me. “Where is he?"

"Well, there's a small mine I used to work.” I decided to leave out the kitchen boy part. “It's not all that far from here. As I see it, a mine would be a good place to store weapons and stuff and nobody would even notice."

"This land is so sparse they could have drills out in the open and nobody would notice,” she pointed out.

"True enough, but Ah Puch has to rebuild. He's not ready to take anyone on just yet."

She looked at me for a moment. “Not true, Mr. O'Malley. He's practically begging you to come and kill him."

"Ah Puch cannot be killed,” I pointed out. “He said so himself."

"Well, then you've got yourself a real problem.” She put her head on my shoulder. “If you ask me."

"I just want my horse back."

We reached the mine about noon. As Roy had already told me, the place was deserted. The only movement was a jackrabbit running out from behind the old outdoor stove.

There was nothing of interest. It was exactly what it should have been, an abandoned mine. Most of the Nevada gold was gone. A few outfits were finding life in silver production, but this mine was not one of them. Its inhabitants had long gone elsewhere in search of work.

I wondered about the lair I'd once stumbled into, and nearly died by a shadowy creature with no one. “We could work the tailings,” I said.

"What are tailings?” she asked.

"The leftovers from ore and dust. When a mine's played out, some folks come back and work through what's been discarded. Some men have gotten wealthy doing this.” I looked at her. “Guess not."

"Mr. O'Malley, there are plenty of ruffians and counterfeiters for me to tend to. I have little interest in mining,” Angel explained. “Where do you suggest we go next?"