The Great West Detective Agency (25 page)

By sunrise, he found himself wondering if Amanda had made off with the gold, then decided it wasn't possible. The tracks weren't what he'd expected from carrying out a great amount of gold. He yawned, sat behind the desk, and looked at the cigar box on his desk. Whatever had been inside had been taken. Small, not a million dollars if it had contained a few gold coins.

The sudden wind of the door opening startled him. He was sure he had locked it the night before. Good had his hand on the knob. Before Lucas could say a word, the Creek half turned, waited a moment, then closed the door.

Lucas heard the click-click of claws on the floor and then Tovarich jumped up and pinned him back in the chair to lick him.

“Down, boy. Down.” He pushed the wolfhound away and shouted for Good. The Indian had left. “I can't keep you. I don't want to keep you.” The dog barked once and dropped to the floor beside the desk, head on outstretched paws. Mournful, accusing eyes stared up at him. “I can't keep you around. I'm going to take what I can out of this place and—”

Lucas turned and clumsily banged into the cigar box with his elbow. His arm went numb because he had hit his funny bone. He rubbed circulation back, then reached for the box. It had been empty when he brought it here from the mountains. The weight now belied its being empty.

He flipped it open. Inside lay an oilskin-wrapped package. String had been tied around it, and then retied with big knots. He turned the box over and looked at it. Tovarich climbed to his feet and sniffed. He shoved the dog away and unwrapped a thick manuscript.

He held up the book so it caught a slanting ray of sun. In faded ink he read the title.
Wealth Beyond Imagining.
He carefully opened the cover and saw it had been written by Jefferson Davis during his two years of imprisonment by the Federals.

“No gold, just this?” He rocked back and stared at the memoir.

When Tovarich growled, he looked up, thinking Good had returned. Little Otto came in. The huge man stared down the dog, then marched over to the desk.

“I heard you had it.”

“It?”

“This.” Little Otto reached over, turned the book around, and began leafing through the pages. Only when he had examined each page of the manuscript did he look up. “How much?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is a valuable book. The only copy of Davis's memoir. Rumor has it he is writing another, but not mentioning his years in prison. How much would you sell this for?”

Lucas scratched his head.

“How did you know I had it?” Then he realized it was a silly question. Little Otto was the spider in the middle of the web. The slightest vibration along the strands communicated directly to him. Lucas changed the question. “How did I get the book?”

“Her. She's found a gold mine and isn't interested in such dross. I am.”

“Did you enjoy the Twain novel?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“For this?” Lucas put his hand on the book.

“It's one of a kind. I am working on its provenance. Men died smuggling it out of prison for Davis. It was lost when a courier died somewhere in Kansas on his way to New Orleans. I need to learn more of its route to our state.”

Lucas saw how those trying to recover the book would spin tales of how valuable it was. Even the title lent to the legend. Someone had mistaken the title for real gold, and another had built on that until the value grew to a million dollars. Boomtowns grew from a few lost souls to thousands in a week. The prattle over the book would cause those who wanted to believe to kill to retrieve it. Clifford and Dunbar had staked their lives on the booty being gold. So had Vera Zasulich. She had lost a brother and others before returning to her home country.

“She?”

“Three hundred,” Little Otto said.

“Sold,” Lucas said. To his surprise, Otto pulled out a thick wad of greenbacks and peeled off the money before showing a delicacy of touch surprising in one so large as he wrapped the book in the oilskin, placed the package in the cigar box, and then left.

“Tovarich, old friend,” he said, “I have a decent stake. Let the Northcotts collect the bill from the state as payment for their services. I can walk out of here and leave everything behind to—”

The door opened again. Lucas came to his feet. The woman was small, a face like Dresden china, ruddy cheeks, and lips meant to be kissed. Her eyes darted about before locking on his. He had never seen a lovelier woman.

“Can I help you?”

“Why, yes, I am looking for the office of the Great West Detective Agency.”

Lucas remembered his intent on walking away from the detective agency.

“Please, have a seat.”

“Oh, what a handsome dog. Such an intelligent look.” Tovarich let out a woof. “But then such a dog would be invaluable to a clever detective such as yourself.”

“You think I'm clever?” Lucas said. “You're in need of the services of a detective?”

“I am. A family heirloom has gone missing. A sword. It should take only a few days of your time to recover it. I would be grateful.” She batted her eyes. “I would be
very
grateful.”

“Tell me more,” Lucas Stanton said. How long could it take to find a missing sword? And the young lady would be
very
grateful.