Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The storm had passed, but far off lightning continued to sporadically brighten the sky to the east and south as Caleb and Zeke walked from Doc’s house across town.
Main Street was a mire a foot deep where the two men crossed it, but neither that nor the storm did anything to subdue the nightlife in town.
Raucous laughter, tinny piano music, and off-key singing came from the Belle Saloon.
Farther down Main Street, light and noise from the other saloons spilled out onto the wooden sidewalks, along with drunken miners, cowboys, and migrating homesteaders.
“I told him everything I knew about what happened at Doc’s house,” Zeke said as the two men approached the side street leading to the judge’s house, adding ironically, “He was about as happy as a long-tailed cat in room full of rocking chairs.”
Outside a brothel a few doors down from the jail, three men covered with mud from head to toe were staggering about in the street, slipping and sliding and putting on a display of the most ineffective fighting Elkhorn had surely ever seen.
A dozen fellows crowded the edge of the sidewalks, shouting taunts and encouragement.
Zeke did his best to ignore the whole affair.
With every step Caleb took, shooting pains fired inward from the stab wound, and a dull ache had spread into the rest of his body.
His face felt flushed and hot. Even so, the tangle of thoughts in his mind would not allow him to rest, in spite of Doc’s threats.
He had to see Patterson. He needed answers, and meeting with the judge was as good a starting place as any.
“You don’t mind me coming along. Do you?” Zeke asked.
“’Course not.”
“Wait till you see where his majesty lives.”
Two blocks south of Main Street, Judge Patterson’s house sat on the huge, elevated lot.
A wrought iron fence bordered the entire property, as far as Caleb could see.
The other houses around it, all in darkness now because of the hour, were large and ornate, but they were dwarfed in size and architectural style by the judge’s residence.
It was by far the largest and fanciest home in Elkhorn with its three stories, wrap-around verandas, scores of windows, steep slate roofs, cone-topped turrets, and a tower that probably offered a view all the way to Washington D.C.
“For a widower with no children that anyone knows of, that’s a whole passel of rooms, I reckon,” Zeke commented, eyeing the residence. “Don’t know what a man would do with himself in a place that big.”
Caleb said nothing, but he knew from seeing Patterson’s office on Main Street that the judge valued size. The bigger and richer looking, the better.
As they began to cross the street, the hackles on Caleb’s neck rose. He slipped the thongs from his twin Colts.
Before he and Zeke reached the other side, two men carrying shotguns emerged from the shadows.
One came from the large stone pillars flanking the front gate, and the other from behind a mature cottonwood tree near the corner.
Caleb scanned the darkness and sensed, more than saw, several more human shapes guarding the property.
The one by the front gate leveled his shotgun at them as they approached, but Zeke called out to him. Recognizing the sheriff, the gunman touched a hand to his brim, followed them to the gate, and resumed his watch.
“Looks like the judge is feeling a little nervous,” Caleb commented.
“Bunch of them hired on yesterday.” Zeke motioned to the departing guard. “His own little army.”
Their boots made loud clacking noises on the slate walkway between the front gate and a gravel drive that ran from the street to the stately entrance.
Stone columns supported the wide veranda roof, and lit lamps hung on the ones on either side of the stairs.
Lights appeared from quite a few windows.
When they mounted the steps, Caleb noted the presence of another guard with a coach gun lurking in the shadows of the veranda.
The amount of precaution was impressive, but whatever Patterson did or didn’t do to keep safe was none of Caleb’s concern. It didn’t involve him at all.
Before they reached the massive oak double doors, one of them swung open. Framed by the light of an entrance foyer, the hulking body of Patterson’s personal bodyguard appeared, blocking their way.
“I told you I’d be right back,” Zeke said as they scraped the mud from their boots. “Judge still in the library?”
Fredericks ignored him and smirked at Caleb.
“Heard you run into some knife trouble, Marlowe,” he squeaked. “Need some help cutting your meat at dinner?”
“Looks like the judge got an entire infantry regiment to help you do your job, Frissy. Got the cavalry waiting around back?”
The giant sneered. Caleb glared back.
“Frissy, the judge is waiting for us,” Zeke interjected.
The bodyguard grunted and backed into the foyer.
“One day, Marlowe,” he muttered as Caleb went past him. “You and me.”
“Looking forward to it, little fella.”
The entrance hall was wide and about a hundred feet high. Panels of gleaming wood bordered huge woven tapestries covered with lords and ladies, hunting dogs, horses, dragons, and several deer clearly taking their final breaths.
One of them had a mounted knight putting his lance into a giant snake, who didn’t look too happy to be giving up the fair-haired lady he had tied to a tree. Caleb wondered how that armless serpent was able to manage the tying-up part, but reckoned that wasn’t really the point.
A very stiff-looking limey butler eyed them with disdain he could barely conceal, took their hats and coats, and turned the garments over to a young black servant.
Both of them were wearing white gloves and the fanciest black suits he’d ever seen.
Zeke immediately unbuckled his gun belt and handed it over.
When Caleb declined, the butler looked at Frissy, who glowered and then nodded curtly.
The servant disappeared, and the Englishman led them into the house.
They crossed the polished marble floor, circled around a dark oak table with a vase big enough to take a bath in. That is, if it weren’t filled with a field’s worth of cut flowers. Above it hung a chandelier with gold branches extending out a half mile in every direction.
Zeke noticed him looking at it. “That thing come all the way from Boston,” he whispered reverently. “I hear Paul Revere hisself made it.”
Caleb recalled what Doc had said about Patterson’s ambitions and his character. The affluence on display here went far beyond a person who would be content to live and work in Elkhorn. Unless he thought of the town and this house as his kingdom and his castle.
For the moment, though, he needed to tuck those thoughts away and focus on why he was here.
Judge Patterson was waiting for them in his library. Half the books west of St. Louis were on shelves that covered almost every inch of wall space. He had to admit, it was pretty damn impressive.
An ornate marble fireplace filled a space between two alcoves of windows.
A small fire warmed the room, though the hearth could easily hold a fire large enough to heat a Badlands bawdy house in a blizzard.
A wide dark wood writing desk with a sloped top stood in a corner, near one of the alcoves, and an oak work table with four chairs sat under a brass chandelier.
Several clusters of heavy, comfortable-looking upholstered chairs were arranged around the room with small tables and lamps beside them.
The room was dominated by a large painting above the fireplace of Napoleon Bonaparte astride a handsome, rearing gray Arabian.
The stallion’s mane and tail looked like gold, waving in the wind.
The general’s cape was a brilliant scarlet color, and it billowed around him.
Napoleon’s arm was raised, and he was pointing at some mountain they needed to cross over.
“Marlowe, the sheriff tells me you were stabbed.”
The judge stood to one side of the fireplace as they came through the door. He was dressed in a fancy silk smoking jacket. To finish off his attire, he was wearing embroidered slippers and a matching Chinese cap with a tassel on top. The man definitely knew how to put on the dog.
“A scratch. That’s all.”
The blood stains on his trousers contradicted the statement, but he was standing on his own feet and had walked clear across town to get here.
“Have you had dinner?”
“Doc fed me.”
“A drink then.”
The judge didn’t wait for an answer. He walked to a cabinet in a corner and took out three tumblers. Filling them with brandy from an expensive-looking bottle, he carried all three back and handed them to Caleb and Zeke.
“So tell me.” The judge waved his glass in the general direction of the window. “The assassin sent to do the killing at Doc’s house. Will he live?”
Caleb looked at Zeke, waiting for him to answer.
“I believe so,” the sheriff said. “Doc sewed him up good.”
“Excellent. Move him to the jail tonight. I want two men guarding that cell around the clock. Do you hear me?”
Zeke nodded, then took a gulp of the brandy. He glanced at the door and then at Caleb. He looked like he was wondering if he should go and do that right this minute.
“Marlowe, you’re looking a bit peaked. Come and sit. You, too, Sheriff.”
They followed the judge to a trio of chairs by the fireplace. Caleb saw no point in being ornery. Sitting put pressure on the stitches on his side, but it was better than standing. Once settled, he took a drink and felt the liquid slide warm and smooth down his throat.
“You did well tonight, Marlowe. You seem to always be where you’re needed. For me the other day. For Doc Burnett today. Of course, the best news tonight is that you didn’t let the murderous scoundrel get away.”
The best news was that Sheila and Doc weren’t hurt.
Patterson was not a man to remain seated for long. He was immediately up and pacing by the fireplace. He stabbed at the blaze with a poker, sending some sparks crackling up the chimney.