Dodd and Conklin were over at the Hog’s Head Saloon. Since joining Dodd, Clark had been involved in four more robberies—two additional stagecoaches, one freight office, and a grocery store. The shotgun guard riding on the second stage had tried to defend the coach against the robbers and Clark had shot and killed him.
In Clark’s mind, his descent into hell was complete. No longer did he try to maintain the fiction of being “drawn onto the outlaw trail by events beyond his control.” He now considered himself to be a man without conscience or honor, and he was not in the least disturbed by that.
Clark had just finished his supper when a newspaper boy came in peddling his papers. Summoning the boy over, Clark bought a paper.
“Gee, thanks, mister,” the boy said when Clark gave him a dime and told him to keep the change.
Drinking a second cup of coffee, Clark began perusing the newspaper.
Queen Victoria, now sixty years old, has worn the crown of England for forty-two years, a longer period than that known to any other living European monarch.
Clark wondered what it would be like to be a monarch for forty-two years. Maybe not as good as it sounded.
The next article also caught his attention.
Mr. Thomas Edison, the inventor, has been exhibiting in New York his improvement of Mr. Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone. Mr. Edison’s instrument is said to be of such power that the receiver need not be placed at the ear in order to catch the sounds. He also says that he has nearly perfected his new electric light. He claims that he has supplied six lights from one horse power, and that the cost of the light is not more than one-third that of gas. Mr. Edison has stated that it will soon be time to let the public realize the benefit of these marvelous inventions.
Clark had never seen a telephone, but he had heard of it. He knew that a telephone was something like a telegraph, only you could actually speak through the wires, though he had no idea how that would work.
He was about to lay the paper aside when he saw an article that began with the headline “Record Money Shipment.” He read the article with a great deal of interest.
Folding the paper over, Clark left his meal half-eaten and hurried over to the saloon. Conklin was sitting alone at a table in the back, eating cracklings and drinking beer.
“Where’s Dodd?” Clark asked.
“He took a whore upstairs,” Conklin said, though as his mouth was full, he mumbled his words.
“What room?”
“How the hell do I know what room? It could be any of ‘em. Far as I know, ever’ room up there is a whore’s room.”
“He needs to see this,” Clark said, holding up the paper.
“What is it?”
“Like I said, it’s something Dodd needs to see.” Clark started toward the stairs.
“I wouldn’t go up there if I was you,” Conklin called out to him. “I’ve known Dodd a long time. He don’t like bein’ bothered none when he is with the whores.”
“He’ll like this,” Clark called back.
Clark went up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Not knowing which room Dodd was in, he began knocking on all of them. “Dodd,” he called, banging on one door after another. “Dodd, get out here!”
“Go away, I’m busy,” a muffled voice called from inside one of the rooms.
“Dodd, open the door,” Clark called again, moving to the room where he heard the voice. “You aren’t going to want to miss this.”
A few seconds later, Dodd, wearing only his trousers, and with a disgruntled expression on his face, jerked open the door. Behind him, sitting up in bed but with the sheet down so that one of her breasts was fully exposed, a saloon doxy waited for him.
“You better have a good reason for this,” Dodd said.
“How about one hundred thousand reasons?” Clark replied, showing him the newspaper.
* * *
Less than one hour after Clark showed the newspaper article to Frank Dodd, Herman Wallace, Harley Beard, and Loomis Jackson rode into Marrietta.
“What makes you think Dodd will be here?” Beard asked.
“He told me he would be,” Wallace said. “He always kept me posted as to where he would be. How else do you think I got the information to him?”
“What’s he goin’ to think now that you don’t have no information to give him?”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” Wallace said. “The son of a bitch owes me money, and we’re going to need money to get out of here.”
“Where do we look first?” Jackson asked.
“Where do you think?” Wallace replied as he turned his horse toward the Hog’s Head Saloon.
Chapter Twenty-four
Having heard nothing of particular interest while spending time in the Lost Mine Saloon, Smoke moved from the Lost Mine to the New York Saloon. The New York Saloon was considerably larger than the Lost Mine, and much more crowded. It took Smoke a few seconds to locate Bobby Lee, who was sitting alone at a table in the middle of the crowded room.
