Rockwell led the way along a path made of crushed rock that ran through a green lawn in front of the house. It widened out into an area where buggies could be parked. From there, the path ran on around the mansion toward a carriage house and several other outbuildings.
The house itself was one of the oddest, yet most impressive structures Frank had ever seen. It was a three- story Victorian topped by a square tower with a steep roof and a long metal spire that served as a lightning rod. There were more gables than Frank could count, each one topped by a lightning rod as well, and although he was no architect, they seemed to be placed rather haphazardly around the roof. A room jutted out from the front of the house, cutting off a porch that appeared to wrap the rest of the way around the house. The porch railings were wrought iron and decorated with elaborate curlicues and designs. Latticework framed the windows, and carvings were everywhere in the wood. Frank saw birds and animals, moons and stars, even human faces. The whole place had a reddish gleam in the sun, and he recalled that Karl Wilcox had said the mansion was made out of the redwood that had brought Rutherford Chamberlain his fortune.
Frank thought that if he had to live in a place like this, he would go plumb loco in a week.
Rockwell must have had an idea what he was thinking, because the man grinned over at him and said, “It’s really something, isn’t it?”
“It’s something, all right,” Frank said. “I’m just not sure what.”
“The old man designed it himself. He says the woods made him a rich man, so it’s only fitting that he lives here among the trees.”
“I hear that he does all his business from here and doesn’t go into town very often.”
“Hardly ever,” Rockwell said with a nod. “He used to get out more, but Mrs. Chamberlain passed away a few years ago, and now Mr. Chamberlain just stays in the house unless there’s some sort of emergency.”
“I guess he figures no one will bother him here,” Frank mused. “It must have really shaken him up when this whole business with the Terror started.”
“Ah, the Terror,” Rockwell said. “I sort of figured you were here about that. Going after the money, are you?”
“I want to talk to Mr. Chamberlain about the bounty,” Frank said, not answering the question directly. Let Rockwell draw whatever conclusions he wanted to. As they came up to the porch, Frank went on. “What do you think about the Terror? Ever seen it?”
“No, and I don’t want to.” Rockwell stopped and looked over at Frank. “Call me hardheaded, but I’m not sure the damned thing really exists. The evil that men do is bad enough without there being monsters in the world.”
Frank started to say that he felt the same way, but he surprised himself by not doing it. After the things he had seen this afternoon, he wasn’t certain what he believed anymore. The only things he knew for sure were that something was killing men in the forest and that it needed to be stopped. But he didn’t think that posting a bounty was the best way to go about it. That might just get some innocent men killed.
Frank tied Stormy and Goldy to a fancy hitching post in front of the house and told Dog to stay. Then the two men walked up onto the porch. The front door was a massive slab of varnished redwood with a bronze lion’s-head knocker so big that for a second Frank thought Chamberlain must have gotten it from a real lion. Rockwell grasped the knocker and rapped it sharply against the door.
“They probably heard the commotion inside,” he said, “so they’ll know that something was going on—”
As if to support his words, the door opened almost right away. A tall, cadaverous man with white hair and a white mustache stood there. He wore a black suit. Frank had seen enough butlers in his life to recognize the breed. He halfway expected the gent to talk with a British accent, but the butler sounded American as he asked, “What is it, Rockwell? Who is this man?”
“He’s here to see Mr. Chamberlain,” Rockwell said. “His name is Frank Morgan.”
If the name meant anything to the butler, for once Frank couldn’t see it in the man’s eyes. The butler turned to him and asked, “What’s the nature of your business? I’ll have to explain to Mr. Chamberlain why you wish to see him.”
“It’s about the bounty,” Frank said. “The bounty on that thing the loggers call the Terror.”
The butler’s eyes widened slightly, but only for a second before he controlled the reaction. He said, “Have you come to collect? Do you have the creature’s head with you?”
“No, and no,” Frank said. “I don’t much believe in bounties, and I sure don’t believe in hacking off somebody’s head just to collect one.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you wish to see Mr. Chamberlain if you don’t intend to collect the reward?”
“That’s between him and me.”
The butler looked at Rockwell. “I fail to see why you brought this man to the house. I don’t think he has any need to see Mr. Chamberlain—”
“I do,” Rockwell said. “Like I told you, he’s Frank Morgan.”
The butler shook his head. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“He’s The Drifter, for God’s sake! He’s a gunfighter. Some say the last real gunfighter, since Smoke Jensen and Matt Bodine hung up their guns and Wes Hardin’s dead. If he’s got something to say, I reckon the boss would be well-advised to listen.”
“Very well,” the butler said with a sigh. “Please, come in, Mr. Morgan. I’ll see if Mr. Chamberlain is willing to speak with you.”
Frank took off his hat as he stepped into the house. “Much obliged, Mister…?”
“Dennis, sir. Just Dennis. No mister required.”
“See you later, Morgan,” Rockwell said as he stepped back from the door. He lifted a hand in farewell, a gesture that Frank returned. He didn’t particularly like Rockwell, but the man didn’t seem like a bad sort.
