Big Ed said, “The man you just looked at back there was called Nelson Dunn. If it wasn’t for these damn dog packs running loose all over the city, we might not have found him for months. The mongrels had dragged him out from under a pile of tin cans down by the river. One of the marshals recognized him and sent word to me. I had Macy bring him to you. What can you tell me about how he died?”
“Well”—Doc propped his butt on the corner of his desk, arms crossed—“he wasn’t out for long. Cold as it is, he wasn’t froze all the way through. It’s a guess, and only a guess, but I’d say he was stabbed Christmas night. Whoever did it came up from behind, stuck a long, sharp knife in just under the floating ribs, and very efficiently cut through the diaphragm, lower lobes of both lungs, and the bottom of the heart.”
“But what does that tell us, Doc? About the killer, I mean?”
Doc spread his hands wide. “Well, sir, I can tell you it wasn’t a street fight, brawl, or misunderstanding that led to violence. It wasn’t robbery. Mr. Dunn was wearing a money belt. Something any thief would have found. The killer was strong, silent, and right-handed. No way you could consider this as a random street crime. The assassin knew who his target was and wanted him dead.”
“An assassin.”
Doc shrugged. “Whoever killed Mr. Dunn did a damn competent job of it. He was either practiced, or damn lucky.”
“It wasn’t luck.” Ed Chase took a deep breath and walked back over to the stove where he extended his large hands to the heat.
“Then you might have a better understanding than I do.”
Chase’s wide lips bent in a humorless smile. “Your brother back there?”
“We’ve rented a small house. I found a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and gave it to him for Christmas. When I left, he was reading it aloud to his imaginary men. Given they were all Confederates, it’s been a lively old time.”
The smile widened on Chase’s lips. “You’re a good man, Doc. You don’t talk, so I’ll tell you that Nelson Dunn was my agent in a land deal. The hope was to encourage a group of investors back East to build a smelter. The gold is still up there in the mountains, but it’s locked up by something called sulfides. I don’t understand the chemistry, but the mercury pans won’t pick it up. The gold goes right out with the tailings.”
Chase frowned down at the stove. “Building a smelter here, we could process the ore. Not just from the mines up around Central City, but the whole Front Range. That gold would flow through Denver, making people rich from the top down to the workers. All of whom in turn need a fair game, entertainment, and refreshment.”
Chase smiled tightly. “Which, along with the value of the land I was offering through Mr. Dunn, would continue to make me a tidy profit.”
“So you think one of your rivals removed Mr. Dunn from making the play?”
“It appears so. Currently those investors are up in Black Hawk, looking at potential land. Nelson was supposed to carry the offer to them today. But one of the Black Hawk or Central City interests appears to have gotten to him first.”
“What about Mr. Dunn’s body?”
“Put him on ice, Doctor. I’ll cover his burial out at Jack O’Neill’s ranch when the ground thaws.” Jack O’Neill’s ranch. What they called the local cemetery.
Chase started for the door, and then turned back. “Doctor, I hear you’ve become quite the hero to the demimonde. But I understand that you don’t seem to avail yourself of their charms as your predecessors did. Nor do I hear of you investigating the eligible young ladies on the respectable side of our city, few as they may be.”
Doc lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Sir, I am full-time caretaker for my brother. Until I find a cure for his ailment, I suspect my chances of paying court are rather limited.” Doc wadded the washcloth into a ball. “It’s hard to impress my fine prospects upon a young lady when I have an entire company of Arkansas infantry in attendance whenever Butler is around.”
Chase narrowed his eyes. “I also hear that when you attend our most soiled of doves, you don’t seem to betray the distaste that others in your profession do.”
“Mr. Chase.” Doc pushed off from his desk, walking over to look up at the man. “My first professional surgery was in a brothel, and at the time, I swore I’d never stoop that low again. Along came a war, and prison camp, the loss of everything. Butler dropped into my life. I had to live for him. After all that, I gave up worrying about morality, and virtue, and sin, and damnation. Because as low as these women might fall, I’ve been lower.”
Chase considered him, the cold blue eyes thoughtful. Then he shrugged his buffalo coat onto his shoulders saying, “I would appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation about Nelson private.”
“Of course, sir.”
Chase stepped to the door, reached in his pocket and tossed Doc a twenty-dollar gold piece. “For looking after Nelson.”
“Oh, Ed? One last thing.” Doc reached into his pocket. “I found this on the body. Stuck in the wound actually.”
Big Ed took it. “A feather?”
“I’m no expert, but I think it’s from a meadowlark. And there are no meadowlarks around this time of year.”
Almost beyond hearing, Big Ed whispered, “George Nichols.” And then he was gone.
77
March 15, 1867
Sarah sat at her kitchen table, a flannel robe wrapped about her. She leaned with her elbows on the wood,
