interest. The same was true of the man I’d dropped off the cliff, who his late friend referred to as “Frankie.” His pockets were empty, his clothes contained nothing of use and his sword had all identifying marks, even the smith’s name, filed off. The leather armor was genuine Muscodian government issue, although that didn’t really mean anything: old soldiers were always selling off their mementos for spare change or more ale. Still, he’d learned archery marksmanship somewhere, so maybe this was a clue. If so, it was the only one either corpse provided.
Their saddlebags, though, were a treasure trove. Jimmy, the man at the shack, carried a big map of the whole Black River Hills area marked with random “x” symbols. There was no legend to explain their meaning, but there were dozens of them. He also had a knife identical to the one Bella Lou had given me. It looked brand-new; was it a replacement for the one Bella Lou had snatched? Were the dragons the symbols of some bandit gang? I knew most of the outfits that worked the river and surrounding countryside, but it didn’t mean a new one might not be trying to move in.
Frankie’s bags revealed even more. He had a tool kit that at first glance seemed to be for leather-working, but the dried blood on the instruments told a different story. Now I knew exactly how he’d removed those strips of skin from Laura Lesperitt, and felt even less remorse for letting him take the fast trail to the canyon floor. He also carried a healthy bag of gold, all in small-denomination coins. Most odd was a long strip of bright red cloth, like a head scarf. In fact, it was exactly like the scarves I’d glimpsed on those people moving into the former Lizard’s Kiss whorehouse.
But the day’s big clue was the name Marantz.
In Muscodia, all trails of vice and illegality eventually led to Gordon Marantz, who’d moved here after escaping Trasketania one step ahead of the gallows. He gained the favor of King Archibald’s court, and so officialdom looked the other way when he began eliminating his competition along the Gusay from Tacketville to Pema. In no time he controlled all the ale, girls, gambling and protection rackets. Many places worked directly for him while others, like Angelina’s, paid him protection. He was smart enough to be hard to find, but easy to run afoul of if you tried to cut into his action. In my years in Muscodia I’d only seen him once, leaving a gambling house late one night surrounded by his goons. In his forties, with black hair worn slicked back from his broad, mean face, he looked like a guy who could still get his hands dirty if the occasion demanded it. I wasn’t sorry our professional paths had never crossed.
I looked over the shack a second time, but found nothing I’d missed. I left Jimmy hanging, along with the strange padded box. Then, with the two new horses in tow, I descended the cut and retraced my steps up the canyon as the sun began to set.
We scared a fat buzzard away from Frankie’s corpse, then reached the spot where I’d left Buddy on grave digger duty. The little bozo was nowhere to be found. As I expected, he’d dug about half a hole and then vanished, probably sure I’d been ambushed. I wondered if he’d actually been on Frankie’s payroll, or if he just knew I was walking into a trap and hadn’t bothered to mention it.
All the horses balked at the scent of decay. I hated to leave Lola exposed and undignified, but ultimately had no choice. Maybe Buddy’s conscience would get the best of him and he’d return to do the job right. It beat facing his wife; I doubted he wanted both me and Bella Lou on his case. Besides, this was nothing but a pile of rotted horse meat; if there were a Summerlands, then Lola’s spirit now galloped across its smooth plains toward unending grazing.
I arrived at the livery stable after dark. Liz’s office was still closed, but I didn’t know if that meant she was at home awaiting me, or had not returned from her day’s deliveries. I was too tired and sore to worry about it, and she could certainly take care of herself. I knew the noise I made opening the doors and leading the horses inside would alert Hank, who lived with his family in an add-on at the back of the barn.
Sure enough, his napkin from dinner still tucked into the neck of his tunic, Hank came into the barn accompanied by one of his young sons, Howie. Both stopped dead when they saw me. Hank turned up the lamp he carried until I squinted from the glare.
I was a mess. I was covered in scratches, cuts, dirt and blood, and on top of that was so tired I could barely stand, so I understood why Howie slid slowly behind his father’s legs at the sight of me. I dropped from the saddle, leaned on the horse and held the reins out toward Hank.
“Cut yourself shaving?” Hank said drily.
I nodded. “With a hawthorn forest.”
“You too good to take a man’s horse?” Hank said gruffly, and Howie reluctantly took the reins from me. Hank looked over the two additional horses, his expert eyes missing nothing. Their saddles and other gear were expensive, if trail worn, and the animals were clearly well cared for. “Didn’t know you were a horse trader, Mr. LaCrosse,” he said, his flat voice masking most of his suspicion.
“They just fell into my lap,” I said as I waited for the knots to loosen in my lower back. “Ever seen ’em before?”
“Nope.”
“Ever seen any like ’em?”
Hank took the bridle of Frankie’s horse and looked her over. He lifted one foot and inspected the shoe. “Howie, get over here.”
The boy dropped the gray horse’s reins and moved up beside his father. “Hot or cold shoe?” Hank asked.
The boy’s face scrunched up as he studied the foot. “Hot,” he said finally.
“How can you tell?” Hank pressed.
“The line from the old shoe,” he said, and pointed to something I couldn’t see.
“Attaboy,” Hank said proudly, and released the horse’s foot. “Hell, if I don’t teach him, how’s he gonna know?”
“True fact,” I agreed. “Well, if anybody comes to claim them, don’t give them a hard time about it. Just try to get a name for me.”
Suspicion swallowed his fatherly pride. “Is somebody likely to be upset about them being here?”
“Not with you,” I assured him.
“Uh-huh,” he said dubiously. “I don’t handle stolen horses, Mr. LaCrosse. People tend to feel pretty strongly about things like that.”
“These aren’t stolen, Hank. I promise. And I guarantee the previous rightful owners won’t show up to get them back.”
He thoughtfully chewed his lip for a moment. Gravy stained his chin. Then he said to Howie, “Put the two new ones in the stall up front, and then take the mare out to the corral.” To me he said, “If they’re here for more than two days, somebody’ll have to pay for their keep.”
“If they’re here more than two days, you can have them.” I turned, then stopped and faced him again. “And if you ever try to pawn that gray manure pile off on me again, you’ll get back a load of horse meat and glue.”
The gray mare looked back at us with all the equine innocence in the world. “I swear, nobody else has complained about her,” Hank said. “I think you’re just bad with horses.”
I snorted, then waved toward Liz’s office. “Has she come back yet?”
“No, but somebody else came looking for you.”
“The guy with the gloves?”
“No, a woman. Said she was a Mother up at the moon priestess hospital. Her name was… Banner?”
“Bennings,” I corrected. “What did she say?”
“To tell you to come see her as soon as you could.”
“What about?
He shook his head. “She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Don’t care for them priestesses.”
I understood; one of his children had died under a drunken priestess’ care before they came to Neceda. “That’s exactly how I feel about horses.”
I tried the door to Liz’s office on my way out, but it was still locked. I had a key, but this late she’d probably just drop off her horses and wagon and return home. I could wait for her in far more comfort there.
The traffic was sparse as I walked up the street. The taverns, whorehouses and gambling establishments glowed with light and life, and their noise filled the air. As I passed Ditch Street, I paused and looked over the Lizard’s Kiss building. It was dark and apparently lifeless. Tomorrow I’d have to find out who bought it, what was up with the red scarf brigade and how it tied to Marantz.
