Kinch Riley and Hickok and Cody Page 19

  Richter stuffed the rag in his pocket. He removed the pillow from beneath the woman’s head and placed it over her face. Johnson, working just as swiftly, buried the man’s face in a pillow. There was no resistance from the couple, for they were anesthetized into a dreamlike state, incapable of fighting back. The men slowly smothered them to death.

  When it was over, Richter arranged the woman’s head in a comely pose on the pillow. Johnson followed suit, and they stepped back, admiring their handiwork. “Well now,” Richter said with a note of pride. “They look quite peaceful, don’t they?”

  Johnson grinned. “Damn good way to kick the bucket. Never felt a thing.”

  “Yes, all very neat and tidy. Let’s see to the children, Turk.”

  Richter hurried out the door. At the staircase landing, he once again saturated the rags with ether. Then they separated, Johnson moving to the bedroom on the right and Richter proceeding along the hallway. Some moments later they returned, each of them carrying a child bundled in a blanket. Richter gave Johnson a sharp look.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Went off smooth as silk.”

  Johnson was holding a boy, perhaps nine or ten years old. The girl in Richter’s arms appeared to be a year or two older. She was a mirror image of her mother, just as the boy favored his father. They were both unconscious, breathing evenly.

  “Time to go,” Richter said, darting a glance at the other bedroom door. “Take it easy on the stairs.”

  Johnson trailed him down the staircase. They moved quietly through the foyer just as the grandfather clock chimed the half hour. Richter paused outside the house, juggling the girl with one arm, and locked the door. The snow was heavier now, thick white flakes swirling across Gramercy Park. They turned upstreet toward the waiting carriage.

  One at a time, the children were loaded into the cab. Richter was the last to clamber aboard, signaling the driver to move out. The horses lurched into motion, heads bowed against the squalling snow. The carriage rounded the corner at the far end of Gramercy Park.

  “Whatta night!” Johnson said, motioning to the huddled forms of the children. “Who are these kids, anyhow?”

  “Augustus and Katherine.”

  “They got last names?”

  Richter permitted himself a thin smile. “Not anymore.”

  The carriage trundled off toward the Lower East Side.

  * * *

  Manhattan was an island. Some two miles by fifteen miles in mass, it was connected to the outside world by railroad bridges along the northern shoreline. The only other outlets were ferries that plied the Hudson River.

  The settled part of the island, more commonly called New York City, was a five-mile stretch at the southern tip of Manhattan. With the population topping a million, there were a hundred thousand people for every square mile, a teeming cauldron of humanity. Worldly men called it the Bagdad of North America.

  Delancey Street was located in the heart of the Lower East Side. There, in tenements wedged together like rabbit warrens, the working class of the city struggled to outdistance squalor and poverty. New Year’s was just a week past, but the people of Delancey Street found no reason to celebrate 1872. Their days were occupied instead with putting bread on the table.

  The brougham carriage halted at the intersection of Delancey and Pitt. A faded sign affixed to the building on the southeast corner identified it as the New York Juvenile Asylum. The two-story structure was worn and decrepit, a battered wooden ruin much like the rest of the neighborhood. It was a warehouse for the flotsam of the city’s young.

  The driver hopped down to open the carriage door. Richter emerged first, carrying the girl, followed by Johnson with the boy. Heavy wet snow clung to their greatcoats as the driver hurried to jerk the pull-bell outside the entrance to the asylum. A pudgy man with wispy hair and dewlap jowls opened the door on the third ring. He waved them inside.

  “I was getting worried,” he said. “Thought maybe something had gone wrong.”

  “Nothing went wrong,” Richter replied. “Just this damnedable snow, that’s all. The streets are a mess.”

  “Hardly the night for an abduction, hmmm?”

  “Your mouth will be the death of you, Barton. Let’s hear no more about abduction.”

  Joseph Barton was the director of the Juvenile Asylum. He was a man of small stature, and corrupt to the core. He spread his hands in a lame gesture. “No harm intended. I was just making talk.”

  “Don’t,” Richter warned. “All the talk stops tonight.”

  The anteroom of the asylum was warmed by a potbelly stove stoked with coal. There was a tattered sofa and a grouping of hard straight-back chairs meant for the infrequent visitor. The children were placed on the sofa, still wrapped in their blankets. Richter took a moment to check the pupils of their eyes.

  “Marvelous invention, ether,” he said with some satisfaction. “They’ll be out for at least another hour.”

  “I’d hoped for longer,” Barton said in a piping voice. “The train’s scheduled to depart at eight. What if they make a fuss when they wake up?”

  “How many brats do you have in this sinkhole?”

  “At the moment, probably five hundred or so. Why do you ask?”

  Richter stared at him. “You ought to know how to handle hard-nosed kids. Get them some clothes out of your stockroom, nothing too fancy.” His gaze shifted to the children. “Turn ’em into regular little orphans.”

  “Yes, but—” Barton hesitated, undone by his nerves. “What if they resist being put on the train?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something clever. That’s what you’re being paid for.”

  There were hundreds of men and women in New York who devoted their lives to homeless children. Most of them were affiliated with religious organizations, or charitable foundations. There were, as well, men without scruple or conscience who looked upon indigent children as a means of lining their own pockets. Joseph Barton was just such a man.

  The opportunity for graft stemmed from the fact that youngsters under fifteen represented one-third of the city’s population. At any given moment, upward of a hundred thousand homeless children were roaming the streets of New York. Some were orphans, their mothers and fathers dead from the ravages of disease and overwork. Others, children of the poor, were simply turned out by their parents to fend for themselves. To survive, they raided garbage bins and learned to live by petty crime.

  The crisis brought swift action by the state legislature. The Truancy Law, enacted at the close of the Civil War, authorized police to arrest vagrant children ages five through fourteen. Some were brought to the House of Refuge, operated by a coalition of religious concerns. Others, particularly the troublemakers, were packed off to a secular facility, the Juvenile Asylum. The latter institution was dedicated to discipline, instilling the virtue of daily toil. The children were then indentured as apprentices to tradesmen.

  Those youngsters considered beyond redemption were shipped West on the Orphan Train. Farmers and ranchers on the distant plains welcomed them with a mix of Christian charity and a profound belief in the values of hard work. All of which nicely solved the problem of delinquents and mischievous street urchins. The Orphan Train departed New York’s Grand Central Station every Friday.

  “I’ll certainly do my best,” Barton said now. “None of the children especially like the thought of being sent West. We’re sometimes forced to restrain them until the train leaves.”

  “I don’t want them harmed,” Richter told him. “The whole idea is to get them adopted. The farther West, the better.”

  “Oh, yes, I understand completely.”

  “Make sure you do, for your own good.”

  There was a veiled threat in Richter’s tone. He pulled out a wad of greenbacks and started peeling off bills. “There’s the thousand we agreed on,” he said stiffly. “A thousand more once they’re adopted.”

  Barton thought it unwise to count the bills. “How w
ill I satisfy you the adoption has actually taken place?”

  “You’ve no need to worry on that score. I’ll know.”

  “Very well, just as you say.”

  “One last thing,” Richter said. “You’ll likely read about some missing children in tomorrow’s papers. Don’t try to put two and two together and get four.”

  “How could I not put it together?” Barton asked guilelessly. “Were there all that many children abducted tonight?”

  “Pretend you’re deaf, dumb and blind. Otherwise…”

  Richter motioned casually to Johnson. The bruiser fixed Barton with a cold, ominous look. Barton quickly averted his gaze.

  “Otherwise—” Richter went on, “Turk will pay you a visit some dark night. I doubt you’d recover.”

  “There’s no reason to threaten me. I’m quite good at keeping a confidence.”

  “Then I predict you’ll live to a ripe old age.”

  Richter walked to the door. Johnson gave Barton an evil grin, then turned away, closing the door as he went out. On the street, the two men crossed to the curb, where Richter paused before entering the carriage. He looked up at the falling snow.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to sleep fast, Turk.”

  “Why’s that, boss?”

  “We have a train to catch.”

  Otto Richter was a man who left no stone unturned.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CAMPSITE was something on the order of a bivouac. Tents were aligned with military precision, forming a boxlike square fronting the waters of Red Willow Creek. Cavalry troopers stood guard at the cardinal points of the compass.

  Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody stood with a group of army officers in the center of the compound. Cody, with a flair for showmanship, was resplendent in pale buckskins, a crimson shirt worn beneath his fringed jacket. Hickok wore a stained buckskin jacket, his woolen trousers stuffed into the tops of mule-earred boots. A brace of Colt Navy pistols, carried cross-draw fashion, were wedged into a wide belt around his waist.

  The weather was uncommonly mild for January on the Nebraska plains. Though the mercury hovered around forty, patches of snow still dotted the landscape from a recent storm. The campsite was located some forty miles south of Fort McPherson, headquarters for the Fifth Cavalry Regiment. Among the officers present were Lieutenant General Phil Sheridan, Major General George Armstrong Custer, and four brigadier generals. The officers were attired in field dress, their gold braid sparkling in an early morning sun.

  A burly Russian Cossack snapped to attention as the flap opened on the largest tent in the compound. The Grand Duke Alexis, son of Alexander II, Czar of all the Russias, strode from the tent. He was tall and stout, with dark muttonchop whiskers and a regal bearing. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket, ivory in color and elaborately decorated with quillwork and shiny beads. The jacket was a gift, presented to him by Sheridan only yesterday.

  “Good morning,” he said, addressing the group in a heavy accent. “Excellent day for a hunt, is it not?”

  “Excellent indeed,” Sheridan replied. “I trust you slept well, Your Highness.”

  “Oh, yes,” Alexis beamed, favoring Cody and Hickok with a broad smile. “You gentlemen will teach me how the buffalo are killed. Da?”

  “Yessir, we will,” Cody assured him. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Won’t he, pardner?”

  “Why, shore he will,” Hickok agreed. “’Specially with you to show him the ropes. You’re in good hands, Duke.”

  The Grand Duke chose to overlook his truncated title. He was fascinated by the similarity between the two men. They were both solid six-footers, ruggedly handsome, their hair spilling down to their shoulders. Yesterday, when they met his train in North Platte, he’d been surprised to find Hickok in the party. From conversation, he gathered that Hickok was between jobs as a lawman and had been invited along by Cody. He felt fortunate to have them both on the hunt.

  The Wild West was all the vogue with European nobility. Every year, royal sportsmen crossed the Atlantic to hunt buffalo on the wind-swept plains. The hunt for the Grand Duke had been orchestrated by the State Department in concert with the army brass. Russia was a friendly power, having aligned itself with the Union during the bloody turmoil of the Civil War. Five years ago, in 1867, the Grand Duke’s father had ceded the territory of Alaska to the United States, further cementing the relationship between two great powers. All of which accounted for six generals in attendance on today’s hunt.

  Phil Sheridan motioned to where troopers waited with saddled horses. “You’re in luck, Your Highness,” he said with an expansive gesture. “Cody insists that you use his personal horse, Buckskin Joe.”

  “Finest buffalo horse on the plains!” Custer interjected, ever eager to display his expertise. “I can truthfully say I’ve never seen his equal.”

  “I am honored,” Alexis said, looking at Cody. “How did you arrive at such an unusual name for your horse?”

  “Well, don’t you see, he’s a buckskin. I just tacked on ‘Joe’ to give him a handle.”

  “A handle?”

  “Yessir, a handle … a name.”

  “Ah, of course, now I understand.”

  The men walked toward the horses. Cody got Alexis mounted on Buckskin Joe, and the nobleman told himself he’d made a wise choice. Through the Russian ambassador, he had requested that Buffalo Bill Cody act as his personal guide. Cody was hailed by the press and the public alike as the most formidable buffalo hunter on the Western Plains. In 1867, while working as a contract hunter for the Kansas Pacific, he had killed 4,280 of the shaggy beasts. The tracklaying crews, grateful for the bounty, tagged him with a sobriquet that stuck. He became Buffalo Bill.

  Wild Bill Hickok was no less a legend to the Grand Duke Alexis. On and off a scout for the army, Hickok’s greater fame stemmed from his years as a lawman. His notoriety had little to do with buffalo and everything to do with Western desperadoes. His name was known on the steppes of Russia just as it was throughout the capitals of Europe. The world doted on his adventures, awed by tales of his speed and deadliness with a pistol. There was, in the lore of the West, only one Wild Bill. He was the most renowned mankiller of the day.

  The hunting party rode south from the Red Willow Creek camp. They were trailed by a troop of cavalry, acting as escort in the event they encountered a hostile band of Sioux. An hour or so out, with Cody and Alexis in the lead, they topped a low rise on the rolling plains. Spread out before them, grazing on the umber grasses of winter, was a herd of some three hundred buffalo. Alexis was determined to take one of the great beasts with his new pistol, a Smith & Wesson .44 presented to him before he entrained from New York for the West. Cody explained how to place the shot from horseback.

  Hickok and the generals waited on the knoll. Cody led the way onto the prairie, approaching the herd at a sedate trot. He cut out a woolly-coated cow grazing at the edge of the herd, and forced her into a lumbering lope. Then, twisting in the saddle, he motioned Alexis forward. The Grand Duke spurred Buckskin Joe into a gallop and bore down on the cow. His arm extended, he fired six shots from the Smith & Wesson, raking the cow with lead. She swerved away, seemingly unfazed, and rejoined the herd. A moment later she went back to cropping grass.

  From the knoll, Hickok grunted with mild amusement. Sheridan cursed, and Custer shook his head, and the other generals held their silence. They watched as Cody took Alexis aside for a short lecture on the craft of hunting buffalo. Finally, with Alexis nodding, Cody pulled a Springfield .50 rifle from his saddle scabbard. Like his horse, he had named his rifle, and he fondly called it “Lucretia.” The name derived from a Victor Hugo drama entitled Lucretia Borgia, the story of an ancient Italian noblewoman noted for her venom. The rifle was as deadly as its namesake.

  Cody selected a mammoth bull from the herd. He rode off to the left of Alexis, urging Buckskin Joe into a gallop with a hard swat across the rump. The bull snorted, whirling away from the horsemen, quickly separated
from the herd. Alexis kneed Buckskin Joe alongside, matching the bull stride for stride, the reins in one hand, the butt of Lucretia pressed to his shoulder. The rifle boomed and the bull went down headfirst, his horns plowing furrows in the dark earth. Alexis vaulted from the saddle, tossing the rifle to Cody, and pulled an evil-looking knife from his belt. He cut off the bull’s tail, thrusting it overhead with a jubilant shout.

  Before the day ended, the Grand Duke of all the Russias killed six times more.

  * * *

  The regimental band played a lively air. A celebration was in progress, with the royal party seated in the dining tent. Waiters in white jackets scurried around lighting coal-oil lamps as a vermilion sunset slowly faded into dusk. The menu for the evening featured buffalo hump aux champignons.

  “A toast,” Sheridan said, raising his wine glass. “To the Grand Duke Alexis. Seven buffalo in a single day!”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  The men were seated around a long table covered with white linen. They chorused the toast in loud voices, quaffing wine from crystal goblets. Alexis, who was savaging a slab of buffalo hump with the exuberance of a man who reveled in the kill, accepted their praise with regal modesty. He raised his own glass.

  “I, too, make a toast,” he said in an accent thickened by wine. “To Buffalo Bill, who must surely have Russian blood. A man among men!”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  Their shouts rang out across the compound. Fully five hundred men were camped along the banks of Red Willow Creek. There were four troops of the Fifth Cavalry, the regimental band, and a train of sixteen wagons to haul provisions. Major engagements against hostile tribes had been fought with fewer men and no supply train at all. But the troopers encamped by the creek found no fault with the royal hunt. Tonight, they feasted on buffalo as well.

  The guest of honor insisted that Cody and Hickok be seated at his end of the table. He was aware that Sheridan, commander of the military division, and Custer, the fabled Indian fighter, felt somewhat slighted. Yet he’d been feted by generals since childhood, for he was, after all, the successor to the Russian throne. He wanted to learn more of the plainsmen, the storied heroes of the frontier.