The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

After a substantial meal of roasted chicken and potatoes, the men settled down with their smokes.

“You boys fixing to stay in the city?” Jack West offered his companions cigars, which they took.

West studied them through half-closed eyes. Their colouring was wrong but they could be kin, because they seemed to have that thing brothers had of finishing each other’s sentences.

Robbie lit his own, then his partner’s smoke. “Maybe. Harry’s the rancher here, but I’ll be looking around, see if there’s an opportunity or two. Though I’m guessing there’s no work for rodeo riders in these parts.”

* * *

A cot was made up for Jack in the kitchen. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. Next thing he knew the old woman was firing up the stove. He’d missed feeding his animals. He frowned. Damn it, he’d told Samuel to fetch him in the morning. But no real harm done.

Outside in the crisp overcast dawn, Samuel had already brought West’s horses to the carriage. Jack fed the two animals with the dried corn he always kept in the packet under his seat. They nibbled, but didn’t act like they’d missed a meal.

“You’ll have some eggs and porridge, Mister West, before you leave?” Henrietta de Grout stood in the doorway. She hadn’t had much to say at supper, but she had a melodious voice with a tinge of the same soft drawl as Harry and Robbie. And she had a good humor. She was also a darn good-looking woman. The large fringed shawl she’d wrapped herself in didn’t hide to West the fact that she was with child.

“I will, ma’am, then I’ll be off before we get any more snow.”

She took two coins from the small purse attached to her waist. “Two dollars, Harry said.”

“Make that one dollar, with my thanks for the meal and bed.”

She gave him the reeded-edged coin and went back into the house. Jack West pocketed the coin. When he was on the road, he took it out and held it up to the sunlight, admiring the sheen. Lady Liberty on the obverse and a bald eagle holding arrows and an olive branch on the reverse. Beneath the tail feathers of the bald eagle was 1890 and CC, for where it was minted. Carson City, Nevada. He’d seen one of these before and knew enough to recognize a Morgan silver dollar.

10

As the sun rose the palest yellow, they descended from the hackney at Merchants Gate on the west side of the Central Park, and entered the park. Though it was cold and the wind sharp, Esther Breslau was happy. The park under its blanket of snow was serene and beautiful.

“Winter birds,” Professor Lazzlo Lowenstein said. “A great variety. Eh, Hughs?”

Professor Sidney Hughs mumbled assent.

They were costumed in long top coats that fell to the ankles; on their heads were shiny black top hats.

The little German had a full beard and moustache, while the large stout Englishman was clean-shaven. Lowenstein’s teeth gripped a meerschaum pipe, which he had not lit for fear its fumes would worry the birds and spoil the pristine morning air. Hughs, a less meticulous man, chewed tobacco which he spat where he chose, staining the snow.

“Zonotrichia albicollis.” Professor Lowenstein pointed to the small bird. “Miss Breslau, you may proceed.”

Esther made her picture. As the professors had felt that her tripod and glass plates would frighten away their quarry, her camera was her Kodak, which she could load in daylight with light-proof cartridges. It produced photographs that were two and a quarter by three and a quarter inches.

The two eccentric men amused her. Lowenstein had a soft, piping, almost bird-like voice. He wagged his head as if his own Hungarian-tinted German accent offended him. “This white-throated sparrow is usually one of our commonest winter birds. Last year’s count was down. This year we are already up to fifty-three.”

“Fifty-seven,” Professor Hughs corrected.

Esther’s feet were cold in her thin boots, and her knee still pained her, but she found the birds very interesting, and the work an education. She had never thought to make photographs of birds.

“Ach, Miss Breslau,” Professor Lowenstein said. “You live so close to the Union Square where there was a bank robbery two days ago.” He pointed to a small brown bird, then to her camera.

Esther made the picture a moment before the bird took flight. “I was on the sidewalk in front of the bank at the time. The one called Sundance knocked me down when he ran out.”

“Oh, yes,” Hughs said, with an odd chortle. “Dreadful, dreadful. Were they indeed the western outlaws Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

Professor Lowenstein sidled closer to an oak where many of the birds were perched. “Larus argentatus, the Herring Gull. All through the winter, flocks often number as many as twelve hundred. They prefer to fly singly or in small clutches.” He nodded his head and placed the index finger of his right hand at the side of his nose, posing. “Usually appearing in early October and ceasing by early November. Did you, Miss Breslau, happen to make photographs of these two outlaws?”