Page 15 of Calder Country

It appeared that the man, whoever he was, had been dead for a long time—months or even years—if the cool, dry cave air had helped preserve the body. His rat-eaten face was nothing but bones, crowned by wisps of brown hair, but Mason could see that he’d been tall in life. He was dressed in moldering cowboy clothes—jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, a belt with an ornate brass buckle, and boots with soles that had come loose and curled away from his feet, showing the remnants of worn socks and the bones of his toes.

Did he have a family somewhere—people who’d loved him and might want to reclaim his body? But that didn’t matter, Mason reminded himself. He couldn’t allow news of this discovery to get out. When he cleansed the cave with fire, every trace of the man, whoever he’d been, would be burned to ashes.

For now, there was nothing more to do here. The next time he came, it would be with enough kerosene and wood to do what needed to be done. Meanwhile, he’d have his hands full finding the money and setting up the connections he needed for moving and selling the liquor.

As Mason turned to leave, a vague awareness stirred in the depths of his memory. A chill crawled up his spine before it passed. What was it?

Stopping, he redirected the flashlight beam on the remains of what had once been a man. Once again, he felt it—the gut twinge that told him he was missing a vital clue.

He stared at the dried-out, decaying figure. Something about the dead man touched a familiar chord. It wasn’t possible, he told himself; but it was almost as if he’d known the fellow in life. Maybe his imagination was working overtime. But he couldn’t shake the feeling. Mason swore under his breath.

“Who are you?” he muttered, speaking to the corpse. “Who in hell’s name are you?”

* * *

The two strangers had taken a table in a quiet corner of the hotel dining room. They rose to their feet as Ruby walked in with her father. Immaculately groomed and dressed in custom tailored suits, they stood out among the locals who frequented the place. Glancing at Art, Ruby could tell he was impressed.

Both men had a European look about them. The tall one, who appeared to be in his thirties, had luxuriant black hair and the kind of well-tended body that a man would take pleasure in showing off. His smoldering eyes roamed over Ruby with an entitled look that made her seethe.

Suppressing the impulse to confront him, she turned toward his younger companion, who was built like a fireplug, with heavy brows, a fleshy face with a scar slash across one cheek, and cold, intelligent eyes.

“Well, Colucci,” the shorter man said. “Are you going to stare at the lady all night, or are you going to introduce us?”

The color deepened in Colucci’s florid face. Evidently Ruby’s father had met him earlier. “Sorry, Boss, this is our pilot, Art Murchison, and he’s brought along his daughter, Miss Weaver.”

“It’s Mrs. Weaver,” Ruby said. “And I’m a pilot, too.”

“An admirable accomplishment, if I may say so. I’m a family man myself.” The shorter man raised Ruby’s hand to his lips and brushed it with a courtly kiss. “Alphonse Capone at your service, ma’am. We’ve already ordered dinner. Now let’s enjoy it before we get down to business.”

* * *

The roast beef, served with potatoes and gravy, was as good as could be expected, but Ruby had to force down every bite as she listened to the dinner conversation. She could tell her father was excited, and the more engaged he became, the more she worried. It didn’t ease her discomfort any that Colucci, who was seated across from her, was watching her as if he’d already staked his claim. Avoiding eye contact with the big man, Ruby willed herself to focus on the talk at the table and learn as much as she could.

Capone, she gathered from the talk, was on his way to heading up the Chicago bootleg operation. Torrio, the big boss, was in ill health. When he died or retired, Capone would be first in line to succeed him. What kind of talent did it take for a younger man to rise so fast in an organization that was known to be ruthless? Ruby suppressed a shudder at the thought.

“There’s a big untapped market for us in Montana,” Capone was saying. “But so far, the problem has been with delivery—all that open space and road time, with our trucks and drivers exposed. Airplanes could make all the difference, but we’ll need to set it up right. First off, we’ll need good, experienced pilots who can land and take off in rough places.”

“I’m your man, Mr. Capone,” Art said. “I trained pilots all through the war. And Ruby here, she’s been taught by the best. A little more practice, and she’ll be able to fly for you, too.”

“You won’t be working for me,” Capone said. “I’m just here looking things over before I take the morning train back to Chicago. It’s Mr. Colucci here who’ll be in charge of the operation—if we can make it work.” He turned to his companion. “So what do you think so far, Leo?”

“We won’t know for sure until we’ve taken a few trial runs,” Colucci said. “Mr. Murchison, I’m willing to hire you on a probationary basis. You’ll be paid a hundred dollars, plus the cost of fuel, at the end of each successful run. Do you understand?”

“And if the run is unsuccessful?” Art was clearly hoping for a better offer.

“You mean if you crash the plane or get caught?” Colucci raised an eyebrow. “If you’re as good as you say you are, that shouldn’t happen. But if it does, that’s your responsibility. Understand?”

The big man’s cold gaze met Capone’s. It was only for an instant, but what Ruby read in that glance chilled her. For the pilot, getting caught wouldn’t be an option.

“Do you understand?” Colucci demanded again.

Art nodded. “Yes, I understand.” Ruby’s fear deepened. She knew how much her father wanted to buy a better life for her and for himself. But the price was too high. This job was too dangerous.

“Wait.” She broke into the conversation, hoping to stall his decision, give him time to change his mind. “I have some questions, Mr. Colucci. What if the buyer doesn’t show up, or doesn’t pay?”

Colucci shrugged. “The buyer doesn’t get the product until he’s paid for it in full. And the pilot gets paid after we get paid, Mrs. Weaver. That’s how it works. Any more questions?” His manner made it clear that as a woman, she’d spoken out of turn.

“This isn’t really a suggestion, Mr. Colucci,” Ruby said. “But you need to be aware of something. The Jenny is a small plane—and an old plane. Even stripped down, with no spare fuel and only one person in the cockpit, it can’t carry more than a few hundred pounds of cargo. And when you’re talking glass bottles in crates, that isn’t much. If you want to make money, you’re going to need a bigger airplane.”

---