Iron Ties (17 page)
She’d barely rounded the corner to Chestnut when she spied a buckboard rattling her way, holding Susan, Terry O’Loughlin, Mrs. Flynn, a couple of other young women she didn’t recognize, and Mr. Braun at the reins.
“What good timing!” Susan’s brown eyes were shining under a broad-brimmed hat that was a cousin to Inez’s, except for a green ribbon surrounding the crown. “We were just going to drive past your….” Susan looked around at the other women in the wagon. “Well. And here you are! Mr. Braun had offered to see if you could come.”
“As you see, I can indeed.”
Braun pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake, before stepping from the wagon. “Mrs. Stannert,” he said gruffly. “An honor.” He took the pie from her, passed it to Miss O’Loughlin, and gave her a hand up into the wagon.
Inez settled next to Susan and said in a low voice, “Your landlady is coming?”
Susan grabbed the wooden seat as the buckboard jerked forward. “I mentioned this picnic to her and she expressed an interest,” Susan whispered back. “She said it sounded like a proper event, and even convinced some of the other boarders to come along.”
Inez twisted in her perch to see the women seated behind her. Mrs. Flynn sat, parasol upraised, its fringe fluttering. Her pale striped summer dress was hemmed with layers of knife pleats and ruches, looking, Inez thought, more appropriate for a tea in the parlor than a picnic by the springs. Mrs. Flynn was observing the street scene with interest, the ribbons of her bonnet streaming down the back of her neck. She acknowledged Inez with a nod and smile. “Mrs. Stannert, good to see you again. It’s been so long since I’ve been out to a social. It was very kind of Miss Carothers to invite me and the other ladies.” She leaned forward and said in a confidential tone to Inez, “I recently completed two years of mourning for my departed husband. Otherwise, I would have declined.”
“I brought some lemons.” Susan nudged a net bag at her feet. “We can make lemonade at the springs.”
“I’ve not been to Soda Springs before, Mr. Braun.” Mrs. Flynn cocked her head and twirled her parasol in a manner that Inez thought positively coquettish. “How far do we have to go?”
“Just five miles. We go on the Boulevard. It is a very smooth ride. Just one steep hill, not so bad.” He turned the horses at Third and headed west.
Inez clamped a gloved hand to her flapping straw hat so it wouldn’t take flight. As the buckboard left West Third Street proper and approached the toll gate, she marveled at the road—sixty feet wide, smooth, solid, and amazingly free of dust—no longer the crooked “Lunatics Lane” from a year ago. The sun, the gentle breeze, the chattering and laughing of the women around her all conspired to improve her disposition.
Once they arrived, Inez and Mr. Braun positioned several blankets in the shade of some pines. Susan, still relying on her cane, settled on a picnic blanket with Mrs. Flynn nearby. The boarders oohed and aahed over the scenery. Several decided to wander the trails and explore the soda and iron springs.
After shaking out the last blanket, Inez looked up at the forested slopes of Mount Massive. She took a deep breath. The sharp, dusty scent of pine cleared her lungs and her mind.
“Inez, would you take these over to the tables?” Susan indicated the bag of lemons and the cherry pie on the blanket. As Inez retrieved them, Susan added in a low voice, “And maybe you could find Reverend Sands? I’d like to introduce him to Mrs. Flynn and the teachers from the boardinghouse. I’m hoping they’ll eventually join our church.”
Inez smiled at Susan. “I’ve no doubt that, once they meet him, they’ll be singing in the choir by next Sunday.”
She strolled over to the long tables where Mrs. Warner, presiding over the desserts, was guarding pies, sweets, and melting ice cream from a gaggle of small boys. Inez caught the tail end of what sounded like a lecture in nutrition. “When those plates are clean as a whistle and your mothers say so, then you can have some. And that goes for you too, Bradley.” She took an ineffectual swat at a red-headed youngster who made a successful grab-and-run with a handful of candies. The boys scattered.
Inez handed the flustered woman the pie and lemons, inquiring, “Have you seen the reverend?”
Mrs. Warner looked around distractedly, adjusting her bonnet, which was sliding dangerously over one ear. “He was here just a while ago. Oh yes. Miss Snow wanted to talk with him. I think they headed off in that direction.” She pointed toward one of the paths leading toward the springs.
Inez nodded her thanks, observing that Bradley and the rest were approaching from the rear, in what looked like an attempt to take the dessert table with a flanking maneuver.
She made her way down the path, enjoying the mountain air and sunshine. Children’s voices trilled above the lower pitched notes of the grown-ups. All receded behind her, and the song of birds took up the volume.
Granite slabs—some no bigger than a stepping stone, others the size of a small shed—were scattered among the trees. Inez stopped a moment, listening, trying to determine if what she heard was the murmuring of voices or perhaps a spring nearby or maybe both.
“Oh
please
say yes!”
There was no mistaking Birdie’s voice. Inez frowned and looked to the left. About twenty feet away was a large granite boulder.
Inez took a few silent steps, keeping the trees between her and the stone.
The sigh of boughs in the breeze mingled with the susurration of running water beyond the granite.
Birdie’s beseeching face came into view, along with the back of the reverend’s shoulder and frock coat.
What is he saying?
Inez paused behind one of the larger pines and strained to hear, but his voice was too low. From Birdie’s face, however, it appeared that his answer was not to her liking.
Inez wavered, trying to decide on a course of action.
Birdie seized his hand, clutching it to her breast. “Don’t say that. Oh, you don’t know, you just don’t know how I feel.” Her blue eyes were imploring. Tears began to slide down her cheeks.
Another low murmur.
Inez sensed a subtle shifting of stance between the two figures.
Something giving way.
The reverend extracted his hand from hers, raised it to her face, brushing away a tear.
She lifted her face to his—
Inez’s stomach twisted in a sharp somersault. She braced a hand on the tree trunk, the bark rough, sticky with sap.
Turning away, she stared down the path she’d come up. Numb. But knowing that the rage would come.
Lumbering toward her, still a goodly distance away, was Herr Braun, carrying two bowls. The white ceramic flashed hot in the sunlight, a beacon approaching.
Inez retreated hastily from the boulder field, nearly running back down the path as if she’d disturbed a hornet’s nest.
Braun held out a bowl of melting ice cream. “Mrs. Stannert. I was looking for you. The bookseller’s wife said this way—”
“Mr. Braun.” She seized his arm, ignoring the proffered bowl. “I find that I’m not feeling well. Not at all. May I impose on you for a ride back to town?”
“Surely. Surely.” He hesitated, then juggled the two bowls into one hand. The metal handle of a spoon caught a sunbeam, reflecting a needle of light sharp as betrayal into her eye.
Inez covered her face, blocking out the stab of light.
“Ach, Mrs. Stannert.” His concern sounded genuine. Hesitantly, he took her by the arm. “
Erlauben Sie mich, bitte
. Allow me. Please.” He led her back to the picnic grove. They passed a shrieking knot of children, all waiting their turn on a long single-strand rope swing. The girl in possession of the swing had wound the rope up and was now twirling—faster and faster—a clock spring unwinding, speeding up, as time rushed forward furiously. Only to overshoot, wind up in the opposite direction—and unwind again in reverse. Her skirts billowed out behind her, braid stuck straight out, her striped-stockinged legs a blur.
Inez’s thoughts careened in the same frenetic fashion.
There’s a reasonable explanation. I didn’t see what I thought I saw. She’s just a girl. He promised me
. Then, reeling the other way…
Don’t make excuses for him. Oh I saw plenty enough. It’s just like Mark. There was always another explanation. Another apology. And it never stopped. Never.
“Mrs. Stannert.”
Inez blinked. They were standing by the buckboard, the horses twitching their ears and shifting, shivering away the flies that buzzed around them.
Braun let go of her elbow and pulled down the step. “Please.” He helped her up into the wagon. “I’ll be right back.”
He bustled over to the tables, left off the dessert bowls, and stopped to confer with Susan. Susan’s eyes widened. She looked at Inez and struggled to stand. Inez shook her head and motioned her back down. Susan settled reluctantly. Braun gestured, and Inez filled in the approximate meaning: to town, back right away. Susan nodded, gave him a glass, and waved at Inez, who gave a half-wave in return.
Braun brought the lemonade to Inez and said simply, “For helping, perhaps,” before picking up the reins and attending to the business of getting the wagon back onto the road. The space of silence between them widened as Braun headed the horses back to town. Soda Springs and the noise of cheerful picnickers faded behind them. Suddenly thirsty, Inez drained the lemonade, thankful for the coolness.
“Better?” Braun asked a few minutes later.
“Some. Thank you.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said gruffly, “I hoped to talk with you. But maybe this is not the right time.”
She looked at him, dazed. “You wished to talk with me?” She could not imagine on what grounds their lives might have a common intersection, aside from the church.
He cleared his throat. “I know you are building in your saloon. It is your saloon, yes?”
She turned to look at him full on.
“I mean, you own the business?”
“I own it with my business partner, Mr. Jackson.”
Braun’s eyebrows shot up. “
Der Neger?
He is in the business with you?”
“If I interpret your questions correctly, yes, Abe is a colored. And yes, we are business partners, half and half.” Inez waited for the coda.
If he says anything that hints of disapproval or condemnation, I will get off this wagon and walk.
Braun clicked and snapped the reins. “Well then. I propose to make you and Herr Jackson a good deal on lumber.”
She relaxed a little, glad that she did not have to fight that battle, at least. “I’ll need to discuss it with him.”
“Ah, but my terms are good. I can give you a deal. But only for the next two weeks.”
“Two weeks….Before the railroad arrives?”
They’d reached the steep hill leading up to town. Braun snapped the reins again, with more vigor. The horses began to labor up the rise. “
Verdammte
railroad!” he muttered. “
Scheisskopf
Palmer.” He stopped, looked guiltily at Inez. “Excuse me. I lose my temper when thinking of this. I must close my business. So the stock must go.”
“Close your business?” Inez felt as if she’d fallen through a rabbit hole into some crazy world. She’d only wanted to escape from the picnic as quickly as possible, away from the sight of Birdie Snow and Justice Sands in each other’s arms. But now Braun had suddenly metamorphosed from a quiet, rather stiff gentleman to spouting what sounded like Teutonic swear words and announcing he was throwing over his business.
“But, weren’t you talking to the church about new pews? I remember you said something about green wood.”
“I hoped. I hoped I could persuade the church to buy soon. Ach, it’s no use. I cannot hold on any longer. The committee, it is too slow, and now, it’s too late. I cannot keep bleeding money. And once the railroad comes, no one will want my lumber, unless I sell at a loss. They bring it in cheaper than I can sell. Already, I cannot cover costs. It’s only a matter of time.
Ich werde bankrott sein.
”
She wasn’t entirely certain about the last statement, but suspected it had something to do with being bankrupt. The sulfur scent of the smelters grew stronger; the city limits were nearly upon them. “But, don’t you own more than the sawmill? I thought you have a charcoal business as well.”
“No charcoal,” he said bitterly. “The trees are gone in the gulch to make it with. And there is no time to move the business. Also ruined by the railroad. More charcoal, they bring it up from the south. So much of it. If I could have more time, slowed them down.” He cut himself off abruptly. “Where do you wish to go?” They had arrived at the corner of Chestnut and Harrison.
“If you wouldn’t mind, West Fourth Street, and about one block down.”
Braun turned the wagon, forcing the horses to fall in line behind a buggy.
They approached State Street; Inez risked a glance at the Silver Queen. From what she could see through the dusty window, the place looked packed.
She turned and caught Braun staring at the saloon as well. He looked at her with a bitter smile. “Frau Stannert. You are a businesswoman. A good one. I have watched your business since I arrived in Leadville, six months ago. It does well. You make the right decision to expand. I bought my businesses, thinking it would make me rich. But I was wrong. The railroad—
verdammte
Rio Grande. I should have seen what its coming would mean. How it brings in a flood of materials at cheap prices. But I was blind with greed. And hope. Now, I only hope I can escape with enough capital to start over.”
He stopped talking, concentrating on turning the horses and wagon across traffic to West Fourth.
When they reached her house, Inez said, “Thank you, Mr. Braun. I appreciate your kindness in bringing me home. And your frankness.”
“
Bitte schön
, Mrs. Stannert. You’re welcome.” He set the brake. “And I would appreciate if you would talk with Herr Jackson about my offer. Soon.”
Inez combed out Lucy’s black mane, grateful for the dimness of the stall, the patience of her animal. “I’m glad I came to see you,” she whispered, working the long-toothed comb through the coarse strands. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not bringing a treat nor taking you for a ride.”
It was enough to just be in the silent livery, without having to talk to anyone. No sooner had the buckboard and Mr. Braun departed than she’d realized she dreaded going into her home.
To do what? Pound on the piano? Drink more than I should and start throwing things around?
Going to the saloon also held no appeal. Having to run the gauntlet of customers in festive moods. Watching the Fairplays or, even worse, having to make small talk with Maude upstairs afterward. She did not trust herself to remain civil or sober.
So, she’d fled to the livery and Lucy. It was dark, quiet. All the carriages and most of the horses were gone. Neither Hollis nor Jack was in sight.
Inez stroked Lucy’s nose. The horse pushed her muzzle into Inez’s hand, perhaps not believing that there wasn’t a lump of sugar or an apple yet to appear. Inez dropped the comb onto an upside-down bucket that served as a makeshift table and picked up the currycomb.
She began brushing Lucy’s coat in rhythmic circular motions, speaking low and steady. “Well, girl. It’s just you and me again. What is it with men? None have a lick of sense when it comes to women. I swear, if Braun hadn’t shown up, I might have pulled the Smoot out of my pocket and shot them both!”
“Horses got way more sense than men ’round women.”
Inez whirled around to find One-Eyed Jack draped over the stall door, looking bleary. Straw stuck to the right shoulder and arm of his rusty black sack coat. A strand hung crooked from the brim of his dented derby.
“Jack! I didn’t know you were here. Is Hollis around?”
“Gone. Races. Racin’ Duke.” He gestured with the bottle in his left hand toward the back of the livery, where Hollis’ pet stallion, a rich chestnut sorrel, had his stall. Inez noticed that the bottle held in his three-fingered clasp was labeled “Jack Daniels Belle of London.”
“Belle of London?” she exclaimed. “You certainly know how to celebrate.”
“Yyyyyep.” He held out the bottle to her.
She slipped her hand out of the currycomb, took the bottle, wiped the lip off with a sleeve, and took a mouthful. It exploded in her mouth, searing her throat on the way down. She coughed, handed the bottle back.
Jack took a swig, apparently impervious to the firepower of the alcohol.
She ran a hand along Lucy’s back and felt Lucy’s muscles shiver under her touch. “So where did you come by that libation?”
“A present. From Eli. Afore he left. ’Cause of my name. I was savin’ for somethin’ shpeshal.” Exhausted from stringing so many words together, Jack leaned heavily on the gate and set his chin on the top bar as if searching for a way to hold himself perpendicular.
“Your name? Jack Daniels?”
“Dan-iel.” He emphasized the last syllable. “Belle ’cause…my wife was from the North. Like his.”
“Eli was a fine man.”
Jack held the bottle back out to her. “Real fine.”
She took the bottle, but didn’t drink. “I thought Eli fought for the South.”
Jack hiccupped and slowly nodded.
“Hollis said they fought together.”
“Nope. Don’t think so. Eli wasn’t Texas. Missouri sniper.”
“Eli Carter was a sniper for the Confederates? In Missouri?”
Missouri again.
“Sharpshooter. Ninth Missouri.” He waved the bottle desultorily. “In the war.”
“Hmmmm.” She rested a hand on Lucy’s warm flank and pondered how best to profit from Jack’s unusual loquaciousness. “Are you saying Eli’s no longer a proponent of the Southern cause?”
“Naw. Swore off. Gave up. Got married. Saw her picture once. Be-ooo-ti-ful. Like my Gustine.” His long face got even longer. “Eli ’n me. We put the war behind.” He looked down at his hand with the missing digits. “Gave it too much t’ give it any more.”
“But Hollis and Eli got along, yes?”
He looked mournfully at the bottle. “States’ rights, yeah, they agreed. Hell, me too, an’ I’m no secesher. But they were fightin’ all the time. Hollis havin’ conniptions ’bout Rio Grande and the big bugs—Palmer, Snow.”
“But they were business partners.”
Jack sighed. Beneath Inez’s hand, Lucy heaved an equine equivalent, as if to share in Jack’s pain. “Big mistake. Yellin’ all the time.” He waved the bottle. “’Bout that flag.” The amber liquor sloshed.
“What flag, Jack?”
Maybe Hollis had something to do with Eli leaving.
“Flag up there.” He gestured toward the front of the livery. Toward the office and the living quarters.
Inez remembered the shape on the wall, which she thought a quilt or blanket.
Eli rattled on. “Hollis said, keep it up. Eli said, take it down. Hollis said, damn you son of a bitch.” He looked up, attempting to focus on Inez. “Sorry, Mrs. Stannert. Shouldn’ta said that.”
“What happened then?”
“Hollis…wouldn’t back down.”
“So Eli quit the business and left town? Because they didn’t get along?”
Jack frowned. “Couldn’t agree on railroad right-of-way. But there was more. Got the gun. Got…a letter. Sold the gun. And left. Left real fast.”
Foreboding crawled up the back of Inez’s neck. “What gun?”
Another sorrowful sigh. “Real fine gun. Sharps rifle.”
Inez was silent, trying to digest the possibility that the Sharps she’d bought at the mercantile on a whim might have belonged to Eli Carter. She finally asked, “So, why did Eli leave?”
Jack shrugged eloquently. “Hollis followed.”
“Followed Eli?”
“Yep. Saddled up ’n followed when he found out. Hoooooo, he was mad. Eli didn’ even tell him he was goin’. Just told,” he burped again, “me.”
“What did Hollis say when he came back?”
“Nothin’. Came back. Actin’ ornery. Horse lathered up. Then later—you. With the horses ’n’ burro.” The firewater sloshed in the bottle as he gestured. “You left, Hollis cussed a blue streak.”
Hollis followed him. Could he have been at Disappointment Gulch? I didn’t see him on the road, but I could have missed him while on my way there.
Inez found it hard to believe that Hollis would have something to do with Eli’s apparent death or disappearance. That Hollis was capable of killing, she had no doubt. But Eli and he had spent time together, had been friends, at one time.
Still, if he was really angry….I can hardly waltz up and ask if he murdered his partner. So why did Eli leave? That might lead me to understand what happened at the gulch.
An idea began to take shape.
“Jack.” She went up to the gate, watching him closely. “You remember when I brought Eli’s horse back?”
Jack’s head sagged to one side. Inez, noticing the bottle was now empty, decided it might be an attempt to nod. “Do you know what happened to Eli’s saddlebags?”
“Eeerrrrmmmb.”
Apparently, Jack’s conversation was now limited by inebriation. Inez decided to stick to yes or no questions. “Did you give them to Hollis?”
“Hell no.”
“Did you take them?”
“Yyyyyep.”
“Did you look through them?”
“Nnnnoooope.”
“Where are they?”
Jack’s arms slipped from the gate. He staggered backward and whammed into the gate of the opposite stall, then, knees melting beneath him, slipped slowly to the ground.
Inez hurried out of the stall, latched it shut, and approached Jack. With much shaking and encouraging, she roused him enough to get him standing back up, and half supported, half dragged him to the back of the livery, across from the empty stall of Hollis’ racing horse.
His living quarters were a converted stall of hard-packed dirt and straw, a stool and small rickety table with a washbasin, and a bedroll on a straw tick. She managed to get him to lie down on the crude mattress. She wiggled a hand under the tick. Her fingers bumped against an object. She extracted a long knife, sheathed in leather.
Ah-ha! Could be useful if I find those saddlebags.
Leaning over him, Inez tried once more. “Jack. Where are Eli’s bags?”
Ear-racketing snores were his only answer.
Inez sighed
. I hope the nap sobers him up.
She left the stall, shut the gate behind her, and stood there, thinking.
The saddlebags are not in his room—such as it is. There’s no place to hide them, if they’re not under the mattress. Where else would Jack hide a set of saddlebags? The office? No, too conspicuous. Besides, that’s Hollis’ domain. So where does Jack spend his time, besides his room?
The stalls.
She shuddered, contemplating a search of each and every one.
The tack room.
Opting for the obvious and far easier area to search, Inez made her way to the tack room, near the front of the livery.
The room smelled of sweated leather, dust, and horse. Not much in the way of equipment was present. A rig with a sprung wheel. A few saddles. A jangle of bits and bridles. A pile of saddle blankets in the corner.
Blankets.
Inez hurried to the corner and began shifting the stack, blanket by blanket. Nearly at the bottom, she struck gold.
The distinctive fur-trimmed panniers. None the worse for wear.
Hastily, with one ear to the entrance for sounds of Hollis or returning riders, Inez undid the buckles. She worried the knots that held the leather lashings tight, then gave up and sliced the thongs with Jack’s knife. One saddlebag yielded a shirt, an extra pair of canvas pants, a pair of hose, and long johns. The other held a photocase of cracked leather, its covers bound with a black crepe ribbon, a packet of letters tied with a lavender ribbon and wrapped in a short length of matching purple cloth sprigged with small white flowers, a box of cartridges, and crinkled and nearly invisible in the depths of the leather bag, a much-creased thin envelope.
Inez hesitated over what to do next. Taking the bags flat-out was an iffy proposition, should Hollis come back or see her on the street with them
. But he’s at the races, and they’re likely to run until dark.
Still, if she should be caught in possession of them, it would be very hard to explain. And if Jack went looking for them and found them gone, she wasn’t sure what he’d do. Confront Hollis, perhaps? The results of such a confrontation, she suspected, could be lethal.
She rifled through the pockets of the clothes, feeling a bit like a grave robber, finally shoving the clothes and box of cartridges back into the bag.
Next, Inez untied the black ribbon and opened the photocase. A woman with dark hair stared out. Firm chin upraised, straightforward gaze. From what little was visible of the dress, it appeared to be made of the same cloth as was wrapped around the packet of letters. A braided lock of jet-black hair was neatly twined around the photo, framing it. Inez closed the photo and rewrapped the black ribbon around the photocase.
She turned her attention to the lone letter. The creased envelope was addressed to Elijah Carter, General Delivery, Leadville, Colorado. No return address. Postmarked June 23, from Colorado Springs. The single thin sheet of paper crinkled loudly as she pulled it out. There were no salutations. Just two lines, scrawled in pencil, in a childlike hand:
The General is coming. And others like him. Remember your oath to your brothers.