Iron Ties (18 page)
The General.
Inez dropped the letter to her lap. She stared out at the tack room. Dust motes hung in the air, nearly motionless. Her first thought
: This note could help prove Susan’s story, at least the part about men discussing killing a general! I should show it to Justice.
Her second thought:
Damn Justice Sands! I’ll take it to Ayres.
After that, her thoughts charged in, too fast to number, tumbling in various directions, keying off the few words in the message.
What general are they talking about? No one knew Grant was even considering heading this way until recently. What oath? What brothers?
And finally, more soberly:
Does this really “prove” anything? And will anyone care?
She looked at the wrapped bundle of letters.
Does Eli have brothers, family somewhere? Hollis said not. Of course, it sounds like Hollis pretty much says whatever he wants about Eli. They were friends. They fought side by side during the war. No family. And Eli’s not here to set the record straight
.
She gently slid the photocase back into Eli’s saddlebag.
His wife is dead, that much is clear. But maybe there ARE brothers somewhere. In which case, they should be notified of Eli’s disappearance. Or death.
Decision made, she unwound the purple cloth, laid the lone letter on top of the others, and rolled the cloth around the whole bundle of letters. She wrapped the rawhide cords back around the saddlebags, doing one turn less to allow room for quick knot-tying. She set the bags back on the short stack of blankets and piled the rest on top. Feeling fairly certain that things looked as before, she stuffed the bundle containing the letters into the pocket of her cloak, snuck Jack’s knife back under his makeshift bed and snoring form, and left the livery.
***
Stepping through the State Street doors of the saloon, Inez found it hard to believe this wasn’t a Saturday night. The bar was nearly hidden beneath elbows and a sea of glassware. The jars that held pickled eggs and crackers were empty. Every chair at every table was taken. Those who couldn’t find a seat or a place at the bar held up the walls while working on beers, slices of cherry pie, and other victuals.
Michael O’Malley pushed through the kitchen passdoor, balancing a full tray of bowls, pies, and coffee mugs. His apron was askew, and his blonde hair, so carefully combed that morning, was now an unruly mop.
Behind the bar, Sol tapped a barrel of beer, a row of glasses arrayed before him. As for Abe—she hadn’t seen him smiling so broadly since winning big at the races the previous summer. From what Inez could ascertain, he was mixing a handful of Brandy Smashers. The tinkling of the piano, muffled by intervening bodies and conversation, assured her that Taps was still at his post.
She wormed her way past knots of men. Solid, business types, watch chains stretching across ample bellies, off-shift miners readily identifiable by their pasty complexions and broad shoulders, men from the smelters down the road, even some men she pegged as being from the Rio Grande construction crews. A group of men she figured as money men from out of town stood apart—or as apart as they could in such crowded quarters. In their tailored suits, they looked for all the world as if they were in their gentlemen’s club in New York or Chicago. Their cold eyes took in the unlikely crowd in the room. Inez could almost imagine them toting up the worth of the town for investment, using this representative slice of its workforce for a guide. A fellow she recognized as keeping company with the local silver barons did the talking. As she passed the group, she heard him say, “Now Tabor, he’s got the Midas touch. The Little Pittsburg is almost worked out, no doubt about it, I can’t say otherwise. But Leadville’s still full of possibility and future. The silver runs here and there. Still much to be found. There’s the Matchless, a real winner, going great guns, and the Chrysolite, they incorporated. Solid bankers behind the Chrysolite. Henry Post of New York. Charles Whittier and William Nichols….”
She greeted the men she knew and eventually made her way to behind the bar. She asked Abe, “Has it been this way all afternoon?”
He slid the last Smasher to a serious-faced young banker at the other side of the mahogany counter. “Was even better earlier.” He flashed her a wide smile, all teeth. “Damn, but the Fairplays drew in nearly every man passin’ by, even at a dollar a head. They all ponied up without a fuss and stayed to drink in the bargain. How was your church picnic?”
A vision of Sands and Birdie rose up, unbidden. Fury boiled up inside Inez like heat rising through a pot of water on a stove.
Abe’s eyebrows shot up at her expression. “That good? Hmmph. Guess you should’ve stayed here. We could’ve used your help. Right, Sol?”
“Right,” he grunted, shifting an empty beer keg under the bar.
“Well, I’ll lend a hand now. Just let me run upstairs for a moment.”
She headed for the stairs, stopping by Taps as he ended “Little Brown Jug” with an enthusiastic flourish.
He grinned up at her. “Hey, Mrs. Stannert. You sure missed a great show. But maybe they’ll do it again next week.”
“And what show was that?”
“Well—”
A customer appeared with a beer and handed it to Taps. “For you, fine fella. Good job.”
Taps flushed happily and accepted the drink. “Thank you, sir.” He took a gulp, then set it on top of the piano next to a stein overflowing with coins and crumpled paper bills. He pulled the music off the stand and handed it to Inez. “You’d like this, Mrs. Stannert. Maude—that is, Mrs. Fairplay—sang while I played these ditties from Shakespeare. Didn’t know the Bard wrote songs.”
She opened
Cheerful Ayres and Ballads
and scanned the score for “Come unto these yellow sands,” “Full fathom five,” and “Where the bee sucks.”
Inez fanned herself with the music, inspecting the piano player’s glowing face. “So, they did bits from
The Tempest
. And Mrs. Fairplay played Ariel? The spirit who sings these songs?”
He clasped his hands like a giddy child. “She enchanted everyone.”
“Enchanted them, did she? And how far above the ankle did the enchantment go?”
His grin faded into puzzlement, then he looked abashed. “Oh. Her costume.” He cleared his throat and reached for the beer. “It was artistic. Flowing, rather. Parts came up nearly to the,” he avoided her eyes, “knee. But only sometimes,” he added hastily. “The material…floated. Gauzy, I guess you’d call it.”
“Gauzy,” said Inez, picturing Maude in a swirl of silk veils and tulle, a-flowing across the floor. “Well, enough of this. I’ve work to do.”
She hurried upstairs and made a quick examination of the office and back room. Her dressing room was neat and tidy…almost too so. The washbowl was empty, the pitcher full of clean water. An unused towel folded to one side. Retreating to the office again, she cast an eye around the room.
All looked proper, in its place.
She went to her desk to deposit Eli’s letters. As she pulled up the rolltop, her gaze snagged on William’s photo, still on display on top of the desk.
But not quite as she had left it.
The photo was not directly in her line of view as it had been while she worked the ledger but was now angled away. “Damn her!” Inez said fiercely.
She stuffed the bundle of letters into a pigeonhole of her desk and then closed the photocase, tenderly sliding it into another compartment, safe and out of sight.
***
By common consent, they agreed to close at ten. At quarter to, Jed Elliston sauntered in. Or attempted to. The crowd made sauntering extremely difficult. He finally made his way to the bar and squeezed in between two groups. “Say, Mrs. Stannert, some of your best
spiritus frumenti
, if you would.”
Grumbling, she turned to examine the backbar. “You’re lucky there’s anything left.” She rescued a bottle of Old Gideon and a glass that looked at least marginally clean and proceeded to pour.
Jed saluted her with the full glass. “Happy Fourth, Mrs. Stannert. You missed quite the show today in your establishment. Well, you can read all about it in the next issue of
The Independent
.” He drank, sighed, and said, “Fine as silk. Seen the good reverend lately?”
Inez stiffened and pulled back. “No.”
“Hmm.” Jed swirled the liquor in the glass, casually. “Wanted to ask him what he’s been up to lately.”
The image of Sands and Birdie seared her memory.
So do I.
“Why?”
“Saw him Friday, in the Texas House Saloon. In a back corner with McMurtrie, Snow, Doc, and that big railroad fellow, the one who came to the game last night with the kid, but didn’t play. Seemed like an odd set of ducks to be paddling in the waters together. The reverend didn’t look happy either. Wondered what would bring the five of them together. Wanted to ask him about it last night, after the game. But you both slipped away before I could catch up.”
“Well.” She banged the cork into the bottle, a trifle harder than necessary. “Guess you’ll have to ask him. Or Doc. Or Snow. Or Holt. Or McMurtrie. Now drink up, we’re closing.”
She turned to look at Abe, who was busy mopping the counter with a sopping bar rag. “Shall I do last call, Abe?”
“Sure.”
On her way to the stairs, Inez stopped and asked Sol, “Would you walk me home tonight? Since Abe will be closing.”
Sol looked at her in surprise. “Sure, Mrs. Stannert. But what about—”
“Thank you.” She ascended the stairs, leaned on the balcony railing, and let the murmur of men’s voices wash over her. Taking a deep breath, she announced, “Last call!”
The sea of hats tipped back, displaying disappointed faces. Someone yelled, “Now, Mrs. Stannert, don’t be that way! Where we gonna go for a night cap?”
She put a hand on her hip. “If you find that you’ve a deeper thirst than a final night cap here can quench, there’s Pap Wyman’s, right across the street. And for anyone who feels the weight of sinning on a Sunday, be sure to read a few good words from the Bible he has chained next to the entrance and reflect upon their meaning.”
Groans, moans, and curses reflected what they thought of that. She went into her office, her smile fading with the light as the door shut behind her.
Inez lit a coal oil lamp and took it with her into the dressing room. She washed her face, feeling the sheen of dust and sweat from the day slide from her. Patting her face dry, she examined her dress in the lamplight and decided against changing. Her linen cuffs and collar, she noted absently, needed a thorough cleaning. She left the dressing room, extinguished the lamp and stood for a moment, looking out the window. Flashes of light here and there showed that celebrating was still in full swing. She felt completely alone in a world intent on throwing one huge party.
Enough.
She left the office, locking the door.
Inez was coming down the staircase, adjusting her gloves, when she sensed a gaze upon her. She looked up to see Reverend Sands across the room by the State Street door, eyes leveled on her.
Blood rushed to her head in a deafening roar, sweeping away her rationalizations and leaving her trembling with a white-hot rage.
Breaking eye contact, she took the last two steps in a single bound. Ignoring Sol’s startled “Ma’am?” Inez swung out the Harrison Avenue door and started up the street. Carriages and other conveyances were now straggling back into town, horses and drivers tired and dusty—some of those at the reins more than a little drunk, judging by the blue language flying through the air and the crack of whips. Men in groups, families tugging tired, small children, all pushed to make headway on the boardwalks.
Inez struggled to angle around a mother with a perambulator, only to be grabbed by a familiar hand.
“Whoa, Inez. Didn’t you see me?” Sands swung into her line of vision. A string of firecrackers rattled in the street, sounding like rapid rifle fire.
At the sight of his face, she felt something inside her explode with an intensity of gunpowder.
“Oh I saw you. Most definitely. At the picnic.” She tried to pull away, but he held tight.
“You came to the picnic?” His eyes searched her face under the street lamps. “I didn’t see you.”
“I could tell. And neither did Miss Snow.”
He frowned.
“I saw you both. Together. Out,” she gestured with her free hand, “in the woods.”
Understanding dawned. “You think that Birdie and I….” He pulled her closer. “What did you see?”
She pulled back, aware of the whinnying of panicked horses in the street. Aware of the reverend’s body close to hers. “Enough. Enough to know that you didn’t keep your side of our bargain.”
He grabbed her by both shoulders with a sudden violence that stopped her cold. “You’re taking this out of context, Inez.”
“Tell me about this so-called context.”
He paused. “I can’t go into that.”
“Oh? Afraid of betraying a confidence? A confession?”
“Inez. It wasn’t what it appeared to be.”
“You’re trying to play me for a fool,” she shouted. “I won’t have it!”
A hole opened in the crowd ahead of her. She ripped away from Sands and darted through.
She’d rounded the corner onto Fourth and was nearly home before he caught up with her.
“I’ve no time to deal with your foolishness, Inez.” He sounded as if he was struggling to contain his anger. “I came tonight to tell you, I’m leaving town—”
She stopped mid-stride.
“—for a couple of weeks,” he finished.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
He sighed and looked up at the cloudless night sky, pricked with stars, the moon bright enough to cast shadows. His expression was grim. Exasperated. “I can’t go into that.”
She studied him, his strained posture. “This isn’t church business.”
“No.” Irritation whipped through the word. Then his voice softened, became almost pleading. “Inez, trust me. Don’t pursue this.”
“Not church.” She contemplated other possibilities. Jed’s remark, less than an hour before, surfaced. “This has to do with Preston Holt, or General Palmer, the railroad, or….”
Something awful reared inside her. A certainty not of her liking twisted tight as a noose around her neck. “Is Mr. Snow involved in this?”
“Drop it, Inez.”
She took a step backward. “Tell me this: Is Miss Snow party to your mysterious excursion?”
“I’ll not play Twenty Questions with you.” His eyes pinned her, warning. “We don’t have much time together. In a few hours, I’ve got to pack, get ready to leave.”
She sneered. “Don’t forget the French envelopes. They’ll come in handy, I imagine.”
The shock on his face was immediately swallowed by anger. “Damn it, Inez! Birdie isn’t that sort of girl.”
“And I
am
?”
She broke away and ran the last few steps to her house. As she struggled to put the key to the lock Sands appeared beside her. “Inez, look at me.”
She set the key to the lock and turned it. He stopped her. “Look at me.”
She looked straight into his eyes. Everything in that silvered light was either black or white. With the wide brim of his hat casting a dark shadow over most of his face, she couldn’t see anything beyond the furious set of his jaw.
Yet his words, when he spoke, were shatteringly gentle. “Who are you so angry at, Inez? Is it just me?”
She pushed the door open. Swung around to block his entrance. “Don’t even think about inviting yourself in.”
She began to close the door.
He stayed the door with one hand. “Don’t shut the door on me, Inez.” The words were pleading, but the tone carried a threat.
She contemplated that hand for a moment. Long fingers, square clean nails. Strong, capable. She remembered the first time he’d come to her, searching for information about a murdered man. She’d hesitated, looked first at his hand—the hand of a physical man, unsettling in a supposedly spiritual leader—and then his eyes. She’d let him into her house, and later, into her heart and her bed. She remembered all the slow savoring pleasure his hands, mouth, and body brought to her.
He must have sensed her wavering. He leaned forward, his hold on the door relaxing. “We’ve got to talk. Let me in. Let me explain.”
A wild anger, all out of proportion, erupted within Inez. With a violence that surprised even her, she slammed the door.
Sands snatched his hand away, barely escaping crushed fingers.
Inez locked the door, then, remembering that he had a key, drew the bolt. She leaned her forehead against the wood, willing her blood to slow its ferocious pounding through her temples.
An echo of the reverend’s words sprang from her past: “Darlin’, darlin’, let me in. We’ve got to talk. Let me explain, Inez.” And she’d stand behind the hotel door, shaking with anger and betrayal, as Mark pleaded on the other side. Straight from some woman’s bed, her perfume still lingering in his hair.
She pressed the flat of her palms to her eyes.
He’s not Mark. He’s not Mark.
The quiet was overwhelming. She’d expected to hear a key in the lock, a pounding on the door.
She rubbed her eyes hard. Then cautiously opened the door.
The porch was empty.
He was gone.