Iron Ties (26 page)
“Jumpin’ Jehosephat!” shouted a newsman.
Clapping a hand to her stinging neck, Inez spun around.
One of her newest acquisitions, a painting of Napoleon on a horse with an expanse of French countryside in the background, hung crookedly from its wire, its glass destroyed, a neat hole in the general’s hat.
Inez whirled back, taking care to step away from the window’s line of sight.
She saw a man, silhouetted, clamber out of one of Flo’s second-story windows and jump to the roof of the saloon next door, disappearing into darkness. He carried a stick-like object in one hand.
But Inez knew, it was no stick.
“The bastard!” she snarled. “He nearly killed me!” She took her hand away from her neck. Blood coated her fingers. The stinging increased.
Excited gabbling filled her ears. The newsmen, Jed in the forefront, crowded to the window, jostling for a better look, heedless of their own safety.
“What bastard?” Jed leaned out the window, peering to either side.
“I don’t know, but I’m damn well going to find out!”
Doc came forward, distress on his features, handkerchief extended. “Mrs. Stannert! Please, let me look at that.”
“Not now!” She snatched the proffered cloth from Doc and ran to the door, holding her skirts up with one hand, the handkerchief to her bleeding neck with the other.
Inez clattered down the stairs, aware of the thunder of feet behind her. She pounded through the dimly lit kitchen and shot out the back door. Anger boiled up and over the common-sensical voice that whispered against venturing out into the dark alley in her good clothes.
She stopped and pulled her small gun out of its secret pocket sewn into the seam of her evening dress. Then, attempting to grip the pistol and hold her skirts out of the filth with the same hand, she moved purposefully through Tiger Alley, eyes to the deep shadows for a lurking gunman.
“Mrs. Stannert, wait!” Jed caught up with her, panting. “Hold on! You can’t just go running through the alley like this!”
“Oh no?” She kept moving, forcing him to keep pace.
Before long, she was surrounded by the pressmen, who, she suspected, were looking forward to writing up some sensationalist snappy story for their representative rags.
“Where’d the shot come from?” one asked.
“Frisco Flo’s boardinghouse.” Inez banged her toe on something hard.
“Boardinghouse?” came another voice, dubious.
“Oh, call it what it is,” said a third. “The cathouse down on the corner.”
A long, low whistle from the back. “That’s some shot. And at night. How far away d’ya think the gunman was?”
Someone began calculating aloud. “Well, the front of the lots are twenty-five feet wide. There’re what, nearly thirty lots on the block? That’s about….”
Inez stepped into something that squelched nastily into her second-best shoes, cursed, and slowed to a stop behind the Palace Hotel.
“C’mon Mrs. Stannert.” Jed headed down the side of the building. “If you want to find out who pulled the trigger, the best thing to do is head for the front door and ask Flo who was in that room.”
Grumbling, Inez conceded that Jed’s course of action was probably best.
The entire party arrived at Frisco Flo’s impressive brick fortress and attempted to crowd up on the tiny porch. A doorman opened the door and bristled at the invasion.
“Someone shot at Mrs. Stannert from one of your upstairs rooms,” Jed said accusingly.
Inez pushed to the front of the group and said to the doorman, who was nearly the size and shape of the door he guarded, “Tell Madam Flo that Mrs. Stannert would like to speak to her. Now.” The handkerchief, pressed to her wound, was beginning to drip. Her neck felt as if it were on fire.
Behind the doorman, Inez could hear a confusion of squeals and loud exclamations. “Is that the police?” cried a feminine voice. Cries of panic—not all from women—increased in volume.
“Quiet!”
Inez recognized Flo’s voice, although it had none of its usual congenial, slightly dizzy cheerfulness.
Flo shouldered past the doorman. “Oh for the love of….It’s not the police, girls. What’s this, someone shot you, Mrs. Stannert?”
“From one of your rooms on the second floor.”
Flo’s ample bosom heaved in a heavy sigh. “And who’re all these gents?”
Inez, with difficulty, turned her head. Sure enough, most of them were still taking notes. “The Colorado Press Association.”
“Inkslingers.” Flo pressed against the doorframe, considering. “Well, our visitors all vanished out the back door. Come on in, fellas. We’ve a special fondness for newsmen as long as they get the story straight.”
They all squeezed into Flo’s entrance hall.
Women clustered on the stairs in various states of deshabille, hair tumbling down, piled up, bare feet, shoes without stockings, stockings without shoes….
Flo turned to them. “I’m going to ask one more time.” There was steel to the velvet in her voice. “Who left that window open?”
Not a sound. All the women’s eyes were now trained on the men staring up at them.
Flo sighed. “When I took over this place, I had all the bars from the windows removed. Most of you girls remember. I figured, well, in a fire, we all need more than the front and back doors. But—” her voice hardened— “if I discover someone is taking advantage of my good nature, she’ll be out on the street servicing johns in the alleys.”
She turned back to Inez and the others and crossed her white arms, deepening the cleavage offered by her low-cut gown. “I’ve no idea who fired that shot. It came from a room that’s been vacant for a while now. Evidently,
some
one went in there
some
time this evening, opened the window and….Well, apparently it’s an easy matter to get on the rooftop next door and clamber through the window.” She sniffed in disgust. “Something I hadn’t considered before, but I certainly will now. Who knows
who
has been slipping in a free one now and again. In any case, we heard the shot. Tiny here,” she nodded at her doorman, “went up right away, but the door was jammed shut from the inside. Someone had braced a chair against it. By the time we got in….” She shrugged. “Toodle-oo. Gone.”
Flo lifted her head high and addressed the newsmen. “This is the first time we’ve ever had any trouble like this. You all from Denver? Well, you can tell your readers that Frisco Flo runs a tight ship, the girls are clean and well-behaved, and we take kindly to visitors. In fact, I do believe we’ll offer a special tonight. Half-off our usual rates for the next couple of hours.”
There was a general shuffle of feet behind Inez. She turned to see notebooks snap shut. Some of the men looked hopeful. Others looked discomfited.
The door squeaked open behind them. Inez heard a babble of animated male voices, including: “I been savin’ my wages for three weeks for this.” Chatter ceased at the tableau of newsmen and Inez in the foyer facing off Flo and the women on the stairs.
Inez saw one of the prostitutes—young, curly dark hair, extremely thin—cover her mouth as if in surprise or to stop a shout. She faded behind the others, wide eyes on the entrance.
Next to Inez, Wood from the
Colorado Springs Gazette
twisted around to eyeball the newcomers, then said in an undertone to a colleague, “Say, isn’t that fellow back there the one who gave us the scoop on the railroad trouble?”
Inez turned her head to see whom they were talking about.
A gaggle of Rio Grande men stood uncertainly just inside the door, including Sketch, looking all spiffed up, Delaney, looking pugnacious, the professor, looking aghast, and Reuben, looking sullen and scuffing a muddy boot.
Suddenly, the floor tilted sideways under her feet and threatened to slam her into the wall.
Jed grabbed her arm. “Steady, Mrs. Stannert. Let me walk you back. Doc should take a look at that.”
Flo’s expression melted into concern. “If I find out who it was—”
“You let me know,” Inez said. “And I’ll make sure he doesn’t do it again.”
Jed, holding her steady, pushed through the crowd to the door. Once outside, the cold air revived her enough that she could walk, albeit unsteadily. Jed volunteered his handkerchief, which she pressed over the blood-soaked one.
Back inside the warm confines of the Silver Queen, Inez allowed Abe and Jed to help her to the kitchen, where Doc waited.
“More blood than damage,” he announced after cleaning and examining her wound. “Keep it covered. A hot toddy—no stinting on the whiskey—a good night’s sleep, and you’ll suffer nothing more than a stiff neck. You’re very lucky. A major artery lies just below the surface. Why, I remember in the war—”
A knock on the door interrupted Doc’s reminiscences. Sol entered, hand clenched into a fist, looking worried, then relieved. “Good to see you’re out of surgery, ma’am. Thought you’d like to see what we dug out of that picture.”
He opened his hand.
A bullet, sides cut in a hexagon, dull and dark, lay on his palm.
At seven the next morning, neck sore and stinging, Inez perched sidesaddle atop Lucy where West Third met the Boulevard. She kept watch south, the early morning sun touching her cheek, twisting Lucy’s reins around her fingers.
True to her words, she’d decided to forgo men’s trousers that day.
The sidesaddle was courtesy of the livery a block from the saloon. For a fee, they’d been happy to feed and shelter Lucy overnight and supply the gear.
Thank goodness. Don’t think I could’ve managed going all the way back to Hollis’ place.
She sometimes wondered about the wisdom of keeping her horse so far away—even though she hated the thought of leaving Jack.
She straightened up as the bottom of her riding corset pinched her skin, reminding herself not to slouch, and rearranged the folds of her dark gray overskirt. She didn’t own a tailored riding costume like those worn by ladies from Chicago and New York summering in the mountains. Still, her broadcloth skirt was full and long, her boots were stout, her gloves were gauntleted, and her jacket was the same material as the skirt. Beneath the collar of her white shirtwaist, Inez had wound a soft black cloth around her wounded neck.
The only discordant note to her fashionable ensemble was the Sharps rifle, tucked in a scabbard, and her pocket pistol, invisible to all, but a comfort in case of trouble.
Her hand clenched the reins tighter and the fluttering in her stomach turned into a roil when she recognized the figure of Preston Holt on the large bay heading her way.
After greeting each other, Preston said, “Thought about where you want to go?”
“Maybe up Colorado Gulch or past Soda Springs,” she said. “It’s a nice ride, not too far. We’re early enough that we may have the road nearly to ourselves. The after-church crowd won’t be out yet.”
He nodded. “Think I know a place, if I can find it again.” He fell in beside her. Gave her a penetrating glance, then said, “Understand Delaney found you coming out of the bunk car at camp yesterday.”
Oh Christ.
“Oh yes.” She looked out at the horizon, as if studying the distance to Mount Massive ahead. “Well, it was that photocase I was trying to return to you. I was directed to the bunk car. I knocked at the door, but no one responded.”
Think fast.
“At that point, I thought maybe I’d misunderstood, so I tried another car. I finally returned, knocked again, and, yes, I’ll admit I was curious.”
Slide in some truth
. “So I went in. Shouldn’t have, I know. No one was there, and I was on my way out when Delaney showed up. Nearly scared me to death.”
He watched steadily, without comment, throughout her performance. She wasn’t certain if she’d been successful until she saw the wariness on his face give way to a smile. “Like I said before, can’t imagine much scares you, Mrs. Stannert.”
“When someone points the business end of a firearm at me, I pay serious attention.” She adjusted the loop of rein over her hand.
I hope he doesn’t think I took that gun. Time to talk of something else less volatile
.
“That fellow Sketch rescued me from Delaney’s wrath. Is he a payroll guard, too? Is that what you’ve been doing since the war, working for railroads? Why didn’t you go back to Missouri, if that’s where your family’s from?”
He tipped his head back and laughed.
It was the first time she’d heard an all-out laugh from him. It was a warm, uncomplicated sound. Reminded her of a C major chord, played straight out. No dark undertones, all out front.
“Whoa there. That’s a lot of questions.”
“Oh, I apologize. It isn’t really proper of me to ask.”
“I don’t mind talking some about it.” He was quiet for a while, as if deliberating where to start. Finally, “I never had a hankering to farm. That was my brother’s road. The only thing Pa taught me that was useful was to shoot.”
“So you and your brother fought in the war on different sides.”
He pushed back his hat. “Yep. I was for the North. Time came to enlist, I went to Pennsylvania and passed the shooting test to qualify for Berdan’s unit. Pa would’ve turned in his grave to know his lessons went to helpin’ the Union. Hiram joined up with a sharpshooting unit on the other side—Pindall’s Ninth Missouri. After the war, Hiram stayed in Missouri, I drifted on.”
Ninth Missouri.
Another clink as an iron link in the broken chain closed.
Jack said that Elijah Carter fought in the Ninth Missouri.
She spoke cautiously. “The other man in the photocase. With your brother. I believe he was Elijah Carter. He owned a livery in Leadville. His horse was one of the two I found wandering around the day of the rockslide. I’ve been told that Elijah fought in the Ninth Missouri, like your brother. And, he owned this Sharps.” She patted the gun in her scabbard. “Sold it just before leaving town. Apparently, he was leaving for good. I wonder if Elijah was a sharpshooter too.”
Preston’s brows drew together.
Tread carefully now.
“I don’t mean to pry. But I’ve been trying to find the connections between the two men Miss Carothers saw arguing on the tracks and….Well, you know what she says happened after that. So who was on the Rio Grande horse?”
“You’re sure full of questions.”
“Well, I thought, once we arrive at our destination, we’ll be busy shooting and so on.” A blush climbed up her face under the wide-brimmed hat at what “so on” brought to her mind. “I believe Susan’s story. And I’m at a loss as to the connection between Elijah and the Rio Grande man he met at the tracks—”
Suddenly, the pieces fell together. Like random notes that, when played as one, form a decidedly minor chord. “Oh no. Was the horse your brother’s?”
Inez saw a troubled look flash across Preston’s face before he looked up the road. “Gotta preference for where we go from here, Mrs. Stannert?”
The Boulevard had reached the foot of Mount Massive, leaving the wide-open meadow behind. To the left, the smooth road led to Soda Springs and Evergreen Lakes. To the right, a well-traveled but rough thoroughfare wound up Colorado Gulch.
“To the left?” Inez said.
They turned to follow the Boulevard.
Preston finally spoke, his somber tone matching his expression. “Hiram’s wife—Reuben’s ma—died not long ago. Times were tough back home. So, when I heard, I saw a way to make amends. Hiram and Reuben, they’re my only kin now. Told ’em, if they came west, I’d help ’em get on their feet. They took me up on the offer. Shoulda known, though. Hiram didn’t like working for the Rio Grande. Didn’t like taking orders from anyone, especially Yankees. He always said, if it hadn’t been for the Union’s iron horse, the North would never’ve won the war.”
“Iron and blood,” Inez said to herself, thinking of Elliston’s toast to war with the Rio Grande.
“What’s that?”
“Someone once said that the important issues of our times are not decided by words and politics, but by iron and blood. Seems appropriate to the railroads as well as the War between the States. So that was Hiram’s horse I found?”
His mouth tightened in an unhappy line. “’Fraid so.”
She thought of what Jed had said about the explosion by the siding. “I heard the rockslide at the siding was no accident. That it was deliberately set.”
“No proof of that.” He sounded final. “When you brought the horse back, I talked with Reuben. He wouldn’t say anything at first. Finally told me he’d ridden to the railhead with his pa. Hiram took off, headed back to Missouri. Didn’t want no more to do with the railroad or the west, Reuben said.”
“And he didn’t take his horse? Why didn’t Reuben go with him?”
“The horse’s property of the Rio Grande, so Hiram did the right thing, leaving the horse. Reuben told me he wants to stay out west. That there’s nothing in Missouri for him. And I believe him.”
Inez thought of Reuben at the poker table, how completely he’d bluffed them all and walked off with the pot.
“But I found the horse—” she started.
“Reuben said the horse got away from him. He searched for a while, then gave up and went back to camp. I got no reason to disbelieve him.”
Inez marshaled her arguments, her suspicions, and prepared to march them out, one by one—then took a good look at Preston’s face, and changed her mind. She’d seen the same expression on plenty of men across the table and the bar as they struggled to talk themselves into believing something that, deep down, they had doubts about or knew wasn’t true.
There’s no way I’ll convince him while he’s arguing with himself. I’ll try another time, another way.
“Besides—” said Preston, then stopped.
“Besides?”
He tipped his hat forward. “Hiram and I had what you might call a big disagreement the night previous. Didn’t surprise me none that he left. Most folks thought he’d just headed out for the silver fields like the rest, and it seemed easiest to let them think what they were thinking. I’m hopin’ now, with Reuben staying on, I’ll get to know him better. Straighten him out a tad. I see a lot of Hiram in Reuben. Hotheaded. Impulsive. Don’t like taking orders. And Hiram never did let loose of the war. Course, he had a tougher time than I did.”
“Tougher time?”
“As Hiram saw it, he lost the war, lost the farm, lost his wife. Blamed it all pretty much on the Federalists, the Republicans, the Radicals, Grant. Me. Blamed everyone but himself. Didn’t help that, when the railroad came on through back home, he and the other farmers thought it’d all make life easier. Instead, the freighting rates just got so high, he had to give it all up.”
“Did Reuben say that?”
“Hiram did. Plenty of times. I remember the only time I went to visit after the war. Reuben was real young, must’ve been ten years or more ago. Anyhow, Hiram held a gun on me ’til I left. He was always the better shot, so, I didn’t argue. Especially not with that Whitworth pointed at my chest when I rode up and then at my back as I rode off.”
“Whitworth?”
“A rifle used by Confederate sharpshooters. The ones who earned it, that is. Had a hexagonal rifling system. Accurate up to a thousand yards.”
“Oh! That’s what I found—” Her throat closed on the words that almost jumped from her without thinking.
Under your bunk. The rifle.
He reached for Lucy’s bridle, pulled Inez to a halt beside him. “You found what?”
It was clear he wasn’t going to let go until she told him.
She cursed herself for the near dead giveaway and said, “When you lent me your coat that day, when it was raining. Well. After I returned it to you, I found a bullet and a percussion cap tangled up in my gloves. I’d put my gloves in your pocket, so I must have pulled it out with them. Anyway, the bullet was hexagonal shape. Very unusual. I kept it, thinking I’d have the opportunity to ask you about it, but kept forgetting. So it was from Hiram’s Whitworth?”
He held on. “Hiram gave it to Reuben, afore he left. I’ve been keeping it with me. It’s a valuable gun, and there’s been times folks have tried to steal it.”
So, it’s Reuben’s gun.
“I hope you have it under lock and key,” she said, knowing full well he didn’t. “Someone tried to kill me last night with a Whitworth, or a gun with a similar bore, from Frisco Flo’s cathouse a block away.” She undid the top button of her high collared shirt and pulled up the black cloth. “They nearly succeeded.”
The silence stretched between them several beats. Preston finally looked away.
Inez repositioned the neckband and redid the button. “So you see, I have a vested interest in knowing more about the rifle.”
“Someone stole it,” said Preston slowly. “’Bout the time Delaney says you were around.”
They began riding again.
Inez pressed on. “Did Delaney mention he caught two men lurking around the area before he stopped me?”
“Nope. He didn’t.”
“You might want to talk to him about that.”
“I will.” Preston sounded grim.
Inez wavered, uncertain whether to continue with her trail of questions. But there was one more person she hoped to link to the chain that stretched from Missouri to Colorado. “Just one last query, and I’ll not talk further of this. Did you ever hear or see anything of a schoolteacher from town, someone with initials B.D.?” A whisper from the schoolteacher’s letter,
“…coming out with fellow travelers…,”
seemed to hiss through the trees above them. “I believe he left town about the same time. Maybe even traveled with Reuben and Hiram.”
“Nope.”
Inez frowned, disappointed. For some reason, she’d felt certain that the schoolteacher who wrote to Elijah would have arrived with the others.
I would dearly love to know who this schoolteacher is. And who the Colorado Springs newsman spotted at Flo’s last night.
Preston was looking off into the woods. “There’ve been a few fellow Missourians riding in since Reuben and Hiram, looking for jobs. I do what I can to help them out. Have to say, most who signed on with the railroad took off the closer we got to Leadville. Got the itch to get rich, I guess. Here’s the place I was thinking of.” He veered off the main track, taking a side trail into the woods.
They went in a ways, until the trees opened up into a long meadow, and stopped by common consent. After watering the horses at a small creek nearby, they found a shady place with grass to tether the horses.
“What’ll it be, Mrs. Stannert. Shooting first?”
“Sounds good to me. And please, call me Inez.”
Preston removed two empty tin cans from his saddlebag, slid the Sharps from her scabbard, and disappeared toward the meadow. Inez lingered by Lucy, picked a stray burr from her forelock, and tickled her nose. Lucy snorted and nudged Inez’s hand. “Nothing to give you right now, girl,” she said. “Maybe later.”
Inez fished out the box of cartridges and walked to the edge of the meadow. Preston was coming back from the other end, pacing the length.
He reached her and asked, “Done much shooting, Mrs. Stannert?”
“A fair amount. Target shooting, when I was younger. Like your father, mine taught me to shoot.”
He ran his hands over the Sharps in a familiar fashion. A little shiver caught her unawares.