Iron Ties (6 page)

“Generals?”

“Generals,” she repeated, half to herself. “Susan said the two men argued about a general. General Palmer owns the railroad. Hollis mentioned General Lee when he raised a glass in Eli’s memory. Now, General Grant may be coming to town. Altogether too many generals.”

She stopped. And realized Preston Holt was also motionless.

Inez cleared her throat. “Did you, perchance, discover who’d been riding the Rio Grande horse?”

After a moment, Holt said, “I didn’t ride into town just for the coat, Mrs. Stannert. I spoke with McMurtrie and Snow of the railroad about what happened today on the Rio Grande right-of-way. Turns out, a siding and two supply cars were destroyed too. McMurtrie and Snow talked with the federal marshal in these parts. Everyone agrees, this problem—” the last sleeve slid from her clasp— “is railroad business.”

“Ah,” was all she could think of to say.

The passdoor flew open. Light poured into the kitchen, pinning their overlapping shadows against the stove. Any doubts Inez had as to the intruder’s identity were blown away by Taps’ rendition of “I’ve Got a Friend in Jesus.”

Reverend Sands stepped forward, an unreadable silhouette. “Everything all right in here?” The concern in his voice was threaded with the promise of danger. He stepped aside, out of the light. Inez saw him ease his overcoat back from his holstered gun as the door swung shut. Near darkness enclosed them.

Preston Holt stepped away from her, jolting the table and its tin washtub. Dirty glassware rattled, loud as an accusation.

Holt’s free hand dropped unobtrusively to the revolver on his left side, out of sight of the reverend.

Chapter Ten

Inez stepped between the two men. Forcing a matter-of-fact tone, she said, “There’s no problem, Reverend. I was returning a jacket lent to me during this afternoon’s downpour. This is Preston Holt of the Rio Grande railroad. Mr. Holt, this is Reverend—”

“Preston? Preston Holt?” Reverend Sands moved forward, his frown shifting to astonishment.

Holt pushed his hat back and scrutinized the reverend. He said slowly, voice laced with disbelief, “Justice ‘Jay’ Sands. Well, I’ll be.”

Sands grinned.

Inez watched in amazement as the two men engaged in an extended bout of handshaking and backslapping. “You know each other?”

Sands turned to her, face shining with boyish enthusiasm. In the half-light of the guttering lamp, he looked younger than his thirty-odd years. “Preston and I were in the same regiment during the war until I….” He paused. Inez thought she saw a shadow, not due to the flickering kitchen light, pass over his face.

He finished with, “Preston saved my life. More than once.”

“And more than once I wondered why.” Holt’s hand engulfed the reverend’s. Inez could see he was smiling. “Never followed orders. Cussed arrogant. Should’ve court-martialed you for refusing to climb that tree—”

“If I’d listened to you, those Georgia boys would’ve picked me off like a squirrel—”

“Prit’near shot you myself for disobeying a direct order.”

“Guess I wasn’t cut out for the job,” Sands said, sounding regretful.

Holt released his clasp. “You had a sharpshooter’s eye and hand, Jay. But not the discipline.”

Sharpshooter?
Inez raised her eyebrows at that bit of information.

Sands turned toward Inez. “I haven’t seen Preston since….” He squinted up at Holt. “It’s been seventeen years since the tree, hasn’t it. Seems like yesterday, sometimes.”

Holt’s voice took on a cautious quality. “Hasn’t been that long, if you count Nebraska.”

Now it was Sands who became cautious. “Nebraska? When was that?”

Holt scratched his beard, watching Sands closely. “I was working for the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad. Makes it ’72, thereabouts.”

“I…don’t recall.”

“Yep. Lowell, Nebraska. We stood each other drinks, talked over old times. Before things got ugly.”

“Ugly?” Sands sounded mystified.

“Over a—” Holt stopped. He glanced at Inez.

Inez crossed her arms, but kept her expression neutral.
A woman. They fought over a woman.

“Nebraska,” Sands murmured. He touched a thin white scar that ran from his right temple into his wheat-colored hair. Inez saw comprehension dawn. “You were the one—”

“Cracked you on the head and turned you over to the local law.”

“Well, Reverend,” Inez said dryly. “Another incident from your past brought to light.”

Sands winced. “Sounds like an incident that should’ve stayed in the dark.” He turned to Holt, apologetic. “Only thing I remember is waking up in jail. Hung over, covered in blood, my scalp split open, and no idea why.” He shook his head. “I was another man back then. It was the whiskey talking. Not me.”

Holt considered, and then nodded, as if dismissing the unfortunate episode between them as easily as the high plains wind blows the dust away. “Did I hear right that you’re pounding a pulpit now?”

“I’ve been in the ministry for two years. Last seven months in Leadville.”

“Jay Sands. A reverend.” Holt seemed to find the idea amusing. “Guess there’s no accounting for God’s ways.”

“What brings you to this part of the country?”

Holt lounged against the table, careful not to rattle the washtub. “Guarding the payroll for the Rio Grande Railroad.”

“And you’re in town to….” Sands let the sentence hang.

Holt picked it up easily. “Saturday’s payday. Those who could find a way came in to see the sights and spend their wages. I’m keeping an eye on things. McMurtrie’s request. No hell-on-wheels stuff like the Union Pacific.”

Inez noticed he said nothing about the “problem” on the right-of-way.

Sands fingered the silver watch chain that looped across his black waistcoat. “Most likely, they headed straight for State Street.”

“Most likely.”

Sands lowered his voice, conspirator to conspirator. “Tell you what, old friend. I’m free for a couple of hours. How about I give you the two-dollar tour of State Street, point out the places where your lads’re likely to get fleeced and where they’ll get a fair shake.”

“You know State that well?” Holt sounded amused.

Inez interposed. “He specializes in saving lost souls, abundant in the immediate neighborhood. In fact—” she glanced sidelong at the reverend— “locally, he’s known as the Minister of State.”

Sands smiled and reached over to extract one of her hands from her tightly folded arms. Doffing his hat with a flourish, he bowed low over her hand, elegant as an Elizabethan courtier, and said, “A minister in service to the Queen.”

Her fingers clenched convulsively in his grasp. The open affection in his voice left no room to maneuver or equivocate.

She looked up at Holt, feeling unmasked. Holt locked eyes with Inez for what seemed a very long time indeed. By the time Sands had straightened up and released her, Holt had unobtrusively retreated another pace.

The reverend clapped his hat back on and addressed Holt. “No danger of a repeat of Nebraska. I gave up liquor when I got the call.”

Inez thought she heard an undercurrent of warning in his lighthearted tone, but she couldn’t be certain.

They all started toward the kitchen door. Holt exited first. Sands pulled Inez aside. “I’ll be back before you close.”

“Well, don’t sample any of the pleasures of State Street while you’re gadding about with Mr. Holt.”

“The pleasures begin when I walk you home.” He stole a quick kiss before opening the passdoor for her. “Don’t let Jed end up in the hole tonight. Rumor is, he can ill afford to lose.”

“Ha!” said Inez, his kiss still burning on her lips. “Just before you arrived, he won a rather large pot. Most of it from me.”

Inez and Sands caught up with Holt, who stood by the card room, surveying the interior and the gentlemen within.

Inez paused on the threshold to explain. “I run a private poker game on Saturday nights. You’re welcome anytime, Mr. Holt. Any friend of Reverend Sands is a friend….” She trailed off, as he looked her square in the eyes. “Ante’s a quarter eagle. No limit.”

“Appreciate the warning, Mrs. Stannert.” He glanced into the room once more, then looked down at her, a small smile teasing the corners of his eyes. “Always like knowing the limits and the game. Keeps me from acting the fool.” There was a note of finality to his even voice.

She sighed ruefully as Sands and Holt headed for the State Street door.

Watching them make their way through the smoke-filled room, she noticed that the saloon’s patrons—even those who verged on their drunken limits—automatically stepped aside to let the two men pass.

They made an intriguing pair, she thought. Holt, a giant of a man, advanced slowly, deliberately, giving others time to move out of his path. Sands, a full head shorter, greeted regulars by name, smiling and nodding to those who addressed him. He moved with easy grace, alert to every nuance in the room.

A Biblical comparison rose in her mind, unwelcome and unwanted.

David and Goliath.

She shivered once, unease tiptoeing up her spine. With a shake of her head, Inez stepped into the smoky glow of the card room.

***

Soothing strains of Brahms’ “Lullaby and Good Night” washed over the saloon as Abe and Sol escorted the last of the evening’s clientele out the doors. Abe used the direct approach on the seriously inebriated, grabbing an elbow or collar and propelling them into the night. Sol preferred the talking method, picking up the empty glass or bottle, wiping the ring-marked tabletops with a regretful “Closing time” as if, had he his druthers, they could carouse all night. Inez held the Harrison Avenue door open, wishing the sober ones goodnight.

Jed Elliston strolled up, buttoning his frock coat and looking pleased.

Well he should, after all the money he won tonight. Time to call my favor in
.

“Mr. Elliston.” She stepped toward the staircase. “A quick word, if you will.”

Eyebrows raised, he followed.

She leaned against the balustrade, Brahms flowing around her. “I’ve met a fellow who’s worked in the ink trade. He’s interested in taking up the pen again. I believe, given the proper inducement, he’d work for you.”

“I’m not hiring,” Jed said testily. His hands fiddled with his linen cuffs, adjusting them to protrude a proper half-inch beyond his coat sleeves. Inez thought the cuffs looked a tad shabby.

“I believe he’ll work cheap. And he could provide some…perspective…to your paper on an important topic. You see, he works for the railroad.”

Jed’s face darkened. The bruise around his eye became more pronounced. “He’s Palmer’s man?” The way he said it implied that he’d sooner hire a rat catcher.

“Now Jed, don’t be hasty. He doesn’t sound like he holds to the party line. He’s a clerk or secretary to Lowden Snow and ferries documents and papers around for the lawyers and the board. I get the distinct impression he’d be happy to ‘tell all’ about the Rio Grande, if you present him with the opportunity.”

She could see him wavering, torn between righteous anger and curiosity. She pushed on. “Tell you what. Why don’t I arrange for you to talk to him next week? Just meet him. You don’t have to make any promises.”

“No promises,” Jed grumbled.

“No promises,” she agreed.

After he left, Inez looked around the room. It was nearly empty. Sol was guiding a last rubber-legged gent to the State Street door. Abe was wiping down tables and flipping up chairs. Taps had finished with Brahms and now sang
sotto voce
behind her:

I sit within the cellar here,

Where wine is ever flowing,

I quaff the best and drink good cheer,

No care or trouble knowing,

They swiftly bring the jug to me,

They know what means my winking.

The glass is filled and I with glee

Am drinking, drinking, drinking.

“If that’s a bid for a last drink, it won’t work. Between your ardent admirers and Sol’s generosity you’ve had plenty.” Inez removed his empty wine glass from the top of the upright.

He segued into “Moonlight Sonata” with a sigh. “Still a good three hours until daylight. It’d be a waste of a Saturday night to retire to an uncertain sleep now.” The final phrase died under his hands, and he closed the keyboard.

She pulled a handful of bills from her apron pocket and counted out his share. “For eight hours.” She slid the currency to him on the piano top. “I hope the audience was sufficiently appreciative.”

He pulled down the empty beer stein used to collect tips and poured out a double handful of silver and gold coins, with a few stray bills crumpled in the mix, onto the scuffed keyboard cover. “Tolerably so. What with Independence Day coming up, there’s a high demand for ‘Old Glory,’ ‘Yankee Doodle,’ and ‘My Old Kentucky Home.’”

“Well, don’t encourage any North/South sympathies. The Fourth can be touch and go. Men drink, start thinking it’s ’61 and Fort Sumter all over again.”

“No need to warn me, Mrs. Stannert. I was there, and I don’t want to re-live those times in my dreams or others’ delusions.”

Taps counted his take into a leather pouch, then pulled out the crutch tucked against the far side of the piano. He hauled himself up and paused, balanced on one foot and his crutch, while buttoning his overcoat with his free hand. His empty trouser leg was pinned up and out of sight below the long overcoat. “Good night, Mrs. Stannert. See you Monday.” He swung the crutch around and moved toward the Harrison Avenue exit. A familiar figure entering paused and held the door open for him.

Inez waited until Sands closed the door behind Taps before remarking, “I wasn’t certain you’d make it back from your tour.”

“I said I’d walk you home, and here I am. Ready to go?”

“I need just a moment upstairs.”

Once in her dressing room, Inez shed her outer finery and slipped into a simple gray walking dress, skirts wide enough for a sensible stride and short enough to not sweep up the dust and garbage of the roads, and street shoes. She pulled on her cloak. Glancing around for her gloves, she finally spotted them on the washstand, still crumpled in a damp, wadded lump.

Inez grabbed the gloves, shaking them out. Two objects flew from the creased leather, followed by a sharp rattle and clack—metal on wood. Her eyes focused on a bullet, lying on the washstand. A small copper bit, shaped like a top hat, rolled crazily then hit the china washbasin with a
tink
.

Inez picked up the round to examine it. Unusually long and heavy, hexagonal in shape except for its flat head, the bullet gleamed dully in the lamplight. The whole put her in mind of a strange comet, the lead of it heavy with the potential of speed and violence. She thought it might be .44 or .45 caliber. It was certainly larger than the .32 caliber Short rimfire cartridges she used for her Remington Smoot pocket revolver.

She picked up the copper object. It was a percussion cap for a rifle.

These are not mine.
That thought
was shattered by a sudden certainty.
They must have been in Preston Holt’s pocket and I pulled them out with my gloves.

She thought back, trying to remember the make of the rifle slung alongside Preston Holt’s saddle. A Winchester? Or a Henry? Something fairly standard, she thought, which might use a .44 or .45 caliber.
She rolled the bullet between thumb and finger, perplexed.
But the shape and length of this are unusual
.

A knock at the door interrupted her musings. She started to drop the two objects behind the washbasin, and hesitated. Finally, she pulled open the drawer in her washbasin stand, deciding to puzzle it all out later. She pushed the cartridge and cap behind a cake of soap before leaving her dressing room.