Silver Lies (2 page)

"You liar. You double-crossing son of a bitch. Your next drink is with the Devil!" The whip hissed through the air.

Joe flinched, raised a hand, anticipating the cut of the lash across his palm. Instead, he heard—but didn’t feel—the smack of lash on flesh.

The horse brayed and reared. For a moment, Joe saw mount and rider looming over him, an enormous shadow against night-dark clouds. The whip fell again. The horse pawed the air, then leaped forward with a grunt. Joe recoiled in terror. He heard, then felt a bone-crunching snap. And screamed.

His leg.

Intolerable pain engulfed him like a black avalanche. He tried to grab something, roll away. His fingers closed on ooze and shattered ice.

The horse reared again, fighting rein and whip. Hooves plunged down, flashing past Joe’s face, crushing his ribs with a sound like dry wood splintering.

Joe’s last scream was muffled by mud and honky-tonk music.

And the piano played on.

"Sweet Jesus," Inez Stannert muttered, surveying the ruins of her drinking establishment. "Looks like the North and South settled their differences right here on the floor."

Inez stood at the rear of the Silver Queen Saloon, hands on her hips. She eyed the splintered remains of what had once been a twenty-foot mirror gracing the mahogany backbar. Shards of glass lay about the sawdust like so many stars fallen to earth. She sighed. Her stays pinched beneath her green cashmere dress, a reminder not to inhale too deeply. A new mirror would run a thousand dollars. Freighting fees, another five hundred. At least.

Inez shook her head and turned her attention to the rest of the room. Busted chairs mixed it up with overturned tables. Her husband’s favorite lithograph, a depiction of boxing champions Heenan and Sayers, bare-knuckled fists raised and ready, lay ripped and crumpled in one corner. The gilt frame looked as if it had been used to batter someone’s head. Cold December air swept through the saloon’s wide-open front door, doing little to alleviate the stale smell of tobacco and the heavy scent of whiskey, brandy, and beer leaking from broken bottles. She thought of the imported Scotch whisky, soaking the floorboards, worth its weight in gold. And groaned.

Abe Jackson, dark and silent as a shadow, emerged from the kitchen with two porcelain mugs of steaming coffee and stood beside Inez. They began walking the length of the room, wordlessly examining the damage. When they reached the front door, Abe handed Inez a mug and closed the door on the early morning light, extinguishing the stars on the floor.

"Looks worse than five hours ago," he ventured, scratching one end of his coarse black mustache.

Inez twisted the two rings on her finger—one gold, one silver—while she did a quick mental calculation. "We’ve lost several hundred in liquor alone, never mind the furniture. As for the mirror, it’ll be spring before we can afford to order another from
Chicago
. Unless the house gets lucky at the poker table."

Turning away from the door, the two walked toward the staircase, passing a dusty upright piano. Inez lifted her long skirts to climb the steps. "Let’s go to the office and you can tell me what happened."

On the second floor, Inez unlocked a door and the two entered a sitting room flooded with light from a large, west-facing window. A fire in the pot-bellied stove battled the cold, while a rag rug captured what warmth the winter sun offered.

Inez waved one hand at a calico cat dozing on a russet-colored horsehair couch. "Shoo. Go chase those rats I heard in the storeroom last night. Earn your keep, you lazy thing." The cat scooted under the couch, tail flicking.

Inez sipped her coffee before balancing the steaming mug on a stack of payables. She sat, banged up the rolltop to her desk, and pulled out a ledger. The window beside the desk overlooked the false-fronted saloons, dancing halls, and brothels of
State Street
to the distant snow-covered peaks of Massive and Elbert.

Abe sank onto the couch, knees cracking as he stretched his long legs. The calico, sensing a friendly and familiar lap, leaped to the sofa. Abe picked her up, his fingers disappearing in the thick winter coat.

Inez hooked half-glasses over her ears and opened the ledger. "Let’s hear the story. Was it the liquor? The cards? Or some combination?"

Abe scratched the cat between her half-closed eyes while she worked her claws on his pant leg. "I think folks were spoilin’ for a fight last night. Take Joe Rose, bustin’ up your Saturday night game and callin’ Harry Gallagher a liar to his face. Seems cussin’ out his best client wouldn’t be in Joe’s best interests. Especially Harry, bein’ that he and the other silver barons run the town. But Joe’d calmed down by the time he set up
Harrison
."

Inez peered over the top of her glasses. "Could he walk?"

"He made a mighty attempt to stagger in a straight line."

Inez nodded once, a quill pen balanced between her long fingers. "Joe knows the house rules. No married men gambling. No drunks served a drink. He failed on both counts. I hope he was sober enough to appreciate the favor you did him, walking him away from Harry."

Abe’s deep brown eyes creased briefly.

The cat wiggled, turning over to present a belly for rubbing. Abe obliged. "We probably should’ve closed for the night after you shut down the game. Anyhow, about an hour after you went home, the second fight broke out. I was in the storeroom and didn’t see it. Useless was tendin’ bar. He says Chet Donnelly was arguin’ over a claim with the twins Zed and Zeke. Chet heaved one of them into the mirror and the place exploded. By the time we hauled everyone out into the street, the damage was done. I told Chet he’d be payin’ for a new mirror. Probably won’t remember, though."

Inez slammed down the rolltop. The cat bolted under the couch. "Damn Chet Donnelly! There’s too many men like him in this town. Someone looks at them cross-eyed and they start swinging!"

Abe coaxed the cat out and settled her on his lap again. "Yep. Just like some women I know. Act first, think later."

Inez faced him, opening hands in mock defeat. "Point taken. Your game, Abe. You always know when to play the winning card." She glanced at the grandfather clock by the door. "I’ll be late for church! Not a good impression to make on the new reverend." She hurried to the door, pulling her winter cloak off a nearby hook.

"Well, now, he’s only there ’til June, isn’t that what you told me? What do you care what he thinks?"

She adjusted her hat in the mirror by the door. "He’s the interim minister, true, but I’d like to start off on the right foot. Who knows? Maybe he plays cards or takes a nip now and again." She winked at Abe’s reflection in the mirror.

"If he’s gettin’ paid what most preachers do, he’s not playin’ any high-stakes games. Unless he’s got stock in some highflyin’ mine like the
Denver
City
or
Silver
Mountain
." He sauntered out after her. "Besides, you walk in late, everyone can admire your Sunday-go-to-meetin’ outfit."

"Oh, they gawk anyway," Inez grumbled. "They believe all the business women on
State Street
work on their backs."

She stopped and glanced apologetically at Abe. "Perhaps the new reverend will say a few words on the virtues of holding one’s temper. See you after supper, Abe. And thank you for handling the trouble last night."

"What are partners for? Gotta back each other up, if
San Francisco
’s ever gonna be more’n a dream."

For a moment, Inez could almost hear her husband, Mark: "Inez, meet Abe Jackson. Ablest Negro soldier in the Union Army. I should know, I ended up at the business end of his rifle back in ’65. Only man I ever met who can best me in a straight game of poker. Abe—" Mark’s hands had been warm on her shoulders. "Meet Mrs. Mark Stannert. Inez and I outran her family and got hitched a week ago while you were lollygagging up north. Pretty sudden, I know, but that’s how love is. Besides, she’ll be an asset to our partnership. Inez plays piano like no one you’ve ever heard. Mozart from the heart. If we can teach her to play poker like she does music, we’ll retire to
San Francisco
before the decade’s out!" Mark’s laugh echoed in her memory.

It’s been nearly ten years since that promise. And nearly eight months since Mark disappeared.

"We’re not in
California
yet," she said. "And the decade’s almost gone. As is Mark." Her bitter words hovered in the air.

"There are many things that can happen to a man in these mountains. Things that’d keep him from coming back." Abe’s voice was gentle. "Mark loved you and the young’un, Inez. It wasn’t his nature to pick up and leave."

"Well, he’s long gone in any case." She started down the stairs again.

"Inez." Abe held up two wrapped candies. "Joey Rose’ll be expecting these. Don’t break the boy’s heart."

The candies sailed through the air, landed in her outstretched hand, and disappeared into her pocket. "I won’t disappoint him. And I’ll inquire from Emma about Joe. He most likely won’t be at church, given his inebriated condition last night. I do wonder what’s going on between him and Harry."

Abe turned to lock the office door. "Didn’t Harry say anything?"

Once downstairs, Inez passed by the wrecked card room, its oil lamps silent and dark, and entered the clattering furor of the kitchen. Bending over a cooking stove of enormous proportions, a sturdy figure in a long gray dress busied herself among the sounds and smells of breakfast.

"Good morning, Bridgette. Thank you for offering to help out today."

Bridgette stopped stirring a massive iron pot of beans to beam at her employer. "No trouble at all, ma’am. Gives me a jump on the week’s cooking, it does."

"And how was Mass this morning?"

"Father Briggs was in rare form, truly."

"Hmmm." Inez lifted an eyebrow. "Sober, for a change."

Bridgette wiped the sweat from her round face with the hem of her white apron. "Now, that sounds like blasphemy, indeed! It’s a miracle that he stays on at all. A wickeder place than Leadville I haven’t seen in my forty years, and I’ve been laundering and cooking since Sutter’s Mill. Now, didn’t I hear that Leadville’s evils were just too much for your minister… Reverend Johnson, wasn’t it?"

"Johnstone. And it wasn’t the evils of Leadville. It was the winters."

"Well." She turned her attention back to the stove. "I hear your new reverend cuts a fine figure. The school-ma’ams are all a-twitter over him. He’s unattached, they say."