Iron Ties (15 page)
Inez angled around to the backside of the bar, holding the short train of her maroon and black evening dress off the floor, careful to keep a distance from any corner or surface that might mar the watered silk. The lamps were turned high enough to allow the customers to see what they were drinking, but not so high as to destroy the atmosphere of cozy camaraderie. Abe and Sol were busy pouring. On the piano, Taps alternated between light-hearted ditties and soulful ballads. Inez checked her enamel and diamond watch, hanging from a brooch in the shape of a coiled snake.
My Saturday night players should be arriving soon.
“Nickel buys the latest news.” Jed slid a copy of
The Independent
across the bar, nearly under her elbow.
“I think for all the help I’ve provided, not to mention advertising revenue, you’d spot me the paper.” Inez opened the newspaper to page two and was pleased to see an advert about the Fairplays and their July Fourth appearance prominently displayed. “So, did you hire the professor?”
“We came to an agreement. I expect he’ll be by to collect on that drink sometime tonight.” Jed lazed against the bar. “Did you see the front page?”
Inez folded the paper to the front. The first thing she saw was a modest article captioned “Jumping a Hospital” and, in smaller type beneath, “Trouble on the Sisters’ Grounds—One Man Shot.”
“Ah, I see they caught the miscreants who threatened to jump St. Vincent’s property,” Inez said.
“What? Oh yes. That. A couple of ne’er-do-wells sent a note saying they’d set fire to the hospital if the Sisters didn’t relinquish the property. It’s prime real estate, you know, close to where the Rio Grande depot and freight yards will be. The law caught two of them red-handed last night, tearing down the hospital’s fence. But that’s not what I wanted you to see.”
Jed took the paper from her hands and flipped it, handing it back to her with the section above the fold now prominent. Headlines blared “Citizens Up in Arms Over D&RG’s High-Handed Treatment on Right-of-Way Issue!” and “RR Workers Abandon Spikes for Silver in Cloud City!”
“Goodness. What did you do? Chain the poor fellow to a chair in your office until he provided a column’s worth of type?”
“More like two.” Jed’s suppressed smile escaped. “I’ve sold more papers today than anytime since the news of the strike broke. And that was one of the biggest days ever for
The Independent
. No other Leadville paper got
this
scoop. Think I’ll have a drop of that superb bourbon you promised me.”
Feeling a little sorry that she’d impulsively offered to give away some of her best liquor, Inez turned to the backbar and lifted the bottle from its place of honor on the top row. She poured, keeping a careful eye on the glass so as to just make the mark. “So, Jed, you’re feeling lucky tonight? Perhaps that luck will extend to the cards.”
The State Street door flew open with force, slamming into the wall, stirring the red-white-and-blue bunting Sol had draped over the buffalo’s horns. Two men stormed in. Inez recognized Lowden Snow, looking apoplectic and red-faced as if he’d just run a race through the city streets and lost. The man with Snow looked vaguely familiar. His round face sported a bushy mustache and a weak chin attempting to hide under a small goatee. His unprepossessing appearance was offset by a steely gaze and an expression suggesting he was not a man to be trifled with.
Abe, beside her, muttered an oath under his breath.
“Who’s that with Snow?” she whispered.
“Chief engineer of the Rio Grande.”
“McMurtrie?”
“Yep.” Abe stood with one hand beneath the bar. Inez saw he held the shotgun out of sight.
She laid her hand over his. “Not yet.”
Snow barreled to the center of the room, stopped, and swiveled his head, scanning the crowd. McMurtrie’s gaze skewered Jed. He leaned over and said something to Snow.
Snow followed McMurtrie’s gaze and, with his silver-headed cane swinging back and forth like a fast-paced metronome, he bore down on Jed. He stopped before the newspaperman, eyes furious and bulging.
“You the scoundrel that printed that libelous doggerel about the Denver and Rio Grande?” roared Snow.
Jed rocked back on his heels. He stuck both hands in his pockets, affecting a casual air. “Jed Elliston. Editor-in-chief of
The Independent
, at your service,” he said coolly.
McMurtrie advanced slowly, and, in Inez’s opinion, far too menacingly.
“You again.” He sounded as if he’d lifted a rock and found a maggot beneath. “Thought we hammered out an agreement at the Clairmont. Guess you’ve got a short memory.”
“Freedom of the press,” said Jed with a hint of sarcasm. “Can’t stop me from printing the truth, McMurtrie. Unless you’re going to say it’s a lie. In which case, I welcome letters to the editor.”
Snow hit the wood floor once with his cane. The hollow boom sounded like a judge’s gavel in a courtroom. “Who is the miserable miscreant who disclosed privileged information to you?” he bellowed. “Company business…not public…jeopardizing on-going legal action….” He was nearly incoherent with rage.
“I’ll not divulge my sources,” said Jed.
McMurtrie took a step toward Jed, his hands tightening into fists.
Inez, on the other side of the bar, tugged the bottom of her basque bodice with one hand to smooth the contours and tightened her grip on the bottle of bourbon with the other. “Gentlemen!”
She stepped quickly around the end of the bar and advanced upon the three. “Mr. Snow, so good to see you again.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned to McMurtrie. “Mr. McMurtrie? I’m Mrs. Stannert, proprietor of the Silver Queen, along with Mr. Jackson, the gentleman in the gray waistcoat behind the bar.”
Snow’s face froze. “Jackson is your partner?”
Inez was used to the disbelief that crowded folks’ faces when they discovered Abe was an equal and not a hireling. She was also used to the speculative looks, the sniggers, the stares. But that didn’t mean she let the perpetrators off easy.
She delivered a stare to Snow as icy as Leadville in winter and said in a tone to match, “Yes, Mr. Snow. My. Business. Partner.”
She checked McMurtrie’s response. His gaze slid from Jed to Abe, and he nodded neutrally. Abe nodded back.
Glad to have shifted attention from Jed, she held out her hand. “So pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. McMurtrie. I’d read that you were in town.”
McMurtrie hesitated, then touched his hat politely before shaking her hand.
Inez continued conversationally, “We welcome civilized discussion and debate conducted over fruits of the vine, barley, rye, or hops. However,” her voice slid to a more intimate volume to temper her words, “I do not condone fisticuffs or threats of any kind. This is not that sort of establishment.” She kept her eyes on McMurtrie, judging him the one who would set the tone for what might follow.
“That said, allow us to stand you and Mr. Snow a drink.” She gave him her most seductive smile, and, without taking her gaze from McMurtrie, motioned for Abe to put two clean glasses on the countertop.
The prompt clink of glassware on wood was interrupted by McMurtrie saying, “Another time, Mrs. Stannert. We came here on business.” His eyes swept over her shoulder to Jed, who, Inez suspected, still lounged against the bar, smirking.
“What a pity. Well, do drop by again sometime. The offer of a drink still stands.” She turned and placed the bottle by Jed, baring her teeth at him in a less cordial manner. “Mr. Elliston, wait here.”
Inez stepped between the two railway men, took each man by the arm and moved them toward the Harrison Avenue doors. “Thank you for your forbearance,” she said in a low voice. “It’s so easy for these things to turn ugly.” Her speech was interrupted by the sound of firecrackers popping outside, punctuated by the resonant bang of something far more powerful.
“Some are beginning their celebrations of the Fourth early,” she remarked. She released the two men, opened the door onto Harrison’s gas-lit boardwalk, and waited until they stepped out before following and shutting the door.
Harrison Avenue was packed. Men and a few women spilled from the boardwalks and filled the broad dirt-packed street, making it slow going for rigs and riders. She could feel the celebratory energy coursing through the crowds. The night’s journey from drinking to gambling to whoring had begun.
McMurtrie asked, “You know that inkslinger well?”
“Mr. Elliston? He plays in our regular Saturday night game, which is due to start—” she looked at her watchpin— “in fifteen minutes.”
McMurtrie said, “Tell him it’s not over.”
“Your message will be delivered.”
“Tell him—”
Staccato gunshots rang out from around the corner. The volley was followed by loud laughter.
“I thought the discharging of giant powder, guns, and pistols was prohibited in town,” grumped Snow.
“It is,” said Inez. “But that doesn’t stop anyone unless a policeman is facing them square off.”
A deep boom sounded from the hills of the mining district.
“Addie!”
Hatless, Weston Croy thrust his sweat-streaked face close to hers.
Inez recoiled.
“They’re c-coming!” Weston’s teeth chattered so hard she could hardly understand him. “To k-kill us! Hide. Hide in the woods. It’s s-so cold. The light draws the snipers. N-no fires. The mud. The cold. I’m so cold. N-need a fire.”
He was shaking head to foot. Inez realized that what she thought was sweat streaming down his face was actually tears.
“Stop it!” Inez said loudly, hoping to shock him out of his fit.
McMurtrie grabbed him. “You heard the lady.”
Weston tore away from McMurtrie and seized Inez by the shoulders. “We must run! The shells…I hear them. Screaming.” Gaslight threw harsh shadows on his face. White shown around his eyes. “Oh, Addie. They hit the caissons. Horses, shrieking. The mud. The cold.”
“Unhand me!” Inez tried to push his hands away.
“Get a hold of yourself, soldier.” McMurtrie hauled Weston off Inez and shoved him against the side of the saloon.
Another boom. Close enough for Inez to feel it deep inside her chest.
Weston began weeping and moaning, “The bridge…it’s gone! The wrong bridge, the wrong bridge. Oh, damn the general! Damn him! Damn him!”
A stream of dark liquid dampened Weston’s threadbare trouser cuff, ran over his shoe, and puddled on the walkway.
A stench rose in the cold air.
Inez clamped a hand over her nose and turned away.
In the light of the hissing gas lamps, she saw Doc Cramer, his distinctive stovepipe hat bobbing above the crowd, limping toward her. His smile melted as he took in the scene. “What’s this?” He peered at the shivering man crouched against the wall. “Weston Croy?”
“He’s crazy,” said Inez. “He—” She couldn’t finish, pointing instead at the mess on the boardwalk.
Doc Cramer approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Weston. The war is over. It’s July 1880, and you’re in Leadville, Colorado. You need a quiet place to rest and regain your nerves.” He looked at McMurtrie. “The best place for him right now is the jail. I don’t believe he’s dangerous, but one never knows. If you’ll help me get him there, I’ll explain to the marshal.”
Snow stepped forward, to Inez’s surprise, and said, “I’ll help. McMurtrie has other business to attend to.”
“Let’s proceed post-haste.” Doc turned to Inez. “I’ll be a bit late for tonight’s game. A stiff brandy would be much appreciated upon my return.”
As they moved away, Weston shuffling between them, Inez heard Doc say to Snow, “Paralytic dementia, possibly acute mania, I’ve seen it before.”
“Good God.” Inez stared at the liquefied excrement blotting the plank wall of her saloon and on the walkway by the entrance.
“A bad case,” said McMurtrie.
“He thought he was still in the War, didn’t he. Every time he sees me, he thinks I’m this woman, Addie. His wife, so he says.”
McMurtrie nodded and stroked his mustache. “Some men don’t have the moral fiber, the strength to put it in the past.”
The saloon door swung open and Abe stepped out, drying his hands on his apron.
“Watch where you step!” Inez called out. Her breath curled out visibly with the words, and the cold at last penetrated her consciousness and the thin silk sleeves. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, and turned to McMurtrie. “Thank you for your help.”
“No problem, Mrs. Stannert. I’ve dealt with hardcases tougher than that. If you’d kindly pass my message on to Elliston. And tell him, if he’s looking for trouble, the Rio Grande will be more than happy to accommodate.”
McMurtrie touched his hat and was gone.
“What happened?” Abe stepped gingerly around the stained walkway.
“A man named Weston. A lunatic. Sol should throw some water on this and get it off the side of the building. Hot water. Something. Whatever’s quickest.”
Back inside, Inez pulled up a clean glass from the shelf under the bar and splashed bourbon into it while Abe instructed Sol on clean-up procedures. “Quicklime’s in the storage room in back,” he finished. “Or, if’n there’s some strong coffee left, splash that around. It’ll kill the smell.”
Abe’s somber brown eyes lifted to her. “Jed’s in the back room with the others. Everyone’s there but Doc and you. Think you’d better get ready to do some serious card playin’. ’Specially if you keep drinkin’ our most expensive stock.” He took the bourbon bottle from her and tipped it back and forth. It was nearly empty. “How much of this’ve you been drinkin’? Thought you preferred brandy.” Abe put it back in its place, last row, center stage, on the backbar.
“Sometimes,” she said to Abe’s back, “I require a change.” She carried her glass to the gaming room.
Doc met her at the door to the private room. “Ah, Mrs. Stannert. I thought you would all be gathered around the table by now.” He removed his stovepipe hat and mopped his brow.
“I’m running late. So, you took Weston to jail? Will they keep him there?”
“I had to do some fast talking, but they’ll keep him overnight, at least.”
They entered to find Jed regaling mercantile owner Bob Evan and lawyer David Cooper with a very different version of his confrontation with McMurtrie and Snow.
Inez looked around the room, remembering the time Mark had spent debating over the details of the décor. They’d invested heavily in the low-hanging chandelier, the bronze lamp sconces that dotted the walls, and the round mahogany table. Mark had said, “Need to make it high class. A place the high rollers’ll feel comfortable throwin’ their money around.” How proud he’d been when it was completed. A vision brought to fruition, glittery and shiny.
But that was then.
Now, the maroon wallpaper had dimmed, its gold flock looking more mustard than metal, muted by the regular haze of cigar smoke and coal oil lamps. The rug, too, had its share of spills and stains lurking among the leafy pattern.
It’s time for a change. To finish the room upstairs. But for that, we’ve got to bring in more cash. I need to play smarter, perhaps encourage new players to join us, some of the moneyed newcomers. And, with luck, the actors will prove to be the bonanza Abe thinks they’ll be.
Cooper turned toward her, elegant as usual in a fine-cut suit, looking like he would be right at home in a New York City gentleman’s club. “Mrs. Stannert, might I be permitted to say that I’ve never seen you look finer. The high country summer must be agreeing with you.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Cooper. I’m looking forward to a friendly evening of cards with you gentlemen. At midnight, we can pause and toast the birth of the nation. Let’s hope the weather holds for the Fourth, without any unseasonable snow.”
She walked toward the sideboard, renewed her bourbon, and prepared a brandy for Doc.
“We were just talking about the railroad,” said Bob Evan, the lamplight shining off his steel-rimmed glasses. It was almost as if the light of the sun gleamed from his eyes.
“Indeed,” said Inez. Evan talked of little else. As owner of a successful mercantile and a booming mining supply store, he anticipated the arrival of the railroad as some anticipated the Second Coming.
“It will be the best thing that’s happened to Leadville since Tabor developed the Matchless Mine, mark my words.” Evan adjusted his glasses. The reflection from the lamps vanished and his eyes reappeared. “You should be happy about this as well, Mrs. Stannert. Cheaper goods. Expenses will fall, profits will rise. Just think of all the newcomers that will flood town, thirsty and looking for a fair drink.”
“And looking for pickaxes, shovels, and drills,” added Inez, mindful of Evan’s stock-in-trade in hopeful prospectors who, even now, arrived in Leadville, hoping for the next big strike.
She handed Doc the snifter and pulled a fresh deck of cards from the drawer of the side table. Splitting the seal with a fingernail, she said, “Gentlemen, what say you to some poker?”
They settled in their customary seats, with Harry Gallagher’s seat, to Inez’s right, vacant.
Doc said, “Harry should be back soon from that extended business trip.”
Inez made a noncommittal sound.
The longer he’s away the better
. It’d been more than six months since she’d last seen the silver baron. A shudder traveled down her back and lodged at the base of her spine at the memory of their heated confrontation. He’d predicted Inez and Sands would not last through summer.
We proved him wrong on that.
The first hour played out uneventfully, but to Inez’s modest benefit. Jed, perhaps because of the success of his latest issue, had loosened his purse strings and was playing more freely than he had in quite a while.
Evan, always the cautious type, also seemed more relaxed and willing to take a chance or two. Doc played well, actually improving his situation. Cooper, who as a player was impulsive—surprising, given his very orderly and strategic approach to matters of the law—was enhancing Inez’s takings nicely.
For the first time in over a month, Inez began to relax and feel the flow of the game run through her again.
The door creaked open, and the outside sounds of the busy saloon washed over her as she debated the wisdom of drawing to an outside straight.
Sol’s voice interrupted her deliberations. “Ma’am?”
Inez set her hand facedown and twisted in her chair.
Sol stood, barring the door somewhat ineffectually. Towering behind him was Preston Holt. Inez saw Reuben hovering to one side, a small slice of his highly flushed face appearing between Sol’s gartered sleeve and the doorframe.
“These fellows here say you invited them to come play a round or two.” He looked dubious, as if he thought they might be trying to pull his leg.
“Thank you, Sol. Yes, let them in.” Inez turned back to her regular players. “Mr. Preston Holt and Reuben. Mr. Holt is the Rio Grande payroll guard who rescued Miss Carothers and me after her unfortunate accident by Disappointment Gulch.”
Jed’s expression soured at mention of the Rio Grande. Cooper and Evan looked mildly curious. Doc nodded cordially.
She smiled at the two railroad men, noting that Reuben was looking a great deal more rumpled than earlier that day at the Tontine Restaurant. “I understand it is the younger Mr. Holt’s birthday tomorrow. Or perhaps,” she glanced at her lapel watch, “I should say today.”
She waved at the empty chair next to her. “Have a seat. Ante is a quarter eagle.”
Preston started forward as if to take the seat. Reuben grabbed his sleeve.
Preston glanced at him. “You sure you want to do this, son?”
“Heck, it’s my birthday. You bet.” He slid into the chair and squirmed around a bit on the velvet cushion.
She turned toward the bartender, who was still hovering by the door. “Sol, would you bring that chair by the stove over for Mr. Holt?”
“No need, ma’am. Reckon we’ll lose a little less if only one of us plays.” He looked at Reuben. “One hand, Reuben. That’s all.”
Reuben was busy taking in the room. His eyes lingered on the prints of Civil War battles, and then moved to the sideboard with its collection of bottles and crystal decanters.
“You’re welcome to a drink on the house while we finish this hand,” Inez offered.
Preston’s hand landed on Reuben’s shoulder, keeping him down in the chair. “I’ll fetch us beers from the bar. Thanks, ma’am.”
After he left the room, the round finished up quickly, Jed the winner.
“So, you’re Rio Grande men,” said Evan as Jed counted his take. “General Palmer keeping you busy?”
“Hell yeah.” Reuben looked at Inez, suddenly abashed. “That’s…yeah. Yessir. I ride for the payroll, but lookin’ at the crews’ progress and what-all, we figure it won’t be long afore they’re layin’ track through town.”
“Speaking of the crews and such,” Jed said. “You’ve all heard about the graders that struck pay dirt outside of Malta? They were doing some prospecting on the side, found a promising hole, and jumped ship from the Rio Grande. They aren’t the only ones. The Rio Grande is bleeding men. No sooner are they brought in from Utah and Canadian territories, than they take off, thinking to strike silver.”
“Palmer and McMurtrie are putting all they’ve got into reaching town proper by mid-July,” said Evan.
“An unlikely timetable.” Jed sounded triumphant. “There are Leadville landowners who’re not interested in selling out on Rio Grande’s terms.”
“It’ll all come to an end soon, one way or another,” Cooper remarked, removing a cigar from a slim silver case. “Snow, their attorney, is working on it. Once eminent domain is declared, the holdouts’ll have no choice. Their property will be condemned and that will be the end of the line for them.”
“Typical high-handed Rio Grande behavior.” Jed snorted. “Palmer’s little more than a bully in the schoolyard.”
Doc harrumphed.
Oh no. I cannot take more talk of the war. Not after Weston.
She leaned toward Doc and said under her breath, “Doc, this has been a trying evening. Can we all just play cards and—”
Doc held up a hand. “My dear, I’ve been thinking long and hard about how to pound some sense into this young fellow about Palmer. I told him of the general’s courage at Chickamauga. I’ve expounded on his strength of character at Castle Thunder. Alluded to his amazing exploits in the mountains of Tennessee and the Saquatchie Valley and more. All to no avail. Please allow one last story from this old man.”
“You promise it’s the last?” Jed sounded supremely bored.
“I heard this not from Palmer himself, who is far too modest to relate such a tale, but from one who was there and knew him well. After Lee’s surrender, Palmer and his cavalry were riding back into Tennessee when a bushwhacker shot at Palmer from the roadside. A very near miss, could have ended his career and more right then and there. The gunman was captured and turned out to be a boy no older than Reuben here. In a lesser man’s hands, the boy would have been shot or hung on the spot. But when the boy’s mother came and pleaded for his life, General Palmer told her to take him home and keep a better watch over his actions. I believe that story sums up the man, his principles, and his honor.”
Looking as triumphant as if he’d stormed the hill and planted the flag, Doc leaned back in his chair. He gazed around at the gathered company as if he’d forgotten they were all there. “All that reminiscing has made this old man thirsty. Is there any more of that most excellent brandy, Mrs. Stannert?”
Inez picked up Doc’s goblet and rose to fill it. She turned to Reuben to ask if he wouldn’t like a whiskey chaser to go with his yet-to-arrive beer. Reuben was glaring at Doc with such fury that Inez took a step backward.
“Palmer’s a blue-belly, right? If he’d rode through Missouri back then, he’d’ve been dead. Missouri shooters don’t miss.”
It was the way he said it: Muh-zur-ah. The cadence and inflection a stronger rendition of what she heard in Preston’s voice.
So, the Holts are from Missouri. But why is Reuben so angry? He was just a babe when the war was over. What has Palmer ever done to him?
Doc gaped at Reuben, obviously taken aback at his outburst.
Inez slid her hand into the pocket sewn into the seam of her evening dress and curled her fingers around the grip of her pocket revolver. She hoped she wouldn’t have to give Reuben a tongue-lashing and toss him out on his ear.
Cooper was looking at Reuben kindly. “A Missouri man, are you? Missouri had it hard during the war. But you’re far too young to remember that.”
Reuben switched his pugnacious stare from Doc to Cooper. “Don’t have to remember. ’Cause I
know
.” He pounded the table with his fist. The coins jumped and clinked. “It was the Yankees’ fault what happened in Missouri. Yankees. Jayhawkers. Republicans. Radicals. It was
their
fault the railroads came. It was
their
fault the freight rates got so high Pa couldn’t hold onto the farm—”
At each “their,” he hit the table. Liquor shivered in the glasses, cards sloughed off the neatly stacked deck. Inez narrowed her eyes, thinking that if his rant didn’t cease soon, she’d be forced to take him down a peg.
“It was
their
fault Ma died—”
The door opened again, letting in the muted roar of men’s voices. Preston entered, holding two tankards. Reuben stopped talking, guilt and shame flooding his face. Preston set a beer on the table by Reuben and stepped back to lean against the wall.
The men shifted in their chairs, not knowing quite where to look or how to proceed.
So, the Holts lost their farm. And Preston’s wife….
Her throat closed.
Enough. I’ll bet this isn’t how Reuben pictured his birthday evening. Best to carry on as if he never said anything. To call attention to him would only make it worse.
She cast a smile about the table. “Everyone set on drinks? Here Doc, I’ll take care of your brandy.” She filled it and set the glass before him. “Now, let’s play, shall we?” Inez sat down and slid the cards to Jed.
Reuben reached into his pocket, and pulled out a worn photocase. He laid it on the table, one large chafed hand covering it, as if to protect it from view.
Jed shuffled for a long time, smirking at Reuben. Inez was sorely tempted to kick Jed under the table to wipe the smile off his lips.
Evan cleared his throat and picked up the conversational thread from before Reuben’s outburst. “Well, I’m not normally a church-going man, but I tell you, I got down on my knees and sang hallelujah when I heard the Rio Grande planned to reach town by mid-July. It’s going to be a blessing for businesses that depend on a timely delivery of goods.”
“And there are other businesses,” drawled Jed, “set to go under, thanks to the ruthless machinations of—”
Inez kicked him in the ankle.
Jed jumped and glared at Inez.
