Leadville (2 page)

“All I know is they’re armed, strangers to Durango, and asking your whereabouts.” He looked toward the door. “Gotta go. I’m holding up the posse.”

Before I could say thanks, Dooley had bolted out the door.

Chapter 2

“She’s my daughter.”

“What?” Both Sharp and I spoke at once.

Captain McAllen sank deeper into the bathwater
and let out an exasperated sigh. “Did you think I didn’t like women?”

“No,” Sharp said. “But I couldn’t imagine a woman foolish enough to git in a family way with ya.”

“Wives tend to think that’s important.”

With that, our mouths fell open, but neither of us uttered a word. Finally, Sharp slid his chair closer to the tub and said, “Joseph, in ten years, you’ve never mentioned a wife.”

McAllen made a dismissive wave, flicking water droplets in our direction. “Never worthy of comment before. It ended badly, and in short order she married a preacher.”

“The schoolmarm?” I blurted.

“Yep, Maggie’s my daughter.” McAllen looked around and then asked, “Steve, can you find me a whiskey? Been a hard ride.”

“Sure.” I got up and left the bathroom.

After I closed the hall door, I heard Sharp yell, “Get a whole bottle!”

McAllen must have ridden hard. Although he had made it to Durango in the promised three days, he hadn’t arrived until well after dark. To our surprise, he had been accompanied by another rider, who had disappeared before McAllen even introduced us. When we asked if we should book a room for the second man, McAllen had said he could take care of himself. Kindliness had never been a McAllen virtue, but he had either the skill or the good fortune to gather around him tough, self-reliant men who didn’t need coddling.

When I had first encountered McAllen, he and his men had all worn black vested suits and white shirts. The attire seemed impractical for the trail, but it identified them as Pinkertons, which might prove important in some circumstances, because they didn’t wear badges. Tonight, though, McAllen and his riding partner had been dressed like ranchers, their heavy dusters covering coarse cotton shirts and trousers.

We had hustled McAllen into his room and a hot bath so he could scrub off the sweat and trail dirt. The boardinghouse bathroom had a single tub, but since he had arrived so late, we had the room to ourselves. After McAllen had settled into his bathwater, Sharp and I had pulled over a couple of straight-back chairs and sat on either side of him so we could learn what had made his trip so urgent. I couldn’t have been more surprised when he told us the missing girl was his daughter. To call McAllen taciturn would be an understatement, but we had shared enough campfires that the subject of a daughter and a former wife should have come up at one time or another.

I bought a bottle of the best Kentucky whiskey in a saloon across the way and raced back with three glasses and a hundred questions. When I opened the door to the bathroom, I heard Sharp ask, “That man with ya a Pinkerton?”

“He’s employed by Pinkerton at times, but he’s here as a friend.”

“Wives
an’
friends,” Sharp hooted. “Next, you’re gonna tell me you’re a damn Mormon.”

McAllen made a practice of ignoring offhand talk. “What’s the latest news?”

“There’s a posse out,” Sharp said. “This one left three days ago. A couple of parties took off earlier an’ returned empty-handed.” Sharp leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and intertwined his fingers into a loose fist. “Everyone assumes the renegades rode into the San Juan Mountains, but no one knows for sure.”

“Any other raids or incidents?”

“Nope.”

“North or south?” McAllen pondered his own question. “They know the terrain in both directions, and there’s plenty of game migrating before winter sets in.”

I poured bourbon at the sideboard and then passed the glasses around. After an appreciative sip, McAllen said, “Tell me about this posse.”

“Left three days ago, fourteen men, well armed an’ provisioned, with at least six packhorses,” Sharp explained. “They haven’t sent a rider back with any news.”

“Doc Dooley’s with them,” I added. “Along with a Ute half-breed.”

“Who’s in charge?” The question seemed a natural for Captain McAllen, who ran his Pinkerton teams with an iron will and sure-handed know-how.

“Man name of Bob Grant … seems capable,” I said.

“Capable of fleecing this town, at least,” Sharp added in a sarcastic tone.

“You don’t like him?” McAllen asked.

“Seems full of himself … and far too cautious,” Sharp said.

McAllen seemed to think that through. “Bad combination to lead a pursuit. Steve?”

“Don’t know the man, but he won the town’s backing.” I hesitated. “He did seem more intent on soliciting money than getting on their trail.”

“What’s he do?”

“Agent for Wells Fargo,” I said. “I hear he heads the Leadville office, and he’s here to check up on the company’s operations and security.”

“I’ve done work for Wells Fargo, so I can check him out. But that don’t sound like a posse that’ll bring back my daughter.” McAllen put a hand on each rail edge of the tub and pushed himself to a standing position. “Hand me a towel.” He stepped out of the tub and rubbed himself dry. “I need a decent night’s sleep in a soft bed. I’ll leave tomorrow.” He paused. “Probably about mid-morning.” He looked pointedly at me. “Steve, you ready for another adventure?”

I guessed he assumed Sharp would join him without asking. “Only if you’ll teach me some wilderness skills.”

“Seems a steep price, but it’s a deal.”

That was the first hint of humor I had ever seen from McAllen, and pretty weak at that. The captain dressed in a nightshirt without further word, so I asked, “Who’ll join us?”

“A lot of men get in the way, so just the four of us. In the morning, rent two or three packhorses. Sharp’ll help you buy supplies.”

“What’ll ya be doin’?” Sharp asked.

“Sleep late and then see my ex-wife.” With that, McAllen grabbed the bottle of bourbon and a glass and marched out of the bathroom.

We sat there a moment, and then Sharp said, “We probably oughta go to bed as well, but how ’bout a beer?”

I stood. “Whiskey puts me more in a sleeping mood, but the captain’s run off with our bottle.”

Sharp remained seated. “On second thought, maybe ya oughta write Jenny a letter instead. We might be in them hills a long time.”

I wasn’t surprised that Sharp brought up Jenny Bolton. He had been harassing me for weeks to write her. I had dallied because the prospect scared me. I had left Jenny on her ranch in Nevada’s Mason Valley. More accurately, she had sent me on my way, uninterested in my advances. Sharp still held out hope, but memory did not encourage me to revisit the pain of rejection. “Let’s go over to the saloon, and I’ll think about it over a drink.”

Chapter 3

The next morning we made the local shopkeeper happy. Sharp bought so many provisions that we needed four packhorses. He seemed intent on emptying the shelves of ammunition, canned goods, dry goods, blankets, candles, and utensils. Sharp also bought two pair of field glasses, a lantern, an axe, a shovel, pliers, a twelve-inch file, and four heavy sheepskin overcoats.

“Why a lantern?” I asked.

“When yer close on the heels of yer prey, a low lantern ain’t nearly as bright as a campfire … and ya can carry it around for light, if need be.” Sharp looked at my feet. “How’re yer boots?”

“Fine. Bought them a couple months ago in Carson City.”

“Buy another pair,” Sharp ordered.

“Why?”

“We could get an early snow or trudge through streams. Wet boots make a man miserable.”

I spent a few minutes picking boots from a selection of only two styles, one being the square-toed stream-waders miners preferred. After I dropped a serviceable pair of riding boots onto the counter, I ruffled through the tall stack of blankets and canvas pads that were part of our order.

“Heavy coats, no fires, enough blankets to warm a small church congregation, and now you make me buy spare boots.” I pointed at a wooden box filled with canned goods and sacks of foodstuffs. “How long do you expect to be gone?”

“Until McAllen finds his daughter.” Sharp hefted the box of cans and tossed it into my arms. “And some of them blankets an’ pads are to wrap the packhorse loads so they don’t rattle an’ bang. A quiet load makes for a calm horse.”

I grunted under the load and turned a quizzical eye at the storekeeper. “I’ll get a boy to help you,” he said.

I turned and slid the box back onto the counter. “Two,” I replied.

“Steve, there ain’t no boys to hire in the mountains. Better get used to carryin’ yer load.”

“Right now, I better see to hiring some horses to carry these supplies.” I turned to the storekeeper. “Have the boys bring all this down to the livery … oh, and Mr. Sharp will gladly pay the tally.” I whirled and marched out, happy to see the chagrin on Sharp’s face.

The liveryman was pleased to rent packhorses this late in the year. I had arranged for four horses by the time Sharp and two boys entered the livery burdened with loads that required them to peek around the sides to see where they were going.

Sharp dropped his load and examined the packhorses. “Good animals,” he said. “Which one’s the boss?”

“Boss?” I asked before the liveryman could answer.

“Horses are like dogs when they run together. One of ’em is gonna put the others in their place. Nature. Ya rue the day ya try to change the peckin’ order.” Sharp lifted an eyebrow at the liveryman.

“That big gray Morgan. Ya put him in front of the string an’ ya won’t have no trouble.”

Sharp nodded. “Let’s see yer pack saddles.”

“Sawbuck or Spanish?”

“Spanish. Better on mountain trails,” Sharp said.

“Goin’ after them Utes?” the liveryman asked.

“Yep.”

“Good luck. At least ya know what yer ’bout. Most of the men that went after ’em were miners, an’ the rest had pint-size brains stuffed in big hats.” He waved us to the back of the barn. “Saddles’re back here.”

Sharp sorted out the saddles and hitches and picked the ones he wanted. Then Sharp eyed the horses as he sorted the loads into four piles.

Before we saddled the four packhorses, Sharp explained, “The secret to a behaved string of packhorses is spreadin’ the loads between the animals based on what they can carry. Then ya gotta make the loads snug, balanced, an’ quiet, with nothin’ stickin’ out to get caught on a tree or rock. Ya see, a saddle horse carries a live weight, one that shifts with the circumstance, but a packhorse carries a dead weight, so it’s gotta be balanced just so.”

“Maybe we should get a wagon,” I offered.

“A horse can pull more than it can carry, but a packed horse can go more places.” He moved a gunnysack from one pile to another. After another examination, he said, “Come on, let’s get this loaded. I’ll show ya a proper diamond hitch.”

We were done by mid-morning, but McAllen was nowhere in sight. The supplies had been bought, packhorses let, our own gear readied, and everything packed. Saddling our riding horses was all that remained, and this would wait until we were set to depart.

Sharp and I stood outside the livery corral kicking our spurs into the dirt. “Let’s get a ham steak,” Sharp said.

“Bit early for a noon meal.”

“Hell, McAllen went to see his ex-wife. No tellin’ how long he’ll be, and we might not see a hog for months.”

“You said something similar this morning when we ordered that glutinous breakfast.”

“True this morning, true now. If ya hadn’t hired them boys, you’d be hungry too.”

“What if McAllen shows up?”

Sharp leaned around the corner of the barn and yelled at the liveryman, “If a gruff gent comes lookin’ for us, tell ’im we’re at the café.” Sharp turned and gave me a pleased look.

“What if he comes before we finish our meal? You know McAllen.”

“Then we git up and head for the hills.”

“He said mid-morning. Could be a waste of money.”

“Might be right.” Sharp pushed himself away from the barn wall. “So you pay.” And off he went.

I followed Sharp around the corner to a hardscrabble footpath lined with single-story ramshackle buildings. Mining towns had only two purposes: to dig money from the earth as fast as possible and then to separate that money from the miners even quicker. And all mining towns looked as if they had been thrown up yesterday with little hope that they would be needed tomorrow. Because Durango served the mining towns and operations in the nearby hills, the town had been cut from this same mold. Even with the railroad on the way and looming incorporation, Durango had the aspect and temper of a makeshift encampment that would never last beyond the gold and silver. Despite these off-putting flaws, I loved mining towns. You could count on high spirits, savvy men, savvier women who threw social norms to the winds, have-nots suddenly awash in money, and a frantic abandon that appealed to me for reasons I never bothered to examine. I liked the unbridled energy that made me wake up anxious to experience the day.

Sharp was in his element in mining towns. I had met him in a rough camp that made Durango look downright cosmopolitan. In Durango, people lived in respectable buildings, with water readily available. The miners in Pickhandle Gulch built rudimentary rock hovels, because wood demanded a higher price than silver. Water came even dearer. Sharp had built a mining empire centered in Belleville, about twenty miles from Pickhandle. I accidentally got mixed up with his biggest rival, which made us natural allies, and we had since become friends. An odd friendship. Sharp, in his early fifties, was twenty years my senior. I was an aspiring writer with the best education a rich New York family could buy. Sharp lacked formal education, but he had been all over the world and built his wealth with his own hands. These differences somehow made the friendship work. Or perhaps it was our aggressive natures and the common need to make our mark that brought us together.

Sharp’s destination was the same dowdy café where we had eaten breakfast. He liked to eat at unrefined places where he might pick up mining gossip. I preferred eating at our boardinghouse, but this time it was prudent to stay close to the stables in case McAllen came looking for us. The proprietors had tried to dress up the café’s unpainted walls and plank floor with red-checkered tablecloths and bright blue enameled plates. Deer antlers bracketed an American flag tacked to one wall, and a cheap grandfather clock kept up a relentless beat in the corner.