Leadville (28 page)

I shakily got to my feet and saw McAllen through a blue haze of gun smoke.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

“You’re welcome … now we’re even.”

Chapter 52

McAllen holstered his gun and stepped over the massive body of Mrs. Bolton. “Gentlemen, Ladies,” he yelled. “Please excuse this disturbance. I’m Captain McAllen of the Pinkertons. Unfortunately, this crazy woman was about to kill many people. The marshal will want to ask questions, so please stay at your tables.”

I had gotten to my feet, and McAllen asked, “Are you all right, Steve?”

“Better than if that shotgun had gone off.”

“Then help me move her into the lobby. Bloody bodies tend to put people off their feed.”

Sharp came up and grabbed an arm while McAllen and I each grabbed a leg. The restaurant manager, apparently anxious to get the body away from his customers, hurried over to help by lifting the other arm. We shuffled her into the lobby and dropped her around a corner where she would be out of sight of the restaurant patrons but in full view of the hotel guests. As soon as we plopped the body down, the restaurant manager scurried away as if whatever Mrs. Bolton had was contagious.

“Damn,” Sharp said. “I’m sure glad ya pee straightaway. Takes me forever nowadays.” Sharp laughed, as he always did when he found himself amusing.

I looked down at her and realized I was still drunk. “Well, Captain, I’m glad you didn’t drink much. Even the slightest hesitation, and they’d be cleaning Jeff and me off those drapes.”

“Not much chance of that. I saw her come down the stairs with that shotgun and kept an eye on her instead of going to the privy.”

“You knew she was out of jail.” I said this as a statement, not a question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want to ruin your evening.”

A hotel clerk brought over a blanket, and we threw it over her corpse. After we had her covered, I asked, “Joseph, have you ever killed a woman before?”

“Not sure.” McAllen didn’t give the slightest hint that he was joking. “Anyway, Steve, you’re free of her.”

“Not quite yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m taking her to Mason Valley to be buried next to her son. Now she’ll have a piece of that ranch forever.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sharp said. “Yer goin’ back to see Jenny.” Sharp used the toe of his boot to nudge Mrs. Bolton’s blanket-clad body. “Hell, ya didn’t need an excuse.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, ya’ll need company too. I’m comin’ with ya.”

“All the way to Mason Valley?”

“Hell, no. Just to Carson City. Steve, my boy, the rest of the journey is yers alone to take.”

Chapter 53

The next morning, when Sharp and I entered our store, we both stopped mid-stride. What the hell? The natural pine shelves had been whitewashed, the merchandise had been rearranged, and we didn’t recognize the clerk behind the counter. As we stood there gawking, Mrs. Baker approached us wearing a bright floral dress that swooshed around her legs as she walked.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“What have you done?” I stammered.

“Forget Steve’s poor manners, ma’am.” Sharp gave a little bow. “Ya look stunnin’.”

“You mean my dress?” She did a complete swirl, sending her skirt billowing.

“Your dress, the whitewash, the merchandise.” I pointed at the clerk. “And who’s that?”

“One of our new clerks. With you two gallivanting about the countryside, you didn’t expect me to run the store with two boys, did you?”

“One of our new clerks? How many did you hire?”

“Two … oh, and I still use the boys.” She walked between us and hooked an arm around each of our elbows. “Come along and I’ll show you some of our other changes. And don’t look so worried—we did nearly a thousand dollars worth of business while you were gone.”

My furrowed brow immediately relaxed. A thousand dollars this time of year was spectacular. Most people had started to burrow in for the winter. She led us to the back of the store, which had also been whitewashed and now displayed an oil painting of a flower-filled landscape full of sunshine. Below the painting hung a placard that said
Coffee 5¢
. The stove was stoked, and eight captain’s chairs were scattered around a small table with a checkerboard and several copies of both Leadville papers.

“We sell coffee now?” I asked.

“And lunch. We get a good crowd.”

“Can you make money at that?” I asked.

“Merchandise makes money, but you can’t sell to people huddled against the cold in their rooms.” She waved her arm across the back of the store. “This gives men a place to gather during the day, and they buy things after they get done chatting.”

“They come here instead of a saloon?” I asked.

She smiled. “They like to watch me … and if they get an urge, the establishments right down the street accommodate their needs.” Her expression turned a bit wicked for the first time since I had met her. “I should demand a commission.”

“Do ya ever get bothered?” Sharp asked, with concern in his voice.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she said, throwing a glance at the new clerk. “Besides, we don’t sell liquor. And Clyde sends the ones that come in drunk packing.”

I took better notice of our new clerk. He was big. Tall and hefty. With her pocket pistol and his presence, I figured she was right: They could handle unruly customers.

“The place looks bright and cheery, ma’am,” Sharp said.

“You haven’t lived through a Leadville winter. It’s depressing. The new decorations draw them away from their drab quarters and keep me cheerful.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sharp gave a low whistle. “Nearly a thousand dollars, ya say.”

“Nine hundred and sixty four, to be exact.”

“Mrs. Baker,” I said. “Could Mr. Sharp and I have a private discussion?”

“Of course. You men take a seat right here and help yourself to coffee.” She gave Sharp a fetching grin and used her hand to swish her skirt as she retreated to leave us alone by the warm stove.

“Damn, what the hell got into her?” I said as I plopped into one of the chairs.

“Purpose,” Sharp answered.

“Purpose?”

“She ain’t had a rudder since her husband died. Now she has a purpose in life. We were gone so much, she ran this store. Women need a family or somethin’ else to keep their minds in joyful spirits.”

”You got women figured out?” I asked.

“A damn sight better than ya’ll ever understand ’em. That woman’s ripe for a man. I just might see if I fit the bill.”

“Jeff, she’s too young for you.”

“I may be too old for her, but she’s not too young for me. ’Sides, ya got Jenny.”

“Doubtful. She didn’t return my letters.” I got up and poured us coffees. I handed a mug to Sharp before I retook my seat. “I say we keep the store and let Mrs. Baker run it.”

“Hell, yes,” Sharp said. “If she can do a thousand dollars in a few days at this time of year, she’ll fill this store with customers come spring.”

“How big of a raise?”

“Ten dollars a month, plus ten percent of the profits.”

“She already owns ten percent.”

“Then give her an extra five percent. What the hell.”

“Agreed.” I could feel myself smiling. “I suppose you want to tell her.”

Sharp glanced toward the front of the store. “Yep. Sure ya want to leave tomorrow? Mrs. Bolton ain’t gonna rot in this cold.”

“Jeff, you know winter’s on the way. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Damn.” He glanced at Mrs. Baker again. “I sure hope her bed’s empty when I get back in the spring.”

Chapter 54

My butt hurt. Even using a pillow, a buckboard seat was less comfortable than a saddle. I had rented the wagon in Carson City to haul the pine box to the Bolton ranch in Mason Valley. I had been bouncing down the Carson Trail for nearly six hours, and no matter which way I shifted my weight, every bump punished my tender rear end.

Mr. Tabor had offered to load the coffin on top of one of his ore wagons heading down the mountain. I hadn’t realized how fortuitous that was until I had ridden for nearly a full day on the hard plank that someone at the stable had generously called a seat.

We had gone through Denver to catch trains over to Carson City, but I took advantage of the city to sell the overexcited horse I had never bothered to really name. If I got nothing else at Jenny’s ranch, I hoped to buy a horse. I’d already decided to pay someone else to return the buckboard to Carson City.

Sharp had been a great companion, reveling me with stories of the West for my journal. I had enough material for my book, but I felt no need to rush back to New York City. Besides, I could massage my notes into a book out here as easily as in the East. Maybe better.

As I approached Jenny’s ranch, I grew increasingly nervous. The last time I had been here was only three months before, and I had asked if I could court her. Jenny had declined and sent me on my way. Since then I had written her two letters and received none in return. At least I could let her know in person that her mother-in-law wouldn’t bother her anymore.

The ranch looked the same as the first time that I had seen it, except then it had been summer, and this was late autumn. The colors had transitioned from greens to brownish hues, but the ranch itself looked tidy, and all the structures seemed in good repair. The first place I visually checked was the porch. On my first visit, Mrs. Bolton had stood on that porch looking like a massive ogre, daring the world to displease her. This day, the porch was empty.

I saw one cowboy working a horse in the breaking pen, but no one else. I began to worry. In Carson City, I hadn’t checked to see if Jenny was in town. What if she wasn’t at the ranch? I knew nothing about ranching, but I assumed that, unlike farming, it was a year-round enterprise. Suddenly, Jenny’s foreman came out of the barn pretending to wipe his hands in a towel, but I could see that the towel hid a pistol.

“Expecting trouble, Joe?” I yelled.

Joe smiled and shoved the pistol in his waistband as he threw the towel over his shoulder. He signaled that everything was all right to someone in the barn and walked over to meet my lumbering wagon.

“Steve, good to see ya.” Then he looked concerned. “What’s in the wagon?”

I pointed at the gun in his waistband. “Is that the way you greet all your visitors?”

“All the unexpected ones. Ya never know. Once a gunman came traipsin’ in here with a gang of Pinkertons, snarlin’ demands at the owner.” We both laughed, because, of course, that had been me. When we both regained control, Joe again asked, “Steve, what’s in the wagon.”

“You mean, who’s in the pine box.” I took a breath. “Joe, it’s your old boss.”

“Mrs. Bolton? John’s mother?”

“Yes. I brought her back to be buried here.”

“Who killed her?”

“What makes you think she was killed?”

“Who killed her?”

“The Pinkerton that was here with me a couple of times.”

“We owe him, then.” He gazed at the coffin like it was a gift. “That hag sent Cliff and Pete back here to cause trouble, but we ran them off. She also filed lawsuits in California that required Jenny to go there to defend herself.” Joe looked away from the coffin and back at me. “It’s not been peaceful since ya left.”

Something he said worried me. “Jenny in California?”

“No, she’s at a neighborin’ ranch buyin’ pigs to feed the men. Lost ours to a damn wolf, and the men are tired of beef.” He smiled. “She’ll be back soon.”

I stood up and stretched before climbing down from the wagon. “Got a drink?”

“Yep. It’s a bit early, but this looks to be a time to celebrate.” Joe waved over a boy who looked about fifteen. “Chris, take this wagon and pull it into the barn. Leave the horse hitched. We’ll probably bury this shortly.” Then he turned to me before the boy could ask any questions. “Come on. I got a bottle in the bunkhouse.”

When we got to the bunkhouse, Joe grabbed his bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He wiped the glasses with the towel that still hung over his shoulder. “Let’s sit outside. Gotta take advantage of this weather while it lasts.”

We sat on a long bench that was placed near the wall so we could rest our backs against the bunkhouse. The late afternoon air was brisk, not bone-shattering cold like Leadville. I took a tentative sip and was surprised to discover an adequate whiskey. I took another sip before saying, without preamble, “Cliff and Pete are dead.”

Joe raised an eyebrow at me.

“I killed them in Durango. She sent them to kill me, and I got lucky.”

Joe nodded and then said, “Ya get lucky a lot. Maybe ya can spare some for a poor cowhand with only three dollars to his name.”

“Jenny gave you a raise.”

He chuckled. “That she did, but I go down to Fort Churchill for poker. Love to play, just no good at it.”

“Jenny lets you go?”

“We have an agreement. I never play with the boys in the bunkhouse, and she lets me go to Fort Churchill every Saturday night.” He took a healthy swallow of his drink. “She’s a smart boss.”

I reached into my pocket and held up a coin for Joe to see. “Five bucks to return that wagon to Carson City on your next visit to Fort Churchill.”

Joe looked puzzled as he started to pour us a second drink. “How do ya expect to get back?”

I put my hand over the glass. “Do you have a good horse I could buy?”

“Several.” He thought a minute. “What happened to yours?”

“Mrs. Bolton poisoned Chestnut, and I’m not riding that buckboard back to Carson City.”

Joe nodded his head. “That explains the saddle in the back of yer wagon. Freedom out here means owning a horse.” Joe threw himself off the bench. “I think I got one to fit ya.”

That was encouraging, because Joe was a phenomenon with horses. I followed him to a corral that quartered three horses. I immediately liked a light brown one. It was leaner than Chestnut but had similar coloring. I especially liked the way he watched us approach, in curiosity, not in fear.

“What about that one?”

“It’s the one I had in mind.”

Joe lassoed him while I hauled my saddle and harness from the barn, and I was riding around the corral in short order. After I felt comfortable, I nodded at Joe, and he lifted the gate so I could ride out into the fields. In ten minutes, I knew I would buy this horse. This was not Chestnut. He was faster, but he had none of the twitchiness of that horse I had ridden in Leadville. It’s hard to explain after a short ride, but the horse felt sure-footed and confident. As Joe had said, we fit.