Leadville (29 page)

Over another drink, we negotiated a price, and I paid with paper money. After we completed the deal, I decided to take the horse out for another ride. No telling how long Jenny would be, and I needed to get to know the horse so I could pick an appropriate name.

I had just remounted when I heard shrill squealing. I looked over to see a two-wheel wagon full of pigs, being pulled by a mule. Jenny sat on the teetering seat, snapping the reins against the mule’s back.

I sat nailed to my saddle until Joe reached up, took the reins out of my hands, and threw them around the corral rail. “Might as well say hello.”

I dismounted and walked into the yard as Jenny pulled up on the reins. We both just stared at each other. She wore a blank expression and a dowdy housedress, but she still looked prettier than any woman I had seen since I had left this ranch. Then she smiled. I fell in love again instantly. Damn, I should never have come here.

“Steve, I can’t believe it’s you.” She leaped off the wagon and threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. “Why’d you come back? No … I didn’t mean it like that.” She squeezed but did not kiss. “I’m glad you’re here, whatever the reason.”

I pushed her out to arm’s length. “I came with what many would assume were sad tidings … but in your case, I think you’ll be happy.”

“My mother-in-law is dead.”

I was confused. “How did you know?”

“Her death made the local newspaper.”

“She’s in the barn,” Joe said from behind me.

Her smile disappeared. “You brought her
here
? Why?”

“To bury her in the dirt of this ranch … with her son. Those were the only two things she cared about. She wanted this ranch so bad she died for it, so I figured she ought to get a piece of it for a grave.”

“Very poetic but stupid. Steve, take her away from—” She stopped, and I could see her think. Finally, “You’re right.
I
need to bury her.” She took a deep breath. “Now.”

I understood but said nothing.

“Joe, get two shovels.” Then she screamed, “Chris!” and he came running. “Put these pigs in the pen and give them some slop to shut them up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaped onto the wagon and snapped the reins.

Joe came out of the barn with two shovels. “Cliff and Pete are dead too.”

She turned and met my eyes. “You?”

I nodded.

“So much good news in a single day. I hope they died painfully.” Her voice sounded bitter and she threw me an angry look before she marched off into the barn. Soon she was driving the wagon into the field that included the Bolton family graveyard.

I didn’t go with her and Joe. Bringing Mrs. Bolton back here had been a mistake. Jenny was right. It was stupid. I didn’t like her reaction, and I certainly didn’t like her bloodlust. Had I fallen out of love ten minutes after I had decided I was in love? Jenny always seemed like at least two different people. She confused me. The travesties she had endured were unspeakable, and they would damage anyone, but most of the time she seemed untouched, or pretended to be untouched. And then anger and hatred would flash white hot. This was not the appealing Jenny.

I loved the joyous Jenny, the one full of life, the one with enough energy to make a room full of people happy to be alive. This Jenny’s smile radiated good will and innocence. My Jenny’s laugh made you believe you were the only one that could delight her.

The other Jenny hated. She could kill—she had killed. She was unbelievably stubborn—headstrong to a fault. She snarled and snapped out words like a bullwhip. And she was cold—colder than a corpse covered in ice.

These were the two Jennys I knew. I even think I understood them both. I always believed that my Jenny would one day emerge as the winner. But even my Jenny acted out roles she scripted as if for the stage. I was never sure if I was seeing one of the two Jennys I knew, or another disguised with good acting.

However many Jennys there were, they were all breathtakingly pretty and smart as hell. Too smart. She was calculating. At seventeen, she had already been manipulating men for years. Me? Yes, of course she had manipulated me. I took care of everything for her, and the only thing I received in return was the ire of her mother-in-law.

Damn it all.

I walked around the edge of the barn and saw Jenny and Joe throwing dirt into a grave about fifty yards away. She threw the dirt with relish.

I watched her lithe form as she wielded the shovel with the sure-handedness of someone accustomed to laboring in a field. The sun had baked her complexion a walnut brown that made her smile appear brighter than untouched snow. As she flung dirt and bile into the grave, her hair flew free and her breasts lifted and fell with a regular rhythm. Like the grand nature of the West, she was pretty, rugged, and dangerous.

With a new clarity I saw that she was the exact opposite of the women I had known in the East, and different was no longer enough. My Jenny might not win. At an impressionable age, she had been tutored and taunted by Mrs. Bolton. The things she had suffered had seared anger deep in her soul and I would be a fool to think I could now come along and coax her to a brighter outlook.

I went over to the corral and mounted my new horse. I was leaving. The last time, she had rejected me. I had ridden away with the sun against my back, feeling devastated. This time I was the one that chose to leave, and I would ride west, into the light of a setting sun. I guess I had to come back to take another look at her—with the distance of time to add perspective.

Now I could leave her and this ranch for good and not feel like I had left something undone.

Suddenly, I knew the name of my new horse: Liberty. I was finally free, and Liberty would carry me back to Carson City to rejoin Jeff Sharp.

I was only a quarter mile away when I heard a woman yelling after me. Jenny’s screaming was unclear, but I believe I heard her yell my name. When I looked over my shoulder, she was standing alone outside the barn, hands cupped around her mouth. Then she dropped her hands and struck a defiant pose with feet spread and both hands on her hips.

I tapped my spurs into the side of Liberty and never looked back again.

More Steve Dancy

Please turn the page for a preview of

Murder at Thumb Butte
by James D. Best

Chapter 1

“Four.”

“I’m impressed,” Sharp said.

“Four thousand isn’t that much,” I said. “Mrs. Baker has done better with our store in Leadville.”

“Yep, but she ain’t gonna be a literary giant like you.”

Jeff Sharp and I lounged on the porch of the St. Charles Hotel in Carson City, Nevada. I had spent the winter writing a novel about my adventures in the West, while Sharp took care of his mining operations in Belleville. He had drove a buggy into town the previous evening, just in time to enjoy the first decent spring morning. It may have been the warmest day of 1880, but it remained chilly enough for us to wear heavy coats as we sipped morning coffee.

I was pleased to see Sharp again, but not because we jointly owned a general store in Leadville, Colorado. The store was a minor investment, and Mrs. Baker ran it with very little direction from us. I was happy because Sharp’s timing had been perfect. I had mailed my manuscript two days earlier, and after spending the winter indoors with fictional characters, I was eager to talk to breathing human beings again.

Sharp shook his head. “I can’t believe they gave you four grand, sight unseen.”

“They saw six chapters before settling on the amount. Besides, they won’t deposit the final part of the advance until they approve the complete manuscript.”

Sharp grinned. “Am I in it?”

“Jeff, I didn’t use real names … but you might recognize a gent named Jeffery Harper.”

“Damn it, Steve, ya know I hate Jeffery.”

Now I grinned. “I know.”

“Ya use Steve Dancy?”

“No, I’m the author. Besides, I thought Dancy sounded citified.”

“What’d ya call yerself?”

“It’s fictional.”

“Okay, what’d ya call the hero?”

“Jeffery Harper.”

“Bullshit.”

I smiled. “Joseph Steele.”

Sharp laughed. “I s’pose Mr. Steele rid the West of outlaws without any help from Mr. Harper.”

I smiled. “It’ll cost you two-bits to find out.”

“Whoa, ya gonna make me buy a copy?”

“No … I owe you more than a book, but I won’t tell you about it.” I threw Sharp a glance. “You’ll have to read it.”

“Fair ‘nough.” Sharp sipped his coffee and surveyed the street. After a long silence, he asked, “Ever think ‘bout Sam?”

“Every day. Probably should have changed hotels, but it seemed disrespectful to run from memories.”

Last summer, two hired killers had tried to ambush me in front of this very hotel. My quick-witted Pinkerton guards threw me to the boardwalk and a gun battle raged for several minutes. Sam—a friend and a Pinkerton—had died from a shot to the gut. I had been the only one at his side in his last hours.

“Damn shame.”

“Damn shame,” I repeated.

“Too early for flowers. Like to stop by his grave, just the same.”

“On occasion I go up there and share a whiskey with him.”

“Let’s take a bottle out there this evening.”

“He’d like that.”

We drank our coffee, and watched the traffic wheel by for a few minutes. Carson City was the capital of Nevada and close to Virginia City’s Comstock Lode. The traffic in front of our hotel was dominated by politicians and silver barons—and the crafty who had grown wealthy supplying the needs of the other two. The exclusive St. Charles Hotel was only a few blocks away from the sandstone capitol and the traffic this spring morning—whether on foot, hoof, or wheels—strutted like each and every one of them was the cock of the walk.

“The book’s done.” I shook my head at the parade in front of me. “I want to get out of here.”

“I’m ready to git too. Been thinkin’ ‘bout returnin’ to Leadville.”

“Mrs. Baker’s doing a fine job. I was thinking south.”

“I like to check on my investments.”

I laughed at Sharp’s lame excuse. “Hell, that store’s a small operation for you. You want to entice Mrs. Baker into your bed.”

“Hadn’t entered my mind, but I’ll convey yer suggestion to her.”

“Jeff, it’s cold in Leadville. The town won’t thaw for months. Let’s go to Arizona. It’s warm and there’s plenty of silver.”

“Ain’t America.”

“Hell, we own it.”

“Things are different below the border. Territorial law can’t be trusted.”

“That’s why I want to go to Prescott. John C. Frémont’s the territorial governor. I can get him to grease wheels for us.”

“Ya know him?”

I laughed. “Not really, but I’ve sat on his knee.”

“Hope that weren’t recent.”

“Twenty five years ago. I was six. Still too old to be bounced on someone’s knee, but the
ol’ Pathfinder
insisted.”

“Ya think he’ll remember yer bony derrière.”

“He’ll remember how my family helped his bid for the presidency. The Republican Party was new, and he needed New York money and publicity. Horace Greely provided gallons of ink, and my family showed him the money.”

“I met Greely in Colorado,” Sharp said. “Hated the little rooster. He said,
go west, young man
, but he wanted ‘em to build some sort of Garden of Eden out of this wilderness. Don’t ‘pect that’s what Frémont’s doin’ in Arizona.”

“Doubt it. Frémont was down to someone else’s last dollar, when he begged President Grant for a position. Grant knew he was a pain in the ass, so he gave Frémont a useless job as far away from the capital as he could send him.”

“That man failed at everything. What makes you think he can help us?”

“Jeff, that’s too harsh. He was a great explorer.”

“Then maybe he belongs in a desert wilderness.” Sharp waved at a passerby he recognized. “I say we head for Leadville. Lots of money to be made in that town. Rail line’s finished, by the way, so no need to ride our horses.”

“There’s more opportunity in Arizona, and a man can move between buildings without taking fifteen minutes to bundle.”

“Steve, I already set my mind on Leadville. I’m leaving in a couple of days and I came to Carson City to fetch you. Spring’s the best time to find good claims.” He turned his head to catch my eye. “Ya with me?”

I sipped the last remnants of my coffee to stall answering. We had been in Leadville together last autumn. I had grown up in New York City, and lived there until a little over a year ago, when I had sold my investments, including my gun shop, and ventured west to see and experience the frontier. I wanted to see more of the West, not revisit places I had already been. Sharp was the biggest private mine operator in Nevada, and it appeared he wanted to extend his silver holdings to Colorado. I was tired of Carson City, and wanted to venture away from Nevada. Damn. I preferred going in another direction, but I couldn’t imagine ridding off into the wilderness without my friend.

I sighed and set my empty coffee mug down. “Will you go to Arizona with me after you explore investment opportunities?”

“Yep.”

“Then I’ll go with you, but I’m taking Liberty.”

“I’ll take my horse, as well. Hell, a lot cheaper than buying an animal in Leadville.” Something must have shown on my face, because he added, “Hell that buggy lets me carry a more comfortable bedroll and food that don’t chip my teeth. Must be getting’ old, ‘cuse I’m sure gettin’ to like them comforts. But don’t get uppity, I still ride a horse mainly.”

To disguise his embarrassment, Sharp picked up our coffee mugs to go inside for refills. He stopped at the door. “Steve, ya might as well know … I’m sellin’ all of my silver interests in Nevada. That’s why I’m goin’ to Leadville. New start.”

“Claims drying up?”

“Best to sell while they’re still producin’. I don’t like what’s happen’ here. Lot of it yer fault.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“That whippersnapper you put in charge of the bank in Pickhandle has turned more coldblooded than Washburn, and those dunderheads at the statehouse won’t support free silver—and Richard’s the worst of ‘em.”