Leadville (8 page)

“Jeff, what’re we going to do?” I asked. “We’ve got to get after Grant and this half-breed. I think they’re both in this up to their necks.”

“I know. We’ll deal with ’em, but first we gotta help our friend bury the dead.”

Chapter 15

About two hundred people attended the burial, and even though I had never met the girl, the somber mood caught me. Evidently, she was well liked and her parents respected. It brought to mind my father’s funeral. I was just twenty-four and his death jolted me. With his passing, I inherited his business interests, his substantial bank account, and his greed-driven family. I had no siblings because my mother had died in childbirth. By the time I was old enough to understand there should have been people who cared about me from her side, we had lost track of her family. I
became convinced that my father’s side had pushed them away. After all, they were barely middle-class, and we were among the elite of the New York City social set.

My father and I were friends. Although he had many business interests, we spent most of our time at his gun shop. He loved guns, especially expensive European shotguns. The shop catered to rich bird hunters, and we used every sale as an excuse to escort our client into the countryside to test his purchase. After his death, I grew to understand that he had no more use for his family than I did, and he used his enthusiasm for guns to escape their meddling.

My father’s brothers and sisters were all the family I knew, but we did not get along before his death, and a heated feud developed afterwards. At first, they just seemed obsessed with marrying me off to some appropriate girl to seal a business partnership between two social register families. Then they dragged me into nefarious business dealings that always seemed to involve some large bribes to shady politicians. No thank you. I headed west.

A chorus of
amens
brought me back to the burial. Captain McAllen didn’t stand beside his ex-wife and her current husband. I wasn’t sure if it was out of respect for their relationship, or if there was ill will between them. After everyone had walked by and thrown a handful of soil into the grave, Sharp and I joined the other people moving down the hill and into town. At the bottom, Sharp stopped and glanced back up the hill. I assumed he wanted to wait for McAllen. I felt self-conscious because we looked like a couple of unwashed trail hands too ignorant to find proper dress for a funeral. As the crowd passed, we just stood there making solemn nods to people we didn’t know.

Eventually, McAllen came down by himself. When he saw us, he came right over. “They want some time alone at the graveside,” he said.

“What about you?” I blurted.

“I’d just as soon be by myself as well. That’s the way I always saw her. I’ll go back after dark.”

“Did you see her often?” I asked.

“Once or twice a year. My ex-wife was always polite, but I knew I wasn’t welcome. She had a new family, and I had become an intrusion.”

Without a word, we started for the livery to collect our belongings. We waited for McAllen to open the subject of the Utes and the abduction. At the camp, he had seemed vengeful and anxious to get to the bottom of things. Now he kept his thoughts to himself as we worked for about an hour collecting our stuff and storing it in my room. Because Sharp had thought that we might be gone for a long time, the unused supplies took up both available corners.

As we stacked the supplies, McAllen said, “Steve, the circuit judge came around early, so they already held an inquest. No charges were filed against you. Deemed self-defense.” He threw another sack onto a pile. “If you haven’t written Jenny, I suggest you do it tonight.”

“You too?” I threw my own sack. “Isn’t it enough that Jeff keeps haranguing me about Jenny? Well, I already wrote her, but we got back too soon for a reply to arrive.”

McAllen grabbed my forearm. “I don’t care about any damn love letter. Write her and tell her what happened. She needs to be warned her mother-in-law ain’t just socializing with the Nob Hill crowd.”

Chagrined, I simply said, “I did. Jeff and I also sent a telegram before we left town.”

“We need to check with Western Union,” Sharp said. “She may have responded to our telegram.”

We finished our work, and the three of us stood looking at my cluttered room. “I didn’t pay for all this,” McAllen said, “but if you don’t mind, could we donate what we don’t need to the church in my daughter’s name?”

“Of course,” Sharp said.

I gave Sharp a sideways look and said, “Jeff, we better get over to the Western Union office.”

Sharp made a move toward the door, but McAllen stopped us by finally broaching the subject. “Did you find Dooley?”

“Yep, but ya won’t like what we found out,” Sharp said.

“I already know Grant left town. What else?”

We told him. McAllen eyes grew dark and mean, but he merely nodded. After a moment, he went to the window and looked out. “It’s dark,” was all he said. Then he turned to face us. “Let’s get a soak and a beer. There’s nothing more that can be done tonight. Besides, I need to see my ex-wife again this evening, and I think my request will be better received if I clean up.”

“What do you want from her?” Sharp asked, confused.

McAllen headed for the door. “The necklace.”

Chapter 16

Jenny had indeed sent a return telegram, but, as we predicted, no letter had arrived yet. The telegram was terse. It simply said,
No problem here. Being careful. Glad Steve unharmed
.

She had used my first name. Was that a good sign? I told myself not to get my hopes up. She had only responded to the warning of danger, not my more personal letter, which she may not have received yet. After I got through with my wishful thinking about her feelings toward me, I took comfort in her statement that there were no problems at the ranch. Hopefully, Mrs. Bolton would aim her wrath only at me. Then I realized that would be completely out of character for Mrs. Bolton. If she had resumed the warpath, Jenny would undoubtedly be a target.

After we returned to our boardinghouse, Sharp and I found McAllen and commandeered the bathroom. I paid the owner’s son to run across the street for some chilled beers. Few things in life felt more comforting than slipping into a hot bath with a large tankard of beer in hand. The common bathroom provided little privacy, so I tipped the boy to keep the water fresh in the single tub and to shoo away any other tenants.

The stove used to heat the bathwater kept the room warm, so after our soaks, we sat in straight-back chairs with towels wrapped around our waists. After the boy had fetched our second beers, McAllen got down to business.

“Any of you got any answer other than that Grant planned this?”

“Nope,” Sharp said. “He led the posse right to them. Might have been good tracking, but my bet is he knew exactly where they’d be. We know he lied about the number of Indians in order to keep the posse away from ’em.”

“And the half-breed lied as well,” I added.

“Yep,” Sharp said, “so the two gotta be in cahoots.”

McAllen took a swallow of his beer. Then another. “We know a white man paid the Utes and told them how to pick her up. The boy said nothing about any half-breed, but the two of them musta been partners.”

“Does the town think this was part of the Ute uprising?” I directed my question to McAllen because he had had more contact with townspeople at the funeral and burial.

“Yep, and no use getting the people worked up about some conspiracy we can’t prove.” Another swallow of beer. “Besides, they all think pretty highly of this Grant fella.”

“You ever have a run-in with Bob Grant?” Sharp asked.

“Not that I recollect,” McAllen answered. “What’s he look like?”

“Big guy, good lookin’ with brown hair … what he’s got left of it,” Sharp said. “Looks to be about forty, probably six-two, heavy built, dresses like a city feller, an’ carries a shoulder gun under a frock coat. Walks heavy-footed. Ready smile, especially for the ladies.”

Sharp’s description impressed me. For some reason, I had difficulty describing a person unless I had already made notes about them in my journal. Grant had not warranted an entry. Until now. I suddenly realized the book I planned about my trek through the Wild West would include at least one chapter on this nefarious character. At the next opportunity, I had to catch up my journal on recent events and make some notes on Bob Grant.

At first, McAllen remained silent after Sharp’s description. Then he asked, “Any scars?”

“None that I noticed,” Sharp answered.

“He has a scar.” I was glad to be able to add something. “Right hand. Went from his thumb almost to the back of his wrist.”

McAllen flung his tankard against the wall, splattering beer and glass shards everywhere. “Goddamn it!”

The boy burst into the room at the sound. He looked at the mess and said, “Yer gonna pay for that.”

“Shut the hell up!” McAllen yelled.

“I’ll pay,” I said. “Please, step back outside.”

He hesitated but bolted when McAllen leaned over for his gun that lay on the floor. “Go down and get us more beer!” McAllen yelled through the closed door. I heard boots immediately thud against the stairsteps.

After a long moment, McAllen said, “The man’s real name is Jim Vrable. Shit! That son of a bitch. This time I’m gonna kill that bastard.”

We waited. The frightened boy opened the door just enough to get his head around. “I have your beers, sir.” We waved him in, and his boots made a crunching sound as he walked across the glass-strewn room. “Should I clean this up?”

“No. Leave it … and us. Now!” McAllen ordered.

His departure disappointed me—I wasn’t eager to step out barefooted onto broken glass.

After the door snapped shut, McAllen said, “I gave him that scar. He came at me with a knife, and I cut him. Shoulda killed him.” When McAllen continued, his voice broke with anguish. “I’m the one. I brought this down on my daughter.”

I knew there was nothing to say, so I just studied the opposite wall until McAllen started talking again.

“The last time I saw Vrable, he worked for the Denver and Rio Grande Railway. Superintendent. Slick son of a bitch. Had everybody fooled. But I found out he beat the hell out of his wife and kid, and I helped them escape his clutches. And after the knife fight, I used my contacts with the railway to get him fired.” McAllen slapped his hand against his thigh. “It all fits. Vrable comes across as somber-minded and capable, just how the townsfolk describe Grant. But let me tell ya: He only appears normal. Under the surface, Vrable’s as crazed as a rabid dog.”

“You think he killed your daughter for revenge?” I asked.

“Yep.” McAllen’s voice was quiet now. “That bastard thinks it fair retribution for me taking his wife and son away from him.”

Sharp turned to face McAllen. “Can I ask ya somethin’?”

“Go ahead.”

“Joseph, you’re a tough hombre with a powerful organization behind ya. Why did Grant think he could get away with this?”

“Probably expected me to find out by telegram. If we hadn’t gone in right after the posse, there’d be no way to know different from what they said.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been in Denver when I heard about this, I would never have gotten here in time. Vrable woulda got away clean.”

I started to understand. “Do you think when he got back, Vrable learned you were out chasing the Ute band, and that’s why he took off so quick? Before you returned and recognized him?”

“That’s the way I got it figured,” McAllen said, and then he yelled, “Boy!”

After the boy gingerly opened the door, McAllen said, “Sweep up this glass, so we can get the hell outta here.”

After he went for a broom, McAllen turned to us. “Sort out enough of those supplies for a four-day ride. No packhorses, so take only what we need to get by. We’re traveling light and we’re traveling fast. We leave first thing in the morning.”

“Breakfast?” Sharp asked.

“If you get up early enough, eat as hearty as you like.”

“Where’re we going?” I asked.

“Leadville.”

Chapter 17

Dr. Dooley met us in the morning at the livery stables. “I’d like to join you men, if there’s no objection.”

“None here,” Sharp said.

“Nor here.” I slapped Dooley on the back, and all three of us looked at McAllen.

When some time had elapsed, McAllen sensed that we were waiting for his response. Without turning from his work, he said, “When a man says, ‘if there’s no objection,’ and I don’t raise one, he shouldn’t push further to get permission.”

All three of us had gotten up early enough for a predawn hot meal. At breakfast, McAllen had been sour company, and his mood had not improved. “Saddle up, Doc. We’re about to get under way,” Sharp said.

Glenwood Springs was less than fifty miles from Leadville, but because of mountains, they were fifty impossible miles. Dooley intended to catch a stagecoach east from Leadville to Denver and then
take a train traveling west again to Glenwood Springs. This circuitous route was better than the direct route through the Rockies, which could prove dangerous to a lone rider, especially since the consumption clinic at Glenwood Springs was close to where the Meeker massacre had occurred only a little over a week before.

Sharp told me that Leadville, at over ten thousand breathtaking feet of elevation, held the title as the highest town in the United States. We were already at eight thousand feet, but to get there we would have to make a couple of mountain ascents, then drop into a high valley on the other side, only to climb over yet another peak. We could look forward to two hundred and fifty miles of cold weather and rough terrain. I reached over and scratched Chestnut’s forehead. We had a hard ride ahead of us.

When I bought Chestnut, I had been looking for a big strong horse, because I carried a Winchester, a shotgun, two handguns, and a gunsmith’s toolset. Add my own one hundred and seventy pounds to all this hardware, plus food and clothing, and I needed a sturdy horse. Chestnut would not win many races, but he could walk or trot all day under heavy load. I had recently discovered that Chestnut also handled backcountry with aplomb and a sure foot.