by Jory Sherman
Tom and Cole rode closer. They were wary now, and the two men drifted slightly apart. Brad recognized Cole as the man he had met on the road from the smelter, the one who had mistaken him for Alonzo Jigger. He smiled, and a brief thought flitted through his mind.
Two old friends, he thought.
The pair stopped at the creek where Ginger’s tracks disappeared after the gelding had stepped into the creek.
“Damn,” Tom said. “He knows we’re trackin’ him. Rode right into the damned crick.”
“Maybe he just crossed it,” Cole said. “Let’s ride acrost it and see.”
The two men rode across the creek, their horses splashing water with flashing hooves, the sounds slicing the air like silver knives. Splash, splash, splash, and they were across, once again on dry ground. The two men rode up and down that side of the creek, both leaning over and staring at the ground.
“See any tracks down your way, Tom?” Cole said.
“Nary.”
“Ain’t none here, neither. Damn.”
“We could straddle both sides of the creek and ride up it. He’s got to come out somewhere.”
“Yeah, we can do that. You ride over to the other side and look real hard.”
Brad shook the rattles before Tom could answer.
The rattles made a clacking sound like a thousand loose teeth shaking together and sent shivers up the spines of the two men at the creek.
“What’s that?” Cole said.
“Rattlesnake,” Tom said. “Unless ...”
Brad shook the rattles again.
“Unless what?”
“Unless it’s Sidewinder.”
Brad shook the rattles once again, then slipped them back down his shirt. He rode out from behind the juniper just as Tom’s hand slapped at the pistol on his hip.
He rode up on Cole and Tom, his pistol drawn.
“It’s him,” Tom said, and his right hand floated up from the butt of his holstered pistol.
“Damned if it ain’t,” Cole said, twisting in the saddle so that he could see Brad.
“You men hold real steady,” Brad said as he rode up on them.
“You ain’t goin’ to shoot us in cold blood, are you, mister?” Tom said.
“I just might.”
“Hell, we ain’t doin’ you no harm,” Cole said.
“A little ways off your range, aren’t you?” Brad asked them.
“Just takin’ a little ride is all,” Cole said, a band of sweat ringing his neck just above his bandanna.
“We don’t mean no harm,” Tom said, sweat trickling down from his hairline in glistening rivulets like sweet cider.
“Take off your gun belts,” Brad ordered. “Real slow, and keep both hands where I can see them.”
“Shit,” Cole said.
Brad poked the pistol at him and thumbed back the hammer.
The mechanism made a loud click, and blood drained from Cole’s face.
Shadows of aspen leaves shifted on the ground, like hand shadows on a cave wall. They seemed to breathe in the silence that followed that ominous click of the hammer on Brad’s pistol as the sear engaged inside the intricate mechanism of the lock. It sounded, Cole thought, like the single click of a giant clock, a clock that a man heard only at the last moment before his death.
“Wha-what you want to do this for, Sidewinder?” Tom asked. “We ain’t done you no wrong.”
“Unbuckle your gun belt, Tom.”
Brad swung the pistol barrel to take aim on Ferguson’s chest, that spot where the beating heart throbbed inside his chest, just under the fragile ribs that housed the delicate balloons of his lungs. Ferguson’s left hand dropped to his buckle and he pulled on it to release the tongue. He dropped his other hand and tugged on the leather, springing the tongue out of the first hole.
Brad swung the pistol toward Cole again.
“Get to it,” he said, and Cole began unbuckling his belt, sweat sheening his face as if a hose had been turned on inside his skull and was pushing moisture through the pores of his skin.
The leather of their gun belts creaked as tensions relaxed and the weight of the bullets acted like some kind of gravity hidden in cowhide. Both men held up their rigs with one hand as if to show Brad that they had complied and he no longer needed to threaten them with violence and death.
“Now drop them,” Brad said. “Straight down on the ground.”
The men opened their hands and their pistols, holsters, and ammunition belts fell like sash weights, the belts curling into snakelike creatures for just a second before they hit the soft ground with twin thuds.
“Now, Tom, you ease that rifle from its scabbard and toss it into the creek.”
Brad’s hand moved, and the pistol snout moved to stop on a direct line to the center of Tom’s chest.
Tom jerked the rifle free and pushed its butt upward and outward. The gun hit the bank, toppled over, and the barrel splashed into the water.
“Now, you do the same with your rifle,” Brad said, nodding toward Cole.
When Cole’s rifle whacked off a tree some yards away, making a sound like a wooden mallet smacking into a sawhorse, both men winced and held their hands up over their heads as if surrendering would keep them both from dying now that they were unarmed.
“Step down and get at those saddles,” Brad said. “One at a time, and make sure neither of you twitches or tries to run.”
“You takin’ our saddles?” Tom asked.
“Just do it. Strip your horses and let your saddles and all your stuff fall to the ground.”
Tom finished pulling cinches and set his saddle down on its side beneath his horse’s belly. Then Cole loosened his cinches and pulled his saddle from his horse’s back.
“Jesus,” Cole said.
“Now, both of you sit down and take off your boots. Hurry up. You’re burning daylight.”
Both men sat down and removed their boots. Anger contorted Cole’s face as he tugged on the heel of one boot, then the other.
“Socks, too,” Brad said.
“Christ,” Cole said.
Brad gave him a sharp look. “Blasphemy’s not helping your case, Cole.”
Cole’s lips moved as he mouthed a silent word that he dared not utter aloud.
“Now, both of you stand up and take off your clothes, hats and all.”
“Now, that’s far enough,” Cole said.
“Mister, you don’t know how far is far,” Brad said. “Get to it. I can run out of patience faster than you can say another curse word.”
The two men tossed their hats on the ground, unbuttoned their shirts, and slid out of their trousers.
They stood there, both of them naked, shivering in the chill breeze that flowed from the snowcapped mountains.
“You look like a couple of plucked chickens,” Brad said, without any trace of humor in his voice.
“You bastard,” Cole said, covering his privates with both hands like some modest maiden.
“You know the way back to town?” Brad asked.
Both men nodded.
“Then climb up on your horses and ride across that creek and head for town.”
“My wallet’s in my trousers,” Tom said.
“Yeah, we ain’t got no money, ner nothin’,” Cole said.
“You can ask Earl Fincher for an advance on your pay,” Brad said, moving his pistol again from one man to the other.
“What about our clothes and saddles and such?” Ferguson asked.
“When you get a ways toward town, you can look back up here and probably see the smoke.”
“You goin’ to burn our goods?” Cole asked.
“To a crisp,” Brad said. “Now move.”
Both men grabbed the reins and leaped up onto their horses’ backs. They slithered and wriggled their bodies until they could slide into position astraddle their mounts.
“We’ll get you for this, Sidewinder,” Cole said as he turned his horse toward the creek.
“Yeah,”
Tom said, following in Cole’s wake.
The two horses sloshed across the creek. Neither man looked back until they were both well out of sight.
When they did look back, they saw two thin columns of smoke rising into the sky.
“Not only did we lose our guns and saddles,” Tom said, “but fifty bucks to boot.”
“Aw, shut up, Tom. Just think about what Finch is goin’ to say when we ride up to the hotel buck naked.”
“Naked as jaybirds,” Tom said, and shivered in the breeze, a bonewhite mannequin stripped of all pride and dignity, dreading the stares they would get when they rode into Leadville with the sun still up and no place to hide.
NINETEEN
Pete watched the ebb and flow of people, carts, horseback riders, women and men, cats, dogs, and pigs in front of the bank on Harrison Street. The ornate granite façade of the bank building with its perpendicular sculpture scrolls reminded him of Denver’s California Street and the store where he had worked when he first met Harry Pendergast.
He had been working as a store clerk for the Denver Dry Goods Company on California Street in Denver. He began to notice not only shoplifters but other clerks who were stealing from the company, shortchanging some customers, pocketing money instead of putting it into the cash register. The store had hired Harry Pendergast to observe the pilferers and the dishonest clerks. Harry noticed that Pete was writing names and other observations down in a little notebook and approached him one day after work. The two went to a Larimer Street bar, and Pete showed Harry his notebook. Pendergast was able to catch the employees who were stealing from the company and round up the members of the shoplifting ring. He then offered Pete a job and trained him in the art of surveillance, undercover work, and a host of other detective skills.
Pete liked the work, but he was beginning to loathe the façade of the Leadville Bank & Trust. He particularly hated the word “Trust” in the title, since he was almost certain that someone in the bank was in cahoots with Fincher and his gang, the so-called Golden Council.
Paco kept bringing him coffee while Pete checked his pocket watch periodically, his gaze scanning the other buildings on the block, the Silver Slipper Saloon on the corner, and the notary public office, into which he had seen the jailer Percy Willits go and then reappear with Horace Kilbride, who later returned to the office alone. He made note of that and vowed to check with Wally or Percy later to find out why there was need of a notary at the Leadville jail. He suspected that Sheriff Jigger had sent Percy to fetch Horace. Then there was a pawn shop next to the notary’s office, with pocket watches, musical instruments, jewelry, and other surrendered items in the window.
He also noted the front of the Oro City Land Office, which had not yet changed its name, right next to the Jefferson Assay Office and a small store that sold musical instruments, with guitars, trumpets, violins, and clarinets hanging in its windows, a full set of drums and cymbals taking center stage beneath the dangling instruments. This was the Harrison Music Company. The bank took up the rest of the block between Third and Fourth streets.
Around three fifteen, Pete saw the sulky pull up in front of the bank, and moments later, he observed Adolphus Wolfe, the bank owner, emerge and climb into the two-wheeled vehicle with its flamboyant red awning. He carried two heavy satchels, one in each hand, and he puffed from exertion as he took his seat. His face was florid and wet with a sudden sweat. He wiped his brow and face with a pale rose handkerchief he took from his back pocket. The driver turned the sulky in the middle of the street and drove it toward Fourth Street, where it turned the corner toward the fancy residential district and disappeared.
Pete watched the sun crawl along the buildings for another few minutes. Shadows flowed into dark pools in between buildings and grew long hair that spread across a wet street that had turned to dust under the feet of traffic. It looked as if a sculptor was at work with subtle tools, shaping and reshaping Harrison Street without harming its basic structure or contours.
He watched a butterfly flit to a nearby table and alight in a sun-drenched corner. It flexed its yellow wings as if they were an extension of its lungs. The butterfly, he thought, was a symbol of reincarnation, of previous lives lived in other forms. He wondered if all humans had once been something else and were now in the last stages of a complex life cycle, the good, the bad, and the profane, all breathing the same air as that lone yellow-winged butterfly warming itself in the afternoon sunlight.
Pete gestured to his waiter, Paco, who came over.
“More coffee?” Paco said.
“No. See that woman just coming out of the bank?”
Paco looked across the street.
“I see her.”
“Know her name?”
“Yes, that is Miss Andrews. She works at the bank.”
“What’s her given name?”
“I think they call her Betty. I believe her name is Elizabeth. She is a nice lady.”
“Can you walk over and tell her to come here?”
“I don’t know,” Paco said.
“You know her.”
“Yes, I know her. She comes here for lunch sometimes.”
“Tell her a gentleman wants to talk to her. There’s a silver dollar in my pocket for you if you’ll do this.”
“I will do it,” Paco said. He slipped the towel from his arm and placed it on an empty chair at Pete’s table. Then he scurried across the street as Betty Andrews was coming down the walk in her yellow cotton dress with a white piqué collar encircling her neck like a white sugar wafer, a blue belt around her waist. She carried a small doeskin purse and wore sensible low-heeled black shoes that showed off her delicate ankles.
He saw Paco speak to her and saw her look across the street at him. He raised a hand and beckoned to her. He saw her shake her head and then saw that Paco was still talking to her. She looked at him again and he smiled, lifted both arms at acute angles with his palms open to show that he meant her no harm. Then she and Paco began to walk toward him, avoiding a two-wheeled cart pulled by a gray burro that resembled a large mouse.
Paco led her to the table and picked up his towel. He stood facing Pete, his eyebrows raised, his brown eyes twinkling.
“Won’t you sit down, Miss Andrews?” Pete said. “My name is Pete Farnsworth. Paco will bring you anything you like, a drink perhaps, or a sweet-cake if you wish.”
She looked up at Paco, who had turned to face her like an obedient servant at attention.
“I’d like a cup of tea,” she said in a voice that quavered with uncertainty, yet carried a hint of efficiency and intelligence. Her face was pear shaped, her lips faintly rouged, as were her smooth cheeks. She wore no mascara, and her eyes were as blue as an ocean on a calm day.
Paco nodded and scurried away.
Pete introduced himself and showed her his badge in its small leather wallet.
“Why ever would you wish to speak with me, Mr. Farnsworth?” she said, a coolness in her manner as well as a certain detachment. She placed her purse in her lap and folded her hands over it like a prim maiden at her first job interview.
“Two men, whom I believe were involved in robbery and murder, came into your bank this morning. They were carrying four burlap bags. Heavy bags. Do you recall them entering the bank?”
“Why, if I did, Mr. Farnsworth, that would be no business of mine, I assure you.”
“But you saw them?”
“I may have.”
The butterfly with the delicate yellow wings lifted off the table and flapped away like some scrap of old paper tossed by a vagrant breeze. Pete saw it lift off out of the corner of his eye and felt a brief surge of sadness, as if he had lost something important.
“They would be easy to spot, Miss Andrews. These were rough men, and they were lugging several bars of silver.”
Betty Andrews gasped, either at the mention of silver or the fact that Pete knew what was in those burlap bags.
“I do not know what was in those bags. I directe
d them to Mr. Gorman, who opened the private vault for them. I believe they own a safe-deposit box in our bank.”
Paco showed up with a small pot of tea, a cup and saucer. He set them in front of Betty and poured her cup half full. The steam and the aroma of Chinese orange pekoe drifted to Pete’s nostrils. It was a pleasant smell. Paco deposited a slice of lemon in the saucer and laid a spoon upon a fresh napkin he spread next to her arm.
“Thank you, Paco,” Pete said, dismissing him with his words.
“They really should serve the lemon slice with a fork instead of a spoon,” she said. “With the fork, you can squeeze the lemon juice into the tea and the seeds won’t fall in. But I never put lemon in my tea.”
“There’s a sugar bowl there,” he said.
The white porcelain bowl was covered, and a tiny spoon handle jutted through the opening.
“I do not use sugar,” she said, that prim look of propriety on her face.
“Neither do I. In my coffee, I mean.”
“Either condiment dilutes the medicinal value of the tea,” she said.
“Oh, come off it, Betty,” he said with an abruptness that startled her. “You saw those men, and you know what they were putting in that safe-deposit box. Isn’t that true?”
“I don’t believe I care for your manner, Mr. Farnsworth.”
“If you are concealing a crime, I can go to the sheriff and swear out a warrant for your arrest. I can also go before Judge Leffingwell and obtain a warrant to search that safe-deposit box.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said, without a trace of conviction in her voice.
“Like hell I wouldn’t. Now, I want to know what happened to those silver bars after those two men left the bank. Did anyone go into that safe-deposit box and remove them?”
Betty lifted the cup to her lips and drank to avoid answering Pete’s question. The tea burned her tongue, and she reared back from the unexpected shock. Her purse slipped off her lap and fell to the flagstone floor.
Pete leaned down and picked up her purse. He looked at her slim legs, the light tan stockings that could not hide her graceful limbs.
