by William Gear
“What’s facile?”
“Easy and simple. Even the garroting of a drunk in an alley in Cheyenne or Salt Lake will be blamed on the mysterious Meadowlark. People will latch onto it like wildfire; it will bring notoriety to their otherwise squalid little communities.”
Billy took a deep breath and another sip of the whiskey. The thing about having money was that a person got used to good stuff. This was real piss in a cup.
“Other than discovering that nice new feather in your cap, if I may make a pun,” Nichols asked, “how are you and Danny doing?”
“Got no complaints. It’s been like you said, George. We get back to Denver, or wire a transfer, and the money’s always been there. Sometimes it don’t make no sense why we’re killin’ someone, but we assume you got yer reasons.”
“Oh, yes.” George leaned forward. “You or Danny ever decide you want to quit? Want to go back to being plain old Billy Hancock? I’ve got a separate account set aside for you. Enough you can buy a nice farm in Arkansas, New Mexico, or California. Hell, go back East if you want and be a high roller.”
“Why would you do that?”
George studied him thoughtfully. “You’re not a stupid man, Billy. Neither am I. I’d be willing to bet you were ready to shoot me when I walked in here, which is why you didn’t stand up and offer to shake hands. No, you had your pistol hid out under the table in case it was a double-cross.”
“Maybe.”
“So we’re sort of like the scorpion and the tarantula dancing around each other. Both deadly. And how do we keep from killing each other? The best way is to be honest and fair. Do you know how much faith I put in the virtue of loyalty?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Loyalty for loyalty’s sake isn’t worth spit in the street.” Nichols raised a cautionary finger. “But financial interest? That’s where the daisies flourish. Each time you’ve removed an obstacle, I’ve made a pile of money. So, if you ever decide you want out? You’ll get a piece. The longer you play, the bigger the pile.”
“You expect me to believe you’re doing this out of the better angels in your nature?”
“Hell, no. It keeps you from selling me out to one of my rivals, say, Ralston, Sharon, or Rockefeller. I have removed the financial incentive.”
“Got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
Nichols leaned back, arm extended to his whiskey. “Billy, when this is all said and done, I want to be the most powerful man in the Rocky Mountains. You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you.”
“What about Danny?”
“Do with him what you will. He’s your associate. Your responsibility. You’re the smart one with vision. That is … as long as you don’t let your personal demons destroy you.”
“What demons?”
“Heard a girl disappeared down in New Mexico.” Nichols smiled, adding lightly, “Heard she run off with a gambler?”
“Danny tell you that?”
Nichols shook his head slowly. “I’m not the one to go meddling in your business, but don’t ever think I’m not keeping track of my interests.”
At the words, the Devil’s fingers stroked coolly down Billy’s back.
80
May 6, 1867
Patrick O’Reilly clattered into Sarah and Bret’s yard and reined his team to a stop.
Wiping her hands on a cloth, Sarah watched him through the window. She smoothed her dark chintz housedress and batted at the full cut of her bishop sleeves where flour clung to them. Why did she always turn into a mess when she was baking?
Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and unfit to be seen, but Pat was climbing down from his phaeton. She dared not leave him standing outside while she took the time to fix it.
Sarah opened the door and stepped out onto her porch. The midday sun glimmered on distant, snow-capped Mount Black Hawk. She shielded her eyes, calling, “Hello, Mr. O’Reilly. How are you today?” Her breath hung before her only to vanish in an instant in the cool air.
“Quite well, Mrs. Anderson.” He pulled himself up, as if at attention. As he doffed his homburg hat, his ruddy Irish face bent with a smile. He wore a black wool sack coat over a thick brown-and-black checked vest. A high collar stuck up almost to his ears, and his trousers were wrinkled. Looking at him, it was hard to believe he was one of the city’s most prominent men.
“I’d invite you in, but Bret is still asleep.”
“No need, dear lady.” Reaching into a coat pocket, he removed an envelope. “The game down to the hotel saloon ran a wee bit late last night. I had the most damnable luck, and Bret, saint that he is, covered my debts. I told him I’d repay him by noon, but—foul wretch that I be—you’ll notice tis nearly two-thirty.”
“Mr. O’Reilly, I sincerely doubt Bret would care. Not only does he refer to you as a gentleman, but he considers you a friend.”
O’Reilly handed the envelope over, sighing as he did so. “I think he be the only mon in this dad-blasted excuse fer a city that I admire and envy, lassie.” He gave her a twinkling wink. “And tis all because he has you.”
“You’re too kind.”
O’Reilly’s expression sobered. “Oh, not at all. You saved Aggie. I was on the verge o’ calling her loan. I loike the lassie, but I wasn’t throwing good money after bad. ’Twas her property and building I was after. And I told her right out.”
“She just needed to figure it out, Mr. O’Reilly. No one trains women how to run a business.”
“Nor yourself, either, I’d wager.” He was watching her through wary Irish eyes. “And I’m well aware that you are the root o’ her salvation. My dear old father, may he rest in peace, told me once that nothing on earth was more dangerous than a competent woman with a clever and cunning moind. But then, I’ve always appreciated and been drawn to danger.”
He gave her a slight bow.
“I’ll convey your warning to Bret.”
“Aye, an’ I’ve already told him till the poor mon’s ears are blue.” O’Reilly waved it away. “But since we’re sharing hearts and souls, I’ll tell you this: a smart one he is. Perhaps the best hand at cards I’ve ever known. He plays us loike fiddles, ye know? Knows his odds as if he can see through the cards. Lets us win just enough that we don’t know we’re being skinned.”
“Mr. O’Reilly? If you know, why do you play?”
“Why, to beat ’im, o’ course! The mon is master! Loike one ’o them swordsmen in France, I know he’s better, eh? But playing ’im, I sharpen me own skills.”
She laughed. “I still do not understand men.”
“Nor I women. Makes us even, lassie.”
“Could I get you a cup of tea? Perhaps water?”
“No. I’m just going to admire the view for a moment more, and then I’ve got to get to the moine. The superintendents have need o’ a decision before they dig me more gold.”
“Not much of a view from here. Most of the high peaks are blocked by the clouds today.”
“Wasn’t the mountains I was lookin’ at,” he said easily.
“You are a tease.” She caught movement down on the slope road where it wound past miners’ shacks, sheds, and prospect holes. She squinted, knowing that familiar phaeton. “Speaking of which, isn’t that Aggie now?”
O’Reilly turned, shaded his eyes, and added, “Aye, ’tis. Yor day fer foine comp’ny, I’d say.”
“She seems to be in a hurry.”
Moments later, Aggie drove her carriage into the yard, pulling up short of O’Reilly’s. She fought the brake, spoke calmingly to her half-winded horse, and pulled up her full-cut poplin skirt to step down and hurry across the rocky yard.
“Aggie?” O’Reilly called. “What brings ye in such a rush? Were ye a-pining fer my comp’ny, I’d a stopped by at the house and saved ye a trip.”
“Pat? Well, in a way I’m glad to see you.” She let her hooped skirt drop. A velvet cap was tied at the high collar, and her coat was open to expose her corseted bodice. Then she tu
rned worried hazel-green eyes on Sarah.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
Aggie’s expression was pinched. “You ever heard of a man called Win Parmelee?”
Sarah took a deep breath, her heart skipping a beat. “He was a Yankee provost marshal. Bret killed him down at Fort Smith just after the war.”
“Tall man?” Aggie asked. “Blond, hard blue eyes, muscular? Likes to dress well? Maybe about thirty-five or so? Something almost snakelike about him?”
“Very like that. But like I said, Bret shot him at Fort Smith.”
“Shot him … or killed him?” O’Reilly asked cautiously.
“Why, killed, of…” Or had he? All Bret had said was that he’d shot him. Dear God, could it be? “It was a shooting on an army post. It’s not as if we stayed around to view the body. Bret was wounded. Badly. I put him in a wagon and we pulled stakes.”
“I’ve heard of a Win Parmelee”—O’Reilly fingered his chin—“who runs a parlor house in Denver. A known killer. A man said to serve a clientele dedicated to the more brutal of Aphrodite’s arts. A specialist, is what I think he calls himself.”
“Wait.” Sarah lifted her hands. “Aggie, why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s here, Sarah. In Central. He was at my house. Took Theresa upstairs for a trick. She said he was a rough ride, and while he was pumping, he was demanding information on Bret. Any time she hesitated, he hurt her just a little more.”
“It could still be someone different,” O’Reilly noted.
Aggie crossed her arms. “I might think so, Pat, but when he asked me about the Saturday game, he wanted to know if the Anderson who gambled still traveled with a tall blond servant woman. Said she was ‘a damn beauty’ that he kept for fucking.”
Sarah stiffened; a cold wind blew through her soul. “Said he was coming back for me after he killed Bret,” she heard herself say as if from a distance. Parmelee’s rapacious look had stuck with her, as clear as it had been that day in Fort Smith.
“D’ ye need anything from me, Mrs. Anderson?” O’Reilly asked. “A place to stay? Protection?”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Reilly. You are indeed a good friend. But, no. Thanks to Aggie, we have fair warning. I’m going to wake Bret and pack a few things. I think we’ll take the pass over to Virginia Canyon and down to Idaho Springs.”
“What about the snow up there?” Aggie asked.
“I heard that it’s melted enough that two jerk-line teams brought wagons over the top yesterday. If they made it, we should surely be able to get across on two horses.”
She turned to O’Reilly. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, could you drop word at the stable and have Jefferson and my mare saddled and brought up? We would also need to rent a packhorse for a week or so.”
“Of course, Mrs. Anderson.” O’Reilly clamped his homburg onto his red hair. “I’ll be right aboot that. And as soon as I check with the moine, I’ll be back to see t’ anything else ye moight be need’n.”
“By then, Mr. O’Reilly, we should be long gone,” Sarah told him, forcing a smile.
As O’Reilly left, Aggie followed her inside. “How will you know if Parmelee’s gone?”
“Pass the word, Aggie. Spread it around town. We’re gone to the Comstock. We are shut of Colorado, and shortages, and sulfated ore, and headed west to Virginia City where there is real money to be made. You can mention that at the next game. George Nichols will surely ask, as will the others. Then, in a week, we’ll send word. If he’s gone, we’ll come back and collect our things. We’ll have time to plan by then.”
She hurried into the back room, stopping beside the big brass bed. She’d never understood what could have possessed someone to haul it across the Plains in the first place, but she was sure going to miss it. She glanced around. Her chest. The mirror. A handmade wardrobe. Precious things that made her a rich woman by Colorado standards.
“Bret? Dear? You have to get up.” She reached down, shaking his arm.
Bret jerked, sat up, his hair standing on end. “What’s wrong?”
“We have to go. Now. Win Parmelee isn’t dead. He’s here. In Central. And he’s looking for you. He traced you to Aggie’s. Now, get up while I pack a few things.”
“Parmelee? I shot him!”
“Well, my love, apparently you didn’t kill him any more than he killed you. Now, hurry. I’ve made plans, and Pat O’Reilly’s sent for the horses. Aggie’s in the front room.”
Bret rubbed his face, stood, and stretched. She admired his whip-strong body, the matted hair on his chest, his broad shoulders. How many times had she run her hands down his sides, along those lean hips and down his muscular thighs?
“Bret?”
“Yes, yes, I know. Let me think. I should have—”
“Bret, I just need you to know how much I love you.” And she stepped into his arms, hugging his warm body to hers. “We’re going over the pass to Idaho Springs. We’ll wait until he’s gone, and come back for our things. I’ve told Aggie to spread the word that we’ve gone to the Comstock.”
“Got this all planned out, have you?” He grinned, chuckling in amusement as he broke away and reached for his trousers. “I’m tired of running. Wouldn’t it just be better if I found him first and made sure of it this time?”
“It would not,” she told him crossly. “Not that I don’t want him dead, but I don’t want the complications. There will be an inquiry. The marshals will have questions. Most likely a trial. And what? Sure, it was self-defense. Parmelee came to kill you. But it would come out that you were a deserter. One way or the other, Bret, our days in Central are over.”
He studied her thoughtfully as he pulled on his warm wool shirt and buttoned it. “As always, you are right. Very well. You said you sent for the horses? Did you think of a packhorse, as well, to carry some things? And across the pass? It’s going to be colder than Arctic hell up there.”
“I did. We might want to camp at snow line tonight and wait until morning to cross. We’ll see when we get up there.”
“I really do love you,” he told her with a smile as he pulled on his boots. “First I’ve got to use the jakes out back, and then I’ll help you pack.”
She followed him out into the main room where Aggie had poured herself a cup of coffee and stood with her rear propped on the kitchen table.
“Morning, Aggie,” Bret called. “I guess we owe you.”
“Sorry for the bad news, Bret. I figgered you needed to know soonest.”
“You’re an angel.” Bret turned to Sarah. “I’ll be right back and give you a hand with the packing.” But he paused. Bent to her, and kissed her. Then, with a wink, he patted her on the cheek.
“I do envy the two of you,” Aggie said with a sigh. “And I am really going to miss you. When you get back, we’re going to have to figure out how to handle interest in the house.”
“We’ve got plenty of time,” Sarah told her as Bret opened the door.
In that instant she didn’t recognize the figure standing in the doorway. Backlit, he was just a silhouette. Tall, in a sack coat, his right hand extended. Light gleamed on the revolver’s long barrel.
Bret had stopped short, one hand still on the door, the other at his side.
“Found you, you cod-sucking bastard.” Parmelee’s flat voice echoed out of the past.
Sarah had barely gasped a breath when the pistol was shoved into Bret’s chest and fired. Bret’s body blocked most of it, but Sarah saw the sparks and smoke as the cap split under the hammer.
Bret jerked.
Parmelee cocked the revolver. Triggered it again, the crack deafening.
And again.
As Bret collapsed backward, Parmelee shot him yet again.
Bret’s body hit the floor like a limp sack. Sarah felt the impact through the boards. The back of Bret’s head made a hollow thump. His shirt, right over the breastbone, was blackened and fingers of fire flickered from the cloth.
Sarah stood frozen, hea
rt beating in her chest. Then she threw herself down, reaching for him.
Bret’s eyes, brown and limpid, were wide with shock as they met hers. His mouth worked, tongue pink behind his irregular teeth.
She saw it. The fading of light. The widening of his pupils. The muscles in his face went slack; Bret’s eyes fixed on emptiness and eternity.
“Bret? Oh, God. Bret?”
Stunned disbelief seemed to paralyze her.
As though from a great distance, she heard a pistol cock, a voice say, “Stay right where you are, you treacherous bitch.”
Sarah, blinked, ran her fingers down Bret’s still warm face, twined her fingers in his beard.
“You killed him, you son of a bitch! Shot him down like a dog!” Aggie’s voice. Angry. Panicked.
Sarah glanced up, saw Parmelee, his deadly revolver on Aggie where she stood in horrified disbelief.
Sarah made herself stand on wobbling legs, turned to face Parmelee. She started forward, was going to claw his eyes out.
His pistol moved like a blur. Pain and lightning flashed behind her eyes, the impact of the gun against her temple heard through bone and blood.
Dazed, head ringing, she staggered.
In her swimming vision, she barely registered the fist that rose under her jaw. A thousand stars exploded through her head, and …
81
May 6, 1867
Like someone was driving a pick into her head.
Pain.
It speared through Sarah’s brain. Through her whole being. Through her very soul.
Her skull was broken. She could feel the jagged pieces of it rubbing against each other. Tortured nerves speared agony through her.
A body couldn’t survive pain like this.
She blinked, tried to clear her swimming vision.
When she would have felt her head, sought to discover the extent of the damage, she couldn’t move her arms.
Blinking through the pain, she tried to focus. She seemed to be lying on her chest. Somewhere soft. The bed. Her bed. Her hands were bound to the big brass headboard. She could see the knotted ropes.
