by Jo Goodman
“What about Buster?”
Quill shook his head. “I can’t find any mention of him after that first account, but then we don’t have every issue. He could have survived.”
Calico twisted the sheet in her fingers. “It’s clear from the account that the posse was chasing Whit?”
“Yes. Tatters, too. They were still together then. No one in the posse could say with certainty that either was wounded. There was no blood trail to follow even if the posse had been inclined to go on, so that seems to indicate that Whit and Tatters escaped unharmed.”
“I know Royal Canyon,” said Calico. “It wasn’t Whit and Tatters who escaped. It was Joe Pepper and his men. They were ambushed. I am as certain of it as I am that Thursday will follow Wednesday. Maybe the posse was closing in, narrowing the gap so much that they spooked Whit. He decided to make a stand but on his terms. The canyon’s narrow with just a finger of water running through the floor, and there are plenty of niches in the rock to hide out. It’s hard to climb, though. The best way to get to the hidey-holes is to take a route down from the top. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Quill picked up where Calico left off. “So you think Whit and Tatters put down some signs at the mouth of the canyon—a few so the posse could be fooled into believing they’d gotten lucky—and then covered their tracks on an easier path to the top.”
“I think exactly that. Look who they picked off. Byers. Applegate.” Her voice hitched suddenly. A long moment passed before she could get out the last name. “Joe.”
“They targeted them.”
“Yes.”
“Were you aware that either of them was that good a shot?”
“No. But you know that bragging rights and notoriety tend to go to a man with a fast draw, and that doesn’t apply here. A rifle changes things. With a good site and a steady hand, a man who can barely get his gun out of his holster in close quarters has a dead-on aim at a hundred yards. It could be we are just finding out how good they are.”
Quill said nothing. He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Nothing profound or insightful, I assure you. I’m thinking I don’t like it. I don’t like any part of it.”
“I understand.”
One of his eyebrows lifted. “Do you? You have a role in this. If I were Nick Whitfield, I would regard you as having the largest role.”
“There’s Mrs. Fry.”
He turned to face her fully, his expression grave. “She’s gone, Calico. Dead. I read it in one of the papers I found in Ramsey’s study; it was only a couple of lines, easy to miss if I had not been reading everything closely. A madam’s death is not worth much ink.”
“Dead?” Calico sat up, crossed her legs tailor-fashion, and drew one of the quilts around her. She rubbed her temples, trying to take it in.
Quill continued. “We didn’t ask ourselves why Joe Pepper was heading the hunt. Whitfield broke out of a jail in Bailey. That’s not Pepper’s territory. He got a posse together when Mrs. Fry’s brothel burned to the ground with her inside it. There was so little information that I am not certain who might have died with her and who might have escaped. No cause is given for the fire; no one is named as having set it.” There was no need to say more. She was nodding, the truth borne home.
“The order of events,” she said slowly. “I am confused. Amos’s body was found before or after the fire?”
“After. I made a chronology.” He moved all the papers on his lap to the table except for the one on top. He stood and carried it to Calico. “Here. It’s the best I could do given that we do not have every newspaper and the reporting is erratic. There were events happening in Denver proper that were judged to be more important. Rightly so.”
“A bounty on Whitfield and Tatters would have gotten everyone’s attention.”
“You’re right, but the bank in Bailey already put up one reward. You know. You collected it. It’s easier to get reward money when a robbery’s been committed than when a life’s been taken.”
“So as long as they stay out of banks, they can—” She stopped herself. The truth was too depressing to be said aloud. She looked over Quill’s chronology as he returned to his chair. “The escape. The fire. Joe Pepper puts his posse together. Amos’s body is found. What’s this? I can’t read this.” She squinted as she tried to make out his scribbling. “Something about a brand. A brood.”
“A brawl,” said Quill. “There was a fight in a little mining town called Reidsville that began in a saloon and spilled out into the street. There were injuries. Arrests. One name caught my attention. Charles Tattersall. I thought it might be Chick. As you said, neither man is good with a gun in close quarters. That’s when they use their fists. Brawlers, both of them. The town isn’t far from where Amos was found. Maybe ten miles as the crow flies. I know it’s all supposition, but I figured I should write it down.”
She nodded. “Charles Tattersall. Maybe it is Chick. He wouldn’t have been in jail very long. The timeline still holds.” She pointed to the item following the last downward arrow. “Royal Canyon.”
“Nothing that I can find since then makes me think they are anywhere except laying low.”
Calico laid the paper on the bed beside her. “I find it odd that Joe did not send word to me. He would not do that as a rule, but about this, I think it would have occurred to him that I should know.”
“Maybe it did, and he did not have time to see it through.”
“You’re probably right. I wonder who is out looking for Whit and Tatters now.”
“With no reward, I suspect marshals will be appointed to take up the chase. Also, there were deputies who survived the ambush. Tom Hand. Cooper Branch.”
“They will be needed for general law enforcement. Joe Pepper will not be able to spare them. You’re probably right. It will be marshals.”
“Do you wish you were one of them?”
“A marshal?” She laughed, wryly amused. “Wouldn’t that be something? No, I don’t think I would care to be one of them, even supposing they would have me.” She regarded Quill candidly. “What do you think we should do? I believe you’ve been giving it some thought. You’ve been awake longer than I have.”
“I am going to speak to Ramsey about you leaving Stonechurch.”
“I see. You are not even going to ask me what I want to do?”
“I would be surprised if you wanted anything other than another confrontation with Nick Whitfield. The problem, as I see it, is that you will not get as close to him as you did the last time. He is not likely to accept a drink from you when he can end your life from a hundred yards away.”
Calico laid her palm across her wounded arm. “Perhaps he’s already tried . . . and failed.”
Quill closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “I had the same thought. All the more reason for you to leave.”
“We don’t know that he did this to me, and I am not going to act on supposition. How would they even know I am here?”
“That’s why I asked you who might know. You said you told Joe and Mary Pepper and anyone they might have told. How hard do you think it would be for Whit to learn your location if, say, Mary was threatened?”
“That is pure speculation, and I don’t like it. I was hired because it is Ramsey Stonechurch’s life that is in danger, and Nick Whitfield and Chick Tatters have nothing at all to do with that. How could they have possibly known that Ramsey and I would be riding that morning? And in that particular direction? I did not know it myself until we set out. I’m not sure that Ramsey knew the night before where we would go.”
“He knew. He told Beatrice.”
“He told her?”
“He did. Ramsey does not keep much from her. For him it is about atonement. His brother’s accident, his death, Ramsey holds himself responsible. He confide
d as much to me once. It was a whiskey confession, which made it more believable in my estimation.”
Calico threw off the quilt and pushed out of bed. Barefoot, she crossed the room quickly and threw herself into Quill’s lap. He barely had time to get his arms out to ease her down. She wriggled, which, oddly, was not as pleasant as he could have wished. It felt, for a moment at least, like a punishment.
Calico looped her arms around his neck. “I am not leaving, Quill McKenna. I cannot stop you from speaking to Ramsey, and I probably cannot persuade him to keep me on if you advise against it, but I can decide what I will do if it comes to that, and it will not be getting on the next train out of town. The Jordans operate a boardinghouse on Ann Street that looks to be comfortable and well maintained. And if there is no room to let, I can always sleep outdoors. I might even prefer it.”
“Why do I feel as if I am being threatened?”
“I don’t know.”
He regarded her skeptically from under raised eyebrows.
“I want us to do this together, Quill. Whatever it is that’s to be done, we should be doing it together. You said I had to accustom myself to the idea of you looking out for me, and now I am saying that you need to do the same.”
“Calico, I am not the one Whit will be coming for.”
“You were there.”
“He was out cold most of the time I was in the room. I helped Joe Pepper get him on his feet, walk him down the street, and put him into a cell. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“Chick Tatters does. He will remember you.”
Quill had no argument for that. His arms tightened around her.
Calico touched her forehead to his. “I did not come to Stonechurch because the great Ramses asked me to. I came because this is where you were, and maybe I didn’t know it at the time, or wouldn’t allow myself to be open to the notion, but I know it now. I know this, too: I am staying because this is where you are. If you are afraid of losing me, Quill, then you need to stop trying to push me out the door.”
Chapter Twelve
Quill set the lists he had reviewed on Ramsey’s desk. “I did not find any names common to the men Mr. Fordham wants to hire and the men you believe are agitators. I apologize it took so long to get to it.”
Ramsey waved the apology aside. “I told Frank to go ahead and hire them. If there’s trouble, so be it. Besides, Beatrice—you know how she is—says she’s met most of them and approves of the lot. It would not surprise me to learn that every one of them is a family man with babies to feed. That is the sort of interview my sister-in-law likes to conduct.” He had a fond smile for the memory of that discussion before he laid his pen on top of the papers and sat back. His brow beetled when his gaze settled on Quill. He pointed to a chair. “You look awful. Sit.” When Quill went down without an argument, he said, “You are as rumpled as an unmade bed. Did you sleep? Is it Miss Nash? Has something happened?”
Quill rubbed the bridge of his nose as he slid lower in the chair. His legs were extended so far forward that the toes of his shoes nudged Ramsey’s desk. “Miss Nash’s health is excellent. She is ready to pick up her gun again. Her rifle, also. She made a convincing argument that she needs to test her strength and her skills. She is not comfortable saying she can protect Ann if she does not know her limits.”
“Understandable. What was your objection?”
“I had several, but in the end it came down to her not going out alone. Her arm is not as strong as she thinks it is. She will tire quickly.”
“I will accompany her, of course.”
“And draw fire?” Quill shook his head. “That is not the answer, not when we don’t know how it happened that someone came to be lying in wait for you. I am going to go with her. I believe you and Ann are perfectly safe if you stay here. You are the only person I am telling in advance that we will be leaving. No one else is to know. No one. Say nothing until our absence is noticed.”
“What do I say then?”
“Anything you like. I don’t care.”
“Where will you be going?”
“She agreed I could choose the place, and I have not decided. In fact, I don’t intend to make that decision until we are on our way.”
“That seems overly cautious, but very well. How do I send help if it’s needed? I have no reason to believe that anything untoward will happen, but I should be prepared, shouldn’t I?”
Quill nodded slowly as he considered this. “All right,” he said at last. “I can tell you that we will return within three hours of leaving, and I will alert you when we are ready to go.”
“All right.” He waved Quill off. “Go. You have time to change before breakfast. No one presents himself at my table looking like you do. It’s unappetizing.”
* * *
George Kittredge bent over the crate from California Powder Works and pried open the lid with a crowbar. He was not a man given to profanity as a rule, but when he saw the condition of the dynamite, he swore loudly enough to make himself the object of notice. He laid the lid on the ground and held on to the crowbar. He hunkered beside the crate marked on all four sides with the bold letters of the company’s most popular product: HERCULES.
George was a compact man, short, narrow, and firmly muscled. He liked to tell the men who worked under him that he was ideally suited to be an explosives man. Not only was he shaped like a cylinder, but he was born one part of the good earth, three parts nitroglycerin, and had a blasting cap for a head. In short, he was a stick of dynamite, stable when properly handled, unpredictable when treated without respect, and powerfully volatile when someone lit his fuse and let it burn.
“Cavanaugh! Shepard! Over here. Now!” He jabbed his forefinger at the ground on either side of the crate. He thought he heard one of them say something that sounded like fire in the hole, but he ignored it. Damn right, there was fire in the hole. When they were standing in their respective places, he said, “Look at this. What do you see?”
They hunkered beside the crate as he had and looked at, but did not touch, the dynamite. It was packed twelve sticks across, twelve sticks deep. One hundred forty-four sticks, each one powerful enough to take a man’s life. Working in concert, they would take out the side of a mountain.
Cavanaugh, squat and sturdy with a coarse black beard and mustache, was the first to whistle softly. Shepard, slim and wiry, scratched the back of his balding head.
“Crystals,” said Shepard.
“That’s right,” said Kittredge. Small white crystals dusted all twelve sticks of dynamite on the top row. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Cavanaugh said. “It means the crate was turned at least once in storage and then left upside down. Can’t think how else the crystals could have ended up on top unless the top was the bottom for a while.”
“For a long while,” said Shepard. “Crystals generally settle to the bottom.”
Kittredge used the tip of the crowbar to gingerly turn over the lid. Hundreds of crystals glinted in the sunlight. “And all over the lid—and now some are on the ground.”
Shepard, who was hunkered closest to the lid, shuffled backward. “Careful with that crowbar.”
Kittredge swore again, this time softly. “There’s a reason these crates need to be turned,” he said, his jaw clenching and unclenching.
Cavanaugh and Shepard knew that reason. They were looking at it. But they did not interrupt Kittredge’s rant. It was better to let him have his say.
“Nitroglycerin weeps. It weeps like the newly widowed, and we will have more than our share of those if there are more cases in storage like this. Dammit, fellas, what the hell is happening here?”
The fellas exchanged glances and simply shook their heads. They had been working with dynamite long enough to respect the highly explosive nature of its primary component, nitroglycerin. In its pure form, nitro was
extraordinarily sensitive to freezing temperatures and shock. Transporting it, even in small amounts, was a job given to men with a death wish. The one part sawdust, wood pulp, or crushed shells in every stick of dynamite provided a degree of stabilization for the nitro.
Over time, though, nitro could seep through the packing material, causing crystals to form on the sticks. The crystals, then, were nitro returned to its pure form, and they settled at the bottom of the crates, thus requiring that the crates be turned regularly. Turning kept the nitro more evenly distributed within each stick and eliminated or reduced the weeping effect and the formation of explosive crystals.
“We were supposed to set charges in Number 1 this afternoon,” said Kittredge. “I don’t like the looks of this.” Using the crowbar, he very carefully pushed one of the crystals on the ground off to the side, and then pushed the lid out farther of the way. Without warning, he pounded the nitro crystal with the tip of the crowbar.
It blew a divot out of the dirt.
He looked at his men. “We are going to have to go through all the crates in storage, save what we can, and do a controlled explosion of the rest.” He chuckled shortly, without humor. “Controlled. Like trying to control an earthquake, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Shepard nodded, clearly unhappy. “I think we are going to need help.”
“Don’t want a lot of men in storage at once,” said Kittredge. “I’ll go. It’s my responsibility. The rest should be volunteers. We’ll work in shifts.”
“What about the new fellas? You think we can trust them to know what they’re doing? I get a little jumpy about working with new fellas.” Shepard put out his hands and showed twitchy fingers. “See? I hardly trust myself when I’m like this.”
Kittredge gave him a sour look and made no comment about his hands. “What new fellas? No one told me that I had new men on the crew. I knew Mr. Fordham made some hires, but I didn’t ask for anyone.”
Cavanaugh poked a stubby finger off to his left where half a dozen men were crowded in a semicircle with their backs turned. The object of their interest was hidden from view, but it was evident that they were jostling for position and stretching one arm, sometimes two, toward a point at the center.
