by Jo Goodman
“What the hell are they doing?” asked Kittredge, getting to his feet. He jerked his sharp chin at the group and waved them over even though none of them was looking in his direction. “Hey! You! All of you! Look here!” When a couple of them shifted and turned, a gap was created so that Kittredge could see past them to the center.
“Oh, crikey,” Shepard said. “It’s Mrs. Stonechurch, and she’s got a basket with her. I think that’s a . . . by God it is! She’s got crullers, boss. Crullers!”
George Kittredge shouldered Shepard out of the way and went straight for his crew, Beatrice Stonechurch, and the crullers. He whipped off his hat as the men parted to make room for him. He ignored the muttering that accompanied his intrusion. His men knew he was a fool for crullers.
“Mrs. Stonechurch,” he said, smiling so broadly a gap in his lower molars was on display. “It is always a pleasure to see you, but I am going to have to ask you to step back a piece. May I escort you over there to the footbridge? I would be right pleased to carry your basket for you.”
“You are without conscience, Mr. Kittredge,” said Beatrice, dimpling. Her blue eyes brightened merrily as she made to protect her treasure. “Trying to steal my basket from right under my nose. Look at your men. They think you are taking advantage of your position.”
“I am. They already have crullers.”
She started to open the lid of her wicker basket but stopped when Kittredge shook his head. The light in her eyes dimmed as she frowned. “Why, you are serious. You truly need me to move.”
He nodded. “Just to the footbridge, ma’am. That should be sufficient for now.” He darted a look at the group, four of whom he knew, and two whom he did not. He forked two fingers and pointed to the unknown pair. “Come with me. The rest of you go see Shepard and Cavanaugh and come up with a plan. Oh, and for goodness’ sakes, take them some crullers.” He nodded to Beatrice to open the basket, and once she had handed over two, he indicated they needed to move on.
“We are having a bit of a problem with Hercules,” he told Beatrice, taking her elbow as they walked over rough, rocky ground. Mud, most of it frozen, some of it not, connected patches of snow and ice, adding a challenge to their nearly 100-yard trek. On their way, they skirted a rusting water cannon, rocky outcroppings, mounds of snow and ice, and ditches like troughs. George stopped when they reached the footbridge. It was a narrow, crudely constructed wooden affair that was not built to cross a body of water. It was erected to span a crevice in the mountainside that was conservatively estimated to be some 120 feet deep. George leaned an elbow against an end rail and waited to be offered a cruller.
Beatrice stood well back from the edge of the crevice beside a mound of shoveled snow that was almost as tall as she was. She asked, “What sort of problem? Do you truly think you can say something like that and it will be the end of it?” A fur-trimmed hood framed her face. It also tickled her cheeks. She handed her basket to George Kittredge and pushed the hood back. Her cheeks immediately blossomed with color, compliments of the cold. When there was no response to her question, she said, “I like to know these things, Mr. Kittredge. I have an interest beyond seeing you men are well fed and taken care of.” She smiled, removing any possible sting that might have been attached to her words. “Please. Have a cruller.”
He explained the problem to her and the men standing behind her while he ate. “So I am looking for volunteers to examine the crates we still have in the underground storage.”
“Do we need to find a new supplier?”
He shook his head. “This is not something that happened before Hercules was shipped. And I am confident it did not occur in transit. We created the problem by storing it without regularly rotating the crates.”
“How does that happen?”
Kittredge chomped down hard on his cruller. “I will be investigating that. There is a schedule. Obviously it was not followed.” He looked past her shoulders to the pair of men who were hanging back. “I understand you were assigned to my crew. Who are you?”
The shorter of the pair was still half a head taller than George Kittredge. He stepped forward and put out a hand. “Name’s Rocky Castro.”
Kittredge looked him over. The man had broad, square cut features, a mud-colored beard in need of grooming, and dark eyes that were bright and eager in their regard. His smile was a bit too engaging to suit Kittredge, who never had a good first impression when a man was trying so hard to make a good first impression. “Mr. Castro.”
“Rocky.”
“Rocky,” said Kittredge, ending the handshake. “What is your experience with explosives? Why did Mr. Fordham put you on my crew?”
Beatrice said, “I believe I will leave you now, Mr. Kittredge. Your business certainly takes precedence over mine. Mr. Castro. Mr. White. Do not let yourself be intimidated by Mr. Kittredge. He is naturally concerned about everyone’s safety.” She took back her basket and invited all three men to help themselves one more time before she confidently crossed the bridge and headed into town.
When she was gone, Kittredge turned his attention to the man he had not yet met. “You’re White?”
The big man nodded. He thrust a hand at Kittredge. “Marcus White.”
Kittredge watched as his hand disappeared in White’s large grasp. The man could have easily crushed his fingers, but he made no attempt to show strength. George Kittredge liked that. He needed men with finesse, not ham-fisted laborers. “Good to meet you. You are already acquainted with Mrs. Stonechurch?”
“Met her when I was looking for a job. Introduced myself again when she came with the basket. Real nice lady. Good crullers, too.” His eyes darted to the bridge, his expression considering. “Might be I’d even cross that bridge for one if I had to.”
Kittredge gave the end rail a hard shake, and the entire bridge rattled. “Fine piece of engineering.” He waved a forefinger back and forth between the pair. “You two come as a set? Know each other from somewhere?” He watched them look at each other with some surprise. It was White who spoke up.
“Never met until we were standing in line waiting to hear about a job.”
“Experience?”
“Worked in and around the Leadville mines for a couple of years. Had my own crew for a time, but frankly, I am better at taking orders than giving them. Did not like having my orders questioned.” He turned his thumb in on himself and tapped his barrel chest. “People expect a fight from me on account of my size, but I’d rather use my head.”
Kittredge merely nodded. He turned to Castro. “You?”
“Worked mostly for the railroad. There are still a lot of spurs to be built in these mountains. That’s what I was doing.” He shrugged. “Heard about Stonechurch Mining when I was working up around Reidsville. Thought I would look into it.”
Kittredge looked them over again. “You heard what I was telling Mrs. Stonechurch?” When they both nodded, he continued. “Then you understand the situation. I am looking for volunteers to open the crates in storage and see what we can use and what we have to destroy before it destroys us. Either of you interested in doing that?”
Marcus White carelessly shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why not?” He lifted his hands and wiggled all ten of his digits. “I probably have more of these than I need.”
* * *
Calico lowered her Colt and regarded her target with disgust. The empty bourbon bottle that Quill had set out for her remained precisely where he’d placed it. The stump it was standing on had not fared so well. The bark was splintered and ragged. The tree behind it and another slightly to the left also bore witness to the fact that her aim was not what it had been.
She looked askance at Quill. He was leaning against the thick, furrowed bark of a Douglas fir, arms folded, hipshot, and one ankle crossing the other. “Well?” she asked. “You’re thinking it. You might as well say it.”
“If you know
what I am thinking, I am going to save my breath. Are you done?”
The Colt was an anchor pulling on every one of the joints in her arm. Her wrist, elbow, and shoulder all ached. She felt the strain in the muscles of her upper arm and neck. Her fingers were stiff, partly with cold, partly because she had pushed herself far past her endurance. Quill had suggested after twenty minutes that she stop, and her response had been to roundly ignore him. He did not make the suggestion a second time. In fact, he spoke very little after that. She did not blame him.
She had not fared any better with the Winchester. The recoil of the rifle’s butt made her arm judder. After firing it only a few times, she knew she had to return it to the scabbard.
Frustration made her muscles tense. “I want to have a tantrum. I want to scream and cry and stamp my feet.”
“Do you think it would help? I’m asking because, frankly, you look bone deep mean and you still have that gun in your hand.”
She turned toward him and shook her head slowly, regretfully. “I don’t think I can lift it one more time.”
“I see that it would put a strain on you, but I am in a provoking frame of mind right now, and even though you haven’t come close but two or three times to hitting that bottle, you did real well with the stump. Since I am a fair size bigger—”
“And with a whole lot less sense.”
“That, too. I guess you’d be able to hit something on me if you felt you had to.”
“I guess that’d be true.”
“Uh-huh. So why don’t you let me take your gun for you? That would be in the interest of self-preservation. Mine. Not yours.”
Calico breathed in and nodded slowly as she exhaled. “I suppose that would be all right.” She did not try to raise her arm. “You will have to—”
Quill pushed away from the tree. “I’ve got it. This first.” He removed her gun belt before he took the Colt out of her hand. He walked over to his horse, laid the belt over the saddle, and slipped the Colt into the holster. When he returned to her side, he slipped his arm under hers and gestured to the stump. “Come on. You can sit a spell. There’s no shame in that. You need to rest your arm before we ride back. I want to make sure you can handle the reins.”
She opened her mouth to argue, thought better of it, and fell into step beside him. “I did not expect to be as fast or as accurate as I was, but I did not expect to embarrass myself.”
“I suppose how you think about it depends on your vantage point. I thought you did yourself proud right up until the moment your stubborn self got in the way of your sensible self.”
“Oh, so that’s what happened.”
“Looked like it from where I was standing.” Quill released Calico when they reached the stump. He swept the bottle aside and offered her the seat. “Do you want a drink?”
She leaned over and looked at the bottle lying on its side. It was indeed empty.
Quill laughed and showed her the flask he had been carrying inside his coat. “Here. Did you think I would risk a good bottle of bourbon on the chance you wouldn’t hit it? That would have been insulting to you and a crime against the bourbon.”
She arched an eyebrow and held out a hand for the flask. He uncapped it for her before he gave it over. Raising it to her lips, she asked, “When do you think we can come out again?”
“That’s a different question than asking me when I think you will be ready.”
Calico tipped the flask and took a good swallow. Her eyes watered. She handed back the flask and swiped at her eyes as she caught her breath. “All right. When do you think I will be ready?”
“What are you willing to do to prepare yourself?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Beatrice has some ideas about exercises that will strengthen your arm, and she would like the opportunity to help you.”
“When did she say that?”
“She didn’t. Ann did.” He held up a hand when Calico would have interrupted. “Hear me out. Ann was informative, and she reminded me that I bear some responsibility for Beatrice not coming forward. Understandably, my insistence that I be the only one to look after you made her reluctant to broach the subject with either one of us. It has also been true that when she asks you about your arm, you have a tendency to dismiss it as nothing. It is not nothing, and you are your own worst enemy there.”
Calico recognized the truth of that. “What does she want me to do?”
“Ann wasn’t specific. I don’t know if she knows precisely what Beatrice would recommend, but Ann also reminded me that her aunt did much more than ply Leonard Stonechurch with healing teas. His legs were crushed in the accident, and he never drew an easy breath after he was rescued. Ann says that once his bones knit, Beatrice exercised his legs for him. She did something to help him improve the strength of his lungs. Beatrice Stonechurch might look fragile, but she is tenacious. She refused to let him waste away in bed.”
Calico glanced at her injured arm and raised it experimentally. Deep fatigue had set in the muscles. She set her hand in her lap to support it. “Should I speak to her?”
“I think so. At least listen to what she has to say. Calico, I was watching you shoot. Your problem with accuracy this afternoon was never your eye. It was your strength. Your stance, your concentration, your awareness of your surroundings, all of that came as naturally to you as breathing. You struggled with your grip first, then holding your weapon steady, and finally with your own irritation.”
She sighed heavily. “I don’t think I could have hit the proverbial broad side of a barn.”
He grinned. “You were considerably better than that.” He took a drink and slipped the flask inside his coat. “We should be getting back. I told Ramsey to give us a few hours before he raised the alarm.”
“Wait. Aren’t you going to shoot?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Don’t you practice?”
He shrugged. “Not much.” He did think about that. “Not ever.”
“Are you that good?”
“It’s that boring.”
She could only shake her head. “Show me what you can do.” She leaned over and picked up the bottle. Standing, she placed it on the stump.
Quill protested as she started walking away. “I shot Amos Bennett in the leg. Remember that?”
She turned and said cheekily, “I remember that you told Joe Pepper you were aiming for Amos’s other leg. I want to see if that’s true.” Then she kept on walking.
Quill took his position in the tramped circle of snow that Calico had occupied and unbuttoned his long coat. He swept it back on the right side to reveal his Colt. He unstrapped it before he looked over at her. She had stepped several feet to the side but had not retreated to the tree. “Do you want me to draw and shoot, or shoot with my gun already out?”
“You do whatever makes you—”
Quill drew his gun, fired. The bottle jumped and shattered.
“—think you can hit the target,” she said slowly.
“I pulled that a little to the left,” he said, holstering his weapon. “Maybe I should do some target practice.”
Calico was still staring at the shards of broken glass glinting on the surface of the snow while Quill was already heading for their horses. “Stop right there, Mr. Quill McKenna.”
He stopped, turned, his features impassive. “Yes?”
Calico’s green eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“I was in the Army, remember?”
“I knew soldiers who did not know the butt of a gun from the barrel, so that is an inadequate explanation.”
“My father taught me,” he said. “When he wasn’t preparing sermons or ministering to the wicked and the ill, he liked to be outdoors. He hunted to put meat on the table, and he took Israel and me with him when we were ol
d enough to carry a rifle.” He shrugged. “That’s it. No different than how you learned.”
Calico did not try to hide the fact that she was still suspicious. “Maybe. Maybe not. If you don’t practice, how did you come to be that good?”
“I don’t know that I am that good.”
“I know what I saw, and I know how to judge it. You are exactly that good.”
Quill was silent, thinking. After a few moments, he said, “Well, my father called it a preternatural bent. It was not a compliment. He didn’t trust that my talent wasn’t the devil’s doing, and he was certain I would come to grief for having it.”
“And your brother? Does Israel have the same bent?”
“No, but he’s done his best to prove that you can come to grief without it.” He smiled wryly. “If my father ever saw the irony there, he’s never said as much.”
Calico walked up to him, raised herself slightly on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. “I appreciate the irony, and I am in awe of your gift. If I thought for a moment that I could be the shot you are, I might be envious, but what you can do is something extraordinary.”
“It’s probably a little important that I’m good at it, Calico, but it’s still only shooting.”
“What was it you said to me not so very long ago? Oh, yes. ‘I suppose how you think about things depends on your vantage point.’ Well, from where I’m standing, it’s a mighty fine thing that you can do. It’s just a guess, you understand, but I’m thinking with that kind of aim, you’ve probably spared more lives than you’ve taken.”
Quill did not respond to that. What he said was, “Let’s go home.”
It was not home, of course, but in a way that Calico could neither quite define nor wanted to dwell on, it was beginning to feel something like that.
Chapter Thirteen
Nick Whitfield and Chick Tatters had a week’s pay in their pockets and gave in to the urge to take a decent meal in a restaurant instead of stealing scraps from what was thrown out of one. Their choices were limited, but they settled on Bartholow’s Eatery because it had a large front window with a good view of the street. They took a table close to it but not directly beside it. There was no point in making themselves the object of passing glances.
