by Jory Sherman
He stood up, stretched his arms, and looked out the window.
“In the next few days, Lew, I’m going to meet with every miner I know and lay out a plan for them and for me. We’re going to lay a trap for Wayne Smith and his men. I won’t give you the details, but I’ve worked it all out in my mind. We won’t get justice from the authorities in Pueblo. We’re going to form a vigilance committee.”
“Vigilantes?”
“Exactly. But there’s something I want you to do, and I’ll pay you very well for your services, a bonus if you succeed.”
“And what’s that, Jack?”
“We stand a better chance if we can cut off the head of the snake. I want you to take on Wayne Smith.”
“Kill him?”
“Yes.”
“My gun’s not for hire,” Lew said, and stood up. “You read me wrong, Jack. I’m not a killer.”
Hardy smiled and patted Lew on the back.
“You go on and find Wayne’s wife, Lew. She lives way up the canyon you and I rode through to my place. It’s another hard ten miles. You’ll find her and I think you’ll come back and entertain my offer.”
“You know Carol Smith? You’ve known her all this time and never said a word.”
“I didn’t know who she was until you told me. And I know something else. Something you don’t know.”
“What’s that?”
“Wayne Smith took out a large insurance policy on his wife and his two kids. He plans to come up here and kill them, collect the insurance money. That’s why he brought her here and left her all alone.”
Lew swore under his breath.
“You can’t know all this, Jack. You’re just making it up.”
“Before I left Pueblo, before we met, I did some checking on Wayne Smith. One of the bankers I know told me about the insurance policy. It’s for a very large sum and the word got around in the higher money circles of Pueblo. This Wayne Smith is a snake, a heartless, cold-blooded snake.”
Hardy paused and guided Lew to the door.
“Come see me when you’ve made up your mind, Lew. You can find me here, or up at the mine across the creek, or at the Casa Alta. Just follow the canyon on up, you’ll find the lady.”
Lew glanced at him when he got to the hitch rail.
“If she’s still alive,” Hardy said.
21
SHADOWS BEGAN TO PUDDLE IN THE CANYON, FLOW UP THE evergreens on both sides. Lew felt the air turn chill as the sun fell ever westward. He saw no cabins nor signs of mining after he left Hardy’s, although he did see a makeshift shelter on the other side of the creek, long since abandoned by some nameless prospector. And farther along, he began seeing old sluice boxes and dry rockers rotting and weathered, along with rusted airtights strewn along the edge of the creek, and other signs of prospecting, hard living, and broken dreams.
A mule deer darted from the trees in front of him, disappeared in a copse of spruce trees as the echoes from the clattering rocks died away. A feeling of great loneliness came over him as he rode deeper into the mountains. The road grew steeper and Lew struggled to breathe. His head ached, and he wondered if he would have to untie his heavy coat from in back of the cantle once the sun was down and the light gone.
The road grew rougher, rockier, as if the original workers had grown tired and known they could not go much farther. Ruben made a great deal of clatter with his hooves striking the raw stones that lay in his path. Finally, though, Lew realized that they were no longer climbing. The road had leveled off for a long stretch that was fairly straight. The canyon widened, too, and there was more light than before, the sun still hovering somewhere beyond those tall, snow-dusted peaks that jutted to the sky like ancient battlements.
Lew figured he was nearing ten miles traveled along the rugged road, but so rapt had he been in marveling at the country and its trees that he had not kept account of the distance he had come. He had, instead, become homesick, mildly homesick, for the Ozarks hills he had roamed as a boy and young man, the gentleness of them, their openness. Here, he seemed hemmed in by walls of trees so thick he could see no game trails, no open meadows or inviting hollows. As the shadows crept up the mountain, the walls became even more forbidding, and he felt the hostility of trees that clustered so close together and seemed like sentinels barring any from passage into their impenetrable green depths.
The canyon sprawled out, widened to what Lew might call a valley, where sunlight streamed down over a high pass so distant, it seemed more like something painted at the end of the road, unreal, elusive as smoke. And off to his right, he saw another road, hacked through the trees, blasted by dynamite so that it was flanked by two furrows, ditches, which would carry water down to the creek in a time of rain or melting snows.
He followed that road as it wound through the tall, stately pines, the spruce and fir, the juniper, and he saw elk tracks and mule deer spoor crossing the road, leaving marks in the softer places comparatively clear of rocks, as if the animals knew to take the path of least resistance.
Another mile, he figured, perhaps more, and he saw the bare outlines of a manmade structure, nestled deep in the woods, blending in with the natural colors of the trees, but standing out slightly because of its horizontal lines. He rode toward that silent place, wondering if he had found the cabin where Wayne had isolated his wife and children, as remote a place as Lew had ever seen, a prison for one who had no horse or wagon, a prison with green and brown bark bars as thick as a man’s trunk.
Smoke spiraled out of the chimney and was torn to wisps in the trees, dissipated in the gentle breeze that wafted aloft. Yet not a sign of life at first glance as the cabin came into full view, small, homely, yet oddly homey in the vastness of the evergreen forest.
The light was fading as he approached the log cabin. The long shadows were drawing up into pools beneath the trees, inky blotches that began to merge and mingle into large black lakes beyond the reach of the last waves of light. He looked around for a stable or barn, but there was only the cabin. It had no porch, nor any outbuildings at all, not even a small shed.
He pulled on the reins and Ruben halted. Jeff’s horse stopped alongside. Both horses seemed curious about the cabin, and stared at it with ears stiff and twitching.
“Hello the house,” Lew called, and heard his voice swallowed up in the trees. “Anybody to home?”
More silence.
Lew wondered if he had come to the right place, and if he had, whether the woman had gotten someone to take her and her children into town. He waited a few more minutes, then turned his horse, ready to ride out, head for Leadville, and try to find Carol Smith another day.
That’s when Lew heard snick, snick, the unmistakable sound of two hammerlocks cocking.
He pulled on the reins, felt the bit bite into the back of Ruben’s mouth. The horse halted and Lew froze in the saddle, expecting at any moment to hear an explosion marking the last sound he’d ever hear.
“Where’d you get that horse?”
Lew turned and saw the woman holding the shotgun. She stood in front of a large pine tree. Behind her, two small faces peered out from behind that same tree.
“The one I’m riding, ma’am, or the one I’m leading?”
“You know damned well which one I mean. That one with my daddy’s saddle on it.”
“You must be Carol. Carol Smith.”
“So what if I am? You answer my question, mister, and you answer it real quick.”
“It’s Jeff’s horse, all right. He called him Leroy. He’s the one who sent me up here to find you.”
“Where’s my daddy?”
Lew thought over his answer very carefully. If he said the wrong thing, Carol might still shoot him out of the saddle. If he didn’t make friends with her right away, he likely never would.
“I can explain everything to you, ma’am, if you’ll just put that Greener down and give me the chance.”
“How do I know Wayne didn’t send you up here?”
“Well, he
didn’t. I have a message for you from your father. But I can’t do anything with my hands up in the air and scared out of my wits that you’ll pull those triggers.”
“You step down real slow after I come around on your left side. One false move and you’ll dance with a load of buckshot in your gizzard.”
“Yes’m,” Lew said.
“You kids stay right there,” she said, and walked around in front of Ruben. She took up a position some ten yards away, then moved the shotgun up and down, indicating for Lew to climb out of the saddle. He did that and stood there, hands over his head.
“Step away from your horse and drop that gunbelt,” she said.
“You know, all this is unnecessary, if you’ll just—”
She cut him off.
“Do what I say. Won’t anybody ever find your miserable body way up here, mister. I don’t need much of an excuse to blow you to kingdom come. Now, drop that gunbelt and step well away from it.”
Lew unbuckled his belt, swung his pistol out to his side, and let the tip of the holster touch the ground. He lowered his hand and the holster lay flat. He dropped the cartridge belt atop it and took three steps toward her.
“What’s the message you got?”
“Just a minute,” he said, fishing in his pocket for the note Jeff had written before he died. The money, wrapped in the oilcloth, was in his saddlebags. He hoped he’d be able to deliver both to Carol and she’d put away that lethal double-barreled shotgun.
There wasn’t much light left. He held the note out to her, but she shook her head.
“Just drop it on the ground and walk ten paces toward the cabin. Then you stay there while I pick up the note.”
“You may not be able to read it in this light,” he said.
“Mister, I got eyes like a hawk.”
Lew took ten paces and halted. He saw her move toward the note; then her image slipped out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t turn his head.
He heard a rustle as she picked up the note. Then silence as she read it.
“You’re Lew Zane?”
“I am.”
“What happened to my daddy?” she asked.
“It’s a long story, Mrs. Smith. And I’ve come a long way.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. We should go inside where we can talk. I’ll fetch my children. You can put up the horses out back. Were you bringing Daddy’s horse to me, as well?”
“I was, yes.”
“Children. Come, children. Inside.”
Carol scurried off, her children running to catch up to her. Lew walked back, picked up his gunbelt. He strapped it on, buckled it, and then led the two horses in back of the cabin. There was a lean-to built onto the cabin, but no sign that any stock had inhabited it in some time. There was a feed trough and a water barrel, cut in half, some pegs to hang tack, and a crude sawhorse that would accommodate a couple of saddles. It was small, efficient, and Lew stripped the horses, poured some grain into the bin, what was left in his and Jeff’s saddlebags, and looked around for a well. He did not see one in the darkness, but poured water from two canteens into the dry barrel. He hefted the saddlebags, drew his rifle from its sheath, shouldered it, and went back around the front and knocked on the door.
He heard the latch lift and the door opened. He saw two lamps shimmering on tables inside, filling the room with a golden glow. There was no fire in the hearth, but the lamps gave off plenty of light.
“I see you’re wearing your pistol again, Mr. Zane. And carrying a rifle. I’m still not sure who you are.”
“Yes’m. Please call me Lew. And I wear my pistol because it’s part of my dress. And I brought my rifle in by way of habit. Your father’s rifle is still outside, and I’ll bring it in out of the weather, if you wish.”
“Yes, later. I want to hear about my father. First, these are my children, Keith, who is twelve, and Lynn, who’s ten. We call her Lynnie.”
“Hello,” Lew said.
“Now, children, go in your bedroom and read quietly. I want to talk to Mr. Zane. Will you be good?”
“Yes, Mama,” the children chorused, and then dashed into a room, closed the door.
Lew set down the saddlebags and his rifle, sat in a chair facing the small worn divan. Carol sat on the divan, watched as he rummaged through one of the saddlebags. He pulled out the oilskin packet, handed it to her. Then, he reached in his pocket and pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills. He handed these to her, as well.
“The money in the oilskin pouch is some your father asked me to give you. The other money came from renting his horse to a man I met who was afoot.”
She opened the packet, plucked out the money.
“All this money,” she said. “For me?”
“Yes, it’s all yours, and your father’s horse, saddle, and bridle. All he had with him when he died.”
She went silent, and then glanced at the note. She read it and then doubled over, tears streaming from her eyes, trickling down her face.
“It’s true, then,” she said. “My daddy’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“That poor man. Coming all the way out here to see me. I hope he passed away quietly, without any pain. How did he die?”
Lew told her, leaving nothing out, until he came to the very end.
“Your father didn’t die from the bullet the doctor pulled out of him, Mrs. Smith.”
“It’s Carol, please.”
“Carol, I believe your husband Wayne came up to the room and strangled Jeff with his bare hands.”
“Wayne? Oh, no. He couldn’t.”
He told her about the Double Eagle and how he believed Wayne had waited to ambush them. He told about being knocked out, the room keys taken from him, and then finding her father dead, strangled to death.
And then, he told her what he had learned from Jack Hardy on the ride up to Leadville.
“Your husband plans to kill you and your two children to collect the money on an insurance policy he took out in your name.”
Carol’s face drained of color, turned ashen. Lamplight played on her face. She seemed to age before his eyes, just for a brief moment as she took a breath and tried to recover from the shock of his revelation.
“I knew Wayne was no damned good,” she said, a bitter edge to her voice, “but I didn’t think he would stoop to murdering my father, and harming his own children.”
“And you, Carol,” Lew said softly. “You are in grave danger. That’s another reason I wear this pistol and carry that rifle. You said in your letter that a man came up here and you had to drive him away. Has he given you any more trouble?”
“I see him every so often. That’s why I carry that shotgun around when I’m outside. I’m afraid of him.”
“What is his name, may I ask?”
“His name is Don McDermott.”
Lew sucked in a breath through his nostrils. Ed McDermott was the burly man in the Double Eagle who had thrown him and Jeff out. Could he be the brother of Don McDermott?
“When did you last see this McDermott?” Lew asked.
“It’s been a few days. Nearly a week, I think. When I heard your horse, the horses, I thought that was Don coming back up here. That’s why I went outside and hid with my children.”
“So he could come back at any time.”
“Yes. At least once a week. And we’re nearly out of food. He knows that. He says he has food for me, but I don’t trust him.”
Perhaps, Lew thought, Don was meant to be Carol’s assassin. If so, she was in even more danger than he realized, or than she realized. And now that he was in the picture, McDermott might make his move at any time.
Carol looked at Lew and he saw it in her eyes. Just a flicker, but it was there.
Fear.
And her look turned his heart cold.
22
LEW EXCUSED HIMSELF WHILE CAROL ABSORBED ALL THAT HE had told her. He went back to the lean-to and hobbled the horses, just in case they wanted to wander, saw that they had nibb
led at the grain and sipped some water. He did all this by feel since by then it was pitch dark and the moon had not yet risen.
Back inside, Lew opened his and Jeff’s saddlebags.
“You said you were short of food, Carol. I have some staples here which might come in handy.”
“I have venison,” she said. “There’s plenty of game around and I’m a good shot. Daddy taught me to hunt and fish when I was a girl back in Bolivar.”
Lew laid out the staples still stored in the saddlebags: flour, salt, sugar, beans, and coffee. Carol’s eyes widened like a child’s at Christmas and she clapped her hands together.
“Oh, you’re a godsend, Lew Zane. The very things I was running low on, and you come with them. I feel rich, richer than the money makes me feel.”
She began to gather up the foodstuffs and called to her children, who came rushing out of their room. Their eyes, too, widened at the sight of food, and Lew wished he had some candies for them, but he had none.
“I’ll cook the beans tomorrow,” Carol said, “but tonight we’ll have a stew I made this morning with the last of the potatoes and leeks. And we can have coffee, which I’ve not tasted in weeks, and I’ll make sugar cookies from the flour you gave us.”
“Where is your stove?” Lew asked.
She pointed to the hearth. “That’s where I cook the stews and broths I make, but I have a small oven in the back room where I can bake and heat water to boiling. It’s the smallest stove I’ve ever seen. Keith calls it a midget stove and Lynnie, she says it’s a stove used by the fairies. Oh, these children. What imaginations they have.”
Lew watched Carol, delighting in her chatter. Her soft Missouri accent reminded him of home. She was a few years older than he, but he remembered she had gotten married while very young. She still had a girlish quality, at least the way she looked, with her soft brown hair, blue eyes, dimples, a firm, lithe figure. She didn’t remind him of Seneca except in an odd way. She was a young woman and she was from Missouri. He felt at home with her.
As he watched Carol rushing to get supper on the table, and listened to the small sweet voices of the children, he thought how lucky he was to be in that place, with this little family. He realized that Carol was exerting herself just to keep her mind off of the terrible things he had told her. He knew she was grieving for her father, but also mourning the horror of her marriage. Wayne had made her a prisoner and now was planning to murder her. Yet there was Carol, smiling, laughing, chattering with her children, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
