Leadville

by James D. Best

  I guessed he assumed Sharp would join him without asking. “Only if you’ll teach me some wilderness skills.”

  “Seems a steep price, but it’s a deal.”

  That was the first hint of humor I had ever seen from McAllen, and pretty weak at that. The captain dressed in a nightshirt without further word, so I asked, “Who’ll join us?”

  “A lot of men get in the way, so just the four of us. In the morning, rent two or three packhorses. Sharp’ll help you buy supplies.”

  “What’ll ya be doin’?” Sharp asked.

  “Sleep late and then see my ex-wife.” With that, McAllen grabbed the bottle of bourbon and a glass and marched out of the bathroom.

  We sat there a moment, and then Sharp said, “We probably oughta go to bed as well, but how ’bout a beer?”

  I stood. “Whiskey puts me more in a sleeping mood, but the captain’s run off with our bottle.”

  Sharp remained seated. “On second thought, maybe ya oughta write Jenny a letter instead. We might be in them hills a long time.”

  I wasn’t surprised that Sharp brought up Jenny Bolton. He had been harassing me for weeks to write her. I had dallied because the prospect scared me. I had left Jenny on her ranch in Nevada’s Mason Valley. More accurately, she had sent me on my way, uninterested in my advances. Sharp still held out hope, but memory did not encourage me to revisit the pain of rejection. “Let’s go over to the saloon, and I’ll think about it over a drink.”

  Chapter 3

  The next morning we made the local shopkeeper happy. Sharp bought so many provisions that we needed four packhorses. He seemed intent on emptying the shelves of ammunition, canned goods, dry goods, blankets, candles, and utensils. Sharp also bought two pair of field glasses, a lantern, an axe, a shovel, pliers, a twelve-inch file, and four heavy sheepskin overcoats.

  “Why a lantern?” I asked.

  “When yer close on the heels of yer prey, a low lantern ain’t nearly as bright as a campfire … and ya can carry it around for light, if need be.” Sharp looked at my feet. “How’re yer boots?”

  “Fine. Bought them a couple months ago in Carson City.”

  “Buy another pair,” Sharp ordered.

  “Why?”

  “We could get an early snow or trudge through streams. Wet boots make a man miserable.”

  I spent a few minutes picking boots from a selection of only two styles, one being the square-toed stream-waders miners preferred. After I dropped a serviceable pair of riding boots onto the counter, I ruffled through the tall stack of blankets and canvas pads that were part of our order.

  “Heavy coats, no fires, enough blankets to warm a small church congregation, and now you make me buy spare boots.” I pointed at a wooden box filled with canned goods and sacks of foodstuffs. “How long do you expect to be gone?”

  “Until McAllen finds his daughter.” Sharp hefted the box of cans and tossed it into my arms. “And some of them blankets an’ pads are to wrap the packhorse loads so they don’t rattle an’ bang. A quiet load makes for a calm horse.”

  I grunted under the load and turned a quizzical eye at the storekeeper. “I’ll get a boy to help you,” he said.

  I turned and slid the box back onto the counter. “Two,” I replied.

  “Steve, there ain’t no boys to hire in the mountains. Better get used to carryin’ yer load.”

  “Right now, I better see to hiring some horses to carry these supplies.” I turned to the storekeeper. “Have the boys bring all this down to the livery … oh, and Mr. Sharp will gladly pay the tally.” I whirled and marched out, happy to see the chagrin on Sharp’s face.

  The liveryman was pleased to rent packhorses this late in the year. I had arranged for four horses by the time Sharp and two boys entered the livery burdened with loads that required them to peek around the sides to see where they were going.

  Sharp dropped his load and examined the packhorses. “Good animals,” he said. “Which one’s the boss?”

  “Boss?” I asked before the liveryman could answer.

  “Horses are like dogs when they run together. One of ’em is gonna put the others in their place. Nature. Ya rue the day ya try to change the peckin’ order.” Sharp lifted an eyebrow at the liveryman.

  “That big gray Morgan. Ya put him in front of the string an’ ya won’t have no trouble.”

  Sharp nodded. “Let’s see yer pack saddles.”

  “Sawbuck or Spanish?”

  “Spanish. Better on mountain trails,” Sharp said.

  “Goin’ after them Utes?” the liveryman asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Good luck. At least ya know what yer ’bout. Most of the men that went after ’em were miners, an’ the rest had pint-size brains stuffed in big hats.” He waved us to the back of the barn. “Saddles’re back here.”

  Sharp sorted out the saddles and hitches and picked the ones he wanted. Then Sharp eyed the horses as he sorted the loads into four piles.

  Before we saddled the four packhorses, Sharp explained, “The secret to a behaved string of packhorses is spreadin’ the loads between the animals based on what they can carry. Then ya gotta make the loads snug, balanced, an’ quiet, with nothin’ stickin’ out to get caught on a tree or rock. Ya see, a saddle horse carries a live weight, one that shifts with the circumstance, but a packhorse carries a dead weight, so it’s gotta be balanced just so.”

  “Maybe we should get a wagon,” I offered.

  “A horse can pull more than it can carry, but a packed horse can go more places.” He moved a gunnysack from one pile to another. After another examination, he said, “Come on, let’s get this loaded. I’ll show ya a proper diamond hitch.”

  We were done by mid-morning, but McAllen was nowhere in sight. The supplies had been bought, packhorses let, our own gear readied, and everything packed. Saddling our riding horses was all that remained, and this would wait until we were set to depart.

  Sharp and I stood outside the livery corral kicking our spurs into the dirt. “Let’s get a ham steak,” Sharp said.

  “Bit early for a noon meal.”

  “Hell, McAllen went to see his ex-wife. No tellin’ how long he’ll be, and we might not see a hog for months.”

  “You said something similar this morning when we ordered that glutinous breakfast.”

  “True this morning, true now. If ya hadn’t hired them boys, you’d be hungry too.”

  “What if McAllen shows up?”

  Sharp leaned around the corner of the barn and yelled at the liveryman, “If a gruff gent comes lookin’ for us, tell ’im we’re at the café.” Sharp turned and gave me a pleased look.

  “What if he comes before we finish our meal? You know McAllen.”

  “Then we git up and head for the hills.”

  “He said mid-morning. Could be a waste of money.”

  “Might be right.” Sharp pushed himself away from the barn wall. “So you pay.” And off he went.

  I followed Sharp around the corner to a hardscrabble footpath lined with single-story ramshackle buildings. Mining towns had only two purposes: to dig money from the earth as fast as possible and then to separate that money from the miners even quicker. And all mining towns looked as if they had been thrown up yesterday with little hope that they would be needed tomorrow. Because Durango served the mining towns and operations in the nearby hills, the town had been cut from this same mold. Even with the railroad on the way and looming incorporation, Durango had the aspect and temper of a makeshift encampment that would never last beyond the gold and silver. Despite these off-putting flaws, I loved mining towns. You could count on high spirits, savvy men, savvier women who threw social norms to the winds, have-nots suddenly awash in money, and a frantic abandon that appealed to me for reasons I never bothered to examine. I liked the unbridled energy that made me wake up anxious to experience the day.

  Sharp was in his element in mining towns. I had met him in a rough camp that made Durango look downright cosmop
olitan. In Durango, people lived in respectable buildings, with water readily available. The miners in Pickhandle Gulch built rudimentary rock hovels, because wood demanded a higher price than silver. Water came even dearer. Sharp had built a mining empire centered in Belleville, about twenty miles from Pickhandle. I accidentally got mixed up with his biggest rival, which made us natural allies, and we had since become friends. An odd friendship. Sharp, in his early fifties, was twenty years my senior. I was an aspiring writer with the best education a rich New York family could buy. Sharp lacked formal education, but he had been all over the world and built his wealth with his own hands. These differences somehow made the friendship work. Or perhaps it was our aggressive natures and the common need to make our mark that brought us together.

  Sharp’s destination was the same dowdy café where we had eaten breakfast. He liked to eat at unrefined places where he might pick up mining gossip. I preferred eating at our boardinghouse, but this time it was prudent to stay close to the stables in case McAllen came looking for us. The proprietors had tried to dress up the café’s unpainted walls and plank floor with red-checkered tablecloths and bright blue enameled plates. Deer antlers bracketed an American flag tacked to one wall, and a cheap grandfather clock kept up a relentless beat in the corner.

  The owner’s plump wife greeted us with surprise. “Thought you boys were heading out of town.”

  “Couldn’t leave town without another of yer great meals,” Sharp said. “Bring us a couple thick ham steaks with yams an’ any other fresh vegetables ya got in the kitchen.”

  “And pie?”

  Sharp laughed. “And pie, goddamn it.”

  “Comin’ right up. Pick your seat.” She scurried off.

  The place was empty. I knew it was too early for the noonday meal. Sharp chose a table in the rear, sat against the wall, and then immediately leaned his chair back into his customary position. Sitting opposite, I said, “You sure McAllen will be late?”

  Sharp snapped his chair back to the floor and yelled around the corner, “Greta, bring out the pie first!”

  Her head appeared around the door frame. “Before the meal?”

  “Yeah, keep us busy while you grill them ham steaks.”

  “You boys sure are peculiar.” She disappeared again but soon returned with two outrageous portions of berry pie. “This ought to keep you busy.”

  Sharp gave her one of his shucks, I’m just a good ol’ boy smiles and said, “Thank ya, darlin’.” He grabbed his fork with a fist and shoveled in mouthful after mouthful. When I started laughing, he gave me a purple toothy grin. “Dig in, Steve. McAllen might show up any minute.”

  Sharp finished his pie before I was half done and excused himself to visit the privy. The ham steak appealed to me more than sweets, so I laid my fork aside and wiped around my mouth with a napkin. Remembering Sharp’s berry-stained teeth, I took a healthy swallow of coffee, swirled it, and then ran my tongue over my teeth.

  “Steve Dancy!” The menacing tone at my back alarmed me. I tried to maintain a casual posture, but I made no move to turn around.

  “Dancy, ya son of a bitch, we’re talkin’ at ya.”

  Shit. More than one. I made up my mind. I grasped my plate, still half full of pie, and flung it across the room. At almost the same instant, I whirled off the chair, staying low on one knee, and drew my gun. As I came around, I saw two men with guns pointed in my direction. I could see the eyes of the one on the left shifting away from where the plate splattered against the wall and back toward me. I shot him in the middle of the chest. As I swung toward the second man, a gun flash scared me so much that I shot him three times before I gained enough control to switch my attention back to the first gunman. He was no longer on his feet.

  The gunfight seemed like crawling time, but it had happened so fast, the plate was still clattering across the floor. During the fight, I had heard only the report of my own six-shooter. When the echo died down, I became aware of a woman screaming like a banshee. I stepped over to the two men and saw that neither would ever get up again. Whipping my head around, I decided that the screaming came from the kitchen. In a few short steps, I found Greta huddled on the floor in the arms of her husband. She was screaming so loud, I yelled, “Where’re you hit?”

  Her husband buried her face in his chest and said, “She’s just scared. Goddamn it, what happened?”

  Sharp came barreling into the kitchen from the rear door and yelled the same thing.

  “I don’t know! Two men just started shooting at me.”

  “You whole?” Sharp asked.

  “Yeah.” I looked around and saw where the second man’s errant shot had gone through the wall, splintering the thin paneling. No wonder the woman was scared out of her wits. Thankfully, the bullet did not hit her or her husband. I pointed with my thumb at the front room. “They’re dead. It’s a mess.”

  Sharp started toward the door, nearly bumping into McAllen and another man I recognized as the marshal. McAllen spoke first. “Is everybody in here all right?”

  “Hell, no,” the husband yelled. “My wife almost got killed!”

  The marshal turned to another man out of view and calmly said, “Jeff, get the doctor for her.”

  “Right away, Marshal,” said the voice from the front room, and I heard boots clunk across the hardwood planks.

  The marshal remained businesslike. “Who shot those men?”

  “I did. They got the drop on me, and I was lucky they didn’t kill me.”

  The marshal looked dubious. “Both got their guns out, but only one barrel is warm.”

  “I shot the first one before he fired his gun.”

  “Really?” He looked at the other three people in the room. “Anyone see this fight?”

  “I was alone,” I interjected. “Marshal, I don’t make a habit of killing random customers that walk into a café.”

  “I’m unconcerned with your habits. What happened?”

  “I was eating pie with my back to the door, and I heard someone behind me yell my name. It sounded like—”

  “I heard that yell,” the owner interjected, his wife now crying quietly into his shoulder.

  The marshal held up two fingers. “Not now. I want to hear his story.”

  “It was a threat. I threw a plate against the wall and whipped around with my gun out. Two men had guns drawn and pointed at me, and I shot them. That’s all there was to it.”

  The marshal did not appear convinced. “Who were they, and why were they hunting you?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t know.”

  “I do.” This surprising revelation came from Captain McAllen.

  The marshal raised an eyebrow toward McAllen, but before he could explain, the doctor barreled into the kitchen with a deputy right behind him. Now there were seven men in a room already crowded with a hot stove, work tables, cabinets, and a sobbing woman. “Get out!” the doctor shouted. “Let me tend to her.”

  I was happy to see the marshal wave toward the back door. I was not eager to revisit the bloody bodies in the front room. When we gathered between the building and the privy, the marshal turned to McAllen and said, “Yes?”

  “I recognize the men. They were ranch hands at the Bolton place in Nevada. We had a bad experience there. I’ll explain in your office.”

  “Cliff and Pete!” I exclaimed.

  Now it was McAllen’s turn to look surprised. “You know their names?” he asked.

  “The two men that raped Jenny. I was there when she fired them.”

  Jenny was the wife of a politician I had supported for governor of Nevada. After his murder, I helped Jenny secure title to his ranch. The politician’s bitter mother had used the ranch hands to chase Jenny away before her daughter-in-law discovered that she had inherited her husband’s ranching empire.

  My entanglement in Nevada politics had been dangerous, but I had thought it was over. “Why would they come after me?”

  “Someone sent them,” McAllen said.<
br />
  “Mrs. Bolton.” The sudden realization hit me hard. I thought when I had dispatched the greedy old woman to San Francisco I was done with her.

  “She’s the one that deserves shootin’,” Sharp added.

  McAllen put a hand on the marshal’s shoulder. “John, can we go to your office? I can explain all this.”

  The marshal looked uncertain but then said, “All right, but I want to look at the bodies one more time before the undertaker hauls them away.”

  After they left, Sharp gave a low whistle before saying, “That Bolton woman has the devil in her. Ya won’t be safe till you deal with her.”

  I felt a sudden pang of anxiety. “Never mind me.” I grabbed Sharp’s forearm. “Jeff … this means Jenny’s not safe.

  Chapter 4

  While McAllen talked to the marshal, I raced to the telegraph office. I needed to warn Jenny that her mother-in-law was still up to her evil ways. I had thought she was safely out of the way, but obviously the old battleaxe held a grudge against me. As I trotted toward the Western Union station, I grew increasingly alarmed that she might have nefarious plans for Jenny as well. The two women hated each other, and no venomous act was beyond that old woman.

  The Western Union office had only two customers, so I wouldn’t have to wait long. I immediately went to a stand-up writing desk and pulled a telegraph message form to compose my warning. I stopped. What was I thinking? The Bolton ranch didn’t have a telegraph station. I had gotten so used to communicating instantly with people in cities that I forgot you couldn’t send a message to someone on a remote ranch.

  Panting, Sharp caught up with me, and before I could explain my dilemma, he said, “Let me send the telegram to Fort Churchill. The commander knows me, an’ I can git him to send a rider out to the ranch.”

  Without hesitation, I slid the form over to Sharp. I had a reputation in Nevada as a man-killing gunman, but Sharp owned expansive mining interests in the state. He would surely get a better response from people in authority. It suddenly occurred to me that I had just established the same reputation in Colorado. Even gunplay in self-defense earned you notoriety in this untamed frontier.