Leadville

by James D. Best

  “What should we say?” I asked.

  Sharp thought a minute, his pencil poised above the form. “How ’bout: Mrs. Bolton sent Cliff and Pete to murder Dancy. Be careful. Letter to follow.”

  “Fine, but add: Dancy unharmed.”

  “Yep. Wouldn’t want the little lady to think ya was kilt. Might get her thinkin’ about other suitors.” Sharp’s laugh made me uncomfortable. “I also need to send a telegram to the colonel with instructions, so start a letter to Jenny with the full tale while I work on this.”

  “What’ll I say?”

  “Did ya write her before like I told ya?”

  “No.”

  “Damn it, Steve.” He looked frustrated. “All right, tell her something about the fight and about the situation with McAllen’s daughter. Let her know we’ll be gone awhile. Then finish up by tellin’ her ya love her.”

  “Jeff!”

  “Women cotton to men that cotton to them. Tell her, ya fool.”

  Without responding, I went up to the clerk and bought paper, envelope, and postage. The first part of the letter went easy, but I struggled with the finish. I was still standing at the writing desk when Sharp peeked over my shoulder.

  “Cat got your tongue? I thought ya wanted to be a writer. Just tell her how ya feel.”

  “Rejected? Lost? How do I tell Jenny I love her after she sent me on my way?”

  “With pen an’ ink. Ya sure are thick, Steve. Just write it. Leave this office as a return address. Ya never know ’bout women. She could be regrettin’ ya left an’ be pinin’ away for ya. What’ve ya got to lose?”

  “My sanity. Hell, we’ll be gone for weeks, maybe more. All the while I’ll be torturing myself, thinking there’s a letter back here that’ll change my life.”

  “Only if she responds in kind. Otherwise, your life goes on as now, with ya mopin’ about like some lovesick youngster.”

  Sharp made sense. It was better to know for sure and get this behind me if it wasn’t going to work out the way I wanted. I bent over the paper so Sharp couldn’t see and wrote furiously. I wanted this done before I changed my mind. Then I quickly folded the paper and slipped it into the envelope.

  “Did ya tell her ya love her?”

  “I told her I felt the same as the last time I saw her and that if she would entertain the notion, I’d like to return to court her.”

  “Damn it, Steve. I’ve told over a dozen women that I loved ’em, and it worked every time.”

  “Worked? For what?”

  “To git what I wanted.”

  “Maybe I want more than you.”

  Sharp just stared at me. Finally, he said, “Well, if ya won’t take the advice of an older, more experienced man, then I can’t help ya.”

  I started to make a smart response but instead simply said, “In truth, only Jenny can help me … and only if she wants to.”

  Chapter 5

  Not knowing what else to do, Sharp and I returned to the livery. After rechecking everything, we took up our old station against the wall and used our spurs to dig deeper holes in the dirt.

  “Do you think that old hag will send more killers?” I asked.

  “Those two were readily available ruffians. Mrs. Bolton don’t move in those circles, so I don’t think it likely … at least not soon.” Sharp spun his spur in the tiny furrow he had dug in the dirt. “You ain’t gonna like this, Steve, but them hands proves she ain’t gonna leave this be. Ya took her ranch away an’ gave it to the person that stole her son.”

  “Jenny’s husband wrote the will. I just saw that it got properly executed.”

  “To that ol’ shrew’s way of thinkin’, you messed in her business.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Jenny knows her mother-in-law better’n us. She’ll protect herself. Keep your mind on our business at hand.”

  In less time than I expected, McAllen and his friend from the Pinkertons marched up the street with more purpose than a couple of generals about to go into battle.

  “Let’s go. We’re late,” McAllen snapped.

  “I’m free to go? No charges?” I asked.

  “Not entirely. I’ll explain on the trail,” was all McAllen said.

  Wordlessly, we saddled our riding horses and gave the packhorse loads a final tug to insure that they were secure. Swinging into the saddle, I rubbed Chestnut’s neck and then pulled the reins lightly to guide him into the street. I had owned numerous horses in the East, but none compared with Chestnut for steady character, trail skills, and endurance. He had carried me all over the West for more than a year, and we got along just fine. The dime novels talked about how cowboys loved their horses. I could certainly see how affection grew between man and horse, but I still preferred humankind. Maybe I hadn’t been in the West long enough yet.

  We rode single file out of town, but as soon as we emerged into open country, McAllen turned in his saddle and waved me up. I trotted up the string of horses and settled into an easy walking gait beside McAllen.

  “You’ll face a hearing on our return.”

  “But the marshal still let me leave town?”

  “In my custody … with my promise you won’t bolt.”

  “So I’m your prisoner?”

  “I’m just responsible for your behavior. You have to be back in nineteen days, when the judge’s circuit brings him to Durango.”

  “What if we haven’t found your daughter by then? Sharp bought enough supplies to get us through the winter.”

  McAllen glanced back toward Sharp but said only, “Nineteen days should be enough.”

  “Did the marshal buy my story?”

  “After I vouched for you and explained the rest. Those two had made a nuisance of themselves around town, and a witness saw them hanging around outside the café until they saw you alone. I don’t think you’ll have a problem, but this ain’t Pickhandle. They got real law here.”

  In Pickhandle Gulch, I had also killed two men in a street fight, but the town was so lawless that no one even questioned me. Before that incident, I had never even shot at a man before. I had learned to handle firearms growing up in my father’s New York City gun shop. After he died, I ran the high-end shop and practiced or tested new models several hours a day. I became proficient with handguns, rifles, and shotguns.

  “Are you going to introduce your friend?” I asked.

  McAllen reined up and waited for all four of us to gather in a rough circle. “Jeff Sharp and Steve Dancy, I’d like to introduce Alfred Mathers, but he prefers to go by Red.”

  Red wore his black hair short, and his high cheekbones and sturdy-looking chin made him look formidable.

  “Half-breed?” Sharp asked.

  “My father was Shoshone, but I speak Ute. My Indian name is Red Oriole.”

  Sharp laughed. “That explains the absence of red hair.” He reached out his hand. “Welcome to our little band.” After handshakes all around, Sharp asked, “Known our cordial leader long?”

  “I track for the Pinkertons. The captain an’ I have done a few assignments together.”

  “What were you doing this morning?” I was curious, because I knew McAllen never allowed his men to sit idle.

  “The captain—”

  “Steve, you asked for an introduction. You got it. We’re wasting time. I’ll explain after we’ve made camp tonight.” To punctuate his point, McAllen wheeled his horse around and resumed riding southwest.

  Chapter 6

  Because of the shooting at the café, we didn’t reach our destination before nightfall. Red had ridden on ahead to scout the terrain, and by the time we caught up with him at dusk, he had trout cooking on sticks extended over a welcoming fire. We ate in near silence and bedded down early to escape the chill.

  The next morning, we rode hard, and in about four hours, we arrived at the location in the San Juan basin where the girl was believed to have been snatched. McAllen had already explained that Maggie boarded her horse at her aunt’s ranch, whi
ch we had passed an hour previously. Ever since she had finished her schooling, her father would occasionally ride her out in a buckboard so she could stay a week or so at his sister’s place. Maggie loved her aunt, the ranch, and her horse. When the weather was clear, she would often go riding after her chores.

  One of the early posses had found tracks in a broad meadow, and they believed that those tracks indicated the likely place where she had been abducted. We relied on their description and rode directly to the meadow. When we reached the spot, McAllen pulled up and lifted a hand to stop us. He nodded at Red, who dismounted and walked the ground ahead of us.

  I looked around the pleasant field. It was ghostly still. In fact, the meadow seemed so peaceful that it felt like a place of worship. It was hard to believe that an abduction of a young girl had disturbed this tranquility.

  “This may take a bit,” McAllen said. “Unsaddle and let our horses graze free. Picket the packhorses in good grass … don’t unload them.”

  Conversation had been minimal during the ride, and no one grew chatty now that we had stopped. Sharp and I pulled a western-style saddle off Red’s horse, while McAllen kept a careful eye on his friend’s investigation of the scene.

  In less than an hour, Red quick-paced back toward us. “Useless. Too many horses trampled the site.” He pointed. “The last posse headed southwest, along the mesas.”

  McAllen hefted his saddle by the horn. “Let’s go. Without tracks, we follow the posse. Hopefully, their tracker knows what he’s about. Steve, you ride with Red along the south side. Jeff and I will take the packhorses and scout the north. Stay within sight. If anyone sees a trail not left by one of those dunderfooted posses, yell out.”

  “And if we get attacked by Utes?” I asked, meaning it as a joke.

  “Shoot back,” McAllen ordered without humor. With no further ado, McAllen set off.

  As we rode, Red focused on the ground in front of us. I couldn’t tell the difference between posse tracks and a herd of elk, so I watched the cliffs. I thought I spotted something unusual high up in a cliff in one of the side canyons. The natural lines seemed disturbed by a squared pattern that appeared man-made. I couldn’t be sure, because everything along the cliff line was the same color. I dug into my saddlebag and pulled out the field glasses that Sharp had bought. On closer inspection, I had no doubt that men had used rock blocks to build a shelter under a crescent-shaped overhang.

  I pointed and asked Red, “What’s that shelter built into the cliff?”

  He didn’t bother to look where I was pointing. “Ruins.”

  “How old?”

  “Don’t know.” I thought this was all he was going to say, but then he added, “Bigger ones deeper in those canyons.”

  I wanted to go and explore, but I knew better. I’d have to come back after we rescued Maggie and hire a guide. “What’s the name of that place? The bigger ones?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Who lived in those cliff dwellings?”

  “Indians.”

  “What tribe?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “No one knows.”

  I belatedly took the hint and kept my remaining questions to myself. As a writer, I appreciate solitude, but I don’t mind a little conversation on occasion. No wonder Red and McAllen were friends. I could see the two of them regaling each other with silence on those long rides into the wilderness. If either Sharp or I had tracking skills, we could have ridden together and talked as much as we liked. On second thought, Sharp would have harassed me about Jenny. Better to be teamed up with Red and his Don’t knows.

  In a couple hours, the sun had set, and twilight made it increasingly difficult to see. I was also hungry. Breakfast had been slight, and our noonday meal had been apples eaten in the saddle. Suddenly, out of the gathering gloom, I saw McAllen and Sharp ride toward us. I hoped we were still distant enough from our prey that we could have a campfire to ward off the chill. I needed to get used to the hardship ahead, but I liked comforts. City upbringing, I guess.

  “Anything?” McAllen asked.

  “No.” That was the eighteenth word Red had spoken since we had separated. I had been so bored, I had counted.

  “How about that chasm for the night?”

  We all looked where McAllen pointed, but it was getting so dark I could barely make out two rocky ridges protruding into the narrowing valley about a quarter mile ahead.

  “I’ll scout it.” With that, Red galloped away to secure us a cozy abode.

  “Do Indians attack at night?” I asked as we walked our horses leisurely behind Red’s dust trail.

  McAllen gave me an irritated look. “Only Easterners and dime novelists think Indians quit fighting when the sun goes down.” After a few paces, McAllen added, “They do like to use the cover of darkness to sneak up and attack at first light. Probably where the myth came from. But don’t worry. We’re only hours out of Durango. The Utes are far away.”

  McAllen walked for another minute before saying, “Most men bed down deep in a canyon, thinking they’ve found safe haven. Problem is, Indians can scurry alongside the ridgeline and catch you unawares. I prefer to encamp at the mouth. Good line of sight, but you can fall back if attacked.”

  This almost amounted to a speech for McAllen, so I presumed he took seriously his promise to teach me wilderness skills. I had to ask. “Fire tonight?”

  “No, but it should be safe to have a small fire in the morning for coffee.”

  Just as I had feared. At least we would have hot coffee to wake up to. As soon as the sun went down, the autumn air in these foothills turned brisk. I decided to sleep in the fleece coat Sharp had bought.

  When we caught up with Red, he merely nodded to signal that no danger lurked nearby. In short order, we had unpacked and unsaddled the horses and used loose brush and branches to fence the end of the chasm as a crude pen. I had no fear of Chestnut wandering away, but McAllen explained that our rented packhorses might head back to the livery if we failed to corral or picket them.

  After we had laid out our bedrolls, Sharp made my night. He got permission from McAllen to cook some beans at the back of our little gulch.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Ever done much cooking?”

  “No.”

  He threw me two cans. “Then carry these tins. Ain’t no boys for hire out here.”

  I laughed and started off, but Sharp began digging around in the burlap sacks, so I ended up waiting awhile. When he stood, he had a paper-wrapped parcel, a small bottle, and a heavy sack. He shoved them all in a cast iron pot and hung it over my arm.

  After he had given me the entire load, Sharp said, “McAllen may know how to track dangerous men, but he can’t cook worth a shit. Let’s go.”

  Sharp arranged rocks in a small circle and then piled wood on top and set the whole thing ablaze. As the fire burned, he opened the tins with his knife and poured them into the pot. The paper parcel hid bacon, and he tore six slices into tiny bits and threw them in with the beans. He took a fistful of sugar from the heavy sack and dumped that into the pot. The small bottle held Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce, and Sharp splashed the surface with a generous covering. After making a self-satisfied grunt, he used his knife to stir the concoction.

  “Looks like we get our pig, after all,” I said.

  “Yep. Ya kinda ruined our noonday meal yesterday. That woman was so scared, she’s gonna be useless in the kitchen for weeks.”

  “I’ll try to behave more civilized in the future.”

  Sharp used his knife to knock all the embers inside his small rock circle and added a few more pieces of kindling. Next, he settled the pot on his makeshift rock grill.

  “Will that work?” I asked.

  “Hell, them rocks an’ embers are hotter than a stove top. Done this lots of times. Later, we’ll bury the rocks under our bedrolls to help keep us warm.”

  A couple of small boulders ser
ved as convenient seats to watch his handiwork. We were inside the pen, but the horses ignored us as they tried to find their own meal between the rocky outcroppings. We both pulled out tobacco, Sharp to roll a cigarette and me to tamp a load into my pipe.

  Sharp licked the edge of the paper and sealed an expertly rolled cigarette. After watching his beans for a while, he hooked a thumb behind him. “Chestnut handles this wilderness like he was born to it.”

  “He feels different under me since we ventured off the road.” I grinned at Sharp. “Fancy-free and unfettered, I guess.”

  “Probably bored ridin’ them dull roads ya hold him to.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” I drew on my pipe. “Chestnut probably thinks I’m too citified as well.”

  “Well, do me a favor … don’t start behaving civilized just yet.”

  Chapter 7

  I had lugged the fixings for dinner to the back of our sheltering outcrop, but Sharp proudly carried the pot containing his concoction back to camp. Using his handkerchief to hold the hot handle, he reminded me of a priest swinging a censer before an expectant congregation. I, of course, brought along the sugar, bacon, and Worcestershire sauce. When we got back, McAllen was sitting alone on his bedroll with his back against his saddle.

  “Took long enough.”

  “After ya taste these beans, ya’ll quit eatin’ ’em cold out of the can,” Sharp retorted. “Where’s Red?”

  “He said he was going to scout around, but he took paper with him, so I suppose he had other duties.”

  The reminder of our primitive facilities did not delight me. While Sharp got out some tin plates and forks, I stuffed the sundries back into the gunnysacks and found the hardtack. Soon, we were ready for our feast.

  Red returned wordlessly, and we all set upon eating. I may have been overly hungry, but I devoured the beans, which tasted better than I had expected. After I emptied my plate, I went back to the pot and was disappointed to see it empty.