At first, McAllen remained silent after Sharp’s description. Then he asked, “Any scars?”
“None that I noticed,” Sharp answered.
“He has a scar.” I was glad to be able to add something. “Right hand. Went from his thumb almost to the back of his wrist.”
McAllen flung his tankard against the wall, splattering beer and glass shards everywhere. “Goddamn it!”
The boy burst into the room at the sound. He looked at the mess and said, “Yer gonna pay for that.”
“Shut the hell up!” McAllen yelled.
“I’ll pay,” I said. “Please, step back outside.”
He hesitated but bolted when McAllen leaned over for his gun that lay on the floor. “Go down and get us more beer!” McAllen yelled through the closed door. I heard boots immediately thud against the stairsteps.
After a long moment, McAllen said, “The man’s real name is Jim Vrable. Shit! That son of a bitch. This time I’m gonna kill that bastard.”
We waited. The frightened boy opened the door just enough to get his head around. “I have your beers, sir.” We waved him in, and his boots made a crunching sound as he walked across the glass-strewn room. “Should I clean this up?”
“No. Leave it … and us. Now!” McAllen ordered.
His departure disappointed me—I wasn’t eager to step out barefooted onto broken glass.
After the door snapped shut, McAllen said, “I gave him that scar. He came at me with a knife, and I cut him. Shoulda killed him.” When McAllen continued, his voice broke with anguish. “I’m the one. I brought this down on my daughter.”
I knew there was nothing to say, so I just studied the opposite wall until McAllen started talking again.
“The last time I saw Vrable, he worked for the Denver and Rio Grande Railway. Superintendent. Slick son of a bitch. Had everybody fooled. But I found out he beat the hell out of his wife and kid, and I helped them escape his clutches. And after the knife fight, I used my contacts with the railway to get him fired.” McAllen slapped his hand against his thigh. “It all fits. Vrable comes across as somber-minded and capable, just how the townsfolk describe Grant. But let me tell ya: He only appears normal. Under the surface, Vrable’s as crazed as a rabid dog.”
“You think he killed your daughter for revenge?” I asked.
“Yep.” McAllen’s voice was quiet now. “That bastard thinks it fair retribution for me taking his wife and son away from him.”
Sharp turned to face McAllen. “Can I ask ya somethin’?”
“Go ahead.”
“Joseph, you’re a tough hombre with a powerful organization behind ya. Why did Grant think he could get away with this?”
“Probably expected me to find out by telegram. If we hadn’t gone in right after the posse, there’d be no way to know different from what they said.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been in Denver when I heard about this, I would never have gotten here in time. Vrable woulda got away clean.”
I started to understand. “Do you think when he got back, Vrable learned you were out chasing the Ute band, and that’s why he took off so quick? Before you returned and recognized him?”
“That’s the way I got it figured,” McAllen said, and then he yelled, “Boy!”
After the boy gingerly opened the door, McAllen said, “Sweep up this glass, so we can get the hell outta here.”
After he went for a broom, McAllen turned to us. “Sort out enough of those supplies for a four-day ride. No packhorses, so take only what we need to get by. We’re traveling light and we’re traveling fast. We leave first thing in the morning.”
“Breakfast?” Sharp asked.
“If you get up early enough, eat as hearty as you like.”
“Where’re we going?” I asked.
“Leadville.”
Chapter 17
Dr. Dooley met us in the morning at the livery stables. “I’d like to join you men, if there’s no objection.”
“None here,” Sharp said.
“Nor here.” I slapped Dooley on the back, and all three of us looked at McAllen.
When some time had elapsed, McAllen sensed that we were waiting for his response. Without turning from his work, he said, “When a man says, ‘if there’s no objection,’ and I don’t raise one, he shouldn’t push further to get permission.”
All three of us had gotten up early enough for a predawn hot meal. At breakfast, McAllen had been sour company, and his mood had not improved. “Saddle up, Doc. We’re about to get under way,” Sharp said.
Glenwood Springs was less than fifty miles from Leadville, but because of mountains, they were fifty impossible miles. Dooley intended to catch a stagecoach east from Leadville to Denver and then take a train traveling west again to Glenwood Springs. This circuitous route was better than the direct route through the Rockies, which could prove dangerous to a lone rider, especially since the consumption clinic at Glenwood Springs was close to where the Meeker massacre had occurred only a little over a week before.
Sharp told me that Leadville, at over ten thousand breathtaking feet of elevation, held the title as the highest town in the United States. We were already at eight thousand feet, but to get there we would have to make a couple of mountain ascents, then drop into a high valley on the other side, only to climb over yet another peak. We could look forward to two hundred and fifty miles of cold weather and rough terrain. I reached over and scratched Chestnut’s forehead. We had a hard ride ahead of us.
When I bought Chestnut, I had been looking for a big strong horse, because I carried a Winchester, a shotgun, two handguns, and a gunsmith’s toolset. Add my own one hundred and seventy pounds to all this hardware, plus food and clothing, and I needed a sturdy horse. Chestnut would not win many races, but he could walk or trot all day under heavy load. I had recently discovered that Chestnut also handled backcountry with aplomb and a sure foot.
The night before, Sharp and I had sorted out the food for our four-day ride. Sharp wouldn’t be applying any of his culinary skills to beans on this trip. We were carrying minimal supplies and using no packhorses. The remainder of the stockpile we had lugged over to the preacher’s house and stacked on his porch.
Now I heard a voice from around the barn door. “You drop those supplies off at my house?”
“I thought someone in the congregation might use them,” McAllen said over his shoulder. “There’re a gift from these two gentlemen, Mr. Sharp and Mr.—”
“Thank you. I’ll see that someone needy gets them.” The preacher directed the acknowledgement at us, cutting McAllen off.
“Do with it what you will.” McAllen continued to cinch his saddle.
The preacher turned back to McAllen. “You have your necklace, Captain. Now please go. My wife and I need some time alone.” With that, the preacher turned his back on us and marched away.
Curiosity gnawed at me, but I kept my mouth shut. Sharp did not. “For God’s sake, Joseph, did ya tell ’em Grant held a grudge against ya?”
“No.” McAllen grabbed his saddle horn and tugged it to and fro. Satisfied, he picked up his saddlebag. “We never did get along, but this weasel thinks I hold him responsible for not protecting my daughter.”
“Ya can’t leave it that way.”
McAllen’s tone turned angry. “He shouldn’t have let her ride all by herself.”
“You told him that?”
McAllen grunted something and threw his bulging saddlebag over the back of his horse. “He said she didn’t ride alone. She rode with God at her side.”
“Joseph?” When Sharp got no response, he prodded, “Do ya really hold him responsible?”
“Him … and his almighty God.” McAllen swung onto his horse. “Let’s ride.”
We all mounted our horses and trotted after McAllen, who had not bothered to wait for us. This looked to be a tense ride. I felt sympathy for McAllen, and I probably owed him my life, but this man who had always appeared controlled seemed unable to thin
k straight. If there had been less history between us, I probably would have sent him on his way without me.
Leadville had always been the next destination for Sharp and me, but we had planned to leave almost a month earlier, when late summer weather was more predictable. Now, as we rode off into the high Rocky Mountains, we risked the surprise storms that sometimes endangered travelers in October.
After riding for almost an hour, Dooley said, “You want to know something strange?”
Sharp and McAllen rode ahead of us, out of earshot. I was thinking through a storyline for my journal, so I answered absentmindedly. “Sure.”
“That half-breed seemed more in charge than Grant.”
Dooley had grabbed my interest. I swung around in my saddle. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, whenever anything came up, Grant and the half-breed went off together to talk private, but it looked like the Indian told Grant what to do, not the other way around.”
I thought about it. “The half-breed probably knew more about the wilderness.”
“I’m not talking about on the trail. Even in town, it appeared to be the half-breed’s show.”
“What did he look like?”
“Big ugly brute. Dark skin, oily black hair, pockmarked face, and scarred bad. Face and hands were all I saw, but he must have run into some serious trouble one time or another.”
I started to ask another question but instead yelled, “Hey, Captain, Jeff, hold up!”
McAllen still looked sour, so I wasted no words in relaying what Dooley had said. I could actually see McAllen thinking through the possibilities. When he spoke, his voice sounded uncertain. “You sure ’bout that description?”
“Yep, and I’m sure Grant was afraid to cross him.”
“Goddamn it, the man’s name is not Grant!” McAllen’s compressed lips made a straight line across his red face. “You want to talk to me anymore about this, you call him Jim Vrable.”
“Well, I don’t,” Dooley said.
“Don’t what?” McAllen nearly yelled.
“Want to talk to you anymore.” With that, Dooley spurred his horse and galloped away.
McAllen looked at us with eyes that burned with anger. Sharp and I just wheeled our horses around and gave chase to Dooley.
As we rode away, I heard McAllen yell, “Jim Vrable, goddamn it! I’m riding to Leadville to kill Jim Vrable.”
Chapter 18
We met a small cavalry force about dusk on the second day. McAllen stopped and signaled us to arrange ourselves single file behind him. I presumed he wanted to look unthreatening to the soldiers. A lieutenant rode slowly forward and pulled up when his horse stood nose to nose with McAllen’s.
After a curt nod, he said, “Lieutenant Miller. You gentlemen coming up from Durango?”
“We are,” McAllen answered. “I’m Joseph McAllen. Your troop from Leadville?”
The lieutenant made no attempt to shake hands. “Yes, sir. On our way to protect the citizens of Durango against this Ute uprising.”
“Have you passed any other riders?”
“Bob Grant, yesterday. The fool was riding alone, so I sent two troopers to escort him to Leadville.”
“I thought your orders were to protect the people of Durango?” McAllen spoke with a harder edge than I thought appropriate. “It doesn’t look like you have enough men to send two of ’em off to keep one man company.”
The lieutenant sat more upright in his saddle before speaking. “My men and I can handle the Utes.”
“All six of you?” McAllen’s tone turned derisive.
“My other men will catch up in a couple days.” The lieutenant cocked his head and gave McAllen an appraising look. “Are you with Pinkerton?”
McAllen nodded.
“Why didn’t you introduce yourself as the celebrated captain of Pinkertons?” The tone did not reflect the respect of the words.
“Because I’m not on company business.” McAllen kept both hands folded on his saddle horn, but I got the sense he could explode at any moment without warning.
“What kind of business are you on?”
“I suggest you carry out your orders and leave other people to their business.” McAllen made a show of looking over his troopers. “I also suggest that in the future, you keep your force all together so you can carry out those orders.”
The lieutenant seemed taken aback. “I am following the intent of my orders. You may not know it, but Bob Grant’s an important man hereabouts.”
“How so?”
“He works for Wells Fargo, which makes him a key man in the Tabor and Routt operations. They rely on him.”
Sharp reined his horse around until he was level with McAllen. “Horace Tabor and John Routt?”
The lieutenant puffed up. “Yes, sir, the Carbonate Kings. Richest men in Leadville. Grant handles the security for all their gold and silver shipments.”
Sharp and McAllen traded knowing glances. Sharp turned back to the lieutenant. “Ya say he was riding alone? He left Durango with a half-breed.”
“A half-breed? No. Grant was alone for sure.” The lieutenant gave Sharp a baffled look. “He doesn’t normally hang with half-breeds. You might have your men mixed up.”
“No,” McAllen interjected. “I know the man.” He gave the lieutenant a casual salute. “Well, we better be getting on.”
“Are you about to pull up for the night? We could make camp together.”
McAllen nudged his horse around the lieutenant’s. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. I reckon we’ll ride as long as we got some light.”
“Suit yourself, but during these dangerous times, there’s safety in numbers.”
As McAllen rode away, he said over his shoulder, “I’m sure you and your troopers will—”
“—be a great comfort to the people of Durango.”
I almost laughed when Sharp interrupted McAllen before he could offend the cavalry officer again. As I pulled past the lieutenant, he looked confused by the exchange. Partly to distract him from taking offense, I asked, “What riled the Utes?”
The lieutenant looked at me for the first time. “Meeker, the Indian agent. Not a bad man, just ignorant.” The lieutenant shrugged. “A political appointment.”
I had a sudden thought. “No outside provocation?”
The lieutenant screwed up his eyes at me. “What do you know of this affair?”
“Just town gossip.”
After a moment, he said, “We suspect that a Mexican might’ve encouraged the uprising. What have you heard?”
“Some think what happened in Durango may not be connected to the problems in the North.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say to keep the conversation going.
“They were Utes, weren’t they? Must be connected.” The simple thought process of a soldier.
McAllen must have had good ears, because he turned around and trotted back to us. “What’s this Mexican’s name?”
The lieutenant obviously did not want to respond to McAllen, but he eventually said, “Bane.”
McAllen looked like he had been hit with a piece of lumber. “Bane’s dead!”
“Nope. Lots of rumors of that sort, but you can’t kill the devil’s spawn.”
McAllen turned toward Dooley. “That half-breed? Could he have been Mexican?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Dooley said. “Coulda been, I guess, but I never heard of a Mexican that told people he was a half-breed.”
“What did Grant call him?”
Dooley thought before answering. “Nothing that I ever heard.”
The lieutenant held up his hand to stop the talk. “Grant would never associate with Bane. And if you knew Bane, then you’d know he’d never be seen with Grant … except maybe to kill him.”
“Unfortunately, I do know Bane,” McAllen said.
The lieutenant seemed dubious. “How?”
“Actually we met only once, but I hunted him for months.” McAllen still looked awestruck. “My God, I
shoulda killed him when I had the chance.”
“You never had a chance,” the lieutenant said arrogantly. “Lots of men thought they did … until they tried. Bane’s meaner than a coiled rattlesnake, and he’s wild crazy. You men are barking up the wrong tree. Grant and Bane have nothing in common. Nothing.”
“Yes, they do.” McAllen voice sounded muted, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
The lieutenant looked completely incredulous. “Oh, and what might that be?”
“They both hate me.”
Chapter 19
We rode away without giving the troopers an explanation. Once out of earshot, I asked Sharp, “Why do they call them the Carbonate Kings?”
“They mine lead and refine the silver out. A good find is one hundred and sixty ounces of silver per ton. Sell the lead too. But smelting costs are so high, many prospectors can’t afford to develop a claim, so they sell out to one of the Carbonate Kings. They just keep getting bigger.”
That sounded like a lot of work to extract a small amount of silver, but they must have the process down if these men had become wealthy.
I glanced over at McAllen. He looked grumpy, but I decided to chance a question anyway. “Do you think Vrable’s half-breed was Bane?”
“Later,” McAllen said. I thought the troopers wouldn’t be the only ones to proceed in ignorance, but then McAllen added, “I’ll explain when we camp. The horses got a good rest while we palavered, and that’s no small hill in front of us. We’ll ride hard until the light’s gone.”
Without waiting for a reply, McAllen spurred his horse and charged up the hill. Sharp gave out a small cowboy yodel and took off after McAllen. With a nudge from my spurred heels, Chestnut chased after Sharp and McAllen. I glanced back and saw that Doc Dooley lagged behind, but I enjoyed this race too much to pull up my reins. McAllen had an especially fine horse, one Chestnut might never catch on flat land, but on this steep incline, Chestnut kept gaining as we made our way up the hill. After a few minutes, Chestnut’s solid gait pulled ahead of Sharp’s mare and continued to close on McAllen’s.
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