Leadville

by James D. Best

  Unless we ran into something unforeseen, we expected to arrive in Leadville shortly after dark. We’d only been gone two days, so hopefully nobody had noticed that we had left town. Maggie was safe. Raven should have returned with Maggie’s letter on schedule and without suspicion. Neither Bane nor Red had a horse, so both should still be in the mountains. As we rode hard toward Leadville, it appeared that our plan was working.

  Few things in my life have looked as inviting as the Carbonate Hotel. By the time we pulled up, I was chilled to the bone. In fact, for the first time, I fully realized the meaning of that expression. A stable boy took our horses as we lugged our saddlebags up to our room. Trudging up the stairs, we met McAllen coming down. All three of our heads whipped around to see if there was anyone within earshot. When we saw no one, Sharp said in a quiet voice, “Maggie’s with the Schmidts.”

  McAllen actually smiled before he said, “Silverado,” and quickened his steps down the stairs.

  After we reached the second-floor landing, I whispered to Sharp, “Step into my room a moment.” When we got behind closed doors, I asked, “What’s Silverado?”

  “A miners’ saloon on the north end of town. A place Grant would never go.”

  “When?”

  Sharp laughed. “I thought we were talkin’ about the captain.”

  I plopped my saddlebags on the floor. “Let’s go.”

  In a few minutes we were in a rowdy saloon that did a good business peddling three staples: liquor, prostitution, and gambling. Liquor them up, let the girls get a piece of their bankroll, and then separate them from the rest of their week’s pay at the gambling tables. This formula worked in every mining encampment, cattle town, and rail head.

  McAllen sat at a table tucked into a corner at the front of the saloon. We could see everyone as they entered and, since most men surveyed in front of them, few would notice us until they were well into the saloon and turned around. McAllen had a bottle of Kentucky whiskey and three glasses on the table.

  Sharp poured as he said, “We got yer daughter away from Bane an’ escorted her to the Schmidts at Twin Lakes.” Sharp shoved a full glass over to McAllen. “She’s safe an’ in good hands.”

  “Jeff, Steve.” He saluted us with his glass. “Thank you. I owe you my daughter’s life and a good deal of money for your expenses. I don’t know how I can repay either.”

  “Forget the expenses,” I said. “Money’s just a tool to get what you want, and Jeff and I wanted to help a friend.”

  Sharp nodded and then made eye contact with McAllen. “Joseph … Bane was still alive when we left. Red stayed behind to kill or delay him so we could get down the mountain.”

  McAllen used two fingers to twist his whiskey glass back and forth by quarter turns. When he looked up, he said, “Red ain’t back yet.”

  “He couldn’t be back yet,” I said quickly. “He ordered us to take his horse down the mountain. He’s on foot.”

  “Bane?” McAllen asked.

  “Red maimed his horses.” I hesitated. “One of the two of them will eventually hike out of those mountains.”

  McAllen nodded. After he swallowed his whiskey, he said, “That Indian made it back with Maggie’s letter late last night. It was written on the back of a Tabor Opera House handbill that’s posted all over town.”

  “Yep,” Sharp said. “Raven left before we rescued Maggie, so he shouldn’t be suspicious. That damn Indian ripped that handbill off the wall of our store to save buying paper.”

  McAllen indicated he wanted his shot glass refilled by wiggling with his fingers. As Sharp poured, he said, “Vrable wants to rob the next silver shipment. The rail line and winter are closing fast on Leadville.”

  “What do you want us to do?” I asked.

  “Get back to your store. We can’t have any suspicions that something’s amiss. When I get the specifics for the robbery, I’ll tell you what to do.”

  After an uncomfortable silence, I asked, “Do you still think they want to see you hang for this crime … or just shoot you during the robbery?”

  “Both.” McAllen downed his second glass. “I’ve thought about this. If I were doing it, I’d shoot me a couple times at the scene so I’d be captured easy. Nothin’ lethal, just enough to slow my escape.”

  “What’s your plan?” I asked.

  McAllen gave me a direct look. “Steve, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep that to myself. Benjamin Franklin said three men can keep a secret if two are dead.”

  I stiffened. “Captain, have I ever violated a confidence?”

  “No, Steve, but if you’ll remember Carson City, you also didn’t share your plans with me.”

  For some reason, Sharp found McAllen’s comment amusing. After he quit chortling, I said, “All right, Captain. But in the spirit of being aboveboard, I intend to stop this war between the Santa Fe and Rio Grande railroads. I can hold off a week or more if my actions will interfere with your plans.”

  “How do you plan on stopping it?”

  “I’ll send a telegram that’ll get attention in New York.”

  “New York?” Sharp asked. “Hell, they’re shootin’ at each other here.”

  I turned my attention to him. “The men in Leadville solve problems with guns, but the moneymen in New York talk. I’ve been thinking about this for the last couple of days, and I’m sure this can only be resolved two thousand miles from here.”

  “Why do you care?” McAllen asked.

  “I own a substantial stake in both railroads. It’s my money they’re wasting with this feud.”

  McAllen waved off Sharp from refilling his glass again. “Then go ahead and send your telegram. I think my business will be over in a few days anyway.”

  “Bat Masterson runs security for the Santa Fe Railway. He’s not involved in Grant’s or your plans, is he?”

  McAllen’s brow furrowed. “Not that I know of, but that’s worth thinking about.”

  Chapter 42

  Sharp and I left the hotel first thing in the morning to open the store. When we arrived, Mrs. Baker had already opened up, heated the store, and brewed coffee. Further surprises awaited us. It took me a minute before I figured out why the shop was brighter. Mrs. Baker had arranged six lanterns to chase away the gloom. Previously, only a single lantern had provided illumination in the rear to supplement the small windows in front. Why hadn’t I thought of this? We stocked lanterns, so it was only a matter of using our inventory. If we ran out of stock, we could sell the lanterns hung around the store.

  “Hell, ma’am, looks like a different store,” Sharp exclaimed.

  “Jeff!”

  “What?” Sharp looked at me, puzzled.

  “Watch your language.” I faced Mrs. Baker. “I apologize for his rudeness.” I threw a grin at Sharp to show I was kidding. “He’s an uncouth barbarian—only out of the caves a couple years.”

  “Tunnels … I’ve only recently surfaced from the tunnels.” He took off his hat, and with a flourish, did a respectable European bow. “My apologies, ma’am. The store looks tidy an’ bright as a spring day.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sharp.” She turned toward the stove to pour us coffee. “We did over four hundred dollars in business while you two were off doing whatever you were doing. I could see we would soon be running low on supplies again, so I sent off another order to Denver.” She paused. “Three thousand dollars’ worth.”

  She was testing our business relationship. I accepted the mug of coffee she held out to me. “The merchandise better sell.”

  She smiled. “It will. I’ve learned a lot in the last two days. A lot about this store … and a lot about you.”

  Now I was on guard. “What do you mean?”

  “I learned about Durango and Nevada.” She faced me square. “You’re a gunfighter.”

  “No, ma’am … I’m a man who got pulled into a couple of bad situations.”

  “And shot your way out of them.”

  “What’s your point?”
I was getting angry.

  She walked over to the counter and fumbled until she pulled out the shotgun and Colt .45 we kept hidden from sight and laid them gently on the pinewood top. “I want you to teach me how to use these.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know how.”

  “I already taught you how to use your pistol. Why do you need to know how to use these?”

  “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to disillusion you, but knowing how to use guns won’t keep you from being afraid.”

  “Are you telling me that being handy with a gun doesn’t help?”

  That stopped me. “It helps until you get into a situation. Then the fear comes flooding back.”

  “I can live with that. What I can’t live with is being afraid all the time.”

  I realized Mrs. Baker was a brave woman. Overcoming fear defines bravery and controlling your fear separates the brave from the foolish. “If you keep running this store the way you have, I’ll teach you how to use a revolver and a rifle.” I picked up the shotgun. “You don’t need lessons with this … unless you’re going for birds. For men in close quarters, just point, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger.” I laid the shotgun back on the counter. “If you fail to kill them, you’ll make them deaf. Now, please put these away.”

  After she had replaced the weapons below the counter, I added, “By the way, Jeff is an expert with a rifle, and he can teach you a lot more about survival on the frontier than I can.”

  “Is that true?” she asked Sharp.

  “Well, the part about a rifle’s true enough. I’m twenty years older than Steve, so I guess the part about survival also holds some truth.”

  She looked like a youngster at the candy jars. “Ever been in a shooting?”

  “Steve’s the one to teach ya how to kill; I’ll teach ya how to avoid being pulled into bad situations.”

  “Good enough for me,” Mrs. Baker said.

  “Me too,” I said. “I think I need a few of those lessons.”

  Chapter 43

  After we had opened the store the following day, the liveryman where we boarded our horses came rushing in, looking distraught. He stood in the center of the floor and just breathed hard for a minute.

  “I got terrible news.” He was looking at me. “Mr. Dancy, come with me to the livery.”

  “What news? Tell me.”

  He looked even more nervous. “I’m sorry, but yer horse is dead.”

  “What? Chestnut?”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. I charged out of the store and ran to the livery. When I got to Chestnut’s stall, I gasped. I knew instantly that Chestnut was dead. My horse lay prone with lifeless eyes, slack features, and, most alarming, a frothy mouth. I laid my hand on his chest but felt no lifting or falling. The stall was as quiet as a funeral parlor. But it hadn’t been. The dividing walls had been kicked so severely that they leaned into the adjacent stalls to crowd the horses on either side.

  How had this happened? What had happened? Chestnut was a strong, healthy animal. Animal? As soon as I thought the word, I wanted another: a word that came close to friend. Chestnut and I had been together since St. Louis and had traveled thousands of miles together. Even in towns, I saw him nearly every day. Guns didn’t dampen my fears of the frontier, Chestnut did. As long as we were together, I felt confident roaming around a raw country that was eager to teach city dwellers how much they didn’t know. I didn’t need a word close to friend—friend was the right word. I had just lost a true and faithful friend—one that I would miss terribly. With that thought, I collapsed on top of Chestnut’s neck and cried.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The voice came from behind me. I pulled myself together, used my sleeve to wipe my face, and turned toward the liveryman. “How did this happen?”

  He raised both arms, palms up. “Ya want the animal doctor?”

  “Go get him.”

  My voice must have sounded angry, because he didn’t hesitate. After he left, I examined the stall and then Chestnut. I could find nothing dangerous in the stall and no wounds on my horse, which didn’t make sense. Chestnut had been his strong, sure-footed self all the way down the mountain. No hint of illness. Heart attack? Occasionally, a horse had been known to run until its heart gave out, but I had never heard of a horse having a heart attack while at rest. No, not a heart attack. Chestnut had suffered severe convulsions. The damage to the stall told me that the convulsions had not been short. I couldn’t look at him anymore. Chestnut had suffered an agonizing and slow death.

  Not finding anything in Chestnut’s stall, I searched the rest of the barn. I found nothing unusual and nothing out of place. The liveryman ran a tidy business. But where had he been? His room was connected, and the noise must have been earsplitting.

  I walked out of the barn and into the frigid morning. I wanted my pipe, but I had left it at the store. I was thinking of walking back for it when I saw the animal doctor walking toward me. He wore a hostile expression.

  When he stood in front of me, he asked, “Are you the one that insists I stop my treatment of live animals to look at a dead horse?”

  “Yes.” I turned and went into the barn. I didn’t want an argument; I wanted a professional opinion.

  As soon as the doctor saw Chestnut, his demeanor softened. He immediately kneeled over my horse and pried open his mouth. Then he stood and looked around the stall. Eventually, he leaned over and picked up a twig of weed the size of a small piece of tobacco stem. After he sniffed it, the doctor handed it to me.

  “Do you have any enemies?” he asked.

  “A few.” I didn’t elaborate.

  “Your horse was probably poisoned. That’s water hemlock, sometimes called snakeroot. The most poisonous plant hereabouts. It will kill a horse in two to three hours. A human quicker. Eat that tiny piece, and you’ll be in my care for a week.”

  “Why do you say probably?”

  He turned to the liveryman. “Any chance of snakeroot in your feed?”

  “Absolutely not. No, sir.”

  The doctor turned back to me. “Then your horse was definitely poisoned.”

  I nodded toward the liveryman. “You believe him?”

  “Clyde? Hell, yes. Best man with animals I’ve ever seen. If he says there’s no snakeroot in his feed, then somebody brought it in and fed it to your horse.”

  I turned to Clyde. “Why didn’t you hear Chestnut kicking his stall apart?”

  “Musta happened last night when I was playing faro at the Gemstone.”

  “Fits,” the doctor said. “This horse has been dead for over ten hours.”

  “You don’t lock up or check the animals before you go to bed?” I wanted to blame someone, so I took my anger out on someone close at hand.

  “The big doors are locked, but I leave the side door open for owners. Everybody knows that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, ya shoulda asked. I can’t be here twenty-four hours.”

  “And you can’t be bothered to check on your charges after you come home drunk from some saloon.”

  “I give a listen. No noise, no problem.” He suddenly shed his compassion. “Listen, I didn’t kill your horse, and I’m not payin’. Ya oughta think about who mighta done it and quit blamin’ me.”

  Now I really got angry. I pulled two single eagles from my pocket. I gave one to the doctor and said, “Thank you. Sorry to interfere in your work.”

  I flipped the other coin in the air at the liveryman. He caught it deftly. “And as for you, I don’t want your goddamn money. That’s for the splendid care you gave my horse. It should settle our account with enough left over to bury him properly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go find a woman.”

  I started to stomp out when the doctor said, “Good idea, young man. Release some of that anger with a woman.”

  I hesitated only momentarily. “I will, Doctor. But I don’t intend to fuck her; I intend
to kill her.”

  Chapter 44

  I marched out of the livery, intent on finding Mrs. Bolton.

  Thinking her name made my teeth grind. It had to be her. Her nature was evil to the core, and she hated me with the passion of a wronged woman. She knew that killing Chestnut would hurt me. I entered the Carbonate Hotel intent on murder. Then I suddenly stopped. Vrable? Could he have done it? If he believed I still worked with McAllen, he might think killing my horse would keep me in town during the robbery. Damn. Now I wasn’t sure. It had to be one of the two, and they might be working together. I decided to talk to Sharp and cool off before I did something stupid. I sure didn’t want to spend my time out West locked up in prison.

  As soon as I stepped into the store, I waved Sharp over. He knew something was wrong from my face, so he hurried to meet me at the door.

  “Mrs. Baker,” I yelled. “You got the store. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Without another word, I turned and walked away.

  When Sharp caught up with me, he asked, “What happened?”

  “Somebody poisoned Chestnut. He’s dead.”

  “Damn … I’m sorry.”

  “I need you to help me figure out if it was Vrable or Bolton.”

  “What do ya know?”

  “The doctor confirmed it was snakeroot, and they convinced me that it wasn’t mixed in the feed. Somebody knew the liveryman’s routine and entered an unlocked side door after he left the barn late last night to play faro. That’s it. I looked around the barn and saw nothing out of the ordinary other than my dead horse.”

  “Snakeroot’s not hard to find.” He walked a ways before asking, “Do ya know if Mrs. Bolton is still in Leadville?”

  I pointed around the next street corner. “No. That’s a good place to start.”

  “They could be workin’ together. Vrable told ya she’d tried to hire him.”

  “I already thought of that.” I put a hand on Sharp’s forearm to stop his progress. “Jeff, I hope Vrable’s not involved. I want revenge, and McAllen will be furious if I take action against Vrable. I want it to be Mrs. Bolton.”