Leadville

by James D. Best

  “Purpose,” Sharp answered.

  “Purpose?”

  “She ain’t had a rudder since her husband died. Now she has a purpose in life. We were gone so much, she ran this store. Women need a family or somethin’ else to keep their minds in joyful spirits.”

  ”You got women figured out?” I asked.

  “A damn sight better than ya’ll ever understand ’em. That woman’s ripe for a man. I just might see if I fit the bill.”

  “Jeff, she’s too young for you.”

  “I may be too old for her, but she’s not too young for me. ’Sides, ya got Jenny.”

  “Doubtful. She didn’t return my letters.” I got up and poured us coffees. I handed a mug to Sharp before I retook my seat. “I say we keep the store and let Mrs. Baker run it.”

  “Hell, yes,” Sharp said. “If she can do a thousand dollars in a few days at this time of year, she’ll fill this store with customers come spring.”

  “How big of a raise?”

  “Ten dollars a month, plus ten percent of the profits.”

  “She already owns ten percent.”

  “Then give her an extra five percent. What the hell.”

  “Agreed.” I could feel myself smiling. “I suppose you want to tell her.”

  Sharp glanced toward the front of the store. “Yep. Sure ya want to leave tomorrow? Mrs. Bolton ain’t gonna rot in this cold.”

  “Jeff, you know winter’s on the way. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Damn.” He glanced at Mrs. Baker again. “I sure hope her bed’s empty when I get back in the spring.”

  Chapter 54

  My butt hurt. Even using a pillow, a buckboard seat was less comfortable than a saddle. I had rented the wagon in Carson City to haul the pine box to the Bolton ranch in Mason Valley. I had been bouncing down the Carson Trail for nearly six hours, and no matter which way I shifted my weight, every bump punished my tender rear end.

  Mr. Tabor had offered to load the coffin on top of one of his ore wagons heading down the mountain. I hadn’t realized how fortuitous that was until I had ridden for nearly a full day on the hard plank that someone at the stable had generously called a seat.

  We had gone through Denver to catch trains over to Carson City, but I took advantage of the city to sell the overexcited horse I had never bothered to really name. If I got nothing else at Jenny’s ranch, I hoped to buy a horse. I’d already decided to pay someone else to return the buckboard to Carson City.

  Sharp had been a great companion, reveling me with stories of the West for my journal. I had enough material for my book, but I felt no need to rush back to New York City. Besides, I could massage my notes into a book out here as easily as in the East. Maybe better.

  As I approached Jenny’s ranch, I grew increasingly nervous. The last time I had been here was only three months before, and I had asked if I could court her. Jenny had declined and sent me on my way. Since then I had written her two letters and received none in return. At least I could let her know in person that her mother-in-law wouldn’t bother her anymore.

  The ranch looked the same as the first time that I had seen it, except then it had been summer, and this was late autumn. The colors had transitioned from greens to brownish hues, but the ranch itself looked tidy, and all the structures seemed in good repair. The first place I visually checked was the porch. On my first visit, Mrs. Bolton had stood on that porch looking like a massive ogre, daring the world to displease her. This day, the porch was empty.

  I saw one cowboy working a horse in the breaking pen, but no one else. I began to worry. In Carson City, I hadn’t checked to see if Jenny was in town. What if she wasn’t at the ranch? I knew nothing about ranching, but I assumed that, unlike farming, it was a year-round enterprise. Suddenly, Jenny’s foreman came out of the barn pretending to wipe his hands in a towel, but I could see that the towel hid a pistol.

  “Expecting trouble, Joe?” I yelled.

  Joe smiled and shoved the pistol in his waistband as he threw the towel over his shoulder. He signaled that everything was all right to someone in the barn and walked over to meet my lumbering wagon.

  “Steve, good to see ya.” Then he looked concerned. “What’s in the wagon?”

  I pointed at the gun in his waistband. “Is that the way you greet all your visitors?”

  “All the unexpected ones. Ya never know. Once a gunman came traipsin’ in here with a gang of Pinkertons, snarlin’ demands at the owner.” We both laughed, because, of course, that had been me. When we both regained control, Joe again asked, “Steve, what’s in the wagon.”

  “You mean, who’s in the pine box.” I took a breath. “Joe, it’s your old boss.”

  “Mrs. Bolton? John’s mother?”

  “Yes. I brought her back to be buried here.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “What makes you think she was killed?”

  “Who killed her?”

  “The Pinkerton that was here with me a couple of times.”

  “We owe him, then.” He gazed at the coffin like it was a gift. “That hag sent Cliff and Pete back here to cause trouble, but we ran them off. She also filed lawsuits in California that required Jenny to go there to defend herself.” Joe looked away from the coffin and back at me. “It’s not been peaceful since ya left.”

  Something he said worried me. “Jenny in California?”

  “No, she’s at a neighborin’ ranch buyin’ pigs to feed the men. Lost ours to a damn wolf, and the men are tired of beef.” He smiled. “She’ll be back soon.”

  I stood up and stretched before climbing down from the wagon. “Got a drink?”

  “Yep. It’s a bit early, but this looks to be a time to celebrate.” Joe waved over a boy who looked about fifteen. “Chris, take this wagon and pull it into the barn. Leave the horse hitched. We’ll probably bury this shortly.” Then he turned to me before the boy could ask any questions. “Come on. I got a bottle in the bunkhouse.”

  When we got to the bunkhouse, Joe grabbed his bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He wiped the glasses with the towel that still hung over his shoulder. “Let’s sit outside. Gotta take advantage of this weather while it lasts.”

  We sat on a long bench that was placed near the wall so we could rest our backs against the bunkhouse. The late afternoon air was brisk, not bone-shattering cold like Leadville. I took a tentative sip and was surprised to discover an adequate whiskey. I took another sip before saying, without preamble, “Cliff and Pete are dead.”

  Joe raised an eyebrow at me.

  “I killed them in Durango. She sent them to kill me, and I got lucky.”

  Joe nodded and then said, “Ya get lucky a lot. Maybe ya can spare some for a poor cowhand with only three dollars to his name.”

  “Jenny gave you a raise.”

  He chuckled. “That she did, but I go down to Fort Churchill for poker. Love to play, just no good at it.”

  “Jenny lets you go?”

  “We have an agreement. I never play with the boys in the bunkhouse, and she lets me go to Fort Churchill every Saturday night.” He took a healthy swallow of his drink. “She’s a smart boss.”

  I reached into my pocket and held up a coin for Joe to see. “Five bucks to return that wagon to Carson City on your next visit to Fort Churchill.”

  Joe looked puzzled as he started to pour us a second drink. “How do ya expect to get back?”

  I put my hand over the glass. “Do you have a good horse I could buy?”

  “Several.” He thought a minute. “What happened to yours?”

  “Mrs. Bolton poisoned Chestnut, and I’m not riding that buckboard back to Carson City.”

  Joe nodded his head. “That explains the saddle in the back of yer wagon. Freedom out here means owning a horse.” Joe threw himself off the bench. “I think I got one to fit ya.”

  That was encouraging, because Joe was a phenomenon with horses. I followed him to a corral that quartered three horses. I immediately liked a light brown
one. It was leaner than Chestnut but had similar coloring. I especially liked the way he watched us approach, in curiosity, not in fear.

  “What about that one?”

  “It’s the one I had in mind.”

  Joe lassoed him while I hauled my saddle and harness from the barn, and I was riding around the corral in short order. After I felt comfortable, I nodded at Joe, and he lifted the gate so I could ride out into the fields. In ten minutes, I knew I would buy this horse. This was not Chestnut. He was faster, but he had none of the twitchiness of that horse I had ridden in Leadville. It’s hard to explain after a short ride, but the horse felt sure-footed and confident. As Joe had said, we fit.

  Over another drink, we negotiated a price, and I paid with paper money. After we completed the deal, I decided to take the horse out for another ride. No telling how long Jenny would be, and I needed to get to know the horse so I could pick an appropriate name.

  I had just remounted when I heard shrill squealing. I looked over to see a two-wheel wagon full of pigs, being pulled by a mule. Jenny sat on the teetering seat, snapping the reins against the mule’s back.

  I sat nailed to my saddle until Joe reached up, took the reins out of my hands, and threw them around the corral rail. “Might as well say hello.”

  I dismounted and walked into the yard as Jenny pulled up on the reins. We both just stared at each other. She wore a blank expression and a dowdy housedress, but she still looked prettier than any woman I had seen since I had left this ranch. Then she smiled. I fell in love again instantly. Damn, I should never have come here.

  “Steve, I can’t believe it’s you.” She leaped off the wagon and threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. “Why’d you come back? No … I didn’t mean it like that.” She squeezed but did not kiss. “I’m glad you’re here, whatever the reason.”

  I pushed her out to arm’s length. “I came with what many would assume were sad tidings … but in your case, I think you’ll be happy.”

  “My mother-in-law is dead.”

  I was confused. “How did you know?”

  “Her death made the local newspaper.”

  “She’s in the barn,” Joe said from behind me.

  Her smile disappeared. “You brought her here? Why?”

  “To bury her in the dirt of this ranch … with her son. Those were the only two things she cared about. She wanted this ranch so bad she died for it, so I figured she ought to get a piece of it for a grave.”

  “Very poetic but stupid. Steve, take her away from—” She stopped, and I could see her think. Finally, “You’re right. I need to bury her.” She took a deep breath. “Now.”

  I understood but said nothing.

  “Joe, get two shovels.” Then she screamed, “Chris!” and he came running. “Put these pigs in the pen and give them some slop to shut them up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He leaped onto the wagon and snapped the reins.

  Joe came out of the barn with two shovels. “Cliff and Pete are dead too.”

  She turned and met my eyes. “You?”

  I nodded.

  “So much good news in a single day. I hope they died painfully.” Her voice sounded bitter and she threw me an angry look before she marched off into the barn. Soon she was driving the wagon into the field that included the Bolton family graveyard.

  I didn’t go with her and Joe. Bringing Mrs. Bolton back here had been a mistake. Jenny was right. It was stupid. I didn’t like her reaction, and I certainly didn’t like her bloodlust. Had I fallen out of love ten minutes after I had decided I was in love? Jenny always seemed like at least two different people. She confused me. The travesties she had endured were unspeakable, and they would damage anyone, but most of the time she seemed untouched, or pretended to be untouched. And then anger and hatred would flash white hot. This was not the appealing Jenny.

  I loved the joyous Jenny, the one full of life, the one with enough energy to make a room full of people happy to be alive. This Jenny’s smile radiated good will and innocence. My Jenny’s laugh made you believe you were the only one that could delight her.

  The other Jenny hated. She could kill—she had killed. She was unbelievably stubborn—headstrong to a fault. She snarled and snapped out words like a bullwhip. And she was cold—colder than a corpse covered in ice.

  These were the two Jennys I knew. I even think I understood them both. I always believed that my Jenny would one day emerge as the winner. But even my Jenny acted out roles she scripted as if for the stage. I was never sure if I was seeing one of the two Jennys I knew, or another disguised with good acting.

  However many Jennys there were, they were all breathtakingly pretty and smart as hell. Too smart. She was calculating. At seventeen, she had already been manipulating men for years. Me? Yes, of course she had manipulated me. I took care of everything for her, and the only thing I received in return was the ire of her mother-in-law.

  Damn it all.

  I walked around the edge of the barn and saw Jenny and Joe throwing dirt into a grave about fifty yards away. She threw the dirt with relish.

  I watched her lithe form as she wielded the shovel with the sure-handedness of someone accustomed to laboring in a field. The sun had baked her complexion a walnut brown that made her smile appear brighter than untouched snow. As she flung dirt and bile into the grave, her hair flew free and her breasts lifted and fell with a regular rhythm. Like the grand nature of the West, she was pretty, rugged, and dangerous.

  With a new clarity I saw that she was the exact opposite of the women I had known in the East, and different was no longer enough. My Jenny might not win. At an impressionable age, she had been tutored and taunted by Mrs. Bolton. The things she had suffered had seared anger deep in her soul and I would be a fool to think I could now come along and coax her to a brighter outlook.

  I went over to the corral and mounted my new horse. I was leaving. The last time, she had rejected me. I had ridden away with the sun against my back, feeling devastated. This time I was the one that chose to leave, and I would ride west, into the light of a setting sun. I guess I had to come back to take another look at her—with the distance of time to add perspective.

  Now I could leave her and this ranch for good and not feel like I had left something undone.

  Suddenly, I knew the name of my new horse: Liberty. I was finally free, and Liberty would carry me back to Carson City to rejoin Jeff Sharp.

  I was only a quarter mile away when I heard a woman yelling after me. Jenny’s screaming was unclear, but I believe I heard her yell my name. When I looked over my shoulder, she was standing alone outside the barn, hands cupped around her mouth. Then she dropped her hands and struck a defiant pose with feet spread and both hands on her hips.

  I tapped my spurs into the side of Liberty and never looked back again.

  More Steve Dancy

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  Murder at Thumb Butte by James D. Best

  Chapter 1

  “Four.”

  “I’m impressed,” Sharp said.

  “Four thousand isn’t that much,” I said. “Mrs. Baker has done better with our store in Leadville.”

  “Yep, but she ain’t gonna be a literary giant like you.”

  Jeff Sharp and I lounged on the porch of the St. Charles Hotel in Carson City, Nevada. I had spent the winter writing a novel about my adventures in the West, while Sharp took care of his mining operations in Belleville. He had drove a buggy into town the previous evening, just in time to enjoy the first decent spring morning. It may have been the warmest day of 1880, but it remained chilly enough for us to wear heavy coats as we sipped morning coffee.

  I was pleased to see Sharp again, but not because we jointly owned a general store in Leadville, Colorado. The store was a minor investment, and Mrs. Baker ran it with very little direction from us. I was happy because Sharp’s timing had been perfect. I had mailed my manuscript two days earlier, and after spending the winter indo
ors with fictional characters, I was eager to talk to breathing human beings again.

  Sharp shook his head. “I can’t believe they gave you four grand, sight unseen.”

  “They saw six chapters before settling on the amount. Besides, they won’t deposit the final part of the advance until they approve the complete manuscript.”

  Sharp grinned. “Am I in it?”

  “Jeff, I didn’t use real names … but you might recognize a gent named Jeffery Harper.”

  “Damn it, Steve, ya know I hate Jeffery.”

  Now I grinned. “I know.”

  “Ya use Steve Dancy?”

  “No, I’m the author. Besides, I thought Dancy sounded citified.”

  “What’d ya call yerself?”

  “It’s fictional.”

  “Okay, what’d ya call the hero?”

  “Jeffery Harper.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I smiled. “Joseph Steele.”

  Sharp laughed. “I s’pose Mr. Steele rid the West of outlaws without any help from Mr. Harper.”

  I smiled. “It’ll cost you two-bits to find out.”

  “Whoa, ya gonna make me buy a copy?”

  “No … I owe you more than a book, but I won’t tell you about it.” I threw Sharp a glance. “You’ll have to read it.”

  “Fair ‘nough.” Sharp sipped his coffee and surveyed the street. After a long silence, he asked, “Ever think ‘bout Sam?”

  “Every day. Probably should have changed hotels, but it seemed disrespectful to run from memories.”

  Last summer, two hired killers had tried to ambush me in front of this very hotel. My quick-witted Pinkerton guards threw me to the boardwalk and a gun battle raged for several minutes. Sam—a friend and a Pinkerton—had died from a shot to the gut. I had been the only one at his side in his last hours.

  “Damn shame.”

  “Damn shame,” I repeated.

  “Too early for flowers. Like to stop by his grave, just the same.”

  “On occasion I go up there and share a whiskey with him.”

  “Let’s take a bottle out there this evening.”