Deadly Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  “It is nice to meet you, Miss St. Cyr. Would you ladies like to join me for lunch?” he invited.

  “Oh, no, thank you, but we have already eaten,” Layne said.

  “Perhaps another time,” Matt suggested.

  “Another time, yes,” Layne said.

  “Layne, aren’t you going to invite the gentleman?” Millie asked.

  “Yes,” Layne said. “Mr. Jensen, there is to be a dance tomorrow, the Firemen’s Charity Ball, being held at the Court House Hall. It is a benefit for widows and orphans, and the fire company has asked that we invite as many as we can to attend. Do you think you might find the time to attend?”

  “Both Layne and I will be there,” Millie said. “And we promise to leave a spot open on our dance cards for you.”

  “Well, then, how can I refuse an invitation like that?” Matt asked. “Of course I will come.”

  “Oh, good,” Layne said. “Then, we shall look forward to seeing you there.”

  “Mr. Jensen,” Millie said with a slight curtsy.

  “Ladies,” Matt replied as the two young women turned and walked away.

  “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Millie asked.

  “No, it wasn’t hard at all,” Layne replied. “And, oh, Millie, I have had the grandest time out here. I’m so glad Uncle John invited me. Why, I would have never met a friend like you if I hadn’t come out here. And you must come back to Cairo to visit me sometime.”

  “I will,” Millie promised. “I will. I just wish you didn’t have to return.”

  “I do too. But I can’t stay with my uncle forever. He has his own family, and I need to get back to mine. Plus, I will need to make preparations for my teaching job this fall.”

  “When are you going back?”

  “Not until late summer. I have several weeks remaining.”

  “Good,” Millie said. “That will give us a lot more time together.”

  “Oh, and I’ve asked Uncle John,” Layne said. “You can sit at the table with me at the reception and ceremony honoring Mr. Jensen.”

  “That will be fun,” Millie said. “I wonder if Matt Jensen is married.”

  Layne gasped. “Oh, heavens, I don’t know,” she answered. “Surely he is not married, or he would have told us so when we invited him to the dance, don’t you think?”

  “Why? We didn’t ask him to escort either one of us; we just invited him to a charitable event,” Millie said.

  “One in which you volunteered that we would save a place on our dance cards for him,” Layne replied, laughing. “You said that as if our dance cards were nearly filled.”

  “As far as Mr. Jensen is concerned, our dance cards are nearly filled,” Millie said. “It will increase his interest if he believes we are so popular that we can barely find time for him.”

  Layne laughed. “If you say so,” she said.

  “So, are we going to go shopping, or are we just going to stand here and prattle on all morning?” Millie asked.

  Layne laughed. “We’re going shopping,” she said.

  When they stepped out of the hotel they saw some men, standing on ladders on opposite sides of the street, erecting a sign. The sign, a huge banner that stretched all the way across the street was attached on the north side of the street, to the front of the hotel, and on the south side of the street to Drew’s Hardware Store.

  COLORADO HONORS MATT JENSEN

  “Oh, my, look at that,” Layne said, pointing to the sign. “They have Mr. Jensen’s name spread all the way across the street.”

  “I bet he will be very proud to see that,” Millie suggested.

  Layne shook her head. “I’m not so sure,” she said.

  “What do you mean, you aren’t sure? Who wouldn’t appreciate such an honor?”

  “Just from what I have observed by being around him, I get the feeling that Mr. Jensen is a very reserved man, not given to self-aggrandizement. I think, all things considered, he would rather not have the sign so prominently displayed.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” Millie said. “You may be right.”

  “Come, let’s go shopping,” Layne said. “I would not want him to come out of the restaurant now and see us standing here, looking up at the sign.”

  “All right. There are some new hats at Graber’s Emporium,” Millie said. “Let’s go see them before they are all sold.”

  Later that afternoon, Layne stepped off the omnibus when it stopped in front of the Governor’s Mansion and, gathering her two purchases, one a straw hat, the other some ribbon, started up the walk to the house.

  “Good afternoon, Miss McKenzie,” Highgate said as he let her into the house. “I trust you had a pleasant day.”

  “Oh yes, very pleasant,” Layne replied. “Is my uncle home?”

  “Yes, miss, you will find him sitting out on the back porch.”

  Layne put her packages on a table, then walked through the house and stopped out onto the back porch. The governor was reading a newspaper.

  “Hello, Uncle.”

  Governor Routt looked up and smiled at his beautiful young niece.

  “Ah, Layne, my dear. How nice to see you.”

  “Are you reading about Matt Jensen?” he asked, pointing to the paper.

  “Yes, it is quite a story,” the governor replied. The smile left his face. “It makes me realize all the more the danger you were in. Had anything happened to you, my dear, I would never be able to face my sister again.”

  “Of course you would, Uncle,” Layne replied. “You had nothing to do with putting me in danger. I am the one who wanted to come.”

  “I hope that ordeal hasn’t soured you on Colorado,” the governor said.

  “On the contrary,” Layne said, smiling brightly. “I have found the entire adventure to be quite exciting. To say nothing of having met Matt Jensen again. Millie and I invited him to the Firemen’s Charity Ball tomorrow. I hope that wasn’t too forward of us.”

  “Too forward? Of course not,” the governor replied. “Well, I’m sure you will have a fine time at the dance tomorrow night. And I must confess, I am looking forward to presenting him with a proclamation at the reception.”

  “Yes, I am looking forward to being there as well,” Layne said.

  The governor chuckled. “I’m glad that you will be there. I’m sure your presence will brighten the occasion for everyone.”

  Highgate appeared on the porch and discreetly cleared his throat.

  “Yes, George, what is it?”

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and join us.”

  Highgate looked pointedly at Layne, but he said nothing. However, Layne took the hint and standing quickly, she excused herself.

  “Uncle, if you will excuse me, I’m going to my room to look at some of the purchases I made today.”

  “Of course I’ll excuse you,” Governor Routt said. “I’m glad you had a good day,” he added with a broad smile.

  After Layne was gone, the governor looked up at Highgate.

  “Yes, George, what is it?”

  Highgate took off his pince-nez glasses and began polishing them, paying particular attention to them so he wouldn’t have to look the governor in the eyes. “I—uh—was wondering, sir, if I might not have an advance on my salary,” Highgate said.

  The governor sighed. “How much is it this time?”

  “A hundred and fifty dollars,” Highgate said.

  “One hundred and fifty dollars?” the governor gasped. “George, that’s three months!”

  “I know, I know,” Highgate said contritely. He placed the glasses carefully upon his nose. “I apologize, Governor, I do. But it’s for my sister. I got a letter from her today saying that she and her husband may lose their farm if they can’t pay off the mortgage.”

  Governor Routt stroked his mustache for a moment before he answered.

  “All right, I tell you what. I don’t
know that I can authorize an advance in your salary without going through a lot of explanation. After all, the state pays you, not I. But I will personally lend you the money and you can pay me back whenever you can.”

  “Thank you, Governor,” Highgate said. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

  “That’s all right,” the governor said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Things like this can happen to anyone. I’m just glad that I can help.”

  “I will write my sister today and tell her not to worry,” Highgate said.

  Although drinks were served in the establishment, there was no bar. And although pretty women wandered around the floor between the tables, they were not soiled doves, nor were they bar girls. The name of the establishment was Pair-O-Dice, and it existed for the sole purpose of gambling.

  There were many games of chance taking place in Pair-O-Dice, from the roulette wheel to craps to various card games. Highgate’s particular passion was for “bucking the tiger,” or faro, and when he stepped up to the window to buy some chips, he was met by the manager.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Highgate,” he said. “But I have given my tellers instructions, no further credit. From now on you must play on a cash-only basis.”

  “I have the money to pay what I owe,” Highgate said. “And enough money to buy more chips for tonight.”

  The manager smiled and nodded. “Then in that case, Mr. Highgate, you are welcome. You are welcome indeed. Callie,” he called out to one of the young women who happened to be passing by.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Toomey?”

  “Get the governor’s secretary a drink. On the house.”

  Sue smiled prettily at Highgate. “I’ll bring it to your table,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Highgate replied as he started toward an empty seat at one of the faro tables.

  As Highgate played at the table, his fortunes seemed to turn for the better early in the game. He started winning, and the pile of chips grew higher in front of him. He was an animated player, exclaiming with joy each time he won, and expressing his frustration each time he lost. Then, even as his losses began to exceed his winnings, he continued to play. He played until every last chip was gone.

  Highgate hurried to the cashier’s window for a new supply.

  “I need more chips,” he said.

  “Certainly. How many do you want?”

  “One hundred dollars worth,” Highgate said. “Put it on my account.”

  The cashier, who had been counting the chips, stopped and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders. We can’t extend you any more credit.”

  “But I paid my debt. You were here when I came in and paid it.”

  “Yes, sir, and we are grateful for that. But no more chips unless you have cash to pay for them.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Highgate asked.

  “Yes, sir. You are the governor’s private secretary.”

  “I could have the governor close this place down,” Highgate said.

  “No, Mr. Highgate, I don’t think you can,” another voice said.

  Turning, Highgate saw Toomey, the manager.

  “You don’t think so?” Highgate asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Toomey said. “And I don’t think you would close us if you could. You have the disease, Mr. Highgate. You can’t stop gambling. If we were closed, where would you go?”

  Angry and frustrated, Highgate formed his hands into fists and left the establishment. He knew that Toomey was right. He was addicted to gambling. But with this last loan, he had exhausted every avenue he had of getting more money.

  What would he do now?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Although the Firemen’s Charity Ball wasn’t due to start until seven o’clock of the evening, the Court House Hall was busy for most of the afternoon. Millie belonged to a young woman’s group called Denver Maidens of Mercy, an organization dedicating to helping others.

  The Maidens of Mercy were in the Court House Hall helping with the decorations, and helping to get set up for the evening’s entertainment.

  At the rear of the hall, a hydrant was placed upon a pedestal. Attached to the hydrant and running down each wall were fire hoses. At the moment, Millie was standing on a ladder, weaving a long strand of greenery and garland around one of the hoses. Others from the club were polishing the brass nozzles so that they flashed and glistened in the light.

  “All right, I’m ready for another strand,” Millie said.

  “Coming right up,” Layne offered. She turned toward the table where the strands had been laid out and Norma Jean Proud, a short, dark-haired girl and friend of Millies, handed it to her.

  “What is he like?” Norma Jean asked.

  “What is who like?”

  “You know. Matt Jensen,” Norma Jean said. “Is he handsome?”

  “I suppose you could . . .” Layne started to reply, but Millie’s laughter interrupted her.

  “Yes, he is very handsome,” Millie said. “Don’t listen to Layne. She’s just trying to keep him for herself.”

  “I am not!” Layne said, blushing at the remark.

  “Pay no attention to Millie,” Anne Jones said. Like Layne, Millie, and Norma Jean, Anne was helping to decorate for the dance. And like Millie and Norma Jean, Annie was a member of the Maidens of Mercy. “Millie is just trying to embarrass you so she can have him all to herself.”

  “This is all so funny,” Layne said. “Don’t you think Mr. Jensen ought to have some say-so in all this?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” Millie said. “Men just think they have a say so. Everyone knows they do only what their women allow them to do.”

  The girls laughed at Millie’s observation, but the laugh was interrupted with the arrival of the band.

  “Oh, look!” Norma Jean said excitedly. “The band is here!”

  For the next hour, as the girls and the firemen continued to prepare the Court House Hall, the band practiced, the high skirling sound of the fiddles, interspersed with the ringing of the banjos and the strum of the guitar.

  “Oh, my, look at the time!” Millie said. “We barely have time to go home and get ready for the dance.”

  In a nearby saloon, a man sat alone in a table at the back of the room. From time to time, one of the bar girls would drop by his table and with a practiced grin would inquire as to his needs.

  “The only thing I need is for you to leave me the hell alone,” he said gruffly and, as the girls shared his reaction to them with the others, they stopped trying to be nice to him.

  The man was drinking whiskey and reading the paper. He had already read the article about Matt Jensen being feted by the governor of Colorado. That was what brought him to Denver. Now, he was reading an article about the Firemen’s Charity Ball and noticed that Matt Jensen would be in attendance.

  It was the last line that caught his attention:

  As the purpose of the Firemen’s Charity Ball is to raise funds to be dispersed to widows and orphans of the city, anyone who is disposed toward financial participation in the eleemosynary endeavor is welcome to attend.

  When Matt Jensen arrived at the Court House Hall, there was a table set up just inside the door. The table was manned by firemen in uniform. There was a big bowl on the table and a hand-lettered sign in front of the bowl.

  Friend, our plea is not for much,

  Give only what you are able.

  Your donation will help widows and orphans and such

  Put food upon their table.

  Matt dropped five dollars into the bowl, then he stepped out onto the floor. The hall was very crowded as the men in clean jeans and pressed shirts intermingled with the women in their butterfly-bright gingham dresses.

  “Ah, Mr. Jensen, there you are!” Layne said, coming toward him with a big smile. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  “Well, I thank you for inviting me,” Matt replied.

  “Gents, choose your ladies and form up your squares!�
� someone shouted loudly, and looking toward the sound of the voice, Matt saw the caller standing in front of the band, holding a megaphone to his mouth.

  “I hope your dance card isn’t taken for this dance,” Matt said.

  “I’ve left this one open,” Layne replied, giving Matt her arm.

  Several couples, including Matt and Layne, hurried to their positions within one of the squares.

  The music started then, with the fiddles loud and clear, the guitars carrying the rhythm, the banjos providing the counterpoint, and the dobro singing over everything. The caller began to shout, and he clapped his hands and stomped his feet and danced around on the platform in compliance with his own calls, bowing and whirling as if he had a girl and was in one of the squares himself. The dancers moved and swirled to the caller’s commands.

  Swing your partner round and round,

  Turn your corner upside down.

  Hang on tight like swingin’ on a gate,

  Meet your partner for a grand chain eight.

  Chew some ’backy and dip some snuff,

  Grab your honey and strut your stuff.

  “Friend, aren’t you going to make a donation?” one of the fireman called to a short, swarthy, dark-haired man who had just walked past the table without stopping.

  “What?” the man replied, turning toward the table.

  “A donation,” the fireman repeated. “It doesn’t matter how much you donate—just give what you can. But the purpose of this dance is to raise money for charity.”

  “Oh,” the man said. Reaching his hand into his pocket, he pulled out ten cents, then dropped it into the bowl.

  The fireman looked pointedly at the donation.

  “You said it don’t matter how much,” the man said.

  “Yes, I did,” the fireman replied. “Thank you, sir.”

  The man nodded, then moved out onto the dance floor. Wandering over to the punch bowl, he accepted a cup from a smiling young woman, then moved up to stand with his back against the wall and look out onto the floor at the swirling dancers.