by Jo Goodman
"Three now."
Ethan hoped he wouldn't need even one of them. They worked quickly, carrying back the supplies. Ethan set new charges, peeling back the paraffin wrapping on the dynamite and molding the malleable sticks into shapes he needed. Carving out new crevices with the crowbar and hammer, Ethan tamped the explosives into place. He set more charges, knowing it might be his last chance to work with light.
They protected themselves as before. This time when the dust cloud rolled through the tunnel their torch was extinguished.
Coughing, her eyes watering, Michael searched the trunk for another garment. She found her shirt-waist blouse and tore it as she had the petticoat. Wrapping it around the burned out torch, Michael rolled it in what was left of the oil and gave it back to Ethan with a match to light.
They were halfway to the site of the explosion when the torch failed them again. Ethan found Michael's hand. "It will be all right," he said.
"It will," she said softly.
He squeezed her hand. "I meant to reassure you, but thank you." He led her slowly and carefully deeper into the tunnel, using the wall as a guide.
"I could light a match," she said.
"No. It would be a waste. I might need it to set off another charge. We could still need both of them."
They groped their way over the debris, stumbling a little, and knew they had reached the end of the tunnel. Ethan let go of Michael's hand and began to examine the rock face with his palms, searching for structural damage that could lead them to the outside.
Michael stood very still, peering hard in Ethan's direction, trying to imagine what he was doing. His hands slid over the rock; his finger dug into new crevices. He pulled away loose stone, flinging it behind him so carelessly once that Michael had to dodge the rock.
It took her several seconds to realize what she had done and what it meant. "Ethan!"
He paused in his task. "Did I hurt you?"
"No! I jumped out of the way, Ethan. I saw the stone!"
Ethan spun around. He stared at her, stared at her hard, and slowly the shadow of her form began to take shape.
It was not light, not in the sense that it was bright and white or concentrated in a beam. It was light only in the sense it was less dark. "Where's the light coming from?"
Michael raised her head and looked around, searching out the source. Suddenly her eyes caught a vein of dark blue, just a sliver of something that was different than what surrounded it. She squinted, trying to make it out, and swayed slightly on her feet. That's when she saw the pinprick of light, the beacon that was beyond her reach.
"It's a star," she said softly, awed by her discovery. Tears blurred her vision. "Ethan. I can see a star."
He came to stand directly behind her. Mimicking the angle of her head, Ethan raised his eyes. Never again would he think of the night sky as black, he thought. It was filled with light, beautiful blue-white light, glistening, pulsing, points of light. "That's our way out," he said quietly, solemnly. There were tears in his eyes as well.
He set her away and reached in his pockets for the sticks of dynamite he brought with him. He let Michael peel back the waterproof wrapping while he cut off the proper lengths of fuse with his teeth. He plugged the vein of light with dynamite, plunging them into darkness again. Working by touch alone, Ethan inserted the blasting caps and set the fuses. The cords were longer this time to give Ethan and Michael ample chance to get far away from the center of the explosion.
Ethan made Michael start down the tunnel before he lighted the fuses. He caught up to her and half-carried, half-dragged her toward the adit. They tripped over the trunk in their rush for safety. That and the explosion sent them both sprawling.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Winded." She sat up, wrestling impatiently with her gown as it tangled beneath her. "You?"
"I'm fine." He stood. "Michael? Where are you? Let's see if we've done enough damage this time."
Michael was kneeling over the trunk, rummaging through it. She found her journal and her brooch. "I'm ready."
Ethan had been listening to her movements. "You're not getting a cigarette, are you?"
She laughed. "No. A promise is a promise."
At the end of the tunnel the blue velvet night sky opened to them. Giddy with the enormity of what they had accomplished, they hastily constructed a small mountain of stones out of the muck to raise them nearer the opening. Ethan lifted Michael and pushed her through. He followed a moment later.
They didn't do anything but breathe the fresh, cold night air and stare at the heavens.
"You're shivering," he said.
"I don't care." She hugged the notepad to her breast. Her teeth chattered. "I d-don't care," she said happily.
Ethan stripped off his coat and gave it to her. He held her close, pressing a smile against her hair. "We can't stay here. I can't imagine we have more than two hours left before dawn. The miners next shift will be starting soon."
She nodded. "Where are we going? The livery?"
"No, not to town. We'll go to Emily's. She'll give us horses and supplies. We need to get to Stillwater, Michael. You understand that, don't you? There's really no help for us here in Madison. Houston's well liked. I'd be dead before I could prove the case against him and the others."
"I understand." She put her hand in his and let him lead the way.
* * *
Stillwater was a mining town, bigger and rougher than Madison, with twice the population and less than half the laws. Even so, an hour and a half since dawn's first light, when Ethan and Michael rode down the frozen mud track that was the main thoroughfare, the town was relatively quiet, the street almost deserted of traffic.
Ethan secured both horses to the rail in front of Walter's Boarding House. He helped Michael dismount and escorted her inside. Mrs. Walter, going through the motions of registering them like a sleepwalker, set out their keys and waved them on up to the separate rooms Ethan had requested. They were only marginally more clean than they had been since leaving the mine, thanks to Emily John's hospitality, but Mrs. Walker asked no questions about their sorry appearance. Her lack of concern made Michael wonder about the condition of the rooms.
Ethan carried the satchel of fresh clothing that Emily had given them and mounted the stairs behind Michael. Outside the door to her room he passed it to her. "You take this," he said. "I have to find the sheriff and the telegrapher."
"Ethan. You should get some rest."
He shook his head. "You'll have to sleep enough for both of us." He kissed her forehead.
Michael wouldn't let him go so easily. She raised herself up and kissed him full on the mouth. "Separate rooms?" she asked.
Ethan straightened. His blue-gray eyes searched her face, saw the uncertainty she tried to mask in the lightly asked question. "We're not in Madison any longer," he told her gently. "This isn't Kelly's Saloon and you aren't really my wife."
She was unaware that she was looking at him hopefully, she only felt it in her heart. He would say it now, she thought, he would make his proposal. But he said nothing and the moment passed. Her eyes dropped away and the chill that clutched her heart took possession of her entire body. She fumbled with the key to her room, her hand shaking as she applied it to the lock. Ethan's hand closed around hers and guided it. The door opened.
"Thank you," she said, not looking at him. Her voice was small, only seconds away from breaking.
Ethan stepped back as the door closed behind her. He stared at it, wondering if he should go to her. He had seen the look in her beautiful green eyes, known what she was thinking as if she had said it aloud. Ethan turned, jamming his hands in his pockets, and started down the stairs. There wasn't time and it wasn't the time.
Ethan found the sheriff sleeping off a two day drunk in one of his own cells. It took a pot of hot coffee and bucket of ice water to bring the man around. Sheriff Rivers offered no apology for his condition but was philosophically good-humored about the cure.
Ethan introduced himself but once Rivers was sober the man required proof. They went to the telegrapher's office and kept the clerk busy for more than an hour with a steady stream of dots and dashes between Stillwater and Denver and eventually New York and Washington. Satisfied eventually that Ethan Stone was precisely who he said he was, and very much in authority as a federal marshal, Sheriff Rivers was moved to offer his reluctant cooperation and participation in gathering the posse.
Ethan doubted he could have counted on Rivers's help if the crime against Houston hadn't been theft of the payrolls and bullion from mining camps. Rivers, an ex-miner himself, still had respect for the old laws of the mining camps that meted out justice quickly and firmly, although not always so wisely. Most offenses wouldn't have bothered him overmuch. The theft of the miner's payroll and bullion, some of it from Stillwater itself, was a heinous crime to his way of thinking. The attempted murder of Ethan and Michael, the murders of the Chronicle staffers, didn't bother him quite as much. He hadn't known any of them. He understood gold and silver and the sanctity of a man's livelihood if not his life.
The posse Ethan commanded counted forty men in its ranks. They were all formally deputized and cautioned to bring in Houston and the others alive. Ethan wanted his case against Cooper, the man who made the raids so easy for Houston, to be backed by Houston's own testimony.
The arrests were surprisingly easy, even a little anti-climatic to the men who rode with Ethan and expected a shoot out. Happy and Ben were caught cleaning fish in their cabin outside of Madison at dusk. Jake was alone in the sheriff's office. Detra was serving drinks behind the bar, answering the questions her customers put forth about Michael and Ethan's elopement with complete aplomb, each well-rehearsed lie coming smoothly to her lips. She didn't falter until she actually saw Ethan standing at the end of the mahogany bar with his gun drawn. She was caught between two deputies before she could manage to call a warning to Houston. He stepped into the saloon from the office when the place fell silent.
Ethan and a dozen deputies were waiting for him.
* * *
"I asked for his star, then his gun," Ethan told Michael.
"You never said it in quite those words before. Is that what you're going to tell the jury?" she asked. They were sitting in the dining room of Mason's Hotel in Denver, sharing dinner while Ethan reviewed some of the testimony he was likely to give in the morning.
Fourteen days had passed since Houston's arrest, eleven since the prisoners had been moved to Denver for trial. The men were housed in the local jail; Detra was quartered in Peak's Hotel with a guard at the door day and night. Ethan had insisted upon a change of venue. Lynching was almost a certainty if the prisoners remained in Stillwater and a fair trial in Madison was out of the question. There was also the matter of getting a circuit judge to hear the cases in a timely manner. A fair and swift trial could only take place in Denver and the city was happy to entertain the notorious.
The Rocky Mountain News ran daily stories about the gang, uncovering the past of all its members. The results were a mixed bag of accuracy, tall tales, and supposition. All of it read as fact.
There was little danger of Houston and the others becoming folk heros, not when they had stolen from the miners themselves. The paper made a point of reminding Denver citizens about the murder of the Chronicle reporters and called for hanging all gang members with the exception of Detra Kelly. In Dee's case they came across the rumor of Mr. Kelly's untimely death and demanded a full investigation.
Drew Beaumont had returned west to cover the story for the Chronicle. As a witness in the trial, Michael could not in good conscious put her name to a single story about the gang. Worse, in her estimation, was that she had become part of the story, a source of information rather than a reporter of it. She was heartily sick of the questioning, not only from reporters, but from the prosecuting attorneys as they challenged her testimony in preparation of their case.
Tonight, when Ethan had proposed they have dinner together in the hotel, Michael accepted because she wanted to pretend there was nothing momentous happening on the morrow. On the eve of the trial it was an impossible pretense to maintain.
"I asked for his star, then his gun?" Ethan repeated, questioning her this time. "Why should I say it that way?"
Michael cut a bit of her rainbow trout and lifted it to her mouth. "It emphasizes Houston's betrayal," she said. She tasted the trout. It was light and flaky, quite delicious. She only wished she could enjoy it more. "He violated a trust to the people of Madison. By asking for his star first you made him answer for his abuse of authority. I think that's how the jury will hear it. It's something they'll remember when they're deciding Houston's fate."
"I hope so." Ethan searched Michael's face. Her complexion was pale and there were faint shadows beneath her eyes. Her skin looked drawn and tight, her eyes were remarkable only for their lack of expression. He didn't know if she was sad or hurt or angry or anxious. She only seemed weary. "Have you heard from your family today?"
She shook her head. "There was a telegram from Mama and my sisters yesterday. They're anxious for me to come home. They've read everything Drew's written but it isn't enough for them. They need to see me to know that I'm really safe."
"In their place I'd want the same thing." Yesterday, he thought, his eyes clouding. Yesterday she had received a telegram and he hadn't known about it. They were only two weeks out of the mine, two weeks distant from a time they shared everything, and she was talking to him in the polite tones of a casual acquaintance. "And Jay Mac?" he asked. "What have you heard from him?"
"Another threatening telegram ordering me home." She smiled faintly. "Papa doesn't think I should have to testify. I can imagine he's furious that he can't influence the prosecutors to see things his way." Her smile faded. She pushed food around her plate for a moment, then set down her fork and gave up the pretense of eating. "You should have told me about your connection to my father," she said, raising her eyes to his. Her green eyes held no accusation, only a certain sadness. She fingered the brooch she had saved from the mine. "Why didn't you?"
"There never seemed a good time."
"When we were trapped in the mine you told me you were a marshal. Why not the rest?"
"It wasn't important."
But it was, Michael thought, and she had had to learn it from Ethan while he was explaining it to the state's attorneys. The nature of his business in Logan Marshall's office all those months ago had finally become clear. The only deal he had offered anyone that day was his promise to end the series of train robberies that were plaguing the Union Pacific in Colorado, Nebraska and Wyoming, and make it possible for investors to see profits in expanding the routes. "You were essentially working for my father," she said. "I'd say that was important."
"You're father didn't hire me, Michael. Neither did Logan Marshall. I'm employed by the federal government. The idea for becoming part of the gang was actually Joe Rivington's, the Secretary of the Interior's man. Marshall supplied the contacts we needed to create some stories about bank robberies in Missouri and Colorado, all of which described a clever safe blaster. Houston found me as a result of those stories. Carl Franklin, representing your father and Northeast Rail Lines, offered contacts with all the lines as the search continued to identify and locate the man who was supplying information to the robbers. Long before we knew the identities of anyone involved in the robberies, we understood their approach to the crimes. When I failed early on to learn about Cooper I had to become more a part of Houston's gang than I, or anyone else, had ever intended.
"Cooper eluded us because we were looking for a small cog in the machinery. No one expected him to be a respected vice-president and major stockholder with the Union Pacific. It was your father who recognized the description I telegraphed to his office. Those pale eyes were as unforgettable as I thought they might be."
Michael nodded. "Peter Monroe and my father attended Harvard together. I imagine they've h
ad a number of business dealings over the years. I understand why Mr. Monroe wouldn't have used his own name with Houston, but why Cooper?"
"Apparently Monroe's grandfather repaired barrels and casks for a living. Monroe thought he was being common and coy by using the name."
"And his motive for engineering the robberies?"
"The simplest one: greed. He had ideas of expanding into his own rail line."
"He's been arrested?"
"Four days ago in the San Francisco offices."
Michael picked up her tea cup. It was cool to the touch but she sipped it anyway. "I wish you had told me," she said after a moment.
"About Monroe's arrest?"
She shook her head. "About Jay Mac. About his involvement in your scheme."
"It wasn't a scheme. It was a plan. And I told you, I didn't really work for Jay Mac Worth."
"Of course you did. You risked your life to make my father richer. He'll put his money down in Colorado rails and reap the profits now that you've helped clear another obstacle."
"A lot of people will benefit."
She snorted delicately and her tones were icy when she spoke. "Now you sound like my sister Rennie. She knows all about profits and losses and how many people will benefit. Jay Mac will be at the top of the heap, I can tell you that."
A muscle ticked along Ethan's jaw. "I want to know what's wrong with you," he said. "Why are you being deliberately provoking?"
"Keep your voice down," she said quickly, glancing around at the other diners. The privacy of their corner table was not assured by the potted palms and hothouse flowers that surrounded them. She put her cup down and her hands drifted to her lap. Beneath the table she nervously pleated the linen napkin. "I wasn't aware I was being provoking at all."
