As people ran through the door, a cool, evening breeze pushed the smell of gunpowder and death into the unlit corners of the saloon. Blair inhaled deeply to clear his mind. A bullet hole had exposed fresh, yellowish wood in the door frame. Blair looked down at the dead man leaking blood on the warped flooring. “You missed me again, Willy.”
* * *
The dirt and rock along the trail were as black as the ravens scavenging the town’s trash. Coal dust bloomed from the burros’ manes as they lugged ore carts up the hill. The scraggly beasts bucked at the vibrations growing under their hooves. The valley rumbled. Violent clouds of earth erupted from the mine shafts, staining the robin’s-egg-blue sky gray.
András Kovách lifted his head to the tainted heavens. He, along with everyone else living in the Gothic mining district, knew the explosion meant death. Death spawned widows and orphans. András sprinted to the Jollytime entrance.
Several soot-covered miners who escaped the devastation told András they ran as soon as the first screams echoed through the tunnels. Yesterday’s strange death had kept them poised for an exit.
“The fan, someone check the fan,” András yelled to the miners who were organizing a rescue attempt. Repairing the ventilation fan, if damaged in the blast, would be his priority. “Our boys need good air.” If they couldn’t reach the men trapped in the earth, poisonous gas surely would.
As the hours passed, a weather front billowed over the crests of the mountains down into the valley. The thick, spring storm clouds meshed with the haze of floating ash. Showers of coin-size snowflakes fell on the devastation as thunder roared through the sky.
András dug into the collapsed main shaft, only going in short distances. He dislodged rocks and boulders with a pry bar and stiff back. Miners struggled to clear a path through the debris until the hand appeared. A frenzy of rescuers pulled four men, half alive, mangled, and crushed, free. Among them crawled András’s friend and fellow Hungarian, Márton. András bent down and held his head in his lap. Between gurgling breaths Márton strained to speak. His last word nearly sent András running for Denver.
The older miner let the dead man’s head slide into the dirty snow. Melting flakes left tear-like trails in the coal dust on Márton’s face. András stared into the pile of rubble blocking the shaft as others frantically scurried about. Nothing dead crawled from the rocks.
“Ismét nem,” he whispered. “Not again.”
The last time his people muttered Marton’s last word, his mother stood over the stove cooking goulash. The smell of paprika always reminded him of her. His father sat at the rickety table sharpening a kitchen knife against a smooth stone. He had strong hands and a wide back as András did. His parents were laughing about something he didn’t hear.
Then night fell. Screams of dread. Pleas to God. Cries of children. His family ran from the chaos and into the forest. The horrors faded to silence with distance and the buffer of the pine trees. He and his parents accidently separated. The crunch of twigs and the whisper of wind filled his imagination with fear. He sprinted until his chest burned and sweat drenched his clothes. András arrived at the next village alone. His parents never came out of the darkness.
As the turmoil of the mine rescue swirled around András he stared into the faces of every person, looking for black eyes. “Ismét nem. Not here. Not in the mine.”
* * *
Jonathan Blair shivered in Delta’s early morning air. Summer had come to the Western Slope of the Rockies, but the mountain air remained cool until the sun warmed the earth. He buttoned his blanket coat and snugged his hat down. He stepped along the freshly swept boardwalk toward the barber, who also served as the undertaker and coffin maker. The few people out socializing and running errands in town stayed away from him. They knew he killed a man last night. The quick glances and averted eyes were familiar to Blair, a murderer mingling with lawful folks in the daylight. Evil walking among the pure.
Blair peered in the shop windows, pausing long enough to remember a time when he had a family and a home for the items being sold on the other side. He placed his hand on the glass near a silver hairbrush. Then he shook off the pain and rushed across the street.
In Delta’s telegraph office he sent a message about William Johnson’s death to the railroad company in Denver. The company gave him credit toward his contract and a bounty would be paid for Johnson. He would pick up a small portion of it at the local bank today as the company kept accounts all over the state. The rest waited in a growing bank account in Denver.
Blair longed for his next task. Justice and revenge together. Or were they the same? Either way, his time was running out. He had two weeks to complete his contract or his execution would come. Blair could finish his bounty obligation to the state with the man who initiated his descent into hell.
His ornery stallion waited impatiently at the local stables. The horse bolted out of the confined stall as soon as Blair moved the latch. Gray with irregular splotches of dark and light, the horse was scrawny for its large frame, its left ear half gone, shot off in a gun fight. Another bullet left a scar running from its right nostril along the jaw line to its dirt-caked mane.
Blair saddled the stallion, which gave him as much trouble as always. He placed his left foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle horn. The horse moved away from the rider. Blair hopped on his right foot to keep up with the horse. They went around in a circle two times.
“Stop it, you old bag of bones! We got no time for this nonsense.”
The stallion snorted, but stopped.
Blair straddled the horse and adjusted his hips in the saddle before tapping the animal with his heels.
Blair arrived at the train station in time to buy a ticket and load the stallion. It kicked and grunted at the other horses in the stock car. He made sure it has access to the feed then went to find himself a place to rest. Only half a dozen people sat in the last passenger car. He took a seat by himself near the rear.
The train whistle blew—three short tweets. Blair glanced out the window to see two young kids waving from the steps of a church. The sight was like cactus needles being driven into his heart—the shame, the guilt.
Blair needed to beat any word of Will Johnson’s death to Gothic. Pruitt would run if he discovered another one of his cohorts had been killed.
He had willingly killed and robbed alongside Pruitt, the Johnson brothers, and the rest of the gang for several years. Hunted for their crimes, they took refuge in Mexico, where they inflicted more iniquity. Not the life Blair expected when he enrolled in seminary a decade ago.
Pruitt would be the hardest of the gang to bring in. No. Pruitt wouldn’t come in. One of them was going to die.
Chapter Two
Gothic
The train shook and rattled to a stop in Glenwood Springs as the sun left a pinkish hue in the darkening sky. The stallion showed its displeasure for the ride by nipping at the steward who helped unload the cattle car. Blair offered no apology and headed straight for the stables.
They left Glenwood Springs in the morning. The long, two-day trip to Gothic by horse would give Blair time to think. He yearned to kill Jeremiah Pruitt—not an obsession, but a personal mission—one of the few things he desired to do before he met his Maker. He would have some choice words for Him too. Though he had already shouted curses to the stars and open heaven, Blair yearned to see God’s face when he told Him how much he hated Him.
He stopped in Aspen long enough to eat and purchase some oats for the stallion. From there he headed toward the Maroon Bells Pass, which still had snow. The bounty hunter shared the trail with work-seeking miners and others searching for their personal manifest destiny.
Blair dropped down the south side of the high pass on the evening of the second day. The warmth of the sun instantly disappeared in the shadow of the mountains. He kept his coat buttoned against the frigid air blowing unhindered through the treeless elevation.
Miles below the summit of the pass, Bl
air traveled the valley road to Gothic. He rode by several abandoned glory holes and shacks along the way, typical of the boom and bust mining operations going on in Colorado. To his surprise a woman walked the rocky road in front of him in the dark.
Blair’s stallion slowly trotted by. She kept her eyes on the path, taking no visible notice of him. The woman wore a wool coat that did not cover the bottom of her dress, which only went to her knees. There was enough moonlight for Blair to see she left boot tracks in the dirt. In her left hand she carried a pair of new leather shoes. She kept her right hand in a pocket.
Blair slowed the stallion. “How far to Gothic?”
She said nothing.
He asked again to the same silence. “Any particular reason you’re ignoring me?”
Through the strands of her hair, she took a quick peek.
“At least I know you see me.”
“Listen, mister, I don’t want any trouble. Just keep riding.”
“Are all the folks in this valley so nice?”
“You’re either stupid or looking for trouble being out here alone,” she said.
“Which one are you?”
She stopped. Moonlight revealed her face for the first time. On the ugly side of cute, she must have been around thirty, a bit younger than him. The anger in her eyes showed she’d gotten caught in her own words.
Her perfume hung in the air. His body shook as it absorbed the aroma. What was that? His mind took him back to another time, another existence, another woman.
“You got two miles. Now get going.”
The perfume lingered. Blair didn’t move. The successive memories of joy and love quickly brought their companions—pain and loss. He didn’t like the sensation so he tapped the horse and trotted away. The woman waited to walk until he rode off. He paused eighty yards out, at the curve in the road. She was alone and vulnerable. He rode on just before she stopped. Blair did it again at the top of a rise. After two more pauses she hollered at them.
“What are you doing?”
Blair leaned on the saddle horn. “You said being alone out here wasn’t a good idea. Thought I’d keep you company.”
“I can take care of myself.” The woman’s pace was steady.
“Just trying to be nice.”
“It will take you all night to get to Gothic if you keep that up.”
“Then you’d better walk faster.”
She huffed at him as she passed.
“Unless you want a ride.” Blair worked a smile along his lips. Say yes.
Her pace slowed.
“I’ll be a gentleman.”
“Not too many men around here know what that means.”
“I assure you, I do.” Blair guided the stallion to her. The horse sniffed the woman. She scratched its nose.
“She okay?” he asked.
The stallion answered with a soft grunt.
“Climb on.” He held out his hand and lifted her on. Her hand was soft and her perfume sweet.
She settled in behind him. “Thank you.”
“Make sure you take your finger off the trigger. I don’t want you shooting my horse. That’d make him even meaner than usual.”
The woman removed her hand from her pocket. Blair glanced back; her coat sagged with the weight of the revolver.
Blair guided the horse to a slow trot. The woman held onto the saddle doing her best not to touch him.
“What’s with that woman back there a bit with all the cats?” Blair asked. “She was picking them off a clothes line.”
“That’s Old Lady Jack.” Her tone was softer, more conversational. “She washes them all pretty regularly and strings them up just like laundry.”
“That’s not normal.”
She chuckled. “Most people leave her be. Rumor is she’s related to Jim Bridger.”
“I don’t think he mapped the West by washing kittens.”
The horse, jostling its two riders, continued down the rocky path. The stars in the sky ended at a jagged horizon defining the tops of the black mountains on each side of the valley. The details of the meadows, aspen groves, and forests of pine trees stayed hidden in the gray shades of night. The sounds of flowing water grew and faded as the narrow channel of the East River meandered to and fro along the trail. Glimpses of torches and lanterns in the distance gave hints of the width of the valley.
His heart rate increased. Perspiration clung to his skin. The question he thought to ask her faded. His uneasiness grew. Blair could not remember the last time he was this close to a clothed woman. He recoiled from the vulnerability.
Neither of them spoke again until they reached a flat hilltop on the edge of Gothic. The trail, which turned into the main street, dropped down toward the buildings.
“Let me off here,” she said.
He stopped the horse and she slid off. “You don’t have to worry about your image for me,” Blair said.
“You know?”
“What else would a woman be doing walking alone at night in a dress like that?”
She shifted her eyes to the ground. “Thank you.”
“What’s your name?”
Hesitant, she answered, “Susanne.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Susanne. I’m Jonathan. Have a good evening.”
“Be careful in town. Lots of people end up dead.”
“Mine unions?”
Susanne shook her head. “You can fight those. That’s not what’s happening here.”
She took a footpath and disappeared behind the silhouettes of pine branches. Blair didn’t even have time to tip his hat. Her scent stayed with him as did the memories of his wife. She wore the same perfume.
* * *
There wasn’t much different between Gothic and other mining boomtowns. Timber-framed buildings with false fronts lined the main road, mostly saloons and shops. A small bonfire drifted pine smoke up and down the main street. People congregated around the warmth telling stories and sharing bottles of booze. Homes were built one street over, mostly small one- or two-room structures. Torches shone in the hills marking the entrances to the many mines that ran all night. Sunlight was ineffective underground.
Miners stumbled and weaved from saloon to saloon chattering about their day. The hard-rock miners, searching for silver and gold, wore soiled, tattered clothing. The coal miners either had on clean, older outfits or were still in black, dust-covered work clothes. Many of the coal miners carried weapons. Hard-rock miners carried to protect their finds, but coal had little value in small amounts.
“This town is on edge,” Blair said to the horse.
He found the only open hotel in town. The other was still under construction. The innkeeper directed him to the two saloons that served late meals, and suggested the quieter of the two. He took the advice. He tied the stallion to the post out front. A large man with a double-barreled shotgun guarded the front door of the Buck Snort Saloon. He eyeballed Blair up and down.
“I see you are carrying. Keep them holstered, and you’ll make it out of here alive.”
“I’m only here for a meal.”
“Keep it at that.” The armed man stepped aside and let him enter.
Blair took the table in the corner and sat with his back to the wall. He ordered a steak and mashed potatoes. The other patrons were miners, either getting off shift, or about to start. They lined the bar and covered all the stools. Five men leaned into a poker table. Cards, cash, coins, and silver captured their interest. The other poker table sat empty.
It didn’t take long for Blair to notice the man sitting by himself with several books and writing in a journal. He raised his eyes every few minutes and studied the room. The stranger, who Blair guessed to be in his late fifties, nodded but didn’t smile. His ordinary suit was clean and well kept. The man was stocky but not fat. He wore spectacles, and his salt-and-pepper hair and beard were neatly trimmed. This was no miner.
Jerry, a one-armed man, brought out Blair’s dinner. He wore his long hair in a sin
gle, gray braid. His skin told the story of years outside under the sun. But he still had spunk in his step.
“Thanks,” Blair said. The steak sizzled and potatoes steamed. “Are you the owner?”
“Since 1880.”
“Who is that?” Blair tipped his head toward the man with glasses.
“Don’t know. He’s been in town for a week or so. Asks lots of questions about the mine accident and the deaths. Some people say he works for the government, but I think he might be a journalist from back East.”
“Have you talked to him?”
Jerry waved the question away. “I don’t like journalists. Or the government.”
“Keeping safe either way, huh?”
“You never know what they’ll do with what you tell them.”
“If I was looking for someone in town, who should I talk to?”
“If?” Jerry smiled.
“Yeah, if.”
“Talk to the mine bosses, they see most of the people who are looking for work.”
“What if I don’t want that much exposure?”
“Talk to Miss Katy Lee over at the Maroon Saloon. She runs the ladies, but works the floor too, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“Her girls keep track of most of the men in town.”
“Even you?”
Jerry winked. “I’m only missing an arm.”
* * *
Blair ate his meal slowly so he could observe the miners and other locals come and go. Hoping to catch Pruitt’s trail, he took notice of names and listened to the lies and stories filling the Bucksnort Saloon.
The barkeep hollered across the room. “Hey Jerry, tell Ernie here what you was telling me.”
Jerry set down an empty tray on the bar and studied the youthful Ernie. He didn’t have more than a dozen true whiskers on his face “I was telling Macky, them mines is haunted or something. Five men have died in the last two months, including the local preacher.”
“He don’t count.” Macky shook his bald head. “He was robbed in his cabin.”
The Color of Gothic Page 2
