by Cameron Judd
“No wonder he was so startled when he saw, or thought he saw, Garrett in his audience,” Gunnison said.
“Yes, no wonder at all.” Kenton paused somberly before continuing. “Scarborough and I had many different tasks during the war, including a lot of work across the line in Tennessee and down into Georgia, always posing as Confederate soldiers, renegades, or sympathizers. It was dangerous work in a war-divided region, but my Victoria’s death was still fresh to me, and I frankly didn’t care much what happened to me.
“The three of us smuggled counterfeit Confederate currency through Cumberland Gap to help weaken the rebel economy, sabotaged railroads, intercepted telegraph messages, even put on butternut-and-gray and mingled in with Confederate troops to pick up intelligence.” Kenton chuckled. “Scarborough would even perform for rebel troops, posing as a traveling showman loyal to the South. Several times he and I came close to cashing in our chips, but we always pulled through.
“In those days, Garrett was a terror to Unionists on the Tennessee front. Led night riders, burned down farms and homes, murdered, assassinated. The South always officially disavowed him as a renegade, but intelligence showed he had ties to high-ranking leaders—he was, in effect, operating in a way similar to the way we ourselves operated, though he was far more vicious. He was an officially unofficial doer of the dirtiest jobs, the sort that didn’t fit well into standard military practice. Some of that goes on in any war, Alex, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
“Starlin, Scarborough, and I were assigned back in sixty-two to head into East Tennessee and give assistance to a group of Unionist locals who were planning to burn some key bridges and hamper supply routes for Confederate supply and troop trains. The men had burned two on their own already, getting attention from as high up as the Confederate secretary of war. One bridge burner had been captured and hanged already, and the others were in great fear because word had come that Briggs Garrett was vowing to punish all bridge burners. Threats from Garrett were fearful things. He would stop at nothing and seemed unrestrained by any human compassion. We had received fairly reliable reports that he had torched Unionists’ houses, knowing there were women and children inside and providing no opportunity for their escape.
“Starlin, Scarborough, and I joined the bridge burners, managed to destroy four more bridges without losing a man, and then came number five. We didn’t know it, but Garrett was nearby with a small force. Our intelligence had failed us, and we proceeded to destroy the bridge. Garrett caught Scarborough and me. Only Starlin got clear. There was a battle around the burning bridge, two of our men killed. Garrett himself laid open my cheek with his saber, and I put a saber wound diagonally across his chest. There was a lot of confusion. I got a look at his face only for a moment, a poor look at that. If I saw his face today I wouldn’t know it.
“Seven of our force were captured. Garrett executed them right there at the bridge. Hanged them, then doused them with coal oil and set them afire while they hung there. I’ve always hoped that none of them was still alive when Garrett set them all ablaze. God in heaven, a couple of those men were just boys, not even twenty years old.” Kenton paused, looking away a moment or two before continuing. “I had passed out in some brush after taking the saber cut and saw it all after I came to. I had no weapon left; if I had, I would have found a way to rid the world of Garrett right there, no matter what the cost. Scarborough had been wounded and was unconscious through it all, hidden with me.
“Garrett left the bodies there. Examples, I suppose. Scarborough recovered from his wound and after that was determined to bring down Garrett. He never succeeded. A year after the bridge-burner hangings, Garrett got his hands on Scarborough and attempted to hang him, as I’ve told you before. Scarborough survived it, with that damaged voice.
“Garrett disappeared soon after. When the war ended, Scarborough went back to the stage, touring mostly in the West. We kept in touch occasionally, and I saw him while I was in California—he was performing in San Francisco. Then I lost touch…until all this happened.”
“Ironic, in a way,” Gunnison said. “It seems Garrett finally got Scarborough after all, just by showing himself and, well, startling him to death. And there’s his other victim here, the one in the mine shaft.”
“Yes…if in fact it was Garrett who did it, and Garrett who Scarborough saw,” Kenton said.
“What are you saying?”
“That we still don’t have any solid proof it was Garrett who killed the man you and Lundy found, or that it was really Garrett in Scarborough’s audience.”
“You said yourself that Scarborough would be unlikely to make a mistake about something that close to him.”
“I know…but we have to consider every possibility. There might be something else going on here. There are so many questions. Take that corpse you found, for example. If Garrett is really alive, he surely is hiding his identity. Given that, why would he kill someone by his signature method, and then turn around and conceal the body? Garrett’s way of killing was deliberately designed for show—he wanted his victims seen, not hidden. And there’s still the question of why Garrett, if it was Garrett, would bother to haul you out of the shaft and dump you in Stillborn Alley rather than conveniently do you in. The pieces just don’t fit like they should.”
Silence followed, which was partly what made it so startling when gunfire abruptly erupted around the next corner. Shouts and screams followed. The crowded street began to clear. Kenton and Gunnison looked at each other in surprise, then Kenton said, “Lets go.”
They approached the corner, falling in behind a uniformed officer who had just emerged from a saloon ahead of them.
Chapter 19
The shooting had occurred at the doorway of a dance hall. An aged fellow who had apparently just emerged from the door had been shot down and lay moaning in a red puddle. Two policeman already had the apparent shootist, now disarmed, in their grip. Kenton saw that it was Smithfield, one of the men who had cornered him in the alleyway.
Recognizing Smithfield made Kenton’s stomach gnarl. He suspected he knew the motive for the shooting, and a moment later his suspicion was confirmed when Smithfield, struggling against the grip of the officers, yelled loudly, “That’s Garrett I’ve shot! Briggs Garrett!”
Kenton walked over and looked down at the wounded man, a tiny wiry figure who lay in the shaft of light coming from the dance-hall door that his own body was keeping propped open. Blood blubbered between purplish lips set in a graying face. This fellow was doomed.
Gunnison’s eyes were big as he too looked at the wounded man for a moment until three others pushed in and knelt to try vainly to aid the other fellow.
“Kenton, could it really be Garrett?”
“Far too short and small, Alex. It’s not Garrett.”
“Kenton!” The yell came from one of the policemen holding Smithfield. Kenton turned and saw it was Clance Sullivan. “You stay around a moment—I want to talk to you.”
“Wonder what that’s about?” Gunnison said quietly.
A third policeman arrived and took Sullivan’s place as Smithfield was finally led away, still loudly and proudly declaring that he had killed Briggs Garrett. The wounded man, meanwhile, was being put into a wagon to be hauled off for medical care that would likely prove futile.
Sullivan dusted off his hands and walked up to Kenton. “Come take a walk with me,” he said. “You’ll want to know that I’ve changed my mind about the little incident at Deverell’s mine.”
They fell in side by side and strode down the boardwalk. “What do you mean?” Kenton asked.
“Just that I’ve come to believe Mr. Gunnison’s story. I think there really was a body in that hole.”
Gunnison felt a great wave of relief. “But what changed your mind?” he asked.
“Lundy O’Donovan.”
“But Lundy denied everything I said!”
“Aye, and if ever I’ve seen a lying boy, it was Lundy O’Donovan.
The poor lad was scared out of his head. Maybe Kelly couldn’t see that, or didn’t want to, but I could. As soon as he gave his tale, I knew he was shoveling the dirt over something. It’s this old policeman’s opinion that he was scared to do anything else.”
“Scared…of whoever it was that Kenton shot at outside the cabin?”
“That’s most likely.”
“And do you think that whoever might have been Briggs Garrett?” Kenton asked.
Sullivan shrugged. “Who can say? Certainly there’s plenty of others convinced Garrett is here. The one who just shot that old man back there, for instance.”
“I suspected as much,” Kenton said. “I wonder why he believed that poor devil was Garrett?”
“Because there’s plenty of fingers starting to be pointed in this town. Somebody pointed theirs at old Walt Fisher, and this Smithfield found that enough reason to kill him. And it’s a shame, it is, for I knew Fisher. He’s no more Briggs Garrett than that tree yonder. He’s just an old drunk who loitered about the dance halls to watch the women. I knew this sort of thing would begin soon. The Garrett talk is running too free.”
“And what do you think of it?” Kenton asked. “Could there be truth to it?”
“As I said, who can say? You can be sure that Clance Sullivan will be keeping his eyes open, though.”
Gunnison said, “I’m grateful you believe me. I was beginning to think nobody ever would, especially after the way Marshal Kelly talked to me.”
“Kelly doesn’t want to think Briggs Garrett could be in his town, and for that I can scarce blame him,” Sullivan replied. “He knows that this sort of thing”—he waved back toward the dance hall—“can be the result.”
George Currell took another mouthful of whiskey, his hand shaking so badly as he lifted the glass that he sloshed as much down his chin as he managed to swallow. He clunked down the glass, then again examined the loaded pistol on the table before him. It was the tenth time he had done this, for he was a man deeply afraid.
He had holed up in his cabin since the previous night, waiting for whatever would happen next. What that would be he could not begin to guess. He had initally expected Chop-off to return with the news that he had silenced the O’Donovan boy for good. When that had not happened within several hours, Currell’s expectation had changed. It would be the law that showed up at his door, he anticipated, coming to arrest him for his part in all this. He thought about running but was afraid to. But the law had never come either.
In the afternoon he had removed his old army revolver from its case and loaded it, keeping it within easy reach. It gave him comfort, reducing his feeling of vulnerability. It did nothing for his mounting sense of guilt, however. He wished he had never agreed to help Mark Straker in his various criminal schemes, wished in particular he had not helped him cover up the murder of Jimmy Rhoder.
A noise outside made Currell stand with a loud gasp, shaking the table and overturning his bottle. Liquor spilled across the tabletop and the pistol. He righted the bottle and picked up the dripping weapon, then edged to his window and peered around the edge of the flour-sack curtain.
Outside, Mark Straker rode into the packed-dirt yard and dismounted. Even as Straker tethered his horse to a bush, Currell felt a wave of dreadful anticipation, fearing Straker was bearing bad news. He placed the pistol back on the table, took down his single lighted lantern from its nail peg, and went to the door. He opened it and stepped out.
Straker, approaching, looked Currell up and down in the lantern light. “You look terrible,” said Straker.
Currell’s only answer was silence.
“Have you heard what happened on Chicken Hill last night?” Straker asked.
“No. I been here all day.”
“Somebody came poking around the O’Donovan cabin in the dark. Whoever it was picked a bad time to do it, though, because Brady Kenton and his partner were inside. Kenton came out…there was shooting. Kenton told the police he thought he hit whoever it was, but there’s been no body found. Just a few splatters of blood. Either the wound wasn’t fatal, or whoever received it didn’t die until sometime later, someplace else.”
Currell swallowed again and started to shake more. Despite his powerful build, he seemed little and weak. “How do you know all this?”
“There’s a conveniently loose pair of lips at the police station.” He was referring to a gossipy old fellow Kelly had retained to man the front desk and keep the office clean. Straker had discovered that a few little gifts of tobacco and cash would cause the man to tell everything he heard and saw at the station. The information had served Straker well many times, and the best part was, the old man was too imperceptive ever to question why Straker was so interested in police affairs.
“You think it was Chop-off?” Currell asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Currell. Seems that I recall telling both of you to sit tight and leave the boy alone.”
Currell was so nervous, he felt cold. “Chop-off said he wasn’t going to sit and wait. Said he wanted the O’Donovan boy shut up for good.”
“Chop-off’s nowhere to be found today. Looks like it might be him who got shut up instead of the boy.”
“The boy’s all right?”
“You bet he is. In fact, he’s already had a talk with the law. Gunnison has, too.”
“Oh, no, no…”
Straker smiled without mirth. In his weakness, Currell seemed contemptible to him. “Don’t worry yourself, Currell. The boy denied the whole story. Said there was no body in the mine at all and that he didn’t know anything about what Gunnison was saying. The marshal believes Gunnison made it all up, or dreamed it while he was drunk.”
Currell took that in for a moment. “So nobody’s looking for me?”
“Nobody. You’ve got nothing to worry about now. And think about this: If Chop-off is dead, there’s one less who knows what really happened. And Chop-off’s shoulders provide a convenient spot for us to dump all the blame for Rhoder’s murder if it ever comes back on us.”
Currell grinned in comprehension. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“So you can rest easier now.”
“Yeah.” Currell actually chuckled.
“Thought you’d want to know that, Currell. Also that my plan is going on despite the setback. Before long, all of Leadville is going to believe that Squire Deverell is not what he seems. And once he’s gone, what he has is mine…you getting your cut, of course.”
Currell chuckled again, but a thought arose. “But what about Mrs. Deverell?”
“What do you mean?”
“The inheritance would be hers first, wouldn’t it?”
Straker grinned. “Not if she, say, poisoned herself in grief over the lynching of her husband. Such tragedies happen, you know.”
Currell had no smile now. He was beginning to realize what a cold and frightening man young Mark Straker was.
“Good-bye for now, Currell,” Straker said cheerfully. “You can put away your worrying now. And keep your eyes and ears open—soon the famous Mr. Brady Kenton will be heralding the ‘truth’ about Squire Deverell to the world.”
Straker mounted and rode away.
Straker, riding back through the night toward the uneven line of flickering lights that was Leadville, thought to himself again how convenient it would be if Chop-off was in fact dead, as he suspected he was. A dead man could never reveal the circumstances of Jimmy Rhoder’s murder. Now only Straker himself and George Currell knew what had happened in Rhoder’s billiard parlor that night.
How nice it would be, Straker thought, if Currell dissappeared just like Chop-off seemingly had. Why, perhaps the man might be found hanging from a rope, his body charred, providing even more proof that dastardly Briggs Garrett was at work even as he broke the last thread linking Straker to Rhoder.
Straker smiled to himself. The thought was nothing but a slightly playful consideration at the moment. It could always develop into something more, of course. It
would depend partly on Currell’s actions and attitude. Currell was weak. Too many lingering moral scruples. If he became a threat, he would have to be eliminated.
Straker began to whistle to himself. On the north edge of Leadville, two dogs began to fight, sending up fierce snarls and howls in the night.
Chapter 20
Lundy O’Donovan woke with a shout, hands waving in the air. “Let me go!” he yelled. “Let me go!”
Across the dark room, Old Papa began writhing jerkily in his bed, responding to Lundy’s cries. He made guttural sounds, and his right hand flailed, pounding the wall.
Into the room rushed Kate O’Donovan, freshly lit lamp in hand. Lundy had awakened by now and realized that he was only dreaming; he was sitting in his bed, staring toward Old Papa, who continued his movement and noisemaking.
“Papa, Papa, hush,” said Kate O’Donovan. “Hush yourself now.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, put the lamp on the floor at her feet, and placed her hand on the old man’s forehead, gently pushing his bobbing head back onto the pillow. His flailing arm struck her hard in the side twice, but she did not heed the unintended blows. “Hush, Old Papa, it was only Lundy yelling in his dream. That’s all.”
Gradually the old man settled again. In a few moments his eyes closed. Kate O’Donovan looked at his face, smiled sadly and tenderly as she gave his brow a few more gentle strokes, then stood, picked up the lamp, and went to Lundy’s bed. She sat down on it, put the lamp again on the floor, sighed, and looked for a long time at her son. “Lundy, it’s time you spoke the truth to me,” she said, whispering to avoid disturbing the old man further.
