The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  Kenton…where was he? Perhaps Chop-off had evaded him. Or perhaps…

  Fighting back fear that was starting to catch up with recklessness, Gunnison lifted his pistol, wondering if he should go after Chop-off or look around for Kenton…or Kenton’s corpse.

  In the dark ahead something bumped about. Chop-off maybe, or Kenton. Gunnison wanted to run away but would not. Instead he continued, pistol lifted.

  Chapter 24

  Chop-off Johnson came upon Gunnison suddenly, from the side as before. He had put away his pistol and drawn his long knife. It cut a thin swath across the back of Gunnison’s hand, and Gunnison’s pistol slammed hard against a wall beside him. He almost dropped it.

  Somehow Gunnison managed blindly to grab the single wrist. Enraged, Chop-off bellowed, sending out bursts of foul breath.

  If he had possessed two arms, Chop-off likely would have killed Gunnison on the spot. As it was, as long as the younger man held his arm tightly, he could do little but writhe, kick, and try to bite, which he did with much vigor and swearing. Hot blood splattered Gunnison’s face.

  “I don’t want to kill you!” Gunnison said with a straining voice. “Give it up—I’ve still got my gun!”

  Chop-off let out a yell and kicked Gunnison’s feet from beneath him. He went down as cleanly as a soldier fainting at attention. Gunnison’s pistol came up. He squared it on the one-armed man and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. Jammed. The pistol must have been damaged when it hit the wall.

  Gunnison felt a sharp sting as Chop-off’s knife grazed over his shoulder. He had aimed for the heart, but Gunnison had twisted enough to make him miss. Rolling to the side, Gunnison freed himself and bounded to his feet to begin a blind run.

  Chop-off was directly behind, amazingly fleet for a wound-crippled man. This way and that Gunnison darted, until suddenly he realized Chop-off was no longer on his heels. He stopped to catch his breath and saw he was beside a long ladder leaned against the side of a two-story building. Without a second thought, he climbed it, feeling he would be safer above the street than on it. When he reached the roof, he pulled the ladder up, making more of a clatter than he wanted to. He hoped Chop-off had fled.

  A look around revealed that the building he was on was fire-damaged; the smell of ash and charred timbers was strong. Though he did not know it, by chance he had stumbled upon Jimmy Rhoder’s pool hall; the ladder in the alley had been used in battling the fire. Part of the roof ahead of him was gone.

  At least up here Chop-off probably won’t spot me, Gunnison thought. I’m safe for now. I can wait out the night if need be.

  He worried about Kenton. What if Chop-off had killed him? Kenton was not the kind just to give up on a chase, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

  Winded, Gunnison sank to his haunches and breathed the cool Leadville breeze. It chilled the sweat clinging to him and made him shiver. Moonlight beamed out again, causing him to feel exposed, so he moved more to the center of the flat rooftop. There he fumbled with the pistol, trying to unjam it, but it was no use.

  Time went by. He heard no worrisome sounds from below. Chop-off Johnson was surely gone.

  The man’s persistence in attempting to kill him frightened Gunnison. It also confused him, for he still could not understand why, if Chop-off wanted him dead, he had passed up the best opportunity to be rid of him in Deverell’s old mine. Something must have changed his mind. Chop-off had obviously seen this chance encounter as an opportunity too tempting to pass up.

  Or perhaps something or someone else had restrained Chop-off from violence at the mine. Lundy had said there was a second man there. As he sat on the charred rooftop, Gunnison wondered if the second man might have been George Currell. He and Chop-off did seem to have some connection, and Currell had acted peculiarly enough tonight to make Gunnison suspect he had some hand in all of this.

  Something scuffed on the roof of the adjacent building. Gunnison stood and turned in one motion.

  Chop-off stood on the edge of that roof. He was looking squarely at Gunnison. “Time for you to die,” he said, lifting his pistol. He fired a shot that sang past Gunnison’s ear, then another that clipped away part of his collar. When Chop-off pulled the trigger a third time, the pistol merely clicked. It was empty.

  Chop-off swore loudly, threw down the gun, and leapt the gap between the buildings, going for his knife.

  Gunnison, panicking, backed away as Chop-off approached, but there was no escape. Chop-off closed in, his knife went up, and Gunnison did the only thing possible—jumped through the burned-out portion in the roof nearby and into the dark building below.

  Perhaps Gunnison was stunned by the drop, for after it came a small gap in memory that he was never able to fill. The next thing he was aware of was pushing up to a squat. A big hole gaped above, sky showing through. He had fallen only one level, to the second floor, which was badly burned and a few feet from him sagged down into emptiness.

  Gunnison clambered to his feet and felt dizzy. He tripped over a pile of sticks on the floor and almost fell. A quick look showed the sticks to be a bundle of fire-damaged pool cues. He picked up one of them. It was comfortingly stout, a useful club should he need it.

  Looking up, Gunnison waited for Chop-off to appear at the edge of the hole. He did not.

  The young journalist crept to a side window and looked out. Two men passed below in the alley. Maybe a pair of footpads, or maybe policemen—he couldn’t tell from this angle.

  Chop-off dropped through the hole and immediately came at him, his knife ready.

  Gunnison let out a yell to the strangers below: “Help me! Murder!”

  The next moments consisted of dodging, ducking, fighting as best he could. He swung the billiard cue back and forth, which kept Chop-off at enough distance to keep him from using his long knife for the moment. Gunnison would not be able to keep him off forever, though. Chop-off was obviously determined to see him dead.

  Gunnison decided to try to reason with his attacker. “Killing me will do you no good,” he said. “Lundy O’Donovan got out of that fire. You didn’t get him. He’s already admitted there was a body in that mine, after all, and that you were there. He’s talking to Marshal Kelly right now.” Gunnison didn’t know if the latter statement was true, but he hoped Chop-off would think so.

  Chop-off paused, breathing even harder than before. “I can’t take the chance you’re lying to me,” he said. “I’ve got to go ahead and kill you, just in case.” He shifted the knife and advanced.

  Gunnison swung the cue just as the charred floor-board beneath his right foot gave way and his leg went through, up to the thigh. He was painfully trapped.

  Chop-off laughed. He put his knife between his teeth and came forward, nimbly grabbing the pool stick and wrenching it away. He took the knife from between his teeth. “You’ll slice up pretty as a Christmas goose.”

  The knife descended. Gunnison gave a desperate wrench, trying to pull his caught leg free, and at that moment a gunshot echoed through the empty building.

  Chop-off’s head jerked to the side, and he fell directly before his intended victim, dead eyes staring into Gunnison’s in the moonlight, his knife still gripped in his single hand.

  Chapter 25

  “Alex!”

  Kenton came bounding through the doorway, preceded by a young policeman with a smoking pistol in hand. Kenton ran to Gunnison and pulled him up and free. The policeman went to Chop-off’s body and stared down at it. Now Gunnison knew who the two passersby below the window had been.

  “Alex, thank God you’re alive!” Kenton said.

  “I’ve never killed anyone before,” the policeman said, still staring at the corpse.

  “He would have killed me,” Gunnison said. “You did what you had to do.”

  The earlier gunfire and general tumult had drawn attention, and now others entered the building and climbed the stairs. Gunnison explained what had happened as best he could and then was quickly hustled of
f to Kelly’s office along with Kenton and the young officer who had saved Gunnison’s life. The officer, Kenton would later explain, had come along at the most fortuitous moment, having responded to Gunnison’s gunshot in the alley when Chop-off had first attacked. Kenton had lost Chop-off’s trail sometime before and was desperately trying to regain it when he and the officer met. They heard Gunnison’s cry from the window and entered the vacant building just in time to save his life.

  Kelly was surprisingly calm, given his earlier attitude toward Kenton and Gunnison. He questioned Gunnison closely, then Kenton, and finally the officer, and when it was done, seemed satisfied that what had happened was an honest case of police action to halt a murder.

  Kelly sat down on the edge of his desk and revealed why his attitude had softened. “I talked to Lundy O’Donovan a few minutes ago. He’s reversed his story. He’s now backing up what you said, Mr. Gunnison. He says there was a body in the mine. He said he had found it even before he took you to it. Lundy also told me that he was attacked at the mine by Chop-off Johnson, and that there was another man there, too. He said he lied because he was afraid the men would hurt him and his family if he told the truth.”

  “Was the second man George Currell?” Gunnison asked. Both Kenton and Kelly reacted with surprise.

  “We suspect so…but how did you know?”

  “I saw Currell tonight, right after Kenton took off after Johnson. I was only with him a few moments, but the things he said, the way he acted—I suspected he had been involved.”

  “Alex, maybe you’re learning to think like a good journalist at last,” Kenton said in a tone of admiration.

  “Please, Mr. Kenton, let me do the talking,” Kelly said gruffly. “Did you see where Currell went?” he asked Gunnison.

  “No—he ran off into the dark. He seemed very upset to learn that Chop-off had started the fire. And it was strange…he acted unpleasantly surprised to find out Chop-off was even alive. I didn’t really understand it all.”

  “Well, maybe soon we’ll have answers for you. We’re looking for Currell right now,” Kelly said. “Lundy couldn’t identify him for us, but we know Currell and Chop-off Johnson ran together some. Now that Johnson is dead, Currell may be the only way to finding out if there is anyone else behind all this.”

  “Briggs Garrett, perhaps?” Kenton said.

  “Mr. Kenton, I instructed you to be quiet,” Kelly snapped. “But since you mentioned it, yes, I must consider the possibility that the Briggs Garrett rumors might have a factual basis. Given the fire tonight, and this shooting death, this town is going to absolutely blow up with more speculation. People here are eager to believe that Briggs Garrett is alive and up to his old tricks, and believe it they will. It’s going to behoove me and my men to try to either disprove or verify all these blasted rumors, and if they are true, to find Garrett and put him into custody. Otherwise we’ll just have more innocent people being hurt or killed, like that poor old man who got shot down outside that dance hall.”

  “Marshal, may I ask one more question?” Kenton said.

  Kelly looked perturbed, then shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “Is the O’Donovan family safe? If there really is someone—Garrett or otherwise—pulling the strings from the background, Lundy could still be in danger.”

  “The family is safe,” Kelly replied. “We’ve found someone with the space and means to take them in, and no, I won’t tell you who it is, because I don’t want you poking around them. In fact, Mr. Kenton, I still hold your presence here largely responsible for perpetuating these rumors.”

  “You have a right to your opinion.”

  Kelly stretched and yawned. He had gotten only a little sleep before the night’s ruckus broke loose. “And what about you, Mr. Gunnison?” he asked. “Do you feel the need for police protection?”

  “I think I can take care of myself,” said Gunnison.

  “I feel the same,” Kenton replied.

  “I didn’t ask you, Kenton, in case you didn’t notice,” Kelly said. “Very well, Gunnison—it’s your choice. But let me warn you both: I catch you in the middle of any more trouble, and you’ll find new quarters in my jail.”

  The door opened, and an officer thrust in his head. “The O’Donovans are ready to go, Marshal.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Send them on, then.” The officer nodded and started to withdraw, but as an afterthought Kelly asked, “Where’s Sullivan? I haven’t seen him since I came in.”

  The officer shrugged. “No one else has either, Marshal. I’d been wondering about him myself.”

  “He’ll turn up, I guess, and he’ll have a talking-to due him when he does. I don’t like my men making themselves scarce when things are busy.”

  The officer withdrew. Kelly yawned and stretched again. “What a job,” he muttered. He waved toward the door. “You two get on out—I’ve had my fill of you for tonight.”

  When they had left the station, Kenton said, “You know, for some reason, I’m beginning to like Kelly, in a way.”

  “Now I know you’ve gone loco on me,” Gunnison replied. “He’s one of the harshest coots I’ve run across.”

  “Yes, but at least he knows you’re no liar now…Alex! Look there.”

  Kenton indicated a large carriage that had just pulled around the side of the station, drawn by an impeccably groomed chestnut horse. In the driver’s seat was the most distinguished-looking black man Gunnison had ever seen. He wore formal clothing and sported a headful of thick graying curls, closely cropped. At first, Gunnison’s eyes were drawn mostly to the driver, but as the carriage turned and clattered off, he saw a face peering out from behind the drawn curtains.

  “That was Lundy O’Donovan!” Kenton said. “And I’ll bet the seat of my pants that that driver is taking the O’Donovans to wherever it is they’ll be put up. And I admit, I’d like to know where that is. It could be useful. Besides, I like the idea of knowing something Kelly doesn’t want me to.”

  “Shall we follow?” Gunnison asked, hoping the answer would be no, for he was longing to return to his bed.

  The answer, of course, was yes, so Gunnison found himself trotting along in the street, trying to keep the carriage within view. It made a turn ahead, and Kenton pulled him into an alley, shortcutting to the next street. So their course continued for a few minutes until at last they saw the carriage pulling into a driveway beside a familiar tall house on Chestnut Street.

  “Kenton, that’s the same house where I saw the girl looking out of the upper window,” Gunnison said. He was half afraid to say it, for he remembered the obvious pain the subject had caused Kenton before.

  “Yes—but even more interesting than that, Alex—look at the name on the door.”

  Gunnison drew closer, squinted. “‘Chrisman.’ Kenton, isn’t that—”

  “The same house where Mickey Scarborough died? Indeed it is.”

  “Well, this Chrisman woman must be a generous sort, taking in Scarborough and then the O’Donovans too.”

  “It would seem so, wouldn’t it?” Kenton replied. “Well, let’s get back to our quarters again, and maybe get a little rest before the new day comes bearing down on us.” He patted Gunnison’s shoulder. “Quite some exciting nights you’ve had lately, Alex. Our Leadville trip is one you’ll never forget.”

  “If I live through it, I’m going to do my best to try,” Gunnison muttered.

  He and Kenton turned and walked away together.

  Chapter 26

  The man’s name was Shapiro, and in the morning light he reminded Mark Straker of a sallow weasel. Straker had roused the fellow from his cot in the corner several minutes before, having arrived long before the opening of the posted business hours. His earliness was deliberate, for he wanted this transaction to be private and undisturbed.

  Shapiro was sitting in a printing office as disheveled as himself. Straker wondered how a business this new could have managed to grow this dirty. He sat cleaning his nails as Shapiro read the handful
of script-covered foolscap he had given him several moments earlier. As Shapiro finished the last sheet, Straker leaned back and yawned. He had been up late the previous night, ostensibly “guarding” the Deverells but actually writing what he now felt was quite a good piece of work.

  Shapiro put down the pages and scratched his head with a spider-leg finger. Remarkably thin, Shapiro was rumpled and tousled; his wiry dark hair, clipped short, stood up straight on his head. Straker had to swallow a chuckle when it struck him that with hair so stiffly upright, Shapiro could make a sideline income renting his head out as a horse brush. Judging from the ratty filthiness of the man’s topknot, he could almost believe Shapiro had done just that.

  “Where’d you get this?” the printer asked.

  “That doesn’t matter. The question is how quickly you can print it for me. The author wants it on a single page, like a broadside, so he can display it around town.”

  “The ‘author,’ huh? Who’s the author?”

  “He wished to remain anonymous.”

  “I can see why.” He picked up the sheets again. “If I read this right, it sounds like he’s saying that this here—” he scanned for the name that was escaping him, “this here Squire Deverell is really Briggs Garrett!”

  “I don’t really want to comment on what it says. My assignment was just to bring this down here and have five hundred copies printed, as quickly as possible.”

  Shapiro read the title on the top sheet. “‘Confession of a Traveling Journalist.’ Interesting.” He smiled slyly. “Hey, I bet I know who you are!” he said. “You’re the partner of that Brady Kenton, ain’t you! The Illustrated American! I heard Kenton and a younger fellow are in town. Kenton wrote this, didn’t he!”

  Straker deliberately fidgeted, letting his manner answer the question affirmatively while saying, “I really can’t say any more.”