The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  “Hah! I knew it! But I got a question. If Kenton wants this published, why not just put it in the Illustrated American?”

  “There are some matters too, well, controversial for a publication of that type. There are time factors to be considered, too, when the information is as crucial as this. Brady says he…” He put on the expression of a man who has just realized he has said too much. “Never mind that. Don’t take any of that as a confirmation of your speculations.”

  Shapiro’s eyes glittered. “Yeah, yeah. All right. I don’t know a thing.” He slapped the back of his hand onto the papers. “You know, this could be dangerous to me if I printed it.”

  “I see no reason it should have to bear the printer’s name, do you? There are other shops in town—no one will know who did it. You can deny it along with all the others. Anyway, I think you have a moral obligation to help get this information before the public.”

  “Well, I do have a backlog to consider, too. Other jobs lined up and waiting, you know.”

  Straker didn’t believe that for a moment. He knew that Shapiro had been open only a week and had printed no more than one stack of shoddy-looking hand-bills for a dance hall. Straker had picked up saloon intelligence about Shapiro, checking him out for this job, and knew he was as ratty in heart as he was in grooming. Shapiro had come to Leadville fresh after being fired from a printshop in Denver. Rumor had it the firing offense was suspected theft of a spare press, probably the very one now set up at the rear of this seedy one-room operation.

  Reaching into his pocket, Straker pulled out a roll of bills and placed them on top of the foolscap. “Perhaps this could persuade you to make this job your top priority,” he said.

  Shapiro’s spidery fingers wrapped around the bills and pulled them into his palm. “I believe that will take care of the problem.”

  “Good, good.”

  “I can have the broadsides by, say, tomorrow afternoon.”

  Straker shook his head. “No. Tonight.”

  “Tonight! I can’t possibly—” He glanced at the bills in his hand, then nodded. “All right. Tonight. When will you be by to pick them up?”

  “I won’t be. All you need to do is put the loose stack on a rooftop somewhere where the wind can hit it. That will do an ample job of distribution.”

  Shapiro looked amazed. “You want these printed and thrown to the wind?”

  “What better way to spread them anonymously? And I suggest you make sure no one sees you with these.”

  “Yeah. All right. I’ll do it…but I’ve got to warn you: It won’t take anybody long to figure out that it’s Brady Kenton who wrote this.”

  Straker had now stood. “Oh my, do you think so?” he said in a very sincere tone. He headed for the door, turning his back on Shapiro. When his face was hidden, he smiled. “I surely hope you’re wrong about that, Mr. Shapiro.”

  The knock echoed through the empty store building below Kenton and Gunnison’s rooms. Kenton put down his notepad upon which he had been writing furiously and stood.

  “Maybe it’s Perk, come to give us some news,” he said as he and Gunnison descended the interior staircase.

  It wasn’t Perk, though, but a tall and well-dressed black man. Gunnison thought he seemed familiar and realized all at once that this was the man who had driven the O’Donovan family from the police station to the Chrisman house in that curtained carriage.

  “Mr. Kenton, sir, my name is Gableman,” he said in a deep, creamy voice. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but my employer has asked me to deliver you this.” He handed Kenton a gilt-edged envelope. “It’s an invitation to diner this evening,” he said. “Mrs. Chrisman is a longtime admirer of the Illustrated American, and your work in particular, sir, and did not want you to depart Leadville without paying a call, if you will.”

  Kenton opened and read the neat little invitation card. “You may tell Mrs. Chrisman that we will be glad to attend.”

  “‘We’?” Gunnison said.

  “Yes—the invitation includes you…see?” He handed the card to Gunnison.

  “Mrs. Chrisman will be pleased, sir,” Gableman said. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business now, and look forward to your visit tonight. Thank you.” He gave a polite little dip of his long chin and turned toward the street, which was rapidly filling with Leadville’s morning traffic.

  At that moment a voice rang out from somewhere on the street: “Kenton! Brady Kenton!”

  “What the—”

  “Damn you, Kenton, come out here and face your accuser like a man!” the same voice cried. Now its source came into view through the bustle of people, almost all of whom now had stopped to observe what was happening.

  “That’s Mrs. Deverell’s nephew, isn’t it?” Kenton asked Gunnison without taking his eye off the approaching young man.

  “Yes—Straker I think his name is.”

  Straker’s face was red and his voice tight with seeming fury. He stopped about ten feet away from Kenton and spread his stance wide. A finger came up and shook toward Kenton’s face.

  Gableman, who looked very unsettled but no less dignified, quietly stepped back. This was not his affair.

  “Kenton, who the hell do you think you are, spreading what you’ve been spreading?” Straker demanded in a voice loud enough for everyone within a block to hear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kenton calmly replied.

  “I think you do, Mr. Kenton, I think you do. I’ve heard it from a dozen different places now—you’re spreading it across all Leadville that my uncle Squire is Briggs Garrett!”

  Kenton, seldom surprised by anything, was now surprised beyond words. “What? Deverell—I never…not once have I…”

  Gunnison, who was praying that the apparently furious Mark Straker had not come bearing weapons, looked around at the crowd. From at least a score of expressions he could tell that Straker’s remarkable accusation had been clearly heard by all of them. People began to whisper. Some backed away. Others drew nearer.

  “My uncle Squire has been generous to you in allowing you free lodging in his own rooms, and you repay it by accusing him in alleys and back rooms of being Garrett—damn your betraying soul, Kenton, I should have you arrested!”

  “I’ve never made such an accusation about your uncle,” Kenton said. “Blast it, the thought hasn’t even crossed my mind!”

  “Liar!” Straker shouted. “Liar! I know what you’ve been saying! Everyone knows!”

  Kenton was again too taken aback to complete a sentence. Straker stepped forward. “Out! Out of these quarters, right now! You’ll not stay another moment under Squire Deverell’s roof!”

  Kenton’s face was red, and his pulses throbbed visibly in his temples. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll be out within five minutes, though I question whether you have the right to force us out.”

  “Out! Or I’ll snap your neck with my own hands!”

  Kenton wheeled, then stopped. He turned again to face the crowd of people now gathered near the porch upon which he stood. “Hear me!” he called loudly. “This man doesn’t know me, or know what he’s talking about. I’m no barroom gossipmonger. I don’t spread rumors. When Brady Kenton makes accusations, he doesn’t do it in alleyway whispers, he does it in print—and with the facts to back it up.”

  Straker’s expression became even more angry, but inwardly he felt a rise of joy: Kenton could not have picked more self-damaging words, as Kenton himself would soon enough realize.

  Kenton said to Gunnison, “Come on, Alex. Let’s gather our things.”

  “Sir,” Gableman said, stepping in from the side.

  “Yes?” Kenton sounded angry, but Gableman apparently knew the anger was not directed at himself and did not seem to take offense.

  “I think I can tell you with reasonable assurance that Mrs. Chrisman will be glad to store your possessions for you until you can find new lodging. In fact, sir, she may be able to help you even on that latter score.�
�

  Kenton raised his brows. “Mrs. Chrisman seems to be a particularly helpful woman.”

  “Oh, she is, sir, she is.”

  Straker gave a final call. “Get moving, Kenton. I want you out of there right now!”

  Kenton’s face again went crimson. “You’ll have cause to regret this, Straker!” he shouted. Wheeling, he walked back into the building and toward the stairs. Gunnison followed.

  “That sounded an awful lot like a threat, Kenton,” Gunnison said. “Do you think you should have said it?”

  “Probably not, Alex. But my temper got the best of me, and what’s said is said. Come on—let’s get packing. I want to get out of here.”

  Chapter 27

  Gableman was still outside when Kenton and Alex emerged. Straker was gone, but clumps of people remained, talking among themselves and looking with great interest at Kenton when he reappeared.

  One man approached. “Mr. Kenton, my name is Allen, with the Lake County Reveille. I overheard the exchange a few minutes ago. Have you anything to say about Mr. Straker’s charges?”

  “I don’t think yelling on the street should receive the honor of being called ‘charges,’ Mr. Allen. And as I said earlier, I don’t make back-room accusations. Anything I have to say I will say in print, when the time is right.”

  “In the Illustrated American, you mean?”

  “I don’t want to talk any more about it, sir. Good day to you.”

  Allen touched his hat. “Thank you, Mr. Kenton. If you ever wish to say more, please call on me.” He turned and walked away.

  Gableman stepped forward. “If you’ll allow me, Mr. Kenton. I’ll carry your bags for you.”

  “No need, Gableman—I can handle them well enough. I hope our coming will be no imposition on Mrs. Chrisman.”

  “I think she will be glad to see you, sir.”

  They walked together toward Chestnut Street. As they were about to round a corner, another yell reached them.

  “Kenton! Kenton! Wait!”

  Kenton grimaced. “Not again!” he said beneath his breath as he turned.

  This time it wasn’t Straker or a newspaperman but Perk Starlin. He pounded up, breathing hard, his face flushed. “Kenton, I’m durned glad I saw you. You got to come.”

  “What is it, Perk?”

  “This will take a little while, in case you’re doing something else,” Perk said. He let his eyes flit over to Gableman and back again. The message was clear.

  Kenton turned to the black man. “Gableman, would you mind going on without us? I’ve seen Mrs. Chrisman’s house, so we can easily find it later.”

  “Very well, sir. When can we expect you?”

  “I honesty don’t know.”

  “Then at your convenience will be fine. As I said, I have no doubt Mrs. Chrisman will accommodate you now that you’re without shelter.” Gableman took the bags, said his good-bye, and walked away.

  “Who was that?” Perk asked.

  “His name is Gableman. He’s a butler for Ella Chrisman.”

  “Ella Chrisman! How did she come into things? And what did he mean by you being without shelter?”

  “I’ll explain all that, but first I want to know what’s got you so worked up.”

  Perk glanced around and spoke surreptitiously. “The police are trying to keep it quiet, but there was a hanging and burning last night.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me right. Up behind a mine storehouse just outside town. A man strung up to a pulley beam and set ablaze. The fire burnt the rope in two, and he fell. The mine watchman never saw a thing when it happened, but at first light he found the corpse all heaped up and smoking. And when he kicked him over, you’ll never guess what was under him.” Perk paused dramatically.

  “Go on, Perk, go on!”

  “A sign, handwrit on a piece of board. It said Briggs Garrett done the hanging. The police is all in a dither over it, and not just because of the sign and all. The man who was hung was Clance Sullivan.”

  Kenton and Gunnison looked at each other in horror. “Are you sure, Perk?”

  “I just came from the very spot myself—I was there even before the police were. I know that watchman, you see, and I was the first he told when he found the body. I went up and seen it, then took off before the police come around.”

  “They’re still there?”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “Take us there, then. Or at least tell us the way.”

  “Come on—I’ll get you close enough to find it and let you go on up alone. I don’t go around much where policemen are.”

  Marshal Kelly glared in displeasure when he saw Brady Kenton and Alex Gunnison coming around the corner of the mine storehouse. He stomped over and cut them off.

  “Who the devil steered you up here?” he demanded.

  “Never mind that. Is that Clance Sullivan’s body lying yonder?” Kenton asked.

  “Now it’s my turn to tell you to never mind. Turn your tail and get out of here, both of you!”

  “Come on, Kelly. Let us try to help you. We’ve been cooperative with you so far, haven’t we?”

  Kelly glowered at Kenton in silence, then sighed deeply. “What does it matter? You’ve already seen it now. Come on—if your stomach’s not too weak.”

  Gunnison could hardly bear to look at the blackened remains that had been Clance Sullivan.

  Kenton stared at the still-smoking corpse wordlessly, a grim expression on his face. “Do you have a theory as to who did this, or why?” Kenton asked Kelly.

  “Are you asking that for publication, or your own information?”

  “The latter.”

  “Well, I don’t know why I should tell you anything at all, but…here. Take a look at this.”

  He stepped up and took something from one of the three pale-faced officers. He handed it to Kenton.

  It was a board. On it was scratched the following: DONE BY BRIGS GARRAT.

  “Interesting,” Kenton said.

  “Disturbing is more to the point,” Kelly replied. “I can hardly doubt now that Briggs Garrett is alive, after all.”

  Kenton shook his head. “If alive he is, that board certainly doesn’t prove it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Briggs Garrett, I happen to know, was a reasonably educated man. He knew how to spell his own name at the very least.” He waved over at the corpse. “And he also knew how to tie a proper hangman’s noose. I can see from here that the knot yonder is only a slipknot.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That whoever did this was certainly not Briggs Garrett. It was someone trying to cover his guilt by making it appear that Garrett did it.”

  Kelly thought that over. “Perhaps you’re right, Kenton. But it’s hardly going to matter if word of this gets out. All of Leadville will take this as final proof that Briggs Garrett is alive and killing again, just like he did in the war.”

  “Word, I’m afraid, will get out,” Kenton said.

  Kelly faced him with a frown. “Is that some sort of threat?”

  “No—just an observation. Take a look.” Kenton pointed toward a clump of brush behind which a group of boys hid, watching the entire scene from only a dozen yards away.

  “Hey, you boys!” Kelly shouted. “Come out of there!”

  Come out they did, but they did not linger. They turned on their heels and scampered away.

  Kelly swore and stomped his feet. “Now,” he said, “all hell really will break loose.”

  The woman was one of those fortunate few who had not lost beauty along with youth. She sat in a small room, her eyes fixed on a face in a portrait hanging on the wall before her. Her lips were tightly shut, the pressure whitening the skin immediately around them. A soft knock on the door of the little room caused her to look away from the portrait a moment, but her eyes returned to it as she said, “Come in.”

  Gableman entered. “I did as you asked, Mrs. Chrisman. Mr. Kenton accepted your in
vitation very readily.”

  “Good,” she said. “Thank you, Gableman. I’m eager to hear whatever he has to say.”

  “There were some events that happened while I was with Mr. Kenton that you need to know of. I took a liberty I hope you will find acceptable.” Gableman succinctly described what had happened between Mark Straker and Kenton, and his tentative offer of lodging for the journalists.

  “You presumed correctly, Gableman,” Ella Chrisman said. “It would be useful indeed to have Mr. Kenton and his associate under this roof. Tell me—did Kenton deny the things this Straker man said about Squire Deverell?”

  “Not directly. He said only that any accusations he made would be in print. Of course, I didn’t question him myself.”

  “Of course. Perhaps I’ll be able to clarify the matter with him personally. Where is he now?”

  “He and his partner were called aside by a man while we were coming here. I don’t know what the business was, but it seemed urgent, and the two of them left with him.”

  “I see. I’ll have to be patient, then. And patient I can afford to be, as long as I’ve waited.” She stared more deeply at the portrait. “I can feel it, Gableman—a great sense of anticipation. Answers are coming that I’ve wanted so many years now. At last I’m going to know the truth.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gableman watched her a moment as she stared at the portrait on the wall. When he saw a tear roll down her cheek, he looked away.

  “I’ll leave you alone now, Mrs. Chrisman.”

  “I’m not alone,” she said. “I’m never alone when I’m with my Jerome.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” Gableman turned and left the room.

  Chapter 28

  Mary Deverell was struggling hard to avoid becoming either angry or hysterical with her husband. “You must listen to me!” she said, stepping in front of him to block him from reaching the door. Outside, the sun was edging westward. “It’s no longer safe for you to go out, not after what Brady Kenton has done to you!”

  “Brady Kenton’s done nothing, and your nephew’s words to the contrary don’t mean a thing. You’re foolish to trust Mark so much, Mary. You don’t know him for what he really is.”