by Cameron Judd
“He’s a good boy, Squire—it’s you who’s wrong about him, not me. If he wasn’t a good boy, why would he have warned us about Kenton?”
“Because he’s a born liar. Mary, if Brady Kenton had been going around telling people I was really Briggs Garrett, you think I wouldn’t have heard of it by now? I don’t know what sort of trick Mark is trying to pull, but a trick it is, I assure you. Now, I’ve gone along with your worrying and fretting all day, but I’ve got business that needs doing over at Number Three”—the reference was to his newest mine—“and Willie will be gone from there within an hour. So let me pass, woman!”
Mary Deverell’s wrinkled face fell, but she stepped aside. “Please, Squire, be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he replied, pulling aside his lightweight riding coat to reveal the Remington holstered beneath it. He left the house and trotted lightly down to the street.
“Uncle Squire!” Mark Straker’s voice came around the corner of the building. He had just descended from his upstairs quarters. “You shouldn’t be leaving alone—let me go with you.”
“I’d sooner have the devil by my side,” Deverell snapped. “Come to think of it, there would be little enough difference.”
“Please let Mark go with you,” Mary Deverell pleaded from the door.
“No—let him stay here. Protect you from all the gunfighters and bugaboos supposedly coming to get me.”
Straker, a sad expression on his face, walked up to his aunt’s side and took her hand, watching as Deverell rounded the house on the opposite side, heading for his stable. “I do wish he wouldn’t be so stubborn,” Straker said. “And I wish he would give me more of a chance. I’ve never understood why he dislikes me so. Sometimes I think the only reason he lets me stay is that you care for me, Aunt Mary.”
“Squire’s a hard man,” she answered. “Someday he’ll appreciate you. I know he will.”
Deverell came riding back around the house on his favorite chestnut mare. He glanced over at his wife and Straker as he passed, his sour feelings toward the younger man evident in his expression. An evening wind gusted through, sending the dust that Deverell’s mare kicked up blowing down the street. Straker’s quick eye caught something else blowing in that breeze—a broad sheet of paper, printed on one side.
“Let’s get you inside, Aunt Mary,” he said. “I’ll be right in and stay with you until Uncle Squire gets back.”
Mary Deverell, ever obedient to her beloved nephew, entered the house. Straker waited until she was well inside, then darted over and caught the blowing paper. He turned it over and by dusklight read the freshly printed title that spread across the top: CONFESSION OF A TRAVELING JOURNALIST.
Straker smiled. Shapiro had done his job well. Carefully folding the broadside, he tucked it under his shirt and headed back toward the Deverell house.
Squire Deverell usually enjoyed riding in the wind, but this evening there was something different in the restless atmosphere. The road out to the Number Three seemed lonely and long, and the darkening sky lowered Deverell’s spirits. Maybe it was all Mary’s keening and fretting affecting him, Deverell speculated. Maybe it was the vague chance that Mark had been telling the truth about Brady Kenton’s alleged storytelling.
Deverell did not know that Straker had evicted Kenton and Gunnison from the quarters he had lent them; Straker had urged his aunt to say nothing of it yet in light of Deverell’s obvious admiration of Kenton. So it was that Deverell was considering the possibility of riding back home by way of the new store building and asking Kenton man-to-man about Mark Straker’s talk when from a clump of trees on the left side of the road stepped a man with a gun on his hip. Deverell’s heart seemed to grab his ribs and shake them like a prisoner shaking cell bars. He pulled his mare to a halt.
“Hello, Squire Deverell,” the man said, his fingers twitching near the butt of his pistol. “Of course, that ain’t your real name, is it?”
Deverell let his own hand creep toward the flap of his coat, beneath which his own pistol was hidden. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?” he demanded.
“The name’s Raglow. Bill Raglow. You remember that name for as long as you’re able, which won’t be long. The rest of the world’s going to remember it a lot longer. Bill Raglow—the man who gunned down Briggs Garrett.”
Deverell said, “Briggs Garrett is dead.”
Raglow grinned. “That right? I hear different. What I hear is that Briggs Garrett is you.”
Deverell forced out a laugh. “That’s loco. Where’d you hear something like that?”
“Didn’t really hear it. Read it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take a look for yourself.” Raglow reached behind him and pulled a folded piece of paper from a back pocket. Wadding it with one hand, he tossed it at Deverell, who caught it.
His hands shook as he unfolded it in the waning light. It was the broadside printed by Shapiro. He read the title line and a few lines of the body, then let the paper fall to the ground.
“Brady Kenton?” he asked weakly.
“Never gives no name, but who else could it be?” Raglow said. “Mr. Garrett, I’m right sorry to have to kill you. I’d love to hear you tell about some of them hangings you’ve done. But you know how it is.”
Raglow abruptly drew his pistol and fired. Deverell felt something hot and slicing sear his shoulder as the bullet plowed a shallow furrow. Letting out a piercing yell, Deverell ducked low in the saddle and spurred his horse forward. The mare, spooked by the shot, shied and almost reared. Raglow leveled his pistol again, stepping forward. Once more Deverell spurred, and this time the mare responded. Surging forward, she knocked Raglow to the ground.
Raglow swore and pushed himself up to fire at Deverell as he rode swiftly away. One bullet after another zipped above and around Deverell. Upon hearing shot number six, he jerked his horse to a stop and turned toward Raglow.
Raglow, barely visible in the last traces of daylight, was fumbling for bullets. Deverell spurred the mare, sending it charging forward. Raglow panicked, dropping bullets that just wouldn’t go into the chambers.
Deverell barreled down upon him relentlessly. Raglow finally got a fresh bullet in but realized at the same moment that it was too late to fire, too late to dodge. He threw his arms into the air as the mare slammed him to the ground and pounded over him with hooves that felt like hammers.
Deverell rode on over the man, pivoted the mare, and came back again. Raglow tried to crawl away, but the effort was hopeless. Once again the hooves hammered him into the dirt.
A few moments passed during which he lost consciousness. When Deverell ran his mare over him again and yet again, he did not feel it.
Panting, filled with both fear and rage, Deverell finally stopped his repeated trampling of Raglow. He had done it almost unwittingly, out of pure self-protective instinct. Now the sight of the battered body made him feel sick, and he leaned out of the saddle and emptied his stomach.
When that was done, he took several deep breaths and began riding as fast as the mare could run back toward Leadville.
Mary Deverell almost fainted when she saw the blood on her husband’s shoulder.
“Oh, Squire, what happened to you?”
“I’m all right, Mary, I’m all right.” Deverell turned to Mark Straker. “I believe you now. There’s a broadside that’s been published—apparently Kenton’s work. It identifies me as Briggs Garrett.”
“I found a copy of it on the street after you left. I tried to warn you, Uncle,” Straker said.
Usually Deverell despised it when Straker called him by that familiar designation, but this time he did not voice his usual protest. “It’s not safe for me here now,” he said. “One man has already tried to kill me.”
Straker’s brows lifted. “How did you get away?”
“I ran him down with my horse. But if there’s one like him, there’s probably a hundred. We’ve got to get out of this house, r
ight now.”
“I know a place we can go,” Straker said. “An empty hut, well hidden, out toward California Gulch. The old Darwin place.”
“Fine, fine. Let’s go, right now. Mary, gather some food, clothing.”
Mrs. Deverell took a carpetbag from a wardrobe and retreated quickly to the kitchen to begin packing it with food.
Deverell looked at Straker probingly. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, young man,” he said. “I see now you were really trying to give me fair warning. Damn that betraying Brady Kenton—I’ll kill him when I see him next! And to think I’ve kept him under a roof of my own…”
“He’s already gone from beneath that roof,” said Straker. “I ran him out this morning, and challenged him about his accusations about you. He vowed he would make me regret it. Said he would make his accusations in print. I suppose he meant the broadside.”
The front door burst open, and a man came in carrying a copy of the broadside in one hand and a pistol in the other. His expression was wild as he lifted the gun.
“It’s gone far enough, Straker,” George Currell said. “It’s time for the lies to end.”
Chapter 29
Straker stepped forward. “What are you doing here, Currell?” His voice was heavy with threat.
“Coming to tell the truth about you, Straker. I can’t carry this around in my conscience anymore. These people have a right to know what you’re up to.”
“You’re drunk, Currell,” Straker said. Looking back at the Deverells, he said, “He’s drunk. Look at him.”
“Yeah, I’m drunk. I been drunk for a long time now. It took getting drunk for me to finally get the courage to do what I had to do.”
Mary Deverell clasped her hands together. “He’s going to kill Squire!” she said despairingly. “Stop him, Mark!”
Straker advanced another step. “Get out of here, Currell. I’m taking my aunt and uncle to safety.”
Currell waved the broadside. “Did you write this, Straker?”
Straker said, “Did you hear that? He’s not only drunk, he’s crazy!”
Deverell, his face white with fear, said, “Currell, say what you’ve got to say.”
“He’s crazy! Can’t you see that?” Straker said in a near shout.
“I want to hear what he’s got to say.” Deverell’s expression made it clear that his newfound trust in his wife’s nephew didn’t run very deep.
“Don’t listen to him—can’t you see he’s trying to trick you, Uncle Squire? He’s come to kill you because he believes you’re Garrett, just like everyone does.”
Currell looked at Deverell. “This is Straker’s doing,” he said. “Straker planned it all. He wants to see you get killed so he can have your inheritance. That means he’s got to get Mrs. Deverell killed too.”
“No!” Mary Deverell yelled. “That’s not true! Mark would never—”
“Hush, Mary,” Deverell said. “Let him have his say.”
Mark Straker lunged forward, grasping Currell’s gun arm and wrenching it up before the drunken man could react. The two closed and grappled, falling to the floor.
The men writhed and struggled for only a moment before the gun went off. The sound of it was very loud in the room.
Brady Kenton tied his tie with a deft twist of fingers and wrists.
Gunnison, already dressed for dinner, combed his hair to perfect neatness in the ornately framed mirror above the bureau. “Seems strange to be dressing to be a dinner guest after what happened today,” he said through the door that connected his room to Kenton’s. He and Kenton had been at these new quarters in the spacious Chrisman home since earlier in the day.
“It does,” agreed Kenton. “But I don’t think we’re wasting our time by any means. I have a feeling we may find some answers tonight. Mrs. Chrisman seems to have a remarkable interest in making the acquaintance of everyone involved in this situation of ours.”
“You think she may know something about Garrett?”
“Perhaps she does. Or perhaps she’s just curious. Either way, I hope to know before the evening is over.”
After a few more moments, Gunnison asked, “Kenton, who do you think killed Clance Sullivan?”
“I don’t know. It could have been anyone with a grudge against him, or any common criminal he might have tried to arrest. Whoever it was, he was clever enough to make use of the Garrett rumors…if only he had known how to spell.”
Kenton gave a final tug to his tie. “I wonder what Ella Chrisman looks like.” So far, he and Gunnison had seen no one but Gableman since their arrival. He had directed them promptly to their rooms without meetings or introductions.
Gunnison, for his part, was wondering more about the young girl he had seen that day in the upper window overlooking Chestnut Street. It had been a distant view, but she had struck him as pretty. He wondered if she would be at dinner, then felt guilty about his thoughts. After all, he was engaged. That put certain obligations upon him…even though the engagement had been arranged more by his parents and Glorietta Sweat’s than by him and Glorietta. Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t face the fact he didn’t really love Glorietta and call the entire thing off before it was too late.
Gableman met them downstairs. “Please have a seat in the parlor. Mrs. Chrisman will be down to greet you shortly.”
They sat down in a side room filled with expensive chairs, carpeted with a thick green rug, lined with heavily varnished paneling. It reminded Gunnison of the parlor of an old New York home, but without the musty smell that tells an old house’s age. No building in Leadville was authentically old.
They waited ten minutes. Kenton grew restless, stood, and began studying the paintings on the wall. At last the parlor door opened, and a woman entered. She was middle-aged, striking in appearance, her hair a mix of black and silver. She wore a dress that would have been perfectly at home at the most elegant East Coast soirée.
“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Ella Chrisman.”
“We are honored to meet you, ma’am. I am Brady Kenton, and this is my associate, Alex Gunnison.”
After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Mrs. Chrisman said, “Please come this way, gentlemen. Dinner is ready to be served.”
And a fine dinner it was, served by Gableman and a very pretty Irish servant girl named Fiona. She came in and out from the adjacent kitchen, green eyes fluttering at Gunnison—or so Gunnison fancied. His heart fluttered in return. This was a house full of beautiful women, and he wondered why the one he had seen in the upstairs window apparently was not to dine with them.
The hostess, who asked her guests to call her Ella, presented herself as an admirer of Kenton’s work and asked him many questions about his career. As usual, Gunnison received much less attention, a distant star twinkling unnoticed while Kenton’s sun beamed. But it didn’t bother him any more than usual, for he was used to being overlooked, and tonight there was the Irish girl to divert him.
Dinner was pheasant and finely spiced vegetables, rich wheat rolls, butter, and a fine pudding. Coffee preceded and followed the wine. When the meal was done, Gunnison and Kenton were content. Kenton had talked through most of the meal, answering questions, describing his most colorful experiences (those, at least, that could be told to a woman of distinction), even talking some of Victoria. It was the first time Gunnison had heard him do so at this length, and there did not seem to be the usual sadness associated with it. Ella seemed to put him at ease. When dinner ended, Gunnison noted that contrary to expectations, the subject of Mickey Scarborough and Briggs Garrett had not come up.
After dinner, Ella showed the journalists the lower level of the house, then took them up to the second floor, much of which consisted of a remarkable library.
“I have collected fine volumes throughout my life,” she said. “There are many first editions here, some of great value. And I’m glad to be able to say I’ve read most. Many collectors are more interested in possessing books than reading them, you know.”
“True,” Kenton said. “My late cousin Wilfred was such a man. He collected volume upon volume, piling them onto shelves…a man purely obsessed. But he seldom read. His books wound up ruining his life. He climbed a shelf one day, looking for Victor Hugo, and the entire stack collapsed on him. Banged up his spine. He was hunchbacked the rest of his days. He finally had to resort to bell ringing to support himself.”
Ella looked at Kenton warily, caught the twinkle in his eye, and laughed. “Come,” she said. “I have my rarest volumes—including Hugo—locked up downstairs in my office. I would like to show them to you.”
Gunnison asked permission to remain in the library so he could further examine the books and perhaps sketch the remarkable room for the Illustrated American. The request was gladly granted; it was Gunnison’s impression that Kenton and Ella wanted to be alone.
In the library, Gunnison thumbed through books and read countless titles on musty stiff spines. Kenton and Ella did not return. When Gunnison grew tired of the books, he opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony. It overlooked a yard much larger than he would have guessed. Surrounded by a tall board fence, it extended back a good hundred and fifty feet. At the rear stood a small house—not a shack, but a cottage, tightly built and painted a creamy brown. A light burned in the window.
“Coffee, sir?”
He turned. It was Fiona, standing in the French doors, smiling prettily.
“Yes, thank you.” Gunnison took a cup. “How long have you been with Ella—Mrs. Chrisman, Fiona?”
Her pretty brow wrinkled. “Oh, it’s been these seven months now,” her appealing Irish voice said. “I joined her after Mr. Chrisman…departed.”
“I see. Do you enjoy your work?”
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Chrisman is a delight. Always kind and fair.”
“Tell me—the young woman who lives upstairs, who is she? I saw her at the window recently.”
