The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  Kenton held the lamp higher, and light spilled onto the face.

  “Currell!”

  And so it was. The man’s face was pale. A little blood leaked from the corner of his mouth and stained his mustache.

  “Who did this to you?” Kenton asked.

  Currell’s eyes trembled open. “Mark Straker…shot me.”

  “We’ll get you help, Currell, right away.”

  Currell grabbed Kenton by the collar with the unencumbered hand. “No…not yet. First you’ve got to listen to me! Got to hear me out. Straker’s got to be stopped.”

  The man obviously was determined. “Go ahead, then,” Kenton said.

  “It was Straker behind everything all along…he wants his uncle’s inheritance. He’s in the will to get it all when Mr. and Mrs. Deverell die. He had that broadside printed so people would think Deverell is Garrett…. You seen it?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  Gunnison asked, “Currell, was it you who kept Chop-off Johnson from killing Lundy and me at Deverell’s mine?”

  “Yes…I wouldn’t be part of no more murdering.” He stopped, swallowed, moaned from his pain.

  “‘Murdering’? What are you saying?”

  “Listen to me…Straker is bad. A lot of the robberies and such going on, he’s been behind them. He keeps a lot of the local footpads supplied with opium, cheap liquor, and such in return for a cut of what they take. A man named Jimmy Rhoder started doing the same at his billiard hall. Straker got mad, went over drunk one night. Lynched Rhoder right in his own building, then set the place afire. Then he paid Chop-off Johnson and me to take Rhoder’s body and dump it in Deverell’s empty mine. Me and Chop-off thought that when the body was hid, that would be the end of it.”

  Currell paused, groaning. The exertion of talking was hard on him, but he forced himself on. “When that Scarborough fellow collapsed on stage hollering about Briggs Garrett, the whole town got to talking about it. That started Straker to thinking, trying to figure some way to use those rumors to his advantage. He finally figured a way to cover up Rhoder’s murder once and for all and get his hands on his inheritance besides.

  “He told Chop-off and me to get Rhoder’s body back, put it somewhere where it would be found. That’s why Chop-off and me was at the mine that night, Gunnison. Straker’s idea was that folks would believe Briggs Garrett had killed Rhoder, and we would all be free and clear. Then he could spread the rumor that Deverell is Garrett, and somebody would shoot him or string him up.

  “Chop-off and me went along with it all, but after it went bad at the mine, Chop-off went loco and decided on his own to get rid of the O’Donovan boy. All that time I was getting jumpy. I wanted out. It bothered me bad that the Deverells would have to die for Straker to get what he wanted. I never cared much for Deverell himself, but Mrs. Deverell, she’s a good woman. She don’t deserve to be murdered. When I saw that printed paper tonight, I came down here to tell Deverell the truth. But Straker was here—shot me down before I could talk. I think he thought he killed me, but I was conscious enough to still hear him. He took the Deverells off somewhere, telling them he was going to keep them safe. I heard mention of the old Darwin cabin in California Gulch.”

  Currell was speaking more slowly and softly as he went on, weakening, and there was more blood on the corner of his lip, gurgling up from inside him.

  “You’ve got to stop talking now,” Kenton said “We have to get you to a doctor.”

  “Too late for me…just listen to me, please. I passed out after they left. When I came to, I tried to get up on that cabinet and just pulled it over. Thank God you heard it, Kenton. Thank God. Now maybe you can stop Straker.”

  Wearied by the exertion of talking, Currell relaxed and seemed to sink back deeper into the floor. His eyes closed.

  “Don’t go out on me, Currell. Tell me how to reach the Darwin cabin.”

  “Like I said…California Gulch…” He was fading out fast.

  Kenton said, “Currell, I’m sending Alex to find help for you. I’ll stay beside you until it arrives.”

  “No! No time…you got to stop Straker…before it’s too late.”

  Kenton propped a pillow from the sofa behind Currell’s head and covered him with a decorative quilt he pulled down from the wall. “We’ll stop him, Currell. I promise you.”

  Currell spoke without opening his eyes. “You get Straker for me, Kenton. And save Mrs. Deverell. Tell her I was sorry for what I did.”

  “We’ll get you patched up. You’ll live, Currell. You’ll have the chance to tell her yourself.”

  Currell did not answer him. He opened his eyes wide, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. When the breath was gone, so was the luster of his eyes.

  Kenton pulled the quilt up over Currell’s face.

  Chapter 32

  They found the police station empty.

  “They’re gone, every last one of them,” said the old man behind the desk.

  “What’s happening?” Kenton asked.

  “Ain’t you heard? Vigilantes! Going to get Briggs Garrett. They know now who he is, you know—that Squire Deverell fellow. It was writ up on a paper and spread all over town. And we hear that Deverell’s nephew what lives with him showed up in town a little while ago and told folks that he couldn’t stand to hide the truth no longer. Said Deverell really is Garrett, just like the story said. Now he’s going to lead some vigilantes down to where Deverell is holed up. Marshal Kelly got wind of it and has every man out trying like the devil to find where the vigilantes are gathering up.”

  Kenton and Gunnison left the office in a rush. “We’ve got to find Deverell before the vigilantes do,” Kenton said. “At least we know roughly where he is.”

  “California Gulch…that’s Perk Starlin’s area, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and Perk will know where that Darwin cabin is. Come on—we’re going to the stable and get him and some transportation.”

  The pair found Perk Starlin easily enough and even more easily persuaded him to throw aside his watchman duties at the stable and go with them. Perk was ready at any moment for whatever excitement he could find.

  “I know the Darwin place. We’ll take the wagon,” Perk said. “She’s ready to hitch in the back.”

  “I didn’t know you had a wagon,” Kenton said.

  “I don’t. It belongs to Horace Tabor. It’s just parked here for the night for safekeeping.” Seeing Kenton’s expression, Perk seemed offended. “Don’t look that way—we ain’t going to hurt it none!”

  Kenton didn’t argue under these circumstances, and within minutes they set off. While the wagon rattled down a dark road, Kenton explained the complex situation to Perk as best he could. Perk, simple as he seemed, was actually keen-minded, and well before they neared the area of the Darwin shack, he had a grasp of what was going on. “Sounds to me like you might ought to let me do the first talking,” said Perk. “Deverell won’t trust you right now. He does trust me—I guarded one of his mines a few months back.”

  Perk lifted a finger like a railroad spike and pointed to the east. “The Darwin cabin is right beyond that little ridge. The road curves around. We’ll ride in close, and then I’ll holler.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Gunnison ventured.

  “Better than surprising him,” Perk said. “I’ll wager he’s got that old pistol of his gripped tighter than a fat lady’s bloomers. I tried to buy that pistol off him once, I did. He told me where to go.”

  By the time they stopped the wagon, Gunnison was shaking and feeling cold, but it was more from tension than temperature. He kept looking back toward the road, waiting for the inevitable procession of men—masked, they would probably be—who would eventually come down in silent as phantoms, carrying guns and a noose. He hoped Perk could convince Deverell they were here to help rather than hurt and get them all out in time.

  They left the wagon and went to the top of the ridge. The cabin stood below. It was dark, but they could feel presence
s there in the blackness below.

  “Do what you can, Mr. Starlin,” Kenton said.

  Perk cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and yelled: “Mr. Deverell! You in there?”

  Silence. Then the rattling of a shutter, the click of a pistol hammer. Gunnison noticed how loud things like that can sound to someone tense and scared in the darkness, smelling danger like a stench in the air.

  “Mr. Deverell, it’s Perk Starlin! Listen—I come here to help you. I hear you’re in a sort of a bad spot right now.”

  More silence. But suddenly Deverell’s voice came riding up on the breeze. “Is that really you, Perk?”

  “In the flesh. You got to listen to me, Mr. Deverell. Mark Straker has got you fooled. He didn’t bring you out here for safety—he brought you out to get you in a good isolated spot for a lynching. You understand?”

  Again there was no sound, but they could all but hear the clicking of Deverell’s mind as he took it all in.

  “Think about it, Mr. Deverell—has Mark Straker ever done anything good for you before? Has he ever looked out for anybody but himself? He wants you killed, and your Missus too, so he can get your inheritance.”

  A pause. “How can I know who to believe?” Deverell called back. “You might be out to get me! I can’t trust anyone!”

  “Mr. Deverell, you were always square with me whenever I dealt with you, and I’m being square with you.”

  “How’d you know where to find me?” Deverell yelled, still sounding suspicious.

  Perk looked over at Kenton, not knowing how he could respond to that without mentioning Kenton. Kenton, for once, seemed at a loss for an answer. But before the pause became long enough to seem suspicious, Perk called back, “It was Straker! He’s telling folks in town where you are. He’s going to bring a bunch of vigilantes back here! Didn’t you wonder why he cut out and left you here so quick?”

  “He said he was going to get us more food,” Deverell said. “It did strike me kind of strange.”

  The wind was soft but sounded loud there in the noiseless night. All at once, a new voice spoke—Mrs. Deverell, sounding loud and upset. She was talking, pleading with her husband. Those outside could make out only what fragments the shifting wind happened to carry their way. The gist of it was clear, though: She didn’t trust Perk Starlin, and Deverell did.

  Finally Deverell said over the protesting voice of his wife, “We’re coming out!”

  Kenton reached over and patted Perk on the shoulder, grinning. Perk looked pleased with himself.

  Light from a newly lit lamp rose in the windows, then the cabin door swung open and the Deverells stepped out. As Perk had predicted, Deverell had a big pistol in one hand. In the other was the lamp. Mrs. Deverell was clinging to him and looked wilted and feeble there on the dark porch.

  Perk stood so they could see him, and waved. Right then Gunnison heard something on the road behind, a sound from far away carried on the wind, making him think of wartime and military advances by night.

  It was the noise of tramping hooves.

  When Deverell saw Kenton, he gave the look of a man betrayed and raised his pistol. “I knew I shouldn’t trust you,” he said to Perk. “That man there may well be the very reason I’m in the fix I am.”

  “I had nothing to do with those rumors or that broadside,” Kenton said. “Mark Straker was responsible for both.”

  Deverell lowered the pistol a little. “Currell said the same thing.”

  “Listen!” Gunnison said.

  The sound of approaching riders was a little louder than before, though still distant.

  “Hear that, Deverell? That’s a lynch mob,” Kenton said. “I guarantee you that at the head of it is Mark Straker, putting on a show of pretended sorrow that his uncle is really Briggs Garrett. I’m sure he’s told the crowd about how sorry he is to have to turn on his own blood kin but that for the sake of justice, he’ll make that sacrifice. Straker is a snake, a liar, a Judas. Come on, Deverell—let’s get you out of here while we can!”

  “There’s heaps of old empty feed sacks and stuff in the back of the wagon. We can hide the Deverells under there,” Perk said.

  “And Alex and me too,” Kenton said. “I think our presence out here at this time of night would be difficult to explain to those vigilantes, thanks to that damned broadside.”

  Mary Deverell appeared to have given up. She leaned on her husband, who had by now let his pistol arm sag back toward the ground again. He looked as drained and weak as his wife.

  “What if they want to search the wagon?” Gunnison asked.

  Kenton bit his lip, thinking. “I wish I had a good bottle of whiskey right now.”

  Perk said, “I got a flask in my pocket, though it seems a right bad moment to be taking time out for a drink.”

  “In this case it’s not for drinking, just for spilling,” Kenton said.

  Perk, a confused look on his face, reached into his pocket and came out with a half-full flask of cheap whiskey that he handed to Kenton. Kenton opened it, walked over to Gunnison, and began pouring liquor down the inside of his shirt. Gunnison yelped in surprise.

  “Take a good mouthful and swish it around so your breath will smell of it,” Kenton said. “What worked one time might work a second—if we can dirty your face enough to keep Straker from recognizing you.” He wet his hand with whiskey, reached to the ground, brought up a handful of moistened dirt, and smeared it on Gunnison’s face.

  The younger man began to understand what Kenton’s idea was and gave himself a good mussing. In the meantime Kenton quickly explained his plan. When he was done, they went to the wagon. Kenton and Gunnison helped the Deverells into the back and covered them with empty sacks, then they too crawled under.

  “I can hear ’em clear now,” Perk said from the driver’s seat. “You all stay good and still, hear?”

  The wagon lurched out onto the road again. When they were a hundred yards from the old shack, Perk began to sing loudly “Bringing in the Sheaves.” For a coarse old watchman, he had a surprisingly decent voice.

  Chapter 33

  Beneath the cover it was difficult to breathe, and what air the hidden ones sucked into their lungs was filled with dust and grit from the feed sacks. Gunnison fought to stifle insistent urges to cough and sneeze.

  They rolled along, buried in cloth and darkness, hearing the creak of the wagon wheels on the road. Above it all was Perk’s voice: “…by and by the harvest, and the labor ended, we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves!”

  Now Gunnison heard something else and sensed the presence of others. The silent vigilantes were approaching; he knew it even though he couldn’t see them. The others knew too; Gunnison felt Mrs. Deverell tense beside him, felt her husband patting her hand.

  Perk began a new selection, one that did nothing to put anyone at ease: “In the sweet—by an’ by—we shall meet on that beautiful shore…”

  The wagon creaked to a stop. Perk stopped singing. Everything was far too silent for a quarter of a minute. The vigilantes and Perk were facing off.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Perk finally said. He lifted his now nearly empty whiskey bottle. “Care to scour your gullet a little?”

  “No.” The voice, filtered through a mask, was humorless and sandy. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Perk Starlin. Best watchman west of Denver. Dang good wagon driver, too.”

  “And a drunk, it would appear.” The speaker sounded disgusted. Whoever this vigilante was, Gunnison found him peculiarly moralistic for a man heading out to take the life of another without trial or real evidence.

  “It so happensh I am a drunk, sir,” Perk slurred back. “My father wuzza drunk, an’ my grandmother afore him.”

  Nobody laughed. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”

  Perk turned up the flask, drank the last swallow, then belched loudly. “I wash wondering the same about you fellowsh, masked up an’ all like you are.”

  “You answer my
question.” One of them shifted in a saddle and levered a rifle.

  “Well, to tell you truth, I jush been out drinkin’. Ain’t nothin’ to brag on, I know, but ish the straight fact.”

  “You came all the way out here just to drink?”

  “Well, yeah. Man gets drunk in town, he c’n get arreshted.”

  “What’s in the back of the wagon?”

  Every muscle in Gunnison’s neck became hard as granite; he felt as stiff as a cemetery statue.

  “Jush some feed sacksh.”

  “Well, you won’t mind us taking a look, then.”

  Gunnison’s moment had come. Sending up a silent prayer, he let out a loud sputtering cough, groaned, and sat up, pushing aside the feed sacks that had covered his face and chest. “Perk, whash happenin’? Whur are we?” He hoped his drunken slur was as convincing as Perk’s had been.

  “We met us shome frien’s on the road, Willie,” Perk said. “These gents’re out getting some fresh air and wearin’ corn-meal sacks over their headsh ta keep their ears warm.” He gave an inebriated cackle.

  “Who is this?” the vigilante leader demanded.

  “That there’s my frien’ Willie Smith. Him and me wash drinkin’ tagether.” Perk took on a worried look. “He ain’t like me—comes from good family. He’s gotta repatation. Gets back to his daddy that he was out drinking, an’ ish hell to pay for him. That’s why I didn’t tell you about him. You won’t tell, will you?”

  The leader peered at Gunnison through holes in sackcloth. He shook his head. “Have you been near the old Darwin cabin?” he asked Perk.

  “We rode close by, we did.”

  “Any sign of life about it?”

  “Seems we shaw a light, didn’ we, Willie? Thash right—we sure did see a light there.”

  The vigilante leader waved his hand. “You two get on. Forget you saw us, and we’ll forget about you. Not a word, understand?”

  “I didn’t see a thing, mishter. Not a shingle thing. You, Willie?”

  “Notta thing.” Gunnison coughed again and tried to look as if he might get unpleasantly sick at any moment.