The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  Mere days ago, he had been with Kenton in eastern Montana, working on what was to Gunnison a rather boring story about ranching, when Kenton had vanished. He’d received a batch of mail forwarded to him from the Illustrated American home office. Kenton went through it, turned brooding and moody and incommunicative all at once—a mood that alternated, oddly, with barely restrained bursts of excitement. Kenton had studied one letter intently, over and over, and jotted down notes on every available scrap of paper. He drank a little too much, too, as he sometimes did in times of depression or excitement.

  Then, before Gunnison knew it, Kenton was gone.

  Once Gunnison realized that Kenton had abandoned him yet again, he began the search-and-follow process that had led him this far. Some of Kenton’s left-behind scribbled notes gave him the lead he needed. Gunnison had taken the train west.

  As best Gunnison could ascertain from the notes, Kenton was headed for the mountains and the mining town of Gomorrah, southwest of where Gunnison was now, to meet a man who had written to him, promising some valuable information.

  What that information purported to concern astonished Gunnison so much, though, he could hardly believe he was rightly interpreting the notes.

  “Well, well! It’s Alex Gunnison himself! I do believe my eyes haven’t deceived me!”

  The voice from behind, unexpected and instantly identifiable by its slightly high pitch and subtle Irish accent, made Gunnison cringe. He turned reflexively, too quickly to hide his expression of surprise.

  The sight of Paul Callon’s grinning face, ruddy and broad, topped with curling dark hair and framed by thick sideburns, greeted him. Callon advanced, hand outthrust, small eyes moving quickly, sizing up and evaluating Alex Gunnison from head to toe.

  Gunnison knew what Callon was doing: He was examining him for any possible clues about why he might be here in Greer City—a map or train ticket sticking out of a pocket, perhaps, clothing freshly rumpled in the back to indicate recent long travel on train or stage, the amount and type of dirt on his shoes, and so on.

  Callon fancied himself an expert in observation and deduction. He overrated his detective skills, but as a journalist for the National Observor and Gallery, a publication that fought hard for market inroads against the Illustrated American, was a talented and formidable competitor. He was an excellent writer, one of the nation’s most skilled illustrators, and a work-alone reporter with the aggressiveness of a rabid dog. Everyone associated with the Illustrated American, including Gunnison, wished he’d find a new line of work.

  Nevertheless, there were professional courtesies to maintain, civilized men and all that sort of thing. Gunnison put out his own hand. “Paul, good to see you,” he lied with a smile.

  “Ah, yes. Always a pleasure when our paths cross,” Callon lied right back, pumping Gunnison’s hand with vigor. “But I must say I’m not surprised to see you. You’re on your way to Gomorrah, no doubt.”

  Gunnison was surprised. “Well…yes. I am. Are you?”

  “Oh, certainly. Astonishing, isn’t it? Have you any theories about how to explain it?”

  “Explain it?”

  “Yes. What do you think it is? What caused it?”

  “Caused it…”

  Callon laughed. “Are you going to repeat everything I say, Alex?”

  “No. No…I’m sorry.” He surrendered. Time to confess. “Paul, I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Callon cocked a brow. “Then why are you going to Gomorrah?”

  “To find Brady Kenton. I think he’s already gone there.”

  Callon’s face fell. “Kenton is in Gomorrah?”

  “I have reason to think so.”

  “Blast it all! I’d hoped I could, at the least, be among the first journalists there.”

  “Paul, obviously something has happened at Gomorrah that I don’t know about.”

  Callon seemed stunned to hear Gunnison say this. “You mean you actually haven’t heard about the Gomorrah incident?”

  “No, I admit I haven’t.”

  “Well, surely Kenton has—why else would he have gone there?”

  “Personal reasons, I think.”

  Callon looked condescendingly smug. “And he didn’t take you with him. He’s abandoned you like this before, hasn’t he?”

  There was no point in trying to cover up what was, unfortunately, a well-known truth within Gunnison’s professional circles. “Yes. Several places. Dodge, Leadville…”

  Callon suddenly grew serious. “Alex, how long has Kenton been in Gomorrah?”

  “I don’t really know. He could have been there a couple of days, I suppose. Why?”

  Callon blanched. “Oh, my. Competitor though he may be, I’m not happy to hear that. I hope he’s all right.”

  Gunnison stepped forward and grabbed Callon by the collar. “What do you mean, ‘all right’? Why shouldn’t he be? Exactly what happened at Gomorrah?”

  Callon, stunned by Gunnison’s aggressiveness, said, “There was a fire. A very big one…many people killed. If Kenton was there…”

  “A fire?” Gunnison let go of Callon. “Is that all? Well, I would think Kenton would certainly have every chance of holding his own in a fire.”

  “This was no ordinary fire. It was more an explosion. Very big. Very.”

  “What kind of explosion?”

  “That’s the very question I hope to answer. It’s the one I assumed you were going to Gomorrah to answer yourself.”

  “A bomb of some sort, you think?”

  “From the sound of what I’ve heard, it would have to be one very big bomb.”

  “Where did you hear about this?”

  “Rumors, really. Second-hand talk. But I know for a fact that there have been people who have come out of Gomorrah, telling a whale of a story. They say that fire fell from the sky, burned the town, killed most of the residents, and exploded all across the mountaintop night before last.”

  “Fire from the sky?” Gunnison laughed heartily.

  Callon glared at him. “You think it’s just a wild story. Maybe it is. But the rumors are persistent. I think there’s something to it. It’s at least worth investigating.”

  “Pardon me if I find the notion of fire from above a little hard to swallow.”

  “Then don’t go to Gomorrah. Leave the story to me.”

  “I’m going to Gomorrah, but I’m not chasing some sort of absurd story. I need to find Kenton. I hope there’s a train line leading to Gomorrah. I was on my way to the station to find out.”

  “I’m ahead of you on that one. I’m afraid there is no rail line up Gomorrah Mountain.”

  Gunnison sighed. Bad news. “A stagecoach, then?”

  “Cheer up. There’s no rail line up the mountain, but there is a new spur line that goes to the base of it.”

  “Good.” Gunnison put on a false smile. “So I suppose you and I are going to be traveling partners for a spell.”

  “So it appears.” Callon smiled right back, just as fulsomely.

  Chapter 5

  The Illustrated American, compared to the National Observor and Gallery, was by far the better and more established publication, and Callon and Gunnison both knew it. But one advantage the National Observor and Gallery did possess: an exceptionally fine print quality, which resulted in a publication filled with wonderfully detailed, crisp illustrations, the best of them created by Callon himself.

  As he sat beside Gunnison in the rocking and rumbling train car, Callon flipped through a recent edition of the Observor, pointing out the wonderful clarity of the pictures and the best stories, and making sure to mention those that the Observor had published but the Illustrated American had missed.

  “Paul, the Illustrated American is not some small-town newspaper, trying to publish every item of news before the paper across the street gets it,” Gunnison said defensively. “The Illustrated American is a reader’s magazine, intended not so much to break out new information for the first t
ime as to explore it and expound upon it for the benefit of the discerning reader who wants more than superficial information.” The line wasn’t really Gunnison’s; he’d heard Kenton use it many times.

  “Nonsense,” Callon replied. “You and I know full well that the Illustrated American has always prided itself on beating out its competition. And it’s done well at it so far. But now that we’re in the business”—he rattled the tabloid-sized newspaper in his hand—“it’s going to be increasingly difficult for the Illustrated American to retain that distinction.” He grinned that familiar, smug grin that always made Gunnison want to backhand him. “You know, had I not been so sure when I saw you that you already knew about the firefall at Gomorrah, I’d not have mentioned the matter to you. And the Illustrated American probably would have missed the story altogether.”

  “Not with Kenton already there. If there’s a story to be had, he’s probably already got it written and ready to wire in, and illustrations already in the mail.”

  Callon said, “I almost hope you’re right, believe it or not. I want Kenton to be alive and well. As much as I compete with the man professionally, I do like him. I don’t want harm to come to him.”

  “You really believe this fire-from-heaven story, don’t you?”

  “I believe something happened. Rumors usually have some sort of basis.”

  “Well, whatever happened, you can be sure Kenton’s not harmed. Brady Kenton has survived more dangers and adventures already than most men encounter in several lifetimes. He’s told me stories from his war years that would send ice down your spine.”

  “He was a spy for the Union, right?”

  “You could call him that. I do know he was involved in very covert, behind-the-scenes intelligence, sabotage, and so on.”

  “He reported directly to Lincoln himself, I’ve heard.”

  “At times.”

  “Remarkable man, Brady Kenton.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  Callon paused, thinking. “I’m not wanting to be pessimistic or morbid here, but as famous as Kenton is, it would be big news in itself if something did happen to him.”

  This was fully true. Kenton was indeed one of the most famous traveling journalists in the nation. His picture ran in every edition of the Illustrated American, and people everywhere knew his name, face, and work. Within the past couple of years, the Illustrated American had begun publishing in book form collections of Kenton’s best-known stories from its pages; the three volumes published so far, in dime-novel-style paper binding, had become big sellers and revenue-generators. Kenton was constantly being asked to sign copies everywhere he went.

  If Kenton were killed or put out of action, there would indeed be intense interest, and grief, all across the nation. But hearing Paul Callon point out this fact greatly irked Gunnison.

  “Paul, I worry for you. First you swallow some wild tale of fire falling from heaven. Now you’ve got Kenton dead and gone and are already writing his obituary.”

  “I seem to be annoying you every time I open my mouth,” said Callon.

  “I just want to find Kenton, that’s all. Not talk about a lot of absurdities.”

  Callon pulled a cheap saloon-counter cigar from his pocket and began to study it. He didn’t light it, just turned it in his fingers. For a few minutes there was no conversation. Then Callon chuckled. “You know, this firefall tale…one of the oddest parts of it all is that there was supposedly a man in the town, some sort of backwoods-preacher type, who predicted that it all would happen. Wrath of God, you know. Just like the Gomorrah in the Bible.”

  “So now we’ve got a mining-town prophet in the picture, too?”

  “It’s just part of the rumors.”

  “Most likely this ‘prophet’ had something to do with the explosion itself. Gomorrah is a mining town…that means there would be access to explosives. Maybe this fellow made his prediction, then fulfilled it,” Gunnison suggested.

  “No. No. What was described to me couldn’t have been achieved that way, I don’t think.”

  “Have you considered that your information might be faulty? If there’s anything to this story at all, I suspect you’ll find it’s just another mining-town fire, maybe with some explosives in the mix.”

  “We’ll see.” With those words, Callon put his cigar back into his pocket and turned his face to the window to watch the increasingly rugged landscape pass by outside.

  The grade was steeper now, the train slowing, straining a little as it began to climb.

  They stood, with their baggage and gear, on the roofless porch of the tiny train station at the northern base of Gomorrah Mountain and watched the train chug away.

  The stationmaster was a thin man with spectacles, thinning hair, eyeshades, and an armband. He was alone in the station house except for one other occupant, an ancient Indian with a square face, hooded eyes, and a broad-brimmed hat.

  The Indian wore his hair in long braids behind his ears and smoked a homemade pipe made of old buffalo bone. He eyed the fold-up drawing tables and other journalistic trappings of the two newcomers as he sent thick clouds of smoke out around his expressionless face. His skin was like an expanse of very old, soft leather.

  “Good day, sir,” Callon said to the stationmaster. “Pleasant day.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m in need of information: How’s the best way for a man to get to Gomorrah?”

  The stationmaster, a very thin man with a nervous manner, glared through his glasses at Callon. “Don’t know if I can answer that question.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well…I ain’t really sure there’s a Gomorrah left to be got to.”

  Callon glanced at Gunnison, a told-you-so look. “Yes. That’s why we’re here. We’re journalists, come to write about the fire.”

  Speak for yourself, Gunnison thought. I’m chasing Kenton, not a story.

  “Journalists, huh?” said the stationmaster, obviously not impressed.

  “That’s right. I’m Paul Callon, National Observor and Gallery. My companion here is Alex Gunnison, Gunnison’s Illustrated American.” Callon hesitated, then added, “He’s the partner of Brady Kenton.”

  Gunnison was privately amused by this addendum, which amounted to a subtle admission by Callon that Kenton was king when it came to travel journalism. The names of Paul Callon and Alex Gunnison would be recognized by few, but Brady Kenton’s name was one to open doors all across the nation. No other traveling writer had generated such a level of celebrity.

  At mention of The Name, the stationmaster’s demeanor changed. “Kenton, you say? Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Odd you should mention him. I think he was here himself, right before the big fire. It looked like him, anyway.” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a copy of an old edition of the Illustrated American, and tapped his finger on the prominent woodcut illustration of Kenton’s handsome and rugged face. “He looked just like this—I commented on it to several who were here at the time. But he wouldn’t own up to being Kenton. Called himself Mr. Houser.”

  This was confirming news to Gunnison. Houser was one of several aliases Kenton was known to use at one of those rare moments he didn’t crave recognition. “I think it was Kenton you saw. Have you seen him since?” Gunnison asked.

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Then he’s probably still at Gomorrah.”

  The stationmaster looked somber. “Maybe you should hope he ain’t.”

  Callon asked, “And what did happen at Gomorrah?”

  “I couldn’t say. Nothing like I’ve ever seen before. I could see the light of it all the way from my house, which stands back behind the station here.” He hesitated, then said, “It was like the mountain exploded.”

  Volcanic activity, then, Gunnison thought.

  “Tell us more,” said Callon.

  “That’s all there is to tell. There was an explosion, a fire, God only knows why or how, and by morning there were f
olks coming back down from there as fast as they could, saying a bunch of folks had died. Most of them I saw were scorched pretty bad. A couple of them swore that some man in the town had predicted it right before it happened, right before he himself left town. Said it was the fire of God falling on Gomorrah to punish it for its sins.”

  Callon gave Gunnison a triumphant look. His “absurd story,” as Gunnison had termed it, evidently might not be so absurd after all.

  The stationmaster went on, “Those people didn’t linger long to tell stories. Some waited to catch the next train. A lot just took off walking or riding. Anything to get away as fast as they could. Scared folks. Mighty scared. And then the army came in and nobody that I know of has come down the mountain since.”

  “Army?”

  “Yes. From Fort Brandon, on the far side of Gomorrah Mountain from here. The man who told me about it said he barely made it away before they came in and closed up the town tight as a drum.”

  “They’ve sealed off the town?” said Callon.

  “That’s right. Hey, you ain’t planning to quote me in no story, are you?”

  “Do you want to be quoted?”

  “Oh, no. I got no desire to get my name brought into whatever happened up on that mountain. No, sir, not me.”

  Gunnison, grudgingly, was beginning to see that there might be something to Callon’s wild rumors after all. He asked, “Think the soldiers will let us into Gomorrah?”

  “The question might really be: If they do, will they let you out again?”

  “How far did the fire burn down the mountain?”

  “I ain’t been up there; I don’t really know. There was a hard storm after the fire. I’m told it put out most of the blaze before it could spread very far.”

  Callon asked, “Have you seen any other journalists hereabouts that you know of, other than Brady Kenton?”