The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  He’d just started to sit down on a rock and rest his bones a few moments when the sound of a man’s singing voice reached him from the other side of a hill just beyond the spring. He stood, wary, not fully pleased to be meeting a stranger in this unfamiliar region. He reached beneath his coat and thumbed off the leather thong holding his pistol in its holster, just in case.

  The man who came over the hill stopped singing as soon as he saw Gunnison, but after only a couple of seconds, picked up his tune again. He was astride a mule, his long legs sticking down straight as sticks on either side, booted feet in stirrups that seemed set just a little too low. He was armed with a pistol stuck backward in a holster on his left side, and with a battered Henry repeating rifle sleeved on the side of the saddle.

  The song was one Gunnison had heard before, either in a saloon or in church. Funny how so many drinking songs and hymns had similar-sounding tunes.

  The man pulled the mule to a halt and looked squarely at Gunnison as he finished his song’s last line:

  “…and home again I go, to see my sweeeeeeeeeet lady!”

  He warbled a little on the extended “sweet,” and grinned at Gunnison when he’d finished.

  “Well, now! Did you hear that?” he asked. “I’ve long wondered how them truly good singers make their voice have that little quiver like that, and now here I’ve gone and taught myself to do it!”

  “It sounded very good,” Gunnison said. This wasn’t just prudent flattery. The fellow’s voice was indeed a fairly good baritone, and that warble had been worth hearing.

  “I thank you, sir,” the man said. “Mind if I have a bit of water from your spring?”

  “Isn’t my spring. I’m just passing through.”

  “I know. I pass it all the time myself. Just trying to be polite to you, that’s all.”

  Gunnison grinned. This cheerful fellow was hard not to like.

  The man swung down off the mule and advanced toward the spring. The mule went with him, and they drank together. Gunnison noted that the man drank downstream from the mule, so that what it slobbered out he instantly imbibed. It didn’t seem to bother the man at all, though it did rather bother Gunnison.

  “My, my, ain’t nothing better than fresh water when you’re thirsty,” the man said, rising. “Young man, my name’s Peabody…”

  Peabody!

  “…Millard Peabody. I’d shake your hand if the stream was a bit more narrow, you obviously being the fine young Christian you are.”

  “My name’s Gunnison. Alex Gunnison. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Peabody.”

  “Got a question for you, young fellow: You ain’t going to rob me here, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, good. I thought you might. A fellow about your age once tried to rob me here at this very spot.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “No, no, I’m sure ’twasn’t. ’Less you’re a ghost. He lies buried over yonder, right where I planted him. I don’t allow myself to be robbed, you see. Really hated to pull the trigger on one so young.”

  “You needn’t worry about me, Mr. Peabody. All I ask from you is some information, if you’ve got it.”

  “What I know, you’ll know. Ask right on.”

  “I happen to be looking for a man with the same last name as you. A sort of preacher that might have passed through here, maybe heading for Paxton. They call him Parson Peabody. I don’t think anybody’s ever told me his first name.”

  “Peabody, huh?”

  “Mister, you wouldn’t be the same Peabody, would you?”

  “Afraid not. Honest truth is, I ain’t named Peabody at all.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I don’t usually give my name out to strangers on the road, young man. For reasons of my own. You ought not be so ready to give yours, if you’ll take some advice from a stranger.”

  Gunnison knew this attitude well. He’d traveled with Kenton enough to learn that the farther west of the Mississippi one traveled, the more private a man’s name and business became. Rare was the occasion when one could ask a man what he was doing, where he was going, even who he was, without generating great offense. Even those who readily told their names, as “Peabody” had, often—like he—were not giving their real names at all.

  “Wasn’t trying to pry, mister. It’s just that I need to find this Parson Peabody, and some people with him.”

  “I know where he is…if you’re looking for the man who said the fire would fall on Gomorrah.”

  “That’s him.”

  “You’ll not find him at Paxton. He’s done been there and gone. I seen him there, heard him preach. His name’s been fresh on my mind, which is why it’s the name I gave you instead of my real one, which is Tom Smith…or maybe Luke McGlue, or maybe something else entirely.”

  “Did he still have a couple of men and a woman with him?”

  “He did. One of them was right keen on taking up offerings, I’ll tell you.”

  “Where did they go after Paxton?”

  “My belief is they went about ten miles on beyond, to Pearl Town.”

  “Don’t recall I’ve ever heard of Pearl Town.”

  “Ain’t much there. A little town, mostly cabins and shacks. One fine hotel, though. Not that it’s needed. It’s just there because old Johansen wants it to be.”

  Johansen…that name tried to connect with some vein of memory or recognition in Gunnison’s mind, but didn’t quite make it. “Who is Johansen?” he asked.

  “One of the richest men in the Montana Territory. He owns three good mines there near Pearl Town. Didn’t find them, just bought them from them who did, at a high price that he’s earned back again many times over. He grew up back East somewhere, poor family, and became a sea captain. He made himself rich in shipping, then decided to put the sea behind him, head out West, and get into mining. Built himself a fine house, that big hotel—just because he wanted a fine hotel to lodge the folks who come to visit him—and stuck a big ship’s mast down square in the middle of the town street. They used to call the town Mast Town before Livesay Johansen named it Pearl Town after his wife. What Johansen wants, Johansen gets, you see. He owns not only his mines in his own vicinity, but parts of several others all across this territory, not to mention so much grazing land back in the eastern end of the territory that you could walk all day and never leave Johansen land. Even without his mines, Johansen would do quite well from his ranching.”

  “Why do you think Parson Peabody’s at Pearl Town?”

  “Because when he left Paxton, he and his friends did it in company of some of Johansen’s men, riding in a Johansen carriage. You know Johansen’s things by the big fancy ‘J’ printed on their side. It’s on his vehicles, his hotel, and half the other buildings in town. Hell, he’d stamp it on the people of his town if they’d let him. Bunch of folks walking around with big ‘J’ letters on their faces, that’s what it would be.”

  “I wonder why he’d want to see somebody like Parson Peabody?”

  “He probably didn’t. It was probably his wife who sent for them. Strange, strange woman, that Pearl is. Kind of witchy and peculiar.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the Johansens.”

  “Worked for him a spell while the place was still called Mast Town, back before I went into business for myself. I tended bar in the Johansen Hotel. Poured many a drink for Mr. Johansen during that time. Sort of got to know him, and a more salt-of-the-earth fellow you’d never find. But only one time did I even lay eyes on his wife. She spends most of her time in that big house he built for her, talking to the souls of dead people and doing what she calls ‘spirit traveling.’ Claims she can make herself leave her body and go wherever she wants. All the way to Boston, if she wants, without her body ever leaving her chair. Hell, she might be flitting right over us right now, like a jarfly, and us not even know it.” He glanced skyward, tipped his hat, and said, “Afternoon, Mrs. Johansen.”

  Gunnison grinned. “She sounds like a pe
culiar woman indeed.”

  The other put a finger to his lips. “Hush that! She might be hovering around above you, listening.”

  Gunnison laughed. “Why would somebody like her want to see a common preacher like Parson Peabody?”

  “Common preacher? You call rightly predicting the destruction of a town by fire from above, of all things, as the act of a common preacher? It’s very uncommon, and just the sort of thing to thrill the soul of Pearl Johansen.”

  “Well, that makes sense. Tell me how I can get to Pearl Town.”

  “Head on like you are, up this road, until you reach Paxton. Take the left fork in the road and bear down toward the river. You’ll reach Joe Rush’s trading post and ferry before long. Once you get across the river, stay on the road for maybe six more miles, and you’ll find Pearl Town.”

  “I appreciate your help…Mr. McGlue.”

  “Always glad to be of service.”

  He went on, traveling the opposite direction from the one Gunnison was going, singing his song again. Gunnison watched him until he was out of sight, and at that moment appreciated very much his line of work, prone though he was to often resent its rigors, the separation from his wife that it inevitably involved, and the frequent loneliness. Still, it brought him into contact with interesting human beings, like this fellow.

  He thought, Wait until I tell Kenton about this fellow. This is just the sort of character he enjoys.

  Gunnison winced. He’d forgotten yet again. His days of sharing anything with Kenton were forever gone.

  Sorrow overwhelmed Gunnison, but also another feeling, one that had been arising steadily, though nonsensically, since he’d left Gomorrah Mountain. It was the notion that Kenton, somehow, was still out there, alive as ever. It couldn’t be, of course—he’d seen his dead body, smelled it, for heaven’s sake—but even so, the feeling persisted, strong enough that Gunnison had not yet felt any strong impulse to rush to notify the Illustrated American of Kenton’s death.

  He knew it was only wishful thinking. If only it could be true, though! If only Kenton really could be alive!

  This surely must be the way Kenton felt when he thought about his lost Victoria, Gunnison considered. There’s something in us that just won’t let go sometimes, something that won’t let hope die even in the face of the most overwhelming evidence.

  Gunnison rested a few minutes more, then remounted and continued on down the road toward Paxton.

  Chapter 24

  Gunnison’s horse threw a shoe as he reached Paxton, and he spent the rest of the day finding a blacksmith to deal with the problem. By then it was too late to travel farther, so he took up lodging in a flea-ridden, low and long cabin with a sagging roof and a bad smell—a typical kind of hotel in far too many Western towns that Gunnison had visited.

  The night, spent in a big room with three soggy, sunken beds and six snoring men, was miserable, but had one interesting aspect: before they fell asleep, the men, most of them strangers to one another, talked among themselves. The topic was Gomorrah, and the man who had prophesied its destruction.

  The story was becoming distorted, Gunnison noticed. Peabody’s prophecy, it was said, had been made in the center of the town, spoken to the entire populace. It had forecast not only that the town would be destroyed, but at precisely what minute, and who would die and who would live. And the fire, Peabody had reportedly said, would not be quenchable for a month.

  It was remarkable to watch folklore in the making.

  The snores echoed through the hotel like unending rolls of thunder. Gunnison, though exhausted, lay awake most of the night. By the hour just before dawn, he was praying for morning like a man dying in a desert prays for water.

  Gunnison reached the Joe Rush trading post late the next morning. Built of logs still in the bark, facing at an angle toward the river, it was an ugly building, poorly designed and inconsistently chinked, so that from certain angles one could see light penetrating the building back to front.

  He sniffed the air and smelled cooking meat, borne on the smoke that rose from the chimney. Ah, yes. He was very hungry. Suddenly the place looked much better.

  Gunnison was halfway across the stony yard of the trading post, just about to come around the corner of a big woodshed, when he was shocked to hear the blast of a gunshot from inside the trading post. His horse nickered and reared; just a little.

  “Whoa, whoa there!” he said softly. “Settle down now.”

  He backtracked a few yards, dismounted, and tethered the horse securely to a sapling. Another shot sounded from the trading post, then a third.

  Gunnison, though no coward, was as human as anyone, and the thought of just mounting up and riding past this place by some alternate and unseen route crossed his mind. Whatever trouble was going on there—if it was trouble at all, and not just some harmless target practice out back—needn’t involve him.

  A couple of things kept Gunnison from riding away, though. One was the fact that he knew he’d be ashamed of himself if he did. The other was that, between the last two shots, he’d distinctly heard the pleading cry of a distraught woman.

  Gunnison went to the corner of the shed and peered around it at the trading post. Through some of the unchinked portions he could see movement against the daylight coming in from behind, but could not make out any details.

  Another shot, another scream.

  Without knowing enough facts to make a plan, he could only follow intuition. He holstered his pistol, went and freed his horse, and rode it around the shed into the trading post yard, acting casual, a man just happening upon the scene.

  He dismounted and tethered his horse to the hitchpost, then walked toward the trading post door.

  He entered just as the next shot blasted. Gunnison let out a yell of apparent surprise. “What the…”

  “Howdy, friend!” said one of two burly, roughly dressed men who stood in the middle of the room with pistols drawn. On the floor between them was a crockery jug of homemade whiskey. “You come in just in time to watch the dance!”

  “What’s going on here?” Gunnison asked. He glanced toward the corner, where two middle-aged women and a boy of about ten stood looking very frightened and worried.

  The only other person in the room was an old man who stood in the opposite corner from the women and boy. He was trembling like an aspen leaf and looked like he might faint.

  “Just a little bit of fun,” the other gunman answered. “We found us a good dancer here. See?”

  He lifted his pistol, aimed at the floor just beneath the old man’s feet, and fired.

  The old man yelped a little and went into a weary jig. The men with the pistols laughed.

  “I thought this only happened in dime novels,” Gunnison said.

  The men laughed and fired again.

  The old man looked pleadingly at Gunnison as he continued his frail dance. A glance at the women and boy revealed the same pitiful expression.

  “Why are you treating that old fellow that way?” Gunnison asked.

  Neither gunman answered. One paused to reload his pistol while the other took a swig from the whiskey jug.

  The old man, looking ready to drop, stopped dancing. “Uh-uh, old fellow! No stopping! Keep a-jigging!”

  Gunnison feared the old man would fall over dead at any point. He wondered what motivated this bit of cruelty. Maybe there was no motivation beyond alcohol, opportunity, and meanness.

  Gunnison took a step forward. One of the roughnecks wheeled to face him. “Where you going, swell?”

  Swell? Gunnison was honestly offended. Everywhere he went, no matter how dirty, rumpled, and whiskered he became, there was always someone telling him he looked like a swell. The curse of his urban raising, he supposed.

  “Just wanted to get a better view of the dancing,” Gunnison replied.

  The men glanced at one another, then laughed. “Yeah. Well, watch this step!” one said. He fired a shot that very nearly clipped the heel off one of the old man�
�s shoes.

  The gunmen howled in mirth.

  “Please!” one of the women begged. “His heart is weak…you must stop!”

  “Shut up, cow!” one of the pair replied, aiming and firing a shot that struck even closer yet to the dancing man’s feet.

  Gunnison grinned and chuckled. “He’s a good dancer,” he said.

  “Hell, yes!”

  “How long you had him at it?”

  “Why, half an hour or more. Hey! Don’t slow there, nimble-toes! Step lively!” The pistol blasted again.

  Gunnison sneezed. “Mighty lot of gunsmoke you’re filling this place with.”

  One man took a swig, passed the jug to the other.

  “I think you ought to stop now,” Gunnison said. “That old man will die if you don’t.”

  The pair ignored him. One leveled his hot and smoking pistol again.

  Gunnison reached over and grasped his wrist.

  The man turned and stared at him in astonishment. “What the hell!”

  The old man didn’t quite quit dancing, but he slowed down.

  “You trying to kill yourself, young man?”

  “Just trying to keep you from killing an old one.”

  The man looked down at his wrist, still gripped in Gunnison’s hand. “Let go my arm.”

  “If you’ll quit shooting at the old man.”

  “I might just shoot you instead.”

  The man’s partner, amazed at Gunnison’s effrontery, raised his pistol and aimed it at Gunnison’s temple. “If’n I don’t do it first.”

  Gunnison’s heart hammered, but he kept his expression calm, and stared without blinking at the man whose wrist he held. Kenton had taught him that trick: an unblinking stare, he said, adds five measures of courage to a man. Gunnison was praying hard, meanwhile, for he had no real idea what he was going to do. These men could kill him at any point, and probably would.

  He could think of only one possibility. “If you want someone to dance for you, I’ll do it. You just let the old man rest.”