She sat to coffee with the relaxed ladies and related the new troubles of the O’Connell family and her dismissal from the hotel. Once Aunt Lilly assured her she would help, Callie enjoyed the afternoon. They talked clothes and hairstyles. Callie drank too much coffee. Her nerves hummed in her ears. One of the ladies brushed her hair and tied a ribbon bow in it. Callie felt pretty.
She sensed that the washing off of a private part was not all that Aunt Lilly and her friends did to entertain gentlemen. And what they did do caused these women to be shunned by all others. There were certain matters Callie’s normal curiosity shied away from knowing. And although the atmosphere was friendly, there was a certain line that instinct told her not to cross. She’d never mentioned Uncle Henry here. These women spoke carefully around her too. But she saw no harm in bringing up the fact of closed saloons.
“Captain Bulkeley and our own Troop A have closed down all the business.”
“The bootsmith was open,” Callie said. This drew laughter and winking.
“Well, then, certain kinds of business.” Aunt Lilly turned to her friends. “I hear the Senate and some other places are serving early suppers today for … uh … ladies of the neighborhood so the food they’d already bought don’t spoil. Promises to be cheap, and a working girl just has to knock discreetly at the back door.”
Callie left as the ladies decided to put up their hair and go out for supper. She left with a nice collection of coins in her pocket but she’d overstayed her time and found the back door to the boot shop locked. She started down the alley toward the livery stable and met a lady who smiled warmly as she passed. Callie walked on a few steps and stopped. She knew that face. In fact, she knew the whole body. Callie turned in time to see the lady enter the alley door of the Senate. What would it be like to go out for supper? Aunt Lilly was going to the Idle Hour. Did the lady Callie had just met suspect her picture sometimes hung on the second-floor landing of the New Sheridan Hotel?
When Callie knocked discreetly at the Senate’s back door a sweating man in an apron ushered her through the kitchen into a room with tables set up like those at the hotel dining room. The lady of the painting was the only other patron so far, and she sat at a communal table. Callie sat beside her. “Might as well have some fun, with everything closed, huh?” the lady offered by way of conversation. “Awful young, aren’t ya? No scruples in this town. My name’s Audrey.”
“I’m Callie O’Connell.”
“That your real name? You use your real name, you don’t want to use the whole thing. If I was you I’d stick to Callie. What brought you to the shady side of town? Not the Heisinger bitch, I hope.”
“You know Miss Heisinger? She was my teacher.”
“Your teacher!” Audrey put her hand over her mouth as if she thought she’d be sick or had said an evil word. “And you not even with your hair up.”
The sweating man brought them each a bowl of soup and stomped back to the kitchen as if he wished they hadn’t come.
“Do you stay often at the New Sheridan Hotel?”
Audrey laughed. “You’re a funny kid, Callie. Wonder if anybody else is coming tonight.” She blew on a spoonful of soup. “My God, what’s that?”
Callie looked up from her own soup to see the hole with the frying edges opening in front of them. It’d been so long, practically two years now, Callie’d hoped she’d outgrown these ominous experiences, as one outgrew earaches and bad dreams. But there stood Aletha, and this time not in pants. She wore a skirt so short it almost revealed her knees, and what appeared to be a piece of rough quartz around her neck on a chain. She carried a tray of stacked dishes. Another lady stepped out from behind her, her skirt even shorter, and she too carried a loaded tray. Audrey dropped her spoon, and soup splattered everywhere.
“Aletha? Miss Heisinger took your book,” Callie said all in a rush before Aletha could pronounce some terrible warning Callie didn’t want to hear. “How is Charles? Do you still have him?”
The lady beside Aletha made a funny sound and dropped her tray. Dishes broke and clattered. “Callie,” Aletha said, “what are you doing here?”
But the hole closed up over Aletha before Callie could answer. Audrey pressed back in her chair and held both hands to her bosom. “Where’d they go?”
“That was Aletha,” Callie said, the enjoyment gone from her evening. “I hope I never see her again.” But Callie saw Aletha and her clumsy friend the very next day at John O’Connell’s hearing in the San Miguel County Courthouse on Colorado Avenue.
45
Aletha sat with Cree, Renata and Tracy at the back of the courtroom. The seats were long hard benches like church pews. The flag next to the judge’s desk hung in folds, so Aletha couldn’t count the stars. The jailer had fed them fried potatoes and tough beef last night but no breakfast this morning. No one had slept much. Gunshots sounded throughout the night and horses’ hooves pounded by on Spruce Street. The women had been escorted to an outhouse behind the Senate before they’d all been marched up here.
Aletha stood automatically when the judge entered the room. That’s when she noticed Callie O’Connell across the aisle. Callie was older again, wearing the same dress and hairstyle as when Aletha had seen her for the second time at the Senate and Tracy had dropped her tray. Callie leaned around a tall man to stare back. The tall man was watching Cree. He was the boy, Bram. His hair looked bleached.
Judge Wardlaw cautioned those present that this was a hearing preliminary to nothing and the court would make suitable decisions on all matters brought before it. A Mr. Murphy and a Mr. Richardson had come from Denver to represent the union men and a Mr. Barada spoke for the Citizens’ Alliance. Men were interrogated as to their means of support, hours of gainful employment, and summarily judged vagrants. Barada was small and elderly but he spoke with the strength and diction of a Shakespearean actor and made the union lawyers seem graceless, dull, and dumb just by the way he combined words, intonations, gestures, and expressions.
One by one the vagrants were led out of the courtroom and the crowd thinned. The elderly Barada announced a special case, that of John O’Connell, and across the aisle Callie and Bram sat straighter and Aletha could see the profile of the woman on the other side of Callie. It was the woman with Callie in August in Alta when this all began. Then her hair had been the same rich chestnut as Callie’s; now it bore swaths of gray. Her husband was forced to stand at the front of the room with his hands cuffed behind him. Bob Meldrum stood guard next to him.
“This man, John Clarence O’Connell, stands accused of planning the bombing of the troop trains on their way to this camp, your Honor.”
“Mr. O’Connell”—Judge Wardlaw looked up from his hands spread palm-down on a desk clean of paper—“are you a member of the Telluride Miners’ Union, Local Sixty-three, of the Western Federation of Miners?”
“Aye, sir, and proud to be.” John O’Connell put his shoulders back.
“And did you conspire to bomb the trains bringing the National Guard troops into this district?”
“I did not, sir.”
“Your Honor, we were not informed of these charges,” Lawyer Murphy said. “We demand—”
“If it please the court,” Lawyer Barada interrupted, “we have a witness.”
“Your demands will be heard in good time, sir,” the judge told Mr. Murphy, and then muttered to himself and the room in general, “These Irishmen.” To Lawyer Barada he said, “Call your witness, Homer.” The witness entered from the judge’s chambers with Bulkeley Wells. Wells stood off to the side but in full view, and Aletha could feel the radiation clear at the back of the room. Beside her Renata breathed, “Magnificent.”
“Simon P. Doud,” the witness answered Lawyer Barada.
“Would you please describe the conversation you had with Mr. O’Connell concerning the bombing, Mr. Doud?”
“We were drinking beer at the Senate and Mr. O’Connell said that blowing up the tracks between here and the Dallas Divide
would keep the militia out, sir.”
“It was you who suggested it,” John O’Connell broke in, “and it was just talk. Nothin’ come of it.” Bob Meldrum nudged John with his shoulder.
“And why was it you were drinking at the establishment known as the Senate with Mr. O’Connell? And what was it that brought you to Telluride, Mr. Doud?”
“I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency out of Denver and was hired to infiltrate the group of miners affiliated with the Western Federation of Miners employed in this district. I worked alongside John O’Connell up at the Smuggler.”
“And who arranged this contract with the Pinkerton Agency, Mr. Doud?”
“Captain Wells and the Owners’ Association, sir.”
Captain Wells smiled pleasantly as the courtroom went still. Outside, snow drifted from a smudged sky and left splashes on the windows. Lawyer Barada raised spotted hands toward the ceiling in a gesture befitting a preacher. “You were hired as a spy, Mr. Doud, before the militia was even called up to pacify this district? As if some farsighted soul knew of the horrors to come?”
Let us now pay homage to the great god Wells, Aletha thought with disgust. But he surprised her. “If it please the court, I’d like to speak,” came the low mellow voice. “I should like to beg leniency for Mr. O’Connell and to remind the court of this man’s heroism in saving the lives of others during the unfortunate fire at the Smuggler-Union. He still bears the scars of these noble deeds. I happen to know he has a family and feel deportation enough punishment for his mistaken loyalties, with the provision of course that he never return to Telluride.”
“Done,” decreed Judge Wardlaw. “And, Mr. O’Connell, I hope you can see the charitable intentions here and will in future avoid any taint of conspiracy. Past heroics can only take a man so far.” Bob Meldrum led John O’Connell out, and Bram and Callie rose. Bram’s face was flushed, his jaw tight.
“Bram,” Cree said softly, “don’t do anything foolish now. They win.” Cree nodded toward Bulkeley Wells at the front of the room. “They win the whole shootin’ match. Damn your principles, son, you have to survive.”
Bram hurried to support his mother, who’d faltered in the aisle ahead of him.
“Still foretelling the future, are you, Mr. Mackelwain?” Sheriff Cal Rutan said when the O’Connells had left. “You sure learn slow, boy.”
Aletha was startled by a glimpse of what smoldered just under the studied blankness in Cree’s eyes. Unlike Bram, who appeared ready to detonate at the least provocation, Cree would walk ten miles out of his way to avoid a confrontation. But back him into a corner and keep goading him and there’d be violence. “Remember what you told Bram,” Aletha warned him. “Good advice for you too.”
“That is all of the union business, if you gentlemen care to go have something to eat,” Judge Wardlaw told the lawyers from Denver. “We’ll discuss your complaints and demands in my chambers at two o’clock.”
Sheriff Rutan walked to the low railing that separated the spectator pews from the lawyers’ tables and the judge while the courtroom emptied. “I was helping the marshals clean out the jail, Judge.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the rear pew. “Ah, this is what we have left over.” He motioned for Aletha and those with her to come forward. Bulkeley Wells took a seat in the jurors’ box.
“Why’re they all wearing blankets? Do they think they’re Indians?”
“Their clothes are improper, Judge, and not very warm,” the sheriff said. A clock tick-tocked above the judge’s head instead of buzzing. Judge Wardlaw leaned his chair back against the wall. “I can understand the jail needing airing about now, Cal, but what do you propose we do with them?” He yawned, stretched. “Any suggestions, Buck?”
Wells stood and walked to the railing. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced before them as if reviewing troops. When he stopped in front of Renata, Aletha imagined she heard the snap of electricity denied the clock. But he moved on to Aletha. “I’ve seen this woman at the Pick and Gad a few weeks ago and before that a couple of years ago in a patch of sunlight that did not extend to my side of the street. She’s given to dressing like a man and disobeying curfew.” He moved on to Cree. “And this man worked at the Cosmopolitan.” Wells was tall but he had to look up at Cree, which made it difficult to look down his nose as he could with the others. “McCree Mackelwain,” he said softly. “Cal thought he might be a man of mine. I did think to enlist him in our services because … I don’t know. A certain perceived spark of … something useful? That I would prefer to have in my camp rather than the enemy’s? But he ran over to her and the sunlight”—Wells nodded toward Aletha—“and disappeared. Totally. This woman”—he paced back to Renata—“was leaning out a window above.”
“Excuse me, Buck, but you’re not making complete sense of this,” the judge said.
“I’m only too well aware of that, James.” Wells rubbed his lips. They sounded dry. “I think I’d like to question them further. And then perhaps send them out on the vagrant train. They’re not … not quite expected.”
“Maybe not, but they’re yours,” Judge Wardlaw decreed. “Join me for lunch at the Sheridan, Homer? If we make it last all afternoon, I won’t be here to meet those boys from Denver.”
“My pleasure, James.” The old lawyer stood, gathering his papers. “Be careful, Buck. I too find these vagrants unusual … possibly dangerous.”
“I told Meldrum to come back here,” Sheriff Rutan assured him, and then added when the lawyer and judge had left, “The tarts could find work after you lift the embargo on the tenderloin.”
“And you, Mr. Mackelwain,” Bulkeley Wells said, “where have you been all this time?”
“Home, in the future. Aletha, can’t you think of some way to get us back?”
“Yeah, try concentrating on it,” Tracy said. “Or meditating.”
“Do all of you come from the future?” Wells asked. The sheriff snorted and lit a cigar.
Aletha concentrated. Renata removed her blanket and sat on the first pew. She ran her fingers through her hair and shook it out. “Aletha, get me the hell back. You’ve proved your point.”
“The lady has the sound of authority.” Wells perched on the railing separating them and eyed Renata. “Are you the madam of the group?”
“Who are you to call names? Railroading people just because they belong to a union and don’t agree with you.”
“There is no union here, Miss … or do you go only by a first name?”
“Winslow. If there were no union there’d be no trouble here.”
“We refuse to acknowledge a union in Telluride, Miss Winslow, so it does not exist. And you are right, if it doesn’t exist there will be no trouble.”
“Sounds like Ronald Reagan,” Tracy muttered. “Aletha, concentrate.”
“I’m disappointed, Mr. Mackelwain. You let your women do all the talking,” Bulkeley Wells said. “I sensed more of a man in that exaggerated length of yours.”
“Sheriff, I’m ready to take the prisoners to the depot,” Bob Meldrum said from the back of the room. “Even got a couple of volunteers to help me.”
Cree groaned. Aletha turned to see Duffer and his friend Maynard standing beside Bob Meldrum. All three were grinning.
46
“I have often dreamed of visiting the past. A more simple time, when law and order was not so difficult to achieve and a man was born expecting to earn his way.” Bulkeley Wells sat on a corner of the judge’s desk slapping gauntleted gloves against his leg. “I hope that should such a thing happen I would comport myself with considerably more aplomb than you and your ladies, Mr. Mackelwain. I don’t for a moment believe you all have traveled from the future. I do applaud the originality of the idea. And I did see that … that patch of sunlight.”
“I’m surprised you remember so much after so long.”
“I rarely forget. Neither does our fine sheriff. Do you, Cal?”
Sheriff Rutan puffed billows of choking cigar
smoke into the room and coughed. “Still think we ought to keep him here to work off his debts.”
Meldrum sat at the back of the room, but Duffer and Maynard had sidled up as close to Aletha as they could and kept staring at her so she couldn’t concentrate. She felt hungry, dirty, irritable, and afraid, so when Bulkeley Wells said, “Perhaps you’d like to tell us something of the future, Mr. Mackelwain,” Aletha answered instead, “You’re going to go bald and shoot yourself in the head in California.”
“No one really wants to know his own future,” Cree warned.
“I noticed you conversing with the O’Connell boy.” Wells changed the subject as if he agreed with Cree. “I’m curious as to your relationship with that family. The father’s transgressions are rather serious. The son left our public school in his final term. It is rare for a miner’s child to complete the fifth grade. This boy was at the head of his class. Rather far ahead of the others, I’m told.”
“Bram’s a friend of mine. I told him to cool his temper. That you and the owners would win.”
“Is that before or after I shoot myself in a hairless head?”
“Before. You may win here, but eventually you lose. Mildred Heisinger says you’re going to put women and babies in cattle cars and ship them out of town.” Aletha caught Cree’s expression. “Well, she did.”
“If you’re not going to take us home,” Cree said through his teeth, “at least don’t make things any worse.”
“How would the Heisinger woman be privy to any supposed plans of mine? Did she bring you here?”
“I’ve told you your future. Well, Mildred lives forever. She’s—”
“She’s hardly that robust.” Wells was watching Renata again.
Renata met his eyes. “History says that you are a womanizer,” she said in her best bedroom alto, “that it brings you grief. You lose your shirt, but I understand you have great fun along the way.”
He rose and motioned to Meldrum. “My interest in you has been out of curiosity. I regret there is too much at stake here for me to indulge myself any longer. The very basis of freedom is endangered—”
The Threshold Page 31
