The kid was ready for a fight and not about to lose face. “In my hand, mister, where I had it. Go mind your own business.”
Now Quillan did consider striking him, but his own memories held him back. “You like tricks.” Quillan heaved the stick end over end into a far field between two cabins. “Go fetch.”
The kid’s lunge took him square in the belly with a bulky shoulder more developed than Quillan had expected. He tensed just in time and caught the boy in a grip that left his assailant flailing and swearing until he was red-faced with fury. Quillan gripped one dirty wrist and, with a quick twist, jerked the arm up the spine.
The boy bellowed. “You’re breakin’ my arm!”
“No, I’m not.” Quillan spoke with flat deliberation. “Stop your squirming and it won’t hurt so much.”
The kid aimed a kick for Quillan’s shin, but Quillan jerked him back and threw off the boy’s balance. “That the best you can do? I saw a girl in pigtails do better than that.”
“Let me go!” The boy tried to elbow him with his free arm.
Quillan noted the patched elbow that had torn free countless times and been reattached by someone. “You have a mother?”
That seemed to stump the ruffian. “So?”
“How would she like your behavior just now?”
The boy struggled, realized it only made the arm hurt, and stopped to catch his breath. “She don’t care.”
Quillan looked around the circle. “You boys feeling proud? Picking on someone like that?” He indicated the large boy still standing there instead of making his escape as any normal person would have.
Several of them shuffled. A few looked sullen, several downright rebellious.
“I’m not going to threaten you. Frankly, you’re not worth it.”
The boy in his grasp struggled, and Quillan jerked the arm a half inch higher.
“Aah!”
Quillan ignored him. “One day when you’re really men, you’ll look back on this day in shame. Not because I had the upper hand, but because you were so low to begin with.”
Now even the rebellious ones looked uncertain.
“If it were me, I’d follow someone who could prove his own wit, not harass someone lacking. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to say which of these fellows rates higher on the scale.”
A few of them laughed, and the boy he held struggled angrily, but Quillan could tell the fight in him was about spent. He eased his tension on the arm. “I could thrash you, but I’m going to believe you’ve learned from this encounter. If I see you at it again, I might forget myself.”
“You don’t scare me.” It was false bravado.
“Just so you understand me.” Quillan let him go, half expecting a cheap blow once the boy’s arm was free.
The kid stepped back, shaking down his jacket and scowling. He turned to his compatriots. “Let’s go.”
They started off, kicking the dirty snow clumps. Quillan wondered what, if anything, he’d accomplished. He glanced at the victim of their sport. He still stood where they’d left him. Did he even know to get out of the street? And why wasn’t someone watching him?
“Go on, now.” Quillan waved toward the walk. “Go home.”
“He’s got no home.” Horace Tabor spoke behind him.
Quillan turned.
Tabor joined him. “He does grunt labor for a few of the mines. Sleeps wherever he can.”
“Who’s in charge of him?”
“In charge of himself, Quillan.”
Quillan frowned.
“I know what you’re thinking. But he’s not alone. There’s more cripples, misfits, and half-wits than can be helped.”
Quillan swallowed his argument. If it were any but Horace Tabor he might object, but Tabor was himself a humanitarian. He wasn’t speaking without cause. Besides, what business was it of his? Quillan was determined not to care, not to entangle himself in any community’s problems. Doing so before had cost him Cain.
He looked over his shoulder at the boys disappearing around the corner of the smithy, then back at the simpleton. Well, he’d spared the poor fellow one hardship. He’d have to spare himself the rest.
“Come on.” Tabor cocked his head. “Augusta’s expecting me for supper. Join us, won’t you? Then we’ll go to the opera. I’m showing Who’s Who. It’s a comedy—you’ll love it.”
Quillan looked once again at the fool still standing there. Then he whistled for Sam and followed Horace Tabor.
Augusta’s face was long and plain, her dark hair pulled starkly back with a smattering of small circular curls flattened to her forehead. She was not a handsome woman, but he’d heard she had a head for business and courage to match any man’s. Quillan admired her in the same way he admired Mae.
“Quillan, my wife, Augusta. She was the first woman in Lake County, when Oro City was nothing but a handful of tents. The men banded together to build her a cabin, which she promptly made into a store.”
Quillan assessed the woman whose hand he took respectfully. He suspected she was at least half behind Horace Tabor’s success. She directed him to a place at the table to Tabor’s right. He took his seat and watched her carry several covered dishes to the table.
“Nice try with those boys.” Tabor settled into his place and arranged his vest. “Not that it’ll have any lasting effect.” He turned to Augusta, who took her place on his left. “Quillan broke up a gang tormenting JoJo.”
“You remind me of Horace.” She laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Doesn’t he, Hod?”
“He does. Same fire, same grit.”
“Less hot air.” She almost smiled.
Quillan returned the sentiment with a half smile of his own.
Tabor took the ribbing with his usual good nature, then sobered. “Softhearted like me, too. Heard what you did for the Shultzes.”
Quillan felt suddenly uneasy. “Kids were starving. Nothing more than anyone would do.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Tabor eyed him through his monocle. “You could do better than freighting, Quillan. Though in my own self-interest, I hope you don’t.”
Thankful for the change of subject, Quillan nodded. “Plenty of freighters in Leadville, Mr. Tabor.” And with the cold deepening every night, he was not long for Leadville himself.
“For heaven’s sakes, man, call me Hod. Everyone does.” He clapped Quillan’s shoulder. “And as for that, there’s freighters and there’s freighters. Take old Chicken Bill.” He laughed until he snorted, though Quillan had yet to know which Chicken Bill story he’d be treated to.
Tabor swiped a hand over his mouth. “Old Chicken Bill. Never knew what he’d turn up with. Heard about the chickens?”
“The ones that froze, or the ones whose feathers he found in place of his ore?”
“Aw,” Tabor clapped him again. “I suppose you’ve heard them all.”
“Bill isn’t actually a freighter.”
“Privateer, more like. You know he sold me the Matchless? Salted it first, of course. I knew that from the start.” He tossed Sam a chunk of bone.
“Sure you did, Hod,” Augusta said.
He puffed his mustache out, offended. “I only made out that I didn’t, for the men to have a good laugh. Few enough good laughs around here. A man bamboozling Horace Tabor—now, that’s a good one. But I’ll be laughing last. That mine’s a beaut, Quillan. It’ll make my fortune.”
“Again.” Quillan half smiled.
Tabor guffawed. “Yes, again! Oh, there’s no place like Leadville to make your fortune. You stick by me and watch. Better yet, jump in yourself.”
“No thanks, I already have a mine.”
“You have.” Tabor crowded the table. “What mine?”
“The New Boundless. In Crystal.”
“Crystal!”
“That’s right.”
Augusta adjusted her circular spectacles. “Then what are you doing in Leadville, Quillan?”
“Freighting, ma’am.”
&nbs
p; “Mine’s busted, eh?” Tabor looked sympathetic.
“No. Last I heard it was doing well. Producing nearly a thousand dollars a day, eight thousand ounces of silver per ton. Even an occasional pocket of gold leaf.”
For the first time that evening Tabor was quiet. “And you’re here hauling giant powder to the Matchless?”
Quillan shrugged. “Word is, the Matchless does twice that in a day.”
“That it does, my boy. But that’s not the point.”
Quillan shook his head, knowing what was coming next. “I’m not a miner, never intended to be. My name’s on the deed, but it’s more of a mishap than anything else.”
Tabor looked at his wife. “I told you there was more than meets the eye with Quillan, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
Horace hunched forward over the table. “What keeps you in Leadville, when you’ve a perfectly good mine in Crystal, even if you aren’t a miner?”
Augusta did smile now. “That’s no mystery, Hod. He’s looking for a wife.”
Quillan started. He did not need the conversation to go that way.
“Is that so? Looking for a Leadville lady to make your own?”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“Don’t tell me; you’ve got one of those already also.”
Quillan felt distinctly uncomfortable. Say no now, and the Tabors would be introducing him to every eligible damsel in Leadville. “Yes, sir, I do.”
Again Tabor was silent. Then he exploded with mirth. “By george, she must be one for the history books! Cross-eyed is she? Snake-tongued? Must be ugly as a walleyed pike for you to run off and hide.”
Quillan didn’t answer. He felt a fierce desire to defend Carina, but that would only bring more questions. He quirked his mouth slightly and Tabor took it for assent.
Augusta, however, was not put off. “That’s tasteless, Hod. Of course his bride is comely. He must have his own reasons for leaving her behind. Maybe he finds Crystal a safer place?”
“Crystal safer? Where they hang men like hams?” Tabor smacked his hands on the table.
“We’ve done our share of hangings.” Augusta gave him a pointed look.
“She has friends in Crystal.” Quillan surprised himself by speaking. “She has a house.”
Tabor lowered an eyebrow and puzzled him. “You’re an enigma, Quillan.”
“Just doing my job.” Both Tabor and Augusta eyed him, but he offered no more. Carina was no one’s business but his, and if she’d just come to her senses, she wouldn’t be his any longer.
Sunday went better than Carina had hoped, and partly because Mae knew better than she the reality of such an endeavor. She opened her dining room as well as Carina’s and between them they served from noon until six, when not a single noodle was left. Èmie had wanted to help, but Carina refused her.
“Make dinner for your uncle and your doctor. Leave me alone.” Carina had laughed, but she almost regretted it by the end of the night when her feet were aching to the shin and her back was one long pain.
She collapsed into a chair beside Mae. Their gaze met, and they burst into laughter. “I don’t know if I’m giddy or pazza.” Carina pressed the back of her arm to her forehead.
“Both,” Mae said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “But landsakes, that was something.”
Carina dropped her arm. “I can’t do it every week.”
“Do you know how many we served?”
Carina shook her head. “I lost count by two o’clock.”
“That long?”
Carina nodded, hiking up her skirts and rubbing her lower leg. The pain was kin to the exhaustion, but she felt radiant inside. The simple gratitude and appreciation she’d seen in the men’s faces had warmed her, and she glowed with it still. Not even the success of the regular nights compared.
“Oh, Mae, it was grande.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Once a month. I think I could handle once a month.”
Mae groaned.
ELEVEN
Each day is a new challenge that strengthens me. I am more alive in Crystal than I have ever been. But for what am I being honed?
—Carina
ONE WEEK LATER CARINA rode up the gulch on a glorious October Sunday afternoon with Alex Makepeace beside her on his steeldust stallion. The air was keen enough to nip her nose, but it drew no fog from her breath. The sun shone brightly but had lost its sting. Very soon winter would hold sway over the mountains.
Carina looked at the powerful gray steed beside her own small mare. “Where did you get your horse, Mr. Makepeace?”
“New York. Isn’t he a beaut?”
“He is. My papa would admire him.”
Mr. Makepeace looked pleased. “Where is your papa now?”
Carina sighed. She had tried twice to pen a letter to her family. Both times it had started well until she tried to speak of her marriage. What could she say? She couldn’t bring herself to lie about something so important. She could gloss over Crystal’s deficiencies and even tell them of her success as a restaurateur. But she couldn’t explain her marriage when she didn’t understand it herself.
“My papa is in Sonoma, California. Do you know it? Sun-swept hillsides thick with vines, grapes turning plump and ripe, and the harvest . . . Oh, Mr. Makepeace, the harvest.” She described the work when all gathered to pick the grapes to make the wine. The sharp knives with which they snicked the branches off and laid them in the crates. The huge vats in which they crushed the grapes by foot, the work itself a dance and the music to which they danced! Her heart ached as she spoke with such longing to see and hear and smell the crushing grapes, the foods cooking for the feasting, the rich aroma of the land itself as it surrendered its treasure.
So swept up was she in her memories that she only noticed when she finished how directly Alex Makepeace was watching her. She flushed and turned aside. “I suppose I sound like every homesick woman.”
“Mr. Shepard brought you here, away from all that?”
How easy it would be to say yes, to place the blame of her loneliness on Quillan. But she shook her head. “I brought myself.”
She saw his brows rise with ill-concealed amazement. No, he would not have surmised that a woman of refinement would come to Crystal City of her own volition. But once again he exercised tact. He would not ask, and she offered no more.
She pointed ahead of them. “Had you come here before the flood, Mr. Makepeace, you would have seen Placerville in this valley.”
“Oh?”
“You know Placer was the first camp in this gulch?”
“Yes. But I didn’t know exactly where it lay.”
She waved her arm over the area as they passed. “All through here were the placer mines with the sluice boxes rotting and the gray buildings filled with ghosts.” She smiled at this last comment.
“Was it all placer mining? Shoveling gold from the stream-bed gravel?”
“There were two hard-rock mines. The Gold Creek Mine up the way.” She pointed toward the path that led up the steep mountainside. “And . . . my husband’s other mine.”
“Your husband’s? I had the impression he didn’t mine, hadn’t ever mined.”
“He didn’t. It was his father’s mine.”
Mr. Makepeace whistled. “Must have been a piece of work to blast these hills before the Burleigh. He had a crew?”
“He worked it himself. His name was Wolf.”
“German descent?”
She shrugged. “I doubt we’ll ever know. The Sioux named him Wolf when they found him orphaned. Cries Like a Wolf, they named him.”
He looked up the mountain, taking her words in stride. They would not haunt Mr. Makepeace, not conjure feelings of fear and sadness. Wolf was nothing to him but a curiosity.
“Want to show me?”
She shrugged. “There’s not much to see. Just a hole and a shaft. The shaft is very deep.”
“It can’t be that deep, one man working alone through this k
ind of bedrock.”
“It’s deep, I assure you. I fell down part of it to a ledge. The rest went forever.”
He smiled. “I’m sure it felt that way.”
She turned Daisy. “Come, I’ll show you.”
Approaching the circular landing outside the Rose Legacy Mine, Carina eyed the burnt stone foundation that had been their small cabin. She hoped Mr. Makepeace didn’t ask about that. She already felt uncertain bringing a stranger to this place.
They dismounted and Alex Makepeace headed directly for the mine. The drift was short as she’d told him. She followed him inside six paces, then said, “You’re near the shaft now.”
He lit a match and surveyed his surroundings. She went into the tiny anteroom and brought out a handful of candles, which Quillan had found when he rescued her from the shaft. Mr. Makepeace lit all three and held them together over the shaft, studying the timbered sides, the ledge, and the deep shaft, just as she’d said.
He whistled. “Well, we’re both right.”
“Oh?” She leaned over just enough to make out the ledge that had saved her falling down forever.
“That ledge is the floor of the shaft, as far as this Wolf blasted on his own. From there, he must have broken through to some subterranean cave or it gave way on its own.”
“You’re saying there’s a cave beneath the shaft?”
“Listen.”
She got very still and heard the faint dripping that had sounded so clear when she was in the shaft. She also heard a soft moaning like the wind over the strings of a guitar.
“Water probably means a limestone cave. The wind signals an outside opening somewhere. I don’t think it’s this shaft. See how still the candle flame is?” Mr. Makepeace leaned closer to the opening, studying the yawning darkness.
Carina tried to see over his shoulder, but the candlelight was swallowed too soon.
“Wish I had a lantern.” He looked up hopefully, but Carina shook her head.
“Well, I do have a rope.” He stood up.
“You don’t mean to go down there.”
He shrugged. “To the ledge at least. I want to see from there.”
Sweet Boundless Page 14
