Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

Inez sighed. “Miss Carothers gave me some garbled story about men arguing on the tracks below her. I’m worried about her head injury, she’s not very clear in what happened. Apparently there was a rockslide afterward onto the tracks. She thinks the men may be buried there.”

  He seemed to ponder her words, then nodded somberly. “Cliffs can be treacherous by the tracks. The surveyors and engineers, they do their best picking routes and blasting them out, but afterward the slopes can be unstable.”

  The terrain flashed briefly in Inez’s mind: near vertical above the shelf, sloping to tracks and river below. “It didn’t look like the route had to be blasted,” she ventured. “And my impression is the rockslide came from above her.”

  “Ah well. I’m no engineer.” He shrugged. “I dinnae think the crews’ll be seeing a day off until the track’s cleared.”

  Inez pulled Holt’s jacket closer about her. The damp wool collar brushed her lips. “That Mr. Delaney. Will he truly make the crews work all night?”

  “Delaney.” The professor weighed the name in some invisible balance. “He’s a section boss. Supervises a portion of the crew and the layin’ of the track. But fact is, he’s only some poor and distant cousin of the chief construction engineer, J.A. McMurtrie. When Delaney’s in his cups—which is often, I hear—others step in and take charge. Or sometimes he just promotes the nearest body to do his job.”

  “Such as Preston Holt?” Inez raised her eyebrows. “He’s a payroll guard, true?”

  The professor grimaced, as if caught out. “Holt is a man of many parts. I don’t pretend to know the half of them, even though I’m privy to meetings of the Rio Grande’s board and its lawyers. But I believe Holt’s charter is somewhat wider than just guardin’ the payroll.” A drop rolled off the tip of his nose. “A straight-shooter, Holt is, by all accounts. A company man. With Delaney as he is today, Holt might even lend a hand in takin’ the men back to where the trouble is. Look over the scene.”

  “A payroll guard running a construction crew and a professor working for lawyers.” Inez shook her head.

  “Degree from University of Edinburgh. Did some teachin’, here and there. Even took a spin as an inkslinger not too many years back, when I was a sprout of twenty.”

  At this, Inez took a closer look at him. She’d pegged him first at about forty. But the dust that had settled into the creases of his face and muddied his aspect had fooled her. She now realized he was closer to her own age, about thirty. “You were a member of the fourth estate?”

  “I’ve a way with words. Won’t deny it.” He deflated. “Ah well. Dinnae last.”

  “A newspaperman.” She rolled the possibilities around in her mind like a smooth marble in her hand. “Did you like the work?”

  “’Twas far more satisfying than taking notes at meetings and delivering files from Denver and the Springs to the end of the track and beyond.” He sighed. “America. Land of opportunity. Seems everywhere I’ve gone, opportunities have vanished. Glorified errand boy is what I am now. Things have not turned out like I was expecting at all.”

  “Hmmm.” She eyed him. “Not to downplay the seriousness of the circumstances that brought us together, but this could be your lucky day, Professor. If you’re interested in returning to your previous profession.”

  “Some silver baron needing a tutor for his bairns?” He grimaced. “I gave up teaching for good.”

  “No, no. I was thinking along the line of journalism. You know the railroad and the newspaper business. Those are the more interesting parts of the equation.” She allowed herself the briefest of smiles. “Give me a week, Professor. Then, if you’re interested in slinging ink in Leadville, come see me at the Silver Queen Saloon.”

  “And why would you bother with a poor soul such as myself?”

  “I see a way to help a friend and make a friend. Easy as that.”

  For the balance of the trip to town, Inez thought on Jed Elliston—publisher, editor, and sole reporter of The Independent—and resolved to say no more until she’d had a chance to sound him out. Could be useful to have a newspaperman or two in my debt.

  She spied the tailings at the town limits shadowing into view through the misty rain and growing dusk. Inez led the professor through Leadville’s back streets, which had liquefied into rivers of mud, to St. Vincent’s Hospital at the north end of town. A nun whose determined expression whitewashed a face lined with exhaustion and years met Inez on the porch. At Inez’s request, a small boy was sent to fetch Doctor Cramer. Inez and the professor helped Susan from the wagon, while the nun, who introduced herself as Sister Mary Bernard, took quick measure of Susan’s condition and told one of the other good Sisters of Charity to prepare a private sickroom on the second floor.

  Once Susan was settled, the professor melted away, with many apologies of errands to run and papers to deliver and well wishes for Susan’s speedy recovery. Inez pulled a chair up to her bed and took Susan’s hand, keeping an eye on the doorway for Doc’s appearance.

  The minor key murmurs and moans of the hospital’s residents were rent by a chilling scream, seemingly on the other side of the wall from Susan’s iron bedstead. Inez saw two Sisters of Charity sweep by, a rush of black shadows.

  Sister Mary came in and shut the door firmly behind her. “Doctor Cramer is on his way. He’ll be here shortly, Mrs. Stannert.”

  The door flew open, and another sister, who looked barely old enough to be out of school, nearly collided with Sister Mary.

  “Yes, Sister?” the older nun said with a touch of irritation.

  The younger woman’s face was taut with fear beneath her wimple. She held out an envelope with a shaking hand. “Another anonymous note, Sister Mary. They said they’ll set the place afire this time, if we don’t sell the land—”

  Sister Mary cut her off. “Let’s not burden visitors with hospital matters.” She glanced at Inez.

  Footsteps approached, echoing down the hall. Inez recognized Doc Cramer’s limping gait, counterpoint to the thump of his cane.

  Inez, stood, hastily brushed the front of her trousers and shirt, feeling out of place in men’s garb, and hurried toward the door. Sister Mary was out in the hallway with the young nun, and Inez heard her say, “Deliver the note to Father Robinson, he’ll handle the situation. It’s not the first threat the hospital has received from lot jumpers.”

  “Mrs. Stannert!” boomed Doc Cramer, his face a map of wrinkles and concerns. He stopped before Inez and the sisters, set his medical bag on the floor, and removed his stovepipe hat, glistening with rain. “I came as soon as I heard about Miss Carothers. Good evening, Sisters.” He added a little bow. “I’m glad you had room for a female patient tonight. As soon as I’ve seen to Miss Carothers, I might as well attend to those pneumonia cases I’ve been following in the ward.”

  A scream followed by a stream of curses at top volume emanated from the room next door. Doc’s shaggy eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “Perhaps, Sister Mary, I should attend to that fellow first.”

  “I think that’s best, thank you, Doctor. Room Sixteen.”

  Doc retrieved his medical bag and hurried to Room Sixteen.

  Inez returned to Susan’s bedside and examined her friend’s face in the light from the coal oil lamp. The sisters had cleaned Susan’s face, and the bruises looked nearly black against her pale skin.

  Sister Mary joined Inez in observing Susan, her head tilted critically to one side. “I believe Miss Carothers will be fine, given time to rest and recover.” She bestowed the smallest of smiles upon Inez. “Your friend is in good hands. There’s no need to stay. I’ll keep her company if you must leave.”

  Inez nodded reluctantly, thinking of the horses waiting outside and Abe at the saloon, no doubt wondering what had happened to her. “Thank you. Would you please tell Doctor Cramer to come see me when he’s done?”

  “Certainly.” Sister Mary claimed Inez’s vacated chair.

  Inez cleared her th
roat. “Sister, if I may ask?”

  The sister looked up, eyes dark and calm as the sky at midnight.

  “The note. I thought lot jumping was confined to downtown and the mining areas. Why would anyone want to seize the hospital’s land? You’re on the very edge of town.”

  Sister Mary folded her hands in her lap. “After the railroad purchased lots a few blocks north, we began getting letters insisting that we move our hospital to another location. Ridiculous, of course. We have absolutely no intention of doing so. Lately, the letters have become more threatening. But we trust that the Lord and Father Robinson will take care of the situation.” She bestowed another tiny smile on Inez. “Not to mention the local parishioners, who have no qualms about reinforcing the Lord’s will with their own considerable firepower. Whoever wrote the note will find we give no quarter to land thieves.”

  Chapter Six

  Back outside the hospital, Inez buttoned up the borrowed jacket and looked around. The professor had left the string of Susan’s hired horse and burro, the chestnut she’d found by the river, and her own black mare. Inez laid a soothing hand on Susan’s hired animals and the unknown horse, and examined the brands in the dying light.

  All of them had come from the nearby C&H livery. The very place she boarded Lucy. She wrinkled her nose, hoping she’d not have to deal with its newest owner and partner. I’ve no great desire to tangle with Bart Hollis. Luckily, he’s seldom around. She cheered up a bit. Most likely, Jack or Mr. Carter will be there. Maybe I can find out from them who rented this other horse. She stroked the chestnut gelding, noting the distinctive fur saddlebags on either side and wondering if they might hold a clue to the rider’s identity.

  Rolling back the cuffs that engulfed her hands, Inez reflected that presenting a name to Preston Holt might go a ways to repaying him for his help. She examined the saddlebag fastenings. The buckles were straightforward, but the bags had been further secured with rawhide lashings. The knots looked like they’d require much time or a sharp knife to undo. And I’ve neither right now.

  It was but a few blocks to the false-fronted building labeled prominently “C&H Livery—Feed and Sale, Stable, Transfer and Ore Hauling a Specialty.”

  “Hello! Mr. Carter! Jack!” she shouted at the entrance as she dismounted and shook the rain from the borrowed coat. A shadowy form moved deep inside the barnlike structure. A moment later Bart Hollis sauntered out of the gloom.

  If Inez had to choose one word to sum up the bits and pieces of ex-marshal Hollis, it would have been “narrow.” Hollis’ long face held squinty eyes and a droopy mustache that followed the curves of his downturned mouth. A torso thin as a rail sported a pair of dirty red braces that prevented his trousers from sliding off nonexistent hips and puddling around his mud-covered boots. Narrow also summed up Hollis’ views on “wimmin,” “niggers,” “micks,” “bohunks,” “injuns,” and “yanks.” Orientals escaped his scorn only because those who dared venture into the Rockies avoided Leadville like the plague.

  “Waaall, look what the cat drug in.” Texas stretched long in his vowels, almost as long as the contempt in his tone. He lounged against the splintered jamb. “That Old Harry you leadin’ around by the nose, Miz Stannert?” He spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the mud. “Cain’t say I’m surprised.”

  Inez resisted the impulse to lash back at his taunt. After being forced to turn in his badge, Hollis had bought a partnership in the livery, now called C&H, and named every animal in it after those who’d wronged him. It must’ve given him great glee, Inez thought, to name a gelded mount after Harry Gallagher, one of the most influential silver barons in Leadville and the man who’d engineered first his appointment as marshal and then his dismissal. Rumor had it, Hollis also had a pair of jackasses answering to Inez and Abe. She had no desire to check the veracity of that story.

  Inez gestured at the two livery horses and burro. “These are all yours. I see you gave Miss Carothers the most obstinate horse in Leadville.”

  Hollis hitched up his pants. “An’ I’ll bet you gave her lessons on how to ride Old Harry like an expert an’ keep him happy. Right, Miz Stannert?”

  Inez and Hollis eyed each other with intense mutual dislike. Inez was sorely tempted to slap Old Harry’s rump and set him galloping down the street and let Hollis chase after him. Then, she remembered why she was determined to stay civil to this man whom she considered lower than a snake—and took a deep breath instead. “Miss Carothers was hurt in a rockfall near Disappointment Gulch. Your other customer,” she indicated the chestnut, “was less lucky. It appears he’s buried under a ton of rubble on the Rio Grande tracks.”

  Hollis finally moved out into the rain, lifting his boots fastidiously over mucky puddles. He gathered up the leads and examined Old Harry’s companion closely. Anger and puzzlement chased across his normally sour visage.

  He looked up, caught Inez watching him, and affected a nonchalant air, remarking, “Not a scratch. Horace, you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

  Horace, she knew, referred to Horace Tabor, one of the richest men in Colorado, thanks to Leadville’s silver-heavy carbonates of lead and his own good timing. Tabor was affable, easy-going, and would probably laugh and wink at anyone who told him of Hollis’ pique. Harry Gallagher, though, was a different matter and a different man.

  Inez led Lucy into the livery. Hollis followed, trailing the hired horses and burro and hollering, “Jack! Put down that bottle and get on up here! Got three horses and a burro, all in need of a rub-down.”

  “So,” Inez said, “who took Horace out?”

  He eyeballed her shrewdly. “Cain’t say as I ’member.”

  “Maybe those saddlebags hold something that would indicate who the rider was.”

  He glanced indifferently at the bags. “Those knots’d take time t’ undo. Cain’t say as I’ve got the time or inclination right now.”

  She exhaled fiercely, trying to stay calm. I should have just borrowed a knife at the hospital and cut the straps when I had the chance. “Maybe a shot of Red Dog, on the house, would jolt your memory.”

  “Mebbe. Might need two shots. One fer the first name, ’nother fer the last.”

  She hesitated.

  “Longer we dicker the more whiskey I’m gonna need to recollect.”

  “All right, all right!”

  Hollis smirked and led the animals further into the livery, the elusive saddlebags receding with them into the dim interior. Hollis’ voice drifted back to her: “See ya t’night. Save a bottle for me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Inez pushed open the back door of the Silver Queen Saloon. Abe Jackson, her business partner, glanced up. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up and captured by his sleeve garters, the dark skin of his forearms showing a fine sheen of sweat from working in the humid kitchen. He was halfway through decanting a barrel of potent spirits into the row of bottles on the kitchen table. The label on the barrel depicted a dog, which appeared to be in the advanced stages of hydrophobia, inked in gruesome red. The accompanying words could be taken as a warning or an invitation, depending on one’s thirst and state of mind: “Red Dog—Strong enough to make a dog go mad.”

  Abe looked Inez over critically. A drop of rain rolled down her forehead, and she used a soggy sleeve to wipe the tickle away.

  “Lord amighty, Inez. You and Miss Carothers get lost in that storm?”

  Inez recounted the afternoon’s events, finishing with, “Susan is at St. Vincent’s under Doc’s care. I expect to wring more information from him later tonight.”

  Abe banged the bung into the whiskey barrel. “Damn shame. You let me know if there’s somethin’ Angel and I can do to help out.” He eyed Inez’s outfit. “I don’t recall seein’ that coat before.”

  “Courtesy of Preston Holt, a payroll guard for the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. I’ll return it tomorrow when I let him know about Susan’s condition. Holt wants to talk with her. About the deat
hs, I imagine. I think one of the fellows worked for the Rio Grande.”

  Abe glanced at the jacket hem, hanging below her knees. “Railroad men have a bad reputation. Don’t think I’d want a man of that size comin’ into the bar and gettin’ rowdy. Bet he’d be a hard one to toss out the door.”

  A vision of Preston Holt flashed, not unpleasantly, across her mind. “He was courteous. Quite the gentleman in fact.”

  “Uh-oh. Honeymoon’s over.”

  She stripped off her wet riding gloves and jammed them in a pocket. “Just what do you mean by that remark?”

  Abe began loading the bottles into the crate. “You can bluff with the best over a hand of cards, but when it comes to men, you wear your heart on your sleeve. Your face, when you mentioned that payroll guard, got me thinking. The reverend and you been sparkin’ for nigh on five months. Guess I’m wonderin’ if you’re gettin’ tired of him, gettin’ ready to give him the heave-ho. Five months. That’s a long time for you, Inez.”

  “How presumptuous!” she sputtered, her face growing hotter by the moment. She started to unbutton the coat hastily, as if to shed herself of anything that had had contact with Preston Holt. “I was married for more than ten years to Mark. Still am married to him.” The pair of silver and gold bands on her ring finger glinted in confirmation. “Not that Mark and I didn’t have our ups and downs, as you well know, what with the three of us traveling together the whole time. But through the good and the bad, I stuck by the marriage. It was Mark who walked out last spring, not me—”

  “Don’t get your dander up, Inez.” Abe smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair, the coarse kink invigorated by the humid air despite the brilliantine. “I’m just thinkin’ over the past year. First there was Harry Gallagher for—couldn’t’ve been more’n three months—then the reverend came t’ town around Christmas…lessee…Bat Masterson wandered through and looked a strong contender ’til he headed back to Kansas. So it’s been you and Sands for four, maybe five months. Dependin’ how you count.”