by Ann Parker
Terry’s voice trailed off.
Inez twisted around in her chair, just as Preston Holt said, “Pardon, ladies. Miss Carothers?”
Preston and Reuben stood nearby. Hats in hand. Preston continued, “Still clear for us to come in for that sittingr?”
“That’s right. I’ll be back in my studio by one thirty.”
Inez raised her eyebrows at Preston. “You’re having your portrait taken?”
He nodded. “Reuben’s turning sixteen today. Seemed a fitting thing to do.”
The boy fiddled with the brim of his hat, staring at Susan. Inez realized that both men had their hair slicked back and the usual dust and grime she associated with working out in the elements was missing from their garb.
Susan added, “Everything is already set up.”
“Thanks, ma’am. Much appreciated.” Preston turned a smile on Inez, replaced his hat, and began to move away.
“Stop by the Silver Queen, and I’ll stand Reuben a birthday drink,” Inez said impulsively.
Preston stopped and turned. For a moment, Inez thought he might decline. Instead, he responded, “Thank you, ma’am. We might do that.”
“There’s a poker game as well,” she continued. “Starts about nine in the evening, goes late—or early, depending on how you tell time. Tends to be high stakes, but if you feel lucky….” She realized with some annoyance that her face was coloring up in a way to match Terry’s.
The big railroad man gazed at her as if trying to determine what was really on her mind.
She hoped he couldn’t tell.
Preston smiled again. Briefly. “Guess we’ll see how my luck runs later.”
Inez smiled in return, watched Preston and Reuben leave, and turned back to the table to find Terry staring at her, wide eyes and open mouth.
“So.” Inez reached for a roll from the silver basket and placed it on her bread plate. “Did Susan perchance explain the business I’m in?”
“Nooooo. You work in a saloon? That sounds,” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than being a schoolteacher,” said Inez, slathering butter on a bit of roll. “I recall an occurrence shortly after we arrived in town—let’s see, it must have been about two years ago. Two young ruffians, a boy and girl, decided they didn’t like their teacher for some reason or other. They went home at noon, armed themselves with revolvers, and marched up the street to the school, threatening to shoot their teacher on sight.”
Seeing Susan and Terry’s shocked faces she added quickly, “A student ran and told the school board. They out-maneuvered and captured the desperados, and put an end to the nonsense before the teacher returned from lunch.” She waved the butter knife dismissively. “Well, that was Leadville’s wild days. I’m certain you’ll have no such trouble now.”
***
“Inez, that was just plain mean,” Susan said under her breath.
Susan and Inez stood outside the restaurant, preparing to go to Susan’s portrait studio. Terry, who was headed in the opposite direction, looked fearfully around at the afternoon crowds walking past her without much more than a glance. She met Susan’s gaze. Susan waved goodbye; Terry waved back with a brave smile and hoisted her parasol aloft.
Inez felt a small pang of guilt, seeing the young woman square her shoulders and hurry away. “You’re right. It’s just….first, she asks if it’s possible for her to buy a cheap mine. Then, whether it is true that ministers of the gospel fight in the pulpit. And whether women can be lynched for singing.” She rolled her eyes.
Susan hobbled down the boardwalk, leaning on her cane. “I suppose all she had to go by was what newspapers back East report. And they say the most dreadful things about Leadville. As if it’s a den of iniquity.”
“Well, that all depends on where you go,” said Inez, thinking of her brush with Weston the previous day.
“And then, when she asked whether it was safe for women to walk on the streets without a pistol….” Susan paused at the top of a set of rickety stairs leading down to the next section of boardwalk.
Inez took Susan’s free elbow to steady her. “As you know, it’s my firm belief that a woman who doesn’t go armed and alert around here is living in a fool’s paradise.” Inez glanced at Susan’s set expression and added, “I know that’s not your opinion. But she did ask me.”
“Still, I can’t see that there was any need for you to actually take your pocket pistol out and show it to her.”
“If the sight of such a small gun makes her faint, then perhaps she needs to reconsider her decision to stay in Leadville,” Inez said with finality. “However, I’ve no desire to scare the wits out of her. She’s obviously a young woman with pluck. I can see why you two struck up a friendship. I’ll apologize, should I see her again.”
The two women moved into the shelter of a bookstore doorway to allow a river of small boys, shouting and laughing, to flow past. Amid the sea of bobbing caps, intent expressions, and scuffed shoes, Inez spotted a firecracker gripped in an urchin’s hand.
Susan sighed. “I would appreciate that, Inez. It’s important that Terry and the other teachers think well of me and my friends.” She commenced walking again, hobbling faster. “Now that my view camera is destroyed and I’m not able to photograph landscapes—I’d hoped to make a name for myself doing those—I need to redouble my efforts to build my portrait business to buy a new one. I put nearly all my savings into that camera. It was the very latest design, used dry plate chemistry, and was small enough for me to handle on my own.”
She looked forlorn for a moment, then shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Anyway, I’m expanding my portrait clientele. In fact, I talked up my business to the other women at the boardinghouse and have nearly all the teachers scheduled for sittings. Even Mrs. Flynn wants to schedule a session.”
“Fancy that!” Inez said, thinking of the proper young matron.
“And,” Susan brightened, “I had this other idea. With the railroad crews coming into town on paydays and Sundays, I’m hoping some might want to have their pictures taken, if I price it right. All I need is a few satisfied customers to spread the word.”
“Ah. That explains the two Mr. Holts.”
Susan flushed and blew a breath upward, fluffing her curly bangs. “The older one, the one who asks questions, showed up at my studio yesterday. He said that nothing more is being done about the…accident. He was nice, but he made it clear the Rio Grande hasn’t time to chase after ghosts. He didn’t put it quite that way, but close. Anyhow, he asked about portraits and prices. I don’t know. Maybe he felt sorry for me. It doesn’t matter. It’s business.”
“Well, if the Holts tell others there’s a pretty woman photographer who will take their pictures—”
“I’d rather they be impressed with how the photograph looks than just come to see a photographer in skirts. But whatever brings them in.”
“Hundreds of men work for the Rio Grande. Susan, you may have struck pay dirt.”
Susan stopped by her front door and dug in her pocket, finally producing a key. She said, “I hope so. And as soon as I get some new images, I’ll replace those.” She nodded at her display window. A selection of landscape photographs sat front and center, below the stenciled “Carothers’ Photographic Portraits: Best Prices and Quality Work.” The Sawatch Range, the Arkansas River with the railroad tracks featured against a sweeping view westward, and a silken waterfall were all positioned artfully on a purple decline of satin.
“It won’t do to advertise services I can no longer provide.” Susan gazed at the photo of the Arkansas River. “If I had the money, I’d hire a buggy and driver and see if I can find proof that I didn’t make it all up.” She switched her gaze to Inez. “I think I’ve convinced Mrs. Flynn I’m not some foolish young woman who dallies alone on public highways, drinks on the sly, and is prone to hallucinations. But I can’t quell the rumors entirely.”<
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“Reverend Sands and I went out there and searched the area thoroughly.”
Key in lock, she turned to Inez. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing.” The strip of cloth flashed through her mind. “Well, maybe something. I don’t want to get your hopes up. A strip of colored cloth.”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember anything about a piece of cloth. Well, bring it to church tomorrow.”
“Can’t. Fourth of July. We’re going to be open. Early, and all day.”
“You’re going to miss the church picnic?”
“Most likely. If I manage to escape, it wouldn’t be until the afternoon. And then I’d have to ride down by myself. What a bother.”
“If you can get away, there’s a group of us planning on leaving town later, at about two. We rented a wagon, and there’s plenty of room. I don’t usually schedule sittings on Sunday, but I have a couple families scheduled right after church. Every dime and dollar counts right now.”
“We’re hoping some of that silver and gold showers down on us as well.”
“Good luck, to all of us, then.”
Inez murmured, “Good luck indeed.” Maybe I’d better go to that picnic. I’m not sure I trust luck will keep Birdie from sinking her talons into the good reverend.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Inez angled around to the backside of the bar, holding the short train of her maroon and black evening dress off the floor, careful to keep a distance from any corner or surface that might mar the watered silk. The lamps were turned high enough to allow the customers to see what they were drinking, but not so high as to destroy the atmosphere of cozy camaraderie. Abe and Sol were busy pouring. On the piano, Taps alternated between light-hearted ditties and soulful ballads. Inez checked her enamel and diamond watch, hanging from a brooch in the shape of a coiled snake. My Saturday night players should be arriving soon.
“Nickel buys the latest news.” Jed slid a copy of The Independent across the bar, nearly under her elbow.
“I think for all the help I’ve provided, not to mention advertising revenue, you’d spot me the paper.” Inez opened the newspaper to page two and was pleased to see an advert about the Fairplays and their July Fourth appearance prominently displayed. “So, did you hire the professor?”
“We came to an agreement. I expect he’ll be by to collect on that drink sometime tonight.” Jed lazed against the bar. “Did you see the front page?”
Inez folded the paper to the front. The first thing she saw was a modest article captioned “Jumping a Hospital” and, in smaller type beneath, “Trouble on the Sisters’ Grounds—One Man Shot.”
“Ah, I see they caught the miscreants who threatened to jump St. Vincent’s property,” Inez said.
“What? Oh yes. That. A couple of ne’er-do-wells sent a note saying they’d set fire to the hospital if the Sisters didn’t relinquish the property. It’s prime real estate, you know, close to where the Rio Grande depot and freight yards will be. The law caught two of them red-handed last night, tearing down the hospital’s fence. But that’s not what I wanted you to see.”
Jed took the paper from her hands and flipped it, handing it back to her with the section above the fold now prominent. Headlines blared “Citizens Up in Arms Over D&RG’s High-Handed Treatment on Right-of-Way Issue!” and “RR Workers Abandon Spikes for Silver in Cloud City!”
“Goodness. What did you do? Chain the poor fellow to a chair in your office until he provided a column’s worth of type?”
“More like two.” Jed’s suppressed smile escaped. “I’ve sold more papers today than anytime since the news of the strike broke. And that was one of the biggest days ever for The Independent. No other Leadville paper got this scoop. Think I’ll have a drop of that superb bourbon you promised me.”
Feeling a little sorry that she’d impulsively offered to give away some of her best liquor, Inez turned to the backbar and lifted the bottle from its place of honor on the top row. She poured, keeping a careful eye on the glass so as to just make the mark. “So, Jed, you’re feeling lucky tonight? Perhaps that luck will extend to the cards.”
The State Street door flew open with force, slamming into the wall, stirring the red-white-and-blue bunting Sol had draped over the buffalo’s horns. Two men stormed in. Inez recognized Lowden Snow, looking apoplectic and red-faced as if he’d just run a race through the city streets and lost. The man with Snow looked vaguely familiar. His round face sported a bushy mustache and a weak chin attempting to hide under a small goatee. His unprepossessing appearance was offset by a steely gaze and an expression suggesting he was not a man to be trifled with.
Abe, beside her, muttered an oath under his breath.
“Who’s that with Snow?” she whispered.
“Chief engineer of the Rio Grande.”
“McMurtrie?”
“Yep.” Abe stood with one hand beneath the bar. Inez saw he held the shotgun out of sight.
She laid her hand over his. “Not yet.”
Snow barreled to the center of the room, stopped, and swiveled his head, scanning the crowd. McMurtrie’s gaze skewered Jed. He leaned over and said something to Snow.
Snow followed McMurtrie’s gaze and, with his silver-headed cane swinging back and forth like a fast-paced metronome, he bore down on Jed. He stopped before the newspaperman, eyes furious and bulging.
“You the scoundrel that printed that libelous doggerel about the Denver and Rio Grande?” roared Snow.
Jed rocked back on his heels. He stuck both hands in his pockets, affecting a casual air. “Jed Elliston. Editor-in-chief of The Independent, at your service,” he said coolly.
McMurtrie advanced slowly, and, in Inez’s opinion, far too menacingly.
“You again.” He sounded as if he’d lifted a rock and found a maggot beneath. “Thought we hammered out an agreement at the Clairmont. Guess you’ve got a short memory.”
“Freedom of the press,” said Jed with a hint of sarcasm. “Can’t stop me from printing the truth, McMurtrie. Unless you’re going to say it’s a lie. In which case, I welcome letters to the editor.”
Snow hit the wood floor once with his cane. The hollow boom sounded like a judge’s gavel in a courtroom. “Who is the miserable miscreant who disclosed privileged information to you?” he bellowed. “Company business…not public…jeopardizing on-going legal action….” He was nearly incoherent with rage.
“I’ll not divulge my sources,” said Jed.
McMurtrie took a step toward Jed, his hands tightening into fists.
Inez, on the other side of the bar, tugged the bottom of her basque bodice with one hand to smooth the contours and tightened her grip on the bottle of bourbon with the other. “Gentlemen!”
She stepped quickly around the end of the bar and advanced upon the three. “Mr. Snow, so good to see you again.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned to McMurtrie. “Mr. McMurtrie? I’m Mrs. Stannert, proprietor of the Silver Queen, along with Mr. Jackson, the gentleman in the gray waistcoat behind the bar.”
Snow’s face froze. “Jackson is your partner?”
Inez was used to the disbelief that crowded folks’ faces when they discovered Abe was an equal and not a hireling. She was also used to the speculative looks, the sniggers, the stares. But that didn’t mean she let the perpetrators off easy.
She delivered a stare to Snow as icy as Leadville in winter and said in a tone to match, “Yes, Mr. Snow. My. Business. Partner.”
She checked McMurtrie’s response. His gaze slid from Jed to Abe, and he nodded neutrally. Abe nodded back.
Glad to have shifted attention from Jed, she held out her hand. “So pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. McMurtrie. I’d read that you were in town.”
McMurtrie hesitated, then touched his hat politely before shaking her hand.
Inez continued conversationally, “We welcome civilized discussion and debate conducte
d over fruits of the vine, barley, rye, or hops. However,” her voice slid to a more intimate volume to temper her words, “I do not condone fisticuffs or threats of any kind. This is not that sort of establishment.” She kept her eyes on McMurtrie, judging him the one who would set the tone for what might follow.
“That said, allow us to stand you and Mr. Snow a drink.” She gave him her most seductive smile, and, without taking her gaze from McMurtrie, motioned for Abe to put two clean glasses on the countertop.
The prompt clink of glassware on wood was interrupted by McMurtrie saying, “Another time, Mrs. Stannert. We came here on business.” His eyes swept over her shoulder to Jed, who, Inez suspected, still lounged against the bar, smirking.
“What a pity. Well, do drop by again sometime. The offer of a drink still stands.” She turned and placed the bottle by Jed, baring her teeth at him in a less cordial manner. “Mr. Elliston, wait here.”
Inez stepped between the two railway men, took each man by the arm and moved them toward the Harrison Avenue doors. “Thank you for your forbearance,” she said in a low voice. “It’s so easy for these things to turn ugly.” Her speech was interrupted by the sound of firecrackers popping outside, punctuated by the resonant bang of something far more powerful.
“Some are beginning their celebrations of the Fourth early,” she remarked. She released the two men, opened the door onto Harrison’s gas-lit boardwalk, and waited until they stepped out before following and shutting the door.
Harrison Avenue was packed. Men and a few women spilled from the boardwalks and filled the broad dirt-packed street, making it slow going for rigs and riders. She could feel the celebratory energy coursing through the crowds. The night’s journey from drinking to gambling to whoring had begun.
McMurtrie asked, “You know that inkslinger well?”
“Mr. Elliston? He plays in our regular Saturday night game, which is due to start—” she looked at her watchpin— “in fifteen minutes.”
McMurtrie said, “Tell him it’s not over.”
