Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  Sol, still standing guard over Delaney, said, “I’ll get him home, Doc. Soon’s I’m done here.” Bootsteps echoed across the room behind Inez, and Sol added, “The law’s arrived, so I can leave whenever he’s ready.”

  Inez twisted around, for once glad to see one of Leadville’s police officers. A brief explanation from McMurtrie and Inez was all it took for him to haul Delaney to his feet with a rough “You’ll be lodging at the jail tonight.”

  As Delaney passed Inez, he spat. The bloody glob landed on the floor by her skirts. “Damn Yankee whore!”

  Fist on hip, she stared him down until the policeman jerked him away.

  Turning her back on the departing Delaney, Inez crouched by Taps. “He should have his nose cut off his face for what he did. Don’t worry about anything but recovering. We’ll hold your place open here and see that Doc takes care of you until you heal. How much is your room and board? Can you cover it?”

  “I’ve got some saved.” Tears flowed down his face. “Jesus. I thought I was dead for sure. Those songs. They reminded me.”

  Doc shot a warning glance at Inez and patted Taps on the shoulder. “There, there. Plenty of soldiers here. We remember, as you do.”

  “The war’s over,” whispered Taps. “Fifteen years ago. It’s bad enough I hear the drums and songs in my dreams. When he asked if I knew ‘Bright Missouri’….” He tried to wipe his eyes with his cuff, holding his red and swollen hand away from contact or pressure.

  Inez pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and gently wiped his face. “I always thought for some reason that you’d fought for the North.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes, one side or the other, now.”

  “Absolutely right, young fellow.” Doc grasped him under one arm, Sol the other. “We need to set all those differences of the past behind and focus on the future.”

  Inez followed them to the door and said quietly to Doc, “Be sure you send the bills to us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Inez sat at one of the tables, brandy in hand, waiting for the Fairplays to change and leave. Abe approached, a key dangling from one hand, a leather pouch from the other.

  “All locked up, Inez. No one’s gonna be comin’ in the doors.”

  She propped her chin on one hand. “What a God-awful day.”

  “Worst part was Taps.” He sat across from her.

  “I hope he heals. To be a musician and have someone do that to your hands.” She shuddered.

  Abe set the pouch on the table between them with a clink. “There’s about seven hundred dollars in here from that buffalo head.”

  “Good Lord! Well, that will make a nice nest egg for you and Angel.”

  “I already took out some for us.” He pushed the bag toward her. “This here’s for you. I kept out some for Taps, too, t’ keep him afloat ’til he comes back.”

  “Are you certain, Abe?”

  His eyes squinched in a smile. “Way I see it, the money’s part yours anyhow. If you hadn’t been so damn stubborn ’bout keepin’ that buffalo head around, I would’ve thrown it out with the trash.”

  “You’ve got a point.” She picked up the bag. “I’ll put it upstairs in the safe after the Fairplays leave.”

  Abe stood. “Guess I’ll be headin’ home unless you want me to wait.”

  “I’ve no fear about walking home in broad daylight.”

  “Suit yourself. See you tomorrow, then.”

  Inez absently picked up the bag and set it down with a rhythmic “clink,” staring at the piano, thinking how close Taps had come to playing his last song. Delaney’s bizarre performance haunted her, as did Reuben’s fierce loyalty to a cause defeated before he was born.

  “I’ll never understand,” she said aloud.

  “Understand what, if I might ask?” C.A. came down the stairs, bloodied breastplate tucked under one arm, overstuffed valise in one hand.

  “The war. How it lives on, even though it’s long over.”

  C.A. approached and pulled out the chair opposite her. “May I?”

  She waved her hand, then held up the bottle. “May I offer you…?”

  “No, thank you. Quite enough excitement for today. I’ve no wish to add liquor on top of it.” He sat and asked, “Did you have family in the war? Brothers? A father? Or did you live somewhere touched by battle?”

  She shook her head, thinking of her very sheltered life in New York. “To me, the War between the States meant that suitable escorts were in short supply, all being in uniform and generally far away.”

  He sat back. “Suffice to say, it left no one untouched. Not even you, I daresay. Shakespeare had it right, particularly in Julius Caesar with ‘Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, that this foul deed shall smell above the earth with carrion men, groaning for burial.’” The soft intonation of the South increased in his voice as he added, “I still see the carrion men and hear their groaning in my dreams.”

  He shot a glance at Inez. “The last is editorial comment. Not the bard.” He looked at the bottle in her hand. “Perhaps, a drop, if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Stannert. Since you offered.”

  She went to the bar and brought back a clean snifter, filled it partway, and pushed it across the table to C.A.

  He thanked her, squinted at it appreciatively, and took a sip.

  Setting the glass down, he said, “I understand you and Mrs. Fairplay spoke of your common history.”

  “Frankly, I’m tired and don’t see what use it would be to discuss it right now.”

  C.A. twisted one end of his mustache, pondering, then said, “I understand your reluctance to revisit the subject. However, this may be the only time you and I have to chat, so forgive me if I declaim a moment. Pretend I’m talking to myself, if you prefer. First, every day, I tell Mrs. Fairplay: ‘Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.’ Nothing she could do or has done changes that. Nothing.”

  He turned the glass in his hand. “When I wooed Maude, I said, did, anything to win her. She wanted children. I swore by the sun and stars that I did as well. But I did not tell her,” he cleared his throat, “that such a desire would only be a dream, should we marry. Afterward, when we became man and wife, the truth willed out, as the truth always does. In Dodge, I finally told her that we would never be able to have a family. Due to…a very unfortunate war injury.”

  He sighed. “I don’t remember your husband. I do remember Dodge, for it was nearly our Waterloo, mine and Maude’s. This confluence of circumstances, of meeting you in Leadville, so soon after her spell in Central City, has me concerned. I do not believe she saw your husband there. She’s prone to fits of female hysteria. It took considerable persuasion on my part and a goodly dose of nostrum for her to recover from that episode. Forgive me for sounding selfish, but I hope that being here, facing her delusions, will drive the poison from her, once and for all.”

  The door upstairs squeaked open, and Maude appeared at the railing, dressed in a stylish walking suit. “Are you ready, Mr. Fairplay?”

  He sprang to his feet. “Never more than when you are, my love. I believe we should go straight away to the hotel where you can rest.”

  Maude descended; her maid followed, the rubber wheels of the traveling trunk thumping at each step. “I do feel the need to lie down.”

  Inez rose to unlock the door for them. “In the future, no more requests for songs from the audience.”

  “I think your suggestion a good one,” said C.A.

  Maude paused at the door, eyes wide, hand to bosom. “Without a pianist, I think no songs at all. I cannot sing unaccompanied.”

  Inez debated, then said, “I believe I could take over duty at the keyboard.”

  “Oh!” Maude clasped her hands. “That would be most excellent.” She sobered. “I do hope the young man…Taps?…will recover.”

  “As we all do.” Inez closed the
door behind them. Yet, if what C.A. says is true, the afflictions he suffers in spirit are not so easily cured by time and rest.

  Chapter Forty

  Inez arrived early the next morning, hoping to get a head start in determining the previous day’s profits and losses. Abe and Sol planned to come in early as well to deal with the broken benches and makeshift stage.

  She knocked on the kitchen door to avoid startling Bridgette and looked around at the alley. Rotting debris and broken crates lined the back of the building. Inez wrinkled her nose at the sweet cloying scent, haunted by a fetid undertone of decomposition. Two weeks until Grant arrives. No doubt Leadville will be in a frenzy of cleaning and sprucing up. We should probably pay someone to haul all this away and dump it north of town.

  The kitchen door opened, revealing Bridgette looking as if she were being forced to stand in a midden. “Ma’am,” she said without preamble, “someone wants to talk to you. And she won’t leave until you do!”

  That said, she swung the door open wide. Inez stepped in and with a jolt recognized Frisco Flo, owner of the high-toned brothel at the other end of the block, sitting at the kitchen table, idly stirring a cup of coffee.

  “I’ll be in the other room. Call me when you’re done. Don’t take too long or the biscuits will burn.” Bridgette fled the kitchen to the barroom.

  Inez leaned against the doorjamb, peeling off her gloves. “Miss Flo.”

  “Mrs. Stannert.” Flo covered a yawn. “I should be a-bed, but thought if I was going to talk with you, I’d best head over early rather than later on. Goodness me, your cook acts as if I’ve the pox or some such. Well, to business, so I can repair to my beauty sleep.” She fished around in a silk purse and placed a small leather case on the table. “I understand you know the boy this belongs to. I’m hoping you can return it to him.”

  Inez recognized the photocase Reuben had clutched to himself during the poker game on the evening of the third of July.

  Flo tapped the case with a fingernail. “One of my girls had this hidden in her room. He must have left it Saturday night. I imagine she was hoping he’d come back for it. Or for her.” She wrinkled her powdered nose. “It’s not good for business when the girls start thinking like that. Well, most likely we’ll not see him again. It’s not as if those railroaders are made of money.” Her baby-blue eyes drilled into Inez with frank curiosity. “He boasted your poker game funded him. Fancy that. From your table to my beds.”

  She fluffed her curls languidly. “Speaking of business…aren’t you going to join me for a cup of coffee?”

  Inez remained standing, gloves in hand. “I think not.”

  Flo’s penciled-in dark eyebrows lifted. “No? To the point, then. I’m going to leave State Street. The clientele is taking a downward turn and we’re getting more of the rough element.” She eyed Inez with an expression Inez couldn’t quite identify. “There’s an elegant building on West Fifth, close to Harrison. Close to the big hotels. Close to the mining district—and all that money. A good neighborhood. Not far from Winnie Purdy’s and Sallie Purple’s places. And they both do a handsome business. I heard about your…windfall yesterday.”

  Inez smoothed her gloves. “News travels fast.”

  “From your saloon to my house. A hop, skip, and a jump. Anyway, I’m wondering if you might want to throw in with me.” She held up a white hand. “Now, don’t be hasty in your decision. Think about it. Probably would be one of the best investments you’d ever make. And, we could be partners.” She smiled sweetly, then stood. “Ta-ta for now. You know where to find me. At least until I head uptown.”

  ***

  Frisco Flo left by the kitchen door, but Inez would have bet her bottom dollar that she didn’t creep down the filth-laden alley to the back of her house of ill-repute. More likely, she thought, Frisco Flo had merely straightened her beribboned bonnet and sashayed the few steps up the alley to Harrison and thence to State. She certainly didn’t get all gussied up to come visit me. No doubt she’s strolling down the boardwalk, doing a little advertising on the return.

  The case sat on the table, waiting for Inez’s curiosity to get the better of her.

  It didn’t take long.

  Inez moved the cup aside, a rouged mark on the rim where Flo’s painted lips had rested, and drew the photocase forward. The cover was worn, showing an intricate design of interlocking diamond shapes framed by swirls of vegetative flourishes.

  I’ll bet Flo didn’t hesitate to peek inside.

  She released the small metal catch and opened it.

  The first thing that caught her eye was the panel on the left. Instead of red velvet lining or a facing image, the panel held a worn fabric wedged into the case’s gold frame—white star on blue background.

  She turned her attention to the image.

  The tintype was of two men in military uniforms, sitting side by side, each holding a rifle to the outside. It was an uncanny echo of the photo Susan had just taken of the Holts, minus the plant. Right down to….

  Inez squinted, not sure she believed what she was seeing. She patted her pockets, found her reading glasses, and put them on.

  One of the men was a younger Preston Holt. She’d stake her life on it.

  The other person also looked familiar.

  She focused on his face, trying to age the man in the frame by fifteen years. Lengthen his beard. Whiten his hair.

  A shock of recognition blew through her.

  Elijah Carter.

  The next thing that penetrated her bewilderment was their uniforms. Military, yes. However….

  She couldn’t swear to it.

  But the uniforms and markings looked Confederate.

  Both of them.

  ***

  “So you’re askin’ what, exactly?” Abe poured himself some coffee. He had arrived at the back door just as Inez had snapped the case shut.

  Inez tapped the photocase. “Take a look at the tintype inside. Tell me if the men look familiar. Also, the uniforms. Are they from the war? What side?”

  “You sure have a mighty interest in the war these days.” Abe set his mug of coffee on the table across from her and lowered himself into the chair.

  “Well, it didn’t have much to do with my life before now. Seems like, with Grant coming, nearly everything that happens has some tie to those times.”

  Abe opened the case, peered at it, then looked up at Inez. “The one on the left, he bears a passin’ resemblance to Eli Carter. If’n you were to bring him in here, trim his beard close-like and take off some years, I think it’d be him. Man on the right looks like that railroad man you fancy. The one with the firecracker of a son from last night.”

  Inez realized her hands were clenched into fists on the table. She opened them and laid them flat on the wood. “I don’t fancy the railroad man. Well, not seriously. But all that aside, your observations are the same as mine.”

  “Hmmm.” Abe studied the photo. “No surprise ’bout the boy’s leanin’ to the South, then.” He closed the case and slid it back across the table to her. “Both wearin’ the gray, I’d say.”

  Inez stared down at the case. “That can’t be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Preston Holt fought for the Union. He and Reverend Sands were sharpshooters together. They talked about it once, while I was present.”

  Abe pulled the case back again and opened it, taking another long look. “Well, sometimes clothes don’t mean much. Folks wore whatever they could get ahold of. Especially the Rebs. But most didn’t wear coats from the other side. Too much danger of gettin’ shot by your own. Holt and Sands were sharpshooters?”

  “Yes. In Berdan’s unit. I remember that part of the conversation.”

  “Well, like I said, clothes don’t make the man. But these two are dressed up for the picture, jackets and all. Thought Berdan’s men wore fancy green coats. Your reverend’d be the one to ask. And I believe Holt’s holdin’ a gun for di
stance. It’s not a Sharps like Berdan’s shooters had, though.”

  “No? How on earth can you tell?”

  “I got a good look at that Sharps rifle you bought the other day. Double-set triggers, a breechloader. Fine piece of work. This one here ain’t the same gun a-tall. Got a single trigger. And it’s a muzzleloader. If you look close, you can see the ramrod there, under the barrel. What Eli’s holdin’—if that’s him—looks like your Sharps.”

  She held out her hand.

  He gave the case back to her.

  Inez put her glasses back on and squinted at the tiny rifles, details sharp in the tin surface. “You can see all that? Well, I’ll take your word for it. I can tell though, neither is wearing a dark jacket.” She took off her glasses and stared at Abe. “Preston Holt and Elijah Carter. They knew each other. Fought together? Is it possible Holt could have been a sharpshooter for the Confederacy early in the war before switching and fighting for the Union?”

  “Men changed sides sometimes. I did.” Abe gazed at the small window high above the stove, overlooking the alley. The diffuse light accentuated the lines in his face, heightened the gray in his hair, bleached his dark skin.

  “Are those biscuits I smell burnin’?” He rose and started toward the oven.

  The passdoor swung open and Bridgette advanced, her expression making it clear that she was ready to do battle with any harlots lingering in her dominion. The asperity faded into consternation. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the biscuits! Ma’am, I thought you were going to call me when that…woman left.” Bridgette seized potholders and threw open the oven door. She heaved the tin cooking sheet onto the range top with a clang. “Lands alive.” She fanned the smoke away and tipped one biscuit up to inspect the bottom. “I’ll scrape them, yes, I believe so. What a waste it’d be to toss them all.”

  “Abe, do you think it’s possible that he fought on both sides?” Inez persisted.

  Abe turned back to her, arms crossed. “Anything’s possible. But what makes you think it didn’t happen the other way—he started a Yank and switched to a Johnny Reb?”