Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  Thinking on Hollis’ reaction last night, she sighed. All the comments, discussions, arguments, remembrances of the war that had been flying about her for nearly a month. All that explosive emotion, stored in a piece of fabric.

  She examined the flag. The stars seemed larger on Hollis’ flag than the stars on the cloth strips or the one she’d seen in Reuben’s photocase.

  Inez went to her dressing room and retrieved the two strips of bunting: the one found by the river, the other from Eli’s saddlebag. She unfurled them both and draped them on the flag, trying to match up positions.

  Aside from a different colored border, the strips matched the design of Hollis’ flag. But they seemed from a smaller version, as if someone had sized down Hollis’ flag and then cut it into pieces. And given it a different colored border.

  Eli’s strip fit to one side of the center star. The other piece, its white edging bordering one long side, seemed to belong at the flag’s leading edge. Provided one took into account the missing star. I’ll bet this strip belonged to Hiram Holt. And the missing star is the lining in Reuben’s photocase. The photocase that holds an image of his father and Eli Carter.

  If all the pieces were the same width.…She measured with her eyes. It would take seven to make the flag whole.

  A knock at the door broke her reverie.

  “Come in.”

  Hollis and One-Eyed Jack entered, bringing the heavy stale scent of the stable fire with them. Hollis dumped what was left of Inez’s tack—her astride saddle and a jangle of stirrups, bridle, and bit—inside the door. Jack added a singed horse blanket. They lingered by the door, as if uncertain of their welcome.

  Hollis’ clothes were clean but ill-fitting, much too baggy for his snake-like frame—no doubt offerings from one of the various relief societies from around town, or maybe a sympathetic friend. His face was cleaned up from the previous night, but its usual pinched contours were even tighter, due most likely to exhaustion, grief, and anger over the blaze, rather than anything to do with her.

  Jack, on the other hand, looked as if he’d been nearly barbecued. The long scraggly hair under his dented derby was considerably shorter on one side. His eyebrows were gone. The coal-black beard as well. Seeing Jack’s naked face was nearly as much of a shock to Inez as if he’d strolled into her office in the altogether. His face was reddened and blistered, the single eye blinked, forlorn and bloodshot, the patch still intact over the empty socket of its mate.

  Inez nodded at the clean glasses she’d set out on her end table and held up a sealed bottle of Jack Daniels. A mute truce in the ongoing verbal scuffles between herself and the ex-marshal.

  Hollis hesitated, as if unconvinced the temporary truce between them wasn’t some kind of trick. He finally hobbled forward. His fancy boots, Inez noted, had been saved from the fire, but barely, and looked the worse for wear.

  Hollis and Jack each retrieved a glass. Jack also brought one over for Inez. She filled them all, and they drank.

  The sensory blast that comes with high-proof alcohol cleared throats and loosened tongues all around.

  Hollis moved over to the sofa and raised his half-empty glass in salute. “T’ the battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia.”

  He then craned his neck to peer at the overlaid patchwork strips. “Hmpf. Where’d you get these? I’m guessin’ they’re from a cavalry flag.”

  “One is Eli’s,” said Inez.

  Hollis grunted. “So, how’d you hear ’bout the flag, that brotherhood, an’ all?” He teetered back on charred boot heels, eyes half-lidded. Inez was reminded of a snake wavering, trying to decide whether to strike or just slither on by.

  “I didn’t. Not really. But I’ve been trying to put together the bits and pieces.” She gestured at the remnants. “The longer one is Eli’s. I found it….” She stopped, not wanting to unbalance the tenuous peace she’d forged with Hollis by letting him know she’d snooped around. “I found the other by the river. Near where Eli met a man, possibly Hiram Holt from Missouri.”

  “Hiram Holt?” Hollis frowned.

  Inez leaned forward. “What can you tell me?”

  He hesitated, pulling on the shortened end of his mustache.

  She set the bottle down. “Look, Hollis. This all ties into the Denver and Rio Grande’s arrival here in Leadville. And generals from the war. The Rio Grande, as you know, is headed by General Palmer. General Grant’s arriving on the Rio Grande train today. Are there other generals about? I don’t know. But something’s afoot, and I don’t think it’s good. I know you’re unhappy with the Rio Grande, especially with the arson of your livery. And most likely you’re not happy about Grant’s visit either. But the war, it all happened long ago. And the train’s on its way to town. There’s not much time.”

  He nodded, silent, then said, “Back when Eli and I met, it was near the end of the war. For some time afterward, we were workin’ the same outfits. What Eli said once was that there was a brotherhood. A group of men. Missourians, mostly from the same battalion. They’d each made a pledge to kill one of the blue-belly generals that helped destroy the Confederacy. And each of the men took a piece of the flag, vowin’ that, when the deeds were done, they’d put the flag back t’gether. Eli told me all this and showed me that there.” He gestured with his empty glass toward the strip of flag. “Crazy talk. We must’ve been tight on some rotgut or other. But at the time, it sounded like a good idea. Get some of the Yanks, like Booth did Lincoln. Like I said, crazy talk. I didn’t think any more of it when I sobered up.”

  Inez held out the bottle. He held out his glass. She filled it again.

  He continued. “The group was sharpshooters and snipers that turned into hardcases after the war. But that was years ago.” He shook his head. “Eli’d sure had a change of heart by the time I partnered up with him at the livery.”

  “He married,” Inez said. “Lillian.”

  “Yeah.” Hollis looked at her through slitted eyes. Suspicious again. “Didn’t know you and Eli were on such friendly speakin’ terms.”

  “I told her,” Jack mumbled, looking like he very much wished he had his beard to hide behind.

  “Well. Don’t make no difference. I never heard Eli talk about it here in Leadville. In fact, he damn near hated hearin’ anything about the war.”

  “Did he mention any names from this group?” Inez looked from Hollis to Jack. “Hiram Holt? Brodie Duncan?”

  The two men looked at each other.

  Hollis frowned. “All’s I know is, a sharpshooter headed it. Some real whingdinger of a shootist. I’d just supposed it all faded away over time. Hell, that’s a long time to keep somethin’ like that a secret. And to carry through.”

  “A sharpshooter.” Inez turned the glass in her hand. “Hiram Holt was a Rebel sharpshooter. For the Ninth Missouri. He had a Whitworth and was a crack shot, to hear others tell it.”

  Hollis looked at her as if she’d grown an extra set of arms. “Where’d you come by all that? And who’s this Hiram Holt?”

  “Maybe the ringleader you spoke of. But he’s gone now. Probably dead. His son carries a photocase with a tintype of Hiram and Eli, side-by-side. Rifles in hand. Eli with that Sharps he took from a dead Union soldier. Hiram with a Whitworth. The case had a single star, like those,” she gestured at the flag, “in its lining.”

  “The man. Who brought the Sharps to Eli. Saw him right here.” Jack let out a nearly ignitable burp. “That night.”

  “What night?” Inez was nonplussed. Then she remembered the night of the North/South fight in her saloon. Jack, venturing inside the State Street entrance, staring at the men by the Harrison Avenue door, and stepping back out. “The night of the fight here at the saloon?”

  “Yep. Came by the livery.” He squinched up his face, apparently calculating, then gave up. “Some time ago.”

  “So, which one was he?”

  “Big fella. Real big. Whupped the lunatic.”

&
nbsp; Inez blinked, incredulous. “Preston Holt? No. It couldn’t be.” She then realized Jack’s error. “Oh! I’ll bet that was Hiram Holt. Preston and Hiram are brothers. I’ve been told they look alike.”

  “Saw the other one too.”

  “What other one?”

  “He waited. Outside. When the big fella brought the Sharps. Looked like he didn’t want t’ been seen. Then, they rode off t’gether.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Scrawny. Little beard. Specs.”

  “The professor,” she said quietly. Then, “Brodie Duncan.”

  Jack shrugged. “Dunno the name. Looked like him. Acted like him. Not wanting to be seen.”

  Inez blew out her cheeks in a loud exhale. So. The professor, Brodie Duncan, lied. He’s part of this whole racket as well. He came out with Hiram and just got a different job with the railroad. One better suited to his talents, no doubt.

  “I can’t picture Brodie Duncan as a sharpshooter.” She shook her head. “The war doesn’t seem to drive him, the way it does the others.”

  “Well, mebbe they’re all gone now, this brotherhood.” Hollis put down his glass. “Unless you’re wrong, Miz Stannert, and that Duncan fella’s one of them.”

  “Maybe.” Inez was quiet a moment. “But consider. If the other flag strips are the same size, there are five more around somewhere. Maybe the men who took those pieces have thrown them out, or folded them away and forgotten them. But maybe not. Maybe those men are still living as if the past fifteen years have never been.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Inez felt she hardly had time to eat, blink, or breathe. She moved efficiently behind the bar with Abe, the two of them so used to working around each other that they moved as in a choreographed dance.

  But Inez wasn’t feeling particularly graceful. She swiped the sweat from her face, glancing out the State Street window. So many pine boughs festooned the outside that Inez thought the saloon must give the appearance of being in a miniature forest.

  Out the window, she could just see Sol’s ladder, his shoes, and his trousers to the knees as he hammered the last of the nails into the final banner. At the eleventh hour, Inez had agreed that, if material could be found, a banner could also be erected above the State Street door. Sol had dashed off and managed to acquire what Inez suspected was the last available length of banner fabric in Leadville, and had lettered “Welcome, General!” in black paint.

  “Who knows?” said Abe. “Maybe he’ll stop and quench his thirst, if we look welcomin’ enough.”

  “Well, we certainly have enough Old Crow in stock,” said Inez, wiping the bar with a rag already damp from spillage.

  The door swung open, and a clump of men entered. Inez looked up, hoping against hope Preston Holt, Reverend Sands, or McMurtrie would appear.

  “You expectin’ someone, Mrs. Stannert?” Abe loaded five tankards of beer on a tray for a group lucky enough to have snagged a table an hour before and who showed no intentions of quitting their claim.

  “I’m hoping to spot Reverend Sands or someone from the Rio Grande.” She blew upward, trying to dislodge a sweaty strand of hair that had unfurled from her hairpins and lodged against her forehead.

  “Well, don’t see any so far, but here comes Doc.”

  Sure enough, Doc approached the bar with considerable spring in his lopsided gait. He wore a brand new jacket and a well brushed top hat.

  “Mrs. Stannert, a brandy, if you please, to celebrate General Grant’s impending arrival.”

  She delivered the drink and leaned over the bar. “Doc. I need to talk to you about Reverend Sands. What he’s doing. Those notes you mentioned, that were received by the railroad. Did any of them talk about a plot against—”

  Alarmed, Doc held up a hand. “Not here.” He looked around, as if expecting to see eyes upon them, then back at her, eyebrows crowding together. “I expected the good reverend to be more discreet in his disclosures to you.”

  “He told me nothing.” That stung more than she would let on. “But I suspect perhaps Elijah Carter was trying to warn—”

  He had pulled out his pocketwatch. The snap of the cover springing open was like scissors to her speech. He said quietly, but pointedly, “Thirteen members of the Union Veteran Association took the down train to Canon City to meet General Grant and his party early today. But we…that is, the two of us left here to hold down the fort…received a telegram that the general’s train was detained two hours on account of a washout west of Pueblo, which required building a temporary bridge. It was nearly three o’clock when the train finally arrived in Pueblo.” He snapped the watch shut. “What’s topmost on my mind right now is that our august visitors are not arriving at five, or even six, which is what the crowds out there are expecting. More likely, it’ll be toward dusk. Don’t worry, Mrs. Stannert, about that other business. All is well. The good Reverend J. B. Sands is a wonder, and I think there’s naught to do but wait for the rather delayed arrival of our guests.”

  “But Doc—”

  He guzzled the liquor at a pace that did it no justice, pulled out an enormous handkerchief, white and starched, and patted his mouth dry. “Must run. More communiqués expected. The procession will be heading down to the Boulevard soon, so we’re ready to meet our guest whenever he arrives.” He hurried out.

  Inez exhaled in frustration and scowled at the partially empty glass. “Why do I even bother? Men! Well, perhaps he has sorted it out—”

  She picked up the snifter to put it in the dirty-glass tub as another figure moved in to fill the vacuum at the bar. She glanced up, the automatic “What’s your pleasure?” dying on her lips.

  Delaney sneered at her from across the bar.

  Inez gaped, wordless.

  “Think you’ll lift that ban long enough t’ sell me a beer?” He tapped a nickel on the bar. “Everyone else in town is celebrating. Guess I’ll be mourning by my lonesome unless you plan to drink with me.”

  “I’m not selling you anything after what you did last week,” she said savagely. “What the hell are you doing here anyway? I heard you were dead!”

  “Me?” Delaney seemed to find this hilarious. “Still alive and kicking. Can’t say the same’s true of your friend Holt, though.”

  Inez froze. “What are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t heard?” Delaney didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “He’s dead.”

  The universe shrank down until Delaney’s eyes—black pools of malice—and his crooked smile filled it.

  “You’re lying.” Her voice seemed to come from far away.

  “Why would I lie? He was shot in the back a couple of days ago. Ask anyone working the Rio Grande, they’ll tell you the same.”

  Couple of days ago.

  The response she’d formulated to throw into Delaney’s smirking face stuck in her throat.

  All the questions she’d planned to ask Preston. All the apologies, explanations she’d planned to give, when she saw him again. All died inside her, unspoken.

  “Wouldn’t you know,” he continued in a conversational tone. “The Holt kid’s been missing ever since. Bets are, he pulled the trigger. That whole clan was trouble from the word go. Payroll guards, bullshit. Didn’t trust none of them. Roamin’ around, stickin’ their noses where they didn’t belong. Piss-poor Missourians to a man. Good riddance.”

  The brandy dregs struck him straight on, drenching his hat, collar, and jacket.

  “Get out!” said Inez. “Now.”

  Delaney took out his handkerchief and mopped his face, not taking his eyes from Inez.

  Abe was suddenly beside her. “Think you heard the lady.”

  Delaney pushed off from the bar. “Where I’m from, ladies don’t wear trousers and hang around with niggers.”

  Abe seized Inez’s arm, guessing correctly that she was ready to throw the snifter at the railroader. “Let him go, Mrs. Stannert. Man just wants to stir things up.
Ain’t worth the cost of the glassware or a bullet.”

  Once Delaney was gone, Abe eased his grasp and slid a glass of whiskey in front of her. “Mrs. Stannert, I’m thinkin’ you need this.”

  She still gripped the empty glass. The aromatic fragrance of spilled brandy filled her head. She put the snifter down with extreme care, as if it could shatter more easily than the most fragile of dreams. “I need some air. For just a minute.”

  She headed for the Harrison Avenue door.

  Outside, a surging mass of humanity crushed the streets and walkways. Civic and military organizations marched up and down Harrison, nearly obscured by clouds of dust.

  Inez leaned against the plank exterior of the Silver Queen. She closed her eyes, turned her face skyward, and focused on her senses—touch, sound, taste. Anything that could counteract the surge of emotions threatening to engulf her. Heat of the sun on her face. Discordant music from brass bands, all practicing their separate tunes for General Grant’s arrival. Shouting of orders. Solid beat of marching feet and hooves. Dust stinging the inner passages of her nose. Thrumming of the boardwalk through the soles of her shoes.

  The warmth on her face vanished. She opened her eyes to clouds across the sun.

  A familiar voice at her elbow said, “Mrs. Stannert?”

  Inez looked over at Terry O’Loughlin, tapping a white envelope against her lower lip.

  Terry appeared relieved. “I’m glad I found you here. I have a message for you. And I wasn’t certain about the propriety of….” She glanced at the saloon.

  Inez pushed away from the wall. “I thought you were keeping Susan company at her studio.”