by Ann Parker
The professor swung toward Weston. “Soldier! Do not listen to her. That’s a direct order.”
Weston remained on his knees. Then, he lifted his face, searching the hillside. He said in wonderment, “Addie? Is that you?”
The professor cursed and aimed his pistol at Weston.
From her vantage point, Inez could see, far down the valley and approaching, a pinpoint of light.
On the sighing of the wind, she heard the faraway whistle of an approaching train.
The professor heard it too.
“Dammit! Men—including engineers—are shot in the Union army for disobeying orders, Private Croy. If this explosive is as unstable as you say, let’s use it to our advantage. Tie it to the track! When the train runs over it, we’ll be victorious.”
Weston removed the fry pan from the fire.
Inez pulled the set trigger. “Stop! Or I’ll shoot!”
“Ha!” It was not a laugh so much as a shriek. “Shoot Private Croy, and ye’ll blow us all to bits. And if you can shoot me or him from the top of that hill then you’re a better shot than that pup Holt, who missed you when he had plenty of time to aim. I’m no gambler, and I say you cannae do it.”
She ripped the glove off her right hand with her teeth and set her eye to the sight. If I stop him, I stop Weston. At least, I pray so.
A gust of cool wind bearing the scent of rain brushed her cheeks.
Another drop hit her bare hand.
Her finger rested, light as a lover’s touch, on the hair-trigger.
Let it end now.
She heard a scuff of boot on the rocks behind her. Heavy breathing of someone coming up fast.
Her finger tightened.
The boom of the Sharps nearly deafened Inez to the shot from behind her.
Below, the professor clutched his arm with a cry, dropped his gun.
Weston, arms full of unstable dynamite, stumbled.
The flash lit the riverbed, a sun born in a thunder of sound.
A heavy weight fell on her back, knocking the wind from her. A man’s body covered her; a hand forced her head to the ground.
Dirt and debris, heaved up from the riverbank by the explosion, fell around her.
Pebbles, dirt, struck her hat, pattering like rain.
Then, silence reigned.
Sound emerged once more, muffled as if through cotton wadding.
The ground trembled again. This time with a rhythmic vibration.
Inez lifted her head.
The engine’s headlight, which before had been a prick in the distance, was now a solid lantern, the body of the train snaking behind in the dusk. With a shriek, the train thundered across the trestle bridge, to the west and away to Leadville.
She felt, more than heard, the breathing of the man still resting on her back. One hand holding her arm to the ground. The other, holding a rifle to the side, protecting her, sheltering her from harm.
Then, a fervent voice in her ear: “I thought we’d be blown to kingdom come.”
It was Reverend Sands.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Around the bend of the riverbank, Inez and Sands discovered a small cave dug into the side of the steep stony ravine. It held what remained of the cache of giant powder. Susan, blocked by a partially filled box, was in the back.
Susan peered out over the top of the box, her wide frightened eyes visible even in the coming twilight. Working on the theory that the rest of the giant powder might be sensitive, Sands carefully pulled out the box and set it in the dirt to one side. Inez and the reverend helped Susan wiggle out. She was trussed up with the stout rope the professor had bought from Evan’s mercantile and gagged to boot.
When they removed the gag, Susan’s first words were “Inez! Reverend Sands! Thank heaven it’s you. I heard an explosion. Did they blow up the bridge? But I thought I heard the explosion first, and then the train.” Her next words were “If I’d put that gun in my pocket like you told me to, Inez, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”
“If you had tried to use it, the professor might have overcome his reluctance to doing his own killing and you wouldn’t be here to talk about it,” Inez answered.
As they searched for a way up the steep bank, Inez explained what had happened.
Susan’s teeth were chattering, but she refused the overcoat Sands offered, insisting she would be fine. “It’s just I was afraid I’d be stuck here forever or that maybe they’d changed their minds and.…Well. I recognized him. The professor. Only by then, it was too late. The closer we came to this place, the more he talked and talked and the more nervous and uneasy I felt. Then, we arrived in the kiln field and he said, ‘Wait, I need to move these.’ He was referring to a couple of bags in the cart. But his words brought it all back. He was the one who said he needed to move the bodies before blowing up the tracks. I never saw him then, but his voice….Why I didn’t remember before, I don’t know. Maybe because I wasn’t really listening to him when he came to my studio for a portrait. Or maybe returning to this place brought it back.” She shivered.
“You must have been frightened,” said Inez.
“I didn’t want to let on I knew who he was. I thought I’d make a dash for the road and yell for help, once I’d gotten out of the cart. But Weston Croy was here. Waiting. And they had guns. The professor told me if I didn’t make trouble, they’d let me go, but if I made so much as made a peep, they’d kill me. There wasn’t much choice. Weston bundled me into that little cave and told me if I even wiggled a toe, the powder would explode. He said crazy things. That he didn’t want me to die, just wanted me to stay put until they’d destroyed the bridge, killed the Rebel generals, and the engineering unit got away.”
“Well, from what the professor said, it’s pretty clear that Reuben was the man on the ridge top above you that morning,” Inez said. “And Elijah Carter and Hiram Holt were the original men on the tracks. I think Eli wanted to stop Hiram from carrying through on his plans to kill a general—whether Palmer or Grant, or both. I know Eli tried to find Marshal Ayres shortly before he left town, without success. Maybe he was hoping to enlist help from him.”
Sands nodded. “Could be. We’ll never know, now.”
“And then, when Eli’s business partner, Bart Hollis, followed him to Malta, Eli drove him away. I suppose he didn’t think Hollis would help him stop Hiram.”
The three of them straggled up the riverbank, giving a wide berth to the site of the explosion, and passed through the silent kiln field to fetch the horses and the cart.
Inez paused, some distance from the kiln she’d opened earlier, and said in a low voice to Reverend Sands, “I believe Elijah Carter and Hiram Holt are in there.”
“Reuben seems to have disappeared.” Sands kept his arm firmly around Inez’s waist. “He’s proved the most elusive of the bunch.”
Inez thought of Duncan’s remark about Reuben and a young prostitute. “A certain dark-eyed, dark-haired girl at Frisco Flo’s might know his whereabouts.”
When they reached the cart and animals, Susan said, “If you two ride in front of me, I think I can manage the cart.”
They tied the lead of Weston’s horse to the back of the cart, crossed the river, and set on the road to Leadville.
“Do you think we’re too late to see General Grant?” Susan sounded wistful.
“Maybe not,” said Sands. “He’s planning a long stop at Malta. I think many of the Rio Grande crew are hoping he’ll say a few words and shake some hands. He’ll probably oblige.”
“I thought you were on that train,” said Inez in a low voice.
They rode side by side. Occasionally, his leg brushed hers.
“Change of plans yesterday after a discussion with Snow and Palmer. I took the early train this morning to Leadville. Spoke with Jed Elliston about his source for those Rio Grande articles. Talked with Hollis at some length. Then, talked with Abe. Once I heard where you’d gone and why, I cut
my investigations short.”
“Did Snow really engage Weston Croy to burn Hollis’ livery?”
Sands sighed. “Snow became a tad overzealous in his attempts to secure right-of-way before Grant’s arrival. The thought of General Grant being deposited among the tree stumps at the end of Third Street, because he couldn’t move the condemnation procedure along faster or get the holdouts to agree to terms, must have been the last straw. I’m not certain how he lit on Weston Croy to further his plan, but it appears Brodie Duncan was the go-between. Needless to say, Palmer is not pleased.”
He shifted. “Not that the fire changed much. Hollis said he won’t sell. So, the Rio Grande will push through with condemnation. Hollis will lose in any case. The Rio Grande isn’t waiting. They’re planning on an extension through the Ten Mile District to Kokomo. They hope to get there within sixty days, barring bad luck. And, as you might have surmised, the Rio Grande road doesn’t allow bad luck to interfere with its plans very much.”
“What happened to Snow? And Birdie?” She stared straight ahead at the road and tried to make it a neutral question.
“Snow resigned. He’s headed back to Philadelphia and civilization, taking his daughter with him.” Inez could feel him looking steadily at her as he added, “He decided the far west is too rough for her temperament.”
Not enough steel to her spine. Inez suffered the uncharitable thought to die in silence. Instead she asked, “How did you get tangled up in this? You seem on familiar terms with General Palmer.”
The silence stretched beyond her words, and she feared he’d not answer.
Finally, he said, “I told you, once, about my sister and her plans to help the Union during the war. Judith’s connections in Philadelphia, many of them became my own later. Many of the officers, they didn’t know exactly what she was doing, but she was widely respected for her courage. Her resolve. I first met Palmer and others in those days.”
The chirps and twilight songs of birds and the rushing of the river sang counterpoint to the creak of cart wheels and the soft clomp of hoofs on the dirt road. A light rain began to fall.
“So, this meeting I heard about in the Board of Trade Saloon, with you, McMurtrie, Snow, Doc….” She couldn’t say Preston Holt’s name. “I suppose that had to do with all this.”
“I suppose I can tell you now since Duncan and Croy are dead. The danger appears to be past.” He glanced back at Susan. “Miss Carothers, do you need a blanket?”
“There’s one here in the cart.”
He nodded. “Malta’s ahead. Then it’s three miles to Leadville.” He then said to Inez, “Palmer received anonymous notes from Leadville. The first said a plot was being hatched against him and the railroad. That the threat came from within his very own organization.”
“I’ll bet Eli Carter wrote it,” said Inez softly.
“Probably. Then, Grant accepted Palmer’s invitation to visit Colorado Springs and partake of the Rio Grande’s hospitality. Soon after, and before his visit was widely known outside of the Rio Grande inner circle, another note arrived, saying that there was a grave danger to General Grant as well. That last one was dated just the day before the explosion by the siding.”
“The explosion that Susan witnessed.”
Sands grunted. “At that point, the railroad began to sit up and take serious notice.”
“I wonder…with all those expert marksmen, why dynamite supply cars and blow up tracks? Why not just bide their time and wait for the generals to arrive?”
“I believe it was their attempt to create overall havoc for the Rio Grande as well as provide misdirection. Rumors were that those responsible for the sabotage were from a rival railroad—the Santa Fe was an obvious choice, with the South Park being another possibility. There was even talk of citizens, disgruntled with certain Rio Grande actions regarding routes and right-of-way, being responsible. Of course, all those whispers and rumors pointed to the enemy being outside the ranks, not within.”
“So why wasn’t Grant’s visit cancelled?”
“No one wanted to call it off. Not the Rio Grande. Not the Union Veterans Association. Not Grant. And he was told of the possible danger. Remember, no one knew if the notes were bona fide. But they did want someone to…investigate is probably the proper word. Ask questions. Discreetly. And if there were folks causing trouble….” Sands looked away. Inez had no clue as to his expression as he continued, “It was hoped that troublemakers could be persuaded to desist.”
He looked back at her. “On one hand, the sharpshooters from Missouri. You know about them. On the other, Brodie Duncan. Snow’s clerk, courier, and all-around errand boy. Also from Missouri, with a grudge against Palmer. He was the most difficult piece of the puzzle to work out. I got lucky while in the Springs. A newsman from the Colorado Springs Gazette had recognized Duncan in Leadville and had a few things to say about him.”
They reached Malta and moved quickly up the main street, which seemed oddly deserted. An inebriated pedestrian said they’d “just missed” Grant.
“The train’s heading to Leadville,” he said. “You can probably catch the procession. He’ll be getting out on the Boulevard, east of the tollgate. A carriage’ll take him into town.”
“Will we get there in time?” Susan asked anxiously behind them.
“If we keep to a steady pace,” Sands assured her.
As they left Malta behind, Inez, who was still pondering Brodie Duncan, said to Sands, “Duncan tried to kill Palmer once before. During the war, Duncan and his mother left Missouri and fled to Tennessee. He was a boy of fifteen when he shot at General Palmer…and missed. He was caught, and Palmer let him go. To think, that act of kindness from so many years ago bore such unexpected fruit. What an unfortunate coincidence that Duncan should have joined forces with those men who were gunning for the old Union generals.”
“Not coincidence at all. Like draws like. Men with a common cause always manage to find others like themselves. And Missouri had more than her share of miseries, before, during, and after the war.”
“The men from Missouri. They carried their hate, their hopes for vengeance so long.” She paused, then spoke past the lump in her throat, “You know about Preston Holt? That he’s dead. Duncan shot him in the back.”
Sands reached out, took Inez’s right hand, and held it fast. “It would take more than one misplaced bullet to kill Preston Holt.”
For a moment, it was as if everything in the world had stopped moving. The only thing she felt for certain was the reverend’s hand, warm and tight around hers. “But I heard—”
“You heard what was put out and around. What we wanted people to hear. Preston was left for dead but was found before that became the case. He told us about Duncan. About his brother Hiram. And his suspicions about Reuben. It wasn’t easy for him. He’s always believed in family. Loyalty. Couldn’t imagine a better person at my back. Preston’s a fighter. The doctors say he’ll make it.”
He squeezed her hand once. Then let it go.
The three of them—Sands, Inez, and Susan—entered Leadville’s city limits.
The rain picked up with the wind.
Inez finally saw the Boulevard, lit with bonfires. Leadville’s cavalry companies lined each side of the road in open ranks, ready to receive the general. Behind the cavalry, masses of people seethed, wet hats, cloaks, waterproofs, gleaming in the light of the bonfires. The train rested, its engine panting, at the junction of the Boulevard and the foot of West Third Street. The grand procession, headed by the mayor and city council, and consisting of members of societies both military and civic, waited en masse, on Third.
Susan pulled up beside Inez and stood in the cart, straining her eyes toward the train.
Sands and Inez moved their horses closer together to make room for the people on foot who crowded around them as the reception committee disembarked from the train.
Sands once again reached for her. “About Miss Snow.”
>
She slid her bare hand into his gloved one. “You don’t have to say a thing.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve decided. To get a divorce. I’m not going to keep starting at shadows. Wondering at every turn if Mark will show or if he won’t. I refuse to live in the darkness anymore.”
Sands raised her hand to his lips. Kissed it.
They both turned eyes toward the train.
A compact, gray figure appeared on the platform, hat in hand.
General Ulysses S. Grant.
The crowd surged forward, and roars from a thousand voices rose to envelop him.
Author’s Note
Working in the shadows of history is, for me, one of the pleasures of writing historical fiction. To that end, real places, people, and events march through Iron Ties along with the creations of my overactive imagination.
First, to places. Leadville, Colorado, exists. You can visit it, walk the streets, learn its history, and—who knows?—maybe uncover the traces of an ancestor or two. For an entertaining account of Leadville’s history, Edward Blair’s Leadville, Colorado’s Magic City is a good place to start. Two other resources on Leadville and its history are the everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know, two-volume work History of Leadville and Lake County, Colorado, by Don and Jean Griswold, and the much harder-to-find gem A Social History of Leadville, Colorado, during the Boom Days, 1877–1881, which is Eugene Floyd Irey’s Ph.D. thesis from 1951.
The 1880 census claimed about 15,000 souls inhabited this silver mining boom town, a number hotly contested by local press and others, who placed the population closer to 40,000. It is mind-boggling (at least to me) to consider that all these folks and more—because some fair number no doubt were merely “passing through”—came up to this 10,000-foot-high city before the arrival of the train: they took stagecoaches, wagons, or horses, or depended on their own two feet to power them over high mountain passes.
Today, we have it easy. To get to Leadville, hop into your motorized vehicle, head west from Denver on I-70 into the Rocky Mountains, take the Copper Mountain exit, and follow the signs up over Fremont Pass and down into Leadville. Or, you can take a longer route through South Park and Fairplay, up over Trout Creek Pass, then head north on 24, paralleling the Arkansas River and the route of the long-gone Denver & Rio Grande tracks to Leadville.
