Hunger crawled up in his belly, but he knew it could wait. He directed himself to the livery and led the roan out from its stall, brushed him down, saddled him, and rode out through the back corral gates and turned toward the foothills.
The trails leading into town were a convolution of tracks from all kinds of beast; horse, mule, goat, cow, ox and donkey. There were wagon wheel ruts, those of carts and buggies and things drug behind animals. Human footprints mixed with those of chicken claws, and any other imprint the ground would hold it did.
Balum rode out until the commotion of prints dissipated and began to cut back and forth for sign of the paint. He found it, or what he guessed was her horse, a half mile out from the city. She was headed northwest, the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies far in the distance. He followed a ways, then lost the trail over hard ground, picked it up again, then found himself searching once more. A quarter of an hour was lost until he found where she had crossed a small stream. The paint’s tracks were clear and unmistakable in the sand along the banks. When he lost the trail again he took a look into the distance and followed the most likely route. It worked. The paint’s tracks showed up again, fresher. He was gaining ground.
Another half hour’s ride and he caught a glimpse of a rider a few miles out. Just a dark speck in a meadow, nothing more. The roan accelerated its pace and soon he could make out the distinct spotting of the paint. The roan leaned itself forward into a canter and Balum leaned low across the horse’s neck, the weight of his feet pressed into the stirrups, his head bent low so the brim of his hat would not catch the wind.
She saw him at a mile’s distance and set her own horse to a run. When the gap began to close she brought the whip down on the paint’s flank and the horse took off into a gallop. Balum gave the roan its head and the three beat canter turned to a four beat gallop, the wind whipping against him and sweat lathering across the horse’s withers.
The chase was on. Through grass-covered fields, over small rises and plains of flowers reflecting brightly the force of the sun, they trammeled the earth in a frenzied sprint, horses snorting and hoofbeats crashing below their riders.
The paint was a good horse, healthy and young, but the roan was a beast like few others. It stood seventeen hands high and had thighs and shoulders laden with muscles made for just such a run. The two horses charged in wild-eyed conviction until the paint began to slow, its gait dropping back to a canter, and the roan, sensing its own victory, made a final push that brought it up on the paint’s rear until Balum was near enough to reach out and slap the tiring horse’s flank.
They slowed the horses, bringing them back to a walk. The animals’ sides heaved and they shook their necks, throwing their manes wildly over the crests and raising and shaking their muzzles with snorts and nickers.
Under a grove of pitch pine they brought them to a stop and Sara turned to Balum with her cheeks flushed red and sweat glistening on her brow. His own heart drummed against his chest and he felt the rush of breath sucking in and out of him as the two looked into the eyes of one another.
‘Well you’ve caught me,’ she said. ‘Now what do you plan to do with me?’
Before he could answer she spoke again.
‘Will you take me and ravage me underneath the pines where no one will see you? Shall you rip me from my horse and throw me to the ground? Are you going to have your way with me, Mr. Balum? Is that the man you are?’
She said it not in fear, but nearly as an invitation. And he knew, very much so, that he was exactly such a man.
But Sara, her lips parted and hot, her breasts rising in deep breaths beneath her vest, was not such a woman. At least Balum did not believe so. Did not want to believe it. He swung from the saddle and let the reins drop to the ground. Circling around to her side he raised a hand to her and she took it and dismounted from the saddle.
‘I’ll save the ravaging for another day,’ he said. ‘Today I am a gentleman inviting a lady to sit in the shade of a pine stand and marvel at the beauty around us.’
She had a blanket with her and they spread it across the fallen pine needles and sat lounging while birds sang above them and a breeze bent the grass in a sea of flowing green. They talked of Denver, of Kansas City, of horses and ranching, and laid out their visions of what a home would look like built right there by the pine grove, with fields of junegrass and wildflowers blooming all around.
When they folded the blanket and took to the saddles again, the sun was only just beginning its decline onto the Rocky Mountains.
‘You know,’ said Sara, ‘you can’t go chasing me off into the foothills every time you wish to see me. You must come and meet my father and introduce yourself.’
‘I plan on doing exactly that. Plan for me to come by tomorrow evening. Are you staying at the Rendezvous?’
‘That was just for tea. We’re on High Street. The house with the blue painted door. I’ll tell my father to expect you.’
10
‘Not a care in the world.’
‘That’s right, Chester. Not a care in the world.’
They sat in the cantina with a plate of nopales between them, Chester with a glass of homebrew beer and Balum with water drawn from the well.
‘Sure you don’t fancy a drink? Man ain’t meant to drink whilst his friend sits and watches.’
‘I’m sure. Need to be fresh for tomorrow.’
‘That’s all well and good, Balum. But truth is, you ain’t in a position to be so carefree. You got a big plate set before ye and having gals on the mind only clouds it up.’
‘This isn’t just any girl.’
‘I heard you. This one’s different.’ Chester poked at the nopales and made a face at the slime clinging to them. ‘Fact is though, you only just met her, and in the state of mind you’re in, why, you might let your heart get ahead of your better judgement.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘What’s that mean? Why ever since you ate that sack of Shoshone medicine man voodoo you’ve been talking about all you want to do is settle down and marry a gal and stop cavorting with whores and loose women. Which, of course, I commend you for. But dang, Balum, that Crenshaw fellow is turning this whole case around and trying to pin something on you. You need your mind right.’
‘My mind’s as clear as ever, Chester.’
The old man brought a forkful of the drooly cactus dish to his mouth and chewed while making a face, then, as if having judged the nopales and found them worthy, hauled in two more quick mouthfuls.
‘You say these Sandersons are from Kansas City?’ he asked with his mouth full of cactus.
‘That’s right.’
‘Isn’t that where Nelson’s lawyer is from? Crenshaw?’
Balum shrugged. ‘Coincidence I guess.’
Chester took a slam of beer and leaned back. ‘I reckon,’ he mumbled.
Balum pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Chester. Need my rest.’
‘Hold on, hold, on, let me finish,’ he downed the mug in three tremendous gulps and let the mug drop to the table. He shook his head and belched. ‘Alright. Now we’re ready.’
They parted ways at the Silver Nest, Chester convinced he’d win enough for a turn at the Baltimore Club, and Balum swung back to the Berlamont Hotel for his bed. In the lobby the receptionist flagged him down.
‘Couple letters came for you, Balum. I slipped them under your door.’
He climbed the stairs, opened the door, and there they were; two cream colored envelopes side by side on the hardwood floor. He bent and picked them up and read the writing on the back. Addressed to him. The letter on top from Will. A wedding invitation, no doubt.
He felt a tightness in his throat and an emptiness inside him when he saw the name of the sender on the second envelope. Angelique.
He slipped a finger through the flap and nearly ripped it open, then stopped, held it a moment, and set it carefully on the tabletop. Will’s letter remained in his other hand and he opened it. An
invitation, as he’d figured, the wedding to be held the following weekend. Balum frowned and checked the date of the letter. Two weeks past. A ten year old boy could deliver mail faster than that, he thought to himself. The question came to him of when Angelique’s letter had been written, and how long it had been delayed in its delivery. The thought only brought the tightness back, the empty feeling in his belly. He undressed and forced his mind to go blank, for the rivalry of emotions within him was something foreign to him, and required a skill set which he knew he did not possess.
It was the first thing he saw when he woke. His eyes were drawn to it, the cream envelope sitting atop the desk, his name and Angelique’s written so closely together.
He dressed and left the hotel. In a cafe across the street he took breakfast and coffee, then ambled down the avenues until he came to the barbershop. In a chair alongside the old men smoking cigars he sat, the gossip taking a pause before it could be bottled up no longer, and the intrigue of the trial poured out. The men in the shop gave him their encouragement. They told him they believed Nelson was a guilty man and that he would meet his justice, that all would be settled in the end. Balum took his turn in the chair and responded in short grunts as the straight razor scraped along his jaw and down his neck. With his face clean shaven and his hair cut straight again, he lunched alone in the same cafe as before and returned to the hotel. He wasted an undue amount of time in a bath, scrubbing under his nails and behind his ears, soaking in the warm bubbles and wondering if he would ever get used to the feeling of money.
In the late hours of the afternoon he stood at the mirror in his room and smoothed out the tailored suit over his frame. He combed his hair and gave his boots a polish, all the while aware of the sealed envelope sitting on the otherwise empty desk.
The figure on display when he left the hotel and walked up High Street was of nothing less than a gentleman. One with a rugged face, hands tanned and calloused from work, but clean cut and dressed in finery.
The house with the blue door stood at the far end of the street. One of the newer homes, it rose two stories off the ground and bore the victorian touches of the times. The type of home he’d never dreamt of setting foot in, Balum thought to himself as he rose his hand to the door and rapped at the solid wood piece.
When it swung open Aston Sanderson stood in the entranceway. A big man, impeccably dressed, tall and confident in a way that reminded Balum of Frederick Nelson.
‘Mr. Balum,’ he boomed, and extended his hand. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Come in. Are you a whiskey man? I was just sampling some labels. Follow me.’
They crossed the sitting room, Balum a few steps behind his host, and entered the parlor where a ruddy-faced man several pounds in excess of what his frame should support stood pouring small drams into a row of glasses.
‘Balum,’ said Aston. ‘Meet Shane Carly, whiskey distributor.’
‘Try this,’ Carly held out a glass containing a splash amber liquid in the bottom. ‘This is the best rye whiskey you’ll see west of the Mississippi.’
Balum accepted the drink and let a touch of it run over his tongue. He immediately suppressed a gag to spit it back out. A brackish film of foulness coated his mouth. He set the glass down and elected to remain silent.
‘You like single malt?’ Carly poured out something resembling a dehydrated man’s piss and urged Balum to savor it. ‘I’ve been selling this to all the big guys. You ever go to the Silver Nest? Mung’s Gambling House? They love me there. Just mention my name, they’ll serve you free drinks all night.’
‘What do you think, Balum?’ said Aston. ‘Worth adding to my collection?’
‘Interesting flavor,’ was all Balum could muster.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Aston.
Shane Carly beamed, taking the exchange as a compliment. ‘Girls at the Baltimore Club are practically throwing themselves at me when I come in,’ he boasted, his pudgy cheeks glowing under miniature marble eyes. ‘Everyone wants their hands on this. They practically line up when I travel through Denver.’
Balum returned the glass and kept his mouth shut. The whiskey distributor was either a liar or an imbecile, and more than likely both. As though reading Balum’s thoughts, Aston Sanderson abruptly ended the tasting by escorting Shane Carly out the front door with a promise to consider a purchase at some later yet unspecified point in time. When the door was shut behind him Aston returned to the parlor.
‘Tell me your opinion of the whiskey.’
‘It’s foul,’ said Balum. ‘And the salesman either thinks he can pass off rotgut for good whiskey or he doesn’t know the difference between the two.’
Aston nodded in approval. ‘Good. If you’d said any differently I’d have sent you out the door after him. Any man who drinks Shane Carly’s whiskey is not a man fit to court my daughter. And that’s what you’re here for, is it not?’
‘It is,’ replied Balum. ‘She’s an admirable woman and I aim to treat her accordingly. With your permission I’d like to show her Denver and spend time in her company.’
‘Plenty has been said about you. You’ve become quite famous over the last week.’
‘For the wrong reasons. Nelson seems to have found himself a sleek lawyer.’
‘Yes,’ mused Aston. ‘I’ve heard other things. They say you made your fortune in the cattle business. Tell me about that.’
‘Hard work and luck. That’s what it was. We rounded them up in Mexico and drove them to Cheyenne. No input but our own sweat, and with the price high in Cheyenne we made a fine profit.’
The finer details, Ned Witney, the shootouts, the commotion surrounding it, he made no mention of.
‘Is that so? How much did you make exactly?’
The question gave Balum an uneasy sensation. The man was out of line.
‘I prefer to keep my financial affairs private.’
‘I’ll not have a bum cavorting about with my daughter,’ Aston’s voice came back sharply. ‘Every nincompoop with a penny to his name has his eye on Sara. That nitwit Irishman peddling whiskey distilled in a privy hole would take her out if he had his druthers. So answer me straight. I need to know you’re a man of means. What did you make off that sale?’
Balum held the man’s eyes for a moment, a silent struggle between two bulls. He didn’t like Aston Sanderson, that much he knew. A prying man he was, built too much in the likeness of Frederick Nelson. Yet the cards had been laid and Aston was the man dealing.
‘I made ten thousand,’ said Balum. ‘And I earned every cent of it.’
Aston’s expression took on a faraway look. He brought a hand to his chin and touched it absentmindedly.
‘That’s fine indeed,’ he said. His eyes drifted to the side, looking at nothing in the room, but seeing something of great interest in his own mind. He looked back at Balum and seemed to regain his toughened composure. ‘Very well. You’ve my permission. I’ll expect her back at a decent hour. When do you plan on calling?’
‘Tomorrow evening.’
‘We’ll be expecting you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve matters to attend to.’
He escorted Balum out of the parlor and through the sitting room and, as if he were throwing out Shane Carly, had the door closed before Balum had taken two steps past the frame.
11
Balum soon forgot about Aston Sanderson. Not that he didn’t see him; he saw him every night, for like clockwork he arrived at the Sanderson residence at five thirty, greeted her parents with a prepared salutation, and took Sara Sanderson away, her arm in his. To the finest restaurants, the theatre, walks in the public park where vendors came in the evenings to sell sweets to children and roses to lovers. To the Silver Nest, the Berlamont Hotel Restaurant, and to the jewelers, where he spent a cowpoke’s monthly wages in the space of four days.
Blindness and deafness shrouded him throughout the rest of the day. In the courtroom he had only a mind for the young lady flirting across the aisle. As for Saul Farro and Frederick Nelson, ea
ch content with the path the proceedings were taking, he simply stopped noticing them. Johnny Freed’s pompous mug, held in a challenging pose in back of the courthouse, went ignored. His friends sought him out, but to catch him was like trapping the wind in a jar. He had time only for Sara Sanderson.
At only one point in the length of five days was his mind torn away from his enchantress. He sat in the courthouse, stealing glances at her and daydreaming of taking her to the far end of the park that night, where darkness would cover their kisses as he held her in his arms. A nudge from an elbow took him out of his reverie.
‘They’re calling you,’ said a voice.
His surroundings came into focus and he sat confused for a moment, then stood and walked the aisle between the prosecutor and defense tables and to the witness stand. With his hand over the bible he swore to tell the truth and was seated.
The District Attorney’s questions posed no problem. They had rehearsed what would be asked, and Balum’s responses came easy and natural. When he had answered the last of them the attorney returned to his bench and Douglas Crenshaw took the floor. He looked at Balum a moment then turned to the jury and bent his head.
‘Balum,’ he began. ‘A name until recently not too many folks around here had heard of. And a man without a past has little to rest his word on. Is your word good, Mr. Balum?’
‘It is.’
‘You says it is,’ Crenshaw spoke to the jury, ‘but what proof do we have? The only word we have that we can scrutinize upon is the deposition you gave to Johnny Freed, U.S. Marshal. Allow me to read a section.’
From the bench he drew the deposition and read aloud two passages.
“Leigha Atkisson shot Saul Farro at the edge of a crevice, which measured a hundred yards deep. He fell into it and died.” Crenshaw returned the paper to the bench and made a show of scanning the audience. ‘Mr. Balum, answer this. Is that not Mr. Saul Farro seated in the second row of the court, alive and well before our very eyes and before the Lord God?’
For the Love of a Woman Page 7
