Despite the cool air, tiny beads of sweat broke out on Rick’s forehead. He didn’t want to get mixed up in another war. “I don’t know,” he said. “But here’s the thing. Amber’s brooch took her into the past two weeks ago from her family’s cabin near Leadville. But it returned us to the moment I left MacKlenna Farm this morning. The only difference was the person holding the stone. In theory, if we leave at three o’clock, we should return at three o’clock, or thereabouts.”
“When will Olivia and Connor return?”
“When they left the ranch with Kenzie and David, they had the diamond and the amethyst. Since both of those stones return travelers to the moment they left, Connor and Olivia should return later tonight.”
“But they left from Denver, right? Do they have to return there, or can they come here?”
Rick’s brain froze for a moment. Trying to figure out brooch travel was more complicated than military logistics. “Why ask me? You have more experience with these goddamn stones than I do.”
Braham didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up a small rock, walked to the edge of the water, and threw it. It skipped twice before it sank.
“Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” Rick leaned against a live oak and puffed, not saying anything for a couple of minutes while Braham skipped more rocks. Finally, he said, “I think Connor and Olivia can return here instead of Denver.”
Braham threw one last stone and chomped down on the cigar. “Let’s get dressed and go. The sooner we leave, the sooner we come back. I’ve got all the clothes I used when we went back to 1881. They’re in mothballs in the attic.”
“Mothballs will smell better than the dinosaur dust on my clothes, but we need money. I gave all my cash to a dinosaur hunter.”
“Sounds like an appropriate use of yer funds.”
“I did it for Amber. I knew it would make her happy.”
Braham’s face creased with suspicion. “Somebody needs to remind ye that ye’re not the hero of this story.”
“Save your breath. David already did.”
Braham shrugged. “He’s the best person to set ye straight. Listen to him.”
Rick shot him an irritated glance. He’d heard dozens of family and brooch stories, but not one about David believing he was the hero of someone else’s story. It sounded like a tale Rick intended to avoid. Life lessons, unless they were his own, never impressed him. Failure and mistakes were the evidence that he had tried his best and lost.
“Hold the lectures. Do you have any money we can use?”
“Several large gold nuggets and some double eagle coins. Enough to buy a railroad. Let’s finish our smokes, then I’ll call Charlotte and give her the bad news.”
“What will she say?”
“This time, she’ll say hurry back. When she’s focused on a patient, not much else matters.”
A bass boat sped by and distracted Rick for a moment. Beautiful boat. Great place to be. No worries except finding the bass.
“Must be hard coming in second behind sick people.”
“Nah,” Braham said. “When I got shot, she risked her life and reputation, and ultimately moved mountains for me. I’ll never stand in the way of her doing that for other patients. Right now, Amber is her priority. If we can eliminate some of Amber’s worries by getting Daniel and her sister here before surgery, Charlotte will be all over it.”
Braham’s phone dinged with a text message. He looked at the face then clicked to open it and read out loud: “Amber drew a sketch of the creeps who broke into her room and stole her journal. I’ll fax it to the house. She’s preparing a video for Daniel.”
“We don’t have time to go back to Morrison to find them, which is a shame. Nothing would make me happier than beating the shit out of those assholes,” Rick said.
Braham’s phone dinged again. “Looks like we don’t have to: ‘When they left my room, they said they had to get the journal to Mudge in Caǹon City.’ Does that make any sense to ye?”
“Whose phone is she using?”
“Charlotte’s.”
“Text her back and ask about Mudge.”
Braham sent another text and a minute later, his phone dinged again. “Geologist who worked for Marsh.” Another message dinged. “Creeps believed I worked for Cope. Heard from Leadville judge that I studied under Marsh. Marsh said impossible.”
Rick curled his lip with contempt. “If I find those sons of bitches, they’ll have as much trouble breathing as Amber.”
“What’s in her journal?” Braham asked.
“I haven’t read it. She said she bought it the day she arrived in Leadville. She sketches in it and write notes and reflections.”
“Did she put any information in there about the brooch?” Braham asked.
That thought scared the piss out of Rick. “I don’t know. Ask her.”
Braham sent the text. It took a couple of minutes before Amber responded. “Yes.” A moment later, another text: “And a sketch.”
Rick jerked as if smacked by a whip. “Holy shit.”
48
1878 Pueblo, Colorado—Daniel
Agency men in black dusters—Daniel, Connor, and two additional Pinkertons—accompanied Weitbrec to the Pueblo County Courthouse at 12th and Court Streets. Inside the three-story building were the offices of the sheriff and the district attorney. Both men had roles to play in Weitbrec’s military-style action to retake Rio Grande’s property.
“The sheriff will serve the writ on Santa Fe,” Weitbrec said. “We just need a sufficient number of deputies to back him up. Enough men to intimidate Santa Fe and take the fight out them. We’re going to do this right, without bloodshed.”
Daniel tried unsuccessfully to curb his irritation. “My men have their orders, but if the sheriff intends to deputize a hundred drunk out-of-work miners, it could get violent quickly.”
“I’ll depend on you to keep order,” Weitbrec said.
They steered their way through a crowd of men hanging outside the courtroom who had been called in for jury duty. Following Weitbrec, they hastened down the corridor en route to the sheriff’s office. The heavy clack-tap of their boot heels and clink of spurs on the wood planks resounded throughout the first floor of the courthouse.
When they reached the end of the corridor, Weitbrec gestured with his thumb in the direction of the last door on the right, indicating Sheriff Price’s office. Daniel took the lead. The office door was slightly ajar with a murmur of voices coming from within. He put knuckles to wood, giving the door three distinctive knocks.
“Come in,” the familiar gruff voice of the sheriff ordered.
As the first to enter, Daniel scanned the room swiftly. Shelves filled with gear and books lined one wall behind a large desk overflowing with wanted posters. Three ladder-backed wooden chairs clustered on the near side of the desk. One held cigarette-smoking Deputy Desmond who stood abruptly, and his chair careened into the wall with a bang. His thin lips disappeared under his mustache in a tight scowl as he righted the chair. District Attorney Waldron was also present.
The office had one other door toward the rear, also slightly ajar, providing a slice of blackness beyond. Daniel strode over to the door and using his boot pushed it open the rest of the way. A short corridor led to an outside entrance. He closed the interior door and turned the key in the lock plate. Satisfied, Daniel nodded to both Weitbrec and Connor to enter.
Daniel then signaled one agent to remain between the courtroom and the main entrance, a hint of toughness in the agent’s strong shoulders qualified him to be the first line of defense. The other agent was assigned to stand guard outside the sheriff’s door.
“This should go quickly. Stay alert,” Daniel said to the agent.
Since the railroad companies shared telegraph wires, Santa Fe was bound to know the writ had been issued and Rio Grande’s representatives would be coming to reclaim its property. Logically, Santa Fe would send representatives to the sheriff demanding protection, and Daniel didn’t w
ant anyone intruding on their meeting.
Inside the office, he stood a few feet behind Weitbrec, close enough to protect him if the office was stormed—an unlikely event, but that was his job. Connor took a position in the back of the room, easily accessible to the door and the closed window.
Sheriff Price’s chair squawked as he leaned back, brushing at his wide mustache as if removing crumbs. “You got the writ?”
Weitbrec slapped the document down on the sheriff’s battle-scarred oak desk. “Serve it on the train dispatcher at South Pueblo now. The court says it’s our property, our track, our rights to the canyon. It’s time Santa Fe got out of Colorado.”
Deputy Desmond, his blond hair sun-bleached to a near-white corn silk, stood behind Price. Cigarette smoke puffed from his nostrils in a derisive snort as he read the writ over the sheriff’s shoulder. The district attorney, right butt cheek balanced on the edge of the desk, read along as well.
The sheriff put down the writ, leaned his elbows on the desk, and laced his thick fingers together. His pained face gave the impression he was praying Weitbrec would depart his office, his city, and Colorado.
The fire in the ubiquitous brass parlor stove popped and pushed heat into only a fraction of the office closest to the sheriff’s desk. The rest of the room held an uneasy chill. The sheriff slowly rubbed his face, as if trying to bring life back into a countenance too weary for another round of fighting between the railroads. He rose to his feet, scraping the wooden floor with the legs of his chair, gathered up his dark duster and put it on over a once-white shirt now stained with sweat and trail dirt.
“Don’t want any trouble, Mr. Weitbrec.” The sheriff turned down the smoking wick of the lamp, hanging low over his desk, gathered up the writ and his Winchester, and headed toward the door, his deputy keeping in lockstep behind him.
“Do your job and we won’t have any.” For Weitbrec, caution was gone, replaced by iron determination to bring the situation to a resolution.
The district attorney snatched up his coat and hat. “You know, don’t you, that there’s a legal remedy if Santa Fe refuses to comply with the writ. The court will punish the individual served with a contempt of court charge.”
Weitbrec fell into line next to the district attorney. “I don’t care what the court usually does. I only care about what you intend to do.”
“There’ll be no shooting,” the sheriff said. “Understood? I don’t want to spend time in my own jail.”
“You have your orders, Sheriff.” Weitbrec’s expression gave hints as to what lay behind his intentions. If he didn’t do what the Rio Grande expected him to do, he wouldn’t have a job come next election.
Daniel cracked open the door and checked to be sure there weren’t any rogue Santa Fe guards present. The agent signaled with a finger that the corridor was clear. Daniel stepped out in front of the others then joined Connor at the end of the line as they all exited the building.
Outside, Daniel squinted against the bright sunlight and tipped his hat a wee bit lower. His agents’ mounts were hitched at the tie rail, including the horse he had borrowed from the agent he left behind to guard Olivia. He loaned the horse to Connor, along with the agent’s black duster. Daniel withdrew his rifle from the scabbard, then pulled the lever down far enough to be sure a cartridge had been chambered. Satisfied, he resettled the rifle.
The agents, simultaneously, snapped the reins loose and swung up into leather. The slow and rhythmic footfalls of their horses echoed down a wide street lined with brick-front stores and a few tree-shaded yards—although the leaves had fallen—fronting prosperous-looking frame and brick houses. From there they spurred their horses, quickening the cadence from a lope to a gallop.
Mr. Weitbrec, Sheriff Price, Deputy Desmond, District Attorney Waldron, and four Pinkertons rode out of Pueblo with their black dusters flapping. When they reached the bridge to South Pueblo, Weitbrec reined in his horse. The others followed suit. The wind blew across the rushing water, and he clutched his Stetson to keep it from taking flight.
“Listen up, men. When we reach the Union Depot Complex, we’ll go directly to the office of the train dispatcher. For those of you from out of town, that’s the triangular-shaped building next to the depot. Sheriff Price will escort me and District Attorney Waldron into the building. Mr. Hardy, Santa Fe’s dispatcher, should be there. Sheriff Price will serve him.” Weitbrec looked each man in the eye. “Any questions?” When no one responded, he added, “Major Grant and Deputy Desmond will go in armed. The rest of you will remain outside guarding the door.”
Daniel glanced at Connor and gave him a silent nod. Whatever Connor had been doing the last few years, a situation like this wasn’t new to him. Even facing the possibility of hostile action, there was a relative calm about him.
The men crossed the Union Avenue passenger bridge and rode four abreast toward the train dispatcher’s office. The hoof strikes grew louder, and their appearance, like eight avenging archangels, cleared the avenue of wagons, carriages, and pedestrians. The citizenry knew General Palmer’s showdown with Santa Fe was coming. Men and women strolling the sidewalks hurried inside buildings at the sound of the thundering hooves, and the sight of the wind-spread tails of the black dusters. As they neared the property, they slowed their horses to a walk.
“Rick should be here. He’d get into this O.K. Corral-type showdown with outlaws and railroad magnates,” Connor said.
Daniel pulled his hat another degree lower to shade his eyes. “Where’s the O.K. Corral?”
“Tombstone, Arizona, although I wouldn’t bet on it being a real place.”
Neck-reining his Morgan, Daniel rode tall and easy in the saddle, both reins in his left hand, the other hand falling naturally at his side within easy reach of his six-shooter. “Been to Tombstone. Never heard of it.”
“The corral must not be real, then. Sort of like today. When the history books are written, it’ll probably have Doc Holliday and Bat Masterson with a cannon and a hundred men locked inside the roundhouse.”
Daniel laughed. “I doubt today will ever be written about, but if it is, I’d much rather those two be mentioned in history books than here in Pueblo.”
“Funny thing about history,” Connor said, “once it’s written, it’s hard to correct the record. And if this goes down the way I think it will, with forcible removal, false imprisonment, and bribery, no one will ever want the record to reflect what really happened.”
“We’re not breaking the law,” Daniel said.
“Funny thing about the law, too. Those who wear badges, for the right cause, get to bend it sometimes.”
“Didn’t know I was partnering up with a philosopher.”
“Not me. I’m a cynical, beer-drinking former New York City cop. The only philosophizing I do is arguing with my stubborn sister and her former partner.”
“New York City cop?”
Connor gave him a crooked smile. “Forget it. Long story. I’ll tell you one day over a good cigar and a bottle of whisky.”
“Sounds like a story that’ll need more than one cigar.”
Daniel rode into the complex and sat there a minute putting his questions aside before swinging aground. Shadows from the roof’s overhang dappled the yard in shades of black and white. Rangy little trees, no more than seedlings, stood as dubious guards before the frame and brick building. Most of the trees in the area had been cut down and reborn as buildings for the rapidly growing town. Same as other mining towns throughout Colorado. Hard to tell one boomtown from another. The trains today were eerily silent, and except for some drunken hootin’ and hollerin’ a few blocks away, so was the town.
His men removed their rifles from hand-tooled scabbards, and together they tramped across the grade and climbed the porch leading to the office of the train dispatcher.
Sheriff Price stood at the door. “Mr. Waldron, Deputy Desmond, Mr. Weitbrec, and Major Grant, come with me. The rest of you stay here and keep watch.”
; Daniel hooked his coat behind his back, granting himself easy access to his Colt, then followed the sheriff, the district attorney, and Weitbrec into the office. He and the deputy took up positions near the closed door. A cold sweat slicked Daniel’s neck that had nothing to do with the still air of the dispatcher’s office and everything to do with Weitbrec’s intentions.
With a sudden scraping of chairs, the men in the room, all attired in green eye-shades and leather cuffs at their wrists, bounded to their feet.
“Mr. Hardy,” Sheriff Price said, “as you are an official of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad, I’m serving you with this writ. You are to vacate the Rio Grande’s property immediately or be arrested.”
Mr. Hardy, a short man even in wedge-heeled boots, took the paper and read it. His face, anchored with a bushy black beard cut spade fashion, was pinched tight. He waved the writ in the air. “I can’t honor this until I consult my superiors.” He crinkled it in his hand and shoved it against Weitbrec’s chest. “Come back tomorrow.”
Weitbrec ripped the writ from Hardy’s hand and smashed it into the opening of his vest. “You have twenty minutes. If you don’t vacate the property, Sheriff Price will arrest you. Do you want to go to jail for Santa Fe?”
“Get out,” Hardy said.
“You have twenty minutes. We’ll be back,” the sheriff said.
Weitbrec headed for the door. Daniel reached behind him, opened it, and was the last one to leave the office, never showing the occupants his back. Out on the porch, they regrouped.
“Hardy isn’t going to leave voluntarily. Let’s return to the hotel,” Weitbrec said. “We need more men. Once we take this place, we’ll move on to the roundhouse.”
“The men have been gathering down the street at the Grand Central Hotel,” one of Daniel’s men said. “If we need deputies, that’s where we should start. They’re close by and ready to fight.”
The Amber Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 8) Page 58
