The Quest of Brady Kenton / Kenton's Challenge

by Cameron Judd

  And besides, despite the feelings he’d aired to Dunaway, was working as Kenton’s partner really so bad? Many other journalist/illustrators would gladly leap at the opportunity to do what Gunnison did.

  Gunnison put all the weights on the balance and let them settle, and came to a realization: he was deeply unhappy with his life, personally and professionally. A shadow hung over him, and nothing he could do could seem to dispel it.

  The shadow was Brady Kenton. It was as he’d told Dunaway: as long as he was Kenton’s partner, he would never be noticed. He would always be second best, the fill-in speaker rather than the first choice, the tail instead of the head.

  He thought: I’ve got to get away. For my own sake, and for the sake of the family I’d like to have before I get much older.

  But could he do it? To no longer be Brady Kenton’s partner would change his life dramatically … a gain in most ways, but a loss in another. The truth was he was devoted to Kenton, angry as the man often made him.

  And he was worried about Kenton. The man had done some strange things in his time, but it wasn’t like him to shirk responsibility as he had lately. This running from an obligation firmly made to a friend, Jack Dunaway, was not at all typical of Kenton.

  “Mr. Gunnison, sir.”

  Gunnison was surprised by the proximity of the unseen speaker, slightly behind and to the side of him. He turned quickly.

  A smiling, friendly-looking man, tall and lean, was standing in the recessed doorway of a closed lawyer’s office. “I’m afraid I startled you, Mr. Gunnison. I do apologize.”

  “Oh, no apology needed. I was just lost in thought.”

  The man stepped down from the doorstep and put out a powerful hand for Gunnison to shake. “James Serrals. Farrier, occasional blacksmith, and real estate speculator. Also at one time a prospective journalist and illustrator—it never worked out—and therefore an appreciative reader of the Illustrated American, and an admirer of your work. You’re quite a talent, young Mr. Gunnison.”

  “Thank you…” Gunnison pumped the powerful hand, confused. He was accustomed to hearing readers talk about Kenton, not himself.

  “Kenton’s very good, probably the best. But I’ve taken note of your contributions, and I do believe you’ll top him before long.”

  Gunnison couldn’t hold back a smile. This was as refreshing as a drink of cold water on a hot day. “Thank you indeed. Those are kind words.”

  “A little difficult, I’d say, having to put up with such a famous partner, when you yourself are very skilled.”

  “Oh, I consider it an honor to work with Kenton. My day will come. Meanwhile, I try to learn everything I can from him.” Gunnison was playing it noble—the overlooked protégé humbly acknowledging the overbearing master.

  “Well, you’ve got a good attitude. By the way, I enjoyed your talk today. Fine job, considering the audience was set on Kenton.”

  “I appreciate your saying that. It’s been a humbling day, quite honestly.”

  “Be patient. The day will come when they’ll be yelling for you, not at you. I’ve got no doubt about it. Buy you a drink?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Come on. The best watering hole in town is not two blocks from here.”

  * * *

  When the warmth of the flattery wore off, Gunnison wondered why a stranger such as Serrals would be so friendly to him. He soon realized that Serrals was simply one of those rare people who were authentically friendly to those they found interesting. Serrals chatted amiably, openly curious about Gunnison’s work, about the process of moving from concept to finished product, about the technology of producing and distributing a national publication.

  As Gunnison talked, he forgot his resentments toward Kenton, and even the pain of his earlier miserable public appearance. He ordered a sandwich, which Serrals insisted on paying for, and drank what he promised himself would be the final beer of the day.

  He was in the midst of a discussion of recent improvements in printing-press technology when he cut off in mid-sentence, frowning as he looked over Serrals’s shoulder.

  Serrals, noticing, glanced behind him. “What is it?”

  “At that window there … there was a woman. Looking in.”

  “Oh. Do you know her?”

  “No … but she seemed to know me. She was looking right at me. Very intent. Then she glanced over her shoulder, back down the street, and darted away.”

  “Well, you did make a public appearance today. Perhaps she wants to meet you.” Serrals grinned slyly. “Just keep in mind, Mr. Gunnison, that you are a married man.”

  “No worry there. I’m a faithful husband. But there was something … never mind. She’s gone now, anyway.” He paused. “She looked very sad. Or afraid. I wonder what made her run?”

  “Sorry to say, Leadville still has plenty of rough edges. We’ve civilized ourselves quite a lot since the last time you were here, but there are still footpads, soiled doves, gangs, and the like. I don’t know if you can really have it any different in a mining town, try though you may.”

  They talked on a while longer, then left the bar and headed for a cafe for coffee and cake, Serrals having declared himself in the mood for a little dessert. The hour grew late; the proprietor announced that closing time was at hand.

  Gunnison thanked Serrals for the food and drink, the conversation and company, and took his leave to head for the hotel and his waiting bed. He was exhausted, eager for rest and looking forward to the next day, when he could leave Leadville.

  * * *

  As he walked along, he thought about the woman he’d seen in the window, and looked about for her.

  He’d not seen her clearly or long enough to tell much about her. She’d appeared ragged, hair windblown, face somewhat drawn. His impression had been of a woman, not a girl, the age, though, hard to determine. Thirty or so, perhaps. She’d had a shawl over her shoulders, he thought, though this was more a suggestion of his memory than a settled recollection.

  It was her look of fear and sadness that stuck with him most clearly. In the brief moment of eye contact he had maintained with her, he’d felt a sense of communication, perhaps of pleading.

  She had been looking for him. She had a purpose in looking through that window …

  He laughed at himself. He was more tired than he’d realized, and had drunk two or three too many beers! One chance glance at a woman through a cafe window, and he was spinning wild tales and fantasies, reading entire volumes into nothing more than a shared glance.

  He reached the hotel, collected his key at the desk, and headed up to his room.

  CHAPTER 4

  SHE was in the hallway, waiting for him.

  He froze when he saw her. She was seated in a chair at the end of the hall, and though she looked frail and pitiful and not at all dangerous, he reflexively reached for his coat pocket and the small pistol hidden there.

  She came to her feet, caution in her eyes, lips slightly parted, trembling. Had she been less ragged, less weathered, Gunnison might have thought her attractive. And he might have felt a protective impulse, for clearly this was a woman in great fear.

  “My name is Alex Gunnison. May I help you, ma’am?” Gunnison asked cautiously.

  “Please, sir, I’m sorry to be bothering you,” she said. “I mean you no harm, I assure you.”

  An English accent! That was a surprise.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I saw you speaking today, sir. I came to Leadville because of the big celebration and the speechmaking and all. But, sir, the truth is I came to find Mr. Brady Kenton.”

  Gunnison felt a slight burst of annoyance. Was this yet another case of some pitiful woman getting lovestruck over the handsome and famous Brady Kenton? Gunnison had seen it before. Kenton was too much a gentleman to take advantage of such female devotees—as far as Gunnison knew, anyway—but still it flattered his ego, and Kenton had always found ways to subtly remind Gunnison that it was Brady
Kenton the ladies liked to meet, not his younger associate.

  “If you were at the meeting today, you should have heard it announced that Brady Kenton isn’t here. His plans changed and he didn’t show up. I took his place.”

  “I know, sir. I did hear that, but even so, I was hoping maybe you could direct me as to how I might—”

  She pulled back abruptly, as if trying to hide herself in the shadows around her. Gunnison heard footsteps in the hallway behind him and turned. Another hotel guest was coming up to his room.

  The man glanced at the woman, but broke into a smile as he recognized Gunnison.

  “Mr. Gunnison, sir! A pleasure to see you here! I want you to know I enjoyed your talk today … quite a good job.”

  Gunnison was so surprised to receive the evening’s second compliment that he wondered if he was being mocked. But the man seemed sincere.

  “Thank you, sir. I have the impression, though, that most people hold a very different view of my performance.”

  “Bosh! It was a fine piece of work. Well, sir, good evening.” The man peered into the shadows at the end of the hallway. “And to you, too, ma’am.”

  He fitted his key into the lock, turned it, entered, and was gone.

  Gunnison turned to face her again. “You drew back when that man came up. Did he frighten you?”

  “I thought he might be somebody else, sir. That’s all. Please, Mr. Gunnison, can you tell me how I might find Mr. Kenton? It’s so important that I meet him!”

  “Mr. Kenton is in Denver.”

  “Denver … so I’ve come all the way here for nothing, with him on my heels…”

  “Is this ‘him’ you refer to the man you thought had come up the stairs a moment ago?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you in some sort of danger, ma’am?”

  “I am, sir. I can’t deny it.”

  “An estranged or violent husband?”

  “Oh, no. No, sir. I’m not married.” She withdrew again as someone else mounted the stairs. This newcomer proved to be a woman, heading for the floor above. She passed their level without even looking down the hall at them.

  He turned back toward the Englishwoman again. “Well, perhaps we should find … ma’am? Are you all right?”

  She had staggered to the side, and would have fallen had she not caught herself against the wall. Her face had gone white as milk.

  Gunnison went to her and helped steady her to an upright posture again.

  “You’re sick, miss?”

  “No, no … hungry, that’s all. I haven’t eaten for a couple of days.”

  “Come with me. I’ll find a cafe still open and buy you a meal.”

  “No, sir, I can’t. He might find me there, you see. I know he’s here … I’ve seen him this very day, sir. He’s looking for me.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  She nearly fainted again.

  This woman needed care. Though conscious of the social impropriety of taking a strange woman into his hotel room, Gunnison decided to place her in his bed for rest and find food to nourish her. And if she wasn’t willing to go where food could be had, then he’d bring food to her.

  He picked her up.

  “Please, sir, you need not…”

  “Nonsense. You’re half-starved and exhausted, and I intend to see you fed. I’ll take you to my room and let you rest. And don’t worry—I’m a gentleman, and will treat you like a lady, with utter decency. Don’t be afraid, and don’t argue. You are in need of rest and food.”

  “Mr. Gunnison, you need not!” The protest, though, was not heartfelt. He knew she was hungry.

  As she leaned on his arm, he led her to his door, opened it, and ushered her in. He was grateful that no one else had been in the hall. People loved to talk, and he would hate for some kind of rumor to make its way back to his wife.

  * * *

  “What’s your name?” Gunnison asked her. She was lying on the bed, her left arm thrown across her brow. She seemed weak, and Gunnison suspected she was feverish. She’d felt warm against him as he’d helped her into the room.

  “I am Rachel Frye,” she said.

  “From London?”

  She looked at him in surprise. Her face was extraordinarily pale. “How did you know?”

  “Your accent.” Gunnison was secretly proud of his ability to differentiate between accents. He was best at it with Americans, but not bad at it with British folk and Scotsmen, either.

  “I am indeed from London, sir.” She closed her eyes and moaned involuntarily.

  “I think I should bring you a doctor along with your supper,” Gunnison said.

  “No, sir, please don’t. You’re doing too much for me already.”

  “You’re ill.”

  “No, just hungry, and tired. No doctor, please.”

  “Very well, but if you worsen, I’ll not be dissuaded. I’m going now. I’ll try not to be long. I’ll lock the door from the outside. But you can open the lock just by turning this latch here, see?”

  “I’ll not open it for anyone, Mr. Gunnison. In case it’s him, you see.”

  “You should be safe here. I’ll go on now.” He opened the door, paused, and looked back at her a last time. “By the way, why do you want to meet Brady Kenton?”

  She had closed her eyes and did not open them as, in a very soft voice, she gave an answer that hit Gunnison like a hammer. “Well, sir, the honest truth is, I need to find him because he is my father.”

  * * *

  Two minutes later, Gunnison was standing alone on the street, beside the now empty stage on which he’d made his miserable presentation. He was playing over and over in his mind the stunning thing he’d just heard.

  It had astonished him so much that he’d not even replied to her. He’d just gaped at her a couple of moments, then closed and locked the door and walked on out to the street.

  Kenton, her father? Impossible! Kenton had been married only to Victoria, and to Gunnison’s knowledge had never fathered any children at all. If he had, Kenton would have made no secret of it, nor neglected them. He wasn’t the kind to let public sensibilities stand in the way of duty.

  Well, she’s lying, then, for some self-serving reason, Gunnison thought.

  He glanced back up at his window. He saw the curtain move, as if maybe she had been standing there, looking out. Watching for her phantom pursuer?

  Or watching Gunnison himself, maybe, waiting for him to get out of sight so she could rifle through his baggage, take his money and valuables …

  The whole scenario suddenly fell together. She was simply a clever vagrant who had heard him speak today and had put together a scheme to get herself into his room, and him out of it, so she could rob him.

  He’d not stand for it. He’d march back up there and confront her.

  He turned back to the door, but stopped before entering, thinking again. If this is all an act on her part, he thought, then she’s one of the finest actresses in America.

  The fear she’d showed had been no fraud. And her fever had seemed real, too. The accent certainly was authentic, too; he had a good enough ear to know the real thing. Also, the accent didn’t mesh well with her claim to be the daughter of an American journalist who, to Gunnison’s knowledge, had never set foot in England. So, if she was a fraud, why would she intrude such an ill-fitting piece into the puzzle when she’d already achieved what she wanted: entrance into Gunnison’s room?

  Maybe she wasn’t lying, at least not intentionally. Maybe she was not sane. Such people often wound up on the streets.

  Insane … that was a frightening thought. Gunnison decided he’d fetch her food, give her a little time to rest, then get her out of his room as quickly as possible. Or, on the alternative, he’d let her stay, but check into a different room himself. Maybe a different hotel.

  He turned and headed down the street.

  * * *

  When Gunnison vanished around the next corner, something moved in the dark
ness of an alley across the street from the hotel. A figure as dark as the shadows themselves stepped out and looked down the street in the direction Gunnison had gone, then up at the same window Gunnison had looked at.

  The curtain moved again, as it had when Gunnison was still standing on the street. For a moment, silhouetted in the window’s light, she was there.

  The curtain fell. The man who had emerged from the alleyway moved forward, quickly, heading for the front door.

  He had seen her, but was afraid she had seen him, as well.

  He would have to move fast.

  CHAPTER 5

  ALEX Gunnison walked back up the dark street, bearing a tray and very conscious of the stranger following him.

  The sense of déjà vu was strong. He’d been tracked almost like this right down this very street back in ’79. Except that time it had been bright daylight, the streets crowded with people.

  Now it was dark, the streets as close to empty as Leadville streets ever were. That only made the stalking figure seem all the more threatening.

  Come closer, friend, Gunnison thought. Come closer and I’ll put this tray into your face with one hand while I go for my pistol with the other.

  “Sir, sir, pardon me, sir…”

  Gunnison ignored the man.

  “If you’ll just let me ask you something…”

  Gunnison readied himself to heave the tray. But when he turned, he didn’t do it. The man appeared far more pitiful than threatening. He was old, ragged, and clearly had been down on his luck for many years. He approached Gunnison with a manner much like that of a dog that has been kicked ten too many times.

  “Is there something I can do for you, sir?” Gunnison asked.

  “Well, if you might, sir, I’m nigh starved, and I smelled your food…”

  Gunnison felt a wave of deep pity. No question here that this man’s need was real. It’s a sad old world, Gunnison thought. So many people with so little.