The Quest of Brady Kenton / Kenton's Challenge

by Cameron Judd

  Gunnison nodded. “I understand. But regarding the professional side of this … will you allow me to make a suggestion?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t throw aside your job and your good standing with my father. You have some jealous competitors, and they would make hay with that, if it got out—and it would. Let’s try to preserve the situation and still concentrate on this quest.” Gunnison noticed only after he’d finished the sentence that he’d spoken in the plural—himself and Kenton working cooperatively.

  “I can’t do two things at once.” Kenton waved at the heaps of drawings. “You can see that I’ve tried to make up for my failures. All I did was generate more failures. My talents are failing me, Alex. I’m too overwhelmed by this business about Victoria to concentrate on my work.” He paused, then said, “You know, sometimes I’ve found myself thinking it would have been easier if there never had been any question about whether she was alive or dead. If the matter could have been so clear-cut that there was no question she was gone, then my life ever since would have been easier in some ways.”

  “Yes, but you would have had no hope of seeing her again, and I know how important that hope has been to you.”

  Kenton said nothing for a few moments. He’d revealed more of his inner self just now than he typically did, and Gunnison could see him beginning to reflexively pull back. Kenton cleared his throat and shifted the subject back to Gunnison’s earlier statement.

  “So how do you propose we salvage my professional standing with your father?”

  “I propose that we work together on these drawings. Let me help you, Kenton. I’ve learned over the years to imitate your style fairly well. I’m not as good, of course, but I can handle the basics. You do the main portions of the drawings, then let me do the finishing work. Under your supervision, and following your direction and style. Together you and I can get these drawings finished in a couple of days, and get them to the Illustrated American. You can have full credit for them; that’s not important to me in this situation. You’ll recover the ground you’ve lost and regain your good standing. Then, you and I can both take some time away from the job. We can both use the break. And you can devote the time to exploring these new leads regarding Victoria.”

  “And you?”

  Gunnison wanted to say that he’d spend the time with his wife—maybe concentrating on trying to start the family he wanted. But he knew it wouldn’t be. The decision had seemed to make itself for him. “I’ll help you, Kenton. We’ll figure this thing out together.”

  Kenton thought it over, then shook his head. “Alex, I can’t ask you to devote your time to what is essentially my own cause. It wouldn’t be fair to you, and could get you in hot water with your own father. And I can’t ask you to do work on my behalf that you won’t get proper credit for. Besides, does this work really matter? I can find plenty of opportunities other than the Illustrated American.”

  “Certainly you can. But that’s been true for years, and you’ve stayed on with the Illustrated American anyway. Why? Because you’re loyal. You don’t work for the Illustrated American—you are the Illustrated American. You could walk away from it, but you don’t want to. If you’d been willing to walk away, you wouldn’t have rented this room and put in all the time you have trying to make up for your inadequate work.”

  Kenton didn’t argue.

  “Let’s do this together, Kenton. Let’s take on these drawings and work as a team, and get this out of the way.”

  Kenton smiled, very slightly, and reached out to grasp Gunnison’s shoulder a moment. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a fine partner, Alex. Loyal to me when I don’t deserve it.”

  Amen to that, Gunnison thought. I don’t know why I do it. So much for all my notions back in Leadville of walking away from you once and for all.

  “Come on,” said Gunnison. “We’ve got some work to get out of the way. How’s the hangover coming?

  “Improving.

  “You can work?

  “I can work.”

  * * *

  As they labored, they talked.

  Gunnison was honest with Kenton about his lack of optimism about the seeming leads in The Grand Deception actually having much real value. Regardless, he was ready to pursue them, and would treat them as potential clues, no matter how unlikely.

  “It seems to me, Kenton, that we’re at something of a loss until we see more of that novel. And with the thing scheduled to be published over the course of a year or more, that’s not a good situation for us.”

  Kenton, frowning over his drawing pad, shook his head. “No, it’s not, and I don’t intend to tolerate it. I want to see that manuscript in its entirety as soon as possible.”

  “Ah, but will you be allowed to do so? Don’t such magazines usually have policies against allowing advance outside reading of their serial novels?”

  “They do. Darian already informed me.”

  “Can he do anything to skirt the rules a bit in your case?”

  “He could if he were the editor handling The Grand Deception. But he’s not, and the editor who is, is staunchly refusing to let anyone see the novel as a whole in advance. He told Darian that those were the terms under which the novel was purchased from the author, who is remaining strictly anonymous. Darian hasn’t even been able to catch a glimpse of the contract to learn the author’s real name.”

  “Then there’s nothing to do but wait the novel out.”

  “Of course there is. It’s called breaking and entering.”

  Gunnison gaped. “What?”

  “I’m going to see that manuscript, Alex. Whatever it takes. And I’m not waiting a blasted year to do it.”

  “Surely you don’t actually intend to break into the building!”

  “If it is the only way—”

  “You can’t be serious! Listen, Kenton, I said I’d help you, but if you think I’m going to—”

  Kenton waved him off. “Alex, don’t attach such importance to everything I say. Do I look like somebody who would actually break into a building?”

  “With you, I never know. Let me talk to Darian again, Kenton. Maybe I can persuade him to work a little harder on convincing the other editor to not be so persnickety.”

  Kenton shrugged. “If you insist. But if he fails, I’m not overly concerned. I’ll talk to this editor myself, if I need to. I can be a persuasive man when I have to be.”

  Gunnison smiled slightly. He’d just heard in Kenton’s last sentence a flicker of the self-confident Brady Kenton he knew so well.

  CHAPTER 15

  J. B. Haddockson nibbled at his plateful of fried chicken—the same fare he ate every Wednesday evening in this same restaurant. Eating out was natural for him. He had no wife to go home to, and probably never would, being a very homely man with an abrasive personality, chronic bad breath, and a devotion to his work that precluded his doing much of anything else. He was alone, he hated to cook, and therefore the restaurants of Denver knew the man well.

  Haddockson was a reporter on the staff of the Denver Signpost, a newspaper founded by his brother, Mort, two years earlier. His brother, a nicer and more appealing man than he, handled the advertising and general publishing end of the business. J. B. handled the news, and did so in an aggressive, scandal-hungry fashion that sometimes worried Mort, but which had certainly worked out well in practical terms. It was J. B.’s belief that the public wanted scandal in its weekly reading material. His theory was consistently borne out by the sales of the newspaper on the days he’d published something to make people shake their heads and click their tongues and in general complain about the low level to which Denver journalism had sunk.

  But oh, how they would buy those papers!

  J. B. was excited tonight, too keyed up to eat, picking at his food. He had the best story he’d run across in months, one that would ultimately generate national attention.

  The only problem would be persuading Mort to print the story. Mort held the title of pu
blisher and editor in chief, though he exercised the latter role only rarely, and almost always with veto power over something controversial J. B. wanted to publish. And what J. B. wanted to publish now would be controversial, indeed.

  He was ready to print a story that would declare that none other than nationally famous journalist Brady Pleasant Kenton had gone on a drunken rampage in a barroom, assaulted a man, and heaved him out a window.

  The problem was that no one had been able to authoritatively identify the man as Brady Kenton. But the circumstantial evidence was strong. Though the man was rumpled, unshaven, and dirty, several who saw him swore that he looked like Kenton, whose image was known across the nation. That alone would account for little, except for two things: the man had been removed from his rampage by a younger man he called Gunnison—surely Alex Gunnison, Brady Kenton’s partner. Secondly, it was known that Kenton had been in Denver in past days, visiting an editor at American Popular Library.

  Besides, there was J. B.’s gut instinct. It never failed him. He knew, just knew, that it was Brady Kenton who had created such a drunken spectacle at that saloon. He’d heard that Kenton had an occasional history with drink, and also that the man had gone half loco in recent years, looking for a dead wife as if she were still alive.

  The best thing about it was that the local police hadn’t located Kenton to charge him in connection with the altercation. If they had, the story would already be in the bigger newspapers. As it was, it appeared that J. B. Haddockson was on his way to an exclusive.

  J. B. paid for his mostly uneaten meal and left, veering toward his favorite barroom to put a couple down before heading to the office, where he would write his story. He’d have to do a good job, and build a persuasive case that the window-smasher really was Brady Kenton. Otherwise Mort would nix the story.

  * * *

  Back in the cafe, a greasy-skinned boy in a ragged apron sauntered over to J. B.’s table, secretly pocketed a few cents of the tip that was supposed to go entirely to the waiter, and cleaned up J. B.’s dishes. He carried them back into the kitchen, where he dumped most of them, but the plate with the sizable remaining portion of chicken he took to the back door. He threw the chicken out into the back alley. Good food for a stray dog.

  When the door was closed again, Rachel Frye emerged from the place she’d been huddled, out of sight in an alley. She scrambled over to the piece of chicken, picked it up, brushed the dirt from it with her hands, and wolfed it down, gnawing at the bone until every scrap was gone.

  Then she went back to her hiding place and cried. Her station in life had never been high, but she’d never imagined that she’d fall so low as to be eating thrown-out scraps in a back alley.

  She cried, and prayed, and finally slept. She’d traveled all the way from Leadville, and was weary. She’d almost been caught by a railroad detective, and very nearly molested by another freight-car stowaway. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure that Brady Kenton was even still in town, or if he was, how she could find him.

  Her dreams had mercy on her, however, taking her back to a place far away, and to a mother whose affection and gentleness were gifts that no subsequent evils could ever take from her.

  * * *

  They worked late into the night, arose early the next morning, and worked most of the day through again. Gunnison fell into a rhythm of work that made the hours fly past, and stirred a deep enjoyment of the creative process.

  He enjoyed even more watching Kenton become his old self again. The liquor wore away, the spark returned to his eye, and his skills seemed to hone themselves even as Gunnison watched. Gunnison’s contributions to the work became steadily less important as the hours wore on, Kenton carrying more and more of the load, doing the kind of work that had made him famous in his field.

  “I’m glad you came along, Alex,” Kenton said. “I hate to admit it to you, but you’ve been good for me. I’m glad you insisted that I get out of these drunken doldrums I’ve been in.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  “I’m also glad we’re getting this work done. I believe in fulfilling my obligations … it hasn’t rested easily with me that I’ve failed to do so lately. I’ve been the least effective employee of the Illustrated American, and I’m not used to that status. It isn’t pleasant. I can’t blame your father for being so unhappy with me.”

  “When he sees all these new illustrations, a multitude of sins will be covered.”

  “Yes. And I’ll be free to concentrate on the matter of Victoria. While you, Alex, can get home to your own lovely lady.”

  “Get home? I thought I was going to help you!”

  “Alex, I’ve spent a big part of a lifetime away from my own wife because of circumstances I couldn’t control. Your wife, on the other hand, is there at home, waiting for you. You should spend more time with her, and less with me, and with your work.” Precisely what Gunnison had preached to himself for years. But it was a surprise to hear it coming out of Kenton’s mouth.

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, and I’ll gladly take you up on it,” Gunnison said. “But not now. I’d like to see how this thing falls out.” What he didn’t say to Kenton was that he didn’t yet trust him to maintain his sobriety, or his common sense. Kenton merited watching a little while longer.

  “Alex, I insist that you go.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “I’m trying to keep you from having to spend your time and energy on a matter that is essentially someone else’s affair.”

  “We’ve always looked out for one another, Kenton. Besides, what affects you is my business. Keep in mind that one reason I was originally assigned to be your partner was to help keep you safe, well, and under control. You’re a piece of valuable merchandise.”

  Kenton laughed. “So valuable your father has suspended me.”

  “He’s only trying to force you back into line.”

  “Very well, then. Stay on if you wish. If we’re lucky, it won’t take long to learn the truth.”

  They finished the artwork far more quickly than either would have expected. After packaging the finished products and composing a telegram to be sent to the Illustrated American in advance of the coming package, both Kenton and Gunnison were in a celebratory mood.

  “A good meal, maybe a glass of wine—one glass, and that’s all,” Kenton said. “That’s what we need.”

  “I don’t know, Kenton. We were fortunate to walk away from that little incident at the saloon without your being recognized. The local law is probably on the lookout for a man of your description. I suggest that we have food brought in rather than going out.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve never been one to hide. As for that window, I’ll pay for its repair.”

  “That’s not the point,” Gunnison replied. “The point is publicity. If it gets back to the head office that you assaulted a man in a drunken rampage, even the exemplary job of makeup work we’ve done here may not be enough to save your job.”

  “Then I’ll lose the job. Hang it, Alex, a man makes mistakes at times. Those mistakes carry a price tag. If the price of my recent mistakes turns out to be my profession, then so be it.”

  “All right. If that’s how you want it. Just don’t count on the Illustrated American paying your bail should you wind up in jail.”

  CHAPTER 16

  KENTON, to Gunnison’s surprise, kept a low profile and the evening passed with both of them going unnoticed. They ate thick steaks at a fine restaurant and had three glasses of wine each, not the single glass Kenton had promised. But no harm came of it and the pair of them returned to the rented room, talking of finding better quarters for the remainder of their time in Denver.

  For now, though, the squalid room was theirs. Gunnison had gone out earlier in the day long enough to purchase a cot, and as he stretched out upon it that night, he was glad for it. The floor was hard, rough, and incredibly dirty.

  Before he drifted away to sleep, Gunnison said a prayer for
his wife far away, for himself, and for Kenton. As his consciousness faded, the affairs of the present seemed to line themselves up rationally in his mind. Because of two days of hard teamwork, Gunnison was certain that Kenton’s job had been saved. There had been no legal repercussions so far for Kenton’s assault in the saloon. Kenton seemed to have worked through his personal crisis over the quest for Victoria, and it now appeared likely that Kenton would soon finish exploring the improbable matter of the so-called clues in the serial novel, and all this nonsense would end.

  Gunnison had such a sense of relief and peace about it all that before sleep fully took him, he consciously forgave Kenton for that fiasco in Leadville.

  * * *

  Kenton paused at the door of the office building that housed American Popular Library, and glanced in a dark window to check his appearance. He liked what he saw. The bleariness was almost gone from his eyes, the sallowness from his face. Few exterior signs remained of his bout with alcohol and self-doubt. The old Brady Kenton was returning.

  He walked into the office building confident that he’d obtain the information he needed within the hour. He’d probably come out with a full copy of The Grand Deception in hand and the name and home address of the author.

  The man at the front desk was slender, bespectacled, bookish, and possessed of a haughty expression and manner. He looked at Kenton with no trace of recognition or respect.

  “May I help you?”

  “No need to sound so reluctant, young man. Indeed you may help me. My name is Brady Kenton.”

  As Kenton expected, the fellow’s expression changed dramatically when he learned who his visitor was. He adjusted his glasses, stared Kenton up and down, then reached under the desk and pulled a folded copy of a newspaper onto his lap. He glanced at something on the page, looked at Kenton again, and put the paper back under the desk again.

  This reaction did not surprise Kenton. The business with the newspaper, however, was a little confusing. Never mind, though. He was here about a serial novel.