by J. P. Sloan
Denton shrugs. “If so, then it is what it is.” He slaps my back. “Take a rest, Lin. Doze off the last of Katherina’s medicine so you’ll be sharp when we reach town.”
I tip my hat as he climbs off the cart. I can’t complain. A nap sounds magnificent. He gives the door to the Grangerford house three quick knocks, and at length a silver-haired, stately woman in gingham answers to let him in. And he is off to his work.
I roll across the cart bench, but I find myself too long to make a comfortable posture. Eventually I surrender to sloth and drop myself along the bed of the cart, cocking my hat over my face. The sun will rise high enough to clear the pines, and by then the light ought to pick me up if Denton doesn’t first.
The heavy leather fume of my new hat fills my nostrils, and though the pine boards of the cart bed aren’t precisely soft, they aren’t the worst stretch of bed I’ve made. A breeze from the east carries warm air in over my arms, and it isn’t long before I drift to sleep.
I sleep hard.
Harder than perhaps I should, thanks to Katherina’s herbs. Between knocks and rolls of my legs as I settle in the cart, I feel the sense of motion. Like I’m walking in and out of the buildings of Gold Vein. People look up to me. They know me. They respect me and feel grateful.
A dream. One that fills me will a sense of peace, maybe the first peace I’d felt in decades.
Was I really such a self-righteous prig that I needed the thanks of the ones I saved? It may be, least that’s the sense of my dreams.
I draw in a long, cleaning breath and pull my hat from my face. The sun hasn’t risen high enough yet to strike my face.
No.
There’s no sky over my face at all. I look up to find slanted beams rising beneath pine boards. I’m indoors.
I sit up and spot Folger scribbling away at his bench.
“The Hell?” I blubber, pulling myself up to my feet.
Folger swivels in his chair and shoots me a shit-munchin’ grin. “Good afternoon!”
“Where? What?”
He holds up a hand. “You are a hard sleeper, my friend. Found you sprawled out in the back of the cart and decided I couldn’t intentionally deprive you of your much-earned rest.” He chuckles. “I figured the bumpy ride into town would have jarred you awake at some point.”
“You… We’re back in town? Christ.” I rub my face. “What, you dragged me in here by yourself?”
“It wasn’t easy, I assure you. I suspect I gave our adversaries across the street a great deal of amusement, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone out there.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “That’s good of you. Sorry, Denton.”
He waves me away and returns to his scribbling. “You can blame Kate for your predicament. I told you she has a peculiar way with her herbs.”
“That’s a fact.” I stretch and step up to his desk. “How’d you treat with Missus Grangerford?”
“She’s receptive,” Denton answers, looking up to me between sentences. “She’s aware of Richterman’s designs on the valley’s real estate, and I feel that she’s willing to help us.”
“And her husband?”
“He’s another story entirely. At the moment, let’s leave the convincing to his wife.” Denton fills the last of his page with longhand before reaching into his desk. He paws around for a moment before swearing softly. “I forgot to stop by Toomey’s on the way into town. I had your sleeping carcass to contend with.”
“What, you’re out of paper?”
“Would you mind stepping next door? He has a standing order for pages, and I only place minimal orders to keep my credit strong with him.”
I return to the corner of the shop Denton laid me in, snatch my hat, and give him a nod. “Least I can do to be useful.”
I step next door and find old Toomey huddled up behind his counter with another one of his penny-books. When he finally sets eyes on me, he jerks his spine straight in what I’ll assume is his regular fashion, and shoves his tiny book under the counter head.
“Mornin’,” I grumble. “Afternoon. Not rightly sure.”
Toomey just blinks at me.
“Folger sent me for paper.”
The grizzled old fart nods once and trudges into his back room. I haunt his counter, digging a fingernail into the pine boards as I shrug off the sensation of getting stared at from across the street. No reason to show my nerves to Richterman. Thus far, he’d given me an ample berth, and I am content to see that continue.
Toomey returns with a brown-wrapped square under his arm, which he dumps onto the counter with no sense of ceremony whatsoever.
“That’ll keep ya,” he mumbles, resting his palms on the pine.
I shake my head at the twine- and paper-wrapped bundle in front of me. “Paper. Wrapped in paper.” I release a chuckle and look up at the old man. “I don’t know. Just strikes me as funny.”
He blinks.
“But not you, I guess.”
Toomey shifts on his feet.
“All right then,” I declare, snatching the bundle.
“Wait,” Toomey whispers.
I turn to give him my full attention.
He fidgets, and his nervous posture sends me off my feed. “I have something for you.”
I squint. “That a fact?”
After a couple halting motions, like he was losing an argument inside his own head, he reaches under the counter and sets another paper-wrapped bundle onto the pine. This one’s smaller, not as square.
“I’m supposed to give this to you next time you came in. And you came in. So here.”
I gave Toomey a long, gathered look. “What is it?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Who left it?”
He shook his head in a tiny circle. “Can’t rightly say.”
I turned to the front of his shop, glaring at Richterman’s building through the glass. “Yeah. I think I got it figured, anyway.”
I set the paper bundle back down on the counter and reach for the package.
Toomey grumbles, “You have to do this here?”
“Well, where else you suggest I open it?”
He shakes his head and reaches for his penny-book. I guess he’s done with me.
I untie the twine and peel back brown paper. Inside I find a bright slab of what looks to be pewter. It ain’t solid, not heavy enough. I lift the thing and give it a turn in my hand.
It’s a hip flask, the kind the boys tend to carry on long rides from job to job. Some use it for blessed water, others fill them with liquors per the flask-makers’ original intent. As I rotate the flask in my hand, the light strikes its broad surface at a proper angle. I freeze. There, etched on the face of the pewter, sits a Solar Cross.
This is a Godpistol flask.
“Who left this here?” I grunt, leaning across the counter.
Toomey jumps and backs away two good feet.
“Someone gave you instructions on this damn thing, am I right? Who left instructions?”
Toomey’s lip trembles.
“Goddammit, Toomey. It was Scarlow, right? Or did Richterman deliver it hisself?”
Toomey points with a crooked finger down to the wrapper left on counter. I squint down at the paper to find a tiny card with letters writ long-hand.
“I can fill this when you are ready. -R”
This time it’s me who backs away two steps.
So, Richterman has launched his opening salvo. Took him long enough.
I pocket the flask and snatch the paper ream, giving Toomey a quick nod before stepping back out onto the street. I turn for Folger’s shop, but linger. That flask is an invitation. I can’t easily step in and out of the pressroom without Folger getting interested in my business. I’m not sure how deep I want to pull him into this particular complication. This is Folger’s war, after all. I’m just a foot soldier.
But Richterman strikes me as a literal type, one that’s prone to take offense at personal liberties. Probably best to le
ave Denton out of this.
I turn to cross the street, hoping Folger has his nose buried in his movable print machine. As I hop up onto the porch boards in front of Richterman’s building, I spot a first-story curtain shuffle. I’ve been noticed.
I push open the door and step into what appears to be an assay office. One short counter runs past the front window. It holds a fine-looking scale, and rows of shelves on the far wall are lined with brass weights, all covered in dust. No gold has been assessed in this building for a long time.
A figure steps out from a door under a steep flight of stair balusters, and as my eyes accustom to the low light in the room, I recognize Scarlow staring back at me.
“Odell, as I live and breathe.” He snickers.
“I find it strange you’re the only man in this damn town who seems to remember my name.”
“It’s the hat,” he replies.
I reach into my pocket, and Scarlow’s arm tenses. I slow my motions and pull out the flask. “I got Richterman’s message.”
Scarlow squints at the flask and shakes his head slow.
“He left me a note,” I continue. “Said he’s ready to fill this up, whatever that means.”
Scarlow shrugs with a chuckle. “I suppose it means he thinks y’all need to relax a hair.”
“He upstairs?”
Scarlow shakes his head. “Been out all day.”
I purse my lips. I hadn’t figured the sumbitch would be out and about. As I turn to the windows to spot tiny streams of sunlight spilling through the dark lace curtains, I shake my head. I should have known better.
“I’m guessing nightfall’s a better time?”
Scarlow cocks his head. “I suppose.”
“Fine. I’ll come back then.”
I turn to exit, but Scarlow takes a step to me and clears his throat. I turn back, half expecting to find a gun drawn on me.
“Y’all fuckin’ around with that press across the street?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“What’s it to you?”
“Don’t you think it’s a waste of time?”
“It matters to Folger.”
Scarlow shrugs. “So, why does it matter to you?”
“It matters because what Richterman’s doing ain’t right.”
“You keep sayin’ that, but you never say why it ain’t right.”
I scowl and turn back for the door. “I didn’t come to talk you in or out of your bastardy, Scarlow.”
“Wish you would. Maybe then I’d understand you.”
I ignore him and pull the door open.
He calls out, “I want to show you somethin’, Odell.”
I hold at the door, debating whether I ought to play with him just this moment, or if I should just wait for Richterman to crawl out of whatever damn coffin he sleeps in during the day. I turn and pull the door closed behind me. The more I talk to Scarlow, the more I’ll understand his boss. And in a war of words, information is the only ammunition.
“What?” I blurt.
He motions with his head for me to follow as he rounds around and heads for the same door he’d popped out of. I follow, slipping the flask back into my pocket and keeping a hand close to my gun.
A single wall-candle lights a narrow flight of steps dropping into the basement. Was this Richterman’s sleeping den? Had he taken a habit from Katherina and bedded down underground directly beneath the building? If so, Scarlow would be leading me directly to the man at his most vulnerable. I couldn’t quite get a solid read on Scarlow, and though he preached loyalty to Richterman, I’m not sure if his shiftless carriage ain’t an act.
“Folger really does like his papers, don’t he?” Scarlow asks as we reach the level basement floor, dirt-packed with a couple rocks lying around.
“It’s not so much the papers as the words, I suppose.”
“Fair enough.” He turns to me and leans against a crate, the first in a line. “But he ain’t just printin’ papers for the locals. He’s got these little rags circulatin’ as far as Cheyenne, from what I hear.”
“That’s about the gist of it.”
“So, what’s the idea? Someone with authority will come ridin’ into town with a pack of gunmen and drag Richterman out of his office in shackles?”
I take a slow look around as I nod. No coffins. No Richterman. “That’d suit us just fine.”
Scarlow taps the crate behind him with his knuckles. “Problem with that bein’, his papers ain’t getting’ any farther than the north ridge.”
“What, now?”
He pulls the lid off the crate, which is just sitting loose, and slides it alongside its neighbor. “Take a look.”
I step forward and peer down into the crate. Stacks of papers. Folger’s papers. At least two printings, by the artwork.
“What’s all this?” I mutter.
“All of them,” Scarlow answers. “Every last one.”
I shake my head as a knot twists in my gut.
“Folger tries. He does. But comes a point where he has to trust wagons heading north and west to get the papers into Fort Junction or Cheyenne. And as smart as he seems to look, he just don’t get who is and who ain’t his friend.”
“Richterman intercepts them?”
“No one outside of Gold Vein has ever read a single word Denton Folger has pressed to paper. That’s the situation, Mister Odell. Hell, Richterman spares old Folger more out of pity than anythin’. It ain’t an even fight. Never has been.”
I suck in a dusty breath and pace a circle.
“So you can ride around the valley all you like, pissin’ in the wind. But there’s no endgame, here. He prints a newspaper. He bundles it, drives it to Fort Junction, and then they just take another ride back here to town. And the longer you haunt this place, the more likely you’re gonna get him, or yourself, hurt.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
Scarlow shrugs. “I’m not a complete son of a whore, I suppose. I like things easy. And what’s easy for me is gonna be easy for you. If you just ride out of town and forget all of this.”
“What about the cannibals?”
Scarlow squints in the low, flickering candlelight. “I reckon that’s Richterman’s problem now. I done lost too many men to those things already.”
“And you think that’s going to change?”
“Richterman made me a guarantee. He won’t press any more of my men into his dealin’s with Magner and his monsters.”
I cross my arms and lean against my own crate. “That a fact? And you believe him?”
“I do. After the last posse rode up into the hills, I told Richterman I wasn’t throwin’ any more men in front of those particular cannons.”
“What makes you think he’s going to hold to his word, Scarlow?”
“He’s got enough muscle now. Out in the night. Those damn blood-suckers.”
“No love lost there, I take it?”
Scarlow frowns. “They follow him. For now. He gives them some measure of hope, and they keep comin’. And one of these days, there’s gonna be one of those creepy sumbitches that decides he’s stronger than Richterman, and it’s gonna be a bloody goddamn day. Night. Whatever.”
“I figure that’s so.”
“So, the problem will solve itself, if you’re Folger. He lets Richterman carry on like this, and these blood-drinkers are gonna turn on him.” Scarlow takes a step toward me. “And you can avoid all that, if you just ride out. Now. Just get on over those hills and keep riding. Let this business sort itself out.”
I whisper, “I don’t suppose Richterman would take kindly to your sizing him up so short.”
“Oh, he’s always listenin’,” Scarlow whispers in response.
“Well, thanks for your well-intentioned scarecrowing, Scarlow. But I think I’ll keep my eyes on Folger a little while longer.”
“It’s a mistake, Odell.”
“Maybe Folger don’t know friend from foe out there, but he can trust me. And I’v
e got enough mettle to get papers into people’s hands. I got people out there, and they ride powerful distances. All I got to do is stick a paper or two into their saddlebags, and one day it’ll end up in the hands of a marshal.”
Scarlow snickers. “You mean the Godpistols?” He shakes his head and steps past me for the stairs. “Where do you think Richterman got that flask?”
My blood ices.
I run my hand along my pants until it rests against the pewter flask in my pocket.
My fingers twitch toward my holster, but I bed them back down.
“You comin’?” Scarlow calls from the stairs.
I follow him back to the thin sunlight of the assay office, but not without taking a few breaths to calm myself.
Scarlow spins on me with a smirk. “So, I tried, Odell. I tried to spare you from this skullduggery. But if you feel y’all have to go pokin’ your nose up in that office,” he says with a lift of his chin up the balusters, “then it’s your decision.”
“Oh, I’ll be back. You can believe that.”
I storm out of the office, only stopping once I reach the horse hitch across the street in front of Folger’s pressroom. I kick it a couple times with a growl.
Richterman has killed a Godpistol.
This ain’t just Folger’s fight anymore.
It just got real damn personal.
onight?”
I nod. “Yep. Tonight.”
Folger shakes his head. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to let that happen.”
“Don’t recall making that your decision.”
“You go to Richterman’s office tonight, you’re going to die. That’s how the math works for you. Maybe the both of us.”
“Nah,” I grumble. “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
“So, why now?”
I hold up the flask, angling it for Folger against the lantern light on his desk. He takes it ginger-like and gives it a good once-over.
“That symbol.”
“Yep.”
“We saw this symbol in Holcomb’s loft.”
I snatch the flask back and slip it into my pocket. “I told you last time. It’s the sign of the Godpistols.”
“You’re telling me Richterman is one of your Godpistol gunmen?”
“No, dammit. He killed one of us and swiped the flask. May have been Holcomb, can’t tell. I doubt it. I get the sense he’s been sitting on this for a while, just waiting for one of us to blow into town and kick up a cloud of mischief for him.”