Leadville

by James D. Best

  “Let’s just order coffee and eat after we get back to the hotel,” I suggested.

  “Might be nightfall.” Sharp laughed at the look on my face. “I’ve eaten in this kinda place lots of times. It’ll be fine, just don’t order stew. Ya might get surprised.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Well, I’m orderin’ a meal. If we’re gonna find what we’re lookin’ for, it’ll probably be in a place like this.”

  “What are ya lookin’ for?” This came from a big, rough-looking man who sat beside me at the long table.

  Before I could think of an answer, Sharp said, “A guide. Someone who knows these mountains an’ knows somethin’ about prospectin’.”

  “Hell, that’s easy. Half the men in this room claim to fit that bill.”

  “Like yourself, I suppose?” I asked.

  “Naw, not me … hell, I could do it, but I got my own diggin’s. ’Sides, only a fool would go into the mountains now. You’ll freeze to death.”

  Sharp reached across the table, extending his hand. “Jeff Sharp. This here’s my partner, Steve Dancy. Our mine in Nevada looks about played out, so we’re lookin’ for a new venture.”

  The man nodded. “Samuel Washington, but everyone calls me Pie.”

  “Pie?” I swung around to get a look at the man beside me.

  The big weathered man shrugged. “I eat a bit of pie.”

  The man’s nickname reminded me of my fight in Durango. I probably owed my life to that flung plate of pie. Perhaps I should adopt pie as my favorite dish as well.

  “Anyone ya might recommend?” Sharp asked.

  The man studied the room and repeated his question. “What’re ya lookin’ for?”

  “Somethin’ rare, I ’xpect,” Sharp said. “A man that knows these mountains like the back of his hand … an’ maybe knows a bit about prospectin’. An’ someone that knows the local Indians. Don’t want no trouble.”

  “Kinda late in the year, ain’t it?”

  “We tried Durango first and wasted too much time, but I figure we got a couple weeks before the first storm. That’s why we need someone good. Maybe a half-breed? Someone who grew up in these mountains? Knows the terrain … and the weather.”

  “Couple a weeks, huh? Well, good luck to ya.”

  “You don’t have anyone to suggest?” I asked.

  “Nope. Ya go into those mountains this time of year, and ya’ll probably die. A honest man’ll just tell ya that right out. If ya want my advice, buy a producin’ claim close to town. Plenty about, and ya’ll likely see spring that way.”

  “Nope,” Sharp said firmly. “That’s how we wasted time in Durango. I’ll not be suckered. I stake my own claims.”

  The big man turned to me. “What’s yer part in this?”

  “I’m the money.”

  “Have ya been in the mountains this time of year before?” He stared at me. How did Westerners always know I was citified?

  Sharp answered. “I have. We got good gear an’ good horses. All we need is a good guide.”

  “An’ a hell of a lot of luck. Ya think ya can find a claim in a couple weeks? Some men traipse through these mountains for years with nary a strike.”

  “I’ve been lucky all my life,” Sharp said. “I know there’s silver and maybe gold out there. I want to get a look and a feel for the lay of the land before it goes all white.”

  Pie gave Sharp a hard stare. Finally, he said, “The men ya see here have come in for the winter. There’s only one man I know of that ventures into these mountains this time of year.”

  “Who might that be?” Sharp asked.

  “Don’t rightly know his name. He’s a full-blood Ute. Mean as hell. Some have used him as a guide, but he’s a savage, not one of yer civilized-like Indians. I ain’t recommendin’ him, hear. He’ll probably slit yer throat while ya sleep and leave ya naked in the woods to feed the bears.”

  “Where do we find him?” I asked.

  Pie looked at me and shook his head. “You loco? Ya don’t go off into these mountains this time of year guided by a savage that’s got no more use for ya than a lame pony. Whatever’s up in those hills, it’ll still be there come spring.”

  “We got our minds set,” Sharp said.

  “Ya are loco,” Pie said. He shook his head again and then added, “If ya want him, I hear he’s encamped up on the rise at the north end of town—with all the other Indians.”

  “What’ve you heard about the Ute uprising at the reservation?” I asked.

  “At least that ain’t a worry for ya. The local Utes weren’t a part of that mess, and the army corralled the ones that was. I met that Meeker once—a self-righteous son of a bitch. I’m guessin’ he provoked ’em. Naw, if this Ute kills ya, it’s for yer gear, not ’cuz he’s part of some damn rebellion.”

  Sharp made a show of thinking through the possibilities. After a moment, he said to me, “Pie’s got a point. Maybe it’s too late in the year. Let’s eat … see how we feel in the morning.”

  I took Sharp’s lead, and we changed the subject. The coffee was hot and not bad, but the steak I ordered came burnt and grizzled. I was not surprised.

  At the end of the meal, the young girl brought our new acquaintance the biggest piece of apple pie I’d ever seen.

  “Is that a single slice?” I asked.

  “Naw. I’m known hereabouts.” He winked. “Gotta keep up appearances, or I might lose my nickname.”

  Sharp reached across the table to shake Pie’s hand. “We’ll be goin’ before you dig into that, but I want to thank you. Sometimes I get dumb ideas in my head. Ya straightened me out.”

  “If yer real grateful, ya’ll buy my lunch.”

  “I think my partner can handle that. Pay the young lady, Steve.

  Before I could pull the coins out of my pocket, Sharp had disappeared outside.

  I found him at the end of the block, puffing on one of his cigars and gazing up the street to the north. I walked up beside him and pulled out my pipe. “We could’ve had our smoke inside where it’s warm.”

  “In New York, did ya stay indoors all winter?”

  “Most winter days in New York aren’t as cold as this … and people around here call this fall.”

  “Ya get used to it.” Sharp seemed distracted.

  “Do you think this Ute’s our man?” I asked.

  “Might be.” Sharp puffed a moment, continuing to look up the street.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Too easy. We’ve been lookin’ for less than two hours. The reason most miners aren’t successful is that they spot a showin’ and commit their life to it. They’ll chase a bum lead all the way to the grave.” Sharp dropped his cigar and crushed it under his heel.

  “Afraid this is a bum lead? A false showing?”

  “Like I said, too easy. If a claim don’t pan out, ya gotta move on. Look somewhere’s else. And the sooner, the better, so ya don’t waste time.”

  “You’re saying we need to find out for certain … and without wasting too much time.”

  “Yep. Time we ain’t got.”

  I lit my pipe and stared down the street as well. “Think anyone in town knows Bane?”

  “Not likely, and we don’t want to be askin’ too many questions. ’Sides, we’d probably never find a white man that could tie Bane together with this Ute.”

  I assumed that Sharp’s answer meant he thought we could only learn more from another Indian. “Red will be here in a couple days,” I offered.

  “I’ve been tryin’ to decide if we can wait. McAllen will be here in two nights, an’ he’ll sure as hell want answers, not guesses.” Sharp turned his attention away from the hill and back to me. “Steve, go back to the hotel. I’ll meet ya there in a couple hours.”

  “Jeff, I just like to gripe about the cold. I’ll go with you.”

  “No … one white man askin’ questions makes ’em nervous; two shuts ’em up tighter than one of
them drums they beat on.”

  “I don’t think I look very threatening,” I offered.

  “That blood-soaked coat won’t make people feel friendly.”

  I had forgotten about the grizzly blood. I had brushed the coat and stitched the rips, but most people would still recognize the splotch across the front as a bloodstain. “Shit, I forgot. I guess I better buy a new one.”

  “Buy one now, an’ I’ll meet ya back at the hotel.”

  Sharp obviously wouldn’t accept any more objections, so I just said, “Don’t push questions so hard you draw too much attention.”

  “I won’t. Have a fine bottle of whiskey waitin’ for me by the fire.”

  With that, Sharp turned his back on me and walked up the street in the direction of the town’s Indian encampment.

  Chapter 26

  The haberdashery next to the hotel had the masculine feel of a New York City men’s club. It looked expensive, but my mouth fell open when I checked the tag on a coat not dissimilar to the one I was wearing.

  “There’s an emporium down the street that may have something more in your price range.”

  The handsome female clerk—who probably made less than a constable—wore a perfectly tailored charcoal dress and a snooty expression. I, on the other hand, was dressed in filthy trail clothes that told her I spent my time on top of a horse, not inside a money-spewing mine.

  I checked the tag again before asking, “Can you explain why this coat costs twice what I paid in Durango?”

  The clerk lifted her chin. “Perhaps you should retain the one you’re wearing. It looks to be broke in. A Chinaman might get those stains out.”

  The woman’s attitude irked me. “Cleaning’s been tried, and I don’t like wearing the blood from one of my kills.” I was rewarded with the wince I was trying to invoke. “Can we talk about a reasonable price for that coat?”

  The haughty clerk caught her balance faster than I expected. “Our prices are not negotiable.”

  “They aren’t reasonable either.”

  “As I already mentioned, there’s an emporium down the street,” she said, with her nose pointed at the patterned tin ceiling.

  I didn’t like her. She was in her mid-twenties and attractive, but she reminded me of the women my family had tried to match me with in New York. Well-spoken, obviously educated, and pretty in a restrained manner that signaled that she had class and an upper-class upbringing. Except that she was a haberdashery clerk in a mining town, which meant that she pretended to be the type of woman I disliked. And a fake was even worse than the real thing in my book. She put on airs that she believed would appeal to the nouveau riche in this rustic town. I was unimpressed.

  “May I speak to the owner?”

  She stiffened. “I’m sorry. He’s unavailable.”

  “Make sure.”

  She offered me a condescending smile. “There’s no need for you to speak to the owner. Mr. Cunningham entrusts his business affairs to my charge.”

  “Really? You look like an underpaid clerk dressed in a store-loaned dress.”

  The woman responded in a heartbeat. “I hesitate to say what you look like, sir.”

  “Good decision. Hold that tongue. Now fetch the owner. Right away, please.”

  She didn’t budge. “I’m the senior clerk. You may deal with me.”

  “Very well.” I held her eyes for a long moment. “What price for the entire store?”

  “All the contents? Very amusing, sir.”

  “Not the contents—everything. You’re the highfalutin senior clerk. Give me a price.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She started to turn away.

  “Don’t you be ridiculous.”

  I stepped toward the clerk. When our faces were inches apart, I added, “If you can get that kind of price for a standard sheepskin coat, then I want to own this store—or one like it. I came to Leadville to invest in mines, but I’m a shopkeeper by trade, and suddenly I realize I ought to stick to what I know. Shopkeeping appears to be a hell of a lot more profitable than I imagined … possibly more profitable than mining.”

  The unruffled clerk seemed bewildered and unsure for the first time.

  “Now, give me a price … or do you need to go get the owner?”

  She straightened her shoulders in an attempt to regain her composure. “The store is not for sale.”

  I walked to the front of the store and looked out the window. A new building was going up directly across the street. “Where’s the telegraph office?”

  She looked confused by the question, so I added, “I want to send a telegram to my associates in New York City.” I pointed out the window. “I should be able to fully stock a haberdashery in that building across the street before the first thaw.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  The clerk’s haughty manner collapsed. “The owner of this store owns the Carbonate Hotel. You can find Mr. Cunningham in his office behind the reception desk.”

  “Good. I have four rooms at the Carbonate, so he probably won’t treat me as dismissively as you did.”

  “Four rooms? How did—” The clerk threw a furtive look at the store entrance. “I apologize, sir. Obviously, I misjudged. Perhaps we can work a discount for that coat, after all.”

  “I no longer want just the coat. I want the entire store, or I’ll open a competing store directly across the street. I owned several carriage trade shops in New York City, and I know how to run a pretentious enterprise.”

  I gave the clerk an appraising look. Her dark dress, cinched at the waist, showed off an excellent figure, and she carried herself with assurance. “If I buy this store, perhaps I’ll even retain you as my senior clerk. You’re certainly snooty enough.”

  “I come more expensive than you may think … and this is not a loaned dress. Besides, I would never leave Mr. Cunningham’s employ. He’s a gentleman.”

  “Not even for a piece of the business?”

  That question got the reaction I wanted, but I suddenly wondered what the hell I was doing. I guess my business instincts had taken hold, but I wasn’t in Leadville for business, at least not for my business. It was more than that. She had nettled me from the time I’d entered the store. All the women I knew in New York looked with disdain at anyone without money. I hated their condescension toward servants and riffraff they encountered in their daily lives. I came west to escape them and their so-called gentlemen friends. Perhaps that was why Jenny appealed to me. She was everything this type of woman was not. Jenny was uneducated but smart as a whip. She had been raised by a tenant farmer and had grown up working with her hands. A man might describe this clerk as beautiful, but Jenny was pretty—simpler and fresher, with an engaging smile.

  I had to extricate myself from this situation, but I decided to take advantage of having placed doubt into the mind of this clerk. “I’ll pay half for the coat.”

  “No, sir.” Her voice was firm. “Twenty percent is the absolute best we can do.”

  “We?” I looked around. “I don’t see anyone else.”

  “I meant the store.” She waved her arm around like the dry goods were participating in the negotiations. “That’s the best the store can do. Prices are sky-high in Leadville. Transportation costs are set at extortionist levels. Everything costs dear … but you already know that if you aren’t lying about having four rooms next door.”

  I decided that I had let my pride get the better of me. There was no way I wanted to own a business in Leadville. Without any further dickering, I said, “I’ll take the coat. I’m sorry to have bothered you with my nonsense.”

  Chapter 27

  My encounter with the store clerk had delayed me, so I had just finished ordering a bottle of whiskey when I heard Sharp call to me from across the Carbonate’s expansive lobby. One glance in his direction and I rushed over. He had been beaten badly. Sharp was a sturdy-built man with a solid demeanor, but his swollen left eye and blood-cake
d nose and lower lip made him look his age and a bit fragile.

  “Damn it,” I said, as I rushed up. “I knew I should have gone with you.”

  “If ya want to help, grab that bottle of whiskey and help me up to Doc’s room.”

  I turned to see a bewildered waiter standing behind me with a bottle and two glasses on a silver platter. I signaled him to come over. “Take that bottle and three glasses up to room 302.”

  I turned my attention back to Sharp. I began to pull his arm across my shoulder, but I hesitated for fear of hurting him. “Where’re you hurt?”

  “Mostly my ribs. That Ute pounded me with the handle end of his knife. Promised to use the other end if I came back.”

  I let Sharp lean his weight against my shoulder, and then we moved with a halting pace toward the stairs. It took us probably ten minutes to climb the two flights. Sharp’s grunts and pants restricted our conversation to me saying “careful” and Sharp repeatedly exclaiming “shit.”

  Dooley, who had been alerted by the hotel steward, met us at the top of the landing. I was worried, but the doctor looked curious, like a blacksmith sizing up a broken wagon. He stopped us and quickly examined Sharp’s injuries.

  “Sit him in a chair in my room. Keep him upright so I can wrap those ribs. The rest of his wounds just need to be cleaned and dabbed with iodine. He ain’t hurt bad.”

  “Glad to hear it, Doc. Now that I know that, maybe this pain’ll go away.”

  “Quit whining. You’ve been hurt worse.” With that, Dooley turned and preceded us into his room.

  As he went to work, I poured three glasses of whiskey. Sharp swallowed his down in a single gulp. I kept my questions to myself until Dooley had finished wrapping Sharp’s ribs and had cleaned up his bruised face.

  As Sharp examined himself in the commode mirror, I opened with, “I guess you haven’t learned how to conduct a civil conversation.”

  “It was civil enough until this mean son of a bitch decided to introduce himself. I just asked a couple of braves how much a guide might cost. I spotted our man sittin’ under a shelter, eyein’ me, but I ignored him. Pretty soon, he marched right over an’ proceeded to pummel me. No reason other than meanness that I can figure.”