Leadville

by James D. Best

  “That half-breed on the mountain was a friend of mine,” I said as casually as I could muster. “I’m going to kill you for what you did to him.”

  “Try, you puny shopkeeper.” His voice was gravelly, like it wasn’t used much. He said the next words with pride. “No one can kill me.”

  He lunged toward me as he slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat.

  I instantly drew my Colt and shot him twice, center body. As he stumbled, I took more care with my aim and shot him two more times in the head. Bane still stood, but he was dead. I shot him one more time in the middle of his chest, and he banged his back against the door and slid down to the floor.

  Before crossing the room, I ejected my spent cartridges and reloaded. I wasn’t going to take any chances. Damn, this man was harder to kill than that bear. With my gun continually aimed at Bane, I crossed the room and stood over his body. He wasn’t going to get up. Reaching into his pocket, I pulled out a knife with a six-inch razor-sharp blade. The mountain man had sewn a sheath inside his coat pocket. Damn. I wondered if he could have gotten within arm’s reach if I hadn’t shot him when he first lunged.

  As I looked down at the bloody mess, I realized that this time I had no regrets. I took a sip of coffee from the cup in my left hand. I hadn’t spilled a drop. “Sorry, Bane, you never had a chance. You’re scary all right, but Mrs. Bolton is the one that terrifies me.”

  Chapter 51

  It felt good to dress for dinner. I had taken a nap, been to the barber, and taken a long hot bath with a bottle of good Scotch whiskey at my side. I looked forward to excellent food, opulent, warm surroundings, and the companionship of friends. I had a lot to enter into my journal, but it could all wait until tomorrow. I had bought a copy of The Last of the Mohicans, and even though James Cooper wasn’t one of my favorite authors, I was going to play hooky from the shop another day or two and just hang around the hotel reading and writing.

  As soon as I entered the hotel dining room, Sharp waved me over to a table in the far corner.

  I plopped into an available chair and immediately asked, “Are we drinking wine or whiskey?”

  “Both. Whiskey while we wait for McAllen an’ wine with dinner.”

  Sharp signaled a waiter and ordered Kentucky whiskey and three glasses without asking my preference. That was all right, because I felt so good I was going to make Sharp pay for the evening.

  “Well, if my luck holds, McAllen will be late,” I said.

  “Good fortune has been followin’ along in our footsteps. Maggie’s saved, we rescued the ore shipment, Vrable’s in jail for murder, an’ Mrs. Bolton’s locked up for tryin’ to bribe an officer of the court.” Sharp laughed. “Hell, we even made money with that damn shop.”

  “You forgot the truce between the Santa Fe and the Denver and Rio Grande. My holding went up three bucks per share in the last two days.”

  “Then dinner is on you.”

  “Not a chance. Jeff, you’re paying tonight, and I can assure you the tab will be truly outrageous.”

  “Done,” he said with a smile.

  I had been had. Most people would probably find it odd that we argued over who would pay a bill that both could easily afford. They would probably find it even stranger that winning this contest at times meant getting the other to pay, but in different circumstances, winning meant paying yourself. It was so confusing, even I could get mixed up.

  McAllen arrived before the whiskey and made a show of inspecting the empty table. “Hell, I need a drink. Are you men waiting to see what you order for dinner before selecting the wine?”

  Just as he finished complaining, the waiter slid a silver tray onto the table with three glasses, our whiskey, and a crystal bowl of ice shavings.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” McAllen poured as he waved the waiter away.

  I reached across the table and used a spoon to add ice shavings to my drink.

  Sharp grabbed his heart in a faux attack. “You’re ruinin’ fine whiskey, Steve. For the life of me, I can’t understand you easterners.”

  “I’ll drink it before the ice melts,” I said. We had had this conversation before, but it seemed like ages ago. The last time I was served ice with whiskey had been in Carson City, Nevada. I turned to McAllen. “Any charges?”

  “Just the opposite. There was a wanted circular on Bane. Five hundred dollars, dead or alive. Marshal says to come over in the morning, and he’ll give you a draft.” McAllen raised his glass. “Congratulations, Steve, I think you’re getting the hang of it out here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I first met you, you’d have waited to discover Bane’s intentions. Now you just up and shot him before he thought you’d act. His reputation and appearance halts most folks, so Bane kills people before they get their minds around how bad he is.” McAllen took a sip. “Also, you didn’t back off till your gun was empty. Five killing shots. Another smart move with that son of a bitch.” Now he took a healthy swallow.

  “He told me he couldn’t be killed.”

  “Did he?” McAllen said. “Probably so many men have tried over the years that he believed it, but you set him right on that score.” McAllen lifted his glass again. “Let’s have another toast to Red, and then we’ll call that nervous waiter over.”

  After we said some appropriate things and drank, I asked, “How long before Vrable’s trial?”

  “Week, hopefully two.” McAllen actually grinned. “Since I can’t escort Maggie back to Durango until after the trial, the longer it takes, the more time I get with her. I’ll pick Maggie up from Twin Lakes in a day or two.”

  “What’re ya doin’ tomorrow?” Sharp asked.

  McAllen’s expression turned serious. “I’m going into the mountains. I’ll get Maggie after I find Red.”

  “You think Red’s still alive?” I asked, incredulous.

  “No, but he deserves a proper burial. I know how Bane would’ve left him.”

  “Can I—”

  “No. I’ll take care of this myself.” He used his tone that shut off further discussion.

  I called the waiter over in the awkward silence, and we ordered. After he left, I said, “Jeff, this five hundred dollar reward changes our arrangement.” I smiled at him. “I’ll host this evening.”

  “By God, yer right. It’ll be a pleasure to be yer guest this evenin’.”

  Damn, how did he make me feel like I always lost these jousts? I looked at him, and he smiled knowingly at me. I started laughing and gave him a salute, which got him laughing as well.

  “Damn you two,” McAllen said. “I can never follow your table contests, but one of you is buyin’.”

  McAllen said this with such irritation that Sharp and I laughed even longer. I was really enjoying the evening. Perhaps it had something to do with the whiskey during my soak, but I had been in a good mood earlier as well. It was such a relief to drink carelessly. Bat Masterson had admonished me to stay sober in the face of threats, and I hadn’t had more than a single drink in a day since. Tonight I intended to have a good time.

  Dinner was excellent. For two hours, we had a continuous stream of great food, better wine, and even better conversation. McAllen had refused any further liquor after the food arrived but stayed in a jovial mood—at least it was a jovial mood for Captain Joseph McAllen. He planned an early start in the morning and could not be convinced to down wine like Sharp and me.

  I spotted baked Alaska on the dessert menu, so I asked to speak to the chef. A white-clad Frenchman sauntered over like he owned the place. Maybe he did.

  “I hope you gentlemen enjoyed your meal,” he said, in a heavy accent.

  “Yep,” Sharp answered. “Best meal since I left France.”

  “Of course.” He wore a patronizing smile that immediately put me off.

  “I noticed that you serve baked Alaska. How do you prepare it?”

  “That is secret, but you must order it. It is exquisite. I prefer to call it omelette à la norvégie
nne, but Americans pronounce French so poorly, I decided to call it Alaska to avoid embarrassment.”

  “How considerate of you,” I said. “Apportez trois ordres, s’il vous plait.”

  He looked as dumbfounded as I had hoped. “You speak excellent French, monsieur. When were you in France?”

  “Never.” I waved my hand dismissively. “It’s a simple language. But I need clarification. I hope you prepare the omelette à la norvégienne like Chef Ranhofer at Delmonico’s in New York City.”

  He lifted his chin and had to look down his nose to keep his eyes on me. “This Alaska, as you call it in America, was invented in Paris. I can assure you that it’s superior to anything you may have encountered in New York.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that. As I said, bring us three orders. And you may want to work on your English … your pronunciation is awful.”

  After he stomped off, McAllen said, “Steve, he’s gonna spit in our food.”

  “I’m full anyway. I intend to take a single bite and send it back.”

  “Well, I’m eatin’ it,” Sharp said. “Spit or no spit. Let’s get some cognac.”

  McAllen stood. “You gentlemen order after-dinner drinks. I need to use the privy.”

  I watched McAllen leave and grew envious of his steady gait. I wasn’t too sure I could retain my dignity when it came time for me to walk out of here and to my room.

  I was going to call over the waiter to order cognac when Sharp said, “I believe Alaska was invented in Paris.”

  “The French use pastry, Delmonico’s uses meringue. I prefer our way.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Steve, I’ve had it both ways in France.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s an ass.”

  “Now we agree.”

  We both laughed like men in their cups, and I was about to tell Sharp about other things my family’s French maid had taught me when I heard the most frightening sound I could imagine.

  “Mr. Steve Dancy, you thieving swine.”

  Mrs. Bolton.

  I turned slowly to see her leveling a shotgun at me. The restaurant had grown so quiet that I could hear guests casually talking in the lobby. She looked possessed, but her hand looked steady on the trigger. I had been in this situation once before with her and had escaped. Perhaps again?

  I tried for a casual tone. “Mrs. Bolton, that language isn’t befitting a lady of your stature.”

  “Neither are loud noises, but you’re about to hear one.”

  “Mrs. Bolton, perhaps you should look around. You’ll find—”

  “Shut up. Your little whore tricked me the last time I had a shotgun pointed at you, but not this time.”

  “How did you get out of jail?”

  I could see by her overly sweet smile that my ruse had worked. She was going to brag about getting released. I had to keep her talking.

  “You think they would keep a woman locked up? You’re a fool. They wanted to keep Vrable and his men separated, and they only had three cells, so my lawyer got me released by promising I wouldn’t leave this hotel.”

  “What—”

  “Enough! No more talking.”

  “Wait! Let Sharp move out of the way.”

  “Too late. Goodbye, Mr. Dancy.”

  I threw myself to the floor, but the shot I heard came from a heavy caliber pistol, not a shotgun. I flipped over but kept low as I reached for my gun. My head rolled over and I came eyeball to eyeball with Mrs. Bolton. She wore a shocked expression. The hair at her scalp was matted in blood, while the back of her head smoldered from the gun flash. She had been shot with a pistol shoved against the back of her neck.

  I shakily got to my feet and saw McAllen through a blue haze of gun smoke.

  “Thanks,” I said weakly.

  “You’re welcome … now we’re even.”

  Chapter 52

  McAllen holstered his gun and stepped over the massive body of Mrs. Bolton. “Gentlemen, Ladies,” he yelled. “Please excuse this disturbance. I’m Captain McAllen of the Pinkertons. Unfortunately, this crazy woman was about to kill many people. The marshal will want to ask questions, so please stay at your tables.”

  I had gotten to my feet, and McAllen asked, “Are you all right, Steve?”

  “Better than if that shotgun had gone off.”

  “Then help me move her into the lobby. Bloody bodies tend to put people off their feed.”

  Sharp came up and grabbed an arm while McAllen and I each grabbed a leg. The restaurant manager, apparently anxious to get the body away from his customers, hurried over to help by lifting the other arm. We shuffled her into the lobby and dropped her around a corner where she would be out of sight of the restaurant patrons but in full view of the hotel guests. As soon as we plopped the body down, the restaurant manager scurried away as if whatever Mrs. Bolton had was contagious.

  “Damn,” Sharp said. “I’m sure glad ya pee straightaway. Takes me forever nowadays.” Sharp laughed, as he always did when he found himself amusing.

  I looked down at her and realized I was still drunk. “Well, Captain, I’m glad you didn’t drink much. Even the slightest hesitation, and they’d be cleaning Jeff and me off those drapes.”

  “Not much chance of that. I saw her come down the stairs with that shotgun and kept an eye on her instead of going to the privy.”

  “You knew she was out of jail.” I said this as a statement, not a question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t want to ruin your evening.”

  A hotel clerk brought over a blanket, and we threw it over her corpse. After we had her covered, I asked, “Joseph, have you ever killed a woman before?”

  “Not sure.” McAllen didn’t give the slightest hint that he was joking. “Anyway, Steve, you’re free of her.”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m taking her to Mason Valley to be buried next to her son. Now she’ll have a piece of that ranch forever.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Sharp said. “Yer goin’ back to see Jenny.” Sharp used the toe of his boot to nudge Mrs. Bolton’s blanket-clad body. “Hell, ya didn’t need an excuse.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, ya’ll need company too. I’m comin’ with ya.”

  “All the way to Mason Valley?”

  “Hell, no. Just to Carson City. Steve, my boy, the rest of the journey is yers alone to take.”

  Chapter 53

  The next morning, when Sharp and I entered our store, we both stopped mid-stride. What the hell? The natural pine shelves had been whitewashed, the merchandise had been rearranged, and we didn’t recognize the clerk behind the counter. As we stood there gawking, Mrs. Baker approached us wearing a bright floral dress that swooshed around her legs as she walked.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “What have you done?” I stammered.

  “Forget Steve’s poor manners, ma’am.” Sharp gave a little bow. “Ya look stunnin’.”

  “You mean my dress?” She did a complete swirl, sending her skirt billowing.

  “Your dress, the whitewash, the merchandise.” I pointed at the clerk. “And who’s that?”

  “One of our new clerks. With you two gallivanting about the countryside, you didn’t expect me to run the store with two boys, did you?”

  “One of our new clerks? How many did you hire?”

  “Two … oh, and I still use the boys.” She walked between us and hooked an arm around each of our elbows. “Come along and I’ll show you some of our other changes. And don’t look so worried—we did nearly a thousand dollars worth of business while you were gone.”

  My furrowed brow immediately relaxed. A thousand dollars this time of year was spectacular. Most people had started to burrow in for the winter. She led us to the back of the store, which had also been whitewashed and now displayed an oil painting of a flower-filled landscape full of sunshine. Below the painting hung a placard that said Coffee 5¢. The s
tove was stoked, and eight captain’s chairs were scattered around a small table with a checkerboard and several copies of both Leadville papers.

  “We sell coffee now?” I asked.

  “And lunch. We get a good crowd.”

  “Can you make money at that?” I asked.

  “Merchandise makes money, but you can’t sell to people huddled against the cold in their rooms.” She waved her arm across the back of the store. “This gives men a place to gather during the day, and they buy things after they get done chatting.”

  “They come here instead of a saloon?” I asked.

  She smiled. “They like to watch me … and if they get an urge, the establishments right down the street accommodate their needs.” Her expression turned a bit wicked for the first time since I had met her. “I should demand a commission.”

  “Do ya ever get bothered?” Sharp asked, with concern in his voice.

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” she said, throwing a glance at the new clerk. “Besides, we don’t sell liquor. And Clyde sends the ones that come in drunk packing.”

  I took better notice of our new clerk. He was big. Tall and hefty. With her pocket pistol and his presence, I figured she was right: They could handle unruly customers.

  “The place looks bright and cheery, ma’am,” Sharp said.

  “You haven’t lived through a Leadville winter. It’s depressing. The new decorations draw them away from their drab quarters and keep me cheerful.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Sharp gave a low whistle. “Nearly a thousand dollars, ya say.”

  “Nine hundred and sixty four, to be exact.”

  “Mrs. Baker,” I said. “Could Mr. Sharp and I have a private discussion?”

  “Of course. You men take a seat right here and help yourself to coffee.” She gave Sharp a fetching grin and used her hand to swish her skirt as she retreated to leave us alone by the warm stove.

  “Damn, what the hell got into her?” I said as I plopped into one of the chairs.