by Mark Mitten
LG led his horse to the nearest hitching post.
Part 3
PART 3
Notable Brown’s Park residents:
Speck Williams – ferry operator
Mary Crouse – Charley’s wife
John Jarvie – runs the store on the Green River
Mexican Joe Herrera
Asbury Conway
The Hoys
The Bassetts
Chapter 1
Grand Lake
Ben Leavick was not a drinker — anymore.
It was four in the afternoon. Daylight shot through the doorway each time someone stumbled out the door. It made the room light up and the drinkers inside squint. It also made it feel like the seediest place in town.
At least, that was how Ben felt each time the door swung open. He glanced around at the drunkards of Grand Lake. This wasn’t a place he would typically step foot in, but this wasn’t a normal day. Well, truth be told, he hadn’t had a normal day since Sheriff Emerson Greer’s death. Even though the world kept on moving, Ben’s world had not. A hollow feeling settled in the bottom of his gut and stayed put. So he figured, no, he hadn’t had a normal day since then so why should entering a seedy saloon in the middle of the day make him feel out of place? Everything was already out of place.
Ben did not touch alcohol for any reason. He didn’t want to lose his sharpness, even dull it, for a single moment. What if he needed to be sharp? Any time, anything could happen. Like when Em got shot dead. They had been on the trail for bank thieves. Just riding along through the snowy rocks. It had been quiet in the high country that day. The pine trees were frosted over — the branches sagged but held their loads. It was still winter back then, snowy and bitter cold especially when the sun was blocked by that thin cloud-cover, as it was that day. No one knew, but Ben knew: they had a bottle with them. Greer drew on it some. Ben drew on it some. That was how they lost the tracks. If they were thinking clear, they would have seen that the riders had circled around. Back into town. That was how Emerson got shot. And how Ben got beaten down with just a few hard whacks to the skull. But no one else knew that — no one but Ben Leavick and the late Emerson Greer, and the knowledge was becoming harder and harder to keep bottled up inside.
The glass in front of him was just Vin Mariani. Caffeine and some cocaine. He was waiting for it to kick in and wash out his headache.
Em and Ben had been amigos for a long time. They had lived in Grand Lake for about the same length. They both had youngsters about the same age. Caroline, Emerson’s kindly wife, was staying over at Ben’s place ever since the shooting — his own wife Meggy was a consolation while Caroline grieved.
Meggy was an oak. Not only for her bereft friend, but for her own husband though she never knew the whole of it. Ben scowled. A lot of long nights and silent supper tables had gone by. Poor Meggy. And poor Caroline. Losing her husband to such senseless killing. Absolutely senseless. The love of money was like kerosene — the fuel of so much evil. The Good Book was right on that one. What was wrong with this crummy world, Ben wondered, that people murder other people like that? Over coins.
“Two of them turned up dead,” Red Creek told Ben quietly. “Down thereabouts of Cañon City.”
Ben nodded and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He scraped out some sleep crumbs and wiped his hand on his pants. His sense of hygiene was going downhill. Meggy gently tried to help but never said anything about it out loud.
“Can’t catch no decent sleep,” he explained to Red Creek. Red Creek merely stared at him. He had deeply bloodshot eyes, much worse than Ben’s.
All Ben’s private thoughts would stir up every night he blew out the bed lamp. Even after a hard day’s work. Meggy would pass off into sleep quickly — she always did, no matter the day or its happenings. Not Ben. He would lie awake. Even when he was completely worn out, his mind kept working.
Red sat across from Ben, passively. Ben always wondered if the man got his name from a creek somewhere or if it was on account of his eyes being bloodshot all the time. Ben rubbed his own eyes again. He didn’t want to have red eyes like Red Creek. Meggy would have something to say for sure.
Behind them at the bar, Otto was clinking glasses around. There was a card game at the next table over. Several men, including some of Merle’s cowhands, held cigarettes and sipped at shot glasses every now and then.
“Well, about damn time they flub it up,” Ben said grimly.
Red took off his hat and set it on the table. His hat brim had lost its shape many years ago. His hair was thin. It was almost gone around the crown and what was left reached down to his shoulders and looked greasy.
The trail had long since grown stale. This was the first hint the Grand Lake Gang was still out there. From his coat pocket, Ben pulled out a stack of cash money wrapped in brown paper sacking. He slid it across the table. Now he was part of it — part of that senseless world which killed people over money.
“I’ll ride on out there, then,” Red Creek said.
“Ride on out there,” Ben echoed.
Red Creek was a drinker. He picked up his whiskey and raised it up as if making a toast. His red eyes focused on the wall behind the bar. Ben did not have to turn around to see what he was looking at. He knew what Red was looking at. Up behind Otto, next to the big mirror, was the big pickle jar containing the head of Will Wyllis.
Some people said it was rather macabre for a civilized town like Grand Lake to have a man’s head in a jar, on display for all to see. In Ben’s private opinion, he was glad it was there. It kept the memory of what happened alive. Otto’s story became more polished each time he told it to someone, and it seemed every time it got a little shinier, too. Ben didn’t care if the details got all flowered up or what the retellings sounded like on the street. It just meant the legend of Sheriff Emerson Greer stayed alive.
Ben wasn’t going to forget. There was such a thing as justice in his mind. He aimed to get Emerson Greer justice. On one hand, that could mean posses and arrests and courthouses and all the legal loopholes that came with it. Or it could mean sending Red Creek Mincy out to finish it quickly, with certitude. Too much time had passed, in Ben’s estimation, for judges and courthouses to have anything good to go on. Criminals got away with things at the bench after too much time passed. Memories could fog. Witnesses might disappear.
Will Wyllis looked out of his pickle jar. The formaldehyde was getting cloudy. There were some floaters in there. Red Creek finished his whiskey and left the saloon. Otto watched him go and came over to the table.
“What’s the word?” Otto asked Ben.
“Justice.”
Chapter 2
Leadville
It was clear in Julianna’s mind: Casey was sour. Her husband’s face was flat and he wasn’t being conversational. Whatever was going on in his head was not making it out his mouth. He was just flat as could be.
“Casey, you better buck up.”
They were crowded in and Casey hated being crowded in. The buzz of a thousand voices was eating right through his head. It had taken quite a bit of persuasion on Julianna’s part to get him into town for this. Persuasion…meaning arguments. And then pleading. Finally she plugged the guilt angle and that got the horses in their traces.
Leadville was all decked out for the Colorado Midland. It was the first and only wide-gauge track being built in the mountains. It had made it as far as Buena Vista earlier in the year. Now the rails came straight into town.
Grandstands were built just for the day, and obviously the whole town was out to see the train roll in for the first time.
“Don’t these people have claims to work?” Casey complained.
Vendors were out in great numbers. Julianna lost count of how many they passed, although it turned out to be a good thing. She was able to buy Casey’s tolerance in the form of cooked meat on sticks.
“Any excuse for a party — that’s Leadville,” she said lightly. “This town just can’t sit still.�
�
Even though she was acting passé about it, Julianna was actually having fun. Leadville was fun. She liked it. If only Casey could enjoy the occasion. They didn’t make it into town for social events very often. She turned to Casey, who was still sour.
“He’s coming,” Julianna told him in a firm voice. “Buck up.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, buck up and I won’t have to.”
The sun disappeared. Heavy clouds rolled off the big peaks and were sailing right over the city. Casey knew what they were in for. Looking around, he knew most of these people were not ready for any kind of weather besides the summer sunshine. They were ready for a nice day and a reason to cheer. On cue with that thought, the crowd’s chatter suddenly swelled up into a roar.
“Here she comes!” several folks shouted, pointing down the line. They could see the steam engine, just rounding a distant bluff.
“Gonna rain,” Casey predicted.
“Just find a seat,” Julianna said with a sweet smile. “Quit acting poopy.”
The grandstands were pretty full already, but they managed to work their way up and find seats. They had a pretty plain view of the train tracks stretching off to the south. Coal smoke billowed up and seemed to mix with the dark sky. Julianna leaned into Casey as the wind suddenly whipped up. Thunder boomed, metallic and loud. The crowd cheered.
“What are they clapping at? Can’t wait to get stormed on?” Casey asked her, and rolled his eyes. “These cuckoos.”
“They’re just having a good time with it. Do you need another frankfurter? The concession is right down there.”
But neither one of them got up. The wind gusted strongly again and they shivered with it. The two of them leaned in closer, and Casey put his arms around Julianna. She smiled up at him, hoping his mood would improve. She worried though. LG was on board that train. The two of them hadn’t seen each other since last April, the day the B-Cross scattered. Casey had gotten the letter from Til, but that was it. LG himself never wrote. Julianna knew this was going to be hard for her husband. He didn’t talk much about it, and she knew he had mixed feelings.
It was close to twenty minutes of shivering before the inaugural Colorado Midland passenger train from Denver finally eased into Leadville. It blew its steam whistle several times and the crowd responded loudly, waving and yelling. From the windows, people leaned out from the cars to wave and cheer back.
Then the rain came down — heavily.
It came down hard just as the train settled to a stop at the depot. People began looking for whatever cover they could find. The grandstands thinned out quickly. Many people even huddled underneath the grandstand itself for shelter. Casey and Julianna stayed where they were for a little while watching passengers step off the train into the rain. Casey had brought his slicker, of course. He was never caught off guard when it came to the weather. He opened it up and held it over both of them, as cold water sprayed down and splattered off the benches.
“Let’s head on down,” Julianna told him, speaking loudly over the rain.
She held onto Casey’s arm as they worked down the slick stairs. The ground had turned to mud. It was pretty easy to get to the platform now since most of Leadville was bunched up under eaves and awnings, and anywhere else they could find.
“There he is,” Casey said and pointed.
LG had his own slicker on, and he stood tall in the rain — his big hat kept his head dry. When he saw Casey, he grinned his old LG smile. Casey found it hard not to smile back. Casey had almost forgot about that. Wherever LG went, whoever he met, people were drawn in by that good ol’ boy charisma.
“Hey pard!” LG shouted. “Hoo hoo! Can you believe this luck? Caprice of the skies. What a gully washer! Just like old times.”
LG walked right up to Casey and grabbed his hand. In the middle of the handshake, LG locked eyes on Julianna. He lifted his hat just high enough to tip it politely. Rainwater poured onto the ground.
“Now, shoo-ee, what in the world?” LG said. His grin got even wider. “Anymore of these? Or is this one freed up?”
“No, she is not freed up,” Julianna replied just as playfully. “You have got to be LG Pendleton. I’m Julianna Pruitt.”
“Keepin’ company with this fella?” LG asked her, pointing at Casey. “Why, he’s ugly as a mud fence and you’re purty as a cottonwood in spring.”
“Aw, he’s not so bad,” Julianna said with a laugh. She tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “When he smiles, he dappers up.”
“Course I’m just jawing…this pal of mine has been over the trail,” LG told her in earnest. “Greatest fella I ever knew — and everyone that ever rode with him knows it. So I guess I could see why. Makes for a fine pairing.”
LG glanced around at the citizens of Leadville, huddled and hiding from the rain. The grandstands were completely empty now. Many people were in the depot office waiting it out. The rain was still pounding the ground and LG, Julianna and Casey could not see much beyond where they stood. The town itself was hidden in the downpour.
“Quite the frolic,” LG noted.
Chapter 3
Soapy Smith stood motionless in the narrow doorway. He watched the rain pounding down on the platform. He scratched his black beard. It felt like he was standing behind a waterfall. The platform was made of thick pinewood planks and the rain drummed along its topside. It made a beautiful hollow sound.
Soapy liked rain.
When his grandfather took him to the Holiness camp meetings, back when Soapy was just a youngster, there had been a lot of hymn-singing and hand-raising. Sometimes, an evangelist would get up on a tree stump and holler about sin. The thing that stuck with Soapy was how water washed sins away. People got dunked under water and then God did not hold their transgressions against them anymore. Being a man of sin, Soapy liked to think that rain was God’s heavenly water. It was His clemency being poured out from Heaven. So he liked it when it rained. It rained in Denver every afternoon in the summertime. But even with rain every afternoon, Soapy thought it might be smart to move somewhere it rained a lot more frequently, just in case he got strung up or shot someday. The hot fires of damnation might not be such a difficulty if he happened to die on a rainy day.
Soapy Smith seated his fedora nice and tight on his head and stepped out into the elements. The rain shook the brim pretty good, but it was a sturdy design. Rainwater immediately began rolling off, onto his shoulders and back. He was also wearing a long black overcoat. Soapy knew he would be soaked before he took more than a few steps. Big Ed better be out there and he better be quick.
Big Ed Burns was out there. And he was quick. Hustling through the cold rain, Big Ed scurried right up to Soapy.
“Ho there, Soapy,” Big Ed said and pulled out a newspaper from inside his jacket.
Unfolding it partway, he tried to hold the newspaper over Soapy’s head like an umbrella. Big Ed was big, so he didn’t have any trouble with the gesture. But the rain was coming down so hard, the paper immediately sogged through. Before he had escorted Soapy Smith the twenty steps it took to get inside the depot office, the newspaper was pulp.
As soon as they were inside, Soapy Smith pushed Big Ed off.
“Your breath reeks of spirits. It’s repulsive.”
Big Ed blinked his black beady eyes, trying to gauge Soapy Smith’s mood.
“Yeah?” he asked and cupped his hand over his mouth.
It was true Big Ed enjoyed spirits. In fact, he had taken several nips in the AM to start his day. Perhaps his breath — in the close quarters of a makeshift newspaper umbrella — was offensive to Soapy. Big Ed was never quite sure about Denver’s biggest crime boss. Sometimes he could act out quite violently. At other times, even in similar circumstances, he might be peaceful as a dove. He hoped the man was in a peaceful mood.
Big Ed Burns reached out and awkwardly plucked a soggy blob of newspaper off Soapy’s shoulder. The black overcoat was very damp. Bits of pulpy newspaper dotted his
shoulders and had collected on his fedora.
Soapy looked down and noticed all the gooey bits.
“This is my Sunday coat.”
“It’s not Sunday,” Big Ed replied and then took a quick step back in case it was the wrong thing to say. But Soapy seemed fine. He even smiled softly, as if he was remembering something.
“No Ed, it is not. It is not Sunday.”
Uncertainty crept into Big Ed’s mind once again. Better to try and change the topic.
“What do you want me to do about the banker? And his new establishment?” he asked in a hushed fashion. Of course, now Big Ed felt leery about his breath odor, and was not quite sure how to strike a good balance between volume and proximity.
Other train passengers were standing all around them in the building, waiting for the rain to slow down. Big Ed glanced around furtively. Soapy watched him — he found Big Ed’s attempt at discretion mildly amusing. No one was paying attention to them, and Soapy didn’t care if they were. Good fortune was his. He could feel it in the rain.
“We’ll have to spill his blood. There is no forgiveness of sin without the spilling of blood. That’s in Leviticus.”
Big Ed stood up a little straighter, surprised at Soapy’s uninhibited reply. They were in public, after all. There were people two feet away, chatting about the weather!
Ed was a big man. Soapy always thought he looked like an elephant: a big man with small dark eyes — roundish, not from lard but power. The man’s ears were even too big for his lumpy pink head. Soapy smiled again. Ed’s comedic body shape and his violent persuasion were a paradox of sorts. Perhaps that’s what made him one of Soapy’s favorites. Soapy liked paradoxes.
“The boys will want to see you,” Big Ed said a little bolder, since he saw that Soapy was being bold. “And Haw knows you were headin’ to Leadville at some point, he just don’t know the when. I thought we could make it a surprise visit.”