“May I send some telegrams to my friends in Denver?”
He frowned slightly. “We’ll only be there long enough to transfer between stations,” he warned. “No time for a visit.”
Did he think she was a fool? Of course she knew they’d move through Denver as quickly as possible. Then she realized he saw her as little more than baggage. Cloaking her fury, she smiled at him innocently. “Yes, I know, but I’d like to drop them a line if I may. Perhaps I can visit them when I return.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. She did need to tell them of her changed plans.
An expression of startled comprehension, followed by embarrassment, washed over Morgan’s face. “Of course.” He pushed a telegraph pad over to her. “Riley will send your cables as soon as you draft them.”
“Thank you,” Jessamyn said sweetly. Excellent; Morgan was about to receive quite a surprise in Denver.
Chapter Ten
Trinidad, Colorado, nightfall
Lucas Grainger rode down the steep, rocky toll road through Raton Pass, glad for just enough daylight to safely see the big Murphy wagons with their hitches of twenty mules each to the depot. One more round-trip to Santa Fe for a Donovan & Sons wagon train, with no losses of men, mules, equipment, or supplies—and a large profit made for William Donovan’s pocketbook. It wasn’t enough to repay his debt to the man, but surely one day, he’d have the chance to do so.
Tyrell, one of Donovan’s excellent California-bred horses, snorted at a particularly large rock as it rolled past. Lucas chuckled, his voice hoarsened by the past month’s hard traveling, and patted Tyrell’s neck. “Easy, boy, easy. There’s a bath waiting for you at the depot, and fresh hay to roll in afterward. And alfalfa,” he added, drawing the last syllable out.
Tyrell’s ears twitched as he stepped out eagerly for the town ahead. Lucas shook his head and hid a smile. At least the horse found Trinidad’s mud-brick village entrancing. Men usually passed through it as quickly as possible on their way to Santa Fe. A year ago, he’d been working in Rio Piedras as a penance for not preventing Ambrosia’s death, but life here came very close to the same misery.
The familiar hubbub, with its almost military complexity and order, quickly gathered him up when he reached the depot. Goods came here from St. Louis, and parts east, over the Santa Fe Trail’s Mountain Branch or the railroad and were stored here until they could be shipped west on wagon trains. Donovan & Sons was one of the great Western freighting houses, specializing in the delivery of high-profit freight to high-risk areas. Even when the Denver & Rio Grande or another railroad reached Santa Fe, Donovan & Sons would still be very busy carrying freight to places too difficult to lay track to. The Trinidad depot reflected the firm’s prominence, with its large paddocks, thick walls, and high watchtowers.
Quigley, the foreman, was standing at the office door as he watched the mule train come in. “Grainger? See me as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucas handed Tyrell’s reins to a stableman with a quick nod of thanks. Donovan & Sons was big enough, and smart enough, to have extra hands at their depots just to look after the horses and mules, so the men who rode the trails could find extra rest. “Any news?” he asked casually.
“Nope, just some more fights. Railroaders are fighting each other and us.”
Lucas chuckled, turning toward the door. “Same old story.”
“Pretty much. And there’s a new barsweep in town. An old half-breed named Little, who used to be an Army scout. He came in just after you left for Santa Fe and has been working at the Yellow Rose ever since. But he can’t hold his liquor and the railroaders have been using him as a punching bag.”
Grainger’s hands hovered like claws above his guns. Little, here? Hell and damnation, he needed to get him out of that viper pit immediately. He owed his life a dozen times over to the man.
If only he didn’t have to talk to Quigley first.
He took the steps up to the office two at a time, slapping the dust off his hat against his trousers before he entered. “Good evening, sir.” He waited politely, never quite able to shake the old military mannerisms.
“Trip go well?” Quigley asked.
“Perfectly, sir. We made a solid profit.” His father would not have been impressed by the amount but he was, especially its proportion to the cost. It was also a damn good feeling to make money when there could be no suspicion that his father or grandfather had arranged for him to succeed.
“Good.” Quigley handed him a stack of letters and telegrams, his experienced eyes assessing every detail of Lucas’s condition. “You’ve become very popular. The letters arrived on the last two trains from Denver. The telegrams came last night and today.”
Lucas shuffled the letters, recognizing his mother’s handwriting (probably a recitation of dinner parties and grandchildren, with a demand for him to immediately provide her some of each), his sister’s flourishes with a postmark from Prussia (she must be touring the great spas of Central Europe again with that Austrian prince), and an example of very expensive stationery. A more careful scrutiny revealed it to be an invitation to a match race in France, between two very famous stallions. His brother’s doing, no doubt; he had the subtlety to offer the most attractive bribes.
Nothing from Father, of course; that last fight had been far too vicious on both sides. It would be a few more years, judging by previous battles, before either of them would chance a meeting on neutral territory.
“I’d start with the telegrams,” Quigley commented quietly. “One of them is from Donovan himself, in Kansas City. The others are from Anderson, in Denver.”
Inside, Lucas capered with joy. Almost two years of hard work since he’d resigned from the cavalry and he’d finally come to Donovan’s personal attention.
He kept his expression composed, as his tutors had encouraged, while he pulled out the slips with their neatly printed gibberish. “Thank you, sir.”
“Have you ever used the company cipher before?”
“No, sir.” If it was important enough to merit a cipher, it might be enough to repay his debt to Donovan. He repressed his shout of triumph.
“You’d best use my office.” Quigley seated Lucas in the private office and quickly instructed him on how to use the cipher, based on extracting words from a particular edition of Shakespeare’s plays according to the location given in the telegram.
Quigley returned with a plate heaped high with beef and beans, plus a steaming mug of coffee. Lucas thanked him absently, already halfway through deciphering Donovan’s telegram. The sooner he got through these, the sooner he could get over to the Yellow Rose and rescue Little—even though Little would certainly put up a good fight. The combination of Little and alcohol was always bad news.
Quigley snorted. “Don’t thank me until you’ve read all of ’em. Hell, yes, I got one, too,” he answered the unspoken question. “Now get that food down you, while you’ve still got time. We can talk later.” He shut the door behind him with what wasn’t quite a thud.
Thirty minutes later, Lucas leaned back against the wall and nursed a fresh mug of coffee as he faced Quigley. “Morgan Evans is racing Charlie Jones into the San Juans,” he summarized, his mind racing to absorb Donovan’s agenda and Evans’s plans. “Donovan wants a native guide for Evans but Anderson’s having trouble finding one.”
The other man rested his boots on the stack of paper, most apparently copies of Anderson’s telegrams. Outside, the sun had set and the depot was starting to settle into nighttime lassitude. “Can’t blame Anderson. It’s peak season for traveling, so most of the good men are busy right now.”
“Donovan thinks I might be able to find a guide, supposedly because I’m closer here in Trinidad to the terrain to be covered. He orders me to take said guide to join Evans at Plaza de los Leones and be personally ready to join the expedition.”
Lucas rubbed Donovan’s telegram between his fingers, wondering how far he dared stretch his boss’s legendary tolerance for men’s
foibles, as long as they did their job well. Then he put it down and stood up. “Best go fetch that native guide. May I borrow a half dozen of the boys to help?”
“Certainly. Where do you expect to find him?” Curiosity shone openly on Quigley’s face for the first time.
“The Yellow Rose.” Lucas double-checked his knives, in preparation for entering that saloon. They might ask for his guns but they’d never take the blades.
“What? The lowest dive in town—and a railroad haunt, to boot? You’ll be lucky to escape with your skin intact! Who do you hope to find there?”
All business now, Lucas slid his dirk back into its scabbard and met Quigley’s eyes. “John Little.”
“The newest town drunk?” Quigley was usually impossible to fluster, but now his mouth was hanging open.
“Ute Indian, former Army scout, and excellent fighter,” Lucas corrected. And falling-down drunk, whenever he touched whiskey. “Who can walk backward through the San Juan Mountains.”
Quigley shook his head. “Your funeral, my friend. Let’s visit the Yellow Rose.”
The Yellow Rose Saloon was an enterprise that had been thrown up in a few days to attract railroad crews when tracks first approached Trinidad. Whiskey had headlined the list of its attractions then, as it did now. Everything else came second: other alcoholic spirits, cards, women, comfort. Proving that it had accurately pegged its customers, the railroad crews flooded in, even though every other workingman in this roughest of Colorado frontier towns stayed away. It was a hellhole of vice, to be approached with caution, where a man walking alone counted himself lucky to leave losing only his cash and some skin, not his life.
Lucas entered the Yellow Rose, followed by a half dozen Donovan & Sons teamsters. The roaring noise of men shouting for more whiskey poured out of the place, along with the stench of alcohol, unwashed inhabitants, blood, and other foulness.
The tumult covered the door’s slam against the rough mud-brick wall but it stilled when the assembly noted the new arrivals. The bar was the squalid room’s one claim to glory and its original carved woods and mirrors had somehow survived its clientele. Reflected in a series of fractured images in a corner mirror, Lucas could see four men hauling another, still struggling, out the side door. Excellent, they’d arrived early enough in the evening that Little hadn’t yet become drunk and been beaten unconscious.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lucas greeted the assembly, his voice as falsely amiable as if he faced one of his mother’s matchmaking friends. “Just here for some friendly conversation.”
He headed toward Little, the other teamsters following. Men muttered and stood aside sullenly, giving every sign of hyenas aching to snatch a lion’s kill. A few girls, with better clothes than the average to protect, headed for the stairs’ safety.
Lucas’s stomach tried to heave at the smell coming off Little when he came close enough to see his old friend. What he could see of his clothes seemed fit only for swabbing out a pigsty. But he’d been a great scout and a good friend, when he was sober. A muscle ticked in Lucas’s jaw.
“Sir, may I offer you a drink?” Wary and cold, Lucas touched one of the thugs frog-marching Little on the shoulder. With a roar of surprise, the brute dropped his share of the wildly kicking man and threw a punch at Lucas. Lucas ducked easily and responded to the punch in kind. Soon the other thugs were compelled to assist their fellow, the teamsters were fighting any railroad man who came near, and Lucas and Little were brawling side by side, once again, against all comers in a wild melee of fists, kicks, and knives. Drunk or not, five decades old or not, Little was still a damn good fighter.
Lucas laughed in sheer enjoyment of a good fight. “Care to work for Donovan & Sons, John Little?” he shouted, in between blocking a knife fight’s slices and parries.
Little stared at him, a man’s head twisted under his arm. He’d gained the appelation because his size was anything but small, a factor he was currently using to his advantage. “You joking?”
“No. Looking for a guide.” Lucas twisted his opponent’s wrist and disarmed him.
“Certainly I will work for Donovan,” Little agreed and knocked out his opponent with a swift jab.
“Donovan!” Lucas roared, grinning.
“Donovan, Donovan!” the other teamsters in the Yellow Rose shouted and a dozen more answered from outside. They charged inside behind Quigley in a flying wedge and smashed through the brawl to their fellows. By the time the sheriff cautiously arrived, the fight had spilled into the street. By midnight, Lucas had personally—much to Quigley’s surprise—paid the fines and the teamsters were back at the Donovan & Sons depot.
Western Kansas
Jessamyn hugged her arms around herself, leaning against a cabinet for balance, as she stared out the window at the dark landscape, lit only by the crescent moon’s faint glow. Too dark to ride over rough territory, too dark to see landmarks she’d first watched with Cyrus. More than dark enough to worry about Charlie’s tricks once they reached the Colorado Territory, and that unpleasant wife of his.
But the dining room around her was a well-lit oasis of civilization. The clerestory windows created a breeze but it was still very warm inside. She was sweating in her very elegant summer dinner dress, while Morgan was in his shirtsleeves.
A few minutes earlier, Abraham had cleared away the remains of an excellent dinner, then produced a small selection of desserts and wines, before bowing himself out.
“What arrangements did you make in Denver?” Morgan asked. He was seated at the dining table, carefully cutting into a queen of puddings, one of her favorite desserts, as if racing across North America were an everyday occurrence for him. She loved the combination of rich custard, topped by a thin jelly—preferably wine jelly—and finished off with a golden meringue.
She shrugged and turned to face him. “Very simple ones, I’m afraid. I hadn’t planned on two maps, just on the fact that I’m the only descendant of Uncle Edgar’s eldest sibling to bring me the map and the gold.” She wandered around the room, straightening bric-a-brac and mourning for how naive she’d been. “So I wrote some of my old Army friends, who are stationed in the Colorado Territory. They arranged for horses and a few trustworthy escorts. Not a large enough party, I’m afraid, to bring out the gold.”
“There’s no buried treasure, Jessamyn, no lost gold.” Morgan balanced the pudding’s quivering mass on the knife’s broad blade then flipped it neatly onto a plate. He offered it to her.
“Morgan!”
His eyes met hers, glinting and implacable in the lamplight, but he didn’t say anything.
She reluctantly accepted the pudding and tried to think of an alternate argument. “Surely there must be gold or Charlie wouldn’t be working so hard to obtain it,” she observed softly as she settled into her chair. “He’s not the man to waste his time on false hopes. He probably heard more of Uncle Edgar’s stories because he’s had more contact than I’ve had.”
Morgan stopped, one eyebrow elevated, before he started to cut himself a serving. “True. Charlie has always known exactly where to find money. Very well, I’ll grant you that the gold might exist. Is that better?”
She’d prefer certainty or enthusiasm from him but she’d accept what he’d give. “Yes, thank you.”
She paused, glaring at the observation car—and Charlie’s private car beyond. “I have to regain Somerset Hall.”
“Why now? You were calmer during the War about losing it.”
“Because Charlie Jones wants to buy it. He’s going to take a few of the best stallions and mares out before fever season, then send the rest to the knackers to be slaughtered. Socrates, Aristotle, and Cassiopeia have volunteered to guard the horses until I return, risking their lives if there’s another cholera or yellow jack epidemic.” Her voice broke.
Morgan’s head snapped up and he stared at her. “Christ on a crutch! He wants to steal the gold of Somerset Hall, the legendary horses!”
He slammed his fist to t
he side, as if hurling a knife. “Son of a bitch. Please excuse my language.”
His vulgarity was a minor irritant beside the risk to her friends. “I’ve heard worse.”
“How can you hope to stop him?”
“I and my children have right of first refusal, according to the contract Father negotiated. Ortiz’s treasure is my only hope of stopping Charlie.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “There’s no treasure, Jessamyn.”
She searched his eyes and believed him. Morgan was speaking the truth as he knew it, not trying to divert her so he could steal Ortiz’s gold.
Her mouth firmed. She would not permit that to be true. “There has to be! Morgan, do you remember when your mother died of yellow jack? Do you remember her screaming as the fever mounted until they finally poured enough laudanum into her to silence her?”
He was very white. “Jessamyn…”
She hated bringing it up but she’d use any weapon she needed. “Or how fast your little brothers died? That’s what Socrates and Aristotle and Cassiopeia are risking, just to guard the horses. And what if fever season is bad and people panic and run? Then they’ll steal any horses they could find, using guns to do so, and Aristotle and Socrates will fight. I have to find the gold to save them, Morgan!”
He slapped the table, jostling the glassware more than the train had. “Jessamyn, dammit, you are the most stubborn woman I have ever met.”
She half-rose in her chair, glaring back at him. “I will do whatever is necessary to rescue my friends. So will you or will you not take me on the route the map shows? If not, then I’ll leave this train in Denver and look for someone else to escort me.”
His nostrils flared, above grooves cut deep beside his tight-held mouth. His eyes were chips of ice. “You will risk your life with every step on that trail. You will have to obey every order I give, before you think about it. Can you do that? Immediate, unquestioning obedience—to me?”
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