Disappointment flashed over her eyes.
“Susanne Richmond, Susie. She worked for me for a while, still does on some busy nights. But she is usually working the different dance halls and bars,” Miss Katy Lee said. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve met her twice in strange places,” Blair said. “Just seemed a little odd to me.”
“Susie pushes herself hard, trying to save up money to get out of here. A woman working like that, in this business, that’s not healthy.”
“How about you?”
“I’m real picky about who I do personal business with. I have that luxury.”
“Luxury?”
“You trying to offend me again?” Her tone was sharp; her hands went to her hips.
“Sorry, I guess you and I are both doing what we have to do to survive.” Blair stepped toward the door.
“Luxury has a different meaning to some people,” she said.
“So does freedom. When your options are limited, you don’t really have either.”
She sat down and closed her eyes. “Though we lie and tell ourselves we do.”
“Yep.” Blair tipped his hat and paused. “Thank you for your help. It really was a pleasure to meet you.”
Did she blush?
* * *
Jonathan Blair went back to the Buck Snort for dinner. Before he could order, the distinct crack of gunfire sent the saloon patrons to their feet. Blair’s hands instantly gripped the handles of his pistols though he did not draw. The shots came from outside. The saloon emptied as the drinkers went in search of the gunfight. Blair joined them.
The boardwalks on both sides of the dirt street overflowed with spectators. Two men faced each other about fifteen feet apart. One man cradled his bloody hand to his chest, the other man held a pistol.
Blair recognized him instantly—Jeremiah Pruitt, known locally as James Phillips. Blair shook out his hands and arms, then stepped off the boardwalk with guns drawn.
The first time he formally met Jeremiah Pruitt was in New Mexico six years ago. Willy Johnson and Blair had met two months earlier and robbed a couple of stagecoaches—Blair’s test. Johnson wanted to be sure of Blair’s personality. That he had the right disposition, as he put it, to be part of his gang. Blair passed the trial, and Willy introduced him to his band of criminals. Pruitt didn’t say anything at that meeting nor did Blair. Neither did they shake hands. Pruitt played with his gun. He’d stunk of arrogance and evil. Blair despised him immediately. That hatred had only grown.
Now on Gothic’s main street between the lines of shops surrounded by a crowd, Pruitt thumbed his Colt pistol. The killer teased the other man to pick up his old revolver from the dirt.
“Come on, I’ll give you until the count of five before I start aiming. You can reach it.” His tone was sincere, yet belittling.
“Don’t do it,” a man shouted from the boardwalk. “He’ll gun you down.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Pruitt pointed the gun in the direction of the voice. Men scattered. He returned his viciousness back to his victim—a coal miner, still dirty from the day’s dig. “What’s it gonna be?”
Blair ran across the street and worked his way through the crowd along the boardwalk to get about thirty feet behind Pruitt.
“I’m done. Mr. Phillips, I’m done,” the miner said, waving his unhurt hand. “Done.”
Pruitt picked up the revolver lying in the street, dusted it off and placed it in the miner’s holster. He waved at the crowd, then slugged the man in the stomach. As he went down, Pruitt drove his knee into the man’s nose, breaking it. Four quick punches to the coal-covered face put him on the ground.
“Next person who says I’m cheating him at the coal scales is going to suffer worse than this.” Pruitt stood over the unconscious man and pointed at the crowd. “If you have a problem, go see Harry Boone. Have Boss Boone check the scales. He’ll tell you it’s fair.”
No one said anything.
Blair didn’t give a shit about the belittled man in the dirt. He locked the hammers back on both Remingtons, keeping the guns low, pointed down. His breathing quickened. His eyes focused.
“Don’t move,” a quiet voice said from behind him.
The cold touch of metal tingled Blair’s neck. The gun barrel moved down to his back, behind his heart.
“Before you think you can relieve me of my weapon and still succeed in your quest, he’ll be ready for you.”
Blair didn’t want to admit it, but the stranger was right. If he went for the man holding a gun to his back, he wouldn’t be able to get him and Pruitt. Pruitt would run or come shooting. Blair was stuck. At first he thought Worthington, the gentleman with eyeglasses, held the pistol to his back—and that completely pissed him off. He was ready to beat him, because Worthington wouldn’t pull the trigger. But the voice was different.
“Who the hell are you?” Blair whispered with a clenched jaw. From the edge of his vision he could see the man wore a long, dark coat and well-kept boots.
“Someone who watches over you.”
“What?”
The man dug the gun barrel in between Blair’s ribs until he arched his back in pain. Then the pressure was gone.
Blair hesitated for a second, then spun around. He was in the middle of a crowd with no one to shoot. The mass of spectators had absorbed the anonymous gunman.
Pruitt licked his thumbs, then smoothed his eyebrows. Four men with guns strapped to their thighs joined him. Five against one. Not tonight. Pruitt held his head high as they strolled back into a saloon.
Chapter Four:
After Dark
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Worthington crossed the street calling to Blair. “More people could have been injured.”
“Yeah.” Blair searched the crowd for eyes, someone watching him.
Worthington stopped a coal miner. “Is that the checkweighman from the Jollytime?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the miner said.
“Is he cheating the men? Is the mine boss part of it?” Worthington asked. “People talking.”
“I ain’t saying nothin’.”
“That’s the way he works,” Blair said. “Cheating, manipulation, intimidation, and killing.”
“It might be best if you watch what you say about that man,” Worthington said. “People say he’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“He’s already tried to kill me. Twice.”
Worthington’s eyes grew to the size of his spectacles. “Let’s talk,” he said. “In private, please.”
Blair pointed to the Buck Snort. They selected an empty table in the back corner. Each of them picked chairs against the back wall, allowing a complete view of the room.
Blair rubbed his knuckles. His fight at the Maroon Saloon was a waste of time. But then again, Miss Katy Lee might make a good ally. And her voice reminded him of Memphis, of home. Her eyes. He could stare into those eyes like he could the ever-changing Mississippi River.
“Again, my name is Frederick Worthington.”
“I got that from before. What do you want?”
“Mr. Blair, what do you know about the deaths?”
“Same as everyone else.”
“What do you know about the superintendent, the man from last night at the saloon? The one who scared you.”
Blair stared at the man. Years ago he would have beat someone for saying something like that. But Worthington might be able to help him understand more about the superintendent. Why did that man send fear through his body? And why was that fear familiar?
“Not much. What do you know?”
“He is Daniel Stone. Do you recognize the name?”
No memories surfaced. Blair shook his head.
“He oversees the local mining shares for the Colorado Mine and Exploration Company. It owns a majority of the mining claims in this part of Gunnison County, including the Jollytime, the one that exploded in the spring. What do you know about that, Mr. Blair?”
“Nothing.”
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“Then you are not here in Gothic because of these deaths?”
Blair shook his head again.
Worthington took off his glasses and rubbed his face as he put his head down. “I believe they are all connected. And… I thought you were too.”
“I’m not.”
“Then may I ask, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for someone.”
“A friend? A relative?”
“No.”
Worthington glanced at Blair’s gun belt. “I don’t see a badge. Bounty hunter?”
Blair nodded. The term had grown ugly to him. He spent his life, now, in search of other men and some cash to keep away from the hangman.
“Mr. Blair, was that the man of your quest? The man with the guns? The checkweighman, Mr. Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“Why him?”
“Justice.”
Worthington didn’t say or ask any questions for several minutes. Jerry came by and took their order—steak and potatoes.
“Why did you think I was involved?” Blair broke the silence.
“Because of how you reacted last night to Mr. Stone. Can you tell me about that?”
Blair didn’t know what he should or shouldn’t say. Trust wasn’t something that came easy for him. Peace and comfort surrounded Worthington; could that be enough? “He sparked a bad feeling, more of a memory. Like a forgotten emotion or experience.” Blair peered out the window hiding his eyes from Worthington. Fear and confusion had paralyzed him yesterday. Had Pruitt or the stranger been near, he would be dead.
“Your ordeal must have been awful. Your face told a horrible story.”
The two men ate in silence as the sun fell below the mountain peaks. The cool evening air drifted through Gothic, helping to relieve Blair’s anger. He didn’t tell Worthington about the mysterious gunman. Someone in town knew too much, and that was dangerous.
Why did he help Pruitt? Was the stranger one of Pruitt’s men? Blair needed to be careful next time he moved in on Pruitt—unless he could find him alone.
“Mr. Blair, will you go for a short walk with me? I want to show you something. I also would like to introduce you a new friend of mine.”
Blair didn’t want to go. The unknown gunman unsettled his nerves. He wasn’t scared, just wanted to keep safe. Not that a dimly lit saloon offered much sanctuary. “I’d rather ask you a few questions about all this.”
“If you come with me, I can show you how the deaths are related to the superintendent.”
That was enough of a carrot for Blair to tag along.
Worthington led them to the hotel. The two-story building was one of the newest structures in town. A covered seating area adorned the front with enough space for the boardwalk. The interior had little furnishing. Four chairs waited for the warmth of the evening fireplace. When he had checked in, the owner assured him new furniture and fixers were on order. The registration counter was the one piece of fine craftsmanship in the room.
“Have you acquired the items?” Worthington asked the man behind the counter.
“Here you go, Professor.” The clerk handed Worthington two shovels and a lantern.
“Professor?” Blair said.
Worthington nodded. “I teach college in Boston, religion and philosophy.” The professor held up the shovels. “We’ll need these when we get there.”
Blair cocked an eyebrow. “Get where?”
Worthington didn’t answer, but thanked the clerk and hurried out the door. Blair followed. The professor checked for listeners then whispered, “The cemetery.” Worthington jumped off the boardwalk and jogged across the street. “Come on, it will be dark soon.”
“Is that a good thing or bad thing?”
* * *
On the southeast end of town, the cemetery sprawled between aspens and pines. A split-rail fence ran the length of the rectangular boundary. The grave markers were simple stones with hand-carved letters. Foot-tall daisies covered many of the graves.
A man in his early-thirties waited at the entrance. He had reddish-blond hair and was clean shaven. His new black suit, with a distinct white collar, hung loose on his bone-thin frame. The pastor must have spent more days in a book than a field or factory.
“Pastor Jones, thank you for meeting us here.” The professor shook his hand.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Worthington,” the pastor said.
“Pastor? Professor? Cemetery? This is getting strange,” Blair said.
“Pastor Anthony Jones, this is Mr. Jonathan Blair. Blair shook his hand. The weak-fish grip annoyed him. “What are we doing here?”
“You see these?” Worthington pointed at several graves with fresh mounds of dirt. “These are all recent deaths, since May. I’ve exhumed most of them, and they’re all the same. Head cut off and heart staked or cut out.”
He moved to the freshest mound of dirt. A small bouquet of wild flowers rested on top. “This is Steven Weinberg’s. I want to view his remains.”
“Why?”
“To see if anyone has disturbed the body.”
“No need to dig,” Blair said. “Four men butchered him right in front of us at his shack.”
Pastor Jones said, “So they are now taking action before the body gets cold. Those men are from Hungary—Péter and János Kovách, their uncle András Kovách, and a family friend, Sándor Varga.”
“I’ve interviewed the uncle, András.” The professor lit a match.
“What’s with this interviewing?” Blair asked. His patience waned, but he kept his composure in hopes of getting answers.
“That is part of my research.” He lifted the glass off the lantern enough to slip a match inside and light the wick. “I am collecting data.”
“And he’s your laboratory assistant?” Blair pointed at the pastor.
“We are exhuming the other bodies. Pastor Jones is here to make sure the town’s people don’t get too upset. He’ll say a few words over each grave to make the reburial official.”
Blair kicked at Weinberg’s grave. “What’s all this stuff on the grave?”
“It’s rice.” The professor bent over and grabbed a handful of gravel and rice. He held it out to Blair, palm up. “One of the many legends about vampires is to distract them by making them count. Have you ever tried to count a pound of rice? It takes time.”
“Vampires.” Blair shook his head. “You believe in vampires?” The man had to be crazy to think vampires killed these people.
“Not exactly.”
“Then why are we here digging up bodies?”
“To uncover signs of vampires.”
Blair threw down his shovel. “That’s it, Professor. It is time you told me what the hell is going on here. And how this is connected to Daniel Stone.”
“That is exactly what is going on here. Hell has come to Gothic,” Worthington said.
Pastor Jones rolled his eyes.
The professor moved to a group of graves dug close together on the other side of the expanding cemetery. He jabbed the nose of the shovel into the rocky soil. “Dig that one, and I’ll explain.”
Blair didn’t move. What had he gotten himself into tonight? Was the professor telling lies to get him to help?
“Please,” the professor asked.
Blair picked up his tool and shoved it in the ground with the force of his boot.
“These graves will be shallow.” Worthington stood in the middle of the dirt mounds with his palms down gingerly patting the air. “They did a quick job on these.”
Blair tossed a scoopful of dirt. “These from the mine explosion?”
“All fifty-nine of them,” the professor said. “A miner told me they had to shovel three feet of fresh snow off the ground to bury these men. They brought the bodies down here in a sleigh. A spring snowstorm hit the day it happened. The company declared that a miner with an open-flamed lantern went into a new tunnel that seeped gas. The flame ignited the gas causing the explosion.”
“Nothing uncommon in coal mining,” Blair said.
The professor continued. “One of the men they found in the rubble was Hungarian, a relative of the head hunters. His only intelligible word before he died was vampire.”
“Are you saying a vampire blew up the mine?” Jones asked.
“No, not at all,” Worthington said. “But it might explain why someone went into an unsafe tunnel. Maybe he tried to hide or escape. No one alive knows what happened down in the darkness. Another victim with his throat torn open was discovered the day the Jollytime reopened last week. He was in the main tunnel before it branched off.”
“What do you mean ‘another’?” Pastor Jones asked.
“They found one the day before the mine blew up,” Worthington said. “They found two other bodies about a month ago. After the explosion, the Hungarian miners refused to work. Their stories of vampires spread fear throughout Gothic. Miners started carrying guns. Superintendent Stone forced the men to work. Almost all the miners owed money to the company store. He created his own slave labor by letting them sign IOUs. He had several miners arrested, to show he wasn’t playing games.”
Blair stopped digging. “That’s Stone’s connection?”
“There’s more. But I can’t prove it yet.”
“Yet?” Blair blurted out.
“Pastor Bolton was murdered two months ago,” Jones said.
“I heard that was a robbery.” Blair wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Pastor Bolton, Thomas, was a friend of mine.” Worthington sighed. “He is the reason I’m here. Thomas sent me a letter detailing the earlier deaths and his thoughts on Gothic. He was killed three days after he sent the letter. As soon as my obligations were put in order for the summer, I made my way here.”
Blair pointed to Jones. “You’re Bolton’s replacement.”
The pastor nodded.
Worthington gestured toward Jones. “I contacted him as soon as I arrived.”
“Do you hold the same thoughts about these deaths as the professor?” Blair asked the pastor.
The pastor shook his head. “Though I do think something strange is going on here.”
“That’s a little non-committal,” Blair said. He struck wood with his shovel, halting the conversation. He continued to dig until the edges of the plank-wood coffin appeared. The professor maneuvered to help pry off the top. But the lid slid over with ease.
The Color of Gothic Page 5