by Cameron Judd
He followed Lundy down a dusty road and past a small graveyard lined with row upon row of fresh earthen mounds. Tombstones, or in many cases tomb boards, sat at cocked angles at the heads of them. A few graves were surrounded by small white fences, but these did little to cheer the burial ground. What little sunlight pierced through the clouds was meager illumination among the trees around the graveyard. The place gave Gunnison a chill, particularly when he considered that not one occupant of this cemetery had come to Leadville expecting any fate but wealth and good times for the rest of a long and happy life.
Lundy paused at the graveyard for a moment. “My papa’s grave is there,” he said, pointing. “I come here sometimes to talk to him.”
They went on. Lundy tripped along at a steady rate, occasionally looking around and over his shoulder as if to make sure they weren’t being watched or followed. Maybe he was leading an overly gullible journalist on a wild-goose chase, but he obviously had a specific destination.
“How far?” Gunnison asked.
“Few more minutes,” he replied. “But I’m warning you, he smells foul as Judas’s sin and looks worse.”
“Hist!” Lundy said suddenly, stopping. He cocked his ear and listened to the air. Finally he shook his head. “Thought I heard something. Guess I didn’t.”
The country became more desolate. Here and there, isolated mining shacks looked down from hillsides or the heads of gulches, perched unnaturally where no man would expect to find them. Many of the forests had been stripped for firewood or building materials. There were enough stumps here to host every politician east of the Mississippi.
Behind them nothing of Leadville was visible but a smelter chimney and a few rooftops. One big ore wagon was rolling along just within sight, two men on the seat. Gunnison could not tell if they had seen him and Lundy and did not mention them.
Shortly afterward, Lundy stopped. “There’s where we’ll find him.”
He was pointing to a wooden structure built so naturally against the hillside that Gunnison had not even noticed it. At first Gunnison took it for a cabin, then saw that it sheltered a mine entrance. But there was no evidence of recent activity hereabouts; perhaps this mine had shown promise early on but gave out. Obviously it was abandoned now.
“Whose is this?” Gunnison asked.
“Squire Deverell grubstaked it. Never came to nothing.”
A putrid smell reached Gunnison’s nose. Not overpowering, not even all that noticeable…but it was the unmistakable smell of death. Suddenly the sky was more gray, the land more barren, the weathered mine entrance more foreboding.
“Well, we going in?” Lundy asked. His dirty little face looked strangely impish.
“Lundy, you swear this isn’t a joke?”
“Swear on my papa’s grave.”
Lundy handed him a box of matches and a candle stub, and they walked toward the door.
Sure wish Kenton were here, Gunnison thought. Bet this wouldn’t make him nervous a bit. Bet he’d march right in, find out it’s just a dead mongrel, and have a good laugh at his own expense. Swallowing, he pulled at the door. It popped off its only remaining hinge and fell to the side. Man and boy stepped inside. The smell of death was much stronger. They lit their candles.
“Where is the shaft?” Gunnison asked.
“Yonder. He’s at the bottom.”
“How deep?”
“Not very. They gave up on this hole early on. I’d say he’s maybe twenty-five feet down.”
Holding up his candle, Gunnison made out the shaft opening a few yards back into the hillside against which the entrance shelter was built. A wooden railing had been built for safety around the hole, and into the hole extended a worn rope hanging from a winch above and tucked under a closed trapdoor atop the shaft. Gunnison opened the trapdoor and moved the rope; it swung freely, the ore bucket obviously having been removed for use elsewhere.
The death stench was indeed rising from the shaft and had grown stronger the moment he lifted the trapdoor. The flame of the candle he held began to dance a bit as a fit of trembling came over him. It wouldn’t have taken much to make him leave, but an image of Kenton’s scowling face came to mind. Kenton wouldn’t turn away from something like this, so neither would he. Resolutely, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it across his nose and mouth in an attempt to cut the stench. “How do we get down?” Gunnison asked through the masking cloth.
Lundy lowered his candle, and by its light Gunnison saw that rungs had been built down one side of the shaft.
Suddenly Lundy looked alarmed. “Listen!” he whispered.
Gunnison heard nothing but the wind. “What did you hear?”
Lundy shook his head as before. “Nothing, I guess. I’m just nervous. This could be dangerous if we were to be caught by the wrong people, you know.”
He was right, and that didn’t make Gunnison feel any better. The ore wagon he had seen came to mind, and he almost mentioned it but then did not, reminding himself that this probably was merely Lundy’s fantasy and whatever was making the smell was likely as not a dead dog—though a big one, judging from the stench it generated.
He steeled his nerve. “Well, I’m going down.” The first rung creaked under his weight; his candle flame flickered and threatened to go out “Wish we had lanterns,” he said. He went down several more rungs until Lundy’s face was small and far above, framed in the dim square of the shaft’s top frame.
The smell was becoming stifling. He wrinkled his nose and tried to shut out the stench as he descended clumsily, having to hold on to the candle and the rungs as well. The dangling rope brushed him as he went down.
Something moved beside him. He thought at first it was a a rat perched on an unseen ledge or peering out of a hole. In fact it was simply a piece of cloth hung on a big nail sticking out from the shaft framing. One edge of it was burned.
Lundy saw that Gunnison had stopped. “What did you find?”
“Piece of a shirt or something. Burnt.”
“Must have tore off the body when they dropped it down.”
“Why would it be burnt?”
“Because Briggs Garrett burns those he kills. Ain’t you heard the stories?”
Gunnison stopped, not sure now he would continue. The smell was so terrible, he wasn’t sure he could breathe at the bottom in any case. His stomach was beginning to lurch. “You’re telling me the corpse is burnt?” he asked a little shakily.
Lundy didn’t answer; in fact, Lundy suddenly was gone. A moment later came his scream, then the sound of scuffling, a man’s voice, another scream from Lundy. The trapdoor atop the shaft closed, shutting out all the meager light from above and creating a sudden downdraft of air that blew Gunnison’s candle dead.
Gunnison was in pitch blackness, a thick death stench rising from below, some sort of violence going on above. Panic threatened to rise within, but he stifled it. Forcing himself to become calm, he dug matches from his pocket and relit the candle stub. Then he began to climb.
More scuffling above, then silence.
“Lundy!” Gunnison yelled.
No answer. He was nearer the trapdoor now.
“Lundy?” His call was softer this time. He had reached the top of the shaft. Pausing for a moment, he gathered his resolve and pushed the trapdoor open.
The toe of a boot caught him on the side of the head, jarring him loose from the ladder and sending him down. The trapdoor closed again, he fell for what seemed half an eternity squeezed into a quarter of a second, then by pure luck his hands caught the knotted end of the rope, slowing his fall at the last possible instant. But he continued to fall, and the thing he struck at bottom was stiff and reeking, all the more horrible for being unseen. He heard a yell go echoing up the shaft and realized it was his own.
Stunned but not unconscious, Gunnison scrambled up off the foul thing that he would later realize had probably saved him from death or severe injury against the hard rock and dirt below it. He dug again in hi
s pocket for his matches, lit one—and let out another shout when he saw what lay on the floor at his feet.
Gunnison had expected ugliness, but this burned eyeless corpse, a cut rope tailing from its rat-chewed neck, was foul beyond description. Panicked, he turned and bolted out of pure instinct into the darkness, promptly pounded his head hard against the base of the shaft ladder, and collapsed to the floor, senseless.
Chapter 11
Brady Kenton scratched a day’s worth of whiskers and looked up to study the gaudy sign swinging above a nearby saloon. Or so he appeared to be doing, for in fact he was taking a backward glance. His suspicion was confirmed—they were still following him. Had been since he had left a saloon farther up the street where he had conducted another series of unproductive inquiries aimed at finding what truth might lie behind the Garrett rumors.
Casually he began to whistle, and slipped his right hand into his pocket. In the process he brought it close to the grip of his pistol. The street was teeming, as usual, and Kenton hoped he could lose himself in the crowd.
His trained eye had already sized up his two followers. Both were in their twenties, the first a lean man who wore ragged town clothing. He looked like a dry-goods clerk gone to seed. His hair was combed straight back and slick with either a hair tonic or its own oil. The other, dressed in the ragged style of a cowboy, was taller and big around the gut. Both wore their jackets in a way that indicated they had weapons hidden from the watchful Leadville police force.
Kenton suspected that he knew why he was being followed. His inquiries about Garrett had been subtle and covert. He had not even revealed his purposes to his own partner and had deliberately deserted him twice now to allow for private investigation. But obviously the fact had reached the streets that he was in town looking into the Garrett rumors. Given Garrett’s infamy, it was no surprise that two gunmen like these would be interested in anyone who they believed could lead them to a prize so legendary. Kenton wished, for the first time ever, that the Illustrated American had not chosen to run a portrait of him in every edition. He was too easily recognized now by such as the two behind him. The irony was, he couldn’t guide them to Garrett if he wanted to. So far, his investigation had revealed nothing substantial; he did not even know if Garrett was alive.
They were closer now. That was not good. Kenton had hoped that their intention had been simply to follow him on the possibility that he would guide them to Garrett, Now he doubted that. Probably they hoped to get him into some hidden place and threaten or beat the information out of him. The thought made his blood hot. He was growing weary of these two.
Quickly he made a right turn, then trotted down half a block and right into an alley. At the end of it stood a woodshed, with the door ajar. In a handful of seconds Kenton was inside.
He saw them pass at the far end of the alley—silhouettes against the background of a well-lit dance hall among the buildings on the other side of the street. Kenton paused a few moments, then emerged, smiling with satisfaction. They were gone.
Just as he started back up the alley toward the street, he saw them again. They had obviously detected that he had evaded them and returned to the alley as the most likely spot into which he could have ducked. Too late now to do anything; though it was dark, he knew he was seen.
“Hello, Brady Kenton,” said the bigger man, advancing one step and quietly drawing his pistol. “You’ll be so kind as to stand still right there, now, won’t you?”
Kenton drew his own pistol, cocked it, and leveled it at the man, who immediately stopped advancing. By now, the smaller of the pair had also drawn a pistol.
“Looks like we’ve got a standoff,” Kenton commented.
“Looks like it—and there’s no reason for it, either. All we want is information, not trouble.”
“Any information I’ve got generally goes into the pages of the Illustrated American,” Kenton replied. “I don’t hand it out for free on the street.”
“Let’s drop the games and lay it out straight, Kenton. Where’s Briggs Garrett?”
“Around every corner, based on what I’m hearing.”
The big man’s face was hidden in shadows, but a tightening of the atmosphere let Kenton know that the fellow was becoming more tense. “Don’t waste my time, Kenton. Talk or I’ll drop you.”
“Be careful, friend. I might take that as a threat and decide I’m justified in dropping you first.”
The smaller man stepped forward. “Try talking that way to me,” he said.
“Shut up,” said the other. “He ain’t told us yet.” No sooner had he said it than a solid thunk resounded and he collapsed to his knees.
“Down you go, Smithfield,” a voice from behind the gunmen cheerfully declared.
The other gunman wheeled, and the pistol butt that had just crashed into the crown of his big partner’s head smashed into his forehead. He slammed back under the impact and gave himself a follow-up blow to the back of the head when he pounded into the brick wall. There the fellow leaned for several moments, arms outstretched, his pistol still held. A dark form stepped closer to him, and there was yet another thunk. Now the man collapsed.
“And so much for you, Raglow,” the new arrival said.
Kenton, as surprised as he was gratified by the unexpected aid, lowered his pistol but did not yet holster it. He aired a suspicion. “Percival Starlin?”
“Perk, dang it, Perk! Percival’s a flower-plucking name.”
Kenton grinned, holstered his pistol, and stepped forward, putting out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Perk. Victor told me you were a helpful man. I see now he was right.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. I seen these two on your tail and figured it might be a good time to make your aquaintance. Victor wrote me that you was coming, you know.”
“Perk Starlin, I’d like to buy you a beer, if you’re willing.”
“Well, normally I don’t drink…but for you I’ll make an exception. Come on—I’ll take you to my favorite place for not drinking.”
Perk Starlin took Kenton to the crudest of taverns—haphazardly built, unpainted inside and out, its lumber walls almost as rough and gnarly as the human patrons they protected from the Colorado night.
The place brought back memories to Kenton of a thousand similar nameless dives he had known in his time, sometimes as a journalist trying to capture the gritty kind of reality that could not be found elsewhere, sometimes as a private man trying to forget that same reality and the pain it had brought him. The latter never really worked; Kenton had discovered that no problem got any better for being baptized in whiskey.
From the corner came the music of a Mexican guitarist, who was managing quite well despite the absence of two strings. Bottles clinked, glassed clumped tabletops, wooden poker chips rattled. Perk Starlin sat across from him, drinking a beer with the relish of a connoisseur. Kenton detected a vague family similarity between Perk and Victor Starlin, though in build the two were radically different. Whereas Victor was lean and spindly, Perk was very stout and several inches shorter than his sheepherding cousin. His chest was like a barrel, his arms and legs like sections of stovepipe—but it was muscle, not fat, that gave the man his stoutness.
“Their names are Raglow and Smithfield—can’t say I really know them. Just know of them is all. They’re two leftover gunnies from the railroad war, and both are pokes of trouble looking for a place to bust. Just the sort to see Briggs Garrett as a prize fish.”
“Well, if they think I can put Garrett on their hook, they’re dead wrong.”
“Cold trail?”
“Not cold, just not really warm either. I’ve been asking questions on the sneak since I got here, and all I’ve picked up are rumors, most of them contradicting each other. The only common theme I can find is that half of Leadville seems to believe that Briggs Garrett is alive and somewhere in this city.”
“And why do you care whether he is or not?” Perk asked with an expression that indicated he might already know the a
nswer.
“Has Victor told you much about that?” Kenton asked in return.
Perk gave a slight smile. “He’s told me enough. You and Victor have a personal interest in Garrett…just like Mickey Scarborough did.”
“That we do. Tell me about Scarborough, Perk. Tell me what happened.”
“What happened was that the man collapsed, raving right there on the stage, and what he hollered out is the thing that started all these rumors about Garrett.”
“They tell me he saw Garrett right there in the audience.”
“So he did, or at least, so he declared. ‘Garrett!’ he yelled. ‘Briggs Garrett!’ Threw out a finger to point, but he collapsed right there, and nobody could see who he was trying to show. Fell in a heap, he did, and died in Ella Chrisman’s house. I helped carry him there.”
“Who’s this Ella Chrisman?”
“Some sort of nurse or some such. A lot of talk here about that woman. She’s divorced, you see—and rich from what her husband left her when they gave each other the heave.”
“Why didn’t they take Scarborough to the St. Vincent Hospital instead of Mrs. Chrisman’s?”
“She was in the crowd and asked special that he be brought there, for one thing. And her house was close by. I suppose that was it.”
“Has Mrs. Chrisman ever taken in other ill people like she did Mickey Scarborough?”
“Not that I know of. Anyway, once he died, the whole dang town was full of talk. Briggs Garrett, alive and in Leadville! The story spread far enough that even Victor heard about it, down on Austin Bluffs.”
Kenton nodded. “He heard it, all right, and it knocked him back enough that he sent me a letter asking me to come to him. Told me that if Garrett is really alive, I would be the man most able to find him.”
Chapter 12
Perk sat his chair upright and leaned in closer to Kenton. “But Garrett can’t be alive, can he? He was drowned long ago. All the papers had a story about it. Even the Illustrated American. I read it myself.”