by Cameron Judd
“I told you the truth,” he replied, his eyes wide and gleaming in the light of the lamp.
“No, no you did not. I’ve known you from your first breath, my son, and I know when you are lying to me.”
“I told the truth!” Lundy declared, more loudly. The old man murmured and stirred.
Kate O’Donovan put her hand on Lundy’s. “What are you afraid of, son?”
“Nothing.” Lundy smiled—obviously forced. “Why should I be afraid?”
“Why should some stranger approach our home in the night and fire a pistol when that Mr. Kenton went after him? Tell me that, Lundy. Did you see a thing someone didn’t want seen? Was there really a dead man in the mine, like Mr. Gunnison said?”
Lundy’s face looked thin and white. “I told you the truth,” he said again.
Mrs. O’Donovan could see tears brimming on the lower rims of Lundy’s eyes; he was struggling hard to keep them from overflowing. She said nothing else to him, just reached out and drew him close. She squeezed him, patted his shoulder, then had him lie down again. As she pulled the covers to his chin, she said, “When you feel ready to tell me the truth, then I am ready to hear it. You needn’t be afraid to talk to me…and if there’s danger to us, you must. Good night, Lundy. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The sun, crossing the late-morning sky, illuminated the forms of two horsemen riding a southeastern route out of Leadville. The riders were Brady Kenton and Alex Gunnison.
They had rented horses at the James Stable, the same one that employed Perk as a watchman. Perk was not there at the time; he had worked the previous night, the stableman informed them. Perk was probably back home by now, he said, and that suited him. He didn’t trust the scoundrel and had opposed his hiring. Perk Starlin, he said, would steal the coins off a dead man’s eyes.
Kenton and Gunnison had ridden first to Chicken Hill, defying Kelly’s orders to stay away from there. A uniformed officer was on the hill when they got there, which kept them from approaching the O’Donovan house but also was encouraging in that Kelly obviously had followed through with his pledge to keep an eye on the O’Donovans. “I wonder,” said Kenton, “if Kelly doesn’t give us more credence than he claims to. If he really believed the man I shot at night before last was some innocent straggler, he’d have me locked up and wouldn’t be guarding the O’Donovans. I suspect this contrary attitude may have more to do with slowing down the local gossip mill than with his honest opinions.”
“At least Clance Sullivan believes me now,” Gunnison said.
“Others will be believing you too, before long,” Kenton predicted. “What we have to find is a way to talk to Lundy O’Donovan and find out why he lied. My guess is the same as Sullivan’s: it’s fear. I don’t doubt a moment that whoever he escaped from at Deverell’s mine is one and the same with whoever it was I exchanged shots with on Chicken Hill. He came to kill Lundy, I’ll bet you.”
Kenton watched the officer a few moments longer, then said, “Come on, Alex. Let’s take a ride and see if we can find Perk Starlin’s home. I want you to meet him. He’s a useful sort of man to know in this town.”
Getting out of town on such a beautiful day was pleasing and healing to Gunnison, who still suffered from the physical and mental bruises suffered in his unusual adventure. He relished the thin cool morning air, the vast blue of the sky, and the rocky splendor of the mountains all around. For the first time since his plunge into the mine shaft, Gunnison’s mind felt completely clear.
They inquired of a man traveling toward Leadville and got specific directions to Perk Starlin’s place, along with another comment about Perk’s worthlessness and dishonesty.
They rode on, following the directions. Gunnison seemed more uncomfortable the closer they came. At last the cabin came in sight—a typically crude hut but a little larger than either man had expected.
“Do you think it’s wise for us to be associating with a man with Perk Starlin’s reputation?” Gunnison asked.
“I go by instinct, not gossip,” Kenton said as the horses plodded toward the cabin. “I trust Perk Starlin.”
No sooner were the words out than a rifle cracked on a nearby slope and a voice rang out: “That one was in the air, but the next will be in your vitals if you don’t head on out!”
“Perk!” Kenton yelled, having recognized the voice. “It’s Brady Kenton—don’t shoot!”
“Kenton? Sweet mamma, why didn’t you say so sooner?”
Gunnison took a long slow breath and let his heart descend from his throat to its usual location as the stout figure of Perk Starlin appeared from behind a tall boulder, smoking rifle cradled.
He scampered and slid down the slope and came up to the mounted men with a big grin shining. “Kenton, I swear you ought to let a man know who you are before you ride down on his cabin like that.”
“I’m not much in the habit of yelling my name like a fool when there’s not a soul to be seen,” Kenton said, beginning to dismount. Gunnison followed his lead.
“Alex Gunnison, meet Perk Starlin,” Kenton said. The two shook hands.
“What were you doing up on the hill with a rifle, Perk? You pick people off on the road for fun or something?”
“Well, I had me some trouble with a fellow who claimed I stole a saddle—I heard he might try to find me if he could ever find out where I live, which is information I don’t give out much. When I saw you coming, I thought you was him. Hey, what you gents doing out this way?”
“I wanted Alex here to meet you. And I was wondering if you had picked up anything new for me.”
“Not a lot, not a lot. But I’m glad for the visit. You men dry or just empty?”
“Empty,” Kenton said.
“You come to the right place,” Perk said. “I’m loaded up with food—store-bought, too, fair and honest, and lots of it.”
“How’d you come by the money?” Kenton asked.
“Sold me a saddle I happened to come by, that’s all,” Perk replied.
They ate their meal outside, seated on the ground. Kenton particularly enjoyed the bacon.
“Yeah, I heard about Smithfield and the shooting,” Perk said around a mouthful of bakery bread. “Knew such as that would happen sooner or later. You get a town worked up over something, and somebody winds up using the situation to get somebody else hurt.”
“I’ve been thinking the same myself,” Kenton said. “Fear can always be manipulated.”
“Well, somebody sure ’nough steered Smithfield the wrong way,” Perk said. “The man he shot was sure not Briggs Garrett.”
“Why’s this Smithfield so interested in getting Briggs Garrett?” Gunnison asked.
“Glory,” Perk said. “That’s the goal of a lot of these fool young pistoleers—the glory of shooting down somebody big and famous. Talk is, Kenton, that the other one, Raglow, is still out gunning for Garrett. Too dumb to learn from what happened to his partner, I suppose.”
The talk drifted to other subjects, and then sketch pads came out, and the journalists recorded both scene and scenery. By the time they mounted and headed back toward Leadville, Perk with them and heading for his job in the stables, a full day had passed. It had provided a welcome escape for Kenton and Gunnison from the intensity of their recent adventures.
The sun was a rich blob of orange light in the western sky when they reached the edge of town. The air was growing cooler.
Chapter 21
Clance Sullivan wiped his fingers across his sweaty brow and noted blood on them when he pulled them away. “Ah, well, at least it’s not my own,” he muttered to himself, examining his fingers, then the drying bloodstains on his uniform.
It was going to be a rough night’s duty—that he could see. Only two hours into the job, and he had already had to break up a knife fight and make three arrests. One of the bladesmen had drawn blood from another, splashing some on Sullivan. Though not squeamish, Sullivan disliked blood and particularly did not relish wear
ing it about on his garments. He shrugged. “Ah, well.” There was certainly no time in the midst of a night’s duty to change his uniform, even if he had a spare uniform to change into.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the blood on his face, then folded the cloth carefully with the stains tucked inside, and replaced it in his pocket. At the same time he winced and moved his left shoulder in a circular motion—that pain again, radiating from his chest. The third such pain tonight, just like the pain he had experienced climbing up out of Deverell’s mine. The pain brought with it a burst of perspiration. He wondered if maybe…no, no. He could not allow himself to think that.
Deliberately beginning to whistle, he strolled down East Third Street until he reached the intersection with Harrison, then turned left and proceeded for two blocks to Harrison’s junction with State Street. For the next hour he worked that street, happily finding no more trouble.
Sullivan kept on whistling, and smiled and nodded at many people he passed, but inwardly he was troubled. In the air tonight was an aura of danger. Maybe all the Garrett rumors were getting to him, making him feel that any middle-aged male he encountered was potentially the “fiery hangman” of Civil War legend. Or maybe it was those troublesome pains in his chest. He remembered the day his father’s heart had failed, like his father’s before him. Again he pushed away the thought, unwilling to accept it.
Making another turn, Sullivan moved away from the crowded, brighter streets to Leadville’s darker haunts. He slipped into the inky darkness at he end of an alleyway and leaned against a wall. Removing a paper from a pocket, he unfolded it and uncovered a half-smoked cigar. He lit it, illuminating the alley for a few moments, and drew rich smoke into his mouth. Shaking out the match, he continued walking. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows; his entire body was damp with it tonight.
Ahead loomed Jimmy Rhoder’s burned-out pool hall. Sullivan wondered what had happened to Rhoder. The consensus seemed to be that the hot-tempered amusement merchant had torched his own building and left Leadville in anger, or that some competitor in business or crime—for the Leadville police well knew Rhoder’s criminal activities—had put flame to the building and driven him away. No one had pursued the question very hard, for the police were glad to have Rhoder out of Leadville. He had been behind some of the growing footpad problem, though no one had ever been able to prove it.
Yet one thing mystified Sullivan. Since Rhoder’s sudden disappearance, the crime problem had not significantly abated. If Rhoder had been a crime sponsor in Leadville, he apparently had not been that major a one. Marshal Kelly and his force knew that someone in town was supplying backing for a network of street thieves, burglars, and highwaymen—but whoever it was, he was hiding himself well. There were lots of theories about who it might be, and Sullivan had his own: Mark Straker.
Sullivan had never trusted Straker. All his peace-officer instincts spoke against the man. It was well known that Straker received a generous allowance from his uncle Squire Deverell in return for no work at all—this despite Deverell’s obvious dislike of his nephew—but it always seemed to Sullivan that Straker was usually too flush for even a large allowance to account for. And he kept bad company. Perhaps Straker was the man behind the scenes of much of Leadville’s crime; perhaps it had been he who had somehow gotten rid of competitor Jimmy Rhoder.
Sullivan’s thoughts were jarred by movement at the far end of the alley beside Rhoder’s building. Most likely it was a dog or other varmint digging through rubbish, but he decided to check it out, having nothing else to do at the moment. Sliding quietly into the alley, Sullivan crept through the darkness toward the rear of the burned building.
He froze when into a beam of moonlight stepped a figure. No varmint, this one—at least no animal varmint. It was Chop-off Johnson, covered with grit and ash, holding a little metal box he had apparently dug from the rubble of the pool hall. Standing quietly, Sullivan watched Chop-off kneel and force open the box, then smile as he found what appeared to be a pipe and quantity of smoking opium. Rhoder’s, probably. Chop-off must have come foraging in hopes of finding such a prize. Chop-off pocketed his find and threw the box aside.
Sullivan was about to step forward and make himself known when Chop-off stood again and took a clumsy step. Sullivan only then noticed the blood-crusted bandage around the footpad’s leg. Chop-off took a few more steps; he was limping. Sullivan developed a suspicion so strong it felt like certainty: Chop-off Johnson was the unidentified interloper shot by Brady Kenton behind the O’Donovan house on Chicken Hill.
Now, that was intriguing. Sullivan’s mind began piecing together possibilities. If Chop-off had come to find Lundy, then it must have been he whom Lundy had seen at the mine, who dragged Alex Gunnison out of the shaft and dumped him in Stillborn Alley, who had removed the burned body Gunnison had described…
Burned body…Sullivan glanced over at the fire-ravaged poolhall, a new idea springing to life. Could the body have been Rhoder’s? It was pure speculation, but certainly a possibility.
Chop-off limped away, heading for the nearby edge of town, marked by a line of brush and trees. Sullivan followed in silence. Chop-off entered a narrow pathway through the brush. Sullivan paused a few moments, then did the same. It was dark here, and he had to pick his way slowly to avoid making noise or tripping. He certainly didn’t want Chop-off Johnson to detect him in such an enclosed dark place. Sullivan’s heart began to pound heavily. Another stab of pain came, halting him in his tracks. It was stronger this time, and he wondered if he should go on or turn back and seek help.
After a few moments, the pain subsided, and he chose to go on. He wanted to see where Chop-off had gone, then interrogate him. The pains he would simply ignore…just a strained muscle, that’s all.
Coming out on the other side of the line of brush, he saw Chop-off limping across a barren rising expanse near the entrance of a mine. Probably the one-armed scoundrel had himself a shed or lean-to up there somewhere. Chop-off continued up the expanse, reaching its crest and crossing over. The policeman followed, the climb seeming unusually difficult. His heart hammered so loudly, he could actually hear it. He sweated all the more, and by the time he reached the spot that Chop-off had crossed, he could no longer deny that something was seriously wrong.
Sullivan stopped, his face drenched and white. Before him stood Chop-off Johnson, facing him squarely. “Why you following me, you damn lawdog?” the footpad demanded.
Sullivan stared at him, his heart still pounding unusually hard and hurting like the very devil.
Chop-off limped forward, drew back his single fist, and struck him, the blow knocking Sullivan on his rump. “I don’t like being followed,” Chop-off said. He kicked the policeman in the forehead.
As he fell back, Sullivan felt something like an explosion in his chest, followed by a terrible wrenching pain. He did not much feel the impact of Chop-off’s kick, for darkness was wrapping around him like a shroud, a shroud that was far too tight across the chest. And then, strangest thing, he saw the entire scene from above: Chop-off standing there in the moonlight, single fist clenched, and his own form, lying on the ground and looking up, eyes half shut. Then it all receded, rushing away at a fantastic speed until it was gone.
Mary Deverell wiped her eyes quickly, seeming embarrassed to be crying in front of another human being. Weeping, her stern husband had often preached, was a sign of weakness in both men and women.
Nevertheless, given what she had just been told by Mark Straker, the woman could not restrain the tears from flowing down her deeply lined cheeks. She leaned over in her chair, put her face in her hands, and wept so hard that her narrow shoulders shook. Straker, seated across from her, had been watching her with an expression of great sympathy while she was looking at him; now that her eyes were downturned, he watched her with cold satisfaction.
At length Mary Deverell forced herself to stop crying and sat up straight again, lifting her damp and reddened eyes to meet t
he gaze of her husband’s nephew. “I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “This is such terrible news…how could he do this to Squire? He seemed like a nice man.”
“Brady Kenton is no nice man, Aunt Mary. Far from it. He came to Leadville determined to find Briggs Garrett, and he’ll not leave until he’s pinned his tag on someone. And it seems like that someone, unfortunately, is going to be Uncle Squire.”
“But it’s a lie!”
“I doubt Kenton cares. He just wants his story, no matter what the cost to another man’s reputation and safety.”
The woman looked afraid. “‘Safety’…what do you mean?”
“Briggs Garrett is a hated man, Aunt Mary. Already, one man in this town has been shot to death by a gunman who wanted the honor of killing Briggs Garrett. But it wasn’t Garrett he killed, just some poor old man he thought was him.”
Mary Deverell’s eyes widened as realization set in. “So if Brady Kenton says that my Squire is really Briggs Garrett, someone might believe him and—”
“A lot of people will believe him. The man has credibility—even Uncle Squire swears by him. Of course, Uncle Squire doesn’t yet know what Kenton is doing to him.”
“He hasn’t written his story yet, has he? Oh, say he hasn’t!”
“He hasn’t. But he’s starting to talk. Right now, the rumor hasn’t gone far, from what I can tell, but I don’t doubt that before tomorrow night, every saloon in Leadville will be filled with men telling their neighbors that they’ve just heard, on the good authority of Brady Kenton, that Squire Deverell is really Briggs Garrett.”
“They might hurt my Squire, Mark!” She began to weep again. “We’ve got to wake Squire and tell him what’s happening!”
Straker reached up to dab his eye. He was enjoying this sham—and his aunt was reacting just as he’d intended she should. “Don’t worry, Aunt Mary,” he said. “And don’t bother Uncle Squire with this. He’s not as young as he used to be, you know, and he might not bear up well under such a shock. I can take care of Kenton. I’ll go over first thing tomorrow and publicly confront him and make him recant his story. Then I’ll toss him and his partner right out of those rooms. It’s absurd that Uncle Squire should be giving free lodging to a man who’s determined to do him wrong.”