by Cameron Judd
The two ruffians looked at one another, both breaking into a grin. “You just made yourself a bargain!” the man said. He yanked his wrist free.
Gunnison went to the corner where the old man still shuffled, not quite sure whether it was safe yet to stop.
“Go to yonder corner,” Gunnison said quietly, clapping his hand on his shoulder. “Sit down and rest your heart.”
The old man nodded, reached up and touched Gunnison’s hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered.
The old man shuffled off to his grateful loved ones, and Gunnison faced the ruffians.
One lifted his pistol, aimed it at Gunnison’s chest…
The blast made Gunnison jump in surprise. He looked down at his body, expecting to see a gush of blood, but there was none. The pistoleer had jerked the pistol downward at the last moment and fired it into the floor.
“Step up to the music, boy!”
Gunnison got himself to breathing again and began stepping. He clicked his heels on the puncheon floor, kicked his legs, did everything he could to put on a satisfying show of buffoonery in hope he could soon satisfy these drunkards and they would go on their way.
He looked past them to the people in the corner; one of the women, in tears, silently mouthed, “Thank you.”
Gunnison, feeling very foolish but also knowing he was the hero of the hour in the eyes of the grateful audience in the far corner, gave his dancing all he could. He turned, bowed, curtsied…all to the occasional blast of a pistol.
When one of the bullets nearly caught him in the calf, Gunnison stopped dancing abruptly.
“Enough of that!” he shouted, out of breath. “I’m dancing willingly—no need to shoot at me!”
The answer was another blast. Gunnison began dancing again.
He began to think he’d made a mistake. He’d anticipated that these men would soon tire of such juvenile amusement, but they seemed content to go on this way as long as the whiskey lasted.
On it went, another ten minutes, then fifteen…Gunnison was growing exhausted, and angry. He even resented the silent people in the corner for standing there and staring and doing nothing. Didn’t they have a rifle or a shotgun hidden somewhere?
Another shot, and this time the bullet ripped through the cuff of his trousers.
Gunnison had had enough. Sweating, weary, he reached under his coat and yanked out his pistol from its holster. He leveled it at the nearer of the two gunmen, who in turn lifted his own pistol. The second ruffian, as luck would have it, had just emptied his pistol and was about to reload.
“No reloading!” Gunnison shouted. “Drop it, or I’ll kill your partner!”
“I’ll kill you first!” the one with the raised pistol said.
In fact, neither man fired. Both stood there, pistols raised at each other, both frozen in place.
“Looks like we’re in a standoff,” the ruffian said at last.
“Afraid not,” said a new voice.
Gunnison shifted his eyes just long enough to see who had spoken. It was the same singing traveler he’d encountered earlier at the spring. He was standing in the doorway with a shotgun raised, leveled at the two ruffians. The barrels were sawed off horrifically short, and the stock as well. The weapon was so small it could have been concealed in nothing larger than a good-sized saddlebag, which is exactly where Gunnison figured it had been.
“The pattern of this shotgun is mighty broad,” the man said. “One shot, and both you gentlemen will go down. I suggest you drop your weapons and haul your backsides out of here, and far away, before I give you a demonstration of this shotgun that neither of you will live long enough to be impressed by.”
The men complied, glowering, faces and eyes red from anger and liquor. “We’ll not forget this!” one said. “We see you again, you’re a dead man. Same goes for all of you!”
“Out!” the man at the door said, sidestepping carefully to give them egress while also keeping them covered.
They left, took their horses from the corral, and rode away, shouting obscenities as they did so.
The newcomer fired off a high blast from the shotgun in answer. They hastened their flight and were soon gone.
Gunnison holstered his pistol and walked toward the man, hand outstretched. “I thank you, sir. I’m quite happy to see you again, believe me.”
“Good to see you as well, Mister…Gunnison, if I recall?”
“Yes. And you are named McGlue and several other things as well, I believe.”
“In fact, my name is Rush,” the man said. “Joe Rush. Welcome to my trading post.”
The details of what had happened made Rush’s face go red and sent a vein to visibly throbbing in his temple. But it established Gunnison at once as virtually an honorary member of the Joe Rush family. He was given food, drink, assorted free supplies, and more praise than he’d received at any one time in his life.
The old man whom Gunnison had saved from dancing to death was Rush’s father. One of the two women was Rush’s wife, the other his widowed sister-in-law, who was also mother to the boy.
“I’m sorry I was so cagey with you about who I was when we met there at the spring,” Rush said. “I’ve just learned it don’t always pay to be overly forthcoming with information. Folks sometimes tend to believe a man who operates a post like this one probably has money on him at any given time.”
“All I care about is that you came back at just the right time to save my bacon,” Gunnison said.
“Pshaw! You’d have done fine even without me. You got gravel in that craw of yours, young man. You ain’t the swell you look to be.”
There it was again: once more he was being labeled a swell. And once more he ignored it.
Rush continued, “I go from time to time to pay a visit on my cousin, who lives a mile beyond that spring we met up at,” he said, “I was on my way there when I met you. Danged if he wasn’t home when I arrived. A neighbor fellow there told me he’d gone off in the direction of Fort Brandon, where there’s been a lot of religious revivaling going on because of the Preacher Peabody’s prophesying.”
“I’m glad he wasn’t there. Otherwise you’d not have come back when you did. But I’m…” Gunnison cut off and glanced at the women, boy, and old man. He drew closer to Joe Rush and said in a whisper, “…I’m concerned about those two. I’m moving on, so I’m not likely to encounter them again. But they know where to find you.”
“That they do, but talk is cheap, particularly when it’s soaked in whiskey. I’ll keep an eye out for them. You do the same. Paths cross sometimes in ways you don’t expect.”
Chapter 25
Well-fed, well-watered, and well-supplied, Gunnison crossed the river on Joe Rush’s ferry and went on his way toward Pearl Town. The weather was good, the journey pleasant and uneventful, and he reached the town hours before he expected he would.
The imposing Johansen Hotel was one of only two things worth noticing in Pearl Town, and that only because it looked so out of place amid the more typical plain houses and outright hovels that dominated the rest of the town.
The other thing was the Johansen house, which stood roughly across the street from the hotel. In a city setting the three-story house would have been mildly noteworthy for its size and excellent construction, but against the backdrop of Pearl Town it looked absolutely ostentatious. Gunnison would have liked to have had a clearer look at the place, but his view was blocked by a high, heavy, wooden fence that completely surrounded the house’s grounds.
Gunnison dismounted at the front of the hotel and tied off his horse. Walking inside, he approached the desk clerk.
“Got some rooms?”
“Yes, sir. Four available.”
“Give me the cheapest you have—preferably on the third floor, facing the street.”
“We have a room available there, but it’s one of our better ones. Certainly not the cheapest.”
“I’ll take it,” Gunnison said. In that his expenses were faithfull
y recouped by the Illustrated American, he never worried too much about costs, except when his traveling money got exceptionally low. At the moment he was holding up fairly well for cash, though, even after purchasing the horse and saddle from Rory Wilson’s father. And with the supplies heaped upon him by the grateful Joe Rush, he had little need to buy much. A better room would be fine. He hadn’t slept on a truly good bed in days.
“A street view is indeed the thing to have,” the clerk small-talked while he signed Gunnison in. “Always interesting things to watch on the street.”
Gunnison decided to play ignorant in hopes of ferreting out some new information. “Tell me, whose house is it across the street from here?”
“Oh, that’s Mr. Johansen’s house.”
“Johansen, like the hotel name here?”
“Yes. He owns us.”
“I see. Must be a wealthy man.”
“Mr. Johansen has done well for himself.”
“It seems a shame he hides that beautiful house behind such a tall fence.”
“Oh…well…” The clerk glanced from side to side and leaned over the desk a little, dropping his voice. “That’s not really Mr. Johansen’s doing, but his wife’s. She’s somewhat…well, I’m not sure how to describe her…”
“Fearful? Reclusive? Eccentric?”
“Eccentric. Yes. That’s the word.”
“I hear she has that preacher with her, the one who predicted the destruction of that mining town.”
“She might. I, for one, don’t believe that whole fire-from-heaven story.”
“I’m a journalist…any chance, you think, of getting to meet Pearl Johansen and her guests?”
The man laughed. “Don’t waste your time. Nobody sees Pearl Johansen unless she wants to be seen. And both she and her husband have no use for journalists. Rich people, you know, don’t like people nosing around in their business.” He looked around quickly. “But don’t say I said that.”
Kenton had always said that the direct way usually was the best way, and Gunnison tried it the next morning despite the discouragement the hotel clerk had given him.
Gathering his courage, wondering why he was so nervous, he crossed the street to the front gate of the big wall around the Johansen house, and hammered the big iron knocker there.
Minutes passed; he hammered twice more. Finally a small door built into the gate opened and a gruff-looking man, who gave the impression of being a groundskeeper or some sort of other general worker about the place, stared out at Gunnison without speaking.
“Hello,” Gunnison said. “My name is Alex Gunnison, with Gunnison’s Illustrated American. I’ve come hoping to speak with the preacher named Peabody, and particularly with a man with him whose name is—”
The door slammed, cutting him off.
Persist, Kenton had always said. Persist.
Gunnison knocked again. This time the man jerked the door open violently and glared out. “Do you not understand the meaning of a slamming door, friend?”
“It’s very important that I—”
The door slammed again.
Gunnison did understand. He sighed, turned, and walked back to the hotel.
That afternoon, after an excellent lunch in the hotel’s fine cafe, he sat down in the airy lobby with a pad of paper, a pen, and some ink. After staring several minutes at the blank sheets, he at last forced himself to begin to write.
The letter was addressed to his father, back at the Illustrated American. Though normally words came easily for Gunnison, this time he had to fight the pen to get the words onto paper. Slowly the page filled, then another, and another.
When he was finished, Gunnison read what he’d written: the sad story of the death of Brady Kenton.
When he’d read it, he read it again. Then he tore it up, wadded the shreds, and put them in the nearest garbage bin. He still couldn’t accept it. Still was not ready to make it official. No matter what, he couldn’t really accommodate the idea that Brady Kenton was dead.
He returned to his room to take a nap.
Many miles away, Brady Kenton knelt on a hillside overlooking Fort Brandon, looking through Milo’s spyglass. He focused it, and after a few moments handed it over to Jones. Jones readjusted it to his own eye and watched the scene below.
“No question about it,” he said. “Those are definitely some of the Gomorrah residents leaving the fort. I recognize some of the faces. That last one was a storekeeper I’ve done some business with. Oscar Morris. I’m glad he survived the fire.”
“You used to show yourself openly in Gomorrah?” Kenton asked.
“People don’t really know me anymore, Kenton. Not by appearance. I could go there and be just one more of many unknown faces.”
“Interesting that they’re all leaving pretty much at once,” Milo said.
“Ottinger’s got little reason to hold them anymore,” Jones said. “When we gave him the slip, it was over. Why waste time trying to concoct an elaborate scheme to pin the blame for Gomorrah on us, when we were nowhere to be found? He locked up all those people to keep his lie from being contradicted…and now it doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to gain by keeping the game going any longer. We’re out of his reach.”
“For now,” Milo said.
“No,” Jones replied. “More than that this time. I can feel it. This time we’re through with Ottinger.”
“Optimism’s a good thing, I suppose,” Milo said. “I can’t say I have as much of it as you do.”
Kenton was thinking of other things. “I wonder if Rankin is among any of those we’ve seen?”
“Only one way to find out, Kenton,” Jones said.
“Right,” he replied, rising.
Twenty minutes later, having circled down from the hillside, keeping as hidden as possible from the fort, they reached the road and intercepted the storekeeper Jones had recognized. Despite Jones’s earlier talk of having been anonymous during his Gomorrah visits, it was evident that at least some there—including this man—knew him for who he was.
The man blanched at the sight of Jones. “Good Lord, Pernell—you’d best not be showing yourself in this vicinity! If Ottinger gets his hands on you…”
“He’ll not,” Jones replied confidently. “Oscar, I want to get some information from you. There was a man in Gomorrah, name of Rankin, who was to meet my friend here.” He gestured toward Kenton, but did not introduce him by name. Best to keep this simple. “Do you know if he survived the fire?”
“Oh, yes indeed. He wasn’t even there when it happened. But he came back soon enough, all attached to Parson Peabody, like a shadow. And he left with him, too.” The storekeeper told the story, all he knew of it. “And now, from what I hear passing around the fort, Peabody and Rankin are traveling from town to town, preaching and warning and taking up quite a lot of money from folks, so that other towns and people won’t be burned up, too.”
“How are these towns supposed to avoid that fate?” Jones asked.
“I don’t know. All I know is what I heard the soldiers saying among themselves in the fort.”
Kenton, who had instantly become quite energized when he learned that Rankin was alive, said, “I hardly care about what Peabody is doing. The key matter to me is that I can still meet the man who may know something about my wife.” To the storekeeper he said, “Sir, do you know if there is a woman traveling with Rankin and Peabody?”
“There was one in Gomorrah,” he said. He briefly described Princess, her manner, looks, general age, her association with Rankin.
Kenton had trouble drawing his breath. He turned away, excited and nearly overcome. “Dear Father above…it sounds like it could be her…it could be Victoria herself!”
“Do you know which direction Peabody and the others went after they left Gomorrah?” Jones asked.
“They left by the Fort Brandon Road, so if I had to guess, I’d say they headed through the valley in the direction of Paxton and those towns.”
“The same
direction I need to go, anyway, to reach my brother,” Jones said to Kenton. “Looks like our two paths are for the moment merged into one.”
Gunnison had deliberately requested a room that would allow him a good view of the Johansen house. Being on the third floor, he could even see a little over the wall, past that gate that remained forever closed.
There seemed to be a fair amount of activity always going on beyond those walls, though none of it seemed particularly significant or unusual—just a lot of going back and forth by apparent household employees and so on. Many people were admitted in and out of the big gate that remained closed to him. He had the impression that most were men associated with Johansen’s mine operations, because they generally bore papers or satchels in hand in their hurried, businesslike comings and goings from the house.
Gunnison wondered if Peabody, Rankin, and company were at the house at all. After hours of watching the place, he saw no sign of them. But it was a big house, sprawling and dark. They could be inside there anywhere.
Gunnison attempted to talk to a couple of the people who came out of the house, but got nowhere. These were men in a hurry, with no time for inquisitive strangers. From their earnest and concentrated manner, Gunnison drew the conclusion that Johansen must be a tough and no-nonsense businessman, not one to put up with employees who shirked their duties. Initially this seemed at odds with Joe Rush’s description of Johansen as a “salt-of-the-earth” fellow, but Gunnison ended up drawing a comparison to Kenton himself: hard-working, dedicated, not prone to endure fools gladly, yet with the ability to relax and drink and ham it up at social gatherings with the best of them. Maybe Johansen was like that.
Johansen and everyone associated with him began to become objects of mystery and intrigue to Gunnison, if only because he could never so much as catch a glimpse of them.
Conversations in the cafe and saloon of the hotel revealed that Johansen apparently had given up his old habit of drinking at the bar, as he’d done during the days Joe Rush worked for him. This apparently was because of his wife, who apparently was an ever-changing woman, obsessed with metaphysics, spiritualism, quack sciences, and religion of the more esoteric variety. Gunnison was told by the friendly barkeep at the saloon—a man who remembered Joe Rush fondly—that about a year back, Pearl Johansen had received a “communication” from some spiritual source telling her that nothing intoxicating should ever pass the lips of mankind. She’d taken the message to heart and had urged her husband entirely off his liquor. Devoted to his wife, Johansen had gone along, and no longer ever visited the saloon.