by Ann Parker
She turned to Reverend Sands. “I’ve no desire to stand shoulder to shoulder to the crowds out here. We’d have an excellent view of the procession and speeches from the rooftop of the Silver Queen. Interested?”
He smiled, and pushed the door open, holding it for her.
Inez walked in, noticing that indeed, the place was deserted, except for Abe and their bartender, Sol Isaacs. Both stood by the half-open main Harrison Street entrance, watching the crowds on the boardwalk. Both had tucked their thumbs into their apron bands. They looked, Inez thought, like disparate bookends—Abe carved from ebony, Sol from ivory.
The two men swung around in unison as Inez and the reverend approached. Abe’s brow, etched with worry, smoothed out; his concern visibly fell away.
“Mrs. Stannert, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” said Abe, by way of greeting. “Me ’n Sol here were gonna close up the saloon and grab some lanterns, and come look for you.”
“I’m all right, Mr. Jackson.” Inez moved toward him, hands held up, a gesture meant to allay his fears. “I’m sorry to have caused you such anxiety. We came back as quickly as we could, but we weren’t able to get through the streets until now. As you see, we’re back, and none the worse for wear.”
At least, on the surface.
She added, “There was a bit of trouble on Third. Someone in the crowd took a potshot at General Grant. The police were on him right away. I don’t think anyone in the parade even noticed, what with all the fireworks and confusion.”
Abe crossed his arms, grim. “None of us need that sort of thing. Those folk, if’n they don’t like Grant bein’ here, they oughta just crawl back under whatever rock they came out from.”
“Agreed. But there’s naught we can do now except be aware. It’s just another reminder that we need to be extra-vigilant these next few days while Grant and his visitors are in town.”
She lightened her tone to deflect the questions brimming behind Abe’s troubled gaze. “I thought we could catch a glimpse of Grant from the rooftop, hear the speeches. The crowds will not let the general disappear into the hotel without a few words from him I’m certain. And the mayor is not about to let his prepared remarks go to waste, no matter whether it’s nine in the evening or two in the morning.
“Abe, Sol, why don’t you lock the doors and meet us on the roof?” Inez reached behind the bar and extracted the little-used key to the rooftop and a lamp while Abe and Sol barred the doors.
The group headed up the stairs to the second floor of the saloon and proceeded down the hallway, lit only by a pool of light cast by the lamp Inez had handed to Sol. A door to one side led to the saloon’s office and Inez’s private rooms; another, further down, to the now deserted gaming room. At the end of the hall, they stopped. Inez inserted and turned the key in a lock that seemed to be part of the wall. A door, unframed and built to look like part of the wall, gave a discontented creak as she pushed it open. The abbreviated staircase that greeted them was more ladder than stairway. The same key unlocked a trapdoor at the top, allowing the group to emerge, one at a time, out onto the flat rooftop of the Silver Queen. They all stepped around the puddles dotting the roof and headed toward the edge for a better view of the main street of Harrison.
Inez ventured closer to the edge of the rooftop, bringing Harrison into view. Leadville’s entire population, over thirty thousand souls, seemed squeezed along the boardwalks. From above, the mob looked like a strange species of plant, the tops moving and oscillating, wet and glistening. The noise of the crowd was backed by the roar of minute guns, and the explosions of fireworks and small arms. Colored bonfires stained the long procession green, blue, red. A speaker’s platform had been erected in front of the Clarendon Hotel. A grandstand adjoined, heavy with people.
Mounted police had forced a passage through the crowd for the carriages, now halted by the hotel. Inez thought she recognized the editor of the Evening Chronicle among the figures on the grandstand. He was arguing with the procession’s grand marshal, who had disembarked from the first carriage and was now pointing at the speaker’s podium and jabbing at the editor’s chest with an emphatic forefinger.
Standing by the pressman was a tall, lanky familiar figure. Inez squinted, certain that, yes, it was Jed Elliston, editor of The Independent, taking the Chronicle man’s side and adding his own gesticulations to the argument. The grand marshal leaned over the grandstand, beckoning to the policemen below. The men in blue lumbered up the stairs and herded the members of the local press off the platform, just as the crowd began chanting, more or less in unison, “General Grant!”
The former president had exited the carriage along with others of his entourage. He turned to either side, shaking the swarm of hands thrust out at him. Two local lawmen, accompanied by what appeared to be a private bodyguard, tried in vain to clear a path for the visitors.
The honored guests were escorted, foot by foot, to the stands, police shoving the way clear. As Grant mounted the stairs at one end of the stand, Inez noted the pressmen were returning, storming the stairs at the other, with Elliston leading the pack. The parade marshal headed them off, accompanied by the private guard. An apparent order to quit the premises ignored, the bodyguard collared Elliston and threw the newsman from the stand. Elliston disappeared, arms milling, into the crowd awash with the red light of the colored fires.
A commotion in the other direction, barely overriding the sounds from Harrison, caught Inez’s attention. She turned her back on the proceedings to look west, toward Colorado’s highest peaks, now invisible behind the night, the low-lying clouds, and, closer in, a strange glowing light.
Inez crossed the rooftop, curiosity shadowed by a growing foreboding. At the far end of the roof, she could no longer fool herself about the origin of the flickering glow and the attendant smell.
She stared down at the evolving chaos in Leadville’s red-light district, figures like small, black cutouts dashing hither and thither in the unnatural light. It felt as if a hand closed over her throat.
“Mrs. Stannert.” Abe had followed and now stood beside her. “Is that—?”
His voice unfroze her mind and her stance. She turned to Abe, hardly able to see him, his dark skin and eyes blending into the night. “A fire. On State Street. And the fire companies are trapped in the procession!”
Chapter Five
The light drizzle kissing her face was no match for the intensity of a conflagration, Inez knew. It was impossible to tell how far down the block the fire was, but that hardly mattered. Five buildings, ten, they would all be consumed if the fire could not be brought under control. And quickly.
Without the fire companies able to reach us, we’re on our own.
A knife of fear slid beneath her breastbone and pricked her heart. For just a moment, she imagined a scene in her mind’s eye, as clear as if it were spread out before her: The entire north side of State Street, licked in flames. Her saloon, the roof beneath her feet, the mahogany bar, plank floors, imported carpets, her personal papers and clothes, everything consumed. Nothing left but ashes and glowing embers. The insatiable fire marching up Harrison, the screaming crowds, unable to escape, crushed by their own weight.
She was already moving, without even thinking, toward the trapdoor in the roof. Reverend Sands caught up with her before she’d taken half a dozen steps.
“Inez!” His words overrode the roar on Harrison, now punctuated by with alarmed shouts on State. “You’d best head home.”
Abe and Sol hurried past her, heading down the steep trapdoor stairs in such quick succession that Sol nearly stepped on Abe’s hat.
Inez turned to the reverend. “We’ve no time to argue about this.”
She started down the stairs just in time to hear Abe shout, “Mrs. Stannert! We’re headed up the alley, just so’s you know. We’re takin’ the stew kettle and wash-up pails.”
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and addressed the reverend’s descending shoes.
“I can help as much as Abe. The Silver Queen is mine as well.”
She flew down the second story stairs to the saloon’s ground floor and darted into the kitchen, ignoring the reverend’s shouts for her to stop.
Grabbing an empty dishpan, Inez hurtled through the back door and into the alley, pulling out her pocket revolver as she did so.
Usually, the alley was a dark, foreboding place. A place where murder, robbery, and garroting plagued those who moved too slowly and without a firearm or lantern.
Tonight was different.
It was a strange, inverted world. Dark, where light lay in the daytime. Murky, full of smoke where the shadows usually curled. The alley was a bedlam, figures running in all directions, carrying pails, buckets, dishpans, anything that would hold water.
And the mud.
It sucked at her worn riding boots, threatening to pull them right off her feet. She curled her toes to hold the boots on, and slogged forward, anxious to move faster. The crowd grew thicker the closer she approached the fire at the end of the block. Finally, she hit upon an organized line of men. A water cart had been pulled nearby; men were filling an odd assortment of containers as fast as they could, passing them along by hand. Inez paused, the wash pan dangling from her hand, forgotten.
Frisco Flo’s parlor house, the last structure on the block, was ablaze with flames that were not the fires of lust or biblical righteousness. So far, the conflagration seemed confined to the back rooms tacked onto the building proper—at least, that was where the flickering lights licked out the alley door and one observable window.
The mere sight of fire curling around the corners of the doorframe, lapping at the porch, sent a fresh sweat of fear coursing down Inez’s back. This, on a street where most of the structures—from single-room cribs to two-story saloons—were frame-built, hissed and crackled of disaster.
Shouts from ahead. Smoke roiled out the brothel’s back door. She discerned through the smoke that there was more than one bucket brigade. Three, four more, snaked off toward Pine Street, while another squeezed in the narrow passageway between Flo’s and the saloon next door.
The rain increased in force, as if the Almighty had finally taken pity on them and brought Nature to their side in the fight. Hoots and huzzahs burst from smoke-roughened throats as the fire dimmed under the onslaught of the volunteers and the sudden downpour.
The back door of the neighboring saloon flew open, crashing against the half-timbered rear wall. The proprietor, Frank Lynch, appeared first, identifiable by his fiercely polished bald pate and impressive shoulder span. He stared at the burning brothel, shook his head, and said, “Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus.” Then stepped aside.
Additional half-shadowed figures appeared. A thunder of wood barrels rolled down the back steps. The kegs landed with a sudden squitch into the churned-up mud of the alley, sending a spray of muck over everyone within splashing distance.
A crack of thunder and a flash of white light accompanied Lynch’s roared pronouncement: “I was going to return this watered-down piss-poor bellywash, but this is for certain a far better use for it. If this ditchwater doesn’t douse that bonfire from the Devil, nothing will! Haul it down and put it out, boys. The better brew will be on the house for all gentlemen and ladies that show a coat of soot on their faces for their efforts!”
A general cheer sounded. Someone bumped Inez’s arm and shoved a full pail of water roughly into her hand. She dropped the empty wash pan in her haste to grab the pail, and turned automatically, thrusting the sloshing pail out to the next shadowy figure in line.
A warm hand closed in a vise grip over her ungloved fingers, staying her grasp on the pail handle.
She looked up. Reverend Sands, still covering her hand, moved closer until the smooth wool of his black overcoat brushed her arm. The warmth passed through her hand, up her arm, beating back the cold terror that the fire had inspired.
The weight of the pail lifted from her. “This is no place for you, Mrs. Stannert. It’s a madhouse on the streets and worse back here.”
Before she could argue, he grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the line.
She splashed back a step, alley ooze splattering her already sodden trousers. Where it soaked through, her skin felt as ice.
A shout sounded perilously close by. Four men, the first kegs wrestled up to their shoulders, staggered past Inez and Sands. They zigzagged toward Flo’s, nearly trampling the firefighting volunteers who were passing buckets, pails, jugs, spittoons, and other assorted odd containers of water toward the battlefront. The line dissolved to make way for the keg carriers.
“My livelihood is at stake.” She attempted to rip her arm from his grasp, which tightened like a snare. “Should the fire get out of control, it’s not just Flo and Lynch who stand to lose everything.”
Another four men burst out of the saloon, carrying still more barrels. Sands pulled her further away from the chaos into the quiet backwater of a narrow passageway between Lynch’s saloon and the neighboring whiskey mill. “There are plenty to help already. It’s a miracle no one has been trampled yet.” Pressure increased on her elbow. She was certain that marks would remain in the morning. “I’ll walk you home. It isn’t safe here. This is no place for a woman.”
Inez barked a short laugh. “As if anyone will recognize me in this get-up. And besides, if this is no place for a woman, you should go tell them.” She waved to the back of Flo’s building. Near the front of the battle line, flickering light revealed a handful of Flo’s women, feminine distractions muffled by donated overcoats. Flo herself was at the fore, her platinum locks disheveled, skirts looped up to her plump knees. The boarders added their high-pitched squeals, screams, and curses to the chaos as they passed chamberpots and pails. Flo, on the other hand, worked silently. Inez caught an expression of grim determination on her soot-stained face, completely unlike her usual cheerful, vaguely silly demeanor.
Sands eased his grip. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do, once I see you’re headed back to safety.”
It was her turn to suddenly seize his arm. “Look!”
It was unnecessary for her to point.
The first barrel of beer had arrived at the back of the brothel. The carriers gave a heave-ho and threw it through the back door, onto the dying flames. A quick flare, the fire damped, and smoke and steam roiled out.
Hurrahs ensued. Flo’s girls began jumping up and down, clapping their hands. The tingle of burnt hops with a nip of alcohol wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of charred timber.
Another keg was hefted and brought to the fire in much the same way, quickly followed by a third. Flames died to a blood-red glow. Firefighting lines dissolved. Volunteers and gawkers surged toward the fading fire. The illumination dimmed, but Inez could clearly see a couple of men had apparently decided to take advantage of the sudden air of celebration, and grabbed at two of the angels of the night, intent on capturing a kiss or perhaps something more.
The demimonde, however, weren’t about to take this lying down. They screamed, kicked, shoved their assailants away. Flo whirled around, raised an object—perhaps, Inez thought, a spittoon—and began whaling away at the men. The crowd pushed closer as smoke obliterated the scene.
Sands muttered an oath that Inez suspected would have caused the women of the church’s social committee to swoon. “Wait here. Don’t move.” He released his hold on her and began to work his way through the crowds toward the melee.
A figure across the alley wavered out of the gloom and into the uncertain light, plunging through heavy mud in Inez’s direction. Inez turned, gripping a pail and wondering if it would be useful as a weapon or if she would need to pull her gun from her pocket.
“Ha!” A very young woman, dressed in what appeared to be only a soiled white wrapper, and not well wrapped at that, lurched further forward. “Slimy bastard! Thought we’d turn tail and run, did ya? Ha!” She hoisted an object aloft.
Subdued light glinted, reflected. Inez tensed, until she realized the woman held a bottle. The woman seemed completely unaware of Inez, gazing instead at the brothel. Inez decided it was probably best not to draw attention to herself and eased away, around the corner.
The woman continued talking to herself, waggling the bottle as if scolding an invisible companion: “Told ya, Flo. You’re playin’ with fire, and lookit what he did. That son of a bitch.”
She tipped the bottle up. The wrapper flapped open. A vertical slice of skin revealed that she wore nothing beneath.
Inez heard a gasp.
She turned and with a start recognized the middle-aged man she’d inadvertently knocked down and almost trampled earlier that evening. He had apparently just come around the far corner of the whiskey mill and stood there, hatless, coatless. His hands opened and closed in a convulsive manner on his jacket lapels. He was staring at the fire.
No. Inez realized he was staring at the half-dressed woman, horror and fascination warring across his face. Perhaps sensing that he was being watched, he turned his head, catching Inez’s gaze with his own. His eyes widened. Recognition flared, and something else, some furtive emotion, twisted his features. It took a moment for her to identify it.
Guilt.
“What’re you starin’ at?”
Startled, Inez whirled and caught the woman glaring at her. “Never seen a tit before?” She squelched forward a step, waving the bottle like a sword. “A-ha! You…got…company!” She pointed the bottle at the older man. “I know you. Prick. Couldn’t keep your eyes off…”
Inez turned to see how he was taking this calumny.
He was gone.
The woman continued to harangue as if he was still there. “Come sniffin’ aroun’. Ha! Attics. I’ll bet! Doors. Think you can stop me? Wait’ll Flo hears…”
The back door to the saloon slammed open again, cutting off her crazy rant. The subdued glow from interior lamps spilled out, painted the rain as a delicate scratch of lines in the air. The woman shrank away, convulsively gripped the front of the robe with one hand, clutching it closed, bringing the curtain down on the show.