Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  “Where’s Bridgette?”

  “Well, she finished the bakin’ early this mornin’, and I told her to get on down for the late Mass and come on back later. Figured she’d appreciate some time with the Lord today. Might make up for all she’s doin’ for us on what’s supposed to be a day of rest.”

  “Abe. What do you make of this?” She pulled out the chain and crucifix and set it on the kitchen table. Abe bent over it, arms crossed, hands tucked in high in his armpits.

  “Why, that there’s a rosary. Seen enough of ’em in my time. ’Specially in N’ Orleans, when I was growin’ up.”

  “Do you know whose it might be?”

  “Well now, Inez, them Catholics, they don’t go just pulling these out and swingin’ ’em around any old time. Most times, they’re only taken out for special prayer times. Tellin’ the rosary or such. Or at Mass.”

  “Bridgette might know.” Inez said. “When is she coming back? “

  “About three I reckon. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no. Yes! Actually, yes. I just…What time is it, Abe?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch. “Near noon. Say, Zeke Thatcher came on by. Said he had a message for you. Wouldn’t leave any other word, and said he’d be back about two.”

  “Then I’ve got to hurry! Abe, I’ll be back a bit later this afternoon. Oh! And Jed, his duel’s at six. Look, if you see that boy around again, the one that’s always hanging around the State Street door—”

  “Yeah, the one you’ve got a soft spot for.”

  “—Tell him to track down Mr. Elliston and ask him stop by the saloon after two-thirty. He should tell Mr. Elliston that I’ve got something he’s searching for. Elliston will know what I mean.”

  ***

  Inez hurried home. She took off the rosary and set it on her nightstand.

  What man would carry such a thing with him? Whoever he was, he either was still here or he was gone. And if he was still in town, he probably didn’t feel in any danger. Anyone looking for Lizzie’s killer would still be looking for Zelda, not him.

  Inez splashed soap, water, and vinegar in her washbasin, swished her hairbrush through it, and pulled it viciously through her hair, trying to neutralize the pungent odor of skunk. Finally, in despair, she bent her head over the bowl and, using the pitcher, repeatedly poured the mixture over her head. Toweling vigorously, she thanked God silently for hair that was no longer waist length.

  Yielding to a desire to clean up as much as possible from the filthy and lengthy hike down Chicken Hill, she poured fresh water in the basin and hurriedly washed, getting the worst of the mud and sweat off, and leaving puddles everywhere in the process. She dressed in a clean, dry skirt and bodice, swearing as her still-damp skin stubbornly resisted her efforts to pull, fasten, hook, lace, and button everything in place.

  She hastened over to one of the trunks in the room and threw it open, releasing the scent of mothballs and the sight of her husband’s everyday clothes, neatly folded.

  Waiting.

  She bundled up two complete ensembles, from handkerchiefs to hose, and hunted down an old pair of Mark’s shoes and two men’s hats, bowlers still lingering more than a year after his disappearance. She stuffed some newspaper—an old issue of The Independent, she noted—into the toes of the shoes and shoved all the clothes into a nondescript canvas satchel.

  She attempted to pin her hair back—it was a straggly mess now—and finally jammed a bonnet on her head.

  Now to rustle up the manager of the Denver and Rio Grande ticket office, wake him from his Sunday after-dinner nap, and make him an offer he can’t refuse.

  Chapter Forty

  Inez made it back to the saloon by a quarter after two. Zeke was waiting, glowering through his beard and shoulder-length scraggly hair, a shot glass, uncharacteristically still full, at his elbow.

  Sol sidled up to her. “Mr. Jackson told him you were coming back,” he whispered. “Mr. Jackson even gave him a drink on the house, while he waited. But he’s not touched it.” Sol sounded alarmed, as if such unusual behavior might herald a new kind of epidemic in the hard-drinking fraternity.

  “Mr. Thatcher, thank you for your patience. Please, let’s go upstairs where we can talk,” said Inez. Clutching the satchel, she proceeded up to the office without a backwards glance.

  She knew he’d follow.

  Once inside and behind closed doors, she wasted no time on niceties. “Here.” She handed Zeke an envelope. “Two tickets to San Francisco. Zelpha and her traveling companion needn’t go all the way through, of course. There are many stops along the way. Nevada City, Sacramento—”

  “Yeah, I kin give her the picture,” said Zeke. He reached down into his boot top and, right in front of Inez’s shocked eyes, drew out a Bowie knife.

  She stepped back a pace, snaked a hand into her pocket, and gripped her small revolver.

  Zeke fastidiously slit the top of the envelope with the wicked knife, pulled out the tickets, and made as if to examine them.

  Inez relaxed, but kept her hand curled around the grip. Zeke can’t even read. Those tickets could be to Timbuktu, for all he knows.

  Zeke tucked the tickets back in the envelope. He didn’t have that unholy gleam in his eye anymore, but seemed more worried than anything else. “Zel said you’d have something else. What is it?”

  She handed him the satchel. “My husband’s old clothes.”

  To her satisfaction, he looked nonplussed.

  Good. This will work.

  She continued, “Now, I’ll give you instructions as to what she and her traveling companion are to do. And don’t leave anything out. If she follows my directions, I promise, this will work.”

  ***

  After Zeke left, Inez had naught to do but return to daily business, while casting anxious looks at the two doors whenever one or the other swung open. In consequence, she spilled more liquor, broke more glasses, delivered more incorrect orders—

  “Mrs. Stannert, you’re jumpy as a cat too close to a dogfight. What’s got into you?” Abe moved her aside to clean up a spill of Madeira wine and offer a clean bar towel and an apology to the dandy now swearing volubly over the red splash on his pale yellow waistcoat.

  “You know about the duel? Jed Elliston and that whelp John Quincy Adams Wesley. Pistols at six. I need to reach Jed before then.”

  “Well, most like Jed’s either off someplace practicin’ with whatever gun he’s got or writin’ up his own obituary. Mebbe both.”

  “You have so little faith in his marksmanship?”

  Abe sighed. “Mrs. Stannert. You ever seen him lift anything more dangerous than a pencil? If’n it was shotguns at six paces and he got to fire first, don’t know that I’d place a bet on him even then.”

  “But just yesterday, he had any number of people in his corner, right here in the saloon, taking odds on him.”

  “Well, that was afore Mr. Wesley went out to the tracks with all those swells that follow him around, along with most of Leadville’s writin’ contingent and a good few of Leadville’s population, and let ’em watch him practice.”

  Her heart sank.

  “He’s good?”

  “Word is, he could probably outgun Doc Holliday in a shootout. That’s probably stretchin’ the truth, but folks swear he’s plenty good enough to take on Jed Elliston.”

  Inez swore softly, and the urchin appeared as if by magic, a miniature genie summoned from the bottle. Dirty hands appeared first, hooking on the top of the bar, followed by a filthy cap over a pair of peeping eyes. “Sorry, Mrs. Stannert, ma’am. I’ve ast ever’where. Looked ever’where. No one’s even seen him the whole day.”

  “Well, you tried.” She fished a penny out of her pocket. “Just keep your eyes open. If you find him, there’s still that nickel in it.”

  “Yes ma’am!”

  He shot out the Harrison Avenue door, nearly bowling over Bridgette who was coming in. She ca
ught one ear and said, “What would your mother say if she knew you were here, and on a Sunday no less. And running around like a hooligan! What do you say, young man?”

  “Sorry, ma’am!”

  She let him go.

  “Bridgette! I’m so glad you’re here. I need to talk to you.” Inez hurried from around the bar and followed Bridgette into the kitchen.

  “Why, surely ma’am, but I’ll need to start setting up for supper. You still want to offer supper tonight?”

  “Very limited choices. Cold, sliced chicken. Leftover stew. Cheese and pickles. That kind of thing. Now, this is quick. I want you to look at this. “ She felt around her pockets and sighed in annoyance. “Oh! I left it at home! Well, I came across something that may point us to who killed that poor woman in the brothel the other night.”

  Bridgette paused, pickle jar in hand, eyes popping. “The girl who was found dead in the alley, then wasn’t dead, and then had her throat cut? Poor thing. I heard she was murdered by one of the other fallen women.”

  “Well, anything’s possible, but I think now it was someone from the outside. But listen: this is what was left behind afterwards.” Inez described the rosary.

  Bridgette set the pickle jar down with a thump and a frown. “A white rosary, you say. That’s a child’s rosary. Probably given to her on her first communion, poor child.”

  “I’m wondering if you might know who’d have something like this?”

  “Well, it tickles my memory, it does, but nothing I can put my finger on. Oh dear. What if it belongs to someone in our parish?” Sh straightened up, looking anxious. “I should talk to the good father about this.”

  “No! Not yet. If I bring it in tomorrow, could you look at it? That might help you remember.”

  “Of course, of course. And I’ll think on it now. What do you plan to do with it?”

  “I’ll turn it over to the police, of course. And tell them how I came about it. Tomorrow.” After Zelpha is safely out of town. “But if you think of anything that could help me, please tell me, right away.”

  Bridgette hustled to the pie safe, began pulling out cherry pies and lining them up on the long kitchen table. “I certainly will, ma’am.”

  She sighed and returned to the bar, sidled up to Abe and motioned for him to pull out his pocket watch. She looked at the time, then up at Abe.

  “I’d better get down there. He’s certainly going to arrive before six. There’s still time to stop this.”

  “And how do you figure on doin’ that? You gonna stand as his second and then knock him on the head so’s you can take his place?”

  “No. Better than that. I’ve got the proof.”

  ***

  Inez hurried down to the tracks, envelope safe in her reticule.

  A large crowd had formed already and was milling about. She identified representatives from the local papers and several visiting pressmen from Denver who tended to congregate at the Silver Queen when in town. Wesley was there, with his usual group of sycophants and yes-men. She also noticed a large number of the local law about, including The Hatchet, his tall thin figure looming a head above the rest. There to keep order in the crowd, clean up after the bloodbath, or just to watch.

  Wesley made a show of inspecting the sun’s declination, pulling out his pocket watch with a flourish, and shaking his head.

  Murmurs grew through the mob. “He’s not coming.” “That yellow-livered…” “Hell, he’s a pencil-pusher. No sense of honor.” “Guess all that talk was nothing but hot air and slander.”

  Then, everyone’s attention shifted.

  Jed Elliston.

  Coming down Third Street, accompanied by two men.

  Indefinable animal sounds of anticipation rolled in a hundred throats. Inez pushed out of the crowd and almost ran up the hill to meet him.

  “Mr. Elliston! Jed!” She was breathless.

  He looked at her. As near-dead from fear as anyone could be and still standing and walking. “Come to see the show, Mrs. Stannert?” He sounded bitter.

  “Jed! For God’s sake. I’ve got it.”

  Jed blinked, not seeming to understand.

  “The letters and the…other thing.”

  She pulled the envelope, much crinkled and the worse for wear, from her purse. She hesitated, holding it up. “There’s one more thing I need from you.”

  “What? Anything!” His gaze seized the envelope with desperate hope like a dying man might clutch a Bible to his breast.

  “Not now. But later. Afterwards. You must promise.”

  “I promise. My firstborn, should I live to have such. Just…please, Mrs. Stannert.”

  She thrust the envelope into his hands.

  Ignoring the shouts of the masses down the hill, Jed tore the envelope open with trembling hands. His two cronies—newsmen from Boulder, she thought—craned their necks to see what he held.

  One whistled. “Wesley wrote that? He must have a death wish. Or at least, must’ve decided that politics wasn’t the job for him. ’Cause this’ll bury him.”

  The other pulled the photograph from Jed’s hand, examined it with much attention, turned it over, and read aloud: “‘To My John. Come Back. See Soon. Love.’ Whoa. What else is there to see? Looks like it’s all there for the viewing.”

  Jed snatched back the carte de visite. He held up photo and letters above his head and said in a voice that carried to the railroad tracks and beyond. “Wesley! You want proof? Here’s proof of all I wrote. In your own hand. When I’m done with you, you’ll want to use that gun on yourself!”

  The reporters in the crowd were the first to break ranks, heading up the slope at a dead run, elbowing each other out of the way to be first in line to view the evidence.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “How d’ I look?” Zelda waited anxiously for a word from her paramour.

  “Zel, you’re the prettiest thing in the world,” said Reuben. “Even in pants and a derby hat.”

  She twisted the buttons on the maroon vest. Her legs felt so strange in the trousers. But she kind of liked that she didn’t have to worry about skirts and petticoats and all that.

  “So’s, you don’t mind about my hair?”

  He lifted her hat and gently ran a hand over her cropped curly hair. “Who cares? It’s just hair. It’ll grow back. Like mine will.”

  She looked at him, all spiffed up, in the duds Mrs. Stannert had provided. With his stringy hair all cut off and slicked back, he looked like a right proper swell, and real handsome, too. Her heart felt near to bursting looking at him.

  “You gotta remember to tip your hat to ladies and bow,” said Reuben. “All the stuff the gentlemen do. Now, I gotta have a name t’ call you.”

  “I got a new name, remember? It’s right here in this letter that Mrs. Stannert had delivered up. Abel. Can’t get much farther away in the alphabet from Zelpha or Zelda, that’s for sure.”

  “Then, you kin call me Cain. We’ll be like brothers. Leastwise ’til we hit San Francisco.” He pulled her close and gave her a passionate kiss. “Guess that’s the last time we kin do that for a while.”

  She pushed him away and glanced up at the circle of fading sky showing through the shaft’s opening. “Time to go. We got a train to catch.” She cleared her throat, looked over at Zeke, who had his eyes glued to a section of the adjoining drift, as if, by looking hard enough, that elusive flash of silver might suddenly materialize.

  “Now Zeke, you gotta promise t’ take good care of Pa.”

  “’S all right, Zel.” His voice was gruff. “You kin count on me. Unlike Zed, who has no brains at all.”

  “I’ll send you money when I get a job.” She sniffed, wiped her nose, and smiled. “Mebbe I’ll just keep this set of clothes. I could get a job as a typesetter someplace else. Could be as a feller or a girl, since I got two letters of recommendation here.” She pulled out two crumpled, hastily composed letters written and signed by Jed Ellis
ton. “This here’s about Zelpha Thatcher. And this here one’s about Abel Atcherson. ‘To Whom It May Concern. Abel Atcherson has been in my employ as a typesetter for three months and shows great promise—’”

  “Let’s go, Zel. Can’t miss that train.”

  Reuben hefted the carpetbag over his shoulder and ascended the ladder to the top of the shaft. Zelda followed. At the top, on real ground at last, she paused in the coming dusk and turned around once. She took in her shanty home, the peaks of Mount Massive and Elbert outlined by the last fading flash of sun, and the lights of Leadville coming on in a soft glow below. “Good-bye home,” she said softly. “Good-bye mountains and Leadville. Good-bye Flo an’ Mr. Elliston an’ Mrs. Stannert. Good-bye Colorado. And hell-o Californy, here we come.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Down in the saloon, Inez watched the door anxiously even as her hands stayed busy pouring another line of drinks for Jed Elliston and his cadre of celebrating journalists. This round had been paid for by none other than the editor of the competing Leadville Chronicle.

  The urchin appeared as he always did, as if from thin air, dirty hands clamped to the bar first, followed by the hat and eyes. “I did all you said, ma’am.”

  “To whom did you give the letters?”

  “Zeke Thatcher, ma’am. Here’s the piece of paper you ast me to bring back.”

  He let go of the bar and disappeared, dropping down to explore his pockets. Then, a small chubby hand appeared over the lip of the counter, pushing a crumpled piece of paper toward her.

  She examined Zeke’s hastily scribbled mark on it, and nodded, satisfied. And slid the nickel back to the waiting hand. “As promised.”

  “Thank y’, ma’am!” The urchin shot out the door like a squirrel chased by hounds.

  She leaned on the bar, thinking to give Jed a sign that he was now released from any obligations to her, but he was occupied with being the hero triumphant of the evening. His offer to buy drinks for the house had been roundly voted down by the sturdy few who’d bet long on him winning the duel and had come out big against the overwhelming odds.