Watching Eagles Soar

by Margaret Coel

  “Stop here,” J.J. instructed, and Stanton reined in the horses in the middle of the street alongside the line of carriages and wagons. “We must hurry,” J.J. said, as Molly took his hand and jumped from the buggy. She sprinted after him, darting between the back of a carriage and the horses harnessed to a wagon, in and out of the groups of people and through the black double doors into the vast marbled expanse of Union Station, with rows of oak benches lined in front of black-grilled windows where men in green shade caps dispensed tickets. Crowds of people stood about or claimed spaces on the benches, suitcases piled beside them.

  Molly hurried alongside J.J. to the large black-and-white notice board under the sign that read Departures. She scanned the list of cities and times: Fort Worth, 11:15, track 3. Chicago, l1:05, track 2. San Francisco, 10:52, track 1.

  “It’s leaving early!” Molly heard herself shout over the deep voice on the public address system: “All aboard for San Francisco.”

  J.J. swung about and started running and Molly ran after him, ignoring the hard knot in her chest, the hot bursts of her own breath. She slipped on the marble floor, flung out both hands to right herself against a stack of suitcases, and ran on toward the entrance to the tunnel that led under the station to the tracks in back. Above the entrance was the sign that said Tracks 1, 2, and 3.

  She could see J.J. sprinting ahead through the crowds moving along the tunnel. She flung back her head and ran all out after him, bumping against the passengers, sending a woman in a feathered hat reeling against the stone wall. Molly was right behind J.J. as they ran out of the tunnel and into the pale light of the platform. A few passengers were still boarding the train, the conductor stationed next to the steps, but most of the passengers were on board, judging by the faces pressed against the windows and the white handkerchiefs fluttering good-bye.

  “All aboard,” the conductor shouted. The locomotive let out a long whistle, and steam rolled back along the train and bunched like fog around the wheels. It was then that the man with the silver hair and silver goatee and the black-haired woman darted out of the tunnel and hurtled toward the conductor, bumping suitcases across the platform.

  “There they are!” Molly ran toward the couple. “Stop! Stop!” she shouted.

  J.J. darted past and grabbed the prince’s arm hard, Molly guessed, by the grimace of pain that flashed above the silver goatee. “Do as she says,” J.J. said.

  “We’ll miss our train.” The black-haired woman let go of the suitcase she was hauling and started to dodge past as Molly reached for her arm.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Molly said, spinning her around. “Not with Mrs. Hill’s money.”

  “This is outrageous!” the woman said, her cheeks reddened in rage. “We made a legitimate business arrangement.”

  “With an illegitimate stone,” J.J. said, “worth no more than a few pennies.”

  “All aboard,” the conductor called again.

  “Give us the money,” Molly said, holding on tight as the woman struggled to tug free.

  “Conductor!” The silver-haired man yanked himself sideways and lifted one arm in the direction of the train. “We are being detained against our will,” he shouted.

  J.J. kept hold of the man’s other arm. “Summon the police,” he shouted.

  “The police?” the woman said. “For god sakes, Alex, I can’t go back to jail. Give them the bloody envelope.”

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Molly realized the conductor had materialized beside them, a blur of navy blue uniform and gold buttons.

  “No problem,” said the man. “We’ll be boarding soon.”

  “We’ve boarded all the other passengers, sir,” the conductor said. “Do come along.”

  “Try to understand,” the man said, turning toward J.J. “Everything I told you is true. I must reclaim my estate.”

  “Oh, please, Alex,” the woman said. “The game is up. The blasted train’s gonna leave without us.” She leaned over, opened the lid on a small valise, and lifted out a brown envelope. She shoved it at Molly.

  “Hold on,” J.J. said, still gripping the man’s arm. “Make sure it’s all there.” Molly had to pry the envelope open with one hand. She heard herself gasp. Inside was a stack of greenbacks in one-thousand-dollar denominations. She hadn’t seen so many greenbacks since the day in Leadville when J.J. had come home with a grip stuffed with greenbacks. They had danced around the little house, tossing money in the air, laughing at the way it fluttered over the furniture like snowflakes.

  “You have the money,” the man said. “Now unhand us, sir.”

  “Police!” J.J. shouted.

  “We will not abide this!” The black-haired woman started twisting about, an arm flailing toward Molly, who tightened her grip on the woman’s other arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the trio of policemen running down the platform. She managed to secure the brown envelope in the waistband of her dress and close her cloak before the policemen slid to a stop, brandishing black nightsticks.

  “What’s the trouble?” The officer with captain’s bars on his jacket faced J.J.

  “Arrest this man and woman.” J.J. hadn’t relinquished his grip on the man’s arm, and Molly found herself stumbling across the platform as the woman pitched herself in the direction of the train that was bucking and screeching forward. Still she held on and managed to drag the woman back.

  “They accosted you, sir?”

  “They murdered the actor in the alley behind the Oxford Hotel,” J.J. said.

  “A serious charge,” the policeman said, but the other policemen moved in closer, blocking any chance for the couple to escape.

  “If you check their suitcases, you will no doubt find the murder weapon,” J.J. said. “I’m J. J. Brown, and what I have told you is fact.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Brown. I recognize your name.” For a moment, Molly thought the policeman might bow before them. “Arrest this couple,” he said, turning to the other officers. The woman let out the high shriek of a trapped mountain lion and flailed about until the policeman gripped both of her arms behind her back and clamped handcuffs about her wrists. But the man stood like a statue, or a prince, Molly thought, faced with the inevitable, scarcely moving, except to extend both hands for the handcuffs that might have been snapped onto someone else. His gaze followed the train moving out of the station, whistle blowing and steam and smoke rolling back along the empty track.

  “May I ask your connection to this pair,” the officer said as the other policemen picked up the suitcases and nudged the couple toward the tunnel.

  J.J. took a moment, reaching inside his coat pocket, then extended his hand to the officer, who grasped it as if they were the oldest of friends. “All the evidence you need will be in the suitcases,” J.J. said. “My wife and I do not wish to be publicly associated with this affair. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Certainly, sir. Certainly.” The officer started backing away, fumbling at the flap on his jacket pocket and slipping something inside. He spun about and hurried after the other policemen and their prisoners.

  Molly wrapped her arm around J.J.’s and leaned against him. The bulk of the envelope pressed against her stomach. “How much did you give him?” she said.

  “Enough to keep us out of the police record,” J.J. said. “And the newspapers.”

  * * *

  Another policeman must have directed the buggy to move on because it was stopped a half block down from the entrance to Union Station. Molly gripped J.J.’s arm as they skirted the snow and ice on the pavement, darted past the line of buggies and wagons, and crawled onto the cold leather seats. “Mrs. Hill’s home,” J.J. said.

  The same round-faced maid with arrogance etched into the set of her mouth opened the mansion’s door. “I have been instructed to tell you that Mrs. Hill will not receive you,” she said. “Now or ever.”


  J.J. pushed the door open, giving the girl no choice except to back into the vestibule as they stepped inside. Molly held up the brown envelope. “Tell Mrs. Hill we are returning her property.”

  The maid hesitated a moment, throwing several glances toward the closed wood doors, eyes wide with a mixture of indecision and fright. Finally she seemed to brace herself, pulling herself up to her full height of five and one-half feet, her black-laced shoes tapping out a deliberate rhythm on the marble floor as she approached the door. She pushed it open, stepped inside, and slid the door shut. A second passed, followed by the angry sounds of scolding and belittling over the muffled sounds of sobbing. Finally the door slid open and the girl emerged, face reddened and eyes glistening. “She’ll see you,” she sobbed, then ran toward the back of the house.

  Molly flung her cloak back on her shoulders and walked into the drawing room, J.J.’s footsteps clacking behind her. Louise stood ramrod straight, framed in the light from the windows overlooking the veranda, the rolls of her hair slightly askew, arms hanging at her sides.

  “I demand to know the meaning of this further intrusion,” she said.

  Molly took a direct route across the Oriental carpet between a pair of leather sofas. She held out the envelope. “This belongs to you,” she said, certain that Louise Hill recognized the envelope by the way she had fastened her gaze on it.

  “I don’t understand,” Louise said.

  “It’s yours.” Molly thrust the envelope toward the other woman, who finally reached out and took it. “We saw the prince and princess at Union Station. He wasn’t able to keep the money, so he gave it to us. We are returning it.”

  “We have an agreement . . .” Louise began. She was sputtering, the gray eyes flitting back and forth, as if she could pluck the words off the velvet cloths that draped the tables or the smooth cushions of the leather sofas. “How dare you make your own arrangement with the prince! I have purchased Cleopatra’s diamond. He has no right to sell it to you. He may return my money, but that does not cancel our agreement. What you have done is the lowest, most dishonorable . . .”

  “Cleopatra’s diamond is yours,” Molly said. “He wanted you to have it.” She spun around and went back to the door where J.J. was standing with such a supercilious grin on his face that she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing out loud. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Louise Hill as she and J.J. headed across the black-and-white marble floor of the vestibule. Had she imagined it, or was Louise Hill about to burst into tears of relief?

  * * *

  Molly could hear the familiar sound of J.J. moving about the drawing room as she started down the stairs. She had reached the landing when the library door opened and J.J. came out into the vestibule. He struck a pose at the bottom of the staircase, one hand gripped over the knob of the balustrade, the other waving a newspaper. “I was coming to find you,” he said. “You’ll want to read this.”

  Molly stopped three steps above him. She could feel the blood rushing from her face, and she grabbed the railing to steady herself. Polly Pry—that dreadful woman. If she would only print the stories people gave her, instead of traipsing across the city looking for horrible, embarrassing news that no one needed to know.

  “What is it?” she managed, finally taking hold of the newspaper. She sank onto the step and looked at the article that he had folded into place. She had to force herself to focus on the headline, and thank goodness the headline was small—“Actors Plead Guilty to Manslaughter.” And thank goodness for something else: There were no sketches.

  She felt herself begin to breathe again as she read down the column:

  A pair of actors from London, Alex Herron and Kate Dawes, pleaded guilty to manslaughter in the case of fellow actor, Edward Alsop, found shot to death in the alley behind the Oxford Hotel. The couple had come to Denver for a performance at a private gathering, in which the third actor also took part. Evidently, the actors had a falling out over money, and Mr. Alsop attacked Mr. Herron and Miss Dawes, who claim they had no choice but to defend themselves with a small pistol that Miss Dawes carried for protection in strange cities. It was not explained how they happened to be in the alley behind the Oxford, but it would seem that the private performance had taken place nearby. According to Captain McCloskey, the police had acted on an anonymous tip and apprehended the pair at Denver Union Station as they were about to flee aboard the train to San Francisco. Captain McCloskey refused to identify the party that had hired the actors for a private performance. “They have nothing to do with the commission of the crime and must remain anonymous,” he said. One can only guess which of Denver’s finest had enjoyed a performance staged by murderers!

  Molly pushed herself to her feet, hurried down the rest of the steps, and threw herself in J.J.’s arms. “I do believe we are now part of Denver’s finest,” she said. She was laughing and crying, wiping at her tears and burying her face into the blue serge of J.J.’s waistcoat.

  “What are you saying?”

  Molly pulled back a little and looked up at him—that same supercilious grin, but mixed now with a genuine look of perplexity. “Isn’t that what Louise Hill said?” She was laughing so hard, it took a moment before she could go on. “The mark of the finest is having money. And knowing how to use it.”

  More from Beyond

  Lizzie Come Home

  The day the soldiers appeared on the ridge, Lizzie scooped up Little Feather and ran out of the village. In the willows along the creek, she made a leafy bed for the child and snuggled next to him, watching the small brown fingers reach for her red-gold hair and curl into the whiteness of her palms. The willows shaded him from the midday sun that bleached the sky to pale blue. It was cool here; no one could see them.

  When she had first heard the rumble of the horses’ hooves, her heart had almost stopped. She dropped the moccasin she was stitching and, scarcely breathing, looked toward the ridge in the distance, longing for the sight of Flying Cloud, her husband. But the horses that galloped into view carried three soldiers. The sun glinted off the metal bars of their jackets and caps as they halted to survey the village below, horses whinnying and pawing at the dry earth. Suddenly another rider reined in alongside them, a trader in a buckskin shirt and slouched hat. Like the soldiers, he had a rifle slung across the back of his saddle. In an instant, Lizzie was running to the creek, as her father, Chief Medicine Man, had told her from the time she was a child. “When the white men come to the village,” he said, “you must hide yourself. If they see a girl with hair like the sun and skin like the winter snow, they will take her away from us.”

  Now Lizzie parted the willows and watched the white men ride to the center of the village. Women shooed children into the lodges that stood among the cottonwoods. Except for the clip-clop of horses, the jangle of spurs, and the rush of the breeze, the village was quiet. Medicine Man and the other elders walked toward the riders, hands outstretched in the Arapaho sign of peace.

  A soldier as thin as a lodgepole pine swung off his mount and stepped toward her father. The trader followed. Lizzie recognized him. He had come to trade with the Hi’nono eino in the time past, before the soldiers had killed the people at Sand Creek, before the worst of the troubles had begun. The harsh sound of voices drifted through the sunshine. Lizzie knew the trader was interpreting the words spoken by her father and the soldiers. Fear as sharp as an arrow shot through her. The traders always lied; they told the soldiers what they wanted to hear.

  Little Feather began to whimper. She picked up the child and blew gently on his cheek, lest his cry give away the hiding place. With quick fingers, she loosened the ties on her dress and shrugged the soft buckskin off one shoulder. Then she gave the baby her breast. The small pink mouth tugged at her nipple, making soft, hurried sounds. Stroking the baby’s head, she peered again through the willows. Medicine Man and the elders sat in a circle with the white men, heads bent and voices low, like the
fading echoes of drums. The cry of a child was of no concern.

  She wondered what had brought the strangers to her village. The trader had no goods to trade; he must have come only to interpret the spoken words. But why had the soldiers come? A new fear gripped her. What if they had brought news of Flying Cloud? What if her husband were dead?

  Lizzie swallowed back the cry that rose in her throat. Flying Cloud must not be dead! Before he and the other warriors had ridden out of the village, he had come to her lodge. It was the Moon of Ice Breaking on the River, and warmth had begun to seep into the days. She had just given birth to Little Feather and was still gaining her strength. Her husband had lain down beside her on the buffalo robe.

  “I go at dawn,” he whispered.

  “No,” she said. “Do not leave me and your new son.”

  “It must be.” His tone was meant to soothe her. “We go to scout for the soldiers on the Sweetwater. When we lead them to the hostiles, it will prove our people only want peace. The soldiers will give us land where we can live without fear that they will kill our people and burn our villages. Little Feather will be able to grow safely into manhood.”

  She had protested. “They say they will give us lands, but they don’t say the truth.”

  “We have no other choice.” His voice was firm.

  “But if you . . .” She could not bring herself to speak the words. How could she live with the sadness if Flying Cloud did not return?

  She had begun to cry and her husband had gathered her into his arms. He brushed away her tears and kissed her cheeks and the moisture on her eyelids. “You must be brave,” he said. “You must believe I will return to you and the child.”