by Jim Woolard
Walking on the brakeman’s heels, it struck Nathan that even if he and Alana were permitted to board the train, the chance any conductor would allow Sam, or any dog for that matter, inside his passenger coaches was slim to none, and no railroad allowed dogs to travel in its cabooses. Alana was about to confront a major challenge to her getting Sam to Creede with them.
They found Conductor Amos Longworth beside the rear passenger coach, listening for the whistle blast that would tell him the watering of the engine had been completed. His uniform coat was immaculate and wrinkle free, every hair of his stiletto beard and waxed moustache perfectly clipped, his cap slanted at a precise angle of his choosing, and his black shoes polished to a high luster. A passenger conductor’s authority regarding ticketing and boarding equaled that of an army general, and Amos Longworth’s exacting appearance gave every indication he exercised that authority in a manner no less stringent than his military counterpart. Sam’s chance of boarding with them suddenly seemed less than none.
“Yes, Lonnie?”
“These two say they have tickets to Creede, Mr. Longworth. They say Bull Haines gave them permission to board here at Parma Tank.”
Conductor Longworth studied Alana and Nathan. His brow lifted abruptly when Sam stuck his head between them and growled. Unruffled, Conductor Longworth requested their tickets.
Alana unbuttoned her mackinaw and pulled the paper tickets from a pant’s pocket. Conductor Longworth elevated his lantern and read each line-by-line. “These are valid, and the station master did request you be allowed to board here.” Longworth squinted at Alana. “Is that your dog?”
“Yes, it is,” Alana readily admitted.
Conductor Longworth frowned. “Dogs aren’t permitted on D&RG passenger trains. You and the gentleman may board. The dog stays behind.”
“But Amos,” Lonnie protested, “He can—“
“Quiet,” Longworth interrupted. “They’ll be no bending of the rules on my watch.”
The engine whistle blasted. The conductor turned toward the front of the train and swept his lantern in a semi arc. Signal completed, he turned back and said, “Are you going, or staying with the dog, ma’am?”
Where Nathan expected a vehement protest from Alana, there wasn’t a hint of outrage in her voice. “You have our tickets. Come along, Nephew. Sam, stay!”
The engine whistle blasted twice, and the 488 lurched ahead. Conductor Longworth hustled onto the platform of the nearest passenger coach, checked to see that Alana and Nathan had no trouble mounting the steep steps, and disappeared through the coach’s rear door.
The majestically calm Alana gently shoved Nathan through the door behind the conductor, leaving her alone on the platform. Nathan just barely heard her sharp whistle over the scrape of wheels and the rattle of the passenger coach as it picked up speed. The conductor didn’t hear it at all. Then Alana was inside pushing him down the center aisle and closing the door with a loud bang. A satisfied Amos Longworth shoved his nose into the air, extinguished his lantern, and proceeded into the next car.
Spying Alana’s loose, shoulder length auburn hair, two young swells in Astrakhan fur coats and spanking new top boots laced at the ankles sprang to their feet. The older one bowed and said, “Our mother taught us a gentleman doesn’t sit if there’s a lady left standing.”
“Why, thank you,“ Alana said with a sincere smile.
“Come on, Sid, we’ll crowd in elsewhere.”
The fur-coated young swells moved up the center aisle, and as soon as Alana was seated, Nathan followed suit, sinking onto leather cushions lumpy and cracked at the seams, but still soft as cotton beneath his sore haunches.
He watched Alana stuff her long hair beneath her cap once more. “The brakeman had to see Sam jump onto the platform between cars,” Nathan contended.
Alana’s laugh had that familiar lilt. “Yes, he probably did. I’m betting neither Lonnie nor the other brakemen will report it to our pompous conductor. Amos may believe he’s God, but the brakemen must find him awfully tiresome.”
“What happens when we stop again to take on water and coal?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve traveled this branch line with Seth. It’s a three-hour trip and there are five towers between Parma Tank and Creede. Sam will hide under the car at each stop. He won’t show himself until I step down in Creede.”
Nathan squirmed to get comfortable. At least he was riding on something that didn’t bounce, and though the coal stove heating the coach was well down the aisle, he was warmer than before and out of the wind. Sleep, however, eluded him. The car’s swaying and lurching motion heightened his headache, and he sat staring at the mass of humanity surrounding him, pondering how greatly things had changed for him in just three weeks.
He longed for those tedious days of counting inventory at the Tanner warehouse under the watchful eye of Jesse Wiggins. Life had been simple and straightforward and rock solid under his father’s stern tutelage, a far cry from his present circumstances. Each day was now a string of unexpected, spontaneous events that were snowballing toward some kind of resolution; a resolution that he was convinced would be violent and bloody.
He feared for himself and the beautiful, resourceful woman sleeping beside him. He was afraid she would desperately need his help at some point in time. And deeper down, he was afraid he would be found wanting.
Nineteen
“There’s no night in Creede,” Alana warned. “Nothing ever stops, not the mining, or the gambling, or the drinking.”
Nathan got his first taste of Creede’s go-for-broke atmosphere as they tried to descend the steps of the passenger coach. A horde of would-be prospectors crowded around them, waiting to board.
“Looks like some have given up on striking it rich,” he remarked.
“No, not that,” Alana said. “There are so few beds in Creede the railroad turns every coach laying over into a hotel for the night.”
Sam emerged from beneath the coach and the crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Brakeman Lonnie pushed into the breech, bearing Alana’s rifle. “It’s been a pleasure putting one over on Amos, ma’am. Take care.”
“Thanks for your help, Lonnie,” Alana said. “Follow me, Nephew.”
The icy slush of mud covering the rail yard stuck to Nathan’s boots in globs. He hunched his shoulders against the wind, for the night air at eighty-eight hundred feet was bitterly cold. A large tent pitched next to the tracks served as the D&RG depot. Across the rails, a freight car with windows and doors cut out of it displayed the blue and white sign of the Western Union Telegraph Company and another reading, “Ticket Office.” Lumber, boilers, boxes, bags, barrels, and kegs clogged the D&RG freight yard. Electric lights inside the tent freight house itself revealed stacks of cased whiskey, billiard tables, and crated bar fixtures. It amused Nathan that the sources of pleasure and chance were considered so valuable they were stored under roof with a watchman at the entryway.
The raw, temporary atmosphere of the mining camp was even more apparent when they reached Creede Avenue. The camp’s main street corkscrewed northward between the ever-narrowing cliffs of Willow Gulch. There wasn’t a brick, a painted front, or an awning in sight. Furniture, canned provisions, half-open packing cases, bedding, tins of kerosene, and kegs of beer were heaped before stores of pine board and canvas illuminated by electric lights with blue and red globes. The most substantial structures were the numerous saloons and gambling halls, but even the stability of their frame construction against a high wind was subject to question. It was, Nathan decided, a sliver of the world devoted exclusively to either striking it rich as quickly as possible or fleecing those lucky enough to hit it big.
The traffic on Creede Avenue just shy of midnight exceeded that of the St. Louis riverfront at high noon on Saturdays. Shouldering one’s way through the waves of humanity bound all directions at once was in Nathan’s opinion akin to clawing one’s way out of a basket of slippery eels. And if hurrying pedestrians weren’t eno
ugh to contend with, ox-teams, mules, and donkeys loaded with silver ore wedged through those traveling afoot, unmindful of any injuries their passage inflicted.
Nathan was near to dropping from exhaustion and Sam close to biting the next soul to brush against him when Alana angled toward the first two-story building they encountered. A railed, second story veranda whose canvas banner identified the building as Zhang’s Hotel overhung the porch. Adjoining the hotel was a one-story building. Lettering on its half-curtained windows advertised that it was the hotel office, and offered a reading room and barbershop where a bath could be had for twenty-five cents.
Alana motioned for Nathan and Sam to wait outside and entered the hotel office. She came out brandishing a brass key. “We’re in luck. The hotel got the telegram I had Mr. Dawes send when he bought our train tickets in Alamosa. They’ve emptied out a room for us. Seth and I stayed at Zhang’s when he brought me up here last summer to show me the hullabaloo that accompanies a silver strike.”
“What about Sam?”
“He sleeps in our room,” Alana said, patting her coat pocket. “Money has a loud voice in Creede, Nephew, a very loud voice.”
Narrow bladed shovels with short wooden handles leaned beside the front door of the hotel and each patron took time to scrape their boots clean before entering. Nathan and Alana added their leavings to the pile at the edge of the porch and ventured inside.
Zhang’s wasn’t Denver’s Cow Palace, but it was a far cry from Alamosa’s threadbare Imperial House. Its combined lobby, dining room, and kitchen were larger than the entire Alamosa establishment, including its guest rooms. Aromas drifted from the kitchen that Nathan hadn’t smelled since dining at Tony Faust’s St. Louis Oyster House with his father.
Alana stood on tiptoe and sniffed like a hound. “Only the Strater in Durango has a better menu. Zhang’s is the gem of Creede. And Josiah Pedigrew,” she said, scanning the dining room, “takes a late evening meal here almost every night.”
The burly overseer in charge of seating customers took an instant dislike to Sam, but Alana held out her hand, palm down. One peek by the overseer and they were being shown to a table in a quiet corner with a view of Creede Avenue. With Alana bundled in a mackinaw and her hair swept up under her cap, she appeared a man and didn’t attract undue notice. Most of the hungry diners gave Sam and her rifle only a cursory glance.
They dined in grand style on baked mountain trout, roasted chicken, queen fritters, and English plum pudding with brandy sauce. With every bite Alana watched the street and front door for Josiah Pedigrew. Her vigilance was rewarded as they finished the plum pudding. “There he is,” she alerted Nathan.
The man in the doorway could have come from a meeting of the St. Louis Banker’s Association. He was dressed in a black wool suit with velvet arm shields under the sleeves, white muslin shirt with standing collar, and black bow tie. The Tower Stetson he clutched in his left hand was of beaver fur with a six-inch crown. A black, full length mackintosh coat draped his left forearm. Josiah Pedigrew’s sole deviation from the attire of his Eastern financial peers was the rubber Arctics protecting his shoes against the icy muck of Creede Avenue.
It was no surprise to Nathan that Alana left her chair and boldly intercepted Josiah Pedigrew. What did surprise him was how fast the bulky gent in the derby hat, one hand lingering inside an oiled express coat, appeared at Pedigrew’s hip. Nathan thought Alana might remove her cap to let the bodyguard know she was a female, but dismissed that as unnecessary: There was no mistaking his aunt’s sex at close range, cap or no cap.
Whatever she said, Josiah Pedigrew was intrigued enough to change course and follow her. As they approached the corner table, Pedigrew’s dark eyes examined Nathan from behind steel-framed spectacles. He inspected Sam from head to toe, too, then smiled, his gold tooth flashing in the light of the kerosene chandelier. “Your aunt can be quite persuasive, Mr. Tanner. May I join you?”
At Nathan’s polite nod Pedigrew placed his Tower Stetson and mackintosh coat on an empty chair and sat at the table. The bodyguard, careful not to provoke Sam by coming near Alana, stationed himself behind his employer where he could watch the whole of the dining room.
The waiter needed no bidding to set dinner before Pedigrew. The hungry mine owner ate and drank without speaking. When he’d cleaned his plate, he refilled his coffee cup from the enamelware pot in the center of the table and addressed Alana. “Now, Mrs. Tanner, let us discuss this matter concerning Eldon Payne.”
“Mr. Pedigrew,” Alana said, “as I mentioned, your firm purchased boilers, smelting furnaces, and other mining equipment from Payne Merchandise totaling fifty thousand dollars. A question has arisen as to whether you paid for that equipment.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Mrs. Tanner. Just who’s posing the question?”
“Nathan and I, Mr. Pedigrew. With my husband’s death I own half of Payne Merchandise. Nathan has inherited Tanner Supply Company of St. Louis from his father, and the Tanner invoices to Payne for your equipment have not been paid. They’re months overdue.”
Maybe the eyes were deep brown instead of gray, but the mine owner’s scrutinizing gaze was as hypnotic as that of Nathan’s father. “Has anybody asked Eldon about the unpaid invoices?”
Pedigrew’s use of Eldon Payne’s first name wasn’t lost on Alana and Nathan. Were the two men just business associates, or were they friends, too? The mine owner seemed the type of wealthy, resolute individual who would fiercely defend his friends and brutally dispatch his enemies. One wrong word and Nathan and Alana might find themselves alone at the table.
“Seth did before he died, and I did yesterday in Eldon’s office,” Alana said straight out. “We reviewed the Payne Company ledgers and Eldon never mentioned the Tanner invoices. He created the impression the store has no outstanding debts where its suppliers are concerned.”
Pedigrew sipped his coffee. “Just what is it you’re trying to say, Mrs. Tanner, that my friend Eldon’s a thief?”
Nathan sensed the tightrope they were walking was about to hold firm or snap. “I can’t answer that,” Alana admitted. “If you paid the Payne invoices, then where’s the money? If you didn’t, then Eldon’s not guilty of anything.”
“Which do you think happened, Mrs. Tanner?” Pedigrew asked bluntly.
Nathan could hardly sit still. They had but one foot on the tightrope now. Alana Birdsong didn’t so much as blink. “You paid the invoices, Mr. Pedigrew. You don’t like owing money.”
Josiah Pedigrew finished his coffee and tugged a Meerschaum pipe from one suit pocket and a leather tobacco pouch from the other. He filled the bowl of the pipe and tamped the tobacco with a thumb. The bodyguard provided him a wooden match. Once his pipe was burning properly, Pedigrew smiled wryly at the anxious looks of Nathan and Alana, and said, “You’re right, Mrs. Tanner, I paid the invoices upon receipt with drafts drawn upon my account at Grand National Bank in Alamosa. I have a telegram from the bank on file at the smelter stating the monies were successfully transferred from my account to that of Payne Merchandise the next day.”
Nathan was listening so intently the only sound he heard in the crowded dining room was Pedigrew drawing on his pipe. He was suddenly, unexpectedly caught in the middle of an emotional tug-of-war. While he was ecstatic they’d obtained proof Eldon Payne was up to no good, he was at the same time saddened that the information meant Payne’s devoted daughter—the girl Nathan loved—would likely be too embarrassed to ever see him again once the law and the courts descended upon her father
“Eldon being a good friend, I don’t imagine it was easy for you to tell us that,” Alana surmised.
Pedigrew puffed on his pipe and blew a perfect smoke ring. “Mrs. Tanner, I would suggest you can watch a ship sail from port. Unless you’re the captain, however, you can’t say for certain why the ship sailed a particular course, can you?”
“I’m not following you, Mr. Pedigrew,” Alana said.
“Besides being a
customer of his store, I’ve been friends with Eldon Payne for years. He shipped mining equipment to me in Durango before I started my smelting operation here in Creede. I will tell you this: Eldon Payne is no thief. He may have taken your money, but he’s no thief.”
Nathan couldn’t bide his tongue. “Mr. Pedigrew, that doesn’t make any sense. If you steal, you’re a thief, aren’t you?”
Alana gripped Nathan’s arm. “Let’s be fair to Eldon and hear Mr. Pedigrew out,” she suggested with a smile of her own.
“You’re not truly a thief if you steal under duress,” Pedigrew asserted. “If Eldon stole from his own store, someone threatened him with dire consequences if he didn’t follow their bidding. That’s what I mean by acting under duress. He had no choice in the matter.”
“Suppose he owed a gambling debt as big as the missing amount or more to Roan and Cal Buckman?” Alana challenged.
Pedigrew puffed and thought. “No, I’ve sat in on that Wednesday night poker game at the Alamosa Club once or twice and Eldon knows I’d loan him that amount against his holdings in Payne Merchandise.”
Alana laid her cards face up on the table. “Mr. Pedigrew, I’ll be frank. My husband was murdered. So was Nathan’s father. We have reason to believe the Buckmans are responsible, that they’re finally taking revenge on the Tanners for Seth having killed their father years ago. We suspect Eldon is in league with them, that the brothers are determined to gain control of Payne Merchandise even if they have to murder all the partners, the Tanner partners, that is. Eldon recently backed an attempt by the Buckmans to buy us out. When we refused, someone tried to murder Nathan.”
Pedigrew tapped dottle from the bowl of his pipe on the edge of his plate. His staring eyes could have melted iron. “Those are serious charges, Mrs. Tanner. Can you prove them?”