No Less Than the Journey

by E. V. Thompson

  The revolver came up and there was the sound of a shot … but the cry of pain that followed came from the cowboy and not from Rafferty. The revolver he had been holding dropped to the ground and he staggered backwards, clutching his shoulder his expression one of agony and disbelief.

  As Anabelita stepped from behind Lola, smoke still trickling from the barrel of the small revolver she held in her hand, the wounded cowboy began screaming, ‘… She shot me! The goddam bitch shot me…!’

  While all this was going on, the friend who had been invited by Leveridge to join the anticipated party with the two women had looked on uncertainly. Now, seeing Anabelita holding the diminutive pistol, he began to draw his own pistol from its holster.

  Whether or not he would have used it was never put to the test.

  Aaron had been returning from the Denver Hotel when he saw a crowd gathering about the place where he had left Pat Rafferty with the two women and he began hurrying. As he neared the spot he heard the sound of a shot, fired from a small calibre weapon and he broke into an awkward run.

  Pushing his way roughly through the gathering crowd he was in time to see Leveridge’s friend drawing his revolver. At the same moment Pat Rafferty dived for the shotgun strapped to his bag and the cowboy hesitated, uncertain whether to shoot at Anabelita, or the one-armed man.

  Before he reached a decision a hand came over his shoulder and the muzzle or a revolver barrel was pressed against his right temple. He froze as Aaron’s voice said, ‘Just so much as twitch your trigger finger and you’ll lose what little brain you might have. Drop your gun – and be quick about it.’

  The cowboy dropped his handgun as though it had suddenly become red-hot. Aaron promptly kicked it towards the women and Lola hastily picked it up.

  A push from Aaron sent the disarmed man staggering across the road to where the uniformed Denver police officer was now supporting the wounded cowboy who had his back to a store front and appeared to be about to slip to the boardwalk.

  While Aaron was being appraised by Pat Rafferty of what had occurred, a second uniformed man pushed his way through the crowd. He too wore a badge on the breast of his jacket, but the wording on it displayed the word ‘Chief’ and Aaron rightly assumed he commanded the Denver police force.

  Addressing the officer supporting Leveridge as ‘McAvoy’, the newly-arrived police chief demanded to know what was happening.

  Lowering the wounded man to the boardwalk, officer McAvoy explained, ‘There’s been a shooting, Chief.’ Pointing to Anabelita who had returned her .22 revolver to it’s holster, hidden beneath her skirt, he added, ‘She shot this man for no apparent reason.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Pat Rafferty said, heatedly, ’… and you damn well know it because he was talking to you before he came over here and started insulting the two women who are with me – something you seemed to find highly amusing at the time. When I told him to get lost he drew his gun and threatened to shoot me if I didn’t go away by the time he counted to five. He’d got to four and was raising his gun when Miss Jones shot him. She saved my life.’

  The police chief digested this for a moment, then turned to McAvoy. ‘Is this true?’

  The officer shook his head, ‘I didn’t see anything of the sort … and I know Mr Leveridge. He’s not the sort of man who’d bother women that way.’

  ‘Leveridge…? Now that’s an unusual name.’ This from Aaron, ‘His first name wouldn’t happen to be Archibald, I suppose?’

  Glaring at Aaron, McAvoy replied, ‘His name is Archie … but what’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Well now, Archie Leveridge isn’t a man who any lawman should claim for a friend – although any one involved in law enforcement should know the name. A wanted poster went out to all sheriffs’ and marshals’ offices – including those in the Territories – declaring that a certain Archibald Leveridge is wanted in Missouri with others for holding up a stagecoach and making off with a cash box and a couple of bags of United States mail. Most of the others have either been killed or captured, but Leveridge managed to evade arrest, in spite of the fact that he has a seven hundred dollar reward on his head. Two hundred put up by the governor of Missouri and five hundred by Wells Fargo. I think Miss Jones can rightly claim that reward. I suggest you lock Leveridge up in your cells, have a doctor look at his wound, then ship him off to Jefferson City to stand trial – but if I were Chief of Police here I’d want to know how come one of my officers is so friendly with a wanted outlaw and was ready to take his part when he knew damn well that he started all the trouble here in the first place.’

  Angrily, the Denver police chief demanded, ‘Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Mister…? Who the hell are you, anyway?’

  Pulling his coat open to reveal the five-pointed US Marshal’s star pinned to his chest, Aaron replied, ‘I’m Aaron Berryman, United States Marshal for The Territories. If I remember the notes I made before heading out West, you’ll be Chief Jack Kelly.’

  Momentarily taken aback, Kelly made an attempt to retrieve his badly dented authority, ‘If a US Marshal came to Denver, I’d like to think I’d be the first to know – but what’s happened here is a local matter, not a Federal one. If Officer McAvoy has decided to arrest this woman then she stays arrested.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Chief Kelly. As it happens, you are the first to know I’m here, but from what little I’ve seen of your town so far, you’re not likely to be the last. Colorado has applied to President Grant to be given Statehood and admission to the United States of America. The President has sent me here to check on whether Colorado is ready to become a State; is capable of maintaining law and order without help, and whether I think Denver should become the State capital. I haven’t been in Denver for half-an-hour yet, but already I’m beginning to doubt whether any of his questions can be answered in the affirmative. As for the rest … among Leveridge’s crimes, he’s wanted for stealing US mail from a Wells Fargo stagecoach. That’s a federal offence and I’m a federal marshal. What’s more, I’ll personally shoot anyone who tries to arrest Miss Jones – and that includes you and McAvoy. She’s disabled a wanted and dangerous criminal and is due a reward for doing it. Now, get Leveridge into gaol and have him sent off to Missouri at the first opportunity. Mr Rafferty, me and the women are off to the Denver Hotel and that’s where I’ll be should you want me.’

  Aaron was a diminutive, almost insignificant man but he seemed to grow in stature as he spoke and it would have taken a braver man than either Police Chief Jack Kelly, or Officer McAvoy to try to stop him from leaving with his small party.

  Besides, Pat Rafferty had unstrapped his shotgun from his bag and neither of the Denver policemen doubted that he would use it to good effect if they made a move against his companions.

  CHAPTER 5

  For the next few days Aaron was kept busy in his role as US Marshal for The Territories, meeting officials of the various areas and settling in to the office allocated to him by the Colorado Territorial governor.

  He learned there was great dissatisfaction in Denver with Police Chief Jack Kelly and considerable disquiet about some of the men he had appointed as officers in his police force. McAvoy, in particular, was known as a blustering bully, inclined to use his fists too readily on men who were too drunk to retaliate.

  Because he did not trust Kelly, Aaron swore in two recently retired army sergeants as temporary deputy marshals and despatched Archie Leveridge in their custody to Jefferson City, Missouri. They carried with them a note from Aaron, explaining that the wanted man had been shot by Anabelita and claiming on her behalf the posted reward for his capture.

  Aaron quickly became aware there was great potential in Denver for making money – either honestly or otherwise. When thousands of miners had flocked to the Rocky Mountain goldfields seeking their fortune, dubious brothels and gambling saloons followed in their wake to cater for their masculine needs and relieve them of their hard-won gold. Denver grew up around them.

 
Brothels and gambling houses still existed in present-day Denver, but the town’s authorities had succeeded in containing them inside an area that was studiously avoided by Denver’s more recent ‘respectable’ residents.

  Gaming houses and saloons did exist outside this section of the town, but they were run along more acceptable lines, tolerating neither rowdiness nor vice and frowning upon discernible dishonesty.

  Although he was kept busy on government business, Aaron still found time to pursue his intention to open a gambling saloon. For a while it seemed unlikely he would succeed, but when Anabelita and Lola were becoming restless, and Pat Rafferty despondent about his own prospects, Aaron was told of a building that had been built as a theatre but had functioned as such for only a brief period of time.

  It seemed that the owner-builder had left Denver in a great hurry when the husband of the woman he had run off with from somewhere in the East, came to town seeking them both.

  The property had been left in the hands of a lawyer with instructions to sell the theatre for whatever he could obtain and send a banker’s draft for the amount to a secret address.

  Aaron took Anabelita, Lola and Pat along with him to inspect what was on offer and each of them was impressed with the theatre’s potential. A certain amount of work would need to be done before it became fully operational, but it was less than Aaron had anticipated and the gilt and chandeliers inside the building excited both women, who went around pointing out each new feature as it was found.

  Pat Rafferty was impressed too, declaring the stage to be an ideal place from which chips and money could be safely issued and from where he would be able to oversee most of what would be going on in the gaming-room.

  The matter was clinched when the lawyer showing them around mentioned that he knew an excellent carpenter who could construct all the furniture Aaron would need in order to transform the theatre into a superior gambling emporium.

  Aaron decided his new venture would be called the ‘Thespian Club’ and the lawyer told him it was likely to become the second largest such establishment in Denver. The number one gaming-house in Denver was owned by a man named Vic Walsh, who had arrived from the East with a great deal of money to invest in his own gambling venture.

  The lawyer knew little about Walsh’s background, but told Aaron he had earned a reputation for himself as running a respectable business, even though he was credited with forcing a number of less scrupulous establishments to close their doors, the owners leaving town in an unexplained hurry.

  As Walsh had let it be known he intended Denver should gain a reputation as the West’s centre for honest gambling, he was given credit for their hasty departures.

  It seemed he neither denied nor admitted responsibility for ridding Denver of such establishments, but the more cynical of the town’s residents pointed out that business at Walsh’s Palace was booming as a result of the demise of his rivals.

  A couple of days before the advertised opening of the Thespian Club, Aaron was in the Marshal’s office, catching up on paperwork, when a man was shown in by one of the deputies who occupied the outer office. Dark-haired and of stocky build, the man introduced himself as Vic Walsh in a dialect that Aaron recognized as being the same as that spoken by Wes. It seemed Walsh was a Cornishman.

  Extending a hand to Aaron, Walsh said, ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Marshal, I’m the owner of the Palace.’

  ‘I know who you are, Mr Walsh – I also recognize your accent. Unless I am mistaken your early life was spent in Cornwall, in England.’

  Temporarily taken aback, Walsh recovered quickly, ‘That’s very astute of you, Marshal, but you’ve no doubt met many Cornishmen since you arrived in Denver, we form the backbone of a great many American mining communities.’

  ‘I met up with a Cornishman before my arrival in Denver, Mr Walsh. Wesley Curnow and I travelled together from New York to New Orleans on the ship that brought him from England. He is a miner, but on the steamboat coming upriver to St Louis he handled himself so well when we were attacked by river pirates that I had hoped to make him a Deputy Marshal and bring him out here with me.’

  Walsh appeared impressed, ‘I heard about the way you dealt with the river pirates, Marshal and was very impressed, but I wasn’t aware a Cornishman had been involved with you.’

  ‘Well, you know now,’ Aaron said, ‘but take a seat, I don’t suppose you’ve come here to chat about your countrymen, or to welcome me to Denver. You’ll no doubt have something to say about me opening up the Thespian Club in opposition to your Palace.’

  ‘I sincerely hope we’re not going to be in opposition, Marshal, I’m rather hoping the Thespian Club and the Palace will complement each other and that, together, you and I will be able to shut down the sleazy gaming-rooms that give gambling such a bad name….’

  Correctly interpreting Aaron’s sceptical expression, Vic Walsh said, ‘I don’t know what you might have heard about me, Marshal, but I’d like to tell you myself exactly where I stand, so there can be no misunderstanding between us. I am an ambitious man and will move heaven and earth to further that ambition, but I am also an honest man, something that can on occasion prove a weakness as well as a strength. You know yourself that you’ll never be able to prevent men from gambling and, like me, you’ve decided to make money from their requirements – and why not? If we don’t there are many others who will and most in this part of the world are dishonest. They are out to make quick money and get out when their honesty is questioned. I am not such a man – and I don’t believe you are, either. If you were, you wouldn’t be such a well-respected United States Marshal and I wouldn’t be here talking to you as I am. I think we both know that a man who runs an honest house can make more money in the long-term than a crooked gambler will ever see. I am in Denver to stay, Marshal. I have made it my home and I have my sights set on becoming Mayor. One day, when Colorado is a State and Denver its capital I might even look to Congress and the Senate.’

  Aaron’s gut reaction was that Walsh was trying too hard to portray himself as an honest man, but he said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with a man having ambition, Mr Walsh, but you’re counting on a great many things that haven’t yet happened. If Colorado is to be admitted as a State and Denver made its capital, both need to prove they’re fit to be given what they want. Quite frankly, where law and order are concerned I, for one, am going to need some convincing!’

  Leaning forward in his chair, Walsh said, ‘I wouldn’t argue with you about that, Marshal – but with me as Mayor – and with your backing – everything could change. There are a great many honest folk in Denver who are aware that things are not going to change while brothel keepers and crooked gamblers are pouring money into the pockets of the present mayor and too many of the city councillors. We had an election last year that should have got rid of the Council’s rotten core, but gamblers and prostitutes went to the polls by the cartload. I swear there were more of them than there are registered residents in the town. The result was we finished up with the same Corporation – and the same problems. I am determined it won’t happen again. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m going to do my damnedest to make Denver a place to be proud of.’

  Reserving judgement on his visitor, Aaron remained cautious. ‘I’m glad you came to see me today, Mr Walsh and if you run the Palace as I intend running the Thespian Club we’ll have the foundation for the gambling Mecca you hope to have in Denver. As for the rest, if you can provide me with records of the last election and they’re as false as you claim, you might make it to Mayor sooner than you think – and if Wesley Curnow ever makes it to Denver, as I hope he will, you could do worse than have him – a fellow Cornishman – as your next police chief.’

  BOOK 3

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘If we’d shot that damn mule of yours when she went berserk and upset the conductor on the Kansas Pacific, we might have arrived and found them still here.’

  Wes was more than half-serious. He and Old Ch
arlie had reached Abilene only to learn that Aaron, Anabelita and Lola had left for Denver days before with Pat Rafferty. Irritably, he placed the blame for missing them squarely upon the old mountain-man’s mule.

  Old Charlie understood Wes’s disappointment, but he was hurt by his comments about his mule. ‘That ain’t no way to talk about Nellie, Wes. She just didn’t like the company she had on the train. Come to think of it, I didn’t care none for it myself. Besides, according to the deputy they only stayed in Abilene for one night. They’d left before we even stepped onboard the train.’

  Aware that Old Charlie was right and that he had upset him unnecessarily, Wes said grudgingly, ‘All right, so it wasn’t Nellie’s fault and we’d have missed them anyway, at least we can take the next train to Denver and catch up with them in a couple of days….’

  ‘Catch another train…? No, sir!’ Shaking his head vigorously, Old Charlie declared, ‘Me and Nellie have had enough of trains to last us both our lifetimes – and you still need more practise with that pretty six-shooter of yours before you meet up with the men you’re going to come up against in Colorado Territory.’

  Wes looked at the old man with an expression of disbelief. ‘You’re not suggesting we ride all the way to Colorado?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, I’m telling you that if you don’t get in more practice you’ll be shot dead by the first man who pulls a gun on you. I’m not saying you can’t handle a rifle well enough. I’ll go as far as to say you can use it as well as any man I’ve known. If you and I had met years ago we could have made a fortune hunting buffalo – but you need more work with a handgun, boy. I reckon another ten days should do it – if you work at it hard enough.’

  ‘Ten days! Is that how long it would take to ride to Denver?’

  ‘I reckon … give or take a day or two.’ Old Charlie was aware he was being dishonestly optimistic. Denver was some four hundred miles away across Great Plains country, where Indian bands still hunted buffalo – and white men – and where the weather was notoriously unpredictable. A horseman would be fortunate to complete such a journey in twice the time.