The Flame

by Jane Toombs

  Van Allen flung himself to one side, yanking his leg from her grasp, but the table struck his arm and he grunted. She could no longer see Jess. Was he down, shot? Sitting up, she caught movement in the doorway and turned to look. Astrid peered in, derringer in her hand.

  "No, Astrid!” Monique shouted. “Stay back!"

  Two shots rang out in quick succession, a sharp cry, a moan, then the thud of a blow. A man cursed. Monique heard running footsteps and shouts from downstairs. Someone whimpered in pain. She struggled to her feet.

  "Jess?” she called. “Astrid?"

  "Bastard knocked the wind outta me,” Jess muttered, and she saw him getting to his feet.

  A man's figure appeared in the doorway. By the light of the lamp he carried, she recognized Hal Stuart, the ringleader of the miners who'd brought George to The Flame. She started for the door.

  "What the hell?” Hal muttered, staring down at the floor. “Good God!” Turning to someone behind him, he ordered, “Get Doc Jamison. Astrid's hurt.” He knelt on the floor. “She's hurt bad."

  Monique dropped down beside him. Astrid, her face ashen, lay sprawled on her back in the hall just outside the bedroom, a bloodstain spreading on the pink satin of her gown, just below her right breast.

  There was no sign of Reid.

  "Astrid, Astrid,” Monique cried.

  "We got to stop the bleeding,” Hal said.

  One of the miners opened the door to Astrid's room, saying, “Bring her in here."

  Jess stooped, lifted her into his arms, carried her in and laid her gently on the bed. Monique ducked back into her room, returned with a pair of scissors and cut the cloth away from the wound, baring Astrid's bloodied flesh. The small hole, red and raw, bled freely.

  Hal handed her white pads torn from a sheet and Monique pressed the cloth to the wound. “I'll tie it on,” he said.

  Astrid opened her eyes. “He shot me,” she whimpered. “My God, I'm going to die."

  "No, no, don't say that,” Monique begged. “The doctor's on his way."

  "Who the hell shot her?” one of the gathering crowd of miners asked.

  "Van Allen Reid,” Monique told him.

  An ominous silence settled over the room, broken only by Astrid's whisper, repeated over and over. “I'm going to die."

  "Here's the doc,” somebody shouted. “Make way."

  Dr. Jamison pushed through the crowd and leaned over Astrid, removing the impromptu bandage and examining the wound. He shook his head. “I'll do what I can."

  He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on a long, low chest of drawers. “Clear that chest,” he ordered, “and get some towels."

  By the time Monique returned with the towels, Astrid had been transferred to the cleared top of the chest of drawers, her eyes once more closed. The doctor took the towels. He wiped off a scalpel and a pair of forceps with one, then laid it across Astrid's stomach. “Get her to take a little whiskey if you can,” he told Monique.

  A miner handed up a bottle to Monique and she poured some whiskey into a glass. It's my fault Astrid was shot. My fault. The words echoed in her head as she put one hand under the other woman's head and held the glass to her lips.

  "She isn't swallowing,” Monique told the doctor.

  "Never mind, then. Hand me my scalpel."

  Monique obeyed.

  "Hold her down, boys,” Dr. Jamison told the two miners standing to either side of Astrid. They grasped her shoulders.

  The doctor bent over the wounded woman, scalpel in hand. He hesitated. Monique drew in her breath.

  Dr. Jamison hunched his shoulders, then stepped back. “Cover her over,” he said, “She's dead."

  "No, she can't be,” Monique cried.

  He laid a hand on her arm. “She's beyond all mortal help. There's naught I or anyone else can do.” He turned away to return his instruments to his black bag.

  Monique lowered her face into her hands, stunned. No tears came. She was too distraught to cry.

  "Miss Monique,” Jess’ deep voice said. “You got to remember she's done gone to a better place than this.” Looking up at him, she saw tears in his dark eyes.

  He pulled a satin sheet from Astrid's bed and carefully covered her body with it. Though the room was still crowded, the only sounds were the doctor's wheezing and the ticking of a clock on the mantel.

  The funeral was held on Monday afternoon, two days later. The service was conducted at Virginia City Engine House Number 1 on B Street by the Reverend William M. Martin. His remarks were brief and, the miners agreed, eloquent. Afterwards, the procession made its way to C Street with the hearse, drawn by four black horses, in the lead, followed by the Metropolitan Brass Band playing a dirge. Next came members of the volunteer fire companies in full regalia, and sixteen carriages of mourners, friends of Astrid's and members of the sisterhood of the deceased. Finally, at the end, groups of miners trudged through the dust to Astrid's last resting place, the Flowery Hill Cemetery.

  "That was far and away the biggest funeral this town's ever seen,” Lester Harrington told Monique as they rode back from the cemetery.

  Monique, dressed in black, with the black veil from her hat covering her face, said nothing.

  "I didn't see any of the churchwomen,” Lester went on. “Lots of their husbands were there, though. I won't be a bit surprised if they find trouble waiting for them when they get home tonight."

  Still she said nothing. As they approached the city, though, she drew the veil from her face and said, “What's wrong with the men of Virginia City? They know who killed Astrid, yet will any of them do anything? No, they won't. They're afraid. They let Van Allen strut around town as though he owned the place."

  "He pretty much does.” Harrington shook his head. “It's going to take more than Miss Astrid getting killed to rouse the miners. Reed claims he acted in self-defense."

  Monique stared at him. “That's ridiculous."

  "Astrid did have a gun. They found her derringer on the floor in the hall with one shot fired."

  "She was trying to protect me. I don't understand these men. They all liked Astrid. She didn't have an enemy to her name. Yet they let her murderer walk the streets free and clear."

  "That's the way of it,” Harrington said. “If you've got money, you're above the law. At least you are in Virginia City."

  "So it's up to me, as it has been all along.” Monique raised her chin. “The miners might be afraid of Van Allen Reid, but I'm not."

  "Don't be foolhardy. Didn't he sneak into your room and try to do God knows what to you?"

  "And killed Astrid when she tried to save me. He'd have killed Jess, too, but he missed."

  "Her death wasn't your fault. Nobody blames you. But think about it. You've got to outsmart Reid, not try to outshoot him."

  "How? He must have at least ten hired gunmen guarding that mine of his. As you say, he has money and power. What can I do?"

  "I have to admit I don't know."

  The carriage pulled up in front of The Flame, and Harrington helped her to the ground. Two miners climbed up the steps behind her and watched as she took the front door key from her bag.

  One of the men cleared his throat and asked, “You opening up today?"

  She glared at him, and he hung his head.

  "How about tomorrow?” the other man asked.

  Without answering, she unlocked the door, went inside and slammed it behind her. Men are animals, she told herself. Have they no respect for the dead, no sense of decency? In the parlor, she sank into an overstuffed chair, laid her head back and stared at the ceiling.

  Maybe it was time for her to leave Virginia City. She could close The Flame and the store, cancel her plans to expand into mining supplies, get on the stage and leave. Philippe was dead, Astrid was dead, George had sailed for England and Jeremy was gone.

  I've had enough of Nevada's winter cold and wind, the summer heat, the ever-present dust, enough of drunken miners and hypocritical churchwomen. I've had enough o
f lust and greed, of hate, of despair. Anywhere would be better than the Comstock.

  Guinevere leaped into her lap and tried to lick her face. She cuddled the cat and told her, “You're all I've got in the world, the only friend."

  If she left, though, that meant Van Allen Reid had won. But how could she, one woman, possibly outsmart him? Something Lester Harrington had said to her on the ride back from the cemetery nagged at the edge of her mind, but she couldn't quite bring it into focus. Petting the cat, she concentrated on remembering their conversation. He said it was the largest funeral Virginia City had ever seen, then mentioned no churchwomen had attended and were bound to give their husbands who had gone a bad time...

  That's it!

  Monique put the cat aside, got up and went to the foot of the stairs. “Ah Sing,” she called. “Mariana. Gabrielle. Bertha. Rosie."

  When they'd all gathered at the head of the stairs, she said, “Come down to the parlor. I have an idea and I want to know what you think."

  * * * *

  It was eight o'clock. The night outside was dark and cold. Monique warmed her hands at the crackling fire, while the other girls sat scattered around the parlor. Marian read a thin volume of Spanish love poems, Rosie knitted, Gabrielle played with the cat, while Ah Sing and Bertha dozed.

  A fist pounded at the front door.

  "They be back,” Jess said from the hallway. “Want me to pay ‘em no mind like I done last time?"

  "No,” Monique said. “I'll see what they want. Come with me, Jess."

  "None of ‘em best not so much as give you a mean look,” he muttered.

  "They won't lay a finger on me. Open the door."

  Jess slid the bolt back and unlocked the door, his outstretched arms and giant frame preventing the group of miners outside from entering.

  "Miss Monique,” a red-haired miner from the Ophir called to her.

  "What's the matter, Hank?” she asked.

  "That's what we'd like to know. We been here to your place twice now. Closed. We been to Miss Belle's down on D Street. Closed. Even Miss Julia's locked her door. We been to Chinatown. Only the fantan parlors are doing business. It ain't right. There ain't a whorehouse open in all Virginia City."

  "That's right, Hank. Not a single, solitary one."

  "You gotta do something, Miss Monique. You always was on our side. Is it them damn churchwomen closed you all down?"

  Monique shook her head. “Astrid's dead. I've closed out of respect and I imagine the other women have done the same."

  "Because of what happened to Miss Astrid?"

  "That's right, Hank. She's dead, and her murderer hasn't been caught yet."

  "But everybody knows it was Van Allen Reid what done it."

  "They know it, but they're not doing anything about it."

  Hank paused a moment, obviously mulling over what she'd said. “What you're saying is that you're gonna be closed till—” He hesitated, then went on. “Till Reid ain't walking the streets no more. That it?"

  "That's exactly what I mean.” She smiled at him and said to Jess, “Lock up."

  Jess shut the door in the miners’ faces. Monique heard a murmur of talk outside, then footsteps going down the steps, leaving The Flame.

  "What you think they gonna do?” Jess asked.

  She shrugged. “I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see."

  Later, when she was lying in bed, she told herself that she'd waited long enough for her personal problem to solve itself. Since it hadn't, she had to decide whether to take some of Ah Sing's herbs or ... Or what? She didn't really have any choice.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER 24

  "We gotta do something."

  "It's a lead pipe cinch we can't go on like this. We can gamble and get all the booze we can drink, but what else we got? Nothing."

  Hal Stuart silenced the talk by climbing onto the top of a poker table. “We've gone on long enough without women,” he told the miners who'd gathered around him. “Let's show them gals we ain't afeared of nothing. How many of you bastards are with me?"

  The men cheered.

  "We'll march on the Reid Building, then to the Reid Mine."

  "They say Reid's got a dozen hired guns at the mine,” a miner shouted.

  "Used to be ten, first time I heard it,” Hal said “Seems like it gets to be more every time somebody repeats it. We got guns, don't we? Are we scared of Reid's hired gunmen?"

  "Hell, no!” the miners shouted.

  "Then follow me."

  He leaped from the table and led the miners out of the Silver Dollar to the dark street. More men joined the throng as they marched, miners from the El Dorado, from Hahn's Hurdy-Gurdy Palace, and from the other saloons and gambling halls. They were armed with pistols and knives, rifles and shotguns. A few carried picks.

  The miners shouted and laughed until they neared the darkened Reid Building. They stopped across the street, suddenly quiet. Hal stepped out from the crowd.

  "Reid,” he shouted, “if you're in there, you'd best come out. If you don't, we're coming in after you."

  The two-story office building remained dark and quiet.

  "All right, boys,” Hal called, “follow me."

  They charged in a ragged line across the street, over the sidewalk and up the steps. When they found the door chained, men in the rear passed a log forward to those in front. Using it as a ram, the miners battered the door until it crashed open amidst a shattering of glass and wood. Hal darted inside, followed by the others.

  After a quick search, a miner said, “There ain't nobody here."

  "They've cleared out."

  "Must be holed up at the mine."

  With Hal in the lead, they march back along C Street, up a low hill and down into a gully. They halted when they saw the huddled buildings of the Reid Mine in front of them. A miner picked up a rock and threw it. They heard a tinkle of glass.

  A shot cracked from the window of the first building. One of the miners grunted in pain, hand clutching his arm. The attackers scattered, taking shelter behind abandoned equipment, mounds of slag, and sheds. A fusillade of shots rattled from the gunmen hiding in the buildings. The miners answered with a scattered, ineffectual volley.

  "Surround them,” Hal said. “We'll starve the bastards out."

  After posting men on all sides of the entrance to the mine, the attackers lit a campfire and gathered around it for a council of war.

  "It'll take weeks, maybe months to starve ‘em out,” Hank said.

  "He's right.” They all looked at a curly-haired miner who'd just joined them. “I was on the last shift in the Reid,” he told them. “The mine's shut down tighter than a drum, but they got enough grub to last a good six months."

  "We ain't about to starve ‘em out then,” Hank said.

  "Might be we could come on ‘em from below,” an older miner suggested. “The Mexican connects with the Ophir, and the Ophir links up with the Reid. If we can locate the right tunnels, we can give ‘em a hell of a surprise."

  "Won't work,” the newcomer said, “'cause they already thought of that. Reid himself is down below, getting set to blow up the connecting tunnels."

  "He wouldn't do that,” Hank protested. “Not a mining man like Reid."

  A muffled explosion shook the ground, followed by another and another, all deep within the earth.

  Hank shrugged. “Damn, sounds like he is doing it."

  "He sure as hell is,” one of the recruits from the El Dorado said. “I could use a drink right about now."

  "No boozing till we get this thing sorted out,” Hal announced. “We got to find some way to get those gunmen out of there."

  Lester Harrington pushed his way through the crowd and squatted in the circle of light from the fire. “How's this idea? I suggest we send the boys in the mine a present."

  "What kind of present you got in mind?” Hal asked. “A wagonload of black powder that'll blow ‘em all to smithereens?"

 
"Never get it there,” Harrington said. “My notion is to send the boys something they'll welcome with open arms. Here's what I got in mind..."

  The hours passed. The night was cold and dark, with no moon. The besiegers sat around fires, talking and warming their hands at the flames, while the gunmen in the buildings at the mine entrance watched and waited, confident the attackers would soon tire of the game and drift back to the saloons of Virginia City, only a quarter of a mile away.

  A wagon rattled out of the night and stopped fifty feet from the first of the buildings.

  "Don't come no closer,” the gunman on guard duty warned.

  "I ain't with them,” the driver whispered hoarsely. “They think I am, but I ain't. Joe Goodman of the Enterprise sent me. He's a friend of Mr. Reid's. Everyone knows that."

  "You alone?"

  "I swear to God."

  "Get down off the wagon and walk over here with your hands in the air. If you're lying about being alone, you're dead."

  The driver climbed to the ground and approached the guard, with his hands raised. “I swear to God,” he repeated, “it's just me."

  "Pike,” the guard said to a man posted at a window to his right. “Put a couple of rounds through the back of that there wagon."

  "Go ahead,” said the driver. “It don't matter none to me. But you'll regret it."

  The guard motioned to Pike to hold off. “Why?"

  "The wagon's loaded with kegs of whiskey."

  "You're lying through your teeth."

  "Joe reckoned you men might be getting a mite thirsty down here, knowing how Reid feels about drinking and all. So he sent along a little something to quench your thirst and warm you up at the same time. If you want to put bullets holes in them kegs, go right ahead. It don't make no difference to me. Sure would be a waste of good whiskey, though."

  "Go take a gander, Pike,” the guard ordered.

  Pike, rifle in hand, cautiously approached the wagon from the rear. He climbed up on the backboard and looked inside. Satisfied, he climbed over the side and clambered aboard. A few minutes later he was back inside the building.