Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  Inez opened the door of the newspaper office and went in. The professor followed like a shadow.

  “Hello, Mr. Elliston,” she sang out.

  Jed, bent over a typecase, turned around, surprised, a handful of type in his hand, a smudge of ink on his sleeve. “Mrs. Stannert, what an honor.” He dropped the type on the top of the cabinet, wiping his hands on an apron. “My typesetter’s vamoosed, probably besotted again in some Stringtown gin mill.” Jed sounded as if it were a personal affront that the fellow apparently preferred an afternoon’s drink to an afternoon’s wages.

  “You know anyone who’d be interested in a job setting type?” He eyed the professor expectantly, then turned back to Inez. “Here to place an advertisement? Good rates on an eighth of a column. Just the right size for touting any Fourth of July specials.”

  “Actually, I do need to run something,” said Inez, mindful that she needed to get a notice in about the Fairplays. “Maybe half a column’s worth.”

  His eyes, usually half-lidded in that supercilious manner she found so irritating, widened. “Half column, you say? What’s going on?”

  “We’ve the Fairplays coming to—” Not entertain. Not act. What sounds respectable? “Put on a display of thespian skill. Shakespeare. The Tempest.”

  Jed’s nose fairly twitched in anticipation. “Any chance they’d stand for an interview beforehand?”

  “Oh, most likely we could arrange that, but look, I’ve brought someone to meet you. Mr. Elliston, meet Mr., ah—” She realized she had forgotten the professor’s name.

  “Duncan, at your service,” the professor interposed. Then, extending a hand, he added, “Most call me Professor. My background, y’see.”

  “I’ve also brought this.” She pulled out the bottle as Jed pumped the professor’s hand, and glanced around. “Is there someplace we can talk? And have you any clean glasses?”

  Three minutes later, they were all seated around the large table in the middle of the room, papers and notes pushed higgledy-piggledy to one side, the bottle placed reverently in the center.

  Inez splashed the bourbon into three chipped enamel mugs, feeling vaguely sacrilegious about not using crystal for such a fine grade of alcohol. She lifted her mug, and the men followed suit.

  “‘Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.’ Alexander Pope,” said Inez.

  “‘Freedom and whisky gang t’gither!’ Scotland’s own Robbie Burns,” added the professor.

  They looked at Elliston. He looked from one to the other, then hoisted his mug even higher and pronounced, “‘Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,/In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side.’” He added, “James Russell Lowell. Poet. Editor. Abolitionist. Harvard man. Cambridge. Massachusetts, that is.” His tone seemed to suggest that his drinking companions might want to refer to an atlas.

  They drank.

  Inez closed her eyes in delight as the liquor went down fiery as a lover’s kiss. She sighed. Then opened her eyes, all business. “Gentlemen, I believe you both may profit from this meeting.” She addressed Jed. “The professor is interested in writing for a local newspaper. Right now, he works for the Rio Grande,” she added meaningfully.

  “I’ll be straight with you, Professor.” Jed leaned forward. “I’ve not the highest opinion of the Rio Grande nor those who run it. My stand, and I’m not afraid to say or print it, is that Palmer’s a bully and the Rio Grande has played much the ‘dog in the manger’ with the Atchison road.”

  The professor turned his mug in his hands and seemed to consider before responding. “Am I to believe that what is said here stays here? ’Twould mean my job, otherwise.”

  “Of course,” said Jed.

  Inez said, “We can drink to that,” and poured more all around.

  The professor drank, then said, “I’ll not deny that I’ve no great love of Palmer and his band. The general’s not the gold-plated gentleman he makes himself out to be. When a town doesn’t agree to his demands, ’tis Palmer’s philosophy to run over it and to hell with those left behind. That’s nothing new, to him.”

  Inez viewed the professor over the rim of her mug. He’d set his hat on the table and was smoothing the feather. His face above his chin whiskers was strained.

  “Not from around here?” Jed asked. “Not to pry. But if I hire you to write about the inner workings of the Rio Grande, it’s not just your job that’s on the line. Could be my neck as well.”

  “I was born and bred in the States.”

  Inez raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You were? Where?”

  “Here and there. The South, mostly. Father died in the war. ’Twas not our war, and his death meant hard times for my mother and me. I dinnae like to dwell on it. After the war, Mother sent me to relatives in Edinburgh, where I received my education. I returned when she was ailing. She passed on. I came here. And that’s probably more’n you wished to know.”

  Inez and Jed looked at each other. His face echoed her furtive guilt. At the war’s conclusion, I was fifteen, Jed was eight. And neither of us suffered from the war as he apparently did.

  Clearing her throat, Inez topped off the professor’s mug. “Mr. Elliston runs a well-regarded newspaper here in town and is currently understaffed.”

  Jed nudged his half-empty mug across the table to Inez. “So, Professor, what do you do for the Rio Grande?”

  “Well, some call me a secretary, some a clerk, some treat me as all-round errand boy. I take notes at the board meetings on behalf of my superior—that’d be Lowden Snow, the lawyer who handles right-of-way issues for the railway. And I deliver papers and orders too sensitive to commit to telegraph at the board’s behest.” He frowned. “They give me no consideration. I could be deaf as a post for all the heed they pay me as they’re talkin’ over their grand plans.”

  “The sorry state of the working man.” Jed raised his mug again. “One more toast, if you’ll join me. Who said: ‘The great questions of the time are not decided by speeches and majority decisions, but by iron and blood.’” He looked at them expectantly.

  “Lincoln?” Inez guessed.

  The professor shrugged.

  “Otto von Bismarck. Appropriate for the Rio Grande and Palmer, don’t you think?”

  Just as Inez prepared to push back her chair, Jed set down his mug. “Professor, I’ve a question for you. Mrs. Stannert, maybe you’d add your two cents, since you were there. I heard two supply cars were smashed to smithereens and the rails destroyed by Disappointment Gulch. A real setback for the railroad. What’s your take on it? Landslide? Sabotage?”

  The professor wet his lips, somewhat nervously, Inez thought. Then he leaned forward, looking earnest. “I’m no expert on such things, but from what I heard and saw, it has the stink of sabotage, sure enough.”

  “Any idea who?”

  The professor shifted in his chair. “Could’ve been men from the Santa Fe road, still smarting over Palmer and McMurtrie’s rough ways and the Rio Grande’s victory at the Royal Gorge. Could even be the work of the Denver, South Park and Pacific Railway. The Rio Grande and South Park hammered out an agreement for the South Park to use the Rio Grande’s track to Leadville for a fee. But there are always those who harbor bad feelings about such, even after the gentlemen of the boards sign and shake hands all around.”

  “And it hasn’t stopped the Rio Grande and South Park from waging a war over the price of hauling freight,” added Jed.

  The professor nodded. “I’ve heard talk that the Rio Grande might construct a line over Marshall Pass to Gunnison. That wouldn’t sit well with the South Park. And there’s more to tell, should you be wantin’ to hear it.”

  Inez couldn’t help but smile. Jed looks like he’d sell his mother to hear what else the professor has to say.

  “Gentlemen, I leave you to each other. The bourbon goes with me, but I’ll keep the rest of the bottle stowed away. When The Independent publi
shes its first ‘exclusive’ on the machinations of the Rio Grande, we’ll toast your mutually beneficial business agreement with another round.”

  The two men covertly eyed each other as if evaluating the worth of an untested but potentially promising claim.

  She stood to leave and was surprised to find she was a bit unsteady. Oh yes. All that brandy at the picnic. Now this.

  Both men jumped to their feet, and Jed hastened to hold the door open for Inez. She paused at the threshold and murmured, “I expect you can find a way to cut us a deal on a half-page advert in the next issue. Regarding the Fairplays on the Fourth and so on. I trust you and the professor will get on.”

  “Well, it’s all a matter of whether this fellow can deliver,” Jed said in a low voice. He squinched his shoulders up in what Inez decided was supposed to be a jaded shrug. “Standard rate per word, and if it’s no good, that’s that.”

  Inez waved a hand airily. “That’s between you two.”

  She paused on the dirt street, cradled the bourbon under the shawl, and pulled the soft wool close to her ears and the back of her summer hat.

  The fickle weather was changing again.

  Gray clouds scuttled across the sun. A puff of wind kicked up a dust devil that swirled around her, snapping the hem of her skirt.

  Inez hurried down Third Street, focusing on the worn path rutted in the dirt. No place to sprain an ankle or end up sprawled in the dust. Empty ore wagons clattered up East Third heading toward the mines while their full counterparts careened down toward the smelters at the edge of town.

  Inez approached a dilapidated saloon and gave it a once over. She’d hardly noticed it on the way to see Jed, but now, walking alone, she registered its seedy appearance. Little better than a deadfall. A handful of loungers lurked outside the entrance. She realized with annoyance that she would have to walk between the loiterers and the hitching rack. Walking in the street was out of the question if she didn’t want to encounter a mire of liquid horse manure, slops, and decaying vegetable matter, or risk being run over by the wagons.

  She ducked her head to avoid the eyes of the men.

  She’d hardly taken ten steps past the place when a sudden yank at the back of her shawl nearly ripped it from her body.

  A voice behind her said coldly, “I’ve been looking for you, wife!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Inez swung around, tearing her shawl from the restraining hand. A man with a countenance as hollow as a burnt-out tree, feral eyes staring not so much at her but through her, stood not three feet away.

  The rage in his face drained away. “A-A-Addie?” The name came out in a stutter. “I thought…I thought you were my wife.”

  Bewilderment slackened his jaw, and in that gap-mouthed expression, Inez put a name to the face.

  Weston Croy.

  The fellow who’d accosted her and Sands nearly a week before.

  She pulled her shawl back around her. “Mr. Croy, isn’t it? As you see, you’re quite mistaken. I am not your wife.”

  “Addie,” he whispered. “She was my sweet Adeline. Until she left me. Took my money. And now, she’s here. Somewhere. In Leadville.” His tone became accusatory. “She had a wrap. Just like that.”

  “Excuse me.” She cut him off. “Maybe you should discuss your problems with Reverend Sands.”

  Weston laughed, a sound more like the caw of a crow, and then was beset with a coughing fit. He gasped, “He said go home. What home? She took everything. When I find her, I’ll make her pay.” He lurched forward and gripped her shoulder, fingers digging in like claws. “Tell Addie. She’ll pay.”

  “Take. Your. Hand. Off.” She bit each word off savagely.

  Weston yanked his hand away as if it’d been scorched.

  She stepped back. Her foot hit a pothole, and she lurched sideways.

  Inez cursed herself for not having her pocket pistol.

  Whistles and laughter floated from the men by the saloon entrance. A few had spilled out into the narrow dirt walkway to watch the fun. “A hellcat, for sure,” called one. “You gonna let her get away with that, Weston?”

  Two red spots appeared high on Weston’s stubble-covered cheeks.

  “I think that you will allow me to go my way. I do not travel unarmed.” She turned the bottle of bourbon so the neck pushed against her shawl, hoping it looked enough like the muzzle of a gun to be convincing. If worse comes to worst, I’ll break the bottle over his head. What a waste of fine liquor that would be!

  Weston wiped his mouth on a stained cuff, staring over her shoulder.

  “Problem, Mrs. Stannert?” The reverend’s voice behind her carried over the street noise. The men who’d been hanging around outside the saloon vanished inside.

  Her knees nearly gave way. Sands caught her elbow in a steadying grip.

  “Mr. Croy has the problem,” said Inez. “A misplaced wife, whom he mistook me for.”

  Reverend Sands kept a hand on Inez, but turned his gaze to Weston. He looked like he would gladly dispense with praying for Weston’s troubled soul and instead send him straight to the Almighty to plead his case in person. “Weston. Wondered where you were. I asked around. The boardinghouse, the mission, the poorhouse. Now I see where you squandered the church’s charity.” He glanced at the dive.

  Weston seemed to shrivel from the outside in. “I…gotta find Addie.”

  “We’ve had this talk before. You’ll not find her in your condition.”

  “Addie’s sister knew. I made her tell me. Addie’s here.”

  Disgust colored the reverend’s face. “When you’re ready to leave town, you know where to turn for help.”

  He propelled Inez toward Harrison Avenue. “Rain’s coming. No sense standing here, waiting to get soaked.” The hardness around his mouth lingered. “Sol told me you’d gone to see Jed. With a railroad man. What’s going on, Inez? I thought you were in a hurry to get back and lend a hand.”

  “Change of plans,” Inez said with careful dignity. “Not that I need you to watchdog me around town. No need for charity, thank you.”

  He glanced at her sideways from under the hat. With his mouth set and his eyes narrowed, he looked anything but charitable. “Seems like you were in need of a guardian angel just then.”

  “I can handle drunkards,” she retorted.

  “Weston’s more than drunk. He’s obsessed. Trapped in the past. You’d do well to keep away from him.”

  “Believe me, it was not I who initiated the conversation.”

  Inez and Reverend Sands walked back to the saloon in silence. At the door, Reverend Sands touched his hat and stood for a moment, looking toward the jagged peaks of the Mosquito Range, looming in the east.

  “I’ve another meeting,” he said abruptly. “I’m already late. Now that I know you’re safe and back where you belong, I’ll be on my way.” He looked her over, a peculiar expression on his face that Inez couldn’t quite interpret. “Don’t go running away again, Inez. At least, not without your pocket pistol.”

  “How do you know I don’t have it with me?”

  A faint smile at last. “If you did, you would’ve had it out and visible.”

  He touched his hat and opened the door for her. She could feel his eyes on her as she marched across the barroom. So, what was all that about? He was angry, and not just at Weston. And he certainly was acting proprietary.

  Inez headed for the kitchen, waving at the reflection of Abe, who was straightening out the bottles lining the long backbar mirror. He turned around. “Take your time gettin’ ready, Mrs. Stannert. No hurry.”

  She looked at the few people scattered around the room. No hurry indeed. We’re probably bleeding out money by the hour right now.

  Inside the kitchen at last, Inez took a deep breath. Biscuits were baking, their sweet warmth making her mouth water. Arming herself with a clean bowl from the shelf, she advanced on the stew pot and lifted the lid, earning a face full
of savory steam.

  The passdoor squeaked open. Bridgette entered, briskly efficient. “Ma’am, sit down, why don’t you.” She took the bowl from Inez’s hands and herded her toward the table.

  “No need, Bridgette.” Inez sank onto the chair. “You’ve plenty to do. All I want is a bit to eat and some coffee.” She glanced down at her riding skirt, in desperate need of a good scrubbing. “Well, and clean clothes. And a washbowl. And a towel.”

  Bridgette ladled stew into the bowl. “You’re looking peckish. What have you had to eat today?”

  “Bread. Cheese. An egg. A pickle.” The only other comestibles ingested didn’t fit the definition, being liquid. “I don’t recall breakfast.”

  “Well, if you ate breakfast it wasn’t mine, because I’ve been here since five this morning, and I don’t recall seeing you.” Bridgette set the bowl and a plate of biscuits in front of Inez.

  Inez tore a biscuit apart, ate several of the shreds, and sprinkled the rest on her stew.

  Bridgette’s stern expression relaxed. “Now, let’s get you some coffee.” She lifted the top of the coffee pot and peered inside. “Heavens, it’s nearly boiled away. Thick as syrup. I’ll make fresh for you.”

  Inez took another spoonful of stew and began to feel sober again. She glanced at her saddlebags, still hanging over the other chair, and pulled them onto the table. While eating, she unloaded the blanket, the crumpled paper holding a few bits of leftover bread and cheese, the rag still soaked with river water, and finally the blasting cap wrapped in the linen napkin.

  The alley door swung open. A gust of cool air, carrying the damp hint of rain and the scent of sewage, blew in with Sol, who was muffled under a bundle of material. He dumped it on the table in a red-white-and-blue mass. “Mr. Jackson sent me out for bunting for the Fourth. I went to all the dry goods stores on Chestnut and Harrison.” He shook his head. “There wasn’t much left.”

  Bridgette pulled out the coffee grinder, retrieved beans from the top of the pie safe, dumped them in, and began to vigorously grind. The smell of fresh ground coffee spread throughout the kitchen.