Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  They’d reached the steep hill leading up to town. Braun snapped the reins again, with more vigor. The horses began to labor up the rise. “Verdammte railroad!” he muttered. “Scheisskopf Palmer.” He stopped, looked guiltily at Inez. “Excuse me. I lose my temper when thinking of this. I must close my business. So the stock must go.”

  “Close your business?” Inez felt as if she’d fallen through a rabbit hole into some crazy world. She’d only wanted to escape from the picnic as quickly as possible, away from the sight of Birdie Snow and Justice Sands in each other’s arms. But now Braun had suddenly metamorphosed from a quiet, rather stiff gentleman to spouting what sounded like Teutonic swear words and announcing he was throwing over his business.

  “But, weren’t you talking to the church about new pews? I remember you said something about green wood.”

  “I hoped. I hoped I could persuade the church to buy soon. Ach, it’s no use. I cannot hold on any longer. The committee, it is too slow, and now, it’s too late. I cannot keep bleeding money. And once the railroad comes, no one will want my lumber, unless I sell at a loss. They bring it in cheaper than I can sell. Already, I cannot cover costs. It’s only a matter of time. Ich werde bankrott sein.”

  She wasn’t entirely certain about the last statement, but suspected it had something to do with being bankrupt. The sulfur scent of the smelters grew stronger; the city limits were nearly upon them. “But, don’t you own more than the sawmill? I thought you have a charcoal business as well.”

  “No charcoal,” he said bitterly. “The trees are gone in the gulch to make it with. And there is no time to move the business. Also ruined by the railroad. More charcoal, they bring it up from the south. So much of it. If I could have more time, slowed them down.” He cut himself off abruptly. “Where do you wish to go?” They had arrived at the corner of Chestnut and Harrison.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, West Fourth Street, and about one block down.”

  Braun turned the wagon, forcing the horses to fall in line behind a buggy.

  They approached State Street; Inez risked a glance at the Silver Queen. From what she could see through the dusty window, the place looked packed.

  She turned and caught Braun staring at the saloon as well. He looked at her with a bitter smile. “Frau Stannert. You are a businesswoman. A good one. I have watched your business since I arrived in Leadville, six months ago. It does well. You make the right decision to expand. I bought my businesses, thinking it would make me rich. But I was wrong. The railroad—verdammte Rio Grande. I should have seen what its coming would mean. How it brings in a flood of materials at cheap prices. But I was blind with greed. And hope. Now, I only hope I can escape with enough capital to start over.”

  He stopped talking, concentrating on turning the horses and wagon across traffic to West Fourth.

  When they reached her house, Inez said, “Thank you, Mr. Braun. I appreciate your kindness in bringing me home. And your frankness.”

  “Bitte schön, Mrs. Stannert. You’re welcome.” He set the brake. “And I would appreciate if you would talk with Herr Jackson about my offer. Soon.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Inez combed out Lucy’s black mane, grateful for the dimness of the stall, the patience of her animal. “I’m glad I came to see you,” she whispered, working the long-toothed comb through the coarse strands. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not bringing a treat nor taking you for a ride.”

  It was enough to just be in the silent livery, without having to talk to anyone. No sooner had the buckboard and Mr. Braun departed than she’d realized she dreaded going into her home. To do what? Pound on the piano? Drink more than I should and start throwing things around?

  Going to the saloon also held no appeal. Having to run the gauntlet of customers in festive moods. Watching the Fairplays or, even worse, having to make small talk with Maude upstairs afterward. She did not trust herself to remain civil or sober.

  So, she’d fled to the livery and Lucy. It was dark, quiet. All the carriages and most of the horses were gone. Neither Hollis nor Jack was in sight.

  Inez stroked Lucy’s nose. The horse pushed her muzzle into Inez’s hand, perhaps not believing that there wasn’t a lump of sugar or an apple yet to appear. Inez dropped the comb onto an upside-down bucket that served as a makeshift table and picked up the currycomb.

  She began brushing Lucy’s coat in rhythmic circular motions, speaking low and steady. “Well, girl. It’s just you and me again. What is it with men? None have a lick of sense when it comes to women. I swear, if Braun hadn’t shown up, I might have pulled the Smoot out of my pocket and shot them both!”

  “Horses got way more sense than men ’round women.”

  Inez whirled around to find One-Eyed Jack draped over the stall door, looking bleary. Straw stuck to the right shoulder and arm of his rusty black sack coat. A strand hung crooked from the brim of his dented derby.

  “Jack! I didn’t know you were here. Is Hollis around?”

  “Gone. Races. Racin’ Duke.” He gestured with the bottle in his left hand toward the back of the livery, where Hollis’ pet stallion, a rich chestnut sorrel, had his stall. Inez noticed that the bottle held in his three-fingered clasp was labeled “Jack Daniels Belle of London.”

  “Belle of London?” she exclaimed. “You certainly know how to celebrate.”

  “Yyyyyep.” He held out the bottle to her.

  She slipped her hand out of the currycomb, took the bottle, wiped the lip off with a sleeve, and took a mouthful. It exploded in her mouth, searing her throat on the way down. She coughed, handed the bottle back.

  Jack took a swig, apparently impervious to the firepower of the alcohol.

  She ran a hand along Lucy’s back and felt Lucy’s muscles shiver under her touch. “So where did you come by that libation?”

  “A present. From Eli. Afore he left. ’Cause of my name. I was savin’ for somethin’ shpeshal.” Exhausted from stringing so many words together, Jack leaned heavily on the gate and set his chin on the top bar as if searching for a way to hold himself perpendicular.

  “Your name? Jack Daniels?”

  “Dan-iel.” He emphasized the last syllable. “Belle ’cause…my wife was from the North. Like his.”

  “Eli was a fine man.”

  Jack held the bottle back out to her. “Real fine.”

  She took the bottle, but didn’t drink. “I thought Eli fought for the South.”

  Jack hiccupped and slowly nodded.

  “Hollis said they fought together.”

  “Nope. Don’t think so. Eli wasn’t Texas. Missouri sniper.”

  “Eli Carter was a sniper for the Confederates? In Missouri?” Missouri again.

  “Sharpshooter. Ninth Missouri.” He waved the bottle desultorily. “In the war.”

  “Hmmmm.” She rested a hand on Lucy’s warm flank and pondered how best to profit from Jack’s unusual loquaciousness. “Are you saying Eli’s no longer a proponent of the Southern cause?”

  “Naw. Swore off. Gave up. Got married. Saw her picture once. Be-ooo-ti-ful. Like my Gustine.” His long face got even longer. “Eli ’n me. We put the war behind.” He looked down at his hand with the missing digits. “Gave it too much t’ give it any more.”

  “But Hollis and Eli got along, yes?”

  He looked mournfully at the bottle. “States’ rights, yeah, they agreed. Hell, me too, an’ I’m no secesher. But they were fightin’ all the time. Hollis havin’ conniptions ’bout Rio Grande and the big bugs—Palmer, Snow.”

  “But they were business partners.”

  Jack sighed. Beneath Inez’s hand, Lucy heaved an equine equivalent, as if to share in Jack’s pain. “Big mistake. Yellin’ all the time.” He waved the bottle. “’Bout that flag.” The amber liquor sloshed.

  “What flag, Jack?” Maybe Hollis had something to do with Eli leaving.

  “Flag up there.” He gestured toward the front of the livery. To
ward the office and the living quarters.

  Inez remembered the shape on the wall, which she thought a quilt or blanket.

  Eli rattled on. “Hollis said, keep it up. Eli said, take it down. Hollis said, damn you son of a bitch.” He looked up, attempting to focus on Inez. “Sorry, Mrs. Stannert. Shouldn’ta said that.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Hollis…wouldn’t back down.”

  “So Eli quit the business and left town? Because they didn’t get along?”

  Jack frowned. “Couldn’t agree on railroad right-of-way. But there was more. Got the gun. Got…a letter. Sold the gun. And left. Left real fast.”

  Foreboding crawled up the back of Inez’s neck. “What gun?”

  Another sorrowful sigh. “Real fine gun. Sharps rifle.”

  Inez was silent, trying to digest the possibility that the Sharps she’d bought at the mercantile on a whim might have belonged to Eli Carter. She finally asked, “So, why did Eli leave?”

  Jack shrugged eloquently. “Hollis followed.”

  “Followed Eli?”

  “Yep. Saddled up ’n followed when he found out. Hoooooo, he was mad. Eli didn’ even tell him he was goin’. Just told,” he burped again, “me.”

  “What did Hollis say when he came back?”

  “Nothin’. Came back. Actin’ ornery. Horse lathered up. Then later—you. With the horses ’n’ burro.” The firewater sloshed in the bottle as he gestured. “You left, Hollis cussed a blue streak.”

  Hollis followed him. Could he have been at Disappointment Gulch? I didn’t see him on the road, but I could have missed him while on my way there. Inez found it hard to believe that Hollis would have something to do with Eli’s apparent death or disappearance. That Hollis was capable of killing, she had no doubt. But Eli and he had spent time together, had been friends, at one time. Still, if he was really angry….I can hardly waltz up and ask if he murdered his partner. So why did Eli leave? That might lead me to understand what happened at the gulch.

  An idea began to take shape.

  “Jack.” She went up to the gate, watching him closely. “You remember when I brought Eli’s horse back?”

  Jack’s head sagged to one side. Inez, noticing the bottle was now empty, decided it might be an attempt to nod. “Do you know what happened to Eli’s saddlebags?”

  “Eeerrrrmmmb.”

  Apparently, Jack’s conversation was now limited by inebriation. Inez decided to stick to yes or no questions. “Did you give them to Hollis?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Did you take them?”

  “Yyyyyep.”

  “Did you look through them?”

  “Nnnnoooope.”

  “Where are they?”

  Jack’s arms slipped from the gate. He staggered backward and whammed into the gate of the opposite stall, then, knees melting beneath him, slipped slowly to the ground.

  Inez hurried out of the stall, latched it shut, and approached Jack. With much shaking and encouraging, she roused him enough to get him standing back up, and half supported, half dragged him to the back of the livery, across from the empty stall of Hollis’ racing horse.

  His living quarters were a converted stall of hard-packed dirt and straw, a stool and small rickety table with a washbasin, and a bedroll on a straw tick. She managed to get him to lie down on the crude mattress. She wiggled a hand under the tick. Her fingers bumped against an object. She extracted a long knife, sheathed in leather. Ah-ha! Could be useful if I find those saddlebags.

  Leaning over him, Inez tried once more. “Jack. Where are Eli’s bags?”

  Ear-racketing snores were his only answer.

  Inez sighed. I hope the nap sobers him up. She left the stall, shut the gate behind her, and stood there, thinking.

  The saddlebags are not in his room—such as it is. There’s no place to hide them, if they’re not under the mattress. Where else would Jack hide a set of saddlebags? The office? No, too conspicuous. Besides, that’s Hollis’ domain. So where does Jack spend his time, besides his room?

  The stalls.

  She shuddered, contemplating a search of each and every one.

  The tack room.

  Opting for the obvious and far easier area to search, Inez made her way to the tack room, near the front of the livery.

  The room smelled of sweated leather, dust, and horse. Not much in the way of equipment was present. A rig with a sprung wheel. A few saddles. A jangle of bits and bridles. A pile of saddle blankets in the corner.

  Blankets.

  Inez hurried to the corner and began shifting the stack, blanket by blanket. Nearly at the bottom, she struck gold.

  The distinctive fur-trimmed panniers. None the worse for wear.

  Hastily, with one ear to the entrance for sounds of Hollis or returning riders, Inez undid the buckles. She worried the knots that held the leather lashings tight, then gave up and sliced the thongs with Jack’s knife. One saddlebag yielded a shirt, an extra pair of canvas pants, a pair of hose, and long johns. The other held a photocase of cracked leather, its covers bound with a black crepe ribbon, a packet of letters tied with a lavender ribbon and wrapped in a short length of matching purple cloth sprigged with small white flowers, a box of cartridges, and crinkled and nearly invisible in the depths of the leather bag, a much-creased thin envelope.

  Inez hesitated over what to do next. Taking the bags flat-out was an iffy proposition, should Hollis come back or see her on the street with them. But he’s at the races, and they’re likely to run until dark. Still, if she should be caught in possession of them, it would be very hard to explain. And if Jack went looking for them and found them gone, she wasn’t sure what he’d do. Confront Hollis, perhaps? The results of such a confrontation, she suspected, could be lethal.

  She rifled through the pockets of the clothes, feeling a bit like a grave robber, finally shoving the clothes and box of cartridges back into the bag.

  Next, Inez untied the black ribbon and opened the photocase. A woman with dark hair stared out. Firm chin upraised, straightforward gaze. From what little was visible of the dress, it appeared to be made of the same cloth as was wrapped around the packet of letters. A braided lock of jet-black hair was neatly twined around the photo, framing it. Inez closed the photo and rewrapped the black ribbon around the photocase.

  She turned her attention to the lone letter. The creased envelope was addressed to Elijah Carter, General Delivery, Leadville, Colorado. No return address. Postmarked June 23, from Colorado Springs. The single thin sheet of paper crinkled loudly as she pulled it out. There were no salutations. Just two lines, scrawled in pencil, in a childlike hand:

  The General is coming. And others like him. Remember your oath to your brothers.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The General.

  Inez dropped the letter to her lap. She stared out at the tack room. Dust motes hung in the air, nearly motionless. Her first thought: This note could help prove Susan’s story, at least the part about men discussing killing a general! I should show it to Justice.

  Her second thought: Damn Justice Sands! I’ll take it to Ayres.

  After that, her thoughts charged in, too fast to number, tumbling in various directions, keying off the few words in the message. What general are they talking about? No one knew Grant was even considering heading this way until recently. What oath? What brothers? And finally, more soberly: Does this really “prove” anything? And will anyone care?

  She looked at the wrapped bundle of letters. Does Eli have brothers, family somewhere? Hollis said not. Of course, it sounds like Hollis pretty much says whatever he wants about Eli. They were friends. They fought side by side during the war. No family. And Eli’s not here to set the record straight.

  She gently slid the photocase back into Eli’s saddlebag. His wife is dead, that much is clear. But maybe there ARE brothers somewhere. In which case, they should be notified of Eli’s disappearance.
Or death.

  Decision made, she unwound the purple cloth, laid the lone letter on top of the others, and rolled the cloth around the whole bundle of letters. She wrapped the rawhide cords back around the saddlebags, doing one turn less to allow room for quick knot-tying. She set the bags back on the short stack of blankets and piled the rest on top. Feeling fairly certain that things looked as before, she stuffed the bundle containing the letters into the pocket of her cloak, snuck Jack’s knife back under his makeshift bed and snoring form, and left the livery.

  ***

  Stepping through the State Street doors of the saloon, Inez found it hard to believe this wasn’t a Saturday night. The bar was nearly hidden beneath elbows and a sea of glassware. The jars that held pickled eggs and crackers were empty. Every chair at every table was taken. Those who couldn’t find a seat or a place at the bar held up the walls while working on beers, slices of cherry pie, and other victuals.

  Michael O’Malley pushed through the kitchen passdoor, balancing a full tray of bowls, pies, and coffee mugs. His apron was askew, and his blonde hair, so carefully combed that morning, was now an unruly mop.

  Behind the bar, Sol tapped a barrel of beer, a row of glasses arrayed before him. As for Abe—she hadn’t seen him smiling so broadly since winning big at the races the previous summer. From what Inez could ascertain, he was mixing a handful of Brandy Smashers. The tinkling of the piano, muffled by intervening bodies and conversation, assured her that Taps was still at his post.

  She wormed her way past knots of men. Solid, business types, watch chains stretching across ample bellies, off-shift miners readily identifiable by their pasty complexions and broad shoulders, men from the smelters down the road, even some men she pegged as being from the Rio Grande construction crews. A group of men she figured as money men from out of town stood apart—or as apart as they could in such crowded quarters. In their tailored suits, they looked for all the world as if they were in their gentlemen’s club in New York or Chicago. Their cold eyes took in the unlikely crowd in the room. Inez could almost imagine them toting up the worth of the town for investment, using this representative slice of its workforce for a guide. A fellow she recognized as keeping company with the local silver barons did the talking. As she passed the group, she heard him say, “Now Tabor, he’s got the Midas touch. The Little Pittsburg is almost worked out, no doubt about it, I can’t say otherwise. But Leadville’s still full of possibility and future. The silver runs here and there. Still much to be found. There’s the Matchless, a real winner, going great guns, and the Chrysolite, they incorporated. Solid bankers behind the Chrysolite. Henry Post of New York. Charles Whittier and William Nichols….”