Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  Chapter Forty-One

  All week, Inez felt Eli’s ghost hovering nearby, peering over her shoulder, asking her what she intended to do. Questions gnawed at her: What was the connection between Eli and Preston Holt? Was Preston one of the men at Disappointment Gulch, maybe Susan’s mysterious shooter on the ridge top? Inez couldn’t reconcile that cold-blooded kill with Preston’s reaction when she brought Susan into camp after the accident. And the reverend trusted him—that much was clear. Inez felt certain that Sands would have sensed if something were amiss with Preston Holt.

  But that being the case, who had the shooter been?

  And who was the man Eli argued with on the tracks? What were they arguing about, exactly, and who killed whom?

  An uneasy possibility stole past her questions and encamped in her mind. A possibility she couldn’t expel. Could Eli and the railroad man have been involved in a plot to assassinate Grant or Palmer? It seemed farfetched, yet there was the comment about “killing generals” and the note she’d found in Eli’s saddlebags.

  Did the note precipitate Eli’s departure from Leadville or was it something he’d been planning all along?

  And what, if anything, did Hollis have to do with this?

  Hollis stood to profit from Eli’s departure by taking over the entire business, Inez thought. Although, with the coming of the Rio Grande, the freighting and livery business didn’t look like such a sure bet anymore. Too, Hollis made no secret of his Southern sympathies.

  She half expected Preston Holt to visit the saloon that week, but days rolled by without his appearance. Since I declared the Silver Queen off limits to his son, maybe he’s not going to come around. In which case, I’ll have to go to him.

  The note to Eli remained in her desk, with Reuben’s photocase serving duty as a paperweight.

  The Holts aside, Inez heard more about the railroad and its men as the week progressed. The graders and track-laying crew proceeded steadily up to Leadville from Malta, closing in on the city limits. Inez heard many wagers made as to whether the Rio Grande would wrest right-of-way from the last remaining holdouts between the approaching line and the depot site at Twelfth and Poplar, before Grant’s arrival.

  “What will the railroad do if they can’t negotiate right-of-way in time?” she asked Cooper, who strolled in one afternoon after presenting a case at the courthouse.

  Cooper raised his glass of bourbon. “They’ll condemn the property. But, knowing McMurtrie, Snow, and some of the rest of those Rio Grande fellows, I can well imagine that late some night a crew will be ordered to push on through by moonlight. Those residents involved will wake up in the morning to find a line of track running through the backs of their lots.” He pulled out a cigar and added reflectively, “I’d not care to be in Snow’s boots right now. Good thing the railhead’s so close to town. He’s been in court a lot lately. I’ve no doubt he’s getting a lot of pressure from those in charge to resolve the issue.”

  Snow did not reappear after that night in the saloon. Inez could just imagine him roaring, his face turning purple, as Hollis and the few others stood firm, refusing to give way. And in that case, if he’s spending time here in Leadville and NOT in Denver or the Springs, is Birdie out flitting around on the good reverend’s arm? The possibility only increased her ire.

  True to his word, Evan saved bunting for the Silver Queen to decorate for Grant’s visit. Inez sent Sol to pick it up, not trusting Evan’s delivery boy to defend the precious cargo against other patriotic and desperate merchants. Discussion of Grant’s impending visit flowed freely with the liquor. Flags and streamers disappeared from dry goods inventories faster than summer snow from the rooftops. Inez heard rumors that the “Palace of Fashion” planned to obtain a statue of the Goddess of Liberty and display her by their front door. Others prepared banners and garlands of pine and spruce enough to fill a forest. Talk was that, at the corner of Chestnut Street and Harrison Avenue, the city would erect a grand arch, thirty feet high and sixty feet wide, entirely surmounted with pine boughs.

  As the weekend of July seventeenth approached, Inez began to calculate how and when to intercept Preston Holt. Finally, she told Abe that she needed a few hours on Saturday to settle some business. “I won’t leave until after the Fairplays’ afternoon performance. And I’ll be quick. The out-of-town press will be about, and Jed’s promised to bring a contingent of them by.”

  Saturday afternoon’s performance proved just as crowded as the previous shows. The Fairplays worked their magic with a scene from Romeo and Juliet. Maude’s enthusiastic singing more than compensated for Inez’s unpracticed sight-reading of the popular tunes chosen with care by C.A.

  After the show was over, Inez excused herself, preceded Maude up the stairs, and dressed hurriedly in some of Mark’s castoff clothes. Worsted wool pants, worn and baggy at the knees, a faded shirt and black suspenders, and a nondescript heavy brown waistcoat—all rumpled and dusty from having been thrown in the corner nearly a week ago. Viewing herself in the mirror, Inez decided the nondescript clothes made her, if anything, more invisible. “Just passin’ through,” she said to the mirror, and pulled down on her hat brim.

  She picked up the photocase and opened it one last time, running a finger over the fabric lining. The loose weave and white star stirred a tactile memory.

  There was a knock on the door, Maude’s voice calling, “Mrs. Stannert? May I come in?”

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Fairplay.”

  Opening her washstand drawer, Inez pulled out the strip of fabric she’d rescued from the river and ran its length between thumb and fingers. She then rubbed the fabric critically, like a dressmaker testing the quality of a velvet. Although much the worse from wear, the rescued fabric had the same feel. She held it alongside the photocase, comparing it to the photocase lining. Stains and dirt aside, the star on the river cloth and the star in the case looked the same.

  Cut from the same cloth?

  “But how could that be?” she said aloud. “I found this in the river two weeks ago. I’d wager this other has been in the case a long, long time.”

  “Mrs. Stannert?”

  Maude’s voice from the other side of the door broke her musings. Inez tucked the photocase into an inner pocket of the waistcoat, the long strip of fabric into a trouser pocket.

  Perhaps Preston Holt will have some answers.

  ***

  Inez was glad to be out of the dust and sulfur smell of the town, even as the late afternoon spread long shadows over the ground. Her mare seemed happy to stretch her legs as well. Lucy had several prancing fits while heading out past Malta and into the flats where the construction camp had taken root.

  The railroad camp was a couple of sidings and a sea of tents. She paused near the outskirts of the camp, wondering which way to turn, then decided to press on along the perimeter in hopes of meeting someone who might know Preston Holt’s whereabouts. She angled toward the cars at the sidings, figuring that a payroll guard would probably be close to the payroll car, which, by definition, would be on a track.

  A man on horseback approached and queried about her business. Pitching her voice low and soft, Inez stated she was looking for Preston Holt, who rode for the payroll.

  “Oh sure.” He scratched his jaw, his fingernails making a rasping noise against his whiskers. “Everyone’s paid today. Most’ve gone up to Malta or Leadville. You might find him in the car on the back siding, behind that two-story bunker.” he nodded at the sidings, the first and foremost holding a two-story railcar dotted with windows. “I believe though, he might’ve gone to Malta.”

  She thanked him and headed toward the sidings.

  When the two-story bunk car loomed, she dismounted, tied Lucy off to one side, and circled around back.

  Sure enough, a single-story car with windows and a door faced her. She knocked. Hearing nothing, she debated, then turned the knob. The door swung open.

  “Hello?” she called.

/>   She pulled out the photocase—her excuse for entering, should someone come by demanding to know what she was doing—and stepped up into the car.

  Directly behind the door was a heating stove, just big enough to hold a coffee pot. Pairs of bunks lined either end. Coal oil lamps sat tight in holders along the plank wall. A table, built out from the wall, and another platform with a set of small doors underneath to hold storage gave the bunks at the far end some privacy. All of the beds were covered with identical gray blankets. A few personal odds and ends lay on the table. She wandered over, looking at the straight-edged razor, the cup of water, soap scum and bristles floating on top, and the small tin mirror nailed to the wall. On one of the upper bunks, someone had laid out a shirt. Too small for Preston Holt. Folded neat on the bunk below were a pair of socks. Likewise, too small.

  Not exactly sure what she was looking for, if anything, she wandered to the other end of the car, careful to step lightly so as to not make much noise.

  Aha!

  Hanging on a nearby peg were two overcoats—the larger being the coat Preston had loaned her the day she’d rescued Susan.

  She reached out to touch it, the memory of the heavy wool still with her.

  Whispering voices. Outside the back wall.

  She froze.

  Not exactly whispering, she corrected herself. More like voices attempting to be quiet, but rising out of the whisper range in frustration or insistence.

  “You sure it’s there?” said one.

  “I knowed that’s where he put it.”

  “I’ll be takin’ a chance going in. What’s to keep someone from showing up when I’m inside or when we’re walking away? Did you think of that?”

  “Don’t matter! I need that gun! And the cartridges.”

  “All right! All right! But we need a signal. You stand beside the cars and be on lookout. When it’s clear, whistle once. Then, if someone heads this direction, you start whistling ‘Dixie’ or any other damn tune you please. If I hear music, then I’m hightailing out of there.”

  A murmur of assent.

  A sigh. Then, “I’m headin’ to the door. But remember, I’m not going in until I hear you whistle, sharp and short.”

  The door!

  Frantic, she scanned the room.

  There was only the one door.

  No other way out, unless….

  The windows!

  But they were high off the ground.

  She’d need time.

  And there was no time.

  Footsteps circled the near end of the car, approached the door.

  Inez threw herself down and, belly to the floor, crawled under the bunk she’d surmised was Preston’s.

  Her elbow smashed into a hard object.

  She snaked over it. Something pointed raked across her ribs. She wormed herself up tight against the farthest wall, positioning herself so she faced out. The blanket hung over the side of the bed, forming a small gray curtain and blocking much of her view.

  The smell of dust, leather, and neatsfoot oil assaulted her senses. A pair of gigantic overboots was within reach. She dragged them to her, using them as a partial blockade, leaving just enough space between them to peer out. Lying there, sweating despite the cool air, waiting for a whistle or a tune, she reached for the long object she’d crawled over, thinking to use it as another barrier between her and whoever might enter the car. Her eyes and hand finally took in the object that had given her arm and ribs such grief.

  A gun.

  Or, more precisely, a rifle.

  Fear surged through her.

  Is this what they’re after?

  She could see the barrel poking out from the oilcloth wrap. And in the dim light that filtered under the bed, she could see something more.

  She squinted and then, just to be sure, gently touched the end of the uncovered muzzle.

  The hexagonal shape of the bore matched what her eyes had seen.

  Hexagonal. Like the bullet lying in the darkness of her washstand drawer.

  Further down, she saw the sharp-angled metal of a telescopic sight.

  Her gaze traveled the length of the gun, which disappeared into the wrappings disturbed by her frantic wiggle into hiding.

  A box lay on its side, long white oblong objects spilled out.

  In a panic, she realized that she’d probably kicked over the box of long cartridges in her frantic bid to hide. She jack-knifed downward and scooped the cartridges back into the box, hoping she’d have another minute before—

  A piercing whistle.

  She slid the cartridge box nearly out in plain view and pushed the gun so it lay between the boots and the cartridge box.

  The door swung open. Dying afternoon light stabbed into the car.

  If he spots the rifle and cartridge box right off, he might just lean down, grab them, and go.

  Carefully, silently, she slid her small revolver out of her pocket and covered it with her gloved hands to dowse any stray shine from its metal barrel.

  A pair of dusty boots rounded the corner of the open door. And stopped. She imagined the intruder looking from side to side.

  She was scrunched against the wall, partially curled up, lying amidst dust and dirt.

  The boots turned and approached. The planks shook with each step, each tread sounding a hollow boom.

  The boots stopped in front of the cartridge box.

  Every detail about the boots seemed etched as fine as a steel-engraved print: the dark brown leather, new-looking but dusty, a deep gouge on the toe box of the right boot, still fresh.

  The man exhaled in a heavy grunt. Leather creaked, cloth rustled as he bent a knee to the ground.

  She squinched her eyes shut. Then forced herself to open them. As if closing my eyes will make me invisible!

  A muttered note of triumph.

  A gloved hand grabbed the cartridge box and withdrew.

  Inez held her breath, trembling.

  The hand appeared again and grabbed the muzzle of the rifle. The gun and its oilcloth cover slid out and away from her.

  Feeling exposed, Inez tried to still the trembling that wracked her body.

  The hand reappeared, sweeping back and forth, knocking into the boots. She heard a hissed oath, then “Two boxes, he said, two boxes.”

  Casting a desperate eye around, Inez spotted the second box of cartridges, far up by the head of the bed.

  The hand began pulling the boots out—

  A lilting version of “Dixie” rent the air.

  Inez had never in her life been so happy to hear the anthem of the South.

  The hand disappeared, the man grabbed the rifle and the one box of cartridges, straightened up, and pounded out the door. The door shut with a protesting squeak.

  The tune continued for a few seconds more, before coming to an abrupt halt.

  Setting the Smoot down beside her, she rested her forehead on her fist, fighting the waves of relief that threatened to overwhelm her and leave her less able to act than fear had.

  Minutes passed. No one entered. No sound other than the faraway noises of the camp, buffered by distance and the intervening bunkhouse cars.

  I can’t lie under this bed forever.

  She dragged herself out on elbows and knees. Stood up on shaky legs. Then went back down on her knees to retrieve her hat, which had ended up smashed between her and the wall and was now cobwebby in the extreme.

  As an afterthought, she pulled out the box of cartridges still under the bed and pocketed one. To compare with the one I found in Preston’s coat pocket that day.

  She shoved the box back under the bed, pocketed her pistol, dusted off her clothes and hat as best she could. With a deep breath to settle herself, she headed to the door and opened it. Her feet had barely touched the ground when—

  “Stop right there!”

  Delaney stood at the end of the bunkhouse, carbine trained on her.

  �
��Wait!” Her hands flew into the air, then she pulled off her hat. “It’s me. Mrs. Stannert.”

  His eyes widened.

  Revealing her identity did not have the desired effect. The gun stayed trained on her torso.

  “I was looking for the Holts. Reuben left something in town that I was trying to return. If I may?” One hand inched down to the top button of her waistcoat and hovered there.

  Delaney scowled. The muzzle of the rifle made an abrupt circle, which she took for assent to continue.

  She cautiously extracted the photocase and held it up, talking all the while. “I asked one of the guards on patrol—that’s what you call it, on patrol?—where I might find Preston Holt. Although, I suppose I could have asked for Reuben. To return this case. The guard directed me here.”

  Delaney’s eyes narrowed as she talked.

  She wondered, with part of her mind, how sober he was. Then, suddenly remembering what McMurtrie had said about Delaney not being with the Rio Grande much longer, she wondered what he was doing there at all.

  His eyes were mere slits now, and he seemed to read her mind. “Bet you thought you’d not see me again.”

  She pocketed the case. “Not necessarily. I merely banned you from the Silver Queen. I have no power to persuade you to leave the state.”

  “Ha! Even that piss-poor distant cousin of mine McMurtrie couldn’t get rid of me entirely. Though pullin’ guard duty on Saturday night’s not my idea of—” He stopped. Then, suspiciously, “Wait a minute. Why are you dressed like….” The muzzle of his rifle described another arc, encompassing her outfit. “You’re up to something. You’ve got that guilty look. Just like those two I just caught hanging around here. Them. Now you. Too much of a coincidence, I’m thinking.”

  “What two?” Say the names. Please say the names.

  “Hey Delaney, what’s the problem?” The guard that Inez had first spoken with was walking down the siding, rifle resting in the crook of his arm. He stopped, stared at Inez. “Oh, it’s you. No luck finding Holt?” He turned to Delaney. “Put up your weapon. He talked with me first. Came looking for Holt.”