Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  The man nodded, obviously impatient to end the lecture. “Aye. Well, we’ve no beds to store it under. And my partner knows how to handle the explosives, so he says.”

  “Professor!” cried Inez, surprised.

  The professor whirled around, startled, then whipped off his hat. “Mrs. Stannert. Fancy, meeting you here.”

  “What are you doing? After you stopped us on the road yesterday—”

  “Yes, yesterday.” He glanced between Inez and Evan, looking trapped between two worlds. “Well, if the truth be known, that incident of yesterday, Mrs. Stannert, is what did it to me. I’m a new man, now, starting on a new venture.” He turned to Evan. “I’m thinking that our business is done?”

  “Just need your John Hancock right here.” Evan pushed a list and a pencil at him. “Just so we both know we agreed to the terms of the trade.”

  The professor signed, grabbed the ropes and the picks, and said, “I’ll be back for the rest, when I’ve got something to carry it in. Ye’ll keep it for me a day or so?”

  “A burro, Mr. Duncan. You should look into getting one if you plan to try your luck in the high mountains,” Evan called to his retreating back.

  “Thankee.”

  The professor brushed past Inez and moved toward the entrance. Inez hurried after him, throwing over her shoulder, “I’ll be back, Mr. Evan.”

  She caught up with the professor and said, “I’ve been wanting to talk with you, Mr. Duncan.”

  “Ah, call me Professor. ’Tis what I prefer.” He looked around, distracted. “Yes, ye’d be wonderin’ about my change of vocation here. Well, Delaney’s death, the sabotage of the line and all is a worry. Ye know, the cars blown to bits where that young woman was, ’twas sabotage, no doubt. And there’s been more I daren’t write for The Independent. Some are already suspicious, wonderin’ how Mr. Elliston gets his news.”

  The professor pulled the door open and went out.

  Inez caught it and hurried to keep pace.

  He shot her a look of annoyance, then continued, “Snow, McMurtrie, and some top fellows are makin’ inquiries. ’Twould be most uncomfortable for me, should they find out. But to the sabotage, there’s some thinking it might be malcontents from the other railroads—the Santa Fe, of course, and well, there’s the Denver and South Park. They’ve gotten fed up with Palmer’s high and mighty ways, it seems. But now, the business with Delaney. Things are taking a serious turn. So, I’ve decided to move along. I’ve been bitten by the bug, you see. Those graders striking it rich in Malta got me thinking I’d try my hand at prospecting.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Well now.” His gaze skittered away from her to the street. “There’s a place I’m going to explore further with a partner. An experienced fellow. No sense giving its location away. Could be the next strike, y’know.”

  “Professor, I have some urgent questions for you. And if you’re planning on leaving, I must ask them now.”

  “Now’s not a good time.” He reached his horse, dumped the pickaxes and rope on the ground, and looked at the animal, as if trying to figure out how he was going to pack on the equipment.

  “It’s the only time we have. And remember, I did help you find a job on the newspaper, did I not?”

  “Ah well,” he grumbled, bending to pick up the rope. “What then?”

  “Are you from Missouri?”

  He straightened up, staring. “What makes you ask that?”

  “A Brodie Duncan left Missouri with Hiram and Reuben Holt, heading for Colorado to work on the railroads. And Hiram Holt is one of the fellows who was killed by the siding.”

  “Now, there’s no proof anyone died, no bodies—”

  “Are you indeed Brodie Duncan from Missouri?”

  He sighed. Dropped the rope. Looked at the picks miserably. “You’re makin’ a mistake.”

  She stepped closer. “What happened yesterday? Do they think Reuben had something to do with Delaney’s death? Certainly they can’t think Preston, I mean, Mr. Holt, did anything. I can vouch for him. We went riding that morning—”

  “Railroad business, Mrs. Stannert,” he interrupted. The professor gathered up the rope again, pulled the coils over his head and onto one shoulder, then gathered the pickaxes awkwardly under one arm. “I cannae say more.”

  “Why not? You’ve been willing to slander your employer far and wide in the newspaper.”

  “’Tis not slander!” The professor stopped and looked around as if afraid people were listening. Pedestrians hurried by without giving Inez or the professor a single glance. Nonetheless, he lowered his voice. “But that’s not the point now. This business with Delaney. A murderer’s about. And I dinnae want any part of it.”

  “One more question. Did you fight in the war?”

  “Mrs. Stannert.” He covered his eyes for a moment with his free hand. Then lowered it and looked straight at her. “I was a lad of fifteen in Tennessee when it ended and was straightaway to Edinburgh afterward. Whether I was in the war or no, fought or not, what difference does it make?”

  He turned to his horse and awkwardly mounted. As he pulled on the reins, Inez said loudly, “The war seems to make a difference to all but you. And that makes me wonder.”

  Without a word or a glance, he maneuvered his horse out onto Chestnut Avenue and headed out of town.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Inez headed up Chestnut, thinking that a walk to the livery to talk with Jack, and maybe Hollis, might offer some answers. As she approached Susan’s studio, she saw Susan standing outside her door, looking up the street. Then back down in Inez’s direction. Her anxious gaze seemed to pass right through Inez as if she was looking for someone else. She began locking her door.

  Inez hurried to the studio. “Susan, are you closing? Is something wrong?”

  “Oh Inez!” She turned, the “Closed” sign in one hand. In the other, she held her key and a cabinet card. “I’m so glad to see you. I was going to look for a policeman or the marshal. It was such an unsettling experience, and I’d hate for something to happen.”

  “Wait. What are you talking about?”

  Susan took a deep breath. “That strange man. The one that’s been bothering you.”

  “You mean Weston Croy?”

  “Yes. The crazy man, who looks like a ghost. He was wandering past my studio just now and burst in, shouting ‘Where is she?’ I had no idea who he was talking about. I thought he might mean you, actually, since he’s been dogging your heels about town. I said, ‘Who?’ and truly wished I had a gun to brandish around. I think you’re right, Inez, I shall have to get something to keep with me here, I wouldn’t have to load it, just wave it around.”

  “Susan! Stop babbling and tell me what happened!”

  “He dragged me over to the window, plucked out a cabinet card from the display, and said, ‘Where is she?’ and I said—it just slipped out, I was so unnerved—I said, ‘You mean Mrs. Flynn?’ and he shouted ‘Flynn! That….’ Well, I won’t repeat what he said about her. Then he took off. With the card. I have a copy I was going to take to the police.” She held out the photograph to Inez.

  Inez took it. And was immediately struck by Mrs. Flynn’s expression and bearing. “Heavens, we could be sisters,” she said, dumbfounded that she hadn’t seen the similarity before.

  “Yes, you could. Well, except for the color of your hair. But you both have a certain expression, and I believe I caught it here. Mrs. Flynn also carries herself like you, I’ve noticed. I think it’s something to do with good breeding.”

  The nervous words pouring from Susan hardly registered as Inez took in a second damning detail. “The shawl,” she said, dread creeping in despite her efforts to control it. “Mrs. Flynn and I. We even have the same shawl.”

  The paisley shawl draped over Mrs. Flynn’s Sunday best outfit was twin to the one Inez had worn when Weston Croy had accosted her outside the deadfall on Third.

&n
bsp; Inez looked at Susan, concerned. “Could Mrs. Flynn be his wife? Addie Croy? But she’s a widow.”

  Susan shook Inez’s arm. “Do you think she’s in danger? I didn’t say where she lives. Oh, Inez.”

  “I’ll head to your boardinghouse and find a lawman on the way.” Inez pocketed the photo. Her fingers brushed her revolver. “With luck, it’ll take Weston a while to find out where she lives. I can’t imagine many folks will come right out and give him directions. Susan, go back inside. If I were you, I’d keep the door locked until this is resolved. He might come back demanding more information.” If he’s thinking straight, that is.

  Susan unlocked the door and went inside. “Let me know what happens.”

  “I’ll be back.” Inez weighed the odds of running into a patrol on the side streets—faster moving, less foot traffic—versus on Chestnut and Harrison—slower going, more people. But if I get there too late….

  Inez started moving at a brisk pace down Chestnut and cut over on Spruce, picking up her skirts to hurry even more. Near the crossing of Fourth, she spotted the familiar uniform of a Leadville officer. She got his attention by hollering an unladylike “Hallo!” He waited while she caught up and listened gravely but, she thought, with a trace of skepticism as she explained her haste.

  “We’ll see then,” he said, setting his police cap at an authoritative angle. He proceeded at a slower pace than Inez would have wished, but at least gripped his blackjack in a firm and ready manner.

  They’d nearly reached the corner where they’d need to turn for the boardinghouse when Inez heard the unmistakable crack of a revolver, followed by a bevy of women’s screams, and another shot.

  The policeman broke into a gallop, abandoning Inez to her own pace. Inez lifted her skirts higher, determining that the situation demanded she overlook the impropriety of flashing boot tops and a bit of stocking, and ran as well. Halfway up the block, she saw the boardinghouse, its ornate cream-painted false front rising above the other two-story and one-story houses on the street. Clustered in front were a handful of young women, a couple with hands to their faces, others pointing up the street toward Harrison.

  As she drew closer, Inez heard Mrs. Flynn’s voice raised in a strong and fierce timbre. “Yes, I shot him! And I’ll do it again, if I have the chance. Weston came here. How he found me, I don’t know. I opened the door and he attacked me, saying the most foul things. He hit me, twice, and pulled me outside. Mr. Braun came to my aid and grappled with him. I ran inside and got the pistol I keep by the door. Then, Weston shot Mr. Braun. And I shot Weston. I wish I’d killed him!”

  Inez pushed through the knot of boarders to see Braun, crumpled on the sidewalk, hand clutching his side. Blood soaked into the weathered boards. “Ach, Mrs. Flynn, you need not—” he said weakly, and coughed up blood.

  Two young women screamed. Mrs. Flynn whirled to them, furious. “Get back in the house!”

  They scattered like frightened doves.

  Mrs. Flynn turned back, revolver hanging limply from one hand. Her face was beginning to bruise around a weeping gash on one cheek. “Weston is mad. He, he threatened to kill me.”

  The policeman knelt by Braun, trying to staunch the blood with a handful of lace hankies. He looked up at Inez, desperate. “He needs a doctor.”

  “Dr. Rice’s office is just one block toward Chestnut,” Inez said. She knelt by the policeman, pushed him away, and applied pressure to the hankies. “Go!”

  The policeman stood, adjusted his hat with a bloodied hand, and ran up the street.

  Mrs. Flynn knelt by Inez. “Dear Lord. What have I done?”

  Inez said quietly, “Addie Croy?”

  She turned a distracted gaze toward Inez.

  “What happened?” Inez asked.

  Mrs. Flynn gripped the pistol with a lace-gloved hand. “I thought I’d outrun him.” Her voice was a whisper. “How did he find me here? In Leadville? I took another name. Dyed my hair—”

  Looking closer at Mrs. Flynn’s uncovered tresses, mussed and half hanging in her face, Inez detected dark brown roots, betraying the bleached-blonde plaits.

  “He often mistook me for you,” Inez said.

  Mrs. Flynn’s blank gaze transferred to Inez.

  “Weston followed me around town, called me Addie. He said to me once, something about making your sister tell him where you were.”

  “Oh no.” Mrs. Flynn began to weep silently. “He wasn’t like this when we married five years ago. He was an engineer. In Ohio. Built bridges. Never talked about the war. But then…he began acting strangely. And he beat me. He’d have fits, think the war was still raging. Those were the worst times. I tried to divorce him. But he found out, nearly killed me. I should have had him committed. But I was afraid. What if they wouldn’t take him in? The beatings. They didn’t stop. And he was wild. He’d drag me into the woods, saying the Rebels were after us, that they were going to set our house afire. I was so afraid. I finally decided to take what money there was and disappear, start a new life, pretend he was dead. It seemed the only way out.”

  Attorney Casey’s words came back to her: There are far worse things in this world than divorce.

  “I understand,” Inez said quietly. “Mrs. Croy, you must get free of him. If you pursue a divorce, I know someone who can help.”

  She looked up the street, away from the weeping Addie Croy. The policeman was returning at a fast clip with Dr. Rice, medical bag in hand. The doctor reached them, said, “I’ll take it from here,” and knelt by Braun.

  “Mrs. Flynn.” The policeman’s voice was courteous, but firm. “I think you’d best go inside.” He looked up and down the street. “So which direction did this Weston fellow go?”

  “All the boarders were pointing north,” said Inez.

  “We’ll get a description of him and set a watch here as well. We’ll catch him eventually. Although, I’ve got to be honest, with Grant’s upcoming visit, we’re stretched pretty thin on the force. Mrs. Stannert, would you mind taking the missus and….” He gestured toward the boardinghouse. The boarders were peering out the windows, horror and fascination painting their gazes.

  Inez took Mrs. Flynn by the waist, and led her away from the doctor laboring over Braun, feeling bleakness and the cold sigh of fear enter her soul.

  I hope “eventually” is soon enough.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Tuesday morning, Inez hustled Susan to Evan’s store as soon as it opened and told him to fix her up with a small pocket pistol. “If you have another like mine, that will do nicely,” she said to Evan.

  “A Remington Smoot Number Two? Let’s see.” Evan inspected the gun case. “Ah, here’s one.” He pulled the shiny nickel-plated pocket revolver from the case and held it out. “A real beaut, Miss Carothers. As Mrs. Stannert will attest.”

  Susan recoiled. “It looks so…serious.”

  Inez sighed. “It’s supposed to. You want someone to take you seriously when you point it at them.”

  Susan turned to Evan. “Have you anything smaller? That doesn’t hold so many bullets?”

  Evan raised his eyebrows but laid the pistol aside. After a moment, he said, “Here’s a little Remington derringer. Someone brought it in on a trade. It’s clean and ready to go. But you only have two chances to hit your target with this model. Not like the Smoot, which holds five rounds.”

  “Perfect!” Susan said. “And I’ll take two bullets with it, please.”

  “They’re called cartridges before you shoot,” Evan said. “Bullets, afterward.”

  Inez said firmly, “She’ll take a box of cartridges.”

  He packed the tiny gun and the box of cartridges in a brown sack, and Inez accompanied Susan back to her studio.

  “I’ll give you lessons on how to shoot as soon as possible,” said Inez. “In addition, I’ll show you how to handle the gun safely, load it, and clean it.”

  Susan used two fingers to lift the pistol from th
e bag. “I suppose I should carry this in my pocket. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “Just be careful not to catch the hammer on a fold of fabric or anything like that. If the hammer’s pulled back, it’ll be ready to fire.”

  “Maybe I’ll just keep it in the bag.” Susan lowered it back into the paper bag and rolled the top down tight.

  “I don’t know what good it will do you like that.”

  “It will make me feel more secure. And that’s the intention. So, have they caught him yet? Weston Croy?”

  “No.”

  “Poor Mrs. Flynn. Or Mrs. Croy. I hardly know what to call her anymore. She insists she shot him. Mr. Croy, that is. But none of us are sleeping very well in that house. We keep expecting him to appear in a window or pop up at the back door.”

  “It’s a good thing the police are patrolling.” Inez couldn’t help but feel uneasy, as if the world were holding its breath. Maybe it’s just Grant’s impending visit.

  “Thank goodness,” Susan continued, “that Mr. Braun is going to recover. How awful if he would have been killed! I do believe Mrs.…well, our landlady…is quite fond of him. By the way, have you heard from Reverend Sands?”

  Inez jolted to the present. “Oh, yes. I got a short note this morning. He’s in….” She pulled the letter out and glanced at the heading. “Colorado Springs. Says he’ll be coming into town with Grant’s train. Hmmm. I wonder if that means ‘on’ the train.”

  “I saw in today’s paper that Grant is at the Springs as Palmer’s guest,” said Susan, trying to fit the rolled-up paper bag in her pocket. “Pshaw! It’s too big!”

  Inez stared at the letter. The message had been brief, no mention of their tempestuous parting. But just seeing the reverend’s handwriting had caused her heart to contract in her chest. Expectation and guilt squeezed tight together.