Iron Ties Part 21

"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?"

"h.e.l.l 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 b.u.mped 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: d.a.m.n 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 Sat.u.r.day night. The bar was nearly hidden beneath elbows and a sea of gla.s.sware. 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 pa.s.sdoor, balancing a full tray of bowls, pies, and coffee mugs. His ap.r.o.n 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 gla.s.ses 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, m.u.f.fled by intervening bodies and conversation, a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed 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...."

She greeted the men she knew and eventually made her way to behind the bar. She asked Abe, "Has it been this way all afternoon?"

He slid the last Smasher to a serious-faced young banker at the other side of the mahogany counter. "Was even better earlier." He flashed her a wide smile, all teeth. "d.a.m.n, but the Fairplays drew in nearly every man pa.s.sin' by, even at a dollar a head. They all ponied up without a fuss and stayed to drink in the bargain. How was your church picnic?"

A vision of Sands and Birdie rose up, unbidden. Fury boiled up inside Inez like heat rising through a pot of water on a stove.

Abe's eyebrows shot up at her expression. "That good? Hmmph. Guess you should've stayed here. We could've used your help. Right, Sol?"

"Right," he grunted, shifting an empty beer keg under the bar.

"Well, I'll lend a hand now. Just let me run upstairs for a moment."

She headed for the stairs, stopping by Taps as he ended "Little Brown Jug" with an enthusiastic flourish.

He grinned up at her. "Hey, Mrs. Stannert. You sure missed a great show. But maybe they'll do it again next week."

"And what show was that?"

"Well-"

A customer appeared with a beer and handed it to Taps. "For you, fine fella. Good job."

Taps flushed happily and accepted the drink. "Thank you, sir." He took a gulp, then set it on top of the piano next to a stein overflowing with coins and crumpled paper bills. He pulled the music off the stand and handed it to Inez. "You'd like this, Mrs. Stannert. Maude-that is, Mrs. Fairplay-sang while I played these ditties from Shakespeare. Didn't know the Bard wrote songs."

She opened Cheerful Ayres and Ballads and scanned the score for "Come unto these yellow sands," "Full fathom five," and "Where the bee sucks."

Inez fanned herself with the music, inspecting the piano player's glowing face. "So, they did bits from The Tempest. And Mrs. Fairplay played Ariel? The spirit who sings these songs?"

He clasped his hands like a giddy child. "She enchanted everyone."

"Enchanted them, did she? And how far above the ankle did the enchantment go?"

His grin faded into puzzlement, then he looked abashed. "Oh. Her costume." He cleared his throat and reached for the beer. "It was artistic. Flowing, rather. Parts came up nearly to the," he avoided her eyes, "knee. But only sometimes," he added hastily. "The material...floated. Gauzy, I guess you'd call it."

"Gauzy," said Inez, picturing Maude in a swirl of silk veils and tulle, a-flowing across the floor. "Well, enough of this. I've work to do."

She hurried upstairs and made a quick examination of the office and back room. Her dressing room was neat and tidy...almost too so. The washbowl was empty, the pitcher full of clean water. An unused towel folded to one side. Retreating to the office again, she cast an eye around the room.

All looked proper, in its place.

She went to her desk to deposit Eli's letters. As she pulled up the rolltop, her gaze snagged on William's photo, still on display on top of the desk.

But not quite as she had left it.

The photo was not directly in her line of view as it had been while she worked the ledger but was now angled away. "d.a.m.n her!" Inez said fiercely.

She stuffed the bundle of letters into a pigeonhole of her desk and then closed the photocase, tenderly sliding it into another compartment, safe and out of sight.

By common consent, they agreed to close at ten. At quarter to, Jed Elliston sauntered in. Or attempted to. The crowd made sauntering extremely difficult. He finally made his way to the bar and squeezed in between two groups. "Say, Mrs. Stannert, some of your best spiritus frumenti, if you would."

Grumbling, she turned to examine the backbar. "You're lucky there's anything left." She rescued a bottle of Old Gideon and a gla.s.s that looked at least marginally clean and proceeded to pour.

Jed saluted her with the full gla.s.s. "Happy Fourth, Mrs. Stannert. You missed quite the show today in your establishment. Well, you can read all about it in the next issue of The Independent." He drank, sighed, and said, "Fine as silk. Seen the good reverend lately?"

Inez stiffened and pulled back. "No."

"Hmm." Jed swirled the liquor in the gla.s.s, casually. "Wanted to ask him what he's been up to lately."

The image of Sands and Birdie seared her memory. So do I. "Why?"

"Saw him Friday, in the Texas House Saloon. In a back corner with McMurtrie, Snow, Doc, and that big railroad fellow, the one who came to the game last night with the kid, but didn't play. Seemed like an odd set of ducks to be paddling in the waters together. The reverend didn't look happy either. Wondered what would bring the five of them together. Wanted to ask him about it last night, after the game. But you both slipped away before I could catch up."

"Well." She banged the cork into the bottle, a trifle harder than necessary. "Guess you'll have to ask him. Or Doc. Or Snow. Or Holt. Or McMurtrie. Now drink up, we're closing."

She turned to look at Abe, who was busy mopping the counter with a sopping bar rag. "Shall I do last call, Abe?"

"Sure."

On her way to the stairs, Inez stopped and asked Sol, "Would you walk me home tonight? Since Abe will be closing."

Sol looked at her in surprise. "Sure, Mrs. Stannert. But what about-"

"Thank you." She ascended the stairs, leaned on the balcony railing, and let the murmur of men's voices wash over her. Taking a deep breath, she announced, "Last call!"

The sea of hats tipped back, displaying disappointed faces. Someone yelled, "Now, Mrs. Stannert, don't be that way! Where we gonna go for a night cap?"

She put a hand on her hip. "If you find that you've a deeper thirst than a final night cap here can quench, there's Pap Wyman's, right across the street. And for anyone who feels the weight of sinning on a Sunday, be sure to read a few good words from the Bible he has chained next to the entrance and reflect upon their meaning."

Groans, moans, and curses reflected what they thought of that. She went into her office, her smile fading with the light as the door shut behind her.

Inez lit a coal oil lamp and took it with her into the dressing room. She washed her face, feeling the sheen of dust and sweat from the day slide from her. Patting her face dry, she examined her dress in the lamplight and decided against changing. Her linen cuffs and collar, she noted absently, needed a thorough cleaning. She left the dressing room, extinguished the lamp and stood for a moment, looking out the window. Flashes of light here and there showed that celebrating was still in full swing. She felt completely alone in a world intent on throwing one huge party. Enough. She left the office, locking the door.

Inez was coming down the staircase, adjusting her gloves, when she sensed a gaze upon her. She looked up to see Reverend Sands across the room by the State Street door, eyes leveled on her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Blood rushed to her head in a deafening roar, sweeping away her rationalizations and leaving her trembling with a white-hot rage.

Breaking eye contact, she took the last two steps in a single bound. Ignoring Sol's startled "Ma'am?" Inez swung out the Harrison Avenue door and started up the street. Carriages and other conveyances were now straggling back into town, horses and drivers tired and dusty-some of those at the reins more than a little drunk, judging by the blue language flying through the air and the crack of whips. Men in groups, families tugging tired, small children, all pushed to make headway on the boardwalks.