Iron Ties Part 30

Of course. All that wretched sneaking and spying.

She murmured encouragingly.

Apparently encouraged, Doc continued, "Snow's only minimally involved, so his coming and going is of no consequence. General Palmer knows our good reverend's qualifications. Sands is our eyes and ears, on the lookout for trouble. Can't have trouble now. Even a hint of it. And the sabotage. They're thinking, an inside job. Unacceptable. Palmer needed an outside expert to straighten things out. Palmer and Grant, after all....He told you about the notes?"

What notes? Inez nodded mutely.

"Well, he shouldn't have, really. But then, m' dear, you surely see, it doesn't hurt that-" Doc looked around the empty landing and lowered his voice even further- "he's done this sort of thing before. During and after the war. He's capable of handling trouble, in any form."

Unless that form is a woman. She tightened her mouth into a smile.

"Palmer has the utmost faith in our Reverend Sands. All those gentlemen from Philadelphia, they run in the same circles, know each other from the war, from business. The reverend has the confidence of those at the top. Else we'd not have pushed so hard for him to acquiesce to this bit of work. He's perfect for the part, as I said. And with Grant's visit, as point man for the organizing committee, I-" He stopped and looked past her to the stairs. "Ah-ha! Here comes Jed, trailing quite a crowd. The Colorado Press a.s.sociation, I'd wager. And I see Cooper acting as rearguard. Now, not a word to anyone, right? Wouldn't want Sands and the rest to think I can't keep mum."

Doc stumped over to the staircase, booming, "Evening, Mr. Elliston, and who are your companions?"

Inez's mind churned with questions. Palmer, the head of the Rio Grande, wanted Sands to investigate the sabotage? Hasn't he his own men to do that? And what's this about Grant and all that business about Philadelphia? What notes? How do Birdie Snow and her father work into this or is Birdie a mere...diversion?

She plastered a smile on her face and moved toward the a.s.semblage.

Jed looked up from the stairs, with a silly boy grin that seemed to say, "Told you so," and said, "Mrs. Stannert, allow me to introduce you to these gentlemen of the press." The gentlemen, eight in number, came to attention and removed their hats as if called to duty. Jed rattled off the names in a casual roll call: "Mr. Dawson of the Denver Tribune, Mr. Wood of the Colorado Springs Gazette, Mr. West of the Golden Transcript...."

After Mr. West, Inez lost track of the names and publications. Still, she inclined her head and delivered how-do-you-do's and pleased-to-meet-you's down the line. She noticed with satisfaction that they all, to a man, reverted to manners as no doubt taught to them by their mothers-bowing in return and murmuring polite variations of "pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Excellent. They're clear that the Silver Queen is no "Red Garter" establishment. A vision of the aged female bartender in the Garter flew through Inez's mind. She smoothed the skirt of her dark green velvet dress, glad that she'd taken the time to fasten a silver and pearl bracelet to her wrist and matching necklace and earrings.

"Gentlemen, please follow me. You've chosen a good night to visit the Silver Queen as we're just going to christen our new gaming room." She led them to the recently installed doors, still smelling of varnish and new wood, unlocked them, and entered. Jed trailed after her, followed by the rest.

She turned in the middle of the room, gratified to see how the etched gla.s.s lamp fixtures sparkled from the flames within, and how the waxed and polished wood floors and paneling, green and gold wallpaper, framed prints and paintings, and two new rugs-with more to come-harmonized into a pleasing whole. The original sideboard, brought up from downstairs, was well stocked, the decanters, bottles, crystalware, and coffee service present and accounted for. I must remember to tell Sol I approve. She knew he'd spent the better part of the afternoon preparing the room for the evening.

She waved a hand at the round mahogany table. "We'll eventually replace this with a new one, when we can get it shipped up by train. The coming of the railroad is a blessing in that regard. As for the rest of the furnishings, we're being discriminating in our selection. This is to be a very exclusive section of our establishment."

Several of the pressmen pulled out pencils and notebooks and began scribbling. Good! The more publicity the better. Who knows? If some of the n.o.bs from Denver and Colorado Springs read about this, they may decide that it's worth their time and money to pay a visit.

"So Mrs. Stannert," asked one. "Are you the only woman in Leadville running a place like this?"

"Well, gentlemen." She turned and walked to the window, pulling it open to admit some of the sights and sounds of State Street. "I may not be the only woman in the 'entertainment' business, but I wager you'll not find more decorous surroundings elsewhere in town."

A general murmur of approbation heralded her statement.

She bestowed a benign smile on the attentive press, turned back to the window, and looked down the street. Moonlight shone on the mountains, silvering their heights. Lights blazed from the rooms of Frisco Flo's upscale parlor house. Inez could see figures moving about, drawing a curtain closed, pulling it back. An open window here and there. A gentle breeze breathed on her cheek.

A faint boom echoed through the night. A whistle soft and purposeful whished past her ear, accompanied by an odd tug at the side of her neck, like the rake of a fingernail on soft skin.

Gla.s.s shattered behind her with an explosive sound.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR.

"Jumpin' Jehosephat!" shouted a newsman.

Clapping a hand to her stinging neck, Inez spun around.

One of her newest acquisitions, a painting of Napoleon on a horse with an expanse of French countryside in the background, hung crookedly from its wire, its gla.s.s destroyed, a neat hole in the general's hat.

Inez whirled back, taking care to step away from the window's line of sight.

She saw a man, silhouetted, clamber out of one of Flo's second-story windows and jump to the roof of the saloon next door, disappearing into darkness. He carried a stick-like object in one hand.

But Inez knew, it was no stick.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she snarled. "He nearly killed me!" She took her hand away from her neck. Blood coated her fingers. The stinging increased.

Excited gabbling filled her ears. The newsmen, Jed in the forefront, crowded to the window, jostling for a better look, heedless of their own safety.

"What b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" Jed leaned out the window, peering to either side.

"I don't know, but I'm d.a.m.n well going to find out!"

Doc came forward, distress on his features, handkerchief extended. "Mrs. Stannert! Please, let me look at that."

"Not now!" She s.n.a.t.c.hed the proffered cloth from Doc and ran to the door, holding her skirts up with one hand, the handkerchief to her bleeding neck with the other.

Inez clattered down the stairs, aware of the thunder of feet behind her. She pounded through the dimly lit kitchen and shot out the back door. Anger boiled up and over the common-sensical voice that whispered against venturing out into the dark alley in her good clothes.

She stopped and pulled her small gun out of its secret pocket sewn into the seam of her evening dress. Then, attempting to grip the pistol and hold her skirts out of the filth with the same hand, she moved purposefully through Tiger Alley, eyes to the deep shadows for a lurking gunman.

"Mrs. Stannert, wait!" Jed caught up with her, panting. "Hold on! You can't just go running through the alley like this!"

"Oh no?" She kept moving, forcing him to keep pace.

Before long, she was surrounded by the pressmen, who, she suspected, were looking forward to writing up some sensationalist snappy story for their representative rags.

"Where'd the shot come from?" one asked.

"Frisco Flo's boardinghouse." Inez banged her toe on something hard.

"Boardinghouse?" came another voice, dubious.

"Oh, call it what it is," said a third. "The cathouse down on the corner."

A long, low whistle from the back. "That's some shot. And at night. How far away d'ya think the gunman was?"

Someone began calculating aloud. "Well, the front of the lots are twenty-five feet wide. There're what, nearly thirty lots on the block? That's about...."

Inez stepped into something that squelched nastily into her second-best shoes, cursed, and slowed to a stop behind the Palace Hotel.

"C'mon Mrs. Stannert." Jed headed down the side of the building. "If you want to find out who pulled the trigger, the best thing to do is head for the front door and ask Flo who was in that room."

Grumbling, Inez conceded that Jed's course of action was probably best.

The entire party arrived at Frisco Flo's impressive brick fortress and attempted to crowd up on the tiny porch. A doorman opened the door and bristled at the invasion.

"Someone shot at Mrs. Stannert from one of your upstairs rooms," Jed said accusingly.

Inez pushed to the front of the group and said to the doorman, who was nearly the size and shape of the door he guarded, "Tell Madam Flo that Mrs. Stannert would like to speak to her. Now." The handkerchief, pressed to her wound, was beginning to drip. Her neck felt as if it were on fire.

Behind the doorman, Inez could hear a confusion of squeals and loud exclamations. "Is that the police?" cried a feminine voice. Cries of panic-not all from women-increased in volume.

"Quiet!"

Inez recognized Flo's voice, although it had none of its usual congenial, slightly dizzy cheerfulness.

Flo shouldered past the doorman. "Oh for the love of....It's not the police, girls. What's this, someone shot you, Mrs. Stannert?"

"From one of your rooms on the second floor."

Flo's ample bosom heaved in a heavy sigh. "And who're all these gents?"

Inez, with difficulty, turned her head. Sure enough, most of them were still taking notes. "The Colorado Press a.s.sociation."

"Inkslingers." Flo pressed against the doorframe, considering. "Well, our visitors all vanished out the back door. Come on in, fellas. We've a special fondness for newsmen as long as they get the story straight."

They all squeezed into Flo's entrance hall.

Women cl.u.s.tered on the stairs in various states of deshabille, hair tumbling down, piled up, bare feet, shoes without stockings, stockings without shoes....

Flo turned to them. "I'm going to ask one more time." There was steel to the velvet in her voice. "Who left that window open?"

Not a sound. All the women's eyes were now trained on the men staring up at them.

Flo sighed. "When I took over this place, I had all the bars from the windows removed. Most of you girls remember. I figured, well, in a fire, we all need more than the front and back doors. But-" her voice hardened- "if I discover someone is taking advantage of my good nature, she'll be out on the street servicing johns in the alleys."

She turned back to Inez and the others and crossed her white arms, deepening the cleavage offered by her low-cut gown. "I've no idea who fired that shot. It came from a room that's been vacant for a while now. Evidently, someone went in there sometime this evening, opened the window and....Well, apparently it's an easy matter to get on the rooftop next door and clamber through the window." She sniffed in disgust. "Something I hadn't considered before, but I certainly will now. Who knows who has been slipping in a free one now and again. In any case, we heard the shot. Tiny here," she nodded at her doorman, "went up right away, but the door was jammed shut from the inside. Someone had braced a chair against it. By the time we got in...." She shrugged. "Toodle-oo. Gone."

Flo lifted her head high and addressed the newsmen. "This is the first time we've ever had any trouble like this. You all from Denver? Well, you can tell your readers that Frisco Flo runs a tight ship, the girls are clean and well-behaved, and we take kindly to visitors. In fact, I do believe we'll offer a special tonight. Half-off our usual rates for the next couple of hours."

There was a general shuffle of feet behind Inez. She turned to see notebooks snap shut. Some of the men looked hopeful. Others looked discomfited.

The door squeaked open behind them. Inez heard a babble of animated male voices, including: "I been savin' my wages for three weeks for this." Chatter ceased at the tableau of newsmen and Inez in the foyer facing off Flo and the women on the stairs.

Inez saw one of the prost.i.tutes-young, curly dark hair, extremely thin-cover her mouth as if in surprise or to stop a shout. She faded behind the others, wide eyes on the entrance.

Next to Inez, Wood from the Colorado Springs Gazette twisted around to eyeball the newcomers, then said in an undertone to a colleague, "Say, isn't that fellow back there the one who gave us the scoop on the railroad trouble?"

Inez turned her head to see whom they were talking about.

A gaggle of Rio Grande men stood uncertainly just inside the door, including Sketch, looking all spiffed up, Delaney, looking pugnacious, the professor, looking aghast, and Reuben, looking sullen and scuffing a muddy boot.

Suddenly, the floor tilted sideways under her feet and threatened to slam her into the wall.

Jed grabbed her arm. "Steady, Mrs. Stannert. Let me walk you back. Doc should take a look at that."

Flo's expression melted into concern. "If I find out who it was-"

"You let me know," Inez said. "And I'll make sure he doesn't do it again."

Jed, holding her steady, pushed through the crowd to the door. Once outside, the cold air revived her enough that she could walk, albeit unsteadily. Jed volunteered his handkerchief, which she pressed over the blood-soaked one.

Back inside the warm confines of the Silver Queen, Inez allowed Abe and Jed to help her to the kitchen, where Doc waited.

"More blood than damage," he announced after cleaning and examining her wound. "Keep it covered. A hot toddy-no stinting on the whiskey-a good night's sleep, and you'll suffer nothing more than a stiff neck. You're very lucky. A major artery lies just below the surface. Why, I remember in the war-"

A knock on the door interrupted Doc's reminiscences. Sol entered, hand clenched into a fist, looking worried, then relieved. "Good to see you're out of surgery, ma'am. Thought you'd like to see what we dug out of that picture."

He opened his hand.

A bullet, sides cut in a hexagon, dull and dark, lay on his palm.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE.

At seven the next morning, neck sore and stinging, Inez perched sidesaddle atop Lucy where West Third met the Boulevard. She kept watch south, the early morning sun touching her cheek, twisting Lucy's reins around her fingers.

True to her words, she'd decided to forgo men's trousers that day.

The sidesaddle was courtesy of the livery a block from the saloon. For a fee, they'd been happy to feed and shelter Lucy overnight and supply the gear.

Thank goodness. Don't think I could've managed going all the way back to Hollis' place. She sometimes wondered about the wisdom of keeping her horse so far away-even though she hated the thought of leaving Jack.

She straightened up as the bottom of her riding corset pinched her skin, reminding herself not to slouch, and rearranged the folds of her dark gray overskirt. She didn't own a tailored riding costume like those worn by ladies from Chicago and New York summering in the mountains. Still, her broadcloth skirt was full and long, her boots were stout, her gloves were gauntleted, and her jacket was the same material as the skirt. Beneath the collar of her white shirtwaist, Inez had wound a soft black cloth around her wounded neck.

The only discordant note to her fashionable ensemble was the Sharps rifle, tucked in a scabbard, and her pocket pistol, invisible to all, but a comfort in case of trouble.

Her hand clenched the reins tighter and the fluttering in her stomach turned into a roil when she recognized the figure of Preston Holt on the large bay heading her way.