“Of course,” he said. “Gentlemen, may I buy you a drink?”
“Is the captain payin’?” Sharp asked.
“He is.”
“Then you can buy us dinner and a drink.”
When we were seated in the dining room, Sharp immediately ordered a bottle of expensive Kentucky whiskey. Sharp enjoyed coercing others to pay for his expensive habits. Since I was the usual victim, I was glad to see the captain take a turn.
Our dinner partner reached out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Carl Schmidt, half of a special team with the Pinkertons.”
After handshakes and introductions, I asked, “What kind of special team?”
“My wife, Mary, and I investigate swindles. Mostly we set ourselves up as a rich and callow couple. We’re pretty good at getting con artists to see us as a likely target.”
“Who employs you?” I asked.
Schmidt laughed. “Rich men don’t like to be suckered. They get angry, and they have enough money to hire us to get even.”
“There much work out there for ya?” Sharp asked.
“Too much. We work the entire nation, but for the last couple of years, it seems we’ve spent most of our time in mining camps.”
“Gold and silver swindlers?” Sharp said in mock surprise. “My God, who can ya trust?”
I began to wonder about this couple. Keeping my voice neutral, I said, “These men we’re dealing with aren’t swindlers … they’re killers.”
“Don’t misjudge,” Schmidt said. “A cornered swindler can be dangerous. We’re experienced and capable of handling dangerous situations.”
“Do you carry a gun?” I asked.
Schmidt lifted his coat enough for me to see his gun—a Smith & Wesson .44, just like Captain McAllen carried. “Mary always carries a pocket pistol and a derringer. In close quarters, we can handle the situation, but, as always, our main protection is to stay undetected. That’s our best skill.” He stood. “Gentlemen, the two of you stick out like a sore thumb in this establishment, and you’re the ones who can be linked to Maggie. The sooner you leave Twin Lakes, the safer she’ll be.”
With that, Carl Schmidt walked briskly out of the hotel dining room.
Chapter 41
After a hasty meal, Sharp and I were on the road to Leadville. Just before we left, we spotted the perfectly groomed Schmidt family descending the central staircase. McAllen’s cleaned-up daughter looked almost unrecognizable to us, with straw-colored hair and feminine clothes. She wore a pretty yellow dress and looked like the offspring of a society couple from the East out here on holiday. Taking Schmidt’s admonishment to heart, we didn’t acknowledge them.
Unless we ran into something unforeseen, we expected to arrive in Leadville shortly after dark. We’d only been gone two days, so hopefully nobody had noticed that we had left town. Maggie was safe. Raven should have returned with Maggie’s letter on schedule and without suspicion. Neither Bane nor Red had a horse, so both should still be in the mountains. As we rode hard toward Leadville, it appeared that our plan was working.
Few things in my life have looked as inviting as the Carbonate Hotel. By the time we pulled up, I was chilled to the bone. In fact, for the first time, I fully realized the meaning of that expression. A stable boy took our horses as we lugged our saddlebags up to our room. Trudging up the stairs, we met McAllen coming down. All three of our heads whipped around to see if there was anyone within earshot. When we saw no one, Sharp said in a quiet voice, “Maggie’s with the Schmidts.”
McAllen actually smiled before he said, “Silverado,” and quickened his steps down the stairs.
After we reached the second-floor landing, I whispered to Sharp, “Step into my room a moment.” When we got behind closed doors, I asked, “What’s Silverado?”
“A miners’ saloon on the north end of town. A place Grant would never go.”
“When?”
Sharp laughed. “I thought we were talkin’ about the captain.”
I plopped my saddlebags on the floor. “Let’s go.”
In a few minutes we were in a rowdy saloon that did a good business peddling three staples: liquor, prostitution, and gambling. Liquor them up, let the girls get a piece of their bankroll, and then separate them from the rest of their week’s pay at the gambling tables. This formula worked in every mining encampment, cattle town, and rail head.
McAllen sat at a table tucked into a corner at the front of the saloon. We could see everyone as they entered and, since most men surveyed in front of them, few would notice us until they were well into the saloon and turned around. McAllen had a bottle of Kentucky whiskey and three glasses on the table.
Sharp poured as he said, “We got yer daughter away from Bane an’ escorted her to the Schmidts at Twin Lakes.” Sharp shoved a full glass over to McAllen. “She’s safe an’ in good hands.”
“Jeff, Steve.” He saluted us with his glass. “Thank you. I owe you my daughter’s life and a good deal of money for your expenses. I don’t know how I can repay either.”
“Forget the expenses,” I said. “Money’s just a tool to get what you want, and Jeff and I wanted to help a friend.”
Sharp nodded and then made eye contact with McAllen. “Joseph … Bane was still alive when we left. Red stayed behind to kill or delay him so we could get down the mountain.”
McAllen used two fingers to twist his whiskey glass back and forth by quarter turns. When he looked up, he said, “Red ain’t back yet.”
“He couldn’t be back yet,” I said quickly. “He ordered us to take his horse down the mountain. He’s on foot.”
“Bane?” McAllen asked.
“Red maimed his horses.” I hesitated. “One of the two of them will eventually hike out of those mountains.”
McAllen nodded. After he swallowed his whiskey, he said, “That Indian made it back with Maggie’s letter late last night. It was written on the back of a Tabor Opera House handbill that’s posted all over town.”
“Yep,” Sharp said. “Raven left before we rescued Maggie, so he shouldn’t be suspicious. That damn Indian ripped that handbill off the wall of our store to save buying paper.”
McAllen indicated he wanted his shot glass refilled by wiggling with his fingers. As Sharp poured, he said, “Vrable wants to rob the next silver shipment. The rail line and winter are closing fast on Leadville.”
“What do you want us to do?” I asked.
“Get back to your store. We can’t have any suspicions that something’s amiss. When I get the specifics for the robbery, I’ll tell you what to do.”
After an uncomfortable silence, I asked, “Do you still think they want to see you hang for this crime … or just shoot you during the robbery?”
“Both.” McAllen downed his second glass. “I’ve thought about this. If I were doing it, I’d shoot me a couple times at the scene so I’d be captured easy. Nothin’ lethal, just enough to slow my escape.”
“What’s your plan?” I asked.
McAllen gave me a direct look. “Steve, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep that to myself. Benjamin Franklin said three men can keep a secret if two are dead.”
I stiffened. “Captain, have I ever violated a confidence?”
“No, Steve, but if you’ll remember Carson City, you also didn’t share your plans with me.”
For some reason, Sharp found McAllen’s comment amusing. After he quit chortling, I said, “All right, Captain. But in the spirit of being aboveboard, I intend to stop this war between the Santa Fe and Rio Grande railroads. I can hold off a week or more if my actions will interfere with your plans.”
“How do you plan on stopping it?”
“I’ll send a telegram that’ll get attention in New York.”
“New York?” Sharp asked. “Hell, they’re shootin’ at each other here.”
I turned my attention to him. “The men in Leadville solve problems with guns, but the moneymen in New York talk. I’ve been thinking about this for the last couple of days, and I’m sure this can only be resolved two thousand miles from here.”
“Why do you care?” McAllen asked.
“I own a substantial stake in both railroads. It’s my money they’re wasting with this feud.”
McAllen waved off Sharp from refilling his glass again. “Then go ahead and send your telegram. I think my business will be over in a few days anyway.”
“Bat Masterson runs security for the Santa Fe Railway. He’s not involved in Grant’s or your plans, is he?”
McAllen’s brow furrowed. “Not that I know of, but that’s worth thinking about.”
Chapter 42
Sharp and I left the hotel first thing in the morning to open the store. When we arrived, Mrs. Baker had already opened up, heated the store, and brewed coffee. Further surprises awaited us. It took me a minute before I figured out why the shop was brighter. Mrs. Baker had arranged six lanterns to chase away the gloom. Previously, only a single lantern had provided illumination in the rear to supplement the small windows in front. Why hadn’t I thought of this? We stocked lanterns, so it was only a matter of using our inventory. If we ran out of stock, we could sell the lanterns hung around the store.
“Hell, ma’am, looks like a different store,” Sharp exclaimed.
“Jeff!”
“What?” Sharp looked at me, puzzled.
“Watch your language.” I faced Mrs. Baker. “I apologize for his rudeness.” I threw a grin at Sharp to show I was kidding. “He’s an uncouth barbarian—only out of the caves a couple years.”
“Tunnels … I’ve only recently surfaced from the tunnels.” He took off his hat, and with a flourish, did a respectable European bow. “My apologies, ma’am. The store looks tidy an’ bright as a spring day.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sharp.” She turned toward the stove to pour us coffee. “We did over four hundred dollars in business while you two were off doing whatever you were doing. I could see we would soon be running low on supplies again, so I sent off another order to Denver.” She paused. “Three thousand dollars’ worth.”
She was testing our business relationship. I accepted the mug of coffee she held out to me. “The merchandise better sell.”
She smiled. “It will. I’ve learned a lot in the last two days. A lot about this store … and a lot about you.”
Now I was on guard. “What do you mean?”
“I learned about Durango and Nevada.” She faced me square. “You’re a gunfighter.”
“No, ma’am … I’m a man who got pulled into a couple of bad situations.”
“And shot your way out of them.”
“What’s your point?” I was getting angry.
She walked over to the counter and fumbled until she pulled out the shotgun and Colt .45 we kept hidden from sight and laid them gently on the pinewood top. “I want you to teach me how to use these.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how.”
“I already taught you how to use your pistol. Why do you need to know how to use these?”
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
“I’m sorry to disillusion you, but knowing how to use guns won’t keep you from being afraid.”
“Are you telling me that being handy with a gun doesn’t help?”
That stopped me. “It helps until you get into a situation. Then the fear comes flooding back.”
“I can live with that. What I can’t live with is being afraid all the time.”
I realized Mrs. Baker was a brave woman. Overcoming fear defines bravery and controlling your fear separates the brave from the foolish. “If you keep running this store the way you have, I’ll teach you how to use a revolver and a rifle.” I picked up the shotgun. “You don’t need lessons with this … unless you’re going for birds. For men in close quarters, just point, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger.” I laid the shotgun back on the counter. “If you fail to kill them, you’ll make them deaf. Now, please put these away.”
After she had replaced the weapons below the counter, I added, “By the way, Jeff is an expert with a rifle, and he can teach you a lot more about survival on the frontier than I can.”
“Is that true?” she asked Sharp.
“Well, the part about a rifle’s true enough. I’m twenty years older than Steve, so I guess the part about survival also holds some truth.”
She looked like a youngster at the candy jars. “Ever been in a shooting?”
“Steve’s the one to teach ya how to kill; I’ll teach ya how to avoid being pulled into bad situations.”
“Good enough for me,” Mrs. Baker said.
“Me too,” I said. “I think I need a few of those lessons.”
Chapter 43
After we had opened the store the following day, the liveryman where we boarded our horses came rushing in, looking distraught. He stood in the center of the floor and just breathed hard for a minute.
“I got terrible news.” He was looking at me. “Mr. Dancy, come with me to the livery.”
“What news? Tell me.”
He looked even more nervous. “I’m sorry, but yer horse is dead.”
“What? Chestnut?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I charged out of the store and ran to the livery. When I got to Chestnut’s stall, I gasped. I knew instantly that Chestnut was dead. My horse lay prone with lifeless eyes, slack features, and, most alarming, a frothy mouth. I laid my hand on his chest but felt no lifting or falling. The stall was as quiet as a funeral parlor. But it hadn’t been. The dividing walls had been kicked so severely that they leaned into the adjacent stalls to crowd the horses on either side.
How had this happened? What had happened? Chestnut was a strong, healthy animal. Animal? As soon as I thought the word, I wanted another: a word that came close to
friend
. Chestnut and I had been together since St. Louis and had traveled thousands of miles together. Even in towns, I saw him nearly every day. Guns didn’t dampen my fears of the frontier, Chestnut did. As long as we were together, I felt confident roaming around a raw country that was eager to teach city dwellers how much they didn’t know. I didn’t need a word close to
friend
—
friend
was the right word. I had just lost a true and faithful friend—one that I would miss terribly. With that thought, I collapsed on top of Chestnut’s neck and cried.
“I’m sorry.”
The voice came from behind me. I pulled myself together, used my sleeve to wipe my face, and turned toward the liveryman. “How did this happen?”