Silver Lies (13 page)

Inez calculated the distance between Chet and herself. She doubted her pocket revolver would even slow him down, if he was really drunk and dangerous. And she wasn’t up to heaving a kettle of stew at him.

"Ma’am." Chet swept off his battered broad-brimmed hat, revealing a rat’s nest of tangled graying locks. "I hereby ’pologize for tearin’ the place up Saturday last. Weren’t ’zactly my fault. Them twins, they don’t see we’re sittin’ on a bonanza on Fryer Hill. And the longer we sit, the better it gets. But, hey, I’m willin’ to pay for a new mirror, you let bygones be bygones."

"That mirror came from
Chicago
. Cost us plenty." Inez looked at his patched canvas overalls and worn boots. "So, to what do you attribute your sudden fortune? Did you sell a claim, rob a bank, or buck the tiger and win?"

He lumbered forward and thumped huge pawlike hands on the table. The bowls clinked. His breath was so heavy with alcohol, she could ignite it with a match. "I got lucky. But I know to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes, just talkin’ drives Lady Luck away. Or worse. She’s got her own ways of gettin’ even. Now. How much for the mirror?"

"That mirror cost us a thousand," snapped Inez. "And since you’re so flush, there’s the broken chairs and tables too. That’s another hundred at least."

One paw disappeared into his jacket pocket. Inez’s stomach knotted. She slid her hand into her pocket, fingers curling around the grip of the pocket revolver. Chet’s hand emerged, holding a roll of bills.

"Huh. Chicken feed." He lined up fifties on the table like soldiers. The roll, hardly diminished, disappeared back into his pocket.

Inez eyed the money as if it might explode. "My Lord. You
did
rob a bank!"

Chet guffawed, then patted the scraggly beard that reached halfway down his sizeable belly. "Like I said. Lady Luck’s bein’ real agreeable." He swayed, a shallow-rooted giant in a wind storm. "Let’s shake on it, and you tell
Jackson
to pour me a drink." The paw extended across the table. Inez examined the blackened nails, the hand cracked and tough from seasons of prospecting in the
Rockies
.

They shook. "Done. But next time you get snockered, I’ll have
Jackson
toss you out in the alley."

"Thatta girl." His mouth split open—a grin populated by small rotten stumps of teeth. He lumbered back into the crowded saloon, hollering, "Drinks are on me, fellers! Pour ’em,
Jackson
!"

Abe reached under the counter, face tense, as Chet shouldered his way through the crowd. Inez slid behind the bar and stayed Abe from pulling out the shotgun. "It’s all right. He’s got the money."

"The man’s a damn nuisance." Abe glowered. Chet belched.

Drinkers rushed the bar. Chet downed a shot and a chaser, slammed another fifty by the empty glasses and, weaving toward the exit, roared, "Keep the change!"

Shots of rye were grabbed up as fast as Abe could pour them. Opening another bottle, he asked Inez, "What in blazes was that all about?"

Inez pulled the wad of paper money from her pocket and directed Abe to where she held it, out of sight below the bar. "He bought a pardon."

Abe froze. "Where’d he get that? God amighty, he rob someone?"

Inez locked the money in the cash box. "He swears not." Shouts for refills and new orders escalated. The round of free drinks had awakened the crowd; naptime was over.

Toward
midnight
, Inez frowned toward one card game where the shouting was beginning to intensify. "Looks dangerous. Maybe we should shut them down."

"Here’s more trouble."

Inez watched, bottle and glass in hand, as Reverend Sands strolled toward the escalating shouting match. If—or rather when—the men stood up and the chairs fell back, Inez knew it would be too late.

The reverend reached the table. The shouting ceased as the men looked up, no doubt startled to see a stranger standing over them. He leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. Judging from the sudden alterations in the players’ expressions, his words must have been persuasive.

Reverend Sands straightened up. The men slumped in their chairs like schoolboys chastised for winging spitballs at each other.

"Did you see that?" Inez was stunned.

For the second time that evening, Abe shoved the shotgun back under the counter. "Wonder what chapter and verse he called up."

Reverend Sands lifted his hand and, at first, she thought he was hiding his smile. That impression was crowded out by the familiarity of the gesture: she’d seen it thousands of times, performed by Mark, Abe, countless other men. Absently smoothing his missing mustache, Reverend Sands scanned the room until their eyes met. As he moved toward the bar, she cleared off several used glasses and an empty bottle.

"What brings you to
State Street
this time of night, Reverend Sands? Looking for sinners? More counterfeit souls?"

Abe winced at her tone.

Sands smiled. Gently, reprovingly. "Appearances don’t always tell the innocent from the guilty, the true from the false. You said something similar, as I recall."

Abe hastened, "Thanks for handlin’ that bunch, Reverend. You got there quicker than I could have."

"Whatever did you say?" She still couldn’t believe the transformation. The two men hunched over their cards, motionless.

Reverend Sands’ set a well-worn pocket Bible on the burnished wood. "I suggested that if they hoped to reap any rewards in the hereafter, they should mend their behavior in the here and now."

A patron who’d been waiting more or less patiently took advantage of the pause. "Miz Stannert, I need that bellywash bad."

Inez started, poured a measure, and accepted his coin before returning to Reverend Sands. "At least we can offer you a drink. You saved us a whole lot of grief." She set a glass before him. He turned it over.

"No thanks."

Inez lowered the bottle. "Second time today someone’s turned down a free drink. What next, I wonder. Hell freezing over? No, I forgot. It already has. It’s winter in Leadville." She regarded him. "So, you’re not here to drink, you’re here to…?"

"To talk with you about that business earlier today. But—" men jostled on either side. "You look busy. Maybe later. Perhaps a cup of coffee? I’ll hunt down familiar faces."

"You’ll find more than a few from Sunday’s services," she said, then shouted, "Useless!" beckoning him over. "Useless, this is Reverend Sands, new to town. Please get him a cup of coffee and some stew."

She addressed the clergyman. "The coffee’s strong. The stew’s the best in town. I believe in quality." She bent over to reshelve the clean glass.

"I too appreciate quality. In all its forms."

Inez straightened and caught his eyes on her décolletage.

She smiled frostily. "Yes. Well. Make yourself comfortable." She turned pointedly to the next customer. Being stared at was part of the job. She’d built up armor early, traveling with Mark and Abe. The world considered any woman traveling with professional gamblers and playing the tables to be fair game, married or not.

The stares and speculations about her moral life had become more pronounced once Mark disappeared. She stared down the whisperers or ignored them, depending on the circumstances. Still, the way Reverend Sands looked at her was…disquieting.

A while later, Doc limped in.

She pulled his favorite brandy from the backbar. "How was your day?"

He peeled off winter gloves before he answered. "Not bad. Not bad. No one died, no one appreciably worse."

Doc swirled the liquid in the glass before draining it. Sighing once, he motioned for more. "Warms this old man’s bones." He pushed a quarter eagle toward her. "I offered my condolences to Mrs. Rose. She’ll be leaving town soon, I understand. Sorry state of affairs."

He rubbed his face, rearranging the folds and wrinkles, as he looked about the crowded room. "Why, isn’t that the new minister? I met him at the Roses. Sands, isn’t it?"

"That’s right." Inez followed his gaze. Reverend Sands must have felt their scrutiny, for he looked up, winked at Inez, nodded at the doctor.

Doc waved back before turning to Inez. "Pleasant fellow. We had a most interesting conversation. War stories and so on."

Curiosity piqued, Inez asked, "Sands was in the War? Not ministering, I suppose."

"No no, my dear. I gather that’s a recent development. Nasty business, the War. I still dream of the amputations. Brrrr. Think I’ll join him." Doc moved toward the reverend.

"Inez." Abe’s voice caused her to jump. "Jed Elliston wants a word." Abe nodded at the far end of the bar. The newspaperman held up his glass to draw Inez’s attention.

Abe continued, "He’s curious about Joe. Knows he turned up in the alley, that there was some ruckus Saturday last. Told him I wasn’t discussin’ it. We don’t need that kind of stuff in the papers about the business. Now, he wants to talk to you."

Inez wiped her hands on her apron and reluctantly headed toward Elliston, who was making circles with his wet glass on the polished dark wood. He had the voracious look that plagued the young men who thronged into Leadville and the other
Colorado
boom towns. Only, Elliston wasn’t after silver. Everyone knew he was comfortably supported in his publishing efforts by a wealthy and indulgent father whose stock rose with each mile of track laid down by the
Atchison
,
Topeka
and Santa Fe Railroad. No, Elliston had that kind of fortune aplenty, and the ease with which it vanished at the gaming tables indicated how little he valued it. He dug, not through soil and rock for precious metals, but through casual conversation and rumor for stories to splash across the pages of his newspaper,
The Independent
.

"Evening, Mrs. Stannert. Quite a crowd tonight."

"Actually, Mr. Elliston, it’s morning now. And I can’t spare you much time."

"It’s about Joe Rose." He held up a hand, as if anticipating her protests. "I understand he came in last Saturday, tore up the place, then turned up dead on your back porch."