The Rose Legacy (7 page)

“That might be generous. See, it takes more than luck. It takes know-how and perseverance. The ones who come thinking there’s gold lying on the ground just waiting to be picked up—well, they scratch around a little, then give up.”

She had a neat row of dishes drying now, catching the sun and breeze. “But the ones who find good ore and either sell out or have the wherewithal to make the mine pay, they’re the lucky ones.” She pointed a finger. “Still, they rub shoulders with the down-and-out and remember where they came from. It’s the wives they bring up who are less inclined to recall.”

Mae rocked back on her heels. “I have no time for them—would-be society gals with ridgepole noses. They think their husbands’ sudden wealth makes them somehow different from the rest of us.”

Carina thought of her own family, generations of titled wealth. Papa’s own fame and his daring move to the Americas. Did Mae consider hers a ridgepole nose?

“Give me good honest work, bellies to feed, and dishes to wash. I want no part of their causes and complaints.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

Mae eyed her slowly, the sun catching in her gray-streaked hair pulled into a knot behind her head and lightening the violet of her eyes to a pale amethyst. Carina thought for a moment she had offended her with the question. But then Mae sighed.

“Well, sometimes I long for a listening ear and someone to laugh with. But I learned long ago not to trust in human companionship. People die. Plain and simple.”

Pressed tighter than a can of smoked oysters that afternoon in the crowd at Fisher’s General Merchandise, Carina vowed to avoid Monday mailings. Due to the arrival of the weekly post delivery, she had waited more than an hour already. And why? She did not expect a letter yet; she only had one to send. Its message was simple and optimistic, penned on paper purchased at an extravagant price from Fletcher’s Stationery.

Dear Papa,

I promised I would write when I was settled. It is very beautiful here in Crystal. The mountains are majestic. I am assistant to an Attorney at Law. There is a misunderstanding regarding my house, but he will soon have it taken care of. I board with a woman named Mae. Everything is fine, so tell Mamma not to worry. My love and prayers to both of you.

Your devoted,
Carina

“Five dollars to anyone in the front who’ll swap places.” The man waved a paper bill over his head.

“Make it twenty,” another yelled back.

Carina smiled, understanding their sentiment. The man in front of her returned her grin. He was missing a front tooth, and she wondered if the dentist on the street had extracted it.

He pulled the slouch hat from his head. “I’d offer you my spot, but it’s only one closer.”

The man in front of him half turned. “She can have mine. That’s two better.”

Carina shook her head, but a third man called, “I’ll swap you, ma’am.” He was halfway to the window, and the temptation was too great. Carina left her place and pressed forward, her letter home clutched to her breast.

“Thank you.” She took his place in line, and he received the rib nudges of the men all the way back to hers. There were decent men in Crystal, hardworking and mindful of their manners. None of these men carried guns. They wore patched and faded shirts and trousers. The grime of real work lined their fingernails.

Their faces were homely, their hair ill-kempt. Some wore the look of greed, others desperation, and some a forlorn helplessness. Were they hoping for letters from home? Did they have wives and children? Would they sit in their tents or their rooms tonight and pore over each word their loved ones left behind?

Carina reached the front. Seventy-five cents for her letter to be carried. Shaking her head, Carina paid it and hustled away from the post office. When she reached the downstairs rooms at the boardinghouse they were deserted, but she found Mae upstairs changing the linen in one of the canvas-walled guest rooms. From its condition, the boarder had little care for clean linens.

Black grime caked the floor from the door to the foot of the bed, as though the man had dragged through the opening each night and flopped to the bed without ever turning to the side to dress or undress or wash. In fact, the washbasin stood dry and unsullied.

Mae tossed her a skimpy pillow while she stripped the bed. “Through for the day?”

“Mr. Beck had meetings to conduct in the office. Has this man moved out?”

“You might say. Fell down a shaft and broke his neck. That’s why I take rent in advance.”

Carina’s mouth parted in surprise. It seemed unlike Mae to be so callous when she had shown such kindness to her. “Has someone taken the room?”

Mae wrenched the mattress up and shook it once, then let it fall. “Why? You lookin’ to move?” She spoke in short-breathed sentences.

“No.” Carina shook her head. “I just expected the room would be taken quickly.”

“It is taken. By the man who had a deposit on yours.” At Carina’s flush, Mae gave her chesty laugh. “Don’t you think I gave in to Berkley Beck’s swindling. It was for your sake I let that room go. I told Mr. Turner he’d have the next vacancy.” Mae huffed as she scooped up the linens from the floor. The blood just under her florid skin rushed to her cheeks like a flood.

“Let me take those for you,” Carina said automatically. Mae’s forehead was dappled with drops of sweat, and her chest rose and fell with the exertion of changing only one bed. She was an older woman and not well. It was natural to help her. When Mae dumped the load of soiled linens and foul smelling blankets into her arms, Carina gathered it staunchly against her. “Where do you want them?”

“Out back to scrub.” Mae pressed a hand to her lower back.

Carina caught a look, almost puzzled, in Mae’s features. Had it been so long since anyone had lifted a hand for Mae? A pang of fear seized her. Could she, too, spend her life alone, forging her place on the mountain without family or friends?

The thought was too foreign to consider. There had always been an overflow of close relations, distant relations, friends of relations. Always people to scold and instruct her, to berate and encourage, to argue and to rush to her defense. Here on the mountains she had none of them, no one.

“Have you grown roots on the floor there?”

The smell of sweat and rotten wool stung her nose as Carina hauled the bedding down the stairs and out the back door. Seeing the washtub, she dropped the linens in a heap beside it. Not for anything could she offer to scrub them. She looked down the street to the corner where a crowd was gathering.

“What is that, Mae?”

“Someone stumpin’ for something.” Mae poured a steaming kettle of water into the tub. “Go on before your curiosity burns a hole in you.”

Carina sent a smile back over her shoulder, then headed for the street. Was it only three days since she first fought her way through the crowds and the din and the smell of Crystal’s streets? Now she knew to carry no more than a few coins at a time and to shove back if she was shoved.

She was small enough to insinuate herself through the burly, lanky, and broad-backed men on the street. A scattering of color revealed a painted woman here and there, along with a few serious-faced wives. When she pushed her way to the front, she saw a man literally standing on a stump in the street, the tallest and stoutest of those he had to choose from.

One hand waved as he spoke, the other hung by a thumb in his silk vest. “I tell you the boom is on, and Leadville’s the place. Silver by the barrel in the magic city, just waitin’ to be dug.”

Carina glanced at the old peg-legged man beside her. “Who is that?”

“Horace Tabor along from Leadville. The city in the clouds, he says. He’s stealin’ our thunder, don’t ya know.”

“What does that mean?”

“Grubstakin’ miners to hop with him over to Leadville.”

She didn’t understand a word, but Carina looked at the sharply dressed man on the stump, his charismatic presence drawing the circle of men in like the throat of a whirlpool. His largely protruding mustache danced up and down on his lip as he spun the pied piper’s tune with words.

“The railroad’s comin’ through. General Palmer’s narrow gauge. It’s the real thing, boys. Leadville’s got it all.”

Carina looked around her at the men’s faces, some skeptical, some aglow. Would they go? Would these men leave their diggings here in Crystal and rush for the silver this Horace Tabor claimed was lying there in Leadville for the taking?

“Gentlemen!”

Carina turned as Berkley Beck’s voice rose over the din. He had taken a stump beside Tabor that, with his own height, raised him a head taller. “Leadville is a veritable metropolis. What’s there has been taken. Why, by last count there were ten thousand men. Would you work for someone else like common laborers?”

He swung his arm to include all the landscape. “Here in Crystal you can be your own man. Stake your own claim. This is your future.”

“Sure,” the old man at Carina’s side muttered with a wry twist of his mouth. “Crystal’s the promised land, don’t ya know.” He cackled softly.

Carina noted a hint of derision as he eyed Mr. Beck with pale robin-egg eyes.

“There’s plenty of future in Leadville.” Tabor boomed his voice over Beck’s. “The richest square mile in the Rockies. Fortunes to be made, riches you’ll never find here. I know, boys. I’ve walked these hills since ’60. This gulch’ll go the way of Placerville, a little surface metal, then nothing. But Leadville …”

“Crystal is not Placerville.” Berkley Beck smiled as though reproving a child. “Why, assays are coming in every day with high content silver and gold both. We’re only scraping the surface, and the deeper we go, the better it gets. Gentlemen, your place is here—Crystal, Colorado.” Berkley Beck stepped down from the stump as though that was the final word and nothing more needed saying.

Horace Tabor shrugged. “You men know the odds. Why not grab for a sure thing?” He, too, stepped down and was pressed into the crowd and hauled to the saloon. Clearly some of the men liked what they heard from him better than Mr. Beck’s promises.

Carina searched the street for Berkley Beck, but he must have returned to his office. It was nothing to her if the miners went to Leadville. Let them clear out and make the streets passable. Ten thousand men in Leadville? It was bad enough with three thousand in Crystal, though how they had managed to count with all the coming and going, she had no idea. For all she knew, it might be no more than Mr. Beck’s best guess.

S
EVEN

Of all life’s betrayers, the heart is the worst. It flutters with joyful anticipation, leading down paths better untrod. Now that I know my heart, I must never follow it again.

—Rose

Q
UILLAN SHEPARD BALANCED
the single-shot derringer in his palm. It was small and light. It would fit Carina DiGratia’s hand, but she would have to be close enough to smell a man’s breath to make her only shot do any damage. With the roughs getting bolder and the constabulary turning a blind eye …

He handed the gun back. “Not likely she’ll hit much with only one shot.”

“There is the Remington over-under derringer, double shot …”

“What do you have that’ll pack a punch without taking her arm off?”

The man replaced the derringer and held out a Sharps 4-Barrel Pepperbox. “Thirty-two caliber rimfire. Brass frame case, steel barrel with gutta-percha grips. It’s used, but fine condition.” He fingered the hard rubber grips molded into leaves and vines and curlicues.

Now that was more like it. Quillan took hold of the pistol. Not a revolver, but a sturdy weapon with four shots instead of one or two. Thirty-two caliber rimfire cartridges would rarely prove fatal, but one ought to stop a man in his tracks, especially with four shots.

Quillan examined it for defect, felt the balance in his hand, and looked down the sight on the barrel. “How much do you want?” He haggled on the price and made the deal, then went back out to the wagon, loaded and ready for the trip up the pass. He pulled himself onto the box, clicked his tongue to the horses, and slapped the reins on the backs of his first relay of horses.

It was all so natural to him, he went through the motions now without a thought. He had a good head for this work and the constitution as well—not so tall he had to hunch, but straight and muscular and sound. The sky was clear, the day warm, but not too warm thanks to the breeze off the mountains. He settled in and made the drive from Denver to Morrison without a hitch.

There he loaded on cargo from the railhead and started on. He’d change horses twice and spend the first night in the open, the second in Fairplay. There he’d pick up his leaders, Jack and Jock, and the wheelers, Peter and Ginger, all four of which he owned outright. He saved them for Mosquito Pass, as it was nearly winter conditions up there, and they were the most reliable. Also, he liked having the blacks in Crystal for his use in town.

As he drove, he recited William Blake’s
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
, which he’d read the night before, exhausting the collection of Blake’s works he’d purchased in Denver. It bothered him he couldn’t get one of the lines right, and he felt impatient with himself. The drive seemed longer than it had for some while. Normally he liked the stretch of time alone with his thoughts, liked the spread of blue sky, the craggy heights, the call of a hawk overhead.

But he was antsy today. He’d been five days out of town, three driving and one making purchases, then delayed another in Denver waiting for the box of vaccine to arrive. Now every new delay worked on him like sandpaper. He turned his mind to the cargo he hauled, none of it pre-orders except for what he’d taken from the train.

He’d chosen everything else, things rare to the folks of Crystal, things that would be appreciated and sell well. Except the gun for Miss DiGratia. Guns were common enough in the mining town that was outgrowing its decency. Though most of the miners still went about unarmed, the rough element and the guards hired to keep them off private claims were heeled well enough. Not that guns were the first mode the roughs chose. They were still thugs, preferring their fists and clubs.

Quillan’s own revolver was a necessity, as was the rifle he kept under the seat. Riding the route alone for days at a time left him open to robbery and other such interference. Not to mention beasts of nature such as the rattler he’d beheaded with a single bullet. A .45 at close range was deadly.

He considered the piece of hardware he’d purchased for Miss DiGratia. The same gun in town would run her five times as high. He ought to charge a commission, as he wasn’t exactly replacing something she had lost. He’d wager he hadn’t sent a gun down the mountain with her things.

He took only a short stop to eat his dinner and switch the horses, then started off again. He’d drive until nightfall, then sleep under the wagon, so tired he’d hardly feel the ground. Hard work didn’t bother him. He’d rather be working from the onset of day to the sinking of the sun than sitting idle.
“Idleness is the devil’s tool,”
he thought wryly, picturing the pinched face of the woman who’d drilled that lesson in. That and plenty of others.

But he’d taken it to heart, working sometimes just to spite her. Most of the time, though, he worked because it suited him. Diligence was a virtue he came to naturally, and one that had brought him this far. He didn’t expect to drive a freight wagon his whole life, but for now it was a lucrative opportunity.

Quillan smacked the reins. He was making good time, but he was still eager to reach his destination. That was not a good sign. If he started chafing the distance, he wouldn’t last long as a freighter. And as he had purchased his own rig and outfit, he intended to last. Still, he pressed on farther than his usual night camp, then stopped, cared for the horses, and unrolled his bedding.

Sliding under the wagon, he expected to drop right off into the honest sleep of hard labor. Instead, he lay wondering how much extra the horses could have managed if he’d added Miss DiGratia’s load to his own. It was sheer foolishness, but somehow the question kept insinuating itself into his mind. It made sleep less than enjoyable.

Rising before the sun, Quillan started on again and made Fairplay by evening. He spent the night in the Fairplay House as he did most every trip by arrangement. In the morning he hitched up his own team and began the home stretch. Though June had been dryer than usual, there were still drifts of snow along the pass. But the road was passable, and aside from putting on a heavier coat, Quillan kept on as he’d been.

It bothered him that his impatience hadn’t passed, though he’d slept better than the previous night. Taking a winding section of the road, he edged the horses closer to the canyon wall, away from the edge. The weight of his load stayed firm, with no shifting as he made the next turn. He prided himself on that. A freighter’s first loyalty was to his load.

He heard horses coming up behind and turned. Stevens and McLaughlin’s stage. The four-horse team pulled the Concord coach briskly until it was right on his backside. Quillan maintained his pace. He had the right of way. If he lost his load over the side, it was his responsibility to get it back up. If the stage lost its load, as the saying went, the driver only had to bury it.

The road widened past the turn, and Fogerty, the stage driver, hollered, “Comin’ around.” Quillan pulled in as close to the side as he could manage, reined in, and waited while the twelve passengers disembarked. They held the ropes tied to the roof and walked alongside to counterbalance it along the edge while Fogerty angled the stage around the wagon.

Sometimes Quillan thought the rope business was more to impress the passengers than for any actual need, though it was true the stage was more easily maneuvered empty. The passengers waved as they passed him on foot, then reboarded the stage. They were a motley assortment as usual, mostly rough men coming to stake a claim, one woman who looked sour as bad milk, and a swell or two.

The last would be cut down to size before long, for Crystal City was no respecter of pomposity. A man could have money or not, good luck or bad. But if he came into town with a high opinion of himself, he didn’t keep it for long. There were too many newly rich and too many changing fortunes each day.

When he made it into Crystal late that afternoon, the buzz of the town was well under way, it being Friday. Quillan had hoped to beat the weekend madness, but the extra day in Denver had cost him. Now it would take much longer to make the deliveries. Fighting his way through the crowds, he stopped first at Ormsby’s Drugstore with the extracts and tinctures. He made a handsome profit on that load, having finagled items hard to come by at the best of times. But Ormsby could afford it. Doc Felden would get the one precious box of smallpox vaccine, no extra charge.

He headed next for MacDonald’s Sampling Works. He had a scale for them, as theirs had not been weighing accurately. He knew Gavin MacDonald was too Scotch to order a new scale, but Quillan would make the man believe it a bargain and see it put to use before someone got shot. A bad scale was unforgivable in these parts.

In just over two hours he had all but the last of his deliveries made and the money collected. The last was Miss DiGratia’s. The gunsmith had thrown in a leather shoulder holster, though Quillan doubted Miss DiGratia would wear it. Nevertheless, it was wrapped in the package with the gun, and he took it from beneath the box. He made his way on foot through the incoming miners to Drake Road.

Mae Dixon watched him from the porch like a well-fed cat. “Well, well. Quillan.”

“Hello, Mae. I have a delivery for Miss DiGratia.”

Her violet eyes took on a decidedly feline glee. “You can leave it at the desk.”

Quillan cocked his head. “How would I get payment?”

“She can leave it at the desk.”

He took the steps up. The cool evening air ruffled the hair on his neck. “All right.”

“Then again …” Mae nodded to the street. “You could hold still a moment.”

Quillan turned as Carina DiGratia lifted her skirt and stepped off the end of the boardwalk. He saw only a flash of booted ankle, enough to confirm that her leg bones were as delicate as the rest of her. He noted the blue denim skirt they’d rescued from the mountain and a fresh white blouse with a lacy ruffle like moth’s wings down the front. Was it the torn and ragged blouse she’d scavenged? If so, she’d done admirably by it.

She carried herself sprightly enough, unaware of an audience. He’d wager she had money, or at least she’d come from it. She didn’t look the hard-luck kind, come to find riches in the Rockies. Especially not by the means most women found it.

He was surprised now that he could have thought so. There was an air of quality he’d missed on the road, a certain strength of spirit and breeding. She was like the dainty, dark Morgan horse he’d seen in Golden, small-boned and light-footed. If he pressed his imagination, he’d see her prance and bob her head as that filly had.

But now she looked up and saw him, dark eyes suddenly large. He wished she wouldn’t startle so every time they met. It made him feel less than respectable. He tipped his hat. “Miss DiGratia.”

Mae heaved herself up. “I’ll leave you two to settle business.” She went inside and closed the door that had stood open to catch the cross breeze.

As Miss DiGratia climbed the steps, Quillan held out the package. “Your order.”

She took it without comment and pulled open the paper. The gun was holstered, and she slid it out and tried the feel of it.

He could see it was a good fit, but even a small gun had weight. Her wrist didn’t want to support it until she firmed the muscles and stiffened her arm. “You know how to use it?” he asked.

“I understand the mechanism. I don’t need the holster….”

“It’s no charge. Came with the gun.” He handed her the box of rimfire cartridges that hadn’t come free. “If you haven’t used a pistol …”

“I’m certain I can learn. What do I owe you?”

Why did he feel like a robber when he named his price? He’d hardly put anything on top for his trouble. It was recalling her on that slope, picking up the flotsam from her wagon …

She held out the holster. “Take off a dollar and you can resell this.”

She was bartering? He tucked his tongue between his side teeth and eyed her, her head tipped up to meet his gaze squarely, shoulders back. What good was it to sell a holster without a gun to fill it?

“It’s a deal.” His voice was a stranger.

She nodded her satisfaction and turned for the door. “The money’s inside.”