Iron Ties (12 page)

“Two out of three’s not bad. And this,” she tipped brandy into her own cup, “may not sweeten it much, but I can assure you, it will smooth the rough edges. And cool it down.”

She offered the bottle to Maude, who declined.

“So you played in Dodge three years ago?” Inez inquired, amazed at the steadiness in her tone.

Maude waved a languorous hand. “In our early days. We were just setting out in our careers together. A brief appearance, as I recall.”

Inez turned to Abe. “Isn’t that a coincidence. I do believe Mr. Jackson and I were in Dodge the same time as you.”

It wasn’t until the words were out that she realized they implied that she and Abe were more than business partners. Neither C.A. nor Maude batted an eyelash, but Inez quickly added, “My husband was there too. He, alas, passed last year.”
Passed out of my life and into another.

She cut off the condolences she could see forming on their lips. “His name was Mark Stannert. A sporting man, loved the tables. Cards, faro sometimes. And quite a connoisseur of the stage.” She watched Maude for signs of recognition. “Just think, our paths may have crossed. Perhaps at the, oh, the Lone Star, say. Wouldn’t that be…ironic.”

Maude looked back, clear-eyed, no longer laughing. Her mobile face was still and cold as stone. “Indeed. Who’s to say? It was, as C.A. says, many towns back. And a long time ago.”

Abe cleared his throat. Loudly.

Inez wrenched her gaze away from Maude to find Abe glaring at her. His unspoken message to her required no translation:
Don’t push it, Inez.

Abe turned to C.A. “Well now, what say we talk some dates. Sounds like we’ve got an understandin’.”

“What understanding?” Inez interrupted.

“We can’t afford to have you-all come in three times a week. Maybe later in the month, if business picks up.”

“Business is fine, we really don’t need specialty acts.”

“Give us time to promote it. You do some from your end, we’ll do some here, maybe put somethin’ in the papers. Mrs. Stannert knows the editor of one of the locals. We can try to get somethin’ in before the Fourth. If’n you could do somethin’ on the holiday, and maybe before then.”

C.A. nodded. “The Opera House is closed on the Fourth. We could arrange for an appearance, say, early evening.”

“The Fourth,” Inez said furiously, “will no doubt be quite busy. Customers come in early, get tight and raise a ruckus—”

A dark hand closed viselike on Inez’s arm, choking her off as efficiently as if it’d closed around her neck. Abe stood, dragging her along with him. “Pardon us a moment, while I explain to my business partner here what we’ve already talked about.” His hand tightened even more, warning her not to say anything. “You and the missus could enjoy some of that pie. Mrs. O’Malley knows how to bake them, none better in Leadville. And the brandy’s first-rate. Mrs. Stannert always insists on the best.”

Abe propelled Inez out of the office and down the short hall to the unfinished gaming room. Once there, she pulled away, rubbing her arm. “That,” she said coldly, “will leave bruises.”

“You aimed to sink the whole deal from the start.”

“Abe. That Maude. She’s the woman in Dodge. The one that Mark….” Inez closed her eyes for a moment, pushing the hurt—
How can it still be so sharp after three years?
—back into the dark where it belonged.

“Come on, Inez. You sayin’ you recognize someone from that long ago?”

“Oh I do. I do indeed.”

Abe shook his head. In disgust. Or maybe, Inez thought, disbelief.

Silence stretched over them, taut as a tightrope. Inez suddenly felt exhausted, alone. She turned her back on Abe and walked across the unvarnished wood floor toward one of the uncovered windows, her footsteps echoing loud in the empty space. Light, bright and ruthless, poured in. It threw dust motes into relief and highlighted the sawdust on the floor and the two sawhorses left from the last foray at finishing the remodel. Inez leaned on the sill, and stared out at the view of town and the mountains beyond. At the end of the block, the second- and third-story windows of Frisco Flo’s parlor house stared back, blank-eyed with curtains drawn, over the tops of the intervening buildings.

Inez wished there was a magic spell that could turn the sawhorses into real steeds, so she could just ride away from everything.
Just for a while.

“Inez, do you want to make this business go or not?” Abe sounded calm, as if he were asking her nothing more than if she preferred her whiskey neat or with a chaser. “This is our chance to strike it rich. These folks—the Fairplays—they’re willin’ to work with us. They’ve been courted by a couple of other places, an’ they came here. I think Taps had somethin’ to do with that. Anyhow, they’re even willin’ to work without a proper stage, though maybe we’ll take some of the lumber up here and throw somethin’ together for them. Come July Fourth, and then when the trains come in, we could make a killin’ with them. They’re askin’ a reasonable cut. It’d be just the two of them. Not the whole troupe. They’d do a scene from this Shakespeare play they’ve been workin’ on. He’s a real entertainer. She sings, he says. Old Taps could play the tunes.”

Inez felt more than saw Abe come up beside her. He rested his hand beside hers on the sill. “Look. I don’t know what’s got into you lately. You’ve been ill-tempered as a bobcat. Well, I’ve been too. Angel, y’know, I worry ’bout her. The strike didn’t do us any good, and business hasn’t come back real strong since. But you know what Mark used to say, ‘The only thing sure about luck is that it’s bound to change.’ Well, I can smell change in the air now. Like rain a-comin’. Our luck’s gonna change for the better, I’d bet on it. And the Fairplays are the hand we’re gonna play to hit pay dirt.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Inez said tiredly. She pushed at the small of her back to relieve a crick from her riding stays. “Do you think they’ll play straight with us?”

“Sure. We’ll put the deal to paper. And I’ll take care of everything, Inez. All you gotta say is yes. That you trust I can do this right.”

She closed her eyes, grateful for Abe’s words. For his patience with her. For Abe himself.
What would I have done without him these past two years. He stood by William and me through the worst of times and afterward. I’d trust him with my life. I can trust him about this. He’s right. We’ve got to get back on track and tend to business. And if the Fairplays are the bonanza for us he thinks they are….

“In the words of the local prospectors, if you think it’ll assay well, let’s stake the claim. But I don’t want to talk with them. I’ll be polite, but it’ll be your deal. Take care of whatever they need, whatever is reasonable. I want the Silver Queen to succeed.” She ran a hand along the unfinished sill. “Any profits, our first priority should be fixing up this room so it’s ready before the trains arrive, at least.” She turned her back on the window. “Agreed?”

Abe’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “Agreed. Knew you’d come to your senses, Inez.”

“Well, let’s go back and put it to paper. And I hope they’ve left some of Bridgette’s pie for us.”

Chapter Twenty-One

From the landing, Inez watched the Fairplays exit to Harrison Avenue. She was thinking how good it would feel to change out of her riding clothes when she noticed Sol beckoning from the main floor.
What now?
Inez descended to where Sol was stacking dirty glasses and bowls onto a tray.

“There’s a fellow here who says you were expecting him.” He nodded down the length of the bar.

To her astonishment, she saw the professor, nursing a tankard of tired beer. “How long has he been here?”

“Long enough for the beer to go flat.”

Inez approached the professor, who brightened when he saw her. He doffed his battered derby, which now sported a natty feather in the band. “Mr. Delaney sent me into town to deliver some papers to chief engineer McMurtrie. Delaney’s cousin, y’know. Thought I’d take the opportunity to find you. Delaney’ll nae remember when I left nor when I return, as long as I’m back with McMurtrie’s response by dark. He’s a bit too fond of the drop of the pure.” The professor looked at his beer sadly as if mourning its condition. “I remembered ye’d promised to introduce me to a newspaper man. I hope I’m not inconveniencing ye any, but if there’s any chance we could talk with him now….”

Inez turned to Sol. “I’m taking the professor here to meet Jed Elliston. We’ll be at
The Independent
, if you need me.”

On impulse, she went behind the counter and retrieved an unopened bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the rows lining the backbar.

The professor brightened considerably at the sight.

“To smooth the introductions,” she explained.

Inez hurried upstairs to her private changing room and grabbed a cashmere paisley shawl, one of her favorites and long enough to cover all but the lower third of her crumpled riding clothes. She tied on a matching olive-colored straw hat that covered most of her hair and adjusted the bow to sit jauntily below her left ear. Grabbing a pair of gloves, she paused to inspect herself in the mirror above the washbasin and was pleased to see the reflection of a respectable-looking woman peering back.

Then she looked down at her inglorious riding boots. “Rather mars the effect,” she said to her reflection. “But if they’ve sprinkled the streets, it’ll be muddy. If not, it’ll be dusty. No reason to scuff a pair of perfectly decent shoes in the name of fashion.”

A fleeting vision of Maude Fairplay’s shoes skimmed through her mind, the toes and the narrow heels under the pleated hem embroidered with a profusion of flowers and leaves. With a tiny spark of malice, she imagined how wilted they would look after crossing Leadville’s streets a few times.

Inez flew down the stairs.

Sol said, “He’s waiting by the State Street door.”

Pulling the shawl snug around herself and the cradled bottle of bourbon, Inez approached the door and paused to gaze at the buffalo above the lintel. The glass eyes stared straight ahead, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the plains.

She turned to the professor. “Let’s see if we can’t persuade Mr. Jed Elliston that he could use a hand in reporting about the railroad.”

***

The office of
The Independent
sat halfway up the second block of East Third in a fairly robust log building, complete with a tent-like half wall above the door. It hadn’t changed a bit since Jed had arrived and set up shop in 1878, nearly the same month that Inez, Mark, and Abe had blown into town, drawn by tales of fortunes made in the mines and lost at the gaming tables.

“If the pickin’s are so easy, we might as well be there to pick our allotment,” Mark had said. It was after the disaster in Dodge, and Inez had wanted to put as much mileage between that city and them as possible, hoping to obliterate Mark’s and her own indiscretions with the dust of time and distance. Leadville, where silver “flowed in the streets,” sounded as good a place as any. Then, once Mark won the saloon in a poker game and Inez discovered that she was in a “family way,” the decision to settle down and stay was easy. And Abe, as tired of the traveling life as the Stannerts, had agreed to stay and run the business with them.

Approaching the newspaper office, Inez recalled the first time she’d met Jed. It was before she’d become heavy with child and was still doing a turn at the Saturday night poker games that Mark had arranged for the highrollers of Leadville. Jed had strolled in, dressed in his sharp city suit, dark hair slicked back, looking down his long nose at the crowd around the table, heavy-lidded eyes lingering incredulously on Inez before moving on. He’d removed his silk top hat. “Jed Elliston. Owner, publisher, and editor of
The Independent
, the newest newspaper in Leadville. I understand that there’s a serious game here?”

Inez looked at Mark. Mark smoothed his mustache and winked, their signal for “pigeon.” Then, he turned the charm on, as only Mark could. “Welcome, pilgrim!” He pulled a chair forward to the table and glanced at the other players. “You gents mind one more?”

Yes, Jed was an easy mark at the tables, yet he had stood by her during hard times, in his own way. And he had finally come around to the notion of playing cards with her. Most of the time.

Well Jed, now’s time for you to pay up for your recent lucky streak.

She turned to the professor. “I’ll make the introductions and start the conversation flowing with….” She revealed the bottle beneath the shawl. “It’s probably best if I stay a while, in case Jed gets difficult. When things are running smoothly, I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business. I’ll warn you, Jed can be insufferable sometimes. Just remember, he’s odd man out regarding the Denver and Rio Grande.”

“Aye. ’Tis a good thing I’m not a wagerin’ man.” The professor stared at his reflection in the window of a dry goods store. He removed his derby and dusted it quickly with a forearm, then tugged down on his waistcoat and straightened his wilting celluloid collar.

Inez opened the door of the newspaper office and went in. The professor followed like a shadow.

“Hello, Mr. Elliston,” she sang out.

Jed, bent over a typecase, turned around, surprised, a handful of type in his hand, a smudge of ink on his sleeve. “Mrs. Stannert, what an honor.” He dropped the type on the top of the cabinet, wiping his hands on an apron. “My typesetter’s vamoosed, probably besotted again in some Stringtown gin mill.” Jed sounded as if it were a personal affront that the fellow apparently preferred an afternoon’s drink to an afternoon’s wages.

“You know anyone who’d be interested in a job setting type?” He eyed the professor expectantly, then turned back to Inez. “Here to place an advertisement? Good rates on an eighth of a column. Just the right size for touting any Fourth of July specials.”

“Actually, I do need to run something,” said Inez, mindful that she needed to get a notice in about the Fairplays. “Maybe half a column’s worth.”

His eyes, usually half-lidded in that supercilious manner she found so irritating, widened. “Half column, you say? What’s going on?”

“We’ve the Fairplays coming to—”
Not entertain. Not act. What sounds respectable?
“Put on a display of thespian skill. Shakespeare.
The Tempest
.”

Jed’s nose fairly twitched in anticipation. “Any chance they’d stand for an interview beforehand?”

“Oh, most likely we could arrange that, but look, I’ve brought someone to meet you. Mr. Elliston, meet Mr., ah—” She realized she had forgotten the professor’s name.

“Duncan, at your service,” the professor interposed. Then, extending a hand, he added, “Most call me Professor. My background, y’see.”

“I’ve also brought this.” She pulled out the bottle as Jed pumped the professor’s hand, and glanced around. “Is there someplace we can talk? And have you any clean glasses?”

Three minutes later, they were all seated around the large table in the middle of the room, papers and notes pushed higgledy-piggledy to one side, the bottle placed reverently in the center.

Inez splashed the bourbon into three chipped enamel mugs, feeling vaguely sacrilegious about not using crystal for such a fine grade of alcohol. She lifted her mug, and the men followed suit.

“‘Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.’ Alexander Pope,” said Inez.

“‘Freedom and whisky gang t’gither!’ Scotland’s own Robbie Burns,” added the professor.

They looked at Elliston. He looked from one to the other, then hoisted his mug even higher and pronounced, “‘Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,/In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side.’” He added, “James Russell Lowell. Poet. Editor. Abolitionist. Harvard man. Cambridge. Massachusetts, that is.” His tone seemed to suggest that his drinking companions might want to refer to an atlas.

They drank.

Inez closed her eyes in delight as the liquor went down fiery as a lover’s kiss. She sighed. Then opened her eyes, all business. “Gentlemen, I believe you both may profit from this meeting.” She addressed Jed. “The professor is interested in writing for a local newspaper. Right now, he works for the Rio Grande,” she added meaningfully.

“I’ll be straight with you, Professor.” Jed leaned forward. “I’ve not the highest opinion of the Rio Grande nor those who run it. My stand, and I’m not afraid to say or print it, is that Palmer’s a bully and the Rio Grande has played much the ‘dog in the manger’ with the Atchison road.”

The professor turned his mug in his hands and seemed to consider before responding. “Am I to believe that what is said here stays here? ’Twould mean my job, otherwise.”

“Of course,” said Jed.

Inez said, “We can drink to that,” and poured more all around.

The professor drank, then said, “I’ll not deny that I’ve no great love of Palmer and his band. The general’s not the gold-plated gentleman he makes himself out to be. When a town doesn’t agree to his demands, ’tis Palmer’s philosophy to run over it and to hell with those left behind. That’s nothing new, to him.”

Inez viewed the professor over the rim of her mug. He’d set his hat on the table and was smoothing the feather. His face above his chin whiskers was strained.

“Not from around here?” Jed asked. “Not to pry. But if I hire you to write about the inner workings of the Rio Grande, it’s not just your job that’s on the line. Could be my neck as well.”

“I was born and bred in the States.”

Inez raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You were? Where?”

“Here and there. The South, mostly. Father died in the war. ’Twas not our war, and his death meant hard times for my mother and me. I dinnae like to dwell on it. After the war, Mother sent me to relatives in Edinburgh, where I received my education. I returned when she was ailing. She passed on. I came here. And that’s probably more’n you wished to know.”

Inez and Jed looked at each other. His face echoed her furtive guilt.
At the war’s conclusion, I was fifteen, Jed was eight. And neither of us suffered from the war as he apparently did.

Clearing her throat, Inez topped off the professor’s mug. “Mr. Elliston runs a well-regarded newspaper here in town and is currently understaffed.”

Jed nudged his half-empty mug across the table to Inez. “So, Professor, what do you do for the Rio Grande?”

“Well, some call me a secretary, some a clerk, some treat me as all-round errand boy. I take notes at the board meetings on behalf of my superior—that’d be Lowden Snow, the lawyer who handles right-of-way issues for the railway. And I deliver papers and orders too sensitive to commit to telegraph at the board’s behest.” He frowned. “They give me no consideration. I could be deaf as a post for all the heed they pay me as they’re talkin’ over their grand plans.”

“The sorry state of the working man.” Jed raised his mug again. “One more toast, if you’ll join me. Who said: ‘The great questions of the time are not decided by speeches and majority decisions, but by iron and blood.’” He looked at them expectantly.

“Lincoln?” Inez guessed.

The professor shrugged.

“Otto von Bismarck. Appropriate for the Rio Grande and Palmer, don’t you think?”

Just as Inez prepared to push back her chair, Jed set down his mug. “Professor, I’ve a question for you. Mrs. Stannert, maybe you’d add your two cents, since you were there. I heard two supply cars were smashed to smithereens and the rails destroyed by Disappointment Gulch. A real setback for the railroad. What’s your take on it? Landslide? Sabotage?”

The professor wet his lips, somewhat nervously, Inez thought. Then he leaned forward, looking earnest. “I’m no expert on such things, but from what I heard and saw, it has the stink of sabotage, sure enough.”

“Any idea who?”

The professor shifted in his chair. “Could’ve been men from the Santa Fe road, still smarting over Palmer and McMurtrie’s rough ways and the Rio Grande’s victory at the Royal Gorge. Could even be the work of the Denver, South Park and Pacific Railway. The Rio Grande and South Park hammered out an agreement for the South Park to use the Rio Grande’s track to Leadville for a fee. But there are always those who harbor bad feelings about such, even after the gentlemen of the boards sign and shake hands all around.”

“And it hasn’t stopped the Rio Grande and South Park from waging a war over the price of hauling freight,” added Jed.

The professor nodded. “I’ve heard talk that the Rio Grande might construct a line over Marshall Pass to Gunnison. That wouldn’t sit well with the South Park. And there’s more to tell, should you be wantin’ to hear it.”

Inez couldn’t help but smile.
Jed looks like he’d sell his mother to hear what else the professor has to say.

“Gentlemen, I leave you to each other. The bourbon goes with me, but I’ll keep the rest of the bottle stowed away. When
The Independent
publishes its first ‘exclusive’ on the machinations of the Rio Grande, we’ll toast your mutually beneficial business agreement with another round.”

The two men covertly eyed each other as if evaluating the worth of an untested but potentially promising claim.

She stood to leave and was surprised to find she was a bit unsteady.
Oh yes. All that brandy at the picnic. Now this.