Iron Ties Part 35

CHAPTER FIFTY.

"Did the big fire wake you last night, Mrs. Stannert?" Sol greeted Inez as she dragged into the Silver Queen early Thursday morning. "First that, with the alarm and all. Then, the guns early this morning, so everyone could rise and s.h.i.+ne to prepare for the big day. Sunrise came awfully fast after last night."

Inez's eyes felt as if river sand had been ground into them. Pebbles and all. She wasn't about to tell Sol that her lack of sleep had nothing to do with Grant's arrival that day, and all to do with the fire, and then with the questions and fears that plagued her. One of the foremost being: How can I reach Preston Holt if he doesn't come into town? I'll never find him if I go riding about. And I can't do that anyway. Not today.

She'd been out of the saloon far too much of late and was determined to pull her own weight on this, what was bound to be one of the busiest days of the year. No matter what. She just hoped that her upcoming conversation with Hollis would yield some hard answers and the time to deal with them.

"I counted thirty-eight guns in that salute," Sol said in an unbearably cheerful tone. One for each state in the Union. I heard they're going to fire a thirteen-gun salute at noon, and one hundred and one when he arrives."

Inez pressed a palm against her pounding forehead, wondering how she was going to survive the barrage of salutatory gunfire scheduled for the day.

"Since you and Mr. Jackson are here, I'll get busy outside hanging the last banner over the door and nailing fir boughs around the frame. I could put some bunting above the windows maybe, and-"

"Sol, I know you'll do us proud." She clutched Hollis' folded-up flag in her arms, anxious to get upstairs.

Sol went outside, then popped back in before the door stopped swinging. "That your horse out there at the hitchrack?"

"Yes. She was in the livery that burned last night. I want to keep her nearby for just a while. I'll need to check whether the livery around the corner has room for her. If you'd just keep an eye on her, let me know if she gets nervous. Oh! And the livery owner, Bart Hollis, will be by soon. He's bringing my tack. What's left of it. Please send him up to the office."

"Sure thing."

She poured herself a cup of coffee and told Abe she'd be upstairs. Once in the office, she looked around for a place to unfold the flag. It didn't seem proper to put it on the floor, so she draped it over the office's loveseat. The edging, which could have been tan or a very dirty or faded orange, paraded around the outside of the flag. Its red field was slashed with a diagonal cross of blue, edged in white. Three white stars marched along each of the four arms, a single star in the intersection. This symbol of the attempted secession of the thirteen states seemed part of a past that had eluded her entirely. My parents never talked about the war. At least, in front of Harmony and me. What a sheltered life we led. I was just a chit of a girl. It all seemed so distant. Stories in the newspapers. Popular songs. But nothing to do with me.

Thinking on Hollis' reaction last night, she sighed. All the comments, discussions, arguments, remembrances of the war that had been flying about her for nearly a month. All that explosive emotion, stored in a piece of fabric.

She examined the flag. The stars seemed larger on Hollis' flag than the stars on the cloth strips or the one she'd seen in Reuben's photocase.

Inez went to her dressing room and retrieved the two strips of bunting: the one found by the river, the other from Eli's saddlebag. She unfurled them both and draped them on the flag, trying to match up positions.

Aside from a different colored border, the strips matched the design of Hollis' flag. But they seemed from a smaller version, as if someone had sized down Hollis' flag and then cut it into pieces. And given it a different colored border.

Eli's strip fit to one side of the center star. The other piece, its white edging bordering one long side, seemed to belong at the flag's leading edge. Provided one took into account the missing star. I'll bet this strip belonged to Hiram Holt. And the missing star is the lining in Reuben's photocase. The photocase that holds an image of his father and Eli Carter.

If all the pieces were the same width....She measured with her eyes. It would take seven to make the flag whole.

A knock at the door broke her reverie.

"Come in."

Hollis and One-Eyed Jack entered, bringing the heavy stale scent of the stable fire with them. Hollis dumped what was left of Inez's tack-her astride saddle and a jangle of stirrups, bridle, and bit-inside the door. Jack added a singed horse blanket. They lingered by the door, as if uncertain of their welcome.

Hollis' clothes were clean but ill-fitting, much too baggy for his snake-like frame-no doubt offerings from one of the various relief societies from around town, or maybe a sympathetic friend. His face was cleaned up from the previous night, but its usual pinched contours were even tighter, due most likely to exhaustion, grief, and anger over the blaze, rather than anything to do with her.

Jack, on the other hand, looked as if he'd been nearly barbecued. The long scraggly hair under his dented derby was considerably shorter on one side. His eyebrows were gone. The coal-black beard as well. Seeing Jack's naked face was nearly as much of a shock to Inez as if he'd strolled into her office in the altogether. His face was reddened and blistered, the single eye blinked, forlorn and bloodshot, the patch still intact over the empty socket of its mate.

Inez nodded at the clean gla.s.ses she'd set out on her end table and held up a sealed bottle of Jack Daniels. A mute truce in the ongoing verbal scuffles between herself and the ex-marshal.

Hollis hesitated, as if unconvinced the temporary truce between them wasn't some kind of trick. He finally hobbled forward. His fancy boots, Inez noted, had been saved from the fire, but barely, and looked the worse for wear.

Hollis and Jack each retrieved a gla.s.s. Jack also brought one over for Inez. She filled them all, and they drank.

The sensory blast that comes with high-proof alcohol cleared throats and loosened tongues all around.

Hollis moved over to the sofa and raised his half-empty gla.s.s in salute. "T' the battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia."

He then craned his neck to peer at the overlaid patchwork strips. "Hmpf. Where'd you get these? I'm guessin' they're from a cavalry flag."

"One is Eli's," said Inez.

Hollis grunted. "So, how'd you hear 'bout the flag, that brotherhood, an' all?" He teetered back on charred boot heels, eyes half-lidded. Inez was reminded of a snake wavering, trying to decide whether to strike or just slither on by.

"I didn't. Not really. But I've been trying to put together the bits and pieces." She gestured at the remnants. "The longer one is Eli's. I found it...." She stopped, not wanting to unbalance the tenuous peace she'd forged with Hollis by letting him know she'd snooped around. "I found the other by the river. Near where Eli met a man, possibly Hiram Holt from Missouri."

"Hiram Holt?" Hollis frowned.

Inez leaned forward. "What can you tell me?"

He hesitated, pulling on the shortened end of his mustache.

She set the bottle down. "Look, Hollis. This all ties into the Denver and Rio Grande's arrival here in Leadville. And generals from the war. The Rio Grande, as you know, is headed by General Palmer. General Grant's arriving on the Rio Grande train today. Are there other generals about? I don't know. But something's afoot, and I don't think it's good. I know you're unhappy with the Rio Grande, especially with the arson of your livery. And most likely you're not happy about Grant's visit either. But the war, it all happened long ago. And the train's on its way to town. There's not much time."

He nodded, silent, then said, "Back when Eli and I met, it was near the end of the war. For some time afterward, we were workin' the same outfits. What Eli said once was that there was a brotherhood. A group of men. Missourians, mostly from the same battalion. They'd each made a pledge to kill one of the blue-belly generals that helped destroy the Confederacy. And each of the men took a piece of the flag, vowin' that, when the deeds were done, they'd put the flag back t'gether. Eli told me all this and showed me that there." He gestured with his empty gla.s.s toward the strip of flag. "Crazy talk. We must've been tight on some rotgut or other. But at the time, it sounded like a good idea. Get some of the Yanks, like Booth did Lincoln. Like I said, crazy talk. I didn't think any more of it when I sobered up."

Inez held out the bottle. He held out his gla.s.s. She filled it again.

He continued. "The group was sharpshooters and snipers that turned into hardcases after the war. But that was years ago." He shook his head. "Eli'd sure had a change of heart by the time I partnered up with him at the livery."

"He married," Inez said. "Lillian."

"Yeah." Hollis looked at her through slitted eyes. Suspicious again. "Didn't know you and Eli were on such friendly speakin' terms."

"I told her," Jack mumbled, looking like he very much wished he had his beard to hide behind.

"Well. Don't make no difference. I never heard Eli talk about it here in Leadville. In fact, he d.a.m.n near hated hearin' anything about the war."

"Did he mention any names from this group?" Inez looked from Hollis to Jack. "Hiram Holt? Brodie Duncan?"

The two men looked at each other.

Hollis frowned. "All's I know is, a sharpshooter headed it. Some real whingdinger of a shootist. I'd just supposed it all faded away over time. h.e.l.l, that's a long time to keep somethin' like that a secret. And to carry through."

"A sharpshooter." Inez turned the gla.s.s in her hand. "Hiram Holt was a Rebel sharpshooter. For the Ninth Missouri. He had a Whitworth and was a crack shot, to hear others tell it."

Hollis looked at her as if she'd grown an extra set of arms. "Where'd you come by all that? And who's this Hiram Holt?"

"Maybe the ringleader you spoke of. But he's gone now. Probably dead. His son carries a photocase with a tintype of Hiram and Eli, side-by-side. Rifles in hand. Eli with that Sharps he took from a dead Union soldier. Hiram with a Whitworth. The case had a single star, like those," she gestured at the flag, "in its lining."

"The man. Who brought the Sharps to Eli. Saw him right here." Jack let out a nearly ignitable burp. "That night."

"What night?" Inez was nonplussed. Then she remembered the night of the North/South fight in her saloon. Jack, venturing inside the State Street entrance, staring at the men by the Harrison Avenue door, and stepping back out. "The night of the fight here at the saloon?"

"Yep. Came by the livery." He squinched up his face, apparently calculating, then gave up. "Some time ago."

"So, which one was he?"

"Big fella. Real big. Whupped the lunatic."

Inez blinked, incredulous. "Preston Holt? No. It couldn't be." She then realized Jack's error. "Oh! I'll bet that was Hiram Holt. Preston and Hiram are brothers. I've been told they look alike."

"Saw the other one too."

"What other one?"

"He waited. Outside. When the big fella brought the Sharps. Looked like he didn't want t' been seen. Then, they rode off t'gether."

"What did he look like?"

"Scrawny. Little beard. Specs."

"The professor," she said quietly. Then, "Brodie Duncan."

Jack shrugged. "Dunno the name. Looked like him. Acted like him. Not wanting to be seen."

Inez blew out her cheeks in a loud exhale. So. The professor, Brodie Duncan, lied. He's part of this whole racket as well. He came out with Hiram and just got a different job with the railroad. One better suited to his talents, no doubt.

"I can't picture Brodie Duncan as a sharpshooter." She shook her head. "The war doesn't seem to drive him, the way it does the others."

"Well, mebbe they're all gone now, this brotherhood." Hollis put down his gla.s.s. "Unless you're wrong, Miz Stannert, and that Duncan fella's one of them."

"Maybe." Inez was quiet a moment. "But consider. If the other flag strips are the same size, there are five more around somewhere. Maybe the men who took those pieces have thrown them out, or folded them away and forgotten them. But maybe not. Maybe those men are still living as if the past fifteen years have never been."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE.

Inez felt she hardly had time to eat, blink, or breathe. She moved efficiently behind the bar with Abe, the two of them so used to working around each other that they moved as in a ch.o.r.eographed dance.

But Inez wasn't feeling particularly graceful. She swiped the sweat from her face, glancing out the State Street window. So many pine boughs festooned the outside that Inez thought the saloon must give the appearance of being in a miniature forest.

Out the window, she could just see Sol's ladder, his shoes, and his trousers to the knees as he hammered the last of the nails into the final banner. At the eleventh hour, Inez had agreed that, if material could be found, a banner could also be erected above the State Street door. Sol had dashed off and managed to acquire what Inez suspected was the last available length of banner fabric in Leadville, and had lettered "Welcome, General!" in black paint.

"Who knows?" said Abe. "Maybe he'll stop and quench his thirst, if we look welcomin' enough."

"Well, we certainly have enough Old Crow in stock," said Inez, wiping the bar with a rag already damp from spillage.

The door swung open, and a clump of men entered. Inez looked up, hoping against hope Preston Holt, Reverend Sands, or McMurtrie would appear.

"You expectin' someone, Mrs. Stannert?" Abe loaded five tankards of beer on a tray for a group lucky enough to have snagged a table an hour before and who showed no intentions of quitting their claim.

"I'm hoping to spot Reverend Sands or someone from the Rio Grande." She blew upward, trying to dislodge a sweaty strand of hair that had unfurled from her hairpins and lodged against her forehead.

"Well, don't see any so far, but here comes Doc."

Sure enough, Doc approached the bar with considerable spring in his lopsided gait. He wore a brand new jacket and a well brushed top hat.

"Mrs. Stannert, a brandy, if you please, to celebrate General Grant's impending arrival."

She delivered the drink and leaned over the bar. "Doc. I need to talk to you about Reverend Sands. What he's doing. Those notes you mentioned, that were received by the railroad. Did any of them talk about a plot against-"

Alarmed, Doc held up a hand. "Not here." He looked around, as if expecting to see eyes upon them, then back at her, eyebrows crowding together. "I expected the good reverend to be more discreet in his disclosures to you."

"He told me nothing." That stung more than she would let on. "But I suspect perhaps Elijah Carter was trying to warn-"

He had pulled out his pocket.w.a.tch. The snap of the cover springing open was like scissors to her speech. He said quietly, but pointedly, "Thirteen members of the Union Veteran a.s.sociation took the down train to Canon City to meet General Grant and his party early today. But we...that is, the two of us left here to hold down the fort...received a telegram that the general's train was detained two hours on account of a washout west of Pueblo, which required building a temporary bridge. It was nearly three o'clock when the train finally arrived in Pueblo." He snapped the watch shut. "What's topmost on my mind right now is that our august visitors are not arriving at five, or even six, which is what the crowds out there are expecting. More likely, it'll be toward dusk. Don't worry, Mrs. Stannert, about that other business. All is well. The good Reverend J. B. Sands is a wonder, and I think there's naught to do but wait for the rather delayed arrival of our guests."

"But Doc-"

He guzzled the liquor at a pace that did it no justice, pulled out an enormous handkerchief, white and starched, and patted his mouth dry. "Must run. More communiques expected. The procession will be heading down to the Boulevard soon, so we're ready to meet our guest whenever he arrives." He hurried out.

Inez exhaled in frustration and scowled at the partially empty gla.s.s. "Why do I even bother? Men! Well, perhaps he has sorted it out-"

She picked up the snifter to put it in the dirty-gla.s.s tub as another figure moved in to fill the vacuum at the bar. She glanced up, the automatic "What's your pleasure?" dying on her lips.

Delaney sneered at her from across the bar.

Inez gaped, wordless.

"Think you'll lift that ban long enough t' sell me a beer?" He tapped a nickel on the bar. "Everyone else in town is celebrating. Guess I'll be mourning by my lonesome unless you plan to drink with me."

"I'm not selling you anything after what you did last week," she said savagely. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here anyway? I heard you were dead!"

"Me?" Delaney seemed to find this hilarious. "Still alive and kicking. Can't say the same's true of your friend Holt, though."

Inez froze. "What are you talking about?"