Along The Fortune Trail (24 page)

A
three tier, crystal chandelier that held a hundred candles hung high above the center of the lobby of the Ducayne Hotel. There were several sitting areas arranged with French provincial chairs and settees, backed by walls with a wainscot of cherry wood below and peach-colored wallpaper above that had finely embossed stitching in the shapes of various lamps and carriages. The sitting areas flanked a main walkway that ran from the front doors through the lobby to the front desk like a runway for observation of style and gait of all who entered.

A group of visiting easterners occupied one of the sitting areas and looked like an advertisement of elegance and refinement as they waited for their coach to embark on an evening of fine dining and theatre. They stared appraisingly at the cowboy as he strode through the lobby with saddlebags over his shoulder, holding a rifle and wearing a gun belt with two pistols. His face was battered, and his appearance did not look consistent with the type of clientele for such a distinguished hotel. Sammy sensed them staring and tipped his hat to them, the gesture decidedly aloof and not lost on the easterners as a rebuke to their unmistakable highbrow judgment. Several of them looked away as if they'd been found out.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked as Sammy stepped to the counter.

“Do you have a room available?”

The clerk's eyebrows hiked a bit. “Well, yes, but the rate is five dollars a night.”

Sammy slapped a twenty-dollar gold piece on the counter. “Does this work for you?” he replied, wondering why Reuben had been insistent that he stay there. He remembered Reuben telling him he'd encounter some snobbery, but he also advised that the beds and service was the best in town, and some exposure to the elite crowd would be educational.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk replied, aware of his miscalculation. “How many nights will you be staying with us, mister…?”

“Winds … Sammy Winds. I'm not certain of that yet, but at least until Monday.”

“Very well, sir. If you will sign the register, please. Do you have a horse we can stable, sir?

“He's down a block at Talbot Livery.”

“That's a very fine stable, but we have our own stables here if you would like to have your horse closer.”

“Really? Well maybe I'll move him later.”

“Just let me know and I'll arrange for a stall. Do you have anything else of immediate need, Mister Winds?”

“No, not at the moment.”

“You'll find a list of available services in your room. There are water closets and bathing facilities at the end of each hall, and you'll find a bathrobe in your room. If you would like anything at all—room service, your bath prepared, anything at all—please pull the cord by your door and an assistant will report to your room.”

“Where can I get a good steak?”

“The Olivet Garden Dining Room, right here in the hotel, serves a great steak. But if you prefer to dine out, Barrons Restaurant serves the best beef in the city, I've been told. They're open till 11 p.m. on Friday and Saturday nights. It's two blocks east and then north a block on Broadway.”

“Much obliged. Oh, I almost forgot. Do you know where the Westerfeld Building is?”

The clerk seemed a bit surprised. “Why, yes. Go south to Speer Boulevard, then west about a quarter mile.”

Sammy sat down on the bed then stretched out fully for a moment. It was the most comfortable thing he'd ever rested upon. “You sure weren't kiddin’ about the beds, Reuben,” Sammy said out loud as he lay there tempted to just drift off. He quickly got up and went to the window. The view revealed the avenue below, with its many brick and frame buildings and hard-packed dirt street thick with drawn coaches and wagons and singles on horseback. He had the urge to take a good look.

The cool of early evening drifted through the Denver streets as Sammy walked them and leisurely looked in storefronts. The array of goods and services was astounding to him. There were clothes of every kind for every occasion and appliances and tools he had never seen before. And there were saloons and eateries and bakeries and land offices and markets and jewelry and art shops and bookstores and cobbler shops and street vendors and lots of people. Denver did not look like Santa Fe or Albuquerque. There were not nearly as many Spanish or Mexicans, but instead many more Anglos whose dress varied from woolen suits and formal hats to cowhide trousers and leather vests. The women he saw were all escorted and wore dresses with petticoats underneath and fancy hats, some boasting plumes of ornamental feathers of lavish color.

He watched a two-man crew working with a wagon and ladder as they moved down the street lighting lampposts. They knew their business. Sammy was impressed with the speed of their operation and wondered how many crews there were and how long it took to light the downtown area. It seemed an enormous city. The biggest he'd ever been in.

He walked up one block and down another like a tourist. He was taking it all in when he happened upon Speer Boulevard. Sammy turned to the west and walked a little faster with a destination in mind. Several blocks down, he came upon it.

The Westerfeld building rose from the street six stories high in red brick. Its huge, arched entrance was faced with moss rock, above which sculptured large bronze letters read: WESTERFELD. Sammy climbed the dozen steps to the entrance and peered in one of the framed ten-foot glass doors. A uniformed guard sat behind a reception desk in the lobby, reading a magazine in the light of two brightly burning desk lamps. Sammy pressed on the door and was surprised to find it began to open. The large wall clock behind the security guard's desk read 8:30. The guard's eyes came up as Sammy entered.

“Hello,” Sammy said as he walked across the lobby toward the desk. “You folks work some long hours. I sure didn't expect to find anybody here now.”

“Yes…. Why are you here?”

“I'm in town to see Mister Westerfeld,” Sammy said as he came to a stop in front of the desk.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, of a sort.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he's been expecting my arrival. I've traveled up from New Mexico Territory, and it wasn't a certainty when I'd arrive.”

“Does he know you?”

“He knows
of
me.”

The guard rose from his chair and rested his hands on his gun-belt. “State your business.”

Sammy took a step back. “My name is Sammy Winds, and I'm here to collect a reward that Mister Westerfeld posted. I killed the man who murdered one of his engineers.”

The guard cocked his head just a bit and took on a slight squint of the eyes as he seemingly examined Sammy more closely. “Sure, yeah. We all heard about that. You're the fella? Sammy Winds, you say?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any papers that can prove that?”

“No, not on me. They're back at my hotel room. I didn't plan on doin’ this tonight. I got into town late this afternoon. I was just out takin’ a walk and happened by. Can I make an appointment for tomorrow or Monday and come back?”

“I suppose you could, but Mister Westerfeld won't be here. He'll be out of town for several weeks.”

Sammy's head fell back then came forward. “Well ain't that just a damn dandy! It's been a time just gettin’ here.” Sammy took a deep breath and shook his head in disbelief.

The guard pushed a button on the desk and a moment later a man in a suit came from a doorway. “Wait here,” the guard said to Sammy as he walked to meet the man. The guard spoke to the man in whispered tones as the man listened and looked at Sammy. “Come with me please,” the man said to Sammy.

“All right,” Sammy replied, and followed the man. They left the lobby and went down a hallway and around a corner. Two other men stood in front of a contraption that Sammy didn't recognize. “What are we doing?” Sammy asked.

“We're going to see Mister Westerfeld,” the man replied.

“He's here? Now? I thought he was out of town.”

“He leaves tomorrow.”

One of the men slid open the gate to what looked like a closet. “What's this thing?” Sammy asked.

The man smiled. “It's a lift. It will take us up to the floor where Mister Westerfeld is.”

“How about stairs? Don't you have stairs?”

“Yeah, we have stairs. This is faster. It's Mister Westerfeld's private lift.”

Sammy looked a little anxious. “Relax, kid … nothing to worry about, unless you're not who you say you are.”

Sammy stepped into the lift with the man, and one of the other men closed the gate behind them. The man who closed the gate pulled down hard on a lever on the wall and the lift began to rise quite rapidly. Sammy felt his stomach drop and instinctively put his hands out to the side to steady himself. The lift went to the top floor.

T
he gates opened and Sammy and the man exited. Sammy turned around and took another look at the lift. “Ropes, pulleys, and weights, huh? Is that how it works?”

“Smart kid. Yeah, I think that's it—except it has steel cables, not ropes.”

Sammy followed the man down a hallway that had doors along both sides. They came to a large foyer where two more men in suits sat in chairs on either side of massive oak doors. A woman sat at a desk to the side of the foyer. “Hello, Faye,” the man said to her.

“Hello, Burton. What brings you up?”

“I've got somebody here the boss wants to meet.”

She looked Sammy over, curious about who he was. “He's in with Roy and Louie. It's been a while. You can knock and see. He might like an excuse to run them out.”

“Okay, Faye. Thanks.”

Burton nodded to the two men sitting in chairs, then knocked temperately on the door. “Come in,” a voice boomed from the other side. Burton eased in and closed the door behind him. A few moments later Roy and Louie and Burton exited the office with Burton leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Go on in, kid. He's waiting,”

Sammy entered and closed the door behind him. It looked to be forty feet across the room to where Mister Westerfeld was rising from behind his desk. But Sammy's attention was caught by a full mount of a nine-foot grizzly bear that was just to his left, standing in an attack position with its arms high and its mouth open in a snarl, revealing its giant teeth. Sammy took a quick step to his right. “Lord Almighty! That's the biggest bear I've ever seen.”

Barclay Westerfeld began talking as he walked from behind his desk. “He looked just like that before he fell dead not more than ten feet in front of me. I thought he was going to take me. Charged from about three hundred feet. I hit him twice with a 50 caliber, but he kept coming. I unloaded six from a 44 as he stood up close, and one of them took him through the heart. Harrowing it was.”

“I would imagine.” Sammy looked at Westerfeld and judged him to be in his early sixties. His hair was brown and gray, and his manicured beard was nearly white. He looked very fit and wore a gray cotton shirt with black wool trousers and beautifully tooled black western boots.

“Mister Winds, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Sammy Winds.”

“I'm Barclay Westerfeld. It's a great pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Thank you, sir. I'm honored.”

The two men shook hands. Barclay Westerfeld began walking back to his desk. “Come and sit down,” he said to Sammy. “It's really quite fortunate you showed up tonight. I'm leaving tomorrow for three weeks, and I'm not usually here at this time of night.”

“I'm glad of it, sir. I don't know that I could have stayed on and waited.”

“You wouldn't have had to. I left instructions with an assistant if you showed during my absence. No, I say it's quite fortunate for me because I so wanted to meet you personally…shake your hand, and thank you.”

Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. Mister Westerfeld, I don't have the paperwork with me verifying who I am.”

“Yes, I understand that. I wouldn't have put much stock in that anyway. Anybody could have walked in here with some phony paperwork. One man tried it. No, I prefer instead to ask you several questions. What's the name of the head cook at your ranch?”

Sammy was more than surprised. “Her name is Jacqueline, sir.”

“Does she have assistants?”

“Yes, sir. That would be Lucilla and Raquel.”

Barclay Westerfeld looked down at the paper on his desk. “Tell me about the cat you had when you were a boy.”

“I never had a cat. I had a dog.”

“What was his name and what happened to him.”

“His name was Angus and he died from a snakebite.”

“Well, that's quite enough with the questions.”

Barclay stood up and leaned across the desk to shake Sammy's hand once more. “Thank you for killing that son of a bitch who murdered my friend, Henry Salmon. Henry and I knew each other for fifty years—met when we were kids. He worked for me for the last twenty and refused any special treatment. Just wanted a job in my railroad business. He was a great employee and a damn fine man. Good and decent in every way. Anyone who ever knew Henry knew that. He left a large legacy behind—lots of family. His wife, Milly, is a wonderful woman. Henry would have told you he was lucky to have her. He was.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like a drink? Whiskey?

“Only if you're having one, sir.”

“I am.” Barclay poured them each a very hearty portion, then held his glass up. “To Henry Salmon, may he rest easy.”

“Amen.”

After they drank, Sammy's curiosity came forth. “Mister Westerfeld, how did you get that information you asked me about?”

“I have my sources. In this case it was your employers. Although we've never met, I know very well of Homer and Reuben Taylor. Their reputation and success is well known in the west. I wrote to them.”

“They didn't say anything about it.”

“I asked them not to.” Barclay looked closely at Sammy's face and noticed the rope burns on his wrists. “Are those marks from your scrap with the Apaches?”

“You know about that?”

“As I said, I have sources. But it's no secret now. The story is all over Santa Fe. If you save three women from Apaches, word gets around. You found them in a cave?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how many Apaches were there?”

“Well, eight in all. We had one tied up already, and then had a showdown with seven more.”

“You killed seven Apaches?”

“Blaine and I shot five of them, and the women killed two others. One got away.”

“That's damn heroic,” Barclay said and poured them both another drink.

“We just did what we had to. We were lucky.”

“Modest too, I see. Where's your partner, Blaine?”

“Well, he's probably still healing up down in Santa Fe. He took a bullet in the leg and it got infected. He said he'd head up here when he could travel. He may be on the way now.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Ducayne Hotel.”

“You picked the right place. Stay there as long as you want … and your friend Blaine, too, if he shows up. It's on me. I'll have an assistant make the arrangements.”

“You don't need to do that, sir.”

“I know it. But I made you come all the way up here to collect the reward. So please accept it as a small part of my appreciation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barclay reached into his desk and pulled out several cards. “I made the arrangements for the reward long before I heard about you saving those women. After hearing about that, it only made me happier to give it to you. You've certainly earned it. These are the business cards for the bank presidents of the Western Bank of Denver, the Rio Grande Bank of Santa Fe, and the Cimarron Bank of Albuquerque. I own these banks. There is an account in your name at each with twenty thousand at Cimarron, twenty thousand at Rio Grande, and ten thousand here at Western of Denver. These presidents know you'll be in to activate your accounts and have specific information about how to verify that you are Sammy Winds. They will ask you some questions as I have—some of it well beyond what I have asked you here. Then you may do with your money whatever you like. No one else knows of this information or these methods, and I advise that you keep it to yourself.” Barclay handed him the business cards.

Sammy was thunderstruck. “Mr Westerfeld, I was told the reward was ten thousand dollars.”

“Well, son, I upped it. It was certainly worth it to me. If you're still in town when I return, we'll have dinner together.” Barclay held up his glass. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They drank the whiskey down and then Sammy knew it was time to go. He repeated his thanks and said his farewell. A few minutes later, Sammy was back outside in the cool of the Colorado night. It was all too surreal with people walking by and carriages rolling up and down the street in the bustle of life under the sky above. He could hardly imagine what had just happened and all that had happened along the way. He thought about the money and was astounded. But he was most happy just to be alive, realizing that the measure of his life was not something he would ever find on deposit at any bank.

Sammy rolled a smoke and lit it, then began to walk. A block later it occurred to him how hungry he was, and he remembered the steak. “The best beef in the city,” the hotel desk clerk had said. He headed for Barron's Restaurant. It was open late.