Leadville (10 page)

McAllen took a sip from his flask. “But he’s tough. Somehow he survived. When he tried to return to the Utes, they shunned him because they believed he could never have escaped without telling the Shoshone about their secret encampments. He tried the mountain towns but didn’t fit with the white man or the Mexicans. So he became a solitary mountain man. Not only was he alone for years in these mountains, but there’s some evidence he killed anyone that happened upon him. He hates people. The lieutenant said he was mean as a coiled rattlesnake, but a rattler coils when it’s afraid. Bane has no fear and he kills instinctively, with no remorse. You meet the man and you’re dead before ‘howdy’ leaves your lips.”

“Why did you hunt him?” I asked.

“He killed a friend of mine. Another Pinkerton. I got permission from the agency to track him down. The idea was to bring him in for trial. Make him an example of why it’s a bad idea to murder a Pinkerton. My boss assigned Red and a few others to my team.” McAllen started to take another sip from his flask but instead turned it straight up and gulped it down until the flask was dry. “We quit the search after we heard he had taken two shotgun loads from another mountain man.” McAllen shook his head. “How does a man survive two shotgun blasts?”

“Only one way,” I said. Everyone looked at me, so I added, “The shotgun had to be loaded with light birdshot.”

“Birdshot’ll kill ya,” Sharp said.

“Only if you’re close enough. Over twenty yards—maybe less with a heavy coat—it’ll hurt like hell, and you’ll bleed some, but they won’t penetrate deep enough to reach a vital organ.”

“But a man’s gotta bleed to death, don’t he?” Sharp asked.

“The pellets are so hot, they cauterize themselves. The ones that hit bare skin will eventually puss up and work their way to the surface. In years past, I’ve been hit several times bird hunting. Only, in my case, it was over forty yards. Hardly worse than getting hit with gravel thrown by a wagon wheel. Birdshot at a distance can hurt, but it’s not lethal.”

Sharp turned his attention back to McAllen. “Who’d ya hear this story from?”

Good question, I thought.

“I know you’re thinking Bane made up the story to get me off his trail, but it happened at a trading post in front of witnesses. Bane rode up, and this other mountain man just unloaded on him with no warning. Bane was hated with such passion that someone else roped his legs and drug him behind a horse. I was told they left him in the woods for the wolves to feed off.” McAllen hesitated before continuing. “If Bane’s still alive, I think Steve’s got it right. That mountain man hit him with birdshot, probably through a heavy coat.”

“Steve’s right about the damage birdshot will do,” Dooley said. “I suspect those wolves went hungry. Seems this man has cheated death more than once.”

McAllen reached his hand out, and Sharp passed his flask over. This time he only took a sip and passed it back. “You’re probably all afraid to ask about when I had my chance to kill Bane. It was before he killed my friend. I saw this scarred up, ugly brute beat a man to a pulp in Grand Junction. Most men would call it self-defense, since the stupid miner swung first, but it was so brutal a beating that I drew my gun to stop it. For a minute, I thought the bastard was gonna take a bullet to get at me, but in the end he just laughed and walked away. I shoulda shot him right there … then maybe my daughter would still be alive.”

“Joseph, ya had no idea. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Sharp offered his flask again, but McAllen waved it away.

McAllen folded his hands in front of him and hung his head. When he started speaking again, he did not lift it. “I knew the kind of man Bane was, so when I went after him, I purposely made him angry. I wanted him to come after me, because I didn’t believe I’d ever find him in these mountains. I knew when I chose that course that one of us would end up dead. When I heard he was killed by someone else, I shoulda searched for his remains to make sure.”

“What’d you do to make him angry?” I asked.

“From the stories, I figured Bane prided himself on his courage. I had the Denver papers portray him as a coward. Then I got the story printed all over the region. They quoted me as saying he showed yella at Grand Junction. The articles also said he blubbered like a baby when captured by the Shoshone. I had the story bylined out of Glenwood Springs, and the article said I was there on a long-term engagement. We set a trap for him, but he was killed on his way to our carefully planned ambush. Or at least, we thought he was killed.”

We sat quiet for a long time. McAllen had not talked this much since I had known him. I felt bad for him, but I had no idea what I could say to lessen the hurt. The cold started to bite, so I threw some more wood onto the fire. The only sound was the crackling of the dry wood and my chattering teeth.

I cringed when Dooley asked, “How do you suppose Bane or Vrable found out about your daughter?”

Instead of getting angry, McAllen continued in a dry tone. “No secret. I may not have told you boys, but I visited her once or twice a year, and it was common knowledge in Denver. I just never thought my work would endanger my family.”

“There’s no reason you shoulda,” Sharp said.

“Thanks, Jeff, but in my line of work I make enemies of bad men. A good father would’ve taken steps to protect her.”

“What steps?” I blurted.

“Secrecy, for one. So many years had gone by, nobody would’ve guessed.”

“Then you would never have been able to see your daughter, and she would have missed knowing her father,” I said. “You may have seen her only once or twice a year, but I bet those were important events in her life.”

We fell silent again, but soon McAllen started talking to himself. “When we get to Leadville, I’ll search out Vrable and take care of him. I’m sure he’s the masterminded behind the abduction. As for Bane—” McAllen’s voice trailed away.

“Vrable needed Bane to pull this off,” Sharp said. “How do you think the two of ’em got together?”

“Vrable’s good at sidling up to people to get what he wants. The man doesn’t lack for charm. I’m sure he searched Bane out and drew him into his scheme.”

“But Bane musta been like handlin’ nitroglycerine.” After a pause, Sharp added, “Vrable may be a snake charmer, but he doesn’t sound like a match for Bane in a fight, so they must have separated peaceably … and if they did, do they have some more mischief in mind?”

That caused McAllen to sit up. Finally, he said, “You’re right. Bane kills without thought. Friend or foe. For them to quietly separate means there’s more at stake. Damn it.”

“What?”

“I need to question Vrable. I need to know what else he has in store.”

After a moment, I asked. “Does anyone know about us?”

McAllen looked away from the campfire and caught my eye. “What are you suggesting, Steve?”

“That the three of us ride into Leadville and scout out the situation. You come in separate and stay out of sight till we figure out what’s going on.”

Sharp immediately said, “Steve’s right. Don’t charge into town until we know the lay of the land. Vrable might bolt.”

McAllen picked up a rock and twirled it in his fingers. “I want to go in and kill the bastard, but … you’re right. I need him alive.” He flipped the rock into the fire. “We’ll do it your way. At least at first.”

“Can you hide in Leadville?” I asked, thinking it was too cold for even McAllen to stay outdoors.

“Yeah, no problem. Leadville’s almost thirty-five thousand people. On second thought, I’ll wait in Twin Lakes at the Inter-Laken Hotel. It’s about twenty miles from Leadville. You come get me when you know something.” McAllen’s voice took on an edge. “But if I don’t hear from you in two days, I’m coming in. Understand?”

“Yep,” Sharp said. “Now that we got a plan, can we crawl into our bedrolls?”

No one waited for an answer. We stoked the fire with plenty of wood and took up positions as close to the flames as we dared. Just as I pulled my blanket up around my ears, Dooley asked, “Where’d Bane go?”

McAllen pulled his own blanket up and said, “That’s one of the questions we need to answer.”

Chapter 20

I awoke to gray. And cold. Everything around me was shrouded in a heavy fog that made it hard to discern the features of the landscape. I wore my sheepskin coat over two wool shirts and a bristly pair of wool long johns. I had kept my boots on and had jammed my hat between my head and the saddle that I used as a makeshift pillow. Still, the cold made me reluctant to throw off my blanket and face the day. Rolling over, I saw Sharp putting the last of our gathered wood onto the fire.

“Get yer butt outta that bedroll, Steve. The day’s a wastin’.”

“You sure it’s day?”

“Sun rose over a half hour ago. Get moving. You’ll feel better.”

I rose to a sitting position and tried stretching, but every joint seemed frozen in place. “Where’s McAllen and Dooley?”

“Saddling up. McAllen wants to ride off as soon as we finish with coffee.”

I made it to my feet. “At least we get coffee.”

“As soon as I get it boiling, but I had to threaten McAllen to get him to wait.”

“How’d you threaten him?”

Sharp laughed. “I told him I’d sing all day if I didn’t get hot coffee in me before we left. By the time ya get Chestnut saddled, it’ll be ready. Jump to or McAllen might change his mind.”

I reached down and grabbed my blanket, saddle, and rifle. My muscles still resisted moving, and everything seemed twice as heavy as normal. We had let the horses forage free, and I turned in a circle looking for Chestnut. I could see nothing in the fog.

“Why don’t ya just call him?” Sharp laughed.

“Because the words’ll freeze before they get ten feet.”

This got a respectable laugh, and I trudged off in search of my horse. I followed the muffled sound of voices until I found McAllen and Dooley. “Seen Chestnut?” I asked.

“Call him,” McAllen said.

I was too weary and bone-chilled to repeat my quip, so I bellowed, “Chestnut!” After two more tries, Chestnut slowly emerged from the fog like some otherworld apparition. I said good morning by rubbing the front of his chest, and when I walked over to where I had left his bridle and my other gear, he followed me without being bid. I smiled to myself when I saw the look on McAllen’s face. It was obvious he suspected that the prior exhibition had been a fluke. I hadn’t been quite sure myself. After the first few months, Chestnut seldom failed to respond to my voice, but I had never before owned a horse that showed dog-like devotion or appeared to understand verbal communication. Chestnut not only responded to the bit and spurs, but he seemed to sense my moods, and a couple of times, I needed only to catch his eye to beckon him.

McAllen grabbed the reins of his saddled horse and led him back to the campfire, Dooley following close behind. I glanced around, saw no other gear but my own, and concluded that Sharp must also be ready to ride out.

McAllen yelled back at me. “Hurry it up, Steve! We leave right after breakfast.”

Hardtack and coffee hardly seemed like breakfast. I rubbed Chestnut’s neck and consoled myself that any town of thirty-five thousand people would have plenty of comforts for those with the ability to pay. As I lifted the bridle over Chestnut’s head and fitted the bit in his mouth, I realized I wanted to hurry as well. The sooner we got to Leadville, the sooner I could get out of this biting cold.

It became still and quiet after McAllen and Dooley had gone. The eerie fog made everything so damp that when I shook out my blanket, it felt rigid and stiff, like it would permanently freeze into whatever untidy mess I dropped it into. After I got the saddle and bridle to my liking, I slipped my rifle and shotgun into the scabbards on either side of the saddle. The only things remaining were my saddlebags and Colt, which I had left fireside. Once Chestnut was ready to ride, I wandered off a few yards to relieve myself.

I had just re-buttoned my pants, when a twig snapped beyond the curtain of fog. The snap had been so loud, it may even have been a branch. I froze. Damn it. I was unarmed. Straining to see through the gray screen, I saw nothing, I heard nothing. After at least a full minute, I swiveled my neck to see how far away Chestnut stood. He had decided to seek out his own breakfast and grazed on some new grass about twenty yards away. I faced the mysterious noise again but still saw no danger. I told myself that Indians moved quietly, so if anything was out there, it was probably just a deer.

I couldn’t stand there all day, so I started to slowly retreat in the direction of Chestnut and my rifle. After two steps, I saw the outline of a huge hulking mass low to the ground. It looked like a boulder rolling silently toward me. I froze again. What the hell was that?

Then I saw—and it saw me. A grizzly bear. A huge grizzly. It hunkered on all fours, its massive head hung low to the ground from a thick neck. My hand brushed my leg, but I had left my knife with my Colt.

We each stood motionless and stared at each other until something happened that froze me—not in caution this time, but in utter fear.

The grizzly reared up on his hind legs, bared its teeth and claws, and gave out a monstrous roar.

I wanted to run, but my legs refused to move.

The bear fell back onto all fours, threw its head, and roared again.

I sensed it was seconds from a charge, but I still could not move. Suddenly, Chestnut neighed menacingly at my side. He reared back with his front legs kicking the air furiously and looked to be ten feet tall.

I regained my senses and stepped under Chestnut to grab the reins and pull him back to earth. I had to get to my rifle. He landed hard on his front hoofs, but immediately wrenched himself free and reared again. I glanced at the growling bear as he stood with his front paws also whipping the air.

As Chestnut dropped to ground once again, I sidestepped, grabbed the saddle horn, and leaped onto his back with a single bound. My butt had not slid into position before Chestnut reared again. With only a left-handed hold on the horn, I kicked my feet furiously to find the stirrups while I reached for my shotgun on the right side of the saddle. I grasped it but couldn’t get it out of the scabbard at this angle without getting a foothold in at least one stirrup. At a loss, I used my grip on the stock to flip the shotgun up and caught it by the barrel before it slipped back into the scabbard or fell to the ground.