Leadville (18 page)

“Don’t worry. I won’t discard advice from you and Wyatt Earp.”

After a pause in the conversation, Masterson asked, “How much stock do you own in the Santa Fe and Rio Grande?”

“I’d have to check my records, but if memory serves, about ten thousand shares of each.”

Masterson sat upright. “That’s a hell of a lot of money. Are you wealthy?”

“Yes. How long has this contest gone on?”

“Almost four years. It started with the line into New Mexico. The Santa Fe won that one, but the Rio Grande had the upper hand on the Leadville line. I think the Santa Fe hoped that enlisting someone with my reputation would encourage the Rio Grande to back off, but they didn’t. Just got more aggressive. To tell the truth, my fee is substantial, so I’m not all that eager to see this contest end.”

Since I held large investments in both rail lines, I did want to see this conflict brought to a reasonable conclusion. “Speaking of your reputation, I came west to write a book about the frontier. Would you be open to an interview? I have a contract with a New York publisher, and I promise to give you a prominent position.”

“No, I’m sorry, but I’m writing my own book.”

“How’s it going?”

“Slow. Been busy.”

“You know, if my book’s a success, it’ll give yours a boost when you get it finished.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dancy, but I’m not in a hurry.” He smiled. “I’m a young man, and the story is not near complete. I’ve been approached by many writers, but I’m determined to write my own story.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a carte de visite that I had had created for me before I left New York. I realized this was the first calling card I had used since I had ventured west. I supposed Masterson’s impeccable attire made me assume he wouldn’t consider it pretentious.

I held the card out between us. “If you change your mind, please contact me first. I’ll do you justice, and as you mentioned, I’m rich, so I can make it worth your while.”

He accepted the card and put it into a vest pocket without looking at it. “You may be wealthy, but you’re also building your own reputation with a gun. I suggest you rely on
your
experiences.”

“With any luck, I won’t have enough adventures of that type to fill an entire book. Keep me in mind.”

He gave me yet another appraising look. “Put me out of
your
mind. I didn’t like Mrs. Bolton, so I decided to warn you about her intentions. That’s the only reason I came to see you. Good night.”

With that, Masterson got up and left the Carbonate Hotel. I hoped that wouldn’t be the last time I saw him.

Chapter 34

The next couple of days, we concentrated on running the store and stayed away from McAllen, Grant, and the Indian encampment. Townspeople had to believe we took our enterprise seriously, or Grant might guess our purpose. In the evenings, I went to bed early, but Sharp visited saloons and spread the word around town that he had discovered better profit in shopkeeping than in mining. Despite first approaching Grant as friends of McAllen, we hoped this would make us look like another couple of money-grubbers with our own interests.

Mrs. Baker slowly adjusted to her new position. She obviously felt out of her usual social class, but she gamely tried to fit in with us and our customers. She wore a woolen day dress with a murky paisley pattern that outlined her figure perfectly. When Sharp met our new senior clerk for the first time, he thought she was an odd choice—until he noticed how miners lollygagged until she was free to wait on them. Further down State Street, passersby saw all sorts of lurid displays by prostitutes in their boardwalk cribs, but none could compete with the attractions of the demurely dressed Mrs. Baker.

Word about our new pricing spread, and each hour we saw more business. I wondered if lower prices were a good idea, after we began to run low on stock. I sent the boys around to other shops, and they scavenged some second- and third-rate goods that the other stores couldn’t sell. I followed up on their visits and convinced a couple of store owners to transfer more of their slow-moving stock to me on consignment. We didn’t sell much of the shoddy merchandise, but it helped fill the empty shelves. Another advantage to these arrangements was that the other shopkeepers came to the conclusion that we only sold inferior goods. I was pleased to keep our real intent hidden until our Denver shipment arrived.

Masterson’s warning kept me alert. I wore my Colt at all times and kept a shotgun under the counter. When Sharp and I made the ten-minute walk between the hotel and the shop, we both carried Winchesters. Sharp always preferred a rifle—even for close work—and I wanted to look as intimidating as possible. Sharp also slung a bag over his shoulder with enough coins to jingle so that people would think we were heavily armed to protect our till receipts instead of my life.

My biggest worry remained Mrs. Bolton. She had taken up residence in the Carbonate Hotel, and I saw her on occasion in the lobby or the dining room. She always nodded pleasantly, like we were old friends, but I took it as a reminder to follow Mr. Masterson’s advice and have only a single glass of wine with my evening meal.

On her second day, Mrs. Baker approached me in the mid-afternoon. “Mr. Dancy, you have not met all of our agreed terms.”

“Excuse me?” After we had both signed her agreement, I had handed her sixty dollars.

“Is Mr. Sharp an expert gunman?”

I remembered. “Mr. Sharp is partial to rifles. I’ll teach you how to use a handgun.”

“Mr. Dancy, my husband taught me how to fire a pistol … I intend to be skillful. I overheard you tell Mr. Sharp about a conversation between you and Bat Masterson. Are you friends? Can he teach me?”

“No and no. I’ll teach you.”

She looked dubious. “Perhaps … this is the slow part of the day. Shall we see if you know any more about guns than I do?”

“We should wait for our new merchandise. I don’t have a decent handgun in stock.”

She reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew a small pistol. “I have a gun, Mr. Dancy. I just need someone to teach me how to use it properly.”

“May I see that?” She laid it flat in my outstretched palm. “This is a new Colt Lightning .38. Where’d you get it?”

“My husband. He felt a woman needed protection on the frontier.”

“This is a double-action pistol. All you do is squeeze the trigger. There’s not much to teach.”

“Aim, Mr. Dancy, aim. I want to hit what I want, and only what I want.” Despite her attempt to disguise it, I saw that I had won a bit of her confidence by recognizing the model of her pistol.

I walked behind the counter and pulled out two boxes of .38s. “Let’s go to the livery and rent a buggy.” As I came out from behind the counter, I yelled, “Jeff! You got the store.”

It was damn cold, so I didn’t drive too far out of town. Mrs. Baker had put on a heavy full-length wool coat, which she buttoned up against her neck, raising the collar. With gloves and hat and myriad undergarments, she was dressed more warmly than I. I snapped the reins and drove until I saw a hill we could place behind our targets to catch any errant shots. After helping Mrs. Baker down from the wagon, I took a burlap bag of bottles over to a flat rock about twenty feet away and started setting them up in a line. I glanced back to see Mrs. Baker taking practice aim with her small Colt. At least, I hoped it was practice aim.

“Put that gun down!” I yelled. She lowered the pistol and looked embarrassed. “Never point a gun at someone … unless you plan to shoot them. Damn.”

“My husband said that. I apologize. I forgot.”

I walked to the buggy and held out my hand. “May I see your gun?” She handed it over. I emptied the chamber and dry fired it several times. It had not been modified. The pull was long and hard. I never liked double-action pistols because the trigger finger had to do all the work, which made it hard to shoot straight—especially for a second shot. A single-action pistol distributed the burden between the thumb and the trigger finger, making the actual firing so easy that a cocked pistol became dangerous—too dangerous for Mrs. Baker. Her husband had been a wise man.

After I reloaded the Colt, I handed it back to her and said, “Let’s see how you do. Take it slow. Hold the gun with both hands, aim, and squeeze the trigger.”

She looked at the line of bottles, raised the gun with both hands, and fired almost instantly. Before I could tell her to take it easy, she had emptied the gun. All the bottles were still safely intact.

I reloaded the Colt for her and handed it back, “This time, slow down. Focus on the front sight.” She took the gun and slowly brought it up on the bottles. “Take a deep breath.”

She inhaled slowly, but as soon as she expelled the breath, she fired all six shots in rapid order. She missed every bottle, but I had discovered her most serious problem.

“You’re closing your eyes,” I said.

She gave me a condescending look. “I am not.”

“You are. You’re scared of the gun. It won’t hurt you: It’s meant to hurt others. Relax. Shoot once, and count to three before you fire again.”

“I’m not scared. I’ve carried this pistol for six months. I’m as comfortable with it as I am with my fountain pen.”

“That’s a lie, Mrs. Baker. I’ve seen your penmanship. You write straight, and you stay on the piece of paper. Pens don’t make loud noises. You’re afraid of the bang.”

“Mr. Dancy—” She thrust her shoulders back again. “You put those bottles too far away, and I’ve shot only a few times. I’ll get the hang of it. I learn fast … and I’m
not
scared.”

“I apologize. I’m just irritated that I collected so many bottles. I didn’t know I’d need only a couple.”

“You have no cause to be impolite.”

I handed her the loaded pistol. “Please try again.”

We were into the second box of cartridges before she had hit two bottles. Finally, I asked, “Why do you want to learn to shoot?”

“To protect myself. I may be in that store alone, and I’ll certainly walk home alone at times. Men in this town believe that every unattached woman can be bought or simply taken.”

I examined the distance to the line of bottles. “Excuse my brazenness, but a man must be close in order to take advantage of you.”

She followed my eyes. “I told you that you put those bottles too far away.”

“I agree. My error. I was thinking like a man.”

I grabbed the burlap bag by a bottom corner and shook out the bottles. Then I tucked the edges of the bag into the rough bark of a nearby tree. I stood back and assessed the height—just about right for a man’s chest.

“Come here,” I said. “I want you to stand close—arm’s length. Put the gun in your coat pocket.” I pointed at the bag. “Pretend this is the hairy chest of an ugly brute that wants to rape you.” Her head snapped back at my use of the word
rape
. “Don’t use two hands, just pull the gun out of your coat and thrust it into his chest and pull the trigger—three times. Understand?”

“Perfectly.” She became calm but then looked hateful as she drew the pistol and put three bullets into the exact center of the bag. The burlap smoldered from the gun flash, but what I noticed was the grin on Mrs. Baker’s handsome face. “I told you I wasn’t afraid of guns.”

“No, you’re not.” I’d found something she feared more. “My error. Let’s do that again.”

We spent the next half hour practicing very close-range shooting. Mrs. Baker became increasingly proficient. She even asked to shoot at the bottles again and did better.

As I was about to assist her into the buggy, she said, “See, you placed those bottles too far away. No one can hit them all the time.”

I couldn’t resist. My Colt .45 filled my hand before I whirled around to blast all three remaining bottles in an eyeblink.

As the echo died away, I heard her whisper, “Oh, my God.”

Without a word, I took her elbow and helped her climb into the buggy.

Chapter 35

On the fourth day, our first Indian entered the store—it was Red.

Mrs. Baker was out, eating lunch with a woman friend, so we ignored Red until we finished serving other customers. Red wandered to the back and pretended to be interested in ropes and canteens. Once the other customers left, I sent my two young helpers to exercise Chestnut and Sharp’s horse. I had done this on most days and knew they would be gone for well over an hour. After they left, I closed the shade, locked the door, and put up a closed sign. When I turned around, I was surprised to find Red right on my heels. I hadn’t heard a footfall.

I opened with, “When did you arrive?”

“Two days ago.”

Sharp had joined us by this time and demanded, “Why didn’t ya let us know?”

“No need.” He turned toward the stove. “Got coffee?”

“Cold,” Sharp snapped. “Ya could have let us know without makin’ a big show of it.”

“Heat some.” Red made a sweep of the place with his eyes. “Not much stock.”

“We lowered prices and ended up selling more than we expected.” I led the three of us away from the door and toward the back of the shop. “We still have some basic necessities, and we’ll get a shipment from Denver in a couple of days.”

“Too late. We’ll be on the trail.”

“Somethin’s happened?” Sharp asked excitedly.

“No.”

We both waited for Red to elaborate, but he just glanced at the stove again. I hurried over and moved the morning coffee remains onto the hot stovetop.

When I turned around again, Sharp asked, “Have ya seen McAllen?”

“Yep.”

“Come on, Red,” Sharp prompted. “What did McAllen tell ya? Talk to us, for God’s sake. Words ain’t half eagles, ya know.”

For the first time since I had known him, Red looked taken aback. It had probably never occurred to him that his taciturn nature frustrated us. When he was on the trail, he was alone or with the almost equally terse McAllen. In settlements, he probably had learned the easiest way to get along with townsfolk was to keep quiet.

After a moment, he said, “Last night, McAllen told Vrable he hired on again with Pinkerton and demanded a letter from his daughter before he would go one step further.” He gave Sharp an intent look. “Ain’t got no more news. Like I said, nothing’s happened.”