This Gun for Hire (34 page)

Quill considered it, nodded slowly. “She could walk to any of the entrances. It makes sense. But she cannot hope to hide in the tunnels for the long term; she must have some escape route in mind.”

“Why? People who do not expect to get caught hardly ever do. That’s been true in my experience. What drives them out is desperation, not an alternative plan.”

“Desperation,” said Quill, “makes them reckless.”

“And unpredictable.”

Quill said what they both were thinking. “More dangerous for us.”

Calico nodded. “What you said earlier about thinking and not reacting? Let’s do that.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s do that.”

Ann Street was deserted. Few of the shops had lamps
burning in the apartments above them. The saloons were closed, but a trio of miners crowded the bench in front of one. As Quill and Calico passed, one of the miners was elbowed to the boardwalk. He grunted softly but did not try to rise.

“That was Jim Shepard on his bucket,” said Quill. “Hard couple of days. I would stay down, too.” When Calico asked what he meant, he told her about the dynamite in storage that had not been turned. “George Kittredge had his entire crew working. Volunteers only, but I don’t think there was anyone who did not come forward.” He was aware that Calico’s steps had slowed. They had just passed Mrs. Birden’s dress shop, but whatever had distracted her, it was not something in the window. “What is it?”

“I heard this story,” she said slowly. “Not precisely this story, but one like it.” She stopped in her tracks. “Beatrice told me. Sticks of unexploded dynamite lodged in one of Number 3’s tunnels caused her husband’s accident. It was only today—yesterday now—that she told me about it. It came up because of Boone Abbot. He’s the one who found the dynamite. Beatrice says the sticks weep nitroglycerin. No, she says they sweat it. She was particular about that. A man’s invention, she called it. I suppose she’s right.”

“She is, but then that observation is coming from a woman whose preferred method of killing is poison.”

“I’m aware.” Calico picked up the pace again. She took inventory of her symptoms and realized the bracing air was helping. There was no longer any sense of pressure behind her eyes. She felt focused and alert. The one troubling leftover from her encounter with Beatrice was the intermittent surge of dizziness that made her stomach curdle. “I would say that women prefer subtler methods, but I am carrying a gun.”

“True.” He looked over at her. Moonshine put a pale blue cast on her features when she raised her face. “Are you all right?”

“I am.”

“You would tell me if you needed to stop, rest, toss your dinner.”

“I would.”

“Liar.”

Calico shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

“Still trying to see if I can surprise the truth out of you.”

That made her grin, and there was faint evidence of it yet when they reached the entrance to the Number 3 mine. “How many men work at night?”

“Only five or six. They cluster in a single tunnel in each of the mines, especially at night. It improves the yield of the ore and reduces risk because they are looking out for each other.”

Calico looked around. A couple of lanterns lighted both sides of the entrance, but the area all around was deserted. “Shouldn’t there be someone posted here?”

“Yes, at least that’s what I’ve been told.” Quill also cast his eyes right and left. He took down one of the lanterns. “I think we should go to the other mine entrances before we walk blindly into this one.”

Calico agreed. Thinking, she reminded herself. Not reacting. They took the path to Number 2. There was a gradual uphill grade over the course of almost half a mile. They set a pace that covered the ground quickly. At Number 2 they were indeed met by a miner sitting on a chair outside the adit. Calico hung back in the shadows while Quill questioned the man. Calico heard nothing in the miner’s voice to suggest that he knew anything more than he was saying. When Quill returned, they began a switchback descent to Number 1. The route took them close to town again.

Calico pointed out the dark, yawning mouth of another adit. There were no lanterns to mark the entrance of this shaft, nor anyone posted nearby.

Quill shook his head. “That’s not Number 1. That opening leads to storage chambers. The dynamite is in there along with other equipment they don’t want to expose to the weather. That’s where I was earlier with George Kittredge. It looks as if everyone’s finally stopped working.”

He told her to look down and off to her left. “You see that wide, dark seam running along the side of the mountain?”

“Yes, but I don’t hear water.”

“Seam, not stream. It’s a crevice, a rift. I don’t know the proper term. I do know it’s something like one hundred twenty feet deep, so if you have to go that way alone, make sure you use the footbridge.” They continued on toward Number 1. “Didn’t Ramsey bring you down here?”

“I only saw Number 1, but we came from another direction. We had a rig and we did not ride this far.”

“The bridge would not support a rig. I don’t think it would support a horse. Supplies are moved around the mountain from the train station, not across the rift.”

They stopped before they reached Number 1 because they could see lanterns at the entrance and a miner perched on a nearby boulder smoking a cigarette. Quill said, “I don’t think Beatrice came here, or even came this way. Her husband was injured in Number 3, and the lack of a man at the entrance back there seems telling.”

“But Number 1 is where they are having trouble. If she has something to do with that, then I think that’s where she would have friends. We should go in, and you should at least talk to the miner standing guard.”

“All right. We’ve come this far.”

They walked side by side until the path widened closer to the entrance. That was when Calico stopped and let Quill go on. She stepped into a moon shadow created by a large mound of snow that had been shoveled away from the adit, and she listened to the exchange.

*   *   *

Ann Stonechurch huddled inside her coat. The floor of the tunnel was hard and cold. She could not sit on it any longer. No matter how she tried to separate herself from the ground, icy fingers worked their way through her coat, her gown, her shift, and finally, her drawers. She wished she had worn half a dozen petticoats. She wished she were wearing her cloak with the ermine trim and deep pockets. She wished she had thought to bring . . . no, what she wished was that she had never been persuaded to leave her room.

Ann knew she belonged at home, not here. No matter what had happened, or would happen, her place was at her father’s side. She was filled with remorse for every wrong choice she had made.

She started to rise, pushing herself up with the rough tunnel wall at her back.

“Sit.”

Ann had been told to sit down before, but this time she ignored the snarled order and got to her feet. “It’s too cold to sit.” Her teeth began to chatter.

“Stop that.”

“I c-can’t help it-t-t.”

“You want to be warmer? Go on down the tunnel. The deeper you go, the warmer it gets.”

Ann thought they were already deep inside the mountain. She judged they had walked three hundred yards and her companion had extinguished lamps as they passed them. Without a lantern, the route to the outside was black as pitch. “You would let me do that?”

“Sure. Why not? Oh, you think there might be a way out. No. There’s not. There’s no way out but the way we came in.”

Ann wrapped her arms around herself. She shivered again and averted her eyes from the man guarding her. It helped calm her to pretend that he was not watching her with what she thought of as unusual interest. He had already made a comment about her hair, something about it being as dark and thick as his sister’s. It was not long after that that she unwound her blue woolen scarf from around her neck and wrapped it over her hair. He did not comment, but she intercepted his sly, secretive smile before she was finished. She had read about smiles like that, and seeing it in fact, not fiction, filled her with dread as cold as the floor under her.

His narrow smile was not merely cunning, not only wicked. In Ann’s mind, it defined evil.

“Where is my aunt?” she asked. “She said she would not be long.”

“Now I’ve been here same as you. What makes you think I would know the answer to that?”

Ann shrugged, shook her head.

“I asked you a question,” the man said. “I answer yours. You answer mine. Or didn’t anyone teach you that?”

“I saw Aunt Beatrice speaking to you. I thought she might have told you more than she told me.”

“See? That was not so hard.”

Ann watched him out of the corner of her eye as he leaned back against the wall and rotated his shoulders to scratch an itch he could not reach. He sighed and moaned as he moved.

“Found the sweet spot,” he said. He hunched, rubbed between his shoulder blades. “Ah. And again.” When he was done, he straightened and took a step toward her.

Ann could not help herself. She flinched. He seemed satisfied with that because he stopped, turned slightly, and rested a shoulder against the tunnel wall. He ignored her and examined his nails. He did not look up again until he removed a small knife from the pocket in his coat. This time Ann did not react. She stared at it without interest, in fact, without expression of any kind, and maintained those schooled features even when he chuckled.

She turned her head when he began to pick at his nails with the knife. “I would like to walk d-down a ways,” she said. “Where it’s war-warmer.”

“Suit yourself.”

She had not expected him to let her go so easily. It convinced her that he was telling the truth about there being no outlet. It did not matter to her as much as it probably should have. What she wanted more than warmth was to be away from him.

He was a large man, uncomfortably so. He occupied too much space, took up too much air. He spoke rather more softly than she thought he would, but his voice was deep and had a ragged edge that made every word sound as if he were growling it out. He had a thick neck and dark, shaggy hair. His beard was short, wiry, and his mustache did not hide his upper lip but outlined it. He had wide shoulders and a broad chest. His hands were as big as mallets when he
curled them into fists. To Ann, they were blunt, heavy instruments of violence. She could not think of them in any other fashion.

Ann was already moving into the circle of light from a lantern some thirty yards from where she had been when she heard him call after her.

“Don’t get lost, Miss Stonechurch. It’d be a real shame if I had to come looking for you.”

Ann looked back over her shoulder, but he was not in view. She shivered. Once again, it was not because she was cold.

*   *   *

Quill held up his lantern as he approached the miner sitting on the boulder. The tip of the man’s cigarette glowed brightly as he took a last, deep drag. He ground it out on the rock and then flicked it away.

“Mr. Cavanaugh, right?” asked Quill, setting the lantern on the ground to leave his hands free.

“Ah. You remembered.” He grinned briefly. “I have to say that depending on how you look at it, it’s either too early or too late for you to be here on a casual matter. No one who can’t sleep comes out here.”

“I’m surprised to see you. I passed Jim Shepard outside the saloon. He looked as if the work finally caught up with him. I guess you finished.”

Cavanaugh shook his head. “Not completely, but Mr. Kittredge called a halt not long after you left. He thought we were getting too tired to be as careful as we needed to be. I drew the short straw when they asked for someone to sit out here. I don’t drink, and the wife’s mad at me for volunteering to help out with Hercules, so this is not a bad place to be.” He removed his hat, reshaped it, and set it more tightly over his head. “And I still don’t know what brings you here.”

“Mr. Stonechurch sent me.”

“I figured that.”

“I don’t have leave to share the family’s personal matters,
but I can tell you that this involves Ann Stonechurch and one of the Abbot boys.”

Cavanaugh’s coarse black eyebrows lifted. “A tryst, is it?”

“I did not say that.”

“And I’ll not be repeating it. You think they might have come this way?”

“I don’t know; I’m looking everywhere.”

“Well, I haven’t seen them. Haven’t seen Mrs. Stonechurch either, ’cept for the other day when she came by with crullers for us. That was real nice of her.”

Quill nodded. “Strange that you’d bring up Mrs. Stonechurch when I never mentioned her.”

*   *   *

By the time David Cavanaugh registered his mistake, he was staring down the barrel of Quill McKenna’s
Colt.

Calico stepped out of the moon shadow as soon as she heard Cavanaugh raise Beatrice’s name. She did not draw her gun. Quill’s was already out, and she wanted to conserve the strength in her arm for as long as she could.

Cavanaugh had his hands up in a gesture of surprise and wariness, not surrender. He jerked his chin toward Quill’s gun. “Hey. You’ve got no call to point that at me.”

“We’ll see.” Quill watched Cavanaugh’s eyes dart past him and widen slightly. That was how he knew Calico was approaching because she made no sound. Once she was abreast of him, he said, “I guess you heard.”

“I did.”

As soon as Calico spoke, Cavanaugh’s jaw slackened. He stared at her, recovering just enough to set his jaw again and whistle softly.

“There’s something you want to say?” she asked.

“Only that I didn’t believe it when I heard. Not for a moment. Calico Nash, as I live and breathe.”

Quill said, “Living and breathing is something we will be discussing. Where are they?”

Cavanaugh slowly lowered his hands. He set them on the
boulder on either side of him. “Now who would ‘they’ be exactly? Miss Stonechurch and one of the Abbots, or Miss Stonechurch and her aunt?”

Calico glanced toward the mouth of the mine. The lanterns hanging outside the entrance made it difficult for her to see deeply into the tunnel. She and Quill, on the other hand, were standing in a pool of light, visible to anyone who might suddenly appear in the shaft. She picked up the lantern at Quill’s feet and moved it to where she had been standing. It helped a little to have it out of the way. She could not extinguish all lanterns, not when they would likely need them.

“He’s stalling,” she said, returning to Quill’s side. “He expects someone to come. If he can’t help, you might as well kill him.”

Quill asked Cavanaugh, “Is she right? Should I kill you?”

Cavanaugh threw out his hands as if they could ward off a bullet. He watched Quill’s thumb settle on the hammer and begin to draw it back. “Wait! Wait. Miss Stonechurch isn’t here. She’s never been here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear!” He gesticulated wildly. “I swear it’s true. The only Abbot boy I saw around was Joshua. You saw him, too. He left when Mr. Kittredge dismissed us. The last I knew he was going to have a drink with—”

“Make him shut up,” said Calico. “He knows you aren’t interested in any of the Abbots.”

Cavanaugh looked from Quill to Calico and then to the gun in Quill’s hand. “Tell me what I need to say.”

The fact that Cavanaugh had not shouted a warning or raised the alarm in some other fashion, led Quill to believe that there was no one close by. Then again, firing at Cavanaugh would certainly bring miners out of the tunnel. Calico knew that, too. David Cavanaugh was the only one not thinking clearly.

Quill tilted his head toward the adit. “Is Mrs. Stonechurch in there?”

Cavanaugh raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I don’t—”

“Try again. I know you don’t want to give her up, but you are not helping yourself. We know about the problems in this mine, and we know the role she’s had in encouraging you men to participate. Apparently, crullers are a powerful incentive.”

Cavanaugh snorted.

“Or perhaps,” Quill said, “it is the memory of Leo Stonechurch that prompts some of you to stand by her, and others who want a larger share of the profits. All understandable, but your motivation doesn’t matter any longer. Beatrice Stonechurch involved her niece in her scheming, and that is unacceptable.”

“I don’t know anything about that. About any of it.”

Calico sighed heavily. “It is no good reasoning with a man insensible to it. He might as well be as drunk as Jim Shepard.”

“You’re right.” Quill raised his gun a fraction and sighted the space between David Cavanaugh’s eyebrows. He addressed the miner. “Get down off that rock.” He watched Cavanaugh closely. His target remained the same no matter how the man moved. Without a hint of his intention, he reversed the Colt in his hand and brought the butt down hard on the miner’s head. Cavanaugh’s slouch hat did not cushion the blow enough to make a difference in the outcome. The man’s head snapped sideways, his knees buckled, and he collapsed on the ground. On the way down, his skull bounced off the rock.

Quill looked down at him, shook his head, and holstered his weapon. He hunkered beside Cavanaugh, slipped his arms under the miner’s shoulders, and then he dragged Cavanaugh out of sight behind the rock. Satisfied with his work, he said, “He’ll be out for a while.”

“He did not seem to understand you were not going to shoot him. I think he would have been better prepared to put up a fight if he had realized that.”

Quill came around the rock carrying a pickaxe. He hefted it once. “Just as well then that he could not reach this.”

“Perhaps you should keep that.”

“I intend to. Get the lanterns. We’re going in.” He waited for Calico to come back. “I could be wrong, of course, but I don’t think he knows anything about Ann’s whereabouts or about Beatrice involving her.”

“My impression, too. But I think Beatrice is in there, same as you, rallying her supporters.”

“Hiding out, more likely. Who will stand with her if they know what she’s done? Sabotage and organizing are a far cry from attempting murder.”

Calico followed him into the mouth of the tunnel. “I wish we had found Ann first. Not knowing where she is gives Beatrice leverage.”

“No more talking,” he whispered. “These tunnels carry sound like canyons.”

Calico nodded her understanding. They tread carefully and lightly, and when they reached a fork in the main tunnel, they stopped and listened. Voices drifted faintly toward them from the left, and they took that route, pausing periodically to gauge what might be going on. It was difficult to pick individual words let alone a complete sentence, but they were successful in understanding tone and volume, and it seemed clear there was disagreement brewing among the participants.

They never once caught any feminine echoes.

At various points along the route there were small chambers cut into the rock. These were places where equipment had been stored as the tunnel was being dug. They represented stopping points along the route while the ore was being extracted before the decision was made to follow the vein deeper.

It was at one of these side chambers that Quill and Calico stopped and set their lanterns inside. They were closer to the conversation now, and they wanted to avoid someone noticing the swinging arc of light that accompanied them as they walked. The tunnel was dimly lit at intervals with
hanging lanterns, but their eyes adjusted to the change and they moved with almost as much confidence as they had earlier.

It was only when they were within twenty feet of another side chamber that they finally heard Beatrice’s voice. She spoke softly but still managed to cut through the disagreement around her.

“I do not understand your hesitation. You agreed you would help me. I made this happen for you. Stonechurch Mining is under my direction now. My brother-in-law will have no more say in any part of the operation, and my niece will follow my lead, just as you have done . . . until now.”

Someone said, “It’s like I said before, Mrs. Stonechurch, if you’re in charge, I don’t understand why you want to blow Number 3. It made some sense when we all wanted to get the pharaoh’s attention, bring him to his knees, but you’re telling us that’s been done. By his daughter, no less.”

“My husband died there,” said Beatrice. “Oh, I know most of you understand how it was. I certainly have not forgotten. You saw him brought out the same as I did, but I am telling you that he died in that collapse. He was never right in his mind after that. Pain changes you, and protracted, persistent pain changes you the most. His legs withered, but so did his soul. It would have been better if Number 3 had been his tomb. That’s what I want now. The symbolic gesture. I want his tomb sealed.”

There was silence following this announcement. Calico and Quill exchanged glances, both of them easily convinced that Leo Stonechurch was not the only one changed by protracted, persistent pain. Beatrice Stonechurch had lost her soul as well.

“Look,” said another man. In moments it was clear that he was speaking to the other men, not responding to Beatrice. “I say you do what you promised the lady. You live up to your agreements. Seems like at one time or another handshakes were exchanged, and that’s a man’s bond. A woman’s got a right to expect that.”

Every hair on the back of Calico’s neck stood at attention.
She took a step forward and walked right into the arm that Quill threw out to stop her. His steel bar of an arm frustrated her, but she understood the necessity of it. She relaxed, inched backward, and he removed it. When she looked over at him, his concentration was fierce. Without a doubt, he had recognized the voice also. It belonged to tall, skinny, stubble-faced Chick Tatters.

Quill returned Calico’s stare. They shrugged in unison, drew their weapons, set their eyes ahead, and matched steps as they went forward.

*   *   *

Ann walked as far as she dared. It was not noticeably warmer, but putting distance between her and the man serving as her guard made her feel better. She thought she would have been more comfortable in the company of the other man, but her aunt did not ask her opinion, and this man, whose name Ann could not remember, was the one who volunteered to stay behind.

Ann could also not recall having seen him before, but then that meant almost nothing. She had never noticed Boone Abbot either, and he had been someone worth noticing. This broad, bearded stranger, once seen, would have been someone to avoid. She was not worldly, but she did have instincts that made her alert to danger, and the man responsible for watching over her was dangerous.

She stiffened when she heard footsteps echoing. There were few choices available to her, and she had made so many poor ones lately that she did not trust herself to make the right one now. She could hurry ahead and hope that he would simply tire of the pursuit. There was also the possibility of slipping into one of the rooms off to the side and hoping he would pass. That offered the best chance for escape. If he passed her by, she could sneak out behind him and exit the way she came in.

She could also make a stand. How likely was it, she wondered, that she could convince him she was unafraid?

The steps drew closer. Ann Stonechurch backtracked to
the last side room that she had passed and ducked inside. Lantern light in the tunnel barely reached the opening. She put her hands out and blindly felt her way along the walls to the darkest recess of the room. She was not prepared to run into anything on the floor so when she stubbed her foot against something hard and it barely moved, she came close to somersaulting over the object.

Ann held her breath and waited to hear if there was any change in the pace of the man’s approach. She thought her collision might have made some noise but she could not be sure. When it had happened, all she had heard was the hammering of her own heart.

She bent and assessed the shape and size of what she had bumped. Just a wooden crate, she realized. The room was probably full of them. She had stumbled into one of the storage areas. That was all right, then. If there were enough crates, she might find some she could hide behind. The lid of the crate was slightly askew. She started to move it into position and stopped when she was filled with a sense of foreboding.

Her breathing quickened and she was aware of tightness in her chest. Some invisible pressure exerted itself against her heart. It thudded dully. The darkness disoriented her and her palms began to sweat inside her leather gloves. She tugged at her scarf, pushing it off her hair, and loosening it at her throat. It did not help her breathe any easier.

Ann tore off her gloves, laid them on the lid, and wiped her clammy hands on the sleeves of her coat. Pressing her lips together, she breathed carefully through her nose. It was something she had seen her aunt do when she was distressed. The thought continued to niggle that some part of what Beatrice did was for demonstration purposes only. Not everything about her aunt’s behavior was true or real, and that understanding was only now being borne home.

Ann felt along the top of the crate to find her gloves. The unsecured lid slipped again and this time Ann did not immediately slide it back into place. She had the idea of a weapon in mind when she slipped one hand under the lid to identify
what was inside the crate. She ran her fingertips along the top and felt the uneven surface. The way the contents were arranged reminded her of corduroy fabric, a vertical rib, a wale, and then another vertical rib. She recognized the cylindrical nature of what she was touching but not the object itself. To make that connection, she curled her hand around one of the paper-wrapped cylinders and separated it from the others.

It struck her as passing strange that she was unfamiliar with every aspect of what she held—the length, the diameter, the weight—and yet she had no difficulty recognizing it for what it was. What she knew about dynamite was limited to what she had heard, or overheard, her father say when he was conferring with men who worked for him, men like Frank Fordham or George Kittredge. Her father sometimes called it Hercules, and she had even caught a hint of him discussing it with Quill McKenna. She wished she had paid more attention or asked questions. Mr. McKenna might have been willing to tell her more; her father certainly would not have.

Ann understood that what she held was relatively safe if handled carefully. She had no intention of handling it in any other way, but because of the tunnel collapse that had precipitated her uncle’s death, she also knew that the stick did not necessarily have to have a lighted fuse to explode. Under certain conditions, dynamite was unstable. The problem for her was that she knew nothing about those conditions.

Ann put on her gloves and took four sticks out of the box. She chose that number simply because she could easily hold two in each hand. She replaced the lid, picked up the sticks, and continued on her blind search for a hiding place.