Chapter Four
Beth waited next to the nearly closed door and listened. Blood rushed in her ears and made it hard to hear anything in the next room. Her mouth tasted like milky cotton. Sweat beaded on her brow.
She grasped the cold door handle but then paused.
The door would open into her room. By the time she got it open far enough to see anything, they’d have seen her. And if they were armed …
She didn’t want to be easy to see. She quickly moved around the room and put out all the candles but one. Let it draw their eyes instead of her.
Then she crouched down as close to the hinges as she could. And pulled the door open.
No bullets came flying.
As the door slowly swung in, a gap between the door and its frame opened up, where the hinges were. When it was wide enough, she peeked through.
Nothing. At least not in the small sliver of room she could see. She couldn’t hear anything either.
She took a deep breath. Then she scooted to look around the door itself.
The room was empty—no, not quite. Mr. Dooley, the mortician, stood in the doorway to the street, looking out. He panted hard and leaned against the doorjamb, with a drawn revolver held ready.
She scrambled to her feet and stepped into the main room. She lowered her gun to her side as she did.
Mr. Dooley glanced back and saw her, but returned his gaze to the street. He shifted his weight and stood up straighter.
“Did you hear that?” he asked when she approached. He didn’t look back.
“Just some arguing and the gunshot.”
“That was me. Thought they could push me around, did they?”
“Who were they?” She’d reached his side, but couldn’t see who he meant. The street outside was nearly deserted. Only one of the ragged hoping-for-a-gold-strike miners from the shantytown was stumbling along. He held a brown bottle in one hand that he drank from every third or fourth step.
“Two cowboys,” Mr. Dooley said. “Never seen ’em before. Said they were friends of the deceased. They needed to claim the woman’s things.” He snorted. “Like I’m that stupid.” He glanced at her. “Mr. Lake said you were with the poor souls when they died, so I knew you was all right. Them?” His lip curled in a frown.
“Did you see where they went?”
He shook his head. “Must’ve ducked around the side.”
She glanced left and right down the street. Only the miner was out. The clouds had continued to gather above, casting a grey pall everywhere. The wind had also picked up, stirring dirt from the road into mini dust devils. It’d be pure mud once the storm broke.
The miner slipped and fell. He twisted to avoid dropping the bottle and landed hard on his hip. Then he fell on his side.
“I’m going to help him,” Beth said to the mortician.
“Why?” His lip curled as he considered the obvious drunk.
“Because he needs it,” she said. “Besides, he might’ve seen where the cowboys went.”
She holstered her gun and pushed past the mortician into the street. He waved her on her way and stepped back into his shop. She hustled over to the miner, but looked up and down the street as she did.
No cowboys.
She reached the miner just as he managed to sit himself up. He gave her a broad gap-toothed smile.
“Do you need help, mister?” she asked. She extended a hand.
“Why … thank you, missy,” he said. He let her pull him up to his unsteady feet.
“Where are you trying to get to?”
“Oh … uh … my shack’s down that-a-way.” He gestured toward the ramshackle shantytown that had grown up between the battlefield and the original town. “Got some beans. Some nice pork fat.” He raised his bottle. “It’ll cook real good in this.”
“Perhaps I could help you to your shack?”
His eyes went wide and he stared at her. “Oh … missy, that’d be mighty kind of you. Mighty kind. But it wouldn’t be right, a sweet young thing going off with me alone. Wouldn’t be right, mind you.”
She pasted a practiced smile on.
“Perhaps I could help you to the Astor House?” she asked. “I’m sure someone there could get you home.” She gestured toward the deepening clouds. “Or you could wait out the rain there.” It looked like it’d hit soon, well before the militia returned.
“Why, that’d be mighty nice. Mighty nice of you.” He coughed, and she stepped back to avoid his whiskey breath. “Mighty nice.” Then he held out his hand. “I’m Jeb Miller.”
“Beth Armstrong. Pleased to meet you.” She took his hand and made a small curtsey.
“Oh, I’m charmed. Truly charmed.” His grin was as wide as his face.
He started walking toward the Astor, slowly. One foot carefully planted before moving the other. But he didn’t stumble. Beth’s own steps were reduced to a stroll to stay by his side.
“So,” she asked after they’d walked a bit, “did you hear that gunshot a little while ago?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Then those men! Such a hurry, such a hurry.”
“Did you see which way they went?”
“Went? Which way they went?” He stopped walking and scratched his chin. “They were in such a hurry.…”
She forced a smile. “A hurry to run toward the saloons?”
“No … no … no.” His hand slid up and scratched his head.
“South of town?”
“No …”
“Toward the stables?”
“No …” He frowned. “The battlefield. I remember wondering if maybe they’d help me to my shack.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. Maybe he’d remember something more. Maybe not. The cowboys were surely long gone either way.
She glanced back at the mortician’s shop, but the man had gone back inside and closed the door.
She took Jeb’s elbow and guided him up the street. “Let’s get you to the Astor.”
The first drops of rain splattered down just as the sandstone walls of the Astor came into view. With the rain, a light breeze blew down the mountain and brought the smell of grass and pine trees. One big fat raindrop plopped on Beth’s nose. Then another hit her ear. Then they started smattering around and turning the dirt road to mud.
She needed a hat. A real one—not the bonnet Ma had bought for her when they’d first come to Golden City six years ago. Besides, she’d grown and it barely fit now. She needed a broad brimmed hat.
But a hat like that took money she didn’t have.
Jeb still shuffled and stumbled along. He clutched his bottle tight and kept a hungry eye ahead. He seemed immune to her silent urgings to hurry up, but at least he didn’t fall.
The Astor had the only balcony in town—a small one that stuck out over the main entrance a dozen feet. Some mornings she’d sat silently there with coffee and watched the sunrise.
Those were peaceful times.
Now the balcony was deserted, but several soldiers stood underneath it, out of the rain. They milled about talking quietly. One sipped from a canteen. Beth’s chest tightened. The militia quartered on the far side of town. If they were here … that meant trouble. As Beth and Jeb got closer, the soldiers turned to watch.
Jeb paused almost mid-step. His mouth fell open and he started to tremble.
“They’re on our side,” Beth said quietly. “Let’s keep going.”
“They’re staring at me.”
No, Beth realized, they’re staring at me. In her dress and gun belt, she had to be quite a sight.
She lifted her chin and pushed her shoulders back. With a firm grip on Jeb’s elbow, she walked them both forward. As she did, she met the stares she could eye to eye. Many of the men looked away. One of the soldiers sneered, but another looked amused.
The rain picked up, and then the wind. Beth fought off a shiver and kept her eyes on the soldiers. They made room for her and the miner under the shelter when they finally arrived.
“May we go in, please?” she said to a burly black-haired private blocking the Astor’s front door.
His gaze skipped down her body and then his eyes went wide at the sight of her gun.
“My, my,” Jeb said. His head swiveled this way and that as he took in all the soldiers. “What is all this?”
“Muster,” the private said. “The militia’s headed out.”
“What?” Beth barked in surprise. “When? Why?”
He shrugged. “Word is, a huge army of trolls have invaded Cherokee Territory by crossing the river south of Memphis. We’re supposed to help.”
Beth blinked. “That’s a long way from here.”
“I just follow orders,” he answered. He gave her a dismissive wave and stepped aside.
Beth found Mr. Lake and the militia commander, Colonel Mosby, in deep conversation in the parlor. They sat surrounded by the colonel’s aides and some of the other prominent town business leaders. The ones standing nearly blocked her view. Mr. Lake bent forward and leaned on his elbows. He only gave her the briefest of glances as she walked in. He somberly focused on the colonel’s words instead.
Beth spotted Rose bringing stew and beer to a rumpled and clearly exhausted soldier huddled at the back table. She guided Jeb through the crowd. They reached the table just as Rose finished setting everything down. She turned with an inquisitive smile.
“Could we get some stew for my friend Jeb here?” Beth asked. “On me.”
Rose’s eyebrows went up. “On me” meant out of Beth’s wages.
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Jeb said. “Not at all, not at all.”
“I insist,” Beth said. “Just sit right down. Please?”
“Better do like she says,” Rose added sweetly. “I have yet to meet a man who could say no to her.”
Beth harrumphed quietly and shot Rose a warning glare, but her friend just dismissed it with a friendly chuckle.
“Will you join me, missy?” Jeb asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. She turned to Rose. “Will you take care of him, please? He saw some funny things earlier.”
“Oh? Are you going to tell me about them?”
“After I get back from the mortician’s.” Beth turned to go but paused. “Um … Rose?”
“Yes, dearie?”
“May I borrow your hat?”
Beth felt silly tromping through the rain and the mud in a red and brown dress and a pink hat. The dark trousers underneath didn’t help her appearance either. They were warm, though. The initial torrent of the cloudburst had faded after about thirty minutes, like most Colorado storms. A slower drizzle still continued. So she wasn’t too soaked. Still, the town only had wooden sidewalks here and there so she had to pick her way carefully through the sodden mud.
She inhaled deeply, breathing in the cleansing scent of the rain. She kept glancing around, just in case she saw some cowboys, but she was still alone on the streets. She didn’t see another soul before she reached the mortician’s.
As she approached the building, she froze. Something was off. She stood still, letting raindrops roll off the brim of Rose’s hat and onto her shoulders. She let out a long breath and studied the building.
The curtains to the viewing room were open. They’d been closed when she’d viewed the bodies, not less than an hour ago.
The shop’s door remained shut just like before, but the curtains were wrong. Completely wrong. Her hand started to twitch, so she rested it on her gun. She stole towards the window with glances left, right, and behind to check for danger.
Nothing.
She let out a deep breath to steady her nerves, just like Hickok had taught. Then she did it again.
She sidled up next to the window and drew her Colt. She tried to quickly peek in, but didn’t see anything other than blackness. Which wasn’t really surprising since she’d put out the candles in the viewing room herself.
Of course. She cursed under her breath. Then her gut knotted in realization.
Someone had needed light to see, so they’d opened the curtains. It wasn’t Mr. Dooley the mortician—he’d have just relit the candles. Which meant—
She strode over to the door, threw it open, and immediately dropped to one knee with her Colt pointed into the room.
No shots.
No one to shoot.
Just Mr. Dooley’s body, sprawled on the floor.
They’d ransacked the corpses. Raven’s now lay face down in its coffin. Mr. Weatherby wasn’t so lucky—they’d tipped his body onto the floor. Raven’s bracelets were gone and the pockets of Mr. Weatherby’s pants had been slit open. Clothes had been tugged and untucked and pulled, leaving broken buttons behind.
They’d also torn apart Mr. Dooley’s personal quarters, the ones behind his shop, but much more sloppily. Too much of a hurry, she suspected. It turned out his rooms had a back door, which remained thrown open. Tracked mud showed it’d been their way in.
Mr. Dooley’s body they’d left alone except to turn out his pockets.
She clutched Raven’s little pouch in her own trousers pocket. Her nails bit into her palm as she held it tighter than she’d ever held her gun. Her heart raced and her breath started to come in gasps.
She stared at Mr. Dooley’s body—all splayed out like a broken doll on its face. One hand was twisted underneath his body. Blood pooled underneath. Already the stench was starting to turn her stomach.
If she’d still been there …
Her imagination raced.