Silver Lies

  Silver Lies

  Ann Parker

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2003 by Ann Parker

  First Electronic Edition 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-59058-546-7 (e-book)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Poisoned Pen Press 6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103 Scottsdale, AZ 85251 www.poisonedpenpress.com info@poisonedpenpress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  If I were to thank properly all who offered encouragement and shared their expertise, suggestions, and ideas, this acknowledgment would begin to approach the length of the book. Instead, I’ll try to be brief. For any who don’t appear here, please know I’m grateful.

  First of all, my family. Bill for his love, support, and critical reader’s eye. Ian and Devyn for understanding (or at least tolerating) my mind-fades into the 19th century at the dinner table. My father, Don, and mother, Corinne, and sibs and their partners for abiding interest. Special thanks to my Colorado relatives including Walt, Bette, Dorothy (bless you for stockpiling the family history!), and Dave for his reference books, network of experts, and great homebrew.

  I owe much to those who shared their time and expertise including Roger Neuscheler for historical assaying techniques; Ed Raines for mining history, maps, and assays; Roy Marcot for arming Inez appropriately; and Larry Hamby for information on guns and knife-fighting techniques. Any inaccuracies, slipups, or wild flights of fancy are mine alone.

  This book would never have been if not for Leadville and its people, past and present. I’m grateful to Bob Elder for answering my many questions and for sharing his grand-father’s letters, to Hillery McCalister and the Apple Blossom innkeepers for tours of their historical abodes, and to the Honorable Neil Reynolds for sharing his expertise on historic Leadville. Thanks also to the staff at the Lake County Public Library, the National Mining Hall of Fame & Museum, and Leadville’s Historical Society, who keep the spirit of the past alive for those who seek it.

  Along the Front Range, the Colorado Historical Society and Denver Public Library deserve special mention. Their historical collections provided invaluable fodder for my fiction, and their staff were always helpful and patient.

  On the writerly end of things, I am indebted to Camille Minichino and Penny Warner—friends, authors, teachers— and to the every-other-Thursday-night critique group including Claire Johnson, Kay Barnhart, Carole Price, Janet Finsliver, Mike Cooper, Rena Leith, Gordon Yano, Mignon Richards, and Colleen Casey. Thanks to Jane Staehle for her quick and eagle eye, as well as to the folks down on the cubicle farm for music, musings on Milton, and moral support. Members of the Northern California chapter of Mystery Writers of America and Women Writing the West provided advice and encouragement. I also wish to acknowledge the e-communities of DorothyL, CrimeThruTime, HistRes, and Prock-research (now carmelsloop), where I’ve mostly lurked and learned.

  I’m indebted to all the folks at Poisoned Pen Press who have helped bring Silver Lies to light.

  And finally, to the original Inez Stannert, thank you for lending me your name.

  For Walter Underwood Parker, who set me on the road to Leadville. And for Bill, Ian, and Devyn, who walked every step beside me.

  Prologue

  If there was an arctic version of hell, Joe Rose was living it in Leadville, Colorado.

  Hugging the ten-thousand-foot mark in the Rocky Mountains, Leadville in December 1879 had winter air cold enough to freeze a man’s lungs, if he wasn’t used to it.

  A light, white snow, soft as angel wings, descended to the black mud of Tiger Alley in Leadville’s red-light district. The icy paste—mixed with a season’s worth of animal excrement and human garbage—had been churned up by beasts of burden, carts, and lost souls. In some spots, it lay knee deep.

  At 2:30 in the morning, Tiger Alley was no place to fall down. Joe knew that as he flailed about, trying to regain his footing and his dignity. Raucous voices and honky-tonk music blasted through the saloon’s half-open back door, the door through which he’d been unceremoniously ejected moments before.

  On his feet at last, Joe reached for his pocket handkerchief to wipe the filth from his face. His fingers touched the slime coating his favorite waistcoat. "Damn!" He tried to scrub the mud off the silver and gold threads. "Ruined!" The word reverberated in his head, and Joe pictured it all again. The dealer raking in his last gold eagle across the waxed cloth of the faro table, the bouncer closing in on him to haul him away.

  "I’m ruined," Joe whispered. Money, gone. Reputation gone as well, thanks to Harry. He owes me, Joe thought. We had a deal, we shook on it. I risked my neck meeting my side of the bargain, and he backs out.

  As if through a haze, Joe remembered the curses he’d screamed at Harry just hours before, the cold, dismissive look on Harry’s face, and, most frightening of all, Harry’s silence. Panic welled up, bitter and black, in Joe’s throat.

  There was no future for him in Leadville. For him, his wife Emma, or their son. Joe closed his eyes in anguish. An image of Emma, her face pale and serious, rose before him. He spoke as if to a ghost: "I did it for you." Even as he said the words, he realized they weren’t entirely true. He’d tried to protect her, true, but his troubles had really started when he tried to be someone he wasn’t. Someone who’d gamble a fortune on a hunch at the poker table or a promising claim. Now, with the last of his five thousand dollars gone, any hope of making that elusive fortune in silver had disappeared. Worse, he could see no way of extracting himself from the mess he’d created.

  The only money he had left was a fifty-dollar bill he dared not gamble. It all whirled around in his brain: his debts, the fifty, Emma, the deal gone bad between him and Harry, Denver.…The bleakness of his situation penetrated his whiskey-induced fog. "How will I ever explain to Emma?" he said to the night. His hand automatically strayed to the waistcoat pocket where he kept the pocketwatch she’d given him six years ago on their wedding day.

  It was gone.

  Heart sinking, he searched his trouser pockets frantically and tried to strike a deal with God: Just let me find the watch. I’ll go straight home, tell Emma everything. I’ll use that damn banknote to buy three stagecoach tickets and we’ll start over with a clean slate. I swear I’ll never touch cards or another glass of whiskey.

  The lack of moonlight made it difficult to see in the alley. Crouching, Joe scrabbled through the frigid muck. His fingers felt, then closed on a familiar metallic disk. He clutched the watch to his chest in relief and thought, now I can go home. Everything will work out.

  A slight vibration in the ground. A soft "whuff," barely heard.

  Something was behind him.

  Joe sprang to his feet and turned to see a monstrous dark shape. Too tall for a man. Joe heard a jangle of bit and bridle, an equine snort. The shape moved, became a horse and rider. The rider urged the mount forward. Straight toward Joe.

  "Hey!" Joe shouted, trying to get out of the way. The horse jerked its head up with a snort and pranced backward. It unexpectedly lunged forward as the rider applied the whip. Joe stumbled to one side. Mud sucked at his boots, slowing his escape. The horse’s bulk slammed into him, knocking the breath out of his body and nearly toppling him backward. The rider pulled up short with a vicious rein. Breathing hard and cursing, Joe grabbed a stirrup leather, staying well to the side to avoid being stepped on. He peered up, trying to discern the rider.

  The voice that floa
ted down to him was filled with menace.

  "Well, well, if it isn’t Joe Rose."

  Fear crawled over Joe, freezing the sweat on his back, choking the curses in his throat. Oh Jesus, he thought. Not here. Not now. He couldn’t force his thoughts any further, couldn’t frame a reply.

  Words poured over him with increased fury. "Looks like Lady Luck’s deserted you for good this time. Are you short on silver again? Greenbacks? Or are you cheating at cards now?"

  The rider leaned over, seized the dangling fob, and yanked. The pocketwatch flew from Joe’s grip, a comet streaking beyond his reach.

  Joe let go of the stirrup leather and made a futile grab, desperate to recapture the watch. The rider shifted athwart the saddle, away from Joe. The next instant, a booted foot smashed into Joe’s face, sending bright daggers of pain streaking through his vision.

  Joe cried out and fell backward, breaking through a thin icy crust into the scum below. Blood, warm and wet, poured from his battered nose and bathed his lips and chin. The pain loosened his tongue at last. He struggled to raise himself, searching purchase in the slime. "Wait! I was coming to see you." He tried to sound assured, sincere. But all he heard in his trembling voice was desperation and fear. "I…I’ve got what you want. All of it. The shipment arrived today. About the other business, the chemistry was wrong, but it’s straight now."

  "You liar. You double-crossing son of a bitch. Your next drink is with the Devil!" The whip hissed through the air.

  Joe flinched, raised a hand, anticipating the cut of the lash across his palm. Instead, he heard—but didn’t feel—the smack of lash on flesh.

  The horse brayed and reared. For a moment, Joe saw mount and rider looming over him, an enormous shadow against night-dark clouds. The whip fell again. The horse pawed the air, then leaped forward with a grunt. Joe recoiled in terror. He heard, then felt a bone-crunching snap. And screamed.

  His leg.

  Intolerable pain engulfed him like a black avalanche. He tried to grab something, roll away. His fingers closed on ooze and shattered ice.

  The horse reared again, fighting rein and whip. Hooves plunged down, flashing past Joe’s face, crushing his ribs with a sound like dry wood splintering.

  Joe’s last scream was muffled by mud and honky-tonk music.

  And the piano played on.

  Chapter One

  "Sweet Jesus," Inez Stannert muttered, surveying the ruins of her drinking establishment. "Looks like the North and South settled their differences right here on the floor."

  Inez stood at the rear of the Silver Queen Saloon, hands on her hips. She eyed the splintered remains of what had once been a twenty-foot mirror gracing the mahogany backbar. Shards of glass lay about the sawdust like so many stars fallen to earth. She sighed. Her stays pinched beneath her green cashmere dress, a reminder not to inhale too deeply. A new mirror would run a thousand dollars. Freighting fees, another five hundred. At least.

  Inez shook her head and turned her attention to the rest of the room. Busted chairs mixed it up with overturned tables. Her husband’s favorite lithograph, a depiction of boxing champions Heenan and Sayers, bare-knuckled fists raised and ready, lay ripped and crumpled in one corner. The gilt frame looked as if it had been used to batter someone’s head. Cold December air swept through the saloon’s wide-open front door, doing little to alleviate the stale smell of tobacco and the heavy scent of whiskey, brandy, and beer leaking from broken bottles. She thought of the imported Scotch whisky, soaking the floorboards, worth its weight in gold. And groaned.

  Abe Jackson, dark and silent as a shadow, emerged from the kitchen with two porcelain mugs of steaming coffee and stood beside Inez. They began walking the length of the room, wordlessly examining the damage. When they reached the front door, Abe handed Inez a mug and closed the door on the early morning light, extinguishing the stars on the floor.

  "Looks worse than five hours ago," he ventured, scratching one end of his coarse black mustache.

  Inez twisted the two rings on her finger—one gold, one silver—while she did a quick mental calculation. "We’ve lost several hundred in liquor alone, never mind the furniture. As for the mirror, it’ll be spring before we can afford to order another from Chicago. Unless the house gets lucky at the poker table."

  Turning away from the door, the two walked toward the staircase, passing a dusty upright piano. Inez lifted her long skirts to climb the steps. "Let’s go to the office and you can tell me what happened."

  On the second floor, Inez unlocked a door and the two entered a sitting room flooded with light from a large, west-facing window. A fire in the pot-bellied stove battled the cold, while a rag rug captured what warmth the winter sun offered.

  Inez waved one hand at a calico cat dozing on a russet-colored horsehair couch. "Shoo. Go chase those rats I heard in the storeroom last night. Earn your keep, you lazy thing." The cat scooted under the couch, tail flicking.

  Inez sipped her coffee before balancing the steaming mug on a stack of payables. She sat, banged up the rolltop to her desk, and pulled out a ledger. The window beside the desk overlooked the false-fronted saloons, dancing halls, and brothels of State Street to the distant snow-covered peaks of Massive and Elbert.

  Abe sank onto the couch, knees cracking as he stretched his long legs. The calico, sensing a friendly and familiar lap, leaped to the sofa. Abe picked her up, his fingers disappearing in the thick winter coat.

  Inez hooked half-glasses over her ears and opened the ledger. "Let’s hear the story. Was it the liquor? The cards? Or some combination?"

  Abe scratched the cat between her half-closed eyes while she worked her claws on his pant leg. "I think folks were spoilin’ for a fight last night. Take Joe Rose, bustin’ up your Saturday night game and callin’ Harry Gallagher a liar to his face. Seems cussin’ out his best client wouldn’t be in Joe’s best interests. Especially Harry, bein’ that he and the other silver barons run the town. But Joe’d calmed down by the time he set up Harrison."

  Inez peered over the top of her glasses. "Could he walk?"

  "He made a mighty attempt to stagger in a straight line."

  Inez nodded once, a quill pen balanced between her long fingers. "Joe knows the house rules. No married men gambling. No drunks served a drink. He failed on both counts. I hope he was sober enough to appreciate the favor you did him, walking him away from Harry."

  Abe’s deep brown eyes creased briefly.

  The cat wiggled, turning over to present a belly for rubbing. Abe obliged. "We probably should’ve closed for the night after you shut down the game. Anyhow, about an hour after you went home, the second fight broke out. I was in the storeroom and didn’t see it. Useless was tendin’ bar. He says Chet Donnelly was arguin’ over a claim with the twins Zed and Zeke. Chet heaved one of them into the mirror and the place exploded. By the time we hauled everyone out into the street, the damage was done. I told Chet he’d be payin’ for a new mirror. Probably won’t remember, though."

  Inez slammed down the rolltop. The cat bolted under the couch. "Damn Chet Donnelly! There’s too many men like him in this town. Someone looks at them cross-eyed and they start swinging!"

  Abe coaxed the cat out and settled her on his lap again. "Yep. Just like some women I know. Act first, think later."

  Inez faced him, opening hands in mock defeat. "Point taken. Your game, Abe. You always know when to play the winning card." She glanced at the grandfather clock by the door. "I’ll be late for church! Not a good impression to make on the new reverend." She hurried to the door, pulling her winter cloak off a nearby hook.

  "Well, now, he’s only there ’til June, isn’t that what you told me? What do you care what he thinks?"

  She adjusted her hat in the mirror by the door. "He’s the interim minister, true, but I’d like to start off on the right foot. Who knows? Maybe he plays cards or takes a nip now and again." She winked at Abe’s reflection in the mirror.

  "If he’s gettin’ paid what most preachers do
, he’s not playin’ any high-stakes games. Unless he’s got stock in some highflyin’ mine like the Denver City or Silver Mountain." He sauntered out after her. "Besides, you walk in late, everyone can admire your Sunday-go-to-meetin’ outfit."

  "Oh, they gawk anyway," Inez grumbled. "They believe all the business women on State Street work on their backs."

  She stopped and glanced apologetically at Abe. "Perhaps the new reverend will say a few words on the virtues of holding one’s temper. See you after supper, Abe. And thank you for handling the trouble last night."

  "What are partners for? Gotta back each other up, if San Francisco’s ever gonna be more’n a dream."

  For a moment, Inez could almost hear her husband, Mark: "Inez, meet Abe Jackson. Ablest Negro soldier in the Union Army. I should know, I ended up at the business end of his rifle back in ’65. Only man I ever met who can best me in a straight game of poker. Abe—" Mark’s hands had been warm on her shoulders. "Meet Mrs. Mark Stannert. Inez and I outran her family and got hitched a week ago while you were lollygagging up north. Pretty sudden, I know, but that’s how love is. Besides, she’ll be an asset to our partnership. Inez plays piano like no one you’ve ever heard. Mozart from the heart. If we can teach her to play poker like she does music, we’ll retire to San Francisco before the decade’s out!" Mark’s laugh echoed in her memory.

  It’s been nearly ten years since that promise. And nearly eight months since Mark disappeared.

  "We’re not in California yet," she said. "And the decade’s almost gone. As is Mark." Her bitter words hovered in the air.

  "There are many things that can happen to a man in these mountains. Things that’d keep him from coming back." Abe’s voice was gentle. "Mark loved you and the young’un, Inez. It wasn’t his nature to pick up and leave."

  "Well, he’s long gone in any case." She started down the stairs again.

  "Inez." Abe held up two wrapped candies. "Joey Rose’ll be expecting these. Don’t break the boy’s heart."