The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall Page 27

  “Callon, I don’t understand this ‘firefall’ business.”

  “Something happened here, Kenton. Something very strange and lethal.”

  Callon outlined the story, giving every detail he could. He told as well of how Gunnison came to enter the picture, his finding of Kenton’s stray notes, his learning of Kenton’s planned meeting with the man Rankin. Callon did not, however, give any indication that Gunnison had told him about Kenton’s search for his lost wife. This, he knew, was too delicate a topic to be brought up with Brady Kenton. He also made no mention of the Confederate Ridge Rebels, though this was merely an oversight in his haste to tell the tale.

  Kenton listened with fascination, and Callon observed an interesting phenomenon: As the details of a tantalizing, unusual tale were fed to him, Kenton’s color and vigor visibly returned. He even stood and began pacing back and forth, unable to hide his mounting fascination.

  But his first comment when Callon was done let the latter know that part of Kenton’s energy also stemmed from worry.

  “I wonder how I can find out if Rankin survived? And anyone who might have been with him?”

  “I don’t know, Kenton. But I think your biggest worry has to be your own safety. If Ottinger actually tried to have you killed once before, and if he realizes that he has you literally in his clutches…”

  “I know, I know. But don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way to handle Ottinger.”

  “You have an abundance of confidence, Kenton.”

  “I always have.”

  “I think you should try to find some way out of here.”

  “Sounds like a certain way to get shot at.”

  “But if he recognizes you…”

  “I’ve told them my name is Houser. I’ll stick with that story.”

  “You really should get away.”

  “Not until I know beyond a doubt that Rankin isn’t here among the survivors.”

  “The numerical odds are against it. There are more dead than alive. There were a few who survived who got away from Gomorrah before the army sealed the town off.”

  Kenton’s stomach growled loudly. “I’m starving. I hope they bring some food soon. They have been feeding you, haven’t they?”

  “Yes. But not nearly enough.”

  Chapter 12

  They did bring food, about an hour later. Before that, though, an army doctor showed up to examine the newly arrived “Houser.”

  The doctor was young, uniformed, and seemed substantially disinterested in Kenton except as one more medical specimen. But he did a sufficiently decent job of examination, and seemed content that Kenton, a stranger to him, was headed for a fast and thorough recovery.

  “A lot had it worse than you,” he said in a weary tone. “We’ve got several people with much worse burns; we’ll be moving them out by wagon later today, taking them to the Fort Brandon infirmary, where I can better treat their injuries.”

  “Are any in danger of their lives?”

  “Those injured that severely have already died, I’m sorry to say. I expect recovery for all who are left alive at this point.”

  “Do I need to go to Fort Brandon, too?”

  “Not for medical treatment. But as I understand it, all civilians are to be taken to Fort Brandon.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, I’m a physician. I’ve said more than I should already.”

  “Can I leave here?”

  “Not up to me.”

  “Doctor, what caused the fire?”

  “The incident is under scientific investigation. It appears at this point that the event resulted from the explosion of a man-made incendiary device, and was complicated by the resultant spread of fire through the town and the woods around. This is what Colonel Ottinger says.”

  “An ‘incendiary device,’ you say. A bomb, in other words.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Quite a large bomb, to do what this one did.”

  “I’m unqualified to comment, Mister…”

  “Houser. Grant Houser.”

  “Houser. All right.” The doctor closed his medical bag. “Bombs are out of my sphere. I’m merely repeating what I’ve been told.”

  “By Colonel Ottinger?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Houser. I thought it was this one here who’s the nosy journalist.” He thumbed toward Callon.

  “I’ve always been overly curious,” Kenton said.

  Callon spoke up. “There’s a compound of former Rebels not too far from here. I know, because I’ve seen two of them with my own eyes. Is it the army’s position that these Rebels are behind this blast?”

  “I’m not authorized to speak to that matter and have said too much already,” the doctor said. “Good day to you both.” He went to the door, rapped for exit, and was let out by the guard, who shut and locked the door again.

  Kenton said, “You should have let me ask the questions. He’d never have answered you, knowing you’re a reporter, but he thinks of me as a private citizen. He might have told me.”

  Callon answered, a bit smugly, “Yes…but you didn’t know to ask the question. I forgot to mention the old Rebel compound when I was briefing you earlier.”

  “You didn’t need to. I’m fully aware of Confederate Ridge.”

  Callon gritted his teeth. Blast Kenton! Was the man on top of every situation?

  “Well…do you know a pair of Confederate Ridge Rebels watched Gunnison and me when we first came up to Gomorrah?”

  “It’s not surprising. I’m sure they’re as curious about the destruction of the mountaintop as anyone else, especially considering they live not far away. And if they know that Ottinger is there, they have all the more cause for concern. Confederate Ridge is the home of the old renegade rider Pernell Jones, you know. He’s the man whose shotgun blast mangled Ottinger’s face.”

  Callon could hardly believe it. Kenton had only regained consciousness a short while ago, and already he knew more about the situation than did Callon himself.

  The young journalist, with effort, swallowed down his sizeable load of pride.

  “Kenton, listen to me. I know we’re competitors, but maybe it’s time to put that aside. Together we could tell this story like neither one of us can do alone. Let’s work together. Be partners.”

  “I have a partner already, Paul.”

  “Yes. But he’s not here, and I am. I can join with you, help you ferret out this story—if you’ll let me. We can publish in both the Observor and the Illustrated American. Simultaneously, joint credit, everything right down the middle.”

  “What makes you think I’m working on this story at all, Paul? It’s interesting, certainly, but I’ve got other, more personal concerns.”

  “This Rankin fellow.”

  “Yes.”

  In a burst of mean-spiritedness and frustration, Callon almost threw into Kenton’s face what Gunnison had told him. But he held back, and instead asked, “What is it you want from this Rankin?”

  Kenton’s eyes actually misted. “Information. Very important, and very personal.”

  Callon let out a long, slow breath. “All right. I’ll ask no more. But I will make a request. If you’re not going to try to write the Gomorrah story yourself, at least can you try to help me gather some facts? They may let you leave this place. They may put you with the survivors of the firefall, maybe even take you to Fort Brandon like the doctor was talking about. Me, they’re just going to keep locked up.”

  Kenton went back to the bunk he’d been lying on before. He sat down. “Patience, Paul Callon. Patience. They’ll surely not keep you locked up here forever.”

  “You won’t help me?”

  “If I can, I will. But you have to know that my chief interest isn’t in this story, Paul. Normally it would be, but this is not a normal situation for me. And, you must remember…you are, after all, a competitor.”

  “Damn it, Kenton! I’ll not have you leave me high and dry! You will help me, or I’ll mak
e sure myself that Ottinger knows who you really are!”

  Kenton stared at Callon. “You wouldn’t do such a thing, Paul.”

  “I would! I will!”

  “Then you are not the man I’ve taken you to be.”

  “Can’t you see how important this story is, Kenton? Can’t you see what it would do for my professional reputation? It’s obvious, yet here you sit, wrapped up in yourself, caught up in some fool’s quest for a wife who died years ago—”

  Callon cut off, realizing what he’d just said.

  Kenton blanched slightly. He stared numbly at Callon for several moments, silent.

  “So you know,” he said, softly.

  Callon slumped into the nearest chair. “Dear Lord, what a fool I am. And what foolish things I’ve been saying. I’m sorry.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Gunnison told me. But only after he believed you were dead.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to let you know that I knew. I understand that it’s deeply personal.”

  “It is.”

  For a while, neither man conversed further.

  “Kenton,” Callon said after a time, “I really wouldn’t reveal you to Ottinger.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know why I said such a thing.”

  “Because you were angry. Because you find me unprofessional, being distracted by a personal concern and ignoring what admittedly is a very big and unusual story. And I suppose I am being unprofessional. But this is my wife I’m hoping to find, Paul. My wife.”

  Callon said, “Could she really be alive, Kenton?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so…I pray so.”

  “This Rankin fellow has information about her?”

  “So he wrote to me. He implied that…he might even have Victoria herself.”

  “Amazing…”

  “Yes. And maybe nothing but a falsehood. My fear now, of course, is that he really did have her, and that both of them were here when this mysterious explosion occurred…”

  “Take it one step at a time, Kenton. Right now you have no facts upon which to make judgments.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Kenton lay down.

  “Kenton, are you going to go to sleep on me and leave me without company again?”

  “I might. I’ve been through the wringer, like you said. I need rest.”

  “Rest? After how long you’ve been lying out in the woods? It’s bad enough in here even with someone to talk to. It’s worse when there’s no one. I wish you’d stay awake.”

  It was no use to plead. Brady Kenton drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and within moments began the steady, slow respiration of sleep.

  He didn’t sleep long. A private bearing a platter of food showed up. One plate for Callon, another for “Houser.”

  Kenton awakened fast, accepted the meal gratefully and fell to at once. The private stood watching him for a few moments, saying nothing, then left.

  “I don’t like the way that soldier stared at you, Kenton,” Callon said. “I think he recognized you.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I think he knew you.”

  “Really?” Kenton said, taking another bite. “I didn’t notice.”

  He spoke in an idle way, but Callon could tell Kenton was concerned.

  Chapter 13

  An hour later, the door rattled and opened again. A young soldier entered, trying to look authoritative and tough, but actually looking only like most western soldiers Kenton had seen: a boy struggling hard to make the best of a life he’d hoped would be adventurous but which had proved mostly to just be boring and disheartening. “Mr. Houser, sir,” he barked.

  Kenton, blinking, sat up, feeling very groggy. “What is it?”

  “The Colonel wishes to speak with you, sir. Right away. Are you strong enough to walk?”

  “I don’t know that he is,” Callon said quickly, standing from his chair in the corner. With nothing to do, he’d fallen asleep as well. “Maybe I should go in his place.”

  “Nonsense,” Kenton said, swinging around his legs and standing. He brushed his hair back with his hands and tried to make his rumpled and ruined clothing look as good as possible. “I’ll gladly see the Colonel.” Kenton glanced at Callon. “I’d consider it an honor to meet so famous a man.”

  As he followed the soldier across the charred town, Kenton saw other soldiers at work, digging a massive trench. He’d seen mass graves during the war and knew what they were doing. With the smell of death strong across the town, he hoped they would finish with all haste.

  Other soldiers were in the woods, chopping down the remnants of trees, stacking them as if for great bonfires. Others dealt with trees that had already fallen, shoving and heaving them about to make contact with one another.

  “They’re going to set fires?” Kenton asked the soldier.

  “I’m not at liberty to answer your questions, sir,” the soldier said. “That’s up to the Colonel.”

  When they reached Ottinger’s tent, the Colonel’s voice could be heard from inside, speaking rather loudly. The soldier rapped gently on one of the tent supports. “Sir!”

  Ottinger appeared at the flap doorway, caught sight of Kenton, and eyed him up and down. Ottinger’s dead right eye gleamed like a marble, unmoving. He looked back at the soldier. “Stay with him—I’ll be only a moment. Bring him a stool to sit on.”

  A camp stool was provided for Kenton, who sat near the tent, looking around the town, giving every appearance of a man distracted by all he saw. In fact he was listening to the voices inside Ottinger’s tent.

  “So there’s simply no way this event can be accounted for in volcanic terms,” Ottinger was saying.

  “No, sir, certainly not. That was never really a possibility. Vulcanism makes quite distinctive displays, none of them evident here.”

  “Without a volcanic origin, then, we’re left with human agency as the only possible cause of this,” Ottinger said.

  “No, sir, not entirely. There are other possibilities, but they are well outside my field of expertise. I’m a mining geologist, not qualified to speculate outside my own field.”

  “Then I suggest you don’t attempt to do so. You’ve ruled out volcanic activity, and have no credentials to suggest other possible causes. Does that sum it up accurately?”

  “Well, I suppose it does…but, sir, everything I’ve seen indicates to me that what caused this fire was massive, tremendously powerful, and exploded in the sky high above the town. The direction of the fallen trees is sufficient to prove that. I suggest that you consult with a qualified astronomer. And also, sir, I hope you’ll desist from your plans to reburn the fallen trees. You’ll wipe out much important evidence if you do.”

  “I’ll keep your recommendations in mind. But what I really need from you now is a report indicating that you’ve ruled out a volcanic explanation for this fire. I want no speculation about other causes. None. Do you understand me? Good. And of course, I’ll arrange very adequate compensation to be made to you for the time you’ve given to the aid of the United States government.”

  The geologist, hesitating a moment, said, “Colonel Ottinger, sir, was I brought here to give you an honest view of what probably caused this event? Or simply to—”

  Ottinger cut him off. “You were brought here, sir, to rule out the possibility of a volcanic explanation. And you’ve done so. And you need concern yourself no further with this. Simply write your report. Keep it brief. You may go, Mr. Johnston.”

  Kenton watched as the geologist exited the tent and walked rapidly across the charred ground toward his own quarters. He pushed his way into his tent with a big sweep of his arm. This was clearly an angry and frustrated man.

  Ottinger reappeared at the entrance of his own tent. He examined Kenton coldly with his one good eye. “Mr. Houser, do come in, sir.”

  Kenton stood and followed Ottinger back inside.

  Ottinger waved Kenton
to a seat, and said nothing for about a minute as he busied about with a pipe and tobacco, loading it carefully and firing up the bowl with great concentration. He drew and puffed, filling the tent with the aromatic smoke of an expensive tobacco blend.

  “Beg pardon,” Ottinger said abruptly. “Would you care for a pipe or a cigar, Mr. Houser?”

  “No, sir, not at the moment, thank you, sir,” Kenton replied. “Though I wouldn’t mind at all having one to enjoy later.”

  Ottinger blew smoke out his nose as he removed a cigar from a box on a nearby folding table that was evidently serving as his desk. He handed it to Kenton, who accepted with many thanks.

  Ottinger perched himself on a stool and examined Kenton closely through the smoke of his pipe. “You look quite familiar, Mr. Houser.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  Ottinger’s brows knitted together in concentration. “I question whether you’re name is really Houser.”

  “Of course it is, sir.”

  A little smile flickered across Ottinger’s face. “What’s your trade, Mr. Houser?”

  “I’ve mostly farmed, sir. In Illinois, before I came out west. I tried my hand at storekeeping in Kansas for a few years, near Wichita.”

  “What brought you to Gomorrah?”

  “I was thinking of opening a store here. I wanted to look the town over and see if I thought it would thrive here.”

  “And where were you when this town caught afire?”

  “Outside of town, unconscious in the woods. I was attacked and robbed on my way into town.”

  “What bad luck.”

  “I’ve had my share. First that, and then the town burned up.”

  “You and I, we know one another. There’s no point in this foolish pretense.”

  “Well, of course I know who you are, Colonel. You’re a famous man. But me, I’m not anybody.”

  “Oh, you’re definitely somebody, Mr. Kenton. You’re a man of very great power, in fact. The power of the printed word…of your printed lies. I’ve been the subject of some of your most venomous lies yet. I find it interesting that now, as we meet face to face, you lack even the courage to admit who you are.”