The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall Read online

  Kenton bristled, but hid it. He’d not let Ottinger lure him like some bait-hungry fish. Yet it was hard to bear such an insult from this man, of all men.

  Just remember, he told himself, he just insulted Brady Kenton. And that’s not you. While you’re here, you’re Grant Houser.

  “Colonel, sir, you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.”

  “I didn’t recognize you right away. You’re burned and bruised. The private who brought you your meal was the one who drew my attention to you. He was in Leadville some years ago, and saw you there. When he told me our new foundling was Brady Kenton…well, that was a surprise indeed. Couldn’t quite believe it. But damned if he wasn’t right. I’ve never seen you face-to-face until now, Mr. Kenton, but that likeness of you on your publication is quite good.”

  Kenton forced a laugh. “It’s Brady Kenton you think I am? I’ll be! I’ve had people tell me I looked a little like him, but nobody ever thought I was him before! Wait until I tell my wife!” Kenton paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll take it as a compliment. Kenton is a mighty good writer. At least I think so…you talk like you don’t like him much.”

  “I despise Brady Kenton, sir. He’s libeled me far too deeply, and I have no use whatever for him.” Ottinger stared hard into Kenton’s face and came a few inches closer. “But, you know, that’s a situation that could change. For once in my life, I might actually have some good use for Brady Kenton. Something that would benefit him as well as me. Something that could close old wounds.”

  Ottinger was obviously attempting to pique Kenton’s curiosity, and it was working. But Kenton wouldn’t change course now.

  Kenton did his best to look rather simple and befuddled. “Well…I wish Kenton was here to help you out, then.”

  Ottinger’s narrowed left eye remained fixed on Kenton’s face; the dead right one, as always, was lusterless and unmoving. “Very well, Mr. Houser. Too bad, in a way. I’m positioned to hand Brady Kenton the greatest story of his career.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “An explanation of what happened to cause this unusual fire. But it’s of no concern to you, of course.”

  “Well…I’m as curious about it as anybody else.”

  Ottinger smiled and shook his head. “Perhaps, if you should happen to see Brady Kenton…or decide to be honest about who we both know you are…then perhaps we can find grounds to put old animosities aside.”

  Kenton stared at him. There were many things that cried out to be said, but which the circumstances would not allow. The pretense had to go on.

  Kenton smiled brightly and snapped his fingers. “Well, I just had an idea, sir! I’m no reporter myself, but there’s a man I been locked up in that cabin with who is. He writes for that other publication, you know…the one that’s not as good as Kenton’s—the Observor. That’s it! Maybe he can write your story for you.”

  “Maybe he can. He’s no Kenton…but I suppose he’ll have to do, hmmm?”

  Kenton smiled brightly. “I’m glad you like my idea, sir.”

  Ottinger glared at him, making no effort to hide his hatred.

  “Can I ask you for a favor, sir?” Kenton asked.

  “What’s that, Mr. Houser?” Again the mocking emphasis on the false name.

  “I would like to ask if I might be allowed to not be locked up in that cabin anymore. I’d like to go be with the other civilians.” Only by joining the company of the survivors of Gomorrah, Kenton knew, could he determine if Rankin was still alive in this town.

  Ottinger wasn’t biting. “You’ll stay right where I’ve had you. Where we can keep an eye on you.” Ottinger called out, “Sergeant! Please come escort Mr. Houser back to his cabin!” He turned back to Kenton and looked at him closely. “We’ve played a foolish game here, Kenton. An exercise in futile dodgemanship. But don’t think it will do you any good. I have you now.”

  “I wish I could persuade you that I ain’t Brady Kenton, sir.”

  “Get on with you. Get out. Kenton, you have a chance to reconsider…a limited chance. When I send for your cabin companion, like I sent for you, you’ll know my patience has been exhausted and your chance has passed.” He smiled darkly. “That would be too bad. If only you would cooperate with me, Kenton, and write the story I’m prepared to give you…if you would only present to the world a different vision of Colonel J.B. Ottinger than the false one you contrived so many years ago…if you would do that, sir, I can assure you that your life will be much longer, and happier, than otherwise.”

  Kenton was angered by these words, but hid that emotion and did his best to look like the easily confused, somewhat bumbling would-be merchant he was presenting “Grant Houser” to be. “Are you saying you’d hurt Brady Kenton, Colonel?”

  “I’m trying to tell Brady Kenton that I’m a man who has reached a stage of life when an evening of the balance has become important. There are old scores that have waited a long time to be settled. I’m growing older. I don’t intend for my life to end with the balances still tilted. I am a man who pays my debts. And paying time has come.”

  “Houser” frowned in apparent confusion at the Colonel, then brightened, sighed, and shrugged. “You’re a hard man to understand, Colonel,” Kenton said. “But I’m honored to have got to visit with you. I can’t wait to tell Mrs. Houser I got to meet so famous a military man.”

  Ottinger spun on his heel and with a grunt of disgust all but shoved Kenton out of the tent and into the custody of the waiting sergeant.

  Kenton walked with his escort back toward the cabin, chatting, keeping in character as Grant Houser, jabbering about the pleasure of having gotten to personally talk to a well-known man.

  The stench of bodily decay was blessedly declining now. Soldiers with kerchiefs tied around their mouths and noses were covering the burned and rotting dead in the trench grave, and a fresh breeze was clearing the air at last.

  Chapter 14

  Callon came to his feet as the door was opened. Kenton entered, then sank onto his bunk and lay back. He’d been exhausted by the tense gamesmanship with Ottinger. Every injury he’d suffered when attacked by that doomed highwayman now hurt twice as much as before.

  “Well? What happened?” Callon asked when the door was locked again.

  “Colonel Ottinger has this loco notion that my name’s not Grant Houser. He seems to believe I’m Brady Kenton.”

  “Ah. Recognized. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  “I kept up the pretense of being Houser,” Kenton said, speaking with eyes closed. “But he’s not buying that bill of goods.”

  “What did Ottinger want with you?”

  “He wants to use me. He wants me to write a version of the Gomorrah story as he wants it told. And to, in effect, recant my earlier story about him in the process.”

  “How does he want the Gomorrah story told?”

  “He didn’t say. But I do know he’s intent on attributing the incident to a human cause. If I had to take a guess, I’d say the human he’ll blame is Pernell Jones, and anyone else at Confederate Ridge. He talked about how he’s entered a period of settling old scores. Jones, the man who maimed him, is one of those he feels he owes vengeance to, I’m sure.”

  “Did you accept his bargain?”

  “Of course not. I couldn’t, if I was to continue to be Grant Houser. I made the suggestion that perhaps he should ask you instead. I hope that was not a mistake—I don’t want to drag you into a dangerous situation.”

  Callon certainly didn’t seem worried. He did a brief little jig of happiness. “Yes, indeed! Thank you, Kenton. I’d hoped something like that would happen!”

  Kenton said to Callon, “Just remember: Ottinger isn’t interested in presenting the truth. He’s just wants a willing journalist to use as a tool for his own ends.”

  “No need to worry, Kenton. I’ll lie for no one in print. That’s an absolute. But I’d welcome the chance to interview the Colonel…then, of course, publish whatever
is the real truth. Did he truly want to give me his version of the story?”

  “He wants to get his version out so it will be believed.”

  “Good. Good.” Callon paced back and forth very rapidly.

  “Callon, sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I can’t sit down. I’ve been locked up in here too long. I wonder when he’ll send for me?”

  Kenton decided not to mention that the moment Ottinger did so would be the same moment Kenton himself would lose his last chance to change his mind. At that moment, he was sure, he would be in danger of his life. He said only, “Be careful of him, Callon. Ottinger is a dangerous man, in many ways. And he’ll place you in a dilemma: cooperate with him and destroy your professional ethics, or decline to help him and be in danger of your life. It truly could be that serious for you, and for me.”

  “You’ve already refused to cooperate.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve chosen to put yourself at personal risk.”

  “That’s right.”

  Callon was thoughtful a couple of moments, then put on a brave face. “I can do no less. And don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  “Just don’t underestimate Ottinger.”

  “I won’t.”

  Callon stood by the window, peeping out through a crack.

  “Kenton, wake up.”

  Kenton stirred and mumbled.

  “Kenton, wake up. Come here.”

  Kenton sat up, winced, and rubbed his face.

  “Kenton, they’re leaving!”

  “Who?”

  “The people—the survivors. They’re herding them out like cattle.”

  Kenton rose and went to Callon, who stepped aside and let him have a look out the hole. The people of Gomorrah were indeed being moved out, soldiers guarding them. They filed toward wagons parked where the Fort Brandon Road met the edge of town.

  “Do you think they’ll come get us, too?” Callon asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kenton said.

  “If they don’t…would that be a good or a bad thing?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  Kenton watched the people mounting the wagons. A pitiful lot indeed, burned and limping and bedraggled. He wondered if one of the number was Rankin.

  He looked among the number for a woman that might resemble Victoria as she would be at this age. He saw no one.

  The soldiers did not come to get them. The wagons loaded and moved out.

  At dusk, two soldiers came for Callon. “The Colonel wants to talk to you, friend.”

  Callon gave Kenton a tight, nervous grin. “Wish me luck, Mr. Houser. And fortitude.”

  Kenton nodded.

  This was it. Kenton knew the deadline for his cooperation had passed. He was now expendable.

  The soldiers closed and barred the cabin door again.

  Kenton went to the shuttered window and through a crevice watched Callon being led to the Colonel’s quarters. He knew the great pressure that would be brought to bear against Callon over the next little while. He hoped Callon would keep his head and his temper.

  Out in the woods, soldiers were lighting fires, burning the fallen trees.

  He had to get out of here. And away from Gomorrah and Ottinger’s reach. A man who would actually seek to manipulate and reshape the evidence of a natural disaster so he could blame it on an old enemy was a dangerous man indeed.

  Kenton watched the woods grow bright with flame, the soldiers busy and preoccupied with maintaining and controlling the blaze.

  He noticed that, for the moment, no one was directly guarding his cabin. Probably all the soldiers were needed for fire-control duty.

  He began exploring the cabin, examining the corners, the windows, the barred door, even the place where the roof met the walls. At last his attention settled on the fireplace.

  Kenton went to it, knelt, and examined it closely. It was rough, made of stones and crude, sandy mortar. Probably not a particularly strong mortar, either. He scratched at it with a fingernail, then found an iron poker and went at it with that. The results were satisfying, mortar falling away in big chunks, one of the stones gradually loosening.

  He worked hard and fast, but carefully, trying to minimize noise in case a guard returned.

  Colonel Ottinger seemed to be in a calm and reflective mood. He walked slowly through the smoky dusk, hands clasped behind his back, brows lowered, words softly spoken and carefully chosen. His posture, expression, and tone created the impression of Ottinger as a man in control, a man devoted to truth and duty, a man speaking to Callon as one ready to be his friend and confidant.

  Underneath Ottinger’s cool veneer, though, Callon detected turbulence and heat. This was a tense and angry man.

  “I’ll not seek to persuade you that I’m generally a friend of journalists,” Ottinger was saying as he and Callon walked side-by-side through the ash-colored avenues of the ruined mining town, which was weirdly lighted now by the flames of the rekindled forest. “I’ve been ill-used by a certain journalist in the past, and have no love for your trade. I tell you this because I’m not a man who wishes for either of us to have any misunderstandings as regards the grounds on which we stand, one to another.”

  “I understand, sir,” Callon said. “I’m aware that, in print, you’ve been a…controversial figure.” Callon, too, was choosing his words carefully, which didn’t come naturally for him. He tended to speak frankly, even rudely, particularly when he knew he was being toyed with, lied to, or manipulated.

  “Controversial. Yes. I’ll accept that designation,” Ottinger said. “A man who is firm and decisive, a man who acts upon his best instincts and highest motivations, often stirs controversy. Such has been my situation all my life. But I’ve been misunderstood and misinterpreted through the years. The wartime incident that rendered me so controversial is one that has never been rightly understood by the public at large. But I, sir, am not a self-serving instigator of some needless massacre, as I was characterized in print. I am a devoted servant of my nation and my President, and of the great moral order of this universe.” He paused, then said, “Write that down, if you would. ’I am a servant of my nation, my President, and the great—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve got it,” Callon said, scribbling on his notepad. Ottinger had only moments ago returned to Callon the pad and pencils that had been confiscated when he was captured by the soldiers.

  Ottinger glared angrily after Callon cut him off. Callon noticed and took warning. Careful there, Paul, he counseled himself. This is a volatile man. Don’t let his cloying ways make you lose your temper here. Play along with him for now.

  Callon read the quote back to the Colonel, just to look cooperative. Ottinger now looked pleased.

  “Yes, right. Now, as I was saying, though I’ve got not much favor to grant to the journalistic trade, I do believe your presence here can be useful. Clearly a terrible event has happened in this town, and it’s important that the people of this nation understand precisely what caused it.”

  “A natural event of some kind, sir?” Callon asked.

  “It might appear so. But no, this event, I’m afraid, was caused by human agency.”

  Callon scribbled and nodded. Ottinger was saying the things Kenton had predicted.

  “The town of Gomorrah was destroyed by deliberately set explosives that were put in place, no doubt over a period of several days, by men of the lowest character and with the greatest hostility toward this nation and its people,” Ottinger said.

  Callon stopped writing. “You mean to say that all this destruction was deliberately done?”

  “Precisely. The fire, of course, spread naturally after it began, but the initial cause was a planned, carefully designed detonation.”

  “Brought about by whom?”

  “Write this down: Done by a band of insurgents who, after all these years, bear the deepest of resentments stemming from the late war of Southern rebellion. Former Confed
erates are whom I’m talking about, sir. Men who have failed to put the past behind them and still plot and connive toward the harming of this nation and its people.”

  Callon frowned. “Who are these ‘insurgents,’ precisely?”

  “All of their individual identities I don’t know. I do have cause to believe they are led by a former Rebel irregular and murdering bushwhacker whose identity I will not yet reveal.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking about the purported compound of unreconstructed Rebels that is supposedly somewhere in these mountains around us, are you?” Callon asked. “The so-called Confederate Ridge compound?”

  Ottinger seemed surprised that Callon was ahead of him. The man clearly wanted to lead in this little dance, not follow.

  “I suspect we’re thinking of the same people, yes,” Ottinger said.

  “But I don’t understand,” Callon said. “What would be the point of such an act? What would these old Rebels hope to gain by destroying a mining town?”

  Ottinger’s jaw clenched again; his one good eye bulged angrily and his brow furrowed. He put out a gloved fist and shook it. “Symbolism, young man! Symbolism! These damned unreconstructeds are not rational men. They are men of emotion and anger, men who are utterly unwilling to admit their defeat even after nearly two decades, yet also utterly unable to do anything substantive about their frustrations. Therefore they choose to act in a symbolic fashion. Having hidden in these mountains, hating the very nation that harbors them, they now see the tendrils of that growing nation reaching toward them. The railroad, the telegraph wire, the roadway, the cattle trail, the mining town. They see the mighty United States expanding, growing stronger and larger while they grow weaker, and their frustrations boil and fester all the worse because of it. Thus they reach out and strike, in an almost childish manner, through the planned destruction of a town.”

  Chapter 15