When he first saw the policeman dragging along the drunk, Kenton found it humorous.
The officer, a staunch-looking fellow in the standard Leadville blue uniform, was towing a young drunk roughly up the street, one hand gripping his elbow, the other twisting his ear to discourage any thought of running away. Strangely, the officer was holding the drunk as far away from him as he could and had his head turned away. On his face was the offended expression of a man carrying a sack of rotting fish.
Kenton grinned, but his grin faded abruptly when something drew his attention away from the policeman to the drunk. Brady Kenton had lived too long to be surprised by much, but he was surprised now.
The drunk was none other than Alex Gunnison.
The journalist made sure his pistol was well hidden beneath his jacket and walked toward the officer, eyeing Gunnison all the way. The young man looked terrible; he was covered with muck, and his hair was so sodden and disheveled that he looked like a man just yanked out of a long-term sickbed.
Gunnison’s bleary eyes fell on Kenton when he was about twenty feet away. “Kenton!” he said, sounding a little more vigorous than his looks would lead one to anticipate. “Thank God!”
The smell of whiskey reached Kenton’s nostrils; Gunnison reeked as if he had bathed in a whiskey barrel. But the smell of liquor was mixed with a putrid dead stench.
“Here now—who are you?” the officer asked Kenton suspiciously.
“I’m Brady Kenton,” he replied. “And this, uh, drunk…he’s my partner.”
“Brady Kenton? Of the Illustrated American?”
“Yes.”
“Aye, I heard you were in town.” He gave Gunnison a shake. “I must say, Mr. Brady Kenton, that you could stand keeping a tighter leash on your companion.”
“So I can see. Alex, what’s happened to you?”
“I don’t remember…there was a hole, something foul and dead, and trouble—trouble I can’t remember. I don’t know how I got here, Kenton. I was somewhere else, I can’t remember where, and then I woke up and I was lying in an alley.”
Kenton’s surprise was turning to concern. Gunnison seemed distraught and disoriented, maybe injured. There was more to this than simple drunkenness…and Gunnison rarely drank at all.
“Officer, may I ask you a favor? I’d like to ask that you show some mercy in this particular case and turn my partner over into my custody.”
“Mercy? By the saints, I wish this lad would have considered showing mercy to poor old Clance Sullivan and not go wandering the streets in such a state. I found him staggering about, scaring the wits out of every decent soul he passed—and for that I can scarce blame them, smelling like he does.” The policeman had the strong accent of an Irish commoner.
“Please, officer. I’ll see him to his bed and keep him there until he’s fit to get out.”
The policeman seemed interested. On any particular night in Leadville there were plenty of other concerns besides one staggering young sot to keep him busy. “Aye…well, Mr. Kenton, I’m told you are a man of good standing, and I’m inclined to take you up on your kind offer. Lord knows I’m not eager to have this one stinking up the jail the rest of the night.”
“I’ll see he gets a good washing-down in the bargain,” Kenton said.
The officer let go of Gunnison’s arm and steered him by the ear over to Kenton. “Take him and be gone, then.”
“Thank you, Officer Sullivan. You are a decent man.”
“Just a tired old street plodder is what I am, and if ever you want to have a sad story for your Illustrated American, just come and let poor old Clance Sullivan tell you about his woes.”
“I may do that, sir, if you are serious. Thank you again.”
“Off with you both. Go on.”
Gunnison leaned over the washbasin and scrubbed the filth from his hair. His clothing lay in a reeking heap in the corner, and the floor was damp from his splashing in the basin. It was ten minutes past midnight.
The cleansing of his body was bringing refreshment and new strength to Gunnison, but his feeling of distress and a forgotten danger that cried out for remembering was only growing stronger. Kenton stood near his side, looking worried, questioning Gunnison closely.
Gunnison hardly heard the questions, for the images that had flashed across his mind since his awakening were more frequent now, and more detailed, occupying his full attention. Memory was beginning to stir: A pit, darkness…a mine shaft. Climbing down a ladder…a burned rag of cloth on a nail…the death smell from below…
“If I had to guess the smell of what was on you, Alex,” Kenton was saying, “I would say it was burnt flesh. Not only burnt, but decaying. Mighty strange thing.”
Burned flesh…a body, at the bottom of the pit…a rope around the neck…a voice crying out above, a child’s voice…
Lundy O’Donovan.
Gunnison shuddered and leaned forward weakly against the washstand as full memory flooded back. The basin tilted and fell with a clatter to the floor, sending water flying.
“Alex!”
“Kenton, I remember now, I remember.” Gunnison turned to Kenton, grasped his shoulders. “Lundy O’Donovan is in danger, Kenton. We’ve got to find him before it’s too late—if it’s not too late already.”
“In danger? Lundy O’Donovan? Are you addled, Alex?”
“In the name of heaven, Kenton, don’t doubt me now! You have to listen: Lundy O’Donovan may have been taken…may have been killed!”
“Killed? By whom?”
Gunnison took a deep breath and forced himself to become calm. He ran his fingers through his wet hair. “I don’t know. But maybe by Briggs Garrett.”
Kenton’s expression became as black as a thundercloud. He drew in a sharp breath and stiffened, his eyes growing fiery.
“I remember it all now, Kenton. There’s a place we must go at once. An abandoned mine, with a dead man inside. I’ll explain along the way—and if we can, we need to take a police officer with us.”
“Are you well enough to lead us there, Alex?”
“Yes, yes! But we have to hurry—Lundy’s life may depend on it.”
Kenton nodded. “Get on some fresh clothes, then. I’ll see to the pistols.