The man’s name was Shapiro, and in the morning light he reminded Mark Straker of a sallow weasel. Straker had roused the fellow from his cot in the corner several minutes before, having arrived long before the opening of the posted business hours. His earliness was deliberate, for he wanted this transaction to be private and undisturbed.
Shapiro was sitting in a printing office as disheveled as himself. Straker wondered how a business this new could have managed to grow this dirty. He sat cleaning his nails as Shapiro read the handful of script-covered foolscap he had given him several moments earlier. As Shapiro finished the last sheet, Straker leaned back and yawned. He had been up late the previous night, ostensibly “guarding” the Deverells but actually writing what he now felt was quite a good piece of work.
Shapiro put down the pages and scratched his head with a spider-leg finger. Remarkably thin, Shapiro was rumpled and tousled; his wiry dark hair, clipped short, stood up straight on his head. Straker had to swallow a chuckle when it struck him that with hair so stiffly upright, Shapiro could make a sideline income renting his head out as a horse brush. Judging from the ratty filthiness of the man’s topknot, he could almost believe Shapiro had done just that.
“Where’d you get this?” the printer asked.
“That doesn’t matter. The question is how quickly you can print it for me. The author wants it on a single page, like a broadside, so he can display it around town.”
“The ‘author,’ huh? Who’s the author?”
“He wished to remain anonymous.”
“I can see why.” He picked up the sheets again. “If I read this right, it sounds like he’s saying that this here—” he scanned for the name that was escaping him, “this here Squire Deverell is really Briggs Garrett!”
“I don’t really want to comment on what it says. My assignment was just to bring this down here and have five hundred copies printed, as quickly as possible.”
Shapiro read the title on the top sheet. “‘Confession of a Traveling Journalist.’ Interesting.” He smiled slyly. “Hey, I bet I know who you are!” he said. “You’re the partner of that Brady Kenton, ain’t you! The Illustrated American! I heard Kenton and a younger fellow are in town. Kenton wrote this, didn’t he!”
Straker deliberately fidgeted, letting his manner answer the question affirmatively while saying, “I really can’t say any more.”
“Hah! I knew it! But I got a question. If Kenton wants this published, why not just put it in the Illustrated American?”
“There are some matters too, well, controversial for a publication of that type. There are time factors to be considered, too, when the information is as crucial as this. Brady says he…” He put on the expression of a man who has just realized he has said too much. “Never mind that. Don’t take any of that as a confirmation of your speculations.”
Shapiro’s eyes glittered. “Yeah, yeah. All right. I don’t know a thing.” He slapped the back of his hand onto the papers. “You know, this could be dangerous to me if I printed it.”
“I see no reason it should have to bear the printer’s name, do you? There are other shops in town—no one will know who did it. You can deny it along with all the others. Anyway, I think you have a moral obligation to help get this information before the public.”
“Well, I do have a backlog to consider, too. Other jobs lined up and waiting, you know.”
Straker didn’t believe that for a moment. He knew that Shapiro had been open only a week and had printed no more than one stack of shoddy-looking hand-bills for a dance hall. Straker had picked up saloon intelligence about Shapiro, checking him out for this job, and knew he was as ratty in heart as he was in grooming. Shapiro had come to Leadville fresh after being fired from a printshop in Denver. Rumor had it the firing offense was suspected theft of a spare press, probably the very one now set up at the rear of this seedy one-room operation.
Reaching into his pocket, Straker pulled out a roll of bills and placed them on top of the foolscap. “Perhaps this could persuade you to make this job your top priority,” he said.
Shapiro’s spidery fingers wrapped around the bills and pulled them into his palm. “I believe that will take care of the problem.”
“Good, good.”
“I can have the broadsides by, say, tomorrow afternoon.”
Straker shook his head. “No. Tonight.”
“Tonight! I can’t possibly—” He glanced at the bills in his hand, then nodded. “All right. Tonight. When will you be by to pick them up?”
“I won’t be. All you need to do is put the loose stack on a rooftop somewhere where the wind can hit it. That will do an ample job of distribution.”
Shapiro looked amazed. “You want these printed and thrown to the wind?”
“What better way to spread them anonymously? And I suggest you make sure no one sees you with these.”
“Yeah. All right. I’ll do it…but I’ve got to warn you: It won’t take anybody long to figure out that it’s Brady Kenton who wrote this.”
Straker had now stood. “Oh my, do you think so?” he said in a very sincere tone. He headed for the door, turning his back on Shapiro. When his face was hidden, he smiled. “I surely hope you’re wrong about that, Mr. Shapiro.”
The knock echoed through the empty store building below Kenton and Gunnison’s rooms. Kenton put down his notepad upon which he had been writing furiously and stood.
“Maybe it’s Perk, come to give us some news,” he said as he and Gunnison descended the interior staircase.
It wasn’t Perk, though, but a tall and well-dressed black man. Gunnison thought he seemed familiar and realized all at once that this was the man who had driven the O’Donovan family from the police station to the Chrisman house in that curtained carriage.
“Mr. Kenton, sir, my name is Gableman,” he said in a deep, creamy voice. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but my employer has asked me to deliver you this.” He handed Kenton a gilt-edged envelope. “It’s an invitation to diner this evening,” he said. “Mrs. Chrisman is a longtime admirer of the Illustrated American, and your work in particular, sir, and did not want you to depart Leadville without paying a call, if you will.”
Kenton opened and read the neat little invitation card. “You may tell Mrs. Chrisman that we will be glad to attend.”
“‘We’?” Gunnison said.
“Yes—the invitation includes you…see?” He handed the card to Gunnison.
“Mrs. Chrisman will be pleased, sir,” Gableman said. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business now, and look forward to your visit tonight. Thank you.” He gave a polite little dip of his long chin and turned toward the street, which was rapidly filling with Leadville’s morning traffic.
At that moment a voice rang out from somewhere on the street: “Kenton! Brady Kenton!”
“What the—”
“Damn you, Kenton, come out here and face your accuser like a man!” the same voice cried. Now its source came into view through the bustle of people, almost all of whom now had stopped to observe what was happening.
“That’s Mrs. Deverell’s nephew, isn’t it?” Kenton asked Gunnison without taking his eye off the approaching young man.
“Yes—Straker I think his name is.”
Straker’s face was red and his voice tight with seeming fury. He stopped about ten feet away from Kenton and spread his stance wide. A finger came up and shook toward Kenton’s face.
Gableman, who looked very unsettled but no less dignified, quietly stepped back. This was not his affair.
“Kenton, who the hell do you think you are, spreading what you’ve been spreading?” Straker demanded in a voice loud enough for everyone within a block to hear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kenton calmly replied.
“I think you do, Mr. Kenton, I think you do. I’ve heard it from a dozen different places now—you’re spreading it across all Leadville that my uncle Squire is Briggs Garrett!”
Kenton, seldom surprised by anything, was now surprised beyond words. “What? Deverell—I never…not once have I…”
Gunnison, who was praying that the apparently furious Mark Straker had not come bearing weapons, looked around at the crowd. From at least a score of expressions he could tell that Straker’s remarkable accusation had been clearly heard by all of them. People began to whisper. Some backed away. Others drew nearer.
“My uncle Squire has been generous to you in allowing you free lodging in his own rooms, and you repay it by accusing him in alleys and back rooms of being Garrett—damn your betraying soul, Kenton, I should have you arrested!”
“I’ve never made such an accusation about your uncle,” Kenton said. “Blast it, the thought hasn’t even crossed my mind!”
“Liar!” Straker shouted. “Liar! I know what you’ve been saying! Everyone knows!”
Kenton was again too taken aback to complete a sentence. Straker stepped forward. “Out! Out of these quarters, right now! You’ll not stay another moment under Squire Deverell’s roof!”
Kenton’s face was red, and his pulses throbbed visibly in his temples. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll be out within five minutes, though I question whether you have the right to force us out.”
“Out! Or I’ll snap your neck with my own hands!”
Kenton wheeled, then stopped. He turned again to face the crowd of people now gathered near the porch upon which he stood. “Hear me!” he called loudly. “This man doesn’t know me, or know what he’s talking about. I’m no barroom gossipmonger. I don’t spread rumors. When Brady Kenton makes accusations, he doesn’t do it in alleyway whispers, he does it in print—and with the facts to back it up.”
Straker’s expression became even more angry, but inwardly he felt a rise of joy: Kenton could not have picked more self-damaging words, as Kenton himself would soon enough realize.
Kenton said to Gunnison, “Come on, Alex. Let’s gather our things.”
“Sir,” Gableman said, stepping in from the side.
“Yes?” Kenton sounded angry, but Gableman apparently knew the anger was not directed at himself and did not seem to take offense.
“I think I can tell you with reasonable assurance that Mrs. Chrisman will be glad to store your possessions for you until you can find new lodging. In fact, sir, she may be able to help you even on that latter score.”
Kenton raised his brows. “Mrs. Chrisman seems to be a particularly helpful woman.”
“Oh, she is, sir, she is.”
Straker gave a final call. “Get moving, Kenton. I want you out of there right now!”
Kenton’s face again went crimson. “You’ll have cause to regret this, Straker!” he shouted. Wheeling, he walked back into the building and toward the stairs. Gunnison followed.
“That sounded an awful lot like a threat, Kenton,” Gunnison said. “Do you think you should have said it?”
“Probably not, Alex. But my temper got the best of me, and what’s said is said. Come on—let’s get packing. I want to get out of here.”