Jonas Brodbent entered Madden’s office. “The new reporter for the Lodestone Gazette just said the gold’s petered out, and he’s going to write about it! You’d better talk with Faraday right away!”
“Who’s the new reporter?”
“John Stone.”
Madden stared into space. “What’s he look like?”
“Dangerous. On his way to City Hall to check records.”
“He won’t find anything there.”
“Maybe it’s time to salt another mine.”
“Been thinking about that myself. You know somebody who’ll take care of it?”
“Got just the man. You’d better have a talk with Faraday in the meantime.”
“Tell him I want to speak with him, and don’t worry about the story. It won’t be written.”
~*~
City Hall, a two-story wooden building in the center of Lodestone, sat opposite a park with benches and a flagpole flying Old Glory. In the land registration office, an elderly man with thick eyeglasses sat behind a desk and scratched a pen on paper. A map of the territory hung on the wall. “What can I do for you?”
“Just hit town,” replied Stone. “Wonder if you could show me where gold’s been discovered lately. Want to get close to the mother lode as I can.”
The old man shrugged. “I knew where the mother lode was, I’d be digging with the rest of them.”
“Thought I read in the Lodestone Gazette about a gold strike a few days ago.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. You want to know about gold, go to the stamp mill. That’s where they extract the stuff. The foreman should be able to tell you where the best samples’re comin’ from, but there’s no guarantee you’ll find gold there. Might be a million dollars underneath your chair, nothing beneath mine. Used to be a prospector myself, lost my shirt. But don’t let me discourage you. Millionaires were made in this territory.”
“Name one.”
“Jacob Sloat. Lives on the top floor of the Sheffield. Joe Grigsby’s up there too. So’s Jeff Depew. They’re the first to strike it rich in Lodestone.”
“No strikes since then?”
“A man could make his boodle and leave without saying anything. You want to find out about gold, ask at the stamp mill. That’s where it all ends up sooner or later.”
~*~
Jonas Brodbent saw John Stone walk out the front door of City Hall. The assayer ducked into an alley, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He circled, entered the rear door of City Hall, climbed stairs to the second floor, and found the old man bent over his desk in the land registration office.
“You talk to John Stone?” Brodbent asked.
“You look like you’re gonna have a conniption fit, Jonas. What the hell’s wrong?”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Go to the stamp mill.”
Brodbent blew out the corner of his mouth. “Don’t ever tell anybody about the stamp mill. John Stone’s a newspaper reporter, trouble’s his middle name. Anybody asks you again, the hills’re full of gold.”
“That were so, the whole world’d be here.”
“That’s the idea.”
~*~
Rebecca sat on a stiff-backed unpadded wooden chair, the Bible balanced on her bony knees. I held the crowd in the palm of my hand, but the Devil’s daughter bested me.
The preacher lady dropped to her knees. Why did you let it happen, God? What do you want of me? She hadn’t eaten all day, she was woozy, thirsty, but refused to surrender. God snowed displeasure because she lusted for a man. We’re made perfect through suffering.
She folded the Bible under her arm, headed for her bedroom. Curtains covered the windows, she undressed in the darkness. A thick leather belt studded with nails jutted into the flesh around her waist. She unfastened the buckle, a few rows of nails pulled away from her body, revealing scabs and festering pustules. Sucking in her stomach, she tightened the belt two notches, nearly fainting from constrictive pressure.
Barely able to breathe, she dropped her black dress over her head and buttoned the bodice. Pain washed up and down her body. She fell to her knees and whispered: “Thank you for the gift of your suffering, O Lord.”
~*~
Patricia sat in her living room, crocheting a cat onto a pillowcase. Should I go back to Maine? They’ll say I couldn’t keep my husband. Look how fat she got.
Tempted toward the kitchen, she could choose between chicken, cake, leftover mashed potatoes, ham. Her mouth watered. She forced herself to remain seated, hefty legs visible in the folds of her skirt. The struggle was constant. Sometimes she won, sometimes she lost. To hell with it. Maybe some people need more food than others.
Gail and Patricia entered the hall corridor at the same moment. “I just had the most wonderful walk!” Gail declared. “What an interesting town! I even saw a riot in front of the Grand Palace, that place you told me not to go!”
“A riot? Was anybody hurt?”
“A miracle somebody wasn’t killed.” Gail walked into the living room, her cheeks flushed with emotion. “That woman Belle McGuinness was in the middle of it! I thought she was going to shoot a strange religious woman in a black dress, all she needed was a broomstick!”
“Miss Rebecca Hawkins, our local lunatic. In any other city in America, they’d have her in an asylum, but in Lodestone, she walks around like everybody else, ranting and raving. Why was Belle McGuinness going to shoot her?”
“Missed the first part. I think you’re wrong about Belle McGuinness, Patricia. Never saw a woman like her. She was ready to take on the crowd. She would’ve killed, do you understand? She’s a wonderful human being!”
Patricia collapsed onto a chair and buried her face in her hands. Gail sat beside her sister and placed her arm around Patricia’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Even my kid sister’s on the enemy’s side. Patricia wiped her nose with a hankie.
“Momma used to say sometimes it’s better if you tell someone,” Gail reminded her.
“Bart’s having a love affair with Belle McGuinness.”
Gail stared wide-eyed at the far wall. She’d heard about things like this happening in the best of families, but not hers. “I’m sorry.”
Patricia dabbed her eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t blame Belle McGuinness. Maybe it’s my fault, because I’ve become such a fat pig.”
“It’s not your fault. How long has Bart been seeing her?”
“Just found out recently. He buys her gifts.”
“Get a divorce. You’re still beautiful, Patricia. You could get married again. Lose a few pounds ...”
~*~
Edgar Faraday hustled down the sidewalk, carrying his briefcase, stovepipe hat askew on his head. His breath came in short gasps and his chest felt tight, the usual symptoms accompanying the possible loss of advertising revenue.
Madden’s bank advertised heavily in the Lodestone Gazette, and every time Madden formed a new company, its existence was announced with an ad. Faraday was anxious to clear up the mess, go on to the more rewarding task of publishing his crusading newspaper.
He arrived at the Lodestone Savings Bank. Madden sat behind his desk, puffing a cigar as he shuffled papers. “Have a seat.”
Faraday dropped to a chair. Madden looked at him. “Fire John Stone.”
“But he’s the best reporter I’ve had in years.”
Madden cringed beneath the compliment for his archrival.
“He asks too many questions, makes unfounded allegations, such as this region’s tapped out.”
Faraday turned on his old newspaperman’s charm. “I decide what goes into the paper, Mr. Madden. You can be sure I’d never print any unfounded allegations. Besides, he has a second job. Manager of the Grand Palace Saloon. I fire him, he’ll spend more time with Belle. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Does everybody know? Madden thought. “Changed my mind. Give Stone more assignments, keep him busy. But if one disparaging remark about the economic prospects of this region ever appears in your newspaper, you’ll end up on your obituary page.”
“Lodestone is the fastest growing community in the Rockies,” Faraday replied. “Chances are we’ll be here after Denver’s gone and forgotten. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper to get out.”
~*~
Belle McGuinness paced her living room, scowling. She wore a black gown embossed with gold lion heads, hair piled high upon her head. Every time she passed the bottle of whiskey, she paused for a drink.
She thought of Rebecca Hawkins humiliating her in front of the whole town. The dirty-faced daughter of a whore cringed, afraid to go out and play because the other kids made fun of her.
She’d been terrified in front of the Grand Palace. Crazy woman, dried-up old witch, can’t take a walk without her jumping all over me. Belle stamped her foot on the floor. I know what she needs.
Her hand trembled as she raised the glass to her bright red lips. Half in the bag, not even noon yet, because of that damned harpy. Belle dreaded seeing her again. Afraid I’ll kill the bitch.
The triggers of the shotgun a tiny fraction from fire, I’d be the first woman in Lodestone to hang. It’s frightening to lose control. If I see that woman again, God help both of us.
She carried the bottle and glass to the sofa and sat heavily on the cushions. I can’t hide in this goddamn building for the rest of my life, because of that prune. Can’t put up with it any longer.
She closed her eyes. The soft cushions swallowed her beautiful round behind. I’ve come too far to let anybody get in my way. She remembered the sad-faced little girl in a ragged dress, surrounded by taunting children throwing stones. A sob escaped from her throat. “She’ll never do it to me again.”
~*~
Patricia poured tea from a white glazed pot. On the other side of the low round table, Gail bit into an oatmeal cookie. “I forgot to tell you! I ran into that fellow John Stone, the former Confederate officer.”
“The good-looking one?”
“In the space of one day, he’s become manager of the Grand Palace Saloon! Can you imagine? He gave me a tour of the place.”
Patricia stopped stirring her tea. “You went inside the Grand Palace?”
“He said it was safe, because killings usually happen only at night. You’ve heard the expression den of iniquity? That’s exactly what it was. Filthy, dark, smelly, full of the dregs of humanity, but I felt safe with John Stone. I sort of invited him to dinner tonight. Would you rather he didn’t come? I guess I have no right to invite people into your home.”
“If you want him to come, it’s all right with me.”
“I’ll go to the Grand Palace and leave a message.”
“Don’t ever chase a man. They won’t respect you.”
“John Stone’s not like that.”
“I think you’ve got a crush on him.”
“Don’t be silly. I hardly know the man. We’re just friends, that’s all.”
“There’s a messenger service we use. I’ll show you how it works.”
Patricia wrote the invitation, folded it, and put it into an envelope addressed to JOHN STONE. Gail followed Patricia to the back porch, a bell mounted on a wall. Patricia rang the clapper.
“Poor Negro children live in shacks on the other side of town,” Patricia explained. “They run my errands.”
Gail looked at hazy peaks on the horizon. “We think our Maine mountains are big, but they’re foothills here. The West is an incredible immensity.”
“See any injuns yet?”
“Sort of ratty, I thought.”
“Kill you in a minute, and you won’t even know what happened.”
“Can’t be worse than those robbers on the train. John Stone was the only man who stood up for me.”
“He’s brave or crazy. Sure you know which?”
“He’s a real southern gentleman.”
A small figure rounded the corner of a building straight ahead, running at top speed toward Gail and Patricia. He wore ragged clothes and patched boots, nappy black hair clipped short, face smudged with dirt,’ he came to a stop in front of the porch. “Ma’am?”
Patricia handed him the envelope. “Give this to John Stone at the Grand Palace.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Real tall. He’s the new manager.”
“I’ll find ’im, ma’am. You can count on me.”
Patricia handed him a coin. “When you come back with his answer, I’ll give you something to eat, all right?”
He ran away on skinny legs. The sisters returned to the living room. “I hope John Stone is free,” said Gail.
“A bachelor will always accept a dinner invitation, because he knows he’ll have a decent meal that night.”
~*~
A gentleman in a dark suit crossed the lobby of the Crown Hotel in Denver. “Anything for me?” he asked the desk clerk.
“This just came in, Mr. LaFollette.”
Randy LaFollette tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his frock-coat jacket. He had a slim nose, black hair parted on the side, a mustache, one gold front tooth.
His room was silent and dark, cigar smoke and ladies’ perfume permeated everything. He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, illuminating a black-tressed woman lying naked atop the-bed. “You order breakfast?” she asked.
“I’d never let you go hungry, Amanda dear.”
She rolled out of bed. He read the telegram, his face expressionless. Assignment in Lodestone.
“Going away again?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Not too far this time. Be home in a few days.” His face constructed of finely chiseled bones, his every movement bespoke elegance. She loved him, but he was a gunfighter. One day he’d come home in a box.
~*~
John Stone approached the big barn-like stamp mill. A face appeared in a window, sank out of sight. Rotted stumps everywhere, huge forests decimated to keep the mill running, terrific din, air full of acrid smoke. The secret to Lodestone was inside that building. He opened the door.
Six thick steel posts pounded up and down. A system of pulley and leather belts ran along the ceiling. In the middle of the floor, two rows of amalgamating pans with revolving mullers swished water mixed with pulverized ore. Workers pushed wheelbarrows, greased machinery, weighed minerals, wrote on notepads.
Something prompted Stone to look up. A sledgehammer fell toward him! He dived out of the way, the sledgehammer slammed into the floor where he’d stood. Another two seconds, he would have worn it for a hat.
A worker sat high in the rafters. “Sorry!”
Stone picked himself off the floor and dusted his clothes. A heavyset man with short red beard walked toward him.
“What can I do fer you?”
“Just wondering what quality of ore is coming through here.”
“Highest grade.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“He’p yerself.”
The foreman strolled away, but Stone didn’t know what to look for. The air had a bitter chemical odor. Workers shook a fine shower of quicksilver into the amalgamating pans. Others added coarse salt and sulphate of copper. The steel stamps shook the building incessantly.
Stone asked a workman in a dirty apron: “How much gold you getting out of this ore.”
“Talk to the boss.” The man applied a wrench to a pipe joint beneath the pans. A thick jet of steam spewed at Stone, he dodged a moment before being scalded.
“Where’s the boss?”
“Second floor.”
Stone climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, turned the knob. Locked. He descended to the ground level, a group of workers formed below, carrying axes, hammers, a variety of tools.
A man nearly big as he, in a dirty leather apron and no shirt, massive hairy arms folded over his chest, stood at the bottom. Stone reached the last step.
“Get out of here,” said leather apron.
“I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
Leather apron swung his fist at Stone’s head. Stone ducked, then hooked a solid right to leather apron’s jaw. Staggered, eyes rolling around in his head, the bulky man wondered what world he was in. Stone pushed him out of the way and headed for the door.
Rushing footsteps behind him, he spun around and pulled both Colts. They stopped in their tracks.
Stone backed to the door. Outside, a little Negro boy ran toward him. “You John Stone?”
The reporter read his dinner invitation, a faint smile formed. A genuine home-cooked meal after months of saloon and campfire cuisine. “Tell Miss Petigru I’ll be happy to attend.”
The boy ran down the hill. A shot rang out, ground exploded in front of Stone. He threw himself down, rolled over, came up with both Colts smoking, shattering windows in the stamp mill. Then he ran zigzag down the hill, dived behind an outcropping of rock, disappeared.
~*~
Men’s and ladies’ clothing hung in racks lining the walls of the haberdashery store. A stout man with a short black beard advanced toward John Stone. “Can I help you, signor?”
“Want to buy a suit.”
The salesman appraised him like a jeweler with a gem. “You have money?”
“Put it on Belle McGuinness’s account.”
“My name is Luciano. This way, if you please.”
Stone followed him to a full-length mirror. Luciano measured him with a tape. Stone looked at his reflection. What would I think if I saw that coming at me? He stood straighter, sucked in his stomach. Just another cowboy. “I have a dinner engagement at seven.”
“Your suit will be ready at six, signor.”
The little Negro boy pounded on the back door of the Madden home. The maid opened up. “What you want, boy?”
“I got a message frum—”
Gail slipped into the passageway. “I’ll take care of this.” She looked eagerly at the boy. “Did you find Mr. Stone?”
“Said he’d ’cept yer invitation. Can I eat now?”
They led him to the kitchen. The boy stared at piles of food. Gail made a thick roast beef sandwich and set it on the table. “You’ll have to wash your hands first.”
Dirt caked on his wrists and the back of his neck, his clothes practically nonexistent, the pathetic little waif washed his hands quickly in the basin on the counter, then semidried himself with a towel.
“Now?”
Patricia nodded. He pounced on the sandwich, stuffing it into his mouth. Patricia brought him a large glass of milk. Gail found ham left over from last night. Dolly placed a plate of apples and pears on the table. The cook brought bread and butter.
The boy chomped his way through everything in sight, his zeal and concentration wondrous to behold. Warm maternal feelings arose in the hearts of the women. They waited patiently until he finished. He drained the last drop of milk from the glass, leaned back in the chair, burped, and said, “A man needs ter fill his belly onc’t in a while.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Ain’t got none.”
“Where do you live?”
The boy shrugged.
“You don’t have a roof over your head at night?”
The boy didn’t like questions, but the nice ladies always asked. They didn’t know how much it hurt to answer. “Guess I’ll be movin’ on,” he said, raising himself laboriously from the chair. His belly stood out like the sixth month of pregnancy.
“What’s your name?” asked Patricia, following him to the door.
“Tyrone.”
“You don’t have a family?”
He ran to the door, pulled it open, fled. Patricia stood on the porch and held her palms near her mouth. “You get hungry, you come back here, understand?”
~*~
Belle sat before stacks of paper in her office, a glass of whiskey in her hand. “Where the hell’ve you been?” she said to John Stone. “Pull up a chair.”
He sat beside her. She continues at this pace, she’ll be out like a light by sundown.
“You got three things to do in that saloon.” She slurred her words. “The first is make sure the bars’re well stocked at all times. The second is make sure you got enough bartenders for every shift. The third is take care of any trouble that comes up. Want a drink?”
He shook his head.
“You’re in charge of hirin’ and firin’ everybody on the first floor, and that includes the still. You been back there yet?”
“Don’t even know where it is.”
“You’re an ex-Army officer. Thought it’d be the first place you’d go.” She laughed at her joke, took another sip of whiskey.
Bad to drink early in the day, but Stone wouldn’t preach to anybody. He awakened in too many shit piles.
“Din’t I tell you to buy a suit?”
“I saw Luciano. The suit’ll be ready tonight.”
She smiled faintly. I shouldn’t be mean to him. She touched the tip of her tongue to his ear. “I’m sorry if I’m a bad girl, but everything’s a-goin’ agin’ me right now.”
“I thought business was good.”
“It ain’t the business.”
“Heard about you and the preacher woman. She’s just another crackpot.”
Belle opened a drawer and pulled out the gold-plated derringer. “Brought you a present.”
The deadly little weapon fell into his palm. He read the inscription.
“Wear it around yer neck. Might come in handy someday. Somethin’ to remember me by.”
“I’d remember you without any present.”
Something weakened inside her. “Let’s go upstairs and get some grub.”
Jamie Boggs ate his dinner in the kitchen, while Belle’s cook sifted flour for a cake. Jamie’s life was eternal silence, if not peace.
He worried about Belle, remembered the tension in her body as he carried her through the crowd. The religious woman hurt her deeply. She was extremely sensitive beneath her brazen exterior.
Formerly employed by the railroad, he happened to be in the cribs one night when a miner tried to kill Belle. He jumped in and pounded the miner into unconsciousness. She offered him a job. He’d been working for her ever since.
He worshiped her, loved to gaze at her face, felt privileged to serve her, would do anything for her, felt wonderful when she smiled and terrible when she was mad.
He wondered about John Stone. Was he using Belle? Stone spent the night with her, and Jamie didn’t like to think about it. Stone seemed friendly enough, so did lots of bastards. If he ever hurts her, he’ll die.
~*~
John Stone and Belle dined on roast lamb, potatoes, and string beans. A freshly baked loaf of bread sat on a block of wood, a knife sticking out. Stone cut two thick slices and passed one to Belle.
She watched him eat heartily. Find out what he likes. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, though some said the path was lower. She poured another glass of whiskey.
“Something bothering you?” he asked.
“Shore ain’t been my day. My maid quit this morning. Just disappeared. I got to find another one fast.”
“Maybe she’s sick.”
“Would’ve said somethin’.”
“Must be a reason. Things don’t happen for nothing.”
“I went lookin’ for her this mornin’, she was gone.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She was a-leadin’ Marshal Kincaid to the door.”
Stone’s fork dangled in the air. “Maybe it’s got something to do with Kincaid.”
“I don’t think they knowed each other.”
“Where does she live?”
“Niggertown.”
“Know her address?”
“White folks don’t go to Niggertown. You go try it, you’re liable not to git out alive.”
~*~
A drunken miner passed out at the bar, another slept on the floor, a musician played an Irish fiddle on the stage.
Stone checked the liquor stock. In the kitchen, a Negro cook fried steaks at the stove. “Your dog ain’t left since you been here last. Every now and then I throw him a piece of meat.”
The hound gazed at Stone from the corner. Stone patted his head. “I wonder what his name is.”
“That’s just a soup hound,” the cook said. “He don’t get no name.”
The dog looked up with pleading eyes at Stone. “You want a name?” Stone asked. “How about … Muggs?”
The dog barked.
“Muggs it is.” Stone returned to the stove. “You know where Maxine Goines lives?” he asked the cook.
He shook his head no.
“She’s Miss McGuinness’s former maid. I want to talk with her.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“Figured there aren’t many of you people in town, you’d all know each other.”
The cook flipped a steak in the air, caught it in the black greasy frying pan. “Us people don’t all know each other.”
“I’m going into your section of town to find her. You can’t give me any idea where to look?”
“Wouldn’t go there, I were you.”
~*~
The stamp mill slammed in the distance. Muggs followed dutifully along the sidewalk. A pack train of ore-laden mules trudged down the middle of the street. Stone and Muggs arrived at the Lodestone Gazette, Edgar Faraday looked up from his desk. “You’ve been causing me a lot of trouble, young man!”
Muggs growled, baring his fangs. Stone leaned his fists on Faraday’s desk. “Start looking for another town to set up your printing press. Lodestone’s on its way out.”
“Where’s your proof?”
“You can’t prove there’s gold here, and neither can anybody else. They tried to kill me at the stamp mill. How’s that for a front-page story?”
“If I print it, no need to look for another town. I’ll have a bullet in my head, but at least I won’t have to worry about goddamned deadlines anymore. Don’t you understand: This world’s crooked from top to bottom. How many wars’ll you have to fight before you figure it out?”
“What about decent folks being ruined? Shouldn’t you warn them?”
“Give ’em a good story, that’s what they like. There’s one underneath your nose, but you haven’t thought of it. The first three men to strike it rich in Lodestone live on the top floor of the Sheffield Hotel. They won’t talk to me, but maybe they’ll talk to you. People like to read about the rich and imagine themselves living in luxury too. You want to help the people of Lodestone, give them something to dream on. I’ll pay an extra ten dollars for the story.”
Stone left the Lodestone Gazette, followed by Muggs. A crowd of well-dressed people strolled on the far side of the street, somebody called his name. Mr. Moffitt, vice president of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, waved.
Stone crossed the street. Moffitt stood with his friends and associates, plus Mayor Ralston, members of the town council, and Marshal Kincaid, who glowered at Stone.
“You’re still in town!” Mr. Moffitt said. “We were wondering what happened to you. Mayor Ralston, have you met John Stone?”
“Don’t believe I have,” said Mayor Ralston with a broad smile. Every adult a potential voter, he shook Stone’s hand.
Moffitt chomped the cigar in the corner of his mouth and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “You may be interested to know John Stone’s the man who shot... what’s his name?”
“Tod Buckalew,” offered one of the gentlemen.
Moffitt slapped John Stone on the shoulder. “I’d be honored if you’d come to my party tonight.”
“I’ve already accepted a dinner invitation.”
“Stop for a drink afterward. We’re on the second floor of the Sheffield Hotel.”
Stone made his way toward the outskirts of town, Muggs at his heels. Buildings became more decrepit, garbage lay in the gutters. An old white-haired Negro man drove a wagon down the middle of the street, mud sliding and dripping around the wheels. Stone saw Negro children playing on the sidewalk. They took one look at him and ran.
A young Negro woman, slim and pretty, stepped onto the sidewalk, carrying a basket on her arm. Her eyes widened when they fell on John Stone.
“I’m looking for Maxine Goines. You know where she lives?”
“You on the wrong side of town.”
She scurried away. Dusky faces behind windows studied him. He could smell fear. Why’d Maxine Goines give up the best-paying maid job in Lodestone? Stone felt eerie in the silent neighborhood. A leader was somewhere in the community. They could reason together. Probably a lawyer or doctor. Look for his shingle.
Muggs padded behind him, growling in his throat. They heard a piano in the next building. No sign over the door, he pushed it open. The piano stopped. All conversation ceased. He approached the bar.
“Beer.”
The bartender filled a glass. Stone tossed him a coin. “Know where I can find Maxine Goines?”
The bartender shook his head. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife. Stone sipped. The pianist returned to his keys, playing strange rhythms. Stone felt like an intruder. He placed the half-full mug of beer on the bar and walked outside.
Muggs waited for him. A brightly painted barber’s pole grew on the far side of the street, next to a window revealing a Negro getting a haircut. Stone turned the corner and saw a small sign:
CHURCH Reverend Jack Reynolds
Stone crossed the street and knocked on the door. A wizened Negro woman opened it.
“Want to speak with your pastor.”
“What for?”
A Negro man in black suit and white collar appeared in the vestibule. He was in his thirties and wore thick spectacles. “May I help you?”
“I was looking for Reverend Reynolds.”
“That’s me—how do you do?”
They shook hands. Reynolds was an educated man. Stone felt at ease. “I wondered if I could ask you a question?”
“Delia, bring us some tea.”
Reynolds led Stone to a small room with a desk and jam-packed bookshelves. A plain empty cross nailed to the wall, the inscription read: HE IS RISEN.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Maxine Goines.” Stone explained how she’d left Belle McGuinness’s employ under mysterious circumstances. “Could you take me to her?”
“No, because it would place her in jeopardy.”
“From whom?”
“You’re new in town, but you’ve already become Belle McGuinness’s latest lover, new reporter for the Lodestone Gazette, and you push into places you don’t belong.”
Stone was surprised. “How do you know all that?”
“We wash your floors, cook your food, take care of your children. We know everything that happens in your part of town.”
“Did Marshal Kincaid threaten Maxine Goines?”
“Mind your business, you want to keep living.”
“I’m sure somebody told Christ to mind his business, but he didn’t.”
“You’re not Christ.”
“Neither are you.”
Silence for a few moments, the maid brought in a pot of tea with two cups, served the hot green liquid, backed out of the room. Reverend Reynolds stirred his tea.
“They say you’re a gunfighter, Mr. Stone. I’m sure you can defend yourself against anybody, but what about Maxine, and what about me?”
“Maybe I’d better go.”
“You may finish your tea. The damage has already been done.”
“I’m sorry ...”
“Some people like to stir things up, peek underneath rocks, go where they shouldn’t.”
“This town’s going bust, but nobody believes it. Investors stand to lose their life savings in worthless stock.”
“No one in this part of town has anything to invest or lose.”
“When the bubble bursts, everyone will be hurt. Could be riots. It’s happened before.”
“We’ve survived worst. If you want to worry, better worry about yourself, Mr. Newspaper Man. The people who run this town won’t tolerate you long. A miracle you haven’t been killed already. My advice to you: Get on the next train.”
~*~
Stone ambled through the central business district of Lodestone. Something crashed onto his shoulder, the hand of Kevin McGeachy. “Heerd you moved in with Belle McGuinness. When you a-gonna invite me fer dinner?”
Stone eyed McGeachy with new interest. The miner dug earth every day, a prime source of firsthand information about what was in the ground. “You found gold in your mine yet?”
“Once I get below the ledge I’m on now, hit the mother lode.”
“You ever actually meet anybody who struck gold?”
“Lots of ’em.”
“Name one.”
“Them three fellers livin’ on the top floor of the Sheffield.”
“Anybody else?”
“What you drivin’ at?”
“What if this town’s a hoax? What if the mines never were?”
“Couldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“I’d shoot myself, I believed that.”
“Sell the Grand Monarch while you still can. Get the hell out of here.”
“Sometime you give a man a pain in the ass. See you later at the Grand Palace.”
They don’t want to know the truth. Faraday was right. Something drew Stone’s attention to the far side of the street. Underneath the eaves, walking along slowly, Marshal Kincaid glared at him. He knows that I know, Stone thought. Maybe we should have a talk. About what? I know you’re an outlaw. Keep walking. Stay out of his way, hope he stays out of mine.
~*~
The train bells rang and whistle blew. “All aboard for Kansas and points east!”
A Negro porter carried Randy LaFollette’s valise toward the stairs to the railway car. “Should be home by Sunday,” he said to Amanda. “Assignment’s not far away.”
Amanda LaFollette forced a smile, though she felt queasy in her stomach. “Getting cold,” she said. “Don’t forget to wear your sweater.”
He took her in his arms. “Just remember I love you.”
She kissed his lips. “Be careful.”
“Last call for Kansas and points east! Aboooarrrd!”
They parted, he ran to the stairs. A conductor waited, examining his fob watch. The bell on the engine clanged. LaFollette entered the parlor car. Two Negro men in white coats served drinks to an assortment of travelers. LaFollette waved good-bye to his wife through the window. She blew him a kiss as the train pulled out of the station.
He hung his Louisiana planter’s hat on a peg, pulled off his doeskin gloves, sat at a table. Lodestone in three hours. He leaned back and lit a cheroot. A Negro waiter took his order. He thought of Amanda worrying about him. She dragged his mind, interfered with his concentration, but he loved her, needed her, couldn’t get along without her.
He met her in Muncie, Indiana, the schoolmaster’s daughter. She combined a country girl’s wholesome loving heart with a good education in the classics, deserved better than a gunfighter, his life awash in blood, but God brought them together and made her his woman.
The waiter served whiskey. Better off single, Randy LaFollette mused. Concentrate better. But I’d be lonely. Drink too much. Get killed anyway.
Raised in Delaware, son of a lawyer, expelled from numerous academies of learning, black sheep of his family, he had no respectable profession. Once, a long time ago, he shot a gambler over the turn of a card. Then somebody hired him to gun down a business rival. One assignment led to another. An old-timer told him he had talent. He practiced assiduously, invested in Denver real estate, got married, settled down. Life was good.
An elderly gentleman and lady approached the next table. “Do you mind?” he asked LaFollette.
“By all means.”
They sat beside him. “Charles Johnston, and this is my wife, Vivian.”
LaFollette told them his name.
The gentleman had a big white mustache, his wife’s hair matched his. “What business are you in, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. LaFollette?”
“Death.”
Mr. Johnston and his wife paled in the wan morning light.
“I sell equipment and supplies to undertakers.”
Johnston smiled, thankful to be back in the business world again. “You must see a lot of the country. What’s your favorite town?”
“Denver, where I live.”
“We’re on our way to Ohio. Own a small factory there that makes hardware. Your firm might use our tools to make coffins. How’s business these days?”
“I expect it to pick up shortly.”