Chapter 31

 

The photographer’s flash momentarily blinded Eph as he stood at the back of the large room in the courthouse that was serving as a makeshift viewing arena for the three bodies he and his men had brought back to town. The room was a flurry of agitation and wonder, filled with town officials talking in excited voices. Soon the photographs of the wanted men would be plastered on the front page of every newspaper west of the Mississippi.

The undertaker had stayed up with Eph long into the night, preparing the bodies. Making Clayton Wymore presentable had been a challenge, and since most of his face had been crushed, they mutually agreed, for the sake of those with weak stomachs, that a shroud should be placed over the outlaw’s head. Eph had already wired the Denver City sheriff’s office, as well as numerous county agencies. Soon, news reporters from every town in the territory would descend upon Fort Collins, eager to catch a glimpse of the bodies of the last of the Dutton Gang.

Wrought with sleeplessness, Eph had gathered his deputies at the onset of dawn and gave them the task of keeping order while he sent off the many telegrams. He’d told Jenkins in the telegraph office he’d be expecting replies, and to watch in particular for one from the Denver City sheriff. Eph sent a query with a brief description of the dead woman, but he doubted he’d learn anything. He knew as much about the Dutton Gang as most anyone, and although the outlaws had engaged plenty with women—mostly of the unsavory type—he’d not heard of any so close to the gang that she’d be privy to the location of the stash of gold. But they’d spent months in hiding, and there was no telling who Hank Dutton had brought into his confidences.

Tired of the sweaty, sweltering room full of gawkers—and soon to get even more packed and claustrophobic—Eph squeezed through the crush of onlookers to get a breath of fresh morning air. He worked his way past jubilant townsfolk who showered praise and gratitude on him as he walked the narrow hall and exited onto the boardwalk. A crowd had gathered at the corner in front of the Old Grout, and upon seeing him emerge from the courthouse door, they cheered in an uproarious manner.

Eph tipped his hat at the smiling faces, but his joy was still dampened by the lack of word about his missing persons. He’d sent Coon out early, before dawn—after finding the hotel owner sitting in his lobby with a shot glass of whiskey in his hand. Coon made no apology for his premature imbibing. Only raised the glass at Eph in a celebratory salute. Eph figured Coon was still making up for all the years of prohibition that he’d had to endure until recently. Coon, though, comfortably situated in a large leather chair, was quick to his feet at Eph’s request to ride up to Whitcomb’s ranch and see if the cattle rancher would spare some of his men to search the river canyon for signs of Connors and the woman.

Now all Eph could do was wait. He had to stay in town and field the questions and respond to the telegrams. He doubted Fort Collins had had this much excitement in many a year.

Just as he was about to duck into the telegraph office, he spotted Alan Patterson, the courthouse clerk, rushing toward him. The small bespectacled man waved his arm and called to him.

“Sheriff, Sheriff!”

He came pounding to a halt in front of Eph, his face flushed and his curly hair flying out from under his hat. Eph smoothed his moustache and waited for the serious-faced clerk to catch his breath.

“Where’s the fire, Patterson?” he asked with a chuckle. Surely there’d be no more kidnappings today.

Patterson glanced left, then right, as if on the scout for another member of the Dutton Gang. “I have something I need to show you,” he said. Then his face soured. “Has anyone seen Malcolm Connors yet?”

Eph could tell by the clerk’s expression that he’d already heard the entire tale of their pursuit and return of the prior day. He gestured Patterson to follow him, and they walked down the boardwalk and turned in at the alley behind the courthouse, where ears would have trouble listening in on their conversation.

“Nope,” Eph told him. “And to be frank, I hold little hope he’s alive. He and the woman were caught in an avalanche—”

“Grace. Grace Cunningham,” Patterson said, his face chalky and perspiring in the cool morning breeze. “And Connors—that’s not his real name. He’s Montgomery Cunningham. Grace’s husband.”

Eph’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?” While Patterson slipped a satchel from his shoulder and opened the ties, Eph chewed on Patterson’s words. He recalled Connors coming into the assessor’s office that day, inquiring about employment. He seemed to remember the fella was married too. But not to Grace Cunningham. Odd.

Patterson pulled out some sheaves of paper. “Here. Look. This here’s his offer of employment. And this here’s his marriage certificate, showing he and Grace were married in Bloomington, Illinois, back in 1874. And this here’s her ring.” He handed Eph a small wooden box.

“I don’t understand,” Eph said. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Connors—I mean, Montgomery Cunningham—was swept away in that flood last year—when that bridge R. V. Cloud built over the Poudre was washed out, remember? He lost his memory, and somehow he ended up married to a woman named Stella. They purchased a homestead south of town last fall.”

“And?” Eph wondered where Patterson was going with this line of talking, and he couldn’t spend all day standing in an alley. He had important things to do.

“Sheriff—that woman you have dead and lying in the courthouse? That was Connors’s wife.”

“His wife—?”

“And not just his wife. Her real name is Lenora.” He lowered his voice to a trembling whisper. “Lenora Dutton.”

Eph jolted back and studied Patterson’s face. Dutton? “Hank Dutton’s sister?”

“No, his wife.”

“Dutton was married?” Eph narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know that?”

“From a pal in Denver City. But look—that’s who you got lying in that room—the outlaw’s wife. She knew where the gold was, and she rode out to meet up with Clyde Wymore. ’Member I said I’d seen ’em in town, in that alley? She was there too. Only, at the time I didn’t recognize her. But then, after you all had rode off to go after them outlaws, I recollected I had seen her before. I’d seen her with Connors—I mean Cunningham.”

“Where’d you git those papers?” Eph asked, his mind reeling with this astonishing information.

“I . . . uh . . . went out to his homestead, to see if I could get some information pried out of her. But she had gone, and the house was in shambles, as if someone had been in a hurry to leave. I . . . I found the satchel there, and . . . looked through it,” he said sheepishly.

Eph laid a hand on the shaky man’s shoulder. “Well . . . this brings a whole lot of dark secrets into the light.” Dutton’s wife, hiding out in his town, pretending to be married to some other fella. Or maybe not pretending. Eph wondered how this Lenora had gotten Connors to marry her. It made sense she’d want to disappear under another name and in a small town close to the stash of gold. Eph reckoned she’d been biding her time after her husband had gotten hanged, just waiting for the chance to fetch the gold belonging to the gang.

“If . . . if Cunningham comes back . . . alive . . .” Patterson stuffed the papers and the ring box back into the satchel and handed it to Eph. “I hope he does, and you can tell him.” His face turned thoughtful. “I can’t picture how he’ll react to all this news. What with him being legally married to Grace, and his other wife lying dead over yonder.” He tipped his head toward the courthouse door.

Before Eph could say another word, Patterson hurried off, flustered and emotional. Eph scratched his head at the clerk’s odd manner.

Well, that sure was some hair in the butter. Which made him wonder if this Montgomery Cunningham had somehow regained his memory. For why else would he have been so adamant about joining the posse? And risked his life sliding down a rope to save Grace—his wife? Eph shook his head. This surely was a story for some penny dreadful, that was certain.

Lenora Dutton—posing as Connors’s wife. She must have been the reason Wymore kidnapped Grace. No other possible explanation made sense. Woman’s jealousy? Maybe she did love Connors and he’d realized he was married to someone else. He had a hunch Lenora put Wymore up to the kidnapping. But now, he’d never really know, would he? All parties involved in the kidnapping were dead. It sure was a strange turn of events though. And one he had little time to ponder at the moment.

He slipped the satchel over his shoulder and strode to the telegraph office. As soon as he rounded the corner, grateful citizens of Fort Collins hounded him with praise and questions. He smiled and answered them in polite but terse phrases, pushing his way inside. Lenora Dutton. Who would have figured? Well, that was one piece of the puzzle put in place. He’d best send another telegram to the Denver City sheriff and to Governor Routt’s office. Likely there’d be someone who’d recognize the woman’s face and could confirm Patterson’s claim.

 

 

Grace walked unsteadily in the too-large ankle boots Mr. Whitcomb had given her, but those were the only shoes he could find that were close to her size. Every step made her wince in pain, but she knew those wounds would heal. Whitcomb had instructed his Mexican cook to find her suitable attire from a closet full of clothing that Whitcomb said various and sundry guests had left behind after attending parties at his ranch. In a loose-fitting white button blouse and pretty olive-green skirt, Grace made her way out to the wagon awaiting her out the front door of the spacious log home. How wonderful it felt to be washed and wearing clean clothes. To have a full stomach and be alive to live another day.

Gratitude spilled from her heart as she saw Monty standing by the wagon hitched up to a team of black mules, Ben in his arms, wearing a brown work shirt, brown trousers, and some old scuffed boots Whitcomb had given him. They’d all had hot baths and a hot meal late in the night, once their wounds had been tended to by the ranch’s vet. Grace barely remembered anything besides the delightful soothing feel of the hot water on her skin, and she’d been allowed to bathe an hour in a private room in an oversized tub—a luxury for her scratches and scrapes and bruises that stung and throbbed. She’d given Ben a lukewarm bath and nursed him, and after a long, hard sleep in a marvelously comfortable bed, she’d awakened to his smiling face and chubby fingers patting her cheek, his fever gone and his light-pink color restored to his face. The vet said he’d been dehydrated, and his exposure to the cold had brought on the fever. They’d all had a dangerous brush with death, but by the grace of God—and Monty’s unwavering determination—they’d survived.

Monty’s eyes brightened with love upon seeing her. He came over and took her hand and led her to the wagon. Presently Eli and LeRoy came out of the log home, the smiles wide across their faces as they chatted genially with Whitcomb on the wide porch. She’d been stunned to learn, later that night, they were here, at this ranch. And that they’d joined the posse to come rescue her. At breakfast, sitting at a long heavy oak table with the Whitcombs and Monty, the two brothers related the entire story of their coming to her rescue, and Grace had been shocked to hear how Clayton Wymore had died. She could tell they were holding something back, for they glanced at her from time to time, worry searing their eyes.

“You ready to head back?” Monty asked her. Ben reached out his arms for her and she took him, inhaling the fresh lavender scent of his hair, and planting kisses on his cheeks. How good it felt to hold him in her arms, to know he was out of danger.

She looked at Monty, who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. But what would happen now? She thought about Stella and wondered what she was doing in this moment. Was she worrying over Monty? What would Monty say and do upon returning to Fort Collins? Through their ordeal, she hadn’t allowed herself to think ahead, not knowing if they would survive. But now . . .

She wanted nothing more than for Monty to wrap his arms around her, and ride off with her, far away from Fort Collins. But she could only meet his eyes with polite aplomb in the presence of all these men. Whitcomb’s ranch hands were busy in the front yard with daily chores, hauling hand wagons loaded with hay and pumping water into troughs. Off in the grassy fields grazed hundreds of longhorn cattle, red and black, and the air was redolent of moist grass and hay and cow. From where she stood she could neither see nor hear the river, and for that she was glad. She’d had enough water and rivers for a lifetime. A few clouds floated lazily across the sky, and the mountains glistened in the morning summer sun. It was a glorious morning, and she was glad to be alive to breathe it all in.

She calmed her anxious heart. Somehow, some way, she would get her Monty back. She’d had no time alone with him since they’d arrived at the ranch. But she would have to speak to him soon and tell him the truth—hopefully before he set eyes on Stella.

Just thinking about her made Grace’s pulse race. Just what was Stella up to? What did she want with Monty? Well, Grace planned to find out. She knew Eli and LeRoy would help her, as would Clare. Maybe if she could expose Stella’s secrets, Monty would leave her and not look back.

Monty took her hand and helped her up to the wagon’s bench seat. His gentle touch sent a shock of warmth tingling across her skin. Eli and LeRoy came trotting over.

“Let’s git goin’,” Eli said, hopping into the back of the wagon that was littered with scraps of hay. “Clare’s gonna kill me if I don’t git you two back to town quick as a wink. I’m sure she’s sick with worry over you, Grace.”

Monty had been surprised to learn that Grace knew the brothers, and she’d explained to him at breakfast how she’d met Clare. Grace was glad that Eli and LeRoy hadn’t said a word to Monty about what she’d divulged in secret—about Monty’s true identity and his past. About her being married to him. They acted as if they hadn’t an inkling at all, and for that she was grateful. Though, she saw the questions in their eyes and knew they wondered just how much she’d told Monty during their ordeal.

Mr. Whitcomb came over and shook the brothers’ hands. “Well, I have to hand it to you boys—ya done good bringin’ in that herd. And I thank you for givin’ me the pick of the mares.”

He gestured over to a ranch hand who was walking toward them, leading a saddled quarter horse. “This fella yours?” he asked Monty.

Monty swiveled to look at the horse being led. “Hey, it’s Rambler.” He rushed over to the gelding and threw an arm over its neck, patting it and beaming in affection. “Where’d ya go, fella?”

“I reckon he got tired of waitin’ for you up on the mountain. He ran in with the herd,” Whitcomb said. “But he sure seems happy to see you now.”

Monty chuckled. “And I’m happy to see him.” He took the lead rope from the rancher and tied the end of it to the side of the buckboard. He said to his horse, “Well, pal, you had your fun, but it’s time to head home.”

Whitcomb turned to Grace and patted her hand in a fatherly manner, and smiled at Ben, who reached out to grab the man’s thick beard. “I’m glad you an’ the young’un are all right. You take care now, and may the good Lord take a likin’ to ya.”

Grace thanked him with a heart full of gratitude, and after shaking Monty’s hand, the rancher ambled over to the bunkhouse and went inside.

Monty climbed into the back beside Eli as LeRoy took a seat next to Grace and picked up the reins to the two large mules that stood half asleep in their harness. LeRoy’s face was exuberant as he gazed out over the wild horses in the pasture.

LeRoy had recounted at breakfast how he and Eli had chased the herd down the mountain to Whitcomb’s ranch. The horses had made so much noise that a mile before they came upon the ranch, the hands were ready for them. With the help of all Whitcomb’s men, they funneled the herd into fenced pastures, where they now grazed, no longer free to roam the open range.

LeRoy said to Monty, “Glad you got your horse back.”

“Wait till Clare hears about the herd,” Eli said, fidgeting with excitement behind her on the flat bed. “She’s gonna fall on her face.”

LeRoy laughed and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “She didn’t figure on us ever catchin’ that stallion. They’ll sure bring us a passel of money.” He nudged Eli. “Now you can marry Clare proper—give her that fancy wedding she wants.”

Eli merely chuckled and stared out at the mountains.

“You picked a ring out yet?” LeRoy asked in a prodding tone.

Grace listened to their playful banter as LeRoy drove the wagon down the long flat dirt road. After a mile or so, they emerged out from under the arch that Grace had seen all those months ago on that stormy day—the name “Whitcomb” carved in wood overhead. How long ago that seemed. She had been so happy, so innocent. They’d just come from Illinois to Cheyenne, ready to begin their exciting new life in the West. They’d hardly been in Colorado Territory a day before tragedy struck.

Grace shivered as they turned down the well-packed road south heading toward Fort Collins. She’d heard a new bridge had been built in the place of the former one—the one she’d watched tumble into the muddy waves of the angry river. Trepidation and fear clutched at her throat as they approached the crossing, and she shut her eyes, not wanting to look at either the water or Monty. Would he recognize this place, now that he’d remembered that horrible day?

As the mules’ hooves clomped on the bridge’s wood planks, she felt a hand light on her shoulder. Then, Monty’s words came softly to her ears.

“I told you I’d get you home safely, Grace Cunningham. There’s never a need to worry. The Lord always makes a way.”