CHAPTER 20

THE guard, nervous now, narrowed his eye again. “If I put my pistol away to roll a smoke, you won’t run?”

“I don’t think it would be necessary for me to run,” Kenton said. “I think we’ve perhaps reached an understanding, you and me.”

“Perhaps.” The watchman slowly put his pistol away, slipping it into a backwards holster riding high on his left hip. He then removed papers and tobacco and rolled a cigarette. He was nervous and handled the job poorly, spilling tobacco all over. At length he had a smokable cigarette, which he put onto his lip as he reached for matches. As he fired up the cigarette, he eyed Kenton through the rising smoke.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re Brady Kenton, I believe.”

Kenton considered lying, but rejected it. He was too easily identifiable. “I am, indeed.”

“A successful man, you are. A man of some means.”

“I’m not wealthy by most standards. Successful, yes.”

“I want a hundred dollars. That’s the price of my friendship.”

Kenton actually felt relieved. He’d expected to have to pay a much more costly bribe than that. He frowned, though, as if he’d just been deeply gouged. “You’re an expensive friend, sir. May I reach for my wallet without you reaching for your pistol?”

“You may.”

Kenton produced his wallet, hoping he had the needed amount of cash. He did, with only a couple of dollars to spare. He handed the money to the watchman, who snatched it eagerly and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Thank you … friend. I think you can go now.”

Kenton frowned. “I smell smoke.”

The other laughed, a little contemptuously now that he had, in his own mind, gotten the best of the famous Brady Kenton. “Of course you do. I’m smoking a cigarette.”

“What I smell isn’t tobacco smoke.”

The watchman dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot. He stepped out into the hall.

“Fire … there’s fire upstairs! Smoke blowing down the stairwell…”

Kenton was up and past the watchman in a moment. He ran toward the stairs, pausing a moment to assess the amount of smoke, then pounded up them.

The watchman followed, not as speedily or bravely. He was wondering how all this was going to look for him. How the devil had a fire started? Would he be blamed? He hadn’t even been on that floor—but he couldn’t tell them that, because he was supposed to patrol every floor during his shift. Would they figure out he’d been sleeping in the basement most of the night? What about Brady Kenton’s presence? Would that become known, and the fact he’d just taken a bribe from Kenton?

The smoke was thick in the upper hallway, and it thickened the farther the guard progressed. Kenton had already vanished into the roiling darkness ahead. The only light here came from the fire itself, the exact location of which the watchman hadn’t yet pinpointed.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Where are you!” Then he couldn’t yell at all, for hot smoke had filled his throat. He gagged and coughed and choked, and knew he had to turn back. He turned and advanced, and ran into the wall where it seemed to him the wall shouldn’t be. Confused, he turned the other way, and ran into the wall again.

Panic set in. He felt he was lost in a box that was steadily filling with choking smoke. He slammed the wall again, turned, and could no longer tell at all which way he was moving.

Heart hammering, lungs filled with something like airborne acid, he felt his consciousness begin to fade and his legs lose their strength. He sank to the floor and closed his eyes.

*   *   *

Alex Gunnison came to a stop in a dark Denver back street and leaned against a telegraph pole, panting and sweating.

He wasn’t sure how far he’d run or even exactly in what direction. He’d deliberately taken odd turns and twists, cutting up driveways and through alleys, and even across a couple of dark yards, in an attempt to elude anyone who might have pursued him out of that office building.

As he caught his breath and shook off his panic, he began to realize that the effort had probably been overdone. No one had pursued him, apparently. All he’d managed to do was to get himself lost, and separate himself from Kenton.

A dog in a nearby yard began to bark at him. He ignored it, leaning against the pole, resting, beginning to worry about Kenton. Had Kenton gotten away, or been caught? Gunnison hadn’t lingered to see if Kenton came out of the building after him. He’d assumed that he had, and that they’d reconnect back at Kenton’s rented dive, but now he wasn’t sure.

The dog’s barking stirred someone in one of the nearby houses to come to a back door and yell at Gunnison: “Get away from here, you sorry drunk! Go lean on somebody else’s pole!”

Gunnison waved contemptuously in the direction of the unseen shouter. He’d been heckled enough in Leadville; he’d not abide more of it here in Denver. But he also straightened up and began to walk away, hoping to find his bearings once he reached a main thoroughfare.

It took longer than he’d expected, but finally he located a street he recognized and began walking in the direction of Kenton’s room.

He was alone on the street except for the occasional pedestrian or passing horseman. Most of these either ignored him or gave a casual tip of the hat. A friendly city, Denver. And a place where a man could walk the streets after dark and feel safe.

Not that Gunnison himself felt particularly safe at the moment. Being nearly discovered breaking into a publishing office had given him the willies, and every shadow seemed like a pursuer.

He passed the cafe whose window Kenton had shattered, and winced at the memory. The place was still under repair, and Gunnison considered that Kenton was surely taking a great risk in staying in Denver after pulling such a foolish stunt—especially while living in a rented room within view of the very place whose window he’d demolished. Maybe this evening’s experience would rid him of his obsession with that ridiculous manuscript.

Gunnison headed up the stairs to Kenton’s quarters, hopeful of finding Kenton waiting for him there. He certainly hoped Kenton had gotten out of that publishing office … heaven forbid he’d been caught!

Gunnison reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner, then stopped, aware suddenly of another human presence near the door.

“Kenton, is that you?”

The figure advanced, and Gunnison knew right away it wasn’t Kenton. He backed away, reaching beneath his coat for his pistol.