Crossings (27 page)

Seeing the cabin through the eyes of a man who'd just spent nearly a month in civilization, he admitted that there were certain aspects of city life that could be deemed agreeable. After years of only seeing wildflowers, he'd been treated to windowsill tulips and daffodils in boxes. There were lawns at certain residences that looked a lot better than the sunbaked, barren grass in the low country. The trees even had some good points. Their deep, peaceful shade could be enjoyed while sitting on a swing beneath them. And indoors, he could account for two things that this place lacked: high ceilings that seemed a damn spacious relief after the low log roof of this cabin. And closets. Helena's place had closets.

“Jesus  . . .” Carrigan muttered. “What am I doing thinking like this?” He needed to ride out to the land. All one hundred and sixty acres of it. To reaffirm that that was what he wanted. That that was where he would be happy.

Carrigan called for Obsi, who'd disappeared under the bed. The dog came out with an elk bone locked in his teeth.

As Carrigan closed the door and stepped off the porch, the odor of smoke reached his nose. At first he thought the smell was from his smoldering cigarette. But when he checked, the butt had burned itself out. Sharp apprehension coursed through him. The muscles of his forearms tensed beneath his sleeves; his hands hardened into fists. His heart began thumping madly as his gaze searched the treetops in the direction of Genoa. Over the lofty spires of green, a snake of gray smoke slithered skyward.

Carrigan instantly set out in a run down his mountain. He was seized by the terror surging in his blood. The fire serpent was deadly, for it had bitten him once before. Flames were a worse enemy to him than the soldiers he'd fought in the Mexican War. Because fire took no prisoners, consuming everything in its path. And God help him, with the wind in this direction, Helena was in the road.

*  *  *

Carrigan pushed his legs to their limits in a mad race down the center of Main Street. His lungs burned from the breakneck pace. General confusion reigned among the men who blocked his way. He shoved past a group of onlookers onto the boardwalk, sprinting over half barrels of merchandise and anything else that obstructed his path. Women, some holding babies, and children crying fearfully were gathered on the front entry walk of the Express station to watch the blaze. The fire hadn't gotten this far, but was on the opposite side of the street devouring the fourth building from the corner. Rather than fight the monster,
many were making a wild dash for safety. But there would be no ground to stand on unless that fire was put out.

Thrusting the door to Gray's general store inward, Carrigan found the interior deserted. He pushed through the curtain partition, then ran through the house and slammed out the kitchen door. Obsi ran next to him in a considerable state of excitement, his frenzied barks filling the vacant yard. The horses had already been driven into one of the outlying paddocks. From the stables, frantic shouts arose. Then Eliazer, his wife, Emilie, and Helena came out with wooden buckets in each hand.

As soon as she saw him, Helena stumbled but kept her balance and went straight for one of the watering troughs. The wind blew cinders in showers. “Help me,” she pleaded. “We're going to wet the roof of the stable down so it doesn't burn.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, gripping her with imploring fingers. “It won't do any good if that fire gets on top of you.”

She broke free of him. “Don't say that.” Dipping first one, then the other, bucket into the water, Helena struggled to hold the handles while moving briskly toward the ladder on the side of the lofty building. “Get water! Quickly!” she told the others.

Precious seconds ticked by, and Carrigan anxiously gazed at the sky, which had grown thick with smoke. “You won't have enough water, and you can't climb that ladder with the weight you're carrying.”

“Don't tell me no!” she screamed in a moan, water sloshing the sides of her skirt. “I have to try!”

“Then try,” he yelled, snatching one of the buckets from her hand. “I'm going to make sure that fire doesn't have the chance to burn you out. But if it breathes one spark into that rooftop, swear to me you'll run!”

She defiantly said nothing.

He roughly caught her elbow, taking her unawares
and fiercely yanking her toward him. “Swear it, damn you!”

“This is everything I have!” she cried.

“You're everything I have,” he shot back. “I will not lose another woman to a fire fiend. Do you hear me? I won't let you kill yourself. Swear it!”

Her mouth quivered, and the blue of her eyes widened. The tone of her voice came out in a barely discernible whisper as she said, “I . . . swear.”

He shoved her away, firmly told Obsi to stay, then fled the stockade, still holding the bucket.

Pandemonium had broken out in the street, but someone had had the brains to at least form a bucket brigade. As Carrigan drew up to the conflagration, dust and hot ashes blew into his eyes. He squinted, staring into the burning blaze, momentarily blinded by its consuming power. The first building to go had been Wetherill's barbershop. Constructed of wood with thin paper covering interior walls, it had ignited as easily as newspaper in a woodstove. A column of fire shot through the roof, which was in imminent collapse. Glass fell in shards from the windows, as if giving the flames the right to enter. Samuel Paster's bootery shared a common wall with the barber's, and the smell of burnt leather was heavy in the air the moment smoke began to seep beneath the door.

Carrigan fell into the line of sweating men who were passing the buckets. No sooner had he tossed his container to one of the runners who were making passes to the water source than he received a full one in its place from the fellow behind him. In a handoff to the well-dressed gentleman in front, Carrigan barely made eye contact with him, but was given as stern a staring in return as the brief time would allow. Carrigan didn't remember the man and could see no reason for the hostility in his gray eyes.

Sparks flew like explosive celebrations out of the boot shop's chimney, which was nothing more than a barrel chinked with mud. One of the fire bugs caught
in the rubbish pile on the side of the building, spreading to a mound of iron castings, where the red glows mercifully fizzled out. The business next door was Noonan's grocery. Built of wood, it was extremely dry and ripe for a fire. Within five minutes, flames had reached the roof and were bursting through the front windows.

“Get back!” came the hollers as glass sprayed the sidewalk.

The man with the gray eyes turned on Carrigan. “Move back, will you!”

Carrigan had already taken several sizable steps to the rear, so the reprimand was unnecessary. Had he the opportunity, he would have asked the man what the look was for. As it was, the wind was fanning the fire straight for the stockade. There was only a narrow alley, Mayhew's butcher shop and the expanse of Nixon Street keeping the wave of destruction from hitting Helena. The one hope Carrigan could see to keep the flames at bay was to outrun them by dousing Mayhew's. They could climb the stairway on the side of the building and water the roof.

A blast roared from the grocery as some type of contained chemical ruptured from the heat. Men scurried away, the brigade temporarily forgotten. Carrigan tried to stop several men and yelled, “Leave the grocery! We can't save it. Get to the side of the next building! We'll water it down!”

The man who'd been in front of him scoffed at the idea. “That won't work! The place is going to go up in flames. Keep trying to put out Mr. Noonan's, everyone!”

“Noonan's is gone,” someone said as the roaring fire fed on its awning and posts. “I think Mr. Carrigan is right, Judge Kimball. We can't save anything here. Let's try and hold it off so it can't burn anything else.”

Kimball. Carrigan took a hard look at the judge Helena said was powerless at finding her father's
killer. This man had the appearance of a growling bear with a sore toe. He had the power.

“Hell yes to that!” seconded a third party. “It's my business we're talking about, and I'll do any damn thing I can to save it!”

“You're Mayhew?” Carrigan asked, pulling his thoughts from Kimball.

“I am. Can you help me?”

“You bring me enough hands and I can.”

Mayhew hollered into the streets for volunteers. Carrigan led a group of men up the outside stairway, while a handful of others stayed behind to follow the judge's advice. In the confusion, Carrigan didn't have a moment to read Kimball's expression further, but he felt those steely eyes on him as he retreated. Wind-borne fire carried pieces of roofing, swirling great clouds of dust and ashes for Carrigan to dodge. He quickly put Judge Kimball at the back of his mind.

Taking the stairs by twos, Carrigan ran halfway across the roof. A sheet of flames from the grocery rose heavenward and danced about. An abrupt shift in the wind, and he felt his hair singed from the heat alone. The orange eyes of the serpent stared holes right through him. Momentarily frozen in his steps, Carrigan grew transfixed by his mighty opponent. He despised fear, and never more than now did he feel it working through his blood. This is what had taken Jenny's life . . . bringing her into this hell. Roasted alive in a blazing inferno was not his idea of glory . . . nor a way out of sorrow. He'd never go this far to be released from pain. Never. If only . . . if only he'd been there to stop her.

The water buckets soon flowed, and Carrigan, being in the front of the line, had to snap out of his flashback to dash toward the wavering flames beckoning from the adjacent rooftop. He was momentarily lost in the smoke, coming back out again, choking and coughing, only to handle another bucket and return to
battle the insidious enemy before it leaped across the building.

The water brigade did keep the flames at bay for a while, but didn't quell them. Fire beads shot through the sky, raining down on Carrigan and the men who were struggling to keep Mayhew's from ruin. There was no way to increase their efforts. Each one was pushing himself to the limit, and water could not come any faster. It looked to Carrigan as if they would have to abandon their cause. His only thought was Helena and what was at stake for her. With a quick glance, he tried to see her on the stable roof. Eliazer was there, his bulky figure not suitable for the kind of energy walking swiftly across a pitched roof demanded. Before Carrigan could see who would follow the stock tender, he had to return his gaze to Mayhew, who stood behind him, and grab a fresh bucket of water.

Droplets fell on Carrigan, wetting his shoulders, but he couldn't immediately discern the source. At first he thought they came from Mayhew's water bucket. Only when he turned, Mayhew wasn't holding a bucket. It was delayed farther down the string.

“Did you feel that?” Mayhew asked, lifting his gaze. “I just felt it again!”

Carrigan tilted his chin, aiming the flat brim of his hat skyward. First one, then a second, drop splashed on his face. The thickened sky, like a dark ceiling, stood still . . . but from it came the kind of refresher that makes itself known in spring. Rain. Plump drops fell from the hooded clouds, dissolving the tiny sparks that bounced at Carrigan's feet.

“It's raining!” Mayhew screamed, passing the word down the line. “Rain!”

The moisture began to fall in a large downpour. Pools filled in the dimples of Mayhew's rooftop as dirty men stared at each other with mouths agape in disbelief. In prior weeks the lot of them had cursed the rain for mucking up the streets. Now they embraced
and blessed it with wide, welcoming arms stretched toward the heavens.

Like a river, rainwater filled the gutters of Mayhew's. The firefighters began filing down from the building and congesting the streets. The shower prevente the fire from spreading, cooling hot ashes and putting out many of the spot fires in the fallen structures. Smoke damage from scorched wood filled the air with a putrid smell.

With his sleeves blackened by soot and a multitude of tiny cinder holes in his shirt, Carrigan stood with the others and surveyed the smoke and embers of the surrounding ruins as they hissed and steamed . . . slain. The blaze had taken half a city block. Smoldering and charred remains left the ground black and reeking.

“I want to thank you,” Mayhew was saying to Carrigan as rain steadily plummeted around them. The butcher had reached out and encompassed Carrigan's hand with a tight squeeze. “The place would have been at least half-gone.”

Carrigan saw the light of indebtedness in the man's eyes. He didn't like it. Not wanting anyone to feel like he owed him anything, Carrigan shrugged out of Mayhew's grasp with an affirming nod and began walking toward the stockade.

His ruined shirt was soaked through, and his pants stuck to his legs. Water fell in rivulets from his hat, wetting the back of his neck where his hair rested on his collar. Helena stood in the opening of the stockade gates, rain droplets streaming over her pale face. Obsi was at her side. Rather than go to her, Carrigan veered away and the dog came after him. Out of her sight and to the side of the high wall encompassing the Express station, Carrigan took in wavering gulps of air, swallowing the bile that rose in his stinging throat. With one hand leaning on the rough timbers for support, he emptied his stomach.

*  *  *

After the fire had been put out, an emergency town meeting had been called at Singleton's Hall in the Nevada Hotel. The townspeople had converged in the room indiscriminately used by the preacher, several debating clubs, the ladies' auxiliary, and at least one prisoner. On that occasion it had been before the courthouse had put in a cell, and a man accused of swindling had been chained to the printing press of the
Territorial Enterprise.
That was before the newspaper operation packed up and moved to Carson City.