Shadow of Legends (22 page)

“What will Brazos say when he returns?”

Todd could envision his father's flushed face and clenched fists. “He threatened to put us out of business if we didn't sell. I don't figure Daddy will be too pleased with that. Is Olene still in town?”

“He's not leaving until tomorrow. Are you going to talk to him?” Lander quizzed.

“What is there to say? He's free to do what he wants, and we're free . . . well, we would be free if these two outlaws get captured.”

“I suppose so. I don't think I've known of a time in the past three years where so many good men in this town were either absent or preoccupied.”

“Mr. Lander, I still say you should jam those gold bars in your best safe and leave them there until you get your regular messengers back.”

“But, the Secretary of the Treasury said . . .”

“You can stall him for a day or two. He won't send in the troops . . . which wouldn't be a bad idea. Maybe you should ask for an army escort from Fort Meade.”

Lander windmilled both hands with limp wrists. “I couldn't do that. That would be an admission that we can't look after ourselves in the Hills. That's an image we've tried so diligently to overcome. How will we achieve statehood if we have to rely on federal troops to conduct our regular business?”

Todd rested his hand on the shorter man's shoulder as they walked to the door. “Elijah, we aren't ever going to have statehood until the folks in Yankton and Bismarck decide to get along with each other.”

“Yes, quite so.” Lander continued to wave his hands. “The fact remains, we have to handle this ourselves and prove that we can keep a schedule.”

After Mr. Lander left, Todd surveyed the store from the staircase at the back of the building.

It's just a hardware store.

A mining camp hardware.

Goods, parts, mining supplies.

Nothing fancy. Nothing special.

Except memories.

Memories when there were only a dozen tents in this gulch and those that wintered out were convinced they would freeze, starve, or get slaughtered by hostiles.

But businesses come and go. A big eastern store . . . it would bring prices down . . . for a while. They must be counting on the railroad coming in soon. That could be five, ten years away.

But prices would be cheaper. For some. For a while. After they drive off competition, it will be difficult not to raise prices.

Todd hiked up to his second-story office, then strolled to the Main Street window to glance over at the Wells Fargo office. He thought he could see a few sprinkles dripping into the dusty street from the dark clouds.

The whole reason for building Fort Meade was to protect the Black Hills. I can't figure why Lander is so dead set against rousing out some troops for the treasure coach. Stubbornness is what it is, mining camp stubbornness. “We don't need any help, and we'll put a fortune in gold on the line to prove it.” If I can convince him to just wait two days, the treasure messengers will be back and they can ship out like normal.

The Secretary of the Treasury? I think Daddy knows the Secretary of the Treasury or is that the Secretary of War? Doesn't matter. Even if he were pals with President Rud Hays, Daddy's just like Mr. Lander. He wouldn't send for troops no matter what.

Todd caught up three days of bookkeeping and made out his orders for the following week. He heard someone sprint up the stairs but didn't bother to turn around and look.

“You get those deliveries made, Carty?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“No one else has the energy to race up the stairs this late in the day. Did you have any trouble?”

Carty looped his thumbs in his suspenders. “None, but the mines have the guards out and armed to the teeth. People drivin' up the road ain't friendly until they see who you are. It's like everyone's expecting somethin' terrible to happen.”

“As soon as the sheriff brings in those two ol' boys, it will quiet down.”

“I surely do wish Daddy Brazos was home,” Carty added. “He'd get things settled down in a hurry.”

“He'd probably enjoy the whole thing a lot more than we do. The old man thrives on adversity.”

“I have an idea,” Carty blurted out. “Why don't you send a telegram to Buffalo . . . or Fort McKinney . . . and see if they know where Daddy Brazos and Yapper Jim happen to be? They could be home in three or four days if they knew we were in trouble.”

“We do not need to send for Daddy Brazos,” Todd said.

“I thought you said . . .”

“What I said was, we all would enjoy having them home,” Todd snapped. “But that doesn't mean we can't handle this ourselves.”

After Carty slunk down the stairway, Todd stared across the room and out the window at the low-hanging clouds that blocked his view of Mount Moriah and White Rocks.

I guess I'm as stubborn as Landers. But I've got to know. Can I make a decision . . . carry it out . . . protect my family . . . lead the commu­nity . . . without my father around? A man has to learn that sometime.

Perhaps this is my time.

If it's not, may the Lord have mercy on us.

Todd spent the rest of the afternoon going over detailed drawings of an addition to the Hallelujah Mine's stamp mill building. His desk was piled high with bolt catalogs, charts of stress tolerances, and wholesale steel company price lists. In the milk bucket used for a trash can was deposited the twenty-five-page price guide for Olene Steel Company. He was calculating a bid on the hardware and had just tallied his final sums when Carty Toluca poked his head up the stairs.

“That attorney fella is downstairs wanting to talk to you.”

Todd kept his thumb on the total at the bottom of the page and glanced down at Carty's head. “What attorney?”

Carty scooted close so his thin face was between the perpendicular wooden rails of the stairs. “Mr. Watson Dover.”

“He's still in town? I thought he left.”

His hands on the rails, Carty looked caged, or jailed. “He came back.”

“Why?” Todd fastened the top button on his shirt and straightened his tie.

“There's another man with him. A doctor.”

Todd pushed back from the desk and marched toward the stairs. “Doctor Gordon? Did he bring Abigail's husband with him?”

Carty remained halfway down the stairs, his head peeking up into the second-story room. “I don't know. I just told 'em I'd announce they was here. I told 'em you was busy.”

The man standing next to the Chattanooga attorney was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with premature, solid white hair. With tailor-made, charcoal gray suit and four-in-hand forest-green tie, he dominated the dusty hardware filled with grubby prospectors and white-aproned clerks.

Todd marched right up to them. “Mr. Dover, I really didn't expect to see you so soon.”

A wisp of dark hair shot out from under the attorney's round hat, drawing attention to his furrowed forehead. “The doctor was waiting for me in Spearfish.”

“He came all the way to Dakota and then sent you into the hills to do the dirty work?”

“I think I do a good job of representing my client.” He turned to the white-headed man. “Dr. Gordon, this is Mr. Fortune, who I have described.”

Neither man exhibited much enthusiasm in the handshake.

“Fortune's a younger man than I thought.” Gordon's complexion was pale, but he looked like the type that could easily redden. “I understand you are representing my daughter's mother?”

Todd surveyed the well-dressed Tennessee doctor. “I'm a friend of Abigail's, that's all, not an attorney.”
I wonder if he feels as out of place as he looks?

“I would like to know where she is; I don't intend on staying in this wretched hole in the ground any longer than possible.” The doctor's bushy eyebrows narrowed, his lips tightened. “I understand she has not been in her room at the Gem Theater, nor the hotel room she rented for her mother and daughter.”

Todd Fortune stared at the scowling steel-gray eyes of Dr. Gordon. “I'll be quite happy to pass the word along. Did you want to meet with her?”

The doctor tugged at the starched French cuffs and tweaked the gold and onyx cuff links. “I didn't come this far to enjoy the scenery.”

Todd folded his arms across his chest and nodded toward the hills. “That's too bad. It's nice scenery.”

Gordon pulled a gold pocket watch from his silk brocade vest. He flipped it open, closed it, then dropped it back into his pocket without glancing at the time. “Will you assist us, or should I turn to the sheriff?”

“The sheriff's out in the hills trying to catch some bushwhackers. You have my permission to try and track him down. I presume your words were meant as a veiled threat.”

Impatience swept across the doctor's face. “Perhaps that was a poor choice of words.”

“Perhaps it was,” Todd said. “Here's a primary rule of life on the frontier: every threat, veiled or not, will be taken seriously and challenged. Now, if you would like to schedule a meeting with Abigail, give me a time and location, and I'll see what I can arrange.”

Gordon looked over at the attorney, then back at Todd. “How about in one hour at my room in the Merchant's Hotel?”

Todd pointed back over his shoulder in the general direction of Forest Hill. “How about in one hour on the front porch of my house? Mr. Dover is well aware of where it is.”

The doctor reached into his coat pocket as if to retrieve something but pulled his hand out empty. “On the front porch?”

“Mr. Dover has been banished from entering our home by my wife. Surely an attorney that represents his client well told you about that.”

With a tone like he was instructing his staff, Dr. Gordon announced, “We need to find a more neutral place. I have important matters to discuss with her . . . alone.”

“You mean, Mr. Dover will not be there?”
Does this man always get his way?

“Of course, I'll be there. There are legal matters to decide.” Dover patted the coffee-colored leather briefcase at his side.

“Good,” Todd added, “I was afraid you meant just the Dr. and Mrs. Gordon. I understand the last time they were left alone, the doctor threatened to give Mrs. Gordon a broken jaw.”

Dr. Gordon clenched his fists at the accusation. “I'll have you know that I never intentionally struck that woman.” The air in the hardware was a stale mixture of oil, leather, and cold iron. Gordon's large round nose widened as his face flushed. “I do not intend to stand here and be accused by a complete stranger.”

Todd took a deep breath. He could feel his heart race.
Lord, help me not to say and do what I very much want to say and do.
“I'm sorry,” he added. “I know it is my Christian duty to be more charitable. I just have a difficult time being civil when I'm in the presence of someone who mistreats women. In the West, such actions are considered by most men to be a capital offense. My wife and I will, of course, be with Abigail, if she chooses to meet with you.”

“I said I wanted a private meeting,” Dr. Gordon huffed.

“What you said was, you wanted your attorney with you so that you two men could badger one lone woman. I will not insult Abigail by taking such a request to her. I will tell her you agreed that we should come along. Now, as far as a neutral place is concerned, how about the private banquet room of the Merchant's Hotel, providing it's not in use this evening?”

Mr. Dover, shorter than either of the others, stepped between them. “That sounds fine. Shall we say, in one hour?”

Todd rubbed his temples in an attempt to force himself to relax. “If we are not there in an hour and a half, Mrs. Gordon has rejected the arrangement.”

“I want to know one thing, Fortune.” Dr. Gordon jabbed his well-manicured finger at Todd, stopping only inches short of his chest. “What is your interest in this matter? Why are you interfering with my former wife's business? I presume she's living at your home. Could it be you have a romantic interest in her?”

The short-barreled .45 Smith and Wesson that normally stayed concealed under Todd's suit coat was yanked out and cocked so fast, Todd could hardly believe it himself. With the barrel prodding his midsection, Gordon lost all color, and his face was almost as white as his hair.

“Wait!” Dover called out, his hand on Fortune's left arm.

Todd's heart throbbed through his temples, shot down through his arm, and pulsated in his trigger finger that pressed the cold steel of the .45. “Dr. Gordon, you have insulted the honor of a fine lady, and cast a shadow on my marriage and my morality. This is the frontier. Men have died in this town for much less than that, and I assure you no Deadwood jury would hold me guilty of a crime if I pull this trigger.” He backed away one step, turned his head toward Dover, but left the gun pointed at the doctor. “Get him out of here, Mr. Dover. Get him out of here . . . now!”

With sweat beaded on his forehead and trembling hands, Watson Dover tugged at Dr. Gordon's arm. “Mr. Fortune is right in some of what he said. This is a different country out here. It would be expeditious for us to adjourn now.”

Dr. Gordon, color returning to his face, said nothing. He shuffled along under Dover's tow.

The banquet table did not have a centerpiece. Nor did it contain place settings, glasses, or a tablecloth. It was a bare, round, quarter-sawn oak tabletop with pillar and paw feet. Along one side were three straight-back wooden chairs. Across from them, two chairs with well-dressed, slightly nervous men standing behind them.

Todd tipped his hat toward them. “Dr. Gordon, this is my wife, Rebekah.”

He nodded, but did not take his eyes off Abigail. She stared back at the doctor. Her face poised, her voice steady. “I do not intend to shake your hand, Doctor, if that is what you are waiting for.”