Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Elkhorn’s judge might be its leading citizen. He might be a man with grand aspirations for himself and for his town. But H. D. Patterson, Justice of the Peace, was also a swindler, an opportunist, and a damn rat.
Caleb had never trusted him, but he’d never taken him for a fool.
Somehow, Starr had proved his value enough to convince the judge—a man he’d injured and humiliated—to remove the noose from around his neck.
None of that mattered. What did matter was that Elijah Starr was free to walk the same streets that Caleb was walking. But not for long.
Zeke told him where Starr was staying, and Caleb walked down Main Street, barely noticing any of the faces he passed.
The fancy new hotel, erected and open only a few weeks before the festivities surrounding the eclipse, was just beyond Lewis’s hardware store and the bank, across the street from the Wells Fargo Overland office.
Caleb’s boot heels pounded out a rhythm on the wooden sidewalk, and he recognized the tightening of his gut and the familiar stillness that came over his hands before a fight.
But his mind was off on a track of its own, and his brain was filled with thoughts of what his life had been and what was at stake now.
So many hard miles separated Caleb from Indiana, the place of his birth.
After his mother’s death, he’d run, drifting farther and farther north and west for three years.
The road he’d set off on was filled with more trouble than he’d ever expected.
It was a road Caleb wasn’t proud of. It was a path that required quick wits, a deadened conscience, and occasional savagery to survive.
It was a journey that nearly killed him.
Then one winter day over a decade ago, Jacob Bell—legendary mountain man, trapper, wilderness guide—found him on a snowy bank of the Keya Paha River up in the Dakota Territory. Beaten, robbed, and half-frozen, Caleb had been left for dead.
But he didn’t die. The old man picked him up, thawed him out, and tucked him under his wing.
In the six years that followed, Old Jake showed him how to take hold of the frayed edges of what was left of himself.
He taught Caleb what it took to be a man.
Together, they crossed the frontier from the wide valleys of the Missouri River basin to the rugged gold fields of Montana, and from the cold shadows of Cloud Peak in the Bighorns to the scorching Plains of San Agustin.
Jake was the father figure that he never had.
The old frontiersman was the hero Caleb would try to be.
And one night, sitting around the campfire, he finally told Jake the truth about his past—of what he’d done. It had been the old man’s suggestion that Caleb Starr become Caleb Marlowe.
Everything Caleb was today sprang from his time with Old Jake. The legends that people spoke of were all due to what he’d learned from the aging scout.
Caleb had made a name for himself exploring and opening the frontier to homesteaders pushing ever westward.
He’d blazed trails through Wyoming and Montana.
Before long, even the army sought him out, conscripting him for his skills as a tracker.
When he was through with that, he’d somehow found himself wearing a badge up in Greely for a couple of years.
Caleb paid his dues, trying to make himself live fully every moment and not look back. But his mother was dead. There was no changing that. And his murderous father was still alive.
The hunger for vengeance in Caleb remained too.
But it wasn’t the same anymore.
When Elijah Starr crawled back from the gates of hell, revenge had been the only thing Caleb wanted. Now there was a ranch. A home. A woman whose hand had steadied him only an hour ago.
His father wasn’t threatening Caleb's past. He was threatening everything Caleb hoped his future might become.
The code of the western frontier backed him. Where a man’s honor or the honor of his family was concerned, he must fight. And no one had dishonored his family like Elijah Starr.
Caleb would call him out. And if the truth surfaced that they were kin, then so be it.
As he crossed the dusty street, he glared up through the early afternoon sun at the new hotel.
The place rose a full three stories above the street, and it had more windows than Caleb cared to count.
The name, Silver Elk Hotel, was proclaimed proudly in blue six-foot-high letters, painted across its gleaming, white-washed facade.
His mood darkened even more at the thought of his vile father living like a king in the finest hotel in town. In all of Colorado, maybe.
Caleb went around a covered wagon working its way slowly down the street. A small boy stared at him out the back, his face pinched and serious. A trio of ragged street urchins ran past, followed by a nimble, three-legged dog, and the boy’s attention was diverted.
Caleb climbed the steps, crossed the sidewalk to the double doors, and went in. He stood just inside for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the light.
The lobby of the hotel was as grand as anything he’d seen in Denver or anywhere else.
A chandelier hung from a high ceiling. Beneath it, dominating the center of the room, a carved statue of an elk, painted silver, stood on a stone pedestal.
To his left, the etched glass windows in a pair of doors identified the saloon.
Beside the saloon doors, a clerk stood behind a counter, busying himself with a well-heeled traveler who was waiting impatiently for his room key.
Straight ahead, a wide stairway rose eight steps to a landing, where it split off in either direction to the upper floors.
Dark, carved balustrades supported railings all the way up.
To Caleb’s right, a number of large, upholstered chairs had been provided, apparently for the use of the men presently occupying them with newspapers in hand.
Blue smoke from fat cigars hung like a cloud over the loungers’ heads.
Beyond them, four burly men wearing new, ill-fitting suits and shiny boots, stood in front of two doors.
Caleb recognized two of them. They worked for Judge Patterson.
The etched glass bore the words, ‘Dining Room’, and they were eyeing him with steely, guarded gazes.
He had no doubt that the judge was in there.
By the door, a thin, nervous-looking fella stood behind a table. He was taking charge of hats and gun belts that hung on a row of pegs behind him.
Just to be sure, Caleb went to the saloon door and looked in. The place was full and buzzing with conversation. A few card games were taking place along a far wall. But there was no sign of Elijah Starr.
Going back into the lobby, he again drew the attention of the four by the dining room doors. Before he could reach them, two drew back their coats to reveal holstered revolvers. A third man—only slightly smaller than the others—stepped forward, raising his hand for Caleb to stop.
“Hold on, Marlowe,” he said in a nasally voice. There was no hint of friendliness in the black, hawklike eyes or the tight gash of a mouth. A thin moustache lined the upper lip beneath a fist-flattened beak. “You got business here?”
“I got business, but it ain’t with you.” He started to push past, but the other three bruisers closed ranks, blocking the door. Caleb unfastened the thongs over the hammers on his Colts. His voice was low and cold. “Outta my way.”
The lobby had gone deadly quiet, and Caleb waited for any one of them to make a move.
Hawk Eyes broke the tension. “We ain’t making trouble for you, Marlowe, but we got a job to do.”
“Is the judge alone?”
“Nope.”
“Is Elijah Starr with him?”
The man said nothing, but one of the bodyguards behind nodded.
“I’m going in there.”
“Look, Marlowe. The judge don’t like having his dinner spoilt.”
“Then you’d best get outta my way now.”
Hawk Eyes shrugged. “Suit yourself. But hotel rules say nobody goes in without leaving their shooting irons outside. And that suits the judge. So this young fella here will be happy to hold ’em for you. Ain’t that right, son?”
The clerk nodded uneasily. Caleb didn’t like giving up his guns to anybody, especially since he knew his father was in there. But unless he wanted to shoot it out with these fellas, he wasn’t going through those doors. And it wasn’t their blood he came to spill. He assumed Starr was also unarmed.
Keeping his eyes on the judge’s bodyguards, he unbuckled his gun belt and rolled it up. After tossing it to the clerk, he removed his hat and threw it on the table.
“You’re gonna hafta leave that fancy knife of yours too.”
Caleb pulled the long hunting knife that had once belonged to Old Jake and handed it to the clerk, who stared at it wide-eyed. It was as famous a weapon as any on the frontier. Some believed it originally belonged to Jim Bowie himself.
The bruisers, looking relieved in spite of themselves, made way for him, and Caleb went into the dining room.
His head pounded. His hands turned to fists at his side. Once again, close to facing his father, every muscle in Caleb’s body tensed in anticipation of what was to come.
He scanned the dining room looking for Starr.
Only four tables were occupied, three of them with men suitably dressed for a place so stylish.
Judge Patterson was seated alone at a table by a window halfway down.
Four waiters of various ages stood by a door in the corner, wearing black pants and coats and white aprons that hung to below their knees.
But there was no sign of Elijah Starr.
The sun was streaming in through lace curtains. Patterson was holding a glass of something amber-colored and appeared to be lost in thought. A half-empty glass sat across the table from him.
Caleb looked around the room a second time.