Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Bonedale, Colorado
Elijah Starr stood in the open second-floor window of his office and looked out across the stacks of timber, iron rails, and crates of rail spikes.
A few moments before, clouds along the horizon had devoured the setting sun, and only a few bloodred streaks above the distant mountains colored the darkening sky.
Sounds of revelry reached him from one of the infernal saloons down the one passable street that comprised Bonedale. The raucous laughter and shouts annoyed him, as they always did. But this evening, the addition of some fool playing on a harmonica only added to his irritation.
Elijah fixed his gaze on the dock he’d had built months ago beyond the storage area and the three new sets of tracks.
Two guards with shotguns cradled in their arms stood smoking by a piling at the end of the structure, silhouetted by the fading western light reflected in the water.
As they talked, one of them gestured toward the flatboat that had arrived late in the day.
It was loaded with the final shipment of iron rails that he’d need to complete the branch line to Aspen.
On the riverbank, wagons had already been moved into position for unloading.
Naturally, the teamsters wouldn’t be working in the morning, tomorrow being the Sabbath.
They’d be observing the Lord’s day as they usually did, drunkenly carousing in the saloons.
His crew of Celestials, being heathens, would carry the rails off the flatboat and load them onto the wagons. They had their uses.
A chill breeze picked up, and Elijah closed the window. He crossed the room to his desk and lit a lamp. He looked around the space he’d been occupying for the past six months. He wouldn’t be here much longer, not past September.
He’d been in worse places. Living in a tent and ramrodding construction crews was worse. Here, at least, he had a reasonably comfortable bed in the adjoining room.
His office was a large and airy room with three windows and paneled unpainted walls.
It was adequately equipped with a potbellied stove and two upholstered chairs, a large work table, a high sloped desk in the corner for his secretary, and a solid desk for himself.
Two Rand McNally railroad maps hung on the far wall.
One showed the entire continent, the other covered the central part of the country.
A third, hand-drawn map of Colorado was spread out on the work table along with piles of documents and charts.
The room’s only drawback was the Dry Bottom Saloon, which occupied the first floor of the building.
Elijah carried the lamp to the maps on the wall and looked at the larger one. He needed to consider the future. He was certain his employer would be looking to add to his holdings. And he had a good idea Eric Goulden was looking toward the southwest to expand his railroad empire.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
The voice of one of his men came through from the hallway. “Mr. Starr?”
“Come in.”
Muffled sounds from the saloon downstairs entered with him. “Got a fella here to see you. Says he’s come from Elkhorn.”
“Not Tuttle?”
His man shook his head. “Some dandy. Won’t give his name. Said he’s been on the road for days.”
Elijah frowned. “Disarm him and send him in.”
“Already checked. This fella ain’t no gunhawk.” He handed over a Remington derringer with a black walnut handle. “But he did have this little toy.”
Elijah took the firearm and put his nose to the two barrels. It hadn’t been fired for some time. The visitor outside was definitely no gunman. If this derringer weren’t fired and reloaded every day, it was more likely to misfire than do any damage. He slipped it into his pocket.
“Dandy” was a fairly accurate description of the caller. He entered and stood by the door, trying to look casual as his sharp eyes scanned the interior of the office.
Elijah was tall, over six feet, and this man was close to him in height.
But whereas Elijah was broad across the shoulders, his visitor was thin as a flagpole.
He had a long lean face and cobalt eyes that were set too close together.
A reddish, carefully waxed moustache perched beneath a long, beak-like nose.
He was wearing a light gray suit with a matching vest. The lamplight picked up a reflection from a gold watch fob decorated with a small pendant indicating his membership in a fraternity of some sort.
The fellow removed his light gray bowler, exhibiting thinning ginger hair, plastered flat across the top in an attempt to hide, unsuccessfully, a shiny bald pate.
“Mr. Starr,” he started. Considering his lean physique, his voice was unexpectedly deep and resonant, like that of a stage actor. “I have some news to convey to you. From Elkhorn.”
“And you are…?”
“Lassiter. Edmond Lassiter. Attorney-at-law. Traveling across the frontier of our fine state, dedicated to helping our brave pioneers find justice in Colorado’s rude wildern—”
“Admirable, Mr. Lassiter. You say you have news you wish to convey?”
“Indeed.” The lawyer gestured toward the pair of chairs by the unlit stove. “May I be so bold? I’ve traveled night and day to reach you.”
Elijah nodded and the man sat, laying his bowler in his lap and running his hand over his flat strands of hair.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Lassiter?” It was Saturday evening, and he was ready to indulge.
Not waiting until his visitor completed the long and eloquent reply to the affirmative, Elijah retreated to his desk and took out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He filled them and returned to his guest.
“What do you have to tell me?”
Lassiter savored the whisky for a moment and complimented his host before finally getting around to the question. “I believe you already know that there was an assassination attempt on Judge Patterson in Elkhorn.”
He knew the fools he’d hired had failed to kill the judge.
“Your man, Dud Tuttle, is presently languishing in the Elkhorn Jail. He murdered the last survivor in the gang of attackers. Cut the man’s throat in a sickbed. I should say, allegedly cut his throat.”
Elijah let that hang. In the event that Bat Davis and his men might fail, Tuttle’s job was to lurk in the shadows and tie up any loose ends.
No one could remain to testify as to who was behind the assassination attempt.
He’d accomplished his task, but he himself failed by getting caught.
It was a shame. He had a measure of respect for Tuttle.
Being inconspicuous and meticulous in the way he got things done made him something of an artist. Men like him were difficult to come by.
“What makes you think I have any interest in this, Mr. Lassiter?”
The attorney sipped his whisky, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I’m here at the behest of…well, another friend of yours in Elkhorn. He suggested that you would be willing to compensate me for delivering a message to you.”
Elijah ran a finger under the edge of his eye patch. His “friend” in Elkhorn was proving very useful.
“What is this message?”
“The judge has sent a deputy after you. They suspect you were behind the assassination attempt on his life.”
Elijah shook his head, feeling disdain for Patterson. For the past few years, he’d dealt with other local power brokers who thought they could stand up to him and to Eric Goulden. The fools always ended up drowning in their own hubris.
“I rode like the wind to get here before he did, but I am still amazed that I reached Bonedale first. In any event, he has been given the job of arresting you and conducting you to Elkhorn. And I’m told to inform you that the deputy is a very capable man.”
Elijah thought the judge was smarter. Perhaps he was wrong about the man. It was madness to think some deputy could waltz into Bonedale and take him into custody.
“How many men are traveling with this deputy?”
“No one else. He comes alone.”
Alone? This was becoming more ludicrous by the moment.
“Do you know who this man is?”
“His name is Marlowe. He is a former lawman and army scout. He was like a son to Old Jake Bell, by all accounts. He recently started ranching on a spread south of Elkhorn.”
“Never heard of him.” With the large company of gunmen Elijah had in his employment in Bonedale, he could arrange to have Marlowe cut down before he climbed off his horse.
“Caleb Marlowe. He’s quite famous up north.”
Elijah reflected for a moment on the name Caleb. When his son was born, he’d graciously allowed his wife Eliza to name him that. Like his Biblical namesake, he’d be brave, she said. Faithful. Devoted.
In the end, his son had turned out to be a fraud, exactly like Caleb in the Book of Numbers. The way Elijah saw it, the Caleb of old had been nothing more than a self-serving opportunist sent by Moses to spy on the people living in the land of Canaan.
His own son had proved himself to be faithless and disloyal.
Elijah banished those thoughts. He couldn’t dwell on the past now. He had more pressing matters in Elkhorn that needed his attention. He got up and went to his desk. He unlocked a cash box he kept in a drawer and took out some money for Lassiter.
“I hope you will consider engaging me in the future, Mr. Starr. The expansion of the railroad is a noble task, sir, and not one to be obstructed by those too shortsighted to see its value.”
The lawyer saluted Elijah with his empty glass and pocketed the cash without counting it. He clearly thought himself a clever man.
“In fact, sir, I believe you—and Mr. Goulden—would find a man with my skills and talent quite useful working in your organization. I’m aware that this is the first time we’ve met.
But my credentials speak for themselves.
I know the law, and I am—if I may be so bold—a writer of considerable talent, having written numerous speeches and manifestos for well-known politicians while on their campaign trails. Trusted in many circles, I have…”
The man droned on, but Elijah’s thoughts had slipped elsewhere. He thought about his own entrance into Eric Goulden’s company.
After Eliza’s death and Caleb’s betrayal, Elijah had no interest in continuing his training school in Indiana. He still had funds supplied by the trustees of the institution, and he saw himself at a crossroads. The West was opening up. Fortunes were there to be had.
And then came a letter of condolence from an old acquaintance he’d served with in early stages of the war.
That note changed his life. John Moore was a supervisor in the Saratoga Railroad in New York, a company owned by Eric Goulden.
A letter of introduction from his friend and a trip East sealed Elijah’s future.
The successful climb up through the ranks that ensued was due solely to his own industry, intelligence, and tenacity.
That and the supporting hand of the Almighty, of course, he thought.
“For I know the plans I have for you, saith the Lord,” Elijah said aloud. “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
“Thank you, Mr. Starr. Thank you.” Lassiter broke out in excitement. “You’ll never regret it. I promise you.”
Elijah stared in surprise at the hand being thrust at him to shake. He’d been reflecting on his own life. But it didn’t matter.
Lassiter cocked his head and lowered his voice as if they were conspiring to storm the Vanderbilt family vaults.
“Tomorrow morning, I shall be going back to Elkhorn. Is there anything more I can do for you, Mr. Starr?”
Elijah pondered that. The man was a pompous fool, but he could be useful.
“You said this Marlowe has a ranch near Elkhorn.”
“That is precisely correct. Three miles south.”
“Good. There is something you can do for me, Mr. Lassiter.”