A gloved hand grabbed the cartridge box and withdrew.

Inez held her breath, trembling.

The hand appeared again and grabbed the muzzle of the rifle. The gun and its oilcloth cover slid out and away from her.

Feeling exposed, Inez tried to still the trembling that wracked her body.

The hand reappeared, sweeping back and forth, knocking into the boots. She heard a hissed oath, then "Two boxes, he said, two boxes."

Casting a desperate eye around, Inez spotted the second box of cartridges, far up by the head of the bed.

The hand began pulling the boots out- A lilting version of "Dixie" rent the air.

Inez had never in her life been so happy to hear the anthem of the South.

The hand disappeared, the man grabbed the rifle and the one box of cartridges, straightened up, and pounded out the door. The door shut with a protesting squeak.

The tune continued for a few seconds more, before coming to an abrupt halt.

Setting the Smoot down beside her, she rested her forehead on her fist, fighting the waves of relief that threatened to overwhelm her and leave her less able to act than fear had.

Minutes pa.s.sed. No one entered. No sound other than the faraway noises of the camp, buffered by distance and the intervening bunkhouse cars.

I can't lie under this bed forever.

She dragged herself out on elbows and knees. Stood up on shaky legs. Then went back down on her knees to retrieve her hat, which had ended up smashed between her and the wall and was now cobwebby in the extreme.

As an afterthought, she pulled out the box of cartridges still under the bed and pocketed one. To compare with the one I found in Preston's coat pocket that day.

She shoved the box back under the bed, pocketed her pistol, dusted off her clothes and hat as best she could. With a deep breath to settle herself, she headed to the door and opened it. Her feet had barely touched the ground when- "Stop right there!"

Delaney stood at the end of the bunkhouse, carbine trained on her.

"Wait!" Her hands flew into the air, then she pulled off her hat. "It's me. Mrs. Stannert."

His eyes widened.

Revealing her ident.i.ty did not have the desired effect. The gun stayed trained on her torso.

"I was looking for the Holts. Reuben left something in town that I was trying to return. If I may?" One hand inched down to the top b.u.t.ton of her waistcoat and hovered there.

Delaney scowled. The muzzle of the rifle made an abrupt circle, which she took for a.s.sent to continue.

She cautiously extracted the photocase and held it up, talking all the while. "I asked one of the guards on patrol-that's what you call it, on patrol?-where I might find Preston Holt. Although, I suppose I could have asked for Reuben. To return this case. The guard directed me here."

Delaney's eyes narrowed as she talked.

She wondered, with part of her mind, how sober he was. Then, suddenly remembering what McMurtrie had said about Delaney not being with the Rio Grande much longer, she wondered what he was doing there at all.

His eyes were mere slits now, and he seemed to read her mind. "Bet you thought you'd not see me again."

She pocketed the case. "Not necessarily. I merely banned you from the Silver Queen. I have no power to persuade you to leave the state."

"Ha! Even that p.i.s.s-poor distant cousin of mine McMurtrie couldn't get rid of me entirely. Though pullin' guard duty on Sat.u.r.day night's not my idea of-" He stopped. Then, suspiciously, "Wait a minute. Why are you dressed like...." The muzzle of his rifle described another arc, encompa.s.sing her outfit. "You're up to something. You've got that guilty look. Just like those two I just caught hanging around here. Them. Now you. Too much of a coincidence, I'm thinking."

"What two?" Say the names. Please say the names.

"Hey Delaney, what's the problem?" The guard that Inez had first spoken with was walking down the siding, rifle resting in the crook of his arm. He stopped, stared at Inez. "Oh, it's you. No luck finding Holt?" He turned to Delaney. "Put up your weapon. He talked with me first. Came looking for Holt."

The "he" threw Inez for a second, until she realized the guard was still taking her at face value-trousers, waistcoat, and all. She gave Delaney a triumphant "so there" look, which she wiped off her face when the guard turned back to her. She hastily donned her hat, as the guard continued, "No luck in the bunk car? Well, Holt's probably at Malta. Heard a bunch of them talking about going to the Red Garter, so you might start there." The guard looked back at Delaney, who hadn't moved. "Hey, Delaney. I said, lower it."

Delaney lowered the rifle about two inches, looking as if he'd prefer to ram it down Inez's throat.

The guard pushed his hat back. "My name's Sketch, stranger. Yours?"

"Stannert."

He nodded. "That your horse back there? The black beauty? Fine looking horse. I'd better escort you off the camp. Some trigger-happy folks around here. Delaney, you're supposed to be checking the perimeter. Heard that mountain lion's been sniffing around the cook car again, so step lively. Shift's up in half an hour."

Without waiting for an answer, Sketch gestured to Inez to follow, and walked away. As they rounded the two-story bunkhouses, he said conversationally, "As they say in the army, that soldier just got broke down to private. Used to be section boss. Surprised he's still here. But I'll tell you, Stannert, it gives me great pleasure to order him around."

Glad enough to let Sketch chatter on, Inez gathered Lucy's reins and started to the camp's nearby perimeter, the talkative guard keeping pace. His ultimate objective in striking up a friendly banter became clear to her when he asked, "You from around these parts?"

"Yep," said Inez, surprised by the question.

"I heard that all you have to do to strike silver is stick a shovel in the ground. Is that true? I've been looking around while on duty. And wondered. What kind of signs should I be looking for?"

Inez hesitated, reluctant to say anything that might cause him to remember her, but finally answered, "From what I hear, your best bet these days is around the Ten Mile District. That's where the new strikes are being made."

"Ten Mile." He scratched his chin. "Hmm. Bet that's where Holt went."

She stopped. Lucy's nose b.u.mped against her shoulder blade. "Who?"

"Oh, sorry. Hiram Holt. Too many of those Holt fellows around."

Inez, confused, felt the same. "So Hiram's ah, related-"

"Yeah, kin to Preston and the kid. Wasn't never too crazy about working here. No surprise, I suppose, that he'd strike out on his own. So, Ten Mile, huh? We'll be building in that direction, if General Palmer gets his way. And he usually does. So maybe I oughta just wait until we get there. Unless you think all the good territory'll be staked out by summer's end."

Inez gave in to Sketch's one-track monologue. "Waiting until you can get the lay of the land is a good idea. It's never a sure bet, finding a mother lode."

"Well, guess those fellas that struck outside Malta were just lucky." He sighed. "A couple of graders. Had an a.s.say done, then up and quit."

"Everyone's hoping to get rich," Inez said, swinging into the saddle. "Thanks for the help. Might've ended up a sorry mess if you hadn't shown up."

"Ah, Delaney," he said dismissively. "More bl.u.s.ter than anything. No one listens to him anymore."

Inez touched her hat and rode away, feeling a tickle between her shoulder blades as she imagined Delaney's rifle trained on her back.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.

The first stars emerged overhead and the clouds blazed orange rimmed with gold when Inez rode into Malta.

Malta's one main street straggled up California Gulch to Leadville proper. Its businesses catered to those "on the road"-saloons, smithies, liveries, and a couple of hotels of varying degree. The smell of sulfur from the nearby smelters tinged the air and the street was crowded with off-shift workers from the smelters, wheeled vehicles, and travelers. Inez reminded herself that Malta had captured the train traffic, for the time being, as the last stop on the Denver and Rio Grande line to Leadville.

Thinking of the train, Inez remembered that the Colorado State Press a.s.sociation was on a daylong jaunt to Leadville and would be visiting her saloon later that evening.

I hope I can find Preston, return the photocase, and find out who Hiram is. Another son? A cousin? No matter what, though, I mustn't be late getting back to town. No doubt the newsmen will only show up for the novelty of playing cards with a woman, but as long as they spend their money.

The Red Garter proved easy to find. Not only for the legion of horses crammed flank to flank along the hitching rail, but also for the rousing polka that blared out from within its double front doors.

A barker dressed in fancy eveningwear was working the boardwalk in front of the dance hall, sweat stains set in dust showing in the armpits of his shabby cutaway. "Come on in, lads! We've got some of the prettiest ladies this side of Chicago just chompin' at the bit to sashay around the floor at only a dime a dance. These beauties know the galop, the polka, the waltz, the schottische, and all the latest eastern ballroom steps and quadrille changes!"

Somehow, I doubt that.

The barker's eyes settled on Inez in the gathering dusk. "Hey you, young feller! C'mon in and hang your hat a while. Let's make some room for your n.o.ble steed." He removed his top hat and swatted the horse at the end of the hitching rail. "Move over y' lazy galoot!"

The horse jumped sideways.

"There. Plenty of room!"

Inez touched Lucy with her heels and brought her to the rail.

"You'll not regret it," the barker chortled, and made fast work of tying Lucy to the rail. "Payday on the Rio Grande, and the place is jumping!" He practically pushed Inez through the entrance.

Once inside, Inez's eyes began to water. The air was close, choked with the smell of bad whiskey, tobacco fumes, and sweat, tempered with the scent of perfume-over-applied and tired. It matched the women she could manage to make out through the haze and the dim coal-oil lighting-haggard women, dressed in too-short skirts that showed off ankles and calves and short sleeves that bared arms to the shoulder.

Inez was willing to bet that most of them were mothers and wives, driven to desperate measures while their husbands, sons, or lovers, dreaming of riches, chased the elusive silver spirit up and down the Leadville district and beyond.

All the available women were dancing, although not nearly as enthusiastically as their partners. Many of the men were doing a vigorous polka, nearly carrying their partners in their gusto.

Some of the men were not waiting for a female partner to become available-a wait, she surmised, that could be very long, given the paucity of women and the overabundance of men. Pairs of men also hoofed about the floor, handkerchiefs tied to the arms of those taking the female role.

She squeezed past the crowd lining the dance floor and took up a post at the bar, pulling off her heavy leather riding gloves.

The bartender, a woman dressed in the same scanty wear as the dancers but a great deal older, came over and said, "If you're gonna stay, you gotta buy."

Inez ordered a beer, figuring it would be the least vile of the possibilities.

Bottle in hand, she examined the room, looking for Preston Holt. Or Reuben. Or the professor. Any of the railroad men she knew.

The polka ended with a mighty blat from a trumpet and a flourish from the piano.

The pianist, wearing the reddest waistcoat Inez had ever seen, stood and bellowed, "Bra.s.s and pianner are takin' a break. But Stringbean here," he waved at the portly fiddle player, instrument firmly clamped under triple chins, "will lead ya through a square dance. So, gents, grab a partner and form squares."

As the horn and keyboard section rushed the bar, there was a general heaving and pushing from the sidelines into the dance area. Men who'd been watching rushed forward, coins in hand, attempting to steal a partner from those who were now digging frantically in their pockets for yet another coin.

A touch on her elbow made Inez whirl around, nearly sloshing beer from her bottle.

Preston Holt stood a hairbreadth away, grinning down at her, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Some bit of her inner anatomy-not her heart, she fiercely argued-leapt into her throat at the sight of him. She smiled back and set the bottle on the ring-scarred surface of the counter. "So, you saw through my disguise."

"I've seen it before."

She cleared her throat, trying to sound noncommittal-and manly, in case there were any eavesdroppers in the close s.p.a.ce. "I'd rather hoped to see you earlier this week."

He leaned one elbow on the bar. Picked up her beer, then set it down again. A bull's eye in the stained wood. "Thought I was barred from your saloon."

"Not at all." She found it hard to make the words sound casual and leaned on the bar in kind, facing him.

He raised his eyebrows, then looked to the fiddle player, who was yelling, "Need two couples, right over he-yar," and waving his bow at a half-filled square in front of him.

Querying Inez with his eyes, Preston pulled a handkerchief from his neck.

Feeling her blood pounding in time to the impatient stamp of dancers, Inez held out her arm. He tied the kerchief above her elbow, and they pushed through the watchers to the dance floor.

When they reached their spot, the fiddle player did a lightning-fast run up the strings, then proceeded to call out a rapid set of figures while playing a blistering rendition of "Turkey in the Straw."

There followed the most energetic dancing in Inez's experience. Between do-si-dos, forward-and-backs, allemande lefts and allemande rights, she found it hard to keep in mind she was dressed in men's clothing. Every time their hands met, arms brushed, an electric pulse seemed to shoot to the base of her spine.

Sweat streamed down her face, soaked her back, as she strove to keep up with the calls. She trod on the toes of a dance hall woman, whose face also showed the tracks of extreme exertion, and who swore at her in terms she'd only heard previously from some of the miners-and only when they thought she wasn't listening. More dancers fell behind, and there was a general disintegration of the squares amidst hoots and catcalls to the fiddler to play "somethin' slower, dammit!"

The fiddler ceased his calling with a "home to your partners!" and completed a blur of finger work designed to elicit applause. Inez, standing by Holt, obliged with the rest.

"All righty," the fiddle player said. "Let's take it easy on the ladies this time around."

The ladies were indeed shooting nasty glances at the fiddle player even as they mopped their faces with their ap.r.o.ns or, to the delight of on-lookers, with their skirt hems.

The music eased into a waltz. Inez looked at Preston, sorely tempted to invite him to dance.

He turned to her. "Took you from that beer. How about I buy you another?"

She swallowed her disappointment. "If you'll allow me to buy the round after that."

They drifted from the floor to the bar.

"So you were looking for me?" he asked, as they waited for the bartender to come their way.

"Oh, yes. I was asked to return this to your son." She fished the photocase out of her waistcoat pocket and handed it to him.