The last was said without any conviction. If Morgan Callahan was still keeping the location of his mine a secret, he would never draw a map to it, not even for his friend’s daughter. Had he and her father been friends? Or just passing acquaintances? No, they must have been friends if Callahan had paid for the funeral, so maybe he would actually draw her a map—if it came to that. And just in case it did . . .
“Could you show me the hotel first?” she asked.
“Certainly.”
The desk clerk at the hotel, which was in a newer section of town than where Violet was staying, told her Callahan hadn’t been there for weeks.
“Kinda expected to hear that,” Deputy Barnes said; then, noticing her crestfallen look, he added, “That’s good news if you’re determined to meet him. Means he’s due to show up, maybe in the next week or two. I’ll ask around, but I’m pretty sure Morgan’s location is still a well-kept secret, and with reason. Used to be competition was cutthroat and claim jumping a major problem around here until the big mine owners bought up all the small mines. All the miners you see in town work for them. There aren’t many small mines left near town, which is why I figure Morgan’s mine is a long distance from Butte and why he doesn’t show up often. But come along, the doc’s office is in the next block and he lives upstairs from it, so he should still be there even if the office is closed.”
Violet was daunted by how long she would have to wait for that Callahan fellow just to find out whether her father had found metal worth selling. But she might get the answer tomorrow at the bank, if there was a decent amount in her father’s account.
“It’s incredible that you know the comings and goings of all the miners in this town,” she remarked on the way to Dr. Cantry’s office. “How is that possible?”
The deputy chuckled. “It’s not. People have come here from all over the world, Irish, Welsh, Germans, Chinese, heck, even Serbians, just to name a few. And many of the migrants who gave up mining have opened businesses instead.”
“Then why do you know so much about Mr. Callahan?” she asked.
“That’s because we know his family. The Callahans have a large ranch over in Nashart to the east. They used to herd cattle to us before the Northern Pacific Railway reached their town and new ranchers moved in closer to us over in Bozeman. When Morgan came here last year, the rumor was that he’s the black sheep of the family and finally got booted from it. But it’s just a rumor, and Morgan’s temperament is bad enough as it is, so don’t mention it if you meet him.”
If? Yes, she might not have to wait for him if there was a substantial amount in Charles’s bank account. She could then let her brothers decide what to do with their father’s mine while she returned to England.
The doctor wasn’t available when they reached his residence, he was out on a call. She decided to wait there for him to return, since she didn’t have anything else to do other than let her brothers know that what none of them had wanted to consider even a remote possibility was true—their father was dead.
Chapter Five
THE DILEMMAS VIOLET ENCOUNTERED kept getting worse. Why had she thought she could deal with all of this alone? She didn’t even realize just how deep her despair was because she was also grieving.
The brief conversation she’d had with the good doctor had revealed what her brothers didn’t know: Charles had left home with a bad heart. He’d visited Dr. Cantry soon after he reached town because he’d been having chest pains. The doctor had warned him to avoid any strenuous activity because it could bring on a heart attack—yet Charles had gone from that visit up into the hills to mine? Something so utterly strenuous? Cantry said a heart attack had likely caused a fall and the resultant head trauma that Charles had never woken from.
She went to the claims office first thing the next morning. The man there confirmed that Charles Mitchell had staked a claim, but it was against their policy to show their maps to anyone, even relatives of claim holders. However, he did confide as she was leaving that the map wouldn’t be helpful since it included no landmarks. “Not many do. If the miner is there, his mine is there, his stakes are there, therefore it’s his place. If there’s a fight over it, whoever holds the claim with the earlier date tends to win.” She must have looked as confused as she felt, because he added, “It’s not as shoddy a system as it sounds, ma’am. We have a large map of the area, but again, it’s not for public viewing. We’re not here to help men find ore, only to record it when they do.”
She thought she understood, although she wondered how her father had managed to find ore. But at least she’d confirmed that he did have a mine in the area.
She decided to wait to send a telegram to her brothers until after she’d gone to the bank, which was where she headed next. She wanted to be able to add some good news along with the bad. But she wasn’t able to do that. Her father had no bank account in this town.
She found out a possible reason why when she asked the bank clerk to check his records twice. The man complained, “We were robbed three months ago, so I’m not surprised that your father wouldn’t trust us with his money. The miners are sending their money straight home or hiding it, and businesses are keeping their money in their own safes. It might be years before the bank recovers if that money isn’t found.”
So she had no good news to tell her brothers, but she couldn’t hold off sharing the bad any longer. And she asked in that telegram why Daniel hadn’t yet arrived in Butte as he’d promised, and stressed that she still needed him there to help find their father’s money. Then she sat in her room for two days waiting for their reply. When some of the numbness wore off, she realized she should have switched to Callahan’s preferred hotel to be absolutely sure she didn’t miss him when he came to town. After she accomplished that, she took flowers to her father’s grave and wept some more. Afterward she tried exploring the town to pass the time, but gave up that notion when she drew too many whistles and rudely inappropriate remarks from men she passed on the boardwalks.
She stayed in her new room mostly during the days, going down to the hotel dining room only for dinner. That first night in the new hotel, she met Katie Sullivan, a kindred spirit. Katie was a lively girl, red-haired, green-eyed, quite pretty. She lived with her family in Chicago and was only in Butte for a visit with her father and to introduce him to her fiancé, Thomas, who had just arrived and was staying at the hotel.
Violet guessed that Katie had invited her to sit with her and Thomas because of the way she was dressed. So little high fashion was seen in this town that she stood out, as did Katie, and they were naturally drawn to each other by apparent shared interests—at least in fashion.
But there was more when Violet introduced herself and mentioned her father’s name. “Morgan Callahan’s friend?” Katie asked.
“So you’ve met Morgan Callahan?”
“Goodness, no, I wouldn’t get anywhere near such an uncouth fellow. But everyone knows of him by now. They say he’s a former cowboy turned trapper, then a miner, and now he’s just crazy from so much solitude—but in any case, he’s very unsociable, by all accounts. And my father doesn’t like the man, says that he’s the most stubborn jack—er, mule he’s ever met. My father, Shawn Sullivan, will be joining us shortly. He’s always late. And we might not want to mention that you know Mr. Callahan.”
That sounded ominous. Violet assured the girl, “But I don’t, and apparently, I don’t want to. However, I’ve been informed that he might be the only one who can show me to my father’s mine. I am hoping that he will simply draw me a map to the location instead.”
“A map? Yes, that would be ideal, wouldn’t it? The less time you must spend with him, the better.”
Following Katie’s advice, Violet didn’t mention Callahan’s name after Shawn Sullivan arrived. He was a gregarious fellow once he relaxed, middle-aged, astute, portly, with a very distinct Irish brogue. Most of the dinner was spent with the parent grilling the possible future son-in-law about his family, hi
s connections, his means. But once he gave his blessing, laughing that there still might be stipulations, both Thomas and Shawn relaxed to enjoy the last of the dinner agreeably.
Which was when Mr. Sullivan turned his green eyes to Violet and remarked, “A Mitchell, eh? The name sounds familiar.”
“My father was in the area for a few months before he died,” she explained, then added hopefully, “Perhaps you met him?”
“He might have worked for me if he was a miner.”
“No, he had his own mine, I just don’t know where it is yet.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
He did briefly look sad on her behalf, as if he didn’t think she would have any luck in finding it, which left her feeling quite crestfallen. So she only vaguely listened to the rest of the conversation that centered on his family in Chicago.
But apparently Katie must have told her father later that night that Violet intended to have words with Morgan Callahan and why. She actually got a note from Shawn Sullivan the next day, saying if she did get a map to her father’s mine, he would be pleased to supply her with an armed escort to take her there. So nice of him!
With Katie leaving the next day to return to Chicago to plan her wedding, Violet kept mostly to her room again, plying her needle. The little embroidery frame and kit of threads were the only nonessential items she’d stuffed into her valise, because needlepoint was one of her favorite hobbies. She didn’t leave the hotel except to visit her father’s grave, where she did most of her crying, and to stop by the telegraph office twice a day, even though she’d been assured any telegrams for her would be delivered to her hotel.
She didn’t get her brothers’ response until later in the week, and it wasn’t what she was hoping for. They said it was impossible for them to join her but they were counting on her to find their father’s mine, which was likely where he’d hidden his money. She’d already concluded that if Charles had any money, that’s where it would be, so she ought to make every effort to find out, but she hadn’t expected to continue this mission alone! How could she? And how much longer could they stall Mr. Perry? It was nearly two weeks since she’d left Philadelphia, and she’d already been waiting a week for Callahan to arrive. She couldn’t wait for him indefinitely, or the next telegram she got from her brothers would inform her that they’d lost the house. Another week at the most, then she was leaving. But she started waiting in the hotel lobby. She couldn’t afford to miss the man if he did finally show up.
A few people checked in that day, including another fashionably dressed lady. Someone else from back east? Violet considered introducing herself until she saw the young woman speak angrily to one of the gentlemen escorting her and march up the stairs.
The next morning Violet went straight to the desk to ask after Callahan again, which was what she should have been doing all week. She could no longer leave this to chance or depend on the hotel employees to remember to give him her note when he arrived. There was a new attendant today, one she didn’t recognize, so she had to explain once more who she was and that it was imperative that she speak with Morgan Callahan when he checked in and that her note for him was being kept there at the desk. He opened a few drawers until he found it.
“You do know who I’m talking about?” she asked the new clerk.
“Everyone knows him, ma’am. The mountain man, least that’s what we thought he was, a gruff hermit of few words, and in fact, he looks mean as hell, beg your pardon. But then word spread that he has a rich silver mine somewhere in the area. That didn’t make him any friendlier. Are you sure you want to speak to a man like that?”
She wondered how many times she would be asked that question. “I don’t really have a choice,” she replied. “So tell me what he looks like. I would like to recognize him when I see him. Or will his identity be very obvious because he still looks like a bear?”
The man grinned. “No, ma’am, he won’t be wearing that smelly bear coat in this warm weather. The man’s tall, black-haired, in his midtwenties, and he usually wears a gun on his hip no matter the weather.”
Everyone in this town except the miners seemed to do that, but the clerk’s description was helpful and she thanked him. She joined an elderly man on the sofa across from the desk so she could keep an eye on it. He turned to her excitedly and said, “He’s the fastest gun in the West.”
She glanced at the elderly gentleman. “Who is?”
“The notorious gunfighter Degan Grant. I heard he’s staying in this very hotel.”
She lost interest as he droned on about the amazing gunfighter and glanced around the lobby again. Two men came out of the dining room walking briskly toward the hotel’s front door, one short, wearing a long tan coat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, and the other tall, black-haired, and with a gun on his hip. Was that Callahan? Had he checked in last night and the new desk man didn’t know it? She certainly hoped not. The man was quite intimidating, dressed all in black from hat to boots and looking very angry. And it appeared that he was leaving again?!
She stood up to stop him. The old man pulled her back down, whispering, “That must be him! And don’t gawk. He’ll shoot you if you stare too long.”
Shot for gawking? What utter nonsense. And the old fellow was only guessing that this was the gunfighter, when he could in fact be the very man she was waiting for. Who was leaving without talking to her.
She followed the pair out of the hotel and saw them walking briskly down the middle of the street. But they were already the length of three shops away. She’d have to yell to stop him now, which simply wasn’t done. She couldn’t bring herself to break that golden rule of etiquette. At least, not in public. Instead she hurried along the boardwalk after him.
She was almost abreast of the duo and about to ask the man in black if he was Morgan Callahan when she heard a woman shout, “Degan Grant, come back here!”
Eyes wide, Violet looked back at the hotel and saw the same woman she’d almost approached yesterday, dressed just as finely. This time she wore an outfit that was three shades of blue; even the little hat she wore, which was just like Violet’s bonnet, was blue. The pretty lady had actually walked out into the street to yell at the gunfighter. Thank goodness this wasn’t Morgan Callahan, Violet thought.
The gunfighter didn’t halt for the lady, didn’t even look back, which prompted her to yell even louder, “Degan, stop! You have to hear me out!”
He did stop then, but not for the lady. A man had stepped into the street ahead of the gunfighter and was slowly walking straight toward him. Violet didn’t need to be from the West to realize a gunfight was about to take place, especially when people quickly vacated the shops nearby and ran down the boardwalks away from the two men in the street. She knew she ought to do the same, but she was rooted to the spot, too shocked by what was happening to move.
She was close enough to hear Grant’s companion warn him, “There’s a man on the roof up ahead with a rifle pointed at you. This is an ambush.”
“I know. I’ve already spotted two others.”
“But that one is out of your range, while you’re not out of his.”
“It might not matter if I kill Jacob first. This is his fight, not theirs.”
“The better idea would be to take cover, don’t you think?” the shorter man suggested.
“You are,” Degan Grant replied. “Get back in the hotel and do it fast.”
Violet was amazed that he could talk so calmly about killing people. And the short man, or boy—she hadn’t actually seen his face—ran back to the hotel, stopping to say something to the lady, who seemed more concerned about not stepping in the horse droppings in the street than the imminent gunfight. But the lady did at that point hurry back to the hotel herself. Which was what Violet started to do, but was suddenly yanked inside the shop behind her.
“What the hell, lady!” the shopkeeper said disparagingly. “Don’t you realize what’s happening out there?”
“Yes.”
/> “Then maybe you don’t know bullets can fly astray in fights like that? And kill innocents who aren’t involved?”
She blanched a little. “No, I wasn’t aware of that. Thank you.”
“Just get down below the window. Mine’s been broken before in fights like this. Gunfights don’t tend to happen up in this section of Butte anymore, usually only in the rowdier part of town.”
Even as he spoke, he was staring out the corner of the shop window. Violet glanced down at the dirty floor; refusing to sit on it, she took shelter behind the shopkeeper instead and peeked around his shoulder, his broad back providing good cover. Degan Grant and the man he’d called Jacob were both in view from that angle. She was surprised to see the boy in the long coat on the boardwalk, hurrying past the shop window, not staying out of harm’s way after all.
The shopkeeper hadn’t closed the door when he dragged her inside, and Degan Grant was close enough for her to hear him say to the other gunfighter, “I didn’t kill you last time because you were grieving the loss of your brother. You’ve had enough time for that grief.”
That brought a confident laugh from Jacob, but he was too far away for her to hear his reply if he made one. And then Degan Grant drew his gun and fired. Unbelievable, how fast he did that. The other man’s gun fired moments later, but his bullet must have gone astray since he was already falling to the ground as he pulled the trigger. If that bullet hit anything, it wasn’t obvious. And Jacob lay unmoving in the street now, dead or badly wounded.
Then more shots were fired farther down the street. That must be the ambush that she’d overheard the companion mention. The gunfighter had disappeared and must have gone to deal with it.
She heard more shots, followed by several minutes of silence. Finally she asked, “Is it safe for me to return to my hotel now?”