Free Leadville by James D. Best Page B

partners.”
    “Does the town think this was part of the Ute uprising?” I directed my question to McAllen because he had had more contact with townspeople at the funeral and burial.
    “Yep, and no use getting the people worked up about some conspiracy we can’t prove.” Another swallow of beer. “Besides, they all think pretty highly of this Grant fella.”
    “You ever have a run-in with Bob Grant?” Sharp asked.
    “Not that I recollect,” McAllen answered. “What’s he look like?”
    “Big guy, good lookin’ with brown hair … what he’s got left of it,” Sharp said. “Looks to be about forty, probably six-two, heavy built, dresses like a city feller, an’ carries a shoulder gun under a frock coat. Walks heavy-footed. Ready smile, especially for the ladies.”
    Sharp’s description impressed me. For some reason, I had difficulty describing a person unless I had already made notes about them in my journal. Grant had not warranted an entry. Until now. I suddenly realized the book I planned about my trek through the Wild West would include at least one chapter on this nefarious character. At the next opportunity, I had to catch up my journal on recent events and make some notes on Bob Grant.
    At first, McAllen remained silent after Sharp’s description. Then he asked, “Any scars?”
    “None that I noticed,” Sharp answered.
    “He has a scar.” I was glad to be able to add something. “Right hand. Went from his thumb almost to the back of his wrist.”
    McAllen flung his tankard against the wall, splattering beer and glass shards everywhere. “Goddamn it!”
    The boy burst into the room at the sound. He looked at the mess and said, “Yer gonna pay for that.”
    “Shut the hell up!” McAllen yelled.
    “I’ll pay,” I said. “Please, step back outside.”
    He hesitated but bolted when McAllen leaned over for his gun that lay on the floor. “Go down and get us more beer!” McAllen yelled through the closed door. I heard boots immediately thud against the stairsteps.
    After a long moment, McAllen said, “The man’s real name is Jim Vrable. Shit! That son of a bitch. This time I’m gonna kill that bastard.”
    We waited. The frightened boy opened the door just enough to get his head around. “I have your beers, sir.” We waved him in, and his boots made a crunching sound as he walked across the glass-strewn room. “Should I clean this up?”
    “No. Leave it … and us. Now!” McAllen ordered.
    His departure disappointed me—I wasn’t eager to step out barefooted onto broken glass.
    After the door snapped shut, McAllen said, “I gave him that scar. He came at me with a knife, and I cut him. Shoulda killed him.” When McAllen continued, his voice broke with anguish. “I’m the one. I brought this down on my daughter.”
    I knew there was nothing to say, so I just studied the opposite wall until McAllen started talking again.
    “The last time I saw Vrable, he worked for the Denver and Rio Grande Railway. Superintendent. Slick son of a bitch. Had everybody fooled. But I found out he beat the hell out of his wife and kid, and I helped them escape his clutches. And after the knife fight, I used my contacts with the railway to get him fired.” McAllen slapped his hand against his thigh. “It all fits. Vrable comes across as somber-minded and capable, just how the townsfolk describe Grant. But let me tell ya: He only appears normal. Under the surface, Vrable’s as crazed as a rabid dog.”
    “You think he killed your daughter for revenge?” I asked.
    “Yep.” McAllen’s voice was quiet now. “That bastard thinks it fair retribution for me taking his wife and son away from him.”
    Sharp turned to face McAllen. “Can I ask ya somethin’?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Joseph, you’re a tough hombre with a powerful organization behind ya. Why did Grant think he could get away with this?”
    “Probably expected me to find out by telegram. If we hadn’t gone in right after the