Prologue
- Silver Lies
If there was
an arctic
version of
hell, Joe
Rose was living
it in Leadville,
Colorado.
Hugging
the ten-thousand-foot
mark in the
Rocky Mountains,
Leadville
in December
1879 had winter
air cold enough
to freeze
a man’s
lungs, if
he wasn’t
used to it.
A
light, white
snow, soft
as angel wings,
descended
to the black
mud of Tiger
Alley in Leadville’s
red-light
district.
The icy paste—mixed
with a season’s
worth of animal
excrement
and human
garbage—had
been churned
up by beasts
of burden,
carts, and
lost souls.
In some spots,
it lay knee
deep. At 2:30
in the morning,
Tiger Alley
was no place
to fall down.
Joe knew that
as he flailed
about, trying
to regain
his footing
and his dignity.
Raucous voices
and honky-tonk
music blasted
through the
saloon’s
half-open
back door,
the door through
which he’d
been unceremoniously
ejected moments
before.
On
his feet at
last, Joe
reached for
his pocket
handkerchief
to wipe the
filth from
his face.
His fingers
touched the
slime coating
his favorite
waistcoat.
“Damn!”
He tried to
scrub the
mud off the
silver and
gold threads.
“Ruined!”
The word reverberated
in his head,
and Joe pictured
it all again.
The dealer
raking in
his last gold
eagle across
the waxed
cloth of the
faro table,
the bouncer
closing in
on him to
haul him away.
“I’m
ruined,”
Joe whispered.
Money, gone.
Reputation
gone as well,
thanks to
Harry. He
owes me, Joe
thought. We
had a deal,
we shook on
it. I risked
my neck meeting
my side of
the bargain,
and he backs
out.
As
if through
a haze, Joe
remembered
the curses
he’d
screamed at
Harry just
hours before,
the cold,
dismissive
look on Harry’s
face, and,
most frightening
of all, Harry’s
silence. Panic
welled up,
bitter and
black, in
Joe’s
throat. There
was no future
for him in
Leadville.
For him, his
wife Emma,
or their son.
Joe closed
his eyes in
anguish. An
image of Emma,
her face pale
and serious,
rose before
him. He spoke
as if to a
ghost: “I
did it for
you.”
Even as he
said the words,
he realized
they weren’t
entirely true.
He’d
tried to protect
her, true,
but his troubles
had really
started when
he tried to
be someone
he wasn’t.
Someone who’d
gamble a fortune
on a hunch
at the poker
table or a
promising
claim. Now,
with the last
of his five
thousand dollars
gone, any
hope of making
that elusive
fortune in
silver had
disappeared.
Worse, he
could see
no way of
extracting
himself from
the mess he’d
created.
The
only money
he had left
was a fifty-dollar
bill he dared
not gamble.
It all whirled
around in
his brain:
his debts,
the fifty,
Emma, the
deal gone
bad between
him and Harry,
Denver.…The
bleakness
of his situation
penetrated
his whiskeyinduced
fog. “How
will I ever
explain to
Emma?”
he said to
the night.
His hand automatically
strayed to
the waistcoat
pocket where
he kept the
pocketwatch
she’d
given him
six years
ago on their
wedding day.
It was gone.
Heart sinking,
he searched
his trouser
pockets frantically
and tried
to strike
a deal with
God: Just
let me find
the watch.
I’ll
go straight
home, tell
Emma everything.
I’ll
use that damn
banknote to
buy three
stagecoach
tickets and
we’ll
start over
with a clean
slate. I swear
I’ll
never touch
cards or another
glass of whiskey.
The lack of
moonlight
made it difficult
to see in
the alley.
Crouching,
Joe scrabbled
through the
frigid muck.
His fingers
felt, then
closed on
a familiar
metallic disk.
He clutched
the watch
to his chest
in relief
and thought,
now I can
go home. Everything
will work
out.
A
slight vibration
in the ground.
A soft “whuff,”
barely heard.
Something
was behind
him.
Joe
sprang to
his feet and
turned to
see a monstrous
dark shape.
Too tall for
a man. Joe
heard a jangle
of bit and
bridle, an
equine snort.
The shape
moved, became
a horse and
rider. The
rider urged
the mount
forward. Straight
toward Joe.
“Hey!”
Joe shouted,
trying to
get out of
the way. The
horse jerked
its head up
with a snort
and pranced
backward.
It unexpectedly
lunged forward
as the rider
applied the
whip. Joe
stumbled to
one side.
Mud sucked
at his boots,
slowing his
escape. The
horse’s
bulk slammed
into him,
knocking the
breath out
of his body
and nearly
toppling him
backward.
The rider
pulled up
short with
a vicious
rein. Breathing
hard and cursing,
Joe grabbed
a stirrup
leather, staying
well to the
side to avoid
being stepped
on. He peered
up, trying
to discern
the rider.
The
voice that
floated down
to him was
filled with
menace. “Well,
well, if it
isn’t
Joe Rose.”
Fear
crawled over
Joe, freezing
the sweat
on his back,
choking the
curses in
his throat.
Oh Jesus,
he thought.
Not here.
Not now. He
couldn’t
force his
thoughts any
further, couldn’t
frame a reply.
Words
poured over
him with increased
fury. “Looks
like Lady
Luck’s
deserted you
for good this
time. Are
you short
on silver
again? Greenbacks?
Or are you
cheating at
cards now?”
The
rider leaned
over, seized
the dangling
fob, and yanked.
The pocketwatch
flew from
Joe’s
grip, a comet
streaking
beyond his
reach. Joe
let go of
the stirrup
leather and
made a futile
grab, desperate
to recapture
the watch.
The rider
shifted athwart
the saddle,
away from
Joe. The next
instant, a
booted foot
smashed into
Joe’s
face, sending
bright daggers
of pain streaking
through his
vision. Joe
cried out
and fell backward,
breaking through
a thin icy
crust into
the scum below.
Blood, warm
and wet, poured
from his battered
nose and bathed
his lips and
chin. The
pain loosened
his tongue
at last. He
struggled
to raise himself,
searching
purchase in
the slime.
“Wait!
I was coming
to see you.”
He tried to
sound assured,
sincere. But
all he heard
in his trembling
voice was
desperation
and fear.
“I…I’ve
got what you
want. All
of it. The
shipment arrived
today. About
the other
business,
the chemistry
was wrong,
but it’s
straight now.”
“You
liar. You
double-crossing
son of a bitch.
Your next
drink is with
the Devil!”
The whip hissed
through the
air. Joe flinched,
raised a hand,
anticipating
the cut of
the lash across
his palm.
Instead, he
heard—but
didn’t
feel—the
smack of lash
on flesh.
The
horse brayed
and reared.
For a moment,
Joe saw mount
and rider
looming over
him, an enormous
shadow against
night-dark
clouds. The
whip fell
again. The
horse pawed
the air, then
leaped forward
with a grunt.
Joe recoiled
in terror.
He heard,
then felt
a bone-crunching
snap. And
screamed.
His
leg.
Intolerable
pain engulfed
him like a
black avalanche.
He tried to
grab something,
roll away.
His fingers
closed on
ooze and shattered
ice. The horse
reared again,
fighting rein
and whip.
Hooves plunged
down, flashing
past Joe’s
face, crushing
his ribs with
a sound like
dry wood splintering.
Joe’s
last scream
was muffled
by mud and
honky-tonk
music.
And
the piano
played on.
