White Fire

they were holed up and then pulled together this Committee of Seven.”

“And then what happened?”

“That’s a second question.”

“So it is.” Pendergast smiled. “Time for another round?” He picked up the revolver, spun the cylinder, and laid it down.

Swinton shook his head. “I can still see the round, and it ain’t in the firing chamber. Another thousand bucks?”

Pendergast nodded.

Swinton picked up the gun and pulled the trigger again, put it down, held out his hand. “This is the dumbest damn game I ever saw.”

Pendergast handed him a thousand dollars. Then he picked up the gun, spun the barrel, and without looking at it put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Click.

“You really are one crazy motherfucker.”

“There appear to be a great many like me in this area,” Pendergast replied. “And now for my question: What did Shadrach Cropsey and this Committee of Seven do then?”

“Back in those days, they handled problems the right way — they did it themselves. Fuck the law and all its bullshit. They went up there and smoked those cannibals. The way I heard it, old Shadrach got his ass killed in the fight. After that, there weren’t no more ‘grizzly’ killings.”

“And the place where they killed the miners?”

“Another question, friend.”

Pendergast spun the barrel, placed it on the table. Swinton eyed it nervously. “I can’t see the round.”

“Then it is either in the firing chamber or in the opposite chamber, hidden by the frame. Which means there is a fifty — fifty chance you will live.”

“I ain’t playing.”

“You just said you would. I didn’t imagine you were a coward, Mr. Swinton.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the brick of hundreds. This time he peeled off twenty. “We’ll double the stakes. You will receive two thousand — if you pull the trigger.”

Swinton was sweating heavily. “I ain’t gonna play.”

“You mean, you pass on your turn? I won’t insist.”

“That’s what I mean. I pass.”

“But I do not pass on my turn.”

“Go ahead. Be my fucking guest.”

Pendergast spun the barrel, held the revolver up, pulled the trigger. Click. He put it down.

“My final question: Where did they kill the miners?”

“I don’t know. But I do have the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one that got passed down to me. It sort of explains things.” He rose from his creaking chair and shuffled off into the dim recesses of the cabin. He returned a moment later with a dusty old piece of yellow paper sandwiched in Mylar. He eased himself back down and handed the letter to Pendergast.

It was a handwritten note, undated, with no salutation or signature. It read:

mete at the Ideal 11 oclock Sharp to Night they are Holt Up in the closed Christmas Mine up on smugglers wall there are 4 of them bring your best Guns and lantern burn this Letter afore you set out

Pendergast lowered the letter. Swinton held out his hand, and Pendergast returned it. Swinton’s brow was still beaded with sweat, but the look on his face was pure relief. “I can’t believe you played that game without ever looking at the cylinder. That’s just crazy-ass dangerous.”

Pendergast dressed again in his coat, scarves, and hat, and then took up the revolver. He opened the cylinder and let the .44 magnum round drop into his hand. “There was never any danger. I brought this round with me and substituted it for one of yours after I unloaded the gun.” He held it up. “It’s been doctored.”

Swinton rose. “Motherfucker!” He came at Pendergast, drawing his carry, but in a flash Pendergast had shoved the round back in and rotated it into firing position, pointing the Blackhawk at Swinton.

“Or maybe I didn’t doctor it.”

Swinton froze.

“You’ll never know.” Pendergast picked up his own Les Baer, and — while covering Swinton with it — removed the round from the Blackhawk and put it in his coat pocket. “And now I will answer your earlier question: I’m not a magazine writer. I’m a federal agent. And there’s one thing I promise you: if you lied to me, I’ll know it, sooner rather than later — and in that case, none of your weapons will save you.”

51

That same day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Corrie lounged in the room she had acquired at the Hotel Sebastian, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe supplied by the hotel, first admiring the view, and then checking out the mini-bar (which she couldn’t afford, but enjoyed rummaging through anyway) before moving into the marble bathroom. She turned on the shower, adjusted the water, and slipped out of the bathrobe, stepping in.

As she luxuriated in the hot shower, she considered that things were looking up. She felt badly about what happened at breakfast the day before, but even that paled in comparison with Pendergast’s revelations. The Doyle story, the mercury-crazed miners — and the Stafford family connection — it was truly remarkable. And truly frightening. Pendergast was right: she had placed herself in grave danger.

Roaring Fork had now pretty much resumed the ghost-town status it once held, except it was all dressed up for Christmas with nowhere to go. Totally surreal. Even the press seemed to have packed up their cameras and microphones. The Hotel Sebastian had lost most of its guests and staff, but the restaurant was still going strong — stronger than ever, as those remaining in town, it seemed, all wanted to eat out. Corrie had managed to drive a hard bargain with the hotel manager, snagging room and breakfast free of charge in return for six hours of kitchen work every day. And although her arrangement with the hotel came with only one meal a day, Corrie had plenty of experience with all-you-can-eat deals and was confident she could scarf down enough food in one sitting to last twenty-four hours.

She got out of the shower, toweled off, and combed her hair. As she was drying it, she heard a knock at the door. Quickly donning the bathrobe again, she went to the door and peeked through the eyehole.

Pendergast.

She opened the door, but the agent hesitated. “I’d be glad to return later—”

“Don’t be silly. Sit down, I’ll only be a moment.” She went back into the bathroom, finished blowing out her hair, wrapped the bathrobe a little tighter, and came back out, seating herself on the sofa.

Pendergast did not look well. His usual alabaster face was mottled with red and his hair looked like it had been in a wind tunnel.

“How did it go?” Corrie asked. She knew he had gone to Leadville to see if he could trace a Swinton descendant.

Instead of answering the question, he said, “I am delighted to find you safely ensconced in the hotel. As for the cost, I’d be happy to help—”

“Not necessary, thank you,” Corrie said quickly. “I managed to finagle free room and board in return for a few hours of kitchen work.”

“How enterprising of you.” He paused, his face growing more serious. “I regret that you felt it necessary to deceive me. I understand from the chief that your car was shot at and your dog killed.”

Corrie colored deeply. “I didn’t want you to worry. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you eventually.”

“You didn’t want me to take you away from Roaring Fork.”

“That, too. And I wanted to find the bastard who killed my dog.”