So she was a witness?
She favors her rifle! The Ace has never used a blade before!
He cursed yet again and holstered his gun. He needed to find her. He needed to find the truth.
And he needed to do it before King found her.
15
By dawn, Quint was more exhausted than he could ever remember being. He'd spent all night awake, even after the day of backbreaking labor from shoveling snow yesterday. He'd had worse nights on this job—such as the night he'd spent behind the Old First Bank building in Philadelphia, waiting to set the trap for the Robertson boys. And only a few months ago, he'd led a four-day chase to stop that murderer down in Santa Fe—but none of them compared to the thought of Finnie in danger.
He'd spent the rest of the night searching for her, wildly at first, then slowly and methodically, as he attempted to track her by her boot print. Every time he hit a dead end, he went back to the saloon, just in case she'd returned. But while Cinco slept peacefully, there was no sign of her. He prayed her absence simply meant she was holed up somewhere safe and was well hidden.
By the time the sun had turned the Eastern sky a soft pink, Quint was trudging back towards Gomez's store. He hadn't seen signs of the owner all evening either, and hoped the old man and his wife were keeping their heads down someplace safe as well. Maybe even the same place Finnie was hiding out.
Quint also hadn't seen much of the town's unexpected protectors. Caplan and Blake, and whoever else had been out here last night, hadn't shown themselves after the shot was fired last night, as far as Quint knew, and he hadn't run into any of them after either. They—
He stopped suddenly and dropped his head back to stare up at the sky as a new thought occurred to him.
For the last few hours, he'd been so intent on finding Finnie, on confronting her and making her tell him the whole story, that he'd never thought about the alternatives. If Finnie wasn't the one who murdered those men, then who was? It had to have been one of her neighbors, one of the men of Black Aces, who were out last night to protect Gomez and his store.
Quint winced, hating the idea of having to arrest someone like Matthias Blake, a devoted family man, for the three gruesome murders the previous night, and possibly the three before.
But was it really murder? If, as Millard had said, those three men had been sent by King to rob and kill Gomez, then whoever had killed them, though he hadn't exactly been in the right, he hadn't really been in the wrong either.
Quint blew out a breath and shook his head. It wasn't up to him to judge. His job as a marshal was to track down the guilty man.
Or woman.
He winced again at the thought of having to arrest Finnie for murder. He couldn't deny she'd been dressed as the Black Ace at least a few times, but murder?
He shook his head.
Impossible.
He wasn't the only one up early on this bright morning, and he couldn't help but wonder how many of the men hurrying towards Gomez's store right now had been out and about last night.
Perhaps wearing a black bandana.
Perhaps carrying a long blade.
Without trying to draw too much attention to himself, he slipped into the alley behind the store to search for clues in the daylight. He didn't have much luck. Other than his own footprints, first from when he'd heard the dying man's accusation, and then twice more when he'd returned to the scene in a vain attempt to look for clues in the dark, the scene was muddled with prints.
Eventually, he might be able to sort them out, to figure out which set went to which victim. There seemed to be a fourth set, probably belonging to the killer, which covered the rest. The prints were smooth, as if his shoes were new or of high quality, and as Quint studied the scene, he got the impression the killer had been almost dancing as he fought the men.
One thing he didn't see, which had Quint breathing a silent prayer of thanks, were Finnie’s distinct boot prints.
As much as he hated to do it, Quint needed to make McNelis aware of the situation. Technically, the sheriff was in charge of the investigation, although if these men were in King's employ, Quint didn't have high hopes of the sheriff's unbiased outlook.
But as he emerged onto Bluff Street, he realized it was out of his hands. Coming towards him was a small mob, King and McNelis at the front.
Quint halted in the road, hooked his thumbs into his gun belt, and wished he'd had some coffee first.
“Well?” King demanded as he rocked to a stop in front of Quint.
He sighed. “There's been some deaths, Mr. King. I'd like to ask you some questions—”
“We know there's been deaths, boy!” King sneered dismissively. “O'Grady and Erstwhile and Zagarowitz! Three of my finest man, cut down while they were minding their own business!” King fairly shook from anger. “I want to know what the hell you're going to do about it!”
Quint blinked. “Me? The sheriff—”
“You, boy! You were sent here to stop the Black Ace! The US Marshals thought a negro could do a man's job, but your ineptitude has cost three more men their lives!”
Around them, the men of Black Aces had begun to gather. Men Quint had come to know and respect over the last weeks now stood awkwardly, refusing to meet his eyes.
Did they agree with King? Did they think Quint’s failure to capture the Black Ace was the reason for O'Grady and the others’ deaths? Did they believe the color of his skin really determined his ability?
Or were they just too cowed to stand up to King?
Quint shook his head slightly. Maybe he hadn't done everything he could to track down the Black Ace, but that was because, the longer he was in town, the less convinced he was about the Ace’s guilt. But he wasn't going to defend himself to a man like King, that was for damn sure.
King must have realized this from Quint’s silence, because he dismissed the accusations with a wave. “I'll keep this so-called marshal here, with the help of these fine citizens, while you do your investigation, Sheriff.” He pierced McNelis with a threatening glare. “Don't come back without evidence the Ace murdered our friends!”
McNelis nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and waddled with all haste towards the back of the alley.
Quint couldn't decide if he was more amused, or pissed off, at King’s boldness. Part of him wanted to point out his record of success, and the logic that his supervisors wouldn't have sent him out here without a damn good reason, and that the color of his skin didn't have a thing to do about it. But the rest of him decided to keep his mouth shut and give King just enough rope to hang himself.
So, while all around him the citizens of Black Aces began to mutter angrily to one another, and while King whispered furiously to one of his men, Quint rocked back on his heels, plastered a faint grin on his lips, and waited to see what would happen next.
Still wish I’d had some damn coffee.
In less time than he'd expected, McNelis returned from the alley, his belly preceding him.
“It's just like we heard, Mr. King, sir,” he panted. “All three of them, dead!
King surged forward. “And the Ace? Did you find evidence of his guilt?”
No, because there wasn't any, Quint knew. McNelis wouldn't find evidence, because the Black Ace didn't do it, no matter what O'Grady had said.
Which is why it came as one hell of a surprise when McNelis bobbed his head eagerly.
“Yes, sir! They were killed with blades, but we know the Ace favors a rifle ever since he stuck his nose into that fair trial we were giving Hartwell, right?”
“Get on with it,” King growled.
With a flourish, McNelis revealed what he'd been holding behind his back: a rifle. And not just any rifle, but one Quint knew well. It had been tucked into the boot of Finnie's saddle the day they'd ridden out to cut down Christmas trees. And she’d used it just yesterday when she'd challenged him to a contest, then showed him how good she really was.
No!
Quint stared in horror a
t the rifle, knowing he wasn't wrong. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that Finnie couldn't have killed those men. There had to be another reason for her rifle being there.
“Excellent!” King was saying, and looked one step away from rubbing his hands greedily. “Now we just have to identify the owner! We’ll know who the Ace is, soon enough!” He gestured to the men circling them as he spoke to McNelis. “Search the town! Find anyone who can identify the owner of that rifle!”
“No need, sir.”
The slyness in McNelis’s tone jerked Quint’s attention to the sheriff's face. The corpulent man was staring at Quint with a predatory smile, and Quint realized his mistake.
“Looks like our marshal knows the owner of this rifle,” McNelis crowed gleefully.
Quint winced, but couldn't deny the accusation. He was a US Marshal, and not sharing what he knew would be considered as hindering an investigation. Not only that, but he had a duty to the law of the United States, no matter what his heart told him to do.
“It's Finnie's,” he said in a rough whisper.
“What, boy? Speak up!” King demanded.
Quint cleared his throat and tried again. “That rifle belongs to Finnie Pompey, but I know—”
Before Quint could claim her innocence, King interrupted with a gleeful laugh. “Excellent! McNelis, go arrest Miss Finnie on suspicion of three gruesome murders!”
Around them, the citizens of Black Aces broke into angry defiance.
“Miss Finnie? Are you crazy? She couldn't hurt a fly!”
“She's as big as a man, and twice as tough! Remember when she tossed me out of her saloon just for having a few drinks?”
“You were trying to shoot the mirror, Edsel! She's a woman! She couldn’t murder nobody!”
“Wait, wait! Is King saying he thinks Finnie is the Black Ace? A woman?”
“Ain't no way a woman could make that shot that saved Hartwell, remember?”
Their comments flowed over Quint, but he barely registered them. He wanted to object to the ridiculousness of McNelis arresting Finnie on suspicion of murder. The most he could legally do was question her, but Quint wouldn't put anything past the mean-spirited sheriff.
So instead of objecting, knowing it would do no good, he sprang into motion, following McNelis down the boardwalk towards the High Stakes Saloon.
Because duty to the law or not, he had to protect the woman he loved!
16
Finnie couldn’t remember ever being so exhausted. She’d spent the last few hours in the old boardinghouse, standing at one of the front windows, with the curtain parted just enough for her to keep an eye on the streets. She’d been so damn happy to see the Gomezes unharmed, but as she’d hugged Mrs. Gomez in relief, the horror of what she’d seen caught up with her and she burst into tears.
It was only then that she’d realized she was still dressed as the Ace, which might explain how confused the poor woman looked.
Neither of them asked questions about Finnie’s get-up, although Mr. Gomez looked as if he wanted to. But instead, they’d both listened with wide-eyes as she explained what had happened that night, and breathed quiet prayers when they heard how close their store had come to destruction.
Finnie told them about the man dressed as the Black Ace, the one who’d killed O’Grady and the others so effortlessly, and Mrs. Gomez made the sign of the cross over her heart. Finnie felt like copying it, because no matter how hard it had been to watch those men die, it was even worse remembering what had come after.
Quint now knew she was the Ace, and was no doubt looking for her. Twice now she’d seen him cross in front of her window, although he never stopped to investigate the boarded-up house. Finnie was glad she’d removed those incriminating boots and stashed them, along with the hat, duster and bandana, upstairs. Her intention was to sneak back to her saloon, even if she had to do it in her stockinged feet.
And she would, just as soon as all this traffic cleared!What the hell were so many of Black Aces’ citizens doing out and about in the middle of the night? Were they still trying to protect Gomez’s store from King’s men? Did they not realize what had happened?Many of them wore black and carried rifles, and although she thought she might’ve recognized a few, she watched in vain for a glimpse of the ghostly acrobat who’d killed King’s men.
It was just before dawn when she finally stepped away from the window, deciding this was her best chance. She stretched—her back and legs hurt from all the shoveling of yesterday, then work, then her frantic flight and her anxious watch.
“You ready to go home?” Gomez rumbled quietly behind her.
She nodded, too tired to speak, and although he didn’t have to, the older man kept his arm protectively around her all the way back to the saloon. They slipped inside, and as she began to climb the stairs, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Miss Finnie, I don’t know what your plan was, and I don’t need to know how long these shenanigans have been going on, but I just wanted to say thank you for caring about us and this town enough to risk your neck.”
There wasn’t anything she could do except nod gratefully in acceptance of his thanks. She’d never wanted acknowledgment, but it was nice someone recognized she’d done what she’d done for only the best of reasons.
Now, if only there was some way to convince Quint of that.
Mr. Gomez hurried back to the boarding house to collect his wife so they could go investigate the damage to their store, while Finnie trudged up the stairs. In her room, she stripped out of the trousers and waistcoat she’d always worn as the Black Ace. Her socks were soaked through, so she piled everything into the corner, vowing to burn the lot of it soon enough.
Because whatever happened today, she was done being the Black Ace.
No matter how much she loved this town, she loved Quint more. And she didn’t ever want to be the one who forced him to question his loyalty.
Wearily, she pulled on her worn work skirt and pulled a blouse from her trunk. It was a woman’s blouse, a little small on her, but after the night she’d had, she wanted to feel a little more feminine.
Then she sat on her bed and brushed her hair. Had it really only been last night she’d done the same? So full of hope for a future with Quint, so starry-eyed from his kisses? And now…? Now he’d be here any moment to arrest her.
It was his job, the reason he was here in Black Aces.
She dabbed on some rosewater, then went to check on Cinco. The boy blinked sleepily at her, then smiled with such innocence, her heart broke. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“I love you, Cinco,” she whispered, her voice catching, knowing it might be her last chance to tell him so.
He yawned. “Love you too, Finnie.”
She swallowed and tried to smile, but knew she’d failed. If Quint arrested her, she’d lose Cinco. She’d lose her saloon.
She’d lose Quint.
A yawn caught her off-guard, as she was closing Cinco’s door behind her. So when the knock came on the saloon’s front door, she nearly swallowed her tongue. Still, it wasn’t unexpected.
She felt as if she were going to her execution—maybe she was!—as she dragged her feet across the main room of the saloon. She remembered what it had looked like last night, with so many people here, and the happiness in the air. Then, so many of them had gone out last night to save the Gomezes.
And one of them had killed for the cause.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door, and found Sheriff McNelis standing on the boardwalk, a gloating grin on his face and her rifle in her hands.
She felt the blood drain from her face as she realized what that meant. Her Winchester had been with her last night when she’d gone to Gomez’s, but she must’ve dropped it when the stranger appeared. She'd ran off without it, that was for sure, and now…
And now, McNelis and King knew she’d been there. They were trying to pin the murders on her. Did they know she was the Ace as well?
&n
bsp; Finnie dragged her gaze away from the rifle, trying to decide how to respond. Just then, Quint thundered up the boardwalk behind the sheriff, breathing heavily, as if he’d run the whole way. And God help her, but even in the midst of this horrifying development, her heart leapt to see him.
He knew she was a criminal. He likely thought her guilty of murder, as well. But she couldn’t help the hope in her heart when their eyes met.
It took a moment to realize there was nothing besides worry in his dark gaze. He wasn’t accusing her, in fact, his anger seemed directed at McNelis. As she watched, he took a breath and gave her a slight head shake.
Instantly, her panic ceased. She trusted him.
So she frowned slightly in polite confusion and turned back to McNelis. “Can I help you, Sheriff?”
“I’m here to arrest you for three murders, Miss Finnie,” the large man rumbled, although he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Murder?” She was proud of her fairly credible expression of shock. “You think I… Murder?”
There were townspeople gathering out in the street and on the boardwalk, and she could hear them muttering. There was the Gomezes, back again, and Mr. Wilson from the restaurant and Edsel Kinard and Matthias Blake and a dozen others. Even Widow Hoyle was there, with her companion. More neighbors arrived, with King and Burton among them. Finnie didn’t miss the angry glances being thrown around, and did her best to look as innocent as possible.
McNelis, for his part, looked less certain now. “Is this your rifle, Miss Finnie?”
To buy time, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. It was cold, and she had no jacket, but hoped the sight made her look more pitiful. Finally, she couldn’t stall any longer, and met the sheriff’s eyes.
“It is,” she confessed. “I’ve been wondering where it went to.”
There. All truth, every word.
And Quint, bless him, figured out what she was trying to do. He shouldered aside McNelis. “Are you saying, Miss Finnie, that the rifle has been missing? Is it possible someone took it, and that’s why the sheriff found it at the scene of a crime?”
Three of a Kind: Black Aces, Book Two Page 13
