Jo and the Pinkerton Man

by Dorothy A. Bell

  Exhaling, frosty as a morning in November, she said, “You may let me go now, sir. I did not leap. I have no intention now, nor did I ever intend throwing myself off the back of this train.”

  Her cheeks, my God, they were on fire. She should thank him, not stand here berating him. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t admit to her foolishness, to the futility of her actions. She had to maintain her dignity, what little she had left, at all costs.

  Flustered, embarrassed, she lashed out with no good reason. Someone had to take the blame, and this bounder proved an easy target. She brushed her skirt and tugged her riding coat to close over the ruffles of her blouse. “I was not in any danger at all until you grabbed me and startled me and I lost my balance and my footing.”

  His eyes crinkled up at the corners. He pressed his lips together, pulled in his strong chin, and didn’t bother to hide a dismissive snort and a cheeky smirk. Maintaining her frigid glare, he wisely dropped his hands from her waist and retreated, taking a step back. But not far enough away to allow her to get past him, however.

  A smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, he touched the brim of his hat and tipped his head in deference to her. “My mistake, Miss Buxton. But it appeared to me you were in imminent danger of going overboard when I saw your feet coming off the ground. I mistakenly thought you were bent on launching yourself over the side of this moving train. In my opinion, it’s fortunate you only lost your silly hat.”

  Gathering up all her dignity, she spoke in her most quelling tone of voice, the voice she had practiced in anticipation of inflicting it upon recalcitrant young ladies. “I had a perfectly good reason for leaning over the rail. I was waving at that boy back there. My traveling trunk—it’s back there. I need it. I know, I know, the boy couldn’t hear me and what could he do? Nothing.” She shook her head at him. “But, I’ll have you know, my hat was not silly. It came all the way from Paris, France. And it cost me five dollars at the Baker City Emporium.”

  He pressed his lips together and tucked in his chin. Satisfied he’d accepted her scold, she said “Now, my traveling trunk is back there on the loading dock. We must go back and get it.”

  “I am sorry, not possible,” he said with no hint of a smile on his lips or in his eyes, his expression inscrutable.

  She shook her head; he knew her name. Who was he? And how did he know her name? The trial, of course. He knew her name from the trial. He’d been at the trial. But what was he doing here, now, right here? Narrowing her gaze, she persisted in her request. “We aren’t that far from Baker City, not yet. I must tell the porter. Let me pass.”

  A gust of wind and a swirl of dust flew up and grabbed a coil of her hair. The hat pin she thought she’d lost with her hat scratched her cheek before it fell to the grated platform. Without thinking, she bent down to retrieve it. With hair in her eyes, she butted heads with her unwelcome rescuer. She squeaked and backed up against the railing behind her, and this time she did fear she might topple over the end of the train.

  In a flash, he had one arm around her waist. “You’re determined to break your pretty neck, aren’t you?” he said, his lips close to her ear, which caused her to shiver, much to her disgust.

  “Your hat pin, I believe,” he said holding up the pin before her nose.

  Tense and short of breath, she attempted to puff her hair out of her eyes. Gently, with one very warm finger, he tucked the heavy coils of her hair behind each ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek. He smelled of starch, cloves, and sage. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. They were spellbinding, old eyes full of secrets. If she lost her head, she could lose herself in their depths.

  “Your hat pin, I believe,” he repeated, holding the pin a little closer to her nose.

  Trembling, her voice faltering, she said, “My mother’s. Thank you.”

  Squaring her shoulders and refusing to look at him, she said in a stronger voice, “Let me pass. I really must find the porter. We have to back up and retrieve my traveling trunk.”

  He tipped his hat to her and moved aside. “There’s no need to speak to the porter,” he said, sliding the door open for her.

  Dismissing his comment, she huffed and stumbled past him. The darn porter, she recalled, had disappeared in the forward car. Fearing her trembling legs would give out before she made it to the other end, she took the nearest vacant seat. Sliding over to the window, she averted her face, praying the Indian would go away and leave her alone to catch her breath and gather her wits.

  She heard him chuckle, a deep-throated sound, and then sensed the heat of his body next to her. Tucking herself as far over as she could, she folded her arms across her chest and gave him one of her quelling stares. “Find another seat, please.”

  He shook his head at her. “Can’t.”

  Turning herself in her seat to face him, drawing upon every ounce of dignity she had in her, she said, “You can and you will. There are several open seats available. I’ll complain to the porter. I’ll tell him you accosted me, and are making a nuisance of yourself. I’ll scream,” she said, narrowing her eyes, certain of her powers to persuade.

  He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t want any of the other seats. I want this one. The other seats are facing the wrong way. I’ll get sick if I ride backward. Betcha that’s why they’re vacant. Not many folks like to ride backward.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Snatching her valise from between her legs, she said, “Then I’ll move.”

  He gave her a considering look but didn’t budge. “Well, all right. But you might want to think about it for a moment.”

  She stood up and bounced her valise off the side of his knee to get him to move. “I don’t need to think about it. I’m moving.”

  The train, picking up speed, rocked the rickety wooden cars back and forth, forward and back. Moving in an unpredictable rhythm, she lost her balance and pitched forward, her body landing between his long legs, her hands on his chest. Grinning at her, he said in a soft, seductive whisper, “You really should’ve stay seated, Miss Buxton, before one of us is injured, or before I am left with no other recourse but to complain you’re molesting me.”

  Palms on his chest, Jo rolled herself over his thigh and back to a seated position. Her valise landed hard on her left foot, and her hair fell once more over her eyes. Heat rising up from her bosom, cheeks burning red hot, ears on fire, she fought to hold on to her temper while twisting her dratted hair up into a knot. It now hung down over one shoulder, spikes sticking out of the knot and at the end. She didn’t need a mirror to know what she looked like. This wasn’t the first time she’d struggled to control her long mane of hair.

  He sat there, all tidy and put together, a confident smirk on his face, watching her. “Now, then, let’s consider where you might find a place to light.” He tipped his head toward her, his gaze scanning the passengers within the car. “There’s a seat up there by those two brats…ah…precocious little angels. I’m sure their squabbling wouldn’t bother you much. Looks like the battle is over a thick slice of bread and jam—raspberry or strawberry. You can see it there on their faces and, yes, in their hair as well. Just as well you lost your bonnet, it wouldn’t last a minute around those two.”

  Jo pulled a face in spite of herself. She didn’t say so, but she’d rather ride on top of the car than sit anywhere near those bratty children and their ineffective parents.

  He must’ve read her mind. He said, “No? Well, there’s actually two empty benches right up there. Either one of those salesmen would probably welcome your scintillating presence with enthusiasm.”

  “Ha,” she said without thinking.

  He shook his head, leaned his shoulder against hers, and spoke to her behind his hand. “That leaves the snoozing grandma and grandpa. If you don’t mind being made a pillow, they would welcome your company, I’m sure.”

  Fed up with his flippancy, she took a moment to really look at her fellow travelers. On the left and two seats forward sat two gentlemen he’
d failed to point out to her. The gentleman closest to the window had very sandy blond hair that curled around the wide brim of his Stetson and over his ears. The gentleman on the aisle barely fit on the bench. His mutton chops covered his jowls clear down to his chin. Seated across the aisle from the two men sat a very handsome and large man dressed in a plaid wool coat and a black hat—Jo recognized them immediately.

  “You’ve failed to suggest the rather stout gentleman with the mutton chops and his companion, the blond gentleman in the brown hat. There’s an entire bench across from them. It’s facing backward of course, but I don’t mind. Or what about the gentleman across the aisle, the one in the plaid coat? He’s all alone. I could sit with him and stay facing forward. I could have the window. Surely you must remember them, you cleared their table in the restaurant last evening. As a matter of fact you spent considerable time and effort clearing their table if I recall. Perhaps they would allow you to sit with them and leave me alone.”

  Chapter Four

  Ryder did enjoy a sassy, smart, beautiful woman. He’d grown up around a whole passel of women like Miss Josephine Buxton, and sparring with her presented a pleasant way to pass the time.

  A month and a half ago, when Mr. Buxton and Mr. Bollo had brought in McDaniel and his thugs to the Baker City Sheriff’s Office, Ryder had spotted her on the street. Her mane of honey-brown hair set fire by the last rays of the setting sun caught his attention. Later, when he found out she had to testify in the case against the kidnappers, he put himself forward to volunteer for guard duty, although the judge thought it an insult to his court to have an Indian, albeit a Pinkerton agent, posing as a guard. But Ryder had talked him around to the idea, suggesting it would be an honor to volunteer his services to the court. Eventually, to get rid of him, the judge relented.

  His admiration for Miss Buxton grew as the trial proceeded. She’d remained poised throughout, neither flinching nor evading questions, and always giving direct and short answers. During her testimony, she’d mentioned her recent appointment as teacher at the Ascension School for Young Ladies in Cherry Grove. Melody, his little sister, was a pupil at that school. Telt and Buttrum’s daughters attended the Ascension school as well.

  McDaniel’s defense attorney unsuccessfully intimated Miss Buxton and Miss Bollo had willingly run off with Tommy and Ronnie Dixon as a lark. He even threatened the news of her hoydenish conduct could lose her the teacher’s position. The defense strategy fell apart when eyewitness testimony from other members of the outing group overwhelmingly supported Miss Buxton and Miss Bollo’s version of events.

  Miss Buxton’s cool-headedness during questioning impressed him, and Ryder decided, before the trial ended, she’d make the perfect contact plant inside the school. All was not right at the Ascension school. And, as soon as he rounded up these train robbers, he meant to discover what the hell was going on.

  He’d baited the trap, or rather his little brother Jewel had baited the trap. Last night, shooting his mouth off over his beer at the saloon, he’d let it slip a lot of loot was heading out of town on the next day’s train. If there were any train robbers around, they’d make a move on this train. Surely, to any self-respecting train robber, the Wells Fargo Gold and the O.R. and N. payroll would be a far too tempting prize to pass up. And especially as it didn’t appear to be guarded. No Pinkerton agents in sight, no armed guards. Nothing to keep a gang of thieves from having their way.

  Back there at the station when Ryder had cradled the old man in his arms to get him up the steps, he’d felt the hard leather of a shoulder holster beneath the man’s wool suit coat—which reeked of whiskey and cigars. When the old boy tried to stand, he’d also caught a glimpse of blue metal poking out of the top of his knee-high riding boots. No good reason came to mind for an old man to be armed with a hog leg.

  As for the old lady, Ryder cringed when he’d gotten a close-up look at her. She had chin whiskers, red ones. And she weighed a ton.

  The Payasos gang were famous for being able to blend in, take on many roles and guises. Convinced the old couple were playing parts in disguise, with Percy’s help he’d transferred the gold and the O.R. and N. payroll to the most unlikely looking box he could see in the cargo car, the blue and yellow trunk. He’d commissioned Percy to send a wire to North Powder requesting Pinkerton supply Agent Ryder McAdam extra agents as a robbery was expected between North Powder and Cherry Grove. The colorful trunk, to Ryder’s chagrin, he now realized belonged to Miss Buxton. He’d left in it Percy and Jewel’s capable hands to deliver safely to Cherry Grove.

  If he was right and this train was robbed, and they did catch the Payasos Gang, once they arrived in Cherry Grove he would transfer the gold and the payroll from the traveling trunk to a strong box and load it on a train headed to Laura Creek with proper Pinkerton guards.

  As for Miss Buxton’s trunk, he looked forward to returning it to her. Her belongings were safe and sound inside a packing crate in the cargo car. The Wells Fargo strong box in the cargo car now contained cast iron fry pans and kettles.

  He’d given Telt a note to keep an eye on the elderly couple before rushing out to keep the lovely Miss Buxton from going head first off the end of the train.

  His current and pressing problem was to get those children and their parents out of this car. He didn’t want to analyze too closely why he didn’t include Miss Buxton in his evacuation plans. He told himself it might tip off his quarry if he rushed everyone but his suspects out of the car.

  He couldn’t be certain about the salesmen. They could be salesmen. But then again, they could be with the old couple. The Payasos gang had worked their way into Oregon, robbing trains. Pinkerton speculated they were on their way to Canada. So far, no one knew exactly what they looked like or how many were involved. They adopted a routine of pulling a robbery and then disappearing. They’d been spotted as stable hands, hawkers in traveling shows, even posing as preachers and morticians. Rumor had it the leader, as well as members of the gang, were at one-time circus performers.

  McDaniel had tried unsuccessfully to blame the Payasos gang for beating up a farmer and stealing his horses. He’d sworn he’d seen the gang in action, they were in the area, and he was innocent. The farmer, however, told a different story. But as a follow-up, Ryder had sent out some telegrams, and indeed the Payasos gang had robbed a train between Idaho Falls and Boise. And another between Boise and Ontario, Oregon, right across the border from Idaho. Another attempt had been made near Vale, a little town east and north of Ontario, on a trunk line from a rock quarry owned by the OR&N. That one had failed, but all the robbers had gotten clean away, scattered to winds in the rolling hills between Ontario and Baker City.

  Without descriptions or names of any of the Payasos gang, he couldn’t put a make on anyone. So far the Payasos hadn’t killed anyone. They were, however, getting a reputation. A reputation for being unstoppable. Ryder meant to put an end to their performances.

  He didn’t know if he, Royce, Telt, and Buttrum would succeed in capturing the gang if they did decide to rob the train, but they had a better shot at it than anyone had gotten so far over the past sixteen months. Ryder figured if he were going to rob this train, he’d make his move in the pass north of North Powder. The train had to go through a tunnel and between some high-sided, narrow canyons. There were plenty of places for an ambush as the train slowed going up the grade.

  George, the porter, came through the door at the other end of the car and began his way down the aisle, stopping to punch the tickets of the parents with the large brood. Besides removing the family from this car, he needed to keep Miss Buxton from drawing attention to the fact her traveling trunk had been left behind on the loading dock.

  The porter moved on to the elderly couple. Ryder sat transfixed, ears straining and attention focused. They didn’t move or open their eyes. The porter removed two tickets from the black hatband of the old man’s felt hat. The old man didn’t flinch or move a muscle. That didn’t smell right. Wo
uld a senile old fart like him have the forethought to put his tickets in the brim of his hat? Ryder doubted it.

  Reacting on instinct, Ryder put out his hand and caught Miss Buxton’s wrist before she could wave her ticket in the air and call out to the porter. “Miss Buxton,” he said, moving swiftly to sit on the bench in front of her. With his body leaning in toward her and his voice low, he said, “You must believe me, all of your possessions are aboard this train.”

  Her beautiful gray eyes glittered with barely suppressed outrage.

  “It is imperative,” he continued, “for your safety, and the safety of everyone in this car and on this train, you accept my assurances and desist from drawing attention to the fact your trunk was left sitting on the loading dock in Baker City.”

  Defiance written all over her pretty face, jaw set and lips tight, she silently warned him he was about to get an earful. In anticipation of her next move, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. He’d fantasized about what it would be like to kiss Miss Buxton from the moment he’d seen her out on the street in Baker City. Her reaction, in his dreams, was quite different from the one she presented at the moment. She squeaked in surprise, not a loud squeak, but a squeak of repugnance all the same.

  Her eyes flew open, and her lips parted. He whispered his plea against her mouth, “Shhh, please. It’s important.”

  He slipped back into the seat beside her before she could slap his face. “I beg your pardon, Miss Buxton,” he said, unable to meet her accusing glare.

  He cursed his Scots/Indian blood; it ran hot and undisciplined.

  He rarely considered the mores of the day, the rules of society. He’d grown up in Laura Creek, not a wild animal. He knew his table manners. He knew better than to talk back to people in power. He always remembered to tip his hat when he met a lady. And all women were ladies in his eyes. Some of his so-called manners came from a strong sense of self-preservation. He avoided standing in the limelight, having the good sense to refrain from drawing attention to himself.