Jo and the Pinkerton Man

by Dorothy A. Bell

  “Miss Buxton gave her a going over. She had the longest hat pin I’ve ever seen, and a brooch concealing a little dagger. I think she’s clean now.”

  “How did it go out there?” Buttrum asked, tipping his head toward the window.

  “Good, good. We’ll sit tight here until the Pinkerton men catch up with us. I sent them out before the train left North Powder. Shouldn’t be too long. Meanwhile, we’ll get everybody chained up in the cargo car. The sheriff in Cherry Grove can wire for the county marshal. Pinkerton will give him some extra help, of course.”

  Ryder, with Buttrum’s help, herded the prisoners to the cargo car. Overriding heated protests, he insisted the wounded stagger and hobble as best they could, cuffs in place. With the help of Royce, Telt, and Buttrum, they stripped the men down to their shirts and trousers before securing them to the car walls and floor with chains and shackles. The ladies were relieved of their petticoats, stockings, shoes, and all adornments before being herded into a large packing crate that had held an ornate-looking glass. The looking glass, the kind often found on the wall behind the bar in a fancy saloon, now rested safely between two bales of straw at the front of the car.

  ∙•∙

  Jo stayed in the passenger car. She couldn’t stop shaking. She’d actually shot someone. A woman, no less. Mr. McAdam had a lot of nerve involving her in this debacle. Damn the man. He’d set her up to shoot someone, leaving her in this car with Mr. Buttrum to guard his prisoners. The nerve.

  She would never forgive him.

  Thank God he hadn’t been hurt or shot, wounded or dead.

  God, she’d never been so scared for someone.

  Well, maybe not quite true. She’d been scared when she and Birdie-Alice were kidnapped and tied together in that dark, damp cave.

  And she’d been scared when her father, Gabe, and Rafe took out that shyster McDaniel. And the time she’d found a rattlesnake in her garden boots.

  Oh, all right, she’d been scared lots of times, but not like this.

  She wanted to cry but didn’t know why.

  When Mr. McAdam walked through the door, looking so very handsome and intense, it was all she could do not to jump up and throw herself at him. But he didn’t even look at her or speak to her.

  She childishly ached for consolation, recognition for her bravery. Stewing in her own juices, angry with herself and mad at Mr. McAdam, mad at the damn robbers and men in general, she worked herself up to near hysteria.

  Outside, three Pinkerton agents arrived in their long black coats and black hats leading a horse and buggy and four extra mounts. She found their presence reassuring. Mr. McAdam directed them to the prisoners. Mr. Muttonchops, no, Mr. Buttrum, she needed to remember their names, for Pete’s sake, huffed and puffed entering the car. He flopped down in his seat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead and red neck.

  “Got’em all tucked in nice and neat,” he told her.

  “My name is Josephine Buxton, sir,” she said and held out her hand to him.

  Coming to his feet, he bowed over her hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Josephine Buxton. You are an intrepid young woman.” She nodded, grateful for the compliment. At least one of this lot had manners.

  The tall, good looking sheriff, Telt Longtree, and Mr. O’Bannon, aka Mr. Sandy-Hair, entered next, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

  “Boys.” Mr. Buttrum waved his hand in a sweep in her direction. “Miss Buxton, allow me to introduce you to Royce O’Bannon, Ryder McAdam’s father, and our sheriff in Laura Creek, Telt Longtree. Gentlemen, Miss Buxton.”

  Sheriff Longtree pumped her hand, “It is a real pleasure ma’am.” She smiled and accepted his compliment.

  Mr. O’Bannon stood for a moment, staring at her. “I feel it incumbent on me to apologize for my son’s thoughtlessness in this day’s work. He put you in danger. He stole your traveling trunk. I would like to think I had some control over the man, but I don’t. He is what he is.”

  In spite of herself, she snickered. “I have brothers, sir. And my father has a long-standing reputation as a rogue where I come from. Therefore, I know exactly what you mean.”

  All three gentlemen laughed. The tension passed, and they began to relive events.

  The door opened behind her. She refused to look, knowing full well who had entered. A hand came to rest on her shoulder, gentle and warm. She closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Mr. Buttrum, Mr. O’Bannon, and Mr. Longtree abandoned her, moving farther down the car and taking their seats.

  “Come outside with me,” Mr. McAdam said.

  She shook her head in silent refusal.

  “Please, Jo. I need to speak to you alone.” His fingers gently squeezed her upper arm. He reached for her hand, and she followed him out the back door to the platform at the end of the car.

  Holding her hands, leaning down to look directly into her eyes, he said, “You are a warrior, Jo. I knew it the first time I set eyes on you. I have to go. I want to backtrack and catch up with your traveling trunk, make sure it arrives safe in Cherry Grove. We should be there late tomorrow or early the next day. I’ll see you then.”

  She couldn’t speak. Her throat had clutched up into a tight knot. Outrage warred with the joy at the prospect of seeing him again. She couldn’t decide whether to slap him or kiss the hell out of him. In the end, he made the decision for her, his lips finding hers, transforming confusion into warmth and longing.

  He let her go and stepped off the train. She stood at the rail as he mounted a horse. “Be careful, don’t fall overboard,” he said and tipped his hat to her before riding off down the hill, leading a string of six horses.

  Accompanying him was a man in a buggy with a string of five horses tied behind—it was a parade. Where had they all come from? She deduced the Pinkerton men and the robbers must all be in the cargo car, but that didn’t explain the other horses and the buggy. She leaned out to look at the head of the train. The engineer waved to her and gave the whistle a couple of blasts. The train started its slow crawl up the draw. Behind her, Mr. O’Bannon steadied her, his hand on her elbow, and said, “The buggy was for the ladies, and of course the robbers brought extra horses.”

  Chapter Eight

  Principal Ester Jones fell all over herself in her rush to greet her guests.

  To escape notice, Jo stepped back to stand against the wall. They’d walked here from the station in the heat, dust clouds swirling up from the dry ruts and gullies in the road. At the telegraph office, where she’d sent a wire to her father to let him know she’d arrived safe and sound, Jo caught sight of herself in the big front window. While walking the length of the town, she’d tried to braid her hair into some order, but it had slipped loose, strands of hair flopping over one eye and creeping into the neck of her once crisp white blouse. Her brown riding coat, now covered in a dusting of filth and dotted with dried blood, hung about her person like a stained, creased, and tattered old tarp. Miserable and tired, Jo called upon her last reserves of intestinal fortitude to face her new employer.

  “Sheriff Longtree, Mr. O’Bannon, and dear Mr. Buttrum, how delighted I am to see you,” Mrs. Jones said. “Your girls are doing splendidly, splendidly. To what occasion do we owe this, your second visit in less than a month? Not trouble at home, I do pray. The girls are just getting settled in for the fall term.”

  Sheriff Longtree opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but the interruption of a knock on the door and a bump and thud cut him off. A skinny young man, with an unfortunate amount of sweat and pimples on his face, stood in the doorway rubbing his knee, a packing crate resting on his right foot.

  The fabric of her black bombazine skirt crackled as Mrs. Jones scurried around her gargantuan oak desk. “What in the world is that, Gerald? We have guests.” She nodded toward the visitors and beamed an ingratiating smile. “You gentlemen have met Gerald. He wears many hats, many hats.”

  Her attention returned to the doorway. “But the crate,
Gerald, as you can see, is labeled pots, pans, and kitchen hardware. It belongs in the kitchen, not on my doorstep.”

  “I know what it says, but they told me it belongs to Miss Buxton.”

  Thin black brows beetled together above beady brown eyes, Mrs. Jones lips puckered up as if she’d just eaten a sour pickle. “Miss Buxton? And who is Miss Buxton, pray tell?” she inquired.

  “That would be me,” Jo said, stepping out from behind the sheriff.

  Mrs. Jones looked down her nose at Jo, the specimen.

  Conjuring up the last shreds of her bravado, Jo held out her hand. “I am Josephine Buxton, I’ve come to take up my teaching position. I apologize for the shipping crate. Someone confiscated my traveling trunk and transferred my belongings into the crate without my permission or knowledge.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Jones said, ignoring Jo’s hand.

  Withdrawing her hand, Jo retrieved her application and acceptance letters from her reticule and held them out. Mrs. Jones snatched the papers from Jo.

  Jo laced her fingers together and stood quietly.

  Mrs. Jones retreated behind her desk. Setting aside the papers, she addressed the gentlemen. “Are you acting as Miss Buxton’s escorts, gentlemen?”

  Mr. Buttrum cleared his throat and looked to his companions for support. Longtree and O’Bannon studiously looked at their dusty boots, silent. Mr. Buttrum shrugged and stepped forward. “In a manner of speaking, yes. We traveled on the same train. As we were all headed here, we accompanied Miss Buxton from the station to the school.”

  Mrs. Jones stood silent for a moment before taking the pince-nez dangling from the black ribbon around her neck between thumb and forefinger. Placing it on her narrow nose, she sat down at her desk. “I had given up on you, Miss Buxton. According to the train schedule, the train from Baker City arrived in Cherry Grove at two thirty-five.” She checked the timepiece suspended from the brooch on her lapel. “It is now twelve minutes past the hour of five o’clock. You are tardy, Miss Buxton. We do not tolerate tardiness at the Ascension School for Young Ladies.”

  Mrs. Jones’s displeasure now included the gentleman as well as Jo. “The supper hour is fast approaching, Miss Buxton. I fear you won’t have time to tidy yourself. We do not come to table in an unkempt state, especially at our evening meal. It is a formal meal, and all of our young ladies and staff are required to appear in their very best dress, hair combed, clothes pressed and freshly laundered, shoes polished.”

  The sheriff stepped forward, but Mr. O’Bannon spoke first. He spoke with a tight jaw, eyes narrowed. “The train from Baker City was unavoidably detained. Miss Buxton, all passengers, including ourselves, arrived behind schedule. You can hardly hold Miss Buxton responsible. We intend to treat our daughters to a supper out. It will be an honor to have the pleasure of Miss Buxton’s company as well.”

  Mrs. Jones rose up from her chair, hands tightly held to her narrow cinched-up waist, and set her gimlet-eyed glare upon Mr. O’Bannon. “That would be most unwise, Mr. O’Bannon. If Miss Buxton should take up your kind invitation, it would require me to rescind our offer of a teaching position. It is against the rules for any of our teachers to be seen dining in public with any gentleman other than a male family member.”

  Mr. O’Bannon’s ruddy complexion burned red with outrage, his fists clenched and jaw working. Jo stepped in front of him, prepared to take the brunt of the rebuke and suffer her punishment.

  “Take this pamphlet, Miss Buxton,” said Mrs. Jones, holding a blue booklet out for Jo to take. “Study it. All our rules are in there. We give our students the benefit of two infractions before expulsion. However, teachers and staff are held to a higher standard. Any one infraction is cause for instant dismissal.”

  The woman took a deep breath before continuing. “You arrive here, two and a half hours late and in the company of three men, none of whom are your relations. Your appearance is…is slovenly, dirty, and dusty, I don’t want to know what those dark stains are. Your hair is undone. You look a veritable hoyden. I’ll give you this day to pull yourself together. Tomorrow is a new day. I expect to see a new woman.” She held up a hand to ward off any excuse anyone might choose to voice.

  Jo had none and knew better than to offer, but the gentlemen looked ready to go for the woman’s throat. Shaking her head, Jo gave them all a tentative smile and mouthed a thank you.

  Ignoring the heightened level of testosterone in the room, Mrs. Jones dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Gerald will see you to your quarters.”

  Gerald appeared in the doorway. Jo suspected he’d been lurking out of sight the whole time.

  “Gerald, take Miss Buxton and her packing crate to the Sherman. It will have to do for now. We are cramped for space. You’ll be comfortable. There’s plenty of firewood, and it is close to the privy and the well. Good evening to you, Miss Buxton. Welcome to the Ascension School for Young Ladies.”

  »»•««

  Outside, the sun had slid down behind the black walnut trees bordering the western edge of the school grounds. The shade of the trees still held a good deal of the day’s heat. Jo scanned her new home, admiring the park-like setting while marching several paces behind Gerald. To her right, directly across from the administration office, sat a large building bearing a wooden plaque declaring it The Great Hall. Several smaller signs dangled beneath it denoting classrooms and a dining room. There were three tidy bungalows set in a row at the far end of the green. All of the buildings were constructed of river stone and split logs.

  Gerald veered to the right, slipping between the last two bungalows. Jo thought he was leading her to a back entrance. When he kept going, heading for two sheds and a tent, she hesitated to follow. On the back stoop of the bungalow there were familiar things. A mop and bucket, a clothesline and a washboard, all signs of normal, everyday life. Ahead of her lay unknown territory. A wave of homesickness hit her hard.

  Gerald passed by the first shed, which turned out to be a privy. The other shed had a padlock on the door. He dropped her crate in front of a tent bearing a plaque over the flap proclaiming it The Sherman.

  The clanging racket of a dinner bell echoed out into the field beyond the tent. Gerald dropped the crate. He tipped his hat to her and grinned. Without a word he took off, disappearing around the corner of the second bungalow.

  The sad coo of a mourning dove set Jo on the verge of tears. Stomach growling, hot, tired, and emotions vacillating between extreme self-pity and rage, she parted the flap and peered inside.

  The tent, military in vintage, did have the basic accoutrements. There was a good-sized cot and a decent wood stove with pots and kettles for cooking. A tin of tea, a jar of honey, and one full tin of hardtack biscuits were stored on a stand beside the stove. A flat, hard pillow and two wool blankets waited for her on the cot. She found a bucket for water and a blue, chipped porcelain pitcher and bowl tucked under the cot.

  “All the comforts of home,” she said to herself, setting her valise down on the cot. With a heavy heart, she turned and dragged the shipping crate into her new domain. She occupied herself with organizing her quarters and then cleaning the dirt from her hair, clothes, and person. Keeping busy also kept at bay her homesickness and her disappointment. The breakfast she’d enjoyed that morning was now nothing more than a sweet and savory distant memory. Her guts ground in protest—and hunger.

  A mere twelve hours had passed since she’d marched away from the warm company and security of her family and her life. The day had brought with it too many firsts. Firsts she could not possibly accept as reasonable or within the parameters of normal. It brought forth memories of her mother reading Alice in Wonderland to her when she was ill and feeling low. Today her world had spun off into lunacy land, a land of jealous queens, mad hatters, oversized rabbits and dashing heroes in black hats. She missed her mother, today especially.

  With her wash hanging from a piece of string she’d found in the bottom of the crate, Jo sat on her cot. The little oi
l lamp gave off a little heat and very little light.

  For the past half hour, the bang and slap of the privy door assured her she was not alone in this foreign place. But the sounds of other human beings amplified her longings for home rather than dispelling her loneliness. At one point she considered going out to introduce herself, but instead, she sat huddled in the gloom. Allowing her doubt to eat away at her, she wondered if she would be able to live on her own and be a teacher.

  A trill of giggles grew closer, more distinct. The flap of her tent parted, and three girls entered. In the pale light of her oil lamp, the faces of her visitors remained in shadow. Coming to her feet, Jo opened her mouth, prepared to defend her place.

  The smallest of the three, a sprite of a girl with coal black hair and large black eyes, put her finger to her lips and quick as a wink, turned down the flame of the lamp. “We don’t want Gerald snooping around. He’d report us to Festering Ester. We’re supposed to be in our cots studying. Sorry we didn’t knock.”

  The tallest of the three, a blonde beauty with a willowy figure, came forward as the spokeswoman. “Miss Buxton, we’ve brought you some supper. Papa said you were very brave today. He told us all about your adventure.”

  Too tired to think straight, Jo asked, “Your father?”

  “Oh, dear, sorry. How silly of us,” said the beauty. “My name is Grace Buttrum. My papa is Howard Buttrum. He was on the train with you today. He said the train would’ve gotten robbed if it weren’t for you.”

  Grace waved her arm out to the sprite. “This is Melody, but everyone calls her Dodie. She’s Ryder McAdam’s sister. Her father is Royce O’Bannon, whom you also met on the train. Dodie and her brothers are adopted, that’s why they don’t have the same last name.”

  Jo nodded and stored the tidbit of information in the back of her mind.

  “And this,” she said, drawing to her side a petite brunette with curly hair, “is Twyla-Rose Longtree. She’s Sheriff Telt Longtree’s daughter.”