Jo and the Pinkerton Man

by Dorothy A. Bell

  A figure ducked under a low hanging branch. “Dodie, wait up.”

  “Jo?” Ryder came out into the opening. “Jo? What the hell? You shouldn’t be here.”

  She brushed the leaves out of her hair and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “I knew you’d say that,” she said, adjusting her cape over her shoulders.

  “Somebody could’ve followed you,” Ryder said, tempted to shake her until her teeth rattled. “They could come looking for you. Or, I don’t know, find out you’re missing from your tent.”

  “Then I would tell them I often go for a walk before bedtime. I do, you know, but nobody followed us. I nearly got lost. Dodie moves like a ghost. She avoids the branches that hit me in the face.”

  She walked into his outstretched arms and wrapped her arms around his waist. He couldn’t resist her and held her tight, his cheek against her head. “I had to come. I won’t see you for a while. I know I shouldn’t have. I understand why and I know the risk, but I had to. I wanted to give you something.”

  Tipping her face up, he leaned in for a deep, long kiss. “I’ll miss being with you. Know that,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

  “We should go,” Dodie said, picking up her duffle and bundle. “It’s getting dark now.”

  Jo patted his chest and dipped her head. “Yes, yes, you should go.”

  “Wait,” he said putting his hand over hers. “You wanted to give me something.”

  She shook her head and took a step away. “No, it’s silly. Never mind. Not important.”

  He gave her a little shake. “C’mon. What did you want to give me? I’m not going to let you go until you show me.”

  “No, I’m silly. You and Dodie be careful. I need to get back before it gets too dark to see my hand in front of my face. No moon tonight.”

  “You’re stalling, Jo.”

  Huffing and wiggling her shoulders, she retrieved from her cape pocket a small white feather. She waved it in his face. “Here. I told you it was silly. I found it on the floor of the tent where you climb in and out. I think it’s from my pillow.”

  He examined the goose feather and chuckled. She batted him on the chest and turned to leave.

  “No, no, wait,” he said pulling her back into his arms. “Geese mate for life. They might fly separate from each other from time to time, but they are monogamous. I’m yours, Jo. There will never be another. I’ll go but always return to you. I’ll keep your feather here,” he said, tucking the feather inside his shirt, letting it rest on his bare skin, “next to my heart.

  She felt the tears running down her cheeks. There was nothing she could do to keep her lips from trembling. Well, there was one thing. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a salty kiss on the lips. No help for it, trembling lips and tears couldn’t be stopped. Her hand pressed to her mouth to muffle her sobs, she made a hasty retreat into the orchard.

  »»•««

  The orchard, always a shady place, in full darkness became a nightmare. Every row was the same, frightening, branch attacking, and populated with spider web-entangling traps. Jo swiped away the damn tears that blurred her vision. Straight ahead should lead to the irrigation canal and the small wooden weir that crossed the canal. From there, all she had to do was follow the canal down to the walnut grove.

  For a moment, panic set in and she came to a standstill. She realized that not only could she not find the path back to the tent, but she couldn’t find her way back to Ryder. He’d probably already left with Dodie and the horses. Thinking herself doomed to wander around in the orchard all night, she emerged at the edge of the trees near the canal. Less than twelve feet away, she could make out the weir. She carefully crossed the rickety, slippery slates of the weir and headed in what she thought was the direction of the walnut grove. She dived into the big trees too soon and came out not behind the great hall but very near the Jones’s residence. Whispered voices sent her back behind a tree.

  A thunk of something heavy and the rumble of metallic contents sent her heart into a wild dance.

  “Ouch, that was my foot, you fool,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “Shush. You want to wake everybody up. Pick up your end. It’s too heavy. You’ll have to help me,” Mr. Jones said. “We can’t drag it all the way. Where’s Gerald?”

  “I’m right here,” said Gerald, appearing from the direction of the back stoop of the great hall.

  Jo put her hand to her throat and squeezed her eyes shut and thanked Providence as well as her poor sense of direction. If she’d been able to navigate in the dark better, she would’ve come out at the back of the great hall at the stoop. Shoot, she would’ve been caught by sneaky Gerald.

  “Just checking the Indian didn’t forget to fill the wood bins,” Gerald said.

  “Ha. You were raiding the pantry, is what you were doing,” said Mrs. Jones. “Help Ira. Don’t let it drag on the ground, and for God’s sake don’t drop it.”

  “I can’t help carry the crate and carry this,” Gerald said.

  “I’ll take it,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “It’s pretty heavy,” said Gerald.

  “Never mind. I’ve got it. Now let’s get this done.”

  They started to move across the green, heading for the cottages. Jo waited and then skipped to the next tree, then the next, trying to stay within hearing distance and yet remain undetected.

  “Don’t see why we can’t wait. Daddy Jake ain’t out’a jail yet,” said Gerald.

  “Have to do it now. May not have time or opportunity later,” Said Mr. Jones.

  “Shut up, the pair of you,” said Mrs. Jones. “I don’t trust the Buxton chit. She shot my sister Stella in the foot. She’s got more sand than she lets on.”

  “Uncle Tick said he’d like a chance to teach her a thing or two.”

  “Never you mind your Uncle Tick,” said Mr. Jones. “The baggage is worth big money. We’ve got a deal with the Sultan. He expects a virgin.”

  Jo lost them, the three of them huffing and puffing. They proceeded around the front of the building to cross the lawn while she rushed the length of the back side of the building, out of sight. Peering around the corner of the building and keeping in the shadows, she waited for the slow-moving entourage. She let them pass and moved on to a big tree, then another and another, until at last she found herself in back of the outhouse. She stayed there, again peering around the corner to spy on the Joneses and prayed no one would come out to use the privy and catch her.

  Mr. Jones and Gerald lugged the long wooden crate over to the porch of the empty cottage and slid it up the steps. Jo cringed in sympathy for them. The wooden crate squawked and scraped, the sound carrying on the crisp night air. But no one stirred from either of the cottages, and of course, the tent sat quietly. Mrs. Jones set the square box she’d carried on the top step, bent over, leaned against the porch deck, and rubbed her back.

  Fumbling in his pocket at the front door, Mr. Jones let forth a low, unintelligible curse. Jo heard the soft tinkle of keys on a fob. The door opened, and they all went inside. The three of them reappeared and helped Mr. Jones get the crate inside. Gerald came back out to retrieve the square box. They weren’t inside more than five minutes when they all came back out. Mr. Jones locked the door and put his keys in his pocket. Gerald waved a goodbye and quick-marched toward the road. Mr. and Mrs. Jones hurried across the lawn. Mr. Jones declared he needed a drink. Mrs. Jones ordered a double.

  Jo pressed her body back against the side of the privy to think and looked to the twinkling stars above. Little wonder the Joneses hated her on sight—she’d helped to put their kin in jail. She’d shot Mrs. Jones’s sister in the foot.

  What to do now, she asked herself. Should she follow them, or go, backtrack, and try to find Ryder? Or, or she could break into the cottage and find out for herself what the heck was in those boxes.

  She scurried across the lawn and around back of the cottage. None of the windows would open. Not expecting to have any luck at all, she jiggled the do
orknob at the back stoop. The door yawned open. Jo stepped inside and stood for a moment to take her bearings. All of the cottages had the same layout. A stoop, an L-shaped mud room with hooks and benches for coats and boots and beyond, a counter for wash basins and mirrors. The cottages were usually equipped with six to ten cots lined along the walls of the main room.

  Jo slowly walked down the length of the main room. Mattresses rolled up and tied with string sat at the head of each slatted cot. She came to the end of the room and turned to look back. She went around the bed on her right and looked under it. Nothing. Crossed the room, nothing. Down three beds and there it was, the crate shoved back against the wall, hidden beneath the rolled up mattress. She got down on her hands and knees, thinking to move the crate to read the lettering on the front. It didn’t budge. She slithered under the bed, got real close and saw the lettering, not all of it, but enough to know what it said. Her elbow connected with the corner of the square metal box right on the funny bone. She bit her lip to keep from crying. Wiggling out from under the bed, she scrambled to her feet in a rush to leave. Closing the back door firmly behind her, she retraced her steps to the back of the outhouse and reentered her tent the way she’d left, climbing in over the back wall.

  Shivering on her cot, now in her robe and nightgown, her feet tucked under her and wrapped in the quilt, she sat with paper and pencil in hand. The crate had the word military on it. She didn’t need to look inside to know it held carbines. The square box was metal, also military. Her father had one like it. It didn’t contain ammunition. He kept hinges, locks, ointments, nails, and screws in there to keep them in one place. Lighting her lamp, she hurriedly wrote down what she could remember of the conversation and tore the paper off the pad and placed it in the pocket of her robe. She snuffed out her light and snuggled down under her quilt, dreading what the morning would bring.

  »»•««

  “Miss Buxton? Jo?”

  Her pen and paper slipped to the floor. Jo opened her eyes to find Twyla-Rose and Grace standing over her.

  “Dodie’s gone,” the girls said in unison.

  The words I know nearly escaped her lips. Jo pressed them tightly shut and swung her legs over the side of her cot. She had to play her part. “Have you looked in the kitchen? Maybe she’s gone for a walk,” she said, bending down and picking up her paper and pen and stowing them under her pillow.

  “She left this in my shoe,” Twyla-Rose said, waving a small piece of paper in front of her.

  Jo accepted the note in Dodie’s careful, fluid script. Her message was short and to the point. “I’m with my brother. You must not worry.” Signed, Melody.

  “She signed it Melody,” Grace said and sighed a sad little sigh. “She never did like being called Dodie. But we’ve always called her Dodie. When we were little, we couldn’t say Melody. She’s the big sister we never had. Where could she have gone, and why?”

  “What should we do?” asked Twyla-Rose.

  Jo heaved herself off her cot and flipped the quilt aside. “Have you shown this to Miss Ames or Miss Ott?” she asked, giving the note back to Twyla-Rose.

  “No, we didn’t know what to do. Dodie didn’t tell us anything about going anywhere with her brother. She packed up her things. All of them, and just left without a word. It’s not like her. We’re her friends, like family.”

  Grace sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. Twyla-Rose blinked back tears, lips trembling.

  “Well, she says not to worry,” Jo said. “We’ll have to trust she left for a very important reason. We need to get ready for the day. An unpleasant day, to be sure, with Dodie gone.”

  “Do you know where she’s gone?” Grace asked.

  Jo paused and looked the two girls in the eye, her lower lip tucked between her teeth. “No, I don’t know. She says she’s with her brother. He’ll keep her safe.”

  The two girls started to leave the tent. Pausing, holding the tent flap open, Grace said under her breath, “She has two brothers. If she’s with Ryder, she’s fine, but if she’s with Jewel, well, I shudder to think what kind of trouble he’ll draw her into.”

  Twyla-Rose sighed and ducked her head to exit beneath Grace’s arm, the arm that held the tent flap open.

  “Be sure to give the note to Miss Ames or Miss Ott. They’ll notify Mrs. Jones,” Jo said to them.

  “Oh, Lordy, the crone isn’t going to like this,” Twyla-Rose said, grumbling to herself before the tent flap closed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dressed to face the day, Jo stepped out of her tent. Mrs. Jones’s high-pitched scream rent the air. Shoulders back, Jo marched on toward the great hall and the source of the outcry.

  “Gone? Gone, the ungrateful heathen.”

  The moment Jo entered the kitchen Mrs. Jones turned on her. “You. You know something about this. I know you do. I saw you talking to her, walking with her, your heads together. She liked you.”

  It took everything Jo had not to burst out laughing. She found the urge a strange reaction to such an attack, but the woman sounded and looked positively deranged. Her face was purple with rage, and her beady black eyes bulged out of their sockets.

  Jo lowered her eyes and performed a small, subservient curtsy. “Sorry, ma’am, if you’re referring to Miss McAdam’s departure, she kept her plans to herself. I’m as mystified as you.” Raising from her curtsy and hoping for an indifferent countenance, she said, “We should probably get on with breakfast, ma’am, the girls will be in soon.”

  The old biddy blanched and tucked in her chin and clamped her lips shut. She flapped her arms and sputtered incoherently. “Yes, yes, I suppose you should get on with it. You, and Miss Ames and Miss Ott, will delegate the extra duties the little piece of trash has abandoned. After all, I’ve done for her, allowing her to stay here with a roof over her head, food. Why…I allowed her to run free about the place. I should’ve turned her over to the Indian authorities long ago. They’d take the prideful little heathen in hand, make her repent—rue the day she forsake us to run off who knows where. I should’ve turned her over to the Mission. And I will, should she come crawling back here, begging me to take her in.”

  She stalked away, firing off rounds of vitriol to anyone within hearing range. “What the horrible, uncouth Mr. O’Bannon will say to this, I shudder to think. I shall have to inform him, of course. He took the heathen under his wing. More fool he. God knows why, but he does appear to care about her. Run off with her brother, ha. I know nothing of a brother. Probably hasn’t got a brother. She’s gone off with some no good lout. No better than she should be, that one. Never did trust her. Count the silver, take inventory of the supplies. Rotten little apple, probably stealing us blind all along. Rotten, rotten, rotten. Ungrateful and rotten.”

  »»•««

  They all soon discovered how much work the no-good-little-Indian actually did without praise, without oversight, and without complaint.

  On Thursday afternoon, right after class dismissal, a half-dozen colorful wagons, driven by roustabouts shouting orders, began to form up in the meadow across the road from the school. Excited, cheering folks from town followed the spectacle of the circus parading through town.

  The girls rushed out of their classrooms and to the road to watch. Arms out to hold them back, Mr. and Mrs. Jones blocked their stampede. Mrs. Jones delivered her edict. “You will go immediately to your quarters until you hear the dinner bell.”

  Grumbling, the girls turned away to do as ordered. Jo, Grace, and Twyla-Rose stood for a moment, fascinated by the colors and commotion. “Miss Buxton,” Mrs. Jones said, her voice a whip for attention. “Take your charges to their cottage, and you to your tent, immediately.”

  Out of sheer cussedness, Jo raised her head, smiled, and laughed in the woman’s face. “Yes, ma’am.” The girls gave Mrs. Jones a nod, locked arms with Jo, and turned their backs on the old harridan.

  “Mean, spiteful, scrawny old cow,” Twyla-Rose said once they were safely
out of range. “No wonder Dodie ran off. She tried to tell us all she was being made to do, but I thought she exaggerated.”

  “Girls,” Jo said and came to a sudden halt. “We are consigned to our quarters until the dinner bell, correct?”

  The two girls nodded, frowns and pouts spoiling their pretty faces.

  Jo tipped her head to the side, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Therefore,” she said, struggling to maintain a straight face, “it would be a violation of the worst order to leave our quarters for any reason.” She arched her brows and grinned.

  Twyla-Rose perceived Jo’s destination first. She hopped in place and then sobered and shook her head. “No, no, we wouldn’t dare break the rules and defy Mrs. Jones, not for anything.”

  Grace, sparks of mischief lighting up her pretty eyes, clapped her hands in impish glee. “We can’t go back to the kitchen to fix dinner, or clean up, mop the floors, fill the wood bins, clean the tables—we can’t do any of that. Oh, dear me,” she said giggling, her pretty cheeks pink.

  Allowing them a few moments of sheer glee, Jo walked ahead a few paces. Turning to face them, she said, “There is a downside of this. We will have no supper.”

  Twyla-Rose waved away the thought. “Tonight’s fare, hog-hocks and beans. Mostly beans.” She shuddered and made a face. “We’ll eat in the kitchen. Fix our own sandwiches. We’ve plenty of bread and honey and milk. I milked the cows myself, so I know. The Jones won’t dine with us anyway. She’s having ham. I saw her take it out of the cellar at noon.”

  “I’d rather have a sandwich than hocks and beans any day,” said Grace.

  “Then, I’ll see you at the dinner bell,” said Jo, leaving them to go to her quarters.

  »»•««

  Her mind on the dinner the Joneses were going to enjoy, Jo entered her tent unprepared to find it occupied. Her hand flew to her mouth to muffle the scream. Of course, it was Ryder, but not the Ryder she’d last seen.

  A warrior stood before her, black hair falling well below his shoulders. The black leather cord encircling his head drew attention to the intense glitter of pride in his black eyes. Worn over a red chambray shirt, a breastplate of bone and beads shielded his broad chest. A dark leather loincloth hung from a beaded leather belt at his waist. And buff colored leggings encased his powerful thighs. Knee high, fringed moccasins coved his feet. The sight of him sucked the wind out of her. She couldn’t move. He held out his hand to her, and she stepped into the warrior's embrace and sighed, reassured he was still Ryder McAdam, the man she could trust with her life.