Stealing Jake

by Pam Hillman

  “Somebody stole some guns from the gunsmith.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing, but I’ll keep my ears open.”

  “Thanks.” Jake turned away.

  “Take that Skinner with you.” Lucky motioned across the saloon. “He’ll freeze to death if I throw him out in the street.”

  Skinner lay passed out at a table. Jake lifted him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go sleep it off.” Would the man never learn? What was it about some men who couldn’t say no to a bottle of whiskey?

  Jake propelled the drunk out the door, the blast of cold air reviving him long enough to keep upright until they reached the jail. Skinner sprawled on a cot and passed out again before Jake could even lock the cell door.

  Stepping into the front room again, he stared at the two rifles and the shotgun spread out on Sheriff Carter’s desk. “Those boys sure have upped the ante.”

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a mess of trouble. It was one thing when we thought we were after a bunch of little fellers looking for a square meal and a warm blanket. But this is a whole ’nuther bucket of coal. I wonder where they planned to get rid of this stuff.”

  “Probably Cooperstown or Brownsville. I’ll scout around as soon as it’s daylight and see if I can find anything.”

  Sheriff Carter leaned his elbows on his desk and smothered a yawn.

  Jake studied his father’s old friend. The sheriff didn’t want anyone to know about his weakness, but Jake saw more than he let on. The man’s shortness of breath grew more worrisome with each passing day. “Go on and get some rest.”

  “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. I doubt we’ll have any more trouble tonight.”

  The sheriff shuffled out the door. Hopefully a good night’s rest would take care of the worn, haggard look on his face.

  Jake leaned his chair against the wall, intending to close his eyes for a minute before he made rounds again.

  But worries kept his mind from resting.

  It seemed like the whole world wanted to cave in on him at once. What should he do? About the farm, about these kids running wild, and about Sheriff Carter?

  * * *

  The whistle blew for the six o’clock shift change at the mine, jerking Jake out of a deep sleep. Sheriff Carter sat at his desk, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the room.

  Jake rubbed a hand down his face. “I must have been dead to the world. Didn’t even hear you come in.”

  “Looked like you needed a bit of a rest.” The sheriff handed him a steaming cup.

  “Both of us did.”

  They discussed the events of the night as the sun crept over the horizon.

  Jake sipped his coffee, letting the bitter brew wipe the cobwebs from his mind. “I want to look around before anyone disturbs the tracks. Will you be all right for a while?”

  “Yeah.” Sheriff Carter relaxed into his chair. “Pick up our breakfast on the way back. Might as well bring Skinner some too.”

  “Will do.”

  Only a light dusting of snow covered the boardwalks, so the tracks from the robbery would still be visible. The shopkeepers would be happy, too. They wouldn’t have to shovel snow for the first time in days.

  A few people were already stirring, sweeping the walks in front of their businesses, lighting potbellied stoves to knock off the chill. Jake crossed the street to where Sam McIver was unlocking the mercantile. Paul Stillman stepped onto the boardwalk on his way to the bank.

  “Morning, Jake. Paul.” McIver greeted them.

  The banker took a deep breath and grinned. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  McIver scowled. “The sooner I can get a fire blazing inside, the better I’ll like it.” He glanced at Jake. “You’re out and about early. Something wrong?”

  “Another robbery last night.”

  Stillman paled. McIver’s eyes flickered to his store and his lips thinned. “Who’d they hit this time?”

  “J. G.’s.”

  “They stole guns?”

  “I don’t think they got away with much of anything. Sheriff Carter and I were making rounds about that time and almost caught one of them.”

  McIver shook his head. “I’m thinking of sleeping in my store until these thieves are behind bars.”

  “It might not be a bad idea.”

  “You know—” Mr. Stillman rubbed his jaw—“I haven’t been too worried about these kids breaking in to the bank, but they’re getting more daring every day. You don’t suppose they’d try it, do you?”

  “Surely not. That’s the last thing we need.” McIver motioned to the store. “You gentlemen want to come inside? I’ll have a fire and a pot of coffee going in no time.”

  “Thanks, Sam, but I’d better get on over to the bank.”

  “Another time. Thanks.” Jake headed down the boardwalk.

  Mr. Stillman fell into step beside him. “Glad I ran into you this morning, Jake. Sturgis stopped by yesterday. He wants to have a meeting.”

  Jake’s stomach clenched. “You think he’s ready to sell?”

  The banker shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. Said he wanted us all together. He’s been adamant about keeping that mine sealed. What about Seamus?”

  “He has his good days and bad, but he’s a shareholder, so he’ll have to be there if we take a vote.”

  Mr. Stillman paused in front of the bank. “I’ll let you know as soon as we set up a date and time.”

  Jake nodded and continued on. If Sturgis sold, they’d have a new shareholder in the mix, and who knew what would happen then. None of them could afford to buy Sturgis out. If Jake could, he’d buy every single share and seal that mine forever, or at least for his lifetime.

  He turned down the alley between the gunsmith shop and the bakery, where he’d spotted the thief last night. He didn’t even bother trying to sort out the jumbled footprints. The stack of crates and wooden boxes the thief had crashed into lay scattered halfway across the alley.

  An open window above the crates showed where the thief had broken into the shop. J. G. wouldn’t even discover the break-in until noon. The elderly proprietor opened up shop late and closed early, putting in a few hours a day.

  Jake pulled the window closed. He’d drop by J. G.’s this morning and give him the news before he heard it from someone else. He edged past the crates and followed the prints they’d made the night before. A tamped-down spot indicated the dropped sack of guns.

  Farther on, he distinguished the running steps of the thief versus his. He squatted and pushed his hat back, studying the prints. They looked too large to be a child’s, but the snow didn’t leave any real clear prints to go on. Could someone else be breaking in to the stores, trying to make it look like the street kids? Could they have stolen the blankets and the beans just to throw him off track? The information was worth thinking about, so he tucked it away and retraced his steps.

  A scrap of dark cloth snagged on a porch caught his eye. He stopped a few yards from where he and Sheriff Carter had stood last night. A wallowed-out spot snugged against the edge of the building. He plucked the scrap of black cloth from the nail. Had someone else been out here last night? His gaze canvassed the area and landed on a handprint embedded in the snow.

  A handprint the size of a young boy’s. He fingered the black material and frowned.

  Or that of a woman.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake sat on his horse in the pine thicket, branches around him sagging beneath the weight of snow. The rumble of a locomotive straining up the steep incline reached his ears. If anybody jumped the train, he’d spot them as the brakeman slowed for the last bend before Chestnut.

  The train huffed into view, and Jake pulled farther back into the trees. Black smoke marred the pristine whiteness of the snowy landscape; creaking cars shattered the stillness. Jake saw neither hide nor hair of any freeloaders bailing out, adult or otherwise.

  The engine lumbered past, smoke belching, brakes squealing, slowing
for the daily two o’clock stop. Jake eased out of the thicket, hat pulled low against the bitter wind. His mare plowed her way through the deep drifts, keeping to the trail she’d cut earlier.

  He’d spent the last week combing the area, looking for signs of stowaways.

  Nothing suspicious so far. But those kids were coming into town somehow, and the most likely transportation was the train. Chicago was too far away and the weather too fierce for them to attempt to walk the distance. The train had to be their ticket out of the city.

  He rounded a bend, and the station came into view. The train was pulled onto a side track, engine idling as passengers got off and others prepared to board for the next leg of the journey. He crossed the tracks, dismounted, and looped his horse’s reins over a hitching rail.

  Stomping the slush off his boots, he clomped up the steps and scrutinized the passengers as they hurried into the warmth of the tiny café built onto the side of the building. Most would grab a bite to eat, maybe buy a copy of the Chestnut Gazette, climb back aboard, and be on their way. Only a handful ever stayed, mostly locals returning after a short trip to Chicago or men looking for work in the mines. He saw two children, their hands clasped tightly in their mother’s gloved hands.

  Jake nodded at a tall man with a mean-looking scar on his right check, probably a coal speculator, and strode the length of the train. Two men unhooked the caboose. A metal car with its door ajar caught his eye, and he peered inside. Empty. And no evidence of anyone being inside recently. He inspected the next and the next, found nothing, then watched as rail workers unhooked the last freighter.

  “Afternoon, Deputy.”

  Jake turned to find the conductor studying him. “Afternoon.”

  “Can I help you?”

  Pushing his hat back, Jake glanced at the empty railcar, then squinted at the man. “As a matter of fact, you can. We’re getting a lot of street kids out of Chicago. Have you had any trouble with stowaways?”

  The conductor’s chest puffed out, the brass buttons on his blue coat threatening to pop off any minute now. “I do a thorough check before we leave Chicago and again at every stop along the way. No stowaways on my watch. No sir.”

  “Glad to hear it. Since you’re checking anyway, I’ll follow along, just to set my mind at ease.”

  The man’s face flushed. “That’s not necessary. Like I said, nobody’s in any of them—except the passenger cars, of course.”

  Jake could take the man at his word, but those boys had come from somewhere. “I’d like to have a look myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right. If you insist. Sounds like a lot of bother to me, though.” The conductor turned sharply and hurried toward the engine, stopping three car lengths up the line. He picked up the whistle around his neck, then gave four short bursts. Without missing a beat, he unlocked the padlock and slid the heavy door back. “Nothing in here.”

  He unlocked the next one. A fancy carriage sat inside, gleaming in the faint sunlight streaming through the open door. “Some rancher over in St. Louis special-ordered that. It’s a beauty, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is.” Jake climbed inside and made a thorough inspection of the storage space. “It’s clear.”

  “Told you.” The conductor shrugged and heaved the door closed. The padlock clicked into place. “Hope you’re satisfied. I need to get the passengers loaded up.”

  “Hold on.” He pointed to a freshly painted padlocked freighter. “Let’s check this one out.”

  The conductor jerked his watch out of his vest pocket. “I’ve got a schedule to keep, and that’s been locked since we left Chicago.”

  Jake stilled, his gaze steady on the conductor, trying to determine if the man might have something to hide or if he just didn’t like to have his authority brought into question. “And I’ve got a town to run. Mister, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll open that door and let me look inside.”

  The man’s jaw tensed. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuffed the watch back in his pocket and crunched through the snow.

  “Conductor.”

  Jake turned to find a well-dressed man in his midforties striding toward them. He recognized Mr. Gibbons, the owner of the glove factory. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Jake nodded in reply.

  Gibbons turned to the conductor. “I’m expecting a shipment of machinery today. Very expensive machinery. Has it arrived? No one came to inform me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gibbons.” The conductor threw Jake a flustered look. “I was detained. We’re unhooking your private freighter right now. We’ll leave it on the side track as usual.”

  “Good. My men are on their way over to unload it.”

  Jake stepped forward. “Sir, I’d like to take a look inside.”

  Pale-gray eyes rested on the badge pinned to Jake’s coat before shifting to meet his gaze. A bemused expression blanketed Gibbons’s face. “What for, Deputy?”

  Jake hesitated. How much did he want to share? The influx of homeless children on their streets wasn’t a secret, but he didn’t want one of the town’s newest and most influential citizens to get the wrong idea. “Looking for stowaways. We’re getting more than our fair share, it seems.”

  “Well, I don’t think you have to worry about that with my private cars.” Mr. Gibbons’s gaze raked him from head to toe. “I’m sorry, Deputy; I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Jake Russell.” Jake clenched his jaw. Gibbons hailed from Chicago, and word had it that he came from old money. The man couldn’t be more than ten years older than himself, but he looked at Jake like he’d smelled something unpleasant.

  “Ah. Deputy Russell.” A slight smile played over the man’s face. “Like I said, my freighters are locked tight as a drum all the way from Chicago. No one can get inside. I’ve got a lot of money invested in that machinery, and I’d hate for vandals to have access to it.” He nodded. “Good day to you, Deputy.”

  He turned away. Jake eyed the business owner’s retreating back. What did Gibbons have to hide? Seemed like he’d appreciate the local law looking out for his interests. Only one way to find out. “Conductor, open that door.”

  “What did you say?” Gibbons whirled around, his eyes colder than the wind blowing out of the north.

  Jake faced him, feet apart, legs braced. He jerked his head toward the lone car at the end of the line. “I told the conductor to open her up so I can have a look inside. If everything is as you say, you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?”

  “It’s not me who has anything to worry about. It’ll be you if you keep on with this foolishness.” His gaze shifted, and Jake glanced around. Three burly men spread out behind him.

  “Trouble, boss?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, boys.” Gibbons palmed a set of keys and moved closer to Jake. “Listen, Deputy, I’m going to let you have your look-see to prove there’s nothing in that shipment other than what I said. I’m a man of my word, and the sooner you get that through your thick head, the better off you’ll be.”

  Gibbons turned the key with jerky motions, and one of his men slid the heavy door open, revealing two large crates. Other than that, the container stood empty.

  “Satisfied?”

  Jake searched the shadows of the car and found nothing, other than the crates. He stepped back and tipped his hat. “Just doing my job.”

  He strode to his horse as the whistle blew. Mounted, he reined away, but not before he caught Gibbons’s hard-eyed gaze following his every move. Jake headed toward the jail. He’d just made an enemy out of one of the richest men in town, someone Chestnut’s founding fathers had wooed to help grow the city. With a few well-placed comments, Gibbons could have Jake’s tin star pinned to the nearest Christmas tree before he could say, “Merry Christmas.”

  * * *

  Victor glared at Jimmy Sharp and threw a set of keys on the desk, the clatter a pale imitation of the clamoring anger in his gut. “So my brother sent you in his place, huh?”

/>   “He’s busy.” Sharp stared him down, his ice-blue gaze cutting in its intensity.

  Scowling, Victor turned away and poured a shot of whiskey. Busy. Like he’d been for the past ten years. Their father had passed the reins on to his older brother and left Victor with nothing except the crumbs from his brother’s table.

  Part of that inheritance should have been his. But his brother didn’t think he was capable of taking over any of the family businesses and always gave the jobs to people like Sharp. And their father agreed with him.

  Sharp opened the door between the office and the factory floor, revealing a room crowded with sewing machines and small workers scurrying about. Doing their master’s bidding. Shouldn’t that count for something? Victor operated a tight ship, and the local law didn’t suspect a thing. His jaw tightened. At least they hadn’t until those boys had stirred up trouble.

  “Nice little operation you’ve got going here.” Sharp’s scar stood out in stark relief.

  Victor downed the shot of whiskey. Little?

  Just like his father’s lawyer to dub his endeavor little.

  “Your brother thinks you’re running a big risk setting up shop in a small town like this.”

  “And my father?”

  Sharp shrugged. “I’m sure he agrees.”

  No matter what he did, he could never please any of them.

  Unlike the rest of his family, Victor had moved out of the big city, out from under the watchful eye of the Chicago police. Here there were no cops to buy off. No bribes to pay. The Chestnut sheriff didn’t even know the meaning of the word, and his deputy couldn’t find his way out of a mine lit by a hundred lanterns with exit signs posted every three feet.

  Doing business in Chestnut had turned out to be easier than expected. With the exception of the street kids honing in on his territory. But Butch and Grady would take care of them in short order.

  Opening the locked drawer on his desk, he hefted a leather pouch filled with money. “Go back to Chicago and tell my brother that I’ll be running this town in a few months. Wait and see.”