"I'll get you another piece," Callie said, willing to pay for it herself, to thank him for bringing news of Merlin.
* * * *
Clouds rolled in on the seventh night of the cold spell, and the wind died. As much as it ever did in Cheyenne, anyhow. By midnight, when Merlin made his last round, the air felt almost balmy. "We'll turn 'em out in the morning," he said to Gawain as he paused to pat the horse. "Bet you'll be glad to get a little air."
The atmosphere inside the barn was pungent. No matter how often they mucked the place out, ninety-seven mules and five horses were going to put a lot of stink in the air. They were running short of straw, too. If the weather hadn't changed, they'd have been knee deep in mule piss before long.
First thing he was going to do, once they'd got the mules back where they belonged, was go to town and have himself a bath. Right before he went to see if Cal had kept warm and safe.
Not going in to check on her had been hard. He'd told himself she was safe enough in the hotel, while the stock here would be at risk if they weren't watched carefully. It went against a mule's nature to be tied in one place for a night, and they'd been hitched for six days. He was sure if he and Murphy and Jeb hadn't paid attention to them practically night and day, they'd have torn the place apart.
There was nothing for destruction like a fractious mule.
Chapter Twelve
The Sunday westbound express was late. Merlin was just coming out of the barn after cleaning up the last of the mule mess when he heard its whistle. With a quick glance up at the overcast sky, he estimated the time at close to noon. He reached inside his cabin and pulled out the satchel he'd filled with a change of clothes.
Sure hope the bath house isn't too crowded. The way I smell, they'll make me wait outside.
An hour and a half later, clean and shaved, he headed for Lambert House. Murphy had let him know on Wednesday what the situation was at the hotel, but he still wanted to check on Cal himself. Her tendency to think poorly of herself had probably led her to work a lot harder than anyone else while she was cooking for half the town.
A tall fellow was just ahead of him when he crossed the street. Something about the man said city dude to Merlin. Maybe it was the derby, undented and unstained. The pigskin leather satchel wasn't something you saw often in Cheyenne, either.
Cal wasn't in her room, so he went around and entered the lobby. The city dude had one elbow planted on the desk and was talking in a low tone to the clerk. Curious now, Merlin stepped closer, as if waiting in line, and cocked an ear.
"...calls himself Smith, usually, but he's been known to go by Smythe, Smeath, and Schmidt. As tall as me, with a thin black moustache and narrow eyes. Anyone like that stay here in the last month or so?" His speech held a hint of Irish.
Jerry, the desk clerk, took his time looking back through the register, running a slow finger down each page. Merlin wondered what the Easterner had paid him to get such cooperation.
A motion at the back of the room caught his eye. Cal was peering out of the kitchen. When she saw him, she gave a little tilt of her chin, like she wanted him to come to her.
He pinched his thumb and forefinger down to a quarter inch apart and nodded back, but stayed where he was. He had a hunch about the dude and he'd long since learned to listen to his hunches.
She stepped back and let the door close.
He'd missed something. The dude was saying, "...reward for information about him or any of his associates. He might have been traveling with a young woman. She had black hair and was wearing a dark wool coat. Looked like it was made for a man."
Jerry shook his head. "Nobody like that checked in here, near as I can recall. I can ask Wallace. He's the night clerk."
A coin slid across the counter and disappeared under Jerry's hand. "I'll check back, then." The dude turned away, then looked back. "How many hotels in Cheyenne?"
"Half a dozen. More if you count the boarding houses."
"Thanks."
As he made to step past, Merlin stuck out a hand and caught his arm. "I couldn't help hearing what you said. There was a Smeath asking about a buggy hire when I left my horse at the livery stable. Tall, thick-bodied, turkey-necked. Maybe fifty or a bit older." He'd deliberately described Callie's father as he remembered the man.
"Could be him." The redhead dug into his coat pocket, pulled out a card. "I'm Michael X. Conner. Mick for short. Tell me about this fellow you met."
Merlin led him toward one of the sofas scattered around the lobby. "I didn't actually meet him. He was ahead of me, and I couldn't help overhearing him while I was waiting to board my horse. Can't even be certain his name was Smeath; could've been Smythe. Started with an ess, though."
Conner's eyes narrowed. "You're being mighty helpful. What'd you say your name was then?"
"I didn't say, but it's Lachlan. Merlin Lachlan." He sat on a chair upholstered in blue velvet and waited until Conner was seated on the matching sofa. "I reckon I'm just naturally helpful. Why are you looking for this Smeath fellow?" While waiting for a reply, he looked at the card for the first time. Tarnation. A Pinkerton.
"I didn't say. I'd like to ask him some questions, though. Him or the young woman who was traveling with him."
"The man I saw was alone." He felt like his mind was scurrying around like a shrew caught in a bottle it couldn't climb out of. He'd heard about how the Pinkertons rarely failed to bring in the men they went after. They didn't bother with every-day ruffians and brigands. If somebody was being chased by Pinkertons, he'd done something big, like kidnap a millionaire or rob a bank.
Lemuel Smith? Could Cal's pa have gotten involved with bank robbers?
He didn't care what Smith had had done, or if the Pinkerton man caught him. The black-haired woman in the dark wool coat was what worried him. Sooner or later Jerry or the night clerk might think of Cal.
"I got here the day before Christmas," he offered. "You did say the last month or so, right?"
"That's likely too late. Our information puts him in this area early in December. But thanks for your help." Conner rose.
So did Merlin. "There's three livery stables in town. You might want to check them." No one at a livery stable would have seen Cal, not before she'd gone to work at Lambert House. He took a step toward the kitchen door.
"Hold on. Did you say Lachlan?"
"I did." Tempted to keep walking, Merlin decided he'd rather stay on the good side of a Pinkerton.
"Any kin in Boston? Or in Idaho?"
"Both. My oldest sister lives in Boston. I call Boise home, even though I've not been there for a while."
"Well, I'll be damned. You must be one of those Lachlans." For the first time the Pinkerton's serious expression turned cheerful. "Any relation to Katie Savage?"
"My sister. Wait. Michael Conner? Are you the Mick who's Mike's godfather?"
"I am that. C'mon. I'll buy you a pint. Business can wait."
"I'd be pleased, but I've a message to deliver. Can you wait a few minutes?"
Mick could. Merlin went through the dining room and into the kitchen, where he recognized the tall cook from Cal's description. He held a finger to his lips, spoke softly. "Abner, I'm Merlin Lachlan. Where's Cal? I have to see her right now."
"She had to go to the mercantile. Probably be back soon."
"I can't wait. Will you tell her I've got something for her? I'll be back in an hour or two."
"I surely will." The cook shuffled his feet. "Suh?"
Halfway through the swinging door, Merlin paused. "Yes?"
"Miz Callie, she's a good girl."
"I know she is. I'll do her no harm." I hope.
Conner was looking for somebody named Smith, somebody who'd arrived in Cheyenne just over a month ago.
Coincidence?
Nope. I don't believe in coincidence.
* * * *
When Callie came back from buying enough flour to carry them over until their next delivery, she set a sponge and then busied herse
lf straightening the shelves in the storeroom and listing what else they'd need to order. They'd gone through staples like a hot knife through butter during the cold spell. She'd used the last of the cinnamon this morning. No apple pie until she could get more. Folks weren't going to like that. The currants were all gone, too, and there were only a few dates left in the big jar.
"Such a big order," Frau Trebelhorn said when Callie gave her the list. "Are you sure we need all this?"
"We could probably get by without the pickles," she said, "and maybe the cornstarch, but we'd just have to order them next week."
"Very well. I'll have Herr Trebelhorn take this to the telegraph office. You must buy cinnamon locally, even though it will be dear. Our regulars expect apple pie on the menu every day."
"Yes'm."
Merlin walked in as Frau Trebelhorn was leaving the kitchen. She gave him a hard look, but said nothing.
Callie knew she'd hear about it later.
"Let's go for a walk," he said, without smiling. "Somewhere we won't be overheard."
Her belly clenched.
They followed the alley behind the hotel until they came to Thomas Street. Turning toward the railroad tracks, they walked along in silence. With each step, her feeling of sick anticipation grew. Finally she could stand the suspense no longer. "What happened?"
"A fellow showed up today. He's a Pinkerton agent, looking for somebody who came to town early in December. A man name of Smith."
"Pa?"
"I think so. The description sounds like him right down to the skinny little moustache he wore. And his accent, kind of English."
"He grew up in London."
"Uh-huh."
"He did! His father was a longshoreman, but Pa was too slight for the work. He came over here when he was nineteen." Glancing over at him, she tried to read his expression, but she was on his blind side. How could a body tell anything from a black eyepatch?
After a while he said, "When were you in Ogden? How long?"
"I don't know the date. It was a Thursday, I think. I've been working at Lambert House for..." She counted on her fingers, one for each time she'd gotten paid. "For five weeks, tomorrow. I got the job two days after we got here."
The first night she'd slept in the depot, but had known she wouldn't be allowed to stay there again, even though the agent had allowed her to leave her satchel until she found a place to stay. On Sunday she'd gone to church. Twice in the morning and again in the evening, more because it was warm than because she felt the need to pray. Prayer had never done her much good.
After the evening service, she'd hidden under a pew until the preacher locked up. It had been cold in the unheated frame building, but safe.
Merlin's lips moved but he didn't say anything for a moment. "That puts you here on the fourth, then. It's what, a day from Ogden?"
"Almost two, but it took us longer. The train was six hours late. Why does it matter?"
"Just figuring. When did you get to Ogden?"
"The day before we left. We stayed in a hotel that night, and I sat in the depot all the next day... Well, except for a little while when I went across the street to get something to eat. The train didn't leave until evening."
"So you were in Ogden on December second."
"I guess so. Why?"
Instead of answering, he led her to a pile of ties. She hadn't realized they'd entered the rail yards.
"Let's sit here." Still holding her hand, he moved her to his good side. Once settled, he didn't speak. His thumb slowly stroked the back of her mitten.
She could see the muscle at his jaw hinge jumping, little twitches as if his teeth were clenched tightly. "Merlin?"
"How long were you away from the depot?"
"A quarter-hour, maybe. Just long enough to buy an apple and some cornbread and cheese."
"Did you talk to the agent? Visit with other folks waiting to catch a train? Any way to prove how long you sat in the depot? "
Her mouth was dry, so licking her lips did nothing to relieve their dryness. "No. Pa didn't like it when I talked to strangers, so I didn't. He might have come back--"
"Would he have beat you?" His voice was fierce, not at all like she'd ever heard before.
A shrug was all the answer she could give. Pa had raised his hand to her, more than once, on the way down from Virginia City, but he'd never actually beat her.
He'd threatened to, though. And once he'd hit her hard enough to black her eye.
Another long silence, until she was ready to scream at him to tell her, just tell her what he'd learned from the Pinkerton man.
"It's possible your father helped rob a bank while you were in Ogden."
The day, dreary and chill, went dark. Callie felt herself fall, but she didn't feel herself land. Instead she had a sensation of floating, of swinging. And then of being held tightly, safely.
Something warm touched her cheek, something almost like breath.
Had someone spoken her name?
"Wake up, Cal. Doggone it, wake up."
"Stop shaking me. I'm awake." But her vision was all blurry and she felt like she was going to vomit.
"What do you know about it? Did he say anything?"
His words were like wasps, buzzing around her, stinging, hateful. She squinched her eyes tight.
"Cal!"
"Stop! Don't shake me like that. I'm going to--"
She managed to turn her head quickly enough that the contents of her stomach splashed onto the ground instead of all over her skirt. The painful spasms seemed to go on forever, but they finally subsided. She wiped a mitten across her mouth and wished for water. Beer. Even whisky. Anything to wash away the nasty taste.
"I'm sorry. Tarnation, I didn't mean--" His arms tightened around her and one hand pulled her head gently down to rest on his shoulder. "Are you going to be all right?"
"I'll be fine. Eeuww. You don't have a canteen, do you?" She wasn't fine, though. Her body felt weak and shaky, like it might shatter if she moved too fast.
"Hold on." Bending, he dug into a drift and came up with a handful of snow. "Here. This is probably clean. It'll make you cold, but it'll clean your mouth."
She sucked on the snow, and it did help. After a while the quivery feeling in her belly went away. "Merlin, are you sure that man--that Pinkerton--really is looking for Pa? Does he really think Pa robbed a bank?"
His sigh came from deep inside. "Mick--Mick Conner, the Pinkerton--got descriptions of the robbers. One of them was tall, had thinning black hair, a narrow moustache, and spoke with an English accent. There's a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to his arrest."
"Five thous--" She sat up and stared at him. "How much did he steal?"
"Fifty thousand. The bank was holding funds for some investors who were dickering on a gold mine. I guess the owners wanted cash on the barrelhead, so the investors had the money shipped to Ogden in small parcels. It was supposed to be a well-guarded secret."
"How would Pa have found out about it?"
"I reckon there's always somebody around who'll sell information." He caught her chin on the side of his hand and tipped it up so she had to look straight at him. "You wonder if he might have, don't you."
Worrying her lower lip with her teeth, she stared into his eye, saw nothing there but concern. "No. I don't know. He was... I guess I'd have to call it excited when he came to the depot that evening, about an hour before the train was due. But he wasn't carrying anything. He'd left his valise with me. He'd probably been drinking. Yes, he had. I remember smelling it."
Her words were positive, but her heart wasn't. Pa was... He wasn't always truthful, and he'd had a bad reputation back in Virginia City. Mrs. Flynn hadn't liked him. But he was her pa. She owed him her loyalty.
"He didn't ship anything?"
"The freight office is around the side of the depot. I wouldn't have seen him if he did."
He let go of her and turned to stare off along the tracks. After a while he said, "How
do you know where the freight office is?"
"When we got to Ogden, Pa and I went there. He'd brought a crate of his stuff from Virginia City and wanted it shipped on with us. And he asked about a package he was expecting. It hadn't come."
"I'll bet it hadn't." He was almost smiling when he said, "Want to bet there wasn't any incoming freight for him?"
"Oh, but he paid the clerk to ship it on to..." Her heart all but stopped. "...to Cheyenne."
"Cal, you're going to have to talk to Mick. Tell him what you just told me."
"No. I can't. He'll think I helped." Fear choked her, until her voice was little more than a whisper. "Merlin, he's my father. I can't--"
Chapter Thirteen
She stared at him with eyes huge and swimming with tears. Merlin hated himself for what he had to do.
"Cal, you have to tell the Pinkerton what you know. It's not like he's going to arrest your pa because of anything you say. He just needs to know so he'll stop thinking you had anything to do with the bank robbery."
"You're crazy. It'll just make him believe Pa did it." She stomped her foot so hard that snow went flying. "And he didn't do it. I know he'd never do anything like that."
"But--"
She whipped around and took off running.
He stayed where he was. His sisters had done that, run off in tears when they were upset. The best thing was to let them stew a while. They were more apt to listen to reason once they'd simmered down.
"You handled that well."
Barely visible in the dark alley between buildings was a man-sized shape. "Mick? You followed me?"
"I did. I wanted a look at the lady. You're right. She doesn't have the appearance of a bank robber." He stepped into the light. "But then, they never do."
"Go to hell."
"Very likely I will." His chuckle sounded forced. "A man gets to be a suspicious sort when he's chased as many crooks and I have. It sours the milk of human kindness in us, see?"
With a snort, Merlin turned and walked toward Sixteenth Avenue. He heard footsteps behind him, squeaking in the packed snow. As he walked along he kept expecting Mick to catch up.
Squire's Quest Page 12
