by Reece Butler
“Oh, you’re a big one,” she cooed as she fondled him. “But I bet I could take you deep into my mouth and suck you dry.”
Her teeth were black and rotten, and her breath stank as if she’d eaten something disgusting after a week-long drunk. He hid his revulsion and leered back.
“If you keep touchin’ me like that, Betsy, I won’t make it upstairs.” He looked around the room as if checking to see if anyone noticed. No one did, but he also saw Smythe’s guest had stood up and looked as if he would soon walk out. Josh needed to follow the man. “Why’n’t you climb under the table right here? Don’t think I could make them stairs anyhow.”
“House rules say you gotta take me upstairs,” she said with a pout. She gave him another suggestive squeeze. He frowned as if it hurt to think.
“I need a piss first,” he said. He leaned closer and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I gotta let my little man relax afore I kin use him to piss. Might take a bit.” He reached into his pocket and fumbled out a coin. “Will this pay fer yer time while I’m gone? I don’t want nobody to grab a pretty filly like you.”
She nodded and took the coin. “Kin I have another drink?” Her hands went to pour before he replied.
“You kin have the whole bottle,” he said. He pushed unsteadily to his feet, glad her filthy hands and mouth were far from his erection. He staggered his way to the door, getting turned around a few times. It showed him that Smythe’s guest was stomping out, furious. Josh tripped over the doorsill and went sideways on the boardwalk. He hit the next building with his shoulder and used it to keep himself upright. Luckily, Smythe’s guest stomped past him, pushing everyone out of his way. Josh reeled after him.
* * * *
“I want twenty dollars before I open my mouth.”
“That’s a heap of money for nothing but promises,” said Max to Hames. “What proof do I have that what you tell me is true?”
Hames looked amiable in his brown bowler hat and trademark green-and-black plaid suit, but Max felt it was an act. As usual, a stub of pencil was stuck in his hatband and the edge of a notebook protruded from his pocket.
“Not only did I hear everything Orville Rivers confessed, I purchased Rufina Emslow’s boardinghouse from him. Did the mighty Pinkertons know Rivers used it as part of his network of spies? No one has a better idea of what’s going on than I.”
“You’re a reporter. Why would you tell me things you could be paid to put into print?”
“I’m more than a reporter,” corrected Hames. His toothy smile held an edge of irritation. “But since I do not own the Helena Observer, I am paid only for what is printed. Unfortunately, not everything I write gets past the editor.” He gave Max a sly look. “Perhaps I wish to ensure whatever Rivers told me comes to light. He had his fingers deep in many pies. You know about him despoiling sweet Molly Sinclair. But she was not the only innocent he put his filthy hands on.”
“I expect you hear a lot of dirty secrets,” replied Max. Hames nodded, not quite hiding his smirk. The man was far more complex than the image he portrayed. Or was it just his petty need to show others up? He certainly liked using ten-dollar words. “Speaking as a lawman, I appreciate you talking to me rather than making money through blackmail.” Hames preened at the compliment. Though Max felt contempt for the pompous man, he let none of it show. “You got a room we can talk in?” Max looked around the street. “Too many chances for big ears and loose lips to take what I’m paying for.”
Hames hesitated. He stared at Max’s hand, fingers closed around the gold coin, and gave a sharp nod. Where had Hames’s money gone? Usually he was the one buying a round in the saloon to encourage loose lips. Had Rivers’s death stopped a source of his income? And did that income come from selling girls like Molly?
Max followed the ugly suit through the Golden Nugget Saloon. One sweep of the room showed him Smythe, alone at a corner table. He looked furious. Josh was gone, so hopefully he was following Smythe’s guest. A blowsy woman sat alone at a table with an empty bottle and two glasses in front of her. She glanced at the door, then at the bouncer. He jerked his head at a tall, well-dressed man who’d just staggered in. She put a false smile of welcome on her face, yanked her dress even lower, and went to meet her next client.
They passed through the saloon and out the back door. It was a short cut to another street which held a boardinghouse. Instead of using the front door, Hames took Max to a side door that led to a set of stairs. There was nowhere to go but up.
The room Hames took Max to was a decent size. The door was in one corner, a bed in the next, a set of chairs and piecrust table with a bottle and glasses in the third, and a sturdy desk in the last. A large battered leather case rested on the desk. Max, hands in his pockets, walked over.
“This thing your typewriter? Never seen one before.”
“Don’t touch it!” Hames stood over the case as if guarding it with his life. He gestured for Max to sit. “No one touches it but me. If anything happens, there’s no one between here and Helena who can fix it.” He ran his fingers over the case, almost caressing it.
Was the man that wild about his job? Max sat, leaning his elbows on his thighs to show interest in whatever Hames had to say. The man had to listen to others to do his job, yet he liked to lord it over others. Max figured Hames might enjoy taunting a Pinkerton detective. After all, Max was the one wanting information.
“I expect you hear a lot of things,” said Max. He dug deep into his pant pocket and pulled out the twenty-dollar gold piece Lily had given him. He tossed it in the air nonchalantly while he watched Hames closely. “I’m interested in finding out anything you know about a man called Mr. Isaac.”
Hames stilled for a mere second, proving he knew the name, before he held out his hand for the coin. Max tossed it over. Hames caught it, closed his fist over it, and then sent it into his own deep pocket. His tense posture eased. Rumors suggested Hames was close to the line financially, and this confirmed it.
“I’ve heard the name here and there,” said Hames. “It would save time if you told me what you know.”
Max knew that strategy well and wouldn’t fall for it. But he could tell what was whispered between whores. Now that he was flush with money, Hames might feel like boasting and could add something that might help. The problem would be whether what Hames said was the truth.
“Though he calls himself Mr. Isaac, it’s pretty well known he has another name,” said Max. “He wears a mask, so no one knows what he looks like. He’s hired by whoremasters to control the women working for them. Molly Sinclair and Sarah Frost have personal knowledge of him, but they were blindfolded, terrified, and can’t provide any information. No one knows where he came from, or where he lives.” Max threw up his hands as if exasperated and leaned back in the chair. “For all we know he’s moved on to California for the winter.”
Hames stared at Max blandly, though his left eyebrow twitched.
“Who would care enough about a couple of whores to pay for the Pinkertons to investigate?”
Max noted Hames assumed there were only a few women, and all whores. But neither Molly nor Sarah fit in that mold, and there had been dozens of women. The man must know this and was playing him, but Max didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the habit of those selling news to keep as much as they could to themselves.
“I expect you know Lily Thatcher used to be a madam. I guess she has a soft spot since she hired the Agency to find Isaac.”
“Lily was also a whore for many years,” stated Hames. His lip curled. “Why a senior judge would dirty himself with such a woman is beyond me. Or why you’d care about whores.”
“I don’t have a choice in what job I’m assigned,” replied Max. He leaned back in the chair with an exaggerated sigh, as if he felt the same as Hames about the matter. “I do my job, just like you.”
“Hardly like me.”
Once more contempt flashed over the man’s face before he gave a bland smile. Max looked around, noting the exp
ensive bottle of brandy and what looked like crystal glasses on the piecrust table. Hames had fine tastes, ones that took a lot of money to develop and keep. Who had he been before he came West? Was he the son of a wealthy plantation owner who’d lost everything in what he no doubt called the War of Northern Aggression?
Max pulled back, shrinking in his chair as if he was of less value. It was a subtle trick, but effective with pompous men who saw only what they chose. Max would use anything to complete this assignment, including insulting himself. As long as it was within the law and got the job done, he would do it.
“You’re right. The only schooling I got was from the books I could pick up along the way.” Max shrugged sheepishly. “You sound like a well-educated man. Someone who’d know how to put two and two together and get four when the rest of us can barely understand three. With what you’ve heard, and figured out, is there anything you can tell me?”
“I’ve never seen the man, though I understand he arrives and departs well masked.” He flicked his eyes toward the sturdy corner table where his typewriter sat in its case. “Rivers mentioned the name, though I didn’t have time to enquire further before he was shot.” He frowned, eyebrows almost meeting over his nose. “Imagine, a respected mayor taking a derringer from a respectable banker and the two of them rolling on the ground like schoolboys. Shocking!”
“I read your report in the newspaper. You write really well. It was like I was right there. But how come you didn’t say anything about what the ravens did to the mayor’s head?”
“It was far too distasteful to be published.” Hames shuddered, his lips curled down. “They buried his head separate from his body. Such a horrendous thing, to deny a man a chance into heaven.”
“I don’t think there was any chance of him going to heaven,” said Max. Obviously Hames believed that a body must be whole and complete to enter through the pearly gates, and was bothered by the thought of it. “What else did Rivers say about Isaac?”
“Only that he planned to travel to California.” Hames put his hand in his pants pocket. A faint sound of clinking emerged. “I’m afraid that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
The nervous gesture suggested Hames knew more, but was afraid to speak. Did Isaac have some sort of hold over him? That was for later. Now he could go after his real purpose in being here.
“That’s not much for twenty dollars,” complained Max. “Did Rivers say anything about his dealings with Frederick Smythe or Judge Stickley? I heard there’s some railroad bigwig in town. Rivers lost a pile of money over his last go-round with the railroad. Did he say if he had anything at stake this time around?”
“The man had his fingers in many pots,” drawled Hames.
A shot rang out. Max held still, but Hames jumped. The blast was followed by a loud roar. Hames looked from the table to Max, then to the door.
“That’s all the time I have to talk. There’s something going on that might bring me a few column inches. If you don’t mind?” Hames opened the door, making it obvious Max was to leave.
“Of course,” he replied amiably. “We can talk another day. It’ll give you time to think things over. See if there’s anything else you remember.”
Hames carefully locked the door behind them and scuttled to the top of the stairs. Max followed, discovering a rip-roaring fight had broken out on the street. Two men were swinging fists the size of hams, uncaring whether they hit friend or foe. Hames, eyes bright, watched eagerly. Max turned away. By now Josh and Sam might have something to report. If not, he’d have a chance to catch a few winks before one of his brothers took over the bed.
Chapter 14
Sam strained to see through the shadows outside Ruby’s Saloon. He was sure he’d caught sight of at least one Elliott. Were they here to make trouble, or did they think they could help?
He felt the blade against his neck before he noticed anyone had approached. Few men could move like that. If it really was Trace and Ranger that he’d seen, then the one holding the knife to his throat had to be…
“Ross MacDougal, how kind of you to stop by.” Sam barely moved his lips in his attempt to keep his throat from being nicked. “I’d appreciate you putting that pigsticker somewhere else.”
The slight prick at his neck disappeared, but then he felt a more ominous pressure on his inner thigh. He froze, more worried about a knife near his balls than one at his throat. A moment later it was gone. He silently cursed at the amused chuckle. Silently because Max insisted none of them swear. Sam did often, but only in his head.
“Where’s Max?” asked Ross.
Sam wasn’t surprised he knew about them being twins and could tell them apart, even in the dark. Ross saw a lot and said little that wasn’t necessary. But he was on the right side, which suited the Pinkerton agents just fine.
“Asleep.”
“And Joshua?”
That wasn’t something Sam expected. Ross’s smirk, a mere tilting of one lip, added an extra kick.
“Tired and cranky. How many of you are here?”
“Trace, Ranger, Sin, and me so far.” Sam scanned the area. Sure enough, he was surrounded. Ross tossed the long blade as easily as if it was a stick. He caught it after one full rotation, made a quick move, and it disappeared. “Four of us are enough for most towns.”
Sin, born Charles Statham, was the tallest at six foot six with a broad, muscular body to match his height. Trace was two inches shorter. His fierce expression, along with his raven-like raw voice, kept most strangers away. Ranger was half of the second set of Elliott twins. Word was he and Ben used to be able to switch places, but time and circumstance had changed that. He grew up strong and hard, but Florence had mellowed him somewhat. There was no sign of that tonight.
Ross MacDougal was the shortest, at six foot two. Once called the MacDougal Devil, his black eyes were said to see into a man’s soul. He carried at least a dozen hidden knives at all times and could throw them exactly where he wished before a gunman could pull leather.
Yes, admitted Sam silently, the four of them, along with three Gibsons, could take any town. If he had nothing better to do, and none of them had wives and children, it might be fun to head to the Black Hills and try their luck at taming Deadwood.
“What’ve you got in mind?” asked Sam. He kept a wary eye as the other three lounged about, seemingly at ease. Anyone with a lick of sense would leave them alone.
“We’re here to keep an eye on a certain friend of yours. Of the female variety.”
Sam shot a glare at Ross. “You don’t mean Sophie McLeod?” He wanted a heck of a lot more than friendship from her.
“Yes, he does.”
The rough croak that came from his other side had to belong to Trace. Sam looked for a hint that the two men were trying to pull something on him, but they looked too furious. Being single, Sam hadn’t yet experienced the frustration he’d seen on more than one husband’s face in Tanner’s Ford. Their women were prone to taking matters into their own hands. He looked from Trace to Ross. Neither of them showed a hint of laughter.
“Sophie’s not in Bannack City,” said Sam to Trace. “She wouldn’t be that stupid.” A glimmer of humor flashed in Trace’s eyes.
“In point of fact,” drawled a cut-glass English accent, “a woman called Queenie, who somewhat resembles Sophie, is here.”
“Why?”
“To catch Isaac, of course.”
Sam sighed heavily into the night. A plume of white appeared in front of his mouth. “I don’t think I’ll like the answer, but who is ‘Queenie’?”
“Let’s show him,” said Ranger. He looked far too amused for Sam’s comfort. “It’s only a short walk to Ruby’s Saloon.”
Sophie McLeod could not be here in Bannack City, in a saloon. Ruby’s was one of the best in that it was clean, the women were there by choice, and the whiskey wasn’t watered or thrown together in the cellar each week from pure alcohol, rattlesnake heads, pepper, and other things Sam didn’t want to know abo
ut. Rarely was there trouble unless Ruby had one of her sick headaches. When that happened, Abby took over and all hell broke loose. Abby was a vicious cat who used her brief time in control for revenge and restitution.
Before Sam knew it, his feet were leading him downhill toward the lanterns hanging outside Ruby’s. Music spilled onto the wooden dancing platform between the saloon and the street. Ruby offered dances, using women who needed to make money and were pretty enough not to have to do it on their backs. He’d admired, even flirted with a couple of them earlier in the day. None of them even vaguely resembled Sophie.
“There’s Queenie,” said Ross.
Sam looked, but could see little in the shifting shadows except the swirl of low-cut dresses, flowing hair, and men eager to steal more than they’d paid for. One dress, some sort of pale blue, stood out. Few fancy women wanted to wear clothing that soiled easily, preferring a darker shade. He caught flashes of white skin and long, brown hair as the woman was swung in circles. The lamp caught the woman’s false smile. His heart stopped and then thundered as the bottom dropped out of his world.
“Son of a horned toad,” he cursed. “It’s Sophie.” He shook his head, but the vision didn’t fade. He lifted his foot. Bands of iron clamped around his arms before he could take a step. He tried to shrug them off. Instead, they hauled him around a corner.
“Going off half-cocked won’t do a damn bit of good,” said Trace.
Sam’s cock was anything but half. It had surged to full-bore the moment he’d seen her in that scandalous dress. He wanted to haul her out of that drunk’s arms, throw her over his shoulder, toss her into his bed, and keep her there for a week or more.
“Breathe,” ordered Ross. He followed it up with an elbow to the gut. Sam grunted at the pain, but it got his attention.
