Whistler in the Dark

by Kathleen Ernst

  George Troxwell had to be The Whistler. But how did he know about Father’s favorite song? And why was he taunting them with it? Why would he do such a hateful thing? This Troxwell must have set their paper shipment on fire, too—he’d had the perfect opportunity. Had he also stolen their press handle and dumped over the type-case? If not, who was he working with?

  And what else did they have planned?

  Emma’s stomach turned over and her palms felt sweaty. George Troxwell had followed the Hendersons all the way from Chicago to this forlorn town in Colorado Territory. And that night, when he got back to Twin Pines, Emma intended to meet Mr. Troxwell and find out why.

  CHAPTER 11

  WITH A BIRD’S EYE

  Mother kept Emma busy for the rest of the day. Emma learned how to position type sticks and measure margins and set type. She was ready to shriek with frustration by the time Mother released her. “You did well,” Mother said. “You may run along now. It looks like the rain is ending, and Mrs. Sloane won’t serve supper for an hour. I’ll get a few more things done here.”

  Emma bolted for the door. Time was wasting, and she had some investigating to do!

  Clouds scudded across the sky as she emerged from the print shack. First stop: Mr. Spaulding’s office, she decided. She found the land office empty but the door unlocked. Hadn’t Mr. Spaulding learned his lesson when their key was stolen? She stepped inside. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she examined his map.

  She stood before the bird’s-eye map with her hands clasped behind her back, studying again the slanted aerial view of the pretty town Mr. Spaulding had envisioned sprouting up among the foothills. If only she knew what she was looking for! She squinted at the tidy grid of streets, waiting for inspiration. Nothing came. What on earth—

  “Emma? May I help you?” Mr. Spaulding’s voice behind her was sharp. Emma almost jumped from her skin.

  “Oh—Mr. Spaulding! I didn’t hear you come in. I was just—ah—admiring your map. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Spaulding walked to his desk and sat down. “I don’t mind. But I do have business to attend to just now.” He shuffled quickly through some papers, then sat back and regarded her. A drop of perspiration rolled down his forehead, and he rubbed it away impatiently.

  “I beg your pardon,” Emma sighed. She turned to go, then paused. She’d learned nothing from the bird’s-eye map, but perhaps she could clear up another question. “Mr. Spaulding? I visited Tildy Pearce yesterday, and she mentioned that she’d never gotten her land deed. All she has is her receipt for the payment to you.”

  Mr. Spaulding frowned. “I must have tucked it away with my other papers by mistake. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Excuse me, then,” Emma murmured. She slipped back outside. Crackers! All she’d accomplished was annoying Mr. Spaulding. As to Dixie John’s garbled advice—nothing! She pulled out her notebook and drew a heavy line through the words Bird’s-eye map?

  She glared at the second line: The Raven? The last thing she wanted to do was visit Blackjack’s saloon again! But she had to try to unravel Dixie John’s advice, crazy as it seemed. Stiffing up her spine, she marched down the boardwalk to the saloon and stepped inside.

  The Raven smelled of tobacco and strong drink. Emma paused. The fiddler was nowhere in sight. A lively card game against the far wall was attracting the most attention. One young man in dirty miner’s clothing sat hunched near a sputtering candle, reading a letter and wiping away homesick tears. The bartender plunked a glass and a spoon on the bar beside another miner, who crumbled soda crackers into the whiskey and began spooning the odd mixture into his mouth. “I promised my wife I wouldn’t drink,” he explained to Emma when he caught her staring.

  Good glory. No wonder Miss Amaretta railed against drink! What was Emma doing here? Looking in the bird’s eye? Thunderation! It was a fool’s errand.

  She was about to leave when Blackjack came down the staircase at the back of the room and saw her. “Why, Miss Emma!” he said, joining her. “What brings you back to The Raven? Come to solicit an advertisement to print in your newspaper, or to ask more questions?”

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. A sudden thought stilled Emma’s tongue. Had Blackjack interrupted Dixie John the day before to spare her a conversation with a drunkard—or had he done it to keep Dixie John from saying too much? If so, did he know that Emma was trying to figure out the meaning behind Dixie John’s slurred words? Was Blackjack working with The Whistler?

  She plastered a smile on her face. “I was looking for Tildy Pearce,” she managed. That wasn’t a complete lie. She needed to tell Tildy what she’d learned about the missing land deed.

  “Tildy’s not here. If she comes in this evening, shall I tell her to call at the boardinghouse?”

  “Yes, please.” Emma turned to leave with the distinct impression that Blackjack wanted her to go.

  Outside, she sat down on the boardwalk to consider her options. Visiting The Raven hadn’t helped her understand Dixie John’s ramblings any more than studying Mr. Spaulding’s map had. The only other idea she’d come up with involved climbing the twin pines behind the land office. “This is ridiculous!” she muttered. She wished she had a better idea. She wished she could talk things over with Jeremy. But she didn’t, and she couldn’t. Mr. Torkelson had said that George Troxwell—The Whistler—wouldn’t be back until evening, so she had time on her hands. With an enormous sigh, she pushed to her feet.

  The twin ponderosa pines towered behind Mr. Spaulding’s land office. The shady ground beneath was littered with prickly pine cones. Emma put a hand on the tree’s rough bark. It smelled of vanilla. Could she do this? Climbs easy as a ladder, Jeremy had said. Emma stared at the lower branches doubtfully. They were stumpy and dead, so she wouldn’t have boughs and needles to climb through for the first few feet. But the branches most definitely were not spaced as evenly as rungs on a ladder. Emma wasn’t even sure how to begin. How was she supposed to get her feet up to the lowest branch? It was at least waist-high.

  Finally she wedged her right foot in the V where the two trunks separated. That gained her some height. She reached above her head, grasped a sturdy dead branch with both hands, and tried to position her left foot on the lowest branch. But her foot disappeared in the tent of her long petticoats and skirt.

  “Oh!” she fumed, stepping back down. Drat Jeremy for working at home today! After looking carefully in both directions, she heaved her skirts above her left knee, exposing a white pantalette. With her left foot now free, she managed to lodge it on the branch and heave herself up.

  There! She was actually climbing the tree! But three feet off the ground, she realized that she’d trapped herself. She’d reached a higher handhold, but when she tried to move her right foot higher, it too got tangled in her skirts. She couldn’t let go without losing her balance, and she couldn’t find a safe foothold for her right shoe.

  She froze in the tree, stuck. A magpie landed on a branch above her head and began to scold. “Oh, hush!” Emma snapped. The skin on her palms began to ache. When she tried again to find the foothold she needed, her shoe landed on a fold of cotton and skidded off. She heard the sound of ripping cloth, and the branch slipped from her hands. Then she hit the ground. Hard.

  Tears welled in her eyes, and for a moment she lay on the pine needles feeling sorry for herself. Her right arm and hip hurt where she’d landed on them, and she’d torn her dress. She missed Judith Littleton. Her mother neglected her. A saloon owner had threatened her, and a drunken Confederate had given her some nonsensical message. And a man she’d never even heard of was scaring her with a private song he had no business knowing about.

  Finally she sat up and took stock, letting anger steam away her self-pity. She didn’t seem to be seriously injured, and the dress could be mended. And—she would die of pure and absolute stubbornness before letting the stupid twin pines get the better of her.

  When the solution crept into her mind, she nudged it away
. But it slunk back, not to be ignored. “Oh, why not,” Emma sighed. Everything else was turning upside down, wasn’t it? She stood up, dusted herself off, and headed for the boardinghouse.

  Emma waited until Mother went back to the print shop after supper before putting her plan in action. Even then, she skulked at the boardinghouse door until a mule train had moved past with a snap of the muleskinner’s whip, and the laundress marching down the street had disappeared into Mr. Boggs’s store. For once, Emma was glad that the foothills were so often visited by late-afternoon storms. Lingering clouds and the evening’s lengthening shadows provided at least the pretense of cover as she slid from the boardinghouse and dashed across the street. The skin between her shoulder blades itched, waiting for unknown boys to throw eggs. Bloomers! Bloomers! But no one hurled either taunts or eggs, and she plunged into the narrow alley between the land office and The Raven completely—she hoped—unnoticed.

  She faced the twin pines with grim determination, stepped into the wedge between the trunks, and began to climb. It still wasn’t as easy as Jeremy had promised. She had to snake between limbs that poked where her head needed to go, and the branches were not conveniently spaced for either hands or feet. But the trousers of her Reform Dress kept her from tripping.

  She climbed about eight feet from the ground before pausing. She’d reached the needle-covered boughs and took a moment to savor that small victory. She slid onto a branch and rested, enjoying the scent of pine and the tiny sighs of the boughs swaying in the breeze. She glanced down at her dangling feet, clad in leather boots that emerged from her trousers. What if Judith could see her now? Or Miss Amaretta? Emma intended to sneak back to her bedroom to change before anyone was the wiser.

  After a moment she glanced up and realized with a pang how far she was from the top. Crackers! How had Jeremy ever climbed high enough to see over the buildings? Should she try to climb that high?

  No. Definitely not. Daylight was fading. She needed to get back to the boardinghouse, change clothes, and begin thinking about how to handle the confrontation with George Troxwell. In fact, it was time to enlist Mother’s help. And Mule Tom’s. She would surely feel better facing The Whistler with Mule Tom’s reassuring bulk beside her.

  But before she began to worm her way down, a sudden creak from below caught her attention. Craning her neck, she saw the back door of the land office inch open. Mr. Spaulding emerged. He tugged on his vest, looking in both directions, before shutting the door behind him.

  Unnoticed, Emma felt a bit ashamed for spying—but she had no intention of calling attention to herself, up a tree in a Reform Dress! Through the branches she watched Mr. Spaulding slink against the land office wall, dart across the alley, and stop at the back door of The Raven—the door Emma had noticed leading into the saloon’s private room. He knocked twice and slipped inside.

  Emma shook her head. Oh, if only Miss Amaretta had seen that! The poor woman believed that she’d succeeded in convincing Mr. Spaulding to give up his visits to The Raven. Instead, he was sneaking in the back door! Mother had said Mr. Spaulding didn’t have the sense of a goose. Evidently he didn’t have much of a conscience either, if he could still look Miss Amaretta in the eye.

  So what was the town founder doing in The Raven? Drinking? Gambling? Curiosity pricked at Emma as she carefully climbed to the ground. She crept along the land office and saloon walls, then crouched beneath the private room’s window. The paisley curtains were drawn but the window was ajar, and Blackjack’s voice—for once not oiled smooth—carried outside. “Spaulding, you’re a fool. Why are you back here?”

  “You can’t turn me away!” Emma pictured Spaulding mopping his forehead. “Nothing is working out as I had planned. I will pay my debts, but you have to give me a chance—”

  Emma heard Blackjack interrupt to greet several men who had apparently just entered the room. Then she heard the click of the interior door being closed.

  You have no business listening to this, Emma scolded herself. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to creep away. No wonder Mr. Spaulding was so panicked about the town failing, if he had gambling debts to worry about, too!

  “Ah, we’re all here. Fill your glasses, gentlemen, so we can get started.” That was Blackjack again. Evidently he wasn’t going to turn Mr. Spaulding away. After a few moments of mumbled conversation, Emma heard the scrape of chairs. Then Blackjack spoke again, easy as ever. “The ace of hearts, gentlemen, is the winning card. The ace of hearts. Who feels lucky?”

  A sliver of lamplight showed where the curtains didn’t quite meet. Emma eased to her feet and dared a peek. She could just make out a slice of the table, a man’s hand holding a fan of cards—

  Emma heard the tiniest whisper of sound behind her, but too late. A strong hand clamped over her mouth just as an arm circled her belly and jerked her back against her attacker’s chest. Her heart thumped in panic. Let me go! she tried to scream. Her arms were pinned at her sides, but she kicked wildly. As her heel met her attacker’s shin-bone, he loosened his grip just enough to let her twist in his grasp.

  The shadows and his low felt hat almost hid his face, but Emma saw narrow eyes, then a mouth twisted into a hideous grin. She tried again to scream but heard only a pounding in her ears as the man clamped harder across her mouth and nose. She felt herself being dragged deeper into the shadows, away from the saloon wall. Then everything faded to black.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE WHISTLER’S STORY

  The light hurt Emma’s eyes and she closed them again. Where was she? Lying on her back … in a pile of straw, by the feel of it. The close air smelled of manure. A stable. Someone had grabbed her and dragged her to a stable. At least she didn’t seem to be hurt, aside from the hip and arm she’d bruised when she fell from the twin pines. Screwing up all of her courage, she cracked her eyes open again.

  The bright spot of light came from a lantern set on the wooden floor in a spot scraped free of straw. The blackness beyond sorted itself into shapes and shadows as Emma’s eyes adjusted. She was in a horse stall. A man sat against the stall wall, hugging his knees. Emma’s bones grew cold as she remembered being grabbed—and her attacker’s horrible, leering grin.

  But now the man stared at the floor, not at her. Could she slip past him? Probably not. This man had trailed her and Mother all the way from Chicago—heaven only knew what he’d do if she tried to escape.

  Emma swallowed a whimper. Just run! a voice in her head urged. But her legs quivered like custard. The best she could manage was sitting up.

  The man tugged his shapeless felt hat lower on his forehead so that his face remained shadowed. Then he sat up straighter against the wall. “You’re not hurt,” he said.

  “W—what do you want?” Emma quavered.

  “You’re not hurt,” he repeated.

  Emma rubbed her arms, confusion mingling with her fear. She heard a munching sound, the stamp of a hoof. Was this Mr. Torkelson’s stable? Oh, please, let it be!

  She licked her lips and dared another question. “Are you George Troxwell?”

  He jerked his head up in surprise, and Emma saw again his horrible, twisted sneer. Fear danced damp and cold over her skin. Then she realized that his grimace was actually a scar—a jagged scar that pulled at the right side of his mouth and burned across his cheek. “I’m George,” he mumbled.

  Emma drew a deep breath. “Why did you grab me?”

  “They might have hurt you.”

  “You hurt me! And you—”

  “Those were bad men!”

  Emma rubbed her head, which was beginning to ache. “Bad men … you mean in the saloon? The men playing cards in that, back room?”

  Troxwell nodded. “They wouldn’t like you sneaking around. They’re bad men.”

  “Bad—how?”

  “They gamble. Gamblers get angry when they lose. I didn’t want them to get angry at you.”

  Nothing made sense. “You were trying to save me from trouble?”

&nbs
p; He looked confused. “Yes! I’ve been guarding you. You and your mother.”

  “Guarding us! But—” She broke off and cocked her head. Someone outside was bellowing her name.

  “Emma Henderson!”

  “In here!” she yelled, lurching to her feet. When Mule Tom materialized from the darkness, Emma wanted to weep with relief.

  He planted himself in the narrow stall opening. “Miss Emma! Oh, thank the Lord! What you doin’ here? You all right, child?”

  “I—I think so.” The weight of Mule Tom’s hand on her shoulder steadied her.

  “We been worried sick!” He glared at Troxwell. “What you doin’ with Miss Emma?”

  “I didn’t hurt her!”

  “Miss Emma?” Mule Tom asked, his steel gaze never leaving the other man.

  “He—he grabbed me when I was—well, eavesdropping.” Emma was still trying to sort out everything that had happened. “But Mule Tom, I think this is the man who—”

  “Miss Emma, your mama needs to hear whatever you got to say I promised her I’d bring you back to the boardinghouse if I found you.” Mule Tom pointed a big finger at George Troxwell. “You, too. Let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later, Emma endured her mother’s tearful embrace and simultaneous tongue-lashing in Mrs. Sloane’s parlor. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I got back tonight and found you gone? What were you thinking?”

  Mrs. Sloane appeared with a pot of hot tea, looking curious, then disappeared. Mule Tom and George Troxwell perched awkwardly on the edge of two parlor chairs. Before Mother finished, Mrs. Sloane ushered Tildy Pearce into the room. Crackers! Emma had forgotten about asking Blackjack to have Tildy call this evening. Wide-eyed, Tildy backed into a corner. Mrs. Sloane gave in to curiosity and settled down, too.

  Finally Mother paused for breath, and Emma seized the opening. “Mother, please listen for a minute. I have to explain some things. I’ve been hearing a man whistle Maggie by My Side at night here in Twin Pines, just like we did in Chicago—”