Behind the Iron

by William W. Johnstone

  Looking back at the detective, Fallon brought himself out of the past and back to the present. “Judge Parker gave them three years. They might have gotten out early for good behavior. I don’t know. That was a long time ago, and I never ran into those two again.”

  “You will,” MacGregor said. “They’re in Jefferson City.”

  Fallon shrugged. “Can’t say I’m surprised. What are they in for?”

  “They were riding with Linc Harper’s gang when Linc robbed a train near Glendale.”

  “Glendale?” Fallon chuckled. “Like the James boys.”

  “Well, if you know Linc Harper, you’ll know he’s trying to top anything and everything that Jesse James ever did.” MacGregor pulled an envelope from an inside pocket on his coat. “Both of them wound up in St. Louis, drunk as a skunk and spending money like it was candy and displaying a fine gold watch known to have been taken from a citizen on that train. They both got twenty years.”

  “That’s a hard sentence,” Fallon said.

  “Even harder if you know Jeff City. But your buddy Isaac Parker isn’t the only tough judge in the West.”

  Fallon leaned forward. “You were supposed to fill me in on the particulars of why I’m going to Jefferson City.”

  MacGregor grinned and rubbed the back of his head. “Seems we got a little distracted and interrupted in that alley. I do thank you for your help.”

  “If you really wanted to thank me, you could send someone else to prison.”

  The young man laughed. “You read the four pages back in Father’s office. I think you have an idea of what we want from you.”

  Fallon leaned closer, lowered his voice, and spoke from memory.

  “Young Jess Harper had been sentenced to the Missouri State Penitentiary as an accessory to a bank robbery committed by the notorious Harper Gang in Plattsburg. According to the bank president, Linc Harper’s gang made off with $42,927.32. A posse caught up with the outlaws, killing two, but Linc Harper—as usual—somehow managed to escape with a couple of the other bandits. When the trail went cold, the posse moved to St. Charles, where a Pinkerton agent—and this must have really angered Sean MacGregor—learned that a woman living in a rented house near the river was not Mrs. Jessica Taylor, wife of a traveling drummer of farm implements, but actually Jess Harper, the young wife of the bank- and train-robbing scourge of Missouri.”

  “You have a good memory,” MacGregor said.

  Fallon shrugged.

  “So you know the details of the case and the crime. What do you know about Jess Harper?”

  Fallon grinned. “I’ve never met her, to the best of my knowledge.”

  “From the reports you read,” MacGregor said, but he was smiling, too.

  Fallon started to wonder if he liked this detective, or if maybe the detective even liked him. But liking a person and trusting a person, Fallon knew, weren’t one and the same.

  He exhaled, thought, and remembered what he had read in the American Detective Agency office.

  “About five-foot-four, a little over a hundred pounds, brunette, no visible scars, hazel eyes. Both parents dead. How they died weren’t on the sheets of paper. She grew up in Ray County. Parents were dirt poor, but they lived across from where Linc Harper’s folks farmed. Age listed on the prison sheet as twenty-two.”

  To that, MacGregor snorted.

  Fallon kept talking. “Parents were named Benton. No surviving brothers or sisters for Jessica. She left Ray County two years ago and was thought at that time to have been seeing Linc Harper. Disappeared until one of your rival detective company’s operatives located her in St. Charles, put two and two together, and poor Missus Harper wound up in prison.”

  “She might have put on some weight,” MacGregor said.

  “In prison?”

  MacGregor grinned. “Could you recognize her?”

  Fallon shrugged. “I won’t have to. Most of the inmates will know who she is.”

  “And you know what we want.”

  Fallon said: “You figure Linc’s young bride knows where the money might be, or where you might be able to find Linc.”

  “The railroad and the governor have put up a substantial reward for either,” MacGregor said.

  “So I’m to get in good with the woman, find out what your father needs to know, and get out.”

  “Not Father,” MacGregor said. “This is my case. My idea to send you there. You do know that the state pen houses women along with men.”

  Fallon’s head nodded. “Indeed. As long as I can remember.”

  “That’s right.” MacGregor waved for the bartender to bring another drink. “You want something other than coffee, Hank?”

  “No,” Fallon said. “And I’ve had enough coffee.”

  “Just one more for me, pal,” MacGregor said. He looked back at Fallon. “Since eighteen forty-two,” MacGregor said, always the detective. “If the pen’s hell on men, imagine how hard it is on a woman. Especially a refined, young woman like Jess Harper.”

  The bartender passed by and hurriedly slid a glass of rotgut toward the detective.

  Fallon said: “And you know that, unlike in the ancient days when the prison first opened, they have a separate building for the women inmates.”

  “Yes, since 1876. Seventy-eight cells, although they have never had that many women prisoners. Separated from the men’s cells by a wall of stone, and that wall is at least twenty feet high.”

  “I don’t believe they allow much socializing between women prisoners and men convicts.”

  “Hardly.”

  Fallon nodded. “Thaddeus Gripewater.”

  “Of course. You will get yourself to the prison infirmary as an assistant to our lovely, drunken sawbones.”

  His head bobbed once more. “Cherry pie and gin.”

  “However you do it is fine by me. But you can’t wait too long.”

  Fallon waited.

  “Jess Harper’s pregnant.”

  Fallon sat back. MacGregor sipped his drink.

  “How far along?”

  “She’s showing,” MacGregor replied. “Our sources seem to guess six months, maybe seven. That gives you two, three months.”

  “Unless the baby decides to be premature,” Fallon said. “Or the girl has a miscarriage.”

  MacGregor set the glass down and gave Fallon a curious look before snapping his finger and nodding his head. “Of course, of course, you were married yourself. And had a girl. You know of those . . .” He must have seen the look on Fallon’s face because he stopped, bowed his head, and mumbled, “Sorry, Hank. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

  Damn, Fallon thought, if the son of a bitch doesn’t sound sincere.

  “There’s another possibility,” Fallon said.

  “No.” MacGregor cut him off. “Not her. She loves her man. Wants to mother a cutthroat’s son. Women are so damned strange.”

  “There has to be easier ways to do this, don’t you think?”

  MacGregor finished his drink. “I’m sure there is. Now, my father, and our dear, fine, upstanding warden in Jefferson City, they would likely prefer to bring the young woman—I don’t think she’s out of her teens—into a basement and pull out her fingernails and toenails and maybe even put her on the rack. That’s their methods. I kind of prefer something closer to human decency. And something tells me that you’re the same. No matter how hard those years wearing a badge, and those ten long bitter years in prison turned you.”

  “And don’t forget my recent little sojourn to Yuma Territorial Prison and the Sonoran Desert in Arizona and Mexico,” Fallon pointed out.

  “But that was Father’s doing. This is mine.”

  “Jeff City isn’t any better than Yuma.” Fallon had never been inside those walls, but, as a kid growing up down in Gads Hill, he had gotten to the state capital a few times and remembered staring in awe at those brutal, haunting walls and hearing the noises that sounded behind the tall stones and barbed wire.

  He woul
d send men to prisons, but he never had thought much of what it might be like—until he had to learn for himself, first in the dungeon of Fort Smith, then in Joliet, and just a short while back, in the hellhole down in Yuma.

  “Agreed.”

  The door to the dingy saloon opened again, and this time it was Aaron Holderman, who waved two train tickets in his left hand as he pushed his way toward the table.

  “We’ll finish our talk,” Dan MacGregor said, “on the train.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  His face damp with sweat and his lungs heaving, Aaron Holderman dropped into the vacant chair at the table and tried to catch his breath as he slid a handful of paper tickets across the table toward Dan MacGregor. The big brute’s sweat stank so much that the young detective almost gagged, and that made Fallon almost smile.

  Yeah, the big man good for nothing except brute force smelled awful, but nothing compared to some of the smells Harry Fallon had endured in the federal jail in Fort Smith and later in Joliet and Yuma. Dan MacGregor might have been a good-enough detective, but Fallon wasn’t sure how he could handle fieldwork—especially the kind of assignments MacGregor was sending Harry Fallon to work.

  As MacGregor picked up the tickets, Holderman found a silk wild rag in his back pocket and brought it up to his face, wiping his flushed cheeks and thick beard relentlessly.

  “Seven-fifteen,” MacGregor said and slid some of the tickets to Fallon. “Ever been to Peoria?”

  Fallon’s head shook. “Big slaughterhouse or something like here, I’ve heard.”

  Holderman had recovered enough to laugh. “If you think Peoria’s got a slaughterhouse, wait till you get to Jefferson City.”

  MacGregor said, “Aaron, why don’t you just shut the hell up?”

  Fallon studied the tickets.

  It seemed pretty straightforward. Fallon looked over the tickets again before lifting them off the table, folding them neatly, and sticking them in his vest pocket. “Seven-fifteen departure to Peoria. One hour there, then another train to St. Louis, and from there the westbound to Jefferson City.”

  “Here’s your tickets, Aaron.” MacGregor held out the papers, which Holderman took, crumpled, and shoved into his pants pocket.

  There were still tickets on the table. MacGregor took his and slipped them into his coat pocket.

  “You sure you want him to come with us?” Fallon said.

  The big man turned and glared at Fallon, who ignored him.

  “It’ll keep him from bending Father’s ear,” MacGregor said.

  The bartender brought a mug of foaming beer and set in front of Holderman, who smiled and lifted the beer and took a quick swallow.

  MacGregor was already standing. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Fallon rose.

  The big man’s eyes widened. “But . . . I just got my . . .”

  “We don’t want to miss the train.” MacGregor was already heading for the door.

  “But we got plenty of time.” Holderman must have realized he was talking to himself because Fallon was only a few steps behind Dan MacGregor.

  “Pay the bartender,” Fallon said as he went through the front door behind MacGregor.

  * * *

  They grabbed supper, the three of them, at a café a couple of blocks from the train station, walked to the station, where MacGregor bought two newspapers and a sack of peanuts from a vendor and moved inside to wait for the train to be announced. They had an hourlong wait, and Holderman looked bored half that time, angry the rest of the time. Fallon had to figure that MacGregor was refusing to let the big oaf out of his sight—just in case Holderman tried to get word to Sean MacGregor.

  There had not been enough time, Dan MacGregor must have thought, for Holderman to send any information back to the detective agency’s offices during his quick trip to the train station to get the tickets. That seemed to be what Dan MacGregor thought. Maybe he was right. On the other hand, Fallon did not think Aaron Holderman was as worthless as he appeared, especially when it came to double-crossing someone for money.

  Fallon filed that theory to the back of his mind. He was still trying to figure out the dynamics of the American Detective Agency. It seemed to go something like this:

  Sean MacGregor doesn’t care much for his son . . . Dan MacGregor doesn’t care much for his father . . . Aaron Holderman knows his paycheck is signed by Sean MacGregor . . . Aaron Holderman is not a man to be trusted.

  So what did that mean? Fallon knew he didn’t trust Holderman. He certainly didn’t trust Sean MacGregor. He wanted to trust Dan MacGregor—but he didn’t. Those years behind the walls in Joliet made it hard for Harry Fallon to trust anyone.

  MacGregor poured a handful of peanuts into Fallon’s hand, took a couple for himself, and tossed the bag to Holderman. The young detective handed Fallon one of the papers and opened up the Evening Chicago Herald for himself.

  The peanuts were roasted and heavily salted. Fallon cracked the shells, popped the nuts into his mouth, brushed the shells onto the depot’s floor, and opened the Chicago Weekly Journal. Aaron Holderman ate his peanuts, shells and all.

  * * *

  There was no conversation on the train. The rocking, rhythmic motion of the coaches made it easy to sleep, and after all Fallon had been through in that Chicago alley, he needed some sleep. Six hours later, he woke as the train pulled into Peoria. They found a little place across from the depot that proclaimed it had not closed in four years, three months, seventeen days. The coffee tasted that old, too, but the hash browns were filling and the ham and eggs tasted fresh, although neither food nor coffee could diminish the stench from the stockyards nearby.

  Back at the depot, they waited another hour and then departed for St. Louis. Ten hours later, they sat inside the bustling station in St. Louis on benches as hard as rocks and twice as uncomfortable. Again, Dan MacGregor walked to a vendor and returned with newspapers and more peanuts to keep Holderman’s attention.

  MacGregor had the St. Louis Chieftain. Fallon read the Citizen Standard of Eastern Missouri.

  Fallon skimmed the headlines but noticed two men in linen dusters sitting across from him. They were dressed in nice suits, blue and gray, wore new bowler hats and, from all appearances, were just a couple of young businessmen on their way west.

  Each of the men had a newspaper, too. Discreetly, Fallon memorized their faces.

  A porter came by and announced that the train to Jefferson City and Independence would be boarding on Track Four. Fallon rose, folded his paper, and stuck it in his coat pocket. Dan MacGregor tossed his newspaper on the bench. Aaron Holderman tried to pick some peanut shells between his teeth.

  “Aaron,” MacGregor said in a whisper. “Keep your eye on those two men.” His pointer finger waved at the two men in the dusters, by now a good fifteen yards ahead of the three men.

  Fallon said, “My guess is they’ll be in the smoking car.”

  MacGregor said, “We’re in Car Three.”

  “What am I looking at ’em fer?” Holderman asked.

  Fallon and MacGregor exchanged looks.

  MacGregor said, “How many men have you seen wearing dusters?”

  “Plenty,” Holderman said. He looked happy. He had finally gotten the shells from between his teeth.

  “On horseback,” MacGregor said. “Not taking a train.”

  The big man scratched his beard.

  “Nice hats,” MacGregor said. “Nice suits. And worn boots.”

  “Coffeyville boots,” Fallon said. “Popular in Kansas among cowboys.”

  “Popular with the men who ride with Linc Harper, too,” MacGregor said.

  Holderman nodded and hurried after the two men in dusters.

  MacGregor looked at Fallon. “You noticed them, too, I see.”

  “The newspapers,” Fallon said.

  “Newspapers?”

  “Last week’s.”

  “It would be unbelievable,” MacGregor said, “if Linc Harper tried to rob this train and we got
him.”

  “It would keep me out of prison,” Fallon said.

  MacGregor laughed, and they walked to the tracks.

  * * *

  More than halfway into the last leg of their journey, MacGregor had decided that those men in their Coffeyville boots were likely just cowboys who had splurged on new duds.

  “All right,” MacGregor announced.

  Fallon yawned, pushed his hat back, and pulled his feet off the seat next to MacGregor.

  “No pardon for you this time, Hank.”

  Fallon shrugged.

  “Big Ears and Mouth isn’t here, so we might as well get down to the nitty-gritty.”

  Big Ears and Mouth had to be Aaron Holderman. Fallon waited.

  “You remember the warden’s name at Jefferson City?” MacGregor asked.

  Fallon nodded. “Underwood,” he said. “Harold Underwood.”

  “Very good. Remember, he knows you’re working for us. He knows you were in Joliet. But he’s not going to make things easy on you.”

  “Of course,” Fallon said.

  Ignoring the sarcasm in Fallon’s voice, MacGregor said, “And the prison doctor is . . . ?”

  “Gripewater. Thaddeus Gripewater.”

  “Right. So Aaron and I will get you to the warden’s office. The way it will look to the guards, trusties, and inmates is that we are delivering you from Springfield for your sentence. You are Hank Fallon, and you beat a man half to death over a card game in Springfield.”

  MacGregor pulled a clipping from a newspaper, which he handed to Fallon. It was worn and ragged, but still legible. Fallon was impressed.

  “I just happen to be carrying a newspaper article of that fight I got convicted for.”

  “You take pride in your work.”

  Fallon grinned. “How did you manage to get this printed?”

  “That’s easy. Anyway, it should convince the prisoners that you’re for real. And Kemp Carver and Ford Wagner will know your past career as a federal marshal. And they’d have to know that you got sent to Joliet ten years ago.”

  “All right.”

  “Underwood knows you’re working for us. Nobody else. Once you get in, you’ll have to get friendly with the prison doctor. Gripewater. Thaddeus Gripewater.”