I LIKE SNEAKING.
I like it because I am good at it. I am especially good at night-sneaking. It is easier to night-sneak out on the prairie, where there is only grass & wind, but it is more exciting to night-sneak in a town, where there are lit-up windows & pools of light from street torches & the glowing red cigar tip that betrays the presence of a man loitering in the darkness. I kept to the shadows & moved like a black panther in the night.
I caught up with Mrs. Murphy’s Brigade at Musser Street. They were talking & laughing & smoking and they were taking no notice of the world around them. I kept my distance so that I could see them but they could not see me. It made my heart beat fast, but in a good way, like when I am on the trail of a critter.
Unlike Virginia, Carson City has practically no traffic after dark, just the occasional buggy or wagon, which you could easily hear coming. So I mainly kept off the creaky boardwalk and ran at a crouch on the edge of the 80-foot-wide street, now as vast and dark as an ocean. Far across it, I could see a few canvas tents in the Plaza. They were lit up from within, like paper lanterns, and sometimes I could see the silhouette of a person against the illuminated canvas.
Mrs. Murphy’s Brigade went right on past the darkened door of the Great Basin Hotel where the Legislature met. About every other building was a saloon. At the Ormsby House Hotel several men emerged to join their party. The growing crowd of men went past Wells, Fargo & Co. ’s Express Office & Treadwell’s Hardware with a sign saying the Telegraph was there, too. They crossed over Third Street and as they reached the St. Charles Hotel, who should emerge but my lawyer from Virginia City! I recognized Mr. William Morris Stewart immediately on account of his height and his beard the size of a sagebrush.
I ducked behind a barrel, lest he spot me. When I peeped again, the whole passel of men had disappeared. However, my sharp ears picked up the sound of their voices and my nose caught the scent trail of their combined cigars. Those two things led me down the next block and around a corner onto Fourth Street.
I was just in time to see them disappear into the Deer Lick Saloon, where the bartender mixes a cocktail called a Blue Blazer & where they were holding the Third House.
Was Jace already in there?
Scouting around, I found a dark, urine-scented alley running along one side of the saloon. With my good night-vision, I spotted a small high-up window above a rain barrel next to a privy. I reckoned if I climbed up on the barrel I might be able to peek in.
I climbed up onto the rain barrel. I was careful to stand on the sides of the barrel so I would not fall in. I lifted my black-clad & muffled face to the window.
The flyspecked glass allowed me to see a dimly lit, smoke-befogged saloon with a bar at my right & the door to the left. I looked for Jace in his flat-crowned black hat.
I could not see him but I had a bully view of the barkeeper.
He held a pewter mug in each hand and he was pouring a blazing blue arc of flame from one to the other. In the dim saloon that fiery arc was an awesome, awful thing.
I reckoned it was the famous cocktail called a Blue Blazer.
Presently the flaming arc got fainter and at last the barkeep handed one of the pewter mugs to a man with a beard and mustache. From my high-up vantage point, I could see flames still flickering faintly on the surface of the drink. When the man took a sip, his mustache caught fire!
Everybody laughed as he batted out the flames without apparent pain.
I could not see Jace but I know he likes to sit with his back against the wall of a room so nobody can creep up on him. Maybe he was right underneath my window. I tried to open it so that I could see.
I took out the flint knife from my medicine bag and started to “jimmy” the lock.
Suddenly I froze: three men had come into my alley.
I tried a trick my Indian ma had once taught me. It is called the Bush Trick. If you hide behind a bush and imagine you are that bush, you will start to look like that bush and you will become invisible. I tried the Privy Trick. I stayed perfectly still and imagined I was part of the wall of the privy. I reckoned that as I was in the darkest part of the alley & up high & dressed in black they might not notice me. One thing I have learned is that sometimes people do not see something if they do not expect to see it.
The men stood in a row and faced the wall. There was a privy right there but I guess they reckoned it was more companionable to stand side by side and make water together.
“Some jolly pretty widows in town this week,” remarked one of the men. He had an English accent.
“Ya, and they are young, too,” said another. His accent was German.
“You see that little lady sitting beside the Governor this afternoon?” The third man sounded American. “She looked to be about sixteen at the most.”
“Ya, Mrs. Consuela Clever they say her name is.”
I nearly fell into the rain barrel when he said that. I was famous!
“How could you tell she was young?” said the Englishman. “She was wrapped up like a babe in swaddling clothes.”
All three men laughed.
“I rather fancy Mrs. Margaret Ormsby,” said the Englishman. “She is pretty and rich.”
“Feisty, too,” said the American. “They say she followed Chief Winnemucca’s son through the streets of Carson last year with a loaded revolver in her hand.”
“Ya, but can you blame her?” said the German. “He killed her husband in the Pyramid Lake War.”
“I heard Winnemucca’s son tried to save Major Ormsby,” said the Englishman. “He told him to fall down and play dead. Said he would shoot an arrow over his head. But Ormsby just stood there stupefied and one of the other Paiute chaps shot him.”
“I hate Indians,” said the American, “but I like a gal with grit.”
“Preferably not one who packs a pistol,” said the Englishman.
They laughed.
“You fancy anyone in particular, Con?” asked the Englishman.
“Well, yeah,” said the man named Con, the one with the American accent. “I got my eye on Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville.”
“Beware of that one,” warned the German.
“Yes,” agreed the Englishman. “People call her a Black Widow. She is only twenty-three but she has buried three husbands. I heard a rumor she is still married, and to a Desperado.”
“Ya,” said the German. “Besides, she is stepping out with that gambler, Poker Face Ace.”
“Jace,” said the man named Con. “I believe his name is Jace. And I don’t think he is the only one she is stepping out with, if you get my drift.”
I nearly plopped into my barrel again.
Violetta De Baskerville must have been the woman kissing Jace during Governor Nye’s speech.
The three of them finished their business & left the alley. My mind was skittering around like a grasshopper on a griddle.
I thought, “Opal Blossom was right that Jace is in danger.”
Then I thought, “He is stepping out with a Black Widow called Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville who has buried three husbands and might still be married to a Desperado.”
And finally, “I have got to warn him!”
I PUT MY FLINT KNIFE back in my medicine bag. I had been clutching it all the time the men had been talking about the widows of Carson City and especially the most dangerous one: Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville.
I carefully jumped down off the rain barrel and crept to the entrance of the alley.
The coast was clear, so I sped down the street at a crouch & hurried across broad Carson Street & hid behind a barrel in front of a Chinese washhouse.
Across the street was the St. Charles Hotel. It was the first-class A-number-one hotel where Mrs. Murphy thought Jace might be staying.
It was three stories high & made of brick with a sturdy balcony running all around the
second floor. There were four French Windows at the front. Those rooms giving onto the balcony were obviously the finest rooms in the hotel. If Jace was staying there I reckoned he would be in one of those front rooms with the tall windows giving onto the balcony & a view of Carson Street. If I could just get up there I could peep in and probably find his room without having to go through the crowded lobby. Even as I was considering this, I heard clopping & saw a stagecoach pull up right out front of the hotel. I could see the mail boot at the back was empty and also that the roof of the coach was right below the balcony with the French doors. There were a few trunks strapped on top and this gave me an idea.
As soon as the driver pulled back the wooden brake handle, I sped across that wide dark street like a drip from an ink bottle across a sheet of black paper. I scrambled up the back of the mail boot & onto the roof of the stagecoach & onto one of the trunks. When the driver released the brake & clucked the horses into movement again, I jumped onto the outside rail of the balcony.
“Stop!” I heard the driver’s side man say as they were moving off. “What was that?”
I got a leg over the wooden rail & flung myself down onto the balcony.
“Whoa!” The driver reined in his team.
“I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye,” said the side man. “Like a shadow on the balcony there.”
I held my breath and pressed myself as flat as a postage stamp.
“I don’t see nothing,” said the driver. “You been taking nips from your pocket flask? That is against the rules, and you know it.”
“I have not been drinking. I reckon it was just a black cat.”
“I reckon,” said the driver, and added, “Heeya!” The coach creaked off into the inky night.
As soon as the sound of the stagecoach had died away I got up on hands and knees and headed for the first of the four tall windows at the front of the St. Charles Hotel.
It showed a brightly lit room with a bald man sitting at a table and writing. His back was to me and he was bent over his work, oblivious of my presence.
The second window gave onto a room lit only by a coal-oil lamp burning on a small table by the door. I saw what looked like a doctor’s medical bag on top of the wardrobe along with a green & brown carpetbag & a dirty & crumpled white shirt at the foot of the bed & a half-full bottle of whiskey & one glass on the table. I was about to move on when I saw a movement on the bed. The balled-up white shirt shifted itself & a head rose up & bright black eyes looked straight at me. It was not a balled-up white shirt at all. It was a small wooly dog the color of dirty snow.
I put my finger to my lips. “Shhhh!” I mimed.
I moved quickly away but the dog must have jumped off the bed for I could hear scrabbling on the inside of the French door. His claws on the glass made an unpleasant noise.
I find it hard to concentrate when there are such noises.
I put my fingers in my ears & peered through the third window. It was dark, but there was enough light to show me a woman was staying there. I saw two dresses lying across the bed & a carpetbag & two trunks & three hatboxes and on the table a hairbrush, comb & mirror set. I moved quickly on.
Another dimly burning light on a small table beside the door of the fourth and last room at the front of the St. Charles Hotel showed that it had the same layout as the other three rooms, only it had an extra window, being a corner room. On the table was a half-drunk bottle of red wine & two glasses & an ashtray & a pack of cards spread out. I also saw a gold & black patterned carpetbag up on top of the wardrobe. I recognized that carpetbag. It was Jace’s. This must be his room.
Was Jace’s friend Stonewall staying there, too, as he usually did? In spite of the second glass, I could see no trace of him.
I took my Indian ma’s flint blade from my medicine pouch in order to jimmy the window open. But I was nervous & dropped the sharp stone. It made a loud clatter, which excited the dog two doors down into a violent frenzy of window scrabbling. I knew I had to act quickly; that man writing the letter had only to open his balcony doors & peep out to see a Black-Clad Thief, viz: Me!
I picked up the flint knife & my fumbling gloved fingers finally managed to open the central lock between the French doors. I pulled open the right-hand door & quickly went in & closed the door behind me.
And not a moment too soon! I heard another set of French doors open and a man’ s voice on the balcony said, “Hello? Somebody out there?”
I pressed myself to the wall just inside the French doors and held my breath.
But the bald man did not come out. I heard his door close again & the dog finally stopped scrabbling. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The air smelt of Jace’s cigars. It was definitely his room.
I quickly took out my Detective Notebook & tore out a page & leaned over the table. Using one of the pencil stubs I always keep in my pocket, I wrote this message:
Dear Jace—The Lady you are Paying Attn to, Mrs. VDB, is a “Black Widow” who has buried 3 husbands & might still be married to a DESPERADO. Beware!!
Signed, A Friend
I did not think Jace had ever seen my handwriting but, just to be safe, I used my left hand and made some of the letters big so he would not guess it was me who had written it.
I folded the paper in half once and put it under the wine bottle.
I was just about to go back out the French doors when I heard a key turning in the lock of the hotel-room door.
Somebody was coming!
There was no time to get to the balcony.
Quick as a streak of chalk, I climbed inside the big mahogany wardrobe and closed the door so that only a tall, thin crack remained.
“Oh, Jacey!” said a woman’s voice. “I am sorry.”
“I told you it was men only tonight,” came Jace’s voice.
“Don’t be angry, Jacey,” she spoke in a pouty little-girl voice. “I only wanted to spend time with you.”
“I’m not angry, Violetta. Just tired.”
Violetta! He called her Violetta! My worst fears were confirmed.
“Let’s have a little drinky together,” she said. “We can finish that bottle of wine.”
I heard tippy-tappy footsteps. Violetta De Baskerville was going to the wine! She would find the note I had written about her!
“Not tonight, Violetta,” said Jace. “I still have a headache from the Governor’s speech.”
The tippy-tappy footsteps paused, and then went back.
“Poor Jacey. I can make it better,” she said in her little-girl voice.
Then everything went real quiet.
I had to know what was happening.
I parted the shirts and put my eye to the narrow opening of the wardrobe door.
A woman with a tall bonnet and puffy violet dress was standing on tiptoe with her arms around Jace’s neck. She was kissing him!
I shrank back, and the mahogany wardrobe made a loud creaking noise.
I clapped my hand to my mouth. But my mouth had not made the noise. The wood had.
A moment later the wardrobe door swung open, the clothing was parted & I saw Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville.
She was pointing a cocked pistol right at my heart.
MRS. VIOLETTA DE BASKERVILLE was packing a little 4-shot, silver-plated pistol with a walnut bird’s-head grip. Some people call guns like these “Garter Deringers” or “Muff Deringers” because Soiled Doves often stick them in their garters or hide them in their muffs. The small pistol looked dainty & feminine in Violetta’s lacy-gloved hand. But there was nothing dainty nor feminine about the noses of the four .32 caliber bullets peeping out of the quadruple barrel like small but evil reptiles.
“Who are you?” she demanded, cocking her piece. “And why are you spying on us?” Up close I could see she had dark blue almost violet eyes with thick sooty eyelas
hes.
“Dang it, P.K.” Jace stepped forward. “Is that you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Without taking her eyes from my face Violetta said, “Jason Francis Montgomery, do you mean to say you know this black-clad person crouching in your wardrobe?” She was no longer using little-girl-talk.
“Yup.” Jace stepped forward & reached in & took my black-gloved hand & helped me jump down out of the wardrobe. “This here is P.K. Pinkerton. He sometimes works for me up in Virginia. What are you doing here, P.K.?”
I looked at Jace & then at Violetta & then back at Jace. I said, “I came to give you an important message. There is a note on the table.”
Violetta uncocked her pistol & stuck it down the front of her dress between her bosoms. I guess in her case it was a “Bosom Deringer.”
“Violetta,” said Jace, “I need to speak privately to P.K.; do you mind saying good-night now?”
Instead of saying good-night, Violetta stepped forward & whipped off my black felt slouch hat & then unwound my muffler.
“Why, you are only an Indian boy!” she exclaimed, tossing my hat & scarf onto the bed. Then she narrowed her eyes & took a step forward & gripped my chin hard with her cold fingers & turned my head this way and that. “Or are you?”
I do not like to be touched & I tried to pull away.
“Violetta,” said Jace, “I will see you tomorrow morning. Breakfast at nine downstairs?”
“All right, then,” she said with a pout. Then she did something that surprised me. She did not go to the front door of the room but to a connecting door in the wall by the wardrobe. She was staying in the room right next to Jace’s!
She opened that door and before she sashayed out of the room, she shot me a narrow-eyed look.
Jace watched her go. When the door closed behind her he took a Mascara-brand cigar from inside his jacket & a penknife from his trowser pocket & began to trim off the end.
“What are you doing here, P.K.?” he said without looking at me.
I went to the table and got my note from underneath the wine bottle. “I came to warn you,” I said. “They say Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville has buried three husbands.” I held out the note I had scrawled a few minutes before. “They call her a Black Widow. She might still be married, to a Desperado. You are in danger.”
P. K. Pinkerton and the Pistol-Packing Widows Page 7
