P. K. Pinkerton and the Pistol-Packing Widows

by Caroline Lawrence

  “Widow fight!” shouted someone. “Forget the brass band and the firecrackers! We got a widow fight going on in here!”

  Quick as streaks of chalk, the legislators and lobbyists moved tables & chairs out of the way. They cleared us a space and formed a ring around us.

  Violetta and I kept running at each other and trying to engage, but our hoopskirts prevented us. Every time we got close we bounced off each other. The legislators helpfully pushed us back together. Wearing my high-heeled saloon-girl shoes I was almost as tall as she was.

  “What are they fighting about?” I recognized the voice of Newlywed Hannah.

  “They are fighting for Mr. Montgomery!” replied a woman, perhaps Mrs. Hannah. “Ain’t it romantic?”

  “I got a silver dollar on the one in purple!” cried a man’s voice.

  “You’re on!” cried another legislator.

  Finally I shmooshed Violetta up against the bar & got close enough to try out the “ancient Chinese art of hand-to-hand combat” on her, viz. I poked her in the eye and bent her finger back.

  It was crude but effective.

  “Ouch!” she cried, and she let loose a stream of widow-profanities not fit for publication.

  “Put me down for two bits on Mrs. Clever!” That voice sounded like Governor Nye’s.

  Violetta was squealing and cussing better than any desperado I had yet met. She was uttering a stream of profanities that would make my friend Sam Clemens blush, and he is one of the best cussers west of the Rockies.

  Speak of the devil.

  “I got a dollar on the cussing widow,” cried Sam Clemens (the Traitor!).

  “Watch out, P. K.!” squealed Miss Carrie Pixley. And then, “I mean, watch out, Blind Widow Woman!”

  Violetta and I were now batting at each other like a pair of angry squirrels. By and by, she caught hold of one of my wrists and dug her nails into the palm of my hand. I tugged. She overbalanced and fell, but would not let me go, so I tumbled with her.

  We fell onto the sawdust and spit-covered floor of the Magnolia Saloon.

  Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville squealed and tried to get up. So did I.

  But corsets do not allow you to bend at the waist and our steel-spring hoops kept us rolling about like bowls on a tray.

  Dang these high-heeled shoes, hoops and corsets! How is a widow expected to defend herself in them?

  The legislators and members of the lobby were too convulsed with mirth to help us rise. They were laughing & cheering & slapping their thighs. However, their jollification ceased as soon as Lucifer commenced firing Violetta’s gun from his perch on the chandelier.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  I am happy to record that nobody was hurt—one shot hit a spittoon & another struck the side of a billiard table & the third splatted harmlessly into the ceiling. But the shots did have the effect of emptying the saloon. Even Lucifer’s owner skedaddled.

  The only person still remaining was Jace, who was using a handkerchief to wipe the last of the Pousse L’ Amour from his lapel.

  “Dang you, Jace!” cried Violetta from the floor, her pretty Solferino traveling silks all coated with sawdust and spit. “Don’t just stand there! Do something!”

  Jace did indeed do something.

  He did the last thing in the world I would have expected.

  He grinned.

  Then his grin turned into a chuckle and suddenly he was laughing a deep, rich laugh.

  Violetta and I stared up at him from our horizontal positions on the floor. We had hardly seen him smile, much less laugh. It made him look about ten years younger.

  He was still laughing, and we were still staring, when Stonewall came bursting through the front door of the saloon.

  “Jace!” he rumbled. “Are you all right? I could not sit by and do nothing. They said you was in here and I heard gunplay!” Stonewall was brandishing his big Le Mat’s pistol but when he saw Jace laughing he let the gun drop to his side and stared.

  Now Jace was laughing so hard that he had to bend over with his hands on his knees. He had dropped his cigar. It had started a small conflagration in the sawdust. Stonewall went over to Jace & stamped out the fire & put his meaty hand on his pard’s back. Jace was still doubled over, rocking with laughter.

  “You all right, Jace?” asked Stonewall.

  Jace nodded and tried to stand up. But he could only make it part way. He was laughing so hard that tears were running down his face.

  Stonewall began to chuckle, too. Then his chuckles became big, deep laughs.

  Their laughter was infectious and even I got started—as much as my danged pinching corset would allow.

  It felt good to laugh. I had not laughed since the massacre.

  I am guessing Jace had not laughed since his family died.

  Violetta alone remained unmoved. She who was usually so expressive sat on the floor with her back against the bar & her arms folded & a face like stone.

  “I do not think it is funny,” she said. “My expensive Paris frock is ruined.”

  Jace stepped forward, still laughing, & gave her his hand & pulled her to her feet.

  “Stop it!” she cried from between pearly clenched teeth. “Stop laughing or I will leave!”

  Jace did not obey so Violetta hauled back and slapped him hard with her little hand.

  This had the effect of stopping his laughter. But he was still smiling as he shook his head. “Adios, Violetta,” he said. “It has been nice knowing you.”

  “But,” she spluttered, “but we have an appointment with the Justice of the Peace!”

  “Not anymore we don’t,” said Jace. “I have come to my senses. And if you are still in town tomorrow I will have a word with the nearest Territorial Judge about the suspicious death of ex-Deputy Marshal Jack Williams, who was shot and killed while you were in Virginia.”

  “Jace!” cried Violetta. “You love me!”

  “Yes, I reckon I do,” he said. “That is why I am giving you the chance to leave on the Frisco stage and save your pretty neck. You spread your bets too thin, Violetta. But I wager you will soon be living in a mansion on Rincon Hill.”

  “But, Jacey,” she said, pouting, “what will I do without you?”

  Jace pulled her into his arms. “You will think of something. Now give me one last kiss,” he said, and gently shmooshed her heart-shaped mouth with his. At first she resisted, but then she surrendered.

  It was disgusting.

  I was still on the floor & as I averted my eyes I spotted her Muff Deringer lying where Lucifer had dropped it.

  I thought, “I could use a thirty-two caliber pistol like that. It is more powerful than my little twenty-two.” I reached out for the Muff Deringer & quickly unbuttoned three jet buttons of my black bombazine bodice & stuck it in there & buttoned them up again real quick. I turned back to Jace & Violetta. I was just in time to see them come apart. She was all breathless from the kissing, but he seemed calm. He patted her puffy behind and pushed her out the door. “Now skedaddle.”

  “Harumph,” said Violetta, and she exited the premises with as much dignity as her sawdust-coated & bedraggled appearance would allow.

  We all watched her go.

  Then Jace came over to me & took my hands & lifted me to my feet with no apparent effort.

  “Mrs. Clever,” he said solemnly. “Despite the fact that you may have won me in a game of poker, I prefer to retain my independence. But I thank you for your concern.”

  He gave me a little bow, but when he straightened up he winked at me.

  I was not sure what to do, so I nodded politely & straightened my bonnet & took my gloves from the table and—with as much dignity as I could muster—I also exited the premises.

  WHEN I GOT BACK to Mrs. Murphy’s, I peeled off my gloves and unbuttoned my black bombazine bodice with tremb
ling fingers. I tossed my new four-shooter on the bed along with my old seven-shooter. I took off my false bosoms & unlaced that danged pinching corset & stepped out of my hoopskirt & tugged off my blinkering black bonnet & pinned-up wig. Sazerac came out from under the bed, wagging his tail and panting with his pink tongue. I gave him another piece of jerky. His tail became a blur of joy.

  With a heartfelt sigh of relief, I put on my beloved flannel “undress uniform” & my buckskin trowsers & my pink flannel shirt & my blue wool coat with the brass buttons. Next I bundled the skirt & bodice & crinolines & black poke bonnet into a big bundle and left them outside Mrs. Murphy’s bedroom door. (I pulled off the highest black jet button for my button collection.)

  I took Sazzy under one arm and the corset under my other.

  Then I went back out into the night to the still crackling bonfire & tossed in the corset & with great satisfaction I watched it burn.

  After that I was free to search out Dr. Lapdog Pugh, who by means of his “swing vote” had struck a blow for small mine owners against the Fat Cats of California.

  Dr. Pugh was surrounded by a passel of Carsonites including some pretty Ladies in low necklines & high heels. When he saw me approaching with Sazerac under my arm his face lit up with Expression No. 1—a Genuine Smile. He emerged from the gaggle of girls & hurried forward.

  “Sazzy!” he cried, his arms outstretched. “Praise the Lord! You are all right! And who are you, young sir?”

  I handed him his dog & took off my hat & bowed. “My name is P. K. Pinkerton, Private Eye.”

  “Thank you, P. K. Pinkerton, Private Eye!” he cried. “Thank you!” Sazzy was licking his master’s cheek & his dirty white tail was going like a windmill in a gale.

  “Sir,” I said, replacing my hat, “I have a confession to make. Sazzy was not abducted. He was just hiding under my bed.” I swallowed hard and said, “You can change your vote back.” And I quoted from Jefferson’s Manual of Parliamentary Practice.

  “Do you know?” said Dr. Pugh. “I do believe I will let my swing vote for the Corporation Bill stand.” The two ladies on either side of him squealed & clapped their hands and each kissed one of his cheeks.

  “P. K.?” drawled a familiar voice. “What are you doing in Carson?” It was Sam Clemens, with a beaming Carrie Pixley on his arm. He did not give me a chance to reply but said, “Carrie, this here is my young friend P. K. Pinkerton. He is a Private Eye.”

  “Pleased to meet you, P. K.,” said Carrie in a grown-up voice. But when Sam turned to watch a firework explode she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Sam has invited me to go with him to the Widow Ormsby’s wedding in a few months!”

  I gave her a thumbs-up & then touched my slouch hat with the tip of my finger & backed off into the darkness beyond the pool of light shed by the bonfire so I could watch people without them watching me.

  The brass band had retired to the Magnolia Saloon for well-deserved cocktails. Some Negro musicians now stood on the low platform near the bonfire. They had banjo, fiddle, jaw harp and spoons. They were playing a jaunty song called “Kingdom Coming,” all about freedom and the “year of Jubilo.” It was about the best music I had ever heard.

  I was almost entranced when something brought me out of my reverie.

  It was the smell of a La Honradez cigar. Only one man known to me smokes the expensive Havana cigar (whose name means “honesty” in Spanish): the great lawyer of the region, William Morris Stewart. I turned to see a tall man with a beard the size of a sagebrush. In the yellow light of the bonfire his pale blue eyes glittered green.

  “Why, hello, P. K.,” he said. “What brings you to Carson City?”

  “You know d-mn well,” I said, “pardon my French. But I am not talking to you.”

  “Why not?” puffed the man who had once promised to be my champion.

  I folded my arms & turned my back on him & faced the bonfire.

  I said, “You secretly got Miss Opal Blossom to hire me so you could keep an eye on Jace and hinder his attempts to support the Corporation Bill.”

  “It is true that I attempted to use you as an unwitting spy,” he said. “But my instincts were not wrong. You did an excellent job. Your reports were among the best I ever saw. If it hadn’t been for the eleventh-hour abduction of a danged lapdog I believe my side might have won.”

  “But my side won,” I said with a smugness that would have horrified my preacher pa.

  “P.K.,” he said, “do you even know what that bill means?”

  I said, “The Corporation Bill is about not letting the Frisco Fat Cats get their paws on our silver or they will take it all away.”

  Mr. William Morris Stewart sighed. “That is not true. I know these so-called Frisco Fat Cats. I have been working with them for years. They are not your enemy. They are likewise parents trying to help an arrogant son who thinks he knows it all. The corporations in San Francisco are for Nevada, not against her. We want to help.”

  “Then why has everybody been fighting so fiercely about it?”

  He heaved another deep sigh. “People take a stand sometimes and then sink down into it. Find it hard to extricate themselves. You ever been stuck in quicksand?”

  I opened my mouth but then closed it again.

  He said, “Those small miners want to be independent, but if I am right about there being only one ledge of silver beneath Mount Davidson then they will soon be ruined. If they would only let us invest in them, then they would have a plank and a helping hand to pull them out of the mire. You cannot always do it on your own.”

  I did not understand everything he said. But he was right about one thing: you cannot always do it on your own.

  I was almost convinced, but then I remembered how Blue Supper’s pard drank himself to death.

  I said, “I heard of a man who got bought out by one of them California Fat Cats and drank himself to death.”

  “You need money to drink yourself to death,” said William Morris Stewart. “They probably paid him a good amount. He just didn’t spend it wisely.”

  After a pause I said, “It still does not make it right that you lied to me when you got that Celestial lady to hire me.”

  “You’re right,” he said. I heard a match strike as he relit his cigar. “And I am sorry. But you did spend a profitable five weeks here in Carson learning about law-making and government, while staying in comfortable and private accommodation, did you not?”

  I kept my eyes fixed on the band. The musicians were playing a romantic song called “Lucy Neale.”

  Stewart continued, “And you did save your friend Mr. Montgomery from an ill-advised marriage, did you not?”

  I shrugged.

  Mr. William Morris Stewart said, “I hear the great poker player of the Comstock got out of his depth and almost drowned in feminine wiles until you saved him. If you had not come to Carson he might be on his way to Sacramento with a pistol-packing widow.”

  “I reckon.”

  “So will you forgive me?”

  Before I could reply, he pressed on, “And will you perhaps work for me again in the future? If I promise to be honest with you? After all, you were not quite honest with Jace, were you? Or with Opal Blossom. And do we not ask God to forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us?”

  He had me there.

  I pondered what he had said.

  Finally I turned and looked at him. “I will work for you if you promise not to give me any Romantic Jobs.”

  He grinned and extended his hand. We shook on it. He patted my shoulder & said he would see me back in Virginia but that he must hurry home or else his wife would worry.

  I turned back to the bonfire & the rejoicing crowds.

  The Negro musicians were now playing “Battle Cry of Freedom.”

  They were real good musicians. Best I ever heard. />
  I let myself be entranced.

  I had nothing else to do that night.

  I HAD PAID MY ROOM and board till the end of the week, and as Opal Blossom was not really employing me, but Mr. William Morris Stewart on behalf of the Frisco Fat Cats, I was a free agent with a free room and a free meal ticket. So I stayed on a few extra days in Carson City. I was now curious to see which new laws the legislators would forge.

  They finished at midnight on Saturday 20 December.

  Governor Nye signed about a hundred Toll Road Franchises, including one granted posthumously to Abram Benway. If Violetta had married him instead of Jack Williams she would probably have that mansion on Rincon Hill. Governor Nye even awarded himself a toll road. Along with three others, he got the charter for a King’ s Canyon Toll Road. That is the part of the Johnson’ s Cutoff trail that goes up to Walton’s Landing on Lake Bigler aka Tahoe. They have already begun work to improve it. Everybody says it will make them millionaires or at least hundred-thousanders. No Toll Road Franchises were granted to ladies, not even to the popular & well respected Widow Ormsby.

  Governor Nye signed the Corporation Bill, and the following night there was much jollification and a second bonfire and a merry procession marched through Carson.

  The bill to make Nevada a State was passed by both Houses, but for some reason Governor Nye did not sign it—to make it Law—even though he was a great supporter of the Union and a friend to Mr. Lincoln. Mr. A.J. Marsh said it was because Nevada Territory was still too much of a chrysalis to emerge as a butterfly state.

  I guess the Sagebrush Territory is not quite ready to join the Union. She values her independence too much.

  The last day of the Legislature had been full of jokes & funnery, with resolutions about widows, lapdogs, monkeys and “other estray animals.” To Master Barry Ashim, they voted a gift of $3. They also decreed gratitude to all three reporters and passed a bill enabling Mr. A.J. Marsh to return to California without paying toll more than fifteen times.

  At exactly “low twelve” President Pugh brought down his gavel with a tremendous whack and declared the Territorial Legislature of 1862 adjourned.