by Paul Colt
He signed the register and folded the Yuma letter of credit into his case along with the Harbor Bank letter. He’d cash this one in Tucson in two days’ time.
Denver
Samantha arrived in Denver bone weary from the stage ride down from Cheyenne. She indulged herself with a room at the Palace, a bath, and some supper. She woke with the sun full up, dressed, and set off for the Pinkerton office. She found Kingsley ensconced at a back corner desk bathed in bright sunlight, streaming through a large window at his back. He greeted her with a nod.
“Miss Maples, welcome to Denver. Ran out of Longstreet observations I presume. When did you get in?”
“Last night.”
“You don’t seem much the worse for wear, considering that bloody awful stage ride in from Cheyenne.”
“Trains aren’t all that pleasant, but a few hours on a stagecoach is certain to improve one’s appreciation for rail service. What is going on with our counterfeiters?”
“Nothing I’m afraid. Have a seat.”
He indicated a hard-backed chair reminiscent of a horsehair padded stage seat absent the horsehair pad. The bath helped. It hadn’t soothed two days’ bone rocking on the dust-choked stage road to Denver.
“We’ve had no reports from the client or Chicago,” Kingsley said.
“You don’t suppose they’ve taken their haul and made off with it?”
“Hmm, that’s possible of course, though I tend to doubt it. Someone’s gone to a great deal of trouble to put this caper together. The plates alone for the quality of forgery we’ve observed require a work of art by a gifted craftsman and a corrupt one at that. Artisans like that don’t grow on trees. When you pay them off the way this lot did, I should think they would want a greater return on the gambit. No, more likely they felt the heat and have gone to ground to let their trail cool off.”
“So then what are we to do?”
“We do what all good investigators do. We wait.”
“Well I can’t wait indefinitely at the Palace room rates, unless of course you’d be persuaded to offer me a substantial increase in compensation.”
He chuckled. “By Jove, there’s a good one.”
“I’ll take that for a no. Do you have any suggestions as to where I might find more reasonable accommodations?”
“I’m told the Widow O’Rourke runs a respectable rooming house. It’s only a few blocks from here.”
“I’m sure I can find it.”
“Do that, and I shall keep my eye out for an assignment that gives you something to do while we wait.”
“That would be the eye that never sleeps.”
“I say, I see your wit has survived your travels in good order.”
She found O’Rourke House on a quiet, tree-lined street. A stately three-story whitewashed Victorian with neatly trimmed gardens beckoned behind a wrought-iron fence. The gate welcomed her with a groan. She marched briskly up the front walk to the porch and rapped on the door. Moments later a shadow moved beyond the lace curtains, tapping its way to the door. The shadow emerged from behind the open door, an attractive woman with auburn hair, green eyes, and a splash of freckles across an upturned nose.
“May I help you?”
“Mrs. O’Rourke?”
“Yes.”
“Samantha Maples.” She extended her hand. “I’m told you may have a room for rent.”
“I may.”
“I’ve only just moved to Denver and was hoping to find respectable housing. Your home came highly recommended.”
“May I ask by whom?”
“Reginald Kingsley.”
“Well I’m indebted to Mr. Kingsley, though I can’t say I know the name. Please come in. I’ve one room left. It’s a little on the small side, but comfortable. If you’d like to see it, I’d be happy to show you.”
“Oh, yes, please.”
“Right this way then.”
Samantha took in the parlor and dining room, following the widow up the center stairs to the second floor. Widow hadn’t conjured up the thought of a woman near her own age. Then again in the west, tragedy could find one at any age. She turned back toward the front of the house at the landing. A window at the end of a short hallway overlooked the front walk. A door on the left led to a sunny room furnished with a bed, wardrobe, feinting couch, and a small writing table and chair.
“As I said, a little on the small side, but comfortable. Mrs. Fitzwalter has the room across the hall. My two gentlemen in residence are on the third floor. Both of them travel on business so we don’t have an abundance of comings and goings. Everyone is expected to observe the house rules.”
“House rules?”
“Yes. Breakfast is served at seven, dinner at six thirty. No guests of the opposite sex beyond the parlor. No gambling or late night carousing on the premises. Strong drink is permitted only in moderation and I am the judge of moderate. I shouldn’t think those last two would trouble you over much. They’re more for the gentlemen. The fraternization rules serve to benefit all of us in keeping the house respectable.”
“I see that.” Kingsley didn’t tell me the woman runs a convent. Oh well, at least it will be quiet. “How much is the room?”
“Twenty dollars a month with a one-month deposit due in advance.”
“I’ll take it.”
Maddie watched Samantha Maples rummage in her purse. Handsome woman, proper and respectable I should hope. Beau Longstreet entered her mind’s eye unbidden, trailing discomfort in his wake.
O’Rourke House Dining Room
Remarkable, the effect the woman had on him. Beau presented himself in the dining room promptly at six-thirty. She runs the house like a trim ship and here I am eager to comply. He nodded to Mrs. Fitzwalter.
“Have you met the new boarder, Mr. Longstreet?”
“We have a new boarder?”
“We do.” Maddie came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of roast beef and vegetables. “And here she is now.”
He turned. “Sam?”
“Beau?”
“What are you doing here?” they said.
“You know each other?” Maddie said, wide-eyed.
Beau found his balance. “Colleagues, we worked on a case together.”
“More like competitors, I work for Pinkerton.”
“You’re a detective?” Maddie shook her head, attempting to clear it from the realm of surreal.
“I am.”
“Isn’t that somewhat, unusual?” Mrs. Fitzwalter said.
“For a woman you mean? I suppose, though Mr. Pinkerton finds a woman operative can be quite disarming.”
“I’m sure you can be,” Maddie said, a wry eye toward Beau.
Beau felt oddly pinched about the collar. “I didn’t know you were based in Denver.”
“I wasn’t. I’ve only just arrived. Reggie suggested I find a room here. Fortunately Maddie had one to spare.”
“Good old Reggie, fortunate indeed.”
“Well, shall we sit down before supper gets cold?” Maddie said.
Samantha smiled. You could cut the tension with a knife. Knowing Longstreet she sensed she’d stumbled into something more here than meets the eye. This could be deliciously entertaining. Imagine Beau Longstreet twisting like a trout on a lure.
Maddie passed the platter to Beau. “Colleague competitors” indeed. And to think she’d almost suspended her . . . comfort for the rogue.
Longstreet cut a bit of roast beef. How in hell was he supposed to get a bite of food past the knot in his collar?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Chicago
The Counselor inserted the small key in the lock and opened the box. The operation had seemingly ground to a halt in recent weeks. He couldn’t explain it. He could only speculate they’d encountered some law enforcement complication. He’d communicated his client’s displeasure to Don Victor to no visible effect. Today the box yielded an appropriately addressed brown envelope. He tore it open and examined the contents. Another
money order, it seems they were back in business. He examined the envelope; the postmark read Yuma, Arizona Territory. That partially explained the delay. They’d moved off the Union Pacific line to resume operations on the Texas & Pacific itself. He smiled at the irony. Imagine that. How convenient. The railroad hastening its own fleecing.
He closed the box and crossed the sunlit marble floor to a courtesy counter. He posted the money order to his client’s trust account. With luck, the operation should now complete in a few weeks. Finished, he left the post office. A pleasant day awaited, a leisurely stroll along the shore of Lake Michigan.
Denver
“Telegram for Colonel Crook.”
The sober young lad presented himself at the office all businesslike in spite of bare feet and bib overalls. A shock of red hair spilled out from the brim of a comically battered straw hat. Sunburned freckled cheeks completed the effect. Were it not for the proffered yellow envelope, I should have made him in need of a fishing pole. I took the envelope and tossed him a quarter. He stuffed it in his pocket and beat a hasty retreat back to the street and one of those ungainly velocipedes he’d left parked at the boardwalk. He placed a foot on the rear peg and pushed off, vaulting onto the seat. He wheeled into traffic, made a sweeping turnabout, and set off up the street the way he’d come. I smiled at the exuberance of youth in search of his next errand. I tore open the wire.
San Diego
Alert arrived too late. California Harbor Bank accepted T&P bond.
Amount one hundred thousand. Woman decamped for parts unknown.
J. P. Cross
Sheriff
San Diego
Cane had the right of it. I turned to the map on the office wall. It dictated Yuma would be next. They’d never make it in time. It might even be too late already.
“Beau!”
Longstreet recognized a summons. He left his desk and joined Crook at the map. The colonel handed him a telegram. He read with a nod.
“Briscoe was right.”
“He was.”
“Now what?”
“Given what we know of these people, I expect they are eastbound on the Texas & Pacific.”
“That would make Yuma next.”
“My thought exactly, but you’ll never get there in time. You need to round up Cane and get to El Paso as fast as you can. Hopefully the league will turn up their whereabouts by the time you arrive.”
“El Paso!” Cane rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“That’s what the colonel said. How do we get there?”
“Denver & Santa Fe Stage for the first leg, Butterfield has a run from Santa Fe to El Paso. Pack light and hurry. We can still make the afternoon run.”
Longstreet packed in his mind as he hurried up the front walk to O’Rourke House. He mounted the porch, let himself in, and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He passed a startled Maddie cleaning on the second floor. She followed him to his room.
“What brings you home this time of day?”
He bustled about the room stuffing a bag with spare clothing. “Something’s come up. Briscoe and I are leaving for El Paso this afternoon.”
“El Paso? Will you be gone long?”
“Hard to say. I hope not, but one never knows in these matters.” He paused to smile. “Why? Do you expect to miss me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I simply want to know what to tell Samantha when she asks.”
“And why would she do that?”
She blocked the doorway.
“Oh, come now, Beau, you don’t really expect me to settle for that ‘colleagues’ explanation, do you? Frankly I don’t know that I’m comfortable with the situation now that she’s here.”
“Comfort again, we keep coming back to that, don’t we?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Who’s changing the subject? You brought it up. I seem to recall that my feeling comfortable with you made you uncomfortable. Samantha had nothing to do with it. Remember?”
She flushed. “Well all that’s changed now, hasn’t it?”
“Has it?” He dropped his bag, swept her up in his arms, and kissed her.
She fought free and slapped his face with a sharp crack.
He laughed. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do! I mean, I’m sorry. It’s the house rules.”
“Rules, rubbish.” He kissed her again. She forgot to fight.
“Uncomfortable?”
She nodded.
“Me too. Now miss me until this Johnny comes marching home.”
He picked up his bag and took the stairs two at a time.
She watched him go. Miss him? Damn it!
Samantha stormed into the Pinkerton office the following morning. Kingsley sat stirring his tea, his tweed jacket golden in bright sunlight.
“Top of the morning. You’re in a bit earlier than usual.”
“Longstreet’s gone.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Not that. He and Cane left for El Paso rather unexpectedly yesterday.”
“Did he say why?”
“I found out at supper last night. If he told Maddie, she didn’t say.”
“You think it might be a development in the bogus bond case.”
“It’s certainly a possibility, considering they’re off to El Paso.”
“Why’s that?”
“The Texas & Pacific Railroad.”
“Yes, I suppose it could be. I’ll wire Chicago to see if the client has reported anything.”
Santa Fe Trail
The stage bounced and rolled, lurched and pitched, gaiting worse than a horse with one leg shorter than the rest. Cane stared out the window at choking dust clouds. Longstreet dozed in the opposite corner of the rear seat along with the snoring drummer next to him. Longstreet could sleep anywhere, probably because even when given the chance, he did precious little of that in bed.
Cane hated stage travel. They made better time than a man on horseback owing to changing teams every ten miles or so. For a man in a hurry, a stage made the fastest option when a train couldn’t be had. In this job it seemed they were always in a hurry. It would help if he could sleep. He couldn’t. Not for the heat, the dust, and the infernal jostling. He’d tried to read his Bible. The words bounced around his eyes like to make a man dizzy. He could recall familiar passages from memory; but actual reading came with great difficulty.
Then there was the uneasy feeling in his gut, helping keep him awake. He got them from time to time. This one might have something to do with the Wells Fargo strongbox they’d loaded in the boot before leaving Denver. The well-being of that box wasn’t rightly his concern. That responsibility rested with the shotgun messenger riding up top with the driver. Cane’s only connection to the box was the risk of having his travels delayed by trouble drawn to a box needing shotgun protection.
They’d made good time crossing Raton Pass on Wootton’s toll road before slicing southwest on the Santa Fe Trail. With any luck they’d make Santa Fe by late afternoon tomorrow. They wouldn’t get more than a few hours’ break before catching the Butterfield line to El Paso. The reward for that leg would be a seat on a train somewhere west, but where? That would be up to Colonel Crook and his Great Western Detective League. They’d hit San Diego. Likely Yuma too before the league alert could put a stop to it. Tucson he’d wager if he were a wagering man. Nothing to do until then but ride it out.
The stage lurched, slamming Cane’s head into the back of his seat and summarily jolting Longstreet awake.
“Whoa!” the driver called from the box. The brake engaged with a squeal.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Longstreet squinted into the dust cloud billowing past his window.
“Too early for the next rest stop,” Cane said.
The coach bounced to a halt.
“Hold-up,” Longstreet breathed, reaching for the pistol in his shoulder rig. “I got two over here.”
The drummer slid to the
floor of the coach wide-eyed.
“I got one over here,” Cane said.
Longstreet cut his eyes to Cane. “They’ve got the drop on the driver and the shotgun messenger.”
“Passengers, throw out your guns and get out of the coach now or these boys out here are dead.”
“That sounds like a woman,” Longstreet said.
“Don’t matter. She’s givin’ the orders.” Cane drew his Colt. He glanced at the drummer. “You heeled?” The man shook his head. “Throw your gun out, Beau. I go out this side. Make sure you can get your gun and get under the coach when I make my play. Now both of you get on out.” Cane tossed his Colt out his window, opened the door, and stepped out on the driver’s side, giving the bandits passengers to deal with on both sides of the coach.
“Well what have we here? Hello, handsome.”
Longstreet met her smoky dark gaze over the bandana covering the rest of her face and smiled.
It is a woman. Cane held his hands in the air.
“Keep your pants on, Belle,” the masked man bracing the Wells Fargo messenger and driver said. “Drop the shotgun and throw down the box.”
The bandit facing down Cane leveled his gun. “You, come around the front of the coach and get on over there with them others.”
Cane did as he was told, walking slowly behind the bandit’s horse, forcing his minder to turn side to side in the saddle in order to keep him covered. In the instant the man turned his gaze, Cane jerked the Forehand & Wadsworth from behind his back and fired. At close range the .41 Bull Dog knocked the man from his horse. The horse bolted. Cane turned his gun to the bandit bracing the driver and shotgun messenger.
Longstreet dove to the ground, grabbed his gun, and rolled under the coach.
The drummer dove back inside the coach.
Miss dark eyes fired and fired again. Her bullets kicked up dust plumes in the road where Longstreet had been standing.
Cane ducked under the stage team. The bandit covering the box fired wildly and missed.
