by Carol Cox
A sudden scraping outside brought everyone to the edge of their seats. Steven smothered a quick grin at this evidence that the others were every bit as jumpy as he. The door swung open, and the group let out a collective sigh of relief when Ezra Winslow, owner of the Jubilee, entered the room. A blast of night air swirled in with him and set the lantern flame dancing.
“Bar the door,” Tom ordered.
Ezra complied, then rubbed his hands together. “It’s as cold as the North Pole out there.”
Steven bit back another smile at the general murmur of agreement. The night air might seem cold to men who had spent years in the arid Southwest, but compared to the near-arctic chill he’d grown used to at Princeton University, southern Arizona’s winter temperatures felt more balmy than frigid.
Ezra took the chair next to Steven’s and sat in silence.
Brady Andrews and Alfred Clay exchanged glances, and then Alfred leaned forward. “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense. Did they make it through this time?”
Ezra shook his head. “Nope.” The single word dropped from his lips like a chunk of ore tossed into a mining car.
“What!” Gilbert Owens of the Blue Jacket Mine sprang to his feet and loomed over Ezra. “Don’t sit there like a clam, man. Open your mouth and tell us what happened.”
Ezra wiped his hand across his mouth, then waved Gilbert back to his seat. “I ain’t tryin’ to hold anything back. I’m just so bumfuzzled myself, I can barely make heads or tails of it.”
Brady pulled a silver flask from his pocket and held it out to Ezra, who accepted it with a grateful nod and took a swig before handing it back.
“Okay, here’s what happened. Like we agreed, I was riding half a mile behind Huddleston, off to the side of the road, where I wasn’t likely to be spotted. When Huddleston started out in his wagon, he looked for all the world like he was just makin’ one of his regular trips to Tucson for supplies. There was nothing to let anyone know we’d loaded the silver onto his wagon and covered it up with a pile of feedbags.”
He cast a longing look at the flask, but Brady shook his head. “You’ve had enough to help you get the story out. Keep talking.”
“We were going through that rolling area a few miles this side of Benson, and I lost sight of Huddleston and his team behind one of the hills. Then I heard shootin’. My first thought was Apaches, so I spurred my horse and headed for the fray. When I topped the hill, I saw Huddleston lying on the ground and a group of riders makin’ tracks in the other direction.”
Tom’s face grew stern. “Did they kill him?”
“No, but it wasn’t for lack of tryin’. He’d lost a fair amount of blood, so I loaded him onto the wagon and took him on into Benson. The doc there says he ought to pull through, if infection doesn’t set in. I waited around long enough to hear that, then hightailed it back here.”
“And the silver?” Gilbert asked.
“Gone. Every last bit. As fast as they moved off, they must have split it between them so they could travel light.”
Alfred slammed his fist against the arm of his chair.
Gilbert moaned and buried his face in his hands.
Brady uncapped his flask.
Steven felt as though he’d just stepped off a cliff into thin air. He clenched his fists and struggled to keep his face impassive. He’d sunk every bit of his capital into his mining venture, against his father’s strongly worded advice. And now it appeared his father’s dire predictions of failure were about to be fulfilled. After a series of robberies, sending the silver out of Pickford camouflaged in a rancher’s wagon had been the group’s last resort. If they didn’t figure out how to stop the rash of thefts—and soon—he would be done for.
“Now what?” Gilbert’s question pulled Steven’s attention back to the moment at hand.
Alfred shot to his feet so quickly his chair toppled over. He paced the narrow room, pounding his fist into his palm with every step. “What else is there? When we sent the silver out on the stage, they held it up. When we hired extra men and shipped it in our own wagons, they picked off our guards. And now this.”
“It’s a terrible state of affairs.” Tom looked as though he’d aged ten years since Ezra’s pronouncement. “How are they doing it? How could anyone possibly have guessed the silver was in Huddleston’s wagon?”
“They didn’t guess. They knew!” Alfred’s voice rose to a roar. “How’s the word getting out? That’s what I want to know. Who’s giving us away?”
“I don’t know, boys, but I think we’ve hit a dead end.” Ezra slumped in his chair, the picture of defeat. “If we could call in the law, this would be a good time to do it.”
Brady took a swig from his flask. “We all know that’s a bad idea. I don’t trust Marshal Bascomb any farther than I could throw him. I guess we could contact Sheriff Behan over in Tombstone, or maybe the Earps.”
Alfred snorted. “That’d be like asking the fox to guard the henhouse.”
“Nobody’s actually proven they were involved in any stage robberies,” Gilbert countered. “So far, it’s all been a lot of talk.”
“That’s an awful lot of smoke if there isn’t any fire,” Ezra grumbled. “I ain’t willin’ to trust any of that lot.”
“Then where does that leave us?” Tom’s gaze measured each of the mine owners in turn. “Are you saying we’re all done for?”
“Not me,” Steven said with a sudden rush of conviction. “I’m not ready to roll over and die yet.” He looked around, willing the others to join him in making a stand.
No one jumped up to lend support. Driven by the defeat he saw in their faces, Steven breathed a silent prayer and pressed his point home. “Let’s look at this logically. Tom and Alfred are on the right track. How do these thieves know what we’re doing? Where are they getting their information? Those are the questions that need answering.”
Alfred slapped his hat against his thigh, and a cloud of dust motes spiraled in the lamplight. “That’s what I’ve been askin’ myself for weeks. We’ve got a rat in our midst, and when I find out who’s been giving us away, I know exactly what I’m going to do. There’s only one way to deal with a rat.”
Brady rocked his chair back on its rear legs and pursed his lips. “I’m all for finding out who’s leaking information and then plugging up the hole. I want to keep the Lucky Lucy working just as much as the rest of you want your mines to make a profit. But how do we keep these coyotes from stealing us blind?”
“I agree.” Tom got to his feet and ran his fingers through his silvery hair. “We can’t keep making shipments, only to have them stolen right out from under our noses. Why don’t we stockpile it in one of the unused drifts in my mine until we can ferret out who’s behind all this and it’s safe to try again?”
“That makes sense,” Brady said.
After a short pause, Steven nodded in agreement, and then Ezra, but Alfred and Gilbert did not.
“I think it’s best we each take care of our own stockpiling. But I need to get a shipment through soon,” Gilbert said. “It isn’t just myself I’m concerned about. I have a dozen men, some with families, depending on me for their pay, so we can’t take too long to break this open. I’m just a few steps away from going belly up.”
“You aren’t the only one,” Steven reminded him. “All of us are in the same boat.”
“But what can we do?” Brady leaned forward, thumping the front legs of his chair against the wooden floor. “This is the craziest situation I ever heard of. We can’t find a way to protect the silver ourselves, and we can’t trust the law to do it for us. What else is there?”
Silence settled over the group as the men looked at each other in the dim light.
Alfred shrugged his coat higher on his shoulders and stomped to the door. “We’re wasting our time here. If I knew who to shoot, I’d take ’em out before the night’s over, but that’s just it—we don’t know. What I do know is I can’t go on like this. I’ve had an offer from a fellow back
east.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at the floor. “I’ve been holding him off up to now, because the Busted Shovel’s worth ten times what he’s willing to pay. But if hanging on means losing my shirt, I’m ready to call it quits. At least I’ll have enough to grubstake me so I can start over again someplace else.”
“Wait a minute.” Gilbert’s voice stopped Alfred with his hand on the door latch. “What about the Pinkertons?”
The name of the famous detective agency lit a spark of hope in Steven. From the flicker of interest that rippled around the room, he could see it affected the others the same way.
Ezra stared at Gilbert as though he’d suggested asking for help from the president of the United States. “You think they’d send someone clear out here?”
“Why not?” Brady countered. “They’ve made a name for themselves tracking down train robbers and the like.”
The reminder fanned Steven’s spark of hope into a blaze. “That’s right. They have quite a reputation to uphold. If they take this case on, they’ll dig like a terrier going after a nest of rats. If anyone can put a stop to this thievery, they’re the ones.”
Alfred stepped away from the door, his expression doubtful. “They’d want to be paid, too. Have you thought about what it would cost?”
Gilbert snorted. “It couldn’t be more than we’ve already lost to these bandits.”
“What do you think?” Steven asked. “We’ll split the cost. Are we all in agreement?”
Gilbert nodded first, then Brady. After a moment’s pause, Tom and Ezra murmured assent.
Steven glanced toward the door. “What about you, Alfred?”
The sullen man narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “I think we’ll find ourselves throwin’ good money after bad, but I’ll go along with it—for a time at least.”
Tom rubbed his hands together. “So how do we go about getting in touch with them? Should we send a wire?”
“No,” Brady objected. “There’s too many ears listening in up and down the line. We can’t afford to show our hand, not when this is our last chance. We need to play this one close to the vest.”
“A letter, then,” Gilbert suggested. “Who’s going to write it? We need to make it real convincing.”
Ezra grinned and shook his head. “I’m no good at puttin’ words to paper. I’ll pass.”
Brady pointed across the circle. “Steven, you’re the college man. You do it.”
Steven glanced at the other members of the group and saw no dissent. “All right. I’d be glad to, if Tom will let me borrow a pen and some paper. What do we want to say?”
Thirty minutes later, he handed around a draft ready for the assembled miners to read.
“Looks good to me.” Gilbert picked up the pen and signed his name with a flourish. “Who’s next?”
One by one, the others added their names to the letter. Ezra stood back and admired his signature on the page. “This is a pretty impressive moment, fellows. Makes me think of those boys who lined up to sign the Declaration of Independence.”
“Just be glad it isn’t a temperance pledge.” Brady chuckled as he wrote his name below Ezra’s.
Tom put his hand on Steven’s shoulder. “Make sure you don’t let anyone else see this. We don’t want word to spread around town.”
Steven folded the sheet of paper with care and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
Patting his coat to indicate the letter was secure, he headed back to his horse, feeling the first glimmer of optimism he’d experienced since the rash of thefts began. If only this plan would work. He could picture it now—the Pinkertons swooping into town, ferreting out the gang of thieves, and setting him and the others back on the road to prosperity.
With an effort, he forced himself to tamp down his excitement. They had only taken the first step toward calling in the Pinkertons. They might still have a long road to travel before the problem was resolved . . . assuming everything went according to plan. But Steven knew better than to count on everything going smoothly. He’d learned long ago that things could go wrong even in the best of times.
3
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
JANUARY 1882
It was the worst of times.
Ellie bent her head and leaned into the bone-chilling wind that blasted along the Chicago streets like a train roaring through a tunnel. She forged ahead, trying to shake off the disappointment of another fruitless interview.
No one, it seemed, wanted to hire a former wardrobe mistress as a secretary or office worker. Her trial stint as a clerk at Marshall Field and Company had lasted only a day—less, actually. Somehow she had managed to alienate four regular customers before her shift was half over. From the way the department manager ranted at her, she must have set some sort of record.
Perhaps she ought to give in and look for a position as a lady’s maid. That certainly wasn’t what she had expected to be doing at the start of the new year. Only a few weeks ago she’d been dreaming of leisurely walks along the Seine and strolling the sun-drenched streets of Rome, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Her career in the theater, the only life she’d ever known, had come to an untimely end. Harold Stiller and the other workers at the Orpheum had seen to that. The world of the theater was a tight-knit community, one small enough that negative word got around quickly, especially when aided by a few strategically placed whispers.
Turning at the next corner, Ellie pulled the edges of her cloak more tightly around her and trudged onward. She had to find some means of earning a living, and soon. Her meager savings would be depleted in a matter of days, and then what? She had nothing to sell to raise more funds, unless she could find someone to buy the cast-off wardrobe Magdalena left behind. Even so, Ellie doubted those items would bring in enough to last her more than a few weeks, at best.
Only half a mile to go before she got back to her rented room. Ellie eyed the leaden sky and hoped the snow it promised would hold off until she could reach shelter. The street, normally teeming with pedestrians, was empty save for herself and two men walking ahead of her.
She plodded on for another block, then two. The men stopped, obstructing the sidewalk. Ellie skirted around them, careful not to step off the curb into the slushy buildup left by the previous day’s storm.
“I tell you,” the taller of the pair said as she passed, “if we don’t find another woman to send along, we’re sunk.”
Ellie’s steps slowed, and she stopped a few paces beyond the men, making a show of adjusting the ties on her cloak. Darting a glance behind her, she saw the shorter man shake his head.
“It’s a tough spot, all right, but where are we going to find another female operative? All the others already have assignments.”
The tall man flexed his right elbow and winced. “So what options do we have? Refuse to take on the job? The boss wants to use women, and I don’t want to be the one to tell him no.”
His companion stamped his feet and tugged the collar of his coat farther up around his neck. “I’m not going to risk sending a woman out to Arizona on her own, no matter what he says. To be honest, I’m not sure that’s any place for women—no matter how many of them there are. Using female operatives in this case is a bad idea.”
“Then let’s get in out of the cold, and you can tell him.”
“Not me. Last time I locked horns with the man, it took hours to sort things out, and I have tickets to the new play opening tonight at the Orpheum.”
Without further discussion, the pair brushed past Ellie without a second glance. She followed them toward a building farther down the block and tried to sort out what she’d just overheard.
Arizona! Who wouldn’t jump at the chance of leaving Chicago’s bleak winter behind for the promise of open skies and bright sunshine? If a job awaited in a warmer clime, she would be willing to tackle it, no matter how menial it might be.
Ellie hurried to the door
way the men had entered, pausing when she noted the sign painted on the window: Pinkerton National Detective Agency.
Detectives! Her spirits rose even more. Maybe she would have her grand adventure, after all.
She stepped back a moment to straighten her cloak and pat her windblown hair into place, gauging her chances of winning the job.
Granted, she had no investigative training, but what she had learned through her eavesdropping made it obvious that experienced investigators were in short supply. A job as—what had the man called it?—an operative would surely call for intelligence and courage. Fine, she had those in abundance. And after years spent in the theater, her skills at observation had been honed to a fine edge. Surely that gave her plenty to offer. Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the building.
She spotted the men on the far side of the large, open room, but a heavy oak desk blocked access to them. The gimlet-eyed secretary manning the desk looked up when Ellie entered. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to apply for the job.” She projected her voice as she’d seen Magdalena do so many times. Sure enough, both men jerked their heads around at her statement.
“What did you say, young lady?” The taller man, slender and with a shock of gray hair, approached the secretary’s desk.
“I overheard you talking in the street. It’s a happy circumstance for us both.” Ellie put as much confidence as she could into the words. She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye, trying to appear intelligent and courageous.
He looked her up and down, then stuck out his hand. “I’m James Fleming. Why don’t you come back here so we can talk privately?”
Ellie followed him, not missing the secretary’s audible sniff when she passed the desk. She put the implied slight out of her mind. It didn’t matter whether the secretary approved or not. She wasn’t the one doing the hiring.
“This is Ambrose Gates,” Mr. Fleming said, beckoning to his partner. Fleming led them down a hallway to an office in the rear and pulled out a wooden chair for Ellie before seating himself behind the cluttered desk. Gates set another chair beside the desk, where he had a clear view of Ellie.
