Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Brownley, Margaret

  Alert was more like it but Annie afforded the woman a withering smile. “I’m fine, thank you.” She fanned her face. “It’s just so hot and I’ve never been robbed before.”

  The woman commiserated with a pat on the arm and a sniff of her well-powdered nose. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

  The other passengers began moving away. Some left the platform and headed for horses and rigs parked nearby. Others returned to the train but the woman named Bessie remained by Annie’s side. Curiosity seeped through the paint on her face like sun peering through clouds.

  “Are you heading for Flagstaff?” Bessie asked.

  “No. I’m heading for the Last Chance—”

  “Mercy me!” Bessie’s hand flew to her chest. “Not another one!”

  Annie drew back. “Another . . . what?”

  “Heiress, of course. That makes how many now? Ten, twelve . . . I’ve lost track.”

  Annie blinked. “Are you saying other women have applied for the . . . job?”

  “Yes, but none stayed for very long.” Bessie puckered her red lips and lowered bright blue eyelids. “Never in all my born days did I hear of advertising for an heiress. Not till Miss Walker got it into her fool head to ignore good taste and proper manners.”

  The woman with her garish paint and purple dress was a fine one to talk about good taste and proper manners, but of course Annie kept such thoughts to herself.

  Bessie looked her up and down like a dressmaker taking measurement.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for?” she demanded more than asked. “A little bit of a thing like you . . . having to deal with the likes of Miss Walker.”

  Standing five foot eight in bare feet, Annie could hardly be called little, but she tried to act appropriately worried. “Is Miss Walker really that difficult?” There wasn’t much Bessie could tell her that Annie didn’t already know. The dossier William Pinkerton supplied gave an in-depth portrait of both the ranch and ranch owner and Annie had practically memorized it.

  Before Bessie could reply, a passerby wearing a derby and spectacles called over his shoulder, “If I had a choice between facing Miss Walker or a charging bull, I would take the bull.” He kept walking.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Mr. Green. Miss Walker won’t gore you. I’ll say that much for her. By the way, most everyone calls me Aunt Bessie. What do I call you?”

  “My name is Annie Beckman.” Her new name fell flawlessly from her lips, thanks to hours of rehearsal.

  “Annie it is. My sister’s over there with a wagon and you can ride to town with us. From there you can rent a rig to take you to the ranch.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” The town appeared to be about a mile away and she didn’t relish walking that distance in the sizzling desert heat. But getting to know the chatty woman was the real reason for accepting a ride. “I just need to get my carpetbag.”

  She turned and headed toward the baggage room where the porter had tossed trunks and baggage into an unorganized heap.

  She neared the outlaws. Handcuffed and tied to a single rope attached to the back of the marshal’s horse, the thieves could cause no harm. Still, the blue-eyed bandit staring straight at her gave her pause. If she didn’t know better, she would swear he could read her thoughts.

  At least a head taller than his two accomplices, he showed no remorse at his capture—unlike his partners, who looked dead serious and glared at Annie as if their current predicament were entirely her fault.

  The marshal greeted her. “Ma’am?”

  She pointed to the tall outlaw. “He stole my watch.”

  “And your name is . . . ?”

  “Annie Beckman.”

  The marshal turned to the tall, staring bandit. “Is that true?” asked the marshal. “Did you take this lady’s watch?”

  “I do believe the woman is lying,” he said, his voice as smooth as warm syrup.

  It seemed from the gleam in his eyes that he wasn’t talking about the watch and Annie shot him a visual dagger. He couldn’t possibly know her identity but his accusation was nonetheless unnerving. Something about the man didn’t sit right but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

  “I’m sure the marshal knows better than to take the word of a thief,” she said.

  A hint of humor suffused the outlaw’s face and Annie had the strangest feeling she was cornered, much like a mouse trapped by a cat.

  “If he’s wise, he’ll be equally cautious about believing everything the lady says,” the thief replied in a lazy drawl that hardly seemed to suit him.

  The marshal made an impatient gesture. “All right, that’s enough.” He turned to Annie. “If you’re leaving for Flagstaff, give your address to my deputy and your belongings will be mailed to you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Annie said. “I’m heading for the Last Chance Ranch.” This got no response from the marshal but she sensed a subtle reaction from the outlaw. What was it about this man that had her on tenterhooks?

  “Come into the office in a day or two and I’ll make sure that your property is returned,” the marshal said.

  “Thank you, I’ll do that.” Whenever a Pinkerton started a new assignment, the first order of business was to notify local law enforcement. The outlaw had no way of knowing it, but he actually did her a favor by stealing her watch. That gave her a legitimate reason to visit the marshal’s office and would draw no suspicion.

  She glanced at the outlaw whose gaze never left her face. “Is this the Phantom gang I’ve been reading so much about?” she asked.

  “It’s them, all right,” the marshal said with more than a little pride. “Some of ’em. Unfortunately, the leader is slippery as a greased hog. Even his men don’t know who he is. But I’ll catch him. You can be certain of that.”

  Not if I catch him first. Out loud she said, “Good luck, Marshal.”

  Reins of his horse in one hand, the marshal grabbed the cantle and swung onto his saddle. With a click of his tongue the gelding moved forward and the prisoners shuffled behind.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Bessie called. “Over here.”

  Pulling her gaze away from the departing outlaws, Annie hurried to the baggage room, her mind still on the train robbery and the puzzling—but no less handsome—thief.

  Chapter 3

  A private eye’s best friend is a woman with a secret too good to keep.

  David Branch, aka Jim Taylor, aka John Crankshire, aka Tom Kindred, leaned against the dull steel bars. The jail cell measured a stingy eight by six feet and barely accommodated one man, let alone three. It had adobe walls, a dirt floor, and a low ceiling hardly high enough to contain his six-foot stature. Mexico had better hoosegows than this and that was saying something.

  His real name was Jeremy Taggert but that name seemed as surreal as the hundreds of aliases he’d used through the years.

  The man known as Grady sat on the single lumpy cot. His face disfigured by smallpox, he had the physique of a bird and disposition of a rattler. He made up for his short stature by acting unbearably superior, a flaw that Taggert intended to use to full advantage.

  “Somebody squealed.” The man named Squint stared at Taggert with buttonhole eyes. “That’s the only ’xplanation.”

  “Maybe.” One shoulder against the wall, Taggert hung his thumbs from his waistband. “Or maybe the marshal decided to greet the train as a precaution.”

  Squint’s face puckered like a prune. “Makes sense, I guess. We have been kinda active.”

  Grady gestured with his arm. “You two don’t know whatcha talkin’ about.”

  Squint glared at him. “I suppose you do?”

  “Yeah, I do. I’ve been around a lot longer than either one of you. I know how the Phantom operates.”

  Taggert remained silent and waited, careful not to reveal undue interest. He still didn’t have a clue as to who the Phantom was and only a hint of where he might be hiding. Far as Taggert could tell, Grady w
as the only one who had actually met the man.

  “Suppose you tell us how he operates,” Squint said. “Or you just mouthin’ off to hear yourself yak?”

  Taggert decided to add a little more fuel to the fire. “He just likes everyone to think he knows more than he does.”

  It worked, or at least Grady’s face grew red and the veins in his neck stuck out like thick blue cords. He glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Him and me . . . we made a deal.”

  Taggert narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

  “I was to round up a couple of guys and keep the authorities hopping from place to place by robbing trains and stages. It worked out well till Barnaby got himself shot.” Barnaby was the gang member Taggert replaced.

  “That’s why you recruited me,” Taggert said. Several weeks of hanging around saloons and hinting that he was on friendly terms with some well-known outlaws got Grady’s attention.

  “Like I told you, we can keep the jewelry but the Phantom gets the cash.”

  Taggert shook his head. “I still don’t understand why we can’t just keep it all. What do we need the Phantom for?”

  Grady’s eyes rounded with greed. “He told me there was somethin’ bigger down the road. Something real big. And if I did what I was told, I’d be rich. We’d all be rich.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Taggert’s gaze traveled between the two men. “I only have your word that we’re working for the Phantom. You can’t even describe him.”

  Grady glared at Taggert. “I told you, I only met him the one time. It was dark and the Phantom kept his head down.”

  Squint cursed beneath his breath. “Now what?”

  Grady lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think the boss leaked the train robbery to the marshal.”

  Squint frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Grady’s eyes glittered. “So the marshal would be occupied while the boss robbed the bank.”

  Squint looked flabbergasted, or at least his eyes opened the widest Taggert had ever seen. “Are you sayin’ we ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of de-coys?” Squint kicked the wall, his boot leaving a scuff mark. “Now ain’t that grand? He’s got the money and we’re in jail.”

  “The boss will get us out,” Grady said, though he didn’t sound all that certain.

  “If he doesn’t leave town first,” Taggert said, throwing another verbal log into the already heated discussion.

  “Oh, he ain’t gonna do that,” Grady said. “He’s got hisself a good safe hideout.”

  “In Cactus Patch?” Squint asked. He made a face. “It’s foolhardy to rob a bank in the town you call home.”

  Grady gave a mirthless laugh. “The Phantom don’t know it, but after I dropped off the loot one night, I hid and waited for him to retrieve it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And he headed straight for a ranch.”

  Taggert folded his arms. “Sure he did.” According to everything he’d heard, the Phantom didn’t leave enough tracks to trip an ant.

  “It’s true,” Grady insisted.

  Squint gave him a look of disdain. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”

  “You got that right,” Taggert muttered. “Grady just likes us to think he knows.”

  It was a challenge Grady couldn’t pass up. He leaned forward. “I’m tellin’ you, the boss hides out at the Last Chance Ranch. That’s his headquarters.”

  Squint regarded Grady with disbelief but Taggert showed no emotion. “The Last Chance, eh?” That pretty much confirmed what Taggert already suspected but he was careful to hide his excitement behind a disinterested yawn. It was the second time Taggert heard the ranch mentioned that day and a vision of a dark-haired beauty came to mind. He had never seen eyes like hers, a mixture of caramel brown and dark green that reminded him of dense forests and deep waters.

  He recalled Miss Beckman handing something that looked like an envelope to Grady and that made her suspect. Perhaps the Phantom was finally feeling the heat. If so, he may have found another way to communicate with his men. That would certainly explain the envelope and the lady’s interest in the ranch.

  Taggert didn’t dare confront Grady with this theory as it would only arouse suspicion.

  So what had she given him? Directions as to where to leave the loot collected from the train passengers? Instructions for the next heist? And what had he done with the envelope? His pockets had been empty when the sheriff checked.

  Just as important, what was Miss Beckman’s business at the Last Chance?

  The woman had secrets, no doubt, and uncovering secrets was what Jeremy Taggert, aka David Branch, did best.

  Bessie’s sister, Lula-Belle, drove the wagon through town slow as water traveling uphill. Sitting between the two older women, Annie had to keep swiping the feathers from Lula-Belle’s hat away from her face.

  Lula-Belle’s dour expression matched the drab gray color of her dress. The two women were such complete opposites in dress and disposition it was hard to believe they were sisters.

  Earlier, Annie persuaded Lula-Belle to stop at the post office, where she arranged for a mailbox, another crucial task at the start of a new assignment.

  She was now anxious for her journey to end. The sooner she arrived at the ranch and settled in, the sooner she could get to work. If only it wasn’t so hot. Perspiration ran down the side of her face and she dabbed it away with a handkerchief.

  Cactus Patch was a town of sun, sand, and shimmering air. Adobe buildings with false-faced fronts lined the street on both sides. They passed several saloons, a general mercantile store, and a hotel. Opposite the hotel was a doctor’s office and, at the end of the street, a windmill and stables. Tall green posts rose above the rooftops, draped with a network of wires.

  “Those posts belong to the Arizona Telephone and Telegraph Company,” Aunt Bessie explained with a prideful look. “Cactus Patch now has the telephone and I’m in charge of central.”

  “Really?” Annie knew that nearby Tombstone had telephones but hadn’t expected Cactus Patch to have them too. Perhaps the little desert town wasn’t as behind the times as she’d imagined. That would certainly make her job easier.

  “Just got back from St. Louis for special training,” Aunt Bessie continued.

  Lula-Belle made a disgusted sound from the driver’s seat. The feathers on her hat drooped in such a way as to match the disapproving curve of her mouth. “A woman’s place is in the kitchen, not minding everyone’s business.”

  Aunt Bessie lifted her nose. “For your information, the telephone company prefers women operators to men or boys.” She turned to Annie to explain. “Women are much more dependable. You’ll never catch us drinking beer or using profanity. And we’re always on hand.”

  “That’s true,” Annie said. “We used to have telephone boys in Chicago but they left their posts to play in the snow and were replaced by girls.”

  “Are you from Chicago?” Aunt Bessie asked.

  “Yes,” Annie said, though she was actually from Peoria. It was essential to stay close to the truth without giving too much away. In any case, it wasn’t always easy to hide the nasally vowels and dropped letters of her native Illinois dialect.

  Bessie’s sister opened her mouth to say something but was distracted by a man waving for them to stop. News had traveled fast and already a crowd lined the street and clamored for details of the town’s latest robbery.

  Lula-Belle glowered as she tried to steer around the mob but Bessie appeared to be in her glory and broke into a buttery smile. The sudden attention didn’t make her look younger than her sixty-some years but certainly more spry.

  She answered questions left and right. “Yes, there were three of them,” she yelled.

  “Never saw any of them before in my life,” she shouted at a woman in a poke bonnet.

  “Yes, of course I feared for my life.”

  “Her name is Annie Beckman and she’s Miss Walker’s latest heiress.
”

  Annie smiled and waved. People back home were much more circumspect. At least they didn’t shout one’s business out in public. Aunt Bessie showed no qualms in telling one and all everything she knew and a few things she didn’t. She was, in essence, an operative’s best friend.

  A tall, skinny man with a thin mustache ran up to the wagon.

  “’Xcuse me, ma’am. Name’s Stretch. I’m headin’ for the Last Chance now. If you’d like a ride, I’d be happy to take you there.”

  It was an offer too good to pass up. “Thank you,” Annie said. “I’d be most grateful.”

  “Now isn’t that nice?” Bessie’s head bobbed up and down with approval. She slanted a blue-lidded gaze at the ranch hand. “See that Miss Walker doesn’t give her a hard time.”

  Stretch lifted his hat and raked a hand over his black curly hair. “The boss lady will give her a hard time, all right. Ain’t nothin’ I can do ’bout that.”

  Moments later Annie was seated in a buckboard behind a black gelding next to the man named Stretch. She glanced in the back of the wagon. It was filled with what looked like newly purchased supplies, including cans of kerosene, boxes of leather soap, and a roll of barbed wire.

  “Help yourself to some water,” Stretch said, indicating the canteen on the seat between them.

  Annie removed the canteen cork, wiped off the opening, and took a long sip.

  She pushed the cork back in place. “Is it always so hot here?” It was only March but already it felt like summer.

  “It’s hot here, all right. Some say God uses this as a backup for below.” He chuckled. “Think I’m kiddin’, eh? Tell that to the soldier who died out here and was sent below to atone for his sins.”

  The man evidently liked to talk and for an undercover detective that was a good thing. “So what happened?” she asked, playing along.

  Stretch glanced at her sideways before delivering the answer. “He sent back for his blanket.”

  Annie laughed, mostly to be polite. She needed information—not jokes. “How long have you worked at the ranch?” she asked as they drove out of town.