by Hatch, Marcy
“Indeed you are,” Alanna said, drawing the knife swiftly across his throat and stepping aside to avoid the blood spray.
He gurgled a cry as he fell, his hands going to his throat in a useless effort to stop the bleeding. But it was already too late.
She stood there a few minutes more, waiting until he was dead. Then she picked up her skirts and grabbed him by his collar, grunting a little as she dragged him away. She searched him and found a set of keys, which she hoped would lock the place up, then rolled her gloves down carefully and stuffed them in her purse.
She gave the room a quick inspection, her eyes picking out the dim outline of the press, the banker’s desk that sat kitty corner, and the lawyer’s bookcase that took up a whole wall. Vaguely she wondered who might find the operator as she locked the place up, imagining their shock and bewilderment. Who would want to kill the telegraph operator? they would ask themselves.
It is unfortunate he recognized me, she thought, making her way back to the Oriental Saloon. She checked herself in the glass at the door, making certain there were no tell-tale signs to give her away.
The faro banker smiled broadly at her return as the other players made a place for her. She spent the next few hours winning at a game she seldom played.
The hour was near to dawn when she finally quit. The banker rose, his hazel eyes gazing deeply into hers. She felt herself flush, noting the fine cut of his coat and his physique. He was quite tall and carried himself in an alert manner that reminded her a little of Will.
And it occurred to her that she could use a little male company. It had been some time since she’d been kissed properly, and something in the man’s smile told her he might be up to the task.
“I don’t usually walk with strangers,” she said, “but perhaps you might introduce yourself and take me to my hotel?”
“I would be delighted,” the man said with a faint smile. “My name is Bat Masterson.”
She took the arm he offered and they walked out of the saloon together.
“And where is it you would like to be escorted to Miss . . . ?”
“Mrs. Mrs. Shepherd.”
He didn’t say anything to this, perhaps mulling over where the husband in question might be. Alanna saved him the trouble.
“I’m afraid my husband has passed away,” she said with the appropriate note of regret.
“You have my condolences. But what brings you to Tombstone, if I may inquire?”
“My grandfather owns McLeod Shipping in Boston; perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”
“No matter. At any rate, I have been helping him with his business. He’s looking to expand his interests beyond shipping, which brought me here to your fair town.”
Mr. Masterson chuckled a little. “I’m not sure Tombstone is what you’d call fair, but there are a number of mines in which to invest as well as real estate. I understand a parcel that went for a few dollars four years ago is now selling for over a thousand.”
“Ah, you see? That is exactly the sort of information I need. You shall have to tell me more about this town of yours.” She gave his arm a suggestive squeeze as they walked into the lobby of the Grand.
❧
Jim Woolbridge had never been as glad to feel the ground beneath his feet as he was when he arrived in Tombstone.
Half way from Contention the driver had taken a turn too sharply and nearly sent them all into a ravine. Most of the luggage, consisting of trunks and crates and baskets of varying sizes and weight, went spilling over the side, contents spewing forth in an extravaganza of fabrics, household items, foodstuffs, shoes, and a very small dog that immediately began yipping at everyone.
It took more than an hour for the passengers to sort and gather their belongings, and another twenty minutes for the owner of the dog to capture the thing and put it into the basket from which it had escaped. Hours late they arrived and Jim grabbed his own case and hurried away, determining to hire or buy a horse for the return trip.
He made his way over to Fremont Street and Fly’s Boarding House, a clean but inexpensive establishment. Jim put his few pieces of clothing away in the pine dresser before leaving his room in search of the sheriff, who he found at his office in a corral off Fifth Street.
“Good afternoon Sheriff Behan, I am Jim Woolbridge, Pinkerton Agent and here in regards to this woman.” He handed the sheriff the old wanted poster of Alanna McLeod.
Sheriff Behan looked at it closely before handing it over to his deputy sitting at the desk. “Recognize her, Billy?” he asked.
The deputy shook his head. “Sure is pretty, though.”
“Sorry,” Sheriff Behan concluded, “but I can’t say as I’ve seen her.” He returned the poster to Jim.
“I received a telegraph three days ago that she had been seen here,” Jim said.
Sheriff Behan looked up at him sharply. “Three days ago?”
“Yes, why?”
The sheriff and his deputy exchanged a glance.
“Something happened,” Jim guessed.
“Our telegraph operator was murdered in his office Saturday night. Throat cut.”
Jim swore. “Any suspects?”
“We asked around,” Billy offered. “No one saw anything.”
“I’m not surprised. Mind if I talk to people? You never know when someone remembers something that proves helpful.”
“Feel free. Mr. Clum discovered the body. He’s the editor over at the Epitaph. That’s where Mr. Edwards was killed. Some folks said they saw Edwards in the Oriental that night, you can talk to Lou Rickaburgh there; he owns the place. But I’d appreciate you leaving your gun here with one of us. We have an ordinance here prohibiting folks from carrying weapons. You can pick it up when you’re ready to leave,” Sheriff Behan replied.
Jim frowned at this, certain that Alanna McLeod wouldn’t be abiding by any ordinance but he gave a curt nod. “As you like,” he said, taking the colt from its holster and handing it over.
Sheriff Behan took it and put it in one of the desk drawers, and Jim went over to the Oriental where he spent an hour talking to Lou Rickaburgh, who happened to remember Mr. Edwards.
“He’d only been here a few months, poor guy,” Lou told him from behind the bar. “I heard him talking to Ed Schiefflin a week or so ago about investing in some mine. Not sure which one.”
“What about the night in question. What was he doing here?”
“Drinking, same as everyone else.” Lou laughed. “Left around midnight or so.”
“Did he have words with anyone?”
“Nah. Edwards was pretty quiet.”
“Did you by any chance see this woman?” Jim pulled out the much worn poster from his pocket and spread it out on the bar.
Lou looked at it closely for a while before shaking his head. “Sorry. I was at the bar most of the night. But if you come back tonight the dealers will be in. Maybe one of them spotted her.”
Jim nodded and put the poster away and headed over to the Tombstone Epitaph on Fifth Street, just down the street from the Crystal Palace, which was doing a brisk business though the hour was still quite early by Jim’s standards. But then again, Tombstone wasn’t like most of the towns he was familiar with, possessing more saloons in a three block radius than towns five times its size. He opened the door to the Epitaph and stepped inside.
The first thing he saw was the huge press, taking up a large space toward the rear of the room. A moment later a tall, lean man rose from behind a desk to the right, smoothing his non-existent hair. He wore a dark vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie, and as soon as he stretched his hand out Jim could see the ink stains on his fingers.
“John Clum at your service,” he said.
T
hey shook hands “Jim Woolbridge at yours,” he replied.
“What can I do for you today?”
“Well, I was hoping you could tell me something about your operator.” Jim gestured toward the telegraph and the empty chair before it. “I’m with the Pinkerton Agency.”
Mr. Clum gave a sad sigh, shaking his head. “A bad business that was.”
“I understand you were the first to come upon the body,” Jim said.
“I was. When I came in that morning I smelt it right off, knew something terrible had happened. Found him behind the press. Must’ve been moved because there was a long smear of blood across the floor.”
Jim glanced at the floor and saw the tell-tale stain that led from the operator’s chair to the press. If it was Alanna who had killed Mr. Edwards she must have dragged him herself, which was surprising until he recalled who she was; a cold-hearted killer.
“After you found him what did you do?”
“I went and fetched the sheriff. They came and took the body over to the coroner.”
“Was there anyone who might have wanted Mr. Edwards dead?” Jim asked.
Mr. Clum shook his head. “Edwards was well-liked by everyone. He hadn’t been here long enough to make any enemies.”
“Have you seen this woman?” Jim asked, pulling out the poster.
Mr. Clum looked at it. “No. But I have seen this poster hanging over the telegraph.”
They both glanced over to the corner where the machine sat.
“Is it there now?” Jim asked, not seeing it.
Mr. Clum frowned and went over to the machine, searching the walls, feeling next to the machine, pulling out the drawer that held a neat stack of paper and a few lead pencils that rattled. He shook his head.
“It’s gone,” he said.
Jim nodded, thanking Mr. Clum for his time. What had set Alanna off? Had Mr. Edwards made his suspicions known? Had she noticed something about him in particular? He supposed she must’ve, why else kill him?
He opened the door to his room, deciding to nap for a bit before returning to the Oriental. Perhaps one of the dealers or the bartender would recall seeing her. He went to take his gun from his holster and muttered a curse. Damn ordinance. He flung his empty holster on the chair and kicked his boots off before lying down on the bed.
❧
Alanna dropped her valise down in the dirt outside the door before rapping on it with her left hand. In her right the hilt of a knife rested lightly, blade pointing skyward. How convenient it was that the door was hidden from the street, she thought with a smile. That way, no one would see what she was about to do.
Funny how lucky she’d been since arriving in Tombstone, as if the fortune of the town had somehow seeped into her. Encountering Bat Masterson had provided her with a pleasant diversion and her afternoon walk happened to coincide with the arrival of the stage—just in time to see Larry’s partner, Mr. Woolbridge exiting from Allen Street. She had followed him to Fly’s Boarding House, waited a short while to see whether he would come out again before crossing the street to Addie Boland’s dress shop where she window shopped for a few minutes, thinking, planning. It did not take long.
Alanna rapped on the door again, shifting her weight, hearing now the sound of movement from within, footsteps approaching. The latch lifted and the door opened, slowly.
She didn’t wait until she could see him, pushing herself forward before he could see her face, making him react, forcing him to try to break her fall. She let the knife slip down into her fingers, flipping it around in a single practiced motion and grasping it tight before thrusting deep and hard, twisting upwards. The weight of her bore him back into the room and she allowed them both to fall, pressing the knife home.
He hit the floor hard, his eyes widening in shock and recognition. He made an attempt to reach for his side arm but of course, it wasn’t there, and Alanna yanked the knife free, wiping it on the sleeve of his shirt. She pushed herself away from him, not listening to him trying to speak, not watching him trying to stop the flow of blood.
She retrieved her valise from outside the door, shut it, and undressed in front of him while he died. She stuffed her bloodied clothing into the valise, donning a clean slate blue skirt with buttons up the side. She pulled on the short matching jacket and slipped the knife back into the sheath beneath her skirts, bending down once more to Jim, putting a finger to his lips, counting, one, two, three . . . Nothing.
She rose and exited the room, satisfied. Jim Woolbridge was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tombstone (Part One)
Don’t laugh,” Harlan said to Jack as he pulled the wagon up to the steps, still dripping from the downpour he’d been caught in. His hat was drooping along with his mustache.
Katherine glanced over at Jack who kept his face perfectly straight and said in a deadpan voice, “You look wet.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Harlan retorted.
Katherine muffled her laugh and turned away, saying, “I’ll go get the whiskey. You could probably use some.”
She returned a few minutes later with the bottle, pouring an estimated shot into each of the three cups and handing them around. Harlan had parked the wagon and leaned against the rails, smoking.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping his hat and accepting the cup.
“I don’t see any supplies,” Katherine said, having made note of the empty wagon.
“I didn’t figure you’d want any in light of the news.”
Katherine felt her heart skip a beat.
“What news?” she and Jack both asked in unison.
“Well, the reason I was delayed was thanks to our mutual friend, Jim Woolbridge, who thought he’d stop in and ask me a few questions.”
“About what?” Katherine asked.
“About Jack,” Harlan said, taking a long swallow, “and you.”
“What did you tell him?” Jack asked.
“I said I’d seen you but that you’d gone.”
“And he believed you?”
“No, I don’t think so, but a wire came in that made him forget about you. Apparently someone out in Tombstone spotted Alanna McLeod.”
Neither Katherine nor Jack said anything for a minute.
“Is that good news?” Katherine asked, frowning a little.
“I’m not sure. About a half hour after the first wire came a second one came saying the operator was mistaken.”
Katherine and Jack glanced at each other.
“Of course, if you wanted you could forget about chasing after Alanna and we could go into town and get some more supplies.” Harlan’s eyes flickered down to their matching bare feet and he gave them both a long look that said he guessed at a great deal more than he would say.
“We should go pack,” Jack said.
Katherine hesitated for the barest instant before following his lead.
An hour later they were both dressed for traveling and heading back to Hays City. There was a train west at 3 o’clock, Harlan told them.
“I’m not sure what you’ll find. Jim Woolbridge sent a wire asking for clarification, but he didn’t get any response before he left.”
“And nothing since?” Jack asked.
Harlan shook his head. “I waited ’bout an hour or so before I came over. Figured you’d want to know what Jim was up to, not to mention I imagine you’re about out of supplies.”
“Cutting it a little close there, Harlan,” Jack said.
Harlan shrugged but he didn’t apologize and two hours later dropped them at the station, wishing them good luck, adding, “When you get this all straightened out maybe you’d care to have another look at my place, eh?” He gave them a wink and tipped his hat, heading back to his wagon, whistling.
Jack and Katherine soo
n found their compartment, which they shared with a young reverend and his brother, both of whom proved to be agreeable. Jack introduced himself and Katherine as man and wife and Katherine couldn’t help but think how nice her name sounded with his. Katherine McCabe, she repeated a few times in her mind, almost giggling as she remembered playing the same game when she was in grade school. She had been so certain at the wise old age of twelve that if she married, her name must sound as though it matched her husband’s. Ironically, by the time she actually agreed to Antonio’s proposal she’d decided to keep her own name.
“And what sends you west, might I inquire?” the minister asked after the train had gotten underway.
“We’re heading to Tombstone,” Jack answered truthfully.
“Ah, I believe I’ve heard of it. Silver, yes?”
“Yes. I’ve a friend who has a claim and needs help with it,” Jack answered.
“Well, good luck to you. I hear it’s hard work.”
They spoke a bit longer, about nothing for the most part, and then the minister and his brother went to find the dining car for their lunch.
“Are you hungry?” Jack asked.
“No, not really,” Katherine answered.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” Katherine lied, “just tired I guess. If you want to get something to eat, please do.”
“You sure? I don’t mind waiting.”
“No. Go on. I’ll be fine.”
He kissed her quick and left, promising to be back soon and she turned her face to the window.
But she didn’t really see the scenery breezing by, the tall grasses wavering, or the endless sky. She hardly heard the clickety-clack of the wheels running over the metal tracks. Instead her mind was occupied by what she was doing, where she was going.
I should be going home, she thought. I should be trying to get to Leavenworth and the cigar shop not heading toward Alanna.
But . . . she was afraid for Jack, afraid to leave him. Of course, it was silly, she told herself. Just because they’d slept together didn’t mean anything, and she’d already told Jack he was under no obligation whatsoever. But she liked Jack. She liked him a lot. Which was funny considering how much she’d despised him at first.
