—I was going to smoke this on the porch. Would you like to join me?
—Would you like a whisky?
—I never turn down good whisky.
—I didn’t say it was good.
—I never turn down bad whisky, either.
—Go on out. I’ll bring you one. Grab my coat off the hook there. The temperature has dropped thirty degrees.
In the short moments before he came outside, I allowed myself to inhale the cold night air, to help it reinvigorate me. I looked at the night sky full of stars and marveled at how beautiful it was, and how small and insignificant I was. My problems. My goals. My death.
Callum handed me the whisky, keeping the injured side of his face turned away from me, but I noticed he didn’t wear his mask. I thanked him and we drank in somewhat companionable silence for a few minutes. He spoke first.
—Did you enjoy dinner?
—It was delicious.
—That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.
—Did I embarrass you?
—No. I’ve never enjoyed anything more than Bisson being put in his place. He’s a terrible hypocrite, a gluttonous man with appetites that exceed his reach.
—Why do you keep him around?
—He has no scruples, and he’s loyal as a dog.
Zhu Li brought a coat for Callum and helped him get into it. Callum said thank you in Chinese, and she bowed and left, but not without a quick questioning glance in my direction.
—You know Mandarin?
—That’s the only phrase I know, Callum said.
—Zhu Li taught me a few phrases when she lived with us.
—Why didn’t she leave with you?
—Your father hired her at his ranch a few months before my husband died.
—I have been trying to figure out why you turned down my father’s offer of marriage.
—Because most women would jump at the opportunity to be taken care of by a wealthy husband?
—Yes.
I smoked for a bit before answering.
—My husband was a wonderful man, but the success of our operation was down to me and Hattie and Jehu. Of course our neighbors believed he was the brains behind the outfit, and it was easier for me to go along with the ruse. Why encourage people to be suspicious of me, of the type of woman I was …?
—Intelligent?
—Men don’t particularly like intelligent women. Neither do women, for that matter. Or at least they don’t like it when you show it. It’s our great secret, you know? That we are smarter than you.
—I didn’t know that.
—Your father did. He knew I was in charge. If he would have come to me with a proposal of a partnership instead of a marriage, I would have agreed. I might have even eventually agreed to marry him. I liked your father very much. Admired him, even. I didn’t love him, and I never would have. But in the years since, I’ve imagined a scenario where we were partners in business, family, marriage. We might have been unstoppable. Your father didn’t want a partner, he wanted a wife. Funny thing was, I realized after my husband died that I’d never particularly liked that role. It is very restrictive. Duplicitous.
—Because you pretended you were less than you were?
—Yes.
—What about Spooner? Did he respect you for your mind?
I heard the sneer in his voice.
—Heavens no. That was purely physical.
—You are an astonishing woman.
—You say that as if it’s not a compliment.
—It isn’t. Do you know where Spooner is?
—I told you …
—Yes, I know. I thought he might have told you places he liked to hide, when he was telling you and your husband stories.
—Most of the time he would merely go into an adjoining state since the sheriffs didn’t have jurisdiction. He didn’t hide so much as blend in. They would use different names, get jobs on ranches, like ours, until the money ran out. Honestly, the outlaws were the best workers.
—Did you harbor more than Spooner’s gang?
—We didn’t ask questions.
Callum chuckled.
—No wonder my father wanted to marry you.
—Are you propositioning me again?
—No.
—I would be the best kind of wife to have. You’d be rid of me in record time.
He hummed a response and looked at me full on. The moonlight lit up the scarred side of his face and I saw it for the first time. His entire cheek and part of his lips were scarred from burns. The scars were a silvery white and stretched across his face, pulling the side of his mouth into a constant smirk. I didn’t look away, though.
—If I asked you into my bed, would you come?
—Is that why you asked me to travel with you?
—Yes. I want to have what my father couldn’t.
—I do like your honesty. I wondered if you would try to seduce me again.
—I’m not seducing you.
—Yes, I know. It seems very transactional on your part. A power play. Much like your father’s marriage proposal. If you’d taken a different approach, we might be in your bedroom by now.
—I don’t need your permission.
—I suppose not. You are stronger than I. But know this: I will kill you if you do.
We stared daggers at each other for what felt like an eternity. Finally he smiled and chuckled.
—I suppose I’ll try a softer touch next time.
He shifted away from me and sipped his whisky.
—Why did you come, Duchess? And do not lie to me and say it was to see my ranch. You could have ridden here and seen what you wanted without ever talking to the foreman, without them even knowing you were here.
—Curiosity. I wanted to see what had been done, if there was even a trace of my hard work left. Imagine my surprise when I saw my herd expanded and healthy.
—You didn’t need my permission for that.
—I was curious about you, also. Your reaction, first to my confession, then to my request. I wondered if you were a better man than your father.
He turned back to me.
—And what have you decided?
I looked up at him for a long moment, not shying away from his deformity, and lied.
—A much better man.
—Dorcas thinks you are the head of the gang that’s been stealing from me these last two years.
—I have to say I’m flattered.
—To be suspected of being an outlaw?
—From what everyone says, this gang is brilliant. But there is no proof they are women. Only rumors, which everyone dismisses as ridiculous.
—Yes, ridiculous. But you made a very convincing case that women are capable of being as immoral as men.
—Of course they are. That doesn’t mean I am.
—You did just threaten to kill me.
—Because you threatened to rape me. I believe I would be justified. Though I also know I would swing if I killed you. Of course, if you raped me, I would be blamed for that as well. I wouldn’t be killed, just shunted off to the county hospital with all of the other inconvenient women.
He gently touched my cheek, and for a brief moment I thought he might kiss me. I hoped my revulsion didn’t show in my expression.
—I don’t make the rules, Duchess.
—But you benefit from them nonetheless.
He leaned toward me.
—And I will do everything I can to protect and enforce them. He kissed me on the cheek and whispered,—Sleep well. We leave for Cheyenne after breakfast.
Before I could catch my breath, he was gone.
There is no doubt in my mind that he suspects I’m behind the heists. I cannot sleep tonight; I suspect he might make good on his threat. Regardless, there will be Pinkertons waiting for me somewhere along the line. Cheyenne, most like, since our biggest job against him was in Wyoming. No question about jurisdiction there.
Now, Grace, I must—
16
Margaret Parker’s Journal
Thursday, August 23, 1877
Black Hawk, Colorado
Garet,
I am writing this in your journal because Hattie is reading mine. Technically she’s reading case notes. Or they are supposed to be. They turned personal soon after I met you, as soon as Jehu delivered my trunk to me at the ranch. The number of sighs and harrumphs from Hattie has decreased as she’s read further along. I hope that means my storytelling is riveting. I need it to be to tell your story.
You are sleeping upstairs, Hattie is reading, and there is a very real chance she will kill me when she finishes. So I decided to take this time to update your journal since so much of what has happened did so while you were absent, delirious, or unconscious. I suppose you won’t mind, since you want a clear telling of your story.
Where to start? Do I start when you and Hattie arrived in Denver, and the argument between us all about your plan to approach Callum Connolly? You seem to have elided that event. (Yes, I’ve read your journal to this point, and was interested to see a very different perspective of our acquaintance from mine.) Should I go back further in the story and retell my version of events? Or do I honor your desire to tell your own story and leave the recollection as it is, such as it is? Or do I start from when you left on your trip with Callum Connolly, catch your journal up as you surely would have done after we met and discussed everything?
Though I doubt highly I would have been a part of the conversation, since neither you nor Hattie trusts me completely.
I can’t say that your instincts are wrong, only that mine have been.
I will start with the here and now and go where the muse takes me from there.
A man knocked on the door of Hattie’s room two days ago, introducing himself as Frank Chambers. He told us you were at his boardinghouse, beat to hell, broken collarbone, and sick and in pain, going in and out of consciousness. Hattie, ever suspicious, asked how we were to know he was telling the truth.
“She told me to say, ‘The Legend of Hattie LaCour.’”
Hattie grasped the back of a chair and nodded.
“She said that’d mean something to you.”
“It’s a private joke.”
Since Hattie was shaken, I quizzed Chambers pretty thoroughly, and though he didn’t know exactly how you made it to Black Hawk, his wife, Lana, knew you from years back. The doctor staying at their boardinghouse—part of the suffrage group traveling around—was set to operate on you. In one of your rare moments of lucidness, you asked for Frank Chambers to find and bring Hattie back. I said we’d go, of course we’d go.
Chambers would fetch us in the morning and take us to Black Hawk. Since time was short, he promised to rent us two horses and tack so we could travel the thirty-five miles more quickly than in a wagon.
Hattie was quiet when Chambers left. I asked her if she knew this Lana woman and she said she didn’t, but that she was probably one of the women you’d helped before Hattie found the ranch. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her, anything she needed. She shook her head no and thanked me. I made her promise to wait to leave until the morning. She smiled sadly and asked, “How’d you know?”
“Because it’s precisely what I want to do.”
“It’s too dark, and we don’t know the road. I’ll stay.”
Neither of us got much sleep.
The next morning, we received a letter from Rebecca Reynolds. If Hattie doesn’t kill me, I’ll copy it into your journal. Loose documents so often get lost over time. The gist is that Spooner has taken over the ranch, most likely deflowered Joan, and has no intention of leaving the Hole to make good on the bet. I theorize that his plan all along was to get you out of the Hole and set you up to be caught. It would be an easy thing to do since Salter, the man you hired on at the ranch, is a Pinkerton agent, though Spooner didn’t know that when he made the bet.
I know, I know. I should have told you all weeks ago. By not warning you, I’ve put you in danger. I am to blame for you being in this bed. I take full responsibility. But I truly thought I could protect you. I didn’t count on Spooner’s duplicity.
I guess I’m not as good a detective as I think I am.
PART THREE
THE PINKERTON
Monday, April 30, 1877
Chicago, IL
Dear Mr. Pinkerton,
I am tendering my resignation from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, effective immediately.
I will forever be in your debt for trusting me with your female detectives after Kate Warne’s sudden death, may she rest in peace. On the whole, I have enjoyed my time as part of your organization and have always cherished the respect you have given me and my girls, treating us as, if not quite equals, at least women worthy of being listened to and taken seriously.
As per our last conversation, there seems very little room for a woman of my skills in an agency that is increasingly becoming known for strong-arm tactics and bullying instead of honest investigations. Not all poor people are criminals, and all rich people are not saints.
Yours sincerely,
Claire Hamilton
17
Claire Hamilton’s Case Notes
Tuesday, May 8, 1877
Chicago, Illinois
Tomorrow I leave for Colorado, my next great adventure and the most challenging one I’ve set for myself. It is strange, embarking on this investigation on my own. Though I’ve always worked alone, the safety of having an organization behind me, supporting me, was more comforting than I ever realized. The financial support was nice, as well. I estimate I have the funds to survive for three months. It is critical I convince Callum Connolly to hire me if I am to have any chance of starting an agency in my own right.
Thursday, May 10, 1877
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Twenty-four hours on a train is a miserable experience. No one tells you that when they tout the speed and ease of traveling across the country. From what I gather, the trip across the plains is the easy part. My train now leaves for San Francisco and will have to travel through, over, and around the mountains to get there. The description of the Dale Creek bridge west of Cheyenne is enough to make me never want to go one step farther west.
Only a few more hours until I arrive in Denver. I pray there is a soft bed waiting for me somewhere.
Tomorrow I go to Connolly Enterprises’ Denver office to state my case to Callum Connolly.
Friday, May 11, 1877
Platte River Boarding House
Denver, Colorado
After a wonderful night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, I made my way down Colfax Avenue to Connolly Enterprises. A woman in half mourning, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun, sat behind the desk in the main office. Her name is Dorcas Connolly and she is the sister of the late Colonel Connolly and the aunt to Callum Connolly. She was cordial, but stiff and professional, as if she thought, apparently without irony, it was quite out of the ordinary for a woman to be conducting business. I asked her what her role in the family business was, and she had the grace to blush, if ever so slightly. She informed me that Callum was out of town, in Columbia checking on their mine, most likely working it, if Dorcas knew her nephew. She offered to make me an appointment for when he returned, though she wasn’t sure when that would be. Callum tends to be single-minded when he is doing something he loves, and he loves mining, she said.
I asked about the possibility of me traveling to Columbia and received her full attention. She looked me up and down as if a new idea of my objective had been revealed. What is so pressing you want to travel by stage through rough country to talk to my nephew? I laughed and assured her my interest was purely in business, which seemed to offend her as well. There didn’t seem to be any winning with the woman. So I decided to take her into my confidence.
On my request to talk privately, she ushered me into Callum’s office and shut the door. I sat down without being asked, hoping to prompt her to
sit behind the desk, which she did. She rubbed her hands on the desk with an expression of longing before remembering herself and shuttering her face with a bland, businesslike mien.
My plan had been to make the same case to Callum Connolly I’d made to Allan Pinkerton: a female operative was much more likely to infiltrate a female gang than a male, and I’d been trained by Kate Warne, the best undercover detective Pinkerton had ever hired, male or female. It was a straightforward and logical argument, which typically worked on men.
Pinkerton had laughed, saying that infiltrating wasn’t the goal. It took months, maybe years, to infiltrate a gang, to gain their trust. The client wanted the job done quickly, and Pinkerton had his best agent in Cheyenne available. I knew who Pinkerton’s “best” was, a reprehensible, violent man named Salter whom Pinkerton had bailed out of scrapes, usually involving dead women, many times. But Salter got results for our clients, which I’d come to realize was all Pinkerton cared about. Salter was the last detective to send after a group of women, and I pleaded with Pinkerton to reconsider and to send, if not me, at least a different male detective. He refused, and I resigned.
When I saw Dorcas Connolly’s expression, I knew straightforwardness and logic would need to be paired with a little manipulation.
I told her I was a detective, there to infiltrate the female gang terrorizing Connolly Enterprises and bring them to justice. “Mr. Pinkerton changed his mind, then? Or has he sent two detectives for the job?”
“No, he did not. I am here of my own accord.”
“If my nephew has already hired someone from your company, why would he hire you?”
“Because I am a woman.”
She laughed. “You don’t know my nephew.”
“I beg to differ.” I pulled a file out of my case, opened it, and read its contents to Dorcas: her nephew’s birth date, where he was born, when his mother died, his engagement to a southern belle, his estrangement from his father and his injury in the war, the severing of the engagement, years spent mining in South America, learning of his father’s death and returning to run the business.
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