The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  He shook his head. “What you must understand, Miss Gallagher, is that the Badlands is a rough bit of country in every sense of the word. Calamities big and small blow through town like so many tumbleweeds. That being the case, it’s hard to say for certain when it all started, but it seems to me that it was around this time last year when things began to feel … off.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know quite how to describe it. A turn in the air. A sense of foreboding. I put it down to restlessness and melancholy, to which I confess myself occasionally prone. It’s only with hindsight that I realized this period coincided with two very unhappy events. The first was a murder. At least, that’s the theory; they never did find a body.”

  “Who was the presumed victim?” Thomas asked.

  “A prospector by the name of Benjamin Upton. He’d only been in town for a few weeks, but he was already quite the local celebrity. He’d made a great success of it in the Black Hills. One of the last lone wolves operating down there, as I understand it. Didn’t need a geologist to tell him where to look for gold. Cut from the same cloth as your forefathers, Burrows.”

  “My foremothers, actually,” Mr. Burrows said. “It was my great-grandmother who had the nose for gold. I’m told it smelled like sugar, but perhaps that was a metaphor.”

  “What does it smell like to you?” I asked, my curiosity momentarily getting the better of me. Mr. Burrows had earth luck, of a sort that allowed him to sense the elemental composition of anything he touched. I’d often tried to imagine what that would be like. He usually referred to it as tasting or smelling, but I suspect it was neither, or maybe something in between.

  In answer to my question, he said, “Why, it smells like money, of course.”

  Thomas cleared his throat impatiently. “Back to Mr. Upton. Do I take it he was lucky?”

  Mr. Roosevelt shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. Lucky or not, he was rumored to have a hundred thousand in gold squirreled away somewhere nearby, and I’d call that plenty of motive for murder.”

  “I’ll say.” I couldn’t help picturing the cartoon image of a robber baron frolicking in a mound of coins. “But if you never found a body, how do you know he’s dead?”

  “I don’t, for a certainty. But given how many people have seen his ghost, I feel fairly confident in the diagnosis.”

  “Hmm.” Thomas cut me a look. “Forgive me, Mr. Roosevelt, but are you sure that isn’t merely—”

  “Campfire tales? I thought so too at first. Cowboys are a superstitious breed, and given to spinning yarns. But some of the witnesses had never met the man, yet they described him to a T. Tall, rugged, outlandishly bushy mustache. And the circumstances of the sightings were all the same. Always in the mirror of the hotel room where he’d been staying.”

  That certainly sounded like a ghost. Unlike shades, they couldn’t manifest physically, so they tended to rely on images and sounds. Mirrors were a favorite medium for haunting, along with photographs, paintings, and of course, dreams.

  “Even then,” Mr. Roosevelt went on, “I might not have taken much notice of the affair. Murder is hardly unusual out west, and with murder comes restless spirits. Except that our Mr. Upton was only the first to go missing. After he disappeared, Medora caught gold fever. Everyone and his pony wanted a piece of that hundred thousand he’d supposedly stashed somewhere nearby. Treasure hunters swooped in from every corner of the territory—and now half a dozen of them have vanished too. Anyone who gets close to his trail just”—he snapped his fingers—“gone.”

  “Good heavens, what a tale!” Mr. Burrows laughed. “Murder. Ghosts. Treasure hunters disappearing on the trail, never to be heard from again. Why, it’s the stuff of yellowback novels!”

  “Just wait. I haven’t even got to the part about the monster.”

  “I’m sorry.” Thomas leaned forward again. “Did you say monster?”

  “I did, and only half in jest. That’s the second of our trio of mysteries.” Mr. Roosevelt removed his pince-nez and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. “Another frequent occurrence in the Badlands is cattle rustling, so here again, it’s hard to be sure exactly when it all started. I became aware of it when about a dozen of my own went missing. I mentioned it to the Marquis de Morès, and he reported having suffered a similar loss some weeks before. This was back in, oh”—he squinted at the ceiling—“call it the second week of July last year. I convened a meeting of my stockman’s association, and lo and behold, virtually every man there was missing at least a few beeves.

  “Well, naturally, we assumed it was the Indians. They’d been making mischief in the area for a while, setting fires, that sort of thing. There was a … discussion … on the prairie. A few of us, a few of them, more than a few Winchesters. They denied it all fiercely, and since we had no proof…” Shrugging, he replaced his pince-nez. “Then, not a week later, that same band comes thundering into Medora, furious, claiming half a dozen horses have been stolen from their camp. Well, the ranchers didn’t take to being called thieves any better than the Sioux had. It looked set to be a terrible showdown. I don’t like to think about what might have happened had they not come across that clearing.” He fell silent for a moment, gaze abstracted with memory.

  “Clearing, sir?”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Gallagher. Yes, the clearing. Just when things were looking rather dire between the ranchers and the Sioux, a group of their hunters came across a clearing littered with carcasses. Their horses, our beeves, not to mention elk, deer, virtually every hoofed creature you can name—all of them ripped apart by something monstrously powerful. I saw them myself. Rib cages cracked open, skulls and femurs shattered … Genuinely horrific to look upon.”

  “Could a mountain lion be responsible?” Thomas asked. “Or perhaps a bear?”

  Mr. Roosevelt smiled. “You’re not a woodsman, are you, Wiltshire?”

  “Very far from it, alas. I take it my question is naive?”

  “In the general order of things, perhaps, but even seasoned hunters have mooted unlikelier theories, for lack of anything better. The reality is that none of us, Sioux or white, has ever heard of such a thing. I mounted a hunting party myself, but we found no trace of an animal capable of that sort of violence. To say nothing of its appetite. The sheer scale of the slaughter beggars belief. Hundreds of animals over the course of a single summer. That’s why I came to you last October. By that point, I was convinced this was no ordinary wild animal. Even so, I didn’t feel a great deal of urgency, since I presumed the killings would slow over the winter, if not stop altogether. And so they did, only now that the snows have melted, the beast is back—and this time, it’s killing men, too. I received word just this morning that one of the boys from Pronghorn Ranch was jumped on the trail a few days ago. Dragged right off his pony, and the both of them mauled to bits.”

  “How awful!”

  “It is indeed, Miss Gallagher. As bad as things were last summer, it’s immeasurably worse now. Whatever this thing is, it’s covering more ground than ever before, killing everything in its path. It’s got the whole Badlands in an uproar. Some of the most hard-bitten, God-fearing fellows I know are convinced it’s a demon.”

  Mr. Burrows scoffed. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense?”

  “What I believe, Burrows, is that something in those woods can crack open the rib cage of a thousand-pound moose like a squirrel splits a sunflower seed.”

  “Christ.” Mr. Burrows made a face. “What an image.”

  “I’d hoped that if there was one silver lining to this awful winter we’ve just had, it would be that this beast, whatever it is, perished along with everything else. Instead, it’s just having more trouble finding prey.”

  “So now it’s preying on people,” I said, shuddering.

  “Precisely.”

  A bleak silence drifted over the study.

  Thomas cleared his throat again. “About this winter, then. I presume that is the third of the mi
sfortunes you referred to?”

  Mr. Roosevelt nodded. “The Winter of the Blue Snow, they’re calling it. The worst anyone can remember. Tens of thousands of animals perished, to say nothing of the human casualties. They say when the river finally started moving again, it unleashed a black tide of animal carcasses that flowed for days.”

  Thomas shook his head in grim awe. “It will ruin a great many ranches, I suppose.”

  “It already has, not to mention the businesses that depend on them. Medora is in danger of becoming a ghost town, Mr. Wiltshire. Which is why I need your help, both of you. People are saying the place is cursed—unless they dismiss that as superstition, in which case they blame the Indians, and vice versa. It’s already a powder keg out there. I fear this could be the match. Something must be done.”

  “What of the local law enforcement?” Thomas asked.

  “The sheriff is a fellow by the name of Hell Roaring Bill Jones. A thoroughly competent frontiersman, at least when he’s sober. But he’s quite out of his element here.”

  “Hell Roaring Bill.” Mr. Burrows laughed, delighted.

  “I serve as his deputy now and then, and I can promise you the moniker is well earned. But as I said, this matter is beyond his expertise. He’s not one of us, you know.” Mr. Roosevelt raised an eyebrow, making his meaning plain. Sheriff Jones, however hell-roaring, wasn’t a member of the paranormal community. “I don’t care to have him directly involved.”

  “We understand, sir,” Thomas said. “We’ll certainly do our best to get to the bottom of the matter.”

  “Good, good.” And just like that, Mr. Roosevelt was on his feet, watch in hand. “You’ll leave tomorrow?”

  “What?” I jerked upright. “So soon?”

  “We may require a little more time to get our affairs in order,” Thomas said diplomatically.

  “Very well. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. And here.” Mr. Roosevelt drew a stack of letters from a leather case at his feet and deposited them on the desk. “From my men at Elkhorn and Maltese Cross. A little light reading for the train.” Looking Thomas up and down, he added, “You ought to pay a visit to your tailor before you go. You’ll want something a good deal sturdier than what you’re wearing. You can ride, I trust?”

  “Passing well.”

  Mr. Burrows snorted. “Don’t believe a word of it, Roosevelt. He joined us for polo once, and he rode circles around the lot of us.”

  “I daresay you’ll find this a bit different,” Mr. Roosevelt said. “They’ll call you a dude, Wiltshire, but don’t you bother about it. Show them what you’re made of, and they’ll shut up soon enough, trust me. And what about you, Miss Gallagher? Can you sit a horse?”

  “Passing well, and I’m not being modest.” I’d learned only recently, as part of my training with the Pinkerton Agency. I could lope around a ring and jump a low fence or two, but that was about the extent of it.

  “Well, then, this will be quite the adventure for both of you. I’m only sorry I can’t join you. I’ve a manuscript to deliver to my publisher, and given the state of my finances, I don’t dare disappoint them. But my men will take good care of you, and I’ll expect regular updates on the wire.”

  “You’ll have them, sir,” Thomas said, shaking hands.

  “Excellent. In that case, I wish you good hunting, and…” His smile faded, and his blue eyes grew solemn. “Be careful,” he said. “Both of you.”

  * * *

  “So,” Mr. Burrows said, “what’s your theory?”

  He sat across from Thomas and me in the landau, which he’d summoned to the house as soon as Mr. Roosevelt left. He claimed to be interested in the case, but I didn’t believe that for a second. I’d seen the glint in his eye when Mr. Roosevelt suggested new clothes; he wanted to be there when Thomas visited his tailor. Not that I blamed him. I’d met Mr. Jennings, and he was nearly as posh as his best client. Watching those two painfully English gentlemen try to work out how to outfit Thomas for the Badlands would be worth the price of admission. Alas, a gentleman’s tailor was no place for a woman, but I had no doubt Mr. Burrows would merrily relate the details afterward. For now, we were headed down to Wang’s General Store—to procure supplies and, hopefully, smooth things over with the proprietor.

  “My theory?” Thomas arched an eyebrow. “It’s far too early for that.”

  “Come now, we both know you have one. You’re just reluctant to show your cards in case you’re proven wrong later.”

  Thomas tsked. “Do you think my pride so fragile? There’s a difference between theories and rampant speculation, and I see no benefit in indulging in the latter.”

  “Oh, let’s do indulge.” Mr. Burrows thumped his cane playfully on the floor of the carriage. “Tell him, Rose.”

  “Much as I don’t like to encourage him, Thomas, I am curious what you think. The murder seems straightforward enough, but a monster? And what do either of them have to do with a harsh winter?”

  Thomas started to answer before checking himself. “Let’s wait until we reach Wang’s. I do have a thought—”

  “I knew it!” Mr. Burrows thumped his cane again.

  “—but I’d like to hear Wang’s reaction first. If he has a similar notion, then I’ll know there’s merit in it.”

  Traffic was light this time of day, and it didn’t take us long to reach Five Points. It felt strange visiting the old neighborhood these days—especially arriving in a landau, of all things. If a tidy little brougham was conspicuous, Mr. Burrows’s six-seater vis-à-vis was positively outrageous. People stopped to stare as the three of us descended from our grand vehicle, as though maybe they expected to see the mayor. That was silly, of course. The mayor wasn’t half as rich as Jonathan Burrows. I fought the absurd impulse to wave, as though I were the Queen of England. Instead, I hurried awkwardly into Wang’s General Store.

  As always, the scent of the place hit me as soon as opened the door, a unique cocktail of incense and dried mushrooms and heaven knew what else. The shelves were so crowded that it was impossible to keep track of all the exotic items lending their perfume to the place. The grocery section was interesting enough, but it was the dry goods—the silks and the porcelain, the lacquer boxes and jade talismans—that drew me most. I’d spent hours browsing these shelves with wandering eyes and fingers. It reminded me of a museum—or, more accurately, the basement of a museum, where they keep all the curiosities crammed haphazardly in high, overstuffed shelves. How Mei kept track of it all, I couldn’t imagine.

  Just now, she was sweeping up some broken bits of pottery near the counter. “Oh dear,” I said. “I hope they paid for it, whoever they were.”

  Mei smiled, showing her dimples. “He left with a full ear and an empty purse.”

  “That’s my girl,” I said, laughing. Mei Wang was a gentle soul, but those who mistook her soft-spoken ways for weakness learned their lesson very quickly.

  The bell on the door tinkled again, and her glance went over my shoulder. “Hello, Mr. Wiltshire, Mr. Burrows. Shall I fetch my father?”

  “Miss Wang.” Thomas doffed his hat. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  She ducked through the silk curtain separating the front of the store from the back, reappearing a moment later with her father in tow. I could tell straightaway that Mr. Wang had heard what happened to the stone we’d recovered, because the look he gave Thomas and me was slightly south of frosty. His mouth was a thin line under his drooping mustache, and he folded his arms over his frog buttons as if to say, Explain yourselves.

  “Good afternoon,” Thomas said breezily, as though he didn’t notice. Drawing a money purse from his jacket, he deposited it on the counter. “For your troubles, Wang. Thank you again.”

  Mr. Wang didn’t even glance down. He just stood there like a statue, arms folded.

  Thomas sighed. “Look, Wang, it’s not as though we had a choice. The Agency has spent thousands of dollars dredging that site to recover every last fragment of Flood Rock. There
was no chance they were going to let it go.”

  Mr. Wang said something bone-dry in Chinese.

  Thomas blinked. “Well, I hardly think that’s called for.”

  Mei cleared her throat awkwardly. “Would anyone like tea?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” Mr. Burrows said, making no attempt to hide his amusement.

  “We really are very sorry, Mr. Wang,” I said. “Of course Mr. Wiltshire and I know you wouldn’t have sold it to just anyone, but we couldn’t convince Chicago. They don’t know you like we do. It’s terribly unfair, but we were under direct orders.” More or less.

  That seemed to appease him a little. He picked up the purse, hefting it experimentally. Then he grunted and tossed it back down.

  With another sigh, Thomas reached into his jacket once more. “You drive a hard bargain, Wang. There now, can we consider the matter settled?”

  Mr. Wang glanced down at the stack of bills on the counter. “Settled,” he said grudgingly. “But not happy.”

  “That will have to do, I’m afraid. Miss Gallagher and I are on a very tight schedule. We’re headed out west, and we’ve a list of supplies we need to procure. In addition to which, I’d be grateful for your thoughts on a rather fascinating tale we’ve just heard.”

  That piqued Mr. Wang’s interest. He cocked his head.

  “What kind of tale?” Mei asked, reappearing with the tea.

  “Three sorts, actually,” Thomas said, with the bright-eyed look of an intrigued detective. “A murder, a monster, and magic.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AN ELEMENTARY THEORY—THE LUCKIEST MAN ALIVE—A NEW HABIT

  Mr. Wang took a long, meditative sip of tea. Then he asked a question in Chinese.

  Thomas shook his head. “I’m afraid not. From what our client told us, it doesn’t sound as though anyone has actually seen the beast.”

  Mr. Wang hummed a skeptical-sounding note and said something else.

  “A fair question,” Thomas said. “Mr. Roosevelt did mention that frontiersmen are a superstitious lot, and given to tall tales. It’s possible, even likely, that some of the details have been exaggerated. On the other hand, Roosevelt saw some of the carcasses himself, and he was quite insistent that the predator responsible had to be as strong as a grizzly, if not stronger.”