The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  “Such as? The railroad has been here for years, so there’s no chance of a transport-related spike. There’s no mining in the area, nor timber to speak of. It’s difficult to imagine the land increasing markedly in value even if the creature were to cease its marauding tomorrow. Still…” He looked contemplative as he steered Gideon around some dead brush. “It’s worth pursuing. The investor obviously believes there’s value to his purchases, and perhaps that’s all that matters.”

  “If I’m right, does that mean he’s the one responsible for the creature?”

  “Let’s ask him,” Thomas said, and he spurred his horse.

  * * *

  We headed straight to the saloon, but the place was emptier than ever, with only a scattering of regulars playing poker or leaning against the bar. The man from Bismarck wasn’t among them, so we waved Lee Granger over and asked after him.

  “Who, Parnell? Oh, he’ll be along by and by. He’s about my steadiest customer these days. Usually gets here about four.”

  “So he just waits around for a likely prospect to show up?” I asked.

  “More or less. He started out making the rounds himself, riding out to the ranches to let everybody know he was looking to buy. But it’s been weeks now since he don’t need to lift one pasty finger. Everybody knows where to come when they’re ready to sell.”

  “He was making some of his own rounds yesterday. I heard him offer to buy the hotel from Mr. Oliver.”

  “Oh yeah?” Granger looked a little put out. “And here he told me he wasn’t interested in businesses in town.”

  “You offered to sell?

  He hitched a shoulder self-consciously. “Might’ve mentioned I wouldn’t object to hearing an offer. Things is getting pretty tough around here, in case you ain’t noticed.” He gestured at his near-empty saloon.

  “But Parnell wasn’t interested.”

  “Just ranches, he said. Those, he’s been picking up like grass seed. Owns tens of thousands of acres by now, scattered all over creation.”

  “Scattered, you say?” Thomas creased his brow. “Odd. If he means to amass land, it would make more sense for the plots to be contiguous. And if he’s speculating, the safer investment is property here in town. Especially businesses like this. One imagines your saloon will be among the first enterprises to rebound once the town recovers from its current difficulties.”

  “If it recovers, you mean.”

  “Have faith, Mr. Granger. This too shall pass.”

  The saloonkeeper’s glance fell to the badge on Thomas’s chest. I’d forgotten about it, and I think Thomas had too, but Granger didn’t seem too put out. “Guess I don’t need to ask if it’s true, what folks is saying.” His gaze shifted to me. “You too?”

  I gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry for all the secrecy. It’s part of the job, I’m afraid.”

  “Who hired you, then? Roosevelt?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss it,” Thomas said. “But we can tell you that we’re doing everything in our power to get to the bottom of whatever is afflicting this town.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least.” Granger turned a pair of glasses over and poured out two drams of forty-rod.

  Not wanting to be rude, I took a sip. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I managed not to cough. As for Thomas, he kept his coughing under control until Granger wandered off, and even then, he managed to do it quietly. “Not exactly Madeira, is it?” he rasped, fishing out his Patek Philippe. “Half two. Let us hope Mr. Parnell keeps to form. In the meantime, what do you make of what our host just told us? If Parnell isn’t interested in local businesses, why set his sights on the hotel?”

  “Maybe it makes more money than the rest.”

  Thomas hummed a skeptical note. “Did it seem like a booming enterprise to you? Aside from the occasional treasure hunter, you and I have been virtually the only guests.”

  “Pretty close,” I admitted, smiling inwardly at the memory of the woman who’d interrupted our moment the other night. If she thought that was scandalous, what would she have made of last night? I cleared my throat, blushing a little. “What exactly are you getting at?”

  He ran the backs of his knuckles along the neatly trimmed line of his beard, eyes narrowed in thought. “Are you quite certain it was the hotel Parnell was looking to buy? Can you recall the details of their exchange?”

  “Come to think of it, I don’t know that they mentioned the hotel specifically. I guess I just assumed.” But if it wasn’t the hotel Parnell was looking to buy … “What about the safe? There were fingerprints all over it.” I’d figured that was Howard trying to make it look like a robbery, but maybe I’d been overthinking it.

  Thomas threw back the rest of his whiskey. “Let’s see if we can get a look inside, shall we?”

  We hurried across to the hotel, where we found the night clerk slumped in a chair with his hat tipped over his face. Thomas cleared his throat politely and was met with a raggedy snore, so I struck the service bell—with a little more enthusiasm than was strictly required.

  The clerk started up with a snort. “Whassat? Oh, it’s you. Sorry, folks. ’Fraid I ain’t getting much shuteye just now, what with being the only feller on the desk night and day.” He stretched, yawning wide enough to show the gaps in his back teeth. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wiltshire?”

  “It’s Agent Wiltshire, actually, and this is Agent Gallagher, Pinkerton Detective Agency. I’m afraid we’re here in an official capacity just now.”

  “Oh.” The clerk scrambled up out of his chair and smoothed his clothing, as if he were about to undergo military inspection.

  “We have some questions about what happened to Mr. Oliver,” I said.

  “Right. I s’pose the sheriff asked you all to step in on the case, then?”

  Thomas just smiled blandly. “Have you ascertained whether anything was stolen? Besides Mr. Oliver’s belt buckle, that is. Any property of the hotel’s?”

  “No, sir. That is, I ascertained nothing was took.”

  “What about the contents of the safe?” I asked.

  “The safe?” The clerk crumpled his brow, as if the very idea were bizarre. “Nothing in there worth stealing. Just a bunch of junk we cleared out of the Presidential Suite when the feller what was staying there went missing.”

  My breath caught. “Are you referring to Benjamin Upton?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s him.”

  Roosevelt was right. Upton is connected to all this. But how?

  “When we saw he weren’t coming back, Mr. Oliver had me put his personals in the safe. There weren’t much, but he figured if Upton ever turned up, maybe he’d offer a reward for it. ’Course, he never did turn up. And then all these treasure hunters started coming around, saying how there was a hundred thousand in gold stashed out there somewheres. So Mr. Oliver, he reckons maybe something in that pile of junk will help him find it. ’Course, that didn’t happen, neither.”

  I flattened my hands on top of the desk, barely able to contain my excitement. “Please tell me you have the combination to that safe.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but…” The clerk flicked an uncertain glance between Thomas and me. “Mr. Oliver’s brother is coming up from Cheyenne tomorrow, and I ain’t sure he’d want me to—”

  “Pinkerton business,” I said, barging my way behind the desk. “Open it, please.”

  Thomas didn’t even try to hide his amusement as he watched me hover over the clerk like a bank robber, waiting anxiously for him to compose the right numbers. It seemed to take forever, but eventually the hinges creaked, and I dropped into a crouch, practically shoving the clerk aside in my haste.

  Thomas must have heard my groan of dismay, because he leaned over the desk. “Problem?”

  “This again.” I thrust a leather-bound book at him. “More sketches. Same designs, from the looks of it.”

  “Upton must have kept one for the trail and one for his room here at the hotel.” Thomas starte
d flipping through the pages. “Anything else?”

  “Some tools. A hand drill, and a mortar and pestle, of all things. Oh, and instead of dirt, we have rocks.” I picked them up, three jagged pieces of nondescript stone that were very definitely not gold. “This can’t possibly be what Parnell was looking for.”

  “Unless he was in the treasure-hunting game as well,” Thomas mused, “and hoped this book would lead him to the gold.”

  “In that case, he woulda been disappointed,” the clerk said. “Ain’t no clues in that book, leastways not that I found. It’s like I says to Skinny the other day. If that gold is really out there, ain’t nobody gonna find it.”

  I guess we don’t need to ask how Howard and Skinny found out about the book. Did the clerk even realize the role he’d played in his boss’s murder? Probably not, I decided. He didn’t seem like the sharpest of pickaxes. “Why would someone like Parnell be interested in chasing after a pot of gold that might not even exist? He must be rich already, if he’s buying thousands of acres of land.”

  “Human greed knows no bounds,” Thomas said. “Some of the most avaricious men of my acquaintance are staggeringly wealthy.”

  “But still. Imagine what he’s spent out here already. Tens of thousands at least, and for what? If you ask me, it sounds like he already has more than he could ever…” I paused, a memory washing over me.

  You don’t even need the money. You have more than you could ever spend.

  For a moment, I was back in that cabin, tied to a chair while a madman shrieked over me. You can go off and buy a mansion and a yacht and anything else your greedy little heart desires. You can live your life …

  “It was never the money,” I murmured.

  “Sorry?”

  I grabbed Thomas’s elbow and steered him to a discreet remove. “Upton’s killer. Something he said in the dream. I’d forgotten it until now. He said Upton already had more money than he could ever spend. That if he gave the killer what he wanted, he could be on his way and buy himself a mansion and all these fancy things. But how could he have done that if the killer had just robbed him blind?”

  “Strange.” Thomas frowned.

  “All along, we’ve been assuming Upton was murdered for that hundred thousand he had stashed away, but what if the killer had his sights on something even more valuable? Those sketches in Upton’s journal … What if he was onto something new?”

  Thomas’s pale eyes lit up. “An unknown deposit. Roosevelt did say the man was lucky, or at least had an uncanny nose for gold. And we are downstream of the Black Hills.”

  Just show me on the map, the killer had said. He must have known about the new strike, but he’d shot Upton before he could find out where it was. Now, a year later, here was this real estate investor arranging a murder so he could get his hands on some of Upton’s belongings …

  And that’s when it clicked, like a cylinder snapping snugly into the frame of a revolver. “That’s why he’s gobbling up all that land. Thomas, he does know something we don’t. He knows there’s gold out there somewhere.”

  Thomas closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “Rose. You are perfectly brilliant.”

  Well, that was more like it.

  “That must be why his plots are scattered all over the place, too. He doesn’t know where the gold is, so he’s hedging his bets.” I grinned at Thomas, feeling extremely pleased with myself. He was pretty pleased with me too, judging from the gleam in his eyes.

  “Our interview with Mr. Parnell promises to be very interesting indeed. What do you say, Agent Gallagher?” He offered me his arm. “May I buy you a drink?”

  CHAPTER 18

  A FAMILIAR PROBLEM—INITIAL SUSPECT—DUCK AND COVER

  Parnell wasn’t due at the saloon until four. That gave Thomas and me some time to do a little research on our suspect, which is how we happened to be at the Western Union office when a telegram came in from Mr. Jackson.

  “The Agency telegrapher is having a very busy afternoon,” Thomas remarked wryly. We’d sent and received a flurry already, taking full advantage of the wonders of modern technology to acquaint ourselves with Mr. Parnell.

  “And what does our favorite warlock have to say?”

  “Very little, actually.” Thomas frowned, his pale gaze scanning the page. “He refers us to a book on Germanic witchcraft. Specifically, the chapter on familiars.”

  He said that I like I ought to know what it meant, but I just shook my head blankly.

  “Spirits summoned or conjured to do the bidding of the spellcaster.” He looked up, gaze abstracted. “I thought myself reasonably familiar with that brand of magic, if you’ll pardon the pun. What can he be referring to?”

  “Do you have the book he mentions?”

  “Regrettably not, but Burrows is due in Chicago tonight. We can ask Jackson to bring him a copy at the station.” Thomas dictated yet another telegram, after which we hurried back to the saloon.

  Our quarry arrived right on time, wearing his customary pinstriped suit. As he came through the front, I slipped out the back, circling around the building with one hand resting on my Colt. I didn’t see anyone lurking, at least. Satisfied that our suspect was alone, I hurried back inside.

  Parnell didn’t even look up as Thomas and I approached, too busy scratching out notes in his ledger. “How many acres?”

  “That depends. Are you referring to the totality of my holdings, or merely the American ones?”

  Now he did look up, and a flicker of worry crossed his features. “It’s you.”

  “I don’t believe we’re acquainted, but perhaps our reputation precedes us. Yours certainly does.”

  “It … does?”

  I pulled out one of the telegrams we’d just received from the Agency. “Mr. Wendell F. Parnell, esquire, of Bismarck, Dakota Territory. Married October 4, 1872, to Mary Wilkinson. Two children, Lily and Gregory.” I folded the paper away. “It must be some time since you last saw them, Wendell.”

  His pasty skin flooded with color. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Thomas flashed a wooden smile. “It took our colleagues at the Pinkerton Detective Agency less than an hour to find out the pertinent information. It would take even less time to arrange for your home and offices to be searched and your associates questioned. I imagine such an outcome would prove inconvenient for you, personally and professionally. Most people hesitate to engage an attorney under suspicion of murder.”

  Parnell’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? What murder?”

  “A few of them, actually,” I said. “Most recently, Mr. Oliver from the hotel.”

  “Why, but that’s preposterous! What possible—”

  “Perhaps we could adjourn to a more discreet location,” Thomas said. “Mr. Granger has kindly made arrangements for us.”

  Parnell looked truly alarmed now. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You would prefer us to air your business here?” Thomas gestured at the crowded room. Already, several of the treasure hunters at the bar were staring at us; even the poker game had paused, half the players twisted around in their seats to observe the drama.

  The lawyer’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Gathering his belongings and what remained of his dignity, he stood.

  The “arrangements” our host had made consisted of a small storage room full of whiskey barrels, beer bottles, a single chair, and an oil lamp. The cramped quarters suited Thomas and me just fine. Our suspect would feel a lot more vulnerable shut up in this tiny room without any witnesses.

  Thomas gestured for him to sit. “Now, then, you were about to tell us why you murdered Francis Oliver.”

  “I certainly was not! It’s an outrageous accu—”

  “I saw the two of you arguing,” I interrupted. “You wanted to get your hands on Benjamin Upton’s belongings, but Oliver wasn’t interested in selling. He had it in his head that something in that sketchbook would lead him to a hundred thousand i
n gold. And you thought so too.”

  The lawyer licked his lips. “I wanted to buy the book, it’s true. But I didn’t … I would never…” Tiny beads of sweat broke out along his receding hairline. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”

  “No. Which is why you had George Howard and his friends from the Buckshot Outfit do it for you.”

  Parnell dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “George works with me, yes. And I admit that he contributes a certain … gravitas … when negotiations become bogged down. But I never asked him to kill anyone.”

  “And yet he did,” I said. “Does that surprise you?”

  The lawyer squirmed in his chair. “If the allegation is true, it wasn’t done on my say-so.”

  “A fellow of initiative, is he?” Thomas said dryly. “A desirable trait in a foreman, perhaps, but considerably less convenient in a hired thug. You must be a very tolerant employer, Mr. Parnell.”

  “You’re mistaken. Mr. Howard works with me, not for me. We are employed by the same … client.”

  “And who is that?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that information is privileged. It would be unlawful for me to divulge it.”

  “I wonder, Mr. Parnell, if you’ve taken adequate stock of your surroundings.” Thomas’s tone was conversational, his posture relaxed as he leaned against a whiskey barrel. “Do you see the sheriff in this room?”

  “The laws of the territory still apply, sir,” Parnell said primly.

  “Perhaps, but as an attorney, you’ll no doubt appreciate the distinction between de jure and de facto. At the moment, the only law you need to be concerned with is ours.”

  Parnell drew himself up a little straighter, trying righteous indignation on for size. “So you mean to bully me into complying, is that it?”

  That got my back up. “You have the nerve to accuse us of bullying? After you’ve terrorized everyone within fifty miles just so you could get your sticky little fingers on their land?”

  “Terrorized? Madam—”

  “What would you call it? Hundreds of cattle and horses dead. Ranchers forced into bankruptcy. People being mauled on the trail, and Two Horses sitting in jail waiting to hang. How much blood is on your hands, Mr. Parnell? How much bloodshed yet to come if the ranchers and the Lakota start shooting at each other because of what you’ve done?”