In Close Pursuit

by Colleen French

  He paced uncomfortably. "Open and see."

  She tore open the packet and a silver locket on a chain slid into her hand. "Adam," she breathed. It was shaped in a heart with tiny vined flowers carved on its face. Seeing the hinge, she opened it. Inside was a lock of ebony hair. Tears clouded her eyes as she looked up at him.

  Adam hooked his thumbs in his pockets, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. His chest tightened. He knew what he wanted to say, but it was hard. She said she couldn't love him. He was taking a big chance, maybe making a fool out of himself. "To my mother's people, the Ojibwa, a lock of hair is an ultimate gift. In giving a lock of hair you give a piece of yourself, of your heart, forever." He paused, frightened by the tears that loomed behind his eyelids. "You pledge your love."

  Jessica jumped off the bed and ran to him, flinging herself into his arms. What could she say to him? If she didn't understand herself what she was feeling, how could she explain it to him. For a long time they just held each other and finally Adam kissed her forehead and backed away.

  "Put it on for me." She held the precious locket out to him, her cheeks still wet from her tears. "And tell me what you found out. Has there been any sign of our Black Bandit, Caine?"

  Adam fastened the delicate gold chain around her neck and touched it where it hung between her bare breasts. "I've got somebody at the newspaper reading through articles that have involved trouble in the area in the last two weeks. But Caine's been here. I just know it. I can feel it in my bones." He clenched his fist, turning away. "I've got to catch him, Jess. The Union Pacific's not pleased with my progress."

  She rested her hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him, partner. I promise you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "You sure you'll be all right?" Adam leaned in the doorway watching Jessica brush out her long brown hair. In the sunlight he could see the golden highlights that made her hair shine like a halo.

  She grimaced. "Don't be silly. I can certainly find my way to the mercantile and back. I got along two weeks without you."

  "But that was under the protection of Crooked Nose," he answered sarcastically.

  She waved her hand. "Don't mention his name. I don't want to talk about him, not ever again. It's over, I'm safe, and we've got a job to do." She pulled back her hair and began to braid it in a thick plait down her back.

  "Well, you just behave yourself and no snooping around. I don't want to catch you in any saloons."

  "I'm going to buy some soap and tea," she said innocently. "How could I possibly get into any trouble?"

  He turned to go, then spied her holster and pistol hung over a chair next to the door. "Just the same, you'd better carry this."

  She tied a ribbon in her hair and set the brush aside. "Over my new dress?" She came across the lavender carpeted room. "You're not serious?"

  "Completely." Adam reached around her narrow waist and strapped the holster on, letting it slide to her hips. "You're in this deep, you might as well take the final plunge."

  She looked down at the leather holster and pistol. She had to admit that the weight of the weapon felt good. It made her feel safe. "I sure hope I don't get into any gunfights on the street. I'd never be able to get the blasted thing out of the holster."

  His laughter mingled with hers as he kissed her on her mouth. "I'll meet you back here in a few hours, hopefully with some good news."

  She kissed him a second time, and then let him out the door. A few minutes later, Jessica locked the door and went downstairs. The minute she appeared on the carved staircase, the redheaded Barton came rushing toward her. He took the steps two at a time, meeting her halfway down the landing.

  "So glad to see you, ma'am. You're looking lovely this morning!" He glanced at the pistol in her holster excitedly, and then took her arm.

  "Good to see you, Mr. Barton."

  "And how is the suite? Everything to your liking, ma'am? I told Louise to be certain you had plenty of fresh towels."

  "The room is fine. The running water is heavenly."

  "I have someone I want you to meet, if you don't mind." He began to lead her past the front desk and into the parlor.

  "Actually, Mr. Barton, I have some errands to run," she answered uneasily. She didn't know why the proprietor was making such a fuss over her. It made her uncomfortable.

  "Mr. Lansing?" Barton waved to a tall, slender, blond gentleman. "This is her. This is the woman tracking the Black Bandit." He looked back at Jessica. "I didn't catch your name, ma'am."

  Several people seated in the parlor turned to stare. Jessica glanced at Barton uneasily. "I really should go."

  But Lansing had already bounced out of his seat and was taking her hand. He kissed the back of it. "Theodore Lansing. Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

  She nodded.

  "Sit, please."

  "I really shouldn't."

  "Just for a moment," Lansing assured her. "Barton. Tea and some of those cakes." He waggled a finger at a table beside them laden with confections.

  Jessica watched Barton hurry from the room. She glanced back at Lansing and smiled hesitantly.

  "They say you're traveling with the half-breed, Deputy Marshal Sern."

  "I am." She looked out into the parlor at the people still staring, then turned her gaze back to Lansing. The man had a hawk-beak of a nose.

  "They say you're avenging your family's murder."

  "My brother's. The Black Bandit killed my brother on the Union Pacific route from Salt Lake City to Ogden. My brother and I were on our way from Tennessee. We intended on settling near Seattle."

  "I see. But they say the deputy marshal was already on the Black Bandit's trail. They say he needed your expert tracking abilities. They say the Union Pacific brought you in on the job."

  Jessica laughed. "What they say is incorrect, Mr. Lansing. I'm with the deputy marshal, he's not with me." Her eyes met his. "And who is they anyway?"

  "The newspapers, of course. The story just hit back east. The readers are dying for the latest word."

  Jessica scowled, realizing that Mr. Lansing was busy taking notes, scribbling fast and furiously. "Mr. Lansing, what is that you're writing?"

  "Notes, of course. I'm a novelist. You'll make a perfect heroine for my book."

  She laughed at the absurdity of it. "You write dime novels? You want to write one about me?"

  "I was sent from my newspaper in Chicago to find your true identity, but I think it's better if you don't give me your name." He waved his hand with a flourish. "More mysterious that way, don't you think?" He began writing again. "My work will, of course, be one of fiction, but dedicated to you, a true woman of the West."

  Jessica pushed up out of her seat with a groan. "I want no part of your novel, Mr. Lansing."

  He bobbed out of his seat. "Where are you going? I have so many more questions. Mr. Barton hasn't served tea yet," he finished with a squeal.

  "Good day, Mr. Lansing." Jessica started out of the parlor, ignoring the nosy stares.

  "They say you were captured by the Sioux, a band of red men guilty of General Custer's demise. They say you suffered horrendous, humiliating ordeals before you managed to escape."

  Jessica burst into laughter. "Even I know, Mr. Lansing, that there are no Sioux in these parts." She swung open the front door.

  Lansing followed in her wake. "The people back east don't know that. You must admit it does make a fine story!" He caught her sleeve. "Ma'am, you must help me. This is my chance to get out from under bylines and follow my life's dream of becoming a novelist!"

  She yanked her sleeve from his grasp. "Good day, Mr. Lansing."

  He followed her off the porch and onto the wooden sidewalk. "Can I come to you with questions?"

  "No! Leave me be."

  "Ma'am, you must understand, this is my chance to make my fortune, to see my name on my first novel."

  Jessica spun around. "Mr. Lansing! That is enough. I will not answer any more questions and I do not authorize you to us
e anything about me in your dime novel."

  "But, ma'am—"

  Jessica lowered her hand to the Smith & Wesson in her holster and Lansing's jaw snapped shut.

  His eyes widened in terror as he looked from the gun to her face and back at the gun again. "G—Good day to you then. I won't trouble you anymore." He turned around, hurrying back toward the hotel. "Good day."

  Jessica had to snicker as she watched the dapper man run from her, his spindly legs shaking in fright as he made his retreat.

  Still chuckling to herself, she walked up the street and into the first mercantile she came to. She spent a good hour inside, sucking on horehound candy and picking out a few necessities. She hadn't wanted to take Adam's money, but he'd insisted. He swore he would make her pay him back when they retrieved her carpetbag.

  Secretly, Jessica was beginning to have her doubts. They'd lost two weeks' time. Caine could be anywhere. But Adam swore the murderer had been in Pocatello, if he wasn't still there. Adam also told her about what the whore had told him in Blades, concerning Caine's brother in Seattle. Adam seemed confident they were still on the Black Bandit's trail; she only prayed he was right.

  Out in the sunlight, Jessica swung her brown-packaged bundle as she walked along the sidewalk. There was no need to hurry, Adam had said he might be a few hours. The street was busy with carts and wagons and an occasional carriage. There were a multitude of pedestrians ranging from bonneted women to soldiers in uniform. A group of young boys ran down the sidewalk chasing a hoop with a stick. She saw miners everywhere.

  The sound of gunshots jerked Jessica out of her reverie. Right in front of her a saloon door swung open and a man burst through the doorway.

  "Stop him!" someone shouted from inside. "Stop that murderer!"

  Before Jessica could think, she dropped her package and her hand found her pistol. She whipped it out of her holster and went down on one knee as Adam had instructed. "Stop or I'll shoot," she hollered, cocking the hammer.

  The fleeing man turned right and started down the sidewalk.

  "I said halt! Drop to the ground or I'll blow you off your feet!" She fired above his head and the man pitched himself facing down on the planks. He threw up his hands in surrender.

  Patrons of the saloon poured out of the door. Everyone was talking at once. Jessica walked up to the accused, lying prostrate on the sidewalk. Miners followed in her footsteps. "Throw down your weapon," she ordered.

  "Here comes the sheriff," someone shouted. "Make way tor the sheriff!"

  The captured man slid his pistol across the sidewalk and Jessica signaled one of the miners to pick it up.

  The sheriff burst through the crowd. "All right, all right. Back up, men, give me some room. Joe, tell me what the hell's going on here!"

  A man in a white apron whom Jessica presumed was a bartender, stepped up. The miners from the saloon and other passersby formed a circle around Jessica, the captured man, the sheriff, and the bartender.

  "That slimy bugger kilt Leroy, Sheriff. Said Leroy was cheatin' at five stud, only I know Leroy weren't cheatin', cause the cayuse was the one with the ace in his hatband." Joe pointed an accusing finger at the man still lying on the dusty sidewalk.

  "So where's she come in?" The sheriff gave a nod in Jessica's direction.

  "She caught 'im!"

  There was a round of applause. Someone behind Jessica offered to buy her a drink. Another miner's offer was cruder.

  The sheriff walked up and laid his hand on the warm barrel of Jessica's pistol. "Well, well, missy. Where'd you learn to sling a six-shooter like that?"

  One of the sheriff's deputies grabbed the perpetrator by the collar of his filthy shirt and lifted him off the ground. "Dag gone," the murderer complained. "Ain't never been in a town where they use ladies for lawmen." The deputy escorted him toward the jailhouse.

  The sheriff turned back to Jessica as she shakily returned her Smith & Wesson to her holster. "What's your name, missy, I'll need it for the record."

  A man in a blue felt hat shyly offered her the package she'd dropped. "I won't be detained, will I? I didn't shoot him, I just slowed him down."

  The sheriff, who was a handsome, middle-aged man, gave a wry grin. "Don't see any need to keep you, if you provide the necessary information. You've done no wrong, though I have to admit, the deputies and I are usually the ones to catch the criminals and like."

  Jessica glanced at the body of the man being carried out of the saloon. His head was slung back unnaturally and his chest was covered in blood. "Yes, sir, whatever you need to know."

  "First things, first," the sheriff answered. "Name and what your business is here in Pocatello."

  "My name's Jessica Landon. I'm traveling with Deputy Marshal Adam Sern."

  Excitement rippled through the crowd. Jessica looked up to see the dime novelist, Mr. Lansing, lick his pencil and begin to scribble frantically on his pad of paper. She turned back to the sheriff, lowering her voice. "We're tracking the Black Bandit, sir."

  The sheriff gave a low whistle. "I'll be damned—'scuse my language, ma'am—but I thought that was all a bunch of buffalo chips, a man like Sern traveling with a woman. Of course I guess you aren't just any woman, are you?"

  "Sheriff, I did what any citizen would do. Someone yelled to stop that man, so I stopped him."

  He shook his head. "Damned if you didn't."

  Just then Adam pushed through the crowd. Jessica looked up in relief. "What's goin' on here? You all right, Jess?"

  "What's going on?" Lansing cried. "Miss Landon here's just caught herself a murderer, of course. Who knows how many he'd have mowed down before he moved onto the next town!"

  Adam's gaze fell on Jessica. "No trouble, huh? Just buying a soap?"

  She glanced at the sheriff. "Can I go now?"

  "I reckon you can. Just check in with me before you leave town."

  She nodded and started down the walk. The crowd parted to make way for her and Adam, who walked at her side.

  "So much for remaining inconspicuous," he remarked.

  She groaned. "It all happened so fast."

  "What happened so fast?"

  "I was just on my way back from the mercantile. I heard a gunshot from the saloon and this man came barreling out. Someone hollered from inside to stop him." She lowered her voice dismally. "So I stopped him."

  "Kill him, Miss Sharpshooter?"

  She looked up at Adam, scowling. "Of course not. I just told him to drop to the ground or I was going to . . ." She moaned. "Why do these things keep happening to me?"

  He laughed, dropping his arm onto her shoulder. "Just the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose."

  "Lot of help you are. My name'll be plastered across every paper this side of the Mississippi by noon tomorrow."

  Adam noted the desperate tone in her voice. "Well, we won't be here much longer. I have an idea you and I might well be taking a train ride."

  "What do you mean?"

  He pulled out a roll of papers that he'd had tucked in his back pocket. "I mean I've got all of the names of the passengers who left Pocatello in the last three weeks."

  "Larry Caine's name is there?" She looked up hopefully.

  "No, but then he wouldn't use his real name. He knows we're onto him. He's been running since we met with him up there in the mountain at that abandoned camp."

  "There must be hundreds of names on that list. How will we ever know if he's one of the passengers?"

  "Because, Jess, criminals follow certain patterns. When they use aliases, the names usually resemble their own. A little luck"—he touched his temple with his forefinger—"a little thought, and we should have our man by suppertime." They reached the Barton Hotel and Adam swung open the door for her. "After you. I don't want to get in your way when you've got that pistol slung on your hips."

  She jabbed him in the stomach as she passed. "Very funny. Now come on, Mr. Deputy Marshal, let's find Larry Caine."

  Jacob Dorchester sat alone at a cor
ner table at the Double Aces Dance Hall on the edge of Pocatello. He watched a scantily clad dancer strut across a platform stage, swinging her hips to the tinny music of a piano.

  He lifted his glass to his lips and sipped his bourbon. "Ah, Jessica, what are you doing here half-naked in front of all of these men?" He murmured to himself. "Why can't you be a good girl?"

  "Excuse me, sir. Mind if I have a seat?"

  Jacob looked up to see a thin, blond-haired man offering his hand.

  "The name's Lansing. Theodore Lansing. Do you mind?" He tossed his bowler hat on the small round table.

  "Actually, sir—"

  Lansing was already taking a seat across from Jacob, and blocking his view of the dancer with the sable-brown hair. "You look lonely. There's nothing like being alone in a strange town." He waved to a painted girl who immediately brought him a drink. "So what's your business, Mr . . . . ?"

  Jacob eyed the intruder. "Dorchester. Jacob Dorchester."

  "Where from?"

  Jacob shifted his chair slightly so that he could see the girl again. She'd been joined on the stage by a uniformed soldier who was twirling her in circles. The two laughed uproariously. Jacob glanced back at Lansing. "Tennessee."

  "My God!" He slapped a palm on the damp wooden table. "Then you'll have to get together with Miss Landon."

  Jacob flinched. "What did you say?"

  Lansing looked up with alarm. He didn't like the tone of the stranger's voice. "I . . . I said you'll have to meet Miss Landon, the female sharpshooter in town. She says she's from Tennessee." He laughed uncomfortably. "Small world, isn't it?"

  Jacob glanced up at the stage and then back at Lansing. His hand tightened on his glass until the novelist thought it might shatter.

  Lansing pushed out of his chair. "Well, guess I ought to be on my way," he said uneasily. He swiped his bowler hat off the table.

  Jacob ignored him.

  Lansing tipped his hat and then hurried away.

  For a long time Jacob just sat there. His Jessica. She was looking for him. But he'd already found her. There she was . . . on the stage, dancing, laughing, her pert breasts bouncing in the soldier's face. Jacob scowled. He signaled to the painted woman serving the drinks. "That girl," he said, pointing to the stage.