Once in Salt Lake City I saw a hot air balloon rise up into the blue sky. My heart felt like that balloon. I felt I could float up into the air and be carried along by a joyful breeze.
Then someone was shaking me and I felt a series of stinging slaps on my cheeks.
I opened my eyes and saw a face swim into view: the wrinkled and sallow face of an old man.
He seemed to be the wisest man who ever lived and I gazed at him happily.
“Chop, chop!” he said with a scowl. “Your lady friend going, so you must go, too!”
Sitting up, I banged my head on the low rock roof of the cave. This reminded me to put my straw plate hat on again. The cold earth floor reminded me to put on my wooden-soled sandals, waiting for me at the door. I emerged into the frosty night. The snow had stopped & the sky had cleared & a million stars blazed overhead.
My head was throbbing & I felt groggy & stupid. However, a few deep breaths of the icy air brought me to my senses just in time to see Belle disappear into one of the dark alleys of Chinatown. I hurried after her. By the time I caught up I still had a headache but at least I felt more alert.
“Belle!” I said, tugging her sleeve. “Belle, stop!”
She turned and looked at me, a frown creasing her smooth forehead. Her hair was half undone and wisps fell down around her bare shoulders. The fog around us had lifted and the dim lights of a few hanging paper lanterns showed me that her pretty pink and red dress was ripped at the bodice.
“Who are you?” she said. “What do you want?”
“It is me: P.K.”
She stared at me. “P.K.?”
I nodded. “I am in disguise like a Detective. You can’t go back to your crib, Belle. Walt and his men are after me now, and they might look for me there. They are real mad at you and if they find you they will carve you up alive.”
She looked at me & then her lower lip quivered & she began to cry. “Oh, P.K.!” she said. “I am scared. I had a dream they came when I was down at Ah Sing’s.”
“They did come,” I said. “And Boz was about to blow your brains out.”
“They tore my best dress,” said Belle. “And they robbed me. And you say I can’t go home? What will I do!”
“I know a safe place,” I said. “You can come with me. Then tomorrow you can get the first stagecoach out of town.”
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, P.K. I am sorry I tied you up and robbed you. It’s just that I love to smoke a pipe. It is the only thing that brings me joy in this godforsaken place.”
We climbed up steep and snowy Taylor Street, keeping alert for shadows that might be Walt and his pards. My head still throbbed & I was also dizzy & a little sick from the Opium Smoke or the thin air or both. Once I slipped but Belle helped me up. We were both trembling with cold by the time we reached B Street. It was still lively and busy up there, even though it was probably 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning. The busy boardwalk made me feel safe but I did not breathe a sigh of relief until we stood outside the front door of Isaiah Coffin’s Ambrotype & Photographic Gallery. I fished in my medicine pouch & pulled out the key with frozen fingers & the door opened with a welcome tinkle of the bell.
It was dark in there but not too cold and there was enough light from the street torches for us to see. I showed Belle the buffalo skin draped over the couch that I had been dreaming of. She lay down on the couch & wrapped the buffalo skin around her & closed her eyes.
I was tired, too, but I knew I had to take my Letter to the Recorder’s Office first thing the next morning. I did not think they would let me in if I was dressed as a Celestial. And what if Walt remembered seeing a young Chinese boy in the restaurant & in the Opium Den, and put two and two together? Also, my pants were damp & cold from where I had slipped in the snow and fallen down.
Tired as I was, I found some matches and lit a lamp and went back into the costume closet next door.
I took off my damp Celestial outfit & wooden clogs & I chose the smartest suit of clothes I could find. Striped serge pantaloons, a starched white linen shirt, a red velvet waistcoat & a blue jacket with brass buttons. I had to roll up the cuffs of the pants and the sleeves of the shirt, but the jacket fit all right. I found an old plug hat & shiny black brogans. They were all too big, but I used folded newspaper to line the hat and three pairs of woolen socks to make the shoes fit more snugly.
As I sat on the chair to lace them up, I thought of my school shoes & that made me think of Ma & Pa lying in a pool of blood among the scattered flour on the bare floorboards of our little log cabin down in Temperance. I felt a wave of dizziness & my heart was racing, so I sat & took a few deep breaths until it passed.
Then I stood & looked at myself in the mirror.
I tried to view myself as a stranger might.
The lamplit reflection showed a boy with short black hair, a muddy complexion & slightly slanting black eyes. My face betrayed no expression. I tried smiling but it looked strange & felt even stranger.
I found a comb & some hair oil & slicked my short hair back from my forehead. Now I looked like the son of a prosperous banker or stockbroker. Spanish maybe. Or Italian. Even Cornish. Some of the Cornish miners in Dayton have real dark hair & eyes.
“Rather,” I said, in an English accent. I am good at doing an English accent because my foster ma came from England & I had lived with her for two years.
I checked that my Letter was in my medicine pouch and I discovered I still had the folded wanted poster of Walt and two dollar bills in there as well. I tried putting my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter in the right-hand pocket of my trousers. It fit nicely. I had promised Ma Evangeline I would not kill anyone but it felt good to have it there all the same.
There were no blankets back there but I found the heavy woolen overcoat of a Union officer and I wrapped that around myself.
I blew out the lamp and went back into the gallery to make sure Belle was still there.
She was fast asleep and snoring softly. Lying there wrapped in a buffalo skin before the dimly lit scene of the Great Plains, she reminded me a little of my Indian ma.
I lay down behind the couch on a Brussels carpet & took out my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter & checked the cylinder & put it on the floor beside me.
The floor beneath the carpet was hard & cold and I doubted I would get much sleep, but when I closed my eyes I went out like a candle in a gale.
Ledger Sheet 27
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE to the sound of a tinkling bell & the smell of fresh coffee.
I opened my eyes.
I was in a room with a partly glass roof that showed blue sky.
For a moment I could not think where I was.
Then it all came flooding back.
I had spent half the night in an Opium Den down in Chinatown and now I was protecting a Soiled Dove named Belle from desperados who wanted to torture and kill us both.
I heard the door close and from underneath the couch I could see a pair of shiny black shoes and the cuffs of a pair of gray trousers.
Then a man’s voice exclaimed, “Sacray blur! Who are you?”
“Oh, hello, sir,” came Belle’s sleepy voice. I heard the couch above me creak. “My name is Belle Donne. Who are you?”
“I am Isaiah Coffin, the owner of this establishment. I demand to know what you are doing on my couch.” He had an accent like Ma Evangeline’s and I deduced from this that he was English.
Belle said, “I am sheltering here from three desperados who want to kill me. P.K.?” she said. “Are you here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and stood up.
“Zounds!” said Isaiah Coffin as he saw me rising up from behind the couch. “What is going on here?”
Brilliant sunlight from the east-facing window illuminated the man standing in the open doorway. Isaiah Coffin
wore a black stovepipe hat & a blue frock coat & a red cravat. He had symmetrical features. His hair was light brown & his eyes were gray. He had a feathery blond mustache & billy goat beard. In one hand he held a key & in the other a pot of coffee. He also had a folded newspaper under one arm.
“I am a friend of Ping’s,” I said. “He gave me a key to your shop.”
“Ping!” said the man, putting down the coffeepot and paper and replacing the key in his vest pocket. “When I get my hands on him!”
“I am sorry!” cried Ping, squeezing past Isaiah Coffin and into the room. “I am sorry! I told him not to touch anything.” Ping’s eyes opened wide when he saw Belle. Then he narrowed them again & looked at me & mouthed something I could not understand.
Isaiah Coffin ignored Ping and removed his stovepipe hat and placed it on the hat rack. Then he frowned. “Is that one of my costumes?” he said to me. Then he looked at Belle. “And is that my buffalo skin?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I am sorry.” She shrugged it off to reveal her torn dress.
Isaiah Coffin’s eyes grew wide when he saw her state of disarray. So did Ping’s.
“Sacray blur!” said Isaiah Coffin, shielding his eyes as if from the blazing sun. “Please cover yourself, madame.”
“But I have nothing else to wear.”
Isaiah Coffin gestured towards the costume closet. “Find yourself something in there,” he said. “But leave that dress of yours as collateral. And you!” Here he turned to address me. “You say you are a friend of Ping’s?”
“He’s not my friend,” said Ping. “But he will soon be rich. He will pay me five hundred dollar cash and he will pay you for wearing clothes.” Ping looked at me. “Won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, putting the plug hat on my head. “Yes, I will. In about an hour or so I will be a millionaire.”
“What did you say your name was?” asked Isaiah Coffin. He had a way of standing very straight but with his shoulders slightly back.
“My name is P.K. Pinkerton,” I said in an English accent like his.
“P.K. Pinkerton,” he said. “Unusual name.”
“Isaiah Coffin,” I said. “Unusual name.”
“Tooshay,” he said. His eyes had a kind of twinkle in them.
I said, “Beg pardon?”
He said, “Tooshay is French for ‘you got me there.’”
He took a mug from a shelf near the hat rack and poured himself a cup of black coffee.
I said, “I am partial to coffee, too. Black, no sugar.”
“Are you indeed?”
He found a china teacup from a decorative tea set on a table & poured me a cup.
“Ping?” said Isaiah Coffin. “Would you like some coffee, too?”
“No, boss,” said Ping. “I like tea.” He was still scowling at me.
“I like coffee,” came a female voice from the clothes cupboard. “Cream and three sugars.”
“Ping,” said Isaiah Coffin. “Go fill this jug with cream from the Colombo Restaurant.” He handed Ping a small jug decorated with rosebuds.
Ping shot me a final scowl and left the shop.
I sat on Isaiah Coffin’s couch. It was still faintly warm from Belle’s body. I blew on the surface of my coffee and took a sip. I remembered to lift my little finger as Ma Evangeline had taught me. I was beginning to realize that wearing different clothes made me feel different. This getup made me feel high-toned and confident.
“Make yourself at home,” said Isaiah Coffin, raising one eyebrow.
“Thank you,” I replied.
He rolled his eyes and came to sit next to me. “Tell me,” he said. “Who are these ‘desperados’ after that young woman?”
“Actually, they are after me,” I said. My English accent made me use bigger words. “They are called Whittlin Walt, Extra Dub and Boz Burton. They killed my foster parents down in Temperance and then scalped them to make it look as if Indians did it.”
His smile vanished & I saw the blood drain from his face.
“Whittlin Walt?” he said.
I said, “Yes. They call him that because he likes to whittle pieces off his victims while quoting Walt Whitman.” I removed the folded wanted poster from my medicine pouch & handed it to him.
He opened it and his gray eyes widened.
“D-mn me!” said Isaiah Coffin & then added, “Pardon my French.”
I knew he did not really mean pardon his French. He meant pardon him saying a word that would send him straight to that Fiery Place. I was coming to realize that everybody in Virginia cussed like drunken mule-drivers.
I was putting the folded wanted poster back in my medicine bag when the door opened with a tinkle and Ping put his head in. “Colombo Restaurant closed,” he said.
Still using my English accent, I said, “That is probably because Titus Jepson lost the tip of his pinkie last night and wants to preserve his remaining digits.”
“D-mn me!” said Isaiah Coffin. He forgot to ask me to pardon his French. To Ping he said, “Well, go somewhere else then.” To me he said, “Why is he after you?”
I said, “I have a document he wants. Mr. Dan De Quille of the Territorial Enterprise said it was the Holy Grail of the Comstock and that it could make ‘The Bearer’ a millionaire.”
He took a sip of coffee & stared into his cup. “P.K., old chap, you should be careful whom you trust. Don’t go around telling everybody you have a valuable letter that could make the bearer a millionaire.”
“That is good advice,” I said, also taking a sip of coffee. “I can never tell whom to trust and whom not to trust.”
“May I give you some more good advice?” said Isaiah Coffin. “In this town, don’t trust anybody. There’s only one reason people come to Virginia, and that is Mammon. Everyone who comes here wants gold or silver or money of some sort.”
“Even you?” I said.
“Even me.” He finished his coffee & put the cup on the floor. “I might suggest that you could trust Mr. S.B. Rooney—the pastor here in Virginia—but I have never darkened the door of his church so I cannot be sure.”
I saw his eyes widen as he looked over my shoulder. It was Expression No. 4: Surprise.
I turned to see that Belle Donne had reappeared from the clothing cupboard. She was wearing a starched white bonnet and a black dress that buttoned all the way up to her chin. She was warming her hands in a fur muff.
“Why, you are quite transformed, Miss Donne,” said Isaiah Coffin, rising to his feet. “You look just like a schoolmarm.”
“I know,” said Belle. “Hideous, ain’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Isaiah Coffin. “I find it quite charming.”
“P.K.,” said Belle. “Did I hear you say you had recovered that Letter?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I intend to take it to the Recorder’s Office up on A Street right now.”
She said, “I am afraid that is not going to happen.”
She let her muff drop to the ground and lifted a Colt’s Baby Dragoon and pointed it at us.
“Hands up,” said Belle. “Both of you. Give me that Letter, P.K. And no funny business.”
I thought, “That Belle has tricked me once again.”
I also thought, “I cannot even tell when someone is about to draw down on me.”
And finally, “How can I ever be a Detective?”
Ledger Sheet 28
MY THORN HAD BETRAYED ME, but my Gift—my keen observational skills—might save me yet.
Belle Donne was aiming a cocked Colt’s Baby Dragoon Revolver at my chest. It had an ivory grip. I recognized it from the clothing cupboard.
“Give me that Letter,” she said. “Then no harm will come to you.”
“That is unfair,” I said. �
��I risked my life to save you.”
“It is true,” said Belle, “that you have been kind to me. I do not want to shoot you. But I will if I have to. Now give me that Letter.”
“Very well,” I said.
I stood up.
“What are you doing?” she said.
I told a lie. “The Letter is in my pocket,” I said. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter & drew down on her.
She quickly aimed her Colt at my leg and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
“What the hell?” she said.
I cocked my piece. “I recognized that Colt from the clothing cupboard,” I said. “It is unloaded and busted. Now get your hands up.”
“You will not shoot me,” she said with Expression No. 3: Disgust.
I fired into the ceiling, just missing the sky-window. My shot brought down a satisfying shower of dust & plaster. I cocked my gun again.
Belle cursed in language unfit for publication but she lifted her hands.
Isaiah Coffin chuckled and started to lower his.
“Both of you,” I said. “Keep your hands up.” I pointed my gun at Belle. “You,” I said. “Sit on the couch with your back to him.”
“D-mn you,” said Belle. But she did as I asked.
“Mr. Coffin,” I said. “Would you please remove your cravat and bind her hands behind her?”
“Which is it to be?” Isaiah Coffin asked me. “Do you want me to keep my hands up or bind her hands?”
“Bind her hands. I am going to tie you up to her.”
Isaiah Coffin removed his cravat and began to bind Belle’s wrists.
“I do not understand why you are doing this to me,” he said.
“You told me not to trust anybody,” I said. “And I think that is good advice.”
“Tooshay,” he said, and then, “Vwa la!” as he finished tying her wrists. “Now what?”
“Take off your shoes,” I said, “and pull out the laces.”
Isaiah Coffin bent over and began to take off his shoes.
The Case of the Deadly Desperados Page 10