She gave each of the boys a good, hard rap on his shoulder with the ruler. Instantly, the fighting stopped as everyone in the room turned to stare in horror at their teacher. Stunned, they gazed at her bright red face and hair hanging down in untidy wisps.
“Miss Dolan,” Shaun started.
“Don’t, just don’t,” she said, scooping up her flyaway hair and attempting to put it back into a bun.
Samuel added, “I didn’t mean to …”
“Stop it! Just stop it!” she shouted.
Walking to the front of the room, she dropped the ruler on her desk, and began to straighten the books on the shelves maniacally.
A few of the girls giggled nervously as Joshua raised his hand. “Miss Dolan, can we go on with the geography lesson?”
That did it. “No, Joshua, No! We can’t!” Feeling as if her head was about to explode, she looked around at all the scared faces. “Class dismissed!” she suddenly screeched, then watched them all grab their school bags and run for their lives.
Once they left, the silence was overwhelming. Completely drained, she closed the door and leaning against it, slowly slid down to the floor as deep, silent sobs racked her small frame.
* *
En route to the post office, Cora steeled herself. She knew the moment she stepped into the building, Matthew Johnson, the current postmaster, would be overly attentive. About twice a year, Minnie would comment on what a catch he was, but she always shook her head.
“Matthew Johnson? Oh, please!” she’d scoff.
Entering the post office, she heard the bell tinkle and saw Mr. Johnson look up and beam.
“Why, Cora! What a wonderful surprise.”
“Yes, well, I have an important telegram to send.”
His hurt look reminded her of that night after the dance.
“Of course,” he grunted and offered her a pencil and paper. She quickly wrote a confirmation to Latham, then watched him go to his telegraph machine, sit down, and start tapping.
While she waited, she noticed a new ‘WANTED’ poster of the Soltano Gang. On closer inspection, she inferred that both José and Guillermo Soltano had come from somewhere south of the border. Dark hair, near black eyes, dark handle-bar mustaches, one was wearing an American slouch hat, the other, a black sombrero.
“The whole town’s talkin’ ‘bout ‘em, Cora. Scared half out of their wits they are,” the postmaster said.
She nodded, frowning.
He continued. “Fact is, don’t know what you’re up to with them Pinkertons, but it’s a good thing, if I get your telegraph right.”
She swung around. “Please, Matthew, please, you mustn’t tell a soul about this, do you hear me?”
He stared at her for a couple of seconds, drew his fingers slowly across his mouth, and winked. “My lips are sealed.”
Oh, brother. As she left, she knew he was probably following her every movement outside.
* *
That night Ellie admitted to Minnie she was mortified. “I’m just like Mama now. To lose control like that in front of my students was so unprofessional, so unlike me,” she cried, dabbing her eyes with Minnie’s cotton handkerchief.
“Ellie, you’re not like your mama. Her hurts have been a part of her for a very long time. This pain is new to you, and you’re allowed to show a little anger. You’re grieving, honey,” Minnie cooed, cradling her niece against her bony shoulders as Pete walked in.
He took one look at the two of them and shook his head. “I know this must be a female conversation, and it isn’t my business, but could I place an addendum?”
They both looked up at him.
“Ellie, you’re a very special young lady, but sometimes love goes astray. As Shakespeare said, Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.” He thought a moment, then added, “But he also said, This above all; to thine own self be true.”
“Good ol’, Pete, thank you. I’ll try to remember that.” Ellie nodded, sniffling.
* *
The incoming storm was fiercer than Cora had expected. Thunder drummed furiously, sheets of rain whipped down at forty-five degree angles, shops closed early, and shutters were locked up tight. Nonetheless, she was surprised to see a few customers make it over to Madam Ana’s that night, proving lust outweighed common sense. To Minnie’s and Cora’s credit, instead of penalizing their girls, they announced that any unchosen dove without a john would be allowed a drink of real whiskey, not their usual cold tea laced with molasses.
Most of the customers there were regulars: Pete, of course, reminiscing about his wife of long ago; Neely, a hired cowpoke who always made a beeline for Marlena, Billy M., who used his forefinger to play ‘Eenie Meenie Miney Mo’ when choosing a girl for the night, and Malcolm, a bowler-hatted dandy with a penchant for dark-haired gals. For the household, it was a peaceful night. Cora was supervising the parlor, and Minnie ended up telling some of her newest jokes.
“Did you hear the one ‘bout the one legged man and his horse?”
“No! Tell us!” The entire room roared.
She was about to open her mouth when the front door flew open, making everyone jump. A sopping wet stranger in a black slouch hat and a dripping black duster stood in the foyer, blinking his eyes and wiping his brow.
“Dang! It sure is rainin’ cats n’ dogs out there tonight!” he croaked.
Minnie approached. “It sure is, honey. You look like a fish outa water. Step in by the fire while I hang up your coat and hat.”
He was a tall, grizzled man with just a hint of gray, and when he removed his hat and coat, people paused, drinks in hand, and stared. Running down his neck was a long, purple, rope-like scar.
“Now that’s quite a scar,” Pete remarked, already started on a bender.
The man shrugged. “The war. Couldn’t help it.”
Cora, standing nearby, cocked her head slightly. She wasn’t buying it. “Where did you fight in the war?”
“Oh, here and there. What’s it to you, lady?”
With respectful nods, the girls went about their business, sashaying coquettishly around the room in their satin and crinoline outfits, angling for an offer. Looking over at Minnie, he tilted his head slightly. “Any whiskey for a worn out stranger?” he asked.
“Sure ‘nough, honey, that’ll be two bits, unless you wanna make it part of the girl’s price.”
A cynical smile crept across his face.
“So, you wanna talk biznis right away? Out in Cheyenne, we do it different. Okay, sister, let’s deal. How much fer one of these?” He swatted his hand toward the doves. “These here heffers.”
Cora saw the girls stiffen. “There aren’t any ‘heffers’ here, mister, just ladies,” she said, her eyes narrowed, her voice chilling.
He scrutinized each dove. “I’ll take her!” He pointed a sinewy finger at Rosie.
Frozen, the girl looked over at Cora wide-eyed, like a lamb headed for slaughter.
Minnie turned to the man. “Honey, she’s kinda new. You want someone with more experience, I imagine. Anyone else tickle your fancy?”
He made a fast sweep of the room. “Nope. She’s the one. Now, where’s my drink?”
Plunking down far more cash than Minnie had quoted, he shuffled over to Rosie, grabbed her arm and yanked her over to where Minnie had begun pouring him his drink. Still clutching the dove, he tossed the whiskey down his gullet without even wincing, then started up the stairs.
“Wait a minute,” Cora called out. “You can’t just grab her like that.”
At the top of landing, he looked down at her and laughed. “Which room, Sister?”
“None. Let the girl go. Right now,” Cora snarled.
“Hell, any room will do,” and pushing Rosie in front of him, disappeared from sight.
“I don’t know, about this, Cora, Minnie,” Pete said after several seconds.
Minnie gulped. “Sorry, Cora. He did give a lot of cash, I…”
“That’s it!” Cora cried and suddenl
y left the room.
“Where did Mrs. Cora go? Ain’t she gonna help Rosie? He’s probably already done something bad to her by now.” Marlena said, her voice trembling.
Cora charged back into the room, armed with a shotgun. Shouldering it, she flew up the staircase two steps at a time.
One door after another was flung open, until a scream from the end of the hall pierced through everything.
Running toward the sound, Cora burst into the room.
Rosie was on the bed, her outfit ripped to shreds, her thighs bruised.
“Oh, no, you DON’T!” Cora eyeballed his discarded pants and his pistol lying on a side table.
Legs apart, gun firmly held, she stared him down. “Now, get away from her, you bastard.”
He wiped his nose with his hand and stepped back a foot from the bed.
“Rosie, get out of the room,” Cora commanded.
He smirked. “Now, you know you ain’t gonna use that shotgun on me.”
She pulled the trigger and hit the bedside table four inches from him. “Oh, yeah?” she snarled, watching him flinch. “You wanna bet on that?”
Off to one side, Minnie stood in the doorjamb, a large kitchen knife in her hand.
“All right, all right, I’m leaving!” Jerking on his pants, he started to reach for his gun, but seeing Cora’s face, pulled back his hand.
Out on the porch he tried again. “My gun, ma’am.” He tipped his hat with mock politeness.
“You can pick it up from the sheriff’s tomorrow,” Cora said.
“Hell, I want my gun now, you bitch!”
“Start walking,” she said and watched him turn around and head off the porch. A few paces out, he turned around.
“Don’t you dare,” Cora growled and aimed the rifle at him again.
He put up his hands. “All right, all right. I’ll get it tomorrow.” Turning toward the street again, he quickly vanished into the darkness, his cackling floating behind him.
Cora drew a shaky breath, opened the front door, and went inside.
The parlor exploded with thunderous applause.
“Good for you, Mrs. Cora!”
“Hip-hip-hurray!” surrounded her as Rosie came over. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She flung her arms around her employer.
Later, Minnie sat on their bed and sighed. “You see? We can take care of ourselves.”
Cora shifted on the bed, still quivering. “We got lucky this time. He was probably just a drifter. But some of those outlaws coming out of Wyoming? We probably could use a Pinkerton, after all.”
* *
A week later, the front door bell rang. Ellie, still on tenterhooks, in spite of word about a Wild West Show extension, was teaching, Pete was sleeping it off in one of the upstairs rooms, and Minnie and Cora were busy in their office, bickering over accounting issues.
“Minnie, I’ve told you a thousand times, bookkeepers always use this column for Accounts Payable, this column for Accounts Receivable.”
“Well, soon, we’ll have us a real bookkeeper to help us out,” Minnie said.
“No, remember he’s mostly here to protect us. He probably won’t know a thing about this.”
Suddenly, a tall blonde dove named Sasha knocked timidly on their opened door.
“Yes, come in,” Cora said, one hand on her hip, the other clasping the ledger book to her chest.
“Ah…” started Sasha, looking like the cat who ate the canary.
“Out with it, Sasha. I haven’t got all day.”
She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Cora, Miss Minnie, there’s a nice gentleman of the first water out on the porch. Says he’s your new bookkeeper. Shall I let him in?” she asked. “He sure cuts a good swell, like a real thoroughbred!”
The two sisters eyed each other. “Might as well,” Minnie answered. As soon as Sasha left, she turned to Cora. “Let’s see what Pinkerton’s finest has to offer.”
Cora nodded. “Has to be better than the men we’ve interviewed.”
Instantly they broke out laughing. They were still giggling when Sasha returned. Hesitating, the dove stood at their office door and waited.
“Sasha, do bring him in,” Cora directed.
As the Pinkerton stepped into the doorframe, Minnie stared at him, wide-eyed, and Cora had to sit down.
CHAPTER TEN
“We Never Sleep”
The last twenty-plus years had been kind to Thomas Garrett, or so he’d been told. He had survived the gripping horrors of war and evaded the ravages of disease so many of his fellow soldiers could not. Yet throughout, he never escaped the growing ache in his heart, planted so many years before. Solid and sturdy as an eighteen-year-old, at forty, he was robust and muscular under his crisp black suit, stiff collar, and string cravat. With his Pinkerton regulation-length hair and a dark, close-cropped beard, he cut a dashing figure that often gave the ladies pause.
But he barely noticed their glances. He was too hell bent on hunting down outlaws, while he avoided facing his empty life. Relentless, he was known to work twenty-four hour days, interview key witnesses in the driving rain, and if need be, forego holiday festivities. It all paid off. His superior, Chief Deputy James Prather, recognizing quality, rewarded him at every step as he climbed the organizational ladder, and by 1880, he became Head Agent at the Springfield, Illinois branch of the Chicago Pinkerton Detective Agency.
In certain districts, he had become a bit of a celebrity, leading to both compliments and resentments. So when he dragged himself in one morning, bleary-eyed from an all-night surveillance, he had mixed feelings about the ‘good’ news he had received.
“Do you have a moment, Agent Garrett?” Prather called out from his office.
Nodding, Thomas walked past two male secretaries, who stopped sorting papers to grin up at him.
“Have a seat. I assume you have received the Chief’s letter from Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Quite an honor, wouldn’t you say?” his supervisor remarked, leaning back in his new leather chair.
Thomas tried hard to look enthusiastic. “Of course, sir. Looking forward to it.”
“Good. By the way, I have received word about your appointed interview time with the Chicago Tribune journalist. It has been scheduled for next Tuesday evening at Susannah’s Place on Halsted Street. Seven o’clock. Any questions?”
“Yes, I do. If I may, what is the reason for this article?”
“I’ve told the head office all about you, Garrett, and even Alan Pinkerton himself thought it might be a good strategy to let the people of Chicago know a little more about an agent who represents us Pinkertons so well, an agent who keeps them all safe.
“I don’t really think I’m the best person to do this, sir.”
“Look, Garrett,” he persisted, “after the Pinkerton fiasco with the Younger Brothers’ house burning down and killing their little brother, the agency needs all the good publicity they can get.”
“I understand, but…”
“Agent Garrett. I know you are not, shall we say, pleased, with Pinkerton’s ‘The end justifies the means’ philosophy, but frankly, at this juncture, you’re needed, so if you wish to continue working in this agency, you’ll do the interview. Understood?”
Thomas shifted in his seat. “Trust me, sir, I’m very grateful to this agency. I’m just a little concerned about his sons who are taking it in another direction by cracking the heads of some labor leaders.”
“Yes, those incidents were regrettable.” Prather started shuffling papers. “I know you can handle this, Agent Garrett. Just answer the questions and don’t make us look bad. That should be simple enough, right?”
Susannah’s Place was aptly named. Above the carved mahogany bar hung a gold-framed painting of a mermaid, smoking a pipe with a small brass plaque underneath that read, ‘Susannah lives here.’
Thomas gaped at the unique painting for a few seconds before scouring the room for the journalist. Embossed metal ceilings
, wide crown moldings, and wooden floors surrounded him while off to one side, a lone fiddler was softly playing Oh Susannah. Men in bowlers, derbies, top hats, Stetsons, and homburgs sat on the bar stools guzzling one whiskey after another as he spied two men sitting at a corner table set against a far wall. They motioned him over.
After he sat down, one of them opened the conversation. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Elijah Mohr, sent over from the Chicago Tribune to write an article about you. Mr. Bradford Jones here is going to take a few photographs afterwards. Any questions before we begin?”
“Yes. Why me?”
Taken aback, Mohr turned to his companion. “A modest fellow, isn’t he?” He chuckled. “Word has it you have an excellent reputation, Mr. Garrett, so my paper would like to share parts of your story with the good people of Chicago.”
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“I doubt that,” Mohr said. He took out a pen and several sheets of paper from his satchel. “For example, did you participate in the war?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “I was part of the 10th regiment, out of Illinois.”
“So you’re from around there, then?”
A shadow crossed the Pinkerton’s face. “No, I didn’t say that. I just signed up there in ‘61, that’s all.”
“All right. What was your rank in the 10th?”
“At first, private.”
“What fighting did you experience as a private?”
“I partook in the First Bull Run.”
“Exciting!”
“Not really,” Thomas said, grabbing one of the filled shot glasses in front of him and taking a swig.
“Why don’t you tell us about it, then?”
Sighing, Thomas began. “I remember, both sides were in a state of panic. Green as grass we all were and shaking in our boots. To make matters worse, everyone was certain, whether you were a Reb or a Yankee, they’d all be going home soon, victorious.” He drifted back in time. “I can still remember what a searing hot July day it was, the air so thick we choked on it.”
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