He looked over at Mohr‘s ink-stained finger scribbling furiously. “We had spent weeks doing drills. In fact, I still can recite those drills in my sleep.” His voice rose. “Shoulder arms. Company by the left flank! March! Right oblique! March! Forward march! Right wheel march!”
Startled, the Chicago Tribune duo, along with several other customers, all gawked at him.
“And of course, the firing drill,” he continued, starting to breathe hard. “Company load! Fire by files! Ready…aim…Commence firing! Cease fire!”
Bradford poured another round of shots.
“Then came time for the battle. I can tell you, we saw the elephant.”
Both men nodded knowingly.
“But just before the very first shot rang out, I happened to look up toward a nearby ridge and saw a crowd of people having a picnic.”
“What? What in the world do you mean?” Mohr asked.
“Yes, ladies sat there in their fine dresses, men in their top hats, laughing and chatting away as if they were about to watch a new play, and we were the actors.”
He paused and gave them a long hard look. “But all that soon changed.”
The two men sat back.
“All this God forsaken training, and when the final hour came, everyone lost their nerve. Both sides!” He shook his head. “But we were worse than the Rebs. We simply fell apart and went into full retreat. And those fine Washington folk, they were in a panic as well. When we hightailed it back to the city, our troops ran headlong into all those fancy carriages with the fancy Washingtonians in them. I remember the clouds of dust, the horses screaming, women screeching. Lord, it was a nightmare!”
The pause seemed to last forever as Mohr feverishly added more notes.
“Where did you go from there?” he asked.
“Here and there. Was at Gettysburg. You know there was only civilian casualty during the Battle of Gettysburg, and my good friend, Clem, was the one who caused it.”
Suddenly, the men at the bar grew boisterous, the music swelled, and another bottle of whiskey was ordered for their table. When it arrived, the three of them chugged down the next round in unison.
“You say your friend killed a man, the civilian?”
Thomas’s eyes grew sad. “No, it wasn’t a man. It was a young girl, only fifteen years old.”
Both men gasped. “How’d that happen?” Mohr asked.
“By the time we arrived in Gettysburg, we were sick of the stench of war. Fed up with killing men and bone weary from all the diseases that devoured so many of us in camp. And always, the men missing their families something terrible.
“But oddly enough, it was one of those unusually calm mornings. Peaceful, eerie, really, like just before a storm is gonna hit, and the dense air feels like it’s about to burst. We all knew that at any moment, we could catch a load of bullets. Most folks were hiding in their cellars ‘cause even with us Yankees positioned in Gettysburg with them, they knew the Rebs were hiding in the fields, just outside of town, itching to come in and raise hell. So we waited, sweltering in our wool uniforms and boots.
“After days of no real fighting, I’m sure the Rebs were starving, but we were lucky. We had fresh baked bread each morning from a Mrs. Wade and her daughter, Jennie. They’d bake loaf after loaf of bread, then bring it out to their front yard where our troop was resting. If I close my eyes, I can still smell it.” He closed his eyes.
“How fortunate for you all.”
“For us, maybe, but not for her.” Thomas reached for another swallow. “My friend, Clem? While everyone was waiting for that fine bread first thing in the morning, he thought he heard a noise. Then it happened.”
The men tilted forward.
“When we saw a Reb dash across the road, Clem, using his 1860 Henry rifle, aimed and fired. He was taking no chances.”
“And?” Mohr asked.
“When the Reb didn’t fall, we knew something was wrong. Clem never missed. Suddenly, our blood ran cold.”
“What happened?” Jones wanted to know.
Shoulders slumped, the agent reached for the whiskey bottle. “We heard a woman’s scream from inside the house. Then the door flung open, and Mrs. Wade let out the most blood-curdling sound I’d ever heard. ‘My girl, they got my girl!’ she wailed. And Clem? He never recovered. He still shot at the Rebs. In fact, when we were facing the tough Texas Rangers, and most of our troop was being massacred, he picked off quite a few of those sons of bitches before he got killed, but his heart wasn’t in it.”
“You mentioned the Texas Rangers,” Mohr started.
“Yeah. My outfit went further south and came up against the Texas Rangers.”
The photographer cut in. “You said your outfit was mostly wiped out?”
“Yes, they were. All except me and one other soldier from my hometown.”
The two men leaned in, their eyes the size of quarters.
“It was almost the end of the war and by some miracle, we managed to make it. We almost didn’t though. The Rebels had left us for dead, but we crawled our way northward bit by bit and got picked up by a Union troop, thank the Lord.”
“And then?”
“Then we were transported by train up to Washington D.C., where I was laid up in a hospital for a long time, almost a year.”
“That’s a long time,” Mohr commented.
“Yes, indeed.” Thomas took another swig.
Just then, the fiddler started playing Ashokan Farewell. Lyrical, haunting, the entire room turned to listen. Lost in the past, a few of the older men sniffled, a couple more blew their noses self-consciously with crumpled handkerchiefs. When the musician finished, the applause was thunderous.
“How’d you become a Pinkerton? That’s quite a transition.”
Thomas nodded. “I was always good with maps and figures. So when I had finally gotten out of the hospital, my former captain came to visit. He asked me if I could decipher a map code for someone named Alan Pinkerton.”
“And?” Mohr asked.
“It was easy for me. I unraveled it within minutes, and not knowing where I was going next, I accepted a job at the Pinkerton Agency out of Chicago, assigned to deciphering messages. I also performed the agency’s new practice of compiling photographs––mug shots, they called them––and put those together with newspaper clippings to build a more complete profile for different outlaws.”
“You mean like Jesse James and the Younger brothers?”
“Yes, exactly. Those profiles were very helpful.”
“So did you get to know Pinkerton well?”
“At the beginning, I’d say he sort of took me under his wing. Said I reminded him of how he was at my age. Told me…”
“Yes, what did he tell you?” Mohr’s pen was poised in the air.
The room was beginning to sway slightly as Thomas tried to level his eyes on his interviewer. “I don’t think I should.”
Mohr pushed his notes across the table. “Look, no notes. Off the record, I promise,” he said, motioning to the barkeep to bring another round.
“Well,” the agent began, “he told me that he had had a falling out with the President years before. So when Lincoln was killed that fateful night in 1865, Pinkerton felt it was because he wasn’t there to protect him. Never forgave himself.”
Mohr shrugged. “We all have our regrets, don’t we?”
“We certainly do.” Thomas fingered his glass.
Bradford shot a warning glance at Mohr.
“Just a couple more questions, Mr. Garrett, I promise.” He checked through his notes. “You entered the army at a young age. Did you return home? Have you ever been married?”
The Pinkerton’s face hardened. “No. I had hoped to go home and get married but found out there was no reason to return.” He stood up. “Interview’s over, gentlemen.”
Mohr rose unsteadily. “Wait, Jones here needs to take a good likeness of you. He’s set up his camera in a side room. Please, Mr. Garrett, follow him.”<
br />
The photographer and interviewee slowly wended their way through the crowd of drunken, staggering customers as a player piano clanged loudly, and the crash of glass splintered across the floor.
The side room had already been prepared, with a curtain at one end, a high barstool, and two side tables at the other. While Bradford fidgeted with his lenses, Thomas, slightly recovered, waited, deep in thought. All this fuss and bother, and for what? Still have no one to share this with.
“I’ll be ready in a minute, Mr. Garrett.” Bradford popped his head out into the open. “After we’re finished, I have some of my other photographs on the back table in case you’re interested. Ready? Here we go.”
Click–flash! Click-flash! The smell of white ash suddenly filled the room.
After the last film plate was done, Thomas blinked and tried to adjust his eyes to normal light.
“Would you care to see those pictures now?” the photographer asked.
It was the last thing the agent wanted to do, but Chief Deputy Prather’s ‘If you want to continue working at this agency’ loomed large. Stepping over to the back table with Bradford, he was shown the photographer’s oldest pictures first.
One by one, Thomas studied the images of factories, carriages, railroad cars, and all manner of houses, marveling at––in spite of himself––the photographic skill displayed along with the story they each presented. Continuing on, he paused. “When was this picture taken?” he asked, cocking his head slightly.
Bradford looked down at the photograph. “Yes, that was taken at the start of the Nebraska Land Rush of 1856, why?”
The agent leaned in closer over the print. “A couple of people look familiar,” he muttered, pointing to a teenage Minnie and a very young Cora.
“Let me show you my most recent ones,” Bradford said proudly, oblivious to the agent’s quizzical expression.
Extracting several more photos from a leather portfolio, he spread them out on the second table. “Here we are. Now, these were taken at the famous Buffalo Bill Wild West Show in Omaha, just a week ago.”
“Interesting,” the Pinkerton observed, scrutinizing the first two. When he came to the third one, he turned pale. “And this woman?”
Bradford stood next to him. “That was taken at a dinner celebration after the show. Yes, these ladies are definitely special. Actually, they were in that other Land Rush photograph. The Dolan girls: Minnie, Cora, and Cora’s daughter, Ellie. Why do you ask?”
Thomas’ voice turned husky. “Where are they living now, do you know? Is Cora married?”
“They’re living in South Benton, and no, she is not married.”
“Are you sure? I heard a long time ago she was getting married.”
“No, never been, according to Minnie. Do you know them? Here, I have an extra print of the ladies. Please take it. It’s my gift to you.”
Thomas took the photo, his eyes sparkling. “Thank you, Mr. Jones, it’s been a real pleasure!” Gripping the photographer’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically, he then fast-paced it out the door.
* *
“You wanted to discuss my promotion with me, sir?”
Prather nodded. “Yes, Agent Garrett, I do. We need to work out some of the details.”
“And those would be?”
“First of all, this promotion comes with a tremendous amount of responsibility, more than you’ve had before. In fact, a great deal is riding on your performance.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “What are you trying to tell me, Sir?”
“Agent Garrett, as you well know, the entire west is now rife with outlaws. Because of this, my current orders are to start up smaller, secondary offices in towns all across the area to control this menace.” He walked over to a large wall map and pinpointed various spots. “Towns such as Cody, Bear River City, Harville, and Cheyenne here were mentioned. If you were to choose one, which would it be?”
Thomas attempted to appear casual. “Hmm. How about Cheyenne?”
A hop, skip, and a jump from South Benton.
“Cheyenne it is, then.” Sitting down again, Prather continued. “You’ll have to begin packing immediately. Arrangements will be made as far as hotel accommodations are concerned, but once you’re fully installed in the new office, we will send you several agents. Oh, and while you’re waiting for further instructions, get a feel for the community. Check out the local banks and saloons. See how secure they are. Also the whorehouses, if necessary.” He cleared his throat. “All in good time on those, all in good time.”
Prather stared at the paperwork on his desk for a few seconds. “Within a month or so, I will be giving you more procedural information. He stood up.
Smiling, Thomas did the same. “Thank you, sir, for this great opportunity.”
“Not at all, not at all. I know you’ll do an excellent job. Bon voyage, agent, as the French say.”
Thomas turned to go.
“And agent?”
“Yes?”
“Remember our motto: We Never Sleep.”
* *
In all his years, Thomas had never seen so many saloons, not even in Chicago, where the population far outweighed that of Cheyenne’s. Before he left, Prather had never bothered to mention this fact, but the new head agent of the Cheyenne Pinkerton office soon discovered these cheek-to-jowl establishments on his regular evening walks through town.
Highly organized, the powers that be had made certain that there were several saloons for each station in life. Cowboys, after a grueling day of herding cattle, lumbered into their own designated watering holes, where the cheap whiskey and nighttime dancing lasted well into the wee hours of the morning. Miners gratefully entered their taverns, covered from head to toe in soot and choking back tiny black particles permanently embedded in their lungs. Soldiers had their own niche as well, as they swilled down shot glasses of substandard whiskey and complained endlessly about ‘Injun trouble.’
Businessmen and successful merchants were a pampered lot. As more and more educated people came from back east, they expected surroundings befitting their status. At more refined drinkeries, aged, high quality whiskey was available, but more often than not, they treated themselves to champagne.
“You should really visit the Cheyenne Club,” Harriet Coley, the town’s main post office maven advised him a week after his arrival. Whenever he entered, she adopted a flirtatious smile.
“Oh? What is that, might I ask?”
“It’s a place for educated, well-to-do gentlemen such as yourself. Cattle magnates, eastern folks, you know.” She leaned over the counter provocatively, emphasizing all her physical assets.
“I don’t know about the well-to-do part, but I will check them out first chance I get. Good day to you, Miss Coley,” he ended, politely tipping his bowler hat. Outside, he shook his head. It certainly wasn’t the female attention he wanted. He suddenly wondered what Cora was doing right then.
The Cheyenne Club was definitely not his cup of tea. Pretentious, most of the members appeared to be either snobbish, well-to-do eastern businessmen, or rough-around-the-edges cattle magnates, who, despite their lack of education, felt entitled. All of them seemed to live by the same code: The hell with the little man, we’re here to get as rich as we can, at any cost.
He sat with them one evening while they discussed cattle selling, the best ‘ladies’ for one’s every need, and multiple rounds of overflowing champagne glasses.
“I’m telling you, this area is just ripe for the pickin.’ Why, since my wife and I have arrived, my cattle business has quadrupled. A powerful country for powerful people, I always say.”
“Yes. In very short order, we believe we can take over most of Cheyenne in real estate alone.”
Thomas couldn’t help himself. “Aren’t those lands protected by the U.S. government?”
They all swiveled around toward him, their eyes slit like knife scratches.
“Where have you been, mister?” a well-dressed portly man asked
. “Accordin’ to the ‘sell or starve’ rider to the Indian Appropriation Act of 1871, we can take over even more Indian lands than previously agreed upon.”
Laughter exploded everywhere as the cattle magnates slapped their knees, easterners nodded vigorously, and ‘presentable’ waiters stood by, chaffing in their tight uniforms.
The Pinkerton had had enough. Politely excusing himself, he surveyed the crowded room, bowed to the owner, and made a mental note not to return if he could help it. Oh, Mrs. Ana, Cora, Minnie, how real, how comforting you always were.
* *
The next day, his regulation firearm shouldered under his jacket along with his Tower handcuffs, and his Derringer strapped to his right leg, he investigated three local banks. Finding each one’s security woefully inadequate, he finally walked into Sutton Bank and asked to speak with the manager.
“What do you mean we don’t have enough security here?” the bank manager said. “Perhaps you are too used to Chicago, Agent Garrett. Here in Cheyenne, people are basically good. We don’t have any problems.”
“Looking around I see open windows, no lock on your cashier drawer or, judging by how quickly your teller had access to it, your safe. I also saw no guards on the premises.”
“That’s our business, then, isn’t it? I think perhaps you are not as needed in Cheyenne as you think you are. Good day, sir.”
As Thomas turned away, something caught his eye. Across the room, people were patiently waiting in line to see the single teller. An elderly woman with apple cheeks stood in front of a businessman, opening and closing his billfold. Behind him, a mother was scolding her young child, and behind them a cowboy scratched his stubbled cheek with thick, knotty fingers. At the end of the line stood a roughshod man dressed in black, his gun belt hung low. Too low.
Instinctively, Thomas shifted into surveillance mode, pretending to study a map on the wall and glancing at the man every few seconds. Slowly, carefully, he reached into his jacket to unstrap his holster and free his Model 3 Smith & Wesson.
Suddenly, the front door banged open. A masked man charged in, firing several shots into the air. “G’day, folks! Don’t be brave, gist do what we ask ‘n no harm’ll come to you,” he called out to the terrified customers.
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