“I want a picture of this woman, holding this newspaper. And I want it clear enough that you can read the date on the paper. Now, can you do that, or not?”
“Yes, of course I can do that.”
Mary Kate did not say a word, but let Dysart pose her, then give her the newspaper to hold. She told herself that seeing the picture would comfort her mother and father. Also Ackerman had warned her that if she said or did anything that would be disruptive, he would kill the photographer and his wife.
“Now, I’m going to put this little support behind your head,” Dysart said. “If you will just lean your head back into it, it will help you keep a perfectly still pose.”
Mary Kate did as asked, feeling the Y-shaped brace supporting her head.
“Now, remain perfectly still,” Dysart said as he reached his hand down to the lens cover. He pulled the cover off. “Look at the water, look at the trees, look at the clover all filled with bees,” he said in a singsong voice. He replaced the cover.
“You’ll have this picture in a week,” Dysart said.
“Wrong. I will have it before I leave this building,” Ackerman said.
“Oh, but sir, I couldn’t possibly do that. I have many other pictures waiting to be developed. It wouldn’t be fair to put your picture ahead of all the others.”
“How much are you going to charge for taking this picture?”
“That will be a dollar and a half.”
“I will give you three dollars if you will develop the picture now,” Ackerman said.
Dysart smiled. “Three dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, sir. If you and your lovely daughter will wait here, I’ll have the picture for you within fifteen minutes.”
“Do you have an envelope that we can mail the picture in?”
“Yes, sir, but it will cost you fifteen cents.”
“I’ll give you twenty-five cents if you will also furnish some paper and a pen.”
“Nancy, provide the gentleman with a piece of paper and a pen,” Dysart said.
The woman provided the paper, and Ackerman had Mary Kate write a letter to her parents.
“Remember, I am going to read it,” Ackerman said.
Dear Mama and Papa—
I am all right. I hope someone took care of Johnny. I hope you can do what it takes to get me home again. I love you.
Mary Kate
When Mary Kate finished the letter, she showed it to Ackerman who read it, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “This will do.”
A few minutes later Dysart came back into the room, holding the photograph. “Here it is, sir.”
Ackerman took a quick look at it, then put it, Mary Kate’s letter, and one that he had written into the big envelope. He paid Dysart, then left.
“What a lovely young woman,” Dysart said to his wife after Ackerman left. “Do you suppose she is mute?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Purgatory, Montana Territory
The town of Purgatory could not be found on any map. And whereas most towns would resent that omission, the residents of Purgatory did not take exception to it. In fact, they went to great lengths to see to it that their town wasn’t put on any maps, for they valued their privacy. Purgatory was a town founded, and occupied, by outlaws.
As Fong and Hood rode into town, they saw very few people on the street, and those who were moved quickly and with purpose. No one lingered for conversation. They headed toward the saloon at the far end of town. Painted in red on the false front of the saloon were the words BLOODY BUCKET. Beside the word was a picture of a bucket, with streaks of red streaming down its sides.
“You think Moss is still here?” Hood asked as the two men dismounted in front of the saloon.
“As far as I know he is,” Fong said. “Me ’n him discovered this place several years back. He decided he would stay here. It’s safe here, there don’t law ever come here . . .” Fong paused in midsentence to chuckle. “Maybe I ought to say that the law does come here, but they don’t never leave. Anyhow, like I was sayin’, it’s safe here, but there ain’t that much to do. I got bored and moved on. Better I should ’a stayed.”
The two men went into the saloon, then stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.
“Damn, that’s good,” Hood said. “How come, you think, they don’t let us have beer in prison?”
“I don’t know,” Fong said. “I ain’t ever been able to figure that out.”
“How we goin’ to make us a livin’ while we’re here?” Hood asked.
“Ever’ now ’n then some of the boys here gets together and goes somewhere to pull a job. Then they come back here. I reckon we can do somethin’ like that.”
Fong turned around to look over the saloon’s customers, then, seeing a couple of people he recognized, he smiled.
“Come on,” he said to Hood. “Let me introduce you to some folks.”
When Fong and Hood approached the table the two men looked up, expressions showing their irritation at being interrupted. Then they recognized Fong and both of them smiled.
“Fong, damn, where’ve you been for the past year?” one of the two men asked. He was short and clean shaven, with very dark hair. The other was tall, lanky, and with a drooping eye.
“In prison for some of the time,” Fong said. “Dingus Burke and Bob Pell, meet my pard, Harvey Hood. Me ’n him busted out of prison a couple weeks back now.”
“So you figured to come here and hide out, did you?”
“Yeah,” Fong replied. “Onliest thing is, me ’n him’s both near ’bout broke, and we’re goin’ to have to find some way to make some money.”
“You’ll find some money. They’s always someone puttin’ together a job of one kind or another, and they’ll be lookin’ for men.”
“Is Moss still hanging around, or is he long gone?” Fong asked.
Burke laughed. “Moss is our town marshal now.”
“Marshal?” Hood asked in surprise. He looked over at Fong. “I thought you told me there wasn’t no law in this town.”
Burke and Pell both laughed.
“It ain’t the kind of law you’re thinkin’ about,” Fong said. “This here law is only to keep peace in the town. It kind ’a settles things. Otherwise there would no doubt be a lot of killin’s in town.”
“There already is a lot of killin’s in town,” Pell said. “But as long as both parties is armed, there ain’t much made of it.”
“And merchants we have in town, the saloon, the café, the hotel, the goods store, they say they won’t stay here unless there’s some kind of law. And we need them to stay,” Burke added. “Else, what’s the purpose of havin’ a town?”
“Are they outlaws, too?” Hood asked.
“Not actual outlaws. I mean, as far as I know, there ain’t none of ’em actual wanted by the law or anything. But bein’ here with all us sort of makes ’em outlaws,” Burke replied.
“There’s Moss now,” Pell said.
Fong went over to talk to Moss.
“I’ll be damned,” Moss said, shaking Fong’s hand. “I figured you was dead by now.”
“Not yet,” Fong said. “I see you ain’t left, yet.”
“I don’t plan to. I got me a good thing goin’ here.”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” Fong said. “I expect you purt’ nigh run the town, don’t you?”
“No, that would be Major Ackerman.”
“Who?”
“Major Ackerman. You mean you ain’t never heard of him?” Moss asked.
“I can’t say as I have. Who is he?”
“He was a high-rankin’ army officer oncet, and now he’s got him a whole bunch of men that he calls Ackerman’s Raiders. They’re robbin’ and such, and there can’t nobody do nothin’ to stop ’em. He spends a lot of time here in Purgatory between jobs, and when he’s here, well because he’s got his own private army so to speak, why, he is king of the roost.”
“And there don’t nobody complain?” Fon
g asked.
“No. Why would they? When Major Ackerman and his men are here, why they ain’t no sheriff’s posse, no United States Marshals posse, not even the United States Army would be able to come in here and take out as much as one person. We’re as safe here as we would be inside a fort.”
Fong smiled. “That’s what I like.”
Deer Lodge
The next day Edward picked up the envelope, which had again been dropped into the Cottonwood mailbox. Taking it back, they looked at the photograph.
“Look at the date on the newspaper,” Matthew said. “It was yesterday.”
“Yes, no doubt he had her hold the newspaper just to establish the date,” Falcon said.
Megan read the letter from Mary Kate. “She doesn’t say much.”
“I’m sure she said just what Ackerman told her to say,” Falcon said.
“I see that Ackerman also included a letter,” Edward said.
“What does he have to say?” Megan asked.
Colonel Hamilton,
As you can clearly see by the enclosed photograph, your daughter is alive and well. I am sure we both want to keep her that way. As an act of good faith, I want you to put one thousand dollars in a bag and leave it 30 paces south of water tank number five on the railroad track that runs from Deer Lodge City to Helena. Mark the location by making a triangle of three rocks. If we are able to make this exchange without difficulty, then we can set up our next step.
Oh, and a warning. If the money isn’t there, then I intend to leave one of Mary Kate’s hands there. And in all future communications with you, I will include one of her body parts. I think, to prevent undue pain from being inflicted on this young woman, that you had better cooperate with me.
And as an article of good faith on my side, the one thousand dollars that you leave will be counted as part of your final settlement.
“It’s not by chance that he has chosen that particular water tank,” Edward said. “I know that track well. Right through there, there is an open area for at least three miles in all directions. I would be impossible to keep an eye on it without being seen.”
“Look at this,” Ackerman said, pointing to the photograph. “There is a name here. Dysart. This must be the name of the photographer’s studio. Do either of you recognize it?” he asked Megan and Edward.
“It’s not in Deer Lodge, I know that,” Edward said.
“No, but I’ll bet your newspaper friend knows where it is,” Falcon said.
“It’s in Washington Gulch,” Mills said. “Ron Dysart is his name. He has advertised his shop in my paper. My paper is quite widely read in Washington Gulch, since they have no paper of their own.”
After they left the newspaper office, it was decided that Matthew, Morgan, and Megan would go with Edward to leave the one thousand dollars, while Falcon would go to Washington Gulch to talk to Ron Dysart.
“Oh, yes, of course I recognize this photograph. I took it only yesterday. Such a lovely young girl. She was a mute, poor thing.”
“Mute?”
“Yes, sir, why she didn’t say one word the entire time she was here.”
“Do you know where they went after they left here?”
“No, I can’t say as I do. But . . . there was one thing. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, and it may be nothing. Still, it is a little strange.”
“What is it?”
“Well, Nancy found it when she was cleaning up this morning, and it had to come from either this young lady or her father . . .”
“Her father?” Falcon asked.
“Yes. It was her father who brought her in for the photograph.”
“Did he tell you he was her father?”
“Oh, he did indeed. Is there some reason I should doubt it?”
“It’s not important,” Falcon said. “What is it that you wanted to show me?”
“Oh, yes. Just a minute. We started to throw it away with the trash but I found it so strange that I held on to it. I’ll get it for you.”
Dysart left Falcon standing in the front room for a moment, then returned holding a torn piece of paper.
“As you can see it is torn, so you can’t read much of it. But it appears to be part of a flyer for the WG and H stagecoach line. See, you can see the letters, WG and H, and just the back part of the drawing of a stagecoach.”
“WG and H?”
“Yes, and that is why I found it interesting. WG and H is the Washington Gulch and Helmville stagecoach line. Or rather it was. The WG and H has been out of business for, oh, at least two years now, maybe more. I know we certainly didn’t have any of their flyers around. It wasn’t here when Nancy cleaned the place yesterday morning. And the only customers we had who actually came into the shop yesterday were this young lady and her fath . . . that is, the man with her, who told me that he was her father.”
“May I have this?”
“Yes, I don’t see why not. Look here, what is this all about?”
“Do you read the Deer Lodge Examiner?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, it’s the only newspaper that is readily available.”
“You may have read that someone abducted the daughter of Colonel Hamilton.”
“Yes, what an awful thing to have happen.”
Falcon pointed to the picture. “This is his daughter, Mary Kate Hamilton McVey. The man who brought her in for her photograph yesterday was her abductor, and the one who murdered Mary Kate’s husband.”
“Oh, Lord help me,” Dysart said, lifting his hand to his mouth. “And he was here, in this very building. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I had no way of knowing. And of course, the young lady said nothing. Why, he could have murdered my wife and me.”
“You can thank that young woman for not saying anything. If she had said something there is no doubt but that Ackerman would have killed you.”
“Ackerman? You mean the one they call Major Ackerman?”
“Yes.”
Dysart staggered back and sat heavily in the chair. “To think, he was right here. I can see, now, why the young lady didn’t speak.”
“Oh, but she did speak,” Falcon said.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’m sure that she was the one who brought this and somehow managed to leave it behind. And thanks to you, we now have our first lead.”
As Falcon was leaving town he saw, sitting up against the blacksmith building, an old stagecoach, covered with dirt, and with the paint peeling. Under the mantle of dirt he saw the letters WG and H, and he turned Lightning toward the building. A shirtless black man, his muscles rippling and his sweat-covered chest and arms glistening in the sunshine, was at the forge and anvil, holding a piece of metal in the fire, then, when it was glowing red, putting it on the anvil and hitting it, causing the sparks to fly.
Falcon dismounted and watched the blacksmith for another moment until, finally, he put the piece of iron in a tub of water to cool. On the wall behind the blacksmith, Falcon saw a poster with a drawing of a black man in the pose of a prizefighter. The print beside the picture read: Fighting July 4th, 1876, Mike Taylor.
“Would you be Mr. Taylor?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, sir,” Taylor said.
“How did you do in that fight?” Falcon asked, pointing to the poster.
Taylor smiled. “I won that fight by a knockout. Truth to tell you, sir, I wouldn’t have that poster up here if I had lost.”
Falcon laughed. “I can’t say that I would blame you.” Falcon pointed to the coach. “I wonder if I could ask you about that coach.”
“Yes, sir, what do you want to know about it?”
“What’s it doing here?”
“Mr. Montgomery, he’s the man owns this blacksmith shop, was doin’ business with the WG and H stagecoach line. We shoed their horses, put the iron tires on their wheels, did all sorts of things and, next thing you know, why the WG and H owed Mr. Montgomery a lot of money and didn’t have enough to pay what they owed. So Mr. Montgomery,
he took the coach and said he would hold it until they paid their bill.” Taylor chuckled. “Well sir, they ain’t paid their bill yet, and they ain’t likely to, seein’ as they ain’t in business no more.”
“Where was their depot?”
“They didn’t have no depot here in town. The coach picked up folks at the Morning Star Hotel, but the actual office was in a buildin’ about halfway between here and Helmville.”
“What’s in that building now?” Falcon asked.
“Oh, sir, why there ain’t nothin’ in it now. The whole stage line went broke an’ all the folks that was with it just packed up ’n moved on to somewhere else.”
“I see.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind my askin’, I mean I know it’s none of my business an’ all, but just why is it you’re so interested in the WG and H?”
“Before I answer that question, let me ask you one more.” Falcon showed Taylor the triangular piece of paper that had been torn off the corner of a larger sheet.
“Would this be something that the WG and H would have?”
Taylor looked at it and nodded. “Yes, sir, this piece of paper come from the way station. I know that for a fact.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was out there a whole bunch of times, doin’ first one thing and another for Mr. Peabody. He’s the one that owned the stagecoach line. And I seen this very poster a whole lot of times.”
“How do you know it was this same poster?”
“You see the G here, in WG? How it’s got this cut through it?”
Falcon looked closer at the piece of paper he was holding, and saw the cut that Taylor was talking about. He either hadn’t noticed before, or he had thought it had been part of the tear in removing it from the rest of the poster.
“Yes, I see it.”
“I put that cut there,” Taylor said with a broad smile. “And I won half a dollar by doin’ it.”
“What do you mean?”
Taylor reached down to his boot, then pulled out a knife. “Watch this,” he said. He turned toward one wall of the shop. “Do you see that calendar?”
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