Celia's eyes met Landrum's again, and she could see the frustration there as he sighed heavily. "Stores stay open pretty late around here. We'll pick up some duds for you."
Fox nodded appreciatively.
"Well, brothers," Celia said, "will one of you be a gentleman and help me with my chair?"
Preston leaped to his feet and assisted her while Landrum dug a cigar out of his coat pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "I never claimed to be a gentleman," he said with a wry grin.
He and Celia waited in the lobby of the hotel while Fox fetched his valise from his room. The clerk gave them a few suspicious glances, which Landrum returned with a flat, cold stare. It wasn't long before the clerk found something else to occupy his time.
Fox was still grumbling slightly as the three of them started down the street toward Mrs. DeSoto's. "I had already paid for that room," he said. "You'd think I could get some use out of it."
"If we had time you could go find you a gal at one of the hurdy-gurdies," Landrum drawled, "and get some use out of it with her. But I want to get a look at those orders from Powell."
Fox cast a scandalized glance at Celia, shocked that Landrum would make such a suggestion in her presence. She met his gaze with a cool smile, though, unoffended, and he thought that his original assessment of her as a fallen woman was probably correct.
As they entered the boardinghouse and passed the parlor, Mattie DeSoto glanced up from the chair where she was sitting and suddenly came to her feet. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded of Fox.
Before the young man could answer, Celia said, "This is my other brother Preston, Mrs. DeSoto. He's going to be staying with us."
"Not unless he pays he ain't," the woman insisted.
Fox looked helplessly at Landrum, who dug out a coin and passed it over into Mrs. DeSoto's grasping fingers.
"Come on," Landrum said in a low voice as they started up the stairs. "We'll go over the orders in Celia's room. Getting you settled in can wait."
When they reached the upstairs hallway and Celia extended her hand toward the knob of her door, Fox abruptly hurried forward. No matter what her morals, she was still a female, and as such was entitled to a modicum of courtesy, he thought.
"Allow me," he murmured, twisting the knob and pushing the door open.
A hand came out of the room's shadowy interior. Vise-like fingers clamped onto Fox's wrist and jerked him forward. A startled yell rose in this throat as he felt himself falling out of control. He slammed against the rough boards of the floor and began struggling frantically to get back up.
But at the touch of sharp, cold steel against the tender flesh of his throat, Preston Kirkwood Fox froze.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gerald Glidinghawk stared down at Fox, his normally expressionless eyes widened slightly in surprise. The Omaha glanced up at the two people standing in the doorway of the hotel room and said, "What the hell is he doing here?"
Landrum relaxed his muscles with a conscious effort and holstered his Colt, drawn instinctively when he saw Fox being yanked into the room. "Might as well put that pigsticker up, amigo," he said. "I don't think my little brother Preston is much of a threat right now."
Glidinghawk looked from Landrum to Celia and saw the pretty redhead nod in confirmation. The Indian took the blade of his knife away from Fox's throat and slid it back into the sheath on his hip. His lips threatened to quirk into a grin as he said, "Brother, eh?"
"That's right," Celia told him. "You should know that, Gerald, since you've been with the family so long."
Glidinghawk came lithely to his feet. "I was waiting for you two to get back, and when I saw a stranger coming in, I figured he was going to rob the place."
Landrum stepped forward and reached down to grasp Fox's arm. As he pulled the former officer to his feet, Landrum said, "Reckon Preston will be glad to hear you didn't recognize him. He puts a lot of stock in that disguise of his."
Fox didn't try to temper the glare he directed at Glidinghawk. "You could have cut my throat with that knife," he said as he brushed dust from his clothes. "What if your hand had slipped?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I hadn't given much thought to that," Glidinghawk answered. "Nobody's told me what you're doing here yet, Preston."
"I'm working undercover," Fox snapped.
"He's a member of the team now," Celia said.
"Full-fledged," Landrum added.
"Operative D," Fox said through gritted teeth. "And I've brought Colonel Powell's orders for our next mission."
Landrum picked up one of the straight-backed chairs, reversed it, and straddled it. "Let's see them," he ordered.
Fox bent to retrieve his valise, dropped during the brief flurry of activity. As he opened it and began rummaging through his belongings, the other three members of Powell's Army traded glances. It was just like Fox, their expressions seemed to say, to leave important government papers that could ruin their mission in a simple, untended valise.
"Here it is," Fox said, taking a sheet of paper from the bag and extending it toward Landrum.
Davis took the dispatch from Amos Powell and unfolded it, holding it so that the others could read it as they gathered around his chair.
To A, B, C, D
From AP
On or about October 12, 1874, a mounted 10-man detail escorting payroll from the Union Pacific tracks in western Wyoming to Fort C.F. Ellis at the terminus of the Bozeman Trail in Montana Territory, was ambushed. The payroll was stolen. Four troopers were slain, three wounded. The remaining escort and drivers put up stiff resistance but were driven off by the large party of assailants.
This occurred near Virginia City, M.T., a place that has long harbored an outlaw element. We believe the criminals are still in that area. Official army inquiry has proved useless. You are directed to proceed to Virginia City to gather information. In cases of payroll theft you are empowered to arrest and detain suspects and turn them over to a U.S. Marshal. This crime has federal jurisdiction.
Virginia City has numerous saloons and sporting houses patronized by the town's lowlife. Consider the possibility of an inside job. The contents of the wagon and its schedule were known to the outlaws.
Another starting place could be the notorious Robbers Roost, a two-story log hostelry at the foot of Alder Gulch west of VC and known as a gathering place of outlaws.
It would be death to enter there and ask open questions. You are dealing with parties considered extremely dangerous.
Because of the sensational aspect of your last mission, and the role your former army liaison officer had in the affair, you are all asked to assume aliases. Since P.K.F. has elected to be sent with you to M.T. rather than tender his resignation, for our purposes he is now to be known as Operative D, code. Like A, B, and C, Operative D is to disavow any connection past or present with the US Army.
Landrum looked up at his companions as they all finished reading the dispatch. "Sounds like we'll be going right into a hornet's nest."
"Yes," Fox spoke up before either of the others could reply. His voice took on a melodramatic tone as he went on, "And the best way to clean out a hornet's nest, it seems to me, is with fire and gunsmoke."
There was no doubt he was sincere in his proclamation.
And the other members of Powell's Army suddenly had a bad feeling about this mission.
Landrum handed the dispatch to Celia and said, "Take care of this." He trusted her to conceal the message from Amos Powell somewhere safe from any casual search. As he stood up, he went on, "There's not much of anything we can do tonight except get some sleep. I want to get started to Virginia City as early as we can tomorrow."
"We'll need supplies, a wagon," Glidinghawk said.
Landrum nodded. "Celia and I will round all that up in the morning. Have you picked up anything interesting from those new friends of yours?"
Glidinghawk uttered a short laugh. "You mean have I contracted a disease from one of the squaws?"
"You know
what I meant. I was talking about information that might have a bearing on this mission."
The Omaha shook his head. "These are town Indians," he said, a slight undertone of bitterness in his voice. "Or at least that is what they are becoming. They wish only to be left alone by the white man. I think that in their hearts they are happy that Red Cloud and his Sioux have given the Army so much trouble, but they know nothing about any outlaws."
Fox snorted contemptuously. "Red Cloud! An unlettered savage has no right to try to dictate to the government of this country. Why don't he and his people just go to the reservation like they should?"
For a few seconds, Glidinghawk let the anger he felt show in his dark eyes. While he had left the Indian world pretty much behind him, there was no changing the blood that flowed in his veins. Inside, he felt as much sympathy for Red Cloud as the town Indians whom he mocked.
"Maybe someday you'll get the chance to tell that to Red Cloud personally," Glidinghawk said. "I think I'd like to watch that, Preston."
Before the men could continue their verbal sparring, Celia put in, "I thought we were supposed to be getting some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day."
"Celia's right," Landrum grunted. He took Fox's arm. "Come on, brother. I'll show you to your digs. I'm sure you'll be quite impressed with the accommodations."
* * *
Preston spent the night cursing the narrow, uncomfortable cot on which he tried to sleep. Landrum's bed was not much better, but at least he was used to it. Fox lay wide awake, listening to the Texan's raucous snoring, and almost wished he had never heard of Powell's Army.
Finally, not long before dawn, Fox dozed off into a chilly, unsatisfying haze. It seemed his eyes had only barely closed when the clomp of Landrum's boots on the rough plank floor awakened him.
"Up and at 'em, Preston," Landrum said as he kicked one leg of the shaky cot. He sounded depressingly cheerful.
"Ohhhh . . ." Fox moaned. "What time is it?"
"Time to get to work."
Fox sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was accustomed to waking early, being a military man, but this was ridiculous. The long stagecoach journey had been exhausting, and then to have to attempt to rest on such a hellish contraption as this cot . . .
Landrum's fingers hooked in the back of the neck of Fox's longjohns. Fox felt himself being jerked onto his feet.
"We've got a lot to do today, Preston," Landrum said, his voice carrying a harder edge now. "Get your clothes en."
Blearily, Fox dressed in the clothes Landrum had purchased for him in one of Bozeman's general mercantile. The heavy woolen shirt was scratchy, the pants were stiff and uncomfortable. At least the work boots felt all right, but Fox still missed the highly polished black leather of his military footgear.
If this mission went well — if he was a hero again — he was sure he would find himself reinstated at his former rank. The yearning for that was strong in him, and he told himself that he could stand the unpleasantness of the frontier if it meant a return to his military career.
When he was dressed, he and Landrum left the room. They paused in the hall while Landrum banged a fist on the door of the room opposite. "You up in there, sis?" he called through the panel.
"I'm up," Celia replied. She sounded sleepy, almost as tired as Fox himself. "I'll be down in a few minutes."
As Fox and Landrum descended the stairs, Fox asked, "Where has the Indian gotten off to?"
Landrum shook his head. "I don't know where Glidinghawk sleeps, and I don't intend to ask. But he's around, you can be sure of that."
"I suppose one of those heathen squaws has taken him in. I don't imagine they care or even know who they're sleeping with."
Landrum didn't say anything, just shook his head. Fox still had a lot to learn, about a lot of things.
The miners around the table in the dining room didn't look any happier than they had the night before. The breakfast of grits and biscuits proved to be barely palatable. Landrum had already discovered that there were a great many ex-Confederates in Montana Territory, so the presence of grits didn't surprise him.
He had never tasted any as watery and downright bad, though. And the biscuits almost required a pickax to dent them.
Still, the coffee brewed up by Mattie DeSoto's cook was black, bitter, and strong, and it carried enough of a jolt to get the men started and carry them through the meal. When Celia joined them at the table and sipped from her cup, she made a face and pushed it away. Her constitution wouldn't stand anything that potent.
Breakfast out of the way, Landrum and Celia debated their course of action as they stood on the porch of the boardinghouse. "Reckon we'd better get outfitted," Landrum said, chewing on a lucifer.
"I can buy supplies," Celia offered.
Landrum nodded. "That'd be best, save us some time. While you're doing that, I'll head down to the wagon yard and see about buying a wagon."
From behind them, Fox asked, "And what task shall I perform?"
Landrum glanced over his shoulder at the young man. "You'd best come with me. I want to keep my eye on you."
Fox flushed angrily. The Texan obviously didn't trust him not to get into trouble if he was left on his own in Bozeman. The night before, he had begun to feel a sort of bond with Landrum, but now it dissolved.
"See here — " he began.
"Take it easy, Preston," Celia said. "It'll be all right." Difficult though it was, she started to put a hand on his arm in a gesture of friendship.
Fox pulled away. "I don't need the pity of a woman such as yourself," he snapped.
Landrum's teeth clenched on the lucifer, snapping the wood. He spat out the pieces of match and thought about walloping the smart-mouthed little son-of-a-bitch, but Celia shook her head. She turned back to Fox, put an evil little smile on her face, and said, "Too bad. A woman like me knows a lot of ways to comfort a man."
Then she spun around and walked away, heading toward the general store. The sway of her hips was seductive, sensuous. Fox found himself unable to tear his eyes away.
Landrum shook his head. Celia's behavior was a little out of character for the role she was supposed to be assuming, but Fox. had deserved the taunting. Hell, he had deserved worse than that.
"Come on," Landrum said wearily. "Let's get at it."
They trudged down Bozeman's dusty main street. There was some traffic on the road, but not a lot. Landrum entered a large barn-like structure that was a combination of livery stable, freight yard, and wagon lot.
A leather-skinned, whiskery oldtimer wearing a hat with the brim pushed up in front seemed to be in charge of the place, and he proved to be a hard bargainer as Landrum opened negotiations for a wagon and team. But Landrum had done some horse-trading himself in his time. He was confident that he could wangle the price down to a reasonable level.
Fox stood by quietly for a few minutes while Landrum and the old man talked. He looked around at the establishment. It was not as busy now as it had been during Bozeman's heyday, but it appeared to still be doing a steady commerce.
The old man hawked and spat and rubbed his bearded jaw. "Got a old wagon out back I reckon I could let you have pretty cheap," he said. "Say, a hunnerd dollars?"
Landrum was just about to offer him fifty when Fox suddenly spoke up. "Why, that's highway robbery!" he exclaimed. "You'd best be reasonable about your prices, my good man, or we'll take our business elsewhere. We don't have to deal with scalawags and rapscallions, you know."
The old man's eyes widened with outrage. "Rapscallions, is it? Why, you goldurn little piss-ant, I'll show you a thing or three-" He clawed for the butt of an ancient pistol holstered at his waist.
Landrum moved quickly between them, shoving Fox back. "Sorry, mister," he said. "My brother's not quite right in the head. The doctor dropped him a time or two when he was being born."
"See here-" Fox began, but Landrum stopped him with an elbow in the stomach. He bent over and gasped for air.
"He had a little
trouble breathing sometimes, too," Landrum went on. "It seems to have affected his brain. How about sixty for that wagon you were talking about?"
The oldtimer worked his lips in and out for a moment, apparently considering Landrum's apology and offer. Then he shook his head. "Don't reckon I could take sixty. How's about ninety-five?"
Landrum was ready to stomp Fox's foot if the fool spoke up again, but Preston seemed to have learned his lesson. He kept his mouth shut as Landrum worked the price down to eighty dollars. They agreed on that, then started arguing about how much a team of horses should cost.
When Fox and Landrum finally left the barn a little later, Powell's Army was two hundred and thirty dollars poorer, but they had a wagon and four horses that weren't too old and broken-down.
"Well, I think we did pretty good," Landrum was saying. 'That's not a bad price for this part of the country."
"The man's a scoundrel," Fox insisted. "He should have been happy to help his country and given us a reasonable price."
"Oh? You wanted to tell him just who we really are and appeal to his sense of patriotism, is that it?"
"I didn't say-"
Fox broke off what he was saying as a commotion suddenly erupted on the sidewalk up ahead. A man came flying backwards out of a doorway, scattering pedestrians on his headlong plunge to the street. He landed with a thump and a groan. Forcing himself back up, he started back onto the sidewalk and toward the door of the mercantile from which he had emerged so violently.
Fox and Landrum both heard him growl, "No redheaded bitch's gonna do that to me!"
Just then a woman screamed inside the store, and Fox and Landrum both recognized the originator of the cry.
"Celia!"
CHAPTER SIX
Celia had a pretty good idea what supplies they would need for their trip to Virginia City. As she walked down to the general store, she worked up a mental list, then waited for the one clerk on duty to finish with another customer.
When she stepped up to the counter, she saw the eyes of the man behind it flick over her, lingering for a moment on the ripe curves of her body. She was used to men looking at her like that, especially chinless, bug-eyed individuals such as this one.
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