by Mae Berry
Her smile faded as she fisted her hands in her lap. Here it comes. The judgment. He eyed her. “We’re a few miles east of Tipton, so we still have time before we arrive in Jeff City. I wanted… I mean I wondered… that is…” His voice trailed as he eyed her face.
“I assure you, assistant deputy marshal, my role at the Pinkerton Agency was that of a qualified agent. I worked as hard as any man.”
He sat up and frowned.
“One day,” a flush crept up her cheeks— not a pleasant rose colored blush, oh no, a splotchy, heated crimson— “… our patriarchal society will recognize the fact that the male gender does not hold a monopoly on intelligence. Until that time, I—”
“Now jist a minute, lassie,” the marshal’s eyes narrowed. “I dinna say…” He paused, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.” He ground his molars, “but with you flarin’ up like a powder keg, well, it makes me wonder.” He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting. “I was making conversation. We have a way to go yet. If you don’t want to tell me about yourself, fine. We can continue on in blessed silence.” He crossed his arms and glared at the seat back in front of him.
Sam blew out a steady breath. Once again she had let her mouth run ahead of her brain. Was it any wonder she was unmarried at twenty-nine? But in her defense, when it came to men, they treated her as the butt of a joke and she was tired of it. That did not, however, excuse her boorish behavior. The marshal hadn’t truly made an offending remark.
The man beside her sighed and rubbed a hand over his chin. “Look, Miss Lawton, I apologize fer losin’ me temper.” He cleared his throat. “I suspect a woman in your profession gets more than your share of crass ribbing. I wasn’t meaning to pry into your life. I was wondering what skills you brought to the investigation.” One side of his mouth lifted. “We’ll keep things simple and part ways as soon as possible.” He slouched and moved to place his cap back over his face.
“Wait, please, I… I apologize, assistant deputy marshal. I shouldn’t have become irritated at you, especially without provocation.” Sam sighed. “You are correct. I get my share of animosity. Mostly from men. Surprisingly a few women too. Regardless, to lash out at you was inappropriate.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Really lass, the assistant deputy marshal title is getting old. Not to mention long in sayin’. I’m Finn. Just Finn.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Well then Miss Lawton, if you don’t mind me asking, what is it like being a Pinkerton agent? What kind of cases do you normally work?” Sam shifted in her seat and grimaced.
“Actually, assistant deputy marshal,” she ignored his eye roll, “I am not currently a Pinkerton agent.”
His hand froze as he locked eyes with her. “What do you mean, Miss Lawton?” His voice held an edge.
“I told you, at the station… I was an agent, at the time of the Gittin case. I have since, well… stopped being an agent.” She shrugged and returned his stare. She refused to flinch or look away.
“I missed that part. Could you,” his clipped voice was low, “be kind enough to explain?” She noted the flush returning to his cheeks. Explain, huh? Not a simple thing to do.
“Of course.” She looked out the window a moment. The marshal shifted in his seat. She saw him shake his head in her peripheral vision.
“I grew up at the agency, marshal. So have no fear, I am competent.”
“What do you mean, you grew up at the agency?” He frowned.
“If you will allow me to continue unimpeded, perhaps I will answer your questions?”
He snorted. “Do you listen to yourself?” She looked at him and frowned, tilting her head to the side. “Never mind.” He made a continue motion.
“Are you aware, marshal, that the Pinkerton Agency used female operatives during the war?”
“Aye, the ladies spied for the north didn’t they?” He paused and frowned. “You aren’t old enough to have—”
A quick smile crossed her face. “No, I didn’t spy during the war. Hattie did. She was one of the first females hired by Kate Warne, Pinkerton’s head of the women’s division. Hattie was part of a team that helped foil a plot to assassinate Lincoln before he took office for his first term. The Baltimore affair?” The marshal shook his head. “It was a conspiracy to assassinate Lincoln as he was heading into Washington for his swearing in.” He nodded and made another motion for her to continue.
“As Hattie tells it, Kate pretended the president was her ailing brother. They put him in a wheelchair and covered him in blankets. Kate stayed up guarding him. Then she and several other agents smuggled him into Baltimore several hours ahead of his published schedule. They cut the telegraph lines to ensure the conspirators could not communicate with each other.”
“I’ve heard of Kate Warne, but who is Hattie? Your mentor? Your trainer?”
Sam’s eyes closed then returned to his. “My mother.”
“Your mother?” The marshal’s eyes roamed her face. “So, you became an agent?”
“More or less.”
He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.
She sighed. “I grew up at the agency. Trained. Worked hard. When the time came, I became an operative.”
“All right Miss Lawton, I assume Pinkerton no longer spies on the former Confederacy. When you became an ‘agent’,” his slight emphasis on the word and eye roll caused Sam’s jaw to clench, “what did you do for them? Work in the office? Go over evidence? Help with reports?”
Sam’s head snapped as she whirled to face him. Her eyes moved back and forth between his. He thought she was a glorified clerk. “I assure you, Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley, I was a field agent in every sense of the word.”
He studied her from her modest hat to the tips of her worn boots then shook his head. “Okay Miss Lawton, Let’s get back to the part about no longer being a Pinkerton. Care to explain that?”
“No.” Sam glared at him. “I don’t see its pertinence to the present case.”
“You don’t see its pertinence?” His voice rose along with the color in his face.
“No. I was an agent during the Gittin murders. I worked the case. I have the information you need. That is all that needs be said. And frankly, Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley, your attitude is appalling.”
His eyes widened as his mouth dropped open. He looked like a landed fish. A wide-mouth bass, perhaps? He jerked toward her, every muscle coiled.
“I take it back,” his eyes closed to slits, “I think continuing in blessed silence is best until we get to Jefferson City. At which time, I will decide if your help on this case is worth putting up with your… your… you!” He slammed back in his seat and settled his cap over his eyes.
Sam closed her eyes and clench her teeth. Why oh why couldn’t she keep a reign on her tongue? She didn’t want to answer his personal questions. But removing her from the case wasn’t an option. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You are correct, sir, after the War Between the States was over, there was no need for domestic spying. The Pinkerton Agency, however, was in full swing; capturing outlaw gangs, helping with labor disputes, general detective and security work.”
The marshal removed his cap and sighed. “So… you… apprehended criminals?” He pursed his lips and squinted.
Sam ignored his skepticism. She needed this job. She focused on how to answer his question. “To be precise, the Gittin case was my first case as a Pinkerton.” She paused then looked away. “Later, I opened an agency. She couldn’t bear to see the look of dismissal cross his face after she explained. And she knew, he would insist on an explanation.
“Truly?” He sounded impressed. She stole a quick glance at him. He appeared… interested. “What sort of cases?” Now. Here it comes. She turned toward him, a challenge in her eyes.
“I work for banks and retail establishments concerned with employee theft or unrest. I infiltrate their organizations as a clerk, then determine who is stealin
g or making disparaging remarks.” A flush crept from her neck to her face. It infuriated her. Why did it matter what he thought?
“I see.” He scrubbed his fingers through his thick hair, the red highlights catching the sunshine. He was doubtless wondering how quickly he could dump her and proceed alone. His voice turned thoughtful. “I think then, Miss Lawton, you should be able to read a person’s face, their body language?” His voice picked up momentum. “You can tell if they are lying?”
Sam whipped around. “That’s what I do.” She scanned his face. His eyes looked out the window.
“Yes. Excellent. That will help. Help immensely.” He nodded to himself then slumped once more in his seat, reached for his cap, and settled it over his eyes. The man reminded her of a lazy hound dog.
Sam stared at him long after it was clear the conversation was over and he had returned to his nap. Her heart pounded and her mind spun. He thought her assistance would help. Be an immense help. Others had only seen her as an irritant. But more disturbing than her jumbled thoughts, was the hopeful feeling in her heart. The feeling that someone saw her as worthwhile.
✽✽✽
The Cole County jail was a three-block walk from the passenger depot. Jefferson City, or Jeff City, was located mid-way between St. Louis and Kansas City. Designed, plotted and built by Daniel Boone’s grandson with the intention of being the state capitol, self-importance hung on the city as thick as the humidity.
Sam and the marshal skirted the edge of the business district running from Jefferson Street to Monroe and over to High Street. Here you could find a mix of druggists, milliners, banks, and butchers. The late morning crowd of congressmen, lawyers and businessmen strutting the boardwalk made it difficult for Sam to see from her vantage point, or rather its lack. The marshal moved to block the worst of the buffeting crowd, but the effort to keep up with his long legs left her panting.
Arriving at the single story wood frame building, they were ushered into the sheriff’s office with a speed and respect Sam had never experienced. The power of a marshal’s badge, even an assistant deputy marshal, was dizzying. Sheriff Barrow was giddy in his efforts to help. He had the wide-eyed wonder of a five year who had been handed a whole jar of candy, and frankly, the assistant deputy marshal was full enough of himself without the awed attention. Watching the fawning sheriff pull out files and dig through boxes set Sam on a slow burn. She rolled her eyes and glanced at the marshal. A slight smirk rested around the edges of his lips. Her eyes fixed on his soft, full lips, so out of keeping with the rascal. Why he— His sudden grin stopped her thoughts. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face redden and she snapped her attention back to the man behind the desk.
“Ah. Here it is. Thought I remembered that name.” Sam winced at the creak of the sheriff’s chair.
“What did you find?” The marshal’s grin disappeared as he leaned across the solid oak desk. Sam shifted on her hard spindle-backed chair and eyed the marshal’s stuffed leather one.
“Back three or four years ago, a guard from the prison died under mysterious circumstances.” The marshal raised one eyebrow. Barrow slapped a page on the desk then jabbed at it with a stubby finger. “See here. The guard, Otis Rucker kilt by drowning on—” He grabbed the paper and squinted. “Right here, October 11, 1886?” He slapped the paper, a look of triumph on his face.
He drowned? That’s mysterious? Sam snorted. The marshal frowned at her. Did she say that out loud?
Barrow shot a sneer at Sam. Apparently, she had. “Tis when the death is in a water trough!” The marshal waved a placating hand in her direction. Or was that a dismissive one?
She straightened her spine and persisted. “But how does this, Rucker is it, relate to Gittin?” The marshal shot Sam a warning glare. A glare that appeared to contain two messages let-me-handle-this and stop-riling-the-sheriff.
“I’m gettin’ to that.” Barrow picked up the report and scanned it. “At the time of Rucker’s death, one of his buddies from the prison remembered way back a fella called Gittin sayin’—” He squinted then jabbed, “Right here, said, ‘I’m gonna git back at you fer ruinin’ my life. You’ll pay fer what you done.’ Sam froze. The words were eerily similar to the note left at the Gittin murder scene. A note still in her possession. The sheriff slammed the page to the desk again. “Said Rucker swore he’d seen ‘em in town. Course he was a drunken sot, so I didn’t pay him no mind, but—” he waved his hands in the air in slow circles.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” the marshal said, his mouth fixed in a polite smile. “Rucker was a drunken sot”?”
“No, no, Rucker’s buddy, Grayson. He’s a drunk. Not ‘liable.”
“Libel?” Sam frowned, “Libel for what?”
Barrow scowled at her. “Told ya, not ‘liable. Can’t believe a word the sot says.”
“You mean, reliable.” She shook her head and muttered, “Enunciating would help.”
Barrow’s hearing apparently was better than his communication skills. “Now see here little lady. I ain’t never ‘nuciated nothin’ in my life.”
Her hand flew to her mouth as she hid her chuckle in a cough.
The marshal narrowed his eyes and sat forward. He nudged Sam’s foot then shifted his boot over hers and pressed. Hard. She sucked in a breath then clamped her teeth together. Oh, he would pay for this later.
“Sheriff Barrow, ye wer sayin’… you were saying something about a prison guard and Gittin?” The marshal smiled and nodded at the sheriff as he applied more pressure to Sam’s foot. She grimaced, her lips in a thin line.
“Yes, accordin’ to, Grayson the sot,” Barrow paused and looked daggers at her, “Rucker told him he’d seen Gittin in town afore he got kilt.” Sam remained silent.
The marshal eased up and moved his boot. “I’m still not understanding, Sheriff. Before the sot… Grayson was killed?”
“No, no, no. Afore Rucker were kilt.”
Marshal Finnley rubbed his temples as Barrow frowned at him.
“Why would Gittin be in town to kill Rucker, a guard did you say?” Sam said as she shifted her foot away. “What had Rucker done to Gittin? How did they even know each other?”
Barrow scowled at her then addressed his comments to the marshal. “Well now, you gotta understand. At A-hall things can get savagerous. Some guards… push the jailbirds. Jus’ ta keep ‘em in line mind you. Rucker pushed more’n most.”
“A-hall?” Sam said then glanced at the marshal. He frowned.
“Yep, A-Hall.” Barrow kept his eyes planted on the marshal. “The state pen? Over by the river?”
“I’m familiar with A-hall, but what does the state pen have to do with a prisoner from your jail?” Marshal Finnley had admirable control. Sam wanted to shake the answers out of the buffoon.
“My jail? The county jail?” Barrow’s bushy eyebrows disappeared into his bushier hairline. “Well don’t ya see Gittin weren’t here.” He pointed at his desk and leaned forward.
“Sheriff Barrow,” irritation finally crept into the marshal’s tone, “what, does Gittin have to do with a prison guard and the state penitentiary?”
“Don’t ya know? He were a con!” Barrow jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Rucker were a con… was a convict? I thought ye said he was a guard. I donna understand waat…”
“No, no not Rucker, Gittin.” Barrow slapped his over-sized desk.
“Are you saying,” the marshal asked pulling in a deep breath and scrunching up his brow, “Gittin was incarcerated? At the prison? The state prison?” His disbelief rose with each question. The marshal turned to stare at Sam. He started to say something but hesitated at her stunned expression. She caught his movement and firmed her lips. He turned back to the sheriff. “When?”
“Back in…” Barrow scanned the paper in front of him twice squinting, “well, don’t say.”
“What, exactly, was his offense?” Sam asked.
Barrow scanned the paper again, his
eyes slits. “Don’t zactly say,” he said drawing out the words.
“It doesn’t?” The marshal sat forward, looming over the sheriff.
“Weren’t pertnant to the case,” Barrow sniffed, his mouth set in a stubborn line. Sam held in a smirk. Oh, the marshal should love that. He so appreciated people telling him what was pertinent.
“Don’t you think,” Marshal Finnley began, enunciating each syllable, “knowing if the suspect was violent or not might have been per-ti-nent to your case?” Barrow glared.
Sam laid a restraining hand on the marshal’s arm. His muscles tensed under her palm. She turned to the man behind the desk and using a tone she reserved for soothing Hattie, asked, “Where is the documentation that might note that intelligence?”
“Huh?” Sheriff Barrow squinted.
Sam flushed. “Where are the prison records?”
“Up at the prison, I ‘spect.” Barrow shook his head, “You kin go talk to the record clerk. He’ll take you to the file room.”
Sam gave the sheriff a bright smile and was pleased he nodded back. She shot the marshal a triumphant look, but he was frozen in place. The man was odious. Why should she care what he thought? Sam rose and extended her hand to Barrow.
“Thank you so much for your help.” She tugged on the marshal’s elbow and he shot to his feet and gave a quick nod to Barrow.
Sam marched to the door of the office ignoring Marshal Finnley. The foot he’d stepped on earlier twinged and she winced. Giving the vexing man beside her a sidelong glance, she exaggerated her limp and smiled to herself when he cringed. Good. He’d acted the blackguard.
Chapter 12
Finn winced as Miss Lawton limped beside him. Her rigid posture increased his guilt. Once outside she let out a long slow breath, then turned to scan the street.
“Next stop A-Hall?” She gazed anywhere but him. Finn had the uncomfortable notion her disappointment wasn’t about Barrow’s interview. Or the injured foot. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Why was this woman so tetchy? Blast it, why was she so good at getting under his skin? He couldn’t account for the way he’d stilled when she touched his arm. Every thought had left his head. He rubbed the spot and took a calming breath. Time to be the better man—er, person. Finish the job, be done with her. He’d always prided himself on his ability to get people to do what he wanted. He could keep one spitfire of a woman that didn’t even come up to his shoulder in line? Right? Aye? Right.