by Paul Colt
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Evanston
Samantha stepped off the train onto the platform. She took in the rough-cut depot with its official-looking sign and the suggestion of a town up the street to the north. It was a station like every other station with a town like every other one-time end-of-track town that managed to survive. The Union Pacific spawned them like saplings sprouted from the mother oak.
She glanced around the platform. No sign of Kingsley. She might find him waiting at the hotel, though more likely she’d beaten him here. She started up the boardwalk toward town. No need to ask directions. Get to the main street and look for the hotel sign. It wouldn’t be far. A block north of the depot she scanned the street east and west. She found Essex House in the next block west.
The lobby too displayed a familiarity bordering on boredom, though in this case with a trace of elegance most of the others lacked. She crossed the lobby to the registration desk, enduring the gaze of an unctuous clerk with sleepy eyes, wavy hair, and a thin mustache.
“Good afternoon, madam. Welcome to Essex House. How may we be of service?”
“A room, please.”
“My pleasure, madam.” He spun the register and waited for her to sign.
“Very good, Miss Maples,” he read. “And how long might we have the pleasure of your stay?”
His smile had the thin veneer of an undertaker.
“I’m not sure.”
“Let’s hope you’ll grace us with your presence for some time then.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Well, fancy meeting you here.”
The familiar drawl startled her. She found a fetching smile and made a gift of it.
“Beau Longstreet, what a surprise.”
“Pleasant I hope.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Flatter? The clerk reached for a key. The woman gapped the big southerner like a cat eyeing a dish of clotted cream.
“Room 205.”
She ignored him.
“That would be your key,” Longstreet said.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She nodded to the clerk.
“Here, let me help you with that valise. I’m just down the hall.”
“Are you sure that’s proper?”
“Do you care?”
She smiled.
He led her up the stairs.
“Where is Mr. Cane?”
“He had business with a league member at Fort Bridger. He rode out this morning. I expect him back later this evening or tomorrow sometime.”
“You haven’t seen Kingsley by any chance?”
“No. You’re expecting him I take it.”
She nodded.
“Well this is it, home sweet home room 205.”
She fitted the key in the lock. “I can take that now.”
He handed her the valise. “Care to have supper?”
She favored him with an interested twinkle.
“Weighing the chances of a better offer?”
She laughed, amused. “What time?”
“Shall we say six?”
“We shall.”
“I’m only just down the hall, but I’ll meet you in the lobby for propriety’s sake.”
“Ever the proper southern gentleman, I’m sure. Six, then.” She let herself in and closed the door.
A delicate shade of lavender set off a flawless complexion framed in coils of blue-black curls. She floated down the stairs to the lobby, having given attentions to turning herself out for a quiet supper. Longstreet smiled to himself and let his eyes follow hers, their violet lights flashing a siren song. She’d throw him over in a heartbeat for a lead on the case, but absent such a distraction the prospects seemed rather promising. Her lavender scent coupled with an amused enigmatic smile completed the effect.
“My, my, I must say you look positively stunning, Miss Maples.”
“I took a chance you’d still be here.”
“You wound me. I do believe it was you who started the disappearing act.”
“Woman’s prerogative. Now are we going to stand here or are we going to go find a lady some supper and a libation to take the chill off?”
He offered his arm.
The café across the street was spacious by frontier standards with table linen, china, and silver. The waiter, an officious portly fellow who might have been mistaken for a schoolmaster between semesters, took their drink orders. When the drinks arrived he informed them that the special was chicken and dumplings. They ordered two.
Longstreet lifted his glass. “To Evanston.”
“Which only proves we’ll drink to anything.” She touched her glass to his and sipped sherry.
“It’s not as bad as that. I was thinking of the company.”
“A glib-tongued flatterer with a mouthful of honey, now there’s a man after my own heart.”
“A worthy prize, I must say.”
“So what sort of insight brings the dashing detective to Evanston?”
“I might ask you the same?”
“Are we talking an exchange of information?”
“Certainly, at least as far as that goes.”
“Very well then. Kingsley believes they are moving west along the Union Pacific line based on the latest bond redemptions. Your turn.”
“Similar thinking on our part. You’ll find out soon enough, no one has attempted to negotiate a bond at the bank here.”
“Hmm, perhaps our theories are incorrect.”
Longstreet furrowed his brow, weighing his thoughts.
“Or something happened to change their plan.”
“Their plan?”
“All right, I probably shouldn’t, but I’m going to give you this one on the house. She’s not working alone.”
“How do you know?”
“Cane had a run-in with someone after she left Green River. They know we are after them and they will play rough.”
“What happened?”
“Someone arranged a roommate for Cane.”
“A roommate?”
“A dusty rattler on the second floor of a hotel doesn’t get there by accident.”
“Ah!” Her hand shot to her mouth. “Is he? Is he, all right?”
“He is. I tell you that so you watch that pretty back of yours.”
“Why, Beau Longstreet, if I didn’t know better I might think you care.”
“It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”
“So where does that leave us?”
The waiter arrived with two steaming plates.
“For the moment we are left with supper.”
Longstreet paused in the lobby at the foot of the stairs.
“Shall I wait here?”
She tilted her chin to the side, considering under a raised brow. “Come along. Your tie is crooked.”
He fingered the knotted ribbon at his throat as he followed her up the stairs. It didn’t feel out of place.
She paused at the door to her room and reached for his tie. “Here, let me have a look at that.” The knot pulled undone. “Oh dear, now I’ve made a mess of it. Here let me fix it for you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be taking it off soon.”
“I know.”
She opened the door.
Gray morning light crept over the windowsill. Samantha savored the echoes to the rhythm of Longstreet’s breathing. Her instincts seldom failed her where men were concerned. If anything, she’d seriously underestimated this one, delightfully so. Who could have known? She played the evening’s amusements over in her mind. If a girl had to spend time in a one-horse frontier town, that’s the way to do it.
The note lay on the floor at the door like a summons. Kingsley, undoubtedly he’d arrived last night. Fortunately he’d been too late to spoil the evening. What to do? Roll over and await developments? Tempting, but duty had a way of calling. She sat up. It’s early. Ignore it. She slid out of bed and tiptoed across a creaky board. She picked up the note and read.
&nb
sp; Meet me in the lobby for breakfast.
“Trouble?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Longstreet lay on his side, his head propped in one hand.
“Kingsley,” she said, suddenly reminded she was naked.
“Will it wait?”
“Not for long. Why?”
“You look cold.” He lifted the covers.
Magnificent. She shivered. “It’ll keep that long.”
Flushed and a little drowsy, Samantha found the drab tweed version of Kingsley in the lobby, tapping a polished shoe at the face of his pocket watch.
“I say, what time do you eat breakfast?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
“Yes, well come along now, the bank opens in an hour and we shall need to be there when it does.”
She followed him across the street to the café, still thinking of the more pleasant company afforded her the previous evening.
The waiter, hair slicked morning fresh, arched a brow in recognition. He showed them to a table.
“Coffee, madam?”
“Please.”
“Tea if you please.”
The waiter went off.
“No need to rush off to the bank,” Samantha said. “She’s not been here.”
“How do you know?”
“Longstreet told me.”
“Longstreet?”
“He and Cane are here.”
“Oh? How might that have come about?”
“Same hunch as yours.”
“If they’ve not left, they must think she might still come along.”
“He didn’t say.”
“Of course not. Hmm,” he drummed his fingers on the table as the waiter delivered steaming cups of coffee and tea.
“What will you have, madam?”
“Ham and two eggs, please.”
“And you, sir?”
“Yes, that will be fine with a biscuit if you have one.”
“Fresh and warm, thank you, sir.”
Kingsley followed him with a vacant stare. “She might also have passed Evanston in favor of Ogden.”
“If your theory holds, that is definitely a possibility.”
“Perhaps we should pursue that possibility.”
“Why don’t you cover Ogden, while I keep an eye on Longstreet and Cane.” She hoped the suggestion sounded convincingly professional.
“An eye on Longstreet, is it? Yes I suppose you are likely to get more out of him than I.”
The visitor bell clanged. Kingsley glanced at the sun-splashed doorway. “Speak of the devil, here they come now. Cane, Longstreet, top of the morning,” he waved.
“Kingsley, Miss Maples,” Cane said.
“Might you gentlemen care to join us?”
“Sorry, we’ve business to discuss. Perhaps another time.”
“Ah, business. Any information we might exchange?”
Longstreet chuckled.
“Did I say something amusing?”
“You forget, Sir Reggie, I’ve been on your side of one of those information exchanges.”
“Fiddlesticks. You’re certainly not going to hold that Sam Bass gambit against me are you? I’m totally reformed and scrupulously honest in my dealings.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.” He turned to the waiter. “If you don’t mind we’ll take that table in the far corner.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Kingsley watched them go. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“What happened with Sam Bass?”
“Simple misunderstanding, nothing more, it just happened to work in our favor. I suppose it is best if you stay here. I’ll catch the noon train to Ogden.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Grand Island
Grand Island grew up on the banks of the Platte River, a branch of which circled the town several miles to the north, giving early French explorers the illusion of a great island. In more recent times the town sprawled south of the Union Pacific tracks in a hash-work of clapboard and brick structures with edifice architectures reflecting the population’s German ethnic roots. Walking Front Street from the depot to the hotel, Cecile overheard locals conversing in German as often as in English.
The Grand Hotel, with its elaborate façade, massive polished lobby, and oversized velvet-covered furnishings, reeked of elegance and security that might have been the envy of most frontier banks. She found the note from Escobar under her door two days after her arrival. The note provided the address of a house where he was staying. A house, not the hotel, that’s odd. Why?
Why soon became apparent. The house offered more than simple lodging. The house might more properly be called a bordello. She found it amusing. The pockmarked little weasel paid for his pleasure. A somewhat bored hostess in a revealing gown showed her to a room and disappeared down the hall. Being unfamiliar with the etiquette in such establishments she knocked on the door.
“It’s open.”
She opened the door. Escobar lay on a rumpled bed smoking a thin cigar. The room was small and sparsely furnished. Stale air smelled male with a residue of cheap perfume.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“I’m relaxing. You didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”
“No, though, I must say I got a rather reproving reaction from the desk clerk when I asked directions. I now understand why. Not exactly the Grand Hotel. It must be less expensive.”
“It costs more. The hotel would be the obvious place for your detective friend to look for us. This is safer.”
“Safer for you, what am I, a bit of cheese to bait a trap?”
“They have no way of knowing where we are. You haven’t seen any sign of them I’m sure.”
“So much for defending your choice of . . . accommodations for reasons of security. No I haven’t seen them and I have no plans to do so, either. It’s time to head west and let things cool off.”
“Not yet. I’m awaiting instructions from my superior.”
“Did you cash the North Platte letter?”
He nodded around a puff of cigar smoke.
“They’ll know where we are soon enough.”
“Sí, and they will look for us here.”
“My point exactly, it is time to move west.”
He shook his head. “There is time to pass one more bond in Omaha. Then you may go to San Francisco. I will meet you there, when I finish here.”
“Finish what?”
“You are right about your detective friend coming here after North Platte. You will not be here. I will be waiting, with a surprise to slow down these pursuers.”
Ogden
Utah Territory
Kingsley paused on the sun-soaked boardwalk outside the First Bank of Ogden. He checked his watch. Nine thirty, thirty minutes after the bank opened. The cashier’s reaction to his inquiry as to Texas & Pacific bearer bonds surprised him. It seems the local sheriff alerted the banker to be on the lookout for the bogus bonds. It smacked of Crook’s detective league. Nothing remained for the rest of the day but to wait. Wait for what? He had a nagging feeling he’d gotten his hunch too late. The woman was either uncommonly good or uncommonly lucky. He snapped his watch closed and strolled down the block toward the Western Union office at the depot. He’d check in with Chicago on the chance they might have a further report on his query.
The depot stood on the north bank of the Weber River with the town grown up to the north. He sent his wire off to the head office and returned to his hotel. He hoped he’d not have to spend much time in this dreadfully decent town with a strict Mormon abhorrence for vice. He saw no sign of whiskey or gambling or . . . whiskey or gambling.
Evanston
It was her assignment after all. Samantha took up her position on a settee across from the registration desk as late afternoon sun turned the lobby a golden glow. She busied herself with the daily edition of the Evanston Free Tribune, giving plausible excuse to a vigil for Longstreet or Cane. To be honest Ca
ne was incidental to her interest. Her mind wandered over the news pages, her thoughts more taken with the big southerner. Sooner or later she reasoned he’d pass this way to supper.
Within the hour footfalls on the stairs descending from above rewarded her patience. Longstreet came down the stairs accompanied by Cane. She pretended not to notice.
“Good evening, Sam.”
His eyes smiled somewhat more than in greeting.
“Sam?” Cane said.
“Social ruffle,” Longstreet said. “Waiting for Sir Reggie?”
“He’s moved on to more pressing matters,” she said.
“I see. Briscoe and I were about to go out for a bite of supper. Care to join us?”
“That’s a far better prospect than dining alone, as long as Mr. Cane doesn’t mind.”
Cane looked from one to the other. “Mind? I might be the one intruding. Please come along if you’re not put off by hickory and leather.”
“Come now, you’re far more charming than that.” She took an arm from each as they turned out the door.
“Hear that, Beau? It’s charming I am. Who knew?”
“Your secret’s safe with me, old man.”
“Old man, why you pup.”
“Boys, please, no fighting before supper, it’ll sour your digestion.”
The waiter seated the three of them with a still more curious look.
“Let me see, sherry for the lady, a whiskey for you, sir.”
“I’ll have a beer,” Cane said.
The waiter scurried off.
“So, Sir Reggie is off to more pressing business, what’s up?”
Samantha cocked an amused eye at Longstreet. “Are we talking an information exchange?”
He laughed. “No, just fishing.”
“At least you’re honest. Kingsley says you had some sort of a misunderstanding over an information exchange in regard to Sam Bass. What happened?”
Cane shook his head. “No misunderstanding to it. We were both chasing Bass. He got away from us in Nebraska at Buffalo Station. We agreed to exchange information. I gave up mine. Kingsley gave me some. It was true enough, he just chose to leave out a rather important detail. That was when Beau here was still workin’ for Pinkerton.”
“Reggie didn’t feel the need of an honest and complete exchange. The part he left out made the exchange rather meaningless for our part.”