The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

It was starting to feel as if we had to be careful everywhere we went around here. Rough country, Mr. Roosevelt had called it, and he wasn’t wrong.

  As we stood waiting for our supper, a familiar figure walked through the door, and I touched Thomas’s arm discreetly. John Ward stood on the threshold, eying the crowded barroom with a bemused expression.

  “Shall we ask him to join us? A table just opened up in the corner there.” Thomas started toward the door, but I put my hand on his arm again, and he gave me a quizzical look. “Is there a problem?”

  “Do you suppose we were a little too quick to trust him yesterday?”

  “Why, because he works on a ranch? The same could be said of half the men in this bar.”

  “Maybe, but what about the animal tracks? Mr. Ward insisted they were real, but after what we saw today, I’m not so sure.”

  “Little Wolf also believes them to be genuine,” Thomas pointed out. “It’s difficult to reconcile their views, I grant you, but isn’t that all the more reason to dig deeper?”

  True enough, I supposed. And besides, I’d come to rely on my instincts when it came to reading people, and nothing about John Ward had given me pause. If anything, he came across as the sort of quietly righteous hero you found in the yellowback novels. “All right, let’s talk to him. Why don’t you catch him before he sits, and I’ll wait for the stew?”

  I kept an eye on my partner as he made his way through the tables, in case the drunks gave him any more grief. Instead, it was one of the stargazers who accosted him, seizing him by the lapels and looking him up and down with a sultry little smile. “Oh my,” she purred, fingering the fine fabric of his suit. “Oh my.” I didn’t hear Thomas’s reply, but she sighed theatrically and sauntered away, to much laughter from the surrounding patrons.

  One of the onlookers wasn’t laughing, though, and I stiffened as I recognized the greasy gunslinger who’d been staring at us the night before. His eyes tracked Thomas all the way across the room.

  “Stew’s up.” Crockery landed heavily on the bar behind me.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Granger. That fellow near the window over there. Black hair, oiled mustache. Who is he?”

  The saloonkeeper flicked him a glance. “Been calling himself William Ford, but he ain’t fooling nobody. That there’s Bowie Bill Wallace. So-called on account of that pig-sticker he’s always waving around. ’Scuse me, that’s a—”

  “I know what a pig-sticker is,” I said grimly. I’d seen a man stabbed once, in an alley off Mulberry Bend. That sort of thing leaves an impression on a nine-year-old. “Let me guess: he’s a wanted man.”

  “In three territories, so they say. Rumor has it he’s the one robbed that stage coming outta Deadwood last month.”

  I cursed under my breath. “Why hasn’t the sheriff taken him in?”

  “Asked Bill Jones that very question, not two days gone. He tells me he ain’t got no quarrel with the man, on account of that stage was robbed in Montana. I guess he wired Sheriff Bullock down in Deadwood and reckons that’s his duty done.” Granger glanced at the outlaw again. “I’d stay well clear if I was you, ma’am. He’d gut you like a fish soon as look at you, him and his boys.”

  “I’ll be very happy to stay clear of him, thank you.” Whether he’d stay clear of us was another matter. I couldn’t think of any reason he’d be staring at Thomas that didn’t spell trouble. Resolving to keep an eye on him, I picked up the stew and headed for the table in the corner, where Thomas had settled in with John Ward.

  Mr. Ward didn’t recognize me straightaway, not that I blamed him. I’d left town looking disrespectable enough, and only acquired a patina of dust and horse grime since then. When he realized who I was, he leapt up and snatched off his hat. “Pardon me, ma’am. Let me get that for you.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled awkwardly and handed him the stew. “It’s so nice to run into you like this.”

  “Can’t help but run into folks in this town,” he said as we took our seats. “’Specially now all the other restaurants is closed.”

  “I suppose that’s true. In which case you must be acquainted with many of these fine gentlemen.” My arm did a sweep of the room.

  He smiled. “Some. And there ain’t a gentleman among ’em.”

  “Hey.” One of the other patrons had overheard, and he glared at us from a neighboring table. “Show some respect, boy.”

  John Ward met his gaze coolly. “Mind your business. And don’t be calling me boy.”

  The stranger scowled, and for a moment I thought there’d be trouble. But I guess he figured he’d bitten off more than he could chew, because he looked away, muttering into his beer.

  “You must encounter that sort of thing often out here,” Thomas said.

  Mr. Ward shrugged. “Not as much as you might think. Out on the range, things is different. Colored or Indian or Mexican, it don’t matter, long as you can ride ’n’ rope. In town, though…” He shook his head. “Just one more reason to avoid it where I can. Only reason I’m here now is to pick up some supplies.”

  “Are you going somewhere?” I asked.

  “Hunting.” The grim look in his eye left little doubt what he’d be hunting for. “Managed to convince Mr. Reid to give me the day off tomorrow. After that it’s Sunday, so I oughta be able to cover some decent ground. Which reminds me—how’d you all get on today? Did you find the Sioux?”

  “Lakota,” I corrected automatically. “And yes, we did.”

  “You were right,” Thomas said. “They’re quite convinced their horses were stolen by ranchers. And I must say, in view of the evidence they presented, we’re inclined to agree.” He watched our companion carefully, absorbing his reaction.

  Mr. Ward’s mouth tightened, and he glanced away. “All right, then.”

  “Though that doesn’t necessarily preclude the possibility that the creature is real.”

  John Ward frowned. “Beg pardon?”

  “Little Wolf thinks both things are true,” I said. “That the horses were stolen by ranchers, and that they were eaten by some sort of wild animal.”

  “’Spose that could be. All I know is, them tracks was left by something.”

  “White Robes believes the tracks to be forged,” Thomas said. “The product of human trickery, designed to frighten them.”

  Mr. Ward sighed. “So I hear. Is that what you think, then?”

  “The paw prints she drew for us were certainly implausible. Little more than a pastiche of unrelated traits. Though to be fair, I imagine any creature outside the ordinary would appear that way when glimpsed for the first time. I’ve no idea what the spoor of a prehistoric bear-dog or giant mustelid would look like, for example. Not having seen the tracks for ourselves, it’s difficult to judge. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Gallagher?”

  I might have done, if I had any idea what a mustelid was. As for whether the prints were authentic or not, I still wasn’t sure what I thought. It was hard to reconcile White Robes’s certainty with Mr. Ward’s—or for that matter, with her own brother’s. Little Wolf was convinced something was out there too, but people had a way of seeing what they wanted to. Until Thomas and I got a look for ourselves … “I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  “Those tracks don’t make no kinda sense,” the ranch hand said. “I ain’t saying otherwise. But I learned a long time ago that just ’cause a thing don’t make sense don’t mean it ain’t so.”

  Thomas smiled. “On that we agree, Mr. Ward.”

  “You can go ahead and call me John.”

  “In that case, Thomas will do just fine.”

  “And Rose,” I said. “And now that’s settled, may I ask an indelicate question, John? If all this were some sort of elaborate ruse, can you think of who might be behind it? Theoretically speaking.”

  “Theoretically speaking?” He raised his eyebrows and blew out a breath. “S’pose it could be anybody. No love lost between ranchers and Indians.”

  “What about between the ranchers thems
elves? Are there rivalries?”

  “Squabbles, sure. Nothing like the range wars down south, mind.” John frowned. “You asking me if one of ’em might be doing all this to poke the others in the eye?”

  “I suppose that is what I’m asking, yes.”

  “Like I said, anything is possible. But unless one of ’em’s got a lion locked up in his barn, I still don’t see how it explains them bones.”

  “No.” I sighed. “Neither do I.”

  Then there’s Ben Upton and his ghost, and the disappearing treasure hunters, not to mention this mysterious winter. I couldn’t figure any of them, let alone how or even if they were connected. The whole thing gave me a headache.

  John excused himself to get supper, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Thomas said, “Well? Are you convinced?”

  “That he’s telling the truth? Yes, but you’ve just given me an idea. I’ll be right back.” I headed outside to check the horses hitched up in front of the saloon. None of them bore the brands White Robes had drawn, but virtually all of them had some sort of identifying mark. I’d bet my britches John Ward could identify most of them, at least if they were from around here. Might he recognize the horseshoe and the cluster of dots as well? Probably, I decided, though we’d have to be discreet in our questioning. It was too early to start throwing accusations around.

  I headed back inside, but I hadn’t got far before a hand shot out from one of the tables, seizing me by the wrist. “Well, hello there.” The man looked up, and I recognized one of the drunks who’d catcalled me earlier. “Where’re you off to in such a rush?”

  “Excuse me,” I said coldly, twisting out of his grasp. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me.”

  “Don’t be like that, darlin’.” He grabbed me two-handed, pulling me down into his lap. “Let me get a look atcha.”

  I sprang to my feet like a scalded cat, but he was right behind me, arm snaking around my waist. Sour breath warmed my neck, and his hand crept up under my breast.

  Looking back on it, I may have overreacted.

  I’d only ever been manhandled like that in jujitsu training, and I responded accordingly, grabbing his arm and driving my hip into his middle. He went over my shoulder cleaner than my sparring partners ever had, hitting the floorboards with a whump.

  For a moment he just lay there, blinking at the ceiling. Then a roar of laughter went up from the surrounding tables. That’s when I knew I’d made a mistake.

  He lurched to his feet, scarlet with humiliation. “You think that’s funny, bitch?”

  I might have pointed out that I wasn’t the one laughing, but he didn’t seem like the negotiating type. Instead I backed away, bracing myself for whatever came next. He made a clumsy grab, but I batted him away easily. I had the sense he wanted to throw a punch but couldn’t quite bring himself to hit a woman. Instead he charged at me again, arms spread like he was trying to corral a stray hog. He made it only a few steps before something jerked him back.

  “That will do, I think,” Thomas said, hauling the man by the collar and throwing him into a chair.

  The drunk shot right back up again. Now he had a suitable target for his rage, and he took a swing at Thomas that would have done real damage had it landed. Thomas sidestepped—and couldn’t resist sticking his foot out while he was at it, sending the drunk face-first into the table.

  Well, things turned into a real mess after that.

  The drunk’s friends leapt into the fray, surging at Thomas like a pack of hounds. He ducked under one before spinning to face another, catching the fist aimed at his head and using it like a lever to send the man cartwheeling over his shoulder. A third man came at him swinging a bottle; Thomas grabbed his arm and tumbled backward, planting a foot in his attacker’s middle and launching him through the air before rolling smoothly to his feet. Again they came at him and again they met the same fate, careening off him in all directions as he redirected their momentum with clinical efficiency.

  The rest of the patrons whooped and jeered at the spectacle, but nobody stepped in. As for me, I had problems of my own. The first drunk, the one who’d started this whole bag of nails, was back on his feet and looking for blood. He reached into his boot and pulled out a knife, which I guess was his way of saying he was done being a gentleman. He held that blade like he knew how to use it, and my pulse skipped a beat. But when he came at me I was ready, batting his arm aside and grabbing his wrist. That was the easy part, but when I tried to wrench the knife free, he was having none of it, grappling and swearing, one hand clamped around my wrist like a vise. He was stronger than me, and heavier; the blade started to pivot toward my middle. I did the only thing I could think of, driving my knee into his groin and dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

  He curled over himself on the floor, whimpering in a register mainly discernible by dogs, and I can’t pretend I didn’t find it just a little gratifying.

  “Are you all right?” Thomas appeared in front of me, out of breath but otherwise unruffled. Behind him, those of our attackers who could still walk were limping away with their tails between their legs, shepherded off by a stern John Ward. “You know damn well he had that coming, Earl,” I heard him say. “Now go on and get yourself dried out.”

  I gave myself a quick once-over, but aside from a sore wrist, everything seemed fine. “I think I’m finally getting the hang of this jujitsu thing. I must have had a good teacher.”

  “Hmm.” Thomas hoisted an eyebrow at the poor sod crumpled at my feet. “I don’t recall covering that particular technique in class. A Five Points variation, no doubt.”

  I smiled, a little embarrassed. “You might have to go over disarming for me again. I never can get it right.” Picking up a broken chair, I added, “Thank you for stepping in. But I could have handled it, you know.”

  “I have no doubt. Believe it or not, my initial intention was to de-escalate the situation. I’m afraid my temper rather got away from me.” He sighed, glancing around. Every pair of eyes in the saloon was riveted on us. “And now it seems we have some explaining to do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE TRUTH HURTS—A LITTLE MORE EXCITEMENT—NO STONE UNTURNED

  “You don’t say. The Far East?” Lee Granger leaned on the bar, looking pretty unperturbed considering the mess we’d just made of his joint. It helped that his pockets were lined with more than enough cash to pay for the damage, courtesy of Thomas.

  “The adventure of a lifetime,” Thomas said. “I only wish I could show you the photographs. Miss Gallagher and I soaked up everything we could, including jujitsu. Though I must say, I hadn’t thought to put it into practice outside the sparring ring.” Leaning in conspiratorially, he added, “It was rather invigorating!”

  Granger laughed. “You’re an odd duck, Wiltshire, but I like you.” He poured us both a whiskey and walked away, still chuckling.

  “He seems satisfied enough,” I said. Hopefully, he would spread that story around, and anyone with a mind to ask how a photographer and his assistant made short work of four hard-bitten cowboys would have his answer.

  “Not everyone will be quite so credulous, I fear.” Thomas inclined his head at John Ward, who was still trying to smooth feathers with some of the locals.

  “I’m more worried about the rest of these roughs.” Bowie Bill hadn’t moved a muscle during the commotion, but he wasn’t the only shady character in here. “What happens if they don’t buy it?”

  “Let us hope we don’t have to find out. In the meantime, I think perhaps it’s time to bring Mr. Ward into our confidence. Are you comfortable with that?”

  I sighed. “I wouldn’t call it comfortable, but I don’t think we have much choice.” Neither of us were trackers, and that meant John Ward was our best chance of finding the creature. We needed him to trust us, and I doubted he’d fall for any flimflam about photographs in Japan. Not after we’ve spent the past two days peppering him with questions. Of course, the truth might not suit him any better. Would
he want anything to do with a pair of Pinkertons?

  Here’s hoping. I picked up my whiskey and tossed it back—and promptly succumbed to a fit of coughing.

  “Good heavens, that was brave of you.” Thomas patted my back. “Are you all right? I shouldn’t wonder if that was half kerosene.”

  In a fit of Irish cussedness, I drank his too.

  We took John Ward aside to deliver the news, stepping out into the street to avoid prying ears. Thomas kept the details to a minimum, just as he’d done with the Lakota. No point in overwhelming the poor fellow with ghosts and strange winters all in one go. Livestock rustling and a possible man-eating monster were enough to be getting on with for now.

  “Pinkertons, huh?” John’s expression was unreadable in the shadows. “Guess I figured it had to be something like that.”

  “I hope you can forgive us for not being more forthcoming,” Thomas said. “We thought it likely the locals in this area would be less than cooperative if they knew.”

  “No doubt.”

  I still couldn’t get a bead on him, whether he was angry or disappointed or something else. I had the impression John Ward kept his cards pretty close, even by cowboy standards. “We’re here to help,” I said, hating how trite it sounded. “We’re chasing a lead on a separate matter in the morning, but we’d be happy to join you on the hunt afterward, if you’re willing. We’re not trackers, but we can shoot, and from the sounds of things, having a few extra guns might not be a bad idea.” Also, I have a few more questions to ask about your fellow ranchers. I knew better than to push our luck any further tonight. Hard to read he might be, but John was clearly a cautious sort. Better to give him a chance to digest things first.

  “Lemme think on it a spell,” he said.

  Thomas nodded. “That’s more than fair. You can leave word for us at the hotel if and when you’re ready. In the meantime, we should be very grateful if you kept this information to yourself.”

  “I surely will. I don’t need no blood on my hands.”

  With that comforting remark, he headed back inside. I watched him mount the steps, and that’s when I noticed something that made my stomach drop.