An Agent for Esme

by Amelia C. Adams

  “They never came around,” the woman said with a shrug. “They don’t pay us much attention on this side of town. I think they’ve about given up on reforming us.” She paused. “I’m real sorry that your brother got mixed up in this.”

  “Thank you,” Esmerelda said faintly. “Do you think it’s all right if I go in and look around?”

  “Help yourself,” the woman said. She glanced curiously at Matthew, but didn’t say more, turning back to her garden instead.

  As they walked to the house next door, Esmerelda muttered under her breath, “There were shots fired here, and Agent Bleaker didn’t say anything? Why would he leave that out?”

  “I don’t know,” Matthew replied. “And why didn’t the police question the neighbors?”

  The door was slightly ajar, but the wood was warped, and it stuck against the floor when they tried to open it. Matthew took a firm hold and pushed it open, and they stepped inside prepared for nearly anything they might see. A month’s worth of dust rested on everything, no footprints, dirty dishes on the table as they’ve been told, but no signs of a scuffle.

  “I’ll check the back rooms,” Matthew said in a low voice, taking out his pistol.

  It was clear that they were alone in the house, but Esmerelda brought out her firearm as well, knowing that someone could come in from outside at any moment. She looked in the closets in the front room, found some horribly moldy cheese and bread in the cupboard, and concluded that Agent White wasn’t much of a housekeeper even before the house was abandoned.

  “Nothing,” Matthew reported a moment later. “No blood splatters, no overturned furniture, nothing to indicate any sort of trouble here.”

  “Did the neighbor lie to us?”

  Matthew shook his head. “I can’t think of a reason why she would. She wouldn’t have anything to gain by it.”

  “Unless she wanted us to stop asking after Agent White, and thought that by telling us a story about gunshots, we’d stop our search,” Esmerelda suggested.

  Matthew didn’t look convinced. “I don’t think we can count on anything being true—or untrue—at this point.”

  They turned to leave, but Matthew held up his hand. “Wait.”

  “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer, but pulled out a pocketknife as he crossed the room. There, imbedded in the wall, was a bullet. He used the tip of his knife to extract the item and plopped it in his pocket. “There now,” he said. “We don’t know if this was fired last month or last year, but one thing’s for sure—there has been gunplay in this house.”

  “I’m wagering on one month,” Esmerelda said. “Now, where is Agent White?”

  ***

  Matthew had done his best to hide his anger, but in truth, he was furious. Why hadn’t they been told about the incident at White’s house? Surely the Pinkertons knew about it, and any agent worth his salt would have included that in his report. It was a deliberate omission, and he wanted to know why. As badly as he wanted to march down to the Pinkerton office and give Bleaker a piece of his mind, he held off, though, knowing that they needed to take each thing in order.

  The order was just changed somewhat from their original plans based on this new information.

  “The gunsmith next?” he asked.

  Esme nodded, but didn’t start walking toward the buggy yet. “May I see the bullet?”

  “Of course. I should have shown it to you immediately.”

  She took it from his outstretched hand. “It looks fairly new,” she commented. “It could have been preserved in the wall, though—that doesn’t mean it actually is new.”

  “Is there a way to tell when it was made?”

  “Not just from looking at the bullet, but see this?” She indicated an etching at the base. “This is the manufacturer’s mark, and it’s an excellent start. The gunsmith should be able to tell us more.”

  They hadn’t bothered to hire a driver, choosing instead just to hire the horse and buggy, and Matthew was contemplative as he guided the horse down the street. There would be a confrontation with Bleaker—there was no way around it, and it needed to take place as soon as possible. He’d been all right with the idea of investigating the man on the sly, but knowing that such crucial aspects of the case had been left out, it was clear that their tactics would have to change. He said as much to Esme, and she nodded.

  “You’re right. I don’t even consider this a case of caching guns anymore—I think we need to locate Agent White by any means possible and then get out of here. This office needs to be investigated, but I think it will take a lot more than the two of us to do the task justice.”

  “And if White is dead?” he asked.

  “If he’s dead, we take whatever evidence we can find and we take it to Agent Gordon. I’m not trusting any so-called authority in this area to handle it.”

  He liked the way she thought. She wouldn’t have been scared off by a dead bird on her porch—she’d still be out there doing her job. He might find her annoying, compulsive, uptight, and demanding, but he also found her impressive, and in ways that were impossible to ignore.

  When they reached the gunsmith, Esme showed him the bullet and asked him what he knew about that manufacturer.

  “This isn’t a marking I’ve seen before,” the man said after turning the bullet over in his hands a few times. “I don’t know if this manufacturer is new or if I’ve simply never encountered him, but I do get quite a variety of firearms and ammunition through here, and it’s surprising to me that this is unfamiliar.”

  “So it could be a recent item,” Matthew asked.

  “Yes, it could—or one from across the country someplace,” the man replied. “We don’t see many people here from New England, for instance.” He handed the bullet back. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “I do have one more question for you,” Matthew said. He leaned one elbow on the counter and lowered his voice. “I collect unusual firearms, and I’m looking to connect with someone who could sell me a few Mexican rifles.”

  “Mexican rifles?” The man’s eyebrow went up. “Why Mexican rifles in particular? They aren’t crafted any better than American—I can’t see that they’re superior in any way.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice at all, instead maintaining his regular volume. That encouraged Matthew to believe that he had nothing to hide.

  “As a collector, I’m more interested in what they look like than how they shoot,” Matthew explained. “They’ll be mounted on my study wall back home.”

  “Where his wife will dust them weekly, as if she didn’t already have enough to do,” Esme chimed in, her tone dry.

  “I do know one fellow, but he might be out of town at the moment. Are you staying in Santa Fe for a while?”

  “Oh, just a couple of days,” Matthew replied. He gave the man the name of their hotel and asked him to be sure to pass it along. “Are you the only gunsmith in town?”

  “At the moment, yes. I’m sure that won’t always be the case, the way this country’s growing up around us.”

  “We appreciate your help.” Matthew tossed some coins on the counter in exchange for the bullet evaluation, and then they left.

  “If his body language is any indicator, he’s not involved,” Esme said as they climbed into the buggy. “He didn’t react at all.”

  “He seemed trustworthy to me as well,” Matthew replied. Surely the man had heard about Garcia and the weapons caching, even if he didn’t know Garcia by name—but he could have written it all off as rumors, not worth sharing with a couple of visitors from out of town. He actually admired that—far too many people seemed eager to air their town’s dirty laundry with anyone who would listen.

  “It’s too early for me to head into the saloon,” Matthew said as he urged the horse onward. “What do you suggest we do next?”

  “Let’s stop by the general store,” Esme suggested. “We’d decided to do that later, but it seems we’re taking everything out of order today.”

 
A couple of wagons were already pulled up outside the store when they arrived, but there was still space at the hitching post for one more. Matthew maneuvered their rig to line up with the others, and then they went inside.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man with spectacles stood behind the counter, hurriedly marking his ledger as fast as he could go as a woman with three crying children emptied her basket in front of him. Two other customers waited in line behind her, seeming anything but patient, one man tapping his foot loudly as though that would make the slightest bit of difference.

  Matthew went down on one knee in front of the oldest crying child. “Would you like to see a magic trick?”

  The little boy shook his head and buried his face in his mother’s skirts.

  “Well, I do,” Esme said. “I love magic tricks.”

  Matthew flashed her a smile of gratitude. “Then you shall see one, but you have to hold very still.” He reached up and pulled a penny from her ear, and she gasped.

  “How did you do that? I don’t keep pennies in my ears!”

  The oldest child had stopped crying and now watched, eyes wide, as Matthew pulled a penny from Esme’s other ear. She clapped a hand to the side of her head. “I’m full of money! I must be rich!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s a trick,” the boy said, giggling. “You’re not full of money!”

  “I’m not?” Esme looked disappointed. “But where’s the money coming from, then?”

  “It’s magic!” The boy turned to Matthew. “Do my ear, Mister!”

  The other two children had stopped crying as well, the tracks of their tears still

  evident on their dusty cheeks. Matthew gave the littlest girl a smile, then reached out and took a penny from her brother’s ear. This time, all three children broke into giggles.

  It only took another moment or two for the clerk to finish writing up the order, and the mother turned to Matthew with a smile on her face. “Thank you so much, sir,” she replied. “They aren’t usually like this in public, but we had a long drive this morning to get into town, and they’re quite tired.”

  “I love hearing the laugher of children,” Matthew replied. “I hope your day is better from here on out.”

  “Let me help you get loaded up,” Esme said, scooping up the woman’s box of goods and following her outside.

  The man at the end of the line shook his head. “You seem like a nice man and all, sir, but that’s a waste of time, what you just did.”

  “What do you mean?” Matthew asked. “It’s never a waste of time to make a child happy.”

  “No, I meant that other thing. I saw you slip the clerk here some money for their order. It was a kind thought, but things like that don’t solve the problem.”

  Matthew thought he’d been more surreptitious than that—oh, well. He focused on the rest of the man’s statement. “And just what is the problem?”

  “People who don’t work for what they need, who are always countin’ on gettin’ rich through some scheme or another. If they want to feed their little brats, they should get real jobs. Don’t you think?”

  Matthew smiled blandly. “Well, I’m a stranger in town, so I’m not aware of who has jobs and who doesn’t have jobs. I just saw a little family who could use some help—I didn’t inquire as to their life story first.”

  “Maybe you should have! That gal’s husband spends all his time out in the woods, ‘standing guard,’ he calls it, for some fellow who thinks he’s going to get rich doing whatever he’s doing out there. Not a lick of sense in any of it, and in the meantime, those little brats are being raised in a tent with no real clothes or shoes—well, you saw them!”

  “I did see them, and that’s why I decided to help.” Matthew was struggling to keep his temper. He’d won fistfights with less provocation than he was feeling at the moment.

  Thankfully, it was now that man’s turn at the counter. He bought some tobacco, a parcel of coffee, and some bootlaces, then turned back to Matthew. “I’m just sayin’, put your charitable actions where they’ll do some actual good.”

  “I always do,” Matthew replied, then purposely ignored the man as he left the building.

  Once Matthew was the only customer left in the shop, he gave the clerk a smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I hope the money I handed you was enough.”

  “Yes, sir, it covered today’s bill and some of last week’s as well.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I hope it’s a pleasant surprise when she comes back to settle up.”

  “If she comes back to settle up.” The clerk scratched his cheek. “I don’t usually let accounts go so far overdue, but I can’t shut down her credit—not with those little ones.”

  “You’re a good man.” Matthew held out his hand. “Are you Mr. Young?”

  “I am,” he replied, accepting the shake.

  “I was told by a man named Bleaker that you’re a good fellow to know.”

  Mr. Young gave a slight nod. “I try to be helpful.”

  “It’s appreciated. We’re here from the Denver office to assist with a case.”

  “Glad to know you. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “You could tell me more about that woman and her children—and her husband in particular. Do you have any idea just what he’s doing out there in the woods?”

  “None of us do.” Mr. Young chuckled and shook his head. “Apparently, this fellow comes along and promises that whoever helps him will make a bucketful of money once his ‘deal’ goes through. Only Tommy Ridges—that woman’s husband—takes him up on it, and we haven’t seen more than two seconds of Tommy ever since. He claims he’s too busy to come to town anymore.”

  “Any idea where the Ridges’ tent is?”

  “Oh, sure.” Mr. Young grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil. “You head out of town here, and you cross this fork . . .”

  Matthew studied the drawing after Mr. Young completed it. This could be nothing—in fact, the odds of it being something were rather astronomical—but he had a strong feeling in his gut that he needed to follow through on this, even if it was just so he could pull a few more pennies out of the children’s ears.

  The men looked up as Esme came back inside, looking a little flushed. “Matthew, may I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Of course.” He tucked the drawing in his pocket, but he must have been moving a bit too slowly for her liking because she grabbed his arm and tugged him back toward the dry goods section rather abruptly.

  “That woman—her husband works for Garcia.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure. I got her chatting—women love to chat—and before I knew it, she was telling me all about it. Her husband’s in charge of one of the caches, but she’s terrified that he’s going to get shot. She didn’t actually say the name ‘Garcia,’ but everything she described fell right into place.”

  Matthew pulled in a deep breath, his anger now reaching a boiling point. “We’re being led on a wild goose chase, Esme,” he said after a long moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  He took the page from his jacket and showed it to her. “Mr. Young knows exactly where the Ridges live—he drew me a map. And it’s no secret in the community that the Ridges are up there helping a stranger with some sort of money-making scheme. We aren’t here to solve a mystery or to unearth some long-hidden secret. We’re here to mollify this concerned citizen so they don’t call in the higher authorities.”

  Esme’s eyes were wide. “What’s our next step?”

  “Our next step is to scrap items three through six on our list, send a telegram to Archie and tell him what we’re about to do, and then we’re heading straight in to see Bleaker.” He paused as a thought struck him, and he edged around Esme to approach the counter once again.

  “Mr. Young,” he said, “where am I likely to find Agent Bleaker?”

  Mr. Young’s face took on an unexpected pallor. “Well, they shut down the office proper,” h
e hedged.

  “I had gathered that much, so where is he now?” And why was Mr. Young suddenly acting so strangely?

  Esme came up next to Matthew and rested her hand on the counter. “Mr. Young,” she said gently, “we realize you’re in a terrible position, but we assure you, we’re here to help. We have the backing of both the Denver and the Chicago Pinkerton offices, and we have solid relationships with law enforcement all over the west. That means you’re protected, no matter what you tell us.”

  Matthew glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. What was she talking about? Rather than interrupting her, though, he remained silent to see what would happen next.

  Mr. Young swallowed a few times. “I . . . I already showed you where he is,” he whispered. “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Then he ducked out from behind the counter and disappeared into the back of the store, closing the door behind him.

  Esme turned and looked at Matthew. “He showed you already? What did the two of you talk about while I was outside with Mrs. Ridges?”

  “Mrs. Ridges . . .” Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled out the drawing Mr. Young had given him. “I’d say this is worth about a thousand words, wouldn’t you?”

  She took it from his outstretched hand. “Bleaker is working with Ridges . . .” She looked up at Matthew with wide eyes. “We have to go right now. No time for backup, no time for anything.”

  “But protocol says we should telegram Archie.”

  She shook her head. “Now you’re quoting protocol to me? My, how the tables have turned. Listen—the longer we wait, the more time Bleaker will have to gather up his men, and the more dangerous things will become. Mr. Young just put himself in the firing line as well. We have to go now.”

  “You’re right. Do you have plenty of bullets?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He gave her a nod, then paused. “You’re something else, Esme. Do you know that?”

  “What sort of something else? That could go either way, you know.”

  “Something good. Something good and unexpected and surprising.”

  “I’ll take that.” She flashed him a smile. “I’ll ask you for a much longer list of my attributes later, but we’d better be on our way.”