High and Wild (6 page)

“I might also warn you that not only have I earned my stripes, so to speak—lest you should think you're working with a nitwit because I happen to not be a man—I have also been well apprised of your predilection for . . .” She looked around as though searching for the right word or phrase. When she found it, she turned her biting gaze back to Haskell and said, “Uncouthness and mule-headedness concerning female operatives. Your predilection for condescension.”

Miss York punctuated the saucy rebuke with a slightly chilly smile. “Now, then, Mr. Pinkerton,” she said, turning to their employer, who sat smiling in toothy awe at the girl, “won't you tell us why we're here so we can both get to work on the task at hand?”

Pinkerton slid his gaze from the girl to Haskell. The big detective thought the head honcho would fairly burst at the seams of his tailored suit in fatherly pride at his impudent female operative. He gave Haskell an “Ain't she somethin'?” wink and then gestured at the visitor's chair to the left of the prettier of his two agents.

When Haskell had slacked into the chair, Pinkerton sat down in the high-backed swivel chair behind his desk and with both fine-boned hands smoothed his thin, gray-flecked brown hair back from his pronounced widow's peak. “Now, then, Miss York is right. It is time to get down to brass tacks, though let me just say, Bear, that the president sends his appreciation for the accomplishment of your last assignment. He and Mrs. Johnson are both very happy to have their niece back in the safe hands of her husband. And before I forget . . .”

Pinkerton removed a paperboard box from a drawer and slid it across the table to his prized agent with a wink. “While I do not normally give out bonuses, you will, however, find a few extra Cleopatras in there, along with a check for your standard salary.”

“A few extra of these little babies,” Haskell said, having dipped a hand into the box and plucked out one of the long, fat, butterscotch-colored stogies, “is all the bonus I need, Allan. You know that.”

He smiled as he ran the aromatic stogie, smelling like a mouthwatering amalgam of licorice, chili peppers, molasses, and brandy, beneath his nose.

On the band, as on the top of the box, was a gold engraving of the sultry, long-lashed Egyptian queen herself in full headdress, with “Federal” written in flowing black script on the tiny banner beneath it.

Miss York gave him a skeptical glance. “You get paid in cigars?”

“Only partly,” Pinkerton interjected.

Bear said, “Not just any cigar, Miss York. But Cleopatra Federales. Hand-rolled in Cuba and infused with the finest cognac in the world. Dang near thirty dollars a box.”

“Forty,” Pinkerton growled.

“Hmmm,” said Miss York. “You don't look like the type of man who could appreciate such finery. Uh, no offense, Mr. Haskell.”

“None taken,” Bear said, returning the stogie to the box and setting the box on the edge of Pinkerton's desk. He gave Miss York a faintly caustic smile. Somehow, being insulted by this girl, unlike any other he'd yet known, was giving him a boner. He adjusted his position in the chair to try to relieve the discomfort. “And it's Bear, if ya please.”

“Of course,” she said primly, returning his smile with an equally ironic one of her own. Did he just imagine that she'd flicked her glance to his crotch? Did she know the effect she was having on him?

Christ, this was no time to imagine the girl writhing around beneath him, half in and half out of those widow's weeds, hammering his buttocks with the heels of her shoes . . .

“Now, then, Boss,” Bear said, turning to Pinkerton with what he hoped was an imperceptible wince. “You were saying about the assignment . . . ?”

6

P
inkerton leaned forward, crossed
his hands on his tidy, hide-covered desk, gave each of his two detectives a grave, authoritative look, and said, “The Pinkerton Agency has been hired by the family of one Malcolm Briar of Chicago, Illinois, to locate Mr. Briar, who was last seen in the Colorado mining town of Wendigo, up in what has become known as the Ute District of gold and silver mines in the western Sawatch Range.”

“South of Leadville,” Haskell said, nodding.

He knew central Colorado Territory well, having worked as a stage driver and shotgun rider in the Colorado Rockies just after he'd come west after the war, before Pinkerton had run him down and given him a job. Pinkerton had sent Bear on several assignments in that neck of the high, rugged mountains. As mines had been sprouting all over up there for the past fifteen years, it was, as one could easily imagine, one nest of bloody trouble after another.

“Do tell us about Malcolm Briar,” said Miss York, leaning back in her chair, resting her slender elbows on the chair arms, and lacing her gloved hands together.

“A precocious if singular and somewhat mercurial man roughly Bear's age, in his early thirties,” Pinkerton said. “Grew up in a wealthy family with a prosperous shipping business on the Great Lakes. However, young Malcolm was not a mariner. He preferred the adventures of us landlubber sorts. Fought in the war on the side of the Union, was wounded twice, attained the rank of captain.

“After the war and after he'd healed from his wounds, young Malcolm came west to make his mark. For several years, he drifted, working as a general roustabout for a circus and a couple of construction companies that built opera houses, as a deckhand in San Francisco—that sort of thing. He'd always shunned his family's wealth, preferring to earn his own way. A couple of years ago, he took what money he'd saved into the mining country of this very territory. Went up into the Ute District to start his own freighting company.”

Pinkerton glanced at Haskell. “As you know, Bear, there are around eight or nine mines up in the Sawatch. There are no narrow-gauge rails. The geology won't support them. Each company must haul its ore down to the processing mills outside of the town of Wendigo. The mines and everything associated with mining, including freighting, are big business up there. Highly competitive. Several different freight companies are always competing for freighting contracts. They are, indeed, very lucrative contracts. A good freight outfit can bring in almost as much money as the mines themselves.”

“And this is what Malcolm Briar was doing up in the Sawatch, huh, Boss? Running his own freighting company?”

Pinkerton nodded. “He called it Briar Federated Freight, and according to the letters he wrote to his sister, he was doing rather well. He did allude to some troubles, allowing to his own mulish temperament and how business was highly competitive up around Wendigo, but he mentioned the trouble in only the most oblique of ways.

“A little more than a year ago, Malcolm's letters stopped suddenly. The Briars found that odd, since he'd been writing his sister at least once a month. Apparently, he was somewhat the black sheep of the Briar family, and he was closest to Emily, a spinster and several years Malcolm's junior, so she's primarily who he corresponded with. Anyway, when Miss Briar stopped receiving letters from her brother, the family hired a private investigator to ride up to Wendigo and see if he could locate him.”

“He didn't, I take it?” Bear asked.

Pinkerton shook his head. “The Briars never found out if he did or he didn't. He never returned. There were no messages from him. No communication whatsoever. That's when I was paid a visit at my Chicago headquarters by Malcolm's father, Matthew Briar, and Malcolm's sister, Emily. They have contracted us to find their son and brother—whether he is living or dead. They're very worried, as you can imagine. They want very badly to find out what happened to him. And if Malcolm has been the victim of foul play, they, of course, want the culprits brought to justice.”

“Why send the two of us?” Bear asked, gesturing at the lovely Miss York. “You know I always prefer to work alone, Allan. Uh, no offense, Miss York.”

She gave him a cool nod. “None taken, Mr. Haskell.”

Pinkerton said, “As you'll read in this file, Malcolm Briar gave his sister few details about his life and business up at Wendigo. He did, however, mention that he had a lady friend who worked in one of the saloons up there. He asked his sister not to mention this decidedly potentially damning bit of information to the rest of their family.”

Haskell manufactured an incredulous expression. “It's damning to know saloon girls?”

Miss York gave him a look of forbearance.

“Anyway,” Pinkerton went on, ignoring Haskell's witticism, “I'll need someone, preferably a female for obvious reasons, to find this young lady in as subtle a way as possible and to make further inquiries that would be much easier for a woman than a man.” He gave an ironic smile. “Especially for a man as large and imposing, not to mention downright threatening, as you, Bear.”

“Ah, hell,” Bear said. “I can don silk slippers when I have to.”

Miss York glanced at him coyly. “But I wonder if you'd find any that fit.”

“And I doubt you'd be as beguiling to the men up at Wendigo,” Pinkerton said, sliding a meaningful glance to Raven. “Enough so as to wriggle information out of them . . .”

Discretion dictated that the chief Pinkerton's eyes say what his lips would not, despite Pinkerton having married a dance-hall girl long ago back in his home country of Scotland. Miss York gazed unblinkingly back at him, understanding exactly what she would be doing once she reached Wendigo.

She didn't seem at all perturbed, merely matter-of-fact.

Haskell imagined her decked out in a corset and bustier, sitting atop a bar with her long, bare legs crossed, and he had to recross his own legs, giving another, he hoped imperceptible, wince at the discomfort in his groin.

“Meanwhile,” Pinkerton said, “you, Bear, will be investigating the teamsters who work for the freight companies, and the miners. Anyone who might have some information and won't require the subtle prodding best left to Agent York. As I said, however you wish to pry information is up to you. You usually come up with your own imaginative, if not so delicate, ways.”

Pinkerton chuckled. “As you know, such men who work in mining fields are as rough as a dog's . . .”

He let his voice trail off, flushed slightly, and looked down at his desk.

“As rough as an old dog's teats?” the girl finished sweetly. “I might be young and pretty, gentlemen, but this isn't my first ride down the river.”

Pinkerton blinked at Haskell. “Just remember that the last investigator sent up there was never heard from—and likely will not be heard from—again.”

Miss York said, “What is the name of this private investigator, Mr. Pinkerton? In case we run into him.”

Pinkerton frowned. He opened the only manila file folder on his desk, plucked a set of reading half-glasses from the pocket of his black frock coat, and set them on his nose.

Narrowing his pale blue eyes, he flipped through several pages in the folder, placed his index finger down on one, and said, “Calvin Wexler. A lone investigator from Chicago. Never heard of him myself. Probably came rather cheap, and the Briars decided to send him on what they initially deemed a rather easy trip, as they first believed that Malcolm had just gotten too busy to continue corresponding regularly with his sister. Or that he'd gone on one of his not infrequent benders, a habit he'd picked up when mending from his war wounds.”

Pinkerton closed the folder and sat back in his chair. “Now, however, they worry that things have turned out otherwise.” He tapped the closed folder. “Miss Whitehurst has typed up copies of this report on Malcolm Briar. You can pick them up from her, along with travel maps, train tickets, and expense vouchers, on your way out. She's made arrangements for you both to take the first flyer out of Denver to Colorado Springs tomorrow. You're to travel separately, however. Make sure you are never seen together, as you both may consider yourselves undercover. And, uh, Bear?”

Haskell was stuffing a handful of Cleopatras into a breast pocket of his blue chambray shirt, which he wore under a black leather vest. “Yes, Boss?”

“Do read the file this time. It's full of information I've only touched on, and it will assist you in proceeding efficiently.”

“Ah, hell, Allan, you know gut instinct is what makes me as good as I am.”

Bear caught Raven rolling her eyes.

Pinkerton sighed. “Bear, once you arrive in Colorado Springs, I want you to rent a horse for the trip. Miss York, you'll take the stage.”

“Of course,” Miss York said.

“Why can't we travel together?” Bear asked their employer. “She wouldn't have to travel dressed in black in such hot weather if, perhaps, we went as an old married couple.” He smiled at the girl.

“Black becomes me,” she said with another frigid smile.

Pinkerton said, “You two are to have as little contact as possible, for your own good and for the good of the investigation. If you're seen together, someone might get suspicious about what you're up to. Bear, Miss York here knows your reputation as a ladies' man. I and others have warned her. Suffice it to say that I know from working with her that she is not the sort of female you prey on.”

Haskell blinked, astonished. “
Prey
on? Allan, I—”

“She is a lady as well as a professional.”

Miss York beamed and slid a quick, shrewd glance at Haskell. “And I'm very well armed. You'd be amazed at how quickly I can slip a stiletto from a fold in this frock.”

“That ain't very nice,” Haskell grumbled, recrossing his legs yet again.

“And Bear, before you go . . .”

“Yes, Allan.”

“Please stop abusing my bodyguards.”

Again, Haskell blinked his astonishment. “They started it, Allan. I was only—”

“Good luck and good day to both of you. I don't expect I'll be hearing from either of you until your mission is accomplished. Too risky to send telegrams from Wendigo.”

With that, Pinkerton folded his hands together and gave them each a cordial parting nod.

As Haskell followed Miss York to the door and tried not to stare at her little round ass, Pinkerton said behind him, “Bear?”

Haskell stopped, holding the knob of the open door. Miss York had gone out into Miss Whitehurst's office.

Pinkerton pointed at him like a chastising schoolmaster and hissed, “You keep it in your pants, or I'll have you whipped with snakes!”

“Ah, hell, that ain't gonna be no chore,” Haskell said, scowling. He glanced at the pretty operative visiting with Miss Whitehurst and turned back to his employer, whispering around the side of his hand, “Why, she's such a persnickety little number, I'd shrivel up to the size of an angleworm!”