Chapter Two


The man everyone had taken to calling "The Pinkerton Man" had arrived five days earlier. He had never identified himself as a Pinkerton man, of course, but then he wouldn't, and he was what Marie-Rose's maman would call "offish." Had given his name as Cartwright, no Christian name mentioned, and beyond that had said little of himself or his business. Youngish and tall enough, he wore a fine, long coat of black worsted with a silver-threaded waistcoat, sporting a silver pocketwatch chain, black fur felt derby hat and a scary polite manner. Boots were well-used and regular enough, but his guns were polished to a fine gleam and his shirt and starched collar were the whitest things in all of Nebraska. He'd hitched a ride on Lindqvist's buckboard, returning to Gilead from the train depot at St. Joseph after a delivery. Lindqvist was a typical taciturn Swede and asked no questions. Damned irritating.

An Old States bounty hunter or Federal Marshall would have called on Sheriff Buell on arrival, so his business was private or questionable. He came not at the behest of either Cade Belrose, Jace Hughes, or any of the concerns with branches in the town, such as the telegraph or stage line. He moved about the town, speaking with people here and there, watching and waiting. May have been refined and polite as a preacher, but Marie-Rose could smell dangerous, and this one had dangerous spilling out of his pockets and forming little pools of dangerous on the floor around him. Deep waters and storm clouds, this one.

He'd taken a room at the Crystal Springs Saloon, but came by the Astoria every day.

His quartering at the Crystal Springs, which boasted no kitchen and no female companionship, was noteworthy. His nosing about without clear association with any of the big dogs of the yard was troubling. His polite declining of tobacco in any form was curious. Though obviously a big city fellow, he knew the etiquette of a frontier town. Stood for drinks at the bar once a night, but declined to accept drinks for himself, admitting right out loud he didn't hold his liquor that well, which in the minds of the clientele of the Gilead Astoria was the last straw. He could be nancy, an unrepentant sheepfucker, or most kinds of religious type and folk would let be (Quaker he clearly was not, but Mormon was a ticket for a drubbing), but the mood of the town was such that suspiciousness overrode the general principle that questions were not asked lest you carried a badge or a bible. Thus demands were made.

Those demands had been made at the bar of the Astoria, much to Miss Rose's distemper, by a gadabout gang of rowdies who felt the man's refusal of liquor to be a high insult. They also perceived his sweet-natured face to mark him as an easy bit of sport, and had Marie-Rose not had her own measure of the Pinkerton Man, she'd have stepped in with smiles and good whiskey to keep the peace. Or O'Malley would have taken steps much less salubrious to the cheerful spirits of the evening, which were none too cheerful anyway.

However, no intervention was needed by herself or O'Malley; the Pinkerton Man had come up right sharp, showing he had more than enough spine to stare down a few flea-speck ranch hands looking for a scrap. At any rate, Sheriff Buell had chosen to come by to make the young man's acquaintance before the loss of any furniture, and sat them down at a corner table to have a little pow-wow. The ranch hands took themselves off for other pleasures.

Salt of the earth, Sheriff Buell. King of Swords, according to her thinking by the cards. Just and ethical. She appreciated him no end; between him with his badge and her with her businesses, they shared a desire to keep things peaceful for herself, her establishment, and her town. Of course it wasn't really her town, but she lived in it, she loved it, and she was an indispensable component of the local economy.

It was not Sheriff Milo Buell's practice to run strangers out of town just out of hand, as was common in other towns where the law was stretched thin and the custom was to shoot first and ask questions never. Gilead was a stagecoach waystation, and hoped to be a train depot one day, so efforts were being made to slap a coat of paint the color of civilization here and there. A monkey in a velvet jacket is a monkey yet, Sheriff Buell said, but damned if Gilead was going to lose the rail because the local yahoos picked fights with a government agent here on the quiet. As had happened when the rail company men came through a time back.

The paint didn't stick well all over, of course. Some of the old-time ranchers were used to being kings of their castle, and brooked no interference. The immigrants got on everyone's nerves, excepting the German and his frau, and they might as well be Swedes, though to hear the Swedes tell it a German might as well be a Hottentot. Mister Jace Hughes, he of the many landholdings and cattle concerns, was the most obstinate in the adopting of amiable ways of dealing with one's fellow man. He had never taken well to statehood, lo some four years back. Interfered with his habits in dealing with the townships, the law, and the Indian. Mister Cade Belrose, transportation and mercantile, was much the same, though he spent more time in church. Small comfort, that. There had been trouble aplenty lately, and Marie-Rose worried for Sheriff Buell's continued health. You'd think they were in some lawless Territory. New Mexico or God-blasted Utah.

No one was uncouth enough to eavesdrop or gawk as Sheriff Buell and the man had spoken quietly for a few minutes, but there was no small amount of shifting around in case things went south. But after a few minutes, the Sheriff had risen from the table, nodding and offering his hand, which signaled a guarded but positive conclusion towards this fellow and his business.

Sheriff Buell and Marie-Rose often put their heads together to confer on the business of keeping order.

"You giving your stamp, Sheriff?"

"Provisionally."

"He have a given name?" The sheriff had a badge, and so was allowed to importune.

"Benjamin. Been here the week, as he says?"

Marie-Rose nodded. "Five days. Polite as a schoolmarm."

"Hasn't seen the girls?"

"Clara's near to using a lariat."

They had watched young Tully, her gallant and passionate Page of Wands, carry a tray with pots of stew past them to the table where Cartwright sat. Cartwright had smiled, and they had spoken a few words, familiar-like, as Tully brought a plate of stew to his table. The Sheriff had given a sideways glance at Marie-Rose. Tully was fifteen, blond like a field of summer wheat, and them as ain't fussy had been known to notice, least when the girls were busy.

Marie-Rose had shaken her head. "Not Tully, either, he's just friendly to the boy."

The Sheriff told her Cartwright had said he was waiting on the stage. In the sheriff's opinion, Cartwright was waiting for someone to arrive. Marie-Rose has scanned the room, spare of the usual level of custom, and murmured her agreement.

"Private hire? Out for revenge? Not his own, I don't think. He's fretful, but not nursing anger."

"Don't know, don't care, less'n he's Hughes's. Or after Hughes. Or Belrose. Or damned anybody."

"That your thinking?"

The Sheriff hadn't answered direct, but veered. "Riding out to the Lancaster place. Something bad."

"Bad like what?"

"Bad like I don't know. Sol came across three horses with no riders."

"Damnation. Louisa coming in to town?" The Lancasters were real nice folk, the rare churchgoers who didn't look sideways at her and the girls.

"Could be."

"Not a good time to be gone from town, Sheriff. You come back in one piece."

"No, not a good time to be gone from town. Might do to keep our friend there in sight, should that be convenient. I'll alert Randall. Good evening to you, Miss Rose."

Not a good time to be in town either, Marie-Rose had thought to herself as he moved off. She tapped her lip.

Later that same evening, in a moment of idle mischief, Clara had supposed aloud to others in the saloon that the mysterious Mister Cartwright was a Pinkerton agent. Feared and respected, depending your allegiance to the straight and narrow, the Pinkertons had Federal authority, and that made him something to be very wary of, but were privately contracted, which made them unpredictable. This had the desired effect of having Mister Cartwright avoided by everyone but Clara and Tully, distrusted by the rambunctious, and, as Marie-Rose crossly pointed out, at risk of one of those same rambunctious shooting him in the back. Clara had glowered, and made it her job to mind the man's back. As business was slow, she had time. As he was apparently well-funded, she had interest. That he was handsome and had fetching sideburns was gravy.

Over the next days he had loitered about the town, trading off between the Crystal Spring and the Astoria for dinner. He read the old newspapers at the Wells Fargo office, though the telegraph had been silent for a month prior, and then Mister Wilkins of the Western Union Telegraph Company had up and disappeared. Had hired one of Johansen's horses to ride out of town, one day west, one day north. Just looking about, as far as anyone could tell. He'd been included in the posse searching for the missing stagecoach, found abandoned between Gilead and Harbine, with no sign of passengers.

He had been right sly about not asking questions direct, but getting folk to talking about the recent troubles, people missing, people behaving strangely. Those that were willing found him an easy ear, but people already skittish got more skittish. That was most everyone, except the German and his wife, who had a grand time of him as he seemed to be able to say a word or three in German. Of himself he gave out little but a well-hidden apprehension. He was friendly with Doc Abernathy, the old turtle, and with Tully, but Abernathy had nothing to add and Tully could only second the suspicion that the Pinkerton Man was looking for someone. On those occasions Miss Rose saw him being still, unawares, he was working his jaw and staring into the long distance.

So when Clara returned to report to Marie-Rose that there were a few locals drowsing about, some ranch hands in from Cross Creek, and a cloth salesman waiting for the next stagecoach, should one deign to arrive, she was once again anxious. Sheriff Buell might be long afield, and his scarecrow of a deputy Eldin Randall was dutiful enough, but dutiful wasn't spine. No sign of Mister Cartwright, and even if the card tables in the back room had bodies around them this early, he would not be among them. Tully said he'd ridden out first light, though no destination had been mentioned. It had been slow of late, with regular custom dwindling. The big Belrose spread was closer to Harbine, so his hands took their leisure there, but Belrose had been buying up property around Gilead of late, and so his boys were seen more often.  Hughes kept fewer men on payroll, but those he did came to town only irregular. Troublemakers, one and all.

But as none of them were today present, perhaps she had time to take the measure of this new arrival, and make sure that if he was looking to shoot anyone or if anyone was fixing to shoot him, that shooting would happen elsewhere than her hotel. Setting out a bottle of whiskey and the bathwater kettles to heating, Marie-Rose set to putting the premier entertaining room in order.



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Chapter Three