Clementine

Page 10

“I’m well past girlhood, Mr. Kulp; and as for the ticket agent, I did him no harm whatsoever.”
“Yet the threat was rather present, I think you must admit—to yourself, if not to me.”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, but it was a worthwhile lie because she’d decided to keep him talking, if only to lead him into saying something useful. His true intent still eluded her by design, and she didn’t care for it.
He cleared his throat again, using the expectoration as an excuse to cover his mouth with his fist. “Since you’ve not denied being the actress Belle Boyd—which is just as well, since we both know precisely who you are—and since you’ve already so eloquently confessed to your wartime activities, I might assume that once or twice, you’ve been known to hurt a man or two.”
“Once or twice, plus half a dozen or more. And if you don’t vacate these premises, perhaps that tally will rise.”
He pouted. “Come now, Belle. There’s no need for threats. Why can’t you give me the same sort of smile you’ve given our illustrious captain?”
“Because Captain Oliver was a gentleman.”
“And I’ve shown you something other than the utmost chivalry?”
She shook her head. “The circular talk will get you nowhere.”
“Except back to the beginning. Shall I try again?”
“You shall not, Mr. Kulp. You shall return to your seat with all haste if you have nothing of substance to tell me, and if you are likewise incapable of leaving me in peace.”
He shrugged merrily and said, “How on earth am I supposed to comply with such contradictory instructions? You’ve now ordered me to say something pertinent, and yet to keep quiet.”
“No, I suggested either one or the other. Meet one of these goals or be on your way.”
Finally, for a moment, he was silent. He stared pointedly at the folder in her lap, and something in his voice changed when he said more quietly, “So it’s true. The Pinks have snatched you up and put you to work.”
She hesitated in her response. “It’s not a secret,” she said, which was true.
“It’s not a widely known fact,” Phinton Kulp replied, and this was also true.
“Then what’s it to you?” she asked him flatly.
“Nothing at all. It’s as you said before, ‘A lady has to eat.’ But there must be a less dangerous way for a woman of your notoriety to keep herself in skirts and furs.” He retreated several inches, giving her both more breathing room and yet, cause for a little more worry.
“My state of employment is no concern of yours,” she told him.
And he said, “You’re right. But you can’t blame me for being curious, and you might want to treat interested strangers with less defensiveness. Pinkerton has operatives and informants from coast to coast, you know; and it won’t serve your purposes very well to send them trundling off to their seats, as if they’re naughty children caught under the tree before Christmastime. There are networks in place, alliances and allegiances to be balanced. Not everyone loves the Pinkerton name—even among those who sometimes serve it.”
She guessed, “You’re no operative.”
“At this time, you are correct. But I’m still a useful man to know—even Mr. Pinkerton will tell you that, if you ask him.”
“How convenient for you, that he isn’t present to interrogate on the subject.”
“On the contrary, I’d be pleased to see him, if only to see you set at ease with his reassurances. It must be difficult,” he said, keeping his voice low and now adding a bit of warning to it—a dash of sinister seasoning that Maria filed away for future reference. “Being a woman of your reputation, traveling alone, working in a man’s field in which you have absolutely no experience.”
“It isn’t so different from spying,” she insisted.
“From one point of view, I suppose not,” he agreed. “But between North and South you had only one enemy. Adversaries and cohorts might have doubled their roles, or blurred them, but at the end of the day you had only one authority to thwart and dodge. Wearing a Pinkerton shield, you’ll find things are more complicated. Pinkerton wages dozens of tiny wars, all at once, all across the territories. Working for him…it’s a dangerous calling, if you could call it that.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s no such thing,” he promised. “Only an observation buttressed by a friendly suggestion, proposed by a concerned traveler who knows a little too well how hard this road is for a man—much less a magnolia like yourself.”
She snorted, and while making a show of making herself more comfortable, she reached for the derringer she always kept loaded in her smallest bag. “And toting secrets under threat of jail and hanging—that was a day at the park, picking flowers. Now if I may be so bold as to offer you a bit of advice, Mr. Kulp, then here you have it: There are people in this world who steadfastly refuse to understand anything unless it’s couched in terms of violence. In my experience, it is most expedient to simply accommodate them.”
“Expedient?”
“You may as well communicate in the language they best understand.”
Neither his spectacles nor his fist could hide the sly expression he assumed when he replied, “Does that mean you intend to shoot me, the very moment you get your hand wrapped around the gun in your bag?”
“I intend to think about it. And you clearly think you’re quite clever, anticipating me like that, but I think it only makes you moderately well read.”
“Both of the biographical pieces I’ve seen on the subject of the South’s most notorious spy did mention that you never travel unarmed, it’s true. And let me assure you, I don’t plan to press my luck on the point.”
Without bothering to note the gratuitous flattery, much less address it, she asked, “Does that mean you’re ready to leave me alone?”
“It means,” he said, removing the spectacles and wiping them on a handkerchief he pulled from a pocket, “That I’m reasonably satisfied that Pinkerton knows what he’s doing, and I’ll pass the word along.”
“Pass word…to whom?”
He didn’t answer, except to gather himself up and stretch, and begin a sideways shuffle back into the aisle. Then he said, “I hope your flight is a pleasant one, Belle Boyd, and send my regards to Mr. Rice when you see him.” He pinched the front of his hat in a tiny gesture that barely passed for a tip, and he returned to his spot at the front of the seating area without another word.
Maria almost called out after Phinton Kulp with demands for explanations, but doing so would’ve openly declared that he’d rattled her so she restrained herself. She settled back in the seat, drawing her shoulders away from the cold wall and window; and she kept her hand inside the purse—on the single-shot back-up plan that had saved her more than once before.
And between her bouts of uncertainty, her concerns about her fellow passengers, and the idle second thoughts that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all, she slept off and on.
All the way to Jefferson City.
5
Halliway Barebones swore on a stack of gold-paged Bibles that his hotel was booked to the hilt, with nary a room to spare for his three visitors. He apologized to the point of groveling, and pointed them towards a ramshackle, three-story establishment a few blocks away. According to Barebones, they shouldn’t meet any trouble—for Indians, Chinamen, and free Negroes were routinely served there without incident, and the hotel owner was correct on that point.
The accommodations were not first class, but they were not last class either; and although Hainey knew good and well that Barebones had been lying when he professed no vacancy, he didn’t make half the stink about it that he might have, given different circumstances. The captain was exhausted beyond words, and more to the point, Simeon and Lamar were half dead on their feet. Hainey might push himself past the bounds of reason, health, and good sense, but he couldn’t impose any further obligation on his men.
After all, the Valkyrie wasn’t going anywhere, at least not overnight. They could afford to sleep a few hours better than they could afford to keep pushing east.
At the High Horse Boarding House and Billiards Hall, two large rooms with two large beds cost the captain six dollars out of pocket. He claimed one room for himself and left the other to his companions, who made a side trip downstairs to buy tobacco and spirits before holing up and settling in for the night.
Hainey skipped the vices and threw himself into bed without any fanfare.
When he dreamed, he dreamed of his own ship—and of the clouds, drafts, and passages over the Rockies. He dreamed briefly of Seattle, the walled city filled with gas and peril, and of the giant Andan Cly who had tried to help retrieve the Free Crow when first it was stolen. He also dreamed of the skittering of black birds, shifting their weight back and forth on a tree branch, their tiny claws gripping and scraping the wood.
But in the back of his head, even when so fogged with such badly needed rest, Croggon Hainey’s exceptional sense of alarm awakened him just enough to wonder if the sound he heard was leftover from sleep…or if it was taking place outside his door. It remained even when his eyes were open—the dragging clicks, but not of birds on branches. It was the sound of someone moving softly and examining the room’s door.
Or its lock.
Or its occupant.
A quick shift in shadow from the door implied feet moving back and forth on its other side; and Hainey, now thoroughly awake, crept from the unfluffed feather bed as quietly as his sizeable bulk would allow. He eschewed his shoes but felt about silently for his gunbelt, and upon finding it, he removed the nearest pistol—a Colt that was always loaded. Automatically, his fingers found the best hold and fitted the gun against his palm.
He slipped sideways to the wall, and slid against it until he was inches from the door’s frame. He listened hard and detected one man, seemingly alone. The stranger was trying to keep quiet and not doing the very best job; whoever he was, he reached for the knob and gave it a small twist. When the door didn’t yield, he retreated.