A Man with a Past by Mary Connealy

TWENTY-SIX

Falcon heard the whisper of cloth on cloth, so quiet out his bunkhouse window where he was just falling asleep that he had to check on it. No man walking a sentry route would be so quiet.

He slid to the window near the bunk bed he shared with Andy and the dogs. He’d left the window open on the hot night and swung a leg silently over.

“Where are you going?”

He was calm, it seemed, because he didn’t yelp at that unexpected voice.

It was Andy. Who had looked like he was out cold, sleeping like a hardworking, exhausted young man. Yet silent as Falcon was, Andy had awakened.

He wondered how a youngster learned to sleep on edge like that.

For that matter, how had Falcon learned it? He’d heard that whisper of cloth and been awake instantly. Maybe the kid had heard it, too. Falcon slipped to the bed, not wanting to warn whoever was out there. He whispered so softly he doubted anyone could hear him a foot away.

“Someone’s sneaking around. I’m going to check. Stay here unless I call you, better chance of catching him with me alone.”

He felt more than saw Andy nod his head. Not a kid to act in childish ways.

Falcon would like to talk to Kevin about their life back in Kansas.

Falcon slid out the window as quiet as a puff of smoke.

He heard the noise again. Past the bunkhouse now, heading for the house, it seemed. The window was in the back of the bunkhouse, so he slipped along the back wall, around the corner, and saw someone dressed the color of night, moving so silently he might have mistaken him for a shadow if he hadn’t moved. But Falcon had eyes as sharp as a bucket full of nails.

The shadow crept past the door of the ramrod’s house, where Kevin and Win stayed, easing along in the partial darkness of the moon, picking places to hide that were more in the mind than in real life. The intruder reached a gap between the ramrod’s house and the main house.

Falcon closed the space between him and the sneak, wondering if their enemy had finally decided to come straight to them with violence.

When the shadow separated from the ramrod’s house, he dove and brought him down to the ground. Falcon swung back to plow his fist into this outlaw’s face.

A sharp squeak of protest stayed his hand.

Not a him. Not a man.

Kevin was instantly beside him. The tackle hadn’t been loud, but loud enough, it seemed. Andy was a pace back but arrived almost at once. The back door of the house swung open, and Cheyenne stood in the door with her rifle, aimed at the ground but right at hand.

Falcon couldn’t make out his prisoner’s face, but he had a real good idea of who it was. He frisked her and found a gun up her sleeve, another at her waist in a hidden holster reached through a slit in her dress, and a knife in her boot.

With her disarmed, he pulled her to her feet so hard he almost launched her into the air.

“Let me go.”

“That’s a pure waste of words, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Kevin gasped.

A light from the ramrod’s house cast its flare on her face.

“Mrs. Hobart?” Win was standing in the door, holding a lantern.

“Looks like she heard Wyatt was alive and wanted to finish things,” Falcon said. “Either that or she wanted to finish off a few more from this clan.”

Falcon marched her toward the house.

A light came on behind Cheyenne. Falcon sure hoped it wasn’t Wyatt buying into the fight. They’d had their hands full getting him upstairs. He’d made it to his feet, and with an arm around Falcon’s neck and Kevin holding him around the waist on the other side, they bore most of his weight up to his room.

No one was happy about how bad it hurt him and how stubbornly he refused to sleep downstairs.

Thankfully, it was Molly. She and Cheyenne were splitting the night sitting up with Wyatt.

It figured that everyone was sleepin’ light.

Falcon sat Hobart down in a chair hard enough she’d bounced. Her eyes flashed with temper. Her cheeks were flushed. It might’ve been from temper, too, but if it’d been Falcon, he’d’ve been embarrassed at bein’ caught so easy-like.

He decided she was blushing, and he liked thinking he’d shamed her.

Though he didn’t intend to admit it to anyone, she’d been so good it scared him more’n a little. The only reason he’d heard her was because . . . well, honesty demanded he admit to himself, he was better. No use being humble about it.

“Why were you sneaking up on our house?” Cheyenne took charge.

The hard look in Mrs. Hobart’s eyes told Falcon she wouldn’t be pestered into any confession of what she intended tonight. He said, “We’ll put her somewhere. The root cellar or the icehouse. Lock her in, and tomorrow we’ll ride her into the sheriff and charge her with attempted murder.”

She gasped. “I didn’t murder anyone.”

“Not for lack of trying.” Falcon plunked his hands on Cheyenne’s upper arms. She had her back to him because she’d scooted in betwixt him and Hobart.

He moved Cheyenne aside, got way too close to Hobart, and looked hard in the woman’s eyes. “You were on your way to the house in the dead of night. Armed. That’s a crime, Miz Hobart. The attempted murder is for shooting Wyatt Hunt. Now, where’s Percy Ralston?”

Hobart almost collapsed backward in the chair, all the starch and most of the vinegar gone out of her.

“Wyatt’s been shot?” She sounded genuinely horrified. Falcon couldn’t judge it for a lie. If the woman was lying, she was mighty good at it.

“And Ralston is missing?” At this, she didn’t sound overly surprised. “Will Wyatt live?”

Falcon straightened away from her. Kevin came up beside him on the right. Cheyenne on his left, the three of them faced her silently. Molly stood by the stove. That seemed to be her spot, but she wasn’t cooking. Her arms were crossed, her brow furrowed with worry.

Win was watching the woman from a few paces away. She’d stare, then shake her head, open her mouth and close it, then shake her head again.

Falcon figured she’d get around by and by to whatever she had to say.

Andy was behind Hobart. He’d pulled a chair out from the table. Falcon caught himself almost smiling to think how the kid had seen or heard him. Kevin too. Then the humor faded as he wondered again what they’d lived through to be so on edge, even in their sleep.

Falcon heard a creak from overhead. “Wyatt’s moving.” He looked at the little cook. “Molly, get up there and tell him what’s going on. Don’t lie, but tell him to stay put. I’ll be up soon to answer any questions. If he starts coming down the stairs, holler.”

Molly rushed out.

“When did you start giving orders around here?” Cheyenne muttered.

“Don’t rightly know. Don’t like doing it. Doubt it’ll last.”

“Why did you run from Hawkins’s place like you did?” Kevin asked Hobart.

“I slipped out when you got there to talk to Ralston. I realized he’d taken off, and I went after him.”

“Why?” Kevin was doing better’n Falcon had been with questioning.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. She was sly, planning on gettin’ through this without telling the truth. Falcon wasn’t gonna let that stand.

“Icehouse. You won’t freeze before morning.”

“There’s no lock on it.” Cheyenne had her arms crossed so tight Falcon hoped she didn’t strangle herself around her belly. She stared at the woman.

“Figured on it. I’ll stand guard. There’s gotta be a lock on the jailhouse door in Bear Claw Pass.” Falcon reached for Hobart.

“No, no.” Hobart threw her arms in the air, dodging Falcon’s hands. “I don’t want to talk to the sheriff.”

“I’ll just bet you don’t,” Kevin said. “But you shot my brother.”

“I did not.”

Kevin talked over her. “You think we’re gonna just let you ride off? We’ll take you to the sheriff and see you hanged.”

“I didn’t shoot him.” Hobart’s voice rose. She’d been coldly calm, but now the ice was cracking a little.

“Tell it to the law, lady,” Falcon said.

“I can’t talk to the sheriff. You can’t turn me over to him.”

“Can’t is a mighty hard word, ma’am. Reckon it don’t hold much water when you’re comin’ at us in the night. Seeing the sheriff is the nicest thing we’re gonna do for you.” Falcon studied her eyes, which were still calculating. The blush was higher now, but she had a chin that looked like eight days of stubborn packed into a week. But for all that stubborn, he saw someone willin’ to do most anything not to talk to the law. It made her look powerful guilty.

Maybe he had the right lever to pry her open. “Kevin, grab her arm. We’ll head to the icehouse, take turns standing watch, then in the morning go for Sheriff Corly—”

“I can’t talk to the sheriff”—her words rushed out—“because I’m a Pinkerton agent.”

That threw everybody into a dead silence. Watching her, Falcon saw her eyes shift between each of them, then look at the door, probably wondering at the chance she had to slip away. He clamped a hard hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not going anywhere.” She narrowed her eyes at him. He thought maybe he saw a speck of wisdom in the woman. But . . . “What’s a Pinkerton agent?”

He didn’t think this was about losing his memory. He didn’t have much notion of what the words could even mean.

“It’s a private lawman you can hire to investigate,” Hobart explained. “I was hired to find a woman who went missing out here.”

“Lots of folks go missing on the frontier,” Cheyenne said grimly.

Nodding, Hobart said, “They do indeed. But her father is a state senator in Minnesota and her brother was an army general. They had the resources to find out what happened to her. A horse can buck someone off. A prairie fire or tornado can sweep through and leave the dead behind. A creek can rise and wash a wagon away. But we’re living in modern times. If a tornado came through the area, we’d know it. And she didn’t come out on a wagon train. She rode the train and stayed in boardinghouses. She was headed west hunting adventure. She worked in Omaha awhile, then Kearney. I tracked her as far as Bear Claw Pass. She stepped off the train, and there is only the smallest hint that she was in the area, but I can’t find any indication that she boarded the train again.”

Falcon still didn’t know exactly what a Pinkerton agent was. It sounded like she was some kind of sheriff herself. “Why can’t you tell the sheriff what you’re up to?”

“I don’t know for sure if I can trust him. And I want to remain a secret here.”

Falcon looked at Kevin, then at Cheyenne. “Icehouse?”

“Oh yeah,” Cheyenne said. “I don’t like her answers. She’s the most likely person to’ve shot Wyatt.”

“I did not shoot Wyatt Hunt. When did that happen, where? What were you all doing at Hawkins’s ranch today?”

Kevin said, “She’s asking more questions than we are. I think a night in the icehouse will be good for her.” He grabbed her right arm. Falcon grabbed her left.

“No.” She wrenched her arms, but she weren’t goin’ nowhere. Not with Falcon latched on tight. “I have to get back to the Hawkins place by morning. He’s going to be furious that I missed making his evening meal, and that I rode off like I did. I have to be back to make breakfast.”

That brought the little struggle to an end. Falcon sat her down hard on the chair. Well, not all that hard ’cuz they’d never got her much out of it.

“So a Pinkerton agent is a hired snoop?” he asked.

Hobart flushed. “That might be a good way to describe what I do. It’s well-known that on the frontier the law is hard to come by outside of town. The US Marshals can get involved. A few states, like Texas, have Rangers that can provide law and order beyond the town limits. But for the most part, folks on the frontier are their own law and order.”

“That’s nothing but the plain truth,” Cheyenne said. “And that’s why this senator and his son hired you to come and hunt up the wayward girl?”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Then for the third and final time, why, if that’s what you’re doing, did you shoot”—Cheyenne shoved her hard enough the chair slid back—“my”— Cheyenne shoved her again—“brother.”

Drawing back a fist, Cheyenne swung. Hobart moved with lightning speed, faster than Falcon could have. She grabbed Cheyenne’s fist with the sharp slap of flesh hitting flesh. She held that fist tight when Cheyenne yanked back.

Falcon saw Hobart’s knuckles turn white with the effort to hang on, but hang on she did. He saw a toughness in the woman and something sturdy. For all her slyness, she was either the best liar he’d ever met—and since he couldn’t remember much, that wasn’t a hard contest to win—or she was telling the truth.

For all the rage he felt at whoever shot Wyatt, he was going to have to start asking who’d done it other than Hobart. But he’d seen her tracks letting Ralston loose. Or had he?

“I’ll give you a name to send a wire. Allan Pinkerton in Chicago. Please don’t send it from Bear Claw Pass. I don’t trust the telegraph operator. Even if he’s innocent of any wrongdoing, he might talk to the wrong people. But Casper would be all right, and you can ride there and back in a short day. Contact him. He’ll verify he sent me out here.”

“A telegraph can go anywhere, to anyone,” Cheyenne said stubbornly. “You could give us the place to send it knowing someone back there would cover for you.”

Falcon thought it’d be a pretty fancy, long, planned-out scheme for that to work. For her to have partners elsewhere who’d intercept a wire and know how to lie for her.

“Then figure out who Allan Pinkerton is and how to contact him yourself. He lives in Chicago and runs the Pinkerton Agency. I’d think that would be enough for a telegraph office to send it for you. Tell him you met Rachel Hobart, and she told you to mention the Bishop case. That’ll be enough for him to know I sent you, and he’ll answer right quick.”

“Bishop?” Win said the name quietly.

They all turned to look at her. The faint, rather sick tone to her voice was impossible to ignore.

Falcon saw every drop of color leach out of her face until he braced himself to jump at her and catch her when she fainted.

Kevin was at her side before Falcon moved.

“What’s the matter?”

“A-Amelia Bishop was the name of F-Father’s last housekeeper.” Win’s legs went limp, and she collapsed.