Petticoat Detective (10 page)

The killer had to have been someone Rose knew;
someone who may even live beneath this very roof
.

Back in his Ranger days, Tom Colton found hanging out at saloons a good way to get the lay of the land and learn about the locals. Nothing loosened the tongue like tonsil paint, providing one didn’t overindulge. So timing was everything. Arrive at a saloon too early and everyone was tongue-tied, too late and a person might find flying fists instead of loose lips.

Each night that week, he’d visited a different saloon. So far his efforts had produced no useful information. Several people had known Dave—had even hired him to do odd jobs. Except for the fact that his brother drank too much, most had nothing but good things to say about him.

The Idle Hands Saloon and Dance Hall was in full swing when Tom arrived. Someone was playing a frenzied tune on the fiddle, and several men were playing faro.

Some saloons offered more than just alcohol. Some offered tea and coffee. If Tom was lucky, this one might even serve milk.

Tonight, luck smiled down on him. The poker-faced bartender slid a glass of cow juice across the bar without comment, and Tom let it sit. Milk offered two distinct advantages: it kept the mind clear and it got attention, usually from troublemakers. But then they were the ones with the most information.

The fiddler played a medley of frenzied tunes and voices grew louder. Tom stared at his milk, startled by the vision of green eyes that stared back. Drat! Now he was seeing things.

Tom’s choice of a nonalcoholic drink caught the attention of various men, but none admitted to knowing Dave. He’d just about given up when a beefy man with tree-trunk legs and bulging arms bellied up to the bar. Two wings of greased black hair curled toward his ears. With his broken nose and flattened jaw, he looked meaner than a newly sheared sheep.

He set his glass next to Tom’s and heaved a dusty boot on the brassfoot bar. “Your mama wean you too young, boy?”

Tom picked up his glass and took a sip. The milk was lukewarm and just this side of sour. “Could be.”

“You new ’round here?”

“Yep,” Tom said. “You?”

“Been here since the war. Name’s Tanner, but everyone calls me Buckeye.”

“Nice to meet you, Buckeye. You can call me Tom.”

“What brings you to these parts, Tom?”

“Looking for someone. Name’s Dave Colton.”

Buckeye picked up his glass and tossed the liquid down his throat in a single gulp. He slammed the glass on the bar and wiped his hand across his mouth. “You can stop looking.”

Tom kept his gaze straight out in front of him where he could watch the man in the mirror behind the bar. Some troublemakers took offense if you looked them square in the eye. “Why’s that?”

“Colton’s dead. Took a piece of lead right here.” He pointed to his temple. “What did you want him for?”

“Owed me money.”

“Yeah, well, tough luck.”

After a while, Tom asked, “How well did you know him?”

“Who? Colton?” Buckeye shrugged. “We spent the night in the hoosegow together, so I guess you could say we were iron bar buddies.” He shook his head. “The man was knee-walkin’ drunk that night. Babblin’ like a newborn babe. Kept jawin’ about the Gunnysack Bandit.”

Tom raised his glass to his mouth and tried not to look overly interested. He took a sip and set the glass down with puckered lips. Next time he’d remember to ask the bartender how long the cow and milk had been divorced before placing his order.

“What did he say, exactly?”

“Nothing that made sense at the time. Makes me sick to think about it.”

“Think about what?” Tom asked.

“The ten thousand dollars that slipped through my fingers.”

Tom frowned. “You loaned this Colton fella ten thousand dollars?”

“Not me. Where do you think I’d get that kind of money?” He lowered his voice. “I’m talking about the reward for the Gunnysack Bandit.”

“ ’Fraid you lost me, there,” Tom said.

“What I’m saying is that I finally figured out what Colton was babbling about the night we spent in jail. What he said was that
he
was the Gunnysack Bandit.”

A
my knew she was in trouble the moment she stepped out of the mudroom door and into the backyard. Against her better judgment she’d agreed to meet Coral for a shooting lesson. Instead, all five women, including Miss Lillian, greeted her with firearms in hand.

She frowned. That’s all she needed, a bunch of women running around with guns. Especially since one of them might very well be Rose’s killer. “What are you all doing here?”

Miss Lillian held her weapon straight out in front with both hands. “Heard you were teaching Coral to shoot. Sounds like something we should all learn. So I had Harry Piker send over a weapon for each of us.”

“Th–that w–way we’ll be safe,” Polly added, her hand shaking like a wet dog.

Amy knew not to discount anyone as a suspect so early in the game, but it was hard to imagine nervous Polly wielding a candlestick holder. Coral with her snippy tongue and dark glances was still a consideration. Buttercup was certainly large enough to overpower Rose. Georgia was thin, but hardly a weakling. Then, of course, there was always Miss Lillian, but Amy doubted the madam would do anything that would harm her business.

“I can understand why you might want to protect yourselves.” In light of Rose’s death, Amy couldn’t blame them for wanting to be armed. Still, she always thought firearm safety undervalued, but never more so than today.

“Of course we need to protect ourselves,” Miss Lillian said. Little remained of the soft Southern drawl used on guests. Today, her voice had a steel-like edge. “Wasn’t that long ago that a woman felt safe in her own home, but those days are long gone.”

“It’s the railroad,” Coral said. “Nothing’s been the same since the iron horse came to town.”

Miss Lillian nodded. “Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it except learn to fend for ourselves. So let’s get on with it, shall we? Before we all shoot each other.”

Miss Lillian had every reason for concern. It was obvious that Buttercup and Polly had no experience with weapons, and the others didn’t fare much better.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Georgia said with an anxious giggle.

Amy blew a stray strand of hair away from her face. “That makes two of us.”

Polly’s gun dangled from her hand like it was a dead rat or something equally unpleasant. “I’ve always been af–fraid of g–guns.”

Coral sneered. “You’re afraid of your own shadow.”

Polly tossed her head. “Am n–not.” She glanced around as if looking for someone to agree with her and finding none, fell silent.

Taking charge, Amy placed her hands on her hips. “Muzzles down,” she yelled, and all arms dropped to the side. “Now keep them down until I tell you to raise them.”

Georgia’s gun fell out of her hand and she stooped to pick it up. “It’s so small,” she said as if to apologize for her clumsiness.

“Don’t let the size fool you.” Amy walked back and forth in front of the women as she spoke. At nearly four inches long, derringers were stubby and lightweight. This made them the concealed weapon of choice. “Booth shot Lincoln with one of these. Just don’t try to shoot farther than ten feet away.”

“How come you know so much about guns?” Buttercup asked.

Coral’s eyes narrowed. “I was wondering the same thing myself.”

“My brothers taught me,” Amy replied. At least that part was true. She wasn’t about to tell them that she also graduated from the Pinkerton detective school at the top of her class.

Changing the subject, she lectured them on gun safety. Eventually, their eyes glazed over, and she ran out of ways to postpone the inevitable.

Now she would have to show them how to load and fire their weapons.
God help them all
.

She reached into her pocket and pulled her derringer from her thigh holster. Clouds hovered overhead, but the air was calm. Perfect for shooting.

“All right, men … uh … ladies. This is how you hold a weapon.” She explained how the two-shot over-under pistol worked and showed them how to open the breach to load their weapons. “Keep your finger off the trigger until ready to fire.”

Earlier, she’d salvaged three empty tin cans from the kitchen. Now she arranged them on the woodpile and walked back several paces. Raising her arm, she aimed, fired, and missed. Adjusting her aim, she fired again, and this time a can flew off the stack of wood.

“All right, on the count of three I want you all to aim at the woodpile. Keep your finger off the trigger. Don’t shoot till I tell you.”

She then stepped out of the line of fire—or at least she hoped she did. “Aim!”

The women lifted their arms and pointed their guns directly at the target. “The weapons are small but the kickback is—”

Just then Tom Colton barreled around the corner of the house, shooting iron in hand. Before she could issue a warning, a startled Polly cried out and fired. The shot triggered a chain reaction, and the other four guns went off in rapid succession. Birds rose from the treetops with loud squawks and a flutter of frantic wings.

For a moment, none of the women moved. When the smoke cleared, the only sign of Colton was his hat on the ground.

Snapping out of her shocked state, Amy ran to the woodpile with dread. “Mr. Colton!”

Tom had hit the ground hard and now lay spread eagle facedown. His hat had flown in one direction, his firearm in another.

Raising himself on his arms, he spit the dirt from his mouth. Miraculously, he was still in one piece.

Amy was the first to reach his side. She fell next to him in a cloud of shiny blue skirts, a horrified look on her face. “Are you all right?”

At sight of the gun in her hands, he raised his hands shoulder high. “Yes, but only if you don’t shoot.”

Eyes rounded, she slipped her shooting iron into her pocket and was all over him like a mother hen. She brushed off his vest and, taking his handkerchief, wiped the dirt from his face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I heard gunfire and I thought you ladies were in trouble.”

Her hand stilled, and their gazes locked. “You could have been killed.”

“That’s for sure and certain.” Fearing he was about to be drawn into the depth of her eyes, he pulled his gaze away and glanced over the stack of wood. Five women peered back. “What in the name of Sam Hill are they doing with guns?”

“They’re scared. They fear that whoever killed Rose might kill them.”

“The way you ladies shoot, he needn’t bother. You’ll save him the trouble.” Since it appeared he was in no imminent danger, he pushed to his feet.

Miss Lillian glared at him as if he was the one in the wrong. “You can’t say you weren’t warned, Mr. Colton.” She sniffed. “I told you danger lay ahead.”

“Can’t argue with you there, ma’am.” He reached down for his hat and brushed it off. He then picked up his Peacemaker and jammed it into his holster.

“W–we’re learning to sh–shoot,” one woman stammered. The recoil had evidently hurt her hand. Holding her arm by the wrist, she shook it.

The woman in the bright yellow dress gave a nervous giggle. “I feel so much safer now.”

Tom slapped the hat on his head. “Wish I could say the feeling was mutual.”

“That’s enough for today,” Amy called. “We’ll practice more tomorrow.”

One by one, the women headed for the house.

Miss Lillian followed at the rear and paused by the back door. “Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Colton? Or perhaps you would allow me to read your fortune? On the house, of course. It’s the least I can do for your … inconvenience.”

He scratched his temple. The woman had an interesting way with words. “No inconvenience, ma’am. I like being ambushed by a bunch of gun-toting women.”

Amy’s laughter rippled through the air. Momentarily caught off guard by the musical sound, his gaze met hers, and he wondered not for the first time how she ended up in such a place. All too soon the laughter faded away, but the memory remained.

“Very well,” Miss Lillian called. “Coming, Amy?”

“In a minute.” In a softer voice, she asked, “So what are you doing here?”