Jemmy saw a skinny fellow of the same size and shape as the skinny train robber who pretended to be Annie Oakley. This can’t be the same boy. Chief Prentice hustled Boy-Annie off to jail.
By the bruise on this fellow’s chin, she knew he had to be the man Hal slugged at the Maple Leaf Club. The same man had dragged her into an alley by the Coffee Cup Café—John who-smells-like-apples John. This was a completely different man, not the train robber. This was the ragtime music lover.
She wanted to run but felt compelled to stay no matter how many alarm bells rang in her head. The pair stood alone in the cavernous tent. Her legs ached to carry her out front to Dorothea—to the safe haven of Obadiah’s protection. She stood straight and still as a fencepost.
John spoke louder. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I know the whereabouts of the man you’re searching for, that photographer fellow.”
“Why didn’t you bring him with you?”
“He’s being held prisoner.”
“Why would anyone want to imprison Hal?”
“He poked his camera where it wasn’t wanted.”
“Is he all right?”
“As all right as anybody tied up more than a day is apt to be. He was alive when last I saw him.”
“When was that?”
“Three or four hours ago.”
“Come on. We have to catch Chief Prentice before he takes his prisoners to jail.” She started jogging toward the front of the tent.
He raised his voice. “I think not.”
Jemmy stopped short and spun back to face him. “Why not?”
“If police came around, the people who tied up your photographer would harm him.”
“What makes you think they haven’t hurt him already?”
“Maybe they have.”
“Then why am I talking to you?” She turned on her heel, but stopped short. “We have to let Chief Prentice handle this.”
“Can’t. Bringing in police would put your friend in danger.”
Jemmy started for the exit. “I am going after Chief Prentice. He’ll know what to do.”
“What could you tell him? You don’t know where to find your pal.”
In her excitement at recognizing the skinny robber’s double, she had forgotten one crucial bit of information—her own ignorance. She called over her shoulder, “So, would you be so kind as to tell me where Hal is?”
“No. But I’ll take you there.”
Jemmy knew she should be afraid. She could hear Aunt Tilly saying that no man would try to entice a sweet young thing away from her protectors unless he had something sinister in mind. Yet she found herself more drawn to this man than afraid of him. “What can a girl like me accomplish the police couldn’t?”
He moved closer to her and spoke in the same sweet tones he had used to persuade her to come with him down a dark alley by a Main Street saloon to listen to ragtime music. “Get Hal to cooperate. Our best chance to get him away free and safe is to use stealth.”
As Jemmy turned toward him, the scent of warm apples addled her reason. At length, she pulled her wits together enough to point at John’s bruised chin. “Why would you want to save Hal? I saw the two of you together. He belted you in the stomach, cracked your jaw, and knocked you out cold.”
“That’s exactly why he wouldn’t trust me—that and the fact that I’ve been pretending to be one of the bad guys. He trusts you, doesn’t he?”
“You avoided my question. Why do you want to help Hal?”
“I don’t want him on my conscience. If I bust in with guns blazing, your friend is apt to get killed. Know this. I get paid whether he stays in one piece or not, but I want him to come out alive.”
“Paid? Who pays you to pretend to be a crook?”
“I work for the Pinkerton Agency. Mrs. Cody hired me to find out who shot at her in a cave near Hannibal—and to get evidence that would stand up in court. She intends to have justice. She wants to prosecute the person or persons who have been terrorizing the Wild West.”
“Mrs. Cody didn’t hire you. She hired some magician fellow.”
“He’s a Pinkerton, too. Perhaps Colonel Cody or someone else hired him. I don’t know. I’ve been spying on behalf of Mrs. Cody for some time—though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting my employer.”
“Why should I believe any of what you’re telling me?”
He produced a folded paper and a badge with a staring Pinkerton Eye and the Pinkerton motto, “We Never Sleep.”
“Does this convince you?”
The paper looked like a genuine license signed by Robert and William Pinkerton. But what if it were forged or stolen?
At least the paper did tell her something she longed to know—his real name. Jemmy stared at the name until it became black blurs on white paper. “Mr. Dollarhide, I don’t know . . .”
Jemmy clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. Whether from excitement at seeing him or fear of what he wanted her to do, she could not tell. In her heart, she knew she would have to take the risk.
Pulse racing, she inhaled a deep breath. “Where do I fit in your ‘stealth’ plan?”
“I think you can sneak him away before his captors know he’s gone. Then, I will do my job.”
“Just what would that job be?”
“Make up your mind. We have to free him tonight. I mean to capture the murderers. Yes, I called them ‘murderers.’ I mean to take them prisoner before they leave town—which they plan to do in the morning.”
“What will they do with Hal if you don’t catch them before morning?”
“I honestly don’t know, but they’ve killed before. I don’t think they’d let Hal live—not considering all he knows.”
“So why haven’t they killed him already?”
“He’s their ace in the hole. If they need to, they can use him as hostage.”
Jemmy’s courage faltered. “I have to speak to the Koocks.”
“They would get in the way.” John heaved a sigh. “I can’t wait. Make up your mind. We have only one hour, two at the most.” He paused for her answer. When she gave none, he turned to leave.
Over his shoulder he called, “A real journalist would walk barefoot through broken glass for a story like this.”
Jemmy wavered until he reached the back of the tent. “Wait, I’ll come.”
Her thoughts jumbled as she trotted toward him. What am I letting myself in for? What else can I do? Hal wouldn’t be missing now but for me. I can’t just leave him in trouble. More than once Hal has come to my rescue.
John pulled up a tent wall high enough for them to crawl under. The pair slipped out into a damp chill. The blackness seemed all wrong. Was it only minutes earlier the big carbon arc spotlights spilled enough rays outside the arena to see by?
Her eyes had not adjusted to the dark when John handed her the reins of a smallish horse. She couldn’t make out its color in the inky night, but the tang of Watkins liniment from the horse’s bandaged knee crinkled her nose. She shivered and wished she had a shawl.
The heavy Colt in her inner pocket banged her leg as she mounted. She took comfort from its presence. It might come in handy.