Jemmy wanted to know how John planned to free Hal. When she opened her mouth, he shushed her. “No talking. We don’t want anyone to notice us.”
Jemmy chafed to know why John Dollarhide would care whether they were recognized. He gave her no voice and no choice. All she could do was follow his dark shadow.
The twosome avoided well-lighted places in favor of residential streets and alleys. But even when they crossed brick thoroughfares, the horses’ shoes made soft clops instead of clacking noises. John must have muffled the hooves.
They plodded along without talking as they traveled east, then north past the Katy station. At the Washington Street viaduct by the Missouri Pacific signal yard, they turned west along the tracks. John motioned for her to dismount. She followed his example and tied her horse to a bridge strut. Smoke on a breeze from a distant wood fire made her shiver.
Jemmy felt her muscles tense. Her night vision cleared. Shapes of buildings loomed against the night sky in stark relief. She could even read white lettering on brick walls over loading docks.
Her muscles ached with tension as she placed each foot carefully so as not to dislodge telltale cinders. The pair slithered along buildings as they edged to the back of Blocher’s Feed Store.
No piano music filled the night air with ragged rhythm from its upstairs tenant. The Maple Leaf Club had disgorged its last patrons. Not a single light remained to tell of the evening’s gaiety. Only the echo of laughter of prostitutes from Main Street’s Battle Row offered a hollow suggestion of life in the dark stillness.
John pointed to a canvas-covered wagon as he whispered, “Hal—in there.” Jemmy recognized it as the medicine show wagon she had seen in front of the Pettis County Jail, the one with the stage where John Dollarhide had pretended to be an Indian fakir—and where a pudgy woman played the role of an Indian princess braiding her hair. Jemmy’s face flushed hot in the chilly air as she realized how fearsome the people inside the wagon really were. In there—with Hal all tied up—was the plump dark woman who tried to shoot Dorothea twice.
Jemmy burned to know why. Why would the woman want to harm Dorothea—or Annie Oakley, if she mistook Dorothea for the great markswoman? “Why—” came to her tongue.
“Ssh.” John Dollarhide cut off her question. He put his hand over her mouth to demand her silence. Jemmy’s heart beat faster as he pulled her toward the wagon. Leaving the security of solid brick walls made Jemmy lightheaded. She felt as if she were being pushed too high in a swing.
The seconds felt like hours as she bent her knees and crept to the rear of the wagon. Jemmy nearly passed out when her foot sliding in loose gravel made a grating sound followed by a long splushing sound. John’s hand locked hers in an iron grip while the pair listened for any sound from inside. Nothing changed. His grasp loosened and they oozed forward again.
When they reached the back of the wagon, John pressed the hilt of a Bowie knife into her hand. Panic surged up her spine. Am I supposed to use this? Does he expect me to kill somebody?
Don’t be stupid, Jemmy. He gave me the knife to free Hal—to cut ropes.
John knelt to offer his knee as a step. This is it—the moment of action. Hal’s life is in my hands—and so is my own.
She took John’s outstretched hand to steady herself as she perched her right foot on the ledge and pushed herself up. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine her next move. Never once did she let herself wonder why a brave Pinkerton should be goading a girl into heroics instead of performing those heroics himself.
She clung to the canvas and fumbled for the support rod, then raised her left foot by inches until it cleared the drop gate. She eased one boot into the wagon until her toes found firm footing. So far, so good.
From the front of the wagon some fifteen feet away came loud snoring. With one leg dangling off the back of the wagon, she peered inside. Even though her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, she couldn’t see Hal. When something moved at her foot, she nearly fell backward out of the wagon. Terror robbed her voice. She couldn’t even scream.
Get ahold of yourself. It was just a dog, or maybe . . . She pulled her other leg inside the wagon and knelt down. Her foot had found not a dog, but Hal trussed up like a roast chicken. Behind his back, his feet had been tied to his hands in what had to be a most uncomfortable backward cradle.
So far, so good. Finding Hal had been simpler than she dared hope. She bent to his face with a finger to her lips. His nod proved he recognized her. She held the Bowie knife up so he could understand what she meant to do. She eased the knife under the rope that tied his hands to his legs and began sawing. When she severed the last strand, he straightened with a clomp.
His whole body commenced to shake like a dog coming out of a pond. She held down his legs to stop the thumping of his brogans on the wooden wagon bed.
A stab of pity brought tears to Jemmy’s eyes. She realized Hal couldn’t move on his own. He had been tied so long his muscles refused to work.
With no better option, she sat on his legs to keep them still and rubbed his back until it began to spasm. She stifled a nervous giggle when she imagined Aunt Tilly’s reaction. What would the Simon Legree of chaperones do if she could see Jemmy massaging a man’s back—and the man no relation whatsoever?
So far, so good. After a few minutes, Hal’s spasms calmed. She began sawing through his hand ropes. Just a little climb down from the wagon. I think we’ll be able to get away. I shouldn’t have doubted. John Dollarhide knows his business.
If Jemmy were more superstitious, she would not have congratulated John and herself so soon. An unexpected twitch from Hal’s hand flicked Jemmy’s. The Bowie knife dropped to the wagon floor with a rattle and clank.
The snoring stopped.