Jemmy’s hands searched for the knife in the sawdust of the wagon floor. A woman’s voice purred from the front of the wagon. “I wondered when someone would come to rescue your . . . What exactly is he? Your sweetheart? Your fi-on-see? Your fancy man?”
Jemmy froze. Perhaps if I stay put, she’ll go back to sleep. Even as she hoped for a miracle, she knew none was to be.
The voice drawled on. “Not handsome enough for a fancy man, is he? But of course, some men don’t need good looks. Some men have other qualities—if you know what I mean.”
Jemmy found her voice as she rose. “He’s an excellent photographer, if you know what I mean—and my bodyguard.”
The voice chortled, “I hope he’s better at taking photographs than he is at guarding bodies. He can’t even guard the homely body he walks around in.”
Jemmy willed herself to pretend a bravery she did not feel. She knew full well Hal was still tied hand and foot at the back of the wagon, but the woman didn’t. “Go out back, Hal. The Pinkertons are waiting. I’ll just stay here and continue this fascinating conversation while you show them you’re all right.”
Keep her talking. Talking is my best hope—after all, it worked once before—well—almost worked once before. If I can keep her talking long enough, maybe Hal’s strength will return. Maybe he can find the knife and free his hands. What I must do is sound like a reporter. I can. I am a reporter.
She adopted a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m a journalist, you know. I write for the St. Louis Illuminator. Why don’t you tell me why you had Hal wrapped up like a birthday present? I’m eager to hear your side of the story. I want to give you fair treatment in my article.”
Silence reigned.
So far, not so good.
The voice drawled louder. “My dear, you’re not going to write an article about me or about anyone else—not ever again.”
More talk, more talk.
From the front of the wagon came bumps and rustles of the kind people make while getting dressed.
Bluff. That’s it.
Scraping noises of shoes on pine boards told Jemmy the woman was standing.
Bluff—bluff and stall.
Jemmy kept the stream of words flowing. “Hal, tell the officers I’d appreciate a few minutes before they come in. Say I’m trying to get the criminals to give themselves up.”
Another convenient lie popped to her lips. “I don’t think I’m in real danger—not with all the Pinkertons and police Chief Prentice’s men surrounding the wagon. I’ll stay here and get the story.”
Hal lay quiet as a dead slug in a saucer of beer. “On second thought, Hal. Let’s stay a bit longer. Perhaps our hostess would like to apologize before we go. You deserve at least that much.”
The scrape of a match on a striker nearly caused Jemmy’s knees to buckle. A man’s mellow baritone offered, “Let me throw some light on the subject.”
The panacea peddler lit a lantern to reveal a woman holding a pistol pointed squarely at Jemmy’s chest. “Still think you’re not in danger?”
The woman kept her eyes on Jemmy as she gave orders. “Scalager, take a walk outside. Search all the way up to the buildings, mind. I don’t want any more surprises tonight.”
Scalager grumbled, but did as he was told.
Jemmy couldn’t tell which surprised her more, a woman giving orders or a man obeying them.
The woman peered toward the gloom where Hal lay. “Doesn’t appear your man, fancy or plain, will be telling tales to the police.” For the first time she seemed to notice John was not asleep in the wagon. “Where’s Dollarhide? I might have known he’d be somewhere else when I need him.”
“I’m right here.” John climbed in the back of the wagon and stepped over Hal.
“What were you doing out there?”
“Something I know you wanted done—brought this nosy girl to you, and don’t worry. No policemen outside.”
Jemmy inhaled a whiff of sulfured air and apples. I should have known a man who drags a girl down an alley has to be bad. Fooled again after I promised myself never to be led down the primrose path by a sweet-talking man.
The woman damned John with faint praise. “Tricked her, did you? That’s the most enterprising thing you’ve done since we took you on. Most of the time you’re nowhere to be found when anything important comes up. Still, what makes you think bringing her here is a good idea?”
“The ugly red-haired fellow isn’t worth much. He’s church-mouse poor. But this one—her family is well-heeled. They’d pay a pretty penny to get her back.”
“Since when have we been in the kidnap-and-ransom business?”
“Another enterprise I’ve been considering. Do you think I joined this snake oil show because I like smearing my face with walnut juice? It’s about time I made some money.”
“If we take her hostage, what do you plan to do with him?”
“Take him along.”
Scalager returned with his all-clear report. “Nobody out there. Nobody at all.”
The woman scratched the back of her neck and yawned. “Why should we feed and watch two hostages?”
“Do you know the story of Medea?”
“Can’t say I do.”
John nodded at the fakir. “Scalager here knows all about Greek myths, don’t you Scalager?”
“I understand what you mean.”
Scalager turned to the woman. “The princess Medea ran away with Jason on the Argo after he stole her father’s most prized possession. To steal the golden fleece, she killed her own brother and threw pieces of him into the sea. Fishing the bits of his son from the water slowed Aeetes down. Jason and Medea were able to escape.”
Jemmy shivered. How could anyone be so cruel? And how stupid have I been to trust John? Heavens in a handbag, do they mean to butcher Hal and throw pieces of him on the road? Maybe I’m the one they plan to chop up. Heavens in a handbag!
The woman gave a wicked chuckle. “A devilish idea, Dollar-hide. I’ll think on it.”
John motioned toward Jemmy. “I’ll tie her up.”
Jemmy protested as he yanked her hands behind her back. “Do you have to be so rough?”
Mustn’t think about the rope rubbing my wrists raw. Keep her talking. Got to keep her talking.
“Before you go cutting anyone in pieces, Hal and I would both appreciate knowing why you’ve been using the Wild West for target practice.”
“Can’t think why I should trouble.”
“Why not?” The sting of John’s betrayal hurt more than rope gnawing her wrists. Jemmy tried to control the quaver in her voice. “Mr. Scalager told you we don’t have any Pinkertons or police. With Hal and me tied up, what could you be afraid of?”
The woman snapped back, “I’m not afraid of anything. I simply don’t see why I should bother.”
“If you’re going to ransom me or maybe kill me, couldn’t you at least satisfy my curiosity? I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, obviously you call the shots around here. You give orders to Scalager. If the sign outside tells the truth, he ought to be giving you orders because he owns this wagon. You scold Dollarhide like he’s a little boy. Why do they obey you?”
Scalager defended himself. “I don’t have to listen to that in my own—”
John’s words rushed out at the same time. “Are you going to let her talk about me like—?”
The woman barked, “Quiet. Do you want the police to come ’round because we’re disturbing the peace?”
The men fell silent.
The woman paused and tilted her head. “Nobody’s sleepin’ for the rest of the night. We can’t get the mules from the livery stable until sunup without causing suspicion. I might take a notion to tell you a thing or two since we’re all awake till dawn. Come up here where I can see you.”
Jemmy’s feet felt like wagon axles in Frank Butler’s too-large boots. They made a fearsome racket as she dragged them over the jumble of cook pots and harness on the floor. She shuffled slowly to the midpoint of the wagon. She might not have managed at all but for John’s hand on the back of her neck driving her forward. She wanted to scream. Don’t you dare put your hand near my mouth again. This time I’d bite it and hang on like a bulldog.
Jemmy’s brain caromed from anger at John to anger at Scalager’s woman to sheer terror for the desperate fix she was in. Fight down these stupid thoughts. Think—think.
Scalager’s woman sat down, leaned back on her elbow, and lit a cigar from the lamp. Her voice dripped with mock sincerity. “I’ll tell you my sad tale, my tale of woe. You see I planned to marry one of Captain Bogardus’s sons. I didn’t much care which one. I loved shooting, and I was ready to marry any one of the three who would put me in the Wild West show and make me a star. I’d even have married old man Bogardus himself.”
Jemmy’s fingers picked at the ropes as she tried to listen with her good ear and half of her mind. If only I could come up with a way to put out the lamp. It’s too far away to kick.
“I was well on my way, or so I thought. But then everything went wrong. When my Bogardus boy found out the only reason I wanted to marry him was so he could make me a star, he quit me cold and poisoned his brothers against me, too. Seems the only thing the whole family wanted from females was for them to produce little Bogarduses and keep the home fires burning.”
There . . . one hand free. If I could get the other hand . . . If I could get the other hand loose? Then what? Put out the lamp somehow?
She looked around for something to throw at the lamp when a nerve sizzled inside her head. Her bad ear clattered and whined as if a locust flew in. Woozy and off-balance, she barely kept herself from falling as she stumbled another step forward.
Her brain wouldn’t operate. All of a sudden the tension of the last two days caved in on her. Every anxious moment over Hal’s disappearance, the futility of every effort to find him, the restless energy lost in two sleepless nights brought her to the brink of collapse. She lost the ability to sort through events—to plan—to act.
I have to hang onto something.
As she forced her mind to concentrate, the weight lifted, but only a little—from a thousand-pound cow sitting on her head to a nine-hundred-pound cow sitting on her head.
My hands are free. Finding the meaning behind that knowledge took what seemed hours to comprehend. Somehow her hands had worked at the knots on their own, with no direction from her head. She was free but had not the least notion of what to do with her freedom.
She held the rope loosely behind her as she tried to listen to the woman’s words. The effort drained her. Her exhausted body refused to move. Her weary brain clung to a thin thread of thought. Maybe I could throw the rope at the gun . . . and probably get shot . . . maybe at the lantern . . .