soon as Mr. Gleason returns from New York City.”
Kisley sipped whiskey and glanced at Fulton.
Fulton sipped whiskey and glanced at Wish Clarke.
Wish Clarke drained his glass, refilled it, and said, “When and if Mr. Gleason decides to terminate our employment, we may go home. Or, we may continue to enjoy the pleasures of fair Gleasonburg like the free citizens of America we are. In the meantime, we’re girding our loins for what this establishment claims will be supper. So if you boys care to gird with us, pull up a chair. If not, trundle on, and we’ll commence to eating.”
“You’re all under arrest.”
Wish Clarke said, “You can’t arrest us.”
“Why not?”
“Your jail burned down.”
Archie Abbott spewed a mouthful of whiskey in the sawdust.
The Pinkerton said, “We got temporary hoosegows lined up on a siding in case the miners take it in their damned fool heads to strike — old reefer cars for refrigerating meat. There’s one reserved for you boys ’til the judge gets around to filling out the papers. If you’re packing firearms, drop them while you can.”
Kisley, Fulton, and Clarke spread apart slightly, which neither the Pinkertons nor the Gleasons appeared to notice.
“You, too, Red. On your feet.”
Kisley said, “Do what he says, Archie.”
Archie rose from the piano stool, looking confused by the turn of events.
“Guns, Red. Drop ’em.”
“He doesn’t have any,” said Kisley. “He’s an apprentice. Van Dorns are not allowed to carry guns when they apprentice.”
The company cops snickered. “I bet
14
“I have a gun.”
Isaac Bell glided out of the night with a double-barreled, sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun cocked in each hand. “In fact, I have two. Elevate, boys. Paws in the air.”
The Pinkerton said, “Fire those twelve-gauges one-handed, sonny, and you’ll make a comic sight kicked tail over teakettle.”
“You,” said Isaac Bell, “will be waiting in Hell for the next batch to come down and tell you who was laughing.
The wiser Pinkertons observed winter in the young detective’s eyes. They dropped their pistols and raised their hands. The Gleasons glowered and shrugged their shoulders.
“Drop ’em,” snapped a Pinkerton.
They obeyed reluctantly, and all six shuffled out of the saloon.
Mack Fulton gestured for Archie to pick up their guns. “Here’s your first lesson, Apprentice Archie. You know you’re close to something when they threaten to poke you in the snoot.”
“Close to what?” asked Wish Clarke. “Every miner I talked to — twenty at least — thinks that chain bridle broke of natural causes. They also indicated that if that poor union fellow walked in, they would hang him from the rafters. On the other hand, I noted a certain electricity in the air.”
“Fired up to strike?” asked Bell.
“Fired up for something, just not sure what. I think your courthouse conflagration strengthened their self- esteem.”
Fulton said, “They hate Gleason — taking particular umbrage at his steam yacht — and hate the cops, but they don’t blame either for the runaway. My impression is, they’ll strike only when they find someone to lead them.”
Wally Kisley said, “Pretty much what I heard, too. They think the wreck was an accident. Though a few men told me they blamed the company for double-jobbing what’s his name, Higgins. But Wish is right, Isaac burning down the courthouse seemed to give ’em guts.”
“I didn’t really burn it down,” said Bell.
“Well, you held the lady’s coat.”
Archie Abbott said, “A mechanician told me those chain bridles never break.”
“Probably the same feller who rigged it up,” said Mack Fulton, and the others laughed.
Isaac Bell tossed the broken bridle link on the table. It landed with a heavy thunk and did not bounce far. “What do you say, Wally? What do you think broke that?”
Wally inspected it carefully. He ran his finger along the edge. “I’ll be.”
“What?”
“Looks like someone smacked it with a cold chisel. You see where the blade cut half through it?”
Isaac Bell said, “I thought it was chiseled, too.”
“O.K. Now what?”
“It broke in plain sight of a hundred men who would have noticed a guy whacking it with a chisel.”
“I recall you saying that back in Pittsburgh. But look. It looks like it was cut with a chisel.”
“How?”
Kisley sat back and stroked his chin as if he were grooming a beard. “Several ways to drive a cold chisel through steel spring to mind. Whack it with a hammer.”
“Which didn’t happen,” said Mack Fulton.
“Persuade an eagle to drop the chisel from a hundred feet in the air.”
“Which didn’t happen.”
“Drive it with an explosive charge.”
Isaac watched a rare smile cross Mack Fulton’s grim face. “Which could have happened.”
“Isaac,” said Wish Clarke. “Do you recall hearing a charge explode?”
“I heard a heck of a bang. But how would you detonate it?”
“Fulminate of mercury blasting cap.”
“How would you attach the cap?”
Wally Kisley poked the link. Then he picked it up and smelled it. “Could have stuck it on with tar, I suppose.”
“Maybe just a short length of chisel.”
“Molded in a ball of tar— Mighty cumbersome, though. Mighty cumbersome…”
Wally Kisley stared silently out the saloon door into the dark street. Isaac Bell observed that the explosives expert was falling less and less in love with the concept of a dynamite-driven chisel.
Archie Abbott glanced at Bell and raised an eyebrow to ask what was going on. Bell motioned for Archie to join him at the bar. He explained quietly, “They’ve seen it all. They’re just trying to remember which applies.”
“How the heck old are they?”
“Who knows? Wally was already a top agent when he investigated the bomb that set off the Haymarket Riot. They’ve got to be over fifty.”
“Amazing,” Archie marveled.
Finally, slowly, like a newly lighted oil lamp gathering kerosene up into its wick, Wally’s face began to glow. He turned to Mack Fulton. “Mack, you know what’s on my mind?”
“Dynamite.”
“A great improvement over black powder, patented in 1867 by Alfred Nobel.”
“From which Alfred Nobel made so much dough — and felt so guilty for making it easier to kill people — that last year he handed out prizes of money to the best physicist, the best pacifist, the best poet, even the guy who invented X-rays.”
