Page 3 of West Wind

The man who’d followed the widow leaned against the handrail at the foot of the stairs, a cigar in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. Shelley studied the man as he approached. He was no miner, no cowhand, and didn’t dress like a gambler. His clothes were more suited to the East than the West, but he was no greenhorn. The stranger reminded Shelley of a man he’d met in Kansas City. They’d been after the same outlaw. That man had been a detective for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency.

Shelley took a deep breath, mussed his hair, and began a drunken rendition of ‘Annie Laurie’ as he approached the man. He tripped over the first step of the stairway that led to the room where he was certain Mrs. Brown was staying, purposely landing on his face. There she was, crouched beneath the steps like a frightened mouse. Their eyes met, just for a second, and he winked at her. She was barely three feet from the man she’d hidden from. Had it been daylight she would’ve had no cover at all.

He pulled himself to his feet, grasping the handrail as if for dear life. “Annie!” he yelled as he faced the door at the top of the stairs. He waited several seconds, ignoring the other man, and then shouted again.

The stranger who waited at the bottom of the stairs turned to him in disgust. “She’s not there.”

Shelley looked at the man as if surprised. “You sure?” He slurred his words just slightly. “I’m supposed to meet her here... I think... or was it…?” He turned and stepped too-cautiously down the few steps to the ground. “Maybe I was supposed to meet her at my place. Sometimes I forget details like that.” He gave the man a searching look. “She gets mad at me when I forget.”

Pulling on his cigar, the man peered at Shelley with sudden interest. “You’re well acquainted with Ann Brown?”

“Well acquainted?” He grinned. “I guess you could call it that. I’ve known Annie for a long time. A long time.”

The man tossed his cigar to the ground and stomped it out with the toe of his well-polished boot. “How long, exactly?”

Shelley knew then that the man was Pinkerton’s, or some other sort of detective or lawman. What could a sweet little thing like Mrs. Brown have done to make this man track her?

“Two years,” he slurred.

“You knew her in St. Louis, then? Before her husband died?”

Shelley nodded.

“I need to talk to her. One of the ladies told me she’d been here four weeks. Is that correct?”

He shrugged. “I reckon.”

“Did you know her husband, the late Mr. Brown?” The detective’s tone was increasingly authoritative.

Swaying drunkenly, Shelley placed his arm around the detective’s shoulder, leaning against the smaller man. He always liked to know what he was up against. There was a pistol in the detective’s shoulder holster, as well as a badly-concealed derringer in his left boot.

“You want to talk to my Annie?”

“I’d like that, yes.”

Shelley turned and led the man toward the street. “I’ll take you to my place. She’s probably waiting for me there right now.” He leaned in, placing his face close to the detective’s, giving the man a chance to smell the tequila on his breath. “If you’re with me maybe she won’t yell at me too much for being late.”

He pressed heavily against the man all the way down the alley, until he could see the boardwalk that ended in front of the general store. Suddenly he lurched to the side, bringing the man with him. Before the detective could react Shelley’s fist connected with his jaw. It was a well-placed, well-practiced blow; the smaller man slumped to the ground.

Shelley took the detective’s pistol from its holster, drew the derringer from his well-polished boot, and tossed the weapons further back into the alley. Then he turned and all but ran toward Ann Brown’s hiding place.

He bent over and peeked under the stairs, where she crouched in a dark heap of heavy silk. There was a lot more fabric than woman. He offered his hand and she took it, slipping out from her shelter with a wary expression on her face. He held her slender hand for a moment before she pulled it away and pressed it to her breast.

“Is he gone?”

“Otherwise detained.” Shelley shoved his hands in his pockets. “But not for long.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

She turned and ran up the stairs, fishing a key from a pocket in the folds of her skirt. She stopped with the key in the lock and turned to him. “Thank you. I don’t know why you...”

He shook his head. “Darlin’, neither do I.”

Ann Brown disappeared into her room, reappearing moments later with a worn leather satchel. She seemed surprised that he still stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking her path of escape. She descended the stairway cautiously.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“West,” she said, stopping while still several steps from the ground, and him. “Do you mind?”