The Reluctant Pinkerton Read online

  “The Western genre needs more writers like Randisi, an original voice who’s still going strong.”

  —Bookgasm

  PRAISE FOR

  BULLETS AND LIES

  “[Talbot Roper’s] not afraid to use his gun, though he’d prefer to use his brain. Eventually he works things out, but not before Randisi has provided some good surprises. Short chapters, good pacing, and a fine start to a new series. Fans of the traditional Western should get it immediately.”

  —Bill Crider

  A rude awakening…

  Giles and Hague drew their guns, and Giles silently indicated to Hague that he should kick the door in. Hague nodded, backed up so that he was flat against the wall, then launched himself at the door. His feet struck it just below the doorknob and the door slammed open.

  There was a flash of light from inside, and a bullet struck Hague dead center in his torso.

  Giles panicked and turned to run, but Dol fired twice, hitting him both times and putting him down…

  Dol ran down the hall, just as Roper came out his door. For a moment they pointed their guns at each other, then backed off.

  Berkley titles by Robert J. Randisi

  BULLETS AND LIES

  THE RELUCTANT PINKERTON

  THE RELUCTANT

  PINKERTON

  A Talbot Roper Novel

  ROBERT J. RANDISI

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  THE RELUCTANT PINKERTON

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-62415-9

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley mass-market edition / July 2013

  Cover illustration by Dennis Lyall.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

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  20

  21

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  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

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  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

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  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Talbot Roper was considered to be the best private detective in the country. That was why the town of Rockwell, Wyoming, had hired him to find out who had robbed their bank, killed the bank manager and the sheriff. He’d had a meeting with the mayor and the town council to listen to their proposition.

  Rockwell was a growing town, the kind that had the fresh smell of wood in the air from the new buildings that had been erected recently. And they had a new bank, complete with guards and a new safe, which had nevertheless been robbed, and rather easily.

  “I don’t understand why you sent for me, gentlemen,” Roper had said. “Haven’t you appointed a new sheriff?”

  “We have,” the mayor said, “but we don’t feel he’s up to this job. We need someone who can find out how they were able to rob the bank, who they are, and where they went. We need someone who won’t be concerned with jurisdictional questions.”

  “What about a bounty hunter?”

  “We thought about that, but we don’t know who to send him after,” the mayor said. “We understand that you have all the talents necessary to discover who the robbers were, and then to track them down.”

  Roper looked at the five men seated at the council table. They were all local merchants, all in their fifties or sixties, and they were all watching him intently.

  “I don’t come cheap, you know,” he said.

  “We understand that,” the mayor said. “We on the council are prepared to pay your bill.”

  “And you’re right,” Roper said. “I’m a detective, I can figure out who they are and how they did the job. And I can track them. But I’m not a gunman. I won’t kill them. I’ll turn them over to the law.”

  The five men all exchanged glances, and then the mayor said, “That’s fine with us.”

  “And I’ll recover whatever money is left,” Roper added.

  “Agreed,” the mayor said.

  “All right, then,” Roper said, “I’ll need a retainer, and I’ll submit a full bill when the job is done…”

  * * *

  It didn’t take him long to do the detective work and find out that the two guards had been in cahoots with the bank robbers. They were each supposed to receive a cut of the proceeds, but instead they had both been murdered afterward. A witness to the killings had been left behind, and Roper was able to pin the whole thing—to his satisfaction—on a gang led by a man named Stu Milligan. From that point on, the job became to track down the Milligan gang.

  All of which had led him to Festus, Missouri.

  * * *

  Festus was a small town, no scent of fresh lumber in the air, no impression of growth as he rode down the main street. There were a couple of saloons, a hotel, a general store, and a small bank. The bank certainly didn’t look worth robbing, but this was where the trail led. Something had led the Milligan gang here, months after the robbery of the bank in Rockwell.

  Roper reigned in his Appaloosa in front of the sheriff’s office and dismounted. He tied it off and stepped to the door. It was ajar, the lock broken. He went inside. The man behind the desk was w
earing a star, but he was a match for the office, which was in disarray, and for the door—broken.

  He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a coffee mug in the other as he looked up at Roper. The detective could see a layer of dust on almost every surface.

  “Help ya?”

  “You can if you’re the sheriff.”

  The man looked down at his chest. A lock of gray hair fell down over his forehead as he did. Then he looked back up at the detective. Roper guessed him to be mid-forties, even though at first appearance he looked older.

  “This tin star says I am, but it don’t tell the whole story.”

  “I don’t know if I have time for the whole story, Sheriff.”

  The neck of the bottle clinked against the mug as he poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey.

  “Want a drink?”

  “I could use one,” Roper said. “I’ve been riding a while.”

  “Mug over there on the stove.”

  Roper walked to the old potbellied stove, grabbed the chipped mug from the top, and carried it over. He used his bandanna to clean out the inside, not that it made it that much cleaner.

  “Have a seat,” the sheriff said, pouring him a drink. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m tracking a gang led by a man named Milligan.”

  “Ned Milligan?”

  “No, Stu.”

  “Stu’s the older,” the sheriff said. “Ned’s second.”

  “Are there more?”

  “One more,” the lawman said. “Terry.”

  “And the rest of the gang?”

  “Not related. You after the whole gang?”

  “I’m after the ones who robbed a bank in Rockwell, Wyoming, and killed some men, including the local sheriff.”

  “You track them all the way from Wyoming?”

  “I have.”

  “Bounty hunter?”

  “Detective.”

  “Oh? Pinkerton?”

  “Once upon a time,” Roper said, “but I’ve been on my own for a long time now.”

  “Hmm,” the sheriff said, pouring himself another drink.

  “What’s your name?” Roper asked.

  “Hmm? Oh.” He sipped his drink first, then said, “Howard, Sheriff Tom Howard.”

  “Well, Sheriff Howard, I’m assuming you know the Milligans, since you know all their names.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” the sheriff said. “They’re from around here. I’m surprised they got as far as Wyoming.”

  “Well, they did,” Roper said, “and they made their mark, which they’re going to have to pay for. If they’re from around here, then you can tell me where to find them.”

  “I probably could,” Howard said.

  Roper waited a few moments, then asked, “But will you?”

  Howard looked at Rope and said, “Hmm?”

  “The Milligans,” Roper said. “Will you tell me where to find them?”

  For a moment Roper thought the lawman had gone catatonic, but then the man shrugged and said, “Why not?”

  The sheriff agreed to tell Roper where he could find the Milligans.

  “But I can’t go out there with you,” he added.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing,” the man said, “they ain’t wanted hereabouts.”

  “And for another?”

  In answer to that the sheriff stuck his right hand—his gun hand—out so Roper could see it shake.

  “I ain’t been much good lately, not for a while,” the lawman said. “I’d probably just end up gettin’ you killed.”

  “Good point,” Roper said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it myself. Just tell me where they are.”

  “They’re in one of two places. They’re either at the house they all live in north of town, or they’re in Stallworth’s Saloon.”

  “Here in town?”

  The lawman nodded.

  “I didn’t see it when I rode in.”

  “It’s not on Main Street,” the sheriff told him. “It’s on a side street called Prescott Street.”

  “This town has side streets?”

  “Three of ’em,” Howard said. “Brown, Clinton, and Prescott Street.”

  “You got any deputies?”

  “No. There’s no money in the budget for deputies.”

  “For a mayor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Town council?”

  “Sure.”

  “So if I do what I have to do to catch these guys, will you back me with them?”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “I don’t need a warrant,” Roper said. “I’m not a lawman. But there are posters out on these guys for bank robbery and murder—the murder of a lawman—in Wyoming. I intend to take them back there, dead or alive.”

  “How are you any different from a bounty hunter?” the lawman asked.

  “I’m not after a reward,” Roper said, “I’m not looking to collect a price on their heads. I’m working for a fee—I’m being paid a salary, same as you are.”

  “I think I get it,” Howard said.

  Roper stared at the man for a few moments. There was something familiar about him.

  “Have we met before?” he asked.

  Howard averted his eyes and said, “I don’t think so.”

  “I think we have,” Roper said. “I can’t think about it now, but it’ll come to me.”

  “When do you want to take these fellas?” Howard asked.

  “As soon as I can,” Roper said. “I’ve still got daylight to work with.”

  “You know what they look like?”

  “I’ve got pretty good descriptions to go by,” Roper replied, “especially of Stu.”

  “You’ll know Terry and Ned when you see ’em,” Howard said. “They look just like him.”

  “I’ve got a question,” Roper said. “When I mentioned the Milligans, you immediately said Ned. Why?”

  “Ned’s the bad one,” Thomas said. “Stu’s the leader, but if somebody pulled the trigger on that lawman, it was Ned.”

  “You know these guys,” Roper said. “I mean, know them, not just know of them.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Howard admitted.

  “Sheriff,” Roper said. “I think you might need to help me take them in.”

  Howard eyed the whiskey bottle on his desk, then put the stopper back in and said, “You might be right, Mr. Roper.”

  * * *

  Roper waited while the lawman got himself together. The man put on a new shirt that he hadn’t sweat through, then strapped on his gun and donned his hat.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll show you where Stallworth’s is.”

  “Lead the way.”

  As they left the office, Roper noticed the man was tall and slender, almost too thin. In profile he still thought he’d met the man before, but still couldn’t place him.

  Outside, Howard stopped by Roper’s horse, looked at his saddle holster.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Extra gun without having to tote it around on your hip yourself.”

  “Yes,” Roper said, “it’s come in handy a time or two.”

  “Do you wanna leave your horse here?”

  “Yes, no point in taking it over to the saloon,” Roper said. He removed his rifle from its scabbard. “I’m ready.”

  They walked along the deserted Main Street for several blocks. There were lights in only a few of the buildings they passed, but none of them were saloons.

  “Are there no saloons at all on Main Street?” Roper asked.

  “That’s right,” Howard said. “We have three saloons, one each on the side streets.”

  At that moment Roper noticed they were passing Clinton Street. Down the street, to his right, he saw lights and heard some music coming from one of the saloons.

  “I see,” he said.

  A couple of more blocks and they reached Prescott. Similarly, down the street there were lights and music.

  “There it i
s,” Howard said.

  Roper started down the street, then stopped and looked back at the lawman.

  “You coming?” he asked.

  Howard wiped his palms on his thighs and said, “Yeah, sure.”

  * * *

  Inside Stallworth’s Saloon, Terry Milligan sat with Ben Abbott and Jack Newman, two of the men he robbed the Rockwell bank with. The other two—his brothers Stu and Ned—were not present.

  Stallworth’s was a working man’s saloon. There was a piano in the corner, being played badly by a skinny man with a cigar in his mouth. There was no gambling offered, unless you wanted to start your own poker game. And there were no girls working the floor. You went to the bar and got your own drinks. The three men had a bottle of whiskey on the table, and Abbott was refilling their glasses.

  “How long we gotta stay in this one-horse town?” he demanded.

  “Hey,” Terry said, “this is where I grew up. Don’t be bad-mouthing Festus to me or my brothers.”

  “I don’t think your brothers would much care,” Newman said.

  Terry glanced at Newman, who looked closer to his twenty-four years than any of the others. Stu, Ned, and Ben Abbott were in their thirties.

  “Look,” Terry said, “my brothers are coming up with new plans for us. We just gotta wait a little longer.”

  “Well,” Abbott said, “I hope the new plans don’t involve killin’ any more lawmen.”

  “That Ned,” Newman said. “He’s a little crazy.”

  “Hey,” Terry said, “watch how you talk about my brother…he’s more than a little crazy.”

  The three men laughed and drank.

  * * *

  Roper and Howard approached the front of the saloon.

  “Are they in there?” Roper asked.

  Howard mounted the boardwalk and peered over the batwing doors. He returned to stand with Roper in the street.

  “Terry Milligan is in there along with Ben Abbott and Jack Newman.”

  “Are they part of the gang?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Howard said. “They all rode in together a couple of weeks ago, along with Ned and Stu.”

  “Okay,” Roper said. “Let me take a look, see if I can match them to their descriptions before I go in.”

  This time Roper stepped to the batwings and peered over them. There were several tables of men, and more standing at the bar. But he was able to identify Terry Milligan right away. He was one of the men with a “big head.” Apparently, the Milligans shared that particular feature.