Chapter 11: Cat & Mouse

It wasn’t much of a telegram — just three words: “Return to Helena.” Four words, if you counted the signature: “Autry.”

Well, we had made it as far as Butte, about 70 miles or so south of Helena. Not all that much progress since we were on our way to San Francisco via the transcontinental railway system. In fact, it felt like we were moving backwards in time as well as distance. But no one argued about the change of plans. The Montana Territorial Marshal wouldn’t ask us to interrupt our trip for the second time if it weren’t something vital.

As usual the Gilmore Girls — Molly, Riley, and Emma — took life-changes in stride. My mother studied the train schedule and said, “We still have plenty of time for lunch in Butte.”

Emma, perhaps the boldest of the three sisters, said, “I wonder if Johnie will be on the return train?” John Letterman, the conductor she’d been flirting with on the first leg of our trip heading west out of Billings.

Smokey Lonesome, the stray wolf-dog that Emma had rescued, watched her carefully every time she spoke. He’d been mistreated at some point and was still pretty skittish. However, Smokey had turned out to be a good traveler. He sat up on the passenger seat and stared avidly out the window.

I wondered if he sensed he was leaving his troubles, his abuser, behind. Probably not; some of us seem to assign human qualities to pets. Although how some lowlife could mistreat a dog ... well, I never had liked bullies.

Rebecca and Rosie Robinson, mother and daughter, looked a little worried at the sudden shift in plans. But they wouldn’t argue; we were all in this together.

As the train approached Butte, the first thing we noticed was the light fading away. Daylight gradually, then suddenly, turned to night. The February sun grew hazy, then disappeared altogether.

Molly, who had been reading up on Butte, said, “Smoke, smoke from the copper smelters. They run day and night. You can barely see Butte and Anaconda and Cabbage Patch and Seldom Seen.”

Emma said, “Seldom Seen. Aptly named.”

The second thing we noticed as we got off the train was the stench from the thick, reeking smoke.

Riles said, “My god.”

The five ladies quickly wound scarves around their faces. Cayuse and I used kerchiefs. Smokey Lonesome had to make do as he looked around, as confounded as the rest of us.

Because we would be returning to Helena, Cayuse and I helped the conductor, Cannonball Chapman, unload our luggage. He said, “Just tell the station manager — Rodney Morris — to keep an eye on it.”

“Thank you. Any place to eat nearby?”

“Yes sir! The Peking Noodle Parlor. Some say it’s the finest restaurant in the Territory.”

Cayuse and I looked at each other. Chinese wouldn’t have been our first choice, not after that unpleasant ingredient discovery back in Helena. On the other hand, none of us felt much like wandering around — we were already breathing through our mouths, trying to avoid the smelly, smoky air.

The noodle parlor was a pleasant surprise. We were shown to our own curtained booth — it was like having a private dining room. Even Smokey Lonesome seemed comfortable as he lay down beside Emma’s chair and stretched out on the floor. He gave a little sigh and closed his eyes.

Emma went right to it, “What do you suppose Georgie wants, Flint? Besides lusting after me?”

Molly said, “Maybe Varner started talking.”

My mother nodded, “That’s the only thing I can think of.” She winked at Emma, “Besides Marshal Autry pining for you.”

The smiling waiter, bowing often, started bringing in heaping platters of steaming noodles. It was a sort of help-yourself system and we jumped right in, began piling food on our plates. Cayuse and I took a little time to inspect the tiny chunks of meat; they turned out to be buffalo and we relaxed and began chowing down.

I wondered if Allan J. Varner, the fake Pinkerton man who had tried to kill me, had actually started talking. Somehow, I doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to suddenly ‘come to Jesus’, to see the light, to repent.

Of course he was severely wounded, in constant pain, and receiving heavy doses of laudanum. So who could tell? Only thing to do was to travel back to Helena and see what Autry had to say.

Well, Butte may be home to the Richest Hill on Earth, but I sure wouldn’t want to live there. No matter how high the price of copper went.

As we ate lunch, Molly told us, “The history of Butte is written in decades — gold in the 60s, silver in the 70s, copper now. Now, and for the foreseeable future.”

Emma shook her head, “Butte will have to foresee without me. I’m going to take about a two-day bath back at the Lenoir.”

While it was a fine hotel, I wondered how long our stay would be this time. Certainly longer than our time in Butte. Riles said, “I cannot imagine living here.”

Molly shook her head, “It just can’t be healthy breathing this stuff every day.”

Barney Feiffer, the hotel boy, met us at the Helena Depot and immediately started loading our luggage onto the Lenoir carriage.

Emma hugged him and whispered loud enough so everyone could hear, “I just couldn’t bear to be apart from you, Barnyard.”

Beet red; he was hopelessly smitten with her.

After we had gotten settled — Autry had arranged for the same five third-floor rooms we’d had previously, the ones with inside padlocks — he led us down that wide, sweeping stairway to the same business meeting room on the second floor.

Where Mrs. Chambers was waiting to greet us.

Autry was studiously not looking at her, nor at Emma. The two women he’d been having an affair with. Mrs. Chambers for years; Emma for weeks. Neither one teased him, neither one seemed uncomfortable with the other.

Autry blew out cigar smoke rings and said, “Varner isn’t talking. In fact, he won’t say a single word.”

So, we knew what the subject was, but not the object of the meeting.

Autry said, “So I asked Mrs. Chambers about what he had told Miss Riley — about that name, Quinn.”

I sat up; my mother hadn’t been sure whether it was ‘Quinn’ or the word ‘queen’ that the drugged-up man had mumbled. Queen probably wouldn’t lead anywhere. Quinn might.

Mrs. Chambers looked directly at me, “Quinn is a fairly common name. I’ve known four or five Quinns over the years. But only one of them could conceivably have anything to do with the EagleLeague. And, it wouldn’t surprise me if this particular gentleman does.”

I felt something stir in my gut.

She said, “Padraig Xavier Quinn. Named after two saints, Patrick and Xavier. Now, here’s why I think he could be your Quinn.”

Mrs. Chambers talked quietly for several minutes; then everyone turned to look at me.

I said, “We’re going to Denver.”

During our month or so in Helena, I’d been surprised and impressed with the ideas and actions that the Gilmore Girls had thought up and put into play.

And, I had promised myself that I would start to think more creatively, to look at investigating, even just regular thinking, in a different way. Yet, when Riles told me about the name Quinn, all I had done was send inquiry telegrams to my old company commander in Fort Laramie and to a sheriff I’d never actually met in Kansas City.

It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Mrs. Chambers. A woman who was well known in the state of Colorado and in the Wyoming and Montana Territories. And who knew a lot of people throughout the area.

Was the reason I didn’t even consider asking her because she was a woman? If so, I hadn’t learned much during my time in Helena. At least Autry was smart enough to pose the question to her.

In any case, I now had my first possible lead to someone high enough up in the EagleLeague to order an assassination.

No, there I go again. We — we — had our first lead. The Gilmore Girls and the Robinsons could well be in every bit as much danger as Cayuse and I were. And the ladies had been instrumental in figuring out that whole mess in Helena.

So, while I still felt protective of them, I needed to start thinking of them as partners, not just passengers along on the trip. A trip that kept veering off in unexpected directions.

Before we left for Denver, The Gilmore Girls spent considerable time with Mrs. Chambers. The idea was to learn as much as possible about the city, the criminal scene, and, of course Padraig Xavier Quinn.

Mrs. Chambers had been the youngest, and most in-demand, sporting lady in Dottie Martin’s Denver bawdyhouse. And, I was pretty sure, the smartest. She’d saved every penny she could, chose Ollie Chambers from a list of suitors, and opened the Bighorn Hotel in Little River.

She told us, “Dottie’s place doesn’t have quite the grandeur that the houses owned by Mattie Silks and Jenny Rogers do, but it’s miles better than the cribs that are further north on Market Street.”

She added, “Denver was like Helena — is like Helena — the city fathers overlook prostitution so long as it isn’t too blatant.” She shrugged, “Men have needs, some of them have money, women are scarce, reality is reality.”

The background was interesting, maybe even useful, but Mrs. Chambers was a practical woman. She knew we needed current information. “A woman, a smart, tough woman named Dakota Jamison still works for Dottie. She’ll meet Riley at the Highland House on Wednesday, at two in the afternoon.”

Molly looked at the calendar in her diary, “That’s the 15th?”

“Yes. Ask for Dorothea and she’ll take you to a private room in the back.”

Riles, “And we should pick up the keys to the rental house at the Denver depot?”

“That’s right. Ask for the stationmaster. Quinn has too many eyes in town. You don’t want to risk a hotel.”

As we left that meeting, Emma and Mrs. Chambers brushed shoulders. It was, in my estimation, a sort of silent, sisterhood agreement. George Autry was a good man, but not one worth fighting over.

Mrs. Chambers asked my mother for advice on Sarah Pettigrew, “I’m thinking about easing her back into the life. I want her to pay her own way.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll start her nice and easy — putting on French exhibitions with Miss Melanie.”

Riles nodded, “That could be a good toe in the water. But what if Sarah gets ... panicky?”

“I’ll go slow at first, but she needs to start contributing.”

“Well, your call.”

The women out-thought me again.

Riles said, “Flint, we shouldn’t just assume that Quinn is the head honcho of the EagleLeague. Or that he’s actually the one sending killers after you.”

We were back in that second-floor meeting room and Mrs. Chambers said, “You’re right, Riley. Quinn could be just a ... an intermediary. A high-level one, he is a very successful man; but he could be taking his marching orders from someone else.”

Which led to another round of conversation, speculation. Of plans proposed, discussed at length, and eventually discarded.

Then Rebecca raised her hand like she was still in school, “Flint, remember how the EagleLeague intercepted those telegrams you sent back in Little River?”

And that comment led to a germ of an idea. An idea that resulted in Marshal Autry writing a letter to the Denver Chief of Police. He secured the envelope with a Territory of Montana wax seal and handed it solemnly to Molly, “Give this to Charlie Colfax personally. Not to anyone else.”

That letter would be stage one of a three-part plan, a long-shot plan — each of the three elements. But it felt to me like it was worth trying. As opposed to what I might have done in the past. Go charging in against a stranger — Quinn — who might not even be the right person.

At breakfast, Autry said, “When I run for the state senate, I’m going to have to hire someone — an assistant deputy or something. I haven’t figured out the title yet.”

He looked at me, “Any thoughts?”

Cayuse spoke up, “Big Elk.”

Autry was surprised that Cayuse had said anything. And surprised at the suggestion, “The night watchman?”

Emma said, “Big Elk is smart, Georgie. Listen to Cee.”

Molly and Riles nodded.

Autry looked thoughtful.

The morning we left for Denver, we had one more hotel breakfast with Autry and Mrs. Chambers.

Emma smiled at Mrs. Chambers, “I surely do admire that oil painting of you.”

A life-sized painting in an ornate frame hanging above the backbar in the Bighorn Saloon. Mrs. Chambers, nude, lying on white sheets in a brass bed.

She smiled, “You should have your portrait done, Emma. Very liberating.”

“I imagine there’s a painter or two in San Francisco.”

“No doubt. And these days you could have a photograph taken as well.”

Molly and Riles looked thoughtful.

We boarded the Denver Pacific Railway in Cheyenne, Territory of Wyoming. It would only be about a hundred miles or so south to our destination.

My mother said, “We have some more ideas about Denver. About this Padraig Xavier Quinn.”

I nodded. Good.

“Of course you’re in charge of the operation, Flint. You and Cee. Every major decision will be up to the two of you.”

Emma snorted, “Just like they’re in charge in the bedrooms.”

Rebecca and Rosie fought to keep from giggling.

It’s sometimes a challenge to maintain your dignity when Emma starts ragging on you. But I was more interested in what Riles had to say than in worrying about a little embarrassment.

“You’re too visible, Flint. Too big, too memorable, and already a target. So stay out of sight as much as you can.”

“Okay.”

“Molly and Emma will start researching back issues of the ‘Rocky Mountain News’ — get some more background on Denver and the people there.”

The train rocked back and forth gently as we headed south. Rebecca had her eyes closed as she listened to the conversation; I knew she was enjoying the erotic sensations from the vibrations. Erotic to her, anyway.

After a few minutes, we moved into the dining car; I was surprised how extensive the menu was. They even had oysters on the half shell. I had learned from one of the conductors — Cannonball Chapman — that refrigerated rail cars had changed the shipping industry. The perishables part of it anyway. A mixture of salt and ice meant we could now enjoy fresh oysters from as far away as the East Coast. I wondered if they had oysters in the Pacific Ocean too. It seemed logical that they would. Well, we’d find out for ourselves. Someday.

Even if I hadn’t been hungry, I would still have ordered a big meal. I’d learned that in the Cavalry — eat when you can, sleep when you can.

All of us, even the Robinsons, had the Rocky Mountain oysters. I was sort of waiting for Emma to make a joke about testicles, but she was just concentrating on the meal like the rest of us.

Molly said, “‘The Rocky Mountain News’ had an interesting start to its life — on the second floor above a saloon. They had to install extra flooring to stop the bullets shot by some of the rowdy drinkers.”

I said, “What did Mrs. Chambers tell you about Denver itself?”

“Population was around 40,000 when she left for Little River. But she said it’s been growing fast — supposedly the second largest city in the West, after San Francisco.”

Emma muttered, “Another saint — Patrick, Xavier, and now Francisco.”

Molly, “The Colorado gold rush was in 1859. But Denver played out pretty early on and became more of a supply and transportation hub for the mining camps.”

Emma frowned, “Mining and Manifest Destiny. Is that the story of the West?”

Riles, “Let’s talk about our plans for Denver.”

Which we did.

Each of the five ladies now carried a handgun in their canvas tote bags. Five Smith & Wesson Model 2 revolvers, courtesy of Marshal Autry.

Back in Indianapolis, the Gilmore Girls had called their totes ‘perhaps bags’.

“Don’t forget your perhaps bag.”

Perhaps that dress at Hollister’s would be on sale. Perhaps Mr. Melton would have those delectable little lamb chops available today. Perhaps the farmers market would have fresh-picked summer corn.

Sometimes they used perhaps bags made of twine. Light and easy to carry, you could roll an empty one into a tiny ball. And, it would expand to hold a considerable amount. But a string bag wouldn’t do now. Not when a handgun was part of the package.

I could tell that Rebecca and Rosie weren’t yet comfortable with their new hardware. But they’d get used to it; there was plenty of time. San Francisco was over a thousand miles west of Denver. And at the rate we were going, it looked like it might be 1891 or ‘92 before we got there. If then.

But I did give the ladies one tip, one weapons tactic that they hadn’t considered.

‘I hope you never have to use this, but ... just in case...”

They each practiced the movement. They each looked thoughtful.

Riles nodded and spoke softly, “Just in case.”

As we pulled into Fort Collins for a brief stopover, Cayuse and I went back to check on our mounts. We could tell something was wrong the instant we rolled open that heavy door.

Both Scarface and Sugar were gentle horses by nature, relaxed most of the time. They weren’t bucking and whinnying, but both had their eyes rolled back and were straining a little against their halters. I cocked my scattergun and Cayuse’s horn-handled Colt had appeared instantly in his hand.

The sunlight cast a bright beam through the center of the freight car, but the corners were mostly dark. I saw a shape move, barely move, in the far righthand side. As distant from the horses as possible.

I edged slowly toward it, puzzled as my eyes adjusted. It was an odd size — small, but too big to be a raccoon. They were wily creatures, known to sneak a ride once in a while.

I squatted down, with my shotgun pointed off to the side, “What’s your name, son?”

A skinny boy with haunted eyes scooched as far away from me as he could; trying to make himself invisible.

Small voice, not much more than a whisper, “Eugene.”

Cayuse said, “Riley,” and left to fetch her.

“Eugene who?”

“Sanderson. Sir.” He curled himself into an even tighter ball, and squeezed his eyes shut as if he couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him.

Riles climbed up into the boxcar, and took in the scene at a glance. She looked at me, “Name?”

“Eugene, Eugene Sanderson.’’

She put her arm around his thin, trembling shoulders, “Well Eugene Sanderson, this is your lucky day.”

He blinked his eyes open and looked up, tear streaks on his grimy cheeks. “Huh?”

“You’ve obviously been doing some hard traveling and we’re just going to ease your burdens. Yes indeed, this is your lucky day.”

She held out a sack of horehound candy and he tentatively took a piece. We walked slowly back to the passenger car with Eugene sucking on the candy, his cheeks caved-in as he savored the bittersweet taste.

We all got off the train; Cayuse found a nearby stable for our mounts. Scarface and Sugar were calmed down by now.

Riles and Molly sat beside the boy in a quiet corner of the Fort Collins Depot. The Robinsons went off to fetch some food. The kid was so skinny; he looked half-starved, and had an anguished look in his eyes.

His lips were dried and cracked, like it was the middle of summer in the desert. Molly whispered, “Dehydrated.” She went to a small cistern outside the depot and brought over a ladle of water.

Cayuse gently placed his hand on hers and shook his head. Molly was his friend and teacher, but he knew things she didn’t. Hell, he knew things none of us did.

He took a clean kerchief from his back pocket and dipped it in the water. Then he held it in front of Eugene’s mouth and the boy sucked at it greedily. Cayuse repeated the process several times, and Eugene gradually slowed down.

The stationmaster noticed our group and strode over, “Hey! You can’t...”

Molly stood to her full height and met him in the middle of the room. She seemed to grow as she strode toward him. She had her fists on her waist, and bent forward whispering urgently. I couldn’t make out her angry words, but they were enough to send the man scurrying back behind his counter.

Unexpectedly, Smokey Lonesome trotted over and leaned his head against Eugene’s leg. The boy drew his breath in, and started crying again. He seemed to collapse against Smokey, hugging him with both arms. The dog wagged his tail happily.

Emma murmured, “Kindred spirits.”

Molly held one of Eugene’s hands in both of hers. Riles leaned forward and spoke with him in such a small voice; it reminded me of a childhood conversation, a conversation with a toddler just waking up from a nightmare.

Emma whispered, “Is it our Sanderson boy?”

From the Fair Deal Pawnshop in Helena.

Riles said, ‘Yes, but it was Cheyenne he ran away from. That’s where his mother and uncle ended up.”

He looked like he was around seven or eight; turned out he was very small for his age — 14.

Molly and Cayuse and I formed a privacy shield as Riles gently unbuttoned his tattered shirt. Rosie gasped and tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

The boy’s shoulders and chest and back were crisscrossed with ugly welts. A rawhide riding whip, I would guess. Maybe a leather belt. Maybe both. Riles eased down his denim work pants and underpants. His little butt and upper thighs were in even worse shape.

Eugene stood there, utterly passive; hardly aware that he was naked in our presence. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time he’d stood bare and trembling in front of adults.

Riles gazed up at me calmly. Not beseeching, not demanding ... just a familiar look that said — we’re going to do the right thing. Which meant another interruption to another journey.

But none of us had the remotest thought that we’d abandon the boy.

On the train ride back up to Cheyenne, the Sanderson kid’s story came out in bits and pieces. There wasn’t much love in the household. His uncle, in and out of jail, beat him fairly regular. His mother, or so Riles determined, resented him, so there was no refuge there.

I rented a small carriage in Cheyenne. Cayuse and I rode in front. Riles and Eugene Sanderson in back. He could drink water on his own now, and keep small quantities of food down. He had on new clothes, including boots. It was eight in the morning and we were on our way to confront his family. Herc Sanderson and his younger sister, Hazel.

Eugene didn’t speak except to quietly answer direct questions from Riles. He pointed us in the direction of their rental parcel, east of town. As we approached, he grew more and more nervous. Fidgeted around on the seat, picked at his new leather jacket. Riles held his hand firmly.

The little farmhouse was rundown, looked almost abandoned. There were two gray mules, hobbled, trying to munch grass through the patchy snow. A small kitchen garden on the side, fallow until spring.

I headed for the front door when Eugene whispered, “Round back.”

The back door flew open and a tall, rangy man wearing dirty pants and the top to a pair of long johns burst out. I could smell whiskey on his breath. Stubbled cheeks, teeth stained from chaw tobacco.

Riles muttered, “Charming.”

A hard-looking woman — Eugene’s mother, I assumed — joined Herc on the back stoop. Riles, Cayuse, Eugene, and I stood in a little semicircle looking up at the two of them. Eugene was shuffling from foot to foot anxiously.

Herc smiled at me, “Much obliged, Wayfaring Stranger.” He had a jovial tone, “Mighty Christian of you. We’ll take over for now.”

Then his voice deepened, coarsened, “Boy, go stand in the Punishment Corner. You’ll by God learn your lesson this time.” Hazel frowned, crossed her arms, muttered, “Amen.” Her lips were pressed together in a thin line.

Riles said, “No.”

“WHAT!”

“We just rode out here to see what kind of heroic specimens could work up enough gumption to beat on a child.”

The provocation worked. Herc leaped at her, “You fucking bitch!”

As always, time slowed down for me. I was aware that Cayuse had drawn his Colt and stepped in front of Eugene. That Riles had stood her ground. That Hazel licked her upper lip in anticipation.

I had left my deerskin gloves on; no sense in cracking a knuckle or two on this trash. I pounded my fist into Herc’s upper chest and he went white with shock.

But I’d held back; had promised Riles that I would.

Hazel was screaming at me, furious. Herc shook his head, trying to clear the stars away. He got slowly to his feet and focused his bloodshot eyes on me with a death glare. I immediately hit him in his stomach hard enough to lift him a few inches off the ground. This time, I hadn’t held back; I had imagined my fist going completely through his stomach and shattering his spine.

He landed hard on his back, grasping for breath.

I figured I’d done some considerable internal damage with that gut-punch. He was starting to spasm and vomit, so I used my right boot to roll him over on his stomach. Not letting him drown in his own bile was about the limit of my charity that particular morning.

Hazel was stomping around, muttering and cursing, tears streaming down her face. She glowered at Cayuse, “Fucking breed.”

Eugene whispered, “Mama,” and she turned to him, smiled kindly, and held her arms open.

He raced to her and she clutched him tightly, “You fucking worthless heathen. You’ve been a shame and a disgrace to us since the day you were born.”

I grasped her wrists to free Eugene. Cayuse gentled him back a couple of paces. Eugene’s face collapsed in grief.

Riles reached behind her back to Cayuse. He placed the handle of his quirt in her palm and she casually backhanded it across Hazel’s forehead. The woman went into shock as the blood gushed out. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was in a place that would spew for some considerable time.

Riles nodded at Herc, still rolling back and forth on the ground. Cayuse unsheathed his Bowing knife and Herc gasped. But Cayuse just carefully sliced open the back of Herc’s long johns and stepped aside.

Riles had some extra coloring in her cheeks as she thrashed the braided horsehair down on Herc’s back, once, twice, three times.

Eugene Sanderson wasn’t quite in shock, but he was stunned speechless. The two people who had bestowed a lifetime of terror on him were lying in the backyard, bleeding and howling and vomiting into the dirty snow.

Riles looked thoughtfully from Herc to Hazel and back. “Cee, would you roll him face-up? Thank you.”

It was another measured slash through the winter air. Herc’s forehead started gushing blood immediately.

Riles turned to face Eugene, “Every time those two monsters look at each other, they’ll be reminded of the morning that Vengeance was visited upon them.”

As we drove the carriage away from the Sanderson house, a man and a woman in their 50s, stood on their front porch. An old gent, close to 80, sat beside them in a wooden rocker. Cayuse flicked the reins a little, and the three of them started clapping their hands softly as we rode past.

I touched the brim of my Stetson to be polite. It didn’t feel like we’d done anything to merit applause, but Riles lifted Eugene’s hand and they waved farewell.

When we told Eugene goodbye in the gloomy light in the church. He could barely tear himself away from Riles. They both had tears streaming down their cheeks.

As Riles, Cayuse, and I neared the depot to meet the others, Riles said, “Flint, when you hit Herc in the upper chest, that first blow, it was like he was almost paralyzed.”

“It’s a right sensitive spot as bony as the chest is. Once, on a horse ranch outside of Ogallala, I saw a careless cowboy kicked there by an unbroken mare. He died instantly.”

Riles was silent for a few moments, then, “No need to go into details with Rebecca and Rosie.”

Cayuse nodded, “Chiquita.”

Once again we were on the southbound train to Denver; we should still be there in time for my mother’s scheduled meeting with Dakota Jamison.

Emma said, “So?”

Riles, “The Cheyenne situation is resolved.”

Rebecca raised her hand, “And the little boy?”

Riles grinned and adopted an Irish brogue she’d picked up from our next-door neighbors in Indianapolis, the O’Sullivans, “We spoke with himself, Bishop Maurice F. Burke.”

“And?”

“Eugene will be raised in the firm, but fair hands of the Good Sisters of the Immaculate Conception.”

Emma said, “An orphanage?”

“Yes, dear; the Riley Gilmore Traveling Rules allow for only one Smokey Lonesome per trip. And we’re at full capacity.”

Rosie raised her little hand, “School?”

“He’ll be attending the Academy of the Holy Child Jesus. Bishop Burke was well aware of the Sanderson clan. And that piney woods church that they go to. But he hadn’t known that Eugene had run away.”

Riles smiled at Rebecca, “I mentioned there might be some retaliation down the road.”