Chapter 6: Pins & Needles

The snow kept falling pretty steady, but Cayuse and I continued to explore Helena and the area around it. Several downtown faces were becoming familiar to me. And probably to Cayuse as well, although he didn’t mention it.

I’d had a glimpse of Varner three or four times since he had arrived in town. Walking around, tending to Pinkerton’s business I guess. I never was close enough to actually see his face, but I recognized his shape, his thick body. And the black overcoat he always wore outdoors.

With my black duster, we must have looked like two large specters to the good citizens of Helena as they saw us through the swirling snow.

Big Elk, the Assiniboine night watchman, was as talkative as Cayuse was quiet.

He grinned at me, “Got me a Mex for a mother. Me and Chatty Cayuse must probably be related. People round here think all Mexicans look alike.”

We visited a while. Me, from Indianapolis, and two breeds from the Territory who seemed comfortable with themselves. And with each other. Neither one seemed to feel the need to prove anything.

I was watching Big Elk fiddle with a large tooth that he wore on a rawhide string around his neck. He held it up, “Elk tooth. Supposed to guarantee long life because it lasts longer than any other part of the body. The last to go.”

“Oh. Like a four leaf clover’s supposed to bring good luck.”

He grinned, “The elk tooth may not work for me though. It’s a Lakota superstition. My mother gets her tribes mixed up.”

Cayuse may have smiled.

I said, “What do you see when you make your late night rounds? Anything interesting?”

Interesting — meaning anything that might lead to the killer.

Big Elk nodded solemnly, “Two nights ago. Saw Territorial Marshal George Autry running down the alley behind the Palace with a bloody axe over his shoulder.”

Cayuse may have smiled a second time.

After Varner told me about the EagleLeague rumors — that someone was coming after me — I told the Robinsons and the Gilmore Girls, “Don’t mention anything to the sporting ladies, but listen for any hints.”

I had already told them about the rumor when Mrs. Chambers first brought it up. They didn’t like the idea then and they liked it even less coming from a Pinkerton man.

But I couldn’t not tell them. It wouldn’t have been fair, and it wouldn’t have been smart.

Trying to identify, and stop, the axe murderer was familiar work in a way. Not the axe part, but the hunt, the constant wariness.

But back in Little River when the influenza raged through town ... well, the feeling was completely different. There was a sense of helplessness. It was an invisible killer, one you couldn’t defend against, couldn’t shoot, couldn’t stop.

Here, at least Cayuse and Autry and I were looking for a man, or men, who would bleed.

The fourth prostitute was killed in the same way — a savage blow to the back of her head with the blunt edge of an axe. Her left hand was chopped off at the wrist and carried away.

But there was one major difference. Prudence ‘Pru” Collingsworth had been killed sometime fairly early in the morning in the Osgood Palace. The timing — shortly after I had gone back to my room in the Lenoir — was a distinct departure from the previous patterns. The first three slayings had occurred, so Autry and Doc Adams believed, shortly after the last customers had gone home for the night.

Also, Collingsworth was the second victim from that particular brothel. The fact that Jane Goodnight had been killed there earlier didn’t surprise me all that much. If the murderer was going to continue doing his business in Helena — and obviously he was — there were only the three whorehouses.

I had left to go back to our hotel around six in the morning. It was still dark in the middle of January and maybe I should have stayed longer. No, obviously I should have. The other working girls were still asleep and so was Patcheye. So no one heard or saw anything. Other than the killer, of course.

Cayuse and I, Marshal Autry, and Doc Adams, crowded into Pru’s bedroom. No sign of a struggle — her body was lying face down with the back of her head stove in. Blood matted in her hair. A small puddle had seeped out from her severed wrist. The doctor said, “The hand was cut off after her heart stopped beating.”

Not much to say to that.

Pru was wearing a long wool nightgown and a pair of men’s white socks.

I helped Doc Adams turn her over on her back and her expression was a little tighter than the first three victims. The doctor spoke softly, “Her face will slacken up, get a little looser in the next few hours.”

There was a sadness in his voice, “The jaw and the neck are the first to get stiff. Then the torso and the legs.”

Autry looked off into the distance.

Pru’s room had been unlocked, the door closed, when Stumpy had discovered the body. She had been living next door to the slain woman for several months.

“I thought I heard something and got up and knocked. Pru didn’t answer so I tried the knob. And there...”

Her voice trailed off and a couple of her coworkers led her away. She was in a state, understandably so.

Autry stated the obvious, “Someone she knew, Collingsworth.”

Someone she knew and trusted. No sign of a struggle, no visible bruises or cuts. Except for the lethal blow and the amputated hand.

Someone she knew and trusted.

Walking back from the murder scene, walking back to tell the girls about the latest outrage, I spotted the dark bulk of Varner across the street. I could just make out his shape through the strengthening snow. He was walking the opposite direction, toward the Osgood Palace.

An irrational thought popped into my mind and vanished just as suddenly. Could Varner be the axe murderer?

Ridiculous. He had only recently arrived in Helena from Chicago. And besides, he was a Pinkerton man — admired or feared, depending on which side of the law you were on.

Cayuse and I entered the Lenoir just as the ladies were sitting down for breakfast. They saw something in our faces. Or maybe just my face.

Rebecca gasped. Riley said, “Who?”

“Prudence Collingsworth. In her room. It was unlocked and she hadn’t put up a fight.”

Molly shook her head, “Pru. My god, Pru.”

Emma said, “Poor little thing.”

Rebecca and Rosie turned pale. Miss Melanie suddenly had red blotches on her porcelain cheeks. Everyone was shaken.

Marshal Autry, credit due, didn’t blame me. “You can’t guard fifty girls round the clock.”

I knew he was concerned about the latest killing on several fronts. The poor girl herself. The sense of renewed dread that would sweep through Helena. The economic impact it could have if people started staying behind locked doors. And ... the possible political ramifications for statehood.

For the first time, all three saloons shut down their operations until further notice. Respect. Caution. Fear.

But that wouldn’t necessarily stop the killings. All four had occurred after hours. And the prostitutes were still living upstairs in the brothels.

For us, for law enforcement, we needed to do something different. Cayuse and I talked things over with Autry. I agreed with his assessment — after the Osgood Palace had been hit twice in a row, the Red Light Saloon and the Castle were more likely targets for the next attack.

Although ‘more likely’ didn’t mean ‘for sure’. The killer, or killers, could well head straight back to the Palace. Or could change their game and go after someone in a private home. Or a library, or a church.

In the Cavalry, Captain Roger McIntyre had taught us, “In the fog of war, in the darkest hour, that’s when you have to face the hard truths. Not just what your enemy has done in the past, but what he is capable of doing next.”

Marshal Autry ordered his quickest deputy, Hoss, to report to Helena and assigned him to the Osgood Palace. I took the Red Light Saloon and Cayuse settled into the Castle. We’d be there from around nine at night until daylight had truly reached Helena. And until some of the sporting ladies were up and about.

No; I decided that was too long to stay vigilant. We’d start guarding the ladies around midnight or one in the morning. Just as the last of the whorehouse and saloon customers were leaving. That didn’t mean the killer couldn’t change his timing, but I believed he was unlikely to take a chance when the other girls, and some customers, were still up and about.

A couple of things bothered me about the plan — one, it was purely defensive. Plus, it left our flank unprotected. Autry would carry on with his investigation — step it up, in fact. And Riles would continue to supervise the other ladies.

But the Robinsons, the Gilmore Girls, Miss Melanie, were on their own, night after night. And that EagleLeague threat was always in the back of my mind.

Spread out, separated as we now were, we were more vulnerable than ever. And I didn’t believe for a minute that I was the only possible target. Killing someone close to me would be an even nastier type of retribution.

So, I did some consolidation. Moved Molly in with Rebecca. Moved Riles in with Rosie. And Emma with Miss Melanie.

Their father, Clive Gilmore, had taught his three daughters how to hunt. How to fire pistols and rifles and shotguns. How to clean the weapons, how to load them, how to respect them. Marshall Autry delivered three Smith & Wesson Model 2 revolvers to the Gilmore Girls. Good for close-up protection — the .38 caliber Single Action model held five rounds in its cylinder.

Cayuse and I took my mother and aunts out west of town and they got in a little practice. I was pleased to see they didn’t have any discomfort with shooting; nor with the idea of actually using the weapons against an attacker. Or attackers. Each of them held her revolver with both hands. And there wasn’t any joking around, not even Emma, while they shot into the target I’d nailed to a Lodgepole pine about five feet off the ground.

It was cold and windy and snowy, but no one complained at all. They just kept practicing. Loading and aiming and firing. Back at the hotel, I watched as they gave each handgun a thorough cleaning.

Although, even with a loaded revolver in each of the three bedrooms, it wasn’t an ideal setup. And while Cayuse didn’t comment, I knew he was as uncomfortable leaving the ladies alone as I was.

Well, you do what you can, but you can’t do everything.

At first, I had thought that Emma’s dog, Smokey Lonesome, might be valuable as a guard dog, might offer some sort of protection, or at least an early warning, for the ladies. But Smokey had been badly mistreated at some point, and he was shy and skittish. Jumped at sudden noises. And kept glancing back up at Emma whenever they ventured out of the hotel room.

His expression was like, “Are you sure?”

But whatever Smokey had been through, he didn’t have any problem getting along with Scarface and Sugar. Which led me to think he’d spent some time on a ranch somewhere.

No surprise, Emma assigned Barney Feiffer to feed and groom her new pet. Well, Barney himself was a pet in a way.

“Walk him three times a day, Barnyard, every day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Emma may be the boldest of the three very lively Gilmore Girls, but that fun streak didn’t slow her down when she saw something that needed doing.