The Case of the Deadly Desperados
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Authors: Caroline Lawrence
Western Mysteries, Book One
Caroline Lawrence
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
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Text copyright © 2011 by Roman Mysteries Limited.
Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Richard Russell Lawrence.
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Orion Children's Books, a division of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd.
First American edition published in 2012 by G. P. Putnam's Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam's Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the United States of America.
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Design by Marikka Tamura.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lawrence, Caroline.
The case of the deadly desperados / Caroline Lawrence.
p. cm.â(Western mysteries ; bk. 1) Summary: In 1862 Nevada Territory, after finding his foster parents murdered and scalped, twelve-year-old Pinky Pinkerton, son of a railroad detective and a Sioux Indian, inherits a valuable deed and must hide from dangerous Whittlin Walt and his gang of desperados. [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. DisguiseâFiction. 3. OrphansâFiction. 4. Racially mixed peopleâFiction. 5. NevadaâHistoryâ19th centuryâ Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.L425Cas 2012 [Fic]âdc23 2011013305
ISBN 978-1-101-56029-7
To my friend Penny,
who started me on this dusty trail when she gave me a copy of
True Grit,
by Charles Portis
Contents
Ledger Sheet 1
MY NAME IS P.K. PINKERTON
and before this day is over I will be dead.
I am trapped down the deepest shaft of a Comstock silver mine with three desperados closing in on me.
Until they find me, I have my pencil & these ledger sheets and a couple of candles. If I write small & fast, I might be able to write an account of how I came to be here. Then whoever finds my body will know the unhappy events that led to my demise.
And they will also know who done it.
This is what I would like my tombstone to say:
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BORN IN
HARD LUCK,
SEPTEMBER 26, 1850
DIED IN
VIRGINIA CITY,
SEPTEMBER 28, 1862
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“YE ARE ALL ONE IN CHRIST JESUS,” GALATIANS 3:28
R.I.P.
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My foster ma Evangeline used to say that when God gives you a Gift he always gives you a Thorn in your side to keep you humble.
My Gift is that I am real smart about certain things.
I can read & write and do any sum in my head. I can speak American & Lakota and also some Chinese & Spanish. I can shoot a gun & I can ride a pony with or without a saddle. I can track & shoot & skin any game and then cook it over a self-sparked fire. I know how to cure a headache with a handful of weeds.
I can hear a baby quail in the sagebrush or a mouse in the pantry.
I can tell what a horse has been eating just by the smell of his manure.
I can see every leaf on a cottonwood tree.
But here is my Problem: I cannot tell if a person's smile is genuine or false. I can only spot three emotions: happiness, fear & anger. And sometimes I even mix those up.
Also, sometimes I do not recognize someone I have met before. If they have grown a beard or their hair is different then I get confused.
That is my Thorn: people confound me.
And now my Thorn has got me killed.
Ledger Sheet 2
IT ALL STARTED THE DAY
before yesterday, on September 26th. I came home from school & walked into our one-room cabin to the smell of scalded milk & the sight of things thrown everywhere. I closed the door behind me & stepped forward. It was only then that I saw my foster parents lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
They had both been scalped & they appeared to be dead.
I ran to Ma first. She was holding the big iron skillet and it had some hair & blood on it, so I guessed she had put up a fight.
As I stood there looking down, her eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes and said, “Pinky?” Pinky was her nickname for me. It is short for Pinkerton.
I crouched down beside her. “I'm here, Ma.”
She said, “Is Emmet alive?”
I looked over at Pa. He was not breathing. His eyes were closed & he had a peaceful smile on his face. He also had a hatchet buried in his chest. I swallowed hard.
“No, Ma,” I said.
“He was a good man,” she said. “I will see him walking the Streets of Glory before too long.”
“Don't talk that way, Ma. I will fetch Doc Finley from Dayton.”
“No.” Her voice was faint. “There is no time. I'm dying. Your medicine bag. The one your other ma gave you.”
“I do not think my medicine bag can help you now, Ma.”
“No. I mean . . . that's what they were after.” She gave a kind of sigh and I thought she had gone. But then her eyes opened & she gripped my hand tight. “It holds your Destiny. Pinky, do you remember my special hiding place?”
“Loose floorboard behind the stove?”
She nodded. “You're smart, Pinky. You'll figure out what to do. Take that medicine bag and get out fast. Before they come back.”
I did not understand what she meant at first. Then I did. “The Indians who did this might come back?” I said.
“They weren't Indians.” Her voice was real faint now & her skin was a terrible white. She said, “One of them had blue eyes. And he smelled like Bay Rum Hair Tonic. Indians do not wear Hair Tonic.”
I sniffed the air. Ma Evangeline was right. Above the smell of blood, scalded milk & fresh-baked cake, I could detect the sweet scent of cloves: Bay Rum Hair Tonic. I also picked up a tang of sweaty armpits.
The men who did this had left a few minutes ago & could return any moment. My instinct was to run, but I did not want to leave my dying ma.
“Go, Pinky,” she said. “Take your medicine bag and get out of here before they come back.”
I stood up & looked down at her. She would be dead in a minute. I clenched my fists.
“I will find those men,” I said. “And I will avenge you, Ma.”
“No,” she said. And then she said, “Pinky?”
I could barely hear her, so I squatted down beside her again. “Yes, Ma?”
“Promise me that you will never take another life. Not even those who killed me. You must forgive. That is what our Lord teaches.”
“I can't promise that, Ma,” I said. My vision was blurry. I blinked & it got clearer.
“It is my dying wish,” she said. “You have to.”
“Then I promise,” I said.
She closed her eyes & whispered, “And promise you will not gamble nor drink hard liquor.”
“I promise.”
But this time she did not hear me.
I stood & looked down at the bodies of my foster ma & pa. They lay next to each other and the pool of mingled blood was still spreading.
I went over to the stove, carefully picking my way around the things that had been thrown down. A tin canister of flour had been emptied onto the floor. I made sure I stepped around it. Flour would make me leave footprints as sure as blood.
I took the burning milk off the hot plate. Then I knelt down beside the stove & felt for the floorboard with the little knothole. I got my fingertip in there & pulled it up. I found my medicine bag & took it out. I hung it around my neck. I also found a gold coin worth twenty dollars that Ma kept for emergencies. She would not need it now, so I took that, too. I put it in my medicine bag with the other things. Then I put the board back in its place.
Outside I heard men speaking in hushed tones. One of the porch stairs creaked.
I knew it was them. The killers were coming back.
I looked around the house. There were not a lot of places in that one-room cabin that I could hide.
It seemed to me there was only one.