Deputy Marshal Barnett Hamilton stretched out leisurely in the marshal’s chair, putting his feet on the desk.  Marshal Hunter had left him in charge of Sweetwater for a few days while he escorted Emory Pike to Fort Laramie to be hanged for murder and bank robbery.  It tended to be rather quiet when Hunter wasn’t around, so he took advantage of it and relaxed back in the marshal’s chair.  He was reading from a new dime novel, The Kangaroo Kid Rides Again.

Barnett had no idea what a kan-garoo was, but loved the funny way this fella’ talked.  Although Teaspoon would never approve of his choice of reading material, Barnett read these books to practice his reading.  Dime novels had characters’ and situations he could understand, not like that Three Musketeers book he’d been given once.  Hell, he couldn’t even make out any of the names; let alone what the characters were talking about.

The door burst open, “Marshal, marshal!”

The book shot into the air and Barnett’s chair pitched backwards.  There were several crashes in sequence – Barnett’s backside, feet and head all hit the floor simultaneously.  In one fluid motion, Barnett managed to roll to his feet and popped up like a gopher out of its hole right in front of Cyras Ayres, the Sweetwater Hotel manager and desk clerk.

“Where’s Marshal Hunter!?” Ayres demanded desperately.

“Well sir,” Barnett began, adjusting his hat.  “He’s off t’ Fort Laramie escortin’ a prisoner.  Can I be of some assistance?”

Ayres was obviously disappointed, but he grabbed Barnett by the arm anyway and dragged him out of the Marshal’s Office.  “There’s been a murder in my hotel.  Quickly man, don’t dawdle!”

The murdered man was one Ed Foster, a traveling salesman of ladies undergarments; he represented the Winchester Fine Linen’s Company.  Apparently Mr. Foster got his throat cut sometime late last night.  Aside from Mr. Foster’s corpse, and the pool of blood on the floor, the room was more or less clean.  No sign of a struggle.  Barnett gave a cursory look around the room, going through the dress drawers, even looking under the bed before noticing that the window was open.  The deputy went over, looked out the window, and deduced that somebody might have been able to climb in to the room and kill Foster quite easily.  Turning to look at Cyras Ayres, he asked, “Did this Foster person have anybody in his room since he arrived?”

Ayres straightened indignantly,  “I’ll have you know, deputy, I run a respectable hotel.”

“Didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Mr. Ayres,” Barnett said quickly.  Bet you wouldn’t acted like that if Marshal Hunter had asked that, he thought bitterly.  “Just meant if there was someone around town who could verify Mr. Foster’s where’ bouts durin’ his stay.”

Ayres went on to say that Foster had checked in early yesterday morning, and had only left his room once for about half an hour.  Where he was and what he was doing, Ayres didn’t know.  Presumably he was doing what most traveling salesmen do: selling his wares.

Barnett rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.  His explanation made sense and by the look of Foster’s belongings he’d been successful; he couldn’t find any ladies undergarments in the room. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling Ayres was being patronizing.

“Well,” Barnett said thoughtfully,  “nothin’ more we can do fer’ im now.  Best let the undertaker handle it from here.”

“What about Mr. Foster’s belongings?”

“Uh, best have ‘em brought over to the Marshal’s Office.”

“Of course,” Ayres conceded.  “I’m sure Marshal Hunter will want to look over everything when he gets back.”

Barnett threw Ayres an irritated glance as the lone hotel employee walked out of the room mumbling something about the hotel’s image.  He was sick and tired of people thinking he was nothing but a clumsy half-wit, incapable of doing his job.  Well, he’d have this murder solved long before the marshal got back.  He’d show everyone that was just as good a lawman as anybody, given half a chance.

A couple of hours later, Barnett sat dejectedly at an isolated table in the Wild Horse Saloon slumped over his third drink.  He’d spent more than half the day trying to find something, anything, about the elusive Mr. Ed Foster.  So far, nothing.

First he’d gone to the obvious places a respectable salesman from back east would go: Tompkins Mercantile and Dry Goods Store and Charlotte’s Dress Emporium.  But neither Mr. Tompkins nor Miss Charlotte had even heard of Foster, let alone been visited by any traveling salesman.  So then he went to Miss Grace’s whorehouse.  The girls were always looking for the newest fabrics and fashions from back east, but that that had turned up nothing.  Finally, he went from house to house thinking Foster might have been one of those peddlers that sold things door-to-door.  His days endeavor’s had led to his present predicament.  Deputy Barnett fiddled with his badge, arranging 
and rearranging it, wondering if people were right about him.

“What’s wrong, deputy,” a perky voice piped up in front of him.  “You look like someone just died.”

Barnett’s mood lifted immediately as he looked up and smiled at the pretty, curly-haired blonde standing in front of him.  “Hey Molly,” he said inviting her to sit down.  “How’s yer day going?”

Molly was the newest girl to work at the Wild Horse, she had started about a week ago and they’d hit it off fairly well.  Contrary to what people back east believed, just because a girl worked in a saloon, didn’t necessarily mean she was a whore.  They mostly just served drinks and flirted mildly with the patrons while fighting off the wandering hands of drunk and not-so-drunk patrons.  Some of the girls had favorites that they would take upstairs for a good time, but they weren’t cheap and they were fairly selective.  For a good time, the men went to Miss Grace’s House.  The ladies there were a little less … picky.  Molly, fortunately, fell into the former category.

She genuinely seemed interested in the deputy, but he was wary of getting involved with anyone after his so-called wedding to Millie Owens two months ago.  Millie had left out the fact that she was already married – to eight other men (apparently she hadn’t had the heart to divorce any of her previous husbands).

“Better than yours, if that look on your face is any hint,” she said, taking a seat.  “And as Marshal Hunter and his express riders are out of town it’s something else, so fess’ up.”

Barnett sighed and began telling her everything that had happened, from when Cyras Ayres burst into the office to the present (leaving out the part about him falling off his chair). 

“What happened to his things?” she asked.

“Uh,” he was a little taken aback by the question, it wasn’t what he’d have expected from her.  He figured she’d ask how close he was to solving the murder, if he had any suspects, or want to know exactly how or why Foster had been killed.  “I had them sent over to the marshal’s office, so I could look over ‘em tonight.  Figured I might find something to tell me why he got killed.”  Finishing his drink, Barnett let Molly get back to work bidding her good night.

“I gotta get back to work.”

“Oh, well, see you tomorrow.”

Back in his room above the jail, Barnett began poring over the contents of the late Mr. Foster’s belongings.  So far all he’d found was a change of clothes, an empty whisky flask, a brand new double-barreled derringer and about fifty dollars in bank notes.  Presently, he was going over some papers he’d found hidden in the false bottom of Foster’s suitcase.  The words and print were too small and close together, and what words he did make out made no sense to him.  They sounded like something a lawyer would use.

After staring at the papers for a few more minutes, Barnett threw them down on the dresser.  God, his eyes were tired, he thought.  Maybe things would be clearer in the morning.  Not bothering to undress, he collapsed down on his bed and fell asleep before his eyes closed.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been asleep, but he awoke to the sound of creaking floorboards.  Through the dim lights of the room, Barnett saw somebody going through the items on the dresser.  Barnett eased himself off the bed, and then launched himself at the figure hunched over the table.  They both crashed to the floor with Barnett on top.  The intruder struggled briefly but was easily overpowered by the deputy’s bulk.

“Get off me you jerk!”

He knew that voice.  It couldn’t be.

The intruder was hauled up and dropped onto the bed.  He lit the kerosene lamp, but the intruder did not move.  His eyes almost literally popped out of their sockets.

“Molly,” he breathed disbelievingly.  “What in, sam hill, are you doing here?”

Thinking under different circumstances, he would have gladly welcomed her into his bed.

“Drop dead,” she snapped, glaring at him defiantly.

Shock turning to anger, Deputy Hamilton barked, “Don’t give me no lip missy.  You’ve just been caught breaking into the marshal’s office, trying t’ steal evidence in a murder.  Now start talkin’ before I lock you up ‘til marshal Hunter gets back and let him at ya.  Now spill it!”

Molly glared up at Barnett from her sitting position on the bed.  Finally, she sighed and said, “My name is Molly Huddleston.  I’m a Pinkerton Agent from Pennsylvania, sent here to - ”

“Oh pull the other one,” Barnett snorted, clearly not believing a word she said.  “You expect me to believe the Pinkerton’s would hire women to do their kind of work.  Try again!”

“It’s the truth,” she insisted, jumping from her position on the bed.  “I was sent here to rendezvous with another agent and collect information about possible spies within the union and bring it to my superiors at Fort Laramie.”

Barnett’s head ached.  Was this really the same Molly he’d been tying to get up the nerve to enter into a courtship with over the last week?  He had always suspected she was smarter than she let on, but he would have never have guessed anything like this.  Finding his voice, he managed to croak 
out, “And you think this Foster fella was it?”

Molly nodded emphatically, pointing at the suitcase.  “All the information and evidence needed to prosecute and convict those involved is right here in this bag.”

“But only if it reaches its final destination,” said a smooth, oily voice floating in to the room with a thick southern drawl.

Barnett and Molly turned.  Three men stood in the doorway; two of them pointing their pistols straight at them.  The handsome man with the neatly trimmed mustache, smoking a cigar, was dressed fancy in southern city clothes.  He walked over to the dresser and began rifling through the papers.  “Yes, I dare say there is enough evidence to make a lot of people very uncomfortable.”

Barnett groaned, this was getting to be ridiculous.  “And you are?”

“Alexander Love,” he said politely, like that explained everything.

“Uh-huh,” Barnett said slowly.  “Sooo … what’s your stake in all this?”

“Just doing my part for the cause of Southern Independence,” he drawled.

Molly snorted, “His family are Tennessee slave holders.  He’s just trying to protect his own interests.”

“I am impressed that you’d know that, my dear,” he drawled trying to hide his admiration.  “I am simply protecting my family’s way of life.” 

Barnett didn’t care about politics or slavery, but there had been a murder in his town and chances were these guys were in on it.  He said as much to Love.

“Actually my associates were the ones that did in Mr. Foster, but were interrupted before they could procure this vital piece on information.  Speaking of which,” turning to his cohorts.  “Mr. Hooks, Mr. Woods – dispose of them would you please.”

Barnett simultaneously drew his gun and shoved Molly back onto the bed as Hooks and Woods fired.  One bullet deflected off Barnett’s deputy badge, grazing his chest, while another bullet went through his arm.  Barnett got off one shot that went wild, nicking Love’s ear.  Love spun around clutching his ear, wailing, “My ear, my ear, sumbitch shot my ear!”

“What?” said Hooks momentarily distracted.

Woods and Barnett both fired at once:  Barnett’s bullet penetrated the hired killer’s throat, while Woods’ bullet slammed into Barnett’s hip causing him to collapse on the floor in a sitting position.  Woods made a gurgling noise and fell backwards onto the floor.

Meanwhile, Molly had fallen back onto the bed and rolled head over heels to the other side onto the floor.  Hiking up her skirts, she pulled out the derringer she kept concealed in her garter belt and fired at the momentarily confused Hooks, painting the wall with the contents of his skull.

Panicking, Love dove out the window, rolled down the overhang and dropped to the ground, dislocating his shoulder.  As he struggled to his feet, he turned back to the second story window to gloat, but was trampled to death by a runaway horse and cart.

The next morning, Barnett was hobbling around the office trying to go about his duties.  It wasn’t easy with a cane in one hand and the other in a sling.  To top it off, he felt like his hip had been hit with a two by four.  His mood didn’t improve much, when around 10:30 that morning, Molly showed up wearing some decent, respectable clothes instead of her usual saloon outfit.

After clearing her throat nervously, she said, “I, uh, came to say good-bye.  I’m taking the documents to Pennsylvania.”

“Well, good-bye,” he said curtly.  He really didn’t want to see her right now.

After an awkward silence, Molly thanked him for his help, but he just grunted trying to look busy. As she turned to leave, Barnett called out, “Did Marshal Hunter know about you and Foster?”  It would be just like Hunter to leave him out of something like this.

“No,” she said finally.  “It was felt the less people involved, the better.”

Barnett just nodded.  At least this hadn’t been deliberately kept it from him.

Standing in silence for a few minutes, Molly came up and kissed Barnett lightly on the cheek. Trying not to blush, he mumbled, “May I escort you to your stage, Miss Huddleston?”

Molly smiled, “You may.”

As soon as the stage pulled out, Marshal Hunter and his riders thundered into town, looking the worse for wear.  Hunter took one look at his only permanent deputy and exclaimed, “Good Lord Barnett!  What the hell happened to you?”

Barnett shrugged, “Just a little trouble in town.”

“Anything serious?”

The deputy let loose a small smile, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Historical Note:  this first woman detective hired by the Pinkerton Detective Agency was Kate Warne, in 1856.  As the agency grew, Allan Pinkerton hired more women who investigated the same crimes as men.  During the Civil War they worked as spies in the South (the character of Molly Huddleston is completely fictitious).  Mrs. Warne became the head of the ‘Female Division’ of the agency.