High and Wild by Peter Brandvold Page B

work alone, Allan. Uh, no offense, Miss York.”
    She gave him a cool nod. “None taken, Mr. Haskell.”
    Pinkerton said, “As you’ll read in this file, Malcolm Briar gave his sister few details about his life and business up at Wendigo. He did, however, mention that he had a lady friend who worked in one of the saloons up there. He asked his sister not to mention this decidedly potentially damning bit of information to the rest of their family.”
    Haskell manufactured an incredulous expression. “It’s damning to know saloon girls?”
    Miss York gave him a look of forbearance.
    â€œAnyway,” Pinkerton went on, ignoring Haskell’s witticism, “I’ll need someone, preferably a female for obvious reasons, to find this young lady in as subtle a way as possible and to make further inquiries that would be much easier for a woman than a man.” He gave an ironic smile. “Especially for a man as large and imposing, not to mention downright threatening, as you, Bear.”
    â€œAh, hell,” Bear said. “I can don silk slippers when I have to.”
    Miss York glanced at him coyly. “But I wonder if you’d find any that fit.”
    â€œAnd I doubt you’d be as beguiling to the men up at Wendigo,” Pinkerton said, sliding a meaningful glance to Raven. “Enough so as to wriggle information out of them . . .”
    Discretion dictated that the chief Pinkerton’s eyes say what his lips would not, despite Pinkerton having married a dance-hall girl long ago back in his home country of Scotland. Miss York gazed unblinkingly back at him, understanding exactly what she would be doing once she reached Wendigo.
    She didn’t seem at all perturbed, merely matter-of-fact.
    Haskell imagined her decked out in a corset and bustier, sitting atop a bar with her long, bare legs crossed, and he had to recross his own legs, giving another, he hoped imperceptible, wince at the discomfort in his groin.
    â€œMeanwhile,” Pinkerton said, “you, Bear, will be investigating the teamsters who work for the freight companies, and the miners. Anyone who might have some information and won’t require the subtle prodding best left to Agent York. As I said, however you wish to pry information is up to you. You usually come up with your own imaginative, if not so delicate, ways.”
    Pinkerton chuckled. “As you know, such men who work in mining fields are as rough as a dog’s . . .”
    He let his voice trail off, flushed slightly, and looked down at his desk.
    â€œAs rough as an old dog’s teats?” the girl finished sweetly. “I might be young and pretty, gentlemen, but this isn’t my first ride down the river.”
    Pinkerton blinked at Haskell. “Just remember that the last investigator sent up there was never heard from—and likely will not be heard from—again.”
    Miss York said, “What is the name of this private investigator, Mr. Pinkerton? In case we run into him.”
    Pinkerton frowned. He opened the only manila file folder on his desk, plucked a set of reading half-glasses from the pocket of his black frock coat, and set them on his nose.
    Narrowing his pale blue eyes, he flipped through several pages in the folder, placed his index finger down on one, and said, “Calvin Wexler. A lone investigator from Chicago. Never heard of him myself. Probably came rather cheap, and the Briars decided to send him on what they initially deemed a rather easy trip, as they first believed that Malcolm had just gotten too busy to continue corresponding regularly with his sister. Or that he’d gone on one of his not infrequent benders, a habit he’d picked up when mending from his war wounds.”
    Pinkerton closed the folder and sat back in his chair. “Now, however, they worry that things have turned out otherwise.” He tapped the closed folder. “Miss Whitehurst has typed