Wild to the Bone by Peter Brandvold Page B

who the gang members were or where they were holed up, the Marshals returned to Denver with their proverbial tails between their legs. Since they left six weeks ago . . .”
    â€œThe gang has gone back to work,” Haskell finished for his boss.
    â€œThere you have it,” Pinkerton said, pointing the pointer at his agents, nodding his head like a proud schoolmaster. “And they’ve murdered another local lawman, a fill-in for the dead town marshal of Spotted Horse. At least, the man is presumed dead. After a recent robbery, he headed out alone into the buttes to see if he could uncover the culprits’ prints. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
    Haskell rolled his stogie from one side of his mouth to the other. “Boss, don’t tell me women are responsible for this depravity!”
    Raven glanced at him coolly, blinked once slowly, and said, “You think women incapable of savagery, Agent Haskell?”
    There was nothing satisfying in her gaze. Nothing, at any rate, that acknowledged their history. She was looking at him now as if he were a damn fool she’d gotten herself stuck on another assignment with.
    Haskell said, “Oh, I’ll admit, women can be savage in their own ways. You know—servin’ supper late when they’re piss-burned at their husbands or givin’ one of their own down-the-road because she served the wrong cake at the last Bible meetin’. But killin’ lawmen, causin’ another to disappear ? Pshaw!”
    Well, he’d wanted eye contact with the girl. Now he was getting it in spades. Pinkerton was staring at him, too, uncertainly, shifting his stare toward Raven, who continued to stare at Bear as though he were something a mule had deposited on the visitor’s chair beside her.
    Haskell felt himself wilt, and, remembering how she’d saved his life aboard a train by impaling his would-be executioner with one of her own monogrammed, razor-edged stilettos, he said, “Uh, present company excepted, of course.”
    She stared at him flatly for another beat before dipping her chin slightly and saying tonelessly, “Thank you, Agent Haskell . . . I think.”
    â€œMiss York,” Pinkerton said, moving up and down once on the balls of his half-boots, “I know this shouldn’t be necessary, but I do apologize for the uncouthness of the man beside you. He is purely a bull . . . er, I dare say a bear in a tea shop. But then, having been on one assignment with him already, I’m sure you’re well aware of that.”
    â€œI am, indeed, Mr. Pinkerton,” she said in the same toneless voice as before.
    â€œI implore you to tolerate him as best you can. You’ll no doubt have to do most of the thinking on this assignment. I just hope his brawn won’t become necessary, but in case it does”—he tossed his head at Haskell—“there you’ll have it.”
    â€œI reckon you have to take the horns with the hide,” Raven said, fabricating an ironic Texas drawl to match Haskell’s own natural one.
    Pinkerton and Raven shared a laugh at that. Haskell had never enjoyed laughter at his own expense, and, his ears warming, he didn’t like it much now, though he was smart enough to know he deserved every note of it.
    â€œYeah, well, you can stop talking about me like I ain’t here. And if we could, boss, I’d like to get back to the topic at hand so I can track down a steak and a big bottle of Sam Clay before headin’ up to that swelterin’ Pumpkin Butte country.”
    Haskell glanced at Raven, scowling, and then returned his gaze to Pinkerton, who was still smiling on the lee side of his laughter. “So, as I was sayin’, it’s women who done that to them lawmen, women robbin’ all them stagecoaches?”
    â€œNot only women but men as well,” Pinkerton said. “But it’s two women leading up the