Lady in Pink Tights

Prologue

July 1876

Four stories below her hotel window, the last marquee lights flickered and went out in Chicago’s theater district. Her sharp little chin digging into the palm of one hand, Nell heaved a sigh, as her adoptive mother continued her nightly ‘critique’ of her performance. How much longer must she put up with all this nit-picking? Nell wondered. The show was a sell-out, for God’s sake! Would the woman never be satisfied?

Tired to the bone, she consciously turned a deaf ear to all the nervous chatter that had gone on and on since they returned from the theater. Idly playing with the unruly reddish-gold ringlets curling around her pixy features, she let her mind drift far beyond the hotel room she shared with her fiery mother—the woman who’d run Nell’s business affairs with an iron hand for the past twelve years.

Not that Nell wasn’t grateful. The woman had made her what she was today. Nell would never forget the day Sarah Armstrong, accompanied by her business manager, came to the orphanage and picked her out of a line-up of skinny waifs as a little girl I can call my own.

As an actress whose star had begun to fade, Sarah Armstrong was no fool. Instead of lamenting over her fading beauty, she had cast about and found Nell, with those big brown eyes gazing solemnly up at her out of that tiny heart-shaped face. Not to mention the little brat could sing like one of God’s holy angels. Instantly she had gone to work, training Nell for the stage, and thereby ensuring her own financial security and Nell’s for years to come.

Still attractive in her early fifties, Mother Armstrong kept a very close eye on her prodigy these days. She wasn’t about to risk losing her golden girl to some fast talking charmer who lacked the means to reward the aging actress for surrendering her hold on the girl. Yes, when it came to matrimony or the negotiating of theatrical contracts, Sarah Armstrong could be counted on to protect Nell’s interests, and her own, for years to come.

These were all things Nell had come to accept about her adoptive mother. Pensively gazing out the open window at the empty street below, she chafed under her mother’s constant haranguing over box office receipts.

The air was pungent with rain and the odors of the city. It was too stifling and humid to close the window against the late night noises, so she sat there, quietly slapping the blood-seeking mosquitoes that were so persistently drawn to her fair complexion. They had been on the road nonstop for months, and she ought to be used to her mother’s nervous rehashing of minutiae following each and every performance, but tonight she was nearly at the end of her rope. Gritting her teeth, she kept her mouth shut, wondering just how much more of this she could endure.

Perhaps we should consider a more sensational costume, Nell. Something more revealing. Sarah Armstrong cast a calculating look at her protégé’s trim figure, dressed in the latest fashion, but covered up to the neck.

This is Chicago, Mama, Nell said, daring to interrupt. What was the woman’s problem? They were playing to standing-room-only crowds! How much better could it get? If I show any more leg, people around here will likely boycott the show!

Then perhaps we should head out West—to the gold mines! Eyes glittering with avarice, Sarah dug through her large leather satchel and brought forth a well-marked map. Nell sensed that she’d had this in mind all along.

Nell’s shoulders slumped. Not another tour! They’d been playing to full houses in Chicago for nearly three weeks. Couldn’t they put down roots for a while? How was she ever going to make any normal friends, at this rate? It seemed so unfair that she never had a say in her own destiny. Chicago was a lovely city. Why couldn’t they settle here for a few months?

Most of the time she barely noticed or cared what city they were in, but she was tired of living out of a trunk. Life seemed destined never to change. It was just one performance after another. The same old grind, until she barely had room to breathe.

She spent nearly every waking hour rehearsing, being fitted for costumes, learning new dance steps or comedy routines, and performing. Her whole life was spent striving to please others! She likened her existence to being a parrot in a cage—never free.

Even worse, her mother never let her out of her sight for a second. She had complete control of her finances, told her what to eat, what to wear, whom to associate with onstage and off. Oh,, yes, Mama set the itinerary, and The Incomparable Nellie Armstrong was just expected to go along with her money-making schemes. While Nell gave her adoptive mother full credit for her shrewd business acumen, she was getting mighty tired of watching life pass her by from the window of a moving train or a stagecoach.

At this rate, she would end up an old maid! It was no fun always being Mama’s good little girl. As much as she loved her mother, she wished, just once, she could shake loose of her control and experience life from the other side of the footlights.

* * *

Why’d you pick me for this assignment? The fiery-eyed young detective scowled uncooperatively across the desk at his employer, Allan Pinkerton. His piercing blue eyes had a way of flashing that signaled the approach of a thunderstorm, and during this particular meeting he showed more restlessness than usual.

A lean fellow with chestnut hair nearly to his shoulders and badly in need of a barber, he worked as an independent and had cracked some of the Chicago agency’s toughest cases. He had a special knack for tracking down some of the most elusive and dangerous criminals.

Currently using the moniker J. C. McBain to protect his identity, he was known to change his name at the drop of a hat, or don a clever new disguise. Whatever helped bring in a man wanted by the law, he was usually willing to do.

But not today. McBain was just plain balky and resistant. Touchy. Edgier than hell.

Clearly the agency’s favorite lone wolf needed delicate handling, a term so ridiculous when applied to this fellow that Allan Pinkerton chuckled. Seems to me you’re due for a bit of excitement, John. You’ve had your nose buried in that bank audit long enough.

Unconvinced, McBain silently filled his pipe with tobacco. He took his own sweet time lighting up. Blowing out the match, he shot a hard glance at his boss. I get it: Sending me into the Badlands is payback for getting the goods on Senator Avery and his mistress, and handing over the evidence to his wife. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

Now, John. We’ve been over this ground before. The Senator hired us to get the dirt on his wife, not the other way around.

Right. So he could drag his wife’s reputation through the divorce courts! Her only fault was being stupid enough to marry the bastard. Anyway, I’m not sorry I mailed her the photographs. She and her lawyer can do with ’em as they see fit.

Forget it, Pinkerton waved his hand dismissively. You didn’t follow standard procedure, but let’s move past it. I need you in Deadwood Gulch.

"Aw, boss, have a heart. You can’t send me into the Badlands without a back-up."

John, you’re the best qualified I’ve got, Pinkerton insisted. Rummaging around in his top desk drawer, he drew forth a one-way railway ticket to Sidney, Nebraska, and a brass telegrapher’s key. In case you’ve misplaced yours, which I doubt, he said grimly. This is top secret, John. I wouldn’t entrust this case to anyone but you.

Huh! he grunted resentfully. Can’t get anybody else to go is my guess.

Pinkerton laughed. John, when’s the last time you got laid?

McBain glowered. Getting off the subject, aren’t we?

All right, so it’s none of my business. I apologize.

Apology accepted. John smoked, occasionally glancing at the railway ticket and telegraphy key, his lips curling as if he’d been asked to drink strychnine.

A moment or two passed, then Pinkerton pushed a file containing mug shots and reward posters across the desk. The Pritchard gang has been robbing gold shipments. They’re holed up somewhere in the Black Hills, where there’s no law and order. They shot the last two men I sent in there, and somehow they’ve got to be stopped.

I suppose you want me to infiltrate their gang, McBain scoffed. Two of ‘em served with me in the Army back in ‘64, don’t forget. The shooting’ll start the second I show my face.

That’s why I’m sending you in undercover. Pinkerton handed over a copy of the Chicago Times classifieds. Even though you’ll be right out in plain view, they’ll never see you.

John seized the newspaper and focused on the advertisement circled in red ink. ’Nellie Armstrong and her theatrical troupe seek Company Manager to sell tickets, handle travel arrangements, and do a bit part or two.’ He tossed the paper aside with a wry grimace. You must be daft! How can I bring in the Pritchards, if I’m riding herd on a bunch of giddy females?

Sorry, but I’ve already accepted the position on your behalf. Pinkerton grinned. Here’s the strategy: Every man within thirty miles of Deadwood will flock to the show. With seven voluptuous vixens to distract their attention, you’ll be next to invisible.

Find someone else. McBain snarled, sucking on his pipe. I want no part of it.

Aw, man, where’s your sense of humor? his employer wheedled. Thing is, I need an experienced telegrapher to keep me and the territorial governor informed at every stage of the investigation. Unfortunately Deadwood is so remote there isn’t a telegraph office for miles.

Oh, great! McBain groaned. How far will I have to string wire?

Relax. As we speak, the Army is working to bring in a line from Fort Laramie. In the meantime your job will be to circulate around town, find out who is tipping off the gang about gold shipments, and locate their hideout.

Sounds like the local sheriff could handle that, said John, still skeptical.

There isn’t any, Pinkerton admitted sheepishly. Nobody has the backbone to take a stand against the local criminal element.

Maybe if I went in, posing as a saloon keeper, he suggested, grasping at straws. Or how ’bout I drive a freight wagon?

We tried that, John. Didn’t work. Strong arm robbery and murder are a daily occurrence in the Badlands. The safest way for you to slip into town is with this theatrical troupe. The ladies will lure the Pritchards out of hiding, mark my word. I doubt even the most hardened criminal will be able to resist the charms of all those naughty ladies.

McBain sighed. See here, boss. This is no way to conduct an investigation.

Pinkerton gave him the gimlet eye. Now, John. Take this voucher to the thrift store downstairs. Get yourself spiffed up: flowery vest, bowler hat, fancy cane. And don’t forget a warm coat. The Dakotas get cold at night.

Something flashy, eh? His lip curled with disgust. He hated getting roped in.

While you’re at it, pick up a fancy madam’s dress with a big hat and a parasol. Never know when you may need to blend in with the ladies. He stroked his chin, wishing he could get McBain to loosen up. You never know when you might be called on to sing a couple of ballads, while the star does a costume change.

Forget it, John countered, still resisting.

Unfortunately Mrs. Armstrong is ill and unfit for travel at the moment, Pinkerton went on. While she’s indisposed, you’ll also be acting as Miss Nellie’s bodyguard.

Bodyguard to the Lady in Pink Tights?

John had caught the show a few nights ago with a friend, and the memory of Nellie Armstrong’s flashing dark eyes and reddish-gold hair, as she brought down the house with her lisping rendition of Oh, Sir, My Mama Warned Me about Men like You, had left him weak with laughter. But it was one thing to watch an accomplished flirt prancing around onstage, and quite another to play nursemaid to such a wanton creature. No. Definitely not. He wouldn’t do it.

Besides, hadn’t he already told himself that Miss Nell wasn’t the type of female a man would bring home to his mother? Not that he had a mother or, for that matter, a father. Still, that was the measuring rod he used when considering the merits of a comely young lass—all of which occasionally made him wonder what his life might have been like if he’d grown up with his own set of parents, instead of being farmed out to a series of foster families.

"What if I audit the Bank of Chicago for free?" he offered, desperately bargaining for a different assignment. No way in hell would he subject himself to accompanying such a mischievous songbird and a bevy of dancing girls into the Badlands! It would completely destroy his ability to stay focused and capture a gang of murderous thieves.

Nice try, John, but you’re tailor-made for this assignment. If it means having to strut your way through a song or two, so be it. Come on, man—do it for the agency’s sake, Pinkerton cajoled, struggling to keep a straight face.

John choked on a puff of pipe smoke. "You expect me to sing?"

"Well it is an all-girl revue. Unless you want to stick out like a sore thumb, I suggest you buy a blonde wig and some strategic padding and make yourself useful."

Now I know you’re pulling my leg, he said, shaking his head.

Aye, but in a pinch it could be an ingenious cover, grinned the master inventor of clever disguises. Just don’t look too inviting. I hear the miners in Deadwood outnumber the females thirty to one, They’re a pretty desperate bunch.

They’d have to be more than desperate to try anything with me, John said grimly. They’d have to be crazy. Shoulders slouched in resignation, he gathered up the train ticket, the clothing voucher, and the telegrapher’s key. Wish me luck, sir?

But beneath that resentful martyr’s air, Pinkerton saw the familiar gleam that a new adventure always brought to the young detective’s eye. Give ’em hell, John, he said.

I’ll do my best, sir.

Pinkerton chuckled, envisioning the arsenal of weapons John would be carrying with him. Always testing the latest firearms, he had a reputation as a gun hawk among his fellow detectives. Careful and deliberate by nature, when it came to a fight, he was the one most likely to be standing when the gunsmoke cleared.

I know I can count on you, Pinkerton said, shaking hands.

Boss, I’m already looking forward to a change of scenery.

With that lie barely out of his mouth, J. C. McBain trudged back to his dingy rented room. After giving his landlady notice, he proceeded to clean his guns and pack, all the while gnashing his teeth. A man could get himself killed, taking an assignment like this, he told himself.

And all those women!

Holy smokes! What was I thinking, to agree to this?

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir, the way it did the first time he went into battle. To be on the safe side, he threw in several extra boxes of ammunition and a brand new experimental rifle with a high-powered scope, straight from the factory. Deadwood seemed like the perfect place to check it out.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Chapter 1

McBain was thoroughly familiar with the Pritchard file by the time his train pulled into St. Louis. With a couple of hours to kill before boarding his connection, he checked his luggage with the station master and ventured into the city to pay a courtesy call on the woman responsible for providing him with such an unusual cover, namely Mrs. Sarah Armstrong.

Taking a cab to the Meriwether Hotel, he arrived as the woman’s doctor was departing. Ushered into the inner sanctum by her personal assistant, he discovered a sallow-faced lady in her fifties propped up in bed, sipping lemonade laced with quinine, while her maid waved a fan over her. Even in her weakened state, her indomitable spirit was apparent.

J. C. McBain from the Pinkerton Agency, ma’am, he said, with a bow. I apologize for dropping by when you’re feeling poorly.

Mrs. Armstrong’s sharp eyes swept over him and evidently saw something to like in his lanky frame, for she raised up slightly on her pillows and gripped his hand. I’m glad you came, so I could get a look at you.

Yes, ma’am. And do I pass muster? he asked.

You’ll do, I suppose. She let go of his hand with a weak chuckle. If I weren’t laid low with a recurrence of malaria, I wouldn’t require your services, now would I?

Admiring her fighting spirit, McBain nodded. Ma’am, I’m pleased to be of assistance until such time as you’re able to take command again.

She waved her maid away. You’re giving me a chill with that fan, she said testily, then refocused on her caller. Whatever you do, Mr. McBain, keep a close eye on my daughter. She has no idea how dangerous the mining camps can be.

Perhaps Miss Armstrong and her troupe should postpone the tour, he suggested, still preferring to go it alone.

If I’d known when we were in Chicago that this malaria was going to flare up, naturally I would have extended the engagement, but— she waved her hand in a dramatic flourish, —the show must go on, Mr. McBain.

So how may I help you, precisely? he asked, biting back a smile.

Look out for my girls. Make sure they eat well and get plenty of rest, and do try to keep those dreadful stage door Johnnies away. Her voice faded, and her maid waved a burnt feather under her nose. After a few minutes, she rallied slightly. I shall require a strict accounting of the box office receipts and regular deposits in the bank. Above all, take care of my little Nell. She’s all I have in this world— Her eyelids fluttered, and she drifted off.

A little suspicious that he’d been summarily dismissed, McBain checked the lady’s pulse. He found it to be slow, but steady. Not having time for a lengthy bedside vigil, he consulted his pocket watch. Unfortunately I have a train to catch, he told her companion. Where might I find Miss Armstrong and the other members of the touring company?

Why, they left for the train depot hours ago! Miss Nell insists on personally seeing to it that the props and scenery were properly loaded into the baggage car, along with the costumes and steamer trunks, said Mrs. Armstrong’s companion, who seemed familiar with the logistics of traveling with a theatrical company.

I must go, he said, receiving his hat and coat from the maid. When Mrs. Armstrong awakens, please assure her that I’ll keep a close eye on the daily operations and see to Miss Armstrong’s personal safety.

Bless you, sir! Mrs. Armstrong’s companion followed him to the door. Here, take Mrs. Armstrong’s ticket for the sleeping car. She wanted you to have it. It’s much more comfortable than coach, you see. She placed a first class ticket in his hand, and after a mild refusal, he relented. Take care of Miss Nellie. She is such a sweet child—

McBain gently eased the door closed behind him and set his bowler hat at a jaunty angle. Taking care of Miss Nellie didn’t sound like such an arduous task, after all. The image she projected across the footlights was that of a mischievous imp, but according to her keepers, she was rather childlike and quite tractable.

Much relieved on that score, he jumped into a carriage-for-hire and yelled, Spring ’em! Taking him literally, the driver whipped up his horses, and McBain got to the station just before the train, enveloped in a huge head of steam, pulled out of the station. The steel rimmed wheels were gnashing and grinding on the track as he swung aboard. After showing his ticket to the conductor, he dropped off his suitcases in the sleeper car and went in search of the ladies entrusted to his care.

He had no trouble finding six blonde dancers, holding court with several male admirers in the parlor car. Most of them were bottle blondes, intent upon having a good time. Leaving them to enjoy the champagne and hors d’oeuvres, McBain continued to pursue his main target: Mrs. Armstrong’s pride and joy.

When he didn’t find Miss Nellie in first class, he inquired of the conductor, who recalled having punched her ticket, but hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since. His curiosity piqued, McBain tightened his lips, a trifle annoyed, and set out to explore the entire train. At least the minx had made it on board without getting into trouble.

He checked the baggage car, on the off chance that the troupe’s pampered musical star might have gone there to rehearse her lines in private. He found no lady in pink tights. What he did find, along with numerous steamer trunks, scenery flats, and a pile of musical instruments, was a palomino mare munching hay and oats, while studying him out of the corner of one velvety brown eye.

A cast member? Dismissing the idea as absurd, McBain retraced his steps through the swaying cars to the coach section. Never opposed to picking up an extra bounty or two, he kept a sharp lookout for familiar faces from wanted posters, as was his custom. Instead, he encountered a few unruly children and their harried mothers, three traveling salesman, a few soldiers en route to military outposts out West, a grandmother knitting furiously to pass the time, and three professional gamblers busily fleecing an unsuspecting cowboy in a poker game.

He took his time passing through the cars, knowing that eventually Miss Nell would surface. Having searched without success, he finally reached the observation car. Craving a smoke, McBain made his way to the rear platform and pulled open the heavy door.

Absentmindedly patting his pockets for his tobacco pouch, pipe and matches, he glanced around and saw that he was not alone.

A slender female of indeterminate age and character stood off to his left, her features concealed by a large leghorn hat. He watched her make a fumbling attempt at lighting up a thin cigarette, striking one match after another, all of which simply refused to stay lit in the stiff breeze.

While disapproving of women smoking, McBain saw her dilemma and decided to do the gentlemanly thing. May I? he asked.

Expertly cupping his hands around his own match, he offered her a light, just as a sudden gust of wind whipped the cigarette from her slender fingers and sent it spinning.

Oh, drat! She stared morosely down the tracks.

McBain shrugged, thinking to himself it would be just as well if the lady didn’t acquire such a filthy habit. Calmly filling his beloved pipe, he lit it and savored the aroma, as he gazed contentedly at the passing scenery. He fully expected the lady to leave the platform, now that her smoking materials had blown into the next county. When she did not, he waited a polite amount of time, then ventured a cautious look in her direction.

The most incredible pair of chocolate brown eyes, glowing like candlelight, stared back at him. His heart gave an unexpected thunk, as he came face to face for the first time with Miss Nellie Armstrong.

She had the most covetous look in her eyes he had ever seen.

Sir? she said softly. Would it be too great an imposition if I took a tiny puff on your pipe?

Instinctively he hid it behind his back. Highly irregular, he said, and frowned at her like a Dutch uncle.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask, but you see, I’m trying to learn how to smoke, she went on, quite seriously. And since I have no one to teach me, and the wind blew away my one and only cigarette— She paused and gave