Finding Smilin' Jack. YA A Western Detective Story. (standard:mystery, 20905 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 23 2020	Views/Reads: 1250/889	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Pinkerton Detective Sam Johnson seems to spend his entire career chasing an evildoer called Smilin’ Jack.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

wrong color hair.” 

“Where did he go? Remember, Jack is very good at disguising himself,”
Sam asked anxiously, “We better check him out.” 

As Julie pointed across the platform, Sam felt under his coat for his
revolver. Smilin' Jack was not considered too dangerous, never having 
killed anyone yet, but you could never tell what he would do when 
cornered. 

Julie nodded her head at an older cowboy standing at the edge of the
platform nearest them. 

“I'll talk to the man while you study him good. Listen to his voice,
too. You might recognize it,” Sam instructed his new partner. 

“How you doing, sir?” Sam asked the man, trying to curb his own
nervousness. 

“What the hell you want, mister?” The man stared at him. “You trying to
pick me up? You're the third nancy boy in the last half-hour.” 

“No, sir,” Sam said, shocked by the reply. “Nothing like that, sir.” 

The cowboy stared intently at the detective, who glanced at his partner.
She shook her head. 

“Sorry, sir.  My mistake.  I thought you were someone I knew.” The
detective hurriedly backed away. 

“Yeah, I'll bet you did,” came a sarcastic reply. 

“Oh, honey, why didn't you tell me you were THAT way?” his new partner
joked as the cowboy edged away. 

As they waited, Julie eyed the passengers. They could see smoke in the
distance as the train approached. When it stopped alongside the 
platform, Julie picked up her things and started toward it. 

“Wait a minute, we'll get on later. Keep searching,” Sam instructed her.


They continued looking but with no result. A couple of men looked like
they could be the fugitive but she wasn't certain.  The girl told Sam, 
who studied them and figured they would find out during the trip. They 
could not, in the few minutes before the train left, stop the suspects 
to question them. At the last moment, the two searchers boarded the 
train. 

Leaving the luggage in their private compartment, they headed for the
dining car. It would be as good a place as any to start the search. 
Once the train was under way, they ordered a meal and Sam outlined his 
plan. 

“I'll wait here while you go through the coaches. If you see him, come
back and let me know. We'll collar him when we get close to Yuma.  
While you're doing that, I have to inform the conductor that we're 
aboard and what we're doing here.” 

Finishing their meal, Julie left to begin her search while Sam tracked
down the conductor. He then returned to the dining car to wait. 

The detective was idly watching the arid landscape whiz by them, when
his excited partner returned. She slipped into the opposite seat and 
smiled. 

“I found him, Sam,” she blurted out with a grin, “in the third coach
from the front. You can't miss the crook. He's wearing a bright-red 
jacket. I even heard him talking. I know it's him.” 

Sam left to check the man out. He walked forward through the cars until
he passed the suspect. Smilin' Jack looked like a middle-aged 
businessman. He was attempting to sell something out of an open case to 
his seat-mate. Sam returned to the dining car. Julie had a big grin 
when he sat down. His long quest was almost over. 

“You better go back to the compartment and wait,” Sam told her. “I'll
tell the conductor that I found the outlaw and then sit near him. I'll 
be in position to arrest him when the train stops. I don't want to 
endanger the other passengers. I'll see you on the platform later.” 

“All right, Sam, and good luck.” She left, walking toward the rear of
the train. Sam sat for a minute, watching her posterior as she walked 
away. He shook his head and, getting up, himself, headed in the 
opposite direction. 

The detective found an empty spot behind his quarry and waited. The
train finally pulled into the Yuma station. With a squealing of brakes, 
it slid to a stop and passengers began disembarking onto a nearly-empty 
platform. 

The businessman closed his sample case and stood, only to feel Sam's
pistol jabbing into his back. The man tensed and asked, “What is this, 
a holdup?” 

“You're under arrest, Smilin' Jack.” 

“What the hell's a Smilin' Jack, you asshole?” 

“You are.  I've been tracking you for the last six months,” Sam informed
him, feeling elated. “I'm from the Pinkerton Detective Agency.” 

“The hell you say? My name's Peterson. Harry Peterson.  Here's my
identification." He started to reach into an inside coat pocket. 

“Hold it. Put your hands up, Jack.” 

“Up yours.”  The man, ignoring Sam, continued reaching and pulled out a
wallet. He showed it to the detective. Sure enough, he carried plenty 
of identification. Even a picture of his wife and kids, along with pay 
stubs from a job in a clothing store. 

“Sorry, Mr. Peterson.  My mistake.” Embarrassed, Sam managed to placate
the businessman, who was starting to enjoy being mistaken for an 
infamous fugitive. 

Wondering what had gone wrong, Sam rushed back to his compartment. He
found Julie and her things gone, except for an empty hatbox and the 
clothing she had been wearing. There was also a note saying, “Bye, bye. 
Sucker.” Signed, Smiling Jack. 

*** 

Pinkerton Detective Sam Johnson was, again, hot on the trail of the
notorious criminal Smilin' Jack Jackson, now known to be a woman. Sam 
had received a wire from his head office that the outlaw had been seen 
south of Seattle. She had apparently robbed a transportation company of 
a wagon load of copper. 

Sam was on his way to Seattle to try to track the culprit down from
there. He had arrived at the town of Sweaty Blanket, Utah and was on 
his way to pay his customary call on the local sheriff to tell the man 
of his mission. It was better to inform local law-enforcement agencies 
of his presence. It helped avoid trouble later and might possibly aid 
in his search. 

Although it was almost midnight, the detective could see a light through
an open door of the sheriff's office. 

He slogged through a muddy Main Street and, stepping up to a board
sidewalk, stomped and scraped most of the goo off his boots before 
going inside. Striding in through an open doorway, Sam approached the 
lone occupant,  a young-looking deputy.  Seeing a well-dressed 
stranger, the youngster quickly dropped his legs off a desk and came to 
his feet. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked in a nervous voice. 

“Howdy, son.  Is the sheriff around anywheres?” 

“I guess you could say so since he's in the JackPot, down the street,”
the deputy told Sam. “Maybe I could help you, though. Sheriff Peters is 
off duty tonight and getting drunk. He might not be too sociable about 
now.” 

“Guess you can.  I wanted to tell him I'm in town is all,” Sam told the
deputy. “My name's Sam Johnson, with Pinkerton's.” 

“Jethro Peters, Sam. The Sheriff's my pa.” 

“Nice little town you got here, Jethro.  Ceptin' for the mud that is.” 

“What you doin' here anyways ... Sam?” 

“Passing through. I'm after an outlaw named Smilin' Jack.” 

“Well, don't that beat all?” Jethro broke out with a shit-eating grin.
“We got him right inside here. Been here for over a week on a 
thirty-day sentence.” 

“Him? Are you sure about that? I hear she robbed a wagon in Seattle just
yesterday.” 

“Couldn't be surer. Identified by two prospectors who seen him before. 
He even had a bill of sale for his horse on him, to Smiling Jack 
Jackson.” 

“Are you sure he's a man, Jethro? You couldn't be mistaken?” 

“Couldn't be surer on that neither. Done made him strip when we got
him.” 

“Could I maybe see and talk to him, please, Jethro?  It might save me a
trip all the way north.” 

“I don't think pa would mind any. You gotta leave your guns outside
though.” 

Perplexed, Sam followed the deputy into the back of the jail, where they
saw a young man sitting morosely in a corner of the lone cell. Jethro 
looked at Sam, who passed over his gun belt and motioned to be let into 
the cell. The deputy dutifully unlocked the door and let the detective 
in, locking it again behind him. 

The man did slightly resemble his Smilin' Jack. He was slim and
fine-featured. Sam looked him over carefully and thought that the man 
could, maybe, have tricked him by dressing as a girl. But he didn't 
know how it was possible. Sam couldn't easily be fooled with something 
like that. He knew his women. 

"So, you're Smilin' Jack, uh?” 

The man stared through him without answering. 

Sam grabbed the captive by the shirtfront and yanked him off his seat on
the hard bench. 

“How'd you trick me like that?” Now that he was so close, Sam could see
that it couldn't have been him. This man was not the Smilin' Jack he 
was searching for.  After all, Sam had taken some very careful looks at 
the girl who had tricked him. He threw the young man back on his seat 
and asked, “Who the hell are you, anyways?” Again no answer. 

“Jethro, You can let me out now.” When they had returned to the office,
Sam had an idea and asked the deputy. “Can I see his property? It might 
help me find the one I want.” 

The deputy showed Sam to a cupboard and left him alone with the
contents. The detective looked through the effects taken off the 
prisoner. There was a well-used saddle and some personal property taken 
from the man's pockets, also a set of saddlebags. Nothing seemed to 
help, though. He did note that the saddle had been made in Sidesaddle, 
Colorado. It had an odd design, one he had never seen before. 

The next morning, Sam continued his journey. Odd that he had been in
contact with two Smilin' Jacks. Just odd as hell was all. 

*** 

Two days later, Sam was waiting to change trains in a little town in
Nevada for his last leg into Seattle. He left the station to find 
somewhere to eat. The detective stopped in mid-stride. Across the 
street was a large sign saying, “Smiling Jack's Investment Services, 
Come in for a Stock Smile.” 

He went in the storefront to find a fat little middle-aged man behind a
desk. Upon seeing Sam, the man rose, reaching out his hand along with a 
smile. 

“Why hello there, sir. I take it you want to buy stock? I have the
cheapest railroad stock within hundreds of miles. Get a step up in the 
right direction to Nevada's future. This is not only a railroad but the 
road to the future.” 

“You're not from Colorado are you, Jack?” 

“Oh, No. I'm from Ohio, sir. I'm not one of those other Smilin' Jacks. 
No, sirree.” 

“What do you mean by – those others?” 

“Well, sir, everyone around here knows about – them. I'm no relation,
whatever. My name is Carpenter. Jack Carpenter.” 

“Tell me about the other Jacks.” 

“Don't know much, just no relation is all. Can't say anything else.  No,
sir.  If you don't want to buy any stock, it's time for me to close up. 
Goodbye, sir.” He ushered Sam out of the storefront and closed his 
door. It was only three in the afternoon. 

The detective had wasted so much time with the stock seller that he had
to return to the station or miss his train. As Sam resumed his journey, 
he wondered what the merchant had meant by, “Those other Smilin' 
Jacks”? 

*** 

Sam arrived in Seattle and went to the sheriff's office before finding a
room for the night. He left his saddle and gear checked at the train 
station. In such a large city, he needed to get to government offices 
during normal business hours or wait until the next morning. They 
weren't as easygoing as small towns. 

The sheriff's office consisted of a large two-story building. The front
entrance sported fake Grecian columns on each side with a large sign 
stating, “Joseph Madison, County Sheriff” amid various swirls and 
official verbiage. 

Sam entered, to find himself in a marble hall, the walls covered with
pictures and lined by wooden benches. A waist-high marble counter, 
along with a uniformed deputy, sat in one corner. Sam went over and 
introduced himself, showing his identification. Sent to a bench to 
wait, he eventually was let in to see the illustrious Joseph Madison, 
himself. 

“How you doin', sir? How you doin'?” The sheriff clasped Sam's hand in a
vigorous shake. “We're glad to have you here, sir. Any help you can 
give us will be appreciated.” 

Sam thanked him, wondering why the grand reception, He had expected to
have a hard time getting cooperation. 

“I wonder if I could see anything you have on a recent copper robbery,
Sheriff?” Sam asked, “I would be glad to tell you everything I know 
about Jack.” 

“Certainly, Detective Johnson, certainly.” The sheriff rang a bell on
his desk and, before the third ring, another deputy appeared to lead 
Sam to the property room.  There, Sam examined the scant evidence and 
then official police reports. The only thing of real interest was a 
scuffed envelope found near the scene where the culprit had apparently 
waited to hijack the wagon. Though empty, it had a partial address 
saying “. . . saddle, Co. . . .”  Also, Sheriff Madison affirmed that 
the perpetrator was a man.  Sam thought he had better pay a visit to 
Sidesaddle, Colorado. There were far too many Smilin' Jacks coming from 
that place. 

*** 

The town of Sidesaddle was not on any railway stop and no tracks were
laid within thirty miles of the place. The detective was forced to rent 
a horse to get there. Being a city boy, he didn't enjoy riding and was 
butt-sore by the time he arrived at the isolated settlement. 

Sidesaddle consisted of Patrick's General Store with a livery stable in
back, and three bars. He hitched up to a post in front of the 
cleanest-looking saloon, went in and ordered a beer. Pushing his change 
from a quarter toward the bartender, Sam asked, "Is it possible to find 
a room for a day or two?" 

“You could try Tyler's place, about three miles south. They got a spare
room to let, sometimes. We don't get us none too many visitors here, so 
it should be empty,” was his answer. “What you here for, anyways?  Must 
be business, cause it sure as hell can't be pleasure in this hellhole.” 


“Right you are.  A little business. Won't be long,” Sam answered.
Finishing his beer, he asked, “You got a lawman around here anywhere?” 

“Na, don't need one. We do okay by ourselves out here.” 

“Thanks.  Probably be back for another beer tonight.” 

He left and headed south to see about a room. The Tyler's were a typical
western farm family. Man, wife and four and one-half kids; the latest 
still in the oven. They welcomed him warmly and charged an exorbitant 
rate of fifty cents a day with meals included. 

“What can you tell me about Smilin' Jack?' he asked Janet Tyler while
she fixed supper for the family. 

“Which one?” she answered, guardedly. “We got us a mess'a  Smilin' Jacks
round here.” 

“What you mean by a mess of them?” 

“Well, way I hear, the great granddaddy started a tradition a naming
ever'body in'a godallfully huge family "Smilin' Jack", male or female. 
To keep it from be'un too confusing, they got different third names. 
Right now we gots us Smilin' Jack Jimmy, Smilin' Jack Mary, Smilin' 
Jack Pete, Smilin' Jack Jacqueline, Smilin' Jack Harry and a whole slew 
of others that I don't know. All Jackson's, a'course.” She shook her 
head while basting a roast. “I was you, I'd have no truck with them. 
They's nasty.” 

Sam wasn't too surprised by the revelation; he had suspected something
odd about them. He asked where they were living and was directed to a 
farm on the other side of town. Although he was anxious to complete his 
mission, Sam decided to wait until the next day for the confrontation.  
If there were problems, he didn't want go in tired and and in darkness. 


*** 

Sand fleas and ants vied with mosquitoes to nibble on his more sensitive
parts as the detective lay in a patch of woodland a little ways from 
the Jackson ranch. The place consisted of a neat new-looking farmhouse 
with a few outbuildings and a small corral containing two horses 
attached to a small barn. Sam had gotten there just before daybreak and 
was trying to find out how many Smilin' Jacks were home at the time. 

Just as the sun appeared around six o'clock, he saw smoke emerging from
a chimney and movement through a window. Since the smell of frying 
bacon came to his nostrils, the detective figured it to be the kitchen. 
 A little later, two men came out and, saddling the horses, left in a 
direction away from town. 

He had been waiting ever since but nobody else had left the house. Sam
did see occasional movement through the windows, although he couldn't 
make out specific individuals. 

About ten o'clock, a little girl, maybe ten-years-old, came out to pump
a bucket of water out of a well before going back in, struggling with 
her burden. Later, he was rewarded with a view of his quarry. A young 
woman came out and looked over the prairie for a moment, at one point 
causing him to duck as she peered directly at the wood line. When he 
raised his head again, she was gone. He recognized her as the one who 
had made a fool of him on the train to Yuma. 

Sam figured he had better collar her before the men returned. He snuck
out of the woods and approached the house from the rear, trying to keep 
to cover whenever possible. Coming up to the building, he flattened 
against a painted wall and sidestepped to an open window. Peering in 
carefully, Sam saw an empty bedroom. Fearing he might be seen at the 
door, Sam hoisted himself up and over the rough untreated wood of the 
windowsill and into the room. 

He tiptoed to an open doorway on his right and stepped around the corner
into a short hallway. Sounds came from another doorway to his right. 
Creeping closer and drawing his revolver, the detective looked 
carefully into the other room. The little girl sat inside, playing with 
and talking to a doll. 

Quietly advancing to the end of the hallway, Sam found himself looking
into the kitchen, where his quarry was sitting at a table, peeling 
potatoes. He approached her softly, only to have the lady ask him, 
without turning, “What took you so long?  I've been waiting for hours. 
Those skeeters must've eaten you alive out there.” 

She still hadn't turned around, forcing him to come around the table,
keeping an eye on the knife she was using on vegetables. 

“I'm taking you back with me, Jack. Now let go of that knife and put
your hands behind your back.”  Using his left hand, he brought a pair 
of handcuffs from under his coat. 

“You can give me time to change clothes can't you, Sam?” she asked,
finishing the last potato and making a show of putting the knife down. 
“Mary can finish supper, now.  I don't like her using sharp knives 
yet.” 

"Hurry up and don't try anything. I'm serious," Sam warned her. 

“Mary, come here a minute, honey,” Jack called. When the little girl
came in she was instructed on how to finish preparing the meal. “I 
guess I gotta go with this man for a while.” 

Jack, or Jacqueline to be more precise, led Sam to another bedroom and
closed the door behind them. She chose riding clothes out of a built-in 
closet and began changing. Sam noticed that she seemed pretty 
nonchalant about the whole thing. He took a seat on an unmade bed and 
watched while she undressed. 

The detective had no trouble keeping his eyes on her as she stripped
down to bloomers and bra. Then, facing away from him, she took off the 
rest of her clothing. Despite himself, Sam became aroused and crossed 
his legs to hide the fact.  As Jacqueline was taking her last leg out 
of the undergarment she stumbled and fell across him, knocking them 
both down onto the feather mattress. 

Half turning, she clasped both arms around his neck and planted a long
moist kiss directly across his lips. 

Being only human, Sam responded.  They were soon engaged in an act as
old as Adam and Eve producing Cain. 

As they finished, his eyes still closed, the sated detective was
surprised to hear a loud ratcheting noise. Trying to stand, he found 
his left wrist handcuffed to the iron bedstead. Giving him a last hug, 
Jack kissed him again, rose to her feet and dressed in the recently 
discarded finery. 

“I'll see you later, baby,” she told him. “I gotta finish supper. The
boys'll be back soon.” 

When she left, Sam tried to get loose. His clothing was lying across the
room and the bed bolted to a sturdy plank floor. He tried to take it 
apart but couldn't manage without tools. Realizing he could only wait, 
Sam lay back and simmered. 

Later, he blushed as the same two men he had seen before looked in on
him and laughed at the sight.  Still laughing, they retreated and 
closed the door. 

Even the little girl came in to chide him. “Why you want my Mommy,
mister? I don't like you.” She sneered at him while he tried to cover 
himself with a sheet. 

After supper, Jacqueline came back in to change into traveling clothes
and pack for a long ride.  During the process, she made a point of 
giving several evil grins amid almost constant giggling. 

“I gotta go, sweets. You be good now. I'll see you later, hear?” Giving
him a final kiss while standing back out of reach, she left for parts 
unknown. 

Later that evening, the little girl came in with food and water. 

“Jack and Jack are looking for the key to those things. They said to
tell you it might take a week or so to find it.”  The youngster grinned 
and giggled while closing the door to leave Sam to his fate. 

*** 

After dabbing a bit of red polish onto a last toenail, Jacqueline stood
to study herself in a bedroom mirror. She looked like a typical late 
1800's bar girl, which was both her intention and fact. 

That damn, useless, bastard, she thought.  I should have castrated the
son-of-a-bitch when I had him. She looked away from the mirror. It was 
already cracked and she was afraid of breaking it with such an angry 
stare. 

Pinkerton Detective Sam Johnson had come too close to catching the
attractive little thief. She had left him chained to her bed and 
recently gotten word that he was hot on her trail again. 

Jacqueline was one of the notorious Smilin' Jack family of thieves and
con artists. A traditional family, they had been operating since before 
the revolution. 

Now, constantly on the run, Jacqueline couldn't even settle long enough
to ply her trade. 

“I swear, that bastard is part bloodhound.” She slipped on bloomers and,
not needing a corset, a low-cut red dress. Lastly, her nails being dry 
by then, she put on open-toed high heeled shoes, also bright crimson 
like the dress. Now she was being forced to mark time, cheating bar 
patrons of nickels while building up a stake for a good con. 

“Well, I better get downstairs,” she muttered, fluffing long red hair.
“Can't make any money standing here."  She groaned and headed for the 
door, still talking to herself, “This damn town is so small it'll take 
me years to get a half-way decent stake.” 

*** 

Sam was having a hard time staying awake in his saddle, notwithstanding
the jostling of his horse as it plodded through hot Nevada sunlight. 
After being let loose by Jacqueline's daughter, Mary, at the ranch, he 
had been trying to find the elusive miscreant. 

His ears still burned from the dressing down he had received from his
boss. 

“You were sent to arrest her, not sleep with her,” his boss had
admonished.  “You better get that bitch. We don't get paid until you 
do.” Mr. Peterson groaned. “All the money and time we've invested in 
this hunt and nothing to show for it.” For Harry Peterson, it all came 
down to the profit margin. “I have so damned many cases pending. 

"This time try to arrest her, Sam. You want to get laid, go to a
whorehouse like the rest of us,” he suggested. “And not on your expense 
account, either.” 

Since then he had tracked Jacqueline to Nevada. He was constantly
reminded of the scope of the Smilin' Jack family, finding Smilin' Jacks 
seemingly everywhere he traveled. They were a large family and seemed 
to be involved in every crime and con game in the Western States. 

His dozing was rudely interrupted when his horse, sensing water in the
distance, began moving at a trot.  Half-dozing, Sam almost fell from 
his saddle at the sudden motion. 

Riding over a slight hill on a predominately flat plain, Sam sighted a
dusty little town in the distance. It seemed to consist of a half-dozen 
scattered buildings, half of them bars. A typical cattle town, it would 
depend on passing cowboys and widely scattered farms for its 
sustenance. There were many of those places, some without names, built 
around just about every open water source in that part of the state. 

Sam normally stopped first to notify any local law enforcement that he
was in town and to look for information. The habit had served him well. 
Having a rapport with the local sheriff or town marshal can not only 
give him information but avoid later trouble. In this case, the town 
was too small to have either. 

Being hot and dry, Sam headed for the nearest bar. They were too small
and simple to be called saloon's. He could question residents while 
having a few beers. 

* 

The nameless alcohol dispensary was housed in a typical western
two-story wooden building. The ground floor contained a large room with 
a homemade bar and a small kitchen sectioned off in the back. Upstairs 
would be a few rooms where the girls and other staff lived. When a herd 
of cattle camped outside town all the rooms, including the staff rooms, 
would be used by working girls. Even shop workers and housewives would 
be helping out to make a few extra dollars for themselves. 

The barroom turned out to be twenty-degrees cooler than outside. Sam
took a table, waiting for a waitress. Even though the place was nearly 
empty, the bartender and a lone girl were watching him, making no move 
to take his order. He gave up and went to the bar for service. 

“Give me a beer.  Man, but it's hot out there,” Sam instructed a
rough-looking bartender, a large man wearing a dirty brown shirt. The 
man looked him over and filled a glass. 

“Quarter.” 

“For a nickel beer?” 

The bartender made no comment, only reaching to take the mug back. 

“Hold on. Hold on.” Sam dug into his vest for a coin and handed it over.


“Dolla' a pitcher?” 

Taking back his quarter, Sam gave him a silver dollar.  Taking his full
pitcher and an empty glass he asked, “Got anything to eat here?” 

“Samiches'.  Beef, two fer a dolla'.” 

“Bring ‘em over and I'll pay.” He turned to an empty table with his
beer. 

While waiting for the food, he looked around the room. He would have to
find someone to ask about the local law --  and if they had seen 
Jacqueline. He doubted that she would stay in that town, though she 
might have passed through. 

He had missed her by only a week or so at the last settlement -- or at
least a girl who looked something like her. He would also have to 
inquire about a room and a bath. There might be a boarding house or at 
least a tent and cot setup around there somewhere. Anything was better 
than sleeping on the ground. 

*** 

Jacqueline had come halfway down the staircase from the second floor
before she saw Sam sitting below. She hurriedly returned to her room. 

"How'd that asshole find me here?” she muttered to herself while looking
around the tiny room, only large enough for a narrow bed, a small 
narrow table, and a dresser at the head of the bed.  "What'll I do 
now?" 

Knees shaking slightly, she sat on the bed to think. Getting her
composure back, she started changing clothing, “No time to pack. I 
gotta get my ass out of here,” she told herself. 

Cursing in a low mumble, she dressed in trail-clothes, meanwhile trying
to set her mind on some sort of a plan. If she only ran, where would 
she run to?  He could see her for miles over the dusty plain. 

By the time she had changed, her nimble mind had a solution. “A Smilin'
Jack always has a plan,” she told herself.  Crawling out through the 
window,  lowering trouser-clad legs, she found tentative purchase on 
the top sill of a downstairs window.  Holding to her own window sill, 
she lowered herself to stand on the lower ledge.  Eventually hanging 
from the lower windowsill, she let go.  Stirring up reddish dust on 
impact, she rolled.  Rising to her feet, Jacqueline headed for the 
stable. 

“Gotta find Ned,” she told herself, “he'll take care of that bastard for
me.” 

Ned was a local farmer whom the town paid to handle drunken cowboys and
family quarrels. He was a former lawman who had spent jail-time for 
shaking down storekeepers in Abilene, Kansas. Once released from jail, 
Ned used those ill-gotten profits and savings to buy a local ranch. 

“Let a lawman sleep with you once and you can never get rid of him,” Jac
told herself, thinking of Sam.  "Helpful in Ned's case, though."  She 
had regained her sense of humor. 

*** 

Meanwhile, Sam finished his meal and beer. Figuring that the
non-talkative bartender would be no help, he gazed at the other 
patrons, looking for one to question. They seemed like, mostly, farmers 
and a few trail bums. Finally, smiling at a lonely-looking house-whore, 
he motioned to her. She came over, sensing profit. 

It cost him a dollar in drinks and tips but he learned that a new girl
who looked like Smilin' Jack was employed at that very bar. The girl he 
was talking to was peeved because that person was already late to 
relieve her for a break. 

Maybe she was late because she had seen him?  He also found that the
closest thing to a lawman lived out on a ranch somewhere. No help from 
him. 

If Jacqueline had seen him coming to town, she would have run or be
upstairs getting ready to run. Sam jumped up and hurried over to the 
silent bartender. He showed the man his badge. 

“Listen buddy, I have to get upstairs, right now.” 

“Sure ting'. Ten dolla an Suzy there'll take care a you,” he smiled for
the first time. “Tweny' cents off  'cause a that shiny thing in yer 
hand.” 

Seeing that the guy wasn't impressed with his credentials and because he
was in a hurry, Sam grabbed a perplexed Suzy under the arm and dragged 
her up the stairs. 

“Man, talk 'bout horny.” The bartender shook his head. “Too much time in
'at hot sun, I guesses.” 

When they arrived at the second floor, Sam drew his pistol and asked
Suzy, “Which room?” Back in her element, the bar girl pointed at a 
door. Inside, Sam quickly searched for Smilin' Jack, his gun at the 
ready. 

“Ain't nobody else in my room,” Suzy told him. 

“I don't want your room. Where's the new girl's room?” 

“You don't like me?” 

“I like you, I like you,” he consoled her. “Now show me to the new
girl's room.” 

“For five dollars, mister?  Finder's fee, ya know.” 

He gave her the money and they went back into the hallway, where she
pouted and showed him the next door down. Forcing it, he found Smilin' 
Jack had fled. The window being open with a torn curtain hanging over 
the sill, his detective sense told him how she'd left. Going over to 
the opening, he looked out and saw recently disturbed dirt on the 
ground outside. Sam shook his head, hurried downstairs and out of the 
bar. 

Damn, both horny an' quick, thought the bartender as he wiped down a
door lying on sawhorses which served as a bar. 

*** 

Jacqueline was almost at Ned's ranch when she saw him repairing a fence
around a large garden patch. A dog barked, alerting Ned as she 
approached. The fugitive hurriedly rubbed her eyes vigorously to 
produce a red tint and force tears from them. By the time she rode up, 
Jac looked extremely upset over something. 

“Ned. Ned, honey. My ex-husband's after me,” the seemingly distraught
young lady cried as she rode up. “He threatened to kill me. Please help 
me,” she implored him. 

Dismounting, she ran into his arms to continue crying on his shoulder.
Jacqueline made up a story about an ex-husband being a detective and 
chasing her. 

Angry, Ned escorted the weeping woman across a dirt yard to a
ranch-house to be comforted by his wife, Nellie. 

Jacqueline, being an accomplished actress, soon had Nellie crying along
with her. Meanwhile, Ned was occupied in checking over his firearms. 
Not much liking lawmen himself, Ned would take care of that bastard for 
Jacqueline. 

*** 

Unknown to the lot of them, Sam was also innocently riding toward the
ranch. Being the closest thing to a lawman around there, Sam intended 
to enlist the rancher's help, even pay for it. 

As he came upon the site, the sun was sinking in the west. The homestead
consisted of a log house, a small plank-barn and an outhouse behind it. 
A pretty picture but one Sam could hardly appreciate as he rode into 
the front yard.  Just as he was dismounting, Ned happened to leave the 
house. 

“What you want, mister?" Ned asked. "I gotta leave right away,” He had a
rifle with him, “Some bastard is after a friend of mine.” 

“I'll help you if you help me afterward?” Sam offered, “but we gotta
hurry.” 

“Sure and I could use some help on this one.” 

Not having much time to talk, both of them in a hurry, they rode quickly
back toward town. Sam figured to help Ned in the rancher's mission, 
thereby gaining the man's trust and goodwill. 

On his part, Ned welcomed a little help on going after a lawman,
possibly a gunman. A poor shot, Ned had a hard time hitting a rabbit 
with a shotgun. His wife was much better at it and did most of the 
hunting for his family. 

*** 

Nellie, once over her anger and tears, listened more closely to
Jacqueline's story. As told more clearly and repeatedly, it didn't seem 
to hang together.  Her being the sensible one in her family, Nellie 
paid closer attention.  When Jacqueline, after excusing herself to use 
the outhouse, tried to sneak out to her horse, Nellie stopped her, a 
huge rifle under her arm. 

“And just where do you think you're going, young lady?” 

“Ah, I'm going back to town. I forgot some of my clothing.” 

“No, you're not. You're coming back to sit until Ned returns.” 

“I'm leaving now, honey,” Jacqueline stated, emphatically, grabbing for
the reins. With Ned gone, she saw no sense in keeping up the charade, 
“and you can't stop me.” 

“I have my Henry rifle, here. I can drop you at two miles over this
flatland," Nellie lied. "You better just come right back in here." 

Believing her -- Nellie WAS famous locally for her shooting -- it was a
contrite Jacqueline that went back into the house and took a seat.  The 
con-woman could handle men but women often saw through her ruses. 

Not trusting the fleeing bar girl, Nellie locked Jacqueline in a closet
and, rifle propped next to her chair, waited for her husband's return. 

* 

On getting back to town, the two men took time to introduce themselves,
both trying to speak at once. 

“I'm looking for this guy that's chasing one of the bar girls. He's her
former husband and threatened to kill her. Somehow or other, he traced 
her here.” 

“Shouldn't be hard to find in this town, Ned.” 

“By the way, what's your problem? Maybe we can solve it at the same
time.” 

“I'm a Pinkerton detective. I've traced a con-woman here. She probably
saw me and ran away. I might need help or even a posse to find her.  
After we get this bastard, of course. She can't have ridden too far.” 

“Strange, Sam.  The guy I'm looking for is a lawman, too.” 

It dawned on them at the same time. Neither one being much good with a
gun or of a physical bent, they both pondered what to do, not wanting 
to be the one to start anything. 

“Why don't we go in and have a drink, Ned?” 

They went in and compared stories. After showing both his credentials
and papers on Jacqueline, Ned believed Sam. As the third beers came, 
Ned had a thought. 

“I left her alone with Nellie,” he exclaimed in sudden fear. Leaving the
beer, they hurried back to their horses. 

*** 

The two men barged into the ranch-house to find Nellie dozing on the
couch, a large-caliber Henry rifle across her knees. 

“Where is she, honey?” a relieved Ned asked.  "Did she leave?" 

“She tried to.  I was suspicious and locked her in the closet.” 

There was a loud sigh as Sam released his breath. Knowing Jacqueline, he
hadn't really expected to find her still there. 

Sam spent the night at Ned's and left with an unsmiling Jacqueline the
next morning. Not being able to sleep in the confining closet, she 
seemed subdued as she rode, handcuffed, in front of him. He had finally 
caught her. Of course, they had a long ride back. 

*** 

Pinkerton Detective Sam Johnson rode across the arid Nevada desert,
headed for his company base in Wyoming with his prisoner. 

Smilin' Jack Jacqueline was a professional criminal, one of a
long-standing family of  outlaws which had started out before the very 
inception of this great country. The family had arrived at the colonies 
in 1712 by hijacking a pirate ship -- at least according to his 
prisoner. 

As far as acqueline Jackson knew, none of them had worked at a legal
occupation since that date. They were home-schooled in all possible 
illegal activities, then sent out into the world to prosper. 

She had eluded Sam for over a year while he trailed her back and forth
across the west. A mistress of disguise, the young woman, now a 
redhead, rode ahead of Sam. Not wanting to take any chances, he'd 
cuffed one of her hands in front to the saddle horn, her legs were 
attached by a thin chain under the horse's belly. 

“Come on, Sammy.  I gotta go? Undo me or I'll have to soil the saddle.
I'll be a nice girl, I promise.” 

“Ha, I know your promises. Go ahead and get it dirty. You're not getting
down from there until I can tie you to something solid.” 

“You don't have to be so mean. It's not ladylike to dirty my nice new
pantaloons. You don't want me to stink when we stop for the night, do 
you?” 

“Why not? If you run again I can find you easier, by the smell.” He
laughed at the thought. A few minutes later, he told her to, “Head for 
those rocks over there and those little trees. It looks like a good 
place to spend the night.” 

There was a spring-fed stream coming out between jumbled rocks. Ringed
by trees, the space seemed a nice little oasis in the arid grassy 
plain. “Better than sand dunes,” Sam observed, thinking of a trip he 
had once made across part of Death Valley. 

He unlocked Jacqueline's leg-chain and held one end as he helped her
down from the horse, relishing the feel of her flesh on his -- one she 
also seemed to enjoy, since she pressed against him a little more than 
necessary. Although thinking enticing thoughts, it didn't fool the 
detective. He had been over that route before with the lady. 

“I can't do my thing with these hand-irons on, Sam. How about taking
them off?” 

“Not on your life, sister. I'm sure you'll find a way to get your
business done.” 

He held on to the long leg-chain as they walked around and then behind a
large pile of rocks, on the alert for any trouble. The ground was too 
hard for footprints. He took a chance and left her alone with an old 
supply-receipt to wipe with while he unsaddled the horses. 

While she was occupied on the other side of the trees, Sam unlocked both
ends of another pair of hand-irons and walked a little ways from the 
makeshift camp. Looking back cautiously at where he had left her, he 
bent down and shoved the handcuff key into the ground beside a 
distinctive rock. 

As an afterthought, he did the same with all his ammunition, even
emptying his revolver. Sam made certain he left no trail back to the 
saddles. He fed the horses and hobbled them near the stream. There were 
a few tufts of grass to keep the mounts busy. 

He next unrolled a couple of blankets close to the rocks. Three for her
and a couple for himself. He'd make a fire, he thought.  The night 
would be pretty chilly but not too cold that time of year. 

It was time to retrieve his charge. The detective started over to the
rock pile to see if she were still there.  Fine, he thought on seeing 
her, half expecting to have to chase her down.  It was beginning to be 
a ritual between them. He'd chained her to a tree back there, wanting 
to see if she had a handcuff key concealed in her clothing, it being as 
good a time as any to find out.  If she had a key it would have been a 
good time to use it, grab a horse, and flee. 

He had patted the woman down but was hesitant to search every inch of
the attractive prisoner. For all his experience in capturing outlaws 
across the Western Territories, Sam had been brought up to respect 
women. There were some limits he couldn't make himself shake. 

If she had a handcuff key hidden on her it was better to find out then
and there, rather than in his sleep. Just because he had found three of 
them, along with a skeleton-key set, didn't mean she didn't have more 
hidden on or in her body. 

He wanted to avoid any towns as long as possible. If the other Smilin'
Jacks found them he might have trouble. Any rescue attempt would 
probably not involve a direct gunfight, which wasn't their style, but a 
complex scheme. 

“I feel much better.  Where's the food?” She was clumsily rearranging
her clothing. “What ya got to eat? 

While he busied himself with making a fire, Sam looked her over.  Hell,
better not take any chances, he thought. 

“Not much.  Come over here. You can fry bacon and make coffee for us.” 

“Why me?  I'm the prisoner.  I'll even need a knife to cut bacon. Maybe
I'll poison it?” 

“Shut up and get over here, I've got things to do before bedtime.” 

“Oh, ‘bedtime'.  I can hardly wait. It sounds like fun. Remember the
last time we slept together?” 

Sam's face reddened as he remembered the occasion. He'd had sex with her
and ended up chained to the bedpost. Sam had been kept prisoner for 
over a week by a family of Smilin' Jacks while she made her escape. 
There was nothing he could do, since the family ran the town. 

While she was occupied in cooking, the detective carefully searched the
area around the blankets, digging out every rock within ten feet in 
every direction. No need taking a chance of her breaking his head open 
during the night. 

“All set, honey. Come and get it.” 

He went over to the fire to pick up a bacon sandwich and coffee. He had
brought bread and a few other staples along. Jacqueline finished wiping 
grease out of the skillet with clean sand and clumsily picked her food 
and coffee up to join him on the same rock. Sam didn't notice her 
dropping a powder in her own tin coffeecup and then shaking the liquid. 


“Move your ass over, handsome.” Jac grinned as she bumped his hip while
sitting down. Sam wasn't stupid. He figured she would have some sort of 
escape plan but couldn't ignore her womanly odor, musky from riding all 
day in the hot sun. Maybe she would try to charm him? he thought, 
having no intention of undoing her shackles, even for a moment. 

“Oh. I can't eat with coffee in my hands, Sam. Here, hold it while I
finish this sandwich.” 

With nothing to set it on, Sam had to hold both heavy mugs on his leg
while eating. Jacqueline managed to finish her sandwich with both hands 
cuffed together. She looked comical with one hand at her mouth and the 
other at her ear. 

Jacqueline became cheerful and tried to make small-talk about her
escapades as they ate, dropping crumbs over the front of her plaid 
blouse and denim trousers. Sam quietly ate and listened to her tales 
about robbery and con games across the territory. He figured he might 
be able to use those admissions against her later. 

“There. All done. That was good, honey. Do me a favor and brush me off?”
She held bound hands above her head. 

Sam was just finishing his sandwich and, stuffing the last of it in his
mouth.  He reached over with his free hand, the one not holding the 
coffee steady and tried to brush the crumbs off her chest and lap. 

Jacqueline smiled at him, pushing her breasts against his hand and
closing her legs at the appropriate moment to trap him. She laughed at 
his embarrassment as her legs clasped his darting hand. 

“Gimme my coffee,” she demanded in a husky voice.  Sam handed the cup to
her. “Not that one, the other's mine.” Still embarrassed, he hastily 
changed cups with her. 

They continued talking until the sun went down. Sam thought it was a
romantic setting. When Jacqueline laid her head on his shoulder, the 
moon wasn't the only thing rising. A lonely coyote's cry also rose in 
the distance. 

Finally, the long trip getting to him, the very sleepy detective led
Jacqueline back to the blankets. He felt no need to stay near the fire, 
since it wouldn't be all that cold. It was mainly to keep wild critters 
away. 

Before retiring for the night, Sam used the set of previously opened
hand-irons to cuff her ankle to his own. 

He spread one of the blankets on the ground and told her to get in. 

“Can't I undress first? Come on, take the cuffs off,” she begged. 

“It won't hurt you none. Get in there and go to sleep.” 

“Why do I get the feeling you don't trust me, Sam honey?” 

They dropped to the blanket and embraced. Sex was awkward and sloppy but
they managed. 

Sam slept deeply, much more heavily than usual -- a result of her
dream-powder.  When waking to a flurry of slaps to his face, he felt 
oddly groggy as he opened his eyes to see a very irate Jacqueline. Her 
face seemed to swing back and forth across a blue sky as she continued 
to slap him soundly. 

Jacqueline must have known he was awake but continued slamming palms
against his cheeks as though she enjoyed the act. He had to grab her 
hand and dodge a glob of spit, which landed by his right ear. 

She pulled away as far as she could and pointed his own revolver at him.
He noticed that, while asleep, she had dragged him over by the saddles 
and gear. No wonder he was so sore. 

“You bastard, what did you do with that goddamn key?  I searched
everywhere. Give it to me or I'll blow your damn-fool head off.” She 
waved the gun around while spitting more invectives. Sam felt tired and 
stiff as he sat upright.  The world and Jacqueline seemed to spin 
around him. 

“What the hell did you do to me?” He was starting to regain his
equilibrium as blood continued to flow through a groggy and 
still-drugged brain. 

Jacqueline took time to kick him in the side again with her free leg. 

“Asshole. Did you hear me? Give me the fucking key. And I mean right
now. I swear I'll kill you. I can't ride a horse with all these chains, 
not to mention dragging your fat ass under me.” 

“What's wrong, ‘honey"?  You liked this ass last night?” Sam couldn't
resist. She looked so beautiful when angry. 

“The key. Now.” She forced herself under control, pointing the revolver
at his chest. 

“I don't think so, Jacqueline.” Sam stood and reached, a little shakily,
at her. “Not unless you had ammunition hidden on or in you.” 

“You better damned well stop or I'll shoot.” 

Sam grabbed her hand and took the gun. He noticed that she hadn't pulled
the trigger. To show her his foresight, he released a catch on the 
revolver and showed her the empty chambers. 

“You bastard.” Her anger came back as she reached for his throat with
cuffed hands, fire blazing from her eyes.  As he pulled away, her 
fingernails scratched his chin and nose, even as he was tripping on his 
own cuffed foot. They both fell to the ground with her on top, heads 
banging together. 

Staring eye to eye, breath to breath, brought on a spat of wrestling,
which in turn led to another bout of lovemaking. That time, Sam took 
time to remove a great many locks and chains.  Not all of them, of 
course. He first chained her to a tree like a naked pig, then joined 
her in rutting. 

When they had washed up in the small stream and continued the trip, the
two were more friendly. However, Sam was still cautious. Or at least 
tried to be. He did find himself riding closer to the prisoner as they 
talked, argued, and rode into the sunrise. 

The closer they came to the Wyoming border and his home office,
Pinkerton detective Sam Johnson became more lax in his security. He 
still kept his prisoner cuffed by the ankles with a chain slung under 
her mount but began leaving her hands free. After all, they were alone 
on the vast prairie. He avoided any towns, not trusting her or the 
other Smilin' Jacks not to find or rescue her. 

One day, he saw a cloud of dust in the distance. As it approached, he
could make out a dozen armed men. Cautious, Sam stopped and handcuffed 
Jacqueline while debating whether to find a place to hide or to only 
stand aside until the riders passed. He would have hidden but there 
wasn't anywhere close on the grassy terrain.  Also, the men would have 
been certain to see him before he could make it to a faraway tree line. 
And, of course, he had nothing to hide from in the first place. 

The detective steered them both off the trail and waited for the men to
ride past on their mission. He was surprised to see the group stop and 
point their guns at him. 

“We were told we'd find you here.” A man sporting a six-pointed metal
badge accosted him with drawn revolver. “We don't often get us a 
kidnapping child-molester out this way.” The man turned around and 
asked, “Is this the man, sweetie?” 

Another man rode up to the front with a little girl holding onto the
saddle in front of him. Sam recognized Jacqueline's daughter, Mary.  
The tike had a grin on her face as she looked him in the eye.  Dropping 
that facial expression, both hands went to her eyes, which suddenly 
poured tears. 

“He – he's the one,” she sobbed, looking down, turning and trying to hug
the broad stomach of her horse-mate, “He did bad things to me,” the 
little girl said, sobbing loudly, “and took my Mama away.” 

The man patted Mary on the head and clutched her tightly. 

“Dotty, are you all right?” another stranger hurried over to Jacqueline
to hug her as much as he could under the circumstances. “Did this man 
hurt you?” He turned back and dried his eyes, “Sheriff, make him take 
those chains off my wife.” 

“You heard the detective.  Take them off,” the sheriff ordered, taking
Sam's pistol and scabbarded rifle. 

“Detective? I'm the detective. Detective Sam Johnson of the Pinkerton
Agency and on a mission taking this prisoner back to my office.” 

“Sure and we know all about it. Both the detective here and his daughter
told how you were caught stealing from them and overcame him and his 
helpless wife. Then you tried to rape his daughter and stole his wife 
and identification.  Did you really think you could get away with it?” 
The sheriff motioned Sam over to free a sobbing Jacqueline as she held 
both wrists up.  She did manage a brief half-smile when their eyes met. 


Once her hands and legs were free, she hugged the man. “Oh, thank you,
honey and dear little Jennie.  I didn't think I'd ever see you two 
again.” Jacqueline turned to the lawman and posse. “He was going to 
sell me to the redskins,” she told them, causing several to gasp in 
disbelief. 

Growls and muttering met Sam's ears. He turned to see the staring of
many angry eyes. 

“Let's lynch the bastard, right now.  No need to take him all the way
back to town?” one man opined, hefting a pistol. 

“Na.  Give him a head-start on foot,” another offered, lifting a
double-barreled shotgun. 

“Yeah, I like that idea,” from another shotgun-toting deputy. 

“No, please,” Jacqueline begged, tearfully. “I know he's a bad man but
we should let the law have him. Let the courts punish the bast ... evil 
one. Judgment is mine, sayeth the Lord.” 

“You heard the lady. Let's get this son-of-a-bitch back to town.” The
sheriff glared at Sam, pounding one bare fist into the palm of the 
other hand. “I want to talk to him in private -- yes I do.” 

When they arrived at the town of Dirty Dog, Sam was quickly hustled into
a sod shack with a strong door and lock.  At the rear of the crowd, he 
could see little Mary grinning and posturing as the door slammed shut 
on him. 

It took Sam a week and more than a little pain to get released and
reinstated. Angry, Mr. Pinkerton had debated on even getting him out, 
finally breaking down and sending proof of his employment and new 
identification to Dirty Dog, Arizona. 

By that time, Jacqueline and the other Smilin' Jacks were long gone. 

Mr. Pinkerton did seem to forget to send any expense money. Sam was on
his own getting back to the Yuma office. The boss also, although not 
firing Sam, refused to answer his telegraph messages. Sam was forced to 
do odd jobs at the local stable for the next month in order to attain 
enough cash for the train trip to Laramie. While shoveling horseshit, 
he often thought of Jacqueline. 

*** 

Jacqueline paused on a rise overlooking a small western town. On her
left stood a weather-beaten sign saying "Coyote Canyon.” 

Wiping sweat from her eyes with the cuff of a frayed cotton shirt, she
nudged a stolen horse down the other side. It was one of dozens of 
cow-towns across the California Territory. We're supposed to call it a 
state now but who cares? she thought. 

She noticed that there was only one real street, that being packed dirt,
with another cross-street leading to what looked like a livery stable. 
Probably to keep the smell of horseshit away from the townspeople. If 
so, it was a lost cause, as Jacqueline noticed the odor increase as she 
came closer. 

A few unpainted wooden buildings graced both sides of the main street,
with an occasional horse tied to a wooden post driven into hard 
sunbaked ground. Needing a drink, Jacqueline headed to what must be a 
saloon, since it had the most horses tied in front. 

As the woman rode, she reached into a pocket of her Levi's to jingle the
few coins she had to her name. That damn detective hadn't given her 
time to either plan a job or pull a con for months and the woman was 
running short on cash. 

She didn't think she had left a trail from Tucson. Maybe she could rest
up and find a little cash here?  she though. But, first, a drink or 
three.  After leaving the detective jailed in a little town in Arizona, 
Jacqueline had split from daughter, Mary, and a local Smilin' Jack 
named Harry, Smilin' Jack Harry Jackson, of course. Mary had wanted to 
stay with her mother but Jacqueline told her she had to go back to 
school. 

“You need an education to be a good thief,” she had told Mary. “You
wouldn't want to be caught on your first job and get laughed at for not 
being able to read, would you?” 

Right as rain, it was a saloon, its open door inviting to the blessed as
well as wicked like her. There were still several empty iron rings free 
on the hitching post. Jacqueline dismounted and entered the clapboard 
building. 

It seemed thirty-degrees cooler inside. A large bartender sat behind the
bar, engrossed in some novel or other.  A couple of cowboys -- or ranch 
hands -- sat at a table in the rear, glasses in front of them. The 
owner of the third horse must be the respectable-looking businessman 
standing at the bar, Jacqueline thought. The one staring into his 
shot-glass with an uncorked bottle in front of him. 

She could hear the front legs of the cowboys' chairs hit the floor as
she entered, her attention on the businessman type. The bartender 
perked up at the motion of her entering but didn't bother to put down 
his book. Maybe he's a nancy-boy? she thought, as she dropped into 
business-mode, walking sexily across the floor with her ass swinging 
rhythmically. 

Jacqueline stood just under six-feet-tall, twenty-six years old -- a
hard twenty-six -- and very attractive to men. Right then, her hair was 
dyed dead-black, although the color was running from sweat and sun and 
hung down to her waist. Just try to keep your hair in order on the 
trail, she thought, as she confidently stalked her chosen prey. 

"Hi, there, handsome. Damn but it feels cooler in here than out there." 

He looked over at her with glassy eyes, glass that sparkled when he took
in the sight of a sweaty but pretty young woman, a rare sight in those 
frontier towns. 

"Hi, young lady. You just get in?" 

"Sure did. How about buying a lady a drink?  I'm hotter'n hell," she
told him, rubbing sweaty palms over her breasts. He wasted no time in 
pouring her a small drink out of his bottle. Another look and he filled 
the glass to the brim. 

They made small talk as she soothed a sore aching throat with liquid
fire.  It took only a motion to get the glass refilled. The damn fool 
was trying to get her drunk.  Jacqueline was barely getting started 
with him about three-quarters blasted already.  Her kinda guy. 

It turned out he was a book salesman and had just made a sale to the
bartender. Though why the barkeep would rather read a book than ogle 
her was still a mystery. The salesman's name was Jerry something or 
other. When he bought another bottle she saw a good-sized wad of cash. 
They laughed and commiserated with each other, during which time 
Jacqueline found a few occasions to touch hands and bring her face 
close to his. His wife was unfaithful to him, he told her. She sort of 
made a suggestion that maybe he should take a spin at that game 
himself. 

By that time, Jacqueline saw the bartender paying more attention to her.
Not a complete idiot, he knew what was going on. The barkeep accosted 
Jacqueline when she came back from the outhouse, before she returned 
inside. 

"Look, baby, you are going to give me a cut, aren't you?" 

"Naturally, Uhh?" 

"Jake, twenty-percent. That's me." 

“Sure, 'Jake Twenty-Percent'.  Counting the room?" 

"Nope. Room cost goes direct to the boss, along with half of anything
else I make. 'Sides the tips, a course." 

"Count on it, Jake Twenty-Percent.” She returned to the bar, where old
Dumbo, or Jerry, was still pouring them down; probably building up 
enough liquid courage to accost her. When Jacqueline returned to her 
full glass, Jerry tentatively laid his paw on hers and sprung for it. 

"Wou – would you be interested in staying with me tonight?" he
stuttered. “Save you room cost.” 

Jacqueline looked around the room, pretending to be embarrassed. 

"I dunno, Jerry. I like you but we just met." She could see his eyes,
hell his whole face fall. Here he had spent so much money and tried so 
hard, only to have her refuse. Time to turn the tables, be embarrassed 
herself, ha-ha. 

"Look, Jerry. I hate to say this but I do like you -- a lot. I also need
money to get home to my sick mother. I was robbed the other night by 
some mean men. If, if, you help me out I–-"  She bent her head to stare 
down at the table, stammering, "Da -- darn.  I'm embarrassed to do this 
– but you know what I mean?" Jacqueline looked over at the bar and 
sobbed softly, head turned slightly so that he couldn't miss seeing 
tears flowing. 

Of course he jumped at the chance and called over the bartender, who was
glad to rent them two rooms, side by side. Jerry wanted only one but 
she insisted, saying she had to worry about what people would say. 
Jacqueline also insisted that he buy another bottle to take upstairs 
with them. 

When they finally went up, she finished getting Dumbo drunk.  He fell
asleep, still clothed, on his own rented bed.  She took half his roll, 
went to her room, had a good night's sleep and wouldn't answer her door 
in the morning when he knocked. Bye, bye, Jerry. Easy money -- less 
twenty-percent, of course. 

When she finally came downstairs after Dumbo left, Jake Twenty-Percent
offered her a job at the “Twin Trails Saloon.”  Why not, Jacqueline 
figured, until she could find a new stake or that detective came too 
close -- again. 

Jacqueline spent most of the next day and night trying to plan on how to
get enough cash together to leave town. She knew it wouldn't be long 
before that damn Pinkerton detective found her there.  Although it did 
feel good to stay in one place and relax a while, she also knew she 
should be moving on as quickly as possible. 

On her second day at the Twin Trails, Jacqueline happened to be sitting
downstairs twirling her thumbs, literally, when a woman came in and 
looked around. The strange middle-aged woman looked like a bum. At 
first Jacqueline thought it was a man, until the lady took off her hat, 
starting a cascade of long blond hair. 

Jake was busy in the back room, probably sleeping, so Jacqueline asked
her, “Anything I can do for you?” 

The woman looked Jacqueline over, an angry look in her eyes as she
judged the bar girl. Jacqueline was dressed in a wrinkled blue gown, 
the only dress she'd had in her saddlebag, and was surprised she had 
even kept that one. A good thing since, if she ordered one at the town 
General Store it would take a month to get there. Anyway, she guessed, 
she must have passed the other woman's inspection, since she did deign 
to walk over, spurs jingling, for Christ's sake. 

“You work here, girl?” 

“Sure do. What ya looking for?”  From the woman's appearance, she was no
competition, even with Jacqueline's wrinkled clothing. 

“I'm Jennie, Jenny Montaga.  I need to hire a couple of ranch hands, if
they're not too fucking drunk to work.” The cowgirl looked around the 
nearly empty room. “You know of any?” 

There had been a half-breed kid in earlier, that worked at the stable,
but she didn't see him around at the moment. A couple of old men were 
playing some sort of game in a corner. Only one bearded younger man 
sat, drooped over with a beer in his hand, looking likely. 

“You can try that one, over there.” Jacqueline pointed. “Looks kinda
slovenly to me though.” 

The woman took another pointed look at Jacqueline's dress, as if to say
“Look who's talking,” before abruptly going over to sit with Droopy. 

After awhile, Jacqueline looked over and they were gone. That afternoon
a pair of cowboys came whoopin' and hollerin' in the door. Jacqueline 
managed to get one upstairs and made a couple of easy bucks. He had 
been on the trail too long, cumin' around stiffer than a pine and 
quicker than a wink. Except for her share of a couple of dozen drinks, 
most cold tea, that was the action so far that day. 

Round about six pm, a guy calling himself John came in and sat down with
Jacqueline, who must have dusted off every seat in the place with her 
butt by then. She noticed Jake giving him a dirty look as John talked 
to her. 

“Look, you're new in town. My boss, Miss April, runs a house here. She
heard of you and would like to talk. You might like it better there.” 
Jake was still watching and seemed to be pretty rough on the bar, since 
he was rubbing the same spot over and over and over while leaning 
heavily on the rag. 

“What's the house cut?” 

“You better ask her.” 

“I'm asking you. No talk, no go.” 

“Sixty-percent for her, that's just to start though and includes room
and board. She'll bring it down later. Too many girls leave too quick 
and it costs her money.” 

Jacqueline thought of the relative merits. A house would bring in money
quicker but sure as hell not at forty-percent for herself. And she 
didn't plan on staying around long enough to get a better deal. 
Besides, houses had rules. Which probably meant being honest with the 
customers. 

“Uh, uh. Won't work. Sorry.” 

With Jake starting around the bar towards them, John thought it prudent
to leave in a hurry. 

*** 

A few days later, having a craving for something sweet, Jacqueline
sauntered across the street to the general store. She was taking a day 
off from the saloon. Business had been slow and she was tired of the 
town already but needed a lot more money before she could leave it. 

She asked all the travelers that came in if they had seen a big blond
detective on a bay horse and they all said they hadn't. It should be 
safe to stay awhile and working the saloon was more restful than being 
on the run. She had finally gotten around to washing her only dress 
that morning and it was hanging out back of the saloon. Jacqueline 
hoped dust from the livery wouldn't get it dirty before it dried. 

It was the first time she had been in the store. A bell tinkled as she
entered but nobody was in the retail section of the building. 

There was a counter along the back wall, shelves crammed with canned and
bottled goods. The left side of the room held mostly mining supplies 
mixed in with ranching goods, dominated by a huge double-whiffletree. 
Several barrels of nails resided just inside the door. The right side 
of the room looked to be evenly divided between household goods and 
various foods, including a large barrel of pickles. The pickles looked 
tempting but not as much as a candy display behind glass on the counter 
itself. 

As she stood deciding between molasses nut-sticks or peppermint pieces,
Jacqueline saw a clothes-iron on a shelf behind the counter. It had a 
tag of twenty-six cents on it. Deciding on the peppermint pieces, she 
then had to ponder on whether she should buy the iron. 

It was a choice of hanging the dress with weights on the bottom hem to
straighten wrinkles or in buying a heavy iron for, possibly, only one 
use. Twenty-six cents, although not a lot of money, was enough to think 
about first. 

While she stood pondering, Jacqueline heard another tinkle of the bell.
In a few seconds, a large older -- about sixty-year-old -- man appeared 
at her side. She paid little attention, until he called out loudly. 

“Junior. Get your ass out here. You got a customer. You hear me?” 

A bald man in a leather apron promptly came out of the back room 

“Oh. Hi there, people.  Didn't hear you. I gotta get a louder bell, with
my hearing failing like this. Howdy, ma'am.”  Some people remind you of 
animals, that one was a squirrel and he stood there grinning, buckteeth 
spread. Even standing still, he looked as though about to dart away. 

“I need eighty pounds of seed-corn. You get'um ready and I'll pull my
wagon around back.” 

“Right away, Mr. Peterson. I hav'ta wait on this lady first though.” 

Mr. Peterson looked at Jacqueline for what was probably the first time. 

“Oh! Didn't see you, ma'am.” He doffed his Stetson then turned back to
business. “Hurry up, Junior, and none of that last year's stuff either. 
I know how you fuc--” he glanced at Jacqueline again. “How you guys 
are.” 

Mr. Peterson about-faced and left, all business it seemed. Jacqueline
raised her eyebrows at the timid Junior. 

“Oh. That was Mr. Peterson. He owns the largest ranch in the area.
Starts about a mile north of town. His wife died a couple of years ago 
and he's changed a lot since. About the only time he comes to town is 
for supplies and to visit Miss April's place.” 

“Pretty wealthy?” 

“Oh my, yes. I hear he keeps upwards of ten or twelve hundred dollars at
the ranch and the ranch itself is worth a whole, whole lot. He'd like 
to expand south but Mrs. Montaga won't sell to him. Her spread is about 
as big and she could use the money.  But there's some kinda bad will 
‘tween them.” 

Jacqueline pointed at what she wanted and he bagged it while talking.
Just like a squirrel, she thought, jabbering away. 

“You better let me have that clothes-iron too,” she told him. 

Jacqueline paid and left the store for the dusty street and her little
room. 

“I think it would be better if I did learn more gossip about this town
while I'm here,” she muttered to herself. “And I am definitely 
interested in this Peterson guy.” As she walked, her mind was already 
sorting through various scams. 

*** 

Jacqueline was interested. Once she had her hooks on someone, she rarely
ever let go. She figured there must be some way she could get a stake 
off the sucker. The woman spent the next few days trying to think of a 
plan, finally deciding to simply go for broke, trusting herself to 
recognize a way when she saw it. Since he probably wouldn't approach 
her, she would approach him. On her side, he didn't know she was a bar 
girl. They'd met in the general store. 

On her next day off, she went to the livery and rented a buggy from the
boy working there. He was a halfbreed that Jake had taken in for cheap 
labor. The boy helped out at the stable and with cleaning the bar in 
the mornings. 

It was a short trip to Mr. Peterson's ranch. He was working in the barn
when she arrived. 

“Knock, knock,” Jacqueline said, rapping on the side of an open doorway.
“Can a lady get a drink of water here, young man?” She flattered the 
old rancher. 

He put down his shovel, wiping his brow with a dirty rag and leaving a
streak of dirt across his face. 

“Sure can,” he told her, hitching up his trousers, “lets us go to the
house. I'm about through for the day, anyways.” 

At the house, he sat her down at the kitchen table. 

“You want something stronger, young lady?” 

“That would be nice, speshly' if it's cold. And you might as well call
me Jacqueline while you're at it.” 

“Peter. Peter Peterson. I know, I know what you're going to say. It is
my real name.” With a smile, he brought her a tall drink of corn 
liquor, pouring fresh apple juice on top, cold from the ice box. 

“Wheeeooo,” Jacqueline whooshed, tasting the homemade alcohol. “That's
strong. You wouldn't be trying to get a lady drunk in this hot weather, 
would you?” 

“What are you doing out here in the sticks, coming here like this?” he
asked, sitting across the table with his own drink. 

“I'm sorta new here, and was out seeing the countryside when I saw your
house.  Like a fool, I forgot to bring any water with me and it's a 
long way back to town.” She gave him her sexiest smile. “Guess I'm 
still used to Chicago, less space but water everywhere.” 

“A serious mistake in this weather.  Come on, I'll show you the house. I
built it myself, with my own two hands.” 

For the next fifteen minutes or so, he showed her every room in the
large two-story home. Eventually they came to a large bedroom. He even 
showed her some empty leather gold-pokes he had on a shelf there, 
trying to impress her with his implied wealth. 

“I have a bit'a gold, myself,” she mentioned, fingering the pokes. “My
ex-husband was a miner and gave me some of his,” Jacqueline ad-libbed. 
“You wouldn't be interested in buying it, now would you? I'm tired of 
carrying the heavy stuff around, afraid someone will steal it.” 

“Take it to the bank. They'll pay the going rate.” 

“But then I'd have to open an account that I'd never use again and I
don't like paperwork. “Sides, I move around a lot.  The whole darned 
town would know I had it and I'm only visiting.” She gave him another 
of her best smiles. “It would be safer if you bought it.” 

“Let me see it sometime. No promises but if it isn't too much I could
help you out.” He grinned back, shaking his head. “I don't keep a lot 
of cash about.” 

“Mind if I sit for a minute, Peter? I'm still worn out from the heat.”
She sat on the bed for a moment and then reclined, head on pillow and 
skirt hiked up to a few inches above her right knee. He sat down next 
to Jacqueline's reclining body. 

As they continued talking, his hand brushed against her bare ankle. When
she didn't react, it gently massaged flesh, slowly stroking and then 
advancing higher. 

Pretending not to notice, Jacqueline reached over her head with both
hands to clasp bars at the head of the bed, thus raising her breasts 
under a loose shirt. The two were soon doing the beast with two backs, 
clothing lying on and off a wildly bouncing bed. 

“Oh, my God but that felt good.” He panted.  “Getting too old for these
types of acrobatics.” 

“I don't know what came over me, Peter.” She clasped his arm while he
lay beside her. “It was so sudden. Must have just been the right moment 
for both of us. I really have to go now. I'm glad I met you, Peter ... 
really.” 

They dressed and he escorted her to her rented conveyance. 

“Come back anytime, Jacqueline. I like your company -- a whole lot.”
They hugged and she left, promising to see him again. Events had been 
set in motion for one of her favorite cons. 

When Jacqueline returned to the bar, she went to her room and polished a
few pieces of real gold ore she had taken from various miners in trade. 


When she saw Jake feeding the halfbreed in the kitchen, her plan
formulated. Later, Jacqueline went in search of the boy, finding him 
asleep in a wagon out back of the livery stable. She kicked the 
wagon-bed until he woke. 

“How you doin'?  I hope better than yesterday?” she asked. He'd been
drunk in the bar the night before. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

She stood at the edge of the wagon for a full minute, looking at him
lying inside. 

“How would you like to make a little cash?” Jacqueline asked. That made
him sit up. 

“How?” 

Just like an Injun. No extra words in that boy, she thought. 

“You know what iron pyrites are?” she asked, “fool's gold?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you find me some? A couple handfuls?” 

“Guess so.” 

“You get me some and I'll give you a dollar for them.” 

“Two.” 

“Deal. I'll need them in a few days.” 

“Okay.” 

Events were set in motion. 

*** 

Damn. Her fourth miner that day. There must be a convention of them or
something, she figured. At least Jacqueline seized the opportunity to 
grab a few extra nuggets from his poke when he wasn't looking.  Along 
with the larger one he paid her, she finally had enough for her con on 
Peterson. 

“Come on, lover. Time to hit the road, sweetums.” Jacqueline shook the
drunken bastard awake, then started dressing herself. 

“Uh, yeah, baby. Thanks. I hav'ta find a place for tonight, You willing?
I'll pay good?” 

“Tell you what, Jimmy, hun. You come back at about two am. If I'm not
occupied, I'll take you up on that. My boss wouldn't like me to take 
off work, even for you, honey.” 

“I'll do that, Jac. I'll certainly do that.” 

When he left, she fixed her makeup, put shoes back on aching feet and
returned downstairs to the bar. 

The first thing Jacqueline noticed was Jenny Montaga sitting alone at a
back table. The ranch owner looked worried. Jake was busy and the place 
quiet, so she thought she would cheer the woman up a little. 

“How you doing, Jenny?” Jacqueline asked, sitting across from the
rancher, who looked like she was trying to hide something, her eyes 
moist. 

“Nothing much.  Just thinking, that's all. Just thinking about how
things get all out'a whack.” 

“Tell me about it.” Jacqueline laughed, trying to cheer her up. “If
something can go wrong, it will. You can bet on that.” 

“You seen that halfbreed around? I was wondered if he's all right,” she
asked. “He was in pretty bad shape this morning.  Injuns shouldn't 
drink hard likker.” 

“All right?  I guess so. I asked him to do something for me and he said
he would.” 

“Well, if you see him, let him know I'd like to talk to him.” 

The two women talked for a while.  Jenny was drinking pretty heavily.
Some cowboys came in and Jacqueline had to get back to work. Every 
penny helped. 

The next morning, Jacqueline checked back at the stable and found the
halfbreed. He looked better than the day before. He had her rocks so 
she gave him two dollars for them. The kid looked like he could use it. 
She also gave him Jenny's message. 

Returning to the bar, Jacqueline begged some time off and, changing
clothes, headed back to Peterson's ranch. If things went well, she 
could leave that asshole of a town in a few days. It cost her a little 
time and another free romp in the hay, literally, but she had Peterson 
eating out of her hand by the time she left. 

He trusted her and even, at least she thought, had a crush on her. 
Jacqueline had also mentioned her gold nuggets again, getting a promise 
from him to buy them. It was worth getting a little dirty. 

*** 

“Yeah, Jacqueline,” Jennie said.  “I know it's senseless but I simply
can't put up with that man. It's his attitude and his wife's. She, 
Jolanda was her name, came from back east, Maasychusets or someplace 
like that and looked down her beak on me. 

“Peter attended college there. He was all right when we were kids but
just too damned refined when he came back – with her,” Jenny confided 
in Jacqueline over a cup of tea at Jenny's ranch. “We ain't got along 
since; even after she died.” 

“Maybe if you sold him that piece of land abutting his?” Jacqueline
suggested. “He seems friendly enough with me.” Friendly hell, he wanted 
to marry Jacqueline, a feeling she took every opportunity to encourage. 


“I probably should.  I don't use it for nothin' and I could use the
cash,” Jenny admitted. “But not with his attitude. All he has to do is 
ask nice, not try to trick or order me around.  According to the clerk 
at the Cattleman's Association, Peterson is trying to get an exclusive 
contract with the Pacific Railroad. They'd stop to pick up his cattle, 
not mine. He thinks he can force me to sell that way.” 

“He must want the land pretty badly to go to those lengths.” 

“Right now, we're almost exactly even in land holdings and he wants to
be the largest landowner in the territory. It's the kind of shit they 
teach in those business schools back east. Around here, we make deals 
between friends with a handshake, not a fucking contract and threat of 
lawyers.” 

That had been a conversation between the women a few weeks before. Since
then, Jacqueline interceded with Peter on Jenny's behalf, trying to 
make him forget all that eastern education. She'd finally gotten Peter 
to agree to put up with a meeting with Jenny, with Jacqueline as a 
witness to any contract. 

Not that Jacqueline was so altruistic but it fit into her plans. She was
even supposed to earn a small fee from Peter if the land deal went 
through. 

*** 

Jacqueline was ready for action. She rented a wagon and set out for
Jenny's ranch. Jacqueline had her real gold and pyrites ready, polished 
and in several cloth pokes. On a previous trip, Peter Peterson had, 
while drinking, promised to buy her gold if it met his standards. She 
told him she would rather have paper money, it being lighter and easier 
to carry.  He still didn't know she was a bargirl, rather from a 
moderately wealthy family. 

The land deal was the stated reason for her trip. She was hoping to keep
the man too busy with Jenny to check her gold over closely. She didn't 
know how familiar Peter was with fool's gold and didn't want to take 
any chances. If caught, she could always fall back on being a helpless 
woman, herself getting gypped for the fake nuggets. 

“You ready, Jenny?” she asked, standing on the front steps of the
woman's ranch house. 

“Just a minute.” Jenny came hurrying out and into the passenger side of
the wagon. They set out for the Peterson ranch, only a few miles away. 

Peter Peterson was waiting, with a broad smile on his face. The smile
faded when he saw Jenny.  At that point, he became all business. 

“Come on in, ladies.” Peter led them into his living room, where a
bottle of French wine was chilled in recently drawn spring-water. “Are 
you ready to sign over that property, Miss Montaga?” 

Jenny looked at him, frowned, then turned to Jacqueline. 

“So you changed him, uh? I don't see no frickin' change yet.” 

“Peter. You promised.” Jacqueline called him aside for a private talk,
during which she smiled for Jenny's benefit while cussing him out. 

“Look, you stupid bastard.  You promised you'd cut out that college
shit,” Jacqueline told him, grinning innocently. “I told you she'd go 
along with it if you were friendly and asked nicely.” She patted him 
lightly on the cheek. “I'll kick your sorry fucking ass if you don't.”  
They walked back to where Jenny was pouring herself a drink of wine.  
She needed something to steady herself. 

“Uh, sorry, Miss Mont.... Jenny,” he said, sitting down and trying to
smile. “I've had a hard morning. Uh, I would really like to talk to you 
about, uh, that tiny little plot of ground between our ranches.” Peter 
sneaked a look over at a beaming Jacqueline. 

As the deal seemed to be moving well, Jacqueline interrupted the other
two. 

“Have you got a moment, dear Peter?” she asked. “I really must finish
our little thing and get back to town. I've a million things to do 
today, you know.” 

“Uh, sure, Jacqueline.” He got up and went over to his built-in wall
safe, Jacqueline following, digging into her own bag for her gold. 

Peter took out a small scale. He opened the first bag she showed him and
inspected the nuggets. They seemed high grade. Next he weighed them, 
marking down each figure on a piece of paper. He simply dumped the next 
three bags onto the scales without bothering to check their quality.  
It was to be the biggest mistake of his life, since they were mostly 
iron pyrites. 

Ordinarily, Peter would have been more careful but he trusted Jacqueline
and he was in the middle of a big land deal. Checking a fairly recent 
newspaper for the current gold prices, he made out a note for the bank 
in town. He was their largest depositor and pretty much owned the small 
bank. She grinned back at him as she folded the paper and put it in her 
pocket. 

“Thanks, Peter honey.” She turned back to Jenny, who was sitting and
waiting expectantly, ready to return to the negotiations. “If you two 
don't need me, I better get back to town? Can you see that Jenny gets 
back, Peter?” At his affirmation, she finished with, “I'll see you in a 
couple of days, Peter, hon. Okay?” 

As she turned to leave, they were both smiling.  She didn't think HE
would be by morning. 

*** 

Jacqueline left hurriedly. Once out of sight of the ranch house, she
whipped the horse into a run back to town. Jumping off at the bank, she 
hurriedly gave the note to the bank manager, who also served as clerk. 

“Quite a bit of cash, young lady,” he told her grimly as he counted out
paper money. “Are you sure it will be safe in that place?” Meaning the 
bar where she worked. 

“Oh, yes, sir,” Jacqueline put the large wad into her dainty handbag and
left. 

Jacqueline was shocked, seeing an all too familiar horse in front of the
hotel. Oh, my God, that damned detective, she thought. Not wanting to 
waste any time, she stepped back on the wagon and rode to the rear of 
the general store. 

“I need some goods for Mr. Peterson, Josh,” she told the clerk. “I'm
headed out to see him right now and he asked me to pick it up. Be nice 
and load it into my wagon out back,” she requested. “And you can put it 
on his bill.” 

With rumors about the two circulating around town, he believed her.  It
took all of ten minutes, ten minutes she could hardly spare, for her to 
choose quick supplies suitable for the trail. Josh was somewhat 
nonplussed with some of the items, such as a small barrel of drinking 
water and dried meat, but he dutifully tallied and loaded it as she 
piled it up. Jacqueline helped carry the goodies out and peeled off a 
dollar tip for the man to pay for his labor. A few minutes later, she 
left town in the direction of Peterson's ranch. 

Once outside of town, Jacqueline turned and galloped in another
direction, putting herself as far as possible from the Pinkerton 
detective.  She had no time to return to the saloon to get her personal 
effects, only wanting to get the hell out of there. 

Back in town, Sam Johnson took time to rent a room for the night. After
a week on the plains, he really wanted a bath. After that, he took a 
nap, then went to a bar for a drink. He had no reason to believe he was 
that close to his fugitive -- she covered her tracks well. It took him 
days to find she had even been there. It wasn't until Peter had time to 
find the fool's gold, then that his proposed bride had fled with the 
money, that the alarm was sounded. 

*** 

"But she's a blond,"  Peterson told Sam, "not a redhead.  It can't be
the same one." 

"You said you slept with her.  Did she like to rub her ankle against
yours when making love and grab your left ear with her right hand 
around your neck when you kissed?" 

"Well ... yeah, so what?" 

"It's her." 

Sam, feeling his face redden, came up with a couple more such intimate
actions, receiving affirmative replies.  Somehow, such clinical 
observations embarrassed him, reminding Sam of his own sexual 
attraction to his prey. 

Interviews with bartender and patrons further reinforced his opinion,
especially that she was known as Jac.  There could be no mistake on 
that point. Buying a few more supplies, Sam set out again. 

There were three paths out of town. But would she use any of them? he
considered. The only thing he could be certain of was that it wouldn't 
be north, in the direction of the Peterson ranch. 

Circling the town at a distance of a mile, he came upon a fairly-fresh
set of wagon tracks, fresh grass pressed into the ruts. It was as good 
a place to begin as any. Shrugging broad shoulders, the detective 
hunched down in his saddle, lit a cigarette and set off to follow them. 


*** 

Traveling by rail, Jacqueline stopped in Brawley to telegraph to
Sidesaddle, her hometown. She wanted to see how her child, Mary, was 
doing. Since the telegrapher in Sidesaddle was a Jackson cousin -- one 
of his tasks to copy down all messages that came through to pass on to 
the clan -- she was soon informed of happenings there. 

Smilin' Jack Jonathon, the telegrapher, asked her to be at her telegraph
office about noon the next day. Her brother, Smilin' Jack Harry 
Jackson, wanted to contact her and would send a wire by then. It was to 
be about a job he'd planned. 

Jacqueline normally worked alone but, with nothing going on at the
moment, agreed to wait. Besides, now having money again, she wanted to 
go out shopping and live like a lady for awhile. She didn't think she'd 
left a trail for Sam or other lawmen, having cut cross-country rather 
than using a road. 

The next morning, she enjoyed a leisurely soak in a tub of hot water,
trying to get a week of trail-dust and sweat off. She'd rented a suite 
in one of the best hotels in town. Another room was piled high with 
boxes and bags of new clothing. It felt good to be a lady again, the 
first time in years of running from that damned detective. Jacqueline 
didn't think he'd ever think to look for her in that social strata and 
that her own hunting should be great. 

She planned to relax a few days and then hit the social scene, looking
for another rich sucker. Ten dollars a day for her suite wasn't a whole 
lot of a drain on her stolen money but wouldn't last forever. And, she 
thought, she had to send some back to the ranch in Sidesaddle. All the 
Smilin' Jacks contributed to running the ranch and a fund for 
emergencies such as bail money. 

At one pm the next day, she went back to the telegraph office. There was
a message waiting. It stated, simply, “Bank,” and the address, “Hotel 
Majestic, Rocklin, California, February, if interested,” and was 
signed, “Smiling Jack.” The date, at that moment, was January, 8, 1901. 


Jacqueline had plenty of time to decide.  Meanwhile, she relaxed in
luxury. 

What she didn't know was that the telegrapher at the Brawley office made
a little extra money by passing on suspicious messages to the Imperial 
County Sheriff. The words, “Smiling Jack,” caught his attention. By 
that time, in that county, several Smilin' Jacks had been prosecuted 
and the family known to exist. The authorities in Rocklin were notified 
she was in the area. The Pinkerton Detective Agency had an office in 
Rocklin.  They were working for the Central Pacific Railroad there. It 
took only a few days for the Pinkertons to find out and to notify a 
roving detective named Samuel Johnson. 

*** 

Not used to easy living, it didn't take Jacqueline long to become bored.
Packing her new clothing and other items, such as jewelry and a small 
selection of firearms, she took a train to Rocklin, checking into a 
hotel as Sally Jenkins. She hoped brother Harry would show up soon. 

* 

She was lounging on her bed, reading a Ned Buntline western magazine
story about “Stella Delorme's Comanche Lover,” when she heard a knock 
on her door.  It was her brother. 

“Hi, Harry. How you been, boy?” she greeted her older brother. “Why the
suit and tie? You look silly with that mustache and beard.” She stepped 
aside, sticking her head out of the door to look both ways before 
closing it and joining him on the couch. 

“Good, Jac. I thought you'd like to get in on this con. I have Alfred in
already and we need at least one more person we can trust. As far as 
I'm concerned, that means family.” 

“To rob a bank? Come on, Harry. It don't take no three Smilin' Jacks to
rob a bank.” 

“Not to rob one ... well, we will rob OUR bank, I guess you could say.
It depends on how you look at it.” 

“Your bank? You have a bank? A real bank?” 

“Yeah. I pulled a con on a State Congressman in New York. Since he has
pull and would be after me, I lit out for California and the gold 
fields.” 

She laughed. “You ain't the kind to be jerking around with a tin pan and
shovel.” 

“Na. Most a the gold finding's finished now, anyway. I thought of
gambling but sitting in a smoky room with a bunch of idiots with guns 
didn't really appeal to me, either. 

“But I was flush with money. I went into a local bank to get an account
started, always a good thing, you know?” 

She nodded, encouraging her brother. 

“Well,” he continued, “while talking to the clerk, also manager and
owner, he rejected my money. Did you ever, ever in your life, see a 
bank refuse money? My God, I thought. 

"By the way, you got a drink around here? My throat's dry.” 

Jacqueline got up and poured a drink of whiskey in a water glass,
bringing it back to him. 

“You know there's a cop in the lobby, don't you? He's sitting and
watching young women. Maybe for you?” 

Jacqueline shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I dunno. I don't see how I could
be traced here but you never know. I saw him already and have my meals 
delivered to my room. Whenever necessary, I go out by the side door. 
But, come on, Harry. What about this bank?” 

“Well, he didn't want new accounts cause he was about to close his bank.
See, he'd recently lost his only large account, with the Storm King 
Mine. He was in the process of informing his few regular customers and 
then closing down for good.  Some would take out their money and 
others, the rest, would be transferred to another bank in the next 
town. Under their own names, of course.” 

“Why go out of business? Why not look for more investors or whatever
bankers do?” 

“The guy was in his late seventies and owned the place himself. He
figured it would be a good time to retire.” 

“So? You don't have to tell me. You bought the thing, didn't you?” 

“Ten-percent down and he can piss up a rope for the rest. The Smiling
Jacks are now in the banking business.” Harry nodded his head in 
affirmation. “Alfred's always been good with figures, you know? 
Remember his Chicago zoo scam? The officials are still trying to sort 
that one out.” 

“That was the one where he formed a fake company and collected money to
build a Children's Zoo, with elephants and giraffes for kids to pet.  
He paid old investors with money from the newer ones. Never did buy 
anything but a few goats and a skunk. 

"I remember him bragging at the ranch, bringing the skunk back with him,
he-he. He never stayed around there much, preferring city life. How is 
Alfred doing, anyway? 

“By the way, The skunk is still doing well last I saw.  It follows Mary
around.” 

“He's been released after five years in the Yuma Prison. Got caught up
in a manslaughter rap where he killed his girlfriend's lover.” 

“Only five years?” 

“The victim was wanted on her own merits. The judge kinda figured he did
them a favor by killing her.” 

“Oh.  One'a THOSE kinda girls.” 

“Well,” he continued, “anyway, he's gonna help. He was broke from paying
lawyers and jumped at the offer.” 

“What's the scam, then?” 

“The bank gives us legitimacy, see? I bought it on the spur of the
moment.  Then Alfred came up with the scam. In California, we still 
have dozens of brands of homemade coins, stamped out before the US Mint 
was established here. They're, excuse the expression, still good as 
gold.  Some are made out of purer gold than the official ones and many 
people prefer them. 

“Alfred found a retired engraver from the official mint. The guy's a
lousy gambler. Liking the ladies, he's agreed to work for us. Right 
now, Morgan -- the old fucker's family name -- has finished stamps for 
three of the most popular old civilian coins. Being conceived and 
stamped out in tents, the original plates were simple to begin with. 
He's working on an official government one for us, a harder job. 

“What we do is grab every gold coin we can. Then we melt, pour and stamp
them again, with plenty of extra lead and other metals mixed in. That 
gives us 20 to 30% more coins. Then they're tumbled around in a barrel 
full of stones until they look old and used. Morgan and Alfred are 
already doing them and nobody's noticed yet.” 

“What if someone does notice?” she asked. 

“We can deny it, giving that customer good coins in return.  Hey! We're
a bank. Everyone trusts a bank. If the shit hits the fan, we take 
everything and scoot, letting the cops sort it out.” 

“I'd rather work alone, Harry, but I could use the work. With that
policeman in the lobby, why don't you go down and sign me out while I 
pack? We can get a carriage to stop out back.” 

Harry finished his drink while watching her get her things together.
Since Jacqueline had been doing a whole lot of shopping, it would take 
a while. 

He was down in the lobby, pausing to check out the police officer, when
he saw another man with the cop. Harry frowned. The man was vaguely 
familiar. Maybe? Yeah. That guy, the one that tracked Jac to the ranch? 
Harry had been there at the time and knew the Pinkerton guy would 
recognize him. It had been a few years and Harry now had a beard and 
mustache but couldn't take a chance. He turned around and hurried back 
upstairs. 

“Jacqueline. Drop that bag and let's get a hell out'a here.” 

“Uh?” 

“That private detective, the one that was at the ranch. He's downstairs
right now.” 

“Damn it. Let's go.” 

The two didn't waste time. They grabbed what they could in their hands,
then hurried out the side door of the hotel, grabbed a taxi and headed 
for the train station. Taking the first available train, they were soon 
on their way to the edge of the Virgin Deal Mining District, at a town 
called New Deal. The town had been built up to service the Virgin 
Mining Company, with a number of much smaller producing gold mines 
spotted around it. Most of the populace worked at the mines. It was 
also the home of their own Deal Bank. 

* 

Jacqueline's first sight of Deal, California, was of a bustling town but
not a rich one. She saw few suits and ties, only work-clothes, mostly 
Levis and plaid shirts. The women wore dresses, though many of them 
were likewise clad in dirty trousers. 

The train station itself wasn't crowded, except at one end where
uniformed guards congregated around one sturdily-built rail car, a 
partially uncovered wagon backed against it. 

“So this is your ... our town? It seems larger than you said before.” 

Harry looked at his watch. “It's almost eleven. Shift change at the
mines. Once the new shift starts and the old one gets home, it'll be 
quieter. For most, it's hard work. They'll have a beer or two, go home 
and to bed.” 

The bank, itself, was one of the better-built single-story buildings. It
was made-up of a combination of brick and adobe. The brick section was 
in back, enclosing a large walk-in vault. Behind the building stood a 
more ramshackle wooden structure, doors closed tightly. 

“That other building is where we have our stamping presses,” Harry told
her. “Alfred and Morgan spend most of their time there. I work at the 
bank, taking care of the customers, which will be your job from now 
on.” 

“No problem, but you'll have to show me how.” 

“Maybe with you handling customers I'll have time and can talk one of
the mines into letting me handle their money? A few years ago, they let 
this bank take care of payrolls and keep their cash until they could 
haul it to a San Francisco bank. 

“Then, when two more mines were started a few miles away, the town of
Deal gradually moved closer to the mines, leaving the old town here to 
collapse. They built a company bank and have been using that. 

"Oliver Trent, the old bank-owner, screwed up in not moving his business
there until too late. By the time I got here, he was going out of 
business, ready to retire. I made a deal with him, paying ten-percent 
in advance. He still thinks he's going to get the rest, the fool. I've 
been putting him off, giving him a few bucks once in a while, along 
with plenty of excuses.” 

“How long you figure it'll work?” 

“Who knows? There isn't any oversight and anyone can start up a bank. We
might have years. We get those old privately-minted coins in, melt them 
down and add cheaper metals to the mix. Morgan uses the old stamping 
equipment and makes new ones with less gold in them. Then we can pass 
them out at the bank. By the time he's done, they look and feel like 
originals and everyone trusts a bank.” 

“When can we do it with the government money?” 

“I dunno. The official coins are made with a lower percentage of gold.
They're much harder in composition. And the government does have 
oversight, constantly checking them for quality. 

“See, when the gold rush first started, miners and businesses used ore
itself for transactions. It was inefficient in that every payment was 
by Guess and by Golly. So private mints were started, using equipment 
like we have in the back. Since they were originally made of pure gold, 
they were soft and easy to stamp. It took many years for the government 
to get around to building a mint in San Francisco, standardizing their 
coins to that of the rest of the country. 

“Right now, there are maybe millions of the old ones around. Being of
purer content, many people still prefer them. The good part, for us, is 
that there are so many brands. Customers check them by bite. The easier 
it is to bite or cut into them with a knife, the more acceptable. 
Morgan has a composition that feels and looks like pure gold but is 
only around eighty-percent of the originals. That means we get about 
twenty-percent more coins. 

Jacqueline laughed. “This Morgan sounds like a Smilin' Jack.” 

“Doesn't he, though?” 

The sign outside the bank said, in large letters, “Deal Bank.” In
smaller writing below it, “A Division of the San Francisco Banking 
Organization.” 

“What's that? Are we based in San Francisco?” 

“Not hardly. There is no such organization. I made it up.” 

“Oh.” 

Going in, they found brother Alfred sitting behind a standard barred
bank counter, reading a newspaper. He smiled while greeting his sister, 
then a frown returned. 

“Bad news, Harry. Morgan says we can't copy the government-issue gold
coins.” 

“Why not?” Harry demanded. “Making a stamp can't be that hard.” 

“You'd better ask him.  His explanation screws with my mind.” 

“He in the back?” 

“Should be.” 

Jacqueline followed Harry out a back door and directly into the wooden
building in the rear. A stocky older man was adjusting levers on what 
looked like a small furnace. They waited until he was through and 
turned around. 

“Harry. Good to see you're back. From your face, I guess Al already told
you.” He wiped a cloth across a sweating brow, then sat on the edge of 
a desk. “And who you got here?” 

“Jacqueline, this is our partner, Morgan. Morgan, my sister. Now what
the hell's going on back here? You promised to have the stamps ready 
when I returned.” 

Morgan sighed. “I have the stamps, and good ones, too. I also have the
metal composition. What I don't have is the equipment.” 

“Why not. It's not busted, is it?” 

“Naw, but ours is too old. That's the problem. That and it's not built
heavily enough. You see, the government doesn't use pure gold for 
coins. For one thing, it's so soft the coins wear out fast. They're 
also easy to 'shave' around the edges.  After a little bouncing around 
in bags and pockets, the fluted edges get smooth, meaning people can 
shave a little from the circumference without it being noticed. 

“For those reason, to make them stronger, the government makes them with
less gold, adding tin to the mix. It gives the coins strength, making 
them last much longer.” 

“So? You said you had the composition figured out.” 

“Sure. But the increased strength of the metal means, with this older
stamping machine, two or three strikes on each coin. The press is 
unstable and won't hit at the exact point even twice in a row. The face 
and back of the coins come out blurred. I've tried everything I know 
and still can't get it right.” 

“Can't we buy better machinery?” 

“Nope. The government controls its manufacturing now, to stop people
like us from copying the things.” 

“Damn. Well, let me know if you come up with anything.” 

*** 

The Smilin' Jacks ran the bank for several years, gradually cutting down
available amounts of those old coins as well as making a profit on the 
bank itself. Harry became quite good as a bank manager and Jacqueline 
rather enjoyed working as a teller.  Meanwhile, they financed other 
smiling Jacks around the country, earning interest money as well as 
goodwill among the family. No Smilin' Jack stayed in jail long. Not 
with a quick cache of bail and lawyer money available. 

Once the 100% ones became scarce, they gave up on counterfeiting.
Eventually, though, fewer and fewer people asked for the old ones, 
preferring government issue. Part of the blame for that were all the 
below-standard coins being produced by Morgan. Customers were gradually 
getting wise to that aspect. 

Two important changes came in the year 1910. 

“Hey! Jac. Look at this,” Harry called out from his desk in the rear of
the room. “The price of gold is up to $32 dollars an ounce.” 

He considered it a good omen, until every type of old-style gold coins
became scarce. The reason was that the gold in those old ones was worth 
more melted than the face value. Other enterprising people were also 
melting the things down instead of circulating them. There were even 
businesses springing up to do it for you for a fee. Only the government 
issues, being of less gold value, were still circulating. Overnight, 
Harry's source of gold dried up and, with the price that high, it 
wasn't worth it to buy gold to melt for their own coins. 

Despite criminal intentions, they were forced into becoming a legitimate
business. 

The second change was that Jacqueline's daughter, Mary, had graduated
from college with an accounting degree. Of course, she wanted to work 
in the family business. In this case, the bank. 

*** 

“I can't believe it, Harry -- the three of you legitimate. Nothing
illegal at all?” Mary laughed at her obviously discombobulated mother. 
“How's this gonna look in the family histor-- ” 

“We're making more money than ever,” Jacqueline interrupted. 

“But, he-he-he ... legally? Can't you go out and steal a goat or
something?” 

Jacqueline could feel herself blushing. “Get your ass in there and
unpack. You're an accountant, yourself, a legal profession.” 

“Accountants steal big money, Ma. We don't hand it over a counter to
suckers.” 

“They hand it back, with interest. And we don't have to worry about the
law,” brother Alfred said. “And we'll find a way to steal more. That's 
where you can help.” 

“We can always simply take the money and gold and leave,” from
Jacqueline. 

“Why do that?” Harry said. “This is a cash-cow. Easy work with profit
coming in every day. And we'd lose all that money we have loaned out. 
The suckers wouldn't have to pay it back.” 

Mary took over the bookwork with Harry managing and Jacqueline and
Alfred taking care of customers. It was boring work but, before laws on 
usury, quite profitable. They could charge whatever interest each 
customer could bear. 

And, of course, money was lent out for criminal enterprises. If someone
planned to rob something like another bank, they'd need cash for 
purchases such as guns and explosives. Also, a place to live close to 
the victim and food money until the robbery. Those criminals paid a 
large rate of interest to the lender. Of course, they knew better than 
to rob the Smilin' Jacks, who were spread across the country and would 
soon find them. 

The former criminals were also active on the local social scene. One
day, a year or so after arriving, Mary found herself at a charity party 
for orphans, sharing a small table with a handsome man about her age. 

“Mary Jackson,” she told him. “My family owns the local bank. What do
you do, Mr. Deal?” 

“Please call me Frank, Miss Jackson. May I call you Mary? My family owns
or partially owns most of these local mines. Me, I hang around the head 
office. My father is good enough to let me have a small desk but I 
don't really do much except collect a salary.” 

“Sounds like a good life ... Frank, but doesn't it get boring?” 

“Well, guess it does. I finished college in the east and he does expect
me to help out eventually. We're still deciding about what capacity.” 

Later, while dancing, Mary asked him where his company did their
banking. 

“I can't say. Someplace in San Francisco, I think. Is it terribly
important?” 

“Maybe ... maybe, Frankie, I could visit you at work? We could talk
about you changing over to my family bank. It's closer than San 
Francisco and we could spend time together while working out the 
details. I get bored too, sitting at my desk all day.” 

“Hmmm. Maybe have a drink or three at the club while we talk?” 

“I was thinking we'd need more privacy for a really serious discussion
of finances.  Something like a quiet hotel room?” she proposed. 

After a few such discussions, the bank acquired three of the Virgin Deal
mines as customers. They had to increase staff to handle such things as 
mine payrolls, as well as a second vault to hold gold and currency 
belonging to the mines. 

Frank Deal, true to his lazy nature, soon returned to New York where he
married a débutante and forgot about dirty, nasty, California. 

*** 

Detective Sam Johnson continued looking for Jacqueline, with no luck.
The hunt itself had become an obsession, both professionally and 
emotionally, which led to trouble with his boss. 

“Johnson. We can't afford you spending all that company time on one
piece of fluff. Our company canceled the contract long ago.” Mr. 
Demurral was extremely angry, holding a sheaf of expense forms in one 
hand while pounding his desk with the other. “Here. Look at this. You 
returned last week, two weeks late, from chasing the Offenbach gang.  
According to these,” he said, waving the forms in Sam's face, “you 
traveled an extra 120 miles and collected four day's pay to search for 
that bitch. This can't go on.” He sighed, glaring. “These expenses come 
out of your pay. I'd take it out of your vacation time ... except you 
don't have any vacation time coming. You even owe me a month.” 

Sam was only holding on to his job by a shoestring and no closer to
catching Jacqueline. Since he hadn't heard from her since the 
California episode, he wondered if she were still in that State. As a 
detective, one that often worked for the government, he had access to 
some police files but not all. 

Older but not much wiser in that respect, already in his sixties, Sam
was desperate. Desperate enough to quit Pinkerton's a step ahead of 
being fired over his obsession. 

With his reputation, built on catching many famous and semi-famous
criminals, he easily acquired a detective lieutenant job on the San 
Diego police force. From there, he could access ALL California police 
records and again returned to looking for Jacqueline in his spare time. 


California had few Smilin' Jack arrests but he methodically followed up
on each one. There were two Smilin' Jacks and a few dozen Jacksons in 
jails or prisons in California. Checking the records individually, 
along with photos, didn't turn up Jacqueline. 

“Sorry, sir,” the head clerk at the San Diego Police Records Bureau told
Sam, “not in our records but have you tried the newspaper archives? 
There might be something there. I hear they've recently 
cross-referenced many of their files by name. At least the principles 
of the stories.” 

Sam slapped his forehead. Having all those police files available, he
hadn't thought of civilian resources. 

A quick trip to the Union-Tribune gave him only one article on “Smilin'
Jacks,” but when he searched for Jacqueline Jackson, Sam received a 
stack of eight newspapers, those from only the past year. 

“What the hell!” He had to search through every page, front to back, for
the references. There was nothing on the front page or police reports. 
He found nothing in the criminal trial sections. Sam, having checked 
all the appropriate parts of all the newspapers, was stumped. 

After taking time to freshen up, then eat a quick lunch, he bought a
half-dozen cigars and returned to the thick volumes, resigned to 
checking them once again, page by page. Of all things, he finally found 
her name in the banking section of the first one -- and not as a 
bandit. 

Sam was disappointed. It couldn't be the Jacqueline Jackson he was
looking and longing to find. Here, he thought, look at this? This 
Jackson gave a lecture on banking principles at the university. Sam had 
to grin at the thought of HIS Smilin' Jack doing that. He groaned and 
picked up the next newspaper. 

While on the last issue, he had a thought. What ...  if it is her and
she's on an especially intricate scam? Maybe, he shuddered, one that 
would break the economy of California?  That alone would  vindicate his 
time and be official business. 

Since the lady was scheduled to give a talk in the Civic Center the next
week, Sam called and reserved a seat. At least, he thought, he could 
eliminate her as his quarry. He'd been after the woman for over thirty 
years and thought he could still recognize her. 

* 

Although it must be a mistaken identity, the suspense and anticipation
was telling on the detective lieutenant, as he fidgeted in a chair in 
the second row of the auditorium. In front of him was a stage, sporting 
nothing but a podium with the traditional display-board standing at one 
side. Behind the stage were gray curtains. 

In reserved seats at both ends of the first two rows, Sam's detectives
were waiting for a signal if it happened to be the right Jacqueline 
Jackson. In his sixties and with a bad case of arthritis, Sam didn't 
think himself nimble enough to chase her if she fled. 

Lights still dimmed, three well-dressed people came onto the stage.  One
man, an usher, was helping a late-middle-aged woman on crutches. When 
she stood behind the podium, obviously settling down a bit on a stool 
behind it, he stepped back, seemingly alert in case she needed further 
help. The second man was the MC. He introduced “Miss Jacqueline 
Jackson,” and stepped to the side. 

Sam squinted, old eyes trying to study the lady's face. She wore
eyeglasses and was peering down at something in front of her, which 
only made it harder on Sam. 

Then, the electric lights came on all the way, sharpening the figure on
the stage. At the same time, she sat straight and took off her 
spectacles. 

It was her! Sam didn't need to look twice. He'd seen that face in his
dreams for many years, waking and sleeping. His blood pressure went up, 
heart threatening to burst out of its ribcage. 

Sam grasped the back of the seat in front of him, exploding to his feet.
The outburst was too much for his heart, which lost its rhythm, beating 
erratically. His last sight of her was that of astonishment, her eyes 
seemingly drilling into his own as he lost consciousness. 

*** 

That same still-beauteous face was the first thing he saw as he woke. It
was close enough for him to smell sweet breath, then retreating, to 
come back again. Only after a dozen such repetitions did other objects 
take up space around and behind Jacqueline's features. 

As he moved his own gaze, it was as though under moving water, objects
elongating briefly until steadying abruptly as artificially-reddened 
lips clamped down on his own, serving to steady wandering eyes. 

“Hi, Sam. Long time no see.” 

“I -- It. It is you.” He shook his head. Duty coming to the fore, he
forced out the words, “You're under arrest.” 

“For what?” She acted astonished. “I'm not wanted in California.” 

Sam looked to his own boss, Captain Evens, standing in the doorway. The
captain shook his head. “The last governor gave her a pardon and she's 
been a good girl since then.” 

For the next week or so while Sam was bedridden Jacqueline visited him
often. They carried on  long conversations, bringing each other up to 
date on their respective careers. 

“I don't know what I'll do, not having to chase you anymore,” Sam
admitted. “It was a way of life. Now that I've caught you, it feels 
like my life's essentially over.” 

Jacqueline and the nurse were helping him up so that he could return
home. He, too, was restricted to crutches for awhile, to help keep his 
blood pressure down. He was too damned weak to walk any distance 
without them. 

“It feels funny for me, too, Sam. I'm so used to looking over my
shoulder, both fearing and hoping to see you there.” 

When the three of them were standing on the sidewalk, the nurse waved to
a waiting taxi. They helped Sam inside, then closed the doors. 

“Aren't you coming with me, Jac?” he asked. “We still have much to talk
about.” 

“Not right now, Sam honey. Why don't you come see me at the ranch?” she
said, taking out a man's wallet to pay the cabbie. 

“The ranch? You mean back in...” He'd just noticed something. She'd paid
the cabbie with money from a MAN'S wallet. While the taxi gained speed, 
he quickly searched his pockets, finding his wallet gone.  Grinning, he 
yelled back, “I'll get you, you damned thief. I'll follow you to the 
ends of the earth.” 

“See you later,” was dimly heard from a fast diminishing Smilin' Jack. 

As the apparition faded, he saw her blowing him a kiss. 

The End.


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