The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle Read Online Free Page B

up?”
    â€œA gentleman’s honor isn’t for sale.” Saul said.
    I was among gentlemen. I should have guessed.
    In the days that followed, I learned why young men join gangs. They don’t do anything. Life in the Golden Circle was filled with idle time.
    Slaves worked. The rest loafed.
    Some passed the time playing baseball. One of Saul’s boys, the fat one in short pants, was a regular in those games. The ball players called him Pudding.
    He eyed me with suspicion because Saul never credited his stories about my strength. It was a worry but baseball helped smooth the waters.
    Pudding thought of himself as a stalwart. During one afternoon game, a ball was hit sharply toward him. It took a wicked carom off the grass before Pudding caught it clean. It was a fine play.
    The batter was called dead, rightly so. Pudding tagged a runner who had stepped off second base and claimed the runner was dead too. The argument turned into a row.
    It is in the nature of men to fight over nothing. Good agents seize these moments because a person’s reputation is built on irrelevant things.
    â€œBoth players are dead.” I said. “The runner returns only if the ball is caught on the fly.”
    â€œHa!” Pudding said. “You hear that? You’re out, you bugger.”
    That made my peace and gave me a niche. From then on I ate, got drunk and gossiped as one of the ball players.
    None could say why the gang had stopped or where it was headed. Every day a new rumor started. In the absence of useful information, I played baseball and kept my eyes open for the other Pinkerton man, Webster. He was tough to spot.
    Pinkertons take a position and stick to it. Where I posed as a tippler, a fool and a sport to gain entry, a Pinkerton would get his hooks into one angle and ride it.
    For a time, I thought it might be Saul. Then I watched him throttle a slave. That seemed too heavy.
    Webster was hard to pick out because his cover was ingenious. He posed as a map maker. This exposed him to the gang’s top people. Webster was such an insider that the first time I saw him was also the first time I saw William Hunt. They emerged from a tent at each other’s throats.
    Prior descriptions matched Hunt well. He was wiry and bald except for a crown around his ears. What struck me most was his skin. It was so taut that it looked like a larger body was trying to force its way out. His eyes and teeth seemed far too big.
    Hunt wailed fists and boots down on Webster. Saul fell on him as well. Maps unrolled on the ground. A strap over Webster’s shoulder broke and his box of supplies burst open.
    Bloodied, Webster snatched a small wooden case out of the spilled goods. When Saul charged, Webster held it at arm’s length and twisted the lid. A spray of white mist escaped and a metal claw opened from the bottom.
    Saul ran into its grip. Webster gave the lid another twist and the metalwork clenched shut.
    That was when I recognized him as Pinkerton’s man. Behind the spectacles and bow tie, it was obvious. He turned the table on Saul in a heartbeat.
    Hunt lifted the supply case by its leather strap and swung the corner into the side of Webster’s head. I jumped to my feet. Pudding tugged on the back of my shirt.
    â€œTake ‘er easy. Saul and the boss have him now.”
    That the idiot didn’t realize I meant to help Webster made me realize how little would be gained by exposing myself. If Pinkerton’s man was half the agent I suspected, he would know he was alone.
    Hunt bent over Saul, snared and squirming. He flipped the box’s wooden lid. With two twists, Hunt released the metal harness.
    This was a surprise. Few southerners can use Union machinery.
    Hunt held the contraption in the air and approached Webster, who had almost regained his wits. Hunt snatched the agent’s torso inside the metal claw.
    He leaned close and said something. I was too far to hear. Then Hunt pulled the