Free Whistler in the Dark by Kathleen Ernst

pulled his own wagon into the yard. “I got thirty pounds of fleece I need carted to Golden,” he shouted. “Where you want it unloaded?” Mr. Torkelson hurried from the office with a notebook in hand.
    â€œMay I bother you for a moment?” Emma asked, after the farmer had left. “I’ve got some good news. We’re going to borrow some wrapping paper from the store. That will tide us over until the shipment of real newsprint arrives.”
    â€œYa? That iss good news!” Mr. Torkelson grinned. “And your ink iss here.”
    â€œWonderful!” Emma pulled her notebook and pencil from her pocket. “But I still have a couple more questions, for my article. Do you remember seeing anyone in the yard right before the fire?”
    â€œNobody in particular. I had joost gone inside. My boys did not see anything. My other hauler left for one of the ranches before the fire started.”
    â€œCan I talk to that man anyway?”
    Mr. Torkelson shrugged. “When he gets back. He headed out on an overnight run this morning.”
    Crackers. No help there. “Nobody else was around?”
    â€œWell … a few. People waiting for Lars to unload something of theirs, ya?”
    â€œWas Dixie John one of them?” Emma dared, trying to sound casual.
    â€œNah. He hass never hired me. Got nothing to haul, I’d say.”
    Emma sighed. This was getting her nowhere. “Well, the fire might have been an accident. Or someone might have started it deliberately. Can you think of anyone who might want to cause trouble?”
    Mr. Torkelson looked bewildered. “But who would want that?”
    â€œI don’t know, Mr. Torkelson.” Emma put her notebook away and managed a smile. “I was just asking.”
    Mr. Torkelson chuckled. “Miss Emma, you are going to be one good reporter. But this time, I think there iss joost no story.”
    Disappointed, Emma nodded and waved good-bye. What else could she do to find the troublemaker? She chewed that over as she headed back to the print shop. The attacks against the newspaper still made no sense.
    Someone hollered behind her, and she stepped out of the way of a man leading a pack-mule train out of town. In addition to kegs and crates and even a tin coffeepot, each mule was hauling two planks of sawn lumber, the ends dragging in the dirt. Emma wondered if some mining-camp shack would be built from the lumber. Until arriving in Twin Pines, she’d never thought about everything that people living far from cities had to give up. Things like sawmills. And sheriffs. Mr. Spaulding’s words echoed in her memory: We’re on our own .
    Emma pulled her notebook from her pocket and looked at her list of suspects: Dixie John, Blackjack, and Miss Amaretta. Emma couldn’t imagine Miss Amaretta whistling outside her window! But … how could any of them be The Whistler? The Whistler had first appeared in Chicago. Emma didn’t think any of her suspects had left Twin Pines long enough to make that trip. Besides, according to their stagecoach driver, the strange man asking about Emma and Mother along the trail had a limp. Neither Dixie John nor Blackjack limped. Had The Whistler been sent by one of them? The whistling had begun the day Mother received Mr. Spaulding’s job offer.
    Below her list of suspects, Emma wrote, Who is The Whistler?
    Emma swallowed hard, tapping the page with her pencil, as a cold breath slid down her collar. She knew what she needed to do. Tonight, if The Whistler made another appearance, she would be waiting.

C HAPTER 7
    N EW R ESOLVE

    â€œI think I’ll keep both of these,” Mother said, pocketing the two keys to their new padlock. “Mr. Spaulding means well, but I honestly don’t know how that man thought he could ever build a town. He doesn’t have the sense of a goose.”
    Remembering how dejected Mr. Spaulding had looked, Emma changed the subject.