Free Clementine by Cherie Priest Page A

kitchen hand tied around his waist, and a faded blue shirt tucked into brown pants. When he put his arms down enough to see over his own elbow, the boy asked, “Sir? Are you the captain? You must be the captain, ain’t you?”
    “I’m a captain, and I know Barebones, so maybe I’m the man you’re looking for.” He backed into his room without inviting the boy to follow him. Without taking his eyes or his gun off the kid in the doorway, he used one hand to light a lamp and pick it up.
    “I’ve got a message for you, sir.”
    “Is that why you were trying to let yourself inside my room?”
    “Only because I didn’t know which one was yours, sir. The lady downstairs said you’d taken two. Sir, I have a message for you. Here.” He held out a folded piece of paper.
    “Set it down.”
    The boy bent his knees until he was down at a crouch. He dropped the note.
    “Now get out of here before I fill you full of holes, you idiot kid!” Hainey almost roared. The messenger was down the hall, down the stairs, and probably out into the street by the time the captain picked up the note and shut the door again, locking himself inside with even greater care than he’d taken before he’d gone to bed.
    The weight of his weariness settled down on his shoulders as soon as the door was closed and he felt somewhat safe again; but the lantern’s butter-yellow light made his eyes water and the note was brittle in his hand as he opened it. The message was composed in the flowery hand of a man who clearly enjoyed the look of his own penmanship.

    Incoming to Jefferson City in another few hours—a Pinkerton operative sent from Chicago. Whoever stole your ship has friends in high places with very deep pockets. Borrow a new ship and get out of town by the afternoon if you know what’s good for you. If Pinkerton’s paid to be involv-ed, someone has big plans for your bird. Watch where you’re going, but watch your back, too. You’re being tracked.

    Hainey crumpled the note in his fist and crushed it there, squeezing with enough rage to make a diamond. He composed himself and sat on the edge of the bed. He held the note over the lantern’s flame and let it evaporate into ash between his fingers, then he set the lantern aside and dropped himself back onto the bed. The lantern stayed lit, because if he’d blown it out, he might’ve fallen back asleep.
    He needed to think.
    Jefferson City wasn’t more than a hop, skip, and a jump from Kansas City, though Barebones was right—he probably had until the following afternoon before he ought to get too worried. But Pinkerton? The detective agency? The captain had heard stories, and he didn’t like any of them. The Pinks were strike-breakers, riot-saboteurs, and well organized thugs of the expensive sort. Like Barebones’ note had suggested, they had pockets deep enough to pay for loyalty or information from anybody who was selling it. Down south of the Mason-Dixon, they weren’t so well known. But in the north and west, the Pinks were their own secret society.
    To the best of Hainey’s knowledge, no one had ever called the Pinks on him before—despite his less-than-legitimate business enterprises, his occasional bank robbery, or his intermittent piracy. It made things sticky, and even stranger than they already were.
    Why would anyone steal the Free Crow in the first place?
    Anyone with the resources to invoke the Pinks ought to be able to afford their own damn war bird.
    He fumed on this matter for another five minutes before leaning over and stifling the lamp, dropping the austere room into darkness once more. In half an hour he was asleep again, and before long the light of morning was high enough to make him semi-alert and terribly grouchy.
    A loud knock on the door didn’t do much to improve his state of mind; but Simeon’s pot of coffee and Lamar’s covered plate of breakfast fixings shook off the last sour feelings of insufficient sleep. He invited the men into the room,