Unflinching

Two

TwoThe office rang with confused voices as Simms came in from out of the rain, shaking himself like a dog.

“Jeez, Simms!” Henson brushed spots of rainwater from his paperwork. He sat behind a desk not two paces from the door, spectacles pushed back on his head, shirtsleeves rolled up almost to his shoulders. He seemed frazzled, hair wild, as if it had dried in a mid-season hurricane.

“What's with all the panic?” Simms threw his coat and hat across the back of his chair and sat down.

“Got a telegram, not twenty minutes ago,” said Henson, scouring through his papers, not looking up. “Seems like General Tobias J. Randall got himself caught up in a bank robbery in some lice-ridden backwater over on the Colorado-Utah border. His daughter's been kidnapped.”

Simms rested his elbows on his desk, put his face in his hands and groaned. “And they sent for us?”

“As a retired, former general, he comes under Federal jurisdiction, but it seems they have had little success in tracking him.”

“Great.”

Henson looked up, measuring Simms with quiet indifference. Simms looked at him from between his fingers. Henson tilted his head sideways and asked, “Why are you so pissed?”

“Because I know Randall, so it's highly likely I'll get the assignment.”

“You know him? How the hell do you know General Tobias J. Randall?”

“I served under him in the war with Mexico, at Churubusco back in '47. I was part of Clarke's Brigade. It was all a long, long time ago.”

“I never knew you were a soldier.”

“Lieutenant.” Simms dropped his hands. “I never thought I'd need to do this sort of nonsense again.”

“Well, you never know, Simms. They may not even give you the assignment. For all you know they may already have someone else to—”

At that moment, an office door in the far reaches of the room was wrenched open and a large, burly man sweating profusely and sporting enormous side whiskers, peered out into the room. He caught sight of Simms and growled, “Where the hell have you been?”

“I was feeling sick, so I decided to—”

“Get yourself in here now, Simms. You have a job to do.”

The door crashed shut and Simms turned and gave Henson a knowing look. “You were saying?”

Henson looked away and Simms sighed. He shoved his chair back, edged his way through the bustle around him, and went through the office door without knocking.

“It's a helluva place,” said Chesterton, leaning back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly. Before him, he'd laid out a large map of the Territories. “That's why I chose you. You know what it's like.”

“I've never been to Utah.”

“No, but you've served, and with some distinction so I understand. You know how to survive and the only way we're going to get the good General's daughter back is by cutting across that hellhole and tracking her down.” He pointed to the map. “Most of it is uncharted, although there is the trail, of course. Nevertheless, you'll need wits, skill and a large helping of luck.”

“I'm not a tracker, sir. I can shoot, I can fight, I can lay down in a hole and stay there for three days without moving, but I'm no tracker.”

“Then find yourself someone who is. I hear there's a lot of Indians out there.”

“There's a lot of everything out there. And some of those Indians are mean. They hate us.”

“Yes, but as you say, you're a survivor. Three days in a hole might be just the thing. Listen,” he came forward, planting his arms on the desk, covering the map, and peered straight into Simms's eyes. “I'm not going to lie to you; this is one of the toughest assignments we've had, but if we are to make any headway in this business, we need something to grab the headlines, shake up the powers-that-be in Washington. They sent two Federal Marshalls over there, and they never came back. Disappeared.”

“Perhaps they got lost.”

Chesterton shook his head. “No. Their bodies were eventually found by some settlers, who took 'em back to Laramie. Pegged out in the dirt they were, roasted black by the sun, their c***s stuffed in their mouths.”

“Nice.”

“Mr. Pinkerton met with the President.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. Simms remained stoic and Chesterton sighed. “The President was convinced by Mr. Pinkerton's assertion that we are the finest law-enforcement agency there is, and only we could deliver. Consequently, we've been given the assignment, Simms, and you are the man for the job. You'll travel over to Wyoming, which I think is the furthest west you can go from here, then make your way across the Territories until you find her.”

“And if she's dead?”

“The remit is to find her. Nobody said anything about finding her either dead or alive.”

“I need men, sir. At least three.”

Chesterton shook his head. “Can't spare 'em. Nor can the government. Seems it's ugly over there, Simms, talk of a war. Them Mormons…” He shook his head. “Brigham Young has got a cracker up his a*s about folk over at Bridger selling whiskey to the Indians. He might be right, but it's leading to all sorts of conflict. That's the place you're going to Simms. A war zone.”

“And to think I was actually contemplating taking today off.”

“I'd have hauled you in anyway.” Chesterton opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small wooden box, which he flipped open, extracted a cigar and rolled it under his nose.

Simms frowned and stood up. He felt very tired all of a sudden. “I'll get my things together. “

“You do this right, Simms. I don't want to see you back in this office without the girl, you get me? Randall is a national hero and those bastards who took his daughter, they need dealing with. You understand?”

“So, it's a rescue and assassination mission?”

“Phrase it however you want, just get it done.”

He threw the box back into his drawer, leaned back and put a match to the cigar. He sucked on it furiously.

“You need to cut it,” suggested Simms, “in order to smoke it.”

Chesterton's eyes narrowed. “Just get the f**k out of my office, you pompous bastard.”

Simms did just that.

Sometime later, Simms waited in the rain at the main ticket office, whilst the clerk behind the grill tapped his teeth with a pencil as he trailed a finger down a printed piece of paper. He clicked his tongue, shook his head, and appeared miserable. “Sorry, sir, there is nothing that gets you even close. Fort Laramie is about the nearest, but then you'd have to either board another train to Fort Bridger, or get a stage, if there is one. I doubt it though. It's a fairly wild place, mister. Lots of trouble over there, with Mormons and the like.” He looked up, “Either way, it'll be up to you, but I reckon your best bet would be to get yourself a horse at Bridger. If it's still there, of course. You never can tell in this day and age.”

Simms sighed, chewed his thoughts around for a moment, and finally put a five-dollar bill on the small counter. “Fort Laramie will be just fine.”

The official wrote out the ticket and slid it under the grill, together with a few coins in change. Simms folded the ticket and put it away under his coat. He turned, looking to the sky, the clouds heavy and leaden, the rain well set for the rest of the day.

He wondered if it would be raining where he was headed.

Somehow, he doubted it, but he knew a lot worse things than rain waited for him out in the Territory.