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Just what had they done? Josiah Trelawny had asked this about his associates from time to time in the five year relationship he had maintained with them. An instance of a train robbery near Benedict Pass in New Austin five months before in particular came to mind. As he recalled, he was in Armadillo of all places, a man from back East eavesdropping in the saloon under the pretense of being a bank associate traveling to Sacramento. Now, he found himself passing by a general store in the Great Plains town of Blackwater, West Elizabeth.
That memory of Armadillo was nothing like the present in the industrializing town on Flat Iron Lake. The Van der Linde gang and their train robbery barely seemed to cause a ripple in the daily life of Armadillo, with its rough, desert environment and its even rougher inhabitants. Men talked of the distant robbery like it was regular news they received, as it was just that. As Trelawny walked along the newly paved street that appeared awash with red, he clamped down on a persistent desire to look over his shoulder. That was no sentiment the Blackwater populace held. The apparent near-militarization of the town could tell anyone that.
“Sir,” a firm voice from behind called, causing Trelawny to turn. A young man in a dark suit with a badge with the words “Pinkerton Detective Agency” on its lapel had addressed him.
“How do you do, sir?” Trelawny answered in cheery tone.
“Just fine, sir. My name is Clarence Bevan, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Could you please state your business here, Mister..?”
“George Alden, at your service”, he tipped his top hat at Agent Bevan with a courteous smile.
“I am associated with Lemoyne National Bank in Saint Denis, here to simply attend to some affairs with the bank in this town.”
“Did you arrive today?”
“I arrived last night, and I was welcomed by the sight of your fellow agents, telling me repeatedly of a curfew placed on the town.”
“Yes,” the young man with a Midwestern accent replied. “We’ve had to take various precautions ever since the Hell those degenerate bastards unleashed. Maybe you’ve seen the poster.” Trelawny had.
What on God’s green Earth had happened to place a town on lockdown with every block containing posters requesting the capture, dead or alive, of Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews?
“Indeed,” Josiah only uttered.
“I apologize for the icy demeanor, Mr. Alden. It’s just those Dutch’s boys damn well caused a massacre.”
“What did those animals do to these kind people?” Trelawny emphasized an expression of shock to the Pinkerton. Not that he needed to feign it in the slightest.
“It’s a bit hazy,” Clarence Bevan answered, “but the Van der Linde gang were intending to rob one of the ferries docked on the lake. And their maniac leader shot a young woman in the head.” Bevan removed his hat to gently wipe the perspiration of the day’s heat.
“Heidi McCourt, a young mother. In the wrong place at the wrong time,” he shook his head. He sincere in his look of disgust.
“Lord above, that’s horrid!” Trelawny’s voice trembled. Dutch had done that? That was not the man he thought he knew.
“That is it, Mr. Alden. Well,” the gravity of Agent Bevan’s voice lifted, “my apologies for keeping you. Go on about your business.”
“Thank for telling about.. this,” Twelawny began to walk.
“Oh,” he stopped himself, calling towards the Pinkerton agent, “I don’t want to take up your time, but do you know where one might purchase children’s gifts around this place?”
“Children’s gifts?” Bevan responded.
“Yes, it’s my boy’s fifth birthday next week, and I think he would like something like a spinning top. I’ll be traveling so much I’ll miss his birthday, sadly.”
The agent thought. “Maybe try Sauvage’s. It’s just on the lake.”
“Thank you, agent Bevan,” Trelawny warmly replied.
“Don’t mention it, and happy birthday to your boy,” the agent smiled, waving as he walked in the opposite direction.