Collier's Creek: 1 - A Stranger in Town by Jo Cameron-Symes

Prologue – Philadelphia, May 1890 - Office of C.P. Samuels – Private Investigator

It was a sunny morning in mid-May when my life changed completely. Work was slow and I was getting restless. That was until ten o’clock, when Mr Lennox and his distraught wife entered my office.
 “It’s my son Mr Samuels; James Lennox, a Geologist. He’s been missing for three months. Headed out West for work.” He handed me a photograph of a handsome fellow, young, aged twenty-three, so he said. I studied it carefully, though it told me nothing yet.
“Sir, with all due respect, lots of young men head out West and lose contact with their folks. It’s nothing personal. The West, as we know, is a different country.” I handed the photo back. “Besides, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m sorry Sir, I’m not sure I can help you.”
“We’ll pay double your usual fee. Make it worth your while. It’s important, my wife is desperate and may not have long to live!”
I looked across at Mrs Lennox and she did indeed look very unwell. Mrs Lennox grabbed my forearm; “Please help us! My son used to write to me every week. We’ve heard nothing for three months. Please, I implore you!” she said.
It was the desperation in her eyes that swung me. “Ok,” I said, “I will try my very best, but you know this will be difficult.” If only I’d known just how difficult it would be…

One Week Later - Collier’s Creek - Arizona

The coach rolled into town followed by a trail of golden dust. The heat was intense and the sunlight was blinding. I took the photo out of my pocket. This was the last town where James had been, according to his parents; ‘Collier’s Creek,’ Arizona. I stepped off the coach and the driver handed me my trunk.
“Not much in here, Sir.”
“I like to travel light.” I said.
The coach driver seemed nervous as if he wanted to be gone. Before I paid him, I asked him why he was so skittish.
“I don’t like to stop here at night.”
“Why?” I asked.
He looked around. “No reason,” he shrugged, but his hand shook as he took my money. He jumped back up into his seat and sped off, his horses a flurry of activity creating a mini sandstorm.
I looked around me. I was on Main Street. On the left was ‘Jensen’s Hotel,’ a huge establishment that looked out of place. Opposite was a Saloon Bar called ‘The Golden Horseshoe.’ Along from the saloon I saw: a General store, Wells Fargo Office, Sheriff’s Office, and Blacksmith’s Stables. There was little else here. I was keen to begin my investigation, so checked into Jensen’s then headed to the saloon.
I noticed a couple of old timers, sitting on chairs on the porch, staring at me from under the brims of their Stetsons. I nodded at them and smiled curtly but knew that I was unwelcome here. In this town, I was a stranger and about to cause trouble as far as they were concerned. This town was not forgiving, this town had its secrets, of that, I was sure.
I pushed open the saloon doors. The bar was almost empty aside from a few inebriated regulars. A pretty, blonde barmaid eyed me as I approached.
“What’ll it be, Mister?” she asked.
“A beer,” I said.
“New in town, huh?” she said as she poured my drink.
“Yeah,” I replied.
I then felt someone staring at me from the darkest corner of the room. I looked over and saw a huge man aged about thirty. He swigged his beer and kept on staring in a hostile manner. I took my hat off, placed it on the bar, and strolled on over to the interested party.
“Everything alright?” I asked.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On your purpose here, Mister. We don’t like strangers, in these, here parts.”
“Really? Well, I’m not after your girl if that’s what you’re thinking.” I looked across at the blonde who seemed quite insulted by this.
“She ain’t my girl,” the man said and stood from the table drawing up to his full height which was tall, very tall. “What’s your name Mister?” he asked.
“My name’s Calvin Samuels, but you can call me Cal,” I said. I handed him a business card hoping to distract him, he squinted at the text and I reached into my pocket and brought out the photo. “I’m here to look for this man. James Lennox, from Philadelphia. Have you seen him? He’s been missing for three months.” He peered at the photo for a while and shook his head.
“Sorry Mister. Can’t help you there.” He looked across at the blonde and slowly walked out.
I walked back over to the bar. The blonde eyed me carefully, then leant across and whispered into my ear. “You’d do right to cause no trouble here. I don’t want such a fine fella as you being barred. Who’re you looking for?” she said as she took the photo from me in one clean sweep. “He sure was, I mean, is handsome. Not as handsome as you mind.” I was about to challenge her slip, when there was an almighty gunshot outside.
We ran into Main Street to see a drunkard standing in the middle of the road, aiming a rifle high into the air. The Sheriff was approaching him, followed by his Deputy and a Preacher. “Now, now Dale, put the gun down,” the Sheriff said. “Let’s be getting you home.” The Preacher beseeched him to repent and give up the demon drink for it led to the devil. Dale looked around him, suddenly realising where he was. The Sheriff crept up to him, took the rifle away, and handed it to his much younger Deputy. The tableau was disrupted and everyone carried on as normal.
The blonde put her hand on my shoulder and leant into me. “Don’t worry ‘bout ol’ Dale,” she said. “He’s harmless, mostly…” We walked back into the bar.
“So, you’re looking for this fella? His eyes look pretty dark, hmm, eyes the colour of Bourbon…” she said, as if lost in a remembered reverie.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“No.” I sensed that she was lying. “I think I’d remember a face like that. No, darlin’ I’ve never seen him, sorry.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” I said looking dejected.
“Hey, I said I haven’t seen him, but I might know someone who has.”
“Who?” I asked.
A harried portly woman emerged from a back room shouting “Bonnie! Have you sent that telegram yet? Your father needs that information urgently!”
“Oh, sorry Ma, I forgot.” She looked shamefaced.
“And who’s this man, Bonnie?” she barked, looking at me.
“Cal Samuels,” I replied, handing her a business card. “I’m here to look for this man,” I said handing her the photograph. “James Lennox.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“Does he look at all familiar?” I asked.
“Nope, sorry.” I looked at her face closely and believed her.
“Your daughter was just about to tell me of someone who might have seen him?” I looked across at Bonnie who was sullen and quiet now.
“Have you tried the Sheriff?” her mother asked.
“Not yet, but I intend to.”
“Good, well, I would ask him, if I were you.”
“Where do men go when they arrive in town?” I asked her.
“It depends, they wouldn’t be able to afford many nights at Jensen’s. They usually look for work at the mine. Apart from that, they work on farms, ranches and the railroad. But the mine is by far the largest employer.”
“And where do they stay?”
“A variety of places.”
“Ma?” Bonnie interrupted.
“Yes dear?”
“What about Aunt Margaret’s? That is where a lot of young fellas stay, after all.”
“Of course! Yes, you must see my sister. She lives out of town on one of the largest ranches in the county!” She wrote the details on the back of my business card.
“Yes,” Bonnie said. “Poor Aunt Margaret’s husband died, leaving her a widow at forty! She had a whole big ranch to manage all on her lonesome, so thought she better open up some rooms and get some fine, strong, young men to help her out.”
“Bonnie!” her mother rebuked. “Margaret has suffered a great loss and needs all the help she can get.”
“Of course, Mother. She needs a lot of help out at her stud farm.” She tried to suppress a giggle.
A tall girl walked in through the back of the saloon, a rifle slung over her back. She was dressed in rancher’s clothes and covered in dirt.
“My sister,” Bonnie whispered with an eyeroll.
“Hannah!” her mother scolded. “How many times have I told you not to walk all that dirt into my bar? This is a respectable establishment!” she said.
“Sorry Ma,” Hannah said, laying down the rifle behind the bar. “I’ve been looking for wolves, well, one wolf actually, a mighty big one! Hank said he saw it last night. It took a few cattle from Foster Allan’s Ranch.”
“Wolves! A likely story! Well, you can now help this here young man. He’s heading out to Aunt Margaret’s, and I want you to accompany him.”
“Mother! That’s not fair! I want to go!” sulked Bonnie.
“Absolutely not, young lady! You’ve got to deliver that message to your father. I’ll hold the fort here, now be off with you!”
Hannah looked at me crossly. “Ok, but please excuse me while I freshen up.” She seemed different from her sister. Much more serious and hard-headed. Bonnie huffed her way out of the saloon letting everyone know she felt hard done by.
While I waited for Hannah I looked down at my card and saw with a start that Margaret’s surname was Jensen. Just how many Jensens were there in this town?
“Quite a few dear.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise I’d spoken out loud.”
She looked at me with a smirk on her face. “The Jensens don’t just own that fancy hotel. They own the mine, ranches, and farmland out to the east. They live in a huge house out yonder.” She waved in a general northerly direction.
Hannah appeared, not looking much different, though she’d washed her face and changed into a skirt, presumably to appease her Aunt.
“Ready?” she asked. “We’d better hurry, a hell of a storm’s brewing.”
“Language, Hannah!”
“Sorry, Ma,” she said.
I took my hat and followed her outside…