Thirty sevenFew people were out and about so early in the morning and the sound of the two horses' hooves scuffing over the snow-dusted street sounded too loud, bringing a feeling of foreboding to Simms as he reined in and dismounted.
“This is your town?” asked Tabatha, sliding down from her saddle. “Seems like it's dead.”
“Just early,” said Simms, tying his horse to the hitching rail outside his office. “I'm going to check in here before we go to the jailhouse.”
“This is where you do all your work?” Tabatha stepped up onto the boardwalk and read the simple, wooden sign across the door. “ 'Pinkerton Detective Agency. Agent Simms'. You're something of a celebrity, having your name written up here for everyone to see.”
“Hardly a celebrity,” he said with a grin as he fitted the key into t
