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as I wove among the crowds of bankers, miners, etc. When I spotted a break in traffic, I nipped across D Street.
    This was a bold thing to do, considering the two-part body I had just seen, but I knew a well-delivered blow from that silver-headed walking stick could kill me as surely as being run over by a Quartz Wagon.
    Up ahead, the spire of the Methodist Episcopal Church seemed to beckon me on. I reckoned the blaspheming Coroner would not follow me inside that safe haven.
    The church doors were wide-open, but instead of going inside I quickly squeezed behind one of the wide-open doors. Sandwiched between the raw planks of the outside wall & the white-painted door, I listened with all my might for the sound of pursuing footsteps & cussing. But all I could hear was my heart pounding & my breath coming in rasps.
    By and by, I peeked out of that narrow place.
    “I believe the coast is clear,” came a man’s voice to my right.
    A man in a vest & shirtsleeves was kneeling in the small garden in front of the church. Apart from him, the “coast” did indeed look “clear,” so I emerged from my hiding place.
    “Are you praying?” I said.
    “No, I am gardening. Planting rose bushes. They say no flowers bloom here and no green things gladden the eye, but I am determined to prove them wrong.” He put down his trowel & stood up & dusted off his knees.
    He was tall & slim & blond with a billy goat beard!
    It seemed such men were everywhere.
    “If I am not mistaken,” said the fair-haired gardener, “you are Virginia City’s newest detective.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    “And I am Virginia City’s newest Methodist pastor.” Hestepped forward and held out his hand. “Charles Volney Anthony.”
    Although he resembled a hundred other men in Virginia, I reckoned the Methodist pastor (& possible murder suspect) was someone whose name and face I should make a special effort to remember. So I used the trick Ma Evangeline taught me. In my mind’s eye I imagined him sitting down, with a vole on one knee & a big ant on the other: vole-nee ant-on-ee.
    I allowed him to shake my hand & said, “I am P.K. Pinkerton.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I know that, too.”
    “How do you know who I am?”
    “A certain Miss Feather in my congregation—a school-marm—is concerned about you. She described you to me and told me something of your history. There are not too many half-Indian children running about Virginia dressed in fringed buckskin trowsers, pink flannel shirts and slouch hats,” he said.
    “My shirt is faded red,” said I. “Not pink.”
    He gave me a keen look. “Are you fleeing someone? Is there anything I can do to help?”
    “The Coroner was after me,” I said. “He thought I was pranking him.”
    “Ah,” said C.V. Anthony. “I have not met the Coroner but I can see it might be hard for some people to credit a youngster would set up as a Pinkerton Detective.”
    “My pa was a Pinkerton,” I said. “I hope to follow in his footsteps.”
    “Your father must be the non-Indian half,” he said.
    “Yes, sir. My ma was Lakota.”
    “Are you working on a case now?”
    “Yes,” I said. “A Murder.”
    “A Murder?” he said. “Surely you jest.”
    “No, sir,” I said. “I never jest. I am trying to find out who killed Miss Sally Sampson. The first step of my investigation is to go to the Scene of the Crime and look for Clews. Do you happen to know where her crib is?”
    I did not mention Martha because I was not sure yet if I could trust him. Although he was a Methodist preacher, he fit the description of the Killer.
    His smile faded. “Ah. Poor Sally.” He stared down at the ground. “Although I have not been here long, I did know Sally. She was a devoted and generous member of this congregation.” He pointed north. “She lived about half a block up on this side of the street. The crib with the yellow door. That is the scene of the crime.”
    “Thank you, Reverend.” I replaced my slouch hat &