Jackson Holt! My god, so many years had gone by since a Union bullet had accidentally struck his friend in the head when he had risen from the gully they were hunkered down in. Jackson's shredded brains had been blown out, splattering all over Coltrane. In a rage, he'd stood up and began firing madly back toward where the shot had come from even as Holt was taking his last breath. The third man who had been in that gully with them, their friend Theodore Drew, attempted to cradle the man in his arms, but only one of them still worked. At sunset the previous day, he'd taken a bullet to his left arm, and now the bandaged appendix hung useless.
Returning from his war-torn past to the bell foundry, he watched as Holt beckoned him to hurry, and he fell into place on the opposite side of the vat. Each man picked up the special bracket he had retrieved from the shipping depot earlier and stepped forward sliding the semi-circle hoop around the vat of boiling silver. It was a perfect fit handily replacing the old one that Holt had been using since he was a young man and had first begun making bells. A week ago, it had snapped as they were lifting the vat, and Coltrane had to quickly bolt out the way narrowly missing having his feet scalded by molten silver. It had taken a blacksmith at the same outfit that had made the special molds to construct a new one to the exact dimensions they needed to heft the vat. Both men had been relieved when it had come in, as they were eager to get back to business and start their profiting.
Working in unison, both men hefted the vat off its base over the fire and approached the six rounded molds before them. They were extremely shallow, but that had been by design. As they began pouring the silver into each of them, he thought back to that long night in the gully and how a conversation that most would have written off as posturing bullshit had reached its end game here and now.
Trapped in the gully for the night, hemmed in between Rebel and their own Union forces, the men, including the injured Drew, had been forced to wait for the battle to end. The three friends, all draftees, had spent the hours bitterly complaining of how fate had put them in that damned gulch. They’d never wanted to pick up arms in the first place; they had been forced into it by their own damn government. It was a conversation they’d had so many times in the past, but unknown to them it would be the last time all three would be airing their grievances.
Drew could spend hours alone bitching about how his rising banking career had been interrupted by being drafted and sent into this world of constant fear and misery. The man had been deathly afraid of dying every time they went into battle. His friend was convinced that he would never survive the war to see the life he always dreamed that he would lead as a wealthy and successful banker.
Holt’s hatred of his service for the Union had been purely ideological. He didn’t see how his government could ask him to put his life on the line to free the nigrahs, as he called them. No white man’s life was worth sacrificing to benefit that misbegotten colored race. As far as he was concerned, the South was free to do with as they pleased with the darkies. They were little more than chattel in his eyes.
Drew had tried to argue the point the North wasn’t interested in freeing the slaves, that was just a byproduct of keeping the nation together. Holt, however, never would listen to that argument convinced it was all about taking the yoke off the neck of the darkies. After the war when Coltrane had arrived at his father’s bell foundry to deliver the news of Jackson’s death by friendly fire, it became crystal clear the views of the son had come from the father. Jeb Holt had broken down cursing that his son’s precious life had been cut short by one of his fellow infantrymen, and even worse, his life had been thrown away all over a pack of heathen nigrahs.
Then there was his own anger at the draft. Coltrane had become adept at finding creative ways to rob others of their valuables. He successfully robbed a bank in Ohio and one in Kentucky, as well as finding crafty ways to fleece people by running confidence schemes. Then his draft notice had come. His first instinct had been to flee to Canada or Mexico, but he didn’t like the idea of spending the rest of his life in either of those places. He’d never been caught for his crimes and was seen as a respectable citizen. He resolved he would serve his time, no matter how reluctantly, and use his status as a veteran after the war in more of his confidence schemes.
The pair of men set the vat down in a special cradle, and Jeb Holt secured it in place before he took his position by the rocker arm. Gently he brought it down, tilting the vat, and watched the silver flow. Donning gloves, Coltrane gripped the handle on the rectangular tray of molds and pushed, sliding the next empty circular mold into place. As Holt repeated the process of filling it, his mind thought back to that final night. Somewhere in the wee morning hours, they had made a pact.
The government had robbed them of four years of their lives and had put them at risk every day they had awoken anew. Someday they would make their Uncle Sam pay through the nose. Drew was especially down with their plan as he lay there with a bandaged bloody arm that Coltrane had a sinking feeling the man was going to lose. The trio said they didn’t care how long it would take. The government owed them, and they intended to collect. The next morning when it, at last, appeared safe, Jackson Holt had moved to scramble out of the gully, and he was cut down by a jittery greenhorn from their own line. The blind fury that had consumed Coltrane to make him fire back toward their own troops had led to him spending the rest of the war in an army prison. His commanding officer had told him he was lucky no one had been hit by his fire, or else his next stop wouldn’t have been a prison but a firing squad. As he had been hustled away under arrest, he heard the cries of anguish from the medical tent as Drew bit down on a piece of wood as his arm was sawed clean off by the doctor who had done too many amputations to count.
Prison had hardened him, but not enough that he didn't want to pay his respects to Holt's father and had journeyed to Arizona to give him the details of his son's death after his release. He'd told of Jackson's bitterness and the vow they had made, and Jeb Holt in his grief had told him he would stand up in his son's place if they ever needed him. From there Holt had visited the one-armed Drew in California. The man was bitter and for a good reason. Instead of being looked on as an honored vet, he was now seen by his bank as a cripple, and he was not rehired. As much as it galled Drew, the only work he could find was a lowly job at the San Francisco Mint working for the government that had ruined his life.
When he had departed San Francisco that day to begin his life of crime in earnest, that had been the last time he'd seen Drew, but they had kept in touch by letters over the years. He had always been the one to send the first letter from wherever he was hiding out because his life had become one of always being on the lam. Still, it wasn't all bad. He'd gained a reputation as a first-rate bank robber and had even become something of a freelancer for hire for those who wanted money but didn't wish to take risks themselves. Coltrane had been happy to oblige for the healthy cut he demanded.
As he watched Holt fill the last mold, he smiled; this job wasn't for anyone but themselves. A year ago, he'd accepted an invitation to meet with Drew who had cryptically said that now was the time for them to get their payback. In the long years since the war ended, Drew had worked his way up at the San Francisco Mint. He was playing a key role in the upcoming move to the new mint scheduled to open the next year that locals were already dubbing "The Granite Lady," even though it was made of limestone. Drew had said with things in flux with the pending move; there was no better time to rob his own mint with Coltrane's help.
Coltrane had warmed to the idea with gusto. They would make so much on this robbery that he could hang up his spurs when it came to the outlaw life and retire with his new-found wealth. Drew worried, however, once the theft was carried out, the government would never stop looking for the stolen goods. That was when Coltrane had the inspiration to bring their old friend's father in on the heist, remembering the man had vowed to help in any way he could having lost his only child to the North's cause. Jeb Holt had skills that
would come in quite handy.
The entire robbery had gone off without a hitch, if you didn’t count the dead guard they’d been forced, thanks to Drew as an inside man that none suspected, completely overlooked, and dismissed merely because of his disability. Leaving a false trail for the feds to follow inland, in reality he and his men using a small sailing ship they had purchased, had successfully sailed through the Golden Gate, down the coast, rounding the Baja and sailing up the Gulf of California to the mouth of the Colorado where they sold their sailing ship and bought the smaller sloop and barge. With the newly acquired vessels, they made the journey all the way to dock behind Holt’s bell foundry that the old man once used to ship the bells he made down the river.
The two men used the bracket to return the vat to the blast furnace once more. Holt had said he wanted to rest for a minute or two before they began to fill it with more silver to smelt. Coltrane took the opportunity to walk over to the table where the Chinawoman worked. She still refused to look up at him as she continued to labor, but he could see the slight tremor in her hand, and he barked at her to steady herself. She bobbed her head up and down, and once he was satisfied, her hand was firm again, he looked away. The woman needed to do a good job in case anyone got too close to the "plates."
For a final time, he congratulated himself on the scheme he had formulated to dispense with the silver once they’d stolen it. Melted down into discs resembling plates, they were being painted white with the intricate patterns being added by the woman. Coltrane had mined his contacts in the underworld and had found numerous buyers for the silver, and he would be dispensing it to them right under everyone’s noses as they shipped the silver masqueraded as ordinary china.
Once in the hands of the buyers, the new owners of the silver could do what they pleased with it, likely melting it down again and back into bars. That was no concern of his. Yes, all had been going well, right up until almost an hour ago when they’d caught the woman. He tried to tell himself that maybe she was a hungry transient who had somehow heard of the garden and was up on the roof to steal food. Shaking his head, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that. The woman looked incredibly fit and well fed to be some starving wayfarer.
As Holt called him back to help with loading the silver, he became more and more anxious about wanting to question the woman. Unbeknownst to him, he had good reason to be concerned because he wasn’t dealing with some random woman. He was holding a Wilde prisoner, and they were nothing if not resourceful, as at that very moment, Cassandra was already knee-deep in planning her escape!
CHAPTER 5
The moment the door closed behind her, Cassandra's eyes had made continual sweeps of the room looking for anything that could either aid in her escape or use as a weapon. For a kitchen, it was surprisingly spartan, almost utilitarian leaving her to deduce that cooking didn't go beyond a necessary evil for bell-maker Holt. It was quite the contrast to the kitchen at Cedar Ledge where old Mrs. Chow had all manner of pots and pans and every utensil known to man. All supplemented with countless spices and other ingredients that the old woman used to prepare the delightful feasts for the Wilde family.
What she wanted more than anything was a knife to free herself, but none was apparent. It was possible that they were in a lone pair of overhead cupboards, but if they were, it would do her no good as the man had been clever with binding her. When he'd secured her wrists together in front of her, he'd also looped the rope through her belt next to the buckle leaving her almost no range of motion to move her hands very far, let alone reach up to a cupboard. Even standing was difficult as Holt had cleverly crisscrossed her feet at the ankles, and when she tried to stand, she continually lost her balance and thudded back to the floor.
As she lay there, she looked up at the black potbellied stove and the handle sticking out over the side of it. The aroma she had smelled before was coming from a stew the men had going on top of the stove, but she’d decisively lost her appetite after being captured. It was times like these she wondered what Kate Warne would think. The woman who had been the first ever Lady Pinkerton had become her mentor and best friend back during her time in Chicago. Likely, her partner would have alternately laughed at her and chided her for the incident with the bell. How she missed her so, even after all these years.
Cassandra had to find some way to get free, but then what? The door was locked, but behind a pair of closed curtains appeared to be a sole window she could escape through. After that, she would make it her mission to turn the tables on these men and take them down. From what little she had seen while in the bell foundry, she had pieced together what was going on here. The bell maker was putting his smelting expertise to use to melt down the silver, and they had a poor Chinese woman painting them up to look like ordinary china plates. What their intention with the phony dishes once they were done, was anyone’s guess. She would find out, but first, she had to get free.
It appeared to be just Coltrane and Holt in the house, as she had seen no one else. During one of her attempts to stand, she’d noticed at the table in the corner, the men had only put out two bowls in anticipation of their upcoming meal. Where were the other men? She had a hunch, and if it were true, that worked in her favor, as two criminals to deal with were much better odds.
Cassandra looked around again, and her eyes fell on the cast iron stove. Next to it was a bin of coal and a small shovel for heaping the rocks in to keep a fire going. A surge of excitement tingled through her with the blooming of an idea she knew just might work. Slowly she twisted and turned, rolling herself across the floor and struggled to kneel in front of the little door to the stove. Cassandra could feel the heat rolling off from it, but she was undaunted as she wiggled her body until she was as close as possible to it. While her hands may be bound at the wrists, her fingers still worked enough to lift the lever and clasp holding the door closed. Hooking the top of the door with three of her fingers, careful not to use her trigger finger, she tugged it open as they flared with pain.
Fighting through the feel of her burnt fingers, she twisted her body, moving it sideways. It took her three failed attempts to grasp the handle of the little shovel and bring it before the now open door. The heat was even more intense now, but she soldiered onward giving the shovel a not so gentle shove into the burning coals. Gently, she began to pull it back out until it cleared the bottom lip of the doorway. Gravity took hold and the shovel dropped to the floor spilling its contents just as she intended.
Now came the part she truly dreaded. Cassandra exhaled a deep sigh before she tilted and dropped to the floor on her side. Like an inchworm, she wriggled herself close to the scattered burning lumps of coal and slowly pressed the ropes that were binding her wrists against the coals. For what seemed like an eternity, she waited, but in real time, it was only a minute or two before she smelled the burning of the ropes. She tried to hold still, but her wrists slipped ever so slightly. However, it was enough for her skin just below the rope to make contact with one of the coals.
Cassandra began to pant as she fought the pain, but she knew she couldn’t move or else she would have to start the rope to burning again only on a different place. There was no telling when her captors might come back, and if they walked in now, she was done for. Sweat cascaded down her face, and she gave a small moan, but she wasn’t going to give up. Finally, she took a chance and attempted to pull her wrists apart. As a reward for her tribulations, the loop of the rope she had been burning snapped in two. Now with enough play in it, she quickly wriggled her hands loose, and they were free. Before she moved on to free her legs, she looked at the blistered, circular patch of skin on her wrist. How many scars had she picked up over the years? She had no idea; she only knew this was going to be the latest one.
Once she was unbound and able to stand again, Cassandra didn’t even bother trying the door, having heard it lock shut when Coltrane had exited. Instead, she bolted towards the only other means of escape. Drawing the curtains open, she came face t
o face with a dirt-streaked window that faced out onto the front yard of Holt’s home. Through the grime she looked out at the well she’d seen earlier. Holt not only was in league with a criminal, but he was also wasn’t much of a housekeeper, she mused, trying to bring a little levity to the grim situation she’d found herself. Any reviving spirits she might have had wilted like wax under an August sun as she attempted to force the window open, but it would not budge.
Nailed shut!
Why had he done this? She knew it was something people often did, but what did it matter why she mused angrily. It was keeping her inside and putting her at risk of being discovered escaping. Her shoulders momentarily slumped in resignation as she reached up and tore off one of the curtains and stepped backward. Like the burning coal, this was also another no choice scenario. She backed up all the way across the room and wrapped the floral curtain around her head and sprinted forward. At the last moment, before she sailed through the window, she crisscrossed her arms over her face for extra protection.
The shattering of glass and splintering of the wood frame assaulted her ears as she burst through them. Plunging earthward, she now threw her arms around in front of her just before she smashed into the ground. Her jaws slammed shut, catching the edge of her tongue. Cassandra spat blood after she yanked the curtain free and staggered to her feet. Two stories above her, she heard the bell ring out the three o’clock hour. It was hard to believe her captivity had only begun an hour ago, as she felt she’d been a prisoner in the kitchen for ages.
Shaking off such thoughts, she glanced up to the spot on the ridge where she was supposed to meet back up with Lijuan. There was no sign of her, of course, as even if she were still up there, she would be concealed and not standing out in the open like a beacon. She willed herself not to sprint in the direction of the ridge but to carry out the rest of her impromptu plan.
River 0f Death: Cassandra Wilde Adult Western (Half Breed Haven Book 13) Page 4