Another quarter hour passed. Then the stillness of the night was broken as the sound of approaching horses and the sound or churning wagon wheels. Cramer jerked his body erect and sat tall in his saddle. “Get ready, men,” he ordered in a loud raspy whisper. “Here they come. Wait until I give the word, then follow me. Remember, be careful with your shooting. We don’t want to risk hitting Jack. But if you see he’s clear, let those jiggers have all the lead you can give them.”
He pulled his pistol from his holster, as did the others. In a moment, the hearse and team came into view, entering the valley. “Hold it. Hold it.” The marshal said slowly and low. “Let them get right in front of us.”
The hearse moved steadily closer. The marshal and his men could now see the hearse plainly. There were two outriders, one on each side of the hearse as escort. There was a driver on the box and next to him was a shadowed man in long black coat and high top hat. His hands appeared tied in front of him over his knees. It looked like Jack was now under suspicion and had been bound.
But, even in the light of the brilliant moon, the lawmen could not see that it was not Jack on the seat with the driver. They also could not see that in the bound hands was a length of fuse wire that led back inside the hearse to the coffin of explosives. In the fake Jack’s teeth, a lit cigar glowed dimly in the dark.
Inside Jack’s coffin, he furiously plunged the knife into the seam below the lid again and again. Shards of wood and cloth showered him and clung to his sweaty body. His breathing extremely labored with the vanishing air supply. Time was running out. Had to get out!
The lawmen were almost ready to ride out now, but the advantage of surprise was suddenly lost as the two outriders pulled together and turned toward the woods, their pistols out, spewing flame and belching thunder as they rode forward toward the grove of trees.
Lead pellets crashed through the branches, but nowhere close to the posse. Cramer taken by surprise, took no time to analyze the effect of the shooting. His patience had worn thin and this sudden burst of attack prompted him into immediate action. His mount bolted out of the cover of the trees, the posse close behind him. Cramer returned fire as he rode forward and his followers followed suit.
The attacking outlaws whirled their mounts around and headed back toward the hearse and out of range of the lawmen’s fire. The hearse driver whipped up the team into a run and the entire party raced across the valley. The chase was on, pistol and rifle fire filling the night air.
Inside the coffin, Jack felt the sudden lurch of the hearse and the speeding run of the team. He was slammed back and forth against the sides of the box and interfering with his work on the lid. He could hear the muted thap, thap of gunfire. His heart began to race faster and perspiration beaded more profusely as he furiously fought to continue chopping into the coffin. Time had all but run out. Had to get out! Soon!
The outlaws and hearse followed the trail out of the valley, lawmen in hot pursuit. Guns blazing. The valley emptied into a flat plain that extended a hundred yards to the left and ending abruptly at a precipice overlooking the Smoke River a hundred and fifty feet below. To the right, bordering the trail, a mountain blocked passage to the west. The trail curved and wound around the mountain.
Hearse and outlaws plunged out of the valley, keeping on the trail close to the mountain. It would be a matter of seconds before the posse would come into view again, pouring out of the valley.
One of the outlaw riders rode up close to the hearse parallel to the driver’s box. The driver nodded it was time. His companion on the seat, touched the lighted end of the cigar to the fuse in his hands. It sputtered into flame and sizzled as it started its trek along the wire toward the explosives. Then he pitched sideways from the seat to land on the hard packed trail and roll away from the vehicle. At the same time, the driver yanked a strip of rawhide that was tied to the kingpin holding the wagon tongue. The hearse’s team of horses came free and galloped off down the trail. The hearse slewed toward the left across the grassy plain as the driver reached out toward the outrider and was pulled aboard his racing steed.
The posse roared out of the valley in time to see the outlaws and horses racing on down the trail, the hearse rolling at increasing speed across the flat toward the precipice. Then the man in the top hat and coat rose from the ground to stand in their path.
The lawmen pulled up, horses’ feet sliding in the gravel of the trail. “Jack!” Cramer shouted. Then as the moonlight reflected off the man’s face, he realized that it was not Jack. “Tom!” He exclaimed with surprise.
“Never mind me!” Tom shouted holding his bound wrists high for all to see. “Stop that hearse! Jack’s still inside!”
Cramer started to wheel his horse, but pulled up short. He swallowed hard, knowing it was too late. With the speed behind the hearse as it approached the precipice, the wagon seemed to grow wings as it pitched high into the purple sky as it left the precipice. Almost as if in slow motion the hearse seemed to hang suspended in mid air silhouetted against the huge looming full moon and then with the roar of thunder and flash of brilliant light it exploded. Again and again with successive smaller streaks of lightning and thunder. Then as the echoes died away, the remnants and debris rained slowly into the river below.
****
CHAPTER 4
THE NEW G-MAN
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” Said Senator Joshua P. Ballard, sitting in his usual chair in front of John Randolph’s ornate mahogany table he used for a desk. “He seemed so indestructible.” He shook his large head despondently. The gray of his thinning hair and neatly trimmed mustache seemed grayer today with the somber hue of his hazel gray eyes.
“I find it difficult to believe myself,” John Randolph responded, deep sadness in his deep baritone voice which added to the distinguished looks of the tall man who was now approaching middle age with slightly graying temples and thin brown hair. Randolph sat behind his table with his back to the floor to ceiling glass doors that led out onto the patio of his French styled stately mansion that was the hub of his vast sprawling estate called Randolph Farms, just north of and out of the city limits of St. Joseph, Missouri. To the outside world Randolph Farms bred and raised the finest racing horses in the state. But it was not just a farm, it was in fact the secret headquarters for the western region’s Justice Department operations and John Randolph, horse breeder, was in fact deputy director and Jack Clayton had been his ace operative.
“Sally and I owed our lives to Jack,” The Senator from Missouri mumbled reminiscently. “If it weren’t for Jack, Sally and I would not be here today.”
Many months ago the Senator had traveled west to find his daughter that he had not seen since she was a baby. He had finally found her, but on route home, they were kidnapped. Jack had rescued them. Sally became John Randolph’s secretary assistant and lived in the Senator’s St. Joseph mansion while the elder spent his time in Washington. Consequently, when Senator Ballard was in town, he would frequently visit John Randolph. They had a lot in common, since both were government officials and their friendship had been growing while many of the Senator’s old friends had shied away from him, saying he was not the same as he used to be before the kidnapping affair. The Senator admitted that since the abduction ordeal he had never fully recovered to be the man he used to be.
“We all owe Jack a great deal,” Randolph said.
“Such a shame,” Senator Ballard said. Did he have any family? I don’t believe anyone ever mentioned much about his personal life.”
“No. Jack was a very private man,” Randolph said. “Even when it came to business, I’m sure he kept secrets from me.” Then he added, “He does have a sister in law in Cleveland. Jack never talked about his family, but I heard that after the war between the states, he headed west with his brother. His brother planned on ranching but Jack had a law degree and planned on practicing law. He had a wife and a two year old son. His brother had a wife and a three year old daughter. The wagon train
they were traveling with was ambushed by white renegades. There were few survivors. Of Jack’s family, only his sister in law survived, and Jack was seriously wounded. Jack’s brother, wife and son were killed. His brother’s little girl disappeared . No one knows whether she lived or died.”
“How terrible for the poor man,” Ballard commiserated.
“Yes,” Randolph agreed. “Jack vowed vengeance on those marauders and with the help of the army he finally brought them to justice. After that, Jack stayed on to work for the government. Eventually, he came to work for me and devoted his life to trying to right wrongs and put evil persons where they belong.”
“Quite a man,” Ballard sighed regretfully.
“Yes,” agreed Randolph. “He’ll be hard to replace. Maybe impossible. But I understand his replacement is due in this morning and I did want you to meet him.”
“Of course, of course,” the Senator agreed.
“He’s been working with Jack on the silver smuggling. He’s the one most familiar with the case and he’s the logical choice to follow this silver trail into the trouble in Nevada.”
A knock came to the solid mahogany door and without waiting for an answer, Sally Ballard popped her blond head of curly hair through the opening and wriggled her pert little nose above a coquettish smile. “Mr. Ragan is here to see you, sir,” she announced most professionally.
“Good, good,” Randolph said with enthusiasm, as he stood up from his comfortable black leather chair.
Sally pushed the door wide open and stepped back. “Go right in Mr. Ragan. Mr. Randolph will see you now.”
“Thank you, Miss.” The tall good looking man in a black broadcloth suit, white shirt, vest and black string tie, said as he strode confidently into the big room. Randolph rushed around the corner of his table to greet him, arm extended to shake his hand. Ragan switched his black flat crowned hat to his left hand while he reached to grasp Randolph’s hand.
Senator Ballard half turned in his seat watching the young man. Amazing, he thought, how similar to Jack Clayton, he looked and dressed. Even to the blue eyes and dark hair, although it was straight and not wavy as Jack’s had been. The ornate silver conchoed hatband matched the conchoed black buscadero gun belt sporting two pearl handled sixguns that rode in hand tooled black holsters low on both thighs. “I’m, Tom Ragan,” He announced.
“I’m John Randolph. Glad to meet you Mister Ragan,” the deputy director said pumping his arm. “Please sit down,” He motioned toward the empty chair to the right of the Senator as he moved back around to his own chair and then just before being seated, he added, “This is Senator Joshua P. Ballard of Missouri. What we talk about here, he will keep confidential.”
The Senator half raised his bulk out of the chair, shook hands, and sank back into the comfort of the chair. Ragan took his seat and settled himself.
“You were there, when Jack was killed?” Randolph said, not really a question and not really a statement either.
“Yes,” said Ragan. “Even though I saw it, it’s hard to believe. He was a good friend,” he said resolutely as if he really meant it. “We worked well together.”
“That’s why we want you to continue this silver case.”
“I’d be glad to. Maybe in some way I can make it up to Jack. I feel that I let him down.”
“Nonsense,” Randolph exclaimed. “Jack knew the risks as I’m sure you do to. But I’m sure Jack would be pleased if you can finish what he started.”
“I hope so, Sir.”
Randolph smiled. “Sure. Now let’s get down to cases.” He glanced from Ragan to Ballard. “Senator, I know you are aware that there is pressure to remonetize silver as backing for our currency. As you recall silver was the standard several years ago, but it was demonetized and replaced entirely by gold as the only legal standard. Silver reduced tremendously in value and holders of silver were enraged to see their holdings dwindle to almost no value.”
Ballard nodded affirmation of Randolph’s dissertation. Ragan listened intently, his penetrating blue eyes focused on Randolph. “Now it looks like silver will once again be used as a standard, although only partially. The net result is that if the bill to remonetize silver is passed, silver is once again becoming valuable and demand is increasing. Silver is being smuggled into this country, as you know, Tom. What you saw in Arizona, is just part of this pipeline to bring in silver from all over the world, and increase American supply as fast as possible.”
Ragan nodded.
“Silver mines in the west are back in production. Miners are reopening old mines and producing new silver.” Randolph continued. “But these mines have come under attack from bandits and marauders. We suspect that they are part of a large organization, trying to amass all the produced silver supply as well as smuggling more in from abroad.” His gaze drifted to Senator Ballard. The Senator shifted his weight in the chair.
Randolph picked up a letter from his desk as if to read it. “I have here, gentlemen, a letter from a Colonel Theodore Montrose. Although he was an adversary in the late war between the states, he is now a foremost American. He is president of the miners association in Spring City, Nevada and he has asked for government intervention into the rampant attacks on the silver mines and their shipments to the Carson City mint.”
“Are you sure, this is a government issue right now, John. It’s not like the smuggling. That is clearly government business.” Ballard asked. “After all, the bill has not yet been passed. It may not be. With the election right around the corner, it may depend on who the next president is. If it’s Hayes, I know he’s against the bill.”
“Well, the way I see it,” Randolph answered. “American citizens are being pillaged and they have asked for help from the government. I agree with my superiors that we should give them the aid they are asking for.”
Ballard nodded, hesitantly in agreement.
“I want you, Tom,” Randolph directed to Ragan. “to go to Spring City, contact Colonel Montrose and do what you can to find out who is behind the trouble there and stop it. I’m suspect you’ll find that this is just the tip of the iceberg. This is a well organized plot and the trail will probably lead you to men in high positions. I want those men exposed no matter how much power they may possess.”
“I understand, sir,” Ragan nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
The Senator was silent and thoughtful eyeing the young man intently.
“Jack’s horse Regret has been shipped back here and is in our stables. If you can make friends with him, I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind if you took him.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tom responded with a wry half grin. “But, I have met that big black stallion before and I’m sure if I attempted to ride him I would Regret it for sure.”
Randolph and the Senator chuckled at that. “Besides I have a big chestnut stallion, myself, that is highly spirited. I won him in a poker game from a man who named him Red Devil. He’ll stack up to Regret or any other horse you have here.”
“Good. Then that is all,” Randolph responded, then stood and handed a train ticket across the table to Ragan. “You can take the train from Kansas City directly into Spring City. It leaves at noon.”
Ragan retrieved the ticket and placed it in his left inside coat pocket and stood up. He extended his hand to Randolph, then to Ballard, who refrained from rising his large bulk from the chair. Their eyes met briefly. “I’ll do my best,” Ragan said glancing back toward Randolph and started to turn for the door.
“And, Tom,” Randolph added. Ragan stopped short his hand still on the knob of the opened door. “Don’t trust anyone.”
“That’s good advice,” Tom Ragan agreed with a broad smile, glancing from Randolph to Ballard and back to Randolph. “Mighty good advice, indeed.” The door closed behind him.
****
CHAPTER 5
G-MAN’S GHOST
The train whistle blared shrilly. Tom Ragan had finally got settled in his seat after loading his big red stallio
n in the livestock boarding car and finding an empty seat in the passenger car. He was tired and sat back, settling down for the long trip to Nevada. He tipped his fancy black Stetson low over his eyes and stretched out his long legs. Might as well get in a nap if the darn whistle didn’t keep him awake. The engine started to chug and the giant train began to inch forward. The whistle blew again.
The door to the passenger car opened, the clank of the engine roared in, the whistle blared again. A striking young lady stumbled through, the floor of the moving car lurching beneath her. She placed her hand on the top of her sliding bonnet and clutched her carpet traveling bag firmly with her other hand against her body as she leaned back against the car door and pushed it closed behind her. She looked a bit frazzled and harried as if she had just barely made it to the train in time.
The train wheels seemed to grasp the rails, take hold and start moving the big iron horse forward at an increasing rate of speed, although still fairly slow. The young lady dressed in a blue gingham traveling dress and matching bonnet, had blond curly hair, light complexion and rosy cheeks with long curved lashes above her clear blue eyes.
She staggered drunkenly, although perfectly sober, along the aisle, bracing herself between the upright backs of the seats, looking for a place to sit. She spotted an empty aisle seat next to the well dressed gentleman with the hat pulled low over his face. She traversed forward and upon stopping unsteadily on her feet, holding the seatback for support, she said. “Excuse me, sir. Is this seat taken?”
Ragan pursed his lips in annoyance and pushed his hat up. Immediately the annoyance left him and he brightened, delighted with such good fortune. The lady was stunning. He pulled his long legs back, sat up quickly and doffed his Stetson, holding it in gentlemanly fashion across his chest. “No, ma’am,” He said with relish. “My pleasure. Here, let me help you with your bag.” He reached for it
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