Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  He had no reason to feel any safer from pursuit, but he heaved a long sigh and relaxed as they left Hannibal behind. Maybe a man can stand only so much unrelieved tension before his mind and body relax automatically. He had apparently reached that point.

  All of them sat in the same coach, but this time he positioned himself by a window, facing forward, so he had to look over his shoulder to see Janice and Rip Hughes who were across the aisle and slightly behind them. Hughes’s stares were beginning to unnerve him. Maybe he had noted the way Packard was behaving toward Janice. At least, he hoped it was nothing more than that. He would have to be more circumspect. Without being obvious, Kinealy had made sure his wife and Hughes saw the newspaper headlines before they left the dépôt.

  They made a brief stop in Palmyra, about twelve miles to the northwest, dropped a passenger, and picked up two. Then the train pulled out, heading west by south, and Packard stared out at the bare trees and hills that slid past his window. His thoughts drifted to the Wells Fargo messenger who had accepted custody of the canvas-covered lead coffin in Hannibal. His name was Louis Griffin, a grim-faced man in his thirties — the apparent opposite of the affable young Roscoe, the previous messenger.

  “Why didn’t you state on here that this mummy case contains gold?” Griffin had demanded, looking at the waybill when they slid the coffin into the open side door of the express car.

  Kinealy had looked surprised, but still kept up his academic guise. “How did you know about that?”

  “Roscoe told me,” he had said curtly. “I like to know what I’m responsible for.”

  “Actually, Mister Griffin, I didn’t think it necessary to mention it,” Kinealy had replied rather stiffly. “The mummy itself, as an archaeological treasure, is worth much more than any gold ornamentation surrounding it.”

  “Maybe to you,” Griffin had grunted, pushing the coffin to one side. “But not to a lot of other folks. And I don’t like surprises.”

  Maybe it was Griffin’s surly manner or because Kinealy was tired and out of sorts, but, instead of currying favor with a tip and maybe a joke, Kinealy had just snapped: “It doesn’t matter what’s in that box. I paid the freight on it. Just do your job and guard it like you would anything else in this car.”

  Even though Packard was in a hurry to get to breakfast at the time, Kinealy’s sharp reaction struck him as a mistake. If there was anything they didn’t need, it was to draw attention to themselves by getting into some senseless argument with a Wells Fargo guard. He just hoped the blunt words were forgotten, and they’d have an uneventful trip to St. Joe. The sooner they could get this body hidden somewhere, the sooner he could formulate his own plan of action.

  By his rough calculations, it was more or less a straight shot of just over two hundred miles across the state to St. Joe on the Missouri River. Depending on the number of stops, he figured they’d be there sometime the next morning. He popped open his silver pocket watch. It told him the time was ten thirty-five, but he could have guessed the time closer by observing the position of the sun, since every town and every railroad had its own version of the hour of the day. There was no uniformity.

  “We’re scheduled to arrive in Saint Joseph at seven fifteen A.M.,” the conductor replied to Packard’s question. As he handed back the punched ticket and reached for McGuinn’s, his eye fell on the folded newspaper in Packard’s lap. “That was a terrible thing that happened over in Springfield,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Packard asked, feigning ignorance.

  “That bunch that stole Abe Lincoln’s body, of course,” he said, jabbing his punch toward the paper.

  “Oh, yeah, it sure was.”

  “Things have changed since the war.” He shook his head sadly. “Attitudes are different. Nothing is sacred any more. Outlaws have more brass than ever. I hope they hang ’em up by their earlobes when they catch ’em.”

  “What makes you think they’ll be caught?” Packard asked before he thought.

  “Oh, it’s just a matter of time,” the lean conductor replied in a confident tone. “If the body’s hid close by, the police will find it. It’s not like you could slip something that big into your coat pocket, so they couldn’t move it very far.”

  When he paused, Packard said: “It sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”

  “Well, the stoker and I have a bet going. He says it’ll be found within ten miles of Springfield. I say it only stands to reason that....”

  “When do we stop for lunch?” Kinealy interrupted, throwing Packard a warning glance.

  “Well...uh...we don’t make a regular lunch stop,” the conductor replied, his train of thought derailed. “Just have to grab what you can during the few minutes while we’re picking up passengers and mail. Supper stop will be at Chillicothe.” He moved away down the aisle.

  “Keep your mouth shut, Packard,” Kinealy muttered between his teeth. “Professor Desmond will do any talking that needs to be done.”

  “Best way to throw off suspicion is to act normal and discuss the news,” Packard replied under his breath.

  “That’s my decision. Shut up!” His face was suffusing red, and Packard knew better than to antagonize him further. He thought about saying something flippant to lighten up the big man’s mood, but Kinealy was as serious as a new chairman of the board. So Packard just mumbled — “Sorry, boss.” — trying to sound as abject as possible.

  McGuinn had moved to the back of the car to warm himself at the potbellied stove. The stained bowler was still perched at a jaunty angle on his head, but he was in shirt sleeves, since Kinealy was still wearing his coat.

  Packard could have used a cup of Arbuckle’s about now, but this rail line didn’t provide coffee of any brand, free or otherwise. So he just settled back and resumed looking out the window. It was a deceptively bright, sunny day. But he could see the bare tree branches and the few pines and cedars waving in the wind, even as the cold air was seeping in around the closed window.

  “Gimme one of those cigars,” Kinealy said a few minutes later. Packard pulled one from his shirt pocket and handed it over. Kinealy heaved his big frame from the seat and swayed down the aisle and out the end door to smoke on the platform. Packard slumped down on the padded, green velvet seat and let the rocking motion of the car lull him into a doze.

  * * *

  About mid-afternoon, somewhere east of Chillicothe, Missouri, Packard was nearly thrown from his seat as the train slammed to a sudden stop, the coach’s couplings banging together. There was a thumping of bags falling from overhead racks and startled yells.

  “Damn! What’d we hit?” McGuinn yelled, lurching over the arm of the seat.

  “Must’ve derailed,” Kinealy said, struggling to untangle his legs from McGuinn’s as he staggered to his feet. But he fumbled under his coat for his holstered revolver.

  Just as he cleared leather, the forward door banged open and two masked gunmen burst in.

  “Drop that shooter on the floor, easy-like,” a muffled voice ordered, as the man gestured with the long barrel of an Army Colt.

  Kinealy let go of his pistol like the metal was hot.

  A woman behind Packard screamed, and he looked back quickly to see Janice Kinealy helping to ease a fainting woman to the floor.

  “You folks just sit still, and nobody will get hurt.”

  Both men were of medium height but looked taller because of the long linen dusters they wore. The outlaw who had spoken took off his hat and moved down the aisle like a man taking up a collection in church. His companion, who remained silent, stayed at the end of the car, gun drawn and eyes alert above the blue bandanna tied across his face.

  Packard’s heart was hammering, but he knew better than to make a move.

  “I’ll take that brooch, ma’am,” the robber said brightly, slipping the pin from the high neck of her starched shirtwaist with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Oh, please, no!” the woman pleaded, anguish in her eyes. “It belonged t
o my grandmother. It’s a cameo. Not worth much.”

  “Huh! You’re right. I don’t need to be fooling with anything that hasn’t got hardly any gold in it.” He handed it back. “But those earrings are a different story, yes indeed!”

  The young matron unfastened them with a pained look and dropped them into his hat without comment.

  “We’re doing you a favor by relieving you of these trinkets of vanity,” the bandit chuckled beneath the red bandanna as he moved on to the next passenger. “That watch and chain look a mite too heavy for you, sir.” He turned his head to take in the rest of them. “You others, get your cash and gold ready!” he barked. “We haven’t got all day. And I’m sure this train has a schedule to keep.” He gave a snort of laughter.

  A little farther along the robber set his hatful of loot on a seat, then jerked a well-dressed man to his feet and patted down his pockets. “That all you got? Gettin’ a little chubby around the middle there, aren’t you?” He yanked up the man’s vest to reveal a leather money belt. With a sudden movement, the outlaw backhanded the man across the face with his gun barrel, knocking him back into the seat. A trickle of blood oozed from one nostril. With one hand the bandit unhooked the belt and pulled it off. “Now, anybody else want to try holding out?” He glared around, his eyes cold and hard above the mask.

  He finished moving along the aisle, taking Hughes’s billfold and a small wad of bills from Janice’s handbag. Packard thought she was smart enough to secret some of the money before the robber reached them. The man behind him was dressed in worn corduroys and a coarse wool coat. He handed over a few bills and some silver dollars.

  “Lemme see your hands!” the bandit demanded.

  The man held them out, palms up.

  The robber touched them. “Calluses. You a working man?”

  “I have a small farm.”

  “Here. I don’t steal from honest working men.” The gunman shoved the money back into the man’s side pocket and moved on. He took the fifty-six dollars and change Packard had, along with his silver watch, then relieved McGuinn and Kinealy of their cash and watches.

  Cleaning out the few remaining passengers took only another minute. Then the two men backed out the door they had entered, slamming it behind them.

  “Hell, we’ve just been robbed by Jesse James!” the man with the money belt yelled, holding a handkerchief to his nose.

  “How do you know that?” Packard asked. “Just because we’re in his home state?”

  Kinealy was looking for his gun where it had been kicked under a seat.

  “Didn’t you notice how that man was limping?” the injured one whined. “Jesse was shot in the thigh in that bank raid in Northfield, Minnesota only two months ago. He hasn’t been heard from since. Besides, robbing trains is his specialty.”

  “Why didn’t you sing out, then?”

  “What good would that have done? Maybe get my head blown off, if he knew I recognized him.” He dabbed at his bleeding nose.

  “Hell, Frank and Jesse aren’t killers.”

  “Not unless they take a notion,” the farmer said dryly. “I live around here. Just because they don’t steal from working men don’t mean they’re like Robin Hood.”

  “I don’t care who the hell he is,” a third added. “I don’t take kindly to anybody sticking a gun in my wife’s face and scaring her half to death.” The middle-aged woman stretched out across the seats was beginning to come around.

  “What are we going to do about it?” the first man asked.

  “Probably nothing. I reckon they’re mounted up and gone.”

  “Naw. The train ain’t moved yet. The big prize is likely up forward in the express car,” the farmer said. “I’d say they’re cleaning it out right about now.”

  Kinealy and Packard looked at each other.

  “You reckon they’ll bother the mummy?” Packard asked quietly, drawing his gun from his holster, while the other men in the car were still jawing back and forth, trying to convince each other they weren’t scared. “Let’s find out.” Packard flipped open the loading gate of his Colt, turned the cylinder, and loaded the sixth chamber from his cartridge belt.

  The men in the coach still talked and argued. It was apparent they were not going to challenge the James gang for the sake of some cash and a few personal possessions, no matter how dearly held. Rip Hughes stood as if carved in stone, staring in their direction. He carried no holstered weapon, but Packard felt sure he was probably armed with a small pocket pistol, or had a gun stashed in his bag. His blank expression gave no clue to his thoughts. Was he debating whether to come along, or possibly to warn them off? At the time, it never occurred to Packard that he might be paralyzed by fear.

  Janice sat, worried eyes darting from Packard to her husband as the pair prepared to go out the forward end of the car. As McGuinn quickly drew his gun also, it suddenly dawned on Packard that the three of them were going up against an unknown number of armed train robbers, led by two of the country’s most notorious outlaws. The realization made his knees as limber as rope.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kinealy led the way, shouldering aside the excited men and women in the aisle. He carefully opened the door at the end of the coach, but the platform was empty. In two jumps they were across to the adjoining car. While Kinealy looked through the window, Packard carefully peered around the end of the coach. Off to the left side of the train and about thirty yards forward one mounted man held four other saddled horses. So it was three against five. The other four robbers were apparently in the express car, just ahead of the coach they were entering. As Packard looked, the horse-holder’s mount tossed its head and danced away from the acrid smoke that swirled down from the halted locomotive.

  “All clear. Let’s go,” Kinealy said, opening the door.

  The dozen or so passengers were talking in low voices, and several were at the windows. They turned to eye the trio as they passed through.

  “Where are you men going?” The lean conductor blocked the way, looking at their drawn guns.

  “Out of the way!” Kinealy said.

  “You’re not going up there. They’ve got the rest of the crew at gunpoint. If you start anything, somebody will get killed.”

  “We must protect our cargo!” Kinealy said.

  “What cargo is worth your life?” the conductor demanded.

  “There is a very valuable Egyptian mummy in that express car,” Kinealy said in his professorial voice. “I’m responsible for....”

  “To hell with your responsibility!” the conductor snapped. “The safety of passengers is my responsibility. You’re not going up there. Besides,” he added after a second, “those robbers aren’t after any old mummy. They want something they can spend.”

  “They’ve got the brakeman as well as the express car messenger and the engine crew up there?” Kinealy asked.

  “Right. So just stay put until they get what they want and leave. There’s nothing we can do. Wells Fargo will make good any losses.”

  “What about the money and watch they took from me?” McGuinn growled. “And the stuff they snagged from the rest of the passengers?”

  “I....”

  Kinealy shoved him roughly out of the way, and the three of them lunged past to the door.

  Packard’s heart was pounding and his mouth dry. This was carrying things too far, but, for some reason he couldn’t explain to himself, he couldn’t stand by and let the other two do this alone. The conductor was right. Jesse James would have no use for an ancient mummy, encased in a box too heavy and bulky to carry away without a wagon.

  “Hold it!” Kinealy said, raising his hand as they crossed the platform and stopped by the windowless door at the end of the express car. He pressed an ear to the door, then shook his head. He placed a hand on the handle and carefully started to twist. It was locked.

  “Maybe we better let it go,” Packard suggested in a whisper. “The box should be O K.” He hoped the nervous fear wasn’t revealed
by his voice.

  “Not if that damned messenger tells them there’s gold in it.”

  It was a possibility Packard hadn’t thought of. “Surely he won’t volunteer any information.”

  “I can hear voices inside. Apparently, they didn’t have to blast the side door open,” Kinealy said with some sarcasm. “The messenger doesn’t seem to be putting up any heroic resistance.”

  Packard could think of other ways the robbers might have gotten inside without violence — but he held his tongue.

  There was silence for a second, but he could tell Kinealy was itching to push ahead and confront Jesse and his boys. There was no way he could stall him any longer, so Packard volunteered. “Tell you what...let me slip around to the back side of this car and see if I can create some sort of diversion. Maybe I can pick off the man holding their horses. Or maybe I can slide the side door shut and hold them in there a bit until you and some of the passengers can be ready to pick them off when they come out.”

  He was only blowing hot air since he had no intention of doing anything except getting out of their sight and out of the way until these bandits were gone, but he had to put up a good front. He didn’t know what had gotten into Kinealy. All of a sudden the man was going off half-cocked, as if he wanted to take on the whole gang of gunmen. Even if they were somehow successful in foiling this robbery, was Kinealy thinking of the glare of fame that would shine on him as a hero who had stopped the James gang — sudden fame that would be his undoing? Possibly it had something to do with acting the part of the heroic leader in front of his wife.