Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  For several long seconds, nobody moved, nobody spoke. Packard thought they were all amazed that they weren’t mangled beneath a pile of jagged splinters and twisted metal.

  “My God, Sterling, that was close!” Janice breathed. He was suddenly conscious of her rigid form clinging to him.

  “About one mile an hour faster and we wouldn’t have made it,” he gasped, his voice a little shaky. He was in no condition to appreciate her nearness as they numbly disengaged themselves and stood up. The reaction was setting in, and his knees were so wobbly he had to hold onto the seat backs to stay erect.

  Finally somebody muttered a joke and someone else laughed. The tension was broken, and everyone began stirring and talking at once, the relief obvious in their voices.

  Kinealy, McGuinn, and Hughes came through the milling passengers, many of whom were making for the doors to get outside.

  “What the hell happened?” Kinealy demanded, looking at Packard. “Why did they uncouple these cars?”

  With a start he realized that no one had seen him knock the coupling pin loose. Rather than try to justify his actions, he quickly decided to let the James boys take the blame.

  “Damned if I know,” he said, seemingly baffled, but actually stalling while he struggled to concoct some sort of plausible tale. He said in a low voice. “I heard that damned messenger tell them there was gold in the mummy case.”

  “I thought that might happen,” Kinealy nodded.

  Now that suspicion was deflected from him, Packard continued: “Before I could figure out how to stop them, or give you the high sign, the one holding their horses started shooting at me.” He affected a disgusted look. “My gun’s lying back there along the track somewhere.”

  “Let’s step outside a minute,” Kinealy said, taking his arm. McGuinn followed, while Janice and Rip Hughes stayed inside.

  They stood away from some of the other passengers on the lee side of the train out of the cold wind. The pale afternoon sunshine felt good, and Packard began to relax.

  “Did they get into the coffin?” Kinealy asked, striding along the left side of the train toward the open express car.

  “Don’t think so. I got a quick look inside from the skylight,” Packard replied. “Griffin was on the floor, and the James boys were gone. But I didn’t have time to look for the box.” He had a sudden thought to elaborate on this lie. “Maybe they were rolling the train back down to a waiting wagon.”

  “They had no way of knowing there was any loot big enough to require a wagon,” Kinealy said over his shoulder.

  By then they were close enough to see the conductor and the farmer helping Griffin down out of the express car. Blood smeared the side of his face.

  “I’m all right,” Griffin said, waving them off as they came up. “Let me sit down here a minute.” He accepted a bandanna the farmer was offering and dabbed gingerly at his bloody, matted hair.

  “You shot?” Kinealy asked.

  “No. They clubbed me before they jumped off,” he replied, sitting down weakly on the bleached grass.

  Kinealy, McGuinn, and Packard all scrambled up into the open side door. The ropes had been cut, and the canvas cover thrown aside. The coffin was in plain view and showed numerous hacks and dents from an axe, but the lead had not been breached.

  Before they could cover it, the conductor hopped up nimbly beside them. “Is that your mummy case?”

  “Yes.”

  “They didn’t get it, then.” He took a second look at the coffin. “I didn’t know those things were encased in lead.”

  “The university had that done to protect the fragile wood,” Kinealy lied quickly.

  “Oh.”

  The success of their ruse continued to rely on the ignorance of most people as to what a real Egyptian mummy looked like. Actually, Packard’s only contact with one was a detailed woodcut he had seen once in a Harper’s Weekly article.

  McGuinn grabbed up the discarded canvas cover, and the three of them began quickly to rewrap the heavy box.

  As they worked, Packard reflected that Kinealy might do some more probing when things settled down. But his basic story, with a few elaborations, should stand up to any questioning. By the time they had found enough intact pieces of rope to retie the coffin securely, the sound of the chuffing locomotive was coming closer as it backed down toward them.

  Just to keep Griffin on his heels, Packard caught him momentarily by himself, still sitting on the grassy bank.

  “You’re lucky those robbers jumped off,” he said quietly to the messenger.

  Griffin looked up.

  “If they’d gotten away with that mummy, you’d have something worse than that bump on the head.”

  He colored slightly at the veiled threat.

  “I heard you tell them there was gold in there,” Packard continued.

  Griffin looked surprised, but couldn’t deny it.

  “I won’t say anything about it to your superiors at Wells Fargo. But if I hear that you’ve breathed a word about that mummy to anyone else, you’ll answer to me and to him.” Packard gestured at the burly McGuinn a few yards away. “We’re Doctor Desmond’s escort and guards for that case. You understand?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  Packard moved away, satisfied he’d given Griffin something to think about that would head off any suspicions the messenger might develop about their cargo. He was also learning a thing or two about tactics from Kinealy.

  “Everybody back aboard!” the conductor yelled, waving the excited passengers toward the coaches.

  The miner and the farmer helped Griffin to his feet and into the express car.

  “I’ll stay with him until we get to Saint Joe,” Kinealy said, soaking a bandanna with a canteen of water he had scoured up somewhere. “Just to make sure,” he added as Griffin started to object. “You could have a concussion.”

  “I’m all right,” Griffin said slowly and without much conviction.

  “Well, I’m staying with you,” Kinealy concluded, climbing into the car. “Besides, it was my cargo they almost got, thanks to you.”

  Griffin turned a mournful face in his direction.

  “You need any help, Doctor Desmond?” McGuinn asked.

  “No. We’ll be fine,” Big Jim replied.

  Packard was relieved to be away from Kinealy for the rest of the trip; he didn’t want to be pressed for any answers until he’d had time to yank all the kinks out of his story.

  With hand signals from the brakeman guiding him, the engineer eased the locomotive into position to recouple the train. While the brakeman was reconnecting the tender to the express car, and then going from coach to coach releasing all the hand brakes, Packard walked over to the cab of the locomotive and yelled up at the engineer: “I lost my gun on the track just this side of where you were stopped.”

  “We’ll get it,” he replied.

  “Anybody hurt?” Packard asked as an afterthought.

  “Naw. Just scared the hell out of us. They made for their horses as soon as they saw the rest of the train take off.”

  The stoker was behind him, throwing short chunks of wood into the firebox.

  “Did the two in the express car jump?” Packard asked.

  “Yeah,” the engineer replied. “Before you got going too fast. You didn’t see ’em?”

  Packard shook his head.

  “Pure dumb luck they didn’t break their necks,” he snorted. “Reckon ’cause they rolled down the embankment in the grass.” He pulled off his gauntlets and leaned both elbows on the padded armrest in the open window. “They was on their feet in a jiffy and running for their horses like the devil was after ’em. Too bad nobody boosted ’em on their way with some hot lead. But I reckon you all had other things on your minds right about then.”

  “You bet. We were mighty lucky that runaway didn’t fly right off into the woods.”

  “Who in the hell uncoupled us, anyway?” the engineer wanted to know, pushing up his cap.

&n
bsp; Packard shrugged.

  “I reckon it kept them from cleaning out the express car, though.”

  “Griffin said there wasn’t much worth stealing this trip,” he replied, walking off. “Don’t forget about my gun.”

  Packard was the last passenger to climb aboard, just ahead of the conductor. With two short blasts of the steam whistle, the locomotive jerked them into motion. Caught off balance, Packard staggered in the aisle and nearly fell into Janice Kinealy’s lap.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he nodded, catching himself and smiling at her as if she were merely an attractive stranger.

  “Quite all right,” she replied, squeezing his hand surreptitiously.

  Hughes glared, but Packard only smiled to himself as he moved away. He was feeling invincible after that harrowing brush with death and considered Hughes no more than a pesky mosquito.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They reached Chillicothe some time after dark with no further problems, other than Packard’s personal problem of a growling stomach and a billfold that was flatter than a mallard’s instep.

  “Hope they sprained their ankles when they jumped,” he grumbled, feeling for his absent watch. At least, he had retrieved his gun from alongside the track.

  They all filed off the train for the supper break. Packard paused on the platform, thinking to stretch his legs and get a drink of water in the hope that hunger wouldn’t keep him awake through the night. He knew neither McGuinn nor Kinealy had any hide-out money left. He wondered idly, if hunger might induce him to pass some of Kinealy’s counterfeit money, had some of the bogus bills been in his pocket at the moment. Luckily, he wasn’t faced with that temptation.

  As this hypothetical situation was passing through his mind, somebody bumped him in the crowd, and he whirled, ready to defend himself from a pickpocket.

  “Shhh!”

  He could barely see Janice in the lamplight from the dépôt. Hughes wasn’t glued to her side as usual. She slipped a coin into his hand. From the size and weight he recognized a five-dollar gold piece.

  “Share it.” she whispered. Then she was gone into the crowd.

  Packard caught up with McGuinn who had found Kinealy. They went into the dining room adjacent to the dépôt, but there were few diners since most of the passengers were in the same financial condition. They bought three sandwiches, and Kinealy kept the change. He took part of this to pay for a telegram. Packard overheard him give a Chicago address to the Western Union telegrapher who was on duty behind a wire cage in the dépôt.

  “Isn’t that dangerous...sending a telegram like that?” Packard asked a few minutes later, when they were warming ourselves by the dépôt stove and eating their sandwiches.

  “Can’t be helped. We’ve got to have money,” Kinealy replied. “I encoded the message just as I always do. How do you think I’ve stayed in business all these years?” he asked with a hint of pride. “We’ll have some money waiting for us in Saint Joe.”

  “Who was it to?” Packard inquired innocently, munching his food.

  “Nobody you know,” he replied shortly.

  “We won’t have to worry about being broke for long,” McGuinn grinned around a mouthful of food. “We’ll be rolling in gold and greenbacks when we sell that damned box back to them.”

  “Keep shut about that!” Kinealy grated, glancing furtively around. “You never know who might be listening.”

  Packard looked up and caught a glimpse of Janice and Rip Hughes entering the dining room. Apparently Janice had been able to hide more than just the five she’d slipped to him. Of all of them, she alone had had the presence of mind and opportunity to hide some money from the robbers, and, being a woman, she was also less likely to be searched than the men. In spite of his reputation, Jesse James didn’t impress Packard as the type to abuse a woman in the course of a hold-up.

  An hour later they were back aboard the train and chugging away into the Missouri darkness. By this time, Packard was very fatigued. About a dozen passengers had detrained, freeing up extra seats. Packard took advantage of the space to stretch out on a double seat and sleep for four solid hours, waking only for an hour or so around midnight, then dozing off and on until daylight.

  A few of the people in the coach were stirring when he got up and stretched. Janice was asleep in her seat, leaning her head against the window. Hughes was just returning from the commode at the end of the car, and avoided his eyes as Packard strode out the opposite end of the coach to get some fresh air on the platform. The sun was just tipping the horizon behind them, its rays glittering off the frost-covered trees and grass. The biting air cleared his head quickly, and he shivered in the wind that was whirling around the moving car. The pleasant smell of wood smoke drifted back from the locomotive. As the train rounded a slight curve, Packard leaned out and squinted into the cold wind. Through watering eyes, he was surprised to see a scattering of houses atop a slight rise about a half mile ahead. He could only guess at the local time, but the position of the rising sun indicated the engineer had made up the lost time. St. Joe was coming up on schedule.

  Their only luggage was the wrapped coffin, so he and McGuinn were at the side door of the express car less than a minute after the train finally ground to a halt at the St. Joseph dépôt. Griffin unlocked the door and slid it open. From the looks of him, Kinealy had apparently spent a sleepless night on the hard floor, and Packard doubted anyone could have been happier that their trip was over. The original plan had been for Janice and Hughes to rent a wagon and take delivery of the crate that would be labeled harrows. The three men were not supposed even to be aboard. But circumstances had altered the scheme, and now Professor Lyle Desmond and his two guards were responsible for the Egyptian mummy. Janice and Rip Hughes would go about their business and disappear. At least, that’s what Packard assumed.

  The three of them and Griffin off-loaded the coffin onto the platform and waited while McGuinn hurried off to hire a wagon and team, without any money, as it turned out. Kinealy and Packard waited by the coffin, standing back out of the way of the milling passengers and porters who crowded the dépôt platform at this busy terminal. Packard saw no sign of Janice and Rip Hughes, but assumed they’d show up later. He still had no idea where Kinealy planned to hide their gruesome cargo, but just held his peace as they waited. He nervously lit a cigar, hoping it would take his mind off breakfast.

  They needed to be gone from here before the train crew reported the robbery and the law showed up, asking questions. Kinealy was unusually silent, and from the look on his face Packard didn’t think it wise to generate any small talk, and there were too many people nearby to discuss their real business. Finally, when he had about decided McGuinn wasn’t coming back, he saw him edging a span of mules and a wagon through the jam of buggies and drays that crowded the far end of the loading platform beyond the dépôt. McGuinn waved, and Kinealy and Packard quickly got a porter to help them lift the coffin onto an iron-wheeled luggage cart so they could trundle it to the wagon. Kinealy tipped the porter what Packard figured was their last dollar, and they got the heavy burden aboard the wagon.

  “That way,” Kinealy said, pointing. “Down toward the river.”

  McGuinn’s big hands had a delicate touch on the reins, and he seemed to have a natural way with the team as he backed them gently, clucking to the strange mules. They started off along the dirt streets, Kinealy sitting on the driver’s seat with McGuinn while Packard rested on the floor of the wagon bed with the coffin. He was finally going to find out where Kinealy planned to hide the body while he contacted the governor with his ransom demands.

  “Had to leave my gun for security at the livery since I was fresh outta money,” McGuinn said.

  Packard was surprised the stable operator would accept a twenty-dollar gun for a wagon and team, until he remembered that McGuinn’s pistol was a nickel-plated, engraved Colt with ivory grips — a true work of art worth at least a hundred dollars. He had displayed it once when the two were discussi
ng firearms. The fancy scrollwork had been done by Ben Boyd, the engraver of counterfeit plates whose release from prison Kinealy was planning to negotiate.

  “Are Janice and Hughes going back to Springfield?” Packard asked as the wagon clattered over the cobblestone streets near the waterfront.

  “No. They’ll be putting up at the Patee House.”

  “They’ve got the cash for that?” Packard wondered aloud, turning to look at the big, six-story brick hotel that dominated the town from a hillside several blocks above them.

  “They won’t have to pay until they check out. And we’ll all be solvent again as soon as the bank opens and I get the money I wired for,” Kinealy replied.

  “And I need to get me a coat, boss, if you’re going to keep mine,” McGuinn said. He was still in his striped shirt and derby hat.

  Kinealy stripped off the wool jacket and handed it over. “Here. I’m done with it. I’ll get one later.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Turn right at the next corner.”

  Packard saw the tall stacks of several steamboats, lying at the long, sloping landing about two blocks to the west. They were in an area of brick warehouses, saloons, and boarding houses. The buildings alternated with a few muddy fields. Scattered among the patches of dead grass in the vacant lots were bottles, rusty cans, and broken wagon wheels. Since the big rush to the gold fields a quarter century ago, St. Joe had taken on the aspect of a well-settled, permanent — even a run-down — river town. The trio drew no more than casual notice from the pedestrians and drivers of other buggies and wagons and men on horseback who were passing up and down the streets of the busy port.

  “Stop here,” Kinealy ordered.

  “Whoa, mules, whoa!”

  Kinealy hopped down. “I’ll be right back.”

  He strode away down the street and rapped on the front door of a saloon that appeared to be still closed this early in the day. He had to knock again before the door was opened, and he disappeared inside.

  Packard and McGuinn sat for what seemed a long time but, in reality, was probably only a few minutes.