by Tim Champlin
“Might as well hang for a hog as a ham,” Packard muttered to Janice.
“What’d you say?” Hughes demanded, thrusting his weapon forward.
“I said...where the hell is McGuinn?” Packard bellowed. “Don’t you want a witness to back up your story?”
“What’s all the damned noise about this time?” McGuinn grumbled, appearing in the bedroom door and squinting in the dim light.
What happened next would remain a mystery to Packard, but he would always give credit to the Great Emancipator for freeing him. Just as their attention was diverted by McGuinn, he heard a moaning, groaning noise and looked toward the darkened hallway behind Hughes, expecting to see Kinealy coming down the stairway. The stairs were empty, but a wavering, luminous ball of mist was floating about six feet off the floor. It looked like a cloud of steam, venting from the escape valve of a locomotive. The steam — if that’s what it was — did not evaporate, and there was no hissing noise. The only sound that came from that writhing vapor was something akin to the agonized groans of a man in great pain.
They all stared in silent apprehension at this phenomenon. What was it? Possibly some kind of escaping gas that needed only a spark to set it off? Or had Kinealy gone against his own orders and built a fire in an upstairs fireplace? There was no smell of smoke or gas, and the vapor cloud didn’t grow any larger. But now it was drifting upward toward the ceiling in the dark hallway. The moaning had taken on a very human, very pitiable sound. A hard chill ran from Packard’s heels to the top of his head even as logic kept telling him it was some kind of natural occurrence.
“Oh, God,” Janice breathed behind him. “Spirits. The murdered Hanrahans. They want us out of their house.”
But then a bright ball formed itself in the middle of the diaphanous cloud. As Packard gawked in disbelief, the bright spot evolved into a face — a face all of them knew, a face they had seen only yesterday — the long-dead features of Abraham Lincoln.
Chapter Nineteen
Packard’s scalp prickled with fear. Was he having hallucinations? Sheer terror at his imminent death had surely unhinged his mind. But, no, Janice was seeing it, too.
“Aaahhh!” An agonized cry was wrenched from McGuinn. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor as if in adoration of some vengeful god. “Please...please...don’t hurt us,” he croaked in a voice hardly recognized by Packard whose attention was yanked away from the vision for a few seconds to the strange sight of the muscular fighter reduced to a quivering mass. But he shouldn’t have been surprised, since the presence of the dead in the Springfield mausoleum had even brought on a nervous sweat.
Hughes stood rigid and staring, his back to Packard, gun at his side.
A chilly breeze on Packard’s legs through the broken window of the front door suddenly reminded him of his condition, and he reached down to pull up his pants and buckle his belt. In the few moments it took to do this, his eyes never left the moaning, disembodied head that was moving slowly toward them, eyes open in an accusatory stare. He couldn’t tear his eyes from it, even though instinct was yelling at him to fight or run. His mind was simply not functioning. Everything was slowing down, as if he were wading through hip-deep molasses in a dream.
His hand moved to his gun, and, without thinking, he pulled his Colt and fired two shots at the oncoming head. The blasts crashed against his ears as the two flashes and the powder smoke obscured the vision for a few seconds.
Hughes jumped as the gunshots seemed to break the spell. He turned around, and Packard struck him across the head with the barrel of his pistol. Hughes dropped like a sack of wet sand.
A quick glance showed McGuinn still groveling on the floor. Packard grabbed Janice with his free arm. “Come with me!”
“Wha..a..t?”
“Now! Quick! Let’s run!”
She turned stunned, uncomprehending brown eyes on him. She was in shock. He hesitated a few long seconds. The face of Lincoln was gone, and the vapor was blending into the drifting gunsmoke.
Footfalls thundered on the carpeted stairs as Kinealy came lumbering down, gun in hand. The paralysis was gone, and, without hesitation, Packard raised his Colt and fired. The bullet splintered the newel post. The big man reacted with a nimbleness that would have done a gymnast proud. He leapt over the banister and crashed onto the floor near the end of the hallway. A second later an answering shot flamed out of the darkness. The bullet tugged at Packard’s coat sleeve, and he dropped to the floor atop the broken pieces of glass chandelier.
“No! No! Don’t shoot!” Janice cried, coming to her senses and jumping between them.
They had no choice but to hold their fire. A movement caught Packard’s eye, and he glanced over to see McGuinn getting to his feet and reaching for the gun stuck in his belt. Two guns against him and possibly three when the stunned Hughes rallied. It was time to move. He sprang up and darted out the front door, leaping over the hole in the porch.
Packard didn’t think he’d ever moved so fast in his life. In a matter of seconds, he was into the blackness of the stable behind the house. Giving thanks that he’d helped with the horses, he quickly found one of them in a stall and got him out. There was no time to look for a saddle or bridle. He’d have to attempt an escape bareback on a strange animal. He jammed his gun into the holster to free up both hands as he led the skittish horse outside with one of his hands wrapped in the hair of his mane. Walking him carefully, he went around the opposite side of the house from where he’d come. Voices were near, and feet clumped on the porch. He stopped to determine which way they were going, and heard Kinealy order someone around the other way. Then his heavy panting was coming closer as he ran toward Packard’s side of the house.
“Here goes!” he muttered to himself, lacing the fingers of his left hand into the mane of the dun. He vaulted up onto its back, kicking with his boot heels. The startled animal bolted, knocking Kinealy spinning. Packard was nearly unseated by the sudden lunge and just barely managed to hold on. The big dun went thundering downhill along the winding road in the dark, as if he knew exactly where he was going while Packard swayed around like a drunken man. He didn’t know if faith could really move mountains, but he could testify that desperation could make a bareback rider. It was hands, elbows, knees, and thighs clutching to hold on as he was all over the horse’s back. On a steep slope, he was pitched forward far enough over the withers to get both arms around the neck, but was quickly jarred loose from that position. Every minute he could stay aboard the hurricane deck of this plunging animal was another half mile between him and that house on the hill — and several more minutes added to his life span. Stinging tips of the mane lashed his face while his tailbone took a fearful pounding.
When the dun began to tire and slowed to a lope, Packard blinked away the wind-whipped tears and saw they were headed toward St. Joe — possibly due to the animal’s instinct to return to his familiar stable behind Riley’s saloon. Whatever the reason, it was fortunate for Packard, since he had no reins, bit, or hackamore to guide him. Being a rider of less than average skill, he had to let him go where he wished. The river road was the path of least resistance, and they headed straight for town.
Finally the big horse slowed to a walk, his coat lathered, and his sides heaving. Packard was able to sit upright on his back in a more or less natural position. They must have covered at least three miles. Bushes and trees along the road began to take on ghostly shapes as the eastern sky slowly lightened with the coming dawn. The heavy overcast remained, but at least the northwest wind had subsided. He wiped a sleeve across his sweating face, breathing as heavily as his mount. He looked again at the eastern sky, wondering what time it was.
While his attention was thus diverted, the horse apparently shied at something — a ’possum, a shadow, he never knew what — and jumped sideways. In the blink of an eye, Packard hit the ground hard. The horse skittered off a few steps, and then trotted on toward town while Packard sat up, holding his left arm and shoulde
r. By the time he got painfully to his feet, the horse was fifty yards off, and it was useless trying to catch him, even if he’d felt like running. There was nothing for him to do now but start walking, and get as far as possible before full daylight forced him to get out of sight down along the river. Once there, he could probably work his way toward town through the trees and undergrowth.
What kind of pursuit would be coming? He’d never seen it done, but assumed it was somehow possible to hitch only one horse to a buckboard. Or maybe Kinealy would find a saddle in the barn and send Hughes or McGuinn after him on horseback. He had to assume his cover was shredded. Hughes would convince Kinealy that he had run because he was a traitor and had set up the ambush at the tomb, and not just because he’d been caught with his pants down. None of Janice’s explanations would carry any weight, since she was hardly a disinterested party. Kinealy could not afford just to let him go. There was too much at stake. Even if he wasn’t sure of Packard’s rôle as an undercover Secret Service agent, it was vital that Kinealy catch and hold him incommunicado until the ransom was paid. He wondered if Kinealy would try to kill him; somehow the chief of the coney men didn’t impress him as a murderer. Hughes was a different breed. He would shoot first and justify it to Kinealy later.
Packard trudged on another mile or so, turning over the thought of the strange apparition in his mind. Was it truly a supernatural vision? An actual ghost? All four of them had seen the same thing, so there was no doubt something was visible. Beyond that, who could say? The groaning head of Abraham Lincoln was adrift in a cloud of vapor while his body lay in the next room. Try explaining that to a hard-edged lawman in the cold light of dawn. He resolved to give it more thought later, but this “ghost” may have been the reason Riley had been so nervous and anxious to be rid of the body. Whatever it was, the specter had provided a chance to escape that den of thieves — a chance he wouldn’t have had otherwise.
The sky lightened to a dull gray as the sun rose behind the overcast. Full daylight came, and he felt very exposed, glancing back over his shoulder every few steps. His ears were attuned to anything that sounded like hoofbeats or an approaching wagon.
It was then his body began complaining about the accumulated abuse he’d put it through — the bruised ribs, the cuts on his leg, the pummeled backside that ached with every step, the left shoulder he’d jammed falling off the horse. Every muscle and joint were strained. He felt like someone who’d been romped on by a playful grizzly. All this was in addition to the fact that he’d been sleepless for twenty-four hours and was dirty, unshaven, and wearing a cologne of horse sweat. To top it off, his stomach was growling and his throat dry.
But things began looking up. The gables and roof cornices of some buildings were just coming into view over the bare trees, possibly two miles ahead along the straight road. He lowered his eyes and trudged on, blotting out the discomfort by figuring his next move. Besides chasing him, Kinealy would have to get back to the Western Union office in St. Joe to pick up the reply from the Illinois governor. If Packard could reach the police or county sheriff and tell his story, maybe the law could be waiting for him. Or, better yet, he would try to get off a telegram to his superiors first. In spite of all the hitches, he began to feel that everything was going to work out at last. But he couldn’t let down his guard now as he mentally examined this scenario for problems. He found only one — Janice. He consoled himself with the resolve to swear that she was an unwilling participant who was forced to go along by her husband. His conscience immediately excoriated him for such a weak excuse. Any decent prosecutor could show that she had been Kinealy’s willing partner in crime for years. It was doubtful if any testimony of Packard’s would get her off easier, especially if it leaked out that he was in love with her. And Hughes would gladly supply such testimony. But he had heard it was illegal for a wife to testify against her husband. Was the reverse also true? Even if Kinealy couldn’t or wouldn’t accuse her, there was always Hughes and McGuinn.
Yet he was getting far ahead of himself. The Kinealy gang had to be caught first, and to that end he quickened his painful strides toward St. Joe. A few minutes later the jangle of trace chains made him whirl around. A wagon was coming along the road toward town. The span of mules pulling it told him it wasn’t Kinealy. But he didn’t want to meet anyone just now, and looked around frantically for a place to hide. No bushes or trees large enough to conceal him on this open stretch of road. He reached under his coat, put a hand on the butt of his gun, and waited.
A lone man was on the driver’s seat of the farm wagon and pulled the mules back from a trot to a walk.
“Want a lift to town?” he hailed as he got within earshot.
“Sure. Thanks.” Anything to get him there a little quicker.
The driver drew the team to a halt, and Packard climbed aboard. As he settled himself on the wooden seat, his back and legs groaned with relief at finally being able to sit down and relax.
The driver was a man of medium size, wearing a slouch hat, gray canvas coat, and mud-spattered boots. What Packard could see of his face was weathered and creased. A two-day growth of gray stubble covered the lean jaws.
The man clucked the mules into motion again.
“Thanks for the ride. I was getting kind of tired of walking.”
“Glad to help,” the man replied slowly, eyeing Packard slantwise from under his hat brim. “You ain’t from around these parts.” It was not a question.
“No, I’m not.”
“Come down from Ioway, did ya?” the man prompted when Packard didn’t continue.
“Actually Nebraska City,” Packard lied. “Got a ride a few miles, but had to wind up sleeping in a barn last night,” he said to explain his scruffy appearance. “Yes, sir, these nights are gettin’ mighty nippy, even if I did have a good pile of hay to burrow into.”
“I’ve got a son-in-law and daughter in Nebraska City,” the driver said. “Name of Wardlaw. You wouldn’t know ’em by chance?”
“No. I was just passin’ through on my way to Kansas City. Got a sister there. Got a job waiting.”
Packard was afraid he’d hooked up with some lonely, nosey old farmer, who would want to pump him for any and all information he could get.
“Would’ve been a lot quicker if you’d got on a steamboat and gone straight down the river.”
“You’re right about that, friend. But even deck passage costs money. Besides, I warn’t in that big a hurry. You see, my sister ain’t exactly expectin’ me, and I’m hoping to bunk in at her place a spell until I get my first paycheck.”
“If you’re hard up for money, you could probably sell that shootin’ iron for enough to see you to Kansas City, and then some,” he remarked, noting the holstered Colt as Packard leaned forward and his coat fell open.
“That may be, but a man might as well go nekkid as travel unarmed these days. You never know what kind of riff-raff you might meet on the road.”
“That’s a fact,” the man replied, eyeing him again as he slapped the lines over the mules who had slowed down to a walk.
Apparently the driver concluded Packard was a lost cause as a source of news or conversation because he stopped talking for the last mile into town. Packard didn’t dare look back for fear the driver would then assume he was on the run from somebody. So he just pretended to stretch and yawn and, in the process, managed to twist around far enough on the seat to get a quick look at the road behind them. It was still empty.
The trotting mules ate up the distance a lot faster than his shanks mare would have, but his nerves still counted it as a long time before they reached the edge of town.
“I’ll just be getting off here,” he said as they passed the first three widely spaced buildings.
“I can take you a few blocks farther.”
“No need. Got some things to do. Sure appreciate the ride.” He waved and jumped off the side while the iron-banded wheels were still turning. The farmer gave him a strange look as the heavy far
m wagon rumbled on down the street.
Packard waited until it was a block away before making a dash for the Western Union telegraph office. It was several short blocks away, and he made it a point to detour away from Riley’s saloon. Riley would probably be sleeping at this hour of the morning, but his dun horse might be wandering the streets somewhere near his place.
Packard’s worn boots were never made for running, and his body hurt with every pounding step as his soles slapped the cobblestones and thundered across the occasional boardwalk. He was praying the Western Union office would be open and ready for business because he was like a racehorse in the home stretch. Once his message was on its way to the Secret Service in Chicago, his job was essentially over, and he could handle whatever came after. By the time he rounded the last corner and spotted the Western Union sign hanging over the sidewalk several doors down, his breath was coming in rasping gasps. He forced himself to slow down to a walk and enter the office under some control.
He opened the door and went inside, still breathing heavily and perspiring. Two men were just turning away from the counter, and he brushed past them toward the telegrapher.
“I need to send a telegram right away,” he gasped.
“Certainly, sir.” The beefy man in the green eyeshade, striped shirt, and galluses shoved a pad of paper and a pencil across the worn oak counter toward him. Packard’s hand was shaking from exertion, and he had to take several deep breaths before he could begin to write.
He put pencil to pad, trying to concentrate on how to word a succinct, but complete, message to his chief in Chicago. They had never worked out a code for such situations, but that hardly mattered. He was the law, and there was no need for secrecy. He would stand here until the message was transmitted, and wait for an acknowledgment from the other end.
“That’s the man. I’d know him anywhere!”