Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  As he stood gazing through the slanting rain at the darkened riverfront, it occurred to him that the affairs of men too often ended in frayed edges. He wanted to trim off the corners of this extortion case and fold it up as neatly as a bogus greenback. Having come so far and endured so much just to leave the ragged edges showing, when he slammed the lid, somehow rankled his sense of order. It would not end like this if he could help it, in spite of what Washburn wanted of him. Janice was not part of this decision in any way. They had apparently come to a parting of the ways. Painful as that was, he had accepted it with his head, if not with his heart.

  There was not a soul in sight as he walked down the long, slippery slope of the cobblestone landing and tromped up the springy gangplank of the foremost steamer. Running lanterns hanging along the edge of the pilot house cast a glow on the name plate: Ella Mai.

  “Hey! Is this boat headed upriver?”

  He had to kick the packing box where a half-asleep crewman was perched at the head of the gangway. The man snorted and wiped a hand across his mouth as he tried to blink away the cobwebs. “Yeah.”

  “I want to buy passage to Nebraska City. How much?”

  The crewman spat over the side and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Damn! You’re the second jasper in the last hour that’s come aboard without a ticket. There’s an office just up the street a....”

  “No office open at this hour. How much?”

  “Ten dollars ought to do it.”

  “I hope that’s for a cabin.”

  “I think we got just one small stateroom left.”

  In Packard’s experience of Missouri River steamers, all staterooms were small.

  “What about that packet tied up behind you?”

  “Oh, the Evening Star? She’s goin’ downriver come daylight.”

  He slid his billfold from an inside pocket and handed over a sawbuck. “When do we get underway?”

  The deckhand pulled on a braided rawhide fob, and a worn timepiece appeared out of his jeans pocket. “Comin’ up on four. Fires are banked, so it won’t take long to get up steam.” He pursed his lips as if making some momentous decision. “We’ll be underway at first light. Probably five-thirty or six.” Shoving the wadded greenback into his pants pocket, he jerked a thumb toward the boiler deck. “Steward’s asleep. Your cabin’s the last one aft on the port side.”

  Packard nodded and climbed the steps to the boiler deck. The deserted main cabin was dimly lighted by the glow of a low-burning lamp in a wall sconce. The white painted walls of the narrow salon were lined with a row of seven stateroom doors on each side, and he went directly to his own cabin, lighted the oil lamp attached to the bulkhead, and closed the door. The first thing he noticed was the lower bunk piled full with sacks of flour and corn meal, packs of yeast and tins of biscuits, apparently stowed in this empty cabin to keep these perishable items out of the damp cargo hold below. The crewman who took his money had conveniently forgotten to tell him about all this.

  He dried his hair with a towel, hanging on a rack, then stripped off his damp, wool jacket and removed his gun belt. Now that he was in a dry, relatively safe place, he felt himself sagging with fatigue. He had seriously overdrawn his account of physical and nervous energy. All he wanted to do was to climb into the upper bunk and sleep for several hours. But he wouldn’t really be safe from pursuit by the law until the boat was well underway. After that, he could relax until he reached Nebraska City.

  Then his stomach tensed as he remembered a casual remark by the deckhand below. He’d complained that Packard was the second one in the past hour who’d come aboard without a ticket. Janice mentioned she and Hughes were to take a steamer to Nebraska City today to rendezvous with Kinealy and McGuinn. Was it possible Hughes might be aboard the Ella Mai? If he were in Hughes’s place and believed he had just gunned down a man in jail, he’d be for ditching the shotgun and getting out of town fast. If he couldn’t find Janice, would he make for the first packet that was going upriver? Even if he’d already purchased a ticket on another boat, and had to abandon his rented horse, Packard had a strong feeling that’s what Hughes would do.

  His hunch was confirmed a few minutes later when he went quietly down to the main deck, reawakened the deckhand, and questioned him about the appearance of the other passenger. There was no doubt it was Hughes.

  “I believe that fella’s an old friend of mine,” Packard said. “Did he give his name as Hughes?”

  “Don’t recollect that he gave a name a-tall.”

  “No matter. That’s him. What cabin did he take?”

  “Number four.”

  “Thanks. If you happen to see him, don’t mention that I was asking. I want to surprise him.”

  He nodded knowingly, as Packard flipped him a silver dollar.

  Then Packard crept back to his cabin, as wide awake and alert as if he had nearly stepped barefoot on a water moccasin. But there was no sign of anyone. Passengers and crew alike were asleep at this deadest hour of the night.

  He slid the bolt on his cabin door and sat down in the one small chair, trying to plot his strategy. This time there would be no hesitation. He’d arrest Hughes as soon as he appeared on deck, then get the captain to chain him in the hold until they got to Nebraska City. There was only one problem with this. If the captain demanded some sort of identification, his grubby appearance would be against him, just as it had been earlier when Detective Cyrus Morgan took him in. If the captain wanted Hughes put off his boat and turned over to the local law in St. Joe, Packard was sunk. He decided his best bet was to lie low and make a move when they were several miles upriver. Hughes undoubtedly thought he was dead, so, if Packard could stay out of sight, he’d have the advantage of surprise.

  He pulled off his boots, blew out the lamp, and crawled into the upper bunk, stretching his aching frame out on the padded mattress. It was some time after four o’clock, and the drumming of the rain on the roof soothed his tense muscles. Unless he got Hughes, hands down, the man was sure to put up a fight. Packard felt he was more than a match for Hughes physically, if it came to that. But he was dealing with a desperate man. If he didn’t take him cleanly, there would be some shooting. With these confined spaces and thin bulkheads, stray bullets could easily wound or kill any of the passengers or crew aboard this vessel. That would never do. He had to arrest Hughes in some professional manner that would ensure no innocent person would be hurt.

  * * *

  The next thing Packard knew, he was awakened as a shudder ran through the boat. Alarmed, his eyes flew open to see that the blackness outside the small window over his head had softened to a dark gray. He heard a faint shout from the main deck below and knew they were getting underway.

  He got to his knees in the bunk to peer out the narrow, horizontal window adjacent to the overhead. The rain had apparently stopped, but nothing was visible on this side of the boat except a flat slate of water, ending in a black wall of solid timber bordering the Kansas shore. He rubbed his gritty eyes to clear the film from his vision. But it wasn’t his eyes. The coming dawn was muffled by a thick mist rising from the river.

  He climbed down. Maybe the early-rising cook would have some food ready so he could grab something and bring it back to his cabin before Hughes made his appearance. Slipping the bolt on the inside door of his cabin, he peered out. No one was in sight. The door to number four cabin was still shut. He slid out quietly in his stocking feet and went forward to the empty salon. The long, narrow table was set for breakfast, and a mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon was drifting back from the kitchen. He stuck his head in the kitchen door.

  “Breakfast ready?” he asked.

  The cook jumped back from his stove, startled. He was a heavy-set, clean-shaven man in a white coat.

  “Won’t be long, sir,” he responded, recovering himself. “Seat yourself in the dining room, and I’ll have it there in a two jerks of a lamb’s tail. The early birds will get the first choice.”

  �
��I need to get back to some business in my cabin. I’d be obliged if you could wrap a couple of those biscuits around some bacon and let me take it.”

  He eyed Packard with a twinkle in his eyes. “Ah, some business is it!” he repeated in a slight Irish brogue. “I’d be happy to oblige, sir, but this old cook stove will only work so fast. The biscuits and bacon aren’t done yet, unless you want ’em half raw.”

  Packard glanced back into the salon, and his heart nearly stopped. There, emerging from cabin four, was Rip Hughes. Except for his suitcoat, he was fully dressed, including his gun belt. He was coming straight toward the kitchen where Packard stood in his sock feet, unarmed and with no place to hide.

  He turned quickly to the cook. “Give me a scoop of flour.”

  “What?”

  “Some flour. Quick!” The look on Packard’s face must have convinced the cook he meant business. He tipped the lid of a barrel in the corner and dug in a wooden scoop as Packard stripped off his shirt and held it out. “Pour it in here.”

  The cook dumped in the flour, and Packard twisted the shirt around it, then ducked past him through the outside door the cook had left ajar to release some of the smoke. Creeping aft along the deck in the thick fog, he reached the outside door of his cabin and reëntered without being seen.

  A sudden idea had occurred to him — if he could make it work. He struck a match to the lamp. Then, wiping some of the wet grime off his boot soles, he smeared it in black circles around and under his eyes. Using the tiny mirror affixed to the bulkhead above the washstand, he cupped handsful of flour and powdered his face a chalky white, including his hair and bare torso. When he had finished putting on the last painstaking touches, the image that stared back at him was still recognizable as Sterling Packard, but was so ghastly that even he shuddered with an involuntary chill.

  The deck moved under his feet as the boat swung away from the landing, and he could feel the smooth stroking of the steam engine turning the paddlewheel. They were underway. He wiped the flour from his hands. Then he unloaded his Colt, toweled it off, checked the action, and dried every bit of moisture from the cartridges before reloading it.

  The Ella Mai was one of the classier river packets whose owners furnished white cotton sheets in addition to blankets for its bunks. He yanked the sheet off the upper bunk and draped it over his head and shoulders. In the thick fog outside, he hoped the specter would be convincingly supernatural. It was something of a crude device, but maybe the disguise would at least make Hughes hesitate long enough to give Packard the edge while he attempted an arrest.

  His next problem was how to lure Hughes outside so he could confront him. He tucked the loaded pistol into his belt, far enough to the side so it wouldn’t show through the open sheet. He took a quick look outside, but there was no one on the walkway along the port side of the boiler deck. Then he pulled the chair close to the inside door and, by standing on it, was able to see through the glass transom into the salon that was now serving as a dining area. Hughes was filling a thick mug with coffee from a large urn about halfway along the narrow table. Packard watched as he stirred some sugar into it, took a tentative sip, and then began pacing back and forth, glancing toward the kitchen at the forward end. He was in shirt sleeves and vest, but, as he turned, Packard noticed he wore no collar or tie. His hair was neatly parted and slicked down, as usual, but his eyes were puffy. Pulling out a chair, Hughes sat down with his coffee, and then began restlessly picking at his fingernails.

  Four other early risers — two men and two women — were standing together and talking a few feet away, two of them munching on apples from a bowl of fruit as they waited for breakfast to be served. Packard stepped down off the chair, wondering how to get Hughes outside on the deck while the light was still uncertain and the gray fog thick. Every minute that passed would make his ruse less effective. He had to do something, and quickly, or the chance would be lost.

  Still in his stocking feet, he went through the outside door to the walkway and around the superstructure to where the main cabin opened out onto the back deck. Standing to one side, he opened the door and let it swing slowly outward. Cupping both hands around his mouth, he wailed in a tone just loud enough to be heard inside — “Rip Hughes...Riiiip Huuughes.” — then paused to listen. He heard a mug hit the table, and all conversation stopped. “You murdered me, Rip Hughes,” Packard cried in a thin falsetto. Staying well back in the fog, he and his sheet flowed across the opening.

  He heard the crash of a chair overturning and the thump of boots. The other passengers were talking excitedly.

  “Rip Hughes...murderer,” he moaned in his best melodramatic voice.

  Hughes rushed, wild-eyed, out of the salon and into the swirling fog. Packard was banking on the ethereal image of Lincoln still being fresh in Hughes’s mind, as he glided away to his left, making sure Hughes got a look at his face

  “Rip Hughes...you shot me,” he groaned, this time in something akin to his natural voice, so Hughes would be sure to recognize it.

  Hughes came to a stop, staring at him. “Ahhhh...no! No!” came the involuntary cry from his gaping mouth.

  As Packard circled farther back into the fog and away from Hughes’s gun hand, Hughes pivoted to keep facing the apparition, taking short, nervous steps. It was as if he couldn’t control feet that wanted to run and hadn’t the strength.

  Packard was vaguely aware of the four other people fearfully watching from just inside the salon. “My God, what is it?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men pull a pocket pistol, but he didn’t aim it.

  Packard’s powdered face, hands, and chest were beginning to streak with sweat and rivulets of mist. He had to hurry. Holding the sheet with both hands, he swept around past the toilets near the stern. “Rip Hughes...you will burn in hell,” he wailed, flowing back behind the privy noiselessly in his stocking feet.

  As he went out of Hughes’s sight, it must have broken the spell, because Packard heard him shout: “You son-of-a-bitch! You’ll stay dead this time!”

  Breathing heavily, Packard yanked the Colt from his waistband and waited. The steady, heavy swishing of the paddlewheel below masked the sound of Hughes’s coming. And suddenly he was there before Packard expected him. Hughes slid to a stop on the wet deck and blasted a shot point-blank. In his haste he must have jerked the trigger and pulled his aim slightly off, or Packard would have been a dead man. Packard whirled the sheet off, trying to fling it at Hughes, but the damp cotton wrapped limply around his gun arm.

  “Die, damn you! “ Hughes screamed as his pistol exploded again, and something like a red hot poker burned Packard’s upper left arm. Packard’s gun was tangled in the sheet. In desperation, he threw himself forward and rolled hard into his assailant, kicking at his gun arm with both legs. Another shot blasted wildly as Hughes fell forward. Cursing the sheet that was still between them, Packard lunged for Hughes with his free arm and got the right wrist with his left hand. Hughes was on top of him. Packard cocked his own gun and fired through the sheet. Hughes yelled as the slug took him somewhere in the leg. They were neutralizing each other, when Packard felt the outlaw’s teeth sink into his bare right shoulder near the base of his neck. He yelled and gave a mighty heave, throwing Hughes off and losing the grip on his wrist. Hughes staggered back against the wooden wall of the toilets. Then, baring his teeth in a demonic grimace, he brought his gun down at arm’s length for a sure shot. In one terrible instant, Packard knew it was over. But he hadn’t reckoned on the outlaw’s left knee that had been shattered by the slug. As soon as Hughes put weight on it, the leg buckled, and he screamed in agony, the shot just clipping Packard’s right ear lobe. Hughes lunged forward on his one good leg, and Packard fired through the sheet again, hitting him somewhere below the belt.

  “Aaaahhh!” A yell of rage and pain was torn from Hughes as he fell forward, tripped on Packard, and went headfirst over the rail.

  Packard rolled up to his hands and knees, finally throwing o
ff the entangling folds, and looked down through the iron railing. The paddlewheel was steadily churning the dark water as if nothing had happened.

  “Man overboard!” he yelled at the top of his voice while scanning the foaming brown track behind the boat to see if a head popped up.

  The tall, bewhiskered man who had drawn the pocket pistol came striding up, partially covering Packard with his weapon as he looked over the stern. “I don’t know what the hell that was all about, but there’s no use yelling man overboard. He’s got two slugs in him. He won’t be rising out of that cold water until Gabriel blows his horn.”

  Packard’s chest was heaving as he pulled himself to his feet. The man was right. Hughes had been plowed under by the paddlewheel. There was no chance he could live. Packard turned around and saw the crowd that was gathering, gazing at him with horrified fascination. They had good reason; he must have been a sight to behold, wearing only his sodden socks and pants, blood from his right earlobe and the grazing wound of his left shoulder streaking the sticky paste of white flour that remained on his bare torso. He wiped the sweat and condensation from his face, and his hand came away black with the grime that he had rubbed around his eyes.

  He stood for a minute, trying to catch his breath and collect his wits. There were ten or twelve people crowding around the two wooden privies on the back deck, staring and murmuring. Most of them hung back, curious but fearful, unwilling witnesses to this violent confrontation.

  “I think the captain will want to see you,” the tall man with the bushy side-whiskers suggested firmly, pointing the small pocket Smith & Wesson at him. He carefully reached to take the Colt from Packard’s unresisting hand.

  As if to confirm his statement, a stocky man with a thick mustache and graying blond hair pushed his way through the onlookers.