Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  “I’m Captain Gunderson. What’s going on here?”

  Packard collected himself with an effort. “Captain, is there some place we can talk?”

  Gunderson led the way to his cabin, and they both stood while Packard briefly gave him the story. When Packard finished, the captain grunted and said: “I don’t like this sort of thing happening aboard my vessel. Why all this get-up? Why in hell didn’t you just arrest the man?”

  “I knew he wouldn’t come peaceably. I was trying to lure him away from the other passengers. Figured I’d work on his guilty conscience to do it.”

  “We’ll get to Nebraska City about dark. I’ll have to report this to the police there.”

  Packard let out a long breath. At least, this man seemed to believe his story. “Certainly. And I’ll notify my bosses in Chicago. By the way, Captain, is there a place I can clean up and shave?”

  “Stay here. I’ll have some hot water sent up. There’s a small tub there in the corner. And there’s my razor and a bar of soap. You got any clothes?” he asked, glancing at Packard’s half-naked body.

  “A dry shirt and jacket in my cabin.”

  “Well, I can’t help you with a pair of pants, since we obviously don’t wear the same size.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll wear these. I appreciate all this, Captain.”

  He waved aside Packard’s thanks. “I’ll be in the pilot house for the next two hours, if you need me. See the steward for some alcohol and bandages for those wounds.” He went out and shut the door.

  Being able to clean up made Packard feel immeasurably better. But, tired as he was, sleep came only in fitful snatches the rest of the day. It wasn’t just the sting of the clipped earlobe and the soreness where the bullet had burned the skin of his upper arm that kept him from relaxing. Every detail of the fatal fight continued to replay itself in his imagination. Except at long musket range during the war he’d never killed a man, and he found the experience very unsettling. It was no matter that he was only defending his life. His conscience clawed at him like an angry bobcat. There was no getting around the fact that he probably could have handled it differently and made a safe arrest. There would be no trial for Rip Hughes. Packard had gotten him so agitated with his ghostly guise, Hughes had begun shooting before he could even attempt an arrest. There was no doubt Packard had carried the ruse too far, underestimating the man’s distraught state of mind.

  The sun burned off the fog about mid-morning, and Packard sought to distract his thoughts by pacing around the perimeter of the hurricane deck, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the grand scenery sliding by on both banks as the Ella Mai churned northward against the swirling, brown Missouri current. He even paused to sit on the deck in the sunshine just below the pilot house steps to read the day-old copy of the St. Joseph Daily Gazette Janice had thrust into his hand the night before. He had put it in his coat pocket and forgotten it. A front page article reported that a man named Sterling Packard had been jailed as a suspect in the Lincoln body-snatching case and that further arrests were expected shortly. Another item that caught his eye was a follow-up on the story of the ransom demand. Of course, the reporter indicated that the extortionists’ demands came from Chicago and that the Illinois governor was negotiating with a gang of counterfeiters. To his surprise, the national Presidential election between Hayes and Tilden still wasn’t decided. The front page story indicated there was some big controversy about the accuracy of the election returns in South Carolina and Florida. Politics as usual. Nearly everything else in this edition, except a few items of local interest, was old news to him.

  In spite of feeling rather low, he did find something in the paper to smile about. It seemed two old bachelor brothers who were driving a wagon to their farm late the night before claimed they saw a light and heard strange noises coming from the direction of the old “haunted” Hanrahan mansion in the hills. The author of the article commented that, since the two were well-known gentlemen of the alcoholic persuasion, the reader could make whatever he wished of the veracity of the report.

  By the time the sun was slanting down over the rolling country to the west, Packard felt fit again and hungry enough to tackle two large bowls of Irish stew. The other diners at the long table kept to themselves, a few casting furtive glances his way. Even though he had approached Captain Gunderson as he was coming off watch in the pilot house and secured a promise from him that he would keep their conversation confidential, Packard was sure the news of the fight and Hughes’s death had spread among passengers and crew within an hour after it happened. Those few who’d actually witnessed it were obliged to tell and retell what they saw in detail. All day he had noticed clumps of four or five people talking earnestly together. If he happened to approach too close, their animated conversations ceased abruptly.

  During the supper hour, the captain did not appear. He might have taken his meal in his quarters to avoid being questioned about the incident. Packard hoped he was in the pilot house because, at the rate the boat was traveling, twisting and turning among the sandbars and shoals, he wanted the most experienced man at the wheel. Gunderson must have had the crew pouring on steam. They had made one wood stop in early afternoon, but the captain’s estimate of their arrival time was long by a good hour. The sun was still a hand’s breadth above the horizon when Packard stepped out of his cabin on the port side and saw a break in the solid strip of trees that bordered the west bank. The shoreline had gradually risen from water level to a rock bluff higher than the twin smokestacks of their boat. Someone had chosen wisely when they placed Nebraska City on this bluff, far out of reach of the yearly rampages of the river. The steamboat landing was along a solid strip of ground that was usually out of the water at the base of the bluff. But there were no piers.

  The steady beat of the paddlewheel slowed, and with a long blast on the steam whistle the helmsman swung the bow in toward the landing. Packard strained to catch a glimpse of the small figures in the distance who were waiting for the arrival of the Ella Mai. As they came closer, the paddlewheel stopped, then reversed, lazily slapping the water for several beats as they swung around and nosed in. A deckhand heaved a hawser across to a man waiting ashore.

  Then Packard’s searching eyes picked up a lone figure, standing by his saddled horse farther up the bank, away from the small cluster of people on the landing. Even though he was standing in the deepening shadows of the bluff and wearing a hat, there was something familiar about the muscular slouch, the slightly thick midsection. Then the man moved, and, with a tightening in his stomach, he recognized Jack McGuinn.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He had been lollygagging and not planning ahead. It was still daylight, but he had to get off this boat without being detained for further questioning by the local law. And this meant getting off without being seen by either the captain or Jack McGuinn. His was the last aft cabin on the port side. Since there was no stairway to the main deck except the one forward, he slipped around to the starboard side and climbed over the rail. He let himself hang by his hands, swung slightly inward, and dropped to the main deck near the steam engine. A couple of the deckhands glanced curiously in his direction, but, when he walked back and stood idly watching the paddlewheel slowly turning, they returned to their work.

  As soon as no one was looking, he climbed over the rail and slipped quietly into the river. The shock of the cold water took his breath for a minute, and he had to hold onto the side of the hull as the boat swung slowly his way and nosed in beside another packet. Before the Ella Mai butted the landing and dropped her gangplank, Packard had side stroked away, hoping no one on deck would look his way. He was in luck. What few passengers and crew he could see were all intent on docking. Gunderson’s head and shoulders were visible in the windows of the pilot house as he gave instructions to the engineer down the speaking tube.

  Ignoring the numbing cold, Packard paddled cautiously under the lee of the adjacent boat and then around the stern, pulling himse
lf past the idle wheel to the opposite side. He worked his way along the hull until his feet hit bottom under the forward guards, then stumbled heavily ashore, streaming water. His boots squished water with every step as he walked off down the landing away from the Ella Mai.

  With another November night coming on, he hated having soaked his clothes in the cold river, knowing he was tempting pneumonia or chilblains, but it had been imperative he get ashore unseen. There were four steamboats angled in side by side, most of them loading or unloading various boxes and barrels of cargo. He stopped behind a stack of wooden crates and looked back. A few passengers were debarking with their dunnage from the Ella Mai. There was no outcry, no one rushing around looking for him. He let out a deep breath. The boat would be tied up for the night. Once Gunderson reported to the law, he probably wouldn’t care if he ever saw Packard again.

  Jack McGuinn was another matter. He was still standing by his horse, watching the debarking passengers from a distance. He’d probably met this boat just on the chance Hughes might have taken it. When Hughes didn’t get off, McGuinn would ride away, none the wiser.

  After the last passenger had departed, McGuinn waited another minute or two. Then, instead of riding off, presumably to tell Kinealy that neither Janice nor Hughes had been aboard, he walked his horse down the landing, and Packard could see him questioning the blue-jacketed steward near the gangway. A slight wind chilled Packard, and he shivered as he watched the two men talking in the deepening shadows. He knew McGuinn was getting the story of the fight and of Hughes’s death. By McGuinn’s gestures, Packard could see he wanted to go aboard, but the steward restrained him. Then the steward disappeared and came back a minute later with Captain Gunderson. There was further talk. Apparently the captain told him that Packard was also missing because suddenly McGuinn turned and vaulted into his saddle with an agility Packard had never seen him display. Kicking the animal in the sides, he galloped away from the landing. Shortly after, the tattoo of hoofbeats drifted back as he rode up the steep road that slanted toward the top of the bluff.

  Kinealy would know very shortly that Packard had disposed of Hughes and that he was somewhere in the vicinity. So much for the element of surprise. But Packard’s immediate problem was to get into some dry clothes. To that end, he noticed several black deckhands unloading cargo from a nearby boat. He approached one of them as he came down the gangplank, balancing a small keg on his shoulder. As he set it on the ground, Packard hailed him.

  “I’ll give you ten dollars for a spare shirt and a pair of pants,” he offered.

  The deckhand paused and looked at Packard’s sodden appearance.

  “I fell in the river,” he explained.

  “Mistah, I’d sell ’em, but this here’s the only clothes I got.” He plucked at the sleeve of a heavy canvas jacket he wore. “Dey’s a dry goods store up in town....”

  “I haven’t got time to go up there now,” Packard interrupted. “I’m freezing.”

  “Here, lemme ask Roscoe.”

  Packard stayed in the shadows, until the Negro returned. “Mah friend’s got some extra stuff he’ll sell for ten dollars.”

  The exchange was made, and Packard took the bundle, passing over a wet ten-dollar bill, then walked off into the gathering dusk and changed behind a pile of cordwood. With the exception of his boots and his belt, he left all his clothes where they fell. Now he had no coat, but the cotton shirt was heavy. And just being dry made him much warmer. He sat down out of sight to wait for dark, pulled off his boots, disposed of his wet socks, and rubbed his bare toes to warm them. Afterwards, as he dried his gun and cartridges on his shirt-tail, he thought of Janice and wondered where she was. Traveling on horseback, she would come up the river road about ninety miles and cross here on the ferry. With all the twists and turns, the distance by river was probably at least ten miles farther. She had started about two hours ahead of the boat, but he felt certain he had beaten her here. She and her horse would both need rest and food and water. He doubted that she would arrive before morning.

  When lights began to appear in the windows of the few houses he could see on the edge of the bluff among the trees, Packard got up and started on foot toward the rocky road leading upward. A freight wagon passed and offered him a ride, but he shook his head and waved him on. By the time he’d trudged the half mile to the town on the summit, he was thoroughly warmed by the exercise.

  He leaned against a hitching rail in front of the drugstore to catch his breath. In the gathering darkness and his second-hand clothes, he blended in well with the men moving up and down the street. Several years had passed since he’d been here. In spite of the commerce and the number of travelers who passed through Nebraska City, it was still a small town. Unlike St. Joe, the houses in this town were mostly white, frame structures with neatly fenced yards. The stores and houses all contributed to a generally prosperous look.

  But where to look for Kinealy and McGuinn? Packard’s experience in St. Joe had warned him against trying to get the local law on his side. He was completely on his own this time. He would find the Western Union office but would hold off reporting to his bosses until he was able to relay the final details of the capture. Something told him he would have to move fast to avoid the payment of the ransom.

  He got up and began to walk the streets, glancing into the stores and saloons. Knowing how Kinealy operated when he was taking care of business, he seriously doubted either of them would be found in a saloon. His hunch was verified after a fairly complete tour of the downtown area. They might be ensconced in one of several small hotels, but there was no way to locate and flush them out. He could spend all night trudging from one hotel to another and probably not find them. Even if they were in a hotel, they were probably registered under assumed names.

  Then he thought of Janice. If she planned to meet them here, she would know where they were — unless she was depending on them to meet the steamboat, as originally planned. He decided to see if he could head her off at the ferry landing and get her to lead him, willingly or unwillingly, to her husband and McGuinn. But, first things first. He ducked into the nearest saloon, ordered a beer, and helped himself to the free lunch of crackers and cheese and a couple of boiled eggs. Thus fortified for a long night, he walked back down the steep road and found the ferry landing just to the north of where the boats were tied up for the night. It was near a stand of large cottonwoods. The Missouri was not more than a quarter mile wide at this point. When he saw the yellow square of light illuminating the window of a shack he took to be the ferryman’s place, he detoured around it and took a seat on the grass under one of the large cottonwood trees. From this vantage point he could see the current sliding along in the light of the rising moon like a river of shiny quicksilver. The small, steam-powered ferry looked to be just large enough to carry two wagons and teams. Its boiler fires were banked for the night, and it lay along the shore, secured by long, stout ropes to a couple of large trees. Business at Nebraska City was apparently good enough to warrant a similar ferry which he had seen on the opposite shore as the Ella Mai pulled in. He leaned back against the tree and wrapped his arms around himself to ward off the creeping chill, then tried to relax to the soft murmur of the nearby river.

  Sometime later he dozed, and, when he opened his eyes, the moon was gone and it was very black and very cold. He got up and walked around, flexing his arms and shoulders, trying to work some warmth back into his body. After an eternity of stomping around in his wet boots, the sky began to lighten across the river above the flat Iowa landscape. By the time he could distinguish the uneven horizon, he began to feel a surge of energy to coincide with the rosy glow of the coming sun. It was then he heard the ferry bell clang twice from across the water and could just make out the dark outline of the boat as it detached itself and started his way.

  * * *

  As Janice Kinealy led her horse aboard the ferry, she was still not sure what she was going to tell her husband. She’d had many hours on the r
oad to think about where her life was going and the more immediate problem of what to do about her marriage to the leader of the coney men. She stood by the rail, holding the reins, and felt the cold breath of the river. Instinctively she pulled the cloak about herself, feeling as if she had been in these same clothes for weeks. The insides of her thighs were chaffed and sore from many hours in the damp saddle, riding astride in her flannel drawers and petticoat. Her back was tired and sore, and her eyes felt puffy from lack of sleep and from crying.

  She looped the reins over the rail, then pulled out a pocket comb from among the few personal items she’d transferred from a handbag to the pockets of her cloak. She ran the comb through her hair, wincing as it caught the tangles. One look at her and Kinealy would know she hadn’t come upriver by steamboat. She’d have to tell him something closer to the truth. She’d say that she followed Hughes, suspecting him of wanting to kill Packard in jail. Then she heard a gunshot near the jail and, fearful for her own safety, had just fled to Nebraska City by horseback. She didn’t know where Hughes was or if Packard was alive. She reviewed the story again in her mind, examining it for any flaws as the ferry approached the landing on the Nebraska side. It would suffice, because Kinealy knew she disliked Hughes and would not have waited for him.

  The paddlewheel stopped, and the ferry nosed in gently. The boatman unhooked the chain, and she led her horse down the ramp to the bank.

  “Hello, Janice.”

  She stopped so suddenly the horse almost knocked her over.

  “Sterling,” she breathed, glancing around to see if he was alone. “What...?”

  “Let’s walk and talk.” He glanced at the two ferrymen who were securing the boat nearby. They moved off toward the road that ascended the bluff some way ahead. The rented horse stumbled along behind her, its coat streaked with dried sweat.