Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  She eyed him critically from head to foot. “You don’t look so good.” It was an understatement, she knew, as she noted his ill-fitting clothes, a dirty bandage on one ear, some scratches on his face, his nose red from the cold.

  “I reckon not,” he replied, raking his fingers through his tangled hair and squinting at her, his eyes bloodshot in the rising sun

  “I thought we said our good byes,” she said tiredly.

  “Sorry to claw open an unhealed wound,” he replied, “but, like it or not, I came after your husband and McGuinn.”

  “Do you think I’m going to help you?”

  “I hope you will,” he said simply.

  “You put me in a very awkward position. Without my help, I don’t know how you can hope to arrest all three of them....”

  “There are only two of them now.”

  “What?”

  He briefed her about Hughes’s death on the boat.

  The information registered in her mind, but she was too dulled with fatigue to feel much emotion. “I didn’t hate the man enough to kill him, but I can’t shed any tears over his death. Maybe I’m just getting hard-hearted.” She was silent for several steps, wondering how Packard’s presence and Hughes’s death were going to affect the story she had concocted for her husband. Finally she said: “I suppose you don’t know where they are, or you wouldn’t be here, asking for my help.”

  “You’re not only beautiful, but you’re intelligent.”

  The condescending remark raked her like a claw. She looked sideways at him, trying to read his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding truly contrite. “I meant that as a compliment, but that’s not the way it came out.” When she didn’t reply, he went on. “Yes, I want your help. And, yes, I’m forcing you to make a choice between the life you’ve led and something better for the future. If you lead me to your husband and McGuinn, there’s a good chance you’ll get off with a very light sentence or maybe only probation. There, that’s as plain as I can make it. Will you do it?”

  She considered her options for three or four long minutes. Whatever decision she made now would affect the rest of her life. If she refused to help, he could simply arrest her and go on by himself. She didn’t think she could still rely on his affection for her to let her go. Or he might somehow follow her to Kinealy. On the other hand, could she really betray her husband of more than twenty years, then take her chances with him at a trial? The country was so outraged at the theft of Lincoln’s body, she hated to think what a jury might do to them. There had to be a third choice, but her tired brain was having trouble finding it.

  Packard walked silently beside her, awaiting her answer.

  She had a glimmer of an idea. She sighed and squared her sagging shoulders. “This horse is about done in,” she said. “Let me get him to a livery with some oats and a rubdown. Then I’ll take you to them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Packard knew he would never have found the place by himself. He tried to think of a way to thank her. He had to show all the support and encouragement possible for her difficult decision to help him.

  “There it is.” She indicated a white, frame house on the corner. It was at the end of a block and across the street from where they viewed it from behind a tall, board fence. “Jim rented it last year. It’s vacant most of the time, but he uses it now and then to meet with coney men from Kansas City and Omaha.”

  “Thanks. You won’t regret it.” Packard slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug.

  “It’s a good place to conduct his business,” Janice continued without responding, “because it’s out here near the cemetery and away from most of the houses. Another reason Jim likes it is because there’s a way out in case of trouble. The place was once used by John Brown when he and his Abolitionists were busy helping runaway slaves escape from Missouri into Kansas and Iowa. There’s a tunnel running from the cellar to Table Creek a little ways back there.” She gestured vaguely. “Anyway, this is where he told me and Hughes to meet them.”

  “McGuinn met the boat last night and apparently found out I was aboard with Hughes and killed him.”

  She nodded. “It wasn’t definite which boat we’d be on,” she answered, “so it was just chance he was there to meet it.”

  “Dumb luck. It’s about time some of it goes my way.”

  “I may not be your dumb luck, but I’m your smart fortune,” she said, favoring him with a smile that still had the power to devastate his good judgment.

  “Do you have your Derringer?”

  “Right here.”

  “Why don’t you go on in and pretend nothing’s happened. Tell them you just lost track of Hughes, or something. Make sure the door’s left unlocked and they’re distracted. I’ll be in right behind you and get the drop on them. Once they’re out of action, and secured, I’ll give you a message to send to the Secret Service for me.”

  She flipped up her hood to hide herself from anyone who might be watching and crossed the street. She went up onto the small porch and rapped on the door.

  Packard watched through a crack in the tall, board fence as the door was opened by someone he couldn’t see, and she disappeared inside. He waited a count of twenty before moving out from behind the fence. Trusting her to keep them from the windows, he quickly crossed the street, went up onto the porch, and grabbed the doorknob. Throwing the door open so hard it banged back against the wall, he swept the room with his cocked Colt. The startled faces of Kinealy and McGuinn looked up from the far side of the room as Janice stepped back out of the way.

  “Ease out those guns and toss ’em on the couch.”

  McGuinn glared his hatred at Packard. Kinealy only appeared disgusted as he flipped his pistol onto the sofa. It bounced off and clattered onto the wooden floor. “Apparently you were followed, Janice,” he said with sarcasm. “You’ll have to learn to be more circumspect.”

  “I’m an agent of the United States Secret Service,” Packard said, intoning the words he’d been waiting to say since he’d joined this gang. “You’re under arrest for grave-robbing and extortion.” He motioned with his gun. “Into the dining room.”

  All three of them moved, Janice silently acting as if she were also a prisoner.

  “Find something to tie them with,” Packard ordered Janice.

  She came back a few moments later. “There’s nothing in the house.”

  He moved to a back window and looked out. “Go cut down that clothesline.”

  When she brought in two lengths of line, Packard held the gun while he directed her to tie each of the men. A quarter of an hour later Kinealy and McGuinn were both hog-tied, each face-down on the floor. Packard made sure the rope was tight, and he retied two of the knots to his satisfaction. Hands and ankles were securely fastened together behind their backs, and the rope was then looped with a slipknot around their necks. Any movement of the hands or feet tended to choke off the breath.

  “Aren’t you going to tie me?” Janice asked, when he had finished.

  “I ran out of rope,” he said, still covering for her in front of Kinealy.

  “There’s probably coffee in the kitchen,” she suggested.

  “Good. Go make some,” he said. “It’s been a long night, and I need something to perk me up.”

  She pretended to be cowed by his threatening attitude and disappeared into the kitchen. He collected the two pistols and cartridge belts and sat down at the small, dining-room table where he could see Janice moving around in the adjacent room.

  “So you killed Hughes,” Kinealy said, twisting his head so he could see Packard. “I didn’t figure you for a killer. Matter of fact, I thought he could probably take you. Must not have been a fair fight.”

  Packard resisted the urge to explain what had happened; he wouldn’t let Kinealy bait him into justifying himself.

  “Yeah,” McGuinn said, picking up this cue. “I wish I’d had a go at you. Would’ve been a different story.” Arm
and shoulder muscles bulged under his shirt as he strained at the bonds. But Packard had made sure he was securely fastened. McGuinn grew red in the face as his struggles tightened the noose around his neck.

  “When and where will the ransom be paid?” Packard asked in a conversational tone, not really expecting an answer. “You’ll probably cut a lot off your sentence if you just tell me this was all a lark and you had no intention of really extorting money from the governor. Maybe the jury will believe you.”

  Neither man replied, so he got up and went to a small writing desk in the front room of the house. Taking a sheet of paper from the drawer, he sat down and dipped the steel-tipped pen into the brass ink pot. He wrote out the name and address of the Secret Service in Chicago and then composed a carefully worded message, giving the essentials of what had happened. With a feeling of satisfaction, he signed his name and flipped the cap shut on the ink well.

  Janice was returning with a steaming pot of coffee, as he brought the paper back to the dining room. She set the pot down on a folded towel and then brought a cup and a bowl of sugar. He poured and handed her the cup.

  “I don’t care for any,” she said.

  He took it back, stirred some sugar into the brew, had a sip, and then a healthy swallow. It was delicious. Just what he needed to restore his flagging energy after a cold, restless night spent on the riverbank.

  “What about them?” She nodded toward the two on the floor.

  “They can order their own coffee,” he smiled, trying to lighten up her somber mood.

  “I mean what are you going to do with them?” She didn’t change expression. “They can’t stay tied like that for long.”

  “Come with me.” He picked up the paper and took her arm, leading her out to the front porch, closing the door behind them. “Go to the Western Union office and send this.” he said, handing her the folded paper and a ten-dollar bill. “Then get back here, and we’ll decide what to do with them until they’re taken off my hands.”

  “O K,” she replied, sliding the paper and the money into a side pocket of her cloak.

  He studied her face but couldn’t read her feelings. Then she surprised him by slipping one hand behind his neck and kissing him soundly on the lips. She looked intently into his eyes for several seconds, then turned, and walked down the steps and across the street, the morning sun shining on her soft, brown hair.

  He watched her until she turned the corner and was lost to sight, then went back inside and sat down to wait. His message asked for further instructions. If none was forthcoming, he’d see about contacting a federal marshal to help him escort his prisoners to Chicago on a train.

  “Hey, Packard, my muscles are cramped. Can you loosen these?” Kinealy asked.

  Packard checked their bonds to be sure circulation wasn’t being seriously impaired. “No. You’ll have to tough it out a little longer.”

  “Where’d my wife go?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You trust her out of your sight?” He grunted. “I guess it’s true, then, what Hughes said. You’ve seduced her away from me. You didn’t follow her here. She led you here.”

  Packard drank two more cups of the strong coffee, laced with sugar. This should have given him a good jolt, but he found himself still getting drowsy. Finally, he got up from the table and went to the front room and sat down on the sofa, leaning his head back. He tried to figure out exactly how he’d deal with his two captives when Janice returned, but he was as sleepy as if he’d just eaten a full meal and drunk a glass of wine. His concentration was fading. It was only a natural let-down after the successful conclusion of this long, dangerous case. He’d just close his eyes and rest for a few minutes. He and Janice would discuss it, when she got back.

  * * *

  When his eyes flickered open, he felt as if he’d been deeply asleep for a long time. Beyond the curtains of the front window, the sky had clouded up and a light drizzle was falling. It appeared to be late afternoon or early evening. His arms were heavy and his thinking muzzy. Forcing himself to a sitting position on the sofa, he began to realize, through the fog in his head, that something was amiss. He staggered to his feet, his legs feeling like posts.

  Kinealy and McGuinn were gone! Pieces of the slashed clothesline rope lay scattered on the floor. Blind infatuation had done him in again. It was a bitter draught to swallow.

  He staggered to the kitchen, thrust his head under the spout, and pumped until cold water gushed over his hair and face, clearing the cobwebs from his brain. Wiping his face on a sleeve, he returned to the dining room and, when his eyes began to focus properly, saw that the table had been pushed back and the rug under it lay in a pile to one side, revealing a square trap door in the floor. He grabbed the recessed iron ring and jerked it open. A rush of musty, chilled air came up from the dark hole. He lighted the coal-oil lamp on the table, turned up the wick, and went cautiously down the cellar stairs, gun in hand. He found himself in an empty, packed-dirt, windowless room about ten feet by twelve with no outside cellar door. Holding the lamp high and moving around, he discovered a tunnel that opened off into uninviting darkness. He was looking at a portion of John Brown’s Underground Railroad. After several cautious steps into the passage he realized a constant stream of fresh air was flowing past him, blowing the tall flame and smoking up the lamp’s chimney. Water dripped on his head, and patches of mud here and there revealed only one set of prints — a woman’s. He was puzzled, but cocked his Colt and moved forward.

  He’d gone fewer than a dozen paces when the tunnel made a slight bend and daylight showed a short distance ahead through a tangle of brush and vines. He carefully pushed his way into the open and stopped short at the steep bank of a creek. The stream, about ten feet below, was flowing toward the Missouri less than a mile away. He had no idea which way she had gone. A canoe to the river? Had she climbed the bank and walked back to town? Why even use this tunnel? She could have just walked out the door with Kinealy and McGuinn. Maybe to lure him into a trap? A cave-in could seal him up so he’d never be found. A cold chill went over him, and he looked quickly around, his ears alert for any unusual sounds. Instinctively he knew she would never do such a thing, and slowly relaxed.

  Dusk was coming on and the wind was picking up, blowing big drops of cold rain against his face. As he holstered his gun and turned to go back, he saw a sheet of paper fluttering against the stickers of a rosebush near the entrance. He absently pulled the snagged piece of trash loose and started to crumple it in his hand, when he noticed there was something written on it in a dainty feminine hand. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he knelt and carefully unfolded the paper on the dirt floor of the tunnel. It was already so blotched by the rain as to make it partially illegible. He read, holding the lamp close:

  My Dearest S,

  Forgive me, but this was the best way for all of us to get out of this mess. My (your) telegram to your Chicago bosses told — (words blurred) — could arrest Jim and McGuinn at Omaha where they’re headed by steamboat. I told the location of the coffin. Jim thinks I plan to meet him in Omaha — after I drown you while you’re unconscious.

  He paused, feeling slightly sick. While he was drugged, all she would’ve had to do was roll him onto the floor with his face in a pan of water. Did Kinealy really think she was capable of murder? Was this her final test of loyalty to Kinealy and the gang? If so, he breathed a prayer of thanks that she’d failed it. He looked back at the note that was water-splotched even worse in the middle of the page.

  The ransom is being carried in greenbacks by Ben Boyd. He’s... — (words blurred) — South America to convert... — (words blurred) — to untraceable gold. I don’t know if the law can stop him, and I don’t... — (words blurred) — ght, and I’m through with this life. But I cannot leave my husband for you, or for anybody... — (words blurred) — I ratted on Jim to save... — (words blurred) — heavier penalty later. There’s no law against grave-robbing in Illinois... — (words blurred) —
I doubt that... — (words blurred) — enough evidence... — (word blurred) — prove extortion... — (words blurred) — lawyer... — (words blurred) — get only two or three years... — (words blurred) — destruction of property at the tomb. As for you and me — well, you know how I feel. If circumstances had only been different...

  Love,

  J.

  P. S. Sorry I had to put laudanum in that pot of coffee, but you’ll feel O K in a few hours.

  The note had been perfectly placed on the stickers of the rosebush just outside the mouth of the tunnel where its fluttering in the breeze would ensure its being noticed. It had all been neatly done. She’d led him here by way of the obvious trap door. She knew if he didn’t see the note, nobody would, because within another hour or two the ink would have been only one big blur or the paper dissolved and fallen to pieces in the rain, her last message to him going forever unread.

  He believed her to be correct about the lack of hard evidence. Roundabout coded messages might be linked to Kinealy if his mysterious Chicago contact were ever caught. The telegrams from Kinealy were signed, not with his name, but rather as The Coney Men, of which there were many. Even if McGuinn decided to confess and accuse his boss, it wasn’t likely the jury would believe a man with his criminal record who was only trying to save himself a heavy sentence. It would probably require testimony from Packard to strengthen the circumstantial case against Kinealy. Considering Janice’s wishes, he wasn’t inclined to give such testimony.

  * * *

  With one last pull on the oars, Janice Kinealy nosed the leaky skiff into the bank only a few rods from where the clear water of Table Creek flowed into the muddy Missouri. She splashed through the several inches of bilge water, feeling the cold wetness seeping inside her shoes, and tied off the boat to a clump of dead bushes. Climbing out, she started toward the riverboat landing at a fast walk, the hem of her dress dragging in the mud. She felt even dirtier than she had this morning. Finally she stopped and ripped the deep, soggy hem completely off and threw it away in frustration. The dress now ended midway down her calves, revealing the high tops of her muddy shoes. She carried no handbag, but had a total of nearly three hundred dollars in greenbacks she had gotten from Kinealy. Besides the cash, she also had some of her own personal diamond and gold pins and bracelets wrapped in a handkerchief, jewelry she could sell if necessary. And the Derringer was still a reassuring lump in the pocket of her cloak.