by Tim Champlin
The midday June sun beat down in the still, humid air, and Smealey felt sweat trickling down behind his ears from beneath his straw hat and down his sides inside his shirt. He spat tobacco juice into the deep grass, then slapped at a whining mosquito too close to his ear. He could hardly wait to vacate this place, but agreed with Weir it wasn’t safe to move yet. His partner had more patience than he did. So far, his own plan had worked admirably, but it had taken both of them, each contributing suggestions, to make it slide along like a slice of greasy possum on a platter. Weir was not the type of man he would want to partner with for very long. But this one project had snapped up the treasure he’d lost to those two kids inside, and once he took out his revenge on them, he’d be off to Indian Territory, or the gold rush, or somewhere far away—with 66,000 in gold.
“I’d head for New Orleans right now if I thought it was safe,” Weir said. “But you can bet once that girl spreads the word to the St. Louis police, they’ll be checking every steamboat, scow, and skiff headin’ south for several days. A flea couldn’t hop through.”
“Maybe we shoulda set that yawl adrift and delayed her gettin’ home for a while,” Smealey said.
“Naw. She might have panicked and tried to swim ashore. That’s a long way with a swift current. I didn’t want the little brat to drown. Then, if somebody found her body downstream they’d think we killed her for sure. Better she arrive back safe in a couple days and tell the law we have the boys as hostages.”
“She knows our faces,” Smealey reminded him. “They’ll have our descriptions and drawings out on wanted posters.”
“That’s all right. We’ll mosey along in disguise for a while. Maybe travel separately, and each take one of those boys as security. I couldn’t see sitting around here all week with the girl while I was wearing a sack over my head in this heat, or sportin’ a blond wig or a putty nose. We can put that stuff on when we light outa here.”
“So, where we headed?”
“Our best bet would be to start north into Iowa, and then join up with one o’ them wagon trains striking out for the gold fields. Ain’t nobody gonna be lookin’ for us north and west.”
Smealey thought a moment. “Council Bluffs, Iowa, is hundreds of miles from here. How we gonna get there? We have horses but that’s a long way, and toting them boys along and keepin’ ’em shut up all the while would take some doing.”
Weir shook his head. “Too much work and risk. There’s easier ways. We ain’t but a few miles overland from St. Charles. We’ll take a packet up the Missouri and catch a wagon train at St. Joe.”
Smealey pondered that option. “I see two problems with that. First, every one o’ them Missouri riverboats is gonna be jam-packed with gold rushers. And second, don’t you think the police are gonna be checking those boats, too?”
“The crowds will be in our favor,” Weir said. “The law can’t stop every boat and check every passenger. There’s dozens of boats headed upriver daily. Besides, we’ll be in disguise and we won’t travel together. If we keep those boys apart, they can’t hatch any mischief about escaping.” Weir chuckled. “You can torture ’em a little, but not too much—only enough to put the fear o’ God—and you—into their imaginations.”
“What should I threaten them with?”
Still grinning, Weir said. “You’ll think of something. Maybe promise you’ll cut off some vital body part and let ’em bleed to death if they open their mouths. You can scare ’em into anything. The trick is, they have to believe you’ll really do it.”
“Murder is out of the question.”
“I know that, but they don’t. You can treat these boys a little rougher than that girl. After all, it was your idea to swap hostages so you could lay your hands on Tom and Huck and punish them for stealing the gold you and that breed found.”
Smealey nodded. “I can handle that. They’ll be beggin’ for mercy before I’m through. They’ll do anything I say by the time we reach St. Charles.”
“Okay, you have ’til day after tomorrow and then we’ll leave. That’ll give me a chance to work up some good disguises. There will be a half moon so we’ll have a little light if we have to travel at night.”
“Did you ever think you’d be wearin’ chains like a slave?” Tom Sawyer asked, examining the metal shackles that fastened his hands together in front of him.
“Never in my life,” Huck replied, shifting his back against the wall, and jingling the links of the chain that held his hands only six inches apart.
The two boys were sitting on the floor of an empty room in the kidnappers’ hideout. The rickety house was one of the old-fashioned kind that was two stories tall, but only one room deep. Hot as it was, the upper story at least absorbed some of the fierce sun. And the back door was missing, leaving a gap in the wall for some air and also allowing a view of the waist-deep weeds and the tilting barn behind. The kidnappers’ two horses were quietly grazing in the deep grass.
Tom wiped a sleeve across his sweaty face. “This place looks like it could fall down in a strong wind.”
“I seen old barns leanin’ like this mos’ likely since Columbus discovered the Injuns,” Huck replied absently, his mind apparently elsewhere.
After several seconds of silence, Tom suddenly burst out, “Wow! Hucky, that’s it! That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“It only just come to me!”
“It did? What did?”
“I been thinkin’ all along I knew that Smealey from somers, and now I know!”
“Yeah?”
“You recollect when we was hidin’ upstairs in that old haunted house and Injun Joe and his partner come in there and found our pick and shovel with the fresh dirt on ’em?”
“Lordy! I ain’t likely to forget. ’Most gives me the fantods thinkin’ about it. Hadn’t been for them steps breakin’ we’d of been found and kilt for sure.”
“And we didn’t know at first it was Injun Joe because he was in disguise like a Spaniard, with white whiskers and wearin’ them green goggles and all?”
“Yeah, what about it? He’s dead now.”
“But the man who was with him ain’t dead. His name is Chigger Smealey and he’s settin’ out front there right now.”
“Oh, Lordy! How do you know?”
“I mostly recollect his voice. That face is some older and it’s covered over with about two weeks o’ whiskers, but it’s him. I’m certain of it.”
“Tom, we’re in a fix for sure now. Everybody but King Arthur knows we wound up with that gold stash they discovered under the hearth that day.” He brushed away a fly that lit on his nose. His hands trembled, rattling the chains on his shackles.
“It took me the longest time to figure out why them kidnappers wanted me and you to deliver the ransom. Now it makes sense. Right before they found that treasure under the fireplace, Injun Joe was talkin’ about takin’ revenge. He had to be meanin’ revenge on us—mostly me—for speakin’ out in court and tellin’ how we saw him murder Doc Robinson. Now this Smealey is doin’ the same because we stole his gold.”
“What d’ya think he’s gonna do to us?”
Tom paused for a moment, thinking. “Well, he ain’t gonna kill us—not right away, anyhow. We’re hostages. He’ll keep us alive until he’s absconded clean away from here. Then he’ll either kill us or let us go.”
“If he lets us go, he knows we’ll go to the sheriff or a constable or somebody and tell on him.”
“Yeah, but by then, he’ll be long gone, I reckon.”
Huck let out a long breath. “Our feet ain’t tied. We need to run—now—out that back door and into the swamp. We could hide where them two won’t never find us.”
“He could shoot us in the back afore we was halfway across that field to cover,” Tom said. “That’s likely why they left our feet loose, except at night. That man, Weir, he’s a nigger hunter and he knows his business. That’s why he had these metal shackles. We’d die in that swamp, even with only our ha
nds locked in front of us. Nothing to eat or drink and only the sun to tell us which way to go to the river. Water moccasins out there, too.”
“Beats waitin’ around to be murdered,” Huck said, his face paling under his tan.
“Best we keep mum and not let on we know him,” Tom said. “Maybe he won’t be too hard on us. We’ll pretend we’re in one o’ them dungeons during the French revolution and can stand the torture. Because, sure enough, we’ll escape by ’n’ by and justice will prevail.”
“I reckon pretendin’ is better than thinkin’ it’s really happening.”
Footsteps on the porch announced the entrance of one of the men.
Smealey entered the room and stood with his hands on hips, regarding them. “Well, my thieving friends, how are you doing in here? Well, I hope.”
“Can I have a drink of water?” Tom asked.
“Why, sure.” Smealey went to a wooden bucket on the other side of the room, dipped up a scoop of water with a hollow gourd, and handed it to Tom. He emptied it eagerly.
“What about you, Mister Finn?”
“Yes.”
Smealey gave him a full dipperful, then returned the gourd to the bucket.
“Precious fresh water. Now you must pay for it and for your previous sins.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a small pepper that was a pale greenish orange. He broke it between his fingers. “You two seem to have picked up a few scratches on your arms and legs and neck and apparently clawed at a few mosquito bites as well.” He approached them. “And what a shame it seems you’ve brushed up against some poison ivy or poison oak. Here, let me rub a little balm on those rashes.”
He swiped the juice of the pepper into the raw thorn scratches and red insect bites on Huck’s left leg and upper arm.
“Auggh!” Huck grimaced and rolled away on the floor.
Tom saw Smealey coming and kicked out with his shod feet.
The man batted them aside and slammed Tom’s legs to the floor, pinning them with his knees. Before Tom could ward him off, Smealey rubbed the pepper oil into four raw spots on his skin, including the cut on his cheek where Smealey had struck him with the gun barrel the night before. The pain began slowly, but then felt like someone was holding a burning twig to each spot.
Smealey stepped back, eyes glowing, a maniacal grin on his whiskery face. “You two was struttin’ around like royalty, spendin’ my gold. I allow I’ll take you down a peg or two. You stole my treasure, but now I have it secured again. With your help, I’ll keep it, too. You two thieves think you have the law on your side. But you’re our guarantee against the law laying a hand on us. When we’re away into the territory and outa their jurisdiction, we won’t need you brats no more. And it will be my final pleasure to dispose of you.” He reached and pulled a Colt from the back of his belt, half-cocked the hammer, and turned the cylinder, examining each load as it clicked past his eyes.
Tom caught his breath at the pain of the hot pepper in his abrasions, biting his lip, but determined not to show how much it hurt, although his eyes were watering. He barely heard what Smealey was saying. But the man’s next remark cut through the fog.
“Maybe I’ll be back later and notch your noses. That was a favorite trick of my old pard, Injun Joe.” He gave an oily laugh and left the room, banging the warped door behind him.
Gasping, Tom prayed for the intense pain to fade. How much more of this could he stand? Maybe being shot in the back trying to escape would be preferable.
CHAPTER 15
* * *
Zane pulled on the oars, synchronizing his stroke with Jim’s. He’d never rowed a boat until he found himself in this place and time. And here he was, skinny arms and all, pulling a boat on the Mississippi River with this muscular black man who was doing most of the actual work. Zane and the current were combining for the rest of their propulsion. Becky had insisted she be allowed to help, but had lasted only a few minutes, as her arms were too short to stroke in rhythm with a second oarsman.
What a river this was! Zane marveled that it was wild and free to go where it would, free to flood in spring, to form and destroy sandbars, to carve away dirt banks, depositing the soil somewhere downstream or washing it clear to the gulf, to twist, forming loops and then cutting them off, making oxbows and islands.
The Corps of Engineers was still around the bend in the future. No one had yet tried to harness the power of this water, to build any dams or revetments to maintain a channel. Steamboat pilots now were skilled artists who had to know the river, and dodge sandbars and wrecks at their peril.
Zane was beginning to enjoy this. He’d been here since Monday and, by his calculation, today was only Saturday. It seemed much longer. He had already ceased to miss his former, routine existence. His eyes now gloried in the sights of all these new adventures. It was a great summer vacation.
He and Jim and Becky had started early this morning after a hasty breakfast of hot catfish eaten with their fingers and had so far been on the water close to three hours. Zane thought he should be exhausted by now, but wasn’t.
“Hold!” Jim said. By mutual agreement, they rested on their oars and drifted while they caught their breath and scanned the dark green, heavily wooded shoreline. Zane looked over his shoulder and saw a white sandbar marking an approaching towhead.
They’d passed only one upbound steamboat all morning, and had seen a few houses of a small village high on a westside bluff. The silence was wonderful and relaxing to Zane who was used to some kind of constant noise in the world he’d left—the blather of TV, muted roar of car and truck traffic, overhead jets, police and ambulance sirens, irritating buzz of lawnmowers and weed eaters, electronic bleeps from all manner of handheld devices, along with various odd rings of cell phones everywhere he went.
“This river has lots of bends,” Zane observed as the current carried them along.
“Yasuh, dis be da snakenist river ah knows.”
“How far you think we’ve come?”
“Hmm . . . ’bout ten mile. Mebbe mo’.”
“Guess we need to keep a sharp lookout for Alton,” Zane said. “I’d guess it’s the only town of any size around here.”
“Mebbe best we leaves Alton be,” Jim said after a short pause.
“Why? Could be a sheriff there or a few policemen.”
“Dat place be pooty bad for niggers,” Jim said.
“But it’s on the Illinois shore—in a free state.” Zane was proud of his knowledge of geography and history.
“Dat mebbe so,” Jim said. “But slave hunters cross over dere all de time, no matter what de law says. Few year ago, a mob went over dere and kilt de abolitionist editor. Threw his press in de river. Lots o’ fights and shootin’s amongst de slave holders and abolitionists.”
They drifted silently for a few seconds.
“De village o’ Wood River be along here somers,” Jim said. “But dat be in Illinois, too. Best we stick to de Missouri side.”
“Next large city is St. Louis,” Zane said. “You want to shoot for it?”
“We needs water, mostly,” Jim said. “St. Charles be de nearest town on de west side ’round de bend where de Missouri River comes in.”
“We’ll aim for that, then,” Zane said, secretly glad for a closer goal. In only the few minutes of rest, his arms and shoulders were starting to feel very fatigued. Maybe he’d go back home looking like a weight lifter—if he ever got home at all, he thought, with a slight twinge of longing. But for now, he was free to be and do anything he wanted.
His stiffening muscles were soon forgotten as they took up their stroke again. Zane marveled at the design of this yawl. He had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed easy to row. The twenty-foot lapstrake hull had to weigh quite a bit, but it seemed to sit on the water lightly, easily capable of a much heavier load. He’d seen it hanging in the davits, and noted it had about an eight-inch-deep keel that ran nearly the entire length of the bottom, apparently to help it track straight and t
o keep it from sliding sideways when sailing off the wind. He and Jim had discussed whether or not to rig the sail this morning, but the prevailing wind was out of the southwest, in the general direction they wanted to go. And neither of them had experience trying to tack a boat against the wind, so they decided to row and let the current help.
Even though the rowers could determine direction, Becky sat in the stern at the tiller and steered when needed. Since Jim and Zane had to sit with their backs to the bow, Becky could watch for snags and shoal spots ahead and guide the boat around them. Only three times had they run aground on submerged sandbars and had to climb out and push the boat off.
But these were welcome interruptions to Zane. It was a glorious summer morning and he reveled in the chance to splash around in the cool water for a few minutes. His white sneakers were beginning to look pretty grungy.
St. Charles might have been closer, but it took several more hours to reach. Two things worked against them. Once they turned into the outflow of the muddy Missouri, they were struggling upstream and were also bucking a headwind. Adding to that, St. Charles was a good way up the Missouri instead of right at the junction of the rivers as Zane had envisioned. Per Jim’s directions, they hugged the north shore trying to stay in the slack water. But it was still a tough slog with the afternoon sun bearing down on them, current and wind against them, and fatigue and thirst building up.
By the time they saw a fair-sized town coming up, Zane was spitting cotton. He prayed it would be St. Charles. If it wasn’t, they had to stop and find some water, no matter what.
“Dah be St. Charles,” Jim gasped, letting his oars drag in the water as the boat slowed. “Thank de Lawd.”
They beached the boat on the muddy riverbank, tying it off to a cottonwood. All three of them sat for a few minutes, catching their breath and quietly enjoying the shade of the tree and the cooling breeze over the water.
“Jim,” Zane said, “we’ll be going among strangers. Do you have any papers showing you’re a free man?” He was beginning to be as leery of this society as those who’d lived here all their lives.