by Tim Champlin
Cold Cache
Tim Champlin
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
BLOOD MONEY
“Because of the bitterness remaining from Reconstruction, and the bitterness of this family feud, hatreds are going to flare into killings. This is not just a treasure hunt. This is deadly serious business…as you found out the other day.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to Nellie,” Rasmussen said.
“I don’t, either. I suspected you were sweet on her.”
“She told me she was disgusted with the whole business and wants nothing to do with it. But, by accident of birth, she is part of it. Tried to convince her to leave here and start another life, but she said she couldn’t bring herself to run away.”
“Sometimes our loyalties can be the death of us.”
Rasmussen pondered the wisdom of this statement. Uncle Bill had saved his life. He owed the man everything; he couldn’t just walk away.
“I’ll work with you.” He held out his hand. “Tell me the plan.” Committing himself, he felt the stab of danger in his gut. Loyalty to this mission might, indeed, be the death of them.
For my sister Peggy, whose sense of humor overcomes everything.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Blood Money
Dedication
Chapter One: Windsor, Ontario
Chapter Two: En Route to Chicago
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
About the Author
Praise
Other Leisure Books By Tim Champlin
Copyright
Chapter One: Windsor, Ontario
June 2, 1890
Kent Rasmussen was leaving the North-West Mounted Police. He’d spent the past eight years wearing the red in frontier provinces—enough to satisfy all his youthful illusions, and adult expectations. At the urging of his comrades-in-arms, he’d seriously considered reënlistment to make the Canadian service his career. But a severely frostbitten foot suffered six months earlier during a manhunt southwest of Old Wives Lake had persuaded him to seek another line of work at age thirty-seven, still reasonably young and with all his appendages. Once he’d made a firm decision, he forged ahead, casting aside all doubts and second thoughts.
Kent breathed deeply of the fresh air, looped his horse’s reins around the rail in front of the branch bank in Windsor, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. Although full summer was probably bursting forth farther south, a chill north breeze still tempered the hazy sunshine here. He stopped to squint across the river toward the low, jumbled buildings of Detroit. Although indistinguishable from buildings on this side of the border, they represented the United States of America—his home. He was returning after eight long years.
A light drumming of heels on the boardwalk swung his attention to a young woman approaching, dressed in a hooded traveling cape, and carrying a small leather bag. As she slowed by the door, Rasmussen swept off his stiff-brim hat and reached for the doorknob. She tossed back her hood, chestnut hair cascading to her shoulders, and flashed him a brief smile. “Thank you, sir.”
She passed in, trailing a faint, eloquent fragrance. What was it? Lilac? Jasmine? He couldn’t distinguish the scent of one toilet water from another. Sensibilities dulled by too many years of smelling pipe smoke and pine trees. He’d have to catch up on the finer things of life, he reflected, swinging the door shut behind him. Pausing in the shaded interior, he felt several pairs of eyes turn in his direction. Too little contact with civilized society made him feel conspicuous in his red uniform. He approached a teller’s cage and slipped a money clip from his pocket. Unfolding a stack of bills, he pushed them across the oak counter.
“Convert this to American currency,” he said to the slim, black-suited clerk. The stack represented a month’s pay plus a small separation bonus.
“Right you are, Constable,” the teller replied, ignoring the sergeant’s stripes on Rasmussen’s sleeves. “There’ll be a slight fee for that.”
“OK.” Rasmussen nodded, beginning to realize that everything in civilian life had its cost. No longer would the force provide all his needs. Just another adjustment he’d have to make after long months in the field. Attached to isolated outposts, he and his messmates seldom had had use for cash, except to settle up small wagers on pay day, or to buy tobacco and other personal items from the sutler.
While the teller counted the money and searched his cash drawer, Rasmussen found himself distracted by the voice of the young woman at the next window.
“Why should I have to see the bank manager?” she demanded. “Can’t you handle this transaction? Isn’t everything in order?”
The balding teller’s eyes darted nervously. “Of course, miss.” He smoothed some sort of document on the counter and lowered his voice. In the quiet atmosphere, Rasmussen had no trouble overhearing his words. “It’s just that the branch manager must approve a withdrawal of this size. And it’s customary to issue a bank draft for large sums.”
“I don’t want your paper,” she replied. “I want it all in United States currency.” She set her small leather grip on the counter. “Your bank has been earning money on this account for twenty-five years, but now you’re saying I can’t have it in cash? Here’s my authorization.”
“But, miss.…”
“OK, if this is too big for you, where’s the manager?” she asked, obviously annoyed at the timid clerk.
“One moment.” The teller disappeared toward the back.
She took the small black satchel and stepped away from the barred window, biting at the corner of her lip.
With a sidelong glance, Rasmussen studied her from beneath his eyelids. She wasn’t much over five feet tall, but the girl moved in a confident way and her sharp profile emphasized a perky, defiant air.
“Three hundred forty-seven dollars and thirty cents.” The clerk’s voice brought Rasmussen back to his own business. The teller carefully counted out the large, crisp greenbacks. “The exchange rate is a bit in your favor just now.”
“Thanks,” Rasmussen said, folding and thrusting the bills into his silver money clip—a departing gift from the men of his regiment.
As he turned toward the door, the woman looked up and seemed really to notice him for the first time. Her bold look showed no apologies for making a scene. Their eyes locked briefly, and he nodded. She didn’t change expression, but her gaze swept down his six foot, two inch frame, encompassing the red and blue dress uniform, the white lanyard cord from his neck to the long-barreled Colt holstered at his side, then down to his shiny black boots. It took her only seconds to size him up, yet he felt his smoothshaven cheeks reddening as he dragged his attention from her and reached for the door handle. If eyes are windows of the soul, he felt his soul had just been searched and found wanting.
Outside in the sun and fresh air, he shook off the feeling and donned his hat. Being around white women, instead of Indian squaws, was another part of civilized living to which he’d have to become reaccustomed.
He mounted and started his short ride back to the transfer depot on the edge of town. Then he recalled his lack of civilian clothes and reined in at the nearest general store. Socks, ankle high shoes, canvas pants
and belt, two shirts, and saddlebags to carry them in would be enough for now. He added a corduroy jacket and a brown felt hat, paying for the lot with some Canadian money he’d retained for emergencies.
An hour later, he was signing forms and processing out from the Mounted Police depot. A clerical error was discovered involving his time in service. While clerks pored over his personnel folder, Rasmussen changed into the new drab civilian clothing, turned in his uniform, gear, and revolver to the supply sergeant, then led his mount to the stable. He’d said farewell to former comrades a week earlier before riding away from his post in Saskatchewan. His good-byes to long-time friends remained painful. It was over and he was eager to sever the last ties and be gone.
Yet the hours dragged on, officialdom not wanting to release him until his record was completely in order. He became impatient to catch the last ferry to Detroit. But four o’clock had come and gone before the error was found and rectified. The officer in charge finally signed his discharge.
He tucked away the official certificate and took off at a fast walk to the waterfront, three miles away, forgetting he’d not broken in his stiff new shoes. By the time he arrived at the dock, the frost damaged toes on his right foot burned from unaccustomed walking. To his disgust, the last ferry for Detroit had left fifteen minutes earlier. Gazing across the water at Michigan, he sighed deeply. What would another day matter? Flinging the saddlebags over one shoulder, he turned back toward town and, an hour later, checked in at the Mirrott Hotel for the night.
At 7:15 that evening, the long summer daylight still flooded through the windows when he settled himself at a table in the hotel dining room. He finally relaxed, relieved by a shave and a good soak and scrub in a bathhouse down the street. His stomach growled at the aroma of fried steak. He hadn’t eaten in twelve hours.
He placed his order as an attractive waitress in a white shirtwaist poured him coffee. With a good meal and a night’s sleep, he’d be ready to start his new life. Shifting in his chair, he crossed an ankle over his knee, and slipped off his shoe to massage his damaged toes through his sock. The few patrons of the dining room didn’t give him a second glance and he leaned back, enjoying the soft contact of the new-smelling cotton shirt against his skin. Mounted policemen always seemed to draw attention in public places. He enjoyed being anonymous.
He slipped his shoe back on and rested his elbows on the table, staring into his coffee cup. What would his new life be like? After deciding not to reenlist, he’d been unable to imagine life outside the Mounted Police. Tomorrow he’d take the train to Chicago, then on to southern Minnesota where his widowed mother lived with his older sister. Beyond that—what? He had little money to begin again since he’d sent most of his pay home to keep up his mother and sister. Maybe they’d been right not to sell the small farm and move to town as he’d suggested. He had no regrets at this point, but felt as he had when he’d enlisted in the North-West Mounted Police as a twenty-nine year old rookie. The clock’s pendulum was swinging, and he wouldn’t have time for too many new beginnings, so he’d best make the most of this one.
Drawing a deep breath, he looked out the window at the red disk of sun sinking through the haze in the west. A rustle of skirts interrupted and he looked up, expecting the waitress with his food.
“If you’re eating alone, may I join you?”
The young woman from the bank stared down at him.
It took him only a second to cover his surprise. “Of course. Sit down.” By the time he collected himself and rose to hold her chair, she had seated herself.
“You’re the Mountie I saw at the bank,” she stated before he could introduce himself.
He nodded.
“Where’s your uniform?”
Nothing subtle or indirect about this woman, he thought. His first impression had been accurate.
“I’m no longer in the Mounted Police.”
“Oh?” She arched her fine eyebrows. “Just since this morning?”
“That’s right.” He nodded. “I’m now an ordinary citizen, like ’most everyone else.” He liked her forthright manner. Here was a solitary woman who was no shrinking violet. Then, for a moment he wondered—could he be so naïve as not to recognize a prostitute when he saw one? Why else would she boldly seek out a perfect stranger? Be leery of this one, he told himself. He’d end the conversation when his food arrived. “Did you resolve your problem with the bank?” he asked, turning the conversation to her.
“Yes, I did.” She smiled, showing even, white teeth. Dark hair, swept back and fastened on each side by a tortoise shell comb, framed her face nicely. She appeared even younger than she had earlier. “I reminded them it’s their business to serve customers, and not the other way around. Bankers tend to form an exaggerated opinion of themselves, and they were acting in a condescending manner…especially since I was a woman.”
And a very attractive one, he added to himself.
“That’s why I need a big, strong man. I noticed the teller listened to what you said, and did it.”
This caught him off balance, but he continued sipping his coffee and ignored her, not wanting to ask what she needed him for. Obviously not to get along in a world of males, since she’d handled the bank officials well enough. He hoped she would go away and let him eat in peace.
“You have any immediate plans?” she asked.
“Leaving for home in the morning,” he answered politely.
“Where’s that?”
“Minnesota.” She was a nosy one.
“You’re not Canadian, then?”
“Not by birth. I’ve lived here a few years.”
She was silent for several seconds, sizing him up, perhaps getting ready to come to the point. Not for a moment did he think she’d just approached him to pass the time of day.
His discomfort was relieved by the welcome interruption of the waitress with a plate of smoking steak, potatoes, and peas.
“Anything else I can get you?” the waitress asked, placing a woven basket with slices of sourdough on the table.
“Only coffee.”
“All that food is making me hungry,” the woman across the table said. “I’ll have the same.”
The waitress nodded and withdrew.
Rasmussen began to regret he’d invited her to join him. He wasn’t skilled at the social graces, but she displayed a rudeness even he could recognize. Yet—she was pretty. Perhaps she presented a distraction that was actually good for him. He’d been keeping his own counsel far too long.
“My name’s Nellie Newburn,” she said.
“Kent Rasmussen,” he said, not offering to shake hands, as he was busy cutting his steak. “Where you from?”
She glanced around as if looking for someone eavesdropping. “Southern Missouri,” she said in a lower voice.
He began to suspect her mental ship might be listing slightly.
“What brings you up north?” he asked, attempting some sort of normal conversation as he forked in a bite of steak and peas.
“The name Newburn doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” she asked, ignoring his question.
He shook his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Should it?”
“I suppose not. What about the name Clayton?”
“Nope. Can’t say as I know it, either.”
“Probably the two best known families in my region. Famous or infamous, depending on your point of view.”
He decided to lighten up the conversation. “I’ve heard the notorious Missouri names of James, Dalton, and Younger. You related to them?”
“Not related, but connected in another way.”
“Really?” He began to listen more closely.
But she didn’t explain. Her face took on the look of a young girl about to spring a delightful surprise. “I want to hire you as my bodyguard on my return trip to Springfield, Missouri.”
Apparently his manner showed he wasn’t thrilled with this prospect. Her face fell. He tried quickly to make light of the whol
e idea, to devise some easy let-down to get rid of this Nellie Newburn.
“You can wire your family that you’ll be late,” she hurried on before he could reply. “It’ll take only a week or two, at most, if everything goes well.”
“Why do you need a bodyguard?” He didn’t really want to know.
“I’ve only just met you, but I’m a good judge of character. You could have been thrown off the Mounted Police, for all I know, but you were wearing sergeant’s stripes this morning, so you had enough good time and good character to make some rank. You’re big and strong and have a police background. That’s why I want to hire you. My reasons are my own for now, until you accept.”
Maybe she wasn’t as addled as he’d thought. She seemed articulate and a good observer. “I can’t say yes or no,” he hedged, “until I know if you’re in some kind of danger.”
“Not only would you be guarding me, but also my possessions.”
“You referring to the big withdrawal you made from the bank today?”
“Yes.”
“Well.…” He put his fork down on his plate and looked at her.
“Don’t be brushing me off, Mister Rasmussen,” she said impatiently, “just because you think I’m paranoid, or some scatterbrain who sat down here to tell you a wild tale.” She was deadly serious now as her brown eyes held him steadily. She reached into her handbag that lay on a chair next to her and withdrew a white envelope, shoving it across the tablecloth.
He carefully opened the edge of it to see the corners of several $100 bills peeking out.
“There’s five hundred dollars there. A man I know followed me here from Missouri. He’s intent on killing me and taking the load of cash I have. If you see me safely to Springfield, I’ll pay you another five hundred…a thousand dollars for less than ten days’ work. That’s probably the best offer you’ve had today.”
“Nellie Newburn, you’ve just hired yourself a bodyguard.”
Chapter Two: En Route to Chicago
June 3, 1890