by Tim Champlin
This mission would redeem her. The Knights of the Golden Circle had even promised her an $8,000 reward when she delivered the full leather satchel into her grandfather’s hands.
Chapter Three
“We’re coming into Chicago,” Rasmussen said, glancing out the grimy window. The setting sun was a red disk dodging between the taller brick buildings as their car rumbled and swayed over rail connections and switches. After being accustomed to the crisp air of the Canadian prairie, he grimaced at the pall of smoke from rows of mills and factories.
“I have to make a stop here,” he said, reaching for his hat.
Nellie grabbed him by the arm. “What for? Our tickets are through to Saint Louis. We don’t even have to change. Our Pullman will be coupled to another southbound train.”
“Didn’t have time to buy a gun in Detroit,” he said. “You’ll have to come with me. I’m not letting you, or that bag, out of my sight.”
She nodded. “We have an hour and a half layover. Plenty of time.”
Ten minutes later they descended to the platform, Nellie clutching her drum bag. He guided her out of the busy terminal and down the sidewalk.
Rasmussen had a general idea of the type of weapon he wanted. Following the Métis uprising five years earlier, the higher powers of the Mounted Police had seen fit to equip the force with the Colt .45 1878 Model. With its 7 1/2 inch barrel, it was a hefty, accurate sidearm, fine for long range work. But now, as a civilian, he was looking for a somewhat lighter pistol to carry.
Binkleman’s Hardware was a large establishment stocking thousands of tools, implements, and hardware items, in addition to a wide variety of pistols and long guns.
Rasmussen scanned the display case and the dozens of handguns hanging on wall hooks behind the counter. It’d take more time than he had to examine even half the selection.
“Help you?” offered a balding clerk in striped shirt and bow tie, smoothing the points of his waxed mustache.
“Let me see that Merwin-Hulbert.”
The clerk removed the pistol from the case and handed it over. “One of the finest weapons made,” he said, “although it doesn’t enjoy the reputation of Colt or Smith and Wesson.”
Rasmussen nodded, turning the revolver in his hands. The clerk was not just making a sales pitch; he was telling the truth. Rasmussen had seen two different models of the Merwin-Hulbert make—the first carried by a civilian scout, and the other captured from one of Louis Riel’s men at Batoche. The machining and tolerances of these guns were near perfection. The vast majority of them came nickel-plated from the factory. This one was a .38-caliber, double action with a 5 1/2 inch barrel, and polished rosewood grips. He hefted it, feeling the balance, then held it at arm’s length and sighted along the top of the ribbed barrel. Pressing a catch on the left side of the frame, he released the barrel and cylinder, which slid forward and tilted to the right—the manufacturer’s unique design for ejecting spent cartridges. The gun had a bird’s head grip. A small triangle of steel that protruded from the butt was holed to accept a lanyard. This small wedge of steel would make a fearsome, skull-splitting club as well, he noted.
“How much?”
“Thirty-five dollars.”
A fair price for a quality weapon; he need not look further. “Add a holster and box of shells to that?”
“I’ve got a broken in, used holster that’ll fit it.”
“Fine.” Rasmussen handed over one of the $100 bills Nellie had paid him. Might as well get some change. He’d need some smaller denominations later. “No need to wrap it. I’ll wear it.” He unbuckled his belt and slid the holstered gun onto his left side so the butt pointed forward. It was concealed by his corduroy jacket. He pocketed the change and receipt from the clerk. He and Nellie left the store.
A bell clanged sharply as a horse-drawn trolley passed. They crossed the street, dodging the wheels of a heavy dray that ground by, iron-shod draft horses clopping hollowly on the cobblestones.
“Why’d you select that particular gun?” she asked. “You didn’t shop around, or look at any of the others.” She hurried to keep stride with him on the sidewalk.
“Quality, workmanship, reliability, balance. The barrel is just heavy enough to dampen the recoil, and just long enough to allow me to hit a target beyond twenty feet. And it weighs less than two pounds.”
“Oh.” She seemed properly awed by this surfeit of information.
Within a half block, he stepped into an alleyway to be a little less conspicuous, and loaded the .38.
“You expecting trouble?”
“I wouldn’t have bought this if I weren’t,” he replied shortly, flipping up the loading gate. He shoved the weapon into its holster and moved on at a brisk walk. It felt good to stretch his legs.
“None of the men I’ve seen appears to be armed,” she commented.
“Not openly.” Did this woman want him to use all the means at his disposal to protect her, or not? He began to feel uneasy. Maybe she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. He took this assignment seriously. Was she playing some sort of game with him? He glanced at her as they hurried toward the depot. Maybe she was averse to violence. If that were the case, she should never have accepted the job of being a courier for so much cash. This woman was smart. Surely she realized the danger. As a Mountie he’d been trained to anticipate trouble and to be ready for anything. Like as not, if one were prepared, a crisis could be averted or defused.
Dusk crept along the downtown streets, pulling the mantle of darkness around the brick and stone buildings that had sprung up since the Great Fire of 1871. Wagon and foot traffic thinned at the supper hour. He was glad they’d eaten in the dining car three hours earlier.
“Slow down!” she complained. “We still have a good half hour before train time.” The drum bag banged against her skirted legs as she struggled along. She’d refused his earlier offer to carry it.
He slowed his long strides, glad she had no portmanteau to haul around. She’d left her small grip, containing extra clothes and toiletries, in the Pullman.
Although relieved to have a break from the confining train, Rasmussen was wary of cities where he felt closed in, and crowds of strangers could hide potential enemies. For several years, Indians and wild animals had been his fare. Before that, a Minnesota farm. It’s all a matter of what you’re used to, he thought. City detectives or policemen might harbor the opposite view.
The American and Canadian tribes had been subdued. He’d helped put down the half-blood Métis when they aggressively asserted their rights. He didn’t agree with the Canadian government’s overreaction to the Métis’ grievances and to the rail workers’ strike, even though, as a Mounted Policeman, he’d been forced to help suppress both. That was one reason he’d left the force. With the Indian tribes confined, he was seeing the frontier change, and it made him sad in a way he couldn’t explain. As much as white society had longed for this to happen, he felt something had gone out of the country, never to return, as if the last free-roaming mountain lions had been caged.
Turning the corner, he came in sight of the big, brick depot. There were enough white criminals in this city alone to make up for any number of red warriors. But what was romantic or exciting about chasing a bunch of city hoodlums?
The Pullman porter had told them their car would be connected to the southbound train parked on the sixth track out from the platform. Rasmussen turned away from the hissing gaslights of the depot and led the way around the ends of two parked trains. Red lanterns glowed on a caboose. He walked next to the cars in the closed darkness under the train shed and tried to see the lettering that would identify their Pullman.
“Oohh!”
Rasmussen whipped around at the shrill cry in time to see Nellie stagger and fall flat on her face. A figure darted away.
“My bag!” she cried. “He stole my bag!”
Running feet pounded away into the gloom. Rasmussen yanked his pistol and sprinted after the robber, his shoes crun
ching the soft cinders alongside the train. The footsteps were pulling away; the man was amazingly fast. His murky form pounded across a wooden platform with a hollow ka-thump! ka-thump!—the irregular pace of a limping man. The man leapt off the other side and the sound ceased. Heedless of a possible ambush, Rasmussen gritted his teeth and dashed around a boxcar. 100 feet away, a fleeing figure was silhouetted by gaslights from the depot. Rasmussen skidded to a stop in the gravel, brought up his gun, and fired twice, as fast as he could pull the trigger. His revolver bucked and flashed flame as the blasts filled the cavernous train shed, reverberating from the brick walls and rail cars.
A yelp of pain answered and the dark figure bounded out of sight. Rasmussen moved carefully forward, unable to hear anything but his ears ringing and his own harsh breathing. The small bag lay on the ground, its leather handle and small padlock shot off by one of the bullets meant for the robber. He strained his ears, but any sounds were muffled by the chuffing of a locomotive accelerating out of the station some distance away. Walking carefully in his new, slick-soled shoes, he peered around a pile of freight and luggage stacked on a handcar. No one. The robber had either gone to ground somewhere close, possibly waiting in ambush, or was already beyond earshot and still running. In either case, Rasmussen broke off pursuit, and let him go. The noise of shots would bring the curious, or the authorities, and he didn’t want to be there when they came.
He holstered his Merwin-Hulbert, retrieved the drum bag, and noticed it was no longer secured. He snapped the latch and threw open the flap. Bundles of greenbacks greeted his gaze. He’d never seen so much money in one place. It didn’t even look real. She’d been telling the truth about what she carried. He latched the bag and tucked it under one arm. Then he quickly melted into the shadows, finding his roundabout way back to the Pullman.
“What the hell was that?” he heard a distant voice shout.
“Sounded like explosions,” a closer voice answered.
“Hell, that was gunfire!” the first man yelled.
Still breathing deeply and with the acrid taste of coal smoke in the back of his throat, Rasmussen approached Nellie who was leaning against their train car.
“Get aboard before somebody shows up,” he said tersely. “In a city this size…bound to be a cop on a beat…just when you don’t need him.” He took her arm and hurried her up the steps into their Pullman. He doubted anyone had seen the confrontation, but a conductor or trainman might have been nearby.
“Oh, thank God! You got the bag!” she said. “I heard shots.”
“Mine. He got away, but dropped this. Afraid the handle’s shot off.” He handed her the damaged bag. “You hurt?”
“A little bruised is all.”
In the light of the dimmed overhead lamps they moved along the aisle to their numbered berths, which the porter had already made up for the night. She thrust the bag inside the curtains of the lower bunk, and sat down on the edge. Rasmussen stood in the aisle, clinging to the edge of the upper berth. The damaged toes on his right foot were burning. He wondered if he’d ever get over the effects of that frostbite.
“See why I wanted you to protect me?” she said.
“That was no casual robber. That was your man with the limp…Johnny Clayton. I didn’t see his face,” he said, “but, for a man with a bad leg, he can run like an antelope.”
“Johnny was always lean and quick. A good athlete. He knew what he wanted. Yanked the bag so hard, he threw me down.” She rubbed her wrist. “Did you…shoot him?” she asked.
He noted the hesitancy in her voice. “Don’t think so…too far off.” He drew a long breath. “Got clean away. One lucky shot hit the bag. Heard him yell. Could’ve stung his hand. If I did clip him, it didn’t slow him down.”
“Oh.” She seemed relieved.
They were silent for a few moments.
Other passengers filed into the car, began stowing their hand luggage and preparing to settle in for the night.
“I’ll take the upper,” Rasmussen said, tossing his saddlebags with their meager cargo into the top bunk. “And we probably need to find a safer place for that bag.”
“I’m going to the washroom at the end of the car,” she said, pushing the scuffed bag toward him. “Keep this safe till I get back.”
“So you finally trust me with it?” He smiled ruefully.
“You didn’t have to bring it back to me,” she reminded him, moving toward the rear of the car.
The Pullman lurched into motion and began to roll, carrying them away from danger. Or was it? A doubt clouded his mind. Johnny Clayton had eluded him, and could very well be aboard this train, wounded or not.
Chapter Four
Nellie awoke. Between slitted eyelids she saw the gray of dawn filtering through the partially curtained window beside her. She closed her eyes and snuggled down into the soft mattress. Plenty of time yet to be rocked back to sleep by the gentle swaying of the Pullman.
“Nell! Get up!”
She cringed at the sound of Rasmussen’s voice just outside the curtain. “It’s too early,” she protested. “How far to Saint Louis?”
“We’ll be crossing the Mississippi bridge in ten minutes.” He pulled back the curtain and she saw he was already dressed. “We have to make our connection for Rolla and Springfield,” he continued.
“Don’t you think I know that? I came up on the Frisco Line.”
“Yeah, but I’m having second thoughts about going back the same way.”
“Why?”
“I just got my first good look at Johnny Clayton.”
“What?” She sat up abruptly, bumping her head on the underside of the upper berth. “He’s on this train?” She was suddenly wide awake. “Where?”
“I was in the dining car, having coffee, when he came in. I recognized the limp. He had his left hand wrapped. I went over, sat down, and we talked.”
“You did what?”
“I introduced myself and told him that as long as we were going to be enemies, we might as well get to know each other.”
Nellie reflected that the male species never ceased to amaze and puzzle her. She waited for him to continue.
“He already guessed you’d hired me for protection, so I told him that, if he came near you or tried to rob us, he’d think he was tangling with a mountain lion.” He smiled grimly. “Might have been a little over-dramatic.”
“What did he say to that?” She knew her estranged husband would not have openly challenged the bigger, stronger Rasmussen.
“Of course he didn’t admit to anything. I asked how he’d hurt his hand, and he said he’d cut it on a broken bottle.” Rasmussen chuckled, keeping his voice low since many of the passengers in the car still slept. “Told him next time his injury could be worse. Complained my aim was off last night, or he might be lying in a Chicago morgue. Think I ruined his appetite ’cause he turned a bit pale and didn’t eat much before he left.”
“You just let him go?” She was incredulous.
“Of course. He’s done nothing illegal that I can prove. I didn’t even have a look at his face last night in Chicago. But he got the message, even if I did lay it on like an actor in a melodrama. Johnny Clayton didn’t impress me as stupid. He’ll take the message to heart and we’ll hear no more of him.”
“You don’t know Johnny,” she said. “His pride can’t take insults or threats or humiliation. Most of his family’s like that. That’s why this damnable feud has gone on so long.”
“You think he’ll make another try before we get to Springfield?”
“Yes. The closer we get to home, the more desperate he’ll be. He knows he won’t have a chance at the money once I turn it over to Grandpa.”
“We’ll shake him off our trail.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
“By pretending to board the Frisco, then slipping out to catch a steamboat at the riverfront.”
“Can’t be done.” She shook her head, running the fingers of one hand t
hrough her tangled hair. “We could catch the boat, but where would that take us? If we went ashore at some landing in the boot heel, we’d have to travel overland to Springfield…nearly all the way across the state. The Ozark country has rocky ridges and looping streams. Heavy forest. Summer days so hot and muggy you can hardly get your breath. Plenty of ticks, chiggers, ’skeeters, and snakes. No east and west trains. A few roads wind in and out among those hill farms and villages. You don’t want to go that way. Even if we bought horses, and had no accidents and tolerable weather, it’d likely take us a couple of weeks to cross Missouri. And I sure don’t want to try it carrying all this cash.” She didn’t say so, but neither did she want to be discovered by the natives traveling in the company of a man with a Yankee accent. “Shut that curtain so I can dress,” she finished. “We can discuss this over breakfast.”
“Wear something a little more practical, if you have it,” he said through the curtain. “Like a riding skirt and boots, maybe.”
Thirty minutes later they were eating eggs and toast in the dining car while the train sat stationary in the St. Louis station. A nervous stomach kept her from enjoying the food since she kept looking over her shoulder for the saturnine face of Johnny Clayton. It was unlikely he’d show up now, but she couldn’t relax. The stagecoach bag rested under the table between her booted feet. She’d put on fresh undergarments, a white cotton blouse, and a midcalf cotton skirt. It was her only other outfit and she felt like a cowgirl among all the other lady passengers in their fashionable summer attire. But she smiled inwardly with the personal knowledge of how hot even the lightest of those long linen and cotton dresses could be.
“…you know this region and I don’t,” Rasmussen was saying. “We’ll stick with the train as the most direct route and take our chances. I don’t think he’s likely to ambush us on a crowded train. Any other personal confrontation, I can handle. In the meantime, you and I and that bag will be like this.” He held three fingers together.