by Tim Champlin
“For the sake of the money, or your hurt pride?” she asked.
“Both. You hired me to do a job, and I failed. The man simply humiliated me without even exerting himself. And got away with a quarter million dollars. I’m not letting him get away with that.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Too late to mount a chase today. We’ll get a hotel tonight, then either catch tomorrow’s train to Springfield, or hire a rig or saddle horses.”
“Doubt if the Claytons will be hard to find,” she said. “Probably won’t see Johnny or those other men, but word about them having the money will circulate like it was only a rumor. They’ll make both of us the butt of their jokes while they’re bustin’ their buttons with pride.” She shook her head. “You won’t find any evidence. Unfortunately I know how they operate. I’ll catch hell from both Grandpa Newburn and from the Claytons.”
“I’ll tell your grandfather what happened, and take the blame.”
“No. He’ll believe my story, all right. I’ve never lied to him. And all the responsibility is on my shoulders. I should’ve taken a bank draft for that money, in spite of what the old man wanted. But that’s all water through the millrace. It’s gone and I won’t receive the eight thousand I was promised for completing the job, and you won’t get paid, either.”
He reached for his billfold and extracted four $100 bills. “Here’s most of what’s left.”
“Keep it. You earned it. Except for your quick action, I’d have lost that money in Chicago.”
“Lost is lost.”
She waved off the money and started walking again. “I’ve got enough to see me home. That’s all I need.”
“Why go back?” he asked. “Find some place where you’re not known and settle down.”
“I’d be suspected of taking the money, myself, or conspiring with Johnny to take it. Besides, I couldn’t support myself. I have no honest skills anyone wants. I hear there are lots of prostitutes out West,” she added thoughtfully.
He was startled she’d even consider the world’s oldest profession, much less mention it aloud. But then she came from a rough environment, even though she said her family had been wealthy and educated before the war, at least by backwoods standards.
“There’s the Gasconade Hotel,” she said, pointing toward a long, two-story frame building, featuring a slanting, second empire-style roof with dormer windows.
“Looks new.”
“Only a couple years old. Built mainly to house all the people the town expected to come and bathe in the magnetic water. But the crowds haven’t shown up here like they do down in Hot Springs, Arkansas.”
“What magnetic water?”
She gave a dismissive wave, as if she didn’t want to go into a long explanation. “Workers digging a town well two years ago noticed their metal tools attracting nails. The tools had taken on magnetic properties after immersion in this water.” She made a long-suffering face at him. “Of course, the town fathers just naturally figured the water had some kind of special healing powers, so they built a building over the well and tried to sell the stuff to the public as a cure-all.”
“Ever try it yourself?” he asked with a grin as they approached the hotel.
“Nothing wrong with me I need to have cured,” she replied.
“Not even a wart or a wrinkle?” he persisted.
She paused at the door of the hotel and looked at him. “I think that knock on the head must have addled your brains.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood a little.” He sighed. “Maybe take my mind off what just happened.”
“I’m trying to work up my courage and figure what I’m going to say when I get home,” she said. “Like as not, the news will be spread before I get there.” She paused. “Maybe I can elicit a little sympathy if I pretend I was roughed up and hurt.”
“You don’t strike me as the lying type.”
“Lying isn’t one of my faults,” she admitted.
“I’ll tell them it was all my fault for failing to do my job. Nobody could blame you for what happened.”
“My grandpa expects results, not excuses.”
“You make him sound like a real ogre.”
“Strict, unbending, stubborn describe him better. He’s not malicious.”
Rasmussen shook his head. “For the life of me, I can’t imagine why you want to go back.”
She shrugged. “Family ties. Everyone has problems. Nothing’s solved by running away from them.” She looked up at him. “Even you probably have a few things you’d rather not face.”
He thought of his own departure from the Mounted Police. Never had he considered it running away—until now. This petite brunette was beginning to get into his head. He’d been put off by her at first, but, in the few days they’d known each other, he’d grown to like and respect her. Artifice was not in her nature.
She took the small grip from his hand and opened the hotel door. “I’ll be all right from here.” She hesitated. “You know, I’m in no hurry to get home, so I won’t take tomorrow’s train. Let’s rent horses at the livery and ride the rest of the way. Give Grandpa time to cool off…possibly even get a little worried about me. If he hears I was robbed and then don’t show up, he might start a full-scale war with the Claytons by the time I get there.”
They spent the night in adjacent rooms and even took time, next morning, to bathe in tin bathtubs of magnetic water in the health spa on the ground floor. The water seemed no different to him than any other. Perhaps that was the reason the hotel appeared nearly empty. Rasmussen soaked the dried blood from his hair and washed the tender gash that already was beginning to heal. Then he shaved and put on his only clean shirt before meeting Nellie in the dining room for breakfast. It was almost as if they were enjoying a holiday outing.
By ten o’clock they’d had a lunch packed by the hotel, rented two saddle horses at the local livery, and were on their way.
The dirt road, rutted and dusty, was not overgrown between the wheel tracks—apparently a frequently used thoroughfare. They rode in the shade of maples, oaks, elms, locusts, all competing for space in the sun. Sunlight filtered green through the dense hardwood forest, not penetrating the overhead canopy. The activities of settlement and the axe had left no mark here, Rasmussen thought. Beautiful as it was, he couldn’t help but think how easily an ambush could be laid in these woods. He said little as they rode along, not finding it necessary to keep up a conversation.
Now and then Nellie pointed at an armadillo waddling off the road, or the pointed nose and ears of a red fox watching them intently from a clearing. Her eyes were accustomed to picking out things in the woods.
The road dipped and rose, sometimes following a ridge line, then gradually winding down into a valley to ford a pebbly stream.
“There’s a hellbender salamander!” she cried, pointing.
At first Rasmussen couldn’t distinguish the motionless gray-brown lizard from its background of dirt and leaves. Then he saw the beady eyes in the flat head. Loose, wrinkled skin seemed too large for its body. For several seconds, the foot-long reptile regarded their approach, then skittered away, disappearing under a weedy cutbank.
“Ugly cuss,” Rasmussen remarked. “Looks like he’s wearing hand-me-downs.”
She grinned. “They’re harmless. So homely, they’re cute. Far as I know, they’re found only in the Ozarks.”
They rode up out of the stream, the horses’ hoofs clattering on a ledge of bare rock.
“Good shady place to stop for lunch,” he suggested, his stomach growling.
They dismounted, putting the horses on long leads to graze or water, then spread out a blanket and sat down to eat their sandwiches and drink their jugs of lemonade.
Rasmussen salted a tomato. This was as quiet and peaceful a place as he’d ever been. Chewing thoughtfully, he tuned his senses to the surrounding Nature—the hum of bees probing for nectar in the orange flowers of trumpet vines; the soft gurgling of water over
smooth stones in the streambed; the rustling of overhead cottonwood leaves that scattered spots of noonday sun across the pale sandstone; the varied trills of mockingbirds in the trees.
He savored the moment. Regardless of the strains and pain of the past, or the dangers and turmoil of an unknown future, here was temporary respite. Without such placid intervals, he thought, humans couldn’t survive the rest.
Nellie, who sat a few feet away, legs tucked beside her, seemed comfortable in his company. They had a lot to learn about each other, but every hour he spent with her seemed to increase his attraction to her. This was a natural reaction to having endured a lot together in their short acquaintance.
A half hour later they packed up their saddlebags, remounted, and moved on.
The sun was declining behind a hill when Nellie drew rein in an open glade and dismounted rather stiffly. “My bottom isn’t used to the saddle,” she groaned.
Rasmussen smiled. Not a lady-like comment, but honest. He swung down and stood beside her, holding his horse’s reins. The shadows lengthened. Dusk crept into these coves and hollows earlier than on the vast open prairies he’d known.
Even though he’d agreed to ride part way with her, neither had mentioned anything about him turning back. Maybe this was the time. If his estimate was correct, they couldn’t be over a dozen miles from Springfield. From here on, she’d be in familiar territory. She mounted again. He followed, wondering how far he should go. If she intended to reach town, she’d have to finish sometime after dark. And he wasn’t about to abandon her to ride it alone.
Five minutes later, the dilemma was solved. As their tired horses walked around a bend in the road, a man in overalls and straw hat stepped from the brush, holding a double-barreled shotgun.
“Hold it right there!” he barked. “Light down offen them nags.”
Chapter Six
They dismounted as ordered. The man stepped toward them, lowering the shotgun from shoulder to waist level. In the dusk under the trees, Rasmussen could see few details of the lean figure, except the faded overalls. A short, white beard was visible beneath the tattered straw hat brim.
The man peered closely at Rasmussen, then turned his attention on the woman.
“You.…”
“Aren’t.…”
Each blurted out simultaneously, then stopped.
“Uncle Billy?” Nellie ventured.
“You’re that Newburn girl…Nellie, ain’t it?” he answered.
“Yes.” Her voice told her relief.
“Well, I’m a suck-egg mule. What’re you doin’ prowlin’ around here?”
“Why are you robbing strangers on the road to Springfield?”
“You ain’t on the road to Springfield. You must ‘a’ taken the left fork a mile back, ’cause this track goes to my place.”
Nellie looked confused. “I guess I did. The road didn’t have a sign and I just guessed.”
“You’re a few miles from the Newburn place. And it’s comin’ on nightfall.” He kept the shotgun in the crook of his arm as he turned to Rasmussen. “This one o’ your’n?”
“No kin. Just a friend to keep me safe on the road.”
“Safe, is it?” the wiry man chortled. “If an old geezer like me can get the drop on him that easy, he’d best take up another line o’ work.”
“Kent Rasmussen, this here’s Uncle Billy,” Nellie said.
“Pleased to meet a relative of Nell’s.” He thrust out his hand, which the old man ignored.
“Hell, I ain’t no kin o’ hers. No offense, Nell.” He nodded. “I just been known as Uncle Billy for years by a passel o’ nephews and nieces.”
“No last name?”
“None that I’m givin’ out for free.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “Besides, I’m askin’ the questions here. Where’re you two headed?”
“It’s a long story, but I’m on my way home,” Nellie said.
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you start from today?”
“Lebanon.”
“To the Newburn place from here is six miles o’ woods, cross country, and at least a dozen miles by road to Springfield and on down thataway.” He stepped to one side and eyed the drooping heads of their mounts. “‘Tain’t none o’ my affair, and you can go on if you like, but your animals look plumb tuckered. And I’d guess you ain’t et yet. You’re both welcome to stay the night at my place.”
Nellie looked at Rasmussen, and he nodded.
“Thanks. We’d take that kindly,” she replied. “I’m kinda turned around. How far’s your cabin from here?”
He jabbed the gun barrel to his right. “Only a quarter mile up to the head o’ the holler.” He turned and led the way. “You’ve stopped by here before, ain’t you?”
“Once,” Nellie said.
“Then you know it ain’t no luxury hotel. But I reckon it beats ridin’ a good long way in the dark on tired and hungry horses.”
Darkness was settling in quickly. Rasmussen kept the bobbing straw hat in sight a few yards ahead as they ascended the unseen path through the undergrowth. He felt uneasy about this old man—possibly due to their experience of the day before. Or could it have been the aura of their surroundings, the oncoming night in unknown country, and the locusts screeching monotonous, undulating cadences in the trees? Then there was the sudden, silent appearance of this armed man with the singular cognomen. Rasmussen was reminded of a childhood story about gremlins materializing from the mists of an Irish bog to perform magic and mischief on unwary travelers.
Presently they came to a board shack facing down the sloping hollow toward a small branch creek. With heavy timber all about, Rasmussen was half expecting a snug log cabin, but this place had only rough planks of differing widths, probably ripped out of several logs by the local mill. At least there were screens on the door and windows, he noted while loosening the cinches on their saddles. They tied their mounts to nearby trees, and followed Uncle Billy inside.
The old man set his shotgun in a corner, flung off his straw hat, and struck a match to a coal-oil lamp on the table, turning up the wick. The soft, yellow glow revealed a neat, two-room place, everything in order and obviously the habitat of a single male. In the main room, an iron stove sat in front of a table with four straight chairs. A worn plank cupboard stood off to the left. To the right, hung a small shelf holding books and supplies. Through a partially open door, Rasmussen saw one end of a bunk.
The old hermit stirred up the coals in his stove and slid a pot of hominy and fatback onto the stove lid to reheat. “You can put your hosses in the barn out back,” he said over his shoulder. “Throw some grain in that feedbox for ’em.”
“Thanks.” Rasmussen banged out the screen door to unsaddle and rub down the rented horses.
“Grab a couple plates and some tools there,” Uncle Billy said to Nellie as Rasmussen reëntered the shack. “There’s a bucket o’ water by the front door if you want to wash up.”
A few minutes later as the two of them sat down to eat, Uncle Billy packed a short briar pipe, stuffing the tobacco into the caked bowl with a calloused thumb. He struck a match to it and fragrant smoke swirled around him and drifted out the screen door as he leaned against the frame, arms folded. “Kinda slim fare,” he said. “But I’m outta cornmeal and potatoes, and I didn’t catch any perch at the crick today.”
In spite of this man affecting a backwoods dialect, Rasmussen caught inflections and words that sounded inconsistent. The word “crick” was Midwestern. Nellie, a native, had used the terms “branch” and “creek”. And she would’ve referred to this deep, grassy valley below the hills as a “cove”, rather than a “hollow”. Uncle Billy had called the knives and forks “tools”. Rasmussen glanced at Nellie over the lip of his tin coffee cup, wishing he could have a private word with her about this man. He’d bet this hermit was as much an outlander as himself.
“You been to town or heard anything from my family the past few days?”
she asked.
“No. But I gotta lay in some supplies. If you don’t mind, I’ll saddle the mule and ride with you tomorrow to your place afore I go on to Springfield.”
This was welcome news to Rasmussen, who wasn’t at all sure Nellie knew her way.
“You’re going to hear this in town anyway, so I might as well tell you the straight of it,” Nellie said.
“What’s that?” Uncle Billy tamped down the coals in his pipe with the head of a nail.
“We were robbed at Lebanon by Johnny Clayton and three of his men.”
Uncle Billy’s gray eyebrows arched in surprise. “Your husband?”
“Yeah.” She went on to detail what had happened.
The old man listened in silence while Rasmussen finished his meager meal.
“I’d heard rumors that you were going after a lot of money,” Uncle Billy said.
“If the Claytons found out why I went to Canada, then ’most everybody knew.” She nodded. “It was to bring back two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in greenbacks.”
“Kind of a crazy thing to do, totin’ all that cash,” Uncle Billy remarked.
“That’s what I thought, and you see what it came to. But tryin’ to convince Grandpa is like talkin’ to a stump.” She shrugged. “I’m only the messenger, but I’ll get the blame for it, anyway.”
Uncle Billy nodded gravely, and puffed on his pipe. “Seems to me maybe your granddad likes a good fight. You ever consider that maybe the old man hung you out to dry?”
“What?” She set down her cup.
“That you were bait he was waving around to see if the Claytons would make a grab for the money?”
“Why would he do that?”
Uncle Billy shrugged and puffed on his pipe. “So he’d have an excuse to knock off a few more o’ that clan? I don’t know. Just a thought. I’ve a hunch it’s a personal grudge between the heads of the families. Not so much about the money any more. More of a bare knuckle brawl to the finish between those two old roosters.”