by Tim Champlin
“How do you know so much about this feud?” she said. “You just came to the Ozarks last year.”
“True,” he said, moving to the stove and lifting the coffee pot. He refilled her cup, then Rasmussen’s. “But I’m a fast learner. Whether you know it or not, I’d got wind of this Rebel treasure that’d been stashed here, there, and yon, and come here to see if I could latch onto some of it myself.”
“I don’t have any more use for treasure hunters than I do bounty hunters,” she said.
Rasmussen didn’t want to break into something that didn’t concern him, but hoped she would tone down her sharp retorts. After all, they were accepting this man’s hospitality. There was a time and place for everything.
But the man she called Uncle Billy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying this repartée.
“While the Newburns and the Claytons are ripping each other apart over the big money,” the old hermit said, “I’m gathering up all the loose change that falls from the table.” A grin stretched his short, white beard.
“You can search till you drop dead of old age, and you won’t find anything,” Nellie snapped, scooping up the last spoonful of hominy.
“Oh, but I already have,” Uncle Billy said around the pipe stem, hooking his thumbs into the bib of his overalls and rocking back and forth.
“I suppose we’ll have to take your word on that,” she remarked.
“Not at all. But the proof will have to wait until after breakfast tomorrow. I’m too tired to fool with it now.”
Rasmussen continued to eat, ignoring the garrulous old man. Actually the warm food not only relieved his hunger, but was gradually making him sleepy. It was only just now full dark, probably not much later than half past nine, yet he could hardly keep his eyes open.
They chatted about the weather as the old man cleared away their dishes and washed them in water piped into the sink from a hillside spring above the shack. Nellie inquired if there was any big news about her family since she’d been gone.
“I ain’t heard nothing,” Uncle Billy said. “But, then, I’m up here by myself and don’t hear ’less I go to town.”
The old man scrounged around in a steamer trunk and produced two spare blankets for them to sleep on, then stripped to the bottoms of his long underwear and crawled into his bunk against the wall.
Rasmussen blew out the lamp and rolled into his blanket on the wooden floor, a few feet from Nellie. To him, the solid boards felt like goose down.
“I promised to prove I’ve found some of the Confederate stash,” Uncle Billy said next morning as they were finishing their black coffee and hard bread. “Before I show you, I’ll have to collect your weapons.” He reached for a percussion pistol hanging by its trigger guard over the doorway. “Not that I don’t trust you, but.…” He held the long Remington as he removed Rasmussen’s Merwin-Hulbert, then patted him for any hidden weapons. Then he did the same with Nellie, not hesitating to touch her in places Rasmussen would not have dared put his hands. She didn’t object, but seemed surprised when he extracted the small pistol from her reticule. Perhaps she’d forgotten she had it.
Uncle Billy placed the two handguns on the floor next to a homemade wooden box, the size of a Wells Fargo chest. Extracting a key from a cord around his neck, he unlocked a shiny padlock and threw open the hasp. Lifting the lid, he pulled out a rawhide sack and tossed it to Rasmussen. The heavy bag clunked into his lap.
Rasmussen grinned. The old man had a flair for the dramatic. Opening the drawstring, he emptied the contents onto the table. The gold coins glowed in the lamplight. A few silver cartwheels peeked out from the heap.
“Nice little stash, for a start, don’t you think?” The hermit had dropped his backwoods dialect and his speech had taken on a hint of culture.
“Where’d you find it?” Rasmussen heard himself asking.
“Where the Johnny Rebs hid it,” the old man replied with a chuckle. “And I’m tracking down a couple more sites that look promising.”
Rasmussen and Nellie silently pawed apart the pile, spreading out the coins. Glancing at the dates, the former Mountie saw they ranged from 1850 to 1880.
“Too bad old Jesse James got put out of business so soon. He and his boys could’ve contributed even more to the hoard for the lost Southern cause.”
Rasmussen looked at this old hermit—or whatever he was—with new respect.
“I did a lot of research before I come here,” Uncle Billy continued. “So far, it’s paid off. With a few more of those,” he said, gesturing at the pile, “I won’t have to grub for a living in my old age.”
“This isn’t your land,” Nellie said, dully gazing at the heap on the table.
“First of all, young lady, you have no idea where I found it. Secondly, as far as I’m concerned, it’s finders, keepers. That’s why I’m so careful about who comes up the trail to this shack.” He approached the table, gun in hand. “Probably a good idea to get me a guard dog,” he added as if talking to himself. “Like y’all found out with the money you were carryin’, it’s better safe than sorry.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Nellie asked. “Up till now, you’ve been a good neighbor.”
“I’m still a good neighbor,” he said, flipping a straight chair around and straddling it, forearms resting on the back, pistol held loosely. “But I’m a straight up sort o’ fella and don’t fly no false colors. If any of your kin, or the Claytons, want to keep me from snatching these small caches, let ’em try. I enjoy a challenge, a game of hide-and-seek. Adds a little pepper sauce to an old man’s dull life.”
Rasmussen cast a glance at him. There was more to this scruffy hermit than met the eye.
“These small stashes are scattered roundabout. They’re not so easy to locate as you might think. That’s the first I’ve found, buried in a rusty tea kettle.”
“Do you have some kind of map?” Nellie asked.
“No. No inside information like that. On our way to your place, I’ll show you the carvings on the rocks and trees that folks assume Indians or early Spaniards made. I can interpret most of the symbols, then apply a little logic, a compass, maybe sketch out the area on paper, use a magnet…. Well, I can’t give away all my secrets. It’s not buried deep. Found that two feet down.”
Uncle Billy scooped the coins back into the sack and returned them to the chest. “Don’t get no ideas about robbin’ me,” he said, handing back their weapons. “Maybe I don’t look like much, but I’m still pretty quick on the trigger, and…”—he jabbed two fingers toward his face—“I’m as gimlet-eyed as a barn owl.” He gave a shrill cackle that sent a shiver up Rasmussen’s back.
“There isn’t enough in that sack to bother about, even if we were inclined to robbery,” Rasmussen scoffed, becoming irritated at the old man’s antics.
“Close to six hundred dollars in there,” Uncle Billy said defensively.
Rasmussen shrugged and turned his back.
Ten minutes later they were saddling up.
“Keep an eye on that crazy old man,” Rasmussen said under his breath while he finished tightening the girth and dropped the stirrup into place. “No telling what he might do.”
“Humor him. He’s harmless,” Nellie muttered without looking at him.
“You can never be too careful when dealing with crazy people.”
“Eccentric, not crazy,” she said softly, putting her foot in the stirrup and mounting.
“Follow me,” the hermit said, kicking his mule and starting away through the trees, upslope toward the ridge top.
There was no obvious trail. But, as they surmounted the wooded summit, they emerged onto a path marked with many deer tracks. They followed this for a mile before Uncle Billy plunged off downhill through the sparse undergrowth. Except for the slanting rays of early sun bejeweling dewdrops on the bushes, Rasmussen would have had no idea of his directions.
They reached the valley floor and crossed a small creek, encountered a wagon
road, and turned onto it, pointing southwest.
“Hell! If I can find my way outta here, I’ll take your horse back to the Lebanon livery when I leave,” Rasmussen said to Nellie as she urged her mount alongside.
“You can follow the regular road from Springfield,” she replied. “This is a short cut of some kind.”
Uncle Billy pulled his mule to the left of the wagon track and rode 200 yards into the dense brush where the trees were somewhat thinner. Finally, in a nearly dry, rocky streambed, he reined up and dismounted.
“Told you I’d show you where I found that stash of coins.” He led his mule over the trickle of water and stopped at a boulder. “Here’re some o’ the markin’s,” he said, pointing.
Kent and Nellie dismounted. Plainly visible on the chair-size boulder were crudely incised figures of a mule or a horse, along with what appeared to be a sinuous snake.
“Hell, any kids playing in this creek could have carved those,” Rasmussen said.
“But they didn’t,” Uncle Billy said, leading his mule a few yards along the bank. “That snake figure coincides with the curves in this crick.” The old man paused and indicated more carvings—this time in the bark of a beech tree. The pictographs were not recent; the edges of the knife scars were curling inward as the tree continued trying to heal itself.
Rasmussen ran his hands over the carvings of a turtle, apparently in the process of laying eggs. The date May 2, 1868 was inscribed, along with a carving of a palm tree and a crescent moon—pictures that meant nothing at all to him. To the height of a man on horseback, various squiggles disfigured the bark.
“Idle doodling by some would-be artist,” Rasmussen said.
“The Confederates used palm trees and snakes and turtles as coding symbols. I reckon May Second, Eighteen Sixty-Eight was when the turtle laid the eggs, that is, when the coins were buried,” Uncle Billy said, ignoring his comment. “Just a bit farther along here, my compass give me a signal and I found this,” he said, scraping the loose ground away with his brogan. Several inches down appeared a rusted rifle barrel without a stock. “Pointed me right at it,” he almost crowed, moving on up the creek about forty yards to indicate a depression in the bank that had recently been dug. “That’s where my magnetic compass told me metal was buried. Found that teapot full o’ coins.”
“Probably the life savings of some mountaineer who didn’t trust banks,” Rasmussen said. “Died before he could retrieve it.” In spite of himself, he was having some private doubts. Had the crazy old hermit stumbled onto one of the small caches scattered around in these hills that were actually hidden by the Knights of the Golden Circle during and after the war? Nellie had told him one or two had already been discovered.
A nice hobby for a crazy old man with nothing better to do, Rasmussen thought. But the real prize was the huge cache Nellie had said was hidden somewhere out West.
They mounted and Uncle Billy guided them back to the road, where they continued on a southwestward course. Rasmussen watched Nellie’s face, trying to catch her eye to say something. But she had let her horse drop back, and her blank stare gave no clue to her thoughts. Was her mind on what they’d just seen, or on the reception that awaited her up ahead? He looped his reins over the saddle horn and used both hands to open his revolver and check the loads.
Chapter Seven
Silas Newburn paused in the front hallway to check his appearance in the tall mirror—a daily practice begun years before. His still-unlined forehead and lean cheeks were topped by a full head of neatly brushed white hair. The spade beard effectively disguised the dewlap and turkey neck beneath. He frowned at his reflection, black eyebrows drawing together. He turned sideways and sucked in his slight paunch. “Not too bad for seventy-eight,” he muttered to himself, noting he was still spare and erect.
Having nothing urgent to do this morning, he’d risen later than usual and dressed informally in whipcord breeches, white shirt, brown string tie, and brown leather vest. Many of his own family thought him too formal and somewhat stuffy, but he’d acquired the habit of dressing well as a young man. Regardless of his losses of fortune during the war, he saw no reason to sink to the social level of the trashy Clayton clan.
He grunted with satisfaction and strode out onto the wide front porch, sank into a cane-bottomed rocker, tilted back, and braced his feet against the porch railing. Humid, hazy heat was already blanketing the hills and woods. But it wasn’t the weather that was on his mind this morning. He was worried about his granddaughter, Nell. Nellie, as he’d always thought of her—only child of his dead son Brandon—was due home any time from the perilous mission he’d sent her on. As leader of his castle, he’d pressed his fellow knights into giving Nellie the job of being a courier for a quarter million dollars in cash—more to allow her a chance to redeem herself, than anything else. In retrospect, it seemed a foolish thing to do—and he prided himself on not doing foolish things.
No word had come from Nellie. Of course she had no way of contacting him, except perhaps by telegraph. But he knew how long the trip should take, and she was at least three days beyond her estimated arrival time—not tardy enough for great concern yet. He stared down the rutted road to where it disappeared into the woods, and felt slightly queasy. Maybe it was the breakfast of black coffee and brown bread with jam he’d fixed for himself. He didn’t have much appetite as he grew older. True, food had never been his weakness. Cigars were. Eschewing an excess of the first and indulging in too many of the second had kept his body lean, but he noted with some alarm that he was becoming slightly short of breath on exertion. Mortality was staring him in the face. Time—or lack of it—was his enemy. His beloved wife of forty years had gone on ahead of him thirteen years ago. He had no fear of death himself, and seldom speculated about “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.” He smiled at the quote from Hamlet that jumped into his mind. Not one of the ignorant, money-grubbing Claytons would have thought of that.
Although they respected and feared him, his own children and grandchildren looked upon him as an irascible old man who was set in his ways and had outlived his time. The men and women of his generation—his contemporaries—were mostly gone, dead of old age, illness, accidents, and violence.
But he had one more thing to accomplish before he bowed off the stage. And that was to recover the cold cache of more than $3,000,000, add it to the $250,000 in currency Nellie was bringing, and proceed quickly to establish his new republic. He, along with the treasure of many loyal Confederates, would accomplish what the terrible war had failed to accomplish—the creation of a separate, sovereign country. Very few men left any tracks of their passing on this earth. This living legacy would ensure his reputation outlived the man. He could envision a bronze statue of himself in a town square, perhaps in Havana, or Montgomery. He chose not to think of the pigeons roosting on his outstretched arms.
At a minimum, he estimated the initial formation of the new country would take only two Southern states and one Caribbean island. When other potential members of this fledgling republic saw what a success it was, they’d rush to join—provided their human lust for power was placated by giving the state officials high offices in the new administration. Younger, more diplomatic men in his castle were already working on this part of the plan. Two of them were even drafting a model constitution.
His hand reached automatically for one of the slim, rum-flavored cigars in his shirt pocket. The cigar was halfway to his lips before he was conscious of his action. He hesitated. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t smoke until at least after the midday meal. It was his feeble effort to cut back. But the damage had been done by years of puffing, so what could it hurt to continue, unabated, now? He gripped the tobacco in his teeth and struck a wooden match on the porch railing to light up, blowing a satisfying cloud of aromatic smoke into the air. Personal weakness. Rationalization. But weren’t all men and women weak in some way? Flawed human nature since Eden. It was the reason for all the c
onflict in the world. It was the reason he was doing his best to establish an independent political nation out of the ruins of the last war. Slavery was no longer an issue, yet he firmly believed economic forces without the help of enforced labor would allow his plan to succeed.
He took a satisfying puff on his cigar and reflected it was always best not to become too introspective—not to delve too deeply into human motives, the design of the universe, the unknown will of the Almighty. It was like wading into a lake: the water became murkier as it deepened until a man was in danger of drowning. Stick to what one could know, and what he did best.
A slight movement interrupted his reverie. His boots thumped down off the porch railing and he leaned forward, straining to see. He fumbled in his vest pocket for his spectacles. Through the smudged lenses, he focused on three horsemen emerging from the treeline. He rose from the rocker, flipped his half-smoked cigar away, and stepped down off the porch into the sunshine, vanity causing him to pocket the glasses.
When the riders came closer, a wave of relief swept over him as he recognized Nellie riding between two men. He knew the figure on the left in the straw hat and overalls. It was that eccentric hermit who lived a few miles away. The third rider, a big man, was a stranger to him.
He stood with quiet dignity while the riders reined up and dismounted. “Good to see you back safe and sound, Nellie,” he said. “I was beginning to get concerned.” He hesitated to embrace her in front of these men.
His granddaughter glanced quickly at her two companions, as if for assistance, then said: “Maybe you won’t be so glad to see me when you hear what I have to say.”
“Don’t tell me that damned Canadian bank wouldn’t let you have the money.”
“No, sir. I would’ve telegraphed you had that been the case.”
He studied her grim expression and felt a sinking sensation in his mid-section. Something had gone terribly wrong.
“We got robbed,” she blurted out. “The two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is gone.”