Cold Cache

by Tim Champlin

  The shock he’d anticipated was only momentary, and his thoughts jumped immediately to the Claytons. “Come on up out of the sun,” he said, turning his back so she couldn’t read his face while he led the way up onto the shaded porch. He motioned them to the scattered chairs, then leaned his buttocks against the porch railing. “Perhaps this is something we should discuss in private,” he said.

  “They know all about it, Grandpa,” Nellie said. “I think you know Uncle Billy,” she went on quickly. “He moved into the old Hinton place over the ridge.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is Kent Rasmussen, a former North-West Mounted Policeman.” She turned to Kent. “This is my grandfather, Silas Newburn.”

  The two men shook hands, Silas experiencing a slight uneasiness when he felt the strong grip and looked into the blue eyes. Some instinct told him this man was probably dangerous. But he said nothing as he leaned back against a porch post, arms folded, his emotions well in check now, awaiting Nellie’s story.

  “I hired Sergeant Rasmussen…Kent…to protect me and the money on my trip home,” she began.

  “Why?” He realized he sounded abrupt, like some angry schoolmaster.

  “I’d spotted Johnny Clayton on the same train, going north, so I figured he was likely following me.”

  Silas waited in silence.

  “Turned out, I was right. On the way back, he almost got away with the money in Chicago, but Kent was able to get it back and run him off. Wounded Johnny.” She glanced up, fear showing in her eyes. She got up and paced nervously, wringing her hands, tears welling in her eyes.

  Rasmussen cleared his throat. “Mister Newburn, what happened was this…I underestimated Johnny.…”

  Silas held up a hand for silence. “Let her tell it.” He wasn’t going to make it easy.

  She looked miserable, but seemed to gather herself, raised her head, and related the story of their loss, leaving out no detail.

  Silas said nothing for at least a half minute after she’d finished, looking from one to the other.

  “I got us a little turned around, and we wound up at Uncle Billy’s place last night,” she concluded. “He kindly let us stay the night, and then guided us over the ridge this morning.”

  Silas had a strong hunch that this Rasmussen fellow had somehow been involved in the loss. So far, there was not a shred of evidence for this belief. But he’d learned over many years to trust his instincts about people, especially when Yankees or outlanders were involved.

  During this recitation, Uncle Billy had produced his briar from the pocket of his overalls, packed, and lighted it. In the silence that followed the story, he rose, and tapped the dottle out against a porch post. “Time for me to be gettin’ home,” he said. “I wish ya luck findin’ your money. If I can be of help, you just send somebody to fetch me,” he said, putting on his straw hat. He nodded a farewell, and stepped off the porch to mount his mule.

  Silas watched him ride away, but his mind was elsewhere. What to do next? He turned back to Rasmussen who was still seated, hat on the floor next to his chair. “You say you talked to Johnny in the dining car the morning after you shot him?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral, not giving away his suspicions.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Tell me what you talked about.”

  He listened with his eyes, as well as his ears, to see if he could detect any hints from Rasmussen’s manner that the man might be lying.

  “Johnny gave no indication of what he was planning?” Silas asked. “I know Johnny Clayton pretty well. It’s not like him to be bested like that, even shot, without being resentful.”

  “Actually, I thought I had him cowed,” Rasmussen said. “I don’t recall that he made any threats.”

  “Johnny’s sneaky. He’ll put his tail between his legs and let on he’s whipped. Suckered you into thinking you’d seen the worst, or the last of him.” He had trouble keeping the sneer out of his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Newburn. I wasn’t on my toes. It’s all my fault, and I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to work with the sheriff to recover your money.”

  “Doubt anything can be done now. That cash has likely been split up among many of the Clayton clan already.” He studied Rasmussen’s face for any reaction, and detected no contrition. He was either very good at hiding his feelings, or he wasn’t sorry at all. Rasmussen and Clayton could have easily plotted to rob his granddaughter.

  “Why didn’t you just get on the train and return home from Lebanon after the robbery?” Silas asked.

  Rasmussen shrugged. “Felt it was my duty to at least see Nellie safely home.”

  And maybe meet up with Johnny Clayton for your share of the cash, Silas thought.

  “Did you pay this man for his services?” Silas asked Nellie.

  “I gave him five hundred dollars, which he offered to return. Promised him another five hundred when we got here safely with the money, to be paid out of the eight thousand dollars I was to receive,” she replied.

  But he saw a way to get a lot more than that without appearing to be a criminal, Silas thought.

  Nellie looked to be on the verge of tears. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

  “Not unless you have a quarter million dollars in your reticule.”

  Her lips compressed and she dropped her eyes under his gaze.

  He looked back at Rasmussen. “You seem a bit young to have been in the war.”

  “I was only twelve when it ended.”

  At least you didn’t fight for the Yankees, then, he thought.

  “He’s a Copperhead,” Nellie said, her tone hopeful.

  “A Southern sympathizer?” Silas was confused. This didn’t fit with his early assessment of the man.

  “At least his father was,” she continued. “Show him your badge, Kent.”

  Rasmussen produced the altered copper penny.

  “Haven’t seen one of these in years,” Silas said, examining the worn head of Liberty cut from a large cent. The others he recalled had varied in hand-made configurations. He turned it over and saw specks of solder where a pin had probably been attached.

  “Are you a Copperhead?” he asked pointedly, handing back the badge.

  “My father was. There’s no such thing any more. This is just a keepsake.”

  “I suppose that’s right,” Silas said softly, realizing that this big, strapping man, approaching middle age, had been only a child during the terrible war that still seemed so real, that had done so much to shape his own life. With a pang of regret, he sensed how he must appear to these young people—a relic of time gone by, a living spokesman for history that was no longer relevant. This thought generated frustration and anger, making him even more determined to accomplish his goals—and quickly.

  “Nellie, show your friend to one of the spare rooms upstairs.”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” she said, sounding relieved at the change of subject.

  “You’ll accept our hospitality by dining with us this evening and staying the night before you start back,” he said to Rasmussen.

  “You don’t want me to stay and help you recover your money?” Rasmussen asked, rising from his chair.

  “That’s a family matter and we’ll deal with it ourselves,” Silas said.

  “Grandpa, after we rest up, I’d like to take him into Springfield and show him around town,” she said.

  “Suit yourself. But stay clear of the Claytons. I don’t want any trouble until I decide what to do about this.” He hesitated. “Before you go anywhere, I want to have a private talk with you…out by the barn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He retrieved his hat from the hall tree inside the door. It was time to call an emergency meeting of his castle.

  In years gone by, when there’d been a few slaves about the place, his wife would have had the house staff busy gathering selected summer vegetables from the garden and laying out the china and silver for a dinner guest, while
she decided what meat to prepare for supper. Silas would have called for the stable boy to saddle his horse and bring him around to the front porch. But now there was no wife, no slaves—not even a garden. He hardly gave those vanished times a thought as he strode to the barn.

  Nellie was already there, looking apprehensive.

  Standing in the shade, he questioned her thoroughly about the trip. He probed into minute details of how she’d met Rasmussen, what he’d said, how he’d acted, how long he’d been out of her sight on the train, whether or not he’d gotten off, however briefly, at any stop along the way. By the time he finished his examination, he was more convinced than ever that this blond stranger was involved in robbing his granddaughter. He bluntly told her of his strong suspicions, and turned a deaf ear to her protests as he went into the barn and saddled his tall, sleek bay. He’d ride to town and notify as many of the dozen knights of his castle as he could locate on short notice.

  Swinging into the saddle with accustomed ease, he turned his horse toward Springfield. The tension in his stomach was similar to the feeling he used to have just before a horse race. He sensed, for better or worse, tonight’s meeting would go far in deciding the eventual fate of the Newburn and Clayton families.

  Chapter Eight

  A three-quarter moon was peeking through the leaves of the trees when Silas Newburn dismounted, loosened the saddle girth, and looped the reins around the hitching rail. Nearby crickets ceased their monotonous chirping when he jangled his key ring and fumbled in the dark to unlock the door of the stone meeting hall of his castle. Since he held the office of Grand Knight, he always made it a point to arrive early and set up things for the others.

  Just inside, he struck a match to a coal-oil lantern fashioned from a human skull and held it aloft to light his way from the anteroom into the larger inner chamber. Here, he replaced the eerie light of the death’s head lantern by touching a long, lighted taper to the overhead chandelier.

  The room was stuffy, so he opened the back door to admit some of the humid night air. Thirty years earlier, to ensure secrecy, the building had been constructed with no windows.

  Silas carried the skull lantern back into the anteroom where a row of hooks held the hoods and gowns of the knights. He donned his crimson robe, trimmed at the sleeves and neck in gold, then slipped the pointed hood over his head and adjusted the eyeholes. Leaving the death’s head lantern burning for the others, he returned to the inner chamber and lit ten thick candles that stood in flat brass holders, one in front of each chair along the table. Beside each candle was a wooden-handled snuffer, the business end of which was crafted into the figure of a snake, nose to tail, forming a small golden circle, symbol of their order.

  Everything was in place and he pulled out his Elgin. He had a few minutes yet, so he stepped out the back door for a cigar. In times past, an armed guard with a dog patrolled the ground around the castle during convocations to prevent raucous disruption or outright attack from the younger members of the Clayton clan. But now, no one seemed to care that a dwindling group of middle-aged men still met in what was no more than a lodge hall. No longer were the Knights of the Golden Circle a force with power stronger and more sinister than even the law itself. During the years since the war, many of the knights had ceased to attend the convocations, many had died, or moved west, and younger men were more difficult to recruit. In an effort to keep the organization relevant, Silas and a few of his long-deceased contemporaries had streamlined the ritual. No longer was the oath of allegiance chanted in unison. They now used their secret handshake merely as a sign of recognition away from the castle when strangers were around. They still wore the hooded robes at meetings to show they were knights—one, unconquerable, and forever defiant. The ceremonial garb provided a sense of solemn dignity and the hoods also gave them a sense, however tenuous, of anonymity.

  His hood draped over one arm, he puffed his cigar and stared up through the leafy branches at the silvery moon, savoring the moment without thinking ahead to what he had to say at the meeting. The right words would come when he needed them; they always did.

  When he’d stopped at the sawmill to tell his oldest son Martin about the meeting, Martin had mentioned seeing Johnny Clayton in town. This hadn’t surprised Silas, since he knew Johnny would have to strut and preen after so big a heist. But Martin’s next remark had startled Silas and confirmed his earlier suspicions. “Dad, Johnny had a bunch of his armed friends with him, like they were looking for trouble. And I saw him talking to a stranger…a big blond man.”

  “Was Nellie there?” Silas had asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

  “No.”

  Silas had paused, looking down at his son who was wiping away the sawdust sticking to his sweaty forearms.

  “Good,” he finally had said, turning his bay to ride off. “See you tonight.”

  Now his reverie was interrupted by the thudding of horsemen approaching the front of the building. He ground out the butt of his cigar under his boot heel, slid the hood over his head, and reentered the building, closing the back door behind him.

  The last of the hooded figures entered the inner chamber and seated themselves at the long table. A scuffing of boots and chairs was the only sound. No one spoke. From a slightly raised dais, Silas Newburn sat facing them in his large wooden chair carved with a knight’s head. He knew each man as well as if he could see his face—the stooped form of Horace Bigelow; Thomson’s barrel shape that pushed against the loose robe; Hutter, whose ceremonial garb had not been washed in months; the confident swing of his own son Martin; the broad-shouldered form of his oldest son, Tad; Connolly’s blue eyes that shone in the candlelight through the vision holes cut in the hood. The others were all known to him, as he was to them.

  A half minute of silence passed before he spoke. “Fellow knights, I wish first to apologize for pressing you to vote Nellie Newburn our courier. You’ve probably heard that on her way home from Canada, she was set upon and robbed by Johnny Clayton. I take full responsibility for the loss of that quarter million dollars.”

  The hoods prevented his assessing their reaction. He stood up and let the loose sleeves fall at his sides. “I called you here tonight so we can decide what to do about this outrage.” He spoke slowly, somberly, forming his thoughts as he went. “As you know, a state of animosity, if not of war, has existed between the Newburn and Clayton families since I was very young. There is no need to rake up all those past injuries…you are well aware of them. As I see it, this act of armed aggression against my granddaughter and the stealing of a vast amount of money belonging to our Order…money that was to be used in the furtherance of our goals of a new country…is properly punishable by death. Only a violent reaction to such atrocities can impress the Claytons with the gravity of their crime, and put the fear of God and the knights into them.”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in. The hooded figures at the table might have been ten graven images—not a sound, not a movement.

  “I have good reason to believe this act was carried out successfully only with the help of another man, a stranger among us. My granddaughter unwisely employed him as a guard to accompany her home. He is a big-boned, blond man, more than six feet tall, who goes by the name of Kent Rasmussen.”

  Silas paused again, feeling the perspiration beginning to trickle down his face under the stifling hood. He opened and closed his hands, palms moist.

  “For the good of our Order and its ultimate aims, we must recover our money before it’s dispersed. By striking hard and fast, we can stun this clan into submission, and threaten them with annihilation if they do not give up the stolen fortune. I believe we must start with the leaders. If the head of the snake is severed, it cannot live. Johnny Clayton and Kent Rasmussen contain the fangs of this two-headed serpent. They must die!” He stopped, his declaration ringing in the following silence. This time he waited a full minute before he spoke again. “What say you?”

  This time the ho
oded men turned, one to another, but still no one spoke aloud. They seemed to be communicating with eyes alone, or some body language since two or three gravely nodded.

  Silas gave them time to consider. Then: “We will vote. There are ten of you. As usual, a majority of seven is required for a decision. If you vote to allow these men to live, you will signify by allowing your candle to remain lighted. If, on the other hand, you vote for their execution, you will snuff your candle with the golden circle in front of you.” He looked up and down the table. “Does anyone wish to say anything before we vote?”

  Silence.

  “Proceed to cast your vote.”

  Almost as one, the circular golden snakes were raised and all ten candles were extinguished. Thin, twisting wisps of white smoke curled upward into the light of the overhead chandelier.

  “Fellow knights, you have spoken. So be it.”

  Kent Rasmussen pushed back from the dining room table in the Newburn house. “That was delicious!” He sighed. “Among your other talents, you can cook.”

  Nellie smiled. “It’s about the only thing I do well. Since Grandma died and I came back here to live, after Johnny and I split, I took over the household duties.” She shrugged. “Somebody had to. Grandpa could get along without me, but he won’t hire anyone to cook or clean. And when he’s here alone, he doesn’t eat right, like a lot of old people.”

  “Where is he tonight?”

  “At one of those meetings of the knights, or the Sons of Liberty, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days,” she said, carrying two bowls into the adjacent kitchen.

  Rasmussen was uneasy around Silas and felt relieved the old man was absent so he could spend this last evening with Nellie before he headed home. He got up to help her clear the table and put away the leftover food. “That pumpkin pie with thick cream was the perfect ending to a perfect meal.”

  She gave him a curious look. “That wasn’t pumpkin. This is the wrong time of year for pumpkins. That was sweet potato pie.”