by Tim Champlin
“I’ve heard of that. In fact, I once saw some Confederate paper money with a picture of some general eating sweet potato pie. Sounded really strange to me at the time and I wondered what it tasted like.”
She opened the stove and thrust in several pieces of kindling and set a kettle of water to heat for washing dishes.
He’d noticed that she busied herself with cooking and serving, commenting on the food, the heat, pouring him more coffee—anything, it seemed, to keep the conversation light. Yet, he sensed her depression beneath the gaiety.
The dishes stacked and the water heating, they lounged in the living room. A coal-oil lamp glowed on a marble-top table by the front window. June bugs buzzed against the screen door.
She seemed preoccupied as she sat on the horsehair sofa, legs drawn up under her. Rasmussen slouched in an upholstered chair, legs sprawled out comfortably.
“I hate to see you leave,” she finally said, breaking a long silence.
“Your grandpa made it pretty clear he doesn’t want me around.”
Another silence as she stared at her hands in her lap.
“What do you think will happen?” she asked, not looking up.
“I wish I knew. You know your family and the people here.”
“Doubt the money will ever be found. But Grandpa and my uncles and the rest of that bunch who call themselves the Knights of the Golden Circle will try to kill Johnny. And that will set off this war between our families again.”
“Again? Has it ever stopped?”
“Not really.” Her lips compressed. “But it’ll get worse now. I’m almost sorry I got you into this. Now I’ve come to depend on you, to value your company. And you’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“We could keep in touch.” Even as he said it, he realized it would be nearly impossible. He began to regret leaving as well. Nellie was a beautiful, intelligent woman who’d crossed his path even before he was off active duty. He’d invested time and effort in her welfare—and failed miserably. Human curiosity made him want to stay and help if he could, and at least see the outcome of all this. The outline of a plan began to form. “I’ll return our horses to the Lebanon livery,” he said. “Then I’ll catch the train back to Springfield and get a hotel room.”
She seemed to brighten a little, then her face fell again. “I’d love to know you were close by, but Grandpa would surely find out.”
“That visit to your Sheriff Bixby was a waste of time today,” he said, changing the subject.
“I knew it would be. But we had to report the robbery.”
“He had an easy excuse for doing nothing. Said if a robbery like that had actually taken place, it was in Laclede County, and he had no jurisdiction outside of Greene County. Maybe we should report it to the sheriff in Lebanon,” he added.
“If you’re going back that way to return the rented horses, you can do it,” she said without enthusiasm. “I’m sure it will be only a formality. From what I’ve heard, that sheriff is as useless as Bixby.”
“One thing I didn’t tell you,” he began, wondering if he should even mention it now. “After we visited the sheriff’s office and you stopped at the market to buy meat for supper, I went down the street for a beer.”
She nodded.
“Ran into Johnny Clayton and a few of his cronies in the saloon.”
“What?” She went suddenly pale.
“They were having a helluva time. Loud and laughing. But it got quiet when I walked in. They were sitting at tables and I just stood at the bar and kept my hands in plain sight ’cause they were all well armed. It was about then I decided I wasn’t thirsty, after all, and left. They followed me outside and cut off my retreat. ‘It’d be a waste of time going to the sheriff,’ Johnny told me.
“‘Already found that out,’ I said.
“‘If you got good sense, you’ll clear out of Missouri.’ He pushed up close to me. With that hand still bandaged, I knew he couldn’t go for his gun. But he had at least six friends who looked like they were hoping I would go for mine.”
“Lord! Of all the gall!” she said. “And right there in public, too. But that’s Johnny for you. I wouldn’t have expected anything else. If anybody saw you talking, and word gets back to Grandpa…which it will…he’ll be more convinced than ever that you and Johnny were in on this robbery together.” She bit her lip.
“Your grandpa thinks I was in on the robbery?” He was stunned.
“Yes. He got me aside and questioned me about you and all the details of our trip. He’s got it in his head that you and Johnny were in cahoots.”
“Damn! No wonder Silas seemed so cool to me. It wasn’t just because I was a stranger.”
She nodded. “Y’know, Johnny was right…it’s better you go, and not look back. Get away and go home, and forget you ever heard of me or my kin.”
“Forget I ever met you? Not likely.” He said it with more feeling than he intended. She looked up and smiled, a tear glistening on her cheek and her face glowing in the soft light of the low-burning lamp.
In that moment, he resolved to find a way to become her unseen guardian angel.
Approaching hoof beats sounded through the open doorway.
“Grandpa’s back. I recognize that bay’s gait.”
Rasmussen got up. “Then I’ll say good night and go to my room.” Hearing the horse go behind the house to the stable, he came and gave her a hug. She clung to him for several seconds.
“The water’s hot. I better get to those dishes, then fix Grandpa’s supper. I’ll see you at breakfast.” She turned toward the kitchen.
Rasmussen climbed the darkened stairway to his second-floor guest room. No need to antagonize the old man with any unnecessary contact. Tomorrow he’d be out of here. Maybe some plan would occur to him after a good night’s sleep.
Rasmussen slept soundly without dreaming. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back, head turned toward the open window beside his bed. The fresh scent of early dawn in the outdoors greeted him. He fumbled for the watch in his vest pocket that hung on the bed post. 5:06a.m. An early start was in order, before Nellie got up. He hated tearful good byes. Stretching mightily, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Five minutes later, he was descending the creaking stairs, saddlebags slung over one shoulder, Merwin-Hulbert strapped to his waist. He would have welcomed a cup of coffee, but that could wait. Time to slip away quietly.
As he opened the door and stepped onto the front porch, he was startled to see Nellie, fully dressed, sitting in one of the rockers.
“I was hoping to slide out without waking you,” he said.
“Thought you might.”
“Where’s your grandpa Silas?”
“Up and gone an hour ago.”
“These Newburns are an early rising bunch.”
“He had something on his mind,” she remarked, glancing at him in the gray light. “He was in a rush. Slugged down a glass of water, grabbed a cold biscuit, and took off.”
“There’s enough light for me to find my way back over that short cut Uncle Billy showed us,” he said. “I can’t go wrong…over the ridge and hold a steady northeast heading by the sun. I’ll eventually bisect the main Springfield road, and then just turn right toward Lebanon.”
“You got it. That’ll save you riding out of your way through Springfield.” She got up and came to his side. “I’ve got the coffee boiling.”
“In a few minutes. Come. While I saddle up, we can talk.”
Forty minutes later, as the sun was slanting obliquely across the open meadow in front of the big house, Rasmussen turned in his saddle and waved to the woman on the porch. Then he faced forward, gripped the long tether of the trailing horse, and followed the rutted road into the dimness of the thick woods. He sighed. It would be a long, lonely ride to Lebanon, but he had no intention of continuing on north to Minnesota—at least not until he’d seen this business through. He hadn’t quite been able get a handle on his feelings for Nelli
e Newburn. In a way, he felt protective of her as a younger sister. Yet, in another—yes, in another, she was a desirable, experienced woman who’d seen the rougher side of life, but hadn’t lost her wit or the softer side of her nature. And damned fine-looking, into the bargain, he thought with a smile.
Three hours later he’d managed to urge his mount, slipping and sliding, up and over the steep wooded ridge. He reined up just on the downhill side and dismounted. Time to let his mount blow, and maybe switch to the spare horse. He was sweating in the humid heat of mid-morning, the sun bearing down on him in the small clearing. He scuffed through the leaf mold, and reached down to loosen the saddle girth.
The boom of a big-caliber rifle blasted the stillness and something slammed into the left side of his back. He spun and fell sideways, striking his head. An explosion of bright lights in his vision. Then, blackness.
Chapter Nine
When Rasmussen opened his eyes, he had no idea how long he’d been out—thirty seconds? Thirty minutes? Unconsciousness had briefly spared him from the nauseating pain in his head and left shoulder blade that now swept over him in waves. He lay on his back where he’d fallen, filtering the sun’s rays through the screen of his eyelashes, breathing slowly, willing away the pain. If he moved, it would be worse. What’d happened? Had he been clubbed? Shot? Fragments began tumbling into place. Had he imagined the boom of a rifle simultaneous with the blow? He recalled being conscious as he pitched forward. Must’ve struck his head against the tree beside him. In addition to the ache in his head, his ear and cheek burned as if he’d scraped them against rough bark.
Had he been dealing with fractious mules and gotten careless, he could’ve been kicked this hard, but that wasn’t the case with these docile horses that were ripping up mouthfuls of grass nearby. This had been a deliberate human attack from ambush. Whoever had done this might still be watching to make sure he was dead. So he didn’t move, preferring to gather his wits and strength. An instant before the shot came, he’d bent forward, reaching for the cinch. That slight movement had evidently thrown off the shooter’s aim by a few inches, or the bullet would have caught him squarely in the back and likely been fatal. As it was, by looking down, he could see no blood on the front of his shirt. But there was a burning sensation in his back near the shoulder. He could feel wetness soaking his shirt, and sensed flies buzzing near his head and settling on fresh blood by his collar. He knew he must staunch the flow, but delayed sitting up to assess his condition. One more shot from a watching gunman could finish him. His left forearm pressed against a lump at his waist, so he knew his loaded revolver still rested in its cross-draw position. If anyone came close, he might have a fighting chance.
His head and shoulder settled into a dull ache as he concentrated on listening to the peaceful chirping of the birds in the trees. He began to itch from the grass and perspiration, and finally decided he had to take a chance on sitting up. He rolled over and pushed himself up with his good arm, pausing to allow a wave of nausea to pass. Then he crawled to the base of the tree and sat with his right side resting against the trunk, out of direct sunlight. Sweat ran down his sides under his arms and also tickled his face.
Suddenly he heard hoofs clomping through dead leaves and undergrowth. He drew his Merwin-Hulbert with his right hand and scanned the thickening green of the deep woods for any sign of a rider. The sounds ceased for a moment. Then the squeak of saddle leather told him someone was dismounting. Slow, cautious footsteps of a man crunched dry leaves. He couldn’t twist far enough to his left to see who was coming. He leaned back in the shelter of the trunk and held his gun.
“By God!” a voice rasped.
Rasmussen swung up his revolver.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me…Uncle Billy!”
The old man stepped into full view, sweeping the clearing with a cocked Remington. Then he hunkered by Rasmussen. “Heard a shot. You see who it was?” he husked, just above a whisper.
“No. Son-of-a-bitch ambushed me.” Just the effort of talking made him giddy. He hoped he hadn’t lost too much blood.
“Probably skedaddled,” the old man said, “thinking you’re a goner.” He eased Rasmussen forward, then took a knife and slit the bloody shirt across the top of the shoulder. He glanced at the wound, pursing his lips. “Can you move your arm a-tall?”
“Barely.”
Uncle Billy gently probed the surrounding tissue. “Hmmm…the slug plowed a groove along your back from the bottom of the shoulder blade all the way to the top. Appears to have missed the bone.”
In a mist of pain, Rasmussen felt relief, realizing the bullet had not lodged inside, or hit anything vital.
“Got a knot on your noggin, too, but that ain’t gonna kill ya. You ain’t seein’ double, are ya? No? Good. Scuffed your face when you fell.” He rocked back on his haunches and appeared to consider the situation. “Lemme find some moss to pack that long gash and stop the bleeding.”
No sooner said than done. In a few minutes the old man had a double handful of cool moss pressed against the furrow, bound in place with Rasmussen’s one spare shirt from his saddlebags.
“Reckon you can make it to my cabin? It’s about a half mile.”
Rasmussen nodded. “You’re pretty damn’ strong for an old coot,” he gritted between clenched teeth as Uncle Billy half carried, half dragged him to his horse and boosted him into the saddle. Everything swam before Rasmussen’s eyes with unnatural brightness as if he were about to pass out again. He leaned forward, gripping the saddle horn.
“Hold tight…or I can tie you on,” Uncle Billy said.
“I’ll make it.” He would never let on he was about to faint.
The next ten minutes were an agony of pain and sickness as the old man rode his mule, leading Rasmussen’s mount and the spare horse down through the timber, finally reining up at the shack. He nearly fell off his horse.
Uncle Billy helped him inside and onto the only bed. Then the old man left briefly to put up the stock in the stable with feed and water.
From blood loss and profuse sweating, Rasmussen was suffering an acute thirst. Uncle Billy came back and gave him water, then stripped off the bloody shirt and tossed it into a bucket. He removed the moss, cleaned the wounds with carbolic, and bound the shoulder firmly with clean white dish towels from the clothesline.
“Feeling some better?” he asked, washing his hands at the sink.
“Yeah.”
“Leastwise you got a little more color to your face. Hard to tell, though, with whey-faced folks like you Scandinavians.” He grinned.
Rasmussen was too weak for a sharp comeback.
“Best you rest a bit. Then we’ll talk,” Uncle Billy said, then turned to his cupboard and got down three small bottles, and proceeded to mix some concoction in a tin cup. “Here, drink this. It’ll dull the pain and help you sleep.”
Rasmussen accepted and drank it down in three gulps. Whatever it was had a smooth, mellow taste and contained a measure of alcohol. For some reason, he trusted the old man. It wasn’t as if he had a lot of choice, although he could have refused the concoction. But he doubted if the old man would have brought him to his cabin if he intended to poison him. Rasmussen had felt the hot-sick sting of bullets twice before during his years in the Mounted Police. By those standards, he judged this wound to be relatively minor. He’d be weak from shock and loss of blood but, barring infection, should pull through. Nevertheless, he hated to be laid up here for days. He assumed the would-be assassin knew these hills and woods. If the man were serious about finishing the job, this shack would likely be one of the first places he’d look. He couldn’t allow this recluse to put himself in danger. The old man had probably saved his life, but Rasmussen couldn’t stay. He determined to rest until dark, then take a horse and make camp somewhere in the woods without a fire.
His eyelids were growing heavy. A great weariness overcame all his limbs. He lay his head back on the stacked pillows. He’d rest a little, then be up and
The old man was a light sleeper and immediately moved, cat-like, into the other room, and came back with a crock pitcher of water and a tin cup. As Rasmussen gulped down cup after cup of the cool water, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. His earlier plan for a quick getaway would have to be put aside. For better or worse, he was in the hermit’s care and protection until he could get back on his feet.
Distorted, feverish nightmares followed. He lost all track of time. During brief intervals of wakefulness, he was conscious of the presence of Uncle Billy, sometimes lifting his head and spooning broth into his mouth, or laying soothing wet cloths on his burning forehead. He had such fearful dreams that he struggled to stay awake, but couldn’t. Throbbing pain in his back brought him to consciousness to discover the old man swabbing the wound with some burning liquid and changing the dressing.
There followed what seemed a long blank time when he knew nothing. On opening his eyes, he knew immediately his fever had broken in profuse sweating. The old man wiped him off with a damp sponge and gave him a drink. Then Rasmussen drifted into a peaceful, restful sleep.
He came to. Daylight again. He felt much better, though weak and hungry.
Uncle Billy came into the room, carrying a calabash of water.
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah. How long have I been out?”
“Two days and two nights. Thought I was going to lose you there for a bit.”
“My shoulder even feels like it’s on the mend.” He flexed his arm gingerly.
“It’ll be stiff for a week or two. Maybe longer.”
Rasmussen regarded the hermit with new respect. “What do I say to a man who just saved my life? You must have some medical training.”
“No. Just some experience with bullet wounds. I did what I could to help Nature along. You apparently have a strong, healthy constitution.”