by Tim Champlin
“Next question is, how much longer?”
“I’ll help you get on your feet right now. You’ll be weak as a newborn kitten, but it’s best you get moving, get all your parts working again. I’d guess you’ll be here at least another day or two, though.”
“Let’s get at it, then.”
The rest of that day, Rasmussen spent walking slowly, and resting, eating, and drinking small amounts. By evening, he was as exhausted as if he’d been doing farm labor for a week. The sun was hardly down before he was in bed, asleep.
He awoke the next morning, seventy-two hours after his wounding, feeling rested and refreshed. He could use his arm a little, and the furrow in his back had scabbed over and was healing nicely. After dressing, he sat down at the breakfast table with his host and benefactor. His appetite had returned with a vengeance. From the slack in his belt, he judged he’d lost at least ten pounds.
The two men hardly spoke as they stoked up on fried sowbelly, hominy, chunks of bread torn from the loaf, all washed down with strong coffee sweetened with molasses.
“I finally feel human again, thanks to you.” Rasmussen sighed and pushed back from the table. He wondered if this was the time to broach his most pressing concern. “Has anyone been here since you brought me in?” he asked.
“Had one visitor, but I deflected him.”
“Who was it?” He felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck.
“Blake Rogers.”
“Name means nothing to me.”
“First cousin to Johnny Clayton,” Uncle Billy explained. “Big man. Might near as big as you. About forty. Ugly cuss. Nose busted a few times. One of the meanest of the lot.”
“What’d he want? Me?”
Uncle Billy nodded. “He come on foot, carrying a big bore rifle. Figured he was looking for what was left of you. You was sound asleep and I slid you off and under the bed. Went out to meet him with my scatter-gun, like I do everybody who comes around. Played dumb. And I diverted him away from the stable.”
“You think he’s the one who shot me?”
“No doubt about it. Probably on orders.”
“Why? I’m not part of this damned feud.”
“You were Nellie’s guard. That makes you one of the Newburns.”
Rasmussen took a deep breath. “I had thought about staying. Felt bad for losing that money. You reckon Johnny Clayton thought I was a threat and tried to have me eliminated? Or was he just out for revenge because I shot him in the hand?”
“I don’t have the answers to those questions,” the old man said, getting up to refill both their coffee cups.
“That description of Blake Rogers sounds a lot like one of the men who robbed us at Lebanon.”
“I asked him what he was after. Said he was out hunting, winged a deer and was trailing it by the blood. Likely a lie. Most folks hereabouts hunt deer in the fall. But I didn’t say nothing. Just told him I hadn’t seen no deer. Just stood there while he shuffled around, tryin’ to think of some excuse to get into my place. Wanted a drink of water, and I pointed out the spring on the hill. He had a slug o’ water, then took off down yonder toward the road. He never come back this way, and that was two day ago.”
“You haven’t had much sleep while I’ve been in your bed,” Rasmussen observed.
“A solid nine or ten hours tonight will set me right.”
“Then I’ll clear outta here and make sure you don’t have to protect me from discovery.”
The old man looked at him steadily for a moment without speaking. Then he said: “You were gonna throw in with the Newburns?”
“From what Nellie said, I’m considered the enemy by her grandpa Silas as well, so I’m anathema to both sides.” He took a deep breath. “After I return these horses to the Lebanon livery, I might slip back here and see if I can convince Nellie to leave. And, while I’m here, I might try sticking a burr under the Claytons’ saddles, too.”
Uncle Billy continued to stare at him, a thoughtful frown on his face. Finally he got up and paced around the small room. “Believe this thing between the Newburns and Claytons is coming to a head.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it, after that robbery.”
“Even before that, the pot was starting to boil.” He paused. “You were a sergeant in the Canadian Mounted Police.”
“That’s right.”
“Why’d you leave it?”
“Got tired. Wanted to try something else.”
“Would you consider puttin’ your lawman’s skills back to work?”
Rasmussen glanced up sharply. “What?”
“You strike me as trustworthy. May I tell you something in strict confidence?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not Uncle Billy, the half-cracked hermit and treasure hunter, folks around here believe I am. My real name is Alex Thorne, retired Secret Service agent.”
Rasmussen felt his eyes widen. Was this man completely delusional? Maybe the result of too much whiskey and solitude?
“I can see you don’t believe me. I understand that.” With a stove lid handle he pried up a foot-long section of floorboard near the table. Reaching through the opening, he withdrew a small tin box and opened it. “My identification papers and badge,” he said, handing the box to Rasmussen. “You’ll also find an official letter from the Secretary of the Treasury calling me back from retirement for a special assignment. That assignment is to infiltrate these former Rebel diehards and locate the vast treasure they supposedly have hidden. We’ve had reports the Knights of the Golden Circle plan to create another civil disturbance, and use this treasure to again split the United States.”
As Uncle Billy spoke, he seemed to lose his backwoods dialect.
Rasmussen scanned the official-looking documents and the badge. “How do I know you didn’t steal this stuff to assume someone else’s identity?”
“Good question. There’s a photograph of me taken less than two years ago.”
Rasmussen found the picture attached to an identification card. He studied the image—an unmistakable likeness. He looked up.
“I’m a little grayer now, and I grew this beard when I came to the Ozarks,” Thorne said. “Figured by playing the part of a harmless old coot, nobody would give me a second look.”
“Why’re you telling me this?”
“If you were going to put your hand into this feud anyway, I thought you might want to work with me, instead.”
“You’re trying to keep the old man, Silas Newburn, and his knights from getting that cold cache and using it to form a new political entity, taking part of the old South with him?”
“Exactly.”
“As I understand the situation, the Clayton family wants all that stash to split among their relatives. So you’re actually working on the side of the Claytons, figuring if they get the money, no harm will be done?”
“No. I’m not working for either side. Much of that money was stolen Union payrolls, or cash from bank robberies or train hold-ups by various outlaw gangs since the war. The United States government will confiscate it. What can be identified will be returned…what can’t will go into the general treasury as belated spoils of war.”
Rasmussen was silent, trying to absorb this flood of new information.
“Because of the bitterness remaining from Reconstruction, and the bitterness of this family feud, hatreds are going to flare into killings. This is not just a treasure hunt. This is deadly serious business…as you found out the other day.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to Nellie.”
“I don’t, either. I suspected you were sweet on her.”
“She told me she was disgusted with this whole business and wants nothing to do with it. But, by accident of birth, she is part of it. Tried to convince her to leave here and start another life, but she said she couldn’t bring herself to run away.”
“Sometimes our loyalties can be the death of us.”
Rasmussen pondered the wisdom of this statement. This Unc
le Billy, who’d just transmogrified into secret agent, Alex Thorne, had saved his life. He owed the man everything; he couldn’t just walk away.
“I’ll work with you.” He held out his hand. “Tell me the plan.” Committing himself, he felt the stab of danger in his gut. Loyalty to this mission might, indeed, be the death of them.
Chapter Ten
Nellie Newburn was sitting in a front porch rocker, writing an entry in her journal when she heard the shot. She looked up from the open volume in her lap. A large bore rifle, she guessed, probably two miles distant. Accustomed from childhood to hearing the discharge of hunters’ guns echoing through these hills, she could identify most weapons by sound alone. Maybe someone shooting a varmint, she thought. But nobody she knew would be hunting rabbit or squirrel or deer this time of year unless they were really hungry.
She took up her pen and journal, but then paused, curiosity tugging at the back of her mind. That wasn’t the pop of a .22, or even the sharp crack of a .30-30—more of a heavy, loud boom, like a .45-or .50-caliber. Because of the history of violence between the families, she was always apprehensive when she heard shots. This was only one shot, so it wasn’t someone taking target practice. It’d come from the northeast where the long ridge lifted a barrier between their land and Uncle Billy’s cabin beyond. As far as she knew, the old hermit didn’t own a rifle. She’d noticed only a shotgun and the old percussion Remington. She laid the book down again. The only person in these parts who favored a big rifle like that was Blake Rogers, known to the Newburns as Black Rogers. His pride and joy was an 1886 model Winchester .45, good for nothing but hunting large animals—or men. If that was Rogers, he could be shooting at anything just for the pleasure of it. He was as mean as he was crazy. Wild boar roamed these hills, so maybe he was taking on quarry that was nearer his own size for a change. He raised a few cattle and hogs, so didn’t need to hunt his meat.
She put the gunshot out of her thoughts and concentrated on her journal. She’d carried it on her trip, but made only intermittent entries. The velvetcovered volume was like an intimate companion to whom she could address her innermost thoughts and feelings without fear of being misunderstood or chastised for what she said. She needed a confidant. Kent Rasmussen had come close to filling that rôle, but now he was gone, and she was disconsolate. Intuition told her that he was in no way involved with her estranged husband in plotting the robbery. She couldn’t imagine why her grandfather was so persistent in accusing him of complicity. She’d never known Grandpa Silas to be afraid of anything, but perhaps it was easier for him to blame an outsider than to take on Johnny, who had the backing of the whole Clayton clan. There had to come a time when a man quit fighting and succumbed to the tranquility of old age. She fervently wished that time were now.
She dipped her pen in the tiny ink bottle on the floor beside the chair and continued writing. Ten minutes later she closed the book, stoppered the bottle, and went inside. Time to prepare lunch, in case Grandpa came home. She didn’t know where he’d gone—possibly to play cards with his cronies in their favorite saloon in town. But he’d acted differently since she’d arrived home with the bad news. He’d been like a man on a mission, coming and going at odd hours, acting very distracted, ignoring her presence, except for his initial questioning about her trip and Kent Rasmussen. He probably had no time for cards now. Whatever was afoot, she’d hear about it soon enough.
Pausing in the kitchen, she wondered what to fix for lunch. Maybe a pot of potato soup with crumbled bacon in it. That would keep if he didn’t come home soon.
As it turned out, Grandpa Silas didn’t come home for lunch, or supper, either. He’d still not arrived when she took the lamp and climbed the stairs to her room at eleven that night. She’d long ago ceased to worry about his comings and goings. There was no point in being concerned for his safety. He’d led a rough life and survived to age seventy-eight without her help.
Nellie didn’t fall asleep right away, and was just drifting off, sometime later, when she heard the downstairs door open and close, then muffled voices. Rousing to full wakefulness, she slid out of bed, reached for her dressing gown on the chair, and padded softly to the bedroom door.
She recognized her grandfather’s voice, then another man’s, pitched somewhat lower. They were obviously trying to be quiet. After a couple of muffled exchanges, she picked out the voice of her Uncle Thaddeus—Tad—Silas’s middle son. Her curiosity satisfied, she started to return to bed.
A match flared, briefly dispersing the dense darkness of the foyer as Silas lit a cigar. Then blackness closed in again, and Silas said: “Make sure you do it as quietly as you can. I don’t want word of this leaking out until we leave.”
In spite of her habitual aversion to eavesdropping, she caught herself pausing to listen. She didn’t catch Uncle Tad’s response.
“No…no nitro,” Silas countered. “Too risky to transport. Bring one case of dynamite and blasting caps. That should do the job.”
“That’s bound to arouse suspicion,” Tad said.
“Just buy a little here and there around town. Ride over to the hardware in Lebanon if you have to. Anybody should ask, we’re blowing stumps out here on my place.”
Tad must have turned away, so she didn’t catch his reply.
“Five picked men…,” Silas was saying “…by train through.…”
She strained to hear, creeping outside her doorway and crouching behind the balustrade. They were going somewhere by train, carrying explosives. She missed the next exchange as the two men moved back under the overhang. Her stomach tensed and she hardly dared breathe. Not only would she be embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping, but no telling what her grandfather might do to her. She was in enough trouble already.
The hall clock began to chime, then struck one. She couldn’t hear more without exposing her presence. She caught the familiar scent of fresh cigar smoke drifting up the stairway. It was not unpleasant. Only when the stogies grew rank did she object to their strong odor.
The two men moved toward the front door. She couldn’t hear their words, but the timbre of their voices indicated Tad was leaving. She soundlessly scuttled back to her bedroom door and halted, the polished wood floor cool under her bare feet.
The front door opened. Then: “At least we’re rid of that Yankee who helped Johnny Clayton relieve Nellie of our cash,” Silas said.
“Yeah. I heard he left.”
Silas chuckled. “Better than that. I got word from old man Clayton himself that one of theirs put away that blond bastard for good.”
Nellie nearly cried out. She caught her breath and clutched the door frame.
“Why?” Tad asked.
“That Rasmussen must’ve had a falling out with Johnny,” Silas said. “No honor among thieves, I reckon. Besides, he could’ve brought back a federal marshal…stirred up a real stink here.”
“He’s one less the Claytons will have to split that quarter million with,” Tad said.
“They had no idea they were doing our job for us,” Silas said. Then the sound of the screen door being pushed open, and the two men moved out onto the porch.
Nellie crept to the railing again.
“We’ll make a run around the Claytons,” she could hear her grandfather saying. “While they’re distracted splitting up the stolen cash and preparing to fight us, we take our best men and go for the big cache. Leave ’em wondering what happened.”
Tad laughed softly. “I’m ready.”
Their voices faded. Nellie, somewhat in shock, was only vaguely aware of receding hoof beats as Tad departed. She softly closed her door and climbed back into bed, crying, her fists clenched, muscles tensed. The shot she’d heard from the ridge—had that been the assassin cutting down Kent? She knew he would’ve defended himself if he’d had a chance. Only one shot. She couldn’t help but suspect Black Rogers. He was capable of gunning down a man from ambush without batting an eye.
Her enraged sobs were muffled in the pillow. S
he bitterly regretted drawing Kent into this trap that had ended with his death. But the anger and hurt in her breast were directed even more at Grandpa Silas, who seemed glad at this horrible murder. Silas had seen too much hate and death over the years. Vindictiveness was part of his nature. She’d come to look upon him as a gentle, gray-haired grandfather. But, inside, he was still the rebellious Confederate, the vengeful man who retaliated with deadly force against any and all enemies. The blood feud that had simmered for years with the Claytons had been as much his doing as anyone’s. Silas had decided, with no proof, that Kent Rasmussen was guilty. Even if he hadn’t ordered the ex-Mountie’s death, it was only because the Claytons had beat him to the punch. And now her grandfather was laughing because his sworn enemies had done his dirty work for him.
One thing, at least, was very clear to her—she couldn’t stay in this house one day longer. She’d pack her few belongings in the morning and go. But go where? Living with any of her uncles was out of the question. Their wives would have none of it. Nellie’s reputation had still not recovered from her breach in marrying Johnny Clayton. What a mess! She wiped her tears and lay on her back, staring at the dark ceiling. She should’ve listened to Kent’s advice and gone away to start life anew somewhere else. It wasn’t too late. In fact, it was the only course left to her. She’d run out her string here.
As calmness returned, she began to plan. Before she finally dozed off, after hearing the clock strike two, she’d resolved to flee to Uncle Billy’s place. He was neutral. In spite of his eccentricities, he seemed to have a measure of good sense. He’d likely give her shelter for at least a day or two before she moved on. As much as she detested becoming a sneak thief, she had to have some money. There was no safe in the house. What money her grandfather had, he kept in a bank owned by a friend, or in his pockets in the form of greenbacks or gold coin. She could steal his bay saddle horse to make her getaway. But that would cause too much stir. One of her uncles would run her down before she could get five miles away. Her late grandmother’s silver service displayed on the sideboard would bring a few dollars if she got to a town, somewhere away from here. But she’d either need a horse, or train fare. She doubted whether Uncle Billy would accept stolen silver in exchange for some of the coin he’d unearthed.