by Tim Champlin
Thus plotting her next move, the tension gradually seeped out of her body and she fell asleep.
The next thing Nellie knew she was awakened by a brisk knock on her door. She pushed back the covers and cracked her eyelids as Grandpa Silas opened the door and shoved his head in.
“Nellie, I’m off on business. Back this afternoon. There will be seven of us for dinner. Plan up the best meal you can think of. I’ll leave some money on the hall table. Take the wagon to town and buy what you need. Figure to eat about seven. That’s a good girl.” His white whiskers stretched in a warm smile, and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.
That hypocritical old man, she thought as she stretched and threw back the sheet to get up. How dare he laugh about the murder of her dear friend, and then project a phony air of paternal care and gentleness?
As she dressed, she thought about confronting him. No. He’d just deny everything. And that would alert him that she was aware of his duplicity and his plans for—for what? She realized she didn’t know what nefarious scheme was afoot. Only snatches of conversation had come to her ears—enough to make her suspicious, but not enough to enlighten her. Whatever it was, she wanted no part of it.
But Grandpa Silas had unwittingly played into her hands. By leaving money and telling her to take the wagon to town, he’d given her the means and opportunity to escape. She wouldn’t have to go on foot over the ridge to Uncle Billy’s, after all.
She was glad her grandfather had left the house early, before she came downstairs. Although he was not usually sensitive to her moods, her demeanor this day would surely have given her away.
Her stomach was a bit queasy, but she forced herself to eat a slice of bread and jam with coffee. Then she found a nearly empty sugar sack, dumped the remaining sugar into a canister, and stuffed the cotton sack with enough food for several meals—bread, dried beef, a side of bacon with its grease soaked muslin wrap still clinging to it, raisins, jars of homecanned plums and tomatoes, tin cans of oysters, dried beans. Even if she didn’t eat all this herself, she might be able to trade some of it for things she needed along the way.
Other than food, she’d travel light. She rummaged through the wardrobe in her room and picked out three outfits—one of them a floor-length pale-green dress with matching button shoes and a parasol. At one time in the not too distant past, she’d owned some nice things. But most of it had dwindled down to only a couple of outfits she wore everyday. It didn’t take long to pack her small leather grip, folding in most of the underwear she owned, along with two shirtwaists and her only pair of comfortable walking shoes. She put on a cotton riding skirt, her short boots, a blouse, and vest.
Rarely had she used a weapon for anything but target practice, and nearly forgot the tip-up, nickelplated Smith & Wesson .22 she’d carried on her trip to Canada. Making sure it was loaded, she thrust it under the clothing in her bag, along with a box of fifty cartridges. Best to be prepared for anything. A light, hooded rain cape completed the luggage. Reluctantly she left behind her heavy winter coat. By the time winter set in, she’d be far away—possibly in some warmer climate.
She took her time getting ready in order to allow Grandpa Silas to get wherever he was going. She didn’t want to run into him on the road to town. Pausing to fasten the strap on the small bag, she wondered if she should even go to town. Yes, because, if anyone later reported seeing her, they could tell her grandfather she was in Springfield. The main road led southwest, and, even with their old mare pulling the farm wagon, she could be several miles into Oklahoma before Grandpa Silas missed her. She stared out her bedroom window in deep concentration. But what then? They would surely pursue her. The wagon and horse would have to be sold or traded to hide her trail.
By half past eight she was ready. Silas had left $25 on the hall table. Enough to get her started, she thought as she pocketed the bills in her riding skirt and headed for the stable, with the sack of food and her grip. These she stowed in the wagon bed, along with a bag of grain.
The old mare was well past her prime, but still strong enough to pull the weathered wagon to and from town a couple of times a week. She was docile now as Nellie hitched her up.
Nellie climbed to the driver’s seat and slapped the reins over the mare’s back. Rolling out past the old, two-story house toward the road, she gave the place a lingering look. Likely the last time she’d see it; she didn’t anticipate ever coming back. Before all her adult troubles started, she’d had some happy childhood times here, sheltered from the worst of the feud by her mother and grandmother. Looking back on it, she realized they’d done their best to give her as normal an upbringing as was possible under the circumstances.
She turned and looked ahead. That was all behind her now. No more thinking of the past, of hates, of killings and greed and treachery and secret, subversive hooded societies. She had a sudden urge to go West—as far West as possible, perhaps California. Her heart leapt at the thought of a new life, the freedom to do what she wanted, not what she felt obliged to do to satisfy some sense of duty to others.
The road curved through a wooded area, then out into open fields bounded by rail fences. She reached Springfield two hours before noon by the bank clock. Driving casually along the main street, she feared everyone was scrutinizing her, reading her thoughts and intentions. She kept rolling steadily, eyes under her hat brim looking neither left nor right. She half expected to be hailed by friends who wanted to pass the time of day. But no one paid her any mind, and the buildings of Springfield gradually dwindled away. She began to breathe easier, knowing that her fears were only nervous imaginings.
The day wore on and the miles slowly unwound behind her. The road west meandered through stands of heavy hardwood, thick with summer foliage. The dusty track came within a mile of the farmstead of two of Johnny Clayton’s uncles. She was apprehensive at first, and wanted to push the tired mare on by quickly. But she resisted the urge when she saw no one. The countryside remained deserted.
In early afternoon she paused to water her horse at a ford that still ran with a tired flow in spite of the dry summer. She put several handfuls of grain in the worn hollow of a flat rock for the mare. This was more work than the old girl had done for some time, and Nellie didn’t want to tax the animal’s strength. Perhaps the horse could make it another twenty-five miles to Fidelity. If she could reach Joplin or Neosho, she could sell the horse and wagon, then board a train to Oklahoma City, or maybe across Kansas. From there, she had a vague notion of traveling on to New Mexico Territory.
While she sat on a rock, soaking her bare feet in the cool water and munching on bread and jerky, she remembered another picnic, one she and Kent had shared. The thought made the bright day grow dark and her stomach clench. She stopped eating and put the away the remainder of her snack.
She must learn to leave her sad thoughts behind and concentrate on looking ahead. Perhaps she could get a job as a Harvey Girl. She had no saleable skills, except cooking, and the girls who worked for Fred Harvey, serving rail passengers in stops all along the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fé Railroad, dressed in uniform, were clean and neat and reasonably paid, and were provided a dormitory to live in. Best of all, her chances of meeting an eligible bachelor among the rail passengers were excellent. She’d read there was a large turnover of Harvey House waitresses because they were marrying not long after the expiration of their initial six-month contracts. She believed enough of her youthful good looks remained to get a job as a Harvey Girl. Yet, how could she marry if she was still married to Johnny Clayton? The thought of becoming a bigamist was abhorrent to her. But her marriage existed only on paper now, and she had no desire to stay in Missouri and go through the involved process of obtaining a divorce. When Johnny had become physically abusive to the point that he endangered her life, and had forced her to leave, she felt, in the eyes of God, the union had ceased to exist. From here on, if she ever had occasion to refer to him again, it would be to call him her “ex-husband”. In truth,
he might well be her late husband, if this feud blew up again as she expected it would.
Prospects for her future grew brighter and brighter as she thought about them. She went to wash her hands in the tiny stream. Then she took a gallon crock jug she’d brought, placed a clean handkerchief over the mouth of it, and submerged it on its side in the clearest part of the creek. This water was probably clean enough to drink, but no telling what might be upstream from here. Besides, there were all sorts of tiny organisms in it. And she couldn’t afford to be sick now, with no one to care for her.
The jug full, she took a good, long drink, then filled it to the top once more. Putting her things back into the wagon, she reached to gather the reins and climb aboard when a rumble of hoof beats shattered the afternoon stillness.
Before she could put a foot on the wheel hub to climb up, two horsemen rounded a bend and splashed across the creek a few yards from her. It was Johnny Clayton and his cousin, Black Rogers.
A stab of fear went through her and she lunged for her grip in the wagon to get her Smith & Wesson.
“I wouldn’t do that, Nellie,” Johnny said, leaping to the ground and grabbing her by the arms. She threw herself against the wagon bed, pinning his bandaged hand.
“You bitch!” he yelled, flinging her away and leaning over in agony.
“Let’s just shoot her,” Rogers said. He slid his Winchester out of its saddle scabbard.
“No, you dumb bastard!” Johnny said through gritted teeth. “We need her.” Sweat was popping out on his forehead, but he gingerly took the reins of Nellie’s horse with his good hand. “Get aboard,” he said to her. “You’re going with us.”
“Johnny, you and I have had our differences in the past,” she said, giving no indication of the butterflies in her stomach. “You got all the money. What do you want with me?”
“Ride behind and trail my horse,” Johnny said to Rogers, ignoring her. “I’ll drive her in the wagon. Keep us covered, in case she tries something stupid. But don’t shoot unless I say to.” He motioned for her to board. “It’ll be like old times, won’t it, Nell?” He gave her a tight grin. “You and me riding together.”
She tried again. “Johnny, why don’t you just go on about your business, and leave me alone?”
“Nell, you and I will always be soul mates,” he replied. The mocking tone had disappeared from his voice.
She glanced at him, wondering: Is that what this was all about? Does he really want me back? Abduction was about the only way he could get her.
“You must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, my dear,” he added. “You’re nearly eighteen miles west of Springfield.”
“Where I go and what I do is none of your damned business!” If she could distract him long enough with conversation and the difficulty of one-handed driving, maybe she could get to her Smith & Wesson. But she’d have to unstrap the grip to get at it. And there was bloody Black Rogers eyeing her, the .45-caliber Winchester across his saddle. She ground her teeth in frustration. She’d been too confident, too sure no one would be after her for several hours until her grandfather finally missed her. She never anticipated Johnny would abduct her. And she had no idea why. She would stall as long as she could but, unless she could somehow discourage him, stalling wouldn’t help.
The wagon rattled over the rocks and back onto the road toward Springfield.
She groaned inwardly, knowing she’d been so close to freedom. Now she was a captive once again, in an even worse predicament than if she’d stayed at the Newburn home place.
Chapter Eleven
Kent Rasmussen recognized the peculiar gait of Alex Thorne’s mule before it came into view. He let out a breath, slipping his Merwin-Hulbert back into the holster, and stepped out from behind the open door of the shack.
Thorne reined up and dismounted, moving like the much younger man he really was. He hadn’t shaved his short white beard, and still wore the overalls, straw hat, and brogans. He tossed a burlap sack of supplies on the table and helped himself to a long drink of water before he spoke.
“Folks in town are pretty stirred up,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning against the sink. “Word’s out that Nellie has been kidnapped by the Claytons.”
“What? Why?”
“A lot of opinions about that,” Thorne said. “Take your pick. About half the saloon crowd think Johnny is just a hopeless romantic and wants her back as his wife.”
“Shit!”
“But the rest think she’s being held hostage.”
“For what?”
“As their ace-in-the hole in case the Newburns mount an offensive to get their money back and take revenge for the robbery.”
“Not a very honorable way to conduct a feud,” Rasmussen said.
“They’re no rules when it comes to vengeance. But there’s also a strong suspicion in town among experienced feud watchers that the Knights of the Golden Circle are about to make a try for that cold cache.”
Rasmussen glanced at him sharply.
“That’s where you and I come in,” explained Thorne.
“Nellie told me on the train that her grandpa Silas and her cousin are the only ones who know exactly where the treasure’s located.”
Thorne nodded. “So I’ve heard. But who really knows? The consistent story is that Silas was one of the knights who helped hide the original stash years ago, during the war. Rumors of vast treasure are usually all smoke. But I’m posing as a treasure hunter, and have actually found the two small stashes I showed you. So I’m convinced a large treasure trove exists. Saw an old report in a Secret Service file in Washington. It was unsigned and vague on details, but indicated some members of a group, then calling itself the Knights of Freedom, transported a large amount of specie to the New Mexico Territory in early Eighteen Sixty-Five. The report was written just after the service was established, and speculated the treasure consisted of the remains of the Confederate Treasury, along with captured Union payrolls and other spoils of war. The report stated this group was headquartered in southern Missouri, and I’m betting these few local knights are the modern remnants of that organization. Subversive societies usually swear their members to secrecy under pain of death. I’m told by folks in town that nearly all those original knights have since died.”
“I thought the identity of individual knights was a well-guarded secret.”
Thorne chuckled. “In a town this size, there aren’t many secrets, especially among the old-timers. The feud and the treasure have provided years of gossip. Speculation is a local hobby. Generally there’s a grain of truth hidden under all the bullshit, if you can somehow dig it out. I’ve listened and listened and bought drinks and acted like I was drunk or bored and heard the same stories in different form at least fifty times in the past six months. When you’ve been in the undercover business as long as I have, you develop a sense for separating wheat from chaff.”
“So, what’s your conclusion?”
“Part of this is a hunch based on tidbits I’ve picked up, but here’s what I think. If any of the original knights are still alive, they aren’t in any position, by age or circumstances, to mount a try for the cache, because it’s that inaccessible. Silas Newburn is the last of the old guard who actually has the knowledge, power, and resources to get it. In case something happens to him before he can recover it, he’s drawn up some sort of coded map that indicates the actual location.” Thorne paused and went to the still hot stove and poured himself a cup of leftover coffee. Taking a tentative sip of the steaming brew, he continued. “The map could be part of this abduction thing. Nellie might be exchanged for possession of the map, along with an explanation of its codes.”
“Have any guesses as to where this cold cache might be?”
“Somewhere many miles from here, if that report was right. The New Mexico-Arizona Territory is mighty big and wild. I worked in and around Tombstone back in ’Eighty-One. Helped break up another secret organization of armed robbers and ki
llers that was being run by an ex-Confederate. This cache could be anywhere.”
“That jibes with what Nellie told me on the train,” Rasmussen muttered. “She said Silas sent some of her kin to fetch the cache from New Mexico a few years back. They got ambushed by the Claytons before they got the treasure, and nobody wound up with anything but a few dead and wounded men and a continuance of the feud.”
“As I see it, Nellie is the keystone that’s holding up this whole arch. She’s the hostage to keep the Newburns at bay, or she’s trading material for possession of the map, or verbal instructions on how to reach the cache. Either way, her life is forfeit if Grandpa Silas doesn’t come to terms.”
Rasmussen stopped pacing, put a foot up on the chair, leaning his elbows on his knee, stretching the wound in his back that was beginning to itch as it healed. He silently pondered this state of affairs. His only personal experience with the Claytons was with Johnny. His only experience with the Newburns was with Nellie and her grandfather, patriarch of the family. He himself had come into the theater in the third act of this play. Only hearsay told him what’d gone before. Thorne was somewhat more knowledgeable, having lived among these hill folk for months. Yet, the two of them would have to proceed on what they knew, or surmised. He hoped their information was correct. But wasn’t that usually the way? If law enforcement were easy, anyone could do it.
The Claytons presently had the upper hand. His and Thorne’s only interest in this situation was the location and recovery of the vast treasure—the socalled cold cache that had been hidden for years. By bankrupting the Knights of the Golden Circle, he and Thorne would effectively stop them from trying to split the United States. Easier said than done. The Claytons were far from stupid. And they wanted the treasure as well. They already had a quarter million of it. His face burned with shame, even now, as he recalled how they’d taken it. Not only had they easily stolen the money, but had nearly killed him from ambush in the bargain. It was time to retaliate. In his years with the North-West Mounted Police, he’d hunted men, but usually there was nothing complicated about it. He’d never been in a situation such as this. He straightened up and looked at Thorne.