by Tim Champlin
“It’s your call,” Rasmussen announced.
“There are several ways we could approach this,” Thorne began. “In the guise of Uncle Billy, concerned neighbor, I’ll call on Silas and offer my help locating Nellie. He’ll, of course, brush me off as irrelevant. But that’ll give me a reason to hang around the Newburn place. If I get a sniff about the knights making a move for the treasure trove, you and I can make plans accordingly. The same if there’s a hint an all-out war is being planned. I doubt if I’ll be able to discover what Silas has in mind about ransoming Nellie with the map, or negotiating her release some other way.”
“What do you want me to do in the meantime?”
“Stay here out of sight. As far as anybody knows, you’re dead. At least you’ve disappeared. Anyone who hasn’t heard about the shooting, assumes you’ve gone home. Besides, your wound needs more rest.”
In spite of himself, Rasmussen grimaced at the idea of twiddling his thumbs alone at this shack for who knew how long.
“Patience is one thing I’ve had to learn in this business,” Thorne said, noting his involuntary expression. “It didn’t come easy for me when I was your age.”
Rasmussen knew he was mentally, if not physically, ready for any violent action. He would stay alert and find something to occupy his time. Yet, he knew he’d worry about Nellie. It was her welfare that concerned him more than any treasure, rumored or real.
“OK, I’ll stick it out here.”
They quickly stowed the staples purchased in town, then ate a lunch of leftover beans and cornbread.
Thorne re-saddled his mule and started over the ridge toward the Newburn house several miles distant.
After the agent’s departure, Rasmussen sat at the table, trying to recall his own impression of Johnny Clayton the only time they’d had a chance to talk in the train’s dining car the morning after the Chicago depot shooting. That brief encounter and, later, the few venomous words Johnny and Nellie had exchanged during the robbery, were not enough for Rasmussen to form an educated guess as to how Johnny would treat Nellie now that she was his prisoner. Surely her estranged husband would protect her from death, or serious physical harm. But, then, love and hate were but two sides of a single coin. If the wrong side were turned up.…Nothing could be assumed when it came to the relations between husband and wife.
He shook his head and got up to distract himself by cleaning up the shack. He tried on the new shirt and pants and boots he’d instructed Thorne to buy for him in town. He was down to only the clothes he’d been wearing for several days, which were badly in need of washing. He heated water on the stove and took a good, soaking bath in the washtub, then washed his old clothes, spreading them on nearby bushes to dry. The refreshing bath and change of clothes did wonders for his outlook. To complete the overhaul, he hunted up a straight razor, a hunk of home-made lye soap, and shaved.
During the rest of that day, he never became so absorbed that he neglected to keep his gun within reach. His senses were on the alert, even when his mind was occupied elsewhere. He couldn’t afford to be discovered by anyone now. He’d made too many enemies to reveal his presence—until he was ready.
Due to continuing problems with residuals of frozen toes, he had needed some footgear that was more pliable than the stiff shoes he’d bought in Canada. He’d outlined his foot on a piece of paper, and Thorne had found a pair of boots for him, made of light, supple leather. “You owe me ten dollars extra for those,” the older man had said, grinning as he’d tossed the boots to Rasmussen earlier. Now, as he stood up in the new footgear, he knew they were perfect for him. He’d keep them well oiled and maybe they wouldn’t shrink the first time they got wet.
He expected Thorne home for supper, but the former Secret Service man didn’t appear. Rasmussen became uneasy when 10:00 came and went, then 11:00. Finally he lay down, fully dressed except for his boots and hat, and went to sleep with his revolver by his side.
He awoke at dawn, still alone. He managed to keep himself busy the rest of the day. The older man hadn’t said how long he planned to be gone, but Rasmussen resolved to saddle up and go looking for him if he hadn’t arrived by the following morning.
Thorne showed that day at sundown. “Supper ready?” he asked, dismounting and striding in, looking well satisfied with himself.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Tell you over some food.”
Fifteen minutes later they sat down to plates of leftover greens and hastily fried ham and potatoes.
“Well?” Rasmussen asked.
“Just like I figured it. Silas’s son Tad was there. They were polite enough, but told me to go on home. Brushed me off like the half-cracked, old hermit they think I am. I stalled around a while, pretending to rest my mule, and accepted an offer of something to eat. But it was clear they had things to discuss and went outside to be alone. About then, Otto showed up….”
“Otto?”
“Don’t know if that’s his first name, or last…old man Walter Clayton’s hired hand. Acting as sort of an emissary under a flag of truce. I tried my best to hear what he told them, but they were standing out in the yard and I couldn’t get too close. When Silas got mad and raised his voice, I managed to get the gist of it. If any of the Claytons are hurt or killed, it’ll be an eye for an eye with Nellie. But the courier said Nellie would be returned, unharmed, in exchange for the decoded treasure map.”
“I’ll bet old man Newburn was fit to be tied.”
“You got it.” Thorne nodded, cutting a slice of ham. “Thought he was going to have an apoplectic fit on the spot. Called the Claytons everything he could lay his tongue to. ‘Goddamned cowards and woman beaters’ being some of the milder. Otto jumped on his horse and took off before the old man could pull his gun. Hadn’t been for Tad holding back his father, the old man would’ve gunned down the messenger who brought the bad news.”
“That puts the Newburns and the knights in one helluva fix.”
“You haven’t heard the best part. When I left the Newburn place, I rode into town and did some nosing around. All I found out at first was that Nellie’d been seen driving a wagon in town a couple of mornings before. That was the last anybody recalled seeing her. She hadn’t been in the mercantile or the butcher shop or the drugstore. Apparently she wasn’t snatched right out of town or somebody would’ve noticed. I scouted around the countryside the rest of the day, and slept in the woods last night.
“This morning I rode out toward the Clayton farm. From the road, I saw Otto’s horse grazing in the pasture. Circled around through the woods until I could view the place from a hill without being seen. Didn’t have my field glasses, but thought I recognized the Newburn farm wagon sticking out of a shed. Figured she was probably a prisoner in the farmhouse. It’s a good quarter mile from the road, and easily defended, with open pasture all around. Left my mule on the hill and slipped down to the wire fence at the edge of the woods to take a closer look. Sun glinted off a shiny new padlock on a small barn door. Probably a tack room or tool shed. I think that’s where the girl’s locked up.”
“What makes you think so?” Rasmussen asked. “Why wouldn’t she be in the house? More humane, and they could keep an eye on her easier there.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But not so. No real security. A guard would have to be posted around the clock to keep her from running off, and that gets tiresome. They could tie her or chain her, of course, but then she’d have to be loosed every time she had to use a chamber pot or eat. And she’d need at least some exercise. Otto, the hired hand, lives in a tiny house out back. The old patriarch, Walter Clayton, is a widower, and lives there with Johnny, his grandson. Nobody else, according to folks in town. The two of them couldn’t come and go freely without pulling guard duty. No. Easier to lock her up in the barn and bring her food and water. She’s nothing but chattel. She’ll be cared for like a valuable horse…tended, but not coddled.”
The two men chewed in silence for a long mi
nute.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Rasmussen finally asked.
“The moon will be almost full tonight,” Thorne said.
“We’ve still got those two rented horses,” Rasmussen added.
“How’s your back feeling?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he lied.
“Eat up, then. We’ll need our energy.”
“Time for a little nap before moonrise.”
They grinned at each other.
Rasmussen felt like a twelve-year-old again.
Chapter Twelve
The sun disappeared behind wooded hills.
Rasmussen unloaded his Merwin-Hulbert, removed all the bullets from his belt loops, and carefully wiped off the verdigris from the cartridges casings with an oily rag. While he was reloading, Uncle Billy stepped out of the next room, transformed into Alex Thorne, former Secret Service agent. The overalls had disappeared, along with the brogans. He was attired in tan breeches covered with dark, close-fitting leather chaps. A pale blue shirt stretched across his lean, muscular chest and arms. A black Stetson and polished flat-soled boots completed the outfit. Rasmussen’s eyes were drawn to the black gun belt, as Thorne drew his weapon and tested the action of the long-barreled Remington. The old capand-ball pistol had been put back on its nail over the door.
“Ready?” Thorne asked.
“Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later the two men were riding silently down the winding road toward Springfield, Thorne leading on his mule while Rasmussen followed, trailing the saddled spare horse. Every minute or so they could glimpse the rising moon—a huge orange ball—through breaks in the trees.
The Clayton farm was ten miles beyond town, Thorne estimated, so they rode slowly to save the animals and to kill time, hoping everyone would be asleep before they arrived.
Two hours later the moon, high overhead, was a silver disk, bathing the landscape in an eerie light and etching sharp, black shadows.
There was no wind to mask the sounds of their movements. But the hoof beats were muffled in the deep grass alongside the dirt track where they rode to keep from stirring up the powdery dust. The road was deserted. Under the darkness of overhanging trees, Rasmussen had to rely on the sounds of Thorne ahead of him.
It seemed an eternity before they passed north of town and covered another ten miles. Thorne finally reined up his mule in chest-high weeds. He pointed. Across a wire fence in front of them, a split log barn with high gables hunkered in the middle of a pasture. On the near side, where the moonlight struck it fully, small gaps were visible between the unchinked logs. It looked old, but stoutly built. Something about it seemed odd, though. Then Rasmussen realized it was blackened, as if it’d survived a fire, more than just the weathering of age.
“Looks like it’s used to smoke-cure tobacco,” he said in an undertone.
Thorne nodded, his mind apparently elsewhere. “The padlocked door is on the end there,” he said, pointing.
Rasmussen felt a bit queasy, and not only because of the miasma emanating from the hog pens just beyond the barn. This place was too wide open. With the bright moonlight, they might as well make an assault on the barn in broad daylight. A good 100 yards of pasture stretched between the weed-choked fence row and the barn, and another 100 upslope to the two-story white farmhouse. What was worse for their purpose, a light still illuminated one of the upstairs windows.
They’d be better advised to wait for a cloudy or stormy might, or at least until there was no moon. From the upper floor of that house, anyone with a pair of field glasses could spot a pack rat crossing that moonlit field. But they couldn’t risk waiting for a better opportunity. Silas Newburn could make his move at any time, and it wasn’t likely he’d give up the location of the treasure to secure Nellie’s release. It was possible—even likely—that the Knights of the Golden Circle were in session at this very hour, plotting strategy. Rasmussen’s instincts, honed during years as a Mounted Policeman, cried out against this raid. The odds weren’t right. But they had to try, and they had to try tonight.
The two men sat motionlessly in their saddles, contemplating the layout. If there were any cattle on the place, they were in another pasture. Except for the distinctive stink from the hog pens fouling the fresh air, it was a nostalgic scene—the barn posing serenely in the middle of a moonlit pasture, awaiting the talent of some artist to reproduce it on canvas.
Rasmussen would have felt better about this scheme if he were even certain Nellie was imprisoned there. For all he knew, they might be burglarizing an empty barn, or one being used to store plows and harrows and old harness.
Thorne motioned and led the way slowly toward the cover of the woods. They made their way uphill through the woods, parallel to the fenced property, then dismounted in the inky shadows and tethered the animals to saplings.
“Slide along the fence till we’re opposite this end of the barn, then we won’t have so much open space to cross,” Thorne whispered. He held up a short, iron tool. “I’ll pry off the hasp. No telling what kind of shape the girl’s in. Might even be asleep. Just snatch her up between us and run like hell for the woods.”
Rasmussen was irritated to see the fence consisted of four strands of barbed wire, strung tightly between iron posts. “Better take care of this first. We didn’t bring any wire cutters.”
They each grabbed a thin post, rocked it back and forth in unison until loosened enough to push a section of the fence nearly flat to the ground. “Ow!” Even with gloves protecting his hands and wrists, the steel barbs found a way to hook Rasmussen’s shirt sleeve and rake his forearm. They stood on the flattened fence, not having a rock handy to weight it down. Rasmussen drew a deep breath. Barbed wire was one of the cruelest, and least necessary, inventions of mankind. In his experience, the only herding animal that couldn’t be held by ordinary wire or wooden fencing was the buffalo. Their nature was to drift north and south on open range, following the seasons of grass.
“We’ll just have to chance it that nobody’s watching,” Thorne said. “Take it slow and easy to the barn. Move a few yards, stop, then repeat. I’ll go first, you come after and cover me.”
Rasmussen grunted his assent, recalling the way a bullet from the unseen rifleman had felt hitting his back. “You didn’t see anything of a guard?”
“Not unless somebody’s watching from the house. Just as easy to stand guard from there on a bright night like this. We’ll have to chance it.”
Rasmussen drew his gun, worked the action, then eased the hammer down.
“Don’t shoot unless absolutely necessary,” Thorne said.
“Right.” His partner didn’t know he’d been trained in restraint. The North-West Mounted Police had always maintained a shoot last policy, mostly because they were nearly always outnumbered and outgunned. Therefore, they made it a practice to resolve conflict and apprehend criminals with a firm, but fair, approach, using the sight of the uniform backed by the potential force of Her Majesty’s government. It didn’t always work.
Thorne stepped cautiously into the open and moved across the open pasture, freezing in position every few yards. When he was halfway there, Rasmussen followed, making for the shaded side of the barn. He didn’t exert himself, but was breathing rapidly by the time he reached the depth of shadows against the wall. Gazing at the house, he realized it would be nearly impossible to see out from the inside of the lighted room on the second floor. More likely, if anyone were watching, it would be from the porch or a darkened window.
Every minute seemed to drag like fifteen. He stood motionlessly, fingering his holstered gun. What was Thorne doing? He could hear clanking and scraping as his partner worked the crowbar.
Finally the silhouette of Thorne’s hat appeared around the corner. “Can’t pry it off,” he whispered. “Feels like it’s bolted all the way through.”
“Shit!”
“I’ll have to shoot it off. Be ready.”
Rasmussen came to the corner and
held his breath as Thorne pointed his Remington at the shiny padlock, then turned his face away to avoid any splatter of metal.
BOOM! BOOM!
The serene night was shattered by the explosions. Flame lanced from the barrel, the second shot spinning the big lock away.
“Nellie!” Thorne yelled.
A throaty roar. A furry projectile hurtled from the black opening.
“Aaagghh!” Thorne stumbled and fell backward. The dog went over him and sprang for Rasmussen’s throat.
With lightning reflexes, Rasmussen jerked his head to the left, and felt the hot snap of fangs by his ear. But the dog’s big body slammed into his right chest, spinning him down. He rolled over, did a backward somersault, and came to his feet, reaching for his gun. It was gone.
The animal hit the ground off balance, staggered, regained his balance, and pivoted to go for his quarry again. Instantly a vision was burned into Rasmussen’s retina—black hair bristling on the back of an Alsatian bigger than a wolf, exposed fangs gleaming in the moonlight. Rasmussen dodged and sprinted toward the first cover he saw—the slats of the hog pen, ten yards away. Two steps upslope and he stumbled in the deep grass, rolling onto his back as the brute leaped for him again. Rasmussen flexed his knees, caught the leaping animal in the belly with both boots, and thrust his legs upward, propelling the dog in an arc above his head, and over the board fence behind him where the animal landed on his back among the resting hogs in the pen.