Cold Cache

by Tim Champlin

Ignoring the pandemonium of grunting, squealing, and growling, Rasmussen scrambled to his feet, grabbed his hat, and dashed for the barn where Thorne was still on his hands and knees.

  “Here’s your gun.”

  Rasmussen caught the nickel-plated weapon that flashed through the moonlight. “Where is she?” Rasmussen jumped for the open door. “Nellie! Nellie!” he shouted, feeling his way into the inky blackness, hands in front of him, holding his gun. “If you’re in here, yell or kick or bang on something, so I can find you!” He stumbled into a piece of machinery and gashed his arm on sharp metal. His eyes quickly grew accustomed to the dimness. He could distinguish large objects in the slits of moonlight filtering through the cracks in the log wall. There was no sign of anyone, whether tied up, unconscious, or asleep.

  Thorne thrust his head in. “Let’s get out of here. It was a trap!” he rasped.

  Rasmussen stumbled outside, and the two men ran for the fence.

  Gunfire roared from the house, drowning the snarling, squealing battle in the hog pen. Muzzle flashes erupted from the porch. A bullet zipped into the grass ahead of Rasmussen. He leaned down and ran, dodging from one side to the other. Shooting downslope at moving targets in uncertain light at a distance of more than 100 yards didn’t make for accuracy. But there was always the element of luck. He hoped they were using handguns instead of rifles.

  The fence row at the edge of the woods didn’t seem any closer. The fusillade increased, and he felt the tug of a bullet passing through his shirt sleeve.

  Suddenly Thorne went down in front, nearly tripping him. Rasmussen hooked the smaller man under one arm and began dragging him. Sweat was streaming from his face; his lungs began to burn with the effort. A surge of adrenaline drove him on. A bullet snatched off his hat, and he crouched even lower, pulling his burden with renewed effort.

  By the time they reached the fence and woods, they were nearly hidden from the house by a swell of ground. The gunfire slacked off.

  “I’m all right,” Thorne gasped, pulling free and tottering to his feet. “Bullet tore off my boot heel. Numbed my foot.”

  Rasmussen flattened the barbed wire and helped his partner cross. They began the slog uphill to their mounts. A few minutes later they were riding hard toward the road, safely away.

  When the first two shots banged out, Walter Clayton started up from a doze, grabbed his revolver from the gun belt on a chair, and extinguished the lamp. Rolling silently out of bed, he edged to the open window and pulled back the curtain. A struggle near the barn.

  Johnny’s footsteps thudded past his door and went pounding down the stairs.

  Walter heard a vicious snarling, then squeals and grunts, but the hog pen was hidden in the deep shadow of the barn. His hired hand, Otto, must be shooting at a coyote or wolf trying to snatch one of the piglets, he thought. He’d never known predators to be that bold in summer when small game was plentiful. Then he noted the door at the end of the barn standing open. A figure dodged inside and someone yelled Nellie’s name. Walter suddenly knew his trap had been sprung. Two men sprinted away from the barn and across the moonlit expanse of pasture. Gunfire blasted from the porch below. “Come on…come on!” he urged the other gunmen under his breath. But neither of the running men fell at first. The roar of shots from Johnny and Otto became incessant. Then, near the shelter of woods, the leading figure went down.

  “Got him!” Walter breathed, clenching his .44.

  The second man stooped to help, and the fire from below slackened.

  “Shoot! Shoot, you ninnies, while they’re not moving!” Walter hissed. But then he realized the fleeing men were probably hidden from view to the shooters on the porch below. He thumbed back the hammer of his Colt, hunkered down, and rested his arm on the open window sill. The Colt bucked and roared, plucking the hat off one man’s head. “Damn!” He was shooting high. He lowered his aim and fired again. He’d overcorrected. He fired a third time, but the figures were moving again. Before he could draw a bead, they disappeared into the black shadows of the treeline.

  “Go after them!” Walter roared out the window.

  He watched his grandson and the hired hand dash down into the yard, one with a rifle and one carrying a revolver. They ran down the grassy slope toward the spot where the two men had vanished. But then, apparently realizing they could be ambushed in the darkness, they came to a halt and fired several shots into the woods. For a few seconds they stood talking. Then Johnny picked up the hat that had been shot off. The pair retreated slowly toward the house, glancing back over their shoulders.

  Walter Clayton shoved his gun back into its holster, relit the lamp, and pulled off his nightshirt. He struggled into a pair of pants. Damned things were getting too tight. Looking into the washstand mirror he smoothed his remaining strands of hair, then shrugged into a loose shirt that disguised his rotund build. By this time, he heard Johnny and Otto talking in the hallway below and padded, barefooted, downstairs.

  “How in hell did you two miss them?” he demanded. “I guess if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.”

  Johnny made his bandaged hand more conspicuous, as if that were an excuse for faulty marksmanship.

  “Go check on Nellie,” Walter ordered.

  Otto disappeared toward the fruit cellar, and Walter turned to Johnny.

  “I laid that trap so we could bag us a Newburn or two, but you let ’em slip away,” he said.

  “I heard you shooting, too,” Johnny said defensively.

  “With a Colt. And without my glasses,” the old man said, his anger beginning to cool as he reached for the hat his grandson still held. “Lemme see that. We might be able to trace this back to the owner.” He held it to the moonlight streaming through the window. “Hmmm. Looks new.” He went to the marbletop table near the front window and, taking a match from a holder, struck it to the coal-oil lamp, turning it up to illuminate the room. “Hardly been worn. No name or initials. Reckon if it was just bought, we can check the mercantile or the men’s haberdashery in town. Some cheap brand…not a Stetson.” He put his finger through one of the two bullet holes in the crown. “That was my shot,” he said with a touch of pride. “Reckon I ain’t quite lost it yet.”

  Otto returned. “She’s still there, sleeping,” he reported. “Down in that cellar, she likely never heard the shooting.”

  Walter nodded. “We’ve still got our hole card.” He turned to Johnny. “Go see what all that damned ruckus was with the hogs,” he said. “Sounded like the dog got into the pen. Hope to hell he or the sow didn’t kill each other.” He turned toward the stairs. “Otto, pour me a shot of whiskey so I can go back to sleep. In the morning, I’ll take this hat to town, and find out who one of our night visitors was.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The ride to Thorne’s shack seemed endless. To frustrate pursuit, Rasmussen and Thorne detoured south of Springfield, then rode cross-country, taking advantage of the waning moonlight and Thorne’s knowledge of the terrain. Coming back onto the main road east from town, they halted to rest the horses and await anyone following.

  A quarter hour later, Thorne rose stiffly from the ground. “Nobody’s coming. They’re too savvy to go chasing armed men in the dark.”

  “Reckon so,” Rasmussen said as they retrieved their horses and mule from the edge of the trees and remounted. “But I have a quivering sensation between my shoulder blades, like someone’s drawing a bead on me.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Probably your wound.”

  The men rode slowly east, with Rasmussen keeping an eye on their back trail.

  “The Claytons know this country a lot better than I do,” Thorne said. “If they saddled up right away, they could’ve gotten around us and be waiting up ahead.”

  “Maybe so…if they knew we were going east.”

  “If we’d headed west, we would’ve passed right by that pasture and barn again,” Thorne said. “I don’t think anyone’s coming. But look sharp, anyway.”

  The
y eventually reached Thorne’s shack without incident, having met no one on the road. By Thorne’s estimate, it was close to three o’clock in the morning. After putting up the animals with a rub-down and some grain, Thorne cleaned the gash on Rasmussen’s forearm.

  “Gouged it on a hay rake,” Rasmussen said.

  “Pull off that shirt. The back of it’s bloody, too. Guess you busted open your wound.”

  “Ruined a new shirt.”

  “It’ll wash.” Thorne tossed it into a bucket. Then he rubbed salve on both wounds.

  Rasmussen slipped into his old shirt while Thorne took off his boots and used a stick of stove wood to hammer the scarred boot heel back into place. His heel was bruised and sore, but otherwise OK.

  “We were damned lucky,” Thorne remarked, pulling his sock back on. “My blunder could’ve cost us our lives.”

  No excuses, no evading responsibility. Rasmussen appreciated a plain-spoken professional.

  “I misjudged the situation. Somebody put that big, shiny new padlock on the barn, hoping a fool like me, or one of the New-burns, would figure Nellie was inside. Sprung the trap with a vicious dog.”

  “Lucky that hog pen was close,” Rasmussen said, still hearing the snap of the teeth next to his ear, “or the Claytons wouldn’t have needed their guns.”

  “When that dog came flying out the door, I thought it was a wolf,” Thorne said.

  “Not likely they’d have a wolf on the place,” Rasmussen remarked.

  “I don’t know about that…those Claytons are a strange bunch.”

  “That Alsatian was bigger than any wolf I ever saw in Canada or Minnesota,” Rasmussen said, lowering himself wearily onto a chair by the table.

  “Wonder why that dog didn’t raise a ruckus while I was trying to rip off the hasp?”

  “Maybe thought it was his owner coming to feed him,” Rasmussen said. “But, then, some guard dogs are trained to attack without warning. All bite and no bark.” He stretched his weary muscles. He suddenly missed his brown felt hat. “A bullet took that new hat right off my head when we were making a run for it.”

  Thorne looked up sharply. “Did you put your name or initials in it?’

  “No marks at all.”

  “Good. You can bet they’ll find it and try to trace the owner. Even if they do, we’ll still have a little time.” Thorne went to the screen door and stepped outside, looking and listening for a minute. “All quiet,” he said, returning.

  “For how long?”

  “I’d say at least until late tomorrow.”

  “I’ll stand first watch until daylight,” Rasmussen said, noting the drawn look on the older man’s face. “I’m too keyed up to sleep right now anyway, and these wounds are aching.” he added when Thorne opened his mouth to object. He picked up Thorne’s shotgun and broke it open to check the loads. “You know, the Claytons could have set a couple of bear traps in that dark barn.”

  “The dog was quicker and surer,” Thorne said. “These families play rough. Nothing too low-down.”

  “I’d always read that feuding clans were honorable and brave, would challenge an enemy straight up.”

  “Only in fiction,” Thorne said, yawning. “Nobody would mistake the Newburns and Claytons for the Montagues and Capulets.” He went into the bedroom and stretched out on his stomach, fully dressed except for his boots. Within two minutes, he was softly snoring.

  Rasmussen sat in a straight chair, facing the screen door, shotgun across his lap. Crickets chirping, a bullfrog’s deep-throated croaking from somewhere—all peaceful sounds of the night, completely different from hours before, and miles away.

  Every fifteen or twenty minutes, he walked outside to keep himself awake. He’d always hated night watches and guard duty when his police patrol was in the field near hostile Indians or camped near outlaw quarry. As always, this night seemed to stand still and he suffered the agony of fighting the weariness that dragged at his limbs and eyelids.

  He checked the stable, then came back inside, turned the lamp lower, and looked in on Thorne. Asleep, and without the vitality energizing his face, the former Secret Service agent looked his age. He was not an old man by normal standards—not nearly as antiquated as he pretended to be in the guise of Uncle Billy, eccentric hermit. Early fifties, Rasmussen guessed—at least old enough to be retired from a hazardous federal career. Thorne’s stamina might not be what it had been, but his experience more than made up for that. True, he’d miscalculated Nellie’s location. But Thorne struck him as the type who admitted mistakes, learned from them, and moved on without recriminations. He made the best decisions he could, based on what he knew, or guessed. If those decisions proved wrong, then he’d back up and attack from another direction. With luck, he would be right more often than wrong. The problem was, in this line of work, a single error of judgment could be fatal.

  He resumed his post on the chair. In spite of himself, his chin sank on his chest and he began to dream. He jerked awake with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Kent, take it easy. It’s me,” Thorne’s voice reassured him.

  “Huh?” Rasmussen was still groggy. “I could be cashiered for sleeping on watch,” he said, embarrassed, stumbling to his feet, one leg partially asleep.

  Thorne grinned. “As I recall, you’ve already cashiered yourself out of the Mounted Police.”

  Rasmussen handed over the shotgun without replying and headed for the adjacent bedroom. He sank down on the rumpled bed and was asleep before he knew it.

  He awoke to the aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon. The sun was high and Thorne had prepared lunch. They sat down and did the meager meal justice.

  “Where do we go from here?” Rasmussen asked, deferring to the more experienced lawman. “Are we the hunters or the hunted?”

  Thorne grinned. “Been giving that some thought. I believe our best bet is to lie low and see what Silas Newburn does. As I figure it, he has to go after Nellie, or the Claytons, or the gold. He can’t allow the status quo to exist for more than a day or so. He’ll get the blame for our raid last night and that’ll stir him up even more. The Claytons have challenged him with the robbery and now kidnapping his granddaughter as a hostage. It’s like cornering a badger. We’re going to see some action pretty quick.”

  Rasmussen drained his coffee cup and wiped his mouth. “This is a mighty strange business. I don’t like not being in control.”

  “What do you suggest?” Thorne asked, leaning back and crossing his legs.

  “I can’t stand inaction. Let’s raid the Clayton place. They won’t expect us a second time.”

  “Yes, they would. We’d probably get Nellie killed, since we’ve already put them on the alert with that business last night. You’re forgetting that most folks around here think you’re dead. If you reveal yourself, you might not be as lucky next time. The Claytons sent Black Rogers to kill you. And Silas suspects you of complicity in the robbery. He’d just as soon see you permanently out of the picture as well. You’re persona non grata to both sides.”

  “Damn,” Rasmussen breathed softly. “We’ve got to do something.”

  Thorne rose and stretched. “Sit tight here and keep a sharp look-out. I’ll ride to town and see if I can pick up any rumors. Won’t be long. Back before sundown.”

  Nellie Newburn thumped her fists on the underside of the wooden cellar door. She had to get out and move around, see daylight, breathe fresh air. She had a coal-oil lamp to illuminate her dirt-walled prison. Even though it was turned very low, it still gave off an offensive odor that fouled the stale air.

  She’d tried to keep track of when it was day or night, but had grown disoriented. After Johnny had escorted her to the outhouse several times, he caught on to her ploy for temporary freedom and gave her a white porcelain slop jar with lid, denying further releases from the hole. The slop jar further deteriorated the air quality. She was dirty, tired, thirsty, and living like a mole. Her entreaties to Johnny fell on deaf ears. But she had to try again.<
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  Had anyone heard her pounding on the trap door? Most of the hand-dug dirt cellar was beneath the side yard of the house. Only the four wooden steps were inside the edge of the wall so the cellar door could open through the plank floor of the living room.

  Finally she heard the iron ring clank and the door was yanked upward and thrown back. Otto stood there, gun drawn.

  “Whaddya want?”

  She hesitated, blinking at the bright daylight. What could she say? That she wanted out? He knew that. She was a prisoner. She quickly thought of some plausible excuse. “Can you empty my slop jar?”

  “Is it full?”

  “No, but.…”

  “Call me when it is.”

  “I want to talk to Johnny.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “Walter, then.”

  “They’re both gone to town. I’m in charge.”

  She stepped up and thrust her head above the floor. Morning light. She tried a desperate ploy. “I haven’t had a bath since I’ve been here. And I’m really dirty down in this hole.” She hesitated. “I’m unarmed and can’t do anything.” She gave him an ingratiating smile. “Would you be so kind as to heat up some water for a bath, while we’re both here alone?”

  Holstering his gun, the lean man shook his head. “Johnny’d skin me alive. If he didn’t, Mister Clayton would fire me.”

  “Oh, please….” She let her voice convey all the misery and helplessness she felt. “What can it hurt? I’ll be quick.” She dropped her eyes and made to blush. “I’ll even let you watch, if you want.”

  She looked up and saw his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down as he glanced out the window. “I can’t. Too risky. They might come back any time.”

  “How long they been gone?” She grew bolder and leaned both elbows and her breasts over the edge of the floor-level door.

  His gaze took in her figure under the grimy blouse. He paced to the window and looked toward the road. “Uh…’bout an hour.”

  “Then, don’t worry. They probably won’t be back till after lunchtime.”