by Tim Champlin
“Grandpa!”
He turned to see Johnny running toward him with that peculiar, limping gait. What now? he thought to himself, and then asked: “Where the hell’s my newspaper, Johnny?”
“Never mind that. Silas Newburn and his sons, Tad and Martin, and two other Newburns are boarding the train.
“What’s that to me? I’m not their keeper.”
Johnny cast a dubious eye on Thorne, who stood nearby. He lowered his voice and guided his grandfather a few yards away. “I saw Tad loading something on the baggage car.…”
Uncle Billy appeared to be staring at something across the street.
“…a case of dynamite.”
“How do you know?”
“Stenciled right on the wooden crate!” Johnny was clearly exasperated.
An alarm bell rang in the back of Walter Clayton’s mind. He reached for his billfold, and withdrew several greenbacks.
Thorne barely picked up the words of the deep voice. “Get aboard and find out where they’re going.”
“The station agent and the conductor won’t tell me.”
“Then use your ingenuity!” Walter snapped. “I have to know. Wire me anytime, day or night, when you find out. Now get going!”
Two blasts on the steam whistle signaled imminent departure.
Johnny snatched the bills, stuffed them into his pocket, and hurried off.
Watching him, Walter cringed at his grandson’s loping run. He’d never get over the fact that Johnny had been crippled for life by a bullet from a Newburn, just because Johnny had fallen in love with a Newburn girl.
Johnny disappeared around the side of the depot just as the train began chuffing and started to move.
Walter turned around and Uncle Billy was gone. “No matter,” he muttered. “He’s alerted now, but there may be bigger things afoot.”
It wasn’t yet noon, but he was hungry. A mental image of steak and potatoes made his stomach growl. He’d ride home alone later, trailing Johnny’s mount.
As he started across the street toward a steak house, he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Why was Silas leaving town? Was this some kind of feint to throw him off guard? He knew Silas would never abandon his granddaughter, no matter what she’d done to disgrace the family. Otto had sworn he’d relayed Walter’s terms perfectly—either divulge the exact location of the cache, or Nellie would die. How could the Newburns leave her in such jeopardy? Silas knew that Walter Clayton never bluffed. Yet, somebody—probably two of the Newburn clan—had raided his farm last night, presumably in an attempt to rescue the girl. Or else they were looking for the stolen $250,000. Should he hurt the girl in some way to retaliate and show that he meant what he said about an eye for an eye? Probably not. Keep the girl in good shape as the prize to be ransomed for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. If Johnny had really seen what he claimed—Tad Newburn loading a case of dynamite—where were five members of the Newburn clan taking it?
He didn’t enjoy his lunch—nagging doubt and worry causing a rare dyspepsia.
The news that awaited at his farm would make him even sicker.
Chapter Fifteen
Rapid hoof beats.
Rasmussen dropped the strip of bacon on his plate and sprang to the door of the shack, gun in hand. Thorne’s mule trotted into view, and the agent reined up, leaping to the ground.
“Get your stuff together,” he said, striding into the shack. “The boil is coming to a head.”
“What’s up?”
“Silas Newburn’s heading up a grab for the cache. And Walter Clayton’s on my trail because of that hat you lost.” He sat down on the kitchen chair and began to pull off his brogans, relaying his encounter with the head of the Clayton clan.
Rasmussen grabbed his saddlebags and folded his spare shirt and pants into it. He had little to pack besides a toothbrush and a small box of ammunition for the Merwin-Hulbert.
“I’m betting the Newburns are headed for the New Mexico Territory, and Johnny Clayton’s following them.” He quoted the conversation he’d overheard between Johnny and his grandfather.
“There’re liable to be some fireworks on that train before we can catch up,” Rasmussen said. “When’s the next westbound leave?”
“This evening. Can’t risk riding back to town and running into Walter Clayton. That old man probably has the sheriff in his pocket, and he could charge me with trespassing and burglary, and delay us indefinitely while Walter waits for Johnny’s telegram.”
“Let’s handle it this way,” Rasmussen said. “We’ll ride over to Lebanon, return those two rental horses, board your mule, and catch the westbound train there.”
“Good thinking.” Thorne went into the bedroom to finish changing clothes.
“Reckon old man Clayton can muster enough men to stop the Newburns?”
“He owns a good portion of the town, so he’s got plenty of men in his employ if he chooses to use them,” Thorne answered from the next room. “But I’m betting he’ll want to keep something this big within his own small circle. Could be he plans to wait till Silas has the cache in hand, then try to take it from him, like Johnny and his gunmen took that two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Rasmussen didn’t like to be reminded of that incident. “In any event, we have to get there and put a stop to this whole business.” He had no idea how the two of them would accomplish such a feat. They’d have to play whatever hand they were dealt. “Almost like the North-West Mounted Police,” Rasmussen commented. “The force always expected one or two men to turn back a gang of any size, whether whiskey runners, rebellious Métis, or Indians.” He gave a dry chuckle. “The Mounties’ motto…Maintien le Droit… Maintain the Right.”
“By whatever means,” Thorne finished, buckling the leather leggings he wore over his canvas pants.
“Better shake a leg,” Rasmussen said. “We’ve got a train to catch, thirty miles from here.”
“Wait a minute.” Thorne went to the stove, poured steaming coffee from the black pot into his shaving mug. “No time to heat up more water.” He lathered up and shaved his white whiskers, revealing a much younger-looking man beneath.
While Thorne grabbed a bite to eat, Rasmussen took his turn with the razor, stooping to see himself in the tiny mirror on the wall. Then he snipped his shaggy blond hair into a manageable length. He surveyed his new reflection. “That seven and threequarter size hat would be too big for me now,” he said. “Clayton would have to lay the blame on somebody else.”
“We won’t give him a chance to blame anybody,” Thorne said, swinging the gun belt around his lean hips. “Let’s go.”
Rasmussen took up the reins of the led horse and swung into the saddle. He cast a last look at the unpainted shack he’d come to consider home. It wasn’t as if the two of them were dashing off on some fast chase that would end in a few hours. Both he and Thorne were experienced lawmen and sensed, without discussing it, that they were in for a long, hard slog with the possibility of a fight at the end of it. A vision from five years earlier crept into his mind. He saw again a day coach on the partially finished Canadian Pacific, red-coated troops, rifles at hand, sprawled in sleep as the train rolled across the prairie toward a confrontation with the Métis rebels. Now he and Thorne were about to board a westbound train, with the odds long against them in the fight ahead.
They trotted their mounts and made good time on the road to Lebanon in the muggy heat of early afternoon, meeting two farmers with loads of produce, heading toward Springfield.
An hour later, they were walking their horses, and spotted a horseman riding leisurely toward them. The man wore a wide-brimmed black hat.
“Watch this,” Thorne said.
As the rider approached, Thorne touched the brim of his low-crowned Stetson. “Afternoon, Reverend.”
The young man looked curiously at him. “Good day to you, sir,” he said cordiall
y as he passed on.
A minute later, Thorne chuckled. “That was the Reverend Harlan Ashby. I’ve sat in his church many a Sunday, and eaten dinner with him probably a dozen times. If he didn’t recognize me, clean-shaven and dressed as somebody other than the man he knows as Uncle Billy, then it’s not likely the Claytons or Newburns will know me, either.”
“I was beginning to think I’d seen the last of these animals,” the liveryman said, pulling the saddle off the led horse.
“Got delayed,” Rasmussen said. “But they haven’t had much work. Both in good shape.”
“Got a mule I want to board for a week or two,” Thorne said, dismounting.
A deal was struck and the two men started for the depot on the edge of town, carrying their light duffel.
“Two one-way tickets to Santa Fé,” Thorne said to the agent at the window. “Pullman all the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
The agent prepared the tickets and the two men boarded the train that had just pulled into the station. “Not a quarter hour to spare,” Thorne said.
“Why Santa Fé?”
“I’m guessing that’s as far as they’re likely to go. If we somehow find out they got off earlier, we can do the same. But with these tickets, we’re covered.”
In spite of their perilous, uncertain mission, Rasmussen relaxed in the Pullman. It was good again to experience the luxury of train travel. “Ahhh!” He stretched his big frame onto the reclining seat. “When this is all over, maybe I’ll get a job as a conductor.”
“A job? Then you’d have to work, not be waited on hand and foot as a paying customer.”
Rasmussen locked his hands behind his head and grinned. “You’ll have to admit these bunks sure beat that thing with the rope springs in your shack.”
“You weren’t complaining about my bed when I dragged you in there, half dead.”
“True. I could’ve slept on a bed of nails at that point.”
After dark, the train pulled into Springfield for a twenty-minute stop.
With Rasmussen standing close by, eyeing the men in the depot, Thorne approached the ticket agent. “You know Silas Newburn?” he inquired through the barred window.
“Yes, sir.”
“He went west on the morning train. What was his party’s final destination?”
“I don’t know, sir. I just came on duty at four o’clock.”
“You don’t keep records of ticket sales?”
“Only total numbers for accounting purposes. No names. It would be an impossible paperwork job, and serve no good purpose.”
“It’d serve a good purpose in this instance,” Thorne muttered under his breath.
“You might be able to ask the agent who was on duty this morning…unless the tickets were purchased earlier than today.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Bill Bunter? He’s probably at home eating supper, or maybe at the Blue Bell Saloon where he goes of an evening. But you’re wasting your time. Bill’s close-mouthed about that sort of thing. Mister Newburn is a famous man hereabouts. I’m sure lots of folks would be curious about his comings and goings. Bill has professional pride and considers personal information just that…personal.”
“’Booaarrdd!” The conductor was waving his red lantern from the caboose.
“Thanks, anyway.” Thorne motioned to Rasmussen and the two men hurried to catch their departing train.
“Probably just as well he didn’t have a record of the names and destinations,” Thorne said as they settled into the bunks the porter had made up. “I might’ve been forced to show my Secret Service badge to get it. Don’t want to shed my cover until I have to.”
Her first cousin, Darrel Weaver, was the last person Nellie Newburn expected to see on the train. Yet, there he was—her mother’s sister’s son, in the flesh. She rubbed her bleary eyes and looked again at the man seated at the far end of the coach. It had to be DJ, as she’d always called him—the droopy eyes, the same long face. She’d heard that everyone in the world had a look-alike somewhere, but this was just too coincidental. She and Darrel were within a few months of the same age and even closer in attitude and outlook. Under that sad-hound face lurked a sparkling wit and personality Nellie had enjoyed all her growing-up years. Although they’d been playmates and confidants as children, she hadn’t seen him in months.
Was he on some kind of business trip? A bachelor, he had a local reputation as a very intelligent man who invented games and puzzles for children and kept them fascinated with magic tricks. He was a wood carver, read voraciously, and had many avocations—but no vocation. The last time she’d seen him, he was peddling insurance in northern Arkansas for a recently founded New England company.
Her first instinct was to go speak to him. It’d been days since she’d seen a friendly face. But she hesitated. She was dirty, smelly, and broke, and he’d be sure to ask where she was going. How could she explain all this?
Just then the end door opened and the conductor came through. She dropped her eyes and pretended to study her fingernails, but sensed his stopping next to her seat.
“We’ll be in Sapulpa in thirty minutes,” he said quietly. “And I’ll have to collect your ticket for points west. Or, you’ll have to get off.” He was silent for a moment, then leaned down close. He voice was a whisper. “Or, you might have something personal to trade for a ticket, as we discussed earlier.”
She looked up. He had the trace of a smile on his lips as he moved down the aisle. As soon as he’d passed out of the car, she decided to get up and go to her cousin. He was reading a book and didn’t see her approach. She took a deep breath and assumed a cheerful attitude. “Why, DJ, I didn’t expect to see you here!”
His face lit up with a huge grin. “Nellie! Plop your ass down here, gal. You’re a welcome sight for these old eyes.”
“Your eyes are no older than mine,” she reminded him as she slid into the vacant side of the double seat.
He reached around and gave her a hug. “Running from something?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Nellie, you’re talking to your cousin DJ. I’ve known you since we were both knee-high to a praying mantis.”
She giggled in spite of herself. “You could always make me laugh.” She was feeling better already, and wondered why she’d even hesitated rushing to greet him.
“Before I ask what you’re doing here, I think you need a drink.” He surreptitiously produced a silver flask from an inside coat pocket.
She glanced around to see if anyone was watching before she uncapped it and took a swig. The brandy burned a path to her empty stomach. Her childhood desire to share in some innocent mischief suddenly returned. Despite the disapproving frown of an elderly woman across the aisle, she took another swallow. “Whew! That’s good. But it’ll go right to my head.”
“Good. It’ll loosen you up. Now,” he said, taking a nip himself, then capping the flask, “you go first and don’t leave out any details.”
Nellie filled him in on her life, beginning with her selection to be courier for the $250,000 from the Canadian bank. It was good to have a friend to confide in; she hardly paused for breath while her story spilled out in a continuous stream. She brought him up to date with her boarding the train the day before, and the conductor’s proposition.
“I’ll have to say my story can’t top that,” Darrel said when she finally came to a stop. “I’ve been working, selling out of town a lot, trying to stay out of the way of flying bullets and any part of family troubles.”
“But you are part of it,” she reminded him. She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “You and Grandpa Silas are the only ones alive who still know the exact location of that cold cache.”
“To my everlasting regret. I’m still carrying a piece of lead in my back from that expedition out West. Wish I’d never let the old man bribe me into going. But…I was broke at the time.” He shrugged. “A man will do ’most anything for money if
you catch him at a low point.”
“Why are you here now?” she asked.
“Same reason. I’m selling on commission, and nobody wants to buy insurance. Truth be told, I’m the world’s worst salesman.” He smiled ruefully, and she suddenly felt sorry for him.
“You mean you’re on this train because Grandpa Silas sent you after that treasure again?”
Darrel nodded. “Only this time, he came along, too, in addition to your uncles, Tad and Martin, and another man from his castle.”
“What? They’re on this train?” Her stomach contracted.
“Two cars ahead in the Pullman.”
“I have to hide. They mustn’t see me. I tried to run away. I’ve got to get off.” She slid down in the seat.
“How much money do you have?” he asked.
She dropped her eyes. “A dollar. Spent two dollars yesterday on food from a vendor at a depot stop.”
He pressed several gold coins into her hand. She caught her breath when she saw four double eagles. “I can’t take this.”
“You can and you will. Part of my advance. I haven’t earned it yet. You think I’d leave you in such a fix?”
She could feel tears welling up in her eyes.
“Look, you said you wanted to start a new life…possibly get a job as a Harvey Girl.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Then get off at the next stop. I’ll take care of that conductor. Clean up, buy some clothes, and a decent meal. Catch the next train if you want to. That will get you away from Silas and the others.”
“OK.”
“We’re going on to Santa Fé,” he said, taking her hand. “Silas plans to buy two wagons and mule teams, then we’ll head into the northern part of the territory. I don’t care anything about that treasure, but I’m under oath not to reveal the exact location, and I’ll respect that pledge.”
She shuddered. “I don’t want to know, anyway.”
“It might be a while before we see each other,” he said with feeling. “God, I’m glad to see you.” He looked her up and down. Then he sighed, and turned away. “I believed we could get away with the treasure this time. But…now I’m not so sure. You were supposed to be held for ransom in exchange for the treasure map. Now that you’re loose, and Walter Clayton has probably figured out we made a run around them, he and his clan will be hot on our trail.”