by Tim Champlin
“You think there’ll be another fight if they catch up?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not risking my life again to preserve a lot of cold metal…gold and silver that will be used to split this country. You know what it’s like to get most of the family down on you.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t fight. If it comes to that, I’ll make a run for it. Disappear somewhere…if I survive once the shooting starts.”
They looked fondly at each other. “Oh, DJ, what’s happened to us? How did we come to this?”
An impish grin appeared on his face as if he had a secret solution he was about to share with her. “It’ll be all right, Nellie. Don’t you worry. We’ll look back on this someday, and laugh. Something exciting to entertain our kids and grandkids.”
“If we ever have any,” she replied tearfully.
“Come on. We’ll be in Sapulpa shortly. I want you off this train before anyone spots you.” He took her arm and ushered her toward the back of the car.
“DJ, where will you be? I want to repay this money.”
“Consider it a deposit on the future.”
“But you wouldn’t have come on this expedition if you hadn’t needed the money yourself.”
“The old man is good for it. He’s covering all our expenses. Mine were just a little heavier than expected.”
He opened the door and stepped out ahead of her. Steel couplings were clattering, the wheels clicking and jarring over the uneven roadbed. A warm wind whipped around between the cars. She could feel the train slowing, but they were still rolling about twenty miles an hour.
The end door of the next car opened, and a small, dark man stepped out onto the platform. He looked up and his mouth dropped open. “Nellie!”
Darrel reacted swiftly at the sight of Johnny Clayton. He sprang across the four feet between them, grabbed Johnny by the collar, and yanked. When the smaller man stumbled forward, off balance, Darrel spun him around, snatched him by the back of his belt, and heaved. Johnny went flying off the train.
“Oh, God!” Nellie gasped, watching him sliding and tumbling down the grassy embankment.
“Can’t stop and think about it,” Darrel said, his droopy eyes wide. “After what that guy has done to you, he can afford to walk a ways.”
“What was he doing here?” she cried, her head in a whirl. “I didn’t know he was on this train.”
“Guess he’s been lying low, maybe following our party. Good riddance, in any case. The train stops only a few minutes in Sapulpa. He won’t have time to catch up.”
The door burst open behind them. “What’s going on here?” the conductor demanded, grabbing Darrel by the shoulder. “You threw that man off the train! I’ll have you arrested!” he shouted above the rushing wind.
Darrel pulled loose from the man’s grasp and stepped back. “Is he the one?” he asked Nellie.
“Yes.”
“Oops! Sorry.” Darrel bowled his shoulder into the uniformed man, who fell backward from the unexpected blow, grabbing the iron railing with one hand to keep from falling. Darrel’s leg whipped up, kicking the conductor’s grip off the railing.
“Aagghh!” The conductor’s cap flew off and his arms wind-milled in a futile effort to save his balance as he cart-wheeled backward, bouncing and sliding in the gravel ballast away from the train.
“Oh, my God, DJ, you’ve killed both of them.”
“Not likely. Maybe bruised them up a bit, if they didn’t break anything.” He leaned out and looked back along the right of way. Pulling in his head, he said: “Never saw two clumsier men. They have to be more careful on these swaying platforms.”
The look of innocent wonder on his long face was too much for her; she burst out laughing.
Chapter Sixteen
When Kent Rasmussen awoke in his upper berth, he wasn’t sure where he was. Not even his healing back wound had kept him from deep sleep. He pulled aside the curtain and looked out at a flat, treeless terrain sliding past. For a moment, until fully awake, he saw the flat plain of the Texas panhandle as the prairies of western Canada.
He yawned and stretched, then leaned over the edge of the bunk. “Alex…?” He stopped. Thorne was up and gone. Rasmussen fished in his pants, folded near his head, and pulled out his watch. It had stopped. “Too busy to wind it,” he muttered, shoving it away.
Then: “Kent, get up.”
“What?” The urgency of Thorne’s voice startled him, and he pushed up on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Have to show you something.”
“Can it wait till I dress?”
“Yeah. Hurry.”
Icy fingers clutched at his stomach. In the confined space of the upper berth, Rasmussen pulled on his shirt and struggled into his pants. What could’ve happened, now? He stepped down, buckled his belt, and reached to pull on his boots.
Thorne stood by with a strange look on his face. “Come with me.” He led the way into the adjacent dining car. “We’re having an early breakfast.” He stepped aside. There sat Nellie Newburn.
For a moment, Rasmussen couldn’t speak. Nellie sprang up and suddenly they were embracing, his face buried in her fragrant hair.
Finally she pulled back, face radiant. She looked great. He couldn’t take his eyes from her as they all sat down to breakfast.
Thorne had already ordered, and the white-coated waiter showed up with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.
“What a way to start the day!” was all Rasmussen could think to say. He took a sip of coffee. Food was secondary as he stared at her. “You’re a vision.”
“I thought you were dead,” she said between bites.
“They did their best.”
“I was on the porch and heard the shot, but didn’t know….” She stopped, seeming to choke up at the memory. “Were you hurt badly?”
“No. It’s about healed.” Only a slight exaggeration. He nodded at Thorne. “This man saved my life.”
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her here this morning,” Thorne said. “I couldn’t keep her in suspense. Had to tell her you were with me.”
“He doesn’t look much like Uncle Billy,” she said to Rasmussen. Then to Thorne: “You sure had me fooled.”
“And everybody else,” Rasmussen said. “But we were taken in by a professional.”
“I just knew you were dead when I overheard Grandpa Silas say he was glad the Claytons had put you out of the picture. That ended my respect for my grandfather, and I decided I had to take your advice and get away from there. A few miles from town, Johnny and Black Rogers kidnapped me.” She paled slightly at the recollection. “You two could have been killed in that rescue attempt. They had me locked down in the fruit cellar.” She went on to detail her escape. “I managed to get on the train that’s ten or twelve hours ahead of us, and stayed out of sight for a day before I ran into my cousin, Darrel Weaver.”
“He’s the one you told me knew the location of the treasure?” Rasmussen interjected.
“That’s the one. In fact, he’s with Grandpa Silas, Uncle Tad, Uncle Martin, and another knight, and they’re going after the treasure. If it weren’t for DJ…that’s what I call Darrel…I wouldn’t be here now. He gave me money, and I got off in a little town, cleaned up, ate, bought some new clothes, and caught the next train…this one. I slept sitting up last night,” she added.
“Amazing,” Rasmussen breathed, his respect for this woman growing.
“To complicate things further,” she said, “Johnny Clayton was on that train. I don’t know how or why.…”
“I do,” Thorne said. “I was talking to Walter Clayton when the old man ordered Johnny to follow and report where the Newburns were going.”
“DJ told me they were heading for Santa Fé,” she said. “Then overland by wagon to the northern part of the territory. He wouldn’t say exactly where.”
“As soon as Johnny finds this out, he’ll telegraph Walter, and the chase will be on for sure,” Thorne sa
id.
She nodded thoughtfully. “If Johnny’s not hurt too badly….”
“What do you mean?”
She told them about her cousin throwing both Johnny and the offensive conductor off the train.
“Damn! I’ve got to meet this cousin of yours. He must be one helluva man,” Rasmussen said.
“My best friend, growing up.” She sighed. “I’d die if anything happened to him. He was the only Newburn survivor of the last raid on that cold cache a few years ago, and he agreed to come along this time only because he was broke.”
The train slowed. Rasmussen glanced absently out the window, his mind churning with other thoughts. “After all that’s happened…my getting shot, your kidnapping, our failed rescue attempt, then Walter Clayton tracking my hat to Thorne, I figure it must be time for a little good luck. Didn’t know it was going to be this good.”
The luck wasn’t destined to last.
Ten minutes later, Rasmussen stood beside the train, hair whipping in the dry Texas wind. “What’s the hold-up?”
The portly conductor shielded his eyes from the grit, and secured his pillbox cap with the other hand. “Flash flood weakened the support beams o’ that log trestle. Can’t get over the arroyo till it’s shored up.”
“How long?”
“Depends on how quick a repair crew gets here on a handcar. We’re just now sending a wire ahead to the next town for help.”
Rasmussen saw one of the trainmen climbing a nearby pole to clip on a wire from their portable telegraph key.
“Four hours, I’d say,” the conductor continued. “Should put us in Santa Fé about…”—he consulted his nickel-plated watch—“nine in the morning, if we don’t run into more trouble.”
“Thanks.” Rasmussen climbed back into the Pullman to inform Thorne and Nellie.
“Shouldn’t matter,” Thorne said. “As it is, we’re only a few hours behind. It’ll take ’em a day or so to get provisioned and secure wagons and mules. We don’t want to come in on top of them.”
As it turned out, the repairs took nine hours, so the train didn’t pull into the Santa Fé depot until 3:10 the next afternoon.
Rasmussen was feeling dragged out. He’d given his bunk to Nellie and slept as best he could on a double seat in the day coach. Now his wound was hurting again. But as they stepped down from the train, grips in hand, he didn’t care. It was a warm, sleepy afternoon and the old town appeared as if it had not seen an exciting day since the Pueblo revolt 200 years earlier. They wandered into the plaza that had once been the terminus of the Santa Fé Trail.
“They’ve been here and gone,” Rasmussen said. “Any idea where?” He looked at Nellie.
“Wish I’d pressed DJ into telling me more,” she said. “But my only idea then was to get away. Didn’t realize I’d be following them.”
“Let’s start at the livery stables and see if they rented some mules and wagons.”
She shook her head. “He’d buy them. Grandpa has money and wouldn’t stint on buying whatever he needed. If they were going to load up the wagons with treasure, they wouldn’t be bringing them back.”
“Even if they were going to off-load the stuff onto a train and transport it back to Missouri?” Rasmussen asked. “I can’t imagine hauling anything that heavy overland by wagon. If this cache is as big as reported, they surely wouldn’t try to haul it very far by wagon. I assume most of it is in the form of bullion or coin. Unless it’s sealed tight in something weatherproof, paper money wouldn’t hold up.”
“Did your grandfather say how he planned to transport it? Or where he planned to take it?” Thorne asked.
It was the first time Rasmussen had considered the post-discovery problem.
The three of them looked blankly at each other.
“All DJ said was they were going to the northern part of the territory.”
“Fairly mountainous north of here,” Thorne said. “Might be they’re going to take a string of pack mules.”
Nellie frowned. “DJ said they were going with wagons. In fact, he said Silas was going to buy them.”
“If they suspected your cousin wasn’t loyal, Silas and Tad might not have told him everything.”
“No. Grandpa Silas isn’t devious like that.”
“Except when dealing with you,” Rasmussen said.
She shrugged. “That’s because, long ago, I proved I couldn’t be trusted when I ran off with Johnny Clayton.”
They stood on the grassy plaza and gazed at the quiet, dusty streets. There was no sign of unusual activity anywhere. Pedestrians were coming and going. Indians lounged in the shade of an arched portico, offering a variety of handmade items to tourists who’d descended from the train. A block away, a large cathedral dominated the view at the end of a street.
“They arrived here a day and a half ago,” Rasmussen said. “Unless they picked up more men…teamsters and the like…there were only five in their party. Wouldn’t have taken them long to get going, especially if they had telegraphed ahead to buy wagons, mules, and provisions. Let’s get to checking.”
A search of the town’s livery stables proved futile. No one had bought or rented any wagons or mule teams in the past two days. By the time they’d canvassed all the places they could think of, it was past 5:00. Even clerks in the mercantile and grocery stores denied seeing any such party.
“You reckon they got delayed somewhere and haven’t arrived, or maybe got off the train somewhere else?” Rasmussen speculated as they came out of the last livery. “Nobody seems to have seen them.”
“Grandpa Silas has friends in this part of the country,” Nellie said. “Rich friends who could have supplied him with wagons and teams. I’ve heard him refer to at least two who own ranches in the area. They’re not town people.”
“That’s probably it,” Thorne said, brightening up. “Silas had no need of livery stables like common folk.”
“But wouldn’t that mean that he’d have to let more people in on this mission?” Rasmussen asked. “Wouldn’t his wealthy friends be curious?”
“No need to speculate about all that,” Thorne said. “Let’s get horses and head north while the trail is warm. Be more comfortable if we rented a buggy. But there’s rough terrain north of here where a buggy couldn’t travel,” he added, glancing at Nellie.
“And wagons could?”
“We don’t know their plans, so we should be prepared for anything,” Thorne said. “There’s a good road northwest to Taos but, as I recollect, that’s more than sixty miles away. Let’s find a hotel and a meal and rest up. Start fresh in the morning. As long as we don’t know exactly where they’re heading, it’s best we have plenty of daylight.
At sunup next morning they rented three saddle horses and started north along a well-traveled sandy road. It proved to be a long, tiring day in the saddle with no sign of their quarry, even though there were good views of the terrain in nearly every direction. They paced themselves, pausing four times to rest and stretch their legs and let the horses graze on the sparse vegetation.
In late afternoon, they reached the ancient pueblo of Taos where they stopped for nearly an hour to rest, lounging by a public well while the horses drank their fill from a stone trough.
Rasmussen propped a foot on a nearby stone parapet, sniffing a breeze that carried the faint scent of desert vegetation. “Notice how sharp and clear everything looks,” he remarked. “No haze or dust in the air.”
“No moisture in the air to filter the sunlight,” Thorne replied. “At this elevation, without the protective blanket of humidity, you’ll also feel the temperature drop sharply at night.”
Rasmussen nodded, gazing at the dun-colored buildings that blended with the surrounding desert.
As they rode out, they could smell tantalizing aromas of roasting meat wafting from across adobe walls and hidden patios, but no one mentioned stopping to eat. There was a sense of urgency to cover as much ground as possible in hope of picking up the trail of the Newburn p
arty. They were operating only on Darrel’s vague statement that the treasure lay north of Santa Fé.
By the time they reached the village of Río Colorado, twenty miles north of Taos, the sun had declined behind the San Juan Mountains. The trio reined up in front of a small grocery.
“We’ve been taking it pretty easy, but these horses are about done in,” Rasmussen said, dismounting stiffly.
“They’re not the only ones,” Nellie remarked.
“We’ll buy something to eat, and make a few inquiries,” Thorne said, leading the way.
“May I be of help to you?” a middle-aged Mexican greeted them from atop a stool where he was lighting a hanging Rochester lamp. He turned up the wick and soft light radiated downward into the room, reflected by a wide, brass shade.
Rasmussen noted the man’s impassive face, scarred by old pockmarks. In the lamplight he saw a tiny cross tattooed on the Mexican’s forehead, just below the receding black hair.
“Ten sticks of jerky and a loaf of bread,” Thorne said, surveying the canned goods and sacks of beans and flour lining the walls. The room had a pleasant blend of aromas—spices, coffee, wood smoke.
Thorne dug into his pocket for money while Rasmussen leaned his elbows on the counter. “Is there a hotel or boarding house nearby?” he asked.
The dark-skinned man ripped a length of brown wrapping paper from a roll and began folding it around the bread and meat. “Sí. Up the street. I think you will find it to your liking.”
The storekeeper took Thorne’s money, made change from a cash drawer, and handed back some coins, all the while keeping his eyes downcast as if to avoid looking directly at them. When he did glance up, his eyes seemed to smolder with some inner fire—a blaze the man took pains to bank.