Angel Train

by Gilbert, Morris

  “This may not be of God,” Paul said slowly, “but it’s come to me so strongly that at least I can mention it. It has to do with your making the trip safely from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I warn you that it may be simply wishing on my part— something I would like to see happen because I want your family and the people of the Way to prosper.”

  “Tell me what it is, Uncle, please.”

  “Well, I’ve told you that Casey Tremayne was a Western man. He knows that country. I’ve spoken with him without telling him anything about you or your problem there at the Pilgrim Way. He has been over the Oregon Trail several times and knows it well. He’s a Westerner. Knows animals, and I think it’s possible that he might lead you there safely.”

  “But he’s a prisoner.”

  “He’s eligible for parole, and he’ll be coming up any day now, but he won’t get it—that is, unless there are special circumstances.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle Paul. I don’t understand you.”

  “I’ve thought this out. I believe that I could get the parole board to issue a tentative or conditional parole to Tremayne and any of his fellow prisoners who have his same limitations. We have some hard men in here, men who likely will come up for parole many times and be turned down because of their behavior, but I’m in good standing with the members of the board. They usually take my advice, and I think although this is unusual, they might listen.”

  “Tell me what you plan. It sounds wonderful.”

  “Well, it’s not,” Paul said flatly. “It’s a possibility. But I have thought about this. If I could get the parole board to issue a conditional parole, conditional for the men who are chosen, their parole will be approved after they have escorted your people all the way to the Oregon Territory.” He leaned back and shook his head. “It sounds absolutely impossible, doesn’t it, Niece?”

  “It sounds like the only hope we have, but would Tremayne agree to do it?”

  “I think he might. He’s a bitter man. He’s had a terrible thing happen in his life, but this may be his only chance to get out for years. If you like, we’ll put it to him and let him make the decision. Maybe it’s a fleece, Charity. If he says no, then it’s not something that the Pilgrim Way needs to follow. If he says yes—”

  “If he says yes, then the next miracle will come in convincing the members of the Way to accept him. But I believe it’s the Lord. The dream about you was so real, and now this has come. Can we talk to him at once?”

  “If you’re sure this is what you want to do, you come along with me, and we’ll put the matter to him.”

  * * *

  JAMES ELSWORTH CHARTERHOUSE LOOKED up from the book he was reading, peering over his glasses at Tremayne. He was a slight man, no more than five feet nine inches, and thin as a rail. The planes of his face were sharp and aristocratic—high cheekbones, a thin nose, and a broad forehead. His hair was blond and his eyes a mild blue. He spoke with a pronounced English accent.

  “I say, Casey, I wish you’d stop pacing the floor like a caged tiger.” He waited for a response, and getting none, he added, “Have one of those lovely cookies I begged from Miss Morgan.”

  “I don’t need any cookies. I need out of this hole! I’m going to die here.”

  Charterhouse shrugged his thin shoulders with an eloquent gesture. “A very wise man once said, ‘Quem di diligunt adulescens moritur, dum valet sentit sapit.’”

  Tremayne gave Charterhouse a disgusted look. “And what does that mean?” He pretended to be disgusted at his cell-mate’s use of Latin but was actually impressed. Elsworth, as he was called, was a graduate of Oxford and picked up foreign languages with effortless ease. He spoke and read German, French, Spanish, Greek, and Latin and apparently never forgot anything.

  “Would you believe me if I told you it meant, ‘The snake fell out of the tree and ate the baby’?”

  “That makes about as much sense as most of the things you spout off.”

  “Dear boy, don’t be offensive! Actually, it’s a line from Plautus, and it means, ‘He whom the gods love dies young, while he has strength and senses and wits.’”

  “Well, that’s a cheerful thought!”

  “Well, it’s not too pleasant to grow old and sick.” Charterhouse put down his book, took his glasses off, and polished them. “You’re not going to die in here. Stop fighting the system and lick a few boots. You’ll get a parole that way.”

  Casey turned to face Charterhouse squarely. “I won’t ever do that, Elsworth.”

  “No, you’re too proud. And you don’t understand the dangers of pride. It’s all in the Bible, old fellow—in the book of James, the fourth chapter. ‘God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. . . . Cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and purify your hearts, ye double minded. . . . Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up.’ That’s what you need, old chap—a dose of humility.”

  “It hasn’t worked for you, has it?”

  “Not yet, but I’m a proud fellow—just like you.”

  Casey Tremayne grinned. “You don’t belong in this place, Elsworth.” He had developed a real affection for the Englishman, in part because Charterhouse had been responsible for making life in a cell tolerable. Before he had been assigned as Casey’s cell mate, Tremayne had sunk into a morass of bitterness, had fought other inmates, and had given the guards a bad time. He had despised Charterhouse at first, but the Englishman introduced him to the world of books, and to Tremayne’s surprise, he had developed a sharp interest in the world of literature and history. Elsworth was filled with talk, and Casey found a friend in him.

  “Don’t despair, Casey. This place is pretty bad, but we’ll get out of here one day.”

  “I don’t think so. It would take a miracle, and I don’t believe in miracles.”

  “My Uncle Seedy always said, ‘There’s no miracle for a man who doesn’t believe in them.’”

  Casey laughed. “That uncle of yours is full of wise sayings. I think you made him up so you can spout your philosophy without taking the blame for the nonsense.”

  “No indeed!” Elsworth protested. “Uncle Seedy is as real as you are. Practically raised me, as a matter of fact. And if you—”

  Charterhouse was interrupted when a voice cut in. “Tremayne, the warden wants to see you. Get a move on.” The guard was a burly giant of a man named Willy Hankins. He was a rough sort and did the prisoners no favors. Charterhouse had said of him once, “If your beard was on fire, Hankins would light his cigarette on it.”

  Tremayne said nothing but followed the guard down the corridor, wondering what he’d done wrong this time.

  * * *

  CHARITY SAT BOLT UPRIGHT in a chair in her uncle’s office. Bryce had ordered the guard to bring Tremayne in, and the two sat silently, both entertaining doubts and hopes. Finally, the door opened, and a guard said, “We have Tremayne here, Warden.”

  “Let him come in, Hankins.”

  As Tremayne came through the door, Charity suddenly had second thoughts about what was proposed. The man looked dangerous. He was far taller than average, and she had noticed that when he was there with the other inmates, he stood at least half a head taller than most of them. She had seen a lion once in a traveling circus, and there was something of a leonine quality in Casey Tremayne. He was not thick muscled but lithe, and his smooth movements weren’t often seen in big men. His face was a mask, but his eyes were alert. They were the lightest blue possible, and though they were half hooded now as he studied the pair, she saw a hardness in him, and for a moment her heart failed her. But she was trusting God to give leadership in this matter.

  “Tremayne, I have a rather unusual proposition for you,” the warden said, then hesitated. “You may as well sit down. This may take awhile.”

  “Yes, Warden.” Tremayne turned, and once again Charity noticed how smoothly and easily he moved. Most men lacked his quickness. He pulled the chair across the desk from the warden, sat down, and fixed his gaze o
n Paul Bryce’s face. Most men would have been asking questions instantly, but Tremayne said nothing.

  “You’ve met my niece, Miss Charity Morgan. She’s the daughter of my sister who passed away. Her family belongs to a religious group called the Pilgrim Way.”

  Charity couldn’t read Tremayne’s face. She only half listened as her uncle traced the circumstances of the Way and ended by saying, “So you see, Tremayne, they’re going to have to leave here, and they don’t have a great deal of money. I’ve mentioned a possibility to her, and I’d like to lay it before you. You’re up for parole, but we both know your behavior will prohibit your getting it. You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.” The reply was brief and noncommittal, and Tremayne’s eyes moved from the warden’s face to meet Charity’s. She seemed held by his intense gaze, and then her uncle continued.

  “I believe I see a possibility here of getting you out of this place. It may be a pipe dream, but I want to explain it to you.” Bryce leaned forward and said, “I believe I can convince the parole board to grant you a conditional parole.”

  “Never heard of a thing like that.”

  “It’s never been done, but I believe I can get the board to take a chance on you and on any of your fellow inmates who would be helpful. It would amount to your taking over as scout for the wagon train and getting them safely to Oregon. If you can do that, the parole will be affirmed for you and for any of the men who make the trip and who qualify in your judgment. What is your thinking about this?”

  Casey Tremayne spoke instantly. His voice was soft, and he had a slight accent that Charity couldn’t identify. “I’ll do anything to get out of this place, Warden. I expect you know that.”

  “I can’t blame you for that. You have any questions about the proposition?”

  “A lot of questions,” Tremayne said instantly. “In the first place, what authority would I have with the wagon train?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because there are going to be difficulties along the way. This religious group is probably used to obeying a bishop or some such figure, a preacher perhaps. That would not work on the Oregon Trail. If an Indian attack comes, there wouldn’t be time to stop and have a prayer meeting.” He turned, and his lips turned up in a grin. “There are times, Miss Morgan, when action is needed instead of prayer.”

  Charity spoke up quickly, “I don’t think there would be any problem. If I can convince my father and the elders to accept you, that would be one of the conditions they would have to agree to.”

  Tremayne studied her and then shook his head. “I doubt if you can convince them.”

  “I can if this thing is of God,” Charity said in a sprightly voice. “I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”

  Tremayne studied her carefully; his eyes seemed to bore into her very mind and heart. She met his gaze, and finally he shrugged and said, “I think I’d like to do it, Warden.”

  “All right. We’ll get everything set up here. Here’s a list of men due for parole but will never make it. They’re all troublemakers. I think you know them. You can choose four or five to go with you, and you’ll be their boss.”

  Tremayne took the list of paper, and a quick smile swept across his face. “These are the worst hoodlums in this prison.” He glanced at Charity. “There are some murderers on this list. Some bank robbers. None of them are likely to join in your prayer meetings.”

  “That won’t be your problem, Mr. Tremayne. Your problem will be to get us through safely to Oregon.”

  “Could I have a pencil, Warden?” He took the pencil from Bryce, made some checks, and said, “I’ll take these four, and Billy Watson.”

  Bryce stared at him. “Watson’s not exactly a tough sort of fellow.”

  “No, but he needs to be out of here. Never should have been sent here in the first place.”

  “There’ll be no trouble about him. You agree then?”

  “Sure I agree, but I think Miss Morgan’s going to need a little miracle to get her people to agree with this.” His head turned toward Charity again. “You realize you’re asking a group of Bible-believing righteous folk to put their lives in the hands of a group of jailbirds.”

  For an instant Charity’s heart nearly failed her, but she said, “I believe the Lord is in this. I’ve been praying and fasting, and it’s all come together. I’m going back home now. You talk to the men you want to take with you, and I’ll talk to my people.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any luck,” Tremayne said and shrugged his shoulders.

  Charity hated to see his air of futility. He looked capable, but he was not the kind of a man she could really admire. No doubt he could shoot and fight and do the things Western men were reputed to be good at, but he did not have God, and to Charity Morgan that was a fatal flaw. She rose and said, “I’m going home, Uncle Paul. As soon as I convince our people, I’ll be back.”

  As soon as she left the room, Tremayne said, “Warden, is she always like that?”

  “She has been ever since I’ve known her, and I’ve known her since the day she was born. She’s a stubborn young woman, and I might warn you of this: If you have any idea of getting out and abandoning them, forget it. I’ll put your name and the names of any who abandon the trip in every town in the West. You’ll be brought back here and given a life sentence for escaping.”

  Tremayne seemed unimpressed. “It won’t be any trouble for me. I may have to knock a few heads to enlighten some of the men I’ll be taking. The only thing most of them understand is a bullet or a whipping.”

  “I want to tell you this, Tremayne. This girl is very dear to me. My sister and I were very close. I loved her dearly, and I still do though she’s gone to be with the Lord. But my heart is with these people. They’re going to be hard for you to get along with. I couldn’t get along with them.”

  “You couldn’t get along with them?” Tremayne was surprised for the first time. “I don’t understand that.”

  “They’re very . . . straight laced. There’s even sort of a pride in their humility. They think that society is far too worldly, even religious groups. So they can grate on your nerves. You’ll judge them to be self-righteous, and I guess there’s some truth to that in some cases. But my brother-in-law, Gwilym Morgan—there’s not a finer man on the earth. You’ll see that in him, I’m sure. He may not be much of a fighting man, but he’s a good man, and his children are fine too. I’ll take this as a personal favor if you can help us.”

  The appeal seemed to touch Tremayne. He ducked his head for a moment and was silent. Then he said, “I’ll get the train through, Warden, or die trying.”

  “Good man. Now, would you like to meet your new employees?” He smiled as he held the list and said, “I can send for them, and you can meet them in a room here.”

  “Trot ’em out, Warden. They need to understand a few things.”

  * * *

  TREMAYNE STUDIED THE SIX men who stood before him, and a sense of despair brushed against his mind. These are the men I’m supposed to use? Well, it may work. Maybe the girl is right, and God is in all this.

  The room was stark with no furniture except one table and two chairs. The five men Warden Bryce had summoned looked uncomfortable and somewhat apprehensive. They had entered the room to find Casey Tremayne standing there, and he had ignored all their questions. Finally, the door closed, and Jack Canreen said, “What’s this all about, Tremayne?” He was a huge man, six feet two, and weighed two hundred twenty-two pounds. The huge biceps strained the fabric of his prison uniform, and his strength was bull-like. His face was scarred with marks of battles past, and he looked dangerous.

  Tremayne studied Canreen, who had only lost one fight, and that had been to Tremayne himself.

  “I’ve got a proposition. The warden has made an offer to me, and I wanted to let you men in on it because you may be concerned.”

  “What kind of offer would he make to us?” Canreen sneered, doubt and anger in his
voice. “What does he want? He ain’t giving something for nothing.”

  “I think maybe he is this time, Jack. Let me tell you what’s happened.”

  Quickly he outlined the details of his visit with the warden and Charity Morgan. He scrutinized the faces of the men. The three men who stood closest to Canreen were all known for their viciousness. Frenchy Doucett was a small man no more than five feet ten and weighed less than a hundred forty pounds. He was lightning quick with a knife. He wore scars on his neck as the remnant of an old knife fight, and his black hair and brown eyes gave evidence of his Cajun blood. He’s knifed two men in prison, and he claims to be a good shot, Tremayne thought.

  His eyes moved to Ringo Jukes. Jukes was an unusual-looking prisoner. He was six feet tall, well proportioned with a head of auburn hair. He had dark blue eyes and was a handsome man. His good looks concealed a vicious streak. He could be cruel and had been on more than one occasion. Like the others, he had tested Tremayne and found himself battered so badly that he couldn’t work for a week.

  Standing next to Jukes was Al Delaney. He was thirty-eight years old, of average size, and one eye was covered with a black patch. Of the four, Delaney was probably the most decent. He was rough and could take care of himself, but the quality that Tremayne treasured most was the fact that he had handled mules. That had been his profession, and he would be invaluable on a drive to Oregon.

  Tremayne studied these four, and then his eyes touched on Billy Watson, who did not seem to belong with the others. Billy was only seventeen, a slight young man with light brown hair and mild brown eyes. He had been abused by Canreen and others, and it was for this reason rather than for his fighting ability that Tremayne had chosen him. Tremayne realized his softhearted quality, which occasionally showed itself, compelled him to give the young man a second chance. Despite his cynicism, Casey Tremayne knew that Billy was basically good.

  He smiled at Elsworth Charterhouse, who smiled back.

  He outlined the situation and stated his side of it. “I think most of you fellows are like me. You’d do anything to get out of here.”