by JR Roberts
“That’s right.”
“Where in Colorado?”
“A town called Segundo. Do you know it?”
“Yes. It’s a small town South of Trinidad, just this side of the New Mexico border.”
“See?” Goulding said. “Already you’re paying dividends. You know the area.”
“How much money am I going to be carrying?”
“I need you to agree before I tell you.”
“Then I need you to tell me who’s been kidnapped before I agree. I assume you’re expecting me to bring the victim back alive?”
“Well, not exactly.”
”What do you mean?”
“The victim … well, the victim’s name is Lincoln.”
“Lincoln?” Clint asked. “As in Abraham Lincoln?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, which one?” Clint asked. “His wife, one of his kids—”
“No,” Goulding said, “I said Abraham Lincoln.”
Clint stared at him.
“Are you telling me that Abraham Lincoln has been kidnapped?”
“What I’m telling you is,” Goulding said, “Abraham Lincoln’s corpse has been stolen.”
Chapter Four
“Okay, let me get this straight,” Clint said. He stopped walking and turned to face Goulding, who also stopped. “Somebody has snatched Abraham Lincoln’s body from his Tomb in Springfield, Missouri, and is offering to ransom it back to the United States Government?”
“You’ve got it.”
“For how much?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
“And you want me to pay them?”
“We do.”
“And retrieve the body.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
They stood there for a few second while Clint digested the information.
“When was the body taken?”
“We’re not sure,” Goulding said. “Apparently it was removed without us knowing about it. When we were contacted we naturally dispatched someone to determine if it was true.”
“And it was.”
“Yes.”
“So how long have you known?”
“About three weeks. It took us a week to get you here.”
“So you don’t even know exactly when it was removed?”
“No.”
“And when is the ransom scheduled to be paid?”
“We know the place, but not the time. We’ll have to stay in touch by telegram.”
Clint jerked his chin toward the river.
“Do they know about this? The General and Pike?”
“They know about a kidnapping and a ransom,” Goulding said. “The fact that it is Abraham Lincoln’s body is on a need to know basis.”
“And they don’t need to know?”
“Not at the moment.”
“And who knows besides you and me?” Clint asked.
“People at the cemetery in Springfield,” Goulding said, “but that’s being handled.”
“And nobody else in D.C.?”
“The President.”
“And does he know you’re calling me in?”
“Yes,” Goulding said, “in fact, he approved you, personally.”
“Why don’t you hire a detective, Mr. Goulding?” Clint asked. “I can recommend a very good one.”
“If you want to bring somebody in to work with you on this,” Goulding said, “and you vouch for them, then go ahead. But we want you.”
They started walking again.
“Did somebody really get Lincoln’s body out of his Tomb?” he asked.
“Out of his Tomb, out of the cemetery, apparently out of Springfield.”
“And my directive is …”
“… pay the ransom, get the body back.”
“Which one takes precedence?”
“Getting the body back.”
“If I agree to do this,” Clint said, “I’ll want to do it my way.”
“Of course,” Goulding said. “If you take the assignment, you’ll be given your head to do as you see fit.”
“So you won’t have a problem if I want to stop in Springfield on my way back West?”
“Why?”
“It’s how I want to start.”
Goulding shrugged. “All right, fine. I’ll leave word you’re to have the run of the place.”
“Good.”
“So you’ll take the assignment?”
“Expenses?”
“You’ll be given an appropriate war chest,” Goulding said, “and a bonus when you get the job done.”
“I’m not worried about a bonus for doing my country a service, Mr. Goulding.”
“Nevertheless,” Goulding said, “the bonus will be there.”
They were walking up a row, heading back to where Pike and the General were standing, staring out at the river and talking.
“You’re not going to want Pike on this, are you?” Goulding asked.
“No,” Clint said. “I already have someone in mind. Besides, you have him working on this end, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said. “Is there anything else you have to tell me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about the Lincoln family?”
“What about them?”
“What do they know?”
“Nothing,” Goulding said. “We want to get the body back without them ever having been aware it was gone.”
“You want it back before anyone in the country knows it’s gone.”
“That’s correct.”
“I assume you have me checked into a hotel?”
“You have a suite at the Sumner House. The bar and the restaurant will be covered.”
“One night?”
“I assumed you’d want to get started right away.”
“I do.”
“Your driver will take you there. Did you bring your horse?”
“I did. He’s in a livery near the station. I’ll be taking him back with me.”
“Just let us know what the bill is.”
“I can handle that myself,” Clint said.
They reached Pike and the General, who both turned and stared at them expectantly.
“Mr. Adams is on board.”
“Excellent!” the General said.
“I’ll get started tomorrow,” Clint said.
“Mr. Pike, will you take Mr. Adams back to his carriage?” Goulding asked.
“Of course.”
“Mr. Adams,” Goulding said, extending his hand, “I’m looking forward to hearing from you.”
“I’ll need a little more information.”
“There will be a file in your hotel room,” Goulding assured him, “with all the information you need.”
“Thank you.”
“This way,” Pike said.
As they headed down the rows of flowers, leaving Goulding and the General behind Pike said, “I don’t suppose you can let me know what’s going on?”
“It’s on a need to know basis, Jeremy.”
Pike nodded. “I know all about that.”
He walked him back down the stone staircase to where the carriage was waiting. The two men shook hands.
“I’ll handle my end,” Pike said, “even though I’m in the dark.”
“I know I can count on you,” Clint said.
He climbed into the carriage and waved at Pike as the driver pulled away.
Chapter Five
Denver, Co
“Wait a minute,” Roper said, looking around. They had finished their breakfast, and so had everyone else. The other tables were mostly empty, while they had another pot of coffee between them. “Let me get this straight.”
“I know,” Clint said, “that’s what I kept thinking.”
“Somebody got into the cemetery in Springfield, into the Lincoln Tomb, and got away with the body of President Lincoln?”
“That’s the story.”
&nbs
p; “And you believe it?”
“Why else would they send me out here with a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Where’s the money?”
“I can get to it when I need it,” Clint said.
“Okay, I get it,” Roper said. “Need to know.” Roper poured them each another cup of coffee. “So I guess you went to Springfield?”
“I went.”
“So there’s more to the story.”
“Lots more.”
Roper looked around.
“Well, this place will stay empty til lunch time,” Roper said. “It’s as good a place as any to hear the rest.”
Springfield, Mo
Clint had been to Springfield before, but not for some time. Certainly not since President Lincoln had been buried.
He took Eclipse off the stock car and walked the horse into town. Last time there he’d stayed at a place called The Walnut Inn. When he got to Walnut Street he saw that the hotel was still there, and there was a livery stable across the street.
“You stayin’ at the Inn?” the hostler asked.
“I will be when I check in,” Clint said. “Why?”
“You get a cheaper rate if you stay there.”
“Well, I’m going over there to check in right now.”
“Just tell the gal at the desk Rufus sent ya over. Sure is a right fine lookin’ animal,” the old man said. “Best I ever seen, and I been doin’ this job for a long time.”
“Just take good care of him,” Clint said.
“You can count on it.”
Clint took his rifle and saddlebags and crossed the street to the Inn. Behind the counter a pretty girl watched as he approached.
“Help ya?” she asked.
“I’d like a room.”
“For how long?”
“A day or two.”
“Did you put your horse in the livery across the street?” she asked.
“I sure did,” Clint said. “Rufus told me to mention him.”
“Okay, then,” she said, turning the register toward him. “Sign in, please.”
He signed his real name.
“Clint Adams?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“Right again.”
“Well,” she said, “what brings you to Springfield?”
“I heard they had real pretty girls here,” he answered. “I can see they were right.”
“Oh …” she said, blushing.
“Also, I thought I’d take a look at Lincoln’s Tomb.”
“We’re right proud to have the President buried here, where he practiced law.”
“I’m sure you are,” Clint said. “My key?’
“Oh, sure. Sorry.” She handed him a key, “Second floor.”
“Thanks.”
As he started for the stairs she said, “My name’s Angie, if you need anything.”
He smiled and asked, “What’s your name if I don’t need anything?”
“Aww …” she said.
Up in his room he found a sturdy bed big enough for one person, a chest of drawers with a pitcher-and-bowl on it, and one chair. It looked just the way the room looked last time he was there except it was cleaner. That time there had been an old man behind the desk, sleeping. Apparently, the place was owned by new folks who kept it clean.
He washed his hands and face in the pitcher, then put his hat back on and went out to find a meal. It was late afternoon, so he wouldn’t be going to the cemetery until morning.
Down in the lobby the girl stood up straight when he came down. She looked as if she had just combed her hair. Her simply cotton dressed clung to her solid young body.
“Where can I get a good steak, Angie?” he asked.
“Just down the street, Mr. Adams. Place called Frieda’s. Tell ’em I sent you, they’ll give ya a break on the price.”
“Sounds like you folks in Springfield work together to make your guests feel real welcome.”
“We try.”
“I’ll see you later.”
Chapter Six
He found Frieda’s with no problem, a small café that was doing a fine business this time of the afternoon. He only hoped there was a table for him.
He went inside and could tell by the smells that Frieda knew her business.
A man with a white shirt and black tie approached him and said, “Table, sir?”
“If you’ve got one.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the man said, “but it’s in the back. Is that all right?”
“That’s my favorite place,” Clint said.
“This way.”
The other diners watched as he followed the waiter across the room.
“I’m staying at the Walnut Inn,” Clint told the man. “Angie told me to mention that.”
“Angie’s a nice girl,” the man said. “What can I get you, sir?”
“A nice thick fat steak with all the trimmings.”
“That’s our specialty, sir. And to drink?”
“Coffee,” Clint said. “Nice and strong.”
“Comin’ up.”
The coffee was just the way he liked it, as was the steak. He ate with great pleasure, watching the people around him, as he always did, looking for someone showing undue or unwanted interest in him. But the people in Frieda’s seem to only be interested in the people they were dining with.
When he was finished the waiter brought his bill, which he would have gladly paid in full if they weren’t giving him a break for staying at the Inn.
“Come back, sir,” the waiter said. “If you’re still in town, that is.”
“I’ll be here a day or two,” Clint said. “Tell Frieda it was a great steak.”
“Frieda was my wife,” the man said. “She died several years ago. I keep the café going in her name.”
“I’m sorry. The food is very good.”
“I make everything to her recipes,” he said. “My name is Arthur Blair.”
“Clint,” Clint said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll be back for breakfast.”
He walked back to the hotel, but instead of going inside he used a chair out front to sit a while.
After about twenty minutes of watching the occasional person or buggy or wagon go by Angie came out the door and leaned against the building.
“What are you looking at?” she asked. She was still wearing the simple cotton dress, but smelled as if she had applied a fresh scent to her hair or skin.
“Just watching,” he said.
“Is that what you came here to do?” she asked. “Watch?”
“No,” he said, “tomorrow I’m going to Lincoln’s Tomb, but tonight I thought I’d just relax and watch the town go by.”
“Well,” she said, “ain’t much of it goes by here.”
“I noticed,” he said. “Just as occasional wagon.”
“Most of the traffic is over on Sangamon Street.”
“Where’s the cemetery from here?”
“Not far,” she said. “It’s over on Monument Avenue. It’s called the Oak Ridge Cemetery.”
“Can I walk from here, or should I take my horse?” he asked.
“You can walk,” she said. “In fact, if you like, I can walk you over there.”
“I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work,” he said. “Maybe get you fired.”
“I doubt my dad would fire me,” she said.
“Your family owns the hotel?”
“Yes,” she said. “In fact, I was only behind the desk because the regular girl went home sick. She should be back tomorrow and I’ll be able to walk you there.
“Well, all right,” he said.
“What time would you like to go?” she asked.
“Well, I told Arthur I’d come by for breakfast,” he said. “Can I take you to breakfast first?”
“Why, yes, sir, you may,” she said. “What time?”
“I’ll stop by the front desk and pick you up at eight a.m..”
“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’ll see me when I come back inside to go to my room,” he pointed out.
“No, I’m finished for the day. I’m going home. My father will be behind the desk.”
“Oh,” he said, “okay, until tomorrow, then.”
“Good-night.”
She went inside, presumably to say good-night to her father, and then apparently left by another door.
He remained outside until it was full dark and traffic had stopped completely. When there was nothing left to see he stood and went back to the lobby.
The man behind the desk looked up from what he was writing and watched Clint approach. He was a short man in his fifties, with a ring of fuzz around a bald head.
“Mr. Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“Angie told me you were out there,” he said. “My name’s Ben. I own the hotel.”
“Nice to meet you.” Clint stepped up and shook the man’s hand.
“I understand you’re in town to see Lincoln’s Tomb,” Ben said.
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“Well,” Ben said, “enjoy your stay.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Clint went up the stairs, wondering if Angie had told her father she was going to be Clint’s guide in the morning. He did not get a very friendly feeling from the man.
Chapter Seven
Clint woke the next morning early, feeling rested. He used the pitcher and basin to wash, put on a clean shirt and went down to the lobby where Angie was waiting. She was wearing another cotton dress, but this one much brighter and prettier, with a bit of a scooped neck that showed some pale, smooth skin. She’d seemed very young when he first checked in, but now he judged her to be about twenty-five.
“Good-morning,” she said.
“’morning,” he replied. “You look lovely this morning.”
“Thank you.” She blushed.
Behind the desk was a woman in her thirties, rather plain and shapeless.
“This is Kathy,” Angie said. “She wasn’t feeling too well yesterday, but she’s better today.”
“I’m pregnant,” Kathy said.
“Congratulations,” Clint said.
“Come on,” Angie said, slipping her arm into his, “I’m hungry.”
