***
Connie banged on the front door of Weikert-Secord’s Mercantile, her eyebrows etched into a frown. It wasn’t like Claire to not be open first thing Monday morning. Connie had been baking a batch of muffins for her restaurant and needed more flour.
“Claire!” She continued to pound on the door for another few minutes. When that failed to work, she raced around the side of the building stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of the open back door. Her first thought was that Claire could be injured—or worse, dead—on the floor somewhere inside the building. She quickly checked each room of the house, pausing to look behind shelves and under the bed. It soon became clear that Claire was nowhere inside, and Connie, thankful that there was still hope, slammed the door behind her and took off at a dead run for the sheriff’s office.
“Percy, Tom!” she hollered as she flinging open the door to the jail. “Come quick, something’s wrong, something’s terribly wrong!”
Percy looked up from his paperwork. “Connie, honey, what is it? Catch your breath and tell me.”
Connie held onto the desk and gasped, “Claire’s back door was wide open but the shop is closed. I’m afraid, Percy, I’m afraid.”
“Did you go inside? She coulda just stepped down the street for a bit.”
“Yes! I went inside and I checked everywhere. The store has been trashed and she’s gone! Where’s Tom?”
“Honey, Tom had to escort a prisoner to Lincoln. He’ll be back tomorrow but meanwhile I’ll go have a look. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Connie nodded but she was not convinced. “I’m going back with you.”
Percy shook his head and strapped on his gun belt. “No, now go back to the café.” Connie ignored his request and followed him into the street.
“Connie, go back to the café, I’m not telling you again.”
“No, you’re not. I know Claire better than just about anybody in this town so I’m not just gonna leave. I’ll stay out of your way.” Percy grunted and kept moving down the street in quick strides; Connie had to half run to keep up with him. When he got to Claire’s back door he cocked his pistol and motioned Connie to keep behind him. Quietly they stepped into the kitchen and moved into the parlor. When he was sure it was clear, he strode into the bedroom and froze at the sight of the trashed room. Dresser drawers were tossed haphazardly on the floor and clothing had been scattered about. The bed linens had been yanked off the bed and tossed into a heap.
“Oh Percy, this doesn’t look good at all, didn’t I tell you?” Connie breathed.
“Shhh, Connie, let me do my job.”
The deputy turned on his heels, raced through the rooms and into the store. He took in the sight of spilled flour, sugar, empty cartridge boxes and the open cash register.
“Connie, we got us a robbery. Probably they took Claire with ‘em seein’ as there’s no sign of her here. Don’t touch anything. We’ve got to get notice to the sheriff and I’ve got to start trying to track her down. When was the last time you saw her?”
“At church yesterday morning. She was going to catch up on some gardening in the afternoon.”
“Okay then. We’ll lock this place up and I’ll get to work.”
Connie swallowed back a tear, grasped Percy’s hand and squeezed it hard.
“Go get ‘em honey and bring back our Claire.”
“You know I will, Connie, you can bet the farm on it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Baltimore, Maryland, August 1869
Cal took a final look around his room as he fastened the clasp on his cloth satchel.
Looks like I’ve got everything, he thought. The bells of a nearby church pealed their 12:00 song as he grabbed up the satchel and his leather work pouch. Mustn’t miss that train. He limped down the stairs and handed his elderly landlady a large money order. “I’ll wire you as to when I’ll be returning.” She smiled smugly and tucked the year’s worth of rent into her apron pocket.
“Now don’t you worry, Mr. Moore, your room will be here when you get back. I’ll see that no one disturbs your belongings.”
Cal gave a final look back as he clambered into the hack he’d hired for the drive to the train station. Impatiently he barked at the driver, “Let’s go, Ned. I’ve a train to catch—I’m heading west.”
The driver clucked at the horses and they clip-clopped down the brick street toward the depot. Cal leaned back and stretched his sore leg. He glanced around at the neighborhood that had been his home for the past four years and thought back to old Cassie Bear and her hideout cabin.
After that April day when he’d nearly been discovered, Cal left Cassie, making sure she was well stocked with meat and firewood. He owed her an enormous debt for saving his life and giving him a place to stay. After he had made his way to a new town and started a new life, he vowed he would keep providing for Cassie as she aged. She was about the only person who’d ever been decent to him.
Cal had kept that vow and continued to send her regular letters and gifts. Every so often when she went into Gettysburg there would be a parcel waiting there just for her. He sent warm woolen blankets, large parcels of tea and coffee, books and copies of the newspaper where he worked. Once, to Cassie’s immense delight, he sent a shocking pink petticoat. The impracticality of the present delighted her, and instead of wearing it, she hung the undergarment on the wall so she could admire it. It was “too good” to wear around the isolated cabin, but she loved to stare at its beauty and run the silky fabric through her gnarled fingers.
Baltimore had become Cal’s home. Soon after he arrived, Cal had taken a job at the Baltimore Sun newspaper as a columnist. His clear, concise style was a welcome change and he soon had a following of readers. Of course, he was writing as Calvin Moore and not Caleb Davidson. As far as anyone knew, Caleb Davidson had perished during the War Between the States, along with thousands of other young men.
He unconsciously reached for the half-heart pendant at his throat and rubbed it. He thought of Claire constantly and wondered if she missed him as much as he longed for her. He always pictured her waiting for him by the front gate of her parent’s home. Once, the thought that she could already be married to someone else had occurred to him. He became so upset that he came down with an intense headache that kept him in bed for two days. A couple of times he even thought he had seen her in the crowded streets and had ducked into a doorway until the woman had passed from his sight. He knew he was a coward, and now that the war was over he couldn’t be arrested for desertion, but he still stayed away from Gettysburg, his parents, and Claire. Too much time had passed. Still, he didn’t think Claire should rightfully be with any man but him. She had promised herself to him forever, no matter what happened and he intended her to keep that promise.
He had made a few feeble attempts to court women in Baltimore, but none of them seemed to suit him. He did admit he wasn’t always the best of company. He walked with a limp, was prone to melancholy, and really was happiest alone with memories of his perfect woman.
When his editor offered him an opportunity to go west and do a series of articles about railroads and their impact on the post-war economy, Cal jumped at the chance. After all, he had no ties in Baltimore and seeing the frontier was exciting and new.
His assignment was straightforward, but complex. He’d travel from the east coast to the west coast by rail, stopping in various towns and cities. He’d interview railroad barons like Cornelius Vanderbilt of the New York Central line and the common man who was laying track on the Kansas Pacific line. He’d stop in Omaha and meet with two men who were trying to design a refrigerated railcar to carry their fresh beef back to the east coast. The Sun had received a letter, outlining the cold car plans, from a fellow on a small ranch just outside of Omaha. Since the Union Pacific went right through the city, he’d be able to have a personal interview with the would-be inventors. The potential for their idea was stupendous and Cal knew his readers would be fascinated as well.
&nbs
p; During the war, the United States had laid about 30,000 miles of track, most of it in the northern states. That track allowed troops and supplies to be sent to the battles. This tremendous advantage helped the north finally secure victory over the confederacy. Now in peacetime, thousands of miles were being added to rail lines linking farming areas with cities. Different railroads began to consolidate to increase efficiency and profits. Industries manufacturing ties and iron ore for rails thrived and jobs were created for people who laid track or built cars and equipment. Meanwhile, the first transcontinental railroad was being completed and Cal would be there to see and report on its impact as it united the Atlantic and Pacific oceans by rail. He would yet again be a part of history. But this time he wouldn’t be in hiding, ashamed and embarrassed. This time he’d be reporting and informing, even if he was using an assumed name.
“Mr. Moore, here you are, and right on time.” Ned the hack driver said as he lifted out Cal’s luggage, rousing Cal from his thoughts. Appropriately enough, his journey was to begin with the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. The engine of his train was a 4-6-0 built by Samuel Hayes in 1853. It looked strange with its cap perched on top of the boiler but it was mechanically sound. Now it was hissing and steaming, pawing at the rails, anxious to be leaving. Cal understood. He was ready to go, too.
He climbed on board, found an empty seat, and stowed his bags underneath. He pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket and began to jot down his observations. The train lunched from the station and slowly picked up speed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Maxwell Ranch, August 1869
Linus stood and stretched. He’d been hunkered over the worktable in Tom’s barn for hours. He reached for his mug of coffee and took a swig, but it was cold. He stepped outside of the barn and tossed the dregs onto a rose bush. He glanced at the moon and estimated that it was late; nearly 10:00 P.M. Tom was gone for a couple of days, headed toward Lincoln. Linus didn’t mind his absence; he rather enjoyed the quiet and seclusion. Especially now that he was in the middle of a big project. Caring for the small ranch was perfect for Linus; he got to be outdoors but still had a roof over his head come winter. He planted vegetables, nurtured apple and pear trees, and watched over Tom’s beloved Morgans. Under his care the herd was beginning to prosper, and he even had a few cattle of his own that bore his brand—the Lucky M. Lucky because he’d made it through the war. Lucky because he had Tom and the ranch to care for. Lucky because he was alive and people left him alone. Someday he’d find a gal and marry, maybe, but there was no hurry and meanwhile he had everything he wanted, including time to invent things and time to forget things. Invention was his true passion. Figure out a need and then come up with a way to meet that need. The little ranch had several of his improvements working. The ice house straddling Saddle Creek kept eggs, milk, and butter cold and fresh. That same creek piped water down to the garden by means of a viaduct system he’d rigged up. Well, so maybe the Romans had invented that one, but he’d modified it to use here in Nebraska by using chicken wire to filter out fish and debris. Anyway, he didn’t have to lug water by the bucketfuls in times of drought and the gardens were flourishing.
Now he was working on his biggest idea to date, sending slaughtered beef to market east and keeping it fresh during transport. Nowadays beef was sent on the hoof and was killed in packinghouses in Chicago or New York. If a stockyard was set up in Omaha, then western cattlemen could ship livestock to Omaha via the Union Pacific and the fresh meat could go directly to buyers on the east coast.
He’d talked it over at length with Tom and had shown him drawings and rough models of his “cold cars.” Tom had been so impressed that he encouraged Linus to write back east and gauge what kind of interest there might be for his invention. A big news reporter had been intrigued and was coming to interview Linus about it. Until he arrived, he would just keep working on his ideas.
Linus strolled down to the corral to check one last time on the Morgans, Danny and Dougie and his own spotted roan, all peacefully munching tall grass. He double checked the latch on the gate and, satisfied, turned to walk back to his room in the barn. He glanced at the dark ranch house. Tom wasn’t due back for a couple of days. Tomorrow he’d take firewood and fresh water into the house; Tom would want everything in place when he returned. Linus climbed the ladder to his loft bunk, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Lincoln, Nebraska
Sheriff Maxwell delivered his prisoner to the jail in Lincoln, pocketing his body receipt as he led his two tired horses to the nearest livery stable. He gave the stable hand payment to care and feed the mounts before heading to a small hotel. He checked in, climbed to the second floor and dropped his saddle bags on the bed with a grateful sigh. The prisoner was a two-bit thief, but was wanted in Lincoln and had caused problems the entire fifty mile ride. He’d whined, and pleaded with Maxwell to let him go, which only made Maxwell all the more determined to turn him in.
A knock on the door brought some children lugging pails of hot water. They dumped them in the copper bath tub in the center of the room and disappeared. The water only came up to a few inches in the tub, but Tom sank in anyway for a well-deserved soak.
When he had washed off all the dirt and grime, Maxwell toweled off and slipped into a set of fresh clothes from his saddle bags. His stomach was growling and he set off for his supper and a cold drink. The saloon next door advertised a decent beefsteak dinner, so he headed in that direction.
The meal was delicious as promised. Tom polished off a large steak, and baked potato and finished with a large slice of apple pie. Halfway through the meal an old army cohort stopped to say hello and the two men laughed and swapped stories and enjoyed cold beers with long thin cheroots. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a relaxing evening. His responsibilities in Omaha seemed far away, and he again wondered if it was time to retire. The next morning a messenger boy rushed up to Tom as he was checking out of the hotel.
“Mister, are you Sheriff Maxwell?” he gasped, hunched at the waist to catch his breath.
Maxwell nodded and the boy thrust a yellow telegram into his hand. “This jest came for ya Sheriff.”
Tom tipped the boy a nickel and the small messenger grinned widely.
“Gee, thanks mister.” He scooted down the street as Tom ripped open the envelope.
He quickly scanned the message and then re-read it again slowly:
Claire Abducted Yesterday. Store Vandalized. Headed West? Percy.
His heart froze as his temper boiled. Maxwell took off sprinting to the livery stable. He snagged the first stable boy he saw.
“You there, help me saddle my horses.” The boy looked at him, dumbstruck. “Now!” Maxwell shouted, startling him. The stable hand leapt up from his chores. “Yes sir.” From the look of fury on the sheriff’s face he wasn’t about to argue.
As soon as his mount was ready, Maxwell was astride the saddle and pounding down Cheney Street, headed back to Omaha. As he rode, his mind was churning out possible routes the kidnapper could have taken. If he was headed west, he’d probably be using the old trail, commonly known as the Oregon Trail, about 40 miles north of Tom’s present location. The Oregon Trail headed slightly south and then swung west across the Nebraska prairie. If Tom rode north, there was a possibility he could intercept them. The chances were slight, but he had nothing else to go on.
All that day Maxwell rode hard. When one horse got winded, he switched to the other. A good saddle horse could cover 50 to 60 miles in a day and Tom meant to wring every mile he could out of these animals. He wished he was riding his tougher Morgans, but the bays would have to do. When evening came, even Maxwell had to stop and rest. His back and arms ached. It wasn’t easy to ride one horse and hold onto the reins of another mile after mile.
Estimating he had covered 40 miles or so, Maxwell lit a fire and boiled some beans and coffee. While the food was cooking, he wiped down the bays and hobbled their front feet so they could g
raze on the tender summer grass.
Tom spread out his blanket and tried to sleep with his head propped on the saddle, but was having little luck. Pulling the rumpled telegram from his front shirt pocket he scanned it over and over, trying to read between the lines.
Okay, it says the store’s been ransacked, Claire abducted, so she’s alive or at least she was alive. Stop! Of course, she’s alive! She has to be!
Waves of nausea licked at his insides as he took a swallow from his canteen. He’d been scared many times during the war for his own safety, but tonight he was scared for Claire’s. Darn, he had warned her that the country was wild and unpredictable and Omaha was still a frontier town. Whoever had taken her was going to pay, was gonna do some hard time.
Maxwell had put many unsavory characters put behind bars. He didn’t enjoy locking men up but sometimes, for the good of the public, it had to be done. This time there would be no regrets. Exhaustion finally overcame him, but Maxwell slept fitfully, nearly frantic about Claire.
Tuesday he was up at dawn and on his way north. His plan was to ride until he hit the trail and then head east to intercept the crooks as they tried to make their escape. The problem was he really didn’t know what he was up against. How many men were there? Was Claire actually with them or had she been injured and left somewhere? For all he knew, she could be dead by now.
Maxwell pushed that last thought away. Claire was smart enough to keep her wits about her and use her head. She had to know that someone—that he—would come rescue her. He couldn’t focus if he thought she might be dead. If Percy was tracking from Omaha, they’d likely meet up somewhere on the Oregon Trail. That thought kept him going. By late afternoon he reached the trail and was headed east toward Omaha. Along the way he stopped two wagons of pioneers, searched four farms and ranches but no one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. The only thing to do was to keep riding.
Faith of the Heart Page 10
