Lincoln's Ransom
Page 26
The animals' steaming breath was all that could be heard in the several long seconds of silence that followed.
"Lemme see your badge and papers," Hobgood finally said, lowering the scatter-gun.
Merriman's heart was pounding as he dismounted, reaching inside his coat. He'd heard from two Sneedville natives in the hotel dining room the night before that Hobgood, a cousin of the sheriff, could barely read his own name. Merriman stepped up to the driver's side and handed over an official-looking document he hoped would dupe the illiterate man. As Hobgood took the paper—actually a bill of sale for Merriman's mule—Merriman slid his other hand inside his coat to the butt of his Patterson Colt, just in case the ruse failed.
The lawman appeared to study the paper for a few seconds. Before he could speak, Merriman said: "Here, I need to sign the bottom of that as a receipt, showing I accepted custody." He pulled out a short pencil and put the paper on the footboard of the wagon to scrawl an illegible signature. He handed the damp document back to Hobgood, who carefully folded and tucked it into his coat pocket without further inspection.
"Here's my badge," Merriman continued smoothly, pulling out a silver star with the words "Deputy United States Marshal" stamped in a circle around its outer rim. The badge was the only authentic thing about this whole charade, Merriman thought. It had been made in the Nashville silversmithing shop of Chad Merriman, Rob's father, as a keepsake for a retired marshal, but the man died before the star could be redeemed.
Hobgood looked at the badge and grunted, apparently satisfied.
"Get off that wagon, Collins, and climb up on that pack mule," Merriman ordered, hoping his friend would have the sense to keep silent. The man addressed, whose hands were bound in front of him, awkwardly jumped down off the opposite side of the buckboard into the four-inch deep snow.
"I guess you'll be wanting to get on back home, have a slug of hot coffee, and thaw out," Merriman remarked over his shoulder as he helped Collins mount the mule.
"Hell, I'm too far along to make it back up the mountain afore dark," Hobgood said. "I'll just head on down to the Sizemore Inn to spend the night."
Merriman's heart sank at this, since the two of them would have to travel the same road. But he affected a casual attitude. "We'll likely travel faster, but we might see you there," he said with a wave as he mounted up, took the mule's lead, and pulled his horse's head around. "Hang on!" he called to his prisoner as he kicked the horse into a gallop.
He kept up this pace for a half mile, then slowed to a fast trot for another mile, then to a walk. They had rounded several curves on the downslope of the heavily wooded mountainside and, Merriman hoped, had far outdistanced the buckboard. He turned and brought his mount alongside the pack mule. "Damned good to see you, Clay," he said, reaching out and slicing the rawhide thongs that bound Collins's hands.
"That goes double for me," the smaller, dark-skinned man said, rubbing his cold-stiffened hands and wrists. He removed his hat and wiped a sleeve across his face. The thick, black hair had not been cut for weeks, Merriman noted, but the green eyes still glowed with intensity, even in the shadowless, subdued light of the snowy day. "But what are you doing here?" Collins asked.
"I heard there was an ugly Melungeon up here in jail without any friends," he grinned.
Collins shook his head in appreciative wonder.
"You had anything to eat today?"
"Some coffee before daylight."
"I've got some grub in my pack there, but not much. We'd better save it for later. How far is this Sizemore Inn?"
"Near the base of Short Mountain. Not far from the Holston River."
Not being familiar with this part of Tennessee, Merriman had no idea how far that was. "We'll get some food there and carry it with us. I don't much relish spending the night under the same roof with that deputy. He's liable to get wise to me. Do you know any short cuts to save time?"
Collins shook his head. "Not really. In this snow, we'd best stay on the road."
"Let's go, then. You lead the way, since you know the road."
They shifted the pack on the mule so Collins would have a more comfortable seat, then started off again at a fast trot. Merriman had trouble keeping up with him and felt his horse's hoofs slip several times in the deepening snow on the steeper slopes. It was just after midday, but a false twilight seemed to settle over the wooded mountains.
Collins, in the lead, finally slowed his mule to a walk, and mile after mile passed under their animals' hooves as the gray day wore on and the snow continued to swirl down from the leaden sky. Except for rising and falling in elevation, the road never varied and the thick forest of bare oaks, maples, elms speckled with stunted cedars unwound in endless panorama alongside them. At one stretch the road began to rise in a series of switchbacks, always trending up, and still up, as the animals labored through the dry snow that was at least a foot deep on the higher slopes.
Now that the rescue of Collins was accomplished, Merriman began to realize that he had run afoul of the law for the first time in his life. Was his six-year friendship with Clayburn Collins really worth the risk? After all, Collins was guilty of engraving the dies for counterfeit Spanish pieces-of-eight. The letter from Collins's sister, Laura, had said as much. But Merriman knew of no other way to rescue his artistic friend from a long prison term at hard labor that would probably kill him. A terse note from Collins, smuggled out of his cell and included with the letter, indicated that just before his arrest he'd discovered a small vein of gold in a remote mountain valley. Merriman didn't want to think that a desire to share in the gold had been the deciding factor in him resigning his boring job at a Nashville bank to rush to Collins's aid.
Just as Merriman was on the verge of yelling to Collins to stop for a few minutes, the road leveled out and then began a steep descent. After about two miles of this, Collins reined up at the bottom of the grade, and the two of them dismounted to stretch their stiffened limbs and let the animals drink from a small stream they had to ford. The clear water gurgled over the rocks, and the animals' hooves crunched the rim of ice that had formed along the quieter edges of the swift stream.
"I believe this is Poor Valley Creek," Collins said. "Been over this way a couple of times, but all this snow makes everything look different."
Merriman squinted at his surroundings, trying to picture this place about three months hence—mountain laurel, splashes of white and pink dogwood against a background of scattered cedar and leafy hardwoods, the earthy smells of rotting logs and fresh pine resin. But now winter had locked all that away. Even the sun was hiding, giving no clue as to directions.
"I'm completely turned around. Hardly know which way is up."
"That way," Collins said, pointing at the gray sky and grinning, white teeth flashing briefly in the dark face. The sight cheered Merriman. It was a smile he suspected no one had seen for some while.
They took a long drink from the canteen Merriman carried on his saddle horn. Then Merriman stepped upstream a few feet, rinsed the canteen, and filled it with cold, clear water. The drink had stimulated his gastric juices and sharp pangs of hunger began gnawing at him. But he said nothing. He suspected Collins was feeling it, too. He stood for a minute or so, listening to the enveloping silence of the winter woods. Other than the quiet shuffling of his animals, the only sound was the whisper of grainy snow sifting down through the dry leaves that still clung stubbornly to a few of the trees around them.
"How much farther?"
"Maybe another couple of hours. We should be there by dark."
The thought of only grabbing a quick bite of food and then riding off to camp somewhere in the snow began to seem like a bad idea. As tired as he was, he could imagine how Collins must feel. The Melungeon's face was pinched and drawn, and he was much leaner than Merriman remembered him.
He made a quick decision to stop at the inn and get a few hours of sleep in a warm, sheltered place. He'd just have to take his chances with Hobgood.
After Merriman's hands and toes began to pain with returning circulation, and the animals had rested, they climbed up and started again.
It seemed a long afternoon, and Merriman began to wonder if Collins's estimate of the distance had been faulty. By the time the short March day was fading into darkness, they were plowing through unbroken snow at least eighteen inches deep, and Merriman was glad they'd gotten over the ridge earlier. He wondered again where Deputy Hobgood might be. Just then they rounded a bend in the road, and he caught the welcome sight of yellow lamplight pouring from the windows of a stout log house a hundred yards ahead through the swirling snow.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fiveteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Titles by Tim Champlin
Chapter One from Tim Champlin's Wayfaring Strangers