by Tim Champlin
He relaxed and slowly drifted off.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
The sound of someone yelling stirred Zane from deep sleep. He rose slowly from a half-formed dream. For a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was. Hadn’t summer vacation started? Why did he have to get out of bed so early?
“Jim! Huck! Wake up. Look!”
Tom Sawyer’s voice. Zane rolled over and cracked his eyelids. He was lying partly on sand, partly on a blanket. He wasn’t at home. So it hadn’t been a dream after all.
The strident clanging of a distant brass bell shattered the early morning stillness.
“What be all de blim-blammin’?” Jim complained.
Zane pushed himself to a sitting position and reached for his sneakers.
Huck was digging the sleep out of one eye with a fist as he struggled to his feet.
Tom stood at the edge of the bar several yards away, pointing toward the village. The sun had not yet cleared the trees on the Illinois side. Wisps of gray mist rose from the river, while the village still lay in shadow.
“They don’t ring that ferry bell like that ’less sumpin’ mighty important is happenin’,” Tom declared.
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when a column of white spurted from the top of a packet boat at the landing. A second or two later, the deep bellow of a steam whistle reached their ears.
They gathered at the water’s edge and strained to see what was happening in the village.
It was too distant and too dark for Zane to make out anything much except the gray outlines of several white buildings.
“We best be gittin’ over there,” Huck said. “Last time folks was so riled up was when you and Becky slithered outa that cave like you was risin’ from the dead.”
“I hope they’s celebratin’ good news o’ some kind.” Tom was already scrambling to collect their utensils and throw them into a cloth sack.
Jim was shaking out their blankets and Huck went to kick sand on the remains of the campfire.
Zane took his pocketknife, jabbed several slits in the waist of his pants, then threaded his belt through the holes and buckled it. Before he clipped the small leather case to his belt, he took a quick look at his cell phone. It lit up with four bars so it was still charged, but he didn’t waste time trying to use it. He rolled up the clothes he’d been wearing when he arrived and stuffed them into one of the canvas sacks.
The four of them hauled their gear to the nearby skiff and dumped it in, then climbed in after it.
“Gimme de oars,” Jim said.
There was no argument. Jim took up his position on the middle thwart and Huck and Tom pushed off. Zane scrambled in and tried to stay out of the way.
The boat swung out into the current, and Jim laid to his work, digging deep and stroking long. Tom sat at the tiller, but there was no need to steer. Aimed high, the prow of the skiff cut the water as if the current wasn’t even there. Jim’s powerful shoulder muscles bunched under his shirt and he rotated the oars in a practiced rhythm, thrusting the boat ahead like it was being propelled by a small outboard motor.
After a time, they rowed upstream of the town and Jim lay on his oars to drift. Then, with a few well-timed strokes, he brought the boat in and grounded it on the cobblestones at the upper end of the landing.
As they jumped out, Huck whispered, “Where’d you borrow this boat? Best not be leavin’ it here.”
“Never mind,” Tom said. “Nobody’s gonna notice. I’ll move it later.”
The ferryman had stopped ringing the brass bell when they were halfway over the river, much to the relief of Zane’s ears.
They ran up toward Main Street, which paralleled the river—all but Jim who was ambling along slowly behind, apparently still winded. Even though Jim was free, it struck Zane that perhaps this kindly black man had become accustomed to not walking along with whites in public. Zane was rapidly becoming familiar with the standing of blacks in this earlier world.
The sun’s early rays were beginning to lance down, lighting the tops of the whitewashed buildings. Full daylight had come.
People hurried past on the boardwalk; others were standing in groups of two or three talking urgently among themselves. The tension along the street reminded Zane of a humming, vibrating cable on a high-voltage steel tower.
Tom grabbed a small boy starting into the newspaper office.
“Hey, what’s all the ruckus?”
“Where you been?” the boy asked in a high-pitched voice. “You know Judge Thatcher? His girl’s been kidnapped.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Becky.” He jerked his arm free. “Lemme go. Special edition is out.”
Tom leaned against the wall, staring straight ahead, a stunned look on his face.
“Tom!” Huck shook him by the shoulder, but Tom only wobbled and slumped to a sitting position in the doorway.
Zane and Huck locked glances. “We have to do something,” Zane said.
About that time Jim caught up with them. He took one look at Tom’s vacant, pale face. “Is you ailin’, chile? You looks powerful sick—like a mule hauled off and kicked you in a hurtsome place.”
“Becky Thatcher’s been kidnapped,” Zane told him.
“Oh, Lawdy!” Jim took a step backward.
Before anyone could speak again, a young man in a white shirt jogged across the street toward them.
“You, Tom! Tom Sawyer!” He stopped, out of breath, hands on his knees. “Judge Thatcher wants to see you and Huckleberry at his house right away,” he gasped. “It’s urgent.” He looked from one to the other of the boys. “I’m his law clerk,” he panted when nobody moved or answered. “The judge sent me to find you two. I been lookin’ all over town when your aunt said you weren’t home. Follow me.”
Huck took Tom by the arm and pulled him erect. Tom’s knees buckled and he nearly fell until Jim grabbed him under the other arm.
“This way.” The clerk started off at a brisk walk with Tom being half-dragged along behind. Zane followed in their wake.
Much of the residential area of St. Petersburg was built on a steep slope that pitched up away from the downtown area along the river.
Zane slogged along, leaning into the hill and puffing after three blocks of steady climbing, his thighs begging for mercy. Worse than soccer practice, he thought.
By the time they reached the two-story frame house, Tom had his feet under him after a fashion, but still hadn’t spoken a word.
The clerk led them through the front door into a spacious parlor and then through an arched doorway on the left into the dining room. The room held the delicious aroma of fried sausage. A scattering of breakfast things covered one end of the long table.
“Here they are, Judge.” The clerk silently slid away and let himself out the front door.
“Tom and Huck! Thank God you’re here.” Judge Thatcher came forward with outstretched hands. “Sit down. Sit down.”
Tom fell into a captain’s chair near the head of the table, and Huck, Zane, and Jim sat on the straight chairs.
The judge was upwards of forty or so, Zane thought, well fleshed, in a collarless white shirt and unshaven.
The judge raked his fingers through dark auburn hair, and stared at them through puffy eyes. “You boys hungry?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to a middle-aged black woman in the doorway. “Elsa hustle up some more pancakes and coffee for us, please.”
Was this woman a paid cook or a slave?
A slight movement caught Zane’s eye and for the first time he noticed another man in the room. Leaning against the mantel with an unlit cigar in his mouth was a tall, white-haired gent with a drooping mustache. A badge was pinned to his vest.
“I guess you’ve heard the terrible news by now,” the judge said. He walked up and down, wringing his hands. “Becky has been taken.” The judge appeared ready to break out in tears. His lips trembled and he turned away toward the wall. A second later, he faced about and sat do
wn heavily on one of the padded dining chairs. He took a deep, shuddering breath and was silent for a few moments.
The four who had come from the island looked at each other. Zane felt very sorry for this man’s pain.
When no one spoke, the tall man came forward, taking the cigar from his mouth, and put a reassuring hand on the judge’s shoulder. He cleared his throat. “I’m Sheriff Reuben Stiles from the county seat at Palmyra. I heard the news three hours ago when the judge’s clerk rode over and roused me out of bed.” He pulled out a chair and seated himself. “Now that you boys are here, we can discuss this matter logically and see what can be done.”
The judge, apparently needing something physical to steady his trembling hands, rose to pour coffee for everyone. By the time he finished, the cook came back in with a tray of steaming pancakes, a pitcher of syrup, and a huge blob of butter.
The judge sure knew how to live, Zane thought, pouring thick cream into his coffee from a silver pitcher. The glassware was white china with delicate flowered borders.
“Judge, tell me again exactly what happened,” Sheriff Stiles said. “Take your time and give all the details you can remember.”
The judge paused a moment, appearing to collect his thoughts. “I was taking Becky down to Marsville to visit her cousins for the rest of June. My late wife’s sister and her husband have three children and the family lives on eighty acres of good bottomland outside that village. It’s about twenty-five miles south of here. I hired a one-horse rig—a light buggy—from Charley Bowden over at the livery,” he continued. “I was planning to spend a day or two there myself and then return.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. His hands were now steady, Zane noted.
“Becky packed her things in a leather grip and we started just after sunup yesterday so we could arrive before dark. After all the floods this spring, there are still parts of the river road that are washed out, and I knew we’d likely have to make a few detours. I’ve traveled that road many times and black river mud that’s sticky as gumbo will suck down buggy wheels to the hubs.”
He took a deep breath. “Anyway, it was a nice, sunny day and nothing happened until we were maybe ten miles south of here. Then we came upon one of those low places with a quagmire of standing water and mud. I could see tracks and ruts where other wagons and horses had passed around it on higher ground, making their own detour. So I turned off to follow the new path. The horse was picking his way between thick stands of oaks and cottonwoods, when two men rode up out of the woods on horseback, and commanded me to stop. I didn’t see them coming until they were right on us.”
“Can you describe these men or their horses?” the sheriff asked.
The judge paused, staring at nothing. “I was so startled, I wasn’t paying much attention to details. The horses were sorrels or bays, I’m not sure which. One of them had a white blaze on his forehead—kind of a triangular shape. The riders were wearing flour sacks over their heads with eyeholes and mouth holes cut in them. No hats. Rough clothes. They pointed pistols at us. I was alarmed and put my hands in the air. I told them I had only a few silver dollars in my pocket they could have. I make a habit of not carrying much money when I travel. I asked them not to hurt us. I even told them they could have the rig.”
“Anything unique about these men you recall? Voices? Mannerisms?” Stiles asked. “Wearing any rings?”
“They wore vests, but no watch chains. Nothing special about the saddles, no silver trim or fancy stamping—nothing like that . . .”
“Might have been rented or stolen,” the sheriff put in. “Go on. All this was in bright daylight?”
“Yes. It was afternoon, but the sun was still high. We were in the shade of the trees.”
“And then . . . ?”
Zane saw the judge’s Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed.
“They said they didn’t want my silver dollars. They knew Becky’s name and said she was coming with them. I was horrified, and begged them to take me instead. They laughed. The shorter man had a very evil-sounding, oily kind of laugh. Or maybe that was my imagination. Anyway, they forced her to climb down. She was in tears and pleading, ‘Please don’t let them take me,’ but I was helpless to stop them. She did not scream or cry aloud and I was proud of her for that.”
The judge paused, biting his lip. He took a deep breath. “The taller of the pair dismounted and helped Becky into the saddle. Then he pointed at her bag in the buggy. ‘Is that her valise?’ he asked, and told me to hand it to him. The man speaking had a very deep voice. The mouth hole in his mask was cut large enough that I could see he had a heavy black mustache. He seemed to be the leader of the two. Becky wasn’t equipped for riding astride, and her dress bunched up around her legs. The stirrups were too long for her, but the tall man put his foot in one of them and climbed up behind her. ‘Where are you taking her?’ At that point I was having trouble keeping up a brave front.”
“What then?”
“The shorter man kneed his horse forward and handed me a folded sheet of paper. I opened and glanced at it as he started speaking. I don’t know that I’d ever heard his voice before, but his speech was that of an unlettered man from this region. The paper was a ransom note.” He paused and tossed the paper on the table before him. No one picked it up as the judge continued. “Basically, he told me the same thing that’s in that note, but in more detail. He said Becky would be released unharmed provided I delivered 612,000 in gold coin to them.” He paused. “But what he said next is what stunned me. And that’s why you boys are here,” he said, pointing at Tom and Huck. “The kidnapper said the money had to be delivered in person by Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.”
The two boys looked their astonishment at each other without speaking.
Tom and Huck and Jim put great store in Providence. Zane had yet to be convinced an overriding Intelligence was guiding events. But if it was, Providence had thrown an iron rod into the gears of the machine that was driving their trip to the territory.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
“The bags of money must be left in a hollow tree at the head of Eagles Nest Island anytime on Friday before midnight,” the judge said.
“Eagles Nest Island?” The sheriff arched his white eyebrows.
“It’s down south toward St. Louis, near the confluence of the Missouri,” the judge said. “I’ve already asked the steamboat pilot of the packet that’s tied up at the landing right now.”
“Will the exchange for the girl be made when they pick up the ransom?” Stiles asked.
“No. They said they’d hold her hostage until they’re safely away. They didn’t say how long or where she’d be released.”
The sheriff frowned. “In other words, we’re at their mercy, and must trust them to free her wherever and whenever they choose.”
“Can’t we hold the gold until we have Becky back?” The judge was almost pleading.
“We can’t negotiate because we have no way of communicating with them,” Stiles said. “They’ll likely be watching that hollow tree and if they see anyone around, they won’t show themselves.”
Silence fell.
The sheriff snatched up the ransom note and examined it. “This is regular notebook paper, and block print with pencil. No more information on here beyond what you’ve told us. No way to trace this.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Why do they want me and Huck to deliver the gold?”
“A good question,” the judge said. “I thought maybe you could shed some light on that. You boys haven’t been up to some of your pranks, have you?”
“No, sir. We don’t know nothing about this,” Tom insisted. “We’d never do such a thing.”
Huck nodded his agreement.
“What thing might that be?” the sheriff asked.
“Uh . . . anything that might endanger Becky or—you, judge,” Tom stammered.
“Are you sure this is not some practical joke you boys concocted to stir up everyone and scare this villag
e half to death, just for your own entertainment? Like that time you ran off and let everybody think you were drowned, only to show up at your own funeral?” The judge’s deep voice rumbled, lightning flashing behind his dark looks.
The pair of former miscreants across the table shrank in their chairs.
At that moment, Zane was grateful to be a stranger.
“No judge, it warn’t us—honest Injun,” Huck piped up in a weak voice after a few moments of terrible silence.
“Honor Bright?” the judge pressed.
“Honor Bright!” Tom affirmed.
“Well, somehow or other these two criminals must know you,” the judge continued. “And why the figure of 612,000 dollars? Why not 610,000 or 615,000 or even more? Not only do these kidnappers know you boys, they also know the exact amount of the treasure you found two years ago.”
“Then it’s likely a couple of jackleg robbers who live around here,” Sheriff Stiles said.
“Not necessarily,” the judge said. “All that business was in the papers up and down the river, and beyond. Anybody could have picked up the details from those printed articles.”
“Couldn’t be nothin’ to do with Injun Joe,” Tom said. “He starved in the cave.” The color had returned to Tom’s face and he leaned forward in his chair, once more the eager detective.
Zane and Jim hadn’t spoken. They were the outsiders here, Zane thought. This was serious business and he was only an unwilling visitor. He sipped his coffee; it was lukewarm. And his pancakes were untouched.
“Judge, we don’t have much to go on,” Sheriff Stiles said. “I’ll order my deputies to scout around this town to see if we can pick up any clues—maybe find out who’s been missing for a few days, any suspicious strangers or activities, that sort of thing. But these kidnappers could be anywhere. There have been a lot of men leaving for California lately.” Stiles shrugged. “Who knows, it could even be a couple of characters who didn’t make it in the gold fields, and came back here looking to make their strike locally. I’d like to know what their motive is in insisting these boys deliver the money.”
