by Tim Champlin
Zane introduced himself, then introduced Jim as a free man. Randall and Zane sat down in the main cabin while Jim, for appearance’s sake, stood by, pretending to wait on them. Randall wiped his flushed face with a bandanna and drank a tall glass of water to cool off.
“Your job looks as hard as chopping firewood,” Zane remarked.
“Yeah, I’d say that was a good comparison,” Randall replied. “You fellas from Missouri?”
“St. Petersburg,” Jim replied. “Mo den a hunert miles up from St. Looie.”
“Yeah, I know that village. So you fellas are more familiar with the Mississippi? That’s a mighty different river from the Missouri.” He took a sip of coffee and turned to Jim. “You ever hear of a Missouri River pilot by the name of Jacques Desire?”
“Nossah.”
“He’s a negro from Louisiana, and everyone calls him ‘Black Dave.’ Don’t recall if he was born free or set free, but he’s been on the river for a number of years, and just a crackerjack pilot. Thought you might know of him. He and I worked on the same boat about five years back. One time we was on the Upper Missouri past Council Bluffs. About a dozen Santee Sioux got riled up about something, and started shooting at our boat from the shore. I was at the wheel, and Dave was beside me when the bullets commenced to fly past our heads and shattered the glass in the pilothouse. Well, Black Dave, as calm as you please, stepped outside and behind one of the smokestacks until the shooting stopped. I said, ‘Dave, those Injuns are mighty poor shots. You afraid of stopping a slug?’ He stepped back into the pilothouse and said, ‘No, but if I did, my troubles would be over. My eyes are my only means of making a living and I must protect them from flying glass.’ ”
“Dat be a mighty smart man,” Jim allowed.
“Time for lunch,” Randall said, pushing back his chair.
“You sit dere. I bring de food,” Jim said. He went to a side table and ladled out dipperfuls of steaming beef stew with potatoes, onions, and carrots, and brought two bowls to the table with chunks of bread.
To avert any mutterings and stares from the other diners, Jim did not eat, but sat alone on a bench by the wall, several feet away, where he could still overhear the conversation.
As they ate, washing down the meal with coffee, Zane asked, “How long does it take to reach St. Joe?”
“Depends. Three or four days is excellent time. Mostly, due to sandbars, it takes upward of a week or so.”
“Is that running day and night?”
“Mostly days.”
“How come the boat didn’t stop last night?”
“The Penrose is a well-built boat, and fairly new. But we didn’t stop because the river is full to overflowing with water right now. It’s the spring melt in the Rocky Mountains flowing down this far that causes it.” He wiped up some gravy with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. “And there’s another reason. I bet you can’t guess what it is . . .”
“What’s that?”
“One way this river is different from the Mississippi is that it carries a greater load of silt. And on bright, moonlit nights like last night, the moon reflects off water that is pale, muddy-brown, and full of silt. On my eight-to-twelve watch last night, it was easy to see and steer and avoid a few sawyers. In addition, we’re bulling up against the current, staying in the channel as best we can because we can ride right overtop those nasty sandbars. It’s shoal water and sandbars that drive pilots crazy. We’ll have enough o’ that later this summer.”
“So we likely won’t be laying up overnight if the weather stays clear?” Zane asked.
“That’s right. I’m hoping for a fast run to St. Joe. I’m mighty sick of being delayed for hours and days by having to grasshopper over bars. On the upper river it’s even worse. But these flat-bottom boats are designed to draw no more than a foot or two of water when empty. I once heard a pilot brag he could run a Missouri River packet on nothing more than a heavy dew. And another fella, to top that, said, he could spill a keg o’ beer over the side and run four miles on the suds.” He chuckled. “Although why anyone would want to waste beer like that, I don’t know.”
“Billy Randall!”
The pilot looked up, then rose and thrust out his hand. “By God, Andre Carrick! I didn’t know you were aboard. Come, join us.”
The pilot made the introductions and the newcomer pulled up a chair. He was a shade under six feet tall, Zane guessed, lean and handsome, bold features, weathered by the sun. His black hair was tinged with gray. Zane had a hard time estimating ages of adults, but put this man at a well-used fifty. He was clean-shaven and wore doeskin britches and a white cotton shirt.
“Fellas, Andre is an old friend of mine—a French Canadian. Once upon a time he worked for the American Fur Company.”
“Yeah, we had a falling out and all that’s behind me,” Carrick said, easily. “I been guiding wagon trains for a few years now.”
“How’s business since the gold rush started?” Randall asked.
“How do you think? I could have a dozen jobs at a time if I could somehow multiply myself. Why don’t you quit this everlasting puddle-jumping and come join me? There’s good money in it. Something new every day.”
Randall chuckled. “To each his own, my friend. The river can be aggravating for sure, but when I’m off duty, I can fall asleep in a soft bunk and know when I wake up my hair will still be attached.”
“Touché.”
Zane was all eyes and ears. This man was a genuine wagon train guide? He’d read about such men, barely realizing they had existed. They were like the gods of old—legendary and barely credible. And here was one of them sitting at his table.
“What’re you doing on this boat if you’re so busy?”
“Had to go down to St. Louis to straighten out some orders for supplies and have ’em shipped up to St. Joe. Most of these Argonauts are not your steady, practical farmers of years ago. This new bunch heard the word ‘gold,’ threw down everything, and started west without a thought as to what they were facing or what to bring. My job is to take whatever money they have and see to it they are supplied with the basics in food and transportation, then do my best to herd ’em across the continent alive.”
They chatted a bit longer while Randall and Zane finished their meal.
“We’ll visit some more before we debark,” Carrick said, rising. “Gents, it was good to make your acquaintance.” He shook hands with Zane, nodded to Jim, and went out on deck.
“That man has more lives than a cat,” Randall said when the scout departed. “If he ever opens up and starts tellin’ stories around a campfire some evening, he could entertain you for hours with tales that would make your hair stand on end. Even yours,” he chuckled, pointing at Jim’s curly mat.
This was the type of tasteless joke Zane would never have heard in his previous world.
But, nevertheless, he was impressed with this frontiersman. He figured Carrick could be called upon for help in any crisis. Zane was glad this man was aboard the Penrose.
CHAPTER 21
* * *
Zane and Jim went back to their cabin after lunch, taking a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread for Becky. Zane didn’t want to leave her alone for hours on end cooped up in the hot cabin with no company.
“What did you two find out this morning?” she asked, digging into her food.
Zane told of talking to the pilot and meeting Andre Carrick.
“I’m sorry Tom wasn’t there. He would’ve said this guide was the ideal one to join up with and go adventuring amongst the Injuns,” Zane remarked. “This man has already been there—many times.”
“So, what’s our next move?” she asked.
“Well, if the weather stays clear, we won’t have to tie up overnight, the pilot says, so we’ll likely reach St. Joe in another three or four days,” Zane replied. “And the river’s high enough where we might not go aground on any sandbars and have to use the derricks to grasshopper over them.” He sounded as if he knew
what he was talking about. Ten days ago he’d never heard of any such thing. “I’m thinking that St. Joe would be a good place to make our move to rescue the boys.”
“What if those kidnappers get off in St. Joe and take the boys with them instead of staying on the boat to go upriver?” she asked.
Zane pondered this. “Is there any way you could persuade Farley to see if their tickets are for Council Bluffs or Yankton or some place farther north?”
Becky shook her head. “I’m taking your advice and staying away from Mister Nicholson.”
“Well, no matter. We can play it by ear, and see how things develop. What do you think, Jim?”
Jim looked solemn. “Dis be de dangersome part o’ de plan. If we bust in an’ snatch de boys de night befo’ we hit St. Joe, we could hide ’em in here fo’ a bit.”
“That’s if we’re not caught in the act,” Zane said. “Why don’t we watch Weir and Smealey for a couple of days and see if there is a routine they follow every day and every night. It’d be best to go for Tom and Huck late at night when everybody’s asleep except maybe the pilot and engineer and a couple deckhands down below. Nobody near the passenger cabins, anyway.”
Jim nodded his agreement.
“Then, if we break ’em loose without anyone seeing, we can do like Jim says, and hustle them over here to hide until we dock.”
“We be stirrin’ up de hornets, fo’ sure,” Jim said.
“Well, they don’t know we’re aboard, so maybe I can jimmy the lock so it looks like Tom and Huck busted it from the inside,” Zane said. “If the boys can’t be found, maybe the kidnappers will think they jumped overboard to escape and drowned. In any case, I’m guessing they’ll figure the hostages have served their purpose and be glad they’re gone. Then they’ll grab the ransom and light out into the territory.”
Zane wished he had asked Captain Shawnfield if United States law applied in Indian Territory. He made a mental note to ask the next lawman he saw, but in the meantime, he voiced his question to Becky.
“I don’t rightly know,” she said with a frown. “I’ll have to ask my father. But I’d think not. I’ve heard tales of outlaws and all kinds of rapscallions fleeing into the territory to take refuge. But, then, maybe the law applies there, but they’re able to hide out without being seen because it’s a wilderness.” Then she returned to the matter at hand. “If you break the door latch, will it be on the outside door to the catwalk, or the inside door that opens into the main saloon?”
“I’m thinking the outside door would be safer. One or two of the crew on duty, or a passenger with insomnia, might be wandering through the saloon, looking for a snack or coffee or something in the night. It would only take one person to ruin the whole plan,” Zane said. “Jim, make sure your pistol is in good working order.”
Jim patted the side pocket of the light coat that he wore, regardless of the weather. “Ah gots it right heah. When ah went back to de camp, ah fetched along mo’ powder, shot, and caps.”
“Good man,” Zane said. “Let’s hope we don’t have to use a gun, but I’m glad we have it for protection—if needed.”
Zane thought of all the men he’d seen on board carrying belt guns, including Weir and Smealey. Apparently, it was normal practice for men in this day and time. He couldn’t help but contrast this with the electronic security in his own day against carrying weapons aboard airliners. But then, maybe no terrorists were in the habit of blowing up steamboats, which apparently blew up often enough on their own.
“I’ll wait a couple days and then ask the pilot again when he thinks we’ll dock in St. Joe,” Zane said, thinking out loud. “Then I’ll write a note and slip it under their door to let Tom and Huck know we’re fixin’ to bust them out and what night to be expectin’ it. Don’t want to catch them unawares and scare the daylights out of them.”
“Dat be right smart,” Jim agreed. “Iffen you bust in widout no notice, dey likely take and lam you over de head wid a chair.”
For the next two and a half days, Jim and Zane were all eyes and ears. Nothing the kidnappers did escaped their notice. They observed the habits and routine of Weir and Smealey—when they came out of their cabin in the morning, when they retired at night after cards, brandy and cigars in the main saloon, when they strolled around the decks, the fact they were never seen apart and didn’t talk to any of the crew. Jim and Zane took care not to be seen conferring too often on deck or in the main saloon.
Bucking the current required a good head of steam, and the fireboxes were consuming cordwood at a fast rate. The boat stopped at woodyards twice each day, and Zane considered their chances of rescuing the boys and making it safely ashore while the boat was tied up for a short spell. Tempted though he was, it was always daylight and the wilderness surrounding the river looked daunting. They’d stick to the original plan. And it was not only the rescue they had to think about; they also must devise a plan to catch the kidnappers and recover the gold—a tall order.
Jim and Zane compared notes in their own cabin, sharing the information with Becky, who seemed to be catching cabin fever. “I can’t sleep all the time while you two are away,” she said. “I am so hot in here and I need a bath.”
Zane told her to be patient, that her exile would last only a couple more days. Zane took her out to walk around the deck for some exercise and fresh air after dark when she wasn’t obliged to wear her concealing mosquito net over her hat, and to use the privy at the stern of the boat. He filled the pitcher with fresh water every day to allow her to wash her face and hands, and brought her meals. Even though she was close to his own age, and very independent, he felt as protective of Becky asof his own little sister, Miranda.
Their luck with the river didn’t last. On Friday morning, Zane and Jim were standing on the hurricane deck aft of the pilothouse when they were suddenly pitched forward to the deck as the boat ran aground.
Pots and pans crashed in the galley below. An outburst of yelling and cussing erupted from crew and passengers. Orders were shouted, and the paddle wheel slowed to a stop.
Billy Randall descended from the pilothouse and ran forward to get a better view of the bow.
Then he came back and bounded up the steps again. “Couldn’t have been avoided,” he said to Zane as he passed. He didn’t seem upset. “Submerged sandbar right in mid-channel. Come on up and watch.”
Zane needed no second invitation. He sprang up the steps and stood well out of the way, looking through the glass windows at the brown current swirling past the boat. Deckhands forward on both larboard and starboard were busy probing the depth of the muddy water with long poles.
“The boat’s not hard aground,” Randall said, standing to one side of the wooden wheel, his left hand on a spoke. He opened a speaking tub to his right and ordered the engineer to reverse engines.
“With the amount of water in the river right now, we should be able to back off.” He uncapped the speaking tube again. “Hard astern!”
Zane could hear the paddle wheel thrashing.
“Even though we’re heavily loaded, this’ll drag ’er off by main force, or will drive enough water up under the hull to wash away the sand and refloat her.” He stood sideways, looking forward, then aft. “You can never tell about this river,” he said. “Judging from the current on the surface, any layman would guess it’s at least fifty feet deep here. But I tell you one thing, I’ll take two dozen groundings over one snag. A snag will rip the bottom out of ’er in a heartbeat.”
After two or three minutes, Zane felt the boat shudder and then move and a cheer went up from the deckhands below as the Penrose floated free.
Randall gave the order for half speed ahead and then began to feel his way forward, concentrating on his work, apparently forgetting Zane was still there.
Several minutes later, the pilot seemed to relax again. “If we can avoid hitting any more of those, we’ll be in St. Joe in the morning.”
Zane’s ears pricked up. “In the morning? Will you ru
n tonight?”
“Don’t see no reason not to,” he replied. “Should be another clear night with plenty of moonlight. We’ll bypass Independence and Westport Landing. All our passengers are bound for St. Joe, the main jumping-off point for Oregon and California.”
Zane thanked him and left the pilothouse. Jim had gone forward to watch the boat maneuver from the shade of the smokestacks.
“Meet you in the main saloon for coffee,” Zane said as he went by down the companionway.
By the time Jim arrived, Zane had obtained a sheet of the boat’s stationery from a wooden rack on a rear table in the main saloon.
He sat down with Jim in a corner, took out his rollerball pen, and, after some reflection, wrote the following in large, block letters so the boys could not misread it:
WE WILL BUST IN AND FREE YOU LATE TONIGHT. LIE LOW AND KEEP MUM.
ZANE, BECKY, AND JIM
He studied it for a few moments, then decided he didn’t need to add any more; that was sufficient.
He read it aloud to Jim. “I’ll slip this under their door after supper. They might not have any lamplight to read it later on.”
“You gwine t’ use de axe?”
“Yeah. But I’ll wait until after dark to borrow it off a rack by the woodpile so no deckhand sees me.”
Zane sipped the coffee Jim had brought for him. His nerves were on edge. This was far beyond any experience he’d had in his previous life. And the stakes were high. This was no game.
CHAPTER 22
* * *
That afternoon, while Jim kept an eye on the kidnappers, Zane studied both doors to their own cabin, examining how the locks and knobs were made and installed. The exterior door was thicker and more weather-resistant. Both had panels of thin wood that a man or a strong boy could splinter with a couple of hard kicks. Why hadn’t Tom and Huck done this and escaped before now? Either of them could squeeze through one of the lower panels if it were kicked out. Maybe they’d been drugged and were too weak to make the effort.
