Book VII, page 9
“Why?” Commented Maryellen as she folded a napkin. “If the Raider’s didn’t dig it up, it’s been there for a couple of hundred years. It’ll stay until after we eat.”
Joseph shrugged his shoulders, put the shovel down and brushed off his pants. He joined the group sitting on the grass and enjoyed the picnic.
After the coffee flask was emptied he was the first one back to the dig as the others cleaned up the picnic area. The group stopped what they were doing when he gave out a whoop.
“Hey! I’ve got something!” He started to gingerly scrape dirt from the top of an object. He passed the shovel to Jerry and using his hands, brushed dirt away from an old army boot. He smiled as he removed it and passed it to Jerry who turned it upside down. Nothing fell out.
“Maybe the letter simply deteriorated over time?” said Joseph.
“No,” said Jerry wiping his hands, there would have at least been a small piece left. Let’s dig deeper and see if the strongbox is gone. Maybe they retrieved both the letter and payroll and just tossed the empty boot back.”
Joseph returned to his digging and momentarily was rewarded with the sound of steel striking wood. He brushed dirt away with his hands.
“Yep! It’s the strongbox. I can just make out stenciled lettering, . . . ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC.” He started to dig gently and ten minutes later had a rope secured around the box and they lifted it from the hole.
“Boy,” said Jerry as he kneeled down by the box, “this is what being a time tracker is all about: this strongbox hasn’t seen the light of day in over two-hundred years.” He tested the lock and found that rust had eaten it through as it almost crumbled in his hand, allowing him to open the top with a squeak.
What little sunlight trickled through the treetops, sparkled on the gold coins.
“Fantastic, superb and incredible” were a few of the words used by the group. Their exuberance was hushed by the look on Jerry’s face as he added his own thoughts.
“This is terrible.”
Joseph looked puzzled and asked, “Why? Isn’t this what we were looking for?”
“Yes,” answered Maryellen. “In part. But what Jerry is saying is that while it’s evident that the Raiders didn’t get the chance to come back and dig the gold up, someone took the time to remove the letter from inside the boot.”
Jerry picked up the explanation. “If they had returned and had the time to dig up the letter, they would have taken the gold too.”
“Does that mean what I think it does, Jerry?” asked Alexis.
“It means,” continued Jerry, “that Jesse James read and understood the contents of that letter and never put it in the boot but rather he must have slipped it inside of his shirt.”
“And,” added Alexis, “he simply tossed the empty boot into the hole so the other trooper would never suspect he kept it.”
“But, why?” asked Joseph as he started to refill the hole.
“Blackmail?” asked John Hyder.
“Or,” put in John Hyder, “maybe he was holding it as an ace-in-the-hole if he ever got caught.”
“Well,” continued Jerry, “whatever he did we must find out. If he used it as blackmail or the ace-in-the-hole, all well and good. That means the person he bargained with probably destroyed the letter. But, if he didn’t use it in that way and hid it, we have to find out where he hid it and destroy it before it surfaces. All agree?”
They all agreed and placed the strongbox on the dolly. The trip back to New York was quiet as each pondered what the outcome would bring.
The time trackers sat at the conference table early the next morning. They skipped the beginning of the hologram and concentrated on Jesse James as he looked at the letter.
“There,” said Joseph pointing when James made as though he were shoving the letter in the boot. “He slipped the letter into his shirt as Jerry thought.”
“Then buried the empty boot,” added Alexis.
“I believe it’s time to bring in the 1800 Club,” said Jerry. “This must be solved and soon. All agree?”
All hands were raised and he went to the door and summoned Ted.
“Ted, “ he said to the young man with an open notebook. “Will you tell Edmund Scott that we will have a hologram for him to deliver to Bill Scott of the 1800 Club, within one hour?”
“Right away, sir,” said Ted as he turned and exited the room.
DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 5, 2012 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Bill’s Beagle, Samson, was sleeping on a thick, round pillow as Bill did chin-ups in the club’s gym when Matt entered. As usual, Samson woke instantly and seeing it was Matt, and as he carried no food, stretched and curled up again to resume his nap.
“Sir, you asked to be called at eight sharp.”
Bill dropped to the wooden floor and wiped his forehead. “Phew! Thanks, Matt.”
“Also, sir, you asked for scrambled eggs and potatoes on a roll for dinner. Have you perhaps changed your mind? I do have a thick Porter House steak that I can garnish with a fine white wine and perhaps a salad.”
“Naw! Thanks anyway, Matt. I’ve got a craving for a potatoes and egg hero sandwich smothered with catsup.”
Matt turned towards the door and said as he rolled his eyes, “Very well, sir. Potatoes and eggs it is then.”
“Don’t forget the, . . .”
“Catsup. Yes sir, I won’t forget the catsup. Dinner will be served in twenty-five minutes.”
“Great! Time enough to take a shower.”
Bill and the Beagle went up to his apartment. He took a shower, was finished in twenty minutes and donned a white terry-cloth robe and slippers. “Samson,” he said as he put on the slippers as they were damp in spots and had some strange chew marks on them. He then entered his den as Matt entered from the other door carrying a tray with his dinner and leading Samson by his leash.
“Sir,” he said as he placed the tray on his coffee table, “I walked Samson and then took the liberty of making you hot chocolate. Of course if you wish a different beverage, . . .”
“No, that’s fine, Matt. Thanks for walking the dog. I’m going to read a little and turn in early.”
“Very well, sir. Should you need anything, please ring. Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Matt. See you in the morning.”
Bill attacked the sandwich as Matt closed the door behind him. He took one bite when there was a knock at the thick, mahogany door that was the reason for the club’s existence: The time portal door.
“Edmund!” Bill exclaimed as he literally ran to the door and threw it open.
“Edmund,” Bill said as he hugged his future grandson, “C’mon in and sit.”
He took the young man’s arm and sat him in one of the leather easy chairs and sat facing him in another.
“Hi, Bill, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Ed, how are you doing?”
“Good. Just need to breathe slowly and relax while I’m here. You know, the pollution and all.”
“Do that, . . . relax. Now, what’s up? A mission?”
The young man from the future nodded and retrieved a silver cylinder from his inside jacket pocket and passed it to his Grandfather.
“Is this the Jesse James mission you hinted about?”
Edmund nodded again. “Yes. We thought perhaps he didn’t have a big part in what went on but after investigating it closer it turns out he is an integral part of the mission.” He took a shallow breath and paused before continuing. “It’s all in the hologram.”
Bill, showing concern, said, “Well, young man, why don’t you go back to the future where you can breathe a little better and I’ll check out the hologram. I’ll send you a text message after I thoroughly go through it and let you know the plan of action. Good?”
Edmund answered in a low tone of voice, “Good, Grandpa.”
Bill did a make-believe punch to his future grandson’s shoulder as he said, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Bill. That grandpa stuff didn’t happen yet as far as I can see.”
The man from the future smiled and shook his head. “You got it, Bill. And I’ll let the group know you are on the case and all’s well, as usual.”
“Right you are, young fella. Now, let’s get you outta here.” He took Edmund’s arm once again and escorted him to the door. Once there he gave him a hug. “Take care of yourself, young man.”
Bill took another bite of his sandwich and activated the hologram.
At the end of the hologram, Jerry Sullivan appeared. The six-inch figure stood on Bill’s coffee table and talked while cleaning his glasses at least three times.
“So, Bill, you see why we must find out if the letter was destroyed or used as some kind of a bargaining chip by Jesse James. As you know Jesse James was shot and killed by Bob Ford, but does the letter survive and if so, where is it? I know that you and whomever you may send back will handle the matter discreetly and quickly, as we never know when this letter may surface and destroy good people. As usual, Bill, the entire time tracking group is behind you and whatever you need, will be provided for you. Goodbye and good luck.” The small figure froze in place signaling the end of the hologram. Bill deactivated it and placed it in his desk drawer along with a handful of others.
The rest of the evening Bill read up on Jesse James and his gang. He went through the club’s computer files and checked out members who might be better to go back than him but it kept pointing back to him. He sat and pondered as he sipped the, now cold, chocolate drink and the grandfather clock chimed two a.m.
Well, I did go back and work out a mission with Bat Masterson and hung around with Wyatt Earp, so it’s not like I can’t do this. And by the time I brief someone else about traveling out west in the mid-eighteen hundreds, I can be on my way. Plus, there seems to be a big time factor with this mission. All in all, I guess I’m the guy and that’s great with me!
He closed the laptop and went to bed only to find the Beagle curled up on one of his pillows. “Good night, buddy,” he said with a smile.
A tap on his bedroom door woke Bill and Matt entered carrying a tray. Samson bounded onto the bed and licked Bill’s face. Matt placed the tray on the small table next to Bill’s bed and uncovered the silver-serving platter to show a pot of coffee, soft-boiled eggs and buttered toast. Samson stared at the food.
“Good morning, sir. Samson came downstairs so I walked and fed him.”
“Good morning, Matt. Thanks tons. Boy, the coffee smells great.”
“Thank you, sir. I took the liberty of walking Samson to a place I know of back in 1896 that provided outstanding coffee beans.”
“Great.” He looked at Matt and said, “Matt, do you remember the outfits I used when I went back to Bat Masterson?”
“Yes, sir. I do. Will you be needing them?”
“Yes. I have to make a trip back to see Jesse James. Ever hear of him?”
“Sir. My being from England does not preclude me from knowing the history of my new country. Of course, I know of Mister James. A highly accomplished outlaw. And, if I may add, when I say ‘highly-accomplished,’ I mean as a person who made the decision to become an outlaw, he excelled at it.”
Bill laughed and said, “I’m sorry, Matt. I never meant to say you didn’t know our history, I just wondered if you were familiar with Jesse James.”
“Then, yes, sir, I am.”
Bill took a sip of coffee, rolled his eyes and said, “Fantastic coffee. Hope you bought a few pounds. Anyway, I have to go and try and meet up with James and I think the best time to do so would be when he, sort of, retired.”
“Was it not then that Mister James was shot and killed by Mister Robert Ford? When he was, as you say, retired?”
Bill nodded. “Yes, so I’m going to really have to check my timing. After breakfast and a shower, I’ll be attacking the history books and setting up some time lines. After that I’ll give you the information and you can help me set up the trip.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll set out your western attire.” Matt left the room as Bill dug into his breakfast.
That evening Bill and Matt were in the club’s private wardroom. Matt had laid out clothing and briefed Bill.
“Three sets of eastern clothing, three sets of western attire, of which you are familiar with, but this time I’ve added ultra-light undergarments, gloves and battery powered, warmer knee socks. I’ve also included an electronic hand warmer and an extra set of batteries with a solar charger in the shape of a buckle for your valise.”
Rather than ask questions, Bill knew Matt had his reasons for whatever he packed and would explain why he did so at the right time. He sat back and scratched Samson’s belly as Matt continued.
“The fastest and most reliable way to get to St. Joseph, Missouri, is by taking a steamship from the New York harbor at the foot of New York. I purchased tickets for the steamship General Grant as it steams from New York and follows the coastline down to and around Florida to dock at New Orleans. She travels at a good clip for the day, ten knots, making it an eight-day trip. Once in New Orleans you are booked aboard the Mississippi Steamboat, Savannah, which goes up the Mississippi River and docks at Hannibal, Missouri after a two-day trip. Now we enter a slightly different mode of travel and one I don’t believe you’ve encountered before: Stagecoach. This is the main reason I took the liberty of packing the undergarments and hand warmer as it gets chilly in the early morning and evenings. Of course, sir, if you wish I will set you up with a railroad instead.”
“How long is the stagecoach trip versus the train?”
“The stagecoach takes nine days. It stops overnight at six various sized towns and two stagecoach stations. On occasion, the driver will ride through the night if the moon is bright enough to show the road. The train, on the other hand, takes four days with switching at designated stops. I knew you’ve never had the opportunity to travel in a stagecoach and thought the information you gather from the trip may come in handy on another mission.”
Bill fingered one of the tan, cowhide outfits and said with a smile, “You know what, Matt? I’m going for the stagecoach going west and the train back to the General Grant for the trip back to New York. Can you work that out for me?”
“Very well, sir. Will you be needing the six-shooters again?”
“Yeah, Matt, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
“Very well, sir. Meanwhile,” he said as he passed Bill some printouts, “here is some literature pertaining to riding aboard a stagecoach. When would you wish to depart?”
“Tomorrow morning, Matt. Perhaps I can have that steak you offered last night?”
“Dinner at eight?”
“That’s fine, Matt. And once again, thanks.”
As Matt prepared the dinner he grimaced every time he heard the shot of Bill’s 45-caliber six-shooter as he practiced in the club’s shooting range.
The next morning, Samson looked up at his master as he stood looking in the full-length mirror. The reflection showed a tall man dressed in a three-piece, dark brown suit with a stiff-collared, white shirt and a black string tie at his neck. Matt passed him a range coat that went down to his mid calf and a tan, Stetson Cinch cowboy hat. Bill had the same pair of boots on that he wore the last time he traveled back to the old west. Lastly, he pulled on a pair of dark brown, deerskin leather gloves that flared just before his elbow.
“Sir,” said Matt as he handed him a black bandanna, which Bill stuck in his coat pocket, “If I may say so you have the appearance of a well-dressed westerner going home.”
“Thanks to you, Matt.” He looked back at the mirror. “Yes, the look is exactly what the plan calls for.”
“Then, sir, you have a plan in mind?”
Bill shrugged and shook his head, “No, not really. But as time is of the essence, I have to start my travel now and work on the plan as I travel.”
The time traveler turned suddenly, snapped his fingers and said, “Wait! I’ve got an idea!” He ran to his laptop and Googled Jesse James. Several photographs of Jesse and his brother, Frank, popped up along with the cowboy’s bio and timeline. Bill pressed the print button and watched as the papers exited the printer. Next he enlarged the photographs and printed them out. Finally, he stapled the eight pages together, folded them and placed the package in his valise.
“Done! I think I have a plan, but I’m going to need some big bucks to see it through.”
“Very well, sir,” said Matt handing him an envelope. “Here is the money you requested, one thousand dollars in various denominations and coins. Also in the envelope are your tickets for the General Grant down and back and a ticket for the railroad trip back along with a ticket for the Concord Stage Line. The tickets have no date stamped on them, as they will be honored the entire year. You said you must speak to Mister James before he is killed, and the date he dies on is April 3, 1882, so I would suggest that you leave on March 13, 1882. This will place you in St. Joseph on March 31, 1882, three days before he dies. Now, I will be right back with the ‘big bucks’ for you.”
Ten minutes later Matt passed him a small pouch and said, “Sir, enclosed are the big bucks you asked for. As it would take a lot of space I suggest you carry diamonds as they may easily be turned into currency and are easy to hide.”
Bill put the tickets and half of the money in his inside jacket pocket. He placed some money inside his money belt and the rest inside his valise. The diamonds slipped easily into his pant’s pocket. Lastly, he packed his two pistols and holsters along with ammunition in the valise. Matt passed him his communicator in the guise of a hairbrush and Bill put it next to his six-shooters, covered them with a felt cloth and buckled the valise closed. He stood and offered Matt his hand.
“Matt, thanks again and keep an eye on Samson for me.”
“Yes, sir, I shall. And good luck with Mister James. I do hope he sees things your way.”
