Slim and Sly, Crossroads at Descanso

By Bryan Blake

Slim and Sly
CROSSROADS AT DESCANSO
A story of tragedy, heartache, revenge and redemption—that was Nathan Hunt’s life, a young Newspaper Reporter robbed of all he held dear. His cherished wife Ruthie, late with child, and in-laws he loved, ruthlessly murdered in a retaliatory act against his probes into government corruption.
Nathan blames himself for working too aggressively, and not protecting his family. He’s young, and sure he’s invincible, never taking into account the vulnerability of his loved ones.
As he holds the body of his wife and unborn child in his lap, he swears revenge; unconditional revenge, however long, whatever the cost, he will never surrender to defeat. His only goal in life will be to pursue the murderer or murderers, and exact the price he deems just.
The only clues are a man with a scar, and a suspect who disappeared at the time of the murders. Are they the same man? It will take Nathan three years to find out.
Leaving a large inheritance and a life of ease, his pursuit will take him across the American continent from Philadelphia to San Diego. Alone in a one-horse buggy he follows a trail of eyewitnesses down the eastern seaboard. Then as the trail turns west, he moves from steamboat to steamboat, and town to town, but always a few weeks behind his suspect. His pursuit halts when he learns a scar faced man and two others joined the last Wagon train out for the winter over the Oregon Trail.
Nathan arrives too late to follow, so he turns south to a warmer climate, and takes a job in West Texas on a cattle ranch. He hires on and agrees to stay through the spring roundup, but not for the pay. Rather he realizes that he grew up a city boy and there was more to surviving in the west than being well educated and rich.
The lessons come fast at the Circle C, and he doesn’t win every fight, but in the end, he wins the respect of all the other cowpunchers, as well as the ranch’s owner, Mister Curry. He also meets Blacky Hazard at the ranch, and makes friends quickly. Blacky teaches him the ways of the west. Moreover, he teaches him how to handle his fists, a pair of six shooters, and more importantly, how to be the one that walks away when the dust settles.
It is here, in Prickly Pear, Texas, that Nathan and Sylvester Wheeler meet under strange circumstances, and become the best of friends. Together they migrate to California, taking the most southern route. At the end of the trail stands San Diego, paradise found it seemed—but Nathan’s fate lies somewhere ahead in the unknown.
Nathan and Sylvester fall in love with San Diego at first sight. There they meet banker, Ezra Forsyth, and his niece, Penelope Maxwell. Nathan, quickly taken by Penelope’s beauty and demeanor, is so reminded of his Ruthie that it makes his quest for her killer even more urgent.
The first week in San Diego, Nathan and Sylvester are inadvertently involved in apprehending two bank robbers. A third member of the outlaw gang stalks, and shoots Sylvester. Knowing that his friend could be dying, Nathan, along with Eye of the Eagle, a half-breed tracker, pursue the outlaw into Mexico.
Unknown to Nathan, the jailed bank robbers, and the outlaw he tracked into Mexico, are part of a larger ring. The outlaw gang is planning a huge heist of Government money once it arrives at the local bank in preparation of Statehood. Without his knowledge, fate puts Nathan exactly where he needs to be, at precisely the right time. Eventually his path will cross that of the scarred man. Then and only then is he able to exact his revenge, and be released of his debt to Ruthie, and begin a new life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryan Blake
• Release date: Apr 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310901782

Bryan Blake

About the author:What is now some of California’s prime Granny Smith orchards and almond groves was the author’s Wild West prairie. From his earliest memories to the day he reached fifteen and struck out on his own to see the rest of the world, the wide-open spaces of the San Joaquin prairie was home. By the age of eleven (when school was out), he would take his single shot .22 rifle, a couple spring traps and trek across waste land looking for game. Most days he didn’t return before dark and at times, it would be midnight. He had free rein to go and come, except when he came home reeking of skunk musk. .San Joaquin Valley was a great place to grow up.After residing in Los Angeles, New York, Miami, Nassau, Bahamas, Reno, and Springfield, Mo, he now lives in Port Saint Lucie, Florida. With career's as varied as residences he retired in 2013 and began to write.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The front door burst open and the wind gushed in, blowing curtains wildly and tipping over the lamp. Simon quickly righted the lamp, which had gone out, and threw a rug over the spilled oil. The draft created in the fireplace chimney sucked Ruth’s newspaper into the fire. Victoria bolted forward with a scream. Three men rushed into the room, two holding shotguns over their forearms. Except for the embers of the fireplace, the room remained dark.

Where’s that nosey reporter, Nathan Hunt? Shouted a man armed with just a pistol. Look through the house, he ordered the other men. Find him

You’re wasting your time, Simon shouted. He isn’t here!

The men turned back, abandoning their search.

Not here, eh? Well, I warned him. I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget.

I know you! Simon said. James Bigelow! You’re one of those slimy bureaucrats Nathan’s been writing about. Big Jim Bigelow—trash—get out of my home, this instant! Simon pointed to the door with his pipe in hand.

I think not, old man. You see, I come here to kill your snooping son-in-law, but this is even better. This’ll hurt him worse than death. Bigelow turned to Ruth. You must be his little sweetie. Well, he likes turning things upside down. Let’s see how he likes it when he comes home to this.

Bigelow grabbed the shotgun from the man next to him, and without hesitation, pointed it at Ruth pulling the trigger. The blast hit her in the stomach, turning her and the rocking chair over backward, onto the plank floor.

I swear, I swear, said Starky Bragga, the man whose shotgun Bigelow had grabbed.

Shoot the old woman, Sweeny! Bigelow yelled to the other man holding a shotgun.

Simon grabbed a poker from the hearth and swung it furiously at Bigelow’s head.

At the same time, Bigelow turned and squeezed the trigger emptying the other barrel.

The shotgun blast ripped into Simon’s chest at the same instant the poker cut deeply into the left side of Bigelow’s head.

Sweeny slowly turned to missus Wythe, pointed the gun, hesitated….

Shoot her! Bigelow yelled.

Missus Wythe sat terrified, in the upholstered wingback chair, as Mike Sweeny raised the barrel—and squeezed.

A lightning bolt struck the wrought iron fence lighting the room with its blinding flash. Bigelow stood, a crazed maniac, looking at the bodies and laughing, blood streaming down his face from a gash left by the poker.

No one crosses Big Jim! He bellowed, No one!

He picked up a soft, knitted piece of clothing from the floor next to Missus Wythe, and pressed it to his bleeding eye.

* * *

Nathan Hunt stopped the buggy, set the brake, hesitated inside the protection of the cab, then hopped out and closed the large iron gates to the estate.

Jeremiah was good enough to open them for me, the least I can do is close ‘em.

Climbing back inside the buggy, he took a towel from the seatback and dried his hair and face. The storm raged. Glad to be home, he clucked his tongue and slapped the reins. The mare broke into a trot, as glad to be home as Nathan. Flickers of light from the fireplace were visible through the open door, but the house was dark.

Lamps should be burning. Why is the front door open in this storm? Not with Ruth in her condition—so far along with child.

His heart raced at the thought of lightning strikes and storm damage. Nathan used the buggy whip the last one hundred yards down the carriage road. At the entrance, he pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the buggy to an abrupt stop. He leapt to the ground, then to the stoop. Slipping on the wet surface, he fell through the doorway. The flickering light from the fireplace revealed the mayhem.

No! No! He screamed. Oh, my God, no. He ran to his wife and lifted her head into his lap. What have they done to you? He cried. Oh my Ruthie."

The sight was unbearable, a mass of blood and flesh. He covered her body with a rug, and then gently closed her eyes with his fingers. Holding her in his arms, he rocked and cried, Oh my God, what have I done to my Ruthie?

Nathan had received anonymous threats of harm if he didn’t back off his investigative reporting. Never taking the threats seriously, he continued to probe. Now….

Strength left Nathan's body—he couldn’t move. He held on to his wife; rocking, crying, and shaking. The minutes dragged into an hour, and Nathan didn’t move from the floor. Feelings of guilt filled his mind.

Why couldn’t they have killed me, instead of innocent people, people who had never hurt anyone?

He leaned over and softly kissed Ruth’s forehead.

How I love you, my darling, He said aloud, then gently lifted her head from his lap and rested it on the floor. Looking around, he found a pillow, slipped it under her head, and slowly brushed her cheeks with the back of his hand. A sound from the door alerted him. He quickly stood, wishing he had a gun.

Jeremiah, stood in the doorway.

Mista Hunt, is-is you in there? Is you all right? He stuttered. I ain’t s-see no light on. I-I’s jus come to get the b-buggy, and put up the h-hoss.

Jeremiah, something awful has happened. Someone killed the Master, Missus Wythe and… and my Ruthie. It’s just…. He wept, not able to finish.

Mista Hunt, w-who could do such a thing? My M-Master, the Missus, and M-Miss Ruth, I knowd her from da-day what she been born. He shook his head and tears welled up, Oh my Savior, they all d-dead. Oh Mista Hunt, w-what we gonna do?

Listen to me. Nathan took Jeremiah’s head in his hands and looked him straight in the eyes, then taking a deep breath, he spoke slowly, You take the buggy and go to the police. Tell them all you’ve seen, and get them back here as quick as possible.

Jeremiah wasn’t the brightest of the domestic help, but was as dependable as the sunrise once he understood what was expected.

Yes Sa, Mista Hunt, y-yes Sa, Jeremiah said, and started for the door.

Nathan called. Use the whip, quick now, and close the door.

Nathan had reported on many gruesome crimes, and watched as the investigators pieced the puzzles together, never dreaming it could happen to his family. He looked at Simon, in a sitting position, slumped on the hearth with his back resting against the stone fireplace surround. A poker held loosely in his right hand lay across his legs. Nathan looked away and left the room, it was too much. Sickness flowed through his veins like venom.

In the library, the life drained from his body, and he collapsed in a large overstuffed chair. Holding his head with his hands, he rubbed vigorously and wiped the tears as they streamed down his face. The pain was tremendous and unrelenting. A decanter of Scotch whisky sat on the side table next to him. Not seeing a glass, he tipped the vessel and took a gulp. He coughed as the heat settled down through his body, replacing the tight pain that had gripped him. Another gulp and his belly warmed. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Oh—dear God, how can this be?

Chapter 2

When Jeremiah arrived with the police the moonless night had grown still, overcast with threatening clouds. Lightning flashed in the distance and rumblings of thunder grew faint.

The fire in the fireplace had burned out, leaving the mansion in total darkness. Nathan had not moved from the chair where he slumped, grieving.

Jeremiah gave a loud knock and then pushed the door inward. Nathan stood and returned to the parlor.

St-stand right there officers and I’s gonna light some lamps and a p-put a log on da fia, Jeremiah said, feeling his way to the fireplace.

Nathan waited for the light before inviting the officers in.

Sorry officers, Nathan said. I should’ve had them lit for you. He didn’t have the strength, or even care if he ever saw light again. He refused to look at the carnage and turned away. I’ll be in the library if you need me.

Detectives Yancy and Callahan were thorough with their investigation. They sketched the room and the location of the bodies, and then wrapped the fire iron in an oilcloth, putting it in their police wagon. As they were preparing to leave Chief of Police, Daniel Crocker arrived. Nathan met him in the parlor.I got here as soon as I could, he shook Nathan’s hand. I can’t tell you how deep this cuts into my heart.

Thank you, Chief. Nathan wiped his eyes and said no more.

I’ve known the Wythes since I was but a sprout. Crocker said, looking around the room, wiping the water from his balding head. What kind of fiend could do something like this? Then he mumbled in a low voice. Lucifer and his angels.

Chief Crocker turned to the detectives, The coroner should be here at any moment. You two stay here until he arrives and lend him a hand. Nathan—did Simon have any enemies that you know of?"

Not one. I’ve made some enemies of late. I’m sure there’s a connection.

Nathan turned to go back to the library. If you need me, Chief, Pointing to the door.

Crocker acknowledged with a hand gesture, and turned back to the detectives.

Nathan sat in the chair where he had been before. He looked at the decanter of Scotch, but resisted, knowing he needed all his faculties unencumbered.

Chapter 3

Avery Scott, Simon Wythe’s attorney, was a man in his late fifties, overweight, with jowls that hung and shook as he talked. Nathan wondered how long it had been since the counselor had been outside the city limits. He seemed to live and breathe his profession.

However, Nathan wasn’t there to judge appearances, nor the human condition. He had been summoned by Avery to come by as soon as possible to review the Last Will and Testament of Simon Wythe.

Sit, Mister Hunt, Avery said, his jowls swinging. My condolences. You’ve suffered an awful loss. Simon Wythe and his family were wonderful people, and a great asset to our community. We shall miss them greatly.

Thank you, Sir.

Simon and I go way back, Avery, reminisced. I remember when he first arrived. He told me he wanted a good attorney, even before he visited the Capitol, which was onle a few blocks away. My office was over on Third and Market in those days. I’ve represented him ever since.

He spoke highly of you, Nathan said.

The reason I asked you to come in so soon after the tragedy is that, in the past, Simon left the decisions up to me. Investments, I’m talking about… that brings us to the will.

Nathan looked at Avery without speaking, holding his chin in his hand.

You see, Mister Hunt, Simon left everything to you and Ruth. You are the only surviving heir, the entire estate will go to you.

Dad never mentioned his will, nor did Ruthie. I wonder if she knew.

No. Avery said. Simon wanted it kept a secret, as well as his worth.

He was a very humble man, Nathan said. He never talked about his wealth or business.

Avery pushed the will in front of Nathan, along with a stack of other papers.

The will is straight forward. Read it. If you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them. Then I’ll need your signature on that stack. I’ll get it all recorded.

Avery continued to stack folders on the desk as Nathan read. By the time, he finished reading the will, the desk was covered with binders, folders and ledgers. A slightly built man, wearing a green, silk eyeshade and sleeve garters entered from an adjoining office.

Mister Hunt, may I present Nicholas Friedman, your father-in-law’s personal accountant and financial advisor.

Nathan stood and the two men shook hands.

Gentlemen, Nathan faced both men. A great responsibility has been thrust upon me and I am overwhelmed. It’s not the inheritance, although its overwhelming enough. The two of you can continue to handle it as though Simon was still alive, if you care to. How did Mister Wythe compensate you for your services?

Nicholas and I have been on an annual retainer for over thirty years plus a small percentage of the profits, Avery confided.

For the past five years Mister Wythe has been our only client, Nicholas added. We’re slowing up, you know.

If you will accept my offer to continue, nothing will change, everything goes on as usual.

Mister Hunt, it will be an honor, Avery said, extending his hand.

Nicholas followed with a handshake.

I will expect a quarterly report, Nathan said. Delivered to my bank, in care of the manager, Hulbert Simpson, of Stephen Girard’s Bank, Philadelphia.

The two men looked at each other and then back to Nathan.

Mister Hunt you sound a whole lot like Simon, Avery said. Will you be around if we need you?

No. Nathan said. Well, maybe I shouldn’t be so emphatic. I don’t expect to be available. You see, I have a murderer or murderers to find, and I don’t want anything interfering with that."

Are you sure you’re up to that task? Avery said, looking over his spectacles.

I don’t know—I suppose time will tell.

* * *

Chief Crocker sat leaning over his desk, reviewing crime reports, as Nathan entered his office. Glancing up, he stood and extended his hand.

We haven’t come up with much, Crocker said. The storm washed away any tracks. The blood on the poker is the only evidence and we’re not sure of that with all the blood everywhere. However, if the blood is from one of the murderers he has a deep cut somewhere. If it’s on his head it will be hard to hide, if he survived.

With the poker in Simon’s hand and the blood on it, it seems almost certain that he struck one of the murderers before he was killed with the shotgun."

Three people murdered by shotgun blasts make me suspect at least two murderers and possibly more. That’s all I have to go on. No eye witnesses—even the domestic staff didn’t hear anything with the storm and all.

Yes, that was quite a storm. I was in my buggy heading home.

I’m sorry I don’t have more, Mister Hunt. We’ve put the word out and offered a reward to our usual snitches, but so far they’re quiet.

Chief—I’m not resting until I find ’em.

If you get any information bring it to me, we’ll handle it. Don’t you go and get involved. You’re a newspaper man, not a policeman.

It’s too late Chief. That was my family. I am involved.

A light knock on the office door alerted the chief. He arose from his chair and opened the door slightly. A hand thrust in an envelope.

Thanks, The Chief said, and returned to his desk. Excuse me just a moment—never know when it might be important.

He opened the envelope and pulled out a small note. Holding it in his hand, he walked to the door and called the desk sergeant, Have my buggy brought around, quick now. He then spun around to face Nathan. Do you have time to go for a ride? This could be our first break.

Chapter 4

It was a short ride to Doctor Snyder’s home and office. At 29 Sully Street, Chief Daniel Crocker set the brake on the buggy and looked at Nathan.

Cross your fingers Mister Hunt, this could be the break, we’re looking for.

Let’s find out.

The men stepped from the buggy and walked to the door. A sign reads Walk-in. A bell tinkled and a woman came from behind a curtain to greet them.

Good day Chief Crocker. What brings you here?

I need to talk to the Doc, Madam. On business, we’re not sick.

Take a seat, gentlemen, I’ll get Doctor Snyder. She turned and disappeared behind the curtain.

Shortly, the doctor appeared, Hello Chief Crocker. I haven’t seen you since the last election.

I’ve been staying well, The Chief said. It’s good to see you Doctor. This is Nathan Hunt—you probably know him, or of him.

The two men exchanged greetings.

Yes, Mister Hunt, I’m familiar with your work, and I’m very sorry for your loss. What an awful thing. As I said in my note, I’m not sure if this is important, or not, but I thought I ought to mention it.

Everything’s important Doc, Chief Crocker said. Tell us what you have.

Well, the morning after the murders, three men showed up. One had an awful head wound, right across his left eye. He said he had been drinking and fell off his horse. I didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t any of my business, so I stitched up the gash and bandaged him up. I told him to be back here the next day so I could change the dressing, but he only grunted.

It wasn’t until the next day, when I read about the murders, that I wondered if the two were connected."

Can you describe him? Nathan asked, looking at the doctor intently.

"Oh sure. He’s marked for life with that cut across his eye. I wouldn’t be surprised if he loses it. He’s sure to lose sight in it.

What about his features? Chief Crocker asked. Was he tall, short, big, what color hair, how was he dressed?"

Doctor Snyder described the man and Chief Crocker took notes.

"Thank you Doc, you’ve been a real help. They all shook hands and the Chief and Nathan left.

They had just reached the buggy when Doctor Snyder came out of the door and yelled.

Chief, Mister Hunt, come back, I forgot one thing. Back in the office, he opened a cabinet drawer and took out a package.

I thought this might be important and then I forgot about it, Doctor Snyder said, as he opened the package. He had this tied around his head. It’s totally soaked with blood, but it might mean something.

Chief Crocker looked at the blood-soaked knitted garment. That’s a lot of blood. Looks like a baby sweater, as he turned to Nathan.

Nathan stared at the garment, but couldn’t speak. He nodded his head and left the room.

Wrap it up Doc, Crocker said. I’ll take it with me.

* * *

Jeremiah stood by the buggy waiting for Nathan at the front of the mansion. Inside Nathan finished his breakfast, and Geraldine, the cook and housekeeper, removed his plate and filled his coffee cup.

Thanks Geraldine, I don’t know what I’d do without you.

You welcome Mista Hunt, she said, tears running down her face. Oh Mista Hunt, she cried. What we gonna do? I love ‘em like they my own people and now they gone. She burst into uncontrollable crying.

Nathan stood and wrapped his arms around her, and held her tight.

I know Geraldine, I know. I hurt too. It’s awful, but we have to be strong. Everything is going to be all right. You are my people and I’m going to take care of you. Now don’t you worry.

I’m sorry Mista Hunt. I ain’t mean to bother you. My insides is all tore up.

Better get Jeremiah a cup of coffee. Call him in when I leave. I’ll be back sometime tonight.

Yassa Mister Hunt

Nathan greeted Jeremiah, stepped up into the buggy and after adjusting his hat, Jeremiah handed him the reins.

Be c-c-careful Mista Hunt, someone out there maybe want to k-k-kill you.

Thank you Jeremiah, I’ll keep a sharp eye. By the way, I saw Geraldine making a fresh pot of coffee. Why don’t you go in and share it with her.

Yassa, Mista Hunt. Thank you.

And, Jeremiah—stay around close today. Geraldine… well, she’s hurting something awful. Be a help if you can.

Nathan clucked his tongue and lightly, slapped the reins urging the gelding into a trot.

Chapter 5

Nathan checked with Chief Crocker on a daily basis for any leads that might have come in. Three weeks revealed little other than the name, James Bigelow missing since the day of the murders.

Nathan was not surprised. He recalled his father-in-law referring to the likes of Bigelow as roaches, always hiding in dark places.

It was one thing to have a name, but quite another to track him down. A man could hide in a town of 50,000 people, but if he moved about someone would notice. Nathan stayed vigilant, checking railroad stations, steamboat and stage depots daily. He offered rewards for any information concerning a man with a bandage around his head or anyone with a scar by his left eye.

* * *

Under instructions from Nathan, Geraldine and Jeremiah removed and burned every piece of furniture, rug, book or paper stained with blood. They then covered all the remaining furniture and sealed the room, a process that they repeated throughout the mansion except for the kitchen, servant’s area, library, and Nathan and Ruthie’s bedroom.

Nathan assumed his quest for revenge would be long, and perhaps take him places he never dreamed of going. He planned his future, as much as he could, under the circumstances. Knowing he might have to leave without notice, he took the opportunity to put all his business in order.

Avery had full instructions and Power of Attorney along with Nathan’s Last Will and Testament. Nathan informed his banker of his intentions. He withdrew enough cash to last indefinitely, along with a letter of introduction and credit.

Nathan had put his business in order. The domestic help would be paid as normal. They were employees and would report to Avery. Jeremiah and Geraldine would be in charge of the mansion but would answer to Avery. He prepared as much as one could, should he have to leave on the spur of the moment. The rest he would learn along the way.

He had grown up in the city feeling more comfortable behind a desk then on a horse. He was tough minded but physically soft. However, he learned fast, and could adapt. The hurt he carried inside trumped all shortcomings and reservations he might have. James Bigelow would feel his pain, once they met, if indeed the scar faced man turned out to be that of, Big Jim Bigelow.

* * *

Jeremiah held the reins, until Nathan had adjusted his hat firmly in place, and then handed them to his young boss as he was accustom to doing.

Mista Hunt, a r-rider at the f-front gate. Jeremiah pointed. He been standin’ there for s-some time now.

Nathan looked at the rider and studied the image for a moment.

You wonst m-me to go wit cha, Mista Hunt?

No Jeremiah, it looks like a kid, probably another beggar.

You b-be careful, Mista Hunt.

I will—you look after the place, Jeremiah.

Nathan clucked his tongue and lightly slapped the reins. At the gate, he set the brake and hopped from the buggy to open the gate. "Good morning stranger.

I ain’t no stranger. You know me, Mister Hunt. I’m Ivan. Ivan Underwood. I met you at the train station two weeks ago. Don’t you remember me? You said if I saw a man with a bandage or scar over his left eye to come and see you.

Oh yes, I remember. I didn’t recognize you under that big hat, sitting on a horse.

You told me there was a reward, that’s what ya said.

That’s exactly right, Nathan, said looking sternly at the boy. Tell me… tell me everything. Did he get on the train? Which train?

No, Mister Hunt.

What do you mean no?

I mean he didn’t get on a train. I didn’t see him at the train station. He came to Jacobsen’s Blacksmith shop. I work there sometimes pumping the bellows for Mister Jacobsen. He says he has arthritis in his shoulder and it just almost kills him.

Tell me about the scar. What did he look like?

He ain’t as tall as you, but he’s big, has black hair, orders people around like he’s the boss of everybody. I didn’t like him. He had a bad temper and could look a hole straight through you with that one eye.

What about his eye?

I didn’t actually see his bad eye—he had a piece of black cloth tied around his head. I saw some of the scar though. When he thought no one was looking he took off his hat and wiped the sweat. That cut reached from his forehead almost to his ear. It’s ugly, Mister Hunt, Ivan wrinkled his face. It had black stitches in it. Is they really cat gut?

I don’t know about the cat gut, but that’s got to be the man. What else can you tell me?

He must be really rich.

Why’s that?

His clothes, rich man’s clothes. Mister Jacobsen said his hat was beaver felt. He bought a new wagon too; new harnesses and everything. Over three hundred dollars, most money I ever saw.

Then what?

I had to keep pumping—I couldn’t hear nothing. That old bellows squeaked so loud, but I saw them hitch up the horses and leave.

Them?

Yeah, they was three. He bossed them around something awful.

Tell me about the other two men.

Well, the skinny one was about the same height as the man with the scar and the other was shorter, but wider. He was heavy, with yellow hair—had a big mustache. They both looked mean Mister Hunt, really mean, but he bossed them around like they was kids. That’s about all I know Mister Hunt.

Which way did they go?

They went south on Elm Street, but Philadelphia is so big they could turn any direction—sometimes I get lost.

Yes, I know. You’ve done good, Ivan; real well, and a deal’s a deal.

Nathan reached into his vest pocket, pulled out his wallet, counted out twenty dollars in one and five dollar bills, and handed them to Ivan.

Mister Hunt, that’s too much!

No. Ivan. If I catch that scar face, it’ll be the best money I ever spent. By the way, how old are you?

I’ll be fourteen in February.

You’re a good man, Ivan. Tell Mister Jacobsen to put some grease on those bellows.

* * *

Nathan quickly returned to the mansion, and went directly to the library. He pulled out a map of the city, spread it on a table and began making notes of every road and trail leaving the city.

Chapter 6

Nathan garnered enough information from eyewitnesses, to determine where the three men left the city and which road they traveled. Once convinced he had found their trail, he stocked his buggy with provisions and set out in pursuit. He could have taken the stagecoach, which he had pondered, but decided he needed the information he might pick up along the trail. The men he chased could turn at any juncture, and on a stage he would never know. He worked from crossroad to crossroad and town to town, down the Eastern Seaboard, from Philadelphia to Wilmington, Delaware to Newark, and on to Aberdeen, Maryland. The going had been tedious and slow, even discouraging at times but he pushed on. Dead end after dead end, and misinformation left him questioning his decision—and his sanity.

Nathan realized he had not been cut out for this kind of work. Perhaps he had acted out of emotion rather than common sense, but he wasn’t a quitter and the fire in his belly would not be quieted.

I’ve made mistakes, and I’ll make more, but mistakes can be corrected, and Big Jim Bigelow will pay, one way or another ….

By the time he reached Aberdeen, he had developed a new plan. It appeared certain that the next city would be Baltimore. With that in mind, Nathan left his horse and buggy at the livery stable along with a bill of sale and caught the stage. Worn out from the buggy ride and seeing he was losing ground, the stage seemed advantageous.

From Baltimore the trail led to Richmond and then turned west. Lexington would be his next stop. Nathan was confident of two things. One, that he was on the trail of Big Jim Bigelow, and two, Bigelow wouldn’t be holing up in some backwater town. He’d be heading to a big city, somewhere. There he could blend in and worm his way into the easy money.

As the stage rocked along toward Lexington, Nathan stretched out to nap. However, it