Shadow of the Mogollon Rim: A Clint Wells Arizona Ranger Adventure

By Craig Main

SHADOW of the MOGOLLON RIM

Being a Texas Ranger had its rewardsthough they were few and far betweenbut after twelve long and lonely years on horseback tracking down and arresting what seemed like an endless number of ruthless, cold-blooded fugitives from justice, Clint Wells had had enough. By the grace of God, he had survived the hardships and dangers of his job. At thirty-seven years of ageand feeling several years olderthe time had finally come to hang up his reliable Colt revolver, surrender the tarnished silver badge, and head further west.
The Arizona Territory had its own brand of special lawmen, the Arizona Rangers, and they needed Clints priceless experience. If they got their way, he would not be hanging up his six-shooter anytime soon.
The year was 1892; the place was central Arizonaand the wonderful smell of late spring was in the air.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467025546

Craig Main

CRAIG MAIN, a United States Air Force retiree and “baby boomer,” is an inspiring new author of Western novels. Though he currently resides in his home state of Indiana, he lived primarily in Arizona for most of his adult life—beginning in 1965. In addition to writing novels, he also enjoys oil painting and playing his acoustic guitar. Craig spent a good deal of his free time camping, hiking, and mountain-biking in the Tonto National Forest and Sitgreaves National Forest, which encompass a large portion of the Mogollon Rim. He is very familiar with the towns and locations mentioned in this exciting new novel. His character, Clint Wells, reflects his Western spirit. This is a novel that young adults and “baby boomers” alike can enjoy.

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© 2011 by Craig Main. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/09/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2553-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2552-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2554-6 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916193

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Cast of Characters

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 Fifteen

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

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

The Author

A very special

Thank You

To my dear friend,

And tireless editor of this book

IRIS JEAN STATON-MATTHEWS

This novel is lovingly dedicated

To the memory of

my brother, Gary,

My Dad,

and paternal

Grandparents.

Cast of Characters

Clint Wells, a former Texas Ranger, had hung up his six-shooter and was currently pursuing his dream of starting a new life somewhere in the vast Arizona Territory. But events have a way of delaying a man’s future plans. Before his dream could come to fruition, his Colt would have to be put back into action to battle a deadly gang of outlaws—and a man bent on revenge.

Connie Raye Lynne, a woman of unrivaled beauty, was fleeing from an unwanted relationship with a man who would not take no for an answer. She, too, was presently seeking a new life, but she had to keep looking over her shoulder. To let down her guard could mean the difference of living or dying.

Robert Lynne, a former U.S. Cavalry soldier, was living peacefully in the high country of the Arizona Territory. In spite of the harsh conditions, he had managed to carve out a meaningful existence for himself. Then one day in late spring, he unwittingly invited danger and death into his world when he welcomed a person he loved to share his home.

Reed Dagon, a dishonest gambler and a man cruel to the bone, wasn’t about to let the woman of his dreams walk out of his life without a final confrontation. He vowed to track her down—even to the ends of the earth—no matter how long it took.

Lisa Reavis, a lovely and somewhat naive young woman, was struggling hard in the wake of a personal tragedy to carve out a decent life for herself in the unforgiving Arizona Territory. Her life had seen more sadness than joy. Then one day, by chance, she met a man that she hoped would bring real happiness into her life—and much needed love.

Frank Carver, a would-be gunfighter and former leader of a band of cattle thieves, had been hiding out in the panhandle region of north Texas, but now he was tracking the man responsible for bringing his younger brother to justice—and to the gallows.

Wes Baden, a cunning and selfish man, wanted it all. If anyone controlled the beautiful Mogollon Rim country, it would be him—and him alone. Outsiders would have to face his gang of ruthless killers if they figured to stake their claim on the Rim.

Billy Blackheart, tagged with a name that ironically suited his dark and evil personality, was a man better known to the locals as the Tonto Basin Kid. He was as cold-blooded as a man could get, and willingly hired out his pair of six-shooters to anyone with enough money to purchase his fast and deadly draw. It only took a quick glance at his gun handles to see that he was running out of room for any additional notches.

Prologue

Being a Texas Ranger had its rewards—though they were few and far between—but after twelve long and lonely years on horseback tracking down and arresting what seemed like an endless number of ruthless, cold-blooded fugitives from justice, Clint Wells had had enough. By the grace of God, he had survived the hardships and dangers of the job. At thirty-seven years of age—and feeling several years older—the time had finally come to hang up his reliable Colt revolver, surrender the tarnished silver badge, and head further west.

It had been a long and arduous journey from Fort Stockton, Texas, to the high country of the Arizona Territory. Roughly six hundred miles had passed beneath his saddle. Forty-five days ago he bade farewell to his friends and fellow Texas Rangers and set out for this new—largely unexplored—territory. The year was 1892, and the wonderful smell of late spring was in the air.

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Chapter One

Friday, April 22, 1892.

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Clint Wells was buried deep in his thoughts as he rode along the narrow, rocky wagon road aboard his faithful steed, Liberty. This was, without a doubt, the finest horse he had ever owned. His conformation was nearly flawless. Even though he would turn seven years old on the Forth of July, this large chestnut stallion was as healthy as a two-year-old colt. Liberty would play a vital role in Clint’s future plans. In-tow, was a sturdy and willing packhorse laden with the minimum essentials for his personal survival. Belle was her name—a well-mannered six-year-old buckskin mare that he had purchased in Fort Stockton just a few days prior to leaving Texas.

Just now, however, Clint’s thoughts were not focused on his horses or his future plans. Sadly, his mind was recalling why he no longer had any family ties to Texas.

To start with, Clint’s only brother, Chad, a seasoned San Angelo peace officer, had been killed less than four months ago while trying to apprehend a man in the act of robbing the town’s only bank. Watching the wooden coffin, containing his brother’s body, being covered by the powdery Texas soil had been a gut-wrenching experience. Following Chad’s burial, Clint had wasted little time in searching for his brother’s killer. Riding out alone, he had been instrumental in tracking down, capturing, and bringing the fugitive back to San Angelo for trial. Even though the punishment fit the crime, watching the guilty man that killed his brother swing from a hangman’s expertly knotted rope brought little satisfaction or peace to his heavy heart.

Clint was also thinking about his younger sister, Mary Ellen, who lived back east somewhere—maybe the Carolinas, but he was not certain. Regrettably, he had lost touch with her several years ago when she married and moved away from Austin. Perhaps one day he would search for her.

And, lastly, Clint was thinking about his parents who had passed away prematurely nearly a decade ago. They had tried and failed many times to eke out a decent living for themselves on their small cattle ranch near San Angelo. Cholera, slowly and painfully, took the life of his father; his poor, distressed mother died a few months later of an apparent broken heart.

The West was, without a doubt, a tough and unforgiving land. Many adventurous men and women had already died trying to tame it. Most of the trails leading westward were littered with innumerable rotting wooden crosses.

Suddenly, without warning, a loud flutter in a nearby clump of bushes quickly returned Clint to the present. It startled him to the point of causing his heart to literally skip a beat. To his relief, it was only a frightened wild turkey taking flight to avoid human contact. It settled back to earth about fifty yards away. Feeling exceedingly tense, Clint took in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, and then slowly exhaled. He quickly repeated the exercise. It helped.

Not many days ago, Clint stopped briefly at a mercantile store in Show Low to replenish his supplies—and to acquire some very necessary travel information. Since he was not at all certain of his final destination, the helpful merchant provided him with a hand-drawn map displaying two different travel routes—one to Fort Verde, and the other to Payson. The crude map identified the deeply rutted and rock-strewn road that he was currently traveling on as the Crook Trail.

During his conversation with the kindly merchant, Clint learned that General George Crook and his troops had blazed this wagon trail for use as a key military supply route to Fort Verde. The merchant also mentioned that Indian attacks had been pretty numerous along this route but, thankfully, the number of battles with the Apache had started to decline nearly a decade ago.

Clint recalled the merchant saying that one battle in particular, the Battle of Big Dry Wash, in July of 1882, was the beginning of the end for the Apache war effort in central Arizona.

Clint studied his surroundings. He wondered how much U.S. Cavalry and Apache blood covered this road over the years. Many lives, he surmised, must have been lost on both sides of the issue. On one side, the indigenous people—struggling to hold on to their ancestral lands; on the other side, the overly adventurous settler—filled with aspiration for exploration and eventual expansion of the United States westward. This scenario had been repeated over and over many times since man first set foot on the eastern shores of the new untamed continent.

Clint also learned from the merchant that this great escarpment he was traveling upon was widely known as the Mogollon Rim, or Rim. The locals preferred the latter. The merchant was not at all certain where the name originated, but offered up a couple of possible sources. Clint was hopeful that at some future date he would learn the true origin of the odd name for this mighty escarpment.

Although Texas had its own unique brand of beauty, the vast breath-taking scenery of Arizona’s high country wholly awed Clint. Judging from the limitless views, he roughly guessed that he must be at least a thousand feet above the tree-covered basin that stretched out below him. Though he had guessed correctly about his elevation above the basin, he certainly had no way of knowing that he was now riding along at more than seven thousand feet above sea level.

No matter which direction Clint scanned, all that he saw impressed him. To the south, perhaps seventy miles or more, he could see a large mountain range running non-stop from east to west. And what looked to be the tallest mountain in the range had four peaks rising up in close proximity to each other. From such a long distance, he was not sure if he was looking at four separate mountains, or just one mountain with four distinct peaks.

In addition to the awesome scenery, this high country was blessed with an extensive variety of wildlife. Clint had sighted, in just the past few days, numerous mule deer bounding across the roadway, several small elk herds freely grazing in the distant meadows, and one large black bear roaming among the aspen not fifty yards from the wagon road he was now traveling. But, the most memorable sighting had been the mountain lion that had ventured too close to his campsite yesterday morning. The horses, reacting to the nearness of the lion, pulled free of their tether line. Only Clint’s quick action prevented the horses from running away.

Perhaps one day he would talk, at length, to someone who could tell him more about his wild and wonderful surroundings. But, before doing that, Clint had to decide if this high country was the best area to settle down in. Just three months ago, he had considered riding westward until he soaked his boots in the Pacific Ocean. But, being keenly aware that California was already becoming overcrowded, he quickly axed that idea. It was now long-settled in his thinking that Arizona would become his new home. The only matter left to settle was—where in Arizona?

It was late in the afternoon when Clint reined his steed northward off the roadway in search of a suitable overnight camping site. Traveling a short distance, he located a shady patch of ground beneath some tall ponderosa pines that was somewhat free of rocks. Nearby, was a large patch of tall grass surrounded by a small grove of aspen. It took him roughly an hour to set up his primitive campsite, which included tending to the needs of his horses.

From the time Clint said good-bye to Texas until now, most of his nights had been spent camping entirely alone on the trail—far from any established settlements. On a few rare occasions, he had camped on the outskirts of a town. Show Low had been one of those towns. Since leaving Show Low, he had, on two different occasions, camped on the grounds of a way station with the way master’s permission. Those two stations being: Deer Springs and Forest Lakes. He was even able to buy a small amount of hay at each station for his horses, and fill his water bag and canteen. However, they would not sell him any food—primarily because their own rations were low.

As the sun slowly began to hide its face behind the western-most mountain range, the high-altitude air rapidly turned chilly. Even though the month of May was just nine days away, warmer weather had not yet found its way to this lofty elevation. Clint quickly donned his corduroy jacket, and went in search of some additional dry wood for his campfire. (April’s average temperature is: low, 34 degrees; high, 69 degrees. Snow showers are not uncommon.)

Twenty minutes later, a roaring fire was warming his chilled body and heating his evening meal of brown beans and biscuits. Mercifully, it was not always beans and biscuits for dinner. Quail, squirrels, and rabbits had been plentiful along the trail—and thanks to his new double-barreled shotgun, he had been able to treat himself to fresh meat on several occasions. As for the horses, the grass was tall and somewhat plentiful in most areas—and they managed, on most days, to eat their fill.

After completing his meal, Clint set about finishing the evening’s routine tasks. One of those tasks involved suspending his food sack from a lofty tree branch to prevent hungry bears and other sneaky critters from devouring the last of his cache of food. He knew from past experience that a bear could smell right through a tin can—and tear it open with ease.

With darkness swiftly enveloping the Rim, Clint added more wood to the campfire, retrieved his rifle, and headed for his canvas shelter. He removed his corduroy jacket, leather vest, and flannel shirt—and carefully hung them on the stub of a broken tree branch. Feeling a sudden chill, he hastily wrapped himself in his bedroll. It felt good to be lying here under the glimmering stars. The sound of the wind whispering through the tops of the towering pines soothed his soul. Sleep came quickly to his tired, aching body.

° ° °

Several miles west of Clint’s campsite, a small cattle ranch was being swiftly engulfed by the expanding shadow of the Mogollon Rim as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

The ranch’s owner, Robert Lynne, had finished his daily chores, and was now sitting in one of his rocking chairs on the front porch of his modest two-bedroom log cabin. He loved his surroundings, and always gave thanks to God for all that he possessed. He was not a rich man by secular standards, but he felt rich in his heart—and that was all that mattered to him. He had a solid roof over his head, a sturdy barn, a good horse, a faithful dog, a healthy herd of cattle, and some money in the bank. But greater than all these worldly things was the peace of knowing that Jesus Christ lived in his heart and soul. For Robert, there was no greater joy or blessing.

If Robert was missing anything at all, it was the love of a good and decent woman. He had been so busy the past few years tending to the needs of his ranch that he never found time to socialize with those who lived around him. He knew that some of the nearby ranchers had eligible daughters, but he had never taken the time to visit those ranches.

I have no time to go hunting for a bride. If God wants me to meet a nice girl, He will bring her—right to my front door, he jokingly declared as he jumped up from the rocking chair and went into the house to retire for the night.

As Robert placed the kerosene lamp on top of his dresser, he glanced over at the letter he had received several days ago. It was from his sister who resided in southern Indiana. She wrote to say that she would soon be departing Indiana and coming directly to his ranch. She even provided a rough outline of her travel itinerary. However, she did not provide any dates, nor did she state the reason behind her impromptu visit—only that she would explain everything when she got there. He was deeply worried for her. It was a long way for a young, single woman to travel alone. He would pray again tonight for her safe arrival.

Chapter Two

A new day dawns brightly on the Mogollon Rim. An uneasy feeling. A killer stalks his prey.

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Clint Wells awoke as the first rays of sunlight peeked above the horizon. He reluctantly crawled out of his warm bedroll and looked about his campsite to see if anything was amiss. Both (hobbled) horses were blissfully grazing nearby. His dwindling cache of food, which was hanging from a nearby limb, was accounted for, as well. All seemed to be in order.

Clint (his torso covered only by a thin cotton undershirt) immediately felt a shiver run up his back and down his arms. He hastily donned his shirt, vest, and jacket. Mornings were cold on the Rim!

Though the campfire had virtually gone out sometime during the night, a few hot embers remained. He tossed a large handful of dry pine needles on top of those embers—they immediately flared up. Next, he added some small twigs. As soon as the twigs ignited, he tossed on some larger pieces of wood. It did not take very long for the fire to get hot enough to warm his chilled body.

Clint lowered his food sack from the tree branch, and retrieved two hard biscuits and a small packet of ground coffee beans. Breaking off a long slender twig from a nearby aspen, he ran the tip of it through the middle of one of the biscuits and held it high over the yellow flame of the fire. It only took a minute for the biscuit to soften up. However, the water in his coffee pot seemed to take forever to boil at this high altitude. He could tell the air was thin here. He had felt a bit light-headed the past few days. He figured it would take several more days for his body to fully adjust to the altitude. But, for the moment, he just hoped it would not take all day for his water to get hot enough to make coffee!

After finishing off another warmed biscuit, Clint poured the coffee into his cup. The coffee was barely hot—and it was weak-flavored, as well. He was trying his utmost to conserve the coffee beans, and had reduced the amount he normally used to make coffee. He knew he needed to locate a town, or a trading post, and stock up on supplies.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Clint extracted the hand-drawn map. It indicated that Payson was probably no more than thirty-five miles west of his present location—much closer, it seemed, than Fort Verde. However, Payson was below the Rim, at the head of the Tonto Basin. Fortunately, the map indicated a narrow trail descending down from the top of the Rim to join the main stagecoach road below at a place called Christopher Creek. He hoped he could locate the trail; all the while realizing it would probably not be easy getting himself and the horses down from the high and steep-walled escarpment.

Clint also reasoned, based on his current rate of travel, that it would most likely take a full day or longer to get to Payson. He recalled the hasty decision he had made only two days ago, when he had chosen to leave the main stagecoach road to Payson and follow the Crook Trail toward Fort Verde. The main road would have taken him to Payson in much less time, but he had wanted to investigate the Rim more thoroughly. He was now wondering if that had been a good decision. Getting down from the Rim via some steep, rocky, narrow trail could put him and the horses in grave danger of falling to their deaths.

After tending to his horses, Clint began the necessary process of breaking camp. An hour later, he was ready to travel once again—destination—Payson. Clint mounted Liberty, gave him a pat on the neck, and nudged him forward. With a gentle tug on the towrope, Belle dutifully picked up the pace.

Two miles further west, where the wagon road passed near the Rim’s edge, Clint reined in his horse, and took a moment to absorb the spectacular beauty of the view that readily lent itself to him. Once again, he could see perhaps seventy miles to the south—and staring back at him was that tall faint mountain with the four peaks that he had seen the day before. In the next instant, Clint noticed something that he had not seen before. It was a wisp of smoke coming from behind a low mountain ridge about ten miles to the southeast.

What do you think, big fellow, is that a campfire or chimney smoke? Clint asked aloud as he patted Liberty on the neck. Reckon it could be coming from a nearby ranch.

Liberty snorted and bounced his head up and down several times.

I know, big fellow, acknowledged Clint, with a chuckle in his voice, if only you could talk.

In a small way, Clint did not feel quite so lonesome anymore. There were people living out here in this vast pine wilderness. Perhaps he would have some neighbors after all—that is, if he decided to stake out a few acres of the Rim for himself.

Suddenly, Clint felt a chill run up and down his arms and back again. However, this time it was not from the cold morning air. No, it was more akin to that odd feeling he often got when he knew instinctively that someone was watching him.

° ° °

Billy Blackheart, better known to the locals as the Tonto Basin Kid, was not sure if he had been spotted by the tall stranger or not. He had quietly dismounted, and was holding his hand over his horse’s muzzle to keep him from snorting. Though he was about one hundred yards away, he was still able to observe most of what the stranger was doing. He, like this stranger, had also spent many a moment at the edge of the Rim taking in the inspiring views.

Earlier that morning, the Kid had spotted smoke coming from this stranger’s campfire, and had come to investigate. By the time he arrived at the campsite, it was deserted. Being an experienced tracker, he picked up the stranger’s trail in easy fashion. For now, the only thing on his mind was what to do about this solitary intruder. The last time this young killer caught up with a stranger camping along the southern border of the Mogollon Rim Ranch, he put a .45-caliber-sized hole in his chest.

This stranger, however, did not appear to the Kid to be just another run-of-the-mill homesteader. He noticed how the big man seemed very aware of his surroundings, and intensely alert to any threats. He acts just like a lawman, the Kid mumbled to himself, before realizing that the man was not even wearing a gun. Well, on second thought, no lawman in his right mind would be without his six-shooter strapped on—and tied down. I reckon he’s just a pilgrim driftin’ through, he again mumbled to himself.

In order to satisfy his curiosity, the Kid decided to follow the stranger another mile or two—just to see where he might be headed. It was still early in the day, and he did not have much else to do anyway. He would soon make up his mind if this stranger should live or die. Everyone living near the Rim knew that shooting homesteaders meant nothing to Billy Blackheart. Though only twenty years old, he had already killed eleven men.

Chapter Three

Many, many miles to the northeast of Clint Wells’ location, a stagecoach is making its way south.

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Connie Raye Lynne was not certain how many more bone-jarring miles she could endure aboard the southbound stagecoach. For the past hour, it had unmercifully tossed her slender body back and forth on the rock-hard seat. The stagecoach’s comfort level failed miserably when compared with the various Pullman cars that she had ridden aboard during the past week. The Pullman seats were softly padded and very comfortable. And, she enjoyed the way the Pullman cars swayed gently on their suspension-mounted trucks as they rolled along on the smooth iron rails.

The dirt road that she and her fellow passengers were presently traveling upon was full of potholes and ruts. Her dark-green dress was covered with the rust-colored dust that was being flung upwards by the big whirling wheels. The dust also caused her lungs to gasp for even the smallest amount of fresh air. And if things were not bad enough, one of her traveling companions made the need for fresh air an even greater issue.

At this point in our story, we need to go back in time—and uncover the single most important reason that forced Connie Lynne into her present situation. And, we will briefly review her westward journey.

On the sixteenth day of April, in a state of panic and despair, Connie surreptitiously departed the peaceful little town of Corydon, Indiana. A forty-year-old man that she despised—and could never care anything about—was making her life totally miserable.

Seven months ago, they literally ran into each other outside the general store. He had come out of the store in a needless rush and, without watching where he was going, rammed into her. If he had not grabbed her upper arm, she would have fallen backward—landing in the street. She had not been hurt, but what had upset her most was the way he continued to grip her arm and focus on her physical features. She had felt like he was undressing her with his eyes. Moreover, not many days after that initial encounter, she discovered that he was spying on her. He even showed up often at her workplace. Even though she had ignored every one of his advances, he just would not leave her alone. Not even her sternest warnings (to stay away) would dissuade him.

Prior to her departure from town, Connie was living with her aunt, Helen Myers. She moved into her aunt’s home after the shocking death of her parents. That was nearly nine years ago. Connie’s parents lost their lives in a major spring flood that engulfed Leavenworth, a tiny hamlet located near the shoreline of the Ohio River. She would probably have died alongside her parents had she not been away visiting her aunt. She often felt guilty over the fact that she was spared the tragedy that befell her godly parents.

Forsaking her aunt and fleeing town was deeply upsetting to Connie, but she was convinced that it was the only solution to a very bad situation. Nevertheless, with money she had saved while working as a waitress and cook at Ma Thurman’s Café—and with considerable monetary assistance from her aunt—she had secretly departed town on the first available stagecoach for the new railway station located in the northern town of Mitchell. After two transfers to other stage lines, she had arrived at the railway station late in the afternoon. That evening, as the sun sank below the western horizon, she boarded the westbound Ohio and Mississippi Railway (O&M) passenger train that operated exclusively between the cities of Cincinnati and St. Louis.

This was Connie’s first journey on a train—and it never occurred to her that something could travel faster than a horse. The experience had been frightening—and yet exhilarating—all at the same time. Additionally, there had been something quite mesmerizing about the click-clack of the big metal wheels as they rolled along on the endless ribbon of shiny iron rails.

While aboard the train, Connie learned from the porter that the O&M train had been in operation only since 1888. Back in her school days, Connie had learned that in 1830 there were only 23 miles of railroad track in all of America, but now, sixty-two years later, there was well over 100,000 miles of railroad track spanning the country. She also recalled reading about the completion of the first trans-continental railroad on May 10, 1869—at Promontory, Utah. She was only four years old at the time. So much progress had taken place in her twenty-seven years of life.

Even though the big Baldwin steam locomotive had progressed forward in a timely manner—at what seemed to Connie to be breakneck speeds—the many idle hours she spent in the Pullman had passed by at a painfully slow pace. There were two major problems associated with the initial leg of her rail trip: first, the train had made far too many stops along its route; and secondly, it had been dark for most of the trip to St. Louis. She had sorely wished to see lots of pretty scenery—but saw little or none.

The train was nearly an hour out of Mitchell before Connie had managed to settle back in her comfortable seat and read one of several Western dime novels that she had brought with her. Between chapters, she had tried—to no avail—not to think about her aunt and all the many friends she had left behind in Corydon and Leavenworth. But most of all, she had struggled hard not to think about her repulsive pursuer, and whether or not he had discovered her absence—and lastly, whether or not he would try to come after her when he did.

At one point in the evening, Connie had struck up a conversation with the conductor. He had inquired as to where she was from, and where she was heading. When she mentioned Corydon, he said that he had been there the prior year visiting Wyandotte Cave. She told him about her older brother, and how she was going to Arizona to visit him. The conductor had expressed to her how much