Relay

By Wayne Clary

An object found over 150 years ago now becomes the center of a murder and kidnapping story. A young woman traces her history and finds out something about all of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781304955005

Book preview

Relay

Relay

A Novel by Wayne Clary

Copyright © 2014 by Wayne Clary

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2014

ISBN 978-1-304-95322-3

Wayne Clary

5 Kamian Lane

Cherokee Village, AR 72529

Contents

Prolog

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Prolog

August, 1852

Matthew Harcourt pulled the reins of the big mare to the right, clicked his tongue on his teeth, and twisted in the saddle.  Making an about-face on his jet-black mount, he spurred her sides and headed back through the small canyon through which he had just ridden. The last few drops of the afternoon storm splashed and glistened wet on his leather overcoat in the fading sunlight.

He had seen what he had come to see.  He had found a passable trail that would lead the wagon train around the flooded Green River and then back to the established trail.  As a scout for the wagon train, it was his responsibility to find the best way to get the wagons and their contents where they were headed. 

It was the end of August in 1852, and this would be Matthew’s third wagon train for which he had scouted and led over the Oregon Trail. Last year he had led a train of 20 Mormon families westward as far as Utah.  The year before, his first, he had taken a smaller group from Independence Missouri all the way to Fort Boise, before they decided to head south on the California trail. Now, at a mere 21 years old, he had established a good name for himself.

This year, he had picked up a wagon train out of Independence, Kansas in May.  The first three months had gone well, but for the last three weeks, it seemed it had rained every day, making the trail almost impassable due to the mud.  The wagon wheels on many of the Conestoga-style wagons had mired so deeply that the group had spent several days just pulling one wagon or the other out of the mud only to have another mire up in just a few hundred feet.

At the point where they were now, the trail that normally parallelled the Green River in southern Wyoming was so flooded that it could not be forded at the island bar, where Matthew had crossed the two previous times, so he had ridden ahead of the train, down the southeast side of the river, looking for an alternate parallel trail. 

He had found a way around the flooded area about ten miles to the southeast, and he figured this new trail would connect back up to the old trail not far from Granger’s Landing, a trading outpost where he hoped they would have better luck fording the river.

He had ridden for a good eight to ten hours to find this passage he was looking for, and he decided he could not make it back to the wagon train by nightfall.  The wagon train was bogged down in the mud so they would not be going anywhere.  He also knew that it would take two days to pull the wagons out of the muck and get started on this southerly route, so he decided to find a flat spot and camp for the night.

As he reached the northeast end of the small canyon, he pulled his big horse to a stop and threw his right leg over the rear of the saddle and stepped to the ground.  His back was aching as he unbuckled the saddle and pulled it off the grateful mare.  She sighed a snort of relief and shook her body as the blanket was pulled from her back.  He patted her neck as he unsnapped the bridle and pulled it over her head.  She was a well-trained horse, and he trusted her to stay with him, so he never bothered to tie her up or hobble her.

She wandered over and found a patch of new grass, still wet from the latest rain shower earlier in the day, and began to munch. Harcourt found a high spot on a mound that was barren of any grass at all.  It wasn’t muddy, though, as the dirt seemed to be packed tightly.  There was a small stream about 40 paces to the west and Harcourt walked there, refilled his two canteens, and then walked back up to the barren mound and threw down his bedroll, kicked off his boots, and sat down, rubbing his toes.

He took out a small leather bag of dried beef and stuffed some in his mouth.  Too tired to go looking for a varmint to shoot for supper, he just threw his hat down, pulled off the leather cloak he had been wearing to stay dry in the drizzle of the afternoon, then he laid his head back on the bedroll, and looked up at the now-appearing stars starting to peek their way through the parting rain clouds. 

Good, he said to the mare, who was standing too far away to hear him anyway, shouldn’t have any rain tonight.  Maybe I’ll be able to get me some rest.

As he lay there, he thought of young Marcy Denham, a sixteen-year-old girl, who, with her family was in his wagon train moving out to Oregon to take advantage of free fertile farmland.  Marcy had not been shy in letting him know how she felt, not a month into the journey.  She always met him when he returned from scouting the trail, and had invited him numerous times to supper with her family. 

Marcy’s father never let the two of them out of his sight, and made sure they were never too close or alone together.  But two times, they had managed to slip off a short distance and talk.  He had kissed her twice, and the second time he had touched her breast.  The feeling that moment brought was enough for him to know he wanted to court her.   Her mother was a good looking woman, hardened by prairie life, but with a hint of softness that he could see in Marcy.

Marcy’s two brothers were also on the train, one younger than Marcy and one older.  Matthew figured the young one was maybe twelve or thirteen years old and was named Nathan, and the older one, in his late teens was named Charles.  Both brothers got along with Harcourt and on a few occasions, they had ridden with him on a day ride out on the eastern plains of Wyoming.  They were both good hunters and provided meat for the wagon train.

Harcourt's sixteen-year old brother, Billy was also on the train with them.  The Harcourt’s parents had died early and so Matthew and William had gone to live with their aunt and uncle.  Matthew had always been a responsible boy and had worked hard to help his aunt and uncle on their farm, but Billy had become too much of a problem for the older couple to manage, so when Matthew was old enough to leave and make his way in the world, they had convinced him to take young William...Billy with him.

Now on this night, lying on the hardpan dirt mound, as Harcourt thought about Marcy, he wondered if maybe this might be his last wagon train.  Maybe he would marry Marcy Denham and get some of that free land for himself and settle down.  He was 21 years old, and right now, with his aching back he felt like he was eighty. 

***

The sun shining in his eyes cruelly prompted him out of a very sensual dream involving himself  and the young Marcy Denham.  He only wished he could have finished the dream, having seen her nakedness and felt the softness of her skin pressed against his.  He threw off the leather rain cloak he had covered himself with and walked to a tree standing a dozen paces from his mounded campsite, and peed on it. 

He walked back to where he had slept and rolled up his bedroll.  He took a swig of water from his canteen and swished it around in his mouth and spit it out.  As the water from his mouth hit the ground, he noticed something shiny glistening in the muddy patch of dirt.  He poured a stream of water from his canteen onto the ground where the glistening object was revealed by the splashing of water onto the dirt.

What is that? he said to no one, and he bent down and scraped around the object.  Then he pulled a big knife from the scabbard on his side and scraped with the knife and scooped his hand under it and picked the object up.  It was a piece of clear material, like something he had seen in a Kansas City hotel lobby once…dangling from a chandelier.  Only this object was about ten inches long, and though at first glance it looked to be cylindrical in shape, it had twelve flat sides, evenly distributed around the circumference of the cylinder, and it came to a point at both ends.

What the hell is this he mumbled, now talking to himself.  He doused it with water from the canteen to wash off the dirt and grass, and he held it up to the morning sun, and looked through one edge.  The crystalline object split the light into rays of blue and red and yellow.  Looking down into the hole where he had uncovered the object, he saw another, identical to it.  He pulled it up and brushed the mud off of it, and held it next to the other one.  They were absolutely identical.

Thinking there might be more of the objects, he took a stick and dug around in the muddy hole, but finding none, he wrapped the two objects in a bandanna and stuffed them into his saddle bag.  Feeling hunger pangs, he threw another handful of jerky into his mouth and chewed it, while he saddled his horse, fastened the saddle bags, and tied his bedroll on top of the saddle with the leather straps that were threaded through the back of the saddle.

On the ride back to the wagon train, Matthew Harcourt thought several times of the fascinating objects he had found.  I need to show these things to Marcy.  She’ll love them, He thought.  He spurred Baby and she trotted a little faster.

Chapter 1

Present Day Pasadena California

When your parents die, you have this awful, alone feeling, Margarita Castillo said to her longtime boyfriend, Will Southly.  I mean, I know you are here for me, and all of my friends are here, but the connection to my past, to my history is gone now.  It’s like, OK now I’m the older generation

Feeling old would be new for her.  She was 32 years old, and was in great physical condition, a tribute to her three-times-weekly routine at the gym.  Her black hair surrendered to a few grey ones from time to time, but nothing that a little magic from Cecil, her hairdresser couldn’t manage.  Her pale blue eyes gave her an almost royal look. She was a beautiful woman.

"You are the next generation, Will said, but I don’t know if I would necessarily call you the older generation.  Not yet.  But I think I know what you mean.  Your dad was your link to your past."

They had been riding in silence on the forty-five minute ride back from the cemetery where they had watched as Margarita’s father had been buried beside her mother.  Margarita’s father had just passed away last week.  Her mother had died of lung cancer three years earlier.

"Your parents are still alive, she continued, so maybe you haven’t felt it yet.  But you have this sense that, it’s you now.  You are the link to the past.  And I don’t have any kids, so I guess unless I have some, it ends with me…you know what I’m saying?

Yeah, I think so, Will said, You kind of feel like your folks will always be there for you, you know, but eventually, well, life goes on.  I’m really sorry about your dad, Margee, I really liked him.  He was a real classy guy.  And no one knew his way around a car like him.

She smiled and touched Will’s hand.  He definitely was a great mechanic.  He could fix anything.

Margarita had been called Margee pronounced with a hard ‘G’ since her father called her that at her birth.  The Margarita was in honor of her dad’s grandmother on his father’s side.  His grandparents were descendents of a wealthy Mexican family who had lived in California for years before statehood in 1850. 

Her middle name Marcelle was for a distant relative on her mother’s side.  She had not known a lot about her, other than she had been a pioneer who crossed the country in a covered wagon. 

Will drove them from the Rose Hills cemetery to her father’s house in Pasadena, not talking much.  Margee cried