Gold on the Wagon Trail (Preview)

Prologue

March 1862

New Orleans, Louisiana

“Hurry!”

Flickering torches lit the loading dock behind a brick building. It faced on a dark waterfront and was flanked by massive oaks trailing Spanish moss. 

It was the New Orleans Mint, and a portly, middle-aged man stood in its back door. Bronson Cabot was a heavyset but striking man, with salt-and-pepper hair, a jaunty mustache, and a neat spade beard. 

His mood and his clothes showed he was under stress. His white shirt was rolled up to the elbows, he was missing his jacket, and his vest was straining to cover his generous stomach. 

He was in charge of the operation underway. He stared out across the darkened harbor as a stream of Confederate soldiers behind him hustled heavy crates from the mint to a line of wagons.

He frowned into the darkness and urged, “Keep it moving, get those crates loaded!”

He was one of three Confederate treasury agents in charge of getting the last remaining gold out of New Orleans. They had little time to do it, because Admiral David Farragut and his Union warships were lying just off the coast and bombarding the town.

It was only a matter of days before the city fell. Maybe hours.

Bronson raised his round face to shoot a worried glance at the sky. As he watched, another Union shell came screaming over the dark water, a thin yellow streak of impending destruction.

Boom.

Everyone hit the ground, and Bronson threw his arms over his head as a shattering explosion rocked the waterfront. A burst of orange and red flames ballooned over the massive oaks behind them, and the ground shook.

But he grabbed a tree trunk, struggled to his feet, and spurred the men on. “Get up! Hurry! Get the crates into those wagons and get the fool out of here! We can’t let the Yankees get their hands on that gold!”

The soldiers jumped up, grabbed the boxes, and slung them up into the wagons with a crash. Bronson hurried down the line of wagons, performed a cursory count, and nodded to the drivers. 

“That’s all of them. Get out of here, and don’t look back!”

The first driver nodded back and laid the whip on. The horses jumped, and one by one the wagons rattled off into the darkness as the soldiers hopped up into the back and rode off with them.

Bronson took a deep breath, cast another wary glance at the ocean, and hurried back inside. He closed and locked the door behind him and blew through the darkened building to a little office at the back.

Four other men were waiting for him in the shadows, and he pulled the shades on the windows and yanked the velvet curtains closed before he turned up the lamps.

“They’re gone,” he told him, and the little bloom of light revealed the smiling faces of his partners in crime: René Roubillard and Alex Broussard, and his own sons, Leon and Jean. He shook his head and laughed. “Those boys are riding for election. They’re so hot to get out of here they won’t notice that one box is full of brass bars. Not until they’re in Georgia!”

The other men chuckled. “The Yankees put the fear of God in ’em tonight,” Alex crowed. “Must the first time those devils ever did us a favor!”

Bronson rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Well, the hard part’s over. Now, gentlemen. Let us enjoy our little share of the spoils of war!”

His sons walked out of the room and returned carrying a crate. They lifted it with difficulty and set it on the table, and as the rest of them watched, they pried open the lid. When they tossed it aside, all of them stared down at the gleaming, yellow-orange treasure for a split-second of awe. Even Bronson felt a shiver of wonder, though he’d worked there for years.

It was one thing to see gold bars. It was quite another to know that they were yours.

René reached down reverently and lifted a shining bar to the light. “I’ve dreamed of this day,” he breathed. “Do you know what this means? We’ll never have to work again. We’re rich!”

A sudden whistling overhead sent them all to the floor. A second later there was another massive boom, and the windows shook.

Bronson came back to himself and drawled, “We need to be rich somewhere else, gents. Let’s divide the gold and get out of here before the Yankees blow the place to the moon!”

They all climbed to their feet, and as the others looked on, Bronson counted and recounted the plunder: fifty gold bars, divided by five men. They all opened leather bags, and he carefully deposited ten into each one, including his own. 

Bronson glanced toward his sons. “Take that crate and fill it with rocks. Throw it into the water and make sure it sinks. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

As they went, he turned to his fellow treasury officers and extended a hand in parting. “Well, boys, looks like this is it. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” He paused in the doorway to add, “If you take my advice, you’ll stay in town and lay low until the Yankees take over. It’s what I plan to do.” 

“Why not?” Alex laughed, as he closed his leather satchel. “They’ll think all this gold’s long gone!”

Another low whine passed over, and they all braced themselves as another boom rocked the building.

Chapter One

Navajo Mission, New Mexico Territory

Four years later

“He leadeth me, He leadeth me,
by His own hand He leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
for by His hand He leadeth me.”

Reverend Eli Hill closed his hymnal and intoned, “Let us pray. Father, please lead us through this week in all that we do, and help us to please You and serve others. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation echoed softly, and the congregants looked up and slowly began to dissipate.

Eli stepped down from the rough wooden lectern to talk to a few of the members of his church. They were mostly Navajo converts. They were the result of ten years of his earnest work on the reservation, whose southern borders almost touched the mission yard.

Eli watched the church members file out, then set about gathering up hymnals and whatever item someone might have dropped or lost, to be returned next Sunday.

He found a pocket knife and a ball of twine, probably belonging to the little boy who’d come in with his father, and he smiled as he carried it back to his own house, next door to the chapel.

He set it down on a shelf by the door as he walked in. He shouldered out of his coat and went to check on the boys.

“Jimmy? Johnny?”

He walked to the bedroom door and peeked in. He’d left his grandsons inside a homemade playpen for the hour he’d spent conducting the service. They were sitting on the floor, just as he’d left them, playing with wooden blocks.

He couldn’t keep from walking over and taking Jimmy in his arms. He kissed his grandson’s chubby cheek and demanded, “Well, how was playtime, eh? Are you and your brother ready for lunch?”

The little boy was a toddler, barely two years old, and he stuck his fist in his mouth and looked up at him. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He set the baby back down into the playpen and stood back to stare at them fondly. But his smile faded momentarily as grief jabbed him.

He was raising his grandsons because his daughter couldn’t. Melinda and her husband had drowned six months before in a flash flood that had caught them in a narrow arroyo. 

The boys were all he had left.

He put a hand to his eyes and tried to banish his sorrow. He turned to go make a pot of oatmeal for the boys, and a pot of soup for himself.

But he’d barely gotten the water boiling on the stove when the sound of wagon wheels outside made him look out the window. A small train of three covered wagons was pulling up outside the church.

Eli poured the hot water into the bowls of oatmeal and set them aside to cool, then walked outside to greet the newcomers. He crossed his arms and waited for the wagons to roll to a stop. The mission was more than a hundred miles from Santa Fe, but close enough to the emigrant trails that they often saw travelers. 

Especially ones who were lost.

He nodded in greeting as a smiling, portly man climbed down from the nearest wagon and put up a hand.

“Afternoon, friend!”

“Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

The other man strolled over with his hands in his pants pockets. He was dressed better than most settlers Eli had seen, with a fine linen shirt and a brocade vest and what looked like store-bought linen trousers. But his face was ruddy as a polished apple and fairly glowed with good humor. The newcomer’s bright blue eyes twinkled as he replied.

“Well, you can tell me where I am, to start with,” he said with a smile. He turned to gesture toward the wagons. Two young men were driving the other wagons. “My sons and I are bound for California. We’re looking for the Beale wagon trail. But,” he laughed, “I seem to have lost the road.”

Eli nodded. He’d had this conversation before. “You’re on the Navajo reservation, friend,” he replied. “This is the mission, and I’m the pastor. You need to get to Santa Fe, and it’s a hundred miles south. But don’t worry, you can pick up the trail from here, Mister…?”

The older man threw up his hands and cried, “Solomon, where are your manners? I’m sorry, Reverend, our little dilemma has made me lose what’s left of my mind! I’m Solomon Carter, and those are my boys Conroy and Lyman.”

Eli nodded toward them and replied, “Eli Hill. It’s good to know you, Mr. Carter. I’m just making lunch. Would you and your sons like to come in and refresh yourselves before you go on? I’ll tell you how to pick up the trail, don’t worry.”

The other man’s fat face beamed. “That’s very kind of you, sir. Very kind! I think we’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Eli beckoned to the men in the wagon and led the way into his house. He gestured toward the dining room table and pulled up a few extra chairs for the boys as Solomon took a seat. “I’m afraid it’ll be a little cramped at the table,” he said in an apologetic tone. “It’s just me and my grandsons here, and I don’t get many visitors.”

His affable guest waved the apology away with a ringed hand. “Oh, we’re more than happy, I promise you, sir! We were beginning to despair that we’d see any sign of civilization in this wilderness. It was a great relief to see your church.”

The two other men walked in as they were talking, and Eli glanced at them over his shoulder as he set out glasses. “Welcome,” he called. “Come and have a seat. I was just asking your father to join me for lunch.”

The men walked in, hats in hand, and their big boots made the floorboards creak. They were of middling height, stout and round-faced, like their father. They looked to be in their late twenties, and they were apparently suffering from their long journey in the wilderness. 

Both men had slick, lanky hair, shiny faces, and more than a day’s worth of stubble. They were carrying extra weight around the middle, like their father, but they seemed to lack his outgoing manner. They glanced at him and said nothing.

“Please, sit down. I have a pot of soup on, and as soon as I feed my grandsons I’ll set it out.”

He bustled out to take the bowls of oatmeal into the bedroom, and he stayed long enough to help his grandsons eat. Then he came back, wiped his hands on a towel, and started ladling soup into bowls. 

* * * * *

“…And then he said, ‘I had to stop, but the mule’s still running!’” Solomon bent over the table and dissolved into laughter.

Eli wiped his eyes with his napkin and chuckled. “That’s a great joke, Mr. Carter. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll use it in my next sermon.”

Solomon waved a hand at him and nodded. “Feel free, Reverend! And I can vouch for it being absolutely true!”

They both relapsed into laughter, and Eli shook his head. “Would anyone like seconds? I’m going back to the kitchen.”

The two boys nodded, and Solomon replied, “Thank you, Reverend. We appreciate your hospitality.” He smiled broadly, and Eli noticed, with a slap of surprise, that his guest had a gold tooth.

He blinked and recalibrated. “Oh… not at all. I’ll check on the boys and be back in a few minutes.”

He got up from the table and walked to the bedroom to look in on his grandsons. They had fallen asleep on the playpen floor, and he bent to lift them gently and carry them to the bed.

He leaned over to kiss them and caressed their golden curls. He never seemed able to spend as much time with the boys as he’d like, and at the moment he had guests. 

He sighed and walked out again, pulling the bedroom door closed after him. He filled a tray with soup bowls and walked back into the dining room. He found Solomon still seated, lounging very much at his ease in the chair, but his sons had gotten up. They were holding his silver mugs, probably the most valuable objects in his home.

He set the tray down and mustered a smile. “Those were gifts from my late wife,” he told them. “They’re dear to me. I’d appreciate it if you could put them back on the shelf. I wouldn’t want them to get scratched.”

The men looked at him, then continued to examine the mugs, turning them over in their hands, as if appraising their value. Eli’s frown deepened, but Solomon’s voice compelled his attention.

“You said you were going to tell us how to get to the Beale Trail,” he said with a smile. 

“Oh… oh, yes,” Eli stammered, with another uncomfortable glance at the two men. “A branch of the Old Spanish Trail runs south to Santa Fe near here. It’s a few miles due east from the church, and once you find it, it’s easy to follow. It runs straight down to Santa Fe. From there you can take the El Camino Real road to Albuquerque. That’s where the Beale picks up.”

Solomon nodded and picked at the ring on his hand. “I see.”

Eli shot the two sons a troubled look as they lounged in his dining room, drifting from one corner to another. They were picking up the few decorative items he had: a clay vase, a wooden box, a metal cross on the wall.

He frowned and forced himself to concentrate on his conversation with their father. “Are there any other wagons in your train, Mr. Carter, or is it just you and your sons?”

Solomon stretched out his hands. “Just us, alas!” He smiled in good-humored fatalism. “We’re tempting our fates.”

One of the boys picked the metal cross off the wall, and it slipped through his fingers and hit the ground with a clang.

Eli’s brows twitched together, and he gave Solomon a troubled glance. He was starting to wish his unexpected guests would leave, but he had a duty to warn them of the dangers ahead.

“You are indeed tempting fate if you travel the Beale with no more than four wagons,” he replied. “It’s mostly desert and it runs through some of the most dangerous land in the West. The Apaches and some other tribes have raided it and killed settlers. There are long stretches without a drop of water.”

Solomon’s bright eyes acquired a keen look. “So I’ve heard,” he replied softly. “Are there any… forts or federal troops on the Beale?”

“Oh yes,” Eli assured him. “Many, to protect the emigrants on the trails, especially around Santa Fe. Some smaller ones, too, on the trails to California. But there are long miles of empty wilderness between them.”

The other man frowned and shot him a troubled glance. “Perhaps you can give us some advice on how to proceed through this… dangerous land,” he replied slowly.

Eli considered. “I’d advise you to add more wagons to your train. There’s always strength in numbers. And you must have a guide, or you will come to grief.”

One of Solomon’s sons picked up the cross and tossed it onto the table with a startling clatter, and Eli heard himself say, “Please put that back on the wall!”

Solomon laced his fingers together on the table and leaned forward slightly. “Can you recommend anyone to us, Mr. Hill? We’d take it as a great kindness.”

Eli was still staring at the two other men. One of them sank into a chair, and the other ignored him and walked toward the kitchen.

“Mr. Hill?”

Eli closed his eyes and willed himself to be patient. “Ah… yes, I can recommend a guide. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard him widely praised. A guide named Ethan Thomas. They say that no train he leads fails to reach its destination safely.”

Solomon’s lips curved, and he leaned back in the chair. “Well,” he replied softly. “That’s good news. Thank you for the information, Reverend.”

A clattering sound from the kitchen made Eli turn, and to his annoyance, one of the sons was rummaging through his cabinets. He jumped to his feet and called out in irritation, “I have an evening service to prepare for, and I have to get ready. I’ll be happy to walk you gentleman to your wagons and show you how to get to the trail.”

Solomon’s lazy voice made him turn his head. “Oh, no, Reverend. Your hospitality has been so delightful that we’ve decided to stay. We’re very tired, and I know I couldn’t face another wretched night sleeping on the ground.”

Eli frowned at him. “You can’t stay here,” he replied sharply. “There isn’t room. I’m going to have to ask you and your sons to leave.”

Solomon leaned back in the chair so lazily that Eli felt his face going hot. “Oh, we aren’t going anywhere, Reverend.” He smiled. “We’re spending the night, and tomorrow morning we’re taking you with us to make sure we get through Santa Fe. If anyone asks, you will say we are your cousins, and vouch for our complete integrity.”

Shock slapped him like a hand across his jaw. “You’re insane! And I won’t do it. I can’t leave my grandsons. They’re toddlers!”

Solomon raised his bushy brows. “Then we’ll bring them with us.”

“That’s kidnapping! I won’t stand for it!” Eli replied hotly, and jumped to his feet. “Get out, or I’ll—”

A heavy hand clamped on his shoulder and slammed him back into the chair. He twisted angrily and saw a sullen face staring down at him. At last the younger man spoke, and his voice was as rough and menacing as Solomon’s was smooth.

“You try anything, and I’ll break those little boys’ necks,” he growled. “So you’d better shut your mouth and do as you’re told.”

A deep wave of fear swept Eli’s heart, and he turned in horror to the older man. Solomon smiled and shrugged.

“I can’t do anything with him,” he said with an apologetic smile. “Boys. They will have the last word!” The smile slowly faded from his eyes, and he added, “You’d best do what he says.” 

His smile returned again, like the sun shining out from behind a cloud. “Then everything will be all right. Your grandsons will be perfectly safe with us. You have my word, Reverend. As a gentleman!”

Chapter Two

“Tie his hands and put a gag in his mouth.”

Solomon watched in lazy amusement as his sons yanked the minister’s arms behind his back. “You can’t get away with this,” he was saying, “I’ll be missed immediately. I have rel—mmphf!”

His words were abruptly cut off as Lyman stuffed a rag into his mouth and tied another around his head. “There,” he grunted, “now we can eat in peace.”

They pushed the older man into his chair and went to the kitchen to ransack it. Solomon pulled a cigar from his jacket and smoked contentedly as his sons plundered the pastor’s cabinets.

“Hey,” Conroy muttered, “he has a smoked ham!”

Lyman rummaged around and pulled a pot from under the sink. “He has some dried beans, too. Let’s make some up. Go get some corn meal from the wagon and we’ll have cornbread with it.”

Conroy walked out, and Lyman pumped water into a pot and set it on the cast iron stove. Solomon called, “Don’t forget to look for a smokehouse or a chicken coop outside. If he has any birds we can take them with us and have fresh eggs. Search the other rooms, too.”

Eli Hill’s bugged out in naked terror as Lyman abandoned the kitchen and walked into the bedroom. Lyman called, “There’s two kids in here all right. Sleeping in bed. What are we going to do with ’em?”

Eli’s desperate eyes snapped to Solomon’s face, and he waved his cigar gently. “Let them sleep, of course. Just do as I told you, son.”

Lyman grunted and closed the bedroom door behind him, then entered the room next door. Heavy thumps and scraping sounds followed, but Lyman emerged carrying only a newspaper and a wooden box. “He’s poor as a church mouse. All I found were these. The newspaper is from last week, if you’re interested. The box has some money.”

Solomon took the cash and stuffed it into his pocket, then accepted the newspaper with interest. It was a copy of The Daily New Mexican, and he unfolded it with a soft rustle. But a blaring headline across the front page made his cigar droop from his lips.

CONFEDERATE GOLD THIEF REVEALS DARING CRIME.

Solomon sat up in his chair and stared at the article in frowning dismay. It had been years since that night in New Orleans, but it looked like his chickens had come home to roost at last. He swallowed and thanked his lucky stars that he’d found the newspaper, and that they’d escaped New Orleans when they did.

Apparently, they’d barely made it out.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Governor Baker, in cooperation with governmental authorities, has revealed a dastardly crime committed by employees of the New Orleans Mint in the final days before the Union occupation of the city. 

A former Confederate treasury agent named René Roubillard was apprehended last Friday on suspicion of possessing stolen gold. During his interrogation by authorities, Roubillard confessed to having stolen a crate of gold bars from the mint. The gold was stolen as the contents of the mint were being transferred to Georgia. Roubillard claimed that the gang made off with fifty gold bars.

Roubillard told authorities that he and four other men divided the bars between themselves and named his accomplices as Alex Broussard, and Bronson Cabot and his sons Leon and Jean, all of New Orleans. 

Broussard was captured Sunday as he tried to flee the city, and the search is on for Bronson Cabot and his sons. It is thought that they have fled New Orleans to escape their impending capture. A reward of a thousand dollars has been offered for each of the fugitives.

Solomon raised stunned eyes from the newspaper, and it slid from his nerveless fingers. Roubillard had warbled like a bird, no doubt to save his own neck. 

He pressed his mouth into a frustrated line. He’d been forced to leave New Orleans because it was risky to spend gold in a place where everyone was struggling. He’d come to understand that he’d never be free to enjoy his money unless he moved to a place where there was little or no law.

Like the West.

And it was a good thing he was traveling under an assumed name, because the hunt was on for him. He’d even fallen into the habit of thinking of himself and his sons by their new names, and now he was glad. With the army on their tails, they couldn’t be too careful. He folded up the paper and glanced at the pastor. The other man was glaring at him.

It had been smart move to take hostages, too. If they met any lawmen or federal soldiers, the presence of a minister in their wagon train would go a long way to deflect suspicion. The children, too. He could pass them off as belonging to his sons and make up a story about their wives having died on the trail. Plenty of women did die on the way out West.

He glanced at the window. They needed to get moving as soon as possible. Maybe if they hurried, they could outrun the news from New Orleans. Get past cities with an army presence like Santa Fe and Albuquerque. 

But it would only take one telegram to get their descriptions from New Orleans to Santa Fe, and he snuffed his cigar out on the table and rose to prepare the wagons.

Chapter Three

“Dum dee-da dum-da

Dum de-de-da-dum.”

Cora deVries hummed nervously to herself as she drove her covered wagon south along the Santa Fe Trail. She was a lovely woman in the bloom of her youth: her hair was a pale, shining blonde, her face oval and delicate, her eyes big and blue. 

She was as pretty and delicate as a Dresden doll, and was therefore starkly out of place in the desert wilderness.

She’d been forced to part ways with her wagon train a hundred miles back. The rest of her traveling companions had followed a trail branching away to the northwest, and that had left her the sole remaining wagon traveling to California. She’d been forced to go on all by herself. 

She was terrified.

“La-dee-dum-dum-da,

Hmm-hm-hm-hm-hm.”

She smoothed a sprig of golden hair back from her brow and tried to keep her spirits up, but it took all her courage. She was alone and in mourning, but she had no choice but to be strong. Her husband Samuel had died of lung fever not three months after they’d left their home in Pennsylvania. 

She’d wanted to turn back then, but she had no other family and they’d already purchased a farm in California. All their money was tied up in it. She had no place to go but… on.

But the near-vertical upsweep of the barren mountains and the endless arroyos at their feet thoroughly frightened her. The rocky bluffs were bone dry, painted bright reds and yellows, and contorted themselves into weird shapes. There was hardly a tree to be seen anywhere. 

The desert was dotted with strange bushes, thousands of unsightly green tufts that made the landscape even more alien. She was Pennsylvania Dutch, used to soft, rolling green hills and lush farmland. She had no experience of such a place.

But that was only the start of her worries. She was only one woman, and if something went wrong with her wagon, she might not be strong enough to fix it alone. If her water ran out and she couldn’t find a stream, she might go thirsty, or even die. And she’d heard horror stories around the campfire about bandits and Indians who preyed on solitary travelers. 

Especially women.

She glanced at the maze of rocky outcrops that slowly approached from the base of the distant hills. They looked to her like marvelous places for bandits to hide, and she started humming again.

If only she could make it safely to Santa Fe, she hoped she could join another wagon train. It was less than fifty miles due south. Only a few more days. If there were other wagons on the trail ahead, she might catch up to them.

She whipped up her oxen, but they plodded along at the same slow pace no matter how she urged them. She scanned the plain ahead in discouragement, but a new sight made her sit up a little straighter. 

Hope whisked up in her. It was… yes, surely those were cattle dotting the grassland to the east. They were in the distance, but clearly visible. 

That had to mean there was a ranch nearby. She was starting to see the outlying farms and ranches surrounding Santa Fe.

Her spirits revived a bit, and as she watched, other small figures moved toward the grazing cattle. They were cowboys, and Cora smiled to see them circling the herd. She might not be in Santa Fe yet, but she was starting to see settled land again after hundreds of miles of wilderness.

She whipped up the oxen, but with less fervor. She hummed again, this time out of relief. Soon she’d be in a big town where she could rest her animals and replenish her supplies. Only a few more miles.

A line of rocky outcrops loomed up on the right of the trail, and she passed them with barely a glance. She got a few hundred yards past them when a bloodcurdling yell from behind made her heart jump in her throat. 

She pulled the oxen to a halt as four painted Indians galloped past her, then circled back, waving rifles in the air as they screamed. They looked to her like devils from hell, and their yells froze her blood.

“Oh Gott, hilf mir!” she sobbed.