Valley of the Shadow: Chapter 49

John

I guess I don�t need to say that we were a pretty depressed bunch of travelers as we hiked back north to Nevada City. Our first and best plan for rescuing Becky had been lost with the death of Skeeter Daniels, and we were now down to just two possible ways to reach that same end, both of them pretty questionable.

First, if the letters of Capt. Hunt or Lorenzo Sawyer had reached their parties in San Francisco and produced some kind of answer by either the territorial governor or the territorial supreme court, we might stand a chance of gaining Becky�s freedom. Of course, even this was by no means a sure thing, since neither the governor nor the court really had any control over the operation. What�s more, as Sawyer had pointed out to us, there was no guarantee how much clout the territorial government had in the first place. After statehood, which would probably come any time now, the folks who wrote those letters might not even have a job with the government any more.

This brought us down to the only other way we could think of getting her out, by using force � our own, that of the army recruits who Cap. Hunt said were headed our way and whoever else we could con into helping. The biggest fear we all had with this plan, aside from the fact that we all stood a good chance of being shot, was that Becky might be hurt or killed in the process. I couldn�t imagine how I�d feel if we managed to fight our way inside the asylum only to find her injured or dead once we got in.

I wrestled with these thought as we made the long hike back to Nevada City. When we finally arrived in town late on the third day, Lorenzo Sawyer was overjoyed to see us back, though sorry to hear the disappointing outcome. He was, however, able to give us at least a little encouraging news. He had managed to meet one more time with Dr. Zeissler at the asylum, where he had been welcomed by the superintendent with open arms but kept on the main floor this time, away from the patients.

When Lorenzo had finally managed to get the doctor alone, Zeissler had told him that he was starting to reach Becky. At the same time, the doctor told Lorenzo that he couldn�t set up any more meetings with him and that he figured he�d have to cut back the time he was spending with Becky because some of the guards were becoming suspicious.

�I don�t get it,� I said when I heard this. �What could be suspicious about a doctor working with his patients?�

�Working with, yes,� Lorenzo replies, �but curing, no. You forget, Will, that people who go inside that place aren�t supposed to come back out. Curing them isn�t part of Carlson�s plan. And so, the more time that Dr. Zeissler spends with a patient, the more suspicious it begins to look to those who oversee his daily activities.�

�But, Lorenzo,� Lewis said, �if you�re telling us that we can�t meet with the doctor any longer, and that he can�t continue to attend to Becky, then how on earth are we going to get her out of this place?�

�Hold on now,� Lorenzo said. �I haven�t finished telling you about my meeting with the doctor. Because we knew we might not have another chance to get together, we worked out a plan for helping her to escape, a plan that we�ll put into effect if we haven�t received a letter from the governor or the justices by a designated date and time.�

�And when is that?� Lewis asked.

�Next Thursday,� said Lorenzo. �July 4, to be precise, at 6 p.m.�

"Why do we need to wait a whole week?� I asked. �Why can�t we just do something right away?�

�A couple of reasons,� said Lorenzo. �First, we should allow another week to get an answer of some kind from San Francisco. What if we were to rush in there today with guns blazing and then get a letter from the governor in the mail tomorrow? Second, it seems that Nicholas Carlson has planned a big Independence Day picnic and celebration in town. He likes to throw his money around and these gatherings of his usually bring out the whole town. Doctor Zeissler seems to think that only a small number of guards will be on duty that day, and that means our chances of getting Becky out of there will be much better.�

Then John spoke up. �I know we just met and all, sir, and I have all due respect for what yer tryin� to do, but tell me just how do you plan on getting� her out of that place so easy like?�

�First of all, nobody�s saying it will be easy,� Lorenzo said, �but the doctor and I have come up with what we think is a workable plan. With luck, it won�t involve force or gunfire or any altercation whatsoever. Lewis, Will, do you remember that narrow canyon you described to me, the one where you found the bodies of those horsemen?�

�How could we forget?� I said.

�Well, if you had continued up that canyon that day, then scrambled up over the side, you would have discovered a second small ravine running practically right into the back wall of the asylum. There is, in fact, a back entrance to the place, by which the doctor comes and goes, and through which many of their so-called patients first entered the place against their will. The idea is that the three of you can hike through that canyon to that ravine, placing yourselves near the back entrance to the asylum. While you�re doing that, I plan to make a farewell visit to Superintendent Hadley and will keep him occupied by presenting him with a report of my findings. At the appointed hour, 6 p.m. as we agreed, I plan to create some sort of disturbance by raising my voice, starting an argument, causing a ruckus of some kind � whatever it takes to attract one or more of the guards. Of course, after they show up, I�ll calm down and keep them from exerting any sort of force on me. Nut my ploy is designed to take at least a few guards away from the scrutiny of the good doctor long enough for him to get Becky out of her room and slip her out the back door. There, the three of you will be waiting to grab her and take her back through the ravine and into the canyon. The doctor will accompany you as well. If all goes well, I can leave the asylum in my carriage as before, and meet all of you where I did the first time, just down the road a piece.�

�But what if we run into a barricade of some sort in the canyon?� asked Lewis.

�Or what if we run smack into that rapid-fire gun of theirs?� I added.

�Look,� Lorenzo said, �Any plan we come up with is bound to be fraught with a host of uncertainties. But it�s still my belief that as of today I am still not suspected by Carlson of anything, and that another week of waiting shouldn�t produce any more suspicion in anyone�s minds. It�s perfectly logical for them to accept that I need some time to complete my report. Besides, as I say, it seems likely that many of Carlson�s guards will be in town for the big extravaganza, anyway. I�m even hopeful their big gun will be out of commission that day.�

He looked around at each of in turn. �In any case,� Lorenzo concluded, �aren�t you willing to take whatever risks present themselves in order to rescue Miss Baldwin?�

I nodded. I was more than ready.

�There's still one missing element,� said Lewis. �What if the army regulars who Capt. Hunt wrote to us about show up in the meantime?�

�I�ve thought of that, too,� said Lorenzo. �First, there�s no guarantee they�ll show up at all. The letter, if I remember right, said to expect them around the end of the month, which is a few days away. If they come, then I suppose we can use them in a back-up capacity. Unfortunately, the war is over and they don�t really have any authority to enforce territorial laws here. We can�t be sure what reaction someone like Carlson or Hadley, or the sheriff of Nevada City for that matter, would have if a rag-tag band of army recruits came riding in and started giving orders. We�ll certainly find a use for them if they show up, but I think we must address the possibility that these men may have abandoned their mission as they neared the gold fields and saw the riches being taken out of the ground. The same thing has happened to other men who have the best intentions, and there�s no reason to think these men are somehow immune from the distractions of gold fever.�

�You know,� John said, scratching his grizzled cheek, �this is all pretty complicated to me. I was sorta hopin� all along that we could just march on up to the front door of that place and say, �Looky here, you�ve got someone in there and we want her out!� �

�I wish it were that easy,� said Lorenzo. �But this is no mere saloon fight, where strength alone wins out. We have to make our choices carefully, and move forward slowly. We�ve also got to remember at all times that the very person we're trying to rescue will likely be the first to suffer if anything goes wrong.�

I remember feeling a big wad of cotton in my mouth when Lorenzo said that. Deep down I knew he was right, but I also had to agree with John. Why did things have to be so complicated?

A week passed, though it seemed more like an eternity, and July 4 finally arrived. For the past several days, the town had been all decked out for celebration with red, white and blue streamers hanging down from balconies and rooftops, and banners strung across the streets proclaiming the picnic and Independence Day event to be held that day. The smells of fried chicken and potatoes and bread and hash and apple pies had filled the streets all week long. A bandstand had been set up in a grove of oaks at the end of the main street, just outside the city limits, and as we all walked down the steps from the hotel late that morning we could hear the band playing and knew that the picnickers would probably number in the hundreds. So far, so good, we thought, especially if some of the guards from the asylum were among the revelers in the woods at the edge of town.

July 4 was a holiday, and by all rights the Nevada City post office should have been shut for the day. But a lot of the usual rules didn�t seem to apply to gold rush towns, where money was always coming and going in large amounts and lots of claims and titles and deeds and such were making their way to and from Sacramento and San Francisco on a daily basis. And so, we were surprised to see that the post office had posted a sign on the front door stating that it would be open for two hours that morning and another two hours at the end of the day. In between, the office would shut down so the clerks could enjoy the picnic with the rest of the townspeople.

For one final time, Lorenzo and the rest of us made the trek up the stairs to the post office as we�d done so many times during the past several days, and he marched up to the clerk�s window to see if any mail had come. It was pretty obvious that even with limited hours, the clerk didn�t especially enjoy having to come to work on a holiday.

�Stage delay, no mail yet,� the sullen clerk said, recognizing Lorenzo before he had even neared the window. �Maybe later � around five o'clock, but not before.�

Lorenzo turned from the window and shrugged his shoulders as he came back to join the rest of us.

�Well,� he said, �I guess that�s that.�

And the rest of us figured he was right. We�d be on our way to the asylum about the time the stage would be arriving, and we couldn�t wait around on the slight chance that a letter might come. The timing was too critical now, and we�d have no way of telling the doctor if we had changed our plans.

�In any case,� Lorenzo said, �I don�t really expect anything will arrive later today. If we haven�t heard anything by now, it�s probably too late to expect a letter anyway.�

I could see the disappointment in his face, but it wasn�t Lorenzo�s fault, or Capt. Hunt�s either. Both men had tried, and that was about all we could ask for. Still, we were all a little upset to have gotten no reply at all.

�A simple letter explaining their inability to assist us would have been preferable to this complete lack of response,� Lorenzo said as we headed down the post office steps. �After all, common courtesy dictates at least some sort of reply.�

�No matter, Lorenzo,� Lewis said, trying to calm him down. �We�ll just have to do it ourselves, that�s all.�

John Rogers and I nodded in agreement.

�Don't forget Soon Hing and his troops,� came a voice from behind us.

Somehow or other, little Soon had managed to sneak up behind us and now stood with several holdovers from our trip to Vallecito.

�Soon?� began Lewis, �But how did you know ...�

Lorenzo Sawyer gave us a little grin.

�I told Soon about our plan the other day,� he said a bit sheepishly, �not because I thought we needed his help, of course, but because he often has good ideas and there seemed no reason to keep it from him.�

�Sure, who�s he gonna tell, anyway?� John said. �Nobody would understand him.�

�You pretty funny man,� Soon said, �but we ready to help any way Messer Soiya think we can.�

�Well, I got one hell of an idea already,� John said. �We�ll just have the eight of you sneak up along side of that guard with the big gun and give him a little taste of that Wing Wong, or whatever it was called.�

�Wing Chun,� Soon said with a frown.

�Now boys,� said Lewis, �we�re all in this together, so let�s not bicker about who�s going to do what. No doubt we�ll all have some role to play. My question to you, however,� Lewis said to Lorenzo, �is what schedule we should follow. It�s July 4 and nearly noon. What�s our plan?�

The plan was that we would head toward the asylum at 4 o�clock, which would get us near the place about 5, the time that the doctor had set up a meeting between Lorenzo and this Hadley fellow. This schedule gave us a few hours to kill, so we wandered over to the site of the picnic and spread out around the grounds to check the place out. There was lots of activity all right and plenty of people but no way to tell if any of them were guards from the asylum. There also was no sign of Nicolas Carlson, although we weren�t sure if we�d recognize him anyway.

After a few hours, we trailed back into town and went over the plans one last time. Then we all scrunched into Sawyer�s rented carriage and endured a pretty tight ride until we neared the asylum road. At that point, Lewis, John and I got out and hunkered down behind the bank of the dry wash again, while Lorenzo rode off alone toward the big, oak-filled canyon. Soon and his men had followed close behind in one of those rickety black Chinese coaches that some coolie from Grass Valley had let them use, and now they pulled this to a stop in a little grove of trees a ways from the asylum. There, they planned to just hang around in case we needed them for anything at some point later on.

�If them danged Chinamen don�t mess this whole thing up for us, I�ll be surprised,� John mumbled.

But despite John�s grumblings, everything went fairly smooth at first. Toting our rifles for the first time in a long while, Lewis and John and I made our way up the rocky and overgrown ravine. This time, we didn�t run into the bodies of the men who had been shot earlier. And though we all wondered where the corpses had gone, it was a relief not to see them a second time. I was scared enough as it is.

After some time crawling along, then cautiously climbing over the bank and down into the other little gully that Lorenzo had told us about, we ended up crouching behind some bramble bushes about ten feet inside the walls of a little arroyo. There, we waited with our eyes focused on the back entrance. Though we�d hoped this would be a poorly maintained second entrance to the asylum, the big oak back door was as solid looking an obstacle as the double doors on the front side. The only reassuring thing was that we didn�t see anybody around. We hoped this meant that the doctor was right and that most of those gun-toting guards were in town for the Independence Day picnic.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo must�ve gotten into the house all right, because everything went pretty quiet. He�d given us a pocket watch so we could keep track of the time, and along about five o'clock, we waited anxiously to see if the doctor or Becky would appear at the back door. Instead, that hour came and went with no sign of anybody.

�Do you s�pose he�s in trouble in there?� asked John. �Might be somebody just whacked him over the head as soon as he stepped inside the front door.�

�You�ve got to learn to have a more positive outlook on things, John,� replied Lewis in a whisper. �Besides, I don�t think that happened at all. Lorenzo�s meeting was all set up, and he seemed pretty sure that nobody suspected a thing.�

Now, at last, we saw some movement by a curtain in a window near the back door. Was it the doctor, or one of the guards? We waited a few long, anxious moments and then finally saw the door creak open slowly. A hand came out, then a head poked around the door and glanced nervously about. It was Dr/ Zeissler, all right, and it looked for a few seconds like he just might pull the whole thing off, until he stepped out the door.

The doctor had no sooner taken one complete step out the door and reached back like he going to take someone by the hand when a single shot was fired from somewhere over our heads and it struck him in the stomach. Falling backward, he clutched at his wound and pulled the door closed behind him at the same time. Then we heard a shout of someone above us calling to someone at the house. Meanwhile, John had slowly been scooting back deeper into the little gully, and I could see that he was crouched down real low and was looking up at the narrow slat of sky above him. I looked up too, but couldn�t see anything. But John slowly cocked his rifle and got down so he was practically laying on his back. Then he pointed his weapon straight into the air, taking aim at some target that neither Lewis or I could even see.

He fired and a body came falling through the air, landing with a dull thud sound right in front of us.

John, wearing a grim look, walked over to us and crouched down. �We was his next target,� he said, �and it was either him or us.�

�Well,� said Lewis, �I don�t suppose any more damage was done from the sound of your gun than from the sound of his. Any guards who are inside this place are already on the alert.�

�Do you think Doc Zeissler is dead?� I asked.
�Hard to tell,� Lewis said. �He was able to close the door behind him, so he might be all right.�

�Where do you s�pose that Sawyer fellow is?� asked John.

�Well, we can�t sit around here guessing,� said Lewis. �I say we head around to the front of the house and find out.�

We made our way cautiously around the back side of the asylum and crept behind the cover of some tall shrubbery until we come around nearly all the way to the front of the building.

�If Lorenzo managed to make it as far as his carriage before the shooting started,� Lewis said, �then I don�t want us to get caught between him and the house. Let�s head away from the front grounds, then circle back if we don�t see his carriage on the road.�

This we carefully did, coming out of the main canyon using the oak trees and bushes for cover. We eyed the drive that led to the main road, but there was no sign of Lorenzo�s carriage. So we returned, crawling along more than walking, until we could see the front of the building. And there was the carriage, still parked outside, and standing on the porch was Lorenzo Sawyer.

It looked like he�d made it just that far before a guard had stopped his retreat. The large, rough-looking man now held a gun pointed right at Lorenzo�s head.

At this point, I felt about as helpless as I ever had. All three of us were carrying rifles, but there wasn�t any way to use them now, not from this far away. We had the advantage of being hidden from view, but a lot of good that did us. Then, we heard a window open on an upper floor of the building and saw a rather distinguished looking silver-haired man stick his head out the window and glance nervously about the grounds. Then he called down to the guard.

�Stimson,� he said, "call my brother to the front door and have him come out on the porch. Then I want you to give your gun to my brother and let him keep watch on this bogus inspector.�

�But, Mr. Carlson...� the man said.

�Damn it, Stimson, listen to me. I told you to give the gun to my brother then come back inside. There�s not enough men to go around and I need you downstairs to see that the doctor doesn�t try to escape. If he�s still alive, that is. And keep an eye on that girl. It seems she�s the cause of all this.�

Stimson hesitated for a moment, then he slowly reached behind him and pushed open the front door, all the time with his gun pointed at Lorenzo. Then we saw Superintendent Hadley � or whatever his real name was � step out and take the gun as Stimson slipped back inside.

So it had come down to this� The superintendent of this place, the one who was once a committed lunatic himself, stood there on the porch with a gun pointed at Lorenzo�s head. We watched him stand there almost motionless for several long minutes, until the silver-haired man � Nicolas Carlson himself � at last appeared at the front porch and looked anxiously about.

�Johnson, Matthews, are you out there?� he called.

We figured he was calling some of his other guards, but when we looked around us we couldn�t see anyone. At any rate, nobody answered him, and we began to wonder if maybe the two guards had spotted us and were just staying quiet. The three of us stayed where we were, crouching behind the trunk of a big oak just 20 yards or so from the front porch. Lorenzo stood stiffly on the porch, his hands up and the gun still pointed at his head. And Carlson remained at the top of the steps looking around as if he just knew there was somebody out there. Then all hell broke loose.

We heard horses coming at a dead run and saw a big dust cloud approaching. And out of that cloud emerged at least 10 U.S. Army regulars, still in the bedraggled old uniforms they'd worn during the Mexican War. They rode up and came to a stop in front of the asylum. Dismounting, they took up positions facing the house, their rifles pointed right at Carlson. Riding up close behind them came our old trail boss Sam Morgan and a number of his men, cussing and spitting as they brought their horses to a halt. And at the rear rode a man whose face none of us had seen in more than nine months, none other than Capt. Jefferson Hunt.

Hunt rode on through the crowd of men until he had stopped as the foot of the steps. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand as he approached. About that time, the three of us stepped forward since there was so many other guns around that we didn�t figure someone would take a pot shot at us.

�My name is Capt. Jefferson Hunt,� he called out to Carlson. �I have a letter here, an official letter from the Governor of the Territory of California. A letter demanding that you, Nicolas Carlson, give yourself up for arrest and release the patient known as Rebecca Baldwin to the custody of either Lorenzo Sawyer... I presume that is you, sir?�

�Er, yes,� said Sawyer, turning his head as far around as he could, considering he had a gun pointed directly at it. �Nice to meet you, sir.�

�...to the custody of either Lorenzo Sawyer, Mr. Lewis Manly or a Mr. William Barlow, the two of whom I am sure are here abouts somewhere.�

�Yes,� said Lewis, �we�re right here.�

�That is the Governor�s order, Mr. Carlson. What say you to this, man?�

Carlson looked around at the guns pointed at him, then smiled and said, �A most interesting proposal, that�s what I say. But, perhaps you�ve noticed that the superintendent here has a gun pointed directly at the head of this man, and I furthermore have a man inside whose gun is aimed at the young girl in question.�

Even though nearly 20 pistols and shot guns were now pointed at Carlson, everyone stayed silent and I�m sure we were all sharing pretty much the same thoughts. Would Carlson back down? If someone shot Carlson, would his crazy brother start firing away at the rest of us? Would the guard inside kill Becky if he heard shots outside? And where were Carlson�s other two guards? Were they perched up on the top of some bluff, ready to pop off a few dozen of us with that rapid-fire gun of theirs?

It was a real standoff since none of us wanted to push things. The worst thing was that Carlson almost seemed to sense the uncertainty among us, and he was smiling broadly as he told his brother, �All right, you can give me the gun now. You�ve been a good boy. You go on inside and tell Stimson to keep his pistol pointed at this Baldwin girl. If he hears a single shot out here, tell him to shoot her in the head.�

But now something funny happened. After receiving these instructions, Carlson�s brother just stood there, his gun still pointed at Lorenzo Sawyer.

�Did you hear me, you nitwit? Do what I say.�

Carlson�s brother didn�t move.

�Listen to what I'm saying!� Carlson demanded. �I told you to move, you lunatic, if you don�t want me to have you committed all over again. Don't forget if it wasn�t for me you'd still be languishing inside that hell hole in Milledgeville. Now, do what I say.�

But Carlson�s brother continued only to stare straight ahead, his gun trained at Lorenzo. Then, it was like some sort of switch clicked in his head. As we watched with surprise, he slowly turned his gaze, as well as the gun he held, toward Nicholas Carlson.

�You may have taken me out of that place in Georgia,� he said calmly, �but I know why you did so. It may have been done in the guise of concern for my welfare, but you were never concerned. You never really cared. Before you had me released, you had rejected every recommendation for treatment made by my doctors. You scoffed at any progress I made. You wanted me to rot in that place forever, until you discovered that my release might actually help you with your plans. You had me released only when it suited your purposes, not because you ever loved me as a brother.�

�You're crazy, you hear me?� Carlson said. �Certifiably crazy. Now, hand me that weapon!�

�Oh, I may be crazy all right,� Carlson�s brother said. �I may be completely insane. But I know now that insanity can be dealt with, given time and care and love. Your condition, though, is worse because you are infected with the disease of greed and of lust, a lust for money and power.�

�I never should have let you occupy that front office,� Carlson said. �You�ve been doing too much reading in there. You�ve gone softer in the head than you already were. Now, for the last time, give me that gun.�

�No,� Carlson�s brother said. �For once in my life I�m going to finish saying what I want to say. Your disease has no cure. It�s the disease of avarice, which only worsens over time until it becomes all consuming. First it fills every vein in your body, then it poisons your blood and kills your soul. And while there is no cure for your kind of cancer, there is one sure way to stop its spread.�

And with that, Nicolas Carlson�s brother calmly pointed the gun at his brother�s head and pulled the trigger.

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