A Triple Thriller Fest (19 page)

Pug drew in a deep breath. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, it appears, and it means I’ll have to remain even further in the background for awhile. And don’t either of you underestimate Grant Sully. His network goes deep, and despite our jesting earlier about respective domestic and international limitations between the CIA and the FBI, his network is
not
limited to international. I believe he has an extensive network of contacts within the U.S.”

“Colonel Connor,” Agent Bentley said, smiling, “so do we. Or, as task-force head, perhaps I should say, so do
you
.”

“Well,” Pug said, stretching his arms over his head, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles, “it’s always nice to be traded to a winning team.”

Chapter 14

Cache Valley, California

Puffing hard himself as they reached the crest, Dan knew that his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, was tiring. They’d hiked four miles from where they’d left the car, most of it uphill, but Jack was still hanging in there. Dan was impressed by his grandfather’s stamina—into his eighties and still going strong.

With several fishing places to choose from, Dan felt compelled to ease Jack’s burden.

“How about Pleasant Lake, Jack?” Dan queried, knowing the clearing where they usually camped was only another few hundred yards distant.

Leaning forward, his hands on his knees, breathing hard and sweating, Jack smiled. “What’s the matter? That desk job made you soft?”

“Not like in the old days, eh, Jack, when the ships were wood and the men were iron?”

“Watch your mouth, kid.” Jack replied. “Why’d you choose this place anyway? We just about fished it out years ago.”

“The truth?” Dan said.

“No, I want you to lie to me, you smart-mouthed pup,” the older man retorted.

“Two reasons. We haven’t been fishing in a long time, and I felt I needed to get away for a bit.” He grinned at his grandfather. “And two, one of the guard officers told me his Shasta Brigade squad would be on maneuvers up here this weekend. I’d kind of like to have a look.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow at Dan and shook his head. “You thinking of joining with the brigade boys?”

“They’ve asked me,” Dan replied. “Several times, in fact. But I have no intention of joining. I just want to see what’s up.”

“And you brought me along for protection?” Jack suggested.

“Something like that.” Dan laughed, dropping his pack.

Jack shucked his pack and stretched his back muscles.

Both men stood for a few moments, enjoying the vista provided by the lake, framed against the coastal range mountains. After setting up a lean-to shelter and clearing a place for the fire, Dan assembled his fly rod and took a small packet of flies from the backpack.

“Second fish cooks, Jack.”

Jack stood stone-faced. “Hope you cook better than last time, young Rawlings. I’m looking forward to a couple days of servitude from the next generation.”

“Better plan on serving your grandson—then you won’t be disappointed,” Dan challenged. “After all, you taught me everything you know.”

“No, son,” Jack replied, slowly dragging out his words as he tied a homemade “Jack Special” fly onto his leader. “I taught you all
you
know.” He grinned.

Later, Jack lay back and watched the stars begin to appear while Dan finished frying the trout and potatoes.

“Grub’s on,” Dan finally called.

Jack rattled his mess kit and stepped over to the campfire, waiting while Dan flipped a slightly blackened, filleted trout one more time in his frying pan.

“Years ago, I discovered how much better Rainbow trout can taste when prepared and served by someone else. Catching ’em is my contribution.”

“Better shake a leg, Jack. This one’s in danger of burning up if you give me any more lip.”

After full dark, utensils cleaned, and a peaceful quiet settled in around the lake, Jack sat watching as Dan lit the Coleman lantern then arranged the sleeping bags.

“How long have I been bringing you here, Dan?” Jack asked as the younger man moved about with evening chores before settling down.

“Over twenty years, I suppose. I think I was five or six the first time.”

“And before that—before you were born, in fact,” Jack said,  reminiscing. “I took your sister fishing in the back streams of Alaska during my years up there. Brave lass she was, too. Kodiak bear upstream as we waded in the water, salmon swirling around our hip-waders lookin’ for a place to spawn. You should’ve seen that slip of a girl—couldn’t have been more than twelve—in her hip-waders. Looked like chest waders, all folded down to her size. Seems like only yesterday.” The older man reached with a stick to stir the fire, then said, “It’s been a good life. No complaints to speak of, except losing your grandmother too soon.”

Dan continued straightening up the campsite, thinking about his grandmother’s death and the struggle Jack had gone through to adjust to life without her. Dan had always been close to his grandfather, but when Susan died, it was as though they added another dimension to their relationship.

Dan put away the last scrap of food, out of smell and sight of any nocturnal animals, then pulled a sweater over his head and came to sit on a log near the fire. They sat for a time, enjoying the warmth and colors of the blaze.

“Jack, you told me some time back you were opposed to the secession, but what do you think is going to happen? What should I expect?”

The old man sat quietly for a few moments, drinking his coffee.

“That what you brought me up here for, son?”

“No. I just wanted to cook your meals, blow up your air mattress, and see to your every comfort,” Dan kidded. “Seriously, Granddad, when I was drilling with my guard unit a few weeks back, some of us were discussing the next election. One of the other officers—a ‘brigade boy,’ as you call ’em—challenged me that one day I might be called upon to decide if I was going to be an American or a Californian. If the previous election results are any indicator, it looks as though we might have to make that choice.”

“You think it could come to that?”

“Can’t tell yet, Granddad. But a lot of folks are pressing the issue. And some powerful organizations—financial and political—are behind the push.”

“And you?” Jack asked.

“You know how I feel about this valley, Jack. And I know what you told me after the primaries—about being an American.”

Jack nodded. “I guess you think you’ve heard all the family stories, don’t you?”

“Yep,” Dan said, looking at his grandfather through the flickering sparks rising up from the campfire into the darkness.

“The twins, Howard and Frank—I told you about them?”

“You’ve told me many stories about how Howard settled Rumsey Valley, but not much about his brother.”

“Well, maybe there’s something to be learned from what happened to them.” Jack reached for the coffeepot and refilled his tin cup before going on.

“In 1828, my great-great grandfather, Tomas Rumsey, was still living in Connecticut, where his family had been for nearly two centuries. He had a scrap with his father about marrying the Hawkins girl, so he took his new bride and moved down to South Carolina, where he eventually bought a small parcel of land and took up tobacco farming.

“In 1830 they had a baby girl, and then in ’33, they had the twins, Howard and Frank. When the boys were nineteen, they both got an appointment to West Point and graduated together in 1856. By 1860, they were both captains, with Howard stationed in Washington and Frank down in Tennessee. Well, you know what happened in ’61. The boys met at the homestead in Carolina to decide their futures. Their dad, Tomas, was in poor health by then, and they came home only in time to bury him. Immediately after the funeral, the two brothers argued bitterly. South Carolina troops had fired on Fort Sumter, and Carolina had pulled out of the Union. Frank ended up resigning his Army commission and taking a confederate commission with a South Carolina regiment.

“Howard stayed with the Union, went back to Washington, and was later assigned to Meade’s staff. General Meade assumed command of the army of the Potomac in ’63, two days before Gettysburg, and Howard went with him. He was in the bulwarks on Cemetery Ridge when Pickett’s boys, including a South Carolina regiment, came so gallantly across that field. It wasn’t Frank’s outfit, but Howard had no way of knowing if his brother was there or not. After it was all over, Howard wrote a poem about it. In it, he said the Southern troops were the bravest men he’d ever seen.”

Dan sat quietly, enthralled by this new story, potentially a significant addition to his novel. “Jack, I really thought I’d heard them all over the years. Why haven’t you ever told me about this?”

“Kind of a family secret, I guess. Usually the story just jumps forward to Howard Rumsey’s trek west. He was a colonel by the end of the war. The brothers got together once again for a brief time at the Carolina homestead after the rebels surrendered. Their mother had died during the war, and their older sister had married. Howard got home first, and when Frank came back from two years in a Yankee prison camp, he was minus one arm—lost at Chickamauga. As the
family
version of the story goes, they didn’t argue, but Howard agreed to leave the farm to Frank and left to come West. They never saw each other again.”

“But that’s not the
whole
story, is it, Jack?” Dan asked.

“Nope,” the old man replied, pausing to drink his coffee.

Dan sat quietly, smiling inwardly at Jack’s habit of dragging out things other people wanted to know. After several long moments, Jack smiled in return, and Dan knew his grandfather was wise to him.

“So, anyway, I found out some years back—from a distant cousin on Frank’s side of the family—that this family reunion in South Carolina wasn’t entirely peaceful. It makes sense that after the war there were hard feelings against the local boys who’d served with the Yankees. With the twins’ parents gone and their sister married off to some farmer from fifty miles away, it was just the boys on the farm. That lasted about three weeks. Then Frank told Howard he wasn’t welcome anymore and to get out.”

“Weren’t they both owners—the father’s will or something?”

“Don’t know. But Frank laid it out for his brother—‘don’t want you here.’”

“What convinced him to leave?”

Jack stood and stretched his back, turning to look out over the lake and the sliver of moonlight reflecting off the water. Finally he turned back toward Dan.

“The hangings.”

“
Hangings
?” Dan got up from his log and came to stand alongside his grandfather. “Who was hanged?”

“Maybe a half-dozen returned Yankees from that part of South Carolina. It seems the local boys didn’t take kindly to them deserting their state during the war, and although the sheet-head boys were just starting up, the night riders went after who they called ‘the traitors’ before they did the freed slaves.”

“And so Frank warned Howard to leave before he—”

“That’s the way it was told to me. It sounds right, although Howard never told my granddaddy anything about it. Leastwise, nothing I ever heard about.”

Dan considered this new information, new thoughts about his family running through his head. “So, you’re telling me that if this California secession issue comes to a head—considering what just happened to McFarland—we’ll probably see more of the same.”

 “Men do strange things when they get an idea stuck in their craw and think they’re heaven’s choice for being right. Those choices aren’t easy, and ‘family blood’ doesn’t always count.” Jack turned to look at Dan. “You decided where you’re going to stand, if it comes to it?”

“You know my commission as a captain in the guard makes me a federal officer.”

Jack nodded slowly. “That’s the shame of it, isn’t it? So were the twins.”

“And Kenny Bailey was in the brigade, before he was killed,” Dan added, surprised that his thoughts had turned to his brother-in-law.

“Never did like that kid,” Jack said, “but it’s a shame he had to die that way. I told you, son—don’t underestimate these brigade boys. They’ve gotten a smell of their personal brand of freedom now, and they aren’t gonna turn loose easily.”

Dan was quiet for a few moments, staring into the fire. “People always seem to think that the lessons of history aren’t relevant to our time. But time and again, we repeat the process, don’t we?”

“It’s human nature. Man has got to stretch his wings, and we foolishly think that the people back then just got it wrong and we can do it right. We never learn.” Jack yawned, picking up his sleeping bag and shaking it out. “Well, young’un, this mountaineer’s gonna get some shut-eye.”

Dan sat quietly for a long while after Jack had curled up in his sleeping bag. The younger man studied the dying fire, breathing in the fresh aroma of the forest and enjoying the setting and a sky brilliant with stars. He turned to look as Jack shifted in his bed and listened as his grandfather’s breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.

Considering that he might actually have to choose between his American citizenship and the affection he had for his California heritage—particularly the tie he felt to his forebears and Rumsey Valley—he experienced a sudden foreboding and was surprised that tears welled up in his eyes. It occurred to him that the twins likely struggled with similar emotions as they were forced to choose opposite sides in the great American conflict of their day.

He looked again at the still figure, wrapped up in his bedroll, and thought of the mentor his grandfather had been to him as he was growing into manhood. “I love this valley, Jack,” he murmured softly to the night sky, “and all you’ve made of it.”

For eighty years the old man had been plowing fields, planting trees, hauling irrigation pipe, knocking almonds, and hunting and fishing in these mountains. Jack’s father and mother, grandparents, and Colonel Howard Rumsey, his great-granddad Civil War veteran and original valley settler, were buried not ten miles from where Jack now slept. And Ellen, Jack’s beloved wife of sixty-two years. And soon, Dan knew, Jack would join them. But the voices weren’t lost.
They have been genetically and emotionally embedded in me,
Dan thought.
And if humanly possible, they’ll remain safe in my care.