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  KNIGHT IN A BLACK HAT

  Behind the Ranges, Book V

  By

  Judith B. Glad

  Something hidden. Go and find it.

  Go and look behind the Ranges--

  Something lost behind the ranges.

  Lost and waiting for you. Go.

  Rudyard Kipling: The Explorer

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2006

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2002, 2006 by Judith B. Glad

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-013-7

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-013-1

  Previously published by Awe-Struck E-Books

  Cover photo and design by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Dedication & Acknowledgements

  Women naturalists made enormous contributions to the knowledge of American flora and fauna in the nineteenth century,

  yet few were recognized in their own time.

  This book is dedicated, with love and honor, to all of them.

  Two women helped me enormously on my own path toward becoming a botanist.

  Patricia L. Packard and LaRea J. Dennis,

  this book is for the two of you, as well.

  And for Neil, who helped me follow my dreams--all of them.

  * * * *

  My thanks to Richard R. Halse, Curator of the Oregon State University Herbarium, who lent his imagination to the conceptualization of Nellie's balloon plants and helped me with expedition details. He also checked the taxonomy of all the plants mentioned and gave me a wealth of historical information about botanical nomenclature.

  As always, I consulted many sources while planning and writing this story. Two books stand above the rest for inspiring me and for the quantity and quality of information they provided about women naturalists in the nineteenth century. Marcia Myers Bonta's superb books, Women in the Field (1991) and American Women Afield (1995) are both published by Texas A & M University Press.

  Prologue

  Gertie woke suddenly, alert. Shivering, she propped herself on one elbow, strained to hear the secret night sounds. What? What's out there?

  A rustle, a small shriek as a mouse met its fate, a distant whoo-whoo-whoo, and the whisper of gentle wind among the treetops was all she heard.

  She levered herself upright, groaning as the rheumatiz in her knees reminded her she wasn't as young as she used to be. Buttercup lifted his head, yellow eyes gleaming in the scant light, and made a soft cat-sound. Then he tucked his nose back under his tail.

  I must'a been dreamin'. He ain't worried, so there's nothin' out there gonna bother us.

  Sniffing the air, she turned her head from side to side. Rain was coming, that was certain. But there was something else. Not a scent, not a whisper. She held still, listening with her whole body, but heard no sound that was new, that was strange.

  Slowly, stealthily, like a wolf in the shadows, a sureness crept into her mind. Folks is comin'. They're comin' over the mountains. And they ain't lookin' for gold.

  Along with the sureness came another thought, one that raised her hackles and sent goosebumps down her arms. Among the newcomers would be one who would bring danger and death to her safe mountain hideaway.

  Chapter One

  Utah Territory, March, 1872

  The train emerged from Devil's Gate. Nellie Sanders kept her face pressed to the dirty window, eager for a first glimpse of their immediate destination. Ahead she could see the valley open into a bucolic panorama, with tidy farms and small, mostly unpainted houses extending from the abrupt bases of steep, rugged mountains--the Wasatch Range, which formed the eastern border of the Salt Lake Valley. She forced herself to sit still. Pacing the aisle, as she'd done more than once since leaving Ohio, would not make the train move any faster.

  In less than an hour her great adventure would begin.

  What still impressed her the most about this vast western land was the lack of trees. Oh, there were the expected cottonwoods along the occasional creek and river, but beyond that narrow belt of well-watered ground, only shrubs broke the monotony of the winter-brown landscape. The Conductor had told her that what trees had been here when the railroad was being built had gone to make ties and bridge timbers and shacks for the workers.

  As if to reprove her impatience, the train gradually slowed to a crawl. Unable to sit still, she checked about her, making sure she had her small valise and the heavy satchel containing books. Across the aisle, Mr. Beckett, her uncle's valet, was just closing the lapdesk that held Uncle's correspondence and journal. He had earlier made certain that all their scattered belongings were put away, but then Uncle had insisted on dictating one last letter.

  "Don't fuss, Nellie," Uncle said, as she picked up the newspaper lying on the seat beside him.

  She laid it back down and returned to her seat. But she continued her mental inventory. The way Uncle strewed his belongings about was a caution. Mr. Beckett gave her a small, resigned smile. He was the one who would be held responsible for any lost items.

  The train chugged around a curve and the view through the sooty window beside her changed from barren hillsides to an endless vista. "Oh my!" she breathed. Beyond the cluster of buildings ahead, the lake--Great Salt Lake--extended as far as the eye could see, shining like a sheet of silver in the late afternoon sunlight. "Look, Uncle! The lake!"

  "Yes, yes, of course it's the lake. You knew it was here. Did you remember not to pack my portfolio?"

  Nellie couldn't tear her gaze from the prospect before her. "It's in the book satchel."

  "Hmmph."

  "Miss Sanders, I can't find the professor's penknife."

  She turned, reluctantly. "I think he put it inside the lapdesk. Did you look there?"

  "I did, but I'll look again."

  Sighing, Nellie went to help him. Eventually they found the penknife on the floor under Uncle's seat.

  By that time, the train was inching its way into the railyard. There was a raw, unfinished look about the place, as if the construction workers had simply laid down what they carried and walked away when the building of the transcontinental railroad was done. None of the wooden buildings along the right-of-way were painted, and many looked as if they had been assembled out of scraps of whatever the builder could scrounge.

  At last the train approached the depot. It crept past a large, many-windowed building sided with white clapboards. A hotel, Nellie assumed, for it looked very similar to the one in Laramie where they had been forced to spend a night, due to a derail some distance west of there.

  She took stock of the three men who stood on the platform. Surely none of them was the guide who would be responsible for their expedition's safety and well-being for the next half-year. One was an older man in rough clothing, with the look of a farmer about him. The second was well-dressed, middle-aged, and portly; not someone she would expect to venture into the wilderness. The third--he was dressed all in black, with a wide-brimmed black hat that concealed the upper part of his face. He looked exactly as she would expect a desperado to appear, except that he carried no gun. He certainly did not resemble her ideal of a trustwort
hy guide.

  The train came to a halt with a clash of brakes and a jerk that nearly threw her to the floor.

  The other passengers lined up in the aisle, but Nellie stayed where she was, knowing Uncle was always the last to disembark. She spent the wait peering through the window and wishing the depot didn't block the view of the lake. And forcing herself into an outward appearance of calm, when what she really wanted to do was rush to the vestibule and take the first step into adventure.

  * * * * *

  The man whose name was not Malcolm Bradley stood on the platform, watching the approaching train. Malachi Breedlove still wasn't sure he was doing the right thing, but he was sure his luck was close to running out. It was time for a change, and this was the best idea he'd run into.

  Herding a bunch of tenderfeet into the mountains wasn't quite what he'd bargained for when he'd wired George Franklin, looking for work. But Franklin had told him that this job needed someone with some brains and some couth, so he hadn't been able to resist.

  He liked to think he was a cut above other shootists. He read books, spoke well, and had never killed a man who didn't need it.

  The windows of the train were gray with soot, so that all he could see were dark shapes inside, a long line of them, moving like cold molasses toward this end of the railcar. He watched the people stepping down from the Pullman car, wondering which were his party. A professor of botany, his manservant, and his assistant. Franklin, who'd guided hunting parties made up of lords and knights and even a prince or two, had almost turned the job down, until he got the telegram from Malachi, asking about work, and being particular about what kind of work he took.

  The professor did something or other with plants, but Franklin hadn't been sure just what. All he'd known was that the client hadn't wanted trophy heads, hadn't cared whether his guides could hunt or not, as long as they knew how to get him into the Sawtooths, up in Idaho Territory.

  A bent, graybeard stepped carefully down the steps, paused, and looked around. Behind him were two younger men, each carrying a carpetbag. Malachi straightened, sure he'd found his party.

  Then a young woman rushed forward and embraced the older man. "Papa!" she cried, "I've missed you so."

  Several more people disembarked, but the flood had slowed to a trickle. The Conductor checked his notebook, then climbed the steps and disappeared into the forward railcar. Through its dusty windows, Malachi could see him moving up the aisle. There were several people still inside, and the Conductor halted where they sat. Pretty soon they started moving around, like they were gathering up their belongings.

  Malachi kind of figured they were the ones he was waiting for.

  * * * * *

  Uncle finally rose. "Don't forget my diary, Beckett." He pushed by Nellie. To the Conductor, he said, "Lead on, my good man. I can only take your word that this god-forsaken wasteland is our destination."

  Nellie handed Mr. Beckett the last carpetbag, picked up her uncle's diary, and checked around their seats for forgotten items. Sure enough, there was Uncle's tobacco case, where he'd laid it on the empty seat beside him. She slipped it into her skirt pocket. Making sure her bonnet was tied securely, she turned up her collar and smoothed her gloves before once again picking up her bag and the heavy book satchel she was responsible for.

  Feeling not a little apprehension mixed with simmering anticipation, she followed the men down the aisle of the railcar to the vestibule. After another grumble or two, Uncle accepted the Conductor's assistance and stepped to the ground. Mr. Beckett followed, while Nellie peered out over his head.

  What a desolate land! Beyond the small settlement of Ogden was only emptiness. Far, far across the lake, distant mountains rose, stark and barren against a sky gray with lowering clouds.

  "Miss?"

  Startled, she realized that the Conductor was waiting to assist her to the ground. She took his hand and stepped down, aware of the sizzle of excitement in her midriff. She was here at last. The Wild West!

  The wind whistled down the platform, nearly taking her breath with it. Cold! So cold, and so dry that she was forced to blink constantly.

  "Well, come on then, Nellie. Don't dawdle while I freeze to death. And see if you can find that guide who was supposed to meet us."

  "Yes, Uncle," she murmured.

  The desperado approached, doffed his black hat. "Professor Kremer?" he said to Uncle.

  "I am he," Uncle replied, in the tone that had terrified many a student. "And who are you?"

  "Malcolm Bradley, sir. I'm your guide." He held out a hand.

  Uncle ignored it. "Nonsense! You can't be. Franklin said he'd provide us with an experienced man. Someone mature and responsible."

  Mr. Bradley reached inside his coat and drew out an envelope. "Mr. Franklin asked me to give you this, since he was unable to meet your train." While Uncle read the enclosed letter, Mr. Bradley turned to Mr. Beckett. "If you'll tell me which bags are yours, I'll load them into the wagon. The hotel is about a half mile from here."

  Helplessly, the valet looked at Nellie.

  "Thank you, Mr. Bradley," she said. "Our baggage should be inside. And there should be some freight that we had shipped ahead. We will need to make sure it arrived, although I suspect that we will want to leave it here at the depot until we are ready to depart."

  "Freight? It should have been shipped on to Kelton."

  "It seemed safer to ship it here. The agent in Cincinnati said that Kelton was nothing but a whistle stop." She essayed a smile, but his rather stern expression did not change. "My uncle is quite fatigued, so perhaps we should go to our hotel this afternoon. If it is convenient, tomorrow I will meet you here at the depot and we can assess our transportation needs."

  His mouth opened, then closed. "Let's go, then. I'll load your baggage and drive you to the hotel."

  The hotel was really quite acceptable, considering it was so far from civilization. Uncle grumped and fussed, but once he was settled in his large, comfortable room and sipping at brandy, he agreed that it was better than he'd expected. Nellie's room was much smaller, but adequate.

  She stared out the window into the waning afternoon, seeing not the desolate landscape but the culmination of her dreams. At last she would have a chance to prove herself a true botanist. If the mountains at their destination were as steep and rugged as she had read, then possibly Uncle would restrict his collecting to the lower slopes and the high places would be hers to explore. He no longer seemed so energetic as he had in past years.

  Perhaps she might even discover a new species. Even if Uncle insisted in sharing its publication, she would be recognized as one of its discoverers.

  Hugging herself, Nellie pushed the excitement back where she kept it, hidden away from all those who saw her only as a meek, gray little woman, handmaid to the great Octavius Kremer, supreme authority on the TransMississippi flora of the United States.

  Day after tomorrow Uncle would travel to Salt Lake City, where he would confer with persons familiar with the area that was his goal. For two glorious days, she would be free to explore those dry hillsides and canyons she had seen as they approached this raw young settlement.

  * * * * *

  Malachi spent two hours the next morning arguing with Franklin about carrying the unexpected freight up into the Sawtooth Mountains.

  He lost.

  "The Professor's paying a premium to have his gear hauled in. If you have to use three dozen mules to get it in, do it," Franklin said, as he leaned back in his swivel chair and lit a cheroot. "Keep him happy, no matter what it takes."

  "I'm no mule skinner," Malachi told him.

  Franklin shrugged. "That don't matter. You'll have Willard and the kid to help handle 'em. Don't forget, Willard ran a packline over the Sierras, before he went to Montana. And Murphy Creek can lend a hand when you need it."

  Malachi had told Miss Sanders he would meet her at the hotel at ten. When he got there, he learned that she'd already departed, on foot, for the depot.


  If there was anything he disliked, it was a woman who took the bit in her teeth. Sooner or later, they got a man in the worst kind of trouble.

  And now he was going to spend the summer riding herd on one.

  As he drove along the street toward the depot, he wondered about Miss Sanders. From what little he'd been able to see of her, she was younger than the professor. That big-brimmed bonnet she wore, along with the shapeless coat, hadn't given him much idea of what she really looked like. Short, maybe shoulder high to him, and slim, despite the coat. Her hands had been gloved, but even so, he had noted that her fingers were long and graceful.

  He surely wished her face hadn't been so shadowed by her bonnet's poke. He hadn't even been able to tell if she was young or old, the way she kept her head lowered.

  Probably ugly as a mud fence and mean as a bat. He'd heard the mostly-hidden impatience in her voice when she spoke to her uncle. Not that he blamed her. After a half hour in the professor's company, he was wondering if this summer's work might not be one of the most difficult jobs he'd ever taken. It surely was going to take every bit of patience and tact he could drum up.

  * * * * *

  Nellie checked the last crate. They were all intact and only as scuffed as would be expected after a two thousand mile journey. The important thing was the crates were all here. She thanked the freight agent politely and tipped the young Negro who'd moved them into a single cluster at one end of the long room. Now if only that man who'd claimed to be their guide would appear, she could get on with choosing and purchasing what additional supplies they would need for the summer.

  Had she forgotten anything? Would one bag of coffee be enough? Five pounds of Uncle's special blend of tea? Had Mr. Franklin located a cow? Uncle would not tolerate his tea without fresh milk. She fished in her reticule and pulled out her small notebook.

  "You were supposed to wait for me at the hotel."