Chapter 1

Drew Steele couldn't sleep. He got up and dressed and went into his office where he stood for a while looking out of the big window behind his desk. The sun was just coming up across the San Francisco bay, but it would be hours before it could break through the thick morning fog.

He lit a lamp and sat down at his desk. He picked up yesterday's Bulletin and reread the story about the group of Confederate fighters who were still holed up in a remote mountainous region of North Carolina. Most of the country's newspapers had been describing them as fanatics, confused pseudo-patriots continuing to fight for a hopeless cause even after the peace treaty had been signed by both sides. On the other hand, the Southern newspapers were promoting the idea that they were loyal soldiers of the South, unwilling to give up their dream of a free nation. Steele wasn't so sure either concept was true: what if they were being directed by Southern leaders who wanted to keep hope for the Confederacy alive?

His thoughts were interrupted by someone banging on the door. "Steele, open up. It's me."

Rudd? What was he doing here at this time of day? Steele got up and went to open the door.

Rudd rushed in waving a piece of paper. "Wait 'til you hear what's in this letter, Steele. It's about the war-crimes trials."

"Well, good morning to you too, Rudd. A bit early for you, isn't it?"

Rudd flopped down in the chair and fanned himself with the letter. "It sure is. The boss sent messengers to wake all of us reporters up as soon as he opened this letter. He told us go see what we could find out about it. I ran all the way over here to tell you, seein' how you study about the war all the time."

Steele went back to his chair behind the desk. "So what's the urgency? I would expect your newspaper to get a lot of letters about such a divisive issue as the war-crimes trials."

"Yeah, but this one isn't the usual ramble. It's from some guy named Ramsey who claims to be a general. And he's threatening to take hostages."

That name gave Steele a start. Hadn't there been a General Jacob Ramsey in Tennessee, one of Bennett's subcommanders? Could it be the same man? He held out his hand. "Let me see the letter."

"Well, uh, how 'bout if I read it to you? The boss said we weren't supposed to show it to anybody, but he didn't say anything about reading it out loud."

"That's a copy, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I made a copy when nobody was looking. How'd you know?"

"It's never been folded." Steele opened his journal and picked up his pen. "Read."

Rudd took out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and cleared his throat. "It starts out like this: 'The war-crimes trials currently taking place in the Federal capital are inherently illegal. They must be stopped. Take heed. For each Confederate officer brought before that tribunal, there will be one hostage taken. For each Confederate officer executed, there will be one hostage executed.'"

"Wait," said Steele, holding up his hand. He finished copying down the words and took a few seconds to reread them. The letter writer was referring to the historic war-crimes tribunal that was going on back in Washington, the series of trials intended to punish Confederate officers who were accused of committing atrocities during the Civil War. Did the letter writer know somebody on trial back there? A friend or relative? Steele dropped his hand. "Continue."

"It says, 'This unprecedented and illegitimate tribunal portends to punish loyal officers of the Confederacy who were only carrying out their orders.'" Rudd looked at Steele over the top of his spectacles. "It goes on to say, 'You have been warned.' Then there was a great big signature at the bottom, C. J. Ramsey."

The name gave Steele a start. "You could read the signature clearly? It was C. J. Ramsey?"

"Yeah, do you know somebody by that name?"

"I believe there was a Confederate general named C. J. Ramsey. Are you sure you copied the letter exactly?"

Rudd nodded once. "Sure. I'm good at that. People tell me things, and I write 'em down. Exactly."

Steele looked at what he had written in his journal. The letter-writer was using formal language. And there was the reference to 'loyal officers of the Confederacy.' It was unlikely a Confederate general would be writing letters to a San Francisco newspaper, but it did sound like the kind of language a military man would use. "Who delivered the letter?"

"Some guy left it at the front desk. The girl didn't know him. She said he didn't speak English."

"A Mexican?"

"That's what the girl thought."

"What kind of paper was the letter written on?"

Rudd shrugged. "I think it was just regular white paper, not fine stationary if that's what you mean. Is that important?"

"Of course. Everything is important. What was the handwriting like?"

"A big flowing script. Everybody in the office commented on that."

"Were there any words crossed out? Any corrected mistakes?"

Rudd glanced at his notes, thinking. "As I recall, not a one." He looked up at Steele. Hey, that's kind of unusual isn't it?"

"It means there had to be prior drafts. The letter writer planned his words carefully.. He wanted his message to be very clear without any potential for confusion. Did the letter ask your newspaper to publish it?"

"Nope. It didn't say anything other than what I read to you."

Steele sat back in his chair to think what the letter-writer's purpose could be. He hadn't made any demands. Maybe he was just trying to get the newspaper's attention. "If there's anything to the threat, you will undoubtedly get another letter."

Rudd thought about that. "Well, maybe. But isn't it possible this Ramsey guy is just another Rebel chowderhead, even if he was a general?"

"If the letter really was from a Confederate general, it should be taken seriously."

"Do you think he could be? A real general, that is?"

"There was a general by that name. I can look him up." Steele got up and went to his file cabinet. He removed a thick stack of unbound papers and brought them back to his desk.

"What've you got there?"

"It's a draft of a book about the Confederate officers who took part in the war. The author sent it to me for my opinion."

"Is this Ramsey guy in there?"

"It includes information about all the Confederate high-ranking officers." Steele leafed through the book, which was organized by region. In the Tennessee section, he found the reference he was looking for. "Here it is. General Jacob C. Ramsey, commander of the 2nd Tennessee infantry regiment. It says he was known as the 'Butcher of Shelbyville.'"

"The Butcher of Shelbyville? What does that mean?"

"During the war, when I was still working in the Union field hospital, I heard men talk about a battle near Shelbyville, Tennessee. The Union soldiers claimed the Confederates were killing their captured Union troops. This book says General Ramsey was in charge of a regiment at that battle and it describes him as an example of the fanatical leadership style that had helped lose the war for the Confederacy."

Rudd sat forward to look at the book. "So there was a general by that name. Does it say anything else about him?"

"It says that near the end of the war he was quoted as saying he would personally shoot down any man who tried to surrender to the North."

Rudd let out a low whistle. "Shoot his own men? Sounds like a real fanatic."

"The author of this book goes on to speculate that it could have been that very statement that caused a revolt of his men and the eventual mass Confederate surrender at the battle of Crossville."

"Crossville? Where's that?"

"Near Chattanooga. Back then, Chattanooga and the Tennessee River area near the Alabama and Georgia state lines was known as the gateway to the South. The Confederates were trying to hold it at any cost."

"So this Ramsey was there?"

"Not only was he there, he must have taken some of the blame for the loss. This book says that after Crossville, he was demoted to the rank of lieutenant general and re-posted as commander of the Hackleburg prisoner-of-war camp."

"So he lost his rank and got stuck in some backwater place. But why would somebody like that be writing threatening letters to my newspaper?"

Steele searched the book for references to Hackleburg and soon found exactly what he was looking for. "Listen to this. It says Hackleburg wasn't a real prison, just a fenced in perimeter with no buildings or shelter of any kind."

"Uh oh, wasn't Andersonville like that?"

"Yes, and the commander of the Andersonville camp has already been arrested for war crimes. This General Ramsey might be wanted by the tribunal for similar war crimes. This book says Hackleburg was almost as bad as Andersonville. It says the prisoners reported that they only survived the cold by scraping out holes in the ground and using their dead companions to cover themselves. They said they were barely fed enough to survive. They ate rats, insects, even worms."

Rudd made a sour face. "Christ! Hard to imagine eating . . . stuff like that. So this General Ramsey was the one in charge of that prison?"

"Apparently he was. If he's wanted by the war crimes tribunal, it might explain the threats in his letter."

"But why did he send the letter to a San Francisco newspaper? Do you think it means he's out here in the West now?"

"If you were wanted as a war criminal, where would you go? Not many in the West participated in the war. He would not be known out here."

Rudd nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "You know, he could be right here in San Francisco. Wouldn't that be a story? A Confederate general on the run, right here under our noses."

"He'd be smart to stay away from large cities. But if he is in the West, and he wants publicity for his cause, the San Francisco Morning Herald, the largest newspaper west of the Mississippi, would be the one he would choose."

"But the letter was hand delivered. Doesn't it mean he could be here?"

"It is important that is was hand delivered. It means he's close enough to send a messenger. The letter mentioned the taking of hostages. Has your newspaper reported any recent kidnappings?"

"Naw. My boss asked if anybody had heard anything like that. Nobody knew about any kidnappings, at least not any that's been reported around here. That's why we all thought it must be a crank letter. But the boss said to ask around, just in case."

"You should check the other branches of your newspaper. Maybe someone has seen or heard something about Ramsey elsewhere."

"Now wait a minute," protested Rudd. "I'm not telling anybody anything. So far, I'm the only one who even knows the letter might be from a Confederate General. It's my story and I plan to keep it that way." He jumped to his feet and jammed on his hat. "I'll go do some nosing around about this General Ramsey, but I'm not gonna tell anybody why I'm asking. This story could be the break I've been waiting for, my chance to break into crime reporting."

Chapter 2

Steele listened to Rudd's heavy footsteps going down the front stairs. He turned in his chair to look out the window. The fog was lifting a little, but the sun had not yet broken through. He tried to imagine a Confederate general, hiding in the West, writing a letter to a San Francisco newspaper. Would he make such a threat before taking a hostage? Why would he warn in advance? And if he had already taken a hostage, why had he made no demands? But maybe Rudd's first thought had been correct; maybe it was only a crank letter. But what if it wasn't?

He pushed aside the journal and looked toward the door. Would Rudd tell his boss the letter might be from a Confederate general? He wondered if he should go down to the newspaper office and talk to Rudd's boss. He shook off the thought. Better to wait to see if they heard anything else. Maybe they would get another letter.

He decided to keep to his usual schedule. He spend the morning at city library, studying, as he did every morning.

He got up and put on his coat. But as he went down the stairs, he was still troubled by the fact that the letter writer had made no demands. He hadn't even asked the newspaper to publish the letter. Maybe this General Ramsey wanted something more than the cessation of the war-crimes trials. If so, he would be in contact with the newspaper again. Steele decided it wouldn't hurt to drop by the newspaper office, just to see if they were taking any further action.

The moment Steele walked into the newspaper building he could see that something was wrong. Despite the early hour, the place was not deserted; on the contrary, there were even more men in the office than usual. They were rushing to and fro, and many of them were in shirtsleeves instead of their usual buttoned-up suits and starched collars. The door of one office was ajar and inside he saw Rudd, among others, gathered around a desk where a man in a dark suit sat reading from a small piece of paper. Steele recognized it as a Western Union telegraph message. Everyone was asking questions, all at the same time: questions about where it had happened, about when, about demands. Steele realized it must be another message from Ramsey. Had he carried out his threat to take hostages?

Steele moved into the office and stood behind the reporters.

The man sitting behind the desk threw up his hands and looked at the others. "He isn't asking for any money, so what the hell does he want?"

Steele tapped Rudd on the shoulder.

Without looking back, Rudd pushed away the hand, saying, "Just a minute. I'll be right there."

"Rudd, it's me," whispered Steele.

Rudd looked back. "Oh, Steele, it's you. By God, you were right. You said we'd get another letter."

"Who's that?" shouted the man behind the desk. He turned the message face down. "Get him out of here."

The others turned to look at Steele.

Rudd pulled Steele forward. "Mr. Gilson, this is Drew Steele, the detective I told you about, the one who told me the first letter might be from a Confederate general."

Steele had heard of Gilson, the editor of the newspaper. He had a reputation as a man who drove his employees hard, but got results. Gilson was staring at him, frowning.

Steele met his stare. "So the letter was from General Ramsey?"

"That's right," said Gilson. "How did you know?"

Steele glanced at the reporters who were all watching him, waiting for his answer. He moved through them to the edge of Gilson's desk. "Maybe we should talk about this in private."

Gilson abruptly stood up, glaring at Steele. "What? Are you telling me what to do in my own office?" His angry eyes were the eyes of a man who expected to be obeyed.

Steele waited calmly.

Finally, still scowling, Gilson turned to the others. "All right, everybody out except Rudd. I've got to talk to this man. Go write something vague about rumors of a kidnapping, but don't file anything until you hear from me."

"What should I tell the layout people?" asked a nervous-looking man.

"Tell them to wait," shouted Gilson. "And don't any of you say anything to anybody outside this office. Got it?"

The reporters mumbled their agreement and filed out the door.

As soon as the reporters were gone, Gilson pointed to a chair in front of his desk. "All right, Steele, let's have it."

"I assume there has been another message," said Steele, sitting down. "And I assume that if you know it came from General Ramsey then he must have used his title this time." But even as he asked the question, Steele wondered why Ramsey would have used his title in a second message if he hadn't used it in the first one.

Gibson sat down and leaned across the desk, pointing at Steele. "Hold on a minute. First I want to know what you know. Who is this maniac, this Ramsey? You think he was a real Confederate general?"

"He really was, Mr. Gilson," said Rudd. "Steele looked him up in a book."

"I didn't ask you, Rudd. I asked Steele."

"There was a Confederate general named Jacob Ramsey," said Steele. "Did he sign the new message as a general?"

"He sure the hell did." Gilson reached down to touch the message, but didn't turn it over. He put both hands on his desk and leaned even closer to Steele. "Listen here, Steele, I have to know if this so-called general is serious. What's he up to? I mean if he--"

"Something more has obviously happened," interrupted Steele. "More than a threat this time."

"He's got Mr. Kane," said Rudd. "He sent a telegra--"

"Shut the hell up, Rudd," said Gilson. "I don't know anything about Steele here. You say he's a detective, but what makes you think he won't go to the other papers? They'd pay a lot for a story like this."

"He wouldn't do that," protested Rudd. "He's a . . . a detective."

"So detectives don't want to make a buck?" Gilson turned back to Steele, studying him.

Steele stared back, thinking about the implications of such a kidnapping. If Ramsey had somehow captured Edward Kane, the rich and powerful owner of many businesses in the West, including the Morning-Herald newspaper chain, then the general had taken a hostage that might well be significant enough to get the government's attention. Edward Kane wasn't merely a well-known San Francisco businessman; he was known throughout the country. He was even rumored to be considering a run for the U.S. Senate. What better hostage to put pressure on the Federal government?

"All right, Steele," said Gilson. "Rudd here thinks we can trust you. But if we pay you to help us, I don't want you talking to any of the other papers. Or to anybody else. Agreed?"

"Of course," said Steele. "I never talk about my cases."

"I don't know if I'd call it a case. I mean, this man may be bluffing. We don't know if he really has Kane."

"What did he say?"

Gilson picked up the telegraph message. "One line. 'I have Kane.'" He handed it to Steele. "It came in early this morning. What kind of man sends a one-line message like that? I mean, what the hell does he want?"

"What telegraph station was it sent from?"

"San Diego. A little town down south. Near the border."

"Have you checked with that telegraph office to learn who sent it?"

"Yeah, sure. They say some Mexican brought it in, already written out. In English. The guy dropped it off along with the money for the fee to send it. By the time they read it, he was already gone."

"You say you're not sure he has Kane. Does that mean you don't know where Mr. Kane is?"

Gilson shrugged. "He took his family down there for a little vacation. To take the baths, I hear. Who knows, maybe he's still there somewhere, enjoying his vacation."

"Have you tried to get in touch with him?"

"Of course. We wired our branch office in San Diego. They said he took off with his family in a rented carriage."

"When was that?"

"Two days ago."

"And they haven't heard from them since?"

"Well, no. But maybe they found those sulfur baths they were looking for. They might be staying out there."

"That would be something of a coincidence, wouldn't it?"

Gilson frowned. "Yeah, I guess so. So you think this Ramsey guy really does have them?"

"You should act on that assumption. Have you sent somebody out to look for them?"

"Yeah, but nobody seems to know which way they went."

Steele paused, and then asked, "Was Kane's presence in that part of the state known? Was it advertised?"

"Sure. Everything Mr. Kane does these days is pretty well known. All the other papers report everything he does. So do we."

"That's my beat," said Rudd, perking up. "I try to keep him in the news."

"Rudd's job is to make him look good," said Gilson. "The other papers are not so kind. They seem to think a businessman shouldn't be getting into politics."

"The point is," said Steele, "it would have been easy for someone to find out he was going down there."

"Yeah, I guess so," said Gilson, looking downcast. "So what happens next? I suppose there'll be another message soon. With his demands."

Steele thought about it. Why hadn't Ramsey made any demands? He must be planning to ask for something in return for Kane's safe return, presumably something to do with the war-crimes trials. If so, why hadn't he stated his demands in the telegraph message? "Let me look at the original letter you got from him."

Gilson opened his top desk drawer and took the letter out. He handed it to Steele and go up to pace nervously back and forth behind his desk.

"No envelope?"

"Nope," said Gilson. "Just this one piece of paper."

Steele could see the handwriting was bold, as if the letter writer was bearing down hard. Before reading the letter, Steele studied the paper. It was thick, high quality bond. He held it up toward the window to look at the watermark. "It's from the Wheatman Mill, in Boston."

"So it came from back east," said Rudd.

"All paper is from back east," said Steele, still examining the paper. "Or from London. There are no paper mills in the West as yet."

"Oh," said Rudd.

"It's stiff, unglazed paper, but notice that it is somewhat frayed along one edge."

"Does that matter?" asked Rudd.

"No, but what does matter is that the handwriting avoids the frayed edge. It means the fraying came before the paper was written on. The paper was carried on its side, probably one of a packet of papers carried in a bag. Or in a saddlebag."

"A traveling man," said Rudd.

"That's right. Ramsey probably carried a packet of this stationary with him all the way from Tennessee, possibly on a horse. He planned to do some writing so he brought ink and fine paper with him."

"Interesting," said Gilson. "But how is it going to help us find Mr. Kane?"

"It isn't, but it can help us to understand Ramsey. For one thing, it might indicate he had this whole thing planned before he headed west."

Gilson stopped pacing and threw up his hands. "So if he carries his fancy paper with him all the way from back east and writes out a real formal sounding letter, why doesn't he say what the hell he wants us to do."

Steele thought about that as he read the letter. It was exactly as Rudd had dictated it, a warning, and a threat to take hostages. If nothing else, Rudd was good at copying. The letter mentioned the war-crimes trials going on back east, but made no demands. Now Ramsey had his hostage, an important one. So why hadn't the telegraphic message demanded a trade of prisoners? Or a halt to the trials? Suddenly, Steele realized the implications. "He's going to do something else," he said, almost to himself.

Gilson stopped his pacing to look at Steele. "Something else?"

"Like what?" asked Rudd.

Steele looked from one to the other. "Something more dramatic, to show he's serious."

Gilson sat back down behind his desk. "What do you mean, serious? You don't think he'd hurt Mr. Kane?"

"I expect he will keep Kane alive," said Steele, handing the letter back to Gilson. "But when it comes to hostages, it's hard to predict what can happen. Do you remember Quantrill's band, the border raiders who fought on the Confederate side during the war?"

"Sure," said Gilson. "We published several stories about him and the trouble his gang has been causing ever since."

"Quantrill often took hostages. In sixty-four, as the end of the war neared, Quantrill raided a small town in Missouri. As they left, they took a young girl as a shield, but they left behind one of their gang, a boy who had been wounded. The town sent word they would begin to cut off the boy's fingers, one by one, until the gang brought back the girl. Quantrill sent back a reply that for each finger of the boy cut off they would receive two from the girl in return."

"Holy Christ," whispered Rudd. "What happened?"

"They went ahead and hung the boy. The girl was never seen again."

"Well, that was war," said Gilson. "But it's over now and this is Mr. Kane we're talking about, one of the most important people in the country. They wouldn't dare do anything like that to him."

Steele suppressed the urge to confront the man about his quick dismissal of the people who had suffered in the war, but he suspected that Gilson, like most everyone else, just wanted to forget such reminders of that dark period. "I agree it is unlikely that a rational mind would seriously hurt, or kill, such an important bargaining chip," said Steele. "Nevertheless, he is--"

"A bargaining chip?" said Gilson, jumping up again. "You think Mr. Kane is nothing more than a poker chip in this game?"

"I'm merely trying to think about how Ramsey would see it," said Steele calmly. "We can only hope the general's thoughts are still rational."

"Rational? How can you call that man rational? Taking hostages. Sending threats. And for what? The war is over and done with."

"Hostage taking and bargaining for their release was a common practice during the war. If he still sees himself at war, he will--"

"Wait a minute now, the war is over," interrupted Gilson. "Doesn't that madman know they lost?" He started to pace again.

"What should we do?" asked Rudd.

Steele watched Gilson pace, wishing the man would sit down and try to be a bit more calm. Finally he said, "It doesn't look as if we can do anything. We have no way to contact Ramsey."

"So we just wait?" said Rudd.

"I'd like to go to San Diego and ask some questions," said Steele. "Maybe somebody down there knows where the Kane family was heading."

Rudd turned to his boss. "What do you think, Mr. Gilson? Can I take Steele down there?"

Gilson looked at him for several seconds before sitting down and putting his face in his hands. "Damn, damn," he mumbled. He looked back up at Rudd. "All right, go ahead. Don't forget to fill out a travel voucher. But listen, Rudd, keep me informed whenever you get near a telegraph. I'll let you know if we hear anything more from this madman."

"Uh, so it's okay to hire Steele?" asked Rudd. "I mean should I get some money from the cashier?"

"What?" said Gilson. He was staring toward the window. "Right, yes. Get going. Go!"

Chapter 3

After agreeing to meet Rudd at the train station in one hour, Steele headed for street vendor alley off of Washington Street. He found the man who sold war surplus uniforms by the bale to use as rags and asked him to dig out a fairly clean Confederate uniform in his size. The man was surprised, but did as he was told. "You gonna wear it?" he asked as he handed it over. "What are you , some kind of Rebel sympathizer?" Steele ignored the question. He paid for the uniform and hurried back to his office.

Once there, he went into the small sleeping room that adjoined his office and pulled his old army backpack out from under the bed. He quickly stuffed in some clothes and the Confederate uniform. Before closing the backpack, he carried it out to his office where he opened the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. He took out his multibladed knife and put his foot up on the drawer to carefully place the knife in its well-hidden pocket inside his left boot. Next, he took his small Remington revolver out of the cabinet and unwrapped it from its oiled rag. He took a moment to admire the well-designed little weapon, using the rag to wipe away a fingerprint before he put the gun into its special holster inside his right boot. He grabbed a box of shells for the Remington and tossed them into the backpack before closing it. He swung the pack over his shoulder, took one last look around the room, and left.

After going down the stairs to the street, he stopped to look up at his office window. He had the oddest feeling that he might never return to that building. He shook off the thought and continued on down the street.

The few pedestrians that were out on the street that early seemed fairly cheerful despite the chilly fog that still lay over the city. Steele realized he also felt cheerful, and more alive than he'd felt in a long time. It had been quite a while since he'd had the mix of apprehension and eagerness that came just before he headed into a dangerous situation. He had to admit he liked the feeling.

At the station, Steele waited next to the train's engine as it began to build up steam. When the engineer began clanging the bell and the conductor started shouting his last warning, Steele began to wonder if Rudd was going to make it. But just as the train began to move, Rudd came along the platform, trying to hurry, but barely able to drag his large suitcase. Steele ran to take it from him. He helped Rudd aboard and threw the large suitcase up to him before swinging up onto the steps of the moving train.

As they went up the aisle looking for seats, Rudd kept up a constant chatter about the lack of enough coaches and the poor design of the Union Pacific's passenger cars. When Steele had to help him get his big suitcase up into the overhead rack, Rudd was somewhat apologetic. "It's a little heavy, I know. I couldn't decide what clothes I would need down there so I just threw in a whole bunch of stuff."

Rudd wanted the aisle seat, "To keep an eye on things."

Steele took the window seat and settled in to watch the scenery pass by. The rolling grass hills were starting to dry out and the newspapers were already starting to talk about the danger of wildfires after the long rainy winter.

Rudd took out his pipe and searched each of his overstuffed pockets before finding what he was looking for, a small pen knife. He began to scrape away inside the bowl of the charred pipe. Once he had finished the job, he tapped the pipe against the heel of his shoe to empty it onto the floor. Then he filled the pipe with tobacco and lit it before turning to Steele. "Well, what do you think? Will this Ramsey guy really kill Mr. Kane? I mean, what if they aren't willing to trade Mr. Kane for any of those war-crimes Confederates?"

"He hasn't asked for a trade."

"Yeah, I guess that's true, but what else can he want?"

"If he wants an exchange of hostages, why didn't he say so in his telegraph message? He knows the procedure for hostage negotiations. Being the commandant of a prisoner-of-war camp, he must have participated in them."

Rudd frowned. "You make it sound like there are formal rules."

"There were during the war. Hostage taking was a common tactic throughout the war. Both sides used it, but it wasn't widely publicized because neither side wanted to admit how commonplace it was. Usually they took army officers or politicians, but near the end of the war, Southern civilians were also taken as hostages to protect the Union forces as they marched through the South."

"I remember reading something about hostages," said Rudd. "Didn't some mother write to President Lincoln about her son who was going to be hung? As I remember, the press played it up as a sad case, real unfair."

"That's right," said Steele. "The letter was from a mother whose son was a low-ranking officer on a captured Confederate privateer ship. The North considered all hands on such ships to be pirates and therefore subject to execution. When the Union announced the crew would be hung, including the junior officers, the South retaliated by going into Richmond's Castle Thunder Prison and removing Union prisoners of the same approximate age and rank as the captured privateers. They said if any of the ship's crew were executed by the North, they would execute the Union prisoners."

"Did they?"

"Yes. All of the ship's officers were hung. And of course the South responded in kind."

"They hung Union prisoners of war?"

"They did. It started a practice of hostage taking and revenge executions that became commonplace throughout the war. Both Lincoln and Jefferson Davis approved it as a necessary evil of war."

Rudd shook his head. "Terrible. And you think this General Ramsey was involved in it?"

"Apparently he still is."

As the train steamed southward next to the bay, Rudd pointed out the window. "If we were going to Sacramento, we'd have to go all the way around the bay. The Union Pacific's too cheap to build a bridge. Their holding out until the state does it for them."

He then launched into a long description of the current level of government graft and corruption, but Steele was only half listening. He more interested in the many tall sailing ships that were anchored in the bay waiting to unload their cargo. The ships reminded him of the day he and Stacy had sailed from the New York harbor, heading for England. Once they arrived in London, it hadn't taken Stacy long to get involved in the fight for women's rights, leaving him with little to do. For months, he had spent his days in the local libraries, reading about medicine, advances in armaments, and the many new scientific discoveries that were being made on the Continent. When he'd told Stacy he was going back to America, she at first tried to talk him into staying. But eventually she had agreed that he should get back to his work. She said she would come home as soon as she could, but now, after six months, she still hadn't returned and her letters mainly talked about "the movement." She said they were making such great progress she couldn't leave yet.

"Hey," said Rudd, "did you hear anything I was saying?"

"Sorry, I was thinking about Stacy."

"Oh, have you heard from her? When is she coming back?"

"Soon, she says."

Rudd looked doubtful. "That's what she always says. I say a woman should be with her man."

"She has her work there."

"And that's what you always say. Well, I say it's time to eat. We had to hurry so fast to catch this train, I didn't get any breakfast. Let's hike up to the food car." He stood up.

"You go ahead. I'm enjoying the scenery."

Rudd leaned down to look out the window. "As soon as we get past the bay, there's not gonna be anything to look at except dry grass and maybe a few cows. But suit yourself, I'll be back soon."

When Rudd didn't return for some time, Steele suspected he'd found a better conversationalist in the food car. Grateful for the peace and quiet, Steele gazed out the window, enjoying the gradual changes in scenery as the train rolled on southward. The trees along the bay soon gave way to the openness of grasslands and rolling hills. Occasionally there was a small farm, marked off by a row of young trees. He thought about how different it was from the thickly-wooded hill country of Tennessee where he'd spent most of the war years working in the Union field hospital. General Ramsey was supposed to have been commanding a Confederate regiment in southern Tennessee during that same period. Steele remembered a wounded soldier who had come into the hospital talking about a big battle in the woods down near Chattanooga. While Steele dressed his wound, the soldier had described cannon fire so intense the woods had caught fire. He was afraid some of his friends had been pinned down by the Confederates in those woods and maybe burned to death. Could Ramsey have been involved in that battle?

Steele's thoughts were interrupted when Rudd returned with some dried fruit, bread, and cow cheese. "Try some of this cheese," he said. "They've got better food on this train than they've got in some restaurants."

Steele accepted some of the food and ate it as he continued to stare out the window.

Between mouthfuls, Rudd resumed his nonstop talking, jumping rapidly from one topic to another, starting with the excesses of the railroads and then moving on to the corruption and ineptness of the Washington politicians.

Steele assumed Rudd was going to talk all the way to San Diego, but as soon as he finished his meal, Rudd wiped his mouth and his mustache with a large white handkerchief and sat back with a big sigh. Soon, he was asleep and snoring.

Steele took out his journal to make a few notes about the case. There was one thing about the threatening telegraph message that puzzled him: Ramsey's first letter had been a carefully worded explanation of his intentions. Everything about the letter indicated the writer was a careful man. But the second message was both abrupt and vague. And it was signed as General Ramsey. Why would he reveal that he was a general in the second message, but not in the first one? The message's one line about having Kane seemed designed more to create fear than to convey information. Why such a dramatic change in tactics? Steele would have expected a seasoned military officer to exert more control, to tell the recipients how they were expected to react. He turned the page of his journal and wrote:

General Ramsey is acting somewhat unpredictably. He threatened to take hostages, probably because he considers the men being tried in the war-crimes tribunal to be hostages of the North. That would imply that he wants to trade Kane for one or more of them. But he sent his letter to a newspaper, not to the tribunal. That may mean he also wants publicity. But he didn't ask the newspaper to publish his letter. What does he want?

Steele stopped writing to look out the window. They were passing through a town so small it had only a church and a tiny train depot to accompany its five homes. Two young boys on horseback waved as the train sped through.

He looked back at the words he had written and added one more note:

Ramsey wants something more than a hostage trade.

Steele took out his drawing pad to draw a likeness of what he thought General Ramsey might look like. He decided the man would probably be tall, with a narrow, angular face. He would, of course, have a full beard, as almost all Confederate officers did. He gave him the neatly trimmed gray beard of Robert E. Lee. Ramsey's letter had shown him to be a thoughtful man, but his war record showed him to be guided by an unyielding ideology. Steele gave him the high forehead of General Albert Sidney Johnston, another ideologist.

Steele completed the drawing, except for the area around the eyes. The eyes were always the hardest. When he had been a student in Paris, his art teacher had told him that the eyes were the window into a person's soul. The teacher always said, "Get the eyes right, and the portrait will be right." But Steele couldn't decide how to portray Ramsey's eyes. He suspected the General would have angry eyes, eyes that searched for a man's weakness. But there would be something else in those eyes, something that truly characterized him. He decided to leave that part of the drawing unfinished. He looked at the hollow space where the eyes should have been. Would he ever meet the man? If so, he would finish the drawing then.

To pass the time, he began to draw some of the other passengers on the train: first an old man who was sleeping in one of the seats across the aisle, his head leaning against the window, then a young girl two seats ahead who kept popping up to look back at him. As he drew, he smiled at her and made faces to keep her looking at him. Unfortunately, the mother eventually noticed what was going on and made her sit down.

After several hours, Rudd woke up yawning and stretching. He glanced over toward Steele. "Hey, that's pretty good," he said, pointing at the drawing. "Who is that, your little sister?"

"I don't have a sister," said Steele. He pointed toward the little girl who was again peering over the top of her seat at them.

Rudd smiled and waved at her which caused the little girl to quickly duck down again.

He turned to Steele. "I'm hungry. Shall we head for the food car?"

Steele shook his head. "You go ahead."

"Suit yourself." Rudd went off down the aisle mumbling to himself about skinny people never knowing when it was time to eat.

Steele turned back to the window, enjoying the fact that the tracks passed close to the Pacific Ocean. It was a crisp, clear day with almost no clouds and he could see a few small islands far out to sea. A few people sat on the sandy beach, watching the waves come in. It seemed very peaceful. But then, why shouldn't it be? The people of California had been little affected by the war. The state's role had been mainly support, providing gold and silver ore, although it had sent some troops to the Arizona Territory to help keep the war from spreading west out of Texas. Steele took out his journal and drew the rough outlines of California and Arizona. Then he drew a straight line across the bottom to indicate the Mexican border. He knew the border was quite long, without any rivers or other natural boundaries to mark it. He looked at that line. The telegraph message had come from San Diego, a small town near that border. Could Ramsey be hiding on the other side of that imaginary line?

Rudd came back just as the train slowly rolled into the San Diego station. Before the train had even stopped, he grabbed his suitcase and headed for the exit. Steele put away his drawing pad and grabbed his backpack to follow.

"They told me the newspaper office was right down the street from the station," said Rudd over his shoulder. "If you can call what they have here streets. Looks more like dirt paths to me."

Steele could see that the town was laid out around an old Spanish mission. It was in bad shape and mostly abandoned, although one outbuilding seemed to still be in use.

As they walked past it, Rudd said, "Looks like that old mission has been here for a hundred years. One end of it is falling down."

"Actually, it isn't quite one hundred years old," said Steele. "The first mission was built in 1769, but it was attacked and burned by Indians. This is the new mission, built in 1776."

Rudd looked at him, frowning. "You memorize all that stuff? Your head must be filled with those kinds of facts and figures."

"I've read several books about the history of the Spanish missions. It's interesting reading."

"Okay," said Rudd, "now I know this mission was built in 1776. Hey, that was the same year the Declaration of Independence was signed. I bet those Spanish missionaries who were building this place didn't know about what was going on back there in Philadelphia and how it would affect them later."

"Actually, they were well aware of the Revolutionary War and it's implications. Spain was Britain's enemy at that time so they were very supportive of the American patriots who were fighting the British. But later they became very concerned when the Americans began to move west toward what they saw as Spanish territory. When they heard about the Lewis and Clark expedition to explore the West, the Spanish sent an armed force to try to intercept them. Luckily, but they never found them."

"More memorized facts," mumbled Rudd. He fanned his hand in front of his face to wave away the dust kicked up by passing horses. "Looks like they don't get much rain here. But it's warm isn't it?" He smiled and took off his hat to glance up at the sun. "I like it better warm." He put his hat back on. "Long as it doesn't get too hot."

They soon found the newspaper office. It was one of only a handful of businesses in the town.

Rudd led the way into the office and went straight to the messenger's station in the corner of the large room "Got anything for me? I'm John Rudd."

"No, but you're supposed to see Bailey," said the young man, pointing. "First room on the left. He said to send you in as soon as you got here."

At the office, Rudd tapped politely on the sill of the open door. "Are you Bailey?"

A heavy-set man with watery eyes looked up. "That's me, editor and office manager. You Rudd?"

"Yeah. The boy said to see you."

"You'd better put your bags down and listen. No time for introductions or any of the other niceties. We got trouble."

"Trouble?" asked Steele.

"You the detective?" said Bailey, looking Steele over.

"That's right," said Rudd. "His name is Steele. He's working for us. For the paper I mean."

"All right then, sit down and listen." He rubbed his temples as he spoke. "Your General Ramsey has got Mr. Kane. Kane's wife and daughter just got brought in. Some rancher picked 'em up out by Mesa City, a little town a ways east of here. Seems they kidnapped Mr. Kane and dumped Mrs. Kane and her daughter way out in the desert so it would take 'em a long time to hike back to civilization."

"Are they hurt?" asked Rudd.

"No, they're fine. They're at the hotel, getting some rest."

"So they took Kane, but let his wife and daughter go," said Steele. "Interesting."

"Why do you say that? They're not going to kidnap women, are they?"

"Near the end of the war, both sides held women and even children as hostages. It was effective because it created more public outcry than male hostages."

"Effective?" said Bailey, frowning. "You make it sound like clever strategy."

Steele turned to Rudd. "We need to talk to them. Let's go."

"I expect they'll be pretty tired out," said Rudd. "Maybe we should let them rest for a bit. In the meantime, we could get something to eat."

"I'm sure they are tired. But Mrs. Kane will understand we're trying to help get her husband back as soon as possible."

Bailey told them how to find the hotel and on the way, Steele asked, "Do you know Mrs. Kane? Is she a woman of strong constitution?"

Rudd's eyes widened. "What are you thinking? That they're going to kill Mr. Kane?"

"As I said to your boss back in San Francisco, it seems unlikely that they would kill such an important man. As long as they hold him, they have bargaining power. What I am suggesting is that this may go on for some time. It will be hard on his wife."

"Yeah," agreed Rudd. "And his daughter too. Cute little thing, last time I saw her."

At the hotel, Steele asked for Mrs. Kane's room number. He was told they were in the hotel's finest suite, at the end of the hall. Steele led the way there and knocked on the door. A woman's voice told them to come in.

Steele opened the door and looked in and saw a prim, dark-haired woman in a blue and white dress sitting in a chair in front of the window, looking out.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Kane?" said Rudd.

The woman turned slowly. She looked tired. "Yes?"

Rudd stepped forward and took off his hat. "I'm John Rudd, Mrs. Kane. Do you remember me? I work at the San Francisco office."

She looked a bit confused. "San Francisco? I'm afraid I don't remember you."

Steele stepped forward and offered his hand. "Mrs. Kane, my name is Drew Steele. I'm sorry to hear what happened to you. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about it?"

She turned to Rudd, unsure.

"The newspaper hired Steele here to help get your husband back," said Rudd. "He's a detective."

"A detective?" she said, turning back to Steele. "A police detective?"

"No, I'm a private investigator. So far, the newspaper has decided not to bring in the police. For your husband's safety."

"We'll get him back," said Rudd. "Don't you worry."

She nodded and turned to Steele. "What kind of questions?"

Steele pulled up a chair next to her. "They said your husband was kidnapped out in the desert. Can you tell me where it happened?"

"I'm not sure where it was, exactly. We went for a carriage ride in the afternoon, my husband, my daughter, and I. We were somewhere out in the desert when a group of men came up from behind us on horses."

"Terrible," said Rudd. "It must have been very frightening. Why, if I would have been there, I'd have--"

Steele silenced him with a raised hand. "Mrs. Kane, can you tell me which direction they took him."

"It was south. My daughter commented on that. They took us off the main road, up into the hills, then they took my husband away in our carriage and left us there."

"Terrible," said Rudd. "Just terrible. To leave a woman and child alone out in that desert. Unthinkable."

Steele gave him another look and took out his notebook. "Just a few more questions,"

"Uh, I think I'll go check the telegraph office," said Rudd. "I'd better send a message to Gilson. See if he's heard anything more."

After Rudd had left, Steele asked, "How many men were in the group that took your husband?"

Mrs. Kane looked toward the ceiling, remembering. "Uh, I don't know for sure. Maybe four or five."

"Were they Americans? Mexicans?"

"I'm pretty sure there was only one American. The others looked like Mexicans to me. My daughter was sure they were, but they all had cloths over the lower part of their faces. One of the men had evil eyes. He kept looking at my daughter."

"Did the American speak?"

"Yes, he was the one giving the orders. He was very . . . harsh. He told one of his men to take hold of our horse, to lead it. We went very fast on a rutted dirt road. I was afraid the carriage was going to turn over at any minute, but my husband was very brave. He kept telling us not to be afraid."

"Did the man have a southern accent?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, I think he did. Do you think they were Southerners? Mr. Bailey suggested they might be former soldiers who won't admit they lost the war."

"Could you tell how old he was, the man with the Southern accent?"

"Oh, not very old. A young man, I think. But the others did what he said. One of the Mexican-looking men acted as if he was going to strike my daughter when she refused to get out of the carriage, but he told the man to get away from her."

"And then they rode off with your husband?"

"Yes. They tied his hands and they drove the carriage away with him in it. That was the last we saw of them."

Steele noted the sequence of events in his notebook. "Did they give you any instructions about what to say when you got back?"

"No, not a word. They just left us there. We starting walking back to town but it got dark. I thought I heard some dogs howling, but my daughter said it was coyotes. It frightened me, but she said they wouldn't hurt us."

Steele was surprised to hear the men hadn't given Mrs. Kane any instructions. Why no threats or demands? Apparently they wanted to keep everyone waiting and wondering.

Just then Rudd returned to the room, followed by an attractive young woman with blonde hair. She went immediately to Mrs. Kane's side.

Steele stood up.

"This here is Mr. Kane's daughter, Helen," said Rudd, smiling broadly. "It's been quite a few years since I last saw her. But she's still just as pretty as ever."

The girl stepped forward to shake Steele's hand.

Steele tried not to show any reaction to such an unusually aggressive action by a young woman. He shook her hand firmly, as he would a man's.

"Rudd here tells me you're the detective Gilson hired," she said. "I think they should have at least checked with my mother before doing that." The girl was scrutinizing him closely, staring directly into Steele's eyes.

It was clear that she was challenging him and Steele wondered why. Rudd was right about one thing: she was very pretty, and obviously no longer the cute little girl Rudd had described. She was thin and seemed to be in good physical condition. She would stand out on any street in America, not only because of her beauty, but also because she was dressed like a man, wearing a man's white shirt and tight fitting blue cotton pants, like the ones the miners wore up at the Comstock. But what was most noticeable about her was her startling blue-green eyes. They never strayed from Steele's face, as if she was critically evaluating him

Finally, she turned away to confront Rudd. "You'd of thought that with my father's life in the balance they could have at least found somebody with more . . . experience."

"Oh no, you're wrong about that, Miss Kane," said Rudd. "Steele here has a great deal of experience. In the detective business, I mean. He was even in the war, as you can see." Rudd touched his cheek.

The girl turned back to Steele. "Oh yes, that. I thought it might be a shaving scar."

Steele was surprised at her sarcastic comment. It was yet another suggestion that he was too young to be an experienced detective. Such aggression was especially surprising for a woman who was still quite young herself. He judged her to be only about twenty, possibly even younger.

"Now, Helen," said Mrs. Kane. "Mr. Steele is only trying to help us. He's been asking me some questions. Maybe you can help me answer them."

"Is that right?" said Helen, frowning. "What does Mister Steele want to know?"

"I was just asking your mother about the men who kidnapped your father. She tells me one of them had a Southern accent."

"Of course they had an Southern accent," she said. "They were Rebels weren't they?"

"But dear," said Mrs. Kane. "How can we be so sure?"

"Why else would they be doing this? We all know their type. Father's newspaper has been published articles about their kind, Confederate officers who talk like the war is still going on. Giving speeches, making trouble. They should all be rounded up and slapped into prison. Or hung. That would take care of the problem once and for all."

"The officers of the Confederacy were soldiers," said Steele, "carrying out their duty. They felt their cause was just."

"Their cause. That's what they all say." She stepped close to Steele and fixed him with her now almost-green eyes. "Just following orders? Well, which one of them gave the order to kill my brother at Ellisville? Not one man in his unit was allowed to surrender. Not one survivor. That's what your fine Southern gentlemen officers did."

Steele was taken back by her ferocity. But if that battle had resulted in the death of her brother, her anger was understandable. Steele had read about that incident and knew the details. "Your brother was with Hillman's rangers?" he said softly.

"That's right."

"I'm sorry. Let me explain what happened there. Hillman's unit had been ordered to move across a swampy area near the lake. The Anna Valley was foggy that morning. The large force of Confederates were taking up positions around the lake and didn't see your brother's unit until they were practically on top of them. I'm afraid your brother died in one of the many tragic accidents of warfare."

"Tragic accident?" said Helen heatedly. "You're wrong. It couldn't have happened that way. My brother was a hero."

"Maybe we should let bygones be bygones," said Rudd stepping between them. "We should focus on getting your father back."

"I'm sure your brother was a hero," said Steele, leaning around Rudd. "They all were. But Rudd is right, our task now is to get your father back."

Helen jabbed Rudd in the chest with her finger. "All right, let me ask you this. Does your mister detective have a plan to get my father back? Yes or no? If he does I want you to ask him just exactly how he plans to do it."

Before Rudd could answer, there was a loud knock at the door. He turned away from the girl to hurry toward the door. But before he got there, it opened and Bailey rushed in, excited and out of breath. He was waving a piece of paper. "We got another note." He stopped to catch his breath. "And this time it was pinned to the chest of a hung Negro soldier. It says Kane is next."