"There he is."

A small, freckle-faced man in a dark overcoat nudged his companion and tilted his head toward the far end of the railway platform. Grabbing his companion by the sleeve, he pulled him off the platform and into the long shadows behind a wooden rain barrel and a horse drawn buggy. The horse raised a droopy eyelid, glanced at the intruders and snorted in disgust. An autumn wind disturbed dry leaves on a hard-packed dirt road. They swirled around the small man's white gym shoes before breezing past the wooden planks of a nineteenth century railway station.

"You sure, Nate?" asked the companion, a fat man with a pink face and jet-black hair. "Looks too young."

Nate pulled his companion deeper into the shadows as three gentlemen in top hats, great coats and high boots strolled past. In the distance, smoke from an oncoming train dotted the sky.

"Of course that's him, Henry," said Nate. He reached into the pocket of his dusty jeans and withdrew a Velcro wallet. The horse whinnied as Nate unfastened the wallet and extracted a green bill. Using his thumb to cover the chin of the face on the fiver, he pushed it under Henry's nose.

"See — without the beard."

Henry glanced at the bill, then peeked at the long-legged, hollow cheeked man at the end of the platform.

"That's him all right," said Henry tapping a finger on the greenback. "In the flesh — and ripe for the pickin."

Wouldn't our mothers be proud, thought Nate shaking his head. Traveling through time to rob old — no — young Abraham Lincoln.

The robbers watched as the train steamed toward the station. As it drew near, Lincoln moved to the middle of the platform, a carpetbag in his rawboned hands.

"On my signal," whispered Nate.

Henry nodded and his jowls quivered.

The train rumbled into the station and screeched to a halt. Top hats, greatcoats, visiting dresses, and leather boots streamed onto the platform, filling it with sound and motion. Lincoln stepped back, placed his bag on the ground, and waited for the crowd to clear.

"Now," said Nate, his voice calm.

Henry adjusted the waistband of his jogging suit, then sauntered through the crowd. Nate stayed in the shadows of the station. As he neared Lincoln, Henry smiled. The famous face inclined toward him. Henry glanced down, purposely caught his foot on a cracked board, and slipped to knees and palms.

Lincoln stepped forward.

"Sir," said Lincoln, "may I be of assistance?"

Reaching down, he grasped Henry by an elbow. As he struggled to help the large man to his feet, the crowd surged, separating him from his bag.

Now or never, thought Nate. His gym shoes flashed. Crouching, he scooped up the unguarded bag in one hand and scooted back through the crowd. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Lincoln still occupied tugging Henry to his feet. Worked perfectly, thought Nate. He jumped from the edge of the platform and disappeared into brush bordering the dirt road.

---

On the platform, Lincoln swatted dust from Henry's clothes.

"Thank you. Mr. Pres… er sir," said Henry.

Lincoln nodded.

The crowd cleared and Henry waddled away. Lincoln eyed Henry's clothes. He shook his head as Henry stepped off the platform and out of sight. Then he turned round and round, as he tried in vain to locate his belongings.

Once off the platform, Henry plastered himself against the side of the station and took a deep breath. He adjusted his waistband, took a step toward the brush and his rendezvous with Nate - and stopped so abruptly his jowls shook. The barrel of a shotgun touched his face, leaving two white circles on his pink cheek. A large man with a mustache and a badge spoke in a weary voice.

"Widow Crowe said she saw a couple of suspicious men hangin' around. I reckon you're one of them."

---

Nate pushed through the brush along the side of the road until the train station was out of sight and the sounds of commotion had faded. Then, sitting cross-legged beneath a large oak tree, the smell of leaves, grass and dust in his nose, he opened the carpetbag. With nimble fingers, he explored the contents. White broadcloth shirts and collars, black silk cravats, law books and letters. The books were inscribed with Lincoln's name. The bag and clothes were worn, but in good condition. He poked into the recesses of the bag.

No wallet, no money, no valuables.

An emotion skittered across his face. He raised a fist to the sky and shouted incoherently.

Wings beating madly, a family of blackbirds fled a nearby tree.

Nate shouted again. This time, his word was clear.

"Jackpot!"

A smile filled his face. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he withdrew a silver box the size of a cigarette case, and flipped it open. A series of dials and a row of translucent buttons filled the interior of the box. Two of the buttons blinked. Nate withdrew a silver pellet from his pocket and wrapped a fist around it. The heat from his hand activated it, a scent of oranges filled the air — and a third button on the box began to blink. Nate dropped the pellet into the bag and pressed the newly blinking button. A metallic murmur emanated from the box. The bag began to shimmer. The color of its cloth wavered, streamed, faded. There was a "POP" and the bag, with all its contents, vanished.

Nate pressed a second blinking button.

A mile away, the marshal gaped as Henry, activated pellet in pocket, shimmered, streamed, faded and with a "POP," disappeared.

Nate pressed the third blinking button.

---

Ten p.m., three nights later, Nate sat at a fifteen-inch monitor at the back of a small cluttered shop. At the front of the shop, a tattered sign taped to a cracked display window read:

N & H Collectibles - Prices So Low - It's a Steal

Dust-encrusted display cases encircled the room. Inside the cases, porcelain figurines, yellowed books, chipped plastic toys and other relics loitered, waiting to stir old memories or long forgotten emotions - for a price. A ragged index card in front of each object named the price. Most of the cards had red diagonal lines running across them — with notes stating, "No Reasonable Offers Refused."

A cash register, and a computer with scanner and printer comprised the "office" at the rear of the shop. Two gold-framed pictures hung on the wall behind the computer. One showed Nate carrying a small boy on his shoulders, surrounded by three, freckle-faced boys in baseball uniforms. The other was of Henry playing bingo with a chubby gray-haired woman. The mother-son resemblance was uncanny.

Nate's fingers danced rapidly across a grimy keyboard, typing information into an on-line form. Next to the computer was a small wooden table crammed with plastic trays. Books, shirts, pens, pipes and small personal items spilled from each tray. Labels on the trays read:

Lincoln, Hemingway, Ruth, Bogart, Monroe

Henry's ample bottom rested on the edge of the wooden table, causing it to bow dangerously downward. He held an old book in his hand and peered over Nate's shoulder.

"Okay," said Nate. "That's the description. I'll upload the scan and the Lincoln stuff is listed."

"Not bad, an hour for Abe's items," said Henry. "eBay sure makes this easy."

The lines around Nate's eyes deepened. "They should," he answered. "They about put us under. Hard for a small business like us to compete with an on-line auction house."

Henry laughed, deep and hearty. "Unless, that small business finds rare items at no cost."

Nate removed the silver box from his pocket and caressed it. "Life sure changed when we found this baby in that old scientist's estate sale."

"Not fast enough for me," said Henry.

Nate looked Henry in the eyes. "Listen," he said. "Our families are counting on us. We have to be smart — stick with small stuff we can unload on eBay. Don't call attention to ourselves. Getting rich slowly is still getting rich. Besides — remember the first time we used it? Bit off a little too much — trying to get those Crown Jewels."

Henry grimaced and slowly rubbed his neck. "You're right," he said.

"Of course, I am. Can't get into any trouble if we take it slow and easy."

Reverently, Nate placed the silver box next to his computer.

"Okay," he said, "Let's list the Hemingway stuff."