Slocum #396 : Slocum and the Scavenger Trail (9781101554371) (8 page)

“Here,” Slocum said. “Don’t let anybody make off with the mule or saddle.” He handed the gimpy man a greenback. The sneer told him scrip wasn’t held in high esteem in these parts.

“This’ll buy you a half hour, no more.”

Slocum nodded. His business wouldn’t take him that long. He’d either find out what Buddy Drew knew or be on his way quick enough.

“You come right on in, mister. What do I call you?” Drew held the saloon door open for Slocum.

“Thirsty.”

Drew laughed, but there was no humor in it. He called out to the barkeep, “Set ’em up, Mr. Preston. Me and my friend here got business to discuss.”

The bartender wiped off a pair of shot glasses using a rag, which disappeared back behind the bar. Slocum doubted it was much cleaner than the glasses that were quickly filled to the brim with amber fluid.

“Bottoms up,” Drew said, knocking back his shot.

Slocum was slower to follow. A drop of chloral hydrate would leave him unconscious on the floor and at the mercy of the men scattered around the saloon watching him like a hungry coyote watches a plump rabbit. He snorted as the fiery liquor slid down his gullet.

“Potent stuff, ain’t it?”

Slocum waited a moment for any hint of dizziness. Drew would be the first to die if he had been drugged. But the burning in his belly didn’t warn him of anything wrong, other than his lack of food recently.

“I’ll swap the mules I got,” Slocum said.

“Swap? I don’t understand. I run a strictly cash business. Ask any of the boys.” Drew made a sweeping gesture that took in everyone.

“I want information. I got a score to settle with an owlhoot and heard he was here.”

“What kind of score?” Drew looked at him as he stepped back a half pace.

“That’s between me and Baransky.”

“That his name? Baransky?”

“Clem Baransky.”

“Don’t know him. Any of you know this Baransky fellow?”

Drew never took his eyes off Slocum but still answered, “Sorry, they don’t know him. You got to look elsewhere, though I’m still willin’ to buy yer stock.”

“Two mules. What price?”

“Got to see ’em first. You came into town alone.”

“I’ll look around a bit more,” Slocum said.

“You’re not walkin’ ’way from this deal.”

“What deal?”

“You drank my whiskey. That sealed the deal. You lyin’ ’bout havin’ more mules? That means you’re tryin’ to cheat me.”

Drew stepped back and pulled his coat away from the six-shooter slung at his hip.

“You willing to die over this?” Slocum asked.

He saw that Buddy Drew was from the way he flexed his fingers.

Slocum squared off, a cold calm settling over him.

“Why don’t you jist give ole Buddy Drew that mule and we kin call it even-steven?” The man’s fingers twitched again, and Slocum knew no deal was going to happen that didn’t also include swapping a few ounces of lead.

“I’ll pay for the drink.”

“Sure you—” Drew’s hand stopped twitching as he went for his iron. Talking while drawing might have stayed some men’s hand but not John Slocum’s.

His fingers closed around the ebony butt of his Colt as he turned slightly to his right. The six-gun slid from his cross-draw holster and fired almost in the same blink of an eye. The white smoke filled the room, then had even more added as Drew fired.

But Slocum saw his slug had been enough, and there was no need for a second shot. A small red splotch spread on Drew’s chest. He reached out to support himself on the bar with his left hand, but his right was too weak to hold his six-shooter. It clattered to the floor, resting inches from where his bullet had torn a path through the boards. He followed his weapon to the floor and lay unmoving.

Looking around, Slocum hunted for anyone who would take advantage of the situation and gun him down. The few men in the saloon who had been disturbed by the gunfight turned away. Only two were interested enough to wander over, more curious than angry that one of their own had been killed.

A man dressed in miner’s garb looked down, scratched himself, then asked, his eyes never leaving Drew’s body, “You mind if we help him on out of here?”

Slocum shook his head. He kept the six-shooter in his grip, waiting to see what happened. A harsh laugh escaped his lips when he saw the two men dive down on the fallen crook and begin rummaging through his pockets. When a bright gold watch appeared, Slocum stepped out and grabbed it.

He held it up, then let it spin slowly on its chain.

He dropped it into the scavenger’s outstretched hand and said, “Thought it was mine.”

“Mine now,” the scavenger said gleefully, tucking it away. He and his partner made rapid work of stripping anything of value from the carcass.

“Git him on outta here,” the barkeep said, showing his first interest since pouring the drinks. “It’s bad for business to leave bodies around like that.”

“He’s all yers, mister,” one scavenger said, looking up at Slocum.

“Do what you want with him. You’ve been paid.” Slocum pointed with his six-gun. The movement caused one to slip and sit down hard. The other fumbled for his own six-shooter, then thought better of it.

“You heard him. Buddy’s all yers. Take him on out the back way. Now, dammit, do it now!” The barkeep slammed his fist down hard on the bar, causing the empty shot glasses to jump. He looked over at Slocum and asked, “Want another?”

Slocum slid his six-shooter back into the holster and left
without saying another word. Chances were good the drink would have cost him more than the price of the whiskey. This one would have been laced with a Mickey Finn.

It was that kind of drinking emporium.

He stepped out, shooing Wallace out of his way. The man had been peering around the corner of the doorway watching everything that happened inside.

“You kilt him. You got a quick hand, mister. Kin I work fer you?”

Slocum started to laugh, then considered how difficult it would be finding anything in this town. The palisade and armed guards told him this was closer to a prison than a town.

“Get yourself a bottle and come back out and join me.” He handed Wallace a couple of the greenbacks and examined the chairs along the boardwalk. He found one that would support his weight without collapsing. He had barely sat in it when Wallace returned. A couple inches were already missing from the bottle.

Wallace saw his interest in the bottle and hastily said, “Damned bartender’s always cheatin’ me. Says this is what passes for a full bottle.” He held it out to Slocum, who took it, pulled the cork, and tipped the bottle up enough to wet his lips. They stung like fire. He handed the bottle back.

“Help yourself,” Slocum invited. “Now that Drew’s out of business, who should I see about selling spare mules and gear?”

“Oh, that’s easy ’nuff,” Wallace said, sinking into the rickety chair beside Slocum. He took a quick drink, then another, and passed the bottle back. Slocum held up his hand, showing he wasn’t interested in the tarantula juice.

This suited Wallace just fine. The liquor lubricated his tongue.

“Trueheart runs the whole damn place. Not sure what he’s up to, but it’s changin’ as we sit here jawin’.”

“Changing?”

“Used to be the fellows went out and found equipment dropped along the trail over the pass.”

“Dropped?”

“Early on, prospectors didn’t have good sense and loaded theyselves down with ever’ contrivance you could imagine. Pickin’ up after ’em was profitable. Hell, I done some of it myself.”

Slocum barely paid attention as the story unfolded. From scavenging, the men had turned into road agents and outright killers. Who was to know or care? But the flow of stolen goods had become too great to use so they had taken up selling it over and over in Almost There at the base of the mountain.

“Trueheart think that up?”

“Not much he don’t think on, mister. He’s a deep one. Another nip?”

Slocum took another swig to keep Wallace happy and give him the feeling he had a drinking companion. Given the chance, Wallace would be as happy draining the entire bottle on his own.

“What happens when the goldfields over Desolation Pass peter out?”

Wallace looked at him with one eye closed, the better to focus. He lifted a grimy finger to his lips and whispered, “Shush.”

“You said more was going on. What’s Trueheart up to?”

“Somethin’ real big. Dunno what, but them folks all around him are abuzz with it. Been kinda strange, too, lately. A lot of supplies comin’ into town what could be sold never get traded. Don’t know what Trueheart is doin’ with ’em but he’s got enough food and equipment carried off to supply an army. Think they been buildin’ something, but nobody knows what. Nobody not in tight with Trueheart.”

“How’s that?” Slocum pushed the bottle back when Wallace tried to give it to him again. The man didn’t think
Slocum was unneighborly at all. Probably the contrary from the hefty drink he took, then belched.

“Lot of equipment taken out on the trail’s not goin’ downhill no more. Even keepin’ mules ’stead of sellin’ ’em below.”

Slocum saw he wasn’t getting any more information out of an increasingly besotted Wallace.

“You did good looking after my mule,” Slocum said, standing. “Keep the rest of the bottle.”

“You’re a prince ’mong men, mister. Anythin’ more I kin do, you look up ole Wallace and I’ll be there to help.”

Slocum mounted his mule and rode away from the saloon, going deeper into the heart of the town. For a moment he thought he heard a strange noise again but his braying mule drowned out any chance he had of identifying it.

He took the first cross street and saw a huge building that had to be Trueheart’s headquarters. From the armed men standing guard outside, he knew better than to barge in on the man responsible for building the whole damned town. He rode past, took a smaller street into the red light district, then made his way to a switchback trail leading upward into the low hills just above town. From a level spot along the trail, he got a good view of the claptrap buildings—and Trueheart’s headquarters.

He stepped down from the mule and sat on a rock, letting the animal graze while he watched the ebb and flow of men and supplies throughout the town. It seemed to him that more went to Trueheart’s building than was needed and what came out were pack mules laden with canvas-masked loads.

Since Trueheart provided a clearinghouse for everything stolen along the trail over the mountain, all Slocum got from this was that another trail down to the town below existed. Trueheart didn’t want to spook the prospectors working their way up the steep hill by blatantly showing the stolen equipment being returned. Some of the parties had to be heavily armed and not worth the effort to steal from.

Unlike the party of four Slocum had been hired to guide across Desolation Pass.

That rankled as bad as an infected tooth. He should have known there would be outlaws along the trail and yet he had ignored the risk and it had cost three men their lives. And what had happened to Clement Baransky? Slocum thought he had been brought to Trueheart’s town. But why? And how could he find him?

The sun began sinking fast since this town was situated around the mountainside away from the trail used by the prospectors. Dawn came earlier here, but twilight cloaked the town sooner in retaliation.

He decided he had to get a look into Trueheart’s headquarters, no matter what the risk.

He took his time returning to the town. Unlike many towns, no gaslights blazed to illuminate the streets. Using the shadows to his benefit, he worked his way closer to the large, well-lit building that was four or five times the size of a big barn. And behind it was a regular-sized barn where the men stabled their animals.

Slocum left his mule tethered in a spot he hoped wouldn’t be noticed by an itinerant thief, then went directly to the barn. Several men finished currying their horses and headed in a loose group to Trueheart’s main building. Slocum trailed them, trying not to look conspicuous. The men were tired from the trail and didn’t josh with one another. They came to the back door of the huge building, and here Slocum hesitated.

Two guards just inside scrutinized everyone entering.

He found himself caught in a trap. If he turned and walked off, he would draw attention. But if he tried to bull his way inside, bullets might fly. Seeing the situation, he made a quick decision and boldly walked in behind a short, bowlegged cowboy.

“Wait,” a guard said. “Don’t know you.”

Slocum reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the
silver dollar with a hole shot through it. This had been his ducat to get past the palisades.

“Go on,” the guard said, eying the mutilated coin and paying Slocum no heed.

Slocum followed the last of the men down a narrow corridor and into a large barracks. As he got a better look, he thought he had entered an army post quartermaster’s storage room. Lining the walls, shelves held about every piece of mining and prospecting equipment he had ever seen. Chisels, picks, hammers, all there. He frowned when he saw carbide lamps, rope, miners’ candles, even cases of blasting powder. More than prospecting equipment was stashed here. Trueheart kept mining equipment fit for cutting shafts and blowing down rock walls to follow a subterranean, meandering vein of gold.

“What you need, mister?”

“I was thinking of some dynamite,” Slocum said, looking back over his shoulder at a mousy man wearing a green eyeshade and a shirt that had been white once. He had worn it until it turned gray, and in spite of wearing cuff protectors, the cuffs were frayed. Black stains on the man’s short fingers revealed his true occupation. He was an accountant.

“Nope, not for sale.”

“Trade? I got a couple mules.”

“We got all the animals for the project we need.”

Slocum wanted to ask what this “project” was but knew better than to betray ignorance.

“What do you need for the project? I can furnish it special.”

“We got a dozen men out on the trail doing just that.”

“Let me look over the goods,” Slocum said. “You got a customer to tend.” He pointed to a man dressed in canvas pants and a denim shirt running his fingers over a carbide light.