Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) (14 page)

Slocum went into the saloon and leaned on the bar. A portly man with a handlebar mustache waddled over.

“Beer? You got the look of a man with a big thirst. Maybe you want a shot of my special whiskey.” The man reached for a bottle.

“You're Tom?”

“His brother,” the barkeep said, suddenly suspicious. “What's your beef with him?”

“Nothing. I'm looking for Randolph Lomax. His ma told me to fetch him.”

“What's that kid up to?”

“What do you mean? I was told he was doing chores here.”

“He went off and left the back room needin' to be swept.”

Slocum went to the back room, the barkeep shouting at him that he couldn't go there. A quick look around showed that Randolph hadn't simply left. He had put up quite a fight before being dragged out the back door.

“You're gonna pay for that door!” the barkeep shouted.

It had been half ripped off its hinges. Slocum saw a footprint in the middle of the door about the size of a young boy's foot. He had fought, kicking hard as he was dragged away. The knocked-over bottles and the evidence on the unswept floor told Slocum all he needed to know.

Someone had kidnapped Randolph Lomax.

“You're gonna pay for all the broken bottles. They cost money, and my brother Tom's not gonna—” The barkeep stopped and turned a few shades whiter under his florid complexion as Slocum whirled on him. He didn't even have to reach for his six-shooter to cow the portly man.

“You see who kidnapped Randolph?”

“Kidnapped? I don't know nuthin' 'bout no—” This was all the farther he got before Slocum wrapped his powerful fingers around a greasy neck just under bouncing dewlaps and started squeezing.

The barkeep kicked and struggled. Slocum ignored the ineffectual blows as he tightened his grip. He leaned forward and pinned the man against the back wall of the saloon.

“You see anything?”

Gurgles came out along with drool. Slocum eased his grip.

“A weasely-lookin' fellow. Don't know him. Don't know nobody in Silver City. I just got in from Mesilla yesterday 'cuz my brother asked me to help out with the Lonely Cuss. I'm Justin Gallifrey. Ask my brother if that's not so!”

“What's he look like? Other than a weasel.” To Slocum's way of thinking, that described too many miners and prospectors always milling about in town.

“Had ginger hair. A redhead! I swear, didn't see no more.”

“Just a kidnapper stealing away a young boy.”

“Ain't that young.” The barkeep gurgled as Slocum squeezed so hard the tendons stood out on his forearm. Then he released the man, watching with no satisfaction as the barkeep dropped to his hands and knees and puked.

Slocum stepped away, spun, and began tracking the best he could. The thin, dry dust didn't hold footsteps too well in the constant wind blowing through town, but he got a sense of direction. Frank had taken the boy to a spot immediately behind an apothecary. Whether there'd been two horses or Frank had forced Randolph to ride double lay beyond Slocum's skill to tell. The hoofprints were too muddled for anyone to tell, even an Apache tracker.

But of one thing he was sure. Frank had been the kidnapper. There might be dozens of red-haired men in town, but who else was mixed up in Bedrich's murder and matched even this sketchy identification?

He knew he ought to tell the sheriff. Even if Whitehill wasn't likely to go chasing after Jim Frank, Slocum was sure he could convince Dangerous Dan Tucker to join him on the trail. It'd be useful having a lawman at his side. It'd be useful, but it would slow him down. If he told Whitehill, the sheriff would let Marianne know, and she would worry. Penned up in the cell the way she was didn't give her much room to pace about. And Slocum knew this tidbit would be passed along immediately.

If Whitehill was sweet on the woman, he would do whatever he could to put Slocum in a bad light. Slocum got to the stables and slid bareback onto his captured pony. He didn't have money for a saddle and gear, but the horse was strong and would run all day and far into the night if he demanded it.

With a snap of the reins, he started on the trail after Frank.

•   •   •

Slocum about fell from the horse, exhaustion his only companion. For two days he had ridden, trying to find any trace of Randolph Lomax. He was sure Frank had kidnapped the boy, but the pathetic trail had vanished on him only a mile outside Silver City. Giving his pony its head, he had walked along hunting for any hoofprints, any trace. Now and again he found something. His best clue was a piece of cloth that might have been ripped from Randolph's sleeve on a thornbush in a wild tangle of undergrowth.

He couldn't be sure.

Slocum drove himself mercilessly, circling about, using every trick he had ever learned to find the trail. He had finally decided to simply study the terrain and make a guess. His belly growled, his vision blurred, and he lacked sleep from his crazy hunt. There should have been an easier way to proceed, but Slocum couldn't find it. More than one traveler along the roads he crossed furnished information about other riders. None matched Frank's description and no one had seen a boy, much less one that might have been Randolph Lomax.

Finally reaching the end of his rope, Slocum dismounted and gathered some berries. He wanted to hunt, bag a rabbit or squirrel, and get a decent meal. Lacking any supplies but what he carried on his person worked against him staying on the trail much longer. Settling down with his back to a tree as he ate the berries and chewed on some bitter roots, he tried for the hundredth time to make sense out of the kidnapping.

What Billy had said about Texas Jack Bedrich hitting a big vein of silver ore satisfied most of the reasons Frank might have for kidnapping Randolph. He might ransom him off for the mine. If he and Bedrich had a falling-out just before the new strike, he had to feel cheated, no matter how profitable the partners' old mine had proven to be. Slocum had seen this before. It transcended greed and envy. The feeling of being cheated rankled worse than being poor or wasting a life hunting for the elusive precious metal.

Nothing he had heard about Bedrich, save Marianne's account, told him the man would play fair either. Frank might have a legitimate claim to the new silver strike.

With Texas Jack Bedrich dead, stealing away Randolph might be the only way the prospector had of getting his share from Marianne; only the woman had nothing. She had been turning tricks to make ends meet when taking in laundry hadn't been enough.

Slocum's mind wandered when he thought of her sleeping with one miner after another, taking their paltry coins and still not making enough to prevent eviction. Marianne Lomax was a proud woman, and being unable to feed her son would hurt her worse than physical injury ever could.

He spat out seeds and closed his eyes. Sleep eluded him as his memories of him with Marianne back in Georgia poked and prodded at his mind. Realizing the futility of sleep that might be haunted with such memories, he levered himself to his feet and got the lay of the land. He had a powerful thirst. A stream ran a couple dozen yards away, barely audible over the sounds of the woods. Making his way through the trees, he found the small creek tumbling along, clear and pure. Slocum dropped to his belly and began scooping in water.

A sound barely louder than the water slipping over rocks made him freeze. He rolled onto his side to get to his Colt Navy as the rustling noise grew louder. A deer might be coming to drink and hadn't scented him. But Slocum didn't think so. He slipped his six-shooter free and strained to make out anything worth shooting at in the undergrowth. Bushes rustled, then stopped.

Slocum moved fast. He rolled twice more, getting into the creek and causing a curtain of water to splash upward. Bullets tore through the watery sheet, but Slocum already ran hard for cover. He landed behind a rock and twisted about to get off a shot.

The spot where the rustling had been proved empty. Slocum knew why. He rolled onto his back and fired wildly.

“Damn you, Slocum! You're a cagey one!”

Frank's voice carried no hint of injury, only outrage that he hadn't duped Slocum into looking the wrong direction so he could shoot him in the back. Slocum kept moving, dug in his toes, and found purchase to dive parallel with the ground. He landed hard, but he had let out all the air in his lungs an instant before colliding with the hard ground. Sucking in a new breath proved painful, but Slocum was still in the fight.

“I ain't intendin' to kill you, Slocum. I want you to carry a message back to town.”

“You kidnap the boy?”

“Me and Randolph, we been havin' a fine time. The boy's wasted in Silver City. Nuthin' for him to do but get in trouble.”

“You teaching him how to steal?”

Frank laughed harshly.

“No call for me to do that. His step-pa was real masterful at that.”

“You mean Bedrich?” Slocum hunted for a way to get out of the trap he had blundered into and didn't see it. If he kept Frank occupied by stalling as long as possible, there might be a chance for him to get off a shot or two.

Then he gritted his teeth in frustration. Killing Frank might mean Randolph would never be found alive.

“Reckon they wasn't actually hitched, Texas Jack and his whore. Don't matter a whit to me since the boy doesn't know where Bedrich hid it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don't know? Of course not. About the only one who does since the kid doesn't have any idea has to be his ma.”

Slocum came into a crouch, ready to explode forward, firing as he went. He thought he had spotted Frank. A frontal attack might take him by surprise.

“Don't bother wastin' the effort, Slocum,” came the cheery words from behind. “Why don't you drop that hogleg of yours. Never knew you was so good with it, but then I only just met up with you on the trail.”

“Did you kill Bedrich?”

“The stupid son of a bitch wouldn't give me what I wanted. But I shot him in self-defense.”

“How'd he end up in the ice?”

“I couldn't track him right away after we exchanged a few rounds. The Santa Fe marshal came to see what the ruckus was about. By the time I got free of him, Bedrich had run off.”

“To Holst's ice plant?”

“That was the closest building to hide in. I searched the damned place for an hour and never found him.”

“How'd he get in the ice?”

“Must have fallen into one of them snow packers Holst uses. Mashes snow down into ice, then he ships the blocks. I searched that place from top to bottom, then asked damned near everyone in Santa Fe if they'd seen him. The only hint I had he was in the ice came from some blood I saw on the equipment.”

“So you came after me?”

“I was right. Bedrich was in the ice.”

“But he didn't have what you were hunting for? What was it? Silver?”

“You're too curious for your own good. I told you all I'm going to since you can't prove none of it. Tell the sheriff or that deputy friend of yours. Doesn't change things. Your word against mine, and it doesn't look as if you're in good standing with the Silver City law.”

“You had more reason to kill your partner than I did. I never met Texas Jack.”

“Partner.” Frank spat out the word as if it burned his tongue. “Double-crossing son of a bitch is more like it.”

“Are you going to shoot me or talk me to death?”

“Killin' you would be a pleasure, like ice cream on a hot Sunday afternoon, Slocum, but you can be useful. You ride on back to Silver City on that Indian pony of yours and tell Marianne Lomax I'll trade her son for . . .”

“For what?”

“She'll know. She don't bring it, her kid's never found again and will die a horrible death. Or maybe I'll cut him up like the Apaches do and send him back to her more dead than alive. Would she tend a boy with his hands and feet cut off and his eyes all poked out the rest of her life?”

“What's to keep you from killing both her and Randolph if she gives you whatever it is you want and think she's got?”

“Not much that I can see, but it's a risk she has to take. If I don't see her ridin' along the road down to Shakespeare in two days, the boy starts losing body parts. Important parts.”

“I won't tell her. You'll kill them both.”

“Then I ought to kill you and put you out of
my
misery.” The six-gun cocked with a peal of doom.

“No promises. She won't be able to make it. She's locked up for killing Carstairs.”

“Do tell? He was a clumsy one, Lester Carstairs.”

“You killed him, didn't you?”

“He didn't have what I want, so why not? Him and me never got along. Putting a bullet in his belly ought to get me a reward.”

“Give me something to convince Whitehill that Marianne isn't his killer so he'll release her.”

Frank laughed, and it was an ugly sound.

“Never goin' to happen, Slocum. Never. You figure how to get her on the road, two days from now. It's a hard day's ride back to Silver City, so you better get a move on.”

Slocum feinted right, dived left, and scooped up his fallen six-shooter. As he twisted about hunting for Frank, he knew the effort availed him nothing. Only empty forest stretched as far as he could see. If he hadn't fired a few rounds so the acrid gunpowder stench still hung in the air, he wouldn't have known Frank had even been here.

He scouted the forest a few minutes, but Frank had left no track to follow. The pressure of time crushed him down. Even killing Frank solved nothing. Randolph was a prisoner somewhere only Frank knew. Kill the redheaded varmint and Randolph likely died of thirst or hunger. This was mighty wide-open country, and Frank had had days to find a proper hiding place.

Slocum vaulted onto the horse and headed out in a straight path until he found a broad meadow with an unobstructed view of the sky. He waited until the sun dipped low and the stars came out so he could get a bearing off the North Star and ride straight back to Silver City. He had no idea how he'd get Sheriff Whitehill to release Marianne, but it likely had to do with someone dying.