Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) (18 page)

“Not the most prosperous saloon in town, that's for sure.” Marianne smiled wickedly. “Except the nights I work. Then the miners are packed in there for some reason.” She pushed up her breasts, released them, and let them bob about.

“Yeah, no idea why the miners flock in the nights you work.”

Marianne turned dour.

“I need to check with Tom to see if I still have a job. Being locked up or out gallivanting around trying to trap Frank has made me miss a couple nights.”

“You wouldn't have to work if Bedrich had given you the map to his claim. From all that Frank said, it might be more than a map he's looking for. Did Bedrich record the deed?”

“The claims office burned down,” Marianne said. “But if Jack had his copy of the claim, all duly signed, it would tell where the strike was.” She shook her head. “The son of a bitch never gave me anything.”

“Frank thought he had it on him when he went to Santa Fe.”

“To record the claim with the territorial claims office?”

Slocum agreed. But Texas Jack had either hidden the deed or lost it before Frank ambushed him. Bedrich's body had been searched after it came out of the ice block. With everyone still willing to kidnap and kill, that deed was proving elusive to find.

“I'd better change clothes. And get a real bath,” Marianne said. “You could do with following my lead.”

“Not what I want to follow of yours,” Slocum said.

They laughed. Slocum stood, helped her to her feet, and gave her a satisfying kiss. Then they made sure they were presentable before stepping out from between the stacks of wood. Slocum looked around. Nobody had any idea what had gone on there. That suited him just fine. Marianne's reputation as a harlot was firmly established among those in Silver City. She had to rehabilitate herself. Working in the Lonely Cuss might not be the most respectable job in town, but it was better than being a soiled dove.

Keeping a respectable distance, they went back to the hotel. Marianne paused on the front steps, finally saying softly, “Any way you could sneak up to my room? There's a real bed there.”

“There you are,” came Mrs. Gruhlkey's shrill voice. “Where is he?”

Marianne rolled her eyes, then turned, her smile benign as she faced the hotel proprietress.

“Who do you mean, Mrs. Gruhlkey?”

“That boy William, that's who. I give him a free room in exchange for chores. He's nowhere to be found, and I need him to clean out the back storeroom right now. Immediately!”

“I have trouble enough keeping up with my own son,” she said.

“Well, that's why I asked you. They've gone off together. Find Randolph, find William.”

“I'll look for them, Mrs. Gruhlkey. They have to be somewhere. We saw them only a few minutes ago.”

“A half hour,” Slocum corrected. “I'll look, too.”

“If I don't get that room cleaned out by sundown, he's fired!” Mrs. Gruhlkey left in a swirl and hiss of floor-length skirts.

“We were that long? It seemed over so fast,” Marianne said softly, looking up at Slocum.

“If she hunted in the hotel, you can bet Billy and Randolph aren't there. I'll ask around. You do the same.”

“Very well, John. We can meet back here in a few minutes.” She sucked in a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a quick gust that set her breasts bobbing again. “I know Randolph's hiding places. I'll check there first.”

Slocum forced his attention back to the chore at hand and away from the delicious sight of the woman's teats. Even encased in a blouse and layers of other material, they captivated him. The idea of sneaking into her room without Mrs. Gruhlkey noticing recommended itself to him more and more.

After he found the boys.

Two hours of searching failed to turn up either Randolph or Billy.

“I declare, I've never seen a woman less able to keep her own affairs in order,” Sheriff Whitehill said, shaking his head. He worked the tips of his mustache into sharp points, only to have them fluff back out when he quit twirling. “Tell me what you know. Not the guesses, the facts.”

Slocum thought Marianne was going to explode. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she angrily shrugged it off, leaned forward, both hands on the sheriff's desk, and moved until her face was only inches from his. Slocum had to give this much to Whitehill. He didn't budge an inch or even blink.

“They were last seen over at the Lonely Cuss. Nobody's spotted either Randolph or Billy since an hour before sundown.”

“No way to track them in the dark,” Whitehill said, “assumin' there's somewhere to track 'em to. What's your opinion on this affair, Slocum?”

“Randolph was talking with a couple miners. Nobody's seen any of them since the miners left town.”

“Now that's peculiar,” Whitehill said. “Miners come to town to whoop and holler and get drunk. Why'd they leave 'fore they got a chance to do any of that?”

“Randolph had a job sweeping up at the saloon,” Slocum said. “That might be why they went to the Lonely Cuss. Randolph was overheard saying he needed a lot of money for something.” Slocum didn't miss the sudden furtiveness in the sheriff's eyes. Marianne did.

“Find them, Sheriff. That's your job,” she demanded.

“Go on back to the hotel, Marianne,” Whitehill said. The uneasiness in his voice further alerted Slocum to something being wrong.

“Not until you
do
something. Find them!”

“Go on. I'll be along in a few minutes,” Slocum said. He took her arm. She tried to pull free, but his fingers dug in cruelly, getting her attention. She started to turn her wrath on him, then subsided.

She left the jail without another word. Slocum waited until she had gotten out of earshot before accosting the sheriff.

“What'd you tell the boy? Why'd he need so much money?”

“Well, it's like this, Slocum. I didn't actually promise him I'd release his ma for good, but I mentioned bail money. He might have misconstrued what I said.”

“So Randolph thought giving you the bail money would free his ma for good?”

“Might have gotten that idea. Didn't intend it to come out the way it did.” Whitehill looked away, pointedly avoiding Slocum's cold glare.

“How much? How much did you tell him his ma's bail was?”

“A hunnerd dollars.”

Slocum's mind raced. How could a young boy ever hope to raise that much money? Legally? Or had he listened to Billy? That boy's imagination knew no bounds. While Billy had never hinted at larceny, he had shown a mighty big curiosity about killing and what it felt like. Slocum had heard men talk like that before, and they'd all ended up in shallow graves.

Randolph and Billy might have cooked up some scheme that would get them both planted six feet under.

“When's Tucker getting back to town?”

“Eh? Dan? I can't rightly say. Might be sometime tomorrow. But you can't go orderin' him about like he was your deputy, Slocum.”

“One of you can stay in town. The other can hit the trail as we track down the boys,” Slocum said.

“Now, you listen to me,” Whitehill said, getting his dander up finally. “I'm in charge here. I say who rides where. You and Marianne are out of this here jail because
I
said so. For two cents, I'll clap the both of you back in.”

“No, you won't,” Slocum said. The menace in his voice caused Whitehill to harden and reach for his six-shooter on the desk. “Don't think about trying that, Sheriff. You won't like the way it turns out.”

Whitehill froze.

“It might be that Marianne and I leave town for a while. It's to fetch back Randolph, wherever he went. You won't come after us or send Dangerous Dan either, because we'll be back when Randolph's safe.”

Slocum turned his back and felt the sheriff measuring him for a shroud. One quick grab of that hogleg on the desk, a close-by shot, and Slocum would be dead on the floor. He walked through the door into the night without taking a .44 slug in his spine. Judging Whitehill meant less to him right now than finding the boy.

Cursing all the way to the hotel, he stopped on the steps and saw Marianne in the sitting room, swaying back and forth furiously in a rocking chair. Rather than go in since he had nothing to tell her yet, he headed for the Lonely Cuss Saloon. The crowd was sparse. Tom Gallifrey's brother worked the bar, idly swiping at the shot glasses and mugs, stacking them in curious piles, then starting all over with the time-killing construction.

Slocum went directly to the bar, leaned over, and grabbed the corpulent man by the front of his shirt. A hard yank sprawled him half over the bar.

“Who was with the boys? Randolph and Billy McCarty? Who?”

The man sputtered.

“Let Justin go.”

Slocum looked up to the dirty mirror behind the bar and saw Tom Gallifrey's reflection. The man wasn't armed. At least he hadn't thrown down on Slocum.

When Slocum did as he was told, Justin Gallifrey fell back, caught himself, and started to go for a weapon under the bar. Slocum would be content putting a .36-caliber slug in the man's gut, but quicker than a bullet came Tom's order.

“Don't be more of a jackass than you have to be, Justin. Go fetch some more mugs from the back room.”

“But Tom, he—” Justin Gallifrey sputtered, then obeyed with ill grace.

Slocum didn't have to tell his brother he had saved his life.

“You look to be mighty good with that Colt, Slocum,” Tom said. He inclined his head toward a table at the far side of the saloon. Slips of paper were scattered on the surface, some held down with empty beer mugs. A tin cashbox stood open and empty.

Gallifrey sank into the chair and leaned forward to cover some of the papers. Slocum read more than one of them marked
OVERDUE
. Gallifrey wasn't pulling enough business to stay afloat. Slocum reckoned how this took special skill to go bust selling whiskey to thirsty miners in a boomtown.

“Randolph has a job here. A couple folks saw him talking with a miner before he upped and disappeared.”

“He don't work any harder than that whore ma of his,” grumbled Gallifrey. He looked up, eyes wide, when Slocum's hand drifted for his six-shooter. “'Course I know what her problems are, so that's not so bad, her missin' a few shifts forcin' me to call in my no-account brother to work in her stead.”

“The boy,” Slocum said.

“He was sweepin' up for me. Heard that he got kidnapped, but since he came back real fast, I discounted that.”

“It was this afternoon, early evening, when he'd have come by for more work.”

“Never laid eyes on him today,” Gallifrey said. The man's thin face tightened and his big nose twitched. “Saves me a few pennies, not havin' to pay him.” He looked up again, his eyes like chips of ice. “The only customers in here this afternoon were from the Argent Mine. Don't know their names, but they worked for Carstairs 'til she sliced his belly open and killed him.”

Slocum knew Gallifrey referred to Marianne. He didn't bother correcting him about how Jim Frank had murdered the mine foreman.

“Anything you know would be a help,” Slocum said.

“Smitty. One of them galoots was named Smitty. Leastways, that's what his partner called him. You know how it is with miners. That might be a summer name and—”

Tom Gallifrey spoke to thin air. Slocum ran from the saloon and made a beeline for the hotel and Marianne Lomax. In ten minutes, they were on the road leading to the Argent Mine. By sunrise they had found it.

•   •   •

“What do we do, John?” Marianne shifted uneasily behind him on the Indian pony.

“If Gallifrey wasn't lying, the miner who talked to Randolph is in this camp.” He remembered his earlier scouting into this camp, and how he had barely escaped with his life. But Carstairs had been alive then, in command of the entire crew.

Was his replacement any better? For all he knew, the whole damned bunch of miners might have been in on the scheme to steal Bedrich's map with Les Carstairs.

“Let's go.”

He started to tell Marianne to stay there, then knew she would never obey. Worse, he would have his attention split in two directions. Finding Randolph was paramount, but if he worried that Marianne would be discovered and captured, too, he couldn't expect to have a good outcome with the miners.

He snapped the reins and got the pony walking slowly into the camp. A couple miners poked at breakfast. The smell of biscuits and frying bacon made his mouth water. It had been a spell since he'd eaten. From the way Marianne leaned toward the cooking fires, he knew this was on her mind as well.

“Who're you?” demanded the miner boiling a large pot of coffee. He didn't seem upset at the sight of Slocum. The question was reflexive.

“We're looking for a miner named Smitty. He's supposed to work for the Argent.”

“What'd that scalawag gone an' done now? He sure as hell didn't knock
her
up. He's so damn ugly not even the cows'll let him get that close.”

This produced a round of chuckles, but not outright laughter. Slocum took that to mean Smitty fancied himself a ladies' man and likely wasn't too ill-featured.

“Please, we've got to find him. It's important!”

The miner poured himself a cup of the hot coffee, sampled it, and spat it into the fire. He dashed the contents to the ground, then poured himself a new cup and sipped at it before looking up again.

“He got back from town 'fore midnight. That's 'bout the time I dragged my tail into camp, and he was here already.” The miner pointed toward a tent.

From astride his horse, Slocum saw only a blanket flat on the ground. The miner had already left, if he'd even been there at all.

“I . . . I'll serve you all breakfast if you tell us where he is,” Marianne said. She kicked free of the horse and landed lightly. Settling her dress and making a point of pressing her hands into her breasts got the miners' attention.

In a few seconds, she had a dozen of them crowding around, holding out cups and tin plates for her to fill.

“Now, boys, don't crowd. I'll be happy to serve Smitty, too.”

As a chorus, the other miners declared he had already left to work in the mine. Slocum nodded to Marianne and saw she would be fine. Her work in the Lonely Cuss had inured her to the rough jokes and other antisocial behavior that passed as acceptable among the miners.

He rode in the direction of the mine, then galloped when an explosion shook the ground. A huge gout of dust billowed from the mouth of the mine and covered him with fine rock powder. He hit the ground running, secured the horse, and made his way through the brown cloud to the mine.

“What happened?” He took off his hat and fanned away the choking dust.

A man stumbled out, then dropped to his knees. Bending double, he put his head between his knees and spat blood before looking up.

“Powder went off premature.”

“How'd that happen? Why are you blasting by yourself?”

“Got a couple powder monkeys. Might be they screwed it up and detonated early.”

“Are they trapped in there?” Slocum demanded. He went to the mouth and peered into the darkness. Whatever damage had occurred to the Argent had been much deeper. This part was shored up well.

Then a coldness settled into his belly. He backed away, drew his pistol, and shoved it into the miner's face.

“You named Smitty?”

“Hell, mister, I'll be whosoever you want me to be. Put that pistol away.”

“Those new powder monkeys wouldn't be a pair of kids from town, would it?”

“Offered 'em a dollar a day to be my assistants. The one claimed to know everything there was to know about blasting. Thought he was young, but he sounded real sure of himself.”

“Name of Billy?”

“That's him.”

This was all the further Smitty got before Slocum swung his pistol. The hard metal barrel crunched into the side of the miner's head, sending him sprawling.

“You stupid bastard,” Slocum said. “Billy's fourteen and Randolph's only twelve. What could they know about mining or setting powder charges?”

He plunged into the mine, choking at the dust rising about him. He found the ledge where the miners kept their thick, squat wax candles. It galled him to stop to light one but going deeper without seeing where he stepped amounted to suicide. Suicide like allowing two young boys to set charges and blast.

Candle guttering, Slocum edged forward a dozen yards before he came to the spot where the mine roof had collapsed. Randolph and Billy were on the other side of a solid rock wall.

Trapped.