Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) (6 page)

“We don't have a gun,” Billy said. “We bluffed him!”

“You could have been killed.
I
could have been killed.” The impact of what she said hit her. Marianne sat on the hotel steps, too shocked to cry or say another word. She had been rescued from robbery and probably worse by two young boys carrying out a bluff.

It was past sunup when Slocum tugged back on the reins and stopped the Indian pony. The horse nickered, glad to stand rather than walk with its double load. Down below the rise spread Silver City in a broad, shallow bowl, tents scattered willy-nilly amid dozens of more permanent buildings. The sound of hammers driving nails came to him, giving the impression of a growing town.

Slocum put his hand on the middle of Frank's back to keep the man from sliding off the horse again. How he had stayed alive gave Slocum pause, but this wasn't anything he wanted to dwell on. Frank either lived or died. If the long miles to Silver City hadn't killed him, chances were good the town's doctor would. Finding a vet might be better, but Slocum didn't care. Frank had put himself in the line of fire for no good reason.

“Giddyup,” Slocum said, tapping his heels against the pony's flanks. The horse hesitated, then finally agreed to enter the white man's town. Its reluctance told Slocum it hadn't been stolen from some rancher. It was an Apache horse born and bred.

He attracted scant attention as he rode with Frank slung in front of him. The inhabitants of Silver City likely saw more curious things in the course of their day. This was a boomtown and drew men both outrageous and dangerous. Slocum and Frank were neither.

“Where can I find the doctor?” Slocum called to a man struggling to load a sack of flour into a buggy parked in front of the general store.

“All the way across town, over near the sheriff's office.”

“I'll need to talk to him, too,” Slocum said.

“You a bounty hunter? Got yourself a desperado?”

“Nothing like it,” Slocum answered. “Highwaymen bushwhacked us.”

“That there's an Indian horse.”

“So it is,” Slocum said, urging the horse into motion. “Much obliged.”

He rode past several saloons, his thirst increasing with every scent of beer wafting out into the street. There'd be time to wet his whistle when he dropped off Frank and talked some with the law. The goal came into view as Dr. Fuller's shingle swayed in the morning wind as if beckoning him onward.

“We're almost there,” Slocum said. Whether he directed the words to the horse or Frank didn't matter. Neither was likely to understand.

Slocum swung his leg up and over the moaning body and dropped to the ground in time to catch Frank as he slid down, too. Grunting, Slocum got the man over his shoulder and stumbled the few steps to the doctor's door. He kicked at it with his boot until a youngish blond man with muttonchops and pince-nez glasses opened it.

“You don't have to kick it down,” the man said irritably. He adjusted the glasses, squinted, and then motioned Slocum inside.

Slocum dropped Frank onto an examining table.

“So what happened? You a bounty hunter?”

“That seems a popular question. Nope, he got shot by road agents.”

“Not you? No, you'd have no reason to bring him in if you shot him. What are you to him?”

“We might work for the same man up in Santa Fe.”

“That's a strange way to say it,” the doctor said, slipping into a white linen coat. “Do you or don't you work for the same man?”

“I was driving a wagon to Tombstone from Santa Fe and this one, name of Frank he says, overtook me west of town and said Holst sent him along to keep me company.”

“So this Holst didn't send him?”

Slocum shrugged. He had no evidence other than what Frank said about that.

“You paying for his care? He's not shot up too badly, but getting bounced around did more to lay him up than anything else.”

“Contact Holst, New Mexico Ice and Coal Company up in Santa Fe.”

“Yeah, as if anyone out of my sight will pay a dime, even if this gent does work for the company.” The doctor rummaged through Frank's pockets. His eyebrows rose when he discovered a few greenbacks.

“I'm not a thief,” Slocum said. “I'll be over at the marshal's office.”

“Sheriff Whitehill. This is the county seat of Grant County.”

“Thanks,” Slocum said, slipping out into the dusty air that settled on Silver City. Inside the office the doctor's antiseptic made his nose twitch. Out here the pollution was more in keeping with what he accepted as normal. The smell of horse dung in the streets, outhouses, and rotting garbage all assailed him along with the purity of the sky and the gentle wind keeping the smells from becoming overwhelming.

He walked a dozen yards over to the jailhouse, hesitated a moment, then lifted the latch and entered. It had been a spell since he'd had a run-in with a federal judge back in Calhoun, Georgia, that hadn't ended well—for the carpetbagger judge. Slocum had been gutshot by Bloody Bill Anderson on William Quantrill's orders for protesting the guerrilla raid on Lawrence, Kansas. By the time he had recuperated, the war was over and Reconstruction in full bloom.

The judge had forged documents saying taxes had gone unpaid on Slocum's Stand and had ridden out with a hired gunman to seize the property. He had won the property, but not the way he expected. Slocum had buried him and his henchman by the springhouse and had ridden west, never looking back. For this, wanted posters dogged his steps and made him leery of dealing with any lawman. All it took was one who spent too much time pawing through musty piles of old wanted posters to ruin his day.

A whippet of a man looked up. He pushed back from his desk where a newspaper had been spread open. From the ink smudges on his fingers, he had been reading it running his finger along under each line.

“What can I do for you?”

Slocum closed the door behind him and looked around. The three cells were simple and likely hard to get out of unless you had a key. Iron bars had been well tended, and the dirt floor in each cell might be harder than the adobe in the foot-thick walls. Slocum vowed to stay out of those cells, but from the sheriff's cordial greeting and the lack of wanted posters put up anywhere around the small building, there shouldn't be a reason to worry.

“I work as a teamster for an ice company up in Santa Fe,” he said.

“Holst? I know the varmint.” The sheriff tipped back in his chair, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his brocade vest, and fixed Slocum with a steely look.

“Hope he didn't rook you,” Slocum said, “because I need a lawman to help recover the wagon I was driving.” He explained what had happened. The longer he talked, the more the sheriff scowled.

“You got a name?” the lawman finally asked.

“Slocum.”

“I'll get a telegram off to Holst about this. I'm Harvey Whitehill.”

Slocum had never heard Holst mention him. He took that as a good thing since Holst could go on about his political and business rivals until a man's ears fell off.

“Will the man over at Doc Fuller back up what you said?”

“Don't know if he's in any shape to. The doctor thought the trip here took more out of him than getting shot.”

“Three outlaws, eh? And Apaches? Them I heard about. A courier from over at Fort Bayard brought around the news a small band of Warm Springs Apaches had left the reservation. Thought they might end up annoyin' us here in Silver City since this was one of their old campgrounds.”

“I'd heard that,” Slocum said. “But the Indians attacked the road agents more to get the mules hitched to the wagon than what was in it.”

“Only ice?” Sheriff Whitehill shook his head. “Can't say I wouldn't mind a chip or two of ice in my whiskey, but these gents were mighty insistent on stealin' the whole danged block. You got to wonder on that. Where'd they sell it?”

“That thought occurred to me, too,” Slocum said. “It's likely too late to salvage the ice, but Holst wouldn't mind seeing the wagon and mules back.”

“Can't blame him overmuch,” Whitehill said. “Let's you and me go for a ride.”

“You know the road agents?”

“Can't say I do, but from where you said they robbed you, there're only a couple places they could drive a wagon.”

“Along the road over to Tombstone,” Slocum said, “where I was headed.”

“No point in them showing up with the ice if you'd ever challenge them. Might be the only place they could sell the ice, but more 'n likely, they went here.” Whitehill unrolled a map and stabbed down on it. “That's not more 'n a couple miles south of here.”

“Why there?”

Whitehill stroked his mustache and pursed his lips as he thought. Then he shrugged.

“'Cuz they have to go somewhere. No idea why they'd take ice if they didn't have a use for it. The road to Tombstone is mighty lonely. From here they might go on over to Shakespeare. Those owlhoots runnin' the way station there might sell the ice to stagecoach passengers with some luck.”

Slocum saw the town Whitehill pointed out was about thirty miles to the southwest. He had no way of knowing if the sheriff guessed right, but it was better than anything Slocum could come up with.

“All I've got is the Indian pony. No gear.”

“You rode here just fine. Won't hurt you none to ride bareback a day or two longer.”

Slocum went to fetch his horse and waited impatiently as Whitehill ducked into Dr. Fuller's surgery. The sheriff returned, frowning.

“I got myself the makin's of a real mystery here, Slocum. The man you brung in let the doctor pull out a bullet, then snuck out when Fuller turned his back.”

“He must be around town somewhere. He didn't have a horse and wasn't strong enough to walk too far.”

“I got me a new deputy. He can take care of our refugee.”

“But the doctor told you everything I said was right?”

Whitehill looked hard at Slocum and nodded once. Slocum saw he wasn't a man to take anything for granted and had questioned the doctor.

“As much as he could. Saddle up.” Whitehill hesitated, grinned crookedly, then amended, “Mount up. We got a hard ride ahead of us.”

Slocum found himself hard-pressed to maintain the pace set by the sheriff. His pony was tired from hauling two men into Silver City and hadn't been given time enough to rest or eat its fill. Still, the Apaches had trained the horse well, and it lagged behind only a few times.

After four hours of riding, the sheriff motioned for Slocum to pull up.

“See those tracks?”

Slocum didn't have to dismount to know they had come across the wagon tracks. From the way the right side tracks were intermittently wider, he knew this was the ice wagon. The wheels on that side wobbled a mite, causing it to track poorly. He had complained to Holst about this but all the satisfaction he'd gotten was a wrench, a spare axle nut, and the promise to repair the wagon when Slocum drove back from Tombstone.

“Took 'em longer to get here than it ought to have, from what you said about the robbery and the skirmish with the Indians.”

“They likely wanted to put some distance between the Apaches—and me.” Slocum explained about the right wheels.

“They can't be too far ahead.” Sheriff Whitehill looked at Slocum's six-gun. “Don't be too quick to use that hogleg, but don't be too slow neither.”

With that, the sheriff motioned Slocum to ride some distance to his left, then slowly worked his way along the rocky path down a steep slope. Slocum spotted the wagon before the lawman. He imitated a quail to get Whitehill's attention, then pointed. The sheriff slid his rifle from the sheath and started ahead. Slocum mirrored his approach.

They didn't immediately go to the wagon sitting forlornly in the middle of a rocky clearing. The mules tugged on their harnesses, trying to reach some grass nearby. The canvas had been ripped away from the crate. The road agents had worried open the side of the crate. From the puddle of water beneath the wagon, Slocum knew the ice had been exposed to the sun and had melted away.

“Now don't that beat all,” Whitehill said. He cocked his rifle.

Slocum perked up and looked around. Seeing nothing that threatened them, he rode to the far side of the wagon so he could get the same look at the crate that the sheriff already had.

He caught his breath.

“Pass over that Colt, Slocum. I got some questions to ask, and you're goin' to give me the answers.”

Slocum stared at the damage done to the crate, the sawdust insulation all caked and lying in wet lumps—and at the body that had been frozen into the ice he had been shipping.

“You can't think I had anything to do with killing him,” Slocum protested.

“Shut yer tater trap and drive. I'll get to the bottom of this, but it surely does look as if you are the one who killed . . . him.”

Slocum looked sharply at the sheriff. From the way Whitehill spoke, he knew the identity of the dead man. How that was possible posed as big a question as to how the body got into the cake of ice Slocum was driving to Tombstone. A quick look at the body had shown a bullet had ended the man's life, going into his chest just above his heart. The ice and melting water had partially erased the blood from the man's coat, but the expression on his face had been frozen. He hadn't died easy.

Snapping the reins, Slocum maneuvered the mule team along a steep ravine. He considered his chances of letting the wagon tumble down the embankment and trying to escape. Whitehill had taken his six-shooter and rode at some distance so he could get the drop on him if necessary. The sheriff hadn't formally arrested him, but Slocum had been in custody enough times to know how it felt.

Riding out had been a trip of mutual caution. Whitehill didn't quite trust him, and Slocum was wary of the lawman. Driving the wagon back to Silver City was a different can of worms. He might not be under arrest, but the way the sheriff treated him was no different.

“Who is he?” Slocum asked after another mile. “Your expression when you saw him tells me you know him.”

“Ain't sayin' more 'til I find your partner. The one what sashayed away from Doc Fuller.”

Slocum fell silent. Had Frank known they were going after the wagon and what they'd find? If the redhead had plugged the man bouncing around in the rear of the wagon, how'd the body end up in a block of ice and why would Frank chase it halfway to Tombstone? Better to let Slocum deliver the body while heading in the opposite direction. Frank could have been in Kansas by now rather than all shot up and hiding out in Silver City.

The one thing Slocum knew was that Frank had the answers Sheriff Whitehill thought he had.

They rattled and rumbled along and finally rolled into Silver City after midnight.

“You set right there. Don't move a muscle 'less I say,” Whitehill warned. He cocked his rifle, dismounted, and let Slocum tie the reins around the brake before climbing down. “Head for the calaboose.”

“I didn't kill him.”

“Never said you did, but you know more 'bout this than you're sayin'. It's time for you to let me hear the whole story.”

“I told you all I know.”

Whitehill laughed harshly, then poked Slocum with the rifle muzzle to get him moving along the darkened street. Gaiety in the saloons called to Slocum. He badly needed a drink to ease the pain of driving most of the day. More than this, he wanted to be surrounded by men not inclined to shatter his spine with a bullet if he moved in the wrong direction.

He went into the jail. Whitehill dropped his Colt on the desk, then said, “That back cell looks to be a good fit, Slocum.”

Slocum closed his eyes and shivered as the sheriff closed and locked the door. He had thought he'd avoid getting locked up. Bringing Frank to town had been a mistake. After fighting the road agents and the Indians, he should have kept riding in any direction that wasn't Silver City.

He sank to the straw pallet that passed for a mattress on the cot and drew up his legs. Stiff all over, he stretched and tried to work out the kinks from the long drive into town. A muscle spasm in his leg brought home the reality of his problem. The sheriff thought he'd murdered the man in the ice.

“Don't go anywhere, Slocum. I'll see to . . . him. Ain't a chore I much cotton to, but it's got to be done.”

Left alone in the cell, Slocum began hunting for a way out. His first impression had been right. The dirt floor was sunbaked. An inch down he hit a hard white layer. Caliche. It would take dynamite to dig through the hardened clay, and if he had a stick or two, blowing a hole in the adobe wall was a quicker way to freedom. The bars and the lock on the door were as secure as he had feared. Above he saw no way to scrape through the wire mesh between him and the roof. Disheartened, he sank back to the pallet.

When feeding time came—breakfast, most likely—this would be his only chance to get away. But Whitehill was a cautious man and unlikely to make a mistake that would let Slocum get free. Time worked against him, and he couldn't go anywhere or do anything.

He looked up when Whitehill returned. The lawman put his rifle back in a wall rack and sank to the desk chair. It creaked under his weight. From his expression, a load of worry was added to that weight.

“I got the body over to Doc Fuller. Couldn't find the town undertaker. He's probably out on a bender. Never seen a man drink like Rafe Olney. Suppose it keeps him from laughin' durin' the funerals. Looks like it was his dog what died, but I know he thinks all the dyin' is funny and makin' him rich.”

“Burying that body going to make Rafe Olney rich?”

“Could be, could be,” Whitehill said.

The sheriff reached for his six-gun when the door creaked open an inch, then crashed back against the wall. Filling the doorway was a man about as broad as he was tall.

“You shouldn't have waited up for me, Sheriff,” the man said, coming in.

Whitehill relaxed.

“Didn't know when you was fixin' on doin' your duty, Deputy.”

“I had a squabble to deal with east of town. Two gents decided the same cow belonged to each of them.”

“So you shot and ate it yourself,” Slocum piped up.

The deputy took a couple steps toward the cell, his hand going to his six-shooter.

“Who's that?”

“A fellow what needs to answer some questions,” said Whitehill.

“Don't expect the truth out of that lyin' son of a bitch's mouth,” the deputy said.

“You'll never admit I saved your hide, will you, Tucker?” Slocum stood and leaned against the bars.

“Whatever he's in for, Harvey, I'll stand bail for him,” the deputy said. “I owe him that and a bit more. Might even owe him a drink, 'less he's in for rowdiness and public drunkenness.”

“That's not a crime,” Whitehill said. “How do you know him, Dan?”

Dangerous Dan Tucker walked over and stuck his face within an inch of Slocum's.

“I had some trouble up in Durango. You know my boast how I can whip an entire room of drunk cowboys? I was doin' a damned good job of it but—”

“But he didn't know there was a muleskinner in the room,” Slocum finished.

“Damned 'skinner woulda kilt me dead if Slocum hadn't stopped him.” Tucker spat. “I took that man's own knife and used it on him. The rest of them boys quieted down right away, but I'd'a had a knife 'tween my ribs if Slocum hadn't stopped him for me.”

“You think Slocum could kill a man?”

“Know he could. Saw him do it not a minute later.”

“Saved your hide a second time that night. The muleskinner had a partner with a shotgun.”

“Small world,” Whitehill said. He ran his fingers around the metal ring holding the cell keys. “All right, Slocum. One question. Did you kill Texas Jack Bedrich?”

Slocum looked from Tucker to the sheriff.

“I don't know anyone named Bedrich. Was that the muleskinner's partner?”

“Muleskinners don't have names,” Tucker said. “Just poor bathin' habits.” He sniffed. “Smells like you're one of 'em now.”

“So you don't know Jack Bedrich?” Sheriff Whitehill came over.

“
I
don't know Bedrich,” Tucker said. “How's Slocum supposed to? You just got to town, right, Slocum?”

Whitehill unlocked the cell door.

“Don't make me regret this, either of you.”

“Hell, Sheriff, I'm already regretting it!” Tucker clasped Slocum hard, pushed him away, and shook hands.

“So am I,” grumbled Whitehill. He threw the ring of keys to the desk and sat. “You really don't know Bedrich?”

“Never heard of him in all my born days,” Slocum said.

“Yet you brought in his most recent partner, more dead than alive. If I hadn't seen proof that Bedrich was in that block of ice with my own eyes, I'd figure you killed Texas Jack and tried to gun down Frank.”

Slocum tried to make sense from it and couldn't.

“You reckon Frank knew his partner was inside the ice?” Slocum asked.

“Must have, from the way you tell it. But Frank wasn't really Bedrich's partner,” the sheriff said. “Former partner is more like it. They had a big bust-up a couple months back. Texas Jack was always doin' that with his partners. He could be real ornery and not above usin' men for his own gain.” He took a deep breath, then added, “Then again, the split might have been over Bedrich's woman. I think Frank was sweet on her, too.”

Slocum perked up. The way Whitehill said it, he might be sweet on the same woman.

“If Frank killed Bedrich and stuffed him in the ice, why'd he come so all fired fast on Slocum's heels?” Tucker perched his butt on the edge of the sheriff's desk and let a short leg swing back and forth nervously.

“Doesn't make a lick of sense,” Whitehill admitted. “You keep a sharp eye out for Frank. From what the doc said, he's not gettin' out of Silver City walkin'. Might be the only way he'll get out of town is in Rafe's hearse.”

“Hearse? The town digger's got a hearse?” Tucker looked skeptical.

“More like a wagon with a canvas top on it. Painted all black, has black horses to pull it. Rafe's got quite a business goin'.”

“With the ice gone, I suppose I ought to fix up the wagon and go back to Santa Fe. Holst will have a fit,” Slocum said.

“Cain't let you do that, Slocum, not 'til this matter of a bullet in Bedrich's chest is cleared up. You might be tellin' the truth—”

“He is,” cut in Tucker. “If he ain't, I'll cut his tongue out and roast it on an open fire.”

“I might have your tongue, too, Dan,” said the sheriff. “As I was sayin', until this gets cleared up, you can work on your wagon all you want but don't go headin' them mules northward or tryin' to ride that Apache pony out of here in any direction.”

“Apache pony?” Dangerous Dan Tucker shook his head. “You can't do things like an ordinary fellow, can you, Slocum? How'd you come by an Indian mount?”

“You can catch up on all this on your own time. Get out there on patrol, Tucker. Saloons will be closin' up in another hour or so.”

“You owe me a drink, at least, Slocum,” Tucker said. With that he melted into the black night.

“Tell me one thing, Sheriff.”

“You can sleep in one of the cells if you're short some cash money,” Whitehill said.

The last thing Slocum wanted was to spend another night in a jail. He had endured that too many times to be comfortable, even if the cell door wasn't locked this time.

“I'll make do,” he said. “What I wanted to know was about this Texas Jack Bedrich. You made it sound like him and Frank squabbled over more than a woman.”

“Don't know they fought over her, but they might have. Bedrich and Frank made a decent strike on the edge of Chloride Flats where all the silver is mined. Frank's the sort who is never satisfied with what he has. Always wants more. You know the type?”

Slocum nodded. He did.

“Well, sir, I think Bedrich gave Frank the claim. Don't rightly know what he got in return, but Bedrich had a nose for blue dirt. He could sniff out silver chloride a mile off, and might have.”

“That still doesn't explain how Bedrich ended up dead in a block of ice being hauled to Tombstone,” Slocum said.

“Nope, it don't,” said Whitehill. “Now you skedaddle. I got the other end of town to patrol. Dan's a good deputy, but he can't do it all.”

Slocum stepped into the cold mountain night and saw the stars being blotted out by thin clouds. This time of year brought torrential rains, but it would take an hour or two to build. That'd give him plenty of time to wheedle the livery stable owner for a place to stay in exchange for some work and maybe even get the mules fed and watered. Repairing the wagon could wait 'til sunup.

But as he walked down the middle of the Silver City street, noise from the saloons appealed to him. He had ridden in thinking how good a taste of whiskey would be. With almost a dollar in change rubbing together in his vest pocket, he could afford a shot or maybe do with only a beer. A smile crossed his lips as he thought how ice could have given him cold beer.

The smile vanished when he remembered there'd been a body encased in it.

He stopped and peered into one smoky cantina. The Lonely Cuss was mostly empty, a couple customers sprawled over tables. One snored loudly, and the other made curious hiccuping sounds. A faro table stood lonely on one side of the door, and what might have been a piano at the rear lay cloaked in darkness. No one seemed inclined to play it, which was fine with Slocum. He wasn't in the mood for music.

No one stood at the bar. He thought the place might be closed, then saw movement as the barkeep heaved a tray of beer mugs onto the bar with a loud clanking.

Slocum went in, worked his fingers around in his pocket, and found a dime. As good as whiskey would taste, a couple beers would do him as well.

“Beer,” he called to the barkeep.

“Just a second,” she answered, bent over to lift another tray. Slocum appreciated the view. He might even be talked into a third beer if she would lean over like that again. The trail got mighty lonely, and the real thing in flesh and blood was better than his imagination ever could be.

She dropped the second tray and turned to him. Their eyes locked, then she said, “Hello, John. It's been a long time since Georgia and that dead carpetbagger judge.”