Slocum's Breakout (19 page)

“There is plenty in San Francisco,” she said.

“The police! They are everywhere, they are monsters! If we failed, they would beat us within an inch of our lives, then put us into their terrible jail.”

“Then we don't fail. I have an idea which will serve us well. At the Palace Hotel tomorrow night is a big society dance. The richest of
los ricos
will be there. We steal a few necklaces, a wallet or two, take what we can, and then leave.”

“We steal from all?”

“Fool,” snapped Conchita. “We take what we can. It will be plenty, more than the pitiful few coins from the bank, more than the greenbacks from the stage. We rob them, then we go immediately to the ferry and cross to Oakland. From there we can go anywhere we please.”

“What of the gold we have?”

Conchita pursed her lips. Slocum had to move about to get a better look at her face. She was in silhouette and utterly lovely. He was reminded anew how he had fallen under her spell.

“We must trust Papa,” she said finally. “We give him everything. Put it on a pack animal, in saddlebags, however it is most easily carried. He can find his way to the ferry and wait for us on the other side.”

“Why not send him now? He can get a hotel room to wait.”

“A good idea, José,” she said, taking his hands now and stroking them. “If we find ourselves hurried by the police, dealing with him would slow us. Yes, we can send him ahead. It might be good to have a place to hide if pursuit is greater than I expect it to be.”

“Now?”

Conchita shrugged, then said, “We should. I will take him to the stash and send him on his way. I will meet you in Portsmouth Square tomorrow at sundown. That will give us time to prepare. Bring all our guns.”

“This will be dangerous,
hermana
.”

“Without risk, there can be no gain. Help me rouse him. I want to get started right away.”

Slocum turned and pressed his back against the wall as he listened to them awaken their pa, get him dressed and out the door. An itchy feeling worked on him as he heard Conchita and her father ride away . . . to the stash where they had hidden everything they had stolen. Gold coins, scrip, all of it. If he got the drop on Conchita when she dug up the money, he could ride away and be rich—or at least well paid for all he had been through.

But there was Atencio. And Maria. And the promise he had given Murrieta. And Maria. That single name echoed in his head. She would hate him forever if he cut and ran now.

No amount of money would erase the festering sore in his conscience should he break his word to her.

He glanced around the side of the cabin. Conchita and her pa were gone, out of sight, on their way to get everything the Valenzuelas had stolen. His Colt Navy slid easily from his holster and felt comforting in his hand. He rounded the corner and jerked away as José unexpectedly came from inside.

For an instant both of them froze. José started for the six-shooter in his belt but Slocum already had his drawn.

“I'll drop you where you stand. Don't. Don't throw down on me. You'll be a dead man before you touch the butt.”

“You turn up at the worst possible times,” José said. “If you are here to kidnap the old man again, you are out of luck. He is gone.”

“I found the one I want.”

“I will not tell you where we have hidden our money.”

“Good,” Slocum said, smiling wolfishly. He enjoyed the way the man's face drained of blood. He thought he was going to die. After torture. “I just wanted another hostage.”

José stared at Slocum, then laughed until tears came to his eyes.

“You will ransom
me
? As you did my papa? Who is to pay? Conchita? She will let me die.”

“You know your sister better 'n anyone else, I reckon,” Slocum said. “But I'm not ransoming you to her.”

“No? Then what . . .” José's eyes went wide when he realized what Slocum intended. He went for the six-gun thrust into the waistband of his jeans.

José Valenzuela moved fast, but Slocum was faster. He squeezed off a round that tore through the man's shoulder, knocking him backward. Valenzuela took a step, caught his heel, and then his legs turned to jelly. He sat hard, the pistol falling from his nerveless right hand. For a moment, he remained motionless, stunned. He shook himself as if to get his senses back and reached for his fallen six-shooter.

Slocum stepped on his left wrist until he felt bones grating together.

“Stop! You are hurting me!”

Slocum eased up on the pressure, then kicked the gun away. He kept his own pointed straight at the sitting man.

“You've got a vivid imagination,” Slocum told him. “What do you think I'm going to do with you?”

“I cannot return to that terrible place.”

Slocum grinned ear to ear. It gave him considerable pleasure to know that others felt the same as he did about San Quentin and that he could inflict this much misery on Valenzuela. He wished he could substitute him for Atencio, but there was no way that'd happen. He'd have to be content with carrying through the plan that still boiled about foglike and nebulous in his head.

He reached down and grabbed the front of José's shirt. A powerful tug got the man onto his feet. In ten minutes they were mounted and riding north.

“You have become a bounty hunter?” Valenzuela asked.

“Nothing like that,” Slocum said. He didn't cotton much to bounty hunters, but he cottoned even less to conversation right now. Too much had to go just right for Atencio to escape the noose again. Worthless talk would only slow him down in his single-minded drive to get to the stone-walled prison.

“I will cry out when we ride through San Francisco,” Valenzuela said. “Better to die with a bullet than to—”

He sagged as Slocum rode closer and swung the long barrel of his six-gun with great precision. He clipped Valenzuela just above the ear. A tiny cut appeared, but the shock scrambled brains and turned his grip on consciousness slippery.

Slocum had to support him as they rode the streets of San Francisco, heading north to where the ferry embarked to cross the Golden Gate from just east of Fort Point. The grim fortress that had protected the entrance to the Bay during the war bristled with cannons. A few bluecoats paraded back and forth along the ramparts, keeping watch for who knew what. There had never been a threat to the city during the war, and even less threat existed now.

The Barbary Coast a bit farther along the shoreline was packed with refugees from Australia and every other piss pot in the world. It was barely safe to ride through the streets in daylight. After dark, getting shanghaied was as good as a man could expect. And there were far worse fates than involuntary servitude aboard a China clipper awaiting the unwary from the gangs that roved the district.

They were all to be found in the streets Slocum and Valenzuela rode through at a quick trot.

More than one curious bully boy eyed them as they rode, but Slocum gave no opportunity for anything more than curious, appraising stares.

He reached the ferry just as it was loading. The large craft rocked on the choppy waves coming in off the Pacific Ocean, but this didn't hinder the crew loading on wagons, horses, and other freight to be taken across to the far northern shore.

“Wha—”

Slocum grabbed Valenzuela by the collar and dumped him on the ground. A quick punch put him out again. Livid bruises formed above the man's ear and now on his jaw. With a heave, Slocum got him to his feet and wrapped an arm around him to half drag the man aboard. They got curious looks since the wound in Valenzuela's shoulder continued to ooze blood. The red blossom had spread across his shirt front and made it appear he had been blasted with a shotgun.

“My friend got a little drunk, and there was a fight.”

“Fight?” asked the sturdy sailor. “Where'd he git that wound?”

“Blue Parrot,” Slocum said, naming an infamous saloon on the Embarcadero. “He damned near got himself shanghaied.”

“Gonna bleed to death. If he does on the trip, just toss him over the side. Sharks're 'specially hungry today.”

Slocum hunted for fare and didn't have enough. He fumbled in Valenzuela's pocket and pulled out a thick wad of greenbacks. Counting them would give close to eight hundred dollars, he guessed. He paid the sailor, made sure their horses were secured for the rough trip across, and then dropped Valenzuela to the deck.

He ran his fingers over the scrip he'd taken from the road agent.

“Swindling your own sister finally paid off—for me,” Slocum said. He nudged Valenzuela with the toe of his boot to elicit some response. A moan told him the man was still alive. Slocum settled down for the trip across to Sausalito.

When the ferry docked with a loud thud against the pier, Slocum heaved Valenzuela to his feet. The man stirred and tried to fight, arms flailing about weakly. Slocum pinned his arms to his side and dragged him off and waited for their horses to be led from the ferry. The sailor gave Slocum an odd look, then returned to work on unloading freight when the ferry captain shouted for him to stop malingering.

Slocum heaved Valenzuela belly down over his saddle, then mounted and led the horse north. By the time it got dark, he had reached the junction for the road leading to the southeast and San Quentin. He felt anxious about what had to be done at dawn tomorrow. Atencio was destined to swing then, and Slocum wanted to be as close as he could to the prison to be there on time. More than this, he had to find Murrieta and see if everything he had asked for had been fetched and was ready.

If anything went wrong, there'd be a new grave in the cemetery outside the prison walls—or maybe several. Slocum didn't want to fill one of those new unmarked graves.

He rode a half mile down the road toward San Quentin, then left the road when he heard sounds ahead. He melted into the landscape just as a pair of guards from the prison trotted away, arguing about something he couldn't make out. As they vanished in the dark, he caught one snippet.

“Wilkinson said he saw somebody 'bout here.”

Slocum felt a mite better. The guards riding patrol meant Sergeant Wilkinson hadn't caught anyone, so Murrieta must be around somewhere. No one else had reason to sneak around the area. If anyone came to see Atencio hanged, they would arrive in the morning on the first ferry. Although he should have asked and hadn't, Slocum reckoned that ferry would arrive a bit after dawn. He doubted the ferrymen worked in the dark because of the strong currents flowing into San Francisco Bay from the Pacific. Any mishap in the dark and rescuers would never find crew or ferry. If there would even be a rescue party sent out under any circumstances other than salvage.

He rode through the woods, stopping often to listen for either guards or Murrieta. As luck would have it, he found Murrieta in a cold camp some distance ahead.

He saw the man's dark figure rise and go for the rifle leaning against a fallen log.

“It's me,” Slocum called. “I've got him.” As if to acknowledge this, José Valenzuela let out a moan and began to struggle, trying to slide off the horse.

Slocum rode closer to Murrieta, then reached over, grabbed Valenzuela by the belt, and yanked. The man fell heavily and struggled to sit up.

Murrieta stepped up and swung the butt of the rifle. The impact of wooden stock against bony chin sounded like a gunshot.

“Quiet,” Slocum cautioned. “Wilkinson has his men out patrolling the main road.”

“I know. I have my own lookout to warn me.”

“Who?” Slocum went for his six-shooter, then stopped when they were joined by another darkness-clad figure he recognized instantly. “You shouldn't have come. This is too dangerous.”

“I had to,” Maria said. “Procipio needed help with everything from the store.”

“You got it all? No trouble?”

“John, you know me well by now. There was no problem.”

Slocum had questions but found his mouth otherwise occupied with Maria's lips pressing hard. They kissed. He was aware of Murrieta watching and felt uneasy at this, but Maria did not.

“I can watch our prisoner,” Murrieta said, some disdain in his voice.

Maria took Slocum by the hand and insistently pulled him out into the dark woods for privacy. His last sight of camp was Murrieta securely tying Valenzuela, and then he was otherwise delightfully occupied for the rest of the night.

 

Valenzuela struggled, but Murrieta had bound him well, adding a gag to be sure he wouldn't draw attention to himself until the time was right.

Slocum and Maria watched Murrieta ride away, circling the imposing prison walls with a pack animal loaded with everything from the general store.

“When do we act?” she asked.

Slocum put his finger to her lips as he heard the clatter of hooves along the road leading to the prison's front gate. They watched from a secluded spot a hundred yards away as Sheriff Bernard rode to the gate, which immediately opened.

“He came,” Maria said. “He wants to see Atencio die!”

Slocum wasn't sure that was the sheriff's motive, but he said nothing. Wilkinson sent out a small platoon of guards to escort the sheriff inside. Two of the guards remained outside, both armed with rifles.

“After what happened before,” Slocum said softly, although it was unlikely the guards could overhear at such a distance, “the warden's not taking any chances.”

Valenzuela struggled and tried to cry out, but the gag in his mouth prevented more than a muffled sound.

“They will accept you dead as well as alive,” Maria said with venom. This did nothing to still Valenzuela's struggles.