Slocum's Silver Burden (3 page)

Bully Boy turned red in the face as he strained to break Slocum's back. He heaved and got him off his feet and swung him around like a rag doll.

“You're gonna pay fer puttin' me on the outs with Yulin. I'm gonna take your head to him in a peach basket and get my job back.”

Slocum began to black out. Every exhalation brought him closer to death. He couldn't suck in more air because of the powerful arms around his body. As the air was crushed from him, he pulled back the Colt's hammer and let it drop without coming to full cock.

The muffled report brought an immediate response. Bully Boy tightened his grip even more, then released Slocum. He looked down at his thigh. Blood from his nose already smeared his clothes, but the new source of blood spoke of a more serious injury.

“I can't feel my leg. It . . . it's all cold,” Bully Boy said, sitting down hard. He stared at his leg.

Slocum had shot through an artery. The man's life pumped out into the gutter. In seconds, Bully Boy slumped over. For all anyone knew, he was another drunk passed out on the curb.

Gasping hard, letting air painfully fill his lungs again, Slocum considered what to do. The brief fight hadn't brought any attention from incurious passersby. But two policemen walked their beat down the street and came in his direction. Fighting was one thing, but murder was another. It had been self-defense, but Slocum had heard about the San Francisco lawmen. There wasn't a crime they wouldn't overlook—for a price. If that price wasn't paid and a felon was dragged off to the jailhouse on Bryant Street, like as not he was never seen again. Not alive. Slocum would have been better served to let Yulin roll him into the Bay to fight off the sharks.

He might cut down both policemen, but that raised new problems. Where he stood on Market wasn't far from the police station on Sixth. Gunshots would bring a small army of cops running. Slocum looked down at the man he had shot, then turned and started to walk away.

He froze when the two policemen yelled out for him to stop. He had scant chance of talking his way out of the killing. Slocum started to run but found his feet kicking at empty air. A powerful arm had circled his shoulders and lifted him off the pavement.

He was a goner for sure.

“Don't struggle,” came the harsh whisper in his ear.

Slocum tensed, then relaxed and tried to wiggle free so he could whip out his six-gun and get away. He stopped fighting when he saw the hand holding him was missing three fingers.

“Let me go, Underwood. The police are—”

“They're too drunk to notice anything,” Underwood said. He kept his strong grip on Slocum and steered him into the middle of Market Street. Drivers shouted and one carriage tried to run them down. The driver swung a whip around but missed them by a country mile, which set off a new round of swearing as the carriage rattled past.

With an agility that had to have been learned walking on a saltwater-slippery spar, Underwood avoided the traffic and kept Slocum moving along to the opposite side of the street.

“Keep that iron in its place.” Underwood spun Slocum around so he could look back across the busy street at Bully Boy's body slumped over. “Do you see them fools tryin' to figure out why a man's passed out at their feet? Not a bit of it. They don't care, 'less they think to rob him.”

One policeman knelt and the other used his club to hasten onlookers along with strategically placed taps. The kneeling cop expertly emptied Bully Boy's pockets, found little, then stood and kicked the dead man.

“He feels cheated that the man he was robbin' was broke. Never occurred to him that Bully Boy was dead. And it wouldn't matter one whit to him if he figgered it out.”

The two cops walked on, never looking back at the corpse.

“Thanks. I was feeling guilty over killing him and would have shot both policemen.”

“That would have brought the wrath of God down on you. Or at least the wrath of James Otis.”

“Who's that?”

“The mayor of this fine city. But maybe he isn't carin' so much at the moment. Heard the rumor he's afflicted with cholera and doin' poorly.”

“Why were you following me?”

“It's like this, mister. You know my name, but I don't know yours.” Underwood looked sharply at Slocum. He might be lacking fingers but his gaze was intent. Nothing dulled his bright blue eyes.

Slocum gave his name but nothing more. He had wanted posters that had followed him for all the years after the end of the war for killing a carpetbagger judge who had tried to steal Slocum's Stand, the farm that had been in his family for generations. He had left the judge and his hired gunman in graves down by the springhouse, ridden away, and never looked back to see who was catching up with him. Since then, he hadn't lived a perfect life. More than once he had sampled the outlaw life. Whatever it took to keep body and soul together, he did. He preferred legal jobs, but he wasn't inclined to be dragged into a crime by someone he didn't know.

“I want to offer you a job.”

Slocum had anticipated this.

“I already told you that I'm not a killer for hire.”

“But takin' a man's life in self-defense doesn't bother you overly, does it? You're not sheddin' tears over Bully Boy.”

“He would have killed me,” Slocum said simply.

“You think them police did the right thing? Robbin' a dead man?”

Slocum shrugged. He didn't care what the officers did as long as they left him alone. They were only doing what they needed to stay alive, too. San Francisco was a tough town.

“I don't want you to murder nobody, but you got to be willin' to pull the trigger if it comes to that.”

They walked along the street, heading back to the Embarcadero. Underwood seemed determined to go to a five-story brick building, edging Slocum back in that direction every time he tried to veer away. Rather than break openly with Underwood, he let the old sailor have his way. Since he had no job or prospects—he didn't even have a horse—he had nothing to lose by letting the man bend his ear awhile longer.

“Spit it out. What do you want from me?”

“I told you. I get a finder's fee if I bring 'im a man worth hirin'. Truth is, there are thousands of men in San Francisco willin' to kill for the price of a drink. Them's not the ones needed since they'll turn and run at the first sign of trouble.”

“Are you recruiting for a filibuster? I don't want any part of that.”

“What? No,” Underwood said, laughing heartily. “You're the first who's ever thought that, but it makes sense. There's no intent on invadin' another country and takin' it over. Shows you're the sort needed, you comin' up with an idea like that, though. You don't rely on your fists or your gun alone. You think on matters. That's the kind of man Mr. Collingswood needs most, especially right now.”

They came to a halt in front of the tall building. Emblazoned in gilt paint on the glass doors was the Central California Railroad logo, a bear blowing steam out its ears as it dragged along a passenger car.

“Your boss is looking to hire railroad bulls?”

“Better than that. You have experience out on your own. You ever work as a scout? I see by your expression you have. For the cavalry?”

“Once or twice. I also scouted for a government mapping expedition. Mostly, I've worked as a wrangler.”

“Long days in the saddle, a keen eye for picking up a fugitive's trail, willing to use your six-shooter—you're exactly what Mr. Collingswood is in serious need of in a new employee.”

They entered the lobby. A man behind a low desk looked up. He sneered at Slocum, but his expression changed when he saw Underwood.

“Afternoon, sir,” he said. Slocum was sure he wasn't the one being addressed.

“Are they treatin' you good, Jason?”

“Not a bit of trouble, sir. You got another recruit? For the hunt?”

The way he spoke put Slocum on guard. He looked at Underwood, who raised his injured hand so his index finger pressed into his lips, cautioning the man to silence. A broad wink completed the act.

“Got it, Mr. Underwood.”

“The boss man in his office?”

“He is, sir. Go right on up. And thank you. I do appreciate you gettin' me this here job. Without it, me and Mary Lou would be out on the street, starvin'.”

Underwood made a vague salute that might have been nothing more than brushing a fly off his forehead, then moved so that Slocum had to dodge around him if he wanted to go back out into the street. No wrangler ever herded cattle with more skill. Ahead down a narrow corridor was a closed door with cantilever metal links that did nothing to muffle a coughing sound from the basement.

“You ever see one of these? An elevator. We don't have to go up the stairs. We can ride in style.”

The gate opened and a uniformed man stepped back to let Slocum and Underwood inside. Slocum hesitated.

“Go on, John. It ain't a jail cell.” This produced chuckles from both the uniformed man in the elevator cage and Underwood. “If anything, it's a new way of freedom. It's the future, or that's what Mr. Collingswood tells me.”

Slocum stood with his feet wider than normal. When the cage lurched, he took the acceleration by bending his knees. He reached out and steadied himself as the car continued its upward clanking journey.

“Got a steam engine down in the cellar. Runs the goldangest series of wheels, gears, and pulleys you ever did see. Reckon they don't have things like this out when you're ridin' herd.”

“I've heard of these. I never saw one before.” Slocum tried to peer out and down into the cellar. Choking fumes rose in the shaft. Before he could clear his throat, the cage clattered to a halt and the uniformed operator pulled back the cantilever grate over the door.

“We're here. Come on. Mind your step, wipe your feet.” Underwood chuckled again. “Just joshin' you on that. But Mr. Collingswood gets testy if you track onto his fancy rug.”

Slocum took in the surroundings, wondering what it all cost. The rug was intricately threaded and looked like one he had heard called a Persian. Oil paintings on the walls showed people Slocum didn't recognize, but he liked some of the marble statues of naked women on low tables. Then he stopped at the far end of the hall where it opened out into a larger anteroom.

Naked women chiseled from cold white rock was one thing. The woman behind the desk talking quietly with Underwood was something else. She was vibrant, alive, and so lovely Slocum wanted to reach out and touch her flawless cheek, just to be sure she was real. Her eyes were bluer than the sky stretching over San Francisco Bay, and not a single raven-wing dark hair was out of place. Around her slender throat she wore a single strand of pearls, but this was only a ploy to slow the dive of his eyes to the deep valley between her breasts. Her scoop-necked blouse allowed the barest hint of the silky skin to plump up and outward. Or maybe the pearls ensured that anyone's gaze was properly directed to those well-formed breasts. Slocum had the feeling that nothing this woman did was by accident.

The papers on her desk were precisely stacked. Two books at the right side were carefully aligned. He saw one was a dictionary with a dozen small scraps of paper marking pages for future reference. Rather than looking up words a second time, she had found a way to reduce the time leafing through the book. The other title was hidden from him by the base of an unlit oil lamp. What caught his attention was a partly opened desk drawer. The glint of light off a blue gun barrel told him she was more than just an ornament decorating the outer office.

“This here is Mr. John Slocum, come to see Mr. Collingswood about a job.” Underwood sounded pleased as punch when he made the introduction, as if the woman knew who Slocum was and would be impressed.

“For the great hunt?” The woman's musical voice enchanted Slocum as surely as her loveliness. She shifted slightly in her chair and pushed shut the drawer holding the pistol. That made it seem as if he had been accepted and was no longer a threat.

To her? Or to the man in the office?

But as bedazzled as he was by her beauty, he didn't miss how the job had gone from “the hunt” mentioned by the guard below to “the great hunt” referred to by the woman just outside the boss's inner sanctum.

“Underwood hasn't told me anything about this job. What's it all about?” He stepped back a half pace and read the nameplate on her desk. “Miss Crittenden.”

“That's something Mr. Collingswood must discuss personally with you,” she said. She gave him a quick scouting from where his boots crushed the expensive carpet up to his green eyes. “It's not up to me, sir, but if it were, you'd be hired immediately.”

“Much obliged, Tamara, for your endorsement,” Underwood said. “Can we go right in?”

She reached under her desk. Slocum heard a distant buzz like the signal on a telegrapher's key announcing an incoming message. He turned toward it. The buzz sounded inside Collingswood's office.

“That's a handy dingus,” Slocum said. “Nobody sneaks up on him?”

“Not with me sitting here,” Tamara Crittenden said. She looked over her shoulder, then back at Slocum. “Go right in, Mr. Slocum.”

“You coming along?” Slocum asked Underwood.

“Do I look like anyone's fool? Why talk with the boss when I can stand out here and talk with the purtiest filly in town?”

This made Slocum laugh, joining in the other man's obvious enjoyment of the entire situation. Then he settled himself, took the crystal doorknob in his hand, twisted, and stepped into the room. For a moment, Slocum thought he had stepped into another world completely separate from the one of bustling Market Street, dead bodies, and crooked policemen.

The hallway from the elevator had been lined with expensive items. The rug under his feet had made him feel as if he walked on clouds. But here it was as much a change as stepping from the elevator. He resisted the urge to take off his boots and wiggle his bare toes in the rug's nap. Stepping on moss seemed uncouth by comparison. The two outer walls of the office were almost all plate glass window. One looked out over the Embarcadero and beyond, to San Francisco Bay with its freighters and tall-masted sailing ships in dock or waiting out in the middle of the Bay.

The other decorations had been kept to a minimum. Two low tables held strange dwarf trees all bent up in a style Slocum had seen over in Japantown. The oak desk was polished so hard he had to squint against the reflection of the afternoon sun.

“You like the trees? Bonsai. That one is two hundred years old. The other is newer. Only fifty years old. Both were brought from Edo by a gardener I employed until he died.”

“You took the trees then?”

“He willed them to me. That's the way it's done. These are heirlooms.”

“You keep your possessions real close to you, don't you?” Slocum had heard talk like this before.

David Collingswood, or so read the nameplate on this desk, was dressed to the nines in an outfit Slocum knew wouldn't be out of place at the Union Club. In the midst of his impeccable jacket, vest, and ruffled shirt shone a headlight diamond bigger than any Slocum had ever seen worn by the most prosperous gambler. The difference was the gambler carried his wealth against the time his luck dried up. Collingswood wore this to hold his cravat in place. Slocum wondered if the man had a dozen more like it at home, maybe up on Russian Hill, where the richest of the rich in San Francisco lived.

A man like this was the sort to hire Tamara Crittenden to guard his doorway. And maybe there was more to their relationship beyond work. It made sense. Somehow, Slocum felt a bit disappointed in that notion.

“I have a reputation for selling dearly and buying cheaply,” the man said. He sank into his leather chair and closed his eyes. For a moment he looked twenty years older than the forty that Slocum guessed. He opened his eyes and stared almost forlornly at Slocum. “You carry yourself well. You wouldn't have made it this far if you couldn't use that side arm well and perform the rest of the services I require.”