Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) (15 page)

As he rode, Slocum felt eyes watching him. He tried to locate Frank, but the man proved too wily. The red-haired son of a bitch made sure Slocum didn't try finding Randolph or tracking him to his hideout. The thought had crossed Slocum's mind, but nothing had gone right in the days he had been out hunting for Randolph, and he doubted such a trick would work now. Frank had plenty of time to prepare and think through his scheme.

He wanted something, and the best Slocum could think was that Bedrich had found one hell of a big silver strike. If Marianne had a map to the claim, she'd likely fork it over right away to get her son back. What galled Slocum was the unlikely happening.

Give Frank the map and he would kill both the boy and his mother. There wasn't anything for him to lose doing that, and he had already killed Bedrich, though from the man's own mouth he hadn't intended to. The fight had gotten out of hand. All Frank wanted was to rob Texas Jack, not kill him. Or maybe he had planned to kill the silver prospector all the time and had just jumped the gun, pulling the trigger before getting the map.

The road was long and dusty, but Slocum never faltered. The pony maintained a steady pace and got him to town in late afternoon. He looked around and saw miners slowly filtering in from their mines, a powerful thirst needing to be slaked with whiskey and women. Slocum felt guilty about not going straight to the jailhouse to tell the sheriff what had happened. As hard as he had worked on a wide variety of schemes to get Marianne out of jail, none had come to him that Whitehill would agree to. The man was sweet on her and letting her out of his sight wasn't in the cards.

Slocum dismounted and stuck his head into the Lonely Cuss. The portly barkeep shied away, then reached under the bar, probably hunting for a pistol or a sawed-off shotgun. Slocum didn't see Dangerous Dan anywhere and backed out. No one but the barkeep had even noticed him in the doorway. Quick stepping it to the hotel, he spotted Billy McCarty huddled down and doing something secretive. As he walked up, the boy jumped like he'd had a nail driven into his skull.

“Whoa, don't get all spooked,” Slocum said. Billy put his hand down and hid whatever he had in the dust. Likely it was something he had stolen. “Have you seen the deputy?”

“Tucker? Yeah, the sheriff sent him out of town this mornin' to serve process on an old coot east of town. Not sure what it's all about. You want me to find out? For a dime I can do that.” His dirty fingers closed, and he hid the tiny treasure behind his back, making Slocum surer than ever Billy had stolen something he didn't want seen.

“How long's that likely to take him?”

“Be back tomorrow noon maybe. I know Tucker. If he took a bottle with him, he might not come back to Silver City 'til it's drained dry.” Billy laughed, then sobered when he saw the joke didn't set well with Slocum. “What's eatin' you?”

“Tell me more about the assay office burning down.”

“Ain't much to tell. It just did. All Jerry's equipment was burnt to cinders. He was gonna teach me code so I could cover for him, but that's not too likely now.”

“The deeds for all the silver mines were lost?”

“Reckon so. Might be copies up in Santa Fe but I wouldn't count on that.”

Slocum nodded as more pieces fell together for him. Bedrich had gone to Santa Fe to register his claim there, only to run afoul of Frank. Before he could properly authenticate the location of the strike, he had been gut-shot and died in a block of ice. Frank hadn't expected that and had finally tracked Slocum and the body. Bedrich might have hidden the map before he died.

Or Slocum may have been all wet and Frank had killed him for some other reason. Bedrich might have gone to Santa Fe to enlist the aid of a federal marshal or any of a dozen other reasons.

“You look perturbed,” Billy said, rolling the big word over on his tongue as if he liked the taste.

“Got bad news to pass along to Randolph's ma, that's all.”

“Ain't seen him neither. He was gonna get a job sweepin' up at the Lonely Cuss so he could steal some whiskey for us, but he crapped out on that.”

“Yeah, he must have,” Slocum said. He started toward the sheriff's office, stopped, and without looking back, said, “You're going to get yourself in a world of trouble stealing.” The boy gasped that he had been accused so readily, but to his credit said nothing. A denial would have been worthless—and a lie. Slocum kept walking.

He felt as if he were mounting the thirteen steps of a gallows to his own execution. With Dan Tucker out of town, his best chance for someone helping him evaporated. He paused in front of the door, then went in. Whitehill sat at his desk reading a paper. Marianne had the blanket pulled up along one side of her cell to give herself some privacy. It looked exactly as it had a couple days earlier.

“What brings you by, Slocum?” the sheriff asked. From his tone, he hoped Slocum was going to tell him he'd come down with a bad case of ptomaine.

“John!” Marianne yanked down the blanket and clung fiercely to the bars. “Where's Randolph? I told you to look after him. Why hasn't he come by to see me?”

Slocum looked at her and realized how distraught she had become. A wild look in her eyes turned her into a caged animal rather than the lovely woman he knew. Rather than explaining to her, he turned to the sheriff.

“Jim Frank kidnapped the boy. I tracked him down.”

“But?” Whitehill's gimlet stare pierced Slocum's heart. “You got a dead body to explain?”

“He'll trade Randolph for something Marianne has.”

Whitehill exploded. He slammed both fists on the desk and sent his newspaper fluttering away.

“Like hell I'll let him have his way with her.”

“That's not what he wants. When I caught Carstairs in her hotel room, I thought he wanted her. But it's something else both men are after.”

Whitehill blinked. Then he fixed his hard gaze on Slocum as if he could core out the truth.

“What did Bedrich give you?” Slocum called to Marianne. “That's what Frank wants.”

“Give me? He didn't give me anything. Not even a ring. He said he'd take care of that later on, maybe after he got back from wherever he was headed.”

“He told you about his silver strike, though.”

“Well, he was always going on about how good a prospector he was and how he was going to be richer than all the kings of Europe. Believing him took most of my imagination.” She swallowed hard, then asked, “What's this got to do with Randolph?”

“Frank will trade the boy for whatever Bedrich had. It must be a map.”

“But Jack never gave me anything like that. How can I give Frank something I don't have? How'm I supposed to get Randolph back?” Her voice rose to such a pitch that Slocum flinched. She was approaching hysteria, which would do her no good all locked up in that iron cage.

“I heard tell that the assay office burned down, and all the records were lost. That so, Sheriff?”

“Careless storage of them chemicals, the ones used in telegraphy. Might have been the others Jerry used to assay ore. The whole building went up in less than ten minutes.”

“You're sure it was accidental?”

“Sure as I can be. Jerry hightailed it out of town, ashamed as all get-out.”

“If Bedrich filed a claim there, it'd be lost.”

“Everyone's was. Mostly the miners protect their claims with drawn guns and knives. It's gonna take weeks to have everyone refile their claims, but first the town's got to hire somebody what can read. That might take longer than the actual recordin' of the claims from the miners' copies.”

“Bedrich went to Santa Fe to file his claim there rather than wait. That's when Frank killed him. He confessed the murder to me.”

“Do tell,” Whitehill said. “Don't surprise me none. Frank was always a sneaky cuss.”

“Randolph! How do I get my son back?”

Both men glanced at Marianne, then went back to what had become a silent negotiation. Slocum didn't come out and say what was in his head, but Whitehill did.

“No way I'm lettin' her go talk to Frank. From what you said, he's expectin' a lawman to sneak up and try to arrest him. Besides, I can't leave Silver City 'til Dangerous Dan gets back.”

“Sometime tomorrow,” Slocum said. Nothing worked out right for him. He repeated what Frank had said about Marianne taking the road to Shakespeare so he could watch and avoid anyone trailing her.

“He may be a mean cayuse but he's smart, I'll give him that,” Whitehill said. “If he sees a flash of a badge, he never lets her know where the boy is.”

“Sheriff, please. You have to let me go. I can talk him into letting Randolph go. I have to!” Seeing the sheriff's reluctance, she began sobbing. “Harvey, I'm begging you. I
have
to try.”

“Let her go. I can trail her and nab Frank.”

“You're assumin' he'll have the boy with him. That's not smart. He'll ask for the map and examine it, then tell her where her son is. Might even turn the boy over after he's made sure the map's for real.” Whitehill scratched his stubbled chin. “Frank's holdin' a royal flush, Slocum. No way I can see to pry that boy loose. Assumin' he's still alive.”

This brought a cry of utter, soul-wrenching agony from Marianne. She began sobbing bitterly.

“If I can catch Frank, I can make him talk.”

“All I got's your word any of this happened. I don't know that you're not schemin' to get her free and then ride off together.”

“The boy's not been seen for a couple days. Ask the fat bastard over at the Lonely Cuss what happened. He saw Frank kidnap Randolph.”

“Tom's brother, Justin?” Whitehill scratched vigorously behind his head now, as if following a migrating flea around. “Ain't seen him sober since he came to Silver City. Not what I'd call reliable.”

“All right, Sheriff,” Slocum said. “Let Marianne out and lock me up in her place. You want a prisoner? This will guarantee that we're not riding off together.” Slocum knew he had hit a bull's-eye from the ripples of emotion on the lawman's face.

“You'd do that, John?”

“I don't have any idea how you can convince Frank to let your son go if you don't have the map. It doesn't set well with me that he might kill both of you if you don't hand him something.”

“I . . . I'll come up with a plan. Harvey? Please!” She rattled the bars.

“Hand over your piece, Slocum.” He took the six-shooter and dropped it into a desk drawer before giving Slocum the keys to Marianne's cell.

Slocum opened the door and found his arms full of a quaking, crying woman. He held her, aware of the sheriff's cold glare.

“You know what Frank said to do. Maybe if you have a gun, you can wing him and drag him back to town,” Slocum said. He hadn't heard such a lame idea since Pickett's Charge.

The best idea was to let Dan Tucker ride along. Slocum knew the man was an expert tracker and had a good chance of riding along unseen by Frank, but he was out of town and might as well have been on the other side of the world.

“Lock me up, Sheriff,” Slocum said. “And you go along with her.”

“Can't rightly abrogate my official duty, Slocum.” He rolled the word out like young Billy had “perturbed.” This sparked an idea, a desperate one, but Slocum had nothing else.

Slocum pulled Marianne back into his arms and kissed her. She recoiled and tried to push away from such unseemly behavior in front of the sheriff. He held her tightly until Whitehill looked away in disgust. Then he whispered quickly what he wanted her to do.

“Billy? Why?” she whispered back.

“Get on out of here 'fore I change my mind,” the sheriff said.

“Go on. Do it,” Slocum urged. She gripped his arms fiercely, then gave him another kiss before fleeing the jailhouse.

“Inside, Slocum. Close the door and lock it,” Whitehill called from his post behind his desk. Slocum did as he was ordered. “Now toss me the keys.”

The sheriff caught them and added the key ring to the Colt Navy and other contents in his desk drawer.

“You ain't spinnin' a tall tale, are you, Slocum?”

“I wish I was,” Slocum said, sinking down to the cot where Marianne had slept. He caught her scent on the pillow and blanket.

All he could do was lie back and wait.

Billy McCarty poked his head up to the barred window a bit after sundown. It didn't take Slocum long to explain what he wanted.

“Please tell me what to do, John,” pleaded Marianne the next morning. “I don't know where any map is!” She brushed away tears as her stomach knotted. It wasn't fair! How could Jack have done this to her? Now she had to lie and cheat and maybe kill to get her son away from a man who had murdered at least twice.

“All you can do is meet Frank and convince him you're telling the truth.”

“You don't think I can do it.”

“If I thought I had any chance in hell of getting Randolph back, I wouldn't have swapped places with you.” He clutched the iron bars that had held her the day before so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“I can shoot him. I can get a gun, and when he rides up, I can shoot him. In the arm or leg. Then I can threaten him until he tells me where Randolph is.” Her resolve hardened. This wasn't much of a plan but it was better than none at all. Randolph wouldn't stay in the son of a bitch's grips one instant longer than necessary.

“Be careful trying that. You kill him, you'll never find your son.”

“I can give him a fake map. I know how Jack wrote. Small, crabbed little letters nobody but him could read.”

“Play for time—and ask for proof that Randolph's still alive,” Slocum said.

“I need help, John. I'll get a gun and break you out so you can ride along. You stay out of sight until he shows his ugly face and—”

“Won't work, Marianne,” said Sheriff Whitehill. He looked up from his desk. “I didn't let you out so you could spring Slocum. He's my guarantee you'll be back. Way I look at it, you both have done some killin'.”

“She hasn't,” Slocum said coldly. “Frank's the man you want, and you're letting her do your job for you.”

“Evidence doesn't say that. It's your word that Frank confessed to you. No other witnesses, were there?”

As the two men argued, Marianne pressed herself against the cool adobe wall and tried to hold off a bout of hysteria. This wasn't like her. She prided herself on being calm and collected, but too much swirled about in her head for that fiction to last much longer.

A fake map was a good idea. It wouldn't take her long to make one. Getting a gun might be a bit harder, but not that much.

“Sheriff,” she said. “Lend me Slocum's gun. It's not going to do him any good.”

“Can't do that, Marianne. Folks might think I was helpin' you commit a murder if you up and kill Frank.”

“I'll do more than kill him if he won't tell me where he's holding Randolph!”

“Now, Marianne,” Whitehill said, “that kind of talk's what got you tossed in the jug before. Les Carstairs was a no-account, but too many in town heard you threaten him. If I had a lick of sense, you'd be in the cell again.”

Marianne went numb. Thoughts refused to rise. Her usual glib tongue was silenced. She left the jailhouse as if both feet were in pails of concrete. She scrounged about town until she found a scrap of paper caught against a wall in the morning breeze. It took another half hour to get a pen and ink to produce her fake treasure map. She drew lines at random and scribbled in directions that likely contradicted each other. The ink took a while to dry but she held the paper out in the wind and sun before folding it up and tucking it into her pocket.

Time forced her to hurry to the stables, where she took Slocum's pony and began the ride along the road south to Shakespeare, though she knew Frank wouldn't let her get that far. He would lie in wait along the road, let her pass, then see if anyone trailed her. An hour later, she realized with a sick feeling that she hadn't brought a pistol. Even her knife had been left behind. Sheriff Whitehill had it in his desk drawer, evidence of the Carstairs killing.

She wished she could appreciate the bright New Mexico day. The sky sported only a few wisps of snowy white clouds. The gentle breeze cooled her, and the road stretched invitingly. Oh, to keep riding! She could be down in the New Mexico boot heel and reach Mexico in a couple days.

But that didn't save Randolph. Thought of her captive son sparked her fiery temper again until she began making the pony uneasy with her grunts and occasional jerks of her knees and tugs on the reins.

To keep her anger in check, she began studying the road ahead for any sign of Frank. The shimmering heat hid anyone lurking beside the road. She concentrated so hard on what lay ahead that the sound of hoofbeats behind her came as a surprise. She craned around and her heart leaped into her throat.

Jim Frank.

He galloped up and then stopped suddenly a few yards behind her.

“Don't turn around,” he called. “You got the papers?”

“Where's Randolph? You don't get anything until I'm sure you haven't hurt him.”

“I'm holdin' the winnin' hand,” he said. “You ever want to see your son again, you give me the papers or I ride off.”

“How do I know I can trust you? You're a cold-blooded killer.”

“And you're hot-blooded enough to kill a man. I saw the cut you put across Carstairs's gut. Another half inch and you'd have carved his innards out for him.”

“I'll do the same to you if you hurt my son.”

Frank laughed harshly, then quieted.

“I ain't got time for this. Hand it over.”

Fuming, Marianne took out the fake map and held it over her head.

“You come and get it.”

“I got a better idea. You dismount and put a rock on top of it, then you walk away so I can look it over. There's no call to trust you.”

Marianne did as she was told, beginning to worry. Did Frank know what the map looked like? She could never hope to overtake him if he upped and rode away. Even if she did, how would she ever force him to release Randolph? Tears welled in her eyes, and she balled her hands into fists until she quaked with pent-up fury.

Frank dropped lightly to the ground, keeping a wary eye on her. He kicked away the rock and snared the fake map before it blew away. Holding it up, he frowned when he examined it closely.

“What are you tryin' to pull? This isn't the deed to the claim.”

Marianne's mind raced. Frank hadn't wanted a map, he'd wanted the official claim—or Texas Jack's copy. The claims office had burned down and destroyed all the official records. Everything clicked in her head. Jack had gone to Santa Fe to file in the territorial capital. Frank had tried to get the deed from him and had killed him before he stole it.

But if Jack hadn't had it on him when he died, where was his copy of the deed?

“I'm not dumb enough to bring it,” she said, lying fast. She needed to spin a yarn Frank would believe. “That's a map to where the deed is hidden. In a bitters jar. In the roots of an oak tree.”

Frank looked at the map again, frowning.

“I can't make head nor tail outta this.”

“Release Randolph, and I'll explain the map.”

“I'll kill him. This is a trick!”

“No, no, you can't. Randolph even knows what that map means. He . . . Jack gave it to him when he rode off to Santa Fe. Randolph had hidden it, but I saw him.” Marianne babbled and knew it. She clamped her mouth shut, took a deep breath, then said, “Randolph can tell you what it means. You ask him, then let him go.”

“If he don't, he's dead.” Frank swung into the saddle and galloped away, heading north.

Everything depended on how expertly she could track Frank. Marianne got onto the pony and set it after Frank, but riding without a saddle proved more difficult than she thought. Letting the pony walk didn't cause her any trouble staying on its back. Galloping caused her to slip and slide. As she slid backward, the horse slowed. By the time she got her seat again, Frank was out of sight.

She let out a cry of rage and frustration. Marianne rode as hard as she could to catch up with Frank, but the man might as well have been swallowed by the earth. An hour of futile searching convinced her she had to return to town. When Frank found out Randolph knew nothing about the map, he would come looking for her. In Silver City she might depend on the sheriff to stop Frank.

Or she could get Slocum out of the lockup. Even if she swapped places again in jail with him, he stood a better chance of freeing Randolph than she had. Tears running down her cheeks as she rode, she cursed herself for a fool thinking the fake map would trick Frank into releasing her son.

She should have brought a gun and shot him dead. Randolph might be dead already or killing Frank might doom him, but she would have had the satisfaction of putting a slug in the kidnapper's foul black heart.

•   •   •

“I tried, John, I really tried to follow him, but I fell off the horse. Why didn't you have a saddle for it?” Marianne fought back tears, sniffling a little.

It irritated her when he didn't answer but gave her an order she found repugnant.

“Tell the sheriff we want to switch places again. You come in and I'll leave.”

“No! I have to find Randolph! I can't do that in a jail cell!” Outrage burned away her fear. She had expected more from John Slocum. After all, he was—

“Do it,” he said coldly. “There's damned little time after Frank finds out the map's a fake.”

“Randolph might stall him, but that's not going to get him free. I have to hunt for him.”

“Frank is too good for that. He's clever, and he probably rode into a forest without leaving so much as a bent blade of grass under his horse's hooves. Let me out of here. Tell Whitehill.”

“You have a plan?” Marianne barely dared to hope that Slocum did. She sniffed, then wiped her nose with a shaking hand. Her lace handkerchief had disappeared during her ride to free Randolph, and her clothing was a complete mess. Filthy, she needed a bath and a change of clothes.

“Tell the sheriff.”

“Let me freshen up and—”

“Tell him!”

The command caused her to jump. Startled at his vehemence, she backed away and half turned to run. Cursing herself for such a reaction, Marianne hardened her resolve.

“Tell me what your plan is. If I don't like it, you can rot in hell for all I care. Getting Randolph back is all I want.”

Slocum's face darkened as he leaned forward. She pressed herself back against the far wall if he reached through the bars to grab her. He might try to hold her hostage to force Whitehill to let them both go, but even as that notion came to her, it died. The sheriff might be a bit sweet on her, but he would never allow them both to go. He knew as long as he held one of them, the other would return.

And he was right, Marianne admitted. She might get mad at Slocum, but she wouldn't leave him. Unless saving her son required it.

“Someone trailed you, then waited for Frank to leave you behind. If he's half as good as he claims, he found where Frank is holed up.”

“Is Randolph there? Can we get him free?”

“I don't know because I'm in the cell.”

“Who is it? The deputy friend of yours? I'll find out and—”

“It wasn't Tucker. He's still out of town. You'll never see Randolph again if you don't get me out of here so I can rescue him.”

Dizziness hit her like a blow to the head. She swayed as she wrestled with all the implications of what Slocum said. He had always been truthful with her. Never once had she caught him in a lie, except possibly by omission. The way he had ridden off in Georgia without so much as a fare-thee-well had always cut her to the quick. Even with the Federals calling out their soldiers to hunt him down for killing that carpetbagger judge, he could have stopped on his way west.

What would she have told him if he had? The chance he would have let her ride with him was slim, but he might have. They could have been together all these years.

“I . . .” Marianne stood a little straighter, then called out, “Sheriff, let him out. I'll take his place.”

Sheriff Whitehill ambled over, swinging the key ring on his trigger finger. He looked at her hard, never once glancing at Slocum.

“Now that's what I call a surprise. I thought he was more of a gentleman and would let you stay free, on his bond, so to speak.”

“I know you'd prefer me as your overnight guest,” Marianne said. She tried not to laugh when she saw the flicker of expression on his face. He
was
sweet on her.

“Into the cell closest to the front,” he said. “I ain't lettin' you both out of a cell at the same time.”

“Afraid I might overpower you, Sheriff?” she teased.

Again he reacted as if he had a letch for her. Seeing this made her wonder how she could turn it to her benefit. So far, he had been hard-nosed about helping Randolph. As she entered the cell, she brushed past him, touching just enough to let him know she was there.

“The only thing overpowerin' is your smell,” he said. “You're sore in need of a bath.”

“You're such a charmer, Harvey,” she said as he locked the door behind her. He acted gruff, but the flicker in his eyes and a small twitch of a smile told her using his first name had been the right thing to do.

“All right, Slocum. You can go for now. Same as before. You don't leave town.”

“Look at it as saving the county some money,” she said. “If you only have one prisoner, you only have to feed one of us.”

“The slop I get from the restaurant's gonna get tossed to the hogs otherwise. Don't cost the taxpayers nuthin'.”

“I thought the food was pretty decent,” she said. She looked past the sheriff at Slocum, who now stood free of his cell.

“Sometimes they get the order confused with real food,” Whitehill said. Now she knew for a fact he wanted her, just a bit. He paid for her meals rather than relying on whatever leftovers might come his way from the restaurant for prisoners. Maybe not Slocum's, but he gave her better victuals than something being fed to the pigs.

“I'm going, Sheriff,” Slocum said. “Let me get my gun.”