Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) (23 page)

She slid from the saddle and fumbled at the latch on the barn door. So much noise made her close her eyes for a moment to focus. Did she want to get caught and hand over the responsibility for Randolph to someone else? Anyone else? Even Sheriff Whitehill would be a boon right now, even if he hardly believed her stories of not killing Carstairs and Frank.

The latch yielded and allowed her to slip inside. A few horses stirred. A mule kicked at its stall, then sank back into sleep when she didn't make any more commotion. On silent feet she went to the stack of canvas at the far end of the stalls where Slocum had dumped the tent. She picked up the canvas and ran her fingers over it, remembering the times she and Jack had spent under it, making love.

And the most recent time with John Slocum.

She cast it aside and fumbled in the dark until she found the thick tent pole. Holding it up allowed a vagrant beam of light coming through a window to show her the wood plug in the bottom of the pole. Her fingernails broke as she finally found purchase and slowly drew the plug out to reveal a hollowed interior. This was why Jack had been so diligent about carving the tent pole. He had done more than skin off the bark. The cavity whittled out was stuffed with paper. Hardly daring to believe it was this easy, she worked out the roll of paper and examined it.

Her lips moved as she read the names, saw the date, and finally located the description of Texas Jack Bedrich's silver strike. This deed wasn't legal because its original in the assay office had been destroyed, but with it an enterprising thief could register at the land office in Santa Fe as if Bedrich had never found the silver.

Hands shaking a mite, she tucked the deed into her dress pocket. For a moment she touched the cool metal of the derringer alongside it. One way or another she would free her son.

Marianne left the stables and mounted, resolutely riding for the edge of town and the abandoned stock tank.

“No question in my mind,” Sheriff Whitehill said, raising the beer mug to his lips. He licked off the foam before pouring some of the bitter fluid down his gullet. He made a face, then put the empty mug on the stained table. “I got witnesses comin' out the ass that Frank was stalkin' Texas Jack up in Santa Fe.”

“Whoever killed him did you a favor,” Slocum said. He leaned back, watching the fat barkeep pace back and forth like he was trapped in a cage. “Think of the expense of a trial, then a hanging.”

“Likely he'd have been sent to prison. Yuma's got room right now, or so I hear.” Whitehill motioned for another round. Slocum wasn't going to object since the sheriff seemed inclined to pay in return for someone listening to his bragging about good detective work.

“So who killed him?” Whitehill fell silent as the barkeep delivered the beers and then left, walking slow as if he hoped to overhear what the two men were talking about.

“I've got my suspicions. There are a passel of miners out at the Argent Mine who wouldn't take kindly to anyone killing Carstairs. For all his faults, his crew respected him.”

“As a miner, maybe, but he was a son of a bitch. Lost a dozen men in less than three months 'cuz he pushed them to take risks underground.” Whitehill took a deep breath, stared at the beer, then downed it in a long gulp. “That's why Smitty bamboozled those two urchins into settin' explosives. He figgered nobody'd notice if they got blowed up. He was right.”

“Almost right,” Slocum said. He left his beer on the table, watching the bubbles die a rapid death along the rim. “Marianne's not the kind to let her boy risk his skin like that, especially without telling her.”

Whitehill laughed and then said, “She's a fine mother. You gonna drink that, Slocum? Can't let a beer go to waste.”

Slocum pushed it across to the lawman, who began sipping at it. He made a face at the bitter taste, then upended the mug as he had done before. This kept the taste from gagging him.

“You find anybody in Santa Fe who knew where Bedrich's strike was?”

“He never got to the land office, but I seen a copy of an assay report that should have gone with a formal claim. That's one hell of a strike he found, if the ore's any indication.”

“So a man recording that claim is likely to be rich?”

“Filthy rich. I think Texas Jack wanted to get free of Frank to work the claim. That's why he gave up a moderately good mine, but Frank wised up and knew Texas Jack was up to something. Probably thought he was owed half.”

“But he tried to take it all,” Slocum said. He looked up and motioned.

“Who's that?” Whitehill said. “Son of a bitch, he ain't comin' in here! I—”

“Calm down, Sheriff. He won't be here but a minute.” Slocum motioned more decisively. Billy McCarty came in, looking fearfully at the sheriff.

“You're supposed to be watchin' after your friend,” Whitehill said.

“Aww, Randolph's all right. He's asleep over in the hotel lobby. I been doin' some, uh, work for Mr. Slocum here.”

“What'd you see, Billy?” Slocum took out two bits and spun the coin on the table. The whirling silver mesmerized the boy. As it slowed, he grabbed it faster than a striking snake. Slocum was impressed with the boy's reflexes and good eye.

“He rode on out o' town like the demons of hell was after him. I followed a ways, then came right on back. He went to the old stock tank.”

“The one where you and Randolph played?” Slocum asked.

“Played. Hell, Mr. Slocum, we—” Billy looked at Whitehill, more defiant than before. “We hung out there, that's for sure.”

“He's out there now?”

“What's this all about?” Whitehill demanded.

“Just cleaning up some unfinished business. No need to get your dander up, Sheriff.” Slocum left the Lonely Cuss, but Billy tugged on his sleeve and stopped him when they got outside. Slocum looked at him, then tensed at the expression rippling across the boy's face.

“He tossed somethin' into Miz Lomax's cell. She busted out a few minutes later, then lit out goin' in the same direction.”

“You did good not saying anything in front of the sheriff. Did Marianne hurt Dangerous Dan?”

“Locked him in his own cell,” Billy said, grinning wickedly. “Where all them lawmen belong, if you ask me.”

“You're sure Randolph is still in the hotel?”

“Was not five minutes 'fore I found you in the saloon.”

“You stay with Randolph and don't let him out of your sight. You've got that knife of yours? Use it if anybody tries to kidnap him again.”

“Yes,
sir!”
Billy flashed his knife and waved it about.

Slocum was glad he wasn't on the receiving end of that sharp-edged weapon. Billy's bloodthirstiness would keep Randolph safe, and woe to anyone trying to harm him.

•   •   •

Marianne Lomax slowed and finally drew rein on Tucker's stolen horse so she could look over the dark earthen bank of the old stock tank. She had no idea why it had been abandoned, but it presented a real threat for her now. The dark walls, broken in places, afforded her mysterious benefactor in escaping jail—and Randolph's kidnapper—any number of places to hide. A single shot would take her from the saddle and doom her son.

She stepped down and used the bulk of the horse as a shield. Not knowing where the kidnapper hid made this futile. For all she knew, she was exposed on the wrong side of the horse's body, but it made her feel a little better. Clutching the derringer hidden in her skirt pocket until her entire arm trembled, she took a step forward.

Aware of any slight noise, she advanced until she reached one breach in the earthen wall. She heard night birds swooping down on small animals trying to sip at the scum-covered water. Tiny death cries mocked her. The wind had died and in the distance a coyote howled mournfully. But she heard nothing of the man who had stolen away her son.

“I have it. Where's Randolph?” Marianne tried to speak up strongly, putting on a brave front. The reality betrayed her emotions. A shrill voice, trembling and unsure, only bolstered her adversary's courage.

For all she knew, he might get off on her fear. The crinkle of paper in her pocket as she pulled the derringer out a small amount so it wouldn't get caught on cloth told her what Frank's partner actually wanted. Torturing her the way he did might be fun, but his greed drove him to kill. The deed Bedrich had hidden away in the hollowed-out tent pole made all this worthwhile for the man.

“You brought it?”

She spun, looked around, then elevated her gaze to the top of a dirt wall. Starlight glinted off the muzzle of a rifle pointed down at her.

“Where's my son?”

“Safe enough. For the moment. He'll die if you don't have the deed and give it to me.”

She started to yank out the derringer and fire, but the shot for her was impossible. All the man exposed was an arm, a hand, and the rifle. She could only make him mad. He had her squarely in his sights and held the high ground. She had never understood the advantage before. Now it worked against her, having a sniper able to track her no matter how she ran or hid.

“That's not good enough,” she said. Marianne dropped the pistol back into her pocket and clutched the deed, pulling it out to flash whitely in the night as she waved it about. “You don't get this without me getting my son first.”

“I can kill you.”

“You don't know if this is the deed. It might be a map to where I hid it. A map that's no damned good to you unless I tell you the key.”

“You're bluffing.”

Marianne wanted to cry out that she wasn't. She knew the pitch of her voice would betray the lie. It took all her self-control to remain silent. Let the son of a bitch find his own answer.

“Don't think you are,” he said. “But you spin a good tale. I've heard that.”

Marianne tensed. She finally identified the voice.

“Gallifrey!” Marianne tried to hold her tongue, but the revelation that the owner of the Lonely Cuss was Frank's partner stunned her.

“Took you long enough to figger it out.”

“You greedy bastard!”

“Greedy? Yeah, maybe, but I ain't makin' a dime off the saloon. Got bills comin' out my ears and bill collectors threatenin' to break my head if I don't pay up.” Tom Gallifrey stood, silhouetted against the stars. He still held the rifle pointed down at her.

The shot would still be hard for her to make. And the bluff she ran with Gallifrey might mean her son's death. She hadn't heard a peep out of Randolph. Gallifrey might have him tied up somewhere else. If she killed Gallifrey, she might never find her son before he died of thirst and hunger.

“Put the deed under a rock and ride away. I'll set your boy free when I stake the claim.”

“But the map is—”

“You're lyin'. That's the deed. You made that up about this bein' a map to where you hid the deed, didn't you?”

“Yes,” she said, slumping.

She bent, put the deed under a rock so a tiny breeze wouldn't carry it off, then looked up. Fingers wrapped tensely around the derringer again. Her finger tapped nervously on the trigger.

“Where's Randolph?”

For a moment, Gallifrey vanished from sight. She heard rock and dirt sliding into the pond, then the saloon owner appeared in the notch in the pond wall. He kept the rifle leveled on her. She would have to distract him, then draw and fire.

When she found out where he had hidden her son.

“Your brat's in town. Go to the Lonely Cuss and ask my brother. He'll tell you.”

“Just like that?”

“Tell him the owl's roostin' tonight. That's the code that'll let him know you gave me the deed.”

Gallifrey dropped to his knees and snatched up the deed, holding it over his head to get the faint starlight onto the page. Marianne knew this was her only chance. She whipped out the derringer, held it in both hands as she aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The dull metallic click made her cry out in horror.

Gallifrey looked over and laughed harshly.

“You didn't think I'd give you a gun that'd fire so you could use it against me, did you?”

“How'd you know I wouldn't shoot the deputy?”

“Didn't much matter if you tried and nuthin' happened. I know them lawmen too good. Shove a gun under their noses and they'll beg you not to shoot.”

Marianne tried to fire the derringer again. Again all she got was the hammer falling on a punk cartridge.

“You get on back to town. But first . . .”

Gallifrey moved fast. He batted her hands holding the tiny pistol out of the way, stepped close, and kissed her hard. The move so took her by surprise she couldn't resist. He pushed her away.

“Maybe when I'm rich I kin pay you to come to my bed.”

She went crazy, clawing at Gallifrey's face. He shoved the rifle muzzle into her belly and held her at bay.

“Reckon that means you don't want to see any more o' me. That's fine. You won't. I'll stake the claim and get rich and let you and your guttersnipe starve.” He poked harder. Marianne took a step back, stumbled, and fell heavily.

This spooked her horse. It reared, clawed at the air, and then ran off.

Tom Gallifrey laughed and disappeared behind the earthen walls. Before Marianne could get to her feet, she heard his horse galloping away into the night. Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks.

“If you lied about Randolph, so help me, you won't be able to run far enough. I won't care if they hang me. You're going to die if you've hurt him!”

“There you are, you flea-bitten, cock-sucking son of a bitch!” Marianne Lomax launched herself from the door leading into the Lonely Cuss Saloon all the way to the bar and across it, her fingers grabbing for the rolls of fat on Justin Gallifrey's neck.

She crashed onto the bar and knocked glasses in all directions. The customers separated and stared. Marianne didn't explode like this, not that they'd seen.

“Wait, stop, you're chokin' me!”

“I mean to do more than that if you've hurt him. I'll rip your balls off and stuff them in your gaping eye sockets!”

Slocum looked at the sheriff, who shrugged. When Whitehill made no move to stop the one-sided fight, Slocum heaved to his feet, went to the bar, and grabbed Marianne around her trim waist. It took two heaves to pry her loose from Gallifrey.

“He's got Randolph. His brother kidnapped Randolph and this one's hiding him out somewhere. I swear by all that's holy, I'll
kill
you if you've harmed one hair on his head.”

“I don't know what you're talkin' 'bout,” Justin Gallifrey said, rubbing his raw and bleeding throat. Marianne's fingernails had raked along both sides of his fleshy neck. If Slocum hadn't pulled her away when he had, she would have ripped out the man's throat.

Slocum considered letting her go to watch it happen, but he kept a firm grip until she settled down. Then he had to grab for her again as she surged forward, going for Gallifrey's eyes.

“Settle down,” Slocum said. “Randolph is fine. Billy's watching over him.”

“Where? I want to see him. Where is he?”

“At the hotel, in the lobby, more 'n likely,” Whitehill said, sauntering up. “That's where me and Slocum left 'em hours back.”

“He wasn't kidnapped?” Marianne's eyes turned into cold pools of death. She started for Justin Gallifrey again, but the barkeep shied away, slamming into the back bar and knocking down a few bottles.

A couple patrons made comment on how that was such a waste of liquor, but nobody crossed to the other side to sop up any of the spilled whiskey. To have done so would put them between Marianne and Gallifrey. Better to try to lasso a Texas tornado.

“I don't know what the bitch's talkin' about! Honest. She's gone plumb crazy from havin' so many men that it's rotted her brain.”

Slocum swung Marianne behind him and stepped to the bar. His arms were longer, and he grabbed a handful of canvas apron. He pulled hard, slamming Gallifrey into the far side of the bar and drawing his face so it was within inches of his own.

“You apologize.”

“Else?”

“I could beat your face into raw beefsteak for such disrespect, but I'm more inclined to let her do with you what she wants. That's not going to be pretty.”

“I don't know what you're talkin' about. I saw that redheaded guy with the boy, like I told you days and days ago. I ain't see either of them, man or boy, since. What's my brother upped and done now?”

The beer hung heavy on Gallifrey's breath. Slocum relaxed his grip and let the barkeep back off a few inches, but he still held his apron. The man was telling the truth, as far as Slocum could tell. He twisted hard, slammed Gallifrey's head into the bar, then released him. The man let out a moan of pain and fell to the floor amid the broken glass and spilled booze.

“Tom's been real busy,” Whitehill said. “That one down there, Justin, he don't have the sense God gave a goose.”

“He doesn't know anything about this,” Slocum agreed.

“He lied? He
lied
about taking Randolph?” Marianne cried.

“Wouldn't be the first time a man's fibbed to a lady,” Whitehill said.

“Oh, no,” she said, finding a chair and sinking into it.

“Randolph is fine,” Slocum assured her.

“But Gallifrey has the deed to Jack's claim. I gave it to him thinking I was ransoming Randolph.”

“Ma? What's goin' on?”

Slocum saw the expression of despair vanish from Marianne's face as her son hobbled into the saloon, followed by Billy. The older boy grinned ear to ear.

“Randolph!” Marianne grabbed up her son and whirled him about, to his sharp cry of pain.

“Ma, stop. My leg's hurtin' somethin' fierce.”

“You're safe, you're safe. He never kidnapped you?”

“Frank? He's dead. Mr. Slocum got me away just fine. What are you goin' on about?”

“Mr. Slocum's kept you safe. You and Billy go on back to the hotel.”

“Do I have to? Miz Gruhlkey is on the warpath. She's orderin' us around like we was hired help. Well, Billy is, but she don't pay him 'til the end of the month and that's—”

“Back,” Marianne said firmly, gently pushing her son toward the door.

As soon as the two boys left, Marianne whirled about and pressed close to Slocum, looking up at him.

“You saved him this time, too. You kept him safe as you said you would. But Gallifrey has Jack's deed.” She sighed. Slocum liked the sight of her breasts rising and falling. Her lips thinned as she saw his attention. “Don't look so smug. Gallifrey
stole
the deed!”

“Swindled you is more like it, though I likely could make a case for him stealin' it,” the sheriff said.

“It's lost for all time,” she said. “Jack's legacy is gone since I have no idea where the claim is. Gallifrey can register it as his own, and there's no way I can dispute it.”

“You got some spare time now, Sheriff, or should I take Dangerous Dan with me?” Slocum asked.

“Nuthin' of pressin' interest here in Silver City. You got your gear?”

“Don't have a rifle, but I don't think I'll need one if you're along.”

“What are you talking about? John? Harvey?” Marianne looked from one to the other but her gaze settled on Slocum for the explanation.

“I know where Gallifrey is going. He has to put down his own markers before registering the claim.”

“How do you know?” Marianne stared at him. Slocum tried not to smile too much.

“I figured out where Bedrich had hidden the deed back at the campsite.” He glanced sidelong at Whitehill, wondering if the sheriff would ask about this. The lawman seemed oblivious to what Slocum and Marianne had been doing before finding the hollowed-out tent pole.

“You knew it was there, and you let me give it to Gallifrey?” Her mouth opened in surprise, then she clamped it shut. The set to her jaw told Slocum a storm was brewing.

“We got to ride, Slocum. Don't want that varmint to get too far ahead of us.”

Slocum touched Marianne on the arm, then rushed from the Lonely Cuss, trailing the lawman. That he had found the deed before her had to rankle, but Slocum would never have let her make the exchange for Randolph if he had known Gallifrey had conspired to get her free of the jailhouse. The saloon owner had been a mite more clever than Slocum had expected.

But it would all work out now. He vaulted onto horseback and trotted after the sheriff, ready to put this to an end.

•   •   •

“You sure this is the place, Slocum?”

“I'm sure,” Slocum said. “It took a spell for me to figure out a patch of worthless ground that hadn't been claimed already, yet was likely enough to fool Gallifrey.”

“He ain't a prospector. He knows squat about mining. From what Marianne said, he wants Texas Jack's claim so he can sell it and then hightail it.”

Slocum wondered at the sheriff's anger. Somehow, it seemed a worse crime to sell the stolen claim than it would have been to work it. If Whitehill thought a minute, he would realize Tom Gallifrey spent all his time avoiding hard work. The Lonely Cuss was a failure in a sea of opportunity because he had no idea how to run a business. His brother, Justin, was clueless and yet did a better job. Marianne could have turned a profit if she had been in charge.

His thoughts turned to her. She was something special in his life then and now. He admired the way she put her life on the line to save Randolph. It wouldn't have been necessary if she'd stayed in jail, all safe and sound, but he couldn't fault her for escaping. Since Whitehill never mentioned the jailbreak, the sheriff wasn't likely to charge her with a crime. Before they had left, Whitehill had let Tucker out of the cell. The embarrassed look on the deputy's face was punishment enough. When word got out in Silver City, Tucker would have a hard time living it down. But he would. He was a hard man and brooked no argument when it came to enforcing the law.

“You coulda picked a better spot to ambush him. He can ride up from any of three directions. No way of being sure we got him in a cross-fire.”

“Up on the rise,” Slocum said. “We position ourselves there and can get a decent view of all the approaches.”

“Not through the trees,” Whitehill said, snapping the reins to get his horse moving in the direction Slocum had indicated. He bitched about their post even as he settled down with his rifle, overlooking the likeliest direction Gallifrey would use to stake his claim.

They sat in silence for more than an hour. Slocum's patience had been honed during the war when he was a sniper, but the killer's absence began to wear on him. He doubted Tom Gallifrey had anything up his sleeve, but he'd been smarter than Slocum had expected several times before. It wasn't until he'd figured out Gallifrey was Frank's partner that everything fell into place. Gallifrey had been careful about not being seen at the cabin where Frank had held the boy hostage.

“It don't pay to think too much,” Whitehill said softly.

“He'll be here.”

“That's not what I meant,” the sheriff said. “After we nail this bastard, what are you gonna do?” The way the sheriff fixed him with a hard stare made Slocum uncomfortable.

He wasn't sure what he intended. Duty required him to get some justice for Marianne. Her time in Silver City had been rocky, and the people didn't cotton much to her. They might think better of her if she had the full wealth of a major silver strike in her pocket, but Slocum knew things never changed deep down. Surface politeness peeled away quick unless there was deep-down respect.

“Gallifrey might kill us both. That'll take care of worrying about the future.”

Whitehill snorted contemptuously.

“Ain't what I meant and you know it.”

“Need a saddle for the pony,” Slocum said. “A rifle would be good, too.”

“You can prance all around it, but what are your intentions toward—”

Slocum silenced the lawman with a quick gesture. He pointed into a stand of trees where a man appeared as if by magic.

“There's the varmint,” Whitehill said. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, finger tightening on the trigger. Slocum had no doubt the sheriff was going to cut down the claim jumper and murderer.

“I'll fetch him,” Slocum said. He slid his six-shooter back into its holster and made his way carefully down the side of the hill overlooking the claim.

He knew how easy it would be to leave Gallifrey's body for the carrion eaters, but he wanted more. He wanted to see the expression on the man's face when he learned how he had been snookered. It gave some payback for his crimes. Not enough, but maybe a noose around his neck would give the best satisfaction. Slocum intended to find out.

Moving like an Apache warrior, Slocum came within a dozen feet of Gallifrey without being detected. The man worked to pencil in descriptions of each cache he left to mark the boundaries of the claim. Now and again, he pulled out the deed he had taken from Marianne and matched the description. As he hummed to himself, he neglected to watch his back.

“You wonder why you don't find any of Bedrich's markers?”

Gallifrey whirled about, hand going for the six-gun tucked into his belt. He froze when he saw that Slocum had the drop on him.

“Slocum,” he said, more a snarl than mere recognition. “You figured out where the claim was, too.”

“Something like that,” Slocum said, going to the saloon owner and plucking the six-gun from his belt. He tossed it away.

“We don't have to fight over this. There's plenty for the both of us. I ain't spendin' my life squeezin' silver from the ground. I'll sell the claim. We can split it. You don't have the look of a miner either.”

“I've done some of that in my day,” Slocum said, beginning to enjoy watching Gallifrey squirm. The weasely man's eyes darted about like a trapped rat. He ought to suffer a bit more. “Truth is, I worked as a surveyor for damned near six months.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Gallifrey straightened as the truth hit him. “This ain't Bedrich's claim!”

“Sheriff Whitehill came back from Santa Fe with a stack of blank deeds. I spent some time filling in the description of this piece of land.”

“It's worthless?”

“Looks like it.”

“Then where's the real deed?”

“It was in the tent pole,” Slocum said. “I replaced it with the one Marianne gave you to ransom her son.”

“You have the real deed? You're gonna steal Texas Jack's claim for yerself!”

Gallifrey feinted toward the spot where Slocum had tossed his six-shooter, but Slocum saw a different scheme in the man's eyes. He half turned and fumbled in his coat pocket. By the time he pulled out a derringer, Slocum had squeezed off a shot that hit a thigh bone and knocked the man to the ground. Gallifrey continued to fumble his small pistol into line with Slocum's chest.

“You'll never make it,” Slocum said, taking aim. “It's not like shooting a man in the back, is it? Or killing a partner who doesn't expect you to double-cross him.”

“They had it comin'. They'd've done the same to me.”

Slocum considered where to put his slug as Gallifrey steadied his derringer with both hands. The report from behind Slocum settled the matter. Whitehill had put his rifle bullet through the top of Gallifrey's head.