Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) (3 page)

BOOK: Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860)
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“That's not goin' to stop 'em,” Frank said.

“What's so all fired important about a block of ice that they'd steal it?” Slocum felt Frank tense at the question.

“I told you what Holst told me. Prices have gone through the roof. They ought to get more for that ice than if they robbed a train.”

Slocum doubted that, and the road agents had been veteran thieves. They worked well together and instinctively hid their faces, as if they had experience. Having both Frank and a gang of robbers show up at the same time to steal the ice made him mighty suspicious. What else had Holst slipped into the cargo? Knowing the ice magnate as he did, Slocum couldn't guess. Holst was a sharp businessman, but the Panic of '73 had left its scars even though more than a year had passed. Ice and coal were necessities, but Holst was hardly the only one able to furnish those commodities.

“Think Holst has some competition that wants to drive him out of business?” Slocum asked, thinking aloud and not expecting Frank to answer.

“Could be, yeah, could be. Good reason to send me out to be sure the shipment arrived.”

“Slow down,” Slocum said sharply. He pointed off the road—hardly more than twin ruts through this stretch of mountains—where the road agents had driven the wagon. “We want to take them by surprise. That's the only way to get the ice back.”

In a small meadow two men worked on the crate, trying to pry off a side of the crate holding the ice block. Slocum shifted to draw his pistol when Frank swung about and landed a heavy elbow to his chest. Lifted away from the horse by the blow, Slocum landed hard, then scrambled to keep the horse from kicking him with his rear hooves.

Frank pulled out his six-shooter and charged. He got off two shots before the road agents noticed they weren't alone. One dropped to his knee and pulled up a rifle he'd laid in the wagon bed. The other went for his six-gun with a well-oiled speed and ease that convinced Slocum they were true desperadoes.

In his headlong attack Frank had neglected to find the third outlaw. Slocum spotted the man on the ground behind the wagon, rifle in his grip. He had snugged the rifle to his shoulder and calmly took aim. Opening fire on the outlaw, Slocum shouted and ran forward. He fanned off all six rounds. None came close to the rifleman but did disturb his aim.

The single round the road agent fired missed Frank but struck his horse squarely in the chest. The horse never stopped galloping as it put its head down and somersaulted, sending its rider flying through the air to land with a dull thud. Again Frank had the wind knocked from him. This time, his horse lay a few yards away, dead.

Slocum was exposed and didn't have time to reload. He knew he was a dead man if he tried to run. The trio of owlhoots could take their time chasing him down. Since death appeared his bounty no matter what he did, he kept running forward, screaming at the top of his lungs.

The frontal assault unnerved the outlaws. The one on the ground began firing as fast as he could lever in a new round. The other robber with the rifle in the wagon took up firing, too. The air filled with lead all around Slocum. He kept running until his toe caught the edge of a marmot hole. Stumbling, he lurched forward. Lead tore at his sleeves and his hat, sending it flying. He crashed to the ground with more bullets kicking up dirt all around.

And then there was only silence. He lay on his belly, expecting one of the road agents to finish him off with an easy shot. Instead, they began arguing. He tried to follow the disputation but a roaring in his ears made his usually sensitive hearing a joke. They had to think they had killed him, but his curiosity got the better of him. He turned his head slightly toward the wagon to see what they were up to.

Two had mounted and one held the reins of the third road agent's horse. The man in the driver's box got the mules pulling again. Chains clanked and leather harness creaked. The lead mule brayed in protest, but the rig began pulling away. Slocum wanted to leap to his feet and chase after them but common sense held him where he was until the wagon and the men who had stolen it disappeared at the far side of the mountain meadow.

He sat up, every bone in his body aching from the fight. Before he stood, he reloaded his six-shooter. And then he went to see to his unwanted comrade in arms.

As Slocum nudged him with his boot toe, Frank rolled over, shoved the gun up so Slocum saw only the huge muzzle, then pulled the trigger.

3

“It had to be that son of a bitch Carstairs,” Marianne said, her lips pulled back into a razor slash of anger. She clenched her hands until her broken fingernails cut into her palms. Warm blood dripped to the thirsty ground.

She had fought the fire as long as she could before exhaustion settled in, and she'd collapsed near the well. Randolph had found her soon after, but she hadn't allowed him to fuss over her. Keeping him safe was the only thought in her head when she'd sent him to fetch the sheriff. Grant County covered a huge part of southwestern New Mexico, but Harvey Whitehill made Silver City his home. More than likely, he'd be at home and able to help.

Marianne had been right. The sheriff returned with Randolph in hardly more than a half hour. From the way he worked to keep his shirt tucked into his trousers and how his gun belt wasn't fastened properly, she knew her son had awakened the lawman from a sound sleep. Whitehill still rubbed at his eyes and grumbled.

In the midst of the burned-out house, Marianne poked through embers to find what she could salvage. There was precious little.

“You knock over a lamp?” Whitehill asked. “No point gettin' the volunteer firemen out. The damage is all done.”

“You didn't hear me, Sheriff,” she said, not even trying to hold back her anger. “Carstairs filled a whiskey bottle with kerosene, stuck a rag in the neck, lit it, and heaved it through my window.” She rubbed at the scorch marks on her clothes where she had been caught in the initial explosion.

Bits of glass tinkled to the ground as she dislodged them from her skirts. All she could think was that no amount of washing or mending would ever make this blouse or skirt right again. That was something else to chalk up against Carstairs. This had been her favorite outfit.

“I was talkin' to your boy. Randolph here didn't see it. You actually witness Carstairs throw the bomb?”

She considered lying and saying that she had seen the despicable snake do the deed, but she couldn't. Marianne shook her head. Ash and ember cascaded to join their cousins on the house floor.

“Clem reported to me what happened when he was, uh, courtin' you,” the sheriff said carefully. “Can't do squat about that either. Carstairs might have roughed Clem up, but he's not about to press charges.”

“I don't blame him, but I'll bring charges. He attacked me. Clem might fear for his life from Carstairs and his cronies, but I want to see him punished. Sheriff, I lost
everything
.”

“Looks that way,” Whitehill said, nodding as he stroked his mustache in thought. “You might reconsider, Marianne. Not even Texas Jack Bedrich can protect you from him.”

“They hardly know each other,” she said firmly. “Jack and Carstairs weren't friends, but there wasn't bad blood between them either.”

“When you and Texas Jack started cozying up to each other,” Whitehill said. “You got to know how Carstairs feels about you. He never made a secret of that.”

“I am not chattel. I made my decision, and it's with Texas Jack!”

“Ain't seen hide nor hair of him for weeks. Where'd he get off to?”

“He had business in Santa Fe. Maybe Las Vegas, too. He was kind of vague where he was going.”

“Surely would have been better for everyone if you'd married him when he asked.”

“That's my business, Sheriff Whitehill.” She looked past the lawman to her son, sifting through the soot and ashes where his tiny room had been. Any belongings that survived this fire were on the boy's back or in his pocket. Marianne had the irrational urge to demand that Randolph give her the knife he had flashed.

She would use it to finish the chore of giving Carstairs a second mouth to grin from. That seemed fitting.

Whitehill looked over his shoulder toward Randolph, then back. She read it on his face. He knew why she'd been so reluctant to marry Texas Jack Bedrich when he had asked her. The miner hadn't been too keen about having an immediate family, preferring to start his own brood with her. She had been through too much raising Randolph to split her love between him and a husband. If her husband didn't accept them both as a package, she had to balk like an old jenny mule.

But Bedrich was handsome and likely rich, though he had never come out and said as much. The change in his demeanor had been obvious. Before he'd asked her to marry him, he had been anxious. Then ebullience followed, along with the proposal. She knew Jack well enough to think that he wanted her to marry him for what he had to offer as a man, not as a rich man. She simply wished he had seen how she needed a husband
and
a father for her son.

They were both wary about any kind of relationship but for different reasons. If Jack rode up right now, she'd yell “Yes!” to the star-filled black night sky and mean it. If the sheriff couldn't take care of Carstairs, Texas Jack Bedrich could and would.

“You got any idea when he'll be back?”

“Soon, I hope,” she said so earnestly that Randolph looked up. He hadn't taken to Jack.

“I want this matter settled before he rides into town again. I don't need the streets runnin' with blood, either his or Carstairs's or Carstairs's henchmen.”

“Then you clap Carstairs into jail.”

“I'll talk to him, but we both know he'll deny everything. His boys'll back him up, the lyin' sacks o'—” Whitehill cut off his denunciation when Randolph came over, holding the charred pages of a book in his hands.

“This is all that's left, Ma,” he said. She took the diary from him. Ever since leaving Georgia, she had kept a journal. Like all her possessions, the memories it contained had gone up in flames.

“Thank you, Randolph.” She clutched the book to her chest. Brittle pages broke and fluttered to the ground.

“I can help gather your belongings,” Whitehill said, looking around. “Or is that all you, uh, need.”

She nodded, shock wearing off and a desolation entering her soul unlike anything she had experienced in years.

“I'll make certain sure Miz Gruhlkey finds a room for you at the hotel. Damned shame losing a wood building like this when most of Silver City is still livin' in tents. Too damn many prospectors comin' to town every week to keep up with them.”

They started walking the mile into town, Marianne not feeling like talking much. Randolph was sullen, but Harvey Whitehill proved a real chatterbox. She wondered if he intended it to keep her mind off her problems. Or maybe to divert her from the idea that kept popping into her head of taking care of Carstairs once and for all. She didn't need Jack's help. She could drive her son's knife through Carstairs's black heart and no one need be the wiser.

“You won't mind stayin' at the hotel, will you, boy?”

“Naw,” Randolph said.

“That's because his best friend lives there, too,” Marianne said with more venom in her words than she intended.

“Billy's an all right guy!”

“He—”

“Listen to your son on this one, Marianne,” the sheriff said. “William has lived through some hard times this past year, his ma dyin' of consumption and not havin' a pa anywhere to be seen. Gettin' the job sweepin' up and doin' odd jobs for Miz Gruhlkey is exactly what he needed.”

“He's a bad influence,” she said.

“Is not! Billy knows 'bout everything,” Randolph said. “He—”

“Enough. I won't argue with you. It's not good that you two will be under one roof.”

“A boy Randolph's age needs friends. He can do a lot worse than William. Now, that Dunleavy boy's a caution. I swear he'll be hanged in another year if he doesn't straighten up. Worst part of it, I'm goin' be the one who has to arrest him. Caught him stealin' twice already and what he tried to do to the Wilson girl, well.” Whitehill looked at the back of Randolph's head as he ran ahead. “You don't want to know.”

“I probably do already, Sheriff.”

“Marianne, it ain't my place to say this, but I will anyway. Especially considerin' what happened tonight.”

“I do what I have to,” she said. “Making ends meet, even in a boomtown like this, is difficult.”

“Men'll be men, but you can find other ways to take their money without, well, without—”

“Without fucking them?” she said harshly. “Don't think it doesn't pain me. Randolph knows what I have to do. If the other boys in school torment him about it, he's never said.” She let out a deep sigh. “That's one thing I'll say for Billy. He's always polite, and I could never see him calling me a whore around town.”

“There're other jobs. Might not pay as good, but I'll see what I can do.”

“There's no need for you to put yourself out, Sheriff. Just do your duty, and put Carstairs behind bars.”

“I'll try to do that, but he has powerful friends. It'd be a help if Texas Jack got back soon.”

“I can handle my own problems, thank you,” she said sharply. Marianne immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry. That was impolite. I know you're only trying to help.” She wondered if it was because she was a pretty woman or because of what Jack could do for him. Texas Jack Bedrich might not be the heir apparent to Captain Bullard and his fabulous find in Chloride Flats, but he carried a considerable amount of influence.

Marianne trudged along the quiet streets laid out by Bullard more than four years earlier, just before he was killed by Apaches. The town had grown since then, but the men living here hadn't changed. There were only more of them.

“Your son's already passed along word of the fire,” Whitehill said, pointing to the hotel's front porch. Randolph and Billy stood off to one side, heads together, whispering their mutual confidences.

Marianne saw how much alike the two were, at least in physical size. Billy was two years older but almost frail. When he wasn't looking downtrodden, he was defiant. Of late, defiant was all Randolph showed the world—and her. It was his age, of course, but also had a great deal to do with Jack. Randolph didn't want a stepfather, probably because of the tales Billy had told him about his. Being abandoned had to affect a boy. Marianne wanted to be sure Jack wasn't that kind before she accepted his proposal. She could work out trouble with Randolph afterward, with Jack's help.

“There's Miz Gruhlkey. Billy's rousted 'bout everyone in the hotel from the look of it.”

Marianne canted her head back and saw lights in most windows.

“Burned out, were you?” Mrs. Gruhlkey said, sniffing in derision. “Bound to happen, I suppose, the way you carry on.” The woman pulled her nightgown closer to her frail body and took a step toward Marianne. “You and your boy can stay here. The sheriff vouches for you. So does Billy. But you won't ply your Cyprian ways under my roof. I run a respectable hotel.”

“Respectable? Is that what you call it now, Ruth?” Sheriff Whitehill chuckled. “I seem to remember that a still blew up in your kitchen last month.”

“I only wanted to prepare medicine. Dr. Fuller charges an arm and a leg for his potions.”

“Doc gets it from the Last Oasis Saloon, straight out of Ben's back room. That's trade whiskey you call a potion.”

“It helps my rheumatism, and I feel my joints getting all sticky standing out here in the nighttime cold. You,” she said, her bony finger stabbing at Whitehill, “are responsible for her behavior while under my roof.”

With that, Mrs. Gruhlkey swept back into the hotel, slamming the door behind her.

“That puts me in my place,” Marianne said, having to smile.

“But you won't turn tricks? Not if I get you a job?”

“Don't know what I'm able to do,” Marianne said truthfully. “I took in wash, but most of the miners are so poor they don't have anything more than the clothes on their back. Peeling it off to wash, well . . .” She shrugged. Whitehill knew what she meant. This was how she had started doing more than laundry for the miners. If they were naked anyway, why not when they paid extra?

“I'll let you know in the morning. If I don't get some sleep, I'm gonna fall over right here in the street. Too many folks would find that downright risible.” Whitehill touched the brim of his hat and said, “Night, Marianne.”

She watched the sheriff until he disappeared around the corner at Third Street. It was time to find a bed and sleep in it. More likely, she would cry herself to sleep. Marianne called for her son, but he and Billy had vanished.

With every footstep seeming as if she were mounting the gallows, she went up to the hotel's front door and inside. It had been a long night. In spite of her exhaustion, she doubted she'd get a wink of sleep.

She was right.

BOOK: Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860)
7.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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