Slocum #422 (16 page)

Slipping into the small room without leaving a track proved difficult, and Slocum soon gave up the attempt. An old broom was lying on the floor, and he figured that the prospector had used it to sweep away his own tracks. Bolder now, Slocum looked around the room. Reaching out let him place his palms on either wall. The length was hardly six feet but a pallet had been spread to fill most of the floor space. He poked at it and then saw how a thin layer of dirt covered a plank. He ran his fingers around, found a knothole, and tugged.

The former occupant of this crib had dug a shallow hole to keep her money and precious belongings. A tawdry piece of costume jewelry, broken in half, rested in the crude vault. A gold chain had been dropped on top of it, but Slocum cared nothing about that. Three leather sacks filled most of the cavity.

A quick check assured him he had been right about the contents. There had to be a thousand dollars or more in gold and silver coins. Rubbing at the dirt on one bag revealed faded letters. A bank in Deming had lost a considerable amount of cash. Grunting with effort, he heaved the sacks from the hole, then carefully replaced the plank and swept dirt over it until even his sharp eye detected no difference between before he'd found the cache and now that was empty.

He tied the leather laces together and staggered a mite as he slung them over his shoulder and stood. Being this rich ought to have given his step all the energy necessary to lightly walk out, but he had been through too much in recent days for that. A week recovering would put him right.

Using the same care he had when he refitted the wooden lid, he swept away all traces that he had been there. In the narrow corridor, he ran his own finger over the carved initials.

“Who're RV and PC?” he asked in a low voice. He had no idea but this spot marked a veritable gold mine for him, even if the coins had been stolen.

Brushing his way clear of the whorehouse, he turned toward the warehouse and the wagon, where he had left Sarah Jane. She hadn't come for him, so he guessed she still slept. As he made his way, he looked for a different hiding spot.

The best he could do was a depression under a pile of rocks. He needed a shovel to dig, and that would have taken more time than he had since the earth was as hard as a brick. The rocks provided an easy marker, and he doubted anyone would blunder by and want to remove the rocks when there were hundreds all around. These were simply stacked. Otherwise, they were ordinary.

He nestled the leather sacks down and took his time placing the rocks over them. When he was sure no trace of the leather showed, he dumped handfuls of sand over the pile until it disappeared. When he'd finished, he sat back and wiped away what traces he had left, though the rising wind did a better job than he ever could.

The idea that he should have taken a few coins as the prospector had occurred to him, but something warned him against being too greedy. He had a pile of gold and silver waiting for him when he returned. That might be a week or a year, but it would be his for the taking then.

He got to the wagon and peered into the back as Sarah Jane stirred, stretched, and arched her back, nicely showing off her breasts. Like a cat, she rolled over and stretched again, this time putting on a show for him.

“It's dark. I hadn't meant to sleep so long.”

“It's the heat,” he said. “It makes you sleepy. You wouldn't have slept this long if you hadn't needed it.”

“I'm all rested,” she said in a seductive voice. She unfastened the top button of her blouse. “How about some exercise to get the blood racing?” As she worked on the next button, Slocum held up his hand to silence her.

“What is it?” She scrambled over to him on her knees and stuck her head out.

Distant angry cries caught on the wind. A gunshot came. Then a volley, as if a battle was being fought.

“It's time for us to get the hell out of here. This might be a ghost town but whoever's doing all the shooting's no ghost.”

“Am I in danger?”

“Not if we make tracks now.”

Slocum climbed into the driver's box. Sarah Jane joined him. Her hand shook in fear as he swung the team around and headed back along the railroad tracks toward the stranded Yuma Bullet. Being quit of the town suited him just fine. Somehow, not taking Sarah Jane up on her sexy offer suited him, too.

He had been in the hot sun too long, he decided.

“It was ever so exciting. Why, Miss Burlison, let me tell you all about my adventures.” Sarah Jane took Marlene by the arm and steered her to the Pullman car in what Slocum thought was a most unladylike bum's rush.

He stared at the two, wondering how they got on when no one else was around to overhear. His speculation was cut short when Mad Tom came up and grabbed his arm to spin him around.

“You danged fool! You shouldna took her out like that! Mr. Burlison would have your hide nailed to the barn door fer doin' that.”

“I got the oil. You want to open the keg and see if it's all right or do you want to stand here and complain about something that's over and done?”

“Yer a complete fool, Slocum. Crazy from the sun? You kin always tell the boss that when he calls you on it.”

Slocum saw the two girls in their Pullman, arguing. The windows, in spite of the heat, were closed, and he couldn't hear a word that was being said, but Marlene gestured wildly and turned red in the face. She spun and started to walk away but Sarah Jane grabbed her and the two of them started their argument all over again.

“Catfights ain't worth spyin' on. 'Specially not 'tween the two of them. They's like sisters in some sense I never did fathom. That the oil?” Mad Tom elbowed Slocum away from the wagon and grabbed the cask. With a single heave, he had it out of the wagon. “Danged if it ain't. Even the brand I use.”

Slocum had to laugh. The only oil likely to be stored was whatever S&P used in all their locomotives.

“Open it up. I didn't want to tap the keg for fear of ruining the oil inside.”

“Might be ruined from the heat,” Tom said. “But it ain't. Smells sweet and good, jist what I need to keep that bearing all shiny and spinning.” He heaved the cask up and wrapped his arms around it, carrying it as he would a small child.

Slocum followed and watched as Tom and his fireman poured the oil into their ­long-­spouted can and began liberally applying it to the front wheel bearings. Most of the cask was gone by the time Tom finished, stepped back, and put his hands on his hips in satisfaction.

“The ole Bullet'll roll like new now, thanks to you, Slocum.”

The entire drive back in the wagon had given Slocum new worries about the gold and silver he had hidden. The gunfire told him the ­coins—­
his
­loot—­wasn't as secure as he had hoped. With only occasional pilgrims passing by, the cache would go unnoticed. So much gunfire told him the gang was out hunting the prospector or maybe even a posse had come looking for the stolen cash. No matter how far he traveled, he couldn't get away from bank robbers.

The difference before was his innocence. Now he'd hidden money taken from a bank, making him an accomplice in the eyes of the law. For such a treasure trove, he would risk getting caught. He had been through so much up to this point that he felt he deserved it.

“We have to stop in that ghost town,” Slocum said.

“Whatever for? I'm highballin' it all the way to Deming.”

“As a favor to me. I can get another cask of the oil to be sure you don't run dry.”

“They call me Mad Tom but I ain't no man's fool. You got some reason for stoppin' there, don't you, Slocum? Don't make no never mind to me. Climb aboard. Once we build up a head of steam, we can be at that there town in an hour.”

Slocum looked at the Pullman car and wished he could ride back there. But whose company did he prefer? He realized it was Marlene's.

Grabbing a handrail, he pulled himself up into the cab and stood out of the way as the fireman began stoking the banked fire while Tom worked the valves and caused a constant hissing sound from the boilers.

“Up to pressure. Stoke, you lazy son of a bitch, stoke!”

With a rebel yell, Tom pulled back on the lever and the Yuma Bullet began to groan. More power caused the wheels to turn, and within a minute they were racing along the track that had taken Slocum hours to cover in the wagon. As good as his word, Tom began slowing when they approached the town. The screech of steel on steel caused the entire train to shudder and shake. Then they ground to a halt not a dozen yards from the warehouse.

“Come on over and look for the oil,” Slocum said. “I'll show you where I found it before.”

“No need,” Tom said. “I 'bout lived in that warehouse when they was buildin' this stretch of the 'road.” He clamped down the levers, released steam, and hopped to the ground. He cast a quick look at Slocum and said, “You go do what you gotta do and we'll meet back at the engine.”

Slocum wasted no time going to the rock cairn. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he was doing the right thing retrieving the gold and silver. Leaving it here was as safe as having it in the bank. Then he changed his mind when he heard loud shouts in the distance and more gunfire. He had no idea who sought the leather bags or how willing they would be to cut down anyone with the money.

He kicked away the rocks, hefted the three bags, and staggered along for a couple steps until he got his balance. Then he would have liked to turn tail and run when he heard hooves pounding behind him, coming from the north. He got back to the Yuma Bullet before Tom. The fireman was nowhere to be seen, giving Slocum the chance to find a spot in the coal tender to stash the money bags. As he came back into the cab, he saw who had been riding so hard.

Astride a horse with lathered flanks rode the prospector. He had traded his mule for a saddle horse and had enough ammo to begin dispensing it with wild abandon. A slug ricocheted off the engine's side and whistled away. Slocum reached for his ­six-­shooter, then remembered he had to get more cartridges. But he had the shotgun taken from the wagon. He grabbed it, lifted it to his shoulder, and fired one barrel.

The recoil knocked him back a half pace because he hadn't braced for it. Worse, he remembered he hadn't pocketed any more shells. He had one more chance to stop the prospector.

“You thievin', ­lily-­livered
thief!
That's mine what you took. And I know you took it 'cuz I spied on you.”

Slocum leveled the shotgun, took careful aim this time, and made the buckshot count. The prospector grunted and jerked to the side, still in the saddle. But he had dropped his ­six-­gun. He turned his horse and galloped away, letting Slocum climb down from the cab and retrieve the fallen pistol.

He was just in time because the outraged man wasn't running, he was regrouping. He pulled a Henry from a saddle sheath and started firing at Slocum. One or two of the pellets had caught him in the arm, throwing off his aim and making it difficult for him to lever in a new round and fire again. Slocum took a stance, aimed, and fired. The prospector jerked again as the slug hit him. But he was determined and trotted about, trying to get the rifle to bear.

“Git on back here, Slocum. We're leavin' without you if you don't climb aboard! Company policy, we don't shoot it out with no outlaws if we kin outrun 'em.”

The Yuma Bullet's steam whistle cut through the air and startled the prospector into missing with his next round. Rather than continue the gunfight, Slocum ran for all he was worth, jumped, and caught the handhold on the cab. He swung around, sat, and looked for another shot.

“Damnation, you got 'em comin' out o' their hill like ants!”

Slocum saw what the engineer meant. A ­half-­dozen men galloped through the town, firing as they came. The bullets
spanged!
off the locomotive's iron sides. And then the train gained speed and the horses fell behind, victims of the heat and exhaustion from such a fierce run to overtake the train. Slocum caught the glint of sunlight off at least one badge.

A posse.

He swung around and saw that the prospector had hightailed it due south to get away from the lawmen. The posse milled about until the one Slocum pegged as the marshal led them after the fleeing horseman.

“I do declare, it ain't never dull with you around, Slocum,” the engineer said. He wiped his face with an oily rag. “From the sound them wheels are makin', it was good advice stoppin' fer more oil. We're gonna need it.”

“Don't slow down,” Slocum said. He leaned out and took a gander at the tracks behind the train. The riders had disappeared in the dust and distance.

He pulled himself back into the cab and sat on a drop seat. This proved worse than standing. The vibration from the wheels shook him all over. On his feet, his knees took most of the punishment from the rocking, swaying engine. He tried not to look too obvious but could not keep his eyes off the spot where he had stashed the money. If the fireman or Tom discovered the bags, he could buy them off by sharing the loot. The engineer might be called Mad Tom, but he had never heard anyone call him Stupid Tom. Several hundred dollars in gold coins would be quite an enticing reward for keeping his mouth shut.

“I'll be glad to get on down to San Antonio,” Tom said. “I'm gettin' sick of drivin' Miss Burlison around.”

“She's a mighty ­fine-­looking woman,” Slocum said.

“If you like the type,” Tom replied. “She's not our kind, like me and you, Slocum. Her pa tried to raise her so she wasn't all snooty and stuck up, but you see how she turned out. Then again, might be you don't care, the way you and her have been runnin' off all the time.”

“I wouldn't call it running off,” Slocum said. “Fate's thrown us together. Ever since I fetched her and Sarah Jane from a”—he bit off the description of the maid spying on a couple screwing their brains ­out—“from a tight spot in San Diego.”

“Sarah Jane,” Tom said, his eyes going distant. “Now there's a fine woman, but you know that. You and her done spent so much time together, you savin' her life and all.”

“That's the start of a tall tale,” Slocum said. “I can't say I saved her from anything much.”

“Bullets were flyin' and men was huntin' you two down.”

“The posse,” Slocum said, wanting to look at the tracks behind them again. He realized how guilty this made him look, but Tom didn't know they had outrun a posse. For all he knew, the men shooting at them were robbers.

“What's that whistling noise?” Slocum stood and looked forward. “You sprung a leak in the boiler. There's a plume of steam coming from the side.”

“Damnation, you're right. We're losin' pressure. Ain't much so far, but we can't keep up this pace and hope to reach Deming in one piece. We're still ­five–­six hours away, and that's at top speed.”

“Better to limp along and keep moving than to blow a rivet,” Slocum said, thinking how determined the posse had to be. They had ridden the entire way from Deming, where the bank had been robbed. How long they had been scouring the desert for the ­robbers—­and the stolen ­loot—­was a question he needed to answer. The longer the posse had been out on the trail, the more determined they'd be to bring the robbers to justice.

With so much gold and silver coinage at stake, the reward had to be considerable.

“I reckon I ought to go pay my respects to Miss Burlison,” Slocum said. There wasn't any more to do here as the train chugged along.

“If that's what you call it now, go on. Jist don't get caught.” Mad Tom laughed and slapped Slocum on the back.

Slocum made his way along the tender, wondering if Tom or the fireman would find the gold. What they did then depended on how honest they were. If they had the morals of a railroad bull, splitting the gold with them or even giving it away would end the problem. Honest men would be harder to deal with since they would turn him in to the Deming marshal.

Slocum swung around and landed on the platform between cars. He considered knocking but there was little reason to do so. The sound of the wheels drowned out any such polite noise. He opened the door and went inside, immediately aware something was wrong.

Marlene sat facing away from him. She didn't move as he made his way toward her. Then he caught her reflection in a mirror mounted on the rear wall of the car. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slack. She wasn't sleeping; she was unconscious. As he came even with her, he saw movement out the rear door. Tending the boss's daughter should have taken priority over everything else, but she was in no immediate danger.

Sarah Jane was.

She struggled with the conductor, pushing him away, only to have him grab her and whirl her around to get a choke hold intended to subdue her. Slocum slammed the door open as hard as he could. Hanks either had to release Sarah Jane and hang on to the handrail or go tumbling to the ground. Even at the Yuma Bullet's leisurely twenty miles an hour, such an impact would do more than clack his teeth together.

Sarah Jane sat, gasping for breath and clutching her throat. Slocum saw Hanks reach under his left arm. The wind flapped his ­ill-­fitting coat open to reveal a shoulder rig and small pistol hidden there.

Instinct rather than thought drove Slocum's fist to the side of Hanks's head. The conductor jerked away, got his pistol out, but was facing in the wrong direction. Slocum grabbed him by the seat of his pants and the back of his coat and heaved as hard as he could. The man sailed through the air. From the way he landed headfirst, he wouldn't bedevil Sarah Jane again. Or anyone else. Slocum was sure he had killed the conductor.

“What was going on?” He helped her to her feet.

“I, he, he tried to kidnap me!”

Slocum looked back into the Pullman car, where Marlene Burlison slumped against the side of the car, still uncon­scious.

“He won't bother you again. And I doubt he intended to kidnap you when Miss Burlison would make for better ransom.”

“Why, yes, of course,” Sarah Jane said. Flustered, she pushed past him into the Pullman. She hesitated when she saw Marlene, then went to the girl's side. “Get some water for her, John. There's a pitcher up front.”