Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216)

The Rest Is Silence . . .

Everyone in the saloon had fallen silent. Now they began whispering, eyes darting toward Slocum and then away if he tried to look directly at them. This would be talked about for days to come. Life was pretty dull in Grizzly Flats.

Beefsteak made a point of ignoring him, too, making Slocum even more curious. He touched his Colt Navy, then went to the swinging doors and looked out into the rain. White chunks of sleet mixed with the rain, preventing him from seeing as far as across the broad main street that meandered through the middle of town.

Slocum stepped out and knew instantly he was exposed to more than a late autumn storm. He heard boots scraping on the boardwalk to his right. Without hesitation, he half turned, hand flashing to the butt of his six-shooter. He drew, aimed, and fired just as the gunman cleared leather. Slocum's slug ripped through the man's belly, doubling him over. He staggered, went to one knee, and tried to raise his pistol. Slocum fired again.

The reports came as one. The man's round went wide of Slocum's head and was swallowed in the rain. Slocum's cut through the brim of the man's hat and plowed into his forehead.

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SLOCUM AND THE GRIZZLY FLATS KILLERS

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove edition / February 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-61921-6

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1

“You shouldn't have left camp,” Isaac Comstock said, looking around nervously. The wind whistled through Spring Canyon, which Mirabelle Comstock had followed to reach him. A hint of freezing rain touched the air with an icy threat, and the tallest peaks of the Sierras to the east were well dressed with late autumn snow.

Mount Pleasant to the west mocked him. Since he and the others had trooped the twenty-five miles from Placerville into these godforsaken mountains, the landmarks they sought had eluded them.

“You don't have to be so jumpy, Ike,” the tall, well-built woman said, tucking a strand of her soft chestnut hair back under her bonnet. “They don't know I came lookin' for you. Why do they care anyway? Aren't we all out here for the same goldanged reason?”

“'Spect so, Mira, 'spect so,” Comstock said, “but you know how Terrence gets.”

“His ass is a real tight vise is the way you said it last night.”

“Don't talk like that,” he said sharply. “That's not proper.”

“For a woman, you mean. Ike, darling, I do more 'n just fix food. I listen. I know you don't trust him. Why not?”

“How do you think he found out about the gold in the first place?”

“I wondered, but there are always maps floating about. Sacramento has so many old prospectors selling maps, you stumble over them on the way to market.”

“I wouldn't have put up our bottom dollar for anything like that.”

“That's just one reason I love you so,” she said. She put down the basket with its red-and-white-checked napkin covering the contents and stepped closer to throw her arms around his neck. “I'd walk through hell barefoot for you 'cuz you're 'bout the most sensible man I've ever known. There has to be something to Terrence's claims or you wouldn't have drug me along out here into nowhere.”

“I hope so.” He held her but craned around to see if anyone came along the canyon trail.

“What's eatin' you so?” She pushed back and saw her husband lick his lips nervously.

“I thought this might be a wild-goose chase until . . .”

She looked at him sharply. Her usually soft chocolate eyes took on a hardness that speared him where he stood.

“What do you mean?”

“I worried this wouldn't amount to anything, and we'd lose that seventeen dollars I gave over to Terrence.”

“You
worried
,” she said pointedly. “You're not worryin' any longer? What have you found?”

He wiped a grimy hand over his chapped lips, then looked around as if someone could overhear. As far as Mirabelle knew, there wasn't another living human within two miles—the distance back to camp where she had left two other women and that good-for-nothing Lucas Sennick. He did nothing to uphold his share of the work and hadn't spent ten minutes looking for the cache with the other men. Between Ike, Terrence, and David Garrison, they had covered many miles of the eastern California country in the past week. Garrison had even offered to drive into Grizzly Flats for supplies when Sennick had complained about a bad back and how the wagon hitting potholes and rocks in the road hurt him something fierce. If it hadn't been for Terrence and Ike laying down the law, Sennick would have dodged even that simple chore.

He had taken longer than he should have covering the few miles into town, and Mirabelle was sure she smelled liquor on the man's breath when he returned, showing he had dawdled just to get out of trooping through the hills. He'd want his share when they found the hidden gold, but he wouldn't do a damned thing to help them.

“What have you found?” Her breath came faster and her vision blurred a mite. They were going to be rich!

“Not the cache but proof there's something to the story.” Comstock pushed back his coat and fished around in his vest pocket. He drew something out and held it in his closed fist.

“Show me!”

“You have to pay me first,” he said, grinning broadly.

She grabbed him by his jug ears, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him soundly. The kiss would have gone on longer except that he opened his hand. The wan sunlight glinted off a pair of gold coins.

Mirabelle let out a whoop of glee.

“You found them!”

“No, no, wait. I told you. I didn't find the cache, just these two coins. But I reckon they was dropped. That means the hiding place is around here somewhere close.”

She involuntarily looked about. The terrain was mountainous and so rugged that climbing any of the peaks would shred the leather off a man's boot soles. But she thought hard for a moment before speaking.

“They wouldn't have gone too high into the hills. There likely wasn't time. They found a cave? A petered-out mine? This place has old mines everywhere.”

“The gold played out in the early fifties,” Comstock said. He looked toward Baltic Peak to the north and shivered. Mirabelle knew why. They had spent days there and had almost died from exposure. “But that don't mean there can't be gold stuffed in after the miners left.”

“Why're you so edgy, Ike? This is good news!” She looked at him. He hadn't shaved in a week and the stubble was turning into a beard. For the first time she noticed it was shot with gray strands. “You're worrying yourself into an early grave.”

“I . . . what if we don't tell the rest, Mira? What if we find the gold and then keep it all for ourselves?”

She stared at him with wide eyes. This wasn't the man she knew. Isaac Comstock was as honest as the day was long, though there might be some question about finding stolen gold and keeping it. But it had been years. Anyone with a claim to the gold was long gone, except Wells Fargo, and what did that company need with the gold? They'd already settled any claims. Likely, some vice president in a fancy pinstripe suit would keep the gold for himself and cheat his employer. The money sat better in their pocket than joining a ton more of gold in some San Francisco bank vault.

“That wouldn't be right.”

Comstock hung his shaggy head, then nodded. He didn't say a word.

“We ought to get back to camp and let the others know. That was the idea, wasn't it? If enough of us came out, we could find the gold before winter set in with a vengeance. There's a powerful lot of land to search, even if you know it's somewhere near.”

“If'n you only found the two coins, the train robbers might have dropped them as they rode through on their way to the real hidin' place.”

Comstock swiped at his mouth again and nodded once more. She had no idea what was going through her husband's head. She thought she knew him as well as any woman could know her man, but now she was beginning to wonder. The lure of riches crushed any morality in him. He was willing to cheat his partners, and she knew it wasn't just for her. Isaac Comstock wanted the gold for what it would buy for Isaac Comstock.

“We can eat, then go back,” she said. “I brought enough for both of us. A picnic.”

Comstock took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said, “Ain't right. Let's tell the others. It's gonna be close to sundown when we get back, and these ain't hills to be roamin' in after dark.”

“You see any bear spoor?”

“Some. They're eating anything they can before hibernation. That makes 'em mighty dangerous.”

“You want to leave the basket for them?” Mirabelle was happy to see this brought forth a smile, then a laugh.

“We can eat while we walk. It'd be a shame to waste whatever you fixed up all special for me on some grizzly bear.”

“I don't know,” she said, hanging on to his arm and putting her head on his shoulder. “I'm kinda fond of this grizzly bear.”

He favored her with a growl deep in his throat. They both laughed and started back for their camp at the mouth of Spring Canyon.

“I'm remembering landmarks so I can find this place again.”

Mirabelle looked around but saw nothing extraordinary.

“I found the coins just around the bend in this canyon. There was a strange trio of peaks. Finding the bend is going to be the problem since there are so many branching canyons.”

They trooped along. Mirabelle fished out some corn bread and handed a piece to Ike. She added a piece of greasy rabbit that Clay Terrence had bagged that morning. Sennick had been responsible for cooking it while the women worked to wash clothing, and he had let the meat char. It still tasted good after having next to nothing for a few days. Nobody wanted to send Sennick back into town to fetch more flour and bacon. Money was running low and he might decide to spend what little they had on whiskey.

“Wait, Ike. Isn't camp down this branch of the canyon?” She stooped and looked around. The sun had already dipped behind the tallest peak to the west, turning the landscape into a strange, alien terrain she didn't—quite—remember.

“It's easy to get lost in the maze. Camp's that way.”

Before she could ask if he was sure, an ear-piercing shriek echoed down the canyon from the direction Ike had indicated. They looked at each other. He touched the Smith & Wesson tucked into his waistband.

“What can that be?” She worried that some animal was being tortured. When another cry came, she worried that it wasn't an animal. It sounded too human.

And then the cries stopped. The silence was somehow worse than the cries of agony.

“You stay here,” he said, drawing the pistol from his belt.

“No, Ike, don't. You can't barge in. There's no telling what's happening.”

“I got to find out.”

Mirabelle tried to make sense of the new sounds coming from the direction of their campsite and couldn't. Ike obviously deciphered the noises. He blanched under the suntan and grime on his face.

“Ike!” She grabbed his arm and dug in her fingernails to hold him back. “You go bargin' in now knowin' what's happenin' and you'll end up in a world of misery.”

A gunshot decided the issue.

He jerked free, cocked his pistol, and shoved her away.

“Stay put. I mean it, Mira.” With that, he stalked off.

She watched him disappear into the gathering twilight. Her heart hammered fiercely. She clamped her eyes shut and hugged herself when she heard sounds—female sounds—from the camp. She couldn't tell if it was Irene or Cara. And it didn't matter. She knew one of the other women was being raped.

Her eyes came open like a window blind snapping up when another gunshot sounded. She looked around, found a rock at her feet with a sharp edge. Picking it up and swinging it around, she knew it made a good axe head. She didn't have time to lash it to a shaft. She'd have to clutch it in her hands. Already sweaty palms turned the piece of sharp-edged flint slippery. Or was it blood? She opened her hand and saw thin trickles of blood as black as night oozing from cuts where she had gripped the rock too hard.

Another gunshot.

She rushed after her husband. There wasn't anything else she could do. Standing by and hearing the horrible sounds of carnage tore her up inside. Her imagination might be worse than the actual, but she doubted it. She heard more sounds of cloth tearing and a woman begging for mercy. The words were muffled so much she couldn't recognize who was pleading. Somehow, she thought it was Cara. She liked her more than Irene and hoped she was still alive.

Mirabelle worried she would miss the camp and blunder into the middle of the massacre in the dark. Indians? They hadn't heard of any predations. The tribes in the area were mostly content to farm, not like the savages in New Mexico and Arizona Territories. But if not Indians, then who?

“Drop that gun!” She recognized Ike's voice and turned toward it. His sense of direction in the dark was better than hers. He was dozens of yards to her right.

“Here's another one!”

She didn't recognize that voice or the others joining in. Then any hope of identification disappeared in a flurry of gunshots. Long tongues of orange flame lanced though the dark. She clutched her crude war axe and made her way toward the fight.

“Dammit,” a man cried. “He winged me!”

“Keep your damn fool head down. We'll take care of him. He can't have much ammo.”

“They didn't have a hundred rounds to start,” piped up another.

Mirabelle saw the eye-dazzling streaks of gunfire and how they converged even farther to her right. She made out Ike's silhouette. He stood exposed, his six-shooter held at the end of a stiff arm. Swinging back and forth, he sought a decent target. He fired twice, and then the outlaws in the camp homed in on him. She cried out as he jerked about. Ike dropped his gun. When it hit the ground, it discharged.

But he didn't care. Isaac Comstock sank to his knees, clutching his chest.

Three dark forms moved closer. All three men fired at the same time, ending Comstock's life. He flopped onto the ground and didn't move. That didn't stop them from emptying their six-guns into him.

“We ought to have left one of them alive.”

“We couldn't get nuthin' out of the one we questioned. I mean, we asked him all nice and polite and he wouldn't tell us nuthin' but lies.”

“He surely did spin a different tale from the one he told in town,” said another hidden man. His laugh was cold and evil.

“What's that?”

The third man silenced the other two.

Mirabelle thought they had heard her outcry or the pounding of her heart as it tried to jump from her chest. She took a better grip on the hand axe, ready to kill them all for what they had done.

To her relief, they moved away, fanning out and fading into the dark.

She started to go to her husband. There might be a spark of life left in him she could nurture and build back into the life he had once enjoyed. Before she could get to the camp, more gunfire rang out. She dropped her hand axe and clapped bloody hands over her ears in a vain attempt to block out the sound. She failed.