Slocum's Silver Burden (9 page)

“You're taking it mighty well,” Slocum said, but he watched the other two.

“It's only money. I can get more, whenever I want.”

“It must be nice to be rich,” Slocum said.

This sparked caution. The sallow man realized he had said too much.

“I got a rich uncle, that's all. Come next month, yeah, next month, he'll give me more.”

Slocum picked up a silver bar and looked at it. From the description David Collingswood had given him, this was one of the bars stolen from the Central California Railroad.

“Least I can do, cleaning you out like that, is to buy you a drink.” Slocum wanted to loosen the robber's tongue. Otherwise, finding the remainder of the stolen silver could be a drawn-out quest.

“Had enough for the night. I'll want a chance to win back my silver some other time, gents.” The robber got to his feet and left before Slocum could even stand.

When he did get his shaky legs under him, a strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. He sat heavily and pulled free. He locked eyes with the gambler next to him.

“We were the big winners. Let us buy you a round.”

“He had the right idea. Time to grab some sleep and—”

“You refusin' to drink with us? We ain't good enough for you?”

“Who am I to turn down a free drink?” Slocum said, but he seethed at the delay. He hoped Tamara had enough sense to follow the train robber—losing the man now would make for more difficult tracking later. He had gotten lucky noticing the silver in the poker game. Even better luck would be finding where the robber had stashed his share of the silver.

“Hey, Lead Bottom, bring us a round,” the gambler who hadn't spoken so far bellowed. “The special bottle.”

Slocum tensed at this. Every drinking emporium along the Embarcadero had a “special” bottle laced with Mickey Finns. The chloral hydrate knocked out the fool swilling it to make him easy prey for the shanghaiers. They were a mile from the docks and farther from the ships gently wallowing at anchor in the Bay, but that didn't mean the knockout drops weren't available here, too, south of town where cowboys rather than sailors drank.

The barkeep came from behind the long plank propped up on two sawhorses. Slocum almost laughed. Lead Bottom's jeans hung slack in the backside.

“I got my butt shot off,” the barkeep said, seeing Slocum's reaction. “I still got a half pound of lead in me. Don't take kindly to anyone makin' light of my affliction.”

Slocum almost knocked back the drink set before him to stifle a comeback. There weren't many men who told the truth about such things. Lead Bottom might have sat on a hot stove and done the damage to himself as easily as getting in a colorful gunfight and being first the hero and then the victim.

“Drink up,” the nearer gambler said.

Slocum saw how both men sat, one hand under the table. His attention had strayed as he thought on the barkeep's predicament. That gave both of his adversaries the chance to slip out pistols. If he failed to drink, they would cut him in half before he could reach his own six-shooter.

“Bottoms up,” Slocum said, upending the glass and letting the burning fluid slip smoothly into his mouth.

Slocum swilled the liquor around in his mouth. His eyes went wide, and he fell facedown onto the poker table. Chips and money went skittering away as he slid off and fell onto the floor.

“Damnation, never seen anybody knocked out that fast,” Lead Bottom said.

“Keep yer damn hands off the silver,” growled the gambler who had been next to Slocum. “That's ours.”

“You owe me a cut. You ain't been payin' up like you should have been. I seen how you varmints steal from my best customers.”

The three men argued for a spell, then one gambler kicked Slocum in the ribs.

“Why'd you do that for?” The barkeep sounded genuinely perplexed. “He ain't goin' nowhere. That's 'bout the most powerfulest Mickey in the whole of Frisco.”

“Just checkin'. You got our winnin's, Joe Bob?”

“All tucked away,” said the other gambler.

“My cut,” said the bartender. “You owe me my cut fer tonight and all of last week. You cleaned out two of them railroad men what stopped in here. I remember it plain as day.”

“What do you want?”

“One of them silver bars ought to do it.”

They haggled a bit more, then Lead Bottom subsided.

“You're a crook,” a gambler said.

The barkeep laughed and said, “You should talk. Them's the slickest, fastest fingers I ever saw deal a second.”

“If you could see it, I'd be a mighty poor dealer.”

“Come on, Joe Bob. We want to see what the action's like over at the Lost Virtue.”

Slocum opened his eyes just enough to see two pairs of boots scooting across the floor and then vanish through the door. A cool blast of air hit him in the face, but he didn't need it to revive himself. He hadn't swallowed and, when he hit the floor, had spit out the doctored whiskey. What giddiness he felt came from all the drinking he had done earlier.

When Lead Bottom grunted, reached under his arms to heave him to his feet, the barkeep got the surprise of his life. Slocum surged upward, stared the startled man in the eye, then delivered a short punch that ended on the man's temple. The bartender's eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed to the spot where Slocum had lain only seconds before.

Slocum resisted the urge to deliver a kick to the man's ribs. His own ribs hurt, but it had been the gambler named Joe Bob who had assaulted what he thought was an unconscious man. With a deft grab, he took the silver bar from the bartender, then scrounged around and found what money had been missed by the departing gamblers. They were as efficient in their hunt for loose change as they had been in fleecing the train robber.

With the bar weighing down his coat pocket, Slocum stepped out into the dawn and looked around for Tamara. Not finding her meant nothing. If she had any sense, she followed the train robber. He walked along the dusty street and found himself heading south for no good reason. Slocum stopped and let the cold morning air clear his head of the last cobwebs draped over his brain.

He thought about possible places the robber might head. The robber had been cleaned out but wasn't worried. He had a mountain of silver stashed somewhere, but was it nearby? Slocum doubted that. Still, he must have a horse stabled nearby. Slocum fetched his, noting that Tamara's wasn't hitched up alongside anymore. He snapped the reins and got the mare ambling along. When a merchant stuck his head out to see if he had a customer so early in the morning, Slocum called out, “Where's the livery stable?”

“Down the street. Keep riding another quarter mile or so. It's the only one in town, but my boy's a good farrier. If you need a shoe put on, he can do it for half what that thief Farnum'd charge.”

“Much obliged.” Slocum picked up the pace and found the stables easily. The smithy already had his forge hot and hammered away at what looked to be a crowbar.

“You in the market for some good ironwork?” The smithy held up the red-glowing crowbar almost hammered into workable shape. “I can fix you up with anything you need after I finish this off for the railroad. Rush job.”

“My partner's ahead of me. He said he left his horse with a man named Farnum, about the best blacksmith in these parts. That you?”

“Is.”

Slocum saw by the man's expression he had greased the rails for his next question by establishing his bona fides.

“Has Jones already ridden on?”

“Jones? Your partner's named Jones?” Farnum scratched his nose, spat into the fire, then went back to forming the crowbar. “Only one who's rode on out today's named Drury.”

“Sorry, I was thinking of our other partner. Drury's about your height, real pale, thin to the point of being a skeleton.” Slocum remembered something more that his nose had detected back at Lead Bottom's to keep Farnum from thinking it odd a man didn't know his own partner's name. “He enjoys smoking a bit of opium now and then.”

“That's the one,” the smithy said, critically examining his work, then quenching it with a loud hiss. “Chasing the dragon's been the ruin of more 'n one man. Them damned Chinee bring in the opium and sell it so cheap a man's sore tempted to smoke instead of drinking booze.”

“How long ago did he head south?”

“You're not a half hour behind him. He rode off, a bit out of kilter.”

“How's that?”

“Staying in the saddle proved quite a chore. Stepped up onto his stallion just fine, but he got to leanin' to one side and had a devil of a time righting himself. I couldn't tell if it was from smokin' or drinkin'.”

Slocum snorted and said, “Both.”

“My thoughts.” Farnum stared up at him. “You look like a decent sort. Steer clear of him. When a man gets to spendin' time in them opium dens, he's a lost cause.”

“Thanks for the advice. Drury needs a bit of salvation in his life, that's all.”

“More than a bit, if you ask me.”

Slocum touched the brim of his hat and trotted out onto the single road leading south. Drury needed more of the stolen silver if he intended to smoke more opium. Hiding his share of the shipment in San Francisco was foolish. There was so much, he'd need a wagon to cart it in. Better to leave it south or even around the end of San Francisco Bay back in the direction where the robbery had occurred. If Drury rode to meet another of the robbers, so much the better.

Getting the hiding place from Drury would be easy enough but would take time. How much opium would he have to smoke before his tongue loosened? A second outlaw gave double the chance of finding the silver in a hurry. Slocum knew ways of making a man talk, but some took longer than others. And a few men kept their vow to die before revealing a secret. Drury had struck him as the kind to spill his guts right away, but not knowing him put Slocum at a disadvantage.

Keeping a steady pace brought him to the spot in the road where he saw two riders ahead. There had been a few travelers out early in the morning, but they all headed north to San Francisco on obvious business. Two had driven empty wagons but had womenfolk riding beside them in the driver's box. A half-dozen other men had the look of miners hunting for supplies. Slocum knew the golden gleam in their eyes brought by hope and greed. The only ones getting rich off their mining efforts would be the storekeepers selling them their supplies.

The two ahead rode slowly but with some determination. As they turned east when the town of Fremont poked up on the far side of the Bay, Slocum spurred his horse to a gallop. He knew where these two were now. Let them vanish into a town and his job turned more difficult. He had poured too much rotgut down his throat the night before to repeat it anytime soon. More than that, his luck had run good. Flopping up and down at his side, he touched the pocket containing the silver bar. These men could tell him what Jackson hadn't. He was going to be rich. He was going to keep it as payment for Collingswood insulting him, and then he would ride north to Oregon. Buying a spread on the ocean side of the Cascades where he could raise Appaloosas seemed a decent way to spend a few years of his life.

He tried to keep his mare galloping, but the animal was tuckered out and not anywhere near the mount that those Appaloosas he thought on were. The horse began to falter, forcing Slocum to slow and finally come to a complete halt. Better to catch up with the outlaws in Fremont than to have the mare die under him now.

Still, he fumed at being so close and letting the two slip through his fingers like this. Finally settling down, having confidence in his own tracking abilities—and buoyed by the weight of the silver bar in his pocket—he walked slowly into Fremont. Drury and his partner had beat him into town by better than twenty minutes. The sun had risen about halfway up in the brilliant blue sky. When his belly growled from lack of food and being abused with too much whiskey, Slocum considered what the two outlaws might do.

Drury was in no better shape. The newcomer might have wolfed down a big breakfast, but Slocum doubted it. They would head for a saloon serving lunch.

Or a restaurant. Slocum drew rein and stared through the plate glass window of a sizable restaurant. Drury and the other man sat just behind two women at the front table. He jockeyed his horse about to get a better view. It wouldn't do now to mistake his quarry.

He dismounted, intending to go into the restaurant and do what it took to take both of them prisoners. The pitiful whinnying warned him that his horse needed attention first. Slocum pursed his lips and considered his chances of finding both Drury and his partner still eating when he got back. From the way they both shoveled the food from their plates into their pie holes, he thought he had a fair amount of time.

Slocum led his horse to a livery a block off the main street, paid for feed and tending, then returned as the two outlaws finished what looked to be their second servings of peach cobbler.

He went in, took a chair at a small table where he could watch them from the corner of his eye. Drury might remember him as the drunk poker player who had taken his last two silver bars, but Slocum had to take the gamble if he wanted to find the silver they had hidden away.

Sipping at weak coffee did nothing to bolster his strength, but it went a ways to clearing his head. Tackling the two inside the restaurant was foolish when a dozen other customers were working on their food. Bullets flying, the confusion, possibly innocent men and women being shot—any of that attracted the attention of the local marshal. Slocum wanted to avoid that as much as possible. Explaining the situation would land him in jail faster than the men he set upon.

Drury looked pale and jumpy, eyes darting around constantly. Slocum knew the lack of opium wore on him. The only reason he had left San Francisco and the easy access to Chinatown where he could find any number of opium dens had to be lack of money. Even as he thought that, Slocum touched the bulge in his coat pocket and smiled.

The man with Drury was stockier and dressed like a wrangler. From the look of it, he wasn't much of a gunslinger. He wore his six-shooter up high on his hip in a soft leather holster. The man's immense hands about swallowed up the coffee cup as he drained it before setting it down with a loud click.

“We kin go, Drury. You're looked mighty peaked.”

“I'm all right, I tell you.” The man's twitching hands put that to the lie. “We got to go back to Frisco. Gimme what I want and—”

“No way. You got your share, I got mine. You want dope, you pay for it out of your own cut.”

Slocum shifted a little in the chair to bring his hand around to the butt of his Colt. The two had given him all the assurance he needed that they were the train robbers who had worked with Jackson. It had worried him that Drury had stolen the silver bars from the actual train robbers or had come by them honestly. But the skeletal man and his chunky partner were the robbers.

David Collingswood would give a small fortune to have these men in custody. Slocum was after a large fortune. They might not know where Jackson's share was stashed, but between them, they had half the silver.

His attention shifted to a pair of men in the doorway. Both carried rifles in the crooks of their arms. One nudged another and pointed at Drury and his partner.

Slocum swung back to the outlaws in time to see them going for their six-guns. Then all hell broke loose. Drury fired wildly. His partner proved cooler under fire, in spite of the manner in which he carried his six-shooter. Every shot he got off went directly toward the men in the door.

For their part, they wasted no time swinging their rifles around and firing as wildly as Drury. Shrieks from the customers were drowned out by the steady snap from the rifles. The plate glass window exploded into a thousand shards, and more than one saucer or cup crashed to the floor. From the kitchen the cook ran out, waving a meat cleaver. Slocum tried to shout a warning—too late.

Drury caught the motion from the corner of his eye and made his one accurate shot. The cook stopped, stood up straight, looked curiously at his chest where a red splotch spread, then dropped his cleaver and followed it to the floor. He kicked feebly. Slocum doubted he was dead, but from the twitching, it wouldn't be long.

“Give up, you sons of bitches! You're under arrest!”

The two in the door had ducked back outside and fired past the doorjamb. Drury's partner proved smarter than the men outside, who thought the thin wood walls protected them. He shot through the walls, drilling .45-caliber holes that let in slanting rays of daylight. One slug found its target. The rifleman yelped like a stuck pig and began cursing with increasing imagination. For his part, Slocum whipped out his Colt and tried to get the drop on the outlaws. He was driven down under the table as Drury flung a shot in his direction.

He looked out in time to see the pair of robbers vault over the cook and vanish into the kitchen.

“They's goin' 'round back!” someone yelled. “Head 'em off!”