by Jake Logan
“Yes, I want that,” Sarah Jane said. “You track down that interloper and get from him what you need. Don’t be afraid to shoot him either, if the need arises. If there even is someone else here. I feel so all alone—with you.” She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
“Now that’s real kind of you to give me permission to kill a man.” Slocum shoved his feet down hard against the front of the driver’s box and half stood, using his weight as well as his strength to halt the team.
Sarah Jane let out a tiny sound of disgust at having her headrest move so abruptly. She sat up and stared at the warehouse as if it had interrupted her doing something important. From the way she acted, Slocum doubted she believed him when he said someone else was roaming around the abandoned town.
The warehouse door had fallen off its hinges. Inside he heard small animals moving around, staying out of the fierce sun until the desert cooled off. There was no telling what else he might find inside.
“Stay in the back of the wagon,” he told Sarah Jane. Slocum hefted the shotgun, then jumped to the ground.
She protested but obeyed. He couldn’t figure her out. She was too many contradictions all rolled up into one lovely package for him to understand. For all that, Marlene Burlison proved a mystery, too, but he found himself worrying about her back at the train more than he did about Sarah Jane’s safety in what had been a ghost town but now was inhabited by at least one prospector.
It might be as easy as Sarah Jane said, though. After all, he had her permission to cut down whoever sought out a bit of shade in this fierce desert.
He stepped over the fallen door and pressed his back against the inside wall until his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. All the tools had been taken as well as most of the supplies. A few crates had been spilled onto the ground. Picking up the contents must have been harder than replacing whatever had been stored. He gingerly picked his way through the debris, using the barrel of his shotgun to push away discarded junk. When he found a small gallon-sized cask, he pounced on it.
Reading what had been written on the side proved difficult in the dim light, but he made out two letters: IL. He tapped the side of the cask with the shotgun butt and grinned when he realized the cask was full. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he bent, grabbed, and lifted the barrel. It sloshed about a little, but when he carried it to the doorway, he saw the missing letter was a faded O.
He swung the cask up onto his shoulder and went to the rear of the wagon. Sarah Jane had stretched out on the thin mattress and slept peacefully swaddled by the heat. He lowered the oil keg and secured it in the wagon, then considered waking her. They had found what they needed. Returning to the Yuma Bullet as soon as possible would get the train steaming along to San Antonio.
But he wondered about the prospector. Other than alkali dust, there wasn’t a whale of a lot to dig up in this area. Toward the southwest, Bisbee and Tombstone, was the place to hunt for silver and copper. He doubted this stretch of the Sonoran Desert yielded much in the way of coal or other minerals valuable to the railroad.
Slocum cursed under his breath as he touched the shotgun barrel. The few minutes it had been in the sun had heated it more than if he had been firing it steadily. He sucked on his burned finger, then realized this did little good when his mouth was dry. He took the time to swallow a dipper of water from the wagon’s supply before setting out to find the man sharing the nameless town with him and Sarah Jane.
The mule stood patiently in the same spot. The shade made the wait for its master easier, but the sharp, hot wind whipping up over the desert made the spot less agreeable than inside the building, out of the wind and sun.
Slocum chanced a look around the door into the hotel lobby. He stepped inside quickly, then stood stock-still to listen. The only sound he could hear was the whistling of the wind through cracks in the walls. Slocum continued his hunt through the empty hotel, thinking the prospector had come here to die. As many desert varmints as he saw, none of them were the scavengers that would be intent on a freshly dead body. From the look of the mule, the prospector hadn’t been here very long.
He stepped out the back door and looked along the line of dilapidated buildings. A vacant lot littered with empty bottles gave mute testimony to where the saloon had been. Pitch a tent, drop a board over a couple sawhorses, and the ginmill was open for business. The building just beyond had likely been one of the whorehouses. A town like this could support more than one saloon and certainly more than one house of ill repute. Railroad workers got thirsty and horny, with little else to keep them distracted from their backbreaking labor.
He took a couple steps toward the whorehouse when he heard the sound of a shovel digging into hard ground. Slocum stepped back into the hotel and peered around the doorframe in time to see a short man with a huge handlebar mustache come out of the next building. The man walked fast, as if he was late. But late for what? He almost ran past Slocum and fetched the mule. By the time he led the pack animal back, Slocum had slipped deeper into the shadows to avoid being seen.
The prospector had found something but what it might be posed a question that burned at Slocum’s curiosity bump as fiercely as the sun hammered down on his head. Matters got more complicated when the prospector led the mule away from the buildings. Slocum waited until he disappeared over a rise before following to spy.
He flopped onto his belly and peeked over the top of a sand dune to see the prospector kick down a whitewashed picket fence around a grave. The grizzled old man had gone to the town cemetery to desecrate it. He kicked and stomped, reached down, and pulled away crude grave markers and finally stopped when he reached an opened grave. Slocum froze when the prospector took a look around, to see if anyone watched his trespass.
Slocum almost laughed out loud. He wanted to stand and yell out that by the order of one Miss Sarah Jane Mulligan, the prospector was guilty of trespass and, as such, could be gunned down in the name of the S&P Railroad. Then Slocum stilled as he saw the prospector drop to his knees and begin hauling out leather bags that looked like those used by banks to transfer gold coins.
Three leather bags came from the grave to rest on the edge of the hole. Slocum had thought the prospector had found this grave already open, then realized from the look of the soil that he had opened it before going to the whorehouse to poke around there. He wanted a new hiding place ready before fetching these bags.
Slocum caught his breath when the prospector opened one bag and held up a gold coin, which flashed and gleamed in the sunlight. The man stuffed a handful of coins into a jacket pocket before lacing up the leather sack again. With a grunt loud enough for Slocum to hear it plainly, the prospector heaved the sack up and onto the back of the mule. The animal protested. Then it protested with an even louder braying when two more sacks joined the first.
Knowing where the man intended to go, Slocum backtracked and waited hidden inside the hotel. Less than five minutes passed before the slowly moving mule, led by its master, went directly to the side of the whorehouse. The wind whirled up tiny dust devils. Any tracks left by the mule’s hooves would be erased in minutes.
The prospector transferred the three sacks inside the building. Slocum caught the sound of more shoveling, and twenty minutes later the prospector came out, looked around, then led his mule away, going due east. Slocum remained hidden for some time, thinking about what he had just seen. The prospector had somehow discovered the gold hidden in the cemetery and had done what he could to make it appear that vandals had desecrated the graves and had stumbled on the contents. Whoever had first buried the gold wouldn’t believe that, but confusion had to be a valuable tool in the old prospector’s arsenal.
He might have seen the robbers bury it or could even be one of the gang intent on double-crossing the rest. Whatever the truth, Slocum wanted to see if all three sacks contained gold coins. With the sun sinking fast behind hi
m, he went to the whorehouse and poked his head around to be certain it was as deserted as he believed. It was as empty as a whore’s promise.
Walking carefully to avoid leaving boot prints in the drifted dust along the corridor opening into a dozen cribs, he hunted for any trace of the prospector. The sneak thief had covered his tracks well, but one crib caught Slocum’s eye. Initials had been carved into the door long enough back for the wood to dry out and splinter. A greasy smear across the initials was fresh, as if the prospector had run his finger over them while he remembered better days—or nights.
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.
16
“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 f
or? 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.