by Jake Logan
Slocum went rigid as he balanced above the woman. With his pants down, he was vulnerable. She went on about things he had no interest in any longer, because he had heard his horse whinny. His and Zoe’s amorous activities had awakened the horse, but it had not made any noise until now.
He rolled free, kicked and got his jeans pulled up, and hastily fastened them. Then he reached for his six-gun and got to his feet.
“What’s wrong?”
“Be quiet. Somebody’s out there.”
“Oh, silly, you’re having one of those odd moments where you think you know what’s going to happen. I forget what the French call it.”
Slocum didn’t care what the French called anything unless it told him what was going on. He turned slowly until he located the spot where someone moved about out in the darkness.
“It’s Calhoun, isn’t it?”
Slocum put his finger to his lips to silence her. She worked to button her blouse and got it crooked, cursed in a very unladylike manner, then started over.
“Stay over there, in the shadow of the tree,” he said, pointing to a spot dark with the night. He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. He moved away, making more noise than he would have liked, but he was still shaky from the lovemak ing.
After going a few yards into the undergrowth, Slocum stopped and got his nerves settled. The familiar calm that had served him so well in the past descended on him. During the war, he had been a sniper—one of the best. Sitting all day in the limbs of a tree waiting for the glint of sunlight off a Union officer’s braid took its toll on a man’s nerves. Slocum had learned to relax, wait for the shot, take it, and then leave quickly before the Federals homed in on him. More than one battle had been won because Slocum had killed the enemy commander. That experience stood him in good stead now.
He began moving more quietly through the brush and became one with the wind, floating along until he saw the silhouette of a man moving ahead. Slocum veered away to get some distance between him and the man, who seemed intent on working toward the campsite. If that was Sid Calhoun, he had others with him. Zoe had mentioned two others in the gang with Calhoun, but Slocum needed to know if she had calculated properly how many there were. All he needed to do to die with a bullet in the back was to forget about just one of the sneaking owlhoots riding with Calhoun.
Slocum found two horses left not far from where Zoe had tethered hers. Try as he might, Slocum couldn’t find any others.
“Two men,” he muttered. Something about the two horses bothered him, but he didn’t have time to examine them closely enough to satisfy his curiosity. He moved rapidly back toward his camp, the man he had seen skulking about ahead of him.
Slocum felt a pang of guilt because he had used Zoe as bait. She was hidden in the shadows, but not enough to hide from anyone intent on finding her. He moved faster when he heard the man nearing the camp cry out. The man had stumbled and hurt his leg.
“Drop your iron,” Slocum called.
His answer was a stream of curses and a bullet zinging through the air. Slocum ducked, although the shot had gone wide. He was momentarily dazzled by the muzzle flash, but he had a better idea where Calhoun was than the outlaw did about him. Slocum aimed and fired. His reward was a loud cry of pain.
“Drop your gun or I’ll ventilate you,” Slocum warned.
He threw himself facedown on the ground as four more wildly fired shots filled the air above him. Working forward like a snake, he watched for his chance. It came fast. For a brief instant, the man was outlined against the starlit sky. Slocum took aim and got off two quick shots.
He saw the man buckle and drop to his knees. In the dark, he couldn’t be sure he had even hit the man, but the way the shadowy arms reached around and clutched his belly strongly hinted that Slocum’s bullets had found their target.
“You son of a bitch,” came the pain-wracked words. A final shot sang into the night, but Slocum saw that the six-shooter was pointed toward the sky. An instant later, the man toppled backward and rolled down the hill, almost exactly where Zoe had fallen earlier. Slocum followed, but this time there wouldn’t be any delightful end to the tumble.
The man sprawled on the ground near the fire.
“Get away from him,” Slocum called. He worked to reload. Two horses, two men. Another was out in the night and might be drawing a bead on Zoe even as he called out his warning.
“John, it’s the woman’s brother, I think. He looks like you described him.”
“Harry Ibbotson?”
“Yes, him.”
Slocum slid down the hill and peered at the dead man. Zoe was right.
A thousand thoughts jumbled, and finally Slocum pieced everything together. Two horses meant Ibbotson had taken his sister’s horse to make better time while she took the stagecoach to Denver.
“Oh, John.”
Zoe clung to him again, but this time it was for solace rather than sex. That was fine with Slocum. He felt drained at the sudden gunfight that had ended in a man’s death. He disentangled from Zoe, knelt, and searched the dead man’s pockets.
He stopped looking when he found a gold key. It disappeared into his pocket to join the others he already had. Slocum stood and said, “I’d better bury him or the coyotes will gather before morning.”
Zoe said something he didn’t understand. Then he got to work burying the man he had been paid to rescue from kidnappers.
18
Molly Ibbotson opened an eye and looked sideways at the two men riding in the stagecoach with her. Both of them were either asleep—doubtful due to the rough road and sudden lurches they had endured for miles—or simply wanted to keep the dust kicked up by the wheels out of their eyes. She reached into her purse and took out a pint bottle. A quick move pulled the cork and brought the bottle to her lips. The rye whiskey burned like fire all the way down to her stomach, where it settled and spread warmth throughout her body. Within a few minutes, the aches and pains from her long travel faded into a dim memory.
She recorked the bottle and returned it to her purse. She didn’t care about the men thinking she was a drunk, but she didn’t want to have to share with them. Still, she considered taking another quick pull. But the view out the window through the dust cloud stopped her from wetting her whistle again. Denver was only a few minutes away.
Molly settled back and closed her eyes, letting the dust settle on her face like some strange facial powder. She knew she looked like her two traveling companions with a caked-brown complexion. A long, hot bath would go a long way toward restoring her vigor and sharpness.
She had misjudged the distance to town, but the stage did pull into the depot an hour later. The two men jumped up, rudely pushed past her, and dived out the door when the driver opened it. Before her foot touched the ground, both men had disappeared.
“Them fellas was sure in a hurry,” the driver said, scratching himself. “Didn’t think the ride was that bad. Seen some folks get sick from the rolling motion, but not you, eh, ma’am?”
“Not me,” Molly said primly. She looked around, thinking Harry would be here to meet her. “Where is the waiting room?”
“You mean the ticket office? Inside. Ain’t much of a place to wait. You’re better off findin’ a hotel. There’s one not a quarter mile down the street, if you’re thinkin’ on waitin’ fer another stage. We got a route over the mountains through Mosquito Pass. Trip takes a goodly week, but other than horseback and the railroad, you’re not gettin’ westward any other way.”
“I’m not looking forward to such transportation any time soon.”
“Well, you kin always count on us to git you where you want to go.”
“Where is the Turner Haulage Company office?”
“They don’t carry passengers, just freight. Or so I been told.”
“You aren’t familiar with the company?” Molly turned and stared at the driver in disbelief.
“We heard tell they was comin’ into town but I never heard when. Don’t affec
t us none. Like I said, they’re supposed to move freight. We transport passengers.”
“What do you know of the race?”
“Race? Well, heard tell there’s a mighty fine racetrack across the mountains, over in Leadville. High-stakes races, if that’s what you mean.”
“Colonel J. Patterson Turner’s Transcontinental Race,” she said, and saw not a flicker of recognition in the man’s rheumy eyes.
“You got me. Never heard of that race. Might be something they do down south around Pueblo. They do danged stupid things there. Something in the smoke from the smelters affects their brains maybe.”
Molly took a deep breath and saw that the man’s vision wasn’t so impaired that he didn’t notice the rise and fall of her breasts. She spun about and went inside the depot, still thinking she would find her brother waiting. The room was empty.
“Help you, miss?” The agent looked up from a counter where he sorted through letters destined for the post office.
“I’m looking for my brother.” Molly described Harry and finished with: “He might be a little the worse for travel.”
“Didn’t ride in on our stage then,” the agent said sagely. “Nope, ain’t seen anybody like that in the past few days. If you want, leave a place where you can be reached and I’ll see that he gets the note if he shows up.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure we can find one another when the time comes.” She interrogated the agent about the colonel’s race, and got the same response that she’d had from the driver. There was no hint of guile or trying to sweep all mention of a commercial rival under the rug. He genuinely had not heard of the race.
Molly stepped outside the depot and looked up and down the busy street. Denver was a bustling town where a man could get lost quickly. For all that, news of a race starting in St. Louis and ending somewhere on the West Coast ought to mean something. She began walking, taking in everything she could. After asking a dozen people, she found the Turner Haulage Company office a dozen blocks from Larimer Square.
No banners proclaimed the fabulous prize or the status of the race. Molly looked around, wondering if she had somehow beaten all the others to the office. No one took more than a passing interest in her, and those men were not looking at her as a rival but as a conquest. She went into the office.
“I’m a racer and need the next set of instructions,” she said without preamble. She was in no mood to bandy words.
“Racer? Oh, heard something about that. We’re still gettin’ set up.”
“The instructions,” she said. “You do have them? This is a stop along the race path?”
“All I’ve heard was that there’d be a telegram telling what to do. I don’t have anything else to give you, ’less you want to ship some freight.”
“What are your rates? What’s your schedule?”
The agent’s expression told Molly all she needed. The freight office was open but not for business. As had been the case in Clarkesville, the colonel hadn’t done much to set up his way station along the very routes he advertised with his race. She chewed her lower lip, worrying about reaching the finish line and not finding any prize.
“Send a telegram to St. Louis and ask,” she told him. “I’m the first?”
“You are, ma’am,” the agent said. He looked uneasy. “There’s a problem about that. I don’t have money enough to send a telegram.”
“Here,” Molly said, fishing out a few tattered greenbacks and handing them to the agent. “You will tell no one else what instructions you get back. Is that clear?”
From his reaction, he needed a drink and was considering spending the money on booze. Molly took out the bottle she had sipped from on the road to Denver and silently added it to the scrip. The lure of the half-filled whiskey bottle along with the money settled the matter. He snatched up the bottle and took the money.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, coming around the counter and leaving the office. Molly saw him take a pull from the bottle as he hurried to the telegraph office.
Molly went behind the counter and satisfied herself that the man wasn’t holding back. She found nothing about the race, and especially no stack of envelopes with different instructions. She rifled through documents on the man’s desk, and found the Turner Haulage Company routes drawn onto a map. Her guess had been right about Denver being the point where race instructions would be dispensed. No matter where the routes began, they funneled through Denver coming in from both directions. Along the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean were several terminus points. In the middle of the country, only Denver handled freight going to and from all the points.
Molly sat in the agent’s desk chair and thought hard about this. She saw a newspaper to one side and pulled it in front of her so she could spread it flat on the desk. No mention of the race, but plenty about railroads going bankrupt and the financial woes of New York and Boston bankers. Before she could read the details, the agent returned.
“Sent off the message,” he said. “It’ll be a while ’fore I can expect a reply ’bout your race.”
“Of course,” Molly said. “I understand how these things are. Not everyone is as diligent in their business dealings as you are.”
“Reckon so,” he said skeptically. “You callin’ me diligent?”
“That’s a good thing,” she assured him. “I saw your routes on the map. How soon will you begin shipping to Seattle and San Diego?”
“Don’t have a date on them, but San Francisco is slated to open any time now.”
“I’m sure you’ll be ready to go then,” she said. Molly started to leave, but the man called after her.
“I ought to get the message in a day or two, ma’am. Where can I get it to you?”
“I’ll be back. Remember, don’t tell anyone else,” she said.
Molly walked a block down the street, then stopped a man and asked where the train station was. He gave her detailed instructions and she set off on foot, getting more anxious with every step she took. It hardly mattered what the colonel sent in way of directions for the race. If there was only one way west on the train, Molly would take that and go to San Francisco. No matter what the colonel planned at the finish of the race, it had to be in that city since he hadn’t yet opened depots anywhere else.
She trooped up the steps to the railroad office and looked around, expecting to see her brother. It was foolish, but she kept expecting Harry to pop up unexpectedly.
“You waiting for someone, ma’am?”
“No,” she said tartly. “One ticket to San Francisco.”
“You got to wait a day, or you can go to Colorado Springs, take the narrow gauge over the hills, and then on to San Francisco.”
“Will that route get me to San Francisco sooner than waiting a day?” If she hung around Denver, Harry might show up.
“Sure will. Narrow-gauge works better in the mountains and you’d get to the coast a couple days before the standard-gauge train.”
“How much for the ticket to Colorado Springs and then on to San Francisco?”
The ticket clerk fussed a bit, came up with a number, and Molly paid, noting how little money she had left.
“You a bit hard up for cash?” the agent asked.
“My brother has our money.”
“That him you were looking around for?”
“He has obviously preceded me and is expecting me in San Francisco,” she said.
“Do tell. If you need some extra money, say a dollar, I know a way you can—”
Molly bit back her first response.
“I am one of Colonel Turner’s racers,” she said. “The colonel can be a very generous man—or a truly vindictive one. Or so the rumor goes. I doubt that he actually skinned a man alive and left him out in the sun to die.”
The agent paled. “Train’s coming now. You got luggage?”
“I travel light,” she said. Molly wished she had been able to carry more with her, but she had what mattered. Reaching into her purse, she fingered t
he gold keys she carried. Harry had another one. If he didn’t hurry, she would claim the gold for herself—provided one of her keys fit the strongbox with the gold. The way her luck had run lately, Harry would have the key needed to claim the prize, and he’d be stupid enough to get himself killed and lose the key before reaching wherever the colonel had stashed his prize.
The train wheezed up and slowed amid screeching wheels and hissing steam released in huge white clouds. She flinched when the whistle announced it was time to board. Molly hung back and watched the others board. She didn’t recognize any of them as being in the race. From their small talk, they were mostly merchants from Colorado Springs who had come to Denver to arrange supplies. One man in particular rambled on and on about a hotel and mineral spa he ran in Manitou Springs and how people from all over the world came to take the waters.
She settled down where she could watch the station platform, hoping Harry would arrive at the last instant.
“Howdy, ma’am, this seat taken?”
Before she could reply, the man boasting of his hotel dropped beside her, and moved close enough to press his thigh against hers.
“They make these bench seats harder all the time—and shorter. You going to the Springs?”
“Beyond,” she said.
“Then you got to come through my town.”
“Manitou Springs,” she said. His eyebrows rose and she added, “I overheard your tribulations getting decent supplies. Tell me about your resort.”
“It’s a mighty pricey place, but worth it,” he said before launching into a sales pitch designed to entice her by appealing to her vanity and desire to hobnob with high society. “I’m worrying a mite about how the financial panic back East is going to affect my guests,” he confided. “I get a fair number of the highest of high society from New England since my spa waters are excellent for curing arthritis and other joint ailments so common in that part of the country.” >
Molly’s mind drifted as the man enthusiastically described his resort in every excruciating detail. She might be inclined to return and sample some of the sybaritic delights he so proudly boasted of, but San Francisco offered a more elegant society.