by Jake Logan
He went to the stable and looked over the horses for sale. Of the half dozen, two were good, but not the match for the mare he had to leave behind, gimpy leg or not.
“Help you, mister?”
“I’m here to pick up the horses for Turner,” Slocum said.
“How’s that?”
“The freight company. Colonel Turner? I’m supposed to pick up two saddle horses and gear for the colonel’s niece.”
“We supply horses for the freight company,” he said, scratching his chin and confirming what Slocum had guessed, “but I don’t know about any saddle horses.”
Slocum scowled and finally said, “The colonel’s niece is a bit flighty. She might decide to get horses somewhere else if I don’t deliver them to her right away.” The relief on the stable owner’s face was quickly wiped away when Slocum continued. “And of course, the contract for the draft horses would go to wherever she said. The colonel dotes on her.”
“Those two suit you?” The stable owner pointed. Slocum steered him toward the pair he had picked out, and within twenty minutes led the two horses, with gear and some provisions in the saddlebags, into the hot Salt Lake City sun.
“Mr. Morrisey rejoined the race after Jubilee Junction,” Zoe said brightly. She gave Slocum a broad wink to show him she wasn’t falling for any cock-and-bull story. “I have a wonderful tale to send along to Mr. Zelnicoff.”
“Why not send it in Reno?” Slocum suggested. “We ought to get on the trail.”
“Please, reconsider, Mr. Morrisey. Ride with us.”
The man’s furtive look warned Slocum that Zoe had been maneuvered into making the request so it appeared as if it were her own idea.
“I suppose all of us key holders ought to stick together—for a while,” he said, chuckling. “Somewhere, it has to be every man—or woman—for himself—herself. The prize is far too great for any other sentiment.”
“Suits me,” Slocum said. He helped Zoe into the saddle. Standing close, he softly asked, “Did you tell him how many keys we have?”
“Why, John, I don’t know how many you have, but I did allow as to how you have several. I’ve seen you toying with two.”
Slocum mounted, got his bearings, and rode off, letting both Zoe and Morrisey catch up. He needed a few minutes without idle chatter to think through what was going on. Morrisey had been working a con game, possibly selling fake keys to the unsuspecting back in Jubilee Junction. Somehow, it had occurred to him how much money was at stake. He might have bilked some other racer out of his key, or taken it into his head that he was clever enough and quick enough to claim the prize for himself.
“Slocum, not that way,” Morrisey shouted. “The other fork in the road.”
Slocum drew rein and studied the signpost. He knew which way he ought to ride, and Morrisey was directing him straight north into the Wasatch Mountains rather than more westward. Telling the man they were parting company was Slocum’s most obvious move, but Morrisey must have at least one of the golden keys—and an explanation.
“Your instructions call for you to go that way?” Slocum asked.
“Yours don’t?”
“I got turned around,” Slocum said. Zoe started to protest, but fell quiet when Slocum looked sharply at her.
They rode for the better part of the afternoon, until Morrisey insisted on breaking for the day and pitching camp. Slocum and Zoe worked to start a campfire as Morrisey shuffled about, not doing much of anything.
“I’ll go see if I can bag something for supper,” he said, drawing his rifle from the saddle sheath. He hesitated when Slocum turned slightly so his gun hand rested on the butt of his Colt Navy. If Morrisey tried to cut him down, he would have to deal with lightning-fast reflexes.
Slocum saw the calculation going on in the man’s brain. Morrisey came to the right decision and turned to go hunting.
“Son of a bitch!” Morrisey cried.
“Freeze,” Slocum said. “Don’t move or we’re all dead.”
Coming from the tumble of rocks alongside the road were a half dozen Ute warriors, marked with war paint. Four had the three whites in their rifle sights, and the leader stood with a drawn bow, the arrow aimed directly at Slocum’s chest.
21
Molly Ibbotson stretched tired legs and walked stiffly from the train as soon as it screeched to a halt at the Salt Lake City depot. She stepped off and took a deep breath, happy to let the salty tang replace the burned smell of coal in her nostrils. Traveling by train was far easier than stagecoach or on horseback, but the drawbacks were evident.
She looked around and wondered where the Turner Haulage Company office might be in the city. She’d followed her instincts to this point, and now had to find definite directions. The dearth of real messages from Colonel Turner might have been due to added difficulty in finding the gold, but she was beginning to doubt it. The economic woes sweeping over the country plagued the freight companies as well. Even venerable Wells Fargo was cutting back on its service. Colonel Turner’s new venture had to compete not only with that company, but also with the sad fact that less cargo was being shipped anywhere due to business failures.
“Pardon me,” she said, reaching out and tugging at a porter’s sleeve. “I am looking for the Turner Company office. Can you tell me how to get there?”
The man frowned, pursed his lips, and stroked over a fairly clean-shaven chin. He shook his head, then turned and bellowed at the ticket agent.
“Jethro, you know anything about a Turner Company?”
“A freighter,” Molly added.
“They ship things.” The porter looked suspiciously at her. “You ain’t workin’ for the railroad, are you? They’re lookin’ to fire anyone not loyal one hundred percent.”
“I assure you, I do not work for the railroad,” she said earnestly. A bright smile eased the man’s suspicions. “I am part of the . . . race.”
“Race? What race might that be?”
She explained, and saw no comprehension on the porter’s face.
“You figger out where this Turner Company is yet, Jethro?” The porter indicated that Molly should wait. She shuffled her feet and looked around nervously. She had gotten the jump on the others in the race by a day or more, but her luck could not hold. How far behind was Sid Calhoun? She had no desire to match wits with him again because he was inclined to kill anyone in his way to solve his problems. Molly wasn’t above shooting him, given the chance, but she preferred staying ahead of him.
At the thought, she opened her purse and ran her fingers over the gold keys wrapped in a linen handkerchief. Her anger rose as she thought of her no-account brother. Harry had given her nothing but trouble all her life, and now he was off to who knows where with the key she had given him. If he had been lucky, he could have added to their store. With a dozen keys, she had a far better chance of opening the strongbox once she reached the finish line, but with the way her luck ran, the key that opened the box would be the one Harry held for her.
Molly worried that the train would pull out on its way to the coast before she found new instructions. The treasure had to be in San Francisco, but the colonel was wily enough to hide it anywhere along the coast. All he needed were a few reporters to cover the winner opening the box. It didn’t matter where that might be, but Molly found it difficult to believe a man like J. Patterson Turner would not place the strongbox in the middle of the Palace Hotel lobby or perhaps on a pedestal in the center of Portsmouth Square. He wanted maximum exposure for his new company, with crowds murmuring about his largesse and how the racers had overcome great odds, as his freight wagons would, to reach civilized depots.
“There’s a new place with that name. Turner Haulage Company, Jethro says. He keeps track of them in competition with the railroad,” the porter said. “Ain’t too far off, makin’ us think they might ship by our train and then load into wagons to reach the nearby towns.”
Molly got directions from the porter, then said, “I will be on the train
for the coast. When is it due to leave?”
“Best guess,” the porter said, fumbling out a pocket watch and peering at it, “is another hour. Might be less, though I doubt it. Got a powerful lot of repair work to do on the locomotive. Gettin’ over them mountains is a chore for such a small engine as this.” He turned and peered westward, as if he could see the Sierra Nevadas.
Molly hurried off, keeping her skirts lifted high enough to prevent the hem from dragging in the dirt. No matter where she went, the weather always worked against her. It rained too much in Jubilee Junction and not enough here. Mud, dust rising with every step, there was never anything in the middle for her. Her thoughts turned to damning Harry again, and before she finished a good round of cursing him, she found herself at the freight office.
She pushed in and saw the scrawny clerk working at the counter. He looked up, then down, and then back up again. She took a deep breath so her chest expanded a bit more than was comfortable. It captured the man’s attention.
“I’m a racer. I need the next set of instructions. Do you have to telegraph St. Louis or do you have them already?”
“Racer? Oh, yeah,” he said, reluctant to take his eyes off her feminine charms. “I heard about that. The boss back East sent these along a while ago.” He fumbled under the counter and pulled out a printed sheet, glanced at it, nodded solemnly, then handed it over. Impatiently, she snatched it from his hands.
A slow grin came to her perfect lips. She had figured out the course exactly. If she stayed on the train all the way to San Francisco, she would be ahead of all the rest. She tucked the paper into her purse, and once more made certain the keys rode safely within. If none of her keys opened the treasure chest and she was there first, she could make some sort of deal with those who came after her. One way or the other, she would cut herself into the golden treasure, even if she had to bushwhack the other contestants to get the $50,000.
Molly hurried back to the train station in time to see another train steaming up behind the train on which she had arrived. Her steps faltered when she saw it slow and finally stop. Two men jumped to the ground and ran forward. Her heart caught in her throat. She reached back into her purse, but did not draw her derringer. There were only two shots in it, and killing both Sid Calhoun and Skunk Swain with one bullet each wasn’t an easy chore.
Unless she worked behind them and shot them both in the back of the head. One shot from each barrel. Otherwise, she had to find a six-shooter and use that.
Molly cursed constantly as she went to the depot platform, where she overheard Calhoun questioning the porter about the location of the Turner Haulage Company office. She considered using both barrels on the porter if he revealed that she had already inquired. But the way Calhoun interrogated the porter ensured that the man would clam up and say nothing, just point. Molly pressed herself flat against the wall as both Calhoun and Swain hurried down the steps in the direction of the freight office. She considered again her chances of taking both men out, each with a single shot.
She gave up on such a fanciful notion and let them rush off. It wouldn’t be long before they returned. Whatever she did had to be done quickly.
“Porter,” she called, lifting her skirts as she hurried up the steps to the platform. “How long before my train leaves for the coast?”
“We ’bout got the piston fixed. Wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the engineer thought. Oiled it right up, he did.”
“When?” she demanded.
“Few minutes,” he said. He eyed her feminine charms, but her brusqueness caused her hypnotic spell over him to fade.
“Leave as quickly as possible,” she said, unable to keep the sharpness from her words.
“Ma’am, that ain’t up to me. The engineer and conductor, they’re the ones who decide when to pull out, not me.”
“I apologize. I am in such a hurry to reach San Francisco,” she said. She looked around and feigned a touch of fright. “There are dangerous men chasing me.”
“Men?”
Molly described Calhoun and Swain. When she was sure he had identified them as the men who had gotten off the second train, she rushed on with her breathless lies.
“My husband sent them to take me back. He beats me and I left him, but he is so rich and has hired gunmen to find me.”
“Well, they was askin’ ’bout the same place you was,” the porter allowed.
“Oh, no!” Molly hardly had to feign being distraught.
“You get on board, and I’ll do what I can. Might not be much, but there’s not time enough to fetch the marshal and let him deal with them scoundrels,” the porter said. Molly graced him with a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek. He blushed.
“You are a good man. Thank you!”
She swung on board, and considered where the best spot might be for her to sit. She heard the steam building as the fireman stoked the boiler and the engineer bellowed out orders to fill his tanks with water. If she stayed at the rear of the last passenger car, Calhoun and Swain might miss her. She would have a chance to remove them if they sat facing forward. But Molly saw no way that they could miss her, no matter where she sat in the passenger car.
Without hesitation, she opened the door into the mail car. The clerk toiled dragging heavy mailbags inside and barely slid the outer door closed when the train lurched and began moving from the station. She spun about and dropped to a stack of the heavy canvas bags and lay back, closed her eyes, and let the motion of the train soothe her. The time they had spent at the station was far less than the porter had thought, making it difficult if not impossible for Calhoun to return in time to board. Molly thought he would be destined to trail her all the way to San Francisco on another train.
She heaved herself to her feet, and cautiously went exploring back into the passenger cars. Molly got to the first car without finding either Calhoun or Swain. Sinking into a seat, she leaned back and heaved a sigh. Closing her eyes, she began imagining what she would do with the prize money.
Barely had she figured out how to spend the second thousand dollars than the train lurched—hard. She grabbed the seat in front of her and half stood.
“Derailment!” The conductor staggered back, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hang on tight! We’re goin’ off the tracks!”
Molly let out a shriek of pure fright as the train slewed sideways and dragged along for a few yards. Her car began to tip precariously, causing her to cry out in fright again. Then the car stopped and canted at a forty-five-degree angle.
“No need to worry, folks,” the conductor said. “This happens all the time. We’ll be fine.”
“What’ll happen?” Molly asked.
“There’s a train comin’ along behind us in an hour or two that’ll help us.”
“Help us,” Molly said weakly. The train would no doubt carry both Sid Calhoun and his henchman, and she was trapped here with no place to run.
22
“Shoot ’em!” Ned Morrisey shouted.
“Don’t!” Slocum’s warning fell on deaf ears. Morrisey was already lifting his rifle. He only got it halfway raised before a dozen arrows turned him into a pincushion. “Dammit,” Slocum said. He stepped forward and thrust out his chin belligerently toward the chief. “You are a stupid son of a bitch, you know that?”
“John,” Zoe said in a choked voice. “That Indian chief killed Morrisey and he’ll kill you.”
“Like hell he’ll kill me,” Slocum said, stopping so that the Indian leader’s rifle poked into his chest. “He wouldn’t do that, would you, Little Hand?”
“Not since you still owe me ten dollars,” the Ute said.
“You cheated,” Slocum said.
“John, what’s going on? They killed Morrisey and you’re—”
“Morrisey was an idiot and he’s a card cheat.”
Zoe stared open-mouthed as the Indian dropped the rifle and embraced Slocum. Slocum returned the grip and laughed.
“It’s good to see you again, Little Hand. I�
��d heard the Arapaho had killed you.”
“Them? Pah! They can never kill a Unitah Ute.”
“Zoe Murchison, meet Little Hand.”
“Maiquas,” Little Hand said in greeting. He went to embrace the woman, but she stepped away and looked askance at him.
“She’s a bit shy,” Slocum said. “And your reputation rode on ahead of you. She knows you’d cop a feel if you got too close.”
“Same old Slocum,” Little Hand said. “And you were the one who cheated at cards.”
“You were the one who came up with the five kings, not me,” Slocum said. He turned to Zoe and said, “Little Hand and I scouted together for close to six months for the army.”
“Most boring scout I ever rode with,” Little Hand said. “If it hadn’t been for Slocum and his crooked deck of cards, we would have deserted.”
“You were in the army together?” Zoe swallowed hard and looked at Slocum and then Little Hand in disbelief.
“Civilians,” Little Hand said. “Scouts. Not the same as being in the army.” The Ute stepped over Morrisey’s body without breaking stride and put his arm around Zoe’s shoulders, guiding her away. “Slocum usually doesn’t travel with ladies as lovely as you, Miss Zoe. There were always those rumors about him and the cross-eyed goat, but they were never proved.”
“Always the liar,” Slocum said, hurrying to join them. “Why are you out here all decked out in war paint?”
“Ouray doesn’t approve but who cares? He’s Southern Ute and would give the Shining Mountains to you white eyes for nothing more than a ride in a fancy carriage. My band decided to leave the reservation east of here, and the cavalry decided we shouldn’t.” Little Hand shrugged eloquently. “We’ll return and be good red men one day.”
“But not too soon?”
“Not so soon,” the Ute answered. “Why are you traveling with a trigger-happy gent like him?” Little Hand glanced over his shoulder in Morrisey’s direction. “He should have listened to you.”
“Wait a second,” Slocum said, spinning about and returning to search Morrisey’s pockets, hunting for gold keys. He was nonplussed when he didn’t find one. Morrisey had sold a key back at Jubilee Junction because he had a broken leg with a splint on it. Slocum began stripping off his pants, then looked at his leg.