by Jake Logan
“They’re kidnapping him? But he’s not putting up a fight.”
“Drugged. One of them probably offered Turner a shot of whiskey as a final memory of San Francisco. It’ll be that.” Slocum smiled as he watched the distant ship rocking at its anchor and the three sailors hoisting Colonel J. Patterson Turner aboard. He was in for a long and arduous trip that might pay back the debt he ran up organizing the bogus race.
They stood for another twenty minutes until the Orient Dynasty unfurled its sails and caught the breeze needed to carry it through the Golden Gate.
“Good riddance,” Zoe said. “I hope he falls overboard and drowns.”
“I hope he doesn’t. There’s worse punishment than dying.”
They stood pressed close to one another, and finally Zoe said, “It’s been quite an adventure, John. I’ll miss you so much.”
He knew better than to ask her to come with him.
“You’ll make a fine reporter in Clarkesville or St. Louis or wherever you go.” He kissed her. With some reluctance, he let her slip from the circle of his arms and hurry away. He stood staring after her for a while, until the cold wind off the ocean forced him to go.
Slocum mounted his horse, rode slowly to the dock where the pack mule was, and smiled. The last of the cargo bound for Boston on the Vermont Queen had been loaded on the ship—all save two crates.
“Get those onto the pack mule,” Slocum called to the dockhands. “Here’s the rest of your money.” He paid the dockhands the other half of the money he had gotten by selling Turner to the shanghaiers. It only seemed fair to give Zoe half for her trouble and use the other half, which he had not mentioned to her, to drive the final nail into Colonel Turner’s coffin.
“Damn, mister, these are heavy,” complained a dockhand as he held one of the crates in place while the other worker lashed the crate to the mule’s back. “What do you have in them? Gold?”
“Yeah, gold,” Slocum said, laughing. “You didn’t ruffle any feathers not loading those crates onto the ship, did you?” Slocum cared nothing for the trouble the dockhands might be in for failing to load the colonel’s gold into the ship, but he wanted to be sure he could ride away without having to look over his shoulder for police sent to retrieve it.
“We loaded boxes of rocks in place of these. Shoulda loaded lead to equal the weight.”
“Spend your money well, gents,” Slocum said. “I hear the Cobweb Saloon is a good place to drink.”
They laughed, and the two dockhands began arguing over what saloon should get their newfound wealth. Slocum tugged on the mule’s rope, and got the animal moving with its load of $50,000 in gold.
He made his way south out of town, intending to cut back east when he reached the tip of San Francisco Bay. In spite of what he had been told, Slocum watched his back trail with a wary eye. Men had died—and women, too—for the gold he now carried. If any of the other racers successfully reached the Turner Haulage Company office, they’d find nothing but memories there. They had no reason to think he had the money—or that anyone did.
By midday, he was ready to take a rest. That was when he heard a galloping horse coming hard down the road behind him. He touched the butt of his Colt Navy, then relaxed.
“What brings you out on a day like this, Zoe?” he called.
“You, John. I decided to ride with you for a spell.”
“Not going to be a reporter?”
“I sold the story on Colonel Turner to the Alta for two dollars,” she said. “I got to thinking about Clarkesville, and decided working for such small pay wasn’t for me. Besides, there’s the last part of the story left to be written. I wanted to do the follow-up on what happened to the gold.”
“What happened to it?”
“It hasn’t been spent yet.”
“You’re right, it hasn’t.” Slocum grinned. “How do you think we should start doing just that?”
They found a way.