Slocum and the High-Rails Heiress

by Jake Logan

  I do hope you are not currently in the employ of another, Mister Slocum. If that is the case, my terms are, of course, negotiable.

  Respectfully Yours,

  T. Augustus Barr

  Despite his best effort at appearing unruffled, Slocum felt his heart pound a little harder. They wanted to pay him $5,000 for a few weeks’ work? To guard some sort of precious cargo? When he had nothing else in the world going on and no prospects for anything in the near future but a bleak winter scrounging for work? When he was so hungry he felt sure he could eat his own boots?

  He looked across the table at Mr. Clarence Mulford. There was something in the man’s otherwise unreadable features that gave Slocum the slightest twinge of reason to reconsider. But then it was gone. He pushed the moment away to the back corner of his mind and nodded his head. “I’ll be there.”

  “Aren’t you going to negotiate?”

  “Why should I? It’s obvious I’m not currently working for someone else. Saying so would make me a liar.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Slocum. You are a man who thus far has lived up to his preceding reputation.”

  “Glad to hear I measure up,” said Slocum, pouring himself another drink. “So, tell me about this mysterious ‘precious cargo.’”

  “As for the cargo, I can assure you that it is all aboveboard and legal, and it is also something that will be revealed to you at the appropriate time.”

  “Uh-huh. So, you know just what’s in the letter, eh? That’s the second reference you’ve made to its contents.”

  The big man laughed. “I am privy to its contents, yes. But only what I’ve been told. I don’t make it a habit of sneaking peeks into my employer’s private correspondence.”

  “Fair enough. Now, who is this Mr. T. Augustus Barr?”

  Mulford’s eyes rose. “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you’ve not heard of him—few people have.” He leaned in, crowding the table. “In certain circles, Mr. Barr is known as the Fifth Big Four. That is to say, he’s a silent fifth partner in the group of the public face known as the Big Four, the investors behind the Central Sierra and Pacific Railroad. He made his early fortune with the buying, selling, and mining of certain, ah, shall we say, precious items. And the continued popularity of those precious items has enabled Mr. Barr and his family to live a life far beyond the dreams of even the other members of the Big Four. Let’s put it this way: Without Mr. Barr’s contribution and backing to the venture, the CS and PR would not exist.”

  “Why me?”

  “I should think that’s been made obvious, Mr. Slocum.”

  “It has, but I want to hear your take on it, Mr. Mulford.”

  “My opinion is of little consequence in this matter.” The man rose from the table. The murmur in the room lowered yet again, then increased when it became obvious the man was merely leaving.

  True to the letter’s word, the man pulled out a thick leather wallet secured with two brass buckles. He carefully unfastened them and, from within, slipped free a short stack of crisp paper notes totaling $1,000. He placed them in front of Slocum, both men fully aware that all eyes in the place saw the transaction. That’s going to make my evening a fun one, thought Slocum with an inward sigh. Everybody in town is going to want to be my friend.

  The big man snapped up his coat’s tall collar, snugged his hat down tight, and tugged on his leather gloves. “One last thing, Mr. Slocum—I assume you know that Mr. Barr has never been successfully crossed or let down.”

  Slocum regarded the man for a moment, then the stack of cash before him. “Same goes for me, Mr. Clarence Mulford. If he understands that, we’ll get along famously.”

  The man touched his hat brim. “I figured you for a man of his word. Good day, Mr. Slocum. I’ll wire Mr. Barr and tell him that you will be in Salt Lake City on the fourth of February…of this year.”

  Slocum calculated roughly that he had a little more than a week and a half to make the trip. “I’ll be there.”

  He watched Mulford leave the saloon, and a gust of cold air and snow pushed in before the door clunked shut. He scooped up the cash, folded it in half, and tucked it deep in an inner coat pocket. Then he sat still for a moment, a knot of notions warring for dominance in his mind. On the one hand, he didn’t like feeling used and kept in the dark, and this situation very much felt that way. On the other hand, he didn’t mind fortune shining down on him now and again, especially in such a generous manner, and especially when it was least expected and most needed.

  What to do first? A big plate heaped with a thick, rare, juicy beefsteak, crisped potatoes, all topped with pan drippings and pepper? A bath and clean clothes? Another shot or two of whiskey? Cigars? A leggy saloon girl?

  Just as Slocum found himself in the deepest part of this best of all conundrums, another gust of raw January wind rattled the window beside him. In the waning afternoon light, through swirling clouds of pelting snow, he saw his Appaloosa standing hunched and dejected at the hitching rail out front. He cursed himself as he pushed up from the table. How could I be so selfish? he thought as he headed back outside.

  After leading the horse to the best livery in town, and leaving instructions with the old black man there to spare no expense in tending to the horse’s needs—including an extra bait of oats and hay, and a clean, warm stall—Slocum headed back into the maw of the building storm. He wondered where in town the mysterious man who had delivered the message, Mr. Clarence Mulford, was staying. It was obvious he wouldn’t have ridden on with this storm coming in.

  No, he’d be staying the night before heading back to wherever it was he’d been sent from—somewhere far to the east of here, no doubt. Slocum guessed he’d be ensconced in the finest establishment in Pearlton, at least for the night. And from the looks of things, that appeared to be the well-lit Border House Hotel. Slocum passed it by and opted for the slightly less large Pearlton Arms, two doors down. Though the dark had, sometime before, descended on the town as if a curtain had dropped, he knew it was not yet six o’clock. Early enough to figure out what he wanted, what he needed, and where he could set about finding it all.

  He strode into the warm hotel lobby, a well-lit room made cozy by wall sconces throwing golden buttery light into the air, and with a thick carpet running from the double front doors all the way to the wide flying staircase halfway across the room. In the air wafted stunning scents of what had to be a pot roast and gravy. Slocum came to a standstill before the richly carved mahogany front desk, his stomach growling. It was loud enough that the girl manning the ledger seemed about to ask if he might require the doctor.

  “Been a while since I’ve smelled anything that good,” he said. Despite his indifference to her opinion, he felt his face redden. I must be off my feed if I let a girl fluster me like this, he thought.

  The girl behind the hotel desk was a perfectly pert brunette who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Despite his haggard state—he had seen his face reflected in the saloon window—Slocum was pleased to note that she offered him an extra fluttering of eyelashes and a smile that set his mind to thinking thoughts normally reserved for men who’d had regular meals in the recent past.

  “It’s good to hear a handsome man expressing his hunger.”

  O Lordy, girl, he thought. I can’t be all that attractive in my current sorry state, can I? But she kept right on smiling at him.

  “Well, I wonder if you have any rooms, maybe facilities for bathing. I expect I’ll be a sight better with a shave and fresh duds. Get on the good side of a hot meal and I’ll be in tall cotton.”

  She nodded as she spun the register to face him. “By then you won’t be hungry, though, hmm?” The girl nibbled the end of her little finger, and studied him as if he were an interesting new type of creature.

  “Then it’ll be time for dessert, ma’am.” Slocum smiled and shifted his saddlebags to his other shoulder as he took up the pen. “And I am partial to a fine dessert. In fact,” he said, signing his name, “I have been kno
wn to linger over it for hours, savoring every last bit until I am just too tired to go on.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide for a brief moment, then a slow smile spread across her face. As she spun the register back around toward her, she read his name aloud, “John Slocum. That’s a good, firm name.”

  “That’s me,” he chuckled. “Strong like an ox.”

  “Oh, I believe that, Mr. Slocum. May I show you to your room?”

  “I think I can make it from here. But I do have a question for you.”

  She leaned forward, expectation raising her eyebrows, as she handed him the key.

  “What’s a man to do if he decides he’d like dessert, say a piece of pie, after the dining room has closed?”

  “Why, Mr. Slocum, all he’d need to do is arrange to have it brought to him. That’s all part of our personal service here at the Pearlton Arms.”

  He nodded. “That’s good to know, ma’am. I can guarantee I’ll have a hankering for something sweet a little later.”

  “I’ll see to it personally, Mr. Slocum.” He watched color creep into her cheeks.

  “I look forward to that, ma’am.” He turned and strode toward the stairs.

  “Oh, Mr. Slocum?”

  “Yes?”

  “Room Four, top of the stairs, all the way to the rear.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You’ll find everything you need there.”

  His smile lasted all the way up the stairs and down the hall.

  After he’d had a bath, a shave, and had donned his cleanest clothes from their rolled state in the saddlebags, Slocum headed back downstairs and crossed the lobby to the dining room. The chatty little brunette was nowhere to be seen. Baking a pie, he thought, and smiled as he was assaulted by the aroma of rich, mingling scents drifting all about him. He felt much better than he had in days, and knew he was minutes away from tasting a real, hot meal, the likes of which he’d not seen in many weeks.

  He vowed, not for the last time, he was sure, that he’d take care in the future to make certain he didn’t end up in such piss-poor condition again. Despite the fact that he had a $5,000 job ahead of him that sounded anything but straightforward, it was at least a promising prospect, especially compared with what he’d had before, namely nothing.

  The meal was everything he’d hoped it would be and more, though he admitted he might have eaten charred boot leather and felt the same way. He left the table and stretched his lean frame.

  Since it was still relatively early, he decided to stroll the town, or at least as much of it as he dared before the cold seeped into him again. He was just beginning to feel his toes and didn’t fancy the idea of them turning blue again so soon. Especially not when he knew he’d be riding out again tomorrow, early, and riding hard for the rest of the week. He would not miss that train. He’d agreed to nursemaid the precious cargo over the Sierra range to California, and by God, he was going to do it.

  He flipped up the thick sheepskin collar of his jacket, tugged his hat down low, and snugged his leather gloves. Even with the harsh weather pelting down, a hankering was building in him for a good knock of whiskey and a fine cigar from Havana. And a stretch of the legs would go a long way toward helping him feel like he deserved it.

  The ease with which he’d been given the seemingly plum assignment had planted a seed of cautious suspicion in him. And he didn’t mind that, recognizing that it helped him keep a sharp eye out, just in case something unwelcome happened. In his ample experience roaming the West, the worst things happened when people grew careless, let their defenses slip even a little bit.

  Slocum strode along the boardwalk toward the strip of buildings he’d been by earlier, and that now cast brilliant golden light into the snow-filled street. Hoots and cheers and ragged, off-kilter fiddle and banjo music cut through even the low howl of the storm. He worked to keep his face protected behind the buttoned collar of his coat, and he noted across the street, and back a ways, two hulking shapes standing near the wide steps of the Border House Hotel, the fancy establishment in which he suspected Mr. Mulford was probably holed up for the night.

  Other than noticing that they were both obviously large men and had chosen a godawful night to loiter in the street, Slocum didn’t pay them a whole lot more attention. He found a different saloon than the one he’d been in earlier. Because it had been a blustery winter day, he knew that many of the same people would still be there. And he didn’t want to advertise the fact that he was the one they’d all seen receive a hefty wad of folding money earlier from a dandified stranger.

  He chose the Doubloon Saloon. It was set up like most others he’d been in, bar along the right wall, a few baize-topped tables filling the rest of the space. They had a decent selection of both choice whiskey and cigars in a small, back bar humidor. He chose a top whiskey and a handful of Havana cigars, and found a spot with his back close by a wall, where he could lean and take in the room from under his snugged-low hat brim. It wouldn’t pay to advertise his presence here, as some of these very folks could well have migrated in the past few hours from the saloon he’d been in earlier.

  As he strolled back to the hotel more than an hour later, comfortably warmed by whiskey and with the last of a fine cigar dwindling away between his lips—and a half-dozen more of the same in his shirt pocket—he recalled the two men from earlier. And they surprised him yet again by still being there. Though he had to admit they looked a bit worse for the wait—the cold was getting to them. At first he thought one of the big men was laughing, the way his shoulders worked up and down. And then he realized the man was shivering uncontrollably.

  Slocum pitched his glowing cigar butt into the street and shook his head. He had little sympathy for fools, and even less for two of them together. Good night, fools, he thought as he turned in to the lobby of the Pearlton Arms. He stamped his boots in the entryway before unbuttoning his coat and thumping his snow-covered hat against his hand.

  Barely two minutes later found him shucking his clothes, though still in his longhandles, and slipping under a thick, down-filled comforter and into…a warm bed. He probed with his feet and felt the source of the heat—a tin bed warmer.

  “All part of the service, eh?” he chuckled and closed his eyes. “This day just keeps getting better.” And then a soft knock sounded on the door. He flicked open his eyes and lay still. No, no, please say it was someone else’s door.

  There it was again. His door, no mistaking it.

  “Who is it?” he growled in a half whisper, reaching for his Colt Navy hanging on the chair back he’d dragged close by the bedside, always within easy reach.

  “It’s…I’m the girl from the front desk,” came the whispered reply.

  Their exchange came back to him then. It seemed as if it had taken place years before. But how could he forget such a lovely girl? Tired, that’s how. He was bone-tired, beyond weary, and in little mood to do anything other than sleep, much less perform as he expected he might be required to…

  And as if to confuse him further, he smelled something spicy, something that reminded him of Christmastime, but that had been a month or more past. Cinnamon, perhaps?

  “I’ve brought you that dessert you inquired about, Mr. Slocum.”

  He got out of bed, and slipped the Colt from its holster. Never can be too sure.

  He turned the key in the lock and swung the door inward, peered around it, pistol leveled and ready. And there she was, clad in a flannel nightgown that fit her like a large mitten, revealing nothing of what had looked earlier like a promising womanly shape.

  Her short hair looked much the same as it had earlier, when she’d been working. And held before her, as if it were a king’s crown on a pillow, sat a large, steaming wedge of apple and raisin pie, its juices oozing and pooling on the flower-rimmed china dessert plate. Beside it on the tray sat a short glass of milk, a fork, and a folded linen napkin.

  “Girl…” he began, and then he looked in her eyes. And the corners had jus
t begun to smile. He was afraid for a second there that he’d see tears, as if she had assumed incorrectly and had made a big mistake. Tired as he might be, he didn’t have it in him to hurt her feelings.

  But had she made a mistake? Or had he? She wasn’t exactly dressed like a young lady bent on dallying with a guest of the hotel for the evening. Maybe she really had been talking dessert all along. Which way to play this, Slocum? he asked himself.

  “Come on in,” he said. He closed the door behind her and slipped his pistol back into its holster. Then he thumbed a match alight, and lit the oil lamp beside the bed. “You brought a mighty tasty-looking dessert, I see.” He turned around, smiling, and froze that way.

  The little lady from the front desk was now buck naked, save for the wedge of pie she held at waist height, barely concealing a demure dark thatch of hair. How had she done that, so quick and so quiet? The nightgown and tray were gone, stashed somewhere.

  “Hope you’re hungry, Mr. Slocum.”

  His eyes traveled upward from the pie to her taut, smooth breasts, firm and young, the nipples like new raspberries. “I am now,” he said, his longhandles tent-poling more with each second.

  “I’m afraid you’re improperly dressed for dessert, Mr. Slocum. All our guests must wear suitable attire to dine here.” She set the pie on the nightstand. “Here,” she said, kneeling before him. “Let me help you.”

  She worked the buttons from the bottom up and freed his engorged member. It swung, aimed right at her face just inches away. “Oh my,” she said, then said no more. And for that, Slocum was grateful. He found he was no longer tired and fit to burst, and she was a comely thing, if a mite talky. He preferred, whenever possible, action over chatter. And now was one such moment.

  Her full mouth was a hot thing in the cold air of the room. Little clouds of breath rose up as she warmed him without yet touching him. It was a strange, fine sensation, though within seconds he knew he’d need more, and soon. He hoped she felt the same. As if in response to his thoughts, her mouth closed on him, drew back to the full, throbbing head of his member, dragging the length lightly with her teeth. It felt like hot needles tickling every inch of his body, and he liked it.