Slocum and the High-Rails Heiress

by Jake Logan

  Augusta cleared her throat, but didn’t turn from the window. “It’s such a beautiful vista from here.” The men in the car stared at her back, wondering what that had to do with what they had been discussing.

  “Soon,” she continued, oblivious to the confused faces behind her, “we’ll be crossing the last chasm, and one of the biggest on the trip.” She turned and faced them. “Devil’s Drop Gorge, hundreds of feet to the bottom. The trestle spanning it is one of the largest and most intricate of its type in the world.”

  “That’s great,” said Slocum, turning back to the tied-up man.

  Before he could question the man, Augusta spoke again. “From here, we begin the last leg of our journey. It’s all downhill from here, as someone once said.” She smiled.

  Slocum gave up and poured himself more coffee. “Famous last words,” he said.

  “You are a pessimist, Mr. Slocum.”

  “No, ma’am. I just prefer to experience life as it comes instead of believing what others tell me. Now, I can’t sit still here knowing that someone who would do you and me both harm is still running around up there on this very train. That’d be the same thing as hiding from trouble, and all that does is postpone the trouble that will hunt you down eventually.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Slocum?”

  “Well, princess, now that we have a bargaining chip”—he nodded at the big man—“I aim to find this veiled woman and settle her hash once and for all.”

  “Don’t hurt her!” Miss Barr’s hands went to her mouth.

  “Who said anything about hurting her? All I want to do is get some answers.”

  “But you promise you won’t hurt her?”

  “Not unless she hurts me first. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. All concerned for people who want to kill you. You are one of a kind, princess.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she said in a quiet voice, turning away, her arms crossed on her chest.

  “Then stop lying to me.” He looked at Ling, at the trussed man, then at Augusta. No one said a thing. “I thought so.”

  He left, making sure he had the key in his hand. On his way out of the car, he grabbed the big man’s buffalo coat and derby hat, both of which smelled pretty bad. But he donned them anyway, over his own coat and holstered Colt. This is going to be fun, he thought as he locked the door.

  22

  She barely glanced up, then shifted her gaze back to the window. “It’s about damn time,” she said. “I assume you have what I want?”

  “Hello, sweetie. Miss me?” Slocum stood over the veiled woman’s table, clad in the big stinky coat and derby hat. He said nothing, just waited for her to look at him.

  She’d been seated alone, as she had been when he first saw her days before. She finally looked up and her hand began to shake. She rattled the teacup in it back to its saucer. He noted the other hand in her lap was swollen, purpled, and painful looking.

  “That hand of yours looks like it might have met up with a certain irate Chinaman.” She said nothing, so he continued. “That Ling, he is a kicker, no mistake about that. But I didn’t really come here to chat with you. I came to persuade you to come back with me to Miss Barr’s rolling-stock mansion back there. We all have a few things to discuss.”

  She cleared her throat and spoke for the first time. “I wonder if you are mistaking me for someone else, Mr.…”

  She inched her other hand toward a black tasseled purse in her lap.

  “I don’t think so, sweetie.” He pushed back the ragged edge of the buffalo coat and hooked it behind his holster. His battered fingertips danced lightly on the butt of the pistol. The woman’s hand stopped its crawl toward the purse.

  “Back on the table.”

  She brought both hands to the tabletop, where they rested next to the teacup.

  “Now, where’s the key?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “Fortunately, I do. And in a conversation like this, it only takes one to make sense. So, if you don’t hand over the key right now…” He looked around the half-crowded dining car, a smile on his face. Several people had been eyeing him, but looked red-faced back to their breakfasts when their gaze met his. “I will shuck this Colt from my holster and force you to march on out of here at gunpoint.”

  “In here?” she snorted. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, I’d dare just about anything at this point, ma’am. Just like you.”

  She looked up at him. He could just make out her eyes and jawline through the veil.

  “That’s right, sweetie. You’re a daring little thing, and I haven’t got the entire picture pieced together yet, but when I do, I reckon I’ll regret meeting up with you in the boxcar.”

  “I bet that was something you will never forget.” Her honeyed voice oozed sarcasm.

  “Oh, you mean the little…favor you did for me? Truth be told, I’d already forgotten all about that.”

  “You bastard!”

  Slocum smiled. “Stand up now, sweetie. Time you and me take a walk.”

  “I won’t budge.”

  “I think you will. You see, we have a certain someone claims to be your brother. He’s been talking up a storm. You don’t want anything to happen to him, I suggest you come along with me.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, and even if I did, I wouldn’t care.”

  Slocum let out a long sigh. “See, where I come from, they call that hanging yourself with your own rope. Let’s go now, I’ve had enough of this palaver.” He stepped back to let her stand, and as she did, she spun, clawing for her purse. Slocum grabbed her swollen hand in one of his, and with the other, palmed his Colt. She moaned, but still managed to kick at him, landing solid blows on his shins with her boots.

  It was his turn to groan. He bit back a shout. All about them the dining car crowd began to get flustered, and men were looking around to see if other men were going to stand up for the lady being assaulted by the man who looked as if he weren’t fit to shovel dung.

  Before any of them could act, and much to their mixed relief, Slocum spun the pistol in his hand, gripped the barrel, and thunked the woman once above the ear as though he were rapping a gavel. The other inhabitants of the car all participated in a collective shocked intake of breath.

  The veiled woman tumbled toward the floor, but Slocum caught her, and managed to grab her purse in one hand. With the other he muckled onto her collar and dragged her behind him down the central aisle of the car, her heels clunking, the toes of her boots tapping together. He squeezed the sides of the soft purse and felt no gun. He did the same with her pockets, and found none. She must have either lost her purse pistol or left it in her berth.

  The thin porter from a couple of days before stood in front of the car door, blocking Slocum’s exit. He looked as though he might cry. Instead, he swallowed, then said, “Sir, as a representative of the Central Sierra and Pacific Railroad, I am afraid I am going to have to insist that you let go of the lady. Criminal activity is frowned upon by this railroad.”

  Slocum, still holding his pistol like a club, pointed the butt at the man’s sweating forehead and poked the air for emphasis. “And as security for Miss Augusta Barr, daughter of the owner of this railroad and current passenger aboard this train, I wonder what Mr. T. Augustus Barr will think when I let him know that a known murderer and her gang were allowed to mingle with the passengers?”

  Another round of shocked gasps filled the otherwise dead-silent car.

  “Now,” said Slocum. “You were just about to walk ahead of me and open all these doors, right?”

  “Yes…yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  Slocum looked back down the length of the dining car. All eyes were on him. “And when you get back, make sure that everyone here gets a fresh cup of coffee, compliments of Mr. Barr.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  Satisfied grunts of approval and nods were wasted on him as he dragged the uncons
cious veiled woman down the length of the train, following the trembling little porter.

  After another car, the man said over his shoulder, “You do know that the price of morning coffee is already included in their ticket.”

  “I know.” Slocum grinned at the back of the man’s head.

  “Oh.”

  Between cars, the woman’s boot heels clunked out and back in through the doorways, her hands flopping against the sides of seats and passengers’ legs.

  When they reached the Barrs’ car, the porter stopped, faced Slocum, and said, “Should I key in, sir?”

  “No, I’ll handle it from here. Thanks for your help, though. I’ll be sure to mention this in my report to Mr. T. Augustus Barr.”

  The porter’s face brightened. “Oh, thank you, sir. That is most appreciated, sir. Most appreciated.” He bowed and backed away toward the direction they’d come, his smile slipping only when he saw the unconscious woman sprawled in a heap on the floor behind the rough-looking cowboy.

  Slocum worked the brass skeleton key in the lock. It twisted harder than it had before, and he attributed that to the fact that the mechanisms had suffered many mighty blows at the hands of the big red-haired brute. He nudged the door open a few inches and shouted, “It’s Slocum. I’m coming in.”

  “Come, come,” said Ling, swinging the door inward, a cautious eye on who he was admitting. Slocum noted that the little man held his cast-iron fry pan in his other hand.

  “Easy now, Ling. I come bearing gifts. Well, one anyway. But I’m hoping it’ll help clear up a few things.”

  Ling nodded, smiling and backing toward the parlor.

  Wonder why he’s smiling, thought Slocum as he dragged the woman into the kitchen, and shut and locked the door behind him. Then he pulled the unconscious woman into the parlor. “Here’s the other half of your problems. I haven’t checked her over yet”—not that the thought hadn’t occurred to him—“but I’d guess you’ll find the key to the chest somewhere on her person.”

  “What have you done to her?” shouted Augusta as she dropped to her knees beside the long, slender form.

  “Well, despite her best efforts, I haven’t killed her, if that’s what you were thinking. Not that I didn’t have cause. This witch has all but done me in and I’d be justified in doing the same to her.”

  “You…you savage!” She snatched away the woman’s veil. Somehow, despite what logic would dictate, Slocum didn’t think Augusta’s comment was directed at the woman. But any further comments he had entertained uttering slipped away as he saw the face of the unconscious woman. Even in a crumpled sleep, her features were flawless, as if carved from marble. She was easily the match of Miss Barr.

  Theirs was a rare beauty, indeed, that differed in one telling detail—her hair was long, too, but it was a vivid red, the color of a rich sunset glimpsed after a hard day on the trail. That explained the fact that the fat man called her his sister. Thank God she didn’t have his appetite. If I had known she was so damned beautiful, he thought, I’m not so sure I would have clubbed her on the head.

  Then the big, redheaded man got a good look at the prone form, and cried out. “What’d you do to my sister? Oh God, you done killed her!” His jowly face turned bright red and he shook as tears welled in his eyes.

  Even Ling seemed momentarily transfixed by the woman’s beauty. Augusta Barr, on the other hand, stared at the woman with sadness and something more, some emotion Slocum couldn’t place. Indeed, Miss Barr looked as if she was about to cry.

  Slocum looked up. “Like I said, nobody killed her. I had to knock her on the head when she came at me. She’s the one who made it difficult, not me.”

  Ling, Augusta, and the big man all stared at him. He shook his head and bent down to tie her hands with the rope left over from trussing up Big Red.

  “What are you doing now?” Miss Barr stood up, her hands on her hips.

  “I’m going to tie her up. Look at her, she’s the killer here. Oh, she might not have done any of it herself, at least not that we know of. But she certainly had your Mr. Mulford killed, she set those other two red-haired giants on my backtrail—”

  “So it’s true, then…” the big man blubbered and wobbled where he sat on the floor, his rolls of fat jiggling with each wail.

  “What are you talking about?” said Slocum.

  “Them two others on the trail? Ned and Bert? They was my brothers!”

  “You don’t say?” Slocum shook his head, trying to convince himself that he really was awake, and hadn’t died when he’d been chucked off the train. All of this seemed too bizarre for belief.

  “Mr. Slocum, I’ll not have you tying her up like some animal. She’s a human, after all.”

  “So am I,” said the big man. “You seen fit to tie me up.”

  “Shut up,” said Slocum, thrusting a calloused finger at the man.

  “Really, Mr. Slocum. I should think you would be more gracious to my guests.”

  Slocum turned back to her, opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He stalked to the kitchen, mumbling and shaking his head, and returned a few seconds later with a coffee cup filled with water. He bent low and tossed the water in the pretty redhead’s face.

  The effect was immediate, so much so that he wondered if she hadn’t been playing at being out of it. Her pretty long lashes blinked, her full red lips trembled, and when her eyelids snapped open, she stared straight at Slocum with green eyes easily as striking as those of Augusta Barr. He could scarcely believe that this pretty woman was such a devious creature. Especially after what that lovely mouth had done to him, for him, in the boxcar. He supposed he should be thankful that she hadn’t been hungry for anything more.

  23

  “Oh, oh, my head. Oh, I…I don’t think I feel well.” The redhead formerly known as the Veiled Lady, at least to Slocum, tried to raise herself up on her elbows, but flopped back to the carpet with a thud. “Ohh…”

  Augusta Barr bent to her, cradled the woman’s head in her lap, and brushed the hair from her forehead. “Mr. Ling, a damp cloth, if you please.”

  Ling hurried back with the requested item and a washbasin of water.

  Slocum watched the proceedings for a moment with suspicion as a pungent tang drifted up to his nose and curled his top lip. What in the hell…And then he realized he was still wearing the big buffalo coat and ill-fitting derby hat. He shucked the coat and threw it in a corner, then sailed the dented little hat over to it.

  “Take it easy on my hat, mister.”

  “Enough out of you or I’ll have my associate here work up a special order with his fry pan.” But Ling didn’t acknowledge Slocum’s reference. It was almost as if he were being shunned for doing what he’d been hired to do. I’ll give them one last chance, he thought, then he’d head forward, take a seat in the front of the train, and sit with his Colt in his lap, waiting for the first chance to disembark, mount up on the Appaloosa, and ride for…anywhere at all.

  But first, one more shot at it. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. “So, Miss Barr, care to tell me why you’ve had such a change in heart toward this witch and her murderous brothers?” As he turned back to the strange little scene, he heard the redheaded woman speak.

  How she did it, Slocum didn’t know, but in the time it took him to pour his cup full of hot coffee, the redhead had gotten her hands on Augusta’s Wesson two-shot and had spun around so that her back was to her brother. And then he knew—shades of the key she’d taken from him. She must have snatched the little pistol from Augusta’s dress pocket.

  She faced the rest of them, a vicious sneer splitting those perfect red lips as if a ripe strawberry had been stepped on. “Yes, Miss Barr, do tell all…It’s an amazing story and one that I will take care to correct as you proceed, since you will, no doubt, make it into something less than believable. It’s a trait among the rich that I have not acquired in life. Not yet anyway.”

  The young blond woman looked
at Slocum with a wide-eyed mixture of sadness and disbelief.

  “You’re the one who didn’t want to tie her up.” He sipped his coffee and looked at them over the rim of the cup.

  “I thought if I gave her one more chance,” she said. “Show her one more act of kindness—”

  The redhead snorted as she backed away and stood, keeping the pistol trained on the girl. “You honestly thought that, didn’t you? You see? There’s the difference between the two of us. I would have tied me up tight, then”—she glanced at Slocum—“after a little fun, I would have thrown me off the moving train.” The redhead winked at him, then her sneer dropped and she jammed the two-shot’s snout into Miss Barr’s rib cage. “Tell the story,” she said, backing toward her trussed-up brother.

  Augusta’s features hardened. She stood straighter, not shifting her eyes from the other woman. “When I was a young girl, my mother died—”

  “Oh, boo hoo hoo!” the redhead smiled. “So did mine. You’ll have to work harder to impress me.” She picked and pulled with her free hand at the knots binding her brother’s limbs, and managed to tease the knots apart. Every few seconds, she looked up at her captives, squinting and scowling.

  “Let her speak, dammit.” Slocum sipped coffee, his gaze not shifting from the foul woman, who worked at her brother’s knots and waved the little pistol as if to hurry the process. He shifted so that the butt of his pistol wasn’t visible to the red-haired witch. He’d wait to hear the story before making his move.

  Augusta resumed her tale. “My father sent me to various boarding schools, then finally to Europe for a classical education. It wasn’t until years later, on his deathbed—”

  “Wait a minute, your father’s dead?” Slocum asked. “But I thought he hired me…”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I…I lied to you.”

  The red-haired woman laughed. “Oh! She lied to him…This is all very interesting. But it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Slocum, now it’s my turn to tell you to shut your mouth and let her get on with her story, or I swear I’ll shoot you now instead of later.”