by Jake Logan
From their hoots and hollers, Slocum knew the riders were closing the gap and bearing down on him. He rode faster, cursing his bad luck—and that lying bitch Conchita Valenzuela.
11
“There he is, boys. Git ’im!”
Another branch lashed Slocum across the face, almost knocking him from his horse. He half turned and chanced a quick look behind. He saw the dun and paint coats of two horses flashing through the trees. He hugged his own horse’s neck and guided it at an angle away from the line where he had been riding so frantically. Gradually slowing his breakneck pace allowed him to hear the deputies in the woods complaining about having lost his trail. Slocum finally brought his horse to a halt. Its sides heaved as lather formed.
He had pushed the horse to its limit then realized how close he was to his own. Sweat drenched his shirt and vest. His coat clung fiercely to his body, glued in place by both sweat and blood. With deliberate slowness, he turned his horse along his back trail and waited to see if the posse would find him.
Their sounds faded away. They had kept riding toward the road—his original destination until he had realized how difficult it would have been to outrun them. Once he had burst from the trees, he would have been exposed for almost a quarter mile. Even the feckless deputies could have spotted him.
Once his horse had rested, he gingerly guided it back into the woods, cutting through on a path that should have taken him across the Valenzuelas’ tracks. He had gold to find. And maybe two outlaws to kill. Slocum had ridden less than a half mile when he heard voices again.
“. . . my men went tearing off like hounds after a rabbit. Since they haven’t returned, I’d better go find them,” Sheriff Bernard said.
“They are lost?” Conchita spoke with a mixture of caring undercut with derision. Slocum didn’t have to see her lovely face to know her lip was upturned in a sneer. She thought little of the deputies’ ability. For all that, Slocum wasn’t too impressed either. They had almost caught him, but it had been his own damn-fool eagerness to find José and his father that’d been responsible. Nothing the deputies had done counted as cleverness or skill on their part.
But Slocum had a modicum of respect for Sheriff Bernard. The man was astute enough to know he had to keep after Slocum, even if he thought his name was Jasper Jarvis. More than this, Slocum admired the way Bernard had stood up to Sergeant Wilkinson. The prison guard was a formidable opponent and an imposing figure. Bernard hadn’t batted an eye telling him when he caught Jarvis he’d stand trial for bank robbery. Only then could San Quentin claim his suspect.
Slocum came to the edge of a clearing. Not fifty feet away Conchita and Bernard sat astride their horses, looking away in the direction of the road. Trees blocked a direct view, but Bernard had figured out the direction his men had taken.
“You will catch him, Sheriff? This awful man Jarvis?”
“’Less he hightails it out of the county, I’ll nab him. I promise you that, Miss Valenzuela.”
“You have posted a reward? Or has the banker man?”
“Galworthy wants him bad, but he wants his gold back even more. Galworthy put a fifty-dollar reward out on Jarvis and a thousand-dollar reward for the return of everything stolen from his bank.” Bernard laughed heartily. “Now what sort of idiot would return five thousand dollars in gold coins for a thousand-dollar reward in scrip?”
“An honest man?” suggested Conchita.
Slocum almost shouted out, “Where’ll you find one of them in this state?” However, he held his tongue and waited for the two riders to drift toward the far side of the clearing. When they entered the woods, he heaved a sigh of relief. The posse was too prideful to admit they had lost him. Instead, they’d either lie about charging after anyone or claim it was only a deer they chased. Either way, they weren’t likely to return.
He wasn’t as certain about the sheriff and knew that Conchita had to join her family eventually. Riding about in a circle failed to reveal any tracks. He ruefully admitted he had lost José and his father. That put his plan into a cocked hat, unless he got lucky. That didn’t seem too likely since he had just used up what luck he had avoiding the posse and the sheriff.
“Conchita,” he said softly. She was his ticket to the hideout and the loot from both the stagecoach robbery and Galworthy’s bank.
Slocum looked around, found a spot where he could watch the clearing when the woman returned and get some idea which direction she chose to follow her brother and pa. He rode to the thicket, dismounted, and took time to drink some water from his canteen and even sit down to rest. He was bleeding from dozens of scratches from his romp through the forest, and the last branch had whacked him hard enough to give him a headache now that the excitement was over and done.
Leaning back against a tree trunk, he closed his eyes to rest them for a moment. When he snapped alert, he reached for his six-shooter, thinking something was seriously wrong. Panic died down when he realized the hit on the head hadn’t left him blind. His eyes were wide open, but it was to a forest veiled in night. He had passed out for most of the day, missing Conchita’s return. Worse, he had been a sitting duck if the sheriff’s men had come back.
Or José Valenzuela. The man had gunned down the stagecoach passengers without provocation. There was no telling how deep his vicious streak ran. Finding Slocum passed out would be a godsend for him.
If Conchita had found him, she would have summoned the sheriff to take him off to the lockup again. She was far cleverer than her brother and knew Slocum being in jail got them off the hook. Bernard would stop looking for bank robbers if he thought he had one behind bars.
Body aching from being in one position all afternoon long, he climbed to his feet and led his rested horse out into the clearing. If the sheriff and Conchita had been there talking, José and their pa would have ridden through the woods some distance away. Conchita would have distracted the lawman until they had reached a trail to take them to their hideout.
Slocum spent the rest of the night searching for that trail and couldn’t find it. He reluctantly came to admit the Valenzuelas had outsmarted him—and they hadn’t even known they were doing it.
Or was it Conchita who had gotten the better of him? He had her pegged as being the brains in that family.
Finally mounting, he rode slowly to the road. By now the robbery would be known all the way to Miramar. Slocum rode to the rocky notch in the road and saw inky spots in the dust where the passengers had bled. The starlight didn’t give him much illumination, but he didn’t need it. He had seen what happened earlier. Not sure what he was looking for, he rode back and forth a dozen times before giving up.
Only then did he turn toward Murrieta’s village. Telling him of his failure didn’t set well with Slocum, but they had to come up with another scheme to keep Atencio from hanging. All the way back to the village Slocum thought hard on this and finally came up with another plan even more far-fetched than letting the Valenzuelas rob the stage and then track them to their hideout so he could rob them.
This time Slocum recognized his plan for what it was: pure desperation.
“I stole it from the clotheslines,” Maria said, holding out the uniform and estimating how it would fit Slocum.
He eyed the prison guard’s blue wool jacket with distaste. The brass buttons needed polishing, and the trousers with the jacket were far too short for his six-foot frame. Maria stepped closer, and he felt the heat from her body as she pressed against him, sizing up the waist. The trousers would go around his middle once and then half again over.
“I can sew in pleats,” she said.
“Cut the cloth out and sew it onto the cuffs.” Slocum looked down, and the bottom of the trousers were only a little more than midcalf. “I’ll stick out like a sore thumb if you don’t.”
“I can do this,” Maria said thoughtfully. She looked up at him, her face open and concerned. “Do you want to do such a brave thing for Atencio?”
He kissed her quickly, but she
wouldn’t have any of that tiny peck. She gave him a real kiss, hot and passionate, tongue working feverishly, lips crushing fiercely. Only when they heard Murrieta approaching, singing a song in his deep voice, did they part reluctantly.
“So,” Murrieta said, seeing them inside the hut, “you have finally gotten into his pants?” Murrieta laughed. Slocum held back a surge of anger at him as Maria blushed furiously. She held out the pants and pointed silently to the jacket.
“If Atencio is due to be hanged at sundown, I’ve got to hurry,” Slocum said. “Is everything ready?”
Murrieta looked stricken as he said, “I have done what I can. You are our savior, John Slocum.”
“Only if I get him out.” Slocum looked at his Colt Navy in its holster on the rickety table. He had to leave that behind. Guards inside San Quentin didn’t carry firearms other than rifles. They relied on their truncheons, but Slocum didn’t want to be burdened with one. Murrieta had given him three knives, which he was going to hide in case he needed them. Realistically, Slocum knew that if he was found out, three knives wouldn’t be enough. A Gatling gun might not be enough to get away.
Not for the first time he cursed himself for agreeing to free Atencio. Then he looked at Murrieta and saw his desolation. Maria was even more wracked with anguish, making him reach out and touch her cheek. She pressed his fingers into her flesh, turned slightly, and kissed his hand.
“You will come back,” she said in a choked voice.
“Fix the trousers,” he said. She swallowed and then hurried away to cut out the extra material from the waist and tack it onto the cuffs so he wouldn’t be noticed as easily.
He shrugged into the jacket. The sleeves were too short but were less noticeable if he left the front unbuttoned.
“You have sheaths for the knives,” Murrieta said. “What else? A small pistol? You can hide it in the waistband.”
Slocum remembered how floppy the waist would have been and said, “I could hide a couple rifles in there.” He laughed. “I’ll need a couple horses.”
“I will get them. When you get Atencio out, you will need a spare.”
“Make that four horses,” Slocum said. Seeing Murrieta’s surprise, he explained, “We will switch off when one gets tired. I said we, since you’re coming with me. I need someone outside.” He saw that Murrieta was shocked at the idea he had to do something to aid his friend.
“Atencio will need a spare,” Murrieta said. “Will we need more? Each of us will ride with a spare to the prison, but leaving, we will have only one spare.”
Slocum hoped it worked out that way. He strapped the knives into place, one on each leg and another along his left forearm. Then Maria returned with his pants. The pants fit better, but he would never pass close inspection. With luck, he wouldn’t have to.
He ducked his head, went outside, and saw the four horses waiting for him. Procipio Murrieta was nothing if not a man of his word. Murrieta picked one of the horses and vaulted into the saddle. He wore crossed bandoliers with a six-shooter carried at either hip. Slocum hoped this firepower wasn’t necessary, but better to have it and not need it than to find themselves lacking any way of shooting their way free.
Slocum mounted and headed north, with Murrieta riding as fast as he could to keep up. They had to reach San Quentin before Atencio got his neck stretched, and the ferry across the Golden Gate seldom ran on schedule.
“You cannot go to the front gate and ask to be let in. And it is almost sundown,” Murrieta said, obviously worried.
“We’ve got an hour before he’s to hang,” Slocum said with more confidence than he felt. Murrieta was right. They had reached the front gate of the imposing prison but had no way of getting inside. Simply wearing the guard’s uniform wasn’t enough.
“Work gangs,” Slocum said suddenly. “Are any sent outside the walls?”
“Not that I ever heard.”
Slocum toyed with the idea of pretending to have captured Murrieta and immediately discarded it. Murrieta would be recognized immediately as an escaped prisoner, and Wilkinson would clap him in solitary too fast for Slocum to do anything. Worse, the sergeant might recognize Slocum, too.
“I hear a wagon,” Slocum said, cocking his head to one side. On the late afternoon breeze came the faint rattling of chains and creaking wood of wheels bouncing along the rocky road. “Prisoner delivery?”
Murrieta shrugged eloquently.
“I’ll find out. You stay out of sight. There. In that grove. I’ll do what I can to get Atencio out, and you’d better be waiting with the horses. If you aren’t, we’re all going to hang.”
Murrieta nodded and immediately rode away, leaving Slocum alone beside the road. The desolation he felt came from being trapped between the walls of a prison and oncoming guards. To return voluntarily to the far side of San Quentin’s walls was the height of folly, yet Slocum was going to do just that. If he wanted to come out of this alive, he had to be bold and take the initiative.
He galloped away from the prison, hunting for the wagon. He found it just around a bend and barely out of sight of the prison guard towers.
The bed held four chained prisoners. The guard with a rifle perked up as Slocum rode toward the wagon. The rifle came up to the man’s shoulder and Slocum waved frantically.
“Put that damned thing down. Don’t shoot!”
“What do you want?” The guard was suspicious, but Slocum saw the one he had to convince was the driver, who glared hard at him.
He tried to remember if this was the same driver who’d delivered him to San Quentin what seemed a lifetime back. It might have been, but could the driver possibly remember every unwilling passenger? Slocum hoped not.
“You got a prisoner named José Valenzuela? Sergeant Wilkinson wants him double chained. He’s a slippery one.”
“Valenzuela? Naw, not this load.” The guard glanced over his shoulder. Two prisoners were ginger-haired and possibly brothers. Another had the look of a sailor about him, and the fourth sat, knees drawn up and sobbing uncontrollably.
“What about that one?” Slocum said, pointing to the one crying.
“Name’s Waring or Warren or something like that.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Slocum wanted to divert the guard’s attention. It worked. He lowered his rifle so Slocum could breathe a tad easier.
“Don’t cotton much to bein’ convicted of murderin’ the wife of a San Francisco politician. They was carryin’ on and had a lovers’ spat. Used a butcher knife on her, from what I hear.”
“He killed her. He caught us, and he killed her and framed me!” the red-eyed prisoner cried out.
“They’re all innocent,” Slocum said.
“You get on back and tell Sergeant Wilkinson we ain’t got his pet prisoner,” the driver said.
“I’ll just ride along. Not far to the front gates,” Slocum said.
“Suit yourself.” The driver mumbled under his breath, then said loud enough for Slocum to hear, “You guards always findin’ new ways of malingerin’.”
Slocum considered arguing for the sake of cementing his role as a guard but held back. The wagon rattled around the bend in the road and the sight of the walls took away his speech. He shook himself to clear his head. From here on, he had to be quick, respond properly, and get himself into the prison.
“Good to be back home,” the armed guard said. “You want to go fetch the next batch of prisoners? Somethin’’bout bein’ outside the walls gives me the willies nowadays.”
“We can talk about it,” Slocum said. He was willing to go after more prisoners now.
“How many you got?” came the shout from high on the wall.
“Four.”
“Open up,” the guard called down. “We got more fish to swim in our pond!” He laughed at that, and the guard opening the gate was laughing, too.
Slocum forced himself to laugh, just to fit in.
“Let me help you,” Slocum offered to the wagon guard.
“M
uch obliged, ’specially with that one.” The guard pointed at the crying prisoner, who had once more descended into sobbing.
Slocum pulled the man out, got him on his feet, and moved so he kept the prisoners between him and the two guards coming from inside.
“Git ’em movin’. We ain’t got all day.”
Slocum shoved his prisoner ahead of him and passed through the gate, aware of other guards watching. Many of them tapped their truncheon against a thigh or slapped it against a palm in a drumbeat that chilled his blood.
“That way,” Slocum said, steering the crying convict toward the processing area. He began to hang back and let the real guards do their duty.
Then he froze when a gruff voice called out, “You, the new guard. Come here!”
Slocum turned and saw Sergeant Wilkinson, his ledger tucked under his arm, pointing straight at him.
12
Slocum reached under the ill-fitting left coat sleeve and gripped the knife sheathed there. He would die but only after taking Wilkinson with him.
He stepped forward, but Wilkinson looked past him. Slocum veered away, his knife still hidden. Wilkinson bellowed again for the new guard to come to him.
Slocum let out pent-up breath when the guard with the rifle from the prison wagon marched forward.
“What you doin’ violatin’ regulations?” Wilkinson bellowed so loud that both guards and prisoners milling about in the yard some distance away all turned to see what caused the ruckus.
“Don’t rightly know what you mean, Sergeant,” the guard said.
“No firearms inside the prison, unless they are locked up where I can find and dispense them in a hurry,” Wilkinson said. He continued to chew out the guard, giving Slocum a chance to drift even farther away until he was surrounded by other truncheon-tapping guards and a few sullen prisoners.
He made several quick turns intended to keep him out of Wilkinson’s line of sight, though he knew he attracted some attention because of his shoddy uniform. More than one prisoner looked at him and sniggered. Finally, a guard sauntered over and positioned himself so he blocked any further escape from Wilkinson’s attention.