Slocum and Hot Lead

by Jake Logan

  “Listen,” Slocum said.

  “No, you listen, Slocum. I—” Wilmer fell silent, canted his head, and then slowly turned. He dropped flat on his belly and pressed his ear against the ground. After listening almost a minute, he looked up in admiration. “I declare, you got it all figgered out, don’t ya, Slocum? There’s not a sound of anything stirrin’ out there.”

  The outlaws had left.

  15

  “Danged horse thieves,” grumbled Wilmer. Slocum glared at the man and forced himself to keep from drawing his six-shooter and emptying all the chambers into him. He was a fine one to talk about stealing another man’s horse. If anything, Slocum thought, Neale was only taking back the horse abandoned by the outlaw Slocum had killed earlier. But that had been a fair fight, and the outlaw wasn’t going to use the animal anymore.

  “The painting’s gone too?”

  “I had it hung up in that there tree, danglin’ on a limb jist like it was in one of them galleries up in Denver. You ever see one of ’em, Slocum? They got entire halls filled with nuthin’ but paintings and statues and people gawkin’ at ’em. Never seen anything like it in all my born days.”

  “Art,” Slocum said, walking through the camp and reconstructing what had happened. It didn’t come as any surprise that Wilmer wasn’t lying about any of it. More of the blue paint had rubbed off on the limb where he had hung the painting, and the number of horses that had come through the camp numbered at least five. Slocum wasn’t going to argue if Wilmer said Neale and nine others had ridden in on him. But there was something missing in the bounty hunter’s telling of the tale.

  “Did they try to shoot you after you told them about the painting?” Slocum asked.

  “That’s what made me so mad. I—” Wilmer swung around and his eyes narrowed to slits. “What’d you say?”

  “They snuck up on you, all right,” Slocum said. “They caught you and were going to ventilate you, but a little dickering or a lot of shouting made Neale stop. You told him there was a map in the painting, didn’t you?”

  “They was gonna kill me, Slocum! What else could a man do?”

  “The painting’s not going to help Neale any,” Slocum said, recollecting the trouble he and Claudia had had trying to decipher the puzzle. And he’d had the advantage of working with another artist, one whose father had drawn the painting.

  “He don’t know that,” said Wilmer.

  “He might figure it out mighty quick that he needs more information,” Slocum said. “When he does, he might decide to come looking for you again.” He motioned to the bounty hunter to follow him.

  “Where we goin’?”

  “Claudia’s up in the canyon. We have to tell her what happened.”

  “Why? She done real good on her own before. We kin—”

  “We can find her,” Slocum said, again considering if he ought to expend all six of his bullets on Wilmer. The idea was turning attractive again. The bounty hunter must have read it in his eyes because his shaggy head started bobbing up and down like it was on a spring.

  “All right, we kin do that. We oughta tell her Neale’s done stole her painting.”

  Slocum trooped off, marveling at how easy it was for Wilmer to place the blame elsewhere. If he hadn’t stolen the painting from the cave while Slocum and Claudia were otherwise occupied, Neale could never have come into possession of the painting.

  Footsore and fuming, Slocum finally got to the spot where he had shooed Claudia into the rocks. He looked around and didn’t see her.

  “We gotta keep movin’, Slocum. How long’s it gonna take Neale to realize he don’t know squat about that painting and the map? When he gits all het up, he’ll come char-gin’ after us.”

  Slocum ignored the bounty hunter and cupped his hands to his mouth and called, “Claudia! Get down here. We got to talk. Claudia!”

  “She hidin’ ’round here? We don’t need that—” Wilmer cut off his sentence when Claudia came slipping and sliding down the side of the hill.

  “Why’d you bring him back? So I can rip his eyes out?” She glared at Wilmer. Slocum was amused at the way Wilmer averted his face like a guilty child caught stealing.

  “We ended up saving each other’s lives,” Slocum said, not wanting to go into it. “Neale has the painting.”

  “I . . . I won’t give up. Not that easily,” she said. Claudia motioned Slocum over so she could have a private talk with him. “I remember every brush stroke on that painting, John. We don’t need him. But I do need the paintbrush. Did you find it?”

  Slocum shook his head. He had been too busy staying alive to hunt for the brush, but he didn’t remember seeing it lying around Wilmer’s camp.

  “That’s got to be the key,” Claudia said urgently. “We can find it. Neale didn’t steal it too, did he?”

  “Wilmer, where’s the paintbrush? You stole it when you took the painting.”

  “Brush? This here thing?” Wilmer reached around behind his back and wiggled. He whipped the brush around and flourished it like a sword.

  “That,” Slocum said, moving like a striking snake. He snared the brush before Wilmer could jerk it away. Slocum tossed it to Claudia. “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know. This arrow has to mean something.”

  “It oriented the map—the painting,” Slocum said.

  “There must be more, and I don’t think it was on the painting, John. The brush must mean more.”

  Slocum turned to the mine he had singled out as being the one where the gold was most likely to have been hidden. He pointed to it and said, “You looked that hole in the ground over real good?”

  “Yes,” Claudia said. “All of them.”

  “You see anything out of the ordinary in that mine?”

  “I can’t think of anything. All three looked to have been deserted at the same time. The only thing different about that one was the way someone had carved squiggly lines all over the rock. Must have taken a while, but then what else do miners have to do with their spare time?”

  “They ain’t got spare time. If they was wantin’ to dig in rock, it’d be for gold,” Wilmer said. He caught Slocum’s eye and inclined his head toward the mine on the far side of the canyon.

  “Let’s take a look at those carvings,” Slocum said, leading the way. It took the better part of two hours for them to reach the mine. By this time Slocum was dog tired and Claudia could hardly walk. Only Wilmer bounced about like a child’s ball, full of piss and vinegar. The only thing keeping Slocum moving along to the mine was the knowledge that he had gone to the meadow to kill Wilmer and could do so anytime he wanted.

  Flopping down in the mouth of the mine, Slocum looked around. He didn’t see the carved walls Claudia had mentioned.

  “Not here, deeper inside. You think the gold might really be here?”

  “I’m thinking this is a gold goose chase,” Slocum said.

  He had been right when he had considered forsaking the entire hunt as being nothing but a phantasm. That day seemed like it was a thousand years earlier and someone else had lived his life since.

  “A thousand dollars of gold, Slocum,” Wilmer said enticingly. “We kin find it. I know we kin.”

  Slocum heaved himself to his feet.

  “Show me,” he ordered Claudia.

  “At the first bend in the mine, just where you couldn’t see from the mouth.” Claudia had swallowed some of Wilmer’s enthusiasm. The lure of gold was powerful.

  Slocum found the markings, fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out the tin holding his lucifers. He scratched one against the mine wall and let its flare die down before holding it close to the wall. Claudia was right. Fresh marks and peculiarly formed for anything a miner might do. Slocum tried to determine how the scratches could have been made accidentally, and saw no way.

  “Whatya make of ’em, Slocum?” asked Wilmer.

  “Bring that paintbrush over and get ready to put it into the middle of the scratches when I light another m
atch.”

  Claudia and Wilmer pressed close as Slocum lit the wall again. Claudia did as she was told, then saw the faint outline of what might have been a brush, and hurriedly moved it between those lines.

  “Son of a gun,” muttered Slocum. “You see what I did?”

  “A word, John, there’s a word that’s apparent when the center of the marks is covered by the brush.”

  “What’s it? Tell me what it is,” Wilmer said.

  Slocum remembered that Wilmer was illiterate.

  “The name Goggins mean anything to you?” Slocum lit another match as he watched Wilmer’s face screw up in concentration. There was no sign Wilmer had ever heard the name.

  “How about you?” Slocum asked Claudia.

  “I . . . I think so,” she said uncertainly. “Papa sent a rambling letter along with the painting and said something about someone named Goggins. A miner?”

  “The miner who blasted this shaft?” Slocum licked his fingers when the lucifer burned them. He retreated to the mouth of the mine and looked around. There wasn’t even a miner’s shack left. Someone had torn it down and used the wood for a fire. He walked to the firepit and kicked through the ashes until he found the corner of an old newspaper. He pulled it out and held it up.

  “What’s it say?” Wilmer peered at the paper, as if it would give him the location of the gold.

  And Slocum realized it might do just that.

  “If Goggins was the miner working this claim, he must have burned all this to stay warm before moving on. This likely tells us where he moved. It’s from the Las Vegas Optic . Tells of a new strike in Sangre Canyon. You know where that is, Wilmer?”

  “Reckon so,” the bounty hunter said, tipping his head back as if he intended to sniff out the proper location. “I know these mountains better ’n I know my own hand.”

  “That’s because you’ve never scraped off all that dirt,” Claudia said, so low that the bounty hunter couldn’t hear. Slocum repressed a smile. Then the smile died.

  “You said you were all mixed up when it came to these canyons,” Slocum said.

  “Never. Not me. This here Sangre Canyon’s jist over the top of the rise. We kin hike it in an hour and then see what’s bein’ mined on the far side.”

  Slocum looked at Claudia, who silently nodded. The gold still put a spring in her step. Heaving a deep sigh, Slocum set off to find the best way up and over the top into the next canyon.

  The rain started just as they crested the top. Slocum wasn’t sure where it had come from, but the storm came fast and out of a sky that had been clear of clouds only minutes earlier.

  “We’ve got to get under cover,” he shouted at Claudia and Wilmer. “We’ll be washed down the side of the mountain if we don’t.”

  “Need to find that miner,” Wilmer insisted. “You ain’t turnin’ fancy boy on me, are you, Slocum? Little rain scare you off?”

  “This isn’t little,” Claudia protested. “I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.”

  “Don’t need sight to track. You do it by instinct, same as I do.”

  “The stink’s being washed off you, all right,” Claudia said, keeping her head down. Slocum saw how the rain had soaked her clothing through and through. He wasn’t complaining about that since her clothing clung to her sleek, trim body like a second skin, but they had to get out of this frog-strangler. Most mountain storms passed quick.

  “There’s got to be a mine somewhere around. Find it,” he told Wilmer, “if you’re so damn good. Who knows? It might even be Goggins’.”

  Wilmer paced back and forth, every footstep causing mud to splash up under his heavy tread. He stopped and pointed into the curtain of gray rain.

  “That way. Let’s go.”

  Claudia looked at Slocum questioningly.

  “Doesn’t much matter if he’s right,” Slocum said. “One direction’s as good as any other until we find shelter.”

  They trooped for less than ten minutes, slipping on the increasingly slick rocks, until a wooden structure appeared through the sheets of rain pelting them.

  “Tole ya I’d find somewhere to get out of the rain,” Wilmer gloated. He held open the door for Claudia, then ducked in ahead of Slocum.

  “It’s almost as wet in here as outside,” Claudia said. “The roof is leaking like a sieve.”

  “Take care of that in a second,” Wilmer said, stepping onto a stool. He rattled the roof a few times, then took a piece of canvas Slocum handed him and tucked it into place so the rain caught in the folds and dripped into a corner of the single-room shack.

  “That’ll work for a while,” Slocum said, sitting down on the only chair.

  “I don’t like this place,” Claudia said. She glanced at Wilmer and wrinkled her nose, making it clear what part of the shack she didn’t like. The bounty hunter smelled like a wet dog.

  “When the rain quits, we keep lookin’ fer this Goggins fella, right?” Wilmer kicked the stool closer to Slocum and sat down on it, leaving Claudia standing. She looked around for something to sit on, and finally perched on the edge of the table after seeing how soaked the thin pallet that passed for a bed was.

  “What’s he likely to tell us that we don’t already know?” asked Slocum. “We should have found the gold back on the other side of the mountain, if it even exists.”

  “Of course it exists,” insisted Wilmer. “Yer thinkin’ on how you got that gold coin off one of Neale’s boys, ain’t you?”

  “The thought was festering,” Slocum admitted.

  “That don’t mean it came from the payroll,” Wilmer insisted, “and it prob’ly didn’t ’cuz Neale wanted the painting fer somethin’ more than to hang over the fireplace in his house.”

  Slocum had no answer for that, but he still didn’t know what Goggins could tell them, if they had deciphered the message properly. Everything was too tenuous to grab. Slocum was beginning to think the gold was long gone and he ought to be also. Only, he had no horse or supplies. If he found the gold before he got a horse, good. Otherwise, he was clearing out.

  His hand flashed to his six-shooter and he drew, the muzzle aimed at the door as it creaked open to reveal a man.

  “Whatcha doin’ in my place?”

  “Who’re you?” Slocum stood, keeping his six-gun pointed at the man’s midsection. When the man slipped inside and closed the door, Slocum got a better look at him. He was dressed as a miner, and they had invaded his shack.

  “Name’s Goggins,” came the answer. “And you kin stay till the rain’s done with, then you go. Ain’t nobody allowed on my claim.”

  “Mr. Goggins!” cried Claudia, jumping to her feet. “You knew my father. You knew Kenneth Peterson!”

  “Who might you be, missy?” Goggins shambled closer and peered at Claudia from only a few inches away. His smile lit up the room. “You must be Kenny’s other daughter. I been expectin’ you.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Slocum, but he knew the answer.

  “I reckoned you’d be comin’ fer the gold eventually. Too much of it fer ya not to come on by to take a gander at it.”

  “Where is it? It’s ours!” Wilmer got off the stool and went toward the miner. Slocum held the bounty hunter back with the barrel of his Colt.

  “Seems to me you’re mighty happy to part with that information,” Slocum said to Goggins. Something wasn’t right.

  “Could be, could be,” Goggins said, stroking his stub-bled chin. “A damn shame what happened to your pappy.”

  “What? What happened to him? I keep expecting to see him come riding up and—”

  “Sorry, missy, ’fraid I gotta tell you that ain’t gonna happen. He got killed by them outlaws. The ones led by the deserter from Fort Union.”

  “Neale? Neale killed my father?”

  “Shot him right down when he wouldn’t fess up to what he did with the gold. That outlaw’s got the worst temper I ever seen in any man.”

  “How’d Maggie get killed?” Slocum grew increasingly une
asy with the old miner.

  “She stole the gold from Neale. Neale upped and hijacked a gold shipment made by the Army, but she stole it out from under his nose. He killed her in one humongous towerin’ rage. Shot her right down not too far from here.”

  “Why’d he bury her body?” Slocum shot a look at both Claudia and Wilmer to keep them quiet. The gold wasn’t going anywhere. He needed to know how it had come to be hidden before his worry would quiet down.

  “Didn’t. Kenny buried her when he found her. Saw it all, I did.” Goggins coughed and spat into the corner of the room. From the look of the wood in the walls, he used this corner exclusively as a spittoon. “Neale found him after he finished plantin’ her all proper-like, but ’fore he could even put a marker on the grave.”

  “And Kenneth Peterson told you where he hid the gold after Maggie gave it to him?”

  “Well, now, that’s not perzactly what happened. But him and me, we done roamed these hills together fer a spell, me prospectin’ and him dabbin’ paint on that canvas of his. He made me promise to tell his daughter—that’d be you, missy—what I know if ’n anything happened to him.”

  “Why didn’t he just tell Claudia to find you instead of sending the painting and making her jump through hoops like some circus animal to even find you?”

  “Cain’t say. Kenny was a strange bird.”

  “Where’s the damn gold?” Wilmer exploded after holding back the only question of interest to him.

  The miner started to speak when Slocum felt the ground shift under his feet. Then the rain cascaded down on him from the canvas and the entire shack collapsed. He was flung back by a wall of water racing from higher up on the hill, and then flailed as he was washed down the mountainside.

  16

  “John!”

  Slocum heard Claudia screaming, but couldn’t get to his feet. Splintery wood planks cut at his face and hands, forcing him to raise an arm to protect himself. As he did, a new torrent of water came washing down with the force of a battering ram and hit him full in the chest, bowling him over and sending him crashing through the downhill side of the shack. The impact stunned him. He tumbled and rolled, somersaulting and trying to get his balance. The wall of water embraced him, held him, threw him farther down the mountain.