by Logan, Jake
From the way Harvey Whitehill glared, he wanted there to be another set of bars. A new thought hit Slocum. The sheriff wouldn’t toss him in the clink because that would put both him and Marianne together, bars or not. Slocum got the feeling Whitehill thought of him as a rival for Marianne’s affections.
As much as that irritated Slocum, it made him feel a mite easier. Whitehill wouldn’t let anything happen if he was sweet on her. Slocum took his leave and looked around, wondering where a young boy without any parental influence would go. He searched around the back of the hotel but found nothing. Asking after Randolph—and likely Billy, too—wouldn’t get him far. Ignoring young boys unless they were up to mischief was too easy. Adults had jobs, concerns, that didn’t include boys.
Slocum harkened back to when he was Randolph’s age. He found himself going to the general store. Inside, out of the sun and relishing the cool interior, he looked around until he found the shelf with the stick candy.
“Help you, mister?” The clerk wiped his hands on a filthy apron. From his expression, he hoped Slocum had a great deal to order because working in the back room proved more difficult.
“Three sticks of that candy,” Slocum said. “Peppermint. Striped.”
“That’s three cents. I’ll let you have six for a nickel.”
“This is fine,” Slocum said. The candy lay on the counter. He reached over and took a small scrap of paper and wrapped them before tucking the candy away in his coat pocket. In this heat, they would turn sticky fast. “You catch those boys stealing your candy?”
“Boys? Oh, them,” the man said in disgust. “You mean that Billy McCarty and his sidekick. Don’t know the kid’s name but he follows Billy around like a puppy dog. Naw, I’ve never caught ’em, but I know they sneak a piece or two every time they come in.”
“When was the last time you chased them off? This morning?”
“Yeah, not a half hour back. I was stacking in the back room when I heard the bell ring.” He pointed to a small brass bell on a spring that alerted him of new customers. “Billy was trying to stop the bell from ringing so he and the dark-haired kid could grab some food, I suspect.”
“I just came from talking to Sheriff Whitehill, and he wants to know where those young’uns might hide out.”
“Last time they tried to sneak off with a jar of pickles, I chased them to the stock tank at the edge of town.”
“Stock tank?”
“Abandoned when Silver City started growing. This used to be free range. Don’t even know what rancher built the tank, but it don’t hold water worth a damn anymore. Still, there’s some water in it. Might even be a fish or two, though I couldn’t say.”
“Much obliged,” Slocum said, heading out with the candy in his pocket. He intended using it as a peace offering to get Randolph and Billy where he could watch them. Boys that age knew every hiding place there was. He might search for a month and never come close to flushing them out if they took it into their heads to avoid him.
Slocum sauntered along, not hurrying as he turned over everything that had happened. He didn’t run from trouble, but he seldom sought it out. This time too much had found him. Where Marianne fit into the trouble bothered him the most. Memories of them together in Georgia spiced up everything that swirled around in Silver City. Before he had everything straight in his head, he caught sight of Billy peering over the edge of the stock tank.
The dirt walls had broken in several places, making what might have been a usual watering hole into a shallow pool. He doubted the general store’s clerk was right about there being fish in the scummy water.
“How deep is it?” Slocum called. “Doesn’t look to be more than a foot or two.” No answer. He edged through a small gap in the earthen wall and looked around the pond. “Doesn’t look good for much more ’n breeding mosquitoes. Doubt there’s any fish in it.”
He found himself a spot to sit. Without looking around, he reached into his pocket and took out the candy sticks. Peeling away the paper, he made a big deal out of choosing one to suck. He twirled it in his mouth, smacking with gusto now and then as he pointedly stared across the still water.
“Ain’t more ’n a foot deep ’cept in the middle. Close to six foot there. No fish, though. You’re right ’bout that.”
He silently held out the paper with the remaining two sticks of candy. Billy hesitantly took one.
“What ’bout the other?”
“That’s for Randolph. If you’ll give it to him, go on and take it.”
“Naw, if I took it, I’m not sure I could hold myself back from eatin’ it, too.”
Billy sat a yard away and worked the peppermint stick around and around, reducing the end to a sharp tip.
“How come?” Billy looked out of the corner of his eye at Slocum. As it was, he kept his legs coiled under him, ready to launch himself into full flight if the need arose.
“Randolph’s ma is in jail. She wants me to be sure he’s not getting into trouble.”
Billy laughed, then fell silent. He cast a sidelong glance at Slocum, then stared straight ahead, as if the two of them locking eyes would be wrong.
“You’re different,” Billy said. “You don’t prance around the truth like most grown-ups.”
“Never had much truck with speechifying,” Slocum said. “Lying either.”
“I ain’t a liar!”
“Never said you were. Truth is, the sheriff and others say a good bit about you but never has a one of them called you a liar.”
“Good. I tell the truth.”
“You know where Randolph is.” Slocum made it a flat statement.
“He’s not here.”
Slocum said nothing. Billy might not lie outright but answers such as that were just as bad.
“You won’t lock him up like his ma?”
“Farthest thing from my mind. You know what’s happened to me since I got to Silver City. Locking anybody up isn’t to my liking.”
“You’d kill, though?” Billy sounded eager at the notion.
“I didn’t kill Carstairs. Randolph’s ma didn’t either. You have any notion who might have killed him?”
“Been thinkin’ on that. Might be Texas Jack’s old partner, name of Jim Frank. He chased me and Randolph off more ’n once for no good reason. Vicious son of a bitch.” Billy looked hard at Slocum, who made no sign he’d heard profanity or had any desire to chastise him.
“Frank and Texas Jack had a fallin’-out.”
“Know why?”
“They was partners in a mine. Texas Jack sold out. From what Miz Lomax said to Randolph, Texas Jack got rooked. Didn’t bother him none, though, since he might have found a bigger strike. Biggest ever since Cap’n Bullard and his brother found silver back in ’70. Don’t know what his brother’s name was. Don’t matter.”
Slocum thought on this a spell. If Bedrich had made a rich strike, Marianne would have been in clover. He turned over the possibility that she might have killed him for the deed to the claim, then discarded what had to be a busted hand. Women couldn’t own real estate, and more than this, Bedrich looked to have been killed in Santa Fe. There hadn’t been even a hint that she had left Silver City and gone hunting for him.
“That’s easy enough to learn about,” Slocum said. “Bedrich would have filed a claim in the land office.”
Billy snickered.
“Burned down. Took all the records with it.”
“Somebody burn it down or was it an accident?” In a town like Silver City, fire made everyone constantly uneasy. The buildings were constructed poorly, slammed up side by side, so if a fire did start from a kerosene lamp or carelessly emptied stove, the entire town would go up in a flash.
“Hard to say. It was the assay office, too. And the telegraph. I seen how Jerry—he was the clerk and telegrapher and chemist—stored those stinky chemicals of
his. Saw him burn up a piece of paper with just a drop of one of them chemicals.”
“Where would you go to file a claim? This is the county seat.”
Billy shrugged. He worked on the last of his peppermint stick candy and then rubbed his fingers in the dirt to get rid of the stickiness.
“Think Randolph might know?”
“Why him? Oh, you mean Texas Jack might have said something to him? I doubt it. Him and Texas Jack didn’t get along too good. Me, I liked Jack. He gave me whiskey when nobody was lookin’.” Billy jerked his head around, looking fierce. “He never gave Randolph none. Ever.”
“Don’t much care,” Slocum said. “Bedrich is dead and isn’t going to give anybody a free drink. So, where’s Randolph?”
“I can give him that candy. The stick you got left.”
“You said you’d eat it if I gave it to you. Better for me to eat it myself if Randolph’s not getting it.” This logic appealed to the boy.
“Randolph was earnin’ a dime an hour workin’ for Tom. He’s the owner of the Lonely Cuss, where Randolph’s ma works. Worked.”
“The fellow at the store knows you tried to muffle the door bell.” With that, Slocum stood, brushed off his pants, and made his way to the crack in the stock pond wall.
He saw how Billy shied away, then relaxed when it became apparent Slocum wasn’t trying to nab him. Slocum felt the boy’s eyes on him as he returned to town, heading for the saloon. It made sense that Randolph would look for work at a place his ma worked. As much as he tried to distance himself from her, he had to still feel the need to protect her—and be comforted by her when things went wrong. Heaven alone knew how much had gone wrong for the Lomax family, just in the past few days.
Slocum went into the saloon and leaned on the bar. A portly man with a handlebar mustache waddled over.
“Beer? You got the look of a man with a big thirst. Maybe you want a shot of my special whiskey.” The man reached for a bottle.
“You’re Tom?”
“His brother,” the barkeep said, suddenly suspicious. “What’s your beef with him?”
“Nothing. I’m looking for Randolph Lomax. His ma told me to fetch him.”
“What’s that kid up to?”
“What do you mean? I was told he was doing chores here.”
“He went off and left the back room needin’ to be swept.”
Slocum went to the back room, the barkeep shouting at him that he couldn’t go there. A quick look around showed that Randolph hadn’t simply left. He had put up quite a fight before being dragged out the back door.
“You’re gonna pay for that door!” the barkeep shouted.
It had been half ripped off its hinges. Slocum saw a footprint in the middle of the door about the size of a young boy’s foot. He had fought, kicking hard as he was dragged away. The knocked-over bottles and the evidence on the unswept floor told Slocum all he needed to know.
Someone had kidnapped Randolph Lomax.
15
“You’re gonna pay for all the broken bottles. They cost money, and my brother Tom’s not gonna—” The barkeep stopped and turned a few shades whiter under his florid complexion as Slocum whirled on him. He didn’t even have to reach for his six-shooter to cow the portly man.
“You see who kidnapped Randolph?”
“Kidnapped? I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no—” This was all the farther he got before Slocum wrapped his powerful fingers around a greasy neck just under bouncing dewlaps and started squeezing.
The barkeep kicked and struggled. Slocum ignored the ineffectual blows as he tightened his grip. He leaned forward and pinned the man against the back wall of the saloon.
“You see anything?”
Gurgles came out along with drool. Slocum eased his grip.
“A weasely-lookin’ fellow. Don’t know him. Don’t know nobody in Silver City. I just got in from Mesilla yesterday ’cuz my brother asked me to help out with the Lonely Cuss. I’m Justin Gallifrey. Ask my brother if that’s not so!”
“What’s he look like? Other than a weasel.” To Slocum’s way of thinking, that described too many miners and prospectors always milling about in town.
“Had ginger hair. A redhead! I swear, didn’t see no more.”
“Just a kidnapper stealing away a young boy.”
“Ain’t that young.” The barkeep gurgled as Slocum squeezed so hard the tendons stood out on his forearm. Then he released the man, watching with no satisfaction as the barkeep dropped to his hands and knees and puked.
Slocum stepped away, spun, and began tracking the best he could. The thin, dry dust didn’t hold footsteps too well in the constant wind blowing through town, but he got a sense of direction. Frank had taken the boy to a spot immediately behind an apothecary. Whether there’d been two horses or Frank had forced Randolph to ride double lay beyond Slocum’s skill to tell. The hoofprints were too muddled for anyone to tell, even an Apache tracker.
But of one thing he was sure. Frank had been the kidnapper. There might be dozens of red-haired men in town, but who else was mixed up in Bedrich’s murder and matched even this sketchy identification?
He knew he ought to tell the sheriff. Even if Whitehill wasn’t likely to go chasing after Jim Frank, Slocum was sure he could convince Dangerous Dan Tucker to join him on the trail. It’d be useful having a lawman at his side. It’d be useful, but it would slow him down. If he told Whitehill, the sheriff would let Marianne know, and she would worry. Penned up in the cell the way she was didn’t give her much room to pace about. And Slocum knew this tidbit would be passed along immediately.
If Whitehill was sweet on the woman, he would do whatever he could to put Slocum in a bad light. Slocum got to the stables and slid bareback onto his captured pony. He didn’t have money for a saddle and gear, but the horse was strong and would run all day and far into the night if he demanded it.
With a snap of the reins, he started on the trail after Frank.
• • •
Slocum about fell from the horse, exhaustion his only companion. For two days he had ridden, trying to find any trace of Randolph Lomax. He was sure Frank had kidnapped the boy, but the pathetic trail had vanished on him only a mile outside Silver City. Giving his pony its head, he had walked along hunting for any hoofprints, any trace. Now and again he found something. His best clue was a piece of cloth that might have been ripped from Randolph’s sleeve on a thornbush in a wild tangle of undergrowth.
He couldn’t be sure.
Slocum drove himself mercilessly, circling about, using every trick he had ever learned to find the trail. He had finally decided to simply study the terrain and make a guess. His belly growled, his vision blurred, and he lacked sleep from his crazy hunt. There should have been an easier way to proceed, but Slocum couldn’t find it. More than one traveler along the roads he crossed furnished information about other riders. None matched Frank’s description and no one had seen a boy, much less one that might have been Randolph Lomax.
Finally reaching the end of his rope, Slocum dismounted and gathered some berries. He wanted to hunt, bag a rabbit or squirrel, and get a decent meal. Lacking any supplies but what he carried on his person worked against him staying on the trail much longer. Settling down with his back to a tree as he ate the berries and chewed on some bitter roots, he tried for the hundredth time to make sense out of the kidnapping.
What Billy had said about Texas Jack Bedrich hitting a big vein of silver ore satisfied most of the reasons Frank might have for kidnapping Randolph. He might ransom him off for the mine. If he and Bedrich had a falling-out just before the new strike, he had to feel cheated, no matter how profitable the partners’ old mine had proven to be. Slocum had seen this before. It transcended greed and envy. The feeling of being cheated rankled worse than being poor or wasting a life hunting for the elusive precious metal.
Nothing he had heard about Bedrich, save Marianne’s account, told him the man would play fair either. Frank might have a legitimate claim to the new silver strike.
With Texas Jack Bedrich dead, stealing away Randolph might be the only way the prospector had of getting his share from Marianne; only the woman had nothing. She had been turning tricks to make ends meet when taking in laundry hadn’t been enough.
Slocum’s mind wandered when he thought of her sleeping with one miner after another, taking their paltry coins and still not making enough to prevent eviction. Marianne Lomax was a proud woman, and being unable to feed her son would hurt her worse than physical injury ever could.
He spat out seeds and closed his eyes. Sleep eluded him as his memories of him with Marianne back in Georgia poked and prodded at his mind. Realizing the futility of sleep that might be haunted with such memories, he levered himself to his feet and got the lay of the land. He had a powerful thirst. A stream ran a couple dozen yards away, barely audible over the sounds of the woods. Making his way through the trees, he found the small creek tumbling along, clear and pure. Slocum dropped to his belly and began scooping in water.
A sound barely louder than the water slipping over rocks made him freeze. He rolled onto his side to get to his Colt Navy as the rustling noise grew louder. A deer might be coming to drink and hadn’t scented him. But Slocum didn’t think so. He slipped his six-shooter free and strained to make out anything worth shooting at in the undergrowth. Bushes rustled, then stopped.
Slocum moved fast. He rolled twice more, getting into the creek and causing a curtain of water to splash upward. Bullets tore through the watery sheet, but Slocum already ran hard for cover. He landed behind a rock and twisted about to get off a shot.
The spot where the rustling had been proved empty. Slocum knew why. He rolled onto his back and fired wildly.
“Damn you, Slocum! You’re a cagey one!”
Frank’s voice carried no hint of injury, only outrage that he hadn’t duped Slocum into looking the wrong direction so he could shoot him in the back. Slocum kept moving, dug in his toes, and found purchase to dive parallel with the ground. He landed hard, but he had let out all the air in his lungs an instant before colliding with the hard ground. Sucking in a new breath proved painful, but Slocum was still in the fight.