Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860)

by Logan, Jake

“Go on. Do it,” Slocum urged. She gripped his arms fiercely, then gave him another kiss before fleeing the jailhouse.

  “Inside, Slocum. Close the door and lock it,” Whitehill called from his post behind his desk. Slocum did as he was ordered. “Now toss me the keys.”

  The sheriff caught them and added the key ring to the Colt Navy and other contents in his desk drawer.

  “You ain’t spinnin’ a tall tale, are you, Slocum?”

  “I wish I was,” Slocum said, sinking down to the cot where Marianne had slept. He caught her scent on the pillow and blanket.

  All he could do was lie back and wait.

  Billy McCarty poked his head up to the barred window a bit after sundown. It didn’t take Slocum long to explain what he wanted.

  17

  “Please tell me what to do, John,” pleaded Marianne the next morning. “I don’t know where any map is!” She brushed away tears as her stomach knotted. It wasn’t fair! How could Jack have done this to her? Now she had to lie and cheat and maybe kill to get her son away from a man who had murdered at least twice.

  “All you can do is meet Frank and convince him you’re telling the truth.”

  “You don’t think I can do it.”

  “If I thought I had any chance in hell of getting Randolph back, I wouldn’t have swapped places with you.” He clutched the iron bars that had held her the day before so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  “I can shoot him. I can get a gun, and when he rides up, I can shoot him. In the arm or leg. Then I can threaten him until he tells me where Randolph is.” Her resolve hardened. This wasn’t much of a plan but it was better than none at all. Randolph wouldn’t stay in the son of a bitch’s grips one instant longer than necessary.

  “Be careful trying that. You kill him, you’ll never find your son.”

  “I can give him a fake map. I know how Jack wrote. Small, crabbed little letters nobody but him could read.”

  “Play for time—and ask for proof that Randolph’s still alive,” Slocum said.

  “I need help, John. I’ll get a gun and break you out so you can ride along. You stay out of sight until he shows his ugly face and—”

  “Won’t work, Marianne,” said Sheriff Whitehill. He looked up from his desk. “I didn’t let you out so you could spring Slocum. He’s my guarantee you’ll be back. Way I look at it, you both have done some killin’.”

  “She hasn’t,” Slocum said coldly. “Frank’s the man you want, and you’re letting her do your job for you.”

  “Evidence doesn’t say that. It’s your word that Frank confessed to you. No other witnesses, were there?”

  As the two men argued, Marianne pressed herself against the cool adobe wall and tried to hold off a bout of hysteria. This wasn’t like her. She prided herself on being calm and collected, but too much swirled about in her head for that fiction to last much longer.

  A fake map was a good idea. It wouldn’t take her long to make one. Getting a gun might be a bit harder, but not that much.

  “Sheriff,” she said. “Lend me Slocum’s gun. It’s not going to do him any good.”

  “Can’t do that, Marianne. Folks might think I was helpin’ you commit a murder if you up and kill Frank.”

  “I’ll do more than kill him if he won’t tell me where he’s holding Randolph!”

  “Now, Marianne,” Whitehill said, “that kind of talk’s what got you tossed in the jug before. Les Carstairs was a no-account, but too many in town heard you threaten him. If I had a lick of sense, you’d be in the cell again.”

  Marianne went numb. Thoughts refused to rise. Her usual glib tongue was silenced. She left the jailhouse as if both feet were in pails of concrete. She scrounged about town until she found a scrap of paper caught against a wall in the morning breeze. It took another half hour to get a pen and ink to produce her fake treasure map. She drew lines at random and scribbled in directions that likely contradicted each other. The ink took a while to dry but she held the paper out in the wind and sun before folding it up and tucking it into her pocket.

  Time forced her to hurry to the stables, where she took Slocum’s pony and began the ride along the road south to Shakespeare, though she knew Frank wouldn’t let her get that far. He would lie in wait along the road, let her pass, then see if anyone trailed her. An hour later, she realized with a sick feeling that she hadn’t brought a pistol. Even her knife had been left behind. Sheriff Whitehill had it in his desk drawer, evidence of the Carstairs killing.

  She wished she could appreciate the bright New Mexico day. The sky sported only a few wisps of snowy white clouds. The gentle breeze cooled her, and the road stretched invitingly. Oh, to keep riding! She could be down in the New Mexico boot heel and reach Mexico in a couple days.

  But that didn’t save Randolph. Thought of her captive son sparked her fiery temper again until she began making the pony uneasy with her grunts and occasional jerks of her knees and tugs on the reins.

  To keep her anger in check, she began studying the road ahead for any sign of Frank. The shimmering heat hid anyone lurking beside the road. She concentrated so hard on what lay ahead that the sound of hoofbeats behind her came as a surprise. She craned around and her heart leaped into her throat.

  Jim Frank.

  He galloped up and then stopped suddenly a few yards behind her.

  “Don’t turn around,” he called. “You got the papers?”

  “Where’s Randolph? You don’t get anything until I’m sure you haven’t hurt him.”

  “I’m holdin’ the winnin’ hand,” he said. “You ever want to see your son again, you give me the papers or I ride off.”

  “How do I know I can trust you? You’re a cold-blooded killer.”

  “And you’re hot-blooded enough to kill a man. I saw the cut you put across Carstairs’s gut. Another half inch and you’d have carved his innards out for him.”

  “I’ll do the same to you if you hurt my son.”

  Frank laughed harshly, then quieted.

  “I ain’t got time for this. Hand it over.”

  Fuming, Marianne took out the fake map and held it over her head.

  “You come and get it.”

  “I got a better idea. You dismount and put a rock on top of it, then you walk away so I can look it over. There’s no call to trust you.”

  Marianne did as she was told, beginning to worry. Did Frank know what the map looked like? She could never hope to overtake him if he upped and rode away. Even if she did, how would she ever force him to release Randolph? Tears welled in her eyes, and she balled her hands into fists until she quaked with pent-up fury.

  Frank dropped lightly to the ground, keeping a wary eye on her. He kicked away the rock and snared the fake map before it blew away. Holding it up, he frowned when he examined it closely.

  “What are you tryin’ to pull? This isn’t the deed to the claim.”

  Marianne’s mind raced. Frank hadn’t wanted a map, he’d wanted the official claim—or Texas Jack’s copy. The claims office had burned down and destroyed all the official records. Everything clicked in her head. Jack had gone to Santa Fe to file in the territorial capital. Frank had tried to get the deed from him and had killed him before he stole it.

  But if Jack hadn’t had it on him when he died, where was his copy of the deed?

  “I’m not dumb enough to bring it,” she said, lying fast. She needed to spin a yarn Frank would believe. “That’s a map to where the deed is hidden. In a bitters jar. In the roots of an oak tree.”

  Frank looked at the map again, frowning.

  “I can’t make head nor tail outta this.”

  “Release Randolph, and I’ll explain the map.”

  “I’ll kill him. This is a trick!”

  “No, no, you can’t. Randolph even knows what that map means. He . . . Jack gave it to him when
he rode off to Santa Fe. Randolph had hidden it, but I saw him.” Marianne babbled and knew it. She clamped her mouth shut, took a deep breath, then said, “Randolph can tell you what it means. You ask him, then let him go.”

  “If he don’t, he’s dead.” Frank swung into the saddle and galloped away, heading north.

  Everything depended on how expertly she could track Frank. Marianne got onto the pony and set it after Frank, but riding without a saddle proved more difficult than she thought. Letting the pony walk didn’t cause her any trouble staying on its back. Galloping caused her to slip and slide. As she slid backward, the horse slowed. By the time she got her seat again, Frank was out of sight.

  She let out a cry of rage and frustration. Marianne rode as hard as she could to catch up with Frank, but the man might as well have been swallowed by the earth. An hour of futile searching convinced her she had to return to town. When Frank found out Randolph knew nothing about the map, he would come looking for her. In Silver City she might depend on the sheriff to stop Frank.

  Or she could get Slocum out of the lockup. Even if she swapped places again in jail with him, he stood a better chance of freeing Randolph than she had. Tears running down her cheeks as she rode, she cursed herself for a fool thinking the fake map would trick Frank into releasing her son.

  She should have brought a gun and shot him dead. Randolph might be dead already or killing Frank might doom him, but she would have had the satisfaction of putting a slug in the kidnapper’s foul black heart.

  • • •

  “I tried, John, I really tried to follow him, but I fell off the horse. Why didn’t you have a saddle for it?” Marianne fought back tears, sniffling a little.

  It irritated her when he didn’t answer but gave her an order she found repugnant.

  “Tell the sheriff we want to switch places again. You come in and I’ll leave.”

  “No! I have to find Randolph! I can’t do that in a jail cell!” Outrage burned away her fear. She had expected more from John Slocum. After all, he was—

  “Do it,” he said coldly. “There’s damned little time after Frank finds out the map’s a fake.”

  “Randolph might stall him, but that’s not going to get him free. I have to hunt for him.”

  “Frank is too good for that. He’s clever, and he probably rode into a forest without leaving so much as a bent blade of grass under his horse’s hooves. Let me out of here. Tell Whitehill.”

  “You have a plan?” Marianne barely dared to hope that Slocum did. She sniffed, then wiped her nose with a shaking hand. Her lace handkerchief had disappeared during her ride to free Randolph, and her clothing was a complete mess. Filthy, she needed a bath and a change of clothes.

  “Tell the sheriff.”

  “Let me freshen up and—”

  “Tell him!”

  The command caused her to jump. Startled at his vehemence, she backed away and half turned to run. Cursing herself for such a reaction, Marianne hardened her resolve.

  “Tell me what your plan is. If I don’t like it, you can rot in hell for all I care. Getting Randolph back is all I want.”

  Slocum’s face darkened as he leaned forward. She pressed herself back against the far wall if he reached through the bars to grab her. He might try to hold her hostage to force Whitehill to let them both go, but even as that notion came to her, it died. The sheriff might be a bit sweet on her, but he would never allow them both to go. He knew as long as he held one of them, the other would return.

  And he was right, Marianne admitted. She might get mad at Slocum, but she wouldn’t leave him. Unless saving her son required it.

  “Someone trailed you, then waited for Frank to leave you behind. If he’s half as good as he claims, he found where Frank is holed up.”

  “Is Randolph there? Can we get him free?”

  “I don’t know because I’m in the cell.”

  “Who is it? The deputy friend of yours? I’ll find out and—”

  “It wasn’t Tucker. He’s still out of town. You’ll never see Randolph again if you don’t get me out of here so I can rescue him.”

  Dizziness hit her like a blow to the head. She swayed as she wrestled with all the implications of what Slocum said. He had always been truthful with her. Never once had she caught him in a lie, except possibly by omission. The way he had ridden off in Georgia without so much as a fare-thee-well had always cut her to the quick. Even with the Federals calling out their soldiers to hunt him down for killing that carpetbagger judge, he could have stopped on his way west.

  What would she have told him if he had? The chance he would have let her ride with him was slim, but he might have. They could have been together all these years.

  “I . . .” Marianne stood a little straighter, then called out, “Sheriff, let him out. I’ll take his place.”

  Sheriff Whitehill ambled over, swinging the key ring on his trigger finger. He looked at her hard, never once glancing at Slocum.

  “Now that’s what I call a surprise. I thought he was more of a gentleman and would let you stay free, on his bond, so to speak.”

  “I know you’d prefer me as your overnight guest,” Marianne said. She tried not to laugh when she saw the flicker of expression on his face. He was sweet on her.

  “Into the cell closest to the front,” he said. “I ain’t lettin’ you both out of a cell at the same time.”

  “Afraid I might overpower you, Sheriff?” she teased.

  Again he reacted as if he had a letch for her. Seeing this made her wonder how she could turn it to her benefit. So far, he had been hard-nosed about helping Randolph. As she entered the cell, she brushed past him, touching just enough to let him know she was there.

  “The only thing overpowerin’ is your smell,” he said. “You’re sore in need of a bath.”

  “You’re such a charmer, Harvey,” she said as he locked the door behind her. He acted gruff, but the flicker in his eyes and a small twitch of a smile told her using his first name had been the right thing to do.

  “All right, Slocum. You can go for now. Same as before. You don’t leave town.”

  “Look at it as saving the county some money,” she said. “If you only have one prisoner, you only have to feed one of us.”

  “The slop I get from the restaurant’s gonna get tossed to the hogs otherwise. Don’t cost the taxpayers nuthin’.”

  “I thought the food was pretty decent,” she said. She looked past the sheriff at Slocum, who now stood free of his cell.

  “Sometimes they get the order confused with real food,” Whitehill said. Now she knew for a fact he wanted her, just a bit. He paid for her meals rather than relying on whatever leftovers might come his way from the restaurant for prisoners. Maybe not Slocum’s, but he gave her better victuals than something being fed to the pigs.

  “I’m going, Sheriff,” Slocum said. “Let me get my gun.”

  Whitehill nodded, then headed for his desk to pull the six-shooter from the drawer. For a moment Marianne and Slocum were alone, face to face.

  He said, “Don’t worry.”

  Barely daring to speak the words, she said, “Rescue my son.”

  Then Slocum retrieved his sidearm and disappeared through the door into the street. Never had she felt more hopeless, more helpless. She had to depend on a man who had been locked up and someone else she didn’t even know to save her Randolph.

  18

  Slocum hoped to hell he wasn’t signing Randolph’s death warrant. He looked around but failed to find the face he sought. Walking fast, he went to the stables and peered in. Marianne had left the pony in a stall. Patting his pockets, he found a few small coins in his vest pocket. No one in Silver City was going to sell him a saddle for the few coins he had.

  Before the stableman could stop him to take the pitiful amount of money he had for stabling and feeding the hor
se, Slocum led the pony out and vaulted onto its back. The pony sagged under his weight. It had gotten used to the much lighter Marianne astride it, but the pony righted itself, got its legs under it, and let Slocum trot it from town, heading south along the road Frank had used as a rendezvous.

  “Mr. Slocum! Hey, Slocum!”

  He perked up when he saw a distant figure waving frantically. Putting his heels to the horse’s flanks, he galloped away from the road toward the draw where Billy McCarty waved to him.

  “Did you find him?” Slocum’s question collided with the boy’s frantic statement. He held up his hand to stop the verbal flood. “Did you find where Frank has Randolph?”

  “I did, I did, Mr. Slocum. I done just like you tole me. I kept way back as Miz Lomax rode the trail, then hid so Frank’d never see me. He took a piece o’ paper from her, then I waited ’til he rode past me. Followin’ him was hard, damned hard, but I did it. Just like you told me. You’re quite a trailsman, knowin’ tricks like that.”

  “You know them now, too,” Slocum said. “Is Randolph alive?”

  “Yeah, he’s all trussed up. I was gonna rescue him, but Frank never left. He played with that six-gun of his, spinnin’ the cylinder ’round and threatenin’ Randolph. I’d have kilt him if I could but you was right about how to track him, so I figgered you was right about me not takin’ him.”

  “We’ll do it together,” Slocum said, his mind racing. “You’ve done good, real good.”

  “This way.”

  “Not so fast. Did you ride straight here?”

  “Like a bee headin’ to its hive.”

  “We’ll take a more roundabout trail back. If Frank spots your tracks, he might run smack into us. Or lay an ambush.”

  “You’re all the time thinkin’,” Billy said. “That’s good. I need to be more like you.” He fell silent as they rode for a few minutes, then said, “How many men have you killed?”

  “Too many. Maybe one too many.” He couldn’t help thinking his life would have been different if he hadn’t plugged a crooked judge and his gunman. If he’d stayed in Georgia, he’d likely have married up with Marianne. They had certainly been moving in that direction when the war intervened. Once he’d come home, they had picked up where they’d left off, only sharing more adult pursuits.