by Jake Logan
Slocum steeled himself for a thrashing, but the head rim guard thrust a rifle snout into his gut. “Get on over to that wagon. Jacobs? Take that length of rope there and tie his hands behind him.”
“Now boys, that won’t be necessary. I have the same general thing in mind as the colonel, which is that we all come out of this with what we want. Beyond that, I don’t care what happens to you. But tying me up won’t serve any purpose at all.”
The man shook his head. “Talk all you want, but we’re tying your hands.”
As Slocum walked toward the four-person barouche, he passed a large burlap sack with what looked to be smaller sacks of meal, cloth-wrapped bacon, and tins of foods spilling out. He stopped, toed it, and the man with the rifle behind him said, “I bet you’re hungry, huh?” He offered a halfhearted laugh.
Slocum casually scooped up the neck of the sack, taking care to work the spilling contents back inside, then cinching it tight in his hands.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Slocum walked unhurriedly back toward the basket. “All part of the colonel’s agreement. Don’t believe me, you ask him.” He just hoped they wouldn’t catch on that he was lying as he strode to the top of the cliff and, without hesitation, dropped the sack down over the edge, near where the basket always landed.
“Hey! That was our food! That was meant for the guards!”
The colonel, already seated in the back of the barouche, shouted, “For God’s sake, can’t you people do anything right? Tie that bastard’s hands, keep a gun on him, and get him over here. I have important affairs to attend to, dammit!”
They tied his hands behind his back, tighter than was necessary. He tried to flex them to gain a bit of slack, though it barely helped, and soon his fingers began to turn red and throb like a bag of bees.
“No one,” said the colonel between puffs off his cigar, not taking his eyes from the raw gold in his hands, “is to touch a hair on the heads of those slaves nor go down there until I return. Is that clear?” He looked up long enough to make eye contact with the man with the gun.
“What about our food? He threw it over the edge to them damn slaves down there.”
“You are lucky I don’t chuck you all in, considering how foolish you have been behaving these past few days, neglecting to feed those poor people and forcing them to shoot at you. Damn shame, but I get what I—”
Slocum smiled at the colonel’s near-slip. “You get what you pay for, Colonel? Is that what you were about to say?”
“Shut up. Drive on back to the ranch. Now!”
And they were under way, with Slocum seated in the back beside the colonel, and a familiar face driving the barouche—a laughing Everett. “Boy, don’t you beat all, Slocum,” he said. “I never have seen the likes of you before.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. You ever catch that prison wagon, Everett?”
The laughter from the front seat stopped and the thin driver said, “You keep your mouth shut, or by God, I’ll shut it permanent for you.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Everett,” the colonel warned him. “Odd as it sounds, I find I have particular need of Slocum’s services. And don’t think I don’t know what happened to the prisoner transport wagon. I heard all about that little pitiful escapade. I expected such buffoonery from some of the others. Harley, for instance, but not you. I see that I was wrong to place responsibility in your less-than-worthy hands.”
“You got that all wrong, Colonel. It wasn’t my—”
“I really don’t care right now, Everett. Do your best to get us to the ranch in one piece . . . and not afoot.”
“I don’t guess you’d consider untying me, Mulletson? My hands are throbbing something awful. I’ll mind my p’s and q’s . . .”
“Nice try, Slocum. Soon enough, though.”
From the front seat, Slocum heard Everett say, “Your head’ll throb something awful . . . with a bullet in it.”
“That will be about enough of that, Everett,” said the colonel. “You are already in the black book over that wagon escapade.”
As the colonel fell back into his ore-induced trance for the rest of the trip, Slocum wondered just what the foul little man, or his hirelings, had in store for him. Whatever it was, he guessed none of them meant for him to live long enough to get back to the canyon.
20
As they wheeled up in front of the broad steps of the grand ranch house, Slocum noted that the house, which but a few days before had seemed so imposing and elegant, looked shabbier than he’d remembered. Maybe it was because he now knew the truth about Colonel Mulletson, knew that the man would be out of money sometime soon, and might well be already. How did the man keep the whole ball rolling? wondered Slocum.
The colonel climbed down from the barouche, grunting and farting as he groped with his short legs to reach the ground. He held on to the ore sample under one arm, as one might a pillow or a loaf of bread fresh from the market.
“Slocum, goddamnit, help me down here!”
Slocum stood in the back of the buggy and shrugged. “I’d like to, Colonel, but I’m all tied up at the moment.”
“Aw, Everett, get your ass down here, lend a man a hand, will you?” Then the colonel managed the rest of the drop by himself. He smoothed his jacket and trousers as Everett took his time in clambering down beside him. “Hand me that pigsticker of yours, Everett.” The colonel pointed at the broad-bladed skinning knife sheathed at the tall cowboy’s side.
“What?”
“The knife, I want to borrow it to cut Slocum’s hands free.”
“The hell you will. I’ll do it.”
“No you won’t. ’Cause you’ll cut his hands off. Now give it here.”
The look of pure anger shining off Everett’s face wasn’t something Slocum liked to see, particularly when he was bound and unprotected. He wasn’t sure that Everett wouldn’t just pull out the knife and let his chubby employer have it right then and there—in the gut.
Finally, the cowboy relented and, in a deft, two-fingered move, slipped the knife from its sheath. It sailed upward, he caught it in his hand, and he poised it there, point angled inches from the fat man’s gold watch chain, before flipping it over, pinching the blade in his fingers, and offering the handle to the colonel.
“Pretty little tricks, Everett. However, I can assure you I don’t scare easily.” He took the knife and nodded toward Slocum for him to turn around. As Slocum did, he saw Everett eyeing the ore, his tongue tip passing over his lips as if he were a dog eyeing a meaty leg joint.
“You best keep your eyes on your own tasks, Everett,” said the colonel, handing back the knife. “You don’t, you are liable to find yourself unemployed.”
“Seems to me we’re all about that much anyway.” Everett tipped his had back. “If what Slocum says is right, that is.”
The colonel sighed and headed for the house. “Slocum, get on in here. Everett, go saddle up two horses, bring ’em out here. Me and Slocum have some business to discuss. We’ll be ready in about an hour.”
“Why should I?” Everett canted his hips, stood as if ready to draw.
The colonel sighed again. “Because if you don’t, I won’t pay you a damn thin dime for anything you’ve done since the last time you got paid last month. Now do the job and there will be something extra in it, I assure you, you dumb bastard.” He held up the heavy hunk of gold ore and wagged it as if trying to detect a rattle from within.
“You hear that, Everett? That’s the sound of pure money. Probably more than you can ever imagine. Not me, however. I can imagine a whole load of money. But suffice to say it will be a good and welcome thing, yep, and it will make us all rich men if we play our cards right. But I can’t do that if you are going to stand there and act like a jackass.”
They left Everett at the hitch rail, a little confused but catching on to
the implications of what his boss had said. By the time they entered the cool foyer of the grand house, Everett had headed to the barn.
“Now, Slocum,” said the colonel with a smile, as if none of the past couple of days had happened. “What say we have ourselves a nice meal, then we can talk about what it is I’ll need you to do for me.”
Slocum started to speak, but the little man held up a hand. “And what I can do for you. Yes, yes, I understand the finer points of negotiations and agreements.”
“I was under the impression you had lost your cook to an . . . unfortunate mining accident.”
“Ah,” said the colonel, cradling the rock as he walked toward the dining room. “You are a funny man, Mr. Slocum. Very funny, indeed. But as you’ll see, cooks come and cooks go. One left, another one was, shall we say, dropped in my lap.” The man emitted a lecherous laugh that left no mistake as to his comment’s intention.
The thought made Slocum wince. Bad enough he had to see the man standing before him, but to have to picture the foul little beast naked was an entirely unpleasant notion. The colonel rang the bell at his place at the table.
Slocum’s wince continued as the door to the kitchen opened and in walked Tita, looking as pretty—and as angry—as when he’d first laid eyes on her back at Marybeth’s way station.
“I believe you two know each other, eh?” said the colonel.
Spite dripped from the girl’s eyes like venom off the fangs of a rattler. She clattered the serving tray before the colonel and made to stomp back to the kitchen, but the colonel snatched her by the wrist and spun her around. She did not try to fight his grasp, just glared at him with her bottom jaw thrust outward.
Slocum had seen that look on her plenty before. What he hadn’t seen was the extensive bruising along the side of her face. And up around her eyes. Slocum assumed they had a special working relationship that was beyond his concern at present.
“Be a dear, little Tita, and fetch a bottle of wine.” He let her go.
She spun, headed for the door, and said, “There isn’t any more wine left, you fat pig. You drank it all.”
The colonel’s face flushed, but he just stared at Slocum and raised his eyebrows. “Hm,” he said. “It appears I am no longer living in the manner to which I have grown accustomed.” He hefted the rock from where it sat beside his plate. “Fortunately, that minor setback will not last long.”
“Did you do that to her face, Colonel?”
“Why, Slocum? Do you still have feelings for her?” The fat man stifled a snorting laugh.
“I don’t like to see any woman mistreated. Anyone who would do that shows a distinct lack of . . . everything.”
“Blah blah, Slocum. If you are such a goody-goody, what are you doing up out of that hole while your friends rot down there? Oh wait, let me guess. You are not in this to feather your own nest, are you? No, no, you are hoping to learn something from me that will help tip the scales in your direction in this little debacle we have going on here.”
As the colonel spoke, Slocum smelled potatoes and some sort of meat—antelope, if he wasn’t mistaken—wafting from under the canted dome lid on the serving platter. His stomach growled.
“Oh, beg your pardon, but I am such a poor host. Here, Slocum”—the colonel lifted the lid—“let me fill your plate with potatoes and meat, and some greens, too. Though it looks as if that useless girl has turned them brown. No matter, food is food and I am famished.”
Slocum gritted his teeth and pushed his plate away. “No, thank you, Mulletson. I will not partake of this meal. I had my fill of rattlesnake earlier, and I daresay before the day’s out, I will again.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed, a half smile playing on his mouth. Finally he said, “Don’t be so sure about that.” Then he heaped his own plate full of food.
Slocum ignored the comment. “But I would like to hear what it is you have in mind this time.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Slocum. I’ll tell you what you’d like to know and you tell me all there is to know about that ore down there. Hm?”
Slocum ran his tongue over his teeth. “Fair enough. You first.”
“Fine, fine,” said the man with a dismissive wave of his pudgy pink hand. “Mind if I eat and talk, though?” And he dove into his meal. There was still plenty of food on the platter, but Slocum did his best to ignore it, though his nostrils twitched at the aromas even this poorly prepared food offered.
It seemed to him that his sense of smell, always a keen thing, had become even more acute during the past few days of privation. Then he chided himself for thinking he’d suffered any sort of hardship, especially considering all those kids and old folks, slaving away down there for this jowl-faced fool.
The slurping and grunting slowed, and the colonel dragged a cloth napkin across his wet lips. Slocum noticed that the colonel’s suit, even in the dim room, looked unusually rumpled. The napkin didn’t appear to have been laundered in quite some time, and the room’s furnishings were looking dusty and untended.
“You see before you a former wealthy Southern gentleman, Mr. Slocum. In fact, and this may come as a shock to you, sir, but I relied heavily, before the war, that is, on the South’s slave-based economy.
“If only those uppity blacks hadn’t heard those lily-white do-gooders from up North yammering on and on about how wonderful it was to be free and everyone—even slaves from Africa, can you imagine!—telling them they should be allowed to run around as if they had the full rights of whites. Why, if that hadn’t happened, I daresay we would not be having this conversation right now.”
“Were you in the war, Mulletson?”
“Now, Slocum, that is a complex question for which I have a simple answer and a complex one.”
“Simple will do.”
“Then yes, I was in the war. Didn’t fire a gun, if that’s what you are driving at. But I did support the South in my capacity as a titan of commerce. And that, I assure you, is what made the South a nearly insurmountable force to be reckoned with.”
“Nearly.”
“Why, Slocum, you cut me to the quick.” He shoveled in another forkful of meat, then continued talking around it as he chewed. “Did you not fight for the South?”
“I did, for Quantrill. But that’s not the point here, is it? Press on with your tale of woe, Mulletson.”
“Colonel, if you please.”
“I don’t. Now continue.” Slocum’s jaw muscles bunched and he felt himself two seconds from launching himself across the table and driving a fist into the fat man’s meat-filled mouth. It must have showed on his face because the colonel’s eyes widened, and he swallowed and continued.
“When the plantations began to fall, left, right, and center, dammit, my cotton trade went to hell. Everyone’s did, but mine was the most important one, to me, you see. If the damnable slaves had just known their place, then none of this would have been necessary, the war need not have happened. But I digress . . .”
“Yes, you do. Now get on with it, Colonel.”
“Well now, aren’t we impatient? No matter, I will persevere in the face of your impatience.” He stuffed in a wad of burnt greens and overcooked potato. His mouth pulled wide and it looked to Slocum as if he had swallowed gravel. He gulped down a goblet full of water, made a face equally distressed—evidently not pleased with the fact he had to drink water instead of wine.
“Now, after slogging through several postwar years of hard times, and more difficult transactions than you could shake a handful of sticks at, I ended up in these hinterlands, these godforsaken mountains, this vicious terrain where it snows and people are confused about the place in the world of people who are born of a lower order . . .”
Slocum put up a hand. “I already know your views on such things. Don’t foul the air in this room with them anymore. Get to the ranch.”
Colonel
Mulletson looked disappointed that he wasn’t allowed to continue his diatribe, but he nodded. “Very well, very well. As I was saying, I arrived here as sole representative of a small but select group of investors from back East—the Northeast, I might add,” and he winked. “Fools with more money than sense, fools who made their fortunes off the backs of the disgraced and impoverished promised people, the people of the grand Confederacy!” He slammed a pink fist on the table. His fork rattled on his plate and nothing else moved.
Slocum sighed.
The colonel continued. “I was charged with finding a ranch worthy of raising copious amounts of beef creatures that we might then render into meat to be sold to, well, people who are hungry.”
“I gathered that,” said Slocum. “How long before you realized you don’t know a thing about running a ranch?”
The man merely nodded, looked down at his plate. “We experienced several bad winters, it’s true. Wages were in the offing, but many of the men, a number of them quite experienced, chose to leave my employ rather than accept my promissory notes.”
“Smart men,” said Slocum, thinking that he probably knew a few of them. “That would explain why the Triple T Ranch, once famous in wrangling circles, fell off the map, so to speak.”
“Yes, yes. But then”—the colonel’s eyes widened—“someone found gold. Or rather it had been found before I bought the place, but not explored nor exploited until I had the foresight to do so.”
That more or less lined up with Eli’s story. Except for the part about Mulletson being smart enough to pursue the notion out of anything other than personal greed and desperation.
“I bankrolled the initial forays into the canyon’s deep-set mining operations.” He thumbed back his lapels, and rummaged in a coat pocket.
Slocum watched the fumbling intently, and figured he had just enough time to snatch up a fork and stab the man before he drew on him. But the fat man came up with a half-smoked cigar stub. Times truly are tough, thought Slocum.
“Problem is, we ran into a bit of a money shortage after we got the thing set up. I still needed laborers, and it is such a devil of a place to get to, as you well know. Then . . .” He tapped his temple with a fat pink finger that had a bit of meat gravy drying on the end. “I got the idea, brilliant, I might add, to do my part to resurrect the glory of the Old South. I brought back into play one of the most successful and innovative labor forces the world has ever seen.