by Jake Logan
“Hey, Marshal, here he is!”
“Keep him out there, Lem,” Atkinson said. He came out, hand still resting on his six-shooter.
Elena Warburton followed him from the hotel, looking glum.
Slocum had two choices. He could fight or he could run. With a pair of deputies, even ones the caliber of Lem, along with the marshal getting him in their sights, he knew both trails were closed to him.
Slocum lifted his hands in surrender.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” Atkinson said, hurrying over to where Slocum stood in the middle of the muddy street. “I like a man who knows his place.”
8
“You don’t have to grab a cloud, Slocum,” Marshal Atkinson said. “What do you think, that I’m arresting you?”
Slocum lowered his hands and warily watched the lawman, who never took his hand off the butt of his six-shooter. The two deputies took positions so they could get him in a cross fire if he made a move for his own hogleg.
“You need not be so jumpy, Mr. Slocum,” Elena said. “I discussed the matter with Marshal Atkinson and he has agreed.”
Slocum waited to hear what the agreement might be that included him.
“If you spot the miscreant who is lugging around the planchets, you get a reward from the Pinkerton Detective Agency.” The words must have burned Elena’s tongue from the way she spat them out.
“Why?”
“You deserve it. You are the only one who has gotten a decent look at him—at them. I have informed the marshal about my position as detective and he has agreed to aid in my investigation.”
“You think the same owlhoot killed the Eakin boy?” Slocum asked. He stared hard at Elena, not the marshal. Had she told the lawman he had been there? Otherwise, he would not have seen the map or known to go into the valley where he had shot it out with the counterfeiters.
“Makes sense, the way Miss Warburton tells it,” the marshal said. Slocum looked at the man for any hint he was being sarcastic or stringing Elena along for his own purposes.
“How much?”
“The reward?” Elena looked even more disgusted that he would think of such a thing when there were outlaws to be captured. “Five hundred dollars. But every last one of the gang must be arrested before any reward is granted.”
“How many are in the gang?” Slocum asked.
“Why, I don’t know,” Elena said, her eyes going wide. For the first time a smile crept to her lips as she realized her company might never have to pay, no matter how many counterfeiters were brought to justice.
Slocum wasn’t in this for the reward, and from the way Elena was acting, he wasn’t sure he ought to stay in Leadville one minute longer than necessary. But he knew something the woman didn’t—or thought he did. Gold being shipped into town on the train in two days was a plum waiting to be picked. The only reason the counterfeiters would stay here after all the trouble they’d run into, thanks to John Slocum, rode in that train.
He didn’t understand why counterfeiters were interested in stealing actual coins, but there might be opportunities opening for him if he found out.
“Don’t go leaving town for a while, Slocum,” the marshal said. “In case I need to talk to you more about the gang.”
“I’m sure Miss Warburton has told you everything,” Slocum said.
“That she has, but it might not be everything you know.” Atkinson gestured and his two deputies fell in step behind him as they headed toward the saloon across from the opera house, where a fight had spilled out into the street.
“Did you get permission from your partner in Denver to give the reward?” Slocum asked. He saw her recoil.
“I am independent from . . . him.”
“Any trace of the counterfeiters?” Slocum made a sweeping gesture taking in the whole of the town. “They came back, and it’s not likely they rode on.” He watched her like a hawk now as he said, “They’re staying in Leadville for a reason. You have any idea what that might be?”
“No, none. I have to go, Mr. Slocum.” She tried to keep herself from looking in the direction of the telegraph office and failed. He read her intentions as plainly as if she had come out and told him. Whoever she contacted in Denver was her superior, and she awaited a telegram from him—or possibly another telegram since Slocum doubted she would have told Atkinson the reward was authorized if she had not been told she could do so.
“Reckon I should get some sleep, too,” he said.
“Not together, we won’t!”
Slocum chuckled at her as he walked off without saying another word. Elena sputtered and stamped her foot angrily, but he didn’t look back and give her the satisfaction of thinking he cared. He passed the saloon where the marshal and his deputies worked to separate four men fighting willynilly. It didn’t much seem that any of the miners cared who he took a swing at. This was their way of blowing off steam after a harrowing day trapped in the dank, lightless mines.
Slocum wasn’t sure where he went but he needed to walk, to move, to keep going. If he sat astride his horse in this mood, he would leave Leadville far behind before daybreak. He stopped and listened when he reached the town smithy. The man worked late, the rhythmic wham-wham echoing through the night. Slocum started to walk on, then circled the blacksmith shop and pressed his face against a weathered board in the back wall.
The only illumination inside came from the dull red glow of coals on the forge. He had no idea what the town smith looked like. All he could see was the man’s broad back as he lifted a hammer and then rapped sharply with a double blow that made Slocum uneasy. He had spent most of his life around farriers and blacksmiths and knew the sounds well. He was a moderately good metal worker himself and appreciated the color of the heated iron and the sound it made when you hammered it into shape.
The sound was wrong. Not greatly so, but enough to make Slocum look back through the crack and try to figure out what bothered him.
He jerked away when someone passed in front of his spy hole, not inches on the other side of the wall.
“About done?”
“A dozen left,” came a husky voice that Slocum recognized as belonging to the man who had been with the Eakin boy when he died. “Won’t take but another half hour.”
“You ought to work faster.”
“This is the hardest part. If I screw it up, the slug’s wasted.”
“All right,” the other man said grudgingly. “Them lead coins are more trouble than they’re worth getting here.”
“We’d have even more work to do if they weren’t already milled.”
Slocum chanced a look again as the man with his back turned used tongs to pull a glowing disk from the fire and place it in a die sitting on the anvil. He carefully placed a large cylinder over the die, then rapped sharply twice before pulling away the cylinder and dumping the coin into a bucket of water. The second man reached in and pulled it out, tossing it from hand to hand because it was still warm.
“Looks good,” the assistant said, holding it up to examine it by the light from the coals.
“Of course it’s good. I struck it.”
“Needs gold on it. Should I get some gold paint?”
They both laughed, then the man at the forge said, “We’ll take care of that soon enough to make us all rich.”
He returned to his work. Slocum backed away and considered what he ought to do. If there were only the two men in the smithy, he could get the drop on them and march them right on down to the jailhouse. A five-hundred-dollar reward would be mighty fine riding in his pocket, even if the Pinkerton Detective Agency paid in scrip.
Going to the side of the building, he glanced around and saw two saddled horses and a pack animal, probably a mule, hidden in deep shadow. It wouldn’t be the work of a moment to capture the counterfeiters. Then Slocum reconsidered. The marshal wasn’t all that sure about Slocum and would likely suspect the worst of him delivering two men who would declare their innocence. Better to let the lawman catch
the outlaws in the act.
Slocum walked softly, making sure he didn’t get his foot stuck in any mud that might cause a sucking, betraying sound. When he reached the middle of the main street, he walked quickly back to the saloon where Atkinson and his two deputies shared a smoke with a man gussied up like a tinhorn gambler. The marshal flicked his cigarette into the mud when Slocum went up to him.
“What can I do for you, Slocum?”
“Thought you might want to catch the counterfeiters in the act.”
Atkinson frowned, then rested his hand on his sidearm.
“You just got into town and already you’re willing to accuse somebody?”
“They’re down at the blacksmith’s hammering out the fake coins right now.”
“You’d better not be lying to me.” To his deputies he said, “Come on. Bring your shotguns, in case we run into a passel of the gents.”
Slocum hung back, but Atkinson stopped and motioned for him.
“You can drink your fill later. I might not go to the right blacksmithy.”
“There’s more than one in Leadville?”
“No.”
Slocum led the way, aware that the marshal’s hand remained on the butt of his six-shooter in case he had to use the weapon in a hurry. He slowed and pointed to the dark building.
“In there.”
“Lem, around back, in case they try to bust through the back wall and escape. Sid, you back me up with that scattergun of yours.” Atkinson drew his six-gun and looked pointedly at Slocum. “You stay right here, just like you put down roots. I don’t want to have to come looking for you later.”
With that, the marshal and his deputy sneaked up to the doors. Atkinson grabbed the latch of one of the double doors, then heaved. The deputy surged into the building, yelling at the top of his lungs. Only a step behind, the marshal vanished into the black maw. Slocum waited for gunshots. None came. Nor were there any shouts.
He caught his breath as Atkinson and the deputy came from the smithy.
“Ain’t nobody in there. You funnin’ us, Slocum?” asked the deputy.
“They were in there. Two of them. One used a die and hammer to pound out the coins and the other—”
“Go see for yourself.”
Slocum did as the marshal told him. He went inside and looked around. The interior was still hot from the fire. The coals had burned low but glowed a dull red. From where he had watched, the coals hadn’t been stoked to blazing anyway. They might have cooled if the two counterfeiters had left the instant Slocum went for the marshal. He poked around, then knelt and picked up a half-slug and held it out for the marshal.
“So? It’s a hunk of lead.”
“It’s got a milled edge.”
“Not so much,” Atkinson said, running his callused thumb along the edge. “Leon might use this for any number of things.”
“Is Leon the blacksmith?” Slocum asked.
“He is. You think he was in here? You said you didn’t get a good look at the men.”
“I heard them talking about making counterfeit coins. Is that something Leon would do?”
“Let’s go ask.” Atkinson flipped the bent hunk of lead and tipped his head in the direction of the doorway. Slocum preceded the lawman, aware that, although Atkinson had put his six-shooter back in its holster, his hand again rested on the butt.
The two deputies walked together whispering and snickering. Slocum followed them with the marshal close behind. A hundred yards down the road, Lem stopped in front of a dark house.
“I hate like hell to wake Leon since he’s got a temper, but there’s no way around it, now is there, Slocum?” The marshal shoved him toward the front door and reached around to rap loudly. The echo throughout the house would have been enough to awaken the dead.
Slocum heard mumbling inside and a woman’s querulous voice. A minute later a burly man wearing long johns opened the door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“You better have good reason. Me ’n’ the missus just got to bed.”
“Leon, you been in your forge tonight?”
“Till suppertime. When was that? Three-four hours back?”
“But you haven’t been there yourself since then?”
“Course not.”
“Did you tell anyone they could use your equipment?” Slocum asked.
“Hell, no. Last time I did that, Sookie Clark went and ruined the temper of my best hammer. Busted the danged thing when I went to use it next. I learned my lesson.” Leon squinted over his shoulder as a stream of invective came from inside the house. “The missus don’t ever let me fergit it cost twenty dollars to replace that hammer, and Sookie skipped town rather ’n pay up.”
“I remember Sookie,” the marshal said. “So you learned not to let anyone else use your equipment?”
“If you got somethin’ to say, Marshal, spit it out.” Leon hesitated, glared at Atkinson, then said, “Didn’t think so.” He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled, leaving Slocum and Atkinson staring at each other.
“Leon might be many things, but he’s not a liar. If he said he didn’t let anyone use his forge tonight, he didn’t.”
“He said he’d been home since sundown. Any of the counterfeiters could have snuck in when he left and—”
“And nothing, Slocum. You might want to impress that pretty little filly with your detective skills, but it doesn’t cut the mustard with me. Bother me again and I’ll throw your ass in jail.”
Atkinson motioned to his deputies to return to town. Even from the outskirts, the boisterous music and loud cries were audible. The center of Leadville was lit up with gas lamps and miners walking around with their miner’s lamps strapped to their heads.
Slocum stood in the road outside the blacksmith’s house, wondering if Leon was a liar or merely a man in a hurry to get home to dinner and his wife.
It didn’t matter. The counterfeiters had skedaddled and had made Slocum look like a fool. That didn’t set well with him. Not at all.
9
Slocum spent the next day prowling Leadville and trying not to be too obvious. More than once he saw Lem or the other deputy, Sid, trailing him, watching him just as he was on the lookout for the counterfeiters. Neither the law nor Slocum had any luck.
He spent a good deal of time on the second day bellied up to a bar, drinking trade whiskey by the shot and listening to the talk around him. No matter what saloon he spent his money in, the miners and other townspeople weren’t talking about fake coins or the gold shipment due in a few hours.
Slocum turned and put both elbows on the bar, looking out into the long, narrow room, when Marshal Atkinson came swaggering in, thumbs hooked over his gun belt.
“You and the little lady aren’t talking?” the marshal asked.
“Not any of your concern.”
“Everything that happens in Leadville is my concern.”
“Then this isn’t, since nothing’s happening.”
To Slocum’s surprise, Atkinson burst out laughing and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Give Slocum here a drink. Not that popskull you serve. The good stuff.”
“Why the generosity all of a sudden? The condemned man’s last drink?”
“You haven’t done anything to be concerned about, Slocum. I know. My boys and I have watched you real close. You had me worried for a spell, that I have to admit.”
Slocum took the shot of whiskey and knocked it back. It tasted the same as the rotgut he had been drinking, but the marshal smacked his lips in appreciation as he finished his.
“Now that’s good whiskey,” he said.
“You have any notion about the counterfeiters?”
“Can’t say that I have, and I wonder if your Miss Warburton scared them off. Now, I know they were here in town from the number of fake coins that showed up in people’s tills. Why, Hector, over there,” he said, pointing to the barkeep, “he got rooked out of forty dollars with two bogus twenty-dollar pieces.”
&nb
sp; “Damn right I did. I’ll wring the necks of them snakes if I ever see ’em again.”
“Hec, please,” said the marshal, “I told you, they’re both dead.”
“The Eakin brothers?” Slocum asked. The marshal nodded. “What do you think brought the counterfeiters to Leadville in the first place?”
“There’s a powerful lot of money flowing from these mines. Not only lead, but there’s coal and even some precious metal. Silver. Not as much gold as there used to be.”
The marshal took out his pocket watch and opened the case, studied it, then snapped it shut.
“Been nice sharing a drink with you, Slocum. Duty calls.”
Slocum almost asked if it had something to do with the gold shipment on the noon train. He had looked at his own watch just before the marshal had sauntered in, and the train wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. If something slowed it coming over the pass from Denver, there was no telling when the train would pull into the depot. Slocum had one more of the gut-burning shots, then put the glass down on the bar with a loud clink. The marshal had stopped in to be sure he wasn’t getting ready for some mischief—like robbing the train of its gold shipment. Since he had satisfied himself Slocum was likely to stay put, he had left to see about possible lawbreakers in the rest of the town.
This early in the morning, most miners were hard at work, buried under mountains of rock. That made checking on the ones who weren’t mighty easy for the marshal.
“Hey, Slocum,” the barkeep called as he started out the swinging doors. “You got one more drink coming.”
“How’s that?”
“The marshal told me to give you another when you was done. One for the road maybe.”
“I’ll take a rain check.” He stepped outside, looked at the sky, and wondered if the perpetual layer of low-hanging clouds was why they’d named the town Leadville.
He walked to the side of the saloon where he had tethered his horse and swung into the saddle. Yesterday he had ridden back a ways along the tracks and spotted a decent place to watch the train approaching. Lem had been his shadow and had never realized that he was hunting for an observation point. Now that the deputies and marshal were elsewhere, possibly getting ready to guard the gold as it unloaded at the depot, Slocum was left to his own devices.