by Jake Logan
While she sent the longer, more complicated instructions to her partner, Slocum stepped outside the office and looked around Leadville. Even if the stolen gold was on its way back to Denver, something didn’t seem right to him. There was more here, and he didn’t know what it could be. Before he had a chance to think harder on the matter, Elena came out and said brightly, “Let’s get some food.”
“It’s a bit late for lunch,” he said.
“Then we’ll just have to find something to occupy ourselves until suppertime,” she said, steering him willingly toward the hotel.
11
“What if I’m wrong, John?” Elena sat on the hard seat, staring straight ahead at a blank wall. She ran her fingers over the outline of the small six-shooter in her purse, oblivious to the rocking train. Whatever held her thoughts, it wasn’t the discomfort of the ride back to Denver.
Slocum shifted so he could look at her and also out the window if he chose. The interior of the car was stifling. The conductor had stoked the stove, but the spring weather made that unnecessary when the bright Colorado sun shone through the window. However, lowering the window to the cold mountain air produced an equally uncomfortable result. He wished he could have ridden back to Denver on horseback, though that would have been impossible since the counterfeiters with their ill-gotten treasure had arrived a day ahead of them.
“I don’t think you are. The switch was made.”
“No, not that. I mean, what if I’m wrong about Mr. Pullman?”
Slocum looked at her, then stared out the window at the tall snow-capped mountains of the Front Range. She agonized over this so much he wondered what lay deep down in her mind.
“I owe him so much. He was the only one who stood up for me back in Chicago with Mr. Pinkerton.”
“Allan Pinkerton? I thought he was in Washington running the Secret Service.”
“He is. His son, Robert, is in charge of the company. He refused to believe a woman could carry out the assignment, but Mr. Pullman argued my case eloquently and won. He is the first operative to have a woman as his . . . partner.”
Slocum heard a different word when she hesitated. She had almost said “assistant” but had changed it at the last possible instant before it left her lips. She had more than solving a case of counterfeiting to deal with. If she failed in any way, if she allowed the counterfeiters to somehow get away, it would be laid at her feet. For all the nobility her Josiah Pullman had shown, he would never hesitate to use her as the excuse for their assignment’s failure. Slocum didn’t have to know Pullman to know that. If anything, Pullman might have realized how impossible a task they had been given and planned ahead for failure. It was always good to have a scapegoat, and if they—if Elena—succeeded, Pullman could take the credit for not only bringing the confidence men to justice but also for his forthrightness in championing Elena.
“Why do you want to be a detective? The lawmen I’ve known have been outlaws at some time in their lives. There’s not a lot of difference which side of the badge they’re on.”
“Marshal Atkinson struck me as an honest man.”
Slocum wondered. The lawman had taken the bag of coins directly to the bank. If he were part of the robbery, his actions would add a touch of authority to those being legitimate coins. He frowned at this. If Atkinson was a member of the gang, why hadn’t he moved on once the coins had been stolen? Something held the counterfeiters in Leadville.
Or the marshal might be as he seemed, an honest man trying to keep the peace in a tough mining town.
Slocum still had most of his twenty-dollar gold pieces left, but he wasn’t willing to bet on Atkinson being aboveboard. He had run afoul of too many crooked marshals.
Elena let out a deep sigh and continued to fidget, not even aware she did so.
“I have a very firm opinion that lawlessness should not be allowed. We should all do what we can to bring crooks to justice.”
“Without being paid for it?”
“Well, that goes without saying. I mean, unless you are a professional lawman.”
Slocum looked back at her. She had confirmed what he had guessed. Taking a reward for doing what she considered a man’s civic duty was wrong. He couldn’t look at it that way. He had gunned down several of the counterfeiting ring, and if they should ever get the chance, they’d end his life with the single draw on a trigger. He sat back, thinking about the gold the counterfeiters had stolen so easily. More than a train robbery, it was a clever swindle that allowed them to get away without a posse on their tracks. Atkinson had decided against trying to arrest the men who had held up the train since the clerk had declared nothing had been stolen, and he was basking in the adoration of the station agent and others in town for his bravery. The marshal would have been more inclined to form a posse if the mail car clerk had been killed.
Or if the robbers had made off with the gold.
It was a cleverly contrived crime. And Slocum still wondered if he could turn their brilliance to his own advantage. No one admitted the coins in the Leadville bank vault were fakes. If he recovered the stolen coins, who would complain? The robbers might try to kill him, but they had done that already. Elena would be furious at him, but her position with the company rested on success. He wondered if her innate honesty and loathing for criminals extended to destroying her career?
First, he had to lay his hands on those coins.
“We’re only an hour from Denver,” she said, pointing ahead. They had emerged from the mountains and were rolling across more level terrain. Slocum felt the engine surge as the engineer built steam and speed. Gone were the steep grades and sharp curves through the mountains. Now any time lost in the mountains could be made up on the flat.
“Your partner,” Slocum said. “How likely is it he figured out who had the coins and followed them?”
Elena gripped her purse tightly, heaved a deep sigh, and finally said, “He’s quite good at such things. But he might do something foolish like attempt to arrest the entire gang. Without me there to act as a governor on his wild impulses—”
“He’s hotheaded?”
“Duty-bound. He might understand there wouldn’t be a good case against anyone carrying so much money, but he would bull ahead and make the arrest, trusting the courts to reach the proper verdict.”
Slocum had to laugh and not with humor. He had fallen in with a pair of idealists who thought justice couldn’t be bought. There were a few judges who would take umbrage at the notion of a bribe, but Denver was a wide-open town, almost a boomtown in the middle of huge mining wealth and showing even more promise as a ranching and farming center. So much money flowing through the city had to be nourished or no one would be happy. Typical boomtowns lasted only a few months, perhaps a year. Denver had shown more resilience, and Slocum knew it wasn’t from adhering to the letter of the law.
He sank back, tipped his hat forward, and tried to sleep before reaching the depot. Just as he finally dozed off, the train lurched and they screeched to a halt.
He wasn’t particularly sleepy, but it might be a long time before he got the chance to do more than close his eyes for a couple seconds if Pullman had pinpointed where the counterfeiters had holed up.
“There he is. The one with the bowler.”
A dozen men wore bowlers, but Slocum had no trouble singling out Josiah Pullman. He had a lot to learn about blending in with a crowd. He wore a loud checked suit that was a size too small, the bowler sat atop his head as if it had been tossed onto a flagpole, and he wore button shoes that had been polished so fiercely they were blinding from reflected sunlight.
Slocum and Elena stepped onto the platform and Pullman came over, as if he were on a parade ground and marching in review. He stooped, gave Slocum a once-over, then sneered slightly.
“This is the man claiming the reward?”
“You always carry your piece in a shoulder rig?” Slocum asked. Pullman reacted in shock. “You’d do better to either wear a looser jacket so you can pull it out in a hur
ry or wear it on your hip.”
“Such impudence!”
Slocum stepped forward and pressed his hand into Pullman’s belly as he grabbed his shoulder with the other.
“Draw.”
“I . . . I can’t.”
“The coat is too tight and you have it buttoned up tighter than a whore’s—”
“Mr. Slocum!” protested Elena.
“Did you find where the robbers took the loot?” Slocum said. Insulting Elena’s partner might be fun, but he had his sights set on something more profitable. Twenty thousand dollars was a powerful incentive to not ruffle feathers.
Pullman glared at him, smoothed the wrinkles Slocum had put into his garish-patterned coat, and stepped back a pace. For an instant, Slocum wondered what the Pinkerton detective intended doing. If he tried to throw down, he would be dead in a flash. Something of Slocum’s cold determination communicated to him, and he turned to Elena.
“You vouch for this . . . gentleman?”
“I do. He’s ill-mannered at times, but he gets things done.”
“I’ve killed four of the gang, maybe more. I lost track. Now where are they?”
“You intend to slaughter them all? I protest, Miss Warburton. They must be arrested and brought to trial. Only then can we find the true extent of this counterfeiting ring.”
“Where?” Slocum asked. “Or did you lose them?”
“Of course not. I tracked them to a small house down on Cherry Creek where they were joined by four others. That makes a total of seven miscreants I have identified.”
“You see one about my height, wearing a brown coat and with a scar running along the left side of his nose, like somebody tried to slice it off in a knife fight?” Slocum indicated on his own face where the distinguishing mark ran on the man he had seen with Eakin.
“Why, no, there’s no one like that there.” Pullman scowled.
“There isn’t anyone who resembles that, is there? You are testing me. You will not do this again. I am a bonafide operative for the Pinkerton Detective Agency and am a trained observer.”
“He was trained by Allan Pinkerton himself,” Elena said proudly. “Mr. Pinkerton is a master of disguise and observation.”
“Mr. Pinkerton’s not here, is he? Time’s wasting. Show me where they’re holed up.”
“I have a buggy out front,” Pullman said stiffly. “Miss Warburton?” He extended his arm and she took it, letting Slocum walk behind. He watched them and wondered what their real relationship was. Pullman was a stuffy, bumptious son of a bitch, and Elena had allowed as much earlier while they’d been on the train. But she turned meek in the man’s presence and stuck up for him at the first criticism. It might be that she felt she owed him the chance to work on a real case, but Slocum wasn’t so sure.
Slocum had hoped Pullman was joking about having a buggy, but the small rig stood some distance from the depot, a swaybacked horse in harness looking bored.
“It will be a tight fit, but we can be accommodated if you don’t hog too much of the seat, Mr. Slocum.”
“I don’t mind pressing up against Miss Warburton,” he said, just to annoy Pullman. Elena’s eyes widened in shock at such boldness, but Slocum was past caring. He hopped up and settled on one side of the buggy, curious to see what would happen. It didn’t surprise him that Pullman chose to sit between him and Elena.
The two detectives talked of Chicago and how the counterfeiters were ruining the fabric of economic society. Slocum drifted off, bored with their polite talk, lost in his own thoughts until they rattled through Aurora and then followed a road lower to one that followed Cherry Creek.
“Stop here,” Slocum said suddenly. Pullman yanked back hard on the reins. The horse was only too glad to take a rest. For such an ancient, decrepit animal, pulling a buggy with three people in it had to be a chore.
“What’s wrong, Jo—Mr. Slocum?” Elena asked.
“It’s up ahead, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been here? The only way you could know is if you’re one of the gang!”
“Don’t get your dander up,” Slocum said, hopping down from the buggy. It swayed back and forth as his weight no longer caused it to list to one side. “You don’t see that owlhoot ahead?”
“The gentleman reading the newspaper?”
“He’s a lookout. He probably can’t even read,” Slocum said. He looked around, down to the creek, and then up from the bank to a ridge where another road ran. “They’ve got a second lookout up on higher ground.”
“The man in the tan duster?”
“That’s him,” Slocum said. “Drive any closer and you’ll warn them. I’ll go in on foot.”
“Why won’t they spot you right away if they would see us?”
“It’ll be sundown in a half hour. If I follow the creek, the sound of the water will hide my approach. There’s likely cover for me to get closer without alerting them.”
“He’s very good at this, Mr. Pullman.”
“Miss Warburton, please. I’ll deal with him.” Pullman sat a little straighter. “What do you suggest?”
“Turn around, find yourself somewhere to get a decent meal, and wait for me. I’ll either join you in a couple hours or I’ll be dead. If they kill me, that’ll be reason enough for the federal marshal to investigate, and you can tell him about the counterfeit coins and the train robbery.”
“You pursue a course where you might die?” Pullman sounded fascinated with the idea that Slocum might get filled with lead.
“Not if I can help it.”
“We’ll be at the Porterhouse Restaurant,” Elena said. She turned to Pullman and said almost apologetically, “I’ve heard the food there is quite good. You have no objections?”
“None.”
Slocum slipped down the muddy embankment to a spot where he was hidden from the house not twenty yards distant. Two men patrolled the exterior, one carrying a rifle. Pullman had found the counterfeiters’ hideout. Now all Slocum had to do was get close enough to find the loot from the robbery and take it for his own.
He hunkered down, listening hard. He heard the clank of chains and leather as Pullman turned the buggy around. The man berated Elena for having anything to do with Slocum all the way out of hearing. Slocum had to laugh. They might fit in back in Chicago but in Denver any outlaw could spot the pair of them a mile off. He settled back, tipped his hat down over his eyes, and dozed again, the soft murmur of the creek lulling him to sleep. When he came awake, the sun had set and the night air had turned chilly. A quick look at his watch, its face reflecting like liquid silver in the sliver of moon, told him it was past eight.
Whatever the counterfeiters did inside the house would be well under way.
He tucked his watch back into his pocket, slid his Colt Navy from the holster, and started down the bank of the creek. The swiftly running water hid any small noises he made as he approached. He sank down behind a pile of logs washed onto the bank when he saw the moonlight glint off a lookout’s spectacles. The light made it look as if the man had wolf eyes until he turned and paced back in the direction he had come.
Slocum waited several minutes, slowly counting to see if the sentry followed a set path or walked his duty randomly. A slow smile came to Slocum’s lips when he finally decided the man was as precise as any army sentry at his post. The instant he turned his back to return to the far side of the house, Slocum moved forward.
He chanced a quick look inside the house through a broken window. It took all his willpower not to cry out when he saw stack after golden stack of coins on a table. Two men smoked cigars and a third held out a whiskey bottle. They were celebrating their victory up in Leadville. They had switched their bogus coins for the real ones, and nobody in the mining town had any idea the theft had even occurred.
It might not be a perfect crime but it came damned close.
Slocum froze when he heard the sentry coming back. Before, the guard had not passed the edge of the house where Slocum pressed against the
wall.
This time he did. And his reactions were as good as Slocum’s—almost.
The guard swung around and fired just an instant after Slocum. The sentry’s shot tore through the flimsy wood wall. Slocum’s ripped out the man’s heart.
That didn’t matter since the men inside were already reacting to the gunfire. They might be half drunk and indolent but the gunshots sparked them to life.
“Outside. We got company. Blair! What do you see out there, Blair?”
Slocum guessed that Blair was the dead man. He chanced another glance inside, and his eyes went wide. The coins had disappeared off the table as if they had been ice in the hot summer sun. He saw the last outlaw vanishing through the door.
He ducked around, staying low, and started firing before he had a decent target. One shot took an outlaw just above the top of his boot, causing him to grunt in pain and begin cursing.
“Get on out of here,” the outlaw grated. “I got shot in the leg. I’ll hold off the law.”
“Meet us at the palace.”
With that, the two escaping outlaws stepped up into the saddle, each of them wrestling with a heavy bag of coins. Slocum fired at the nearest man and missed. Then he had to take cover because the counterfeiter he had winged started firing slowly, methodically. The outlaw’s bullets tore past too close for comfort.
Slocum sat on the ground and reloaded. The two with the gold galloped away, shouting as they went. Slocum realized his troubles were mounting. They alerted the other guard, who had been posted nearer the road.
Slocum now faced two outlaws, one wounded and the other fresh to the fight. He chanced a quick look around the side and almost got his head blown off by a shotgun blast. The outlaw joining the fight brought heavy artillery with him.
“I’ll keep him occupied. Go ’round the other way, and we’ll catch him in a cross fire.”
Slocum considered diving through the window and into the house, but something told him not to try that. Instead, he found a hole in the wall, got his boot securely stuck in it, and then heaved himself up to the edge of the roof. The shingles came loose in his hand as he pulled, and he had to scramble to keep his balance. If he fell back toward the creek, he would be a sitting duck.