by Jake Logan
“Might be,” piped up Clark, “somebody snuck into the mine. They might want to steal my lead.”
“Shut up,” Bulwer said. “Nobody would steal the pathetic ore you pull from that mine. Hell, I don’t know why I pay you top dollar for it.”
Slocum knew. If Sookie Clark worked hard and got just enough to keep him going, he wasn’t likely to go into Leadville and tell anyone he was making money from a played-out mine. Such a statement would brand him as a liar or crazy, which would make him prove his contention. The last thing in the world Bulwer wanted was for a bunch of half-drunk miners to troop out here to see that Clark had been working the mine and had pulled a fair amount of lead from it.
He ran his hand over the mine wall, tracing out the lead carbonate that sometimes carried silver along with it. The precious metal was missing, but the low-grade lead ore was more valuable to Bulwer and the counterfeiters than silver would be. They could turn a pound of lead into a pound of gold. To actually mine silver for that kind of value, they’d have to dig out tons of ore, maybe hundreds of tons.
“What do you want us to do, boss?”
“Get your asses into the mine and see if Clark’s right about someone snooping in there. If you see him, kill him.”
Slocum clutched his pistol a little tighter. His life had come down to this moment. He wanted to take as many of the counterfeiting ring with him as he could before they gunned him down.
“We’d be sittin’ ducks bullin’ our way in,” the gunman said uneasily.
“Send Sookie in first. Let him flush out your fox.”
Slocum saw shadows moving at the mouth of the mine and Clark protesting. Then a figure stumbled in. Pressing himself against the wall, he waited as Clark came to the fork. If the miner went down the other way, he had a respite. He might walk out boldly, the gunmen thinking he was Clark. That could give a few seconds’ advantage.
Sookie Clark walked straight toward Slocum.
“I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you let on you’ve found me,” Slocum said.
“Y-You ain’t s’pposed to be in here. This is a workin’ mine.”
“Tell me how to leave without getting ventilated, and you’ll never see me again.”
“Back that way,” Clark began. He swallowed his words in a gulp that sounded as if he was choking. “They’d shoot you for certain sure.”
Slocum said nothing.
“You finding anything in there, Sookie? You need help?”
“Answer them,” Slocum said in a low voice. He lifted his Colt Navy so the miner could see it in his rock-steady hand.
“Not findin’ nothin’ yet.”
“Keep going!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bulwer. I’ll do that.”
“Where does this shaft lead? A dead end?”
“Not exactly,” Clark said. “I cut a drain hole in the back of this branch. Was gettin’ knee-deep water, so—”
“I get the picture,” Slocum said. “Is it big enough for a man to squeeze through?”
“Hell, I lost my good ore cart down it. It’s mighty big and took danged near a case of dynamite to blast.”
Slocum started backing up. He motioned for Clark to remain between him and mouth of the mine.
“How far back?”
“We’re danged near there, mister. But you can’t git out that way.”
“You said it was big enough to swallow up an ore cart.”
“That’s the problem. The ore cart’s stuck down the drain. Water gets around it, but you’d never fit.”
“Who’s Bulwer?”
“What’s that?” Clark was confused by the sudden change in Slocum’s questions.
“He have his hideout somewhere nearby?” That was what Slocum would do if he were the counterfeiter. Why haul the lead very far? When they were finished with Sookie Clark, they’d kill him, maybe stuff his body in the mine and collapse it. Or if they wanted to be even more clever, they could make it look like an accident. Mining was dangerous, and from the condition of Sookie’s equipment, nobody would question that he had brought on his death himself through poor maintenance.
“I don’t know ’bout no hideout, but Mr. Bulwer’s got a fancy metal working rig set up in the next canyon over. Sometimes at night, I hear him poundin’ away to beat the band. Don’t know what he’s makin’ but it takes a powerful lot of my lead—and he pays top dollar for it. See?”
Slocum tensed when the miner reached for a vest pocket. But Clark only pulled out a coin and held it up. In the dim light Slocum saw the faint golden reflection. If Clark had bothered to check the coin, he would have found that Bulwer had given him back some of the lead he mined in the form of a fake double eagle.
“A generous man,” Slocum said, not trying to hide his sarcasm. Clark missed the tone entirely.
“Yes, sir, he is. But he kin git mighty testy if I don’t work the mine hard enough. I ought to be down there crushin’ my ore and smeltin’ out the lead from the carbonate right this minute.”
“Show me the drain first.”
“Not more ’n fifty feet deeper. I quit this shaft ’cuz the vein of ore petered out on me and left nothing but worthless rock.”
Slocum quickly covered half that distance, then backed up more carefully, a foot feeling the floor as he went in case Clark’s memory wasn’t so good or the miner was trying to do the work of the three outlaws outside for them.
His boot slipped on damp stone that slid downward sharply.
“This is it. See? I marked the wall with a cut. Real deep cut and put an arrow on it so I’d know where it was, even in the dark. I work a lot in the dark since I can’t always afford miner’s candles.”
Slocum chanced spinning around and kneeling to probe the drain. His hand rammed hard into metal only inches down. The ore cart. Tracing the outline in the dark gave him a touch of hope. The cart had fallen in and wedged at an angle.
“This cart as big as the one you’re still using?”
“Reckon so. Never had call to measure them.”
“Does it load as much ore?” Slocum asked, putting it into terms Clark could better understand.
“Surely does. Might even hold twenty-thirty pounds more.”
“The drain goes outside?”
“Out of the hillside down into the ravine next to where I keep my mule.”
“Go back and tell Bulwer that you didn’t find anybody here. He’ll be real mad at you if you tell him you found anyone and let him get away.”
“But he asked me to find you. Well, not him but his partners.”
“Same thing. Bulwer will be mad. You don’t want that. It’s a white lie to make him feel good.”
“I don’t like to hurt nobody’s feelin’s,” Clark admitted.
“Go on back and tell them nobody’s here.”
“Well, if you say so . . .”
Clark hesitated, then retraced the path from the mine. Slocum tucked away his six-shooter and slid the leather thong over the hammer to keep from losing it. He pictured how the cart had fallen into the drain and knew he had to be agile but could get through if he forced himself into the hopper and found the lower portion sticking out just enough to give him space to squeeze through.
He went headfirst into the hopper, twisted around the bottom, and squeezed past on the lower part of the cart. Slocum scraped off clothes and skin but got around the cart. Getting his legs and feet clear took a bit more work than he expected. He finally grabbed a slippery rock and pulled as hard as he could to get free. When he did, he slid down the drain like it was spitting out a watermelon seed. One instant he was surrounded by slime-slick rock and the next he was tumbling through the air. He landed hard enough to momentarily stun him not ten feet from the mule.
The critter turned one big brown eye on him with a “You again?” look.
Slocum got his wits about him, then found he could hardly stand because of the pain in his side. The stab wound Elena had inflicted was healing well but had again opened up during his precip
itous exit from the mine. Clutching his side, he forced away the pain and stumbled a few more steps before flopping down behind a rotting log. The wood was soaked through and through because it was directly under the drain from the mine.
“You see anything, Johnny?” Bulwer shouted.
Slocum hunkered down as the man guarding his horse called back, “Don’t see anything. You want me to bring the horse on up to you?”
“We’ll keep looking, for a while longer.” Bulwer disappeared from the edge of the cliff, but Slocum heard him talking to Clark. Although he caught only every few words, Slocum knew that Clark had figured out his own life hung in the balance and denied seeing anyone in the mine.
“Get in there and flush out the varmint. All three of you!”
Slocum knew he had to make a bid for freedom now or he would be pinned down. It was getting toward twilight, and with all three of Bulwer’s gunmen inside the mine, that meant fewer eyes to spot him. If Clark kept his tater trap shut, Slocum might make it back to his mare.
The mule looked at him, shook its head, and brayed before going back to cropping at the sparse grass in front of it.
Even the mule mocked him.
Wincing, Slocum got to his feet, judged distances, and began walking. His first steps were tentative, then he convinced himself he dared not be in the open overlong or Bulwer might spot him. He reached the base of the hill where he had slid down. All he had to do was get up the hill, down into the ravine, and ride away.
Get down into the ravine and eliminate Bulwer’s henchman still guarding his horse, he amended.
The pain turned to a dull ache, but he felt the wound oozing blood as he dug his toes into the rocky slope and started climbing. The twilight kept him from being an obvious target from over at the Sorry Times Mine, but the best he could hope for was everyone’s attention being focused inside the mine.
He reached the top of the slope and looked down into the ravine. He saw his mare waiting patiently for him, but the guard was nowhere to be seen. Slocum edged down, favoring his side. As he got closer to his horse, he heard a hissing noise and knew the guard was to his right taking a leak against a tree trunk. Slocum reached for his six-shooter but immediately discovered that he couldn’t grip the ebony handle because his right side had turned slick with his own blood.
Moving slowly, listening to the man’s satisfied sigh as he finished, Slocum knew he had to risk everything or get caught the instant the man turned from the tree. He caught up a fist-sized rock that was rough enough not to slip and ran forward.
Bulwer’s gunman heard the noise but was too slow to identify the danger. Slocum brought the rock up and down in a powerful swing. Even so, the rock slid from his grip as he smashed it into the man’s head. The slick blood hampering his hold and the man’s Stetson robbed the blow of the power Slocum had intended. He wouldn’t have been displeased if he had crushed the man’s skull. As it was, the blow drove the gunman to his knees and wrenched a moan from his lips.
Slocum kicked as hard as he could, caught the man on the point of his chin, and then lost his balance, crashing backward. He landed hard enough to stun himself again. Pain filled his world, and the blackness creeping in all around threatened to permanently engulf him. Slocum fought the tide washing over him and sat up. His opponent lay still on the ground.
Rolling to hands and knees, Slocum painfully stood and staggered to his horse. Getting into the saddle was a chore, but Slocum kept thinking what Bulwer would do to him if he got caught. And then there was Elena. He wanted to feel Elena’s fingers stroking over his forehead, lacing through his hair. He wanted her warm, sensuous body next to his.
He turned his horse and headed back to the road leading to Leadville. He fought off unconsciousness for several miles and then the pain possessed him totally. He wobbled in the saddle and guided his horse off the road to give himself a chance to recover.
John Slocum slid from the saddle and crashed to the ground, his world entirely black.
16
“John, wake up.”
Slocum moaned and tried to roll onto his side. Too much pain. He curled up in a tight ball.
“Come on, you’re too heavy for me to lift. John!”
It was a good dream, but the details were blurred with pain. He groaned as he felt himself being pressed flat on the ground and heard cloth ripping.
“Oh my God!”
“Nice to have you in my dream,” he murmured. Then he cried out as pain stabbed into his side. He tried to turn away, but weight held him flat. More cloth tore and then came feathery light touches on his belly. He forced his eyes open and instantly closed them. The sunlight almost blinded him. Nothing made any sense.
“There, that ought to help. Can you stand? Are you even awake?”
“Elena?”
“Who else?”
Squinting, he saw that the woman straddled his waist but not as delightfully as she had when she was naked and in the bathtub. She had torn strips from her skirt and had bound his wound—the stab wound she had inflicted on him. She got off him and grabbed his wrists, pulling him upright. He almost passed out as pain thrust through his side like a brand-new knife wound.
Then he was on his feet, her arm around him and walking him toward his horse.
“Didn’t wander off last night,” he said.
“Didn’t wander off two days ago,” Elena said. “I’ve been frantic. I thought you—”
“You thought I’d run out on you?” He had to laugh and instantly regretted it. Clutching his side, he kept moving to his horse and gingerly stepped up. “Wouldn’t do that. Not when I found out the counterfeiter’s name.”
“There’s time for that later. I have to get you to the town doctor.”
“No sawbones. They kill more than they heal. Just let me sleep some.”
“Very well, but only if you don’t pass out before we get to the hotel. I’ll be watching.”
“Two days?” Slocum hardly believed he had lain in the dirt so long, snuffed out like a candle flame.
“I talked with Leon and got directions to the Sorry Times and just happened to see your horse.”
“Best horse I’ve ever had,” Slocum said, leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck. He almost tumbled from the saddle. Catching himself, he gripped the pommel with both hands and held on. His brain wasn’t working right. How could he have his hands on the pommel? Where were the reins? He saw them swinging out and up into Elena’s grip. She was leading him back to town.
That was all right. All right.
Slocum woke up with a start.
“It’s about time. You’ve slept close to ten hours.”
“Since you found me?” He looked to the hotel room window. The flickering gas light outside and the distant roar of drunken miners overflowing the saloons told him it was night again.
“You were delirious but said you had found out who the ringleader is.”
“Bulwer,” he said, trying out the name. His tongue felt three times too big for his mouth and cotton wool had been stuffed into every crevice. He sipped at water Elena held for him. He felt better. “His men called him Bulwer.”
“Anton Bulwer,” she said. “I know of him, but he doesn’t have a scar on his face. Is the man you call Bulwer the one with the scar?”
Slocum nodded. He tried to sort through all the conflicting images in his brain. His side didn’t pain him as much. He belched and tasted whiskey. Then he saw the half-empty bottle on the nightstand. Elena had been giving him the best kind of painkiller.
“Who is he?”
“He used to work for the Department of the Treasury as an engraver. He worked with paper money, making the plates used to print scrip, but he was versatile. He was fired because of a discrepancy in the amount of paper he bought and the number of bills he printed. Bulwer claimed there was wastage, but he couldn’t prove it because the trash was examined and only a few misprinted bills were discovered. They thought he might have stolen thousands of dollars in real money.”
“Money he printed?”
“It’s difficult to find the printing press, paper, and ink for a decent counterfeiting of paper money. But he’s skilled. He was the best engraver the Treasury ever hired, but after he was fired, he just disappeared.”
“How do you know of him?”
“Pinkerton was hired to locate him and try to recover the money he had stolen. His name and description were sent to all the offices, but no one ever spotted him.”
“The scar might be a burn,” Slocum said. “I’ve never gotten a good look but could it come from hot metal spattering his face?”
“Learning to forge metal can be dangerous, especially if you’re teaching yourself. There are manuals describing how to etch a stamp and the rest of the minting process. A mistake could have scarred him.”
“Is there a reward for him?”
“There was never proof he had actually stolen the printed money, so he was never formally charged.” Elena shook her head. “He was wanted so we could trail him and find the money. That would be proof of a crime, we could arrest him and . . . well, there might have been a reward then. More likely, Mr. Pinkerton would have turned him over to the government in exchange for goodwill.”
“But if he is actually counterfeiting coins?”
“The government would certainly offer a reward for that.” Elena made a face, and Slocum remembered her displeasure with him before when it seemed that he sought only a reward. At the moment, he didn’t much care. He owed her for saving him—probably saving his life. But he wouldn’t have been in the situation if she hadn’t stabbed him.
“The mine owner said he’d already sold Bulwer a couple hundred pounds of lead.”
“A couple hundred?” Elena stared at him in disbelief. “That would mean he . . .”
“He’s likely on his way to making hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of counterfeit coins.”
“Oh, my,” she said in a weak voice. She took a drink of the water she still held, then said, “I must contact Mr. Pullman with this information. He’ll know what to do.”
“Don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”