by Jake Logan
“You’re a Pinkerton detective. This Anton Bulwer is wanted by your agency and is likely responsible for robbing a train and making more pinchbeck coins than either of us could count. Why wait for Pullman to tell you to do what you know has to be done?” Slocum didn’t want the other detective getting in the way. If Pullman came to Leadville, he would only make capturing Bulwer more difficult.
Slocum felt he had a score to settle, if not a reward to earn.
“I should let him know so he can contact the home office,” Elena said, wrestling with duty versus common sense. Common sense won out. “What do we do to find Bulwer?”
“He’s moving heavy loads of lead. He must be shipping out the fake coins some way since keeping them here won’t do him any good.”
“Do you think he knows that he lost the gold coins from the robbery?”
“Would Timmins admit it to his boss?” Slocum thought on this a moment and finally said, “I doubt he did. Whatever Timmins was supposed to do with the stolen gold isn’t going to happen now. Timmins won’t fess up since, from what I saw of Bulwer, he’s likely to have him killed.”
“So Bulwer is still moving his fake coins, thinking his plan is working to perfection.”
Slocum nodded. That was the way he saw it. The market for counterfeit coins in Leadville was saturated, and if too many miners caught on to receiving phony pay, they would burn the town to the ground. Bulwer would be forced to find another place for his production. Since the banker was issuing real coins again, no hue and cry would go up and Bulwer had no reason to believe his plans weren’t still good.
“How many independent freighters are there in town?”
“Only a handful. The mines would use their own equipment and drivers.”
“It doesn’t look as if Bulwer is moving his fakes to Denver on the train. That leaves only wagons or pack animals.”
“In these mountains, pack mules might be useful, but where is he sending the coins?”
“That,” Slocum said, “is what we have to find out. Try to ask around without stirring up too much dust. Bulwer thinks he’s cock of the walk right now, and we shouldn’t do anything to disturb that arrogance.”
“Are you going to be all right, John? You look so pale.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. While weak, he wasn’t dizzy. Flexing his hand and moving his arm around gave him some twinges in his side, but not enough to get in the way if he had to use his six-gun. The trouble before had been too much blood turning his hand slippery. He might not be able to whip his weight in wildcats but his hand was steady and strong enough to shoot them.
With a surge, he stood beside the bed and moved around.
“You’re sure, John?”
“Time’s a’ wasting,” he said. He began dressing.
“I’m sorry about your shirt and vest. There wasn’t time for me to have the blood cleaned off.”
Slocum settled them around his body and noted how stiff they were. Putting on his coat and buttoning it hid most of the blood so he wouldn’t have to answer unwanted questions. When he strapped on his gun belt, he winced. The weight on his hip forced him to tilt enough to put a strain on his wound.
“You don’t look good,” she said.
“But you do. You look better than good. You look fine.” Slocum pulled her to him and kissed her. For a moment, she resisted, then melted.
When they broke off, Elena said, “You’d better be just fine. You’d better be!”
Slocum laughed, settled his hat on his head, held out his arm for Elena, and together they left the hotel. In the street, they split up, Elena going to check a freight company at the northern end of town while he went south. He found a small office attached to a stable and went inside. The teamster behind a desk looked up and gave Slocum a broken-toothed smile.
“If you’re bringin’ me business, you’re my favorite customer.”
“Not so much freight to haul?” Slocum guessed.
“Been mighty slim pickin’s for the entire winter. Spring usually sees a pickup in business but not so far this year. So, I can make you a fine deal. What do you have to move?”
From what the freighter said, Slocum knew he had to look elsewhere.
“How’s your competition doing?”
“Rafe? Same as me until a week back. Won’t tell me who he’s workin’ for since he knows I’d undercut his rates.”
“You ought to pick up the local dray work since Rafe’s doing the long hauls.”
“You’d think,” the man said. “He’s got his biggest wagon—the biggest that’ll fit the mountain roads, at least—heading south to Alamosa or maybe Pueblo. Can’t imagine what freight he’d bring back.”
“Maybe the one-way trip is profitable enough?”
“Could be,” the freighter said. “Can’t imagine what that is. Now, how big’s the cargo you want me to move for you?”
“Since you’re available, I’ll report that back to my boss,” Slocum said, leaving as graciously as he could since he had learned what he needed.
He hurried the length of Leadville to find the other freight company, the one a man named Rafe operated. Slocum had hardly stepped out into the main street when he heard horses protesting loudly and a wagon’s traces creaking with strain. The wagon rolled past, the driver snapping his blacksnake whip above the ears of the lead horses.
“Giddy-yap, you fugitives from a glue factory,” the driver shouted.
“Rafe! Wait up!” Slocum waved his arms. He drew the driver’s attention. The man’s eyes went wide in surprise—or was it fear? He cracked his whip again to race past Slocum.
Two steps, then three, and Slocum grabbed hold of the endgate. He pulled himself up and looked into the wagon bed. All that was there were piles of blankets mounded up and tied securely. Rafe was in a powerful hurry to get somewhere so he could pick up his cargo.
“Where are you heading? I want to hire you!”
The driver half turned and swung his whip around. There wasn’t any force in it, but the crack caught Slocum around the upper thigh. The impact smarted but wasn’t as bad as the throbbing wound in his side. However, the impact unbalanced him and caused him to tumble back into the street, where he landed in mud. A few townspeople on the boardwalks laughed and then hastily looked away when he glared at them.
Slocum climbed to his feet and watched Rafe rattle out of town. He considered getting his horse and chasing down the freighter, then realized what the sudden, panicked departure meant. Rafe was on his way to pick up a shipment from Anton Bulwer. Following him would lead to the counterfeiter—but Rafe was panicky. That meant only one thing.
Wiping off the mud the best he could as he walked, Slocum saw only a single bright spot about such filth all over him. It hid the way his shirt and vest were bloodstained. When he’d finished with his clothing, he drew his six-shooter and used his shirttail to wipe off the mud that threatened to foul the firing mechanism.
Rafe hightailing it from town meant that Elena had spooked him by asking uncomfortable questions.
Slocum cocked his gun, then stopped in front of the freight company door. It stood partially open. With a quick kick, Slocum knocked it back against the wall so hard that glass shattered. He ignored the tinkle of broken glass as he spun into the room.
Empty.
Slocum saw something on the floor, partially hidden by an overturned chair. He pounced on it and held up Elena’s purse. Her small six-shooter was still inside. Slocum stormed out the back door in time to see two riders bringing their horses from the corral.
“Hold on!”
One man went for his pistol. Slocum fired twice, then a third time and brought the man down. The wounded man used both hands to lift his six-gun and got off a shot that went high. He fought to fire again, but it wasn’t in him. The pistol slipped from his fingers as he fell facedown into the mud.
The other man swung into the saddle, put his heels to the horse’s flanks, and shot off like a skyrocket, bent low and huggi
ng his horse’s neck. Slocum rushed out to get a better shot, emptied his pistol at the fleeing man, missing with each of the three rounds. The rider skidded in the slippery mud, got around the corner onto a back street, and vanished from sight.
Slocum cursed his bad luck letting the man escape to let Bulwer know somebody else was on his trail. As he went to the man he had plugged, he reloaded.
Slocum stood over the wounded man. He pushed him over with the toe of his boot and pointed his six-shooter directly between his eyes. The man showed no fear.
“I’m a dead man. You don’t scare me none.”
“Where is she?”
The answer Slocum got was a gurgling cough followed by blood vomiting out the man’s mouth and nose.
“She’s not gonna be a problem much longer,” the outlaw said, gurgling deep in his throat. Then he died.
17
Slocum searched the dead man’s pockets and found a half-dozen double eagles. He ran his finger across the milling on one, trying to determine if it was a fake or real. He couldn’t tell so he stuck them all into his pocket, then lit out for the stable to fetch his horse. Elena had given good instructions to the stableman on tending the horse. The mare stood well fed, groomed, and ready to ride. Getting into the saddle was harder for Slocum than convincing the horse to once more get on the road.
He turned south. He didn’t know where the rider at the freight station had gone, but he did know Rafe’s route. There was only the main road big enough for the wagon he drove. Slocum rubbed his thigh where the teamster had used the blacksnake whip to dislodge him from the rear of the wagon. No matter how frightened Rafe might have been, or what innocent role he might play in the counterfeiting ring, Slocum vowed to make the man pay for whipping him.
The traffic along the road was greater than Slocum would have liked, but more than once he called out to a miner either on foot or riding a decrepit horse asking if he had seen Rafe. The answers were always the same. Slocum was on the right trail.
Whether Elena had been in the back of wagon, trussed up under the blankets and gagged, or had been taken by other men at the freight office who had ridden out with her before Slocum arrived, didn’t matter. If they hadn’t killed her outright, they were taking her to Anton Bulwer. Wherever the master engraver and counterfeiter was holed up was likely to be where he made the phony coins. Slocum could kill two birds with one stone—free Elena and capture Bulwer and his equipment.
He rode until he felt light-headed, then slowed the pace and took a gander at the road. Far past the Sorry Times Mine, he had reached a point where the road began winding down from the elevation into a valley. At first he thought it might be the same one where he had shot it out with several of Bulwer’s gang, then decided it cut off in a different direction. This valley was spiderwebbed with small streams and grassy meadows dotted with stands of pine and aspen.
Slocum blinked a couple times to be sure his vision was clear when he thought he spotted a wagon lurching along much lower down the road. Leaning precariously over the verge, he saw fresh tracks on the road not thirty feet under him. Quickly tracing the road brought him to the valley floor, where the wagon finally picked up speed and raced along. At this distance Slocum couldn’t tell if Rafe was driving, but how many freighters would come this way?
Deeper in the valley he saw thin tendrils of black smoke rising. Reaching back, he pulled out his spyglass and tried to make out the source of the smoke. It was obscured by the trees and mist in the distance.
Staying on the road didn’t seem to afford him much benefit. He had no evidence that Rafe had anything to do with the counterfeiters, though he was willing to bet money—all the coins in his pocket, both real and counterfeit—that he did.
He started down the road, hitting one switchback after another. Slocum looked for a hint as to how heavily laden the wagon was and finally decided it had to be close to empty to leave the depth of tracks it did. A wagon full of material, no matter if it was lead or sacks of flour, would cut deeper ruts.
By the time he reached the valley, he swayed in the saddle and the wagon was long out of sight. He almost laughed as he looked at the grassy terrain. A blind man could follow that track. Slocum dismounted and measured the depth of the ruts and knew that Rafe came to pick up a load, not deliver it. Looking back up the steep road told him the teamster needed some powerful horses for even a moderate load. Going back up the road would kill even a six-horse team if a wagon creaked under the weight of more than a few hundred pounds.
Slocum whistled tunelessly through his teeth, thinking what the value of even a hundred pounds of counterfeit coins would be.
“Elena, are you here?” he said softly. Slocum mounted and began riding, aware that he would be spotted quickly if he approached the source of the smoke in daylight. When he found a draw, he rode down into it and let his horse graze on the fresh spring grass while he stretched out in the afternoon sun. It was warm on his face and he hurt. How he hurt!
He came awake with a start when he realized it was well past sundown. Along the floor of the valley, sunset came fast and early, but a quick study of the stars convinced him that he had slept—passed out—for more than six hours. Getting some jerky from his saddlebags, he gnawed it and then had to sate his thirst by hiking a few yards to a clear-running stream. The cold water, both swallowed and dashed on his face, perked him up more than a few cups of coffee would have.
He mounted and continued the ride toward the curlicues of smoke, now visible in the night as a sliver of moonlight turned them into dancing liquid silver. If Bulwer felt secure here, he wouldn’t post guards, but Slocum doubted the counterfeiter would ever rest. The man had a devious mind to come up with the scheme for substituting his bogus coins for real ones in “botched” robberies. Not only had he swapped the fake for the real, but the law wasn’t as inclined to come after an inept robber. A marshal could belly up to the bar and tell stories of stupid robbers and garner drinks from half those in the saloon.
The perfect crime was one that no one believed to have happened.
As Slocum neared a stand of junipers mixed with cottonwoods along a stream, he heard the steady whap-whap of heavy machinery. Dismounting, he approached on foot to scout the buildings. A forge glowed dull orange in the night, and two men worked to hold something with tongs while another swung a small hammer. A fourth man circled like a vulture, pointing, directing, giving new instructions. Slocum had found Anton Bulwer hard at work supervising his men in the fine art of counterfeiting coins.
Away from the forge was a low shed. Parked some distance away Slocum saw the wagon and ten horses, maybe more, in a large corral. A man circled the corral, but he watched the horses rather than out into the darkness.
Slocum circled to come up on the corral to get a better look at the man.
“Goldangit,” the man muttered to himself, unaware Slocum was close enough to overhear. “Don’t want no part in this.” He pulled a coin from his pocket and held it up so it caught the moon. From the dull reflection Slocum thought he spied a double eagle. Real? Fake? No way of telling.
The man climbed up on the corral fence and sat so he had his profile to Slocum. This was definitely the whip-wielding Rafe.
“They’re payin’ me damn good money, but what am I doin’? I can get myself kilt. Kilt dead! Or the marshal might throw me in jail.”
Slocum worked closer, wondering if he gained any leverage over Bulwer by kidnapping his teamster.
“Didn’t know I had a prisoner in the back of my wagon. I didn’t!”
Slocum sank to the ground, fading into the terrain as Rafe looked toward a barn.
“Can’t do a thing about her. Can’t. They’d kill me.” Rafe muttered too low for Slocum to hear, then said, “Don’t know she didn’t want to come. Never said a word. She might be Bulwer’s girlfriend. Real classy lady, like him with all them airs.”
As Rafe continued to convince himself what he had done was all fine and legal, Slocum slipped around the corral
and went to the barn so he could peer into a window. The glass had been smashed a long time ago, but this was a boon. Reflection from the rising moon wouldn’t obscure what was inside. He chanced a quick look, then took a longer one around and saw nothing.
He ducked down when a woman moaned and was immediately answered by a gruff, “You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll stuff the gag back in.”
“Go to hell!”
Elena was immediately stifled. Slocum pictured Bulwer’s gunman cramming a rag into her mouth to keep her quiet. He didn’t take time to wonder what else they might have done to her. The only reason to bring her to the hideout was . . .
He froze when two men approached from the direction of the forge.
“Dan’s had plenty of time with her. ’Bout time for us to show her what real men can do.”
His partner laughed as they entered the barn. Slocum drew his six-shooter and then slid it back into the holster. Gunplay would only get both him and Elena killed.
“Boss wants you to do some of the fine milling on a new batch of lead.”
“Don’t he ever rest?” the one who’d been identified as Dan groused. “The way he works, you’d think there was a deadline.”
“There is for the Pueblo job. Big gold shipment moving down on the train from Denver, end of next week.”
“It was supposed to be in two!” Dan protested.
“Something in Denver spooked the banker, so he changed the schedule. Don’t matter none. We’ll have plenty of the lead slugs ready to go.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to work around the clock, though.”
“Get on over there,” the other newcomer said. “How was she?”
“Dee-light-ful,” Dan said, laughing. “She’s a real frisky one, too. Be careful. She bites.”
“That why you got her gagged?”
“Naw, she screams.”
“But I like that.”
All three men laughed, causing a cold anger to settle in Slocum’s gut.
Dan left, hurrying toward the forge. Slocum took a step toward him, then stopped. There wasn’t any way he could get revenge for what the counterfeiter had done to Elena. The best way to help the woman was to keep it from happening again. Twice more.