by Jake Logan
“Either pull the trigger or lower that scattergun,” Slocum said in a tone that warned the marshal he had crossed the line. The marshal swung the shotgun around so Slocum wasn’t in the direct line of fire. All it would take was a quick move to bring it back to center on its target since the lawman kept his finger curled around the trigger.
“Well, Slocum? I don’t have all day to wait for an answer.”
“You been here for the last couple days? Sounds as if all you’ve got is time.”
“You kill a man out back?”
“Any shots fired from the man’s gun?”
“Was,” Atkinson allowed. “So?”
“Whatever happened must have been self-defense. You see the owner of this business? I’ve got some freight I want shipped.”
“That’s another part of the mystery. Rafe Johnson’s disappeared, him and his wagon.”
“That sounds like he’s out working.”
“Asked around town. Nobody here’s hired him.”
“Times are hard for a teamster in Leadville. All the short hauling’s done by teams owned by the mines. Rafe might have driven elsewhere to look for work to keep body and soul together.”
“But you wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you, Slocum?”
“Apparently not if I came here looking for him. If I want to ship . . . what I’m shipping.”
“What might that be, Slocum?” The marshal looked at him hard but Slocum didn’t waver.
“I’ll let you know. If there’s nothing else, Marshal, I find myself in powerful need of a drink.”
Atkinson waved him from the office. As he stepped into the street, Slocum considered what the marshal had told him—and what he hadn’t. Rafe’s disappearance was of interest but only because a body had been found at his corral. Atkinson didn’t seem to know that Bulwer or any members of his gang were involved.
That suited Slocum. He wanted the reward offered by the Pinkertons.
A commotion from a nearby saloon drew him. He poked his head through the doorway and looked around, spotting a man in a plaid suit making a fuss at the far end of the long bar. He went to the barkeep and asked, “What’s the row?”
“He just got in from Denver, he says, and he doesn’t have money to pay for his drink.”
“I’ll pay for it,” Slocum said, fingering in his pocket one of the coins he’d taken from any number of the dead members of Bulwer’s gang.
“He’s a deadbeat. You don’t hafta give him no charity.”
“Give him this to pay for his drink.” Slocum pulled out a coin, balanced it in his hand, and figured it was a counterfeit. The weight was about right—about. He hoped it was a fake. He didn’t want to pay for Josiah Pullman’s drink with a real coin. Slocum dropped it on the bar and listened hard. A smile came to his lips. Bogus. He shoved it across to the bartender.
“Your money.”
Slocum started to leave. The barkeep called out, “You ain’t bought yerse’f a drink!”
“Later,” Slocum said. He wanted Pullman to raise a fuss about a counterfeit coin to see how big a hornet’s nest the Pinkerton detective could stir up.
19
Slocum crept back to the hotel and went up the back stairs. He hesitated at the door to Elena’s room, then turned the knob with one smooth, quiet motion and went in. She lay on the bed, still dressed and sleeping deeply. He considered leaving, but other than the stable, there wasn’t anywhere he would rather stay. Annoying Jethro, the room clerk, would only create a stir he didn’t want.
If things went well, there’d be plenty of disturbance in Leadville by the morning.
He pulled up a chair, positioned it by the bed, then put his feet up on the edge of the mattress and leaned back. Within seconds, he, too, was asleep.
He came awake when he heard shouts down in the lobby. Slocum checked to be sure that Elena was still sleeping, then left the room, hand on his six-shooter as he went down the stairs.
“I want him arrested!” Josiah Pullman shouted. “I am an agent of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and I hereby proclaim him a counterfeiter!”
“You take care of him,” the man Pullman accused said to the clerk. “He’s so stinkin’ drunk there’s no reasonin’ with him.”
“Leave and I will shoot you!” Pullman drew his gun with a flourish and waved it about. Slocum pulled his, ready to shoot if the man he had accosted went for the six-shooter at his hip.
“What kind of flophouse do you run here?” the man demanded of Jethro. “I work for the Jolly Ollie Mine Company. I’m a geologist and will not be treated this way.”
“Look, mister, put down yer damn smoke wagon,” Jethro said. “You got no call wavin’ it ’round like that.”
Slocum crouched at the head of the stairs so he could watch this drama play itself out. The geologist turned so Slocum got a better look at him. At one time or another, Slocum was sure he had seen all of Bulwer’s gang. Unless this was a new one, perhaps working for Timmins or another in Denver or some other city, the accosted man was exactly as he claimed.
“I demand that you fetch the marshal in this godforsaken town. I demand justice.” Pullman still waved his six-shooter about like he was leading a Fourth of July parade.
“I can agree to that,” the geologist said. “And by damn, I’ll get my justice. You’ll rot in jail for a month if I have my way.”
“And you will go to prison for a hundred years. Passing counterfeit coins! You are one of the infamous Anton Bulwer gang, and I have brought you to justice.”
Slocum almost went down to interrupt when Atkinson and his deputy Clem came in, Jethro trailing behind and yammering.
“Shut up, Jethro,” the marshal said. He sized up the situation and said, “I’ll have this gent clapped into jail right away . . . Mr. Dunbar.”
“Thank heavens, Atkinson. I thought everyone in this town had gone stark raving mad!”
“You’re in league! You and the sheriff!”
“I’m the marshal,” Atkinson said, turning. He nodded. Clem swung his pistol expertly and clipped Pullman a couple inches above the right ear. He dropped like he had been poleaxed. Clem grunted as he caught Pullman under the arms and began dragging him out of the lobby.
“You haven’t been to town in a month of Sundays, Mr. Dunbar. This mean Ollie’s hit a new vein?”
“That remains to be seen, but Mr. Olafson is a shrewd judge of mineral. He only summons me to verify the claim when he thinks he can afford my bill.”
“Might make him another million,” Atkinson said, nodding sagely. “I’ll tend to this crazy coot, and you can buy me a drink after you get back from the mine.”
“I’ve told you before, Marshal, I cannot divulge anything about what I find until Mr. Olafson authorizes it.”
Slocum saw the geologist check to be sure Jethro heard his solemn declaration, then gave Atkinson a broad wink that the clerk couldn’t see. The two men had a working arrangement of some standing, from the look of it. What Atkinson would do with the information—good or bad—from the potential strike was anyone’s guess, but it undoubtedly benefited both men.
Atkinson and Dunbar left, and Jethro returned to his chair behind the desk. Slocum slipped out without anyone noticing him, stepped into the street, and headed for the jailhouse. Pullman had done as well as Slocum had hoped. If he had given him a script, the Pinkerton could not have played his part better, drawing attention to himself, to Bulwer’s gang, and that he was here to stop the counterfeiters.
Slocum knew the deputy was taking Pullman directly to the lockup, so he stopped in the closest saloon. It was early in the morning, but a few miners were working on beers. He called out loudly for the barkeep.
“I’m celebrating,” he announced for all to hear.
“Do tell. Mighty early for that, ain’t it?” The bartender wiped a mug clean and dropped it in front of Slocum.
“Whiskey,” Slocum said. “For everyone who wants it.” He dropped one of the coins he had taken from Bulw
er’s gunman on the bar. From the way it rang, he knew it was phony. He didn’t care. “I’m celebrating.”
“How’s that? You hit a big strike?” asked the nearest miner.
“You might say that. I’m going to bust the biggest counterfeiting ring in the West, and I’m getting a huge reward for it. He’s going to tell Marshal Atkinson everything right now.”
“Everything?” The barkeep looked skeptical.
“Everything. How the coins are made, where they get the material, and best of all, how they swap the fakes for real ones. They’re making millions—but not any more thanks to that prisoner in the jail spilling his guts about the entire gang.”
Slocum finished his drink, went to a saloon farther down the street, and repeated his claims. After the fourth saloon, he felt mighty fine and knew he had to stop drinking on an empty belly. Breakfast ought to be next, but Slocum wanted to clear his head and wait for the inevitable to happen. News spread fast when it was lubricated with enough liquor, and Slocum had greased well the rails gossip rolled on. He felt the town beginning to buzz around him with the news of a counterfeiter being caught and how he was spilling his guts to avoid the noose.
As he walked and listened, his tiny morsel of truth had blossomed into the most audacious story he had ever heard. A smile curled his lips. There was no way in hell Bulwer wouldn’t hear about this and act.
If nothing else, he had to see which of his men had been caught. When he found out a Pinkerton detective was locked up, he might do any of a dozen things. Slocum was counting on him trying to kill Pullman and put an end to the rampant speculation about counterfeiting. Bulwer might shoot him through the jail window, have another of his men arrested and put in the same cell, where Pullman would mysteriously die, or even be so bold as to bail out the detective so he could kill him at his leisure after finding out what he really knew.
Or didn’t know.
Josiah Pullman was nothing more than Slocum’s stalking-horse in a scheme that was going to turn deadly.
Slocum found himself a spot catty-corner to the jailhouse. He settled down in a chair on the boardwalk, made sure his six-shooter rested easy and would come to hand fast, then tipped his hat down to shade his eyes, rocked back, and waited.
The wait turned into hours and his belly grumbled, but he didn’t dare leave. He wished he had told Elena of his plan. She could have fetched him some food. When his mouth turned to cotton wool, he got up and drank from the rain barrel at the side of the building. Since it was midmorning, the ice on the top had mostly melted, but the water left a cold trail all the way down into his gut. He splashed some water on his face and snapped alert.
A man he recognized as one of Bulwer’s gang sauntered toward the jail. The counterfeiter looked around, trying to act nonchalant but failing. He was too focused on the jailhouse for that. When he vanished around back, Slocum considered following. The gunman might shoot Pullman and be on his way. Then Slocum sat down in the chair to see what would happen. If Bulwer’s henchman intended to kill Pullman in an ambush, he would have brought his horse along for a quick getaway.
The man came back into view on the far side of the building, looked both ways along the street, then took off his black, floppy-brimmed hat and waved. Dust hung in the noontime air, sparkling motes darting about, but when the man kept waving, Slocum stood, drew his six-gun, and waited, the cocked weapon held at his side.
Two more of the gang rode up, leading a pair of horses. Slocum grinned. He knew what they intended now. They weren’t going to shoot Pullman where he sat in the cell. They wanted to kidnap him and find out what he knew. This made life easier for him. Slocum started walking toward the jail, six-shooter still at his side, as one rider joined the other outlaw on the ground, leaving one with the horses.
As the pair went into the jail, Slocum drew even with the man still in the saddle.
“Got a match?” Slocum asked.
“Go to hell—” That was as far as the outlaw got. Slocum reached up, grabbed a handful of duster, and yanked hard, unseating him. The man crashed to the ground and then lay still after Slocum applied the barrel of his six-gun alongside his head.
The horses reared and tried to run. Slocum took the reins and tucked them in an iron ring mounted at the side of the jailhouse. From inside he heard a commotion but no shots. Within seconds, the two outlaws boiled out, Josiah Pullman between them.
“Grab sky,” Slocum shouted. One outlaw turned and lifted his six-shooter. He died with two of Slocum’s slugs in his chest. The other tried to use Pullman as a shield. Slocum didn’t much care if he shot the detective. “Surrender and you might live to see another sunrise.”
“You’re not takin’ me. The boss’d kill me if—”
“Anton Bulwer?” Slocum asked. “I know him.”
The surprise on the outlaw’s face showed his momentary confusion. Slocum aimed and fired. Pullman yelped like a scalded dog and jerked free. The bullet had cut through his earlobe on its way past the counterfeiter’s head.
“I got the drop on you, you slippery snake!” Atkinson came from the jail with a shotgun in his hand.
“Don’t shoot!” Pullman cried from the ground. “I’m bleeding!”
The marshal, Slocum, and the outlaw fired at the same time. Slocum might have gotten in a killing shot, but there was no way to tell. At this range, the shotgun almost blew the counterfeiter into two hunks, neither alive.
“Don’t, Slocum,” Atkinson said, swinging the shotgun around.
“I’m on your side. I saved Pullman from getting spirited away by them.”
“Do tell,” Atkinson said dryly. “Now what is it you’re angling for, Slocum?”
“The reward. They’re part of the Bulwer gang.”
“Can’t rightly ask any questions of dead men and expect an answer.”
“That one’s still alive,” Slocum said. The third outlaw moaned and weakly clawed at the ground. “He’ll fess up to about everything.”
“They’re counterfeiters!” Pullman pulled himself upright and pointed. “They’re part of Bulwer’s gang. The one I told you about but you wouldn’t listen and threw me into that terrible cell and—”
“Shut up, Pullman,” the marshal said. He grabbed a handful of collar and pulled the outlaw Slocum had slugged to his feet. “Now you and me, we got some discussing to do.” He shoved the dazed man inside, leaving Slocum with Pullman and two bodies already drawing flies and a crowd of curious townspeople.
“You fouled up everything, Slocum. You got me arrested and you killed those men and—”
“And you ought to wire your home office for the reward owed me. By the time the marshal finishes with his prisoner, he’s going to know everything about Bulwer and his doings. If I hadn’t come along, you’d be Bulwer’s prisoner, and the marshal wouldn’t be any the wiser where you were.”
“I—”
“And I doubt if he’d much care, other than how it’d prick his pride losing a prisoner in a jailbreak. Chances would have been good he’d have told himself that you were out of his jurisdiction and forgotten the whole matter.”
“He’d’ve let me stay their prisoner?” Pullman blanched.
Slocum turned when he saw Elena Warburton running up. He expected her to come to him but wasn’t all that surprised when she dropped to her knees beside Pullman and began fussing over him.
He slid his six-shooter back into his holster and went inside to hear how Atkinson got the confession out of his new prisoner. There was a bit more to do but not that much more until Slocum could get the hell out of Leadville.
20
“Think you have a big enough posse, Marshal?” Slocum looked at the dozen men shifting nervously in their saddles, not a one of whom could be trusted not to bolt and run if shooting started. If they were this nervous before they reached the counterfeiters’ hideout, Slocum guessed they would be worthless in a real fight.
Since Bulwer had a hint that his plans were coming apart, he would fight like a trap
ped rat—if he hadn’t already hightailed it. At least Atkinson had been clever enough to lead his posse into the broad valley using a trail several miles even farther north of the one Slocum and Elena had taken to get back to Leadville. If even one of the deputies had tried approaching using the road Rafe had driven, Bulwer would have had an hour’s notice of their approach.
“You think he is more cautious now than when he kidnapped me, John?”
Slocum looked at Elena, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. He understood. She had been through terrible torture, and he was part of it. He had rescued her and done what she’d asked to ease her pain, but now his mere presence reminded her of all that had happened at Bulwer’s orders.
“He sent three men to fetch Pullman because he thought someone knew what he was up to. Since they haven’t returned with Pullman yet, he’s got to be edgy.”
“I can pretend to be a prisoner. That means four of us could ride up to his front door and . . . knock.” Pullman laughed at his own joke.
“That’s a good way to get killed,” Slocum said. “He’s watching. Count on it. He’s dangerous, and if anything looks wrong, he’ll shoot first and never bother with questions.”
“You are so inexperienced in the ways of the Pinkerton detective,” Pullman said, chin lifted in the air, as if sniffing out wrongdoers. “Such deception is the heart of the Pinkerton method.”
“Not many of you left in the field, then,” Slocum said.
“That was uncalled for. Mr. Pullman is resourceful and clever,” said Elena.
“You ready to ride, Slocum, or you going to set around all day and jaw?” Marshal Atkinson trotted up and looked at him, then the two detectives. “You want to hang back and protect them? Might be a good idea.”
“I’ll ride with you, Marshal.” Slocum and the lawman took off, leaving Elena and Pullman behind, muttering about civilians and ways of detection.
“Tell me everything about this hideout, Slocum,” Atkinson said. “I remember it belonged to a Mormon family what tried farming here. Never sure what happened to them but got reports the farm had been abandoned nigh on a year back.”