by Logan, Jake
Where did the road lead?
Slocum winched as he turned back to face the path that would return him to the main road. His wound throbbed constantly and sent a stab of pain all the way down his left arm as he moved. Getting into another fight would be risky.
What lay beyond the woods? Would he find Clem Baransky there?
For a moment, he considered his duty to Melissa and her brother. He had recovered their stolen mules and equipment, but he owed their pa more. If Clem Baransky had been taken prisoner, did the owlhoots holding guns on the man expect a ransom? That hardly seemed likely from the way Stephen had been reluctant to spend even a dime more than necessary. Melissa seemed to be the family member intent on finding their father while Stephen was only along for the ride.
Slocum reversed his course and rode in the direction Gunnison had taken. Before he left the meadow, he tethered two mules with their supplies out of sight in the woods. Only then did he press on, riding the surefooted mule that had been Gunnison’s. The road curled through the woods, then bent around the rocky bulk of the mountain. For more than two hours he rode, every foot along the road taking him into new countryside. This area proved less steep than the western slope of the mountain and the road was even more worn with hooves. More than one trail came up from lower elevations, making it seem as if this was the crossroads.
Even as he discovered more, Slocum worried about whether he had done the right thing leaving Melissa and Stephen the way he had. He ought to have ridden back with their mules, then sent them … where?
If they returned to town, they were sitting ducks. More men than the merchant were involved in the thefts. Seeing supposed victims return would send shock waves throughout the outlaw organization. Certainly questions would be asked of the two—questions for which they had no good answers.
All it would take would be for one of them, probably Stephen if Slocum read the man right, to mention that Slocum was still on the mountainside hunting for Clem Baransky. That would be like pouring boiling water down an anthill. Every outlaw working as a scavenger along the trail would be out for Slocum’s scalp.
Better to let brother and sister stew a bit, because Slocum felt he was getting close to an answer about their pa’s fate. Blocking the road ahead rose a palisade. The gate was ajar, but Slocum saw men moving on the other side. Too late to retreat and make a stealthier approach, he rode on boldly. If he couldn’t talk his way past, he could start slinging lead. He was in enough pain from his wounds not to care who got killed.
“Whoa, mister, you stop that there mule of yours,” a man said, coming through the gate. He walked easy and carried a rifle in the crook of his left arm. There didn’t seem to be any hint he recognized Slocum or had orders to shoot on sight.
Slocum did as he was told, aware of several rifle barrels poking through loopholes in the palisade. He’d better do some fancy talking because shooting would only win him an early grave.
“Where you headin’, mister?”
“Through there. To the other side of your fence.”
The man laughed so hard that the tips of his well-waxed handlebar mustache unfurled, leaving fuzzy ends.
“Of course you want to get on through. They all do. You got the toll?”
“How much?”
For some reason, that caused the guard to swing his rifle around and aim it in Slocum’s general direction.
“Mister, if this is where you want to ride, you know the answer to that.”
Slocum considered the greenbacks in his pocket. That might be enough to bribe his way past. He doubted simply riding back the way he came was safe. Any of the riflemen could put a bullet in his spine—and likely would.
“Got this,” Slocum said, pulling out the silver dollar with the hole shot through it. He flipped it so it spun about in the air and reached for his six-shooter at the same time.
The guard deftly caught the coin, barely looked at it before tossing it back.
“Why didn’t you say so? No need to get us all het up.” The guard stepped out of his way, and the rifles disappeared from the loopholes.
Slocum wasn’t sure what had happened, but the plugged silver dollar was a ticket past the guards. He tucked the coin safely into his pocket and rode through, looking neither left nor right. He rounded a bend in the road a hundred yards from the fence before he let out his breath in an explosive gasp. Lady luck finally rode on his shoulder. He had thought the silver dollar might be melted down to a nugget and swapped for real coins—smaller ones. Never had he considered it to be the key that opened a gateway to…
…an entire city.
He halted the mule and stared. Nestled in a saddle of a pass that led back deeper into the hills lay a town equal in size to the one at the base on the other side of Desolation Mountain. There didn’t seem to be as much commercial activity but the buildings were numerous, and he saw several large saloons along the main street. Side streets meandered off to one-story houses. From the horses and mules tethered, there might be a population of several hundred living here.
Before he urged his mule on, he cocked his head to one side. A faint sound teased him, then disappeared. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it was familiar. Slocum waited another few seconds, but it never sounded again.
He rode down the center of the broad street, taking in every detail. Like the other town, this one had no name he could discern, but it was as much a boomtown with the buildings thrown up higgledy-piggledy. Most buildings canted to one side or the other and the saloon to his right might have been built by a drunk carpenter. Nowhere did he see a perfect square. The doorway appeared to have been stepped on by a giant and squeezed to one side but was wide enough for three men to enter side by side. Nails had been used liberally to hold it all together, though some cracks between planks were large enough for Slocum to slide his hand through.
One strong wind would topple many of the buildings, but from the men coming and going. he saw no real concern. Most were dressed as cowboys and all wore their iron high up on their hip. A few carried their six-shooters lower, tied down onto their thigh like a gunfighter. From the cold stares he got from them, he doubted many had ridden herd or plowed a field.
As he rode, Slocum was aware of men glancing at him, but that was the full extent of their scrutiny. They paid him no attention other than he was riding down the street. Strangers weren’t to be feared—he guessed most everyone in this town rated that appellation.
This was the kind of place where kidnappers brought men to hold for ransom. But how was he going to find Baransky and the men who had grabbed him out on the trail?
“You got more ’n that mangy mule yer ridin’?” The call came from a gent rocked back in a chair, precariously leaning against the saloon wall. “You got more, I kin make you a good deal.”
Slocum tugged on the reins and walked his mule to where he could study the man.
“Might have a few mules and some gear. Who else is buying?”
“Why, mister, you don’t need nobody else. Ole Buddy Drew—that’s me—gives top dollar.”
That told Slocum more of what he needed to know. The town thrived on buying stolen animals and supplies. That it competed and obviously thrived along with Almost There told of the huge numbers of men and supplies struggling to the distant goldfields. He hesitated, a faint sound alerting him.
“What’s wrong, mister? You got a bug in yer ear?”
“Hear something.”
“All you need to hear’s my offer cuz it’ll be the best you can git in this godforsaken town. You got them other mules to show me? I don’t buy no pig in a poke.”
“Buy me a drink and let’s dicker,” Slocum said. He dismounted, wondering how safe the mule would be if he left it in the street. Barely had his feet touched the muddy ground when a grizzled man in a threadbare old Confederate uniform limped up. His left leg was nigh on useless from the way he dragged himself along.
“Watch it fer a dime,” he said.
“Git yer lazy as
s outta here, Wallace. You don’t want to annoy this fellow. He’s got stuff to sell.”
“Here,” Slocum said. “Don’t let anybody make off with the mule or saddle.” He handed the gimpy man a greenback. The sneer told him scrip wasn’t held in high esteem in these parts.
“This’ll buy you a half hour, no more.”
Slocum nodded. His business wouldn’t take him that long. He’d either find out what Buddy Drew knew or be on his way quick enough.
“You come right on in, mister. What do I call you?” Drew held the saloon door open for Slocum.
“Thirsty.”
Drew laughed, but there was no humor in it. He called out to the barkeep, “Set ’em up, Mr. Preston. Me and my friend here got business to discuss.”
The bartender wiped off a pair of shot glasses using a rag, which disappeared back behind the bar. Slocum doubted it was much cleaner than the glasses that were quickly filled to the brim with amber fluid.
“Bottoms up,” Drew said, knocking back his shot.
Slocum was slower to follow. A drop of chloral hydrate would leave him unconscious on the floor and at the mercy of the men scattered around the saloon watching him like a hungry coyote watches a plump rabbit. He snorted as the fiery liquor slid down his gullet.
“Potent stuff, ain’t it?”
Slocum waited a moment for any hint of dizziness. Drew would be the first to die if he had been drugged. But the burning in his belly didn’t warn him of anything wrong, other than his lack of food recently.
“I’ll swap the mules I got,” Slocum said.
“Swap? I don’t understand. I run a strictly cash business. Ask any of the boys.” Drew made a sweeping gesture that took in everyone.
“I want information. I got a score to settle with an owlhoot and heard he was here.”
“What kind of score?” Drew looked at him as he stepped back a half pace.
“That’s between me and Baransky.”
“That his name? Baransky?”
“Clem Baransky.”
“Don’t know him. Any of you know this Baransky fellow?”
Drew never took his eyes off Slocum but still answered, “Sorry, they don’t know him. You got to look elsewhere, though I’m still willin’ to buy yer stock.”
“Two mules. What price?”
“Got to see ’em first. You came into town alone.”
“I’ll look around a bit more,” Slocum said.
“You’re not walkin’ ’way from this deal.”
“What deal?”
“You drank my whiskey. That sealed the deal. You lyin’ ’bout havin’ more mules? That means you’re tryin’ to cheat me.”
Drew stepped back and pulled his coat away from the six-shooter slung at his hip.
“You willing to die over this?” Slocum asked.
He saw that Buddy Drew was from the way he flexed his fingers.
Slocum squared off, a cold calm settling over him.
7
“Why don’t you jist give ole Buddy Drew that mule and we kin call it even-steven?” The man’s fingers twitched again, and Slocum knew no deal was going to happen that didn’t also include swapping a few ounces of lead.
“I’ll pay for the drink.”
“Sure you—” Drew’s hand stopped twitching as he went for his iron. Talking while drawing might have stayed some men’s hand but not John Slocum’s.
His fingers closed around the ebony butt of his Colt as he turned slightly to his right. The six-gun slid from his cross-draw holster and fired almost in the same blink of an eye. The white smoke filled the room, then had even more added as Drew fired.
But Slocum saw his slug had been enough, and there was no need for a second shot. A small red splotch spread on Drew’s chest. He reached out to support himself on the bar with his left hand, but his right was too weak to hold his six-shooter. It clattered to the floor, resting inches from where his bullet had torn a path through the boards. He followed his weapon to the floor and lay unmoving.
Looking around, Slocum hunted for anyone who would take advantage of the situation and gun him down. The few men in the saloon who had been disturbed by the gunfight turned away. Only two were interested enough to wander over, more curious than angry that one of their own had been killed.
A man dressed in miner’s garb looked down, scratched himself, then asked, his eyes never leaving Drew’s body, “You mind if we help him on out of here?”
Slocum shook his head. He kept the six-shooter in his grip, waiting to see what happened. A harsh laugh escaped his lips when he saw the two men dive down on the fallen crook and begin rummaging through his pockets. When a bright gold watch appeared, Slocum stepped out and grabbed it.
He held it up, then let it spin slowly on its chain.
He dropped it into the scavenger’s outstretched hand and said, “Thought it was mine.”
“Mine now,” the scavenger said gleefully, tucking it away. He and his partner made rapid work of stripping anything of value from the carcass.
“Git him on outta here,” the barkeep said, showing his first interest since pouring the drinks. “It’s bad for business to leave bodies around like that.”
“He’s all yers, mister,” one scavenger said, looking up at Slocum.
“Do what you want with him. You’ve been paid.” Slocum pointed with his six-gun. The movement caused one to slip and sit down hard. The other fumbled for his own six-shooter, then thought better of it.
“You heard him. Buddy’s all yers. Take him on out the back way. Now, dammit, do it now!” The barkeep slammed his fist down hard on the bar, causing the empty shot glasses to jump. He looked over at Slocum and asked, “Want another?”
Slocum slid his six-shooter back into the holster and left without saying another word. Chances were good the drink would have cost him more than the price of the whiskey. This one would have been laced with a Mickey Finn.
It was that kind of drinking emporium.
He stepped out, shooing Wallace out of his way. The man had been peering around the corner of the doorway watching everything that happened inside.
“You kilt him. You got a quick hand, mister. Kin I work fer you?”
Slocum started to laugh, then considered how difficult it would be finding anything in this town. The palisade and armed guards told him this was closer to a prison than a town.
“Get yourself a bottle and come back out and join me.” He handed Wallace a couple of the greenbacks and examined the chairs along the boardwalk. He found one that would support his weight without collapsing. He had barely sat in it when Wallace returned. A couple inches were already missing from the bottle.
Wallace saw his interest in the bottle and hastily said, “Damned bartender’s always cheatin’ me. Says this is what passes for a full bottle.” He held it out to Slocum, who took it, pulled the cork, and tipped the bottle up enough to wet his lips. They stung like fire. He handed the bottle back.
“Help yourself,” Slocum invited. “Now that Drew’s out of business, who should I see about selling spare mules and gear?”
“Oh, that’s easy ’nuff,” Wallace said, sinking into the rickety chair beside Slocum. He took a quick drink, then another, and passed the bottle back. Slocum held up his hand, showing he wasn’t interested in the tarantula juice.
This suited Wallace just fine. The liquor lubricated his tongue.
“Trueheart runs the whole damn place. Not sure what he’s up to, but it’s changin’ as we sit here jawin’.”
“Changing?”
“Used to be the fellows went out and found equipment dropped along the trail over the pass.”
“Dropped?”
“Early on, prospectors didn’t have good sense and loaded theyselves down with ever’ contrivance you could imagine. Pickin’ up after ’em was profitable. Hell, I done some of it myself.”
Slocum barely paid attention as the story unfolded. From scavenging, the men had turned into road agents and outright killers. Who was
to know or care? But the flow of stolen goods had become too great to use so they had taken up selling it over and over in Almost There at the base of the mountain.
“Trueheart think that up?”
“Not much he don’t think on, mister. He’s a deep one. Another nip?”
Slocum took another swig to keep Wallace happy and give him the feeling he had a drinking companion. Given the chance, Wallace would be as happy draining the entire bottle on his own.
“What happens when the goldfields over Desolation Pass peter out?”
Wallace looked at him with one eye closed, the better to focus. He lifted a grimy finger to his lips and whispered, “Shush.”
“You said more was going on. What’s Trueheart up to?”
“Somethin’ real big. Dunno what, but them folks all around him are abuzz with it. Been kinda strange, too, lately. A lot of supplies comin’ into town what could be sold never get traded. Don’t know what Trueheart is doin’ with ’em but he’s got enough food and equipment carried off to supply an army. Think they been buildin’ something, but nobody knows what. Nobody not in tight with Trueheart.”
“How’s that?” Slocum pushed the bottle back when Wallace tried to give it to him again. The man didn’t think Slocum was unneighborly at all. Probably the contrary from the hefty drink he took, then belched.
“Lot of equipment taken out on the trail’s not goin’ downhill no more. Even keepin’ mules ’stead of sellin’ ’em below.”
Slocum saw he wasn’t getting any more information out of an increasingly besotted Wallace.
“You did good looking after my mule,” Slocum said, standing. “Keep the rest of the bottle.”
“You’re a prince ’mong men, mister. Anythin’ more I kin do, you look up ole Wallace and I’ll be there to help.”
Slocum mounted his mule and rode away from the saloon, going deeper into the heart of the town. For a moment he thought he heard a strange noise again but his braying mule drowned out any chance he had of identifying it.
He took the first cross street and saw a huge building that had to be Trueheart’s headquarters. From the armed men standing guard outside, he knew better than to barge in on the man responsible for building the whole damned town. He rode past, took a smaller street into the red light district, then made his way to a switchback trail leading upward into the low hills just above town. From a level spot along the trail, he got a good view of the claptrap buildings—and Trueheart’s headquarters.