by Logan, Jake
He stepped down from the mule and sat on a rock, letting the animal graze while he watched the ebb and flow of men and supplies throughout the town. It seemed to him that more went to Trueheart’s building than was needed and what came out were pack mules laden with canvas-masked loads.
Since Trueheart provided a clearinghouse for everything stolen along the trail over the mountain, all Slocum got from this was that another trail down to the town below existed. Trueheart didn’t want to spook the prospectors working their way up the steep hill by blatantly showing the stolen equipment being returned. Some of the parties had to be heavily armed and not worth the effort to steal from.
Unlike the party of four Slocum had been hired to guide across Desolation Pass.
That rankled as bad as an infected tooth. He should have known there would be outlaws along the trail and yet he had ignored the risk and it had cost three men their lives. And what had happened to Clement Baransky? Slocum thought he had been brought to Trueheart’s town. But why? And how could he find him?
The sun began sinking fast since this town was situated around the mountainside away from the trail used by the prospectors. Dawn came earlier here, but twilight cloaked the town sooner in retaliation.
He decided he had to get a look into Trueheart’s headquarters, no matter what the risk.
He took his time returning to the town. Unlike many towns, no gaslights blazed to illuminate the streets. Using the shadows to his benefit, he worked his way closer to the large, well-lit building that was four or five times the size of a big barn. And behind it was a regular-sized barn where the men stabled their animals.
Slocum left his mule tethered in a spot he hoped wouldn’t be noticed by an itinerant thief, then went directly to the barn. Several men finished currying their horses and headed in a loose group to Trueheart’s main building. Slocum trailed them, trying not to look conspicuous. The men were tired from the trail and didn’t josh with one another. They came to the back door of the huge building, and here Slocum hesitated.
Two guards just inside scrutinized everyone entering.
He found himself caught in a trap. If he turned and walked off, he would draw attention. But if he tried to bull his way inside, bullets might fly. Seeing the situation, he made a quick decision and boldly walked in behind a short, bowlegged cowboy.
“Wait,” a guard said. “Don’t know you.”
Slocum reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the silver dollar with a hole shot through it. This had been his ducat to get past the palisades.
“Go on,” the guard said, eying the mutilated coin and paying Slocum no heed.
Slocum followed the last of the men down a narrow corridor and into a large barracks. As he got a better look, he thought he had entered an army post quartermaster’s storage room. Lining the walls, shelves held about every piece of mining and prospecting equipment he had ever seen. Chisels, picks, hammers, all there. He frowned when he saw carbide lamps, rope, miners’ candles, even cases of blasting powder. More than prospecting equipment was stashed here. Trueheart kept mining equipment fit for cutting shafts and blowing down rock walls to follow a subterranean, meandering vein of gold.
“What you need, mister?”
“I was thinking of some dynamite,” Slocum said, looking back over his shoulder at a mousy man wearing a green eyeshade and a shirt that had been white once. He had worn it until it turned gray, and in spite of wearing cuff protectors, the cuffs were frayed. Black stains on the man’s short fingers revealed his true occupation. He was an accountant.
“Nope, not for sale.”
“Trade? I got a couple mules.”
“We got all the animals for the project we need.”
Slocum wanted to ask what this “project” was but knew better than to betray ignorance.
“What do you need for the project? I can furnish it special.”
“We got a dozen men out on the trail doing just that.”
“Let me look over the goods,” Slocum said. “You got a customer to tend.” He pointed to a man dressed in canvas pants and a denim shirt running his fingers over a carbide light.
The accountant mumbled to himself and went to dicker with the miner for the lamp. Slocum saw a small leather bag change hands. The accountant and the miner crossed the large room to a table where a small balance scale determined the value of the bag’s contents.
“Gold dust,” Slocum said softly.
He went to the shelves and took down a chisel and hammer to avoid drawing unwanted attention. A murmur passed through the men in the room, causing Slocum to look around.
A tall, whipcord-thin man dressed in a fancy cutaway coat, green brocade vest with dangling gold chains, top hat making him close to seven feet tall, and boots shined so hard they reflected like mirrors strutted into the room. Four men flanked him. From their look, they were bodyguards and positioned themselves in such a way that their boss wasn’t accosted by men moving in his direction like iron filings to a magnet.
Slocum didn’t need a formal introduction to know who this was.
“You gents finding what you need? If you don’t, ask Mr. Peltier over there.” Trueheart pointed at the accountant, who smiled wanly at the introduction.
Trueheart made his way through the room, talking with some men and clapping others on the shoulder before moving on as a monarch might after greeting his vassals. Slocum turned back to the array of equipment to keep from attracting Trueheart’s notice. Wallace had said something different was passing through this town. Slocum stood in a room that gave testimony to that. He doubted Wallace or most of the citizens ever came here, yet this had to reflect a huge number of thefts—and deaths—along the trail up to Desolation Pass.
Trueheart had gone from being a carrion eater to a hunter. Exactly what he used all this equipment for meant he had moved on past even this. To what?
“What time’s it getting to be, Hersh?”
Slocum fought to keep his instinctive reaction from getting him killed. Trueheart’s bodyguard pulled out a watch, flipped open the case, and studied the face before telling his boss.
That watch was Slocum’s.
Trueheart glanced in Slocum’s direction, drawn by his jerky action. Slocum lowered his eyes and clutched the hammer and chisel he had taken off the shelf, as if he were more interested in them than Trueheart or his henchman.
“You. You’re new here, aren’t you?”
Slocum looked up and locked eyes with Trueheart.
“Just got in.”
“Do tell. You’re not working the project?”
“Want to,” Slocum said.
“Got all we need there,” Trueheart said. “You keep on bringing in what we need and might be one day you can work there.”
Hersh nudged his boss and whispered for a few seconds. Trueheart looked exasperated, as if silently acknowledging a king’s duty never ended. Without another word to Slocum, he went to the table where Peltier weighed out his gold dust and got into a heated discussion with the accountant.
Slocum put back the hammer and chisel and headed for the doorway leading back outside. If he stayed any longer, he would get himself in big trouble. He had a good look at Hersh and knew he had to be the one who had robbed him out in the meadow. His steps slowed when he remembered why he had come into the building.
Clem Baransky.
Hersh had to know what happened to the man he had grabbed out on the trail. Slocum watched as Trueheart’s henchman stood a pace away from the table and Peltier. Would Hersh recognize him as the pilgrim he had left for dead?
How he could cut Hersh out of the herd was a poser. But he had to try if he wanted to find Baransky.
Slocum stepped out into the cold night air and looked around. A slow smile crossed his lips when he saw the perfect place to ambush Hersh.
8
Two horses were saddled and waiting behind a fancy carriage near the barn. Slocum wanted to examine the vehicle more closely. In the darkness, its gold designs se
emed to have been painted on. Considering how flamboyantly Trueheart dressed, however, his carriage might have had actual gold leaf glued on it—and Slocum had no doubt that Trueheart was its owner. It fit the man too perfectly to belong to anyone else.
Slocum pressed himself against the side of the barn, melting into shadows, when Trueheart and his henchmen came from the large building. Hersh spoke in tones too low for Slocum to overhear, but what he said displeased Trueheart.
“Don’t bother me with that. You take care of it.”
“Drew was a good supplier,” Hersh said. Slocum caught his breath. He had gunned down one of Trueheart’s men, but considering the way this town was run, that wasn’t unlikely. Everyone in it was in Trueheart’s gang in some way or another.
“Get whoever cut him down and enlist him,” Trueheart said, getting into the carriage. It creaked under his weight. It creaked even more when one bodyguard got into the back and sat cross-legged. Another grabbed the reins, snapped them loudly, and drove off, leaving Hersh and the fourth guard behind.
“What you intend to do, Hersh?”
“Damned if I know. From what the barkeep said, the owlhoot who gunned down Buddy was a tough customer.”
“Might be Trueheart is right. Hire him.”
“I liked Buddy.”
“You was skimmin’ half of what he made ’fore it ever got to Trueheart.”
“You shut that pie hole. Don’t ever say that out loud. Trueheart might not know you’re kidding.”
“Who’s kidding? I know you and Drew had an arrangement. I want in. Let me be the buyer and we kin split fifty-fifty.”
Slocum edged closer as Hersh and the bodyguard argued.
“You’re a damned thief, Mackley.”
“But I’m an honest thief. I stay bought.”
They argued a bit more, then Hersh said, “Get on out of here. Trueheart will wonder what became of you.”
“I’ll see to the buyin’ come daybreak. Thanks, partner.” Mackley laughed as he rode after the carriage.
Hersh worked to cinch down the belly strap on his horse, then half turned when Slocum came up behind him.
“What do you—”
Hersh grunted as Slocum slammed the barrel of his Colt into the side of his head. He sagged, dropped to one knee, and rubbed his temple. Slocum slugged him again, driving him to the ground. His horse crow hopped and tried to bolt, but Hersh somehow clung to the dangling reins.
“We need to talk.” Slocum reached over and plucked his watch from Hersh’s pocket.
“Who the hell are you?” Hersh rubbed the side of his head and tried to focus. “You’re gonna pay for this. You know who I am?”
“You’re the man who kidnapped Clem Baransky.”
“What? Who’s that?”
Slocum hesitated. Hersh was still disoriented from the buffaloing and wasn’t likely to lie easily or quickly.
“A prospector you grabbed out on the trail over the mountain,” he explained. “Is he in town?”
“I don’t know who you mean.”
Slocum hit him again, knocking him flat on his back. He stood over him with his Colt Navy cocked and aimed between his eyes.
“The men you kidnap out on the trail. What happens to them?”
“Th‑They’re not in town. I swear it!”
Slocum frowned. There was a ring of truth in Hersh’s words, but—
Hersh hooked one toe around the back of Slocum’s right foot and kicked like a mule, catching him on the kneecap. Slocum lost his balance, but as he fell, he jerked off a shot. He sat hard on the ground and worked to cock his pistol for another shot. There was no need for that. Hersh wasn’t moving. Slocum rubbed his bruised knee and swung around. His bullet had snuffed out Hersh’s life in a split second, going straight through his forehead.
He got to his feet and dusted himself off. Then he heard hoofbeats coming back fast from the direction Mackley had ridden.
“What’s going on, Hersh? You all right?”
Slocum considered taking Hersh’s horse since it would give him a faster escape, then realized it would also brand him as both a killer and a horse thief. Even in a law-abiding town, he wasn’t likely to escape a noose with any story when the evidence was against him. He faded into the shadows again, six-gun in his hand and hanging at his side.
Mackley jumped from the saddle and went to his slain partner. He drew his six-shooter and looked around, but he didn’t make any move toward Slocum. When he knelt and began going through Hersh’s pockets, taking what money was there, Slocum knew there was no honor among these thieves. Hersh’s death only meant that Mackley moved up in the hierarchy of scavengers.
Mackley snared the dangling reins and led the horse over to his own. With a quick vault, he was again in the saddle and rode off, Hersh’s horse trotting along behind.
Slocum moved cautiously, wary of anyone else who might have heard the gunshot. Business went on as usual in the large building, and nobody was in the barn. He returned to his mule, stepped up, and began the slow walk toward the gate leading back to the main trail.
He had tried to find Clem Baransky and had failed. But he patted his vest pocket where his watch rode safely once more and smiled. The excursion hadn’t been a complete waste of time. He had killed one man who might have been responsible for dry-gulching him on the trail and had put a bullet through the head of another who not only had been part of the ambush but had also robbed him.
He was pleased with that. But where was Clem Baransky?
With a snap of the reins, he kept his mule moving. Wherever he was, it wasn’t in this town.
Slocum pushed back his hat and stared in surprise. Stephen and Melissa Baransky had done as he’d asked and stayed put. He kicked at the flanks of his tired mule and tugged on the reins of the other two he had retrieved.
“Mr. Slocum! You’re back!” Melissa turned to her brother and said, “See? I told you he wouldn’t abandon us!”
Stephen grumbled some but came over and took the reins from Slocum.
“Didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I gathered as much,” Slocum said, slipping his leg over the mule’s back and dropping to the rocky ground. He ached all over. The mule’s gait was different from a horse’s. He could ride all day, half into the night, and do it again when the sun rose, but not on a mule. They were surefooted and ornery cusses intent on inflicting as much agony on a rider as possible.
“What happened? Did you have to … fight? To get the supplies back?” Melissa’s brown eyes glowed with excitement. He wondered what would happen to that sparkle if he told her he had killed not only Gunnison but two other road agents.
“I got everything back,” he said, “but I didn’t find your pa. No trace of him.”
That still rankled.
“Then he might be on the trail, ahead of us. A long ways ahead of us,” Melissa said with some sadness. She turned and stared up the trail where it disappeared around a bend. They had reached a point where the initial steep slope petered out, giving a chance for a few miles of easy climbing, but from what Slocum had seen of a map, after that the going got hard. Fast.
“What’s so all-fired important that you have to reach your pa?”
“He wants to talk us out of going on, Melly.”
“I want you to think about how hard it’ll be just reaching Desolation Pass. From there into the goldfields isn’t an easy jaunt either.”
“We have to give Papa the sad news.” Melissa took a deep sigh. The movement of her bodice distracted Slocum so much he almost missed her tiny voice saying, “Mama is dead. And only he can square things with the estate.”
“Estate?”
“There’s no reason to explain family finances to the likes of him,” Stephen said, almost spitting out the words.
“Please,” she said, ignoring her brother’s outburst. “Mr. Slocum has to know whether to continue with us or return to town.”
For a moment Slocum’s head spun. Return to town? Then h
e realized she meant Almost There at the base of the mountain. She knew nothing of the one run by Trueheart and his gang.
Leaving that town built on thievery still bothered him. He touched the lump made by his watch to reassure himself it still rode safely in his vest pocket. But whatever Trueheart did was a mystery he wished he could have solved. Although Hersh ended up dying, he had blurted out that there weren’t any kidnapped prospectors in the town—and Slocum believed that. Hersh had been taken by surprise by the question and his answer had a ring of honesty to it. That might well have been the only time Trueheart’s henchman had not lied or connived.
That left Slocum to wonder about Clement Baransky. The place where the ambush had occurred was obvious. Finding Baransky’s mule once more at the bottom of the trail gave mute testimony to something bad happening to him. But there hadn’t been a body, and evidence of someone having been dragged off was real. Why should the scavengers fake that when they believed no one would notice or care?
Slocum looked past the woman up the trail. As incredible as it seemed, Clem Baransky might have escaped and continued on the trail.
“He might have fallen off the mule,” Stephen said, breaking Slocum’s thoughts.
“I suppose so. If he fell off, the mule could have been found by someone else and taken back down the hill.” Slocum didn’t believe that for a moment since it didn’t explain the drag marks he had seen in the meadow where Baransky’s mule must have been stolen, but the way Melissa’s face lit with hope kept him talking. It was cruel to give her a dream of finding her pa alive, but he felt undercurrents running between brother and sister that bothered him.
Stephen wanted to hear that his pa was dead. He never said it, but the way he spoke convinced Slocum of that.
“Who gets the inheritance if your pa’s not found?”