Slocum's Four Brides

by Jake Logan

  He began studying the stretch of road past the point where the buggy wheel had come off. He wasn’t able to verify Yarrow’s account, but the mud had pretty well swallowed up most of the evidence. Only by pulling the buggy up could he tell if the wheel had come off or if everything Yarrow said was a lie. But why would he kill Wilhelmina? He seemed devoted enough to her. The way they had stood close together at the funeral told Slocum there hadn’t been any bad blood between them then. Had they argued on the way back to their mine?

  There was no way he could tell. But he thought he found faint tracks of another buggy. The mud swallowed up any real evidence, though.

  Yarrow came back, looking more distraught than before.

  “I can’t find her. She ain’t no place to be found!”

  “How many folks drive buggies along this road?”

  “Just us. Most of the miners have buckboards. Some share. It ain’t cheap buyin’ and keepin’ a rig.”

  “See anybody else on this road today?”

  “Jist you, Slocum.”

  Even as he stared at the faint traces he had found— thought he had found—the melting snow and warmth from the Colorado sun erased everything. If he had not known Yarrow’s buggy had gone over at this spot, he would no longer have been able to tell.

  “You thinkin’ someone gave her a ride? Not to my mine, they didn’t!”

  “Where’s the road go?” Slocum pointed ahead.

  “A few claims up that way. Mostly petered-out mines.”

  Slocum’s mind raced. If someone had followed Yarrow and Wilhelmina, they might have taken the woman on up into the hills to one of the working mines. Or to an abandoned one. Wilhelmina was a mighty fine-looking woman, and the miners were horny bastards.

  “Somebody took her. Ain’t that it, Slocum? That what you see here?”

  “I don’t see squat,” Slocum said. “This mud’s useless for giving any trace.”

  “I got to find her. This is awful!”

  “Tell you what, Yarrow. Go scout a ways up the road for any sign of a buggy. If you don’t see anything, go back to your mine. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Where’re you goin’, Slocum?”

  “Need to go back to town,” he said. “Soon as I get some supplies, I’ll come on back. I suspect you and Wilhelmina will be all cozied up by the stove and my trip will be for nothing.”

  Yarrow nodded, reassured. But Slocum doubted Yarrow would find anything. And he had never asked what supplies Slocum needed.

  Slocum figured he needed a box or two of ammunition. At least.

  17

  “You want what, Mr. Slocum?” Franklin Fremont looked confused.

  “You’re the land agent, aren’t you? You register claims.”

  “Even do a little assay work since the chemists over in Grand Junction take forever and charge so much. Folks around here want their results quick.”

  “I want a map of the area around Yarrow’s mine. Do you have it or not?”

  “A map? Well, not exactly. All I do is record what the miners tell me.”

  Slocum wanted to strangle the man, but Betty stood close by and would not have permitted it. Exasperated, he asked again for a map of the countryside.

  “Well, I’ve got this one. Shows where all the hills and ravines are, but it’s not got many mines marked on it.” Fremont spread the map on the counter. Slocum shoved his finger down and followed the road toward Yarrow’s claim.

  “Here. What’s this? A smudge, or is it something else?”

  Fremont peered at the wavy line Slocum indicated.

  “Looks to be a ravine. Must be a good-sized one, since it’s on the map. Why put small arroyos on a map?”

  “The map was made by the man who had this job before you?”

  “Mr. Latham, yes. He was a cranky old bastard.” Fremont turned and smiled weakly. “Sorry for the salty language, my dear.” He turned back to Slocum. “Mr. Latham considered maps a hobby.”

  Slocum wasn’t listening any longer. The ravine must be wide, and it worked around the far side of the hill where Yarrow’s claim had been staked. If what Fremont said was right, most of the mines in the area were abandoned, letting anyone who wanted to ride unnoticed around the hill and go straight to the Sombrero mine in the next valley over. Wilhelmina might have taken this route and gone to see Sarah June. If so, no one would have spotted her. But why would she want to talk secretly? Slocum knew he might be making a mountain from a molehill. This was a shorter route than coming back to Aurum and then going to the Sombrero. Time, distance—those might have been the reasons Wilhelmina would have chosen to continue around the hill to see Sarah June.

  If she had even gone to see the other woman.

  “Mind if I keep the map?” Slocum asked, folding the page and tucking it into his pocket.

  “Well, I must protest. That is an official record and—”

  “Franklin.” Betty simply spoke the man’s name and he shut up. He looked glum at the prospect of the map leaving his office, but his wife had spoken.

  “How’s the claim coming for your mine?” Slocum had to ask.

  “It appears that the Dead Man’s Revenge will be mine, since Rafe’s partners have hightailed it.”

  “Funny how threat of a necktie party can do that,” Slocum said. Betty looked at him appraisingly.

  “Isn’t it, John? You really must come out and join Franklin and me for dinner sometime.”

  “Betty decided to rename the mine,” cut in Fremont. “I insisted we call it the Bountiful Betty.”

  “A good choice,” Slocum said. He left the land office and looked at the sky. The sun was starting to sink in the west. He had buried a man in the morning and promised to find a lost woman by noon. Now he had to get back in the saddle and make good on that last promise. Somehow, he thought, the funeral and the disappearance were tied together. The memory of Sarah June talking with Wilhelmina stuck in his mind. He almost rode for the Sombrero mine, but he had told Yarrow he would be back.

  Who knew? Yarrow might have found Wilhelmina wandering around the countryside and have her beside a nice fire, warming up.

  Slocum turned his collar to the increasingly biting wind coming off the higher elevations and rode for Yarrow’s claim. He reached the mine just after sundown.

  “Yarrow!” he called. “I’m back from town.” Slocum had his map, and his saddlebags were full of ammunition and grub, in case the search for Wilhelmina lengthened into days instead of a few hours. He saw the dilapidated wagon and tired horse near the cabin.

  Slocum paused and listened hard. Then he took a deep sniff of the cold mountain air. He heard nothing but the expected noises. The horses. The settling of the timbers in the mine. Distant wind whispering through the pines. His nose caught that pine scent and more than a hint of a badly kept outhouse.

  He did not hear any other humans nor did he smell burning wood. If Wilhelmina had returned, Yarrow would have fixed a fire.

  Slocum pulled his six-shooter and went to the cabin. The door stood open.

  “You in there, Yarrow? It’s me. Slocum.” He kicked the door fully open and spun into the room. He lifted his six-gun and then tucked it back into his holster. There was no need to be worried about Yarrow. The man lay sprawled on the floor, a bullet hole between his eyes. Slocum knelt and examined the body. The single bullet had killed him instantly. The best he could make out, Yarrow had gone to the door, opened it when someone had knocked, and then he had been shot. He took one step away and fell like cut timber.

  Slocum looked around but saw nothing out of place. Whoever had killed Yarrow had shot him and left.

  Going back to the body, Slocum noticed that the top button on the man’s shirt had been ripped off. He pressed his fingers down into the cold flesh and then traced out a red mark starting at the sides of Yarrow’s neck and circling around to the back. He had worn something on a leather thong that had been ripped off.

  Slocum reconsidered his ideas of what had happened. Yarrow was
shot, fell, then someone had entered, gripped the necklace, and yanked hard enough to tear it off. Then they had left.

  Fumbling in his pocket, Slocum pulled out the quarter of a silver dollar he had found on the dead man just outside Salt Lake City. It had a hole drilled in it, as if it had, at one time, been worn on a necklace.

  “The Silver Dollar Gang,” Slocum said. He remembered Sanders talking about secret societies and symbols.

  He stood and left the cabin and its corpse. Anything he considered, including that Yarrow, Heywood, and the dead man along the trail had been in the gang with Lemuel Sanders, was just speculation.

  “Carson,” he said. “The man’s name was Carson.” Slocum held up the quarter silver dollar and flipped it, capturing the light of a waxing moon. “This was yours, wasn’t it, Carson?”

  The rising wind was his only answer. Slocum tucked the piece of silver dollar back into his pocket and began searching the area around the cabin. He had not expected to find anything, but tracks in a snowbank led off toward the woods. Slocum tried to decipher the footprints and couldn’t. Probably two people, one following in the footprints of the other. Whether this was for convenience or had been intended to hide the tracks, he could not tell. He went into the woods and lost the trail several times in the intense darkness. More than once he lit a lucifer and hastily scanned the ground. The way the slope increased dramatically warned Slocum that he was nearing a cliff.

  The trees grew right up to the brink. The few feet of rock between the trees and the drop-off refused to give up any information. He edged closer to the cliff and then chanced a look down. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a longer, better look.

  In stark contrast to the white snow lay a woman dressed in black. The dark splotches around her had to be blood. In the moonlight blood always looked like ink. Try as he might Slocum could not identify the woman, but it had to be either Sarah June or Wilhelmina.

  He backed off, then spent the next two hours finding a path down to the foot of the cliff. As he approached, he saw right away that it was Wilhelmina who had died. He looked up and shuddered. That was a long fall. More than long enough for the woman to think about dying. Slocum examined Wilhelmina’s body the best he could, but the impact had left her broken in more places than he could count. That she had landed faceup was the only way he could identify her.

  Slocum had brought rope with him and a hunk of canvas from the mine. He rolled Wilhelmina onto the thick tarp, then trussed her up. Trying to drag her proved too difficult. As distasteful as it was, Slocum heaved the body onto his shoulder and staggered off. It was a long, difficult climb back to the cabin. He laid Wilhelmina next to Yarrow, then fixed himself some coffee.

  It settled in his belly and made him nauseous. He finally shut the cabin door, got his bedroll, and found a spot outside where he could stretch out and get a few hours’ sleep. Just after dawn he came awake, loaded the bodies into the wagon, and drove to Aurum.

  “Might be a better occupation,” the barkeep said. “Servin’ tarantula juice is profitable, but I make a hell of a lot more sayin’ words over the dead.”

  “Just get on with it,” Slocum said. He was tired of funerals. It was especially exhausting that one of the two being buried was a woman he had been hired to protect.

  “It’s not your fault, John,” Betty said quietly. “We all got to Aurum and you could have moved on right away. This would have still happened, whether you stayed in town or not.”

  “I know,” Slocum said. He touched the piece of the silver dollar in his pocket. He knew how to find the killer—it was whoever was starting a collection of the silver pieces. The one he now carried he had found under the body along the road—the killer had not been able to find it. Or had been too squeamish to roll Carson over and hunt for it.

  But she was learning. The killer was getting bolder, more vicious.

  “You were in town, weren’t you?”

  “What? Why, yes, of course. I was helping Franklin with some of the paperwork. It does get to be a burden.”

  “I thought so.” Slocum doubted Tabitha had ridden in from Braden. That left only one possible killer. Sarah June stood alone on the far side of the grave. The expression on her face was neutral, but she would make a terrible poker player. Now and then Slocum saw the revealing twitches and grimaces as the barkeep gave the simple service.

  Sarah June was trying not to show her glee at this burial.

  “Did Sarah June and Wilhelmina have a falling-out?”

  “They were never on good terms,” Betty said. “Then again, they were better friends to each other than to me.”

  “Because you bragged so on how I . . . rescued you.”

  “Yes, thank you for being so discreet.” Betty glanced over at Franklin. The man stood quietly, hat in his hand and looking sad. Slocum thought he probably reacted that way at all funerals.

  “What do you know of Sarah June before we left Salt Lake City?”

  “About as much as I did of the others. All our stories were so similar, it held us together. That might have been why Preen found us such easy pickings.”

  “Who spoke up first? One of you or Sarah June?”

  “She was the most reticent of us about describing what she had endured. From what she said and the parts she was too embarrassed to mention, she might have had it the worst of any of us.”

  Slocum thought on this for a spell. Sarah June might have listened to the other three women’s stories and concocted one of her own that mirrored their experiences. Giving her tale a little more flair would be enough to keep the three from asking too many questions. She was running from Salt Lake City for a reason other than being a junior wife in a harem. What was it? What could be so heinous that she willingly killed three men and a woman who was as close to being a friend as anyone in the world?

  “Do you think she needs support, John? Look at her. So drawn and sad.”

  Slocum stared hard at Sarah June and saw something entirely different. Betty might be affected by Wilhelmina’s death, but for Sarah June it was water off a duck’s back.

  He moved around and stood beside her. She looked up at him, her blue eyes hard as flint.

  “He’s dead, John.”

  “Another one,” Slocum agreed. “You started with Carson, didn’t you?”

  Sarah June jumped as if he had stuck her with a pin. Her mouth opened, then closed.

  “How did you know?”

  “A guess,” he admitted.

  “You weren’t one of them. You weren’t. You couldn’t have been.”

  “One of them?” Slocum took out the quarter silver dollar and turned it slowly in front of her so it caught the bright autumn sun.

  “You—” Sarah June took a step back and started to open her purse. She stopped and looked hard at him. “You got that off Carson’s body.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sarah June opened her purse and fumbled inside. Slocum tensed. She had used a small pistol, probably a derringer, to kill Carson. It would fit easily in her purse. The flash of silver coming out made him reach for his six-shooter, then he stopped. She held two pieces of a silver dollar.

  “I am sure they all fit together,” Sarah June said.

  “You took it off Heywood after you killed him,” Slocum said.

  “I took it off him before I pushed him into the pit.”

  “You hit him with a board?”

  “I used the rope to catch him. As he was struggling to get the loop off of his ankles, I hit him. Several times.” Sarah June turned more distant and cold. “Then I took the piece of the dollar and pushed him into the pit. I think he was dead before, but I wish he had been alive so he could have driven himself crazy trying to escape.”

  “You really hated him, didn’t you?”

  “Carson and Yarrow, too.”

  “You didn’t recognize them, though. How can you hate people you’ve never laid eyes on?”

  “I shot him square between the eyes,” she said dream
ily. She made no effort to answer Slocum’s question. He wondered if she could, since she was reliving the killings. “I knocked, he opened the cabin door, and I shot him. Just like that. He stood in the door looking at me. I lifted my gun and pulled the trigger. My only regret is that he did not suffer enough.”

  “The same pistol you used on Carson?”

  Sarah June shrugged. “What if it was?”

  “Why did you kill Wilhelmina?”

  “I didn’t kill her. She saw me shoot Yarrow and ran off. I tried to stop her, but she did not know where she was going. Or she was so frightened that she got lost. She slipped and fell to her death. I regret that. I didn’t much like her, but I meant her no harm.”

  “You only wanted to kill her husband.”

  “She’s better off. Either without him or dead, she’s better off than living with that son of a bitch.”

  “What did the Silver Dollar Gang do to you?”

  “Nothing. Not a damned thing.” She pushed past him. “Excuse me, John. I must tend to business.”

  “Are you done with the killing?”

  “I prefer to think of them as executions.” She jerked free when he took her arm. When she saw he was not going to let her go, she called out, “Please join me in a tribute to these wonderful people. At the saloon, if our preacher will be so good as to pour. And would some of you care to escort me?”

  The miners rushed over and crowded Slocum out. Sarah June went with them, in the middle of a crowd he could never hope to push through. But there was no hurry. Slocum knew who was left on her death roll.

  18

  Slocum bided his time outside the saloon. He could have used a drink or two, especially if someone else was paying, but he wanted to keep his head clear. When Lemuel Sanders stumbled out, Slocum corralled him and shoved him down into a chair on the boardwalk.

  “I want you to buy me out,” Slocum said. “Now.”

  “What’s your hurry? You’re so all-fired het up to leave Aurum when there’s a fortune to be had, it makes me wonder ’bout you, Slocum.”

  “I want to go. Now.”

  “No money. None on me. If you wait till tomorrow when the bank opens, I’ll give you whatever’s there. We can call it even.”