by Jake Logan
“How’d you get out of the canyon and out here so fast?”
“Lord William insisted we strike camp and get on the trail, as you Yanks say, immediately after discovering the aborigine gone.”
“I’m not a Yank,” Slocum said sharply. “Sorry. I’ve had quite a night.”
“You appear to be the worse for wear,” Quinton said. “Might I suggest a bath in the stream? There is a small pool that might be perfect for use as a bathtub.”
“I could use some grub, too. You got anything to eat, or do you have to wait for your boss to get back?”
“He is your, uh, boss, as you say, also.”
“Yeah,” Slocum said. He started to dismount and found that he couldn’t do it. “Could you help me?” He hated to ask Quinton for help, but it was the only way he could step down without falling heavily.
Quinton didn’t say a word as he came, took the reins, and then eased Slocum to the ground. For a moment, Slocum’s knees went weak, and he had to cling to his cantle to keep from falling.
“You are in need of medical attention,” Quinton said, frowning. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing wrong with me that a bath won’t cure,” Slocum said. He took a few steps and felt better for it. “That way?”
Quinton nodded. Slocum walked with increasing vigor and found the stream. It took him a few minutes walking upstream to find the catch basin Quinton had described as being a perfect bathtub. Slocum sank down on the rocky lip and began undressing. He found it hard getting his shirt off because of the pain in his back, but he finally tossed it to the ground. His gun belt and boots and jeans followed. Naked, he slid into the cold water.
He gasped as the frigid touch sucked the warmth from his body, but after a few seconds, he felt better. The cold was what he needed on his bruised body. Leaning back, he floated in the small pool and closed his eyes and just drifted.
A small sound caused him to thrash about and reach for his six-shooter. He stopped when he looked up at Abigail Cheswick. A broad grin stretched from ear to ear.
“I had heard there were all kinds of exotic wildlife in these woods. I never expected to find a naked . . . merman.”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“Ah, but I see ever so much more of you. Would you like company?” She began unbuttoning her crisp white linen blouse. Abigail stopped when she saw the expression on his face. “What’s wrong, John? You don’t like me anymore?”
“I can hardly move,” he said. Slocum got his feet under him and stood. He turned slowly with the water lapping about his thighs.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she whispered. “What happened? You’re all covered with bruises. The big yellow and brown one on your back looks painful.”
“It is,” Slocum said. He sank back down into the cold water. The flow around him stole away some of the hurt. Some, but not enough for him to entertain the idea of Abigail frolicking naked alongside him in the pool.
“You took the Indian woman back to her tribe,” Abigail said. “William was positive you had run off with her for some wild assignation.”
“If you mean he thought the two of us were enjoying each other’s company, I can tell you for certain sure neither of us enjoyed the other one little bit.”
“I can only guess. They caught you? The rest of those savages?”
Slocum nodded. Even this small movement hurt.
“Let me. Come closer. I won’t bite.” She held out her hands to him, and then turned him around so she sat on the bank while he remained in the water. She began to massage the knotted muscles in his shoulders and neck. He winced as she touched the fiery line where the rawhide had been fastened around his neck.
“Whatever did they do to you?”
“They don’t have any ammo left,” Slocum said, not wanting to dwell on what had happened to him. “They must have run out when they attacked your camp. That’s why they shot your brother with an arrow. They would have used a bullet if they’d had one left.”
“I suppose William was lucky then, though it didn’t seem so at the time.” She continued to work out the tenseness from his shoulders, and then worked lower. Touching his ribs made him stand a little straighter. From the way she probed, he knew she was checking for broken ribs.
“I would have died on the trail if they’d broken anything.”
“Good. I want you in one piece.” Her hands slipped wetly over his ribs and to his belly. She worked lower and found what she sought just under the level of the water. “Is it because it’s cold?”
“It’s because I hurt like a son of a bitch,” Slocum said. “And the cold.”
Abigail laughed at this and sat back on the bank. He turned and looked at her with her knees pulled up and her skirt off the ground, giving him a view of her bloomers. She was lovely and enticing but he felt no stirrings at all. Perhaps in a few days, but right now, simple movement made him flinch.
“You are indeed in sad shape.”
“Thanks,” Slocum said dryly. He pulled himself out of the pool and shook like a dog. Abigail laughed and turned to keep from getting water in her eyes. Slocum took his time dressing, as much from the soreness that remained as to gauge Abigail’s reaction.
By the time he settled his gun belt around his waist, he knew he wasn’t going to ride off, intending never to see her again, as he had done before.
“The Paiutes won’t come after us. There’s little reason for them to,” Slocum said, figuring this was true. Their war chief had been kicked in the head by Slocum’s mare, but chiefs were voted in and out constantly. Another would take charge, and maybe even take the squaw that had caused so much trouble.
“William has a new idea on what he wants to do,” she said.
“No more hunting?”
“Oh, he will hunt. He’s out now, but he said something about wanting to see a real gold mine. That’s nothing but a hole in the ground. I would much prefer to see the gold itself.”
“Might be possible to do both,” Slocum said. “There are mines to the north, up in the Sierra Nevadas.”
“It sounds dreary. I would prefer to return to Virginia City. There were people having fun there.”
Slocum said nothing to this. If either of them went back to the boomtown, they likely would have nooses dropped around their necks. There had already been too close a call in that regard for Slocum’s comfort.
“I hear a horse. William must be back. Why don’t you talk to him?”
“What are you going to do?”
Abigail grinned her wicked grin and said, “You look so refreshed, I think I might take a bath also. A long one. If you tire of listening to William, come back and join me.” She impulsively pulled him to her and kissed him quickly. “Now go on, John. He will want to see you right away.”
“And if he doesn’t get his way, he gets mean,” Slocum said.
Abigail’s good humor drained away. She turned from him and began disrobing. As much as he wanted to watch, he knew he had to deal with Cheswick first. Slocum got back to the clearing as Cheswick hopped to the ground from horseback. He had bagged several small birds that might have been mountain quail. Before Slocum got a good look at them, Cheswick handed them to Quinton and snapped his fingers in Slocum’s direction.
“You’re back, my man. So good to see you again.” Cheswick’s tone almost made Slocum mount and ride out, but he doubted he could get back into the saddle without Quinton’s help.
“At least this time, you’ve not out bagging Indian women,” Slocum said, not trying to hide his contempt. “You could have gotten us all killed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was only having sport with the savage. I didn’t mean anything by it. Why, Abigail would never hear of such a thing as you’re suggesting.”
Slocum wondered what the hell that meant. Cheswick didn’t seem the sort to think of anyone else, much less his sister.
“I killed their war chief. I doubt they’ll be on our trail.”
“That’s the spirit
, Slocum. Now,” Cheswick said, wiping his hands on a small towel he carried, “I have decided to put some life into this expedition. I want to see a gold mine and share stories with the troglodytes who work in them.”
“You want to get drunk with miners?”
“That’s a rather crude way of putting it, but yes, you are right. I must adapt to these primitive conditions and learn how you . . . Colonials speak. Much cruder than in the polite society I am used to, I am sure, but it will be necessary for me to sample this wonderful country to the fullest.”
“This is mining country,” Slocum said slowly, “so there shouldn’t be any trouble finding a mine to poke around in.”
“Not just any mine,” Cheswick said haughtily. “It must produce gold. I want to see it coming from the ground.”
“I’ll leave in the morning.” Slocum hesitated, then asked, “Is that where you were heading? Into the mountains to find a mine?”
Cheswick smirked and nodded, then made shooing motions to dismiss Slocum. Again, the urge to simply ride out and keep going was great, but Slocum held back. He needed the money, no matter how annoying Cheswick was.
A few yards off, he ran into Quinton.
“Why’d he get the bee in his bonnet about seeing a working gold mine?”
Quinton looked uneasy, then peered past Slocum to be sure that his master did not overhear.
“A letter. He read a letter and jumped up, quite early this morning, yelling and storming about as if he were quite mad.”
“Mad as a hatter or mad like a stepped-on dog?”
“I don’t understand,” Quinton said, although it was obvious he did.
“Where’d the letter come from? There’s no delivery out here.”
“He’d had it for some time but had never opened it. Perhaps the rush of events caused him to forget.”
“Where’d he get the letter? Virginia City?”
“I believe that is correct,” Quinton said.
Slocum left the servant and went to assemble the food he would need for the trail. He was hungrier than a bear coming out of hibernation, and he wasn’t going to skimp on eating if Cheswick supplied the goods. Nothing but oatmeal and beans washed down with boiled coffee got tiresome after a week or two.
He rummaged through the camp supplies and took what he needed. Slocum intended to find a shady spot and sleep the rest of the day, but saw Abigail walking briskly from the direction of the stream. Her midnight black hair floated behind her like a garrison banner. Her stride long and her eyes ahead, she was so intent on going to speak with her brother that she never saw him. Slocum considered sidling over and eavesdropping, then got a better idea.
He would ride out of camp and not get caught up anymore in the quicksand that both Cheswicks provided in such abundance. He mounted, pleased that his body wasn’t as sore as it had been, and headed northward. As he passed Cheswick’s tent, he caught snippets of the conversation.
“. . . you can’t know for sure,” Abigail said.
“The letter, my dear, the letter! What else can it mean?”
Slocum trotted out of earshot before he heard the woman’s response. It was as he had thought. Someone had sold William Cheswick a bogus map showing the location of a surefire, can’t-miss, riches-beyond-dreams-of-avarice gold mine. The Britisher could afford whatever he had paid, but Slocum hoped there wouldn’t be trouble if the map led them to an already developed claim.
He rode steadily through the day, varying his speed from a slow walk to a trot to give the mare a chance to rest. Slocum would have dismounted for a spell, but feared he might have trouble getting back in the saddle. Riding caused muscles he did not even know he had to ache. The Paiutes had worked him over better than if he’d been in a fifty-round bare-knuckles fight.
The valley broadened even more, then funneled into a well-traveled road going into the high country. From evidence he found along the road, more than one heavily laden wagon rolled this way every few days. The weeds were well crushed and the dirt packed down harder than stone.
“He’s hunting for a mine. Maybe he should have given me the map so I could locate it and let him know the bad news, eh?” He patted his mare’s neck. The horse nickered. “You’re right,” Slocum went on, the sound of his own voice soothing to the horse and filling a void. The wind had died down, and even the insects had stopped buzzing about in the heat of the afternoon. The world had gone to sleep and if Slocum had any sense, he would stop for a siesta, too. But he wanted to finish his scouting, fetch Cheswick, and collect his money.
The road into the foothills narrowed, but a dozen smaller tracks led in either direction. He rode into a pass and looked around. Behind lay the grassy valley, but ahead the country turned rockier and more suitable for mining. Slocum had spent too much time underground working in mines to find it anything but backbreaking and filthy. Herding cattle or farming was a far better way of making a living.
He began counting the crude signs marking the side roads, and stopped when he reached twenty. On the hill-sides, miners had burrowed into the hard rock and left the tongues of dark tailings to scar the land. Most of these mines had been abandoned for some time, but Slocum saw glittering pyrite in the tailings from several higher up the side of one particular mountain, making him believe they were still being actively mined.
Reaching them would be the work of a day or longer because of the steep, twisting roads carved out of the rock itself. That didn’t matter to Slocum. If anything, when Cheswick saw how difficult it would be to get into real mining country, it might dissuade him. From everything Slocum knew of the British lord, his employer was not a man to pass on his luxuries. The fancy-ass tent, servants, the huge larder in the wagon, the magnificent horses—all said that William Cheswick was not one to go without the finer things in life.
Slocum wheeled his horse about to retrace his path. He could camp at the edge of the valley and then reach Cheswick by noon the following day. Getting back here would be easy enough, even if actually reaching a mine would be difficult.
Or it would have been easy if a bullet didn’t punch a hole in Slocum’s Stetson to send it sailing.
9
Slocum didn’t have to put his spurs to the mare’s flanks. The horse already flew along the road, but Slocum slowed the headlong gallop, and eventually brought the horse to a dead halt. He turned about and studied the landscape behind him. As he looked, he ran his hand along the brim of his hat and shoved his finger through the new hole. If it rained anytime soon, he would have quite a leak.
“Rifle,” he said, piecing together the details he had ignored before. He judged distances and the angle of the bullet as it had ripped through the hat brim, and found a spot high in the rocks where the sniper had to be hiding. Slowly drawing his own rifle from the saddle sheath, he sighted along the barrel and lined up the V sight with the front sight bead. He used his knees to hold his horse as still as possible. After the run, the mare was lathered up and edgy, but Slocum held steady enough to take the shot when it came.
The crown of a hat poked up. He fired. The hat went sailing through the air, and an instant later a man scrambled after it. Slocum fired again and brought the man down. The most he had done was to wing his ambusher, but it slowed down any chance of the man scrambling back into hiding.
Slocum yelled, “Move and I’ll plug you! I’m good enough a shot for that.”
He fired again when the man disobeyed. His shot was more lucky than skillful.
“Three aces,” Slocum muttered, but this time his luck was good. His slug ripped the man’s boot heel off and sent him tumbling downhill.
Trotting back, keeping his rifle ready, Slocum came to a spot along the road where he had a good shot at the man.
“Who the hell are you, and why’re you shooting at me?”
“You’re a damn claim jumper. You want to steal Ole Betsy from me.”
“Who’s that? Your woman?”
“My mine! You ain’t playin’ dumb. You come up here to take m
y mine from me. I ain’t lettin’ you. Not you or any of your belly-crawlin’, terbacky-swallowin’ sons o’ bitches!”
“I don’t want your mine,” Slocum said. The old coot had been out in the sun too long. More likely, he had been alone so long that any other human he saw became an enemy out to steal his mine.
“Ever’body wants Ole Betsy. She’s the best producin’ mine in the whole of Nevada.”
Slocum doubted that. The old man worked the claim by himself. Otherwise, his partner would have told him to behave himself. More likely, if the miner ever had a partner, he had come to a violent end and that demise had driven the survivor crazy.
“I’m looking for a big mine, one with lots and lots of miners working the claim,” said Slocum.
“Did that snake Bold Max Carson send you? I tole him he cain’t buy the Ole Betsy. I named ’er after my sweet ole ma, and she’s been a real peach for me.”
“Where’s Bold Max Carson to be found?”
“Up at the Climax. Whole lot of them company boys workin’ there.” The old miner spat and looked defiant. “You go on up there and you see Charlie, you tell him I think he’s a traitor fer leavin’ me and the Ole Betsy and that he made a big mistake. The Betsy’s gonna pour out the gold any day now. You tell him that!”
“He your partner?”
“My ex-partner. The Climax opens and he waltzes off to be paid a dollar a day and vittles and leaves me all by my lonesome. Well, the joke’s on him. I’m gonna be rich!”
“Where’s the Climax?”
The miner pointed farther along the road. “Nigh on ten miles that way. Take the mountain road up into the hills. Steep road, dangerous. Men fall off into the canyons all the time. But not Charlie. He’s too cussed fer that!”
“And not Bold Max either?” Slocum almost laughed. Provoking the miner was too easy.
“He lured Charlie away with money. Gold dust, he says, but he pays his men with worthless greenbacks. Scrip! He pays his miners in paper when he’s pullin’ real gold from the rocks. But not as much as in Ole Betsy.” The miner squinted suspiciously at Slocum. “You’re not here to steal my mine?”