Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  As he worked, Slocum thought on how Abigail had fainted at the sight of the body. She might have had an inkling who was being buried that day, but seeing her older brother all laid out the way he was had to be a shock. He just wished she hadn’t made such a fuss drawing attention to herself. When she had called out to him, there wasn’t any way the deputy or Mac could have overlooked him.

  “There,” Slocum said, tamping the last of the dirt down. “Think he can rest in peace now?”

  “Not until his murderer is brought to justice,” Partridge said. “It will be my life’s mission to see that accomplished.”

  Slocum reached for his six-shooter when he heard a rattling buggy going by the cemetery. He stood stock-still and watched as it continued down the hill to a small knot of houses at the bottom. Living with a cemetery above you had to be nerve-wracking. More than once, Slocum had seen flash floods wash coffins downhill.

  “You are understandably nervous,” Partridge said. He put his arm around Slocum’s shoulders and steered him from the graveyard and the work he had done there. “This business will soon be at an end for you. Where do we look for William?”

  Slocum had a few ideas.

  “I say, Mr. Slocum, we have been on the hunt for a solid week and seem no closer to finding him. Are you sure you know what he is up to?”

  Lionel Partridge always spoke in a roundabout fashion. Slocum knew he was questioning his scout’s ability to find the trail. After retracing their way across the mountain and avoiding the miners at the Climax, they had ridden crisscross fashion hunting for any trace of William Cheswick’s camp. Where he had been camped in the canyon gave no hint of his destination. The fire pits had been cold and unused for days, and whatever equipment had been left behind could be accounted for by having most of his servants hightail it after the Paiute attack.

  “He wanted to hunt bear,” Slocum said. “The best spot for that is to the north, higher in the mountains. Without a guide, though, he might have gone in any direction.”

  “That’s why we roam endlessly back and forth hunting for spoor?”

  “Something like that,” Slocum said. “I’m also making sure we’re the only ones out here hunting for him.”

  “A posse from town?”

  “The Indians,” Slocum corrected. He watched his back trail constantly for any trace of Marshal Dinks and his deputy, but the Paiutes were a dangerous element in the area. After all they had been through, with Cheswick stealing away one of their women and Slocum dispatching a war chief, they would kill first and never ask questions.

  “I saw the aborigines, but only from a distance.”

  “You were poking about a long time. Why didn’t you meet up with Cheswick earlier?”

  “William? Well,” Partridge said slowly, “I wanted to see if he met his brother. Letting William do my work appealed to me.”

  “You’re a fish out of water in these parts,” Slocum said. “How’d your superiors ever come to send you after Percival?”

  “There is a matter of a protracted vacation,” Partridge said.

  “So Ralph’s murder stuck in your craw, and you had to bring in the man responsible?”

  “Something like that.” Partridge thought for a moment and then said, “Ralph was a dear friend. When he was poisoned, I ascribed it to his wanton ways. Then it became clear that the poisoning was deliberate. Arsenic introduced slowly is undetectable until death claims its victim. I recognized the symptoms, but too late.”

  Slocum nodded as he began to understand. Ralph Cheswick might have been a friend, but Partridge blamed himself for the death because he had not prevented it. His superiors probably thought the killer was beyond their jurisdiction, but Lionel Partridge had made it a matter of personal honor to bring some justice to the case.

  “What’s that ahead?” Partridge pointed to a thin column of smoke snaking its way into the sky. Slocum had missed it because the leaden storm clouds forming over the mountains were the same color.

  “You’ve got sharp eyes,” Slocum said. He took a deep whiff of the air and caught nothing but the scent of rain. “We’ll have to hurry to beat the storm.”

  As he spoke, a jagged bolt of lightning seared downward and touched a mountaintop beyond where the smoke rose.

  “How do we know it’s Cheswick?”

  “We don’t,” Slocum said. “I’ll scout ahead and be sure. As you said, we don’t want to run afoul of more Indians.”

  As they rode, the first heavy drops of a summer storm began splattering on them. Slocum pulled his hat down, and quickly discovered the bullet hole in the brim let water trickle down on his shoulder as surely as if he had built in a drain spout. He got them across a dry riverbed only minutes before a loud roar echoed throughout the valley and a wall of water rushed past.

  “That would never do to cross,” Partridge said, watching the churning, roiling stream. “Rivers in England are somewhat better behaved.”

  “Ever so proper,” Slocum said, smiling. “Flash floods are a constant worry in the mountains. We’d better find shelter and let this blow over.” He pulled up his collar to the increasingly hard rain.

  “If we reach Cheswick’s camp, we can ride out the storm in style. He had a rather fine tent,” said Partridge.

  Slocum considered the matter and finally agreed. He would have preferred a cave on higher ground out of the valley and the rain, but Partridge was right. By the time Slocum found such a cave, the shower might be over and they’d be wet. If it didn’t let up any time soon, being in a tent would let them stay drier—and they’d have found Cheswick.

  Head down against the rising wind, Slocum rode on until he found a muddy game trail. If Cheswick had come this way, he would have followed the path because it was easier than fighting his way through the undergrowth in the increasingly dense forest around them.

  The rain pattered down on leaves high above and robbed the storm of some of its fury, but Slocum found himself constantly assaulted by water dripping from above. His horse shied when thunder crackled behind them.

  “Sure you want to push on?” He had to shout at Partridge to make himself heard over the rain.

  “I am not used to such weather. London fog is one thing, but this is a terrible squall.”

  “Stay on the leeward side of a big tree,” Slocum advised. “With so many trees around, it’s not likely the one you pick’ll be struck by lightning.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Partridge said. “That tree? Is it a good one?”

  “As good as any,” Slocum said. Partridge had decided on a maple tree, sturdy and not likely to be struck since it was shorter than surrounding loblolly pines. “I’ll scout ahead and be back in a half hour at the outside.”

  “Do.” Partridge shivered and pulled his coat around him.

  Slocum made certain he could locate the detective again, and pressed on at a quicker clip. The game trail was a small river of its own now, obliterating any recent hoofprints, but Slocum felt he was getting near. He suddenly emerged from the dense growth and looked across a clearing at Cheswick’s red, white, and blue tent flapping and snapping in the wind. The fire pit in front was long since inundated by the heavy rain. Slocum put his heels to the mare’s flanks and trotted over.

  “Hello!”

  When he didn’t get an answer, he dismounted, poked his head into the tent, and looked around.

  It was empty.

  17

  Slocum searched the tent for some sign where the occupants had gone. Nothing had been unpacked. Trunks and other cases were neatly lined up along one tent wall, now flapping furiously as the wind mounted. He ducked back into the storm and hunted for Quinton. The servant had brought all this to the tent. Where had he gone?

  Slocum did what he could to find tracks, but the increasingly heavy rain efficiently blotted out anything he might have found on the ground. Every step he took caused him to sink up to his ankles in mud. A quick circuit of the camp revealed nothing he hadn’t already discovered in the tent. />
  That meant he had nothing. William Cheswick and his servant were gone. Slocum took a deep breath and let it out. Abigail Cheswick was missing, too. He hadn’t seen her since Pete’s—Percival’s—funeral.

  He stepped up into the saddle and retraced his path to where he found Lionel Partridge hunkered down, coat pulled up over his head and getting wetter by the minute.

  “Is it the right campsite?” the detective called against the rising howl of the wind.

  “You’re the detective. Come on and tell me what happened.”

  “Blimey, this is foul weather.” As Partridge stood, a gust of wind almost knocked him off his feet. Slocum realized that the Scotland Yard detective was frailer and older than he had first thought. The iron gray in his walrus mustache had been earned through long years of life. The wind and rain plastered the Brit’s coat and pants against a frame that was close to being emaciated.

  “Hurry up. You need help?”

  “I say, Mr. Slocum, I am quite capable of mounting by myself.” In spite of his boast, Partridge struggled to get into the saddle. They rode back to the camp, where Slocum pointed out how isolated it was. He let Partridge discover the desolation within.

  “What happened, eh? Yes, you are right. This calls for a good detective. It’s lucky there is one handy,” Partridge said, chuckling to himself. He walked around the tent, examining the trunks and boxes, and finally returned to the center of the tent, stroking his mustache as he thought.

  “You see what you needed to see?” Slocum asked.

  “Eh? Why, yes. What is it?”

  Slocum led both horses into the tent. It became more crowded, but leaving them out in the storm was criminal. He tethered them to a trunk and then tended the pair the best he could. All the while, Partridge stood in the middle of the tent with a far-off expression on his face. When Slocum finished, the detective pointed to the tent flap where they had entered.

  “Did you notice that, Mr. Slocum? The sure sign of foul play?”

  Slocum examined the canvas and saw red smudges. Rubbing his finger over them caused a smear. He had barely noticed it before, thinking it was dye running from the colorful canvas.

  “Blood?”

  “Quite so,” Partridge affirmed. “There was a fight here. You can barely detect the traces, but more blood pooled near the door. If it was not raining, I am certain we could follow a trail of blood away and find who was the victim.”

  “There’re only the three,” Slocum said. He reached out as if to grab the bloody spot on the canvas. “It might be Abigail’s blood. Or Quinton’s. From the angle of the stain and the height, I’d say it was put there by someone considerably shorter than Cheswick.”

  “Capital, Mr. Slocum. You would make a fine Yard detective.”

  “To take your job? Did you retire or did they fire you?”

  Lionel Partridge stared at him for a moment, his eyes desolate. His mustache twitched and then he said softly, “I was retired against my wishes.”

  “Health reasons? You’re wasting away, though under those clothes it’s hard to tell.”

  “Yes, you would make a fine detective. I am pursuing Ralph Cheswick’s murderer as a capstone to my otherwise undistinguished career. My cases were trivial until he was found dead. Not only was he my friend, he will be my legacy.”

  “If I had to make a guess, I’d say it was Quinton’s blood. The thickness of the fingers on the canvas make that more likely.”

  “Yes, of course,” Partridge said. He unfolded a camp stool and sank onto it in the middle of the tent. “I am at a loss to discern how it came that the servant was injured.”

  The storm blew through the tent flap and chilled Slocum. He fastened the ties on the flap to hold back some of the elements. As he worked against the wind, he tried to piece together everything that might have happened. Not enough information. He could track with the best, but he needed a trail. Otherwise, he wandered in circles.

  “I’ll hunt for whoever’s wounded.”

  “When the storm abates, of course,” Partridge said. “It is turning beastly out there.”

  “A mountain storm can last for a few minutes or it might rage for days. Since this one’s been going for an hour or more, there’s not likely to be an end in sight soon,” Slocum said. “Stay here.”

  Over Partridge’s protests, he opened the tent flap, and was swallowed by the storm within seconds. The wind blew the raindrops until they were almost parallel with the ground.

  If he was injured and came out of the tent, he would head directly away to reach the nearest trees. Bracing against the wind, he made his way across the barren stretch of grass, and finally got to a trio of junipers, each vying for survival by outgrowing the other two. The rain had washed away real proof, but he thought he saw blood in the bark. He stepped around the trees and was shielded a little from the storm.

  Directly ahead lay Quinton, facedown on the carpet of pine and juniper needles. A flash of lightning lit up the area, giving Slocum warning of what he would find when he rolled Quinton over. The servant was dead. Pulling open his jacket, Slocum found a bullet wound in the middle of his chest.

  Slocum grabbed Quinton’s arms and pulled him to a sitting position, then hefted him over his shoulder. Staggering under the weight and the increasing wind and rain, Slocum made his way back to the tent. He stopped a few yards away when he saw shadows moving across one canvas wall. With a grunt, he dropped Quinton’s body and drew his six-shooter.

  As he pushed aside the flap and covered the men inside, he relaxed. Partridge sat in a chair across from William Cheswick. Both sipped at something from china cups.

  “Come in, Slocum. It’s good to meet someone from the home country,” Cheswick said. “Spot of tea? I’m afraid it is not brewed properly. Quinton got off and I don’t know where.”

  Slocum looked at Partridge, wondering what the Scotland Yard detective had told Cheswick.

  “I haven’t gotten to that yet,” Partridge said, as if reading Slocum’s mind. He didn’t have to be that astute. He saw the question on Slocum’s face. What he couldn’t read was that Quinton was dead with a bullet in his heart.

  “What’s that, Mr. Partridge?” Cheswick asked.

  Slocum took the question to mean that Partridge had neglected to mention he was a detective after Cheswick’s brother.

  “I am a . . . solicitor with sad news. I have come to this wilderness to find your brother to inform him that your elder brother, Ralph, has perished.”

  Slocum settled down on a crate and tucked his six-shooter into its holster while he waited to see Cheswick’s reaction. The man’s face was perfectly illuminated by a small coal oil lamp set on the floor between the men. Somehow, Cheswick had heated enough water to make his abominable tea using that same lamp’s flame.

  “I suspected Percy was here myself,” said Cheswick. “He left for America as Ralph took ill. After Ralph’s funeral, I came to this wilderness in part to find him and tell him the news.”

  “I have further bad news,” said Partridge. “Percival also has died.”

  Cheswick’s expression flickered from fear to . . . what? Slocum couldn’t put a name to it. The man’s eyes turned blank and all the facial muscles locked into place, none so much as twitching.

  “What happened to Percy?”

  “It was murder, I am sorry to say. He was shot.”

  Again, Slocum saw the play of emotion on the man’s face. Cheswick tried to hide it. His eyes left Partridge and fixed on Slocum, as if he realized anything he said or did now would put him in danger.

  “You’re the only surviving heir, aren’t you?” Slocum asked. “That’s makes you lord high muckety-muck of Northumberland.”

  “That’s hardly the title, but it would seem to be accurate. Dammit, where’s Quinton? Quinton!”

  “Where’s Abigail?” Slocum asked.

  “Oh, bother. What does that matter?” Cheswick made a shooing motion with his hand, as if brushing Slocum off. “I want my servant to b
rew proper tea for my guest. It’s not often I have a visitor from so close to home. Really, Mr. Partridge, I must hear all the news.”

  The news of Percival’s death had not fazed Cheswick. If anything, a flicker of amusement had come to his lips when Partridge announced Percival’s murder. William knew Percival and Ralph were both dead and that he was now immensely wealthy instead of being a ne’er-do-well bumming around the West, kidnaping Indian squaws and shooting wild animals for sport.

  Slocum thought a moment more, this time about how Partridge had presented the information to Cheswick. He had not declared himself to be a detective and nothing had been said about arresting Percival—Pete—if he had gotten to him before someone put a bullet through his head.

  “Mind if I go outside and look around?” Slocum asked.

  “Go, go,” Cheswick said irritably, but Slocum looked to the detective for permission. He wasn’t going to leave Partridge alone with a man who just might have murdered his brother. From all Slocum could tell, he might have murdered both brothers to get their inheritance. A wink from Partridge freed Slocum from having to stand guard over him. The detective had experience dealing with criminals and knew the British mind.

  If anything, the rain pelted down even harder as Slocum stepped into the storm. He dragged Quinton’s body away from the tent and left it under a nearby scrub oak that provided no protection but that made Slocum feel he was doing something for the dead man. Slocum wondered where Abigail had gone, and worried about her. Her brother might be pruning the family tree and, having done with his brothers, might consider her to be next, though Slocum couldn’t see why since the law of primogeniture kept her from ever inheriting the family fortune.

  He prowled around in the rain but saw nothing. Hunkering down against a big-boled tree to think, he decided that Abigail wouldn’t be far if her brother had tried to kill her. There was nowhere for her to flee. With this thought in mind, Slocum stood and walked out into the clearing and made himself visible.