by Jake Logan
“Why did you go along with her posing as your sister?” Slocum asked. Cheswick had to know what his wife was doing.
“She always had a mind of her own, and truthfully, you wouldn’t be her first dalliance.” Cheswick laughed. “I certainly had mine.”
“Miss Simpson-Jones,” Partridge said.
“She was the most recent,” Cheswick said. “How I wish Abigail knew of her.”
“You’ll get the chance to tell her,” Slocum said. He whistled and waited for his mare to come trotting up. Less than an hour later, the trio rode back into the camp. The red, white, and blue tent flapped fitfully in the wind, looking as if huge lungs gasped for breath.
“Watch him,” Slocum said told Partridge. He saw that the detective had his pistol covering Cheswick. Slocum stepped down from his mare and went to the tent flap. He pushed it back and peered inside.
Abigail looked up, startled. The confusion crossed her face, then she smiled. He saw it for the insincere warmth that it was.
“John, darling. I was just going through William’s things, looking for—” She looked hard at him. “What’s wrong, John?”
“What would you say if I told you he was dead?”
“William? Dead?” The sun came out on her face, and then she tried to hide her elation. “Tell me it’s not so!”
She came to him.
“It’s not true,” Slocum said. “Partridge captured him and has him prisoner.” Slocum felt a small touch of satisfaction when he saw her expression change again, this time to one of horror. “You killed Ralph and you shot Quinton,” he said.
“I never killed Quinton! William did that! He tried to shoot me and Quinton got between us!”
She came for him, her hand flashing from the folds of her skirt. A derringer gleamed in the dim light. Before she could aim, Slocum caught her wrist and forced her to drop it.
“You’re going to stand trial for killing Ralph Cheswick,” he said. “Nobody might prove you killed Quinton, but that hardly matters.”
“You miserable worm. You—”
Abigail began sputtering with curses. Slocum pulled her to him and kissed her suddenly, flustering her. She stared up at him when he broke off the kiss.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked.
“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to miss you.”
“Thanks,” Slocum said, shaking Lionel Partridge’s hand. “You got me out of a world of trouble.”
“It took your silver tongue to convince that barman to allow me to take them both back to England,” the detective said. He looked toward the stagecoach depot where William and Abigail Cheswick were chained together. They sat half turned in different directions, pointedly ignoring each other. Marshal Dinks and Mac had listened in amazement as Abigail and William blamed each other for every crime under the sun—but the only ones that Slocum cared about were the deaths of Renfro and Pete. Mac was slower to come around, but he finally grudgingly admitted the evidence against Slocum didn’t amount to a hill of beans.
“There’s my ride to San Francisco,” Partridge said, seeing the Wells Fargo stage come rattling up.
“It’s a long way back to England. Don’t let them gull you,” Slocum said.
“No more than an Indian cobra can beguile me. I know how dangerous both of them are,” Partridge said.
Slocum left the detective busily shifting locks and chains, getting his prisoners secured in the stagecoach. William Cheswick wouldn’t look at Slocum, but Abigail stared daggers at him. As the stage rattled off, heading for the coast, he was glad to see the last of them.
He patted the wad of money in his pocket. There hadn’t been any reason to tell the marshal that this was the poke Renfro had been carrying when Cheswick murdered him. For all he had been through, Slocum felt he was owed. Partridge had agreed.
Slocum walked toward the Mountain of Gold Saloon, then decided he would not be welcome there, even if Mac had reluctantly admitted he was innocent. His steps took him farther down the street to the larger Bucket of Blood. The floor was ankle deep in sawdust, and several poker games were already in progress, although it was only eight in the morning.
Finding an empty chair, Slocum sat down and was dealt in the next hand. He looked around the table and saw two miners, a cowboy, and a man who might have been a tinker or a professional gambler.
“What’s yer bet, mister?” the tinker asked.
Slocum picked up his cards and scanned them.
Three aces.
“I fold,” he said, pushing back from the table. It was too late to catch a ride on the stage with Partridge, but it wasn’t too late for him to hit the trail to somewhere else, as long as it was far, far away from Virginia City.
Watch for
SLOCUM AND THE DYNAMITE KID
364th novel in the exciting SLOCUM series
from Jove
Coming in June!