Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) (18 page)

19

“You think he's dead?” Mirabelle's soft voice carried just enough for Slocum to hear. He came awake, strained against the ropes around his wrists and legs, and turned toward the embers in the fire pit. Malone hadn't done much of a job keeping the fire burning, and Slocum was nigh on frozen.

“What's that, honey chile?”

“That fool Willingham,” Mirabelle said. “Him and his deputy dead?”

“Cain't rightly say.” Malone half turned and gave her a kiss. They had kept each other warm throughout the night.

Slocum decided he was as well off being half-frozen as sharing a blanket with Mirabelle. Better to find a snake and curl up with it. She was quite the murderer now, not caring if she shot men in the back or blew them up in a mine, and there she was sharing a blanket with the man who might have killed her husband and the rest of the party. Slocum never knew Lucas Sennick or Terrence or Isaac Comstock, but their greed wasn't as murderous as Beefsteak Malone's.

They had taken advantage of information and struck out to find stolen gold. The railroad company had already soaked up the loss and hadn't gone belly up as a result. Why shouldn't whoever found the stolen money keep it? In Slocum's eyes, what Comstock and the others had tried was no different from Smith and Bertram eking out a pitiful existence in their gold mine. They knew the risks, they took them, and if they profited a little, that was all right. If they hit the mother lode, that was even better.

“Stop it,” Mirabelle said, pushing him away. “It's danged near sunrise. We got to find the gold.”

“Especially if Willingham ain't dead?”

“You want to share with that good-for-nothing marshal? I don't.”

“He was the one what killed your hubby,” Malone said.

Slocum couldn't tell if the man was lying or just toying with her. If he riled her enough, he might have one fewer partner once the gold was found.

And that presented Slocum with a dilemma. If he told them what he suspected, they'd kill him. He had to lead them on a wild-goose chase until he could get free. It mattered less to him now if he found the gold than it did getting away from Grizzly Flats alive. These hills already had been the scene of a terrible massacre. Adding his body to the list wasn't anything he cared to ponder.

It would be a hard row to hoe. He'd have to keep them confident he knew where the gold was, yet never—quite—find it. Considering how antsy Mirabelle was, he doubted he had longer than noon before she tired of him leading them around and just killed him. Malone might be a tad more tolerant, but Slocum wasn't going to bet on it. Not when it was his life on the line.

Twisting, he tried to get the ropes off his wrists enough to slide his hands through the loops. Beefsteak must have been a cowboy used to hog-tying calves. The rope had remained secure and the knot refused to budge, no matter how Slocum had tried to free himself all night long.

“We have time for some coffee?”

Slocum looked up. Malone towered over him, then bent and stirred the ashes. A few dried leaves caused a spark to fly, then he added a few twigs. In less than a minute the fire was roaring hot.

“Suppose so, but don't take long. And don't give him any,” Mirabelle said.

“Why would I? It'd just be a waste.” Malone laughed.

“So you're going to shoot me out of hand?” Slocum looked up.

“Only if you don't locate the gold pronto.” Malone looked around, scanning the canyon mouths for any sign of the marshal and the deputy.

“What if I said the way lies down that canyon?” Slocum lifted his chin Navajo style to point where Beefsteak had been searching for Willingham.

“Then we go there, only if it ain't right, you don't get to come back here to camp. Not for dinner, not for a cup of this fine coffee Mira's fixed, not for nuthin'.”

Slocum fell silent. He had less than ten minutes to silently strain at the ropes before Malone picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and set off to track back in the snow to where Slocum had left his horse. The animal snorted in disgust at such mistreatment but otherwise looked none the worse for spending the night without a barn or fire. The saddle and blanket had probably kept the horse alive, trapping its body heat.

“Up you go,” Malone said, slinging Slocum aloft. He grunted as he fell belly down over the saddle. A hiss of steel slicing through rope freed his legs. The saloon owner righted Slocum in the saddle, then looked at him. “You play fair or I set you up there backwards. No man's gonna get far tryin' to escape settin' backwards on a horse.”

“I won't try.”

“Damned if I don't believe you, Slocum.” Beefsteak led the horse with Slocum astride back to the campfire, where Mirabelle had already saddled their horses and waited impatiently.

“Where to?” she demanded.

“Looking for three rock spires. You remember how Smith drew them in the dust before you killed him?”

Slocum saw Beefsteak Malone straighten as he heard this. Mirabelle hadn't shared her bloodthirstier moments with him. The more Slocum could do to spin contention between them, the longer he was going to be alive.

“He was plumb loco from livin' alone,” she said.

“I found them. Across this meadow, then head north.”

“Let's ride!” Beefsteak let out a whoop and trotted off, leaving Mirabelle to lead Slocum's horse.

“He'll gun you down like he did Ike and the others,” Slocum said.

“No, he won't. The big fool's in love with me.”

Slocum couldn't tell if Mirabelle believed that or wanted to believe it.

“We're goin' over to Frisco. I know some fine places where Ike couldn't never take me 'cuz we didn't have money. Beefsteak's gonna take me to the Union Club. We're gonna get all gussied up in fine store-bought clothes and arrive in a carriage pulled by two white horses and then we're gonna hobnob with them rich folk, 'cuz we're gonna be rich.”

Malone rode far ahead, champing at the bit as much as Mirabelle, but the woman kept on with her highfalutin dreams of what she and Malone would do once they got rich. Slocum couldn't tell why she went on like this because he heard just a hint of something more in her voice.

Greed.

An hour's ride took them to a canyon that looked familiar, even with a fresh dusting of snow on the rocks. Slocum led them down this canyon and then up a branching one, then rocked back to stop his horse. Smack dab ahead were the three rocky spires.

“That the rocks you said the miner told you about?” Malone asked. He frowned a little. “Why'd he tell you and not come fer the gold himself? He'd been out here plenty long enough to hunt.”

“He had old-fashioned ways,” Slocum said. “He wanted to earn what he made.”

Malone laughed and said, “Now we're different, aren't we, Slocum? Me and you? We don't mind a bit o' stealin'.”

“Quit yakking,” Mirabelle snapped. “There's the three stone towers. Don't much look like Smith scratched in the dirt, but you say that's what we're huntin', then that's where we are. Where's the cave?”

Slocum rode toward the cave where he had found the ten coins earlier. His time was running out fast. He needed to come up with a way of staying alive—but he couldn't think of anything.

As he let his horse pick its way through the icy rocks, he used his numbed fingers to pull his coat around. Working his fingers up under it, he felt the pocket where he had put the gold coins he'd found before. Worrying at a seam, he got a small hole started. By the time they reached the cave, he had torn the seam open enough to get out a half dozen of the twenty-dollar gold pieces.

“Come on down and show us.” Beefsteak reached up, grabbed the front of Slocum's coat, and heaved.

Slocum flew through the air and landed so hard it jarred his teeth. Dazed, he was in no condition to fight as Malone pulled him to his feet and shoved him into the cave. Using the grogginess as a cover, Slocum crashed into one wall, rebounded, and fell toward the other, spinning as he fell so he landed on his side.

The gold coins he'd taken from his pocket dropped to the dirt floor. As Malone pulled him upright, he swept as much of the dirt and debris as he could over the coins to hide them.

“You sure this is the place?” Mirabelle had Slocum's Colt aimed at his forehead. “If you're lyin', John, this will be your tomb.”

“Around,” he said, feigning more confusion than he felt. “Search all the way back. There's plenty around.”

“Now don't go runnin' off,” Beefsteak said, wagging his finger in Slocum's face. “I don't need no target practice.”

He and Mirabelle went toward the distant back of the cave. A lucifer exploded into light. Malone held it out and they began looking in every cranny they could for the gold. As they hunted, Slocum worked his ropes against a sharp rock in the cave wall. He became frantic to shred the rope as the two worked their way back toward him more rapidly than he'd hoped.

“We ain't findin' the gold, Slocum. I'm thinkin' my honey chile here's gonna get to shoot you.”

Slocum rolled away from the spot where he had worked on the ropes and left the coins.

“Search harder,” he said. “What I saw was on the floor.”

He found another spot with a sharpened rock. He stopped sawing and began pressing the rope hard into the rock. Strand after strand popped. Blood trickled down into the palms of his hands, making them almost useless to grip anything. All he saw around him as a weapon was a small rock the size of his fist. Even if Mirabelle ventured too close and he recovered his six-shooter, he doubted he would be able to fire it accurately, not with his hands in such bad shape.

“There's nuthin' here,” Beefsteak said.

But Mirabelle had stopped near the place where Slocum had salted the mine with the coins. She shuffled her foot about, then dived down, scrabbling in the dirt like a gopher digging a burrow. A dust cloud rose. Slocum took the chance to rub his wrists and get some feeling back into his swollen hands. Blood smeared his fingers and then he quickly stopped and pretended once more to be tied up when the dust cloud was swept out of the cave by a sudden gust of wind.

Beefsteak stood, slightly bent over because of the low ceiling, looking intently at him. Then he began sifting through the dust beside Mirabelle. Within seconds they both had a couple gold coins.

“You weren't lyin', Slocum,” the man said, shaking his head in wonder.

“There's got to be more,” Mirabelle said. “We got to dig!” She held out three coins. Beefsteak Malone had two. Slocum didn't know how many he had dropped. His hands had barely been agile enough to rip the coat pocket.

“Where?” Beefsteak looked around. “That's solid rock floor. The dust is only an inch thick at most.”

“There's a crevice in the back of the cave,” Slocum said. “Big enough for a leather bag to get crammed down out of sight.”

Both of them lit out like he'd set fire to their boots. Pushing and complaining, they began examining each crack in the rock, no matter how small. Slocum held his breath, then waited for the flare of another lucifer. When it came, he knew they'd both be blinded for a few seconds.

He shot to his feet at the burst of light. Keeping low, trying not to make any sound, he stumbled from the cave mouth and looked for his horse.

Instead of his horse, he found himself staring down the wrong end of a gun barrel.

“Now, where do you think you're goin', Slocum?” Marshal Willingham asked.

Slocum raised his hands in surrender.

20

“Never thought I'd run into you again, Slocum,” the marshal said.

“Where's your deputy?” Slocum looked around, hoping for even a hint of distraction that would let him get away.

The mountaintops were already clouded over, and the wind whipping into the cave from the direction of the triple peaks tore at Slocum's face. The urge to go for his six-shooter was overwhelming, but it would do him no good. Mirabelle had the Colt Navy.

“Him? Well, now, let's just say that he fell a damned far ways to his death.”

“You find the gold?” Slocum still held out a sliver of hope to distract Willingham, but it wasn't working. Worse, he heard footsteps from behind.

Both Malone and Mirabelle came from the cave.

“What do we have here? You caught this varmint just in time, Will,” Beefsteak said. “We turned our backs on him for a second, and look what he tried to up and do.”

“You didn't let him go for the pleasure of huntin' him down and then killin' him?”

“Not like the others this time, Will, no, sir, not at all.”

“They found the gold in the cave,” Slocum said, still angling for an edge.

The roar of Malone's six-shooter in his ear left him with a headache and a ringing that stole away his hearing for a few seconds. He looked over his shoulder. Malone had aimed and fired directly into the marshal's badge. For his part, Willingham simply sat, a confused look on his face. Then he died.

“Always knew Will wore that star for a reason. Made a damned fine target,” Malone said.

“He said his deputy was coming anytime now. When he hears the gunfire, he'll—”

“Do no such thing. I overheard my dearly departed friend Will say that he'd killed his deputy for me. That was real thoughty of him 'cuz it saved me the ammo,” Malone said, laughing.

Slocum edged away from the saloon owner toward the marshal's body. Willingham had dropped his six-shooter, but it was out of reach. Slocum needed something more to distract Malone if he had any hope of getting it.

“You ain't got a snowball's chance in hell of gettin' to his gun 'fore I shoot, Slocum,” Malone said, swinging his pistol around to center on Slocum's chest.

A sudden gust of wind blew a few snowflakes into Malone's face. Slocum dived for the marshal's six-gun as a loud report filled the canyon with new echoes. He skidded on his belly, sure a second shot would come after the first miss. Scrambling, he reached for the gun, then froze.

Beefsteak Malone still stood, but his face had gone flaccid. His jaw dropped, as if he tried to say something. He failed. Like a tree toppled in the forest, he fell forward stiff as a board. Immediately behind him, Mirabelle held Slocum's pistol. The brisk wind had whipped away the smoke from the muzzle, but there was no doubt she had shot Malone in the back.

“You keep away from that there gun, John,” she said, motioning for him to move back.

“You want the gold all for yourself?”

“Why not? These bastards killed Ike and the others. What do I owe them?”

“You were talking about going to San Francisco and hobnobbing in high society with Malone.”

“I can do it on my own. I can have my pick of them eligible men with enough money in my hands.” She motioned him back into the cave. He couldn't get close enough to jump her; Mirabelle was coldly methodical now as she picked up both Willingham's and Malone's six-shooters.

Then she riffled through Malone's pockets and pulled out the two twenty-dollar gold pieces he had found.

Slocum began to sweat in spite of the sudden drop in temperature. The clouds were turning leaden with the promise of a new snowstorm, and the wind chilled his body. The idea that Mirabelle would kill him as ruthlessly as she had Malone chilled his soul. Although he wasn't one to dwell on the subject, this wasn't the way he had ever thought he would die.

“We didn't find the stash. Show me that crevice where you say the bag's jammed down.”

“We were good together,” Slocum lied. “We can split the gold. I know a lot of places in San Francisco where—”

“Shut up,” she said in a voice lacking any emotion. That told Slocum more about his fate than if she had screamed at him. Mirabelle Comstock had turned into a stone killer and wouldn't likely ever so much as think of him once she rode away.

Only Slocum knew she would be thinking of him. Thinking and cursing his name because there wasn't any gold to find.

“Right back where you and Beefsteak looked,” Slocum said.

“We searched every inch of the cave.”

“Not by the spot where you found the coins,” Slocum said. He moved to where he had dropped the few coins.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he felt two remaining gold pieces. He palmed them, then shoved his hand into a shallow crevice, pretended to fish around, and then let out a yelp of glee.

“Look what I found. The bag broke and the coins are at the bottom.” He held out the two gleaming coins.

This was all the opening he needed. Mirabelle focused entirely on the new find and reached for them. He dropped the coins. Her eyes followed the spinning disks to the cave floor—and Slocum grabbed for his six-gun. With a hard yank, he pried it from her fingers and stepped away to get the drop on her.

His boot heel caught on a rock, and he sat hard. The gun discharged and brought down a cascade of rock and dirt from above. By the time he could see through the dusty brown veil, Mirabelle had fled. Grunting with effort, he got to his feet and cautiously peered out of the cave mouth. He had saved his own life. It would be foolish to let her ambush him now.

For a moment, Slocum couldn't decide what was different. Then it came to him. Willingham's horse was gone. Mirabelle had rushed from the cave, mounted, and ridden off. The wind's whine had muffled her retreat. Slocum ventured farther out and looked down the valley to see her hunched over the horse's neck, forcing as much speed from it as she could.

“Good riddance,” Slocum said, sliding his Colt back into the holster. It gave a familiar, comforting weight to his left hip.

He returned to the cave, found the two coins he'd used as bait, and put them in his other coat pocket, the one without a hole in the bottom. What had happened to rest of the twenty-dollar gold pieces was a poser. He was happy to be ahead any amount of money.

He went back out, fetched his and the other two horses, then rode into the growing storm. He ought to find shelter to ride it out, but something more drove him. There'd be time later if he didn't find the real hiding place. He stopped in the middle of the canyon and looked out. A meadow stretched toward the three peaks. He pursed his lips as he thought on how train robbers would hide their ill-gotten gains. The first place they found might not be good enough.

That was about in a straight line from the leftmost peak. Slocum turned in the saddle and followed the line to the cave where he'd found the coins. Likely, there hadn't been an adequate hiding place in that cave. So where would they go? The central peak kept drawing his eye. Following it back down into the canyon took him past the hill where the first cave had yielded the handful of gold to a pile of rocks near the canyon wall, where it bent at an angle to the northeast.

The right-hand peak didn't offer anything he could see to guide a treasure hunter. He led his horses toward the spot on the rocky wall indicated by the center peak, the wind cutting at his back. The storm was building, but its full fury wouldn't seize the land for another hour or two.

Slocum rode directly to the rocks he had singled out as his best bet. Frantic train robbers might have tucked their gold under a loose stone. Then he saw a sandy pit protected on two sides by towering rocks. One way was open and a dark hole in the canyon wall gave what Slocum would consider a decent hiding place.

He left his horses in the sandy pit, glad that the rocks protected them from the biting wind. Hand on his pistol, less wary of snakes in this cold than he was of other varmints, he went into the cave. The heavy musk smell told him this had been a den for coyotes or wolves. He drew his six-shooter and inched forward. The carcass of a medium-sized timber wolf showed why the others had abandoned this fine shelter.

Without a lot more work than he wanted to expend, there was no way to tell if the wolf had been shot or had died of some other cause. Its skull was shattered, but the reason was long hidden by insects and smaller scavengers making off with tasty bits of the carcass.

He dragged a lucifer across the rocky wall and held it high as it flared. His eyes widened when he saw scratches on the back wall that looked like someone's initials. Slocum wished he had learned the train robbers' names, then he decided it didn't matter. This wasn't a grave. It was a repository for wealth.

Stolen wealth.

Digging furiously, he found that the floor was less rock and more dirt for a few inches. When he hit solid rock, he also noticed a hole in the floor had been filled with dirt. Working his fingers down, he tensed when he touched leather. He dug a bit more, snared a leather thong, and yanked. The bag resisted his pull. He worked away more of the dirt and gravel, then hefted the bag. It sagged to the floor, heavy with gold coins.

Slocum didn't try to slow the frenzied beating of his heart. There were thousands of dollars in gold coins in the bag. For the first time he understood why so many people had wanted to recover the loot—and why so many had died.

He lifted the bag with both hands and carried it out to the sandy spit. To keep the weight from being too onerous, he split the coins between his saddlebags and those on what had been Beefsteak's horse. For a moment he stood and stared at how the horses' hindquarters sagged just a little under the weight.

Then the wind slipping noisily through the rocks around him took a pause, and he heard another sound.

“You didn't think I'd let you keep it all, did you, John? That other cave wasn't right. This was.”

He half turned to hide his right hand as he reached for his six-shooter.

A shot rang out, louder than anything he had ever heard in his life. The report was trapped in the ring of rocks and bounced around. More than this, his racing heart filled his ears with the rush of his own blood.

He didn't draw, though. Mirabelle Comstock lay facedown on the ground, Malone's gun by her left hand and Willingham's clutched in her right. He saw the slowly spreading circle of blood on the back of her head. Her mousy brown hair matted quickly and soaked up what leaked from her brain.

“Aren't you going to give me a proper greeting?”

“Hello, Madeleine,” he said. “What brings you out on a stormy day like this?”

“Other than saving your worthless hide? Oh, I decided Grizzly Flats and I needed to part company. I thought it might be fun for us to ride togethe
r for a while.” The redhead blew away smoke still curling from the muzzle of her derringer and tucked it into a small beaded handbag. She looked as if she had dressed for a soiree and not the trail.

“You don't like my clothes? I can take them off.”

“I owe you,” he said.

“Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Slocum. I enjoyed our time together and hope we share much more, but you owe me nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Even if I found a cave loaded with gold?” He watched her reaction closely.

“What do I care about that, even if you did? But you men are such liars. It doesn't take a big poke to impress a lady.” Her eyes went to his crotch. “Besides, you have already impressed me.” She stepped over Mirabelle and came forward to give him a proper kiss.

“We can make a few miles away from here before the storm hits,” Slocum said, breaking off the kiss.

“I found an abandoned shack as I followed your trail. Oh, don't look so surprised. I have many skills, and tracking is just one of them. I was a stage actress before I was a schoolmarm, you know.”

“I didn't,” he said. “Are you acting now?”

“I was thinking more about teaching you a few things.” She spun away and worked futilely to tuck her copper hair under her hat. The wind worked faster than she did and she finally gave up. “I'm heading to San Francisco. If you're going that way, you can ride with me.”

“If I'm not?” Slocum asked.

“That would be such a shame, but as I said, I can fend for myself, thank you.”

“Since you're going my way, I'll go with you,” Slocum said, grinning. He led his small remuda back into the wind as Madeleine followed.

It wasn't until they reached San Francisco that he told Madeleine about the gold. As he'd hoped, it didn't change anything between them
.