by Jake Logan
“Dead ringers,” said Slocum, shaking his head as he bent to the task of repeating the search he’d given the other brother. Again, he came up empty-handed, save for similar scraps of food, shell casings, a linty knob of plug tobacco, and something greasy that may have once been an apple. He hoped that was the case anyway. He rubbed his hands clean with a clump of snow and retrieved his horse.
As he rode past, he was tempted briefly to take the man’s Sharps, but decided that the heavy gun would only slow him down more than he already had been. And besides, he had no real need for it. Someone was likely to come along sooner rather than later, find the fine gun, and make good use of it. He urged the Appaloosa forward in hopes of making up a bit of the time he’d lost dealing with the two redheaded giants.
He rode hard to put distance between himself and the two dead men, lest someone find them and decide that the next man up the trail, namely Slocum, would be the killer of the big redheads, and might need a hemp necktie. As he rode, he turned over and over in his mind the curious thing the second brother had said: “Could be she was wrong.”
What had the man meant by that? And why had they been sent to kill him? He didn’t think it was about the money he’d been given back in Pearlton. Had they been common thieves, it seemed to him they would have braced him in town for the cash.
Dark pulled itself down like a thick blanket on the late afternoon of the day. Slocum reined up and made camp in a hollow in the midst of boulders that provided a perfect windbreak for him and the horse. He hobbled the horse, fed, and watered it well. A rough stand of aspen bristled a few paces downslope, toward the road, and he gathered enough deadfall wood to heat water for coffee and fry a couple of thick curls of fatback.
Then he settled back for a few hours of sleep, all he could spare and still make it to Salt Lake City in time to meet that train. Not only was he curious about the job for which he’d been hired, but he wanted answers. There damn sure weren’t any back in Pearlton, or from the two men he’d killed. But he had a feeling he might find some up ahead.
As sleep tugged at his eyelids, Slocum’s thoughts turned to the man who had been sent to find him, and give him the strange letter and all that money. He was curious to know if Mr. Clarence Mulford had made it out of Pearlton alive, or did the two red-haired killers cut him down after Slocum had seen them lurking outside the hotel?
If that had been the case, Slocum knew from too much past experience that if he had stayed in that town, once the sheriff got wind of a killing, at worst, Slocum would somehow end up as the primary guilty party. At best, he’d be detained indefinitely until the sheriff, no doubt slow on the draw, would spend days scratching his thinker over the entire affair. And in the meantime, Slocum would not only owe the $1,000 in advance money to one of the world’s wealthiest men on a job not yet fulfilled, but also have to figure out a way to avoid the rope.
As he slipped into a deep doze, his last thought was that this entire affair was shaping up as too many such episodes in his life, and he had little desire to repeat them.
4
The fat man in the waistcoat clicked shut his pocket watch, pulled in a long breath, then let it out. “You’re screwed.” He stared at the tall, lean cowboy before him.
John Slocum returned his stare, trying hard not to smile. “Hmm. Well, what does that mean exactly?” If he didn’t need to be on that train, he’d almost find this blowhard amusing. But now was not the time for fun and games. Or ticket agents puffed up with self-importance…and maybe a few extra slices of pie from Millie’s Café.
The fat man let his breath leak out again like steam from a worn release valve. “That means, Mr., ahhh…” He inclined his head and stared at Slocum over the twin rims of his spectacles.
“The name’s Slocum. John Slocum.” And quicker than a snake strike, the cowboy’s hand shot through the steel bars of the ticket booth and snatched a handful of the agent’s shirtfront. He pulled the jowly fellow forward until the soft flesh of his face squashed into the bars. Slocum leaned his face in and, in a pleasant, conversational tone, said, “And I’d appreciate it if you would stop making such a production out of telling me which train is mine. Do we understand each other… Mr., ahhh?”
The fat man’s frowning face could barely nod, but he managed enough to satisfy Slocum. “Excellent,” said Slocum.
The released man stood in the midst of his little ticket office looking like a scolded child, his collar stays splayed and jutting into his soft, pink wattles, his blue jacket hanging off-kilter from his shoulders. “Wha-wha-what train did you say it was, sir?”
“Me and my horse are booked on the Central Sierra and Pacific. And I hope it has a stove,” he said, eyeing the sunset red glow of the little potbelly stove behind the agent. No wonder the man was sweating, thought Slocum as he pinched closed the throat of his sheepskin coat. He nestled his ears against the thick lining while he waited for the agent to find him on the passenger manifest.
He glanced around himself. For all this effort, he had to admit that this was one busy station. It teemed with life, even at such an ungodly hour in the morning. Not light out and yet all these people were headed somewhere. How on earth could it be they each had something so pressing that they needed to leave comfortable beds to get there? And then it dawned on him that he, too, was doing the same thing. He sighed.
“Here you are, sir—” The agent swallowed, cut his eyes to Slocum’s face, then looked down again.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, no, sir. It’s just that, well, I—”
“Well, am I or am I not on the list? Come on now, this is getting silly. My horse doesn’t like being kept waiting.”
“You’re here, sir. Both of you. I just didn’t realize you were booked as a guest in the Barr car.”
“Well, I am. Now which way to it?”
“It’s there, sir. Just over there, track four. Look for the sleeper car with the gilt edging.”
This seemed to impress the man. He forgot his fear of Slocum’s hand and stepped forward to look through the window toward the waiting trains.
Slocum’s gaze followed his. “Does it have a stove?”
“Yes, sir.” He smiled and inclined his head again. “Two, in fact. The finest parlor and cookstoves.”
“Well,” said Slocum, rasping a leather glove against his clean-shaven jaw. “Good.” He turned away, then leaned back toward the window.
The keeper stood transfixed, caught in the act of adjusting his sprung collar.
“And my horse?”
“Yes, sir. The stable car is at the head of the train. You can’t miss it—the ramp’s still down.”
“Thanks again for your help, Mr., ahhh…”
“Mr. Tibbetts, sir. I’m Tibbetts. My pleasure, sir. Enjoy your trip.”
“Will do, Tibbetts. Will do.” As he strode away, the thin layer of snow squeaking under his boots, Slocum said under his breath, “Hell, as long as there’s a stove, how can I go wrong?”
As he stepped down off the platform to retrieve the Appaloosa, then proceeded along the length of the train, the chain of events that had led him to Salt Lake City’s train depot on this cold, early morning in February came back to him. As an ice-edged sliver of wind worked to peel apart his buttoned coat, he questioned his decision to accept the cryptic invitation. In the end it had been the money, with the promise of more at the completion of what was promised to be an uneventful overland midwinter train journey. Did that make him mercenary or just hungry? He supposed that it didn’t really matter one way or the other.
His task was solely to ensure that the cargo arrived intact. As much as it had impressed him, it had also galled him that the assumption had been made that he would naturally accept the offer. That he was in no financial position to refuse was a different matter entirely. It had, in fact, saved him from the misfortune he’d brought on himself by bedding down with Mason’s wife. Damn, but that woman—and the lost pay—still rankled him. He had been looking
forward to settling in there, in more ways than one, for the coldest northern months.
The pay wasn’t great, but the promise of other distractions—Cookie had a way with pie, and so did Katy Wilder—had been enough to convince him that staying put on for the winter would be a fine and wise decision. And then Mason had stumped on home unexpectedly and ruined everything.
The Appaloosa whickered and nudged his shoulder.
“Okay, old man. Let’s get you to that stable car. I hear tell there’s a comfortable stall and plenty of sweetgrass hay.”
Slocum was pleased with the time he’d made the past few days, and had arrived in town late the evening before. First thing he did was set the horse up at a decent livery, then he headed to the bathhouse nearest the railroad station and had a fresh set of duds steamed and spiffed. He hadn’t fancied spending good money on a few hours of sleep in a hotel, so he spent the rest of night at a saloon instead. Then he managed to lose in an hour and a half bucking the tiger more than the amount the room would have cost him. But the whiskey had done the trick, cleared the cold of the winter trail from his bones, and set him up for the sunrise meeting he had at the depot.
When he arrived at the station, it was still dark, but he was pleased to note that his early arrival would give him plenty of time to find his way around. He’d never been at such a busy station. But he suspected that this citified, hectic pace would become the normal way of things as the nation grew and stretched and pushed and pulled its growing self. That was fine by him. He figured there would still be plenty of open space for men such as himself to rove, always keeping one eye out for opportunity, the other eye out for freedom. Most of the time it wasn’t an easy life, but it was one he enjoyed.
And now here he was, about to ride the rails across the Sierra. He’d never ridden on the Central Sierra and Pacific Line, but from what he’d seen, it should prove more than sufficient for the job of getting him and his precious cargo, whatever it turned out to be, to California.
Slocum got the Appaloosa situated in the stable car, and gave plenty of instruction to the young hand in charge. Then, he picked his way down the half-frozen dung-slick ramp and headed for the rear of the train, toward the gilt-edged monstrosity he guessed he was expected to report to.
From what he could tell in the dark of the yard, as he drew closer, there appeared to be one car at the rear of the train that marked itself as having been bought and outfitted by a very wealthy individual. If that was the case, he was not impressed. It’d make my job a whole lot easier, he grumbled to himself, if the cargo was stashed secure in some hidden location on the train, some place that didn’t call attention to itself.
Almost before he knew it, he arrived at the gilt-edged car, wanting to dismiss it as a hoity-toity affair too richly trimmed for the likes of John Slocum. And yet something about the warm glow emanating out of the velvet-trimmed windows made him pause in the chill air and look twice. He pulled out his ticket stub and squinted at the car. Must be it. Indeed, it looked as long as two cars. It bore a dark color scheme, and was the last car but for the caboose, of the long, long train that stretched behind him into the dark of the early morning.
Slocum wanted to size up the “precious cargo” situation right away. He was nearly out of time and he had to be sure there would be no surprises. In his experience, jobs such as this went most successfully when everyone involved lay low and drew as little attention as possible.
As he rapped his leather-gloved knuckle against the enameled green door, he couldn’t help wondering, once again, whether selling his services to a wealthy man just to nursemaid what might amount to a safe full of jewels or gold bricks might not be the best use of his time. On the other hand, it might also be the measure of him. Maybe his standards had slipped in proportion to his drooping pockets. And besides, if the car was as warm inside as it looked from the outside, he could care less what the world thought of him at that moment.
All he knew was that it was damn cold and he’d spent weeks being damn cold and he had no intention of being damn cold for very much longer. He shifted his saddlebags and Winchester, which he’d slung over his shoulder, and rapped his knuckles again on the thick steel-on-wood of the door.
He had no more opportunity for speculation, for in mid-knock, a short, thin Chinaman, dressed in white, loose-fitting clothes, swung the door inward. He showed no signs of suspicion or surprise as he beckoned Slocum to enter.
He offered a quick bow, from the shoulders, then looked up at Slocum’s Stetson.
Slocum took it off. “Better?”
He could have sworn he saw the Chinaman crack a smile.
“Fine, you just tell me when I get out of line.”
Another slight nod, nothing more.
They stepped through the narrow foyer, through a small kitchen area, and emerged into as sumptuous a space as Slocum had ever seen. All about him were thickly upholstered red and green velvet settees and chairs. The floor was layered with thick pile carpets. Mahogany paneling gleamed, outshone only by the polished brass light sconces and window surrounds.
But the object that most caught his attention was a tall, red enamel parlor stove, dolled to the nines with silver fixtures and sequestered at the side of the car with a brass rail surround. He strode to it and nearly hugged the thing. He heard a groan, realized it came from his own mouth, and he didn’t care. The heat felt better than a night with three women at once. Well, nearly so. But it was damn sure a welcome sensation.
“Ahem.”
The voice was female, but that was small warning for what faced Slocum when he turned around.
5
Height-wise, she was nearly his equal, and her face had a strong-chinned beauty with emerald eyes. Thick blond hair sat gathered atop her head and was held in place with what looked like chopsticks. She could only be described as exquisite, a word Slocum wasn’t sure he’d ever used before. But by God, she deserved that word and every other word like it.
Her body, the curves of which he could see each and every one, or damn close, looked to be clothed in nothing more than a layer of silky green paint. Whatever the dress was made of, it shimmered as the girl moved, and Slocum found himself admiring every spot of captured light on every curve. Draped over her shoulders, the girl wore a soft, pearl-colored knitted shawl that lent her the air of someone beyond her obvious youthfulness. He guessed she was in her early twenties.
“May I ask who you are?”
Even her voice was stunning.
He pulled in a breath, let it out. Yep, still breathing. Then he smiled. “Yep, you may.”
“Well?” she said after a suitable wait.
“I’m Slocum. John Slocum, miss. I have been hired to, ah…to…”
“Yes?” She folded her arms, forcing her breasts, which looked firm and impossibly full, to well upward from the generous cut of the dress-top.
“Well, truth be told, miss, I wasn’t given all that much in the way of detail on this job.”
“What were you given?”
God, but she was something, he thought. A real stunner. “Oh, I was given this.” He tugged the fingertips of one glove with his teeth, skinned it off his hand, then pulled out the slightly wrinkled but still beribboned cream-colored envelope. It seemed to him that her face relaxed a bit then, and he felt relief, too, that this was indeed the car he was supposed to be in. Relief for many reasons, he thought as he watched her reach for the letter. He held tight to it. “My turn.” He cocked his head to the side. “Before I hand over my bona fides, who might you be?”
She smiled, and he noted that her teeth were perfect, too. “Very good, Mr. Slocum. You are as described—thorough, cautious, punctual, and…” She lowered her gaze to his boots, then let her stunning green eyes work their way upward. He felt as if he were being undressed without the assistance of her hands. And he didn’t mind the feeling one bit. Her gaze stopped on his, and they stared at each other for a long moment.
“And?” said Slocum.
; “And…” She slid the letter from his hand. “I’ll take this now.” He watched her long, manicured fingers unfold the letter.
While she read the letter, he leaned against the brass rails surrounding the stove, soaking up the heat, and looked around, at her and the elegant car. Just behind the woman, bolted to the floor with crisscrossing steel strapping, stood a plain-looking but solidly built wooden chest barely two feet wide, a foot tall, and a foot from front to back. Under the padlocked strapping, it sported a curved top, and a series of three ornate locks lined the front, the middle of which was the largest and most complex-looking. None of the intricacies of the black steel locks suggested finery, rather each curved piece seemed to serve the bit next to it, the whole of which seemed to serve functionality over form. The cargo, perhaps?
He reasoned that, because of its modest size, it must contain jewels, or perhaps valuable papers—deeds to land or mines and such. He doubted it would be precious metals, as they would be too heavy and the chest too small to contain enough of an amount to warrant such elaborate transport and safety measures.
“So, I assume that is the ‘precious cargo’ mentioned in the letter?” He nodded toward the chest.
She folded the letter and handed it back to him. “In part, yes.”
“What’s the other part?”
She smiled and made her way toward the other end of the car, where the thin Chinaman in his white tunic set down a silver tray laden with covered dishes. “Breakfast, Mr. Slocum?”
He nodded and joined her at the table. After he’d sipped his coffee from a delicate cup, he said, “What’s the other part?”
She set her own cup down in its saucer. “Me.” The smile returned.
“Well, that does complicate matters.”
“I’m kidding with you. That chest contains the precious cargo, and here”—she reached between her breasts and slipped out a gold chain, from which dangled a thick brass key—“is the only key to the chest.”
