by Jake Logan
Slocum recognized this as the spot where José and his father had run after the stagecoach robbery—and where Conchita had almost sicced the sheriff and his posse on him.
With more assurance now, he rode into the woods and felt the cool darkness wrap around him like a damp blanket. Through the spindly tree trunks he saw flashes of the woman ahead of him. When she cut suddenly to the right, he took a route parallel and began edging closer. By the time Conchita rode out into a draw that led to a peaceful meadow, he was close enough to attract her attention.
Jerking about when she heard his horse’s hoofbeats, she reached for a six-shooter slung in a belt around her saddle horn. Slocum galloped forward, and as she raised the pistol to fire, he kicked free of the stirrups and sailed through the air. His arms circled her lithe body. Then his shoulder hit her side, and she was lifted from the saddle. Both of them tumbled to the ground, Slocum on top.
Conchita lay pinned under him, gasping for air. He reached out and snared the six-shooter in her limp fingers. This revitalized her, and she began kicking and clawing in earnest. He moved his knees to her shoulders and held her in a schoolboy pin so he could look down into her lovely face. There was no way around it. Conchita was about the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, but that lovely face now contorted into ugly rage.
“I’ll kill you!” she cried. “You cannot have me this way.”
“I don’t want you,” he said. The words were like cold water in her face.
She looked at him, stunned.
“You do not want me? But . . .”
“I want my money for springing José from prison,” he said. “You owe me. Money. And my pay just doubled.”
“I will not—”
“I don’t want you,” Slocum said coldly. “I want my money. Pay me what’s due, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“We have no money.”
“You’ve got plenty after robbing both the stage and the bank in Miramar.”
Her eyes went wide with surprise. Conchita shook her head as if this would be denial enough. When she saw he wasn’t going to believe her, she tried fighting him again. His weight proved too much for her to budge.
“You are hurting me,” she said.
“Might be I’ll do more than that if you try cheating me. You not only tried to steal what’s my due, you put the sheriff on my trail and lied about me robbing the bank.”
“The stage, too,” she said, a wicked smile curling her lips. The beauty fled, replaced by pure evil.
“Clever. Now pay me.”
“You will leave us alone?”
“I won’t even be a memory, ’cept for how much I took.”
“One hundred dollars.”
“One thousand dollars.”
“We do not have so much. We robbed the bank and stagecoach but took only a few dollars.”
He couldn’t forget the image of José gunning down the passengers on the stage or how their father had shot the driver until he was deader than a doornail.
“Let’s go count it.”
She glared sullenly at him, then nodded once. Slocum rolled to the side and let her get to her feet. She rubbed her shoulders where his knees had pinned her so securely.
“You bruised me. You are a vicious man, John Slocum.”
He didn’t answer. She read his expression and turned away to flounce toward her horse. Slocum caught up the reins on his and mounted to ride beside her. Conchita stared ahead, never even glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. The meadow wasn’t too large, but a small stream ran through the center and vanished into the woods a hundred yards downhill.
“There,” she said. “We are over there.”
As Slocum turned to look in the direction she pointed, Conchita swung hard. Her tiny fist caught him on the cheek. The unexpected blow caused him to recoil and fight to keep in the saddle. By the time he had pulled himself back securely into the saddle, she had galloped straight ahead and disappeared into the woods. He started after her, then slowed and looked at the soft dirt on the ground and how the tufts of grass had been cut up from other horses passing by.
Conchita tried to lead him away from her real hideout. From the tracks, more than one horse had gone to a spot opposite where she had pointed. He trotted along this small trail. The riders hadn’t tried to conceal their hoofprints, telling him the Valenzuelas felt secure against being tracked to this area.
He slid into a lightly wooded section and wended his way around, hunting for tracks in the leaves and pine needle carpet. Finding the trail proved as easy as falling off a log. Slocum came to another clearing. A small cooking fire smoldered in the middle of the sward; a pot of coffee brewed and sent its aroma to his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. A cup wouldn’t be amiss while he waited for them to come to him.
And they would. He had found them. Their cache had to be in the area, perhaps even in their camp.
Slocum dismounted and went to the fire. A pair of tin cups had been turned upside down on rocks next to the coffeepot, dangling from a tripod of green limbs over the fire. He poured himself some coffee and prowled around. Three bedrolls. No sign of their ill-gotten gains from the stage or bank.
And no trace of José or his father.
Slocum sipped at the coffee, ignoring how bitter it tasted on his tongue. It might have been the coffee or the memory of how Conchita had convinced him so easily that her pa was dying and this would be José’s only chance to see him before he died.
Slocum drained the cup and went back to the fire for another. As he bent, he heard an asthmatic wheezing. Looking up, he saw an old man shuffling painfully from the forest, a rabbit in one hand and a rifle in the other.
“¿Que tal, José?” The old man shuffled closer.
Slocum stayed low by the fire but slid his Colt from his holster. The old man came closer, squinting hard. He acted as if he was almost blind.
Slocum tossed the tin cup away to rattle against a rock a few feet to his left. The old man turned in the direction of the sound, dropped the rabbit he had bagged for dinner, and lifted his rifle. He got off a shot that came damned near the cup.
“You’re dead if you don’t drop that rifle,” Slocum called. “Now!”
The elder Valenzuela started to turn back, rifle still tucked into his shoulder.
“I can see plenty good, and you’re in my sights,” Slocum said. “Drop the rifle, and I’ll let you live.”
“Slocum.” The name came out in a snake’s hiss. “Conchita said you were in jail.”
“We need to talk about that,” Slocum said. “The rifle. Now! Drop it now!”
The old man finally did as he was told. He threw the rifle down. Slocum flinched as it discharged from the impact, but he never wavered in keeping the man in his gun sight.
“Why do you not kill me?”
“Tell me where the gold you stole is hidden, and you can live.”
“Kill me!”
Slocum considered doing just that, then knew there was a better use for this murderous old codger. He was arthritic and damned near blind, but he was a cold-blooded killer. Watching him during the stagecoach robbery had shown that. Nobody but his son and daughter would miss him if he ended up with a couple slugs in his belly.
But he was worth more alive than dead.
“We’re going on a little ride. Where’s your horse?”
The way Valenzuela turned betrayed the location of his horse just inside the woods. His horse was fastened to a single rope strung between two trees. Slocum had to saddle the horse for the old man, but that was small price to pay for his ticket to a passel of money.
He herded the old man away from camp at gunpoint, already counting the money his ransom would bring.
14
“He eats like a horse,” Maria said, glaring at the old man.
Conchita’s father shoveled food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in a month of Sundays. For all Slocum knew, that might be true. He didn’t see either of the man’s children being too gen
erous with food or money.
He had to speak up over the click of a spoon against the tin plate as the man scooped a third helping of beans into his mouth, then wiped the plate clean with what remained of a tortilla. He looked up expectantly.
“I will not feed him any more,” said Maria. She folded her arms across her chest and glared.
“Won’t have to,” Slocum said, opening his pocket watch and looking at the time. “They know he’s gone by now and have read my ransom note.”
“They will not pay for me,” the elder Valenzuela said. He spit. “They are not good children. They use me!”
“They wouldn’t let him go,” Slocum said to reassure himself as much as Maria and Procipio Murrieta, who stood in the doorway watching over them like a hawk circling prey. “He protests, but he’s the reason they had me break José out of San Quentin. He means more to them than he’s letting on.”
“More food?” The old man held out his plate. “¿Más comida?”
“Go to hell,” Maria said, grabbing the plate from him and flinging it across the room to smash into the far wall. She spun and faced Slocum. “This is a crazy plan. They will not pay. Atencio will die because of the time we waste with this . . . viejo!”
“How else do you get him out of prison? Atencio got a stay of execution for a week. If the lawyer can find the right palm to grease, he might get Atencio out. I don’t see any other way of saving him from the noose.”
“They would commute the death sentence,” Murrieta said. “He would still be in prison.”
“That’s better than being in the prison cemetery,” Slocum said. He had caught a glimpse of it outside the wall. Considering the warden’s predilection for ceremony and keeping dissent down, he was surprised it wasn’t within the walls where prisoners could see what happened if they misbehaved.
“You give them too much time to scheme. They will kill you and steal back this . . . this . . .” Maria sputtered, unable to find the words to describe her unwilling guest.
“I looked around the campsite and didn’t see where they could have hidden the loot. They probably stashed it far enough away to be safe from casual discovery but close enough so they could get it when they wanted. It wouldn’t be more than an hour’s ride.”
“They will double-cross you,” Maria insisted.
Slocum only nodded. He expected them to. The Valenzuelas were as slippery as eels and had the table manners of a famished grizzly. He had to be slicker, meaner, and sharper. Anticipating their every move was difficult because they might decide their welcome in northern California was worn out and just move on, leaving their pa behind. However, Slocum doubted that would happen. They were a tight-knit family and the old man sitting at the table, hands folded peacefully across the spot where his plate had rested only minutes earlier, had the look of a patriarch. José and Conchita might have the fire, but the old man had the cunning.
Slocum decided that Conchita was truly the old man’s daughter and had inherited her own cozening ways honestly.
“You sure about the canyon?” Slocum asked Murrieta, who only shrugged and looked impassive. “Let’s ride.”
He grabbed Valenzuela by the bony shoulder and lifted him from the chair. The old man was skin and bones and winced at the pressure. Slocum didn’t care. For what the Valenzuela family had done to him, he would as soon gun them all down. Memory of how this seemingly fragile, almost blind man had murdered the stagecoach driver burned brightly, too. Given the chance, any of the Valenzuelas would kill without remorse.
He could match them.
Outside he got the old man onto a horse and led him along. Murrieta held back, as if he intended to stay in the village and let Slocum do the dirty work. Slocum rubbed his gun hand on his thigh to make sure it was dry. Letting his six-shooter slip when he needed it most was a sure way to end up dead and forgotten.
Or would Maria forget him so easily?
“Why do you do this? Who are you?” Valenzuela asked. Slocum didn’t bother answering. Being distracted could only lead to mistakes.
Slocum let the old man natter on, commenting on this and that and occasionally going on about how loyal his daughter and son were but how they wouldn’t pay good money for a decrepit pile of bones. This convinced Slocum he had something worth trading. There wasn’t any reason to deny his worth if the old man really thought he was worthless.
The narrow canyon mouth made Slocum reconsider the wisdom of his plan. Then he knew it had to be done this way or he’d never get money from the Valenzuelas. He rode to the spot Murrieta had suggested and looked around. A small pool of water bubbled from the ground. Bones of small animals told of the poison in the water.
“I’m thirsty. Let me drink.”
“Go on,” Slocum said. He kept a sharp eye on the surrounding countryside. There were too many spots where a sniper might bushwhack him, so he decided to force the Valenzuelas’ hand. And he did. The old man dropped to his belly and started to drink.
“¡Tomé no, Papa!”
José rose from behind a tangle of undergrowth not ten feet away. Slocum hadn’t seen him. He reckoned Conchita was hidden somewhere else. If they thought it necessary, there would be others, also.
“I’d listen to him,” Slocum advised. “That pond’s poison. Venenoso.”
José’s father looked up. The sly look on his face told Slocum that age hadn’t dimmed the man’s brain. He had done this to fake being ill, thinking to gain an advantage. The hardness that came to his eyes showed that Slocum would have died if he had tried to save the old man and had, even for an instant through carelessness, lost his six-gun.
“Come here, Papa,” José called. “I have him covered.”
“You want to lose him?” Slocum slid his six-shooter from its holster and aimed it at the prone man’s back. “You shoot me, I kill him. He’s not spry enough to get away.”
“You would trade your life for him?” José sounded amazed at this.
“No, since I expect you to give me the thousand dollars I asked for. I’ll take the money and ride off. Your pa stays where he is in my gun sight until I see the gold.”
José Valenzuela shifted, as if trying to decide which he was willing to lose, his father or the money. Slocum knew how the playacting would end but still kept his pistol aimed at the elder Valenzuela.
“I will do as you say, but I will track you to the ends of the world if you harm him.”
“The money,” Slocum said coldly.
José disappeared, then popped back up like a prairie dog. He held a canvas bag in his hand.
“Show me the money. Open the bag, and show me what’s inside.”
Valenzuela glared, then put down his rifle and fumbled to open the mouth of the bag. He opened it and held it out for Slocum to see inside. Slocum cocked his six-shooter to indicate what he wanted next. He could either shoot the helpless old man or José could reach into the bag and show its contents.
With ill grace, José pulled out a couple handfuls of scrip.
“Where’s the gold?”
“There was none,” José said. “Only this paper money.”
“Toss out your rifle, then the money bag.”
“You will kill both my papa and me.”
“The thought’s crossed my mind,” Slocum said, “but it’d be a waste of bullets—if there’s enough money in that bag.”
“It is all we stole.”
Slocum snorted in contempt at the obvious lie. The bank had lost a fair amount of gold coin because Galworthy had complained about the loss to Sheriff Bernard. Although the banker might have lied, there was little reason for him to have done so unless he had been stealing from his own bank. Since he was the owner and president, that seemed unlikely. Galworthy robbed legally from everyone in the county and could keep his racket going for years to come. His depositors were not likely to look kindly on him if he didn’t make good any losses on their part.
“Here.” Valenzuela swung the bag around his head in a wide circle and release
d it. The canvas bag sailed through the air and landed near the poisoned pond.
“Pick it up, and give it to me,” Slocum told José’s father. The man stood painfully, hefted the bag, and made a big show of how heavy it was.
Slocum grabbed it from his hand and peered inside, rooting around. He wasn’t sure how much was inside, but it wasn’t a thousand dollars. He hadn’t expected that much. The Valenzuelas kept as much as they gave—probably more.
“Go on over to your son.”
He kept his pistol trained on the man’s back as he shuffled to where José stood. When the elder Valenzuela crossed in front of José, Slocum put his heels to his horse’s flanks and galloped away. José retrieved his rifle and got off a couple shots that went high and wide. This alerted Slocum that they had something more in store for him than a bullet in the back.
Securing the bag with the name of the stagecoach company stenciled in smeary black ink on the canvas, he rode back toward the canyon mouth, hunting for the landmarks Murrieta had given him. He saw the twin trees with the lightning-struck stump and immediately to the left the faint trail. Losing himself in the wooded area, he continued to ride for the canyon wall. Other markers assured him he was on the correct path and that Murrieta had a good memory for trail markers.
He forced his horse through a narrow defile that widened to a rocky path hardly wide enough for his horse. Slocum dismounted and led the horse up the side of the canyon. The twisting and turning trail hid him often from the canyon floor, but when he came to the canyon rim, he stopped and looked down.
A smile came to his lips. He recognized Conchita immediately, gesturing frantically. Even at this distance she was one hell of a beautiful woman, but he guessed what her expression would be. All twisted up in a mask of fury and hatred. Her words would tell of the worst outlaw ever to ride on California dirt.
And listening to her was Sheriff Bernard with four deputies.
