by Jake Logan
“I know,” Maria answered.
Neither moved until the sun began to set, then they returned to the village. When they spent the night together in Maria’s tiny bed, he still had no idea how to rescue Atencio from the gallows.
16
“The sheriff comes,” Maria whispered. “Hide, John, or he will see you!”
Slocum pressed back against the gunsmith’s shop in Miramar, just down the street from the sheriff’s office. He knew the risk he took coming to town but had no other choice. Time pressed down on him something fierce, with Atencio scheduled for execution tomorrow morning.
“I need those supplies,” he told her, keeping his head down to hide his face under his broad hat brim.
“You will be in jail. Here he comes!”
“Decoy him. If I try to go now, he’ll spot me for sure.” Slocum settled down in a chair, rocked back, and pulled his hat even lower over his face. He heard the sheriff’s boots clicking on the boardwalk as he approached. From the corner of his eye, he saw the lawman’s feet come and stop just inches away. Slocum fancied he could feel Bernard’s breath gusting against the crown of his hat. It took all his control not to go for his six-shooter.
“I know you,” Sheriff Bernard said.
“I am from the farming village outside town,” Maria said.
“You hang around with Procipio Murrieta, don’t you?”
“I have not seen him.”
“Didn’t ask that. ’Course you haven’t seen him since he’s an escaped prisoner from San Quentin.”
“He is our alcalde.”
“He does keep the peace out yonder,” Bernard said. “I appreciate that since I got my hands full around town. Around the rest of the county, too.” The sheriff spit into the street and continued, “He won’t have any problem with me. I don’t cotton much to those folks up at San Quentin. If Murrieta keeps his nose clean around here, I just won’t see him. If you get what I mean.”
Slocum wanted to twitch, to scratch his nose, to move, but he held back. Any move on his part would bring the sheriff’s attention to him. The last thing he wanted was to gun down the lawman.
“You do not pursue him?”
“Got bigger fish to fry. Let that blowhard from San Quentin retrieve his own damn prisoners.” Bernard coughed and said, “Sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean to say that, but Sergeant Wilkinson gets my danger up faster ’n ’bout anyone else in these parts. Don’t know for certain sure but I think he broke out my prisoner and then shot up the jail.”
“He is one of the prison guards?”
“You know he is. You been up there yourself to visit the man getting himself hanged tomorrow. Are you going to witness the execution?”
“No,” Maria said in a tiny voice Slocum could hardly make out.
“Well, ma’am, then it’ll be up to me to be a witness. Seems there was some mistake made before, and they made a botch of it, but you know that, don’t you?”
“You mean to torment me with this talk, Sheriff.”
“Ma’am, that’s the farthest thing from my mind. Wish I could say I was just passing time with a lovely lady, but you know better.” The boots shuffled away and the clicking went to Slocum’s right side, then stopped. He imagined Bernard drawing his six-gun and pointing it right at his head as he said, “Now, ma’am, you haven’t seen that Jarvis fellow around, have you? Wilkinson wants him, but I want him, too, especially since he’s the one Wilkinson busted out of my jail. That riled me something fierce.”
“Jarvis?”
“Jasper Jarvis is his cognomen. He robbed the stage and murdered all the folks on it. Now, I’d think a cold-blooded killer and road agent like that’d be two states over, but I keep getting reports of him in the area. A kidnapping, how he’s planning more bedevilment. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“There is a fight starting in the saloon, Sheriff,” Maria said.
“Is there now?” Bernard cleared his throat, spit again, and then said, “You don’t stick that purty nose of yours poked into anyplace where it doesn’t belong, now. Hear?”
Slocum chanced a quick glimpse from under his hat. Sheriff Bernard stalked off toward the saloon, where a fight had spilled out into the street. It was hardly 8 a.m. and already the brawling had begun in town.
“Did he suspect?” Slocum asked.
“I do not think he did, John,” she said, moving to interpose her body between the retreating lawman and Slocum. “He would have tried to capture you if he had.”
Slocum considered this and decided Maria was right. Bernard wasn’t the sort to pussyfoot around. Cautiously letting down the chair legs, he got to his feet and turned his back to the sheriff, still walking slowly toward the saloon and sizing up the trouble. Maria trailed him.
“I need those supplies, but you see what I do?”
“Her,” Maria said, making a sound like an angry cat. She started around Slocum but he caught her arm and held her back.
“Conchita is in town for some reason.” His mind raced. “I’ve got to trail her so I can find José.”
“She is—”
“This will keep Procipio safe.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“He volunteered to act as bait to get the San Quentin gates open and some of the guards outside. As an escaped prisoner, Wilkinson wants to grab him again. This is how we were going to get inside.”
“Procipio would sacrifice himself in such a way?”
“For Atencio, he would. That’s got to be a mighty special gent for so many of you to risk your lives to save his.”
“Very special,” Maria said softly. A catch made her next words unintelligible.
“You get all this,” Slocum said, pulling a list with the items he needed scratched on it.
“I have so little money. How?”
“That’s up to you, but if you don’t get everything back to the village for Murrieta to get packed, we won’t be able to get Atencio free.”
“I will do this for you.” Maria clutched the scrap of paper so hard she crumpled it. As she started away, Slocum caught her arm and swung her around.
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Then he kissed her.
“Get going,” he said. “I’ll see you in the village when I can.”
Maria looked impish and grabbed him, giving him another kiss, one laced with promise. Then she laughed and rushed away toward the general store across the street. Slocum licked his lips and savored again the taste of the woman. Then he slipped into an alley and went toward the back of the buildings facing the street. He had guessed right. Conchita Valenzuela had tethered her horse behind the photographic studio.
She hurried from the rear door, looked around, then stepped up into the saddle. Without a seeming care in the world, Conchita rode away, heading to the road leading north out of town. Slocum took a deep breath, then fetched his own horse. He patted the stolen animal on the neck, then vaulted up and snapped the reins, trotting after Conchita. Coming to Miramar had been dangerous but was the only place Slocum had a chance of finding either Conchita or her brother.
And he needed her brother in a bad way. Real quick.
Conchita made no effort to hide her trail or avoid others on the road. She waved brightly to other travelers along the road, but Slocum hung back when she stopped greeting them and became more fixed on hunting for landmarks along the road. He was ready when she cut off the road and rode down into a ravine.
Standing in the stirrups, he got a sense where the ravine headed and galloped along to find a spot where the banks might have caved in so he could take this low road. Instead he found where Conchita left. She urged her horse up the far bank, then took a steep, gravelly incline and disappeared into low hills covered with soft grasses and low bushes.
Slocum pulled down the brim of his hat to keep the sun from distracting him as he carefully studied the entire hillside, especially the ridge running away. Anyone watching Conchita’s back trail would outline himself against the blue sky. Seeing n
o one, he worked his way down into the ravine and up the other side, following the woman’s tracks easily.
For an hour he tracked her, avoiding being seen. He often stopped to study the valley where she rode, watchful for her brother. The old man wasn’t likely to be posted as lookout with his bad eyes, but Slocum worried about José.
He needn’t have. At the far end of the peaceful valley with lush tufts of grass everywhere that tempted his horse, he saw a thin curl of smoke making its way into the afternoon sky. He had found the Valenzuelas’ new campsite.
Cutting into the woods, he approached until his nostrils flared with the pungent scent of wood smoke. He wasn’t too far off. Kicking his leg over the saddle, he dropped to the ground, considered taking his rifle, then decided his Colt was adequate for what needed to be done. As stealthily as any Apache, he came within a few feet of the dilapidated cabin that must have once belonged to a shepherd who’d tended his flock.
The rapid-fire Spanish coming from inside the cabin slowed his advance. Crouched low, he went to the back wall and pressed his eye against the rough wood until he found a chink that allowed him to peer inside. At first he wasn’t sure what he saw, then realized Conchita was sitting with her back to the hole. When she moved, he caught sight of José at a table. His sister joined him at the table.
“We need more,” she said irritably. “You gave away too much to Slocum.”
“He would have killed papa if I hadn’t,” protested José.
“But so much!”
Slocum scowled. The greedy bitch begrudged even two hundred dollars for her father?
“The sheriff was supposed to catch him with the money. We would have been able to steal it back. Bernard would have locked it in his desk.” José made a dismissive gesture. “Stealing from a locked desk is easier than from a bank vault.”
“But a thousand dollars!”
“That is what he demanded. Isn’t papa worth that much?” José leaned forward and took his sister’s hands in his. She pulled away and half turned. Slocum froze because she stared directly at him—at the crack in the wall.
When she looked back at her brother, Slocum relaxed and had to marvel at what a bunch of road agents this family was. José had cheated his own sister out of eight hundred dollars. And he looked good in his pa’s eyes for paying so much in the exchange.
“I love him, but is he worth it? All he does is sleep and eat.” Conchita pointed in the direction of a corner where Slocum couldn’t see. The viejo must have been asleep.
“At least they fed him,” José said.
“An expensive meal, if you ask me.”
“Very well. We can do one more robbery,” José said in resignation. “The stagecoach is too heavily guarded now. There is nothing left in the bank. What else can we rob?”
“There is plenty in San Francisco,” she said.
“The police! They are everywhere, they are monsters! If we failed, they would beat us within an inch of our lives, then put us into their terrible jail.”
“Then we don’t fail. I have an idea which will serve us well. At the Palace Hotel tomorrow night is a big society dance. The richest of los ricos will be there. We steal a few necklaces, a wallet or two, take what we can, and then leave.”
“We steal from all?”
“Fool,” snapped Conchita. “We take what we can. It will be plenty, more than the pitiful few coins from the bank, more than the greenbacks from the stage. We rob them, then we go immediately to the ferry and cross to Oakland. From there we can go anywhere we please.”
“What of the gold we have?”
Conchita pursed her lips. Slocum had to move about to get a better look at her face. She was in silhouette and utterly lovely. He was reminded anew how he had fallen under her spell.
“We must trust Papa,” she said finally. “We give him everything. Put it on a pack animal, in saddlebags, however it is most easily carried. He can find his way to the ferry and wait for us on the other side.”
“Why not send him now? He can get a hotel room to wait.”
“A good idea, José,” she said, taking his hands now and stroking them. “If we find ourselves hurried by the police, dealing with him would slow us. Yes, we can send him ahead. It might be good to have a place to hide if pursuit is greater than I expect it to be.”
“Now?”
Conchita shrugged, then said, “We should. I will take him to the stash and send him on his way. I will meet you in Portsmouth Square tomorrow at sundown. That will give us time to prepare. Bring all our guns.”
“This will be dangerous, hermana.”
“Without risk, there can be no gain. Help me rouse him. I want to get started right away.”
Slocum turned and pressed his back against the wall as he listened to them awaken their pa, get him dressed and out the door. An itchy feeling worked on him as he heard Conchita and her father ride away . . . to the stash where they had hidden everything they had stolen. Gold coins, scrip, all of it. If he got the drop on Conchita when she dug up the money, he could ride away and be rich—or at least well paid for all he had been through.
But there was Atencio. And Maria. And the promise he had given Murrieta. And Maria. That single name echoed in his head. She would hate him forever if he cut and ran now.
No amount of money would erase the festering sore in his conscience should he break his word to her.
He glanced around the side of the cabin. Conchita and her pa were gone, out of sight, on their way to get everything the Valenzuelas had stolen. His Colt Navy slid easily from his holster and felt comforting in his hand. He rounded the corner and jerked away as José unexpectedly came from inside.
For an instant both of them froze. José started for the six-shooter in his belt but Slocum already had his drawn.
“I’ll drop you where you stand. Don’t. Don’t throw down on me. You’ll be a dead man before you touch the butt.”
“You turn up at the worst possible times,” José said. “If you are here to kidnap the old man again, you are out of luck. He is gone.”
“I found the one I want.”
“I will not tell you where we have hidden our money.”
“Good,” Slocum said, smiling wolfishly. He enjoyed the way the man’s face drained of blood. He thought he was going to die. After torture. “I just wanted another hostage.”
José stared at Slocum, then laughed until tears came to his eyes.
“You will ransom me? As you did my papa? Who is to pay? Conchita? She will let me die.”
“You know your sister better ’n anyone else, I reckon,” Slocum said. “But I’m not ransoming you to her.”
“No? Then what . . .” José’s eyes went wide when he realized what Slocum intended. He went for the six-gun thrust into the waistband of his jeans.
17
José Valenzuela moved fast, but Slocum was faster. He squeezed off a round that tore through the man’s shoulder, knocking him backward. Valenzuela took a step, caught his heel, and then his legs turned to jelly. He sat hard, the pistol falling from his nerveless right hand. For a moment, he remained motionless, stunned. He shook himself as if to get his senses back and reached for his fallen six-shooter.
Slocum stepped on his left wrist until he felt bones grating together.
“Stop! You are hurting me!”
Slocum eased up on the pressure, then kicked the gun away. He kept his own pointed straight at the sitting man.
“You’ve got a vivid imagination,” Slocum told him. “What do you think I’m going to do with you?”
“I cannot return to that terrible place.”
Slocum grinned ear to ear. It gave him considerable pleasure to know that others felt the same as he did about San Quentin and that he could inflict this much misery on Valenzuela. He wished he could substitute him for Atencio, but there was no way that’d happen. He’d have to be content with carrying through the plan that still boiled about foglike and nebulous in his head.
He reached dow
n and grabbed the front of José’s shirt. A powerful tug got the man onto his feet. In ten minutes they were mounted and riding north.
“You have become a bounty hunter?” Valenzuela asked.
“Nothing like that,” Slocum said. He didn’t cotton much to bounty hunters, but he cottoned even less to conversation right now. Too much had to go just right for Atencio to escape the noose again. Worthless talk would only slow him down in his single-minded drive to get to the stone-walled prison.
“I will cry out when we ride through San Francisco,” Valenzuela said. “Better to die with a bullet than to—”
He sagged as Slocum rode closer and swung the long barrel of his six-gun with great precision. He clipped Valenzuela just above the ear. A tiny cut appeared, but the shock scrambled brains and turned his grip on consciousness slippery.
Slocum had to support him as they rode the streets of San Francisco, heading north to where the ferry embarked to cross the Golden Gate from just east of Fort Point. The grim fortress that had protected the entrance to the Bay during the war bristled with cannons. A few bluecoats paraded back and forth along the ramparts, keeping watch for who knew what. There had never been a threat to the city during the war, and even less threat existed now.
The Barbary Coast a bit farther along the shoreline was packed with refugees from Australia and every other piss pot in the world. It was barely safe to ride through the streets in daylight. After dark, getting shanghaied was as good as a man could expect. And there were far worse fates than involuntary servitude aboard a China clipper awaiting the unwary from the gangs that roved the district.
They were all to be found in the streets Slocum and Valenzuela rode through at a quick trot.
More than one curious bully boy eyed them as they rode, but Slocum gave no opportunity for anything more than curious, appraising stares.
He reached the ferry just as it was loading. The large craft rocked on the choppy waves coming in off the Pacific Ocean, but this didn’t hinder the crew loading on wagons, horses, and other freight to be taken across to the far northern shore.
