by Jake Logan
Jack slept on the entire time he was being robbed.
Slocum considered his options. Capturing Jack would be a snap. Tamara had robbed him of what must be a map showing where the silver had been stashed. Getting the outlaw back to San Francisco and justice was one choice, but Slocum discarded it. Proving that Jack had any part in the train robbery would be his word against the outlaw’s. He knew Jack was a thief but had no proof.
If he sat on the silver and waited for the outlaw to come get it, that would be the proof needed for a jury to convict. Slocum backed away into the forest, and within minutes was on the road going after Tamara.
Again he had to rely on common sense to figure which direction she took. Returning to San Francisco made no sense. She must have pressed on, riding eastward. Or she would cut over to the railroad. From what Slocum saw of the terrain, that route carried serious danger with it. The tracks had been laid on a shelf chipped from the side of a mountain, and riding alongside them added the danger of an approaching train. There was nowhere to get off the tracks to let the train pass safely.
He rode faster and caught sight of her as she left the main road. The double-rutted, weed-overgrown road she took must have been used by the railroad construction crew. His heart beat a little faster. Finding the silver cache was a matter of letting Tamara use the map, then swooping down on her. Slocum needed a better idea of what to do then, but much depended on how long it took her to find the stolen shipment.
As Slocum turned to follow, a cold knot formed in his gut. An instant later a shot rang out. Slocum’s mare reared and threw him to the ground. He lay still in the weeds and dust.
5
Hoofbeats came closer. Slocum lay still, his mare trotting away. When a shadow passed over him, Slocum moved fast. Rolling, he came to his knees and drew his Colt Navy. He pointed it up at Jack and fired. The same fate came to Jack that had visited itself on Slocum. His shot missed but caused the horse to rear and throw the train robber to the ground.
Slocum tried to get a second shot off but had to dodge flying hooves as the outlaw’s horse pawed at the air. By the time Slocum got to his feet and moved around the spooked horse, Jack had lit out across the road. Squaring off, Slocum lifted his six-shooter and fired. The bullet missed. Jack dodged at the last possible instant and dived for a gully. Knowing he couldn’t keep up a protracted gunfight, Slocum ran after the robber, his gun ready for what had to be a killing shot. He was down to four rounds.
Jack poked up and Slocum shot. The outlaw’s hat went flying, only to snap down when the chin string caught under Jack’s nose. This threw off any return fire. Then Slocum dug in his toes and launched himself in a low dive. He hit the ground, skidded, and found his arms circling the man’s shoulders. With a huge twist, he rolled Jack over and sent his six-gun flying.
“Give it up, Jack,” Slocum grated out, hanging on for dear life. He couldn’t bring his gun to bear and releasing his grip would prolong the fight. “I got you fair and square.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Sent by the Central California Railroad.”
This caused a new surge of effort that flung Slocum around like a fish on a hook.
“I know Tamara,” Slocum said in desperation as his grip slipped.
“What?”
This gave him the chance to get his balance back. With a heave, he upended Jack and threw him hard to the ground. The whoosh of air leaving the outlaw’s lungs took some of the fight from him. Slocum got to his feet, then dropped one knee into the man’s gut. Jack turned green and started to upchuck.
“Don’t,” Slocum said, shoving his Colt’s muzzle into the man’s face.
“Ga-ga-give up. I give up! Don’t shoot.”
Slocum backed away, the front sight centered between Jack’s eyes. He found himself tossed on the horns of a dilemma. It was the same one he had faced before, back in San Francisco. He had followed the outlaw rather than Tamara, only to find she trailed Jack. But where did Slocum’s duty lie? He had one of the train robbers in custody, but he couldn’t prove it. He suspected Collingswood would never let Jack stand trial but would torture the silver’s hiding place from him. Although he wouldn’t do it himself, Underwood looked more than capable of carrying out the railroad vice president’s orders using a flensing knife. Jack would be better served to make a deal and give up the silver in return for his freedom.
Slocum couldn’t do that either. It had to be both the outlaw and the stolen silver shipment. He had taken the job from Collingswood with those as the reasons he was being paid.
“You robbed the train,” Slocum said.
“I ain’t sayin’ a word. You can’t prove it!”
“What’s the map to you hid in your gun belt?”
Slocum laughed without humor at the expression on the man’s face. He shoved his pistol forward to keep Jack from reaching under the broad leather belt for the map—which wasn’t there.
“How’d you know about that?”
“Why’d you make a map when you know where you hid the silver?”
“I was gonna give Tamara her share, but she wanted more.”
“Why?”
“I promised her fifty dollars and was going to give it to her, but she wanted a full share. None of us knew how much’d be in that shipment.”
“She wanted half your share?” Slocum began to see how the double-crossing had come about. If anything, Jack was honest in paying off the source of his information. It had been Tamara who wanted more.
“Hell, no. She wanted a full share. One-fifth.” Jack swallowed hard and paled when he realized how much he was confessing to. Now Slocum knew only four robbers had stopped the train. “I couldn’t give her that much. We split it up, each of us taking a quarter.”
“Where are the other three in your gang?”
“We lit out to every point of the compass. I don’t know where they went, and now I’m damned sorry I went back to San Francisco.”
Slocum felt a small pang of remorse for Jack. He could have hightailed it with the loot after the robbery but had been honest enough to offer Tamara her payment. The men robbing the train took the chance that there wouldn’t be any—or not much—in the shipment. That they had hit the mother lode didn’t diminish the risk they had taken of getting their heads blown off.
Then again, Jack’s interest might have been more in Tamara than giving her what had been promised.
“How’d you and her cross trails?”
“You said you knew her. Figure it out. You’re probably the next one in the chain of men she’s used.” Jack ran his finger under his belt and stopped about where the hidden pouch lay empty.
“She took the map,” Slocum said. “I saw her.”
Jack made a wild grab and confirmed what Slocum had told him.
“That bitch. I shoulda wrung her neck like a chicken destined for the stew pot. She refused to take the money I offered her. I never thought she would cheat me out of my entire share!”
The outlaw looked up at Slocum, then turned wary. He continued to finger the empty pouch sewn inside the gun belt.
“How’d you know she took it?”
“I saw her. She followed you from San Francisco. She must have known you were cutting her out of her share.”
“She wanted it all! Greedy bitch.”
Slocum’s attention wavered for a split second. This was all it took for Jack to grab a dirt clod and fling it at him. The sod exploded in Slocum’s face, forcing him to involuntarily turn away. Then he was bowled over as the robber tackled him around the knees. He landed as hard on the ground as Jack had. The fall momentarily stunned him. Then he gasped and fought to keep the grip on his wrist from turning his own weapon against him.
Jack sat astraddle Slocum’s waist and used his weight to force the gun hand around. Slocum pulled the trigger and sent a round sailing past the man’s ea
r. As his attention had flagged for an instant, now it was Jack’s turn to react. He jerked away and gave Slocum all the opening he was likely to get. He arched his back and heaved. Somehow he fired again. This time the slug ripped into Jack’s side. The man cried out in pain and sagged back.
Slocum kicked free and came to his knees, pistol aimed at the man. There was no need. Jack had gone white. He pressed his hand into his left side, but the flood of red spurting out between his fingers showed that Slocum had struck something important near the man’s heart.
“You got me,” Jack said in a weak voice. “I feel all wet inside.” He coughed and then fixed a hard look on Slocum. “You kilt me. Grant a dyin’ man’s last request. Go kill her, too.”
Slocum had no chance to respond. The outlaw slumped back, dead. This solved part of his dilemma about how to proceed. No honest jury would have convicted him of the robbery without more proof than Slocum’s word. While he doubted Collingswood would allow an unbiased jury to hear the case—he would have wanted the silver shipment back more than seeing a robber thrown into San Quentin—taking Jack in would have given Slocum some satisfaction of a job getting done.
He sighed, took time to reload his six-shooter, then hunted around for a good place to bury the outlaw. He didn’t even know the man’s name other than what he had overheard when Tamara spoke with him near the Embarcadero. The better part of an hour saw Jack buried deep enough to keep the casual coyote or wolf from digging up the body. A rude cross marked the spot. Slocum didn’t bother marking what little he knew of the outlaw on it. He was dead and that was enough for anyone passing by to know.
Not that any pilgrim on the road would even slow to wonder who had been buried anonymously.
Slocum found Jack’s horse and rummaged through the saddlebags. The man had prepared better for the trail than Slocum had. After transferring the food to his own saddlebags, Slocum saw that what remained was worth keeping for himself, too. The hunks of silver had been hacked off an ingot. Without weighing it, Slocum guessed the silver was worth about fifty dollars. In that, Jack had been an honest thief. He had brought Tamara’s due, only she had gotten greedy.
With the outlaw’s map in her possession, she stood to get a lot richer. Slocum wished Jack had lived long enough to point him in the right direction, but common sense sent him riding along the trail toward the railroad tracks. If he found where Jack and his gang had driven away with the shipment, finding Tamara wouldn’t be too hard. The silver had to be stashed somewhere nearby.
At least Jack’s share had to be. The other three could have driven off in their wagons with their shares, but Jack had seen fit to take Tamara’s cut. That meant the map the woman had taken led to a treasure cache.
As he rode, Slocum found himself with a new dilemma. Before, it had been finding the silver or taking Jack back to the railroad vice president without real proof of guilt. Now he might catch Tamara, but without the silver, it mattered nothing. He was certain she had supplied the robbers everything they needed to know to successfully rob the train, but the man who could have testified against her was buried under a few feet of California sod.
Trying to figure out whether he should worry more about returning the silver or taking the woman back to her boss occupied him as he rode. The railroad tracks appeared quicker than he thought. Then he realized how he had been drifting as he wrestled with a problem that might never exist. The tracks went up into a pass a couple miles off. Slocum took out a map from the envelope Collingswood had given him and tried to make out where the robbery had occurred.
He turned uphill and began riding, aware that he had little room on either side of the tracks to wait for any train coming through to pass. Now and then he dismounted and pressed his hand against the tracks to check for vibrations. When he was a half mile from the summit, he came to the decision to press on and get past the narrow gap. He wished he’d had the foresight to get a railroad schedule when he had commandeered the horse back at the depot. No Central California Railroad coming through since he had ridden onto the tracks worried him.
He put his heels to the mare’s flanks to get the sturdy horse moving faster. Jack’s horse, tied to his saddle, balked. Slocum took a few minutes to tug on the other horse’s reins to get it moving into the steep-walled pass. The horse kept trying to rear.
“What’s wrong with you?” He dismounted and went to calm the horse. As he stepped on the tracks, he felt the quivers. The horse had already detected the oncoming train.
Slocum looked back down the slope he had scaled and didn’t see an approaching train. That meant it was struggling up the eastern slope, coming into the narrow pass. The grade was considerable on the far side. Slocum knew that from hearing of the robbery. Jack and his gang had used that steep slope slowing the locomotive to climb aboard.
He had a quick decision to make. If he reached the far side of the pass, he had no way of knowing where he could get off the tracks to let the train pass. He looked back down the grade he had taken on the western side. He had a half mile to go to get to a widening where he could get free of the tracks.
Go on and pray for a spot to ride off the rails? Or go back down the way he had come?
Slocum was a gambling man, but his chances were better retreating. He swung into the saddle and turned the mare around. The rocky walls hadn’t bothered him before. Now it felt as if he had been thrust into a stone grave.
A quarter mile of trotting got him out of the pass but still no space on either side of the tracks. Jack’s horse tried to race past. He glanced behind and saw why. The locomotive crested the grade and sent plumes of billowing white smoke up from its stack. Slocum heard the change in the clangs and bangs from the engine. It had been straining before it hit the pass. Now it let out a relieved whistle and gathered speed on the downside—directly behind Slocum.
He bent low and got as much speed from his horse as he could. The tracks hummed as the locomotive gathered speed, having nothing but downgrade in front of it. Slocum winced as the engineer spotted him and began using his whistle to warn him away. Slocum urged his horse to greater speed. A quarter mile ahead lay a cleared area where workers must have camped. The mare strained now, lather flecking her heaving flanks. The engineer never tried to apply the brakes. It would take a mile to stop—and Slocum would be long dead by then. His only hope was the clearing.
“Come on,” he shouted in the horse’s ear as he bent over. “We can make it.”
He charged for the clearing. And then Jack’s horse let out a horrendous shriek that was almost human in its agony. The horse cartwheeled through the air past him. The cowcatcher on the front of the locomotive had served its purpose of clearing away anything that might otherwise be knocked down and pulled under the engine, fouling its wheels or derailing it.
Slocum rode faster. He felt the heat from the steam engine, cringed at the repeated whistle blasts, and rode for his life. The clearing was only a few yards ahead. A few. So close.
Hot cinders spewed from the smokestack and burned at his neck. He was a goner, run over as the horse had been.
6
Slocum screamed, but the cry disappeared in the whine of the steam engine rushing past. He fell from horseback, and the mare galloped on. For a moment, Slocum lay stunned, then realized he hadn’t been run over by the train. The clatter of its steel wheels already receded down the tracks as it raced on toward the Oakland depot. He flopped back and stared upward, watching billowy white clouds string out into feathery strands and then vanish, leaving behind only sky. Pure blue. Clear. Sky.
He was still alive.
Forcing himself to sit up, he held out his hands. They were steady enough. He’d had more than one close shave in his day, but this one had come closer than most. Bits of Jack’s horse were strewn about where the train had struck it and severed its front legs. A frantic neighing drew his attention to the back of the clearing. Trees boxed in his mare. He heaved to
his feet and spent the next half hour calming the horse from its narrow escape with death. By the time he mounted and headed back up the slope, he was once more determined to find Tamara and the silver and take them both back to San Francisco. When he reached the pass again, he dropped off his horse to check for vibrations in the rail. Only warm steel stretched under his fingers.
He led his horse through the pass and looked down the western stretch of track. He understood why the train robbers had chosen this section. Even riding down was something of a chore, but he kept the horse moving. The mare shied once or twice, forcing Slocum to look over the brink and down into the deep canyon on one side of the track. The other side presented some difficulty in riding because of the thick undergrowth and steep stone wall rising more than twenty feet above his head.
When he reached the spot where Jack had to have robbed the train, he found ample evidence of how the gang had waited in a clearing and where the tracks were newly repaired from being twisted around by a car that had run away out of control. He reenacted the robbery—where the gang had attacked, how the last two cars had been unhooked, the way those cars had rolled backward down the incline.
Slocum tried to figure out where the mail clerk had gone. The only possible direction he could have gone, unless he was one of the gang, was down into the canyon. No one survived a fall like that. He fumbled out the report and read through it again. No mention was made of recovering the body for burial. All he saw were detailed reports on repairing the track and how the next two trains from Virginia City had been delayed.
He doubted either of them carried as much silver as the shipment already spirited away. That much silver represented weeks of mining output.
Riding downhill, he finally came to a more level section of tracks. He grinned crookedly when he saw a small firepit with embers still smoldering alongside the tracks. While this might have been left by others Collingswood had sent out, he doubted it. All he saw were the tracks of a solitary horse. When he dismounted and examined the soft earth more closely, he knew he had found Tamara’s trail. The small footprint belonged to a woman, not some big galoot out hunting for train robbers.
