by Jake Logan
“Please, sir, sit. Eat.”
“You’re not having anything?” Slocum asked when a plate of stew and three-day-old biscuits was placed in front of him.
“I’ve eaten already.”
“With Ambrose Killian?”
Amy took out a small notebook and pencil. She licked the tip before applying it to the paper.
“Tell me everything, Mr. Slocum. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“You might say that. Now, when did you first realize you were under attack by Les Jeter?”
The meal went quickly and pleasantly enough, but Slocum wondered at the volume of notes Amy took. She detailed every comment he made, no matter how offhand, and helped him get a fuller picture of all that had happened during and after the robbery.
“So he used the other horses from the stagecoach team to cover his tracks? How inventive,” Amy said. “How perfectly diabolical!”
“I would have tracked him down, but I needed supplies. All I had was what had been in the stage.”
“I believe you would have,” she said, eyeing him boldly. Amy broke off the appraising look, closed her notebook, and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Slocum. You have been most helpful. If there’s anything more you’d like to order, feel free. I’ll see that the bill is taken care of.”
“Wait,” Slocum said, but Amy was already through the door and gone.
He settled back, ordered more coffee and two pieces of peach pie. His hunger was sated, but not his curiosity about Amy Gerardo.
5
“When did you first realize you were under attack by Les Jeter?” Amy Gerardo looked hard at Slocum, trying to worm her way into his brain and soul. He was an intricate man, far more than he appeared. He was observant and either very lucky or extraordinarily skillful. Amy nodded as she leaned forward across the small table, careful not to get any of the food spotting the table on her crisp blouse. That wouldn’t do, though it might intrigue John Slocum. She was keenly aware of the way he watched her, much as a hungry cat eyed a bird.
She was no flighty thing, but it wouldn’t hurt to let him think so if it gained what she wanted from him. Anything to help out Ambrose. Even if it meant disappointing a man as intriguing as Slocum.
Slocum muttered around a mouthful of stew. She noted several things he had mentioned earlier, tiny clues where Les Jeter might be headed, while Slocum swallowed and dabbed at his lips. He had more than a hint of the Southern gentleman, but she knew he had been out on the trail for some time. And it wasn’t simply from his lack of bathing. His manners were atrophied, but at one time he had possessed a full set. Cleaned up and those gentlemanly ways unleashed, John Slocum could be a charming, deliciously dangerous companion.
“So he used the other horses from the stagecoach team to cover his tracks? How inventive,” she said, scribbling frantically to keep up with both what Slocum said and her own observations. Ambrose would want to hear it all. Everything. And she would gladly pass it along. “How perfectly diabolical!”
“I would have tracked him down, but I needed supplies. All I had was what had been in the stage.”
“I believe you would have,” she said. She studied his stubbled chin, the deep emerald eyes that missed nothing, the set to his body. His determination was second only to Ambrose’s. Amy wrote a concluding note to herself about how Slocum might be useful, then closed her notebook and stood amid a swish of skirts. “Thank you, Mr. Slocum. You have been most helpful. If there’s anything more you’d like to order, feel free. I’ll see that the bill is taken care of.”
“Wait,” Slocum said, half-standing. She hardly noticed. Her mind was aflutter with details, clues, possibilities that had to be related to Ambrose right away. He would want to know everything.
Amy stepped out into the night and walked away from the two saloons. Filthy places. Not fit for man nor beast, though both frequented them. More than once she had ventured inside to find out tidbits Ambrose demanded. Getting information about Jeter from the drunk who had ridden his mule into one saloon up in Fort Davis had been her most difficult task, especially since only that kind of woman ever set foot inside a drinking establishment. But she had fended off rude advances and found what she had been sent to unearth.
She clucked her tongue a bit at the thought of John Slocum in such a place. He fitted in perfectly—and yet he didn’t. He was a hard drinker from the look of him, but he didn’t go into saloons to socialize. She tried to imagine him with a soiled dove, and found it difficult. Such a handsome man had no reason to go to them for his pleasure.
Amy closed her eyes for a moment and got a firmer grip on her emotions. He was a commanding man, that John Slocum, but he was no Ambrose Killian. She hurried around the side of the stables at the edge of town and climbed into her carriage. She snapped the reins and got the horse pulling. It was a long way to the hacienda, almost to Fort Davis, but she had no fear of traveling alone in the desert at night. Her lucky star would shine on her the entire way home.
Amy sighed. Home. That was the way she thought of where Ambrose lived.
Amy dabbed at the sweat on her forehead as the hot noonday sun beat down on her. She was tired to the bone from the long trip from San Esteban, but she was also excited. She had important information for Ambrose that he would certainly appreciate receiving. With deft turns, she made her way through the partially opened gate a few yards off the main road and kept moving. There was no need to close the gate. Ambrose Killian’s riches did not come from running cattle. The only reason he had the fence along the road and the gate was to discourage two-legged varmints rather than to keep in vast herds of cattle.
He had never been quite clear what the source of his family fortune was, but it had to be considerable. He might be an English lord or come from nobility or have ties to the Queen of England. Amy didn’t know, but from the way Ambrose carried himself with such confidence, he was no peasant. His upbringing had included the finest of schools, judging from his diction and knowledge of the vast world. Amy admired it all.
The hacienda had been abandoned some years earlier before Ambrose had found it, moved in, and renovated it. The furnishings were exquisite, all imported from the Continent at considerable expense. Seeing such finery out in the middle of the West Texas desert always brought a sharp intake of breath and, depending on people’s sensibilities, a tear to their eye at beholding such grandeur. Ambrose had worked constantly to make this an oasis of gentility, and had succeeded.
Amy let out a sigh as she tugged on the reins and stopped the horse in front of the carved wood entryway. With a lithe move, she dropped to the ground and entered the courtyard, where a small fountain bubbled up. It had taken her some time to find out how Ambrose had built a reservoir on the roof of the house to supply the bubbling, leaping water. It soothed her with its gentle rush. A scraping sound caused her to pause and look up to the tank. A servant worked to add more water to keep the fountain functioning. She averted her eyes. It was something like learning how a magic trick was done. Once she knew, the magic turned into something tawdry.
“Miss Gerardo,” Ambrose said in greeting. He opened the ornate door and beckoned to her. “So good to see you once again.”
“I have great news, sir. Great news about Les Jeter!” Amy felt a rush of excitement when she saw how Ambrose’s face lit up like a child receiving a new toy. It pleased her to please him.
“Excellent, my dear. Come in. Please, sit down.” Killian motioned to a chair across from the love seat. Amy hesitated, wondering if she would be too bold to sit on the love seat and hope that Ambrose joined her.
She sat in the chair facing his huge chair, which seemed to engulf him with its bulk, wings rising high on either side of his body and head as he sank down.
“Wine?”
“Yes, please,” she said. “It was a long, dusty ride from San Esteban.”
“Ah, San Esteban,” Killian said, tenting his fingers and resting his chin on the tips. He stare
d at her with gray, fathomless eyes that seemed to suck her down into a vortex and hold her enthralled. She wanted to go over and kneel next to the chair, reach up, and—
“Jeter,” he prompted quietly.
“Oh, yes, sorry. I am so tired from the trip. I hurried, but it still seemed to take forever.”
“Perhaps we should see into getting a double horse team for you, although that would be difficult for a woman of your stature to handle.”
“I can handle such a team,” Amy said, distracted. The servant put a small stemmed glass of blood-red wine on the table beside her, then backed away. “You aren’t having any, Mr. Killian?”
“No, my dear, it’s too early to imbibe. I want to keep my senses fresh and alert for this news. What did you learn?”
Amy rushed through the recitation of her dinner with Slocum and what had happened to the stage.
“So,” Killian said, pursing his lips as he spoke, “Jeter is going to run dry holding up the stagecoaches soon. They will either force the Army to send along a trooper or two to protect their cargo, or simply stop sending anything of value.”
“The railroad is nearing completion,” she said, watching her employer. He was so well built, muscles rippling under the smoking jacket he wore. The bright red silk ascot hid a powerful neck with a vein on the side that throbbed when he was agitated. Amy had only seen Ambrose in such a state twice, and he’d had a towering anger that was not to be denied. She wanted him to be happy and never respond to her with even a small, dark piece of that hidden rage.
“He might consider train robbery. Nothing is past this criminal mastermind,” Killian said, warming to the idea. “The railroad would send detectives. Perhaps hire Pinkertons to track him down—”
“But they would fail,” Amy said between sips of her heady wine. “You haven’t been able to track him and you are the best. They would have no chance.”
“But Jeter might fall into a trap they laid. With enough men and resources, even the cleverest of the Texas bandidos would succumb. He has a secure hideout in the Davis Mountains, but they are a maze of canyons and deadly precipices. Apaches hid there for years before the cavalry routed them. Jeter is ever so much cleverer and far more dangerous.”
Killian snapped his fingers for the attentive servant and ordered a glass of wine for himself. Amy took this as a small celebration. Ambrose had an idea on how to find Jeter.
“Tell me more of this Slocum fellow,” Killian said, looking at her over the glass. He quickly drained it and held it, his left index finger slowly circling the rim. It began making a ringing sound as he moved in the circle faster and faster. He abruptly put the glass on the table beside him. “Tell me everything.”
“Why,” Amy said, flustered, “I don’t know anything about him. He wears his six-shooter like a gunfighter, but he was the perfect Southern gentleman. From his accent he hails from Georgia or perhaps South Carolina. Otherwise, I found out nothing about him.”
“On the contrary. There is much you learned, if you would only think about it.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, frightened that she had displeased him.
“Don’t be. Consider this instructive. Slocum was the only one to survive the robbery. That means he is unique in this regard, for this robbery. Jeter savagely gunned down the others, but Slocum escaped.”
“But—”
Killian held up his hand to forestall her objection.
“I know what you are going to say. Jeter thought Slocum was dead. But he wasn’t. That is important. You call Slocum a gunfighter. He probably is, but he is also an expert tracker. He immediately understood the trick Jeter played by running the horses in all directions to confuse the actual escape path. Slocum did not waste time, but went to San Esteban to enlist aid. That means he is, in part, a law-abiding man.”
Amy wasn’t too sure about this. Slocum was bold and confident, but to call him law-abiding meant Killian had never spoken to him face-to-face. Amy knew Slocum was a dangerous man. Perhaps more dangerous than Les Jeter, if that were possible.
“You want to use Slocum to find Jeter?” she asked. “But you wanted to hunt him down yourself and capture him.”
“The trial would be spectacular. No outlaw in the West would have a more important trial. I could sell the memories and reminiscences of the hearings in Europe and become famous overnight.”
“You’re already quite famous, I am sure,” she said.
“This would mean lionization on the level of Oscar Wilde, that poseur. All would come to my readings and lectures. The crowned heads of Europe would beg me to give private audiences.” Killian had flushed with excitement at the notion of such notoriety. He settled back into his chair.
“Slocum can capture Jeter for me. I will see that the outflaw is put on trial somewhere important. San Antonio perhaps. Or Austin. Wherever there would be considerable newspaper coverage. And I would be at the center of the trial because I am the foremost authority on Lester Evan Jeter!”
He breathed heavily now. Amy had never seen him more handsome.
“What will it take to hire this Slocum? Oh, never mind. I am sure you will find the proper combination of inducements, monetary and otherwise, won’t you, my dear?”
It took Amy a few seconds to understand what Ambrose wanted from her. She nodded slowly that she understood. Anything that got her closer to Ambrose’s heart—his bed!—would be done.
“While you were out finding these tidbits of data, I have been diligently working on the collection. Come. You must see it.” He stood and held out his arm for her. Amy gratefully took it, feeling the play of muscles under the jacket sleeve. He was so strong that she almost swooned in hope that he would catch her, scoop her up, and carry her in his arms. Instead, he walked briskly, forcing her to hurry to keep up with him as they went into the next room.
Many a museum would have been proud of such a display. On the walls hung rifles and pistols, all used by Jeter over the last three years of his criminal career.
“This one, this pistol. It is the one he used to kill his first man.”
“The saloon owner?”
“Yes,” Killian said with a hint of reverence in his tone. He lifted the six-shooter and held it out. She knew better than to touch it. Ambrose only wanted her to admire it, and she did.
“A Remington,” she said. “A black-powder-and-shot model.”
“But quite deadly in a determined outlaw’s hands, and Jeter is most determined. He shot the bartender through the heart. One shot, one dead man. His first.”
“How did you come across this?” Amy asked. “It must have been very difficult.”
“I am not without my sources,” Killian said, chuckling with pleasure at her recognition of his expertise. “A lawman in Austin had found the gun after Jeter dropped it fleeing his crime. It wasn’t until sometime later that the sheriff identified Jeter as the killer and this as the murder weapon.”
“I see that you have already built a case for it.” Amy looked at the handsome walnut case with the glass lid. Inside was a wine-colored satin bed with the outline where the six-gun had been placed. The entire case stood on its own display rack in the center of the room. Ambrose obviously thought this was the keystone to his vast collection of memorabilia.
“I have a second case ready for the last six-shooter he’ll use. I’ll have them side by side with my biography of the West’s most notorious outlaw between.”
“Bookends to a deadly career in crime,” Amy said.
“Well put, well put, my dear. I’ll need you to go over the new manuscript pages I’ve written while you were gone. They need some tidying up. My writing is ever so atrocious.”
“I’ll get to it right away, after I’ve freshened up from my trip. It is so hot and dusty,” she said, letting the last syllables trail off in hope that Ambrose would see fit to help her out of the dress and corset—and join in her bath.
“You look flushed. Perhaps you took too much sun. Sunstroke is a constant hazard out
here,” he said.
“I’m all right. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes.”
Amy thought her heart would explode as he turned and looked down at her. He wasn’t as tall as John Slocum, but he was as commanding. She was ready for him to command her to do . . . anything.
“I also located the sheriff’s reports concerning his pursuit and attempted arrest of Jeter,” Ambrose said. “I need you to go through and excerpt the most salient points for my biography.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. Amy felt as if she had walked to the rim of a vast and gorgeous vista, only to have slipped and fallen over the edge.
“If you think my penmanship leaves much to be desired, Sheriff Oldham’s is far worse. He has a crabbed script that I can barely decipher. And his spelling! Well, you’ll have to cope with that yourself. Think in terms of what he said phonetically.” Ambrose reached under a table, pulled out a small wooden box, and handed it to her. “If there are any pages missing, note that also. I might be able to replace them from the sheriff’s widow.”
“Widow? He’s dead?”
Ambrose Killian looked as if someone had lit him up. He smiled and said, “Why, yes, my dear. Jeter killed him. With his own six-shooter. I am trying to track down that weapon also. His second murder. This will be the finest tribute to the most dangerous man west of the Mississippi!”
Killian spun and gestured grandly, taking in the entire room and its contents.
“Yes, yes, it will, Mr. Killian,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll repair to my room, get cleaned up, and . . . and get to reading the sheriff’s reports.”
“Do that, my dear. Yes, do that. I expect you to have considerable work done by dinner. And do consider how best to employ this John Slocum to track down Jeter for me.”
