Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  “You do what they say?” Before Slocum could answer, Dinks shook his head and said, “No, of course you didn’t. Nobody’s ever guilty of any damn thing in this town. Clear the way. I want him locked up and I want you and you,” he said, pointing at his deputy and Jonesy, “inside right now.”

  “What about me, Marshal? Renfro was my brother.”

  “Why not? The more the merrier. But the office’ll be crowded with all of you. The rest of you gawkers, git!”

  Slocum was hauled down by the deputy and Mac and dragged back inside the jailhouse. Before the marshal came in and flopped down in his chair, Slocum was securely locked up again.

  “He’s in and out of this here jail more than you are, Marshal,” Jonesy said. “This is the third time he’s been locked up. Got away the other two times.”

  “How?”

  For a moment, not one of them spoke. Then Mac filled the silence gruffly. “He’s got accomplices. That’s the only explanation.”

  “Who?”

  The marshal rocked back and waited. Mac and the deputy looked a little panicked. Then Mac went on. “Don’t know, but he has to have one. When we caught him after he gunned down my brother, he didn’t have any money on him.”

  “Why not?” Dinks called to Slocum.

  “Renfro wiped me out in the poker game. He was already dead and robbed when I saw him.”

  “Your gun’d been fired!”

  “I shot at whoever robbed him,” Slocum said.

  “So?” Dinks looked hard at Mac.

  “He’s covering for somebody, that’s what he’s doin’. His partner got the money. That’s why we didn’t find it on him.”

  “Mac’s got a theory. You deny it’s possible?”

  “That’s not what happened,” Slocum said. “Not that any of you are likely to listen.”

  “That’s a fact,” Dinks said. “You’re charged with murderin’ Renfro Macallister. It’s up to a jury to decide if you done it. Now what’s this about Pete?”

  “He killed him, too,” blurted Jonesy. “He was ridin’ alongside Pete, goin’ up the hill to the Climax. He shot him down like a dog!”

  “So?” The marshal looked back at Slocum.

  “I was riding with him. Somebody shot the mule and we went over the side of the road in the wagon. I helped Pete back up. He had a busted leg, but when he stood up on his good leg, somebody shot him from way off.”

  “How far’s that?”

  Slocum considered the range from what he had seen when he had escaped the dynamite shed at the mine. He hadn’t realized what he was claiming until now.

  “Five hundred yards.”

  “So somebody shot the mule, then shot Pete, and did it with two shots from a quarter mile? That’s mighty fine shootin’, don’t you agree?”

  Slocum stayed silent. During the war when he had served as a sniper, such a shot would have been more luck than skill. The wind, the downward angle of the shot, the sheer audacity of the deed made it seem impossible—and Slocum had witnessed it.

  “Either you’re one hell of a liar or it really happened. Which is it? No, don’t answer me. The jury’ll decide that as well.

  “Anything else been goin’ on while I’ve been gone?” Dinks directed this at his deputy. The man launched into a litany of petty crimes. Slocum saw that the marshal hardly paid attention. These were the ordinary misdemeanors that filled any lawman’s time in a boomtown. Drunkenness, fights, horse thieving, these were the time wasters. But he’d left town, and had had two murders to come back to.

  “All right, you fellas git. I need to do some thinkin’.”

  “When’s the trial gonna be?” demanded Mac. “I kin get six men together by noon.”

  “We need a judge. Old Man Larousse is out riding circuit and ought to be through in a week or so. Unless you’re right about him havin’ an accomplice, he’s stayin’ locked up this time.”

  “Judge Larousse is senile,” protested Mac. “He don’t know what day it is, much less the letter of the law.”

  “He’s what we have to work with. He convicted the Purdy boys, didn’t he? Now I told you to clear out and let me be.”

  Jonesy didn’t go far. Slocum saw him hunker down outside the door to wait for an errand to run or a murderer to turn in. The deputy and Mac left together, heading in the direction of the Mountain of Gold.

  “If Mac gets enough of his customers drunk, they’ll come for me,” Slocum said.

  “That’s possible,” Dinks said. “But it ain’t gonna happen while I’m marshal of Virginia City. I put on the badge a month ago, and I intend to wear it for a good, long time.”

  “That’s a most admirable ambition, Marshal,” said a cultured British voice. Slocum moved to the other side of the cell to get a look at a tall, rail-thin man with a walrus mustache touched with gray who was just outside the jail. He stepped in, took off a bowler hat, and brushed it off with his elbow. Slocum wasn’t sure what the material was in the man’s spotless jacket, but it might have been English tweed. He wore calf-high riding boots that had once been polished like mirrors, but now needed some buffing. A gold watch chain dangled from a vest pocket, and he carried a silver-tipped walking stick.

  “Who might you be?”

  “I, sir, am another practitioner of our craft.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Law enforcement. I am Lionel Partridge, chief inspector, Scotland Yard.” He bowed just the slightest amount. Steel gray eyes fixed on the marshal and never wavered.

  “Do tell. What brings a law officer such as yourself out to the American frontier?”

  “Murder, sir. I am on the track of a vicious murderer.”

  “Well, if that’s the one you mean, you’ll have to wait your turn.” Marshal Dinks jerked his thumb in Slocum’s direction.

  “You are quite mistaken about him, Marshal. I have followed him for some time and vouch for his innocence.”

  “In which killing?”

  “Both, sir. I saw him emerge from the Mountain of Gold drinking establishment at the precise instant your Renfro Macallister was being robbed. It was at this time that Mr. Slocum came upon the perfidy, fired, and missed. The robber fired back at Mr. Slocum, then shot and killed his victim and escaped.”

  “So what was you doin’ all that time, Mr. Partridge?”

  “Chief Inspector Partridge, if you please, sir. I was on the trail of the actual killer. Percival Cheswick is wanted for the murder of his older brother, Ralph, in England.”

  “And this Percival fellow killed Renfro? Why?”

  “For sport, no doubt,” Partridge said. “He is remorseless.”

  “And the killing up at the mine road?”

  “As I stated succinctly, sir, I have followed Mr. Slocum for some time. I witnessed the first shot that killed the lead mule. The shot came from the area he indicated. I was on my way to apprehend Percival when the second shot was fired, this one killing the wagon driver.”

  “You don’t know who fired the shot since you didn’t see it,” Dinks said.

  “The killing shot was fired from the top of the rise. Mr. Slocum was with the murder victim. No other shot was fired.”

  “All this will come out in a trial, I suppose,” Dinks said. “That’s assumin’ you’d be willin’ and able to testify under oath.”

  “I would consider it a boon, sir, if you released Mr. Slocum. His frontier skills are extraordinary. With his aid, I am sure I can bring Percival Cheswick to justice in a nonce.”

  “I can’t up and let him go on your say-so. You might be who you claim. Then again, you might be his accomplice, the one Mac was goin’ on about.”

  “Contact Scotland Yard to verify my identity. I know you have a telegraph office here. I have used it to contact my superiors in London.”

  “Even if you’re who you say you are, and I’m not callin’ you a liar, I can’t let him go ’fore he stands trial.”

  “I see,” Partridge said. “This is quite a pity since I require his inestima
ble services. I find myself quite at a loss to perform the scouting required to bring Percival Cheswick to justice.”

  Slocum blinked and almost missed what happened as Lionel Partridge spoke. If he had been lulled into not thinking the Brit was a menace, the marshal was doubly caught unawares. Partridge swung his cane and clipped Dinks on the side of the head. The marshal looked surprised. Then he looked unconscious.

  “This is quite irregular, old chap,” Partridge said, “but the frontier brings out such devil-may-care in me.”

  “He’ll think you’re the one who robbed Renfro.”

  “Nothing stands in the way of duty, Mr. Slocum.” The way he spoke in such a solemn tone, Slocum had to believe him.

  “Folks in these parts have hard heads,” Slocum said, remembering how the deputy had recovered so fast after having his head smashed into a wall. “We had better hightail it out of town.”

  “I took the liberty of preparing your steed. She awaits outside,” said Partridge as he tossed Slocum the keys to the cell.

  Slocum once more let himself out, then grabbed his six-shooter and holster, aware of how Partridge was studying him so closely.

  “Where do we head?” Slocum asked as he stepped outside. The cold wind blowing off the higher elevations chilled him to the bone, but the sense of freedom kept him from minding. His freedom would evaporate once Marshal Dinks got a posse together. Not only Mac but the peace officer would follow him to the ends of the earth. Even going back to London with Lionel Partridge would not get him far enough away to be forgotten.

  “I rather thought you would lead the way, Mr. Slocum,” the detective said. “My wanderings about have not turned up evidence of Percival Cheswick at all.”

  “You were following William hoping he would lead you to Percival?”

  “Yes, quite. The whole while I did not catch even a glimpse of Percival. It led me to believe his younger brother knew nothing of his whereabouts. I had decided to approach William when you showed up in town and became embroiled in that nasty business with the barman’s brother.”

  “I have no idea where to begin hunting for this Percival Cheswick,” Slocum admitted. “What made you think he was around here, other than following William?”

  “I learned that a man who resembled Percival had been seen at the mining camp. I thought he might be a miner, but Percival was, after all, of noble birth. Such an occupation would never suit him.”

  “Who owns the mine? Might be he put up the money to develop it.”

  “How would that be possible?”

  Slocum rode north and found the road leading up the mountainside to the Climax Mine. For such a short stretch of rocky road, this held a considerable amount of memory for him. Not only had Pete been killed on the way to the summit, but Slocum and Abigail had spent an enjoyable few hours at the far end of a crevice under a waterfall. Slocum said nothing about this to Partridge as they made their way up the steep slope.

  “Prospectors find the gold, but they’re cantankerous coots,” Slocum said. “Most aren’t suited to working a claim. They’d rather sell and move on to get the thrill of finding another strike than staying and getting rich.”

  From the expression on Partridge’s thin face, Slocum knew the detective found this difficult to believe. However, Slocum had seen it time and again. Prospectors preferred solitude. Working a mine required interaction with dozens of others, in the mill, in town, with shippers and bankers and others who would intrude on their privacy. Better to take a few dollars for what might be the mother lode and move on than to remain tied down to a hole in the ground.

  “So you are saying Percival Cheswick might have purchased the Climax from some prospector? I say, he hardly had any money. That is the motive for him murdering his elder brother. Lord Ralph held the extensive Northumbrian family estate and monies rather tightly.”

  “It’s a guess. I never saw the owner. The foreman can tell us about the real owner, but you’ll have to do the talking.”

  “Ah, yes, Bold Max Carson,” Partridge said. “A man of few words but infinite action. However did you escape when he locked you in that rather sturdy shed?”

  Slocum didn’t want to go into his relationship with yet another of the Cheswick siblings and shrugged it off.

  “You are a resourceful rogue, Mr. Slocum. It is a pleasure riding with you rather than after you.”

  Slocum kept looking down the winding road to see if the marshal had sent a posse after them yet. He expressed his concern to Partridge.

  “The marshal will be rather quiet about it, I suspect,” Partridge said. “After the accolades he received when he arrived with you in custody, and the heap that he piled on the heads of those who permitted you to evade custody, it is not going to be pleasant admitting that he allowed you to escape.”

  “Might be,” Slocum allowed. “But if his pride is bruised enough, he’ll have everybody in Virginia City on our trail.”

  “So far, not so,” Partridge said.

  They rode hard, and Slocum’s mare was wobbling along when they got within a hundred yards of the mouth to the Climax Mine.

  “I’ll see about the owner,” Partridge said, giving Slocum a hard look. Then the British detective rode to the mine, dismounted, and disappeared inside.

  Slocum knew this was his chance to get away. Keep riding down the back road to the valley, and from there he could disappear into the wilderness of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. There was no reason to help the Scotland Yard detective. None.

  Slocum snapped the reins to get his horse to the back road.

  16

  Slocum rode less than a hundred yards before he began thinking up excuses not to ride away from the detective. His mare was too tired. Partridge would be able to see him on a lower level of the road and either stop him or set Bold Max’s miners on his trail. There were a lot of other excuses, but it came down to something far simpler than any of them. Slocum owed Lionel Partridge, and he always paid his debts.

  Drawing rein, he waited in shadows where he wasn’t as likely to be seen by a miner not working deep inside the Climax. He turned everything he knew over and over in his head, and things simply did not fit together right. Before he could figure out what was wrong, he heard a horse coming down the trail.

  “There you are, old chap. I spoke at length with the foreman, and he dissuaded me of any notion that Percival Cheswick owns this mine. The owner lives in San Francisco, is from Michigan, and is about a hundred years of age, if Bold Max’s estimate is accurate, and wheezed like a fireplace bellows the one time he inspected the property.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Bold Max did identify this sketch of Percival I showed him, though.” Partridge pulled a many-times-folded piece of paper from an inner pocket and held it up for Slocum to examine. “Do you recognize him?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” Slocum said.

  “I was of the same opinion, but Bold Max, man of few words that he is, sounded quite adamant about his identification.”

  “So where do we ride?”

  Slocum didn’t like what Lionel Partridge told him. When he found out what they had to do once they got there, he was even more inclined to curse himself as a fool for not riding off when he had the chance.

  “You Yanks are not superstitious, are you?”

  “I’m not a Yankee,” Slocum said with some venom. He couldn’t care less what Partridge called him, but he had to vent his bile somehow.

  “The moon will rise in another hour. Should we begin?”

  “Go to hell,” Slocum grumbled. He picked up the shovel, pushed open the wooden gate leading into Silver Terrace Cemetery, and hiked up the steep hill to the fresh grave. The recent burial made for easier digging. Another week or two and the dirt would have settled in, baked in the sun, and been as hard as rock to dig.

  “You are a splendid sport, Mr. Slocum,” Partridge said. “I knew there was a reason I spirited you away from the marshal.”

  “Grave robbing might be wor
se than murder,” Slocum said.

  “Oh, quite. In England earlier this century, we had quite the spate of grave robbers. All dug up the corpses for experiments and medical schools, they said, but Scotland Yard records show many performed quite vile sexual acts on the bodies.”

  Slocum’s shovel hit the top of the pine box. He looked around to be sure the sound hadn’t carried in the still night air. The only other living soul around stared down into the grave with some expectation. Slocum wasn’t going to disappoint Partridge by stopping now. He dug like a prairie dog for another few minutes, dirt flying back in a steady cloud, then threw down his shovel and said, “Go on. This is your show now.”

  “I suppose it is,” Lionel Partridge said. He jumped in, dropped to one knee, worked the sharp tip of his walking stick under the nailed-on lid, and applied leverage. The nails screeched like banshees as they were pulled from the wood. When the lid popped off, Slocum jumped in spite of himself.

  “That’s Pete. The freighter I was supposed to have murdered.”

  “So I see,” Partridge said, using his stick to push back the bandage covering half the dead man’s face.

  Slocum saw the empty eye socket and the scarred face, but he also saw a resemblance he had never noticed before.

  “That could be William Cheswick,” he said.

  “Rather, it is Percival.” The detective held his drawing next to Pete’s face and compared the bone structure and other features. “It would seem he came to America and found a job that suited his wild spirit.”

  “He said he rode the steeplechase, whatever that is,” Slocum said. “He was good with animals, and that’s how he got a job driving freight.”

  “Yes, definitely Percival.” Partridge shook his head. “I had so wanted to take him back to the gallows for the vile murder of his brother.”

  “If he’s dead and his older brother is, too, does William inherit everything?”

  “So it would seem, Mr. Slocum. Do close him back up. We have more traveling to do, in which you can be of most estimable aid.”

  “Finding William Cheswick,” Slocum said. He refitted the coffin lid and then shoveled dirt back on top of Pete—Percival Cheswick. He understood why the man had changed his name. Being called Percy would have made him the butt of jokes wherever he went. Pete was a solid name that miners and cowboys could chew on for a while, deciding they liked the way it rolled off their tongues.