by Jake Logan
Slocum went up the stairs and paused in front of Tessa’s door. Just as he started to knock, the door opened. Surprise flared on her face.
“John! I didn’t expect—”
He pushed her back into the room and closed the door behind them. On the floor by the door was her valise.
“You’re leaving Bitter Springs?”
“I, uh, yes, Papa decided that it was for the best. He has the wagon about loaded and we’re moving on. El Paso, I think, though he did not say.”
“Good,” Slocum said. “You know your church was burned to the ground?”
She nodded sadly.
“The mob did it,” she said. “Papa would not give in to such things, but having so many of the city fathers against us . . .” She sniffed dramatically. “Well, it’s for the best.”
“Then I won’t have to argue with you about leaving,” Slocum said.
“You’re leaving, too, aren’t you, John?”
“I’ve got some business to tend to, then I’m going,” he agreed.
“Am I that business?” She looked up into his eyes. He tried to read her expression and could not. Then he kissed her. It surprised her and she resisted for a moment, then responded.
“Oh, John, I wish you could come with us. But you have a different trail to follow.”
Slocum found a different trail to follow. His hands slid down the woman’s sides, down her hips and upper thighs, then went lower before coming back up. He felt the warmth of her bare legs as he hiked her skirt. His hands slipped from the insides of her thighs around to cup her buttocks. He squeezed down and then pressed forward. Tessa took a small step back, and then Slocum bore her down to the bed.
“Oh, John, hurry. We have to leave soon. Hurry. I want it fast! But I do want it!”
He silenced her with kisses, then lifted her a little off the bed so he could get her skirt out of the way. He pressed his fingers into the moistness welling up from between her legs. His fingers stroked across her nether lips until she trembled. He felt the pressure mounting within his own loins. It would have been good to make this last, to take the rest of the day with Tessa, but she was right. They both had to go.
Her hands fumbled at his fly. He helped her get his erection free. She took it in hand and urgently pulled him toward the tangled nest between her legs.
The tip of his shaft bumped into her and ran the length of her erotic valley. She moaned and lifted her legs. He repositioned himself and then stroked hard into her. They both cried out as he fully entered her tightness.
He looked down into her face. Sheer desire etched her every feature. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted slightly as her tongue peeked out. He slowly retreated until only the knobby end of his length remained within her. The sight of her breasts rising and falling under her blouse, the lust on her face, the heat and tightness, all spurred Slocum on. He rammed back into her and was rewarded with another gasp of desire.
She tensed all around him, squeezing down on his hidden length with powerful muscles. He thought of being crushed, and it was delightful. But he pulled back and then stroked forward faster now.
“Give me more, John. Hard. Fast. I need it so!”
He began thrusting harder, faster, then began moving in a small circle as if he was a spoon stirring around in a mixing bowl. The heat mounted and Slocum was lost in a tumble of emotions and sensations that finally caused him to spill his seed.
Tessa lifted her knees up to her chest and thrust upward to meet his every inward stroke. She cried out just as he got off. And then she sank down. Her hands roved easily over his arms and shoulders and finally his cheek.
“You are so wonderful, John. I wish things could be different. ”
“Things were mighty good, if rushed,” Slocum said.
Tessa laughed easily.
“You have such a dry sense of humor.” She pushed her skirts down and stood. “My, I will be walking bowlegged the rest of the day.” She grinned at him. “I wish it could be that way tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, too.”
“You’d better hurry out of town,” Slocum said.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Jensen sent for the cavalry after the explosion earlier.”
“The cavalry?” She looked upset, then her cheery smile replaced the frown. “I’m sure they will be welcome in town.”
“I’ll carry your bag for you,” Slocum said.
“Let’s go out the back way. Papa said he would bring the wagon around in the alley behind the hotel.”
Slocum didn’t ask why. The people in Bitter Springs were not inclined to allow the preacher to leave without paying his bills, although Slocum counted the burned church as payment for about everything Preacher Dan had bought.
He stopped at the back door and said, “The wood.”
“What’s that, John?”
“All the four-by-fours and planks were gone.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Oh, there’s Papa now. Good-bye, John. Watch your back.” Tessa stood on tiptoe and kissed him quickly but well, then took her valise and ran to the wagon. She tossed the case in and jumped up. She sat and waved to Slocum.
He thought there was just a trace of regret; then Preacher Dan got the horse pulling and the wagon rolled out. Slocum watched them leave. Something seemed wrong with the wagon. Then he pushed the thought from his mind.
He had a bank to rob and little time to do it before the cavalry arrived from Fort Suddereth.
18
Slocum paused on the trail up to the top of the mesa to watch Preacher Dan’s wagon lumbering along the road toward the north. He waited until the wagon turned on a road going due west. Slocum knew he could get to the top of the mesa and ride down the broad slope westward and overtake them within the hour. He wanted to, but he wanted the gold in the bank more.
“Giddyap,” he said, snapping the reins to get his mare moving. The horse obeyed, carrying Slocum one step at a time farther from Tessa Whitmore and her father. When he reached the top of the summit, he saw that Holtz had dragged the second cannon from the ground and had it in place. The pole with the white cloth fluttering on it was once more on the edge of the mesa, providing a convenient aiming device.
Rebel Jack and his three remaining men gathered about the howitzer, arguing. Slocum heaved a sigh. That was all Holtz and his gang did. For every crime they had committed, they must have argued over it for a week.
“Slocum, get your ass over here and aim the cannon.”
“Good to see you’ve been working, Jack,” Slocum said as he dismounted. He didn’t like the man’s attitude, although he understood it. He went to the cannon and looked at it. There was a deep dent in the bronze side. Dropping to his knees, Slocum put his hand against the metal. It was warm to the touch after being in the sun most of the afternoon, but the depression in the barrel was what caused him some concern.
“What’s wrong, Slocum? I want to get on with this robbery. We already lost Rollins.”
“We got more problems than that,” Slocum said. “The pharmacist sent word to Fort Suddereth that there was an explosion up here. I don’t know how seriously they’ll take it, but they might send a squad out to investigate. The Apaches have been raising such a ruckus, they might figure it is part of a new attack.”
Slocum stroked over the metal and saw that the dent went deeper than he had thought at first. No cracks. Nothing to show the metal had been ruined. But the dent was worrisome.
“Then quit your lollygagging and tell us how to point this damn thing.”
“The barrel’s got a dent in it. There might be another explosion if we use it.”
Holtz grabbed Slocum by the arm and jerked him away from the cannon. Slocum spun and squared off, his hand ready to reach for his six-shooter.
“Look, Slocum, don’t you go sayin’ a thing like that. I want that gold. You line up the cannon and let me worry about everything else.”
Slocum considered throwing down on Holtz then and there. The o
utlaw’s attitude galled him.
“Don’t touch me again, Holtz,” he said. “If you do, one of us is going to end up dead. And it’s not going to be me.”
“You son of a—” Holtz stepped back, ready to go for the sawed-off shotgun dangling at his right side.
“Hey, boss, we’re all loaded and ready,” called the man holding the cannon lanyard. “When do I yank on this here string?”
“What’s it going to be, Holtz?” Slocum had reached the point where he did not care. If he had to kill Holtz, fine. Stealing the gold was important, but he had reached the end of his rope with the outlaw. He could go rob the bank by himself, if it came to that. Even if it meant he had to leave Holtz and his men with bullets in them.
Holtz’s lips curled into a sneer, and Slocum saw the mad-dog killer he remembered from the war. The tenseness in Holtz’s shoulders faded, though, and he backed away.
“The gold. I want the gold.”
Slocum said nothing as Holtz spun and went back to the cannon to be sure everything was ready to fire. Turning his back on Holtz was not something Slocum cottoned much to, but he went to the edge of the mesa. He saw the point where he had been blown over the side and moved from it. If he had to die, let it be in a new spot.
The flag he had placed on the roof of the bank flopped about fitfully in the breeze blowing down the main street of Bitter Springs. Slocum moved the pole on the mesa around until it lined up with the target down below. He could not help noticing the burned-out husk of Preacher Dan’s church.
And the dirt all around it. The piles looked even larger from above than they had from the street. The wall in front of the church had been extended around to the sides, as if Whitmore had wanted a rampart to hide behind.
“What’s it going to be, Slocum? You intendin’ to give the order to fire anytime today?”
“Hold your horses, Jack,” Slocum called. He forced himself to look away from the ruined church to the flag-pole. Adjusting the pole on the mesa one last time, he walked to the cannon and adjusted it. The line of fire was exact. He needed to guess how to lob the cannonball up in an arc that would come straight down into the safe. Marking the point with the pole below gave him a considerable advantage even artillerists in the war had not enjoyed. He knew the range, he had marked the target, he was shooting from a height, and—would the howitzer blow up like the first one had? He eyed the dent in the side and shook his head. There was no way to tell if an old cannon buried for so long would be safe.
“All ready,” Slocum called. “Fire when you want.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the lanyard was pulled and the cannon roared. Slocum saw it buck up into the air and back against the dirt cavity where they had braced it. The barrel flopped down and rolled a little. It had not blown up.
He ran to the edge of the mesa and used his field glasses to study the scene below. Dust had billowed up, obscuring the entire town. As it settled, Slocum let out a whoop. More by luck than skill, the cannonball had landed directly where he had aimed. There would be no need to use the other two cannonballs and risk the cannon barrel rupturing.
Slocum turned to congratulate Rebel Jack. He was alone on the mesa. Holtz and his three henchmen had fired the cannon and immediately ridden off. Slocum wondered why he had not heard them, then realized he was still deafened from the cannon firing. A tiny buzzing sound proved distant but growing louder, telling him he was regaining his hearing slowly.
“You son of a bitch,” Slocum said. He turned and used his field glasses. More dust had settled and he saw the roof of the bank had fallen in. When he looked down the street to see the reaction of the townspeople, it was much as Slocum had expected. They milled about, formed tight knots, and pointed in all directions.
He lifted his glasses to the far northern end of the road coming down from the Guadalupe Mountains, and saw nothing. However, in the distance to the south, coming from the direction of Fort Suddereth, moved a dust cloud that could easily hide a company of cavalry.
Slocum started to run to his horse and go down the trail to warn Holtz, then stopped. If it meant his life—or his freedom—he was not about to dip his beak in that golden trough.
Thinking on it, he saw a way to remain safe and still get the gold—maybe. If Holtz got the gold loaded and came back, Slocum would share. That was such a slim possibility that Slocum watched carefully to see where the outlaw gang would ride. Tracking them would be easy enough, and he could collect his shares—and theirs—later. He still worried that Holtz would never get out of the town, with or without the gold, because of the riders coming so fast from the south.
Slocum decided his best choice was to simply do nothing but watch and see how the hand was played out. He waited until Holtz and his gang galloped through town, scattering men left and right. Slocum was not sure, but thought he heard tiny pops as the outlaws fired as they rode. It was no different from the days riding with Quantrill. Sporting as many as ten pistols so they would not have to reload, they always hurrahed a town, firing at anything that moved. Several hundred bullets could be loosed in the span of a minute, and then they were gone. Now Rebel Jack was using the same terrifying tactic to clear the streets of anyone who might get in his way.
Sucking in his breath, Slocum watched as Holtz and the other three owlhoots with him entered the bank. He waited. Nothing. Shifting his field glasses to the south of town, he estimated the soldiers were less than fifteen minutes away. They might have heard the roar as the cannonball crashed into the bank, and this had given them incentive to gallop into Bitter Springs.
The soldiers’ horses would be all tuckered out. Slocum allowed as to how Holtz might escape since his gang’s horses were rested. But it would be cutting it close.
“You got it, you got the gold,” Slocum shouted. Holtz and his three partners ran from the bank and mounted. “Go north. Get out of town. I can track you till hell won’t have it there. Don’t get your asses caught by the army!” Slocum was not sure why he was cheering Holtz on like this since he was sure Holtz intended to cheat him out of his share of the gold. It might have been as simple as wanting the robbery to succeed because of the sheer audacity and the obstacles they had overcome to get to this point.
“You fool,” Slocum said, following Holtz as he retraced his path, going south. Holtz would ride straight into the army’s carbines and probably die. Holtz didn’t have the good sense to slow his breakneck pace, ride along, tip his hat to the sergeant at the head of the column, and keep on riding. When he saw the soldiers, he would open fire.
Then all hell would break loose.
The riders vanished and the dust cloud south on the road neared at a slower pace now. Slocum reckoned those horses were tiring fast. He shook his head in dismay. Holtz could have escaped. And when he had, Slocum would have known the direction he had gone and could have tracked him down and gotten his share of the gold—and maybe a tad more for his trouble. Being double-crossed by Rebel Jack Holtz was not unexpected, but it wouldn’t have gone unpunished.
Slocum felt the hoofbeats on the mesa before actually hearing the horses as they struggled back to the top. His hand went for his gun, then he relaxed. Holtz was flushed and so angry he was spitting without words coming out.
“What went wrong?” Slocum asked. The expressions on the other men’s faces told the story as well as Holtz could.
“There wasn’t any gold in the safe!”
“You mean the cannonball blew the gold up,” Slocum said. He had expected any scrip to be burned, but gold coins were not easily destroyed.
“There’s no damned gold in that bank! The safe was empty, ’cept for a pile of worthless papers.”
“Deeds and shit like that,” said one of Holtz’s henchmen. “What do we want deeds for when you can’t spend ’em on whores and likker?”
“We saw the soldiers unloading cases of gold. There should have been thousands of dollars’ worth,” Slocum said. There was no way Holtz and his men could be lying to him. He h
ad watched them leave the bank. Why would they bother hiding their loot on the way back up to the top of the mesa if they intended to double-cross him? Slocum knew they would have ridden out like the demons of hell were nipping at their heels if they had found the army payroll in the safe.
“They musta snuck it out when we weren’t looking,” Holtz said.
Slocum did not think that was possible. He would have noticed a heavy wagon with soldiers returning. The merchants in Bitter Springs would not have been so outraged when it looked like Preacher Dan was not going to pay them if they had plenty of army gold jingling in their pockets.
“It’s got to be the banker,” Slocum said. “He must have taken the gold.”
“He’s dead, Slocum. He was sittin’ right next to the safe when your cannonball came crashin’ through the roof. Blowed him to hell and gone.”
“There’s no way of telling where Thompson would have hidden it,” Slocum said.
“I’m gonna destroy the town. I’m gonna blow it up,” Holtz said.
“You’ve got bigger problems,” Slocum said. He grabbed the reins of Holtz’s horse and led the animal to the edge of the mesa so the rider had no choice but to do as Slocum ordered. “Look south. Along the road.”
“All I see’s a dust cloud.” Holtz’s voice trailed off, then he swore a blue streak. “They’re comin’ from Fort Suddereth. I’m not getting my gold, and they’ve sent a company of soldiers after me!”
“How many people in town saw you come up the trail to the mesa? Anybody?”
“Hell, could have been every last mother’s son of them,” Holtz said. He jumped off the horse and let it snort and paw and then trot off.
“The soldiers will come after you. If you hadn’t shot up the town while you were riding in, they might not have connected you to what happened at the bank,” Slocum said.
He stared down into Bitter Springs wondering what had happened at the bank. Thompson struck him as a cautious man—definitely belt and suspenders when it came to money. What had triggered his paranoia about the gold in his bank? This was not the first time he had stored so much of the precious yellow metal. If anything, it was routine. There was nothing to make Thompson suspicions.
