Slocum and the Yellowstone Scoundrel

by Jake Logan

  “You have saved them. Let me have my paintings, dammit.”

  Leroq proved stronger than Slocum in his dazed condition. For a long minute Slocum fought to regain his strength. When he did, he saw Leroq moving the cases even farther from the pool—and the wagon was nowhere to be seen.

  “It ate it,” Leroq said in a small voice. “The pool ate the entire wagon, as if it were nothing but a tasty morsel.” He straightened, struck a pose, hand on one lapel, foot forward, and chin high. “You, sir, are my savior. You rescued my art. You are to be congratulated for preserving such artistry to be admired by the entire world!”

  Slocum couldn’t believe the pool, its water slightly murky with sulfur and other chemicals, could have caused the entire wagon to vanish so completely. He didn’t want to find out how deep the pool was, but it had to be farther to the bottom than he could have ever guessed.

  He peered over the edge. Deep down the pond looked like a morning glory flower, the same color blue and funnel-shaped. The water bubbled and sizzled all around, but the pool looked only a few feet deep. Then he saw the last vestige of the wagon at the bottom. The size, even taking the magnifying power of the water into account, was so tiny it had to be fifty feet down. Slocum stepped back when the bubbles began rising.

  “You gave it indigestion,” Slocum said. “Let’s get away from here.”

  “How do I carry my paintings? I will not leave even one of them. They are precious! They—”

  Slocum shut out the artist’s bragging on how exquisite the paintings were as he set to lashing them onto the two horses from Leroq’s team. Throwing a diamond hitch was hard, but he made do. He wished the cases had been constructed with straps, but he did his best with the material at hand.

  “Let’s go.”

  “You are my angel, sir, my rescuer, my—”

  “Walk.” Slocum mounted and led the two horses burdened with the cases. He might have let Leroq ride double, but this way he kept the artist’s constant babble at a minimum. When they reached more solid terrain, Slocum tossed the artist the reins to the team.

  “I cannot do any more paintings, sir. These are all there will be,” Leroq said in sorrow. “My paints went to the bottom of that pool with the wagon.”

  Slocum knew whatever was left of Innick’s ruby had disappeared, too.

  “How far had you driven along this route?” Slocum asked. “You were on your way back.”

  “Several miles. This is the most treacherous portion of my trip. Past this ugly array of boiling lagoons is level, decent land. Gorgeous, but nothing like these pools for sheer artistry.”

  “So if the expedition gets past these,” Slocum said, his arm encompassing the hot water lakes, “it would be easy going?”

  “Quite so.”

  Slocum had mapped out a better way through this volcanic region. Hayden had his route north because Slocum knew that to the northeast the surging river would pose grave difficulties to cross. The Yellowstone River must have formed an oxbow since this way gave no hint of the need to go past—the expedition could remain on the western side of the river all the way into Montana.

  “Let’s get back to camp,” Slocum said, a mixture of elation and sorrow vying for supremacy.

  * * *

  “Excellent work,” Dr. Hayden said, leafing through Slocum’s sketches. “We can finish our mapping with these as our guide.”

  Slocum barely listened. He looked past the expedition leader to the darkroom wagon, where Jackson and Marlene sat on the step, discussing with real animation the photographs she had taken of the river and waterfall. From everything Marlene had said, that route would be difficult, requiring more than one crossing of the river. Going farther west gave the expedition a far easier trip.

  “I would like you to scout farther, though, just to be on the safe side.”

  “My work’s done,” Slocum said. “I need to go back to Otter Creek.” He hadn’t recovered Innick’s ruby but had to tell the man it was lost. It didn’t much matter if Innick thought he had stolen the ruby for himself and was inclined to go on a bender with the proceeds from the sale, but more than reputation was at stake.

  Slocum had promised to retrieve the ruby and had to let Innick and his wife know he had failed. What details he provided were something he could mull over on his way back to Utah.

  “But another week! Until we reach Missoula Mills, your services can be useful.”

  “Useful, not really needed, though.”

  “I’ll pay you another hundred dollars. A week’s work.”

  “That’s mighty generous, but I have another commitment.” Slocum would be denied the five-hundred-dollar reward for recovering the ruby, but the money didn’t matter. He had promised Innick.

  “Very well, sir. You are an excellent worker. If you require a letter of recommendation, please feel free to ask me. There are sure to be other expeditions through this area, and your expertise would be invaluable.”

  “If you can wire my pay to Salt Lake City, I can pick it up there.”

  “Yes, yes, that is satisfactory. Very.” Hayden turned his head and was already casting about for a new problem to solve.

  Slocum thanked him and went to Jackson’s wagon. He had barely gotten within polite speaking distance when Jackson piped up, “Slocum! Look at these. Marvelous work done by my assistant. Miss Wilkes has talents I never recognized before.”

  “Do tell,” he said dryly. Slocum didn’t miss how Marlene hung on to Jackson’s arm.

  “He’s going to give me credit at the Boston show, John. And there is another expedition, this one in the Appalachians, where William is certain to be hired to take more photographs. He’s told me I can come along as his primary assistant.”

  “You deserve it,” Slocum said. He started to bid her farewell but Marlene chattered on about the opportunity this afforded her and how certain Jackson was of being received as a master photographer in Boston society.

  “I’ve got to talk to Leroq.” He touched the brim of his dirty, battered hat.

  “Oh, yes, fine, John.” She turned back to her employer, who basked in the adoration she gave.

  Slocum had done what he could to say good-bye. He went to the far side of the camp, where Leroq had opened the cases to examine every painting for damage.

  “Slocum, sir! Not a one has been harmed. Well, except one. How this happened is something of a mystery since the oil dried some time ago.” He held up the painting Slocum had examined what seemed an eternity back. His fingerprint on the corner marred it for Leroq. Slocum hardly noticed, though he did hold up his thumb to see if any of the paint remained. It had long since worn off.

  “I would like to gift you with this painting. It’s not up to the standards of the others, not with this smudge in the corner. Without my paints, I cannot remedy it. Here, take it for your trouble.”

  Leroq thrust the painting out to Slocum, who took it, not knowing what to do with it.

  The artist stared hard at Slocum, then asked, “Are you going to insist on returning me to that dreary place over the matter of the purloined ruby?”

  “Buy your material, don’t steal it,” Slocum said.

  He took the painting, found his horse, and lashed his reward to the hindquarters. The horse didn’t like the painting bouncing about so Slocum pried the painting loose from its frame and rolled it up. The horse liked this better.

  So did Slocum as he hit the trail for Utah.

  20

  Otter Creek hadn’t changed one whit since Slocum had left over a month earlier. As he rode down the main street, faint sounds of the sawmill outside town echoed down the valley and across the rapidly running stream. He paused outside the marshal’s office. The day was hot and Smith had left the door open to catch the faint breeze. Just inside, the marshal leaned back in his chair, his feet hiked to the desk and his hat pulled down to shad
e his eyes. He snored as loud as the big saw tearing through wood. Slocum heard the lawman all the way out in the street.

  He rode past. Curious eyes followed him but no one greeted him now. He had been gone long enough that he was no longer considered a local, if he ever had been. At least earlier, when he worked for Sean Innick, the tradesmen spoke to him, just in case he had the boss’s ear and could buy a little extra from them with each supply trip into town.

  A dozen times on the ride to the sawmill, Slocum told himself there was no need for him to report his failure to retrieve the ruby. He still had a fair amount of the original reward for recouping most of Mrs. Innick’s jewelry. There hadn’t been that many places to spend money out in the middle of the Yellowstone wilderness. A bottle or two of whiskey and a few dollars spent along the way had been mostly recovered in late-night card games with the expedition staff. They might have had a great deal of book learning but were far from being the best poker players he had encountered west of the Mississippi.

  Hitching his horse a ways from Innick’s office, he looked up at the sawmill where Reese had lost his arm and his life. Innick had promised a decent gravestone. Slocum needed to check to see if the owner had kept his word. But that could wait.

  Until after . . .

  “Never thought to see your face here again, Slocum,” Tomasson said, huffing and puffing as he made his way down the steep hill from the saw. “You fixin’ to work again? I got need of a mechanic on the water wheel. Damned thing keeps seizin’ up. Needs more than bear grease on its axle.”

  “Is Innick there?” Slocum pointed toward the small cabin the owner used as his office.

  “Nah, him and the missus are in the house. Ain’t seen much of ’em the past week or so.”

  “Why’s that?” Slocum saw the nasty grin on the foreman’s face.

  “Why don’t you go on up to the house and ask?” Tomasson went away laughing.

  That told Slocum something dire had happened and just asking would bring down a towering wrath on his head. Coupled with his failure to recover the ruby and bring back its thief didn’t bode well. He worked a few seconds at his gear, then tucked the painting under his arm. As he climbed up the hilltop to the owner’s house, Slocum knew there was damned little Innick could do to him. He had most of the first reward to help him along the trail. Hayden was wiring his pay from scouting for the expedition to Salt Lake City. And even with Tomasson and a half-dozen others from the mill, Innick wasn’t going to stop Slocum when he chose to leave.

  That buoyed Slocum’s spirits. What could Innick do?

  He rapped sharply on the door and stepped back, waiting impatiently. A servant opened the door and looked at him with eyes as wide as a fawn caught by a hunter.

  “You must go,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “This is not a good time for business.”

  “Tell Mr. Innick it’s about the stolen ruby.”

  The maid turned even paler, then asked in a hoarse voice, “It is good news? He needs good news.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Then go. Please.”

  “Mary, who’s at the door?”

  Slocum recognized Mrs. Innick’s voice. She didn’t sound any happier than everyone made her husband out to be.

  “It is the man sent to get your ruby.”

  “Don’t just stand there, show him in. Immediately!”

  Slocum wanted to reassure the maid it would be all right, that he would be the lightning rod of the Innicks’ anger, but he knew it wouldn’t work that way. He could leave. The maid was forced to endure whatever storm Slocum released.

  “You found it!” Mrs. Innick came to him, then slowed when she saw his expression. “Don’t tell me you failed to bring it back.”

  “That’s right, ma’am.” Slocum heard a distant door hinge creak. In a few seconds Sean Innick boiled into the room, face florid and his hands clenched into fists as if he prepared to go a hundred rounds bare knuckle.

  “You didn’t even catch the thief, did you, Slocum?”

  “No, sir,” Slocum said. He tried not to feel too happy at delivering the bad news. A promise made ought to have been a promise kept, but circumstances had prevented him from delivering. “The ruby was lost in a geyser. In Yellowstone.”

  “You tracked the thief all the way into the Yellowstone?” Innick obviously didn’t believe him.

  “The thief is somewhere in Montana now, but the ruby is at the bottom of a pool of boiling water and mud.”

  “You didn’t try to drain it?”

  “Oh, Sean, the boy said it was a pond of boiling water. How do you drain something like that? I’ve heard of those pools and geysers and things.”

  “I’m sorry you won’t be able to give it to your daughter on her wedding day.” Slocum almost stepped back when he saw how both of them turned completely furious at that.

  “Dear Laura is not getting married,” Mrs. Innick said.

  “That dog in the manger she was going to marry left her to prospect for gold in Virginia City. Just upped and left her,” Mr. Innick added.

  Slocum wanted to ask if there had been more to it. Having in-laws like the Innicks would send any man out into the desert or mountains to be all by his lonesome.

  “That’s a shame. I brought a painting for her wedding present. Might be you can put it to use. It’s by a painter known for his landscapes. Gustav Leroq is a famous artist.” He unrolled the painting and held it up for Mrs. Innick to see.

  “Why, it is gorgeous. Fine art! And see how it sparkles, Sean. It’s as if the landscape is catching the light and reflecting it so it is even brighter.”

  “A real gem,” Slocum said.

  “You’re giving this to us?” Sean Innick sounded dubious. “That doesn’t mean I have to pay you. You didn’t recover the ruby.”

  “Oh, forget the stone, Sean. I can put this up on the wall where the ladies can see it when they come for tea. It was done by a famous artist?”

  “Very famous,” Slocum assured her.

  “Give him what you said you’d pay for getting back the ruby. This is ever so much higher class.”

  “The artist is on his way back to Boston for an exhibit. High-society event, he said.” Slocum had no idea if Leroq had gone with William Jackson and Marlene or if he was heading for different parts. He had learned from Leroq that the painting mattered less than the story that went with it.

  “Pay him, Sean,” Mrs. Innick said. “I see we need to go to that cabinet maker in town and have him make a suitable frame.”

  “Dillingham,” Slocum said. “His work is top-notch.”

  Innick fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a roll of paper money. He leafed through it, discarding some notes and choosing others. He thrust the bills at Slocum.

  “There. All on a Salt Lake City bank.”

  Slocum knew better than ask for specie. Besides, he had to go to Salt Lake City anyway to collect the rest of his money from Hayden. He backed away, then almost ran from the house and down the hill to his horse. Where he went now didn’t matter. He had a better poke than he’d carried in years.

  With his horse under him, he considered heading back north. To Montana. Missoula Mills, Hayden had said. Marlene would be there. With William Jackson and the promise of fame for her photographic work hanging alongside his.

  Marlene.

  The name rolled off his tongue, echoed in his head, and caused tremors in his crotch, but like the ruby, she was lost to him. One had disappeared as dust into a volcanic pool. And the woman would be swallowed up by high society in Boston. Where she belonged.

  Slocum headed southwest toward Salt Lake City. From there he could ride east. There might be a rancher or two in Colorado, in Middle Park, who needed a wrangler. That was where he belonged.

  Watch for

  SLOCUM AND THE SNAKE-PIT SLAVERS

  412
th novel in the exciting SLOCUM series from Jove

  Coming in June!