Slocum and the High-graders, page 12
The shopkeeper was throwing out a dustpan full of dirt as Slocum drove up.
“Howdy,” Slocum called. “Doubt you expected to see me back so quick.”
“I heard what happened. News travels fast.”
“You didn’t hear it from the law in this town, did you?” Slocum said. “This is Ira. He’ll help load up more supplies.”
The shopkeeper pursed his lips and then mumbled to himself. Louder, he said, “I need some money first. The bill’s gettin’ mighty big for Low Down supplies. Mr. Haining doesn’t have to pay it all, just some. A hundred, maybe?”
“Hunnerd dollars?” gasped Ira Randolph. To the young man, that was a princely sum.
“He’s got to pay somethin’,” the shopkeeper insisted. “It was bad you gettin’ robbed and all, but that’s not my problem. Keepin’ my bills paid is.”
“I need to talk to the marshal,” Slocum said. “Where can I find him? After we’re done, we’ll head on back to the mine and see what Mr. Haining can do about settling the bill.”
“Marshal Young’s not due back into town ’fore sunset. He’s been out serving process for Judge Quintero. Leastways, that’s what he said he was gonna do today.”
“The deputy said he was at the Oriental.”
“Was,” the storekeeper said, “but I seen him ride on out with my own eyes not a half hour ago. He didn’t have much in the way of trail gear, so I figure he’ll be back before sunup tomorrow.”
Slocum was tossed on the horns of a dilemma. If he waited for the marshal, it would be dark and the trip back to the mine would be doubly dangerous—and there wouldn’t be any supplies. But if he drove back to the Low Down with Ira right now to explain the situation to Morgan Haining, he wouldn’t have either the supplies or a chance to file a grievance with Marshal Young.
“Ira, can you get the wagon back all by yourself? You saw how I drove it. I need you to get back and tell Mr. Haining what’s going on.” The young man looked as if he would rather face a grizzly bear, but he nodded.
“He don’t talk much, does he?”
“I’ll write things down so he won’t have to go into too much for Mr. Haining,” Slocum said. “That suit you, Ira?” The young miner’s head bobbed up and down furiously. “I can put in it how much you need to settle accounts, too,” Slocum told the shopkeeper.
“In full?” The store owner’s eyes lit up, and a broad grin split his face. “That’d be right nice, if he could pay it off in full. Clean slate and all. I’ll be more ’n happy to give you a piece of paper and a pencil.”
In the note, Slocum detailed everything that was needed and how he had stayed in Cripple Creek to speak with the marshal. He signed it and gave the sheet to Ira.
“Go back to the mine, then return in the morning for the supplies. You can pick me up then.”
Ira’s head bobbed some more. Slocum slapped him on the shoulder and let him rattle off. He doubted Ira would have any trouble with the team. They were feistier than the stolen horses, but not by much. They were used to pulling heavy loads, not racing the wind like young stallions.
“The marshal’s first call when he gets into town is the Oriental,” the merchant said. “Wets his whistle before he has to deal with your like. Claims it’s to keep the rowdies from tearin’ the joint up, but he gets free likker from the owner.”
“Then I’ll be waiting for him,” Slocum said. He went around the building into the street and saw Ira sitting pleased as punch in the driver’s box, reins in hand and moving the team along in a sprightly fashion. With luck, Ira would be back at about this time tomorrow so they could leave with more supplies, and the marshal would send along a deputy to guard them.
Slocum wondered if the man in the marshal’s office would be worth a damn and knew the answer. But the rumorof an armed guard with them would scare off novices like the one who had stolen the other wagonload of goods.
Not having much money, Slocum had to loiter more than drink in the saloon, but he still had a few coins left in his vest pocket when the lawman came straggling in. The sun was setting, and Marshal Young looked about like Slocum felt.
“Whiskey, and none of that tarantula juice you usually serve. I been shot at and need to brace my nerves for what’s coming tonight.” The marshal had just knocked back his drink when Slocum accosted him with his story.
“So,” the marshal said, after Slocum had completed his tale of theft, “you want me to leave town and go hunting for this fellow who wore a mask and might be a hundred miles away.”
“He didn’t get that far with a broke-down team like the one hitched to the wagon.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it’s got to be tomorrow,” the marshal said. “Tonight’s going to be one gullywhumper.”
“Why’s that?” Slocum asked. He swung around when gunfire outside drowned out his question.
“That’s why,” Marshal Young said. “Got boys from the Molly Magee Mine and the Lost Friend itchin’ to mix it up. The feud’s been buildin’ for nigh on a month. Full moon tonight’s the perfect time for them to get drunk and do somethin’ I won’t like.” More gunfire echoed through the saloon. The marshal hitched up his gun belt, settled himself with another quick drink, then marched out. Slocum followed, remaining just inside the doorway. Not for the first time he wished he had his own six-shooter strapped on his hip.
In the street, a couple dozen men squared off. Two fired their six-guns in the air, and the rest were armed with ax handles and anything else convenient to bash their enemies over the head with.
“Boys, I don’t mind if you whale away on each other with your bare knuckles, but you put down them six-shooters and drop the barrel staves. You hear me?”
“Go to hell, Marshal!” one of the miners shouted.
The lawman ducked as a rock sailed through the air. Slocum watched it sail past and break a coal oil lamp in a wall sconce.
“Fire!” the barkeep yelled. “Those bastards set fire to my saloon!”
Slocum saw the man wasn’t far wrong. The broken reservoir trickled kerosene down the wall like a fuse. Fire licked down, threatening to set the place ablaze.
He moved almost as fast as the barkeep to put out the fire before it got a foothold on the dry wood in the wall and floor. The bartender used his apron to beat out the flames on the wall, and Slocum stamped out the few tiny hot spots threatening to take hold on the floor.
Outside he heard a full-fledged riot in progress. Marshal Young shouted and men screamed in anger.
“Thanks,” the barkeep said. “If a fire ever got started, this whole damned town would go up.”
Barely had the words left his mouth when a kerosene lamp smashed through the window, sending glass splinters everywhere. Slocum turned from it, shielding his face with his arm against a blast of heat that staggered him. The spilled kerosene had spread and ignited in the blink of an eye.
“Fire! The saloon’s on fire!” shouted the barkeep. This time he didn’t try to put it out, because it had already spread too far, too fast. The bartender burst out into the street, leaving Slocum inside, the fire rising up all around him.
Trapped!
13
The flames scorched Slocum’s eyebrows. He threw up his arm to protect his face, but the heat made the bandage on his forearm begin to smolder. Turning, he hunted frantically for a way out of the saloon. He saw part of the side wall sag as the heat boiled off the whitewash, and he took a chance. Lowering his head like a charging bull, he ran flat out as hard as he could for the wall. He ducked his head at the last instant and hit the wall with his shoulder. The flimsy wood gave way and spilled him out into the alley beside the saloon. He landed hard, realized his clothing was on fire, and started rolling in the dirt. By the time he had put out the fires on his shirt and pants, he was in the middle of the main street.
Sitting up, he saw furious activity all around. In the distance a fire bell clanged, and a team of neighing horses pulled a fire engine with a pump on it from the other side of town. Slocum wasn’t sure what happened, but someone picked him up bodily and threw him across the street, as if he were nothing more than a piece of debris.
He hit the ground hard again but scrambled to his feet. The heat from the burning saloon caused him to squint. Flames leaped outward from the windows and threatened to engulf the buildings on either side. A boomtown like Cripple Creek was built quick and with no regard to preventing the spread of such a fire. If the two buildings on either side of the saloon went up, more would follow until the entire town was engulfed.
“What can I do?” he asked the wizened old man who wore a fire hat with a gold badge on it proclaiming him to be captain of the volunteers.
The man’s rheumy eyes took in Slocum, then he pointed. “Pump. You oughta be up fer that, even with a bad arm.”
Slocum didn’t wait to get more instructions. The rocker arm on the pump was hard to move, so another man joined him. Then two more, on the other side of the pump arm. In unison they began pushing and pulling, getting the balky equipment working. At first the spray of water from the storage tank on the fire engine was weak, hardly more than a single drunk pissing on the fire to put it out. After several hard up and down circuits, Slocum felt the suction begin. A steady stream of water launched then, arching high into the evening sky and falling directly onto the saloon roof.
It was backbreaking work, especially doing it one-handed, but Slocum never slowed. The other men tired and were replaced, but he kept going until he was soaked from the spray and black from the soot. Finally, the captain yelled in Slocum’s ear, “Stop pumpin’. Ain’t no more water. Ain’t no more fire, neither.”
Slocum took a couple steps back and looked around. He had been so focused on the pumping he had not paid attention to anything else. The saloon was a loss, as were the buildings on either side. But they were only partially in ruin. The roofs had fallen in but their walls remained. And the rest of Cripple Creek was safe from fire. This time.
“Did the marshal catch the son of a bitch who threw the coal oil lamp into the Oriental?”
The fire captain took off his hat and scratched his head.
“Damned if I know. I hope so since I want to be the one to fit a noose ’round his filthy neck.” With that the man tossed his hat into the driver’s box, climbed up painfully, and barked orders to the driver to get them back to the barn where the engine was kept.
Slocum sat on the boardwalk across from the destroyed saloon and simply stared. His right arm ached, and his face was blistered from the heat. But he was alive.
“You did the work of five men,” he heard a familiar voice say. Slocum looked over his shoulder to see the shopkeeper.
“I did what I could.”
“It was mighty good, I’d say. You need a place to sleep? Want some vittles? The missus fixes decent roast.”
The offer was too tempting to pass up.
“Goes against my better judgment,” the shopkeeper said, “but I reckon you earned a little more credit for the mine.”
“Much obliged,” Slocum said. “For everything.” The merchant hadn’t received the full payment as Slocum had hoped he would. Morgan Haining probably didn’t have that much in gold, but Ira Randolph and his father had returned with about half the amount owed by the Low Down.
“Get on back to the mine,” the shopkeeper growled. “Dig out a ton of gold and pay me in full next time.”
Slocum sat back as the elder Randolph handled the team on the fully laden wagon.
“Looks like fire,” Randolph said.
“Could have been worse,” Slocum allowed. His right arm still ached and his left was filthy with soot. And in spite of a decent night’s sleep, he was still dog tired, but he felt good about all that he had done in town. “What’s happening at the mine?”
“Mr. Haining is upset,” Randolph said. “Wagon needed to move ore to crusher.”
Bit by bit Slocum got the story from the speech-impaired Randolphs. Haining needed this wagon desperately to move the high-grade ore coming out of the Low Down to the crusher and smelter. But the supplies were also needed to keep the miners working.
Slocum curled up atop the supplies and dozed as they made their way back. Only when Randolph pulled up and the rocking motion stopped did Slocum snap awake. But he would have anyway because of the foreman’s shouts.
“You lazy sons of bitches, get the wagon unloaded. We got a load of ore to get down into the valley pronto.”
Slocum hopped off and tried to help the two Randolphs unload the wagon, but both of his arms bothered him.
“Slocum,” said Miles, “you look like something the cat drug in. You able to swing a pick yet?”
“Doubt it,” Slocum said. He held up his arms. His right was swollen, and the left looked worse than it was, due to the filthy bandage. The blisters on his face added to the pathetic picture.
“I’d fire you, but the boss said no. You drive the ore wagon. That way we don’t lose no able-bodied man from down below.”
Slocum nodded. He continued to do what he could to help unload but only got in the way. He contented himself with soaking his face and right arm in the rain barrel beside the cookhouse until the pain receded and he felt almost human. Stripping off his bandage, he washed it out and gingerly reapplied it to his arm. The cut hidden by the bandage was starting to heal, but it itched now. The cool water and clean bandage made it feel almost whole.
“Move your ass, Slocum!” Miles barked. “I want two loads of ore down to the smelter today. More! Time’s a’wastin’!”
Slocum climbed in and gripped the reins the best he could. Only long years of experience allowed him to get the team moving. He pulled over to the mouth of the mine shaft and let the men fill the bed with the heavy ore. Even in this form, Slocum could see the value of the rock being pulled out. Color sparkled everywhere in the quartz. The assay might prove to be on the low side, he figured.
“G’wan, get outta here!” shouted the miner in charge of the loading. “And get back here pronto. We kin do what Miles wants, two loads, if you shake your tail.”
Slocum waved to the man, who grinned in response, then concentrated on using both hands to get the team pulling. His arms hurt, but he found that the longer he drove, the better he felt. Guiding the team down the narrow road to the larger one leading into the valley where the crusher, mill, and smelter were, Slocum found himself drifting along. His mind turned over myriad ideas, but he wasn’t coming to any conclusions.
He knew Miles had to be mixed up in the high-grading scheme and suspected Herk and Singer, too. The silver concha he still carried in his pocket pointed to Herk being the one who had murdered Thompson and Bowden. For all he knew, Herk might also have been responsible for cutting the ropes lowering the elevator that had given Slocum his game arm and had killed Billy. But what of Darleen Haining? Slocum tried to figure her out and couldn’t.
Thinking of her caused him to pleasantly dwell on her daughter and their times together.
An hour later, after daydreaming mostly of Evangeline, he drew up near the side of the crusher where ore was shoveled onto a belt that took it to grinding rollers where it was pulverized into gravel-sized chunks. From there it went to a mill that produced finer pebbles, almost dust. This went into the smelter to separate the gold from the dross.
Slocum hopped down and let the mill foreman get his men to work.
“Don’t recognize you,” the foreman said. “You work for Haining?”
“This is all Low Down Mine ore,” Slocum said.
“Reckoned it might be.”
Slocum and the foreman talked idly, then Slocum asked, “How often does an axle break on one of these wagons?”
“Axle? Not all that often. Wheels give out sooner,” the foreman said. “You don’t look like the worrying kind. Why the interest?”
“I was wondering why men from the Low Down would buy an extra axle in town.”
“This one’s in good condition. Might be the other wagon that’s got problems, though it’s been rolling along real sprightly. Ah, hell.” The foreman let out a shout and left Slocum abruptly as he went to chew out one of his workers who had gotten his sleeve caught in the gears. This gave Slocum the chance to wonder about that other wagon. He decided the foreman must mean the one that Slocum had gotten stolen out from under him, though that wagon had been in good condition.
Seeing Herk and Singer with the spare axle was a mystery he had no ready answer for.
The foreman returned, shaking his head and grumbling. “I do declare, if their heads weren’t sewn on, they’d lose them. I told them a hundred times to watch out with their sleeves and pants when working near the equipment. Do they listen? I’d let the son of a gun go through the crusher ’cept it’d get blood on the ore.”
Slocum had to laugh.
“My own boss’ll be chewing nails and spitting tacks if I don’t get a second load to you today.”
“Third, you mean,” the foreman said.
“Don’t think I can get these nags to pull that fast.”
“No, no, not you. I meant three loads from the Low Down.” The foreman craned his neck and looked past the mill and squinted at the sun. “Might even get a fourth load.”
Slocum started to laugh outright at such a notion, then wondered if there wasn’t more to what the man said.
“There’s been another load this morning?”
“Hours back,” the foreman said.
Slocum considered this. Unless the stolen wagon had been recovered, the Low Down was running only one wagon, and Slocum was sitting on it.
“You sure it was ore from the Low Down Mine?”
“Sure as can be. Leastways, that’s where the bill’s going. Got to get back to work. You hurry up, hear? I got to keep these lazy galoots of mine working. Otherwise, they’ll fall under the rollers when they nod off.”
Slocum snapped the reins and moved the wagon around to a spot in the shade of a stand of cottonwoods some distance away. The horses were pleased at being able to crop the short grass growing there while Slocum sat and watched. Less than twenty minutes passed before another wagon rattled up. He sat up straighter and watched, then sagged. It was a load of ore from the Molly Magee. He recognized the driver.
