Slocum and the Sawtooth Sirens Page 2

  Bledsoe had not only founded the town, but owned it, lock, stock, and barrel. He ruled it with an iron fist from his private office in the rear of the Sawtooth Saloon & Dance Hall. In his office, he had only two chairs for visitors, a desk and a chair for himself. There were locks on all the drawers in his desk, and a steel safe sat underneath a shelf that held a box of cigars, candles, and boxes of matches. There was a calendar on one wall and an old tintype of New York City, where Hiram was born.

  He sat in his office reading a legal document delivered to him that morning by his lawyer, Delbert Wiggins. The document was a mining claim filed in Cheyenne, and it noted that the previous claim holder was deceased. Hiram, a small-statured man with thin lips and a razor-sharp nose, wide forehead, and hair that ended at the base of his neck, wore a pair of gabardine trousers, a striped blue and white shirt, and work boots. As he read, he smiled in satisfaction, while Wiggins sat in one of the visitor’s chairs near the desk, his face expressionless. A corpulent midget of a man with hundred-proof breath, he stared at Hiram with bloodshot eyes. A protruding belly pushed out the lawyer’s brocaded vest and suspenders, and his massive round butt pressed against the wooden structure of the chair where he sat. He had a law degree and a license to practice in Wyoming Territory, but he had been disbarred in Colorado and New Mexico. Which was why Bledsoe had hired him.

  “That little worm, Fogarty, did all the work for us, Del. Now we own his mine and all the gold in it.”

  “You own the mine, Hiram. Not we.” There was a slight slur to Delbert’s words because he had helped himself to a healthy slug of third-rate whiskey when he’d entered the saloon that morning. He chewed on a mint leaf to hide the taint of alcohol, but Hiram could still smell him from a furlong away.

  “Them other earth diggers better take a lesson from this,” Hiram said.

  “They won’t,” Wiggins said. “They’re not like Willie Fogarty. He had no backbone.”

  “Well, neither will them others if they try to take over the town.”

  “I have no opinion on that, Hiram,” Wiggins said. “It’s a rough game you’re playing.”

  “It’s not a game. I know what I got and I know what I want.”

  “Sometimes, it’s best to haul in your winnings and walk away,” Delbert said.

  “Is that your legal advice, Del?”

  “It’s just an observation. I don’t trust those hard rock miners since they lit a shuck and took to the hills.”

  “Not much else they could do. I took all their guns away, and if they come back, I’ll burn all their tools.”

  “You’ll have a war on your hands, Hiram. A bloody war.”

  Hiram smiled without showing his tobacco-stained teeth.

  “If it’s war they want, it’s war they’ll get. The bastards.”

  “Meanwhile, those miners have flown the coop. They’re not digging for gold anymore.”

  “No matter. I don’t need ’em,” Hiram said.

  “No?”

  “No, Del. They served their purpose. I’ve got some Chinks comin’ in tomorrow or next day. They’ll work the diggings for low pay and cheap board.”

  “You thought of everything, Hiram. Looks like.”

  “I got me a plan,” Hiram said, a scowl on his face that gave him the look of a man chewing on nails.

  “I guess I don’t get it, Hiram. You founded this town. You own the only bank, the saloon, the hotel, the gambling parlor. Why steal the goose when you’re getting the golden eggs?”

  Hiram fixed Del with a withering look. Little trickles of saliva oozed from the corners of Hiram’s mouth. His eyes glittered like moonshot agates.

  “Del,” Hiram said, “I want it all. I don’t just want the crumbs. The only real wealth is in the creek, the ground, the rocks. I want the gold. I want the riches all to flow to me, not in the pockets of those earth-grubbin’ prospectors with the brains of a piss-ant.”

  “You get most of what those miners bring out of the ground anyway, Hiram.”

  “A damned pittance, Del. I want the riches, not just what trickles into the saloon, hotel, card tables, and dance hall.”

  Del didn’t say anything. He knew raw greed when he saw it. Hiram fairly bristled with avarice and ambition. Except Hiram’s greed knew no limits, and it grew inside him like a cancer. Del shuddered inwardly. He felt as if he were watching some monster grow to hideous proportions right before his eyes. He thirsted for another drink, the solace that could drown his conscience and burn through him like a cleansing balm.

  There was a knock at the door. A soft, tentative knock that Hiram recognized.

  “Come in, Veronica,” Hiram bellowed. He wiped the puddles of saliva from the corners of his mouth as the door opened.

  A tall, statuesque woman entered the room. She wore a simple dress with a green satin sheen. Her long black hair was shiny and hung over her shoulders like frozen rain. Her blue eyes were dazzling, and the curves of her body flowed as if delicately crafted by some divine sculptor’s hand.

  “Jerry’s outside,” she said as she walked gracefully over to Hiram’s desk. Her perfume filled both men’s nostrils with the scent of exotic flowers and oriental oils of unknown origin and mixture. “He rode up like thunder, and his horse is lathered with yellow suds as if he fell into a trough of sheep dip along the way.”

  “Ronnie, you always did talk in a descriptive fashion,” Hiram said. “Was Hobart with him?”

  “I didn’t see Cass,” she said. “Only Jerry.”

  “Well, send him in. Del, go get yourself a drink. You done lost all your color.”

  Wiggins stood up. He stood next to Veronica Sweet, admiring her with a sidelong glance. He knew that Hiram had brought her up from Cheyenne to take charge of the glitter gals, who raked in money and gold from the miners availing themselves of their services. But Veronica was above all that. She was beautiful, but she drew a hard line in the sand and no man dared cross it. Even Hiram, who respected her and, he thought, might even have feared her. She was a strong woman and he paid her handsomely.

  “Thanks, Hiram. It did get a little hot in here, with all the talk. And—”

  “Don’t say it, Del. Just go,” Hiram said.

  Veronica glanced down at Hiram. She had little respect for him, but she could feel his power and that was alluring to her. She liked decisive men. It was just too bad that Hiram looked like a toad to her. There wasn’t a man in town who interested her, but she was always searching. Always hoping.

  “I’ll tell Jerry to come in,” she said as Del left the room. “I’ve got a girl down sick with the grippe and there aren’t many prospectors in town anymore. If this keeps up, you might have to close the dance hall.”

  “There’ll be more comin’ in. Men chase after gold. They can smell it from a long ways off.”

  “Like you, Hiram?” she said.

  “Damned right, like me.”

  “You know,” she said, “you and I are a lot alike, Hiram.”

  “How so?”

  “You know what you want and you go out and get it.”

  As she walked toward the door, he asked, “What do you want, Ronnie?”

  She turned her head back and flashed him a fleeting smile over her shoulder.

  “You’ll never know,” she said, and left the room.

  A few moments later, Jerry Bassett entered the room with a hangdog look on his face.

  He slouched in a chair and pushed his hat back on his head. A three-day beard stippled his florid face, and sweat rimmed the wattles on his skinny neck. He reeked of dust and the scent of pine. His chambray shirt was dark with sweat stains.

  “Where’s Hobart? Did you boys take care of that bastard Nolan?” Bledsoe’s eyes were two daggers boring into Bassett’s own.

  “I think Cass winged Nolan. Him and me rode out to finish him off and we run into trouble.�
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  “What trouble? Nolan? Madge?”

  “Nope. They was another gent with ’em. Man on a black horse, wearin’ all black. He was in the wagon. When Cass threw down on him, this gent drew a pistol so fast it liked to have scared the pants off me. He shot Cass out of the saddle and I lit a shuck.”

  “What?” Bledsoe said.

  “Never saw a draw that fast and his aim was dead on, Hiram. Lord, you shoulda seen it.”

  “Who in hell was he?”

  Bassett shook his head. “I dunno. Never saw him before. If I’d’a stayed up there, he would have dropped me, sure as hell.”

  “So, you ran off. Without finishing the job.”

  “Hell, you’d’ve done the same thing, Hiram. That man just warn’t natural. With a damned pistol, he plugged Cass without blinkin’ an eye. Damndest thing I ever saw.”

  “So maybe Cass got rid of Jessie Nolan, you think?”

  “How the hell should I know? But if that hombre is helpin’ them renegade prospectors, you got big trouble on your hands.”

  “One man won’t make that much of a difference. But I didn’t want them miners to be armed. You and Cass were supposed to have put out Jessie’s lamp and brought that wagonload of rifles and cartridges back here to town.”

  “I didn’t want to die like Cass did. He never had a chance. Gawdamighty, that man was fast and shot real true. All in the twinklin’ of an eye.”

  “Well, if that man comes into Sawtooth, I want him dead, you hear me? You tell all the boys about this and have them ready to shoot that man on sight.”

  “I’ll do ’er,” Jerry Bassett said. He pushed his hat forward and squared it on his head.

  “If those bastards hidin’ out up in the timber get their hands on those rifles, we’ll have hell to pay,” Hiram said.

  “I know,” Jerry said.

  He stood up and Hiram watched the blood drain from his face as if he was still shaken by the death of Cass Hobart.

  “We might have to hunt ’em down,” Hiram said.

  “That won’t be easy. Timber’s thick up yonder and they got plenty of places to hide.”

  “Just keep your eyes peeled for that stranger,” Hiram said. “When you see him, kill him.”

  “I’ll sure as hell try. If he don’t see me first.”

  Bledsoe scowled. He didn’t like failure and he couldn’t afford to have a bunch of armed men breathing down his neck.

  As he stared at Jerry, Bledsoe felt threatened. He shrank in his chair as his shoulders lowered and his heartbeat increased. Jerry’s face changed under Bledsoe’s suddenly fearful gaze. It seemed that the face turned to hard grainy leather, and he thought he saw the nubs of two horns sprouting from the man’s skull. Jerry’s clothing changed color, turning a bright red for just a few fleeting seconds.

  Bledsoe looked at the door to his office.

  The door widened and turned into a dark cave. Stalactites appeared like giant fangs, and he saw flames issuing from the darkness.

  This was nothing new to Bledsoe, but it made him fearful and suspicious. He turned back to Jerry and squinted his eyes as if to block out the horns and the horrible visage.

  “You get the men together,” Bledsoe croaked, “and tell ’em to watch for them miners and that man wearin’ black clothes. Shoot anybody what don’t belong here. Now get goin’, Jerry.”

  Jerry got up and left the room.

  Bledsoe’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He looked at the door. It seemed alive as its edges flexed and pulsed like the maw of some great beast. He crumpled up in his chair and bent over. He closed his eyes and squeezed the lids tight as fists.

  He could not stand to see such things, but he had been seeing strange sights for a long while. No one knew about it, but he. It seemed that something invisible was tearing at his mind, splitting it in two and darkening portions of his brain as if it knew night and day.

  He sat there, crumpled in his chair, and tried to shut off his mind.

  They were coming for him, those damned miners, and he would have to kill them all or they would kill him.

  And someone else was coming for him, too.

  The man in black. The stranger.

  To Bledsoe, he was the most fearsome of all because he was sure that this wasn’t a man at all. He knew what the man in black was.

  He was Death.

  3

  The wagon rumbled off the ridge and onto the flat. Its wheels creaked and squealed as Slocum guided the horses across a shallow ford in the creek and onto dry land. The wheels left a streak of wetness until all the water spun off into the dust. One part of the road veered left toward Sawtooth Mountain. The right fork appeared to vanish in a clump of alder bushes that grew in clusters on the other side of the creek.

  Slocum was already tugging on the reins when Madge spoke to him.

  “Just go to the right,” she said, “around those alder bushes. There’s another road that veers off to the right and then climbs into the timber.”

  “I know the way,” Slocum said.

  The horse turned and veered around the alders. He turned them onto the hidden road.

  “You do?” she asked, a tone of amazement in her voice.

  “I’ve been up to your camp,” Slocum said.

  “Huh?”

  “One of the men up there hired me to bring meat into the camp. Fresh game. Deer, elk. I was hunting when you drove by.”

  “Then you know all about the situation?”

  “Not really. I was just hired to do a job, not to get involved in any situation.”

  “Who hired you?” she asked.

  “Man by the name of Rodney Scanlon,” Slocum said.

  “Rod? Why, gracious sakes, I had no idea. Never saw you in the camp.”

  “He hired me while you and your pa were gone, I reckon. I brought in a cow elk yesterday and was after more when I saw you and that man I shot.”

  “I knew that Rod was going to Fort Laramie or Cheyenne to find someone to bring meat into our camp until we could get these guns delivered.”

  “He caught up with me in Cheyenne. But I had just delivered some horses to Fort Laramie.”

  “I’m glad you came along,” Madge said. She hugged her father, who was still unconscious but breathing steadily. His eyelids quivered, but he remained passed out.

  The road wound through stands of timber, and there were wood chips from logging operations. These disappeared as they drove into heavier timber, heading north away from Sawtooth Valley. Then they encountered a man on guard. He stepped out from behind a tree and held up his hands to halt the wagon. He had a pistol in his hand.

  Slocum pulled the wagon to a halt. He did not set the brake.

  “Oh, it’s you, Madge,” the man said.

  “Hi, Jim. Everything all right up here?”

  “Yep. What’s the matter with your pa?”

  “He’s been shot,” she said.

  Jim Foster was a burly man wearing overalls and hunting boots. He had a beard, and his clothes looked wrinkled and dirty.

  “Sorry to hear that. You bring the rifles and cartridges?” Jim asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Howdy, Slocum,” Jim said. “You can pass through. I ’spect folks will be mighty glad to see you both.”

  Slocum nodded and rattled the reins to get the horses moving. Ferro snorted and tossed his head.

  The wagon rumbled on and into a small clearing. Men appeared from out of the woods and walked toward the wagon. They all wore looks of surprise on their faces when they saw Madge holding her father’s lolling head in her arms and Slocum driving the wagon.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the first man to reach the wagon.

  “Pa’s hurt, Dave,” she said. “Is Doc Livingston here?”

  “Yeah, he’s takin’ care of a mashed thumb.”r />
  “Go get him,” Madge said. “Pa’s been shot.”

  One of the men dashed off.

  Madge turned to Slocum.

  “Cal Livingston is a surgeon,” she said. “He came to Sawtooth to prospect for gold.”

  “I met him,” Slocum said. “Mighty handy to have a sawbones up here.”

  Two of the men helped in getting Jessie Nolan out of the wagon. They were rugged, muscular men in their forties, wearing beards like all the rest. Slocum knew there was a small creek up in camp, but the men were careful about building fires and always started them in fire rings set in thick trees so that the smoke dissipated before it could be seen from any distance.

  “We’ll take the wagon. You can tie up your horse beyond them rocky outcroppings yonder,” Dave said to Slocum.

  Slocum untied Ferro and led him to a huge outcropping of granite rocks that jutted into the timber. When he walked behind the outcropping, he saw men digging away at the dirt floor. Beyond them, he saw several lean-tos and tents. There was a rope corral that held a dozen horses and he ground-tied Ferro to a bush near the corral. He unsaddled his horse and laid the saddle out with his bedroll and saddlebags under a tall pine tree. Then, he walked back to see that Doc Livingston was already tending to Nolan. The doctor looked up when Slocum came near.

  “You did the right thing, Slocum,” he said. “Bullet went clean through and that moss just might keep the wound from getting infected. I’ll wash it out with alcohol and pour on some iodine, but Jessie ought to be just fine in a few days.”

  “Why is he still passed out?” Slocum asked.

  “Shock. Loss of blood. But he’s comin’ around. Madge has gone to fetch some hot broth and I’ll give him a little whiskey to perk him up.”

  “I’ve got some Kentucky bourbon in my saddlebags,” Slocum said.

  “Rotgut we have here will be just fine. I don’t want him to taste it so much as I want to keep his blood pumping up to his brain.”