Slocum #422 Read online

  “Only foah the moment,” Jefferson said. “Mistah Burlison heah is the new head of the entire line in Texas.”

  “That a promotion?” Slocum rubbed his wrists until he could flex his hands again.

  “Quite so, yes,” Burlison said. “I will oversee all the rail lines from the Mississippi to the West Coast whereas now I am only in charge of the California system.”

  Slocum considered how difficult it would be to knock down Burlison and use him as a shield to get away. His two bully boys prowled about outside the car. Slocum saw the Irishman’s red hair bobbing up and down as he paced from one end to the other. The shorter German probably guarded the other side of the car. But with a quick spring, he thought Burlison might be easy prey.

  The man’s vest bulged outward over his substantial belly. The pasty skin and hands lacking calluses spoke of long hours out of the sun doing bureaucratic work, not laying rail or driving spikes. Still, Slocum had seen big men with guts like that who proved stronger than they looked. Whatever he did had to be over fast. Jefferson was a big man, too, and carried far less fat than his boss. He was older but a man who had spent most of his life doing hard labor.

  Whatever he did, he had to keep Burlison alive to order the railroad detectives away. Kill the railroad official and nothing held Gunther and his partner in check.

  “Forgive my terrible manners. Please, sir, sit.” Burlison indicated one of the velvet sofas. Slocum started to brush off his jeans to keep the dirt off the fancy couch, then decided the hell with it.

  He dropped heavily, a small cloud of dust rising around him. For his part, Burlison paid no heed.

  “What’s his name? Mr. Jefferson?”

  “Nevah got it, suh. I was too busy with the passengers.”

  “So, Mr. . . .” Burlison let the question hang in the air.

  “John Slocum.” As tempting as it was to give a summer name, they had him fair and square. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes for the San Dismas marshal to identify him. For all he knew, the bounty hunter’s warrant carried his name already.

  “From all Mr. Jefferson has said, and he is not a man to exaggerate, you saved not only his life but that of at least one passenger. Thank you.”

  Slocum held up his raw wrists. Blood oozed onto his shirt cuff from where the mail clerk had so savagely tied him up.

  “You have a strange way of showing it.”

  “Mr. Timkins is too zealous in his performance of what he thinks is his duty. If he had inquired of Mr. Jefferson, he would have allowed you to ride in style with the passengers.”

  Slocum doubted that but said nothing. Burlison wanted something or he would have been chucked into the San Diego courthouse iron cage by now.

  “I find myself in a curious position.” He licked his lips. “Would you care for some wine, Mr. Slocum? It is a French vintage. I selected it personally on a recent tour of the Provence region. That is the oldest in France and has a deserved reputation for producing the finest wines.”

  Slocum nodded. It didn’t surprise him when the conductor fetched a cut crystal decanter and two glasses. He poured the bloodred wine with practiced ease, then stepped back. His expression left nothing to the imagination. He wished for a glass, too.

  “Yes, a fine vintage. To you, Mr. Slocum, and your heroism.” Burlison lifted his glass, but Slocum left his on the table.

  “I’d like to join you in that toast,” Slocum said, “but the real hero deserves a taste of the wine more ’n I do.” He looked at the conductor. For the briefest instant, astonishment flashed across his impassive face. Then a tiny smile curled the corners before he once more stood like a statue.

  “Why, uh, yes, I suppose that is so. Pour yourself a glass, too, Jefferson.”

  Slocum perked up. The head of a railroad had agreed to share his wine with a black man. Whatever he wanted had to be big. If he played his cards right, Slocum thought he could leave San Diego not only without having a noose dropped around his neck but also with a few coins jingling in his pockets.

  “To you, Mr. Slocum. And to you, Jefferson.” Burlison’s lips barely touched the rim of his glass.

  Slocum and Jefferson knocked theirs back and let the wine trickle down their throats.

  “Good,” Slocum said.

  “Yes, well, yes, it is good wine. Expensive.”

  Slocum waited.

  “I am in a terrible hurry and must tend to business matters in San Francisco. Very important railroad business.”

  “Seems you are going the wrong direction if you’re supposed to be in charge of the railroad in Texas.”

  “You are an astute man, Mr. Slocum.” Burlison’s words said one thing, but the exasperated look told another. “You have shown yourself to be capable in a gunfight and a trustworthy soul. You had no reason other than doing the right thing to come to the aid of Mr. Jefferson and the passengers, nor did you have to chase off the robbers trying to steal . . . well, let’s say they were trying to steal something of great value to the railroad.”

  “Your wine’s reward enough,” Slocum said. “And a ticket to Texas.” He looked up at the conductor.

  “San Antonio,” Jefferson said. “The company headquartah’s in San Antonio.”

  “A ticket to San Antonio,” Slocum said. Burlison’s reaction confused him. Ordering such a rich and powerful man to give him a specific reward should have angered him. If anything, he looked relieved.

  “You shall receive that and more, Mr. Slocum. I have lost five of my best men in the past week. All I require of you is to escort something of great value to San Antonio, something that was on the train you saved. I can only say that the robbers were ignorant of the true value carried in the car immediately behind the tender rather than the paltry few thousand in scrip in the mail car’s safe.”

  Slocum grinned. He’d finally found out what was in the safe. Then his smile faded.

  “I want you to escort my daughter, Marlene, safely to San Antonio, where her mother awaits.”

  3

  “That’s not the sort of job I take,” Slocum said. He glanced at Jefferson. The conductor had put on his impassive face again, revealing nothing. Slocum had the feeling the man had something to do with the offer.

  “You have the look of a man capable of taking care of ­himself—­and others.” Burlison finally drank the wine, taking it in a gulp as Slocum and Jefferson already had. He showed no more pleasure in its flavor or bouquet than they had. “I mentioned that my most able bodyguards were all lost.”

  “Kilt, kilt dead, Mistah Burlison. Come on out and say it. Mistah Slocum deserves to know.”

  “You’re right,” the railroad magnate said. “I have to go to San Francisco because of a messy business situation. The railroad is engaged in delicate negotiations to expand. If I can bring the warring parties together, we’ll be unmatched in miles, freight, and passengers.” He cleared his throat, motioned for Jefferson to pour more wine, and downed it before continuing. “My personal fortune depends on my success. Every penny I own is on the line, along with a great deal more. There is a faction opposed to this expansion that has tendered a ridiculous offer to buy the S&P. My absence would guarantee them ascendancy. If they succeed, I am ruined financially and the ’road is crippled.”

  “Who killed the bodyguards?” Slocum had no interest in the financial wheeling and dealing done by railroad men.

  “The parties interested in preventing the merger will stop at nothing to get their way. When my guards refused to be bought, they were killed. Gunned down like mad dogs.” Burlison shivered. Jefferson poured another glass of wine. “Attempts to kill me won’t stop the deal that I am so ardently pursuing.”

  “But kidnapping your daughter would?”

  “Yes, Mr. Slocum, it would. There is nothing I value more than my little girl. Even her mother is at a different level. Marlene is the apple of my eye. That
’s why I want her out of California and taken to Texas, where she can be better protected.”

  “Nobody’s gunning for you there?”

  “My enemies are Californian. While they have the resources to hire kidnappers anywhere, my estate in Texas is like a fortress, with an army of guards. Marlene is only in danger while she is traveling. Now,” he said, finishing his wine in a final gulp, “you will be paid one hundred dollars and given a free ride to San Antonio in exchange for escorting my little girl there safely.”

  Slocum considered the man’s situation. Morgan Burlison had to be desperate to tap someone he didn’t know to perform such a task.

  “Jefferson is a quick judge of men and says you are daring and trustworthy.”

  “With respect to your conductor, how’s he know your ­clerk—”

  “Mr. Timkins.”

  “How does he know that Timkins isn’t right about me, that I was in the gang and had a ­falling-­out?”

  “I got to my present position judging men quickly. Timkins is an idiot. Oh, he has his uses. He is ­single-­minded when it comes to performing his duty, but he lacks imagination. He does not think through a situation. You are a man who lives inside his skull, Mr. Slocum, always thinking and looking for the proper solution to your problems. When a solution comes to you, you act. That’s the person I need. A man who can put his plans into action because he knows he is right.”

  “I’ve known a passel of men who thought they were always right. They seldom were.”

  Burlison laughed without humor. “There was one in San Diego like that. Locked up in the iron cage but got out. Roy Bean was his name. Nobody ever convinced him when he was wrong. He became a judge in Texas. Pigheaded fool, but he got things done.”

  “Depends on what you want done, I reckon,” Slocum said. He looked out the Pullman car window. The first pinks of dawn crept into the clouds. With daylight came the posses after him. And the bounty hunter. Big Joe impressed him as the kind of man who never stopped until he earned his bounty.

  “Marlene is a good girl,” Burlison said earnestly. “You protect her and deliver her into her ma’s arms in San Antonio. I’ll make it two hundred dollars.”

  “That’s twice what I’m worth,” Slocum said. He meant the posted reward that the bounty hunter sought. Burlison interpreted it differently.

  “You’ll be worth every penny. I’m ordering the Yuma Bullet to take you all the way to San Antonio.”

  “What happened to the train so that the robbers stopped it? If your daughter was in her car, I’d’ve thought the engineer would have plowed ahead through a barricade.”

  “They done removed a rail,” Jefferson explained. “If’n Mad Tom’d kept on, the Yuma Bullet woulda been derailed.”

  “You have a crew replacing the rail?”

  “By now it ought to be done. The Yuma Bullet will pull out, only two Pullman cars this time, a freight car, and the mail car along with the caboose. Mad Tom will highball it the entire way, stopping only for coal and water.”

  Leaving San Diego at top speed suited Slocum, but playing nanny to a little girl stuck in his craw. He said so.

  “She’ll be in good hands. Her maid will see to Marlene’s personal needs. They have one car, you will have another, and in the freight car will be supplies.”

  “What of the mail car that the robbers wanted?”

  “Ah, yes, you fear they will attempt to rob the train once more. With the supplies in the freight car, I will see that adequate firepower is provided. I would put that car with the other passenger cars on a later train, but the money has to be delivered to the Deming depot as quickly as possible.”

  “I’m one man against a gang, if they try to rob the train again. Even if they aren’t out to kidnap your daughter, that much money’s a lure as sure as honey draws flies.”

  “You keep trying to talk yourself out of it, Mr. Slocum. However, I have learned to read a man and his intentions. You argue to gain better terms, but you will accept my employment. Three hundred dollars.”

  Slocum heard someone say, “Done. Let’s shake on it,” before he realized he was the one speaking. His mouth had written an IOU he might have to pay with his life.

  “Well met, sir. I know Marlene will be safe in your care.” Burlison leaned over and pumped his hand. “Jefferson will be along. He can order any special supplies you require. Now, I must get on the rails to San Francisco if I am to be there by noon tomorrow.”

  Jefferson held the door for him. Slocum ducked through and hopped off the metal platform to the ground. The conductor trailed him, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders and lifted him easily off his feet, spun him about, and put him down as light as a feather.

  The clang of a car coupling with another was followed quickly by Burlison’s Pullman rolling along where Slocum had stood an instant before.

  “Thanks. You kept me from getting run over.” He watched Burlison leave, the man already bent over his desk and scribbling as the car rolled through the yards.

  “You gotta learn what all dem sounds mean. Now you know what you want for da trip?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you. Get me a case of rifles and ammo. I’ll need my ­six-­shooter back and ammo for it.”

  “Colt Navy .36 caliber,” Jefferson said. “I know my guns.”

  “I suspect you stand by them, too,” Slocum said. He pressed his hand onto his bare hip. He felt undressed without his ­six-­shooter. “I need it back right now.”

  “You was hitchin’ a ride on da Yuma Bullet ’cuz you is runnin’, ain’t you?”

  “I am,” Slocum said. He saw no reason to lie to the con­­ductor.

  His honesty made Jefferson nod slowly, then grin.

  “Me and you, we is gonna git along jist fine. You tell dat ticket clerk McIlheny to give you yo’ gun. He got it. Ammo, too.”

  “Where can I find Marlene Burlison?”

  Jefferson shook his head and said, “I kin find guns and most ever’thing else. No way I know where she is. We been back in depot long ’nuff foah her to git into a shitload of trouble.”

  “What about her nanny?”

  “Nanny? Nanny!” Jefferson walked off, shaking his head and laughing at some joke Slocum failed to understand.

  Slocum looked around the rail yard and felt exposed. The two railroad bulls wouldn’t bother him but he felt danger coming. He went to the depot, climbed the creaking steps, and pressed his face against the bars to the ticket agent’s booth. A man had his feet hiked to a desk and chin to chest, snored loudly.

  “Are you McIlheny?” His loud question caused the man to jerk around, his feet sliding off the desk and almost throwing him onto the floor.

  “No tickets for another hour.”

  “Burlison said you had my ­six-­shooter and some ammo to go with it.”

  McIlheny got to his feet and came to the window, rubbing his eyes. He thrust his face so it was only inches from Slocum’s.

  “Timkins gave me a gun he took off a train robber.”

  “Timkins is an idiot. I stopped the robbery.”

  “Yeah, well, you can say that again. Mr. Burlison wanted you to have this back?” From under the window ledge the clerk grabbed Slocum’s holster with the ­ebony-­handled Colt thrust in it. He added a box of cartridges for the rechambered pistol.

  “Where can I find his daughter?” Slocum strapped on the ­six-­gun, then took time to reload. The remaining shells he dropped into his coat pocket. He had the feeling he would be needing them.

  “Miss Burlison?” The clerk snickered, then sobered. “Can’t rightly say. She’s supposed to be in her car waiting to pull out again for Texas, but I heard tell she got bored after settin’ there for all of ten minutes. That means she went into town.”

  “How old is she?” Slocum slid his pistol back into the holster. “I got the impression she wasn�
��t too old. She has a nanny.”

  “Miss Mulligan’s not her nanny. She’s her maid.”

  Slocum wondered if his job got easier or harder. He had thought the girl was young from the way her pa talked about her. An older ­girl—­a young ­woman—­presented a different challenge if she went into San Diego to kick up her heels.

  He left McIlheny laughing at him. Slocum noticed that happened a lot around the railroad people. Marlene Burlison’s fancy Pullman car had been put onto a siding near the Yuma Bullet locomotive and a crew worked to repair some small problem beneath it. He asked one of the workers where Marlene Burlison could be found.

  The man scratched his head with an oily finger, then said, “I seen her and her traveling companion leave in a carriage, just ’fore sunrise. They was heading toward town.” The man turned secretive and leaned closer to whisper, “I betcha they was going out to find Miss Burlison’s beau. Rumor has it he’s a wild one, wilder than a Texas tornado.”

  “Where does he hang out?”

  “Never seen him and haven’t heard anything but rumors, but a fine lady like that would be noticed no matter where she went.”

  Slocum considered finding a train going in some other direction, jumping it, and getting the hell away from what had quickly turned into an irksome job. He hadn’t laid eyes on the girl and already he had to track her down and drag her from her boyfriend’s bed. From the look of the Yuma Bullet, it was about ready to build up a head of steam and pull out again.

  He started into town on foot, then slowed when he saw a carriage and driver nearby. The driver held up a newspaper to catch the morning light but put it down when Slocum approached.

  “You want a ride into town? Only two bits.”

  “You take two ladies in not long ago?” Slocum saw the way the driver tensed.

  “What if I did?”

  “Mr. Burlison is vice president of the S&P and will be ­grateful—­very ­grateful—­if you take me where you took them.”