Slocum #422 Page 5

  Slocum had to wonder what that might be to bring roses to her cheeks and a quickening to her breathing. He found her enticing, but he knew better than to fool around with the boss’s daughter. Even if she wanted to fool around with a drifter and a man with a bloody wound in his leg.

  “I’ll go clean up.”

  “There’s a bathtub in this car. ­You—” Marlene bit off her words when Sarah Jane came running up, waving her arms to get the girl’s attention. “Whatever does she want now?” Marlene spoke so low that she meant the words only for herself, but Slocum overheard.

  “We’re going to find out, I reckon.”

  Marlene jumped and stared at him in panic. Then she settled down and only nodded.

  “I’ve just got a ’gram from . . . from your father, Marlene. He’s returning and wants us to wait until he arrives.”

  “That’s not much of a problem,” Slocum said. “The Yuma Bullet’s got mechanical problems. It’ll take a spell to figure out what’s wrong, then fix it.”

  “My, aren’t we the knowing one, Mr. Slocum? Or can I call you John?”

  “John’s my name,” he said. Sarah Jane’s blue eyes danced with merriment, as if she had duped him into admitting something wicked. For all that, Slocum would pit her thoughts with those of Marlene. Both women had more than getting to San Antonio on their minds.

  The peepshow at the whorehouse showed that. Sarah Jane had been actively enjoying the sight of the amorous activity in the next room. He looked again at Marlene. She squared her shoulders and stood. She handed the basin with the bloody water to Sarah Jane.

  “Take care of this, will you? Mr. Slocum injured himself and I tended his wound.”

  “Did you now? Aren’t you all the nurse?” Sarah Jane bent over and peered at the neatly tied bandage. “You used my petticoat!”

  “It was convenient,” Marlene said.

  “Get on with your business, John,” Sarah Jane said. “Marlene and I have to prepare for Mr. Burlison. He’ll be back in about an hour.”

  “Why’s that? He was in an ­all-­fired hurry to get to San Francisco on business. It was like somebody had lit a torch under him.”

  “You wanted to say ‘set his ass on fire,’ didn’t you, John?” Sarah Jane spoke with obvious malice, wanting him to apologize.

  “I say what I mean.” He saw the flicker of a smile on Marlene’s lips that disappeared as quickly as it was born. “You ladies had better get ready. I’ll do the same.”

  He held out his hand to help Marlene up the steps into their Pullman car. For some reason, Slocum didn’t extend the same courtesy to Sarah Jane even though she pressed close. She made a point of tossing out the water, brushing against him, then looking at Marlene to see if the girl objected. Marlene waited quietly at the door into the car. Her impassive face showed no trace of whatever emotion her maid tried to spark.

  As Sarah Jane scampered up the steps, Marlene went inside. The door slammed, leaving Slocum to wonder why Marlene had ever hired the girl. What drove Sarah Jane was obvious. If Slocum snapped his fingers, he could have her under the blanket in an instant. As sexy as she was, he knew he would have a good time and give her one, as well. But her behavior would only lead to trouble. Morgan Burlison wasn’t the sort to put up with debauchery in his employees. The idea that Sarah Jane gave a bad example for his daughter would send Burlison into a rage Slocum wanted to avoid.

  He hobbled away to find a water barrel near the depot. It took the better part of a half hour to scrub off the blood from his boot. When he pulled it on, it felt tight and required him to walk around to soften the wet leather and mold the boot to his foot once more. If he got shot in another month or so, the blood would drain out a hole in the sole. Right now the hole came close to poking all the way through, but enough leather remained to keep him from blistering. After Burlison paid him for escorting his daughter to San Antonio, there’d be plenty of money for a new pair of boots. Slocum had heard of a cobbler there who’d make a custom pair for what this pair had cost off the shelf of a general store up in Sacramento.

  Testing his leg, he climbed the steps to the depot and pressed his face against the bars at the ticket agent’s booth once more. This time McIlheny hunched over the telegraph key, sending the dots and dashes along the wire to satisfy what must have been a dozen customers.

  “You got word on Burlison’s arrival?” Slocum called.

  McIlheny kept at his work as he said, “An hour. Maybe less. His train broke down ten miles out of town and is limping back to the yard for repair.”

  “He fit to be tied over the delay?”

  “I got the ’gram. Damn near melted the wires it was so hot.” McIlheny looked up. “You better mind your p’s and q’s. When he gets all het up, he and his daughter argue ’bout nothing.” The clerk sniffed. “Hell, they argue about everything. Anybody caught in the cross fire gets their head blown off.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Slocum took out his pocket watch and compared it to the station’s Regulator clock ticking balefully. The times matched close enough.

  He walked to the edge of the depot platform and looked down the few feet to the ground. Testing his leg now gave him more confidence later. He jumped. The impact sent a shock up into his hip but otherwise supported him fine. Slocum walked fast to the crew working on the Yuma Bullet. Two men were beneath the wheels, one banging away with a small sledgehammer, while another man stood nearby, holding an oilcan and looking bored.

  The fireman had gone, but Mad Tom sat on a step cleaning his filthy fingernails with a knife. He never looked up as Slocum stopped in front of him.

  “No idea,” Tom said.

  Slocum had to laugh. The question was an obvious one, and Mad Tom didn’t have to read minds to know.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “You know anything ’bout engines?” Mad Tom glanced at Slocum before returning to his futile work.

  “I see how things fit together pretty well. I worked a spell along the Mississippi as a dock hand and saw something of how steam capstans worked.”

  “Be better if they’d let you fool ’round with the steam engines below deck. I got my start there, then saw how the riverboats was a dyin’ breed so I went to KC and lied my way onto an engine as fireman so I could work up to my exalted position of train driver.” He finished his cleaning, wiped the point on his overalls, then yelled, “Hersch, you got help comin’. ­First-­rate mechanic what’ll show you how stupid you’ve been.” Mad Tom pointed with the knife blade for Slocum to get to work.

  The man with the oilcan used the spigot to indicate a spot just behind the front wheels.

  “You know shit ’bout a Prairie?”

  “It’s a 2-6-2,” Slocum said. “Two lead wheels don’t do anything but keep the front on the tracks. The next six do the work. Two rear wheels under the cab support a goodly portion of the weight from the firebox.”

  “You know more ’n I do, then,” the oiler said. “I know the damn thing can’t run if it falls off the tracks. Seen one try once. It blowed itself up when it hit the ground.” He bent and yelled under the engine, “Hersch, we got ourselves an expert.”

  Slocum wondered at how easy it was to become an expert just because he had ridden enough trains in his day and gotten drunk with enough engineers to hear about wheels. He pulled off his holster and hung it from a knob protruding from the boiler. Wiggling on his back, he felt the cut of cinders against his shirt. He tore shreds out of it, but the money he’d get from Burlison would pay for a new shirt as well as decent boots. The scent of hot oil and burned steel made his nostrils flare. A quick swipe across his eyes cleared them of tears forming against the fumes.

  “What’s the problem?” He saw that Hersch had wiped clean everything on the locomotive’s underbelly to home in on the trouble. In spite of what Mad Tom and the oiler had proclaimed, Slocum knew little about the workings of
the engine. Nothing looked out of place to him.

  “Don’t know. Been workin’ on these steel monsters nigh on ten years. Never the same thing breakin’ twice. When Tom hit the brakes to keep from goin’ off the tracks, somethin’ popped and spewed oil ever’where. Just can’t tell what that somethin’ is.”

  Hersch wiped some more at a greasy cylinder and watched for new oil. He scooted toward the rear of the engine and stopped near the middle of the drive wheels to repeat his ­wipe-­wait spot check.

  “Boss, I gotta go. You have plenny of help with him.”

  Slocum heard rather than saw the other man who worked even farther toward the rear of the locomotive.

  “Get on outta here, Lew. But you’re standin’ me a round tonight. Two!”

  “Next payday, Hersch, next payday. I’m tapped out right now.” Lew scrapped his way from underneath the engine, leaving Slocum alongside his boss.

  “What he said about tapped out,” Slocum said. “You tried tapping on the cylinders to see if one sounds different?”

  “Naw, just huntin’ fer leaks. This here’s an oil reservoir fer the front drive wheel.” Hersch banged on it with a wrench. “This other one’s for the mid wheel.” He rapped it a couple times, hesitated, and repeated. “I’ll be switched. That sounds empty.” A third time for Slocum’s benefit confirmed the reservoir being dry.

  “Have your oiler fill it up and let’s watch.” Slocum took a spare rag that had been stuffed into Hersch’s overall pocket and rubbed the small tank clean. “Looks rusty.” He pointed to a connection.

  “They’re all like that, even the ones what run in the ­desert. Water from condensed steam and spilled water tank fillings gets up under and ain’t nowhere to go so it rusts fast.”

  Hersch ordered the man with the oilcan to empty it and then refill to keep pouring.

  “Danged thing’s got a thirst,” he said. “But lookee there. A leak just like an Irishman spittin’ chaw from ’twixt his front teeth.”

  “Can you replace it?”

  “Have to. Looks to be a split in the side of the cylinder, so teeny it only shows itself when oil’s leakin’ out. It comes out, catches on pistons, and that’s why it was spattered to hell and gone underneath. You’re one smart fella.”

  “Slocum,” he introduced himself.

  “I’ll have Lew buy you a round, too.” He yelled out for the oiler to fetch another oil reservoir. It took a full minute before the man understood.

  “Do you have a spare in your warehouse?” Slocum asked.

  “Got a dozen of ’em. When they fail, they usually do it like a Fourth of July firecracker. Sparks and fire and enough hissing to make even a grizzled ole engineer think he’s headin’ fer the Pearly Gates.”

  “How long’ll it take to get this out and the new one in­stalled?”

  “Dipshit out there’s back with the spare. If you help as good as you diagnose, we’ll be out from under here in a half hour, and I’ll be pleased as punch to call you Doc Slocum.”

  The new reservoir appeared between the front and the middle drive wheels. Slocum wrestled it around, aligned it to lift up into place when Hersch freed the busted one. The mechanic grunted as he applied more power to the wrench. A shower of oil brought forth a curse. The reservoir dropped down, bending its piping. A screech of agonized metal was followed by a human scream of pain.

  The reservoir had broken off and crushed Hersch’s chest. All Slocum could see was the man’s blood mixing with the oil.

  5

  Hersch stopped yelling after the cylinder plunged down into his chest. Slocum saw white ribs poking out amid the flood of oil and gore. The man twitched feebly and tried to push away.

  “Hang on,” Slocum said, scooting closer until his shoulder pressed into Hersch.

  Bracing his shoulder against the railroad ties beneath him, he began pushing. He tried not to jerk hard. If he yanked the oily cylinder out of the man’s chest too fast, he’d die. But Slocum found his muscles screaming with exertion. He barely budged the cylinder.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Mad Tom sounded more pissed than wanting real information.

  “Hersch is pinned. Piece of metal shot him clean through like an Indian arrow. Can’t get it pushed away from him.”

  The engineer scooted under the engine, wiggling like a fish tossed out of the river onto a rocky bank. He added his strength to Slocum’s but still couldn’t budge the cylinder more than an inch. Hersch moaned louder now, blood spraying from his mouth.

  “You get ready to drag him out,” Slocum said.

  “What you gonna do, Slocum?”

  Slocum released his grip on the impaling cylinder and rolled onto his belly. He moved back until his shoulders shoved into the metal. Using both arms and legs, he lifted himself straight up like a cat stretching its back. The metal squeaked a mite, then began to yield under his onslaught. Slocum closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and shoved even harder until the world started turning black. The effort caused his head to spin and his vision to blur.

  He pushed even harder. The metal cut into his shoulders and liquid flowed sluggishly down his arms. It might have been oil. More likely it was his own blood.

  He vented a loud cry and expended all his strength in a single surge.

  “Got him.”

  Slocum held the cylinder for as long as he could, then lowered it, aware that he might end up like Hersch. The oil reservoir dug into the railroad tie beside him. Then he collapsed. Every ounce of energy had been spent. Facedown, he tried to move. Nothing happened when he kicked his legs or flailed his arms. Then he began sliding along, cinders cutting into his chest and cheek. Arching his back as much as he could, he kept more of the clinkers from slashing away at his face.

  Strong hands rolled him over. He blinked. He stared straight up into the sun.

  “You danged fool. Get outta the way.” Mad Tom’s ugly face blocked the direct sun.

  “I swear, these boys’re dumber than dirt. Lew shoulda knowed better ’n to point up at the sun like that. Can you set up, Slocum?”

  He gripped Tom’s hand and sat up. He winced at the pain lancing through his back.

  “Not as bad as the time I flopped in a clump of prickly pear cactus,” Slocum said. To his surprise, he wasn’t lying. Moving about restored his strength.

  When Tom helped him to his feet, he was as steady as could be.

  “How’s Hersch?”

  “Got him over in the shade and McIlheny goin’ fer a doctor.” Mad Tom looked at Slocum curiously. “Or are you a doc, too?”

  “What do you mean?” Slocum brushed himself off. He certainly needed a new shirt. This one hung in bloody tatters on his back.

  “Hersch keeps callin’ fer Doc Slocum. That you?”

  “A joke. Tell him you’re sending for a vet since that’s all he deserves.”

  Tom chuckled. “Don’t know that a vet’s not a better choice fer keepin’ him alive. Never seen a vet with a bad bedside manner nor a real doctor with a good one.”

  Slocum started to check Hersch himself but two men lifted him onto a wood plank and carted him away to a waiting wagon.

  “You saved his life,” Tom said. “You mighta done yerself in, but you stuck with him.”

  “Thought it was my fault,” Slocum said. “I found the problem and then it fell on top of him.”

  “So you kin fix the ole Yuma Bullet?”

  “I’d like it better if somebody else tried. I can tell them what’s wrong.”

  “Lew! Lew, dammit, git your ass over here. You listen real good to Doc Slocum an’ do what he says, you hear?”

  Slocum told Lew and the oiler what had to be done. Lew looked apprehensive, considering what had happened to Hersch, but the oiler readily scampered under the big engine. Lew trailed him but within minutes they were arguing over the best way to install the new reservoir
Slocum had laid in place.

  While they worked, Slocum walked slowly to the depot and sat on the second step. He held out his hands. They shook. He waited for the reaction to pass. By the time it did, an engine had pulled up fifty yards away. Slocum returned to the Yuma Bullet, took his gun belt from the knob where he’d hung it, and strapped it on. No trace of tremor remained as he slipped the pistol in and out of the leather a few times.

  “There he is, Mr. Burlison.”

  Slocum whirled, ready to throw down. His nerves quieted when he saw Mad Tom hurrying alongside the railroad vice president.

  “Is it true, Slocum? By damn, is it true?” Morgan Burlison stopped a foot away and stared hard at him.

  “Depends on what’s been said.”

  “It’s true. Every word of it, sir,” Mad Tom assured him. “I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  “I’ve never heard Tom go on like this before. Hell, I never even knew he had a mother.” Burlison thrust out his hand. For a moment Slocum wondered what he was supposed to do. Then he shook. Oil dripped from his palm and onto the man’s fancy lace cuff, but Burlison didn’t flinch away or even notice the filth. “I knew you were the right man for the job.”

  “Your daughter’s ­back—”

  Burlison cut him off, still pumping his hand.

  “Marlene can wait. I heard how you saved a man’s life and then fixed the Yuma Bullet. Those are the qualities I admire. Selfless, courageous.”

  “He risked his own life, Mr. Burlison. Ain’t seen anyone do that in a month of Sundays,” said Tom. “He saved Hersch, and he got the engine repaired. We’re ’bout ready to aim the Bullet for San Antonio.”

  “Good, Tom, very good.” Burlison finally released Slocum’s hand and clapped the engineer on the shoulder. “You go see to things, won’t you? I want a moment with Slocum.”

  “Sure thing, sir. Goin’ right now.” Mad Tom hurried off, shouting to anyone who would listen about Slocum’s heroism.

  “He’s a good man, Tom Haney. You’re a good man, too, Slocum. I had to come back to get my own engine repaired. If I didn’t need you looking after Marlene, I’d have you on that chore.” He slapped Slocum on the back as he had the engineer. Slocum saw it coming and didn’t wince. Burlison’s hand came away bloody and flecked with cinders. “I need to talk to my daughter a bit. Her telegram made me wonder what she’s been up to. Can you tell me, Slocum?”