Slocum and the Yellowstone Scoundrel Read online

  “Much obliged.” Slocum saw the others in the party had already helped themselves to a savory stew. He let the cook dish out a full ladle on a tin plate for him, then toss on a couple biscuits.

  The cook said nothing. Slocum was about to thank him when he saw movement—slow, sinuous, and utterly feminine. He half turned and slopped some stew onto his fingers, burning them. Slocum paid no attention. The woman hurried between two wagons, on her way toward an enclosed wagon. Slender, brunette, every move a thing of grace and beauty, she kept her face hidden from Slocum until the last moment when she went up the two steps to the enclosed wagon and opened the door. In that instant Slocum got a good look at her.

  An angel might have come to earth. Then she disappeared into the wagon.

  Slocum started to ask after her, even knowing he wasn’t likely to get any decent response. A woman that lovely had to be in the dreams—and care—of every man in the expedition.

  A wagon rattled past, the tarp flapping in the evening breeze. While Slocum couldn’t be sure, the cargo might well have been the crates Dillingham had built. Then the driver, wearing a heavy duster, yee-hawed, snapped the reins smartly, got the team pulling in a different direction, and disappeared behind a line of other wagons.

  In the dark, Slocum couldn’t be sure, but poking out from under the sleeve of the canvas duster might have been a flash of white lace cuff—and bright purple coat sleeve.

  He gobbled down the stew, cleaned off the plate, then said to Hayden, “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  “May your trip be a safe one,” the expedition leader said.

  With any luck, Slocum could recover the ruby this very night and return to Innick’s sawmill in three or four days. He was on his way to earning another five hundred dollars.

  5

  Slocum had been wrong. Hayden had posted guards, and being on the trail for such a short time, they were eager and alertly patrolled their stations. Flat on his belly, he studied the guard nearest him. It was the man in the tight-fitting suit he had encountered riding into the camp. The man tried to present a military demeanor, actually marching to and fro with his rifle hiked up on his shoulder, but such playacting wore on him after an hour.

  Not knowing when the sentry would be relieved, Slocum had to make the effort to look in the wagons. The guard finally sat on a rock and pulled off a shoe to rub his tender foot. Slocum had guessed right that this wasn’t a man used to either patrolling or walking.

  As the man made soft moaning sounds while he worked on his aching toes, Slocum began his search. He rose and walked on cat’s feet, passing within a dozen feet of the man without alerting him. With a quick few steps, he ended up under the nearest wagon. Slocum knew he had to be careful because the expedition had pitched their bedrolls near their wagons.

  He almost stepped on one snoring man as he slipped underneath and came out on the far side. Slocum stood, decided boldness was his ally, and began walking about as if he belonged in the camp. The guards had all been watching for intruders from the outside. No one questioned a man moving around within the camp. It took him the better part of an hour before he found the wagon with the specially constructed crates. Tugging back the edge of a dusty tarpaulin, he ran his fingers over the side of the nearest case.

  Dillingham did good work. Slocum found no trace of roughness, and the insides had been especially well finished. Slocum drew his fingers over what might have been a highly polished decorative bowl for all the skill lavished on it. Fragrant wood made his nostrils flare. But the slots within the cases were all empty.

  The crunch of boots against gravel caused him to hop into the wagon and pull the tarp down enough so he could peer out. Not five feet away stood a tall thin man. Slocum started to scoot forward to get a closer look when he heard someone else approaching.

  “Ah, good evening, Dr. Hayden,” the man greeted. “Such a fine night out in the wilderness.”

  “We have yet to reach the wilderness, sir,” Hayden said. “I want a more complete record on this expedition than that of any previous one. Yellowstone must be presented in its full glory to Congress. I am especially certain we can convince them to make this a national park.”

  “I agree. My artistry will have them gasping for breath, begging for mercy, falling over themselves to preserve the subject of my paintings,” the man said, striking a pose, one hand over his heart and the other reaching for the heavens. “I do say, those stars are larger out here. More brilliant.”

  “Can you paint by starlight?”

  “Hardly. Nor can I photograph at night. My skills require the full force of sunlight to bring out detail, not obscure it in penumbra.”

  “When you are ready, head out and . . .”

  The rest of Hayden’s words faded as the two men turned their backs to Slocum and walked away. Slocum scrambled forward and peered out. He thought he identified the pair as they zigzagged through camp, then could not be sure. Their discussion had caused several sleeping nearby to mumble and groan, restlessly turning over. Taking a few more seconds to assure himself these were the crates he sought that would lead him to the ruby thief, Slocum dropped to the ground and made his way back out of camp. The man hadn’t been the popinjay from back in Otter Creek, but more than one person on the expedition could have been involved in the ruby’s theft. The man had come straight for the wagon holding the custom-made cases and had reached out, as if to check them. Only Hayden had interrupted the examination.

  Slocum was so deep in thought, he grew careless.

  “Halt!”

  Slocum’s hand flew to his six-shooter, then he froze. Shooting a guard would only bring the rest of the camp down on his head. He faced the man in the ill-fitting suit. He had slipped back into his shoe but hobbled a mite as he stepped toward Slocum, the rifle swinging about.

  “Be careful with that thing,” Slocum said in a husky whisper. “I’m here to relieve you.”

  “Dr. Hayden told me I’d be out here for another hour.”

  “Then go back to patrolling. I can use the sleep,” Slocum said, coughing to cover his voice even more.

  “No, wait. If the doctor told you to come out, then I must have gotten the times wrong.”

  “Go on, get some sleep,” Slocum said. He had to turn his face away as the man handed over the rifle. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

  That produced a genuine laugh and sealed the deal.

  The would-be guard hobbled off, chuckling at his good fortune. Slocum quietly retrieved his horse, rode away from the camp about fifty yards, found a stump and rested the rifle against it, then faded into the darkness. The derelict guard might be chewed out for deserting his post, but Slocum doubted it. If someone found the rifle, he would consider himself lucky and never figure out what had happened since nothing would be missing from camp.

  * * *

  Slocum rode back into the camp as they were hitching the teams and preparing to head northward. He waved to the man he had relieved of guard duty the night before, then trotted to the head of the line, where Ferdinand Hayden sat astride a powerful black stallion. To Slocum’s surprise, the man’s seat looked secure and he seemed in full control of the spirited horse.

  “You’re back,” Hayden said in a neutral tone.

  “I am. You mentioned a job as a scout. I’ve got some experience and nothing better to do. Since I’m heading north, too, I might as well get paid for it.”

  Hayden stared hard at Slocum, then said, “You were a Rebel, weren’t you?”

  “I was. And you were a Federal. From the look, you’re a medical doctor.”

  “I patched up my share of the wounded during the war,” Hayden said. “I saw more than my share die from Southern bullets.”

  “The war’s over.” Slocum tried to place the man’s accent. Likely Massachusetts, and if it wasn’t his home, Slocum knew he wasn’t off by much.

  �
��It is, sir, it is. Well over. What is your experience?”

  Slocum told of a few parties he had scouted for. Hayden’s expression never changed, but one of them must have hit the mark because he finally pursed his lips, then nodded.

  “You’re hired. Five dollars a week, grub, and privileges.”

  “What might those privileges be?” Slocum asked in surprise.

  Hayden grinned.

  “Why, no one’s ever asked. I don’t rightly know. The people in this expedition are all so dedicated to mapping the Yellowstone, they might have paid for the chance to accompany me rather than I paying them.”

  “What’s the first thing you need? The road’s pretty much blazed. From the look of traffic, it’ll be a few more days before we run out of it.”

  “Ride along, get a feel for the company. You’re with scientists intent on their studies. My other two scouts lit out at dawn. I have no idea where they are or I’d advise you to get acquainted with them also.”

  Slocum had figured that out from everything Hayden said. Mostly Northerners, mostly stolen away from universities and government agencies in Washington. From the way the expedition leader talked of the other scouts, he wasn’t satisfied with their skill.

  “What’s that wagon?” Slocum pointed to the tall, enclosed wagon he had seen the lovely woman enter the night before. “Looks like a wagon more at home in a gypsy caravan.”

  “Ah, the Romany,” Hayden said. “That’s a rolling darkroom. We have a fine photographer with us to capture the exact details of the land. William Henry Jackson is both a painter and a photographer. You might have heard of him.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “He is as famous as Mathew Brady.”

  “Him, I’ve heard of,” Slocum said. “He in the expedition, too?”

  “Hardly. Dealing with Mr. Jackson’s temperament is difficulty enough for me without adding to the mix. At times I think William is more artist than photographer, though there is considerable artistry involved in what he does. He plans to do large-sized photographs.”

  Slocum heard the gurgling of liquids in the wagon. He knew a little of the process used by photographers. Once the glass plate was exposed, it was dipped in a variety of noxious chemicals until a negative appeared. From this a print could be made. That all the equipment necessary resided in the wagon was nothing less than a marvel.

  “Be sure to introduce yourself to those in the party.” Hayden put his heels to his stallion’s flanks and rocketed away to speak with a man struggling to control his team, giving advice and pointing out that the driver should avoid the larger rocks in the road.

  Slocum trotted forward and came even with the driver of the photographic wagon. A slow smile came to his lips.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his Stetson. The woman expertly handled the team.

  “Why, good morning, sir. Do I know you?”

  Slocum introduced himself.

  “I am Marlene Wilkes.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Wilkes. You do more than drive this wagon?”

  “I am Mr. Jackson’s assistant, though he does not openly acknowledge me as such.”

  “You take photographs?” Seeing her eyebrows arch in surprise, Slocum explained that Hayden had told him the nature of the wagon.

  “I am sure he was quite precise. That is his way. That makes him an excellent cartographer.”

  “He had nice things to say about your employer, too. Not only a photographer but an artist.”

  “Quite a famous one,” Marlene said.

  Slocum sat a little straighter as an idea hit him.

  “How does he carry the finished paintings?”

  He barely listened as Marlene explained how special crates had been built for this purpose. She described the cases Dillingham had built to a tee.

  “Where is he?”

  “Oh, you mean to ask why he isn’t driving? That you imply that’s a chore not fit for a woman?”

  Slocum smiled crookedly and said, “I’ve seen women muleskinners who were tougher than men with their teams.”

  “Are you implying I am one of these women . . . tough muleskinners?”

  “I haven’t been around long enough to know what you’re good at—other than handling this team.”

  “William is ahead doing sketches,” she said, her smile matching Slocum’s. “We shall be stopping soon for the noon meal.”

  “Ahead, you say?”

  “If I know him, he will be sketching those mountains yonder. They have a certain majesty to them that would undoubtedly appeal to him.”

  “They call this range the Grand Tetons.” Slocum squinted a bit. “Because they look like a woman’s tits from far enough away.”

  “Sir! I am outraged!”

  Slocum laughed and galloped away. Marlene sounded anything but outraged, and the look of the mountains made it hard to describe them in any other fashion. His good humor faded as he rode ahead, on the lookout for fresh tracks. It took him only a few minutes to see the shod hoofprints. Since it had rained the night before, these had to be recent. And being shod, the tracks didn’t belong to an Indian pony. When the tracks veered away from the main road, Slocum followed.

  A mile off the road he came to rolling meadow, fresh and green and fragrant with an explosion of flowers in its spring glory. But even Slocum could appreciate the beauty of the mountains as seen from here. Not a half mile across the meadow he saw a small figure moving about restlessly. Slocum shielded his eyes and made out an easel all set up. The artist moved across the dull white canvas often enough for him to get a decent look at the man.

  This had to be William Jackson.

  Slocum rode slowly to avoid spooking the man, but from the amount of concentration he put into his work, nothing short of a gunshot would pull him away. Slocum guessed that even this might not be enough unless he put the slug into the man’s arm and forced him to drop his paintbrush.

  The artist worked quickly. In the time it took Slocum to cover the distance between them, most of the scene had been sketched in. Jackson worked with quick, sure strokes, hardly paying any attention to the palette but shifting his gaze back and forth between the mountain scenery and his canvas.

  “Mighty fine drawing,” Slocum said.

  Jackson turned, glared, then returned to work without a word.

  “You been with the Hayden expedition all the way from Salt Lake City?”

  “Sir,” the artist said, not bothering to turn, “I am working. Whoever you are and whatever you think you’re doing, leave me be. I have little time.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Slocum dismounted, eased the leather thong off the Colt’s hammer, and moved around to see the man’s hands. If he dropped the paintbrush or palette and went for a gun, Slocum was ready to throw down on him. Marlene Wilkes had said it had been Jackson who’d ordered the special cases made. The dandy with his purple coat and silk britches must be nothing more than another assistant.

  “The light, sir, the light! And that damnable Hayden you mentioned has his own purpose, and it is not to capture the beauty of the land. He wants to turn this—this—into nothing more than connected lines on a sheet of paper. A topographical map has no beauty, no sense of nature. Now leave me alone.”

  “You hear about a robbery from Sean Innick?”

  “I have never heard of this man. What is he to me?” Jackson turned and faced Slocum squarely. “More to the point, what is he to you that you continue to annoy me? Has this Innick sent you to be my person from Porlock? Are you to interrupt greatness and deny the world a glimpse of true beauty?”

  “Innick’s wife had her jewelry stolen,” Slocum said, studying the man closely. “I retrieved most of it, all save a ruby. That’s a red gemstone.”

  “I know what a ruby is, dolt!”

  �
��You hire a thief to steal it?”

  “You are both annoying and insulting! Go away. Do you work for Hayden? I must have words with him about the low quality of his employees. I told him not to hire local ruffians.”

  “Marshal Smith might have questions for you about the theft,” Slocum said. His hand moved to the butt of his six-shooter.

  “I don’t know this Smith, Innick, or you. Now leave or I shall have to thrash you.” Jackson put down his brush and palette and stepped toward Slocum.

  The artist didn’t look like a barroom brawler. Slocum considered whether to throw down and put an end to this or maybe trade a few punches. He knew he would prevail, and hitting the man a few times would loosen his tongue about stealing the ruby.

  As Jackson moved, he skinned out of his white smock. Beneath it he wore a dull brown coat with matching trousers, a plaid vest, and a dingy shirt that poked out at the collar.

  “You have special cases made up for your paintings?” Slocum asked.

  Jackson stopped in his tracks and stared.

  “You are a peculiar man. Of course I have carrying cases for my work.”

  This satisfied Slocum that he could drag the artist back to Otter Creek and let the marshal deal with him. The ruby had to be in the man’s belongings, perhaps hidden in that fancy darkroom wagon. Slocum rested his hand on his pistol when he hard a loud cry.

  “Mr. Jackson! Dr. Hayden wants to see you immediately.”

  Slocum chanced a quick look over his shoulder. Marlene Wilkes rode toward them, waving. Slocum didn’t know if she waved to him or to draw her employer’s attention. Whichever it was, he did not draw. Taking Jackson into custody would require considerable explanation he wasn’t up to making in front of the woman. She obviously thought the world of William Jackson.

  “Oh, bother,” Jackson said, lowering his balled fists. He picked up his white smock and tossed it back over a case. By now Marlene had ridden up and sat astride her horse only a few yards away. “Do pack up all this, will you, Miss Wilkes? How can a man get any work done with all these interruptions?” He glared at Slocum, spun, and stalked to his horse.