Slocum and the Lady Detective Read online

  As he reached the wood wall to peer over it, motion from the corner of his eye sent him diving forward. He vaulted the logs, hit the ground, spun about, and used the low wall to good advantage. Slugs ripped into the wood. If he remained behind, he was safe from anything but a mountain howitzer.

  A slot had been left, probably for the defenders to peer out. Slocum used it to see a man crouched near a tumble of rocks fifty yards distant. Slocum would have put his camp in those rocks for greater security, but he suspected the outlaws wanted to be close to the river so they wouldn’t have to lug water as far. This tiny fort was their compromise between safety and laziness.

  “Give up. Throw up your hands, come out, and I’ll let you go. Don’t care if you’re tryin’ to steal from us!”

  Slocum frowned. The man sounded as if valuables had been left here. He scooted around and saw an iron box half buried at the vee of the piled logs.

  “All right,” Slocum shouted. “I don’t want trouble. I’m just passing through.” He tried to open the box to see what it contained, but it had been wedged under the logs and required some work to get it free. A fusillade ripping away splinters just above his head convinced him he didn’t have time. Being this near the box had probably provoked the man in the rocks to give up his lying ways about letting Slocum go free.

  “What’s in the box? That what you’re willing to kill me over?”

  As he spoke, he wiggled along to get to the far end of the vee of logs so he could peer around. He saw the man going crazy. He stood and fired wildly at the idea the box had been uncovered.

  Slocum braced the butt of his Colt Navy against the ground, took windage into account as well as distance, then elevated the muzzle just a tad. He squeezed off a round. Then another and another and another so the slugs would bracket his target. He let out a whoop of triumph when the outlaw jerked around and fell to hands and knees, then began crawling to get away.

  Slocum leaped to his feet and saw evidence that he had done more than wing the man. He had abandoned his rifle to slither into the rocks.

  Reloading as he crossed the distance to the rocks, Slocum heard a whimper coming from higher ground. He picked up the rifle, checked to be sure it was loaded and a round was chambered, then went hunting.

  He found the man sprawled over a large rock. Blood leaked out from under his body and puddled at the base of the rock. The mud there became an ugly mixture of dirt, water, and blood.

  “Drop your six-shooter,” Slocum ordered.

  The man moaned weakly. Then nothing.

  Wary of a trap, Slocum advanced and used the muzzle of the rifle to poke the man. Nothing. No movement. Slocum grabbed the back of the man’s shirt and heaved—and instantly regretted it. The man was dead with two of Slocum’s bullets high in his chest but the knife wound Elena had given Slocum hurt like a son of a bitch. He stepped back, then caught his breath. He was a bit woozy from pain but recovered to search the dead man’s pockets.

  A half-dozen double eagles dropped into the palm of his hand. Slocum held them up to the sun, then bit down on each to examine the depression. A grin spread on his face. These were legal coins. He not only had gotten back his original coin but a hundred dollars, to boot.

  Nothing else in the outlaw’s pockets proved of any interest. Unlike the Eakin boy, this outlaw didn’t have any map. But then Slocum hardly needed it since he knew what was in the strongbox chucked under the logs.

  He walked back, only to fight back waves of blinding pain. It was as if a red curtain had been pulled across his vision. More than once he had to stop as he clutched his side. There wasn’t any new bleeding. For that he was thankful but the pain made every step a trial. He finally reached the camp and sat at the vee of the logs. Working his legs up and over, he dropped to the ground next to the strongbox.

  Curiosity drove him now to see what was inside.

  As he brushed off the dirt and worked to get the box from under the log, he heard a pistol cock behind him.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  Slocum sagged in surrender. He had reached the end of his endurance.

  6

  Slocum looked up, anger flaring.

  “I told you before that I’m not one of the gang.”

  “Open the box. The one you were digging for so I can see what you found so interesting.”

  “I’ve killed more than one of the gang. How many more do I have to cut down before you believe me?”

  “You’re always in the right place at exactly the wrong time to make me believe you’re innocent,” she said, glaring at him. He wanted to take the six-shooter from her, turn her over his knee, and paddle her. The only trouble with that was the likelihood she’d get off two or three shots before he could even stand, much less reach her. She had stabbed him, so putting a few ounces of lead into him wasn’t likely to bother her unduly.

  “Some men are lucky like that,” Slocum said. He wished he had stayed in Denver, in spite of everything going against him there. Or why not ride north into Wyoming? The weather was getting better, but he had decided against that because of the still-vicious winds that whipped across the prairie. Lady Luck hated him by delivering him to Leadville and Elena Warburton.

  “Open it. And do it slowly.” With one hand, Elena picked up the tattered hem of her skirt while her other still clutched the six-gun. She stepped away, moved around to a spot where she could watch as Slocum pried up the metal lid.

  “I can’t tell if there’s a lock. Yeah, there. A lock—” He fell backward when Elena fired. The slug ripped through the lock and blew off the hasp. She not only had a rock-steady grip, she had an eagle eye and was a dead-center shot.

  “Open it,” she said, moving a little closer so she could peer into the box over his shoulder.

  Slocum grunted as he pulled the box out all the way from under the logs and dropped it on the soft dirt at her feet. He flipped open the lid and scowled. The afternoon sun reflected off lead slugs. He had expected to find nothing but double eagle twenty-dollar gold pieces inside.

  “Why’d they lock up this?” He scratched his head in wonder. “This can’t be worth the effort to carry it in a locked strongbox.”

  “The slugs are the perfect weight and size,” she said. “Since they already have milling on the edges, all that is needed is a stamp to make them look like real coins.”

  “And gold,” Slocum said. “There’d have to be paint to make it easier to pass for real coins.”

  “You know better, John. You put real gold on. Not much, just a thin layer. That way anyone scraping their fingernail over it and peeling away some will think they have a legitimate coin.”

  “Can’t say that I do know better,” he said. “Is there anything around you could use to stamp the coins?” He looked around the camp and saw nothing meriting more than a quick look.

  “You know better,” she said, color rising into her cheeks. “It requires precision instruments, a stamp, and a smith’s hammer. You were taking the planchets somewhere. Tell me where and I’ll testify in court how you helped in the investigation. I’m not sure I can get the judge to be lenient, but if you help, I’ll try.”

  “And only get me locked me up for a couple years?” Slocum said sarcastically. It was lost on the detective.

  “Perhaps four. Why, counterfeiting will get the ringleader ten years in a federal prison. Detroit Penitentiary will be overflowing with your partners by the time I’m through.”

  Slocum swung around and sat with his back to a log. He stared at her and knew no argument on his part would convince her he wasn’t part of the gang. If anything, he was as much a victim as anyone else being given one of the bogus coins, though he had recovered his original poke. He forced back the urge to press his fingertip against the vest pocket to trace the outline of the real coin, just to be sure it was still his. The bulge in another pocket from the other coins he had taken off the dead outlaw’s body would be a dead giveaway to the lady detective that he was one of the gang. Luckily, dirt an
d his own blood covered the lump.

  He started to ask what she intended to do if he refused to go along. Killing him in cold blood was an option, but he didn’t see that in her big brown eyes. She thought she was ruthless, but Slocum didn’t see the murderer in her. Now was the time to dig in his heels and refuse to budge rather than when they got closer to town and Marshal Atkinson.

  She stood a little straighter and cocked her head to one side, listening hard. Slocum leaned over so he could see past her.

  “We’ve got company. Looks to be a half-dozen men, and they’re not too friendly looking.”

  “I’ve got you as hostage. They’ll not want to see one of their own killed.”

  “Even if I was one of the gang, do you think that’d matter? They want what’s in the box, and a death or two won’t slow them down even for a second.”

  “What can we do?” She turned her six-gun sideways and stared at it as if she had never seen it before. “This is all the ammunition I have—what’s loaded already, I mean.”

  “There’s no way we could shoot it out with them,” Slocum said. The outlaws were fanning out to come at them from both flanks as well as straight ahead in a frontal assault.

  “I—” For the first time, Elena looked flustered and unsure of herself. “I can’t let them take the milled blanks. They’ll make them into fake coins.”

  “You think they’d be content with only getting the lead slugs back? More likely, they’ll want to kill me and . . .” Slocum let his voice trail off so she got the idea what would happen if they captured her. She turned as pale as a ghost.

  “No witnesses,” she said. “They might think I know where they’re taking the planchets.”

  “Got to be somewhere around here, but far enough away that they didn’t lug the box straight there. If they unloaded it from the train at the top of the hill, it’d take them a couple hours to get it down.”

  “The last train came through at sundown yesterday.”

  “That’s about right,” Slocum went on, watching how the outlaws moved closer, guns drawn and ready for a fight. “They probably intended to move the slugs today, or maybe they were waiting for these owlhoots.”

  “John, stop them. You know them. They’ll listen to you!”

  “They don’t know me.” His words were punctuated by a hail of bullets kicking up dirt and mud all around. The range was still too great for accurate shooting with a handgun, but the gang rode with determination and would be in range soon enough.

  “Oh, bother!” Elena stamped her foot, and returned fire.

  “You’re wasting your ammo,” he told her, somewhat amused at her display of anger. Then he sobered. They had to get the hell out of camp immediately, and he wasn’t sure the outlaws would let them go on their way, not after they found the lock box open.

  “We can take it. That’ll—”

  “Slow us down so they can overtake us and kill us,” Slocum said harshly. He got to his feet and grabbed her, spinning her around so he could shove her over the log wall. The gunfire came more accurately now. He winced as the hot breath of one slug came close to his cheek. Slocum vaulted the log and dropped behind it. He fumbled around for the rifle and found it thrust into his hands.

  “Here,” Elena said. “You’re a better shot than I am with a rifle.”

  Slocum braced the forward hand rest on the log and squeezed off a shot. He didn’t aim for the rider; he took out the horse under the outlaw. The rider flew forward, ass over teakettle, and hit the ground so hard he lay there stunned.

  Elena cheered. He grabbed her and pulled her back down.

  “There’re five more of them wanting our scalps.”

  “Th-They’d scalp us?”

  Slocum didn’t bother explaining. These men cared nothing about trophies—other than gold coins. He fired twice more and drove back the men coming fastest from his left flank.

  “Get our horses. We’re going to have to make a run for it.”

  “But the planchets!”

  “They can stay. You can stay with them, if you like. Me, I want to see tomorrow’s sunrise.”

  Grumbling, Elena scrambled on hands and knees, using the log as protection to grab for the reins of their horses. She tugged, got them moving, and returned to hunker down by Slocum.

  “What now?”

  “I’ve only got a couple rounds left in this rifle. Get in the saddle and start riding. Take my mare with you. But don’t ride too fast. Just get moving toward the woods.”

  “But what’ll you do? I’m not leaving you behind, John!”

  “Can’t get the notion of me being your prisoner out of your head?”

  Elena started to argue, then clamped her mouth shut and obeyed. Slocum waited for her to get in the saddle and start riding off before he stood, fired until the magazine came up empty, then turned and ran for his life. He slipped and slid in the mud but always got his balance back. He strained to reach up and finally grabbed the saddle horn. With a strong kick he sent himself flying into the air and pulled with all his might to land in the saddle.

  He grunted when he almost made it. He landed behind the saddle on his mare’s rump, momentarily causing her to break stride. Leaning forward and lifting, he found his seat. Elena tossed him the reins and then they were both galloping for the woods. He remembered a couple game trails that had angled off from the spot where he had tangled with the outlaw and took the first one since it led deeper among the trees.

  “They don’t dare come after us,” Elena said. “They’ll be sitting ducks.”

  “They would be if we had any ammo. What I’ve got left is in my saddlebags. No time to fish out the box of cartridges and reload my rifle.”

  He veered off the game trail when he saw a gentle slope going down to a rocky bank where a fast-running stream gave them the chance to camouflage their tracks. A little. The outlaws would know they had to ride away from pursuit, which took away some of the mystery, but Slocum looked for a rocky spot where they could exit the stream.

  “There. Come on, ride, dammit, ride!” He whipped his horse to get up the rocky slope and back into the thick of the woods. If the outlaws rode along the stream, they might miss the point where Slocum and Elena had exited.

  Rather than riding parallel to the stream, Slocum cut through increasingly dense woods. Pine, juniper, and oak above their heads cut off all afternoon light. That would make tracking them even harder. More than once he abruptly changed direction.

  “Where are we, John? I’m turned around!”

  “I hope they are, too,” Slocum said. His innate sense of direction told him they were heading back toward the broad green sweep of the valley. The outlaws might think they’d head for the far side of the valley, through the woods, in an attempt to find a trail up into the mountains again. Doubling back like this might throw the trackers off entirely.

  Maybe.

  If the counterfeiters weren’t too dedicated to the notion of wasting time hunting down obviously dangerous foes, he and Elena might get away scot-free.

  “My horse is all tuckered out,” Elena said. “Can we rest? Do we dare to stop?”

  Slocum drew rein and twisted about to listen for sounds of pursuit along their back trail. His side gave him a twinge, but it eased when he didn’t hear the outlaws crashing through the forest after them. He dared hope they had escaped.

  “We ought to go to ground,” he said. “That’ll give me a chance to reload my rifle and make a stand if they do find us.”

  “But they won’t, will they, John?”

  He looked at her. Another woman might have been panicky asking that question. For Elena Warburton, it was more of a request for information than assurance they wouldn’t be killed.

  “You’ve got nerves of steel,” he told her.

  “Not really. I was mighty scared back there.”

  “And now you’re mad that you couldn’t figure a way of dragging along the strongbox filled with lead slugs,” he finished for her. He got a laugh, which pleas
ed him. She was far prettier laughing than when she was peering down the barrel of a six-shooter aimed at him.

  “What do we do?”

  “We’re not too far from the valley floor, but if we leave the forest, they’re likely to spot us,” Slocum said.

  “Especially since this is the direction they’d travel with the planchets.”

  “Could be up the valley,” he pointed out.

  She shook her head. “No, I’ve been thinking about this as we rode. If they had intended going north, they would have cut in that direction immediately when they reached the bottom of the trail from the railroad up on the rim. They came this way because their stamping mill is somewhere farther on. We’re going in the right direction to catch them.”

  Slocum looked around and saw a ravine. He dismounted and went to it. The spring runoff had missed this deep cut in the forest.

  “Can we camp down there? Is that safe?”

  “No,” he said, “but camping on the other side, with this as a barrier to stop anyone coming for us, is safe.”

  “Safer,” she corrected. Elena reached out and laid her hand lightly on his arm. “Thank you for not leaving me behind.”

  “I suspect that’s harder to do than it sounds.”

  Again she laughed, and the sound was musical. She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked around.

  “I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

  “The trees and thick undergrowth muffle sound,” he said. Slocum worked his way down the side of the ravine and up the far bank. It took another twenty minutes before he found a hollow where they could camp in relative safety from being seen.

  “I wish we could have a fire,” she said, shivering. “When the sun went down, it got cold mighty fast.”

  “No fire,” he confirmed. “Even if they couldn’t see it through the trees, they could smell it.”

  “I know. I’m not stupid.”

  “Never said you were.” Slocum looked at the woman through the gathering darkness and saw that more than the cold was affecting her.