Slocum #422 (5 page)

“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.

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?”

“She's been acting the proper lady, sir. Her maid's a bit of a hellion, though.”

Burlison's eyebrows arched. “Sarah Jane? Are we talking about the same girl? Sarah Jane was hired to hold down my daughter's high spirits. My wife and I interviewed dozens of young ladies before deciding on her.”

Slocum thought that the daughter's wild ways might have been passed along to Sarah Jane but said nothing.

“I escorted them back to the train.”

“Escorted?”

“They'd gone into town to do some sightseeing. It wasn't anything that could get them into trouble,” Slocum said, working to keep his face impassive. He had won big poker pots that way. This lie took all his skill.

“I respect your desire not to get my daughter into trouble, sir,” Burlison said.

“You hired me to keep her out of trouble. That's what I'm doing.”

Burlison slapped him again on the back and laughed. “Good man. You go clean up while I talk to my daughter.”

“Depending on when the Yuma Bullet leaves, I need to get into town to buy some clothes.” Before he could ask Burlison for an advance on the promised pay, the man waved him off.

“I'll have none of that. Jefferson can fetch you some of my discarded clothing. It should fit you reasonably well.” He stepped back and studied Slocum critically. “Can't do anything about the boots. My feet are considerably smaller than yours, but a shirt, coat, and vest and pants can serve you. Sarah Jane is adept with a needle. She can tailor the clothing for you on the way across the Sonora Desert. That's a boring, barren stretch of hot sand. Utterly boring. Nothing ever happens there that's worth mentioning.”

He went off muttering to himself. Slocum took a deep breath and found himself a little woozy. From the tickling down his back, he realized he was still bleeding. With the earlier loss of blood from Big Joe's buckshot, he needed a thick juicy steak to build up his strength. At the moment peeling off the filthy duds and getting cleaned up would have to do.

He went to the second Pullman car and made his way up the iron steps. He heard a muffled argument between Burlison and Marlene in the other car. Going in, he stopped and stared, thinking he had entered Marlene's car by mistake. But she and her father were in the other, and this was hooked up in front of the mail car, indicating it was of lesser importance. If this was where he had to endure the Sonora Desert and the rest of the trip to Texas, he was in tall clover.

He stooped and tested the softness of the couch along one wall. It was a sight better than sleeping on the hard ground under the stars with nothing more than a threadbare blanket over his shoulders. Moving toward the rear of the car, he found a small bathroom, a ­copper-­plated tub set to one side. A stove outside was perfect for heating not only water but the entire car if there had been a need. Crossing the desert in late spring reduced the need to use the stove. And that presented Slocum with a dilemma. He needed to haul water for the tub and heat it in a stove lacking fuel.

“There's plenny o' coal from the tender.”

Slocum turned to see the conductor with clothing draped over his arm. Jefferson dropped it to a chair.

“Mistah Burlison he said that was foah you. Ain't never heard tell o' him givin' 'way his clothes before.”

“I ruined what I was wearing.” Slocum turned to show his back.

“Lordy, you did a deed. I'll get watah heatin' and you set yo'sef down in the tub. Won't take long, hot watah and coal.”

Slocum went into the small bathroom and gingerly peeled off his shirt. He felt strips sticking to his wounds. That had to come off in the bath. After he hung up his ­six-­shooter on a clothes hook, he sat on the edge of the bathtub and worked off his boots. Wiggling his toes felt good. He looked up when Jefferson came into the room with two large buckets.

“This heah watah's pipin' hot aw'ready. Got it from the Bullet's boiler. You be careful gettin' in. I got more watah heatin' on the stove.”

Jefferson sloshed plenty of water in. Steam rose. Just holding his hand in the rising heat soothed Slocum. Before he shucked off his pants, he grabbed a bar of soap and sniffed at it. Ladies' perfumed soap would make him stink to high heaven. Somehow, he didn't care what Jefferson or Mad Tom or any of the other crew thought about that. The memory of being clean was so distant he would gladly trade a bit of stinkum for that feeling again.

He stepped into the water. It stung but he plunged on in. The hot water burned the spot on his leg where Big Joe had shot him. He peeled off the bandage and tossed it aside, then slowly lowered himself in the water. It sloshed about but didn't go over the sides. The tub proved larger than he had thought. He couldn't quite stretch out his long legs, but sitting up, his back against the tall end, let him relax. He closed his eyes and began to drift off to sleep. Slocum came awake with a start when the soap slipped from his hand.

“I'll get it for you.”

He jerked around as a hand plunged under the water hunting for the soap and found something more. The fingers stroked along his thigh, his inner thigh, then a tad higher until they danced over his privates.

“There's no need to be so tense,” Sarah Jane said. “I do this all the time. I'm quite expert.” Her fingers stroked over him, circled him, began to gently squeeze until he hardened under her erotic aggression.

“Do you do this for Morgan Burlison?”

Sarah Jane jerked back and angrily spat like a wet cat. Before she could protest, Slocum grabbed her arms and pulled her back to the side of the tub to give her a long, hard kiss. She fought a few seconds, then melted. Her kiss turned into an amazing dance of her tongue slipping and sliding past his, dueling and teasing.

“I want that kind of motion,” she said breathlessly. “But down lower and with this.” She grabbed hold of his organ and stroked vigorously.

Slocum didn't think he could get much harder, but he did just by thinking about possessing this wicked, wild woman. Hands wet and fingers slippery with soap, he worked to get her blouse open. Her breasts tumbled out, naked and free. They bobbed just enough to entice him to bend lower. The water in the tub sloshed out onto the floor, but he didn't care. All he could see were those two creamy globes capped with brownish nips. As he sucked one of those fleshy caps between his lips, he felt the hammering of her heart. He pressed down with his tongue as he increased suction.

She arched her back, trying to jam her entire tit into his mouth. He denied her. Running his tongue about in a spiral, he slipped down one slope and worked his way up the other to repeat his licking and teasing.

“You like that, don't you?”

“I want more. I told you. I'm wet. For you.”

“I know,” Slocum said. He slipped around in the tub and pulled her in so she straddled his legs.

His hands reluctantly stopped stroking over her chest and worked lower, pushing up under her clinging wet skirt. He found her trembling thigh. Squeezing and pinching lightly brought her to labored gasps. She almost passed out when his thumb slipped upward through the lush garden of her bush and into her innermost reaches. He gripped down around her leg with his fingers as he moved the thumb in and out. Strong inner muscles tried to clamp down on him, to hold him, to get the most possible excitement imaginable from his hand. But his thumb was too small.