Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) (10 page)

“My, my, the cold's caused something to shrink,” the madam said, looking at two exposed crotches.

“'Twarn't so big to start, but they did smallify real quick,” said the scrawny woman.

“Why don't you take our freshly scrubbed guests inside? To the cellar.”

“Please, I cain't take more o' this,” Kel said, his teeth chattering. “I'm getting frostbit.”

“Then you'll like it when my girls warm you up.”

Slocum looked sharply at Madeleine, wondering what she had in mind. It wasn't what Kel and Malcolm thought. Both men still shook from the cold, but smiles lit up their ugly faces.

“Down to the cellar,” the redhead ordered. A cellar door swung open and the two men were shoved down.

“You want to watch, Mr. Slocum? It can be instructive.”

“I've seen Apaches torture their captives,” Slocum said.

“Oh, my, no! We're not savages. We are . . . ladies.” Madeleine kicked shut the cellar door. “My girls will tie them down, naked of course, then show them how exciting it can be to have a feather drawn all over their bodies. Then they'll soak their feet in saltwater and let a couple goats lick it off.”

“After hiking all the way back to town, that sounds a mite painful.”

“There's a thin divide between pleasure and pain. Both of them might just die laughing as the goats have their way with them.”

“Might be the goats know them already,” Slocum said. This produced a genuine peal of laughter from the madam.

“Do come inside where it's warm, Mr. Slocum. You have delivered what I asked for. It is up to me to give as good in return.”

He followed her up the back steps, torn between watching the sway of her bustle and trying to ignore the shrieks of increasingly hysterical laughter coming from the cellar. Somewhere he remembered hearing that this kind of torture had been used by European torturers years back. There were more ways to torment a man than with a branding iron or knife.

“Don't go feeling too bad for them,” she said, ushering him into the sitting room. “I am sure they are the ones who peeped through the windows as my girls worked. Once I am sure they spied on me undressing. They are despicable examples of humanity.”

“And they tried to rob you.”

“Money is replaceable. A woman's dignity is more difficult to mend.” She looked at him and shook her head. “You don't believe soiled doves can have dignity?”

“Doesn't seem to go with the job,” he said.

“We can, we do. Not all of us, but I prefer to run my establishment in that fashion however possible.” She poured more whiskey for him, indicated he should sit in the love seat, and then sank down beside him.

He was aware of the warmth from her leg pressing into his and the exotic perfume she wore. It wasn't applied like most whores. It was more subtle, only a drop or two meant to incite his senses. It worked. He took the whiskey and held it up for a toast.

She clicked glasses with him as he said, “To a job well done.”

“That is important to you, isn't it, Mr. Slocum?”

“A man has to live by something. You want dignity, I want to do the honorable thing.”

“It no doubt gets you into some real pickles,” she said. She sipped at her drink and looked at him coquettishly over the rim. Then she downed the rest in a gulp and gingerly put the empty glass on a side table. “Your honor requires you to find what I know.”

Slocum said nothing. He knocked back his whiskey and set the glass on the rug beside his foot so he wouldn't have to reach past her to the side table.

“Very well. You wanted information about the treasure up in the hills. Here's what I know.” Madeleine settled back so she could look at him from an angle. Her leg pressed more firmly into his in this position.

Slocum felt himself responding to her warmth, her nearness, then forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.

“There likely is a considerable amount of gold hidden away in those winding canyons,” she started. “Last year about this time, four men robbed a train up north of a large quantity of gold on its way from the Carson City mint to the bank vaults in San Francisco. I never heard the details of the robbery.” She primly pressed her skirts flat. “That wouldn't interest you, would it, Mr. Slocum? I am sure you have come up with your own schemes to rob trains successfully.”

She watched him for a reaction. He tried not to even blink. This was a woman who accumulated all the tiny details of a man in order to manipulate and control him. The less she guessed about Slocum, the better off he would be.

“A posse immediately formed and chased the robbers into the mountains and all about for some days. Two of the train robbers where killed. The other two were captured some days later, but without the gold.”

“They hid it?”

“That is the story. The federal deputy marshal leading the posse had his orders. He strung up the two men.”

“And one told the deputy where the gold was hidden in exchange for being released?”

“Astute, but then perhaps you have been in a similar situation. That of the deputy, of course.” She still poked and prodded, watching for any response.

“The two thieves were duly hanged. Perhaps one told the deputy where the gold was hidden, but the deputy had a streak of larceny in him. To immediately go to the hiding place meant the others in the posse would know it had been recovered. A small reward might have been offered.”

“But the deputy wouldn't be able to collect. It was his job to recover the gold.”

“That is the rumor. The deputy knew but returned with his posse to Sacramento.”

“And?”

“And barely had he ridden into town than he was shot from the saddle by a jealous lover. Or perhaps it was a man he had arrested at some earlier time. I prefer the story to include a spurned lover. He was taken to a doctor's surgery, where he died.”

“A deathbed confession and he told the doctor where to find the gold?”

“That would explain how someone in Sacramento came to know the location and relate it to those murdered out in the mountains, including the husband of the woman you share your hotel room with.”

“She didn't know any of that.”

“Indeed? Or perhaps she chose not to tell you. The lure of gold might be more compelling than the life of a husband—or lover.”

“Who massacred them?”

“Your Mirabelle's husband and friends? Why, that I do not know. It likely was someone in Grizzly Flats since everyone here is always on the lookout for gold coins lying around. The lure of thousands of dollars from a train robbery would be irresistible.”

“To you, too?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Slocum, to me also. I am only human. More than this, I have learned to give in to my weaknesses since they are far more fun than anything from my saintly urgings. However, I value some things more highly than I do gold. My freedom, for instance. The chance to determine my own destiny. As you have discerned, I have an overwhelming need to be in control.”

“You have any idea who in town might be responsible? For the killings out in the mountains?”

“I cannot help but think whoever kidnapped you after Eckerly's funeral and those killers are one and the same.”

Slocum was disappointed. He had come to the same conclusion, but couldn't put any names to the masked men responsible for almost killing him.

“Thanks,” he said, getting up. On impulse he took Madeleine's hand and kissed the back, then turned it over and kissed her palm.

“You are a constant source of amazement to me, Mr. Slocum. Do come back when you find the killers—and the gold.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said.

He reached the door before she called after him, “If you don't find either, do think on coming back anyway.”

He stepped out into the light of a brisk, new day and went back to the hotel where Mirabelle slept peacefully.

10

Slocum sat in a chair at the back of the Damned Shame and watched the customers come and go. Tonight was slow, and there wasn't a lot for him to do other than talk to the men and try to get them to buy just one more drink. This part of his job didn't appeal to him. Men shouldn't be enticed into drinking more. Hell, most of them had to be convinced not to drink till they puked their guts up on the sawdust-covered floor. Still, Slocum knew that the better business Malone did, the more likely he was to pay Slocum.

The autumn weather was turning colder as it edged into outright winter, and Slocum considered staying in Grizzly Flats. If he decided that wasn't the thing to do, he had to move on soon. He had taken the two gold coins from Mirabelle to find who had murdered her husband, but the trail kept winding around and coming at him from the wrong direction. Whoever had taken him out into the hills and beat on him were tied into the killings. He was sure of that. If for no other reason than to get revenge on the men, staying in Grizzly Flats seemed likely.

He touched his bandaged side. Mirabelle had done a good job changing the dressings to keep them from infecting his wound. The shallow crease left by the bullet along his rib refused to heal properly and continued to make sudden movement painful.

Whoever he owed for the wounds, he would pay. In full.

He snapped out of his reverie when Marshal Willingham waddled into the room. His bowlegs seemed more pronounced tonight than before. The man favored one foot as he walked. Slocum had to smile, remembering what Madam Madeleine had said about Willingham triggering the round into his own foot showing off his fast draw. For a man so full of himself, that had to be something he would never live down. Slocum had to wonder what more Madeleine knew about him to keep him in line.

The marshal went to the end of the bar and slapped it a couple times with the flat of his hand. Malone looked sour, then walked the length to bend over to get within a couple inches. He whispered almost a minute to the marshal, who turned red in the face. Slocum slid the leather thong off the hammer on his Colt, sure that the marshal was going to swing at the bar owner.

He didn't relax when Willingham settled down a mite and leaned forward, his face coming even closer to Malone's. The argument went back and forth faster now, neither man monopolizing the talk. When the marshal slammed his hand down hard again, he turned and left without even a glance backward. Malone leaned forward on the bar, head bowed. He finally shoved back and put on a fake smile when he talked to a pair of bank tellers whose only crime was letting their beer mugs go dry.

Whatever argument the Damned Shame's owner had with the marshal never came to an end. Slocum tried to remember how many times the two had had words since he'd come to town. If Willingham had been a customer, Slocum would have cheerfully thrown his ass into the street, but the marshal never ordered a drink. Slocum considered this since he doubted the marshal was a teetotaler.

If his reception at the Lazy Ass wasn't likely to be so choleric, he'd be interested to find if Willingham wet his whistle there. Cassarian wouldn't give Slocum the time of day, though.

He shot to his feet when he saw two men ganging up on a third at a poker table. Standing over them quieted the dispute. One man grumbled about the cards running too lucky for the old-timer across from him.

“Why don't you let the deck cool off and have another drink?” Slocum suggested.

The two gamblers grumbled but left. The old man stroked his scraggly beard, then pointed to an empty chair and said, “Why not take a load off, Slocum?”

“Don't mind if I do.” Slocum settled down. This was as good a spot to watch over the peace inside the saloon walls as in the back.

“I heard tell you been askin' 'round about Deputy Underhill.” The old man chuckled. “That's where he ended up. Good name. Underhill.”

“Don't know him,” Slocum said. “He one of Willingham's deputies?”

“Willingham's too cheap to hire any help but his own kin. Them two deputies? Both nephews. He takes the whole amount the town gives him and keeps it. Hell's bells, he don't even patch up that jail of his, but you know that firsthand. You see the rust on the cell bars?”

“I have,” Slocum said. “From your knowledge of it, you must know firsthand, too.” Small towns were bad when it came to gossip. That was the only entertainment most men in the saloons had, and this old geezer partook of it. “You sound like you're making my business yours.”

“Nothing like that. Just that you're a newcomer. Done talked out about all the others in town, 'cept maybe Madam Madeleine. She's not one who's easy to know.”

“Unless you have enough money,” Slocum said, joking.

“You ain't forked over any money and word is you and her are gettin' to be real good friends.” The man winked broadly.

“I did some business for her with the two sneak thieves that—”

“Herb and Kel, yeah, I know 'em. Worthless, the pair of them. Completely worthless. Just like the deputy.”

“Who's this deputy you're going on about? I haven't come across anybody named Underhill in town. I might have thrown out a drunk by that name, but I never bother asking for pedigrees before I do.”

“She tole you 'bout the gold. That's what I heard.”

“Madam Madeleine? She's confiding all this in you?”

“Well, not her but one of her ladies. The one what has some meat on her bones? Her and me, we get together now and again and she tole me you wanted to know about Deputy Underhill chasin' down them train robbers.”

“What's your interest?”

“Why, Slocum, I was in the posse. Underhill offered me a dollar a day and a cut of any reward given up by the railroad. Never recovered the gold, and the railroad didn't care that we strung up two of them varmints.”

“He came here? To Grizzly Flats?”

“Naw, I was over in Sacramento back then. Worked as an apprentice to a blacksmith.” He held out his arm. It bent at an odd angle. “Worked there 'til I bunged myself up too bad to swing a hammer. Deputy Underhill came by askin' for folks able to shoot and ride. I could do that, even if I couldn't hammer out a horseshoe no more.”

Slocum listened hard to what the old man said. There was bragging tossed in, but there didn't seem to be any lying.

“Madam Madeleine said the deputy might have been told right at the end where the gold was hidden.”

“At the end,” chuckled the old man. “At the end of a rope! I watched him dance around, kickin' up his heels. Scared, too, when they put that rope 'round his neck. After his horse got whacked and galloped off, not so much. He tried to talk, and that's when Underhill got all excited.”

“What the deputy heard was the reason he was het up?”

“That's the way I saw it. He tole Underhill something. Whispered right in his ear. The deputy lit up like the sun comin' out from under a storm cloud, then he smacked the horse and let the varmint dangle.”

“But Underhill took that to his grave. That's what Madam Madeleine said.”

“Reckon so, but I was close enough to overhear. Just a bit.”

Slocum sat straighter and stared hard at the man. He still didn't hear any lying in the man's voice. But something more entered. Greed. In a way, this made dealing with the old man easier. Slocum understood his motives better.

“Why haven't you gone out hunting for the gold yourself? The deputy's dead. Nobody else would know.”

“Have, but not able to get around all that well anymore.” He shoved out his leg. It was as twisted up as his arm. “I got kicked by a horse. Busted my knee. Keeps me from riding and ain't no way you're drivin' a buggy out there. And don't even think o' askin' me about my pecker. You don't wanna know, believe you me.”

“Why are you telling me? About Underhill?”

“Ain't nobody else in town ever asked 'bout Underhill 'fore now.”

“But the gold has been a big topic lately,” Slocum said.

The man nodded sadly.

“That loudmouth what come into town braggin' on findin' the gold.”

“Sennick?” Slocum had suspected something of the sort.

“Tried to get folks to buy him drinks claimin' he was gonna be rich real soon 'cuz him and the others had found the gold.”

“Who kept his whiskey glass filled?” Slocum asked.

“Nary a soul. Folks in Grizzly Flats knowed 'bout the gold for years and that it ain't been found.” The old man lowered his voice and leaned forward. “But I know the gold's out there. And I don't think that blabbermouth found it.”

“He got himself killed,” Slocum said.

“Don't surprise me none. Hadn't heard. Did whoever kill him get the gold?”

“Anyone left Grizzly Flats recently?”

The old man chuckled, then nodded his shaggy head before saying, “You're a dangerous man, Slocum. You think things through. Nope, ain't nobody left, so that means they ain't found the gold!”

Slocum hadn't heard of anyone spreading around money. Grizzly Flats was a town hanging on by the skin of its teeth. If the killers had found the money, they'd be spending it and drawing attention to themselves. It had been their bad luck to believe Sennick. The gold might have been found, but they killed the only man likely to know where it was.

And Isaac Comstock hadn't told his wife.

“That makes what I overheard even more valuable,” the man said.

“How do you figure?”

“Somebody was willing to kill Sennick for the gold but didn't find it. That don't mean he's stopped lookin'.”

“And you overheard what the robber told Underhill? What would it take for you to pass along those last words?”

“Now you're talkin', Slocum, now you're talkin'. I couldn't get my tongue around the right words for anything less than . . . a case o' whiskey.”

“That much?” Slocum said, not doing too good a job of keeping the sarcasm from his tone. The old galoot would kill himself trying to drink that much booze. It would be irresistible.

Slocum just had to be sure the man told him what he wanted before breaking the seal on the first bottle.

“Deal,” Slocum said, reaching across the table to shake hands. The man's grip was weak, and Slocum thought he heard bones grinding together up above the forearm where he had been injured. The glee on the man's face told that he thought the promise of so much popskull outweighed any pain he might feel now.

With a case, he could avoid the pain for weeks.

“I'll be at my place. Just outside town, to the west. When can you get the whiskey?” The old man licked his lips in anticipation.

“An hour,” Slocum said, checking his watch. By then the crowd would be gone and Malone would chase him away to keep from paying him one penny more than necessary.

The man scooted his chair back and hobbled away into the cold night. Slocum rocked back in his own chair, watching him go. Getting the case of whiskey wasn't hard. Malone kept a couple dozen cases stacked in the back room, but Slocum thought it was a good idea not to tell his boss what he wanted. Beefsteak had been jumpy ever since Slocum disappeared for the couple days, recuperating from the beating he'd gotten. It was likely that the bar owner no longer trusted him.

That didn't bother Slocum too much. He scented gold—and maybe the answer to who had killed Mirabelle's husband and the others.

“Slocum! Slocum,” called Beefsteak. “I got to go for a minute. I musta et somethin' that don't agree with me.”

“Want me to tend bar?”

“Don't let these thieves walk off with anything, that's all. After I stink up the outhouse, I'll be right back.” Malone walked half bent over toward the back room, arms over his belly.

Slocum vaulted the bar and got a different view of the Damned Shame. It always seemed to him that simply turning around could give a new perspective on life. From here he had a commanding view of the entire room. He also saw three six-shooters stuck into holsters nailed under the bar, as well as the sawed-off shotgun. Malone was ready for anything. Even more than that, Slocum saw the open cash box.

He paused. There wasn't any way the owner could have counted the money yet. However, Beefsteak trusted him not to dip into the till.

“He must be real sick to run off like that,” a customer said. “Gimme a beer on the house, Slocum. Beefsteak'll never be the wiser.”

“Tell you what,” Slocum said, “I'll give you another beer but it's on
your
house.”

“You mean I hafta pay! Just like always?”

That got the sparse crowd arguing over whether the customer ever paid and, when he did, it was always late. This suited Slocum just fine. It kept the men entertained and saved him from being forced to improvise some exotic drink asked for now and then. Malone never had a problem as a master bartender with such requests. Slocum didn't know if the man knew the right mixes or if he made them up as he went along.

“You gonna let us stay all night, Slocum?”

“No need for me to say,” Slocum answered. “The boss is back.”

Malone came from the back room, rubbing his belly.

“Damn, I thought I was goin' up like a skyrocket the way that came out.”

Slocum didn't want to hear about the barkeep's digestive problems, but everyone else did. He took the opportunity to slip into the back room and grab a case of whiskey. Dropping it just outside the door, he intended to retrieve it when Beefsteak finally dismissed him for the night. He could pay for the liquor if—when—the owner noticed it was missing.

Twenty minutes later, Malone called, “Down the hatch, everybody. I want to get some sleep.”

“That what you call it, cattin' around with that whore down at Skinny Annie's?” This set off a new round of discussion that ended ten minutes later with everyone out in the street and Beefsteak Malone slamming the front doors behind them.