Slocum and the Thunderbird (8 page)

He looked up when a new customer came into the tent, standing for a moment holding the flap and them moving in quickly. Slocum sat a little straighter in his chair when he saw the man had a number 10 whitewashed on his forehead. He wore a six-gun slung low, tied down, and moved with the easy grace of a natural shootist.

The others in the tent subtly edged away from him, too. He got a drink, turned, and saw Slocum. A look of relief passed quickly, replaced with a touch of fear that made no sense in a man who likely made his living killing others with the pistol at his side. He came over.

“Mind if I set myself down, sir?”

Slocum indicated he could.

“I swear, them varmints treat me like I was the Grim Reaper himself.” The words had hardly escaped when he looked up, eyes going wide with more than a touch of fear. “Didn't mean nuthin' by that, sir.”

“Ten?” Slocum asked, tapping his own forehead to indicate the number painted on the man's.

“All I could afford. A hundred a month's mighty steep, but worth it,” he added hastily, as if criticism might offend Slocum.

“How long you been in town?”

“Got in jist 'fore the end of last month. Shoulda hung around and waited, I know, but payin' the extra money was worth it to git free of a federal marshal. When my time's up, I reckon he'll have given up on a cold trail.” He reached for the number on his forehead, then drew back as if the paint might burn his fingers.

“So you get to stay until the end of October?” Slocum asked.

“Of course. I paid fer it! You ain't gonna tell Mackenzie no different.”

“Settle down, partner,” Slocum said. “I'm looking for a man who just blew into town in the last few days.” He described Rawhide Rawlins. From the outlaw's expression, he hadn't seen Rawhide.

“Might be with the newcomers, if he didn't have 'nuff for the entire month.”

“Where's that?”

Slocum realized he had crossed a line and asking a question that might bring Mackenzie and his henchmen thundering down on him. Likely, everyone in Wilson's Creek knew where the newcomers were stashed.

“Better turn in fer the night. Good night, sir.” The numbered man stood and backed away, wary of Slocum shooting him in the back. In a flash he was outside the tent.

Slocum considered waylaying the man, then getting the information he needed. But how big could Wilson's Creek be? He left the tent saloon. A collective sigh of relief gusted from inside, then the gaiety he had heard before he'd entered returned. They thought he was someone he wasn't, possibly one of Mackenzie's handpicked killers.

The raucous laughter from the hotel down the street continued unabated. That had to be the head honcho's digs. Slocum veered away, cutting between tents and buildings until he reached the perimeter of the town. Again he wondered at the lack of guards. Why post them during the day but not at night?

He retrieved his horse and rode slowly around the edge of town until he saw lights some distance away, toward the hills to the west. Feeling bolder, he trotted about a mile to a deeply rutted road, then followed it toward a smaller version of the town. The namesake stream gurgled past this encampment before heading in the direction of Mackenzie's domain. Slocum slowed and looked at the arrangement of the buildings.

This looked more like a prison than most he had seen. If Rawlins wasn't in town, he had to be here. Slocum saw no way his partner in bank robbery could have avoided the guard towers on the road to the east. He wished he knew what had happened back in the canyon when Alicia had hightailed it. Had Rawlins been captured or had he bought his way into town?

He got within a hundred yards before deciding not to foolishly remain in the saddle. Again he left his gelding and crept forward on foot to scout. The sound of machinery drew him. A dozen men bent over sluices, working them back and forth as water from the stream raced down to separate gold from dross. Two men with shovels filled barrows. The men pushing the barrows disappeared on the far side.

Slocum took a deep whiff and choked. He had worked enough mines himself to recognize the pungent odor of mercury. The gold-bearing sand was treated with the mercury to form an amalgam, which was easily separated from gravel. The gold-mercury combination was then heated. The mercury fumes were captured and turned back into liquid metal while the gold was poured off into small ingots or left in pans to form pure dust. From the mercury odor and the roar of a fire blazing just out of sight inside a big building, he recognized a full-fledged mining operation.

And guards with rifles patrolled endlessly to keep the men working. Mackenzie had himself a considerable slave labor workforce.

Alicia had been right about this, at least. Slocum wondered which of those men might be her family members. Or if they toiled at the far more dangerous mercury extraction vats.

He watched long enough to know Rawhide wasn't among these men—these slaves. Slocum drifted through the buildings, hidden by heavy shadows. He found a bunkhouse filled with sleeping men and loud snores. Rawlins might be here. He started to lift the latch and enter when he heard the metallic click of a rifle being cocked behind him.

“You're a dead man if you so much as twitch toward that gun of yours,” came the cold command. “Get those hands up and turn around.”

Slocum did as he was told and saw he was in a worse predicament than he'd thought. Not one guard but three had caught him. He might throw down on one and hope to escape, but three? No way in hell was he going to shoot his way out of this.

“Put those rifles down,” Slocum snapped. He began lowering his hands slowly, watching to see if the command had any effect. He had been a captain in the CSA and had learned how to make green recruits obey. It looked as if he had kept his skills ordering men around.

The guards looked from him to the man who had told him to reach for the sky, as if asking what to do. Slocum kept up the bluff.

“I was sent to find Rawlins. Mackenzie's getting antsy because this Rawlins fellow was supposed to show up an hour ago back at the hotel and didn't.”

“Hotel?” The guard with the rifle still aimed at him wavered at the mention.

“You know the place,” Slocum said with enough sarcasm to turn green leaves brown. “In town, at the end of the street. Two-story place with the hotel sign dangling in front of it. Headquarters?” Slocum took a shot at saying the hotel was Mackenzie's HQ. From the men coming and going, he decided this wasn't too big a risk.

“'Course I do,” the guard said uneasily. The muzzle dipped lower. If Slocum wanted, he could throw down and get at least two of the guards.

There wasn't any call for him to throw lead.

“He wants Rawlins right now. He's going to be pissed if I don't get this galoot back.” He let the outlaw reach his own conclusion that anyone standing in Slocum's way was going to be in dutch with Mackenzie.

“Don't know this Rawlins. He one of the visitors?”

Slocum would have been at a loss if the guard hadn't moved unconsciously to touch his forehead. The men with numbers painted on their foreheads were called visitors. Slocum suspected they were called other things, but out of earshot. While Rawlins might have used the loot from the bank to buy his way into Wilson's Creek, Slocum took a shot in the dark that he hadn't.

“Naw, one of them.” He pointed toward a line of men shuffling along with bowed heads, their legs shackled.

“What's he want with a slave?”

Slocum didn't hear what the guard farthest to his left whispered, but his partner snickered.

“Ain't no call joshin' 'bout that,” the man Slocum faced said uneasily. “The thunderbird gets fed enough.”

“Maybe Rawlins has already been fed to the . . . thunderbird,” Slocum said, forcing himself to keep a neutral tone. The contempt he felt for anyone believing such hog wallow built inside him, but if he used it to find what he wanted without shooting it out, that was fine.

“Ain't been no one in Wilson's Creek fed to the 'bird in weeks. Heard tell a lawman out in the canyon got et, but nobody here in town.”

“The 'bird can git mighty hungry in a hurry. Remember a month back?” The other two guards crowded closer. Slocum saw how they were spooked just talking about the thunderbird. They made nervous glances up at the star-packed sky as if expecting the thunderbird to swoop low on them at any instant.

“That fat peddler what thought he could call out Mackenzie? He was warned 'bout how Mackenzie can call down the thunderbird.”

“Bones. Bloody shreds of skin and gnawed bones,” the third guard said, shaking his head as he remembered what was left of the peddler.

Slocum wanted to hear more about the thunderbird and if any of the men had seen it with their own eyes, but finding Rawhide mattered more.

“Mind if I check the slaves?” He pointed in the direction of the men still walking toward the dark mouth of a mineshaft.

“Won't do you no good. All them slaves been here long 'nuff fer me to learn their names. None of 'em is named Rawlins. That right, boys?” He looked over his shoulder at his two partners.

“Right, Hank. Nobody new's come onto this shift since the first of the month.”

“You have any notion where I can find him? Don't want Mackenzie getting mad at me.”

The three exchanged a fearful look. Slocum might have read their minds. He knew what worried them. The longer he lingered here, the more likely Mackenzie was to send out his deadly thunderbird to gobble him up—and anyone standing nearby.

“The whorehouse. If this Rawlins fella's a visitor and had his fill of that rotgut whiskey served at the saloon, he'd want to dip his wick. Plenny of ways to do that at the whorehouse.”

Slocum nodded knowingly. If he asked where the cathouse was, he'd betray himself as newcomer. He had to keep the three guards thinking he was on a commission from Mackenzie.

“Thanks,” he said. Slocum turned to walk back toward town, wary of where the guards' rifles pointed. None of them made a move to shoot him in the back.

He lengthened his stride and took the first chance to fade into the shadows that came along. Slocum let out a deep breath of relief. Finding that Mackenzie's henchmen feared the thunderbird so much that just mentioning it caused them to break into a sweat told him a great deal about how Mackenzie kept the town under his thumb. Reveal the thing causing such fear as a hoax and the gunmen would turn on their boss. Being made a fool of never sat well with outlaws and men used to being top gun.

Returning to town, Slocum waited impatiently outside the tent saloon. Several men, all with white numbers on their foreheads, stumbled out and pointed in several directions before deciding to head away from the hotel where Slocum thought Mackenzie lurked. Like a flock of geese, they formed a vee that spread wide enough to range them from one side of the street to the other. From their loud boasts, Slocum knew they were heading for the place he wanted.

For a moment he considered peering into the saloon again, but his notoriety from the first trip inside held him back. The last thing he wanted was a second display of marksmanship. The customers might get drunk enough to forget someone had won the barkeep's challenge. Even knee-walking drunk, they wouldn't forget a second time. He was in no mood to either fire and drill another nickel or miss. Discussion of his marksmanship either way would slow him down and increased his risks.

“Tha's the place. See the red light? Jist like Nawlins,” the lead drunk said. It took a man on either side to support him all the way up the steps to the porch.

Slocum hung back and was glad he did. A bouncer came out and stopped the men. The madam didn't take kindly to rowdies, he said, but if the men wanted to set outside a spell, liquor would be served. Slocum had to admire such salesmanship. Rather than filling a soiled dove's bed, these men would be served high-priced drinks. The establishment would make as much off that
and
still have their girls active.

Pushing past into the sitting room would have drawn immediate attention from the bouncers. The working girls would have flocked over to a new customer, or maybe the madam selected the proper one for each potential patron and would keep a sharp eye out for anyone entering without being accompanied by a bouncer. Most men just off the range—or fresh from dodging a posse—didn't care a whole lot about a woman's looks. That wasn't the point of feminine companionship here. As a result, they would put up with any indignity demanded of them by the bouncers acting as gateways to the feminine delights.

He skirted the building, avoiding the bright light pouring from each window until he got to the rear of the two-story house. The back door was securely locked, probably barred inside. Even if he pulled the rickety hinge pins, the door wouldn't open enough for him to squeeze through. Making too much noise and attracting the bouncer or madam didn't enter his head. The drunks on the front porch had taken up a caterwauling song that drowned out most other sounds. When the distant coyotes began responding with their own lovelorn cries, Slocum knew no one would be paying attention to anything he did.

Seeing the drainpipe at the corner of the building, he tested it. To his surprise, it felt secure. He gingerly put his weight on it, then began climbing until he reached the eaves and swung onto the roof. It sagged more under his weight than the drainpipe, forcing him to cautiously inch along to a spot directly above an open window.

He gripped the edge of the roof, then lowered his head down enough to peer through the window. All he saw were white knees drawn up amid the bedclothes and a lusty bare-assed cowboy slamming away. Slocum straightened and got away from the window when the woman looked toward him. Even in the dim light from a coal oil lamp in the room, he saw her expression. She was bored and her eyes were bright and sharp. After her customer had finished, which seemed imminent, she would notify the bouncer of a Peeping Tom if she'd happened to spot Slocum.

He edged along the roof to the next window. The room was deserted. Swinging down and agilely kicking at the last minute shoved his feet through onto a chair. He knocked it over and almost lost his balance. Toppling out the window to the ground twenty feet below would do him in. A quick grab on the window frame steadied him enough to recover. He slid all the way into the room, going into a crouch beside the bed. Slocum waited, heart hammering, when he heard heavy footfalls in the corridor.

His hand went to his six-gun, but he didn't draw. The door opened a few inches, stopped, then closed again. The footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Three quick strides took him to the door. He opened it and saw the bouncer's broad back vanishing down the steep stairs to the sitting room. Sounds of a new commotion told him he had a few minutes to prowl about to find Rawhide Rawlins.

Easing into the corridor, he opened the door to the room opposite. His eyes had adapted to the dark, but this room was bathed in bright light from a pair of oil lamps. He squinted and took in the room's occupant. Even with his willpower, he couldn't help calling out.

“Alicia!”

The woman sitting on the edge of the bed, head lowered, looked up with listless, defeated eyes. She turned and hiked her feet to the bed, lifting her thin shift to expose herself.

He went into the room and closed the door.

“Alicia, you—” He stared. The scantily dressed woman looked like Alicia but wasn't. Even discounting the hollow eyes and haggard expression, she was the spitting image of the woman he had met out in the canyons.

“You don't want me?”

“You look so much like Alicia Watson that it surprised me. I wasn't expecting to find her—you.” Slocum cut off his flow of words. His confusion boiled over and made him seem dimwitted. There was only one reason a man came into a room like this. She expected more than surprise out of him, even if she accepted it like a slave rather than a willing partner.

“You know her? My sister?” The words came out all cracked and broken, like a mud flat dried up and curling in the hot sun.

“She's headed for a cavalry post to being back soldiers to clean out Wilson's Creek,” he said.

The woman blinked but otherwise gave no response.

“You don't want me? You paid already?”

Slocum sat beside her on the bed, took her thin shoulders, and shook. For a moment the glazed expression vanished, replaced by fire such as he had seen in her sister's eyes.

“You can do that. Beat me up, but you got to pay more. Madam Catherine says so.”

“Stop acting like a whore. Alicia is trying to get you and the rest of your family out of here.”

“Ma and Pa? They're here? They can't see me like this.” She curled up and tried to hide her nakedness with the muslin shift. All she succeeded in doing was to tear new holes in the threadbare cloth.

“Where are they? Your ma and pa?”

“Mines. Mackenzie's got them in the mines. I was lucky. He put me here.”

Slocum's fury grew that the woman was so cowed that she thought being a prostitute was being lucky.

“You see a man who looked like this?” He gave a quick description of Rawhide Rawlins.

“All of 'em. None of 'em. After the first week, I didn't really see 'em anymore.”

“You got clothes?” he asked. “Get dressed. We're getting out of here.”

The woman pointed vaguely toward a wardrobe. Slocum yanked open the door and saw a gingham dress hanging inside. Though it was torn in places and the buttons had been ripped off the front, it covered her better than the shift. He tossed it to her. As she dressed, he asked her again, “You see a man looking like I described?”

“Heard of a man being called Rawhide,” she said, settling the dress about her thin frame.

“Did he have a number painted on his forehead?”

“Might have been a visitor. Those are mostly what I get here, four, five a night. Don't mind them. Mackenzie's men like to beat me up. Once, he even watched and mocked me, making noises like the thunderbird.” She shivered and hugged herself, arms tightly wrapped around her thin body.

“You ever see this thunderbird?”

“Heard it outside in the night. Saw how it killed.” She shivered more.

“What's your name?”

“Loretta.”

“Come on, Loretta. Let's see if we can't get your ma and pa free from the mines. I was just out there, so I know how to avoid the guards.”

Slocum took her hand and pulled her along. She tried to resist, but she lacked the strength for any real fight. They went the length of the corridor to the back stairs. Looking down, Slocum saw they led into a kitchen. The back door would give them the best chance of exiting without being seen.

He pushed Loretta ahead of him. She almost fell as she missed a step on the stairs. Slocum went for his iron. Coming up the steps from the sitting room, the bouncer returned to make his rounds. A million ideas blossomed and died in Slocum's head. What would the man do when he found Loretta missing? Should Slocum gun him down if he got a chance, then make a run for it?

Rather than creating a scene sure to bring everyone in the whorehouse out to see what was happening, Slocum hurried down the stairs to the kitchen, trusting that the bouncer wouldn't discover a missing whore for at least a few minutes.

To his relief, he saw Loretta was fighting off her lethargy. The woman struggled to pull up the locking bar, but it defeated her. Slocum reached over and yanked hard, sending the wooden bar crashing into the far wall. He waited a second to see if the bouncer showed up
at the head of the stairs. When no one came, he crowded behind the woman and forced her into the night. Cold air stung his cheeks and bit at his lips. He couldn't imagine how the increasingly frigid air affected Loretta, dressed only in the battered dress.