“You certain you’re up to the task, Marshal?” Slocum looked at Delgado, propped up behind his desk with a couple pillows to support his back and neck. He was almost as white as the linen pillowcases, and his hands shook when he reached out to brace himself against the desk.
“I’m right as rain, Slocum. Don’t worry. I’m not letting that one get out of my jailhouse.” Delgado jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cell where Roger Williams was safely locked. “That pendejo was the one who shot me. I happened in just as the robbery was winding down. When I turned to go after the robber, Williams shot me. Three times.” Delgado winced as he moved. “The only way he’s getting out of my jailhouse is when he’s headed for the gallows.”
“Looks to happen soon enough,” Slocum said. “The judge wanted to try him right away but couldn’t find anyone willing to defend him. There’s a lawyer coming from Sacramento in a few days.”
“Don’t matter to me if it’s a few months,” Delgado declared. “Williams isn’t going to escape justice this time.” The marshal grinned and it wasn’t pleasant. “Fact is, the longer he’s in my custody, the sooner he’ll want to have a noose dropped around his neck.”
“You watch out,” Slocum cautioned. “He’s as slippery as a greased pig.”
“Go on, Slocum. The judge wanted to see you pronto.”
Slocum nodded to the marshal, stepped out into the hot desert sun and took a deep breath of the searing air. It felt good being on this side of the iron bars. It was something Williams would never again experience. With a confident stride, Slocum marched over to the courthouse and to the judge’s door. He started to barge in, then politely knocked and waited for Tunstell to ask him in.
“Wondered why it was taking you so long to get here, Mr. Slocum,” the judge said. “You’ve been over at the jail seeing how our marshal is getting on.”
“Is that a guess or did someone tell you?”
“You caught me. My clerk told me. He saw you heading in that direction. Morris is trying to curry favor with me and tries not to miss anything going on in town that might interest me. Unfortunately, most of what he tells me is of no interest at all.”
“Williams is safely locked up. The marshal is weak but alert. He won’t let another prisoner get out of his jail unless it’s to go to the gallows. But I reckon Morris has already told you all that.”
The sound of hammering made Slocum look up. Out the window of the judge’s office he saw the freshly sawed wooden-plank gallows being built not fifty yards away. “Isn’t that premature? He hasn’t stood trial yet.”
“I have a sense that justice will be served,” Tunstell said. He rocked back in his chair and tented his fingers so he could rest his chin on the tips. “I’ve been thinking about the whole sorry mess.”
Slocum sank into the chair opposite the desk and waited. He knew what was going to come and was ready for it.
“What happened to the money from the bank? There might not have been ten thousand as Williams claimed, but the entire working capital of the Mojave East Company was there. My accounts say it was close to six thousand dollars.”
“Do tell,” Slocum said. “The way I see it, Williams led Grierson to an empty hole. They argued and Williams got the drop on Grierson.”
“That doesn’t say anything about where the money is. Williams stole it—back—from Grierson. Grierson had hidden it in the desert, Williams recovered it and where did he put it?”
“Do you need all that money, Judge? The Mojave East Company is pretty much dead now, I would say.”
“I hate to lose the money and any chance of getting Bennigan’s property, signed, sealed and delivered to my pocket.”
“Been thinking on that. Do you need to own his property or just the water rights?”
“What do I care about the other mineral rights? There’s no gold there.”
“Bennigan thinks so,” Slocum said.
Tunstell looked at him sharply.
“What do you have up your sleeve, Mr. Slocum?”
“Would you be willing to help Calvin Bennigan pump the water from his mine in return for cancellation of all liens and back taxes and attempts to take his property?”
“You mean pump out the water I want and let him keep a worthless hole in the ground?”
“That’s about right, Judge.”
“Damn, but that is a simple solution. Why didn’t I see it before?”
“Because you’re a lawyer,” Slocum said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his coat pocket. He handed it to the judge. “It’s not all prettified in legal words, but it says what I just told you.”
“Not too badly done. Hmm, the water’s got to be pumped out at my expense. I’m not sure—”
“Take it or leave it. I told Bennigan you would be inclined to help him drain the two lowest levels of his mine. There’s a powerful lot of water there. Not brackish.” He ran his hand over his lips. He remembered the dirt taste of that water. It had never occurred to him that it could be used for something other than drinking. An orchard would not care if the water tasted good, as long as it wasn’t salty. Crops of all kinds could flourish in dirty water.
“I should give up my judgeship and put you on the bench, Mr. Slocum. You’re a clever man.”
Tunstell read the contract again, nodding to himself. Slocum waited until the judge satisfied himself all was as outlined.
“I’ll sign it.” He took his pen out, dipped it in the well and put his signature on the bottom of the page with a flourish. “We’ll get all this recorded.”
“And you will be able to start your orchard before the fall. That’s why you were in such a hurry, wasn’t it? You wanted to get the trees in before cold weather.”
“It gets mighty frigid in the desert during the winter. I have to let the trees take root for at least three months. More’s better.”
“Horses, orchards, you the sole political power in Dry Water. You have come out on top, Judge.”
“So it seems, Mr. Slocum, thanks to you.” Tunstell studied Slocum for a moment, then asked, “When are you moving on?”
“Right away.” Slocum appreciated that Judge Tunstell did not try to make an offer to hold him in Dry Water. There was nothing, even the promise of being foreman on a fine stud ranch, to hold him this close to the edge of the desert. He had been hankering for a view of the ocean and now he could satisfy that yen.
“I do wonder about the money Williams stole,” Tunstell said, his eyes fixed hard on Slocum.
“The way I see it, Judge, Williams was double-crossing Grierson again. He took him to a spot where he might have hidden the money but hadn’t. Grierson got to looking, Williams got the drop on him and cut him down. Saves the town the cost of a second trial and noose.” Slocum looked outside to where the gallows was completely erected now. Two men worked with sandbags and ropes to get the proper length of drop and weight for the condemned’s satisfactory execution.
“An empty hole in the ground. Hardly seems right.”
“Get Williams to confess where he really hid the money,” Slocum said. “Tell him confession might save his soul.”
“He’s a banker. He has no soul.”
“Some might say that about lawyers,” Slocum said, his gaze as hard as the judge’s.
“Yes, they might. But not in Dry Water. Hope you find what you are looking for, Mr. Slocum. Wherever it might be.”
Slocum stood, shook hands with the judge and then went outside. He had dickered a little with Marshal Delgado over Conchita. The marshal had finally given the horse to him. Slocum gave the horse a lump of sugar, mounted and then rode out of town. When he came to the fork in the road, the well traveled one going west to Pemberton and the lesser route into the hills, he turned east.
The hills appeared deceptively close, but Conchita was a steady mount and Slocum reached the distant hills about sundown. He knew the trail well, having taken it several times before through the pass and into the valley beyond. The Ross gang had made their camp here.
He saw the slight curl of smoke rising and caught the mouthwatering scent of roasting venison. Hank Ross was one fine cook.
Slocum rode into the camp. Ross worked to turn the haunch of meat on a green stick spit. He looked up.
“Wondered if we would see you today, Slocum,” he said.
“Am I in time for dinner?”
“Pull up a rock.”
“I found some wild roots that taste a little like potatoes, too,” Angela said, coming up holding her skirt so she could carry some of the dirty tubers.
Slocum settled down and watched as the two went about their preparation.
“You ought to open a restaurant,” Slocum said.
“Hank was the cook on a cattle drive. That’s where he learned to make just about any hunk of dried leather into a decent meal. He’s a far better cook than I am.”
“Angel’s not too bad, either. Ma doted on her.”
They ate, chatting about small things.
When they finished, Slocum said, “How much money had Williams made off with?”
“We’ve divvied it up already, John.” Angela fumbled in a bedroll and pulled out a metal box. Slocum remembered the bright scratches on the sides of the rocks where Williams had taken Grierson. The box had made those scratches when Williams had pulled it free from its hiding place.
“So?” Slocum watched the two closely.
“Thirty-one hundred dollars each,” she said.
“Exactly?”
Angela laughed. “You can trust my arithmetic. I am a schoolmarm, after all.” She turned it around so the lid hid the contents as she opened the box. Slocum tensed. Then he relaxed. She took out three bundles tied up pretty-like with ribbon, handing one to her brother, keeping one and handing the third to Slocum.
Slocum tucked the wad of greenbacks into his pocket.
“You aren’t going to count it?” Hank Ross’s eyebrows arched.
“Why should I?” asked Slocum. “I trust my partners.”
He looked from Hank to Angela. Her bright eyes danced with joy.
“And we trust ours,” she said.
The three of them rode out the next morning, heading for Tucson. Somehow, Slocum didn’t mind that much missing out on seeing the Pacific Ocean.