“You get the horses, John. I’ll prepare for everything else.” Erika held the tin of lucifers Slocum had given her in the palm of her hand, as if weighing them.
“This is only good once,” he told her.
The grin she gave told him how much she would enjoy torching Wilson’s Creek. She sidled closer and gave him a quick kiss.
“Go on. We don’t have much time,” she said.
Slocum strode off, heading for the stables Erika had pointed out to him. He took three horses, retrieved his own, and then rode straight for the mine. It was going to be light soon, and the shift would change at the mine. The number of guards couldn’t be maintained, and Slocum doubted they would be. Mackenzie had waited for him to free the prisoners. During the day any such attempt would be more obvious. Or so he thought.
Whether he could bluff his way into the mine to free Linc Watson or had to shoot his way in—and out—worried Slocum a mite. He decided to tackle the problem of freeing Mrs. Watson again. With the horses ready, he felt he had a better chance. He rode to the side of the mercury amalgam plant and kicked free of his horse. Barely had his boots touched the ground when he was challenged.
“Who’re you?”
Slocum turned and faced a pair of guards positioned just inside the plant door.
“Mackenzie sent me to fetch the accountant woman. He says there’s been someone stealing gold dust, and he wants to find out who it is.”
Slocum hadn’t expected such swift reaction—and realized a split second too late he ought to have come up with a different reason for Mackenzie demanding to see Mrs. Watson. Both guards lifted their rifles to plug him. He was quick, but they had the upper hand. One rifle slug ripped away part of his hat and embedded itself in the wall. The second spanged off his belt buckle, doubling him over.
With a loud whoosh! as air rushed from his lungs, he stepped back and sat hard, dazed.
“Finish him off,” he heard someone say in the far distance. The ringing in his ears muffled the reply.
But instinct took over. He flopped onto his side, braced the butt of his Colt against the ground, and fired. His shot went low but struck one guard in the knee, sending him hopping about and yelping in pain. Something about the other man’s outcry cleared Slocum’s head. His next shot ended the man’s life, drilling clean through his heart.
The return fire took the second gunman by surprise and slowed him enough for Slocum to use both hands to steady his pistol and aim higher. His slug ripped through the guard’s forehead and came out the crown of his hat just as his finger jerked hard on the rifle trigger. That slug went wide but spooked the horses. Slocum rolled and rolled in the filth that had fallen from the air due to vapors from the chemical process inside the building. He sneezed and hurt and forced himself to his feet.
He touched the belt buckle and the silver smear where the lead had expended itself. The bullet had almost drilled through, but he had been damned lucky. An inch higher and he would have gotten gut shot. An inch lower and he’d have wished for the rest of his life that he had died.
Stumbling forward, he got to the doorway and hunted for other guards. One came from the room where Mrs. Watson tended her columns of numbers.
“What’s going on?” the guard called.
Slocum’s answer was a shot to the man’s chest. Moving faster now, Slocum stepped over the body and into the room. The woman hunched over the ledger and entered her numbers from scraps of paper on the table into the bound book. He wondered how accurate she could be after breathing so much of the mercury vapor that she wasn’t in her right mind. Mackenzie probably didn’t care, and besides, Mrs. Watson was still a lot more lucid than the Wilson’s Creek tyrant.
“We’re going,” he said.
“I know you. You were here before. But you left.”
Slocum saw that the blacksmith who had replaced the rivet he had sprung before had done a poor job. One of the guards might have simply put the cold rivet back through the holes and hammered it flat without heating. The iron rod he had used to pry her free before lay in the corner of the room. Slocum grunted once and the iron shackles fell free.
“We need to get your husband now,” he told her. “After that, we’re riding to see Alicia.”
“I have a daughter named Alicia. Another one named Loretta.”
“That’s right. You can see them all.”
This satisfied Mrs. Watson, and she trailed docilely as Slocum took a quick look around outside the building.
“My, I haven’t ridden a horse in I don’t know how long. Are the spare horses for Linc and Alicia?”
“For your husband and a friend who’s helping us escape. We’ll have to ride fast to see Alicia.”
“She’s such a pigheaded girl. Not like Loretta. Loretta was good in school, but not Alicia.”
Slocum left the woman astride the horse talking to herself. He mounted, grabbed the reins for the two riderless horses, and started toward the mouth of the mine. No one had come to find why there had been gunfire. For all he knew, the guards randomly shot their prisoners for sport. But he stood in the stirrups and looked back toward town, waiting for Erika to set fire to the hotel. That would cause enough commotion to get Linc Watson out of the mine and ride along the outskirts of town to pick up Erika.
Slocum recoiled when an explosion rolled over the countryside. A huge pillar of fire rose, followed quickly by oily black smoke. Whatever Erika had done, it had created havoc. Like all towns built slapdash, fire was a constant threat. If the townspeople didn’t turn out to extinguish the blaze quickly, every building would burn to the ground. Those made of brick might be left with walls standing, but roofs and doors would be charred and the interiors would be smoldering ruins.
A second explosion told him the hotel was completely destroyed. If the woman had found dynamite, she had used it as part of her arson.
“Get the miners to town. Bucket brigade. Hurry!” Slocum called as guards spilled from the mouth of the mine to see what the ruckus was.
“The hell with that,” snarled the guard in the front. “Mackenzie told us never to let ’em out of the mine. Do it, Cole.”
“You sure?”
“Do it!”
Slocum went for his six-shooter to stop the guard but saw he had no chance to prevent Cole from lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the mine. The explosion spooked his horse. By the time Slocum brought the gelding under control, dust billowed from the mineshaft. The blast had brought down the roof and plugged the mine. Getting Linc Watson out now would take more time and work than he could afford.
Slocum ignored the cries from the guards as he spurred his horse to a gallop. His plan—Erika’s—had gone south fast. It took only minutes to catch up with Mrs. Watson. She rode along fearfully. The noise and confusion from the burning town frightened her.
“Come on. We’ve got to get my friend before we leave,” he told her.
“Where’s Linc? Wasn’t he supposed to come with me?”
Slocum herded her forward, despite her confusion and demand to know where her husband was. Telling her the truth that Linc Watson had died in a mine explosion wouldn’t settle the matter. If anything, it might set her off, and Slocum had Erika to rescue now.
They drew rein directly south of the still blazing hotel. Slocum grew antsy when he didn’t see the woman and wondered if he ought to trust Mrs. Watson to stay there while he hunted for Erika. Just as he decided it had to be done, he saw the fiery-haired barkeep running straight for him.
He stood in the stirrups and waved. Erika saw him. And then Slocum saw death flashing down from the sky.
“Duck!”
His warning came too late. A dark figure surged upward above Erika, then swooped down in a powerful dive. In the firelight wicked metal talons flashed. Slocum drew and fired, but the range proved too great for a handgun. He emptied his Colt and wished he had a rifle. He should have taken one back at the mine. He should have—
In a heartbeat it didn’t matter.
The birdlike creature swooped low. Erika saw her danger and tried to dodge. With claws raking her and knocking her to the ground, the beast surged upward and away. Slocum heard mocking laughter—a voice he recognized. Somehow, Mackenzie had strapped on his mechanical wings and soared above Wilson’s Creek to dive and bring death to Erika.
Mackenzie banked, rose, and then disappeared into the heavy smoke from the burning hotel. Slocum started to go recover Erika’s body, then halted when armed men rushed to pull her to her feet. She sagged, then fought weakly.
She was still alive, but Slocum had no hope of rescuing her before Mackenzie’s guards dragged her away, back into town.
“That was the thunderbird,” Mrs. Watson said, frightened. “It’ll kill everyone Mackenzie commands it to kill.”
“That was Mackenzie,” he said bitterly. “He’s wearing cloth and iron wings.”
“Where’s Linc? You said you were taking me to Alicia and Loretta.”
With a last forlorn look into town, Slocum rode toward the canyon mouth and freedom—for Mrs. Watson.
Slocum got the woman past the guard towers before the armed men arrived—if they would at all. Fighting the fire that Erika had set took precedence over everything else or Wilson’s Creek would be reduced to smoking rubble. The stench of burning wood and flesh made Slocum’s nose wrinkle as he kept the sight at his back and finally made his way around the bend in the canyon. He and Mrs. Watson were hidden from direct sight, but he still felt uneasiness. More than once he cast looks upward to the canyon rims, expecting Mackenzie to come flying down with his slashing claws.
Knowing the secret of the deadly thunderbird did nothing to ease Slocum’s mind. The others believed the spirit bird existed. In a way, it hardly mattered that Mackenzie was responsible for the savage deaths. Dupree was just as dead being killed by a mortal human as he would have been if the thunderbird had been real.
“Up there,” Slocum said to the woman. “It’s not much of a trail, but it’s big enough if you walk the horse.”
“Walk? Oh, yes, I am tired of riding. Where is my husband?”
“Alicia is waiting for you,” he said to distract her.
“Oh, good.” Mrs. Watson giggled like a schoolgirl. She climbed down and began hiking up the steep trail.
Slocum snared the fallen reins, then stepped down from his gelding and followed, tugging to keep the horses from balking. By the time he reached the cave where he and Alicia had spent such a pleasant time, he felt they were safe. Somehow, thoughts of Erika intruded as he looked to the cave. She had dared to help him get Mrs. Watson out of her captivity and probably had lost her life.
“Mama!”
Slocum craned his neck and saw Alicia rush from the cave and throw her arms around her mother, hugging her close. For a moment, Mrs. Watson’s mind cleared and she sounded coherent as she spoke with her daughter. Hanging back to allow them time together, Slocum stared back down the trail to the canyon floor. Without consciously realizing it, he looked upward. The daylight bathing the rocks showed sharp edges and deep shadows, but nowhere did he see Mackenzie and his crazy flying gear.
When enough time had passed, Slocum went to the cave entrance and herded the horses inside to stand with Alicia’s. The cave had become close, hardly large enough for three people with the horses also stabled inside, but neither of the women complained.
“Thank you, John, for rescuing her. She seems . . . different.”
“Mercury can do that. She worked in the amalgam separation plant and breathed in fumes twelve hours a day.”
“Will she ever be right in the head again?” Alicia’s worry was sincere.
“Sometimes the brain clears up. Might take time and lots of fresh air.”
He waited. Alicia looked over her shoulder at her mother, who sat humming to herself and piling rocks on top of each other, then repeating it when the small tower toppled.
Alicia looked back at him.
“Where’s my father?”
“Where’s Rawhide Rawlins?”
“I’ll tell you when you get my pa back.” The set to her chin showed her determination.
Slocum wasn’t sure he dared make yet another trip into the town. After Erika’s arson, the residents would be prickly and inclined to shoot any stranger on sight. Enough of Mackenzie’s henchmen knew him by sight, but so did Mackenzie. He had to believe Mackenzie wasn’t completely loco, or if he was, a modicum of cunning remained and knew who had caused so much trouble. Returning to Wilson’s Creek would be putting his neck in a noose.
Or letting the thunderbird rip out his guts.
“He’s dead,” Slocum said. “The mine collapsed as I was getting away with your ma.”
“You saw the body?”
“He was in the mine when the guards dynamited the mouth.”
“But you didn’t see his dead body?”
Slocum shook his head. They had reached an impasse. To go into Wilson’s Creek again was suicidal, yet Linc Watson might be alive. So might Rawhide Rawlins.
And Erika.
Damning himself as a fool and maybe as touched in the head as Mackenzie, Slocum backed his horse from the cave onto the trail and headed back for town.