Slocum #304: Slocum and the Lady Reporter

The summer solitude of the Nevada countryside was like a balm to John Slocum. He had spent the better part of three days in Nirvana, five miles and six fistfights behind him. The inappropriately named boomtown was like every other one he had seen on his aimless wandering through the West. For a few drinks, it was a good place to be. The barkeeps were friendly enough and the women willing to sidle up alongside somebody new in town. But the rowdy miners always spotted him and decided to have some fun at the stranger’s expense. Slocum was fortunate he had gotten away without killing any of them.

He ran his hand around his leathery, grit-covered neck, loosened the blue bandanna and knew he had come close to having a hemp rope fastened there instead of the sweat-stained rag. The last man he had decked in what the miner starting it had thought was a friendly fight had turned vicious fast. Slocum had broken the drunk’s nose, and from the way the miner’s shaggy head had hit the edge of the bar in the Lost Nugget Saloon Slocum had thought more than a snout had been crushed.

Luckily, the miner’s head was as hard as the rock he picked away at all day long. He had come to, groggily vowing vengeance. Slocum had decided it was time to move on before gunplay resulted. When the shooting started, there wouldn’t be any happy ending.

He touched the worn ebony handle of the Colt Navy slung in a cross-draw holster. Slocum and violent death were intimate companions. So far, he had not been the one planted in any of the potter’s fields at the outskirts of myriad nameless towns. It might happen someday, but Slocum was quick enough and accurate enough for it to be some time in the future.

He sure as hell didn’t want to kill a drunk miner waving an old blunderbuss of a rusty black-powder pistol around wildly. Miners’ friends always took a dim view of self-defense claims.

Slocum sucked in a deep breath and tasted the sage and approaching evening cool in the Nevada air. He wasn’t sure where he rode, but the single sign that had fallen down at the edge of town hinted that this might be the Geiger Road, leading over the Sierras into California. It had been quite a spell since Slocum had seen the ocean. That was as good a direction to ride as any and better than most.

He swiped at the sweat again, retied his bandanna and then pulled the brim of his floppy black hat down to shield his eyes. A distant sound of boots tromping on rock brought him up in the saddle, looking around intently for the cause of the noise. He reached for the six-shooter at his left hip, then relaxed when he saw the approaching man was on foot and looked to be at the end of his rope.

“You, please help me!” the pedestrian called, waving his arms frantically. He stumbled forward a few paces, tripped and went to his knees. “You have to help me! My family!”

Slocum had seen about every trick used by road agents, having worked that side of the law himself a time or two. But something about this gent convinced Slocum he wasn’t sticking his foot into a bear trap if he offered to help.

He urged his horse forward at a slow walk, so he could study the man more carefully before committing himself. His sharp green eyes took in all the details, and he knew his initial assumption was right. The man forcing himself to his feet wasn’t used to carrying a six-gun. No worn area on either the left or right hip showed where a soft leather holster would rub as he walked and rode. Broad suspenders held up his pants. Slocum had seen more than one farmer holding up his trousers in this fashion, although the man didn’t have the look of a sodbuster about him.

Slocum doubted he was a road agent but couldn’t figure out just what he might be. That mystery, more than anything else, convinced him to lend a hand. This was a greenhorn who didn’t know any better than to get into hot water.

“What’s the trouble, mister?” Slocum called. He looked around, to be on the safe side. Nowhere in the rocks along the narrow road did he see rabbits bolting from cover, birds spooked by men moving into ambush or even sunlight glinting off rifle barrels. He and the footsore pilgrim were all alone.

“Wagon, my wagon,” the man gasped out. He turned and pointed back in the direction he had just come. “It broke down and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I hoped to find someone to help us before then. But yes, I’d’ve gone all the way to town if need be.” The man licked his cracked lips. Slocum silently tossed him a canteen. For a moment the man stared at it as if he had been given a king’s ransom, then drank greedily.

Slocum knew the marks of a tenderfoot, and this man had them all. He had left his family alone to hoof it off to find help and yet hadn’t thought to bring water, food or a weapon.

“Thanks, that went down mighty good,” the man said. “I found some miners, but they wouldn’t help. Th-they were too intent on their own business.”

“Digging,” Slocum said in disgust. Greed outweighed common decency too often in the Comstock. “There’re only a few things on a miner’s mind. Finding color is one. Getting drunk is another.” He didn’t bother adding to the short list. Fighting and getting laid were about the rest.

“Gold. Maybe silver.” Slocum shook his head. The man was more than a greenhorn if he came into the Comstock and didn’t know the lingo. “What’s your business, mister?”

“What do you do for a living? You’re not a farmer. There’s nothing that’ll grow in this ground, ’cept weeds, sage and anything that has spines on it.” Slocum tried to place the man as a shopkeeper but that wasn’t right, either. A real merchant wouldn’t head to a place like Nirvana and not know the town’s main—only—preoccupation: color. Gold.

“I can read just fine,” Slocum said, tiring of the man already. “You want to swing on up behind me? I think the horse’s strong enough to carry the both of us.”

“I can ride just fine,” the man said, grinning for the first time. “My name’s Clyde Benteen. My family and I came around the Cape from Boston.”

“Didn’t think you were from these parts,” Slocum said. He introduced himself, then gentled his skittish horse. The gelding had rested for nigh on a week and had gotten lazy. The steep trail had taxed it, and now a double load made it even less willing to do its duty. Slocum got the horse moving slowly. As he rode, he kept a sharp eye out for the man’s wagon and family. He doubted Benteen had been able to walk too far.

“There was a steep hill I came down,” Benteen said, as if reading Slocum’s mind. “The wagon broke just at the top of the hill.”

“That one?” Slocum asked, as the trail curved around and showed what seemed an almost vertical road so common in the Sierras.

“Mighty steep for a horse with riders,” Benteen said, licking his lips. “I hope it’s not too steep to come down after the wagon’s fixed.”

Slocum snorted in amazement. It sounded as if Benteen had to convince himself that’s what pulled his wagon. But he trudged on, leading his horse up the slope until they came to the top. A small meadow opened off the road. He saw the woman before he saw the broken-down wagon or the small boy.

“Pleased to meet you,” Slocum said, but he kept staring at the woman. Mrs. Benteen was about the prettiest thing he had seen in a month of Sundays. She looked too young to have a boy of eight or nine. Long, dark hair was caught up in a bright red ribbon. Her forehead was a mite sunburned where her bonnet didn’t cover her enough, but dancing blue eyes shone with intelligence and just a touch of delight. Slocum wasn’t sure what was amusing. She must have seen a cowboy before.

Then Slocum wondered if he might not be wrong. Benteen had said they came around the Cape. Might be all she had seen were sailors for a year, then the cutthroats along the Barbary Coast before setting off for Nevada Territory. There might not have been many folks along the trail.

“This is John Slocum,” her husband said, hastening around to stand between them. “I met up with him on the road, and he’s kindly offered to help us.”

“If I can,” Slocum said. “Here.” He handed the reins to Gerald, who looked thunderstruck at being given such a confidence. “Go see if you can scare up some water for him. Some fodder, too. He’ll eat about anything, so don’t let him nibble on any cactus.”

“Let’s take a look at your wagon,” Slocum said. He already had a notion what the problem might be from the way the heavily laden wagon canted to one side. He flopped onto his back and scooted under. From this angle he could see the leather straps used to absorb shock were worn through. He could also see the wind gently whipping up Mrs. Benteen’s skirts, giving him a show of her trim ankles and sleek calves.

Slocum forced himself to look back at the damage done to the wagon. She was a married woman, and he had learned a long time ago not to graze in another man’s pasture. Reaching up, he ran his fingers along the torn leather straps. There was nothing he could do to replace them without unloading the wagon—assuming there were other three-inch-wide straps to use as replacements.

“You look to be heavily loaded,” Slocum said. “You got any cured leather like a razor strop? Three or four feet long would do. Several more would be even better.”

“You might make it on into Nirvana if you unloaded the heaviest gear,” Slocum said. “You could come back for it later, when you repaired the wagon.”

“I might be able to force green wood there. The ride would be rougher ’n—” He bit off what he was going to say. Mrs. Benteen hung on his every word.

“That rough, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll need a sapling at least two inches thick. Pine might do but I’d prefer spruce or even live oak.”

This produced a guffaw from Clyde Benteen and a condescending smile from his wife. The dark-haired woman might be as pretty as a picture but she shared her husband’s sorry attitude. Slocum wasn’t the bumpkin. Not on the frontier.

“Let me have your ax, and I’ll go see what I can find,” Slocum said coldly. Then he saw the expression on Benteen’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Why, yes, of course, my kitchen knives. And I have a fine meat cleaver,” the woman said. The smile vanished. “You want to use that?”

She sucked in a deep breath and then released it. Slocum found it hard to keep his eyes off the way her ample bosom rose and fell. He wondered if Clyde Benteen realized how blessed a man he was to have such a lovely wife. What the hell he thought he was doing bringing her out into the wilderness was beyond Slocum.

“I’ll get the cleaver,” she said, as if this was a major sacrifice on her part. Slocum knew then that the woman was as much a fish out of water on the frontier as her husband. He looked past them to the meadow where Gerald played with the horse. The boy was the only one who seemed to halfway enjoy the notion of being so far from civilization.

“I’ll see what I can rustle up,” Slocum said, taking the sharp cleaver from the woman. He saw how she clung to it just a mite too hard, but he didn’t say anything. He called to Gerald, “Help me find a tree. Your ma said you know what a spruce looks like.”

“Surely do, Mr. Slocum,” the boy cried, making sure to tether the horse before running to join him. Slocum appreciated the boy’s attention to details. The gelding wasn’t likely to wander off, but Gerald couldn’t know that.

They trooped into the stand of trees, Gerald yammering all the while as Slocum hunted for the right size tree. Even so, the youngster found the spruce. It took Slocum a few minutes to hack it down and lop off the branches.

“No need,” Slocum said. “This isn’t meant to last forever. All it has to do is get your wagon down the hill and into town where a wagonwright can work on it. Won’t take a man with the proper tools an hour to replace those leather straps.”

“What’s in it that weighs so much?” Slocum asked. He saw the boy swallow hard and knew he had asked something he ought not have. “Never mind. Give me a hand carrying the wood back.” Slocum let Gerald do most of the hauling since it was easy work while he tried to figure what was going on with the Benteen family. A newspaperman come out to the Comstock? That wasn’t too ridiculous since Slocum knew the reputation Mark Twain had made for himself on the Territorial Enterprise over in Virginia City a few years back. An ambitious man might think he could duplicate the wit and insight and get noticed here faster than in Boston.

“What do you need done, Mr. Slocum?” asked Benteen. The man appeared worried, and Slocum wondered why. A quick glance from the man to his wife told the story. Benteen had not missed the look the woman had given Slocum when they’d ridden in.

“Put rocks under the wheels, get me something to lift with and then we can see about getting this shoved into place.” Slocum hefted the long pole and waited for Benteen to get to work. The man stood by but Gerald hurried to obey. Slocum didn’t much care who did the work as long as it got him on his way faster.

“Get under and lift when I give the word,” Slocum said. Benteen and his son got ready. “Now!” Slocum felt the wagon shift slightly but not enough. “Gerald, you see where I’m trying to shove the pole?”

Slocum cracked his knuckles, took hold of the wagon and nodded. Benteen and he began to lift hard. Slocum felt every muscle in his body snap to attention as he got his legs under him and heaved for all he was worth. Benteen helped, but not much. Slocum wondered if he should have let the boy help lift and had the man slide the spruce rod into place. There wouldn’t have been much difference in the power applied to raising the wagon off the damaged leather straps.

With a grunt Slocum let the wagon back down. He had lifted it only an inch or so but that had been enough for Gerald to work the pole into place.

“That’s not going to be much good, now,” Slocum warned. “You take it slow and easy getting into town because you’re going to feel every rock and pothole in the road.”

He was talking to thin air. Both Benteen and his wife huddled together a few yards off, staring into the stand of trees where Slocum had cut down the spruce.

“What?” Slocum thought that Benteen was funning him until he saw the worried expression. The woman was even more upset than her husband.

“They’ve been following. At a distance. Always just beyond where we might identify them,” Elizabeth Benteen said. She chewed at her lower lip in worry.

“I don’t think they’ll bother you. Probably they’re just a trio of miners on their way to stake out a claim. Prospectors are notoriously shy around others.” Slocum didn’t add that prospectors often shot first because they thought everyone they came upon was a claim-jumper. He’d never seen a more skittish bunch in his life.

Slocum hesitated. The woman had a point. Prospectors were more likely to be hermits. Very few had partners. Miners with producing claims often were forced to take in partners, for money, for labor, for a variety of other reasons usually having to do with gambling losses, but three prospectors on the trail together? He doubted it.

Slocum trotted in the direction the Benteens had been looking but saw nothing. He reached the edge of the small forest and saw a few hoofprints in soft dirt, but they led away and he wasn’t inclined to follow. The men had been minding their own business and only the suspicious green-horns had seen any evil intent. Slocum turned his gelding around and headed back when he heard a loud scream, followed by rattling and clanking.

“The wagon!” he cried. Slocum put his spurs to the gelding’s flanks and rocketed back to where the wagon had been. Benteen had kicked away the rocks under the wheels and had tried to maneuver the wagon downhill. The steep incline was more than he could manage because he had not locked the brake and had run past the mules.

The wagon careened wildly, bouncing from rock to rock. One mule was still hitched to the wagon and was being dragged along, braying piteously until it died. Then it only left behind a ragged red smear of blood.

Slocum ignored that carnage as he galloped alongside. Benteen fought to shove the brake forward but that was a fool’s errand. The heavy wagon gathered even more speed as it hit the brink of the steep incline. Slocum would have helped the man tie the wheels so they wouldn’t turn but only skid down the precipitous grade. Now there was no stopping the wagon.

“Jump!” Slocum shouted. Gerald responded immediately and tumbled hard on the rocky ground. “Jump, dammit!” Slocum shouted at the man and woman. He rode closer, reached out and grabbed Elizabeth Benteen’s arm. Jerking with all his strength, he yanked her free of the driver’s box.

“Clyde, don’t do it!” the woman shrieked. She fought Slocum so hard that he reined back and let her drop to the ground. Elizabeth took only two steps when the wagon, with her husband still fighting to apply the brake, went over the brink.

Slocum heard the man screaming all the way down the one-hundred-foot cliff. The resounding crash echoed down a canyon and then faded away. An eerie silence was all that was left behind. Slocum didn’t have to go to the edge of the cliff to know what had happened to wagon and driver. He dismounted and caught Elizabeth before she could look.