Slocum #304: Slocum and the Lady Reporter

“When the Durango Kid sprung him, he upped and vanished like a puff of smoke,” Joe Arnot said, scratching his head. “A man like O’Malley isn’t likely to stay hidden long. He’s got to be in trouble or life’s too dull for him.”

Slocum said nothing as he mulled over the newspaperman’s words. Arnot was probably right, but Slocum wanted an end to the matter. Now. The marshal was too wishy-washy. When he was away from J. Henry Jones’s influence, he was a decent man with a sense of duty, but when the law collided with the new mayor’s notions of how things ought to be, Williams folded like a bad poker hand. The mayor’s intent was obvious, too.

Get Williams a job in Carson City and replace him with the hunk of gristle and mean named Stony Wilson. That would remove any hint of fairness to the law in Nirvana. Slocum knew the usual procedure would be for the mayor to see to appointing a judge. The Durango Kid might be the likeliest since his gunfighting days were over.

Slocum wanted to make sure the Kid’s and Zeke O’Malley’s lives were ended. If Jones got in the way, that was fine with Slocum. He had no compunction about taking on a mayor, too.

“You aren’t going to try to find him, are you, John?” Elizabeth asked anxiously. He saw real concern in her eyes.

“I’ve got papers to deliver,” Slocum said. This was as good a way as any of finding out what O’Malley was up to. The miners out in the hills—the ones who would talk—poured out heart and soul to anyone who would listen. Slocum was willing. They talked, he learned where O’Malley and his gang were hiding. From the way Thomas Calderon groused about Jones, a full-fledged claim-jumping operation was in operation.

A ruckus out in the street caused Slocum, Arnot and Elizabeth to go to the door of the print shop and look out. A miner rolled in the dirt and jumped to his feet, twisting in the air, only to land hard and cry at the top of his lungs.

“What’s wrong with that gent?” wondered Arnot. “Can it be he’s caught some disease that’s driven him batty?”

“Do tell,” Arnot said, pushing past Slocum and hurrying into the street. Slocum followed with Elizabeth beside him.

“Let me buy you a drink, old feller,” Arnot said. “The Lost Nugget’s got a special bottle just waiting for you.”

“I’m a newspaper editor. I know these things,” Arnot said, his eyes darting to Slocum before going back to the filthy prospector. “Let me put you on the front page of the Bugle, if this is a big enough find.”

“Big enough? Big enough?” roared the prospector. “This is the biggest danged claim in the whole danged history of Nevada!”

“Tell me about it,” Arnot said, guiding the man down the street past the Millionaire Miner Drinking Emporium and to the friendlier Lost Nugget.

“You go on, John,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think I ought to leave the office. Besides, saloons are no fit place for women. I’ve discovered that.”

“Arnot will be back with his story. If you’re printing a new edition, you might want to hold it so he can report this strike.”

“That’s about all that goes on in Nirvana. The miners are fighting the banker. One saloon is in fierce competition with another. And two papers are struggling to out-report the other.” Slocum didn’t bother adding how he and O’Malley were locked in a more important, life-and-death battle. When that was resolved, he would be riding on.

“Dog eat dog, as they say,” Elizabeth said as she worked on the printing press to pull off the plate and put it to one side. “That adds spice to it all, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes I wish I could sit down at a meal and not have to look over my shoulder,” Slocum admitted. Then he considered what that would mean giving up. No more moving on when he chose. Tied down or letting the wind carry him where it blew—which did he really want? He looked at Elizabeth and knew which he preferred, but dallying for a spell was mighty fine.

“Elizabeth, Slocum,” called Arnot running up. He waved a sheet of yellow foolscap in one hand and a pencil in the other. The editor was flushed with excitement. “I got it all. Huge strike. Hawk is going to register his claim now. Gold. Tons of it. If it assays out the way the nuggets he showed me look, he might get five or six ounces per ton. This is big!”

“Jehoshaphat, let me get down to it. You two, go out to Hawk’s mine and get all the information. His partner’s still there, standing guard with a shotgun. You tell him Hawk sent you and he’ll tell you all you need to know about the mine.”

“What’s the mine named?” asked Elizabeth, already carefully taking notes in a small bound notebook.

“Forgot to ask,” Arnot said, looking crestfallen. “Wait, no, he mentioned Valhalla. That’s got to be the name. Here’s directions to get there.” Arnot looked at Slocum. “Don’t worry about delivering papers. You see her out to the Valhalla and bring back that story.”

“Hawk was closemouthed once I poured him a drink or two. Never saw a man hush up like that with whiskey under his belt. Get every last detail you can. Oh, Riker’s going to hate me for this one!” Arnot rubbed his hands together and began setting type for a new front page. He looked up from his work and said, “Don’t stand there. Go. Get the story!”

“He’s in a hurry for the story, John,” the dark-haired woman said. “I can ride, so we don’t need to take the wagon.”

“From you? Always,” she said, her eyes bold. Then those bright blue eyes darted about, and Slocum knew her mind was already halfway out to the Valhalla Mine. He went to the stable and saddled his gelding, ready for another extended trip. This time he made certain he had plenty of ammo for his six-shooter and Winchester. With Elizabeth along, he didn’t want to take chances.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she called, putting her heels to the horse’s flanks. The horse was old and didn’t cotton much to such urging and took its sweet time breaking into a trot, but Slocum decided he was in no hurry to get this story, either. Riding alongside such a fine-looking woman was a pleasant enough way to spend a few hours.

Elizabeth held up the directions Arnot had given her and rode out of town in the direction opposite to that where she had entered Nirvana. Slocum breathed a sigh of relief not having to go back past Clyde Benteen’s grave and the steep hill where he had died. Some parts of Nevada could be seen too many times.

“This is the road, John,” she said after they had taken three branching roads leading into the hills east of Nirvana. “Mr. Arnot never mentioned Hawk’s partner’s name. Did you catch it?”

“Nope,” Slocum said, distracted. He watched the wild-life around him with growing concern. They weren’t flushing birds or small animals as they rode. They had already been scared off. He tilted his head and listened hard.

“Gunshots. Sounds like a small war going on. Maybe you’d better hightail it back to town and—”

“And nothing,” Elizabeth said primly. “This is my job. I report on all news. The Valhalla strike is important, but if there’s a range war going on, that’s as big a story. I need to find out the details.”

“Details might come wrapped in flying lead,” Slocum said, increasingly wary. No birds anywhere. They had all flown away, telling him the gunfight had already passed through this stretch of road, not long ago.

“It’s my job,” she said, unmoved at such an argument. “You can desert me, if you choose, but I’m going on.”

“Ride slow and let me scout ahead,” Slocum said. “I won’t leave you out here.” The echoes rumbling down the high-walled canyon now carried shouts of rage and pain with them. Men were getting shot and maybe dying.

Slocum put his spurs to his gelding and rushed forward. He galloped a few hundred yards, slowed and then cut off the road to make his way through a wooded patch closer to the canyon wall. The steep stone face rose close to a hundred feet here, but Slocum saw that the narrow pass widened ahead, probably opening into a mountain meadow.

He kept the stone wall on his left as he rode out. The valley was more than a mile wide and mines dotted the slopes on either side. The gunfire came from one mine not a quarter mile ahead. Slocum shielded his eyes against the sun as he studied the situation. A half-dozen men were holed up around the mine’s mouth, firing wildly at more than a score of attackers.

Neither side demonstrated much in the way of marksmanship, filling the air with bullets flying wildly off target. Slocum wasn’t sure if this was good. If he intruded, he was more likely to be hit by a stray bullet than by someone aiming at him.

He vowed to avoid the fight until he saw a bullet riddled wooden sign painted with a crude arrow and the words “VALHALLA MINE—NO TRESPASSIN’.”

The gunfight was over the very mine where a major gold strike had occurred. Avoiding it now was out of the question. Even if Slocum had wanted to let the men shoot it out to determine ownership, he knew Elizabeth would poke her pretty nose in. Neither side had the look of wanting to discuss the matter as long as they had ammunition for their rifles and shotguns.

He carefully marked the positions of most of the men attacking the mine. They were dug in and not making much progress up the hill, but they didn’t have to. A siege could wait out the men at the mine. Slocum saw the miners were cut off from their well. They put up a stiff resistance to being overrun now, but as the days dragged on they would get mighty thirsty. Then the attackers would move in.

He began scanning the countryside and saw the men in the mine had no chance at all. A half-dozen more attackers rode up, driving a wagon. From the way the wagon swayed and bounced, he figured it was laden with food and more ammo for the men waiting to overrun the mine.

The siege might be over before any of that larder was even tapped. He kept swiveling about in the saddle, studying other mines. For all their obvious activity recently, every one within his view was deserted. The gunfight pulled men like fragments of iron to a lodestone.

“Damn,” he said. On the main road into the center of the valley came a lone rider. Slocum tried to signal Elizabeth, but she was too intent on the fighting to notice him off to her left. He started to shout but saw another band of riders coming down the far slope from a nearby mine. They waved rifles above their heads and whooped and hollered, heading for the fight at the Valhalla.

Slocum turned his gelding’s face and trotted down-slope to the main road, hoping Elizabeth would see him and ride over or notice the four men on the other side of the valley and find cover. They hadn’t seen her or Slocum, but they couldn’t miss the woman if they kept riding as fast as they were.

Firing a shot to draw her attention wasn’t likely to work, either, Slocum saw. She was staring fixedly at the mouth of the Valhalla Mine and paying no attention to anything around her. The volleys exchanged by the two sides kept the thunder rolling down the slope and blotted out everything else.

“Elizabeth!” he shouted, knowing she wouldn’t hear him. But he had to try. Slocum bent low and brought his horse to a gallop. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the four riders from the other mine reach the road, cutting him off.

Worse, they spotted him, yelled and began shooting. The distance was too great for accurate shooting. Even Slocum, who had been a sniper during the war, would have been hard-pressed to hit a galloping rider at this range. He veered and cut across the valley, thinking he could decoy the gunmen away from Elizabeth. If he caused a big enough commotion, she had to hear him and know she had to take cover.

“Get him. There’s another of them varmints!” shouted the lead rider, firing a six-shooter in Slocum’s direction. Not a single slug came within yards, which suited Slocum just fine.

He kept low on his horse, hugging its neck, and rode for a stand of juniper where he hoped to lose the riders. As Slocum whipped through the edge of the copse, branches scratching at his arms and face, he cut sharply to his left and went deeper into the woods. If he could lose the men hot on his trail, he could rejoin Elizabeth and figure out how to get out of the center of this war. He doubted there was any talking to either side, especially the men working so hard to kill the miners protecting the Valhalla.

“He’s in there somewhere,” shouted a rider. “He’s tryin’ to lose us. Must be one of them.”

Slocum wasn’t sure who “them” was, but he wasn’t inclined to take sides. Letting the claim-jumpers on his trail know that would be hard since they had started shooting into the trees, scaring birds and rabbits and blowing splinters off the junipers.

Slowing, Slocum began weaving through the woods, going deeper until he suddenly came out on the far side. The patch of trees hadn’t been as extensive or thick as he had hoped. Putting his heels to his gelding again, he cantered around the woods, letting the trees screen him as much as possible.

He finally circled back to the road almost a mile beyond the Valhalla. From this direction he saw how fierce the fight actually was. Two of the men at the mine’s mouth sprawled over boulders, apparently dead. The remaining defenders still put up stiff resistance, but Slocum saw their time was limited before the claim-jumpers moved in on them.

His sharp eyes worked across the body-littered landscape as he came up with a half-dozen different schemes to help the defenders. He rode farther upslope and then cut toward the Valhalla. Like so many miners, Hawk and his partner had been indifferent to safety when they had cached their blasting powder. The small shack was a ways from their cabin but uphill. Any mistake detonating the giant powder would bring down a section of mountain on their cabin.

Slocum knew it was risky to detonate. He had no idea how sturdy Hawk had built the supports in the mine, but Slocum couldn’t see any of the defenders inside. All were huddled about the mouth, not wanting to be trapped where their attackers could simply fire into the mine and let the ricochets kill them.

If he didn’t do something quick, the claim-jumpers would have possession of the mine. Slocum dismounted and made his way, darting from rock to rock, slithering on his belly like a snake, and finally reaching the tumbledown powder shack. He pulled open the door and looked inside, a smile coming to his lips. Most of the giant powder had been used, but a single keg remained alongside a decent length of black miner’s fuse.

Slocum scooted into the shack, knocked open the top of the keg then measured off a couple feet of the greasy black fuse. It burned at precisely one foot per minute. He didn’t want to give the claim-jumpers much warning but he had to get clear after he lit the fuse. Two feet—two minutes—ought to give him ample time to find cover.

He thrust one end of the fuse into the open keg, then cut off the segment he had chosen. Slocum took a deep breath, heard a new barrage from the claim-jumpers downhill, took out a lucifer and lit the fuse. The black fuse sizzled, popped and then the spark began its inexorable march to the exposed powder.

Slocum flopped out of the shack, rolled and found a gully. Somewhere along the way, one gunman attacking the mine saw him and shouted. Slocum wasn’t sure if they had spotted him or the burning fuse. Since he didn’t draw any bullets, he reckoned they had spotted the real danger.

He got his feet under him in time to be knocked flat by the explosion. A small avalanche followed, but it went down the far side of the arroyo he had used for refuge. The cascade went through the claim-jumpers and scattered them. They yelled out warnings of the whole mountain coming down on them, but Slocum doubted that would happen. The amount of powder left had been small but enough to give the mine’s defenders a respite.

Slocum rolled and scrambled about and came to his feet at a dead run. He finally stopped his headlong plunge by grabbing hold of a low-hanging limb. Swinging around, he looked and smiled.

The fight had been stopped for the moment. It might not be much but it might give the men in the mine a chance to rest and regroup after losing several of their allies.

“Let me go! Stop it! I’m a reporter! You can’t stop me!” Elizabeth Benteen cried. And then there was only silence.