Slocum 315: Slocum's Gold Mountain

Slocum stared at the slowly awakening town of Truckee and wondered where he should start hunting down the man who had killed Preston. Promising to retrieve the map—to what?—and give it to Preston’s brother in Virginia City was about the stupidest thing Slocum had done in quite a while, but honor forced him to try to find the killer. If nothing else, he could bring the back-shooting son of a bitch to justice since Preston hadn’t had a chance to defend himself. Slocum considered what he might have done now if Preston had not saved him from Carnell earlier in the night. He heaved a sigh of resignation as he realized he would still be on the murderous owlhoot’s trail because it was the right thing to do.

At the thought of former saloon owner, Slocum walked over to where Carnell lay slumped and stared at the rigid body for a moment. No one had raised a ruckus about the corpse yet. Slocum gave it a hearty kick to vent his displeasure at what had begun this chain of events forcing him to track down a killer, then settled his Colt Navy in its cross-draw holster and headed down the street for the livery stables. He doubted the pusillanimous dog who had killed Preston would remain in town, especially since the sheet of paper had been his goal.

“A treasure map,” Slocum grumbled as his long stride devoured the distance to the stables. In his days roaming the West he had come across dozens of bogus treasure maps. Most had been harmless enough frauds, but some had led the men buying them to their deaths. He calmed a mite and tried to remember Preston’s exact words. Treasure had never been mentioned, but then not much else had, either. What was his brother’s name? Virginia City was a boomtown with men coming and going constantly. Not knowing a name to ask after, Slocum might as well be hunting for a needle in a haystack.

His only consolation was that Preston hadn’t said it was a map to some lost gold mine. It might be a map showing something else entirely, though Slocum couldn’t imagine what that would be. He got hotter under the collar as he walked, until he came to realize anger wasn’t going to let him discharge his duty any faster. He had to stay cool and collected and use his head if he wanted to fulfill his promise to Preston. Then he could ride his own trail again.

Slocum trudged to the livery and heard coming from the rear the steady clang of a hammer on iron. He walked around the stables, and a blast of heat told him the smithy was already hard at work, although he didn’t immediately see him.

“Anybody here?” Slocum called, even though he had heard the heavy hammer pounding hot iron into shape. Movement at the rear of the shed alerted him to the smithy’s presence. He walked around the open hearth to see a man crouched by a bucket of water with long metal pincers in his hand. Steam rose from the bucket where he quenched his work. The man pulled out his prize, a large horseshoe, and examined it critically before looking back at Slocum.

“You’re the new saloon owner, you and Preston,” he said. Seeing Slocum’s suddenly wary expression, he hastily added, “News travels fast in this here town. My brother was in the saloon last night when you won with that ace-high full house. What kin I do fer ya? Need some fancy wrought-iron work done to fancy up the ole Stolen Nugget?”

“Didn’t know you were the town blacksmith when I left my horse in the stable,” Slocum said. His mind turned over things and came to a quick solution to some of his problems. “There’s been a peck of trouble. Preston’s been killed and so has Carnell. I’m going after Preston’s killer.”

“I couldn’t find the marshal,” Slocum said, trying to weasel out of a complete explanation. The more he had to explain, the more likely he was to end up in the hoosegow until after an investigation. Truth to tell, Slocum wasn’t eager to prove his innocence since he had fired enough times at Preston’s murderer to make it look as if he might be the one who had killed his new partner. Trying to convince anyone that Preston had killed Carnell in an act of self-defense was even less likely since Preston was dead. While Slocum figured he might have outrun a warrant on his head for killing a federal carpetbagger judge back in Georgia, he didn’t want to find out.

“Not likely you will. Ain’t got one in town right now. Last one was caught tryin’ to rob the bank, so we hung him. Mighty hard findin’ anyone to take the job after that.”

Slocum tried not to look too relieved. There wouldn’t be a lawman sniffing around, trying to figure how Carnell died or why Slocum had not bothered to report his or Preston’s death. Tedious explanations no law officer would believe in a month of Sundays were to be avoided if he wanted to catch the killer.

“Reckon he was yer partner,” the smithy said, rubbing his stubbled chin with meaty fingers. “That makes it yer duty to find the killer, don’t it? Good to see honorable men comin’ through town these days. Too many don’t have a lick of sense, much less respect for the dead.”

“You know, it might be that gent what rode out of town ten minutes back. Headed toward the mountains.” The muscular man shook his head so hard that sweat flew off in bright beads. “Damn poor time to try to git through the pass with that storm on us.” Punctuating his words, a sudden cold blast of wind made the heat seem more inviting than it had been.

“Toward the Sierra Madres,” Slocum said in disdain. Only a tenderfoot or a desperate man would try to cross the mountains now. In a few days, after the storm blew itself out, would be a better time to attempt crossing through a pass.

“Hell, I was born in one.” The smithy laughed. “You put me in charge and I’ll turn you a good profit. That brother of mine can look after it when I’m not there. Or I can buy it outright.”

That was as good an offer as Slocum was likely to get for the Stolen Nugget Saloon. They haggled a spell, but Slocum was anxious to get on the trail and sold out for a fraction of what the place was worth, if Preston had been telling the truth. He thrust out his hand and shook, his hand vanishing in the smithy’s ham-hock-huge one.

Slocum saddled, took some supplies from the livery stables and turned his horse’s face toward the mountains. They looked near enough to reach out and touch in the cold morning air, but Slocum knew it was a hard day’s ride just to reach the foothills.

The wind couldn’t get any colder. That was what Slocum thought until a new gust whipped down from the summit of the Sierras and cut like a razor at his cheeks and eyes. He pulled his bandanna up a little more over his nose to keep it from getting frostbitten. As abruptly as he had left Truckee, he had not gone on the trail poorly equipped. His heavy coat rode under his canvas duster, giving double protection against the heat-sucking wind. Roper’s gloves provided some protection to his hands, but his fingers still tingled from the cold, and he wasn’t sure about his toes. He tried wiggling them, but his boots felt as if they squeezed down hard all around his feet. As long as he had some sensation, he wasn’t running much risk of losing a toe or two, but if the temperature dropped even more that was exactly what would happen.

Squinting into the wind, eyes tearing up in reaction to the cold, he peered at the ground the best he could. The tracks left by the fleeing killer had been distinct enough close to Truckee. By getting out quick enough, Slocum had found the freshest hoofprints and followed them. By the time the sun actually poked up over the tall, sheer mountain range, commerce along the road would have wiped out any vestige of tracks. Wagons rolled constantly in and out of Truckee, heading downslope toward San Francisco and coming in from that port city with a steady flow of prospectors looking to make their fortune in the Comstock.

It was late enough in the year that only the most intrepid or stupidest would try crossing the Sierras now, but there were enough. Slocum had a start on them as he caught sight of a steaming pile of horse dung. He was less than twenty minutes behind Preston’s fleeing murderer.

A sudden powerful gust almost unseated him. He had to gentle his horse to keep it from shying. Slocum felt he wasted precious time soothing the animal’s frayed nerves, but the skittish horse was all that would keep him alive in the worsening weather.

“Come on, let’s walk a spell,” he said, dismounting. Slocum felt stabs of sharp pain in his feet as he led the horse up the steep slope. He knew he ought to have done this earlier. He needed the effort to keep his blood flowing to his feet and hands so he wouldn’t freeze to death by inches. Being partially protected by the horse’s bulk kept him warm, also, but the horse struggled. The altitude was more than the horse was used to, coming from sea level as they had, and the temperature was turning downright polar. The effort it took simply to keep moving increased, but Slocum was determined. If he let the killer get away now, he might never find him.

“Get the map. Give it to my brother in Virginia City,” Slocum mocked. Either—or both—promises might have to be broken, through no fault of his own. Even if he recovered the map, finding Preston’s brother might not be possible. Not for the first time Slocum wished he had only tried to ease the dying Preston’s mind rather than making such a rash promise. A promise to a dying man was inviolate. Always had been and always would be, as long as Slocum drew a breath.

Coldness welled inside Slocum when he realized he didn’t even know if Preston was the man’s first name or last. How did he ask around Virginia City for a man who had a brother named Preston? Miners were sociable creatures if they were liquored up enough, but they were always cantankerous, unpredictable as old dynamite and never took kindly to anyone asking too many questions.

“Keep moving, damn it,” Slocum said, lowering his head to take the new gust of wind against the crown of his hat. The brim folded down and flopped against ears and face, but he hardly noticed. He pulled up the bandanna a bit more and knew he looked like a train robber. But out here, with no other living being in sight, no one was likely to pay him any mind.

“Don’t stop walking,” Slocum said, irritation rising. He swatted his horse on the rump to keep it putting one hoof in front of the other. Then he began to wonder if he ought to give up and go back to Truckee while he still had all his bodily parts.

After enduring another hundred yards of the increasingly intense wind and snow, Slocum was prepared to give up. Then he topped a rise and saw his quarry across a broad, grassy meadow half-white with new snow. Slocum judged distances and knew he could overtake the man if he tried.

“Come on,” Slocum said, remounting the balky horse. “Give me some speed. After we settle accounts with him, we can go back to Truckee and I’ll give you all the oats you can eat.” The horse turned its face and looked back with great skepticism. Slocum used his spurs to get the horse moving into the teeth of the gathering storm.

The rider was hardly a mile off, but Slocum had misjudged both the time it would take and the trouble caused by the snowstorm. He reached the meadow and found the other horse’s tracks were cut into a thin layer of snow and ice. That told him the temperature was much colder than he had anticipated. If the ground had been warmer, the snow would have melted and the tracks would have been half-frozen in mud.

A white curtain drew across the land, obscuring Slocum’s view of the far side of the meadow where he had spotted the rider. The snow wasn’t wet enough yet to stick, and it blew about like dust. The continual pelting of the fine, dry flakes caused his horse to start crow-hopping on him, but he kept control as he peered down at the ground to be certain he wasn’t veering away from Preston’s killer.

As he struggled across the meadow, a nagging worry slowed him. There might be any number of men on this trail other than the gunman responsible for Preston’s death. Then Slocum realized such doubt would prevent him from ever getting back the map and bringing the true killer to justice.

He instinctively reached across and patted the lump made by his Colt under his duster and heavy coat. It rode where it was out of the snow and kept warm by his body heat, but getting it out when he needed it would be a chore. Slocum left the pistol where it was as he pressed on into the blowing snow.

“Hey!” he shouted when he saw the rider ahead, stopped on the rise at the far side of the meadow. He waved to attract the man’s attention. Anything that slowed him would give Slocum a better chance of overtaking him.