Slocum #422 (2 page)

“Where do you think he went?”

“This car's all locked down. If'n he's inside, he ain't leavin'. I say we check closer to the caboose. If nobody's there, hell, we got to search each car.”

“Ought to make McIlheny come with us.”

“Ought to make him get new eyeglasses.”

The two railroad detectives moved away, letting Slocum slip out on the far side of the train. He brushed himself off to appear less like he was trying to steal a ride and more like he belonged in a passenger car. The train on the next track had eight passenger cars linked behind it. The plumes of steam coming from the smokestack and the way the engineer and fireman cursed each other warned him the train was about to pull out. It wouldn't serve him to sneak into a passenger car. The conductor would find him right away. Without a ticket, he would be tossed off immediately and not be any better off than he was now.

Going down the line of cars, he came to a mail car. A clerk paced back and forth just inside the open door, occasionally looking at a huge black steel safe mounted in the center of the floor. To open that would require a dozen sticks of dynamite, but Slocum's intentions were to steal a ride, not the U.S. mail or whatever else might be in the safe.

The locomotive quivered and belched, then spat a ­ten-­foot-­long tongue of orange flame mixed with cinders before settling down to white steam pouring from the smokestack. The cars behind the tender clanked and pulled together as the engine slowly gathered speed. Slocum didn't care where the train was headed as long as it was away from San Diego. He jumped up on the coupling between the mail car and the passenger car in front of it.

When a black face appeared at the dirty window looking out between cars, Slocum dropped down low. The conductor didn't see him. He hung on as the train rattled through the yard and found the proper switch. They headed east. Slocum settled down on the small platform at the rear of the passenger car and braced his legs against the mail car. The city flashed past and soon the train entered the countryside, cooler here away from the adobes and horses.

Barely had he time to appreciate the ­twilight-­cloaked world when the engineer threw on the brakes. Even as far back in the train as Slocum was, he smelled the acrid odor of burning steel. He was tossed about and grabbed a railing, hanging on to keep from being thrown off. The train hadn't gone more than a dozen miles outside town.

He regained his balance, then pressed against the passenger car wall as four men rode past, brandishing ­six-­shooters.

If a bounty hunter had come for him, there had to be a marshal out for blood, too. Slocum slipped his ­six-­gun from its holster, ready to shoot it out with the posse.

Slocum's thumb pressed down hard enough on the hammer to leave an impression in his callused flesh. He let up when the four riders passed him without so much as a glance. They focused on something farther back along the train. If he had a lick of sense, he would have dropped off the train to the far side and found a ditch to hide in.

But curiosity got the better of him. The train had been stopped by the riders. There had to be a couple more with the engineer to keep him from slamming down the lever, releasing steam into the cylinders, and getting the train moving again. Railroad engineers cottoned less to the law than they did men trying to hitch a ride on their train without paying.

Slocum edged to the side of the platform and cast a quick glance around. Two men had dismounted and banged on the closed mail car door. The other two remained in the saddle, their ­six-­shooters pointed as if they would ventilate the clerk if he opened up. Looking toward the front of the train gave Slocum a different idea of what was happening than he had thought at first.

Two riders trained rifles on the engineer and the fireman. He had been so wrapped up in his own trouble that it hadn't occurred to him before this instant that these weren't deputies out to arrest him. They were outlaws robbing the train.

He had to admire their balls. They held up the train within miles of town. If they had let the train steam out into the desert and robbed it there, pursuit by the law would be days in coming. Their getaway was assured by the miles of emptiness and the time it'd take for the train to reach a telegraph station if they damaged the locomotive.

He slipped back, moving slowly to avoid drawing attention to himself. He eased up on the platform and peered through the dirty window into the car. Another robber held the passengers at gunpoint. The conductor went from passenger to passenger, collecting their valuables. From the glimpse Slocum had of the man's dusky face, he was about to explode in anger. Forcing the conductor to take part in the robbery was an affront not to be borne. As if he could read the man's mind, Slocum knew this was
his
train,
his
passengers, and this was a perversion of
his
duty.

Seven men. Four behind, two with the engineer, and one in this car. Slocum doubted there were any others, though he couldn't be sure. The loot taken from the passengers had to be lagniappe for the robbers. What they really wanted rested inside the big black safe in the mail car.

Slocum let the conductor see him. The man's face was contorted into fury. For an instant Slocum thought he would blurt out an angry word to the robber about yet another outlaw on the train. On
his
train. Something settled the conductor's choler as he realized Slocum intended to stop the robbery, not abet it. He stood up straight, his bulk filling the aisle and blocking the robber's view of the rear door.

“Why you doin' this?” The conductor raised his voice as Slocum opened the door. It squeaked. “You outta know Mistah Burlison's gonna be furious mad at this. He don't like the Yuma Bullet missin' its schedule. We is the best damned train fer adherin' to our timetable of any S&P train.”

“Shut up,” the robber called. “You keep takin' them wallets and watches. Hurry up or I'll shoot a passenger.” He bent over and ran the barrel of his pistol along an old woman's cheek. “I might just start with this crone since nobody'd miss her.”

Slocum moved fast, ­duck-­walking through the door and closing it behind. The conductor shifted around, turning so Slocum had a clear shot at the robber. He hesitated with the outlaw's barrel resting alongside the woman's face. Something alerted the robber. He stood straighter and instinctively brought his ­six-­shooter around. Slocum fired. The first round caught the outlaw in the belly. The loud
whang!
told the story. The slug had hit a big belt buckle. The second shot hit a few inches higher and gave the man a new belly button.

Staggering from the first impact, he folded over and dropped to the floor as the second bullet drove through his gut. Slocum pushed past the conductor and waited to see if a third round was necessary. The outlaw made pitiful animal sounds and thrashed about weakly. With a quick grab, Slocum took the outlaw's fallen ­six-­gun and slid it into his belt.

“Keep the passengers in the car. There're two robbers with the engineer and four trying to break into the mail car.”

“You gonna whup all of 'em?” the conductor asked. “All by yo' lonesome?”

Slocum hadn't thought it through. He smiled crookedly and only nodded. Without a decent plan and the outlaws alerted to trouble by the two gunshots, he would be walking into a buzzing hornet's nest. The irony of it all didn't escape him that this was the third time in two days he had found himself mixed up in a crime not of his doing. The bank robbery and killing of three men had brought the bounty hunter down on him. For all he knew, the San Diego marshal had a posse after him for the unpleasantness outside the saloon.

“Kill them all,” he heard as he went out the car door nearer the engine. He looked over his shoulder. The old woman the robber had threatened looked fierce enough to take on the robbers by herself. Slocum almost handed over the captured ­six-­shooter to let her do it herself. From her determined expression, she would try.

He touched the brim of his hat and ducked onto the platform between cars. The passengers in the forward car milled about, not sure what was happening. One tried to open the door when he saw Slocum.

“What's going on? I demand to know!”

With a savage kick that sent the man reeling back into the car, Slocum kept moving. He dropped to the ground in a crouch and saw the four dark figures back at the mail car. They still banged on the side demanding to be let in.

Lack of a plan gnawed at him now. The two outlaws holding the engineer prisoner presented an easier target. Take them out and the train could build steam and pull away, forcing the four left behind to once more overtake the train. When they did, Slocum could shoot them from the saddle one by one. Only a small detail made him turn away from the locomotive and to the four. The engineer had stopped for a reason. If something had been dropped on the tracks, plowing forward might be impossible without derailing the train.

Which way to attack decided itself when one of the four spotted Slocum. A bullet sailed high and wide over his head. Slocum didn't return fire. He had too few rounds to waste any of them in the darkness. Hitting a man on a nervous horse was a hard shot at the best of times. Instead, Slocum shot at the man on the ground hammering away at the mail car door. The slug ripped away part of the wood and sent splinters into the outlaw's face, causing him to recoil. The robber triggered a round that tore away more wood, but this struck higher on the car. In reaction, the outlaws' horses all reared, giving Slocum a few seconds to rush forward.

He fired until his Colt came up empty. The shots hit nothing. He grabbed for the gun tucked into his belt and fired off a single round. This found a mounted outlaw, more by luck than skill.

“He shot me. Damnation, he shot me!” The train robber spun about on his horse and fell when the animal reared. The man hit the ground hard, moaned, and sank down onto his belly.

Slocum doubted the man was dead, but he wasn't in the fight any longer.

Letting loose a rebel yell, Slocum closed the distance and fired twice more. Three shots. How many rounds had the outlaw already fired? The number of rounds he had left turned into the least of his worries. The three remaining outlaws fired at him now, their shots coming nearer as he closed the distance between them.

The one who had banged away on the door fired at him. Slocum heard the slug whistle past and then he tackled the man, wrestling him to the ground. The outlaw got in a lucky punch and stunned Slocum. Then he kicked him in the shoulder. Slocum's left arm turned numb, but he clung to the captured ­six-­shooter in his right hand. Bringing it up onto target proved harder than he'd expected as another heavy blow stunned him. Driven to his knees, Slocum watched the world through pain and darkness.

The night blasted apart as a yellow tongue of flame lashed in his ­direction—­but the bullet found his attacker, not him. Slocum blinked away the dazzle and saw the mail clerk holding a ­six-­gun. He had chosen the best possible time to join the fight. He fired twice more and then the ­six-­shooter jammed.

Slocum swallowed the pain and used both hands to bring up the pistol. He emptied it at the other mounted robber. His vision refused to give him a true picture of what happened, but in his gut he knew he had missed. Then he grunted in pain as strong arms circled his body, pinning his arms to his side. The pistol fell to the ground as he fought.

As quickly as he had been immobilized, he found himself staggering away free. Slocum lost his balance and hit the ground. He rolled over, ready to keep fighting but the outlaw had disappeared.

“You move a muscle and you're a dead man,” the mail clerk said.

Slocum laughed harshly and sat up.

“Your gun jammed. I saved you. And then it looks like you saved me, so we're even. Thanks.”

The bullet ripping through the crown of his hat sent the Stetson flying. Slocum stared at the mail clerk, who had cast aside his ­six-­shooter in favor of a smaller pistol that had been stashed in his vest pocket. The derringer almost disappeared in the man's grip, but from the determination on the man's face, death was about to visit Slocum.

 • • • 

The engineer had reversed the driving rods and pushed the Yuma Bullet backward along the track all the way to the depot. Slocum sat in the mail car, hands tied and fuming at the injustice of it all. He'd expected better than for the clerk to pull a derringer on him after he saved the man from the robbers. As the train rattled and lurched along the tracks, Slocum found it impossible not to stare at the huge safe. He finally asked.

“What's in it?”

“The safe? You tried to rob the train and you don't know?” The clerk snorted, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “That's rich. You held up the train and have no idea what you're tryin' to steal.”

“I stopped the robbery. I'm not one of that gang.” Slocum lifted his chin and pointed, Navajo style, at the two bodies stacked in the far corner of the car. One had tried to rob the passengers. The other had caught Slocum's bullet and hadn't gotten far enough away before he leaked too much blood.

“You had a ­falling-­out with your partners,” the clerk said.

“Is that the way the conductor saw it?”

“You leave Jefferson outta this. He's a good man but don't expect him to lie for you.”

Slocum only wanted him to tell the truth. Better to be branded as trying to ride the train without a ticket than robbing it. He started to speak but a sudden lurch sent him flopping about on the floor. He skidded a few feet and fetched up hard against the wall. Shaking off the impact, he forced himself to sit upright. The clerk's pistol had never wavered.

“We're back,” the clerk said. “You're in for a world of trouble now.”

“You have no idea,” Slocum said glumly.

The clerk pulled him to his feet and shoved him out the door. Slocum got his feet under him a split second before he fell. Landing heavily, he staggered a couple paces. The two railroad bulls stood in front of him. Both looked as he expected, if the Irishman had the red hair and the German was so blond his hair looked white in the gaslight from the depot.

“He's all yours, boys.”

“Go to hell,” Gunther said. He took Slocum's left arm and the Irishman the right so they could give him the bum's rush.

For a moment Slocum thought they'd take him to the depot, where the law would gladly arrest a man with offenses piled a yard high. Adding train robbing to the list seemed almost an afterthought. But the two railroad detectives steered Slocum away and toward a lighted Pullman car sitting all by itself on a siding. Even in the faint light from the railroad yard, Slocum saw this was a special car. Gilt edging and fancy lettering on the side warned him he was being taken to the head man of the railroad. Or at least the man in charge of the San Diego depot.

“Up you go,” Gunther said. They heaved and Slocum sailed through the air to crash against the rear door.

The door opened and spilled him to the floor. He squinted against the bright light. All he could see were boots so highly polished they reflected the car's gaslights as bright as the sun.

“What are you doing down there, man? Get up! Get up, I say!”

Slocum pushed to hands and knees. Standing with his hands bound tightly was harder than he'd expected. His fingers had turned into bloated white sausages, and his arms tingled from lack of circulation all the way to his shoulders.

“Why's he trussed up like that? Cut the ropes. Now!”

Gunther and his partner yanked Slocum to his feet. The soft snick of a knife leaving its sheath ended with the Irish detective slicing through the ropes. Slocum almost cried out in pain as circulation rushed back into his hands.

“You two reprobates, out! Get out!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Burlison,” Gunther said. The two hastily left, closing the Pullman door behind them.

Slocum felt as if he had been delivered to paradise. The furnishings in the Pullman were as sumptuous as anything he had ever seen at San Francisco's Union Club. Red ­velvet–­covered sofas reminding him of surplus from a Denver whorehouse lined either wall. A fainting couch that looked both fragile and expensive had been pushed to one side to make room for a huge cherrywood desk littered with papers. Chairs and tables made getting from one end of the car to the other an obstacle course.

Sitting on the tables were small marble statues, some of nudes, others of animals and mythical creatures. One had been studded with enough diamonds to keep Slocum in whiskey and women for a year. The way the gems sparkled made him squint.