Slocum's Breakout (12 page)

“You just saying that or are you sure? He might have been paid off by the banker,” Slocum said.

“That is possible. I do not understand much of what was said in the court. It is only a way to imprison us, not help us.”

“Or stick your necks into a noose,” Slocum said, nodding. He got the same feeling about most courts and judges. Lawyers argued tiny points and let the big ones fall by the wayside in their attempts to look smarter than their opposition.

“How do you find the Valenzuelas, much less the loot from the bank?” Murrieta asked.

“I doubt they returned to the house where I took José,” Slocum said. He looked up to see Maria frown. She started to speak, then clamped her lips tightly.

“What have you heard?” Slocum demanded.

“Nothing of them,” the woman said, “but there is another thing that I overheard in town.”

“In Miramar?” Slocum asked. She nodded and then rushed to tell what she had learned.

“There is a stagecoach coming with a great deal of money in it. It is for the Army in the Presidio.”

“Why isn't it being brought in by ship?” Slocum asked.

“There was a fire aboard a ship to the south. It sank quickly. Perhaps it had the garrison payroll on it,” Murrieta said. “I heard this but did not know of any money being brought by land.” He looked hard at Maria. “Where did you hear this?”

“I was leaving the office of Durant. I had gone to plead with him to help Atencio.”

“What did you . . . pay?” Murrieta half stood and leaned forward, fists on the table. Slocum rocked back, surprised at the man's vehemence.

“Nothing, Procipio, nothing! I swear! The men I overheard were talking of a telegram. The telegrapher himself was taking the message to the bank.”

“That's the kind of bait I need to lure the Valenzuelas from hiding,” Slocum said. “When's the stage due to pass through?”

“Any time now,” Maria said. “The schedule is for one this very afternoon, but it might be that the money is with another.”

“They wouldn't send along a cavalry detachment to protect it,” Slocum said, his mind racing to figure all the angles, to find all the pitfalls. “Every gang in California would go after it then. It's being shipped from Los Angeles?” He saw the quick glance between Procipio and Maria, then the woman fixed her deep, dark ebony eyes on him.

“I do not know. Where is all the Army money kept?”

“Doesn't matter,” Slocum said. “Here's my plan.” He began building on a sketchy idea. Procipio was as skeptical as Maria was hopeful that his wild-ass scheme would work.

 

“You ought to be a highwayman,” Slocum said. “This is the perfect spot for a robbery.”

“That was my father,” Procipio said indignantly. “I farm and that is all I want from life.”

“Didn't mean anything by it,” Slocum said, his attention fixed on the way the road made a hairpin turn and the boulders on either side. Those rocks could protect the stage and driver but also provided an excellent spot for a rifleman to take out any guard who refused to surrender. One robber need only stand in the road to stop the progress up the trail while an accomplice did the necessary work if the driver or shotgun messenger protested. The tight notch in the road prevented the driver from wheeling the stage about and trying to run, as if any driver would. Being held up on a California route was an all-too-often occurrence. If the driver surrendered his cargo, the highwaymen obliged by not killing him and his passengers.

“I was falsely put into San Quentin,” Murrieta went on. “Just as Atencio was, though they did not see fit to frame me for horse thieving.”

“Hush,” Slocum said, motioning Murrieta back. Two riders trotted into the notch from the direction of Miramar. They were ten miles outside town, about perfect for a stagecoach robbery. The more Slocum saw of this location, the more envious he became of whoever could launch a robbery here. It was as close to perfect as he had ever seen for thievery.

The two riders stopped and looked around. Both had bandannas pulled up over their faces, but this was to protect them from the blowing dust rather than hide their identities. They exchanged words too low for Slocum to hear, then split up. One rode back down the road and stepped down from his horse. He took out a rifle, cocked it, then went to the middle of the road.

The second rider wended his way up into the rocks to the very spot Slocum had picked out as ideal for an ambush.

“That's José,” Slocum said softly. Murrieta nodded, then reached for his six-shooter. Slocum grabbed the man's brawny wrist and forced him to leave his gun in its holster. “We wait.”

Murrieta grumbled but relaxed, sliding back to a spot where José Valenzuela could not see him if the
bandido
chose to look around.

“How will we capture them?” Murrieta asked. “I should go to the road and—”

“We're not going to catch them. After they rob the stage, they'll take the loot back to their hideout. Their new hideout,” Slocum explained.

“Where they might have the gold from the bank?”

“Exactly,” Slocum said. He was all keyed up, as if he were the one doing the robbery. How much would the payroll be for an entire Army garrison? He couldn't tell. There might be enough for both Fort Point and the Presidio. The stagecoach shipment might be thousands of dollars. After he followed the Valenzuelas back to their lair, he would have to consider letting Murrieta use the gold to free Atencio and keeping this haul for himself.

A pang of conscience poked him. He might give some to Murrieta for his village. Maria might decide to ride out with him as he worked his way north away from San Quentin and the nastiness he had found there. The two of them could spend the money in delightful ways. The more Slocum chewed on this prospect, the more he liked it.

He felt a distant vibration echo through to hard rock under his palm. Pressing his ear to the rock, he strained to discern a pattern. A slow smile came to his lips. The rumble of stage wheels was unmistakable. In less than ten minutes the Valenzuelas would put their plan into effect.

Then he would see how well honed his tracking skills were following them. Chances were good they had a route chosen over rocky terrain to throw off trackers in a posse, but traces would remain for a short time. They counted on the sheriff taking hours or even a day to get his deputies on their trail. Slocum wouldn't let the spoor blow away. He was good enough to track a snowflake through a blizzard; the Valenzuelas weren't anywhere near as respectable at hiding their trail as he was at finding it.

“They attack!” Murrieta rose and stared at the pair of highwaymen. Slocum saw the expression on Murrieta's face and saw something close to longing. He wanted to be down there sticking up the stage as much as Slocum did.

Gunfire rolled through the narrow gap and echoed up to the two watching the drama unfold. Slocum touched the ebony handle of his six-shooter but did not draw. Those bullets were not aimed at him. José Valenzuela fired methodically until the driver reined in his team. The horses kicked up a cloud of dust that took a while to settle.

When it did, Slocum saw the driver sagged down in the box, holding his belly. The passengers shoved six-shooters out and fired, but the angle was wrong. José took them out one by one until they finally surrendered.

“Throw out your guns!” José cried. He waved to his pa, who advanced, rifle leveled. “Give him all your money!”

“He steals everything from the passengers. The payroll is not enough!” Murrieta seemed outraged. “How dare they take from poor travelers?”

Slocum found himself agreeing, but for a different reason. The payroll had to be the most valuable thing aboard that stage. Seizing it and getting the hell away counted for more than the few dollars the Valenzuelas would get off the passengers. The gunfire might draw others to see what was happening. The sheriff might even be in the area with his posse.

He turned grim at that thought. Sheriff Bernard still hunted for the man he thought had robbed the Miramar bank: John Slocum.

“Die!” screeched José Valenzuela. He opened fire on the tight knot of passengers, cutting them down where they stood with hands held high over their heads. “Get the strongbox!”

“It is secured with chains,” his father called. “I must shoot it off.”

“Shoot the wood, not the chains. You do not want to be hit by a ricochet.”

José slid down the rock and landed hard in front of the stage. The driver moaned and tried to lift his head. The elder Valenzuela shot him three times. The driver slumped down into the box. Slocum didn't need to check for a pulse. José Valenzuela's pa had just murdered an injured man, as his son had shot down the helpless passengers.

José vanished and several rifle shots echoed out. Then came a grunt and both men dragged a heavy iron box with chains tangled around it into sight. Slocum tensed, reaching for his Colt, but he relaxed and let the pair continue to haul away their ill-gotten gains.

“They murdered those who had already surrendered,” Murrieta said in horror. “That is an unspeakable crime!”

“Nobody said they were pure as the wind-driven snow,” Slocum said. “Come on.” He skidded down a steep, rocky incline to where they had left their horses. Turning to Murrieta, he said, “You get on back to your village. This is my chore now. I'll get you when I find where they're hiding.”

“Where they hide the gold,” Murrieta corrected.

Slocum swung into the saddle. Murrieta looked up at him and said, “Take care, amigo. If not for your own sake, then for Maria's. She has become very fond of you.”

With that, Murrieta mounted and rode off without so much as a backward look. Slocum settled his hat, thinking hard on what the man had said. Then he grinned. It was good that Maria thought of him what he did of her. With a quick tug on the reins, he got his horse started along a narrow trail that wended about before coming down to the main road a quarter mile from where the holdup had occurred.

Slocum looked back and saw the stagecoach team snorting and pawing nervously at the ground. They didn't understand all the gunfire or why their driver wasn't urging them forward. From the way the carrion birds were already spiraling downward, the driver and passengers wouldn't be going anywhere but into buzzards' gizzards.

Looking away from the stage, he turned his attention to the road. Finding the Valenzuelas' trail was simple. They had galloped off. Since he didn't see any trace of the box, he knew they had taken it with them. That would slow their escape. Slocum trotted off, being careful not to overtake them. A smile came to his lips when he lost their trail on the road. He backtracked and saw that they had doubled back before leaving the road. He used his spurs to get his horse down into a ditch and then up the far side. The Valenzuelas had jumped the ditch rather than taking the slow way Slocum had. But he found the deep hoofprints where the horses had landed and galloped away.

He trotted along, eyes on the tracks leading uphill and into a wooded area. Slocum drew rein and studied the edge of the copse to be sure he didn't ride into an ambush. The two road agents had shown they had no hesitation killing wantonly. He finally rode ahead, fairly certain they hadn't slowed in their escape to lay a trap for anybody who might be on their trail. Since he hadn't seen anyone, he knew the Valenzuelas hadn't either.

Tracking them in the wooded area would be more difficult since the pine needles carpeting the ground didn't take hoofprints well. Slocum knew a few tricks to keep him close behind the fleeing father and son.

He wove in and out of the sparsely spaced trees, then stopped when he heard voices ahead. This surprised him since he had expected the two men to ride for some time into the hills. Having a hideout this close to the road seemed wrong.

Then he recognized one voice and went cold inside.

“You sure he's headed this way?” Sheriff Bernard asked.

“I saw him,” Conchita Valenzuela said. “He is a dangerous man. You are sure you will be safe, Sheriff?”

“Got a couple boys riding with me,” Bernard said. “A gunshot and they'll come running.”

“You would not want that shot to be through your heart. He is a robber and a killer. You can see it in his eyes.”

“Might be you can. I gotta go with what I read about him. This here Jasper Jarvis doesn't look to be all that dangerous.”

They continued arguing over how dangerous he—Jarvis—was as Slocum veered away through the woods. Tracking the fleeing outlaws meant less to him right now than avoiding the law. He had no reason to shoot it out with the sheriff or his posse but would if it came to that. He wasn't going to stand trial for a bank robbery he didn't commit, and he sure as hell wasn't going back to San Quentin.

He began curving in a wide arc to take him back toward the road but slowed when he heard horses behind him. Several horses. He didn't think the sheriff was behind him but the rest of the posse still rattled around nearby.

“There he is! I see the varmint!”

Slocum put his head down and raked his horse's flanks with his heels to rocket forward. Tree limbs slashed at him, and bloody scratches exploded on his arms, face, and body as he rode hard for daylight.

From their hoots and hollers, Slocum knew the riders were closing the gap and bearing down on him. He rode faster, cursing his bad luck—and that lying bitch Conchita Valenzuela.

“There he is, boys. Git 'im!”

Another branch lashed Slocum across the face, almost knocking him from his horse. He half turned and chanced a quick look behind. He saw the dun and paint coats of two horses flashing through the trees. He hugged his own horse's neck and guided it at an angle away from the line where he had been riding so frantically. Gradually slowing his breakneck pace allowed him to hear the deputies in the woods complaining about having lost his trail. Slocum finally brought his horse to a halt. Its sides heaved as lather formed.