Slocum gagged as pressure increased to cut off his air.

  The man’s knees held Slocum down in a schoolboy pin, but the hard bed came to Slocum’s aid. If he had been lying on a soft mattress he could never have gained enough leverage to lift his hips up, then jerk to one side. The abrupt movement dislodged the man. As he crashed heavily to the floor, Slocum went for his six-shooter. His finger curled around the trigger and discharged a round.

  He missed.

  Then Slocum found himself on the receiving end of more punishing blows. The man’s fist landed repeatedly. If Slocum had not left on his heavy coat, he might have been beaten down and knocked out. As it was, he felt every bruising blow against his ribs and belly. He was too close to his attacker to get the muzzle of his Colt between them.

  Again Slocum dropped his gun, but this time he grabbed the man’s coat and yanked hard. This sent the huge man reeling back. He smashed so hard into the wall that he went through the flimsy partition and fell into the hallway.

  The light was no better outside his room than it was within. Slocum couldn’t get a good look at the man’s face, but he didn’t think it was Big Jack Montrose or even the man who had followed him through the streets of Virginia City.

  With a bull-throated roar, the man got to his feet and grabbed for Slocum, preventing him from picking up his fallen six-gun. Slocum got his feet under him and heaved, lifting the man off the floor. Spinning around, Slocum staggered through the hole in the wall and heaved again. The man hit the floor and then tumbled backward down the stairs. By now the entire hotel was awake and crying out.

  Slocum took a few seconds, picked up his gun and then went to finish off this annoyance once and for all. The man pulled himself to his feet. Slocum stood at the top of the stairs, aimed and cocked his six-shooter.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, but the man wanted none of it. Slocum pulled the trigger, and his round caught the man in the gut as he tried to charge back upstairs. The mountain of a man hung frozen for a moment, then sagged down, turned and tried to take a step. His foot went into empty space, and he fell face first to the lobby floor.

  “You kilt him,” the clerk said, coming from around the counter. He carried an old black-powder Remington that would probably blow up in his hand if he fired. “You can’t kill guests.”

  “He broke into my room to steal whatever he could find,” Slocum said. “He got what was coming to him.”

  “I guess that makes it all right,” the clerk said. As he turned he swung his heavy pistol around. Slocum cried out but the clumsy clerk smashed a coal-oil lamp on the counter with the barrel. The kerosene inside spewed out across the counter. A surge of flame and a sudden blast of heat caused Slocum to throw up his hands to protect his face.

  “Fire!” screeched the clerk. “Ever’body out! Fire!”

  Slocum was bowled over by the rush of hotel guests trying to get away from the inferno already reaching intolerable proportions. He fell, got up and found two men grabbing his arms and dragging him out.

  “Erin!” Slocum fought to get free but the men were doing what they thought was best—getting him away so he wouldn’t be like a horse that runs back into a burning barn. He jerked free but another hand stopped him.

  “Grab a hat and get to pumpin’, Slocum. This here’s what Engine Company No. 7’s best at.”

  “There’s still someone inside,” he said to Sparky. The fire lieutenant shook his head and grabbed the front of Slocum’s coat to hold him back.

  “First, we get some water on that place. Ain’t gonna do nobody no good rushin’ into a fire till we got it cooled a mite.”

  Slocum saw the man was right. It was suicidal to enter the blazing hotel. He looked around for Erin but didn’t spot her. He ran to the handle on the pumper and began working it up and down as hard as he could. In a few minutes the chuff-chuff of the steam engine kicked in and sent a steadier flow of water onto the blaze.

  Sparky bellowed orders and got the water directed in just the right places. Seeing that the volunteers worked smoothly as a team and that his untrained presence would only slow them in their frantic effort to keep the fire from spreading to nearby buildings, Slocum went through the crowd hunting for Erin.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Did everyone get out?” Slocum grabbed the dazed clerk and shook him to get his attention. “You started the damned fire. Did you see to it that everyone got out?”

  “I guess so,” the clerk said. “Didn’t count. Couldn’t. Too much smoke. Confusion. And you shot that fellow in the gut. That spooked me.”

  Slocum shoved him back, grabbed a fire ax off the engine and pulled a leather helmet down to protect his head. The fire was smoldering in what remained of the lobby, but the second story still showed signs of flame. Slocum dared not wait any longer. He dashed into the lobby and stumbled up the steps, Sparky’s cries to stop not holding him back.

  Using the ax to push away piles of burning debris, Slocum came to Erin’s door and shouted her name.

  “You in there?” Slocum used the ax to knock in the door. He knew better than to touch the brass doorknob and burn himself. The door crashed inward—and a surge of flame rocketed out to catch him in the face. His eyebrows were singed, but he turned his head to take the worst of the heat against his helmet.

  “Erin!” Slocum blundered into the smoky room and looked around. The bed was empty, but the window was closed. If she had escaped, it had been into the hall and then to the street. And he had not seen her there. “Erin!”

  “John,” came a weak cry from the direction of the wardrobe. “Here.”

  Using the ax blade, he pried open the door. Cowering inside, Erin had pulled her clothing over her head. A small pitcher of water had been spilled beside her as she had used it to soak a rag to breathe through.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “Window was nailed shut. I tried it. The hallway. Too much fire.”

  “Come on!” Slocum dropped the ax and dragged her from the wardrobe. Erin tried to get up but lacked the strength after her ordeal. She had been trapped in a sweat-box with little enough air to breathe. Slocum scooped her up in his arms and went back to the door. The intense heat told of a rekindling on the second floor that would quickly bring the building down into charred ruin.

  He kicked the door shut, turned and went to the window. The bright nailheads showed Erin had been right. Whether through oversight or downright laziness, the carpenters had kept the frame true by making sure no one opened the windows.

  Slocum turned, dropped Erin on the bed, wrapped her in the blankets and then took her back into his arms.

  He sucked in some air, choked on the heavy smoke and plunged through the window, twisting as he went. For a gut-wrenching second he fell, and then he crashed into the ground, Erin’s weight driving the air from his lungs as she fell atop him. For a moment, Slocum lay under her, not sure what had happened. Then painful air came back into his chest and he rolled to one side, still holding her in his arms. She began struggling weakly.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We got out,” Slocum gasped out. He unwrapped her, saw she wore a nightgown and hastily wrapped her back up since Sparky and a couple others from Engine Company No. 7 were coming to see if he had been snuffed out like a flame or if he had survived.

  Slocum wasn’t sure how to answer if they asked. His ribs hurt like fire and every breath he took poured acid into his lungs. But Erin was safe and so was he.

  Mostly.

  “That’s the bravest thing I ever saw,” Sparky said.

  “About the dumbest, too. That makes you a real member of our engine company!” The fireman slapped Slocum on the back and almost knocked him over.

  “She was trapped inside. Window was nailed shut, fire in the hall.”

  “No need to go into all that. You saved her. We ought to get you a commendation or a medal or somethin’. Mostly we stand around and piss on the fire. No offense, ma’am,” Sparky said, touching the edge of his leather helmet and looking at her closely. “I do declare, Slocum, you got good taste in who you pull outta burnin’ buildings.”

  Another volunteer shouted and Sparky ran off to tend to problems with the steam engine. The fire was about out, save for a few hot spots. The firemen went from one to the next, throwing buckets of water on them.

  “You saved me, John,” Erin said in a soft voice. “Nobody’s ever done anything like that before. Not even Seamus.”

  “You didn’t need saving. If you had, you wouldn’t be here,” he said, grinning. She wrapped her arms around him and shivered in reaction. Slocum held her but looked beyond, to the fire engine and the crowd gathered around it. The volunteers had saved Virginia City from a nasty fire that could have spread throughout most of the town. The citizens all looked on this as a great diversion from their usual night of drinking.

  “I lost everything in the fire,” Erin said. “All my clothes, everything.”

  Slocum looked down and saw his six-shooter was still in its holster. That was all he needed to get by.

  “You’ve got more than that,” he told her. “You didn’t panic when the whole damned building was coming down around your ears.”

  “The window. I should have broken it and climbed out, but it never occurred to me. I’m so used to thinking of glass windows as valuable, it never occurred to me. I didn’t think of it.” Erin began crying openly. The shock of her escape from death held her like a terrier grasps a rat in its teeth and shakes.

  Slocum led her toward the engine.

  Sparky came over. “Seen this a dozen times before. We got a bottle of whiskey. A shot or two’ll take care of her nerves.”

  “Go on, give her a drink,” Slocum said, but his attention was on the crowd. For a moment, he wasn’t certain he saw clearly. The smoke had burned his eyes and blurred his vision. Then he was sure. Molly stood on the fringe of the crowd, her eyes fixed on him.

  Slocum waved to her, but she turned and disappeared in the sea of faces.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. He took off at a run, got to where Molly had stood and looked around. He grabbed an onlooker’s arm and spun him about. “You see a red-haired woman here a few seconds ago?”

  “Naw, all I seen was you firemen puttin’ out one dandy of a fire. I won twenty dollars bettin’ y’all’d get it out within ten minutes. Only took you eight. Thanks!”

  Slocum let him go and continued his hunt, but Molly had disappeared like water on the blaze.

  13

  “You got to come celebrate with us, Slocum,” Sparky told him. “You’re a hero. A member of Engine Company No. 7!” A cheer went up from the other volunteer firemen, but Slocum took Sparky aside. He didn’t want any notoriety.

  “I need to look after Miss Finnigan,” he told the fire lieutenant. “You’ve got to see that the rest of the company’s taken care of.” Slocum drew out a wad of greenbacks he had been wondering what to do with since he left the Stolen Nugget Saloon back in Truckee. The scrip was worthless unless somebody happened to be traveling in the direction of the bank that had issued it, but even banknotes on a California bank could be discounted and ought to buy a couple bottles of rye.

  “You need to train with us, too. You got the makin’s of a great fireman. You could have my job someday.”

  “With you as captain?” Slocum grinned. He saw ambition written all over Sparky’s face. “Where’s the current captain?”

  “He was the marshal. I reckon we can find a new lawman real soon but not one who’s also fire captain.” Sparky tilted his head to one side. He looked like some paleface Indian with soot giving him his war paint. “Our company’s had a monopoly on choosin’ the town marshal. You interested?”

  Slocum hardly believed his ears. Sparky was offering to make him Virginia City marshal.

  “Job’s purty good. You get to go to all the cathouses and license the Cyprians, check the saloons to be sure the purty waiter girls all give their cut to the city coffers. Hell, saloon owners give you drinks. Thas why a lot of the boys like to make the rounds with the marshal.”

  “Sounds mighty attractive,” Slocum said, “but I don’t have much ambition in that direction.”

  “I can understand,” Sparky said, nodding. “I’d do it myself, ’cept I want to concentrate on bein’ the next captain of the company. Election’s comin’ up soon.”

  “Tell the men you’re standing them for a round or two,” Slocum said. He pointed to the wad of bills in Sparky’s hand. “Consider that a contribution to your election fund.”

  “I knew you was a stand-up fellow, Slocum.”

  Sparky bellowed to the men to get the hoses drained and rolled back onto drums at the rear of the fire engine. Slocum was free to turn his attention to Erin.

  “I suppose I ought to have asked Sparky for a place to stay. We could have slept in the station house.”

  “With a dozen men?” Erin shook her head. “I’d rather go back out to the mine and sleep in Seamus’s shack.”

  “That’s a long ride in the dark,” he pointed out. “We can find a place to sleep.” He eyed the ruins of the hotel and remembered the outbuilding where supplies had been stored. Arm around Erin, he guided the woman toward the shed. The side facing the hotel had charred but other than this, the structure was intact.

  “This is better,” Erin said. “I’m not up to riding all the way out to the claim, anyway.” She sat down next to Slocum and laid her head on his shoulder. “Why does all this have to happen?”

  “Because of the coin around your neck,” he told her bluntly. She jerked up and looked at him. Her blue eyes were flashing.

  “What do you mean?”

  He told her his suspicions about the coin. He drew out the half from around his neck and held it up, letting it spin slowly at the end of the rawhide strip.

  “I took this off the back-shooter who killed Michael,” he told her. “I’ll bet you it matches the one you have. Fits together like peas in a pod.”

  Erin touched the spot between her breasts where her coin hung. She pulled it out and let it swing slowly beside Slocum’s. He took hers and fitted the two together.

  He had a completed coin. Peering at it in the faint starlight, he saw that her half had another scratch that looked like a lightning bolt. Then he understood. This was the compass rose and the scratch represented an N for north. The scratch on his coin indicated which direction that was. He placed the complete coin on his half of the map, oriented it and still couldn’t figure where the gold cache might be. He needed the other segment of the map.

  “I don’t know who has the other part, but I suspect it’s Eustace Montrose.”

  “I don’t care about any of this,” Erin said hotly. “It got Seamus killed, and I don’t want to even see it.” She covered her eyes like a small child denying the world around her.

  Slocum was more interested. He reckoned Eustace Montrose had the rest of the map that would unlock the puzzle. Finding the outlaw might be hard, but Slocum could let the entire Montrose gang come to him. The more he considered it, the more he thought Big Jack Montrose had provoked him to get the map.

  Slocum ran his finger over the sharp cut edge of the gold coin. Montrose might know Erin had the coin since it hadn’t been on Seamus Preston, but she was relatively safe. However, Montrose definitely knew Slocum had half the map, but not the coin. That gave Slocum an edge. He could surrender the map, if necessary, as long as he held onto the coin.

  “I need to make a copy of this,” he said.

  “I don’t want any part of it.”

  Slocum folded the map and tucked it back into his pocket, but when he started to take Erin’s half of the coin, she snatched it from his grip.

  “Mine. Seamus gave that to me. It’s all I have of his to remember him by.”

  “All right,” Slocum said. “I promised to do what I could to get you clear title to the mine, and I’ll do that. But I want the half coin, at least for a while, to fetch the gold.”

  “It’s stolen. You shouldn’t want any part of a crime like that. Seamus should never have let Michael drag him into it.”

  Slocum wondered how much speechifying Seamus’s brother had done to persuade him. Not much, he suspected. The lure of that much gold would make even the most honest of men quake in their boots to get a piece of the pie.

  Slocum lay back and noticed Erin huddled against the far wall, wanting nothing to do with him. That was fine with him. Getting involved with her would only slow him when he needed to move fast. Still, he found himself looking at the curves slowly rising and falling under the blanket as she slept. It took him quite a spell before he let sleep wash over him.

  “You’re makin’ quite a reputation for yourself in Virginia City, Slocum,” boomed Sheriff George. “I was out servin’ process last night and only got back to town this morning when I heard about your darin’ rescue.”

  “The fire?” Slocum was distracted. He had gone to the marshal’s office, looking for old wanted posters. If he found Eustace Montrose’s face among the pictures, he would know who wanted his map—and who wanted him dead. Slocum would have settled for a little information about the gold shipment that his map and coin promised to dump into his lap.

  “What else? Fire’s always worth gossipin’ about. When a galoot from California not only gets hisself elected to a fire company but rescues a woman from a burnin’ building, well, sir, that’s the stuff of legends. You’re headin’ for that. Yes, sir, you are. A legend.” Sheriff George’s eyes flickered across the marshal’s desk at the WANTED posters Slocum had laid out.

  “I wondered if it was Eustace Montrose you were hunting, Sheriff. The former marshal doesn’t have a WANTED poster for him or any of his gang.”

  “You mean any of his family.” George snorted in disgust. “I declare, they’re worse than the James boys over in Missouri. There was nine to ten of ’em, at least to start with. Eustace, a couple brothers, his three boys, the rest cousins or in-laws. All the product of severe inbreeding’s my guess. That’s the only way so many of ’em could have turned out so bad.”