“Even I kin see ’em. Cheeky bastards, figurin’ nobody’s gonna come after them.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Slocum said, but without proof, he wasn’t going to share what he had found. If it came down to him against the U.S. Army, he knew who would lose.

  By midafternoon they had covered more than fifteen miles, heading to the northwest. The sounds of hooves coming toward them alerted Slocum.

  “I heard ’em, too,” Mendelsohn said nervously. “Sounds like more than a trio of robbers. Sounds like a whole damn army.”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when Slocum spotted a guidon over the top of a rise. Seconds later the rider and his horse appeared and with them Colonel Holman. The commander of Fort Crumpland held up his hand, and the steady clip-clop of hooves halted. Slocum didn’t have to see through the hill to know Holman had a full company with him.

  “Mr. Slocum! I’d wondered where you had gone.”

  “Colonel,” Slocum said warily. “You told me to scout south. I did and ended up helping the marshal from town track bank robbers.”

  “Our paths have crossed, sir.” Holman introduced himself formally to Mendelsohn, who looked flustered at the notion that a full colonel spoke to him. Slocum guessed Mendelsohn had been in the Army, probably not more than a corporal, if that, and was overawed by any officer.

  “You see them rascals?” Mendelsohn asked. “They burned down the bank but not ’fore they emptied the vault.”

  “I have captured them, sir,” Holman said. “There was a considerable exchange of gunfire.”

  “And all the robbers are dead,” Slocum guessed.

  “Not quite, Mr. Slocum. We killed all but their leader, who is now in our custody. I thought it best to deliver him to the authorities in Newsome.”

  “Did the robber confess that he’d robbed the Newsome bank?” asked Slocum, wondering how Holman knew where to return the prisoner.

  “A sack with the name on it indicated to me that that was where the money had been stolen.”

  “Let’s see the varmint,” Mendelsohn said. He exchanged a quick look with Slocum. If Slocum could identify the prisoner, the case was closed.

  “Bring the prisoner forward!” barked Holman.

  Slocum sat straighter in the saddle when he saw a dejected rider with a rope around his neck being led over the rise. It wasn’t Talmidge.

  “That’s an Army officer,” Mendelsohn said.

  “He claimed to be Captain Wilson out of Fort Douglas, but even if that is true, he is also your robber,” Holman said.

  Slocum remained silent because he saw that the man holding the other end of the rope around Wilson’s neck was the soldier he had spotted at the robbery. Beside him were Sergeant Davies and the other killer who had slaughtered the road agents after the stagecoach robbery.

  “Well, let’s git him on back to the jailhouse in town,” Mendelsohn said.

  “What about the loot from the bank?” Slocum asked. Mendelsohn jerked as if someone had stuck him with a pin.

  “Dang, fergot clean about that. You recover the money, Colonel?”

  “We did not,” Holman said. “Wilson hid it before my scouts found him.”

  “Scouts? Davies and those two? Talmidge and Butler?” asked Slocum.

  “In your absence, I have been using the sergeant and his most trusted troopers in that capacity.”

  “Why don’t you send a squad of men on to Newsome with the prisoner and let us hunt for the money?” Slocum wanted to hear what Holman would say to this.

  “A splendid idea, Mr. Slocum,” said the colonel, to Slocum’s surprise. “However, my company will escort the prisoner to town since I am making a sweep through that part of our patrol responsibility. Sergeant Davies and his men can show you where they captured Wilson.”

  “And killed the others,” Slocum said, knowing that he might have signed his own death warrant. He had to be especially careful around the sergeant now.

  “Use your abilities to the utmost, sir, and good luck recovering the stolen money. Report to the fort when you are done. We have a new mission that requires every bit of skill in scouting we can muster.”

  With that Colonel Holman had the prisoner transferred to the hands of a corporal who probably hadn’t started shaving yet, and got his company trotting toward Newsome, leaving Davies and his two cronies with Slocum and Mendelsohn.

  “Along our backtrail, that’s where we left ’em,” Davies said. “Didn’t bother with amenities.”

  “You left them for the buzzards and coyotes?” Mendelsohn asked.

  “Why the hell not? They’re worthless. They robbed your bank, didn’t they? What more do they deserve?”

  “Let’s ride, Sergeant,” Slocum said. “You and your troopers lead the way.” He was damned if he’d let any of the trio ride behind him and have a clean shot at his back.

  Davies smirked, then snapped out the order for his men to begin the retracing of their path. Slocum was a little surprised that Davies had given in so easily. It was as if he had expected the request and was ready for it. This made Slocum even warier than before. He trotted alongside the marshal but had little to say.

  “Why are you so edgy, Slocum?” Mendelsohn finally asked the question after they had ridden a mile or more. “You don’t git along so good with them?” He lifted his chin like a Navajo to indicate the three soldiers.

  Slocum considered telling the man what he had learned, then decided against it. He couldn’t prove any of it, and as far as he knew, Davies and the other two had no idea that he had watched them murder the road agents and take the gold from the stagecoach strongbox. Davies hadn’t taken a liking to him at all, but that might have been on general principles rather than knowing Slocum was watching for the slightest slipup to have him arrested—or to shoot him down.

  Worse, Slocum hadn’t figured out where Colonel Holman fit in the picture. The man was either in cahoots with Davies or was as dumb as a post. Either way, he should not be in command of a cavalry post.

  “Where’s Lieutenant Tartaglia?” Slocum called to Davies. “I didn’t see him with the colonel.”

  “He’s in command, back at the fort,” Davies said. “We’re mighty short of officers, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I noticed. What happened to them? They go missing like Sergeant Atkins?” Slocum should never have made a crack like that, but he couldn’t restrain himself. He itched to go for the ebony handle of his six-shooter and put a round into the thieving, murdering sergeant, but he could not do so until he had proof of Atkins’s death. For all Slocum knew, Davies might have been responsible. If so, he wanted that tidbit of information tucked away before he put a slug into Davies’s vile heart. Laurel might appreciate knowing that the man who killed her father had been brought to justice, and even if she didn’t, Slocum would certainly relish it.

  “Who’s this Atkins?” asked Mendelsohn. “Any relation to that filly who barged into the saloon when you was playin’ cards with Mr. Crosby?”

  “How much farther?” Slocum spoke loud enough to drown out Mendelsohn’s question. It didn’t pay giving Davies more information than he needed.

  “We’re almost there, Slocum,” the sergeant said. He whispered for several seconds with Butler and Talmidge, putting Slocum on his guard. He wanted to warn the new marshal of the chance that they might be bushwhacked, but he didn’t have the opportunity. Mendelsohn let out a gasp and pointed.

  “There’s a body!”

  In spite of himself, Slocum turned in the saddle to look where Mendelsohn pointed. The body lay on its back, face staring up into the endless sky, and was dressed in an Army uniform. Slocum didn’t recognize the man, but he hadn’t studied any of the men who had ridden with Captain Wilson. He had no reason to believe, though, that this wasn’t one of the soldiers out of Fort Douglas.

  “There’s another. And another! Them varmints is all over the place,” Mendelsohn said. The marshal slid from his saddle, went to the side of a body and used his boot to turn over the corpse. “This here one’s a corporal. Now he oughta knowed better than to rob the bank. You recognize him, Slocum?”

  “No,” Slocum said, hoping Mendelsohn wouldn’t press the point or mention that Slocum had gotten a good look at one of the men. Davies would certainly add two more bodies to this death field.

  “And this one’s half-flopped atop a canvas bag.” Mendelsohn crouched, grabbed the leather-sewn side and tugged hard. The money bag came free from under the body, causing Mendelsohn to sit down heavily. He held up the bag like a trophy. “Yep, it’s got the town name printed on it. Old man Weiss is gonna piss his britches in joy gettin’ his money back.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Slocum rode closer, keeping the marshal between him and the three soldiers. Davies sat calmly, watching the marshal. A small smile crept onto his face, but his two cronies were outright chuckling at the joke they had put over on the bumpkin from Newsome.

  “Not a whale of a lot, Slocum,” the marshal said, pawing around. “Some greenbacks. Might be as much as a hunnerd dollars.”

  “No gold?”

  “Nary a speck of dust,” Mendelsohn confirmed.

  “We figure the captain had plenty of time to hide the gold and was tryin’ to escape with only the scrip ’cuz it was lighter,” Davies said. “No tellin’ where Wilson might have hid the gold. This is mighty big country.” Davies swiveled in the saddle, as if he was actually looking for the gold.

  “We ought to send a wagon out fer them,” Mendelsohn said. “I don’t like the notion of givin’ a proper burial to owlhoots like them, but it is a thorn in my soul to let the vultures pick at their bones.”

  “Your potter’s field will be more’n good enough for ’em,” Davies said solemnly. The sergeant took a deep breath, as if relieved of a heavy burden. “We showed you the place where we shot it out. You git on back to Newsome with your evidence, Marshal. Do what you have to and clean up the records.”

  “The gold’s lost,” Mendelsohn mused, looking around at the ground as if he might spot a stack of bullion bars. “But the robbers have been brought to justice.”

  Slocum saw that satisfying the marshal had been the sole reason Davies and his men had brought them here. With official sanction that the soldiers from Fort Crumpland had acted to stop criminals—soldiers from Fort Douglas—Davies and his gang were in the clear. The gold was well hidden, Slocum knew, and they were more than willing to give up a few scraps of paper money. If they intended to hightail it anytime soon, the scrip issued on the Newsome bank would be worthless in Salt Lake City or anywhere more than a dozen miles from here.

  But the gold would spend well anywhere in the world.

  “You got orders from the colonel,” Davies said to Slocum. “You might want to follow them.”

  “Think he’d want me to ride with you?”

  “Don’t know what he told you to do, but me and the boys, we got other work to do before returnin’ to the post.” Sergeant Davies didn’t wait for Slocum to answer. He got his two men turned and riding to the west immediately, leaving Slocum and Mendelsohn behind.

  “Get on back to town, Marshal,” Slocum said. “You have a fair amount of work ahead of you.”

  “What are you goin’ to do, Slocum?”

  Slocum looked from Mendelsohn to the backs of Davies and his men as they rode away, then said, “I’ve got a job to finish.” Slocum mounted and turned northward, toward Fort Crumpland.

  13

  Slocum spent two days cooling his heels at Fort Crumpland before Colonel Holman returned with his tired company of troopers. Holman, for his part, rode upright and alert, looking like the epitome of the military commander. How he still had shiny brass and a clean uniform was more a testament to his striker than to the colonel’s innate ability in the field. Still, Slocum had no admiration for a man who could ride about Utah the way Holman had, looking so fine in his uniform, and be completely duped by a ragtag sergeant.

  “Good to see that you’re ready for a scout, sir,” Holman said, dropping to the ground and marching to where Slocum stood in the shade.

  “You find what you were looking for, Colonel?” Slocum didn’t see any pack animals laden with the gold from the Newsome bank robbery, so Holman hadn’t dispatched a few men to take Captain Wilson to town and then retrieved the stolen gold. That might have been left to Davies and his partners.

  “I scoured the countryside looking for the miscreants the townspeople spoke of. I found nothing. I am not saying they are wrong, but the station agent—”

  “Cassarian?”

  “That is the man’s name, yes. Cassarian is eloquent in detailing the woes that have befallen his stagecoach line, but I found nothing. Even you were unable to find the trail of the Lansing Gang.”

  Slocum bit his lip to keep from saying that it had been as easy as falling off a log to find Laredo Jack Lansing, but then Slocum had a good idea where to look because he knew Jack so well. Still, with the gang of greenhorns Laredo Jack had recruited, an experienced cavalry officer should have had no trouble finding the box canyon and bagging a dozen or more outlaws.

  “Might be the outlaws are hiding in plain sight,” Slocum said. The flash of irritation on Holman’s face could have meant anything. Slocum might have nettled him with knowledge that Davies and his confederates were responsible for most of the robberies and the lack of other outlaws, because they murdered them. Or Slocum’s remark could have been taken as a personal affront to the colonel’s ability to track.

  “With Captain Wilson in jail, it will be only a matter of time before the gold from the bank robbery is found. He will trade the location of the gold for a lighter sentence.”

  Slocum wondered if this gold might also end up being used to pay the soldiers at Fort Crumpland, as the gold dust stolen from the miner had been.

  “How sure are you that Wilson is guilty? He and his squad were riding for Fort Douglas, not south to Newsome.”

  “Where he began and where he ended up are not in dispute,” Holman said stiffly. “Sergeant Davies and his squad were instrumental in bringing Wilson to justice. At Lieutenant Tartaglia’s suggestion, I have put the sergeant in for a commendation because of his fine work.”

  Slocum almost spat. Davies framed an innocent man, stole the gold and got a medal out of it. There might not be any justice in the world, but there would be when Slocum finished with the sergeant and his two men—and Tartaglia. About Holman, he was less sure what to do. The man might just be a blithering fool and oblivious to what went on around him.

  “You appear distraught, Mr. Slocum. Has Lieutenant Tartaglia spoken with you about a new scout?”

  “No, he hasn’t.” Slocum hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Tartaglia since returning to the post. He had asked around, but none of the soldiers knew where the lieutenant had gone, either. This was another black mark against Holman. A post had to have an officer in charge at all times. That only Holman and Tartaglia were here to command bordered on the loco.

  “Tomorrow morning, bright and early, you will go with Sergeant Davies and scout the region to the north. While in the field, I heard rumors of outlaw activity there.”

  “Up near Red Spur Peak?”

  “I will give Sergeant Davies more precise directions when he returns.” Holman looked up at the sun, as if reading some portent there. “He should be back within the hour. Be prepared for active duty, Mr. Slocum. I assure you this scouting expedition will be very active.” Holman went to his office, chuckling at his little joke.

  Slocum prepared for the new expedition by being certain he had plenty of ammunition stowed in his saddlebags.

  “I have given Sergeant Davies the map of the region where you are to patrol, looking for outlaws and bringing any you find to immediate justice.”

  “You mean to kill them?” Slocum marveled that Holman so blatantly issued such an illegal command. That meant he didn’t expect Slocum to return, which squared with expectations for this scout. Slocum had asked too many damning questions and might have crossed the line of tolerance at any time.

  “In self-defense, of course,” Holman said. “I want this scourge on the land removed. Returning with prisoners will require too much manpower. This sortie is to be a quick jab, a lightning thrust, not a prolonged expedition with vast support.”

  “How many men are you assigning?” Slocum thought the answer would be four. Sergeant Davies, his two men and Slocum. That made the odds about right—for a bunch of back-shooters out to kill him. The answer surprised Slocum, though.

  “There will be a squad of ten men, led by Sergeant Davies.”

  Slocum looked around and saw the men slowly emerging from their barracks, yawning and dragging their gear with them. Davies and his two men were among those ordered into the field, but the other seven were taken higgledy-piggledy from every unit. Slocum had never seen Davies or his two partners even talking with many of them.

  “How long should we be out?” Slocum asked.

  “No more than two weeks. I want you to move fast, sir. Keep the squad apprised of the best routes, the fastest ones, and if you spy any outlaws, you will let Sergeant Davies know immediately so he may attack. I want a high number of outlaws left dead as a warning to others. If this doesn’t clear them out of northern Utah, I don’t know what will.”

  “I don’t know what will, either,” Slocum said, eyes fixed on Davies. The sergeant looked at ease and in control. That worried Slocum. The men added to this squad couldn’t all be his gang.

  “Mount and ride!” bellowed the sergeant. “We’ve got outlaws to stop!”

  Slocum saw that Holman basked in the column passing by, saluting him as they left the post. More went on than Slocum understood at the moment, but he could only find answers with Davies, not here. With any luck he might find some trace of Joshua Atkins, if only to locate his body so Laurel could give it a decent burial.

  Slocum went to his horse and swung into the saddle. Colonel Holman nodded in his direction, then pompously gestured to show that Slocum was lagging and ought to hurry if he intended to scout ahead of the squad. Slocum trotted from the post, noting that the guard looked relieved that he wasn’t the one going on this particular expedition.