“They do a lot of stickups?”

  “That shows you’re new to the territory,” the sheriff said, kicking a chair out from the corner and settling into it. He hoisted his feet to the marshal’s desktop, laced his fingers behind his head and speared Slocum with his steely gaze, as if he wanted to peel back his soul layer by layer.

  “I take it that the answer’s yes,” Slocum said.

  “Them boys might have been the ones what pulled the biggest heist in Nevada Territory history. Close to a million dollars in gold.”

  Slocum sat without moving a muscle. This was several rows of apple trees more than he had expected.

  “They weren’t alone. I figured them and the Arnot boys were in cahoots. It took a powerful lot of work to make off with that much gold bullion.”

  “Who’re the Arnot boys?”

  “Don’t matter. They’re all dead. Found ’em, one by one, all shot dead, all ’cept one and word is that he hightailed it over the mountains to California. I reckon there was a fallin’ out ’tween them and the Montrose family.” Sheriff George kept his keen eyes fixed on Slocum. “Might even have been some other folks involved.”

  “Who might that be?” Slocum worried that the sheriff might think he had been part of the robbery when all he wanted to do was pick up the loot from it.

  “Never figured that out. Might be the Arnots and these other folks, the ones I don’t know, tried to do the Montroses out of their due. With that much bullion, it had to be hid out. All the lawmen were chasin’ after the Montrose boys, lettin’ the others do as they pleased with the gold. Nobody took it over the mountains into California or north to Carson City. I was to the south when the robbery happened, and the wagons didn’t get by me.”

  “How about them heading east, toward Denver?” Slocum asked.

  “Too many mines out that way. The smelter’s on the road and them wagons didn’t cut cross-country. No, the gold’s hid out somewhere and Eustace Montrose and his clan are huntin’ for it. My bet is that they was snookered out of it by the Arnots and are doin’ all they can to find where the brothers hid it.”

  Slocum felt as if the map and half coin burned him. He wanted to reach over to assure himself they were still in his pocket, but he remained rock still. He knew the sheriff goaded him, probed and looked for a tell. In this high stakes poker game, Slocum was not going to lose the pot because of a hand twitch or a look that might be interpreted as him having participated in the robbery.

  “Mighty strange doings,” Slocum allowed.

  “It surely is.” The sheriff dropped his feet to the floor and stood. “I got to ride north. Some Injun trouble brewin’, but it won’t amount to much.”

  “Any word on Virginia City getting a new marshal?” Slocum asked.

  “Gossip has you bein’ the leadin’ contender for that star. I wouldn’t mind workin’ with you, Slocum. You got a mean look about you that’d cow them hurdy-gurdy owners over on Sutton Avenue. You need to be mean as a rabid dog to keep them in line, yes, sir, you do. Not that keepin’ them and their girls in line’s my province, mind you.”

  “None of these gents are the Montrose or Arnot gang?” Slocum pointed to the WANTED posters.

  “Nary a one. That’s what makes ’em so slippery. Not many folks in these parts even know what they look like, though some, like Big Jack, annoy the hell out of everyone.”

  “Good hunting, Sheriff,” Slocum said. He left the marshal’s office, wondering how long Virginia City could tolerate not having a local lawman on duty all the time. Sheriff George dropped into town now and again, but his job lay out in the county, not within the city limits.

  Slocum stepped out into the bright, clear autumn day and looked around town. Commerce was brisk and most of the miners and workers in the smelter at the foot of Mount Davidson were at their jobs. Those left in town engaged in the more normal dealings of bakeries, mercantiles, yard good stores and all the other businesses that kept a town thriving and alive.

  He knew he ought to see how Erin Finnigan was dealing with the loss of all her belongings in the fire, but he steered clear of that side of town. Slocum asked after the Arnot boys, the Montroses and even hinted at the Preston brothers’ role in the million-dollar robbery. He doubted Sheriff George had been entirely honest when he named such a princely sum, but everyone agreed to the size. The bankers over in California had rolled the dice and tried to ship all their ill-gained gold in one monumental shipment. Even if there had been a full company of cavalry guarding the shipment, it would have been lost. The road agents had swooped down in such strength, firing as they came, that the freighters and the guards protecting them had no chance. Of all the men caught on the wrong end of the gun that day, Slocum found only one who had survived. He was so shot up that he could hardly sit up in a chair moved to the far side of a saloon on Evans Street. Slocum bought him a drink but learned nothing from him that he hadn’t known already.

  After a day filled with futile effort trying to find the Montrose gang, Slocum meandered downhill and made his way to the town cemetery. He wondered if the Arnots might be buried here. Or maybe the big galoot who had tried to steal the map the night before might have been planted already. Most undertakers didn’t let dead bodies pile up too long, especially ones burned badly in a fire.

  Slocum found himself mighty curious to see what name was on the wood marker when he tramped into the cemetery and spotted the fresh grave. The sun was setting fast behind the mountain, so Slocum wanted to finish his business here quick and find out if Erin had settled down.

  Standing at the foot of the grave, Slocum read the name on the crudely lettered cross.

  “Jacob Montrose. One less of you bastards to deal with,” Slocum said. Since there weren’t any other new graves, he reckoned this had to belong to the man he had shot last night. In a way, the awkward clerk and the resulting fire had helped Slocum. Jacob Montrose’s body would have been burned so much that Slocum’s bullet wouldn’t be obvious in his gut. Even if the clerk had accused him of murder, there was no one in town to report it to.

  Slocum had to grin. With Sparky and the rest of the volunteer firemen going around Virginia City stirring up support for him to be the new marshal, the clerk wasn’t likely ever to open his yap about the shooting. In exchange, Slocum wouldn’t speak up on how the fire had started.

  “He was my cousin and you kilt him.”

  Slocum turned cold inside. He tried to locate where the voice had come from but couldn’t. “Somewhere behind him” was too vague for him to risk his life.

  “Howdy, Big Jack,” Slocum said, thinking he recognized the speaker. “I’m looking for your pa. Where can I find Eustace?”

  “In hell!”

  Slocum knew better than to remain where he stood. He feinted to his right, then dived left, sailing parallel to the ground as bullets ripped through the air where he had been. He hit the ground hard, rolled and came up with his six-shooter in hand. The darkness cloaked his attacker. Slocum stayed on his knees, not moving, waiting, watching, hoping for any clue so he could get the next—killing—shot.

  “You ain’t gonna kill no more Montroses!” screeched Big Jack.

  Slocum swung about, saw a gnarled tree and waited until the outlaw came from behind it to finish the task he had started. Slocum leveled his barrel, then fired three times, one a little left, one a little right and one smack on target.

  Big Jack Montrose let out a squeal like a stuck pig as the bullet found his worthless hide. Slocum saw the shadowy figure recoil and grab for a leg. He fired again and scored another hit. This one caught Montrose in the arm, but it failed to stop the outraged man. Montrose flopped to the ground and wiggled away until he found refuge behind a marble tombstone.

  Slocum wanted to get to cover, too, but any movement in the owl-light of dusk would draw attention to him. He remained as still as a post and waited for Montrose to make a mistake.

  “You killed Jacob and I’m gonna kill you, Slocum!”

  Slocum corrected his aim a mite, putting his sights on the left side of the gravestone. Montrose was right-handed and would poke out from that side. Slocum only had two rounds left and had to make them count.

  He fired when he saw movement, but knew instantly Montrose had duped him. The man had decoyed him with his hat.

  “You’re outta ammo, ain’t you, Slocum? Give up and I won’t kill ya. My pa wants to take you apart limb by limb. That’d make up for you murderin’ Jacob.”

  Slocum knew exactly what was going to happen next. He saw Montrose’s head rising above the tombstone, then shifted his aim back to where he had been decoyed before. Slocum knew how the man thought and anticipated his every move. Montrose had shoved his empty hat up to draw Slocum’s last bullet while he fired from the side.

  Slocum squeezed off his last round, then got to his feet. There had been no sound from Big Jack Montrose, and there never would be again. Slocum’s bullet had stolen away the outlaw’s life.

  Walking over, Slocum looked down at the silent form sprawled on the grave. He kicked Montrose’s gun out of his hand, just to be certain. But there was no movement.

  Slocum looked at the grave where Montrose had died and laughed humorlessly when he saw the name on the marker. Pierre Arnot had preceded Big Jack Montrose to the graveyard less than a month earlier and would be waiting to greet one of the clan that had done him in.

  “Burn in hell,” Slocum said as he took the time to reload before heading back to Virginia City.

  14

  “Where you been, Slocum?” Sheriff George strode up, two deputies flanking him. Both men carried shotguns and looked as if they had eaten something that didn’t set well in their bellies.

  “Evening, Sheriff,” said Slocum. “Nice night for taking a constitutional, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t give me any lip,” the lawman snapped. “We got reports of gunfire down at the cemetery. You wouldn’t have been there and exchanged rounds with one of the Montroses, would you?”

  Slocum wondered what the source of the man’s information might be. The sheriff had not been too inclined to poke his nose into trouble inside Virginia City before. Why now? The lack of a town marshal had opened up licentiousness and outright crime, but not that much.

  “When’s it been against the law to defend yourself?”

  “Was that it? Was that all you done?” Sheriff George looked as dyspeptic as his deputies. “Hand over your six-gun, Slocum. We got to go investigate this here crime.”

  “No crime, and I won’t give you my gun.” Slocum widened his stance slightly. He didn’t want to throw down on the sheriff. In a way, he liked him. But that didn’t mean he trusted George to take his gun when the sheriff’s next act would be to heave him into the hoosegow and probably throw away the key.

  “Hmmm,” the sheriff said, stroking his chin. “It’s all right, boys. Slocum’s played square with me so far.”

  “Nothing’s changed. Big Jack Montrose is dead back there, but he shot at me first.”

  “Dead, eh? No witnesses? Didn’t think there would be.”

  “You’da kilt Big Jack yerse’f if you’d caught him, Sheriff,” said the scrawnier of the two deputies. “Looks like he done you a favor.”

  “Saved you a bit of ammunition, if nothing else,” Slocum said.

  “None of your lip, Slocum.”

  “Was Pierre Arnot one of the family in cahoots with the Montrose gang?” he asked. Slocum saw George’s reaction and knew the answer right away.

  “Big Jack was pokin’ round Pierre’s grave?” This caught the sheriff’s attention. He turned to the skinny deputy and snapped, “Get the gear. What we got in the wagon out back o’ the marshal’s office. Bring it all down to the cemetery. Now, damn you, and don’t go lollygaggin’ about, even if you see that whore you’re sweet on.”

  “I’ll go with you, Sheriff,” Slocum volunteered, enjoying tweaking the lawman. If George hunted for something—the map?—he wouldn’t want anyone to see what he unearthed after he dug up Arnot’s grave. He obviously thought Big Jack Montrose had been intent on retrieving something from that gravesite rather than back-shooting Slocum.

  “You move along, Slocum. I kin take care o’ this.”

  “You want the shovels and picks, too?” asked the deputy.

  Sheriff George pushed the man in the direction of the marshal’s office, glared at Slocum, then stalked down the street with the other deputy trailing behind like a lost puppy dog. Slocum’s amusement died when he realized the sheriff was intent on finding the stolen gold, too. He thought there might be something hidden in Pierre Arnot’s grave that had drawn Big Jack Montrose there. Slocum wasn’t so sure about that. He believed Montrose had trailed him there and thought he had a chance at murdering him and then robbing him of the map.

  Slocum was glad he had never mentioned either the map or the gold coin to the lawman. He wasn’t sure George was honest and wanted to recover the hoard because it was the right thing to do, or if the man wanted it all for himself. A million dollars in bullion was a mighty solid reason to abandon a dented tin star and a salary of a hundred dollars a month.

  Slocum crossed town, avoiding the rowdier places but keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might be trailing him. The sheriff was too busy digging around the cemetery, probably looking for the map. Slocum wondered if the lawman might roll Big Jack Montrose into the same grave that he opened to hunt for the map, then close the grave on the pair of outlaws. It would save them all a world of trouble since Eustace Montrose wasn’t likely to take the loss of another son calmly.

  Slocum doubled back a couple times but saw no one tailing him. He avoided two volunteer firemen out on the town because he didn’t want to get involved in swapping drinks with them as they staggered from saloon to hurdy-gurdy to whorehouse.

  His steps slowed as he approached the outbuilding behind the ruins of the hotel. Slocum wasn’t sure if Erin would still be there. She had been upset with him about following the map directions and taking the stolen gold for his own. For a moment he considered how she might be right. He remembered his original distaste for the chore of taking Preston’s pitiful legacy to Seamus and his outright contempt for the notion of a treasure map. That had changed since Seamus’s death. Learning that the bullion had been stolen added to Slocum’s yen for a golden return on what had been his sworn duty.

  He stared at the closed door, then reached out, took the rope loop that served as a handle and opened it.

  A gasp came from inside.

  “Sorry,” Slocum said, but he wasn’t that sorry. Erin was dressing. Her blouse hung open, revealing her luscious breasts. Her legs poked out from under a too-short skirt, giving Slocum a clear view from her ankles all the way up to her thighs.

  “See you got some clothes.”

  “Either come in or leave. Whatever you do, close that door,” Erin said irritably.

  “Which would you prefer?” Slocum asked.

  The dark-haired woman started to speak, then paused, considered, and a slow smile came to her lips.

  “In,” she said. “Please come in and shut the door behind you.”

  Slocum did as Erin bid, then sank down beside her on the blanket he had pitched the night before.

  “Where did you get the clothes?” he asked.

  “Your friends in the fire engine company. They took up a collection.” Erin actually blushed. “They went up and down Union and D Streets asking.”

  Slocum knew these streets were where the cribs and brothels were most likely to be found. Sparky and the rest of the volunteer firemen had solicited spare clothing from whores for Erin. That she had accepted showed how desperate she had been.

  “I didn’t know when they gave them to me, but I’m so ashamed, John. After I found out, I didn’t want to give them back.”

  “You could have walked around Virginia City naked,” he said.

  “That would have been a pretty sight,” she said, getting her dander up again.

  “Yes, it would,” Slocum said quietly.

  “I’ve got so much to be embarrassed about,” Erin said, her eyes not meeting his. “You saved my life last night. Everyone says so. And when you asked for the gold coin, I got mad. It’s not that unusual that you’d want to find the gold Seamus and the rest stole. I never asked if you were going to return it for the reward.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Slocum said. He was glad she hadn’t. He would have been honest and told her he wanted it all for himself and made her really angry. He hoped she wouldn’t now since he wouldn’t lie to her now, either. It was one thing making off with gold already stolen. It was another matter entirely lying or going back on your word.

  “The clothes don’t fit too well, do they?” she asked. She looked up with her blue eyes gleaming. A faint smile danced on her ruby lips again, and she leaned back slightly, bracing herself on her hands and drawing up her knees. “I suppose I ought to take them off.”

  “After just putting them on?” Slocum saw what was on her mind, and it had occurred to him, too, the instant he opened the door and saw her. She was one fine-looking woman. He felt himself responding to the banter, until it got downright uncomfortable being in his jeans.

  “I’m not used to these things,” Erin said. “Why don’t you help me get out of them?”

  Slocum bent over and reached for the blouse, to move it away from her shoulder. Erin batted his hand away. He looked at her in surprise.

  “Don’t use your hands,” she said. Her voice had turned husky, and her eyelids drooped to half-mast. When she shoved her chest out and let the blouse flop open to expose her succulent, snowy white breasts, Slocum got the idea.

  This time as he bent forward, he supported himself on his hands and used his teeth to worry back the cloth from her shoulder. He kissed lightly as he went and occasionally let his tongue dart out to touch spots he thought would be most sensitive. His instincts were unerring. Every wet lick of his tongue caused a new ripple of desire to pass through the woman’s body.