Once again, they climbed the cliff to the pipestone quarry, Miranda sidling along the rock face behind Slocum. There was no way he’d trust those little mocassin footholds to get him up the slope, so they took their original path, the old one that Miranda had been climbing since she was a kid.

  This time, however, Slocum carried his saddlebags over his shoulder. Inside, he had candles, lucifers, a couple of small rock hammers, and the chunks of pipestone Miranda had found in the safe.

  He was putting a lot of faith into his instincts, which had always served him well in the past. He hoped they wouldn’t desert him now.

  At last, he squeezed himself into the crescent opening of the little cave, then helped Miranda in behind him.

  “Is this—” she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  “Just hush and hold your horses a second,” he said, as he sat down and opened his saddlebags.

  He lit the first candle and handed it to her. “Find someplace to perch that,” he said, while he lit another. In a few moments, the cave was bright with the light of a dozen candles, all Slocum had managed to scrounge from the house.

  “Why, it’s beautiful,” Miranda whispered.

  It was, indeed. The flickering candlelight brought out the red and white striations in the rocks, made the uneven, crudely mined walls seem pretty, and plainly showed where the fingers of pipestone began and ended, and where the surrounding rock took over.

  Next, Slocum pulled the pipestone pieces from his saddlebags. He handed half to Miranda.

  “How are you at puzzles?” he asked.

  “I’m a wizard at jigsaws, if that’s the kind of puzzle you mean,” she replied, looking at him quizzically.

  “Exactly the kind,” he said. “I want you to see if you can figure out just where those came from.”

  “These rocks? Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe,” he said, and went to work trying to match up the other half.

  Tom Robertson had been busy.

  He had established that the Double Aces mine had in fact played out and closed down more the seven years ago, and that Milton Carmichael, landowner and mining magnate, had died soon thereafter.

  “Hope you didn’t leave no heirs, Milton,” he muttered to himself as he wrote a few more telegrams. “Apache Wells could use a big influx of cash.”

  After he finished writing a second wire to Milton Carmichael’s lawyers and one to a friend in the U.S. marshal’s office up in Prescott, he strolled down to the telegrapher’s office and handed them to the clerk.

  “Somethin’ big happenin’, Tom?” asked Harry, Apache Wells’s telegrapher.

  Tom Robertson kept a stoic face. “Could be, Harry, could be. How’s that boy of yours?”

  “Bill!” Harry exclaimed, his attention diverted from the contents of the telegrams in his hands. “Oh, he’s fine. Gonna play first base for the town team this year. Got an arm on him, that boy has. Takes after his pop,” he added, proudly.

  Robertson smiled. “Good, good. Just send the wires, Harry.”

  “Oh! Right away!”

  And when Harry had finished his rat-a-tat-tatting, Robertson held out his hand again. “Originals?”

  Harry handed them back. “Must be pretty big doin’s, all right! I’ll send a runner when the replies come in, okay?”

  “Good enough,” replied the sheriff. “Thanks, Harry!”

  20

  Slocum was about to give up.

  He had explored every inch of the little cave, reached back into every cubbyhole, tried his stones against every inch that even halfway looked like it might match, and still nothing.

  Nothing!

  Miranda had thrown in the towel about ten minutes earlier. She sat dejectedly in the opening, facing out, kicking her bootheels rhythmically against the hillside, like an obstreperous child.

  Well, he guessed he’d been wrong, and he guessed he couldn’t blame her. He wished she’d quit drumming those heels, though!

  He blew out the candles, tossed the pipestone chips back in his saddlebags, and made for the opening. “Look out, honey, I’m comin’ through,” he said. Maybe he’d work off a little of his frustration with Miranda down in that pool, after all.

  She twisted and started down the hill, using the ancient hand- and footholds, and he figured what the hell. He’d go that way, too.

  Even if he ended up slipping and sliding down on his belly, at least it’d be faster.

  But after only two steps down the sheer hillside, he lost his foothold and grabbed quickly for the only thing in sight, which was a chunk of half-dead brush sticking out of the hill.

  Unfortunately, it gave way and pulled out, roots and all, at the mere pressure of his hand.

  But fortunately, something else came loose with the roots.

  Tangled in them was a small metal box, which tumbled out, nearly fell on Slocum’s head, and bounced to the bottom of the rise, cracking open when it hit the hard sandstone floor and spilling forth a sparkling treasure trove of golden and silver coins.

  “Holy shi—” cried Slocum as he slid down the face of the hill, right behind the box.

  He knocked Miranda off her moorings on his way down, and she fell right behind him, screaming, “Slocum! You’re a—”

  They hit the bottom, and she landed on top of him. “A genius!” she finished, and clambered off him to go count her prize.

  Slocum sat up a bit more slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He slid his hips to one side, to get off the rock he’d landed on, then rubbed his ass.

  That’s gonna leave one helluva bruise, he thought angrily, and then remembered the money. His scowl turned to a grin right away and he stood up and walked the two steps to where Miranda sat, happily running the glittering, clean-as-the-day-they-were-minted coins through her fingers.

  “Oh, aren’t they just beautiful, Slocum?” she chirped. “Aren’t they glorious?”

  He didn’t think he could have scrubbed that grin off her face with a wire brush, even if he had wanted to.

  He sank down on his heels next to her and picked up the empty cashbox. The lock was broken off, but it otherwise seemed usable.

  “Let’s get it all back inside,” he prompted gently.

  She pouted fetchingly. “Oh, Slocum!”

  “Now, Mandy . . .”

  “Oh, all right.”

  She began scooping up coins and placing them in the box while Slocum picked up the broken lock. He looked at it, scowled, then held it closer.

  Rust. There was rust on the broken lock, on the pieces that joined it and had ostensibly just broken open.

  Curious.

  But then again, not so curious. Jefferson would have had to bust that lock open to get some coinage out. But why the hell hadn’t he taken more? There was a whole lot left.

  Slocum shrugged and said nothing. It was none of his business. Likely, Carmichael’s heirs would be too busy fighting over what was left to notice a few missing hundred.

  He began to scoop half the coins into his saddlebags, and Miranda said, “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

  He chuckled a little before he said, “What d’you think, Mandy? That I was gonna load up, then hit the trail to Mexico?”

  She snorted softly. “Well, no, not exactly.”

  “I’m splitting the load up, that’s all. This stuff is heavy.”

  “Oh,” she said, and appeared to relax. “Right. And then what are we going to do with it?”

  “Take it into town.”

  Again, she appeared dejected, but then brightened a little. “Well, we promised, didn’t we?”

  “Yup,” said Slocum, still scooping up coins. There seemed to be millions of them! Well, thousands, anyway. “We did.”

  The stench of burning horseflesh was beginning to reach Slocum’s nose. The boys must have decided to burn some of the carcasses before they covered them up.

  He scooped up the last of the coins, stood up, then hoisted the heavy saddlebags over his shoulder.

  He whistled for Cougar, and Miranda’s mount followed the Appaloosa up.

  “Sorry about the weight, boy,” he said to Cougar as he settled the bags up behind the saddle and secured them. He opened Miranda’s saddlebags and poured half the contents of the chest into each side.

  “Leg up?” he asked her.

  She nodded, and he gave her a boost up into her saddle, then mounted Cougar, still holding the empty strongbox under his arm.

  “What are you taking that old thing for?” Miranda asked as they set off for town.

  Slocum shrugged. “Evidence?”

  “Can we get something to eat before we go to the sheriff’s office?” asked Miranda when they finally rode into town. She had made it plain, during the long ride into Apache Wells, that she was turning the money in only under duress.

  “No,” replied Slocum. His pattern of answers to her had turned monosyllabic.

  “But—”

  “No.”

  He rode straight to the sheriff’s office, with Miranda trailing behind, tied Cougar to the rail, then waited for Miranda to catch up.

  She was taking her own sweet time, but at least she was coming. Slocum had to give her that. After all, she was under no legal obligation to return the cash, and all that gold right under one’s nose was one hell of an inspiration to just take off with it.

  He’d have to cut her a little more slack, he decided as he helped her down from the saddle.

  He picked up the empty cashbox again, took Miranda’s arm, and proceeded through the open office door.

  Robertson was dozing at his desk, but woke at the sound of Slocum’s bootsteps.

  He took one look at the cashbox under Slocum’s arm and cried, “You found it!”

  Rounding the desk in nothing flat, he grabbed the box away. Then noticing that it was far too light, he said, “You didn’t find it?”

  Slocum said, “It’s outside, divvied up in the saddlebags. Brought the box in, though. Lock’s been shot through, and a long time back, I reckon, from the rust.”

  Robertson squinted at the lock. “You’re right.” He looked up again. “How much was left?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Miranda crossed her arms and added, “He wouldn’t let me take the time to count it.”

  “Reckon they can do that at the bank,” Robertson said, and led the way outside. “What say we drop off this treasure of yours and then go down to Harley’s and have a bite to eat?”

  “Fine by me,” Slocum said, and Miranda nodded agreeably.

  Over barbecue, Sheriff Robertson told then what he’d discovered—that Carmichael was dead and the mine was closed. He was waiting for more information about the heirs.

  If there were any, that was.

  Slocum grunted—he had figured as much—but Miranda seemed thrilled at the news.

  “I wonder what they’re up to . . . ,” she said.

  “Who?” Slocum and Robertson asked, as one.

  “The bank, you sillies,” she said, shaking her head. “You know, those coin-counter people! I wonder how much they’re up to.”

  Slocum just shook his head, but Robertson looked over at her and grinned.

  It wasn’t that Slocum didn’t understand their excitement over all that cash. It was just that he considered it a tad premature, that was all.

  Just as they were pushing their chairs away from the table, a kid came in. The sheriff recognized him and shouted, “Hey, Georgie! Lookin’ for me?”

  The boy grinned and headed over to the table, then handed Robertson two telegrams. “There you go, Sheriff,” he said. Robertson dug into his pocket, but when it didn’t look like he was coming up with anything, Slocum flipped the kid a quarter.

  “Thanks, mister!” the boy said, wide-eyed, and scampered out.

  “You’re too generous, Slocum,” Miranda reprimanded him.

  “For good luck,” he said with a shrug.

  They both stared at Robertson, who was reading the telegrams.

  He looked up abruptly, folding the papers and sticking them in his pocket. “Let’s go up to the bank, see how they’re comin’.”

  Slocum’s brow furrowed, but it was Miranda who asked, “Hey! What’s the news, Sheriff? You can’t just get a fistful of telegrams—which probably have to do with us—and not say a word about them!”

  “Miranda,” he said, “my lips are sealed for the time being.”

  As she stomped out of the café in Robertson’s wake, Slocum heard her mutter, “Damn!”

  At the bank, three tellers were seated in the manager’s office counting the coins into piles of ten. They were nearly finished, and so Miranda, Slocum, and the sheriff stood quietly in a corner and let nature take its course.

  Well, actually, Miranda started to say something, but Slocum pinched her backside, distracting her.

  At last, the teller marking the tally sheet said, “All right. Mr. Meyers?” The bank president, a portly fellow in a three-piece suit, who had been seated in a corner chair and unnoticed by Slocum or the others, stood up, startling Miranda.

  “Yes, Quimby?” said Meyers.

  Quimby handed over the tally sheet; then he and the other bank employees left the room and closed the door behind them.

  Meyers took his seat behind the desk. His eyes zigged back and forth and he read the numbers, and then he looked up.

  “Miss Cassidy,” he said, in a proper banker’s tone, “Sheriff Robertson has explained your situation. Please know that you can count on us to be of any possible assistance.”

  “How much is left?” Slocum asked, before Miranda could.

  Meyers raised his brows. “And who are you, sir? Are you somehow involved in this matter?”

  “Mr. Meyers,” said the sheriff, “this here’s Slocum. He’s the one responsible for findin’ the gold in the first place.”

  Meyers nodded. “Well, my congratulations to you, Mr. Slocum. Do I take it that the reward will go to you, then?”

  “No sir,” Slocum said quickly. “It was found on Cassidy land. Oh, and these two, too!” He dug into his pocket and brought out the two gold pieces he’d found by the stream, and placed them on the desk.

  “Well, then,” said Meyers. “Now that that’s straightened out . . .” He consulted his pad again, added forty dollars to the total, and pronounced, “There is exactly $46,540 dollars. To the penny.” He looked up at the sheriff. “I trust you wish this put into our safe depository for the time being?”

  “Jefferson sure didn’t take much,” Slocum muttered.

  Meyers, who hadn’t heard the comment, said, “Well?”

  Sheriff Robertson stepped forward. “I think that’s up to Miss Cassidy here.”

  Miranda could hardly contain herself. “Me? Up to me?”

  Robertson grinned. “There aren’t any heirs, Miranda. I just heard from Carmichael’s lawyers. Seems he left the whole of his estate to the Territory of Arizona, and you’re not obligated to hand over a penny of it. It’s all yours.”

  Slocum caught Miranda just before she collapsed to the floor.

  21

  After Slocum carried the unconscious Miranda up to the hotel and got her settled and comfortable, he took himself a walk back up to Tom Robertson’s office. The windows still glowed, and he walked right in.

  “She’s still out like a light,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Robertson nodded. “Probably best to just let her stay in town tonight. She’s been through an awful lot for such a tiny person. What is she, anyhow, five-foot-nothin’?”

  Slocum nodded his agreement, and pulled out his fixings bag in preparation to roll a quirlie. “Five-one, I think.”

  Robertson stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Try one of these,” he said, holding out a box of real, honest-to-God Havanas.

  “If I’da known you were such a connoisseur, I woulda stopped in a lot earlier, Tom,” Slocum said, gratefully accepting a cigar. “Sorry about that shitty cigar I offered you last night. Abel Cassidy never had much taste in smokes, I guess.”

  “By the by,” Robertson said as Slocum bit off the end of his cigar and lit it, “you’ve got a good friend in Templar Bond.”

  “Templar?” Slocum asked, not making the connection. Well, he knew who Templar was, but he couldn’t figure Robertson into the equation.

  “Up at Prescott,” Robertson explained as he lit his own. “In the U.S. marshal’s office. Seems to think right highly of you.”

  Slocum just said, “Huh?”

  “Oh, I been busy today, Slocum. Been firin’ off wires right and left.”

  “And you wired the U.S. marshal’s office? About the gold, or about me?”

  Robertson sniffed. “You, naturally. I got paper on you. Old paper, granted. But I wanted to make certain I didn’t have another scofflaw or brigand on my hands.”

  Slocum smiled. “And Templar spoke up for me.” It wasn’t a question.

  “That he did,” Robertson said. “Offered you a job while he was at it.”

  “Wire him back that the answer’s still no.”

  Robertson nodded. “I guessed that he’d been after you for quite a while. After you in a good sense, that is.”

  This time, Slocum grinned. “That he has. You know, this is a damn fine cigar. I hear those Cuban girls roll ’em on their bare thighs. Calls for stronger stuff than coffee to go with it, I figure.”

  “Thought you’d never suggest it, Slocum,” said Robertson, with a twinkle in his eye. He stood up, shutting an open desk drawer with his leg. “I suggest that we adjourn to the saloon.”

  Slocum stood up, too. “I’d say that was a right fine suggestion.”

  Carmelita’s grandmother had been a bruja, a Mexican witch of sorts, and Carmelita had grown up listening to her cast spells and curse fields and help those in troubled and difficult childbirth.

  She had grown up in a small casita thick with the scents of drying herbs, pigeon hearts, and chicken’s feet, and the sounds of mumbled prayers and chants. Charms hung in the windows and on the doors, and had been sold to villagers to stop a straying husband or cure a fruitless womb, or help the stock gain strength and stay free from disease.