“Damn thing’s tougher’n it looks,” complained one. “Lemme shoot it again.”

  “Don’t waste your ammo, Caleb. We got all the time in the world.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You heard them rumors.”

  The one Caleb spoke to laughed harshly. “I don’t put no store into rumors, not like them. We’re all alone out here, and we kin make enough money to live high on the hog fer a long, long time.”

  Slocum tensed and pointed his six-gun toward the men, but the trio weren’t looking in his direction. They all turned and faced into the setting sun, shielding their eyes with their hands. This showed them to be not only stupid but also dead.

  A volley of shots cut through the twilight. The three road agents jerked around, no longer blocking the sun with their hands but trying to plug the leaks in their chests caused by all the bullets. When they didn’t go down right away, another half dozen shots rang out. This was enough to kill all three of the men. Slocum hunkered down to see who had done the killing he had anticipated for himself.

  He cursed under his breath when he saw four soldiers come out of hiding. They had ambushed the outlaws without giving them a chance to surrender. This wasn’t protocol but Slocum didn’t fault the soldiers any for the cold-blooded killing. They had caught the road agents red-handed with the strongbox. Why bother going through a trial and sending the killers off to prison or maybe to be hanged? It saved everyone time and trouble.

  “Those fools,” laughed a sergeant as he kicked the strongbox. “They couldn’t even get it open.”

  “You think there’s more of ’em around, Sarge?” asked a private, nervously fingering his carbine. He looked around, almost straight at Slocum. Slocum froze. In the dusk he vanished into the gray-green vegetation—or so he hoped. The private stared directly at him, still running his finger across the trigger of his rifle.

  “Get over here and shoot off the lock, Sims,” the sergeant said. “You’re such a yellow-belly. You’re making even me goosey, and I got ice water in my veins.”

  From the way the sergeant casually kicked aside the body of an outlaw to get a better look at the strongbox, Slocum believed him. The noncom was one cool customer.

  “If you want. But how do we know there’s not more of ’em out there?” The private waved his rifle around. “And don’t go callin’ me no names, Sarge. I don’t like it.”

  “Sorry,” the noncom said insincerely. “Now shoot off the lock.”

  “What about—?”

  “There ain’t nobody else out there!” the sergeant raged.

  The private jumped as if somebody had stuck him with a pin. He took three quick steps over to the strongbox, aimed and fired. The foot-long lance of orange flame dazzled Slocum’s dusk-adapted vision for a moment. When the dancing lights went away, he saw the soldiers clustered around the opened strongbox.

  “Hot damn, we hit the mother lode!” chortled the private who had blown off the lock. “There must be nigh on five hunnerd dollars in there.”

  “All in greenbacks,” the sergeant said in disgust. “I was hoping there’d be gold or gold dust.”

  “Don’t matter to me, long as I kin buy a bottle or two of whiskey and a fine filly to warm my bed.”

  “Divvy it up, Sims,” the sergeant said.

  “You trust me?”

  “I trust you not to cheat nobody,” the sergeant said, an ugly edge to his words.

  The private knelt and began counting out the scrip into four piles.

  “Don’t forget I get an extra share,” the sergeant said.

  “But—”

  The sergeant swung the butt of his carbine and caught the private under the chin, knocking him out.

  “Might be I should take his share,” the sergeant said.

  “The boss wouldn’t like that none, Sarge,” said one of the other soldiers. Slocum frowned. The men sounded more like the outlaws they had gunned down than cavalry troopers.

  “He has a soft spot for Simms, that’s true,” the sergeant said. He took half of the pile Sims had counted out in front of himself and added it to his own pile. “Get him awake. If we ride hard enough, we can get back to the post by dawn tomorrow.”

  “Why ride that hard, Sarge?”

  “Because we got to be present for reveille, that’s why.”

  Slocum watched as the other two privates worked to get Sims awake. Groggy, Sims staggering between them as they supported him, they retraced their path into the darkness. The sergeant hesitated, then walked toward Slocum. Slocum rested his thumb on the hammer of his six-gun, but the sergeant walked past him and went to the rope corral, returning a few minutes later leading all the horses.

  Slocum was glad he had cut out one before spying on the outlaws.

  The sergeant followed his men into the dark. In a few minutes Slocum heard the sound of horses heading due west, and then there were only the usual night sounds of a desert. He heaved himself to his feet and went to the arroyo to fetch his horse.

  He saw no reason to go after the soldiers, so he returned to the road and headed for the next town along the stage route to report what had happened. If he could figure out what he had seen.

  2

  Slocum rode slowly into the Utah town of Newsome an hour after sunrise. He had missed the fork in the road and gone out of his way, heading to the northwest when he had intended to stay on a more westerly track. The few extra hours hardly mattered. He was tired to the bone, hungry, thirsty and increasingly pissed off by what he had seen. The road agents had been murderers, no doubt about it. But the cavalry troopers had gunned them down without even trying to capture them. From the way the soldiers had talked, they weren’t going to turn over the loot from the robbery to the stage company, either.

  They had murdered in cold blood, just as the outlaws had, and they had kept the money in the strongbox, just as the outlaws had intended doing. To their crimes they had added horse thieving. Slocum doubted the stage company would see any of the six horses in the team again. Those blue-coated soldiers were everything Slocum had come to hate.

  He pushed back his floppy-brimmed black hat, now brown with trail dust, and looked around Newsome. It had the feel of a hundred other towns he had passed through. Some farming, a bit of ranching, merchants and that was what kept the town alive. There had to be a decent, reliable source of water to keep so many people alive. From the number of buildings along the main street, Slocum guessed there had to be upward of two hundred people who called Newsome their home.

  What he didn’t see as he rode along was a saloon. Then he remembered the part of the country he traveled.

  “Mormons,” he said with some disgust. He had nothing against the Saints, as they called themselves, except that they were teetotalers and he could use a tall, cold beer right about now. Or even a shot or two of whiskey. The memory of the grit he had constantly spit out while in the stagecoach was almost as disagreeable as the bad taste left by the soldiers murdering the outlaws.

  “Howdy, mister. You have the look of a man who wants to find something. Or someone. Might be I can help.”

  Slocum turned in the saddle and saw a rail-thin man sitting on the end of a boardwalk, slowly whittling away at a small hunk of pinewood. The man saw his interest and held the wood up. It was a carved horse.

  “Keeps me busy, doin’ small animals and even some bigger ones.”

  “You’re mighty good with the knife,” Slocum said, admiring the man’s skill. “I never had the patience it takes to do fine work like that.”

  “Here,” the man said, tossing Slocum the small horse. “Nobody in this here town wants a toy like that.”

  “No kids?”

  “Kids everywhere. Almost all are Mormons.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Can’t say that I am.” The man laughed and tucked his knife into a sheath at his belt. “I know what you’re thinkin’.”

  “Do you?” Slocum found himself nodding off, in spite of reaching town and finding someone willing to talk to him. He had to tell the town marshal about the robbery, find the stagecoach company agent and let him know where to find the remains of his guard and driver, as well as a passenger, then he would sleep around the clock.

  “There’s a small watering hole down at the foot of K Street.”

  “A saloon?”

  “Yep,” the man said. “Not many of us imbibers in Newsome, but there’s enough, as long as we keep it discreet-like.”

  “Where might I find the marshal?”

  “You lookin’ for the law?”

  “That’s first, then I’ll wet my whistle. If you like, I can buy you a drink, too. But I need to talk to the marshal.”

  “Ain’t got one. Not lately, at any rate. Marshal Almquist upped and disappeared ’bout two weeks ago. Might be closer to three now, but nobody’s seen him that whole while.”

  “No deputies?”

  The man laughed and shook his head. “Newsome could hardly afford Almquist’s salary. We get by here, but Newsome’s not as prosperous as other towns in Utah.”

  “That why you spend your time whittling?” Slocum held up the horse. The man had even begun carving in a bridle and reins. The detail in a finished horse would have turned a block of wood into a work of art.

  “Might be,” the man said. He stared at Slocum appraisingly, then added, “Who else might you be huntin’ for in Newsome?”

  “Since the marshal’s indisposed, reckon I ought to find the stagecoach agent.”

  “That’s what I a’feared. His name’s Barton Cassarian, and that’s the depot behind you, across the street. Another robbery?”

  “There been a lot?” Slocum asked. He craned around and saw a sign badly in need of paint telling him what he should have seen without asking. His tiredness was growing, and it made him careless.

  “More’n our fair share, that’s for certain sure,” the man said. “Might be why Almquist lit out the way he did, though I doubt it.”

  “You figure he was killed?”

  “By them road agents? Could be. He was a good man, as far as he went. Sometimes he didn’t feel like goin’ too far, but a good man, a good man.”

  “Much obliged,” Slocum said, wheeling his horse around and walking it to the side of the stagecoach depot. He saw a corral out back with a dozen horses in it, teams waiting to be swapped out—teams waiting for a stage that wouldn’t come anytime soon.

  He went inside and heard a slow, sonorous sound. Slocum banged his fist down on the desk. The sound brought the station agent upright off a cot at the side of the room where he’d been sleeping.

  “Wha-what kin I do for you? Ticket office don’t open fer another hour.”

  “You Cassarian? The agent?”

  “Who’re you?” The portly man grunted as he swung his feet over the side of the cot and got them into scuffed patent leather shoes. “You a lawman?”

  “No, but you’re going to need one.” Slocum quickly related all that had happened on the road, watching Cassarian closely. The man’s florid complexion turned paler with every sentence of the telling. Slocum stopped short of telling what he had seen after the robbery, with the cavalry troopers cutting down the highwaymen. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated to give the full story, but the station agent was having trouble enough coping with the death of two employees and a passenger to be told that soldiers had ended up with the contents of the strongbox.

  “Them outlaws’ll be the death of this town. Cain’t get supplies in, and even stages just passin’ through are being robbed. And worse.” Cassarian sat heavily at his desk and leaned forward, head in his hands. He looked up and asked, “You needin’ a job, mister?”

  “Not riding guard on any of your stagecoaches,” Slocum said.

  “Didn’t think so. I got to telegraph the home office ’bout this.”

  “Have you lost other stages recently?”

  “Three in the past two weeks. I wish that good-for-nuthin’ marshal hadn’t deserted the way he did.”

  “Hire a new one,” Slocum advised. He added, “And I’m not looking to pin a badge on my vest, either. I’m only passing through town.”

  “The way everything’s been goin’, I ought to join you. But I won’t. My wife’s got family here, lots of family she won’t leave.” The corpulent agent heaved himself to his feet and squared his shoulders. “Better get on over to the telegrapher and git that ’gram sent.”

  Slocum hesitated, then had to ask, “There any reward for the robbers?”

  “I’ll have to ask. You a bounty hunter intent on runnin’ them varmints to ground?”

  “No,” Slocum said, remembering the feral looks on the faces of the sergeant and the soldiers with him after they had gunned down the outlaws. If an entire patrol of cavalry troopers had gone bad, he wanted no part of it. Bringing outlaws to justice was one thing, but tangling with so many soldiers was a horse of a different color.

  “Thanks fer bringin’ me the bad news. You’re a good man, Mr. Slocum. Too many folks woulda jist ridden on and left me wonderin’ what had happened to my stage and crew.”

  “And the peddler,” Slocum added.

  “Him, too,” said Cassarian, holding the door for Slocum to leave the office. The station agent closed the door behind them and cut across the street, his steps slowing as he got nearer to the telegraph office. Slocum didn’t envy the man any, having to report to the home office such a brutal robbery. It would have been worse trying to convince anyone higher up in the company that the soldiers had ended up with the contents of the strongbox.

  Slocum swung into the saddle and rode through Newsome until he found K Street, which was little more than an alley. He turned down the street and saw a painted arrow on a wall. Nothing more, but Slocum knew he had found the town’s saloon. He dismounted, went into the saloon and looked around. He had seen boomtown saloons that were decorated in a more lavish fashion. It was as if the owner wanted to keep a low profile. In a town of teetotalers, that might be why there wasn’t a picture of a nude woman behind the bar or fancy brass rails and spittoons or even much in the way of furniture. Two battered green felt-covered tables at the rear of the long, narrow room were set up for poker. A pool table closer to the bar went begging for players.

  In the entire saloon were only three patrons plus the bardog watching Slocum through squinty eyes. The man stroked the sharp, waxed tips of his mustache as he seemed to glide rather than walk to stand in front of Slocum.

  “What’s your pleasure, mister?”

  “Shot of whiskey,” Slocum said. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a skinny roll of greenbacks. He had less than he had reckoned, but he wasn’t going to forgo the whiskey. He needed it after all he had been through.

  “You passin’ through Newsome?” asked the barkeep as he carefully poured the shot.

  “Need some supplies, then I’ll be on my way to Salt Lake City. Heard tell I might find work there.” Slocum saw how the barkeep relaxed at this tidbit. “What’s the matter? Don’t want my kind in your town?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that, mister. Not at all, no sir, not at all.” The bartender swallowed hard and hurried on. “It’s just that now and then we get men comin’ into the saloon lookin’ to shut us down. It’s hard livin’ on the edge in a town where hardly anybody drinks. And you bein’ new to town and all, you findin’ the place so quick, that’s a little . . .”

  “Suspicious,” Slocum finished for the barkeep. He shrugged it off. Every town had different ways of doing things. Newsome was a little more nervous over serving liquor. Slocum wet his lips with the whiskey, then nodded.

  “Good rotgut,” he said. He had expected something that would have removed varnish, but this went down smooth and settled warm and reassuring in his belly. The tension he had felt since the robbery began to melt away, and he felt downright peaceable.

  “Thanks. You needing a place to stay?”

  “You recommend anything more comfortable than the livery stables?”

  “Oh, they don’t allow anyone sleeping in the stable. You have to rent a room. There’s a couple hotels, both are good but the Emperor’s better and don’t cost any more.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said, wondering who would arrest him if he tried sleeping with his horse since the marshal hadn’t been seen in a week or two.

  Three rowdy men pushed through the door and made their way to the back table. A fourth followed them in and leaned over the bar, fumbling for something just out of Slocum’s sight.

  “This a new pack, Mendelsohn?” the man asked the bardog.

  “Surely is, Mr. Crosby.”

  The man tossed the deck into the air, letting it spin. He gave Slocum a once-over as he went to join the trio already seated at the table. The barkeep gave Slocum a weak smile, and grabbed glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the way to serve the four.

  “They’re here mighty early in the day,” Slocum observed. He took out his gold pocket watch, the only legacy from his brother Robert killed during Pickett’s ill-fated charge, and peered at the face. “Not even ten in the morning.”

  “Those gents got the money to burn. Mr. Crosby there’s got a big spread south of town. Might be the most prosperous rancher this side of Salt Lake City. The other three are ranchers, too, but nowhere near as rich.”

  Slocum touched the few greenbacks in his pocket and asked, “They good players?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” the barkeep said. “I wouldn’t advise gettin’ into a game with them, not just yet. Mr. Crosby might not be the best player there is, but he’s got enough money to sit out a passel of bad hands before he bets.”

  “So he can outwait anybody at the table?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  The barkeep’s dark eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Slocum read what he needed. Crosby threw his weight around and the bartender didn’t cotton much to that. There was a small chance the four were in cahoots with the barkeep to set up a sucker—by the name of John Slocum—but it didn’t look like that. The barkeep had given him good advice about the game.