“We ride into the mine and stay quiet, they might think we’ve found a way out of the box,” Slocum said. “If nothing else, they’ll have a harder time finding us.” He looked down and saw they had left the snowy patch they had ridden through and were again on solid rock that didn’t take kindly to hoofprints. As a tracker, Slocum hated terrain like this. As a man trying to get away from road agents on his trail, he found it a godsend.

  “This way,” he ordered, choosing his route to the mouth of the mine carefully. He kept to rocky areas and those where hooves wouldn’t dig betraying marks into the snow. When they were within a few yards of the mine, he slid to the ground and urged his balky horse forward into the dark mouth. Molly followed without saying a word to him, but he heard her cursing under her breath like a wrangler caught on barbed wire.

  Slocum silently handed her the reins of his horse and motioned her deeper into the mine. He pulled out his rifle and crouched down just inside the mouth so he could watch for riders.

  Twenty minutes passed before he breathed a little easier.

  “Well?” Molly demanded.

  “I think they rode past us. We can get out of here and leave them wandering around in a box canyon for a spell.”

  The words had hardly left his lips when he spotted a road agent slowly approaching, eyes intent on the ground as he followed their faint tracks. Trapped!

  6

  “Do you know him?” asked Slocum as he fingered his rifle. It was an easy shot, but taking out this lone rider would bring the rest of the gang down on their necks.

  “Never seen him before,” Molly said. Slocum looked at her sharply. Her eyes were wide, and she appeared the soul of innocence. He didn’t have to be much of a poker player to know she was lying like a rug. “Well, I haven’t,” she went on. “I don’t know who them gents are. But they don’t mean us no good. You can tell by the way they’re doggin’ our tracks.”

  Slocum knew they weren’t out on the trail for their health. The men had the hard look of killers to him. Who else rode in such a big band? He touched his pocket to assure himself that Preston’s map was still there. Molly wanted it badly. Unless he missed his guess, these eight did, too. How did they know he had it?

  Slocum looked again at the woman and decided she was the cause of most of his woe. From the frightened expression on her face, she and the men down the slope weren’t in cahoots—far from it. With all the interest in what had to be the map, Slocum wondered if it really was valuable. He shrugged that off. Not only did he have to get out of a tight fix right now, but also it wasn’t his map. It belonged to Preston’s brother. If that was Seamus Preston, then Seamus could deal with the map and all the problems it brought with it. Slocum wasn’t going to renege on a promise made to a dying man.

  “Stay out of sight, no matter what happens,” Slocum said.

  “What are you gonna do, John?”

  He ignored her, rested his rifle against the rocky wall of the mine shaft and slipped into the night. The darkness had cloaked them before and now gave him the chance he needed to work closer to the man sniffing their way by the minute. Slocum crawled onto a pile of mine tailings and waited. The man looked up just as Slocum launched himself through the air.

  Crashing hard into the man carried both of them over the back of the horse onto the ground. Slocum kept twisting and had the advantage of surprise working for him as he landed hard on top of the man. For an instant he thought the man would fight. Then all the air and strength gusted from him. Slocum reared back, looked down and saw the glazed eyes, flaring nostrils and gaping mouth. He judged his distance and swung, connecting squarely on the man’s jaw to put him out like a light. Slocum cursed the way the blow smarted and how his knuckles had been skinned, but he had been forced to act quickly.

  “Get his horse. Don’t let it run off,” Slocum called to Molly. To his surprise, she acted right away and grabbed the trailing reins before the horse had gone a dozen feet.

  “You kill the son of a bitch?” she asked.

  “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  “Mighta seen him around. Don’t recall. I’m mad because he was followin’ us like he was. No call for a man to do that, scarin’ a woman out of a year’s growth.”

  Slocum quickly searched the man’s pockets but found nothing but a half dozen five-dollar gold pieces. That was a powerful lot for a cowpoke to be carrying, but from the look of the fallen man, he was no wrangler. Slocum’s first impression had been right: road agent.

  “Let me get him tied up,” Slocum said, rolling the man onto his belly. He thrust the man’s worn six-shooter into his own belt and completed the task of hog-tying him by using nearby rusty wire.

  “Just kill him,” Molly said. “Why leave him alive?”

  “You want to cut his throat?” Slocum asked. He saw that Molly wouldn’t find that out of the question. “Never mind. Gag him. He’s not going to bother us any more.”

  “What are we gonna do? The rest of ’em are still out there,” she said.

  Slocum wondered if he might eliminate the opposition one by one, but he had been lucky this time. If there had been a second man, he would have been forced to shoot both of them, bringing the rest down on him like a flock of buzzards onto a fresh carcass. He went to a pile covered by a tarp nearby and pulled the canvas back.

  “What’d you find?”

  “Dynamite. A case of it. Old, too.” Slocum looked around and wondered how long the mine had been abandoned. A year or more? Any explosive left outside that long would be unstable as hell and might blow up in his face if he even touched the crate.

  Slocum pried off the flimsy wooden top and peered inside. Even as dark as it was, he saw the yellow ooze beaded all around the red-paper-wrapped sticks of dynamite. The nitroglycerin in each stick had seeped out, turning this crate into instant death.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Get all the horses—take the one we just acquired off our unwanted guest—and get ready to ride. If I set off a big enough blast, I can bring down a chunk of rock that will block the mouth of the canyon.”

  “You’d trap us!” Molly exclaimed.

  “Don’t have much choice. If the dynamite sticks had been new, I might have figured out a way of using them against the seven still on our trail. I need to distract them from wondering what’s happened to their partner.” Slocum jerked his thumb in the direction of the bound and gagged man.

  “We can still kill him,” Molly said, frowning mightily. “Why not kill him if we’re gonna kill the others?”

  Slocum wasn’t sure he could come close to blowing up the others. He had one chance with the dynamite, and it was risky.

  “Get mounted and get ready.”

  “Into the canyon?” she asked. Her skepticism was obvious.

  “We might lure them deeper into the canyon, circle back, then set off the blast and trap them,” Slocum said. He doubted it was possible and figured that the gang was spread out from one side to the other hunting for them. The one who had been tied up had been unlucky enough to find them.

  “All right,” Molly said, warming to the notion. “We get out of this and I’ll make sure you get somethin’ special, John. Real special.”

  “First things first,” Slocum said as he gingerly lifted the case of dynamite. If a sharp movement disturbed the leaky sticks, he was a goner. Walking slowly past the pile of tailings, he found the spot he remembered from when they had ridden to the mine. The rock outcropping stretched up halfway to the canyon rim. He hoped an explosion here wouldn’t cause other mines to collapse, but he had seen no other activity in the canyon.

  “That’s gonna bring down a powerful lot of rock,” Molly said, looking up into the night. Stars outlined the rim. “How’re you gonna set it off?”

  For that Slocum didn’t have a good answer. A sharp jolt might do the trick, but he preferred to use miner’s fuse—which he didn’t have.

  He had started to look for some when he heard hooves clicking against rock as at least two riders made their way uphill to the mine.

  “We’ve got more company,” he said. Slocum carefully put heavy rocks on top of the crate, leaving the side exposed. He went to his horse, drew the Winchester from the sheath and pointed into the canyon.

  “I don’t wanna be caught,” Molly whined.

  “Get riding. Take my horse, too, and stop a quarter mile off back out of the canyon. I’ll join up with you in a few minutes.”

  Molly didn’t have to be told twice to get the hell away. She clutched the reins on the other two horses and rode off as fast as she could. Slocum heard the reaction of the approaching riders. They picked up the pace, leaving him no choice.

  Scrambling to find a good spot, Slocum ran a dozen yards off before the first rider spotted him. The road agent greeted him with repeated shots from his six-gun. Slocum swung about, pulled the rifle in to his shoulder and fired. His first round missed the crate and went whining off into the night. His second hit the dynamite square on. For a moment he thought nothing was going to happen. Then a giant windstorm lifted him, threw him back and sent him rolling down the hill.

  Somewhere along the way he lost the Winchester, but the pain was so intense in his arms and face he hardly noticed. He had rolled through a big patch of prickly pear cactus. Eventually he came to a halt and then was pelted with rocks from above. Most were smaller stones but one grazed his forehead and knocked him back. Then the world turned entirely black, as a cloud of choking dust washed over him. Rolling to his belly, Slocum curled up and let the shock wave pass over him. He wondered vaguely how the dust and rock had preceded the sound, and then he was completely buried in a new rain of stone.

  For what seemed an eternity Slocum lay on the ground. It took a while before he realized he could move. Pushing to his feet, he felt as if he was risen from the grave. Dust and pebbles fell off him, forcing him to draw up his bandanna to cover his mouth and nose.

  “John! Over here, John!”

  Staggering like a drunk, he made his way toward the voice in the dark. Before he had gone ten paces, he saw Molly astride a horse, looking down at him with some concern.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a fright.”

  “I’ve felt better,” Slocum admitted. He pulled himself into the saddle and for the first time got a sense of the havoc he had brought down. A quarter of the mountainside had collapsed like rotted wood and tumbled out into the canyon. If any of the men on their trail had been near the mine, they were dead. Slocum heaved a sigh of relief. He had almost been a goner. Only pure luck had sent the torrential downpour of rock away from him. As it was, he had been buffeted and pummeled within an inch of his life.

  “We won’t be getting out that way,” he said. The rockfall had blocked them off from escape through the canyon mouth. They were trapped in a box canyon along with the road agents—the ones who had survived the avalanche. “Do you know any trails up to the rim?”

  Molly shrugged. Again, Slocum got the feeling she was as new to this part of the country as he was and had no idea where to go. They set off to explore in silence, Slocum’s watering eyes slowly getting the dust washed out of them. By midnight he had found a narrow trail with dozens of switchbacks leading to the rim, and by dawn they were back in Virginia City.

  Slocum and Molly rode slowly down C Street. The town was stirring but not yet awake. Slocum spotted Sparky sitting on the doorstep of the Firehouse No. 7 Saloon and waved to him.

  “Hey, Slocum. Thought you’d moved on,” Sparky said, getting to his feet. From the way he grimaced, he was in big pain and needed the anesthetic offered by the bottle.

  “Is there a marshal in town yet?” Slocum asked, remembering the fireman spinning a story about Virginia City losing its last one to the lure of the Comstock Lode.

  Sparky laughed until tears ran down his dirty cheeks. He wiped at them with a large red polka-dot bandanna, then blew his nose.

  “Sorry, Slocum. We go through marshals faster ’n most folks change their underwear.”

  “Those that have any underwear,” Slocum said. “Is there any lawman down the street in the marshal’s office?”

  “Nope, not even a deputy. But heard tell the county sheriff was comin’ into town. That’d be Sheriff George. Mean son of a buck, he is. Ain’t never set eyes on him myself.”

  “About time someone in town did,” Slocum said.

  Sparky eyed the saddled spare horse, Molly and finally Slocum’s disheveled condition.

  “You been up to no good, Slocum?”

  “Got to ask some questions of the law and find out about road agents,” Slocum said.

  “You got the look of a gent what’s been pulled through a knothole backwards. But you, dearie, you look real fine.” Sparky winked at Molly, who sniffed and pointedly turned away. Slocum looked from the fireman to Molly and frowned. If she and her brother had been around town long enough to stake out a claim, the lieutenant for a volunteer fire engine company ought to know her. Molly was a handsome enough looking woman to turn heads and get her image burned into even the most alcohol-besotted brain.

  Slocum rode down the street and began dodging the increased foot traffic. By the time he reached the marshal’s office, he was tired of so many people.

  “Come on in and we’ll tell the sheriff what happened,” Slocum said. He saw that the woman dismounted and came along reluctantly. When they reached the door, Molly finally balked.

  “You go. There’s nothin’ I can tell him.”

  “You got a good look at the road agents. He’ll want you to confirm what I have to say.”

  “And what are you gonna say, John?” she asked. “That we upped and killed a half dozen folks who was ridin’ along behind us? You do what you have to. I got business.”

  Slocum started to grab her arm, but the door to the hoosegow opened and a man filled it from side to side. The sheriff’s badge on his vest told Slocum he had to deal with the law right away.

  “What y’all goin’ on about?” demanded the lawman. “I got me trouble a’plenty. Don’t need—or want—more.”

  “You got more,” Slocum said. He saw Molly sidle away out of the corner of his eye, then disappear around the side of the jailhouse. “I was riding west of town and eight men came after me.”

  “How do you mean ‘came after me’?” Sheriff George looked as if he had bitten into something sour.

  Slocum told of being followed and how the dynamite had gone off when the men started shooting. That was a stretch, but it saved him the explanation of how the riders hadn’t actually done either him or Molly any harm before the explosion had buried them.

  “So you don’t rightly know what happened to any of them varmints?” The sheriff stroked his mustaches and skewered Slocum with his polar blue eyes.

  Slocum shook his head.

  “If you’d got a better look at ’em, I’d’ve been happier. Might be a gang of owlhoots I been after nigh on a month.”

  “Road agents?”

  “That, high-graders, swindlers, ’bout anythin’ crooked you can think up and some you probably can’t.” Sheriff George eyed Slocum even harder, then laughed. “I take back that last comment. You probably could think up most all their illegalities.”

  Slocum tensed. He had dodged a WANTED poster for killing a federal judge back in Georgia since the end of the war. More than this, he had done his share of what the sheriff called “illegalities.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Sheriff George laughed and slapped him on the back.

  “Why, nothing, nothing a’tall. You have the look of a smart fellow who’s been around. You musta seen it all and heard it all.”

  In spite of the lawman’s bonhomie, Slocum felt like a bloody haunch being gnawed on by a coyote.

  “You know them? The road agents?”

  “Could be the gang I’m huntin’ for,” the sheriff said. “From what you say, that’s Liberty Bell Canyon where they set off that dynamite. Might take a little ride out and look it over, just to be sure.”

  “Just to be sure,” Slocum echoed.

  “Have our paths crossed?” the sheriff asked unexpectedly. “Naw, reckon not. I’d’ve remembered, wouldn’t I?”

  Sheriff George went off, whistling tunelessly. Slocum watched until the lawman vanished down C Street, quickly lost in the throng filling the street now. He wondered at the way the sheriff had acted. Then he shrugged it off. It wasn’t any concern of his. If Sheriff George had recognized him from a WANTED poster, there were plenty of cells inside the jailhouse that could take a new prisoner.

  Slocum looked around and wondered what to do now. He still had Preston’s map but was no closer to finding his brother.

  7

  Slocum found himself wondering what to do. He was beset by a gang of unknown road agents, for no reason he could tell, unless it had to do with the map. He suspected Molly knew more than she was telling. The lovely auburn-haired woman had hightailed it when he had told her he wanted to report everything that had happened to the sheriff. Looking around Virginia City, Slocum tried to locate her, but she had disappeared like smoke in a high wind.

  Hitching up his gunbelt, Slocum retraced his path to the Firehouse No. 7 Saloon and climbed the steps. As he stepped inside, he was pushed back by a blast of hot air gusting from inside the saloon. It was getting mighty chilly outside, even during the day, but this was outrageously hot. Slocum looked over the swinging doors and saw a fire blazing merrily in the middle of the floor.

  “Fire!” He pushed through and looked around for something to put out the flaming boards. If a fire took hold in a town with such rickety wood buildings, the town could vanish in a few minutes.

  “Hold yer horses, Slocum,” came the loud cry. Mingled with the words was a tad of laughter—at Slocum’s expense. He looked around and saw all the firemen watching the fire. They wore their bright red shirts and had leather helmets with brass identification plates bright and shiny tucked under their arms.