“What’s going on, Sparky?” Slocum entered and let the doors swing behind him. His front was sizzling hot from the fire while his other half still tingled with the cold of the autumn day.

  “Jist a mite of in-struct-shun,” the fireman said, coming over. He put his arm around Slocum’s shoulders and guided him away from the fire. Slocum saw that the floor-boards weren’t on fire. They had been pulled back to reveal a pit lined with red brick. The fire blazed merrily in it, but the smoke was filling the room to the point Slocum’s eyes watered and he began to cough.

  “Why’d you start it?” Slocum looked around and saw that the firemen were similarly afflicted. Not a one made a move to mop at his tears or use a dampened rag to cover mouth and nose to ease breathing. They suffered in silence.

  “Test fer the newcomers. We got a couple inductees into Engine Company No. 7. You kin leave or watch.”

  Slocum squinted against the tears and brushed them away. At the far end of the bar one of the recruits began to totter. He took a step, dropped to one knee and tried to get up. Then he keeled over like he had been coldcocked. Two veterans hastily grabbed him under the arms and dragged him the length of the saloon to the jeers of the others.

  The other recruit was made of sterner stuff. When he toppled, he did it like a buck private standing rigidly at attention too long in the hot sun. He hit the floor with a tremendous thud.

  “Git ’im, men,” shouted Sparky. “We got ourselves two blooded members of Engine Company No. 7!” A cheer went up. Then the men looked expectantly at their lieutenant. Sparky lifted his hand, then lowered it fast. The men closest to the fire began pissing on the blaze until it sizzled and popped.

  “Come on. Do it right,” urged Sparky. “Yer pissin’ like a bunch o’ old men!”

  “Show us,” demanded another fireman.

  “You want to help out, Slocum? Not that I need it, mind you.” Sparky motioned imperiously, and the barkeep brought over four large steins of beer. Sparky hefted one and downed it to the cheers of his company. Slocum figured there wasn’t any reason not to join the fun. He matched the fireman drop for drop. Then they polished off the second stein and stepped up to the fire, now sizzling and popping but not yet extinguished. Slocum unbuttoned his fly and let loose his stream about the same time as the volunteer fireman.

  “More beer! How kin a man do his duty without enough beer?” Both Sparky and Slocum were handed new steins. Never stopping their firefighting, they downed these. By the time the last drop had passed Slocum’s lips, he ran dry.

  But the fire was out.

  “A dagnabbed tie, I’d say,” said Sparky. “You’re a good man, Slocum. Sure you don’t want to try out for the company? Not a man here can match me, but you came danged close.”

  “Better,” Slocum said, accepting another glass of beer.

  “What’s that?” roared Sparky.

  “I said, I did better.”

  “Then you got to be put up for membership. No other company in Virginia City kin have a man better’n the lieutenant of the best damned engine company in Nevada Territory!” The resulting cheer from Sparky’s words spread like the very wildfire the men were entrusted with stopping.

  Slocum wanted to get on with his chore of finding Preston’s brother and delivering the map, but he found himself caught up in the firemen’s high jinks. They were a cheerful bunch, and he wasn’t going to insult them by turning down their invitation to join the engine company. Slocum had seen how status in this boomtown was determined—being a volunteer fireman ranked higher than about anything else, including mine foreman or millionaire.

  “You done showed you could withstand heat and smoke, and you know the best way of puttin’ out fires,” Sparky said. “That leaves nothin’ but the vote. Bring the jar and balls, my good man!” Sparky motioned to the barkeep, who scrounged around under the long bar until he found a large ceramic pot and two saucers filled with black and white balls.

  Slocum had seen this kind of vote before for less palatable organizations. Every member of the engine company had a single vote. A white marble meant a vote for him. A lone black marble ended his chances of being a full-fledged member of Engine Company No. 7, and all the privileges that went with it in Virginia City. He stood by as the men each took a white and black ball, then put one secretly into the pot. For Slocum the outcome mattered less than it did for any of the men. They lived in Virginia City. He intended to be gone as soon as he could, in spite of it looking like a good place to ride out the winter.

  His thoughts drifted to Molly and the problem she posed. Mostly, he knew better than to deal with such a dilemma before getting rid of the map and his duty to Preston.

  “Here goes, Slocum,” Sparky said loudly. The men had completed their vote. The lieutenant picked up the pot and held it over his head. He pulled out the marbles one by one. Each was white. As he counted out the final one, a huge cheer went up.

  “You’re one of us now, Slocum. One for all, all for one!” Sparky put the pot onto the bar and then turned, fixing Slocum with a gimlet stare. He said sternly, “There’s one last ritual we gotta do.”

  “Before that,” Slocum said, knowing what was coming, “let me buy the entire company a drink.”

  Sparky laughed as the barkeep pulled out a bottle and started pouring.

  “You are one of us, Slocum. That was the last thing ya had to do.”

  Slocum drank with the men until almost eight o’clock. One by one, the men drifted off. Many were late for work. Others worked midnight shifts in the mines. But all were pleased at the addition to their fire engine company.

  “Got to see to the equipment,” Sparky said. “You gotta get a lesson on it, Slocum.”

  “Got my own job to do,” Slocum said. He ran his finger around the rim of the shot glass and licked off the final drop of whiskey before asking, “You ever see the lady I rode into town with?”

  “Woulda remembered a looker like her, Slocum. You know how to pick ’em. She your woman?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Don’t know who she belongs to. Maybe herself.”

  “Then she’ll be workin’ at Lil’s or maybe Madame Mustache’s place down on Sutton Avenue. She’d bring in a tidy sum for any cathouse.” Sparky stopped, as if he might have offended Slocum hinting that Molly was a whore. To Slocum’s surprise, the idea didn’t come as anything different than what he had already been thinking deep down.

  “So she’s new to town.” That was a flat statement, and Sparky did not contradict him. “See you later. What time’s the evening fun usually begin?”

  “Whenever you get here, Slocum.” Sparky laughed, pumped his hand and then left. Slocum lingered a moment before stepping into the cold night. The Firehouse No. 7 was suddenly quiet inside, only the lingering stench of burning wood and piss remaining behind to keep the bartender company.

  Slocum mounted and turned his horse’s face uphill, toward Molly’s shack. With housing as scarce as a gambler in church, he wondered how she had found even that ramshackle place. He rode slowly, making sure he followed the right path. The snow had melted enough to turn the ground into mud trails, each indistinguishable from the next. He soon sighted the right shack. A thin gray wisp of smoke curled from the vent pipe thrust through the roof.

  Molly was home.

  As he approached, Slocum had the eerie feeling something was wrong. He opened his coat and slid his hand underneath to the cross-draw holster, so his hand rested reassuringly on the ebony handle of his six-shooter. Behind the shack was only one horse, not two. And it was neither of the ones Molly had ridden off with when she left Virginia City in such a hurry.

  “What ya want?” A scrawny man stepped from the shack, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. He held the weapon as if he had little idea how to use it. With a single glance, Slocum sized him up as a prospector. The man might have bought the shotgun to run off claim jumpers but had probably never fired it. That made Slocum even more ill at ease than if he had faced a professional gunslinger. There was no telling what this jumpy prospector would do.

  “I’m looking for Molly Preston. She here?”

  “Don’t know anybody by that name,” the prospector said. The man lowered the gun and scratched his head. “Name’s familiar, though.”

  “Molly Preston?”

  “Nope, jist the Preston part. Heard of a prospector with that moniker when I was over in Gold Hill, on the other side of this here mountain.”

  Slocum reckoned the man had just returned from his trip—to his own shack. Molly was a squatter who had moved in when she saw an empty bed. She had acted quick, and the bed hadn’t stayed empty long, not with John Slocum to share it with her.

  “Might the name be Seamus Preston?”

  “That’s it. Seamus Preston. Not a likable cuss, not at all. Nasty mean drunk.” The prospector lifted the muzzle of the shotgun in Slocum’s direction again. “You a partner of his?”

  “More like a mailman. Got a package for him. Never met the man.”

  “Well, he ain’t here.”

  Slocum bided his time. The prospector was a garrulous sort and probably didn’t see that many people in any given month.

  “He’s staked a claim a bit north of here. In Old Glory Canyon.”

  “The one branching off Liberty Bell?” Slocum asked.

  “That’s the one. You know this here country purty good.” Again the prospector turned suspicious. “You ain’t a claim jumper, are you?”

  “Just passing through.” Slocum politely touched the brim of his hat and rode past, aware that the prospector watched until he found the trail leading in the direction Molly had taken them the first time. But she had diverted them away from the real direction where her brother’s mine sank into the hillside. If Seamus Preston even was her brother. Since nothing else about her had proven to be honest, Slocum had to wonder.

  He wondered but really didn’t care one whit. All he had to do was deliver the map and then return to the Firehouse No. 7 Saloon for a few rounds with his new drinking partners.

  It took most of the afternoon to ride deeper into the canyon. As Slocum passed the mouth leading to Liberty Bell Canyon, he saw the mounds of rock he had brought down with the case of old dynamite. The road agents might have escaped. He couldn’t tell and didn’t want to dig through the debris to find out. More likely, they had been far enough away to avoid the worst of the rockfall. The man he had tied up at the mouth of the mine, however, was a different kettle of fish.

  Slocum couldn’t work up any sympathy for the man. He should not have tried tracking them down.

  He rode steadily through the afternoon up Old Glory Canyon and finally saw a crudely lettered sign: “Preston’s Glory Hole.” Slocum was not sure this was anything to advertise. Miners working drifts feared the roof caving in on them, opening a hole all the way to the surface—a glory hole. Tons of rock might come crashing down. But he had heard of circumstances where a glory hole exposed an unsuspected vein of ore. Preston might have stumbled on something worthwhile and wouldn’t need a torn map sent by his dead brother.

  Slocum took the winding trail into the hills, going around a small hillock and then cutting back up a steeper trail. As he rode, he noticed the ground had been cut up, as if a small herd of horses had passed by recently. Then the gunshots echoed down from higher on the slope.

  “Damn,” Slocum muttered. He reached for his rifle but it was gone. He had lost it when the dynamite had exploded the day before, and he had failed to replace it in Virginia City. Drawing his trusty six-gun, Slocum spurred his tired horse to a quicker gait uphill and around a bend in the road to the side of Preston’s mine.

  The mine was, indeed, a glory hole. The original opening into the side of the mountain was boarded up. Slocum reckoned Preston had followed a drift around and under the ground in front of the mouth of the mine. The rumble of wagons and heavy equipment had caused the ground to give way, producing what looked like a sinkhole with a ladder poking up out of it.

  Downhill stood a shack that might have been the twin of the one where Slocum and Molly had spent the night so pleasurably and that was now occupied once more by its rightful owner. This one had three men poking around outside while another stood guard with his rifle resting in the crook of his left arm.

  Slocum didn’t bother waiting for them to spot him. He cocked his Colt Navy, took careful aim and squeezed off a shot. He was as lucky as he was good as a marksman. The round caught the rifleman in the gunhand. He screeched like a hoot owl and dropped his rifle. This brought the other three running, guns out.

  There were several things Slocum might do. He could turn tail and run. The four men would follow him if he did that. He could stand and fight, but he had probably used up all his luck with that single shot. That left the only sensible course of action.

  He attacked.

  With a Rebel yell, he put his spurs to his horse’s flanks and lowered his head to give the men the smallest possible target. Then he squeezed off shot after shot at the confused, surprised men. The closer he got, the more dangerous it became for Slocum, because he was running low on ammo and dared not swing around and grab the spare Colt Navy from his saddlebags. Instead of breaking off his attack, he changed his tactics.

  “Don’t let these varmints escape, Sheriff George! Get ’em! Close in on ’em and cut ’em off!” Invoking the lawman’s name had a galvanizing effect on the quartet. They broke and ran. This told Slocum all he needed to know. Whatever they were up to, they were afraid of being caught by the law.

  By the time Slocum reached the shack, the four owlhoots were gone. He pointed his pistol in the direction they had retreated and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  He had been lucky again.

  Slocum swung about, fumbled in his saddlebags and pulled out his spare six-shooter. It saved him the time reloading the one that had ridden in his holster on the trip to the mine.

  Slipping from the saddle, Slocum went to the shack door. It had been kicked in. He peered inside, but the shadows were too dense for him to make out anything.

  “Preston? You in there?” When he got no answer, he entered cautiously, the muzzle swinging back and forth to cover anyone laying in wait. The single room was empty. The men who had left in such a hurry had destroyed the simple furnishings, breaking the stool, overturning the table and ripping apart the pallet Preston had used as a mattress. A dynamite crate Preston had used to store the rest of his belongings had been broken apart. Slocum couldn’t tell if anything was missing.

  What else might the men be looking for but the map? Molly had known about it. The gang that had followed them to the other mine probably knew and had come after him. When Slocum had escaped them, the gang probably thought he had delivered it successfully to Seamus Preston.

  Noise from the direction of the mine brought Slocum around. He dashed for the outer corner of the shack and saw a man’s head disappearing into the glory hole. The ladder shook as the man hurried down.

  “Seamus!” called Slocum. “Your brother sent me. I’m not going to hurt you.” He shouted at empty air. Cursing, Slocum stomped to the edge of the pit and peered over, careful not to outline himself against the bright blue afternoon Nevada sky. Getting his head blown off after coming this far wasn’t in his battle plan.

  From below he heard rustling about, like a rat running through a general store’s larder.

  “Seamus Preston, come on back here,” Slocum called. The words echoed through the drifts below. He saw one side of the drift blocked, the one running back toward the mouth of the mine. The other continued downhill at an angle. Preston had taken that one to escape what he thought was danger.

  “I ran the road agents off. Or were they claim jumpers? They’re gone. All I want is to give you a map your brother wanted you to have.”

  Getting no response, Slocum knew what he had to do. He grasped the rickety ladder and swung around, getting his boots onto the top rung. He had barely started down into the mine when the ladder began to shake. Slocum thought the rungs were coming unnailed. Then he realized the rumbling came from below.

  A blast of dust billowed up and shrouded him as surely as any gritty, biting dust storm he had ever endured in West Texas. The drift where Seamus Preston had vanished seconds before collapsed, trapping the prospector in the mine.

  8

  Slocum clung to the ladder until the dust and heated air had blasted past. He worried that this was from detonation of a gas pocket. If the mineshaft were filled with gas, there would be scant chance for Seamus Preston to escape. A secondary rumble shook Slocum off the ladder. He toppled backward, flailing as he fell. He landed hard on his back and was momentarily stunned.

  Choking, he sat up and gasped in huge drafts of air through his bandanna. When the dust finally cleared, he got to shaky feet and looked around. The ladder had tumbled into the pit but was intact. He pushed it upright again and made certain he could get out of the glory hole when he wanted. Slocum realized this was likely to be the way he left Preston’s mine, too, since both drifts were closed with rockfall.

  He went to the plug in the tunnel Seamus had taken before all hell broke loose. Slocum ran his hands over the broken timbers and saw why the collapse had occurred. The wood was rotted through even at the thickest sections. And Slocum saw that the original timber had been cut razor thin in places. The hills were denuded of trees, telling him that wood was in such demand that corners were cut at every turn. Skimping on timbers supporting the rocky roofs of a mine was suicidal.

  Slocum saw the evidence in front of him.

  He began digging. The rocks were the size of his head or larger and required considerable effort to move from the blockage to a spot behind him. Before he knew it, he was sweating in the close, tight hole. Slocum never flagged, though. If he didn’t reach Seamus Preston quickly enough, the man might die of suffocation.

  If he wasn’t already dead.

  Slocum thought about his next course of action if he found Preston’s lifeless body. Turn the map over to Molly? That was the most likely—if he believed she was Seamus Preston’s sister, which he didn’t. He might try to figure out the map himself, but he had looked at it often enough to know it was a map fragment. Whoever held the rest of it had the compass rose, the legend and information necessary to position the map properly before finding the spot where . . .