The stage clattered and clanked up the grade from the bottom of the hill. Slocum imagined he could hear the driver’s curses over the pounding of the hooves. He did hear the crack of the blacksnake whip as the driver urged the team to exert itself to the fullest.

  “There,” Laredo Jack said. Across from them emerged two men wearing long canvas dusters, with bandannas pulled up to conceal their faces. They carried short-barreled rifles.

  “Carbines,” Slocum said to Laredo Jack. “Those are cavalry carbines.”

  “Quiet!”

  The robbery went fast. The road agents stepped out, lifted their rifles and opened fire on the guard. The man slumped down into the bottom of the driver’s box.

  “Halt!” yelled one outlaw. “Rein ’em in!”

  The driver obeyed, put on the brake and died. The second outlaw shot him through the heart. By now the two passengers inside the compartment were spilling out. One had his hands in the air. He was shot down like the driver and guard. The other burst out, six-shooter blazing. He lasted only a few seconds longer.

  “They never gave them the chance to stand and deliver,” Slocum said. “They murdered them.” He watched one outlaw climb into the driver’s box and take the strongbox while the other rifled the pockets of the two dead passengers. When they had taken all they could, the two walked back up the hill.

  “We can—” Slocum began. He saw no reason to let the outlaws get away with such cold-blooded murder. They could cut down the two killers and take what was already stolen.

  “Wait. It’ll get better. It always has.”

  Slocum seethed but obeyed his friend. Then his jaw clenched when he saw three more men ride from behind the rocks. They wore cavalry uniforms and greeted the two robbers.

  “Get much?” called Lieutenant Tartaglia.

  “Not too much, sir,” replied Sergeant Davies, pulling down his bandanna and shucking off his duster. He still wore his uniform beneath it. “Might be a couple hundred dollars. Not much more.”

  The soldiers mounted and rode off, leaving Slocum and Laredo Jack Lansing silent witnesses to a massacre.

  After a spell when it was clear the soldiers were gone, Laredo Jack said, “No way can I compete with the likes of them. If a decent outlaw robs the stage, they kill the outlaw and take the money. If nobody’s there to rob the trains or stages, they’ll do it themselves.”

  Slocum wondered if Joshua Atkins’s disappearance was tied in with the soldier-thieves. In his gut he thought so.

  7

  “Don’t know what to say, John. It’s a dangerous road. You might as well try to tickle a grizzly bear with a goose feather,” Laredo Jack Lansing said.

  “You’re the one they’re hunting,” Slocum said. “Are you leaving the territory?”

  “Not much choice. Might be that pickin’s are better up along the Snake River. Idaho, Montana, even Oregon, but it’s a mighty long ride from here.” Laredo Jack stretched, and Slocum heard joints popping. “It’s almighty hell gettin’ old, John. Don’t ever do it. Can’t recommend it.”

  “You can’t stay here with the entire post carrying your wanted poster in their saddlebags. What about the others in your gang?” Slocum looked around the scattered camp-fires, at a half dozen young men. He didn’t recognize any of them.

  “Most are out for the first time. The usual stories you hear. Once I’d’ve whipped ’em into the damnedest outlaw gang you ever did see, but not now. The days when me and you rode together are past, John.” Laredo Jack shook his head sadly. Slocum had seen the look on other men but had never believed his old partner would show such a longing for days past.

  “Ride on,” Slocum said quietly. “Leave the lot of them behind, and you’ll clear out that much quicker.”

  “Me hightailin’ it’s not half as risky as kickin’ over the box where them rattlers are nestin’,” Laredo Jack said. “She must be a real looker for you to risk your scalp like this.”

  “I’ve got other reasons,” Slocum said, “but she’s a mighty good one, too.”

  “Watch your back, John, since I can’t.” Laredo Jack Lansing slapped Slocum on the shoulder, then shook hands. Slocum felt the weakness in the hand and quickly moved away. He knew what he had to do, and Jack was right about how dangerous it was.

  Slocum mounted and left the box canyon, nodding to Possum as he went. The young man stood guard at the mouth and waved enthusiastically. Slocum wanted to tell him to look after Laredo Jack, but he held back. They’d all find their own roads. With any luck, those roads wouldn’t end with a bullet in the back or at the end of a noose.

  He cut across country, made his way toward Fort Crumpland and reached a spot where he could watch the comings and goings. Not for the first time he wished he had a pair of field glasses to help as he studied the sentries and their routes and the supply wagons rumbling into the fort. After two days of spying, Slocum saw a patrol return.

  Tartaglia rode at the head of the short column, followed by Sergeant Davies and the others Slocum had spotted holding up the stagecoach. Outwardly they were nothing more than a patrol returning from the field, but Slocum knew differently. They were killers and thieves masquerading as soldiers.

  He sat on his haunches to think as he watched their dust cloud settle back to the roadway. The past few days had worn on him. He had once shown great patience. During the war he had been a sniper—one of the best. Sitting in a tree all night and half the next day waiting for the single shot that would kill a Federal commander had been a duty and one he did well. Now waiting in a cold camp for less than a week wore on his nerves. Slocum itched to be doing something. Anything. It was already a month since Sergeant Joshua Atkins had disappeared. What Laurel was thinking or doing back in Newsome provided Slocum with a moment of worry, but mostly he wanted to settle the score with Davies, Tartaglia and the other killers who hid behind their uniforms.

  Slocum stood and shielded his eyes against the sun when a solitary rider trotted down the road toward the gate into the fort. The sentries snapped to attention and saluted. From what Slocum could see with the sun shining off a passel of gold braid, a high-ranking officer was entering Fort Crumpland.

  Curious, Slocum waited for twilight before heading for the post. The low stone fence provided no barrier to him as he flopped over it, belly down, and then rolled to his feet inside. He could have tried to sneak across the parade ground but preferred to walk boldly. Anyone seeing him would think he belonged. As lax as discipline seemed, Slocum might be able to go into the mess hall and chow down and not be challenged.

  He went directly to the office where he had rummaged through Colonel Holman’s papers, slowly when he saw the door open and light spill from inside. Slocum veered and went to the side of the office, wishing there was a window so he could spy even more effectively. He settled down, back against the plank wall, and pulled his knife. A few quick flicks with the tip worried a hole in the wood to provide a decent spy hole. Slocum pressed his face against the splintery surface and got a good look at Colonel Holman’s back.

  But past the commander stood Lieutenant Tartaglia, braced at attention. From the lieutenant’s expression, he was catching hell from his superior.

  Slocum tried to hear, but Holman wasn’t shouting. He spoke in a low, steady drone that robbed Slocum of any chance at making out the gist of the upbraiding, much less the individual words.

  “What are you doing?”

  Slocum whirled around guiltily, hand reaching for his six-shooter. He froze when he saw that the sentry had his carbine leveled.

  “I thought I heard the colonel and came over to see him,” Slocum said, moving so that his body hid the hole he had poked in the wall. Light from inside poured out and would betray his intentions if the guard took time to investigate.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Slocum. I’d heard the post could use a new scout, so I came by to get the job.”

  “Ain’t heard of no scoutin’ job,” the guard said. He puckered up and let loose with a shrill whistle that brought Sergeant Davies on the double.

  “What’s goin’ on, Private?”

  “Found this gent wanderin’ loose. Says he’s lookin’ to get a job as a scout.”

  “There aren’t any jobs scouting,” Davies said. He stepped closer and peered at Slocum. “I know you. You were here a week or so back. How’d you get onto the post?”

  “Same way most folks do, I reckon,” Slocum said. “Came right on in through the front gate.”

  “You weren’t told to stay away?”

  “No,” Slocum said. He pressed his back against the wall, hiding the hole. He hoped Holman would finish with the lieutenant quickly and snuff out his kerosene lamp. The sight of the hole and light spilling through it would get Slocum tossed into the stockade—or worse.

  “Who’s on duty at the gate?” Davies asked.

  “Don’t rightly know, Sarge. Might be O’Leary.”

  “If he’s sleepin’ on duty, I’ll see that he gets twenty lashes!”

  “What’s all the ruckus, Sergeant?”

  Slocum looked to his left and saw Colonel Holman standing at the corner of the building, hand on his holstered pistol.

  “Intruder, sir. The guard caught him nosin’ around here.”

  “I’m looking to fill that job I heard about. You do need a scout, don’t you?”

  “We don’t need a scout, sir. I tole him that already,” Davies said. “Lock him up, Private.”

  “After you lose good scouts like Joshua, I’d think you’d need my services. I speak a couple of the Indian lingoes, too.”

  “Joshua?” Holman stepped forward and got a better look at Slocum.

  “He was askin’ after Sergeant Atkins, sir, when he came round a couple weeks back.”

  “Do you know Sergeant Atkins?” Holman asked.

  “Not directly, but we have some friends in common. That’s how I heard that Joshua was dead.”

  “Oh, that’s not true,” Holman said. “Is it, Sergeant Davies?”

  “No, sir, it isn’t. I think the lieutenant already tole this yahoo that the sergeant’s out in the field, palaverin’ with Injuns and gettin’ ’em back onto the reservation. Takes a powerful long time to do.”

  “He hasn’t reported in since he went on patrol. Lieutenant Tartaglia said that.”

  “Did he now?” The icy tone in Holman’s voice convinced Slocum that the lieutenant was not likely to see a promotion anytime soon. That meant he’d have to keep clipping news stories about railroad and stagecoach shipments to rob if he wanted more money.

  “If there’s no scouting job here, I’ll move on, with your permission, sir,” Slocum said to the colonel.

  “Don’t be so hasty,” Holman said, putting out his hand and pressing Slocum back against the office wall. “You said you speak some of the Indian dialects?”

  “A few.” Slocum turned wary. The light in the colonel’s eyes warned him to measure his words carefully.

  “We can use another scout, Sergeant,” Holman said. “I’m still getting acquainted with the roster of men at this fort, having been in command for such a short time.”

  “Sir, is this a good idea?”

  “It’s a fine idea, Sergeant Davies,” Holman said. “I’ll see to putting this gentleman on the payroll, but he has to prove his skill. Take him with you on the morning patrol.”

  “But—”

  “Sergeant, enough. Bunk him down in the barracks with the rest of the men.”

  “Much obliged, Colonel,” Slocum said. He watched Holman and Davies facing each other like elk ready to fight to the death. Davies backed down.

  “Get your gear. Show him to the barracks, Private.”

  “Right, Sarge,” the guard said, lowering his rifle for the first time. Slocum knew the real danger didn’t come from the private with his weapon but from Davies. As the sergeant and his commander strode off, he had to wonder if there wasn’t more to worry about at than a few renegade soldiers.

  “I’ll fetch my horse and tack,” Slocum said.

  “I . . . I oughta stay with you. The sarge was kinda mad, the way the colonel dressed him down. He’s not like the major was, our last commander, but in some ways he’s worse.”

  “My horse is tethered outside,” Slocum said. He saw the guard start to ask more questions, but the young man stifled them. The last thing he wanted was to create more of a stir after being caught between his sergeant and his colonel.

  The guard followed him, and started to ask again why Slocum had left his horse and gear so far outside the fence, but never said a word about the obvious day’s-old camp. Dutifully, the private showed him back to the barracks, where Slocum pitched his gear.

  After reveille the next morning, Slocum found himself riding next to Sergeant Davies with Sims and the other two renegade soldiers behind him. That made him uneasy, but he didn’t show it. Any indication of weakness now and he would be dead in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

  “Where’re we going?” Slocum asked the sergeant.

  “Into the hills,” Davies said. A slight grin crept across his lips, but he hid it, making Slocum all the more wary.

  “If you want me to scout ahead, I’ll need to know more than that,” Slocum said. “Are we looking for Indians? Outlaws? Just covering the land to be sure nothing’s wrong?”

  “Miner,” Davies said. “There’s a miner back in the hills who’s wanted for more’n one crime.”

  “That’s mighty vague,” Slocum said. “You have a map of the area?”

  “You’re the scout. Go scout.”

  “Point me in the right direction and I will. Otherwise, you boys are likely to go off without me.” At the moment Slocum wasn’t sure if that was not a good idea. So many rifles pointed at his back was making him jumpy. More likely, they would all ride off and leave him to the buzzards.

  “That way. Into the hills. Miner’s name’s Finnigan.”

  “I’ll see what’s ahead,” Slocum said, glancing over his shoulder at Sims, Butler and Talmidge. They were enjoying this far too much for his comfort. Slocum put his heels into his horse’s flanks and dropped into a trot that quickly outlegged the squad. Slocum considered circling and watching what Davies and the others did, but he was more curious about the miner. He entered a canyon and found it quickly branching into several smaller ones. Slocum looked at the ground and saw only one with double ruts showing wagons passing by recently. If a miner had staked a claim in these hills, he would have needed to move in supplies and move any ore away from the mine.

  Slocum kept a steady pace up the canyon until he found a sign proclaiming him to be trespassing on Silver Fish Mine property. He took the double rutted road uphill and found himself winding about, going to ever higher elevations until he came out onto a small mountain meadow. The dark tailings from a mine looked like the side of the mountain had vomited.

  Proceeding cautiously, Slocum rode up the road until he spotted a line shack. Behind it an outhouse leaned precariously, the victim of a brisk wind whipping down from higher on the slope. Slocum listened for any movement and heard nothing until a distant ping-ping of steel striking rock came from the mine.

  Slocum dismounted, tethered his horse and began hiking up the hill to the mouth of the mine shaft. He reckoned he had an hour or more to talk to the miner, find out why the soldiers from Fort Crumpland considered him a criminal, and get another perspective on what was going on.

  “Hello!” Slocum shouted into the mine. His greeting echoed back into the mountainside. “Finnigan? My name’s Slocum, and I want to talk.”

  The sound of steel against rock stopped. Slocum waited, hands hanging loosely at his sides. He felt tension mounting but no real threat from within the mine. Footsteps came toward him but what alerted him to danger was the smell of something burning.

  A stocky miner hardly five feet tall came from the mine holding a bundle of four sticks of dynamite. The black miner’s fuse had been lit and sizzled down to the top of the sticks. The man waved the dynamite around above his head as he screeched incoherently.

  “Whoa, wait, I just want to talk.”

  “You—you came from them thieves, them claim jumpers, them backstabbin’, back-shootin’ sonsabitches!” The miner took two steps forward, cocked his arm back and let fly with the dynamite. The sticks clattered in front of Slocum. He took a step back, then reached down and picked up the bundle.

  “You didn’t put a blasting cap on this,” Slocum said. He pulled the fuse free and heaved it back. “You want to try again?”

  “I ain’t wastin’ good dynamite on the like of you!”

  “I’m looking for a friend. A soldier.”

  This produced a new round of invective. The miner dropped to his knees and fumbled in his pocket. The bright flash of a silver blasting cap proved that he was willing to waste his precious explosives this time.

  “His name’s Joshua Atkins. You know him?”

  “Atkins? I know him. He’s ’bout the only one at that godforsaken fort that’s all right.”

  “His daughter’s looking for him and nobody’s seen him in a couple months.”

  “You ain’t with the soldiers?”

  Slocum hesitated. He saw that Finnigan had bitten down on the cap and crimped the fuse to it. The dynamite would detonate this time if he put a lucifer to the end of the fuse.

  “All I want is to find—” That was all Slocum got out before a bullet whined through the air from behind him and blew off a rock chip at the miner’s feet. Finnigan finished his work preparing the bomb, lit the short fuse and heaved the dynamite again.

  This time Slocum didn’t try to pluck the fuse and cap from the bundle. The cap might be more dangerous than the dynamite itself. Turning and diving, he had barely hit the ground when the detonation lifted him back up and threw him several yards farther downhill.