Slocum and the high grad.., p.1
Slocum and the High-graders, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
NO WAY OUT
A steady stream poured in from the top. The mine collapse had allowed water to come in from an underground river or a subterranean pocket. It didn’t matter. If there was enough water, it would eventually flood the pocket where Slocum was trapped and he would drown.
Slocum held down his growing panic and backed away. He slipped in the mud forming on the floor. The water level was already midway up his boots. Sloshing around, he thought the collapse might show some other way out of the trap he found himself in. It didn’t. The crack had opened up only wide enough to allow the water in.
To fill his little pocket of safety.
“Help! Water’s pouring in!” he shouted. His words echoed in the ever-smaller chamber and taunted him. No sounds of rescue came from the other side of the rock fall. Panic overtook him when he realized this was going to be his grave.
Slocum was buried alive . . .
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SLOCUM AND THE HIGH-GRADERS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Jove edition / July 2007
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1
John Slocum didn’t even have enough money for the fifty-cent whore.
He flattened himself against the long, polished bar as the woman and her paying client pressed close behind, making their way through the crowded saloon to the stairs leading up to the cribs. Slocum reached down and hitched up his gun belt. He had been on the trail so long it felt as if it were a part of him, like an arm—or some other close-at-hand appendage. The ride up from the South had been lonely and unprofitable, and from the look of the miners in the Cripple Creek saloon, he was going to be hard-pressed to change anything of his current impoverished condition.
They were all hard rock men, comfortable working half a mile underground as they scrabbled out a few ounces of gold from the veins running throughout the area. Even as he looked around, the entire building shook and the ground under his feet vibrated. The men never paid a jot of attention, because they knew it wasn’t an earthquake. One of the big mines nearby was blasting a new stope.
Slocum ran his fingers over the tall mug of beer. The foam had vanished atop the bitter brew, and it was slowly turning too warm to be palatable. But he wasn’t going to rush drinking it; he had spent his last nickel on it.
Looking up, he caught his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror behind the bar and wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. He was several shades darker from trail dust, and the heavy lines in his forehead spoke to the long hours in the sun and even longer miles he had ridden throughout the West looking for—
He had no idea what he looked for, other than to see what was over the next hill and beyond the horizon. That was usually good enough, except times like now when his belly growled from lack of food.
Slocum kept looking in the mirror, taking in the bustle behind him. Seven wood tables all had miners crowded around them playing a variety of card games. Along the far wall, a bored-looking woman dealt faro to a pair of miners more interested in seeing if her low-cut dress would slip and give them a better look at her breasts. He suspected she cheated them mercilessly, though they were getting fair value for their money.
Slocum’s fingers ran up and down the damp sides of his beer mug as plans formed in his head. He had no money, but he might be able to slip into the right game if there were enough drunken miners willing to lose their hard-earned pay because they had no idea about odds.
His green eyes slowly roved the length of the mirror, from one side to the other, taking in every table, every game, every man in the saloon. It took more than fifteen minutes for him to figure out which table was the most likely to cough up a few dollars.
He touched his vest pocket where his watch rode. He wouldn’t risk that in a game. Ever. It was the only legacy he had to remember his brother Robert by. No matter how foolproof—or fool-filled—a poker game might be, he wouldn’t put up the watch as his stake. But there were other ways to buy his way in.
With his beer in hand, he swung around, took a sip, then wove his way through the throng trying to get to the far end of the bar, where the whores lined up giving out sweet talk and looks at bare tits for a penny a peek. Now and then a miner with enough money convinced a woman to go upstairs with him. As drunk as most of the miners were, they wouldn’t last long and might even end up robbed and dumped in the alley behind the saloon before anything sexual happened. If it was that kind of place. Slocum hadn’t been inside long enough to decide.
“Got room for one more?” Slocum asked, looking over one especially drunk miner’s shoulder. The man wove from side to side and would have toppled to the floor if Slocum hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder. He almost yanked back when he felt the grime from the greasy shirt caked with dust from deep in the mines rub off onto his hand.
“Got money, you kin join us,” spoke up a man across the table. Of the five seated he was the only one who looked sober. His eyes were sharp, hard and bright as the stars in the Colorado sky.
“Don’t have money, but I can put up my horse. That mare’s worth at least fifty dollars.”
“You git the nag onto the table, we’ll let you play,” said the sober man. Slocum pegged him as a tinhorn gambler, though he was dressed more like a miner. He didn’t have the flashy diamond stickpin or other obvious signs that he made his living gambling, but the way his nimble fingers worked to shuffle the deck told Slocum the real story.
“Doubt that’d be possible, though this saloon looks like more ’n one horse has bellied up to the bar.”
The man Slocum supported shook as if he had developed a fever. It took Slocum a second to realize he was laughing, not getting ready to die.
“Horse dancin’ on the table, goin’ up to the bar fer a drink. Thass funny.”
“Don’t care how talented yer horse is. We’re here to play cards.”
Slocum had started to debate the point when the drunk jerked free of his grip, turned an unshaven face upward, and peered at him through one eye.
“I need a horse. I’ll buy it.”
“Jed, don’t—” the gambler started, then settled down to a slow shuffle when he saw the drunk was going to buy Slocum’s horse no matter what. Once a man’s brain is pickled enough, getting an idea to leave is damn near impossible.
“Fifty dollars is a good price,” Slocum said. “If I get lucky, I’ll buy the horse back for twice that. You’d double your money in a couple hours.”
“Do tell,” the drunk said. He fished around in his vest pocket and found a tiny twenty-dollar gold piece. That seemed to be all the money he had on him.
“That’s a bargain you’re getting,” Slocum said, taking the coin. “I’ll buy the horse back for fifty. That’s more than twice your money.”
“More ’n twice? Cain’t get odds like that nowhere else.” Those were the man’s last coherent words. He slumped away from Slocum and hit the floor hard enough to rival the earlier boom from the mine blast. Nobody in the saloon took note. Slocum stepped over him and sat down, spinning the coin, which was hardly the size of the fingernail on his little finger, so that it shone brilliantly.
“What’s yer pleasure, mister?” the gambler asked.
“Five card draw’s good as anything.”
“Not Red Dog?”
“Five card draw,” Slocum insisted. “That makes us all equal in the betting.” He didn’t want the gambler to act as dealer and bank. Slocum wanted to be able to get money from the others at the table.
That’s what he wanted. And for the first few hands that’s what he got. Slowly, surely, he added to the pile of silver coins and crumpled greenbacks on the table in front of him until he was feeling downright comfortable again. A quick count showed him to be more than a hundred dollars ahead.
“Here,” Slocum said, taking fifty in almost worthless paper money from the table. He started to stuff it into the unconscious man’s pocket so he could claim his horse again. That’d mean he was still up seventy dollars, most of it in gold and silver.
“You don’t want to do that,” the gambler said. “Otherwise,you’re gonna lose the pot. I’m puttin’ it all in. You either call, raise—or fold.”
The man was as good as his word. He pushed tall stacks of chips and specie into the pot and then sat back, looking smug. Slocum needed the fifty dollars to call. He laid his hands flat over his cards. There was no reason to study them again. The dirty cards were burned into his mind. How often did he get a full house, queens over tens? He had watched the gambler like a hawk and knew the man was aware of his scrutiny. If the gambler had dealt himself anything to beat this hand, he was a better cheat than Slocum gave him credit for.
“I’ll call.”
“Reckon I got to fold,” the gambler said, surprising Slocum.
“That was easier than I thought,” Slocum said, reaching for the pot.
“Hold on, mister. There’s still one more in the game.”
The gambler looked to the man to his right, who suddenly didn’t appear as drunk as he had even a few seconds earlier. Slocum felt as if he had just fallen down a well. He had watched the gambler for dealing seconds or off the bottom—to himself. Slocum had not considered the idea that the gambler worked with a partner.
“I’m callin’,” the formerly drunk miner said. “And I’m winnin’. Ain’t no hand that kin beat mine.” He laid down a royal flush. “Them’s the purtiest hearts I ever did see.”
Slocum tossed his hand into the center of the table.
“Got me beat,” he admitted. The gambler and his cohort both smiled. The other miners at the table were so far into their cups they didn’t know what was going on. The one who had bought Slocum’s horse stirred and sat up.
“Whass goin’ on?”
“Jed, you want to sell that horse you bought? I’ll give you five dollars and a bottle of tarantula juice for it,” the gambler said.
“A whole damn bottle?”
The gambler called to the barkeep for a full bottle and took the money from the pile in front of his partner. Then he separated out five greasy single dollar bills and tossed them to Jed, who grabbed for them, catching one and sending the other four fluttering into the room, where they vanished like dew in the morning sun.
“Your bottle,” the gambler said, taking it from the bartender and handing it to Jed. The miner greedily sucked up the potent whiskey.
To Slocum the gambler said, “’Less you got more money, why don’t you free up that there chair fer somebody else? And which horse is yers?” The gambler laughed and amended, “Which of them nags was yers?”
Slocum considered describing the wrong horse, but that would be the same as stealing another man’s horse.
“I need to get my tack,” he said. “The horse’ll be the one without a saddle or saddlebags.”
The gambler inclined his head. His partner got to his feet, rested his hand on the butt of a six-shooter, and indicated that Slocum was to precede him from the saloon.
Without a word, Slocum left. He had been suckered like a greenhorn, and it was his own fault. He should have bought back his horse and gotten out of the game when he was ahead. Now he was not only broke but on foot.
He stepped into the cold night mountain air. Tethered at the end of the boardwalk, his horse whinnied.
“That the one?” asked the man behind him.
“She’s the one.” Slocum unfastened his saddle and slung it over his shoulder, staggering a little under the weight. Other than the beer, he hadn’t put anything into his belly since sunup, more hours back than he could remember now.
“Much obliged,” the gambler’s crony said, shooing the horse down the street and running to keep up. Slocum figured the horse would be sold for a few dollars, in spite of being a decent mount, and the man would return so he and the gambler could fleece someone else. Slocum touched the butt of his six-gun but knew there was no point in makinga fuss. He had been stupid and it had cost him. Maybe memory of this night would keep him from making the same mistake again.
He walked slowly down Cripple Creek’s main street. The first light of dawn turned the ridge of mountains to the east a pearly color, but Slocum’s eyes weren’t on the sunrise but on the freighters rattling down the street. Three of them. Two rode in the back with shotguns resting in the crooks of their arms.
Drawn like a fly to shit, he followed to the edge of town, where half a dozen more men, all armed with six-shooters and rifles, stood guard over a small pile covered with a tarp. Slocum smelled gold waiting to be shipped. He dropped his saddle on the boardwalk and fussed with it, all the while watching how the men handled themselves—and the gold.
The longer he watched, the more his spirits sank. They worked like a well-trained squad of soldiers. Three of the riflemen walked to the front of the wagon and the other three to the rear. The shotgun guards jumped down and stood on either side of the hidden gold until the driver got down, grumbling about aching joints, and pulled back the tarp.
