Slocum and the Thunderbird by Jake Logan Page A

made no sense in a man who likely made his living killing others with the pistol at his side. He came over.
    â€œMind if I set myself down, sir?”
    Slocum indicated he could.
    â€œI swear, them varmints treat me like I was the Grim Reaper himself.” The words had hardly escaped when he looked up, eyes going wide with more than a touch of fear. “Didn’t mean nuthin’ by that, sir.”
    â€œTen?” Slocum asked, tapping his own forehead to indicate the number painted on the man’s.
    â€œAll I could afford. A hundred a month’s mighty steep, but worth it,” he added hastily, as if criticism might offend Slocum.
    â€œHow long you been in town?”
    â€œGot in jist ’fore the end of last month. Shoulda hung around and waited, I know, but payin’ the extra money was worth it to git free of a federal marshal. When my time’s up, I reckon he’ll have given up on a cold trail.” He reached for the number on his forehead, then drew back as if the paint might burn his fingers.
    â€œSo you get to stay until the end of October?” Slocum asked.
    â€œOf course. I paid fer it! You ain’t gonna tell Mackenzie no different.”
    â€œSettle down, partner,” Slocum said. “I’m looking for a man who just blew into town in the last few days.” He described Rawhide Rawlins. From the outlaw’s expression, he hadn’t seen Rawhide.
    â€œMight be with the newcomers, if he didn’t have ’nuff for the entire month.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    Slocum realized he had crossed a line and asking a question that might bring Mackenzie and his henchmen thundering down on him. Likely, everyone in Wilson’s Creek knew where the newcomers were stashed.
    â€œBetter turn in fer the night. Good night, sir.” The numbered man stood and backed away, wary of Slocum shooting him in the back. In a flash he was outside the tent.
    Slocum considered waylaying the man, then getting the information he needed. But how big could Wilson’s Creek be? He left the tent saloon. A collective sigh of relief gusted from inside, then the gaiety he had heard before he’d entered returned. They thought he was someone he wasn’t, possibly one of Mackenzie’s handpicked killers.
    The raucous laughter from the hotel down the street continued unabated. That had to be the head honcho’s digs. Slocum veered away, cutting between tents and buildings until he reached the perimeter of the town. Again he wondered at the lack of guards. Why post them during the day but not at night?
    He retrieved his horse and rode slowly around the edge of town until he saw lights some distance away, toward the hills to the west. Feeling bolder, he trotted about a mile to a deeply rutted road, then followed it toward a smaller version of the town. The namesake stream gurgled past this encampment before heading in the direction of Mackenzie’s domain. Slocum slowed and looked at the arrangement of the buildings.
    This looked more like a prison than most he had seen. If Rawlins wasn’t in town, he had to be here. Slocum saw no way his partner in bank robbery could have avoided the guard towers on the road to the east. He wished he knew what had happened back in the canyon when Alicia had hightailed it. Had Rawlins been captured or had he bought his way into town?
    He got within a hundred yards before deciding not to foolishly remain in the saddle. Again he left his gelding and crept forward on foot to scout. The sound of machinery drew him. A dozen men bent over sluices, working them back and forth as water from the stream raced down to separate gold from dross. Two men with shovels filled barrows. The men pushing the barrows disappeared on the far side.
    Slocum took a deep whiff and choked. He had worked enough mines himself to recognize the pungent odor of mercury. The gold-bearing sand was treated with the mercury to form an amalgam, which was