Resurrection Bluff

by Lila Leigh

Has Slim Sherman solved the mystery of Jess Harper's disappearance? Or have his rash actions guaranteed his best friend's death? Story has 47 chapters plus Notes, but will be published in 5 parts.

1. Chapter 1

Resurrection Bluff by LilaLee

Many thanks to Gail G, beta extraordinaire, for her patience and insightful comments to make this a better tale! And to my pards who kept poking at me to finish, finish, finish. No profit to be had, just fun and an effort to keep Jess Harper and Slim Sherman riding new trails. Any mistakes are mine alone. Send comments and feedback if you enjoy this story, or especially if you don't. Please take time to read the End Notes for some explanation and a couple surprises. Thanks. LL

Bluff:

1.) An attempt to deceive someone into believing one can or will do something
2.) Try to deceive someone as to one's abilities or intentions
3.) In a card game, bet heavily on a weak hand in order to deceive opponents
4.) Direct in speech or behavior
5.) A steep cliff, bank or promontory

Chapter 1 Cheyenne Holiday

The afternoon stage rolled into Cheyenne in a cloud of churning grey dust, with Slim Sherman riding shotgun and Jess Harper handling the reins. Jess pulled to a stop in front of the Plains Hotel, its sign proclaiming it The Finest Establishment in Wyoming Territory.

Pulling out Jess's pocket watch, Slim declared, "Only thirty-five minutes late. We made good time from Newman's Crossing."

"Just my superior driving skills. Told ya to put your trust in a red-blooded all-American boy like me," laughed Jess. "You can drive home, Boss. I'll take a breather like you did on the way here."

"Flip ya for it! But we're using my dollar this time." Slim's dimples deepened as he laughed at Jess's innocent expression and "Who, me?" shrug. It was an old joke; Jess hauled out his two-headed silver dollar every time they made a bet.

He swung to the ground while Jess loosened the straps holding the passengers' baggage in place on top of the coach. Opening the stage door with a flourish, Slim announced, "This is our destination, folks. If you're traveling further than Cheyenne, you need to see the Overland Stage agent, Mr. Hutchins. The office is around the corner to the right." He indicated the direction with a nod of his head and wave of one long arm.

Jess whistled softly and Slim glanced up to see him ready to toss down the luggage. Slim lined up the assorted bags, boxes, suitcases and wooden crates along the boardwalk for the passengers to collect. As soon as he had caught the last one, a particularly heavy valise he suspected Jess of heaving harder than necessary, Slim moved to the front of the coach and met Jess as he jumped down.

"Here's your watch, Jess. Thanks." Slim held out his partner's silver cased watch, the chain dangling between his fingers.

"Got my hands full right now, Slim. Hold onto it a while longer, will ya? Saves you askin' me the time ever' five minutes."

"Alright," Slim answered, "I'm not so sure you can tell time anyhow," he teased. Slim tucked the watch into his vest pocket with a grin.

"That's the kinda respect I get after makin' up nearly two hours on the road?" Jess demanded.

It was Slim's turn to shrug, knowing Jess expected nothing less.

Jess jerked his head toward the open hotel doors, "Leave your saddlebags, Pard, and I'll check us into the 'Finest Establishment in Wyoming Territory' when I get the team settled with Wild Bill down at the livery."

"Don't put yerself out on my account, Harper,"

Blue eyes twinkling, Jess quickly retorted, "Watch yerself, Sherman, or I'll make ya bed down with the horses an' listen to Wild Bill snore all night."

Both men were in high spirits at this unexpected chance to take in the sights of Cheyenne.

Slim grinned widely and got back to business, "Alright, Jess. I'll take the strong box and mail around to Mr. Hutchins and get all the paperwork taken care of. Meet you in the hotel soon as I'm finished. I'm dry as powder. . . ."

"And I'm hungry enough to eat the ears off a runnin' mule. You can buy me the biggest steak in town." Jess interrupted, dusting off his Stetson on equally grimy jeans.

"Deal! But you buy the first beer."

Jess lightly slapped Slim's taut stomach with the back of his hand and Slim responded with an exaggerated flinch. Shouldering the strongbox, Slim took the mailbag and his rifle and strode quickly around the corner. He paused at the edge of the street to turn his face into the wind to study the freshening north-west breeze. Dust devils were already swirling, rattling signs and shutters, lifting grit to cover every surface.

Those roiling thunderheads carried the threat of rain. He and Jess had kept a wary eye out behind them as they chased toward Cheyenne and Slim was happy they had beaten the squall. His nostrils flared as he caught the moist, fresh scent of the approaching storm. Slim Sherman had absolutely no desire to ride the top of a rocking, swaying coach as Jess fought a wild-eyed team while the safety and welfare of the customers was their responsibility.

Chapter 2 Jess Harper, Bellboy

Jess latched the coach's passenger door and then noticed a young lady struggling to lift two large carpetbags.

"Miss, let me carry those into the hotel for you."

"Oh, would you, please? I'm afraid they are more than I can handle."

"No problem, miss. Happy to oblige." Jess easily lifted a bag in each hand, "All a part of Overland's service, ma'am, makin' sure our passengers are well taken care of."

The young woman had been on the stage, but there had been a full load of passengers and Jess had not really gotten a good look at her. He saw now that was a serious oversight. He flashed a crooked grin and nodded for her to precede him into the hotel. Jess snickered to himself how upset Slim was going to be after he told him, embellished of course, of how he had come to the aid of this pretty, no, make that beautiful, lady.

Jess carried her bags inside and set them down near the registration desk. He tipped his hat and turned to leave.

"Sir, could you possibly carry my bags upstairs? The hotel has no boy to do it, and I know I will never get them up all those steps myself."

The young lady held out a small hand clad in a lacy glove, and dropping her head to flash big brown eyes, said, "We haven't been introduced. My name is Angel Duvall and you are . . . ?"

"Uh, my name's Harper, ma'am, Jess Harper. I'd be happy to carry those heavy satchels to your room. Er, upstairs, ma'am," he stammered, feeling the heat rise in his neck and flush across his face as she gave him the full effect of her fluttering lashes and dimpled smile. Her eyes were such a clear honey brown Jess found himself getting lost in their depths.

He waited as she signed the register and was handed a key. She smiled at him again over her shoulder and walked slowly up the stairs, Jess trailing her with the two bags.

Miss Duvall walked down the hall to room 214 and bent to put the key into the lock. The key refused to go in, even though she tried twice more. Finally, she turned to Jess, standing patiently holding her luggage and asked, "Would you try, Sir? I can't seem to get the door open."

Things were improving by the minute. 'By the time I tell Slim about pretty little Miss Angel Duvall, she's gonna have hair as black and shiny as a raven's wing, eyes as soft as a new-born calf, lips as luscious as the first spring berries, ivory white skin - except for the rosy pink blush on her cheeks whenever she glances at me, of course, and her perfume is gonna be heady as that field a wildflowers out by Baxter's Ridge.'

His face wreathed in smiles, Jess mused, 'And I've gotta remember to torment 'im about seein' that shapely ankle as she climbed the steps.'

Jess set down the bags and took the key. He tried to push it into the lock, but the key refused to go. Shaking his head, he got down on one knee to see better.

Abruptly there was a perfumed handkerchief held over his face and the door was jerked open from the inside. Jess raised a hand to swat at the cloth, but as he inhaled, he realized the scent wasn't perfume at all. He collapsed over the threshold, and felt himself being dragged into the room as the door closed behind him.

Jess Harper was afraid. Oh, he'd been scared before, but the kind of scared that heightened his senses and made his adrenalin pump; the kind which made him more aware, faster on the draw, and sharpened his reflexes.

But not this kind of terror.

He couldn't move so much as an eyelash. Jess knew he lay sprawled on a bed where rough hands had laid him. He could feel hands moving his arms and legs; could feel them removing his boots, his gloves. They had taken his gun and rig, his vest, his belt. Turning him from side to side and leaving him in whatever position they pleased.

Jess could hear, but could do nothing to defend himself. Voices discussed what they were going to do to and with him. His mind felt sluggish, slow. Whatever had been done to him as he toppled into the hotel room had crippled his mind and paralyzed his limbs.

Jess felt hands on him again, loosening his bandana, unbuttoning his shirt. He forced his eyes open a slit and saw a woman's face bending over him before they dropped shut again. She jerked back as soon as she saw his eyes open and began speaking rapidly in a language foreign to him; Jess didn't understand a single word.

Her agitation was clear, though, and brought more hands to turn him, rolling him onto his stomach. Jess knew his shirt had been removed, the air chill on his skin. He felt cloth pulled onto first one arm and then the other. More touching, more voices and pulling, tightening, straightening until both arms were pinned close to his sides.

Jess felt himself turned onto his back and hands were winding something around his legs. He moaned and immediately felt finger tips brush his lips as a woman's soft voice murmured "Shh. It's all right, shh. . . shh."

Listening. . . listening, trying to understand. Hands were touching him again.

Something was laid over his eyes, his head lifted and lowered. Something hard forced between his lips, pushed into his mouth and tied in place.

A knock at the door, and it was quickly opened and shut. "Sherman is downstairs talking to the clerk. I bet he'll be up here any minute."

The announcement caused a commotion and voices rising over each other.

"Hurry! Get it open. Get him inside."

"It's a tight fit, but it works."

"You take his things and head to your room. You know what to do first?"

"Good. We'll meet at the second crossroads. And make sure you're not followed."

Now Jess was not just afraid, panic was stalking him, preying at the edges of his mind. Who had him? Why? And what were they going to do to Slim?

Then, the sickly sweet perfume again and a woman's voice cautioning whoever held the cloth, "Not too much, too much will kill him!" as his awareness fled.

Chapter 3 Angel Duvall

His paperwork finished, Slim hurried back around the corner. He was anxious to wash off the trail dust and head to a saloon for that first drink. He could almost taste the cold beer sliding down his dry parched throat. Seeing the coach and team still in front of the hotel startled him: It wasn't like Jess to let the horses go untended—people maybe, but never the animals.

Slim looked through the stage and discovered both his and Jess's saddlebags flung over the side of the driver's box. There was no sign of Jess anywhere, so Slim took the saddlebags and walked into the Plains Hotel's showy lobby.

He recognized the officious desk clerk from other trips to Cheyenne. "Mr. Mortimer, has Jess Harper gotten us a room for the night?"

"Mr. Sherman, so nice to see you again. No, Mr. Harper has not obtained a room for either of you," Henry Mortimer replied primly.

"Have you seen him?" Slim inquired patiently.

Looking over his spectacles, and down his long nose at the rancher's question, Henry answered, "Earlier, a young lady asked him to carry her bags up to her room, but I haven't seen him since."

"A young lady, huh?"

"Yes sir. That shiftless boy who usually carries luggage for guests never showed up today and the young lady asked Mr. Harper to carry them up for her."

"But he never came back and got a room for the two of us?" A frown creased Slim's brow, his smile strained.

Hesitantly, the clerk responded, wondering at Sherman's change of tone. "I did not actually watch him carry the bags upstairs or notice if he came back down. There was quite a rush, what with the stage arriving and all."

Shaking his head ruefully, Slim asked, "Do you have any rooms for the night?"

"Yes, certainly, Mr. Sherman. Please sign here. Room 209 has two beds and the sheets are fresh. I'll have water sent up immediately." Mortimer was suddenly much more accommodating, anxious to please a new guest.

"What's the young lady's room number? The one Jess carried the bags for."

Folding his hands over the registration ledger, Henry Mortimer showed off his excellent memory, "She had reservations for a room in the back where it would be quieter. Miss Angel Duvall. Room 214. At the end of the hall, on the right."

"Thank you, and if Jess. . . er. . . Mr. Harper, shows up, tell him I've already gotten us a room." Slim took the key and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He opened the door to room 209, deposited the saddlebags on one of the beds and backed out into the hall.

Slim Sherman was less impulsive than his partner, and he was more than a little peeved Jess was being so irresponsible. Slim was tired, hungry and thirsty, and he knew Jess had to be; he had wrestled a feisty four-up team for hours.

'A pretty girl and Jess followed her off to who-knows-where. Just you wait. . . Jess Harper's gonna get a piece of my mind.' But then Slim shook his head and a genuine smile lit his face. 'A pretty girl, huh? And, of course, Jess knows all about "wimmen".' What they saw in Jess, Slim couldn't fathom, but he knew those big blue eyes and roguish grin got Jess a lot of leeway with most girls.

Well, Jess could curb his flirting long enough to get the team taken care of and both of them find something to eat.

Slim knocked at the door of room 214. He heard scraping sounds, someone moving around. He knocked again, harder.

Finally, a woman's voice called through the door, "What is it?"

"Ma'am, I'm lookin' for Jess Harper. The desk clerk said he carried your bags to your room."

The door opened a crack, and a young woman, hair tousled, said sleepily, "I was resting. The long journey in the heat and dust has completely tired me out."

"Miss, I am sorry to disturb you, but can you answer a couple of questions for me, please?" Slim doffed his hat and gave her his most charming smile, pleased when the door opened a little wider.

"You're looking for someone?" she asked, prettily covering a yawn with her hand.

"Jess Harper, ma'am. The desk clerk said he carried your luggage to your room," Slim explained again. "Did Jess say where he was going after he left here?"

"Uh, no. . . no, he carried my bag up the stairs. I thanked him and he left."

As she talked, she pushed at the dark strands of hair curling around her face, but she opened the door wider and Slim could see a large steamer trunk with clothes spilling out of an open valise atop it. He took a step into the room and let his eyes quickly rove over the small chamber. The bed was rumpled and ladies garments were scattered on the bed and chair. His eyes narrowed at the pieces stacked beside the trunk, but he looked away and quickly smiled again at the girl holding the door.

"Jess was supposed to meet me but he hasn't shown up. The clerk said Jess carried luggage upstairs for a beautiful young lady so I thought he might still be here."

"Why, Mr. Sherman, are you trying to turn my head?" She dimpled at him and demurely fluttered her lashes.

"Oh, no, ma'am." Slim stammered.

'I just know Jess,' thought Slim wryly, 'And after he got a good look at you, his supper and my beer would have been the furthest thing from his mind.'

Blushing, Slim continued, "I hope you have a pleasant stay in Cheyenne. Are you settling here, Miss . . . ? I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

She coquettishly glanced up at the flustered young man and smiled slightly, "I'm Angel Duvall and I'm here to meet my father. He should arrive any day now."

Recovering his composure, Slim excused himself, "Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Duvall. I certainly wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances."

As he turned to leave, Slim caught the gleam of something shiny on the floor. Pulling one glove out of his vest pocket, he tugged it on, and reached for the other. He let the glove fall to the floor, and as he bent to retrieve it, picked up a scrap of metal along with the glove.

"I apologize again for bothering you, Miss. Perhaps we'll meet again . . . soon."

"I will surely look forward to it, sir. And I'm sure your friend will show up."

Slim touched the brim of his hat and nodded to Miss Duvall as he stepped into the hallway. He paused as he heard the key turn in the lock behind him, then walked back to room 209 and went in.

Slim opened his hand and tilted the coin he had found on Angel Duvall's floor toward the light. Miss Liberty, with a crown of stars, on both sides!

'Jess is the only person I've ever seen have a two-headed Liberty dollar, there can't be that many floating around.' he thought as he tucked the coin into his vest pocket.

'She's lyin'. She knows more about Jess than she'd admit, sure as God made little green apples. But Jess probably primed her to tell me all that.

'I better take care of the team. They're still out front and they're as tired as I am. Maybe Wild Bill has seen or heard from Jess. He's as bad as Mose, always waitin' to hear the latest gossip. . . . If Bill hasn't heard anything, I'll ask Mr. Hutchins, maybe Jess checked in with him while I've been talking to Miss Duvall.'

With a backward glance at room 214, Slim Sherman headed for the stairs, spurs jingling, sure he could feel eyes boring into his back.

Chapter 4 Where to Start

William Otis Ferguson was known to all and sundry as Wild Bill, because of the wild and wooly tales he told of his younger days as a mountain man; how he lived with the Cheyenne and Sioux and trapped everything from bear to beaver. He was currently the hostler for the Overland Stage company in Cheyenne. Slim found him napping on a pile of straw in an empty stall and shook him awake.

"Bill, I brought in the team from the east bound run. You haven't seen Jess, have you?"

"Slim Sherman, as I live and breathe! Why, it's been a month a Sundays since I last saw ya. Jess is with you? Usually it's one or t'other, not both of ya together. I was expectin' the stage in earlier'n now. Did ya have trouble on the way in? You asked if I had seen Jess? Naw, cain't say as I have."

Slim held up a hand to slow Wild Bill and ask another question, but Bill talked on.

"What happened? Did you take your eyes off Jess and somethin' et 'im? Didn't think there was a critter that ferocious." Bill laughed at his own joke, shaking his head and slapping his dusty thigh at the thought of something mean enough to eat Jess Harper.

"At least ya got the stage here afore the storms broke. My knee, ya know the one that ornery cougar took a swipe at back in '54, I kin show ya the scar if ya ain't seen it afore now, has been twingin' fer nigh on a week, and it ain't never wrong. Weather's gonna turn any minute. Say, did I ever tell ya 'bout the time I was holed up at the back o' Rattlesnake Canyon, course that's my moniker for that little piddlin' ravine, hidin' from some Shoshone, that was while I was livin' with the Cheyenne. . . or was that the time I . . . well, don't matter none to the story. Anyhow, it begun to pour the rain, and that canyon commenced to fillin' clear up to the top with the muddiest, dirtiest swirlin' flood you ever seen. . ."

When he paused to aim a stream of tobacco juice into his peach can spittoon, Slim jumped into the breach, "Wild Bill, if Jess shows up, tell him to go to the hotel and wait for me. I'm gonna go to the stage office. Maybe he's there shootin' the breeze with Mr. Hutchins." Slim was backing up as he talked, anxious to get away before Wild Bill could return to his long-winded tale.

"Marshal, Marshal Raines!" Slim hailed the Cheyenne sheriff as he cut across the chalky street, wind whipping the fine dust into a low-lying haze at their feet. "Have you seen Jess? We drove the stage in a little while ago and Jess has disappeared."

"No, Slim, but I'll bet he's bellied up to the bar in one of the waterin' holes over on Frontier Street. That ole' cat-eyed bandit will likely show up after he's locked horns with half the cowpokes in one of O'Malley's whiskey mills."

Putting his hands on his hips, Slim laughed and shook his head at Thad Raines's apt description of his hot-headed partner. "No, I haven't checked the saloons but we were supposed to meet up for a beer and supper and I can't find him. He didn't check into the hotel, either. But what's got me worried somethin' might have happened to him is he didn't take care of the team. Jess would let me starve, but he'd never neglect the horses."

"I just started my rounds, Sherman, so I'll keep an eye out for him," grinned Marshal Raines, relishing the thought of making Jess Harper pull in his horns and toe the line in the big city of Cheyenne. "Where do you want 'im to meet you?"

"I'm goin' on back to the stage office to see if Mr. Hutchins has seen him, so tell Jess to meet me there or at the hotel. He's supposed to buy the first round and I'm gonna hold him to it." Slim replied hurriedly, waving as they headed in opposite directions. He tugged his hat lower to keep it from blowing off and buttoned up his canvas jacket as the gusting wind tried to sneak chilly fingers inside his collar.

At the Overland office, Slim brushed past the line waiting to purchase tickets and through the swinging gate. He found the water pail at the back of the office and used the dipper to take one long drink, and then another.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and settled a hip on the edge of the desk, anxious to talk to the station master. Reflecting there was rarely a line in the Laramie office, Slim looked over the customers waiting impatiently. There was an older couple, in their best bib and tucker, their money out and counted, whispering behind their hands. Close behind them was a woman wearily holding a little girl who stared with unblinking blue eyes at Slim. He smiled at the tot and she removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to smile back, before tucking her curly head into her mother's shoulder.

Two men sporting gun belts, one of them wearing it strapped low on his left hip, were next. They stood apart, ignoring each other and avoiding Slim's eyes, but he got the distinct impression they were together, they knew one another.

The last potential passenger was a gambler, or at least that was the story his clothes told: grey town coat, black polished boots, fancy vest, nearly new Stetson and his hands and nails were clean and soft as a woman's, no calluses or scrapes on them.

His eyes pausing only a few seconds on each person, Slim had made his observations as discreetly as possible. Staring too long at a man could get you killed if the gent chose to take offense. But not knowing who was close at hand could get you dead, too.

Slim shifted his eyes to the window and saw a black hat bobbing across the street. He was up and through the front door before the gate had time to swing shut behind him. Dodging plunging horses and heavy wagons, he dashed across the street searching for Jess's familiar head gear and finally spotted it a couple of storefronts ahead. He lifted his hand and yelled "Jess, wait!" as the man pushed through the swinging saloon doors.

Chapter 5 The Shady Lady

'I'll be damned if Jess gets a beer before I do. He's supposed to buy the first one tonight,' Slim thought as his long legs quickly carried him to The Shady Lady Gambling Palace. He stepped through into the noise and hubbub of a hurly-burly show romping to a rousing tune and took in a whiff of the familiar yeasty fragrance of homebrewed beer, sawdust, leather and unwashed bodies. Moving to one side, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the gaming hall after the glare of the late afternoon sun.

Jess would sit where he could have his back to a wall, probably in a corner, so Slim began making his way through the crowd. As he dodged to avoid a fella who had obviously had one too many, he spied Jess at a table in the middle of the room.

Surprised, Slim came up behind him and lifted the back brim of his hat, tilting it over his eyes, laughing, "Alright, Pilgrim, since when did you throw caution to the wind? I thought you always sat with your back to the wall. Where've ya been? Why didn't you tend to the horses? And you're still buyin' the first round."

The cowboy in the faded blue shirt slowly pushed himself straighter in the chair and lifted his black hat, settling it back on his head. He looked up into the wide-eyed gaze of the tall, grinning, blonde man leaning over the back of the chair opposite him. The smile slowly melted from Slim Sherman's face.

"You. . . you're not Jess Harper."

"No, I'm not. My name is Vince Riordan."

"Then what the hell are you doing wearin' Jess Harper's hat and shirt?"

Slim was slow to recover from his shock. He clenched one hand into a fist and the other came to rest on the butt of his gun. The scowl settling on his face and his threatening stance made the young man push back his chair.

Riordan held up his hands as though to ward off a blow. "Hold on a minute, friend, and I'll explain."

"Mister, you've got a lot of explaining to do. And if you don't tell me where you got those clothes, and where you left Jess, your life's not worth a plugged nickel."

Slim came around the table and lifted the cowboy to his feet with one large hand clamped on his arm. He relieved the man of his sidearm and shoved it behind his own belt.

"Not in here, Mister. It's too noisy," the cowhand said hurriedly. "Let's go outside and I'll tell ya all I know." Vince Riordan winced as the big man's fingers dug into his arm.

Slim dragged Riordan into the alley between Mulie Greene's Barbershop and the saloon and threw him up against the wall of the Shady Lady. Getting a better look in the daylight, Slim realized he was only a boy. He was close to Jess's height and build; lithe and lean, like his partner.

"Now, friend, don't let your temper run away with you. If your name's Slim Sherman, this will explain everything." Riordan cringed away from the cold anger sparking from the towering man's piercing blue eyes.

Angrily Slim asked, "How'd you figure that's me?"

The young man took off his hat—Jess's hat—and pulled an envelope from the crown.

Slim, mystified, snatched the envelope and saw it was addressed to him. Turning it over, he found the wax seal imprinted with an ornate letter "D".

"Can I go?" Riordan asked plaintively.

"No, you can't go. I've still got a lot of questions."

Raising his voice to be heard over the wind whistling around the corner of the saloon, Slim sternly questioned the young man wearing his partner's clothes, "This envelope is supposed to explain everything? Tell me where Jess is?"

"That's what the fella said."

"What fella?" Slim demanded.

Nervously the youngster replied, "The man who gave me a double eagle to wear this hat and shirt. The same one who said to walk up and down the streets."

"Where'd you meet him?"

"Today or before?" Riordan asked.

"Today!" Slim's patience was fast fraying around the edges.

"At Perkin's Mercantile over on Carey Avenue."

Slim shot back, "When?"

"Near four o'clock this afternoon."

"If you were supposed to be walkin' up and down the streets, why'd you go in the saloon?" he asked suspiciously.

Riordan answered defiantly, "I had already been walkin' all over town for close to two hours and nobody'd said nothin' to me." He lifted one shoulder, "I was thirsty, so I decided to stop and get me a beer."

"Why'd you think somebody would say something to you?"

"It's what the man said would happen. After he told me it was worth twenty dollars if I would meet him here today and wear these clothes and walk around." Vince squirmed under Slim's grip, "Can I go, Mister? I've answered all your questions."

Slim was getting more frustrated and confused as the boy talked. Standing in an alleyway with an envelope in one hand and the youngster gripped in the other did not seem the likeliest way to find Jess.

"Come with me." Slim ordered and started across the street.

"Where are you takin' me, Sherman? I ain't done nothing wrong."

"I'm not aimin' to hurt you. We're going over to the Overland office; I work for the stage line. We can talk better there. And it'll get us inside before this storm breaks."

Shrugging, Riordan reluctantly followed Slim across the street.

Chapter 6 Vince Riordan

It was after seven o'clock and the station manager was ready to lock up for the night. Slim pushed young Riordan through the door, startling Amos Hutchins as the two men clattered into his office. Slim asked Mr. Hutchins if he recognized the cowboy.

"Yes," Hutchins said slowly, "His name is Vince Riordan. He works as a cowhand at the Dickerson spread, out east of town."

"Dickerson, you say?" Slim glowered at Riordan. The envelope was sealed with a "D". Slim forced Riordan to sit down in a chair beside Hutchins's desk. He turned back to the door and locked it. Slim flipped the "OPEN" sign and pulled the shade down to cover the door glass. After peering out the windows on each side of the office, he pulled those shades down too.

Amos Hutchins nervously licked his lips, "I don't want any trouble, Slim Sherman."

"There's already trouble, Amos!" Slim speculatively eyed both men, "I came in earlier to ask if you had seen Jess, but while I was waitin' for you to help the customers, I saw what I thought was Jess through the window and turns out, it was Vince here wearin' Jess's hat and shirt."

Irritably, he commanded, "Riordan, give me that hat. Seeing you sitting there in Jess's clothes is. . . is makin' me madder at you by the minute."

Slim jerked the hat from Riordan's outstretched hand and carefully wiped it off on his sleeve. He hung it on the hall tree in the back, pausing to make sure the well-used black Stetson rested straight and true on the hook. Then he returned to the boy, and informed him, "I'll be taking Jess's shirt from ya, too. I reckon all the haberdasheries in town are closed till morning, but you remember it's not yours to keep."

Vince Riordan nodded, scared.

"Mr. Hutchins, can you handle a six-gun?" Slim asked, eying Riordan.

"Well, I'm no gunslick, but I reckon I can do pretty good at this range," Mr. Hutchins acknowledged.

"Will you keep him covered while I read the letter he gave me? It was inside Jess's hat." Hutchins nodded as Slim handed over Riordan's gun.

Slim used his pocket knife to slit the end of the envelope, taking care not to break the wax seal. He showed the imprint to Amos and asked if he had ever seen anything like it.

"No, but it sure looks fancy. Wonder if that 'D' was made by one of them big rings like in story books?"

Slim had delayed as long as he could. He glanced at the two men as they stared intently at the single folded sheet of paper in his hand.

Sighing, Slim opened the note and read it through once, and then again to make sure he understood. Hutchins and Riordan continued to stare, waiting for him to share what he had read. But Slim had no intention of allowing Riordan to know anything the letter said. He returned the note to the envelope and tucked it inside his vest.

Slim ran his hand through his hair, impatiently pushing back the unruly curl which had fallen over his forehead. "Riordan, you told me you met the man who gave you the double eagle before today. Is that right?"

"Yeah, Smokey Forester, the foreman at the Double D, sent me in for supplies last Monday week. I was waitin' around for the order to be filled, when a man walked up and started talkin'. Seemed to be a real nice feller, told some funny stories. He bought me breakfast at the café across from Perkin's. Then he offered me a twenty dollar gold piece if I would meet him today and walk around town wearin' these clothes."

Today was Friday. If Vince Riordan had first met the man a week ago Monday, it'd be more than ten days ago. How could anyone make sure Jess would be here today? The sole reason he and Jess were working the stage was because the regular driver and guard had taken ill. Travis and Frankie made it to the ranch, but they both had a belly ache and Frankie was nearly unconscious. To keep the mail running, Slim had changed the team while Jess rode over to get the Miller twins. Their sister Bonnie had come along to do the cooking. The two partners had taken the coach on to Cheyenne, making up time as they went, trying to get the Overland Mail line back on schedule.

'What if it wasn't supposed to be Jess? What if it was whoever was driving the stage? What if they meant to grab me, not Jess? How could anyone make sure we would be in Cheyenne today?' Slim's heart began pounding at the implications of Vince Riordan's story.

'But, the letter was addressed to me. Vince Riordan was recruited over a week ago? What's goin' on? Think maybe there's a skunk in the woodpile.'

"Can you describe him?" Slim asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Sure. He had dark hair, dark eyes, older than you, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six, skinny as a rail. Big nose. Oh, and he wore his gun on his left hip. I noticed 'cause there ain't that many lefties."

Slim shot Amos a look. "How was he dressed?"

"Kind of a Duke's mixture, really; brown jacket and shirt, new lookin' boots, Levis with a couple holes in 'em and old grey cowboy hat, with a stampede string hangin' loose."

Slim and Amos Hutchins locked eyes. Riordan had described one of the men in the ticket line when Slim had first come to the stage office. Slim asked Amos to check his manifest for the man's name and destination. He followed Amos to the front counter and waited while he searched. Hutchins pointed it out, his hand trembling at the implications of the ominously familiar name: William Doolin. Was he a dangerous fugitive, or simply a man unlucky enough to carry the same name as a notorious outlaw?

Hutchins opened his mouth, but Slim shook his head, "Don't say it out loud, Amos. Riordan might understand more'n he's lettin' on, and I'm not gonna give him anything to go on."

Slim grimly walked back to Riordan and started firing questions again.

"Did he give you his name?" The young man shook his head 'no'.

Sarcastically, Slim demanded, "Did you ask?" Again, 'no'.

"Are you supposed to meet him again, Riordan? After you met up with me, or whoever said something to you. Will you see him again tonight to report what happened?"

The boy answered hesitantly, "No, he didn't say nothin' like that."

Slim, towering over the seated youngster, leaned down till his nose was practically in Vince's face and put a hand on each arm of Riordan's chair.

"Can you think of anything else? Did he say where he's from? Where he lives? How long he's been in Cheyenne? Where he's gonna be headin'? Who he works for? How come he's in town? Anything?" Slim punctuated each question by slamming his hands down on the chair arms.

Riordan looked rattled but shook his head from side to side each time.

"What made him think you weren't gonna take his money and go straight to the saloon or back to the Double D?"

Riordan sat up straighter, "He. . . he. . . he warned me 'bout that. . . but, Mister, I wouldn't've done that. . . that wouldn't be honest."

"Honest?" Slim snorted. He leaned closer, "Quit coyotin' around, cowboy, and tell me exactly what he said."

"Today he told me there would be somebody watchin' me all the time and I had better do what he said or they would make sure I couldn't never cross nobody else. I was scared. His eyes went black and he glared like he wanted to tear my head off."

Slim stiffened at Riordan's reply and leaned closer, "Son, this is important! Are you sure he said 'they'? 'They' would be watchin' you. Not 'he', but 'they'?"

"Yeah, that's what he said."

Slim walked across the small office, uneasily rubbing his index finger alongside his nose. Back and forth he paced as the other men watched. Finally, he paused and turned to the others.

"Vince, I believe you. I think you figured you'd earn that double eagle without breakin' a sweat. After all, twenty dollars is nearly a month's pay."

Riordan eagerly agreed.

"But, now I believe you're in danger. That man, or men, may think you know more than you do and come gunnin' for you!" Frowning, the boy seemed to shrink in on himself, hugging his arms across his chest and pulling his legs in close to the chair.

"Hold on, I'm not gonna throw you to the wolves." Slim placed his hand on the cowboy's shoulder, but he spoke to the station master.

"Amos, give Riordan his gun, and then slip out the back and go get Marshal Raines."

Amos Hutchins handed over the pistol and hurried out the rear door.

"Riordan, you wait here. I'm goin' to look for whoever's watching you. I'll be back and Hutchins is bringing the marshal."

Slim smiled, "But don't go shootin' me–or the marshal. We'll be coming through the back door shortly."

Chapter 7 The Voice

Jess Harper had no idea where he was or what was going on, but his head hurt something wicked, and his stomach was protesting. He couldn't move; didn't want to move. He just wanted to be still, but he was being jostled back and forth, up and down.

Jess groaned. His insides were heaving and bile rose thickly into the back of his throat. He couldn't open his mouth, couldn't turn his head and he was choking.

He heard voices, shrill and worried, cursing and commanding. He was being thrown around even more, but felt the pressure against his left shoulder ease and he began to fall to the side. Hands quickly set him upright and pulled at the thick leather behind his gag.

Bile spewed out of his mouth and Jess was able to draw in a gasping, shuddering breath. Then he retched, sick to his stomach; dry heaves tore at his throat. Hands leaned him forward and held his head to keep the sour, bitter fluid from running down his chin and chest. Finally, he was able to quiet his stomach enough to relax, too tired and disoriented to do more.

A warm, damp cloth gently wiped at his face and chest, removing the sour stench enveloping him. It was replaced by another, wetter, cloth pushed into his mouth to wipe away the bitter aftertaste. Jess felt himself lifted and carried like a child, before he was laid down on some soft surface. He struggled to move, but could only turn his head

"Mr. 'Arper, lie still. You can rinse your mouth in a moment. Do you understand?"

Jess blindly turned toward the man's voice. The accent was strange, but he understood the words, and he wearily nodded.

Memory returned slowly: Jess recalled driving the stage to Cheyenne, taking the young lady's bags into the hotel lobby and kneeling to open the door of the room, but then only confusing sounds.

'Slim's gonna be mad. Why's Slim gonna be mad? Cause I didn't show up ta buy him that first beer like I promised. . . I hope Slim's mad enough to come lookin' for me.'

Someone lifted Jess's head and shoulders and slid behind him, holding him up. Jess turned his head and lifted his chin hoping to see below the blindfold, but it was secure. His eyes were shut tight. He remembered that, too; it happened in the hotel room. What was the girl's name? 'Angel. . . Angel Duvall. . . . Angel? More like the devil,' Jess thought angrily.

"Rinse your mouth, Mr. 'Arper, and then spit into the towel."

Jess did as he was told until his mouth felt clean. He turned his head away when the cup was offered again.

"Are you ready for a drink?" That Voice was the same, but came from another direction, so Jess knew other hands held him. He nodded, and a cup touched his lips.

"More?" Again Jess weakly nodded.

"Mr. 'Arper, if you give me your word you will not shout or cry out, I will not gag you again. Do you give me your oath, by your sacred honor?"

Jess had turned his face toward that Voice. He hesitated as the meaning sunk in.

Finally he softly answered, "Yes."

"Good. You will rest here. And on your honor, will not shout. Agreed?"

Jess rasped out, "I said so, didn't I."

At least he was awake. And without the gag, he could take a deep breath. He needed time to figure out what in the blazes was goin' on. Where was he? Where was Slim? Jess remembered hearing someone say Slim was in the hotel lobby. Had they gotten him too?

His shoulders were lifted to allow whoever was behind him to stand up, and he was lowered to lay flat again. Weakly, Jess asked, "Did you use chloroform on me? It . . . always makes me sick for days."

He got no reply.

Somehow Jess was certain he was no longer in the hotel, maybe not even in Cheyenne. The shaking he had endured as he came to, or woke up or whatever happened, was a part of that certainty. He reached out with all his senses to try to discover if anyone was nearby. He desperately wanted to move his arms and legs. He needed to shift around, turn over or sit up. And, as he explored the limits of his movements, he also became uncomfortably aware he needed to tend to himself, take care of some private matters, and soon.

He sensed a change on his left, and turned his head to the side. There was a shift in the air around him, and a slight breeze of someone's passage.

"Mr. 'Arper, will you give me your word you will not attack my servants or try to escape?"

Jess considered for a few seconds and then replied, "How can I? You've got me trussed up like a Christmas goose."

"If I have your word, I will release your legs to allow you to attend to your personal needs. Otherwise, you can lie where you are and we will clean you up afterwards."

That was sure putting things bluntly. Jess, rarely at a loss for words, was caught up short. He could complain or cajole, but he knew beyond a doubt, none of his bluster would make any difference.

Jess forced his jaw to unclench, his tense muscles to relax. He took a couple of shallow panting breaths and hoped the man who stood alongside him would read it as defeat, acceptance. Reluctantly, Jess answered, "I give ya my word."

Immediately the Voice issued what Jess assumed to be an order; it was in that tone, but the words made no sense. Jess's legs were lifted and he felt the bindings being removed. The feelings were wrong for it to be ropes or chains, so how did they have him hog-tied? If he knew, it might help him get loose. And Slim. . . was he tied up the same way?

Hands lifted Jess from each side; he would have fallen if they hadn't held him up. His stomach rebelled again, and he struggled to quiet it.

"Mr. 'Arper, come. My servants will assist you." The same Voice spoke from several feet away, and Jess turned his head toward the sound.

The men . . .women? Tugged at his arms and Jess walked blindly between them, uncertain of his balance. He was in stocking feet and felt the need to search out his path, even if there were hands holding him.

Jess constantly turned and tilted his head trying to get his bearings and balance, to listen for any clue as to where he was.

Finally, the Voice ahead impatiently called, "Come. They will not allow you to fall. It will mean punishment for them if you are injured."

He was led a few more steps, and then his arms were released. He swayed, as hands began to fumble at the waist of his pants. He spun away, but was quickly seized again, nowhere to turn.

"Whata ya think you're doin'? At least let me unfasten my own britches!"

"Mr. 'Arper, I will leave you as much dignity as I can, but I will not release your arms. This can be as easy or as difficult as you make it. No one will repeat what happens here, and we have a long time to be together. There are other ways we can continue, but you will not be happy with any of them."

Jess turned his face toward the Voice, and stood trembling with the effort of keeping his balance—and his temper–and inwardly cursing the weakness which threatened to overwhelm him.

"The choice is yours, continue under my conditions or back to the bed."

Jess hung his head and nodded, once, quickly and the hands resumed their position at his waist.

Having taken care of business, Jess was helped back onto the bed and the restraints put back on his legs. He was left to listen, trying to puzzle out the why and what of being taken like he was. Always in the back of his mind was his worry over Slim.

Give Jess Harper a gun or have him ride hell-bent-for-leather through Indian country or take on a whole gang of wanted men. He knew how to handle those things and knew he was good at all of them. But, here, now, all Jess's tools were gone. He couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't shoot, hell, he couldn't move anything except his head – and his eyes were covered so he couldn't see.

His lone asset was his mind. He'd have to use his wits to talk his way out of this mess.

'Gotta find Slim, make sure he's safe, find out what these varmints want with us. Who are they anyway?

'I ain't got a clue what language they're speakin'. Not Spanish, no Indian tribe I recognize, not French or Russian. . . I've heard both a them before. Sure not English. So who's grabbed us? Why? What do me or Slim own that anybody wants bad enough to jump us?'

Slim would know what to do. Slim was always thinking, planning, waiting, and cautioning Jess to do the same, before he jumped head-first from the fryin' pan into the fire.

Thoughtfully, Jess decided, 'Maybe I better do things Slim's way. . . Wouldn't Slim hoot and holler to hear me say that? What's Slim doin'? I bet he's layin' quiet, not buckin' anybody. . . but he'll be plotting and plannin', so soon as he gets a chance, he'll be ready to escape. . . . Mort's always sayin' how I've got the gift of gab, so guess I'll try that. Got nothin' else.'

Jess had dozed, but startled awake at some sound. He cleared his throat and asked in a strained voice, "Can I have somethin' to drink? I'm awful dry."

There was a scurry beside him, a door opened and closed, and then silence until light footsteps crossed to his bedside.

"Mr. 'Arper, do you require something?"

"A drink of water? Or maybe coffee? I'm real thirsty."

His head was lifted, a cup held to his lips and he drank greedily. Water. It was refilled and he drank deeply again.

"Could I sit up? I really need to move around some. And I'm hungry, too. Haven't eaten since I left the ranch to drive the stage to Cheyenne."

His requests were translated into the strange dialect and soon there was a mouthwatering aroma directly in front of his face. He was lifted into a sitting position. A nudge against his lower lip, and he opened eagerly for the spoon. He ate until no more was offered. A cloth wiped his mouth and chin, another drink, and hands guided him to lie back down.

'Alright, time to turn on the charm, Harper.'

"Thank you, that was real tasty. I was hungry enough to eat the ears off a runnin' mule, like I told Slim in Cheyenne. . . . Uh, I'm not in Cheyenne anymore, am I?"

"No, Mr. 'Arper, you are not," answered the Voice. "I do not understand the 'ears off running mule'? You were not given mule to eat."

Jess laughed, "No, I wasn't thinkin' I was eatin' mule. It's just an expression, a teasin' way of sayin' I was really, really hungry."

"Ah, I see. A joke? You find a joke here, perhaps?"

"I wasn't makin' fun, I was only repeatin' what I had said to my partner, Slim Sherman. . . . Do you know where Slim is?"

"Yes," the Voice replied.

"Is he here?" Jess asked quickly.

"No."

"Can you tell me where he is? Is he all right?"

"Yes, I could tell you, but I will not. Mr. Sherman is safe for the moment."

"Whatta ya mean, 'for the moment'?" Jess was thrashing around, throwing his head from side to side, "What are you goin' to do?" He had to quit struggling so he could hear as the ominous Voice continued.

"Everything depends on you, Mr. 'Arper. You are the surety for Mr. Sherman. Your obedience, your success in your assignment, helps ensure Mr. Sherman's continued health."

Abruptly, footsteps left his side. Disgusted, Jess thought,'Well, sure didn't accomplish much. So much for the famous Harper charm.'

Chapter 8 Jailhouse Blues

After reassuring Riordan, Slim drew his gun and eased out into the alley. Cautiously, his pistol held firmly in a suddenly sweaty grip, Slim pushed himself deep into doorways and shaded corners, alert to any movement not belonging to the night shadows. His patience was rewarded when he caught a glint of metal; a form shifted restlessly in a darkened entrance on the far side of Frontier Street.

The threatened rain arrived as Slim crept up behind the lurking man, although the keening wind and crashing thunder hid any noise he made and the watcher was taken by surprise. He twisted away and ran, but Slim's warning shot stopped him cold. They both were soaked to the skin, and the sullen stranger was the worse for wear after Slim cross-tied him with a rawhide pigging string and dragged him through Cheyenne's muddy streets to the jail. Marshal Raines had taken Vince Riordan there for his own protection after hearing Amos Hutchins's story.

Slim was furious when he got no answers from his prisoner. He was madder yet at Thad Raines for not letting him put a bullet in the man's leg since he wouldn't talk. According to Hutchins, his name was Earl Davis; he was the other gunslick Slim had seen in the Overland Stage office.

Perkin's Mercantile opened at six on Saturday morning; Slim was their first customer. He bought a shirt, in Jess's size, and carried the package over to the jail. Leaving his revolver with Thad's deputy, he walked back and thrust the bundle through the bars of Vince Riordan's cell.

"I'll take Jess's shirt now, Riordan." Vince took off the worn blue shirt and handed it to Slim.

Vince Riordan cleared his throat and in a shaky voice, began to apologize, "Uh. . . Mr. Sherman, I didn't have no idea I was causing any trouble. I jus' supposed it was a trick he was playin' on somebody, somebody he knew. You've seen how cowboys play pranks on each other, see if they can get something over on one another, and expectin' next time the joke'll be on you. I wouldn't want to see nobody get hurt over what I did and I'm awful sorry you ain't found your friend. If I remember anything else, I'll tell Marshal Raines and he can get hold of ya." He looked very young and scared as he gripped the iron bars of his cell.

Slim conceded, "I don't think you meant my partner any harm, but next time, think long and hard before you take somebody up on their offer. If a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Jess is still missing and I'm afraid something bad's happened to him."

Tapping his gloved fist against the cross bar, Slim got ready to leave, "Riordan, Marshal Raines says he'll let you go when he decides it's safe."

Slim noticed Earl Davis, lounging on the bed in the next cell and thought longingly about shaking the truth out of him. But he figured the deputy and Raines would complain if he did, and might even decide to lock him up for causing trouble in their jailhouse. So he contented himself with an accusing glare, taking satisfaction in seeing Davis swallow hard and shrink back out of reach. He retrieved his gun from the deputy's outstretched hand and angrily shoved it into the holster, letting the front door slam behind him hard enough to rattle the glass and leaving a stack of wanted posters fluttering to the floor in his wake.

The wind was still driving slanting curtains of rain along the mud-slicked streets as Slim headed to the Plains Hotel, determined to speak to Angel Duvall. He flung water from his hat and hastily climbed the stairs to knock loudly at room 214. No one answered the door, but fussy Mr. Mortimer soon approached and clearing his throat, announced,

"Miss Duvall checked out of her room a short time after you left the hotel last evening, Mr. Sherman."

"Have you rented the room to anyone else?" Slim quickly inquired.

"Nooo, but, Mr. Sherman, you already have a room, which you did not even occupy last night."

"I don't want to rent the room, but I would like to look it over, if you don't mind, since you've not let it out to anyone else."

"Well, I don't see any harm in it. The maid will be in shortly to clean. There was quite an assortment left behind by the young lady," Henry replied.

Mortimer sniffed disdainfully, "She wrote requesting reservations, and said she would be staying with us for a month. I hired two boys to get her trunk up the stairs on Thursday. It actually took two husky men to wrestle it back down last night. Hardly worth the effort, if you ask me."

Clearing his throat, the nosy clerk asked, "What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Sherman?"

"I'm not quite sure, Mr. Mortimer, but I'm reliable. The stage line will stand good for me," Slim told him pointedly. The Great Central Overland stageline was the Plains Hotel bread and butter, delivering most of their overnight guests.

"Oh, yes, sir. Most assuredly, sir." Mortimer hastily swept past Slim and unlocked the door, allowing him to enter first.

The bed was rumpled, but the sheets had not been turned down. Dresser drawers were empty, the closet door ajar, and flimsy lace curtains whipped in a damp breeze from the open windows. The imprint of the big steamer trunk was clearly visible and the jumble of odd pieces Slim had noticed the day before were scattered across the floor.

Slim picked up part of a stack of books and one of the oddly shaped rocks he had seen earlier. The first book had to do with geology, the second, mining. Slim laid them on the bed to pick up three more, but their titles were in French. Some of the words bore a similarity to English, and appeared to relate to mining.

Slim turned his attention to the rocks, four of them, round and all nearly the same size, covered with pockmarked indentions. He recognized them as geodes, found occasionally in the Wyoming mountains.

Henry had been standing by the open door as Slim examined the room. He noisily cleared his throat and asked, "Are you satisfied, Mr. Sherman?"

Slim, distracted, slowly turned to face Mortimer, "Huh? What did you say?"

"I asked if you were ready to leave."

"Oh, yeah. . . sure. But, can I take these books and the rocks?"

"The maid will throw them out, so take whatever you want. Saves us the trouble."

"Thank you, Mr. Mortimer." Slim hurriedly gathered as many of the books and rocks as he could carry. "I'll take these to my room and be back for the rest."

Chapter 9 Leaving Cheyenne

Slim went to Marshal Raines with the news of Angel Duvall's departure. He again demanded to question Earl Davis, but Raines assured Slim he could handle that chore quite well by himself. The prisoner still refused to talk, not even confirming his name.

The Cheyenne lawman reluctantly admitted, "I'm gonna have to turn him loose, Sherman. There's really nothing I can hold him on. There's not much proof Jess hasn't gotten a snoot full and will show up after he sleeps it off."

Spoiling for a fight, Slim turned on the marshal, but Raines cut him off, shoving Slim toward the door, "Don't rear up at me, Slim. Any two-bit lawyer would have my badge for keepin' Davis locked up this long."

Slim stormed out of the jail and wasted his time going over the same territory he had covered on Friday evening. He talked again to Wild Bill at the livery, Amos Hutchins at the Overland Stage office, and Joe, the stout barkeep at the Shady Lady. Each of them made it a point to catch any gossip floating around town, but none of them had seen or heard a whisper of Jess Harper's whereabouts.

Returning to the hotel, he flung himself down on the bed. Flipping Miss Liberty over and over, Slim began to list all the odd things he had noticed:

'Angel Duvall said Jess carried her bag to the room, but the clerk said bags. And there were two matching carpetbagsJess threw down from the stage; I noticed them because the last one was so heavy, but there was only one in her room.

'Why on earth would a young lady have rocks, of all things, in a hotel room? And books on mining? What would she need with those? And in French?

'The letter was sealed with a 'D'. For Duvall? Or for Dickerson, the spreadwhere Riordan works? The man in jail, his last name is Davis. And the one who hired Vince Riordan is William Doolin. Too many D's; it could be any one of 'em.'

Slim scrubbed his hand across his face, 'Where did that huge trunk come from? It wasn't part of the freight we brought in. I would sure remember having to unload anything that bigand Jess would still be complainin'!'

He mused, 'Somebody better check on that errand boy. I bet whoever has Jess made sure he wouldn't be at work Friday.'

Closing his fist around the silver dollar, Slim decided, 'There aren't that many two headed coins floatin' around Wyoming. This Liberty dollar has to be Jess's.

'And to top it all. . . I never told her my name, but she called me Mr. Sherman.'

Slim worried his last question around until, exhausted, he slept restlessly for a couple of hours, troubled by anxious dreams of Jess calling his name.

Awake, but not rested, Slim's mind was racing again. 'The letter tucked in Jess's hat said for me to go home and wait till they contact me.

'I'm positive the jasper I cornered last night is not the only one around. It could be any man. . . or woman. . . I pass on the street.

'Jess's life depends on whoever is runnin' this shindig trustin' me to follow his orders. I need to ride for Laramie. Can't take the chance of gettin' Jess killed.'

Slim sat down to write a letter to Mort Cory; he needed to tell Mort what was going on and warn him to keep his eyes open. And to ask for Mort's help with the plan tumbling around in his head. Amos could put his letter in the next mail bag headed for Laramie.

After stuffing the books and geodes into his and Jess's saddlebags, Slim checked out of the hotel and walked to the stage office to borrow a horse. The wooden bridge at Newman's Crossing had been washed out and the next Overland coach west would have to wait for it to be repaired. The road needed to dry enough to warrant starting out with paying passengers; they would not be happy slogging through mud up to their boot straps. And the horses couldn't pull a stage through hub-deep chuck holes.

Amos told Slim to take his pick of the Overland stock and to have Wild Bill loan him the tack he needed. Since it was so late, Hutchins tried to convince Slim to wait for morning. But Slim had the bit in his teeth and what Jess called 'that dad-gum Sherman stubborn' set to his jaw. He thanked Amos, handed over the letter for Mort Cory and collected Jess's hat. Slim wanted everybody to notice as he walked boldly down the middle of Frontier Street.

He made decent time until dark. The low-hanging clouds hid both moon and stars, and left the road little more than a suggestion. The rain had started again in a steady, sodden drizzle, but his poncho and wide-brimmed hat pulled down tight kept most of the cold drops at bay. Slim pushed hard to get home. A sense of urgency drove him, pushing his mount as hard as he dared, his mind busy with details of the plan he had outlined to Mort. 'Well,' he thought, 'At least I won't spend the whole ride worryin' about Jess's whereabouts.'

The moonless night and muddy road conspired to slow him from a lope, to a trot, and then to a fast walk. The second time Slim's horse stumbled, he lost a stirrup and found himself clutching at his mount's mane and withers to stay aboard, his head dangling below the horse's neck. He talked quietly to the jumpy animal while recovering his seat. Then he swung down and cradled the blowing colt's head in one arm, while the other hand gently knuckled his jaw. Both rider and mount were trembling with exertion from the wet, cold ride.

"Alright, boy, let's you and me walk a ways. We're not showin' off for the pony express. It won't benefit Jess anything if I break your legs or my neck. We'll shelter under the trees, maybe find some dry wood and rest awhile. I'll rub you down, get the wet blanket off your back, some coffee in me and things will look a mite brighter."

Dead, dry sticks littered the duff beneath a massive ponderosa fir. Slim quickly kindled a fire and got a pot of coffee going, the fresh clean scent of the pines and the sharp tang of the hot brew mingling, trapped under the thick sweeping branches.

"Horse, we have Wild Bill to thank for the coffee and pie. I was too flustered to think about coffee or anything else. Would've left my head if it weren't attached. Never even thought to ask your name, but guess you'll answer to 'Horse' just fine."

His nervous mount crowded close, lipping crumbs of pie crust and searching for more as Slim propped the worn black saddle to make a pillow for his back. Horse and rider rested, taking comfort in each other's company, until the rain stopped except for an occasional drop trickling off the drenched leaves. A sliver of a moon had begun to peek from behind ragged clouds as Slim saddled back up and got underway. At dawn, he was able to pick up speed, mud pelting him from his mount's hooves. It was late morning as he topped the last ridge and could see the house below.

Slim set a slow walk down the slippery hill while he took in every detail, searching for the changes he felt should be there. So much had happened since Friday, surely those differences would be echoed in the ranch, but everything seemed to be serene in the routine of a restful Sunday.

There were several horses dozing in the corral, the Miller twins were working in the barnyard, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. Two men sat on the front porch and Slim realized it was Frankie and Travis; he had completely forgotten about them.

When he reached the house, Slim was muddy from hat to heels and swore he was wearing at least ten pounds of Wyoming clay. He wearily greeted the Millers, thanked them for their help, and ate the lunch Bonnie put in front of him, washed down with gallons of coffee. He again assured the Millers of his help at round-up time and the three set off for home, promising to return if Slim sent for them.

Frankie and Travis declared they were fully recovered, it must have been something they ate which gave them such a belly ache and Slim didn't argue. He outfitted them with company horses and the two headed toward Laramie to pick up their next run.

Waiting for the stages to get back on schedule, Slim was never idle; he used the time to prepare for Jess's rescue. He wore his revolver every waking hour, the iron snugged down tight. His skinning knife was tucked in his right boot and the little hide-out derringer from the barn's lock box nestled inside his vest.

Chapter 10 Proof

Slim carried a load of tack into the barn. He sat down, saddle soap and rag in hand, but within minutes was asleep, his back against a convenient hay bale. Mose Shell found him there when he brought in the East-bound stage early the next morning.

"Say, Slim, yore bed too soft? Or did Jess snore too loud?"

Slim sat up, blearily wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Mose. I'll bring up a fresh team. I thought I'd sit down for a minute, but I must've slept here all night."

"That's alright, Slim. Take yore time. I'll get some coffee. We're ahead of schedule and the passengers will enjoy havin' time to stretch their legs and rest their be-hinds."

"Mose, you'll have to fix the coffee. And there's a pie Bonnie Miller made."

"Sure, Slim, my coffee's better'n yours any day. And way better'n Jess's. Where is Jess, anyway? Nappin' like his boss? I'll get 'im goin'." Mose cackled as he started for the house. Slim shrugged but didn't answer, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline; he just went to gather up a fresh team.

Slim changed out the horses before going inside the house. Mose was bustling around stacking cups and saucers and cutlery in the dishpan. "Worked out perfect, Slim. We're ready to board again, folks."

Turning to Slim, Mose commented, "Jess wasn't in the house. Where has he got hisself off to this time?"

"Uh. . . Jess stayed in Cheyenne to help out for a few days," Slim mumbled.

"Oh, reckon I'll see him there," Mose nodded as he accepted the lie. Slim figured Mose could get the whole story from Wild Bill or Amos Hutchins.

He followed the salty old teamster and his passengers out the front door, politely handing the ladies into the coach. He latched the stage door and sang out, "All right, Mose."

Mose leaned down from the driver's box, "Hang on there a minute, Slim. I almost fergot. Here's yore mail and a package."

"Did you see who sent the package, Mose?" Slim asked, trying to keep his voice under control.

"Nah, the agent handed it to me as we left Laramie, said to make shore you got it."

"Thanks, but you better get a move on before your team decides to take their tails over to Wells Fargo."

"Not a chance. Listen while I tell em' how much I love 'em!" With a shout, Mose shook out his reins, muddy water spraying behind the coach as the horses gathered speed.

A flash caught Slim's eye from the hill above the pasture, but he didn't pause, striding determinedly through the door and closing it behind him.

Once inside, Slim used his pocket knife to cut the twine holding the brown paper wrapper. The box was addressed to:

Mr. Slim Sherman
Sherman Relay Station
Laramie, Wyoming Territory

But the senders address and the post mark were smeared and unreadable. 'That's no accident. Somebody deliberately made sure the post mark couldn't lead me back to them.'

The wooden box held a single black glove. Carefully laying it aside, Slim cringed at this further evidence of his best friend's kidnapping. Beneath the glove was a sheet of thick, ivory-colored stationery sealed with the same fancy wax imprint as in Cheyenne. At the bottom was a parchment scroll, tightly rolled and knotted with a scrap of blue bandana.

He stared at the paper, frowning, before breaking the seal.

Sir: The glove is proof I hold Jess Harper. There are other factions who have the same goal as I. If there is no item belonging to Mr. Harper in the missive you receive, do not respond to any requests or carry out any orders. You must decipher the clue accompanying this letter, then put an advertisement in the Laramie Gazette containing only the letter "D", and await further instructions.

You are watched at all times. Do not leave your ranch.

The writing was the same spidery, elegant script as the note delivered in Jess's hat, and something in the stilted, formal words made Slim believe the writer was not familiar with English. He unrolled the parchment and used several books to hold it flat. It was a crude map. There was no indication of top or bottom or north, south, east or west. The lines ended at one edge, and Slim saw the paper had been cut or torn. There were also two circles, one a little above the other.

A crooked trail made up most of the map, but to one side was a section which reminded Slim of a pine tree, one central trunk and seven branches. Symbols were drawn along the edge. 'That looks like the Cheyenne sign for water or river and there's what could be the sign for mountain. But what's the angled line? It almost looks like an arrow. I've never seen anything exactly like it.'

The Overland coach left Cheyenne at daybreak with five passengers, a full load of freight and a strongbox bound for the Laramie bank. The passengers had to get out of the stage countless times to lighten the load. It was nearing dusk and the warm light spilling out the door and windows of the Sherman Relay Station looked very inviting to the tired and irritable travelers.

Wagering one or more of the fares was in cahoots with Jess's kidnappers, Slim made everything seem as normal as he could. He had fresh, hot coffee ready to pour and set out two custard pies left by Bonnie Miller. They were quickly devoured to a chorus of satisfied grunts and requests for seconds, or even thirds.

Once the stage had rumbled out of sight, Slim removed the harnesses from the weary team. He hastily rubbed them down, giving them a lick and a promise to do better next time, and turned them out in the pasture.

For hours after the West bound coach pulled out, Slim pored over the books and map; he took a hammer and struck one of the round rocks, splitting it open to reveal glittering crystals. One of the geology books said geodes were sometimes found near the site of gold or silver veins, having been thrown to the surface after an upheaval deep within the earth.

When his stomach growled loud enough to remind him the lunch hour was long past and supper was late too, Slim put on another pot of coffee and rummaged in the spring house for butter and cheese. He smeared two cold biscuits with butter before warming them in the oven and chewed thoughtfully on a hunk of cheese as he washed it all down with fresh coffee. Standing by the table impatiently tracing the pine tree with one finger, he kept mulling over how Angel Duvall, the rocks and books could be connected to Jess's disappearance.

Suddenly, Slim realized why the map looked familiar: it reminded him of the one Jess had found in that Durango silver spur last year. That map was supposed to lead to the fabled Lost Dutchman mine, but only a scrap of it was there. This looked like only part of a map, too.

He and Jess had been glad to leave both spur and map with the swindler who called himself the Senator and shake off the dust of Jackson City. Slim picked up the parchment. Could that old con man have something to do with this new trouble?

Slim had always thought The Lost Dutchman was a tall tale to hornswoggle greenhorns from the East, but someone must think it was real to have gone to this much trouble, and to have carried out threats against his family. The Lost Dutchman mine was supposed to be in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. Why would anyone demand he locate an Arizona mine in Wyoming? Slim kept glancing at the map and absently rubbing his neck as he paced. The books on mining and geology, the geodes and this map all had to have something to do with Jess's disappearance, and if he could figure it out, he should be able to find Jess.

Slim began pacing again and as he peered at the map from across the room, he unexpectedly realized where it led. He gave the map a quarter turn and its location in the Laramie Range became as plain as the nose on his face. The pine tree trail was a mystery, but Slim figured if he had to travel there, it would make sense then.

Old stories his father had told came flooding back. Slim sensed a puzzle falling into place, all the pieces fit. If he was right. . . he had just dealt himself a winning hand. Exhilarated by his discovery, he knew he could call the kidnappers bluff.

'Not a question of winnin' a poker hand. There's no money on the table, but somebody must think there's a mine full of gold. And the stakes can't get much higher: Jess's life. His freedom. . . and mine.'

Slim wrote out his advertisement for Mose to deliver to Laramie on his next run from Cheyenne.

Chapter 11 Leaving the Past Behind

Boys love to collect odd bits and pieces on their daily adventures and the young Slim Sherman had been no different. His Pa made him a box with a sliding lid to keep his treasures, and Slim had passed it down to Andy when he thought he had outgrown his collecting. But, he'd transferred his arrowheads and eagle feathers and fossils and other oddities to one of his mother's trunks. He spent a half hour searching around the attic before finding his prized ore glittering with an inch wide vein of gold.

Downstairs, he slid the gold ore into the top drawer of the desk. Unable to concentrate on ranch accounts or company ledgers, he finished off the last of the coffee, and started another pot.

Slim's nervous pacing brought him to the fireplace; he propped a boot on the hearth, and leaned on the mantle, resting his head on his forearms.

What would Jess do in his place? What advantages would he have?

Slowly, Slim walked to the side of the chimney and raised the lid of the hidden storage compartment. He reached inside and brought out the oiled cloth holding the side arm Jess had carried when he first showed up at the ranch. He stared at the pearl-handled revolver for several heartbeats.

Slim balanced Jess's six-shooter in his hand. Only a professional carried a gun with a hair trigger and the sear filed down, the hammer flattened.

He drew his own revolver and laid it next to the gleaming Colt. So many memories. So many arguments with his friend over putting that gun away for good.

'Jess started building a new life the day he quit wearing this gun. He's not the hard, hopeless drifter, with no home and no future I found trespassin' up by the lake. It's not fair. He. . . we. . . never asked to get mixed up in all this. Jess's iron might give me an advantage, but look at the cost. I can't dredge up the past after I've asked him to leave it behind.'

Slim's eyes hardened, and grim-faced, he slipped his gun back into the holster, secured the hammer with the leather thong. 'The price is too damn high!' He angrily wrapped the cloth around Jess's past, and tucked it back in its hiding place.

Too keyed up to sleep, Slim walked out the kitchen door with his bulging saddlebags disguised under the odd bits of harness and leather he had gathered up around the house. The saddlebags were packed with a change of clothes for himself, a clean shirt for Jess, rolls of bandages, and every cartridge for revolver and rifle he could find. He was bringing the medical supplies because with Jess's past record, Slim felt certain they would be needed. A big feed sack held Jess's hat.

Once inside the barn, Slim quickly stowed the saddlebags and gunny sack with his gear and rifle in the wooden crate McCormick had used to ship their last piece of farm equipment, and determinedly hammered the lid shut.

Chapter 12 Bear

Jess thought it was the second day since he had come to, but he couldn't be sure. He was fed at random intervals, allowed to sit up occasionally, but always at odd times, never in a pattern, never a routine. Sometimes they woke him as he drifted off to sleep, other times he woke up by himself; one time, his belly might begin wondering if his throat had been cut; another time food would be offered before he had digested the last.

He had examined his kidnapping from every angle he could imagine. Whoever had drugged him had to be well organized and have plenty of help. It must be someone with lots of money to pay for information and to hire men who asked no questions.

The strange accent of the Voice, the language he couldn't identify, meant he could have been taken anywhere by now. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. They could have him halfway across the country. All he knew for sure was whoever had captured him feared him, else they would not have taken so many precautions or tied him down the way they had. 'They better be scared. I don't take kindly to what's been done to me and mine.'

Whenever Jess spoke it caused a swift flurry of sounds, a door to open and close and the Voice to approach and inquire what he needed.

Jess had to keep reminding himself to lie quietly, to not give vent to his anger and frustration at being forced to stillness. 'How would Slim handle this?' was all that was keeping him from going crazy.

But, this time, Jess decided he had been patient long enough. "Ya said ya had a job for me to do. Ain't it time to get started? If I lay here much longer, I'll be so addled I won't be much good to ya for anything."

"You will have much to do shortly, Mr. 'Arper. I must warn you the consequences of failure are dire, but you are uniquely qualified for this task." This was a new voice, coarse and deep, with the same kind of accent as that other Voice and although calm, the man seemed impatient at being called to Jess's side.

"You talk in riddles. I don't even understand the meanin' of some of them big words you used." Jess replied irritably.

"Do not think to fool me, Mr. 'Arper. You are more intelligent and resourceful than you want to appear. I investigated you, and your friend. You have been observed for some months."

"You've been watchin' me? Slim, too? What do you want with us? Leave Slim alone. He wouldn't hurt anybody, he's straight as an arrow. He can't be mixed up in anything crooked." Jess's voice rose as he tried to twist himself around.

"What makes you assume I am an outlaw, Mr. 'Arper? Why do you think I want you to do something dishonest?"

Jess interrupted, "You kidnapped me! What else would ya. . . ."

But this new tormentor overrode Jess's protests, "Is it because, you were mixed up in, as you say, something crooked? You were wanted dead or alive, a reward of $5,000 for your arrest. . .or your dead body? In Willow, Colorado?"

Jess forced himself to calm down, "You know it was all a lie. Sam Jarrod cleared me and recalled those posters." Stubbornly, he added, "If you've watched for months, checked me and Slim out, you know about my past. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done, but I never tried to hide 'em. And most of the trouble I got mixed up in was years ago. Before I met Slim Sherman."

"Mr. 'Arper, your tasks are not necessarily outside the law, but you are needed to protect my interests. There are others after the same prize and you must guarantee I am the victor."

"Are ya gonna tell me what I'm supposed to do? How am I gonna help ya win anythin' tied up like this?" Jess demanded, impatience creeping into his tone again.

A sudden bellow, near at hand, in a strange, clipped accent, ratcheted Jess Harper's tension up another notch, "Later, Mr. 'Arper. I say when. I say where. I say why,"

'He growls like a grouchy old bear,' Jess thought angrily.

Jess flinched as the old bear hissed close to his ear, "There must be no mistakes. Both your lives depend on it."

Swallowing his angry retort, Jess heard Slim's voice, clear as day, reminding him to go easy, not take off like some spooked mustang, 'Jess! Slow down, Pard. You get more flies with honey than with vinegar.'

Jess settled himself into the bed, forced himself to relax, tried a smile, "Well, you're the boss. You've really sized me up. I'll go on lazin' around till you're ready for me to get started," Jess replied with an easiness he did not feel.

He paused and then added, "But, just so's ya know, I won't gun down nobody for ya."

"Not even to save your friend's life?" The heavy voice asked sarcastically.

"No. Slim'd figure it wasn't worth his life to take another's, so I have to abide by that too." Jess shook his head sorrowfully, "Slim would never forgive me."

The man he'd dubbed "Bear" left without another word.

More long hours of lying bound and blind, his mind working frantically, trying to figure out who had watched him, Slim, the relay station; which strangers . . . or friends? Had he lost his edge? Had he gotten so settled at the ranch? No, Jess knew, deep down, he was as quick to spot trouble as he'd always been. That kind of awareness was ingrained in him, as much a part of him as breathing. Sure he had relaxed, wasn't as quick to take offense, but in this rough country, a man who didn't pay attention often wound up on boot hill.

Jess had told Bear Slim was fair, straight as an arrow. Slim was also the most determined man Jess knew when he was convinced he was right. Slim practiced what he preached, frequently getting his knuckles, or his head skinned wadin' into a fight not his own, purely on the side of justice. 'Come to think of it,' Jess considered ruefully, 'I've done the same a time or two. That dad-blamed Slim, open-hearted and open-handed, justbelieves in the basic goodness of the universe. Good will triumph over Evil. Justice will prevail. Let the law handle everythin'.

'Guess his Ma and Pa drilled it into 'im. The shame in Slim's voice when he's told me, more'n once, about joinin' the vigilantes at Adobe Wells. . . he still regrets another way weren't found. He and the other men took the law in their own hands; he shared in handin' out rough frontier justice. But to my way of thinkin', Good better be mighty careful and keep a weather eye out for Evil lurkin' right around the corner.'