A Good Day for a Massacre. William W. Johnstone

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      “Yes, yes, all right,” the chief marshal said, closing the folder and tossing it aside. “Just needed to refresh my memory. As I said, don’t let the simplicity of this job spoil you. I thought of you for it since you’re in the freighting business and, after a year, seemed to be fairly handy at it.”

      “Did I just hear a compliment?” Slash asked Pecos.

      “Nah, couldn’t have been.”

      Ignoring the cutthroats’ banter, Bledsoe leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands steepled before him. “I want you to drive one of your freight wagons up to the mountain mining town of Tin Cup in the Sawatch Range, and haul a lode of gold bars from a mine up there, the Cloud Tickler, as it’s called—due to the high altitude in those parts—to Union Station in Denver. There the gold will be placed on a train to the federal mint in San Francisco.”

      “Doesn’t the mine company usually have Wells Fargo haul the ore out of the mountains, Chief?” Slash asked, frowning.

      “Of course, they do. Most mines up in that neck of the high-and-rocky ship their gold out by stagecoach. But there’s been a problem.”

      “Robberies,” Pecos said.

      “The Front Range Stage Company has been robbed so often that Wells Fargo refuses to haul gold for them anymore. Determined to catch the robbers but not wanting to risk losing another strongbox filled with gold, the mining company has instead hired undercover Pinkerton agents to ride the stage, guarding a dummy strongbox in hopes to catch the robbers red-handed once and for all, and get them out of their hair.”

      Pecos was raking his thumb across the heel of his boot, which he had propped on his left knee. “Dummy strongbox, Chief?”

      “You’ll be carryin’ the real one. You see, the Cloud Tickler isn’t taking any chances. They can’t afford to lose one more ounce of gold. So, while they’re gonna fill that stagecoach full of Pinkertons—there’ll even be a couple of Pinkertons in the driver’s boot, acting as driver and shotgun messenger—they’re not going to risk shipping the gold on that run. You’ll be shipping it in your freight wagon, in a hidden strongbox, taking a separate trail.”

      “Just us?” Pecos asked, canting his head toward his partner. “Just me an’ Slash?”

      “Just you two. If all goes as planned, no one will suspect that you two are anything but what you’ll be pretending to be—two freighters who drove a full load up to Tin Cup, picked up their pay, and are heading back out of the mountains to home sweet home.” Bledsoe paused, blinked, snapped his mouth slightly, adjusting his false teeth. His eyes shifted quickly between the pair. “Think you can handle that, boys?”

      “I don’t know,” Slash said. “Somethin’ about this makes me a little uneasy. How much gold will we be hauling in our humble freighter?”

      “Pretty damn close to a hundred thousand dollars’ worth.”

      Slash and Pecos whistled at that.

      Bledsoe said, “Gold prices are on the rise just now, and the Cloud Tickler is extracting some of the highest-grade ore in the Rockies at the moment. How long that will last is anyone’s guess, but right now it’s imperative they get their gold ingots out of those mountains and down to the train station in Denver.”

      “Why don’t you throw a few guards in with us?” Pecos said. “If the company is mining that kind of color, surely they could afford it.”

      Bledsoe took another sip of his tequila, extending one beringed pinky. He made sure the cutthroats knew it was right tasty stuff, smacking his lips and sighing as he returned the glass to his desk.

      Again, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers before him. “Even the richest companies are tighter than the bark on a tree. The way they see it, that’s how they stay rich. They’re paying enough money for the Pinkertons they’ve hired to corral the stage robbers. They don’t see the need to waste any more on your run, which should go without a hitch if you both play it right and don’t go getting drunk and shooting your mouths off in the various and sundry bordellos up thataway!”

      Now it was Slash’s turn to cloud up and rain. “You know we didn’t stay two steps ahead of you and the other federals as well as bounty hunters all those years by getting drunk and shooting our mouths off about our holdup plans in hurdy-gurdy houses, Chief Bleed-Em-So!”

      Bledsoe sat back in his chair, chuckling delightedly at the reaction he’d evoked. “No, no, you’re right there, Slash. That’s partly why I’ve chosen you boys for the job. And why there’s no need to throw Pinkertons at you. Besides, if anyone were to see more than you two within several hundred yards of your freighter, they might get wise to the ploy. No, it’s better this way—just you two and a seemingly empty freight wagon. Only . . .” Bledsoe raised his brows to convey the gravity of the operation. “Only, you’ll be hauling around one hundred thousand dollars of high-grade gold.”

      “Damn,” Pecos said.

      “Yeah,” Slash said. “Damn!”

      Bledsoe furled his brows and carved deep lines of casti-gation across his high, weathered, liver-spotted forehead. “Don’t you two old cutthroats go gettin’ any ideas, now, you hear?”

      “Ideas?” Slash said. “About what?”

      “About what?” Bledsoe mocked, widening his eyes.

      “Ah, hell, Chief,” Pecos said. “You know we done mended our ways. Why, neither me nor Slash would ever consider runnin’ off with that gold.”

      “No?” Bledsoe asked.

      “Of course not!” Pecos cried.

      The chief marshal jerked a crooked finger toward Slash. “Then why is he sweating?”

      “What?” Pecos said.

      “Look at him. He’s sweating.”

      This nudged Miss Langdon’s mind out of the paperwork before her. She turned her head to frown over her shoulder toward Slash sitting on the other side of Pecos from her.

      “I am not!” Slash said. He brushed his hand across his left cheek and looked at it. He’d be damned if he wasn’t sweating, after all. “Well, if I am, it’s because you got a fire goin’ on a warm night. Good Lord, man, who lights a fire out here in August?”

      “This is a chilly night for August,” Miss Langdon said in her quiet, sonorous voice.

      Bledsoe narrowed his eyes at Pecos. “You are, too.”

      “I’m what?”

      “Sweatin’!” Bledsoe pounded his fist on his desk. “Look at ya, both of ya sittin’ there sweatin’, fairly salivating at the thought of hightailing it all the way to Mexico with a hundred thousand dollars in high-grade gold!”

      “Oh, hell!” Pecos said, quickly turning his head to Bledsoe’s pretty assistant and saying, “Uh . . . pardon my farm talk, Miss Langdon.”

      She lowered her eyes and half-smiled, flushing in the flickering lamplight.

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