Slocum's Silver Burden Read Online Free Page B

to curl a fist around in a haymaker to land in Bully Boy’s breadbasket. This slowed the man but didn’t stop him. Slocum danced back and reached for his six-shooter. That proved to be a mistake. He was caught up in the man’s ponderous arms, his hand trapped between them and his six-shooter still in its holster.
    Bully Boy turned red in the face as he strained to break Slocum’s back. He heaved and got him off his feet and swung him around like a rag doll.
    â€œYou’re gonna pay fer puttin’ me on the outs with Yulin. I’m gonna take your head to him in a peach basket and get my job back.”
    Slocum began to black out. Every exhalation brought him closer to death. He couldn’t suck in more air because of the powerful arms around his body. As the air was crushed from him, he pulled back the Colt’s hammer and let it drop without coming to full cock.
    The muffled report brought an immediate response. Bully Boy tightened his grip even more, then released Slocum. He looked down at his thigh. Blood from his nose already smeared his clothes, but the new source of blood spoke of a more serious injury.
    â€œI can’t feel my leg. It . . . it’s all cold,” Bully Boy said, sitting down hard. He stared at his leg.
    Slocum had shot through an artery. The man’s life pumped out into the gutter. In seconds, Bully Boy slumped over. For all anyone knew, he was another drunk passed out on the curb.
    Gasping hard, letting air painfully fill his lungs again, Slocum considered what to do. The brief fight hadn’t brought any attention from incurious passersby. But two policemen walked their beat down the street and came in his direction. Fighting was one thing, but murder was another. It had been self-defense, but Slocum had heard about the San Francisco lawmen. There wasn’t a crime they wouldn’t overlook—for a price. If that price wasn’t paid and a felon was dragged off to the jailhouse on Bryant Street, like as not he was never seen again. Not alive. Slocum would have been better served to let Yulin roll him into the Bay to fight off the sharks.
    He might cut down both policemen, but that raised new problems. Where he stood on Market wasn’t far from the police station on Sixth. Gunshots would bring a small army of cops running. Slocum looked down at the man he had shot, then turned and started to walk away.
    He froze when the two policemen yelled out for him to stop. He had scant chance of talking his way out of the killing. Slocum started to run but found his feet kicking at empty air. A powerful arm had circled his shoulders and lifted him off the pavement.
    He was a goner for sure.

2
    â€œDon’t struggle,” came the harsh whisper in his ear.
    Slocum tensed, then relaxed and tried to wiggle free so he could whip out his six-gun and get away. He stopped fighting when he saw the hand holding him was missing three fingers.
    â€œLet me go, Underwood. The police are—”
    â€œThey’re too drunk to notice anything,” Underwood said. He kept his strong grip on Slocum and steered him into the middle of Market Street. Drivers shouted and one carriage tried to run them down. The driver swung a whip around but missed them by a country mile, which set off a new round of swearing as the carriage rattled past.
    With an agility that had to have been learned walking on a saltwater-slippery spar, Underwood avoided the traffic and kept Slocum moving along to the opposite side of the street.
    â€œKeep that iron in its place.” Underwood spun Slocum around so he could look back across the busy street at Bully Boy’s body slumped over. “Do you see them fools tryin’ to figure out why a man’s passed out at their feet? Not a bit of it. They don’t care, ’less they think to rob him.”
    One policeman knelt and the other used his club to hasten onlookers along with strategically placed taps. The kneeling