Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [51]
“Why do you do this? Who are you?” Valenzuela asked. Slocum didn’t bother answering. Being distracted could only lead to mistakes.
Slocum let the old man natter on, commenting on this and that and occasionally going on about how loyal his daughter and son were but how they wouldn’t pay good money for a decrepit pile of bones. This convinced Slocum he had something worth trading. There wasn’t any reason to deny his worth if the old man really thought he was worthless.
The narrow canyon mouth made Slocum reconsider the wisdom of his plan. Then he knew it had to be done this way or he’d never get money from the Valenzuelas. He rode to the spot Murrieta had suggested and looked around. A small pool of water bubbled from the ground. Bones of small animals told of the poison in the water.
“I’m thirsty. Let me drink.”
“Go on,” Slocum said. He kept a sharp eye on the surrounding countryside. There were too many spots where a sniper might bushwhack him, so he decided to force the Valenzuelas’ hand. And he did. The old man dropped to his belly and started to drink.
“¡Tomé no, Papa!”
José rose from behind a tangle of undergrowth not ten feet away. Slocum hadn’t seen him. He reckoned Conchita was hidden somewhere else. If they thought it necessary, there would be others, also.
“I’d listen to him,” Slocum advised. “That pond’s poison. Venenoso.”
José’s father looked up. The sly look on his face told Slocum that age hadn’t dimmed the man’s brain. He had done this to fake being ill, thinking to gain an advantage. The hardness that came to his eyes showed that Slocum would have died if he had tried to save the old man and had, even for an instant through carelessness, lost his six-gun.
“Come here, Papa,” José called. “I have him covered.”
“You want to lose him?” Slocum slid his six-shooter from its holster and aimed it at the prone man’s back. “You shoot me, I kill him. He’s not spry enough to get away.”
“You would trade your life for him?” José sounded amazed at this.
“No, since I expect you to give me the thousand dollars I asked for. I’ll take the money and ride off. Your pa stays where he is in my gun sight until I see the gold.”
José Valenzuela shifted, as if trying to decide which he was willing to lose, his father or the money. Slocum knew how the playacting would end but still kept his pistol aimed at the elder Valenzuela.
“I will do as you say, but I will track you to the ends of the world if you harm him.”
“The money,” Slocum said coldly.
José disappeared, then popped back up like a prairie dog. He held a canvas bag in his hand.
“Show me the money. Open the bag, and show me what’s inside.”
Valenzuela glared, then put down his rifle and fumbled to open the mouth of the bag. He opened it and held it out for Slocum to see inside. Slocum cocked his six-shooter to indicate what he wanted next. He could either shoot the helpless old man or José could reach into the bag and show its contents.
With ill grace, José pulled out a couple handfuls of scrip.
“Where’s the gold?”
“There was none,” José said. “Only this paper money.”
“Toss out your rifle, then the money bag.”
“You will kill both my papa and me.”
“The thought’s crossed my mind,” Slocum said, “but it’d be a waste of bullets—if there’s enough money in that bag.”
“It is all we stole.”
Slocum snorted in contempt at the obvious lie. The bank had lost a fair amount of gold coin because Galworthy had complained about the loss to Sheriff Bernard. Although the banker might have lied, there was little reason for him to have done so unless he had been stealing from his own bank. Since he was the owner and president, that seemed unlikely. Galworthy robbed legally from everyone in the county and could keep his racket going for years to come. His depositors were not likely to look kindly on him if he didn’t make good any losses on their part.
“Here.” Valenzuela swung the bag around his head in a wide circle and released it. The canvas bag sailed through the air and landed near the poisoned pond.
“Pick it up, and give it to me,” Slocum