Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [61]
They were all to be found in the streets Slocum and Valenzuela rode through at a quick trot.
More than one curious bully boy eyed them as they rode, but Slocum gave no opportunity for anything more than curious, appraising stares.
He reached the ferry just as it was loading. The large craft rocked on the choppy waves coming in off the Pacific Ocean, but this didn’t hinder the crew loading on wagons, horses, and other freight to be taken across to the far northern shore.
“Wha—”
Slocum grabbed Valenzuela by the collar and dumped him on the ground. A quick punch put him out again. Livid bruises formed above the man’s ear and now on his jaw. With a heave, Slocum got him to his feet and wrapped an arm around him to half drag the man aboard. They got curious looks since the wound in Valenzuela’s shoulder continued to ooze blood. The red blossom had spread across his shirt front and made it appear he had been blasted with a shotgun.
“My friend got a little drunk, and there was a fight.”
“Fight?” asked the sturdy sailor. “Where’d he git that wound?”
“Blue Parrot,” Slocum said, naming an infamous saloon on the Embarcadero. “He damned near got himself shanghaied.”
“Gonna bleed to death. If he does on the trip, just toss him over the side. Sharks’re ’specially hungry today.”
Slocum hunted for fare and didn’t have enough. He fumbled in Valenzuela’s pocket and pulled out a thick wad of greenbacks. Counting them would give close to eight hundred dollars, he guessed. He paid the sailor, made sure their horses were secured for the rough trip across, and then dropped Valenzuela to the deck.
He ran his fingers over the scrip he’d taken from the road agent.
“Swindling your own sister finally paid off—for me,” Slocum said. He nudged Valenzuela with the toe of his boot to elicit some response. A moan told him the man was still alive. Slocum settled down for the trip across to Sausalito.
When the ferry docked with a loud thud against the pier, Slocum heaved Valenzuela to his feet. The man stirred and tried to fight, arms flailing about weakly. Slocum pinned his arms to his side and dragged him off and waited for their horses to be led from the ferry. The sailor gave Slocum an odd look, then returned to work on unloading freight when the ferry captain shouted for him to stop malingering.
Slocum heaved Valenzuela belly down over his saddle, then mounted and led the horse north. By the time it got dark, he had reached the junction for the road leading to the southeast and San Quentin. He felt anxious about what had to be done at dawn tomorrow. Atencio was destined to swing then, and Slocum wanted to be as close as he could to the prison to be there on time. More than this, he had to find Murrieta and see if everything he had asked for had been fetched and was ready.
If anything went wrong, there’d be a new grave in the cemetery outside the prison walls—or maybe several. Slocum didn’t want to fill one of those new unmarked graves.
He rode a half mile down the road toward San Quentin, then left the road when he heard sounds ahead. He melted into the landscape just as a pair of guards from the prison trotted away, arguing about something he couldn’t make out. As they vanished in the dark, he caught one snippet.
“Wilkinson said he saw somebody ’bout here.”
Slocum felt a mite better. The guards riding patrol meant Sergeant Wilkinson hadn’t caught anyone, so Murrieta must be around somewhere. No one else had reason to sneak around the area. If anyone came to see Atencio hanged, they would arrive in the morning on the first ferry. Although he should have asked and hadn’t, Slocum reckoned that ferry would arrive a bit after dawn. He doubted the ferrymen worked in the dark because of the strong currents flowing into San Francisco Bay from the