Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [71]
“Git yerse’ves off. Ferry goes back to Oakland in twenty minutes,” bellowed a dockhand. Slocum didn’t have to be told twice. He had an hour’s ride ahead of him getting south of the city to see Maria again.
As he rode from the Embarcadero, he got an uneasy feeling and looked around. He immediately pulled down his hat to hide his face. Two uniformed guards lounged about not far from the docks. He recognized one from San Quentin, even if he hadn’t spotted their outfits. Warden Harriman had yet to catch all the escaped prisoners and kept watch to be sure none left town on the ferry.
All that saved Slocum from being noticed was that he came from Oakland. Getting back on the ferry might be chancy if the prison guards continued their vigilance. Slocum turned the corner and trotted toward Portsmouth Square, the guards still watching travelers getting onto the ferry. He didn’t dare come back this way. Better to ride far south and follow the Bay until the shoreline turned north again so he could retrieve the money he had left hidden in the hills above Oakland.
A new warmth suffused him. He had robbed the Valenzuelas and wanted to be there when they discovered they were again poor. Slocum knew that he was unlikely to witness it, but the image of them blaming each other made him smile. The smile turned to a toothy grin when a new idea came to him how to really ruin their day.
He rode around until he found a telegraph office. Inside, he dictated the telegram to Harriman where he could find one of his escaped prisoners. That would get José Valenzuela clapped back in the penitentiary where he belonged. Helping Harriman was a thorn in his side, but the irritation passed quickly knowing Conchita would have to visit her brother behind bars once more.
She wasn’t likely to find another dupe to break him out either. Harriman’s recent setbacks as warden would force him to lock down San Quentin so hard that a flea couldn’t get out.
“Confusion to my enemies,” Slocum said, shoving the flimsy yellow sheet to the telegrapher. The man looked up, cocked his head to one side, and stared at him.
“You want that added to the ’gram?”
“Send it, as is. If the warden or, more likely, a guard sergeant named Wilkinson comes by asking about who sent the message, you might get yourself a reward if you say that you overheard this in a bar.” Slocum tapped the message with his forefinger.
“And if I mention you to this sergeant?”
Slocum shifted his weight slightly so his left hip was thrust out. The telegrapher took in the well-used handle of the Colt Navy and Slocum’s obvious readiness to use that formidable weapon.
“You figger somebody’s gonna come by to inquire?”
Slocum only nodded.
“That’ll be a dollar-ten to send the ’gram.”
Slocum slid across a twenty-dollar greenback.
“Keep the change,” he said.
The telegrapher took a deep breath and made the bill vanish as fast as a frog’s tongue snares a fly in midair.
“You want me to wait ’fore I send this?”
“Now,” Slocum said. “I want you send it right now.”
The telegrapher dropped the sheet on his desk, sent a preliminary few clicks, then settled down to converting the letters into code. Slocum left while he was still in the middle of sending.
He mounted and rode off, feeling even better about himself. Letting Harriman know where to find José Valenzuela had so many advantages.
Slocum’s caution saved him from riding straight into the village and into Sheriff Bernard’s arms. The lawman had a small posse spread about the village, going house to house. Slocum tethered his horse some distance away, then hiked to the top of a hill where he could flop on his belly and watch the progress as Bernard hunted for outlaws. Or had he joined the search for the San Quentin escapees?
It might be that Bernard just hunted for local lawbreakers and to hell with the escapees.
After an hour, Bernard shooed