Slocum's Silver Burden by Jake Logan

way out of town. Oakland was a busy town, the terminus of the ferry from San Francisco and depot to a half-dozen railroad lines.
    Slocum fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out one of the papers that he’d been given. He scanned the bottom sheet signed by David Collingswood and changed directions, going to the Central California Railroad Station. He found it amid a tangle of tracks from other lines, but the station house was well marked and prosperous-looking with a long line of passengers waiting to buy tickets for a train heading over the mountains and going eastward in the direction of Virginia City along the main line.
    Slocum took the steps three at a time and pushed through the side door. The stationmaster glared at him for the disturbance.
    â€œYou get on out of here,” the man said. He barely topped five feet, was rotund, and had walrus mustaches that twitched to show his choler at Slocum’s invasion of his sanctuary.
    â€œI need a horse,” Slocum said.
    â€œYou been out in the sun too long, mister? This is a railroad station. We got iron horses. Puff, puff, choo, choo? You wait in line out on the platform and buy a ticket like everybody else.” The stationmaster thrust out a stubby finger to show Slocum where to go.
    Slocum pulled out the page and held it up for the man to read. The stationmaster moved his eyeglasses down on his nose, reared back, and read.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” he said. “I ain’t seen one of those in a month of Sundays.”
    â€œIt’s authorization for me to commandeer whatever I need. I want a horse and tack.”
    â€œSuppose there must be one around back.”
    â€œShow me.”
    The stationmaster bristled at the sharp order, but Slocum had been a captain in the CSA and had learned command in more dire situations. The man glanced from the letter to Slocum’s grim visage and decided that determination meant more than anything a vice president of the railroad might write. He grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, then went to a back door. He threw it open and shoved his stubby finger out.
    â€œThat one. Take that one, and be damned sure I am going to bill the home office for it.”
    â€œMake it to Miss Tamara Crittenden’s attention. She handles all of Mr. Collingswood’s money problems.”
    Slocum spent a few minutes getting to know the horse, letting it know it had a new rider. He adjusted the stirrups and then stepped up. The saddlebags were filled with odd tools. The horse’s previous rider—owner?—had worked as a repairman. What little food had been stuffed into the saddlebags wouldn’t last a day out on the trail.
    That was a problem to be taken care of later. He discarded the tools and scooped up a rifle leaning against a shed, perhaps left there by a railroad guard. Outfitted as well as he was likely to be, Slocum put his heels to the horse’s flanks and got it trotting from the railroad station. He returned to the main street leading from the docks and rode along until he saw a livery stable. He called out to a stableboy struggling to move a bale of hay.
    â€œYou put up a horse for a man wearing a six-shooter?” He went on and described Jack the best he could.
    â€œYeah, he left his horse here yesterday. Said he wasn’t gonna be back for a week, but he just now picked it up and rode off. Him and Mr. Wright got into a tussle over how much to pay.” The boy chuckled. “Mr. Wright got him to fork over half a week’s boarding fee. From what I could tell, he paid in silver.” The boy scratched his head, then wiped away perspiration. “Not a nugget neither. This was like he had shaved off a slice or two from a solid bar. I’ve seen coins and I’ve seen scrapings from a silver vein, but this wasn’t nothin’ like that.”
    â€œWhich direction did he go? Did he say?”
    â€œWas headin’ o’er the hills, goin’ to Sacramento,