Slocum's Silver Burden Read Free Page B

matter with you? Don’t you like the idea of winnin’ so much money?”
    The gambler saw Slocum’s expression and snorted in disgust, then went to the fallen fighter and kicked him to see if he got any response. The fighter moaned, and his eyelids flickered. He was still out like a light. Then the gambler bent, grabbed Bully Boy by the shoulders, and dragged him to the edge of the dock. Panting from the exertion, the gambler tipped his fighter over the edge to land with a loud splash ten feet below in San Francisco Bay.
    â€œWhy’d you do that?” Slocum asked.
    â€œHe lost. He ain’t no good to me now. I hope he gets et by the fishes.”
    The man beside Slocum laughed.
    â€œMore likely, he’ll pizzen the fishes.”
    The gambler started to ask Slocum once more to fight for him, then saw the answer etched in every line on his angular face. Without looking back, the gambler stalked off, muttering to himself about having to go back to three-card monte to make a living.
    â€œYou do handle yourself with aplomb,” said the two-fingered man.
    â€œWhat happened to your hand? You a fighter?” Slocum asked.
    The man held up his finger and thumb and wiggled them.
    â€œBein’ a sailor’s a right dangerous way to live. I got all caught up in rigging and fell off a slippery spar. Part of me hit the deck. Some of me stayed aloft in the rigging.”
    The man studied Slocum hard, then said, “I ain’t up for a job I heard about, but you got the look of a man who can handle himself if I put in a good recommendation.”
    Slocum shrugged. He had hunted for work along the Embarcadero for a week and hadn’t turned up anything. Shipping was light at the moment, and the dockworkers who had jobs protected them jealously. The foremen weren’t inclined to take on new workers when they couldn’t keep their old hands busy.
    He had come to San Francisco on a horse that had died under him as he rode into Portsmouth Square. His fortune had gone downhill from there. The dives along the Barbary Coast were death traps he had wisely avoided. Nobody unknown to the barkeeps or owners escaped without getting their gut filled with Mickey Finns before being spirited off to the ships anchored in the harbor. There might not have been much call for dockhands but the ships’ captains had an insatiable appetite for new deckhands. Once aboard a ship, the shanghaied landlubber found himself impressed into service for two years or better. Once the drug from the drink wore off, a shanghaied sailor had a long walk back.
    Rather than drink there, Slocum had stayed closer to the center of town. He had passed by Russian Hill once, had taken a look at the Union Club on Nob Hill, and watched the fancy carriages with their well-dressed men and beautiful women decked out in jewels rattle by. Footsore and down to his last nickel, Slocum had considered a robbery to get back on his feet. Not a one of the carriages didn’t also have a pair of armed guards riding close behind.
    Slocum had eventually come to the docks and gotten into the fight. The gambler had taken one look at his rangy, emaciated frame and had thought he would be an easy opponent for Bully Boy. For ten dollars, Slocum would have let himself get pounded on, but a glance at the other fighter had revealed more muscle than skill.
    â€œMy name’s Underwood. Julius Underwood, late of Boston and other points north in New England.”
    â€œYou’re a ways from home.”
    â€œYou are, too. I got me a good ear for accents. South Carolina? No, wait, Georgia.”
    â€œWhy’d you bet on me?”
    â€œOdds. The longer the odds, the bigger the payoff.”
    Slocum laughed at this. Underwood had no confidence in his abilities but put money down on all the longshots in the hope of getting rich quick. Slocum wasn’t averse to making such a bet himself, but he needed more than a ghost of a chance to win. He had