Slocum's Great Race

by Jake Logan

“That money’s long gone. I spent a fair amount back in Benedict, not that I had much to begin with.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing,” she said. “I merely pointed out the facts.”

  “To what end?”

  “I—nothing.” Zoe seemed to fold in on herself. At least, she shut up and stopped her incessant chattering. Slocum had heard magpies that were quieter.

  As they entered Clarkesville, Slocum leading his limping horse and Zoe riding, they drew a considerable amount of attention.

  “They know we’re racers,” Zoe said. “There’s no other reason for such interest.”

  “I’ll see to my horse,” Slocum said. “It needs liniment and wrapping for its leg.”

  “I’ll find the telegraph office and let Mr. Zelnicoff know of our plight. I’ll also file my story.”

  “You have enough money to send that long a ’gram?”

  “Well, no, but I am sure I do have enough to contact my editor, who can vouch for me so I can send the article.”

  Slocum wished he had such unbridled optimism. Zoe rode off in search of the telegraph office, leaving Slocum to get his horse to a livery stable.

  “Pulled up lame or step in a prairie dog hole?” asked the stable man.

  “Lame. The mare’s been put to the limit these past few days.”

  “Muddy trails, slippery as all get out, rocks floating up,” the stable man said, nodding in agreement. He leaned against the horse’s shoulder, grabbed the right front leg, and heaved to get a better look. He ran his hand gently over the length of the horse’s leg, and finally released it. “Not so bad. She’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

  “All I’ve got is two dollars,” Slocum said, fishing around in his pocket. He had spent most of his money in Benedict for provisions, but he was loath to swap the trail grub for treatment. He was getting riled up over Colonel J. Patterson Turner’s Transcontinental Race—or the people taking part. How many had been killed already? And Molly had abandoned him.

  That rankled more than anything else. He had been shot at and struggled through inclement weather, and still trailed behind Molly Ibbotson and her brother after they had stolen the instructions. Winning the race was taking on more of a challenge because of the way everything so far had stung his pride.

  “Five,” the stable man said. “You can work off the other three. You got the look of a man who can ride any bronco.”

  “You have one to break?”

  “A couple, but there’s one sunfishin’ son of a bitch that nobody here can ride.”

  Slocum rubbed his butt. So much walking had worked muscles more accustomed to sitting in a saddle and riding all day.

  “I break this horse and we’re square?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Deal,” Slocum said, shaking on it.

  When he saw the bandit in the corral, he almost reneged on his promise. The squinty eyes, the powerful chest, the very attitude all told of a gargantuan battle to be fought between man and horse. Slocum would have every bone in his body jolted and twisted every which way before he put a saddle on this one.

  “John!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, and only quick reflexes kept him from being killed. The horse lashed out with its deadly front hooves and knocked the top rail of the corral in his direction. Slocum ducked, threw up his arm, and deflected the rail so that it didn’t smash him in the head. He rubbed his forearm where the flying wood had skinned off a few inches, leaving a bloody swath behind.

  “Are you all right?” Zoe hurried over and tried to look at his arm. He pulled away.

  “I’m all right. What’s got you so het up?”

  “I have a job!”

  He looked at her, wondering what she meant.

  “I’m running low on available cash, you see, and getting in touch with Mr. Zelnicoff requires more than I have, so I inquired of the local paper and the editor hired me. He advanced enough so that I could contact my editor—my St. Louis editor—and transmit my story. He asked for the story to run here since Clarkesville is the center of the race, or so it seems to the residents.”

  “Who else has come through?”

  “Other than Molly Ibbotson? We’re the next ones, but I am sure others will follow.” Zoe looked sheepish, then grinned. “That’s what I told him so he’d give me the job. After all, we could be the vanguard of dozens of racers.”

  “What’s the colonel’s interest in Clarkesville?”

  Zoe shook her head and said, “I can’t tell. There was supposed to be an office established here, followed soon by a depot and a half dozen employees, but so far nothing has happened.”

  Slocum looked back at the rearing bronco and wondered if it was worth his life to break the animal. Zoe had a job and they could live off that for a few days until his own horse was healed enough to ride. He felt nothing but foreboding when he thought about trying to stay on this monster’s back.

  Even as the idea crossed his mind, he pushed it away. He had promised and there was no way he would leech off a woman’s earnings.

  “I’ve got to ride that,” he said. “You might get a good story out of it for your new paper.”

  “Why?”

  “I suspect this outlaw is a legend in these parts.” He heard the stable owner chuckling when he overheard Slocum’s appraisal. That confirmed everything Slocum had guessed. Nobody had come close to breaking the horse, and whoever did would be a legend in Clarkesville, for whatever that was worth.

  “It might be a good story at that,” Zoe said, eyeing the horse. “When are you to attempt the feat?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “John, do you have to? Your arm’s all bunged up, and a doctor ought to look at it.”

  Slocum flexed his right hand. The forearm gave him the twinges, but no bones were broken. He had strength in his hands and knew there would be no disgrace using both to hang on to break this horse.

  “Give me a hand, will you?”

  “Mister, I was funnin’ you. You don’t have to ride ole Eagle.”

  “Eagle? That’s what you call him?”

  “’Cuz he spends more time in the air than he does on the ground.”

  “Hold him so I can mount.”

  “You’re crazy, but I gotta see this,” the man said. He put his fingers in his mouth and let loose with a loud whistle that brought men and boys running from all directions. “If you’re gonna try, I want folks to see you’re doin’ it of your own free will.”

  Slocum said nothing as he took the horse’s measure. The coal black horse had a white face, reminding him of another disagreeable cuss he had come across recently. One of Sid Calhoun’s henchmen had a white streak through the middle of his black hair. Skunk they had called him. He was a bad one, too.

  “Eagle, Skunk, it doesn’t matter,” Slocum said to himself, getting his mind wrapped around the chore ahead. Four men moved Eagle to the side of the corral and pinned the horse against the rails, giving Slocum a chance to get on. It took three men to get the saddle on. Slocum made sure it was cinched up as tight as possible, then climbed up and swung his leg over.

  He saw Zoe come over. Thinking she was going to beg him to stop, he started to tell her he was going to do this, no matter what, but she surprised him.

  “What’s it feel like with such a powerful animal beneath you?” She held her pencil poised over her notebook.

  “Feels like I’ve roped a lightning bolt,” he said, nodding to the men to release the horse.

  Slocum was a good rider, a damned good one. Eagle hadn’t taken four steps before spinning and bucking high into the air. Slocum went even higher, dislodged by the first stunt the horse pulled.

  He landed hard, got up, and motioned for the men to get the horse ready for a second try.

  He lasted almost five seconds this time before Eagle found a way to twist, turn, and buck to unseat him. The third time, Slocum refused to be thrown off. The horse turned frantic under him, finding ways to move no other horse
ever had. Resolutely, Slocum clung to the reins and pommel for dear life. He was violently tossed about and more than once almost lost his seat, but this time the horse was weakening.

  Slocum was dizzy and wobbling in the saddle by the time Eagle stopped soaring and started pawing angrily at the ground. Slocum tried a few movements, left and right, then put his heels to the horse’s flanks to give it the idea to move ahead. Eagle began bucking again, but this time Slocum was ready. After ten minutes of fury, Eagle abated.

  Slocum jumped to the rail and clambered over. He hit the ground outside the corral, and his legs gave way under him. He wasn’t too proud to let Zoe support him long enough to get his strength back.

  “Riding a horse like that takes it out of a man,” he said.

  “You did so well,” Zoe said softly, “that maybe you might like to try riding and putting it into a . . . woman.”

  Before he could answer, men crowded around, slapping him on the shoulder and offering to buy him drinks. He was the man who had ridden the horse that no one else could, and he basked in momentary fame.

  “Go on, John,” she said. “I have a story to write.”

  After a dozen rounds of drinks, most of the aches and pains had vanished in Slocum’s body. Strangely, he thought more clearly after so much tarantula juice. After downing that much liquor so fast, he was usually knee-walking drunk. But not now.

  Zoe and her words kept coming back to him. She wanted to break him to saddle just as he had done with Eagle. If he hadn’t been so bunged up from the ride, he would have let her slip in the bridle and lead him to the corral. She was a fine woman, pretty and smart and determined.

  A woman like that always had plans for her man, and Slocum preferred to ride his own trail.

  He went to the stable and checked his horse. The liniment stunk up the stall, but he saw that the horse was standing easy on the hoof. He gently probed and found no hint of soreness. The sprain hadn’t been as severe as he had feared.

  “You kin ride the mare, if you’ve a mind,” the stable owner said.

  Slocum looked up.

  “I’d consider you a damn fool to leave behind a filly like you rode into town with, but then I’d have thought you were a crazy goddamn fool for climbin’ onto Eagle the way you did.”

  “What do I owe you for the liniment and bandages?”

  “Here,” the man said, fishing in his vest pocket and had ing Slocum a twenty-dollar gold piece. “Eagle’s worth a couple hundred broke. I’m coming out ahead on the deal.”

  Slocum tucked the coin in the same vest pocket with the gold keys.

  “The only stage outta town headin’ west goes to Denver. The other racer, that woman that came up from Benedict on the stagecoach, stayed on it for the big city.”

  “No messages,” Slocum said, thinking about the unopened Turner Haulage Company office. “That means everyone in the race ought to keep on going.”

  “Don’t know, but it seems likely,” the man said.

  Slocum saddled his mare and led her from the stall, wary of any hint of limp. The horse pranced along, looking in fine fettle.

  “Still think you’re a fool leavin’ behind the reporter lady, but then I caught sight of the one on the stage. You have a way of surroundin’ yerself with lovely women.”

  “That might be my problem,” Slocum said, swinging into the saddle. He winced as pain hit him from all directions. The livery owner silently handed him the bottle of liniment. He’d need it more than the mare.

  Slocum rode out of Clarkesville, following the stagecoach route westward. Leaving Zoe Murchison behind was hard, but it was something he had to do. Otherwise, he might find himself settled down in Clarkesville ten years from now.

  The prairie wind against his face energized him and made it easier to put the town—and Zoe—behind him.

  16

  Sid Calhoun sat close to the guttering fire and spread the keys in front of him on the ground. The fan-shaped array glinted pleasingly golden as he touched each key in turn. Eight of them. He ran his finger along the notched edge of the closest and closed his eyes, imagining how he would insert the key into a lock, turn it, and open a chest to $50,000 in gold. Would it be in gold coin or dust? Maybe Colonel Turner had it all in a single bar. He tried to estimate what the bar would weigh. Over and over, he painstakingly did the numbers in his head, and let out a low whistle when he finally came up with an answer.

  “Two hundred goddamn pounds of gold,” he said softly. “I’ll need a pack mule to carry that off.”

  Sudden anger filled him as he thought that Turner might try to give him a stack of greenbacks rather than the actual gold. What good was a piece of paper only a few banks would honor? Even if the colonel gave him bank notes drawn on a U.S. federal bank, it wasn’t the same. He wanted gold. He wanted to run his hands through the dust or the coins or bust a gut trying to lift all two hundred pounds in bars.

  “I’m gonna be rich.”

  He picked up a key and pressed his calloused thumb into the notched edge. He picked up the next key and compared them, thinking they might be identical. Holding them out so the embers lit the keys from behind, he saw that the notches were different. He carefully studied each of the eight keys, and came to the conclusion the gossip had been right. Fifty keys, but only one opened the treasure chest. That meant he might cross the finish line first and still not win the gold.

  Returning the keys to his pocket, he drew his six-shooter and knew that he would collect. The colonel couldn’t deny him the gold if his life hung in the balance. There wouldn’t be any question that Calhoun would kill the tycoon—Calhoun knew he could look menacing, especially sighting down the barrel of a six-gun. Turner was a rich man who owned a huge freight company challenging Wells Fargo and any number of others for supremacy moving freight from the Mississippi ports across the country. From what Calhoun could tell, the colonel intended to deliver freight to towns not on the rail lines, though he had heard Turner was part owner of at least one railroad.

  He could collect from everyone that way. Profits from the railroad would fill his pocket; then the freight company would take the goods to smaller towns bypassed when the railroad went through.

  “Hell, the man’s a saint,” Calhoun decided. “He’ll keep some of those worthless towns alive doing this. He’ll think payin’ me fifty thousand dollars will be cheap advertisin’.” Calhoun snorted and spun the cylinder in his pistol. “It’ll be a cheap price to stay alive.”

  He tucked his six-shooter into his holster and warmed his hands on the dying fire as he lamented that the keys weren’t identical. If they had been, he could have given Curly and Swain keys and sent them to different West Coast cities. Calhoun thought the prize lay in San Francisco, but it could be in Seattle or San Diego since those were other towns on the colonel’s freight routes. Calhoun knew. He had found a brochure advertising rates to those cities.

  With the keys being unique, he wasn’t going to let them out of his sight. Better to keep Curly and that back-shooter Skunk Swain with him since they could be useful doing scouting he was reluctant to take on. When he finally found the final instructions, their usefulness would be at an end.

  “Hey, Sid,” called Curly, riding up and dismounting. He approached the fire as if it might burn him. “Got bad news.”

  “What?”

  “I poked around in that town like you asked. Clarkesville, they call it. But nobody knows anything about messages or anything left by Colonel Turner or his men.”

  “You’re not lyin’ to me, are you, Curly?”

  “Hell, Sid, I wouldn’t do that!” Sweat gleamed like beads of silver on his upper lip. He was about ready to piss his pants.

  “No, you wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Calhoun said. “You asked around?”

  “I asked plumb near ever’body I saw. They told me the Turner Haulage Company was supposed to open an office but never did. Ain’t even seen hide nor hair of any of the colonel’s men. They did know about the race, though
.”

  “If there’s not an office and no message, how’s that?”

  “They said a woman on a stage from Benedict asked around and got folks real curious. She rode on west, headin’ out for Denver on the stagecoach.”

  “Just one woman?”

  “They said there was a fellow with a real purty filly what came immediately after. The cowboy busted a bronco that nobody else could, and the woman got a job at the local newspaper.”

  Calhoun sat up. “You find out what she looked like?”

  “Nobody I found knew since she only just came to town, but they’re all talkin’ about her. She sounds real purty.”

  “A lady reporter,” Calhoun said. “What are the chances it’s somebody other than the one what rode on the train out of Columbia?”

  “I was thinkin’ the same thing, Boss.”

  Calhoun heard the lie. Curly never thought much on anything, but once the truth was pointed out, it was obvious to him.

  “They’re still in town?”

  “The man ain’t. The stable owner tole me he left right after bustin’ the bronco.”

  “He left the reporter behind?”

  “Reckon so.”

  Calhoun frowned, stared into the coals, and tried to sort it all out. That didn’t make a whole lot of sense unless the cowboy double-crossed the reporter and wanted the prize gold all for himself. Or maybe he was in cahoots with the woman who rode the stage for Denver. Calhoun was sure the reporter had had something to do with the sudden stop that had thrown him and his gang out of the mail car before Jubilee Junction.

  “Get back in the saddle. We’re all goin’ to town.” Calhoun kicked dirt onto the nearly dead fire, and watched the smoke rise fitfully and then vanish. He had the feeling he was chasing a puff of smoke in the cowboy who had broken a horse and gotten folks in town talking about it. He saddled his horse and trotted after Curly, wondering if he ought to wait for Swain to return from his scouting. This might be the time to cut him loose.

  Calhoun and Curly hadn’t ridden a mile toward Clarkesville when Skunk Swain overtook them.

  “What’s going on?” Swain demanded.