Slocum 419

by Jake Logan

  “Nothin’. There’s a chamber pot under your bunk and a wad of paper.”

  Loomis mumbled a string of curses.

  Hellinger and Craig walked back into the office, plunging the jail cell into darkness. They heard the creak of the old cot as Loomis lay down.

  Craig closed the door.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said. “We goin’ to arrest anybody else tonight?”

  “No. In the morning, we’ll go over to the claims office and pay Mr. Fogarty a visit. You get some sleep.”

  “Enrique was pretty durned mad when we brought Amy in. Said he was plumb full and would have to hire another carpenter.”

  “He’ll get over it. City will pay him something for his troubles and he’ll get a coroner’s fee.”

  “A lot of killin’ lately,” Craig said.

  He set the lantern down on a table near the desk, where a lamp still flickered.

  “I’m counting on a couple more,” Hellinger said.

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, I’d say Slocum is hot on Wolf’s trail right now. I expect he won’t come back empty-handed. He’ll be leading two horses with dead bodies on them. Then Enrique will have plenty to holler about.”

  “Jesus,” Craig said.

  He left the office, shaking his head.

  Hellinger sat at his desk and rubbed his chin, the short hairs of a stubble growing from his flesh.

  Slocum, he thought. He did not know for sure if Slocum had chased after Wolf, but he would find out in the morning. There was something about that man that bothered him. Why was he at the center of all the recent murders and shootings? He had no stake in Durango. He had ridden in here only to deliver some horses, and yet he’d stayed to clean up the town. He was like some knight of old, and Hellinger would bet money that Slocum knew Amy Sullivan and somehow Wolf had put it all together and killed her because of Slocum. Otherwise, her murder didn’t make sense.

  Yes, he would bet that Slocum knew more about Amy’s murder than anybody else did, including himself.

  Where did a man like Slocum come from anyway? he wondered.

  Maybe out of nowhere.

  And back into nowhere once he had finished what Fate had called upon him to do.

  Hellinger put out the lantern flame and blew out the lamp on his desk. He made his way to the door in darkness and let himself out. He locked the door and walked to his home a pair of blocks away, weary, but somehow elated.

  Maybe, he thought, he should deputize Slocum and put him on permanent.

  But in his heart he knew that a man like Slocum never put down roots. He was a drifter, and maybe, if he looked hard and long enough, a drifter with a price on his head.

  It was, somehow, a comforting thought.

  Slocum might be a wanted man who was now on the right side of the law.

  27

  Wolf and Hobart rode along a narrow trail through a steep dark canyon that seemed endless. The only smattering of light came from the Animas River with its star-sprinkled waves and murky waters that swallowed most of the distant lights in the sky.

  The temperature dropped as a cold wind blew through the chimney of the canyon. The wind scorched their faces and scoured their skin as if made of rough sandpaper. The men bent over their saddle horns to allow their hat brims to deflect some of the wind away from their faces. But the cold fingers pried through their jackets. They shivered in the harsh chill that seemed to penetrate into their bones.

  “Damned wind,” Hobart said.

  “It’s a bitch willy,” Wolf said. “It’s like a damned tunnel through an iceberg.”

  “Hard as hell to see anything, too,” Hobart said.

  “The horses will find their way out of here. No need to look at the road. I don’t even know if we’re on the road,” Wolf said. “If the river wasn’t there, I’d think we were lost.”

  “Maybe we ought to head for the timber and build a lean-to out of this damned wind,” Hobart said.

  “The horses would have to scale sheer rock to get to any timber,” Wolf grumbled.

  His anger rose in counterpoint to the cold. He felt as if he had been chased out of a warm cabin by a phantom dressed in black, a man he did not know, but who had decimated his men like a one-man army. The bastard. Maybe, he thought, he should have stayed and faced the man. After all, he was no slouch with a pistol and he still had Hobart to back him.

  No use in crying over spilled milk, Wolf thought. He couldn’t go back to Durango right now. He was frozen stiff from the bitter cold and couldn’t draw his pistol if he had to. So Slocum had won that round. He would not win the next. If the man managed to track them to Pagosa Springs, he and Hobart would be warm by then and ready to shoot him down if he showed his face.

  That thought helped to ward off the cold that seeped through his flesh and curdled his bones. There was still money for the taking in Durango, and as soon as the weather warmed up, he meant to go back and rake in his share of the wealth.

  “I—I’m freezin’ to death, Wolf,” Hobart said as the canyon seemed to darken and the wind blow harder.

  “Quit your damned bellyachin’, Hobart. Just grit your teeth and keep on goin’.”

  The horses blew frosty vapor from their rubbery nostrils, and Wolf could see his own breath as it streamed from his mouth in a mist.

  “Shit, we’re never goin’ to get out of this canyon,” Hobart complained. “All I see ahead is more rock, more hellish cliffs.”

  “There’s an end to everything,” Wolf said and felt the gelid air burn his lungs when he drew in oxygen.

  He hated Hobart’s whining. It was a sign of weakness. Wolf couldn’t stand weakness in a man or a woman. His brother had been weak, and so was Clara. He hated her more than he hated anyone. He hated her for choosing Hans over him so long ago, and hated her for having kids he didn’t want, and even hated her for kowtowing to him over the years. Scared of her own shadow. You could not trust a weakling, he thought. Sooner or later a weakling would buckle under pressure. Someone like that could let you down when the going was rough.

  Hobart had been a good man, but he, too, was turning into a spineless weakling over a little cold weather. What would happen to him when he faced the barrel of a Colt .45? Would his teeth chatter and his knees turn to jelly when faced with a man like Slocum?

  Wolf ground his teeth to keep them from clacking together. Yes, it was damned cold, but he wouldn’t give Hobart the satisfaction of knowing that he, too, was freezing, that his body seemed lifeless in the saddle.

  After what seemed like hours, the canyon began to widen. The sheer bluffs on either side receded, and the river was a ribbon of spangles shimmering in the light of the risen moon. The road climbed at a grade that seemed to rise slowly above the pit they had been in for the past two hours.

  He saw Hobart tilt his head and look upward at the moon, then shrug back down and huddle over his pommel like a beggar.

  Wolf shook his body to warm it up. That didn’t work. The chill was still there, deep in every fiber of his body, in his goose-pimpled arms, the shiver steady and uncontrollable as it coursed up and down his frame from his numb feet to his forehead.

  Another half hour of steady plodding brought them to a rise, and then they were out of the canyon and away from the harsh wind. It was still very cold, but at least their coats were some protection. Wolf flapped one arm against his side, then the other. His fingers were wooden, and he flexed them to bring back circulation to their tips.

  Suddenly, Hobart looked up ahead and raised his left hand to signal Wolf, who rode behind him in single file.

  “There’s somethin’ up ahead yonder,” Hobart said as he turned to look back at Wolf.

  Wolf stood up in the stirrups and saw a shadowy blob off to the side of the road. It seemed to be moving just a little. “What is it?” he asked.
r />   “Dunno,” Hobart answered. He looked ahead once more and thought he saw a man. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard with a clumsy hand that had no feeling in it.

  Wolf lifted his coat on the right side and put his hand on his pistol. He could barely feel the outline of his pistol grip. He patted his fingers against the wood and felt no sensation at all.

  As they got closer, Hobart made out the silhouette of a horse. Then, a few seconds later, he saw a man on foot beside it. He brought his rifle up and laid it across the pommel.

  The man on the ground waved both arms in a wigwag fashion.

  Wolf saw it, too, as he rode alongside Hobart.

  “That’s Jessup,” Wolf said.

  “Damned if it ain’t,” Hobart agreed.

  They rode up on Tom Jessup, but could barely see his face. He had a bandanna tied under his chin, the top of it beneath his crumpled felt hat.

  “Jesus, Hobart, am I glad as hell to see you,” Jessup said.

  “What’re you doin’ here, Tom?” Hobart asked Wolf’s errand boy.

  “Horse stepped in a hole and he’s gone lame on me.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Can’t feel no broken bones, but this is as far as I’ve got.”

  “I can see that,” Wolf said.

  “Let’s have a look,” Hobart said.

  He dismounted and let his reins fall free. His horse stood there, blowing clouds of mist through its nostrils.

  Wolf looked at Jessup’s horse. Its head was drooping and its tail hung straight. Its left hoof was cocked above the ground as it stood on three legs.

  Hobart squatted down as Jessup walked around to stand near him.

  “Happened about a quarter mile back,” Jessup said. “We was goin’ along just fine then Willie here stumbled and come up lame. I felt his hock. He winced ever’ time I touched it, so I don’t know if there’s a bone broke in his ankle or not.”

  Hobart touched the bottom of Willie’s hoof and pushed upward gently. The horse let out a whinny of pain and stepped aside and away from him on three legs.

  “He’s pained, that’s for sure,” Hobart said. “What’d you do, boy, step in a gopher hole?” He reached up and patted the horse’s neck. Willie tossed its head.

  “I’d say he stuck his leg in some kind of a hole,” Hobart said. “Might have sprained his ankle or, worse, broke a little bone somewhere inside.”

  “I’m stuck here, that’s for sure,” Jessup said.

  “Shoot the horse,” Wolf called down from his high perch.

  “Oh no, not Willie,” Jessup said.

  “You can walk him to the Springs, then,” Wolf said. “Might take you a day or two.”

  Jessup stood up and rubbed his forehead with a gloved hand.

  “If nothin’s broke,” Tom said, “he might heal up pretty quick. How far is to the Springs?”

  “I don’t know,” Wolf said. “A far piece.”

  “Shit,” Jessup said.

  Hobart took off his glove and with a numb finger traced a line down Willie’s ankle until the horse flinched. “There,” he said.

  “What?” Jessup asked.

  “It’s high above the ankle. Maybe an inch or two. Not good.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

  “I mean, I think he’s got a bone broke above his ankle. It ain’t somethin’ that will cure right off.”

  “Damn,” Jessup exclaimed.

  “Shoot the horse,” Wolf said again.

  “Aw, no, Wolf. Maybe it’s not so bad.”

  Hobart clasped the sore spot with his fingers, gripping the horse’s leg just above the ankle. He squeezed, then wrenched the leg as he pressed his ear close to the sore spot. He heard a soft click and Willie lifted its head and let out a horse’s shriek.

  “Bone’s cracked in there, and I think his ankle bone’s got a splinter fracture in it,” Hobart said. “I had a horse step into a gopher hole and get hurt that same damned way.”

  He let the hoof fall away from his hand and stood up. He looked at Jessup.

  “I can ride you double, Tom,” he said.

  “Huh? What’re you sayin’, Hobart?”

  “I’m saying you got to put Willie down.”

  “You mean shoot him?”

  “Less’n you want him to suffer more. Wolves and coyotes will tear him to pieces and you’ll hear his pitiful screamin’ ever’ night when you go to bed.”

  “Christ. Willie’s a good horse,” Jessup said.

  “Not no more he ain’t,” Hobart said. “When my horse broke its ankle in a gopher hole out in Nebraska, I had to put my rifle barrel against his head and blow his brains out. But my horse was sufferin’ and there wasn’t no way to fix that broke ankle.”

  “Draw your pistol, Tom,” Wolf said. “Make it quick. That horse of yours is in pain and that’s the best thing you can do for him.”

  “I—I don’t know if I can shoot Willie. Jesus.”

  “Best thing you can do for him now, Tom,” Hobart said.

  “Get on with it,” Wolf said impatiently. “Draw your pistol, or I can use my rifle. One way or another, you got to do it. Ain’t no sense in leavin’ Willie to suffer like he is.”

  “Well, God damn it,” Jessup said. “It’s hard.”

  “You’ll feel better when you put a halt to Willie’s sufferin’, Tom,” Hobart said.

  Jessup walked around and jerked his rifle from its scabbard. He levered a cartridge into the firing chamber. The horse sidled a half step away from him as if it knew the end was near.

  Jessup began to sob. He sniffled and wept as he walked close to Willie’s head and held his rifle up with both hands. He put the snout of the barrel up behind Willie’s ear.

  “Go ahead,” Hobart said. “The longer you wait, the harder it will get.”

  Jessup let out a loud sob and squeezed the trigger.

  The explosion was loud, loud as a thunderclap.

  The horse staggered and dropped to his knees. Then he wheezed a last breath and toppled over on his side. His hind legs quivered and kicked three or four times and then he lay still. Jessup’s rifle dropped as a tendril of smoke spiraled up from the muzzle.

  “Mount up,” Wolf ordered both men. “We can’t dawdle.”

  Jessup’s head bowed as he looked at Willie’s corpse. A shudder went through his body and he wiped tears from his face and snot from his nose with a swipe of his coat sleeve.

  “Hate to leave my saddle there,” Jessup said as he walked toward Hobart. “And my saddlebags.”

  “Maybe you can come back on a new horse and fetch ’em in a day or so,” Hobart said. He climbed up into the saddle and stretched out a hand to help Jessup climb up behind him using the empty stirrup as a step.

  Jessup grasped Hobart’s hand and pulled himself up and swung his leg over the rump of his horse. He scooted up close to the cantle and rested the stock of his rifle on his leg.

  “Better wrap an arm around my waist, Tom,” Hobart said as he leaned over to retrieve his reins.

  Jessup wrapped his right arm halfway around Hobart’s waist. “Won’t work,” he said.

  “Grab hold of my belt, then, and hang on,” Hobart said.

  Jessup lifted Hobart’s coat and tucked four fingers inside his gun belt. He gripped the leather tightly as Hobart clucked to his horse and ticked the animal’s flanks with his spurs.

  As they rode away, Jessup looked back at Willie and stifled a deep sob.

  “Good-bye, old boy,” Tom murmured and leaned his head against Hobart’s back.

  “I’ll take the lead,” Wolf said. He rode around and took up the road in front of Hobart. And now he looked back over his shoulder.

  How much time had that lame horse cost them? Was anyone following them?

  Wolf didn’t know.

/>   “You keep your eyes peeled from now on, Hobart,” he said as he looked back at the man riding behind him.

  “Sure thing, Wolf,” Hobart said. “You can do the same, Tom.”

  “Is somebody follerin’ you?” Jessup asked.

  “Likely,” Hobart said. “Don’t know for sure.”

  “Jesus,” Jessup said. “What a hell of a night.”

  “You can say that again,” Hobart said. But he didn’t mean it literally. He was just stiffened up with the cold and wanted the dark night to end.

  The road stretched into infinity before them, and there wasn’t a lighted lamp anywhere Hobart looked. His back was warm, at least, from Jessup’s embrace, but his hands and fingers were still made of cold iron and his arms were riddled with chill bumps.

  It was colder than the hinges of hell, he thought, and not yet midnight.

  Where in hell, he wondered, was Pagosa Springs?

  He kept looking back, but saw nothing and no one.

  Ahead, Wolf rode on, glancing every so often upward at the North Star from habit.

  Jessup mourned Willie in silence.

  Hobart gritted his teeth and kept flexing his fingers inside his gloves.

  Wolf thought it was the blackest night he had ever seen, and back in some part of his mind, he knew that they were being followed. He was as sure of it as he was sure of the night and the cold.

  Somewhere, behind them, rode the man in black.

  Slocum.

  A name that made his ire rise every time he thought of it.

  He tapped his coat as if to reassure himself that he was still wearing his pistol.

  If Slocum was on his trail, he knew he would need it.

  Sooner or later.

  28

  Slocum knew that they were riding through a great gorge formed some 200 million years ago by the massive ice sheet that pushed up the mountains. Sometime during that ice melt, a mighty river had coursed through the Rocky Mountains and carved that gorge where Durango now stood. The only trace was the Animas River.

  He also knew that he and Clara faced a sixty-mile ride in darkness to Pagosa Springs. The old wagon road cut through the mountains and into the gorge. He was sure he could find the road because it made a steep drop into the huge canyon. Up on the plain, they would be surrounded by snowcapped peaks that ringed the region. He remembered riding through that huge basin that seemed to have been swept almost clean by ancient glaciers that rumbled across the land, pushing up dirt and rock to form the Rockies, which now stood like silent sentinels over a once-ravaged land that had seen much violence in ancient times.