by Jake Logan
Slocum rode like the wind toward the Holman ranch, his mind tumbling and stumbling over too many guesses. He needed certainty; he needed facts. He wasn’t likely to get them until he talked again with Angelina and found if it was only her ranch that Ralston wanted. In spite of the need for reaching the ranch as fast as he could, his horse had been worn out on the trail and began to falter. As much as he wanted to press on, he knew his horse would either balk or just die under him if he tried to continue at the breakneck pace he had set.
Slowing to a walk, Slocum realized he had to give the horse more of a rest than this. He dismounted and walked alongside so the gelding wouldn’t have to carry his weight for a mile or so. Footsore, Slocum mounted again and alternated a walk with a trot. He felt the pressure of time and circumstance weighing down on him, but there was nothing he could do.
After what seemed an eternity—and it well might have been since the sun was sinking on the distant horizon—he found the road leading to the Circle H and took it. By the time he got to the ranch house, apprehension had built to the point where he wanted to explode.
Chickens milled about in the yard between the house and barn, pecking at the ground, hunting for food. Hungry birds came toward him, but his horse kicked out and scattered them.
“Not fed, no light in the house,” Slocum muttered to himself. He dismounted and drew his six-gun, not knowing what he would find inside.
Pulling back the latch string, he waited for any reaction from inside. Barreling in might win him a shotgun blast to the gut. After he had waited and not heard anything, he eased open the door. Pressing close to the doorjamb, he slipped inside, careful not to silhouette himself against the sinking sun.
The room was small but well kept. Moving like a shadow, he found the bedroom. The bed hadn’t been made and a washbasin on a side table was dry as a bone. Nobody had been here in a spell. He went back to the main room and poked through the larder. Not much in the way of food. And nothing had been prepared recently.
When he heard a soft sound, a crackling noise, he whirled about, gun aimed and ready to fire. A gray cat dropped down, ears flattened, and hissed at him. Then it silently left, taking care not to step again on the old newspaper that had alerted him. He tracked it with his six-gun until it faded tracelessly into the twilight.
It took another five minutes to assure himself that the house was empty. He went to the barn. If Angelina had come back, her horse would be in a stall. There were two dairy cows in stalls, but from the look of their udders, they hadn’t been milked. They lowed in pain. Slocum didn’t have time to tend them so he led them out and released them. There had to be a calf or two nearby that would relieve the pain—if the mama cows permitted it.
But Angelina’s horse was not in the barn. He made a thorough examination of the stalls, then frowned. One had fresh horse flop in it. Her horse had been here, within the past few hours if he could tell.
Then he looked up and saw a white sheet of paper punched onto a nail at the front of the stall. Slocum took it and held it up. The penciled writing was too faint for him to read. He went to the back of the barn, found a lantern, and lit it. With the flickering yellow light sending crazy shadows over the page, Slocum slowly read the note.
Ralston had taken Angelina captive and wanted to trade Barnett for her.
9
“Well, I reckon that’s possible,” Marshal Wilson said, staring at the kidnap note on his desk. He scratched himself, then shook his head. “Don’t like to hand over prisoners like that, though.”
Slocum wanted Angelina released, but it galled him that Ralston had resorted to such an underhanded way of freeing his foreman. Angelina wasn’t part of the problem, and as much as he thought Barnett was innocent of the Holman murder, he didn’t want to see the marshal cave in to the demand. In the back of his mind he worked over the possibility that Ralston was sweet on Angelina and had murdered her husband. If that were the case, she was in the worst possible hands now.
Or the best. Would a man who felt unrequited love for a woman hurt her?
Slocum couldn’t work any of it out to his satisfaction. Did Ralston think Barnett was that valuable as a foreman, or was there more to it? He knew powerful ranchers like Ralston felt they were above the law. And most were. From the way Wilson jumped whenever the rancher yelled “frog,” that was true. At least it had been until Ralston had shoved him against the jailhouse wall. That had been a breaking point for the lawman, no matter how much money Ralston might give him under the table to look the other way when his boys came to town and shot it up. Ralston should never have publicly humiliated Wilson.
“Where’s he likely to have taken her?” Slocum asked.
“If you’re thinkin’ on findin’ her yourself, you might as well try pissin’ up a rope. Ralston knows this land better ’n anybody. If he wanted to hide her, nobody’d find her.”
Slocum left the marshal and went to Barnett’s cell.
“You heard what your boss did.”
“Cain’t rightly believe he’d do that for me. When you lettin’ me go?”
“Where would he take her?”
“Now, that wouldn’t be smart for me to answer, would it? If I tell you, you rescue her, I rot in jail.”
Slocum moved closer and lowered his voice so only Barnett could hear.
“If he harms one hair on her head, you won’t live long enough to rot in jail.”
“You cain’t threaten me, Slocum!”
“It’s a promise. I don’t think you killed Holman, but I’m not so sure about your boss. He just might have.”
“To get that pissy little ranch?” Barnett laughed, then spat into the corner of the cell. His aim this time was more accurate than it had been in the past. “Mr. Ralston is a man of what they call means. He’s got more money than you could ever count. If you can even count.”
“I don’t mean the Holman ranch.”
Barnett frowned, then said, “You cain’t mean you think Mr. Ralston wants her? He kin get any woman he wants.”
“Killing Michael Holman and not getting caught would prove that, wouldn’t it?”
Barnett looked skeptical, but Slocum saw the calculation going on behind the man’s watery eyes. Barnett might discount the idea, but there was enough truth in it that he couldn’t be openly boastful one way or the other.
“If you want her, you’d better do whatever the boss says you ought to.”
“All I’ve got in his note saying he kidnapped her.”
“There’ll be more then, won’t there?” Barnett looked smug.
“One bullet is all it’ll take so you don’t give a rat’s ass one way or the other,” Slocum said, leaving the cell block before Barnett could retort.
“You shouldn’t rile my prisoners,” Wilson said. “It makes ’em mighty restless. Sometimes, they even throw their food around and make one whale of a mess.”
“Barnett probably doesn’t know where he would take her.”
“We got to wait, then. What’s the point in takin’ her if he don’t tell us how to make the exchange?”
Slocum looked out the open door into the street and saw Herk struggling along in the hot sun, his bad leg almost useless behind him. Once, he stepped on a rock in the street and fell to his knees. Painfully standing, he kept up his journey until he reached the jail.
“Marshal, got this!” Herk held up a sheet of paper. “One of Mr. Ralston’s hands done brought it to me and said to be sure you got it.” Herk looked at Slocum and said, “Didn’t figure you’d be here.”
“Why not?” Wilson asked. “He was the one what brung me the kidnap note.”
“Didn’t think he’d want to stick around after all the trouble swirlin’ ’bout him like a Texas tornado. But she might have a better chance if you’re the one makin’ the swap, Barnett for her.”
Slocum looked at Wilson, who scowled even more, then shook his head.
“Don’t see how that’s possible. He’s a prisoner wanted for murder.”
“You butt out,” Wilson said, his temper fraying visibly. Slocum knew the marshal was in waters too deep to swim.
“I kin act as go-between. Don’t reckon Mr. Ralston’d trust either of you so much,” Herk said. “Let me do some dickerin’ and see what might be possible.”
Slocum took the paper from the marshal and quickly scanned it.
“This doesn’t say anything about where Ralston wants to make the swap. How’d you find him if you went?” Slocum stared at Herk and wondered at the crippled man’s smugness. He looked full of himself, all prideful.
“There’s only so many places he kin be,” Herk said.
“Where?”
“Now, that’s up to the marshal for me to say,” Herk said.
“I don’t want to get nobody else involved. This is serious enough business,” Wilson said. “You tell us where we might find Ralston, and we’ll take care of any palaverin’.”
For a man who wanted to be in the middle of it all, Herk looked mighty pleased with this dismissal by the marshal. Slocum wondered what Herk’s game was. He had made the offer to go to Ralston, but was pleased as punch when he was told he couldn’t. How would he have acted if Wilson had given him the nod to talk to Ralston? Slocum almost took the marshal aside to make him change his mind.
“I kin unnerstand that, Marshal, I kin, I really kin. You and Slocum there, you go on out and rescue the little lady.”
“Where’s he most likely to be?” Slocum asked.
“If I was the one doin’ the ridin’ out—and the marshal jist said I wasn’t—I’d go out to where the Little Scorpion Creek flows into the Clear Fork of the Brazos. That’s right at the corner of Mr. Ralston’s property, but he likes it best of all.”
“How long you been in Abilene?” Slocum asked. Momentary fear crossed Herk’s weathered face, then the smiling mask descended.
“Long enough to overhear how he’s got a special cabin out there. He brags on it ever’ chance he gits.”
“That so, Marshal?”
Wilson shrugged and said, “Don’t rightly know, but if Herk says it’s so, it must be. Not many in these parts who know more ’n him.”
“Though he’s only passing through?”
“You want to git on the trail, Mr. Slocum, soon as you kin. It’s a ride up there.”
Again Slocum saw the veiled glee on Herk’s face, but the advice was good.
“We taking Barnett?” Slocum asked.
“He stays in lockup, leastways ’til we find if Miz Holman’s still alive.”
For once, Slocum agreed with the lawman. It would be the height of foolhardiness to take Barnett out and find themselves in an ambush—or worse. Angelina might already be dead. His fingers curled into a fist, then relaxed as he became aware of Herk watching him as closely as he watched the gimpy man.
Slocum got his horse and mounted, slowly walking the gelding back and forth in front of the jail as Wilson worked inside. The lawman finally came out carrying his sawed-off shotgun.
“Had to leave word for a deputy on what to do with the prisoners,” Wilson explained. “And I needed to make for certain sure I had the proper supplies.” He held up a box of shotgun shells. The marshal was ready for a prolonged battle.
As Slocum and Wilson turned to leave, Herk waved to them and called, “Good luck, good luck!” Then the man turned and began talking to a pair of cowboys who had drifted over to see what the fuss was all about. Herk slapped one on the back, and they headed for the nearby saloon.
Something about the cowboy and Herk bothered Slocum, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. When Wilson spoke, he ignored the pair and answered, “I doubt Ralston will have any of his hands with him.”
“You sound mighty sure, Slocum.”
“Because a man like Ralston would take care of his own problems.”
“More like make his own danged problems,” Wilson grumbled.
Slocum couldn’t argue, but he had a good read on Ralston. The man was used to calling the shots. When Angelina hadn’t given in right away and sold him the Circle H, he had taken it as a personal affront. He might have killed Michael Holman to buy the ranch because Holman had refused to give up what he saw as the beginning of a family property to hand down to his children.
Whenever he and Angelina had any.
Slocum knew the woman had lost more than her husband; she had lost her future to someone using a knife.
“You shouldn’t be along, Slocum,” the marshal said. He cast a sideways look, as if he didn’t want to confront Slocum directly.
“I’m in this mud hole up to my hips,” Slocum said. “You might need help with Ralston.”
“He’s one tough hombre, that I’ll grant,” Wilson said, “but I kin handle him. I done it before.”
Slocum didn’t say a word. He doubted that.
“Yup, I used to work fer him. ’Til the accident.”
Slocum had heard about that and rode along in silence since the marshal seemed intent on supplying all the conversation, one-sided though it was.
“I made good money ridin’ fer Monty Ralston. That’s why I can’t understand why he’d up and do a danged fool thing like kidnapping Miz Holman. Not to swap fer the likes of Barnett.”
“What does he stand to gain?” Slocum said, thinking aloud. That bothered him. Did Ralston think all his troubles would go away if he sprang Barnett from jail this way? If the Rangers were called in, his troubles would be starting. Even if the sheriff came back from his assignation in the next county, he might have more trouble on his fork than he could swallow. Rich and powerful went a long way toward doing what he pleased, but eventually the people got fed up with things like murder and kidnapping a widow woman.
He rubbed his neck where Finch had tightened the noose. Sometimes a crowd got out of control mighty fast.
“Monty Ralston is a complicated son of a buck. He thinks all the time, always plannin’ ’fore doin’.”
To Slocum, that didn’t sound like the hotheaded rancher at all. He had never seen him when he wasn’t about to burst a blood vessel in his temple from getting too angry.
“Tell me about the Brazos and the Little Scorpion Creek. Is there decent cover? Can he see us coming if we ride in from the south, or should we circle and come at him from a different direction? From opposite sides?”
“Yer askin’ questions I don’t rightly know. I heard about the place, but I never been there.”
Slocum thought on this real hard. The marshal of Abilene had never ridden here, although it was on Ralston’s property and he had worked for the rancher, but a man who wasn’t able to do more than eavesdrop in saloons knew the locale. Herk was a man of many parts, and Slocum wasn’t sure he liked any of them. Nothing got past the man, and he played a deeper game than it appeared. He might cadge free drinks, but the light in his eyes, brief though it was, when the marshal had told him to forget about riding along, had been undeniable. Herk had wanted to remain behind, yet he knew enough of the terrain where Ralston was to describe it clearly.
“What do you know of him? Herk?”
“Why do you ask? I don’t know much of anything. He came into town a few weeks back, leastways I think he did. I never saw him, and then he was everywhere, all the time spyin’ on everyone and askin’ questions. Never too obvious, but he found out where every skeleton was hidden. That’s how he gets ever’one to buy him drinks.”
“No matter what happens, he is there.”
“I don’t know what yer sayin’, Slocum. Where else would he be?”
“I thought I saw him when Angelina tried to gun me down.”
“She did that? When?”
Slocum ignored the question, pointing ahead.
“That the Brazos?”
“We kin water our mounts, then follow it to where the Little Scorpion flows into it.”
“There’s hardly enough for our horses,” Slocum said, standing in the stirrups and eyeing the
sluggishly flowing river. It might carry the name “river” but it was hardly more than a stream this time of year.
“Mine likes the taste o’ mud. Comes from bein’ brung up out here in West Texas.”
“There’s a dry streambed.” Slocum’s sharp eyes followed it as it meandered back into rolling hills. There were dozens of places where Ralston might ambush them, if he wanted.
“That’s likely what we’re huntin’,” Wilson said. His voice took on a shakiness that betrayed his fear. He reached down and drew out his shotgun, broke it open, and inserted two shells. It closed with a metallic click that could be heard for a mile.
Slocum said nothing about that. If Ralston was on the lookout for them, there wasn’t a great deal they could do to avoid being seen. He snapped the reins and started his horse walking up the middle of the dry creekbed. It might run full during spring rains, but now it was bone dry.
As he rode, Slocum kept a sharp eye out for the rancher.
“You think this is a wild-goose chase, Slocum?”
“Can’t say. Herk was the one who decided this was the spot mentioned in the note Ralston sent. I couldn’t make head nor tail out of it.”
“I got the same feelin’. But what else kin we do?”
“Stop,” Slocum said softly. “We can stop right here. See up ahead, in that stand of post oaks?”
“No, I—” Wilson bit off his words when Monty Ralston stepped out from behind a tree and brought a rifle to his shoulder.
“Where’s Barnett? You were supposed to bring him.”
“Where’s Angelina Holman?” Slocum called back. “There’s no trade until we know she’s still alive.”
“She’s safe.”
“No Barnett until we see her,” Slocum called.
“Then we got a Mexican standoff,” Ralston said. “I’m not telling where she is until I have Barnett beside me.”
“Why’d you send the note to Herk?” Slocum asked.
“What’s the difference, Slocum?” Wilson gestured for him to be quiet, but he did it by lifting the shotgun.
“Son of a bitch!” Ralston pulled the rifle stock into his shoulder and fired.