Slocum and Hot Lead

by Jake Logan

  “There are not many who speak that language where I hail from,” she said almost apologetically.

  “Señor,” began the proprietor of the general store. “La mujer está loca. Ella—”

  Slocum held up his hand to shut off the flood of recrimination.

  “Let me speak with her a moment,” Slocum said. The clerk shrugged expressively as if saying they both knew she was crazy but Slocum could do as he wished, devil take the hindmost.

  Slocum took the woman’s arm and guided her just outside the store.

  “What are you in the market for?”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “What do you want to buy from that unhung road agent?”

  “Oh,” she said contritely. “I thought you meant—never mind. I need supplies to go into the mountains for at least two weeks. A month would be better.”

  “You have any gear or are you buying it all?”

  “Why, I have my personal belongings. Clothing, other items, but nothing I need to, well, live.”

  “You don’t want to live off the land? You aren’t going to hunt?”

  “I wouldn’t know how,” she said. “It’s frowned upon when people shoot anything in Chicago.”

  Slocum had figured she was a city girl. But she didn’t have the pallor he usually associated with those who stayed indoors all the time. When she reached out to lay her hand on his arm, he saw calluses. She was used to hard work, in spite of her citified, highfalutin clothing with its pearl buttons and precisely stitched seams.

  “First time out West?” Slocum asked.

  “Well, yes, it is,” she admitted. “I have work to do.”

  “What sort?” She stiffened and put a little distance between them. Her hand slipped from his arm, indicating her reluctance to talk of her business with a total stranger. “Not that it matters. You need the supplies, and he’s trying to cheat you? Is that it in a nutshell?”

  She nodded and smiled at him almost shyly.

  Slocum went into the store and pawed through the stack of supplies the woman intended buying. He saw a few luxuries like tooth powder and soap, but mostly she had chosen well for a month-long stay in the mountains. Not too much, but enough. Beautiful and practical, he decided.

  Slocum began his dickering in English, but quickly changed to Spanish when the proprietor did so. They changed in and out of both languages, with hand gestures and stomping around on the dirt floor until tiny clouds hung about. Slocum was aware of the woman watching from just outside the door, her hand at her mouth as if she feared there would be gunplay.

  Finally Slocum turned and asked, “How much are you willing to pay for all this? He’s asking eighteen dollars, but that’s too much.” He stared hard at her, hoping she would take the cue. She was quick as well as pretty.

  “Oh, no, that’s far too much,” she said, looking irritated. Pretty, smart, and a talented actress when called for.

  “Lo siento,” Slocum said, pushing at the stack of supplies with his foot.

  “No, no, un momento, señor, por favor!”

  Another few minutes had the proprietor slumping and bemoaning the fate of his business, his starving children, and the entire town of Taos at such thievery.

  “Fourteen dollars,” Slocum said. “That’s a good price and not likely to be improved on.”

  “Done!” She came over, worked in a small clutch purse, and handed over the fourteen dollars in gold and silver coins. The store owner held out his hands as she counted the proper amount.

  “I’ll give you a hand with these,” Slocum said, moving the stacks of goods outside. He left everything in the shade but away from the door.

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been a big help,” she said, gracing him with a bright smile.

  “I could have gotten him down at least another six bits if I’d known you were paying in specie. I thought you were going to pay in greenbacks.”

  “I understand the difference. Paper money’s not worth a great deal, is it?”

  “A ten-percent discount is customary for hard metal, unless the scrip is written on a local bank. You can usually get a discount for coin since a store like this deals with a lot of travelers who won’t take anything else.”

  “You are quite knowledgeable, as well as helpful.”

  She paused, at a loss for words. Slocum helped her out by introducing himself.

  “I am so rude,” she said, blushing a mite. “My name’s Claudia Peterson.” She thrust out her hand as if she expected him to shake it as he would a man’s hand. Slocum obliged.

  “Miss Peterson, can I load your supplies into a wagon?” Slocum looked around, but saw nothing that looked like a buggy.

  “I have a buckboard out back,” she said. “Let me bring it around.”

  “You stay out of the sun,” Slocum said. He had nothing better to do than spend a few more minutes with this lovely woman. Truth to tell, he was curious as to why she traveled alone, needed a month’s worth of supplies, and intended to drive off into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  He found the buckboard and checked it. The wagon had seen better days but looked sturdy enough. How well it would fare off the twin-rutted roads around Taos was something else. He hopped into the driver’s seat, took the reins, and got the team pulling. They were old horses, both mares, and weren’t about to be hurried. Again, Slocum reflected on Claudia’s common sense. This team might not have the strength of younger horses, but they weren’t likely to be wild and uncontrollable either.

  He halted the team in a spot where it wouldn’t take much effort to load the supplies. Claudia knelt by one pile, carefully going through and checking off everything from a list.

  “You’re mighty well organized,” Slocum said, jumping down. “Any particular way you want this loaded?”

  “You know best,” she said. Claudia started to say something more, but hesitated. Slocum quickly loaded her supplies. By then she had worked up her courage.

  “Here, Mr. Slocum,” she said, handing over a silver cartwheel. “I appreciate your intervention on my part. That man would have rooked me out of far more than this.”

  Slocum looked at the shining silver dollar and almost reached for it. His upbringing prevented him from taking money for being polite to a woman.

  “No thanks, Miss Peterson. Your presence is payment enough.”

  “Ah, the Southern gentleman. Please. I insist.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it on him. Visions of beer and a decent meal flashed through Slocum’s head. He needed supplies himself, mostly ammunition, if he wanted to ride on. This wasn’t enough for all that, but it was a start.

  “Thank you,” he said, tucking the large coin into his vest pocket. “Are you going to hit the trail tomorrow?”

  “I’d hoped to get a start now,” Claudia said. “I’ve wasted so much time.”

  “Mind if I ask what you’re looking for out in the mountains? There are some dangers there you aren’t likely to find in a town like Chicago.”

  She laughed and said, “Have you ever been to Chicago, Mr. Slocum?” He had to admit that he had not. “There are dangerous animals of all kinds there, and I deal with them well.”

  “Be careful,” Slocum said. “But you never answered what you were hunting for out there.”

  “What makes you think I’m hunting for something?” she said sharply.

  “You don’t look like a miner or homesteader,” Slocum said. “That cuts down on most reasons you’d go into rugged hills like those.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the towering peaks.

  “I . . . I am an artist. I am here to paint landscapes. When I pick up my easel and canvases—and my paint box, of course—I’ll be off.”

  Her hesitation made Slocum think she waited for him to volunteer to accompany her. It wouldn’t be proper for a refined lady like Claudia Peterson appeared to be to come out and ask, but Slocum thought wandering around meadows and watching her paint pretty pictures wasn’t something he wanted to do. As lovely as
she was, Claudia was all business. If there had been a hint that she might expect more from a guide, Slocum might have been interested.

  “Have a safe trip,” Slocum said, touching the brim of his hat. Claudia looked crestfallen, but covered it well with a wan smile.

  “Thank you, Mr. Slocum.” He helped her into the driver’s box. She took the reins and expertly got the buckboard moving smoothly as she circled the plaza and started out of town. Slocum returned to the saloon, the silver dollar burning a hole in his pocket. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a familiar man going into the saloon.

  Marshal Hanks.

  Slocum let him disappear into the dim, quiet cantina, and then fetched his horse from the shady side of the saloon. As he walked his distinctive Appaloosa around front, he heard Hanks’s loud voice asking, “You see this varmint any time in the past few days?” A rustle of paper was followed by the barkeep’s mumbled, unintelligible reply.

  Slocum didn’t want to know if the barkeep had identified him as Neale. He swung into the saddle, put his spurs to the horse’s flanks, and overtook Claudia within a quarter mile. She was on the outskirts of Taos, heading into rugged country.

  From her big smile when he asked if he could guide her for a spell, he knew she was glad to have his company. He just hoped she would be willing to lie for him if Marshal Hanks came hunting him down.

  4

  Slocum tried not to be obvious every time he glanced over his shoulder at the back trail for any sign of pursuit, but Claudia noticed.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Slocum?” She snapped the reins of the team expertly and got the horses pulling up a steep incline to the top of a hill. “You seem nervous. Is there trouble brewing?”

  “No, no trouble for you,” he said. “I have some men on my trail who have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “How unfortunate,” she said. “This man they have mistaken you for? He’s an outlaw?”

  Slocum hesitated before answering. He had no idea why the marshal or Wilmer wanted Neale, but it had to be for something considerably illegal to warrant a hundred-dollar reward. From what he had seen of the nearsighted station agent in Las Vegas yammering at the marshal after a closer look at Slocum’s face, that was most likely the source of the misidentification.

  “It’d sound like I was lying if I said I haven’t got a clue why they want this owlhoot, but it’s the truth.”

  “Then I believe you,” she said almost primly. “You are an honest man.”

  “You don’t know that,” Slocum said.

  “I am considered a good judge of human nature,” Claudia said. She smiled. “I’m not wrong about you, am I?”

  “Depends on what you think of me,” he said. A blush came to her cheeks and she looked away abruptly to hide it. “Why not rest the team a few minutes?” he suggested. “They’ve had a hard pull this far.”

  “What will you do? Double back to see if anyone is actually on our trail?”

  “My trail,” he corrected. “This isn’t your fight.”

  “I choose to make it so,” she said, sounding like that prim schoolmarm again. But the blush in her cheeks lingered, giving her something of an innocent look.

  “I won’t be long,” Slocum said. And he wasn’t. He rode in a sweeping arc that took him away from the ruts that passed for a road and over to a spot where he got a better look at the road stretching a mile back toward Taos. No one came after him, not that he could see, but he had to remind himself that Wilmer was an expert at sneaking up on him. Slocum doubted the man was overly intelligent, but he had mountain man skills that made him dangerous—doubly so if Slocum ever underestimated him. This was why Slocum doubted Wilmer was still at the bottom of the mine shaft.

  Slocum sat astride his Appaloosa, watching the road and thinking hard. He could return to Taos and slip past Marshal Hanks and be on his way to Santa Fe before Claudia even realized he was gone. That was the smart thing to do. In spite of her determination, his trouble with Hanks and Wilmer wasn’t her business and would only bring her woe. Still, Slocum reflected, she was alone in a land she knew nothing about and deserved a decent guide.

  He swung his horse around and returned to the hilltop where Claudia waited patiently.

  “Well?” she asked. “Do the hordes of hell nip at our heels?”

  “Not a whiff of brimstone,” he assured her. He studied her face for a moment, and wondered if he would regret continuing to guide Claudia through the mountains. Somehow, seeing the expression on her face, he doubted it.

  “I would like to paint at a spot nearby. Is there something scenic?”

  Slocum shrugged. He had no idea what she meant. The mountains were something to cross, to fight against, to keep from killing him. Rivers provided drinking water.

  “A canyon would be nice. Is there one I might study and possibly paint?”

  “The Rio Grande cuts through the land ahead. I was going around the gorge since there’s no way to go down and then back up the far side with a buckboard. Or even on horseback. The sides of the gorge are mighty steep.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she said enthusiastically. “How far is it?”

  Slocum got his bearings, then pointed. “About an hour’s ride in that direction.”

  “ ‘Scout ’em and flout ’em,’ ” she said. Seeing Slocum’s quizzical look, Claudia explained. “Shakespeare. You have read the immortal Bard, haven’t you, Mr. Slocum?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “You do read?”

  “When I have to,” Slocum said, enjoying how she became flustered at his seeming illiteracy as they rode along.

  “An education is the most important thing a man can possess,” she said.

  “Depends on your need.” Slocum tapped his Colt Navy. “Given the right—or wrong—situation, I’d rather have this with six rounds loaded into the cylinder than a book of sonnets.”

  She saw that he was joshing her. “Sonnets, Mr. Slocum? You know that Shakespeare wrote sonnets?”

  “I must have picked that up when I was down South. In Shakespeare, New Mexico.”

  “There’s such a place?”

  “Surely is,” he said, “but it’s not the sort of place where you’d be too comfortable. Last time I was through, they hung a fellow from the rafters, then hid and waited for the stagecoach to come through. The passengers got out to stretch their legs and found the hanged man. The citizens of the town got a powerful lot of amusement out of their reactions.”

  “How awful,” Claudia said, shivering a little. Slocum couldn’t help noticing the way her blouse bobbed and bounced about when she moved like that. The jostling of the wagon only added to her allure.

  “Entertainment’s hard to come by in places like that,” Slocum said.

  Claudia didn’t answer. They made their way down to a dry river bottom, then up to a level plain that seemed to stretch for twenty miles.

  “This is where you said there would be scenic terrain?” She looked at him as if he were joking with her again.

  “Keep driving, but not too fast. You don’t want to go over the edge of the canyon.”

  “Canyon? What canyon? I hear a river but—oh!” Claudia pulled back hard on the reins, secured them, and stood, staring at the Rio Grande and the gorge it had slashed in the level plains. “That is scenic. You know exactly what I wanted, Mr. Slocum.”

  “What’s that?” he asked. Again, he flustered her as she blushed and struggled to find the proper words.

  “Why, this, of course. The scenery is superb, unlike anything I have ever seen.”

  “There’s a bigger hole in the ground over in Arizona,” he said, “but this one’s closer.” Slocum studied the colorful rock layers in the far canyon wall all the way down to the Rio Grande rushing along furiously at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot deep gash. The drought might have dried up the Rio Grande farther south, but not here. Taos could get all the water it needed, but the stretch of thirsty desert farther south sucked up most all of the liquid. B
ut here, there was no drought. Slocum thumped his canteen and noted it was almost empty.

  “This will do just fine. Where should I set up the easel to paint?”

  “Should we go to the bottom or do you want to stay up here on the rim?”

  “We can go to the river?” Claudia looked skeptical.

  “It’d take another couple days of hard travel either north or south to get away from this gorge and to a spot where we could work our way down. The sides are nowhere near as steep in other places.”

  “Let’s do both,” she said. “I’ll paint here for a day or two; then we can go down and see what vista I can achieve there.”

  “We’re exposed to the elements out here. We should find a place where there’s more shelter.”

  “Where might that be? The nearest trees are miles off. All I see are scrubby bushes.”

  “There must be rocks around here where we could camp. I’ll go take a look.”

  “Scout and flout,” she called as he rode off to the north. He had to laugh. He hadn’t lied when he said he wasn’t much of a Shakespeare reader, but he had heard of the man. There just never seemed much purpose in reading anything by a Brit dead more than two hundred years. Better to keep an eye out for wanted posters with his name on them—or Neale’s. Slocum found a likely campsite after a half hour of hunting. A ring of rocks more than head high provided a decent windbreak, there was adequate firewood nearby, and more important to Slocum, it was out of sight of the road running along the gorge.

  He tethered his horse and let it graze on a patch of blue grama, climbed to the top of the tallest boulder, and used his field glasses to scan the entire region, starting at the road and working in a full circle. His heart jumped when he saw a dust cloud to the north, cutting off any retreat in that direction.

  Watching for several minutes set his heart racing even more. Somehow, Marshal Hanks had swung around and gotten between Slocum and the way leading west across the Rio Grande. Slocum lowered his binoculars and wondered if he ought to have it out with the lawman. There wasn’t any reasoning with him, Slocum realized, since the lawman had left his bailiwick and pursued him this far. A marshal’s authority didn’t extend beyond the city limits unless he was a federal marshal. From the brief glimpse Slocum had had of Leroy Hanks’s badge, the man wasn’t authorized to make arrests out here.