Slocum and Hot Lead

by Jake Logan

  The buckboard trail led directly into a canyon branching off to the southwest. The sun was slanting down into his eyes, making it more difficult to ride and causing his shadow to stretch out behind him. Slocum worried that he would be easily seen from behind, outlined by the sun and unable to scramble to safety.

  After ten minutes of riding, he felt he had gone far enough into the sheer-walled canyon to slow and give his horse a rest. He wished he had watered the horse before leaving Claudia the way he had. The horse was his only salvation, and if he ended up on foot again, he was a goner. When the horse began to stumble on the increasingly steep road, Slocum dismounted and walked. He reached the summit, out of breath and looking around in the hope of finding Claudia before the sun vanished behind the high mountain peaks. The road ahead wound back and forth and yielded no sign of the woman or her buckboard.

  Slocum slogged downhill and for close to a mile before mounting again. Even then, his horse tried to rear. It wasn’t up to carrying a man on its back, but Slocum gave it no choice. It took the better part of five minutes to calm the horse enough so he could ride on. He cursed the delay, but it was necessary if he wanted to keep his horse strong enough and peaceable enough to carry him. He regretted the death of the Appaloosa. That horse had possessed more heart than any other Slocum had owned in the past couple years.

  He broke off his self-pity at losing such a magnificent horse when he saw a nearly blank canvas beside the road. Bending low without getting off the horse, Slocum snared the canvas and lifted it into the sunlight where he could look at it. Claudia had barely sketched on it. A few faint, tentative lines in the charcoal she used to rough in her subject might have represented the ridgeline of the mountains ahead, although Slocum couldn’t tell. The picture was too incomplete.

  “You can’t be that much ahead of me,” he said. Slocum urged his horse onward into the gathering twilight. All the time he kept one ear straining for the sound of pursuit. Only the steady sound of his own horse’s hooves reached him in the gathering quiet as sunlight fled before the chilly night. He repressed the urge to call out to the woman again. Such a shout would echo back all the way to the meadow, bouncing off the almost vertical walls close by on either side.

  The trail widened a mite, probably blasted into the side of the canyon wall to freight out ore from mines deeper in. The steepness caused Slocum to get off and walk again, but he saw occasional traces that the buckboard had come by recently. Claudia’s team proved stronger than the stolen horse Slocum rode. And then he wasn’t so sure he had come out with the low card in the deck.

  Part of the roadway had collapsed recently and fallen into the ravine below. Slocum hurried upward now, his stride long and sure as fear for the woman drove him. He reached the top of the grade and saw where most of the road had broken free. Going to the edge of the sundered trail, he looked down into the shadowy ravine below.

  All he saw was a rear wheel on the buckboard, slowly spinning. Of Claudia Peterson he saw no trace.

  11

  “Claudia!” Slocum dismounted and peered over the edge of the precipice. The distance wasn’t as far as he feared, but the buckboard was pretty well destroyed. He looked for any sign of movement, and all he saw was the slowly turning wheel. “Claudia!”

  He started down the side of the mountain, and then heard a sound that sent a cold chill up his spine.

  “I tell you, Neale, I heard something.”

  “I did too,” piped up another voice. A low murmur of several others told Slocum that Neale’s entire gang was coming up the road behind him. He had only minutes before they came to the ruined stretch of road and saw Claudia’s wagon below. For her to have any chance of surviving, Slocum had to do something. Fast.

  He swung into the saddle and rode back along the road he had just traversed, his mind spinning through dozens of improbable ploys. He reached down, pulled his rifle from the scabbard, and levered in a round, then waited for the response he knew had to come.

  Two riders crested the hill ahead of him. For a moment they were silhouetted against the evening sky. Slocum got off three shots, hitting one of the outlaws before both ducked back. The loud cries of anger and rage convinced Slocum he had gotten their attention. He urged his horse through the rocks above the road. The way proved more difficult than he had anticipated, and he was hardly off the trail when four outlaws came galloping over the hill, six-shooters blazing.

  They had no idea where Slocum was and their lead ricocheted off rocks all around. Slocum got off another shot and hit one rider’s horse. It went down and caused a momentary jumble in the road.

  “Up the slope. Uphill. There’s the son of a bitch!”

  Slocum fired again, aware that the road agents were staring in his direction and the foot-long orange tongue of flame from his rifle’s muzzle would give him away. It didn’t matter. He had to decoy the gang away from Claudia.

  He fired until the rifle came up empty. But the few rounds were enough to drive the men to cover, allowing Slocum breathing room. He kept his horse moving, got to a large boulder, and put it between him and his would-be killers. From here, Slocum caught a break. A game trail wended its way higher. Slocum followed it, grateful that he didn’t have to pioneer a new trail through the darkness. All it took was for his horse to step on a Spanish bayonet and have the plant’s vicious spine driven into an exposed leg. He kept moving, even after the horse started to balk.

  As sudden as lightning, Slocum came out on top of a ridge overlooking the meadow. He took a minute to reload his rifle and cocked his head to the side, listening hard for pursuit. The outlaws obliged him. He waited several more minutes until they found the game trail and started uphill after him. Again he emptied his rifle, spreading confusion among them. He knew from the angry shouts that he’d only scared them. He had wanted to wing or kill one or two more.

  Rather than make a stand here, he went down the far side of the hill back into the meadow. He gave the horse its head, letting it race for cover. He eventually found the stream cutting through the meadow and permitted his horse to drink. He took the opportunity to splash water on his own face, reload, and try to remember a spot in the meadow where a single man—him—would be at an advantage over a gang of owlhoots.

  Slocum couldn’t think of a single place in the wide-open, rolling meadow. He could find a hiding place and hope that Neale’s men missed him, but that defeated his purpose of luring them away from Claudia if they returned to the canyon. Thought of the woman lying hurt, possibly unconscious, needing help at the bottom of the ravine, told him he had no choice. He had to keep the outlaws in the saddle and after him.

  When his horse had drunk its fill and rested a mite, Slocum went back into the open meadow to let the outlaws spot him. The darkness worked against him, but he had no problem finding them. Dark splotches rode in a long line across the sward. Slocum picked the moving shadow he thought was at the far end of their line and began firing. Three quick shots, one of them finding a target.

  “Jesus!” cried the wounded outlaw. “He shot me in the leg! Get him, get him ’fore I bleed to death!”

  Slocum knew the man couldn’t have been badly hurt or he would have demanded that his partners tend him rather than go after Slocum. That was fine. Slocum stayed still, waiting them out. When they didn’t turn toward him, he felt secure in taking another shot into the night. This time one of the men spotted his muzzle flash.

  Their long line swung around with the ease of long practice, and they caught Slocum in a semicircle, blocking him off from any of the canyons where he might hide. He was caught out in the open meadow. He wheeled his horse around and galloped for a stand of trees. The outlaws came after him like a machine, no one in the line getting ahead of the others. Slocum had thought he was up against a wild band of road agents, but Neale had trained them to military precision in their attacks.

  Slocum was sorry now that he hadn’t forced Claudia to leave when he’d had the chance. Neither of them might leave the Sangre de Cr
isto Mountains alive.

  He ducked as he rode into a stand of pine trees. The forest got thicker ahead so Slocum veered to his left, thinking he might use the cover of the forest to outflank Neale’s gang. He slowed to a walk and then halted to listen. The outlaws swept into the forest behind him. He edged away until the last of the trees was behind him. He could go straight for the canyon where Claudia had taken the plunge over the edge of the cliff, but he hesitated.

  That saved his life.

  Neale had left two men in the meadow to cover any such escape on his part. Slocum opened fire on them at the same instant they spotted him. In the dark their accuracy was poor, but so was his. Slocum realized he had more to lose than they did by keeping up the shooting. The gunfire pulled the rest of the gang out of the forest, back to the meadow, until he was outnumbered again.

  “We don’t want to kill you, mister! We want to know why you’re shootin’ at us!”

  “That you, Neale?” Slocum took a chance using the outlaw’s name. He wanted to keep the leader of the gang as confused as possible.

  “You know me? That means you must be a lawman. You work for that jackass Leroy Hanks?”

  “He’s after me too.”

  “Then you must want to join me. Stop shooting, come out where we can see you, and let’s palaver.”

  Slocum knew better. The riders with Neale were still moving to cut him off. If he fell into their trap, he would be dead before his feet hit the ground.

  Slocum cursed under his breath. He had hoped to sneak past the outlaws and return to help Claudia, but now keeping his own hide intact mattered more. He turned away from the men and rode back toward the forest. If he could reach the shelter of the trees, he might not evade Neale’s gang, but he could give them a run for their money.

  “He’s gettin’ away, Boss!”

  “Charge!” Neale’s command was as crisp and determined as any cavalry officer’s. The thunder of hooves told Slocum that he had only a few seconds. He galloped for the woods and reached the edge. More and more low-hanging tree limbs raked at his face. He bent double, slowed, and rode at an angle intended to take him back toward the line of outlaws. If he had tried to go away, they would overtake him. He had to outflank them.

  The trees continued to tear at his face and body, but Slocum pressed on until he thought he had ridden past the line of road agents. He turned back toward the meadow and once more came to the edge of the forest.

  The outlaws had missed him. He was past them, but they were also between him and the mouth of the canyon he had to enter to help Claudia. Slocum rested, fuming at the inactivity but knowing he had no choice. Patience had always paid off for him when he was a sniper during the war, and it did now also. The outlaws hunted, and eventually reported to their leader that they had lost him. Slocum waited to see what Neale would do. He might send his men back in another sweep, forcing Slocum to move ahead like a cork bobbing on a pond, but Neale ordered his men to regroup.

  Slocum saw the dark knot of outlaws, but could not overhear Neale’s orders. Then his heart sank. The gang turned and rode back for the canyon they had just left. They would find Claudia, and there was nothing Slocum could do about it.

  Following would be foolhardy, but Slocum had to be close if they found Claudia alive. He considered his chances and Claudia’s, and then knew he could do nothing to save her right away. Let Neale and his gang find her. They wouldn’t kill her outright. She was too beautiful a woman. Slocum knew he was condemning her to a terrible fate, but it might be worse getting them both killed by doing something dumb. Slocum pitched his bedroll and tried to sleep. Thoughts of the woman and how she might be dead haunted him. Just before daybreak, he got his gear together and rode into the canyon after the outlaws, determined to shoot it out with them if he could wrest Claudia from their grip.

  Slocum reached the spot where the buckboard had gone over the verge of the road and looked down at the wreckage. He saw no indication that Neale or anyone else had been down there. Had they ridden past in the darkness, not even noticing the way the road had collapsed? It was possible, but Slocum had to check for himself.

  He rode a ways farther hunting for the outlaws. He saw numerous spoor left by their passage, but the gang was long gone on their way to wherever. They roved the mountains endlessly, whether looking for likely travelers to rob or simply to keep away from the lawmen like Marshal Hanks, Slocum couldn’t say.

  “Might be they’re looking for something,” Slocum said aloud. “Like the gold Claudia’s pa stole.”

  He found a path down into the ravine and made his way lower until he reached the bottom and quickly rode to the wreckage. It looked worse from above than it did straight on, but Slocum didn’t see any trace of the team—or Claudia. He poked around the buckboard and its scattered contents searching for blood. He found a smear, long since dried, on the seat. Other than this, there was no trace of Claudia or any indication how badly she’d been hurt by the tumble down the slope.

  Slocum walked in ever-widening circles around the buckboard, but couldn’t find her tracks. The entire area was mostly rock with little vegetation. And what did grow here forced its way up through stone crevices. Some distance from the buckboard he found the painting done by Claudia’s father. Slocum lifted it high to see how badly damaged it had been. To his surprise, it was almost intact. Deep scratches across the top were the only damage. Slocum carried it back to the buckboard and leaned it against a wheel. Stepping back, he stared hard at the painting, as if he knew something about art and the skill it took to paint such a piece.

  In spite of his lack of appreciation for such things, he felt some emotional connection with it the longer he stared. Claudia’s pa had been a good painter and had captured the scenery well. What more had he captured and put into that painting? Slocum hunkered down and studied the cigar-shaped section at the bottom where Claudia had pressed the paintbrush she’d found at the bottom of the mine shaft.

  Slocum stood and began hunting for the paintbrush. It took him almost twenty minutes to find where it had been flung when the buckboard tipped over onto its side. He returned to the painting, put the brush handle into place on the bottom, and thought a while on both the small arrow inscribed on the wood handle and what it might mean. He was experienced at reading maps, but it didn’t make much sense to him that the arrow pointed in the direction of the treasure.

  “North is usually at the top of a map,” he said, turning the painting so that the brush pointed upward. Slocum almost dropped the painting when he saw words appear. He tipped the painting back, and they disappeared unless he canted his head to one side. The artist had disguised the word “here” amid the mines and rock tailings he had drawn.

  Slocum studied the painting more carefully, and saw a faint dotted line pointing to one of the deserted mines in the canyon where the artwork had been made.

  “Didn’t have to come this way at all. Or go back to the meadow,” Slocum said. He wondered at the cruel fate that had led Claudia to her sister’s grave the way it had. There wasn’t anything in the painting that should have led her to the grave, yet it had.

  Just as the painting was going to take Slocum to the gold.

  Slocum repacked the painting in its crate and slung it on the back of his horse. Then he made one last circuit of the area to find any tracks Claudia might have left. If she had bled in the wagon, then she must have left a bloody trail. But try as he might, Slocum couldn’t find any direction where Claudia might have gone. Either up or down the ravine seemed likely, but she might also have headed for the far wall of the canyon, thinking to get away from the road and the wreckage, should someone like Neale and his gang come looking for her.

  Slocum considered shouting her name again, but didn’t know how far off the outlaws might be. After the merry chase he had led them on the night before, they would gleefully fill him full of holes if they came within range.

  Giving up his hunt, Slocum took what supplies he could from the buckboard, and then made
his way back up the gravelly slope to the trail and finally out of the canyon into the meadow. He heaved a sigh of relief getting away from the outlaws. Or so he hoped. At least he wasn’t caught on a narrow track where he couldn’t dodge.

  Until he went back into the canyon where the landscape had been painted. The difference this time would be the promise of gold.

  Slocum pondered on taking the gold and not finding Claudia. It was her gold, after all. A slow smile came to his lips. It wasn’t her gold, though. Or her pa’s. It had been stolen, probably from the Army. That didn’t bother him in the least. He could pack up the gold and hightail it north into Colorado before anyone knew.

  Slocum rode a little straighter as he hit the trail, and felt much happier at the notion he was going to be paid so handsomely for being chased by lawmen and gunmen and probably lied to by a very lovely woman.

  He was going to be rich.

  12

  The terrain between the road and the mines on the far side of the canyon was too rugged for Slocum to ride over, but he tried. As his horse gingerly picked its way through the fist-sized rocks littering the way, he realized he wasn’t going to make it all the way without the horse breaking a leg. Reluctantly, Slocum dismounted and took the painting from its crate. He placed it against a rock, pressed the brush into place, and turned the canvas to orient it as if the arrow pointed north. Again he made out wavy lettering saying “here” and a dotted line wandering around the hillside up to a mine.

  “That’s the one,” Slocum said to himself. Then he frowned. He might be reading something more into the painting than was there. The lettering looked obvious enough when the painting was tilted at the proper angle, but it might be coincidence. He had spent too much time in saloons staring into beer mugs, watching bubbles form faces and other recognizable patterns on the surface. Turning the painting another quarter turn caused the lettering to disappear, but other possibilities presented themselves. Had Claudia’s father put them in to confuse anyone looking at the painting without the paintbrush? Or was Slocum imagining it all?