Slocum and Hot Lead

by Jake Logan

  “What are you going to do with him, John?” Claudia’s voice was choked.

  “Cover him with rocks since I don’t have anything to dig with.” Slocum took twenty minutes covering the dead lawman with rocks that might thwart the likes of the coyote skulking a dozen yards away. Or it might not, if the coyote and the rest in its pack were hungry enough. Slocum doubted it mattered one way or the other to the dead marshal.

  He swung into the saddle and rode off without a backward look.

  “How do you do it, John? You are so . . . cold.”

  “Not cold,” he said. “I’ve seen more than my share of dead men. Letting any of them matter would drive me crazy. It’s better to acknowledge them, then move on and never think again on them.”

  “Never?”

  Slocum didn’t answer. He was lying through his teeth. He remembered the men he shot, mostly, but the ones who had tried to kill him were always on his mind. Men like Neale and Wilmer needed to have their miserable lives ended. He glanced over at Claudia, and added Goggins to that list for trying to clobber the woman with a rock.

  “The meadow’s not too far,” Claudia said in a low voice. “Are we looking for Neale?”

  “Not exactly, but I reckon he’ll pop up eventually. I’d rather get Wilmer in my sights.”

  “He’s like a rattler, John,” Claudia said. “It’s just his nature to strike at you like he did. He’s no more to blame than the sidewinder would be for sinking its fangs into your leg.”

  “And it’s my nature to chop the head off the rattler when it tries to sink its fangs into my flesh,” Slocum said. He held up his hand, cutting off her reply. Ahead he saw two shadowy patches—both moved. Then a flare of a lucifer revealed two faces. One man sucked hard and blew out a puff of smoke. The other followed suit quickly. Then only two glowing coals showed in the night to give away the sentries.

  Slocum dropped to the ground and tossed the reins over to Claudia. He took a deep breath, then began sneaking up on the pair. It was easier than he expected. The two outlaws talked in low tones, more engrossed in swapping lies about women they’d had and poker pots they’d won than paying attention. Slocum got within three feet of one before either noticed him. He swung his six-shooter and smashed it into the side of the closer man’s head, then cocked and fired as the second road agent went for his six-gun. It took him only seconds to make certain the first man was dead from a crushed skull. Leaving either behind him alive was akin to suicide.

  Slocum was past taking chances with Neale and his gang of cutthroats.

  He returned to the horses and mounted. Claudia stared at him, eyes wide.

  “You killed both of them?”

  “You’re getting better at spotting Neale’s men,” he said, diverting her attention. “Let’s keep riding. I don’t know how many men Neale has with him, but today there are four less.”

  “Four men died,” Claudia said. “So many over a pot of gold.” She looked at him and said, “What if it doesn’t even exist? What if someone else has found the gold, someone we don’t know, and made off with it?”

  “Your pa’s not accounted for. He might have moved it.”

  “Then why send the map?” Claudia wailed.

  “Hush up,” Slocum said sharply. He drew rein and waited to see if her outcry had carried through the still mountain air and been heard by another lookout. If so, nothing was being done. The only movements Slocum heard in the dark were animals he expected to be out hunting.

  As he rode, Slocum began to wonder if they shouldn’t slip back to the mine and examine it more closely. Taking on Neale and his outlaws was a chore best left to another marshal and a big posse. The marshal in Taos wasn’t up to it, and of the deputies he had seen in Las Vegas, none of them was likely to do much to fill Marshal Hanks’s boots. But the cavalry might send a company or two up here. It hardly mattered that Fort Union was a quartermaster depot. They still had soldiers capable of tracking Neale down and bringing him to justice.

  “I hear something ahead, in that grove of trees,” Slocum said. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. Wilmer!

  “Get down,” Slocum ordered. “Keep the horses quiet.”

  “Wilmer? That’s Wilmer, isn’t it?”

  “And he’s going after Neale. I’ve got the lot of them together.” Slocum was glad he had recovered his Colt. He knew its balance and how it fired. Moreover, it gave him confidence he wouldn’t have had otherwise. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but the six-shooter was lucky for him and had never failed when he needed it most.

  Running to cross the stretch of meadow between him and the bounty hunter, Slocum came up behind Wilmer in time to see past the man into a clearing. A man grunted as he shoveled dirt like a prairie dog digging its burrow. Slocum clutched his pistol, but did not move. He was more interested in seeing what was being unearthed. His heart beat faster, and reached a point where he worried it was loud enough to alert Wilmer.

  But the bounty hunter was as engrossed in the digging as Slocum was. They both knew what was likely being unearthed.

  The gold.

  Slocum crept closer, but Wilmer was already making his move. The bounty hunter leaped forward, his six-shooter level and ready to fire.

  “Git them hands of yers up, Neale. I got the drop on you!”

  The outlaw dropped his shovel and went for his six-gun, then froze when he saw that Wilmer wasn’t fooling. He had him dead to rights.

  “Smart, Neale, real smart. Yer worth more to me alive than dead. You got a hunnerd-dollar reward on your head.”

  Slocum felt his anger rising. Wilmer was going to take Neale back to Las Vegas and claim the reward again. If the deputies wouldn’t give him the reward money, he’d take the outlaw on to Fort Union and collect there. He had already pocketed a hundred from Marshal Hanks, and now he was going to collect all over again for the real McCoy.

  Slocum aimed his six-shooter, and was knocked to one side so hard he lost his balance. Every ache and pain he had accumulated over the past week came back to haunt him. He tried to move fast, but couldn’t in time to prevent a man from stomping down on his wrist, pinning his gun hand to the ground.

  “Don’t even think on it,” an outlaw said. “Who are—” the man’s eyes widened in surprise when he got a good look at Slocum. For once, looking like the outlaw leader saved Slocum.

  The shock on the outlaw’s face faded as he turned and looked over his shoulder into the clearing where Wilmer held a six-gun on Neale. The shift of weight was enough for Slocum to roll a bit and kick like a mule, knocking the outlaw away from him and through heavy undergrowth. The crashing as the man flailed and yelled out in surprise warned Wilmer they weren’t alone.

  The bounty hunter’s pistol roared twice, ending the outlaw’s life.

  “You keep yer distance, Neale,” warned Wilmer. “How many more of them road agents are out in the woods?”

  “Go to hell,” Neale snarled. “There are a hundred out there. You’re going to have to ride lookin’ in all directions at once. You let up for an instant and they’ll cut you down.”

  “Big talk from a prisoner,” Wilmer said. “What you got in that hole? Pull the canvas bag out and let’s take a look.”

  “It’s not yours,” Neale said.

  “Course it ain’t,” Wilmer said, obviously enjoying himself. “You stole it fair and square. Well, sir, I’m gonna really put things right. That gold’s goin’ back to the Army, and you’re gonna hang fer desertion and all manner of other crimes.”

  Neale started toward Wilmer, but the bounty hunter shot. Neale grunted and grabbed his leg, going to one knee. He glared at Wilmer but said nothing.

  “Pull it on out. I want to see what it looks like.”

  Neale slipped over to the hole and began wiping the dirt off. He yanked hard and sent the bag flying. Wilmer was ready for it and sidestepped the flying sack, which hit the ground with a dull thud that warned Slocum gold wasn’t inside.

  Wilmer tugged and ope
ned the drawstrings on the canvas pouch, and pulled out a handful of paper.

  “Ain’t nuthin’ in here but greenbacks. You got the gold hid somewhere else?”

  “I don’t have any gold. That’s all there is. That’s what I been stashin’ away for months.”

  “And you chose tonight to hightail it. You bother to tell any of yer boys?”

  “All of it’s yours,” Neale said. “Take it.” He held his leg where he’d been shot. “Just let me go. There ain’t enough money in the reward to make it worth your while draggin’ me off to Las Vegas.”

  “Don’t see why I’d go there,” Wilmer said. “Fort Union. That’s a better place, ain’t it? You done killed Marshal Hanks. Gittin’ the reward outta his deputies would be like pullin’ teeth. No, I think the commander at the fort’s more likely to pony up money for you. Might be more ’n a hunnerd dollars too.”

  Neale started to shout, but Wilmer raised his pistol and aimed straight for the outlaw’s face. Neale subsided. But the gang leader’s action told Slocum more of the outlaws were prowling around. They just didn’t know where their boss was or that he was busy stealing all they’d stolen over the past few months.

  “Yep, nuthin’ but scrip in here,” Wilmer said, rooting around in the canvas bag like a hog going after its slop. “You been real busy. Where’d you stash the payroll money?”

  Slocum tensed. If Neale wanted even a ghost of a chance at escaping his fate at the end of a rope, this was it.

  “She stole it. I took that bitch in and she stole it.”

  “You shot her?”

  “Of course I did, when I found it was gone and she wouldn’t tell me what she done with it. Her old man was running around these hills. An artist or something,” Neale said. “I figured he knew what she’d done with the money. Him and a guide was wanderin’ ’round and I asked real nice where the gold was.”

  “What’d he say?” Wilmer’s eagerness made Slocum’s trigger finger twitch.

  “He got shot up real bad, but he got away. Never did tell where he’d hid the gold,” Neale said. “You got plenty of greenbacks. Take it and ride out. Otherwise, you’re gonna end up like Peterson.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I busted up both his legs.”

  “How’d he get away from you? Oh, yeah, his guide. A galoot by the name of Goggins?” Wilmer stuffed the scrip back into the bag and slung it over his back.

  “Don’t know his name, but if I ever find him, I’ll make him spill where the gold is. I risked my life for that payroll. Lettin’ it go ain’t easy for me.”

  “Swingin’ at the end of a rope won’t be anythin’ too pleasant either,” Wilmer said. He moved faster than Slocum would have thought possible for any human. Wilmer took two quick steps forward and swung the heavy bag with the greenbacks in it. The thud as it landed squarely atop Neale’s head echoed like gunshot. The outlaw fell to the ground, unconscious. Wilmer fell to tying him up, then grunted as he hoisted the outlaw over his shoulder and carried him to his horse. It took Wilmer a minute or two before Neale was secured belly-down over the saddle. He then slung the canvas money bag behind the outlaw, and led the horse back to the hole and peered into it, as if force of will would make the Army payroll appear.

  Slocum moved to step out and get the drop on the bounty hunter. If Wilmer left with Neale, only the outlaw and his captor would ever arrive at Fort Union. The money would be hidden along the way and never mentioned to the post commander. Slocum had a score to settle with both men, but he hesitated when he had the feeling of not being alone in the dark forest.

  He turned slowly and saw a shadow moving to his right. Slocum pointed his six-shooter at the phantasm, and then hesitated firing.

  The ghostly form moved with surprising speed to reach the clearing.

  “Hold on, you son of a bitch,” the shadow called. “You’re tryin’ to rob me!”

  Slocum wasn’t sure who the man was calling out, but Wilmer answered with two quick shots. The outlaw who had stumbled on Wilmer and his boss returned fire, and then the forest came alive. Slocum heard heavy footsteps coming from all directions, and went to ground. Two outlaws rushed past him, not five feet away, without noticing him. They were too intent on Wilmer and his prisoner.

  The bounty hunter fired steadily until his six-gun came up empty; then the reports became deeper, more emphatic as he began firing at the road agents with a rifle.

  Neale was still out like a light, and bobbed up and down as Wilmer urged the horse into a trot. He used the horse’s bulk to shield himself until he got to the far side of the clearing, then disappeared into the woods. The outlaws converged on the hole in the middle of the clearing.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” demanded one.

  “I think that was the bounty hunter what’s been doggin’ Neale’s trail fer weeks,” said another.

  “What was in this here hole?”

  “Might be he was thinkin’ on killin’ Neale and plantin’ him here,” opined a third.

  The outlaws argued for several minutes before one of them took command and ordered them to their horses to chase after Wilmer and Neale. The two who had passed close to Slocum returned, again missing him in their hurry to return to their camp for their mounts. Slocum lay silently, fuming that he had let both Neale and Wilmer slip through his fingers. If the one outlaw had been a bit less attentive, things might have been different.

  The thunder of hooves rattled the stillness of the forest, and slowly receded as they raced after Wilmer.

  Only then did Slocum get to his feet, dust himself off, and go to the hole and peer in as the outlaws had. Even wishing on a falling star wouldn’t make the gold appear in the hole. Neale had hidden loot stolen from his own men, but it didn’t include the gold.

  That was still missing.

  Slocum felt no elation that Wilmer and Neale didn’t have it. Unless there was a miracle, he never would find where Kenneth Peterson had hidden it either.

  19

  Slocum worked his way back through the wooded area until he got to the spot where Neale’s gang had made their camp. They had cleared out in such a hurry that two cooking fires still blazed merrily. The smell of boiling coffee made Slocum’s nostrils flare from the heady aroma. He looked around, waited a few minutes until he convinced himself none of the outlaws remained in the vicinity, then went to the fire, pulled the pot from the fire, and found himself a battered tin cup. He sat on a log, drinking the hot coffee, letting it revive his flagging strength and thinking hard about what to do next. The smell of burning meat caught his attention.

  Hurrying to the other fire, he saw that the fleeing outlaws had abandoned a hunk of venison, and it had finally sizzled down to the point where it burned rather than cooked. Slocum didn’t care. He pulled it away from its spit and gnawed on it. The charred meat tasted as good as any Delmonico steak he had ever eaten in Kansas City. He finished the coffee about the same time that the last of the venison slid smoothly down his gullet. After wiping his greasy lips with his sleeve, Slocum decided he had eaten enough for the moment. He went through what had been left behind, hunting for anything that might prove useful later in the hunt for the missing gold. The outlaws had hightailed it, probably realizing that their boss was in the hands of someone who might be at the head of a posse.

  “ ‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’ ” Slocum said to himself quoting the proverb.

  He stooped and pulled at a corner of wood frame poking from under a blanket. He grinned crookedly when he saw that the painting had been almost destroyed. Neale had scraped at the paint, sawed the corners, done everything possible to reveal any hidden map. When he had failed to find the map, he had dumped the painting at the edge of his camp and decided to rob his own men and get away with the loot he had been accumulating since he had deserted and begun his career as a road agent. Slocum held up the painting and tried to study it by starlight. As bright as the stars were, there wasn’t enough for him to get a good look at what remained.
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  He made one final circuit of the camp, picking up some airtights of tomatoes and tossing a few rounds of ammo into the blanket, then slung it over his shoulder and left. Now and then he had to stop to orient himself by the stars. It took longer than he expected to return to where Claudia impatiently waited with their horses.

  “John! You were gone so long. And the gunfire. I . . . I thought—”

  “Here’s a present for you,” he said, swinging the painting up and handing it to her. She took it in trembling hands. Her tears glistened like diamonds in the starlight. “There’s nothing to be found on it—or under the paint,” Slocum said. “Neale would have found it by now if there had been.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Slocum explained how the gang’s leader had been spirited away by Wilmer, but hesitated telling her about the bag of money. He wasn’t sure why, other than there was no point.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to do now, John. My papa wanted me to have the gold. And you said Neale had tortured him. It is so wrong to not get the gold.”

  “And not return it to the Army?”

  “It’s mine!” Claudia flared. “Ours. You deserve your share after all you’ve done to help. This wasn’t your fight, and yet you’ve been the only honest one hunting for the gold.”

  “I can’t believe your pa put those clues into the painting and onto the paintbrush for no reason. What I think happened was Neale broke his legs, but your pa wasn’t shot until after he drew everything there and sent you the painting.”