by Logan, Jake
“Peter, where you at? I can’t see you no more, the moon’s gone to hiding again.”
“Here.” Slocum grunted, trying to keep the bulky shape of the man in view as he shambled forward.
“It’s one thing to shoot at them adobe walls, where you know Mama and the girls won’t get hurt, but it’s another when you start thinking how some of them could have been hurt by our shooting and we might never know, just keep on shooting at them like Papa said we had to. That ain’t right. But I daren’t say a thing to Papa. You know what he’s like, right, Peter?”
The man had advanced to within twelve or so feet. Slocum was trapped with no direction to go but backward, off the forty-foot cliff. And that was no direction he wanted to travel.
“Peter? Why don’t you say something? You don’t think I’m wrong, do you? I thought we talked about all this, agreed we’d do what we could to keep the girls from harm, right? Peter?”
Slocum licked his lips, made a vague moaning sound as if Peter had been hurt. If Peter were the one he’d shot in the neck, then yes, Peter had indeed been hurt.
The man rose up off his hands to his knees, leaning slightly forward, facing Slocum. The clouds parted, revealing half of the moon, and offered just enough of its light to illuminate the scene before Slocum, as if God had lit an oil lamp just for them. Thanks, thought Slocum, as he watched the big angry face of one of the Tinker boys, the biggest of them all, from the looks of him, grow even angrier.
“You . . . you . . .”
Slocum raised the rifle, thumbed back the hammer, and the big brute froze in mid-knee-stride. But his menacing scowl stayed on his face. He was within striking distance. Even if Slocum got off a shot, the man could probably succeed in pushing Slocum off the cliff. While it was not a hundred-foot drop, he’d fall backward, and with his leg, there wasn’t much chance he’d come out of it in very good shape at all. Not to mention the fact that he’d probably not land on anything soft, just a hard-packed roadway or rocks at the sides of the road. No, it would do no good to have this brute drive him backward off the cliff.
“One more move, big man, and I’ll drop you where you stand. I’ll core your foul heart and you can meet up with your brother. You know, the one I already shot in the throat.”
“What?” The man nearly bellowed where before they had talked in whispers. It had the effect Slocum had hoped for—it riled the beast. But then the man did something he’d not counted on . . . the brute swatted at the rifle. The shot went wide, a brief flash of flame and curling smoke filled their faces, the stink clouded their noses, and the blast felt like steel hammers ringing on anvils in their ears.
He came onto Slocum at a full-bore bull-grizz gallop, covering the last few yards at a bellowing lope. Slocum had just enough time to swing the rifle barrel hard at the man’s face. It connected and the brute was, if only for a moment, stunned into silence. He swayed on all fours like a bear, shaking his head. Must have addled him. If Slocum hadn’t been so preoccupied with trying to get away from the cliff top, where he’d slid farther off, his legs now hanging in space, he would have struck the man a second time in the head, but he found himself clawing his way back upward, realizing he was rapidly losing ground, sliding farther backward off the cliff top.
He let go of the rifle and managed to snag a hand on a thin, finger-thick sapling, but it soon pulled away from the thin topsoil, its roots popping and tearing. And then, just as it let go, Slocum’s boot, the one at the end of his weakened, wounded leg, found solid purchase against an upthrusting of rock that felt solid enough to trust with his entire weight. By that time, the big man had regained some sense of coherence, and was groping along the ground, once again in darkness. That moon was playing the devil out of them tonight, thought Slocum.
He heard shouts from below in the roadway . . . men’s voices.
“What’s going on up there? That you, Peter? Caleb? Stop playing games. God don’t approve of a game player!”
The old man railed on, from what sounded to Slocum like a position directly below them. He was thankful the moon was still covered up, but for how long, he had no idea.
The big man lunged at him again, and caught a handful of Slocum’s shirt. He felt it tighten and the shoulder seams pop from the tightening grip of the big, work-hardened hand.
Try as he might, Slocum was growing weaker, scrabbling for his now-lost foothold, and in a position such that fighting back would render him completely at the man’s power. And two feet from falling off the cliff.
He had one chance. Now or never, Slocum, old boy, he told himself. He reached up at the growling, chuffing face, got a handful of jowly cheek meat, and pressed his thumb into the man’s eye socket.
“Gaaah!” the big brute wailed and lessened his grip on Slocum’s shirt enough that he rolled out of the hold, at the same time grabbing a thicker tree his arm had slammed into seconds before. The rough bark at the base provided a welcome handhold. He swung his body upward and drove his wounded leg right into the bent brute’s shoulder. The man grunted and Slocum did it again. The moaning man lashed out, trying to grab hold of him, groping blindly, wildly for Slocum. Then his hand found Slocum’s rifle and he snatched it up, still shaking his head from the eye gouging.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Slocum through gritted teeth. He drove a fist straight at the man’s nose and felt something inside it snap twice under his knuckles, then smear sideways into pulp. An immediate gush of blood, warm and foul, burst from the screaming man’s face. Slocum followed it up with a boot heel to the middle of the man’s mouth, and still he didn’t let up. Slocum kept pushing, driving the big man backward. In his dazed condition, the man never noticed the cliff edge until it was far too late.
Slocum grew vaguely aware that the men’s voices had carried on shouting up at them from down below.
As the man felt himself slipping backward off the cliff, he screamed unintelligible words, like the world’s biggest baby howling and gibbering for help. But he kept sliding backward, his fingers scrabbling at the thin matte of topsoil, roots, and gravel, none of which offered a bit of help.
The man let go of the rifle and slid backward, back, back. Then the clouds drifted once again from the moon’s face, and the two men looked each other in the eyes. Slocum had no more time for thought before the man, staring with shock at the other, dropped backward. Though it was only forty feet, he screamed like a man tumbling into a steep gorge. Then his voice cut off abruptly with a hard, smacking sound and Slocum knew the man was dead.
Drifting up to him from the base, Slocum heard at least two men’s voices, but one was loud and howling and full of pious rage.
Slocum lay atop the cliff for fleeting seconds before he realized he had to move. They would be up here, he knew, within minutes. And he needed all the time he could muster to get away. He groped in the dark once again for his wayward rifle, cursing the fickle moon. He found it, and used it to drag himself upright, then took off at a low, panting lope back the way he had come. Back toward the broken-down homestead and the women.
Judith had said the old woman knew medicines. Maybe she could fix him up with something that would take away the ache he felt throughout his entire body. Otherwise, the only thing Slocum knew to fix how he felt was time. Time and sleep. He just wanted a bit of sleep.
He straggled back down the trail he’d made, shapes rising up then becoming rocks or fallen trees in the shifting light of the night sky. The filtered moonlight brightened patches of earth and revealed holes and jumbles of rocks just right for snapping an ankle. Slocum finally found himself at the edge of the wood and paused, but heard no sounds from behind. Still, by his count, there were three more of the bastards out there somewhere. They would be angry, but he didn’t think the old man would give up now. Not after Slocum had killed two of his boys. As he staggered toward the little compound, it was strangely quiet, and he wondered what t
he old lady would think about the fact he’d been forced to kill another of her offspring. Not that he had any intention of telling her. At least not right away.
16
He’d grown so tired that by the time he staggered back toward the house, he hardly cared whether the place was overrun with crazy-eyed itinerant preachermen or big-breasted women toting rifles and shotguns and six-shooters. All he wanted was a drink of cool water and a nest in the old hay in a corner of the barn. He’d take his chances with anyone foolish enough to creep around in the dark. Tired or not, he could still squeeze the trigger on his Colt.
He was troubled by the fact that the men seemed to have an endless amount of ammunition. It must have come from that secret stash the women hadn’t been able to break into. He still wanted to get to that camp of theirs—must be one back behind the small ridge they’d been firing from. If he saw that they had carried a decent amount of guns and ammunition, plus food and other gear, he’d know they were committed to this invasion.
If they didn’t have much more than guns and bullets, then they had expected to overrun the women and drag them by the hair back to their farm. Either way, Slocum knew he had to get to their camp; it was just a matter of when. And he knew that answer: It would have to be tomorrow, because he couldn’t go on. It had been one long day, then he’d been shot, then in a gunfight, then in a brawl with a big brute of a man atop a cliff. What next? He could only think of sleep.
He looked toward the house, saw a figure leaning by the back of the house in the moonlight. It looked like Ruth, or maybe one of the twins. He held up his arms. “Hey,” he said. “It’s me . . . Slocum. Just letting you know I’m back.”
The woman turned to him and he saw that he’d been mistaken. It was the mother. She held the heavy shotgun in the crook of her arms and faced him.
“Did Judith make it back?”
“Yep, all my girl chicks are sleeping inside right now. Be nice to have all my children with me. And all of ’em going to California. See how the old bastard would like that.”
He could say nothing, merely nodded. He was too tired to think straight.
The older woman broke his reverie with another question. “What was that shot I heard up yonder, a while ago, likely I heard some shouts, too. You know anything about it?”
“Might,” he said. “Nothing of bearing right now. Ma’am, I am very tired. I will take my leave, and grab a few hours of sleep in the barn. Don’t hesitate to yell and I’ll come running.” As he trudged back to the barn, he thought of the fact that he’d killed another of them. He wished he could be sure that the men wouldn’t try any more barrages tonight. At least until first light. If he were a praying man, he thought, he’d ask for that favor.
He flopped back onto the hay and within seconds was snoring lightly. Scant minutes later, Slocum heard softer footfalls creeping along the outside of the barn, then at the edge of the open door, he saw the faint outline of someone holding a rifle waist-high. He hefted his Colt Navy and low-walked back into shadow, perfectly positioned to ambush the ambusher. Any second now, the person would come into view. One more step, another . . . He lashed out, silent as a stalking cat, and clamped a big hand on the intruder’s mouth, knocking the rifle to the ground with his gun hand. It was a woman! He dragged her backward into the shadows.
“Which one are you?” He stood behind her, holding her close, his strong hands pinning her arms to her sides, though she lashed at him with her head, her hair whipping him in the face. He did his best to avoid her vicious backward kicks with her boots to his shins. “Ow! Dammit, who are you?” To her credit, she didn’t yell, which told him she knew they were to keep quiet, knew the potential danger of attracting attention to themselves.
“It’s Ruth.”
He didn’t release her just yet. “What were you doing, slinking around outside?”
“I wasn’t slinking. I wanted to make sure you were all right. That’s all. I . . . I never got to thank you for bringing Judith back to us.”
It sounded like a load of road apples to him, but Slocum sensed she wasn’t going to attack him. Besides, from what he could feel, she didn’t seem to have any place to carry another weapon. She wasn’t wearing much more than a thin cotton dress and her boots. He let go of her arms, and she stayed standing there in the dark, her back to him, breathing heavily.
Then she did a curious thing—she backed up even closer to him, pushing her soft backside into him. She reached around behind him and pulled his hips into her and held him tight, grinding into him. Despite the dire predicament they were all in that night, Slocum felt himself rising to her insistent ministrations.
He knew he shouldn’t, knew somehow this was wrong. She was plenty old enough, had been fine the other night, but having just talked with the girl’s mother made him feel odd about this. But soon, it was too much for him to resist. He reached around and grasped her full breasts with his hands, rubbing them, working them just as she worked him.
She fumbled with his belt buckle, the buttons on his jeans, and soon had his pants pried apart, all the while keeping her back to him. He reached down and lifted the short cotton dress. She wore nothing under it and it slid up high, revealing silky soft skin under his rough hands. Her breath came in short gasps and she guided him between her velvety cheeks and eased him into her, bending low before him. Her back curved before him and she kept backing up into him, away then toward, and as they did, he guided them to the barn wall so he might get a bit of leverage.
Soon they were moving together, then apart, faster and harder, their bodies sweating in the cool night air, the only sounds slight huffing noises as they worked away at each other. And all too soon, it seemed to Slocum, she stiffened, arching her back and holding her breath for a long time. Then she slid off him, moved away from him, leaving him with a job half finished. He had no time to think anything more of it, because seconds later she reappeared before him, her dress hoisted high, and wrapping her legs high around his waist, she once again impaled herself on him.
She did her best to avoid his leg wound, though at times she rubbed it accidentally and he stifled a groan of pain. He wondered briefly if her own grazed shoulder ached much, and he kept in mind not to touch her there.
She felt different to him than she had the other night, sadder maybe. In the dim moonlight glowing in the interior of the little barn, he saw tears on her cheeks and knew he was right. Sad, no doubt, for her dead brothers, for the wrong turn their grand adventure had taken, for their miserable lives under the brutal hand of the crazy old man who’d fathered her.
From the way she worked at him, this was something she needed to do. So, he reasoned, should I be nothing less than obliging? Slocum resumed his task with vigor, feeling for the best handhold on this woman who seemed determined to use him to work out her frustrations, if not work him to death. Worse ways to go, he thought. And then he felt a tongue lick his ear and he saw her dark eyes stare into his, saw a smile on her face as she pressed herself against him.
He had no idea where he got his second wind from, nor how long it might last, considering the long day’s events and injuries, but there was no way he could let this poor woman down. Maybe it was some sort of heavenly payment for all the hardships he’d been through on account of this family.
17
What felt like an eternity later—a blissful eternity—Slocum lay back in the hay once again, and he didn’t awaken until he heard glass rupture and spray inward. His Colt Navy appeared in reflex born of long-honed instinct, in his hand as if conjured, and he swung his wounded leg, still stiff, outward. Someone had shot out the one last pane of glass in the barn’s window. Whoever had built the place were a thoughtful bunch, as glass was dear enough in cost for a house, let alone a stable. Now that bit of finery had been obliterated.
It was still dark, but he felt rested enough that he knew it had to be close to dawn. Before he
could crawl over to the window, the old man’s voice rang out loud and clear—close enough for Slocum to pick out every word.
“The Lord saw fit to give me sons to continue His wonderful work, but then He saw fit to let the thieving women, them she-devils, spout flame and foul hatred and lay low two of my boys, my dear boys!” Another shot rang out, chipping off the house, from the sounds of it.
Slocum heard the sudden screams of frightened children from inside the house, then just as quickly heard women’s voices shushing them.
“I ain’t questioning the Almighty’s wisdom in these matters, but I am wondering just what can be done about it.” The old man continued to rant. “I prayed on it all night, you hear me, you vile witches! I prayed on it all night long!”
Slocum belly-crawled to the main doorway and took off his hat, then he peeked around the frame, cheek to the ground. The dull gray glow of early dawn would soon give way to lavender, then the blue of a new day. But for the moment, shadows were discernible again. Slocum held his spot. Odds of him being seen down low like this were slim to none.
He squinted toward the opposite side of the road, the high ground controlled by the men. But their number was, by the old man’s admittance and Slocum’s relative assurance, whittled down to three of their original five. The old man would be dangerous; the other big brute of a boy would be a danger, too. But the youngest? The slender boy, Luke, what of him? Slocum had to assume that he also knew how to wield a firearm, as it would seem even the girls had been taught how to do so.
Unless they taught themselves when the old man and his sons weren’t watching, though that seemed unlikely. But the slender young boy had been trying to warn Slocum that day he’d found them. He bet the boy could still be saved, if that was the right word to use in this situation.
He seemed innocent enough that Slocum hated to lose him to a bullet. Then another shot whanged off a rock in front of the house.