Slocum and the Devil's Rope

by Jake Logan

  Slocum rode alongside the foreman, keeping his thoughts to himself. Garvin wasn’t such a bad kid. He was ignorant, but he could learn. What Slocum hadn’t counted on was him being stupid, too. Nothing would cure him of that until he had taken enough hard wallops to knock some sense into his thick head. Something about him and the rope made for a bad combination, though Slocum had been amazed at some of the good luck Garvin had. When he had taken a header off the piebald, he had smashed straight down onto the hard ground. A fall like that should have killed him outright or at least broken his neck. All he had suffered was a bit of a concussion, and that wasn’t too severe. Slocum had walked him until the worst of the effect passed.

  But tangling with Blassingame over the rope the way he had went past stupid. The foreman didn’t suffer fools lightly and was as like to have beaten Garvin to a bloody pulp as fire him for what he said. Slocum tried to put that arrogance Garvin had shown off to the fall that had cracked his skull, but there hadn’t been any other evidence of having his senses addled.

  Slocum pushed it out of his mind. He didn’t need to be wet-nursing a man like Tom Garvin. He was old enough to look after himself, even if that meant getting into fights with men likely to knock his block off. Still, Slocum had to count the young cowboy as having another bit of good luck. Blassingame hadn’t hauled off and decked him.

  “You figure some strays went down that canyon?”

  Slocum looked at the foreman. Blassingame had been mighty quiet on their ride away from the Bar M ranch house, too. What he had worked over in his head didn’t show on his face. Slocum knew better than to ask.

  “Water there? I see where a dry creek bed meanders on back.”

  “The spring feeding the creek might have dried up, but maybe a pool’s enough to get them stupid varmints to leave the stock ponds for it.”

  They both turned their horses’ faces and rode into the high-walled canyon. Slocum looked around, growing uneasy as they went deeper into it.

  “Ain’t Injuns around these parts right now. All of ’em on the rez are staying put.”

  Slocum kept looking to the high rims. To reach either side would require a considerable amount of riding. The trails leading up looked chancy at best.

  “You’re gettin’ as jumpy as a long-tailed cat flopped near a rocker,” Blassingame said. “You don’t like tight spaces?”

  “It’s not that,” Slocum said. He couldn’t put his finger on what made him uneasy. “There any other way out of the canyon?”

  “Well, can’t rightly say. There are box canyons all over this area, but I’ve never rid into this one to find out. You worryin’ them beeves have snuck out the other end?”

  “That’s it,” Slocum said, hoping the lie didn’t sound like one. He wished Blassingame had scouted this terrain before and knew something about it. The walls begged for Indians to shove boulders onto their heads or even have a sharpshooter or two take potshots at them. Why he thought that worried him even more. He had gotten through the war by listening to this sixth sense. It was prodding him a mite now, but he felt sharper pokes building.

  “Fresh cow flop? See it? Hell, I can smell it.”

  They rode over and chased off a swarm of flies. Slocum saw the cattle hoofprints in the softer earth.

  “Might be a half dozen,” he said. “Maybe more.” He frowned, then turned his horse for the far wall.

  “What you find?”

  Slocum dismounted and studied the rocky ground. Some rocks had bright silver streaks showing something shod had ridden this way. A horse, probably with a rider. But he couldn’t tell how long ago it had been. Maybe the cattle came afterward or the rider was lost. Try as he might, he couldn’t tell which way the rider had traveled. Might have been from the canyon rather than into it.

  “Don’t see no sign of them beeves comin’ out. We can round ’em up and be back for Hashknife to poison us with more of that slop he calls stew.”

  “The biscuits aren’t bad,” Slocum said, but he wasn’t thinking of the cook’s ineptness or the odd things he tossed into the stewpot and called it “kwee-zine like them Frenchies eat.”

  “Not bad? He makes ’em using cement. And the gravy he pours over ’em—what’s that?” Blassingame drew rein and cocked his head to one side, listening to the commotion from the far end of the canyon.

  “Horses,” Slocum said. “Riders rounding up cattle.”

  “Ain’t nobody else from the ranch came this way. That means rustlers.” Blassingame didn’t wear a sidearm. He pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard and fumbled in his saddlebags to find a box of cartridges. Methodically stuffing the rounds into the magazine took only a few seconds. He looked up at Slocum. “You up to chasin’ ’em off?”

  Slocum touched the butt of his Colt Navy and nodded.

  “We kin wait for ’em to drive the cattle to us and catch ’em in a crossfire. Or we kin go after ’em.” From the way Blassingame spoke, he preferred the latter since he wasn’t much when it came to patience.

  Slocum looked up at the canyon rim again, squinting as he studied the westernmost side. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he thought he caught sight of a glint off something silver.

  “We go to them,” Slocum said, mounting. “They got lookouts posted above us.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Unless they are damned good marksmen, they’ll never hit us, but they can warn the others we’re on the way.”

  “Let ’em set a trap. We know they’re ahead of us!”

  Slocum didn’t bother pointing out they had no idea if they went after two rustlers or a dozen. If the gang was big enough that they could spare at least one lookout along the rim, the fight they were willing to give as strangers rode into the canyon might be a nasty one.

  “What do you think, Slocum? Charge right on in?”

  “They know we’re coming, but we don’t know anything about them,” he answered in a low voice. He was aware of how sounds were magnified in this stretch of canyon, where the walls squeezed down even more. The lowing of cattle from ahead drowned out any sounds of riders, though he thought he heard an occasional snap of a rope or bullwhip as the cattle were being rounded up.

  “That won’t slow me none. You ain’t thinkin’ on lettin’ Mr. Magnuson down, now are you, Slocum?”

  “Not looking to get killed for any man,” Slocum said. As Blassingame bristled, he went on. “Let me scout some before we bull our way into what might be a shooting gallery—with us as the sitting ducks.”

  “Don’t take long. I got a bad feelin’ that this here canyon ain’t a box, and they might be stealin’ the cows from under our noses.”

  Slocum took a long look at the rim, knowing their presence had already been passed on to the rustlers on the canyon floor. He rode to the sheer rock wall and pressed close. This would keep the man above him from dropping rocks or even getting a decent shot off. Advancing slowly, he heard men yelling now and frightened cattle getting even more agitated at being moved.

  He wanted to gallop ahead to see what was happening, but his words to Blassingame kept him cautious. Rounding a turn in the canyon opened a vista to him that caused his gut to turn into a giant knot. A half-dozen men circled the small herd of twenty beeves. Magnuson wouldn’t take kindly to losing that many head of cattle, but Slocum wasn’t looking too kindly on trying to stop the rustlers either. Two used whips to drive the cattle while the other four worked as outriders, chasing down any steer clever enough to get away from the herd.

  They worked their stolen cattle toward the far end of the canyon. From all Slocum could tell, this was a box canyon, but they had something in mind. He blinked when he saw two more riders appear as if from thin air. He knew then that a rock wall hid the exit from the canyon. Turning his horse, he started back to warn Blassingame when gunfire erupted. At the bottom of the canyon, he thought the
gunshots came from every direction. Echoes rattled from side to side and confused him whether they came from behind or ahead.

  Worse, they might be coming from snipers up along the far canyon rim. If they did, he wouldn’t have a chance.

  He put his head down and trotted through the tumble of rocks, making as good a speed as he could without risking his horse breaking a leg. He discarded even this when a bullet spanged off the rock wall above his head and showered him with hot shards.

  “Too many of them,” he called out to Blassingame. The foreman had his rifle out, swinging it all around but not finding a target.

  “Where are them varmints?” Bullets tore past him, making him even more frantic. Blassingame started firing. He was more dangerous to Slocum in that instant than to the rustlers.

  “Get your head down, dammit,” Slocum shouted. “We either try to make a stand or we run for it.”

  “I ain’t runnin’! I was hired—”

  A bullet jerked at Blassingame’s right arm and pulled away some of his duster. Red began to stain the canvas as he reached over with his left hand and swatted at the wound as if it were nothing more than an annoying mosquito.

  Slocum reached the foreman and shoved him hard enough to unseat him. He landed hard, his rifle pinned under his body.

  “What you doin’, boy? You cain’t—”

  Dust rose in tiny spires all around. He finally realized the danger they were in.

  “Up on the rims. Both rims,” Slocum said. He hit the ground and grabbed for his Winchester in its saddle sheath. A handgun wouldn’t do him any good at this range.

  “How many of them?” Blassingame finally got his wits about him. He had turned pale and trembled. Slocum couldn’t tell if it was from the wound or the man’s courage was running out along with his life’s blood.

  “More ’n we can handle,” Slocum said. He rested his rifle on a rock, took careful aim, adjusted for firing uphill, then squeezed off a shot. He missed the rifleman on the rim by a foot, but it was close enough to drive the man back undercover.

  “We kin fight ’em off. Me and you kin do it, Slocum.”

  Slocum turned his rifle to the half-dozen rustlers riding from the depths of the canyon. He emptied his magazine without bringing down a single outlaw.

  “You got more ammo?”

  “In my saddlebags.” Blassingame looked around and saw his and Slocum’s horses had run a few yards away. He heaved himself to his feet and lumbered toward his horse. He grunted as another bullet came close to ending his life. The foreman dug in his saddlebags and got the box of cartridges. With a backhand toss, he heaved them in Slocum’s direction, then simply sat down hard.

  The box tumbled through the air, spewing out its brass cartridges until only a few were left inside when Slocum grabbed it. Quickly reloading, he fired a few times to keep the advancing rustlers honest, then bent low and scooped up as many shells as he could getting to Blassingame’s side.

  “You hurt bad?”

  “Feelin’ kinda woozy. Legs don’t seem to want to hold me up.”

  Slocum ripped open the duster and saw Blassingame had been hit twice. The first wound was the worst, going through his arm and then into his chest. He probed a mite, Blassingame let out a howl of pain, then Slocum pulled his hand back, wiping the blood onto the man’s duster.

  “Not as bad as it might have been. The bullet broke a rib but didn’t puncture your hide more ’n a shallow scratch.”

  “Breathin’ is a chore,” Blassingame said. “Reminds me when I busted myself up gettin’ kicked by a milk cow when I was nine years old. Pa tole me not to get behind the cow. She was a mean one, she was.” He winced as Slocum tore away part of the foreman’s shirt. The other wound was shallow. He could see the butt end of the bullet still sticking out. It had been almost spent by the time it hit the foreman.

  With bullets filling the air around them, Slocum concentrated only on the wound. He used Blassingame’s own knife to cut out the bullet.

  “That gonna fix me up?” The foreman winced as Slocum pressed his torn, bloody shirt down onto the wound.

  “Only worry you’ll have is cleaning your knife blade,” Slocum assured him. He scooped up Blassingame’s rifle, emptied it in the direction of the approaching rustlers, and then pulled his own back to his shoulder.

  The outlaws took cover, giving Slocum some hope that he had at least winged one of them. If he could keep them wary enough, he and Blassingame might get away alive.

  “Why don’t they see to their rustlin’ and jist let us go?” Blassingame had turned pale under his weathered hide. “Cain’t think we’re the law. Not out here.”

  “They might not want us to fetch the law.” It would be weeks, if ever, before the cattle were missed. Even then, Magnuson might not be too worried about finding them. Wolves and coyotes took a meal or two from any herd. This year it might be that hungrier wolves had moved down from the hills because it had been drier than normal.

  If the rustlers killed him and Blassingame, there’d be no witnesses to their crime, and they’d have some mighty fine eating when they got around to celebrating the theft. From what Slocum had heard, ranchers adjoining the Bar M weren’t inclined to pay much attention to brands. The outlaws need only find one such rancher and they could ride away with their pockets stuffed with greenbacks.

  “White flag,” Blassingame said. “We can parley with them.”

  Slocum knew that wasn’t likely. The outlaws held all the aces. They had the cattle, they had the numerical superiority, and worst of all, they had all the time in the world to eliminate witnesses.

  “Can you ride? I’ll draw them away, then you ride like the demons of hell are on your tail. Get back to the ranch and send help.”

  “Run off? I ain’t a coward.”

  “You’ll be the hero, bringing back the rest of the hands to save the herd.”

  Slocum realized how badly Blassingame had been injured when this made sense to the foreman.

  “There won’t be much time. They’re moving on us.” Slocum couldn’t see the outlaws but suspected they were trying to circle and catch them from three sides, letting the gunmen on the rim take care of any possible retreat.

  “I kin ride,” Blassingame said. He tried to stand, sat heavily, then grabbed Slocum’s arm. “Help me up, will you, Slocum?”

  With a heave, Slocum got him to his feet. To his credit, Blassingame mounted under his own power, then slumped forward. Slocum wished there was time to lash the man into the saddle. The shouts from both flanks convinced him that wasn’t going to happen.

  For a moment he considered riding with Blassingame. The man was on the verge of blacking out, and if he did, neither of them would get away. The rustlers were closing in fast, and giving them his back as a target didn’t set well with Slocum. Then this route to safety disappeared. A stray bullet caught Slocum’s horse in the center of its forehead. The mare collapsed as if all the bones in its legs had turned to mush. He cursed the loss, then knew he could lose far more than a good mount.

  He slapped the rump of Blassingame’s horse. The foreman was almost unseated as it rocketed from the canyon. Slocum twisted about and got off three fast shots at the rifleman stationed on the canyon rim trying to sight in on the foreman. His shots went wide of their mark, but again he drove the sniper back, giving Blassingame a chance. Not much of one, but a chance.

  Slocum turned to keep the two rustlers on his left at bay, only to find he came up empty. Using his six-shooter, he gained himself a few seconds to hunt for the shining brass casings in the dry canyon bottom. He rolled behind a boulder and stuffed in the four rounds he had retrieved. A quick look around didn’t reveal any others.

  “We got ’im, boys. Charge!”

  Slocum heard the command from his right side. A quick glance confirmed what this really meant. H
e whirled left and got off all four shots from the rifle before coming up empty. As the hammer fell on the empty chamber, a wry smile crossed his face. Four shots and he had brought down two of the outlaws.

  He turned back to the other direction as those rustlers advanced. And from the corner of his eye he saw three others advancing from the depths of the canyon.

  All he had left were a couple rounds in his six-gun. He vowed to make them count.

  5

  The range was extreme for a six-gun, but Slocum did what he could by giving a bit of arc to every shot. He thought he scared one of the rustlers, then his hammer fell on a spent round. He was out of ammunition. Reaching down, he drew the thick-bladed knife he sheathed in the top of his boot. It wouldn’t do any good, but he felt better having some weapon as the outlaws advanced on him.

  He took cover as a fusillade ripped through the air, then realized the shots came from the direction Blassingame had taken. He couldn’t believe the foreman had gotten enough strength to come back to his rescue. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a lone rider galloping forth, wildly firing a rifle.

  It wasn’t Blassingame. It was Tom Garvin.

  “Damned fool,” Slocum muttered. He rose and tried to wave off the cowboy, but Garvin paid him no heed.

  Sure that he would see Garvin blown out of the saddle, Slocum watched in rapt fascination as the young man kept firing and kept hitting his target. Slocum had seen more than one Wild West Show and seldom had any of those trick shooters been more accurate. It was as if every round Garvin fired winged or brought down an outlaw. When he rushed past where Slocum crouched behind a rock, Slocum saw how Garvin held his black rope in his teeth and somehow fired and loaded his rifle at a dead gallop.

  In a few minutes an eerie silence fell over the canyon. Garvin rode back, the rope still between his teeth.

  “On the rim, watch for snipers!”

  Garvin heard Slocum’s warning and looked up. Almost casually, he raised his rifle and fired. Slocum gaped as the rifleman high atop the wall stood straight, then fell stiff as a board all the way to the canyon floor. He didn’t doubt the outlaw had been killed instantly by Garvin’s impossible shot. The fall was only icing on the cake.