by Jake Logan
The money from the bank robbery would hardly be enough to pay him back, even after he got Pendergast in his gun sight. He made sure there wasn’t a drop left in the shot glass and then he left the saloon without a look back. Slocum had some tracking ahead of him, dangerous tracking.
19
Slocum didn’t bother following the road the way the posse had gone. Pendergast wasn’t stupid enough to stay on a main road very long, even if he had left mounts along the way Pony Express style to get the hell out of the territory in a day’s time. From what Slocum had seen, Pendergast’s gang rode a single horse. They might have stolen enough for a relay, but none of the ranchers had mentioned losing that many of their remuda after the cattle drive.
He cut across country, found a spot that looked likely where a foot-deep stream ran, and rode alongside. Eyes peeled for any trace that Pendergast and his men had come this way, Slocum finally spotted a single hoofprint in the muddy embankment. He rode up to a rise and got his bearings. This wasn’t far from where Pendergast and Herman had brought him before. Their camp wouldn’t be too far, but he knew it would be abandoned.
It took him almost an hour but he found where they had tried to hide several campfires by throwing rocks and dirt over them, then dropping dead limbs and branches. A slow circuit convinced him this had been Pendergast’s campsite. Three sets of tracks left the camp, each heading in a different direction away from town. The gang had split their take and now rode away to find someplace to spend the money.
Any of the tracks could belong to Pendergast. Slocum closed his eyes and sat for a minute or longer, trying to remember anything the outlaw leader might have said about a hideout. He was nothing if not careful, that Pendergast. If he had mentioned a spot, Slocum hadn’t heard or understood. More likely, the outlaw hadn’t mentioned it. After all, he intended for Slocum to die one way or the other after the robbery.
Would he have come back to town for the execution if Slocum had been caught and convicted of multiple murder? It was likely. That might mean he hadn’t gone too far. After all, Pendergast wasn’t aware that his distinctive hatband had given away his identity and might think he was secure in returning to gloat.
Slocum picked a track and chased after the riders, from the look of the prints, numbering only two. He trotted along, working to keep the hoofprints in sight. Once they got to the far side of the meadow, the prints vanished in a welter of leaves and detritus in an overgrown wood. There hadn’t been any evidence the outlaws were trying to lay a false trail or even hide their direction of travel. Slocum pushed on hard, making his way through the forest as quickly as he could.
How far ahead they were, he couldn’t guess, but he had the feeling they weren’t in any big hurry. Moving in a straight line, he eventually crossed a level stretch and worked his way to a rise where he could survey a couple miles farther. He didn’t even have to use his field glasses to see the two riders. They rode slowly, not bothering to look around.
A quick judgment as to their destination sent him in a long arc that circled into a muddy ravine and then up a distant hill that brought him even with them two.
He slid his Colt Navy from its holster and leveled it, waiting. As they rode up and crested the hill, they saw him—and his six-shooter.
“Howdy,” he said. “You’ve been busy since Pendergast left me last night.”
Herman went for his six-gun, but he wore it on his right hip, high, and had to twist around to get it out. Slocum’s bullet caught him in the leg. The wound wasn’t serious, but it caused his horse to rear, throwing the outlaw.
The other outlaw, the scarred one Pendergast had called Abe, bent forward and pulled out his rifle for some serious shooting. Slocum knew better than to shoot it out with a man sighting in on him with a rifle. He fired a couple more times at the horse’s hooves, causing it to dance about and spoiling Abe’s aim long enough to take cover.
He had been too eager to confront the outlaws. Worse, he had believed Pendergast would be one of the two riders. If he had scouted more, spied on them, and waited for them to camp before going after them, he wouldn’t be worrying about Abe getting lucky with a shot.
High-powered rifle slugs whined through the air. Slocum grabbed for his own rifle but his horse was as skittish as Abe’s. He dismounted and held on to the reins, but Abe wasn’t anyone’s fool. He knew that attack served him better than defense and came rushing over the hill, firing as he came.
Slocum had to abandon his horse and depend on his six-shooter. He got off a couple shots that convinced Abe to flop belly down on the ground and take more care aiming.
“That you, Slocum? You son of a bitch. Why won’t you die!”
“That’s what Pendergast wanted for me, isn’t it?”
“Where’d you go last night? We was gonna blow the wall down, but you turned tail and ran.”
Slocum worked to reload, looking for his chance to stop Abe.
“Pendergast would have shot me down like a dog,” Slocum said. “Why help rob the bank if I was going to end up dead?”
Abe laughed harshly.
“You got it all wrong, Slocum. The boss is a straight shooter. He woulda given you your fair share. Hell, me and Herman will share what we got. Only seems fair, and we got a shitload of money from that hick town bank.”
“That’s mighty generous,” Slocum said, working his way to a fallen log. He kept low, wiggled like a snake, and came up behind. If Abe had seen him, he didn’t take a shot.
“That’s us, Slocum. Real generous. What do you say? Let’s call a truce and divvy the money.”
Slocum stayed silent and judged where Abe had to go if he continued his frontal attack. He rested his Colt on the top of the log to steady his aim.
“Slocum? What do you say?”
He said nothing. Abe would get antsy and make a mistake.
“Slocum? Slocum! I’m comin’ out.”
The outlaw held his rifle high over his head with both hands and worked his way toward the spot where Slocum had originally hidden.
“See, Slocum? I’m comin’ out. You all right? I didn’t hit you, did I? Let me help.”
Abe stopped, looking off at an angle from where Slocum lay.
“Drop the rifle,” Slocum called. He should have cut the outlaw down where he stood, but Abe had his hands in the air. “Drop it or you’re a dead man.”
Abe jerked around, surprise on his face.
“How’d you get over there? Don’t shoot! I’m settin’ down my rifle.” Abe turned as if dipped in molasses, his every move exaggerated and slow. He rested his rifle against a rock and put his hands back up. “Come on, Slocum. We don’t have to be like this. We can ride together.”
“Where’s Pendergast?”
“To hell with Pendergast. He’s always bossin’ me around. Let’s the two of us ride together. Partners. You got imag- ination. We can do some great robberies, and not just banks. Trains, stagecoaches. Hell, we can hit cavalry payrolls.”
“You’ve got some ambition,” Slocum said, standing and advancing on Abe, his six-shooter never moving from the man. The slightest twitch and the outlaw would die, but he seemed content to talk his nonsense. There was no reason in hell Abe would want to partner with him.
“We can be partners, Slocum. Partners.” Abe turned slightly, and Slocum caught the glint of light off metal.
His finger came back fast, jerking his aim a little off target. He still hit Abe high in the chest, causing the owlhoot to spin, grab for his rifle, and crash to the ground. Behind him, prone on the ground, lay Herman. Slocum hadn’t winged him as bad as he’d thought. The two road agents worked together well. There hadn’t been any need for them to make lengthy plans to lay the ambush.
Slocum fired as he walked forward. Herman grunted, returned fire, then died with the last of Slocum’s bullets ripping through the crown
of his hat and blowing his brains into bloody mush.
“You kilt him! You kilt Herman!”
Slocum bent double, got his feet under him, and dived parallel to the ground as Abe opened fire with his rifle.
He landed hard, rolled downhill, and avoided the hail of bullets sent his way. After skidding to a halt, he dug his toes into the soft ground and looked uphill. He cursed when he had a good shot at Abe—but his six-gun was empty.
He reloaded and found he didn’t have enough for a full cylinder. Four shots. That was all he had to eliminate Abe, but killing the man wasn’t his intent. The gang had a rendezvous point, those who wanted to continue riding with Pendergast. Slocum wanted to be there to settle the score with their leader.
He rolled and kept rolling, sliding downhill a little.
“Want me, come and get me, Abe.”
His only reply was a half-dozen rounds. Slocum wondered if the outlaw was running dry like he was. He clutched the ebony butt of his six-gun and pictured the four rounds resting in the chambers. He got to the base of the hill and looked for a spot to make his stand—or better, to lay a trap. He didn’t know how badly injured Abe was, but if he and Herman had been partners, his anger might propel him forward, no matter how much lead he carried in his body.
Not finding any decent cover, Slocum kept running. No bullets. There were too many possibilities why Abe failed to take a shot at him. Out of ammo was one, but Slocum had to discount that. It would be too easy to rush the wounded outlaw and find himself with a gut full of lead. Abe might be pinned down where he was because of wounds. That wasn’t a chance Slocum wanted to take either. Better to think Abe was moving around, had a magazine full of rounds, and bided his time for the killing shot.
The base of the hill proved slippery from the recent rain. The runoff had poured down the hillside and carried away both debris and dirt. Slocum smiled when he saw one deeply cut ravine. This was what he needed. It was filthy work, flopping belly down and wiggling uphill in the muddy-bottomed arroyo, but he was protected from fire.
At least he thought he was. He made it halfway up the hill when he looked up and saw Abe bracing himself against a tree, his rifle to his shoulder.
“Figgered you’d be comin’ this way, Slocum.” He snugged the rifle stock to his shoulder.
Slocum fired. The shot went wild but startled Abe enough for him to jerk on the trigger. The shot flew high. Scrambling frantically to get his feet under him proved too difficult for Slocum. He fell facedown in the mud. Another round whined harmlessly above him.
Slocum couldn’t advance; retreat was suicidal. All he could do was make his final three shots count. Two missed, the third caught Abe as he stepped away from the tree to get a better field of fire.
“Oh,” Abe said, then sat down. He weakly lifted the rifle, but it slipped from his shoulder as he kneeled over.
Slocum rolled from the ravine and found drier ground to get back to the top of the hill. Abe lay on his side, his hands between his legs, which were drawn up to his chest. In this fetal position, no wound was obvious. Slocum considered how he had felt with the last shot.
Over the years he had developed a sense of when a shot was good and when it missed. Reliving the moment he pulled the trigger on his fourth and final round convinced him his shot hadn’t ended Abe’s life. He still advanced with his empty six-gun pointed at the fallen outlaw.
“You’re playing possum,” Slocum said.
“You’re right, Slocum, I am!” Abe rolled over. In a flash Slocum saw where two bullets had entered the man’s chest, both high and painful but not fatal. More than this, he saw a derringer clutched in Abe’s hand.
He thrust out his arm, pointing his empty six-shooter at Abe.
“I don’t want to kill you, but I got a better chance of ending your miserable life than you do ending mine.” Slocum’s hand was steady as a rock. Abe’s shook.
“You kilt Herman and shot me twice.”
“I want to know where to find Pendergast. He’s the one I’m after, not you.”
“Y-You’d let me go?” The small pistol shook even more. If Slocum had had any rounds left, he would have shot Abe dead rather than take the chance the man would jerk and fire accidentally.
“Yeah, I’d do that.”
“Why?”
“Pendergast told you how he’s chased me down for over a year. You know he tried to frame me for the bank robbery and the murder of the tellers.”
“Herman shot ’em.”
“I know. He’s paid for that crime. All you’ve done is rob a bank, and I don’t give a tin-plated damn about that. Where were you supposed to meet up with Pendergast?”
“He didn’t give us our entire cut. Just some.” Abe’s arm sank and the derringer pointed more at Slocum’s boots than his head.
“Keep your money. Keep Herman’s cut, too, for all I care. The only way I can stop Pendergast from dogging my steps and making life hell is to kill him.”
“You want to kill him? He’s a son of a bitch but . . . but we done some good robberies. Smart as a fox.” Abe’s voice trailed off. Slocum didn’t move a muscle.
Abe jerked back. His wounds were finally bleeding him dry, weakening him. He used both hands to hold the .45 derringer now. The muzzle looked as big as the maw of hell to Slocum, and then Abe’s hands were unable to hold the pistol. It slipped from his hands to the ground.
Slocum stepped up, grabbed the derringer, and tucked it into his gun belt.
“Where’s Pendergast?”
Abe’s eyelids flickered.
“You know him. Always thinkin’ of how to get away. Ain’t gonna tell you how, not possible with all this rain swellin’ . . .”
Slocum didn’t have to check. Abe was dead.
As he buried both outlaws, he thought about what Abe said. Abe had thought he was taunting his killer with a vague statement, but the life draining from him had betrayed him. He had given Slocum one clue too many.
Slocum found the pitiful few dollars in the outlaws’ saddlebags from the robbery. Pendergast had kept the bulk of it for himself or intended using it to ensure his gang would rendezvous if they wanted their share.
Which it was didn’t matter. Slocum tucked the money into his own saddlebags, reloaded his Colt Navy, and then mounted for a long ride. He knew where to find Pendergast. And then he would kill him.
20
The road carried hoofprints of too many horses for him to be following only Pendergast. Slocum rode faster when he heard the bull-throated rush of the river. From here Pendergast must have thought to get on a riverboat and go downstream far enough to spend the money from the robbery in peace. The chance that Marshal Swearingen would pursue him that far was close to nothing, even though Pendergast had killed the bank tellers.
But the small streams flowing into the river had swelled and contributed more water than the riverbanks could handle. To go out on the river, even in a large boat, would be dangerous. Slocum knew the outlaw was caught here until the river crested and the flood had abated, which might be days.
He rode to the pier and looked out at the large riverboat banging against its moorings. A smile came to his lips. His guess was proving right. Now all he had to do was find Pendergast, and he had to admit Abe’s dying words might have meant something else.
Slocum didn’t think so.
He dismounted and walked to the buildings at the foot of the pier. A quick look through a dirty window showed only three men inside, none of them Pendergast or others of his gang.
As he went in, the man behind a long bar called out, “Ain’t fixin’ to leave for another day, maybe two. You want a drink to ease the wait?”
“Drink sounds good,” Slocum said, dropping a damp greenback on the bar. It had been one of the bills he had taken from Abe and Herman. He thought Roebuck owed him a drink
on the bank because he had already killed two of the robbers responsible for the tellers’ deaths.
“Twice that. Don’t like paper money. If you got coin . . .”
Slocum added another dollar bill to the one on the bar. The barkeep made a sour face, then made the money disappear and get replaced, as if my magic, with a shot glass brimming with a murky fluid resembling the muddy water in the river.
A sip confirmed Slocum’s appraisal. It was terrible trade whiskey. Too much gunpowder and not enough alcohol. He knocked it back fast to keep from tasting it. He belched.
“Good, huh? Another?”
“Might as well since the boat’s tied up for a while,” Slocum said. The last thing in the world he needed was another drink. After the barkeep poured, Slocum let it sit on the bar, only fingering the shot glass to give the illusion of drinking. “You got other passengers waiting for it to leave?”
“A couple. Them gents,” the barkeep said, pointing to the men playing gin rummy at a nearby table.
Slocum sized them up fast. One was a preacher and the other a traveling salesman.
“I was supposed to meet a fellow here,” Slocum said.
“You just missed him then,” the barkeep said. “The only other gent who wanted passage downriver left instead of stickin’ around. Can’t blame him. He looked to be in a powerful hurry to get somewhere that wasn’t here.”
“Do tell,” Slocum said. “Might be the one I was waiting for.”
“Don’t remember much ’bout him. Big man, wore a gun like he knew how to use it.” The bartender looked down at Slocum’s six-gun, obviously putting him in the same bin as the other man. Gunfighters.
“He leave a name?”
“No need. He didn’t buy a ticket but rode downstream. Ain’t as fast as the boat, ’cept right now. But if he’d hung around a day or two, the boat’ll sail on past wherever he got to.”