by Jake Logan
He rubbed his whisker-bristled mouth. A cup of real coffee would go good, but there would be none in her house—the saints didn’t believe in it. He admired the swing of her shapely derriere under the dress as she worked cracking eggs and frying meat.
“The bishop have another husband picked out for you?” he asked, knowing the customs of these people.
She turned and winked at him. “I think he believes I am incorrigible and doesn’t want me to be a burden on any of his men here.”
Bobbing his head in amusement, Slocum agreed with a grin. “Then he knows you.”
“Oh, I have some who come after dark and knock on my door. I usually fire the shotgun over their heads the first time—Oh, come in,” she said, looking up at Chewy standing at her door.
Slocum waved the Apache inside and turned back to her. “What happens the second time?”
“I aim lower.”
“Hope you like ham and eggs.” She busied herself dishing it out on willow china plates.
“We can eat about anything. And have.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I don’t doubt that.”
After her meal, Slocum rode his horse down to the bishop’s dwelling. Dan Robinson was rocking on his porch and reading a week-old newspaper. He was a full-faced man with no beard; the sweat eased from the creases, and he mopped his flush cheeks with a towel.
“Hot today,” he said and nodded. “Have a chair. Your name is Slocum, right?”
“Yes, warm enough. I understand that Slade and Thorpe stopped by here.”
Robinson cocked a brow at him. “And?”
“They had repeaters and ammo for the broncos on those mules.”
His face turned hard. “No, they were carrying some machinery to a mine that a brother has up there.”
“Bishop, they lied to you. They bought those guns and ammo from old man Clanton with money from some of your people at Saint David.”
A scowl spread over his red face. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Someone who didn’t care who lived or died and wanted to make a profit.”
Robinson leaned back in the chair and turned when a tall woman came to the doorway drying her hands. “This man is not of the faith,” she said coldly as if to discredit his words to her husband.
“No, I’m not, but I don’t need to lie about this deal. Slade and Thorpe are a pair of worthless no-accounts. Their wives and daughters all work as doves up at Fort Thomas. I’m certain forced to do so by their husbands. When your people here face those broncos well armed, then you can believe they sure ain’t saints.”
Wide-eyed, the woman gasped in shock at his words and her jaw slacked in pale-faced disbelief.
“I’m leaving—but I have warned both of you about them.” Slocum stood up, breathing through his nose, and nodded at the bishop; then he strode to his horse. They could defend those two outlaws till hell froze over, but they better wake up.
Robinson never offered him a word; instead he turned and talked to his wife in a soft voice. Slocum gathered the reins and swung in the saddle. He halted Charro and looked back at the porch. “Oh, they’re real nice folks.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that around a woman,” Robinson said to him.
“Maybe you’d like to hear about it from a young schoolmarm Slade tried to assault two weeks ago.”
“Shut your mouth.” Robinson waved a finger at him.
“When they assault one of your wives—then you can be mad.” Slocum booted Charro into a lope. He had no time for them. They almost deserved what they’d get out of this deal—it might be a raiding party too.
“Come on, Chewy, we’re going after them.”
“What did the bishop say?” She rushed out with her dress skirts held in her hands in the bloody red of the sunset.
“They were taking mining machinery to some mormon in the Madres.”
“Oh, damn.” She came over to his stirrups. “Kiss me before you ride off mad.”
He bent over and their lips met. Then he lifted her off the ground to kiss her harder. At last, heady with the honey of her mouth, he looked her in the eye. “Damn, Leagh, I’m sorry, but we need to stop them.”
“I understand.” She crushed her lips together. “Don’t forget me.”
“How can I?” he said, feeling helpless as he set her down. His guts roiled at the thought of what he was leaving behind. The sweetness of her lilac perfume filled his nose. Swallowing hard, he tossed his head at Chewy. “Find their tracks. We’re going to stop them.”
“Take care,” she said, looking sadly after him and waving as they galloped out of the village, crossed the irrigation ditch bridge and headed into the foothills.
Darkness soon came, and Chewy said they were close to the pair. They found some water and grass under some cottonwoods and sycamores in the starlight. Enough forage for their tired horses, and they shut down, fed their mounts some whole corn in morrals while they feasted on tough, pepper jerky. Sure wasn’t like Leagh’s food. Horses hobbled, they rolled out blankets and crashed on the ground. Slocum was still angry over the outrageous attempt at a cover-up of the two’s skullduggery—mining equipment, his ass.
A coyote or red wolf howled in the night. Slocum felt for his Colt; the smooth red cedar grips in his hand, he raised up and listened. Real enough. Apaches used the various calls from wild animals to signal one another. There it came again. That sounded like a red wolf all right; he settled back under the burst of stars and soon fell asleep. He dreamed about the schoolmarm, and as always before they could encroach on anything serious, she went off the tips of his fingers and ran away. Maybe that was the way it always would be. Damn . . .
In the coolness of the predawn, he and Chewy boiled some chicory coffee in a tin can. The beans had not been well roasted and the chicory was bitter—but they used it to wash down the rock-hard jerky. All of Alma’s burritos eaten, Slocum dreaded what they’d have next—whatever that would be. He drew up the cinch and hoped they found the gunrunners before the sunset.
He and Chewy set out in a long trot as the spears of gold shone overhead, piercing the peaks above them. Sunup was only minutes away. But it was past noontime when Chewy pointed across the canyon and, struggling up the far slope, Slocum could see the mule train winding its way skyward.
“Now we get them.”
“Yes,” Slocum agreed and rocked in the saddle, with his hand grasping the big wooden horn. Now we get them.
15
The gunrunners were camped on a long mountain bench in the pines. Slocum could see the smoke from their campfire. Pretty obvious thing to do in a place where wild Apaches lurked—maybe they wanted the broncos to find them. Slocum shook his head and crawled back from the ledge.
“You see more than two men with those mules yesterday?” he asked Chewy as they straightened and went for their horses.
The scout shook his head. “Why?”
“Just wondered if they had any help or a guide. Finding the broncos is never easy.”
Chewy gave him a solemn nod. “Maybe why they have the smoke.”
“Could be. But we better keep an eye out for the broncos. I don’t want some buck slipping up on us.”
The scout agreed and bounded onto his mount. “We can ride closer.”
A mountain jay scolded them from a perch in pines. Did it know anything? Slocum smiled—if he had any sense, he wouldn’t be there without more help. Losing Chako and Bee Tree to the general was a big loss to him—besides, Chako had had a good sense of things at all times. Chewy wasn’t lazy, but he was not the same sort of person. They pushed up the steep mountain.
Charro buckled under Slocum, and then the report of the rifle came to him. He dove toward the up hillside, shaking stirrups as he went off. The impact of his left shoulder striking the rock slide sent a hard shock of pain to his brain. Sliding downhill in the loose rocks and chert, he glanced in shock at the cliff edge coming fast at him. He stuck a boot out and caught it on a bush, stopping his descent and
spinning him crossways on the strip of loose fill. He managed to catch a solid rock and pull himself onto the ledge.
Where was the shooter? His hand sought his six-gun—the holster was empty. Lost it in the rock scramble. The sharp rocks underneath gouged him; the downed, still horse lay on his side thirty feet above him, and his rifle was sticking out of the scabbard on the up side. No sign of Chewy and his horse. His scout must have sought cover. No sign of the shooter either—he glanced back at the dizzy heights and far below to the canyon floor. Too close for him.
Did he dare move for the rifle? He might be far enough under the brow to not be seen. Maybe the shooter thought he’d gone off the edge. Good if he did, but he doubted the man had moved anywhere. With his forefinger he shaved the sweat off his upper lip; the rough rock surface against his chest, he chewed on his sun-cracked lower lip, considering his options: lie still or move for the long gun and become a target. Where did he lose his pistol?
The ache in his left shoulder grew tougher. He flexed it and felt nothing broke. Probably just bruised the hell out of it landing on it—but it would hinder his using it much. He should have listened to that jay—he knew a bruja in Guaymos who would have reminded him that birds bring warnings. Unlike that witch, he didn’t know which ones to take serious and which ones to ignore. He raised up some to try and ease the pain. His impatience grew by the seconds.
He could die there too. On his knees, he prepared to make a dash for the horse. With a quick glance off the cliff edge under him, he looked upon some gliding buzzards searching for breakfast. A long ways down there. He must cross the same fill he had slid down to get to the horse, or go above it. If it gave way under his soles, it could be Katy-bar-the-door for him. The next slide might be his last. In a crouch, he considered his chances. Cross the slide. To go above it would expose him too much if the shooter was still up there—besides it would take longer to get to the Winchester.
“Where did that damn buck go?” someone shouted.
“He got the hell out of here.”
At the sound of the familiar voices, Slocum’s heart stopped. They were still up there.
“You get Slocum?” Slade asked
“I think. He went sailing off the bluff.”
“Better think hard that he did,’cause that sumbitch will be hard to kill.”
Thorpe laughed. “Not unless he’s got fucking wings.”
“I’m going up here a ways and try to find that gawdamn Apache. If we can get rid of them . . .” The rest of his words were inaudible.
Slocum began to slip across the crevice filled with the loose fill. His first step, the rocks crunched and began to slip downhill under his sole. His second step gave way under him, and down on his knees he scrambled with all his might, churning more loose stones and losing ground. At last he found sure footing and caught his short breath on the far side, staying low, but listening to the slide he’d caused to rumble off the edge.
Had Thorpe heard it? He’d need to be deaf not to have. Charro’s still form lay forty feet above him. The Winchester’s walnut stock stuck out of the scabbard and shone in the bright sun. On his belly, he began to slither over the dry ground, stiff grass, and rocks toward the source.
A bullet struck the ground to his right and sent a spray of sand into his eyes. The shot put him into action. He raised to his feet and, running low uphill, began to race for the rifle. His hands closed around the wooden stock and he jerked it free, then twisted to the left, hoping to use the dead horse’s body for a shield. If he had chosen the right direction, he’d have some cover. At last, behind the horse and on his back, he forgot about the sharpness in his left shoulder, jacked a cartridge in the chamber and waited for another shot.
Three rapid-fire rounds plowed into the dead horse like slugs striking a watermelon. Slocum bolted up, feeling certain that Thorpe was above him and to his right. The iron sights struck on Thorpe’s tweed vest, and Slocum squeezed off a shot. His bullet shattered the rifle magazine on the long gun the outlaw held in his hands and knocked Thorpe on his butt.
Cursing and out of sight, Thorpe ran for a horse, and Slocum knew he could never reach the top of the hill for another shot at him. Instead Slocum frantically began to search for his Colt. He spotted it in the chert and looked warily around before he ventured out for it. Rifle cocked and ready in his right hand, he moved sideways to retrieve it. Boots set apart, he managed to stay on his feet and changed hands with the long gun. He bent over and swept up his six-shooter.
A little dusty, but it looked fine. He jammed it in the holster and fought his way back to solid ground. Nothing he could do for the expired horse, but being afoot in the Madres was serious business. And he felt satisfied from the distant jackasses’ braying that Thorpe and Slade had ridden off up into the mountains.
When he reached the tree line, he looked at Thorpe’s shattered Winchester’s receiver lying on the ground. Damn sure Thorpe’s lucky day. Slocum’s own rifle set down, he used the disabled one as a bat, and smashing it on the tree to bend the barrel, he rendered that disabled too. No need to leave a weapon around that might be recovered. He looked southward in the direction the gunrunners must have taken. His best bet might be to go north off the mountain, find a horse and possibly his scout.
He set out down the back trail. Uncertain of the way that Chewy had gone, he hurried, flexing his sore shoulder and carrying the rifle in his right hand. It would be many miles back off the Madres to any civilization. Finding water and something to eat might be a challenge. He looked across the vast country they’d traveled over—being afoot in a wilderness could be fatal. That consideration and his sore shoulder only made him move faster.
The dizzy heights towered over him, and the desert floor miles beneath him yawned like the mouth of a large monster. With no clouds in the azure sky, the mid-morning sun glared on his hatless head of too long hair. He’d regret not having any head cover before it was over.
Then in the corner of his eye, he spotted some movement. It was a roan horse and a hatless rider making his way down the opposite side of he mountain. An Apache who’d no doubt spotted him or heard the shots. His heart pounded in his throat. How many bucks were there? Even at the distance this one was from him, he’d close as the day went on. Rather than try to hide, Slocum began to jog.
One Injun—there were more. His lungs began to cry for air. The soreness spread down the left side of his body. The pines began to change into juniper—piñon in the lower elevation, which could give him more cover, but he’d choose the place he’d meet them if he could. Distance between them—that’s what he sought, and his soles scrambled over the gritty trail cut in the softer ground by years of wear from travel.
He stopped and looked off an overview. Nothing moved in the dazzling heat waves of the desert spread out under him. Maybe down there in the cottonwood tops he could see, there would be some water. Something he’d need in the next hours to replenish the sweat soaking his shirt and what he wiped off his face on his sleeve before resuming his way down. Where had Chewy gone? No sign of him since the shooting. He didn’t believe the scout had abandoned him, only got out of harm’s way and gone the opposite direction that he did.
At the edge, he could see their dust far beneath him like scrambling ants on the far wall of the canyon. Three Apaches pushing their mounts off the hill to get after him. He’d better hurry. Jogging down the steep zigzag trail wasn’t all that easy, but he made some good strides. Lower down, he planned to leave the path and use the cover of the junipers. One against three weren’t easy odds; those bucks knew how to fight, but he had to outwit and outshoot them. A good Sharps buffalo gun would be handy. He could pick them off at a distance—but none of them were lying around.
He reached the lower elevations and started to the right of the trail. Breathing hard, he dodged through the brushy junipers, seeking some ideal place to defend himself. None appeared. He slid on his heels down the next slope and landed on his butt for the last twenty feet.
Up and running again, he turned back expecting to see the black-striped face of a buck on his heels, but he saw nothing. Another steep hillside and he hurried down it, this time keeping his balance and landing on the flat below standing up.
A sharp scream and he saw the buck riding low on a blue roan, bearing down on him. In his right hand he had a brass case repeater and in his hard-set eyes the intention of murder as he bore down on Slocum.
He dropped to his knees and took aim—squeezed the trigger. His barrel burst forth with lead and gunsmoke that swept back to burn his eyes. The roan horse cartwheeled end over end and mashed its rider under his tumble. Shaken, the pony drew slowly to his feet, and Slocum rose with care, not taking his gaze off the downed one. Where were the others? The crushed Apache did not move—he must be either dead or unconscious from the fall.
In a low run, Slocum ran over to get the buck’s rifle. The carbine swept up in his left hand, he headed in a long lope for the cover of a juniper and crouched there to get a handle on the others. Slocum’s breath came short and pained as he tried to regain it. The sweat dripping, he studied a hipshot roan fifty feet away. The pony might be his ticket out. Two more bucks had been with this one—somewhere out there.
He didn’t dare make a move until he learned where they were. A fly or two buzzed by him and some quail whistled nearby. No Apaches. Some doves cooed and then flapped their wings as they left a nearby juniper.
Was that a sign? Through the sights on his rifle, he studied the thick evergreen boughs. Make a move and he’d nail him. He dried his left hand on his pants. The bitter smell of spent gunpowder in his nostrils, he listened hard.
Then a buck burst out of the boughs that Slocum was staring hard at, brandishing a cap-and-ball pistol aimed at him. He looked down the sights and fired. Behind him a war cry cut the air as another Apache bore down on him with a tomahawk. Slocum was bringing the rifle around. Another shot rang out, and the racing Indian jerked his head up and broke his stride as a second bullet struck him in the back.
On his feet, Slocum was ready to bust him with his own rifle, when the buck wilted into a pile before him. Riding down the bench through the junipers with a smoking pistol in his fist was his scout Chewy.