Slocum and the Hanging Horse

by Jake Logan

“If I catch him, there won’t be any reason for you to worry. Besides, the posse is out here somewhere hunting him. That’s going to keep him on the move. He won’t dare try to hole up at your place where they might surround him.”

  “He knows the Davis Mountains better than anyone in these parts,” Ruth said. “He won’t let them corner him or run him to ground.”

  “I’ve had a taste of how good a trailsman he is,” Slocum said, flexing his arm and making certain the crude bandage didn’t hinder his draw. He felt a touch of stiffness in his right arm, but it would never slow him if he came face-to-face with Jeter again.

  “You intend to kill him, don’t you?”

  Slocum wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with Jeter. After he got his watch back, it was possible he would turn him over to the posse or find a Texas Ranger to haul his ass back to San Antonio for trial. Jeter’s killing spree had gone on too long to be ignored.

  Slocum wasn’t exactly pristine, but he had never killed someone like Jeter had just out of pure cussedness. During the war he had ridden with the bloodiest of them all, William Quantrill. After the Lawrence, Kansas, raid, Slocum had protested the way Quantrill had ordered every male in the town, age eight and up, shot down where they stood. Too many in Quantrill’s Raiders had seen their own kin killed by the bluecoats for such a protest to go unnoticed. Bloody Bill Anderson had shot Slocum in the belly and left him to die. Slocum’s recovery had been slow and painful, and by the time he was able to ride back to Slocum’s Stand in Georgia, the war was over. The farm had been in the Slocum family since before the Revolutionary War, but a carpetbagger judge had taken a shine to it and claimed it for his own. No taxes had been paid during the war, he said, and he had both the law and a gunman to back up his decree.

  He and the hired gun had ridden onto the farm, but only Slocum had ridden out at the end of the day. Two new graves had been dug near the springhouse. Burying them was more than they deserved, but Slocum had still done things the way they ought to be done then. No matter that he had had the right to kill the Reconstruction judge for what he was doing—it had been outright theft. But the authorities didn’t see it that way.

  Wanted posters with his likeness had dogged his steps ever since. No matter the crime, judge-killing seemed to be about the worst in the eyes of the law. This had kept Slocum moving on until he had come to like riding for the distant horizon and the freedom this afforded him. No ties. Free to do whatever he wanted.

  But he was still bound to the past in one way. His brother Robert’s watch was not going to remain in Les Jeter’s pocket one tick longer than necessary.

  “I’ll kill him if he makes it necessary,” Slocum answered Ruth. “What do you think about that?”

  The woman looked troubled, and finally began to tear up again.

  “He’s about all I’ve ever known,” she said. “Until you came along, I didn’t know that I could feel the way I did when we—I mean when you and I—” She broke off in confusion. “You’ve made everything turn upside down.”

  “I’ve been accused of a lot worse on occasion,” Slocum said, smiling. The way Ruth talked convinced him she wasn’t likely to betray him to Jeter, even if she had the chance. He wouldn’t fault her none if she had to do it to save her own hide, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to betray him. Slocum felt it in his gut. Ruth was that kind of woman.

  “I doubt that,” she said, smiling a little shyly. Together they made their way back up the slope to where Slocum’s horse cropped at tough grass growing from between the rocks. The horse turned a limpid brown eye toward him, as if complaining, but the animal didn’t balk under Slocum and Ruth’s combined weight as it returned to the cabin.

  As they approached, Slocum kept a sharp eye out for any sign of Jeter.

  “You have any idea where he might have hidden the loot from all the robberies?” Slocum asked. “He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to trust banks with his stash.”

  Ruth laughed harshly.

  “He doesn’t trust anyone. Ever. Not even me. That’s why he never told me when he would return. Sometimes he would hint that he’d be gone a long time and return the same day. Other times I think he was in the hills around the farm, just watching to see what I would do. I asked about it once and he got furious.”

  “He hit you?” Slocum knew the answer by the set to the woman’s body.

  “You really think I’ll be all right here by myself?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Slocum said, hating himself for the plan taking form in his head. Using the woman as bait was the only surefire way of luring Jeter to where he could nab him. The loot had to be hidden nearby, but that wouldn’t draw Jeter. Only Ruth would. Not because he loved the woman, Slocum guessed, but because he would never let anyone else have her. Slocum had to play on this possessiveness to get the outlaw in his sights.

  Slocum helped Ruth dismount, then followed, glad to be out of the saddle for a few minutes. He turned and saw her staring at him with an expression he couldn’t describe. She took a step toward him, parted her lips as if she wanted to say something—or to be kissed—and then turned away abruptly.

  “I could use something to eat before I get back on his trail,” Slocum said. “You have anything I might—”

  “Yes,” Ruth said hurriedly, glad to find a comfortable topic. “There’s plenty. Les is a good provider. He never left me without food. Ever.” She hurried up the steps, her skirt swaying as she moved. Slocum caught sight of one of her shapely ankles and a bit more. Her bare calf was exposed to his lusting gaze as she opened the door and a puff of wind came whipping up the valley. Caught between the box of the cabin’s single room and the huge rush of wind, her skirt billowed up high. She gasped and pushed it down chastely. Slocum wasn’t likely to see anything he hadn’t already, but something about the way she responded so chastely told him in a different way that she wasn’t likely to double-cross him with Jeter. She wanted a fresh start and saw Slocum as the way to get it.

  If she had intended to sell him out, she would have blatantly exposed herself to him and tried to gull him into thinking with his balls and not his brain.

  At least, that was what Slocum told himself as he climbed the steps, took a final look around for Jeter, and went inside where Ruth busied herself preparing something to eat. Before he knew it he was gobbling down a plate of fresh, crisp bacon and some fried potatoes. Ruth had added some greens that tasted a little like onions.

  “I found that growing a ways off,” she said. “Wild onion. At least it tastes a lot like onion,” she explained.

  “Good,” Slocum said, wolfing it down. He chased it with a cup of coffee that was far better than anything he had ever boiled for himself out on the trail. “Very good,” he said, wiping his lips and sitting back to look at her closely. She smiled shyly.

  “I’m glad you liked it. I like pleasing you, John. It makes me feel . . .”

  “Different?”

  “Wanted,” she said. “You don’t act like I belong to you.”

  “You don’t belong to anyone but yourself.” Slocum was getting a little uneasy and pushed away from the table. “I have to find Jeter’s trail before it gets too dark.”

  “But it’ll be night in a couple hours. You can’t hardly get back to the pass by then. Stay here tonight, John. With me.”

  “I will,” he said. “Soon. But not tonight. Not now.” He went around the table and kissed her lightly, then left before he actually thought any more about her invitation. He heard her sniffling, but she didn’t break out in sobs as he had feared. He took his canteen off the saddle and filled it at the rain barrel, then corked it and reslung it over his saddle. It was time for him to end this chase.

  He saw Ruth peering out from behind a curtain, but did not wave to her or even acknowledge that he saw her. If Jeter was watching, he wanted the outlaw to think his pursuer was intent on his trail. As he rode, Slocum hunted for the spot where he would camp and wait. Ruth had been right about the time it would take retur
ning to the pass. If he had intended to track Jeter, that trip would have been necessary, but he had baited the trap. Now all he had to do was wait for the mouse to come sniffing after the cheese.

  As twilight fell, Slocum left the trail he was following and went higher onto a ridge where he could look down on the cabin. He left his horse on the far side of the rise, took his rifle, and worked his way around to a cluster of rocks where he had a good view. A tiny white curl of smoke rose from the cabin chimney. He wondered if Ruth was only burning some wood to stay warm against the gathering chill, or if she was cooking something else. Something special. For him.

  As those thoughts crossed his mind, others pushed them away. Jeter was a cold-blooded killer and would turn on Ruth in a flash if he thought she was no longer faithful. That she was married to the outlaw bothered Slocum enough that he worked to make it all right in his head. A married woman shouldn’t be with a man who wasn’t her husband—and a gentleman wouldn’t even ask. Slocum was long past being a Southern gentleman, but remnants of the social code remained to nettle him.

  “She was too young to get married,” Slocum decided. “Jeter offered her a life and she took it. Hell, for all I know, Jeter killed her entire family just to be with her.”

  This thought assuaged some of his uneasiness over what they had done in the barn and what was going through his mind right now. He knew Ruth lusted after him too, from the way she had acted when they got back to the cabin. Her offer for him to stay the night had included sharing her bed. There was no mistaking that.

  And there was no mistaking the solitary rider coming down the valley from a direction where Jeter might have escaped after the shoot-out back at the pass. Slocum stood and squinted trying to get a better view of the rider, then turned his head to the side and looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. He had found his night vision was better this way.

  “Jeter,” he said under his breath. He recognized the way the man rode. He could smell him. Slocum’s hand tightened on his rifle as he pulled it up to his shoulder and slowly followed the rider’s progress down toward the cabin where Ruth waited.

  Slocum lowered the rifle when the rider suddenly halted and looked around. Slocum knew Jeter couldn’t see him, but the man had some uncanny sense that warned of danger. Frozen as he was, he became virtually invisible. Slocum didn’t want to shoot, give away his position, and miss his target. He had lured Jeter back. He had to take full advantage of it or he would have one hell of a hard trail to follow.

  The rider shifted about and rode directly for Slocum’s position in the rocks. Seeing this, Slocum faded back into shadow. Maybe Jeter had his loot hidden in these very rocks! Slocum had picked the area for its concealment. Jeter might already have found a spot to bury his loot.

  A dozen things flashed through Slocum’s mind in that moment. The money had been stolen and the stagecoach company had survived. Nobody would miss what had already been taken from them. If Jeter revealed his treasure trove and Slocum killed him—he had given up on the idea that he would ever take Jeter alive—the stolen money would make a mighty fine poke for him to travel on.

  Maybe some of it could go back to the San Esteban bank. Those folks had been hit doubly hard, losing the bank and its employees as well as whatever money they had deposited there. Then Slocum shoved the mercenary thoughts of taking the money aside. If he didn’t handle this right, he would be the dead one and Jeter would spend the rest of his days telling time using Robert’s watch.

  The rider came closer, and Slocum knew his instincts had been accurate. Les Jeter rode with his hand resting on his six-shooter, but did not draw. The outlaw passed within a dozen yards of where Slocum crouched in the rocks, and never twigged to the rifle or the man behind it.

  Jeter passed from sight and dropped to the ground. Slocum heard boot soles scraping against rough rock as he climbed. Sinking down farther and making sure his rifle barrel was hidden, Slocum pressed close to cold rock when Jeter got to the boulder farther up the hill. Chancing a quick glimpse at the outlaw convinced Slocum that Jeter was as anxious about approaching the cabin as Slocum had been about leaving Ruth alone there. But Jeter had more to lose.

  Slocum slid a little more around the rock and sighted along the barrel, his sights aligned perfectly. He could shoot the outlaw down. Or he could do what he foolishly did.

  “Surrender, Jeter!” he shouted. “I’ve got you covered!”

  Jeter did what Slocum would have. He threw himself to the side and let gravity help him escape. Slocum fired, missed, cursed, and got to his feet to go after his quarry. And this almost cost him his life. Jeter hadn’t run, he had gone to ground and whipped out his six-gun.

  Slocum saw foot-long tongues of orange flame leap from Jeter’s pistol. He returned fire, the more powerful rifle roaring as he fired one round after another to drive Jeter back and to ruin his aim. Slocum heard two more slugs whine past, and then Jeter’s six-shooter either hit an empty chamber or he had a misfire.

  Slocum had choices. He could retreat and regroup before Jeter could get off another round. Or he could attack, trusting that the outlaw’s six-gun was empty or jammed.

  With a rebel yell torn from his lungs, Slocum swarmed up and over the rock where Jeter was. He caught the road agent by surprise. Jeter had the side gate of his six-shooter open as he tried to eject the balky round. Slocum fired at the outlaw and knocked him back. To his surprise, Slocum saw that the outlaw wasn’t hurt by the slug that had caught him in the belly.

  Slocum had no time to lever in another round. He kept up his attack and hit Jeter like a load of falling bricks. The pair of them toppled to the ground and rolled over and over, vying for advantage. A sudden pain in Slocum’s back distracted him. He had speared himself on a particularly sharp shard of rock.

  Jeter grabbed the rifle and wrenched it free from Slocum’s grip.

  “You’re not going to win,” Slocum grated out. Rather than try to grab the rifle back, he kicked hard. This drove the stone deeper into his back, but again he caught Jeter by surprise. The toe of Slocum’s boot knocked the rifle out of the outlaw’s grip. A second kick swept the man’s feet from under him.

  Slocum tried to get on top and failed. They rolled over again, this time Jeter coming out with the advantage of wrapping his fingers around Slocum’s corded neck.

  Slocum felt the air shut off. The world spun and then began to turn black. Only one thought came to him that helped.

  “My watch,” he grated out. A surge of anger gave him the power to lift Jeter bodily from him and throw the outlaw downhill. For a moment Slocum gasped for breath, then rolled to his hands and knees and went for his Peacemaker. His hand was stopped by Jeter’s powerful grip on his wrist. The outlaw had hit the ground and come to his feet, reversed his path, and returned.

  “You won’t die, damn you. You been screwin’ my wife?”

  “Yes,” Slocum got out. “And she likes me better than you.”

  He had hoped to anger Jeter enough to force the man into a mistake. Nothing of the sort happened. A truth flashed through Slocum’s mind at this instant. Jeter felt nothing for Ruth other than as a possession. There was no love, no feeling other than obsession—and this summed up everything the outlaw did.

  “You don’t even want the money, do you? Where is it hidden?” Slocum got the words out before Jeter brought his knee up into his groin. The darkness he had experienced before when Jeter was strangling him now turned to bright, spinning spots. Slocum weakened as pain assailed him. Jeter forced him back, then down to his knees.

  Slocum tried to get his pistol from its holster, but Jeter beat him to it. The outlaw grabbed the six-shooter and swung it hard. His aim was a little off and the barrel only grazed the side of Slocum’s head, but it was enough to knock him flat onto his back.

  He stared up into the panting, fierce face of Les Jeter.

  “Die, you son of a bitch.”

  Jeter aimed Slocum’s own six-shooter at him. His finger drew back slowly, and Sloc
um waited to die.

  13

  Amy Gerardo was exhausted from her trip and kept looking over her shoulder at the valise with the spur and her notes about it. As tired as she was from her nonstop trip after purchasing the spur from Rodriguez, she was buoyed by the thrill Ambrose would get when he saw what she brought him. He had been hunting futilely for such an artifact for months, and her chance eavesdropping had put her on the right path to get it.

  Heaving a sigh, she pulled up in front of the door leading into the hacienda. She grabbed the valise, leaving her clothing behind. This was important. Amy went to the door and rattled the latch, but it was locked on the inside. Stepping back, she called out to the servants to let her in. It would be too much to expect that Ambrose himself would come to the gate.

  “Where are you?” she fretted. No servants. This worried her. Had something happened while she was gone? “Ambrose! Mr. Killian!” she cried. “Are you all right?”

  No answer.

  Clutching her bag, she went around the house. The hacienda had been built in the Spanish style and had reminded her of a fortress more than a home. The central courtyard was surrounded by the house, built in a large square with few windows on the outer wall and the rooms and windows opening onto the central area. She had admired the garden there, and the fountain always delighted. It was her personal refuge—hers and Ambrose’s. Sitting with him, listening to his exciting stories of an eventful life, thinking how she could help him . . . and more. Amy hardly admitted it to herself, but she fancied herself the perfect match for him. He was just too much of a gentleman to make a pass at her, as much as she wanted it.

  Circling the house, she came to a rear gate leading to a small area just outside the kitchen.

  “Hello!”

  She heard movement inside and called again. This time the locking bar was removed from the gate. It opened to reveal the cook.

  “Consuela,” Amy said, glad to see the elderly woman. “Is anything wrong? The front gate was barred. Is Ambrose—Mr. Killian—safe?” The old woman gave her a sour expression and inclined her head toward the kitchen door. Amy hurried inside, fearing the worst.