Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  “Morning tea, sir?”

  “What do you think, you idiot? Darjeeling! Must I do everything myself?” Cheswick made shooing motions that sent the servant scurrying off like a whipped dog.

  “Now, join me in my tent. Why don’t you, Mr. Slocum? And you also, my dear.”

  Slocum saw the look they gave one another, and realized a constant struggle for power went on between them. If anything, Abigail was more than capable of holding her own.

  “Oh, brother dear, it would be so good to be in civilized company again.” She held out her arm, but when her brother went to take it, she turned and denied it to him, presenting herself to Slocum instead.

  It was dangerous getting between the siblings, but Slocum wanted to do something for Abigail—and to William. He let her loop her arm through his, and they walked briskly toward the large red, white, and blue tent, forcing her brother to run to catch up.

  Slocum knew it was petty scoring such easy coup on the man, and he didn’t much care at the moment. He was tired, hungry, and just a tad concerned about Mac and how long his posse would stay on the trail. Slocum doubted pursuit would last long. It might even have died off by now, with the miners needing to return to their lonely, dangerous jobs to make another dollar scrabbling out flecks of gold from the earth.

  “My dear . . . sister. Sit beside me.” Cheswick hurried around and held out a chair for Abigail. She bowed slightly and allowed him to seat her. Slocum dropped into a chair opposite Cheswick with a fancy inlaid wood table between them.

  “You like this . . . trinket?” Cheswick asked, seeing Slocum’s interest in the table. “It was a present from a maharajah in India, you know. He gave it to me because I bagged a man-eating tiger that positively decimated several of his villages.”

  “You’re a hunter?”

  “Oh, yes, William is a splendid hunter,” Abigail cut in. “He goes on and on about it so much that it becomes tiresome.”

  “This is the West,” Cheswick said sharply. “I’m sure Slocum would enjoy tales of my kills.”

  “His kills aren’t animals. They’re humans,” Abigail said, her eyes going to the worn ebony handle on his Colt. Or was she looking at something else near where he slung his six-shooter? Slocum couldn’t tell, but her cheeks showed roses now and her breasts rose and fell a little faster. Something excited her. Slocum hoped it was him rather than the idea that he had killed men.

  “I’m sure,” Cheswick said dryly. “Do tell me about yourself. You look . . . capable.”

  “Oh, he is, William. He’s very capable.”

  Slocum caught the small twitch at the corner of Cheswick’s mouth. Abigail’s implication was clear.

  “Yes, of course,” said Cheswick. “As I was saying, traveling through your primitive countryside has been invigorating, but I am missing so much trying to find it myself.”

  “Find what?” Slocum asked.

  “Why, my good man, adventure! It is positively boring back in merry old England. I came to the Colonies to get away from all the tedious riding to the hounds and those dreary cotillions that my . . . sister insists I attend.”

  “You enjoy flirting with the ladies, William,” Abigail said. “I know you do, no matter how much you deny it.”

  “And you enjoy bringing home strays,” he said harshly. As quick as a lightning bolt, his mood changed and he beckoned to a pair of servants in the tent door. “Come, come. Serve the tea. Be quick about it.”

  “Or he’ll thrash you again,” Abigail added.

  Slocum couldn’t tell if she was chiding her brother or warning the servants. The two men hurried back in and placed china cups and saucers in front of each of those seated, then hesitated, looking at Cheswick.

  “Oh, get on with it. Pour.” As the servants did, Cheswick asked Slocum, “Lemon? Cream?”

  “I’ll drink it neat,” Slocum said. He felt clumsy picking up the delicate cup. He downed the contents in a single gulp. He preferred coffee so strong it ate its way through a tin cup. The tea had a faint taste, but nothing that appealed much to Slocum.

  Cheswick laughed harshly and sneered. “My perfect barbarian.”

  “Prefer something stronger,” Slocum said. He got to his feet and touched the brim of his hat in Abigail’s direction. “I’ve got to ride on. Thanks for the tea.”

  As he reached the tent flap and pushed it open, Cheswick called out to him.

  “Don’t go, old chap. Do stay. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Your sister’s already made one to me,” Slocum said, enjoying the cruelty of the remark. Cheswick covered his reaction quickly by standing and hurrying to Slocum. If the Brit had tried to touch him, Slocum was ready to punch him in his smirking face and to hell with what Abigail thought.

  “How much?”

  “What’s that?” Slocum stared into Cheswick’s bottomless black eyes and read nothing there. It was like a whirl-pool he had seen once that sucked in hapless men and devoured their bodies whole.

  “I need a scout. A guide, you might say. You do know this country, don’t you?”

  “I have a passing acquaintance with it,” Slocum said, choosing his words carefully. He wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into with Cheswick’s question.

  “And the land within a hundred miles or so?”

  Slocum nodded, not sure if he wanted to commit any further. Behind Cheswick, Abigail was still seated and watching the byplay with an amused smirk on her face. She took a sip of her tea, then held up the teacup in silent salute to Slocum. Her bright blue eyes twinkled and promised him paradise—if he stayed. Slocum wasn’t sure he wanted that with her brother around.

  “Five hundred,” said Cheswick.

  “What are you going on about?” Slocum asked, finally pushed to the limit of his toleration.

  “I need a guide and scout. I’ll pay you five hundred a month for that service.”

  “For how long?”

  “A month, perhaps two, depending on how long it takes for me to find wild game sufficient to mount in the ancestral trophy hall back in England.”

  “That’s all you want? That’s a lot of money for something you can get from anyone else for fifty dollars.”

  “Dollars? I meant pounds. Five hundred pounds.”

  “Pounds of what?”

  “Oh, John, William is offering you about fifteen hundred of your dollars to find him, what? A buffalo? A grizzling bear? Beaver?”

  Her words slipped out silky and inviting. She put down her cup and saucer and leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs slowly, and sat like a man, one ankle perched on her other knee so Slocum could see her bloomers. It was even more blatant a bribe than what her brother offered.

  “Is this your rifle?” Slocum scooped up a powerful double-barreled under-and-over rifle leaning against a chair.

  “I shot an elephant in Africa with that,” Cheswick said proudly. “It’s a .610 Express Rifle.”

  “Powerful piece of hardware,” Slocum said, lifting the heavy weapon to his shoulder. He paused as he sighted down the barrel, lowered the rifle, and then opened the breech. He looked up at Cheswick. “You shouldn’t leave loaded weapons leaning against furniture. It’s mighty easy for the rifle to fall over and discharge.”

  Slocum pulled the heavy cartridge from the top barrel and studied it. The brass cartridge gleamed in the light filtering into the tent from outside. The heavy lead slug had been scored to turn it into a dumdum. Slocum had seen similarly cut lead in weapons carried by soldiers who had served the British Raj in India.

  “Guaranteed to bring down the heaviest predator,” Cheswick said.

  “Dangerous to keep around like this,” Slocum said, closing the breech and putting the cartridge into his vest pocket. He hefted the rifle again. “You a good shot?”

  “Oh, William’s the best marksman I ever saw,” Abigail chimed in.

  “I always hit my target,” the Brit said, giving his sister a look that Slocum couldn’t interpret.

  Getting in
volved with the Cheswicks would bring him a world of trouble. Slocum was sure of that. He might have passed up the offer except he had nothing but lint in his pocket. Renfro had cleaned him out back in Virginia City.

  “Three aces,” he muttered.

  “Then you’ll accept? Capital!” Cheswick slapped him on the back. “I’ll see that you’re properly outfitted, of course. Whatever gear you will need is yours.”

  “I got plenty. Some food for the trail is all I need,” Slocum said.

  “Better and better. I shall get my money’s worth in no time then,” William Cheswick said. Louder, he called, “Quinton! See Mr. Slocum to the sleeping quarters.”

  “That’s all right,” Slocum said. “I prefer to camp under the stars.”

  “I must try that. It sounds so splendidly . . . primitive. But not tonight. Tonight, my dear sister and I have so much catching up to do.”

  Slocum and Abigail exchanged a quick look. She appeared irritated at her brother, but Slocum understood that. He had known the man only a few minutes, and wouldn’t mind seeing one of the “grizzlings” he sought rip him apart.

  “This way, sir,” said Quinton, bowing deferentially as he held open the tent flap.

  Slocum stepped into the bright afternoon sun, and paused for a moment to let the wind whistling down the canyon erase the sweat from his face. Sleeping in a tent, even a gaudy, extravagant one like Cheswick fancied, did not compare well with feeling the wind and sun against his skin.

  “You will spread your bedroll someplace other than the servants’ tent, sir?”

  “Drop the ‘sir,’ ” Slocum said. “I’m closer to being one of you than to him.”

  “My master is a demanding man,” Quinton said.

  “Your master.” Slocum couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.

  “He is quite generous, as you well know.” Quinton sounded reproving without being too blatant about it. The servant led Slocum to a sandy spit behind the other two tents where the rude corral held the dozen or so horses.

  “You’ve got some fine-looking horseflesh in there,” said Slocum. “Only the best for him?”

  “Absolutely, sir. In everything.” Quinton looked apprehensive and then asked, “You did mean it when you said I didn’t have to refer to you as ‘sir,’ didn’t you?”

  “The name’s John Slocum. Any combination will do, and some folks add ‘son of a bitch’ to it.”

  “I’m sure they do, s—I’m sure they do, Slocum.”

  “Tell me about him. Your employer.” Slocum wanted to ask more about Abigail, but didn’t want to start too many rumors. All a woman had was her reputation, and besmirching it, even if she was a fancy English lady, would not do.

  “He is next in line for the title of Duke of Northumberland. His brother Ralph was the duke, but he died unexpectedly. His next older brother, Percival, has inherited the title. Currently, Percival is roaming your country somewhere.”

  “That why William decided to come here? To ride with his brother?”

  “His motives are much discussed, but none of us can really do more than speculate. One word of caution, Slocum. He turns viciously mean when he is in his cups.”

  “That’s pretty often, isn’t it?”

  Quinton’s expression gave all the answer he needed.

  “Does he ever hit Abigail?”

  “Oh, no, never. He knows better than that, even when he is, excuse the expression, drunk as a lord.”

  “So if he’s not the duke of whatever, where’s his money come from?” Slocum studied the horses in the makeshift corral. Whoever had chosen them had been experienced. There wasn’t a plug in the bunch.

  “He is a remittance man, having been given money by Lord Ralph to maintain his, uh, style of living.”

  “He was given money to stay out of his brother’s hair,” Slocum said.

  “That is one way of looking at it.” Quinton spoke in such a way that Slocum had to laugh. This was exactly the way the servant looked at it.

  “Must be quite a pile of money to let him roam around with all this.” Slocum made a pass with his hand indicating the tents, horses, and servants.

  “Whoever holds the title is a very rich man. Very rich.”

  “I need a packhorse for later on. None of these will do. They’re all saddle horses. What do you use?”

  “A wagon. We keep the draft horses separate from these.”

  Slocum wondered how far that notion went in the camp, keeping the upper-class Cheswicks separate from the lowly servants. The way Abigail had jumped his bones, the practice might have only applied to the horses.

  “From what I can tell, Cheswick wants some big-game animal. Would he be happy with a mountain lion?” Slocum asked.

  “He bagged one of those already. It was duly skinned and stuffed and sent back to Northumberland for display. The duke was quite the hunter himself, and his youngest brother desperately wanted his approval.”

  “A grizzly bear then,” Slocum decided. He would as soon leave the ferocious beasts alone. Even when a man was armed and firing from a distance, it was difficult to bring one down. A male could outrun a human, outclimb a cat, and outfight an elk.

  “You know best, sir,” Quinton said, slipping back into his ingrained civility.

  Slocum thought about Abigail and why he was staying with Cheswick’s hunting expedition, and wondered if he did know best. He shrugged it off. He could endure a month, then would have quite a poke and be able to go anywhere he wanted. He set about getting supplies.

  Although it was almost sundown when he finished stowing everything in his saddlebags that he would need for a week-long scout, he decided to ride out rather than remain in camp. More than once as he packed, he had seen Cheswick studying him intently. The Brit always turned away when Slocum stared back, but the intent was obvious. Cheswick was sizing him up. Of Abigail, there hadn’t been a trace. Slocum considered finding her to bid her good-bye before he hit the trail, but Cheswick’s attitude made that seem like it would cause more trouble than it was worth.

  After all, Slocum would be away from the camp and Abigail had to remain behind. He remembered Quinton’s comment about how Cheswick would never hit Abigail, but that could change in a flash. Cheswick considered himself to be in a lawless country, and even in England was hardly bound by the laws because of his noble birth. That combination might make him capable of anything, including harming his sister during a fit of anger.

  “Will you need anything else, Slocum?” Quinton looked up at him as he turned his horse’s face deeper into the canyon.

  “Keep the fires burning, Quinton. And don’t let anything happen that’s too serious.”

  “I, uh, understand.”

  Slocum realized he was placing too heavy a burden on a man whose entire life had been one of service and silent devotion. He rode off without another word, glad to let the twilight wrap dark fingers around him.

  The rocks radiated heat for another hour after the sun sank below the canyon rim, and then it turned downright cold. Slocum wasn’t sure how far to ride, but he wanted to get out of the confining rocky canyon and into more open country. The wind in his face promised pine forests and heavy vegetation ahead. The canyon floor slanted upward and then became quite a climb. An hour after leaving Cheswick’s camp, Slocum rode out into a broad valley that stretched into the night.

  On both sides grew the pine and juniper he had scented earlier. From the nip in the air, he was within a thousand feet of the timberline, though the mountains were hidden by the darkness. This was a perfect place to begin his hunt for a grizzly’s den. He planned to track it and mark the den, then fetch Cheswick so the man could stand off a ways and shoot it. Slocum didn’t much like this, but he figured if all Cheswick wanted was the skin, claws, and head, there would be some good eating.

  And facing the truth of it, when Cheswick bagged his trophy, there might not be any reason to keep Slocum in his employment. Slocum worked over what he would ask for, and finally decided it woul
d take a week to find the bear and get Cheswick back to shoot it. He would ask for two weeks’ salary. That’d be fair.

  Drawing rein, he stood in the stirrups and slowly studied the land. It would be better seen in daylight, but he wanted a feel for the terrain in both daylight and under starlight. Slowly turning, he took in the shape of the mountains all around, the tiny sounds and pungent odors that were the epitome of freedom for him.

  Slocum stopped his reconnaissance suddenly. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was out of place in this glade. Sinking back to the saddle, Slocum reached into his saddlebags and pulled out his field glasses. They worked better in daytime, but he wanted to catch motion rather than anything else. A careful circuit brought him to a dark figure moving at the far edge of the meadow, right at the edge of the trees. He focused the best he could.

  A rider.

  He watched as the rider stopped and almost vanished. The man faced in his direction now. Slocum caught his breath when a glint of starlight reflected. The other rider was using field glasses to spy on him.

  Slocum lowered his binoculars and wondered what to do. As much as he hated to admit it, the other rider might be a lawman out hunting for him. If Mac couldn’t nab him, he would certainly tell the marshal about Renfro’s murder.

  Slocum worked over his options, and finally came to a conclusion. He couldn’t let the man report that he had found his fugitive—and if he wasn’t a lawman, he was acting mighty strange.

  He put his spurs to his mare’s flanks and galloped off. If he wanted to get away, he had a powerful lot of work to do.

  5

  After several minutes of galloping, Slocum slowed to a walk, and finally let the mare rest a mite while he swung his field glasses around to see if he had been observed during his ride. He had. The distant spy had turned and still faced him. From the way the shadows played about the other rider, Slocum couldn’t tell if he had trained binoculars on him, too, but he reckoned that he had. His short ride had kicked up some dust, but not much. It settled rapidly in the breeze whipping down off the mountains so the other rider had to have been watching through glasses.