Slocum and the Sonoran Fugitive

by Jake Logan

  That evening, they camped a few miles before they came to the low, dusty, southern hills that bounded the U.S. and Mexico. They had stopped near what Slocum knew to be the last water until they came into Mexico, if they kept to their current path. They stocked up, even getting out Slocum’s canvas water bags. Those, they’d fill in the morning. The canvases would hold far, far more than their canteens, and would sweat, keeping the water cool for themselves and their horses.

  Slocum knew those hills. He knew how good that cool water would taste when they were deep into the hard country, without even a barrel cactus to grant them some moisture.

  Will was building a fire, and had the coffeepot ready to put on it. He also had the rabbits that he’d shot earlier skinned and spitted, waiting for the flames. While he prodded the fire, Slocum took the time to check Duster’s hooves. He had just put down the last one when Will called, “Whatcha doin’, Slocum?”

  Slocum walked back to the fire and explained his search. “Whoever put on that off hind shoe? I wouldn’t go back to him again.”

  Will shook his head in disgust. “And you say the other three look fine?”

  Slocum said, “Far’s I can tell.”

  Will’s head was still shaking. “Last time I ever try to shoe my own horse,” he grumbled.

  Slocum burst out laughing. “You did that botched job yourself? On purpose?”

  “Yes, on purpose,” Will shot back angrily.

  Slocum tried to control his laughter. “Sorry, Will. It’s just that anybody who’s been around horses as long as you oughta know—”

  “Shut up!”

  Slocum, knowing he was going to have to ride with Will for a good patch longer—and also not wishing to permanently anger his friend—said no more, except “Sorry.”

  Will busied himself making biscuits and tending the roasting rabbits. Slocum rolled a couple of quirleys as slowly as possible, keeping one eye on Will the whole time. Eventually, Will’s mood seemed to lighten, and Slocum stopped watching him. Will was a good man and a great one at times, but he had a problem handling his anger. On rare occasions, Slocum had seen him do quite a bit of damage. In this case, he was definitely the man for the task, though. He’d confided to Slocum that the Dugan boys had done an ugly job on the marshal and guard that were with them. One had been crucified upside down on the jail wagon.

  “Slocum?”

  It startled him, lost as he was in trying to picture that poor man’s death, and he let out an embarrassed snort, followed by a somber “Yeah, Will?”

  “Chow’s ready.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Slocum took the plate Will held toward him. “Thanks,” he said, and leaned back. He picked up his fork. “Looks good!” It did, too.

  Will gave him a quick smile. “Yeah, them rabbits browned up nice, didn’t they?”

  4

  The next morning, after they broke camp and filled the water bags, they set out toward the south and the sandy hills on the horizon.

  Apache was a little jumpy, which surprised Slocum. He was usually a steady horse, despite his wild coloring. Bright sorrel with a long blanket of white, covered in fist-sized Appaloosa spots, he was a horse you didn’t soon forget.

  Not by Slocum, anyhow. He’d bought him from a rancher up in Palouse country, a rancher who didn’t know what he had. Apache took to training like a duck took to water, and Slocum had him schooled in the basics inside a month. Six weeks later, Slocum found out that the gelding had cow sense as well. While he was riding south through California, he’d come across a small herd of cattle and decided to try to cut a bald-faced calf from the herd.

  The calf resisted the process, but in less than five minutes, Apache had figured out what he was supposed to do and was pouncing left, then right, then left again to keep that calf separated from the herd.

  Slocum smiled just thinking about it.

  But this morning, the gelding just wasn’t right. It was as if he smelled smoke or something, but there was nothing ablaze, and no other threat that Slocum could see or sense. Once again, he stroked the Appy’s neck to soothe him. “Easy, Apache,” he said soothingly. “There’s nothin’ here to be afraid of.”

  Nothin’ yet, anyway, he thought to himself. Bronc Dugan and his bunch were up there someplace.

  Big Tony, a mountain of a man and one of Bronc Dugan’s current hangers-on, slid back down the sandy, gravelly hill on his belly, rolling over when he was halfway down. He climbed to his feet and turned to one of the mounted men waiting for him.

  “Two riders,” Big Tony said. “One’s ridin’ an Appaloosa.”

  “What’s the other one ridin’?” Bronc Dugan asked.

  Tony shrugged. “A horse. Blue roan, I think. Anybody we know?”

  Dugan, a good-sized man with graying red hair and a ragged mustache, paused a moment before he said, “Don’t ring a bell. But still, sounds like they’re followin’ our track. They ridin’ nice horses?”

  Tony nodded.

  Dugan rumbled, “Prob’ly marshals, then.”

  Dave and Roy, the two other mounted men, and also brothers, sat back in their saddles. Dave, who was as dark-haired as his brother, clean-shaven, and the youngest of them all, said, “You reckon Roy could pick ’em off from here? He’s a pretty fair marksman.”

  That was putting it mildly. Roy was a champion with a rifle, having won several medals. However, he wasn’t sure about moving targets that far back. He said, “Tony, were they camped where we was?”

  Tony nodded. “Exact same place. Right near that little spring.”

  Roy shook his head. “Forget it. They’re too far out for even me to hit.”

  Dave shook his head. “Roy, you’re just bein’ shy.”

  “The word you’re lookin’ for is humble,” said Roy. “And no, I’m not. Pinky swear.”

  Tony, having put away his binoculars, clambered back up on his horse and turned toward Dugan expectantly, waiting for orders.

  Dugan, lips pursed, stared at his hands, which were clasped on his saddle horn. Finally, he looked up and immediately reined his horse to the south. He looked at no man, only the territory ahead, when he said, “They’re about a half day behind us, Big Tony?”

  “Looks like,” the big man replied.

  “Then screw ’em. We’re goin’ to Mexico, and we’ll be there before they catch up. U.S. marshals won’t follow us over the border.”

  He took off at a lope, skirting the southern hill, then cutting up to the shallow valley between it and the next one.

  Silently, obediently, the others followed him.

  At noon, Slocum and Will stopped to rest the horses and grab themselves some lunch. They were just barely into the hills, having followed the gang’s tracks up and through two little valleys in the range. Will had just finish peeing for the fourth time, and dipped into the water bag again.

  Slocum chewed on a piece of hardtack. “You made outta water these days, Will? You been pissin’ up a storm ever since we left Prescott.”

  “I got me a straight pipe, all right,” Will said. This time, he offered water to Duster before he looked for something to feed his face. Slocum had already offered water to Apache, who had drunk his full.

  “Come on you sudden?”

  Will shook his head. “Been gettin’ worse over the last year or so.” He turned toward Slocum. “You a doctor all of a sudden?”

  “No. But I was just wonderin’ if you’d seen one.”

  “Ain’t none a’ your business, far as I can see. But no, I ain’t.”

  Slocum didn’t respond. Will was right. It was none of his business, although he couldn’t help worrying about it. He’d had an old friend, Soren was his name, who’d had the same sort of problem. Turned out he had a cancer, and was dead inside a couple months.

  “Been thinkin’ about seeing one, though,” Will added, breaking the silence.

  Slocum nodded. “Good. That’s a good idea, Will.”

  “Mayhap after we take care a’ these owlhoots and get
back to Prescott.”

  “Good idea, Will,” Slocum repeated. He dug out his jerky and tore off a corner of it. He wasn’t much for sick people, didn’t like thinking about the possibility of illness or death. He decided a change of subject was in order. He said, “I’m thinkin’ we’re about a half day behind ’em, now. What you think?”

  Will was gnawing on something he’d pulled out of his saddlebag. Mouth full, he nodded his agreement.

  Slocum took a drink from his canteen to wash down the jerky, then prepared to mount up again. “’Bout ready?” he asked.

  Will swallowed, then nodded. He and Slocum swung up into their saddles at the same time.

  “I’d like to catch up with the bastards before nightfall,” Will said as they started out.

  “Best kick it up a notch, then.” Slocum urged Apache into a lope, and Will followed along.

  They crossed over into Mexico at roughly four that afternoon, and continued to follow Dugan’s trail. Slocum figured that Dugan couldn’t be too awfully far ahead—the tracks the gang had laid down on the south side of the river were still damp, and things didn’t stay damp too long in the Sonoran Desert.

  “Best be on the lookout?” Will asked him as he mounted back up.

  “Best be.” Slocum looked ahead. It was flat for a few miles before the country got rough again, this time rising up in low rocks that eventually worked their way up into mountains, farther to the south. Slocum knew hard country when he saw it, let alone rode through it, and he’d be damned if he’d follow those boys that far.

  Now, Will was dead-set on catching up to Dugan and his boys—and, Slocum thought, killing all four of them—before nightfall. Slocum figured somebody was going to get caught, all right, but what would they do with them next? And the whole thing was a dice roll. It looked like Dugan could be doing the deciding just as easily as could he and Will.

  They rode on down to the south, ears and eyes open for any rustle, any flash that might give away their quarry’s position. And Apache was still spooky. That bothered Slocum as much as anything else.

  “Easy, boy,” he cooed to the horse. “It’s all right.” But he didn’t mean it, and Apache knew. The horse still fretted, as he had all morning.

  “You say something, pard?” Will said. They were riding even now, with Will casting his eyes to the east and Slocum to the west.

  “Just talkin’ to my horse,” Slocum said.

  Will nodded. “Antsy this mornin’, ain’t he?”

  Slocum gave a quick nod. “Somethin’s comin’.”

  Will knew. He said nothing.

  Suddenly a strong wind blew up from the southeast, sharp and filled with biting sand. Slocum turned his head away and pulled his bandana up to cover his nose and mouth, while Will did the same. Apache lowered his head and tugged at the bit.

  “Maybe this was it,” Slocum said through his bandana, hoping for an excuse for the horse.

  “You’re prob’ly right,” Will allowed, and Slocum noted that Will was almost shouting to be heard over the rising howl of the wind.

  Visibility was suddenly cut in half, then half again. Slocum couldn’t see the mountains rising to the south any longer, although he knew they were there. He shouted, “We’re gonna lose the track!” and sank his heels into Apache.

  Without a word, Will goosed Duster. They kept pace with Slocum, riding alongside him as the wind, ever changing directions, buffeted them from all sides.

  In a low cave in the hills to the south, Bronc Dugan and his men had taken refuge from the storm. Dugan had gotten out his binoculars and moved to the mouth of the cave to try to see if they were being followed. But the wind had risen so much that he couldn’t see more than a hundred feet, and he soon dropped the binoculars to dangle around his neck.

  “Anything?” asked Roy, behind him in the cave. Farther inside, Dave was holding the horses.

  “Nothin’,” replied Dugan. “Nothin’ but dirt and wind, damn it. Can’t see more’n a hundred feet. I wish we were in Texas.”

  “George Collins’d be tickled to see you, I reckon,” said Big Tony, who squatted against a cave’s wall. He had taken off his hat, and his blond hair was the only light-colored point in the cave. The grit-filled wind blotted out the sun outside, allowing only the most feeble rays into the rocky hollow.

  Dugan snorted derisively. “Yeah, him and a few others . . . ”

  Roy asked, “So what do we do now?”

  Dugan walked back inside the cave and slid down the wall near Tony. “We wait,” he said. “We wait it out.”

  5

  Slocum couldn’t fight the wind anymore.

  Visibility was down to ten, maybe fifteen feet, and the wind showed no signs of abating. He took advantage of a large boulder on his right and shouted to Will to follow him.

  The boulder did provide some relief from the biting wind, even more when he followed its edge farther south and found it was just the first in a line of big rocks he remembered seeing from the river’s bank.

  Good. He had a much better idea of where they were and how far they’d come. The mountains, or at least the beginnings of them, lay not far to the south.

  He slid down off Apache, then pulled the bandana off his own face to wipe the horse’s. Apache’s nostrils were caked with damp sand, his eyes as well. “Been a rough day, buddy, ain’t it?” Slocum said. Will stepped down off Duster and began to minister to his face, too.

  In the shelter of the rocks, visibility was much better. Where Slocum’s earlier view hadn’t been clear much farther out than the V between Apache’s ears, from the protection of the boulders he could see out several feet. It wasn’t much, but it was an improvement. He backed as far as he could into the crevice between two massive boulders, leading Apache, then grabbed his canteen and slid down to the ground.

  His head hanging low, the horse looked as if he was damn glad to be out of the wind. Slocum couldn’t blame him. Once he’d caught his breath and had a long drink of water, he forced himself up on his feet again to heft down the water bag. He filled his canteen again, then let Apache drink. From where he stood, he could see Will, his back turned as he pissed into the sand.

  Only a moment after Slocum had loosened Apache’s saddle and sat himself down, back in the protection of the crevice, he was joined by Will—and Will’s Duster. Slocum wasn’t exactly thrilled by this level of togetherness. Neither was Apache, who tried to bite Duster’s neck.

  “Hey!” shouted Will. He took a step toward Apache. “None a’ that foolishness, now!”

  Slocum raised a brow. Apache had been startled by Will, but that was all. Slocum had killed men for less, but right at the moment he was too tired—and Will too good a friend—for him to retaliate. He only said, “Easy there, Apache,” and snapped the horse’s reins lest he try to bite again.

  Apache understood, and allowed Duster to walk up even with him and stop, their saddles brushing stirrup leathers. Apache wasn’t very happy about it, though. He leaned away, to the side, and gave Slocum a look that said, You’re gonna pay for this later.

  Will slipped down the rock to crouch beside Slocum. “Where the Sam Hill’d this crap come from?” He waved his hand upward as he shouted over the whistle and howl of the wind.

  Slocum shrugged. “Happens from time to time. Guess this time we just rolled boxcars.”

  “Hell, we could be holed up twenty feet from ’em and not know it,” Will grumbled.

  “Thought of that already.” Slocum had, too. It was why he’d investigated the rocks farther south—about twenty feet south, anyway—before he came back here and settled in. “I checked. We’re safe.”

  Will rubbed the grime from his forehead. “Don’t know whether to be happy about that or pissed.”

  “Know what you mean.”

  “Don’t know about you, ol’ buddy,” said Will, shaking out his bandana, “but I ain’t ready for supper yet. More like I’m ready for a nap.”

  “Suit yourself,” Slocum said. “In fact, think a litt
le snooze would do me good, too.”

  Both men looped their reins around their wrists and pulled down the rims of their hats. Will was asleep almost immediately. Slocum stayed awake long enough to tell Apache, “I’m only closin’ my eyes, big feller. You keep your teeth to yourself, all right?”

  The sun was just setting when Slocum awoke, the dimness of light due only to a sinking sun and not to the dust storm, which had moved on about an hour ago. He stood up, his back still against the rock, then moved forward, backing Apache out of his way. He wanted a good look down the way before it got too dark to see anything at all.

  When he got outside, he was pleased to find that the view was darkening, but clear. It looked as though rain was moving in from the west, as well. Nights like this were rare, but he couldn’t count how many he’d spent out here with weather just like this. He knew that the wind would blow up like a silverback grizzly on a tear, and the rain would come pelting in on an angle. He’d best find them a cave to hunker in, and one of those would most likely be down in the mountains.

  He said, “Will? You awake?”

  Some grumbling came from back in the crevice, and then Will stuck his head out. “What you want, Slocum?” Then he lifted his eyes. “Hey! The wind’s gone!”

  Slocum was tightening Apache’s girth strap. “We’d best find a cave for the night, or at least some place with a good overhang. It’s gonna get mighty windy and mighty wet. Chilly, too.”

  Will nodded. “Check.” He tightened Duster’s saddle, as well. “Gonna be one bitch of a blowup?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Hope we can get a cave, then. A nice deep one.” Slocum nodded against the wind, which was just starting to come up again and was threatening to take his hat to El Paso. He crammed it down firmly and swung up into the saddle. Will was right behind him, so he started the ride down toward the mountains. There was still no sign of Bronc Dugan or his boys.