Slocum and the Sonoran Fugitive

by Jake Logan

  “We have to take the best we can get,” Wyatt said. “I figure you’re the best that I could get. And vice versa, I hope.”

  Slocum had no argument with that, although he was wishing that he’d taken Will’s advice and just put a slug into Dugan’s brain when he had a chance. It sure would have saved him a load of work and worry. Would have saved his horse, too. He didn’t say it to Wyatt—after all, he’d been willing to go along before he’d heard that the son of a bitch had stolen his horse—but he was more anxious to get Apache back than to find Dugan. He hoped Dugan wouldn’t run the Appy too long or too hard.

  He hoped Dugan wouldn’t kill him.

  With this fervent wish gnawing at him, he and Wyatt rode south, out of Tombstone.

  They started out at a lope and held it for a while, and when they slowed to a walk to let the horses have a breather, Slocum lit a quirley. Wyatt lit a slim black cigar.

  “Hope he bypassed Bisbee,” Slocum said between drags. “I’ve got a decent eye for his tracks, and we’ll surely lose ’em if he goes through a town.”

  “Mayhap that’s why he’ll do it,” Wyatt said.

  “Don’t be so hopeful.”

  “Can’t help it. It’s my nature.”

  Slocum took another drag. Something had been bothering him. He said, “Where’s Doc? Ain’t he usually around?”

  “Doc’s down to Bisbee. If we have to track Dugan through there, mayhap he’ll join up with us.”

  Slocum nodded. “I’d like that. Been a coon’s age. He still got the lung thing?” He was referring to Doc’s tuberculosis, the reason he had come west in the first place.

  “ ’ Bout the same. Last time you seen him was up in Kansas, wasn’t it?”

  Slocum grinned. “Last time I seen any of you. You’re lookin’ good, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt nodded, his mustache bobbing slightly. “Thank’e. Try to keep myself from getting killed.”

  “A wise move. Same here, ’cept people keep on shootin’ me up.”

  “Well, I ain’t had that trouble. So far, anyway. Knock wood.”

  “You always had the damnedest luck of any man I ever did meet, Wyatt,” Slocum said with admiration. It was true, too.

  “Like I said, knock wood.”

  Dugan, indeed, had gone through Bisbee. His tracks—distinctive because Apache toed in, just slightly, with his off hind hoof, and had been shod to correct it with a shoe print that Slocum could recognize—took them right into town before they were lost in the scuffled dust of a hundred others.

  Wyatt rode straight to the hotel and inquired about Doc.

  The clerk checked the ledger, saying, “Nope. Believe he checked out . . . Here it is.” He swiveled the book around so that Wyatt and Slocum could see. “Checked out yesterday at four in the afternoon.”

  Wyatt asked, “Say where he was goin’?”

  The clerk shook his head. “Thought it was kinda funny, since there weren’t any stages that late. Course, he may’a rode into town. Still, it’s a funny time to start horsebackin’. Closest town is up north, ’bout a day’s ride.”

  “Tombstone,” Wyatt said with a nod. “We just came from there.”

  “Must’ve missed him on the way south,” Slocum said. Since they’d been following Dugan’s tracks, and Dugan hadn’t taken the conventional route south, it was entirely possible.

  Wyatt nodded, and got them a room for the night. It was nearly dark outside.

  Afterward, Slocum took the horses to the livery, while Wyatt took their saddlebags and portable gear upstairs.

  Slocum checked out the livery horses while he was at the stable. He didn’t find Apache, but he asked the boy on duty about him. “You see a bright sorrel Appaloosa in town today? Woulda been a medium-sized feller, kinda reddish hair, ridin’ him.”

  “I just come on duty, mister,” the boy said. “So I ain’t seen nothin’. But Bob mighta.”

  He closed Red’s stall, latching him in, the walked back to the office. “Hey, Bob!” he shouted, then repeated Slocum’s question.

  Bob, who remained hidden behind the office door, mumbled something Slocum couldn’t make out, and then the boy came jogging back. “Said he seen a horse like that tied to the rail over by the Happy Rooster Saloon this mornin’,” he told Slocum, slightly winded. He pointed up the street. “That way. But he’s gone now. Bob says when he took his lunch, the horse was gone and he ain’t seen him since.”

  Slocum nodded his thanks, and when he left the livery, he walked up the street anyway. A half block later, he crossed the street and walked into the Happy Rooster. It was a fair-sized saloon full of miners and the like. But no Dugan. Apache hadn’t been on the rail, either.

  He made his way over to the bar and asked the barkeep, “Were you on duty this mornin’?”

  When the barkeep nodded yes, Slocum asked him if he remembered Dugan.

  The barkeep’s formerly smiling face suddenly crunched into a mask of wrinkles. “Bastard was in here, all right,” he said. “You a friend of his?”

  Slocum guessed that any friend of Dugan’s was not welcome in this bar, so he told the truth. “Nope. He escaped from the Tombstone jail last night, stole a horse, and I’m trackin’ ’em.”

  “Well, this mornin’ he started a fight in here,” the bartender began. “Sent two’a the regulars to the doc, and busted my good long mirror.” He pointed to a lengthy vacant spot on the opposite wall. “Had that mirror shipped in all the way from St. Louis! Man’s a trouble-maker! Glad you told me his name, partner.” He pulled up a sawed-off shotgun from behind the bar and brandished it. “That shitheel Dugan ain’t never gonna get another chance to bust up my place!”

  “I’ll do my best to see he never gets another chance,” Slocum said. He tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly. Oh. What time’d he leave?”

  “Musta been around eleven or so. Does it matter?”

  Slocum nodded. “Yeah, it does. Thanks again.”

  11

  Slocum walked back up to the hotel to give Wyatt the news. He’d been concerned that Dugan was getting too far ahead of them. “How long can a man go without sleep before he has to stop, anyway?” he asked Wyatt after he’d told him Dugan’s story.

  “Good question,” Wyatt said noncommittally.

  Slocum wouldn’t be put off with a shrug, though. “Reckon it varies from man to man?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go get us some dinner so we can get to bed early. Want to be up and at ’em by dawn. Okay by you?”

  Slocum gave a quick nod. “Yeah, just dandy.” He would rather have hit the trail again tonight, though. Time was passing, and Dugan was getting farther and farther away while they’d be sitting around someplace, eating a steak.

  They walked down the stairs, and when they were almost outside, Wyatt stopped, his hand on the latch, and said, “You’d druther be out on the trail, wouldn’t you?”

  Slocum didn’t hesitate. “Yup.”

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you say somethin’?”

  “You’re the marshal, so you’re in charge,” Slocum said. It was simply a statement of fact.

  Wyatt let out air in a long hiss. “Slocum, I left my badge back in Tombstone with Virgil, in case you didn’t notice. I ain’t no marshal for this trip. We’re just a couple of private citizens out on a hunt.”

  Relief washed over Slocum. He said, “Well, why didn’t you tell a feller?”

  Wyatt shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t think I had to. Well, c’mon. Let’s get us some dinner before we head out again.”

  Slocum was much happier with this plan. They exited the hotel, found a café, and ordered a steak each, plus some fixings. When it came to the table, they didn’t waste any time talking or dawdling. They were business-like in eating, and paid their bill.

  They were back on the trail by six.

  It was growing dark already, but Slocum still kept his eye to the ground, watching for signs of Apache’s peculiar hind hoofprint.

  They had chosen the right road. About a quar
ter mile out of town, Slocum found sign, mixed in with the prints of twenty other horses. Apache had stepped in a clear spot, one of very few on the trail.

  “Got him!” Slocum cried.

  “ ’ Bout damn time,” Wyatt said, teasing.

  “Now we just gotta catch him.” Slocum looked up. The moon was up and full in a sky free from clouds. Good. He hoped it would stay that way.

  They ducked down behind some jutting rocks at about 3 A.M. The rocks didn’t provide complete shelter from the rain, but because of their angle, they cut it at least in half.

  The clouds had rolled in at about midnight, and the rain right after. It hadn’t been bad at first—the moon still shone through the clouds, and Slocum had a good bead on Apache’s track—but then, about a half hour ago, the sky had darkened and the real rain had started pouring.

  They were down into Mexico by now, and Slocum knew they were lucky to find this outcrop of rock. Any outcrop, really. Dugan was moving south, but this time far to the east of the mountains and through the flatness of the Sonoran Desert.

  Slocum dismounted, then rubbed Red between the eyes. “For a horse with no spots, you’re turnin’ out to be pretty damn handy.” The gelding whickered, as if it understood, then rubbed its face against Slocum’s hand. Slocum grinned.

  Wyatt was already pulling the tack off his horse. “Don’t know about you, but this cowboy’s stoppin’ for the night.”

  “Good idea,” Slocum said. He started to work at Red’s tack. “He could be anywhere,” he said, gazing south through the darkness and pounding rain. “Could be twenty miles, could be ten feet.”

  “Could be in Mexico City, for all I know,” Wyatt said, pulling down the last of his tack. “I think maybe he’s part witch, part devil.”

  “But mostly a bastard son of a bitch,” grumbled Slocum. He was growing weary of trying to chase down the little prick.

  And he was angry at him for making off with Apache.

  And he was pissed at him about having to leave Mandy behind so that he could join Wyatt on this goddamn wild-goose chase.

  He slipped the hobbles on Red, hauled his saddle back against a rock, put his slicker down, and sat. Who could tell what kind of crap Dugan was putting Apache through down there! And poor Mandy. He wondered where she was sleeping tonight, and with whom.

  But his thoughts kept returning to Apache. It tore him up to think that one of the best horses he had ever owned was in the hands of that rat-bag murderer. “I’m gonna kill him this time,” he said.

  Wyatt didn’t say anything, just kept trying to build a fire.

  “This time, I’m gonna shoot him in the head and have done with it.” His hands were balled into fists. “And if I can’t do that, I’ll beat him to death with my bare hands.”

  Wyatt sat back from his soggy kindling. “I’ll help you, if we can catch him.”

  “Oh, I’ll catch Dugan, all right,” Slocum spat. “If it takes the rest of my goddamn life, I’ll catch him.”

  Dugan was camped about ten miles off. He’d found a place where the rain couldn’t get him—an overhang at the bottom of a rocky hill—and he’d tucked himself and Apache underneath just before the rains came. Now he found that he was too tired to sleep.

  He hadn’t bothered to strip Apache’s tack. He wanted to be ready to ride at a moment’s notice, in case those scumbag Earps—or Slocum—came after him. Those Earps! What a bunch of over-publicized, self-important gunhands they were! Why, that Morgan had walked right up next to his cell. As if he hadn’t had something planned! Bang! Through the bars with his boot in his hand, and down went an Earp. Easy as pie. He only wished he could have chanced the noise of a gunshot and gotten rid of him permanently.

  But he’d put him out of commission for the time being, at least. Enough time for him to steal down the street, get into the O.K. Livery, and swipe Slocum’s horse.

  He laughed softly. He wished he could have seen that bastard’s face when he realized his horse was gone. Dugan bet he’d just pitched a fit! He picked up a rock from the ground and tossed it at the Appaloosa’s croup. The horse snaked out his head, ears pinned, but Dugan was out of reach.

  Actually, he’d found the Appy a troublesome ride. He balked half the time, and he kept trying to . . . escape, for lack of a better word. It was like he knew he’d been stolen!

  Dugan shook his head. No, that was stupid. Horses couldn’t think. Horses were dumb animals. Horses were dumb stupid animals!

  So why did he feel like this one was . . . planning. Or something.

  Well, he couldn’t get away with anything tonight. Dugan had hobbled him and tied him and blocked him in so he couldn’t go anywhere. Not without an act of God, that was. And Dugan figured God wasn’t paying any attention. After all, He’d never shown any sign He was around before. Why should He show up now?

  Miraculously, Dugan became aware that his eyes were growing heavy. It was about time. He needed to catch a few winks before he went any farther, if only to be aware of the horse’s hijinks.

  He yawned and laid his head back, pillowing it on his arm. He couldn’t see the moon. All he could see was darkness and pouring rain. Somewhere, out there in the dark, a coyote howled, warbling a complaint about the weather. At least Dugan imagined it as a complaint. Pack rats and mice would all be down in their burrows tonight and out of the rain, so the coyote’s hunting would be fairly hopeless.

  Everything was on “wait” tonight, including him. His eyes closed.

  At last, he fell asleep.

  Slocum, too, lay awake. He and Wyatt had at last chewed on the hardtack and jerky Slocum carried in his saddlebag, Wyatt having given up on ever getting a fire started, and now Wyatt was asleep, blissfully snoring beneath his slicker and blanket.

  Slocum was dry, having hunkered under his slicker as well, but he could still find no rest. His mind still raced from Dugan to Apache to Mandy and back again. And then there was Will to worry about. Had he gone to see Doc Goodnight? Had he found out what was wrong?

  Slocum turned over again. He couldn’t get comfortable, damn it. He reached under his hip and dug a rock up out of the dirt, then cast it to the side. He thought, I shouldn’t be out here digging rocks out of my “mattress.” I should be back up at the Oriental, playing a game of cards or upstairs, with Mandy.

  “Shut up,” Wyatt slurred, startling Slocum. He hadn’t said anything out loud, had he?

  He watched as Wyatt shifted position, and listened while he muttered, “Got it, Virgil,” under his breath.

  Slocum felt better. At least he wasn’t losing his mind. Wyatt just talked in his sleep, that was all, and Slocum relaxed again.

  The rain had lessened, and right now, Slocum was waiting for it to come roaring up again. He wouldn’t have been surprised at anything nature chose to throw at him at this point. But the clouds parted, letting a little starlight twinkle through. For the moment, anyway. And despite himself, Slocum took heart in that.

  Just long enough for a big, fat raindrop to land square on his nose.

  He was about to swear at it, but ended up chuckling instead—the first sign of mirth he’d given off since he’d heard about Apache being taken. “Well, shit,” he said with a shake of his head.

  He settled back down into the most comfortable position he could find and closed his eyes. He had to get some shut-eye before dawn, he told himself, as he actually began to drift off.

  Red began to snore in concert with Wyatt, but Slocum barely heard it.

  He was asleep.

  12

  The next morning, when Mandy woke up, she was not in her crib, but in Nellie Cashman’s boardinghouse on Tough Nut Street. It took her a moment to remember how she’d gotten there.

  Slocum. He was the man who’d made it possible. He’d pressed a fifty-dollar bill—a fifty!—on her before he left her with a kiss good-bye and told her he’d be back in a few days. Bless his ever-lovin’ heart! It had taken her the better part of ten years to squirrel away nearly five thousand dollars�
�the amount she figured would allow her to quit the business and go someplace new, someplace where nobody knew her, someplace where she could make a new start. Slocum’s fifty meant there were twenty-five less tricks she had to turn, and that she was almost there.

  She was waiting on Slocum’s return, hoping against hope that he’d feel just as generous a second time. Then, she vowed, she was out of this business for good and all. She’d go north. Maybe up to Prescott. She’d heard you could buy a nice house up there for under five hundred.

  She had plans. She’d be a widow woman, she had decided. It wasn’t like she could get a job. The only jobs that paid anything were being a schoolmarm and whoring, and she wasn’t qualified to be a schoolmarm. But she could pose as a widow, and if she lived frugally . . .

  She grinned wide.

  Nellie Cashman, in whose boardinghouse she was staying, didn’t take kindly to whores, but took very kindly indeed to those who had quit the trade and were trying to improve themselves, which was exactly what Mandy was attempting to do. And now she found herself in a clean, dry place with no holes in the walls and no rodents scurrying in and out, no drunkards wandering up and down, knocking on doors.

  To say this was a much, much more pleasant place was a vast understatement.

  She got up, dressed, and went down to the breakfast Miss Nellie included for boarders. And after a breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes, ham, toast and jam, and good piping-hot coffee, she went back to her room to stare again at her bankbook.

  Five thousand and six dollars. And forty-two cents!

  She was practically rich!

  Slocum and Wyatt were up and awake, too. By noon, they had trailed Dugan to the place where he’d camped the night before. They stopped and had lunch under the cover of the overhang, mostly to avoid crouching in the mud, and Wyatt found enough dry kindling that they lit a small fire and had coffee.