Slocum and the Sonoran Fugitive

by Jake Logan

  Slocum reached for his sidearm, but didn’t have time to get to it before he heard a gun’s roar, felt a heavy pain in his chest, and dropped to the floor like a stone.

  Wyatt was just untying the first horse from the rail, having already called to the folks in the cantina that they could come out and that everything was fine, when he heard the shot. He whirled around, drawing his pistol, but saw nothing. No running forms, no gunsmoke, nothing.

  “Hold up on that okay!” he called to the man just taking a first step from the cantina. Then he vaulted up onto his horse and galloped across the circle toward the place from which the shot, he was fairly certain, had emanated.

  Once there, he vaulted off the bay while it was still galloping and hurled himself up against the front wall of the hotel. He landed with a bang, his pistol still drawn and ready, and yelled, “Slocum!”

  There was no answer.

  “Slocum!” he tried again. “Can you hear me?”

  Again, no reply.

  He got to his feet, quickly checked to make sure nothing important was broken, and flattened himself against the wall. And then he heard it.

  Inside, a soft, barely audible voice was saying, “Señor Slocum! Señor Slocum! It is Ramon, Ramon Diaz! Señor Slocum, when you came before, you saved my little girl from the bandit’s bullet, remember? Señor Slocum!”

  Wyatt, still wary, edged to the side until he could peer in the window. What he saw disturbed him, to say the least. Slocum was lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from a bullet wound in his chest. He appeared to be unconscious. His head was in the lap of a youngish Mexican—Ramon Diaz, Wyatt assumed—who was trying in vain to revive him.

  Since there were no guns—or other people—in the room, Wyatt made a dash for the door. A startled Ramon gave out a little gulp. His hands went into the air, dropping Slocum’s head on the wooden floor with a loud thud.

  “Who shot him?” Wyatt demanded.

  “Señor Dugan. He was behind my counter. He said he would kill me if I moved or gave sign to the gringo who was coming!” Ramon was on a roll, and he couldn’t seem to stop. “Such a big gun he had! I knew he would be trouble when he first checked in. Oh, Señor Slocum, wake up, wake up! Please don’t die!”

  Wyatt holstered his pistol and got down on the floor on Slocum’s other side. He felt Slocum’s neck for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there, thank God. “Where’d Dugan go?” he asked, cutting into Ramon’s rant.

  Ramon looked at him, perplexed.

  “I said, where’d Dugan go?” he repeated in a louder voice.

  “To . . . to the back,” Ramon stammered, and pointed toward a back door. “His horse . . . his horse was tied there.”

  “Did he take off?”

  “Yes, señor. I . . . I heard him gallop away.”

  “You got a doctor in this town?” Wyatt asked. Slocum didn’t look good at all.

  “Sí. You want I should get him?”

  “Right away. Go!” He caught Slocum’s head when Ramon scrambled to his feet, and as Ramon raced out the door, crying something in Spanish, Wyatt pulled a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it against Slocum’s chest. He said softly, “Slocum, if you’re half as smart as I think you are, you’ll listen to your old buddy Ramon, and to me, too. Don’t friggin’ die, you got that?”

  At just that moment, Slocum moaned softly and rolled his head back, although his eyes didn’t open, didn’t even flutter.

  “That’s right, Slocum,” Wyatt said. “Stay with us, now, ol’ buddy. Stay with us . . .”

  14

  Slocum woke the next day to find himself in a hotel bed, heavily bandaged across his chest, and relieved of his clothing. He squinted against the light from the open window, trying to remember how he’d come to be here. He could recall stepping into the hotel to find Ramon Diaz standing behind the counter, but there it ended. The rest was blank.

  He tried to roll over to avoid the sun’s rays, but when he moved, his chest and shoulder screamed in pain. He believed he must have made a noise, too, because the door opened and in walked Maria. She smiled at him before she turned back and called down the hallway, “Ramon! Tell the doctor and Mr. Wyatt that Slocum, he is awake!”

  From far off, he heard Ramon’s muttered, “Sí, Maria! Bueno!” and then the sound of bootsteps and a slamming door.

  Maria came the rest of the way in and quickly stepped to pull the curtains.

  “Thanks,” Slocum said. His voice sounded off, even to him. “What happened, Maria?”

  “You do not remember?”

  He shook his head, but just a tad. Even that hurt.

  “Last night you were attacked by the brute, Dugan,” she said, with a look on her face that made it seem she was speaking of a deadly snake. “He left you for dead and rode away, to the south. Had it not been for Mr. Wyatt and Ramon, you would be dead.” She sat on the edge of his mattress and picked up his hand. “Oh, my Slocum, I am so happy you are not dead. All of Calisto is rejoicing.”

  “Glad somebody’s happy,” Slocum mumbled, and tried to sit up. Pain stabbed his chest, and he groaned.

  “No no, Slocum,” scolded Maria like a mother hen. “You must not try to move yet. The doctor, he says so.”

  “Doctor?” He didn’t recall any doctor. But then, he supposed he wasn’t remembering anything very well. He glanced again at his bandages. Neat and orderly. Maybe they had called a doctor, after all.

  “Yes. Dr. Ramirez,” Maria said. She raised a brow. “He patch you up okay, no?”

  Slocum managed a little smile. “He patched me up pretty slick, yes.” He wished somebody would tell him what the doc had to patch him up from. Although he suspected it was a gunshot wound. It sure as hell felt like one, anyhow.

  And then he remembered—Dugan, the gun, the sudden blast, and the staggering pain. Goddamn that Dugan! He balled his hands into fists.

  Wyatt’s voice boomed. “You musta sewed him up wrong, Doc. He looks like he’s ready to slug you.”

  Slocum relaxed his hands. “Howdy, Wyatt.” To the man next to Wyatt, he said, “And you must be Dr. Ramirez.”

  The doctor nodded. “At your service, señor.”

  Wyatt sat in a chair beside the door. “And he sure was at your service last night, buddy. Thought we were gonna lose you for a while there.”

  The doctor moved to Slocum’s side, ushering Maria out of his way. He began unwrapping Slocum’s bandage, after Wyatt leant a hand with helping Slocum to sit up.

  Slowly, bit by bit as the doctor checked his wound and carefully rewrapped it with fresh dressings, Slocum put the whole story together. Dugan had shot him, all right, but as usual he’d missed his target—most likely, the heart. He’d shot high and to the right just far enough to avoid, as the doctor said, major organ damage.

  Well, that was something to be grateful for, anyway.

  As for the rest of it, Slocum wasn’t so sure. Wyatt had just let Dugan go instead of riding out after him. He said that Slocum was hurt too badly to be left. Which Slocum supposed he might be grateful for, too, if he knew that Dugan’s dead carcass was down in the stable. Which it wasn’t.

  But not that much time had passed, and Slocum had salted a whole lot of sleep away while Dugan had lost even more. He was beginning to see a bright side to this thing.

  He said, “So, when can I ride, Doc?”

  The doctor raised both brows in shocked surprise. “Ride? Are you sure you did not take a blow to the head, señor?”

  He reached for Slocum’s head with both hands, but Slocum jerked away from him—a movement for which he was immediately sorry. The doctor must have seen the pain on Slocum’s face, because he followed with, “Señor Slocum, you will not be riding another horse for at least ten days. Perhaps longer.”

  “Doc, you don’t understand. We’re trackin’ a killer. Bronc Dugan!” Slocum fumbled for the words to convey how dangerous Dugan was. “Um, muy peligroso!Or muchopeligroso. You don’t want him runnin’ loose in your country. I’ve gotta
get back on the trail today.”

  But the doctor just shook his head. “Señor Slocum, this Dugan you chase has already done enough damage. Let others pick up where you left off. Stay. Rest.”

  “No. I’ll be damned if I’ll lay here and let you mollycoddle me while Dugan’s out there, drawin’ breath and free as a bird!” He attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed and, miraculously, succeeded. It surprised him and the doctor both.

  But the doctor blocked his path. “Señor, you must—”

  “The only thing I must do, Doc, is go round up this son of a bitch. Wyatt, hand me my pants.”

  Wyatt pulled Slocum’s pants out of the chifforobe and tossed them to him, while he said to the doctor, “I’m taking odds he won’t even make it down the stairs.”

  “I heard that!” Slocum snapped. He struggled with his trousers and prayed to God that he wouldn’t pass out.

  “Sorry, pal,” Wyatt said.

  Dr. Ramirez stood, then threw up his hands. “I give up,” he said. “What good is it to save a man’s life when he is intent on taking it himself?” He stormed from the room with Maria—jabbering in Spanish—on his heels.

  Wyatt shrugged, then helped Slocum get his britches on. “Shirt,” said Slocum, panting from exertion. Wyatt pulled one from his saddlebags and helped him into it.

  Slocum labored with the buttons, which kept shifting in and out of focus.

  “Are you sure about this?” Wyatt asked. “Another day’s layover won’t bother me none.”

  Slocum knew he was lying. It would bother Wyatt plenty. So he said, “Shut up, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Point taken.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have to rub it in any harder.”

  “You push any harder on it and you’re gonna wind up on your ass,” responded Wyatt. “Which is where you’re headed right now.” He took a few steps and caught Slocum just before he could tumble to the floor. “Just sit there for a goddamn minute and breathe, you crazy bastard. I’ll be glad to set out after him today, but only with you breathin’ and upright in the saddle, not strapped across it.”

  “Don’t harp on me,” Slocum growled. He grabbed hold of the mattress edge on either side of him, waiting for the strength to stand up.

  It washed over him before he knew he had it, and he stood up rather suddenly, startling Wyatt, who jumped back a little and said, “Whoa, boy! You all right?”

  “Fine,” Slocum lied. “Where are my guns?”

  Wyatt fetched them, and Slocum, one elbow on the dresser for balance, strapped them on. When he and Wyatt hit the bottom of the steps, Wyatt said, “Well, now that you’ve done that, I reckon you can do anything.”

  Slocum was seeing double, but clung steadfastly to the rail. “Now you’re talkin’ sense.” Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out, you asshole!

  “In the interest of time, you sit yourself down whilst I go get the horses. You wanna ride the sorrel or the Appy?”

  “The Appy. I’ll pick the sorrel up on the way back, take him back up to Tombstone.” Slocum made it to a chair and sat down more forcefully than he meant to. His chest was aching and burning, all at once. “Don’t forget to fill them water bags, Wyatt. And find out what color horse Dugan’s ridin’!”

  Wyatt saw to the horses, tacked up the two of them, and talked to the stableman before he led his bay and Slocum’s Appy back up to the hotel and went inside. He found Slocum just where he’d left him, except he’d passed out again.

  He walked over and shook Slocum slightly. “Slocum? You in there?”

  Slocum’s lids popped open immediately. “Just restin’ my eyes,” he said without apology.

  “Thought so,” Wyatt said, although he didn’t believe the big man for a second. He held out his hand. “C’mon. You’ll do better once you’re back in the saddle.” This he believed with all his heart. He’d never met a tougher bird than Slocum, and he knew that once all Slocum had to worry about was sitting on his horse, he’d be fine. Or at least, he’d be better.

  Of course, getting him up there in the first place was going to pose a problem.

  Slocum grabbed hold of Wyatt’s arm and hoisted himself up from the chair, nearly pulling Wyatt over. But Wyatt stood his ground, and soon the two of them were heading out front, toward the waiting horses.

  Before he went to Apache’s side, Slocum paused to rub the horse’s head and neck, greeting him. “It’s all right, buddy,” Wyatt heard him say. “Papa’s back. You’re all right now.”

  Slocum went to Apache’s side, gathered his reins, and put a foot up in the stirrup. While Wyatt waited, ready to catch him when he fell, Slocum mounted effortlessly.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Wyatt muttered beneath his breath, then said, “You okay, Slocum?”

  “Fine as frog’s hair,” came the reply, and Wyatt, grinning, shook his head. He walked around and swung up on his horse.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “If you are,” Slocum replied. “He went south?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s go find him.” Slocum reined his horse around and headed toward the southbound road out of town.

  “Oh, yes sir,” Wyatt said with a grin.

  Slocum pushed them both up into a jog. “You weren’t ever in the military, were you, Wyatt?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t ever a ‘sir.’ Just a sniper.”

  Well, that answered a whole lot of questions that Wyatt had never asked. He just said, “Oh,” and rode on.

  15

  They stopped at about noon to rest the horses and get themselves some grub. Slocum was glad to learn that Wyatt hadn’t wasted his time in Calisto: he’d bought them a ham, a couple loaves of bread, a stack of tortillas, and a roast chicken, along with a sack of Mexican wedding cookies.

  The horses were seen to, and Slocum settled back with a drumstick in hand. Wyatt had simply ripped the roasted hen in half, and handed Slocum his chunk of it.

  While Slocum polished off more than half of his half, Wyatt brewed coffee over a small flame, then handed Slocum a mug. He said, “I take it you’re feelin’ better?”

  Slocum nodded. “Yeah.” He took a big bite out of the breast. Actually, he was feeling pretty damned good, and he looked over at the Appy. “The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.” He’d read that somewhere. The author obviously knew what he was talking about.

  “Well, if you get to feelin’ punk, I found out what Maria was jabberin’ to the doc about when he left,” Wyatt said, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small paper packet. “Heroin,” he said. “It’ll fix you up right away. You’re supposed to wait until bedtime to take it, though.”

  Slocum nodded. “All right. Maria bring that to you?”

  Wyatt stuck the paper back in his pocket. “Uh huh,” he said before he took a sip of his coffee. “She said that he says it’s the latest thing.”

  Slocum nodded. “Don’t believe I’ve had that kind before. Glad he didn’t send opium. Can’t stand that stuff.”

  “You sound like you tried it.”

  “Anybody who’s been shot up or busted up or carved up as many times as me? I’ve had more docs throwin’ more kindsa ‘get well pills’ at me than I can count. Or remember.” His teeth ripped into the wing.

  Wyatt smiled. “I reckon you have, reckon you have.”

  They rode out again a few minutes later.

  They had come out into a desert strewn with boulders, like giant grains from God’s saltshaker, Slocum thought. The desert was green from the recent rains, the cactus fat with water, and the occasional tree had upright branches and glossy leaves. There were mountains to the west of them, but not ahead, and Dugan’s horse’s hoof-prints showed clearly in the still damp gravel of the desert floor.

  They had still not come to a place where Dugan had camped, and it had Wyatt in a tizzy.

  He stormed. “Jesus Christ! Doesn’t the man need to rest? Ev
er?”

  “Calm down, Wyatt,” Slocum said. “He’s gotta stop and sleep sometime.”

  “Yeah, but when? The stinkin’ bastard’s not human if you ask me.”

  “I ’magine he’s been sleepin’ in the saddle a bit,” Slocum offered. “Now that he’s got shed of Apache, I mean. If he’d tried to pull that on Apache, he’d have woke up halfway back to Tombstone. Ain’t that right, fella?”

  He patted the horse on his neck, remembering to use his right hand. He’d done it with the left the last time, and instantaneously, pain had shot through his shoulder and chest like bolt lightning, honed to a razor’s edge. This time, it wasn’t nearly so painful, although it still hurt. But he could live with it at least.

  “Well,” Wyatt said, “he’s still movin’ his ass too fast for me. He gets down to Mexico City, we’re gonna have a helluva time pickin’ him up.”

  “True,” said Slocum. “But we’ll get him before then.”

  Wyatt raised a brow. “And what makes you the fortune-teller, all of a sudden?”

  “Ain’t no magic to it. I’m just watchin’ his tracks. He’s slowin’ down.”

  Wyatt leaned forward in his saddle and peered at the ground ahead. The tracks were growing closer together. “You’re right,” he admitted.

  “Hold it!” Slocum hissed, and Wyatt reined in next to him.

  “What?”

  “There’s our man, right there.”

  “Where?” asked Wyatt, scanning the horizon.

  “Closer. Right near that big boulder up ahead. See his legs stickin’ out?”

  Wyatt stared a little longer, then muttered, “Well, shit, Slocum. What now?”

  Slocum carefully scratched the back of his right hand with his left. He said, “We could go ahead and ride in there, but Dugan’s tricky. Might be lying there with his guns drawn, just waitin’ for us to do that. On the other hand, he might be sleepin’, in which case, if we go creepin’ up there, we might just wake him up and suffer the same consequences.” He stared Wyatt straight in the eyes and smiled a little. “You choose, Mr. Former U.S. Marshal.”