Slocum and the Sonoran Fugitive

by Jake Logan

  17

  They stopped at noon without incident, and after lunch Slocum pushed Apache—not into a full-fledged gallop, but an easy lope. He was so accustomed to Apache’s rhythms that he fell right into it and found it as easy to ride as the walk they’d been traveling at.

  They had plenty of water, so they paused at the river only long enough to let the horses drink, then scrambled across it, going northward, up into the States. Well, the Territory, anyhow. Slocum saw the unspoken relief wash over Wyatt’s face the moment they rode up on the northern bank.

  Wyatt dipped his fingers into a pocket and pulled out a badge, which he proceeded to pin on his shirt, under his vest.

  “Thought you left that with Virgil,” Slocum said.

  “I lied,” said a cheerful Wyatt, pulling his vest over the nickel star.

  “Feeling better now?” Slocum smiled.

  “Some’at. As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Slocum laughed. “Once a lawman, always a lawman.”

  “Reckon so,” Wyatt said, and laughed.

  They pushed the horses into a lope and headed north, toward Bisbee.

  They didn’t make it to Bisbee that night. Wyatt had been right, although Slocum was loath to admit it. But they got to within five miles of the town before they made camp.

  Throughout the day, Slocum had continued to improve. He supposed that was the way things went. With him, anyway. Fresh wounds most always felt worse than they actually were, but the pain eased off pretty danged fast. He’d had several doctors remark that he was a quick healer, and they’d been right. Of course, they hadn’t been around when he’d suffered some of his worst injuries. They never were, were they? But he supposed that most of the time, they were right. He did heal up quick.

  He still wasn’t himself, though. But he would come around. He had no doubts.

  He didn’t get out his heroin as early as he had the night before. First off, he didn’t need it yet, although it sure did help him sleep and he was planning on taking it eventually. Second, he and Wyatt were having a good talk. Wyatt seemed to be enjoying it, too, although Dugan didn’t seem to care either way.

  Wyatt talked about growing up in Iowa, Slocum spoke of his boyhood in the South. Wyatt talked about his first wife, about losing her, and about going west, to Kansas. For his part, Slocum spoke of the War and its aftermath. As it affected him, anyway.

  Finally, at about nine, Slocum had used up all his energy, and he pulled the packet of powder from his pocket. “Believe I’ll take my poison now, Wyatt,” he said, and proceeded to pour the last of it into his mouth. It tasted terrible, like always, and like always, he couldn’t help but make a face while he waited for it to melt under his tongue.

  “Crap!” he said, finally, and washed the taste down his throat with the last of his coffee. Wyatt had brought along a goodly supply of Arbuckle’s, which Slocum greatly appreciated. The cup he had just drained was his fifth of the night. It was also the first supper he’d finished in a while.

  The heroin kicked in almost immediately, and he felt a relaxing warmth move through his body. “Y’know,” he said, “I never realize how bad my chest hurts till it stops. Ain’t that somethin’?”

  He must have slurred his words, because Wyatt just looked at him quizzically.

  “Never mind,” he tried to say.

  “Lemme get your blanket spread out,” Wyatt offered generously.

  “Get it myself,” Slocum tried to say, but it came out more like “Gemmyfelf.” He gave up on talking. All he wanted to do now was lie down and fall asleep.

  Wyatt had his place ready before he knew it. Slocum crawled toward his blanket and fell into it, head pillowed on his saddle.

  Slocum dreamt hard that night, and his dreams started out pleasant enough. He dreamt about Mandy, about her hair the color of sunshine, about her pert, full breasts and tiny waist, and the appealing swell of her hips. He dreamt that she was going down on him, and it felt so good, so magically good . . .

  But then—he wasn’t sure how—he found himself on the streets of Tombstone, found himself there, fully dressed, with Mandy’s scent still clinging to him, and realized that the streets were empty of pedestrians, and that the only other person present as far as the eye could see was Bronc Dugan.

  Dugan drew his gun and Slocum drew his. Dugan’s aim was apparently better from afar than it had been up close, because just as Slocum felt heat and pain spreading through his chest, he saw Dugan fall to his knees. Dugan went the rest of the way down, but Slocum realized his angle of sight was changing. He was watching from above now, watching the whole thing play out like a stage show, seen from the highest balcony on an impossibly large stage.

  He watched people come running from the buildings on either side of the street—it was Allen Street, he recognized it. Some ran to Dugan, kicking away his gun, but most ran to—him? Was that him down there, lying on his back in the dirt? How the hell—?

  “Slocum?” Wyatt’s voice. “Slocum? You all right?”

  Slocum opened his eyes. The lids felt heavy, like there were bags of cement holding them down, but he gazed up at Wyatt. It was dark. “What happened to the light?” He shifted his head. Rocks instead of buildings. “What happened to the town, your town?”

  Wyatt smiled. “You were dreamin’, buddy.”

  Slocum let his head loll back. “Where are we?”

  “We’re a few miles south of Bisbee. We’ll be in Tombstone tomorrow, Slocum, if we ride hard.” Wyatt’s brow furrowed. “That musta been one helluva dream. You okay now?”

  Slocum wasn’t a bit sure, but he said, “Fine. Just fine, now. What time?”

  “What time is it now?” Wyatt pulled out his pocket watch. “ ’ Bout three-thirty. Way too early for you to be shoutin’ out loud and wakin’ folks up.”

  “Shoutin’?” Slocum replied groggily. “Sorry.”

  “No harm done,” Wyatt said, smiling a little, and pointed at Slocum’s chest. “You can put that smokewagon away, now.”

  “Huh?” Only then did Slocum realize he was gripping something, and that the something was his pistol. His finger was on the trigger, and he eased it off. His brow furrowed. “I didn’t—”

  “No, you didn’t fire. But it was pointed straight at Dugan.” Wyatt relieved him of his gun and stuck it back in his holster.

  Slocum sighed. “Thanks, Wyatt.” He felt his lids begin to close again. “Sorry,” he repeated.

  He felt Wyatt’s hand on his shoulder. “S’all right, Slocum. Just get back to sleep. I’ll wake you when . . .”

  Wyatt kept talking, but it was lost on Slocum. He had fallen asleep.

  Slocum woke on his own the following morning at about six, when the sun was just over the horizon and the desert was coming to life. Wyatt was already awake, and somewhat more mobile, and he grinned at Slocum from across the fire. Slcoum smelled coffee brewing and carefully sat up.

  He was amazed at how his shoulder felt! It was almost as if he hadn’t been wounded at all, although he realized that part of this magic had been worked by the heroin, which hadn’t completely worn off yet. He took advantage of the situation, though, and got to his feet. He wandered off to take a piss.

  He was just buttoning up his britches when he smelled the ham frying. It was a lucky thing Wyatt was a good campfire cook, or Slocum would have starved to death these last few days. He walked back around the rock to find Wyatt not only frying up the ham, but the last of their eggs, as well. Slocum smiled. He was hungry!

  “Coffee’ll be ready in a minute,” Wyatt said. He smiled. “Can you hang on that long?”

  “Think I could hang by my teeth from a rope,” Slocum joked.

  Wyatt laughed.

  “Want me to take him for a short walk so he can piss?” Slocum asked, indicating Dugan.

  “Already done,” said Wyatt. “Breakfast’s ready.” He shoveled ham and eggs onto three plates, removed Dugan’s gag, then handed out the plates. Dugan took his without a word, and Wyatt paused.


  “What the hell’s wrong with you this mornin’? No commentary? No insults? No complaints?”

  Dugan, his hands bound, just continued eating.

  “Cat’s got his tongue,” said Slocum. The ham and eggs were great, as was the coffee. There was a covered skillet still on the fire, though. Hopefully, Slocum asked, “Those biscuits I smell?”

  “Bingo,” Wyatt said around a mouthful of ham. “Ready in a second.”

  Once they finished eating and had the dishes cleaned and the fire extinguished, it was time to saddle the horses. Slocum tacked up Apache himself, after he gave him a quick brushing down. Wyatt finished his bay and Red at about the same time.

  “Been thinkin’, Slocum,” he said as he moved Dugan toward Red. “Think we’d best let Dugan ride upright today.”

  Slocum raised his brows. “Why you thinkin’ that?”

  “ ’ Cause we’re gonna go through some rough country today. Don’t wanna deliver him with a head fulla burrs.”

  Slocum didn’t answer for a minute. If it was him, he’d throw Dugan over his horse and damn the burrs and sage. But Wyatt had his badge back on, and besides, Slocum trusted him. So, flying in the face of his better instincts, he said, “Sure. But tie his feet to the stirrups, and don’t untie his hands. And don’t bridle the horse.”

  Wyatt, who had already made a makeshift halter from loops of Red’s lead rope, said, “Fine by me,” and bent to untie the ropes around Dugan’s boots.

  Dugan behaved himself, mostly because Slocum had a gun pointed at him during the whole procedure. Once his feet were free, Dugan was allowed to climb up into the saddle. Wyatt quickly roped one foot into its stirrup, then walked around Red and took care of the other one, while Dugan took a good grip on the saddle horn.

  Slocum holstered his pistol and mounted up. So did Wyatt. And then they moved out, Slocum letting Wyatt take the lead while he trailed behind Dugan.

  He was taking no chances. He figured that Dugan could get away easy, even roped in place. He could lean forward and push the lead rope over Red’s ears. He’d have no trouble controlling him, even with no headstall on, if he was good enough with his legs. Slocum didn’t know how good a rider Dugan was, but you could never be too careful. In addition, Dugan could pull up one stirrup at a time, if no one was watching him, and get his legs free.

  As they moved steadily northward, Slocum’s gaze fairly drilled a hole in Dugan’s back.

  “Don’t try it, you rat-bastard,” he growled under his breath. “Just don’t try anything.”

  “You okay back there?” Wyatt shouted.

  Slocum waved a hand, although his eyes were still on Dugan’s back. “I’m fine.”

  “You need to stop, just holler.”

  Slocum nodded. “Will do, will do.”

  18

  They bypassed Bisbee, rather than going through it. This was Wyatt’s decision, but Slocum agreed with it. Dugan was hard enough to hang onto without adding a whole lot of street traffic to the mix.

  So far, Dugan had minded his p’s and q’s, but that didn’t mean that Slocum relaxed any. His shoulder and chest were paining him again—probably as much from the stress and strain he was putting on his whole body than from anything else. Keeping an eye on Dugan was no easy job, especially for a man in his condition.

  Additionally, he found himself fussing over where he’d get his next dose of heroin. Now, this wasn’t like him at all. Longing for a woman or a steak or a drink, that was more like him. But yearning after medicine? Not like him at all.

  He took a chance and fumbled for his fixings pouch, then rolled himself a quirley, all while never taking his eyes off Dugan. He lit the quirley and took his first drag. He was right. Smoking did calm him down.

  At least for a while.

  Before he knew it, Wyatt was stopping, and Slocum reined in Apache just in time to avoid running into Red’s backside. Wyatt untied Dugan’s feet, enabling him to dismount, and Slocum held a gun on him while Wyatt built a fire and started the coffee. Slocum could have bypassed the coffee in the middle of the day, but Wyatt insisted.

  And, as Slocum told himself, the marshal’s the marshal.

  Wyatt broke out the last of the ham, along with the leftover biscuits from breakfast, and they ate a cold lunch. Dugan seemed pleased to have the ropes off his feet. At least, he sat cross-legged by the fire, something he couldn’t do when he was tied, and Slocum almost felt sorry for the way they’d handled him before.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  The pain in his chest wouldn’t let him.

  Wyatt had no such difficulty. After lunch and the ensuing cleanup, he saddled Dugan just the way he had in the morning, roping his legs to the stirrups. Although it seemed to Slocum that he wasn’t quite as careful. But then, Slocum wasn’t doing so well himself, and he might have looked away for just a second. Longer, maybe. His chest was aching like a bastard.

  It won’t be long now, he told himself. It won’t be long before we get to Tombstone. It won’t be long before I can lie down.

  Despite his best intentions, Slocum fell asleep in the saddle. He hadn’t wanted to, had never guessed he would, but he did.

  He woke to the sound of scuffling, of hoofbeats galloping, of Wyatt crying out, “Slocum! Slocum, wake up, dammit!”

  He came full awake to find Wyatt on the ground, trying to get up, and to see the backside of Red, carrying Dugan, as he galloped over a small hill.

  What had he allowed to happen? “Need help?” he quickly asked Wyatt.

  And Wyatt just pointed and shouted, “Go after him!”

  Slocum didn’t hesitate.

  He showed his heels to Apache, who seemed to know the chase was on, for he bolted so fast that he nearly ran out from under Slocum. He headed for the rise over which Dugan had disappeared.

  But how the hell had he gotten loose? Had he slipped his feet free? Had he got the makeshift halter off the horse’s head? Had he somehow gotten his hands free?

  It didn’t matter now.

  Nothing mattered except getting Dugan back. Slocum would be damned if he was going to chase all over hell and gone for that son of a bitch all over again!

  He crested the hill. It dipped down into another small brush-dotted valley, studded with boulders and upthrusts of ragged rock. And he couldn’t see Dugan. Couldn’t see him anywhere.

  But he could see the signs of his passing. He kneed Apache forward again, but this time at a pace not so urgent. Dugan could be lurking behind any of the larger rocks down there, waiting to jump him.

  And he was in no shape to be jumped.

  He came to the lowest part of the valley. Dugan’s tracks still headed onward, to the east, and he followed, all the while cursing under his breath. After less than ten yards, he saw something out of the ordinary and halted abruptly, slipping off Apache effortlessly.

  What had stopped him was the sight of Red’s backside, sticking out just slightly from behind an upthrust of rock. As he watched, the horse moved out of sight, as if he were being led or ridden. But he couldn’t be being ridden—the rock was only about six and a half feet high at its tallest point, and if Dugan had been on him, his torso would have shown over the top of it.

  So the bastard had somehow gotten his feet free and slid from the saddle. Now all Slocum had to worry about were his hands, and whether or not he’d managed to snag himself a weapon. The last thing was the one that had Slocum the most concerned. Capturing Dugan, on the loose but unarmed, would be like trying to stick a greased bobcat into a gunnysack, barehanded. But if he was armed?

  Lord, have mercy!

  He heard the brush rustle behind him and turned back to see Wyatt, mounted but holding a bandana to a wound on his head, riding down toward him.

  “Find him?” Wyatt shouted.

  Slocum grimaced, then signaled Wyatt to shut up and get off his horse. Then he pointed toward the place where Dugan was hiding. “He’s back there,” he whispered, once Wyatt got close enough.

&n
bsp; “Whatcha waitin’ for?” Wyatt asked, perplexed.

  “For you to get here.” When Wyatt just stared at him, he went on, “Because he’s got his feet unbound, or he couldn’t have got down off the horse. Which means he’s likely got rid of his wrist ropes, too. And I can’t remember whether or not there’s a spare pistol in those saddlebags of Red’s. Can you?”

  Wyatt just stared at him for a long time before he said, “Well, horseshit.”

  “Yeah,” concurred Slocum. “That, too.”

  Wyatt said, “I’ll go right.”

  Slocum nodded curtly.

  Wyatt left his bay behind and carefully crossed to the next rock on the right, which was about twenty feet over. He slipped beside it, nodded to Slocum, than called out, “Bronc Dugan. This is Deputy U.S. Marshal Wyatt Earp. If you’re smart, you’ll give up now, Dugan!”

  “Fat chance!” came the reply—and along with it a slug that zinged off the rock in front of Wyatt.

  Wyatt ducked down and cried out, “Crap!” Then, “Where’d you get that goddamn smokewagon, Dugan?”

  Dugan didn’t answer. But he took another shot at Wyatt when the top of the lawman’s hat peeked over the rock. Fortunately, it wasn’t a part of the hat his head was in, because the slug sent it flying.

  While Wyatt scrambled to retrieve his hat, swearing the whole time, Slocum was deep in thought. Something had been bothering him for days about Red’s tack. Something that he hadn’t put his finger on until just now. If there was a pistol in the bottom of one saddlebag, and apparently there had been, it was an old Colt, one Slocum kept just in case. Except this time, it had been “just in case” for Dugan.

  But Slocum couldn’t remember how many cartridges he had left for it. There’d been five in the gun, and part of a box. A very slim box, as he remembered, practically empty. Four more? Five?

  Any way you looked at it, it was a bad deal for Slocum and Wyatt. Dugan had enough to reload, and it looked like he was going to keep shooting as long as he had ammunition.