by Jake Logan
“Get on with it, fool.”
That struck a nerve once again with Shinbone. I gotta stop doing that, thought Slocum. At least until I get this boot knife working. He knew it was his only chance, especially since Shinbone had just shot one of his own relatives and laid Julep out cold—or worse.
The tall oaf smiled, nodded, and said, “So we watched you and Julep, but you disappointed me, ’cause you didn’t find her to be in the mood, if you know what I mean.”
“I suppose I do. You’re telling me you like to watch other people as they buck in the saddle, is that it?”
Shinbone once again lost his smile. “I about have had enough of you and your confounded interruptions.” He raised the Colt, and grinned. Tauntingly, he lifted his big, flat thumb and rested it atop the hammer.
Slocum worked the boot knife faster than ever, but in the fraction of a second that it took to stare down the tall man, he realized there was no way he was going to make it, because Shinbone had proven to have a short fuse and could only be pushed so far.
As Slocum’s fingertips worked to raise the knife from his boot, then close around the hilt, he continued to stare at the man, square in the eyes. After all his adventures, if this was the way he was going to go out, then dammit, he was going to go out with a fight.
He dug his left boot toe into the soft sandy ground beneath him; the right he’d already braced against a boulder. He didn’t have time to cut through the rope wraps. But he gripped the small knife’s handle firmly and with a growl drove himself forward, straight at Shinbone’s shins, covering the man-length of space in a heartbeat of time.
It had the hoped-for result of catching the tall man by surprise. Shinbone shouted, “Whaaa?” and buckled backward.
The two men slammed hard to the ground, Slocum landing atop Shinbone. He had hoped the man would have dropped the revolver when he fell, but he felt its heavy thudding weight batter him on the side of the head as Shinbone flailed and slammed at him.
Slocum could only grip the small knife tight in his blood-engorged hand from the poorly tied but too-tight rope. He hoped he didn’t drop it and not even know, so bad were his hands throbbing. He ground his teeth together tight and with his already pounding head battered the thin man in the chest, the ribs, the arm, and working his way upward, he drove a knee into the man’s crotch. Again and again, using whatever he could for leverage. Then with a downward slam of his head, he pounded his forehead into Shinbone’s face.
Just what he’d hoped for—Shinbone’s nose crunched sideways, smearing in a pulpy spray against the side of his face, and he howled like a gut-shot coyote. All his flailing stopped and he tried to speak through a bubbling wad of thick, bloody phlegm. Then his face sagged to one side and he lost consciousness.
Slocum tried to breathe, found he was so winded it didn’t feel as if he’d ever pull in another breath. He grunted, raising his head, and blinked several times. He scrunched his eyes shut tight, trying to blink away the blood, opened them, and blinked. Couldn’t be—he thought he saw a man standing before him. Good God, were there more of Shinbone’s cohorts?
Slocum tried to speak, but only managed a raspy cough. He looked again and saw a ring of men before him, all standing a good dozen feet away, just at the ring of firelight, staring at him. They were Apache.
He closed his eyes again and righted himself, then rolled from atop Shinbone and onto his back in the dirt. He wasn’t sure he was still clutching the boot knife. He hoped he hadn’t dropped it, but his hands were so numb from being bound that they felt like they were each holding a bag of bees. And where was the Colt? It had been in Shinbone’s right hand, then Slocum had landed the nose-breaking head move and the man had sagged. So the gun must be somewhere beneath him in the dirt. He worked to scrabble for it, hoping to locate it before . . .
He looked up and saw a leg clad in torn peasant trousers, much the same as Mexicans wore. A bare foot with gnarled toes and horned with calluses reached in the dirt beside him and kicked at something. Slocum jerked his head and followed it with his eyes. It was his Colt. Damn. Hopefully they hadn’t seen the boot knife. Hopefully he still had it.
“You . . . crazy man.”
Slocum looked up again, squinting through a sticky matte of blood in his eyes. He scrunched his eyes tight together, then opened them. “Who said that?” he said, eyeing the still-staring Indians.
“I,” said a broad-chested man in a striped shirt, with dark hair cut raggedly that hung nearly to his shoulders. He thumbed himself in the middle of that massive chest. “I say this.”
“Glad to hear it. What’s the plan, then?” It was all Slocum could do to hopefully distract this man enough to at least get the knife back in his boot. He knew that with this many Apache watching him, there was no way he could slice through his wrist wrappings, then take them all on.
The man who had spoken made a few hand gestures, spoke softly into the ear of a man beside him, looking at Slocum now and again as he did so. Finally the man receiving the instructions nodded and beckoned to two more Apache. They approached Slocum. He had just enough sensitivity in two fingertips that he felt he still had the small knife. He scrabbled to jam it back in his boot just as the three men bent low over him and flipped him over, then dragged him facedown, toward the man who had spoken.
“You . . . I have seen you another time.”
It wasn’t much of a question. Then Slocum guessed he must have been one of the Apache who’d chased him that day weeks before, forcing him into the high rocks.
One of the Apache swung a dark, meaty hand hard and fast, catching Slocum across the jaw. It stung, but he righted his face and managed to stare down the offender. “You do that again and I will not take it kindly.”
The warning fell on confused ears. The man’s quizzical look almost forced a smile from Slocum. But not quite. Then the broad-chested man spoke again. “You . . . stop your talk. We”—he gestured with his hand held flat in front of him, arching it back and forth as if he were polishing a flat surface—“we are the ones who talk first, then you answer. You do not make threats.” He waited a moment for that to sink in, then he pointed a meaty finger at Slocum. “Now. You—tell me what happened here.”
13
What could Slocum say? If he started from the beginning, he’d all but admit he was cavorting with the chief’s daughter, a sure death sentence. And who would believe that he’d tangled with a lion, Apache, snakes, then fell from the high rocks down into the canyon, and lived. And then was nursed back to health by Julep—there his attention diverted back to her. He hoped she was just unconscious.
“Help her!” growled Slocum. The man who’d cracked him across the face before poised to do so again, but the broad-chested man—perhaps he was a chief?—stayed his hand and spoke to him in a low flurry that was less than kind, Slocum was pleased to note.
The man set his jaw hard, but nodded his assent. He glared once down at Slocum, then turned and strode to Julep. He lightly slapped her face, and Slocum was pleased to note the man seemed almost gentle. Perhaps it was because as a white woman, Julep might be considered by this brave as a coup of sorts, a fine trophy to add to his stable of wives. There were worse fates, he decided, and at least it would keep her alive should they try—or succeed—in killing him.
I can’t go thinking like that, he thought. Then he heard a groan and all eyes fixed on Shinbone. “Ohhh . . .”
The tall, stump-toothed man was coming around. If he came to, anything he might say could potentially harm what Slocum had been thinking of telling the Apache. Only one thing to do.
Slocum pushed up onto one side, pivoted on his hip, and within seconds delivered a quick heel kick to Shinbone’s head. The man’s groaning stopped, his head whipped back, and his eyelids fluttered. For a second, Slocum wondered if maybe he’d kicked too hard and killed the jerk.
“Why you do that?” The broad-chested man
aimed his mighty furrowed brow down at Slocum.
“Because . . . he is a killer and a thief and I don’t much like either.” Hardly eloquent, but it would have to suffice. The big fellow appeared to be mulling this over. If he’d had a beard, he’d probably be stroking it in long, luxurious swipes, while he let his mind wrestle with the problem of what to do with the crazy whites before him. All this time, other than the ones commanded to do his bidding, the other ten or so Apache men still stood in a semicircle just at the fringe of the lamplight.
Finally the man spoke. “Why that one”—he gestured at the lolled Shinbone—“do all these bad things?” Then another hurried thought appeared to have nipped at the heels of that first one, for he followed it with a second. Bending low, his great wrinkled brow drove his eyebrows together in concern. “Why I know you not do these things? Maybe, huh?” He fluttered his hands in a gesture that imitated “maybe” as well as any creature could.
Slocum licked his lips and looked toward Julep. She had slowly come around and her eyelids fluttered, her voice came to her, and she moaned. He was thankful that she was awake. And he hoped that seeing the Apache wouldn’t do something to her that he did not anticipate. He had no idea how any one of the whites from the canyon would react to realizing they’d become a captive of the Apache when they were caught. He was also afraid that she might do something to foul his still poorly formed plans. He had to head off any trouble at the pass.
“Julep! Hey, Julep! It’s John. Over here, girl. That’s right. You okay? Focus now, we’ll be fine. These men came along just in time, saved us from Shinbone and the others. We are lucky they did, girl. You hear me? Julep?”
She moaned softly, and the Apache pushed her blond hair from her forehead. She flinched at the gesture and looked at him for the first time, realizing someone was that close. She screamed, a short, clipped sound that Slocum barked a quick command to try to stop. It worked.
“Julep, dammit, girl. Did you hear what I said? These men came along, saved us from that bad man, Shinbone. You hear me?” He hoped his wide eyes and gritting teeth didn’t give away his desperation to the broad-chested Apache leader.
Julep slid her eyes from the staring Apache beside her to Slocum. She nodded after a few seconds, then looked back at her close captor.
The broad-chested Apache toed Slocum’s shoulder and he looked up at the man. “I ask you why you not the one who do these things.” He waved his hand broadly and Slocum knew his callused hand’s gesture had taken in the two dead Apache.
Slocum looked at Broad Chest, as he came to think of him, convinced that the man was indeed a chief, perhaps the tribe’s sole chief. The thought made his gut tighten. But the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, Slocum spoke. “I never said I wasn’t the one. Just that he’s a bad, bad person. Not someone I trust. Not someone we call friend.” With that he jerked his head toward Julep, who sat watching the exchange with mounting horror in her eyes. He wondered if she’d ever come face-to-face with her sworn enemy, or rather Deke’s sworn enemy. The Apache. Make that one of his sworn enemies. The man seemed to have a pocket full of lists of people he felt were evil and should be dealt with. Apparently with his growing arsenal of firepower.
“Why you here?” said Broad Chest.
“I will admit it’s a right odd situation to find in the desert like this.” Slocum licked his lips. “Any chance I can sit up, get a swig from that canteen, and tell you properly?”
Broad Chest canted his jaw, regarded Slocum with squinted eyes. “Yes, but no untie hands. You still mine.” He jerked that wide thumb at his chest again. Slocum began to see that was a favored gesture.
“All right, then. But please give the lady a drink first. She has been through a lot and it’s not been easy nor fair to her.”
Julep snorted, and Slocum knew she was fine. Leave it to her to find something to be irate about at a time like this.
Broad Chest looked at Julep, then back to Slocum. “She no like this plan.”
Slocum swore he saw a smile flit like a moth across the man’s dark face. Then it was gone, replaced with the stony glare once again.
He was helped to a sitting position and stretched his legs out in front of him, with his back leaned against a rock. It felt good to flex his leg muscles. He glanced down at Shinbone, but the man was still out of it. Good. “Now, Chief—may I call you ‘Chief’?” Slocum was taking a big risk in using the term, but he felt pretty sure the man was not your average brave.
Broad Chest nodded once, but he noticed a few of the men beside him flinched, noticed a raised eyebrow here and there. So this one might not be the chief, after all.
“We, the girl and I, are from . . .” Here we go, point of no return, thought Slocum. “We are from down there. He jerked his head back behind him. This caused no reaction at all from the assembled men. Curious. He continued. “And we have very important news to tell you.” He waited a few heartbeats, then with no reaction, he continued, “Very important information for you, the Apache.”
They were definitely his audience now. Much like that half-naked puppeteer woman from Paris, France, had had the entire crowd at the Birdcage in Tombstone spellbound by her antics. And even more so once she’d gotten drunk and had fallen into the crowd. What a glorious mess.
“You tell us or we kill you now, you understand?” Broad Chest had obviously lost his patience.
“The news is . . . only fit for the ears of the chief of the Apache.”
As the meaning of his words occurred to the Indian, Slocum watched a mask of rage take shape on the man’s face. The broad-chested man’s meaty hands clenched and unclenched, he showed his full set of white teeth, stark in the dim glow of the lamp light. He whipped his wide face from Slocum to Julep and the fat gear carrier. Then down at Shinbone, and finally back to Slocum. “Kill them all. Now.”
That was not what Slocum had hoped would happen. But at least now he knew the man was not a chief. “Hey, now, fella. That’s not the brightest move you’ll make all day, I can tell you that. What’s your chief going to say when he’s denied the knowledge I have, information that could save all the lives of your people.”
“Bah! Kill him now!” He thrust a thick finger at Slocum and then dragged it across his own throat and smiled, a wide leering thing.
The nearest Indian slipped a broad-bladed knife from his belt. He, too, grinned as if this was the most fun he’d have all year. And it would probably be just that, thought Slocum, struggling to gain his feet. But the man was on him in fingersnap speed. “I can guarantee you the canyon. You will have it back, all of it, if you spare us.”
Broad Chest scowled, then held up a hand and barked an order—one word—in Apache. The man with the knife beside Slocum paused. He looked perturbed that his fun was once again interrupted.
“Leave him alive. The others, kill.”
“No!” shouted Slocum, getting up on one foot, resting his weight on one knee, ready to spring. “You kill them, you might as well kill me, too, because I won’t talk, no matter how much of your Apache torture you practice on me. And then you’ll never know if I was telling the truth or not. I’m saying it plain, I know of a way for you to drive the whites out and get your canyon back.”
“Forever?” said Broad Chest.
Slocum raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not up to me. That all depends on how much effort you Apache put into defending it. But it seems to me if this”—he nodded toward the man with the knife—“is the quality of the warrior you have, then you might as well quit now, go back to grubbing with the women for roots and berries.”
Broad Chest looked briefly at the knife-wielding man, then at Slocum. And the fake chief actually smiled. “You speak truth, even though it might kill you. That is good. I take you—all of them—to see our chief.” He turned to his men, who had for the most part remained silent, staring at the whites with
sullen, scowling looks as if they were regarding a gut pile alive with writhing worms.
From out of the dark behind them, a younger Indian led two horses.
“Hey,” said Mort, the fat man, speaking for the first time since the Indians’ arrival. “Them are our horses—Shin’s and Lem’s anyway.”
“Shut up!” hissed Julep.
None of the exchange seemed to bother the Indians. They acted as if the whites weren’t even there, but Slocum knew from much past experience with quiet Indians that they took everything in, revealed little about themselves. Most of them, he was convinced, knew English better than he knew their lingo.
Another Apache retrieved the horses Slocum and Julep rode, and began loading the two dead Apache across the backs of one horse as if they were of as little consequence as a sack of flour. Broad Chest kicked Shinbone in the side and the tall white groaned. The Indian grunted something at one of his men and two of them dragged Shinbone to another horse, draped him across the saddle, and tied his wrists to his ankles under the horse with rawhide thongs.
All the while, the sky to the east had begun shading from black to gray to a subtle deep purple hue. The slow dawning day had begun to cast just enough light that, combined with the lanterns’ glow, Slocum could take a good look at their captors. Their faces were still muted by shadow, but they definitely were some of the men who had chased him weeks before on this very plain.
He wondered if they had his Appaloosa and gear. It was probable—there was no way they’d leave a perfectly good horse and useful gear in the rocks. And since they’d seen him ride in there with him, then fall into the canyon, they darn sure knew he wasn’t coming back for his possessions. He suspected they were taking them to their camp, so he’d find out soon enough.
