by Jake Logan
Sandy said, “Got somethin’ better. Hang on.” And then he went out the front door and closed it behind him.
Jack asked, “What’s he gettin’, you reckon?”
Slocum shrugged, but Lem smiled and said, “I think I know.” But that was all Jack could get out of him.
A few minutes later, Sandy came back in and plopped a pair of iron handcuffs on the table. “There ya go, Jack. Here’s the key.” He flipped it down on the table, too, and grinned wide.
“Where the hell’d you come by those?” Slocum asked. “I ain’t seen any like that since the war.”
“That’s where they came from. Same’s that Gatling gun out front. Same’s a few other things I got lyin’ around. Selfprotection, that’s my middle name.” He plopped back into his chair and propped his boots up on the table, still smiling with satisfaction. “You boys ever wanna start a war—or end one—you just come see ol’ Sandy!”
Slocum chuckled, and Lem laughed out loud. “There he is, folks,” Lem managed between bouts of laughter. “My neighbor, the War Lord!”
Sandy smiled before turning toward Slocum. “You boys’re welcome to spend the night iff’n you want. I sure wouldn’t care to be goin’ through Russian Chimes in the dark.”
Slocum appreciated Sandy’s offer, but declined.
After much back-thumping and thankee kindly’s, Lem, Slocum, and Jack set off, with Grimes on foot. His handcuffs were tied by a length of rope to Jack’s saddle horn, and he still hadn’t said a word. This bothered Jack, but Slocum said, “Don’t worry. He’ll talk when he’s ready.”
By this time they had reached the town of Russian Chimes, and Slocum had to admit—if only to himself—that it was indeed a spooky experience.
The wind had come up some. It mourned and howled through the ramshackle ruins of the buildings, and picked up and carried detritus across the road, slamming it into the men and horses. Advertising signs, long unread, banged against the sides of the peeling, disused buildings that held them as the night darkened and the clouds rolled in, covering the moon.
Fortunately, Lem knew this town and the surrounding countryside like the back of his hand, and led them forward.
When they had left Russian Chimes behind—enough that they were free of its spell anyway—Lem spoke. “I believe she’s gonna rain.”
Slocum nodded. “I believe you’re right, Lem. No thunder or lightning yet, but those clouds sure do look a portent.” He glanced over at Jack and was surprised at what he saw. Jack was white as a sheet of new writing paper, likely the result of going through the ghost town. But worse than that, one of his hands gripped the reins and the saddle horn at the same time, and the other was hanging on to Rupert Grimes’s handcuff tether for dear life.
Rupert was just trouping along, trying to keep up with the horses.
If Jack could just see himself now, Slocum thought, he’d give up bounty hunting at the first breath of suggestion.
But Slocum couldn’t see himself doing any more suggesting so far as Jack’s future was concerned. Maybe a little skull bashing, but no more hints or pleas. Jack had to figure this out for himself.
When they rode back down into Lem’s ranch, Martha was waiting, and so was supper. Which was fortunate, because the men had forgotten to eat before they rode back from Sandy’s ranch. And Martha did herself proud. She had roast beef cooked with onions and potatoes and carrots, biscuits with honey, piping hot coffee, and for dessert, strawberry-rhubarb pie. They let the still-silent prisoner eat with them, and everyone was more than satisfied.
After supper, they took Grimes to the outhouse, then bedded him down in the stable, with the horses. His feet were tied together, then roped to a corner post. His hands, back in the handcuffs, were tethered to the opposite post.
All in all, he was pretty much strung out like a hog ready to be butchered and dressed.
They threw a blanket over him and folded up a smaller one for his pillow, then left him alone, with just the livestock and a dimly turned down lantern for company. Through sheeting rain, they ran back up to the ranch house and Lem’s promise of after-dinner brandy and cigars. Slocum would have liked to get another piece of the pie, too. Martha was a wizard of a baker!
Once they’d had their brandy and their cigars, and Slocum had eaten another piece of that good, sugary pie, they started back down to the barn again. The rain had quieted down to a soft, steady patter and the clouds had mostly moved on to the east, so they didn’t have to feel their way at least.
The barn, once they got inside, was warm and welcoming. Slocum walked over to Grimes’s stall, or at least the one where he was tied down, and asked if he needed to go to the outhouse again. Grimes shook his head no.
In the aisle, Slocum leaned against the stall’s outside wall. “You sure don’t say much, do you?”
“Somebody once told me it was better to listen than to talk.”
Surprised at Grimes’s first sentence, Slocum said, “Sounds like a wise man. You’re not gonna have to walk to Phoenix, in case you were worried. Lem’s gonna lend you a mount.”
Grimes snorted. “Wild? Just off the range?”
“I’ll see he gets you a decent horse.”
There was a pause, then Grimes said, “Thanks. I’d appreciate it,” then turned his head away.
Slocum cocked a brow, but that was all.
Slocum turned toward Jack’s mare, a couple of stalls down the row. Lem and Jack had set her up nice, in a box stall with deep straw, plenty of hay, and her own water bucket. Still, she was flagging her tail at anything that moved, Slocum included.
He only wished that females of the human sort were that easy. Or that eager.
Although she was a nice mare, Slocum hoped that Jack would take up Lem on his offer to trade him the gelding, straight up, for her. The mare was better looking, but the gelding was sure trained better and had softer gaits, and was more suited to Jack’s needs. Lem, on the other hand, wanted her for her wild color, said he’d like to breed a little pinto into his stock. If Jack had any sense, he’d ...
Slocum shook his head. Sense was one thing that Jack seemed to be perpetually short on.
He’d just have to wait and see. If Jack decided against Lem’s offer, they were sure gonna have one helluva bumpy ride back down to Phoenix.
Jack came back inside, having been in the outhouse. He shook off the rain like an old dog and said, “I feel a lot better now.”
Slocum nodded. “Bet you do. You leave me any Sears?” An old catalog was a handy thing to have in the outhouse.
Jack nodded. “Yup. And watch out on the left side when ya sit down. Splintery.”
“Thanks.” Slocum stood back from the stall and patted his pockets in preparation for the outhouse visit. Fixings? Yup. Sulphur tips? Yup. Reading material? Yeah, that, too.
He was all fixed up and ready to go.
He took the spare lantern from Jack and said, “I won’t be too awful long.”
When Slocum came back from the outhouse, he found Rupert Grimes snoring softly in his stall, and Jack already asleep up in the loft. He shook his head and grinned. Dinner must’ve knocked them both out.
“Must’a knocked me out, too,” Slocum muttered beneath his breath. He grabbed his saddlebags, blew out the lantern down on the main floor, then climbed the ladder, up into the loft.
Picking a spot where the hay was thick, he spread out his blanket, then sat down on it. He would’ve liked to just lie back and nod off, but he still had things to do, and he wasn’t Jack, he reminded himself. No slacking for him.
He dragged over his saddlebags and made sure he was fully stocked up on everything, although he had no doubt that Martha would send them off with a fine feast. There he found Katie’s potato salad bowl, wrapped carefully in his winter scarf. He checked it. Not one chip or crack!
For half a second he missed his rope for ringing his pallet, but then decided that, hell, there weren’t any snakes up here, and he was safe.
At last, he placed
one side of his saddlebags—the one without the bowl in it—down where he was going to lay his head, blew out the lantern, lay back, and went to sleep.
16
The next morning, after a monster breakfast of bacon, eggs, thick toast with butter and jam, sliced and fried ham, fresh strawberries, and coffee, Slocum and Jack bade good-bye to Lem and Martha—who also provided them with a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, for their lunch—and set off, back the way they’d come.
Rupert Grimes ate and departed with them, but didn’t say a word. He had chosen once again not to speak.
It was no skin off Slocum’s nose. So long as Grimes remained in their custody, he could be mute as long as he wanted.
Lem had provided a sorrel saddle horse to transport him back down, and Jack had at least agreed to a temporary trade as far as his transportation was concerned. He was still mounted on Lem’s nice gelding. Slocum was satisfied with the arrangements at last, for Rocky was going to be out of luck today.
He stroked the stallion’s neck and fed him a lemon drop. “You’ll live,” he whispered to the horse. “You won’t like it, but you’ll live.”
Rocky only shook his head in reply.
They traveled south, jogging most of the time, and so made decent time compared to a walk. They stopped to have lunch when they were closer to Phoenix than to Lem’s, and Jack opened the box with glee. Martha had been busy, all right.
A whole chicken cut into pieces and fried up so golden and perfect, a container of strawberries, already sugared, and what was left of the mashed potatoes from the night before came out of the box, each to Jack’s oohs and aahs, and each to Slocum’s approval. He believed he’d volunteer to take Lem’s gelding back up to him. Between Martha and Katie, he could learn to settle down.
For about fifteen minutes, he thought, and gave a shake of his head. Women were sure better cooks than men, but steering a plow horse or threshing hay were among the last things he’d want to do. Even for Katie.
Ah, Katie ...
How he’d missed her! And it was more than just the absence of somebody to hose, it was the woman herself. Damn, he really liked that woman!
He took a bite of Martha’s chicken drumstick and chewed while he ruminated. He didn’t believe he’d ever thought that before, not and really meant it. He liked Katie, of course. He loved all women, but not so much individually.
Sonofabitch! he thought, incredulous. He liked her.
At that moment, there was a blur of motion beside him, and he stuck out a leg. Tripping, Rupert Grimes fell flat out on the ground with a thud and a painful-sounding groan.
“Watch your prisoner, Jack,” was all Slocum said before he took another bite of chicken, then disentangled his leg.
Goddamn amateurs, he thought, and took a long drink of coffee.
Beside him, Jack was struggling first to pull Grimes to his feet again, then to get him in the right place and down on his haunches once more. Slocum heard him mutter, “I swear, Rupert Grimes, I think you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
Atta boy, Rupert. Just keep him thinkin’ along them lines, Slocum thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, Rupert would do him the favor of getting Jack good and sick of the bounty hunting trade. It seemed something Slocum was supremely suited for, but Jack? The trade would eat him up and spit him out. He’d be dead, and then what?
Nothing, he thought. Just a big, fat nothing.
After they’d finished up Martha’s bounty—and Rupert ate somewhat sheepishly—Slocum packed up Martha’s mashed potato bowl and put it away next to Katie’s potato salad bowl, muttering, “I swan, sometimes I think I’m just a China carrier ...”
They each took a long piss on the dying fire they’d built to heat the coffee and warm the mashed potatoes, and saddled up again. Slocum rode out ahead, then Jack, then Rupert, his handcuffs once again connected to Jack’s saddle horn by a long rope.
They rode at a steady jog, letting the miles pass away behind them, and then Slocum heard Jack shout his name.
Now what? he thought as he swiveled in the saddle.
He looked at Jack. And he looked behind him.
Jack was the only one there, and he was reeling in the rope that had tethered Grimes to him. It hadn’t been cut, just neatly untied.
Muttering, “Sonofabitch,” before he remembered that Rupert was only doing what Slocum had wanted him to do, Slocum wheeled Rocky and rode back.
“I swear, Slocum, I don’t know what happened!” Jack looked stricken. “I don’t know where he went!”
Slocum scratched the back of his neck and said, “Well, not too far. Lem tells me that sorrel he’s riding is half lame. Once he pushes him into a lope, it won’t be long before he breaks down.”
Jack just stared at him, as if he’d suddenly taken to speaking Greek.
Disgusted, Slocum shook his head. “C’mon. Let’s go find him.”
So they jogged back the way they’d come until Slocum saw where his trail through the grass left theirs, snaking off to the west. It looked like he’d sat there for a minute, most likely waiting for them to get far enough ahead so that they wouldn’t hear him scooting off.
He was smart. Slocum would give him that, all right. He didn’t know about Jack, but he hadn’t heard a thing out of the ordinary.
They pushed into a lope as they followed Grimes’s trail, and Slocum was hoping that the sorrel would break down fairly soon. Or not. This whole deal was driving him crazy as a belfry full of bats. On the one hand, he would hate to lose Grimes, who was a penny-ante criminal at best. It would louse up his so-far spotless record for corralling criminals. But on the other hand, it was going to be Jack’s capture and Jack’s bounty—if they found Grimes, that was—and Slocum didn’t want Jack to succeed.
No, that wasn’t right. He wanted him to succeed. He just didn’t want him to succeed as a bounty hunter, damn it!
After a long afternoon, during which time Slocum let Jack take the lead—which was inevitably the wrong one, each and every time—he had finally had it. He halted Rocky and signaled to Jack to come back. Just as well. He was leading them to Mexico.
The two men faced each other on horseback. The younger, disappointed and nervous. The older was just plain disgusted.
“Jack, you are one mess as a bounty hunter. You’re a mess as a tracker. You want me to go on?”
Jack hung his head. “No,” he muttered. “I loused up and I know it. I’m sorry.”
He out and out hated the kid, but that “sorry” tugged a little at Slocum’s heart, as cold and untuggable as he liked to think it was, and he surprised himself by saying, “Well, hell. Let’s go find Lem’s gelding anyway. Grimes is bound to’ve cut that horse loose by now.”
With Slocum leading the way this time, they backtracked to the place where Grimes had originally separated from them, and set off at a lope. Slocum’s practiced eye kept them on course, and eventually, they found where Grimes’s tracks indicated his horse was in trouble. It was the old lameness, showing up again.
Jack didn’t see it and Grimes probably hadn’t felt it yet, but Slocum’s practiced eye saw the slight deviation in the track left by the right rear print. He slowed Jack and himself to a walk and kept on for fifteen minutes or so, until their mounts were cooled down and it was too dark to travel much farther. Slocum called a halt to the proceedings.
“Let’s camp here,” he said when they came to a place where a big old cottonwood stood. Once dismounted, he began to strip the tack off Rocky.
“Hold on,” Jack complained. “Can’t we go just a little bit farther? You said his horse was breakin’ down. He could be smack dab on the other side of this hill, for all we know!”
“Grimes, or the sorrel?”
“Well ... both!”
“Listen, Jack. Just figure that Grimes is a lost cause. We’re only goin’ after the horse now. And I don’t imagine he’ll wander too far from where Grimes left him.” He fastened the hobbles on Rocky’s front pasterns. �
�He’s used to bein’ taken care of, and livin’ in a stable. He won’t know what to do out here in the middle’a nowhere.”
Jack sighed the sigh of a kid who’s just been told he has to go to bed with no dessert, but he started stripping the tack off his gelding.
“Well, what’re we gonna do once we find the sorrel?”
“Take him back up to Lem, along with Martha’s mashed potato bowl. And try to figure out what you’re gonna do for a livin’ from here on out.”
Surprisingly, Jack looked shocked. “What are you talk’ about? I’m gonna be—that is, I am—a bounty hunter!”
Slocum had thought this was long settled, and by Jack himself! But he began slowly and said, “Jack, you can’t track. You can’t hang on to a prisoner to save your life. Look at how you’ve turned out every damn time you’ve had to get somebody on your own! If I hadn’t been there to save your hide, you’d be dead several times by now.”
“But you are there!” Jack complained. “I’ll learn! I’ll get better!”
“No, you won’t. At least, I won’t be the one to teach you. You either gotta have a knack for this, or you don’t. I never thought man-huntin’ would come natural to me, but I only been huntin’ bounties as long as you, and see the difference? Nope, we’ve gotta get you into a trade that suits you better.”
Jack didn’t answer.
Slocum didn’t expect him to. He let Jack be, so that he could think things over. He needed to wrap his brain around what Slocum had just said, and to let go of his dreams of being a big-time bounty hunter. Or so Slocum thought.
In the meantime, he gathered enough wood to build a fire, and the kindling to get it started, and began to slap together some supper. It was lean pickings, made from the stuff in Slocum’s saddlebags, but he didn’t want Jack to get used to living like the Prince of Persia on the trail. Life was tough out on the open plain. It was time that sank into his head.
After a dinner made up mostly of beef jerky and hot coffee, they lay down under the stars and went to sleep.
