Slocum and the Gila River Hermit

by Jake Logan

  He listened hard for voices but heard nothing other than the expected night calls of birds and the distant howl of a lovelorn coyote. As he neared the junipers, he dismounted and went ahead on foot. He did not want his horse to whinny at the wrong instant and betray him. He drew his six-shooter when he heard small sounds from a clearing ahead.

  He found a vantage point and surveyed the open area. No horses to be seen. No campfire. Nothing unusual. And then he saw movement. Small, a dark spot amid shadow, moving, not going far. It might have been a rabbit, but it retraced its short path. Slocum changed positions and got a better look. Someone’s head poked up over a fallen log. Back and forth the head rocked, as if keeping beat to some unheard tune.

  Slocum cocked his six-gun and walked slowly toward the spot. He lifted his six-shooter and pointed it directly at the back of the head.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “I can blow your head off if you do.”

  “John!”

  “Where is he, Arlene? Where’s Deutsch?”

  “Is he the terrible man who took me prisoner?”

  Slocum vaulted the log and knelt beside her. Arlene was securely tied but otherwise unhurt. He slid his thick-bladed knife from the top of his right boot and cut her ropes. She rubbed her hands and looked as if she had bitten into a persimmon.

  “He was awful, John. He asked politely for information, and when I told him, he threatened me. I had to ride with him.”

  “Where’s the horse you rode?”

  “It was his. A spare, I think. He took it when he left.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I can’t say. Not long. A half hour.”

  Slocum added up the times. Arlene had been Deutsch’s prisoner for the ride out here—a half hour. Then he had left a half hour ago. And she had been kidnapped only an hour back.

  “Did he rape you?”

  “Of course not,” she said indignantly. “I would never permit that!”

  “All tied up, you wouldn’t have much chance to stop him.”

  “He tied me up after we got here, just before he rode out.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know. In town he asked about the wild man we saw out on the trail. Then he asked all manner of questions I could not answer about some man.”

  “What was the man’s name?”

  “I can’t remember,” she said. “I was so mad by that time, I was doing everything I could think of to get away. I wasn’t paying him a great deal of attention.”

  “Come on. You can ride behind me again.” He helped her up. For a moment, they stood staring at each other. He thought she was going to kiss him but the moment passed. Leading her back through the dense stand of junipers, he found his horse waiting impatiently. The horse nickered at the sight of Arlene.

  “Your poor horse doesn’t want to carry twice the weight again.”

  “He’ll live,” Slocum said, swinging into the saddle. “I want to get back to Silver City pronto. Your pa’s worried sick about you.”

  “Do tell,” Arlene said in a tone that meant she did not believe it. Slocum wasn’t sure he did, either.

  As they rode, Slocum questioned her about Deutsch and what the gunman wanted from her.

  “I really don’t know, John. I can’t tell you any more than that. He was insistent that I knew more about that wild man than I do. We saw him. That’s all I know.”

  “Deutsch called him a hermit.”

  “Why, yes, he did. How did you know? And how’d you know his name? He threatened me and asked about this hermit.”

  Slocum told her what little he knew.

  “Well, I’m glad you came for me.” She hugged him tightly and rode along with her cheek pressed intimately against his shoulder. Slocum wished she wouldn’t hang on quite as hard, since it sent twinges of pain into his side, but finding her safe and sound made up for any discomfort. They rode into Silver City just as the saloons were roaring and miners were spilling into the streets, drunk as lords.

  “I never expected this place to be so . . . rowdy,” Arlene said.

  “Lot of mining in the hills. The miners have to blow off steam some way.”

  “Do they do this every night?”

  “And worse on Saturday, when they don’t have to work the next day.”

  “They aren’t inclined to go to church? I saw a nice one on the far side of town. It was an adobe building, but that shouldn’t matter, should it?”

  “There’s your pa,” Slocum said. He swung her around and lowered her to the ground.

  “Why’d you go off with that owlhoot?” demanded Caleb Castle.

  “I’m glad I’m back, too, Papa,” she said.

  “See you in the morning,” Slocum said. Somewhere along the ride back he had reached his decision. He would say good-bye to Arlene when he left. He wasn’t sure what had made this seem like the proper way to depart, but he would have some breakfast, pay his respects, and then ride off.

  He dismounted at the livery stables and led his horse around to the back. A light burned in the window of the small room where the stableman slept. Slocum negotiated a fair deal that included grain for his horse and a currying, as well as the use of a stall for Slocum to sleep in. Before the stable hand led the horse inside, Slocum grabbed the half-filled bottle of tarantula juice.

  He had earned another snort or two.

  Settling down outside with his back against the stable wall, Slocum took a nip from the bottle and let it slowly slip down his gullet to warm his belly. Before he could take another drink, he heard spurs jangling and the sound of boots thudding against the sunbaked ground. Without seeming to hurry, he put down the bottle and made sure his six-gun was ready for action. He looked up and saw a man he had never expected to see again in his life.

  “Mayerling!”

  “Thought it was you, Slocum. Who could forget your ugly face, even after all these years?”

  “Wasn’t enough years for my liking,” Slocum said. He considered throwing down on Mayerling and letting the son of a bitch rot where he fell. If he hadn’t been sitting and could have reached his Colt Navy more easily, he would have.

  “Don’t get up on my account, Slocum,” the whipcord- muscled man said. His lip was still curled into a perpetual sneer. The number of men Mayerling did not find beneath his contempt amounted to a handful, and they were all dead. For that Slocum heaved a big sigh of relief.

  It was bad enough that Mayerling was still among the living.

  “We missed you after you took off like you did,” Mayerling said.

  “It wasn’t quite that way. Bill Anderson shot me in the gut and left me bleeding to death beside the road.”

  “Doesn’t sound like ole Bloody Bill. He would have stood and watched you die.”

  “Quantrill had other chores for his pet mongrel,” Slocum said. “Otherwise, he would have. Maybe even added another bullet or two.”

  “How’d you happen to live? Bloody Bill wasn’t the kind to let details get past him.”

  “Details like me staying alive?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  Slocum shrugged.

  “Never were a man to say much, were you, Slocum? But you know I didn’t have anything to do with you getting gunned down, don’t you?”

  Slocum wondered what Mayerling was up to. The man had been as cold-blooded a killer as any riding behind William Quantrill and, unlike Slocum, had not flinched when it came to murdering boys as young as eight in the Lawrence, Kansas, raid. Slocum had protested at killing children—murdering them. Some children had fired at them. That was war, but Quantrill had ordered every boy slaughtered like sheep. And the men in Quantrill’s Raiders had done as their leader had asked.

  For protesting the massacre, Slocum had garnered Quantrill’s wrath. Quantrill had told Bloody Bill to kill him. It was probably one of the few times Bill Anderson’s gun did not send his victim to the Promised Land.

  “I didn’t even know you’d been shot. I thought it was a bullet from
them Yankees that done you in. We lost a fair number of men lickety-split there for a while.”

  “That was what set Quantrill off: losing his brother.”

  “I do remember that now. You’re still as sharp as a tack, Slocum. You still as fast and accurate with that hogleg?”

  Slocum studied Mayerling carefully. The man wasn’t overtly aggressive, as Deutsch had been in the saloon. But there was a wariness about him that told Slocum he believed the man he was speaking to was as deadly as ever. In such appraisals, Mayerling had always shown good instincts.

  “You calling me out? That’s not the way to find out,” Slocum said. He shifted a little on the ground to get his butt off a rock. The way Mayerling stiffened told him more than the former Raider’s words ever could.

  “I wouldn’t do a thing like that, Slocum. You rode with me. Me and you, we were saddle buddies. We watched each other’s back and shot down our share of blue-bellies.”

  “Not enough, it looks like,” Slocum said. “They won. We lost.”

  Mayerling laughed. It was the same bitter laugh Slocum remembered. If there had been any question of what kind of man he faced now, it was all gone. Mayerling had been a stone killer when he rode under Quantrill, and he had not changed in the years since the war ended.

  “Your sense of humor’s what has kept you alive. That’s my guess.”

  “That and a fast gun,” Slocum said. He slowly stood, back pressing hard against the stable wall as he pushed himself upright until he got his feet under him. If this turned into gunplay, he was in a better position to clear leather if he was standing. He had always been faster than Mayerling. And more accurate with his first shot.

  “Look, Slocum, I’m not carrying any grudges. Not after so many years. In fact, seeing you like this makes me want to offer you a job.”

  “What sort of job? There’re no women and children needing killing around here, are there?”

  “The Lawrence raid was all Quantrill’s doing. You know I had no part in planning it. No more than you did.”

  Slocum saw three men come from the shadows and take positions behind Mayerling, two to the left and one to the right, all arrayed so that they would have a clear shot at Slocum if the need arose. He could take Mayerling. But three more? Not even with a Gatling could he get all four of them before at least one filled him full of lead.

  “What are you offering?”

  “Oh, you saw my boys. They’re all legally deputized.”

  “Do tell.”

  “So am I. Deputy sheriff,” Mayerling said, slowly pulling back his coat to show a badge pinned on his vest. “We’re out here hunting for a desperado who hightailed it up out of Texas to avoid trial.”

  “Must be a mighty dangerous hombre to require four of you—and for you to ask for me to join the hunt, too.”

  “He’s all that, Slocum. There’s a decent reward on his head. Your share’d be fifty dollars.”

  “Bounty hunting’s not a chore I look too kindly on,” Slocum said.

  “You been on the wrong end of a bloodhound, eh? Figures. But this is legit.”

  “The law and me,” Slocum said, shaking his head, “we don’t mix. Good luck finding your fugitive.”

  “Job’ll be open ’til we leave town in the morning. Good seeing you again, Slocum.”

  Mayerling and his three deputies backed away a couple paces, then turned and left, wary of Slocum until they were out of sight. Even then it took Slocum a few minutes to relax. Of all the debris from his past, a former Raider blowing through right now was totally unexpected.

  He bent and picked up his bottle, considered another snort, and then decided against it. He wanted to keep a clear head in case Mayerling and his posse returned. And they would, just like a bad penny. Slocum went into the stables and saw that his horse had been properly tended. After the day he had put in, he was ready to catch some shut-eye. He took his bedroll and hunted for a clean stall. As he was putting down the blanket, he heard the stable door creaking open.

  Slocum turned, hand on his six-shooter. He relaxed when a woman poked her head inside. When she saw him, she came all the way in, leading her horse.

  “I need a stall for the night. And the right front horseshoe is loose.” She peered at him as if he were some new form of bug. “What do you charge?”

  Slocum was tempted to make up some exorbitant amount to see if she would blink. The dark-haired woman was expensively dressed, her riding clothing worth more than Slocum’s horse. She wore a perky hat canted at an angle that he suspected was precisely determined before she had ever put a foot in the stirrup. A long, straight nose over razor-thin lips gave her a cruel look that vanished immediately when she smiled, showing even, white teeth. Her face was tanned, showing time spent out in the sun and wind, but she had not hardened from too much exposure to the elements. From the look of her figure hidden under her riding clothes, she was quite an eyeful.

  “I’m not the stableman,” Slocum said. “I only put my own horse in for his care. He’s around to the side, but I’ll look after your horse while you inquire.”

  “He’s a pureblood,” she said.

  “Arabian,” Slocum said. “I’ve seen them before. Good horses.” He still preferred the Appaloosa but, as they said, that’s what made for horse races.

  “You have a good eye for horseflesh,” she said. She made no move to find the stable hand.

  “I’ve worked for ranchers some,” Slocum admitted. “From the branding style, I’d say you’re from down in Texas.”

  “You are quite observant. How can the style of the brand tell you anything?”

  Slocum had to laugh. “I recognize the brand. I worked for the Morgan Ranch a couple summers back. And that’s how I know this is an Arabian. Polish rather than Egyptian, unless Mr. Morgan’s changed his bloodlines.”

  “He has not.”

  “You one of the family?” Slocum had never even been invited to the main house, much less seen any of the Morgan family other than old man Morgan and his younger brother. Most of Slocum’s time had been spent on the Texas plains, running down strays and stopping rustlers. It had been a good summer.

  “Oh, no. I only purchased the horse from Mr. Morgan.” She eyed him with more intensity, but Slocum still got the feeling of being little more than an insect crawling across the kitchen table.

  “Around back, ma’am,” he said, pointing.

  “Yes, yes. Please excuse me for my rudeness. My name is Edna Berenson.” She thrust out her hand, still gloved. Slocum wasn’t sure if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He decided to shake it as he would a man’s.

  This seemed to elevate his stature in the woman’s eyes. “John Slocum,” he said by way of introduction.

  “Are you free, Mr. Slocum?”

  “Never free, but I can be had cheap enough,” Slocum said. Edna Berenson laughed, but it was only a polite chuckle.

  “I am in need of a knowledgeable man. Your experience with horses, especially Arabians, would be a significant factor in my decision to hire you.”

  “Can’t say I’m looking for a job right now, Miss Berenson.”

  “For a trail-wise man, this would be a simple task, and I could pay you well.” She batted her long, dark eyelashes in his direction in what she apparently thought was a seductive fashion. Arlene Castle had only to glace at him, and Slocum got all hot. Edna Berenson’s gaze made him wary. “My husband is missing, and I would like very much to find him and return him to our home in Texas.”

  “You rode all this way by yourself?”

  “I am capable enough, sir,” she said sharply. Softening her tone, she continued, “I could pay you very well. He has been seen in the region, but no one has been able to track him.”

  “In the Gila Wilderness?” Slocum’s mind raced ahead to what the woman was going to say.

  “Why, yes, he has disappeared into that vastness. The people around here have taken to calling him a hermit, but he is not that.”

  “Up north, they ca
ll him a wild man.”

  “He’s known as that? Where, may I ask?”

  “The word at Fort Wingate is that he is part man and part animal,” Slocum said, repeating what Arlene had told him. “They’ve hunted for him and never gotten close enough to get him into their sights.”

  “They’d kill him? The cavalry would kill him?”

  “They have plenty enough on their plate to worry about,” Slocum assured her. Her outrage at the notion of her husband being killed put his mind to rest about her sincerity. She had reacted instinctively, without thinking.

  “Thank goodness,” the dark-haired woman said. “I see that I need your services more than I thought. Please, Mr. Slocum. Help me find him.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Berenson,” he said, “but I’ve got important business elsewhere.”

  “If you reconsider, I shall be at the hotel. I don’t remember the name, but since there is only the one, it wouldn’t be hard to find me. And I hope you will.”

  She left. Slocum heard her and the stableman discussing terms. She did not return. Slocum watched the stableman go about the chore of tending the Arabian and then leave, muttering about how he needed to get some sleep.

  Slocum had to agree. He lay down on the blanket and was asleep within minutes.

  5

  Slocum sneezed. He rubbed his nose and rolled over, then sneezed again. This got the horses in their stalls to pawing and rattling about enough to wake him up completely. He stretched and then got up. His belly growled, and enough fur remained on his vision to tell him how potent the whiskey he had drunk the night before was.

  “Good bug juice,” he said, rolling up his blanket and then stepping out into the cold morning air. Silver City was beginning to stir for the day. Slocum knew it was time to be on his way, and he had come again to the decision not to say anything more to Arlene. He wished he could get it square in his head what he thought about her. If she had been more like her pa, he would have had no problem riding on. But she was sweet on him, and he felt a bit of that for her. And that was enough reason to leave quietly. No sense letting any woman lasso and brand him.