by Jake Logan
But it made him all the more determined to catch Berenson.
He had ridden straight in and found a spot across the Gila River where he could study the face of the cliff that held the cave dwellings. Settling in had been easy. Slowly checking each cave using his field glasses was tedious. By the time he had worked from the base to the upper levels where he knew Berenson had been, he was certain he had eliminated most of the spots as possible hideouts. Berenson might have abandoned the cave where Arlene had been held, but the one on the next level above was definitely occupied. Slocum saw faint wisps of smoke coming from it on the second day. On the third he saw more. However Berenson got into the cave, it wasn’t from the cliff face. Slocum remembered the crevice that had angled down from the rim to where Arlene had been cooking. That crevice, a little enlarged, would provide a decent entrance for a man as scrawny as Berenson.
But Slocum didn’t look to trap him in the cave. He wanted him out in the open where the lunatic had fewer resources. Slocum wanted to track him when he went out to lay more snares for those so incautious as to hunt him.
“Got you,” Slocum said just before sunset. Four days he had waited and finally he had struck pay dirt. Rolf Berenson lowered himself down the face of the cliff using his block-and-tackle arrangement. Slocum watched until the man disappeared into lengthening shadows. He remained where he was on the far side of the river. A grin crept across his lips when he saw Berenson skulking about, carrying a length of rope. The man followed the river upstream and eventually vanished from Slocum’s view.
Slocum waited another hour before crossing the river. The strong current made it difficult, but he had wanted a barrier between him and Berenson while he waited that was not easily crossed. Berenson wouldn’t go there capriciously, giving Slocum a modicum of safety from detection. Now he did not care. He rode directly to the base of the cliff dwellings and found where Berenson had descended. Slocum spent the next half hour scouting the area to be certain the hermit had not laid other traps there. Rolf Berenson might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.
Slocum found nothing. Then he set to work.
He faded back behind a tumble of rocks when he finished, aware that, because of the deafening river, he could not easily hear anyone approaching. That worked to his advantage, too. Slocum had left his horse some distance away so that Berenson would not spot it. Waiting proved harder now that Slocum was so close to capturing the man. When the full moon rose, Slocum found himself on edge and as nervous as a long-tailed cat lying next to a rocking chair. He forced himself to calm down—and then he was alert again when he heard someone humming.
Rolf Berenson came up along a trail Slocum had not even seen. Not daring to move, Slocum watched as Berenson turned his face toward the moon, closed his eyes, and looked as if he were basking in the silvery rays.
Definitely a lunatic, Slocum thought. And then he was moving fast to make the capture.
Berenson turned from the direct rays of the moon and tugged on his rope. When it didn’t budge, he pulled harder. Then he did what Slocum had expected: Berenson stepped back a couple paces to get a better look at his rope higher up on the cliff face, to see if it had caught on an outcropping. When he put his foot down, he triggered Slocum’s snare. A swishing sounded over the noise of the rushing river.
Berenson let out a whoop of fear as he was upended and carried aloft to dangle the way Slocum had.
“Turned the tables on you,” Slocum said with some satisfaction, stepping around so Berenson could see him. “How’s it feel being the one who got snared?”
“You can’t do this to me. Let me go! I can’t be caught!”
“Can’t? Was caught,” Slocum said, sitting on a rock and enjoying the fruits of his labor. Berenson thrashed around, but it was no use. Slocum had experience laying such traps. And he knew firsthand how Berenson had laid his. He waited until Berenson had exhausted himself, but he saw how the scrawny man had gained extraordinary strength from the way he had swung around the face of the cliff going from cave to cave.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I could gut you,” Slocum said to watch the reaction. No reaction. “Or I could take you back to Texas.”
This produced outright fear on the man’s face. He began squirming and kicking as he tried to free himself. All that Berenson did, however, was tighten the loop around his ankleand weaken himself even more. Slocum still was not ready to cut him down. There was more fight left in him.
“You can’t do that. They’ll kill me for sure. Worse!”
“Lock you up? That might be best for you, having a doctor tending you.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m not!”
Slocum wondered if anyone who was crazy would admit it. He had seen some raving lunatics in his day and some men who were probably crazy and never showed any emotion at all. Kill a bug, kill a man, to some men there was no difference. Wasn’t that as crazy as running around setting snares out in the middle of the Gila Wilderness?
“She only wants what’s best for you. The others are the ones who want to kill you.”
“She? She? Who’s she?”
“Edna. Your wife. You are married to her, aren’t you?” As Slocum asked the question of Berenson, a thought came to him that had been buried far at the bottom of his brain. Berenson was an old man and Edna was probably young enough to be his daughter.
“Course I am. She’s a shrew, a harridan. She wants me dead. They all do.”
“Reckon there’s a posse of them after your scalp,” Slocum said, “but she’s the only one who paid to have you brought in alive. If she wanted you dead, she could have told me to shoot you when I caught you.”
“You said you were going to gut me.” Berenson turned surly now.
“I said I could, but I’m not going to.” Slocum got to his feet and circled Berenson, judging the old man’s remaining strength. Hanging upside down drained a man of energy as much as the struggling to get free. Even if he had been strong enough to fold himself double and grab his ankle, Berenson wasn’t strong enough to pull farther to get himself right side up.
“Let me go. I don’t have anything against you.”
“But you kidnapped Arlene Castle,” Slocum said. “You’d still have her up in one of your caves if I hadn’t rescued her.”
“The girl? She was nice to me. She said nice things.”
“And you held her against her will.”
“No, no!”
Slocum cut the rope holding Berenson. The man tumbled to the ground, barely turning at the last instant to keep from smashing his head into a rock. Before he could scramble away, Slocum had him hog-tied and helpless.
“You can be glad neither Mayerling nor Deutsch caught you.” Slocum watched Berenson’s reaction. There was a flicker but whether it was simply recognition or outright fear, Slocum could not tell because it vanished so quickly. “Tell me about them. How’d they get on your trail?”
Berenson huddled silently on the ground, pulling himself up into a ball. The ropes prevented him from getting his knees up to his chest but he tried. Slocum shrugged it off. What Mayerling and Deutsch meant to his prisoner didn’t much matter now. He quickly searched Berenson for a knife or other weapon. He tossed away a short, sharp knife that would be perfect for whittling.
“I bet you use that for cutting the ropes you put into your snares. That and notching saplings.”
Slocum realized he wasn’t going to have any more conversation with Berenson. He could talk but would get less response than he did when he talked to his horse out on the trail. Slocum added a couple more short lengths of rope so that Berenson could hobble along. The old man wasn’t inclined to cooperate.
“I can let you walk like that or I can drag you. If I drag you, it’ll be all the way back to Silver City. Which do you want?”
“Gonna die. Gonna die. They all want me dead.”
“Nobody’s going to kill you,” Slocum said. “Mayerling got winged, and I have no idea where he got off to.�
�� Slocum watched closely to see if the name meant anything to Berenson. He could not tell.
“I’ll walk,” Berenson told him. The man lifted his face to the silvery moon again, as if this somehow filled him with energy enough to continue. Or maybe it gave him courage. Whatever Berenson thought didn’t amount to a hill of beans as far as Slocum was concerned, because Berenson began shuffling along in the direction indicated.
Slocum knew he should have brought a second horse, but he had been too intent on capturing Berenson to plan what he would do after he had him prisoner.
“You ride, I’ll walk a spell,” Slocum said. Berenson didn’t thank him, and Slocum took off the hobbling cords, got the man into the saddle, and then refastened the rope, looping it under the horse’s belly. He didn’t want Berenson jumping off and trying to run at every turn. This was more dangerous, both for Berenson and for the horse, but Slocum thought the hermit would be docile enough. With his hands tied and his feet secure, what choice did he have?
Slocum kept the reins firmly in hand to prevent Berenson from kicking and trying to get the horse to run away with him.
“Try it and you’ll be the one walking,” Slocum said. Berenson’s eyes showed the first intelligence Slocum had seen. The man knew exactly what Slocum meant—and that Slocum had anticipated his next move.
They reached the Gila River crossing Slocum had used before. He knew the danger of leaving Berenson tied to the horse, but he saw no way around it. The horse swam the deepest part more easily with Berenson on its back because he was so much lighter than his usual rider. Slocum swam beside, fighting the current and keeping the horse moving until they reached the midpoint, then allowing the horse to angle downstream for the far shore. They reached safety and Slocum knew it was only a matter of time now getting Berenson back to Silver City. Two days, possibly three depending on how well the old man stood up to travel and how much trouble he caused.
“We’ll dry out and then push on,” Slocum said. He stared at the moon and wished it were the sun. The hot New Mexico sun would dry their clothes in a few minutes.
“Cold,” Berenson said, shivering.
“I’ll make a fire,” Slocum said. He gathered kindling as they went higher onto the rising land away from the river. When they found a grassy meadow, Slocum knew they had to stop for the night. He didn’t want his horse getting all tuckered out, and he was bone tired from the strain of waiting and watching for Rolf Berenson.
He got Berenson from horseback and tied his feet to a heavy log before going out to scrounge more firewood. Although he was gone only a few minutes, Berenson had almost gnawed his way through the rope like some wild animal.
“None of that,” Slocum said, replacing the frayed rope with a new length. He built the fire and let it dry his clothing. He then hefted the log he had tied Berenson to and dropped it closer so the hermit could get dry, too.
“Should have left me alone. Not hurting anyone.”
“Reckon that’s true, but how many had you already hurt? How about your brother?”
Berenson looked at him curiously but said nothing more.
“You’ve got bounty hunters and gunmen on your trail. You should be happy your wife hired me to bring you in alive. None of the others has a hankering for you any way but dead.”
“I can run. Did it before. I can go somewhere else. Let me go. Please.”
The pleading in the man’s voice brought Slocum up to stare hard at him. Berenson sounded downright sane. Then he threw back his head and howled like coyote. Slocum slumped back and warmed his hands at the fire. A quick check of Berenson’s bonds convinced Slocum he could take a quick nap. But when he woke it was to dawn poking up over the horizon. For an instant he panicked and grabbed for his six-shooter, then saw that Berenson was still quietly sleeping alongside the log.
Slocum got to his feet. Dealing with Rolf Berenson was making him crazy. Soon enough the man would be in the care of his wife, and Slocum would be able to drift on. But again the image of Arlene Castle came up from the depths of his mind to haunt him. She was a pretty filly, and the notion of settling down had its appeal. But Slocum decided not with her. Twice she had let Deutsch convince her to go with him. That showed a certain lack of common sense that might run far deeper.
Slocum was better off on the trail to somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“Rise and shine. Here, chew on this,” Slocum said, handing Berenson a strip of jerky. “It’s not much, but it’s more than you’ve likely had in the past couple days.”
Berenson hungrily attacked the tough meat while Slocum took a drink from his canteen before passing it over. Berenson spilled a great deal of the water down his chin and turned his shirt wet, but Slocum expected him to be more animal than human after living alone so long.
“Up into the saddle,” Slocum said. He boosted Berenson up and then started to fasten the rope beneath the horse’s belly when he heard a whistling sound. Slocum half turned as the horse reared, throwing Berenson to the ground in a heap. Slocum wasn’t sure, but it sounded as if the man’s bones rattled when he crashed down. He glanced at Berenson, then turned to go after his spooked horse. Whatever had caused the animal to bolt kept it running at a dead gallop.
Then Slocum stopped reacting and started thinking. Something had spooked the horse, and it had something to do with the whistling sound. He spun, hand flashing to his six-gun. Drawing and firing when he saw movement at the edge of the nearby stand of trees caused bushes to rustle about.
Slocum took the time to securely tie Berenson’s feet, then started after the unseen ambusher in the woods. He went wide, going down toward the river. A quick glimpse of a man gave Slocum the chance for a second shot. He knew the instant he pulled the trigger that it was a clean miss. He jumped onto rocks above the river to get elevation on the skulking man and this proved his undoing.
As if the sniper had waited for this instant, a bullet came Slocum’s way. He couldn’t see the bullet but did see the rifle barrel poking from the undergrowth. He jerked instinctively,felt his foot slip on the slimy rock, and then plunged into the raging river. Slocum went under, came to the surface amid a steady hail of bullets all around him, then struck his head on a rock and tumbled away limply on the powerful current.
14
Slocum was sure he had died, but something wasn’t right. He couldn’t be in heaven and that couldn’t be an angel struggling to pull him up onto a heavenly cloud.
“Come on, damn you, help. I can’t hang on to you forever.”
“Forever.” Slocum got out. Water flooded into his mouth and he choked. The back of his head felt as if he had been on a three-day binge, but it was so wet. He was drenched. He got more water in his mouth and spat it out. Slowly, as he felt hands tugging on his arm, all the broken pieces came back together into a picture. It was a blurry picture but better than the watery one under him.
He started his feet moving. He slipped and slid on rocks turned slimy. As he fell, strong hands supported him. For an instant. He fell heavily and crushed his chest into slick rocks. This got him moving faster. He found some footing and then heaved hard, flopping out of the river like a fish looking to beach itself.
“That’s better,” Edna Berenson said. “It was a miracle I happened along when I did and saw you.”
Slocum wiped water from his eyes. He was slow to focus on her, but he finally did. The last he had seen her, she had worn a bustle and fancy duds. Now she was dressed for the trail.
“What are you doing out here? I was bringing him to you.”
“Oh? You caught Rolf? Where is he?”
“Not here,” Slocum said. His head was still all jumbled, but he remembered tying Rolf Berenson securely before setting out after the sniper.
“He used a slingshot,” Slocum said suddenly.
“What are you going on about, John? Are you saying Rolf had a slingshot?”
“Not him. Whoever was in the brush. He hit my horse’s rump, it reared and threw Rolf, then ran off.”
> “You actually had him? Really?”
“What are you doing here?” Slocum asked again. “You checking up on me?”
“Something like that,” she admitted. Edna pursed her lips, thinking hard. “You might have needed help. I thought to follow you and see if you couldn’t use me as a lure the way Deutsch did that Arlene Castle person.”
“Not a bad idea,” Slocum said, knowing it was a terrible one. The way Rolf spoke when he mentioned his wife meant he would have hightailed it in the other direction as fast as his feet could take him. That might have been useful for one kind of trap, but it hadn’t been needed. Slocum had used a snare and a powerful lot of patience to catch Rolf Berenson.
Now the man was gone, snatched away from under his nose.
“You lost him,” Edna said suddenly. “You had him but let him get away.”
“Can’t say I let him do anything,” Slocum said, anger rising. He began squeezing the water from his shirt. He had somehow managed to hang on to his Colt Navy. He took off his shirt and used it to dry the mechanism. Slocum looked up at the woman. She was staring at him with an unreadable expression. “You have any ammo?”
“I, uh, yes,” she said. “In my saddlebags.”
“Get it. I’m not going after whoever took your husband without a six-gun in my hand.”
Slocum watched Edna go to where she had pitched camp. From the look of the embers in the fire pit, she had been there all night. The thought occurred to him that she was the one who had dry-gulched him, but she was downstream and had obviously spent the night there. She returned, handing him what he needed to reload his Colt. She also gave him a handkerchief with her initials sewn onto it.
“You can use that to clean your gun,” she said.
“I don’t want to ruin it.”
“If it gets Rolf back, I’d give up a thousand of them!”
Her sincerity was obvious, dispelling Slocum’s doubts. He finished cleaning and reloading his six-gun, then settled it in the wet leather holster. He had to wax it some before he could be sure of a decent quick draw, but he didn’t intend to make it a fair fight when he found who had ambushed him.
