by Jake Logan
“Either Deutsch or Mayerling has him,” Slocum said. “They’re the only other players in this game.” He tried to decide who it might be that had grabbed Berenson. It was a toss-up. He needed to return to the spot where he had camped to get on their trail.
“I was after Mayerling, but I lost him,” Edna said with some bitterness.
“So, you’re certain he is out here?”
“He is.”
“How can you be so sure?” A suspicion started to form, but Edna verified it before he had more than an inkling.
“When you told me he was in Silver City, I hunted him down. I . . . I saw him through the window of a terrible saloon.”
“You shot at him?”
“I wish I were a better shot. I missed him. I fired, there was a flurry of activity inside, and men crowded around so I couldn’t get another clear shot.”
“What did you do then?”
“I panicked,” Edna said, licking her lips nervously. “I’d never shot a man before.”
“In the back,” Slocum said. “You hit him.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I was in the saloon. I was getting ready to shoot it out with him when you fired. They thought I had done it, and it took a fair amount of convincing to keep the barkeep from blowing me in half with a shotgun. By the time I had it all straight, Mayerling was long gone. I tried tracking him, but the night was too dark and I lost the blood trail within a few yards.”
“I never saw you, John. I swear.”
Slocum nodded. He stood, pressing out water from his jeans. His boots made sucking sounds as he walked, but they would dry around his feet soon enough.
“If I had killed him then, I’d never have had to decide to go after him.”
“How’d you know where to go?”
“I asked the owner of the general store. Mayerling had bought supplies earlier and had told him he intended to make his arrest finally.” Edna snorted. “Arrest! That’s what he called it. He was coming out here to be certain that Rolf was killed.”
Slocum wasn’t sure about that. If Mayerling had wanted Rolf Berenson dead, he could have taken one decent shot and knocked the man off Slocum’s horse. Instead, he had gone to the trouble of making the horse buck so it would unseat Rolf, then had shot it out with Slocum. If all Mayerling wanted was Berenson dead, he could have just filled the area with enough lead to guarantee the death.
“If Mayerling’s got him, then, you think he’s dead?” Slocum asked.
“Maybe not,” Edna said reluctantly.
“Is it more likely that Deutsch has him?”
“No! I mean, that’s not likely. They both want him dead, but there might be more of a reward on Rolf’s head alive than dead.”
Slocum wasn’t sure any of this made sense. One thing that he was reasonably sure of, though, was that whoever had ambushed him had wanted to take Rolf Berenson alive. There was no other explanation for the fight.
“Upriver,” Slocum said. He caught sight of the cliff dwellings and estimated he had washed downriver a mile or more. The roar of the water would drown out any gunshots, so Edna would not have known a fight was going on so close to her.
“You want to ride behind me, John?” she looked at him with her brilliant eyes. He shook his head.
“You ride a ways off. I’ll flank you to be sure nobody tries to gun you down.”
“I should ride near the river?”
“That’s right,” he said. That made her safe from the water side, and he could cover her from farther up on the shore. Anyone wanting to take a shot at her had to deal with John Slocum first.
“Let’s hurry,” she said. “If you are right, Rolf can’t be too far away. How long do you think you were in the water?”
“Not more than five minutes. Maybe ten. I was batted around a lot, but the current is strong.”
They set off. At first Edna wanted to yammer away nervously, but Slocum eventually quieted her by the simple expedient of not answering. He wanted to concentrate on watching the wooded areas they passed through and trying to hear any sound that might betray Rolf Berenson’s new captor.
As they neared the spot where Slocum and Berenson had camped, he slowed Edna’s determined progress. Motioning her to dismount and stay far back, Slocum made his way forward. He didn’t expect to find anyone lingering at his old campsite, and he didn’t. Whoever had taken Rolf would have no reason to remain there. They would head directly for Silver City or even strike out through the heart of the wilderness toward the Rio Grande. From there they could go south all the way into Texas.
That was if it was Mayerling who had gotten Rolf. Where Deutsch might take Rolf was something he had no idea about. If he believed Edna Berenson, Deutsch would shoot the old man where he stood. The only way of settling everything was to track down the man who had taken Rolf and have it out with him, whether it was Mayerling or Deutsch.
He prowled around the campsite and then made his way toward the trees where the sniper had been. Slocum smiled mirthlessly when he saw a slingshot made out of a hunk of oak tree and an old suspender. He glanced over his shoulder. To chuck a rock this distance was quite a feat. Then he spotted broken twigs from where the man had lain in wait. Slocum tracked through the undergrowth, finding the way his unknown attacker had shifted to keep Slocum with his back to the river. It took a few more minutes to complete the picture.
Slocum envisioned himself falling into the river. His attacker headed back toward where Rolf Berenson had been, but the old man had managed to get his feet free of their ropes. A quick run was all it took for the man to catch up with Berenson. Slocum found a patch of grass that had been crushed flat by Rolf being thrown to the ground. It had to be Berenson on the ground from the size of the footprints leading to the point where he had been tackled.
“John!”
“Over here,” he called to Edna, waving. He doubted there was any call for her to remain silent. Her husband and whoever had taken him were long gone.
She rode up, looking worried.
“Where is he?”
“That direction,” Slocum said, pointing back up the trail leading to Silver City. “They have a head start on us, but it’s only about an hour from the look of the grass. It’s been bent over but is springing back.” He tried to put it all together in his head—the time he had thrashed about in the river, Edna pulling him out, their return. It might be closer to two hours, but he doubted it. “From the look of it, there’s only one horse. That’ll slow them even more.”
“Is he making Rolf walk?”
“Don’t see any sign of it. Both men on one horse. That’ll tire the horse faster, even if Rolf is emaciated.”
“He hasn’t been eating too good, has he?”
“Didn’t look like it.”
“You think it’s Mayerling who caught him?”
“Does it matter?” Slocum asked.
He saw by the set of Edna’s shoulders and the way her jaw muscles clenched and relaxed, only to clench even tighter again, that it did matter to her. A lot.
“He didn’t kill Rolf outright. That’s a good sign,” he said, wanting to get a response from her. He got it.
“He’s swine. He’s a low-down son of a bitch. I have to get Rolf out of his clutches. I have to!”
Slocum wondered why Mayerling having captured Rolf alive was such a burr under her saddle. It mattered more to her that she have her husband back than that he was alive, albeit in Mayerling’s custody.
“If Mayerling takes him back for a reward, you can get your husband out of jail then.”
“They’ll hang him. I have to get him to the sanatorium. I have to.”
Slocum puzzled over that. What difference did it make whether she got a doctor’s order to take Rolf out of the county lockup or whether he was delivered to the sanatorium directly? Unless there was a lynch mob, Rolf might languish in the county jail for some time now that Mayerling had shown himself unwilling to kill Berenson outright.
Edna
looked down at him. “You’ll rescue him, won’t you, John? For me. You’ll rescue Rolf for me.”
“I’ve been paid,” Slocum said. He wondered what she was offering. Slocum wasn’t sure he would take it, even if all Edna Berenson wanted to give him was a few more dollars.
“You’re such a dear,” she said. “When can we get on the trail?”
“We’re on it,” he said, “but first I need to find my horse. If Mayerling didn’t find it for Rolf’s use, then it’s still around somewhere.” Slocum put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. He heard a distant whinny, turned in that direction, and whistled again. The pounding of hooves told him he wouldn’t be on foot much longer.
“There, John, there’s a horse.”
“Mine,” Slocum said. He caught the reins as the horses nervously stopped a few yards away and began pawing the ground. Slocum spent another minute soothing the agitated animal, then moved around behind to check the horse’s rump. He saw the small spot where the stone had hit. A quick probing of the injury showed it was tender but otherwise not serious. Slocum swung into the saddle.
“It’s about time,” Edna said with ill grace. “We have to catch them.”
“If it is Mayerling, he’s mine,” Slocum said. “I don’t want you accidentally shooting me in the back trying to get him.”
“I’ll stay out of it,” she said. “Unless it means I won’t be able to save Rolf.”
“Think twice before you do anything,” Slocum said, but he knew Edna Berenson had done more than think twice about everything she had done. She had carefully plotted every move she made. Only Mayerling and his posse had gummed up the works. And maybe Deutsch. She was willing to speak freely, angrily, about Mayerling but was as closemouthed about Deutsch as she was about Rolf.
Slocum forced himself away from such musing to concentrate on the tracks. He didn’t want to ride into an ambush, since both men were so expert at laying and executing them. Rolf wouldn’t help Mayerling, but he didn’t have to.
“You said we were only an hour behind,” Edna complained when they had been on the trail for more than an hour. “Where are they?”
“Still riding,” Slocum said. “They had an hour’s start on us. I didn’t mean it would take an hour to catch up with them.”
“When? When will we settle the score with Mayerling?”
Again, her hatred for Mayerling rose to the surface. She was more anxious about killing the deputy than she was about rescuing her husband. Or was Slocum misreading it? She might consider one necessary for the other to happen. Slocum decided it was no longer worth the mental effort of sorting through Edna’s motives.
“There,” he said, pointing. “On the trail on the far side of the meadow.” The trail ran straight across a grassy stretch. A horse with two riders disappeared into a wooded area. Slocum fought to keep from galloping wildly after them but knew how dangerous that would be. If the rider heard the hoofbeats, all he had to do was turn, draw a rifle, and take all the time needed to shoot Slocum out of the saddle.
“Let’s go!”
“Wait,” Slocum said, holding Edna back. “Let them get a ways farther along the trail. They won’t be able to hear us if they are surrounded by trees.”
“I don’t care if we sneak up on them. I want Mayerling dead!”
“We’ll take it slow,” Slocum said, a steel edge to his voice that brought her around. Fire flashed in her eyes, and then she subsided.
“Whatever you say, John. As long as you’re not letting Mayerling get away with Rolf.”
“We walk,” Slocum said. “And keep alert.” He fixed his eyes on the spot at the edge of the trees where the trail vanished, looking for any hint that they were riding into an ambush. They reached the spot and then were swallowed by the trees, the cool canopy shielding them from the sun. Slocum noticed how deadened the clop-clop of their hoofbeats were now. He motioned to Edna to pick up the pace. They mounted and rode faster now.
Everything went better than Slocum could have hoped for. They rounded a bend in the trail where it started up into a steep, mountainous stretch. Mayerling had dismounted, leaving Berenson in the saddle.
Slocum drew his six-shooter and cocked it. The metallic sound echoed along the rocky stretch and brought Mayerling around.
Slocum couldn’t hear what the deputy said, but he didn’t have to. Mayerling was reaching for his six-gun. Slocum fired.
Mayerling sagged, knees hitting the ground, but he held on to his pistol.
“I want to kill you real bad, Mayerling,” Slocum shouted. “Give me an excuse.”
“I remember you from when we rode with Quantrill,” Mayerling grated out. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
Slocum rode closer. Edna Berenson was yammering for him to shoot. When she darted in front of him, blocking Mayerling, Slocum cursed and shouted at her.
She raced clear, but when Slocum got his gun levelled again, Mayerling was gone. Worse, Berenson had ridden off. The scrawny man clung to the runaway horse as it struggled uphill. The way Berenson was being flung around, Slocum worried he would be thrown off. A steep, rocky drop-off to the right meant death for Rolf Berenson if he couldn’t stay in the saddle.
Slocum made a snap decision. He put his heels into the flanks of his horse and shot off like a Fourth of July sky-rocket. Pebbles flew under its hooves as his horse strained to take the grade. Slocum drew close and saw the fear in Rolf’s eyes.
“No, don’t, let me go!” the old man shrieked.
Slocum ignored him, bent low to keep from being hit in the head as Berenson swung his bound hands like a club. Sure that Berenson was going out of the saddle, Slocum got his arm around the man’s middle and yanked hard. He couldn’t hold on but didn’t have to. Rolf Berenson crashed to the ground, shaken but unhurt. The horse ran on, but Slocum knew it would tire itself quickly on this climb. He brought his horse to a halt and quickly reversed direction.
“Back,” Slocum ordered. He pointed downhill. Berenson grumbled but obeyed, hobbling on a bruised right leg. Slocum kept up long enough to determine that Berenson was not faking his injury. With a gimpy leg, he could not run too far. Slocum galloped past to get back to where Mayerling had made his bid for freedom.
“There, John. That snake slithered up there,” Edna Berenson cried, pointing to rocks above the road. “Don’t let him get away this time.”
“Your husband’s coming back down the road,” Slocum said coldly. “Go see that he’s all right.”
He did not wait for Edna’s answer. He dismounted and got on Mayerling’s trail right away. As before, back at the Silver City saloon, Mayerling left a bloody trail. This time he had neither dirt to soak up the drops nor a moonless night to cover his trail. Slocum found the deputy sheriff with no trouble.
“I gave you the chance before,” Slocum called. “Toss out your six-gun, and I’ll let you live.”
“Go to hell, Slocum! You and that bitch!”
Mayerling fired at him, forcing Slocum to duck for cover. He tried to remember how many shots Mayerling had fired, then decided it hardly mattered. Mayerling might have reloaded once he found his rocky fortress, preparing to make his final stand.
Slocum wasted no more time shouting out conditions to Mayerling. They had both decided what the outcome would be. One of them would be dead after the last bullet flew.
Slocum took off his battered hat and placed it on top of the rock where he hid, so only the crown poked up. Not too much, not enough to draw Mayerling’s fire. He simply wanted a bit of misdirection as he slipped to his right, worked his way up through rocks, and came at the former Raider from the side. It would have been better to attack from above Mayerling’s hiding place, but Slocum didn’t want to take the time. Mayerling was no fool. He would realize that Slocum wasn’t wearing the hat soon enough.
Wiggling forward on his belly, Slocum caught sight of Mayerling. The man clutched his side. He could tell from the bloody shirt that the man had taken a serious but not fatal
round. Slocum aimed carefully and fired. He had aimed for Mayerling’s body and hit his shoulder. Slocum saw the deputy’s six-gun drop from nerveless fingers and knew it was not a ruse.
“I missed, Mayerling,” Slocum shouted. “I wanted to kill you. But come on out or the next round will put you out of your misery.”
“Go to hell,” Mayerling shouted.
“That all you can say?”
Slocum moved again. This time he popped up, six-shooter pointed at the seriously wounded man.
“Hands up. As much as you can.”
Mayerling turned. Slocum saw the tiny smile on the man’s lips and fired without thinking. The bullet caught Mayerling in the middle of the face. When he fell, there was no denying that he was finally dead.
A derringer slipped from his nerveless left hand. He had expected Slocum to get close enough so that he could get in a belly shot. Slocum aimed his six-shooter at the dead man and fired again. His hammer fell on a punk round. He could have cocked the gun and fired again, but his anger was already slipping away like water in a clenched fist. Mayerling had paid as much as any man could for the years he had murdered at William Quantrill’s orders and for every evil deed committed since.
Slocum jammed his six-gun into his holster and made his way back down the hill. It was going to be quite a chore catching up with Mayerling’s frightened horse and then getting it back downhill for Rolf Berenson to ride. Somehow, Slocum didn’t think Edna wanted her husband mounted on the fine Arabian horse she rode.
15
Slocum had the feeling that he was keeping the cat from the canary as he rode back into Silver City with Edna and Rolf. The hermit kept looking over his shoulder with some fear in his wild, dark eyes. For her part, Edna Berenson tried to appear nonchalant, but the times Slocum caught her looking at her husband, it was definitely as if she intended to devour him and not leave even feathers behind.
“There it is,” Slocum said with some relief.
