Slocum's Great Race

by Jake Logan

  “The cairn,” he said with some satisfaction, finding it less than a mile north of the crossroads. Examining it, he found a duplicate metal cylinder, but the note inside simply read:

  Benedict.

  He was on the right road. He was sure of it. As he trotted along, the lure of $50,000 kept rising to torment him. It was just a little farther down the road. To the west. To the north. A couple more hours of riding. Beyond his reach.

  Slocum looked all around, and decided he alone had found the messages and knew where to seek out the next set of instructions. If he got to Benedict first, he could scoop up all the letters and burn them. Or he might sit back, sell them to the racers as they trickled through, and chuck the entire race and still make a few dollars from it. There was plenty of time for him to decide since a signpost told him Benedict was close to fifteen more miles down the road. If he kept a steady pace, he could reach the town by sundown.

  “John! John! Danger!”

  He jerked around in the saddle, his keen eyes hunting for the source of the outcry. It took him a couple seconds to realize the warning didn’t come from behind on the road but to the southeast. Sunlight glinted off a silver bracelet as the distant rider waved frantically.

  He had seen that bracelet before. Around Zoe Murchison’s wrist. She had followed him and now intended on tagging along.

  He started to gallop off as if he hadn’t heard her, but again she shouted, “Indians! Ahead of us!”

  Slocum considered that she might lie to slow him, but a quaver in her voice warned him she wasn’t acting. He turned his horse’s face and rode toward her. They met five minutes later at the foot of a small hill.

  “Never expected to see you again,” he said.

  “You rode off and left me,” she said angrily. Then the anger faded, replaced by real fear. “I saw them. Sioux. They had on war paint and were riding in this direction. If we keep going, they’ll find us for sure.”

  “Describe them,” Slocum said, thinking she had made it up. After she finished a complete and surprisingly accurate description of a Sioux war party, he said, “Did you read that or did you see them? That’s a powerful lot of detail to take in when a brave’s waggling a coup stick about.”

  “I am trained to remember details. I don’t know how many there were, but at least two dozen.”

  Slocum said nothing. That, too, was about right for a war party. The way they had painted their faces and their horses told him it wasn’t a hunting party. Some chief had a bug up his ass and had gone on the warpath.

  “There’s a fort to the south,” he said. “Ride there and let the commander know what you saw.”

  “You’re going on, aren’t you? To Benedict. Is that where the next clue is?”

  “You want to get that pretty blond head of yours scalped? If you don’t, ride south right now.”

  “I’m staying with you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re my story. Indians go off the reservation all the time. People are bored with stories about atrocities, scalpings, and torture by the red heathens. The colonel’s race is a front-page article.”

  “You’ve been out in the sun too long,” Slocum said. “Or eating locoweed. No story’s worth getting an arrow in your back.”

  “I don’t intend to die out here, Mr. Slocum. I intend to file the story before anything like that happens.”

  “You called me John before.”

  This took Zoe aback. Her mouth opened and then snapped shut. Slocum had finally found something to turn off the flood of words that gushed from her like some artesian dictionary.

  “We’re safe enough here, but we’d be safer if we got to Benedict,” he said. “The Indians won’t attack an entire town with only twenty or so braves.”

  “I might have seen only a small fraction of them.” Zoe looked over her shoulder, back in the direction of Jubilee Junction. “There’s something else.”

  “Who’s on your trail?”

  “I rode out ahead of Calhoun and his gang. They have it in for you, and I wanted to warn you. Then I saw the Sioux.”

  Slocum felt as if he were caught in a vise with the Sioux on one side and Calhoun on the other. He wasn’t sure which was worse. He touched the keys in his vest pocket and knew he had some leverage with Calhoun. The murdering swine would want the golden keys. The Indians wouldn’t. That hardly mattered because Calhoun would kill him after he got the keys.

  “Why’s he after me?”

  “He tried to kill a man with a splinted leg who said you knew where the next clue was.” Zoe scowled, deep in thought. “I think he killed Mr. Morrisey, but I didn’t examine the body to find out. A reporter is always precise. It wouldn’t do writing that Sid Calhoun killed a man when he didn’t.”

  “If Morrisey’s not dead by Calhoun’s hand, he might be the first to escape that fate,” Slocum said. “I don’t know him, but I suspect Calhoun has left a long trail of dead bodies behind him.”

  “What of you, John?” The question was so softly asked Slocum barely heard it over the thunder.

  “I’m going to need to do some killing if I’m right.”

  “About what?”

  Slocum silently pointed to several jackrabbits hightail ing it from the north. The only thing that could spook so many was the war party. A single coyote or wolf would chase only one rabbit, leaving the rest to hide or go on their way. These were being driven.

  He motioned to her to follow as he headed back toward the road. A rider there was exposed, but also had a better view of the terrain all around. Slocum needed to scout if he wanted to get to Benedict alive. Not for the first time since he had left Jubilee Junction, he considered chucking the hunt for the $50,000 and spending what money he had in his pocket in a nice, safe saloon. Denver was renowned for strong booze and willing women.

  “We’re in a world of trouble,” he said softly.

  Zoe didn’t have to be told. She saw the Sioux scout stop, turn, and point directly at them. The brave shouted something that produced a thunder of hooves. It took several seconds for the rest of the war party to show themselves.

  “They were riding in the ravines to keep from being seen,” Slocum said.

  “That’s not good, is it? They’re afraid of the cavalry.”

  “They’re afraid somebody might spot them and report them to the cavalry,” Slocum said. “That means there’s a company out scouring the countryside. Otherwise, they’d be on our necks in a flash.”

  “What do you call that?” Zoe’s voice rose to the point where it cracked with fear.

  Slocum saw a dozen Sioux warriors galloping toward them, their horses’ hooves kicking up a curtain of mud from the road. The slop slowed the Indians’ assault, but not enough.

  “Let’s see how determined they are,” Slocum said, drawing his six-shooter and taking careful aim. He judged distances and windage and a dozen other factors before squeezing the trigger. Although a crack shot, he would have used up the luck of a lifetime to have actually hit one brave. As it was, his round zipped past the ear of a horse and caused it to veer sharply, throwing the rider into another rider so they went down in a noisy pile of hooves and flailing Indians.

  He didn’t bother telling Zoe to stick close as he veered away and rode for a ravine that had cut a deep gash through the road. Pulling up, he wheeled about to make a stand.

  “Keep riding,” he said. “I’ll give you time to get away.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “You don’t want to stay and take notes for a story,” Slocum said. Then he began methodically shooting. The Indians were forced to attack two abreast and had nowhere to run. Slocum aimed at their ponies and killed the lead rider’s horse, causing another jumble.

  “What are you going to do when you run out of bullets?” Zoe asked.

  “Die.”

  Slocum’s hammer landed with a dull click on an empty chamber.

  12

  “Son of a bitch,” Sid Calhoun said, glaring at the instructions
Slocum had altered. “We kill our butts finding the tree and then this. A cairn? What the hell’s that?”

  “A pile of rocks,” Skunk Swain said.

  “How’d you know a thing like that?” Curly asked.

  Swain glared at Curly, then said, “I got me some book learning. More ’n I can say for you, you ignorant—”

  “Shaddup,” Calhoun said without rancor. “We got to find this pile of rocks. Any of you see anything like that?”

  “Might be farther along this road,” suggested another of his gang. “Toward the cavalry post.”

  This caused a silence to descend that Calhoun appreciated. None of them could show his face at any army camp or fort. The entire state was plastered with wanted posters accusing them of crimes they hadn’t committed, and even a few they had. Sorting out the fiction from the fact wasn’t something he wanted to leave to chance. More likely, the camp commander would simply string them all up.

  “Whoever put this here was sneaky,” Calhoun said. “He wants us to bounce around. Somebody got here before us and ripped off half the sheet.” He held up the message and let an eye-dazzling bolt of lightning on the far horizon illuminate the ragged edge. The rest had been cut cleanly. Only the bottom showed the way somebody had tried to dupe them.

  “What’s that mean?” Curly asked.

  “We came south, so let’s go north. Don’t think we’d be sent due west yet. The colonel’d want to have some fun pokin’ and proddin’ the racers.” He pressed his palm against his vest to be sure his gold keys were still where he had stashed them. He didn’t trust Swain and Curly, but others might be holding out on him, too. This wasn’t the time to shoot his henchmen and steal their keys. The road ahead was still dangerous and he needed a gang to take the bullets for him.

  Then he could take their keys—and the $50,000.

  “The signpost said a town called Benedict was to the north. Anybody know about it?” Calhoun looked around and saw nothing but blank expressions. “Then it’s time we found out.”

  “What if the next message is down the road, at that Camp Larrup?” Skunk Swain spoke in an even voice that worried Calhoun. This was the man who would try to shoot him in the back and take over the gang, given the chance. It was going to be a chore sleeping with one eye open and not letting Swain ride behind him on the trail.

  “Why don’t you ride on a ways and see?” Calhoun suggested. “Me and the boys’ll ride toward Benedict. Let us know if you run into any soldiers.”

  Calhoun saw Swain tense at the ridicule, then relax.

  “Whatever you say, Boss.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Calhoun. He wondered if this was the right time to call Swain out and settle accounts once and for all. A clap of thunder rolled in from back in the direction of Jubilee Junction, warning him they were in for another gully washer.

  “Yeah, whatever I say,” Calhoun said. He rode past Swain, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he imagined the gunman going for his six-shooter and putting a round in the back of his head. The telltale hiss of metal scraping leather didn’t come. Neither did the distinctive metallic click of a Colt cocking. Calhoun had survived a challenge to his leadership once more.

  He kept a steady trot to the crossroad, then pressed on northward. He was so busy worrying about Swain getting off a shot at his back and the approaching storm that Curly had to shout at him to get his attention.

  “Sid, lookee there. Ain’t that the purtiest sight you ever did see?”

  Calhoun looked back at the stone cairn on the west side of the road. A slow smile crept to his lips.

  “Looks like I was right.” He fixed his gaze on Swain, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Why don’t you go on over and see what the message says, Skunk, since you got all that book learnin’?”

  Skunk Swain tensed and his hand twitched, but he didn’t go for his iron. The shoot-out would come sooner rather than later, but Swain backed down again. Calhoun started thinking of ways of getting Curly or one of the others to cut Swain down and save him the effort.

  “Here it is,” Swain said, holding up another of the metal canisters.

  “Well, don’t keep us in the dark. What’s in it?”

  “How do we know this ain’t been tampered with, too?” Swain worked off the cap and pulled out the paper. He stared at Calhoun and said, “Benedict. That’s what it says.”

  “Then we keep riding,” Calhoun said. “Get rid of the note. There’s no reason to let anybody else know where the trail is.”

  “The golden trail,” Curly said.

  “Hush up,” Calhoun ordered. “You hear that?”

  “More thunder? You afraid of gettin’ wet?” Swain made no effort to hide his antagonism.

  “Gunshots,” Curly said. “Comin’ from up ahead. What are we gonna do, Sid?”

  Common sense told Calhoun to have nothing to do with the fight. The shots came sporadically. If he was any judge, a pistol would fire and then be answered by several different rifles. A one-sided fight like that would be over quick.

  “We’ll take a look,” Calhoun said.

  “Why?” Skunk Swain thrust out his chin and looked ready for a fight.

  “Who’s likely to be up ahead but somebody who’s already read this message, maybe tore up the one in the tree stump?” Calhoun didn’t add that anyone preceding them along this road today was likely to have more of the keys riding in their pockets. Calhoun was willing to let others kill themselves, and then he could take on the winner since they were likely to be bloodied and out of ammo.

  “I dunno, Boss,” Curly said. “Might be dangerous.”

  Calhoun snorted in contempt and rode past his henchman. Again, he got the cold feeling of Swain watching him and evaluating when the time would be right to shoot his boss in the back. Once more, he survived. Swain was probably thinking that whoever was shooting it out ahead would do his work for him.

  Rather than rush ahead blindly, Calhoun got off the road and followed the contours of the land, using the deep gullies to hide in as the sounds of gunfire came ever closer. When he reached the Y in an especially deep ravine, he saw a man and that damned woman reporter firing on an Indian decked out in war paint. He held up his hand, backed away, and joined his men down the branching ravine.

  “Won’t be long before the Injuns scalp them,” he said.

  He looked up when he saw Curly riding along the bank of the ravine, silhouetted against the lightning flashes. He almost took a shot at the fool, then froze when he heard what the man had to say.

  “He’s drivin’ ’em back, Boss. One lone pistolero is drivin’ back a whole band of Sioux.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “I seen him on the train. He’s one of the racers. And the woman with him’s that purty reporter, the one who—”

  “I know who it is,” he snapped. Calhoun came to a quick decision. The man couldn’t have much ammunition left if he had succeeded in driving off the Sioux. The gunfire had died down, leaving an ominous silence punctuated only by the rising wind and occasional thunderclap.

  “We ride, men,” he decided. “We ride and make sure the Injuns don’t kill ’em.”

  “So’s we can find out if the second message was a lie?”

  Calhoun looked at Curly with new approval. The man wasn’t as stupid as he seemed.

  “Don’t worry a whole lot about keepin’ the reporter and her beau alive too long,” he said. “We just want to know if he substituted instructions at the pile of rocks.”

  “The cairn,” Swain said loud enough to get Calhoun’s goat.

  “You got a problem, Skunk?”

  “None at all, Boss.”

  Calhoun didn’t like his tone, but knew they had only a few minutes to react before the reporter and the man with her hightailed it. He swung his horse around, motioned for Curly to remain on the ravine bank as lookout, and then galloped straight for the battlefield.

  He didn’t need Curly’s warning to realize the size of the mistake he had just made. The Sioux hadn’
t given up. They had reformed and snuck up on either side of the ravine to shoot down into it. His attack startled them, but did nothing to force them to turn and run. Withering fire came in his direction, slugs ripping through the brim of his hat and into the men directly behind him. He saw one flop from his horse. Another groaned and bent forward, clutching his belly.

  Calhoun didn’t have to tell Swain to retreat. The man was already galloping away.

  From above on the embankment, Curly shouted, “Cavalry’s a-comin’! Whole damn troop of ’em. They got them redskins in a trap!”

  Calhoun put his head down low until his cheek pressed into his horse’s straining neck. Being caught by the cavalry was a damn sight worse than having an Indian shoot him down. Better to die with a bullet in the gut than a noose around his neck.

  Sounds of a fierce fight behind faded as Calhoun and Swain found a way out of the ravine so they could join Curly. Calhoun fumed as he rode, having lost his chance to nab a key or two more.

  “Where to, Boss?”

  He didn’t even know which of his remaining men spoke. He was too furious to figure it out.

  “Benedict,” he spat out. “It’s all we can do.”

  To add insult to injury, it began to rain. Hard.

  13

  “We’re going to die, aren’t we, John? I don’t want to die like this.” Zoe Murchison sobbed, distracting Slocum for a moment. He glanced toward her, but bit back any sharp comment. She might be upset, but she wasn’t running. He appreciated her courage in spite of her fear.

  He emptied his six-gun and worked to reload.

  “Th-they’re running,” she cried. “You scared them off.”

  “Don’t count on it,” he said. “They’re regrouping, probably getting to high ground on the ravine banks.” Slocum worried that the deep ravine would turn into their grave. The banks were more than five feet over his head even when he was mounted. The recent storm had done quite a job ripping through the prairie, probably chewing away at a gully left by earlier rains. It wouldn’t take the Sioux much to start shooting down at them.

  “What are we going to do? If you had another gun, I could shoot at them, too.”