by Jake Logan
So as mad as Charlie got at times, he tried to hold his tongue and hold his punches. Not an easy feat for a man like him. But he knew that no matter what, Ed would not only stick by him, but take his orders so long as they lived.
Charlie was counting on that being a very long time.
Hopefully, in California. With a gold mine.
He lay down in his bedroll, pulled the blanket up to his chin, eased his hat low over his eyes, and fell asleep, happily assured of a soon-to-be-dead Slocum and his soon-to-be-realized riches.
Slocum had a change of plans.
The more he thought about it, he was thinking that he’d be better off sneaking up behind them. He figured that he had a pretty good chance of getting them both, but even if he only took down one, that’d be one less chasing them.
Besides, he had to get that baby to town—and to some real milk—as soon as possible.
So at around midnight, he took the dozing Lydia’s shoulder and shook it gently.
She sat forward with a start and yelped, “What!”
“Shh!” Slocum hissed.
“Is it time to go?” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s time for you to stand watch. Think you can do that?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Did you decide to sneak up on them? I thought we were just going to run away.”
Slocum wished she hadn’t quite put it that way, but he just said, “No. We’ll hightail it later. I’m hopin’ I can take both of them out, though.”
She nodded. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. She had guts, this one. Most women would have been cowering in the back of the cave from the moment they dived into it, and they’d still be back there, crying and shaking.
“Just like you did this afternoon,” he said. “Take the rifle and watch the front door.” He jabbed a finger toward the mouth of the cave. “You see anybody coming that ain’t me, you fire.”
“All right,” she said.
“You a pretty fair shot?”
“I can knock a can off a fence post at forty feet,” she replied.
“Okay. Just think of that fella chargin’ down on you like he’s a tin of stewed tomatoes.”
A soft chuckle escaped her, and she held out a hand for the rifle. “Got it. Tomatoes. I never did like stewed tomatoes.”
“That’s my girl,” he said without thinking, and to his surprise, she blushed. At least, he thought she did. There wasn’t much moon filtering into the cave.
He handed over the rifle. He said, “Be ready.”
“Good luck, Slocum,” she whispered, and quickly leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He was surprised, but got over it quick. He murmured, “I’m gonna need more luck than that, honey,” he said, and kissed her deeply.
11
Slocum moved slowly and quietly, creeping from boulder to rocky scatter to stunted creosote bush or palo verde. He’d seen the glow from their fire all night. They hadn’t bothered to hide it, the idiots. Unless, of course, they’d set up camp somewhere else and had lit the fire as a decoy.
But he didn’t think they were that smart. At least, he hoped they weren’t.
He worked his way down the canyon almost to the point where they’d been ambushed that afternoon, a place where he’d seen what looked like a way up. He figured it was where Charlie had come down from the pass’s rim to its floor. If Charlie could come down it on a horse, he could go up it on foot.
He wanted to get up above them. It was the safest way.
Carefully, he crossed out into the moonlit, unshadowed open. Nobody shot at him, thank God, so they weren’t watching this part of the pass.
And apparently, they hadn’t seen him sneaking out, either.
But you never could tell.
He began to make his way up the rough trail. Part of it, he could almost walk. Other parts, he went down on his hands and knees and pulled himself along with his bad shoulder, painfully zigzagging ever upward.
He was panting by the time he reached the rim, and thankful that the canyon hadn’t been any deeper than it was.
He sat for a moment on the rim, catching his breath and scouting the terrain. He could still see the faint glow of Ed and Charlie’s fire, flaring up along the undulating rim. But when he started moving again, he was still on his guard. He moved slowly and carefully, and as silently as possible.
Finally, he got down on his belly and crawled, crawled, and crawled some more, right back up to the rim, just to the side of the glow from their campfire, below. Silently, he sank down onto his belly.
One was asleep under his blanket, almost straight down from Slocum’s perch, back beside their fire. The other one was out about twenty feet, hunkered up against a split jut of rock. There was a rifle across his knees, and he was snoring.
Well, that accounts for nobody seein’ me, Slocum thought. He was annoyed at that boy—he thought it was Ed—just on general principle. And then he wondered why he was peeved with Ed, when Ed’s actions had made his task so much easier. Maybe it was the rock poking into his belly.
It sort of bothered Slocum to take out two sleeping men, but he didn’t see that he had much choice. Of course, he could just wound them. But then, he’d have to wound them good enough to slow them down a whole lot.
He shook his head. All right, he thought. I’ll aim for the legs. But the chips are gonna fall where they will.
He raised his gun and aimed for the sentry, Ed, first.
He fired, and as Ed let out a yelp, he aimed almost straight down, into the dozing figure under the blankets.
The blanket jerked at the impact, but that was all.
Ed, his gun dropped in favor of clutching his thigh, started screaming, “Charlie! Charlie! I’m shot, damn it!”
Slocum figured that Charlie wasn’t going to answer, since Charlie appeared to be dead. But then again, how could a slug entering the blankets right about knee level kill a man? And why wasn’t there any blood?
Hissing, “Shit !” through clenched teeth, Slocum realized there was nobody under those blankets to get shot. They were probably packed with clothes and an extra bedroll.
Which meant that Charlie could be anywhere.
The too-close sound of a pistol’s cock told him where.
He froze.
“I don’t believe it,” Charlie said, before he shouted, “Shut up, dammit!” to his brother. “Me, little ol’ Charlie Frame, gettin’ the drop on Mr. Big Famous Slocum his-self!”
Slocum couldn’t believe it either, but he turned his head upward, toward the voice. “Congratulations,” he said sarcastically.
Charlie had a great big grin splitting his face. “You gonna put that gun down, or you want I should just shoot it out of your hand?”
Slowly, Slocum lay down his Colt.
“Charlie!” Ed cried. “I’m bleedin’ awful bad!”
“Just hold your horses, dammit,” Charlie called back. “I got me a real true legend of the West in my gun sights. Let me enjoy it for a minute!”
Slocum was still flat on his belly, and he was trying to figure a way to swing his body over, move just one foot closer to Charlie. Twelve inches closer, give or take, and he’d be able to knock Charlie’s feet out from under him with a quick sweep of his leg. Then they’d see who was in goddamn charge!
Carefully, he gathered a handful of grit and dust from the ground. Best to have a backup.
He was just about to fling it, to hopefully blind Charlie long enough to move those lousy twelve inches, when a shot rang out from below.
Charlie, surprise twisting his face, staggered back, then sat down hard, which gave Slocum the second he needed to drop the dirt and grab his Colt.
Charlie had fumbled his pistol on the way down, and Slocum went over, in a crouch, and kicked it out about ten feet. Charlie was gasping like a fish that had been pulled up on the docks.
“You shot me, you sonofabitch!” Charlie managed to spit out. “How’d you do that?”
Slocum shook his head. “I di
dn’t shoot you.” A trace of a smile spread over his lips, and he had no inclination to pull it back. “My partner did. Now, I got half a mind to plug you where you lay, Charlie. But I was cogitatin’ on lettin’ you boys live. And I reckon that it wouldn’t be real sportsmanlike, lead-nailing your coffin while you’re all helpless and everything.”
Slocum walked out to where he’d kicked Charlie’s gun, and picked it up. He emptied the chambers, threw the cartridges as far as he could to his left, then threw the Smith and Wesson as far as he could to his right.
“Reckon that’ll settle your hash for the time bein’,” he said.
“I’m bleedin’ to death!” Charlie wailed.
Slocum sat down. “Aw, no you ain’t. I seen a lot worse. I seen men hurt worse than you get right up and pick up the charge, back in the War. Now, what in the world did you no-accounts want with that poor little baby?”
Charlie set his mouth and turned his head away. Blood seeped slowly through his fingers, which were clasped to his wounded shoulder.
Slocum’s put his Colt’s nose to Charlie’s kneecap and cocked it. That got his attention.
“Hey!” Charlie shouted in surprise and fear. “What the hell you doin’?”
“Believe I’m getting ready to shoot your kneecap off, there, Charlie, unless you tell me what the deal is with that kid.”
Charlie’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He blinked twice. “You wouldn’t,” he said.
“Push me,” said Slocum.
Charlie wasn’t as dumb as he looked. He said, “All right! Just move that gun away!”
Slocum didn’t budge.
“It’s the gold mine, all right? The kid’s pa wandered into our camp, talked all about it. We want the kid ’cause we want the gold.” Charlie, who had seemingly exhausted himself with this confession, let his head flop back onto the ground.
But Slocum wasn’t done yet. “What happened to the kid’s pa?” he asked.
“Dead,” said Charlie. He turned his head away. “It was an accident, all right?”
Slocum didn’t believe him, not by a long shot, but what was done was done. He had half a mind to shoot the bastard in the other shoulder, though, just on general principle.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he eased down the hammer of his gun, then scrambled back over to the canyon’s rim. Ed was still down there. He hadn’t moved a foot.
“Ed!” Slocum called.
Ed looked up and squinted, trying to see into the gloom. “Slocum? You ain’t dead?”
“Not yet, Ed,” Slocum called.
“What about Charlie?”
“He’s a little shot up, but other than that he’s dandy,” Slocum answered. “Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you toss that rifle of yours up over that big rock you’re sittin’ against?” It wasn’t a question, really.
And Ed didn’t take it as one. He heaved that rifle as hard as he could, and Slocum heard the rattle when it hit the ground on the other side.
“That’s right nice, Ed,” Slocum called. “You got a side arm that’s wantin’ to join it?”
Slocum watched as Ed sighed, then pulled his gun free of its holster. The gun sparkled blue and silver in the campfire’s light as it went up and over the rock.
“That’s a good feller, Ed,” Slocum said. Then he shouted, “Lydia! You hear me?”
Her answer came to him, carried on the canyon air currents: “I hear you! We’re all packed up and ready to go!”
God, the woman was a miracle! And a mind reader, too!
“Come on out, baby, toward the fire!” he called. “You can walk right into their camp. I want you to snag their horses!”
“Our horses?” Charlie and Ed shouted as one. Charlie was plain outraged, but Ed appeared to be more shocked than anything.
“You heard me,” Slocum growled at Charlie.
In answer, Lydia shouted one word, “Right!”
“You can’t take a man’s horse,” Charlie complained.
“Seems to me I can do just about anything I want, Charlie,” Slocum said with a grin. He called down to Ed, “Tie your leg off with your bandana, Ed. Above the bullet hole. It’ll slow down the bleedin’.”
Ed shouted back, “Thanks, Slocum!” He didn’t look all that grateful, though.
Slocum still didn’t like him, not one whit, but just because you didn’t care to keep a man’s company didn’t mean you should let him bleed to death.
Just then, Lydia peeked around the big cleft rock, and Slocum called, “It’s okay. Come ahead.”
He watched as she walked out into the sheltered clearing Ed and Charlie had chosen for their hideaway, and waved down at her. She answered with a tip of her head and a big grin.
Once she’d snagged the horses and saddled them up, Slocum called down, “Leave ’em enough water so they can walk into town. Go on ahead and start down the pass, toward Cross Point. I’ll meet you farther down the canyon.”
He waited until she led the horses past the rock, out of the light. Then, shaking his head, Slocum backed away from the rim, backed away from the prostrate Charlie, and disappeared into the shadows.
Charlie shouted, “Coward!” just once.
Slocum didn’t know whether that remark was meant for him or for Ed. Frankly, he didn’t much care.
He jogged back to the canyon rim till he came to the trail that led downward. Holding out his arms for balance, he started to skitter down the slope toward the canyon’s floor.
It was dangerous going. In fact, he slipped and nearly broke his neck on one occasion. But all in all, it was a lot easier than going up had been.
He heard, then saw Lydia emerge from the shadows: the baby in her arms and the three horses, tied in a line and trailing behind her.
Slocum smiled.
12
Billy Cree hadn’t stopped at nightfall, mostly because just as the sun was going down, he’d found the place where the Kid’s bitch had met up with somebody. Now she had a ride again, goddamn it, and he had to hurry if he wanted to catch them before they made Cross Point.
But the tracks were so clear and fresh that even by the light of the moon and stars, he could follow them fairly easily.
Mostly, he rode at a jog. He switched horses when necessary, and only stopped when he had trailed them clean across that broad expanse and come to the base of the hills.
He finally made camp at ten o’clock at night, there at the beginning of the rise of hills. He figured that the track would be too easy to lose as it wound through their crests and valleys. And the horses were all worn out.
Not that he really cared, but he had to keep the horses in halfway decent condition if he wanted to keep on Lydia’s trail.
He’d show her a thing or two before he finished her off, too!
Damned murdering bitch!
He’d almost missed the place where they picked up the second rider. In fact, he’d suddenly realized that he was trailing two horses instead of one, and had to backtrack to see where the tracks joined up.
It looked to him like a chance encounter: two parties running into each other smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Such things were known to happen. But still, it set the back of his neck to itching.
His trigger finger, too. Lydia might have two men with her now. Two guns to protect her. It was a good deal different from going up against an unarmed woman on her own.
But crisp, clear thinking had never been Billy Cree’s strong suit. He had always been more like a short, red-headed terrier with a bone: Once he got his jaws—or mind—wrapped around something, it was almost impossible to make him let go.
Like tracking the Kid, for instance.
Up until three years ago, the Show Low Kid and Billy Cree had been partners. Best friends, in fact, or so thought Billy. And then, one morning Billy woke up to find the Kid gone and the payroll they’d taken off the Flagstaff stage gone with him: over seven thousand dollars.
And so Billy figured he kn
ew just what the price of friendship was to the Kid.
Well, he’d show the Kid.
It had taken him three years, but he’d done it.
Of course, he hadn’t found the money. When he wasn’t riding the Kid’s woman, he’d been tearing up the house, tearing up the barn, going through the Kid’s papers.
And no sign of it. It made him all the more ill-tempered toward that goddamn skirt. She didn’t know anything. He was sure of that. She hadn’t even known the true identity of her husband, Winston West—alias the Show Low Kid, alias Robert Craig Winston, born in the slums of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and the son of a sometime store clerk and full-time drunk.
Hell, maybe he just gambled it away. He’d always been a sucker for an inside straight, and he’d never, not in all the years that Billy had known him, been seen to fill one.
’Course, it wasn’t real romantic. But then, neither was Winston West. Billy supposed that the Kid had just tried to take a step partway back, to somewhere between wanted outlaw and town souse.
Which would have been fine, Billy supposed, if the Kid hadn’t tried to step back with Billy’s money.
Thirty-five hundred of that haul was supposed to be Billy’s, and if Billy couldn’t find it, he figured to take it out in trade. He hadn’t ridden the Kid’s woman near enough to feel even halfway paid off, though. And then she’d shot Randy and Wes, just like that!
A gut full of gall, that’s what that woman had. Standing there in the doorway, plumb naked, with the pistols in her hands.
His boys had dropped like flies. Hadn’t known what hit ’em.
Well, he had, too. And he still had the headache to show for it. Hell, he was lucky that he hadn’t bled to death. He figured that he’d come close. He still felt a little weak, even though he’d patched his head and rested until the storm played out and fed himself decent, for a change.
So he settled the horses—his pinto and Randy’s bay—ate the last of the roasted chicken, rolled himself up in a blanket, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Until a little after midnight, that was.
He woke to hear a short series of faint pops, like firecrackers on Independence Day, except way off somewhere in the hills. By the time he came fully awake, he realized it wasn’t kids having a good time: It was gunplay.
