Slocum and the Thunderbird

by Jake Logan

  Caught Dead-Handed . . .

  He watched long enough to know Rawhide Rawlins wasn’t among these men—these slaves. Slocum drifted through the buildings, hidden by heavy shadows. He found a bunkhouse filled with sleeping men and loud snores. Rawlins might be here. He started to lift the latch and enter when he heard the metallic click of a rifle being cocked behind him.

  “You’re a dead man if you so much as twitch toward that gun of yours,” came the cold command. “Get those hands up and turn around.”

  Slocum did as he was told and saw he was in a worse predicament than he’d thought. Not one guard but three had caught him. He might throw down on one and hope to escape, but three? No way in hell was he going to shoot his way out of this.

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

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  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

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  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

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  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

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  SLOCUM AND THE THUNDERBIRD

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA).

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61019-0

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / October 2013

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  1

  One instant John Slocum sat astride the strawberry roan, the next he was sailing through the air. He landed hard in the corral and rolled into a tight ball to avoid flashing hooves lashing out at his head.

  “Dang, Slocum, that horse shore do hate your guts,” called Rawhide Rawlins from the safety of the top rail.

  “Get him outta there, you buffoon,” cried Lee Dupree, acting while Rawlins didn’t budge.

  Dupree took off his floppy-brimmed hat and waved it to get the bronco’s attention. Nostrils flaring and paws still slicing through the air just above Slocum’s head, the horse wasn’t going to be deterred. Slocum realized this when Dupree couldn’t divert the cayuse’s attention. He rolled fast just as the horse dropped its hooves where his head had been a split second earlier. Slocum kept rolling until he was under the bottom corral rail and away from the unbroken horse.

  “Gotta give you credit, Slocum,” Rawlins said. “Ain’t nobody could stay on that outlaw’s back as long as you just did.”

  Slocum dusted himself off and warily climbed to the rail to sit beside the cowboy. Dupree got the horse turning hard, then reversed his direction and ducked out of the corral to join his partners.

  “Rawhide ain’t right ’bout many things, but this one he surely is,” Dupree said. “No disgrace getting tossed off this one in the wink of an eye. He’s about the worst bucker I ever did see.”

  Slocum studied the horse. After the Box M cattle had been driven to the railhead, he had turned his attention to the stock remaining. That included this varmint. The Box M foreman had lassoed the wild stallion a couple months earlier, but this was Slocum’s first try at breaking it. The way he ached from the fall, he wasn’t sure he’d be up to another attempt anytime soon. The trail drive had tuckered him out, down with the flu as he had been, but giving up had never been a part of his disposition. The Box M had fallen on hard times and the drive had been done with a dozen fewer cowboys than usual, so he couldn’t rightly let the owner down.

  George Holman had gotten top dollar for the beeves, and a bonus was likely coming as a result. Slocum thought that was only fair. He, Rawlins, Dupree, and the other drovers had done double the work. A bonus would suit them all just fine.

  “Hey, Slocum, you two, boss wants you in the main house right now!”

  Slocum didn’t cotton much to the foreman, but Lucas Underwood knew his business. What galled Slocum was how much of a skinflint he was. Food on the trail kept a cowpuncher happy. Underwood had fired the cook, who had been the only man who could spin a yarn good enough around the campfire to make the rest of the cowboys forget their sorry plight.

  But that was all changed. Slocum knew Holman was rolling in the money. Next year would be even better. Underwood might even hire back the yarn-spinning cook.

  That passing thought made him pause. Next year? He drifted from one job to another, and here he was thinking about working for the same rancher a second season. The Box M was safely on the western side of the Wall cutting through South Dakota and right at the edge of the Badlands. This w
as terrible country, fierce and wild and beautiful. Slocum had taken a liking to it. Given a good job, he’d stay another year.

  Eyeing Underwood waving all high and mighty at them put thoughts of taking the man’s job as foreman into Slocum’s head. There wasn’t much about a cattle ranch that Slocum didn’t know. He had ideas for more than a few changes that would put even more money in Holman’s pocket, given the chance to try them.

  “Get your asses over here now.”

  “What’s so all-fired important?” Rawhide Rawlins kicked free of the rail and dropped heavily. He hitched up his jeans, emphasizing his bowed legs and showing the sides of his battered boots. “Cain’t you just let us do some relaxin’?”

  “That’s not what I’d say Slocum was doin’,” Dupree said. “Another few minutes and you’d’ve broke that stallion.”

  “Told you not to go botherin’ the horse,” Underwood said.

  “Well, you ain’t gonna break it for your own,” Dupree said. “You can’t hardly sit astride that docile mare you ride without fallin’ off at a trot.”

  Slocum saw something in the foreman’s expression that his two friends missed. Such a jibe ought to have turned Underwood livid. It didn’t. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth.

  “Y’all come along.”

  “Reckon we can do that,” Rawlins said. “Not like we got more important things to do now that we got the herd to market and all sold.”

  Slocum walked silently while Dupree and Rawlins chattered like magpies. He kept his eye on Underwood. The foreman walked about as fast as he ever had, showing he was heading toward something that pleased him. Slocum was even warier when they went into the ranch house and saw George Holman rocked back in his chair behind a huge cherrywood desk.

  “Took you long enough to get them in here,” Holman said.

  Slocum and the others spotted the large pile of greenbacks on the desk. That was more than they’d likely make in ten years of cow punching. Slocum didn’t miss how Holman followed their gaze and hastily swept the money from the desk into a burlap bag.

  “Underwood’s told me what you three have been up to,” the rancher said.

  “Yup, it’s true,” Dupree said, grinning.

  “You admit it?” Holman’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. His lips thinned to a razor slash. “Then you know what I’m going to say.”

  “A big bonus, that’s for certain sure,” Rawlins said.

  “What?”

  Slocum watched the byplay between the men and moved his hand toward his left hip. He didn’t pack his iron when working. His Colt Navy rested in its holster amid his gear back in the bunkhouse. Rawlins and Dupree were saying one thing and Holman something entirely different. He felt a knot forming in his gut.

  “Slocum here ain’t busted that bronc yet, but he will. And the three of us, we worked like ten men on the drive. How big’s our bonus?” Rawlins smiled so much his mustache tips twitched about like they had come alive.

  “You’re thieves. The lot of you! You stole fifty head of cattle and sold them on your own.”

  “How do you figure that?” Slocum asked. He didn’t look at the rancher but at the foreman. “We lost about that many head on the drive, and that’s a mighty small number for such a large herd.”

  “You rustled them beeves!” Holman slammed his fists down on the desk and half stood. He leaned forward. “I ought to string you up, the three of you. Underwood’s more merciful. He convinced me to just send you on your way.”

  “We worked all season long,” said Slocum. “We didn’t steal any of your cattle. Cheat us out of a bonus if that’s your style, but you owe us for the work we did over the last six months.”

  “Get out of my sight! Get out or I’ll horsewhip you, you rustlers!”

  Slocum heard the soft hiss of gunmetal across leather. He swung around and stared down the bore of Underwood’s .44. From the expression on his face, Underwood wanted an excuse to pull the trigger.

  “You cain’t do this! We worked. Hard,” protested Dupree.

  “You stole from me.”

  “What’s your proof?” Slocum asked. He kept his green eyes fixed on Underwood.

  “He saw you with the cattle. Him and two others as they rode in. You got to town first, and you had already cut them from the main herd.”

  “Johnson and Pig-eye,” Slocum said, naming two of Underwood’s cronies. “You’re taking their word over ours?”

  “Damned right I am. Underwood’s worked for me these last four years, worked harder than any man I ever saw.”

  “’Cept us,” cut in Dupree.

  “He’s honest. If he and the other two say you stole fifty head, I’m not calling them liars.”

  “I am, Mr. Holman,” Slocum said. “They—”

  That was as far as he got. He half turned back to the rancher and caught the blur of the six-gun swinging toward his head. Sudden pain blossomed and he went to his knees. He heard shouts and then a gunshot. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his legs under him. He tried to stand, but his knees had turned to water.

  In the far distance, through the blackness and a roaring in his ears, he heard horses and loud voices.

  “Never thought you’d come around, Slocum,” Rawlins said. “You got a lump the size of my fist on the side of your head.”

  Slocum touched the aching, throbbing knot and winced. Rawlins had a way of exaggerating. This time he spoke the truth. Slocum traced around the bump put there when Underwood buffaloed him. That returning memory caused Slocum to sit up so fast that dizziness hit him, then a cold anger that wasn’t to be denied settled over him.

  “Whoa, Slocum, you set yerself back,” Dupree said.

  Slocum shoved the man’s hand off his shoulder. He tried to stand but had to settle for just looking around. His vision cleared.

  “Where the hell are we?” he asked.

  “Underwood and those mangy dog-eater partners of his got the drop on us after he laid his six-gun up alongside your head. Mr. Holman ordered us off the Box M.”

  “They threw our gear in the back of a wagon, drove us out here a ways, and dumped us.”

  “They stole our horses?”

  “Looks like,” Rawlins said. “My old mare’s so broke down, feedin’ her’s gonna be a burden on them, but I do miss her.”

  Slocum got to his feet and took a couple shaky steps. Anger stiffened his back and knees. He bent and pulled out his Colt still stuffed into its cross-draw holster. Two quick movements lashed it around his waist and settled down on his hip.

  “You always had the look of a shootist, Slocum, no matter how good you was at punching them cows. You know how to use that smoke wagon, don’t you?” Dupree sounded a trifle uneasy. “What you fixin’ to do?”

  “First thing is to get our horses. Underwood might have framed us for rustling, but horse thievery is worse.” He swung his saddle over his shoulder, got his bearings, and started walking back up the road toward the Box M.

  “You thinkin’ on shootin’ any of them, Slocum?” Rawhide Rawlins hitched up his drawers, then swung his saddle to his shoulder.

  Slocum looked at him.

  “If I need to.”

  “Count me in, then,” Rawlins said. “Ain’t nobody steals from me.”

  “Me, too,” Les Dupree said, joining the other two. “’Fore I shoot anybody, I need a six-shooter.”

  “That won’t be a problem, not when I’m done,” Slocum said.

  The three of them hiked a couple miles before Slocum pointed to a ravine that ran across the Box M.

  “We won’t be seen until we’re almost at the barn,” he said. “Then we go retrieve our horses.”

  “And then we shoot ’em up?” Dupree sounded leery of such bloodshed.

  “Ain’t Holman’s fault, not much at least, since he believed his foreman,�
�� Rawlins said.

  “He went along.” Dupree’s bitterness set the tone for the rest of the argument.

  The two slowly talked themselves into the mood Slocum had endured the entire way back onto the ranch. Underwood might have lied, but it hadn’t taken much to convince Holman. That pile of greenbacks showed his interest, and it wasn’t in the truth.

  “Anybody in sight?” Slocum asked. He dropped his gear and pulled down the brim of his hat to shield his eyes against the afternoon sun as he peered over the ravine bank.

  “Looks like Holman and Underwood over on the ranch house porch,” said Rawlins. He popped up again, then dropped like a prairie dog worried over a pack of wolves. “Holman’s clutchin’ a bag to his chest like it has his heart inside.”

  Slocum slid the leather thong off his Colt’s hammer, scrambled up the bank, and walked to the barn, while the other two argued over what to do. They weren’t armed. He was. Ignoring the ranch owner and foreman, he walked into the barn. A black gelding in the first stall jerked its head around and neighed at seeing him.

  “You’ll be out of here soon enough,” Slocum said, patting the horse’s neck. He found a bucket of oats and put some in the trough in front of the horse. Grazing out on the sparse Dakota plains meant less to eat in the very near future.

  He found the other men’s mounts and fed and watered them, too, before he rummaged about in the small tack room. Two old Henry rifles and boxes of ammo caught his eye. He stacked them just outside the door while he poked about, hunting for anything else. A Damascus barreled shotgun looked like it would blow up in the hands of whoever fired it next. He left it.

  Soft sounds at the barn door caused him to grab for his Colt Navy. He relaxed when he saw Rawlins and Dupree. They lugged not only their own saddles but his as well.

  “Figgered you’d prefer to ride on a saddle than bareback,” Rawlins said. He saw his mare contentedly chewing away and nodded. “Thankee kindly fer feedin’ that tired old bag o’ bones.”

  “Here,” Slocum said, tossing the rifles to the men. He gave them the boxes of ammunition and waited as they loaded and checked the actions. Only when he was sure they were loaded for bear did he ask, “Where’d Holman and Underwood get off to? Heard hoofbeats.”