Slocum and the Thunderbird

by Jake Logan

  “Loretta’s free?”

  “I got her out of the whorehouse where Mackenzie had her prisoner.”

  Under the dirt on his face, Linc Watson turned pale.

  “He was whoring her?”

  “No more. You certain Alicia wasn’t brought into the mine? That means he’s got her working at separating gold dust from the ore using mercury.”

  “She’s a clever girl,” Watson said. “She’ll get away again.”

  “I ran into her east of here trying to get to a cavalry post to bring soldiers.”

  Watson shook his head. “They won’t come. The soldiers are too afraid of—”

  “The damned thunderbird,” Slocum said in disgust. “What the hell is it?”

  “I don’t know. Mackenzie claims to control it, but there’s no way he could order around an Indian spirit.”

  Slocum considered how hard it would be to use the pick to chop through the man’s leg irons. He bent down to examine the links and locks. They had been crudely fashioned and the lock might be more easily broken than the hinge pin opposite it. Using the clumsy pickaxe would damage Watson more than his shackles.

  “You’re not lying? This isn’t some trick? You have Loretta outside?”

  “No trick. She’s outside. Hunting for Alicia, too.”

  “My son’s dead. He inhaled mercury fumes and died, but my wife’s still there.”

  Slocum looked up at the man.

  “Please, if you can’t get me free, save the rest of my family. The women.” Tears ran down Watson’s cheeks and left tracks in the dirt. “I don’t know how Loretta’s going to deal with being used like that. Alicia, she’s stronger. Always has been, but her sister . . .” Watson shook his head.

  “That pickaxe is too dull to ever break the chains,” Slocum said. “Let me go find a sledgehammer. If you put the pick edge against the chains and I hit it with a hammer . . .”

  Slocum spun around on his knees and looked down the shaft to see lanterns bobbing along.

  “No, no,” Watson sobbed. He stumbled back, away from Slocum.

  “What’s goin’ on there?”

  Slocum reached for his six-shooter, then froze. A short, sturdy man with unnaturally powerful shoulders and arms stepped into the rocky chamber. Flanking him were gunmen with shotguns leveled. If he so much as twitched, Slocum knew he would be splattered all over the mine walls.

  “I was checking this one’s chains. I thought a link looked like he’d been worrying at it.” He rocked back and came to his feet. If he was going to die, he’d do it on his own terms and standing tall.

  “So?” The short man strutted forward. He puffed out his chest and flexed his biceps, as if this would give him the height he lacked.

  Slocum got a better look at the man and knew why Watson’s courage had evaporated so fast. The man’s shoulders strained the fancy shirt he wore. Arms as thick as Slocum’s thighs bulged and made him appear deformed. If he had been another foot taller, he would have been in proportion. But what told Slocum who he faced were the feathers adorning the man’s shirt. Feathers, maybe eagle or crow, had been dyed impossibly vivid colors. Reds and blues and a yellow with purple highlights swayed every time the man moved.

  The man pointed. His huge hands were gnarled and looked as if a cougar had chewed on them, leaving behind raw meat. A slender waist and legs so tiny they might have belonged to a youngster completed the picture. Almost.

  Slocum looked into the dark eyes and saw a bottomless pit of loco.

  “So, Mr. Mackenzie,” Slocum said, guessing the man’s identity, “the chains are nice and secure. No way is he going to get free.”

  Mackenzie made a cackling sound and bobbed up and down the way a chicken would before pecking at grains of corn. The gunman on his right came forward, slugged Watson in the gut with the butt of his shotgun, and then looked at the chains.

  “Look good to me, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “Good to know a guard’s on the ball. Can’t turn your back on these sons of bitches in the mines, not for an instant.” Mackenzie spun about and bent forward, presenting his cracker ass and making cawing sounds. He spun about and clawed at the air with his gnarled hands. “You come with us. We’re going back to the nest.”

  Watson turned his face away. More tears streamed down his cheeks. Slocum couldn’t tell if the man avoided a direct glance so he wouldn’t give away his possible benefactor or thought Slocum had been lying. If it hadn’t been for the attentiveness of Mackenzie’s bodyguards, Slocum would have shown the prisoner some leaden truth. As it was, he followed Mackenzie out, the man bobbing and dancing to music only he heard. All the way out into the night, Slocum felt the presence of the shotguns pointed at his spine.

  Mackenzie couldn’t know every man in his employ. Or was he cagier than that? If he knew Slocum was an interloper, why not have the guards just gun him down?

  When they reached the open air, Mackenzie threw back his head and turned his face to the sky. A screech like a hoot owl erupted from his lips. As quickly as it started, he cut it off.

  “That’s to appease the thunderbird,” Mackenzie said in a tone so normal as to be frightening. “Don’t want to get on its bad side. It’s a powerful spirit, the thunderbird.”

  “Surely is, sir,” both guards said in unison.

  Slocum felt obligated to chime in, so he said, “Never cross an Indian spirit bird.”

  Mackenzie looked hard at him. A bent finger stabbed him in the chest.

  “You’re right.” With that, he dashed off, laughing crazily.

  “Come on. We gotta keep up. Don’t want the boss kept waitin’.” The man behind Slocum nudged him with the shotgun.

  “What about the men in the mine?” Slocum said. “I was supposed to guard them.”

  “Don’t worry. The thunderbird will eat ’em all up if they try to escape.”

  “Yeah,” said the second guard. “Bein’ outside at night’s a death sentence ’cuz that’s when the thunderbird hunts. Good thing we’re with the boss. Only he can control it.”

  “Or call it down from the sky,” finished the first guard.

  Both men laughed and started running. Slocum paused, considering his chances and realizing they weren’t good. He lit out after them, looking around, hoping to catch sight of Loretta. Though they ran past the shed where he had left her, he didn’t see the woman. And nowhere did he catch sight of Alicia. As her pa had said, she must have been taken to the amalgam plant fifty yards away, near the rapidly running namesake for the town.

  Either the two gunmen were slower than him or they slowed to let him catch up. Slocum found himself flanked by them as they returned to town.

  Panting harshly, one gasped out, “Ain’t seen you here before. You jist git to town?”

  “Just did,” Slocum said. “How long you been here?”

  “Since the boss recruited me over in Halliday. I got cross with the law and was gonna hang fer murderin’ some lily liver what wouldn’t apologize fer callin’ me a half-breed. I ain’t no breed. My folks was both from Italy.”

  “Busted you out of Hillstrom’s jail?” Slocum asked.

  “You been there, too?” The man’s sudden interest told Slocum he had said the wrong thing.

  “The marshal came for me. Warrants from three counties. I got out of town ahead of a posse.”

  “Warrants fer what?”

  “I killed three men who asked too many questions,” Slocum said as coldly as he could. He didn’t want friends. The two with him would gun him down on a whim—or at Mackenzie’s order. He didn’t want to hesitate an instant if he had to kill them to protect himself.

  Thinking on how these men likely had their way with Loretta and had sent the rest of Watson’s family to the gold mines as slaves to die working for a crazy bastard helped that along.

  “Gotta slow down,” gasped
the man on his left. “Lungs are on fire.”

  “Don’t pant too much,” said the other. “That sounds like a dyin’ animal. The thunderbird will come for you if it thinks you’re dyin’.”

  The men sounded too sincere to be joshing him. Whenever a new cowboy signed on to an outfit, the old wranglers told outrageous stories to scare him. Slocum had done it himself. But he didn’t hear the joking with these two. They believed what they said about the thunderbird, just as Alicia Watson had.

  “There,” panted one. “The boss is already there. How the little turd runs so fast on them bandy legs is a mystery.”

  Slocum saw the lance of orange flame almost at the same time as the complaining guard gasped, stood upright, then twisted and collapsed.

  On the hotel’s front porch, Mackenzie stood with a rifle pulled snugly to his shoulder. He levered in another round and pointed it smack at Slocum.

  10

  “He didn’t mean nuthin’ by it, Mr. Mackenzie,” the guard to Slocum’s right sputtered. “He was just funnin’ . . . and I never agreed with him, no sir, never did.”

  Slocum saw that Mackenzie’s rifle remained trained on him, not the blubbering fool beside him. Mackenzie stood partially hidden in shadow, with the bright lights from inside the hotel spilling out beside the man. If he moved even a foot closer, he would be outlined so Slocum could get a good shot. The range favored the rifle, but Slocum knew he didn’t have a chance otherwise.

  “Now, tell me why I shouldn’t just feed both you boys to the ’bird?”

  “You’d lose two good men,” Slocum replied calmly.

  “I been here fer a whole month, sir. I done ever’thing you ast. I—”

  Mackenzie swung his rifle and fired. Whether he was a crack shot or damned lucky didn’t matter to the man catching the slug in the middle of his face. He went down as surely as his partner.

  “Can’t stand a man who whines,” Mackenzie said. He did a tiny dance, then jumped and clicked his heels. Feathers fluttered down all around him as if he’d molted. When he lit back down with a sharp snap on the wood planking, he had the rifle aimed once more at Slocum. “You don’t whine, do you?”

  Slocum said nothing. This appealed to the ruler of Wilson’s Creek. He lowered his rifle and waved one of his powerful arms for Slocum to come closer. As if walking amid newborn kittens, Slocum took several steps until Mackenzie was limned by the lamplight spilling from inside.

  “You arm wrestle?”

  The question took Slocum by surprise. He nodded and said, “Won a bet or two that way.”

  “Come on inside. Let’s arm wrestle.”

  Mackenzie beat Slocum into the hotel lobby by half a minute.

  The short man had already pushed up his sleeve to reveal his powerful biceps and had his elbow planted on a table.

  “Come on, let’s arm wrestle. You lose, you buy me a drink.”

  “What if I win?” Slocum asked.

  Anger flashed across Mackenzie’s face and madness danced in his eyes, then he said in a perfectly level voice, “Not going to happen.”

  From the way his arm and shoulder muscles rippled, Slocum considered that likely. He sat, planted his elbow on the table, and worked over possible tactics. Even if he proved stronger—or cagier since arm wrestling was as much about leverage and grip as strength—should he lose?

  Mackenzie almost pinned him outright, his thick hand and bent fingers leaping out and engulfing Slocum’s. Only a loud cry and incredible luck saved Slocum from immediate defeat. He shifted slightly and got a better grip, which allowed him to push Mackenzie’s arm back to upright. Now Mackenzie’s henchmen started catcalling and cheering on their boss.

  Slocum gritted his teeth and tried to move the man’s arm. Mackenzie budged a half inch. Then an inch. Slocum’s back began aching from the strain. He thought every muscle in his arm would explode from the effort, but he pushed Mackenzie’s hand down another inch. Only three or four to go.

  Then it was as if he’d been shoved against a brick wall. Even rising in the chair and unfairly using his body weight failed to gain him an advantage.

  With a cry of triumph, Mackenzie heaved and slammed Slocum’s hand hard against the table. He held it there, crushing down until Slocum winced. He refused to cry out even if it meant breaking his gun hand. Just when Slocum was sure Mackenzie would rip off important body parts, the man relented.

  Slocum rubbed his arm to get circulation back into it.

  “I win,” Mackenzie crowed.

  “You did, sir,” Slocum said, the words ash on his tongue.

  “You owe me a drink. Go fetch it.”

  Slocum stood and almost cried out in pain. Across his back and shoulders and all the way down his right arm burned as if he had thrust them into a blacksmith’s forge. He shook his hand and flexed it. Nothing broken, but he found it hard to close his hand into a fist. The muscles simply wouldn’t obey.

  He went to the bar and wondered how the hell he would pay for a drink. He was flat broke. Whatever money he had counted on had been snatched away by Rawhide Rawlins.

  “Here,” the woman behind the bar said, sliding a shot of some green liquor across it to him. She moved so Slocum’s body blocked Mackenzie’s view and pulled a gold coin from her ample cleavage. Then acting as if he’d just given it to her, she held the coin up so her boss and the others in the room could see it.

  “Thanks, mister,” she said, then turned and tossed the coin into a cup with a loud ring.

  “I owe you one,” Slocum whispered, and smiled.

  “Get me out of here the way you did Loretta and we’re more than even,” she whispered back.

  Slocum hesitated. He hadn’t thought anyone saw him rescuing Loretta Watson.

  “There’s not much in Wilson’s Creek that doesn’t get seen by somebody,” the woman said in a low voice. She pushed back a strand of coppery hair and her green eyes fixed on Slocum’s. “Be glad it was me spying on you and not one of them owlhoots.”

  He turned with the drink balanced on his right palm, and holding it with his left to keep it from spilling. He heard the woman say behind him, “I’m Erika. Don’t forget me.”

  He returned to Mackenzie’s table and set the drink down gingerly.

  “To the winner!” Slocum managed to raise his right arm to lead the others in three cheers.

  Mackenzie beamed at the attention. Slocum considered his chances for dragging out his smoke wagon and removing this muscled freak from the face of the earth. He might get some help from Erika and maybe a couple of the men in the room. That was all it would take, if he could only wrap his fingers around the ebony handle of his Colt Navy.

  If only.

  “Great drink,” Mackenzie said, running a thick finger around the rim of the empty glass to snare the last drop. He lifted it to his lips as he appraised Slocum. “You’ve done good. Get on back to the mine and keep those lazy bastards working.”

  “Right away,” Slocum said. He headed for the door, wondering if Mackenzie would shoot him in the back. Instead the man said something that quieted the low murmur from the others in the room.

  “Don’t let the thunderbird get you.” Mackenzie’s cruel laughter followed Slocum out of the hotel and partway to the mines.

  In spite of himself, he looked over his shoulder at the empty sky. No moon, no clouds, only sharp, hard points of stars. But if there had been the slightest hint of a bird diving on him, Slocum knew his heart would have exploded.

  He walked a little faster, damning Mackenzie for planting the idea that the thunderbird existed. It was only the way the man kept the others in line, what with his fake feathers sewed onto his shirt and hideous cawing and curious birdlike movements. Slocum couldn’t tell if the man was crazy as shit or using his brain to keep the town under his thumb. If Mackenzie was smart, Slocum had to worry more than if he was crazy. Sane, the man
might be playing with him in a way a loco hombre never could.

  Whatever the state of the man’s sanity, he was dangerous.

  By the time Slocum reached the mine, he had rubbed the soreness from his right arm and could close his right hand, though his grip remained weak. He started into the mine, but the three guards he had run into before arrayed themselves across the mouth. Even if he broke Linc Watson free of his chains, there wasn’t any way they could sneak out past the guards.

  Slocum veered away toward the shed where he had left Loretta, only to keep walking when one of the guards saw him and waved. To talk to her now would cause problems he didn’t want to solve. Instead, he waved back and went to the amalgam plant, where bright fumes rose from a boiler, curling into the crisp nighttime air.

  If he couldn’t get Watson free, he could find his wife and get her and her daughter to safety.

  He pressed his back against a brick wall and looked around for guards. The distant horizon glowed with the promise of dawn. Slocum knew he had to hurry. Walking around with two women, neither in chains, would draw attention in Mackenzie’s town.

  Edging along the wall, he chanced a quick look into the building. If a door had ever been hung there, it was long gone along with its hinges and part of the frame. Slocum drew his pistol and stepped into the room where a half-dozen men and women worked with pans, rolling beads of mercury around in rock dust taken from crushed ore. When they accumulated enough gold in the bright beads, they tipped the pan and let the mercury-gold amalgam roll off into a trough. At the far end of the trough two men worked to get the mercury into a vat, where it was heated. One man stoked the fire under the vat and the other scraped the gold left behind into a sack.

  It didn’t surprise Slocum to see an armed guard standing behind the man with the bag of gold dust. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to imagine the man skimming dust from the sack for his own use before taking it to Mackenzie. As that thought hit Slocum, he considered demanding to carry the current bag to Mackenzie and seeing what the reaction was. Revealing the number of guards here would help get Alicia’s mother free.