Slocum and the Thunderbird

by Jake Logan

  So why had Rawhide been sent here? Slocum had the cold feeling he was again wrong about finding his friend.

  Carefully stepping over the sleeping men and pulling back the blankets covering their faces, Slocum finally found Rawhide Rawlins. The man looked the worse for wear. His face was a welter of half-healed cuts and in one place a new scar already angled from the middle of his forehead, over his eye to his cheek. The size and placement hinted at a pickaxe used on his head.

  He put his hand over Rawhide’s mouth to keep him from crying out as he shook the man awake. Eyelids flickered and finally opened. His eyes had clouded over, and Slocum wondered if he saw anything beyond the end of his nose. But his hand on Slocum’s was strong and shoved it away.

  “Havin’ trouble breathin’. Don’t cut off my air, Slocum.” He sat up, rubbed his nose, and then closed one eye to get a better look. “Never expected to see you again. Heard tell you was et by the thunderbird.”

  “He couldn’t stomach me,” Slocum said. “Get your shackles where I can see them.” He hoisted the hammer and chisel. “Cover the iron with your blanket. Don’t want to make too much noise.”

  Rawhide did as he was told. His hand shook. Slocum wondered if it came from excitement at being released or if some more tenacious malady clung to him that explained why Mackenzie had sent him here rather than using him in the mine.

  A quick placement of the chisel followed by a sharp rap popped open the shackles.

  “Best I felt in a week,” Rawhide said. He looked around at the other fitfully sleeping prisoners. “What are you gonna do ’bout them?”

  “If I cut off the chains, can they run?”

  “Most all can. Will,” Rawhide said. “Those what can’t, the others will help. But they got the guns. We don’t.” He lifted his chin and pointed Indian style toward the two tents filled with Mackenzie’s gang.

  “You know how to plant dynamite?”

  “Been doin’ that to blast rock for that damned dam.”

  “Fetch the sticks you need, along with blasting caps and five minutes’ worth of miner’s fuse. That dam ought to be returned to pebbles.”

  “Good as done, Slocum, good as done.” Rawhide got to his feet and teetered away, his legs barely working. He forced himself to take strides longer and more natural now that the chains had been cut off, but his progress was slower than Slocum had hoped.

  He awakened the other eight men in turn, whispering what he expected of them, then removed the chains. The clank and snap of iron sounded like thunder with every stroke, no matter how he muffled the blow, but the guards paid no heed. When Slocum had all eight men together in a huddle, he spoke quickly and low.

  “You light out. Don’t much matter which way you go. But I ought to warn you that Wilson’s Creek is half burned down and the gunmen left there are willing to shoot anyone they see.”

  “We kin go on north. There’s a whole mess o’ canyons where we kin get ourselves lost,” volunteered a smallish man. “The army post is that way, too. Might be a patrol finds us ’fore we starve to death or die of exposure.”

  “Get the cavalry down here to bust things wide open,” Slocum said. He remembered how Alicia had intended to report Mackenzie to the army. He doubted her resolve had lasted now that she and the marshal were getting on so well. “Me and Rawlins will make sure the guards don’t come after you.”

  “Gimme a knife,” said another. “I’ll cut their throats while they sleep.”

  “All of you, go,” Slocum said forcefully. “You stay and you’re likely to get killed.”

  Two of the men wanted to fight. The remaining six convinced them Slocum’s plan had more merit. Between them, three being supported by others, they began the long hike to the cavalry post. Slocum doubted many would make it, not in their condition, but dying free was a whale of a lot better than being worked to death in shackles.

  Slocum retrieved his horse and rode around to the rope corral fashioned between three trees. He saddled Rawhide’s horse, then chose two others before cutting the rope and releasing the remainder. By switching off to the spare horses as they rode, Slocum hoped during the next day to put sixty miles or better between him and this goddamned prison Mackenzie had fashioned.

  When the horses galloped away, the guards finally twigged to something wrong in their camp. Slocum galloped off with the three horses trailing him as the guards opened fire. The confusion spread when they discovered all their prisoners had disappeared. He rode straight for the rocky dam where Rawhide sat on a rock, looking forlorn.

  “What’s wrong?” Slocum called. “We got the whole camp coming down on our necks.”

  “I ain’t got a match. No way to light the fuse.”

  Slocum fumbled in his pocket, then remembered all over again how he had given his matches to Erika for her arson. He glanced back and saw the guards running hard toward him since astride his horse he was the most visible thing in the camp.

  “Get on your horse,” Slocum said. He waited for Rawhide to mount painfully, then whipped out his Colt, aimed, and fired straight into the blasting cap crimped down on a stick of dynamite.

  The explosion staggered his horse, then set it running like its tail was on fire. Rawhide galloped right behind, bent low. His moans of pain sounded above the hammering hooves and the rifle fire from behind them.

  Then a creaking sound like a huge giant rusty hinge opening filled the air. The dynamite had weakened the base of the dam. The water pressure behind finally won over the rock and burst out.

  “That ought to drown the lot of ’em like rats,” chortled Rawhide.

  Slocum slowed his headlong pace, and Rawhide did the same. Slocum passed over the reins to one of the spare horses.

  “Switch off between your horses and you can put a lot of miles behind you.”

  “You ain’t comin’ with me?”

  “I’ve got business to attend to way south.”

  “Slocum, it’s been a pleasure. Don’t rightly know how I can thank you fer gettin’ me out of that jam.” He thrust out his hand and shook with more strength than Slocum expected. “Best I kin do is tell you where I hid the money from the Halliday bank. You know that spot—”

  He stopped in midsentence as Slocum reached behind him and swung the burlap bag around. He handed it to Rawlins.

  “You found it!”

  “Keep it. All of it. You’re about the best partner I ever had on the trail,” Slocum said.

  “But you’re deservin’ of it. Half, I reckon, since Lee got himself kilt and all.”

  “Don’t flash it around, and don’t go back to Halliday. The marshal’s looking to make himself out a hero to a new sweetheart.”

  “How do you know all this, Slocum? I swear, you keep yer ear to the ground better ’n anybody I ever did see.”

  “The men back at the construction camp might be dead or they might be squealing for a posse of Mackenzie’s henchmen from town. Get out of here right now and you’ll be just fine.”

  “Watch your back, Slocum.” Rawhide Rawlins gave him a sloppy salute, then wheeled about and galloped away, the bag of money flopping in front of him where he’d secured it to the saddle horn.

  Slocum waited for him to disappear into the night, then got his bearings from the Big Dipper and knew he had to ride fast because of a storm brewing. Clouds obscured half the sky and the distant mountains were backlit by lightning.

  A heavy rain might be just what he needed to cover his tracks as he headed toward the road to Overton. If Linc Watson hadn’t been telling a tall one, a hundred pounds of gold dust waited for him somewhere along the side of the road.

  21

  The storm moved closer but never dropped the rain promised by the gusty wind. Slocum rode through the night and just at dawn found the road to Overton well south of Wilson’s Creek. He tried to remember how the wagon he and Linc Watson had ridden in b
ounced about, but he gave up when he realized he had come as close to passing out as a man could without actually losing consciousness. He had slept so heavily the bumps and potholes in the road had meant nothing to him, even as the wheel had begun working its way off.

  The road turned steep as it wound into a low range of hills that mimicked their larger brothers to the east. The strata showed the distinctly colored bands so common throughout the Badlands. His horse strained to make the grade, forcing Slocum to dismount and walk the gelding up. He had kept the other horse in reserve should he need to make a quick getaway, but the men in Wilson’s Creek had discovered a new problem in the night.

  He thought the water released from behind the dam had flooded part of the town. All the better to destroy yet another section of Mackenzie’s domain.

  Slocum huffed and puffed as he hiked uphill, then he slowed and finally stared at the ditch alongside the rocky road. He let out a heartfelt laugh. The wagon would have tipped upward, causing anything in the rear to slide out. He had been asleep and clinging to the side of the wagon. Linc Watson likely had slid out here.

  So had the gold dust. Lying in the ditch, half covered with dirt and debris carried by the wind, the bag holding a king’s ransom beckoned to him. He brushed it off and tried to lift the bag, only to find he lacked the strength.

  Working open the lacing on the top, he peered inside. The familiar smaller leather bags filled it to the brim. Sitting cross-legged, he pulled the leather cord from one and tipped a bit of the gold dust into his palm. The wind whipped it away. It caught on a rising wind current and turned the air golden. He laughed even harder now. He was a rich man, and he had done it at Mackenzie’s expense.

  Slocum sobered when he realized that wasn’t true. This dust had been pulled from the mine by slave labor. Those working to make the mercury-gold amalgam had been driven crazy by the fumes. How many had died for this hundred pounds of gold at his feet could never be told.

  He wound the leather strip back around the bag. He would figure out later how to repay those who had survived Mackenzie’s predation. First he had to get to Overton. From there a telegram to the army might ensure a troop descending on Wilson’s Creek and routing Mackenzie’s men.

  He considered how best to carry the gold and finally divided the larger bag into two sections, slinging it over the back of his spare horse. The wind spooked the horse and made it difficult for him to secure the bag, even using lengths of rope taken from his lariat.

  Then he froze. On the rising wind came a distant sound he thought far behind him. His hand went to his six-shooter as the whoosh! of wings drowned out the wind.

  A shadow passed over him, then turned to a tiny dot in the storm-cloudy sky. He went into a crouch, six-gun aimed high at Mackenzie as he banked and came hurtling down like an arrow. Slocum fired twice, missed, fired again. Then his six-shooter came up empty.

  He was knocked off his feet as Mackenzie pulled parallel to the ground and thrust out his wings. One tip struck Slocum in the face. Then Mackenzie kicked out and planted a boot in Slocum’s belly, knocking him to the ground.

  Dazed, Slocum struggled to sit up. Then he cried in pain as talons raked his face. Blood spurted from three shallow grooves slashed across his right cheek. He pressed his hand to the wounds, turned right, and then rolled left as fast as he could to avoid a second deadly strike from the fake thunderbird’s talons.

  “You ruined my town. You let my slaves go free and you stole my gold! You are going to die for this!” Mackenzie let out a maniacal laugh that chilled Slocum’s soul. The words were rational but the sounds escaping along with them were pure loco.

  “Sorry I couldn’t have done worse to you,” Slocum said, scooting along in the dirt. His back pressed against one of the rocks by the road, preventing further retreat.

  Mackenzie stalked toward him. The wings snapped back, letting him use his arms freed from the rod and cloth constraints. The sharpened talons glinted in the faint light filtering past the storm clouds. The iron claws flashed when lightning lit the sky. Mackenzie advanced with a curious sliding motion. Slocum saw why. He had fastened talons to his boots, too. What parts of the man that weren’t covered with glued-on feathers were deadly with the knife-sharp spikes.

  Raking the air back and forth, Mackenzie came closer to Slocum. All he needed was a single hard lunge to impale his victim. Or he could let Slocum bleed to death from dozens of smaller cuts inflicted by the honed edges.

  “You will suffer, then I will kill you.” Mackenzie kicked out and caught Slocum in the leg with a spike mounted on his toe. Slocum’s leg gave way. He collapsed to the ground.

  “I’d like to make you suffer, too, you son of a bitch, but I’ll settle for killing your sorry ass!”

  Slocum looked past a startled Mackenzie at Erika, aiming a rifle at the man who had held her captive.

  “You cannot kill the thunderbird!” Mackenzie cawed like a bird and lunged at her as she pulled the trigger.

  Even over the wind, the sound of the hammer falling on a punk cartridge echoed in Slocum’s ears. Before Erika could lever in another round, Mackenzie was on her, forcing her to the ground and raising his hand for the killing stroke.

  Ignoring the pain in his leg and the cuts on his face, Slocum launched himself through the air and tackled Mackenzie. The two went down in a welter of arms and talons with gaudy feathers flying in all directions, carried away by the storm winds. Slocum held Mackenzie close as they rolled over and over, going down the steep road. To release him now meant instant death. As it was, Mackenzie forced a talon into Slocum’s side and sent new waves of pain into his ribs.

  Slocum knew what had to be done to stay alive. He had to kill Mackenzie. But he had been battered and beaten and torn up so much that his strength failed him when he needed it most. Worse, Mackenzie’s phenomenal upper body strength seemed undiminished. Mackenzie kicked him with a spiked boot and penetrated the leather just above his ankle. Slocum toppled as if a lumberjack had chopped down a tree.

  Mackenzie towered above him, lines of madness and anger etching his face. He raised his powerful arms, the talons ready for a killing blow. From higher on the hill Erika cried out. Slocum looked to her, wanting to see her rather than his own death in his last instant.

  He blinked and tried to make out what perched on the tall rock beside the road, back where he had found the gold. A screech more terrifying than anything he had ever heard in his life cut through the wind as immense wings spread. The creature dove straight down—heading for Mackenzie.

  The madman half turned, saw the approaching juggernaut, and tried to fend it off with his talons. Legs with claws more potent than the puny ones Mackenzie wore cut into his body. Wings flapped powerfully, taking him off his feet. In seconds, his death screams vanished into the wind and thunder. A powerful lightning bolt lit up the sky for an instant, illuminating a gigantic bird with a lifeless body dangling from its claws as it flew away.

  Then a sheet of rain marching from the mountains across the road hid the rest of the world.

  “John, are you alive?”

  “Still kicking,” he told Erika. “You showed up at just the right time.”

  “You’re not getting rid of me so easily. I told you I’d wait—and that I’d find you somewhere along the Overton road.”

  She helped him stand. He needed her support more than he cared to admit. She looked at him, eyes wide with fear. “Did you see that?”

  “I didn’t see a damned thing,” he said. “Let’s take the gold, get to Overton, and hole up for a week in a hotel.”

  “Only a week?” she asked, a faint smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

  “Maybe two,” he said. “If they have room service.”

  Supporting each other, they found their horses and rode through the storm, never thinking to find shelter, because they both wanted to put as many miles as possible between thems
elves and the real thunderbird.

  Watch for

  SLOCUM AND THE LONG RIDE

  417th novel in the exciting SLOCUM series from Jove

  Coming in November!