by Jake Logan
Sergeant Wilkinson jerked hard on the reins to keep the horse moving straight ahead. “Don’t go gettin’ skittish on me. We’re close. I know it.” Wilkinson reached down to pat the horse’s neck.
Slocum moved like lightning. He stood and grabbed, both hands circling Wilkinson’s brawny wrist. Digging in his heels, Slocum yanked with all his might. In spite of Wilkinson’s bulk, the prison guard went flying through the air. Slocum never released his hold on the sinewy wrist. Instead, he jerked upward and felt the arm separate from the shoulder. The dislocation left Wilkinson with only one good arm—even better, he landed hard and lay stunned.
Following up his initial attack, Slocum swung around and fell heavily, his knee driving into Wilkinson’s belly. The air gusted out in a sudden whoosh! Slocum pulled his pistol, swung hard, and caught Wilkinson alongside the head. The crunch told of a solid impact. The guard slumped, unconscious.
Panting harshly, Slocum rolled Wilkinson over onto his belly and used strips from the man’s shirt to hog-tie him. With the guard’s pistol stuck into his belt, Slocum stepped back and studied his handiwork. He wasn’t satisfied. He added a gag to keep him from crying out. Only then did Slocum go after the guard’s horse.
Swinging into the saddle, he turned the horse’s face back toward the road and reached the spot where a decision had to be made. North returned him in the direction of the Valenzuelas—and San Quentin. If he went south, he could curl around the bottom of San Francisco Bay and then head north to Oregon. But searching for him as an escaped prisoner might have ranged in that direction from San Quentin. It was better if he returned south and kept riding. From there he could decide what was best, although the thought of the Arizona desert this time of year wasn’t too appealing.
On the other hand, having his tongue swell up from lack of water in the Sonoran Desert was more enticing than being sent back to San Quentin.
He rode south.
Dawn cracked the sky and promised an open road where he could make better time, but something settled into the pit of his stomach. He had ridden a half-dozen miles from where he had ambushed Wilkinson. The guard wasn’t likely to have followed him, but an uneasy sensation told Slocum somebody was watching him. He rode off the wide dirt track and circled to get a look at his back trail.
Nothing. He was the only one on the road. But the feeling refused to go away. Slocum had learned to listen to this sixth sense because it had kept him alive over the years. He was tired to the bone and knew he should rest. Worse, his horse was beginning to stumble. Riding the horse to complete exhaustion was foolhardy. On foot, he would be an easy target for Wilkinson or Sheriff Bernard.
Thought of the sheriff made Slocum narrow his eyes and study the road where he had just ridden more closely. Did he see a fountain of dust rising? Or was it only a fitful morning breeze? He knew he might be inventing pursuit when there wasn’t any. Wilkinson might have shot the sheriff and left him dead in the jailhouse. There had been the exchange of shots that Slocum hadn’t bothered to investigate.
He dismounted to let the horse crop at tufts of grass growing between the trees. Stretching betrayed aching muscles. He yawned and knew he would fall over in a stupor if he didn’t get some sleep, but he couldn’t do that because of the uneasy feeling. Not seeing anyone on his trail ought to have quelled the sensation—but it hadn’t. If anything, he felt even jumpier.
Making sure the horse was tethered but still able to pull at the juicy grass, Slocum began hiking through the woods intent on keeping hidden from anyone who might be traveling the road.
Less than a mile along, he was glad he had been so cautious. Three men had left the road and huddled around a small fire heating coffee. He didn’t recognize two of them but the third stood, looked around as he drank from a tin cup, and then stretched to reflect a sunbeam off his badge. Sheriff Bernard’s instincts were as good as those of Sergeant Wilkinson.
Slocum cursed under his breath. He had a small posse on his tail and wouldn’t stand much chance shooting it out with them. Even if he could ambush them the way he had Wilkinson, he would have to risk getting shot himself.
The sheriff finished his coffee, wiped out the cup with his bandanna, and then stashed his gear in his saddlebags. The others broke camp, preparing to follow their escaped prisoner.
Slocum found himself in a predicament. He had walked almost a mile from his horse. The posse could reach the spot where he had left the road long before he could return to his stolen mount. If he hightailed it now, he might mask his trail on foot, but he was sick and tired of walking everywhere.
The sheriff led the way, a deputy riding alongside. The third deputy was having a difficult time with his saddle. Every time he tried to tighten the belly strap, the horse reared and fought him. Slocum knew this was his chance. Gripping the pistol he had taken from Wilkinson, he walked briskly toward the struggling deputy. The man never looked up from his battle with his horse until it was too late.
Slocum swung the pistol and buffaloed the deputy, dropping him like a stone. The horse shied away and continued to kick up a fuss. Slocum ignored the horse for the moment, more intent on the pistol in his hand. Etched into the barrel were the words PROPERTY OF SAN QUENTIN. He hefted the weapon, then dropped it on the ground and took the deputy’s six-shooter. Only then did he turn his attention to the reluctant horse.
More than once in his checkered career, Slocum had worked breaking broncos. This horse hadn’t been properly trained and to take the time to do so now would guarantee that he would end up in the sheriff’s jail again. Instead of leaping on the saddle, Slocum grabbed the cinch and loosened it. The horse settled down and actually let him get close to yank the saddle from its back. He tossed the gear away, took the reins, and vaulted onto the animal’s back. The horse reared and tried to throw him, but its heart wasn’t in the fight. Slocum concentrated on simply staying on, then guided the horse away from the fallen deputy and got on the road. He turned northward and let the horse have its head.
When the horse began to tire, he gently guided it toward the wooded area on the eastern side of the road, got into the trees, and began working his way back southward toward the horse he had taken from Wilkinson. This horse didn’t much cotton to a rider, but not having the saddle screwed down tight made it an easier ride.
The sheriff and his deputy had ridden a fair distance down the road, but when the third member of their posse hadn’t caught up, both had retraced their path. Slocum watched them passing in the direction opposite to his as he threaded his way through the trees. By the time he reached his horse, the one he’d taken from the deputy took it into its head to throw him at the first opportunity.
Slocum slid from the horse’s back before that could happen and clung to the reins. He had use for the horse that didn’t include riding. It took him a few minutes to go over his mount to be sure it was rested and well fed. He stepped up, looped the other horse’s reins around the saddle horn, and then continued his way south through the copse until he reached a wide meadow that stretched flat and inviting—except that any rider on the road would spot him instantly.
It might be a half mile or more across. Slocum had to guess whether the sheriff had found his fallen deputy yet. Probably so. Leaving Wilkinson’s pistol might muddy the water a little, but Slocum couldn’t count on the sharp lawman being all that confused. By laying the false trail, Slocum gained a little time. Or possibly not. Bernard might decide that he was being decoyed away and split his forces. One deputy might go northward while he continued south. The one on foot might ride with the other deputy.
Slocum rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to think straight. All this “what if” was giving him a headache. What he knew for a fact was he had at least a half mile of wide open meadowland to cross and sitting worrying what the sheriff might do accomplished nothing.
He put his heels to his horse and fell into a quick gait to get to the far side where he could disappear once more into the forested area. The deputy’s horse put up s
omething of a fuss, but a constant pull on its reins kept it trailing along without much trouble, though Slocum knew the horse would rear and lash out with its hooves in an effort to break free the instant the pace slackened.
And that was exactly what happened. He slowed as he approached the trees and saw thick undergrowth. The thorny bushes would cut his horses’ legs if he pushed through them. Seeing no way around it, he trotted to the road. Where the road had been straight up to this point, it began winding about through the forest. That would give him a measure of cover—only he realized he had no time to gallop far enough to gain it. The sheriff and a deputy appeared a half mile back, just coming to the far edge of the meadow.
Horse at a dead gallop, he raced along the road, but he had tired out both animals. He released the reins on the deputy’s horse so it could follow its own head and leave a bogus trail. Slocum doubted the sheriff would be fooled. Worse, the sheriff probably knew Wilkinson had nothing to do with slugging the other deputy if he recognized Slocum. A half mile away, possibly taken by surprise, the sheriff might not have gotten a good look at his quarry.
Slocum had to believe he had. Trying to decoy the sheriff and make him believe Wilkinson had attacked the deputy was a spur-of-the-moment plan. He wasn’t any worse off if it didn’t work. But that did nothing to get him out of the sheriff’s tenacious clutches. The man probably considered an escaped prisoner to be a personal affront. If he recaptured Slocum, he could lord it over Wilkinson, too—if he didn’t throw the prison guard in jail for trying to break Slocum out of the Miramar jail.
He took a sharp curve in the road, bent low over his horse, trying to get as much speed as possible. The horse’s strength faded again. Slocum felt the energy leaving the legs even as the huge lungs began to strain for air.
The sudden gunshot caused Slocum to jerk around. His heart jumped when he thought Bernard was close enough to open fire on him. But he saw two men step from the forest, one on either side of the road, rifles to their shoulders. They fired at the pursuing lawmen, not Slocum.
His horse stumbled and almost fell, forcing him to regain control. As he slowed, he saw a man step out from the forest, a rifle in his hands. Slocum went for his six-shooter, then stopped.
“This way if you want to get away,” Procipio Murrieta said, motioning into the woods.
Slocum put heels to his tired horse’s flanks and rocketed in the indicated direction.
8
“You’re the last man I ever expected to see,” Slocum said, dismounting to stand beside Procipio Murrieta. “That’s twice you saved my bacon.”
“That is one dangerous man who follows you,” Murrieta said.
“You don’t have to tell me that. He’s sheriff up in Miramar and about as friendly as a wolf with its fangs stuck in my leg.”
“This I know. He will never stop. Does he know you as a prisoner from San Quentin?”
“Reckon he does,” Slocum said. “Sergeant Wilkinson came by to make sure he knew, but Bernard wouldn’t release me. Wilkinson tried to break me out, but I got away.”
“The sergeant is again returning to San Quentin,” Murrieta said. “The gossip is that he lost his gun and his horse but will not say how.”
“I had both. This filly?” Slocum said, patting the neck of the horse. “That’s his, and I left his pistol beside a third deputy.”
“The other horse you let go free in the woods?” Murrieta laughed heartily. “You are a horse thief, Jarvis.”
“Not my name,” Slocum said. He introduced himself.
“You hide from a bigger prison sentence?” Murrieta had the look of a man who wanted the truth and would burrow and dig until the wound festered or he found out what he wanted. Slocum told him the sorry story of how he had been duped.
“So your cojones did your thinking, eh?” This made Murrieta laugh again. Slocum wasn’t as inclined to feel charitable about it now. “That proves you are a man. What man has not been betrayed by a woman?”
“This one won’t be again anytime soon,” Slocum said. He looked around uneasily. They were only a dozen yards into the woods away from the road. “The sheriff . . .”
“He will not trouble us. Sheriff Bernard is no fool. With only one deputy, he would see he is no match for so many guns.”
“Your gang?”
Murrieta snorted and shook his head.
“I am not my father. I am no outlaw by intention. But the law makes me into one. All I want is to raise crops and a family. In peace.”
“You were in prison because your pa was an outlaw.”
“Whenever a crime is committed, I am the first the sheriff seeks. If I cannot find an alibi, I am arrested. So it is with all those who follow me.”
“Follow you?”
“I am alcalde for my small village. I try to lead them, to keep order according to our own laws, but it becomes more difficult.”
Four men rode up, all sporting bandoliers crammed with shells. They could stand off an entire army with that much ammunition. Slocum decided the sheriff wasn’t such a coward after all if he saw even one of Murrieta’s band and hightailed it back to town.
But simple peones wouldn’t be armed to the teeth, even if it was as Murrieta claimed.
“You see their guns, eh? We are no longer pushed about. We fight. I did not ride with my father, but I still learned a great deal about rifles and fighting from him. Come along, Slocum. We go to my village.”
Slocum swung into the saddle, happy to put even more distance between himself and Sheriff Bernard. As they rode slowly, he asked, “How’d you get out of San Quentin? After you gave yourself up so Valenzuela and I could get away, I figured you would be clapped into solitary for a year.”
“The time to make a good escape is when they least expect it. I returned to their prison, tail between my legs like a whipped cur, and they thought I was defeated. They became careless and I escaped before they had even returned me inside the walls.” Murrieta rocked back in his saddle and held out his leg, pulled up his pant leg and showed where the skin had been cruelly abraded. “I got off one leg iron, and the rest was easy.”
“But you had to get away from their search parties,” Slocum said.
“You wonder if I had a way to freedom and denied it to you and Valenzuela? No,” Murrieta said. “Luck favored me. I got to the Bay and found a boat. It leaked, but I rowed hard and found a fog bank. I continued to row, but when the fog lifted, I saw I had rowed back almost to where I had found the boat.” He chuckled. “It was then that my strength almost fled, but I refused to surrender. I rowed across the Golden Gate and lost myself in San Francisco. Once there . . .” He shrugged eloquently.
Slocum figured Murrieta had plenty of friends there willing to get him back to his village. They might even have ridden with his father, though Procipio would be hesitant about making that claim since he obviously wanted to be thought of as law-abiding.
Slocum wondered how much of the law Murrieta actually followed as they rode into his town. The adobe buildings were pockmarked from bullets, and the men who came out were all heavily armed. This might be an outlaw hideout rather than a simple farming village. But farther to the east Slocum saw fields of beans growing. Acequias had been built for irrigation, and farm tools were stacked near many houses. Whatever the truth, it was more complicated than casually looking around would ever reveal.
“You are tired. Hungry, too, eh? Come into my house, and we will see to your needs.”
Murrieta dropped to the ground. A young boy of ten or twelve rushed out to take the reins. He took Slocum’s, too, and led the horses away. The rest of Murrieta’s gang had disappeared among the houses. Anyone riding up now would think this was nothing more than a sleepy farming community rather than an armed camp.
Slocum ducked his head low as he entered Murrieta’s house. The smell of brewing coffee made his nostrils flare. His belly rumbled loudly enough for Murrieta to hear.
“Sit. We eat simply but well.” He dropped a china plate in f
ront of Slocum and ladled out beans. A tortilla was added. Slocum had already wolfed down a mouthful when Murrieta put a cup of coffee near his hand.
“How is it you came to this part of California?” Murrieta asked.
Between mouthfuls, Slocum recounted his travels up from the drought-stricken South. He was feeling more human by the minute. When he’d polished off a second plate of beans and two more tortillas, he was feeling downright sociable.
Movement behind him, though, sent Slocum reaching for his six-shooter. He hesitated when he saw a woman silhouetted in the doorway, the morning sun shining through her dark hair and completely erasing her face. But there was no disguising the curves and the lithe way she moved.
“Lo siento,” she said. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“I don’t usually sit with my back to the door,” Slocum said. “Getting careless.”
She spoke in rapid Spanish to Murrieta. Slocum followed some of it but not much. There was trouble of some kind between two of the villagers.
“I must go make peace. Maria will keep you company.” With that, Murrieta left, pushing past the woman.
For a moment, Maria hesitated, then came in and stood by the table.
“Is there anything more I can give you? It looks as if Procipio has fed you well.”
“Not his cooking,” Slocum said. “Yours?”
“Oh, no, not mine.” Maria looked away and actually blushed.
“But you wish you could cook for him?”
Her fiery eyes fixed on Slocum. This time there was no shyness.
“He is not for me. He is not for any in the village, though he claims there is someone down south. Procipio hints at a family.”
“So he doesn’t fool around with any of the women in this town?”
“Never!”
Maria pulled up a chair and sat next to Slocum. Their knees brushed. She did not pull away, and he damned himself when he didn’t draw back. She was beautiful, but he ought to have had his fill of beautiful women after Conchita. Something about Maria’s forthright, open manner appealed to him. But he had never questioned Conchita’s honesty either, until he had broken José out of San Quentin and returned to their house. Then it had been too late to do anything about her lying ways.
