Slocum Buried Alive

by Jake Logan

  “Are there so many road agents?”

  “These parts aren’t safe,” Slocum said.

  He settled down and reloaded. As he did, he ran the memory of every shot, every twitch, every rearing horse over in his head. The man who had dropped the rifle had been the sniper killing Mac on the way to Dexter. But the other? The man was smaller. Tiny clues came to Slocum through the flapping duster, pulled-down hat brim, and bandanna hiding the face. The second road agent was likely a woman. Whatever the two wanted, robbery hardly seemed to fit the bill.

  With a snap on the reins, Slocum drove forward slowly until he came to the fallen rifle. He bent low, scooped it up, and looked at it.

  “That’s fancy etching on the receiver,” Miranda said. “The outlaw is sure to want that back. I mean, he must have stolen it and would want to steal it back from you.”

  “All he has to do is ask me for it,” Slocum said, sliding the rifle behind the buggy seat. “I’ll give it back one bullet at a time.”

  “You are a violent man, John.”

  From her tone he tried to figure out if that appealed to her. Killing wasn’t something he went out of his way to do, but if it came down to losing his own life or taking another, he had no qualms about pulling his Colt Navy’s trigger as many times as it took. Since he had signed on to protect Miranda Madison, however reluctantly, a couple more trigger pulls protected her, too.

  “We ought to camp soon,” he said. “Sun’s dipping low, and it’ll be too dangerous to keep driving at night.”

  “We shouldn’t stop. Those road agents won’t run far and will return to rob us. Or kill us.”

  “The horse isn’t up to pulling the buggy much longer, and mine is only saddle broke. He doesn’t take to harness at all.”

  “Very well.”

  He stared at her, wondering at the sudden change of mind. As he swung around another sharp turn, he cast a quick look back along the road and thought he spotted a rider. The outlaws boxed them in if he stayed on the road. The first double ruts he came to looked uninviting, weeds slapping wetly at the wheels and threatening to wrap around the axle.

  Miranda sneezed and daintily wiped her nose with the lace-trimmed hanky stuffed up her sleeve.

  “Goldenrod,” Slocum said. “And there’s an abandoned farmhouse.”

  “Driving through the weeds causes a yellow cloud to rise up.” She sneezed again, as loud as a gunshot. “Please forgive me for being so unladylike.”

  Slocum snorted at that. She was headed for a town passed over by the railroad to marry the undertaker. Society events in Espero weren’t going to be more than a church social, and Slocum hadn’t even seen a church there.

  “I’ll check out the house,” he said, fastening the reins around the buggy frame. He waited until he was just inside before drawing his six-shooter so Miranda wouldn’t see how edgy he was. A quick look around showed the only life to be small, furry, and scuttling away. “Come on in,” he called.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “I have stayed in nicer places.” She sneezed, then added, “Worse, too. The trip from Chicago wasn’t always first cabin.”

  He left her busily swiping at the debris, trying to find a clean spot to lie down. He led the horses to a ramshackle barn and prowled about hunting for sign of a wolf or cougar making its den inside. The place was too dilapidated for such discerning creatures. He put the horses into stalls and tended them the best he could, then returned to the house. Wood remained in a pile behind the house. He hefted a couple logs and carried them inside to the fireplace.

  “I brought in the supplies,” Miranda said. “I’m not much of a cook but think I can whip up something. You chose well.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been on the trail.”

  She looked at him. A tiny smile curled the corner of her lips and a twinkle came to her bright blue eyes.

  “Nor, I suspect, the first time you’ve been on the trail alone with a woman.”

  “You’re partly wrong,” he said.

  “What?” Miranda recoiled and straightened.

  “I’ve never been on the trail with one so lovely.”

  She laughed, dabbed at her nose, and then said, “My, my, aren’t we the Southern gentleman?” Bustling about, she began baking biscuits and arranging the rest to see what sort of meal she could whip up.

  “I’ll fetch more water,” he said.

  “I suppose I did wrong using what you had in the canteens.”

  “Nothing to bother yourself over,” Slocum said. “I’ll see if the pump still works.”

  He took the canteens and went outside to the well. The sun had about finished for the day, and bugs whined all around as he gripped the pump handle and began working it. The sucker washer down below had dried out. Without water to wet the seal, he doubted he had much chance of getting water up, if there was even any in the well. But he kept pumping and eventually a rush of water rewarded his efforts. He filled both canteens and started back into the house when he heard sounds beyond the barn.

  Canting his head to one side, he listened hard. Someone moving about became unmistakable amid the drone of the insects.

  Slocum rushed back to the house and called, “We’ve got company. Stay here while I . . .”

  His words trailed off when he realized Miranda wasn’t inside. Putting the canteens down, he drew his six-shooter and began to explore. He homed in on the distant sound, then froze when he heard a loud sneeze. Slocum turned in that direction. It was away from the disturbance he had already located.

  Steps slow but steady, he went toward the distant trees where he had heard the sneeze—Miranda? It seemed likely.

  The woods swallowed him whole and left him blind. Not a glimmer showed through the dense foliage. Making his way slowly now, he moved as quietly as possible. It wasn’t silent enough.

  A rustle from behind caused Slocum to spin around and go into a gunfighter’s crouch, his six-shooter pointed at . . . nothing.

  Then a heavy body fell from the tree limb above and the darkness became even more intense as he was knocked unconscious.

  4

  Slocum knew he wasn’t dead. Death couldn’t hurt this much. His head threatened to explode as his eyes bulged out and his ears felt as if someone had rammed an icepick through them. He rubbed the knot on his head. As scary as it was, if he hadn’t worn his hat, he would have been in worse condition. The Stetson had cushioned most of the blow.

  He pushed the hat away and gently probed. The pain sent lightning lancing through his head all the way down to his belly, making him sick. He rolled onto his side and retched weakly. After this he felt better.

  And angrier.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible, then opened them to a different world, one of grays and fleeting shadows rather than intense blackness. The shape of his six-gun drew him. The hard butt fit nicely into his grip. This more than anything else made him feel better as he braced himself against a sweet gum tree and pulled himself to his feet. A few seconds of wobbling passed. Slocum pushed his way through the thicket until he caught sight of the house.

  The light from the fireplace caused shadows to move about inside, but the erratic movement told him no human made those dark patches. He skirted the house, hunting for the man who had dropped from the tree and slugged him. Gunfire from the direction of the sounds that had alerted him at first echoed and died quickly, swallowed by the dense vegetation.

  He made his way in that direction, then used the barn as shelter to peer about. A rider approached, hunched over the horse’s neck. When the horse came within a few yards, the rider toppled to the ground, rolled over, moaned, and lay still. Slocum grabbed for the reins and almost had his arm jerked from the socket. He dug in his heels and brought the horse around. Holding the reins down low prevented it from rearing and using its hooves on him.

  In his condition, a single
hoof blow would have killed him.

  He calmed the horse, then tied the reins to a rusted plow handle. Only then did he go to the fallen rider.

  “Help him. Th-They got Frank, too!”

  He grabbed the man’s collar and jerked him to a sitting position. The loose clothing almost came off over the man’s head—the woman’s head. Her hat fell off, letting shoulder-length hair cascade down. The duster and coat she wore were a better fit on a man Slocum’s height and weight, not a woman who weighed no more than a hundred pounds. As he pulled her to her feet, he saw she was a full foot shorter than his six feet.

  The effect of the fall wore off. She began struggling in his grip and almost got away when she skinned out of the duster and the coat beneath. Slocum changed his grip and caught the front of her shirt. It tore away as she fought him, giving a flash of white skin and the valley between her small, pert breasts.

  “Lemme go. You let me go!”

  “You were begging me for my help a couple seconds ago.”

  “I didn’t know who you were then.”

  “You do now?” Slocum caught his breath. He had more than one wanted poster dogging his heels. Some were for minor offenses, but others, like the judge killing, meant his head in a noose if he got caught. “How do you know me?”

  “You work for him. You’re Hawkins’s lapdog. He whistles and you come running.”

  While Slocum puzzled over that, the woman quieted and again gave him more to think about than he wanted.

  “We can swap. Me for them. Me for the three of them. Please, mister, he’ll like that, the son of a bitch!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t. I saw you with McIntyre.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Frank did. Frank’s a damned good shot.”

  “So you’ve got a feud going with Leonard Hawkins?”

  “A feud? Is that what he calls it? A feud! It’s outright war!”

  Slocum wasn’t ready for her to attack him with her balled-up hands. The bony fists hit and hurt. He ignored her until she started clawing for his eyes. His larger hand captured both her slender wrists and held them together, then he lifted until she was up on her toes. This way she could neither hit nor kick him.

  That didn’t keep her from trying. Slocum swung her around until she grunted in pain.

  “Go on, do what you want with me. Only let Frank go. And . . . and my ma and pa, too!”

  Slocum released her so suddenly she collapsed. On hands and knees, she glared up at him.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. If you’ve got a beef with Hawkins, that’s your concern. Where’s the woman from the cabin?”

  “Hawkins’s bitch? The one you were taking to him?”

  Slocum said nothing. The woman could either vent her fury or simmer down.

  “I don’t know. We would have snatched her if we could have, but your boys ambushed us.”

  “After you took a few shots at me out on the road?”

  “Yeah.” She turned more sullen. This put Slocum on guard. When she tried to tackle him, he sidestepped and shoved her facedown on the ground. “Stop, I’m suffocating.”

  He barely heard her complaint since she had a mouthful of dirt. Warily releasing her, he dropped to the ground cross-legged in front of her as she spat dirt. Her glare turned even hotter.

  “I don’t know anything about kidnapping Frank.”

  “And I don’t know a damned thing about you losing that fancy whore!”

  “Might be we have the same problem, only dressed up in different clothing. The men who took Frank—he your husband?”

  “My brother. All the family I have left after Hawkins grabbed Ma and Pa.”

  “They took Frank and maybe they took the woman I was escorting. You sure they work for Leonard Hawkins?”

  “Who else? Nobody within twenty miles of this place would care one whit about Frank or me. Nobody ’cept Hawkins.”

  “What’s his interest?”

  “You know. You work for him.”

  “I just rode in and got lassoed into doing a chore for him. I don’t know anything more than he’s the town undertaker.”

  “He wants to gobble it all up. One by one he’s stealing the ranches and farms around Espero. My pa refused to sell out at a ridiculous price, so Kenneth Hawkins foreclosed, no matter our mortgage payments were up to date.”

  None of this made a lick of sense to Slocum. He kept quiet, waiting for the pieces to come together so he could understand.

  “Pa fought. Got himself a case of rifles and more ammunition than a whole danged Ranger company would use in a month of Sundays. No matter what Hawkins tried, Pa fought him back.”

  “Until?”

  “Until he took them. We don’t know if they’re alive or dead, but Frank’s sure they’re dead, in spite of what Hawkins claims.”

  “Where would his henchmen take them—or Frank? If they swooped down, they might have taken Miss Madison, too.”

  “Miss Madison,” mocked the woman. “She’s safe enough, if they have her—and he still wants her.”

  “I thought tracking the gang that took Frank might lead me to both him and Miss Madison. I was wrong. I’ll get on the trail back in the woods and go after whoever slugged me.”

  Slocum had few enough choices. Tracking Miranda in the dark would be hard, but if he had no idea where the gang, supposedly working for Hawkins, had taken Frank, he had no other choice.

  “You don’t know?” The woman stared at him. Her ire had finally burned itself down to an ember. Slocum saw the anger still in her, but now it went in other directions and not at him.

  “Tell me. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Polly Neville. Who’re you?”

  Slocum introduced himself, then asked her why she roamed around the countryside at such a late hour.

  “My folks own the Box N Ranch, though how we can keep the herd intact since Hawkins has run off all our hands is a big problem.”

  “He kidnapped your parents? When?”

  “Going on a week back’s when Pa and Hawkins got into it. He makes people disappear. You never met a crueler bastard in all your born days. Pa was a fool to fight him, him with so much money and all the men you can buy. He shoulda took the pittance Hawkins offered and moved on, but he got a burr under his saddle the way he got ordered around like he was a servant.”

  Slocum understood how that riled a man. It was bad enough when the tax collector came around wanting to be paid, but forced to sell your ranch for a few pennies on the dollar rankled. That was outright extortion.

  “He’s got a gang working for him?” Slocum watched Polly as she answered and saw no trace of lying in her words.

  “A dozen or more. They do what they’re told because he pays them well.”

  “If he has so many men. why would he need me to go get his betrothed?”

  “Frank said most all of Hawkins’s men have been working way to the south. They ran into a cattleman who wouldn’t roll over and play dead just ’cuz Hawkins said so. They’ve been engaged in a regular range war.”

  “His brother’s all laid up—the town marshal. And I met the banker fellow. He was scared of his own shadow.”

  “That’s the family,” she said. “Junior Hawkins is a cold-blooded killer but can’t think for himself. And Kenneth’s just the same doing whatever Leonard tells him, but he’s no killer.”

  “You think Hawkins’s men took your brother?”

  “Who else could it be? They already got Ma and Pa. With Frank, they have that much more leverage to make Pa sign over the Box N.” She swallowed hard, then looked up at Slocum with tears in her eyes. “If threatening Ma didn’t make Pa sign, nothing would. That must mean she’s . . .”

  “Not a bargaining chip a
nymore,” Slocum said. He had come to the same conclusion. The elder Neville had to be kept alive to make the sale legal, but the woman was nothing more than leverage. If she died, Hawkins needed something more to hold over the rancher.

  “So was your little bundle of joy carted off by Hawkins’s men, too?”

  “I can’t see why they would bother, unless they didn’t know who she was.”

  “As I said, the gang’s been killing and raping to the south and might not recognize her.” Polly rubbed her hands together. “It would be sweet revenge if they raped and killed her and Hawkins found out.” She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But they’re not likely to brag on it if they find out who she is. They know what Hawkins would do to them.”

  “She’s an innocent bystander in all this. She just got in from Houston and hasn’t even seen a picture of Hawkins.” Slocum smiled ruefully. “She didn’t even know he was an undertaker.”

  “Some women get hard up for a man,” Polly said. “Is she real homely?”

  Slocum felt the situation slipping through his fingers. Getting into a discussion with this young woman about Miranda Madison’s looks did nothing to get her free of whoever stole her away nor did it free Polly’s brother.

  “Show me the spot where Frank was taken,” he said.

  “You’re not with them? Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Getting your brother back likely tells me how to find Miss Madison. She matters. Hawkins may be a scum-sucking dog but he hired me to see her safely to Espero.”

  “Got a horse? It’s a mile that way,” Polly said. She stared up at the sky, catching hints of stars through the heavy clouds. “Yeah, that way.”

  Slocum let her fetch her own horse while he went to the barn for his. Mac’s horse still stood in its stall. Whoever kidnapped Miranda had to be riding double. That tired a horse mighty fast and slowed down any retreat. He saddled and walked his horse from the barn, wondering if one stone truly killed two birds. Would finding Polly’s brother also free Miranda Madison?

  He mounted and trotted over to Polly. The clouds parted enough to let moonlight shine on her. He hadn’t noticed how pretty she was. Miranda had a sophisticated look about her, one born of money and social standing. Polly Neville’s good looks came from being out in the sun, riding the day through and enjoying it. Her auburn hair floated on the night as she trotted along. She turned and looked toward him. He couldn’t tell what color those eyes were, but he guessed they were as green as his own.