by Jake Logan
“Don’t do it, Clew. Don’t make me kill you . . .”
“Ha! You can’t beat me, Thlocum. I’m top thot at the ranch.”
Slocum kept a watch on the man’s eyes. They were fixed on him, no wavering. He hoped that meant there would be no chance the kid, Harley, could be up behind him, ready to pounce. Didn’t mean the kid wasn’t aiming for him from some dark corner. Lord knows he’d given the kid and this fool reason enough to hate him.
“Go ahead, Thlocum, drop your rifle and make it a fair fight!” Even as he said it, Clew’s left hand dropped, slicked his gun up out of its holster, and had just cleared leather when Slocum cranked a rifle shot into the man’s gut. Clew’s eyes flew wide open.
He kept raising that gun, slower than a normal man would have, but Slocum had seen plenty of men get shot making bad judgments about dying men’s reaction times. He delivered another lead pill straight to Clew’s middle.
Clew whipped around as if yanked and landed on his back, twitching in the sand. Slocum would have liked to make it a heart shot, quicker and less drawn-out pain for the victim, but there was no time and the distance made it impossible.
Slocum walked to him, toed away the loosely held pistol that, had Slocum been slower, could well have rendered him the victim instead. How many more times did a man such as himself have in this life? He shook his head as Clew’s head flopped to the side and his chest fell, but rose no more.
As Slocum headed around the rocky knob he’d emerged from, he hoped the kid would make a better choice than his two older friends had. So far, he’d seen nothing. Maybe the kid wasn’t with them? Maybe he’d come to his senses and hightailed it on out of there. No, he would have heard the hoofbeats. He didn’t dare relax his vigilance yet. Just because he’d not heard the kid, had not heard the voices of three separate men, didn’t mean the kid wasn’t there somewhere.
He worked his way back around to the front of the rocky draw through which the trail cut, and glancing in every direction at once—or so he wished he could—Slocum slow-walked back toward the opening. Every second spent here was a wasted second. Then it occurred to him. He hadn’t seen the men’s horses yet.
Instead of bearing right, he broke left to explore the far side of the roadway and the boulders clustered there that might well be sheltering the horses. He might soon find out if the kid was among them. And as he skirted the rocks and got his first view of that far side, his heart fell. There were three horses but none of them was his Appaloosa. Somehow he’d hoped that his horse had been miraculously retrieved from the cavelike tunnel.
But no kid either.
“Dammit, kid. Where are you?” he said low and to himself. He got no answer.
A bead of sweat caught in the stubble of his cheek. It felt like an ant on his face. Another tickled and itched, then slid down his eye corner and stung in his eye. He wiped his eyes clear with one grimy hand, and turned back to the other side of the road. Maybe he could get his horse out of the tunnel and ride on out of there while the kid, maybe too scared to come out, stayed put.
Maybe . . . maybe? he asked himself. Slocum, that’s no way to operate. Still, he worked his way back into the passage’s entrance and paused just inside. He didn’t hear the horse yet, but that was no surprise, since he would have probably calmed down by now standing alone in the dark, not smart enough to back out on his own.
Was there some other sound? He was probably imagining things. Slocum advanced, his boot soles grinding out small noises that he wished would not be. He paused again. The tunnel here took a curve to the left, and then a long narrow length at the end of which should be the Appaloosa.
And that was when he heard a sound that shouldn’t be there. A slight rustling that stopped as soon as it started. Sounded just like cloth against something hard—denim pants on rock. The kid?
“Harley . . . I know you’re there.”
A long pause finally broke with a sharp metallic click, the hammer of a sidearm peeling back to the deadly position.
“Kid, don’t be a fool. Everett and Clew are dead.”
“You murdering bastard . . .”
It came out little more than a whisper, but Slocum was surprised it sounded even closer than the gun’s click. The kid couldn’t be more than ten feet away.
“Harley, look. I’m stepping into the path where you can see me. I don’t want to shoot you and you don’t want to shoot me. There’s been enough of that today. You understand? This can all end just fine. We’ll ride back to the ranch together. Have a cup of coffee, talk this thing through. Enough with the guns.”
“You’re a killer and killers need to be killed!”
The kid’s sudden loud voice riled the Appaloosa, far back in the passage behind him.
“Was that . . . your horse?”
Slocum almost smiled. He’d almost forgotten that was the horse that Harley had mistreated—and that had then beaten the living tar out of him. The kid obviously didn’t want any part of what the horse might still have in mind.
Slocum racked in a round and stepped into the rocky corridor. There was just enough diffused light shafting in from both ends to illuminate each man from behind. The kid was about a dozen feet from him, had about six feet to go before he bumped into the Appaloosa.
“Harley, drop the damn gun. This is foolish. I have too much experience with such things and you don’t. What do you think is going to happen here?”
The kid’s features were barely visible in the dim light. And became less so as he backed up. The horse nickered and glanced with a half-turned head toward the kid.
“Harley, don’t keep walking toward that horse. He doesn’t exactly like you, remember?”
“I aim to kill you, Slocum, for all the grief you caused us.” The kid’s voice sounded stuttery, and shook as he talked.
“Harley, enough now. Drop the damn gun and stand still.” Slocum hoped his stern voice would snap some sense into the boy, break through the fog he’d wrapped himself in.
“You go to hell, Slocum!” he called out, and he raised his gun, even as he took one more step backward.
The Appaloosa lashed out so fast that Slocum had no time to defend himself by pulling the trigger on his rifle. The kid’s gun went off, spanged and caromed past Slocum and out the entrance, whizzing like a bee the whole way. But he’d pulled the trigger only as a reflexive reaction when the horse’s hooves slammed into him with the force of twin steam-driven sledgehammers. One struck between his shoulder blades, the other a bit higher, catching the kid at the base of the neck, just where his shaggy hairline began.
Slocum saw the entire thing as if time had slowed, saw the kid’s eyes widen, his mouth drop open, his head snap backward from the impact, then the boy’s body became airborne and pitched to a rolling, tumbled mass at Slocum’s feet.
“Harley! Boy, can you hear me?”
A low moan ended in a wet cough. Slocum bent low, and the boy whispered, “Turn . . . me over . . .”
Slocum knew there was little chance the kid would live, so he complied. The kid never once made a sound in pain, and Slocum realized it was probably because his body was a deadened thing, so badly had the horse hurt the boy.
Slocum sat on the rocky ground, cradled the boy’s head in his lap. “Harley, you have any kin you’d like me to contact?”
“No . . . no. I . . .”
Slocum bent lower over him.
“I ain’t bad . . .”
“Of course you’re not, son. You’re—”
But that was all the boy would ever hear. Harley’s breathing came in slowing gasps, then stopped. Slocum sat there a moment with the boy, then pulled in a long, deep breath and stood. He lifted the boy, surprisingly lighter than he expected him to be, and carried him outside.
He retrieved the three horses, draped each of the three dead men across their saddles, then went around the rock pil
e and in through the narrow channel, came up on the Appaloosa head first. He didn’t know but the horse might still be worked up enough to lash out even at him. He backed the horse on through the narrow stone tunnel and out into the bright sunshine.
The horse blinked and nickered at the other three. Slocum slipped a hand into Everett’s saddlebag, retrieved the hunk of gold ore, and secured it in his own saddlebag. Then he mounted up and led the three horses back to the Triple T.
He had wanted to race back to the ranch, but there was no way he was going to leave those dead men out there to the coyotes and vultures. They might have been misguided, but he’d gotten to know them a little and he felt more of an obligation to them than he did to the other men he’d killed who worked for the colonel.
Despite their deadweight loads, the horses were still fresh enough that they made it back to the ranch in decent time. Still, by the time he dismounted at the rail before the big house, he knew he’d been gone a few hours, long enough for Mulletson to have done bad things to the enslaved mine crew. He quickly cut the dead men down off their mounts, laid them out side by side, then took the stairs two at a time to the front door.
He drew a pistol, and toed open one of the big front doors. It swung in with a long, slow squawk.
22
“Who’s there?” The colonel’s voice echoed out into the grand entry from his study, off to the right. Slocum didn’t respond, just paused, waited for the man to either show himself or go back to whatever it was he was doing in there. The man didn’t appear, so Slocum crept forward.
He peered in through the partially open doors of the colonel’s office, and for a moment was stunned at what he saw. A panel in the wall behind the colonel’s desk was open, the heavy black steel door of a safe swung wide, and inside and atop the desk stood stacks of cash, gold coins, numerous small cloth sacks of what Slocum assumed was gold dust because one was partially opened, as if the man had had his fingers in it. All told, Slocum figured he was looking at a whole lot of money.
“Well, hello . . . Mulletson.” Slocum stepped into the room and kept his pistol trained on the florid-faced man behind the desk. “It looks like you aren’t so strapped for cash after all. Have you been lying to your men and your investors all this time?”
“You!” The colonel’s face reddened even more than it had been, and his beady eyes narrowed.
“Good to see you, too.” Slocum gestured at the money. “What have we here? Payroll?”
“Where are the others? Where are my men?”
“You didn’t really think they were going to do your bidding, did you? There are three less men you’ll have to pay now, you scoundrel. In fact, the only thing they’ll ever draw is the devil’s wages.”
The colonel didn’t even blink at the news. “And my gold ore? Is it safe?”
Slocum nodded. “Yep, outside in my saddlebag. Now, get your hat, Mulletson. We’re heading to the Pit to take care of this mess once and for all. You are going to finally come clean and answer for everything you’ve done.”
“Slocum, no, we . . . we can’t do that. My money! My gold!”
“Who’s gold is that? What’s that there, on your hands, Mulletson?” Slocum gestured with his pistol.
“What? What are you talking about?” The colonel looked at his hands. “I don’t see anything.”
“Oh, I see it plain as day. That’s blood and sweat, tears and heartache and sadness. That’s shame and humiliation. Those are things you can’t ever wash off, no matter how strong a lye soap you use. And I am holding you personally responsible for every last bit of it. Now lock up that money because I know some folks who’ve earned it. They’ll be needing it soon.”
Surprisingly, the colonel looked at Slocum and smiled. Then he said, “Like hell they will.”
Slocum turned too late to see much more than a black blur as something swung down at his head. He collapsed and looked up, his eyesight dimming, his hands strangely not working. There above, looking down at him, Tita smiled, and she was joined by Mulletson, also grinning.
The colonel lifted out his pocket watch and regarded it. “Oh yes . . . the people in the Pit? Those deficients you befriended?” He tapped the face of the watch. “They should all be dead by now.” He nodded to the girl, who hit Slocum again.
Daylight blinked out for Slocum.
23
The gunfire began three or four hours after Slocum left the rim. Eli couldn’t be certain just when. But he didn’t take it as a good sign—probably meant that Slocum hadn’t been successful and that the colonel had killed him. Or had him killed. Too damn bad. Eli had liked that crazy cowboy. Kind of fellow you knew when you talked with him didn’t pay attention to the color of your skin, but to who you really were inside, and to what you were saying.
No matter, because the entire rim had erupted in a rain of lead, all aimed at the mine entrance. If what Slocum had said about the colonel’s money situation was true, you wouldn’t be able to tell by the amount of lead these boys were throwing.
Every few seconds, rock chips spattered and stung, stuck into his arms, his cheeks. So far none had flown into his eyes.
Eli’s main concern was for his fellow prisoners. There was no way he could really protect them, except to keep them hidden in the mine entrance. He returned fire as much as he could, but their ammunition was limited, and the rim guards, though a lot fewer than there were a few days before, had learned from the hard lessons Eli and Slocum had doled out and had brought over old logs, built up a few earth berms. Some even crouched behind saddles. All that made it difficult for Eli to get a decent shot in, but he did return fire now and again just to let them know he was still in the game.
“Eli.” Marybeth touched his arm. “It just occurred to me that the reason they’re driving us back and keeping us in the mine is because they’re going to blow it up with us inside.”
“I know, I know,” he said, sighting along the top edge of a saddle, then squeezing off a shot. He saw the bullet hit the leather edge, then plow through a tall gray hat just behind. “It don’t make sense that they’d blow us up, but that must be the plan. There ain’t no other place to go anyhow. We make a break for it and they’ll shoot us down like fish in a barrel. I don’t know what else to do—do you have any ideas?” He dragged his palm across his forehead and wiped the sweat on his ratty trousers.
Before she could answer, they heard a gagging sound to their right. At the other side of the wide mine entrance, the old man everyone called Cho, an ancient Chinese, collapsed to the ground, a ragged red hole in his neck, blood welling out.
Marybeth ran to him, dragged the man back away from the entrance, but Eli could see the man was dead, or would be in seconds, sure as it snowed in Montana in winter.
“What was he doing up there?” he asked no one in particular. “Didn’t he see it was dangerous?” But he wasn’t really mad at the man, just sad for him. The old man had been one of his favorite people. Always worked hard, never spoke a word in the entire time Eli knew him, never complained when he had to go without food.
“Maybe he just got tired of it all,” said Eli, surprised at himself for sounding so cold and measured about the man’s sudden death.
Marybeth closed the man’s eyes and did her best to compose him so that the others might not be too upset by the sight of him. “I wish I had seen him, wish I could have stopped him.”
“I wish Slocum had been successful,” said Eli.
“You don’t think he was?” Marybeth looked at him with such worry that Eli immediately regretted having said it.
“I just mean that . . . it’s been a while. I expect he’s still working that old colonel over a bit, getting us a deal of some sort.” He forced a smile, but he could tell she didn’t believe him.
“Oh my God,” said Marybeth, pointing skyward.
Eli looked up in time to see a stick of dynamite twirling towar
d them, end over end, its fuse spitting smoke and sparks. It landed thirty feet from the entrance. He licked his lips, threw down the rifle, and snatched up a battered shovel, then bolted out of the mine, straight for the dynamite, its fuse seconds from reaching its end.
“Eli, no!” Marybeth shouted, but there was nothing more she could do. She watched as he reached the stick and slammed at the sizzling wick as if he were stabbing the head off a particularly foul rattler.
• • •
No sooner had Eli raised the shovel for one last stab at the wick of the dynamite, then he felt a blazing pain in his back. It wracked through him as if he’d been punched by lightning, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from his prize. He dropped to one knee, tossed the shovel aside, and snatched up the dynamite, its half-inch wick barely protruding from the end of the stick.
As he lurched for the mine entrance, his vision began blurring, sounds like thunderclaps seemed to surround him, shouts of familiar voices reached him. The entrance was there, somewhere ahead, wasn’t it? His eyes seemed to cross, played tricks on him.
And then he was back in the mine, looked up, and saw Marybeth, that nice woman who could make rattlesnake taste like chicken, then everything went black.
24
“Where am I?” Slocum thought he said it. But his mouth tasted as though it had been filled with gravel and his head filled with more of the same. He opened an eye. Hit in the head, that’s what happened. Now he remembered. That damn girl, Tita. He had to keep a sharp eye out for that one. She was a menace.
He tried his question again. “Where in the hell am I?”
“Oh, you’re awake, John Slocum. Good, because I need your help.”
He forced his eyes open wider, and was pleased to note that he didn’t seem to have much of a headache. Must be getting used to being hit from behind, he thought.
