by Jake Logan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Death’s Wake-up Call
There were four humps under blankets in a circle around the fire. Two of them snored loudly. Slocum laid his rifle down, drew his Colt, and squatted by the first sleeper. He stuck a finger to the man’s lips and put the gun muzzle in his face.
“Get up slow. No tricks. No sound,” Slocum whispered.
The man obeyed and rose with his arms high. With him in view, Slocum did the same to the next one. He clapped his left hand over the man’s protest.
“Shut up,” Slocum hissed, and the wide-eyed man obeyed.
“Huh?” the next one grunted, sitting up.
“Shut up. Get out here.” Slocum saw him move under the covers and knew he had a pistol.
The .44 in Slocum’s fist sent an orange flare out of the muzzle and made an ear-shattering blast. The man’s shot was muffled by the blankets, and he fell back from the lead that struck his face like a thud on a watermelon.
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SLOCUM AND PEARL OF THE RIO GRANDE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / October 2008
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1
The bank of the towering dry wash jutted out and forced him to rein the buckskin around the abutment. He’d kept to the confines of the deep arroyos since he’d come off the mountains from over on the Pecos—out of sight, out of mind. The long slopes he rode through eventually dumped into the Rio Grande. This high up in New Mexico, the land was studded with junipers. At a lower elevation there was lots of open country to spot a rider in. One thing that folks noticed and even gossiped about was a stranger riding through their land. He didn’t need anyone talking about where he was headed.
Far to the north of him, the Rockies started in Colorado. From a high point, he could see the snowy peaks on a clear day. To the south, he could ride into Santa Fe in a day or so. The notion of Santa Fe made his mouth water for some fine food and good liquor. There’d be some of both to be found around the plaza—after dark in one of the cantinas facing the park, there’d be a sloe-eyed señorita to dance with him. And come daylight, he’d find her asleep in his warm bed, worn out from his excessive lovemaking the night before.
They were all lovely—the women of Santa Fe. But he had no plans to visit the territorial capital this time; he intended to take the old Spanish Trail up through Colorado and Utah, then end up in California or hell knows where.
It was the loud squeaking of a carreta’s greaseless axle that caught his attention. He must be nearing the Taos Road. He could visualize the two-wheeled vehicle loaded down with supplies, powered by two oxen, with a Mexican man in sandals and white clothing and with a whip in his hand plodding along beside them.
Slocum discovered a cut in the sidewall of the wash, and sent the tough mountain pony to the top of the bank for a look-see. The buckskin gelding he called Heck lunged up the steep slope in hard cat-hops to gain the brim. On the flat ground, Slocum reined him in between two large junipers for cover and dug the brass telescope out of his saddlebags.
The scope tubes extended, he looked through the eyepiece. Instead of a carreta, he saw a dancing barb horse with its dish face, alert pin ears, and smoky gray color. Then he could see the rider and frowned. For a second, he thought the straight-backed rider wa
s a youth, a boy. But no, it was a lady under the flat-crowned hat. She wore a thick leather coat lined with wool. Her throat was wrapped in a white silk rag with blue polka dots, and her black hair was in long, tight braids that danced below her shoulders.
How old was she? No telling, but from her fine horse to her silver earrings that glinted in the bright sun, something about her attracted him. Then the carreta came into sight, and he smiled at the load it bore. A young Hereford bull rode inside the pole enclosure, and even at the distance, his red and white coat glistened. The sire’s husky bawling carried to where Slocum sat Heck high above the road in the clump of junipers. From the fancy bull to the woman’s light-footed horse, everything spelled money, but what he could see of her face fascinated him more than anything else.
The north wind had cut into him ever since he’d left the dry wash’s protection, and he buttoned his unlined jumper against it. He was curious about the woman aboard the gray stud as he let his own mount catch his breath. But there was no way for him to meet her. Besides, he needed to move on. There was no telling where those two deputies from Kansas were. He hoped he’d left them at Fort Union stumped about his whereabouts.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. There was a story about that fine bull and the young woman that he’d like to hear. Rich Hispanic families did not let unwed girls go about on horse-back unchaperoned with bull haulers.
He shrugged and put away the scope. It was time to take the road. He gathered his reins to draw Heck’s head up. The mountain pony was busy snatching mouthfuls of dry grass. A horse like that never missed a chance to eat—a trait that made his kind easy keepers.
Slocum’s thoughts were still on the lady, her gray horse, and the bull as he booted Heck for the road. Maybe when he passed them on his way, he’d learn more about her. In a short while, he overtook the small entourage and removed his hat for her. The squeal of the axle was distracting, but over it he said “Good morning” in Spanish.
She nodded, but her dark eyes did not meet his. Her lips remained in a tight line and her attention was focused on the hills ahead.
“Nice bull,” he said.
She agreed with a sharp nod and checked the dancing stallion. A gust of wind forced her to turn her head aside, and when the wind subsided, she faced the front again. Her coffee-cream coloration was complemented by her black eyebrows and long black eyelashes. Riding along beside her, he wished he could look into her dark eyes. She was in her early twenties, even younger than he’d first thought.
Since she was double-wrapped in the silk scarf, she had no visible neck, but he could imagine it. Obviously, she was not allowing him to enter her world. Someone’s wife? Or simply a strong-willed young woman who wanted no part of a cowboy who looked like he was riding the chuck line?
Moistening his lips, he realized that his beard stubble didn’t help his appearance either.
“May I ask your name?” He didn’t expect an answer. Although they were only a few feet apart, he felt miles away from her.
“Perla. Perla Peralta.”
“Pearl.” He said the translation of her name and nodded in gratitude for her introduction. “Slocum is mine.”
If she heard him over the bull’s bellowing and the cart’s protests, she never batted an eye until she turned and met his gaze. “You live nearby here?”
He shook his head.
“I will need a place to stable him this afternoon.” She meant her bull.
“I’m riding on. Can I find you a place in the next village?”
“There is a church there. Perhaps the padre will know of a place.” Her words sounded more like an internal conversation than one she was sharing with him.
He nodded. “Perhaps we shall meet again, Señorita Peralta.”
“Señora.”
“Señora.”
Someone’s wife? Strange indeed that a man would allow his lovely young wife, without protection, to bring home such a high-priced bull on a notorious road known for robberies and murders. He saluted her and put Heck in a short lope. He’d better get Perla off his mind. He would never penetrate the invisible shield around her. Simply meeting Señora Peralta had roiled his guts, and the short conversation had only made him that much more eager to reach her.
Pearl of the Rio Grande. He wanted to laugh. He’d never heard of anyone finding a pearl in that river, but maybe he had seen the real thing in their brief meeting. And already he’d lost her. She’d evaporated from his life like a small mud hole from a summer shower would evaporate overnight in this arid land.
Still, the straight-backed rider on the dancing gray stallion wasn’t really gone—he couldn’t forget her.
2
The mission at San Juan was a small chapel. Stinging grit from the the wind forced him to duck his head to save his hat. He felt grateful to see the large black letters on the side of the building across the street—CANTINA. With Heck hitched at the rack and the structure blocking some of the wind from the buckskin, Slocum went inside the left double door. The batwing doors were tied back for the cold weather. He found the interior dark save for some flickering candle lamps.
A mustached bartender nodded, wiping the bar with a rag as if waiting for his order. “Buenos dias, hombre.”
“Same to you.” Satisfied they were the only ones in the place, Slocum crossed to the dark bar.
“What can I do for you?” the bartender asked.
“A bottle of whiskey and a glass.”
“Sí.” The man was in his forties, thickly built but not tall. He dropped to his knees and checked his supply under the back bar. “You must be from the road.”
“Yes. I’ll need a place to stay tonight.” He rested his hands on the rounded edge of the bar and stretched his stiff back muscles.
Movement to his right made him glance at the short woman who peered with dark eyes at him, half obscured by the curtain hung over the hall doorway. She smiled and nodded, then frowned at the barkeep, who was still kneeling down searching.
“I thought he was praying,” she said, and laughed. Her hair was short and her dark eyes as large as a doe’s. Her thick lower lip was too large and her exposed cleavage looked like two tubes above the rim of the thin blouse. She whirled around like a free spirit showing off her shapely calves, and then joined him at the bar.
She looked him up and down. “You are a grande hombre.”
“Slocum.”
“Ah, my name is Casita. What is Arturo doing back there?” She stood on her toes to try to see the barkeep, and still was too short.
Ah, is Kentucky Gold good enough?” Arturo asked at last.
Slocum nodded. “You drink whiskey?” he asked Casita.
“Sure,” she said, acting as if the offer was special to her.
“Make it two glasses.” Slocum dug in his pocket to pay.
Arturo nodded and set another glass on the bar. “Three pesos.”
Slocum put the money on the bar top and nodded to the man. With Casita clinging to his waist and driving a breast into his hip, they went to a rear table. She slid in the bench against the wall, and held out her hand for a match to light the candle stuck in the neck of a liquor bottle. He set down the whiskey and found her one. On her knees atop the bench, she struck the torpedo-head match and it flared, igniting the wick. With a smile for her, Slocum slipped onto the bench beside her, and cut the seal of the whiskey bottle with his jackknife. She smoothed her skirt and sat back down with her hip pressed against him.
“I can see you are a man who likes his whiskey,” she said.
He nodded. “Cuts the trail dust.”
“Do you need to leave before morning?”
He shook his head and pulled the cork, then splashed some whiskey in each glass. “I’m in no big rush. Here’s to our health.”
She clinked her glass to his. Then she kissed him hard on the mouth to seal the deal.
“Here’s to good health,” she repeated, and met his gaze. “And much fun.”
“Much fun.”
>
Three men entered, and she twisted around to look at them. A big gringo led two young vaqueros into the room. At the sight of them, she slipped down in her seat like she wanted to shrivel up.
“Where’s Maria?” the big man demanded of Arturo. He looked around like an angry bear, and must not have seen them before he turned back to the barman.
“She is not here, Señor.”
“Where in the fuck is she?”
Arturo shrugged. “Maybe she went to Española.”
“You’re hiding her. Gawdamnit.”
“No, Señor. She is not here.”
Then the man turned in the direction of Slocum and Casita. He stalked across the room toward them. Angry intent was written in his dark eyes and a tic in his cheek showed his internal rage.
At the sight of him, Slocum slapped the cork down in the bottle and started to slide out to stand. This guy had troubles, but he might get himself a lot more charging at Slocum like that.
“He’s a mean man,” Casita whispered, and Slocum acknowledged her words but never glanced at her.
“Who’re you?” the bully demanded.
“Slocum,” he said, looking hard at the man, satisfied the two young riders were drinking cerveza at the bar and only watching the man’s tirade.
“What’re you doing in this country?” he demanded.
“You the damn law?”
“You stay here, you’ll learn who I am.” He pushed in close like he was going to get in Slocum’s face.
His eyes flew wide open when Slocum’s .44 muzzle jabbed him in the gut. He started to back away, and Slocum followed him keeping the gun pressed hard into his belly. “Don’t mistake me, I’ll blow daylight through you. What’s your name?”
“Harvey Ryan, Harvey Ryan.”
“Well, Slocum’s mine, Harvey Ryan. Next time you want to run over me, you’d better be prepared to die. ’Cause I’ll send you to hell.”
“All right, you made your point. All right—”
