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
SLOCUM’S BREAKOUT
Slocum’s Sixth Sense
Slocum started to turn to face the danger he felt behind him when something hard rammed him in the small of his back.
A thousand thoughts coursed through his brain at that moment with blinding speed and none of them made any sense.
“Mister, you even twitch and I’ll blow a hole in you big enough to drive a wagon through.”
Slocum froze and waited for the hammer to drop, for the sound of the explosion that would blot out all his senses and plunge his mortal self into the final everlasting abyss of death . . .
DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
LONGARM by Tabor Evans
The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
SLOCUM by Jake Logan
Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.
DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer
Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .
WILDGUN by Jack Hanson
The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!
TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun
J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SLOCUM AND THE SOCORRO SALOON SIRENS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / October 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54441-9
JOVE®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
1
The old blind horse followed the man on the black. It dragged one foot on the dusty, rocky road, favored the lame hind leg. Its once-sorrel hide was flecked with gray, and there were leathery sores on its shoulders and back. It wore a hemp halter that was frayed and worn from years of use. Its ribs showed through its withered, moth-eaten hide. It seemed to know by the looks of its skeletal frame and blind white eyes that it was making its last journey. The horse seemed to know that it was soon to die.
When John Slocum left Fort Craig that morning, he headed north toward Albuquerque, another contract in his saddlebags. He had just delivered a dozen horses he’d driven up from Las Cruces three days before, and not only was the Army satisfied with the horses, but they’d asked for a dozen more. And Slocum knew just where to get them, from a rancher he knew who owned a horse ranch in Cedar Crest.
The blind horse, he knew, was called Moses, and like its namesake, it would never see the promised land. John’s mind went back to that morning when he was saddling up Ferro to leave the fort. Jimmy Calderon, the sergeant wrangler, had come up to him in the stall.
“John, will you do me a favor?” Jimmy had asked. “A big favor.”
“Depends, Jimmy. Is it legal?”
Jimmy had not laughed.
“It is a serious favor. Did you see that old blind horse out in the corral, standing against the fence?”
“I saw it. It looks like it’s on its last legs.”
“I am supposed to kill old Moses, but I can’t. That horse is almost fourteen years old and went blind two years ago.”
“Just put it down, Jimmy. One shot to the brain.”
“I cannot do that, John. Moses was with the Seventh Cavalry when Custer was massacred. I think one of Benteen’s men rode him. He wound up here at Fort Craig and I took care of him. He had wounds in him from Sioux arrows. He became the mount of a cavalry officer who truly loved the horse. But he was killed by Apaches, and Moses limped back to the post. Just like a faithful old dog.”
“What is it you want from me, Jimmy?”
“I want you to take Moses with you and, well, put him down someplace where he does not know nobody. Someplace quiet where he can hear the doves and maybe hear quail calling in the desert. Put him on a little hill with the yucca and the prickly pear, the nopal and the cholla. He has suffered so much. I can no longer see him to suffer.”
“I don’t like to shoot a horse, Jimmy. It’s as bad as killing a man.”
“I know. I will pay you five dollars to do this for me.”
Slocum shook his head.
“I wouldn’t take money for a thing like that.”
“I will pay for the bullet.”
“No, Jimmy. I can’t take blood money. But I will take the horse with me, and when I find a good place for him to die, I’ll put him to sleep.”
Calderon did not smile, but he got the old halter out of the tack room and harnessed the old horse. He put his arms around Moses’s neck and said good-bye in Spanish. There were tears in Jimmy’s eyes when he handed the halter rope to Slocum.
Slocum looked back at the horse. It hurt to look at him with his blind eyes and ravaged hide, the ribs presaging the skeleton he would soon become. He could almost feel the horse’s pain, but could not understand the animal’s resignation. He had once been a proud horse, a cavalry horse, and he had seen men die and horses flail the air with their hooves when they were shot down by Sioux or Cheyenne.
Now, he rode the ochre road north through a desolate landscape broken only by rocks, cactus, and yucca, as barren, almost, as the Jornada del Muerte, the Journey of Death that had claimed so many lives since the white man had ventured westward. And this place, beyond the Jornada, was just as bleak and unforgiving as Death Valley in California.
The morning cool dissipated under the yellow glare of the boiling sun. It hung in the sky like a shimmering disk of hammered armor plucked from a cauldron filled with molten gold. Long, thin streamers of clouds floated in white plumes across the blue expanse of the tranquil sky.
Suddenly, Slocum’s gaze was broken by the sight of a woman stumbling toward him through islands of stone and prickly pear. Her stringy auburn hair looked damp and her blue eyes were wide with a look that made Slocum think of panic, or fear.
“Mister, mister, can you help me?” the woman sobbed. “My father. He—he’s hurt. Hurt bad.”
She stopped short of the road. She wrung her hands. Slocum looked at her smudged face, the dark lines of tears that had loosened the kohl of her eyelashes. Her dress was flocked with dirt as if she had been dragged through the sand and dirt of the desert. It was wrinkled and torn so that patches of her skirt showed through the faded green fabric.
“Where is he?”
“Just up there, under that little knoll,” she said. “Please hurry. Do you have water?”
“Yes,” he said.
She turned and ran back through the cactus as if she were rushing through dandelions, unmindful of the spines on the prickly pear or the delicate razor-sharp lace of the cholla. He turned Ferro and let the horse pick his way through the rocks and the cactus. The young woman was no longer visible, but he heard moaning and her soft soothing voice.
A man lay in a concave depression just below the knoll. He had no hat and his face was burned to a rosy hue by exposure to the sun. His jaw was stenciled with beard stubble, his lips dry and cracked. He looked emaciated in his torn shirt, his filthy denims. His boots were scarred by rocks and thorns, his clothing embedded with desert soil.
Slocum swung down out of the saddle and ground-tied Ferro and Moses to a small creosote bush. He unslung a full canteen from the saddle horn and carried it to the sprawledout man, whose dark eyes were wet and wide with pain.
The man stared up at Slocum with glazed eyes. Slocum uncorked his canteen and put the spout to the man’s lips.
“Just a taste,” he said. “You look too dry to take more than a sip.”
Water trickled from the canteen over the man’s lips and into his mouth.
The woman gasped and squatted next to Slocum. She touched a hand to her father’s feverish face. The man gurgled as some of the water slid down his throat. He coughed and spat out a few droplets. Slocum took the canteen away and corked it.
Then he looked at the man’s hands. The fingertips were all blackened and he could see small red rivulets under the skin and nails.
“What happened to him?” he asked the woman.
“They—They tortured him,” she said. “There are cuts all over his chest.”
“They?”
“It’s a long story,” she said. “I helped my father escape, but . . .”
“But what?” Slocum asked.
“If they find him, they’ll kill him.”
“What’s your name?” Slocum asked. He realized that the woman was on the verge of hysteria. She looked ready to fall into a swoon.
She stared at him, as if she hadn’t expected the question.
“I’m Penelope Swain,” she said. “My pa’s name is Jethro. Jethro Swain. Oh, mister, will you help us?”
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“I don’t know. We just had to get away from that awful place. Maybe to Fort Craig?”
“That’s a long walk from here.”
“I’d like to take him to his brother’s, but that’s a far piece, too.”
“If you’ll show me the way, I’ll take you and your father to his brother’s. What’s his name?”
“Obadiah Swain. My Uncle Obie. That’s what we call him.”
“Does your uncle know about your father?”
“No, not yet. I think they tortured my pa to find out where he lives, where he has his cache of silver.”
“So, this is about money?”
“Silver, yes.”
“This man, your father, needs a doctor.”
“I’m a nurse. I can tend to him if we can get him to a safe place.”
“I can carry your father double on my horse. You can ride the other bareback.”
She looked over at the two horses.
“That horse looks blind,” she said. “And it’s crippled, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the horse is blind and lame.” He did not tell her that he was going to put the horse down. For now, Moses would serve to carry her on its back, while he carried her father on Ferro. “Before we go, Penelope—”
“Call me Penny,” she interrupted him. “And what’s your name?”
“John Slocum,” he answered. “Before we go, Penny, you’d better tell me what I’m up against. Who tortured your father and who wants to get your uncle’s silver?”
“I don’t know who carried my pa off in the middle of the night, nor who tortured him. But I do know where they were holding him.”
“That might help. Where?”
“Socorro,” she said. “The Socorro Saloon.”
“Socorro? That mean’s ‘help’ in Spanish. I’ve never been there.”
“Yes, the word means ‘help,’ or ‘aid,’ but that saloon is an evil place. My pa isn’t the only one they kidnapped and tortured. And I know some of the men were killed, murdered by those vultures.”
“Vultures don’t murder anything,” he said.
“These vultures at the Socorro Saloon do.”
Slocum drew a breath. He gave Jethro another taste of water and handed his canteen to Penny.
“See if you can get on that old horse,” he said. “I’ll take care of your pa.”
Slocum lifted Jethro up and felt a wetness at the back of his shirt.
When he looked down at his hand, it was covered with fresh blood.
2
“Where are we going?” Slocum asked Penny once they were mounted.
She pointed across the river to a distant point that was meaningless to Slocum.
“How did you and your father get across the river?” he asked.
“I’ll show you,” she said.
The Rio Grande del Norte was a formidable river, wide and deep. As they left the road and angled toward it, he could hear the soft moan of its waters, and when he saw it up close, sunlight glinted off the brown and faint green of its glassy surface. Penny pointed to two rocks a short distance upriver, small boulders that marked a place where the river slowed at a bend and there were sandy islands breaking up the flow. On the other side, there were two more small boulders.
“That’s the ford,” Penny said.
“How deep is the deepest part?” he asked.
“Pa and I waded it,” she said. “In the
deep part it came up to our waists. The bottom is solid there.”
“Let me know if I get off track,” he said, and pulled on the halter rope to shorten it. As Ferro stepped into the stream, Moses followed, his blind eyes oblivious to the danger, but his nostrils turned rubbery as he sniffed the river waters and followed Slocum. The water came up to Ferro’s chest in the deepest part. Slocum lifted his stovepipe boots out of the stirrups to keep them dry.
They reached the other side in less than ten minutes. They came out right next to the two stones that marked the ford.
“You went across perfect,” Penny said. “Now don’t follow that trail. It leads to Socorro, and we don’t want to go there.”
“As you say,” he said. “I wonder if your father’s kidnappers are still looking for him?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But they might be. Just ride off to the right about a half mile and then go straight toward the mountains.”
There was a thin blue break on the distant horizon, and he could see white mountain peaks gleaming in the sun.
He went where she told him to go, and the land seemed to grow more desolate and lifeless the farther they got off the trail. Lizards blinked as they rested on rocks, and he heard a rattlesnake shake its tail in a clump of prickly pear. A quail sat atop a distant yucca and sounded a warning before it took flight and disappeared.
Slocum learned a great deal from Penny as they rode through the bleak, trackless desert, well off the road. He learned a lot, but not enough. She seemed reluctant to tell him too much, or else, he figured, she did not trust him. But as she talked, he tried to form pictures in his mind, not only of her father’s ordeal, but of his addiction to opium, and the mysterious Socorro Saloon.
