Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382)

by Logan, Jake

  The big boy was really rattling now. Slocum wanted that shady spot and the snake didn’t want to give up his perch, so he had a decision to make. Walk on and leave the snake to its own devices? Risk a shot, for the meat and for his safety? Risk the clan hearing the shot and sending someone back to sniff around, see who was on their back trail? That was what he would do if he were in their position and heard a gunshot. But he knew they wouldn’t do what he would. And even if they surprised him and did, he’d be well off the road and in a perfect spot to get the drop on whoever drew the short straw.

  “Sorry, chum,” said Slocum, “it’s you or me.” He cocked his rifle and, with a single shot, delivered the coiled and poised hissing rattler to his maker. A couple of short minutes later found him slicing the meat of the skinned snake into chunks. He didn’t want any just now, but knew his body would need sustenance at the end of the day.

  He dragged himself into the shade of the overhanging ledge and within a few minutes had slipped into a light slumber. He awoke sometime later—by the sun he reckoned he’d been asleep less than an hour, just enough to refresh him. He figured he could get a few more hours in before stopping for the night. He slid out of the ledge’s shade and almost put a boot down right in front of another rattler. This one raised a fuss, and just as Slocum was ready to shoot it, the snake had the good sense to slither away, into the shade of a ground squirrel’s hole. Slocum was relieved—he had no urge to waste another shot on a snake and he had a trail to follow.

  Sometime later, a rabbit loped across the roadway in front of him. But he was lugging snake meat, and again, didn’t fancy dealing with another carcass that day. He had hoped to make it to the little stream by nightfall, but well into dusk, he still hadn’t reached it. He was tired and decided to keep on for a while longer. The moonlight, as it had been the previous two nights, was still strong, and the cooler air was welcome.

  Soon, with a welcome relief that drew a deep-chested sigh from him, he heard the stream. Now he knew precisely how far he was from the farm. He also remembered a cluster of boulders just off the trail that had shown signs of scorching from a previous traveler’s campfire, no doubt. He’d make a small fire, cook up his snake meat, drink his fill of water, and settle in for what he hoped was a decent night’s rest.

  And then, in the morning, he’d light off early and hopefully make it to the farm sometime in the late afternoon. If it was much later than that, he’d gauge his distance from it accordingly and wait out a few hours, then strike hard and fast in the middle of the night. Though he’d been mulling it over all day, he’d settled on no specific plan. And that was just the way it had to be—until he knew who and what he was dealing with.

  But he could go in with a general sense of what needed doing. And first and foremost, he needed to get the Appaloosa and then, if it seemed like the decent thing to do, he’d assess whether butting his nose into the family’s affairs any more than he had was even worth it.

  But every time he decided to just grab his horse and go, he thought of those little kids, of the desperate looks on the women’s faces, and knew their lives would be hell under the old Bible-thumper—worse than they had ever been, and judging from what he’d seen and heard, that was saying something.

  He dumped the armload of tinder, kindling, and branches by the stones, toed a couple of them into place, and built a fire. He struck a lucifer with his thumbnail and set it to the slivers of bark, leaves, and a frayed snatch of cloth he’d sliced from his denims. They were ruined anyway and the cloth would make lighting the fire easier.

  Within minutes, he had a decent little blaze cracking and snapping. The flames’ light danced and wavered, bewitching his tired eyes. He shook his head and went back for that length of dried log he’d seen just out of the firelight, then scrounged up two more branches, thin whips ideal for spearing the meat he’d carried wrapped in the cloth sack where he’d also kept his biscuits.

  In no time, the meat began to sizzle and drip, and he found himself licking his lips, in anticipation of eating. He wished he’d thought to bring salt, as that would draw out the flavor even more. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Slocum, my boy,” he said to no one but himself. It felt odd not to at least have the horse for company.

  And as he dined, swearing to himself it was the best damned meat he’d ever had, he hunkered deeper into his vest and turned his thoughts to getting a plan formed. He wasn’t quite sure just how to deal with the Bible-thumper and his band of acolytes.

  He dragged the back of his hand cross his greasy lips and chuckled. Of course he would deal with them somehow. The men shot at him, shot at and grazed women, and didn’t seem to care that there were children in the house. By all accounts they treated their women like cattle, mere breeding stock. Hell, Slocum had known ranchers who had more regard for their cattle, and who, while huge, solid men who brooked no lip or complaint from their hired hands, walked on tippy-toes around their wives and daughters, worshipping them and acting as if the sun rose and the moon set all for the women in their families. A far cry from the old crablike sunburned farmer.

  What made a man so weak in the head that he succumbed to such savage behavior? It was one thing to believe in God, or any god, and the teachings in what so many called the “Good Book,” but it was entirely another to allow it to stunt and warp your views so thoroughly that you treated anyone else as an inferior creature.

  With these thoughts on his mind, Slocum, leaning back against the smooth rock, pulled his vest tighter around him. His leg, still sore, no longer throbbed, for which he was grateful. He slid his cross-draw holster with his Colt around so it sat snug against his satisfied stomach, and rested his fingertips on its use-worn ebony handle.

  His rifle lay cocked and angled across his leg, and his hat angled low over his face, resting lightly on his nose tip. It smelled slightly of sunlight and dust and trails and wood smoke and sweat. The random cracks and snaps of the fire lulled him into a deep, hard, dreamless sleep.

  The snapping and yelping of a dog awoke him sometime later. It was still dark and Slocum still felt tired, unrested, but there would be time for more rest later. Sounded like he had a coyote problem. He lay still, save for his eyes, which roved left and right, but he saw nothing. The little fire had dwindled down to a few glowing coals.

  Keeping his back to the boulder, he laid tinder, then larger sticks, atop the coals. All the while the yelping and snarling continued, from far to his left, then to his right. That was how they worked, he knew. He’d had plenty of experience over the years with nighttime scavengers. And the worst part of it was that he wouldn’t get much more sleep that night.

  They must have sniffed the cooking snake meat. That smell could tempt most meat eaters for miles around. Couldn’t really blame them. If he were hungry and afoot with no food and he smelled it, he’d probably invite himself to the campfire looking for a bite or two. He just had to make sure they didn’t get a bite off his arms or legs. He’d had enough bleeding from wounds for a while, thank you.

  They were brazen, though, and would most likely come at him in numbers, flashing their teeth and mangy hides, darting closer all the time to his fire. Hoping for a free meal. What they’d get would be a bullet in the head or chest.

  And so his night went, several more hours of feeding the log he’d dragged over into the fire. Slocum had no intention of leaving the relative safety of the big rock he was leaning against. He kept the rifle cocked and positioned beside him, the Colt Navy at hand, and a big handful of bullets in his vest pocket. He’d found them easy to grab at times such as this.

  The coyotes darted in and out again, their eyes reflecting and glowing like colored glass baubles in the firelight. He hoped Judith wasn’t having such troubles. He hoped the log would last until morning, he hoped his leg wasn’t becoming infected, he hoped the women were not suffering too badly under that tyrant, Rufus Tinker.

  He h
oped Tunk Mueller was at that very moment being strung up by an irate rancher, just because he didn’t like the looks of him. Slocum hoped a lot of things, and worked like hell to stay awake. But as gray light cracked the horizon, he lost the fight with sleep. His chin sagged to his chest as the last of the log reduced to cinders, and the yips of the damned coyotes trailed away toward some hidden den deep in the rocky countryside.

  22

  Slocum woke up in full daylight and cursed himself for wasting time and risking his hide with coyotes who would have liked nothing better than to sink their teeth into his leg or arm or head.

  He spent a few minutes slowly unfolding himself from being huddled tight, trying to conserve heat. It had been a cold night, and since he’d had to travel light and fast, he’d left his gear hidden in the barn back at the little abandoned farm. And that meant no blanket or extra clothes. He stomped heat back into his good leg and massaged around the wound on his other leg to get his circulation flowing. No time for a campfire. Instead, he drank deeply from the canteen, then topped it off at the stream. The water made him cold, but he hit the trail and rubbed his arms on and off until the sun warmed him.

  At mid-morning, he noticed a sudden lack of sound—no light bird chatter, no squirrels, even the breeze seemed to have dissipated. And then he heard a low, rasping sound, as if a fat man were walking along slowly, exhaling with each step he took. He’d been moving along at a decent pace, but had taken care to move as quietly as possible, not scuffing his boots on rocks, keeping to the softer spots, just in case the Bible-thumper or his son was prowling about. But now, with this new sound, Slocum slipped in among the trailside tree growth and boulders.

  He crouched in silence, his rifle cocked, his pistol ready to be grabbed. The chuffing, sawing sound grew louder, closer, and then, across the trail and up a bit, he saw the massive honey-colored head of a grizzly. No wonder all the other animals had piped down. The thing looked to be a big male, small ears, shoulder hump wagging with each forceful step; the claws, curved surgical implements fully four inches long, wobbled with each step. The nose, almost as if it were a living creature all its own, roved left and right, sniffing for something to eat. This thing was death on four legs.

  Slocum knew he was screwed. The beast, on all fours nearly chest height at the shoulder, would render him close to death with a single swipe from one of those forepaws. The creature looked to be in good health, and Slocum knew that shooting a rattlesnake was one thing, but a bull grizz? These things were born killers, instant to anger and, pound for pound, as tough as a wolverine but a whole lot bigger.

  He’d have to get in a heart shot, then pray for a quick end. He considered shooting out the beast’s eyes, but that would only make it angrier. And outrunning it wouldn’t have been possible even if both his legs had been sound and in good shape, but he stood less than no chance of outrunning the grizzly with one pin ailing. No, his only chance was to sit tight, hope like hell the thing passed him by. He also wished he’d done some hunting on the trip and had more meat—a rabbit, anything that might satisfy this brute should it decide to sniff him out.

  And then that’s what it did. As it lumbered across the road, Slocum held his breath, kept perfectly still. He still had some broiled rattlesnake he’d been saving for later in the afternoon, but it looked like that time would not come. He heard his own heart thumping inside his head, felt his tongue and the inside of his mouth dry up as if he’d been dragging himself across the desert for days. Drops of sweat collected on his eyelashes. He didn’t dare blink, so close did the creature seem. His eyes stung with sweat, with the urge to blink, drops clung to his nose tip, and crawled down his three-day beard, feeling for all the world as if he were a-swarm with lice.

  He tried to calculate how long it would take him to open the cloth sack of snake meat swinging at his side. He figured he had about six pieces left. It was obvious the bear smelled food, and wanted it. That big black nose twitched and leapt side to side, up and down. The lower lip wobbled as the bear stepped ponderously forward, cautious and sniffing with each advance.

  Slocum’s hands grew tighter on his weapons, and he vowed to not go down without a fight. He also knew he might well be a goner, never again to know the warm, soft embrace of a woman, the clink of poker chips, the punk! of a cork popping out of a whiskey bottle, the bawl of cattle on a long drive, the singular sensation of riding the range alone . . .

  And then the bear sniffed and grunted one last time, and padded down the road from the direction Slocum had come. He guessed it had already eaten recently. As he watched the great bear’s backside waddle off westward, Slocum uttered a few words of thanks for whatever creature it was that had made a meal of itself for the bear.

  He waited a good long time before he dared creep back to the roadway, then he hotfooted it toward his destination, despite the throbbing in his leg. The ache was just one more reason, he decided, to let those ungrateful men know exactly what he thought of them. It was a good couple of miles more before he slowed down on the neck swiveling as he checked his back trail for the grizzly. He knew from experience that they were wily trackers and would stop at nothing, distance be damned, to get at their prey.

  Despite the bear episode, he saw by the height of the sun that he was making good time, and would be back at the farm by late afternoon. Just enough time to rest up, then hit them hard. A plan was slowly forming in his mind. He just needed the unwitting assistance of the sunburned men.

  23

  Just about the time he heard his stomach growl—he still hadn’t tucked into the last of the snake meat, but had chewed two pieces of jerky—he smelled the light tang of wood smoke. Was someone else out traveling the road? It wasn’t yet dark, too soon in the day for most travelers to make camp. Was it the Bible-thumper and his clan? Surely they would have made it back to their farm by now, unless they’d been forced to stop. Maybe the wagon had given out again. Slocum slowed his pace, checked his weapons, and advanced low, holding tight to the trailside shadows that grew longer with each minute as the sun descended to his back in the western sky.

  Then he heard the throaty nicker of the Appaloosa. The horse had been with him long enough that he recognized the beast’s sound. He was sure the horse was puzzled over this strange turn of events. It must be Judith, then, thought Slocum. And it occurred to him that she had taken neither his saddle nor his bridle. He’d seen her on the other mount the day before, and tough she did a serviceable job riding, she was no natural to the saddle. He reckoned she’d be sore by now.

  And just off the road ahead, there stood Judith, standing with her backside bent toward the paltry flames of a small fire, rubbing her thighs and hips. He stepped into view, but it was the horse’s nicker that gave him away.

  Judith said, “Oh!” and spun to face him, clawing at her twin six-guns, but Slocum already had the drop on her. As she stared at him through the mask of anger, he thought he detected something else, relief maybe.

  “No, no, no . . . horse thief. You leave those shooters right where they are, holstered and secure. Unbuckle that gun belt and toss it over here.”

  She did as he said, started to speak, and he cut her off. “I don’t want to hear a damn thing, sister. I’ll do the talking and I’ll let you know when I want to hear from you.”

  Despite this, she said, “You won’t shoot me. I saved your life.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? And by the way, I didn’t give you permission to speak. Now back away from the fire and sit on that rock, hands on your knees.” He snagged her gun belt and slung it over his shoulder. The horse stood hipshot tied to a tree a few feet away, so he went over and rubbed his neck. “Nice hackamore, Judith. Who taught you to do that?”

  She scowled at him, then looked away, her eyes narrowed.

  Slocum laughed. “Right, I forgot to give you permission to speak.”

  She turned back on him. “I don’t need your p
ermission to do anything!”

  “Hush up a bit or we’ll both be in the soup faster than you can say ‘Holy Bible.’”

  “Sorry. But we’re still a couple of miles from the farm.”

  “I know. I was there, remember? I’m the one who—”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re to blame for all this, you know. You’re the one who cut them free.”

  “I prefer to think of it as saving their lives. Though I will admit having come to regret that decision. Not one of my shining moments, come to think on it.”

  She said nothing.

  “Well, I’m glad to see there’s some milk of human kindness in you.” He sat by the little fire and stretched his legs out, careful to keep his Colt’s grip angled to the front of his belt, in easy reach. He kept the rifle and her gun belt on the ground at his other side, well out of her reach.

  Her stomach growled and she crossed her arms over her belly and looked at her feet. He saw her cheeks redden.

  “You hungry, Judith?” he said, untying the sack from his belt. “You won’t believe what I had to go through to get this—and then keep it.” He tossed a chunk of the cooked meat in her lap.

  She snatched it up and stuffed the entire thing in her mouth. After she’d chewed for a while, she said, her mouth half full, “It’s good, what is it?”

  “Finish it off, then I’ll tell you.”

  She stopped chewing, stared at him, those green eyes narrowing again.

  “You keep doing that, they’re liable to stick that way. Then you’ll go through life looking ticked off at every little thing.”

  “Maybe I am. And I asked you, what is this meat?” she said, chewing slower, the meat bunching in her cheek like a chaw of tobacco.

  He finished his mouthful. “Snake.”