by Jake Logan
Slocum dropped back down and in a low voice said, “At least we know for certain they’re here.”
“Hard to miss,” she said. “Now if we only knew about Jigger.”
“One way to find out.” Slocum rose up on his knees, scouting like a prairie dog. He noted that the man inside didn’t appear inclined to get up to retrieve his friend, let alone shut the door, so he was either lazy or preoccupied or drunk. No matter, the thin one—Slocum was sure he was the same thin, whining man who’d helped attack him back on his first day at the Tamarack Camp—was also not showing any sign of heading back inside. He guessed the gargle he’d had, and from the looks of him he’d had quite a few shares, made him somewhat impervious to the cold.
Slocum knelt back down with his face close to Hella’s. “If I can get him out of the line of vision of that open door, but without him yelping to give us away, might be we can take him hostage.”
“Leave it to me—but you hide right there. He’ll come over here, and when he does, you nab him.”
“How are you—” But he didn’t have to guess for much longer, for she had whipped open her coat, lifted the bulky sweater beneath, unbuttoned layers of shirts, and finally parted her longhandle top to reveal her beautiful breasts. She stood there in the breeze, the cold making her fingertip-size nipples stand erect as frozen raspberries. She winked down at Slocum, who’d backed away just out of sight behind the sculpted drift to her right.
Then she made a sexy clicking noise with her mouth, as if urging a horse to do her bidding. The skinny drunk’s head spun as if on a pulley, finally settled on what Slocum guessed the man must have thought was a stunning dream.
When she was sure he had seen all she appeared to be promising, Hella hooked a beckoning finger at him. The man turned once back to the doorway of the cabin, then looked back at her. She shook her head no, and the intention was obvious—just him, not anyone else. The drunken man staggered forward, as if he were a parched desert traveler and she were a tall glass of cool beer, her glassy sides beading with tempting promise.
A smile cracked his face and he yelped, “Yee-haaa!” and lurched toward her, staggering through the wind-stiffened snow.
His shout made Slocum wince inside. If the man in the cabin chose to get up, he’d see her, and might not take as kindly to the unexpected visitor, no matter how pleasant or tempting her offerings might be. Luckily the man inside still didn’t budge, and the thin man held his peace, having realized there was the pesky problem of snow between him and the breasty dream. He staggered forward.
Hella kept her wide smile pasted on, her eyes fixed on him, but out of the corner of her mouth she spoke low, so Slocum could hear, “Hurry up, asshole . . . my girls are about frosted over!”
It was all Slocum could do to keep from barking out a laugh. Just a few more steps and the man would be well enough away from the sight line of the cabin door, then Slocum could nab him. A few more . . .
When he was still a good man-length from her, the thin drunk dove forward, his cold-reddened hands curving into claws before him, one still gripping the revolver. His boot toes caught in the snow and he pitched forward. Slocum drove down on top of him, grabbing for the man’s throat with one hand and with the other scrabbling in the snow to snatch up the revolver.
He managed to do both while Hella dropped down and drove a knee into the drunk’s face. His cries of pain and surprise mingled but were choked off by both Slocum’s deadly grip and Hella’s forceful knee. She buttoned her layers of shirts, pulled down the sweater, and with a sigh and a shudder, refastened the buttons on the coat.
In the meantime, Slocum managed to deliver three quick, sharp jabs to the man’s temple, jaw, and nose, rendering the thin drunk unconscious. He dragged him down behind the drift, trussed him like a turkey dressed for the oven, and wrapped a kerchief gag tight around his mouth and cheeks. The man might well be heard above the building of the wind and snowstorm, but probably not until they had gained entrance to the cabin . . . somehow.
20
“That should keep him quiet.” Slocum rose from his knees, peering toward the cabin door. It was doubtful that anyone inside could see anywhere in his direction. Now all they had to do was wait for the man inside the cabin to come on out, wondering where in the hell his friend had gotten to. Slocum was sure it was the same one whose nose he’d rearranged.
Hella sidestepped over closer to Slocum as he dragged the unconscious drunk farther behind the drift.
“You think he’ll come out?” she said.
“I hope so. I’d love a clear shot at him.”
“Exactly what I’d do—kill him first, ask questions later.”
“Not quite what I had in mind. I figured I’d wing him enough to get him to drop his weapon, then rush him. Well, rush him as much as this snow will allow. Of course”—he smiled and continued whispering—“we could always show him your—”
“Watch your language, Mr. Slocum.” She winked as she said it.
He nodded, indicating past her toward the cabin, from which they heard a shout.
“Where in the hell did you get to? You said you was going to go write your name in the snow. Hell, the letter X ain’t that long! Course, I know you can’t write worth a bean.” He laughed long and loud, guffawing as if he’d told a real knee-slapper. “You don’t get in here quick and shut that damn door, I’m going to come out there and shoot you in the head, leave you for dead. I’ll get all the money and you won’t get nothing but that lead pill to suckle on for eternity.”
“He’s a windy bastard,” Hella said.
Slocum nodded, said nothing. He suspected the man would come out any second. Or at least make it to the door.
“Should we just hurry up his game and smoke him out?”
“Not yet. Be better if we wait him out. Any second now.” Slocum raised his rifle to his shoulder. They both tensed. Between them on the ground, the stricken, bound man twitched slightly but didn’t yet revive.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said. Before Slocum could grab her, Hella had kicked through the snow on her snowshoes upslope, then onto the undisturbed roof of the cabin protruding from the hillside. She stepped onto it, gingerly setting her weight down ahead of her, one step at a time, while Slocum swiveled his gaze from the cabin’s still-open front door to the roof, where she was slowly advancing to the stone chimney that jutted from the western edge, partially against the back wall.
He wanted to shout at her, wanted to throttle her for being so hasty. He felt sure the man was about to wander out in a drunken stupor, then Slocum would have him, and the whole game would be done as far as he knew—unless they met a friend up here, someone else in on the kidnapping. That was a possibility.
He was also bothered by the fact that he’d not heard a peep from Jigger. Could be they’d tied him up, kept him trussed so tight he wasn’t able to speak. Could also be that he was dead, though that seemed less likely, other than due to an accident, since they’d gone to all this trouble to kidnap the man. And then haul him all the way up here? For what, though? Ransom?
None of that mattered just now. Slocum had to make sure that Hella didn’t get shot through the roof. It seemed, from what little he could see of the edge, that it was a stout structure with pole rafters and mosses and branches laid over that. But that didn’t mean there weren’t spots where the layers had thinned, making it all too easy to let the snow drift on down. A skittish outlaw would surely crank off a round or two straight up into the ceiling, just in case.
“Hey!” he heard the man inside shout. “What you doing up on the roof?”
Slocum tensed. He cut his eyes to Hella. She had paused, just a couple feet shy of the smoking chimney. Luckily the wind had dwindled a bit, but the new snow had begun to fall faster and thicker, clinging to Slocum’s hat brim, the side of his face, his shoulders, his rifle.
Then the thing Slocum had just f
eared might happen did happen—he heard two rapid shots from inside, saw white powder blaze upward from the roof, one plume blossoming two feet behind Hella, the other closer in. He didn’t think it got her, because she jackrabbited as soon as the second shot sounded, and launched herself at the chimney. She hugged it with one arm, ripping at her coat with the other arm and managing to shrug out of it. Then she lay the heavy garment over the chimney before tucking into a roll and launching herself off the far side of the roof.
She disappeared from Slocum’s sight, but he was already on the move, hustling toward the cabin front and praying there wasn’t a side door that opened out toward where she’d no doubt landed, hopefully unhurt and already clawing her own side arm out of its holster.
“I get you, asshole?” the man inside cackled. “I sure hope so. Been thinkin’ about it and I like the idea of having all the money for my own self. You can go to hell on a fast horse.”
“Some friend you are!” Slocum shouted from just outside the door, hoping the man inside bought Slocum’s effort at making his voice sound like that of the unconscious thin drunk.
“That you?”
He sounded genuinely worried and not a little disappointed.
Slocum decided to push his luck. He had to get to Hella, after all, and there was no way he could stand there yammering with this fool. All he really wanted to do was rush in there and shoot the jackass in the head, but that wouldn’t solve a thing except put himself, and maybe even Jigger, in dire danger.
“You gonna have to come on in here if’n you want me, stranger!” The man fairly roared the proclamation and Slocum knew he’d been discovered. He pulled back for a moment, considered what his next move should be—he hoped Hella was okay over there on the other side of the cabin. He trusted she was, and hoped the snow was thick enough where she’d dropped that there was nothing there to injure her. But that would have to be a secondary concern. Right now he had bigger fish to fry. “You might as well know we have you surrounded, mister!”
A long pause, then the man said, “I’m not so sure I believe you. What of my friend?”
“He’s been taken prisoner and is right now singing like a bird about your plans.”
“Again, I’m not so sure of anything you say. Might be I’ll just go ahead and shoot this old man right now.”
“What old man would that be?” said Slocum, hurriedly unstrapping his snowshoes, hoping to buy more time until he could figure out how to get in there without getting himself killed.
A shotgun blast from inside booming outward toward the door decided for him. The frame pulsed and jagged strips of wood flew outward. “Take that, asshole!” Again, the man roared with laughter. Though not quite as loud as his shotgun, his voice nevertheless was loud enough for every creature anywhere near the valley to hear.
Slocum figured that if he ducked low, aimed high, and fired a few rounds, he might be able to get inside. The woman would just have to wait—or fend for herself. She was quite capable of doing that, as she’d already proven.
He thumbed back the hammer on the Colt Navy, did the same with his rifle, and dropping down to one knee, fired as he’d intended—from low to high, up toward the dark space over whoever had his head upright in there.
The smoke from the shotgun blast still rolled outward, and his own blasts really made a thick, smoky soup of things. It also gave Slocum cover enough to scramble inside. There was space to the left of the door, just inside. If it wasn’t filled with gear or a bunk, he might be able to roll into the corner and regain a few precious seconds to let his eyes adjust. He was up against a drunk killer, after all, a man who was perfectly willing to kill his own friend and partner in this crazy escapade. He was someone who’d no doubt rather kill than be taken alive or wounded.
“What in the hell is going on?” The man screamed the question from somewhere in the back of the small cabin, off to Slocum’s right. It wasn’t as dark in there as Slocum had expected, and he could detect the lingering smell of lamp oil, as though someone had just doused the flame. Slocum held his position, waiting for his eyes to adjust and for the smoke to part.
At least enough to let him deliver one true shot. This vermin demanded to be put down. If he didn’t kill him, he might be able to learn from him just what in the hell was going on. But if he killed him, Slocum figured he could live with that. He was sore, tired, cranky, and had had enough of these mountains and all the crazy loggers, one Crazy Trapper Lady who didn’t listen, and crazy animal men that might or might not exist.
Just as he was set to make a move around the far left wall, sensing as much as seeing a large wide cupboard of some sort there in the dark before him, he heard a voice from the doorway. “John? John Slocum? You okay?”
It was the girl. And dammit, he wasn’t the only one who’d heard her.
Slocum hissed, “Get back!” but his words were blown apart with the roar of a second blast from the shotgun. The doorway took the brunt of it again. Smoke and snow and wood and sod erupted in a bigger cloud this time. Had she been hit? No time to find out. But Slocum took the opportunity to cut to the chase.
He drove forward, straight across the cabin, from the front left corner to the back right, from where the blast had come. He didn’t dare shoot directly at the blast, because the man might be hiding behind a trussed-up Jigger, but he might have enough time to barrel straight into him.
The smoke clogged Slocum’s throat, burned his nostrils, and set his ears to ringing as if his head were filled with pealing church bells. But such situations were not foreign to Slocum. He knew that he would drive forward, unrelenting, pummeling his way in. And that was just what he did.
It took him less than the time it takes to draw a breath to cross the room before the smoke cleared. He plowed into someone, and within a second he knew it was his target and not Jigger, because the someone he plowed into struck back at him, lashing outward with a hard thrashing jab, ramming the butt of a gun just under Slocum’s jaw.
Slocum shifted when he felt it and managed to reduce a potentially painful welt into a grazing. It stung, but he had a whole lot more to worry about at the moment than that.
“Gaah!” shouted the shotgun-wielding brute. “You son of a—”
But he didn’t get to finish the sentiment because Slocum drove the butt of his Colt Navy straight into the spot where the words were coming from—and struck gold. Slocum felt the fool’s teeth snapping, the man’s head whipped backward, and as he continued pushing forward, the back of Slocum’s gloved hand smeared the man’s nose. It gave way in a soft, pulpy spray—it had to be the same man whose nose he’d broken days before—that reminded Slocum of punching a clot of hard-boiled eggs. That was all it took, for the man folded like a deck of cards, fell away from Slocum into the darkness of the corner.
Where the hell was Jigger McGee? Slocum had to find him, but first he had to make damn sure this bastard was disarmed before the brute touched off another blast from his shotgun.
“Slocum? John?”
It was Hella, and he didn’t have much more to offer her than “I’m here!” before a coughing fit rattled his lean frame as he dove into the dark corner, fists and guns forward. He still didn’t dare deliver a shot, afraid he’d hit Jigger, though that fear was diminishing with each second that passed.
Something hooked him behind an ankle and Slocum felt himself slipping backward. But at the same instant, the smoke parted enough that he saw the object of his attack—the dim outline of a man, crabbing away on his back, clad in longhandles, braces flopping, and wool trousers tangling about his ankles. Slocum guessed while all this hubbub was going on, the man had been trying to don his trousers, but didn’t get far enough before Slocum barged in. The men must have been liquoring it up and playing cards when Hella and Slocum arrived.
“You son of a—”
“You said that before!” Slocum shouted, driving his rifle butt down
ward. Slam! “Now I’m going to have to ask you to stop”—slam!—“insulting my dear, departed mother like that!” Slam!
Still, the man took the pain, no doubt his liquored-up body absorbing each pummeling blow. Slocum held the rifle aside and backed up a step, drawing his Colt. He was about to tell the man to raise his hands and stand up when from behind his back the bloodied brute produced a skinning knife, drew back with it.
Slocum had just enough time to duck to one side and squeeze the trigger. He sent the first shot into the man’s throat. The next followed on its heels, a little higher, boring a smoking trail right through the man’s chin. It traveled on up through the center of his head before bursting outward in a flower of blood, bone, and gray ooze, painting the dim log shack’s wall with the last of the man’s memories. The skinning knife dropped to his lap, his bloodied hand atop it.
Slocum stayed low and to one side, heard an urgent bark from the doorway. Hella again. He coughed and tried to speak, but his throat felt stuffed with sawdust and wool rags. He swallowed, tried again. “I’m okay! Chimney—take the coat off!”
He heard footsteps retreat, and he headed for the doorway himself. No way could he stay in that smoky hellhole. He’d have to wait for it to clear out before he reentered and tried to find Jigger. If he was even in there.
Slocum staggered out the blasted-to-bits doorway, leaning there for a moment before stepping farther out into the bluster of the building storm. The snow felt good on his face, and he tried to lick flakes off his mustache, but it didn’t amount to much. He gobbled down a few hand scoops of snow and sighed as the cool stuff melted down into his throat, an elixir better than any he’d ever tasted.
“Where’s Jigger?” the woman yelled from the roof.
Slocum was greedily gulping down a mouthful of snow, so he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the lightly smoking, blasted-out doorway. In truth, he didn’t know if the old man was in there or not. He’d not heard a peep from Jigger, but it worked in getting Hella down off the roof and scrambling around the side of the building to help.
