Slocum 428

by Jake Logan

  And running through that, the pungent, gagging stink of someone with a severe gut ailment who had just devoured a potful of frijoles, then released all that stink in the only way men knew how.

  And the smells were followed closely by sounds, low rumbling . . . snores? But they were more than that—they were choking, rasping snores as if emitted by giant men with massive bellows-like chests, a series of them, too many to count to find out how many men there might be, sawing wood in the dark. And then came the farting noises, long wet streams that strove to match the stink he already smelled.

  And that was when Slocum gagged and fought for air and tried with all his ability to raise his arms to his mouth, to his nose, out of reflex, for fear of vomiting on himself and choking to death. His own throaty, wet-snot sounds, of a sudden, halted some of the other sounds, some of the snoring. And they were soon replaced with grunts, then the grunts were replaced with angry, sneering sounds, no words, just angry, dark, growling sounds.

  Oh Lord, thought Slocum, what in the holy hell is that?

  25

  “Near as I can figure, them two was hired by Whitaker to do me in.” Jigger grunted as he scooched higher up to a sitting position. “I tried to listen but they conked me on the bean good and hard before I could get much deciphering in. Ain’t that just the way, though.”

  “What’s he got against you, Jigger?” Hella said, tucking in the covers around him.

  “Oh, stop mother-henning me, girl. We got to go after Slocum!”

  She scowled at him. “I know all about that, and I’m about to light out—but not you, you’re too weak. Besides, someone has to keep an eye on the prisoner.”

  “You mean that half-dead rascal with the black feet and busted-up face?” Jigger cracked a smile. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

  “That’s right, he’s not,” she said. “Because you’re going to be here to make sure he stays put. Now answer my question, McGee—what’s Whitaker got against you?”

  Jigger’s face grew hot, but he finally relented—she had helped to save his life, after all. “Now listen, Miss Bossy, just because your daddy and me was friends don’t give you the right to be all—”

  “Bossy?” she said, smiling.

  “You know, you ain’t changed much since you was a kid.”

  “Same goes for you, I’d imagine. Now, are you going to answer my question? I’m asking because, like it or not, I’m involved now. And as you’re my oldest friend, I think I deserve to know what I’m up against.”

  “Oh, all right then.” Jigger rasped a callused old hand over his beard. “That bastard isn’t satisfied with owning half the town. He wants it all—and he wants the rest of my land, too. Plus, he wants the bank—he’s made himself top dog of that outfit, too, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. Good thing I don’t have any money,” she said. “Even if I did, I don’t think I’d put it in a bank. Why would anyone do such a thing anyway?”

  If Jigger had heard her, he didn’t let on. He was on a roll and wasn’t about to let someone else’s comments interrupt his own. “And!” He raised a bony finger as if he were testing the wind. “He’s got my daughter!”

  That halted her as she tugged on her well-worn wool-and-fur mackinaw. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Ermaline is all set to become his . . . daughter-in-law. Can you imagine?”

  The very words he spoke seemed to drain the blood from Jigger’s face. It looked to Hella as if he had aged ten years right before her eyes.

  “She wants to marry Jordan?” Hella couldn’t quite bring herself to say it with a straight face.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” said Jigger. “I about did—then I got to thinking about it and wondered how on earth anyone who come from my loins could willingly hook themselves up with such a family. So I confronted her.”

  “You didn’t,” said Hella.

  “Did so.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Said she was in love with that big fool boy. Can you imagine? I doubt it very much. In fact, I think she’s been hypnotized or some such by that fat bastard Whitaker. But what can you do?”

  Hella hoisted her pack basket on her back, hefted her rifle, and headed for the door. “Love is a powerful thing, Jigger. Like as not, she was blindsided by the fact that she fell in love with him, too. Especially knowing as I do how much such a union would drive you around the bend.”

  “You ain’t half wrong, girly. But I ain’t there yet. If I have anything to say about it, they won’t never be wed. Hell, I had my way, I’d make sure Jordan was run out of town on a pole, tar and feathers his only company. Same goes double for his foul father.”

  Hella shook her head as she opened the cabin door. “Keep an eye on that one there, Jigger. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I have a feeling I know what happened to Mr. Slocum, but I won’t know for sure for a while yet. That shotgun’s at hand and loaded, and there’s plenty of stew and coffee on the hearth. You sure you can get over there okay?”

  “Girly, you keep on mother-henning me and I will fly out of this bed and chase you down in the snow. Now go on and find Slocum!”

  She did, and the last thing she heard as she slammed the door was Jigger’s cackle, halfway between a laugh and a cough. He still wasn’t right, although he’d never been what you could call a normal person. But then again, thought Hella, who in the heck was she to claim to know what was normal or not? She was a single woman living out in the mountains, alone, and trapping and skinning animals for a living.

  She chuckled as she swung down the easy-to-follow trail left by Slocum’s abductors. She was not afraid of them in the least, just curious to know why they felt the need to abscond with him.

  Then she knew—they were worried about her, protective of her. That had to be it. But Slocum? He seemed perfectly harmless, had helped her. Oh dear, she thought, maybe one of them is jealous? Wouldn’t that be something? The oddness of the entire situation made her feel warm inside, as well as a little strange. And the more she dwelt on the odd topic, the more uncomfortable she became—and the more worried she grew. What if Slocum was in danger? She really hadn’t thought that would be the case, but . . . what if?

  Even though she knew that John Slocum was as self-reliant as any man she’d ever met, and quite capable of more than she knew, the thought that he might be in danger forced her into a faster lope along the trail she suspected was the right one, sudden fear beginning to gnaw her from the inside out.

  • • •

  Slocum knew his eyes were open now, as that strange yellow-green glow from those big, angry eyes pierced the stinking, pitch-black gloom. His head throbbed and hummed like a sack of angry bees. Whatever had clobbered him on the noggin had really done a trick on him—he hoped his ears would stop ringing, even though he could certainly hear all the damnable noises of his captors.

  But his own ills, aches, and pains were the least of his concerns right now. He had to make darn sure whatever this thing was didn’t kill him. But how to do that when he couldn’t move his limbs? And as he struggled, he watched the bright eyes blink closed, heard the muffled shufflings of what had to be huge feet drawing closer.

  Hell, everything about this . . . thing . . . seemed huge. And when the eyes opened again, the thing was directly above him, those eyes staring down at him, the stink of its breath descending, drawing closer, the sound of its breathing—a chuffing, rasping grunt—along with it.

  I have never been more helpless, Slocum thought. Never. And yet he struggled with every ounce of his fiber and being to raise an arm, kick a leg, clench a fist—anything. But nothing worked. He tried to shout, and that, too, failed him. At least I can breathe, he told himself, until whatever this thing was, and it sure seemed bent on destroying him, did whatever it intended to do.

  Then something whooshed through the air and struck him hard in the right side. He
felt himself pitch to the opposite side, but snap right back. Something kept him pinned, but it also had moved—whatever it was that pinned his right arm and leg had moved! He worked harder to move those limbs and damned if he didn’t feel something giving way, even just a little bit. Yes, now he was certain of it.

  But he wasn’t able to move fast enough to dodge the next blow. As with the first one, the punch was accompanied by a grunting bark, short and clipped, as if issued to emphasize the blow. It rocked him to the left once again, but this time Slocum was prepared for it—as well as he could be anyway. He did his best to rock with it, jerking hard on his left arm, and something else gave way. His arm popped free of the weight that had been placed on it, and he arched the arm with all the strength he could muster. It ranged upward, sloppily, almost lazily, but then it hit something.

  Though it was buzzing with pins and needles, his hand felt that whatever it hit was hard and hairy. He tried to scrabble for a handhold in it, but his arm flopped back down again. He gritted his teeth and brought it back up. This time it hurt like hell but at least he could feel it, and that, he knew, was a good thing. He lowered it, then a sudden thought occurred to him—he might still be armed, might still have his weapons. Now that one hand was free, he’d perhaps be able to search for them.

  Even though he couldn’t see in the dark, that didn’t mean that whatever creature this was couldn’t—he was convinced it could. But he could still feel with that free hand. And he crabbed it down to his waist, along the right side, as fast as he was able.

  And though the pins and needles were still making themselves painfully felt, there was something of substance beneath his roving fingertips now. Whatever he’d hit—and that had hit him—didn’t react, oddly enough. At least not yet. He suspected he’d get clouted again any second. So he took advantage of the opportunity to find a weapon, a rock, anything.

  He was rewarded with the telltale feeling of the hilt of his big skinning knife beneath his throbbing fingertips. He picked with frantic fingers at the rawhide thong securing it in place. Too late!

  Slam came another blow. Slocum kept his hand gripped tightly to the handle of the still-sheathed knife, but stiffened and worked hard to roll with the blow. He felt his leg jerk free of whatever it was that had pinned him. He was beginning to suspect it was a log, maybe a rock or two, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. And he didn’t really much care. He just wanted to be armed and ready to gut whatever this damn thing was that insisted on causing him such misery.

  Come on! He urged his fingertips to unlace the thong, and was finally rewarded with a loosening of the tie-downs. A little more, little more . . . and the grunting sound came again, just before the next clout. This time, however, the blow came from the left side. Good, thought Slocum. Now I can get my other arm out of prison.

  The more clouts he received, even as he worked to free the knife and use it to whatever end he might be forced to, Slocum became convinced that his captor was playing with him. Not unlike a grizzly before a kill—or after. But this thing had to know he was alive. He’d just hit it, after all. And done his best to thrash and try to free himself.

  26

  “There ain’t a thing I can’t handle, you little rascal. So keep all that in mind when you decide to surprise me and leap to your feet. You know as well as I do you ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Hades, but I tell you what . . .” Jigger knew he was talking to a half-dead man, but it did him good to be able to address as he saw fit—as he wanted to—one of the men who’d nearly snuffed out his living days. He didn’t care if the man would in all likelihood not live out the week, let alone walk again on that blackened gimpy pin of his. Frostbite was a hard taskmaster. But the man had brought it on himself.

  Still, as many times as Jigger had seen bad cases of it—bad enough that men lost fingers, ears, noses, feet, hands, and sometimes their lives—he tried to keep concentrating on the fact that the man was a rascal. No less deserving of Slocum’s gun-blazing wrath that had laid his foul partner low. But somehow he’d lived. That had to count for something.

  “Hey, you . . . mister.” Jigger had hobbled over to the man’s side on the length of fluffed blankets before the fire Hella had arranged for him. “I say, fella . . .” Still no response.

  He leaned close, heard the man’s thready, rasping voice. Still alive, still breathing, still as slow and labored as two minutes before when he had checked on him. “Dammit all to hell, fella. By all rights I should kick you out in the snow, let nature finish you off and take you as one of her own, let some mangy critter drag you off as a piss-poor meal. But . . .”

  So what’s the problem, Jigger? he asked himself. Has age softened your brain, made you a weak little sister? He scratched his chin. Must be, he thought, elsewise how on earth would he sit here in this same room with a man who had done all he could to profit from kidnapping him, then admitted if his plan had come to happen, he and his partner were going to kill him off anyway? Oh boy, oh boy. I have gone soft, thought Jigger.

  Because the old Jigger, the real one who chewed wire and spit nails for breakfast each day, would have gotten his pins under him as fast as possible and then gone on down to Timber Hills to deal with Whitaker once and for all.

  The very thought, which hadn’t occurred to Jigger since his rescue, that Whitaker was at that moment running around, miles below in town, while Jigger was holed up in the mountains, made Jigger instantly enraged. He still felt like a warmed-over gut pile, but at least he could see almost straight now. And he could walk.

  “And if I can walk,” he said to the near-dead man laid out before the fire, “then I can by gum get myself down to that little town and take away from Whitaker what he drove you and your worthless pal to try to take away from me.”

  He shook a pointing finger at the prone man. “Don’t you think I’m giving up on you. I’ll do what I have to do, then I’ll be back. If you’re dead by then, me and Slocum’ll give you a decent burial—which is more than you deserve for what you did to me. But if your hide is still warm, I’ll tote you down myself on a sled to Timber Hills, wait for the territorial judge to hang you from the highest tree around. Until then . . .” He turned away, looking for gear to gather for the sudden journey he was about to make. “Until then, mister, you take care. Stay warm—and alive, you hear?” He cackled, then said, “You owe me that much, seeing as how your partner robbed me of my rightful justice. Now, where are my boots?”

  It didn’t take Jigger but ten minutes, even at his ailment-slowed pace, to gather up the necessary gear to head out into the dwindling storm. He figured he had as much chance as anybody in these woods. They were his, after all. Spiritually if not on a deed. Some of them, yes, but other hunks of acreage, not any longer. Still, he had enough land holdings in his purse to make him a significant threat to Whitaker.

  As he finished slowly lashing on the second snowshoe, he pulled in a deep draught of bracing air. Still-falling snow pellets stung his cheeks, sneaked up his nose, felt like hot needle tips. The air felt good inside and out, but he hated to admit that it hurt, too. He’d had broken ribs in the past, so he knew the best method of letting them knit back together was time and little exertion. And he had room in his life for indulging in either. He had to make fast time, get to town. And put his shotgun to good use.

  27

  As soon as his right leg popped free from under what he was sure was a log, Slocum heaved himself with all the strength he could muster and rolled leftward. He’d regained enough sensation in his arm and hand that he felt the hard, knobby surface of the thing that held down his left side. It was a log—he felt the bark. And it was at least eight to ten inches around. No wonder the blood flow had been cut off to his limbs. Whatever had put it in place must be a brute. But that much he already knew. Trick was he had to get away from the brute. But he was in the dark, in this thing’s den, and half his body wasn’t responding.

  Another clout and an a
ccompanying growl sent him sprawling. When he piled up against what felt like a cold stone wall, Slocum immediately grabbed for his knife, felt it still there in its sheath, and lifted it free. He might still be in the dark—in more ways than one—but that didn’t mean he was going to be toothless. He backed up against the stone, felt like it might be a cave wall, and worked to get himself into an upright position. He drew his legs up close, thinking he might be able to stand up easier from such a position, perhaps by using the stone wall to push against.

  He still couldn’t see a lick in front of him, but he held the knife with the blade thrust outward, weaving it back and forth in the dark as a snake does its tail, poised, playing, ready to strike should necessity prompt it.

  Suddenly from his left came a mighty barking roar, close by, as if he’d accidentally clunked someone. And for all he knew, he may well have—he still had little feeling in his legs.

  The sudden growl seemed to elicit others, as if they had all begun to wake up. Slocum had no way of knowing if it was day or night, but knowing what little he did about these so-called skoocooms, it seemed they spent much of their wakeful time roaming the countryside at night. If they were all sleeping now, it was possibly still daytime, and all this ruckus was rousting them before their time. Maybe he’d have an advantage if he could get out of there and hit the trail in the daylight.

  He had no idea if any of this made sense. His head was throbbing, and his hands and feet felt as if they were afire. Another clout to his side came out of nowhere. He reacted swiftly, lashing out with the knife. He brought it down in a clumsy swinging arc, slashing and hoping it found purchase somehow in something. And it did.

  The howl of pain tinged with rage was as delicious as it was deafening. Beneath the blade, Slocum felt wetness matting into hair. Blood that he had drawn? He certainly hoped so. He worked to keep his blade edges honed enough so that he could shave with them.