Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  “Inside,” Mac said, herding Slocum at the end of the shotgun. Slocum staggered when the barkeep pushed him hard. He started to turn and swing, but his lawyer caught his arm.

  “None of that. No reason to add to the charges they got agin’ you.”

  “What’s assault compared with being railroaded on a murder?” Slocum asked.

  “Get in that cell,” Mac said, grabbing Slocum by the collar and giving him a bum’s rush. Slocum caught himself against the back wall of the cell and swung around, ready to fight, but it was too late. The cell door clanged ominously, followed by the snick! of a key turning in the heavy lock.

  He grabbed the bars and shook. The building might be tumbledown, but the cell was sturdy.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Slocum asked. He waited to see who answered. Two men exchanged uneasy looks and backed away, leaving only the barkeep.

  Mac came over and truculently thrust out his chin. Before he could speak, Slocum moved like a snake. He got his hand through the closely spaced bars and caught the man by the throat. His strong fingers tried to squeeze the life out of the barkeep, but the man reared back, put his boot on the bars and kicked hard, prying himself loose from Slocum’s death grip.

  “You wanna know what we’re gonna do with you? String you the hell up, that’s what. At dawn. I don’t give a good goddamn if you stand trial. You killed my brother.”

  “Where’s the money I’m supposed to have stolen off him? Look. I don’t have a dime on me. He cleaned me out in a crooked poker game.”

  “You hid the money.”

  “Where? Why’d I do a thing like that, if I’d just killed him? I would have run. Somebody else robbed and killed your brother. I want that money as bad as you want Renfro’s killer,” Slocum said. He saw his argument fell on deaf ears. All Mac wanted was a necktie party with Slocum as the guest of honor.

  “You’re a tricky one,” Mac said. He rubbed his bruised throat, glared at Slocum, and then left. Slocum heard him giving orders to a guard posted outside the jailhouse door. Nobody was supposed to come in until dawn, when they would have a noose tied and ready for Slocum’s neck.

  Slocum paced the tiny cell hunting for a way out. The jailhouse might be falling down, but the cell was secure. He rattled the door a few times, checking for any play that he might use to his advantage. The iron bars in the door were secure. The door was solid. The hinges were, too. He was caught like a bug in a spiderweb and was waiting for the hungry spider to return.

  He used all his strength to pull at the bars in the window. He didn’t even crack the plaster around the iron rods. He changed his tactics and tried to knock the bars out rather than pull them in. Neither way proved successful. When he had tuckered himself out, Slocum sank down on the thin straw-filled pallet. He couldn’t sleep, and he sure as hell couldn’t get free from the cell.

  All he could do was wait for the inevitable.

  2

  In spite of his predicament, Slocum dozed, only to be awakened around two in the morning by a scuffle outside the jail. He sat up and rubbed sleep from his bloodshot eyes. It was pitch-dark inside the cell, but he caught the guard’s silhouette as he opened the outer door with his back to Slocum. This would have been the perfect time to gun the man down, or grab him, or—

  Slocum could do nothing as long as he was locked up in the cell. The door was more than ten feet away. No matter how he stretched or wished for rubber arms, it wasn’t going to happen. He was at the guard’s mercy. If the guard had any mercy, Slocum reluctantly thought.

  Then he perked up. Someone else stood just beyond his line of sight and talked in a low voice with the guard. Slocum caught enough of the byplay to know that a whore had come to service the guard.

  “You mean Mac done sent you? I ain’t seen you in town before,” the guard said.

  “I’m new. Just got in,” came a husky whisper with a trace of an accent.

  “You French?” the guard asked. “You don’t sound like nobody in these parts.”

  “I can be anything you want me to be.”

  “Mac sent you?” The guard sounded dubious. “He don’t cotton much to soiled doves, but they make so much money for him, he rents out his whole upstairs over at the Mountain of Gold.”

  “The saloon?”

  Slocum frowned at the question. It was as if the woman didn’t know who Mac was or that he ran the saloon.

  “Where else?”

  “Go on, get inside,” the woman urged. Her voice slipped through the night like a soft, warm breeze. Slocum would have gotten excited if she had been speaking to him instead of the guard. As it was, he waited for some slip, some opening he could exploit to get away.

  When it came, it came fast.

  The guard faced Slocum and started to warn him about making a fuss, then was falling facedown onto the jailhouse floor. The woman wore a cloak pulled around her shoulders, hiding her body. As she moved, she pulled it up like a hood to obscure her face. In her hand she held a length of iron rod she had used to hit the guard on the head.

  “Where’re the keys?”

  “Hanging up on a hook on the wall,” Slocum said in response to her question. He watched as she hunted around in the dark for what seemed an eternity before she found the key ring. As she stepped over the fallen guard, Slocum called out a warning.

  Without breaking stride, she swung the iron rod again, hitting the guard alongside the head. He flopped back to the floor, more than stunned this time.

  “Here,” she said, tossing the keys to Slocum. He fumbled and almost dropped them. It took some time to find the right key and get the cell door open.

  “Did you kill him?” Slocum pointed to the felled guard.

  “I doubt it. He has a hard head.”

  Slocum grunted as he dragged the unconscious guard into the cell and locked him inside. Sure that the man wasn’t going anywhere, Slocum searched the small office and found his Colt Navy in the top desk drawer. He checked its load, then turned to the woman to thank her. She had slipped outside. When he got out of the jail and looked around, she was nowhere to be seen. It took him a couple seconds to convince himself she wasn’t a ghost. He inhaled deeply and caught just a whiff of lavender on the night air. That was hardly a fragrance favored by hard rock miners or bartenders intent on lynching.

  He didn’t waste an instant heading for the livery stable where he had left his horse. The mare snorted and pawed at the straw on the stall floor when she saw him.

  “Quiet now,” he said, soothing the horse. He didn’t want to wake the stable owner, who slept at the rear in the tack room. Although he had paid in advance and wasn’t running out on a debt, Slocum wanted to get away from Virginia City without a trace. No matter how mad Mac might be about his brother’s death, he wouldn’t be able to raise a posse if they had no idea where their prisoner had gone. From the main street in Virginia City, there were only three directions possible, but Slocum intended to make it as hard as possible to follow his tracks.

  He could go north or south along the mountainside or west over the Sierra Nevadas. With the town perched on the side of the mountain like it was, going east would be foolhardy. It would take too long to make his way to the bottom of the hill, and then he would be visible for a day or more as he rode. He wanted to vanish into thin air, just as his unknown savior had.

  Slocum led his horse from the stall and jumped into the saddle as he heard loud cries from down the street. The guard had been found locked up. Slocum didn’t gallop off since that would draw unwanted attention, but he got off the main street, going downhill a couple blocks, and then cut to the north and found the road leading to the cemetery.

  Virginia City was coming alive behind him, loud cries of rage rising like flames devouring dry kindling. Slocum knew it would be short-lived when they decided there was no way they could track him. The heat would die down and in a day or two, only cold, bitter ash would remain. Returning to Virginia City was not a good way to keep on living, he decided as he r
eached a fork in the road. To his right lay the town cemetery, and the left-hand route curled north and west into the mountains where he could lose himself.

  As he urged his mare up a small slope, he straightened in the saddle and half turned. Slocum frowned when he realized he had been wrong about Mac not whipping up a posse. The thunder of hooves behind him warned of at least a dozen men coming after him.

  Slocum considered his choices. If he went to ground, they would pass by and never see him in the dark. More than once he had tried to track at night and found how difficult it was. Even the best Blackfoot or Ute scout rode more on instinct than actual spoor. If the posse had brought lanterns, they might have a better chance finding fresh tracks in the rocky road, but Slocum saw no evidence of bobbing lights along the road.

  He urged his horse down a slope and into a rocky ravine, hunting for a place to hide. It surprised him that they came after him, and even more that they had unerringly taken the same road he had. If Mac had sent men out along each road from Virginia City, most would come up empty and be pissed off at him, but Slocum cared nothing about what might happen to the barkeep in a day or two. Survival now mattered more than Mac’s reputation at any time.

  Slocum drew his pistol and waited tensely when he heard the approaching posse. They galloped along and then slowed at the spot where he had left the road. He wondered if somebody in the posse had second sight. There was no way they could have found his tracks. He would bet on that.

  Slocum snorted as that thought came to him. He had bet on three aces and lost. It was time to stop betting and begin relying on his six-shooter.

  “Where’s the track?” The voice echoed down the slope to Slocum, grating and all too recognizable. The barkeep led the posse. Slocum raised his Colt and waited for the riders to come down after him. They would be at a disadvantage on the slope strewn with loose rocks. If he potshotted one or two, their horses would fall and create enough panic for him to finish off several of the men. That ought to be enough to send the rest running. They were miners and shopkeepers, not U.S. Cavalry used to combat.

  “Over here. Got it, Mac. See it? Scrapes on the rock. Up above us.”

  Slocum relaxed. They were heading up the steep hill on the other side of the road. He considered how long he should remain there. Some of the posse might stay on the road. Alerting them would be deadly, but if he stayed where he was, they might spot him come daybreak. How long they would hunt futilely for him up into the hills wasn’t something he could estimate. After all, he had been wrong about a posse even coming after him.

  “There! I see ’im!”

  Gunfire broke out. At first, only a few shots disturbed the still night, and then it sounded like Gettysburg being fought all over again. He grinned at the waste of ammunition. They were chasing ghosts.

  “Damn, missed the horse. They got away.”

  The warning caused Slocum to perk up. The posse had flushed somebody, but it sure as hell wasn’t him. Horses pawed the rocky road, and the men in the posse argued among themselves about what to do. Mac’s voice cut through the chatter.

  “Dammit, let’s get up there and do what’s right.”

  “What’s right is fer us to be real cautious,” came a protest. “He’s got his six-gun. I ain’t gettin’ shot up fer nuthin’.”

  “I’ll offer a fifty-dollar reward,” the barkeep said. When nobody cheered him on, Mac said, “I’ll make it a hundred and a month of free whiskey.”

  This got the posse on the trail.

  If Slocum had any sense, he would have lain low and let them go off on their wild-goose chase—but he realized the only other person likely to be out riding at this time of night was his savior. He had no idea who the woman was or why she had clubbed the guard back in town, but he owed her.

  Slocum led his horse back up the slope until he reached a spot just under the verge of the road. He drew his Winchester from its saddle sheath and levered a round into the chamber. To his ears, the metallic click was louder than a gunshot, but the posse was too intent on finding their way up the side of the mountain to notice.

  He sized up the situation, then shifted his aim to a rocky outcropping above them. In the dark he couldn’t be sure of his target, but he didn’t have to aim accurately. All he needed was a shot or two close to the base of the rock. He fired methodically, and every bullet hit where he intended—and produced the result he had hoped for. The heavy rock slipped under the onslaught of his slugs, and then cracked with a sound like glass shattering.

  The posse let out a cry of fear as the miniature avalanche cascaded down the side of the hill. The heavy rock took two men with it. Another horse, without a rider, let out a squeal, more like a pig than a horse, and followed the posse members in the middle of the rock slide.

  Slocum wasted no time. He slammed his rifle back into its sheath and swung into the saddle. He galloped north along the road, not waiting to see if anyone followed. The havoc he had created would keep the posse from seriously considering coming after him, no matter how much reward Mac offered for his head.

  As he rode, he saw a dark shape moving parallel to the road and higher on the slope. His hand went to his Colt, but he relaxed when he caught a better sight of the rider. From the shapely curves, this wasn’t one of the posse.

  The woman finally got her horse onto the road and trotted alongside his.

  “Good to see you again,” Slocum said.

  The woman was filthy and her clothing had been slashed to ribbons as if she had fallen into a patch of prickly pear cactus. Her dark hair streamed back from an oval face that glowed with an inner light in the reflected starlight. Even dirt and tatters could not hide the woman’s beauty. She turned toward him and glared.

  “What’s good about it? You were supposed to ride off, not bring the posse down on my head.”

  “I saved you back there.”

  “You think that makes us even? I heard gunshots. Did you kill those blighters?”

  For the first time, a British accent came through strongly. Her anger erased any attempt to sound American.

  “I slowed them down, but they might come after us. Mac was pissed off enough to chew nails and spit tacks. That was his brother that died back in town, but you knew that.”

  “Why should I?” she asked primly.

  “You saw fit to spring me from jail. You had to know why I was locked up. Or do you go around freeing desperadoes for the fun of it?”

  “I know you did not kill that man. What you said to the barkeep was right. Where did the money go if you did kill him? There was no reason for you to hide the—what do you Yanks call it? The loot?”

  “What part of England do you hail from?”

  “It is obvious, isn’t it?” For the first time, she smiled. “I try not to sound ever so British, but I am. In answer to your question, I am from Northumberland.”

  Slocum had no idea where that was. For all he knew it was on the moon.

  “We need to rest our horses,” he said.

  “For the night?”

  Slocum nodded. He didn’t hear any pursuit, but Mac might have to wait until dawn before continuing his quest for revenge. Otherwise, none of his current posse would ride behind him.

  “You riled them up a powerful lot,” she said. Slocum stared at her, trying to figure out what she was getting at. “Killing in that town is an everyday occurrence.”

  “Not quite, but almost,” Slocum said. He introduced himself, but the woman was slow in responding. “I just wanted to know who to thank.” He touched the brim of his hat and said, “If you keep riding on the road, you can out-leg anybody on your trail.”

  “And if I cut across country?”

  “They might see where you left the road. Drag some brush behind you a mile or so and that should confuse them. They’re miners, not trackers.” With that, Slocum put his heels to his mare. The horse put on a burst of speed. He had no intention of staying on the road himself, preferring to head across the mountains and get into California a
s quick as he could ride. He had nothing waiting for him there, but he knew what to expect if he stayed in Nevada. Since Renfro had been Mac’s brother, the barkeep would never forget. Being in a position to ask anyone coming into the Mountain of Gold Saloon if they had seen Slocum would add to the man’s reach and constantly fuel his need for revenge.

  Slocum was better off as far from Virginia City as possible.

  A few miles down the road, his horse began to tire. The flight had been long and hard and it was time to rest. Finding a game trail, Slocum rode up into the hills, hunting for a cave. It was still an hour until dawn, making his ride along the trail about perfect. Small animals would scurry along it soon, hiding any hoofprints left in the soft dirt. He doubted Mac would pursue. The posse had been disheartened and would prefer a shot of whiskey to getting shot at, but he had seen blood feuds that lasted for decades and across generations. Killing a man’s brother left a deep scar.

  Slocum knew that all too well. His brother Robert had died during Pickett’s Charge, and that had changed the way Slocum thought about Confederate tactics and generals. He reached up and pressed his fingers into a vest pocket, tracing the outline of the watch tucked there. That watch was his only legacy from a brother he had idolized. As good as Slocum was as a hunter, Robert had been better. He had been a better farmer, and probably had been a better soldier.

  Memories ran deep. Hatred ran deeper.

  When he reached a level area, Slocum turned and studied his back trail to be sure no one would catch him unawares. After several minutes, he decided the only thing stirring between him and road were early-rising rabbits. The first faint pink hint of dawn lit the eastern sky. It was time for him to grab some sleep.

  He dismounted and led his horse to the sheer rock face rising from the level area. Following it around a few yards, he finally found a shallow cave. His mare nickered at the sight of some tempting grass growing nearby. Slocum hobbled the horse, took his gear, and went to the cave to make his camp. His belly rumbled, but sleep was more important than food at the moment. He spread out his blanket and used his saddle as a pillow.