Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  They were out of ammo.

  A dozen things fell into place. They had attacked Cheswick with bow and arrow because they didn’t have any cartridges. When they skulked along the canyon rim looking down, they had fired only a few rounds—probably the last of their ammo.

  “I want to leave. No more fighting,” Slocum said. He heard the squaw behind him making growling noises deep in her throat like some wild animal. The brave he faced tensed for an attack. The others advanced on him, hands going to knives sheathed at their deer hide belts.

  Slocum drew and fired in a smooth motion, but his aim was off because he had a hundred-pound squaw dragging him down. He shrugged and threw her over his shoulder, but the rest of the band let out war whoops and came for him. He had no quarrel with them, but having his scalp lifted wasn’t too enticing a prospect.

  He fired until his Colt Navy came up empty. One Paiute lay dead on the ground and two more carried his lead in them, but not in any significant way to slow them. Slocum found himself bowled over by the nearest warrior. He hit the ground flat on his back, but managed to bring up his feet and drive them into the Indian’s rock-hard belly enough to kick him away.

  “I don’t want to fight,” Slocum repeated. He shoved his six-shooter into his holster and slid out the thick-bladed knife he sheathed in the top of his boot. The Paiute closest to him yammered something. Slocum was almost duped into listening. From the corner of his eye, he saw a blur as another attacked while the first distracted him.

  He lowered his shoulder and caught the attacking brave in the center of his chest, knocking the wind from him. But Slocum knew this was a losing fight for him if he stayed any longer.

  He kicked out, tangled the legs of the man in front of him, then recovered enough to vault over his fallen foe and run for his horse. The mare pawed nervously at the ground, as if preparing to attack. He vaulted into the saddle and let the horse rear. The mare’s hooves raked the air in front of him and drove back two braves.

  “Come on,” he said, jerking the horse’s head around. “Run like you mean it.”

  The horse shot away like a Fourth of July rocket. Slocum stayed low, caught the trail down, and followed the switchback—to his regret.

  An Indian had run after him. Seeing him start down the winding trail, the Paiute waited, then jumped from higher up on the hillside. Strong arms tried to circle Slocum’s neck and failed, but the man’s heavy body smashed hard into the horse’s flank and caused the mare to stumble. Slocum and the Indian went down in a heap, with the horse neighing wildly and kicking out as it tried to get back to its feet.

  Slocum was momentarily dazed, and this was all it took for the rest of the war party to catch up. A strong hand seized his wrist and prevented him from pulling his knife again. Another fumbled for his six-gun, although it was empty. A pair of arms circled his legs and tackled him. Slocum realized that this attacker was the squaw. Whatever Cheswick had done to her had filled her with a fury not to be denied.

  He punched and tried to get leverage to fight. The last thing he saw before day turned to eternal night was a jagged rock being raised high over his head.

  Pain filling his skull and body, he blinked hard and thought he had gone blind. Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but darkness. Then he smelled a small cooking fire and turned toward it. Heat from the tiny campfire warmed his face, and he saw the dancing, twisting sparks circling up into the nighttime sky. How long he had been knocked out hardly mattered as much as the way his hands and feet were securely bound with rawhide strips.

  Twisting a little, hoping he hadn’t alerted the Paiutes that he had regained consciousness, Slocum looked around the small camp. His heart sank when he saw two more cooking fires with dark, indistinct shapes huddled around them. He had been brought to their main camp.

  He slumped back, working his wrists and feet around to see if there was any play in the rawhide bindings. There wasn’t. He turned a little so he was looking across the nearest fire, and saw his six-shooter, gun belt, and knife hanging from a low branch of a piñon tree, too high for him to reach. Then he realized he had emptied his six-gun. Even if he got to it, he would have to take the time to reload. With so many in camp, he would be seen.

  Gravel crunched behind him. Slocum closed his eyes and tried to relax because he knew what was coming. He bit his tongue to keep from calling out when a moccasined foot kicked him hard in the kidneys. A second kick, even harder, rattled his teeth, but he remained quiet. The Paiute guard wandered off, muttering to himself.

  Slocum took the chance and swiveled about so he got a better look at the camp. He tried not to cry out in dismay. There had to be twenty Indians in camp, twice what he had expected. Getting free was a problem, but getting away would require a miracle.

  “Three aces,” Slocum muttered to himself. His luck had been running bad too long. It was time to change it. He rolled more onto his side to take the pressure off his right arm. No amount of self-control could have stopped his outcry as sharp pain in his side made him wonder if he had rolled onto a knife blade. Rocking to and fro a couple times to get more comfortable only increased his puzzlement at what he was lying on. He lifted up a little and dropped down a few inches away and felt the same sudden jab.

  Then he remembered putting Cheswick’s large-caliber cartridge in his vest pocket when he agreed to hire on as a scout. Slocum’s mind raced as he considered the possibilities. That single cartridge might be his ticket to freedom.

  He had always shown great patience in his life. During the years he grew up back on Slocum’s Stand in Calhoun County, Georgia, his brother Robert had cautioned him about rushing a shot or betraying his position to game wary of humans. Robert had always been a better hunter, and Slocum had learned well from him. During the war, he had been a sniper, content to sit in the fork of a tree all day if necessary to take a single shot. More than one battle had gone the way of the South because of his marksmanship—and patience.

  But he was anxious to get the cartridge out where he could work on it. The only problem was the guard pacing back and forth, occasionally checking him to see if he had regained consciousness. As long as he could feign being out like a light, he had a chance. The Indians hadn’t bothered to gag him, which might be a help.

  He repeated the single word to himself: patience.

  The fires died down and the sounds of the Paiutes bedding down for the night buoyed his spirits. The guard might still watch him, but after several hours, he had to be nodding off. Slocum had not heard of any cavalry units in the area hunting Indians, and the only other menace the Paiutes might face was below in the canyon. William Cheswick was hardly a big obstacle, if they wanted to swoop down and scalp him and Quinton and take Abigail as a prisoner.

  The Indians might not care, or the squaw Cheswick had so foolishly kidnapped might harangue her husband or brother into attacking. Without ammunition, they had to rely on bow and arrow. If Cheswick saw them coming, unlimbered that huge gun of his, and accurately bagged a few before they got within bow range, he might drive them off. No matter how angry they might be at what he had done to one of their women, the Paiutes would not die to the last man to avenge her honor.

  Another hour passed, and the fires were little more than coals now. Slocum had to act soon, if his scheme was to have any chance of working. Rubbing himself back and forth on the ground worked the huge cartridge from his vest pocket and left it on the ground. Wiggling like a worm, he managed to get the cartridge between his fingers.

  Then came pain and tedium, and more than once the feeling that all was lost, as he twisted and turned and finally dislodged the slug from the rest of the cartridge. A significant reservoir of gunpowder was his for the taking now.

  Moving slowly, he spun around and hunted for the guard. Not ten feet away the brave slumped forward, chin on his chest. He snored softly, testimony to his inattention to duty. Slocum grinned, and felt he had a chance for the first time since he had come to and found himself all trussed up like a Christm
as goose.

  He worked his way closer to the fire. The coals were still hot enough for what he had to do. When his wrists began to blister from the heat, he clumsily tipped the cartridge over and spilled the gunpowder on the rawhide strips. He winced as the powder sizzled against his skin as well as the rawhide. He jerked hard to break through.

  The rawhide didn’t break.

  Slocum’s heart hammered fiercely as he looked up and saw his guard coming out of his nap. The Indian sniffed the air and looked around. Slocum wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the gunpowder or his charring flesh that brought the Paiute to complete wakefulness. Slocum slumped over and pretended to be unconscious. He got a foot in the gut this time that rolled him over into the coals. Try as he might he wasn’t able to keep from crying out as the hot embers seared his back.

  The Paiute growled and began pummeling him until Slocum almost blacked out again. He was dimly aware of being pulled to his feet and dragged along. He felt another rawhide strip being tied to him. This time it was around his throat. The other end was tossed over a limb above his head. If he slipped or passed out again, he would hang himself.

  It seemed he couldn’t avoid that no matter what he did. If the posse had caught him, they would have left him dangling from some tree limb. Now the Indians had done the same thing to him. He grunted as the guard punched him in the belly again, then gagged as the rawhide tightened around his throat.

  Slocum blinked hard and got tears of pain out of his eyes. If he could have killed with a single look, the Paiute in front of him would have died a horrible death. The Indian grinned, acted as if he was going to punch Slocum, then lightly caressed his cheek. Laughing, the brave strutted off. Slocum pivoted enough to see that his guard had returned to his spot to sleep. Balancing precariously, he looked around. None of the others had come to see what the ruckus was about.

  It was Slocum’s turn to smile grimly. He still clutched the empty cartridge in his hand. He felt blood seeping from around the bonds holding his hands behind his back, but something more cut into his flesh. The edge of the brass cartridge was sharp.

  Working methodically, trying not to drop his only hope of salvation, Slocum worked the edge back and forth. He cut himself as much as he did the rawhide, but when the strip suddenly parted, he lost his balance. He gulped hard as the rawhide sliced into his throat. Then he reached up and used the edge of the brass cartridge to slash at the strip. He tumbled to his knees. For a moment, he watched his guard, but the man was sound asleep again. It took another minute for Slocum to cut through the bonds on his feet, and another to rub circulation back into his hands and legs.

  He tucked the elephant rifle cartridge back into his vest pocket for luck, then made his way carefully to the tree limb where his pistol and knife had been hung. He took another minute to load. The cartridges felt like sausages in his still-numb fingers, but he got the six-shooter loaded and strapped on the cross-draw holster before tucking his knife back into the top of his boot.

  He looked at the sleeping guard, and considered a quick slash across an exposed throat as payment for the number of times he had been kicked and beaten. As strong as the temptation was, he faded back into the thin stand of trees, and made his way to the Indians’ makeshift corral. Getting the hell away mattered more than ending a man’s life, as satisfying as that would be.

  Slocum saddled his mare and started to step up, only to find he couldn’t. His belly convulsed in pain at the beating he had taken, and that bent him over almost double. When the muscle spasm passed, he tried again, only to find that his legs wouldn’t bend enough to allow him to mount. He could try until the cows came home and get caught. Or he could walk his horse from the Indian camp.

  One foot planted in front of the other, he made his way slowly away from the corral and away from the campsite. Or so he thought.

  “Aieeee!”

  The shriek of pure rage took him unawares. Slocum was slow reacting, but his horse reared and lashed out with vicious front hooves. The brave went down with his head stove in. Slocum stared at him and knew his luck was turning bad again. This was the brave who had been painted as a chief.

  He tried again to mount, but his muscles still refused to obey. The noise had brought down even more bad luck on his head. He heard the shuffle of moccasins on pine needles, ducked, and missed a hard fist to his head by inches. He swung his elbow straight back and connected with an exposed belly.

  “Can’t I ever get away from you?” Slocum stared down at the squaw Cheswick had captured. She gasped for air, but the blinding hatred in her eyes told him that when she recovered she would come for him again.

  Slocum drew his six-shooter and pointed it at her. This had no effect. She would die with all six bullets in her rather than let him escape. Not only was she taking revenge for what Cheswick had done to her, she wanted even more revenge on Slocum for killing her husband. Or the war chief might have been her brother or some other relative. It hardly mattered. Slocum had killed someone she loved.

  As she stood and came for him again, he swung his pistol and buffaloed her. The barrel caught her on the left temple and knocked her to her knees again. Stunned, she went to all fours and shook her head. Slocum didn’t dare shoot her. The gunshot would bring the entire camp down on his head, but letting her regain her senses was out of the question, too.

  “Aw, hell,” he muttered. He shoved her to the ground before she could get up and attack him again. Using his knife, he cut strips from her deerskin skirt. When she realized what he was doing, she cried out and began kicking. She probably thought he intended to rape her.

  Stripping off his bandanna, Slocum shoved it into her mouth without getting bit. He finished cutting strips from her skirt, and lashed the crude bonds around her wrists. He tried to tie her ankles, too, but she was kicking too hard.

  He grunted as he lifted her from the ground and dropped her belly down over his saddle. The mare protested the weight, but did not buck. Slocum held the squaw in place as he walked as fast as he could away from the Paiute camp. For an hour, he walked out the kinks in his belly and back and legs. Only then did he stop and pull her off the horse.

  She landed with a thud on the ground, still trying to curse him around her gag.

  “I need my bandanna back,” he said. He caught one edge and yanked it free of her mouth. She snapped at him and missed. Slocum considered untying her, and knew that would only start the attacks over again. One of them would certainly die, and it wouldn’t be him.

  He pointed back along the trail he had followed. As he walked, he realized he was heading back along the canyon rim toward the broad valley rather than the trail he had taken to reach the summit.

  “Go on, git,” he said. She glared at him, then backed off and let out an ear-piercing scream. He considered gagging her again and forgetting about his bandanna, but he had paid damn near a dollar for that kerchief over in Denver and wasn’t going to give it up. Slocum considered how far they were from the other Paiutes, and figured she could holler her head off and it wouldn’t matter. Maybe the Indians would come for him when they found their chief dead. Maybe not.

  He touched the brim of his hat in a mocking salute and took the reins in his hand. Somehow, the exercise had eased the bruised muscles, and her scream gave him impetus enough to vault into the saddle. His back hurt, and he wondered if he would be pissing blood from the beating. Probably. But as the mare trotted off in the dark, none of that mattered as much. Soon enough, he no longer heard the squaw. She had either shouted herself hoarse or had headed back toward her camp.

  It didn’t matter to Slocum. He was alive and in the saddle again and headed . . . where? It was a decision he’d have to make quick.

  8

  Slocum wondered if there was a bone in his body that didn’t ache or a muscle that hadn’t been torn up as he rode. He tried nodding off in the saddle, but a new pain always brought him bolt upright. His mare found a trail down from the canyon rim into the grassy valley, and he looked ove
r his shoulder just after dawn at the canyon mouth. Down that trail lay Cheswick and his camp. Or what remained of it. Slocum doubted the two servants had returned. Quinton was probably still with his employer, more out of habit than devotion. Cheswick could not be paying the man enough to put up with the guff that he did.

  And Abigail was down there, too. Lovely, dark-haired, laughing Abigail. Slocum remembered the playful glint in her bright blue eyes and the way her bow-shaped lips curled into a smile. He remembered even more. The feel of her body moving against his would be pure pleasure now. His horse stumbled and almost fell, giving him quite a wrench. The pain convinced Slocum that the last thing in the world he needed was the demanding Abigail Cheswick beside him or on top of him or him on top of her. There are some things that a man just might not survive.

  As pleasurable as it might be to die in her arms, Slocum had some living yet to do. He steered his horse away from the canyon mouth and cut directly across the valley, heading for a stand of trees. He intended to find a secure place to sleep for a day or two and recuperate. His earlier exploration, when he had played hide-and-seek with the solitary rider, had shown him where a stream ran through the meadow. Water, a bath, sleep. Those were the anodynes he needed most.

  He zigzagged through the trees and came out into a small clearing. His hand moved to his holstered six-gun, and then he relaxed when he recognized the man in the clearing.

  “Good morning, Slocum,” Quinton said. “We had not expected to see you again after you left so suddenly last evening.”

  “I never expected to see you again at all,” Slocum said.

  “Lord William is out hunting for fresh game.”

  Slocum touched the elephant gun cartridge in his vest pocket and smiled just a little. If Cheswick used that rifle on a deer, there would be stew meat scattered all over the forest.