Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  “Does this have something to do with the letter you got?” Slocum enjoyed seeing the blood drain from Cheswick’s face. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He clamped his mouth shut, and then took a deep breath to collect his thoughts.

  “My affairs are mine and mine alone. Do not intrude where you have no business poking your nose.”

  “All you want is for me to guard Pete and his shipment?”

  “That’s all.”

  Slocum nodded. This would be the final time he was pushed around. From what Charlie and the other miners said about Pete, he was a decent fellow and the best freighter in Nevada. Slocum preferred his company, sight unseen, to Cheswick’s.

  “Go on. Ride down the trail so you can accompany him when it’s daylight.”

  “If the road down to Virginia City is as narrow and tricky as the one we took getting here, riding at night might be dangerous.”

  “You’re being paid well. Do it, or are you frightened of such a nocturnal sojourn?”

  “You talk about big pay, but I haven’t seen a thin dime of it so far.”

  “Here. Take this as an advance against your future work.” Cheswick pulled out a wad of greenbacks big enough to choke a cow and peeled off fifty dollars. He held it out for Slocum to take. Slocum saw a conflict of wills building, and made no move to take it because he was sure Cheswick would snatch it back at the last instant and add another condition to it, just to show who was the boss.

  “Well, don’t you want it?” By asking, Cheswick had lost a little status, but he could still pull the money away if Slocum grabbed for it.

  “You can hand it to me anytime you want, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Reluctantly, Cheswick lost the silent battle of wills and held it out for Slocum. If he had jerked it away now, he would have looked like a fool. Slocum tucked the scrip into the vest pocket with the elephant rifle cartridge. Without another word, he left.

  Let Cheswick have his tour of a closed-in, dusty, dangerous mine. Slocum preferred the open sky above him. He found the mine’s stables, tended his horse, and made sure the mare ate well from the sparse bin of oats before mounting and heading onto the road that spiraled down the mountain’s other side. As he rode, Slocum felt increasingly uneasy. He ought to be riding away from Virginia City, not toward it. Mac wasn’t the sort to forget a slight. His brother’s death would still be high on his list of wrongs to avenge.

  After an hour of riding on the uneven, narrow road, Slocum wondered how anyone could drive a wagon of any size along it, yet he saw wagon wheel indentations that showed someone did. Pete had to be one hell of a fine driver. But orders from Cheswick or not, Slocum wasn’t able to ride much farther. His mare began to stumble, which worried him. He couldn’t see the precipice by the roadside, but knew there were probably as many picked-clean skeletons of unwary travelers here as there had been on the other side of the mountain.

  When he came to a widened spot in the road designed to allow two wagons to pass, he decided it was time to stop for the night. This wasn’t the most comfortable place he had ever slept in, but it was far from the worst. He prepared a camp, ate from the victuals from Cheswick’s supplies, and then stretched out. Overheard, the stars shone down on him, but he didn’t feel at ease with them the way he usually did. Slocum sat up and looked around. He thought he heard a horse neighing in the distance, but might have been wrong. The mountains changed sounds and made identification tricky at times.

  The memory of the mystery rider returned, but Slocum doubted the man had followed along the road. There might be other riders, coming from Virginia City in a posse. Slocum forced himself to stop dwelling on that possibility. As mad as Mac might be, he still had to round up a posse. Miners were miners because they liked being underground. Spending any time on the trail would make them as jumpy as being underground made Slocum.

  He lay back and pulled his blanket around his shoulders. Sleep came hard and when he awoke just before dawn, he was barely rested. Still, he was on the trail again and had some folding money in his pocket. Things could be worse.

  He ate a cold breakfast of jerky and some hardtack before resuming his trip. As he rode, he thought he heard a horse again. Look as he might, he couldn’t find the source of the noise.

  He had ridden barely an hour when he heard a whip snapping and mules braying. He dismounted, went to the verge of the road, and peered down at the switchback fifty feet under him. A wagon filled the roadbed from side to side and scraped the mountainside as it worked its way upward along the road. The driver had a big-brimmed floppy hat pulled down low on his face, and his words were mumbled as he cussed at his team.

  Slocum sat and waited for the freighter to reach him rather than continuing downward. He was at another widened spot in the road, though there wasn’t much extra space as the wagon crept toward him.

  “What are you doing blocking the road, you bloody sot?”

  Slocum’s eyes narrowed as he studied the driver.

  “You named Pete? I was told to come down from the mine and escort you back.”

  “Why? Nobody’s ever given me a guard before.”

  Pete had his hat pulled down around his ears, but his words were muffled and a little slurred because of a bandage wrapped across his right eye and taped to his left jaw, hiding a goodly portion of his face.

  “You’re a Brit,” Slocum said.

  “Bully for you, you blithering dolt. Of course I am, and you’re an ignorant Yank.”

  “That wasn’t the side I fought on.”

  “Then you’re a bloody Johnny Reb,” Pete corrected. “To me, it doesn’t matter. That wasn’t our war.”

  “I’m just another Colonial,” Slocum said. To his surprise, Pete sat a little straighter, then laughed heartily.

  “You got a sense of humor, fella. They sent you down, you say?”

  “You’ve got cargo I’m supposed to protect.”

  “You can ride along if you like. Just don’t go smoking.”

  “Explosives,” Slocum said. He looked into the wagon bed to get an idea what Pete might be carrying that was so important to Cheswick. The large pile covered with canvas had to be cases of dynamite. The rest were crates of food and other necessities for the miners. “This all of it?”

  “The lot, unless some bounced out on one of the turns. I take ’em fast, you know.”

  Slocum laughed again. Every inch of this road had to be fought for and earned by the freighter’s skill and the strength of his four mules.

  “Tie your horse to the back and climb up,” said Pete. “The mules won’t notice your extra weight. If they do, you can get out and push and they’ll thank you kindly.”

  “Never saw a mule that’d do that,” Slocum said. He gingerly climbed into the wagon and sat on the hard bench beside Pete. The freighter canted his head to the side and peered at him with a bloodshot left eye.

  “You banged up?” Pete asked.

  “Not as much as you. What happened?”

  “Pub fight. The other bloke had a knife. I didn’t see it until it was too late. Now the doc says I won’t be seeing anything out of that eye this side of the Pearly Gates.”

  “How’d you end up in Nevada? This is a mighty long way from England.”

  “Nothing for me there but heartache. My wife-to-be died and I didn’t have anything to hold me there, so I decided to see the world.”

  “Now you’ve got to see it one-eyed,” Slocum said.

  “I see more with one eye than most of the miners around here do with two. Never saw a bunch so narrow-minded, ’less it was my family. They were a—whoa!”

  Pete stood, put one foot against the edge of the wagon, and used his full weight and strength to stop the mules. As they stopped pulling, he kicked out and braced his foot against the brake to keep from rolling backward.

  Slocum tried to figure out what was wrong, but saw nothing. The wagon had rolled along with only creaks and groans, which was usual for this rough a road.

  “What’
s wrong?” Pete asked.

  “Can’t say. I get this feeling there’s someone else around but nobody passed me on the way up,” Slocum said. “That means it has to be someone on the way down.” He couldn’t shake the notion of the mystery rider from over in the valley. Whoever that person was, he had taken an interest in Slocum that was bordering on the unhealthy—for one of them.

  Pete sank back down onto the wood bench, snapped the reins, and got the mules pulling before he released the brake. The wagon lurched, and they continued their upward climb.

  “I’ve been at this for almost six months, and it never feels natural to me. There’s always something worrying me.”

  “That’s all? Six months? You drive like you were born with reins in your hand,” Slocum said.

  “There wasn’t much else I was good at. I knew animals. Rode back in England, but there wasn’t much call for a steeplechase rider out here. The mules took a fancy to me, and I found myself the only route no one else would drive.”

  “Is the pay good?”

  “Better than the money I get from back home,” Pete said.

  “Somebody sends you money?”

  “I’m what they call a remittance man. You know the term?”

  “You’re the second one I’ve come across in the past week,” Slocum said.

  “The West is crawling with our kind,” Pete said. He applied the brake, gingerly guided the mules around a sharp bend, and started to snap the reins to keep the team pulling hard when a loud crack sounded. At first Slocum thought one of the yokes had broken. Then he saw the lead mule stagger to the side.

  “Watch it!” Slocum cried.

  It was too late. The mule’s left legs both slid over the verge. As the heavy animal fell, still in harness, it took the other lead mule with it. Then the wagon began to roll and slide sideways at the same time.

  “We’re going over the edge!”

  Those were the last words Slocum heard from Pete before the wagon skidded off the road and sent them both tumbling into space.

  11

  Slocum remembered falling and then an impact that rattled him hard. The next thing he felt was sharp pain throughout his body. He thought the Paiutes had caught him again and whaled away on him. One eyelid flickered and finally opened so he could stare up at the bright blue Nevada sky. A puffy white cloud built and died before he could force open the second eye, and this took some work since it had been glued shut by dried blood.

  Forcing his elbows down, he lifted his body enough to look around. The wagon had disintegrated as it bounced off the mountainside and had cast splinters around.

  “The only good thing I can tell,” came a weak voice, “is that the dynamite didn’t blow. The boys at the Climax are going to get mighty hungry before there’s another shipment of food, though.”

  “They can do without the dynamite,” Slocum said, sitting up all the way and trying to get his feet under him. He lay on a steep incline and slipped and slid a ways downhill before he dug in his heels and got some purchase. “Food’s another matter.”

  “Bold Max will have my head on a pike for this,” Pete said. He had looked chewed up and spit out before the plunge. Now his head bandage was soaked in fresh blood, and his clothing had been shredded by a fall through a pine tree’s limbs. Slocum studied the matter, and realized this might have saved the freighter’s life. If he had missed the tree, he would have fallen another forty feet through jagged-edged rocks.

  Twisting around and wincing at the pain, Slocum looked above him on the slope. He had been damned lucky, too. He had followed the wagon down rather than being under it, and had skidded on a rough patch of rock that had slowed him enough to prevent a further tumble down the hillside.

  “Anything to salvage?” Slocum called over to Pete.

  “Nothing I see. Bloody mules are all dead, I hope. I’d hate to think they were somewhere I couldn’t see and injured.”

  Slocum listened hard, but heard nothing but the wind blowing through the pine that had saved Pete’s life. The mules had probably died at the spot where each had hit the mountainside, and then their lifeless bodies had slid on below.

  “They might be on the lower switchback on the road.”

  “That’d be a gory bit of it, a traveler coming along and finding four dead mules blocking the road,” Pete said. “You need help? You’re a bloody fright.”

  Slocum moved carefully, testing for broken ribs. Amazingly, he felt no worse now than he had after escaping the Indians. He hurt like a rotten tooth, but all his bones were intact. His clothing was torn, and he bled from a dozen shallow scratches. Otherwise, he was no worse for the fall.

  “Think my horse is still up on the road,” Slocum said, peering up. “I saw something peek over the edge of the road and duck back.”

  “One good twitch of the head’s all it would take to get free of the wagon. I hope your horse is all right. She looked to be a feisty mare.”

  “Sturdy, with heart,” Slocum said. He began working along the slope to reach Pete. The freighter had claimed he was all right, but Slocum saw a deep cut that bled freely.

  “You go on up,” Pete said. “Throw me a rope and pull me up. I’m not sure I can climb with my leg like this.” He rubbed his right leg where the gash ran from thigh to knee.

  “I’ll see about stopping the bleeding. You might be too weak to loop the rope around you if you keep bleeding like that.”

  Pete groaned as Slocum ripped broad strips of his canvas pants leg away from the wound and used the fabric to fasten a tourniquet just above where the flesh parted.

  “I’ve seen some bad wounds in my day. You’ll live.”

  “Not if you talk my ear off. Can you make it to the road by yourself?”

  “Don’t start a game of solitaire. You won’t finish before I drop you the rope.”

  Slocum made sure the tourniquet was set, slapped Pete on the shoulder, and then began climbing. His muscles protested every inch upward, but he drove his toes into the loose rock and found more solid footing. He had climbed mountains before, and knew to always keep three secure points while he moved the fourth. Bit by bit, he worked his way toward the edge of the road. From this vantage point, he saw how the road had been blasted out of solid mountain. So much work was a silent testament to how profitable the Climax Mine was.

  When he was only a few feet below the road, his mare poked her head over and looked down at him. Her big brown eyes accused him of annoying her. He had to agree. He wished there hadn’t been any trouble with the mule.

  He got both hands on the solid edge of the road and heaved, pulling himself up so he could turn and flop flat. The horse came over and nuzzled him. Slocum got to his feet and patted the horse’s neck by way of thanks for the greeting.

  As he reached for the rope slung at his saddle, he paused. Staying alive and then struggling up the mountainside had occupied his thoughts until this moment. Curious, he walked up the road to the spot where the mule had tumbled over. A large splotch of blood confirmed his memory of what had happened.

  Someone had shot the lead mule, and it had stumbled and gone over the edge, taking the wagon, Pete, and Slocum with it. He looked around, but saw no one. The stretch of road from around the bend was straighter than most. A sniper might have taken a clean shot from that range, but Slocum couldn’t figure out who would want the dynamite shipment to the mine stopped. Other than the food, Pete had said nothing else was aboard.

  He went back to his horse, fastened one end of the rope around the saddle horn, and swung the loop on the other end around as if he intended to rope a steer. He peered down at Pete.

  “You ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. My leg’s turning colder than a witch’s tit. I’m going to need you to tend it when I get back to the top.”

  “Here it comes.” Slocum dropped the rope, and Pete fumbled to get it around his body. A quick tug told Slocum the freighter was ready to make the trip back up the slope a lot slower than he had gone down.

>   The mare began backing away, and Slocum kept the rope from abrading on the roadway’s sharp rock edge. Foot by foot, Pete got closer, until Slocum grabbed, caught an outstretched arm, and pulled the man up to safety. For a moment, Pete lay on the road, then rolled over and pointed.

  “I’ll loosen it a mite,” Slocum said as he worked at the knot on the tourniquet. If it stayed on too long, Pete would lose the leg. He would be a real sight then, one eye and one leg. Carefully releasing the pressure, Slocum was pleased to find that the wound had clotted. No new blood bubbled up.

  “Think I’ll be all right?”

  “Right as rain, except for the tongue-lashing Bold Max is likely to give you for losing his shipment,” Slocum joshed. He got his arm around Pete and helped the man to stand. “You be all right for a moment while I get my horse?”

  “Been a while since I’ve ridden, but it’ll be a real treat. My arse is flat from being bounced on that wagon bench seat.”

  Slocum coiled his rope and went to fasten it back on the saddle. He caught up the reins, and had turned to lead the horse back to where Pete stood on one leg when another shot rang out. Pete looked at Slocum, his face blank. The bullet had gone from one side of the man’s head to the other. Pete took a single step and once more plunged over the edge of the cliff. This time, Slocum knew the freighter wasn’t going to be alive when he finally stopped tumbling down the steep slope.

  His hand went to his six-shooter and he drew. The shooter had to be nearby since the road worked its way around the bend not twenty feet away. A stone tumbled down on Slocum’s hat brim and bounced away. Going into a crouch, he shoved his hat back off his head so it dangled by its string around his neck. He aimed uphill at where the road curled back around the mountain at a higher level.

  All he saw was a blur of movement as a rifle barrel was pulled out of sight. He vaulted onto his mare and got the horse trotting along the narrow road. With the stone face close to his right arm to make the shot from above more difficult, Slocum rounded the bend and started down the long stretch of road toward the next turn.