Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  “John!”

  The call came from far off, and was almost drowned out by the thunder and rain. When it was repeated, he homed in on it and started walking. Before he got ten yards into a wooded area, Abigail rushed out and threw her arms around him. Her sudden hug almost knocked him over, but he spun her about and kept his balance.

  “John, John, it’s so terrible! He’s gone crazy.”

  “Did he kill Quinton?”

  “He knew. Quinton knew. That’s why William shot him.”

  “The servant knew Cheswick had killed his brother?”

  Abigail bobbed her head up and down in agreement, sobbing harder now.

  “You saw Pete—your brother—in the coffin and knew what had happened? Isn’t that right?”

  “He’s a crack shot, John. William can take out the eye of a pigeon at a hundred paces. I didn’t know why he wanted to go to the mine, but he knew Percival was driving freight there.”

  “The letter he had,” Slocum said, remembering the folded page Cheswick had tucked away. “Someone found Pete for him, and he was hunting him down.”

  “We went all around Virginia City, but I didn’t realize he was looking for Percival. Oh, John, what am I going to do?”

  “Maybe you won’t have to do anything,” he said. She looked up at him, her blue eyes blazing. “There’s a Scotland Yard detective with your brother right now. He suspects William killed Percival, and maybe even Ralph as well.”

  “Ralph deserved whatever he got,” she said with acid-laced words. “He was a bounder and a knave.”

  “If you go back now, your brother’s likely to start shooting. I think Partridge can handle him, if he doesn’t get too violent.”

  “Partridge? The Scotland Yard policeman?”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s had a vendetta against the Cheswick family for years. All save Ralph. They were like two peas in a pod.”

  Slocum considered this. He frowned as he turned over all the jagged pieces in his head, trying to put everything together into a picture that made sense.

  Abigail distracted him by kissing him hard on the lips. With the rain pouring down around them, all Slocum could do was return the kiss and feel her warm body crushed against his. They turned slowly, the kiss deepening until Abigail broke off, gasping for breath.

  “You are too much of a man for me. More than—” She abruptly cut off her sentence, then flashed him her wicked smile.

  “More than who?” Slocum said.

  “You wouldn’t want to know.” Abigail began unfastening her blouse and peeling the soaked fabric from her body. It came free like a snake shedding its skin until her firm, high breasts were wantonly exposed. Capping each was the brownish, hard nubbin of a nipple. Slocum bent over as she arched her back, offering them to him. His lips touched one. She gasped out in delight. He suckled, then went to the other and repeated the oral assault. Abigail’s knees gave way under her, forcing Slocum to follow her to the wet ground.

  He continued to lavish kisses on her breasts until she was writhing about under him. He pulled back and looked into her passion-racked face.

  “More than who?” he repeated.

  “Quinton,” she sobbed out. “I was bedding a servant.”

  “Is that why your brother killed him?”

  “John, please, this isn’t the time. I want you so badly. I need you!” She rocked back on the wet bed of leaves and pine needles, and lifted her knees until her feet were flat on the ground. She began pulling up her skirt, inch by inch, revealing her shining, wet legs. Then he saw more than her calves or knees or thighs. Nestled between was a fleecy mat that beckoned to him.

  He dropped his gun belt as he continued to stare at her. A tiny smile danced on her lips. She lay back, eyes closed and about the most beautiful woman he had ever seen as the rain spattered off her snowy white flesh. Her breasts rose and fell as her passion grew. When she parted her legs for him and he moved between them, Slocum thought he was going to explode then and there.

  Her trembling hand reached down and took him, guided him, drew him to the point where he could not control himself any more. He slid forward into her lust-slickened tightness. When he was fully within her, he gulped and tried to control his urges. She tensed her muscles around him and squeezed down lovingly.

  “You’re too much for me,” he said.

  “No, no, not yet, John. Not yet. I want so much from you!”

  She clawed at his upper arms and pulled him forward. She kissed him fervently. Her tongue flickered out and danced across his. Then she fell back to the ground, panting.

  He withdrew until only the head of his erection remained within her nether lips. He thrust forward smoothly and buried himself once more in her heated paradise. She lifted her knees and grabbed them, further tightening herself around his manhood.

  Slocum felt his control slipping away and began thrusting more powerfully. He wanted as much from her as he could get. The rain on his back, the sight of her passion, the heat and moistness and way she clenched down hard on him every time he entered her all took its toll. Slocum let out an animal cry and began stroking like a steam locomotive. Harder, deeper, he moved, until the friction mounted to the point where he could no longer sustain himself. He groaned as he shot his seed.

  Abigail rocked to and fro, bringing her knees up even more, and then a flush spread from her face all the way down to the tops of her breasts. She sobbed and then relaxed. Slocum melted within her as he stared at her lovely face.

  “I’ve never had a lover as good as you,” she said in a whisper he could barely hear over the rain hammering the leaves above their heads.

  “You aren’t going to be safe unless Partridge arrests your brother,” he said. “He killed Quinton. And I think he also killed Pete.”

  “And don’t forget Ralph,” she said, sitting up and pushing down her skirt. Abigail began fastening her blouse again, but it was muddy and wet and refused to button properly. Slocum helped her, giving them both additional pleasure.

  When he finally strapped on his six-gun, he had to find a dry shirttail to wipe off his Colt. The mechanism was sensitive to dirt and water, and he needed it to function perfectly when he returned to Cheswick’s camp. If Partridge hadn’t already arrested him, Slocum would push the matter forward—at gunpoint if necessary. This was the only way Abigail could be safe again.

  “Be careful, John. William is a killer. I . . . I never thought he would do what he did to become a duke.”

  “That’s a high position,” Slocum said. “The estate must be worth a fortune.”

  “A king’s ransom,” she said. “Literally. That’s how the Cheswick family became so powerful two hundred years ago. A much smaller castle was pledged as ransom for the king. They were rewarded well for their loyalty.”

  “Yeah,” Slocum said. He knew men did crazy things for money and power. Killing his two older brothers hardly mattered when the reward was so great. That must have occurred to William Cheswick over a period of years. A man who could kill his own flesh and blood was not one to turn your back on.

  Slocum and Abigail made their way through the forest. She clung to his arm and pressed her cheek into his shoulder until they came to the clearing where the tent flapped wildly in the wind.

  “Go on, John. Go get him. Be careful. He’s got a pistol.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Slocum said. Before, he had seen two shadows against the canvas. There weren’t any now. “Stay here.”

  “I have to see!”

  “Stay here,” he said harshly. Slocum drew his six-shooter and went to the tent flap. He pushed it open and looked inside, but could not see much since the coal oil lamp had been extinguished.

  A small noise from the center of the tent put him on guard.

  He slipped around the tent flap and moved along the perimeter, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. When a bolt of lighting momentarily illuminated everything, he rushed forward and knelt by Lionel Partridge’s side. The
Scotland Yard detective lay on the ground between the two chairs where he and Cheswick had sat.

  “Partridge, are you all right?” Slocum lifted the man’s head, and again noted how frail he seemed. Eyelids fluttered and finally opened.

  “He’s gone, Mr. Slocum. I gave away my hand. He guessed I was a detective and shot me before I could arrest him.”

  “Just rest,” Slocum said. “We’ll patch you up.”

  “Good,” Partridge said, then slipped into unconsciousness. Slocum lowered his head, wondering how long the man had before he died of the gunshot wound in his chest, about the same spot where Quinton had been shot.

  He guessed that it wasn’t going to be long before he had to dig another grave.

  18

  “He’s the detective? I never saw him before, only heard of him from Ralph.” Abigail looked at Partridge lying on the floor, covered with a blanket and paler than death. She shook her head in wonder. “It’s hard to believe he came all the way to this country to arrest Percival.”

  “That’s what he said.” Slocum dropped water onto Partridge’s parched lips. The man stirred and weakly licked at the moisture. His eyes fluttered open, and he mouthed that he wanted more water. Slocum let him have a little bit from a cup. Partridge sighed, relaxed, and seemed to go to sleep.

  “Is he dead?”

  Slocum put his hand on Partridge’s throat.

  “He’s alive. His pulse is mighty strong. A tough old bird.”

  “William is out there somewhere. Why’d he run?” she asked.

  “I was gone. You were gone. He wants to do some more killing is my guess.”

  “I thought I knew him. I can’t believe he might try to kill me.”

  “When a man gets the taste of blood, it’s hard to get it out of his mouth,” Slocum said. He had seen killers in his day who murdered for the sheer thrill of seeing a man die. One thing always happened. The thrill became less with every murder, until they had to do something more to get the same excitement. About this time, somebody caught up with them and they died.

  He shrugged it off. Maybe that was what they sought in the first place. There wasn’t anything more terrifying than facing your own death. When enough men had died at your hand, you had to wonder what it was that happened the instant after a bullet ripped through a heart or head and want it for yourself.

  “What do we do?” she asked.

  “Get some sleep,” Slocum said. “The rain’s not letting up.”

  “What about William?”

  “He might be back. We can pitch camp somewhere else, if that worries you,” Slocum said. “He’d track us down. I say, make our stand here. Moving Partridge might not be such a good idea, even if he seems all right now.”

  “He’s got one foot over the doorway of death!”

  Slocum had seen men who looked perfectly healthy die in the wink of an eye. Others, like Partridge, were puny specimens but it took a powerful lot to kill them.

  “Go on, get some sleep,” Slocum said. “I’ll stand watch.”

  “Very well,” Abigail said. “It’d be more fun if you . . . slept with me.”

  “Too dangerous,” Slocum said. “You know that.”

  “Oh, very well. Be practical. But it’s so romantic listening to the rain against the canvas while you make love.”

  “You and Quinton do that?” Slocum wasn’t sure why he prodded her like that. Her eyes flashed angrily; then she spun and walked off, head high and defiant. He watched her as she found a blanket and pulled it around herself, making a point of not looking in his direction. In a few minutes, her head sagged forward and she snored softly.

  Slocum went out into the rain and made a quick circuit of the camp, hunting for Cheswick. If the man lurked out in the darkness, he was hidden too well for Slocum to spot. Returning to the tent, he shook himself and got some water off, then sat in a chair and leaned back. It was more comfortable than he remembered. He began drifting off to sleep, and awoke with a start when sunlight slanted through the open tent flap. Slocum sat up and looked around. Abigail was still asleep, but Partridge was nowhere to be seen.

  As he stood, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. He snatched it up and quickly scanned it.

  “Son of a bitch,” Slocum said. He’d started to leave when Abigail called out to him.

  “John, what’s wrong?”

  “Partridge went after your brother.”

  “What? He was dead. Almost dead. How could he?”

  “The man’s got more sand in his gizzard than’s good for him. I’ll find him.” Slocum waited for Abigail to protest. He wasn’t too surprised when she didn’t.

  “Be careful,” she said. “William is a marksman. With his elephant rifle, he can hit a silver dollar at a hundred yards.”

  “About as good as the shot he made killing his own brother,” Slocum said. He took a quick look around, damning himself for not noticing earlier. Cheswick’s rifle was gone from its case. The Brit was doubly dangerous now. All he needed to do was sit off a few hundred yards and wait for his prey to get clear. Slocum had heard that a bullet shot from a long distance could kill before the sound reached the victim. He had noticed that the sound trailed when he had been shot at, but had no idea how big a difference there was in the time between a rifle’s report and death, or why this was true.

  Staying out of range was probably impossible. He had to be more clever—and hope he found Lionel Partridge before the detective blundered into Cheswick’s sights.

  He mounted and rode around the campsite, using the elevation to look for tracks. The rain had been fierce, but some indentations in the ground provided Slocum with his only spoor. He followed a ways, and finally got a clear hoofprint. Partridge had ridden out just as the rain stopped. The mud didn’t hold tracks well, but now and then the detective rode over a rockier section and gave Slocum a hint as to his direction from a bright, new scratch made by a horseshoe against stone.

  It was a direction Slocum didn’t much like. Partridge was headed for the mountain peaks back in the direction of Virginia City. Whether by instinct or because he knew how William Cheswick thought, the Scotland Yard detective unerringly rode for a pass that would take him over the mountains and back to the boomtown.

  At midday, Slocum took a break. He watered his mare and cleaned both his Colt Navy and his Winchester. The rifle balanced nicely in his hand and he brought it to his shoulder, sighting along the barrel. He could hit a deer at a hundred yards, but hitting a man at three times that would be more luck than skill. He lowered the rifle and wondered if that was what Cheswick had in mind. Sit, wait, shoot?

  He ate a quick, cold meal and then pressed on. Partridge’s tracks were more distinct now as the sun beat down on the meadowland and dried the soil. Although it was more a guess than sure knowledge, Slocum thought the detective was only about an hour ahead of him. If Slocum had ridden directly, trusting that Partridge wasn’t veering from the road through the pass, he would have overtaken him by now. But missing a sudden deviation from the track would have meant lost time and probably Partridge’s death. Slocum preferred to be sure.

  Then he knew he was on the trail. A powerful rifle fired in the distance ahead. Slocum stood in the stirrups and looked around for William Cheswick, but did not see him. The bull-throated report could only have come from the man’s elephant rifle. Slocum touched the empty shell casing in his pocket. It had saved him from the Paiutes and was his lucky charm now.

  “Let’s go find some of your brass relatives,” Slocum said softly as he felt the outline of the cartridge in his vest pocket. A second report echoed through the meadow. Cheswick had missed with his first shot. Was his second any better? Slocum knew galloping to find out might make a third shot successful, but if he didn’t hurry, Partridge might die.

  Slocum tried to convince himself that Partridge wasn’t dead yet. The man had luck on his side. How Cheswick had shot him in the chest and he had not only lived, but recovered enough to ride after his quarry, was beyond S
locum. Determined men always amazed him.

  He came to the edge of a forest and looked down a long, rocky trail that joined a road through the mountain pass a mile to the west. From the size of the ruts and how the weeds were freshly crushed in spite of the rain, this had to be a road leading into Virginia City. Partridge’s instinct about where Cheswick would run had proved accurate.

  Slocum only hoped Cheswick’s marksmanship wasn’t as good as the detective’s skills.

  He took the field glasses from his saddlebags and slowly scanned the terrain. He found Partridge quickly enough. The detective cowered behind a large boulder a hundred yards down the slope. How he hunkered behind the rock gave Slocum an idea where to hunt for Cheswick. He swung the binoculars around and studied the mouth to a canyon leading away at an angle. At first he saw nothing. Then he caught a silver flash as sunlight reflected off the sighting bead at the front of the large rifle.

  “Mr. Slocum,” shouted Partridge. “Be careful. He is up high.”

  “I’ve got him spotted, but he’s more than four hundred yards away. There’s nothing I can do,” Slocum called back.

  The instant the words left his mouth, his hat went flying. He grabbed for it and dropped it on the string around his neck. A new bullet hole had mysteriously appeared in the brim. A full second after the impact, he heard the rifle report.

  Knowing he was exposed, he wheeled his mare around and galloped for cover in the forest. A second round tore a limb from a nearby tree. Cheswick had missed him by several feet with that shot. Then Slocum was safely in the woods. He dismounted and cautiously made his way back to a spot where he could call down to Partridge.

  “He’ll pick you off eventually,” Slocum shouted. “I’ll draw his fire. Can you make it back uphill?”

  “Are the woods any safer?”

  “Your horse able to gallop back here?”

  “I shall see,” Partridge said with determination. He edged around the boulder. Slocum saw a geyser of rock and smoke appear on the top of the boulder, forcing Partridge to duck back. His horse stood some distance away. If Cheswick wanted to end this quickly, he would shoot Partridge’s horse.