by Jake Logan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Blue Gun Smoke and Dust
A sound made Slocum turn his ear to listen. Someone was having a hot firefight with some Apaches.
It must be buffalo soldiers from Fort Huachuca.
They looked like they could use some help. He drew his Colt . . . then raced his horse Red across the flats.
Red was churning up the dry sand, when a buck armed with a Winchester repeater ran out and knelt to take aim. It was in that instant the Apache took to get into position that Slocum sighted on him . . . and rapid-fired three shots. The Apache was hit in the shoulder, his long gun went off into the air, and he sprawled over on his side.
Slocum kicked Red to go faster past the downed buck . . . knowing that in seconds the mounted braves would be hot on his tail. The soldiers shooting at him were his next problem . . .
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SLOCUM AND LITTLE BRITCHES
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / September 2008
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1
The bitter smell of hot creosote and alkali burned his nostrils. Beads of sweat ran down his temples, but the spindly greasewood distorted his view through the field binoculars of the pale-skinned hostage with her hands tied to the saddle horn. She was being led away by a brown-bodied Apache with a red headband. The fact that a white woman was the Apache’s captive disturbed him even more than the pesky flies or the desert’s blazing heat. Through the lenses, he could see the buck was pounding the sides of his pony with his moccasin heels and urging it uphill with the woman in tow.
Who was she? In the distance, she looked like someone of wealth. Half of her clothes were torn off, exposing her bare white shoulders, and her once-fancy blond hair looked in disarray. Slocum sprang to his feet and headed downhill for his horse. If he hurried, he had one way he could possibly save her. The 45 × 3.5 Remington rolling-block rifle under his left stirrup—his best bet to make the long-distance shot he’d need to bring down her kidnapper.
His boot heels rumbled over the loose gravel on the steep grade down to the wash. He went up to Red, the stout strawberry roan gelding, and drew the carbine out of the scabbard. If the telescopic sight was still aligned, he’d perhaps have one chance to stop the woman’s captor. He opened the breech, slipped in the paper cartridge from his saddlebag, closed the block, reset the trigger on safety, and churned his way back up the slope.
There might be more Apaches. This could be the most foolish thing he’d ever tried—but he had to attempt to save the woman regardless of the outcome. On his belly again, he took aim. If the buck stayed his course, he would emerge one more time near the crest of that far hill before he was absorbed into Apacheria. Slocum looked through the scope and could see the branches of some lacy mesquite. Trigger cocked, he heard the Apache shouting at the horses in the distance, and finally, through the scope, he could see the renegade’s outstretched arm leading the woman’s reluctant pony.
He drew in his breath and held it. His right eye bore down on the crosshairs set on the Apache’s brown shoulder blades. Then Slocum’s curled finger closed on the trigger. The recoil hit his shoulder like an angry mule kicking him. The desert’s hot breath swept away the black powder smoke, and through his stinging eyes he saw the first horse was going on—riderless.
The bullet had stopped the buck.
Slocum rose and looked for the woman, but her horse had veered out of sight. Bette
r go see what he could do for her. As he headed down the bank on his boot heels, he wondered again who she might be. With the Remington back in the scabbard, he untied the reins and bounded into the saddle. If there wasn’t a nest of the red devils close, he should be able to get her to one of the military forts or stage stops, or even to Tucson, in a day or so.
Out of the draw, he short-loped the roan horse through the waist-high greasewood and brown bunchgrass. Standing in the stirrups, he swiveled around looking for any telltale sign of Indians. Nothing appeared as he scattered some Gambel’s quail in his wake. At last, he spotted the woman sitting slumped in the saddle off to his left across a sandy dry wash.
Still cautious, he searched around before he rode on toward her. He could see her dirty, tear-streaked face and the shock written there at the sight of him. She was younger than he had thought—early twenties maybe.
He dismounted and drew his knife. “Howdy, ma’am.”
Her blue eyes opened wide at the sight of his approach. She screamed in fear.
He managed to catch the reins of her sweaty, hard-breathing horse, and contained it before it panicked at her outburst. “I’m not here to hurt you. My name’s Slocum.”
With the knife blade, he slashed the ties that bound her hands to the horn. Then he sheathed the knife and turned his attention to calming her spooked, head-slinging horse. At last, the horse settled down enough that he could turn his attention to the woman. With one arm wrapped around her waist, he swept her skinny form kicking and squalling off the saddle.
“Put me down! Put me down!”
“All right,” he said, releasing her on her feet. “Now relieve yourself and get ahold of yourself. We aren’t out of this mess yet.”
She swept the loose strands of blond curls back with some effort. “How dare you speak to me about such an unmentionable thing.”
My lord, this flat-chested, feisty little snob was going to be a handful to save. He caught her by the bare arm and jerked her close to his face. “Listen, lady, I can leave you right here for some red buck to rape you and it’d not bother me one bit. Now do what I say. There is no time for privacy and nice things if you want to stay alive.” He released her and started to turn his back.
“Who—who—are—you anyway?” She gathered her skirts to squat.
He led her horse over to his own, allowing her a few feet of privacy. Without turning, he checked her horse’s girth. “My name’s Slocum. What’s yours?”
“Silver—Silver Temple.”
“What in the hell are you doing out here anyway?” He slapped the stirrup in place—the cinch was fine.
She pushed down her skirt and used her left hand to keep the hair back from her eye. “My fiancé, Hyrum Cannon, and I were looking at ranch land.”
“Huh?” He narrowed his eyes and peered at her hard, searching for the sanity in that statement. Buying ranch land on some of the bloodiest ground in Arizona?
“A Mr. Bacon was showing us some land that he had listed.”
“What happened to those two? Him and your man?”
She blinked, than turned pale as snow. At once, he could see her knees were going to buckle. In two steps, he swept her up in his arms and looked around for a place to put her down. Fainting women—he didn’t have time for this tomfoolery.
With the side of his boot, he kicked away the sticks and larger rocks on the ground. Then he laid her down on as smooth place as he could find and held her head in his lap. “Let’s start all over.”
Her eyes fluttered at him. “They—killed—both of them. It was—horrible.” Her bare shoulders shook as she held her hands to her face and began sobbing.
With his free hand, he wrung loose the kerchief from around his neck. “Here, use this.”
“Oh, I just want to die . . .”
“No. Get your wits about you and steel up. But we’ve got to get on the move. This place will soon be crowded with more bucks. Ain’t a time to die, it’s a time to fight.”
“But I don’t care—”
He shook her. “Yes, you do. I ain’t letting you die or fall into their hands. Now get hold of yourself, girl. We’ve got to move on.”
“But—but—”
He pushed her to her feet and stood. After a quick check around, he discovered she had not made a move to obey him. His impatience with her made him shove her toward her horse. His action caused her head to jerk on her shoulders and she wobbled a few more steps. Then she recovered and staggered over to grasp the saddle horn.
He was tired of her weakness. In three steps, he caught her under the leg and unceremoniously tossed her on the horse.
“Why you mannerless—” Her red face showed she was affronted by what he’d done.
He ignored her, vaulted on the roan, and reined around to leave. “I told you. No time for niceties. This ain’t Saint Louis or New York.”
“Why—why, you’re—you’re indecent.”
“No, I’m the guy who’s going to save your ass from the Apache. Now follow me.” He set his roan northward with the hulking Chiricahuas towering on his right.
His shot had no doubt signaled to a dozen or more of that dead buck’s bunch that there was something happening. Slocum pointed north, moved in, and lashed her horse on the butt. At her horse’s first jump, she about came out of the saddle, but she grasped the horn tight and pulled herself back as her mount found some hidden vigor. Perhaps the sorrel horse knew that Apaches ate white men’s fat horses. The two riders soon were burning the breeze down the wide valley between the Chiricahuas and the Dragoon Mountains.
Slocum wanted to make the stage stop at Dragoon Springs by dark. When his skin started crawling on the back of his neck, he twisted in the saddle to look back. The sight of four riders coming after them only made his stomach curdle into a large rock.
“How many are there?” she shouted.
“Enough,” he said, and pushed his mount in close enough to lash her horse again. He knew four of the Apaches were coming hell-bent for an election after them. That skinny girl and Slocum were in for the race of their lives and it all depended on two horses, his stout roan and the sorrel horse she rode, being able to outdistance those mesquite-bean-eating mustangs.
Stakes were down. And they had the lead, but the club-house turn was miles away up at the other end of the Sulfur Springs Valley. She began cross-whipping her pony with the reins to make him go faster.
“That a girl,” he shouted above the drum of hooves. Filled with a gut-wrenching dread, he glanced back again. The Apaches were out of sight, but they hadn’t given up yet. Traces of their dust boiled into the azure sky. The race had only begun.
“There’s a lake ahead.” She pointed out the moon lake.
“Playas,” he shouted over the drum of hooves. “They ain’t deep enough to drown a shy poke.”
The look of disbelief she gave him about made him laugh as they raced on northward. That real estate man must have told her there were big lakes nearby. Wouldn’t be the first greenhorns who were sold a lakefront ranch. The far-off kiyi-yacking over his shoulder told him that, lake or no, they still had Apaches on their heels.
“That rise,” he shouted, and pointed to the high point in the west. Perhaps he could stop the Apaches. The horses she and Slocum were riding would soon give out at this pace if he didn’t cut them some slack.
She agreed to his directions and swept her sorrel westward. They slid their hard-breathing ponies to a quick stop. He bounded off the roan, tossed her his reins, and jerked the Remington out along with a shooting stick this time. Trigger back, he opened the breech and reached in the saddlebags for a cartridge, talking softly to the still anxious gelding moving around as she tried to hold him.
The cartridge in place, he set up the stick. “Hold your ears.”
Rifle balanced on the forked stick, he sighted on the four Apaches charging toward them, and decided at that distance to take out a horse. In the blur of the lens, a black and white piebald came into focus and he squeezed t
he trigger. The rifle stock jammed hard into his tender shoulder. Wind swept the acrid black powder smoke away and the piebald went facedown, then end over end.
The other riders split to the right and left, and were gone from his sight into the willow growth.
“You—you shot the horse. But why?” She looked shocked and devastated at his actions.
“Tough times call for desperate methods, lady.” He jammed the stick in the scabbard, then the rifle. “I didn’t have time to pick my shots. That’s it. Now let’s ride.”
“But, but—” Her lower lip sagged as she handed him the reins.
“We’re going north,” he said, ignoring her discomfort, and bounded into the saddle. “Better that horse dies than you and me.”
“But will that stop them?”
“I doubt it, but it sure gave us a break to wind these ponies. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“But—but you shot it.” Thunderstruck, she simply sat her horse like she expected him to beg forgiveness for his act.
“I’ll shoot more of ’em, too, if I get a chance. Now ride.” He rode in and strapped her horse on the butt.
They short-loped their mounts. Slocum kept an eye on their back trail. Directing her northeast toward the Lordsburg-Tucson stage road, he let the horses drop into a trot. It was a gait they could hold for hours, and would need to. Dragoon Springs was farther away than the station in Apache Pass, but he felt that that station might be ringed by Apaches. Their best chance for some safety, Slocum decided, was Corbett’s stop west on the Arizona Stage Line run. Ben Corbett had a rep for handing out either lead or candy that the Apaches took seriously.
When they reached the foot of Texas Canyon, he signaled her to halt, then tossed her his reins to hold. “Stay in the saddle. I want to look at our back trail.”
In the growing shadows from the mountain behind him, it was hard to see in the lens any wisp of dust from the Apaches’ ponies coming up the stage road after them. From his vantage place on top of the house-sized boulder, he squinted hard. Then a thin fan of dust rose over some live oaks far below them, and he swore to himself while scrambling off the backside of the rock.
