by Jake Logan
Slocum found the ravine where the cattle had been bunched and saw the direction they had been driven. Although he might have missed it in the dusk, he saw no indication that the three with their cattle had been killed. He rode steadily, every sense straining for any hint he might be riding into the Apache camp. Less than an hour later, he sniffed and caught the hint of burning mesquite. The Apaches never ventured out at night, being afraid of rattlesnakes. Slocum thought it was probably more of a spiritual fear than actual, since he had seen Apaches grab the snakes with their bare hands and wave them about in broad daylight.
If they thought the snakes turned into evil spirits at night, Slocum wasn’t going to argue with them. It made it easier getting into their camp. A few fearful sentries were all he need deal with.
When he had come within a few hundred yards of the Apache camp, he dismounted, got his bearings and advanced slowly. He had considered bringing his Winchester but decided his trusty knife sheathed in the top of his right boot was a better companion to the Colt Navy slung cross-draw style at his left hip. Stealth, not firepower, was going to free the captives.
If they were still alive.
As he had thought, the Apaches crowded around their fires. Three separate firepits blazed and crackled with dripping grease from the meat being roasted. Slocum’s mouth watered at the delectable scent of cooking beef. It had been too long since he had eaten anything that hadn’t come out of an airtight or been run down until it tasted gamy, no matter how he fixed it.
Slowly, he circled the campsite, finding only two guards. Both huddled under blankets, watching the fires and not the trails leading to the camp. He considered slitting the throats of the two inattentive guards but decided not to risk any outcry. Slocum moved past one and got closer to the largest fire, where the war chief sat cross-legged, gnawing on a bone that had recently been a cow rib.
The Apaches talked among themselves, but Slocum was more interested in catching a word or two of the lingo that he understood, to get an idea of what was being planned.
He figured out the young brave, hardly sixteen, next to the chief was his son. The young firebrand argued about killing. Slocum reckoned it had to be the captives. A cold lump formed in his belly when he realized the youngster was swaying his father.
Occasionally pointing with a rifle barrel in the direction of a large greasewood told Slocum where the trio was tied up. But getting to them would require a considerable amount of retracing his steps, circling and coming up on them. He didn’t have the luxury of time. Not with the young brave beginning to shout and wave his rifle around wildly.
Slocum wondered what would happen if he killed the chief and a couple of the nastier-looking braves with him, but then he gave up the idea entirely. It would throw the band into confusion for a few seconds, but they were used to seeing their leaders killed in battle. Before every foray, the warriors elected a new war chief. One brave might be chief for years because of his expertise and bloodthirstiness, but he could be replaced the instant he showed any sign of flagging.
The youngster jumped to his feet and began dancing around. Slocum didn’t recognize the particular dance. It wasn’t a victory dance or a war dance, but it might have been something to do with slaughtering the bound captives. The other braves began to chant with the young brave’s quick-moving feet, to show their approval. Slocum was more interested in the chief’s expression.
While not pleased at having his authority usurped like this—he might have wanted to do as the rancher said and ransom the three—there was also a hint of pride. His son would be a great warrior one day, taking his place at the head of a war party.
Slocum hardly considered what he was doing. All eyes were on the dancing, gyrating brave when he stood, drew his knife and walked to the fire. If Slocum had run or tried to creep closer, he would have been spotted immediately. As it was, he blended in—for a few precious seconds.
Moving like a striking snake, Slocum grabbed the dancing youth by his hair and jerked hard, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. The sharp edge of the thick-bladed knife pressed into the brave’s Adam’s apple just hard enough to draw a thin red line.
“Don’t do anything dumb,” Slocum cautioned the chief, “unless you want your boy to die.”
“He is a brave,” the chief said, eyes wide with surprise. “He will be honored for dying in battle!”
“Some honor, letting a white-eyes walk into your camp and put a knife to your boy’s throat.” Slocum jerked harder on the handful of greasy hair when the young man tried to wiggle free. Spinning him around, Slocum put the brave between himself and three Apaches who had come up behind him.
“We got to do this quick,” Slocum said. “We can all win, if you agree. You want your son killed?”
That Slocum knew whom he had captured so easily shocked the chief again.
“We can dicker. No time to pass around a pipe and think on it. You let go the three you captured this morning. On their horses. When you do that, I let your son go.”
“I will kill you!” The youth struggled and got his chin down far enough so he could speak. Slocum put a knee into the boy’s back to keep him from getting away or speaking again.
“I’m part of the deal. The three ranchers and me. We ride out of here, you get your boy back alive.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You speak mighty good English,” Slocum said. “How’s that?”
“I was taught in mission school,” the chief said with more than a touch of bitterness. “I left our prison and killed them all.”
“So much for the benefits of a good education,” Slocum said. “But you have your honor to think about. You wouldn’t break a deal, not if you swear a blood oath.”
“No.”
Slocum pulled the chief’s son around again so the fire-light reflected off the shiny silver blade. He pressed a bit more and drew more blood. Nothing serious. All he needed to do was sever one of the arteries pulsing hard in the youth’s neck to kill him. But Slocum knew his own life would be over before the brave hit the ground.
“Time’s running out. You swear to let us go, and I’ll swear to let your son go.”
“White men lie,” the Apache spat out.
“I don’t.” Slocum spoke with such sincerity that the chief looked at him for the first time as if this deal might be done.
“Get the three,” the chief ordered. A pair of braves rushed off and brought the trio back.
The cowboy had been shot in both arms, which hung limp at his sides. In a fight, he would be useless unless he could bite the Apaches, but from his fierce look he just might do that. The older man, the one the young woman had called her pa, looked leathery and tough enough to get through any scrape. His daughter again caught Slocum’s attention. She looked frightened, but not to the point of being paralyzed. She was more than passing pretty and would be even better looking cleaned up. Right now sweat, dirt and blood marred her good looks. Her long auburn hair had fallen from under her Stetson and flopped about in greasy ropes.
“I’ve traded the chief his son’s life for ours,” Slocum said before the drover could say a word. Slocum didn’t want a long, drawn out discussion.
“Who’re you?” the rancher asked. “I’m Tewksbury. John Tewksbury. This is my daughter Lydia and that there’s Caleb.”
“Bring their horses,” Slocum ordered the chief. “Now!”
“How are you going to get away?” Lydia asked. “If you—”
“The chief speaks better English than most trail hands,” Slocum said, cutting her off. “Reckon he thinks quicker than most, too.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, and Slocum believed her. She was quick on the uptake and realized any discussion now only fed the chief’s anger.
“Get on and ride back to where you came from,” Slocum ordered them when three horses were led to the fireside.
“My cattle. I’m not leavin’ a dozen strays with this damn cattle rustlin’ varmint!” Tewksbury’s outrage was ominous.
>
“Then you stay and argue the point with him. Caleb and your daughter can get the hell out of here with their scalps still where they ought to be.”
The drover took in a deep breath, then silently swung into the saddle with the grace of a man twenty years younger.
“Lydia has a point. What about you?”
“I’ll get by,” Slocum said, already backing away. “You ride.”
“We’re in the Tonto Basin. The Circle T.”
“Ride,” Slocum said harshly. He waited for the three to vanish into the night, then began backing away toward where he had tethered his horse.
“You let him go. Now!”
“You stay where you are,” Slocum warned. “I give you my blood oath I won’t hurt him unless you try to stop me.” Slocum pricked the skin on his left hand and held it up, showing the sluggish red drop flowing down his palm. He continued to retreat until he came to where his horse waited nervously.
Slocum kicked out and drove his boot into the back of the young brave’s knee, driving him to the ground. Swinging hard, he smashed the butt end of the heavy knife into the back of the Apache’s head. He only stunned him, but that was good enough.
With a jump, Slocum mounted and turned his horse’s face into the night. Behind, he heard the Apaches’ angry cries. Bullets tore through the darkness after him, but he had ridden far enough to be out of range.
He thought about riding due west and getting the hell away from the Tonto Basin, which seemed to be in an uproar, but the thought of Lydia kept coming back to slow him. He hadn’t rescued her, Caleb and John Tewksbury for a reward, but the thought of what she might give eventually caused him to swing from his westward route to a more northerly one.
It wouldn’t hurt to see what the Circle T had to offer.
2
Apaches didn’t ride at night. These did. Slocum heard the pounding hooves of Indian ponies before he had gone a mile. Cursing, he doubled back, then worked with a bit of scrub brush to hide his tracks, then barely hid in time as the war party rode up. The Apaches yammered at one another, shouting their insults and telling the young buck at their lead how foolish he was. This did not deter the chief’s son.
He pointed angrily in the direction Slocum had been riding and took off, letting the others follow his lead or not. Some lingered, muttering curses as they gentled their agitated horses, but all followed eventually. Whether they feared their war chief or the young man was leader enough to inspire them didn’t matter much to Slocum. The Apaches had taken the bogus trail and given him a few minutes’ head start. Slocum led his horse from the arroyo where he had taken refuge and listened as the pounding hoofbeats faded into the night. Resting his hand on his six-shooter, he wondered if he might not trail them and pick off the braves at the rear of the party one by one. It would serve the chief’s son right to be the only one who returned from his ill-considered mission.
Slocum pushed that notion out of his head. Petting a grizzly bear was a dumb idea. Thinking he could go up against a dozen Apache warriors all by himself was even stupider. He walked his horse a spell, then mounted and kept to low-lying areas to keep from silhouetting himself against the night sky. Like all the Arizona nights since he had ridden from Tombstone, it was cloudless and the blanket of stars shone brightly enough to read a newspaper. That made tracking easier and presented problems trying to elude the Indians.
As he rode, a cold certainty came to Slocum. If the son had come after him with half the party, that meant the chief had lit out after Tewksbury, Lydia and Caleb with the rest of the warriors. Like him, the trio might think there was no reason to hurry and that the Apaches wouldn’t track them until morning, if then.
Slocum wondered at how badly he had tweaked the Apache honor by walking into their camp the way he had. To venture out at night ran counter to strong superstitions. He shrugged it off. Hatred knew no bounds, even when it came to spitting in the eye of a rattler turned into some ghostlike spirit.
Slocum circled and hunted for the trail left by the Tewksbury party. He found it around midnight and shook his head in disbelief when he saw it.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “I freed a pack of fools.” He dismounted and ran his finger over the outline of a cow hoofprint cut into the hard, dry dirt. “Those sons of bitches went back and stole their own cattle from the Apaches. No wonder the chief got such a burr in his moccasins.” His initial anger passed and he had to laugh ruefully. It took real balls to do what Tewksbury had. It was crazy, but it appealed to Slocum. After all, hadn’t he waltzed into the Apache camp without so much as a howdy-do and held the chief’s son hostage?
Slocum mounted, and rode with growing anticipation of a fight. The small herd’s tracks became obscure as the Indians’ horses kicked up the trail. The chance of Tewksbury out-legging the chief while driving a dozen head of cattle at night was so slim as to be nonexistent. Slocum heard the neighing of horses before he spotted two Apaches on the trail ahead.
Slocum kept riding, as if he were one of their party. He got between the pair, drew his six-gun and fired point-blank into the brave on his left. He only winged the man, who let out a yelp and returned fire. By then Slocum had put his spurs to his mare’s flanks and bolted ahead. The two braves fired at each other until they worked out what was happening. Slocum slowed, turned and took careful aim with his rifle. First one, then the other Apache died. It would have been better if they had shot each other, but Slocum wasn’t complaining. He was alive and they were both dead.
“Two down, ten to go. More or less,” Slocum said. He hadn’t gotten an accurate count of how many Apaches there had been. The chief’s son had led a few—maybe half—but the uncertainty of knowing even one made this rescue even more dangerous.
Gunfire from ahead lent speed to Slocum’s advance. Tewksbury had ridden into the narrow mouth of a canyon, either because he knew the country or because he had been forced this way by his pursuers. If the former, there would be a way out. If the latter, and Tewksbury’s luck had run out, he was caught in a box canyon. Slocum had seen more than one of these promising canyons peter out quick. Usually, getting away amounted to nothing more than back-tracking and finding some other route. This time it meant life or death to the rancher, his daughter and cowhand.
Slocum remembered how Caleb’s arms had been useless. That made riding difficult and fighting impossible. Reduced to only the rancher and his daughter, they stood no chance at all of surviving. Even if they had stolen more ammo from the Apache camp, they were outnumbered five or six to one.
More gunfire was accompanied by the frightened bawling of the cattle not slaughtered for the Apaches’ dinner. Slocum slowed when he saw a head bobbing along in front of him. The Apache had gone to ground, possibly to ambush Tewksbury if he managed to get past the rest of the Indians. That told Slocum the Apaches weren’t familiar with this part of the country. Otherwise, they would have been more confident of their attack.
Waiting for a moment brought unwanted attention as he sat in the middle of the trail. The brave swung around and fired. His slug went wide, but it forced Slocum to take cover. He put the mare between him and the brave, then decided boldness had carried hours before. Why not now?
Grabbing the saddle horn, he urged his horse ahead as he pulled himself up. From the Indian’s position, all he saw was a horse trotting along. When Slocum rode a few yards past, he dropped down, swung around and whipped out his six-shooter. He fanned the Colt and got off four fast shots that ended the warrior’s life. Slocum had to run to catch his horse, and found himself being shot at from all sides. He raced straight ahead, deeper into the canyon, until he saw a few head of cattle milling about aimlessly, frightened by the gunfire and unsure where to stampede.
“Don’t shoot, it’s me, Slocum!” he called as he galloped ahead. No bullets sang out toward him, telling him Tewksbury either was the most trusting galoot in the world or had run out of ammo.
Slocum hit the ground, ran a few steps and then dropped beside the ranch
er.
“You got yourself into a real pickle,” Slocum said. “That rifle got any bullets?” Slocum indicated the rifle Tewksbury had rested atop a boulder.
“We’re all out of ammo. You have some with you?”
“Sure, I always carry a carton or two when I’m fighting Apache renegades fresh off the reservation,” Slocum said sarcastically.
“There’s no need to be snippy about it,” said Lydia, coming up to kneel beside her father. “A simple yes or no would suffice.”
“It was stupid of you to steal the cattle instead of high-tailing it back to your ranch,” Slocum said. His eyes locked with Lydia’s ginger-colored ones. “A simple yes will do for an answer.”
“You—”
“Hush up, daughter,” Tewksbury said. “This ain’t gettin’ us nowhere fast.”
“For once, you got that right,” Slocum said. He had given the place a once-over and confirmed that the Tewksburys had ridden smack into a box canyon. “You have any idea how to get out of this trap, other than back through the Apaches?”
“New territory for me. I’m more at home in the Tonto Basin north of here. We was only huntin’ strays this side of the Sierra Anchas. No call to come this way otherwise.”
“From the look of it, you’ll have plenty of time to figure out the lay of the land here,” Slocum said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lydia Tewksbury was getting madder at him by the minute.
“We’ll all spend an eternity looking up from our graves,” Slocum said. “If the Apaches care to bury us.”
“That’s no attitude to have. We can get out!”
“How?” asked Slocum, but an idea was coming to him.
“I . . . I don’t know,” the woman said contritely.
“I got rid of three of them on my way in,” Slocum said. “You have any idea how many are left?”
“You killed three of them? But—” Lydia was silenced by her father.
“Don’t rightly know, Slocum. Might be ten left.”
“Ten and all led by the war chief. I gave his son and another ten or so braves the slip, but eventually the kid will come back, tail between his legs. That’ll double the guns we’re facing.”
