Slocum and the Tonto Basin War

by Jake Logan

  “There you go again, sounding pessimistic.”

  “Miss Tewksbury,” Slocum said angrily, “it’s not pessimistic. It’s the plain truth.”

  “Pa,” called Caleb. “I found a trail to the rim. It’s real narrow, but we can walk up it.”

  “He’s your son?” Slocum looked at the wounded drover. Caleb had stuffed both his hands into the front of his torn, bloody shirt to keep them from flopping around. Otherwise, he seemed unhurt by the run-in with the Apaches.

  “He is,” Tewksbury said, a grimness in his tone that worried Slocum. As unrealistic as his daughter was about them getting out alive, the father was turning this into a defeat before it happened.

  “Then you’ll want to save both of them,” Slocum said. “I’ve got an idea. Drive the cattle back out of the canyon and see if that’s good enough for the Apaches to let us be.”

  “Not my cattle! I won’t give them up to those red-skinned thieves!”

  “Then those ‘red-skinned thieves’ are going to take your scalp. Hers will look mighty good hanging next to yours,” Slocum said brutally. This shocked Tewksbury into grudging acceptance.

  “Do you think it’ll work, Slocum?” asked Caleb. “They’ll be happy with the cattle and not our lives, too?”

  Slocum doubted it, but driving the beeves back toward the Indians would create a diversion they could use to their advantage.

  “Take your sister to the trail and get your asses up it pronto,” Slocum said. “Me and your pa will take care of things here.” Slocum fetched his Winchester and handed it to the older man. He took a few minutes to reload his Colt Navy, but knew they were not going to hold off almost a dozen Apaches if the chief decided to attack. Slocum wondered what was going through the Apache’s mind right about now. Rattlesnake spirits walked at night, but honor demanded he get the cattle back and kill those who had made him look foolish. Would he figure he was ahead by simply keeping the herd?

  “I don’t like givin’ them redskins my cattle. It took me damn near a week to round up those strays.”

  “It’ll only take the Apaches a few seconds to lift your scalps,” Slocum said. He ducked when Tewksbury swung the rifle around and fired three times, as fast as he could work the lever action.

  “Damn Indians,” Tewksbury said, but Slocum heard the resignation in the man’s voice.

  “Help me stampede the cattle,” Slocum said. It hardly seemed like a decent stampede. He had been caught in real stampedes where five thousand head of cattle had spooked and begun an unstoppable run across the prairie. Sometimes the lead cattle could be turned, but other times all that could be done was ride alongside the frightened herd and wait for them to tire, hoping not too many got trampled.

  Slocum worked his way forward as Tewksbury fired methodically to keep the Indians at bay. He reached the milling, frightened beeves and had no trouble hurrahing them into a lumbering retreat down the canyon into the Apaches. They kicked up a dust cloud that obscured Slocum’s return to where Tewksbury had run out of ammo. The rancher held up the rifle, silently imploring Slocum for more bullets. Slocum took the rifle from the rancher. They had run through all the ammunition.

  “Let’s let them sort out what’s happening,” Slocum said, “and get the hell out of here.”

  He vaulted into the saddle. Tewksbury grabbed the reins of his horse and mounted. Together they made their way to the rear of the canyon, where Caleb’s horse grazed at a patch of tough grama grass. Slocum dropped to the ground, patted the mare’s neck and hoped the Apaches treated her well. The mare had been a steadfast companion through some harsh country.

  “You gonna stand there or you gonna come?” Tewksbury had already pulled his saddlebags from his horse and slung them over his shoulder. Slocum quickly duplicated that effort. It was bad enough letting the chief have his horse and tack, but Slocum was damned if he was going to lose what other gear he carried.

  “Race you to the top,” Slocum said. He began the steep climb, hoping Caleb hadn’t been wrong about this going all the way to the rim. Once they got to the high ground, they could use an old Apache trick against the Indians, if they were foolish enough to follow up the trail. Rocks rolled down required nothing but some effort and a little sweat. No bullets. He followed Tewksbury and almost ran into the man when the rancher stopped suddenly.

  “What’s wrong?” A thousand problems raced through Slocum’s mind. The narrow trail might have broken off from the cliff face. A rock fall could block further progress. Or the trail might have petered out.

  “Caleb,” called Tewksbury. “Why are you comin’ back down?”

  “Lydia,” the young man said. Caleb walked cautiously, unable to balance himself well on the narrow ledge without the use of his hands. “She never made it up. She with you?”

  Slocum looked past Tewksbury. There was no way they could have passed her on this trail. His eyes locked with Tewksbury’s.

  “Where’d she go?” Slocum asked. “She couldn’t have started up the path unless she fell off. We’d’ve heard that.” He considered what else could have happened. He added, “Or seen her as she fell past us.”

  In spite of himself, he looked over the edge, a hundred feet down into darkness. If Lydia Tewksbury had fallen, he would never see her in the gloomy canyon bottom.

  “Her horse, Pa. It’s got to be her horse.”

  “What are you talking about?” Slocum demanded. “You saying it threw her?”

  “It’s been hers since it was a colt. She’s more attached to it than she is to any human bein’,” Tewksbury said. He heaved a sigh, turned and put his hand on Slocum’s shoulder. “Let me by. I’ve got to fetch her before the Apaches catch her.”

  “You’re sure she’s still on the canyon floor?” Slocum glanced out in the canyon but couldn’t see anything because of long shadows and deep crevices cutting into the walls on both sides.

  “Got to be,” Caleb said. Caleb chewed on his lower lip and looked as if he might launch himself through thin air to get to the bottom so he could go after his wayward sister, too. Blood was thicker than water, but this dry Arizona ground would soak it all up, no matter how thick, and never leave a trace behind.

  “Get to the top. Get on back to your ranch and fetch some help,” Slocum said. “I’ll get her. If I can.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Slocum. You’ve done more than we got any right to expect,” Tewksbury said.

  The rancher stared into Slocum’s cold green eyes and took a half step back.

  “You don’t have to go after Lydia,” Tewksbury said. “She’s my responsibility.”

  “Don’t give the Indians something more to celebrate,” Slocum said. “Take care of your son. I’ll see to Lydia.” He swung around on the path and worked his way back down the slippery slope, kicking up small pebbles as he stumbled and slid to the bottom. His mare greeted him with a snort and a toss of the head.

  “Where’d she go?” Slocum asked the horse, as if it might answer. The mare backed away from him, pawed the rocky ground and tossed her head again, toward the far side of the canyon. Slocum considered where Lydia might have gone, foolishly thinking she could hide from Apaches who were clever enough to count horses and know when one was missing. Lydia either didn’t know or had ignored that Indians considered horses to be wealth, in the same way the white man thought of gold and silver.

  He swung into the saddle and trotted to the far side of the narrow box canyon. He didn’t have to follow Lydia’s trail. There simply was nowhere for her to hide. Slocum drew rein and stared straight at her, where she hunkered down in a rocky crevice.

  “How’d you find me?” she asked.

  “The Indians will be coming. I’m not sure there’s time to get all the way up to the rim, but we’ve got to try,” Slocum said.

  “I will not!”

  “Mighty fine horse,” Slocum said, “but it’ll be lonesome when the Apaches kill you.”

  “They won’t find me . . .” Lydia’s voice trailed off. Slocum had
obviously had no trouble locating her. The Indians wouldn’t, either.

  “Is your horse worth your life?” he asked. “Or being a squaw the rest of your life?”

  Lydia shuddered as his words sank in.

  “It’s my horse,” she said weakly.

  Slocum jumped to the ground and tugged at his horse to get the mare closer to the crevice. Lydia’s horse neighed loudly.

  “There’s no time,” he said. “The Indians are coming.”

  Lydia took Slocum by surprise. The last thing in the world he expected from her was to swing a rock and clip him on the side of the head. He jerked as he caught sight of the motion, but his reaction caused him to smash his head into the side of the cliff, stunning him. In a flash Lydia pushed past, jumped into the saddle and started out of the canyon, following the sheer wall in hope of eluding the eager Apaches who whooped and hollered as they raced closer.

  Slocum shook off the effect of the blow to his head, but he was wobbly. He had started to go after the woman when he saw a brave riding toward her. There wasn’t any way Lydia Tewksbury could avoid being caught by the Indians.

  3

  Slocum reached for his rifle to take the Indian brave off his horse before he reached Lydia Tewksbury, but his hand groped and found only emptiness. He remembered he had lent the rifle to the woman’s father and had abandoned it when its magazine came up empty. Not being able to fight at a reasonable distance, Slocum put his heels to his mare’s flanks. The horse bolted forward at a dead gallop. The pounding hooves caused the brave to take his eye off Lydia for an instant.

  That was all the opening the woman needed. She lashed out with her lariat, catching the brave across the face. Angered, the Apache turned back to her. By then it was too late for him.

  Slocum had ridden close enough to launch himself through the air. The impact of his shoulder hitting the brave’s rock-hard belly shook Slocum—but it knocked the Apache off his horse. Slocum tumbled after him and came up on top. Two quick punches rocked the Indian. Then a quick slash with his knife ended the brave’s life amid a gurgle and gush of blood from his severed throat.

  “Oh,” Lydia said. She stared at the dead body, but Slocum had no time for her to feel sick.

  He cleaned his knife by plunging it into the dirt beside the corpse, then shoved it back into the sheath inside his boot. Slocum got to his feet and made a grab for the woman. His strong arm circled her waist and carried her out of the saddle. She was too startled to protest. Her horse neighed in fright and ran away, Slocum’s mare close behind.

  “My horse!” Lydia cried.

  Slocum clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. He pushed her back. They tumbled and fell heavily to the ground, his weight pinning her down. She struggled to get out from under him, but he held her tightly.

  “Don’t struggle,” he whispered urgently. “For your life, stop fighting me.”

  Slocum had heard what Lydia hadn’t. Indians came to see what the ruckus was. The two horses galloping away had distracted them. As he looked up, he saw the braves’ silhouettes as they approached. Then both warriors wheeled about and chased after the horses.

  “They’ll take Star!”

  “Your horse?”

  “What else?” Lydia demanded angrily. She struggled again, but Slocum refused to let her go free. His face was only inches from hers. He hadn’t noticed before how bright her reddish-brown eyes could be. They shone in the night like beacons.

  “Keep your voice down,” Slocum said, “and I’ll let you up. Just don’t move around much and draw attention to us.”

  “How gracious of you,” she said sarcastically. When he rolled to the side, she sat up and tried to pull up her ripped, dirty dress. He couldn’t help noticing a fair amount of bare breast through the disarray. “Be a gentleman and look away,” she said when she noticed his interest. Lydia tried to pull up the dress to cover her nakedness and finally realized there was no way she could repair the rents. She gave up in disgust, glaring at Slocum as if challenging him to make some lewd comment.

  As interested as Slocum was in her bare flesh, he was more interested in keeping them both alive. He grabbed her wrist and tugged, drawing her in the direction of the canyon wall. When Lydia tried to stand, he pulled her back low.

  “Crawl,” he said.

  “Never!”

  He stared at her for an instant, then laughed. This made her even madder when she realized what he had meant. Furious, she obeyed. On hands and knees she scampered off, finding refuge in a deep fissure at the side of the canyon.

  He joined her a few minutes later after taking the time to rear up like a prairie dog and look for the Apaches. The Indians were nowhere to be seen.

  “We might be in luck. They must think we’ve all hightailed it up the trail, and they’re satisfied with taking our horses and the cattle.”

  “Star,” she moaned. “I won’t lose my horse!”

  “You’d die for that horse?”

  “If I have to!”

  Slocum heaved a sigh. He was a complete fool for what he was thinking. This wasn’t his fight, and he didn’t owe the Tewksburys anything. Not a one of them, including Lydia. But it was no surprise when he opened his mouth and heard the dreaded words pouring out.

  “I’ll get the horse back from them,” he said. “I don’t know how, but I will.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Slocum said. “I’m not responsible for the jam you got yourselves into, but I’ll get the damned horse.”

  “Star isn’t a damned horse. He’s the best horse in the whole Tonto Basin!”

  “Gelding?”

  Lydia started to say something, clamped her mouth shut, then tittered.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to ask that. Yes, Star’s a gelding. Why?”

  “I need to know which horse to steal back.”

  “Star’s got a blaze on his forehead and a large black marking on his right front leg. And—”

  “That’s all I need to know,” Slocum said, swearing that he would never do anything this stupid again and realizing he might never have the chance because he would be dead. He touched the ebony handle of his Colt, but the six-shooter was empty. Whatever he did, the knife was going to be his only weapon unless he managed to steal a rifle or pistol from a dead Apache.

  He considered returning to the one whose throat he had just slit, then decided that was too dangerous. Calling attention to the body was a sure way of getting the rest of the war party down on his neck. They wouldn’t even know they had lost another of their band until they gathered around their campfire to brag on how they had stolen horses and cattle from the white-eyes.

  “You get up the trail to the rim and tell your pa to get on back to the Circle T. I’ll find you there.”

  “It’s not hard. We’re smack in the middle of the basin. Finest grassland in the world,” Lydia said proudly.

  “You wait there for me. It might take a spell to steal back your horse.”

  Slocum stopped and looked at the woman again. In spite of dirt on her face and more than a little blood, some of it hers, she looked like an angel come to earth. He thought of kissing her but didn’t.

  She kissed him, then looked startled that she could have done such a thing. Without a word, Lydia covered her mouth with her hand, then bolted for the trail leading to the top of the canyon.

  He watched her go, but she vanished into the darkness within seconds. Slocum thought he saw an occasional flash of white—her naked breast?—on the trail, but it might have been his imagination. He sank down with his back to the cold, rugged rock and worked through plans in his head on how best to get the horse.

  He gave up making any plan until he got the lay of the land. It might be impossible. Or the war chief might be feeling cocky, so that stealing Star and his own mare would be a breeze. Slocum figured the actual rematch between him and the Indians would be something between those two extremes.

  Heaving himself to his feet, Slocum se
t out at a quick walk, alert for the Apaches. By the time he reached the mouth of the box canyon, he knew they had retreated with their spoils. This made his mission even harder since their camp was some distance away and he was on foot, but he grimly kept slogging along, and reached the Apache bivouac just before sunrise. Tired and footsore, Slocum noted that the Indians hadn’t bothered putting sentries out. He wondered what the scene had been like when the chief’s son had returned empty-handed with a passel of pissed off braves riding behind him.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the surroundings, on being quiet in spite of being tired to the bone, wanting to rush and get the hell away. Boldness had won the day before. Now he had to rely on stealth. Slocum worked his way around the camp where the Apaches slept fitfully. He caught his breath and held it until his heart pounded so hard he was sure it would explode when the chief’s son suddenly sat up, threw off his blanket and stared straight at Slocum. Whatever had awakened the young brave had nothing to do with Slocum’s lack of skill.

  The youth got to his feet and paced around the camp, his face a mask of pure fury. For a moment Slocum thought he was going to witness a son killing his father. The young warrior stopped where the chief slept, drew his knife and held it high, as if he meant to plunge it downward into an unsuspecting heart. Whatever went through his head passed. The young man jammed his knife back into the sheath at his waist and stalked away.

  Slocum sank behind a creosote bush and slowly let out the breath he had held. The young buck headed in the direction opposite where the horses were corralled, but Slocum knew the restlessness might bring him around and find Slocum stealing the horses. In the distance he heard cattle lowing and thought that might be the chief’s son’s destination. It would be daylight in another half hour. Slocum had to work fast at being a horse thief.

  He shook his head. Was it being a thief to steal back your own property? Of course it wasn’t, he assured himself, but he wasn’t going to stop with his and the Tewksburys’ mounts. He wanted all the Apaches’ horses. It was only fitting payment for all he had been through.