Evil Breed

by Charles G. West

  “I reckon you’d best stay here,” Clay said, his voice gentle but with a tone of finality. Jim was about to protest, but Clay turned away and directed a question toward Wolf Paw. “Can you take him to your village and tend to that cut on the back of his head?”

  “You go after this man alone?” Wolf Paw asked. Clay nodded, and Wolf Paw said, “We will take care of him.”

  Jim was sick inside with the realization that Clay was right. He would be of little use to his brother, and might even be a hindrance. He couldn’t even get up on his horse without help. Resigned to the way things had to be, he pulled his foot from the stirrup and remained standing there holding on to the saddle horn. “Be careful, Clay. The man’s dangerous as hell.”

  “I know,” Clay replied with a faint smile. Then, with a nod to Wolf Paw, he was off.

  Chapter 16

  Wolf Paw may have been right, Clay thought as he studied the tracks leading up a shallow draw toward a low line of hills to the south. It did appear that Slocum was heading for Fort Laramie. He had held consistently to that direction for the last several miles, never wavering. Clay considered the draw for a moment. Nice place for an ambush, he thought, scanning the sides of the draw, searching for any hint that the ruthless killer might have decided to lie in wait for any pursuers. The fact that Slocum was making no effort to hide his tracks was enough to cause Clay to exercise caution. If a man wanted to lead you into an ambush, he would make sure you could follow him. Well, this looks like a good place for one, Clay thought. I think I’ll go around, just to be safe.

  Guiding his pony up the left side, he crossed over to ride beneath the slope that defined the draw. With his rifle ready and his eyes focused on the rocks that dotted the sides of the draw, he walked his horse slowly, watching for the slightest movement. Even though he took no chances, he didn’t expect to find anything until he came to the other end of the draw, where it opened out to the prairie. He felt sure that, if Slocum were lying in ambush, he would most likely be hiding behind one of the rocks near that end. If his hunch was right, Clay expected to spot Slocum’s horse tied in the brush.

  When he had circled the entire length of the shallow draw, he dismounted. Leaving his horse standing near a dry bramble patch, he made his way on foot up to the edge of the draw. There was no horse that he could see, and no sign of Slocum. Thinking his hunch had been wrong, he walked down to the mouth of the draw to look for Slocum’s tracks.

  There were no tracks leading out of the draw, a fact that puzzled Clay. From where he stood, he could see the far end of the draw. There was no place within the narrow passage where a man could hide a horse. Slocum had ridden in, but he never came out the other end, and if he was still in the draw, he must have dug a hole big enough to hide himself and his horse. Clay went back for his horse, then rode into the passage to find where Slocum had decided to change directions, evidently going over the side of the draw.

  Where would I set up to ambush somebody? Clay asked himself as he rode along the bottom of the defile. Picking a waist-high rock with sage on either end, he guided the paint up to it. He and the man he followed were of the same mind, because there were plenty of tracks to show that this was the spot where Slocum had waited to see if the war party was still following him. Clay had guessed right about the horse, too, for he found hoofprints showing where Slocum had led it from the brush at the edge of the ravine. Following the tracks leading from the rock, Clay found that they led back toward the entrance of the draw. He’s going back!

  The discovery surprised Clay. He hadn’t figured on that. He figured Slocum would keep riding until he reached Fort Laramie. Evidently as soon as he determined he was not being followed by the Crow warriors, he headed right back the way he had come. Probably riding back up the draw at the same time I was circling around to the other end, Clay thought. He was beginning to realize the man he tracked was not easily frightened. Clay quickly climbed into the saddle and gave the paint his heels. Now there was no time to waste. Jim and his Crow friends had no idea the tables had been turned and they might now be stalked. A man who enjoyed killing as much as Slocum could do a lot of damage with a rifle before the war party knew what hit them.

  * * *

  Slocum was still boiling with anger when he had come to the narrow draw. He was the hunter. He didn’t like it when the roles were reversed, and he damn sure couldn’t abide being chased out of the valley by a handful of Crow warriors. It was a surprise to him that a small party of Crows would be this far away from their home territory. It might have been that they were looking for him. Looking back as he had galloped out of the little valley, he had been able to spot only eight Indians. Eight of any kind of Indians weren’t too many for Slocum to handle, as long as he could call the play. It galled him to think they had gotten the jump on him.

  It had made him mad enough to decide to wait in ambush to trim the odds down. So he had waited, getting madder by each long minute that passed with no sign of Indians. In a short while he realized they weren’t coming after him at all. That realization served only to add to his anger. Maybe, he had guessed, they had decided to satisfy themselves with rescuing Jim Culver. After all, he was supposed to be a friend of theirs, according to that Pascal fellow who tried to steal his horse back by the Belle Fourche. His anger coming to a slow boil then, he trembled with the thought that Jim had escaped him again. That thought had caused him to immediately fetch his horse and head back to see for himself. Culver was his to kill. No Indian had the right to take that pleasure from him, and he would kill every damn one of them if he had to. Without totally realizing it, Slocum had permitted his frustration with Jim Culver—and his hatred for him—to take over his every waking thought, crowding out concern for his own safety. Not until Jim was killed by his hand would Slocum have peace of mind.

  * * *

  His shoulders and arms still sore from having been immobile for so many hours, Jim nevertheless was already beginning to regain some of his strength. The small amount of dried meat that Wolf Paw had provided served to make him feel stronger as he rode more upright in the saddle. He knew it would take a few days’ rest and some solid food before he could fully recover. His immediate concern was for his brother’s welfare. He hoped that Clay fully respected the evil cunning of the man he trailed. To fail to do so could mean tragic consequences.

  With Wolf Paw leading the way, the small party of Crow warriors and one white man were crossing through a stand of cottonwoods close by the river when Jim heard the first shot. He looked back in time to see the rearmost warrior, a young man called Otter, grunt as if hit in the back with a fist. Without another sound the warrior rolled off his pony’s back, falling in a heap. Within seconds another shot rang out, and the man riding next to Otter yelped in pain before sliding helplessly off his horse. With no need for a command, the remaining riders kicked their horses hard, charging for the closest safety, which was the low riverbank, while more shots flew over their heads.

  Without a weapon of any kind, Jim could only scramble for cover to escape the almost constant whine of bullets as Slocum fired as fast as he could in hopes of a lucky hit. The riverbank being only about waist-high, there was no protection for the horses, and already two of them had been hit. It wasn’t the best spot to defend against a rifle on the high ground, but there were no other choices.

  “We have to let the horses go,” Jim yelled as Wolf Paw dropped beside him in the sand. Wolf Paw nodded his agreement, and released the reins on his pony, giving the animal a hard slap on the rump to chase him away. Jim didn’t like the idea of releasing the horses, but to try to keep them there would surely mean slaughter. There was no doubt in his mind that Slocum was the one doing the shooting, and he would not be inclined to spare the horses. The relentless villain had somehow managed to double back on them. Jim only hoped that it had not been at the expense of Clay’s life.

  Once everyone was safely out of the line of fire, the six surviving warriors spread out along the riverbank. Each man with
a rifle dug into the bank, carving out a slot to fire from. That left Jim with no weapon and two of the warriors with bows only. He couldn’t have picked a better spot to hit us, Jim thought as he tried to spot a muzzle flash, training his eyes along the edge of the trees, his gaze darting from trunk to trunk. “I can’t see him,” he said to Wolf Paw.

  “I think he is moving in the trees,” Wolf Paw replied, never taking his eyes from the cottonwoods. They looked at each other helplessly, resigned to the fact that Slocum had them pinned down proper. Wolf Paw looked up at the cloudy gray sky. “It is still several hours till nightfall. We have no choice but to wait until dark, and then we can move out against him.” Unable to think of a better plan, Jim nodded agreement.

  Approximately 150 yards away, Slocum crawled up to a large cottonwood and peered around the trunk. Keeping his eyes on the rim of the riverbank, he scanned it left to right and back again, slowly, so as not to miss the smallest of movements. He grinned when his gaze caught a tiny stirring in the leaves that had fallen near the bank, and he stared at the spot until the top of a head gradually rose above the rim. Taking careful aim, he thought, Here I am, darlin’, and squeezed the trigger. Almost instantly a puff of dust flew up no more than half a foot from the dark hair, causing it to disappear once more. “Damn,” he swore. He had missed, but he was certain he had cured one Indian from sticking his head up. He crawled backward a few yards, then moved over to take up a position behind another tree. No sense in taking a chance, he thought. From his new position he carefully scanned the riverbank once more. He almost chuckled when he caught sight of most of a head and part of a shoulder through a notch in the bank. Taking aim quickly, he squeezed the trigger again. This time he didn’t miss. “Ha!” He grunted involuntarily when he saw the head snap sideways and blood splash.

  Behind the bank, Wolf Paw cried out when he saw his friend Leads His Horse crumple and slide down the bank. Instantly overcome with grief and rage, he would have charged up out of the bank were it not for Jim’s restraining hand on his arm.

  “No!” Jim commanded. “He’ll just cut you down, too.”

  Wolf Paw corralled his emotions, but he was not to be dissuaded. “We cannot sit here until he finally picks us off one by one.” He motioned for the others to crawl over near him. “We must decide what to do,” he said, searching each face. “I say we should attack him. He can’t get us all.”

  Before the others could offer their thoughts, Jim interrupted. “He might not get us all, but he’ll get two, maybe three of us if we come stormin’ over this bank. It’s me he wants. Because of me you’ve already lost three of your warriors. I think if he gets me, he’ll let the rest of you go.”

  His statement was met at once with strong objections from all of the Crow warriors. “We will not lie here like women and let you sacrifice yourself to save us. It is better to die in battle than to slink home as cowards.”

  “Before you decide,” Jim insisted, “at least let me try to talk to him. He intends to take me back to Fort Lincoln. He won’t kill me.” He knew what he said was a lie. It was more than likely Slocum would shoot him down on the spot. He wasn’t inclined to sacrifice his life for much he could think of. But it wasn’t right for Wolf Paw and his friends to die because of him. If Slocum was distracted by him, maybe at least they might have a chance to escape.

  Wolf Paw wasn’t sure that what Jim said was true. “I don’t think we can trust this man’s word even if he agrees not to shoot you.” He looked at the others for help, but they all looked to him to make the decision. “I don’t like this,” he finally said, looking back at Jim.

  “Hell, let’s see what he says,” Jim said. “Hand me Leads His Horse’s rifle.” Not waiting for any more objections from Wolf Paw, he took the rifle. Looking around for something to use as a flag, he settled on a red bandanna one of the warriors wore. The warrior gave it to him, and he tied it around the rifle barrel. Without another word he held the rifle up and waved it back and forth. Almost instantly the snap of a bullet cracked overhead, followed by the sound of the shot.

  “Slocum!” Jim yelled as loudly as he could. “Hold your fire, dammit!” He wasn’t sure Slocum heard him, but there was not another shot. “Let’s talk, Slocum. Whaddaya say?”

  “I’m listenin’,” Slocum’s voice came back from the tree line.

  “You got us pinned down. We can’t get out before dark. But you can’t get to us without getting yourself shot either. So it’s a draw until dark, and then we’ll spread out all around you.”

  A deep chuckle came from the trees, followed by, “There ain’t gonna be none of you left by dark.”

  “You don’t have any reason to kill these Indians. It’s me you want. I’ll make a deal with you. If you’ll give me your word you’ll let them ride out of here, I’ll give myself up. Whaddaya say?”

  Slocum could hardly believe what he was hearing. Culver was asking for his word? He almost laughed out loud. “Shore,” he yelled back. “I’ll give you my word. Come on out, but leave that rifle there.”

  “All right, I’m unarmed,” Jim called out as he untied the bandanna from the rifle barrel, then checked to see if the magazine was fully loaded. He knew Slocum’s word wasn’t worth a pinch of horseshit, so he cocked the rifle, pulling a shell into the chamber. During his negotiations with Slocum, the Crow warriors listened, dumbfounded by what seemed to them a foolhardy plan. Jim looked at Wolf Paw and smiled. “You and the others get ready to make for the water, and head downstream as fast as you can when the shooting starts.”

  “I think he will shoot you as soon as you step out,” Wolf Paw said soberly.

  “Maybe so,” Jim replied, “but I’m coming out shooting, and if he gives me any target at all, and this rifle shoots halfway straight, I just might get him.” Not waiting to give Wolf Paw time to try to talk him out of it, he crawled up to the edge of the bank. “Slocum,” he yelled, “I’m coming out. Where are you?”

  “I’m right here,” Slocum answered, still unable to believe his luck. “Come on out.”

  “I’m unarmed,” Jim called back. “I need to see you to make sure you ain’t planning to shoot me.”

  From behind a large cottonwood trunk, Slocum waved his arm up and down. “I’m right here.”

  “All right,” Jim called back. “I’ll count to three and we’ll both come out at the same time. Is that agreed?” He turned to Wolf Paw. “I see where he’s hiding. He’ll have to show himself to shoot, so I’ll start shooting as soon as I come out of here. I’ll keep him behind that tree. You and your warriors get ready to run.”

  While Jim was talking, Slocum, his face lit up with a grin, eased back from the tree he had waved from and crawled as fast as he could to another some fifteen yards away. Settling in behind the roots of the tree, he had a clear view of the riverbank. He pulled the Winchester .73, with the initials J.R.C. carved in the stock, up into position and waited for the fun to begin.

  Jim fully expected treachery on Slocum’s part, but he decided to count to three anyway, on the hope that the surly brute might actually step out into the open. It was time to see who could bluff the best. In a loud, clear voice, he counted out, “One . . . two . . . three,” and dived over the rim of the bank, rolling over onto his belly, the rifle in firing position. There was no sign of Slocum, but Jim didn’t hesitate. He covered the tree trunk with a barrage of rifle fire as fast as he could cock it and pull the trigger. Cottonwood bark flew in ragged pieces from both sides of the tree Slocum had waved from. Totally exposed, Jim knew his only hope was to keep Slocum pinned down behind the trunk while he made a run for cover in the trees. Counting his shots as he fired, he saved one round as his ace in the hole in case Slocum stepped out into the open. Firing all but that shot, he scrambled to his feet and began to sprint for cover, waiting for the inevitable from Slocum. But there was no return fire. The thought flashed before his mind that one of his shots might have landed.

  He found it hard to believe he was still alive, now no more th
an a dozen yards from the edge of the trees. Suddenly his legs turned to lead as the adrenaline that had fueled his attack seemed to run out and he returned to his weakened state. Now that dozen yards seemed to be ten times that distance, and he could feel his legs beginning to fail. Still there was no gunfire from the cottonwood he had shredded. Confused, he pushed his exhausted body on.

  “That was about as crazy a stunt as I’ve ever seen. What were you trying to do? Commit suicide?” Clay Culver stepped out to meet his brother at the edge of the trees.

  Startled, Jim stopped in his tracks, staring in disbelief at the broad-shouldered mountain man. Drained of all energy, he uttered, “Ghost Wind,” and, unable to take another step, sank down heavily to sit on the ground. After a few moments, he asked, “Slocum?”

  Clay indicated with a tilt of his head and said, “Over there, tied to a tree.”

  Too exhausted to be excited about it, Jim followed the direction Clay indicated with his eyes. There, no more than a few yards from them, the surly grizzly that was Slocum was seated at the base of a tree, his arms thrust behind his back and tied around the trunk.

  “He was sighting down on you with that fancy rifle of yours,” Clay said.

  “Damn,” was all Jim could respond for a moment, knowing he had come within a hair of losing on the bluff. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Clay said, after hesitating. “He ain’t dead, just got a knot on his head.” He glanced down at the war ax he carried in his belt. He then moved out in the open to stand beside Jim. “We’d best let those Crow friends of yours see that we’re all right.”

  In the excitement of the previous minutes, Jim had forgotten about Wolf Paw and the others. He had been concerned with trying to keep from getting shot and had assumed that the Crow warriors were making their break from the riverbank. Still sitting in the sand, he turned to see Wolf Paw coming toward them, the other four behind him. Instead of running, Wolf Paw had decided to do what to him was the more sensible thing. As long as Jim had insisted upon sacrificing himself as a target, Wolf Paw kept his warriors in place, waiting to get a shot at Slocum when he came out in the open.