by Jake Logan
Rachel Decker’s piddling offer of a few dollars for a lot of hard work sounded more attractive by the minute as Slocum thought on it. She had her troubles, worked on them, and seemed honest and straightforward. Slocum had been down on his luck and was willing to help out. It didn’t hurt any that Rachel was one mighty fine-looking woman.
As he brought the beer mug to his lips, someone jostled his elbow. He spilled some of the amber liquid down his shirt. Irritated, Slocum turned, expecting to confront a drunk. The man beside him had obviously bumped into him on purpose, and now stood with his feet square, shoulders loose, and hand resting lightly on the holster at his side.
“You’re mighty clumsy,” the man said.
“You owe me an apology,” Slocum said. “You bumped into me.”
“That’s a lie.”
A hush settled on the saloon and men started leaving, going under the tent flaps and out the front doors. Trouble was brewing and if lead started flying, they didn’t want to be anywhere near it.
The man facing him down was a gunman and used to killing. Slocum read that in the hot eyes and the stance. He couldn’t see the six-shooter at the man’s side, but he suspected it was well-used, worn, and able to deliver a .44 slug to his gut if he so much as moved a muscle.
Slocum wasn’t sure he could take the man. Maybe. Probably. But he wasn’t sure.
“What’s your quarrel with me?” Slocum asked.
“You just called me a liar. I don’t take that from any man. You going to draw or you going to crawl like a lily-livered snake?”
“Mighty crowded in here,” Slocum said. “Might be you just bumped me and couldn’t help yourself. No disgrace in that.” He wanted to see how far the gunman would go to pick a fight.
“You said I did it on purpose. You backing down? Were you lyin’ before? That figures. A lying, low-down snake.” The man’s fingers began curling and uncurling at his side now. He was winding himself up like a cheap watch, ready to explode at the first sign that Slocum was going for his six-gun.
“I’ll buy you a drink, and we can talk this over,” Slocum volunteered, knowing the answer before it left the man’s lips.
“I don’t drink with an owlhoot who called me a liar. You going to draw or you going to let everyone in here know you’re a coward?” Both the gunman’s hands were twitching now. He was getting tense, a raw nerve that would explode at the slightest provocation.
Slocum bided his time and said nothing. He didn’t look away from the hot gaze, but he didn’t back down either.
“Well?” the man said. “I’m going to shoot you where you stand, whether you draw or not, if you don’t apologize.”
“All right,” said Slocum, still playing for time.
“You’re apologizing?” The gunman was startled at this, and it broke his fierce concentration on killing.
“Take it however you want.” Slocum still didn’t look away. He was keyed up too, but didn’t show it. If the gunfighter made a move, Slocum would have his Colt Navy out and firing, but the man stepped back and looked around.
“You all heard him. The son of a bitch is running off.” The gunman laughed harshly, turned, and started to leave. He paused at the door for a moment, glared at Slocum, then vanished into the night.
The noise rose all around. Miss Maggie came to Slocum’s side.
“You know who that was?”
“Nope.”
“Cletus Quinn’s his name. He’s about the orneriest backshooting son of a buck in these parts. Claims he has killed six men.”
“Six?” Slocum wondered how many he had killed. He couldn’t even remember—and that worried him more than the men he had put six feet under.
“He’s racing,” she said. “You did well to chase him off that way. All he wanted was to frighten you.”
“Do tell,” said Slocum acidly. He took the whiskey Jed pushed across the bar and downed it in a single gulp. The fiery liquor burned all the way down his gullet and pooled in his belly.
“Did it work?” she asked. “You going to race for me or take that other job?”
“He wanted me out of the race?” Slocum asked. “How many others has he tried to scare off?”
“More ’n one, I reckon,” said Miss Maggie, “but you’re the first he faced down. That means he thinks you’re real competition in the race.”
“I’ll ride for you,” Slocum said. No man ran him off, especially the likes of Quinn. Besides, he stood to make a lot of money if he bet carefully and had even a smidgeon of luck come his way.
3
“This is quite a horse,” Slocum said, moving cautiously around the animal to keep it from rearing and kicking the daylights out of him. It might have been the twin to the black stallion Mormon Will had ridden to his death on.
“Don’t want you letting anyone see you on Black Velvet until tomorrow morning,” Miss Maggie warned. “That’s not a problem, is it? I want to spring you on the other racers.”
Slocum had avoided another run-in with Cletus Quinn by a hair the night before. He wasn’t afraid of the man as long as he faced him, but Slocum had heard rumors about how some of the six Quinn claimed as his victims might have had a bullet or two pumped into their backs first. Slocum wasn’t sure if Quinn was the unknown rifleman out on the trail who had plugged Mormon Will, but he wouldn’t put it past the man. Quinn wanted to win the race as much for the prestige as for the heap of money going with it.
“I can handle him,” Slocum said. He blinked, wondering if he’d answered Miss Maggie’s question or an unasked one about Cletus Quinn. Slocum smiled slightly. The answer was the same to both questions. He could handle anything that came his way.
“Black Velvet’s a spirited mount,” Miss Maggie said. “He was too small for Mormon Will. And there was something else. Mormon Will chose Rocket because he was the less frisky of the two.”
“How much do I get for finishing in the top ten?” Slocum asked.
He saw the woman turn cagey. “Twenty-five a day and then the thousand dollars I promised when you get into the final five. Of course, there’s nothing to keep you from buying a few tickets on yourself. That might make it worth your while getting into the top ten.”
Slocum nodded. He already had five tickets in his pocket—all the ticket said was, “The horse and rider sponsored by Miss Maggie.” He had bought them for half price with his first day’s pay since no one thought she could field a horse and rider at this late date.
“I swear I’ll have your guts for garters if you bet against yourself and throw the race,” Maggie said. She looked stem, and Slocum believed her. She had not only survived in Scorpion Bend, but had prospered. That meant she had a steel core to her that wasn’t immediately obvious.
“That’s not my way,” was all Slocum said. This seemed to satisfy Miss Maggie more than carrying on about how honest he was.
“Be ready at eight o’clock sharp. I don’t want to see your ugly face in my saloon or any other. Sober.”
“And you’ll do your best to be sure other riders are drunk as lords?” Slocum suggested. All he got for an answer was a knowing smile. Miss Maggie lifted her skirts and left. He heard a locking bar fall into place and the dull click of a strong iron lock to hold it in place. If he wanted to get out of the rickety barn he could, but there was no reason.
He spent some time with the horse. Getting to know its quirks and letting it get to know him occupied more than an hour. Then Slocum pitched his bedroll next to the pawing stallion’s stall and lay down to go to sleep. The hotel had a softer bed, but he wanted Black Velvet to get used to him being around. Somehow, sleep eluded him as he thought about Rachel Decker and the race and the fortune he might win ... and Rachel Decker.
“Ready, Slocum?” Miss Maggie asked.
He held back the powerful horse as Black Velvet tried to crow-hop on him. So much energy and raw power had to be released soon.
“Ready as I’ll get,” he said, looking around. He had shown up at the starting line fifte
en minutes before eight. The sun was just creeping over the tall mountains to the east, but it wasn’t the shifting shadow and light that spooked his horse. It was the army of riders all around.
“Eighty-nine,” Miss Maggie told him. “We got a real race going this time. That’s danged near nine thousand dollars in entry fees in the pot, and we’re still counting how many tickets we’ve sold.”
Slocum touched his shirt pocket where the five tickets rested. He had bought them cheap, but tickets on other riders were going for ten bucks apiece. From the size of the crowd, that might add another ten thousand dollars to the grand prize. But the real money would come in laying bets.
As Slocum had done. He had put another day’s pay—twenty-five dollars—on himself to finish in the top ten. He had wrangled twenty-to-one odds, so he stood to make five hundred dollars for this day’s ride.
If he finished in the top ten.
“Riders,” bellowed a portly man dressed in a morning coat and a tall, battered, silk stovepipe hat. “Git yer asses to the startin’ line! On yer mark, git set, go!” He fired a black-powder pistol into the air, causing a huge cloud of white smoke to drift down the street into Slocum’s face. Slocum coughed and bent low, then urged his horse forward.
Half the field of riders had galloped off. The rest were playing it smart. The race was slated to last all morning and half the afternoon. A race of endurance required Slocum to have his horse as rested as possible for a strong finish. There was no way he could outrun the field with a dead-out gallop now.
He varied the pace, as did several other riders, putting on a burst of speed, then letting the horse slow to a trot to rest, then picking up the pace again, and finally dropping back to a walk. Slocum was pleased with the strength of his stallion and how well it obeyed his commands. Seeing the other horses at a breakneck gallop made the stallion want to run too, but Black Velvet obeyed when he held it back. There would be time for the real run, Slocum knew.
By the time he reached the mouth of the canyon where Mormon Will had been killed, almost a quarter of the riders had dropped out. The heat wore down on him, but his horse remained strong. As he edged into the canyon and passed the spot where the sniper had taken out both horse and rider a few days earlier, Slocum felt himself growing nervous. Only when he passed the ambush site did he feel easier, as if he unconsciously thought the sniper might repeat his cowardly attack.
But if the killer was Quinn, he rode far ahead, maybe even leading the pack of racers. That didn’t mean some of his henchmen might not try to kill the opposition.
Slocum found himself keeping pace with another rider wearing a tan duster, a black Stetson turning brown with dust, and a faded red bandanna pulled up so only a pair of squinting eyes peered out. Slocum sped up, and so did the other rider. He slowed, and so did the other rider. Slocum would have worried more, except they were passing other riders as they or their mounts flagged in the crushing heat.
He had to smile as he realized that the other rider was duplicating his pace because it worked. There would be time to leave the tan-duster-clad rider behind—at the finish line.
The chasm cut through the rock widened, and Slocum saw a stretch of soothing green, cool meadow opening in front. The relief from the heat almost made him fall from his horse. He had gotten used to the heat, and any relief came as a hammer blow to his face and body. Along the way across the meadow, men cheered with yellow ribbons tied around their arms.
They were judges making sure that the riders actually completed the grueling course. There would be an army of young men at the turn, no one group quite trusting anyone else when it came to staying on course.
“Hey, you Miss Maggie’s rider?” shouted one man. “You kin water over there.” He pointed in the direction of an incline leading to what might be a stream hidden from sight by the steep slope. Slocum hesitated.
Another shouted, “Don’t go listenin’ to him. Thass nuthin’ but alkali water down there. Keep going another mile. Water at the river.”
Slocum wasn’t sure who to believe—if either of them spoke the truth. He wished he had been able to ride the course a few times to check for such vital resources as shade and fresh water. The desert bag slung over his saddle would provide him with plenty of cool water, but his stallion was starting to flag from exhaustion. A little rest, a little water, a chance for him to wash his face, and they both would be as good as gold again.
But where to stop?
“Down the hill. Hurry or you’ll lose time.”
“No, no, straight on. Don’t let that son of a buck gull you!”
Slocum had gained a quarter mile on the rider in the tan duster. Now it was time to let the other rider carry the weight. Slocum didn’t know who it was, but most all the favored riders were locals and knew where to get water.
The rider kept going, not heading down the steep incline. This matched Slocum’s instincts. Going down a slope strewn with loose stones and rocks the size of his fist, even to find decent water, seemed crazy to him. He heard the howls of outrage as he kept riding. The rider ahead angled from the course. Slocum started to worry, and then his horse bolted.
It scented water. Slocum let the stallion have its head, then reined back as they flashed through a curtain of vegetation into the center of a clear-running brook. He jumped from horseback and dunked his face in the stream. He drank his fill, and then pulled Black Velvet away from the water to keep the horse from bloating.
The other rider had decided to take a rest and let his horse recover. Slocum considered doing likewise, but had been playing out various strategies in his head. Letting the other rider pace him—use his possibly superior knowledge of how to push a horse to get the maximum effort from it—could only bring them both to the finish line together.
He wanted to beat the other rider.
Slocum mounted his reluctant horse, then started it back for the course. The road turned uphill, and Slocum chose to walk rather than trot up. His caution proved effective. He passed a half-dozen other riders who had ridden their horses into the ground and were out of the race.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rider in the tan duster struggling up the slope behind him. Knowing he had to make a bid for the leaders soon, Slocum urged his horse on until he came to a fork in the road. He reined back. There ought to have been a couple dozen judges there to guide him in the proper direction. He had no idea which direction to ride. Slocum dropped to the ground, giving his horse a moment’s rest as he studied the road for spoor.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. He wasn’t able to tell which road from the fork the others had taken. A brisk wind blew the dirt around, drying it and making it drift like sand. Without any piles of fresh dung to use as a marker, he might as well guess and get on with it.
“Left and uphill or right and staying level?” he wondered aloud. Slocum chose the right-hand fork.
“No!” came the faint cry from behind. He saw the duster-clad rider waving at him and pointing uphill. Intuition had kept him from being stranded at the bottom of a rocky ravine once before. Now it had to keep him from being duped by another rider who wanted him to wear out his horse on the steep upward slope.
“That’s right!” Slocum called. “No!” He turned and trotted his horse through a narrowing in the road—and found himself flying through the air.
For a moment, he hung suspended, his feet only a few inches off the ground. Then he was lifted into the air, heavy ropes cutting into his body from both sides. Struggle as he might, Slocum couldn’t get free of the rope trap. The loops from two lariats had dropped on him when he triggered the trap. To judge from the weight pulling him upward and the force on the ropes cutting off circulation in his body, the other ends were tied to something big and mighty heavy.
He kicked futilely and gasped—and discovered another problem. Every time he exhaled, the ropes tightened on his chest. He could not inhale again. He was being suffocated. Fast.
The world spun around him in wild circles, and
then turned into a black tunnel, a tunnel collapsing into a single point of light.
Just as the tunnel was about to close, Slocum felt himself falling through the air. He landed hard on the dusty ground, too weak to even stand. Like a man who has had the wind knocked out of him, Slocum gasped and tried to ignore the pain in his chest. He finally managed to turn and look back down the road.
The rider in the tan duster held a thick-bladed Bowie knife that flashed bright silver in the noonday sun. Slocum started to go for his gun, then discovered he was too weak. He dropped to his knees and pulled the ropes off. The lariats had been cut.
By a knife. By the knife in the other rider’s grip.
“Thanks,” Slocum gasped out, but he spoke to the other rider’s back. The man in the tan duster had tried to tell him this wasn’t the course. And when Slocum had fallen into a cunning trap, the man had rescued him. That wasn’t what Slocum had come to expect from other riders, but he was thankful. He vowed to look up the man and buy him a drink—an entire bottle—of Miss Maggie’s finest whiskey.
Struggling to his feet, Slocum sucked in air more easily now. He retrieved his horse and got back on.
“Come on, you old nag. You had a rest. It’s time to go win this race.”
Black Velvet snorted indignantly at being called an old nag, then trotted easily as if telling his rider how wrong he was. Slocum took the proper turn in the road this time, and pushed his valiant stallion more than he ought to have, considering how hot the day was and how tired both he and the horse were. Somehow, Slocum felt time crushing in on him, although more than half the race remained. He had to get to the turn, and verify it with enough of the judges to assure everyone in town he had reached the midway point. Then it was only a matter of endurance getting back to Scorpion Bend.
