by Jake Logan
That was all, Slocum thought.
Slocum wiped dust from his face when he saw a rider coming toward him—one he recognized instantly. His hand went toward his six-shooter in its cross-draw holster and took off the leather thong holding it down.
“Slocum,” shouted Cletus Quinn. “You got quite a ride ahead of you ’fore you reach halfway.”
Slocum said nothing as the gunman trotted by, looking curiously fresh for such a long race. Just the climb up the steep road ought to have tuckered him out more than he looked. Then Slocum put it out of his mind. He wasn’t going to finish first today. And that didn’t matter. All he had to do was finish in the top ten to make his tickets worth a lot of money. He might sell them off for fifty bucks apiece and have a stake to push on. No need to keep on with this backbreaking, ball-busting race.
Slocum shook his head to clear it of cobwebs. That would never do. He had bet on himself because he figured he could win the race. To sell his tickets and then bow out would be dishonest. He had done his share of bank robbing and other thievery, but he wasn’t going to cheat men who were counting on him. Or Miss Maggie. He couldn’t cheat her either, when she had been so generous with her money so far.
He snorted as he rode. He didn’t owe Miss Maggie a thing. She was profiting handsomely. A slow smile came to his lips. So could he. If he won the Scorpion Bend race.
Riding more slowly, Slocum was surprised not to find others coming down the hill on Quinn’s heels. How had the other man gotten so far ahead of Slocum and the others?
The trail turned steep again, and Slocum had to get off and walk. When it turned into level meadow he saw a tight knot of riders ahead, arguing. He mounted and rode toward them, wondering what the trouble might be. Then he found out. His hat went sailing through the air, taken off by a rifle slug.
Ducking involuntarily, he pressed his cheek against the side of the horse’s neck and galloped forward.
“You cain’t make it, mister,” shouted one of the riders. “None of us kin. They got us pinned down!”
Slocum saw that all the snipers in the rocks on either side of the trail wanted was to slow down the progress of the riders. They must have let a handful—like Quinn—through, trying to determine the outcome of the race through chicanery.
“Would they actually shoot us?” Slocum called. “That’d bring the law down on them. All they want is to spook us.”
“They’ll kill you daid,” insisted one fearful rider. “You kin die for this damned race. I ain’t.” He wheeled about and returned the way Slocum had just come. Many of the others seemed caught on the horns of the dilemma. Join him or try to get through to the midway point.
For Slocum there wasn’t a choice. He dismounted and dashed for a pile of rock near the boulders where one gunman hid. Drawing his six-gun, he made his way through the rocks until he came up behind the gunman peering down the barrel, drawing a bead on one of the riders.
“Don’t pull the trigger or you’re a dead man,” Slocum said. “Throw the rifle away and—”
Sharp pain lanced along his shoulder blades as another of the snipers spotted him and fired. Slocum squeezed the trigger on his Colt Navy, but missed a clean kill on the gunman in front of him. The man grunted, dropped his rifle, and got away, clutching his belly. But Slocum found three other snipers working on him now. He didn’t have the ammo or the weapon to fight off men armed with rifles.
“Come on! The way’s open!” shouted a racer. Several of the riders galloped past, the snipers too occupied with Slocum to do much about them. Slocum got off a couple more shots, then found himself staring into a lot of emptiness. The snipers had vanished, and so had the riders. The gunmen had done their job. All they’d needed to do was chase off a few and slow down the others.
Slocum returned to his horse, which was busy cropping grass halfway across the meadow. He mounted and made his way through the draw so recently filled with flying lead. The trail wound around a little and came out on a higher meadow. At the far end were a score of men with the yellow ribbons on their arms. Some of the riders were busy making their marks on documents showing they had made it halfway, and others were also noting the time, after peering at their pocket watches. Slocum reached the group in time to see the rider wearing the tan duster wheel his horse around and start back down.
“Hey, I want to thank you!” Slocum shouted, but the rider was oblivious to anything but the race. Slocum decided that was a good course to follow since so many had gotten there ahead of him.
“How many have checked in?” Slocum asked the trio of judges bringing him some water and a stack of papers to sign.
“Yer the twenty-first one,” a judge said. “You got a chance. Lemme see. Yer ridin’ for Miss Maggie, ain’t ya?”
Slocum signed the papers and took one with all three men’s names on it to show he had been there. He hesitated when he saw the water one man held out for him. It sloshed around in a canteen and looked to be cool, but he remembered the tricks played along the course so far. These were judges, but that didn’t mean the water wasn’t drugged. Knocking him out halfway back to Scorpion Bend would change the odds in someone’s favor. Maybe this would favor one of the judge’s favorites in the race.
“See you back in town,” Slocum said, ignoring the water as he mounted. He wheeled his horse and set off at a brisk pace, determined now to pass at least eleven men.
He began to worry on the way back down the road because he didn’t pass anyone going in either direction. He was dead last in the race. Sixty-eight others might have dropped out before the halfway point, but all that counted was finishing in the top ten.
Keeping a sharp lookout for snipers slowed him a mite. Then he got into the winding canyon where Mormon Will had been killed. Something of the man’s spirit inhabited Slocum then. He felt stronger—and his horse shared in that power and determination. Its stride lengthened, strengthened, and gave him the chance to begin pushing harder.
By the time he got out of the canyon, he figured he was fifteenth. He was fourteenth by the time he came out of the draw and sighted Scorpion Bend in the distance. A small group of riders fought for position ahead. He passed them. Eleventh. He was eleventh and there was only a mile to go into Scorpion Bend.
He gradually overtook two more riders. One was a wild-eyed cowboy he had seen the night before drinking more than was good for any two men. Somehow the man had shucked off the hangover he must be sporting, and he rode like the wind. His opponent was the rider in the tan duster.
The distance narrowed to the finish line. Slocum heard cheers of victory and cries of outrage from those whose riders had not finished. The three riders were side by side when the cowboy fumbled at his saddle, warning Slocum of what was to come. The cowboy got his lariat free and swung it at Slocum, thinking to knock him from his mount.
Slocum was more than ready for the attack. His left hand caught the rope and gave it an unexpected tug that unseated the cowboy and left him in the dust.
The small fracas cost Slocum precious time and forced his stallion to break stride. He watched the back of the duster-clad rider ahead all the way across the finish line. Then he realized it didn’t matter. He had finished tenth.
He was in the race. And the tan-duster-clad rider who had come in ninth was nowhere to be seen.
4
“Go on, Slocum, give it a try. Most fun you kin have in Scorpion Bend without taking off yer trousers!” Jed slapped Slocum on the back, causing him to spill some of his beer. Slocum smiled a little at the barkeep and the gaiety swirling around him. Somehow, he wasn’t able to get into the feeling of such celebration.
“You’re one hell of a rider. Betcha you kin use that six-shooter of yers too,” shouted a drunk patron. Somehow, the call was taken up by everyone in Miss Maggie’s saloon.
Slocum let the crowd shove him to the rear of the saloon. The back tent flap had been rolled up to let some of the gentle breeze blowing down Scorpion Bend’s main street enter and clear out the smoke ac
cumulating inside. Ten feet out back a wood plank had been balanced between two stumps. A man with a glass jar looked expectant, his hand on the lid.
“You ready? Git yer bets down, gents. Mr. Slocum’s gonna git down to serious shootin’!”
Slocum drew his six-shooter and spun the cylinder. He took a deep breath. The game was simple. The man released a scorpion so it ran along the plank. Slocum had to shoot it off before it either fell to the ground or made it to the far end of the plank.
“They’re fast ones, Slocum. Shoot straight,” said Miss Maggie, coming up from behind. She held a thick sheaf of greenbacks in her hand. Betting had started before Slocum even agreed.
“What’s it worth to me?” he asked, knowing this was the way she thought. He saw no reason not to make a few dollars off it when she stood to make hundreds. Slocum licked his lips as more crumpled greenbacks were passed over to her. She might make a thousand if he had a good run against the scorpions—whatever that might be.
“A hundred dollars a scorpion. I hate the sons of bitches,” Miss Maggie said with a just a hint of malice. “One killed my lover last year, and I can’t forgive any of the eight-legged monstrosities.”
“A hundred a scorpion,” Slocum said, getting used to the idea of making more with a single shot than if he had punched cattle all summer long. Two or three scorpions would buy him a new horse and saddle. Twice that would put him on easy street, race or no race.
“Let it go!” Miss Maggie cried.
Slocum aimed and fired by pure reflex. He blasted the scorpion halfway across the plank.
“They move quicker ’n I thought they would,” he said. If he had been drunk there was no way he could have ever hit the scorpion before it got to the far side of the plank.
Another went scuttling across. It took Slocum two shots before he blew it into oblivion. A cheer went up. And then Slocum had a third one to go after. He shot a hair low and blew off part of the wood, taking the scorpion with it.
“How’s that count?” he asked, reloading.
“You blowed him off fair and square,” declared the man with the jar of scorpions.
“Where do you get them?” asked Slocum.
“I wrangle them myself. Sometimes I have the town kids catch them for me. I pay ’em a nickel each. They think it’s good fun.”
Slocum shook his head. The man paid a nickel apiece and probably charged ten dollars each for this show. Slocum lifted his six-shooter and blew another scorpion off, just a fraction of a second before it jumped to the ground. The plank had turned sticky with scorpion blood, and every new one tried to avoid the puddles, making Slocum’s chore all the harder as the scorpions dodged.
He got two more before missing and letting one escape to the ground. The scorpion wrangler jumped as if he’d been stuck. His boot heel came down on the escaping scorpion, crushing it into the ground. “Never let one of the bastards escape,” he explained. “They learn how to get away, you kin never stop ’em again.”
“Here you go, Slocum,” said Miss Maggie, handing over five hundred in greenbacks. “Remember. This is just the beginning. You take care of the stallion for the race on Wednesday. Get in the top five for the final heat and you get one thousand dollars. More, if you lay a wager or two on yourself—to win.” She riffled through the sheaf of bills she held. A smile curled her rouged, full lips. Then Miss Maggie turned and went back into the canvas saloon, offering drinks for everyone. Considering how much she had made betting on Slocum, she could stand the house for drinks all night long.
Slocum knew this single act of generosity would come back to Miss Maggie a dozen times over before the night was over. And she didn’t even have to cheat to get it. The revelers were ready, willing, and eager to lose their money at the faro table or to buy watered whiskey by the bottle.
The offer of free liquor caused a rush past Slocum, leaving him alone. He slipped around the tent and into the street, not sure where he was headed. Other saloons beckoned, but he wasn’t in the mood. Too many people made him uneasy. He decided to go to the stable to see if the small army of men Miss Maggie had hired to look after the stallion were doing their jobs. After a few minutes talking with the stable owner and a couple of the men, Slocum knew Black Velvet was being cared for better than he could ever hope to do.
Scorpion Bend had transformed from a sleepy little town to a bustling community trying to feed and house too many people. He walked the street, easily spotting those who lived there or nearby and those who had ridden in from all around the territory for the big race.
“Big race,” Slocum said, snorting in contempt at the idea. The money was good, but these people ought to see the races in Leadville or out in Stockton. He had heard a railroad magnate had bet a million dollars on a single quarter horse race lasting less than forty seconds. It wouldn’t slow any of the wagering in Scorpion Bend if he told the people there that the millionaire had lost.
If anything, that would cement it in their heads that even the high and mighty could be beaten.
Slocum slowed, and then stopped to lean against a rail as he watched a man and woman coming from the general store. The man had his right arm in a sling, and the woman struggled with a heavy box, trying to load it into the back of a wagon. Slocum hurried across the street, took the edge of the box, and lifted it into the wagon.
“There,” he said. “That was a load for you.” For the first time he saw that he had helped Rachel Decker.
“Hello, sir,” said the woman, her eyes darting from him to the man with his arm in a sling and back.
“Slocum, Miss Decker. My name’s John Slocum.”
“I know. Who doesn’t, after your successful ride this afternoon? And you did introduce yourself earlier. I may be impoverished, but I am not forgetful.”
“Thanks for your help, mister,” the man suddenly said. “We got to go. Now get out of the way.”
The man tried to bump Slocum, but Slocum wasn’t going to be moved this easily, even by a man with a busted wing. Slocum stood his ground and the man recoiled, startled at not being able to bull his way by.
“You need to learn some manners,” Slocum said. “Miss Decker is well versed. Maybe she can instruct you.”
“Why, you impudent—!” shouted the man. He cocked back his left hand, then reconsidered when he saw Slocum wasn’t scared and had stood his ground.
“Frank, behave yourself,” Rachel said peevishly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Slocum. My brother is in some pain from an injured arm.”
“I’d be pleased to help you load anything else you have from the store,” Slocum said. He thought a moment, then made the rest of the offer. “It would be an honor if you’d let me help you unload, since your brother’s not able.”
“We can get it all out back at the farm, sis,” said Frank Decker. “Don’t listen to him.”
“Does that’we’ include you, or are you talking about only Rachel?” asked Slocum. Fire built in Frank Decker, but he only sneered, spun, and climbed into the driver’s box on the wagon. Slocum turned to Rachel and said,
“The offer stands. I’d like to help you unload.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Slocum. I... I can use some help. Frank’s arm keeps him from being much help.” Rachel almost stuttered now. This took Slocum aback because she seemed a confident, determined young woman. She flashed him a tiny smile, a weak thing that died quickly. “If you would care to follow us, I would like to show my gratitude.”
“How’s that?” asked Slocum.
She blushed and bit her lip. “Why, supper, Mr. Slocum. Help unload and I will fix us supper.”
“Done,” he said, thrusting out his hand. She took it and shook like a man, her grip stronger than Slocum would have thought from looking at such a petite young woman.
He finished loading the goods she had purchased at the store, then saddled his sorrel and rode alongside the wagon on the way out to the Decker farm. It was more than ten miles outside town, and the sun was just setting when they arrived. Slocum dismount
ed. By the time he got to the wagon, Frank Decker had vanished.
Rachel seemed not to notice, so Slocum said nothing about the way her brother had left so quickly. He set to unloading the wagon and wrestling some of the heavier items out to the barn. He dropped a fifty-pound sack of salt near a pile of burlap bags that had once held grain for the horses. Since there wasn’t any grain left, Slocum figured Rachel hadn’t been able to buy more. The salt was for a small herd of milk cattle lowing in the twilight.
He turned and bumped into the woman. The lovely brunette stood in the barn door and looked flustered.
“Anything wrong?” Slocum asked.
“No, nothing that hasn’t been wrong before. I thought my pa had taken a turn for the worse, but Frank’s with him and he’s all right.”
“What happened to him?” Slocum asked. The woman took a deep breath. He couldn’t help noticing her ample breasts rise and fall under her gingham dress. She was upset, but now the object of that distress shifted to her father.
“He was kicked in the head by a balky mule, and he hasn’t been right since. Sometimes he seems alert and knows what’s going on around him.” Rachel held back tears. “Other times, he’s awake but doesn’t know anyone, not even me. Then, like when we left for town, he simply passes out and I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up again.”
She clung to Slocum and buried her face in his chest. He felt hot tears welling out and turning his shirt damp. Then Rachel pushed away and tried to run. He held her until she turned back to face him. Tears caused muddy tracks down cheeks that were still dusty from the ride back from Scorpion Bend. She fought to keep from crying even more.
“It gets hard trying to go it alone,” Slocum said.
“I’m not alone,” she said. “There’s Frank.”
Slocum remained silent about that. He knew good-for-nothings when he saw them. Frank Decker was a ne’er-do-well and contributed nothing but woe to this woman.
“What else can I do, John?” Rachel asked in a small voice. “Doc Marsten says there’s nothing he can do for Pa. Nothing that’s not expensive. Even then, there’s no promise it would work.”
