by Jake Logan
Slocum frowned. Quinn wasn’t following the main canyon as he worked his way through a tumble of rocks and into a narrow gash in the canyon wall.
“A shortcut? Is that how he won the other day?” Slocum wondered. He wended his way down the switchback trail. By the time Slocum reached the place where Quinn had left the main course, he made his decision. All the rules said was that a rider had to check in with the judges out in the meadow. How the rider got there after the start was not specified.
Slocum knew the terrain ahead along the main course and how difficult it was. Cutting even an hour off the ride would give him an edge over the other riders because Black Velvet was such a strong horse, always with enough heart left for a galloping finish.
The rock slabs rising on either side brushed Slocum’s shoulders. Black Velvet started getting nervous, but Slocum kept the big stallion moving until they came out into a slightly wider gash in the canyon wall. Ahead he saw the flash of a rider vanishing around a bend. He urged his horse ahead, not sure if he ought to overtake Quinn or remain hidden until they got to the meadow with its judges.
He came to a decision. He didn’t want to shoot it out with Quinn right now. He wanted to beat the man and see his face. Slocum quickly found himself turning and bending and working his way through a series of narrow rock chutes. Black Velvet grew increasingly uneasy—and Slocum was sharing his horse’s opinion.
Quinn might know the path through this maze, but Slocum had to rely on his tracking ability. It might take longer finding Quinn’s trail than simply winning the race by out-legging all the others. As much as he hated the idea that Quinn knew a shorter route that Slocum was unable to follow, he came to a small chamber in the rock, turned his stallion around, and threaded his way back to the main canyon.
Echoes along the canyon told him the knot of riders he had passed earlier were catching up with him.
“Come on, old boy, let’s trot a while. You can do it. We’ve got to beat Quinn.” The horse seemed to understand, and responded with a strong gait. Hot air gusted past Slocum’s face, cooling him by evaporating the sweat on his forehead. The faster pace made him feel better, and seemed good for Black Velvet too.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the group of five riders he had passed working their way down the switchback trail he had already traversed. He was a good fifteen minutes ahead. Slocum wanted to put even more distance between him and the others. Some would give up. Some horses would falter. Maybe even one or two of the riders would collapse from the heat. Three riders were ahead of him. Quinn had taken a shortcut. The man riding Pilot and wearing the duster was somewhere ahead too. And one other had managed to slip past Slocum.
He let Black Velvet canter to put some distance between him and the others. It worked. A half hour of varying the pace from canter to walk brought him to a curious sight.
A man lay flat on his back in the middle of the trail. His horse stood in the shade of the canyon wall, near a stand of junipers. Slocum looked around for any sign of a sniper. He would have heard a shot and didn’t expect to find a gunman. He didn’t.
Approaching cautiously, Slocum looked down. He expected to see the man with his tongue lolling, perhaps already buzzard bait. Whatever had happened, the rider wasn’t obviously injured.
“You all right?” Slocum called. No response. He rode closer, looking around to be sure he wasn’t getting tangled up in something he couldn’t handle. As far as he could tell, he and the downed rider were alone. “Your horse throw you?”
That didn’t seem likely since the horse hadn’t run off. If a snake had spooked the horse, it would still be running. Besides, this was the hottest part of the day in the canyon. Any snake slithering out of its burrow would fry in minutes. Sundown and later would be the worst time for diamondback rattlers.
“You need some water?” Slocum dismounted and walked closer, Black Velvet trailing him. The man groaned, but his eyes didn’t open.
“Wah-ter,” the felled rider croaked out.
Slocum turned to get his desert bag. From the comer of his eye he saw sudden movement. He spun back in time to have a rock smash down on the top of his head. Slocum sat down hard, and then slumped to his right side, stunned.
“Git on outta here!” cried the man who had struck Slocum, slapping Black Velvet on the rump to get the horse to run.
Slocum heard the grating of boots on the rock nearby, and knew he had to get to his feet, to fight to stay alive. He forced his aching body to move just in time to avoid another big rock crashing down on his head. This one would have crushed his skull like a rotten melon.
“Damnation,” the man grunted, picking the rock up again to bash Slocum once more.
Although he saw double, Slocum had no trouble drawing his Colt Navy and pointing it smack between the two blurred images coming after him.
“You want to die out here?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Drop the rock.” He sounded more in command than he really was. But the prospect of getting a slug in his gut convinced his attacker to throw down the heavy rock.
“I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it, Slocum. Honest.”
“You wouldn’t know honest if it bit you on the ass,” Slocum said, regaining his senses. His head hurt like the devil, but his vision cleared.
“I’m just tryin’ to win the race,” the man said. “Look, Slocum, lemme give you all the tickets I have on the other riders. Someone’s gonna win and—”
“I’m going to win,” Slocum said harshly. “Tear up all the tickets. Now!”
The man did as he was told, throwing the pieces into the vagrant breeze circling around them.
“Take off one boot,” Slocum ordered.
“What? Why?”
Slocum cocked his six-shooter and said, “How many scorpions did I knock off the plank before I missed? About as many buttons as you have on your jeans?”
The man hastily pulled off one boot. Slocum picked it up, went to the man’s horse, and mounted.
“The boot will be a half mile down the canyon. Your horse will be there too, if I can get mine back. And if you so much as think of trying this on any other rider, I’ll kill you. I swear I will kill you even if I have to come back from the depths of Hell to do it.”
Without another word, Slocum rode off. This horse was somewhat rested and made good speed, allowing him to overtake Black Velvet within a mile. He dropped the man’s boot where he could find it. Trying to walk with only one boot on would fry the exposed foot and cause the man’s back to ache as if he’d been out baling hay and loading it on a wagon all day long.
Slocum had his own horse back, but did not dismount at first. Instead he continued to ride the other racer’s horse and let Black Velvet rest. Many was the time Slocum had ridden a hundred miles in a day switching from one horse to the other, letting one rest while he rode the other.
When the horse he rode finally began to flag, Slocum jumped over to Black Velvet and let the first horse go free. Slocum figured the man hoofing it with one boot was out of the race. That left Quinn ahead of him along the shortcut and the duster-clad rider on the main course. Slocum felt he was doing real good.
He doubted any of the five men trailing him had the horse to beat him now.
Whistling, Slocum rode along at a varying pace, and was on the ground walking alongside Black Velvet when he saw a familiar figure ahead of him. The rider in the duster, with the hat pulled low and the red bandanna up over his nose was working on Pilot’s left front hoof. If the horse had thrown a shoe, the race was over.
Slocum had mixed emotions over this. He had been rescued from certain disaster by the other rider, but one less in the race improved his chance of being in the top five today.
As he trotted closer, he saw a judge with a yellow ribbon around his arm come riding up. A second ribbon, a green one, fluttered in the breeze. Slocum remembered Miss Maggie telling him that she had paid off some of the judges and they would wear green ribbons. This judge came up to the duster-wearing rider and pointe
d down a side canyon.
Slocum reined in as he got close enough to overhear. The judge looked up, and a broad grin split his face.
“Slocum, I was jist tellin’ Pilot here that you kin cut a mile or two off the course by headin’ down that canyon. Quinn’s way ahead, ’bout ready to reach the halfway point in the meadow.”
“I know,” Slocum said. “I saw him take the shortcut back down the canyon.”
“Son of a bitch. And here I thought we was the only ones cheatin’,” the man said, laughing.
The other rider mounted, his horse’s hoof fine from the way the horse stepped quickly and sprightly.
“You going to take this cutoff?” Slocum asked him.
“You got to,” the judge said hastily. “There’s a young army up the canyon intendin’ to do you harm if you keep on this route. Nuthin’ I kin do for it’cept to steer you past. This is a shortcut anyway, so’s you’ll both be comin’ out ahead.” The judge looked from Pilot to Slocum. “Thass okay with you, ain’t it, Slocum? Me tellin’ Pilot here about the shortcut?”
“I owe him one,” Slocum said. The other racer shook his head, not sure what to do but obviously skeptical. Slocum wished he could see the man’s face to get a better read of what went on in his head. The bandanna was soaked with sweat. Dust caked it, making his face look like some clay pot, but he didn’t take off the duster or even use the bandanna to wipe away the grit.
“Suit yourself,” Slocum said, taking the shortcut pointed out by the judge. “Miss Maggie bought me some help. The green ribbon,” Slocum said, pointing, “is the sign it’s all right.”
He didn’t look back as he made his way through the rocks to a small trail leading off at an angle. It made no never mind to him if the duster-wearing rider followed or blundered ahead into the trap. Slocum had paid back the debt he owed from the last race.
Within minutes he heard the clop-clop of hooves. He had company as he made his way deeper into the canyon. In a way he was glad. Repaying the other racer’s aid from the last race was the least of it. Somehow, Slocum appreciated having someone else nearby as he made his way deeper and deeper into the canyon.
But he suddenly wished he had not lured the other rider to come along when he reached the end of a box canyon.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, taking his hat off and slapping it against his leg. A cloud of dust flew up. “That judge lied to me. Miss Maggie said she’d have men out here to help, but the judge must have been bought off.”
He expected a stream of cursing from the other rider for jeopardizing their chances at finishing in the top five. The time wasted getting this far was the least of the problem. Their horses would be more tired by the time they got back to the main course and got to the meadow. That might mean the difference between winning and losing today.
Five riders would have gone past them by the time they retraced their trail. But the man going by his horse’s name said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Slocum said. “I reckon this will be the end of the race for us.”
The other rider pointed. At first Slocum didn’t see what the other did. He trotted on the heels of Pilot to the base of a narrow trail zigzagging its way up the canyon wall. Dismounting, Slocum led Black Velvet up the narrow trail, following Pilot and its rider to the canyon rim.
“I’ll be damned. He wasn’t steering us wrong,” Slocum said, seeing the meadow with the clot of judges stretching out less than a mile off. Slocum was startled when he got a harsh laugh as an answer.
The two of them mounted and maneuvered their horses down the steep slope, then side by side trotted across the grassy meadow.
“You boys are ’bout an hour behind Quinn,” said one of the judges. “Figures. He manages to get here ahead of everyone. Beatin’ him on Saturday is gonna be a real chore.” The judges gathered with their sheaves of paper for Slocum and Pilot to sign. Slocum tucked his copy, all signed and carrying the time of their arrival, into his pocket. He wasn’t surprised that Pilot had already lit out on the return path, this time following the main course. That seemed reasonable to Slocum since he might not be lucky enough to spot a shortcut trail hidden by brush as Pilot had. Before he got out of the meadow, two more racers came stumbling up, neither of them looking as if they would make it back. Slocum touched the brim of his Stetson as he rode by, knowing he would have no trouble beating them. They were tuckered out and still had half the race to run.
The only question Slocum had was if the big race on Saturday would even have five finalists in it. Quinn would finish, using his shortcuts. Pilot was ahead of Slocum. Slocum reckoned the farthest down the roster he would finish today was third.
As he galloped past the judge sporting both yellow and green ribbons on his sleeve, the man’s eyes went wide, making Slocum wonder at his surprise. Slocum thought on it as he rode, and knew he had to check with Miss Maggie, but suspected the judge had tried to sidetrack him and Pilot.
“I’ll get you, Slocum. I swear, I’ll kill you!” shouted the man without one boot as Slocum rode past. He still had not reached the spot where Slocum had dropped his other boot. Of the man’s horse, Slocum hadn’t seen hide nor hair on his way back down the canyon.
It was going to be a long walk home for the man. Somehow, Slocum felt no pity for him as he hobbled along on the one blistered, cut-up foot.
Slocum maintained a pace designed to rest Black Velvet on the way back and yet stay ahead of the other racers he had passed back in the meadow. But as he rode, Slocum grew increasingly uneasy. He was missing something. The man who had been forced to dip his wick in the liniment had never started today. Quinn and the duster-clad rider were ahead of him. Two others had reached the meadow. And he had left one man on foot.
What had happened to the other three riders? Slocum had not seen them along the way where they had dropped out of the race. They ought to have been riding with those who had followed Slocum into the meadow.
What was going on?
He put his heels to Black Velvet’s flanks, urging the horse to a faster gait. This race involved as much chicanery as it did honest racing. Bought and sold judges, shortcuts, traps, poisoning horses—it was all part of Scorpion Bend’s big race, and Slocum had too much riding on winning to risk not being suspicious now.
“Three of them I can’t account for. Where are they?”
He began pushing Black Velvet, and got out of the mouth of the canyon, to the flats outside Scorpion Bend. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw Quinn in the distance galloping to another first-place finish. But right behind him came one of the three missing riders.
And behind him Pilot jockeyed for position between the two other riders. If they all finished, Slocum would end up sixth—and out of the money.
“Come on, Black Velvet, show what you’ve got.” He bent low, and the horse responded to using the reins to whip it into a gallop.
The distance closed between him and the three riders ahead. The finish line was crowded with damned near everyone in Scorpion Bend. He heard the cheers and groans. A volley of gunshots marked the celebration starting since two had crossed the finish line—Quinn and the rider who had been ahead of Pilot and the two others. Maybe the second-place finisher had taken the same shortcut that Quinn had used. That explained why Slocum had lost him along the course.
But the other two, the ones pacing Pilot—what had they done? Slocum had seen them behind him well past the shortcut Quinn had taken. Were there other ways through the canyon Slocum knew nothing about? There was a chance of that, but in his gut he doubted it. They had cheated in some other way.
Bought-off judges, other ways of cheating, all were possible. A mountain of money went along with winning the Scorpion Bend race.
Slocum closed the distance between him and the three straining to reach the finish line. His anger boiled up as he drew even with one man. Slocum veered in front of the man, forcing him to rein back. If he hadn’t, their horses would have crashed together and both would have taken a spill. But
Slocum ended up the winner in the confrontation.
By forcing the other rider to break stride, he assured himself of a fifth-place finish. But this wasn’t enough for him. He felt deep in his gut the other rider, the one dueling it out with Pilot, had also cheated some way.
Slocum rode up on the other side of the rider, sandwiching the man between Black Velvet and Pilot. Reaching down, Slocum grabbed for the man’s six-shooter. As much out of involuntary reaction as conscious thought, the man reached to stop Slocum. As he did, Slocum grabbed the man’s wrist and held on. Using his knees he guided Black Velvet away.
The man popped out of the saddle and crashed to the ground. Slocum didn’t bother to look back to see if he was alive or dead. It didn’t matter. If the man made a fuss about what had just happened, Slocum would make sure the argument was settled. Permanently.
He crossed the finish line amid earsplitting cheers. A few seconds later Pilot galloped across, finishing fourth. A distant fifth was the man whose horse Slocum had bumped in the rush to reach the Scorpion Bend finish line.
Slocum reined back and was immediately surrounded by Miss Maggie’s supporters. He called out to the man riding Pilot, but again, horse and rider had kept riding, vanishing down the main street.
Slocum yelped as eager hands pulled him from the saddle, and he was carried along on the shoulders of men in a wildly enthusiastic crowd. It was going to be one hell of a party. And the way he felt, a shot or two of whiskey would be the perfect way to get it going.
9
“Slocum, Slocum, Slocum!” went the chant. Slocum was bounced all around and then found himself staggering along, fighting to keep his feet under him. If he slipped in the midst of this crowd, he would be stomped into the dust in nothing flat. He careened from side to side, and then was hoisted to hard shoulders and carried along with the human tide into Miss Maggie’s saloon.
The tent flaps moved sluggishly in the hot afternoon breeze, and the beer Jed poured for him went down cool and smooth. Slocum’s thirst was too much for him. He drained first one mug and then another. Men wanted to buy him drinks. Women crowded in and wanted even more from him. But Miss Maggie protected him, even as she raked in the money from the bets that had been laid on him.
