by Jake Logan
Carefully reaching up, he touched the bruised area where the slug had ripped past. The skin wasn’t broken, but the area was tender. He had come as close to getting plugged as he could without spilling blood. But as he lay on the ground, every other ache and pain returned to him. Worst of all was the lance of flame across his shoulders where he had been creased during the first leg of the race.
If the men shooting at him got any better, he’d be dead. As it was, Slocum felt as if he already had one foot in the grave.
He lay between two foot-high rocks jutting up from the ground. Those protected him from another bullet and gave him a chance to watch for his assailant. If the Indian had bushwhacked him, the man could wait a long time. Arapaho were as patient in hunting as they were fierce in fighting.
Two men rode in from the edge of the rocky field. Neither was Arapaho. At this distance Slocum couldn’t identify them, but he suspected they were Quinn’s henchmen. That meant Quinn might not be too far away. Moving slowly, Slocum inched his hand down to his six-shooter and drew it. The other men had the advantage with their rifles.
He could wait. He was patient.
Slocum got off a shot that took the second rider from the saddle. The man’s head jerked back and he threw up his hands, dropped his rifle, and simply fell over the rump of his horse. The horse bolted and kicked out like a mule, catching him after he hit the ground.
Slocum didn’t have to examine the body to know that that one was dead. The other swung about, not sure what was going on.
“Clay, what—?”
Slocum got up and ran hard. The crunch of his boots against the gravelly ground alerted the mounted man—too late.
Launching himself, Slocum swung his six-shooter with his right hand even as he grabbed a handful of shirt with his left. He pulled back and yanked the man off the horse.
Slocum followed him to the ground, pinning his shoulders with his foot. Cocking his six-gun, Slocum bent down and shoved it into the man’s face.
“You drygulched me,” he said coldly. “Any reason I shouldn’t blow your head off like I did your partner’s?”
“S-Slocum,” the man gasped out. “Don’t sh-shoot me. Don’t do it.”
“That’s not a reason. See you in Hell.” Slocum lifted his six-shooter so the man stared straight down the barrel.
“Quinn,” the man gasped out. “Quinn wanted us to shoot you. Weren’t our idea, no, sir, not ours! I’d never—”
“Quit lying,” Slocum said “Where’s Quinn?”
“He—around. I dunno where. Honest, Slocum, I don’t. Me and Clay was out lookin’ for somethin’ to shoot for supper and—”
“So of course you took a potshot at me,” Slocum said sarcastically. “Quinn. What’s he doing out here?”
“He don’t confide in me. I think he’s just practicin’ for the race tomorrow.”
Slocum tried to remember the lay of the land. This valley might lie on the far side of the bowl where the people in Scorpion Bend huddled, all caught up in placing bets and hoping to win enough money to get out of their misery. The race would follow the far side of the mountain. Remembering how Quinn had found a shortcut before for the other races, Slocum wondered if cutting through to this side of the mountain, then getting back somewhere around the Decker farm, might not be a faster route.
He didn’t know and that bothered him.
A moment of inattention almost did Slocum in. The man twisted away, spun on his back, and kicked out, getting Slocum on the knee. A boot toe shoved behind Slocum’s ankle sent him spinning around and tumbling downhill. He didn’t roll far, but it was enough to give his captive time to scramble to his feet and take off for the hills.
Slocum retrieved his six-shooter, leveled it at the fleeing man’s back, and hesitated long enough to let the man escape. Slocum wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing letting the man go. Quinn and all his henchmen had shown they were nothing but backshooters. But Slocum figured he could handle himself. If this man getting away proved dangerous later on, so be it.
He shoved his six-gun back into his holster and set off to retrieve his sorrel. The horse had ran to the far end of the rocky area, and shied when he approached.
“Easy, easy,” he said, wishing he had the sugar cubes he had given the Arapaho boys. Truth was, Slocum wished for a lot of things he didn’t have. Like Black Velvet. Like information about what was going on. Like Cletus Quinn in his gunsights.
He mounted and rode back to where the man he had shot lay sprawled on the ground. Slocum considered letting the buzzards and ants take care of him, then heaved a sigh. He took care of his own dirty work. Dismounting, Slocum spent the next twenty minutes scraping out a shallow grave and piling rocks on top of the corpse. Coyotes might nose into it, but at least there was some chance the man might rest in peace.
Which was more than he probably deserved.
Dusting off his hands, Slocum mounted again and rode in the direction taken by Quinn’s other henchman. As he had feared, no tracks had been left on the rock. Slocum had to believe Quinn knew he was out prowling around, hunting for Black Velvet.
“Forget Quinn,” he told himself. “Find Black Velvet. Beating Quinn in the race is more important.” And it was. Miss Maggie had put more than faith in him. She had bet everything.
A sad smile came to his lips when he considered how accurate this was in Rachel Decker’s case. She had bet everything, hoping to win or at least go broke in such a way that the bank didn’t foreclose right away on her father’s legacy.
He felt an obligation to them, and even to his own vanity. He couldn’t let a scoundrel like Quinn beat him. And Quinn would, unless Slocum retrieved the horse in time for the race.
He rode toward the higher slopes, thinking this would be where he would hunt for deer. The Arapaho would be around here, he knew. All he had to do was find the hunting party and bargain for the horse. How he would do this was beyond Slocum, since he doubted any brave would swap a fine stallion like Black Velvet for any amount of white man’s greenbacks.
Slocum reined back and held down a cry of pure anger when he saw a sheet of paper punched down over a twig on a limb about eye level.
He yanked it down.
The note was simple. It said: “I sold the horse for a buffalo hide.”
Slocum didn’t have to guess who had left the note. Quinn was around somewhere and his henchman had gotten back to rejoin the gang. That Quinn hadn’t lain in ambush somewhere rather than leaving a note puzzled Slocum. For a few seconds.
Quinn might enjoy crossing the finish line tomorrow knowing he had bested Slocum more than seeing Slocum’s body lying in the hot sun. Crowing about his victory, bragging to Slocum’s face, lording it over the others would appeal to Quinn’s egotism more than leaving a dead foe.
“He wants me to know he’s better. He wants to brag to me and make me mad about it,” Slocum said to himself. Even thinking this, he rode cautiously, an ear cocked to the side and both eyes studying the terrain for any hint of a trap.
Quinn and his men might be out somewhere on this side of the mountain practicing—or laying a trap for him—but Slocum found the spoor from the Arapaho hunting party before he came across Quinn.
A small area a dozen yards from a brook showed where the Indians had camped not too long back. Slocum studied the sign he found and saw he had been right. They had moved upslope, probably thinking they could find a herd of deer. He smiled when he found the tracks of one shod horse amid the unshod.
“Black Velvet,” he said, looking up. His belly complained from lack of food. He drank deeply from the stream to quell the grumbling so he could ride on. Wasting time now seemed more of an obstacle to getting the stallion back than anything else. Once he had Black Velvet trotting behind him and he was in Scorpion Bend, he could sit down for a fine dinner at any of the restaurants and greatly enjoy the meal.
No horse, no enjoyment of a hot meal or anything else. He knew he might as well keep riding like Jed had already done
if he didn’t get back to town in time for the race.
Slocum wanted to hurry as he tracked the Indian hunting party, but the rocky ground kept him from riding hell-bent in the direction the Arapaho had taken. The trail wasn’t impossible to follow, just hard. And then he came across a real dilemma.
Crossing over the hunting party’s tracks were those of shod horses. He carefully outlined the hoofprints, and figured no fewer than four riders had ridden to the west while the Indians were going off at an angle, heading uphill.
“Quinn,” he said. The gunman had come by after the Indian party. Slocum doubted Quinn even realized how close he had been to the Arapaho—and it might not have mattered to the man. He had his damned buffalo hide in exchange for Black Velvet.
Quinn or the Indians? Slocum wanted to even the score with Quinn, and it was a big debt he had to pay off in hot lead. But Black Velvet wasn’t with Quinn. The stallion was being ridden by a warrior.
The decision came quickly. Slocum mounted and rode after the Indians. Recovering the horse was more important. With Black Velvet under him in the race, Slocum could dash Quinn’s hopes and make the man eat crow.
He began to worry when the sun started slipping down faster and faster in the Wyoming sky, heading toward the mountains in the west. The hunters were moving faster than he liked, as if they had some destination in mind. Slocum knew nothing about the migratory patterns of the Arapaho. They might pass this way several times a year and have specific hunting grounds they favored.
Feeling pressured by time evaporating on him, Slocum threw caution to the wind and rode faster. He didn’t even try to follow the hunting party’s tracks now. He figured they were going up, and that was where he would go also.
A distant rifle shot brought Slocum around. It had come from his right—and uphill.
It was getting toward twilight, time for deer and other animals to come out and graze, drink, and otherwise make themselves seen. Realizing this might be his only chance, Slocum rode in the direction of the gunshot, hoping Big Stump sat astride Black Velvet—and that the Arapaho would be willing to give up such a fine horse to the first White Eyes who came along.
He made sure his six-shooter rode easy in his holster.
14
Another gunshot echoed through the valley, guiding Slocum toward the hunting party. He slid from the sorrel, tethered it to a limb, and made his way on foot to a place where he could spy on the Arapaho. Two braves crouched in shadow not a dozen feet from him. They were upwind and didn’t scent him.
Slocum settled down to watch, waiting to catch sight of Black Velvet. The two braves suddenly leaped from cover, shouting and waving their arms. Without even realizing he did it, Slocum’s hand flashed to his six-shooter and drew it. Then he relaxed a mite. The Indians weren’t after him. They were flushing game.
A large buck, its antlers swishing in the air as it sized up the threat from the two Arapaho, twisted and faced them. A single shot caught the deer at the right shoulder. It took one step, fell to its knees, then spat pink froth that turned black in the twilight. With a wheezing noise the buck collapsed.
The Indians whooped in glee as they raced forward. Their knives flashed in the fading light as they set to dressing out the carcass. Slocum watched, wondering which was Big Stump. Then he knew the answer.
From the far side of the wooded area strutted a tall, bare-chested brave, his rifle resting in the crook of his left arm—or what remained of it. The brave had lost his left arm halfway up to his elbow. That handicap hadn’t stopped him from making a good shot under poor conditions. Slocum pressed a little harder into the tree giving him shelter to keep from being seen.
It would be as easy for Big Stump to drop him as a two-hundred-pound buck.
Slocum slipped away, circling in an attempt to find either the Arapaho camp or where Big Stump had tethered his horse. Black Velvet had to be close by. Slocum felt it in his bones. But he didn’t find the horse by the time the Indians finished with the deer.
He sank down again and watched as they trooped off into the night. Slocum knew tracking Arapaho was risky, but he had no choice. They were a hunting party, not out on the warpath. That might save him if he made a careless move. They might be too interested in roasting a haunch of venison for their dinner than in listening for someone on their trail.
Slocum worried he was getting turned around as the Arapaho followed a game trail through the forest. Getting back to his sorrel seemed almost impossible to him by the time he smelled pungent juniper smoke. Crouching and advancing carefully, he found the Indian camp.
Two Arapaho were already roasting Big Stump’s kill. Two others worked on moccasins, repairing them, and then moving on to sharpen knives and clean rifles. Big Stump sat by himself, staring into the fire. What he pondered, Slocum had no idea. From the far side of the camp came gentle whinnying, betraying the location of the Indian remuda.
The Indians started their meal. Slocum’s mouth watered at the smell of roasting venison. Big Stump had made a clean kill, so the meat wouldn’t taste gamy. And Slocum hadn’t eaten since he couldn’t remember when.
“After I ride back into Scorpion Bend on Black Velvet,” he promised himself. How he was going to rescue his sorrel didn’t enter his plans at the moment. He’d hate to lose the stalwart horse, but retrieving Black Velvet had to be the only thing in his mind. Too many people were counting on him being at the starting line tomorrow morning.
He paused, considering what he was about to do. Horse thieving was a worse crime than killing somebody, especially if they needed it. But Slocum wasn’t stealing from the Arapaho—he was only taking back Miss Maggie’s property, which Quinn had stolen. Whoever received stolen property had to expect to lose it.
“Just doing the marshal’s job,” Slocum said to himself. He stepped from shadow, then froze. The horses in the rope corral reared. One pawed the air, kicking in his direction. He let the animals calm down before taking another step. This time the Indian ponies weren’t as upset over a stranger’s approach. He got to the rope and moved along it, hunting for Black Velvet.
For a hunting party of five braves, they had a powerful lot of horses. Slocum reckoned they had been doing a little horse stealing along with their deer hunting. One horse carried a brand. Slocum didn’t recognize it, but Indians never branded their mustangs. This had come from some Wyoming ranch. It might have been purchased legally, but Slocum doubted it. Big Stump had to realize something was wrong when Quinn sold Black Velvet for a single buffalo hide.
“Buyer beware,” Slocum said, a grin slipping from ear to ear when he saw the big black horse. He made his way to it, and fumbled at the knot on Black Velvet’s halter to release it. Another horse pawed the ground and snorted angrily. This caused Black Velvet to jerk and try to get away from Slocum.
“Everything’s okay, old boy,” Slocum said, trying to calm the horse. Black Velvet had been out of the barn only a day and already it had forgotten Slocum. Or had it?
This idea penetrated too slowly to save Slocum. He glanced over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of a rifle barrel swinging through the air, then staggered under the impact. He saw stars, and then keeping his feet under him proved too hard.
But Slocum fought. If he didn’t get away now, he would be a dead man.
He dug in his toes and launched forward, not sure who he was hitting. His shoulder crushed into a man’s belly, and Slocum thought he had hit a brick wall. He bounced to one side, crashed to the ground, and rolled. The rifle barrel glanced off the top of his head again. This time he was too stunned to get back to his feet. Slocum felt strong hands pulling at him. In the distance Black Velvet neighed in anguish at what was happening.
Slocum wished he had that much strength. He blacked out.
Heat on his face brought him around. Slocum jerked his face away from the firebrand thrust at his eyes. Squinting, he saw the Arapaho hunters were passing a bottle around. He cursed under his breath. Quinn had probably sold them some whiskey when he had
given away Black Velvet.
“You’re a horse thief,” Big Stump said. The Indian stared down at Slocum. The raw end of his left arm gleamed pink and scarred in the dancing firelight.
“That stallion was stolen from a woman in Scorpion Bend.”
“Squaws don’t own horses. Horses are for warriors!”
Slocum was in no position to argue the point. On the frontier, property ownership laws were more lax than in the cities. Miss Maggie shouldn’t own a horse—but no one in town was likely to argue the point. Nor would they argue over her owning a saloon, though it was doubtful the law would let Rachel Decker keep her farm after her pa died.
Land was important. So were horses.
“It was stolen by a man named Quinn,” Slocum said. “I came to take it back.”
He tugged at the ropes around his wrists. He felt the rough hemp cut into his wrists. Big Stump—or one of the warriors with him—had tied Slocum up too tightly to get free. Trickles of blood ran down his wrists and into the palms of his hands as he tried to rub the rope against the tree trunk.
Slocum was sitting. He pushed, trying to get his feet under him so he could rise with his hands still fastened behind him and around the slender tree trunk. Looking up at Big Stump put him at a disadvantage and made him feel inconsequential.
The Arapaho shoved him down when he tried to stand. “You tried to steal my horse,” Big Stump said. The big Indian shoved out his chest and looked truculent.
“What are you going to do?” asked Slocum, but he spoke to empty air. Big Stump had moved away, giving a whoop and beginning to dance around the fire. Within seconds, someone had given him a full quart of whiskey. Within minutes, Big Stump had drained half the quart bottle. He staggered and danced and turned more belligerent as the rotgut took hold of his senses.
