by Jake Logan
Slocum worked furiously to get the ropes free, but his hands went numb on him. Blood ran sluggishly down his wrists now, and he felt his heart hammering hard in his chest. He was getting more scared by the minute, although he knew that unbridled fear would get him killed quick as a wink.
The Arapaho pulled their knives and danced past him, blades swinging as they passed by. The object of their game seemed to be to see how close they could get to him without actually cutting him. Too many times they lost, the keen tips of their knives leaving bloody scratches on his chest and face and arms. Slocum wished he could get one of those knives in his hand, if only for a few seconds.
He realized his hands might not be strong enough to grip the knife, but a blade was his only hope of escape. Or was it? The Arapaho finished a bottle and went back for another one. They had started with a full case. Slocum saw two empty bottles. Five men had split two quarts of tarantula juice. They would either pass out soon, or get so plumb mean they would kill him outright.
Getting the ropes off his hands wasn’t possible, but another way of escape might work. Slocum fought to get his feet under him again. This time Big Stump wasn’t there to shove him back down. Slocum started walking forward. This put incredible strain on his shoulders as he bent the tree. Limbs cut into his flesh. He ignored the pain. Inch by inch he bent the supple young sapling forward. As he got closer to the top of the tree, his hope soared. Once free, he might get away in the dark. Given a few free minutes, he could get the ropes off.
Then he would play it by ear.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled, ignoring the pressure put on his shoulders as he bent forward and lifted his arms. An instant before success was his, he felt himself being lifted upward. He yelped as he sailed through the air. Big Stump had wrapped arms around him, hefted him, and thrown him upward. That allowed the tree to snap erect again. Slocum ratcheted down the tree, the rough bark cutting into his back and arms. He crashed to the ground hard enough to knock the air out of him.
Big Stump laughed, then stepped aside.
Slocum went cold inside. Two of the hunters stood with arrows nocked on their bows. They loosed their arrows. Slocum felt the world dip into molasses and move at half speed all around him. He clearly saw the metal arrowhead on the left arrow. It came directly for his head, then seemed to veer to one side and vanish into the night. The other arrow grazed his forehead, leaving yet another bloody scratch to give him pain and rob him of a bit more strength.
Slocum was bleeding to death from half a hundred small cuts. Not one was big enough to disable him, but he felt his feet and arms turning cold as his circulation failed to distribute what blood remained in him.
Big Stump laughed at his misery, and then returned to the fire, dancing, chanting, drinking. Slocum stared at the Arapaho and wondered how much longer he had to live. Big Stump might have only one hand, but he held all the cards.
Slocum sagged, trying to gather enough strength to keep fighting. He had failed to steal Black Velvet back, and now he was going to pay the price for his inept horse thieving.
He lifted his head when he heard a new sound in the night. An owl hooted in the distance and wings flapped, but this was something else. A slithery sound, possibly a snake coming up. He frowned. Was dying from the bite of a timber rattler any worse than letting Big Stump kill him for horse theft?
He tried to get his hands into position to abrade the rope against the tree bark again, but as he moved he heard a low hiss.
“Don’t,” came the whispered command. “Stay still. Play dead even.”
Slocum froze. Cold metal pressed into his damaged wrists. Then the familiar snick of a knife parting rope came to his ears. He slumped forward, his hands free. Hastily putting his hands back behind him to keep the Arapaho from seeing he was free, he felt his unseen ally worrying at the bonds still around his wrists.
“How are we going to get out of here?” he asked.
“You need to get a horse. Where’s the sorrel?”
Someone knew a powerful lot about him.
“Don’t know,” Slocum said. He watched the Arapaho dance. They had slowed and were stumbling around right now. If he made a break, it had to be now. Big Stump would either remember it was time to kill his horse thief or pass out. Either way, Slocum couldn’t wait any longer.
He spun around and faced his rescuer. His eyes went wide.
“Rachel!”
“Hush, John. How are we going to get away? I have a horse, but it can’t carry us both.”
“I lost track where my horse is,” Slocum said, looking back over his shoulder. “But I know where Black Velvet is.”
“I’ll meet you at the Stone Needle,” Rachel said.
“Wait,” he said, reaching out. His fingers felt like bloated sausages. “I don’t know where that is.”
“I’ll get my horse, and we can both go get Black Velvet,” she said.
He grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he repeated.
“What now?”
“Thanks,” he said, bending over and kissing her. A smile crossed her lips. Then she sobered.
“Hurry, John. I don’t think they will notice you’re gone, but if they do ...”
She didn’t have to finish. He wasn’t armed, and she couldn’t hold off five braves, even if they were drunk as lords.
Slocum and Rachel crept into the night. She tugged on the reins of her horse, then pressed her hand over its nose to keep it quiet.
“Circle wide, then come in on the horses from upslope,” Slocum said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Where are you going?”
Slocum patted his empty holster. They wouldn’t stand much of a chance against the Arapaho if they were discovered. He might run and get away, but he felt better with his trusty Colt Navy weighing down his left hip. Rachel started to protest, then fell silent. She came to a decision and nodded twice, sending a tiny strand of brown hair down into her eyes. She hastily pushed it back into place, then melted into the night.
Slocum zigzagged back through the dark, careful to make no sound. The Arapaho were chanting loudly now and had stopped dancing, possibly because they couldn’t stand any longer. Three quarts of whiskey downed this fast ought to have caused the men to pass out. That they still laughed and joked and chanted as they danced told him they were made of stem stuff.
Flat on his belly, Slocum wiggled closer to the fire. To his left hung the venison from the deer the hunters had bagged. To his right were stacked rifles—and his Colt Navy. He grabbed his six-shooter and shoved it into his holster, then took a handful of dirt and funneled as much into each rifle barrel as he could.
It never hurt to buy a little insurance. The dirt might not cause a rifle to blow up if it were fired, but it would certainly cause a bullet to go off target. If Slocum’s head was their target, any break he could get would be helpful.
He slithered like a snake back into the night, got to his feet, and made his way as fast as he dared around the camp, coming downhill toward the rope corral where the Arapaho horses stood quietly now. This time the horses accepted him as belonging among them and made no fuss.
“Hello, Black Velvet,” he said, stroking the powerful stallion’s head. “We’re going for a ride, even if I have to ride you bareback.”
He spun at a small sound, six-shooter out and ready to fire. Slocum relaxed when he saw Rachel.
“You move like an Indian,” he said. “I didn’t hear you until you were on top of me.”
“That’s a pity. Maybe we can do something about that—later,” Rachel said. “We head out, go west, and if you see a tall, thin spire of rock, that’s Stone Needle. There’s a trail at its base leading across the mountain and into Scorpion Bend.”
Slocum wanted to ask her about a shortcut, if Quinn might gain an advantage coming across the mountain rather than sticking with the main race course, but that could come later. He pulled the stallion away, then stopped.
“Your knife,” he said. “Let me borrow it.”
/> Rachel tossed it to him. He fielded it easily and lashed out with the blade, slicing through the rope holding the other horses.
“John!”
Slocum already saw the trouble coming at him. Big Stump stumbled along, hefted his rifle, and pointed it at Slocum’s head.
With a powerful jump, Slocum got astride Black Velvet and put his heels into the animal’s flanks. The powerful black stallion blasted off like a rocket.
Behind him, Slocum heard the hammer fall on the Arapaho’s rifle. A muffled thunk followed. The dirt poured into the barrel had robbed Big Stump of a good shot.
Now it was up to Slocum and Rachel to get away before the Indian came after them. Drunk or sober, the Arapaho was a formidable opponent—and an angry one, now that Slocum had stolen his prized horse.
15
“I can’t go on any longer,” Slocum said. He thought of himself as indestructible, and showing any weakness in front of Rachel Decker bothered him more than it ought to. But he could not ride on any longer. The dozens of shallow cuts administered by the Arapaho had mostly clotted over, but he had lost enough blood to weaken him. If this was the only thing, he might have gone on. He had been wounded worse than this and ridden fifty miles the next day. But it was only part of his problem. Slocum couldn’t remember when last he had eaten.
On top of all that were the more serious injuries he had accumulated since coming to Scorpion Bend.
The bullet crease he had picked up during the first race—was it really from Frank Decker’s bullet or had Quinn lied?—burned across his shoulders like a lightning bolt now. He should have had Doc Marsten properly look after it when he’d had the luxury of a few spare minutes. There had not been the time, and all the booze he had sucked up at Miss Maggie’s saloon had killed the pain.
Until now.
He winced as other minor aches and pains poked into him, and he wobbled in the saddle.
“You’re hurt,” Rachel said. “I didn’t know, John. I shouldn’t have pushed you this hard.”
“I haven’t thanked you for saving my hide back there,” he said. Slocum blinked and stared ahead. The quarter moon provided only a sliver of light, but against it he saw a knife blade of stone gutting the sky. That had to be the Stone Needle Rachel had said marked the pass through to Scorpion Bend. They were so close to getting across the mountains that he wanted to ride on.
Time, or the lack of it, worried him too. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it might be as late as midnight. How long Big Stump and the other Arapahos had tortured him wasn’t something he could judge. It had seemed to last years, but might have been only an hour or so. His judgment was impaired, but he knew at eight o’clock on Saturday morning he had better be on the starting line with Black Velvet under him or there would be hell to pay.
He might not win, but just showing up for the race would be a minor victory over Cletus Quinn. Even that small act of defiance seemed worth any amount of suffering right now.
“We can camp for a few hours in a place I know,” Rachel said, glancing over in his direction. She was obviously worried about his condition, but Slocum thought he might look worse than he felt. At least he hoped that was so. Otherwise, all that was left for him was a coffin. “The Stone Needle is only a couple miles off and—”
Rachel cocked her head to one side and gasped.
Slocum heard the same sound she did, and it chilled him. The Arapaho weren’t drunk enough or forgiving enough to let him steal Big Stump’s new stallion. Hoof-beats sounded not that far behind them—and they were getting closer.
“I can’t ride much longer,” Slocum said. “We need to find somewhere to make a stand.” He felt a surge of energy galvanize him into action. He recognized that it wouldn’t last too long and that he had to use it fast. When the vitality faded, he and Rachel had to be safe or they would be dead.
“With what, John? I’ve got a rifle and half a box of cartridges. Your six-shooter might be fully loaded, but that’s all the ammo we have between us.”
Less than thirty rounds. In the dark against Indians capable of walking up to an Army sentry without being seen. With him so giddy from blood loss and hunger he could hardly stay upright in the saddle.
It didn’t look good for him to please Miss Maggie by showing up for the big race.
“I don’t know if I can outrun them,” Slocum said. “Black Velvet’s willing. I’m not sure I can hang on.” Slocum felt Rachel’s strong hand supporting him as he sagged. He rode for a hundred yards or more and hardly realized he had done so.
“Get off,” Rachel urged. “I’ll decoy them, circle, and come back to pick you up.”
“I can’t let you do that,” he said.
“You’re in no condition to do much else,” Rachel said testily. “I can ride. I can ride better than you.”
Slocum noted she didn’t add “right now.” He was missing something about her, and couldn’t concentrate on what it was. But something else came to him that might work.
“You can decoy them, all right,” he said. “But we need to do it a little different than you meant. Give me your rifle and the box of ammo.”
“What?”
“Do it. Then ride around, get them all hot on your trail, and lead them back by this spot. I’ll be ready in a few minutes and waiting for them.”
“You’re a good enough shot to get an Arapaho hunting party in the dark?” She sounded skeptical.
“I am,” he said, and Rachel believed him. Silently, she drew out her rifle from its saddle sheath and handed it to him. It took a few seconds of fumbling in her saddlebags to find the box of cartridges. Slocum bounced it a couple times, listening to the way it rattled. There might not even be half a box.
However many shells there were would have to do or both he and Rachel would end up dead.
He dismounted and led Black Velvet into the rocks. Rachel waited until she made sure she knew where he holed up. She waved, her horse reared, and Slocum watched as she expertly brought the animal back under control. Again he felt he was missing something.
Then Rachel vanished into the night, the thudding of her horse’s hooves evident to even a deaf man. Slocum settled down, spread what little he had in the way of weapons and ammunition around him, then shifted position for the best possible attack. It took only a few minutes for Big Stump and his Arapaho brothers to come by. Slocum let them go. They were galloping hard, eager to catch up with Rachel.
When they came back, then he would attack. He loaded the rifle’s magazine and laid the weapon aside. Then he checked his Colt Navy. He slid it back into his holster so he would always know where it was. He placed the twelve spare cartridges for the rifle near his right hand, then hefted the rifle, got comfortable, and waited.
During the war he had often waited for hours for a single shot. Now he knew he might fall asleep or even pass out if it came to that long an interval. Luckily for him, Rachel came back within twenty minutes, her horse lathered from the run. She looked around, spotted him, and waved, then hurried on, getting into the rocks a dozen yards further down the trail.
Slocum knew what to expect, and reacted more from instinct than awareness of the situation. He let one Arapaho ride past and then another. He shot the third one. As the Indian’s horse reared and threw its rider into the two trailing ones, he had time to pick his next target. He was rewarded with a loud shriek of pain when he drilled the second Arapaho. He levered in another round and fired. This round missed, as did the rest in the magazine.
Slocum hastily reloaded while the Indians were wondering where the barrage came from. It took Big Stump only a few more seconds to pinpoint Slocum’s location and charge. Slocum emptied his rifle fast, using the last of Rachel’s ammo. He whipped out his six-shooter and fired almost point-blank into Big Stump’s face. He missed again, but the powder set fire to the Indian’s hair, forcing him back.
Big Stump rode into the night, hair on fire. Slocum turned to the others and fired with as much precision as he could until his
Colt’s hammer landed on a spent chamber. He was out of ammunition.
He waited to deal with the Arapaho in hand-to-hand fighting, but the space in front of him was empty. The scent of burned powder filled the crisp night air. The Arapaho were gone.
Slocum sank to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. By the time Rachel rode up, he had recovered enough to slide down the rock and stand beside her.
“That was fantastic, John,” she said. “You ran them all off. I’d’ve bet against you doing it with only a few rounds, but—”
“I doubt they will be back. I hope Big Stump thinks he tangled with a powerful spirit.”
“Big Stump?”
“The Arapaho leader.”
“You surely did find out a lot about them. I ought to follow you around to see what else you know.”
She dismounted and came toward him. Slocum’s weakness passed entirely now that she was close. She came into his arms. For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Then they kissed. The world closed in around Slocum and became filled only with the sweetness of her lips, the warmth of her body pressing into his, and other urges growing in his loins.
“I’ll get my bedroll,” she said, breaking off the kiss.
“We ought to get back to Scorpion Bend. I have to be there before the race starts.”
“So do I,” she said. “And we’ll have plenty of time. I’ve ridden the trail often enough to know. Once we get to the Stone Needle, it is only an hour to the middle of town.” She went to her horse and fumbled at the leather thongs holding her bedroll over the horse’s hindquarters. Again Slocum groped for the detail that was eluding him, that was making him feel as if his brain was itching, and then he was occupied with something far more intimate and enjoyable.
The ground under the blanket wasn’t soft, but enough loose dirt provided Slocum padding so he could stretch out flat on his back without too much discomfort. Rachel floated above him like an angel, the dim moonlight catching and highlighting her brown hair with silver. She worked to peel his shirt off. The dried blood had caused the fabric to stick to his flesh. Rachel’s eyes went wider when she saw all the tiny, dark grooves in his hide.
