Slocum at Scorpion Bend

by Jake Logan

  He would be alone on the main course. He would face possible ambush following Quinn through the mountain pass and back.

  He didn’t want anything to happen to Rachel. This decided him—and the chance to lock horns with Quinn. Slocum had taken his time cleaning and reloading his Colt Navy. Whether to carry a rifle had been a hard decision. He had finally opted for less weight and more speed over the chance he would have to use a long gun against Quinn.

  Slocum doubted Quinn would have someone like Frank Decker posted to ambush any of the others this time. He would overestimate the ability of Bloomington and Zachary to provide ample protection to ensure his win. Slocum doubted Quinn knew Bloomington was already out of the race, making the race more even.

  Or as even as Slocum was likely to see it with Rachel trying desperately to win. If she failed, she lost her pa’s farm. That might just provide her with more gumption to win than Quinn’s need to finish first.

  It might also prod her into doing something foolish.

  Slocum turned off the main road, found the trail across the mountains, and in minutes spotted the sharp tip of the Stone Needle ahead. The pass was steep in places, forcing Slocum to take it slower than he preferred. He presented a good target for anyone in the rocks on either side. But Zachary was nowhere to be seen—and it was from Zachary that Slocum expected his most dangerous opposition.

  As he started down the far side of the pass, Slocum spotted dust clouds in the valley beyond. Enough for three horses, but somehow he believed only two raced on. Quinn and Rachel? Or Quinn and Zachary?

  He wended his way down sharp switchbacks in the trail, got to the valley floor, and started off, varying Black Velvet’s pace to rest the horse but cover the most distance possible.

  He had ridden only a mile when he saw Pilot cropping grass. His heart turned to ice.

  “Rachel!” he called. “What’s happened?”

  “John, here. Please, please help me.”

  She lay in a shallow gully, clutching her leg.

  He dismounted and let Black Velvet go to graze alongside Pilot, but the stallion found water and began drinking. Slocum had to tend to Rachel fast or the stallion would bloat himself and the race would be over.

  “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” he asked. He got his arm around her and lifted her from the gully. Mud ran down the front of her duster. She tried to walk on her right leg, but it gave way under her.

  “Zachary—it was Zachary. I don’t know what he used, but there was a bright flash that spooked Pilot. When Pilot reared, I was thrown off. I think I broke my leg.”

  Slocum worked swiftly, fingers probing. He tried to ignore her sobs of pain. He looked up at her.

  “No bones broken, but it is a nasty sprain.”

  “Then I can ride.”

  “It’ll hurt like hell. Controlling your horse is going to be hard too.”

  “I’m not going to let that son of a bitch beat me!”

  “I’ll help you up.”

  “John?” Rachel stared at him, brown eyes wide.

  “You don’t have to do this. He’s going to beat us both if you waste much time with me.”

  “You first, then him,” Slocum said.

  Rachel hesitated. “You’d let him win just to help me out?”

  “Looks that way,” Slocum allowed.

  “I thought you were a decent man, but I’ve been wrong too many times before. Now I know.” Rachel smiled almost shyly at him. “There’s another shortcut, one Quinn can’t know about. My farm juts up on the end of this valley. We go down the stream that runs across my place and it’ll put us back on the road into Scorpion Bend.”

  “How much riding will that save?”

  “Five miles,” she said. “We can’t tarry, but we can still beat him.”

  “Let’s ride,” he said, boosting her into the saddle. Rachel settled down and wiggled her feet in the stirrups. She made a face as pain hit her.

  “Get some rope and tie my right foot into the stirrup,” she said. “It’s all swole up and going numb on me. I need to be sure it doesn’t slip free when I can least afford it.”

  “Be better to cut your boot off,” Slocum said, but he did as she asked. “It’s dangerous riding like that. Get thrown again and your horse can drag you for miles.”

  “As long as he drags me across the finish line first,” Rachel said with fire. She wheeled Pilot around and took off. Slocum pulled Black Velvet from the water and headed after her. They kept up a fast pace most of the morning. By the time the sun beat down smack on the top of his head, they’d recrossed the mountains.

  As good as her word, the road they needed to cross the finish line in Scorpion Bend stretched in front of them. It was a considerable run for tired horses and even more tired riders, almost five miles, but nowhere along its dusty length did Slocum see Quinn or Zachary.

  “There they come,” Rachel said. “We had better try to outrun them.”

  Black Velvet was strong, but not up to a full gallop. Slocum didn’t think Pilot was able to give enough effort for five miles either.

  “Pace yourself,” Slocum said. He reached over and rested his hand on his six-shooter, just in case. “May the best man win!”

  “May the best woman win!” cried Rachel. She set a faster pace than Slocum wanted. He held back, conserving Black Velvet’s strength for the last mile into town. Slocum thought that was where the race would be won or lost.

  And then he found himself dodging and ducking as rifle bullets sailed past his head. Riding low, looking back, he saw Zachary with a rifle pulled up to his shoulder and squeezing off one round after another. On a running horse, the man had no chance of accurately aiming. But that wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to do. Slowing Slocum so Quinn could win drove Zachary’s wild attack.

  Black Velvet couldn’t maintain the even, powerful stride it took to outdistance Zachary, so Slocum slid his six-gun from its holster and let up on the horse. The black stallion slowed and Zachary pulled closer, fumbling with his rifle.

  “Did a round jam?” Slocum called. Zachary called something to him that Slocum didn’t understand. Slocum’s finger pulled back on the trigger of his six-shooter, but he simply could not blow the man out of the saddle.

  With a howl of rage, Zachary sawed at his horse’s reins and rode across Slocum’s path. Black Velvet shied as Zachary swung his rifle like a club.

  “Judges are watching,” Slocum shouted.

  “To hell with them. To hell with you!”

  They rode shoulder to shoulder, Slocum trying to avoid the man’s wild swings. From behind Slocum heard the pounding of hooves. Cletus Quinn blazed past, laughing as he went. This infuriated Slocum. He lifted his six-shooter, ready to cock and fire it at the gunman’s back.

  Zachary’s rifle barrel crashed to his wrist, numbing his hand. Slocum fought to keep from dropping his six-shooter. He swung away from Zachary, but Quinn’s henchman followed like a bad odor. They crisscrossed from one side of the road to the other, Zachary trying to unseat Slocum and Slocum trying to outdistance the man. His chance at shooting Zachary out of the saddle had passed. Slocum’s hand was too numb to hope he could hold the six-shooter, much less fire accurately from a running horse at a moving target.

  “Gotcha!” Zachary cried in triumph, getting close enough to Slocum to swing the rifle barrel. Slocum ducked; Zachary missed and lost his balance. He clung fiercely to his saddle. Slocum saw deep grooves in the saddle leather where Zachary’s fingernails dug in to keep him mounted.

  Slocum helped him. Just a little.

  His boot shot out and hooked Zachary’s. The man gave a cry of fear and fell under his horse’s hooves. The sound of a heavy horse tromping on human flesh might have sickened Slocum had he cared one whit. Zachary was a backshooter and did Quinn’s dirty work for him.

  He deserved what he got.

  And Slocum deserved to win the race.

  “Come on, Black Velvet. Give me everything you’ve got.�
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  Without Zachary hammering at his head, Slocum rode more easily. The hot Wyoming wind rushed past and took off his hat. He never noticed as he squinted into the sun. Quinn had worn out his horse getting over the mountain and taking a longer route than either Rachel or Slocum.

  The lack of stamina now told on Quinn’s horse. Slocum closed the gap inch by inch.

  Less than a mile from the finish line, Slocum heard the cheers going up. He doubted those cries of glee were for any one rider. They were to spur on all the riders, to make this a race everyone in Scorpion Bend would talk about for the next year—and maybe compare all future races to.

  “I won’t let you take it, Slocum. I won’t!” Quinn grated out.

  Slocum laughed and slowly passed Quinn. Then Slocum saw Quinn was not the only competition in the race. Ahead, much nearer the finish line, rode Rachel astride Pilot. He saw how she struggled along. By now her sprained ankle had probably swollen to such an extent that pain would be lancing all the way up her leg and into her hips. But however much pain she felt, it didn’t keep her from doing her best. She rode Pilot better than any cowboy Slocum had ever known.

  “Noooo!” cried Quinn when he saw two were in front of him. He was not going to finish second to Slocum. He would come in third behind Slocum and an anonymous rider. This was the worst ignominy that could happen to him.

  Roars of delight went up from the crowd as Slocum and Rachel fought for the win. Slocum wasn’t sure who crossed the line first, but he did know they were both long seconds ahead of Quinn. Win or lose to Rachel, he did not care.

  He had beaten Quinn honestly.

  “You did it, Slocum, you made me a rich woman! You won the race by a nose!” shrieked Miss Maggie. This was the most excited he had ever seen the saloon-keeper. She clapped him on the shoulder and hands reached for him to carry him around Scorpion Bend on the shoulders of the crowd. Slocum pushed them away.

  Shouting, he called to Miss Maggie, “Black Velvet. I want the horse taken care of!”

  “Done!” she shouted back.

  And then Slocum let himself be swallowed up by the crowd. He wondered where Rachel had gone. Slocum wanted to find her for a proper celebration, one that had nothing to do with a hundred drunken cowboys and ranch hands.

  17

  “Slocum, you did it, you beat that sidewinder!” Miss Maggie crowed. She shoved a bottle of whiskey across the bar toward him. He wondered if she would bother replacing Jed. The barkeep had lit out for the hills when it looked as if Slocum would never recover Black Velvet in time for the race, but he was only another one for Miss Maggie to pay off had he stayed in Scorpion Bend.

  “I had some help,” Slocum admitted.

  “I tried to do what I could giving you the best damn horse in all Wyoming!” Miss Maggie worked the bar, moving from one end to the other, pouring drinks and raking in the money.

  Slocum sipped his whiskey. What had once tasted good to him now left a bitter tang. He had won, but if it hadn’t been for Rachel Decker he would still be out there riding. Hell, if it hadn’t been for the lovely woman, he would never have qualified to be in the second race. He was feeling poorly for having beaten her, even if he felt a warm spot for having ridden the best he could and winning the race.

  It wasn’t in him to lose, even for a good cause like saving Rachel’s farm. He touched his pocket. He vaguely remembered he had cashed in three tickets on himself, probably when he was more than a little drunk. He had three thousand dollars from selling them, and the other two he had given Rachel to cash in. He wouldn’t rake in the money from the pot, but he had no complaint.

  Still, if he had kept all the tickets he would be twenty-five hundred dollars richer. It hardly seemed to matter if he had won or simply cashed in early. Moreover, he would get what Miss Maggie had promised him to ride Black Velvet to victory. Another thousand dollars on top of the thousand for qualifying for the final race.

  “I’m walking away with purty near five thousand dollars,” he mused aloud. “I’m richer than I’ve ever been.”

  “Slocum, come on back here. I want you to climb up on the table so’s I can announce the winner formally,” Miss Maggie said.

  Slocum was reluctant to climb onto the shaky table for reasons other than the shaky legs. The tent saloon was filled with a hundred or more men. Nowhere did he see Cletus Quinn or any of his henchmen, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there—and rising above the crowd would make Slocum a perfect target.

  Hands grabbed at him and pushed him to the table.

  “Gents, here’s the new champion of the Scorpion Bend race!” Miss Maggie cried. A cheer went up that deafened Slocum.

  “He beat all the others fair and square, and he made a lot of us richer ’n thieves.” This caused a ripple of laughter to go through the crowd. “Slocum, here’s what you won,” Miss Maggie said, handing him a fat envelope. “I already took out my share for lettin’ you ride the best damn horse in the entire West.”

  Another cheer went up, and Miss Maggie declared free drinks to honor Black Velvet. Another round honored Slocum. And another for something Slocum didn’t catch. It hardly mattered. Everyone in the saloon intended to get drunk celebrating.

  He jumped down and found a chair at the rear of the tent. He leafed through the winnings. As expected, Miss Maggie had kept all but the promised thousand dollars as her share of letting him ride Black Velvet. That didn’t bother him. Buying and selling the tickets on himself had given him a huge lump of money. He still had made money.

  Lots of it.

  The envelope with his earnings weighed him down something fierce.

  “Where you going, John?” Miss Maggie called.

  “Be right back,” he said. Slocum stepped outside. It was getting near five o’clock. He hurried down the street to the bank. The banker was closing up. The man smiled at Slocum and greeted him by name. This was what fame meant, being recognized by ordinary people, and Slocum wasn’t sure he cottoned much to that.

  “You have a minute to do some business?” Slocum asked.

  “I reckon you’ve got a pile to put into my bank. For you, Mr. Slocum, I have plenty of time.”

  Slocum sank down into a chair, his mind racing. “I don’t want to put money in. I want to pay off a mortgage.”

  “You don’t have one with this bank. I don’t understand.”

  “The Decker place. How much is owed on it?”

  “You want to pay off Decker’s debt?” The banker heaved a sigh. “I could be a real jackass and steal a wad of money, but I won’t do it, Mr. Slocum. The mortgage got paid in full about an hour back.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Miss Decker paid it in full. I suspect she had a big bet on the race and it paid off for her.”

  “I see,” Slocum said, realizing she had cashed in the pair of tickets he had given her. That was fine with him, but he wished he had been able to get the simple pleasure out of doing more for her. He had, after all, beaten her in the race, and that made him feel like he owed her something more than money.

  “I can set up a nice account for you. Maybe you’d like to buy some land around the valley? Scorpion Bend is a fine place to settle down. With a grubstake like yours, you could become one of the biggest ranchers in Wyoming.”

  “I’ll hang onto my money for a while longer. Thanks,” Slocum said. He left the disgruntled banker to stew in his bad luck at failing to snare all of Slocum’s winnings.

  In the street, the hot afternoon wind had kicked up, turning Slocum’s skin dry and his throat even drier. He considered returning to Miss Maggie’s saloon, but too many cowboys crowded in there for his taste. Besides, he wanted to find Rachel.

  She had vanished after finishing second to him. He wanted to talk to her and explain, although she seemed to have done all right for herself. Slocum headed for the stable. His sorrel was probably Big Stump’s new mount. That irritated him, but he had lost horses before. With the money riding in his shirt pocket, he could buy a decent hors
e. He considered seeing if Miss Maggie would sell Black Velvet. That was a dependable horse and one he appreciated.

  Heading back to talk to Miss Maggie about it, Slocum slowed and then stopped when he saw Cletus Quinn out in the street. The man was squared off and ready to throw down. Slocum slid the keeper off the hammer of his Colt Navy, knowing the showdown was going to happen.

  “You cheated me out of my win, Slocum. I shoulda won the race.”

  “Who’s the cheater? Who tried to snare me and have me gunned down by snipers?” asked Slocum.

  Quinn laughed harshly. “It still galls you Frank Decker worked for me, don’t it?”

  “Not as much as it galls me you killed him.” Slocum reached slowly to his pocket and pulled out the silver concho he had found in the hotel room outside the balcony where Frank Decker had been gunned down. “This yours?” Slocum held it up so it caught the late afternoon sunlight. The brilliant silver flash might have dazzled Quinn. If the man had flinched, Slocum would have drawn. The reflection didn’t hit the gunman’s eyes, so Slocum held his ground.

  “Wondered where I’d lost that,” said Quinn.

  “I found it by Decker’s body. After you murdered him.”

  “So I killed him. He tried to double-cross me. I even caught him betting against me!”

  “You lost the race, Quinn. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  “No, but gunning you down will make me feel a damned sight better!”

  Slocum glanced past Quinn to the entrance of the tent saloon. A half-dozen men had overheard Quinn’s boasts—and confession. Miss Maggie now joined them. The men whispered to her. She vanished back into the saloon.

  “This’ll be a first for you, won’t it, Quinn? Actually trying to shoot an armed man who knows you’re coming for him.”

  “You miserable—” Quinn went for his hogleg. Slocum saw the tension in the man’s shoulders, and was already going for his own six-shooter when a shot rang out, staggering Quinn.

  Quinn fell to the side, and Slocum’s slug ripped through the air where the gunman had been standing.