by Jake Logan
“I won’t move a muscle,” Slocum promised.
Jesse James and the sergeant circled the wall to enter through a gate on the south side of the fort. Slocum became increasing edgy when Jesse didn’t return within a half hour. The possibility existed that Sergeant Berglund played a different game. He might be a loyal soldier and content with letting the famous outlaw ride into the fort as his prisoner. A medal and a promotion might be in the offing for such a feat.
Slocum paced like a caged animal, trying to find the right angle to study the problem of the Union sergeant’s treason. He might be what he claimed or he could be playing a deeper game that would see Jesse and all his gang locked up in the stockade.
A sound made Slocum freeze, his hand went to his six-shooter but he never drew. Something hard and heavy crashed into the back of his skull and he pitched forward, unconscious.
8
Slocum rolled over on a clump of weeds. His head felt like it would split apart and the buzzing in his ears didn’t come from insects, though he felt some crawling across his face. From the position of the sun warm against his back it was probably late afternoon, though it might have been early morning. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.
His belly hurt, and he thought he knew why. He heard his mare whinny a few yards away. He had been tossed belly-down across the saddle and brought here. Wherever here was.
“. . . not supposed to just leave him. You heard what the sergeant said.”
“To hell with that. He coulda killed us and didn’t.”
“So we leave him out here to die of thirst? Better to just shoot him, like Sergeant Berglund said.”
The argument raged on, giving Slocum a chance to clear his head. He found himself lying on his side, hands bound behind his back. Blinking dirt from his eyes, he saw his horse and the distant sky turning dark at the horizon. From the temperature of the ground, he thought it was getting on to twilight and that he was facing east. All that didn’t seem important compared to everything else, but it was all he could grasp mentally. His thoughts were a jumble and he knew he was in a powerful lot of trouble, no matter what the arguing soldiers did.
“We can take his horse back,” the first soldier insisted. “It’ll fetch a good price in Las Vegas.”
“I’m no horse thief.”
“You gotta fish or cut bait,” the first soldier insisted. “We were told to get rid of him and we did. Nothing was said about his horse.”
“He saved our lives. He had the four of us dead to rights. He could have shot us or slit our throats, but he didn’t. He tied us up instead.”
“And we caught extra duty for a month, too,” grumbled the obstinate soldier. “We’d have been better off if he’d done killed us. Now all we’ll get out of Berglund is scut duty.”
“Better that than being dead.”
“All right, all right, let’s leave him, though it’d be a mercy to put a bullet in his head. He’ll die out here for sure.”
“If he gets out of his ropes, he’ll hightail it and never be seen again in these parts.”
“And if he doesn’t, he’s a dead man. Either way Berglund don’t need to know what happened. But the horse . . .”
The sound of steady hoofbeats leaving him convinced Slocum he was all alone out on the prairie. This wasn’t hard desert like farther south. High plains. But it would be mighty cold in nothing flat when the sun at his back faded. He rolled over and stared at the darkening sky. Grunting, he sat up, hands still bound behind his back. Wobbling about, he got his senses about him and struggled to his feet.
“Don’t go running off,” he said to his mare. The horse looked up, one huge brown eye turned in his direction. He knew the look. If he took even a step forward, she would bolt and he’d be left in the middle of nowhere. Inching toward the horse, shuffling, turning, and making it seem that he intended to do anything but grab the reins, he approached to within a pace.
The horse reared, then ran off to the west, leaving him on foot.
Slocum cursed as he started after the horse. The mare would run a mile or less and then find more grass to crop, giving him another chance to grab the reins. If he failed, he wasn’t likely to have another chance. The wind was whipping up and carried a chill to it along with the definite hint of rain from the higher elevations in the mountains. There was no way in hell he could hope to run down a horse in a rainstorm. This part of the country didn’t see just rain. Here, when it rained, it rained. The arroyos would run full and anyone trapped out in it would be soaked clear through, then frozen when the wind kicked up enough. With hands secured behind his back, he had even less chance of surviving the night.
As he stumbled along, his head cleared up. He felt the goose-egg-sized knot on the back of his skull where he had been struck. He was glad that he had something to show for his lack of caution. He had thought that, if anyone double-crossed him, it would be Jesse James, not the cavalry sergeant, because he had never thought Berglund would have the opportunity. Two of the soldiers whose lives he had spared had spared his after being ordered to kill him.
Berglund was willing to murder one of Jesse’s men. That told Slocum the sergeant was willing to do the same with the outlaw as soon as the gold was in hand.
As he walked, Slocum felt his hands go numb. Then his forearms and his shoulders began to ache and finally everything hurt as if they’d been dipped in fire. He had to get free of the ropes cutting into his wrists. There didn’t seem to be an easy way of severing the ropes so he decided on a hard one. He dropped to his knees and reached back and down so he could feel the rowels on his spurs. They were blunted on the tips, but the brace on the side of the spur always got nicked and developed rough spots. Slocum filed them down whenever he had a chance, but that had been weeks ago.
He felt, cut his finger on a sharp section, and then shoved the rope around his wrists down on this section of the spur. If he thought the pain in his shoulders had been fierce before, now he became woozy from the intensity. Forcing himself to rock back and forth, to keep the rope against the ragged edge of the spur, not to black out. He worked for what seemed an eternity and then could take no more. He collapsed forward.
It took him a few seconds to realize he had caught himself before he smashed his face into the parched ground. He moved his arms around. They felt like deadened meat clubs. His wrists bled, but the ropes had been cut through. For once his lack of attention to his gear had saved his life. Slocum rubbed his wrists, flexed his fingers to return circulation, and then got back to his feet.
He had solved one problem but still had to find his horse. Stars popped out in the nighttime sky and the fresh wind against his face rejuvenated him. Then he saw the stars slowly being hidden under a heavy blanket of storm clouds moving off the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and the heavy odor of impending rain grew heavier in his nostrils.
The darkness prevented him from finding a rise and looking out to find where his horse had gotten off to. He doubted the mare would run far, but the dark worked against him. Still, he would not stop even if he had to walk all the way to Las Vegas. He had a score to settle and not with the two soldiers. He considered himself even with them. He could have killed them and hadn’t. They had returned the favor.
His bone to pick was with Sergeant Simon Berglund.
A half hour later, he heard horses ahead. Horses. Several. Along with those sounds came metallic clanking and the creak of wood. Slocum walked faster and saw a man sitting in the back of a wagon feeding a carrot to a horse.
His horse.
“Who’s there?” The man jumped down, reached for a rifle, and swung around to cover Slocum as he came closer.
“Somebody who’s mighty grateful,” Slocum said. “You found my horse.”
“I found this here horse wanderin’ alone without nobody ridin’ her,” the man said. “How do I know the horse is yours?”
“I could tell you what’s in the saddlebags.”
The man looked at him suspiciously.
>
“Not a whole lot of different things a man carries there.”
“There’s a Colt Navy wrapped in oilcloth,” Slocum said. His holster was empty. The soldiers might not have stolen his horse but they had taken his sidearm. He carried a spare in his gear. “And a shirt with blood on the front.”
“That could be anybody’s,” the man said reluctantly, not wanting to surrender a find like the mare, even in the face of such proof of ownership. “What happened to you?”
“A snake,” Slocum said, deciding a lie was more believable than what had really happened. “My mare reared and threw me. I’ve been trying to catch up with her before the storm hits.”
“You noticed that?”
“Hard not to,” Slocum said. “There. I was just hit with a raindrop.”
“You was?” The man turned toward the mountains and lifted his face to the wind. Slocum closed the distance between them in four quick strides, grabbed the rifle, and wrested it from the man’s grip.
“Don’t kill me, mister. I ain’t got nuthin’ in the wagon you’d want.”
“The horse is mine, and I’m not going to rob you.” Slocum went to the mare, rummaged in the saddlebags, and found his spare six-shooter. He took time to load it and get it settled into his holster. Only then did he toss the rifle back to the teamster.
“You’ve givin’ me back my rifle?”
“I’d give you a reward for finding my horse, but I’m flat broke,” Slocum said. He had a few dollars in his pocket, but the teamster had tried to keep the horse. Slocum didn’t feel too obligated to pony up a reward, but with his six-gun at his side again, he was in better spirits. The freighter wasn’t going to suffer any at Slocum’s hand now, unless he tried to do something really stupid like steal the mare.
“Glad to be of help,” the man said. He looked back into the sky. “Don’t feel no rain.”
“Not yet,” Slocum said, “but it’s coming. There’s one hell of a storm on its way.” He swung into the saddle and rode toward Las Vegas without another word.
The rain began fitfully pelting him with huge drops, and by the time he rode into Las Vegas, the storm was in full force. Head down, hat brim pulled to protect his face, he sought the boardinghouse where Audrey had said she rented a room. Only one house looked to fill the bill. Slocum rode around back and put his horse in a small stable. He had guessed right about this being the proper place since Audrey’s horse occupied the only other stall. As much as he wanted to rush to the house, he took time to dry his horse, feed her, and then tend his gear to keep it functional.
Only then did he run across the yard, already ankle deep in mud, to the house. The adobe had been constructed in typical Spanish fashion, with a high wall surrounding the house. To get into the courtyard he would have had to open the gate. A quick jiggle of the handle showed it was locked. The woman renting rooms didn’t want nighttime visitors to her patrons.
Slocum circled the mud wall, found a spot that had begun to collapse and needed repair, jumped, caught the crumbling edge, and pulled himself over. He flipped around in midair and landed in a garden. He hoped he didn’t do too much damage as he carefully stepped to a flagstone path. By the time he reached the house situated in the middle of the compound, the rain had erased his boot prints.
The windows were narrow, and it took him some time to work around to the wing holding the bedrooms. He peered in one window after another and found only empty rooms. The fifth room, however, had a blouse laid out on the bed that Slocum recognized as Audrey’s. He rattled the window, got it open in spite of its latch, and ducked inside.
Barely had he stepped into the room when he heard voices outside in the hall.
“I tell you, Sheriff, that’s who it is. There’s a hefty reward on his head.”
“This your room?”
“I don’t think Señora Gonzales would mind if you came in for a moment. But only a moment.” The door creaked open, giving Slocum a quick glimpse at Audrey blocking the door and a tall, thin man behind her. He couldn’t get back out the window in time. He grabbed the wardrobe door and opened it. A few of Audrey’s dresses hung inside. He knew they were hers by the distinctive odor. He pulled the door shut just as she and the lawman came into the room.
“I’ll leave the door open, ma’am, so there won’t be any problem.”
“I don’t think there will be.”
Slocum held his breath when he heard the click of Audrey’s shoes approaching the wardrobe. He clung to the edge of the door with his fingertips, unable to close it. She started to open it, then turned and spoke to the sheriff.
“I have the wanted poster in my bag.” She crossed the room, rummaged under the bed, and pulled out the bag. After taking out a stack of wanted posters, she laid one on the bed and pointed. “This is the man, Sheriff. There’s a hundred-dollar reward on his head.”
“Don’t reckon I’ve seen him around.”
“He’s riding with the James Gang. I saw him a day or so back.”
“A hundred dollars is a fine prize for him,” the sheriff said. “You don’t have the look of a bounty hunter. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m sure I can get in good with him and lure him into your capable hands.”
“The town marshal’s a good man. Why do you want me to help out?”
“I . . . I approached him. He wanted half the reward.”
“So he’d take half while you took all the risk?” The sheriff laughed heartily. “That’s Jay Hooker, all right. He’d steal the buttons off a dead man’s vest if he thought he could get away with it. Even if he didn’t much need the buttons.”
“You’ll help me capture this desperado?”
“Any reason you think I wouldn’t ask for half the reward, too?”
Slocum heard Audrey suck in her breath. He held the door shut but saw her moving about now and again through the narrow crack between door and wardrobe. For two cents he would have kicked open the door, drawn, and shot both her and the sheriff. The sheriff wasn’t acting as if the wanted poster she had shown him was anyone special. It certainly wasn’t Jesse or Frank James or the lawman would have commented on that.
“Someone riding with the James Gang,” she had said. Slocum began to fume. She was thinking on turning him over to the law for the reward on his head. He had thought she was confused as to what she was doing. Bounty hunter or treasure hunter or reporter. They had all sounded like pipe dreams to him, but Audrey had a better developed sense of her goal than he’d thought. She might want the gold, but she wasn’t going to pass up the chance at a bounty on his head.
Although Slocum couldn’t see the wanted poster, it had to be the one on him for killing the federal judge back in Georgia. The amount was right and the poster crackled and crinkled, yellow and brittle from age. It wasn’t anything she had come across recently.
“You can get yourself killed. From what this says, the man’s a bloodthirsty killer.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “He’s got a strong chin and looks rather noble, in a barbaric way.”
The sheriff laughed harshly. Slocum saw him poke his finger down on the poster, breaking off a corner.
“You make one mistake with a man like this and he’ll gun you down and never show a bit of remorse, ’cept for wasting a bullet. He might not even shoot you, if you follow my meaning.”
“I understand how dangerous this will be, Sheriff. You do, too.”
“My posse’s been scouring the countryside for these owlhoots and they’ve stayed one step ahead of us for weeks now. The gang stole two wagons loaded with guns and ammunition. I don’t have to tell you what mischief they can get into with that kind of firepower.”
“Bringing this one to justice might be like pulling a thread on a piece of cloth. Tug enough on him and the whole fabric might come unraveled.”
“That chin you were admirin’ so,” the sheriff said, “tells me he’s boastful and arrogant and would likely die before givin’ up the rest of the gang.�
�� He heaved a deep sigh. “The only reason I’m not runnin’ you out of the territory to keep you from tryin’ this, Miss Underwood, is that I want Jesse James so bad I can taste it. He’s been comin’ here on and off to hide out for a couple years. The sheriff ’fore me looked the other way.”
“You’re a better lawman than that.”
“I’m not scared of Jesse James or his brother, but this one has the look of a mad dog killer to him. You might kill him, but he’s not gonna give up his partners.”
“I can be very persuasive, Sheriff.” Audrey shuffled the wanted posters into a stack and returned them to her bag before shoving it back under the bed.
“I’m sure,” the lawman said. “I’m sure you can, Miss Underwood. I’d better be going now ’fore the señora starts wonderin’ what kinda business we’re doin’.”
“I’ll see you out,” Audrey said.
Slocum waited a few seconds, then chanced a quick peek around the wardrobe door. Audrey and the lawman had left. He stepped from the wardrobe and noticed that he had left wet footprints on the floor. How either the sheriff or Audrey had missed those, he couldn’t say. They were too busy arranging to put his neck in a noose.
He chanced a quick look out into the hallway and saw Audrey, her back to him, shaking hands with the sheriff to seal their treacherous deal. Slocum closed the door, went to the window, and opened it. In seconds he was out in the rain once more, over the adobe wall, and mounted, riding into the storm to find a safe, warm place to sleep the night.
The stable in town wasn’t Audrey’s bed, as he had anticipated, but he felt safer surrounded by the horses. They weren’t likely to turn him in for a reward.
9
Slocum stared at the markings on the cave wall but couldn’t make head nor tail of them. He knew the general scheme of the code, but without a book with the symbols deciphered, there wasn’t any way to be sure what he was seeing. He reached out and traced over the new chalk marks, as if touching them would somehow give him insight into their meaning.
