Slocum and the Yellowstone Scoundrel

by Jake Logan

  Preston lay in a pile, half covered with sizzling mud. Slocum protected him from being buried by new mud as he scooped away what had accumulated. The man’s coat and shirt had been burned through in places to reveal blistered skin. He had received a worse blast than either Slocum or Abel, although they had been closer to the point of eruption.

  “Come on. Can you walk?”

  Preston moaned in pain. He tried to stand, but his legs weren’t up to the chore. Slocum got the man sitting up, then to his feet. With a quick move, Slocum got the injured man slung over his shoulders. Staggering, he dug his toes into the soft mud and once more burst through the steamy curtain. Both Hayden and Abel caught him as he started to crash facedown on the ground.

  “We can get away. Follow the markers,” Hayden said.

  Slocum felt Preston’s weight disappear from his shoulders, but he couldn’t move. He sank to the ground, panting. Abel and Hayden carried Preston between them, but Slocum needed help, too. He had reached the end of his endurance.

  Hands against the ground, he felt new rumbles, stronger vibrations that had to come before a more powerful eruption. If he stayed, he would be boiled alive, then his body buried in the hot mud. Summoning up strength from deep within his soul, he began crawling. The hissing turned to a roar again as the geyser renewed its assault on sky and earth.

  Slocum looked away from the marked roadway and saw ponds rimmed with needles of crystalline sulfur and knew he would die if he tried to take refuge in any of them. The water might protect him from the geyser behind him, but he would be boiled alive if the eruptions spread. He moved faster, distance promising him his only hope of survival. And then he got his feet under him and ran. Hard. So hard he ran past where Abel and Hayden tended Preston.

  “Slocum, wait. Don’t leave us!”

  The anguish in Abel’s plea shattered the shell of fear holding Slocum. He slowed and finally turned. Hayden plied his medical skills on Preston while Abel held out his hand in Slocum’s direction, urging him to return. Twenty yards behind them the geyser that had caused all their woes sizzled and popped and slowly died. By the time Slocum joined the other three, the geyser had disappeared, leaving behind only a hot fog.

  “You saved his life back there. Thanks,” Abel said.

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “I think so. I need to get salve onto his burns. His back is blistered and his hands are charred,” said Hayden. He stood and thrust out his hand to Slocum. They shook. “I wondered what sort of man you were, Mr. Slocum, and now I know.”

  “Is this going to be safe for the wagons?” Slocum asked. His thoughts continued to tumble and twist around. He didn’t accept compliments easily, and Hayden’s had been sincere. The mission had been to pioneer a trail across the mud flats to the mountain pass.

  Hayden laughed at this.

  “You are a man directed to his work, sir. I appreciate that. What do you think about using this road, Mr. Abel?”

  Abel knelt beside Preston, looking upset at being unable to do more for his partner.

  “There’s no telling when a geyser will spout off, but there doesn’t seem to be any way around. No quick way, and we’ve got to cover as much territory as fast as we can.” Abel looked around, then said, “If we don’t stop and keep moving, we can use the marked road.”

  Shock began to leave Slocum. He felt the tiny burns and the big aches, but his brain still refused to focus properly. All he could think of was Marlene getting trapped in the middle of the boiling mud. And Leroq. If Leroq died out here, the ruby would be lost for all time.

  “I agree. Now let’s get Preston out of here. And get ourselves out of danger, too.”

  They took turns carrying Preston, who moaned constantly. As they walked, Slocum eyed every mud hole suspiciously, as if it were waiting for them to be passing nearby before erupting. Although none showed signs of exploding skyward, the bubbles warned of imminent disaster.

  By the time they returned to their horses, Slocum had settled down and realized the fumaroles had been churning like this as they had entered. Only his imagination had built possible danger once the solitary geyser had erupted.

  “We’ll have to tie him to his horse,” Hayden said uneasily.

  “Belly down is a hard way to ride,” Slocum said. From the way Preston drifted in and out of consciousness, he wasn’t sure the man could make it back to the wagon train. “We can leave him here and bring the wagons to him.”

  “An excellent idea, Mr. Slocum. I am the medical doctor. You two return and get the expedition safely across the river, and on the way here. I’ll do what I can for him.” Abel looked skeptical, but Hayden had only cheering words for him.

  “I want to stay, too.”

  “I’m the newcomer to the expedition,” Slocum pointed out, “and the others might not take kindly to me giving orders, even if I explained what happened.”

  “Go with him, Mr. Abel, and lend support to my order. I suppose I could write it, but that hardly solves the dilemma since so few in the expedition would recognize my handwriting.”

  “Draw them a map,” Abel said. “They all recognize your style.”

  “True,” Hayden said. Then he came to his decision. “Go with Slocum. Get them here as quickly as you can.”

  Slocum saw Abel getting ready to argue.

  “I can fetch them. The drawn map is a good idea,” he said.

  “I have my sketches here.” Hayden pulled a sheaf of pages from his courier’s pouch and leafed through until he found one. “This is distinctive. I’ll also write a quick note. If necessary, show it to Fenwicke. He’s second in command while I am gone from the expedition.” He scribbled and handed it to Slocum. “That will have to do, I fear.”

  Slocum tucked it into his coat pocket and left. He had a long road to travel and probably skeptical cartographers to convince.

  * * *

  “Only one more wagon,” a driver said, looking back across the surging river. “Don’t know if they can make it without help.”

  Slocum personally had shepherded four wagons across the ford already. The only one remaining belonged to William Jackson. The photographer worked futilely to attach a floatation device just above the wheels. The darkroom wagon’s high profile made it more likely to tip over in the river than the other wagons.

  He convinced his mare to cross the river once more. Both he and the horse were drenched from the trips, but Slocum didn’t mind. It got the mud off his clothing and the icy water fed by high mountain runoff had chilled the burned spots on his back and hands. He didn’t have any special salve, but he felt ready to whip his weight in wildcats again.

  Slocum saw how apt that was when Marlene glared at him.

  “We don’t need your help,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Instead of speaking to her, Slocum asked Jackson, “Do you need another pair of hands to get that sack fastened? I haven’t seen anything like that in quite a while.”

  “The prairie schooners were similarly tall and used these to cross the Missouri, or so I am told,” Jackson said. “Your help would be appreciated.” He glared at his assistant. Marlene turned her nose upward and looked away, arms crossed and the set of her body telling how pissed she was at Slocum.

  “I lost count of the wagons,” Slocum said. “You the last one?” He stepped back and studied his handiwork. The rawhide strips were secure and the bags—they looked like the bladders of some large animal—flopped about. Once in the river they would rise up, support the wagon, and let Jackson drive it across without overturning.

  “Twenty-two ahead of us.”

  “Who hasn’t crossed?”

  “You ought to know, Mr. Slocum,” Marlene said coldly. “Gustav Leroq left the party while you and the others went off.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “To paint,” she said. He saw the wom
an wasn’t likely to give any more information.

  “He does oils. There was a vista a mile or two back that would appeal to Gustav,” Jackson said. “I considered a photograph there, but I chose to save my precious plates for later, when we’re deeper into Yellowstone.”

  “You just might sink deep into Yellowstone,” Slocum said, noting how the heavy wagon made depressions in the ground twice as deep as the others. It was not only tall and ungainly but heavily laden.

  “How far ahead will we camp? I need to be certain all my chemicals are properly stored after our crossing.” Jackson looked at the river with some irritation, as if it had been placed there as a barrier to him alone.

  “There’s a geyser field where Hayden and the others are waiting. You’ll camp there, then cross the field at first light.”

  “Very well. Are you going to come with us?”

  “Leroq is alone. He might not be a skilled enough driver to cross the river on his own.” Slocum saw how the wagons had cut up the grass and left deep ruts. The artist wouldn’t have any trouble finding the trail. Following it might be more of a chore, especially if he didn’t reach the rest of the expedition before they crossed the boiling mud flats the next morning.

  “Yes, by all means, go find him. He might have something worth stealing, though I am sure you only consider that in the dead of night.”

  Jackson looked sharply at Marlene, then at Slocum. He started to ask, then shook his head, climbed into the driver’s seat, and began the crossing. Slocum watched to be sure nothing untoward happened. In less than ten minutes he caught sight of Marlene leaning out and looking back across the river at him. The distance robbed him of any chance to see her expression, but he doubted she wished him well and would have been happy to see him drown in the raging river.

  He pressed out as much water as he could from his clothing, tended his horse, and then stepped up into the saddle. Following the wagon ruts back proved easy enough, as was finding where Leroq had left the road. Slocum stood in his stirrups and tried to spot the artist ahead. The gathering twilight hid all but the most obvious features in the terrain.

  Slocum urged his horse after the wagon. As he hunted for Leroq, he tried to determine how likely it was to reach the expedition camp at the edge of the geyser field before they crossed that deadly barrier. Preston and Abel had done well with the rock markers. He could get across with no trouble, but without him guiding the artist, Leroq might never rejoin Hayden and the others.

  Letting him rot in the middle of the fumaroles would be fitting punishment for the theft, but if he had the ruby with him, it would be lost, too. Slocum considered how easily he could pry the gemstone away from the popinjay. If Leroq gave it up out here well away from the rest of the expedition—and Marlene’s disapproving glare—Slocum was inclined simply to ride away.

  He felt some obligation to Hayden, but he had promised Sean Innick he would recover the ruby.

  Idle thoughts wandered through his head as he drifted a bit, considering the chance of getting the ruby back to its rightful owner and then catching up with the mapping expedition later. He wasn’t going to remain employed at the sawmill. That had been a job taken because he couldn’t find anything else to put some food in his belly.

  Mapping Yellowstone appealed to him. And the pay wouldn’t matter if he had another five hundred dollars in gold riding in his pocket.

  He jerked alert when he heard a horse neigh ahead. The dusk rapidly turned to darkness. The evening star shone brilliantly in the far west, a herald for the rest of the stars.

  Then his hand went to his six-shooter because he didn’t hear one horse but many.

  Riding ahead slowly, straining to see in the dark, he finally made out Leroq’s wagon with its specially built cases. The team had been hobbled and nibbled at grass a few yards away. He didn’t see the artist anywhere.

  But the sound of horses galloping brought him around, peering eastward. If Leroq had intended to paint a landscape, that was the likeliest direction toward the mountains. Slocum put his heels to his horse’s flanks and walked in that direction. From the corner of his eye he caught movement. Then he made out the figures ahead.

  Gustav Leroq stood surrounded by Indians, and from the sounds of their voices, they weren’t any too pleased with finding the artist on their hunting ground.

  9

  Slocum was no expert but recognized words in Piegan, the Algonquian tongue spoken by the Blackfoot Indians. He realized he had ridden too close, and the Indians had spotted him. He slipped his hand away from his Colt. This hunting party numbered a dozen braves. Shooting it out would be suicidal.

  He cursed his bad luck and then he cursed Leroq for good measure. If it hadn’t been for the artist’s thievery, he wouldn’t be in this pickle.

  “What’s going on?” Slocum called.

  “I came out to begin my work. This was an absolutely lovely spot to do a landscape, then these . . . savages rode up screaming and waving their sticks about.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t fill you with arrows.” Slocum saw that the hunting party was evenly armed with bow and arrow and old Spencer rifles, likely taken off the bodies of dead cavalry troopers.

  He hadn’t heard of any trouble with the tribes recently, but he had been toiling away in a sawmill where such gossip meant less than talk of going into town to get drunk and look for whores.

  Slocum called out a greeting to the Blackfoot who seemed to be the chief of the party. His instincts were good. The others deferred right away to the tall, muscular man who thrust his rifle high above his head and spoke so fast Slocum had no chance to follow.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “You’re trespassing.” Slocum’s mind raced to find a way to weasel out of getting scalped over such a minor thing. The Blackfoot were territorial and possessive of their hunting grounds.

  “I have no intention of killing any small, furry animal for food,” Leroq said with some distaste. “I am an artist. I paint! All I need to survive is inspiration, not some morsel of rabbit or haunch of venison.”

  Slocum knew he had only a small chance if he turned tail and ran, but he couldn’t leave Leroq to the mercy of the Indians. Even if the artist tossed him the ruby he’d stolen and proclaimed his guilt, Slocum couldn’t abandon him to the Indians. He dismounted and walked to stand a couple feet from the chief. The man was an inch taller than Slocum’s six feet and stronger from the look of his thick chest half hidden by a fringed deerskin vest. Any hope of challenging the chief to single combat vanished from Slocum’s mind.

  Speaking slowly, worrying that he would be misunderstood, he explained that Leroq was a fool, a village idiot among the white eyes, and had come out to smear paint on a piece of paper.

  “A wise chief understands when a village must deal with a fool,” Slocum said.

  “What’re you saying?” Leroq demanded. “He’s looking at me like I am a madman!”

  “Dance around a little. Flap your arms like you’re a bird.” Slocum saw Leroq’s expression of disbelief. “Go on, do it.”

  Leroq stared in amazement at the circle of Blackfoot, all edging away from him, then began a crazy dance, mocking the Indians. Slocum doubted the Blackfoot caught the contempt Leroq had for them. It all added to the impression of him being the village fool.

  “He is crazy,” the chief said. “You will take him away?”

  “I will,” Slocum said. To Leroq he said, “Pack your equipment. They’re letting us go. Don’t take too long or the chief might change his mind.”

  “Can I stop this silly dancing?”

  “Keep it up,” Slocum said, enjoying the artist’s discomfort. He watched the artist toss brushes into a box and close it up. The painting he had worked on was almost complete. He took it from the easel, but the Blackfoot chief cried out and grabbed for the painting.

  “That’s mine!” Leroq star
ted to fight the Indian over the painting, but Slocum clamped his fingers around Leroq’s wrist and squeezed hard enough to make him yelp.

  “Let him take it. Either that or he’ll take your scalp.”

  Slocum doubted the Blackfoot were interested enough to scalp them. If anything, taking Leroq’s scalp would be a disgrace since they thought he was a lunatic.

  “Take this as my gift,” Slocum said in the Blackfoot dialect, careful not to insult the chief. “He has captured the mountains in his drawing.”

  He stumbled over the word “drawing” but tapped the edge of the frame to give the Blackfoot chief the idea. The man held up the painting and peered at it in the dark. Slocum knew that they would be dead men if Leroq had tried to paint the images of the Indians themselves, but artistry among the Indians included animals and landscape. From what he could tell, Leroq had rendered the country well.

  The Blackfoot chief let out a whoop, held the painting over his head, and spoke too rapidly for Slocum to follow. The braves mounted and soon galloped away in the dark. The chief stared at Slocum, saying nothing, then he mounted and held the painting as if it might come alive at any instant. With another whoop, he wheeled his pony around and followed the others into the night.

  “That was my finest work,” Leroq said.

  “Be inspired that you’re still alive. You can do another picture,” Slocum said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ve got a lot of travel between now and rejoining the expedition.”

  “I do not know you, eh, but I do somehow,” Leroq said, staring at Slocum in the darkness. “You are the new guide hired to show us only the most scenic areas of Yellowstone.”

  “I was hired to scout,” Slocum said. He considered finding out where the ruby was and putting an end to the charade right now. But the feeling that the hunting party waited just beyond sight wore at him. Better to deal with Leroq and the stolen ruby when they were safe.