Slocum and the Yellowstone Scoundrel

by Jake Logan

  “Whatever it takes to get you away from here.” He swung her around, made sure she had good footing, then left the tepee.

  To his surprise, she put up no argument about walking behind him. A few squaws and not a few braves watched in silence as they made their way back to the council fire. Slocum had to restrain Marlene to keep her from racing to Jackson’s side.

  “Sit behind him,” Slocum said in a low voice. “Follow his lead.”

  The woman gladly obeyed and dropped to her knees behind Jackson. The photographer spoke at length to her. Slocum saw the change in her expression as repeatedly she glanced in his direction. The anger and horror faded to something he couldn’t define, but she no longer had the combative attitude that might have gotten them all killed.

  The victory celebration went on for some time, but when the huge fire began to crumble into glowing embers, the chief stood and walked away. Those around him followed, leaving Slocum, Jackson, and Marlene with a handful of younger braves.

  “What now?” asked Jackson.

  “We go back to the tepee where they held her,” Slocum said, looking at Marlene. She might have blushed. He couldn’t tell in the dim light cast by the dying fire. “What they do when we go inside will tell me their plans for us.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?” blurted Marlene.

  The brave closest to her lifted his hand to slap her. Slocum moved faster, interposing himself between her and the Blackfoot. The brave glared at him, then put on a poker face.

  Slocum and the other two went to the tepee. As they ducked inside, Slocum made a quick survey and found two braves had been stationed close by as guards. They might have been guests of honor at the victory celebration, but they were little more than prisoners now. The Blackfoot had to realize holding three whites was a liability. The skirmish with the Crow showed increasing unrest that would only bring out the cavalry. Whether the Blackfoot wanted the trouble of keeping a white woman as a slave hardly mattered. They would certainly kill the two white men, and might add a woman to their predation without any thought at all.

  As he slipped into the tepee, Slocum was almost bowled over when Marlene crashed into him.

  “What are we going to do? Are they going to let us go?”

  He steered her to the center of the tepee and sat. He motioned for Jackson to join them so he could speak softly enough that the Indians outside couldn’t overhear. While he didn’t know for certain, he thought the men guarding them spoke enough English to report to the chief anything they overheard.

  “Can you find the horses?” Slocum asked Jackson.

  “I know where they are corralled.”

  “You might have to shoot a guard or two. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t have a pistol.” Jackson’s eyes widened as Slocum handed over his six-shooter.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to. The Blackfoot will be on you like fleas on a dog. If you find a guard, club him. But don’t take chances.” Slocum glanced in Marlene’s direction. She had turned pale again.

  “What are you going to do, sir?” Marlene asked.

  “I’ll distract the two watching us, then create a commotion to decoy them away as you escape.”

  “How will you get away?” Marlene asked.

  Slocum ignored the question. Chances were good that he wouldn’t. The more fuss he raised, the better the chance she and the photographer had to get away. He drew his knife.

  “I’ll give you the sign to go,” Slocum said.

  “You do expect to escape, too, don’t you, Mr. Slocum?” Marlene gripped his arm with an intensity that surprised him, considering what she thought about him after finding him searching Leroq’s wagon.

  “Let him go, Miss Wilkes,” the photographer said.

  She squeezed a little harder, then pulled back. Slocum came to his feet, walked to the back of the tepee, and found the hole he had cut earlier. He pressed his eye to the hide and looked around, then shoved his blade into the wall and drew it down quickly. He motioned for Marlene and Jackson to exit through the hole. Jackson slid through. Marlene was slower to go. She looked hard at Slocum, started to speak, then followed the photographer.

  Slocum went to the door flap, dropped to his hands and knees, and began groaning. He inched forward from the door and poked his head outside. Both Indians came to see what the ruckus was all about. As one bent, Slocum dispatched him with a quick slash. The other responded with the reflexes of a true warrior, his knife coming out and swiping at Slocum.

  Rolling, Slocum got away from the deadly knife and came to his feet. He had to end the fight fast. The sound of battle would bring others running. He feinted and moved away slowly. His obvious clumsiness with a knife brought a cry of triumph to the brave’s lips. Then the Blackfoot lunged. His knife cut deep into Slocum’s left arm.

  The next cry from the brave was his last. Slocum had lured him in, committing to the attack that left his belly exposed. Exchanging a minor wound for a death thrust, Slocum stepped back and let the brave collapse to the ground, where his blood pooled with that of his partner.

  Wincing as he tied up his wound, Slocum looked around the Blackfoot camp to figure out how best to give Marlene and Jackson a head start. He knew the Blackfoot would give chase as quickly as possible. It was up to him to slow them down.

  A quick search of the two dead braves didn’t yield him a pistol. Neither had a rifle either. He dragged them into the tepee, then walked boldly into the middle of the settlement. A few fires sputtered. He worked up a torch using a dried limb, then started through the camp applying the flames to every tepee he passed. Within minutes the dried hides had caught and burned with a vengeance.

  By the time he had set fire to a half-dozen dwellings, the alarm had been raised. He changed his tactics then and waited for the first brave to rush past him with a rifle. Slocum’s knife flashed out, was buried in the man’s kidney, twisted about until death descended. With a quick grab, Slocum had a Spencer. He started firing at targets on the far side of the camp. When the rifle came up empty, he used it as a club on another Blackfoot. This time he snatched a six-gun from the brave’s waistband.

  Slocum never hurried as he worked his way toward the edge of the camp. He picked up another rifle and left behind a corpse. A few shots were necessary to stop braves who had spotted him and knew he was the cause of their woe.

  He had no idea if Jackson had found the horses or if he and Marlene were already riding back to the expedition. Jackson might have kept his head and scared off the Blackfoot remuda, though Slocum couldn’t count on that.

  He drew the pistol and discharged it twice to clear the way from the Blackfoot camp. The fires he had set were almost put out, but the Blackfoot still ran around, shouting and as roused as an anthill with boiling water poured down it. Slocum had a very short time before they began to hunt for the source of their calamity.

  A stream of Blackfoot headed toward their horses. In the confusion, Slocum paralleled them, then saw that Jackson had released the remuda, leaving the Indians on foot. That increased Jackson and Marlene’s chances of escape. And it doomed Slocum. He had no way of getting away from the Blackfoot camp other than to run.

  13

  Slocum dropped to his knees when a few braves turned and came in his direction. The darkness saved him. They lightly ran a few yards away, never seeing him in their determination to recover their horses. Slocum saw that the larger group of Indians had gone in a different direction. He went after the trio who had passed him.

  As one slowed, Slocum slugged him with his captured pistol and grabbed his rifle. He ran hard to catch up with the other two. One let out a whoop as he spotted a horse and went to retrieve it. The other Blackfoot was slower; Slocum swung the rifle and caught the man on the side of the head. Bonelessly collapsing, the Indian lay without moving. Slocum jumped over the body and brought up the rifle to sight in on
the third Blackfoot, now astride his horse.

  The brave saw Slocum at the same instant that his trigger finger came back. The rifle bucked and the Indian fell off the horse. The pony reared and pawed at the air, giving Slocum the chance to grab for its reins. If it had bolted and run, he could never have chased it down in the dark. As it was, getting his hand tangled in the reins almost brought about his death by dragging.

  The horse tossed its head and shied away, yanking Slocum off his feet. He grabbed with his left hand but could hardly close on the reins. The wound on his left forearm began bleeding again. The horse backed away, keeping Slocum off balance. When he finally got his feet under him, the horse charged.

  Slocum had done his share of bronco breaking and had expected the maneuver. Even knowing what the horse was likely to try, he was almost trampled. He got to one side, threw his arms around the horse’s neck, and kicked hard. For a moment, he thought he had failed; his toes cut double grooves in the soft earth. Then he found a rock that let him kick out and send himself into the air. He landed hard on the horse’s back, his arms still circled its straining neck.

  Until he got his bearings, Slocum let the horse run. Even if it tried to gallop through the middle of the Blackfoot encampment, he was better off on the horse than he ever could be without it under him.

  Getting his seat, Slocum switched the reins around so he could guide the horse where he desired. He heaved a big sigh. Lady Luck graced him again. Rather than going into the Indian camp, the horse had chosen to run away into the night. Slocum let the horse have its head until it began flagging. He slowed the breakneck pace and eventually got it to a more sedate trot.

  The clouds building over the mountains blocked the stars and robbed him of his bearings. He kept riding toward the hulking black outlines of rock, knowing this was leading him westward. When the stars peeked through the clouds, he changed his course and headed toward the North Star. As he rode, he kept a sharp lookout for Blackfoot prowling about intent on revenge. The land was barren of anyone else. After a couple hours, he reached a river pouring down out of the mountains, changed course again, and followed the river, occasionally riding through the water to erase his tracks if the Blackfoot tried to follow him.

  Only when he was sure he was somewhere south of where the expedition had stopped days earlier did he leave the river and eventually find the wagons. Slocum drew rein and studied the camp for any sign that the Indians had attacked. The wagons weren’t arrayed in a defensive pattern. He didn’t know if that was a good sign. The cartographers might be unprepared for an attack.

  Slocum rode toward the wagon Hayden used as his office and was relieved to see that the doctor had returned from his survey work. Hayden lay sprawled under his wagon, snoring loudly. He didn’t take it kindly when Slocum woke him to deliver his warning about the Blackfoot.

  “We can’t fight off a war party,” Hayden said. “Can we outrun them?” He read the answer on Slocum’s face. “What do we do then, sir?”

  “Be alert. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  “We can change our destination. I had intended to go east for a week, then turn north. If we break camp tomorrow morning and proceed immediately northward, we might avoid them altogether.”

  “Keeping the mountains on your flank reduces the ways they can attack, too,” Slocum said. “Out in the open on the plains leaves you exposed in all directions.”

  “I had wanted to avoid some of the rockier terrain. There are more geysers in this direction, too, and our luck might have been exhausted on the mud flats.”

  “How’s Abel? Preston?” Slocum asked.

  “Both are doing well.”

  “And Leroq?”

  Hayden frowned, then said, “I cannot say. He was gone when I returned from my mapping. He must have set out to paint.”

  Slocum wondered if the artist had left the expedition to get the hell away from being revealed as a jewel thief. If the man had stolen a ruby, he might have stolen a great deal more. But where had he hidden Innick’s precious gem?

  “What of Jackson and his . . . assistant?”

  “Haven’t seen them. I assumed they were out working, as is Leroq. What do you know of them?”

  Slocum hadn’t mentioned them, hoping to focus on the threat posed by the Indians. If the photographer and Marlene hadn’t reached the camp, they might have been captured. This shouldn’t pose any dilemma for Hayden. His duty lay with the greater number of surveyors.

  “I’ll see to them. You get the expedition on the trail again.”

  “Very well.” Hayden fumbled in his bedroll and found a pocket watch. He flipped open the cover and peered at it. “It’s a little past four a.m. If we roll as quickly as possible, we can be a mile away before sunrise.”

  “Do it,” Slocum said. Putting as much distance between the expedition and the Indians was the only way they had of avoiding a fight they could never win. The Blackfoot might settle down after recovering their mounts and go hunting for other Crow war parties. That was their best hope for keeping their scalps in place.

  Slocum left Hayden to pulling on his boots and rousing the others. The party responded with ill grace but more speed than Slocum would have thought possible. The threat of possible skirmishing with Indians on the warpath lent speed to their actions.

  He went to the darkroom wagon and opened the door. Empty. Jackson and Marlene hadn’t returned. He sat on the back step for a few minutes, going over what he knew of the terrain between the expedition camp and that of the Blackfoot. As the other wagons began pulling away, he heaved to his feet, tugged on the reins of his stolen Indian pony, and swung up. Riding bareback wasn’t hard, but Slocum wished he had a saddle under him.

  From the occasional glimpses of stars through the gathering storm clouds, he started his search in the direction most likely to cross trails with Jackson and Marlene—if they had escaped at all. Slocum wouldn’t allow himself to worry over the chance they had been caught or killed. By an hour after sunrise, he topped an incline and saw them.

  Pulling his battered Stetson down to shield his eyes, he carefully studied their back trail. To his relief he saw no hint of pursuit by the Blackfoot or anyone else. He urged the pony down the gentle slope and rode for the spot where the two riders would be in another hour.

  “Mr. Slocum!” the photographer cried, waving when he spotted where Slocum had dismounted to await their arrival.

  Slocum acknowledged Jackson’s greeting but watched Marlene more closely. Her posture improved. She sat straighter and preceded Jackson, reaching Slocum a full minute ahead of her employer.

  “You got away,” she stated. Her words lacked any emotion.

  “I watched your back trail. The Indians didn’t follow you, but you left a trail a blind man could find.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  Slocum looked up. The storm had built over the mountains and began spilling out onto the plains.

  “Hayden is driving north. We can catch up if we hurry.”

  “But the Indians, Mr. Slocum,” said Jackson, almost out of breath. “Will they come after us? We witnessed the havoc you wrought in their camp.” For the first time, Slocum saw the man had managed to hang on to his case of precious photographs. How he had done that was a complete mystery since Slocum knew he hadn’t had it when they left the tepee.

  Slocum didn’t want to find out if Jackson had returned for it—or sent Marlene back into the Blackfoot camp to fetch it.

  “Luck might be with us again if it rains. That will wipe out any hoofprints you left and will hide where the expedition went. I doubt they are angry enough to do much more in the way of finding us.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Marlene said, slumping again in the saddle.

  “You could have taken a couple more horses, other than your own,” Slocum said. “That would have made escape easier.”

  “Ah,
yes, ride a horse until it tires, then switch. I am familiar with that technique,” Jackson said. “Did you do that to reach Hayden before us?”

  “I took what I could.” Slocum patted the stolen pony’s neck. “My sense of direction is a mite better than yours, I suppose.”

  “We had to avoid pursuit,” Marlene said, testier than before. “You obviously did not have such an obstacle to overcome.”

  Slocum laughed and shook his head. She would never know.

  “Let’s ride,” he said. “A raindrop just hit my hat brim.”

  By the time they reached Jackson’s darkroom wagon, the downpour had washed away not only the trail dust from their clothing but also their trail.

  * * *

  “The light’s too good for me to pass up this chance,” William Jackson said, balancing a tripod on one shoulder as he carried a camera and a small wooden case for his photographic plates. “I won’t be too long.”

  “Is it safe?” Marlene asked anxiously.

  “Mr. Slocum is sure the Indians did not pursue us in that torrential downpour.” Jackson took a deep, appreciative breath and let it out slowly. “The rain has purified the air and turned it crystal clear. I must photograph the mountains or turn in my credentials as the foremost photographer in America. It is a pity I lost my best camera outside the Crow camp, but the photographs proved to be spectacular. I must add to my folio, and this shoot will do just that.” He shifted his burden, then set out with a long stride and a tune on his lips.

  “He will be all right, won’t he?” Marlene asked, looking after her employer.

  “The Blackfoot band rode east, out onto the plains.” Slocum had done a bit of quick scouting. The Blackfoot might be pursuing the Crow. More likely from the way they had moved their entire village, they were hunting for better game and had abandoned their vengeance against both the other Indians and the white men who had so disrupted their life for a few days.