Slocum and the High-Country Manhunt

by Jake Logan

  She still smiled. “That way,” she said, pointing beyond the chimney. It was to the left of the direction he’d come.

  “Are you certain I will find . . . a horse seller in that direction?”

  She nodded, still smiling.

  He smiled back and held out his hand. She gladly, willingly placed its promising weight in his palm. He hefted it once, liked what he felt, and decided not to insult the woman by inspecting its contents just then. Later, on the trail, he would see what its depths offered.

  From within the low building came a shout. The words were unintelligible to Delbert, but they nonetheless jerked the woman’s head around, instant terror seizing her features. She had obviously been summoned.

  “I should go now,” said Delbert, nodding to her. “And so should you. I will be back in all haste. Trust me!” He offered her a half bow and mounted up on his horse. He also kept his coat open, just in case whatever creature had howled from the guts of that building decided to confront him before he could make an escape from this hellish place.

  The squat Indian woman hustled to the house. Halfway there, she stopped, looked at him, and said, “You come back for me.”

  He nodded solemnly to her. “You have my word on it, ma’am. I shall return.”

  He watched her continue the last few yards to the building, then scurry around it. Soon he heard a door squawk open and, with what sounded like much effort, clunk shut. More thick shouts erupted from inside, coupled with dog barks and sharp sounds, then crying. It had to be the woman. Delbert shook his head as he tugged on the reins. The horse still mouthed down the coarse yellow hay. “Poor thing,” said Delbert. “But she does make terrible choices in what men to trust, doesn’t she?”

  The horse jerked its head back to the hay. Delbert let it grab another mouthful as he pondered which way to go. He didn’t trust the woman’s judgment for an instant. Anyone who let herself be so abused and duped was not right in the head.

  The nasty dugout was built along the river. And rivers ran south, if he remembered correctly, so he should just follow it. Problem was, he didn’t know what way it flowed—the entire thing was iced over. He looked at the meandering path it cut through the flat, snowdrifted landscape, but it didn’t help. What trees there were looked no taller than man height, but they leaned every which way, instead of all in one direction, say, toward the south.

  In the end, he decided to continue on in the direction he’d been heading, feeling in his bones that somehow it would lead him southward. Yes, he was sure of it. He smiled as he led his horse on out of that place, leaving it behind.

  Surely he would come to a town soon.

  7

  Slocum had been riding for the better part of four days when he came to a dugout soddy hard by the frozen banks of the Chilawaw River. Even from a distance it didn’t look like the sort of place where he wanted to spend much time. He still had plenty in the way of supplies and he didn’t particularly want the company of a handful of drunk hiders stinking up the place and belching and farting like old plow horses, then laughing at the cheap amusement. But what he did want was information. He had little more than hunch to go on that Delbert Calkins had headed in this very direction.

  He figured he could choke down a glass of whatever godawful popskull the proprietor distilled if it meant confirming his hunch about Calkins. As he drew nearer to the place, he saw a half-dozen ravens circling what he assumed was the corral, since the loose collection of leaning rails seemed to keep the horses in and nothing else out.

  At the first sign of their approach, the two horses in the corral nickered and raised their heads from a snow-filled trough. He saw a few wispy remnants of yellowed hay. Beyond the leaning corral and thin horses standing hip-shot, their hind ends to the wind, Slocum spied the partially drifted over remains of two more horses, their hides so sunken they looked to have starved to death. They also appeared to have been hacked into for meat—either by men or scavengers. Probably one and the same at this place, he guessed.

  Slocum decided he’d keep his animals cinched tight together and keep himself close to the door once he got inside. He also decided he’d make this a short stop.

  He rode over to the long side of the building, the only place he saw with any type of entrance into the structure. It was also laid out such that it caught the full brunt of the prevailing wind. He shook his head as he dismounted.

  Surely when they built the long, low eyesore, the builders would have known which way the wind blew and so should have positioned the building accordingly to avoid it. People were thick in the head, by and large. They meant well, but frequently they puzzled him. Rich, poor, young, old, people were frequently more of a menace to themselves than the natural world could ever be.

  He wrapped the reins around the checked, weathered hitch rail, lifted the flap of the rifle boot, and slid out the Winchester. It would not do to lose it to someone who might be skulking around the corner. But mostly, he thought as he cradled it, he wanted it along inside in case things got surly. He’d been to enough of these soddy trading posts to know how unruly the inhabitants could be. He double-checked that his packhorse was secured well to the Appaloosa and headed to the door.

  The edge of the roof was low enough that it came to his chest. To each side of the door, the snow was littered with stove ashes, broken crockery, vomit, and yellow circles drilled into the snow. Just to the right of the door sat a pile of bones that looked as if they’d been gnawed by wolves.

  Slocum reminded himself to skip the stew if it was offered. Bending low, he reached for the strap leather handle, thought better of it, and stood as much to the side of the door as he could, given the trash dumped there.

  As soon as he rapped on the door, a loud vicious-sounding barking began. One dog, big from the sounds of it, and then it must have lunged at the door because he heard it slamming into the cobby planking.

  Almost as soon as the barking began, a man’s voice bellowed for it to shut the hell up. Something heavy slammed into the door just after the dog, then something else must have been thrown, because the next sound Slocum heard was the dog yowling in pain.

  Slocum unbuttoned his coat and slipped the edge of it behind his left holster.

  The door swung inward, dragging across its own grooves on a rough-log floor. Piggy eyes set in a welter of grime and hair stared at Slocum. “What you want?”

  Slocum peered back at a big, bearded face. “Sign said this is a trading post.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You open for business?”

  The man’s little eyes squinted, then the door swung wider. The rest of him was as big as his head was hairy. A wave of close air, unwashed men, and meat gone off rolled at Slocum.

  “Well,” said the fat man. “Come on in. You’re lettin’ the warm out.”

  Slocum pulled in a last gasp of cool, fresh air, bent low, and stepped on into the dark space. “The dog going to cause me worry?”

  “Nah. I fixed him up.”

  As Slocum looked around the dark space, he didn’t move from the door, just enough to let the man close it. His eyes took too damn long to adjust to the dark, smelly room, but were aided by a lone window in the far end that managed to let a thin slant of light into the dank space. Part of it was jagged glass, the rest thin-skinned hide. A nearby gap in the wall was stuffed with rags.

  Just under the ragged window sat two hulking forms covered in buffalo coats. Hiders—they would account for some of the stink. The only thing worse than the stink of death trailing a buffalo skinner was the stink of two of them together in a close space. Naturally they were backed up to the stove.

  The fat owner didn’t seem to mind the stink in the least. In fact, thought Slocum, they all looked like they’d shared the same ma. He finally located the dog, a long-legged mongrel with patchy hair and a mottled coat. He looked blind in one eye but the other, a black unblinking
orb, regarded every move Slocum made. A menacing growl, steady and low, crawled up from deep in the dog’s throat.

  “He won’t bother you none. Not unless you get it in your head to cause me a headache.” The fat man cut his eyes toward the two hiders, who obliged with weak chuckles, then turned their attention back to the nearly empty cloudy bottle between them on the small table. Slocum noticed a third glass and chair.

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” said Slocum, scanning the room. He noted another door behind the bulk of the barman. “Where did your other drinking buddy go?” He nodded toward the table.

  “Oh,” said the barman. “That’s my glass. We was . . . playing cards when you banged on the door.”

  Slocum didn’t see any cards on the table.

  “What do you want anyway?”

  “I was passing, on my way west, thought I’d stop. I’m looking for a man—”

  “You one of them types?”

  Slocum ignored this and continued. “He’s blond, waxed mustache, dressed like a dandy, doesn’t seem to be experienced with winter travel.”

  “Mister, you gonna buy something or flap your gums?” The fat man wiped his face with his apron, a begrimed affair that Slocum was sure hadn’t been off his body, let alone washed, in years.

  “Got any cigars?” he said, half joking.

  “Ceegars? What in hell do we look like, mister? Some hoity-toity fancies to you?” The big, begrimed man dragged the corner of the filthy apron across his bearded face and only succeeded in rearranging the runnels of tobacco spittle glistening in his beard.

  “Whiskey, then,” said Slocum.

  “All I got’s corn liquor.”

  “That’ll do. How much?”

  “Since you’re askin’, it’s a dollar.”

  “Kind of steep, isn’t it?” Slocum pulled a coin out of an inner coat pocket. He made it a rule to keep coins in various pockets so he wouldn’t have to pull out a laden coin purse or wad of cash—not that he had to worry about that all that often.

  The barman poured the booze from a crock into a squat, green glass that looked to have been licked and dipped in a gut pile. Slocum picked up the glass with two fingers and did his best to hold it up to the light. “Got a clean glass?”

  “That’s as good as it gets.” The man stood waiting for Slocum to drink.

  “I’m not so sure I need a drink that bad.”

  “You got to drink it now. I done poured it.”

  “How about you tell me if the man I described came through here recently, and if I like what I hear, I’ll leave the dollar and the liquor. You can have both.”

  “And if you don’t like what you hear?” The fat man behind the plank bar stared at him.

  “Then you’ll keep talking until I hear something useful.”

  One of the hiders set his own glass down and said, “Must be you’re getting money to find that man.”

  For the size of man he was, Slocum reckoned his voice should be lower. He’d be embarrassed if such a sound came out of his mouth.

  The hider stood, pushing his chair back along the rough floor. “Could be you got that money on you.”

  Slocum tensed, kept his back to the closed door, and tried to keep the dog and the three men all in view. He was nearly successful. The dog began slowly walking toward the door.

  “Do you really think I’d get paid before I found him?”

  This slowed down the men, seemed to challenge their thinking.

  The barman said, “Could be I heard tell of a fella like that come through a few days back.”

  Excellent, thought Slocum. My first solid lead letting me know Delbert Calkins had been there. “I don’t suppose you have any useful memories of his visit, do you?”

  “You got to buy something more in order to let you know what I know about the man.”

  The big hider took another step toward the door behind Slocum. Slocum uncradled the Winchester. “Hold on there, big boy.”

  The man paused. “What? Can’t a man take a piss?”

  “Yep, he can. Judging from the smells in here, I’d guess you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “I aim to head outside, mister.”

  Slocum thumbed back the hammer on the rifle. “Then we’ll both go.”

  “I knowed you were odd,” said the fat man behind the counter, slamming his hands on the bartop. An empty bottle jumped, fell over, and rolled off the planks.

  This chatter was getting him nowhere, and if it continued much longer, he would suspect they had someone outside working on relieving him of his horses and goods.

  “I’ll bid you good day, then, gentlemen.” He didn’t think he’d get any more out of them.

  “Now hold on a minute, mister. You . . .” the barman looked almost desperate to keep him in there. “You ain’t finished your drink.”

  “Ain’t started it yet either.” He reached behind him for the leather strap door handle when, on a nod from the barman, the big man to his left lunged at him. At the same time the dog launched into a dive straight.

  Slocum figured the dog was a faster mover, and though he hated to do it, he pivoted enough on his left leg that he was able to kick the airborne beast in the throat. It made a gagging sound and crashed into the rough wall behind it. He had no time to see if the kick had been enough to keep the dog down for a few seconds, for the great bull of a man was almost on him. Slocum raised the rifle and managed to jam the snout of it hard against the big hider’s forehead. He saw the skin pucker as the man’s head drove into the barrel end.

  The hider stopped in his tracks, almost teetering on his mammoth legs as Slocum thumbed the hammer back the rest of the way. By then he heard the dog coming to, sucking breath through its damaged windpipe, but it didn’t sound good. Slocum hoped he hadn’t dealt the dog a mortal blow. He reckoned he’d find out soon enough.

  He had to get on out of there before whoever it was who’d headed out when he headed in made off with his horses and gear. But the two other men were advancing.

  Beyond the smelly hider who Slocum was propping up with the snout of his rifle, he heard the other one wheezing into action. He glanced quickly over the closer man’s shoulder, and when he did, he heard the godawful sound of two hammers thumbing back on a double-barrel shotgun. He looked back in time to see the barman level off on him. Slocum could almost feel the barman’s fat fingers tense on the triggers.

  From directly behind, the cur, while not fully recovered, was drawing breath enough to begin another angry lunge. Slocum knew they had no reason to keep him alive. They had his gear and horses outside and whatever they could scavenge off his dead body. Me or them, he said to himself, and dropped low, then dove to his left.

  The hulking hider lurched into the space Slocum had been just as the barman squeezed the shotgun’s triggers.

  The double booms filled the room with thunder that rattled Slocum’s teeth and clouded the air with smoke. Sod chunks, rock, and snow rained downward. His right leg was pinned, he assumed under the fat hider, but it was unmoving weight. He clawed free a Colt Navy and swung it upward just as the second hider regained his senses and, yelling, lunged at Slocum.

  The Colt sent a bullet straight into the center of the fat man’s mustache, cleaving his face right under the nose. The back of the man’s head blossomed outward, spraying the haggard window a dripping red even as he pitched forward. Slocum rolled as far as he could to the side, but his leg remained pinned. Then he remembered the dog—where was that damn beast?

  From the bar, he heard the thunk-thunk of shells ejecting and he knew the barman was thumbing in two more. The ringing in his ears didn’t hide the raw rage of the barman. He was howling, and then Slocum saw why. The first two blasts had dropped the big hider and the dog. Both lay on the floor where Slocum had been standing before the door—the dog half sprawled on the big buffalo-hide-clad form,
both a hairy, matted mess of blood, twitching and whimpering.

  It was dark at the floor and Slocum knew he had but a couple of seconds before the big barman would locate him. That’s all he would need. He swung the rifle and pistol both into play a fraction of a second before the barman did so with the shotgun.

  From the ground, and pinned as he was, Slocum’s aim was off, as he knew it might be. But his twin bullets caught the man high in the greasy apron, the second in the chin. The barman’s scream rattled into a gag, and just before he collapsed on top of the makeshift plank-and-barrel bartop, his reflexes touched off both of his gun barrels.

  Slocum hugged the grimy floor, pressed himself as flat as possible as the shots blasted at the walls and low ceiling. More deafness, rattling teeth, and hunks of the soddy structure raining down on him. He needed a few minutes to wait out the smoke, but he knew that every second he spent in there among the dead and dying was another second someone was making off with his horses and gear.

  He used the Winchester’s butt to push against the still twitching fat man pinning his leg. A gurgle of pain rose from under the buffalo coat. “Sorry, buddy,” said Slocum, but he kept shoving.

  Just when he thought he was going to have to scrabble in the smoke and dirt and near dark for something else to help pry the big bastard off him, the body gave enough that he slipped his leg free from under the bleeding mess. He almost lost his boot as he slid it out, but managed to keep his toes curled, and out came the boot, too.

  He staggered to his feet, then saw the door he’d come in was blocked by the dying man’s body. His head had slammed into the thing. There was no way Slocum was going to budge the brute. In the jostling he’d given the man in trying to free his leg, the dog had slid from atop the man and clunked to the floor.

  The smoke had cleared enough that Slocum knew the two men he’d shot were dead, saw no movement from either. But the dog and the hider who’d received the shotgun blasts were both still alive. The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth, and its eyelids twitched.

  The stink of hot blood steaming in the already fetid quarters almost made Slocum gag, but he had to end the dog’s suffering before he could bolt out the back door. “Sorry, chum. May your next run be a better one.” He shot the dog in the head with his Colt and the beast stilled. The man beneath still spasmed and a thin wheeze rose from him.