Slocum and the Teamster Lady Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Watch for

  Cry of Vengeance

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. A large man’s firm grip steadied her and a very authoritative voice said, “He’s gone, Missus. He’s gone.”

  A knot big as Luther’s fist refused to be swallowed in her throat. Gently she put his limp hand on his body below the arrows. Then, as if she was a little child, someone gripped her upper arms and lifted her to her feet. Tears burned her eyes like fire as she struggled up the loose incline to the wagon. Upon seeing an arrow embedded in the box, she broke it off with one hand and tried to squeeze the life out of it.

  “Damn you red devils. I’ll kill every one of you over this before I am through with you.” Then she fell forward against her arms braced on the side of the box and cried hard.

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  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AND THE TEAMSTER LADY

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY Jove edition / August 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

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  Prologue

  Under the fringed leather skirt, her cowboy boots churned through the heavy sand as she ran alongside of the wagon train toward the lead one. One of her teamsters was hurt up there. All at once, she lost her footing in the loose dirt and slid down the fill on the left side of her body. The fall hurt her hip, but her gun arm was still extended and ready. She swung the hat on the cord around her throat over her shoulder so it rested again atop her back. Down on her side, she looked underneath the belly of the close-by wagon for a possible shot at one of the Apache raiders. Nothing in sight.

  Cussing under her breath, Willa Malloy regained her footing and scrambled up the loose, steep fill. Them damn Apaches anyway. On the bank again, she moved past the front truck of the third wagon. Jeff Ackers stood at his spring seat, firing his rifle at something out in the chaparral.

  “You hit any damn thing with all those shots?” She talked more to his double team of mules, rather than him, so they didn’t kick her passing so close to the near one’s heels. Upset, they stomped around, but were wedged in by the tall mesquite vegetation and the wagon in front of them.

  “I got me one and a horse,” he said. Then the rawboned teamster spit tobacco over the dashboard and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  She turned back to be on her way and smiled to herself. “Keep shooting, Ackers, at anything that ain’t a haint.”

  “I will, little sister, I will.”

  At thirty, she didn’t feel like little sister anymore, but most of the men that worked for her still called her that. At five-feet-four, she was no towering giant, but she made up the shortage of her height in pure grit. Fast getting out of breath, she came by Warren McCollough’s rig.

  “McCullie, you all right?” She stopped beside his seat looking up for his face to appear.

  No answer. Scowling over his lack of showing, she scrambled up the wheel spokes and peered into the empty space ahead of the boxes of army freight and around the seat. He wasn’t there.

  Her boots on the ground again, she hurried to the first rig. McCullie poked his gray-bearded face over the side, looking upset at her. “It’s Luther. He’s got arrows in his chest.”

  Oh, dear Lord. She holstered her six-gun and climbed up in the rig to stare down at the man crumpled on the floor, sprawled half under the seat. Three feathered arrows stuck out of his chest, and the pained look on his fast-paling face told her lots that she didn’t want to even imagine. Luther Gray didn’t have long to live.

&n
bsp; Searching around at the dense chaparral cover, there were no signs of the raiders that she could detect. That didn’t mean they’d quit. That didn’t mean they’d gone home to play house with some squaw. More likely they were either resting or out palavering in a group about what to do next.

  “Some of you keep watch,” she shouted, loud enough they could hear her at some distant Apache rancheria up in the Dragoon Mountains. “Three or four of you come up here and help get Luther out.”

  “Sister,” Gray managed. “I plowed—a—bullet—in that damn—Whey.”

  “Take it easy.” Already on her knees beside him, she felt sick at the sight of the arrows that stuck out of him.

  “I believe—I got the sumbitch good.”

  “I sure hope you did.” She clasped his rough calloused hand in hers. For a moment she fought back tears. Her real intention was to kiss him and smoother him with her body. Not because she had any or ever had any relationship like that with Luther before. Just her way to try and comfort him in his last hours on this earth. But the crop of arrows kept her from doing little more than kissing him.

  Then she rose up on her knees, filled with a newfound hopelessness. “Hang on, Luther. Hang on, please.”

  Men were coming on the run through the tight confines of the thick brush and the narrow road. Soon, they gently lifted him out of the wagon bed, her scolding them the entire time to be careful with him. Then he was packed to an opening of the brush and laid upon a blanket on the ground.

  “Take off his boots—carefully,” she told them.

  His knee-high boots were removed. Luther’s deep cough, she knew, came from the blood flooding his lungs. And not a damn thing she could do to stop the bleeding or even a way to get him to a doctor. Even if one was available on the scene, he probably couldn’t save the man.

  His head propped up in her lap, she tried to smile down at him. “Why, Luther, you’ve won bigger battles than this.”

  “I fought at—some damn place during the war—hot as hell—hotter than Arizona ever even gets—I was shot there that day, too. But I promised my momma I’d come—”

  His speech grew more slurred and his efforts to get air harder. “I’d come home to her and—I did. But, sister, you know what?”

  “No, what, Luther?”

  “She died before I got back there.”

  His thick hard fingers in her grasp and pressed to her lips, she wanted to scream. She wanted to escape the entire day and say it never happened. Oh, dear God, please help him. Please, please—

  Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. A large man’s firm grip steadied her and a very authoritative voice said, “He’s gone, Miss. He’s gone.”

  A knot big as Luther’s fist refused to be swallowed in her throat. Gently she put his limp hand on his body below the arrows. Then, as if she was a little child, someone gripped her upper arms and lifted her to her feet. Tears burned her eyes like fire as she struggled up the loose incline to the wagon. Upon seeing an arrow embedded in the box, she broke it off with one hand and tried to squeeze the life out of it.

  “Damn you red devils. I’ll kill every one of you over this before I am through with you.” Then she fell forward against her arms braced on the side of the box and cried hard.

  1

  General George Crook stood in his office with his back to the wall map of New Mexico, Arizona, and Sonora. He had a stiff posture, shoulders squared, that set him apart from ordinary men even out of uniform, which he seldom wore. This morning was no exception. His eyes hooded by his brows, he looked across the parade grounds at something. Few details escaped the man’s eagle vision. The roof eave of the headquarters building kept him from looking at much of the mountain that rose to the south.

  “Well, Slocum, you and Tom Horn didn’t find out anything about the renegades in Sonora?”

  “I guess they’re having regular bowel movements,” Slocum said, and stretched his dusty boots and spurs out in front of himself seated in the captain’s chair.

  “Good. I was worried they’d become constipated from eating rats and piñon nuts down there.”

  “There’s only a handful of them left.”

  “How many?” Crook demanded.

  “Less than fifty.”

  “Do you know what fifty Chiricahua bucks can do? Why, they can make a swath through Arizona like a sickle mower of dead ranchers, prospectors, women, and children—enough to make the San Pedro River run red with blood.”

  “But you’ve got every spring and water hole between here and the border guarded by buffalo soldiers.”

  “It ain’t enough. Where are they at down there?”

  “Sierra Madres.”

  “Hell, that’s bigger than most Eastern states.”

  “I know. And I’ve seen most of those damn mountains over the past three months.”

  Crook used the flat of his hand to press down his hair from his forehead to the top of his scalp. “You don’t want any more of this scout service?”

  “A handful of Apache scouts is all right, but they can’t take on Geronimo or Whey or any of those others in that bunch with that few fighters.”

  “Who really leads them?”

  “You know you don’t lead Apaches. They go with who they think has the strongest medicine.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Geronimo.”

  “What about Whey?”

  “He’s the cruelest sumbitch down there. He’d kill you and then eat you to gain your strength.”

  Crook agreed with a stiff lip and a nod. “The slaughter last year of Lieutenant Kary and his patrol told me that he was insane.”

  The last cool breeze of the morning swept in the open double doors. Two troopers came inside, floured in trail dust. They quickly realized the general was there. Their spurs snapped sharply on their heels and they saluted him.

  “At ease. Lieutenant Cosby will be back in a moment.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “What in the hell brings you two up here? You’re with Hayes at Fort Huachuca, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Sergeant Manning. This is Corporal Green. Apaches attacked a freight train bringing us supplies two days ago and killed one of the teamsters. A man named Luther Gray.”

  “They get anything?”

  “No, sir, Mrs. Malloy is a tough gal. She even thinks Gray shot that chief called Whey.”

  “How sure?”

  “It was the last thing he said to them. ‘I think I got Whey good.’ ”

  Crook shot a hard glance at Slocum. “That would be a real blessing.”

  Slocum agreed, then sat up in his chair. “Was this Luther Gray a Southerner?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the corporal said. “I drank a few beers with him when he was down at the fort on other occasions.”

  “I’m certain he was one of my corporals in Virginia.”

  When Slocum finished, Manning went on. “All I know about this Whey is that he was supposed to be in Mexico. How in the hell did he get up here so quick?” Sergeant Manning searched their faces for the answer.

  “Let nothing surprise you about the Apaches.” Crook shook his head, then went back to pacing the floor. “They’re like smoke and travel on the wind.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir. The telegraph wire is down between here and Huachuca and Captain Hayes wanted to know if we should take up his tracks across the border.”

  Crook shook his head. “Don’t cross it. Those Mexicans don’t want us on their side yet.”

  “Captain Hayes hoped we could have your permission to pursue him.”

  “No, not yet.” Crook’s scowl would have melted a gold bar close by him.

  Manning accepted that answer with a nod. “Then we shall exchange our horses for fresh ones and immediately ride back down there. Captain’s waiting on the word from you.”

  “Get some chow first and then do that.” After saluting them, Crook looked at the ceiling for help. “The damn Signal Corps will look for days to find
where one of those damned Apaches tied the wires together with buckskin. How in the hell did those indigenous bastards ever figure that one out?”

  Slocum chuckled in his throat. “I have no idea, sir.”

  “Well, there is no talking you into staying in the service as a scout?”

  “I’m not doing you any good, or myself, down there.”

  “Tired of Spanish women?” Crook shot an amused look back at him.

  “I guess.” Slocum started to rise out of his chair.

  “I have a bigger need. You ride over for me and see what you can do for Captain Hayes about Whey. You know Whey. Maybe you can locate him if he was only wounded. If I am real lucky and he is dead, I’d be rid of half of the renegade leadership in Sonora, right?”

  “Exactly. I’ll go, but I may not stay. If it was a hoax, I’ll be going on.”

  “Fine. I like a good understanding. Let’s have some whiskey to seal our deal.”

  Slocum rose and went over to stand in front of the large polished desk. Some whiskey might go good at that moment. Nan Tan Lupan had outfoxed him again by not making him stay on longer to help him.

  Crook retrieved a half-full bottle from his desk drawer and two glass tumblers, then set them on the polished surface. He popped out the cork and one-handed, splashed the golden brown liquor in each glass. Then he set down the bottle. “Here’s to ending this war.”

  They clinked glasses and Slocum tossed down some of the smooth stuff. The sour mash cut the lacquer off his tongue and cleared his throat halfway to his balls. “Damn good stuff.”

  Crook nodded, looking again out the open doors at the empty parade ground. “Bring me back Whey’s left ear, Slocum.”

  “I’ll damn sure try, sir.”