Slocum and the High-Country Manhunt Read online

  They were not that old, still well preserved, and only partly filled in with blown snow. And they were two of a horse’s hooves and, between them, the tracks of a man’s boot. He dismounted and tied the horses off to a scrub pine. As he squatted to inspect the prints, his heart pounded harder. Could it be that he’d found Delbert’s tracks after weeks on the trail? There weren’t all that many people foolish enough to be out in these parts in midwinter. He squatted down and peeled off a glove.

  As he poked at the boot prints, he knew for certain they weren’t Whiskey Pete’s tracks. The old man had worn fur-wrapped moccasins, in keeping with his buckskin attire, and these tracks were made by a boot, flat heel, not too tall, decent for riding, and not the boots of a town dandy. He stood and placed his own boot gently over the one fully visible track. He’d been told that he and Delbert Calkins were roughly the same height and build, and this print supported that notion.

  Slocum bent low again and followed the tracks forward. The only reason they were visible at all was that he was now out of the incessant wind. Even the horses seemed to appreciate it and stood hip-shot, as if enjoying the warm winter sun without the ceaseless wind accompanying it.

  As he made his way on foot farther up the declivity, he was rewarded with more tracks where the wind hadn’t sluiced in and blown snow across them. “One set’s better than any others,” he said to himself. “Especially when that’s all you have, Slocum.”

  He made his way back to the horses and led them on foot up the small pass. The tracks, man and horse, were enough in evidence that he could guess where they were headed by looking ahead. Scanning the area, he chose the route he would have taken, and lo and behold, that’s where the tracks went. Pretty soon, though, the man’s tracks ceased and the horse’s tracks dented deeper into the crust. That meant Delbert had mounted up and Slocum decided to do the same. He still had about two hours of daylight left. He’d keep on going, find a decent spot to camp, and hope that any new snowfall didn’t cover what was turning out to be a fine gift of tracks.

  He trekked for longer than he’d anticipated, and by the time he made camp, he had accomplished three things: He’d lost sight of the track trail, though he had a pretty good idea it ran right by where he’d hunker for the night. He’d ended up with nearly no daylight in which to unsaddle the horses. And he’d also made it deep into the mountains, climbing steadier and growing colder. He could tell by the way they rose and fell far before him that the peaks he was now nestled among, big as they seemed, were but the foothills to the bigger looming peaks ahead.

  He also knew that there would soon be lowlands and valleys he would cross. Maybe he’d come across Pete’s band of Cree. They sounded to Slocum like a breakaway group. He’d heard of such high-mountain tribes, though only in passing. Some men said such isolated bands could be willing to tolerate strangers in their midst, jovial even, if the stranger had something worth trading for. Others said such tribes could be sullen, given to stripping a traveler bare of his goods, then setting him free to forage and die.

  He would do well, Slocum decided, to play it close to the vest and maintain a quiet presence while on their land. The last thing he needed was to mix it up with Indians. Any party of two outnumbered him by double. You toss in an entire tribe’s worth of braves and there’s no telling how poorly he’d fare in a square-off.

  By his reckoning, Slocum had been in Canada for more than a week, heading northwest the entire time. He had no doubt that his quarry knew someone was tracking him; otherwise the man would not have continued at such a foolhardy pace, and in such a foolhardy direction. Then again, reasoned Slocum, I am no less a fool for sticking with him all this way. So far he’d not been able to get within sight of the man, but that disappointment worked in his favor, too, as that meant Calkins hadn’t been able to see him, nor peel off a shot in his direction.

  It rankled Slocum that he had lost the man’s trail in the high country. That squall just as dark descended the night before had wiped out any sign he might have picked up. Despite that, he felt a renewed sense of hope. Tomorrow was a new day and he still felt strong. He’d suspected for some days that Delbert’s unexpected impressive strength of will had begun to flag.

  How he knew this, Slocum couldn’t say just yet, but it was there, an unspoken sign, something nibbling at the edges of the chase. Maybe the odd sound that might trail back to him on a stiff breeze, or with the tracks that day, perhaps it had been the slight lengthening of the man’s strides in the snow.

  Slocum crouched in the snow in a nearly cold camp, warming stiff hands over a fire big enough for melting snow to make coffee. He chose the spot at the base of a low jagged rock overhang so that he would not be ambushed from behind. As for the front, he’d sleep with one eye open. He told himself he was waiting for Calkins to rouse himself and begin his day.

  Wanting bacon, but not wanting to send any such aroma up on a breeze, even though the breeze was with him, Slocum denied the growling in his gut and waited for the coffee to bubble. He rubbed one hand over the other, gathering what heat he could as if scooping it from the very air. He rolled another quirley and his thoughts of food led him to once again to recall the odd series of events that led him to this foolhardy job.

  A smile spread over his face. “The things I do for women,” he said to his little campfire.

  He crouched over his small fire, sipped his coffee, and nibbled on a couple of hard biscuits and jerky, some dried fruit. But what he really wanted was more of a sign of that damned Delbert Calkins. The tracks from earlier had only served to whet his appetite. He itched for sight of the man, a confrontation.

  This elusiveness annoyed him, and given that he was still untold days behind the man, not seeming to gain on him was vexing. Slocum knew he wasn’t the world’s best tracker, though he was a fair hand at it when pressed, but the tracks of today didn’t seem to him to be much older than three or four days. Maybe he had gained a day on the man.

  With that hopeful thought on his mind, Slocum drifted off to a short, fitful night’s sleep. He had no way of knowing that it would be the last decent night’s sleep he’d get in a long time.

  The next day found him up and on the trail early, just as the rising sun glinted warmth onto the shadowed silver of the crusted slopes all around him. He began the day by leading the Appaloosa and packhorse, as much to get his own blood pumping as to give the Appaloosa a chance to stretch his own legs before Slocum climbed into the saddle.

  Up, then down, up, down—he’d no sooner crest another rise than he’d descend again in a switchback pattern. The steeper the hillsides grew, the more switchbacks he was forced to cut. Far below, on the last rise before the larger mountains rose up in jaw-dropping height before him, there lay a small vale.

  Along its bottom, a river coursed through as though black yarn had been drizzled along the floor of the valley. It looked to him to be a perfect spot to camp, and maybe Delbert thought the same thing—maybe there would be sign down along the half-frozen river. Especially given that the man probably didn’t know he was being followed. He might suspect something, but Slocum doubted Calkins knew for certain that he was on his trail.

  Though he’d seen a few border rivers that flowed south to north, given the rising height of the surrounding landscape, this one flowed in the expected north to south fashion, grinding along—even from this height thousands of feet above, he fancied he could hear it roiling and gnashing its way down through the high mountains.

  And that’s when the massive black shape emerged as if by magic from the snowed slope just a dozen yards below where they stood. A grizzly nosing out of its den—but in winter? What was the brute doing coming out of hibernation now? Had he disturbed it?

  But Slocum had no more time for speculation, because the Appaloosa caught sight of the bear, then seemed to transmit its instant fear, expressed in screaming, lunging up on its hind legs. It sent its fear through the lead line
right to the packhorse.

  Thus far the packhorse had proven to be a perfect trail horse, almost seeming to anticipate Slocum’s own moves and judgments, and did it all without complaint. Even the Appaloosa seemed downright scatterbrained in the packhorse’s presence.

  But all that changed when the big, angry grizz emerged from his den, chuffing and with ears flattened. It seemed he’d gone to bed in a bad mood and woken up—for whatever reason—in an even worse mood.

  The Appy lunged and twice nearly unseated Slocum before a third lunge combined with its back feet sliding downslope. Slocum knew what was about to happen, saw the shrubs and talus slope below rise up to meet him. He had a quick flash of memory of the burly Indian woman he’d shot, of her boot stuck in the stirrup, and he kicked free just as he landed hard on his right shoulder.

  He knew that the Appaloosa and so, the packhorse, might soon follow him downslope if they kept on in the same bewildered fashion they’d been acting, so he kept on rolling with it, and at the same time tried to claw a Colt free of its holster.

  The grizzly kept on emerging from its den and to Slocum it seemed the biggest he’d ever seen. When it finally swung its head around and caught sight of the mayhem happening just above it on the slope, the first thing it did was open its mouth wide and bellow.

  Those teeth looked like long, curved things a doctor might use to pry open a gut-shot man. It tore after him in a flash and almost immediately experienced the same thing his horse had—the grizzly’s back feet slid right out from under it. Slocum took the opportunity to gain his feet and back up as fast as he could, shucking both Colts and slipping free the leather thong he kept tied about the hilt of his Bowie knife when traveling.

  The bear seemed not to care about the two horses that were already well past the two of them and headed at a long slant downslope. Slocum wondered, if he lived through the encounter, if he would be able to track them down along the river below.

  But right now he had more pressing concerns—like how to outwit a grizzly dead-set on ripping his head off.

  “Whoa, bear! Whoa, bear!” he shouted, backing up and shaking his pistols before him in an effort to appear even half as menacing as the bear. It wasn’t working.

  Thankfully the bear was either still half-dazed from his hibernatory sleep or just having a plain old hard time keeping his footing on the slick sheen of crusted snow. But it was gaining on him. Slocum looked around—there was nowhere to go but down, and at the rate he needed to make it, the run would be a treacherous and foolhardy thing to do—and just what he decided he had to do. But only until he made it to that boulder knobbed halfway out of the slope a hundred yards down to the left. Could he make it there before the grizzly made it to him?

  Already the beast was closing the gap between them. Slocum saw its thick cinnamon-tinged coat ripple and swing. The bear had lost some weight sleeping but was still in fine shape, must have gone into its den fat and happy. Its nose twitched and worked left to right, up and down, like an animal with a mind of its own, the nostrils quivering and taking in every scent imaginable.

  Slocum knew his next move, even as he bolted downslope. He would shoot the thing. He hated to, not because it would bother him to kill the bear, but because he’d probably only end up pissing it off in good shape—the one thing you didn’t want when an angry grizzly was on your tail was a wounded angry grizzly. Things would go from bad to horrible in the time it took to squeeze a trigger.

  Maybe he would get the chance to empty his guns into the beast. He had made it halfway to the boulder, where he hoped he might be able to play cat-and-mouse with it, at least to keep it between them long enough for him to squeeze off shots straight into its mouth and eyes. He had no better plan than that. And if the thing landed on him, pawing and slashing, he always had the knife. The damn bear might well end up killing him, but he’d do his best to make it follow him shortly.

  He was less than twenty feet from the rock when he glanced over his shoulder and knew he wasn’t going to make it. The grizz was one stride away from him, its massive shoulder hunch wagging, front muscles bunching and rippling, and its claws lashing outward with each forward dive. It was covering twice the ground he was with every stride.

  Slocum kept on downslope and reached under his left arm with his right and squeezed off two shots. One lead pill must have found its furry mark because he heard a deeper throaty roar just behind his head. Then something pushed into him low in his back and sent him whipping forward right past that boulder, his last chance at slim survival.

  As his body slammed face-first downslope, he felt something inside give way. And then his head hit and a dazed sensation immediately flooded his senses, as if bells were gonging through his body though he couldn’t hear much else. Still he whipped forward, kept on rolling down the steep slide. He had a vague idea that if he could keep on rolling, he might be able to make it all the way down to the river, then float on out of there, away from the grizzly . . .

  But something was wrong. His head cleared, and the single worst stink he’d ever smelled clouded his senses. He cracked open an eye and at the same time his hearing partially came back. Blasting stink and raw, angry sounds at him, the grizzly was an inch from his face, its massive black-pink lips hanging like cutaway flesh, those teeth curving upward, every other one either broken off or jagged at the tip. They were brown at the base, turning to yellow in the middle, then a gleaming bone color wet with spittle, and the liver-colored tongue between thrashed like a flat serpent.

  Then lightning struck Slocum’s right leg and hot, blazing pain flowered up his side from just above his knee. At the same time, even more sound rushed in with the speed of an oncoming steam engine, and he came out of his daze fully, wishing to God he were somewhere else.

  Somehow in his tumble he had lost his Colts. The bear swung its head over him as if trying to hypnotize him with its ferocity. The massive beast’s hair-covered hide clouded out everything else—even air. Its reek was stifling, but Slocum’s least concern was how bad the air smelled. This thing was about to open him up like a kill-crazy drunkard with a skinning knife in one hand and an empty bottle in the other.

  Why hadn’t it lunged at him yet? It seemed more intent on threatening him, warning him, as if it were just angry but not willing to kill. Nah, he knew that was his mind lying to him. This beast was just working itself up to kill.

  Slocum’s hand scrabbled low—not like the bear was going to see what he was doing, straddling him as it was—and he prayed his Bowie knife was still with him—and it was. He felt the familiar handle with his benumbed hand; already the knife had worked itself halfway out of the sheath. Just in time. Slocum wrapped his fingers around it just as the bear leaned back as if to drive itself down at him. On the opposite side of his body as Slocum’s knife, the bear raised a head-size paw. Curved, daggerlike claws each as long as a man’s fingers were spread wide and arcing down at his face—now or never!

  Slocum held fast to the knife and swung his arm over and across himself, in his own wide arc, trying to beat the bear’s foreleg to the strike. He succeeded in ramming the blade, its keen edge slicing deep into the bear’s foreleg. The knife lodged in bone, but the bear’s quick reaction, coupled with a roar of agonized rage, nearly jerked the knife from Slocum’s grasp.

  He held firm and the bear slumped backward for the span of a few heartbeats, howling and roaring its rage, not comprehending what this thing was that dared bite back. And then it came onto him again and this time wasted no time in posturing above him, but lunged with its terrible mouth straight at him, sinking fangs into his left shoulder and pulling back with its mouth part-closed. It lifted Slocum with its head up off the blood-soaked snow.

  Hot agony such as he’d never felt flooded Slocum’s mind and body, and he nearly lost consciousness. Even with its mouth clamped over his shoulder, the beast’s bellowing roar was deafening. Slocum’s face was mashed into the bear’s
neck. He tried to grit his teeth, tasting the hair, feeling it crowding into his mouth and nose. The grizzly shook him, rattling every bone in his body, ripping into the meat of his shoulder more with each swing of its mighty head.

  Slocum felt wetness and numbness seep into his body from the wound, knew he would pass out soon if he didn’t make a stand. The knife, he remembered the knife, and with what he was sure was the last of his waning strength, mustered from the very soles of his boots, he screamed bloody murder into the bear’s ear and drove the knife into the bear’s dense hide over and over.

  The first few strikes didn’t seem to faze the brute, but Slocum kept on ramming the Bowie’s blood-slick blade into the gore-soaked fur, over and over. Finally the bear opened its mouth and dropped Slocum to the ground, where he thudded onto his back, dazed, weak, but with his dripping steel held aloft. The bear, bloody mouth wide open, roared and lunged at him again, backed off when it felt the blade hack at its snout, then seemed to give up caring altogether and drove its face once again at him.

  Just when it seemed as if it was about to close its bawling maw on Slocum’s face, the brute whipped its massive head skyward and roared louder than ever. Then Slocum heard it—gunshots from far off—and felt the impact of the bullets slamming into the grizzly’s hide. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare distract it from the obvious pain the bullets were causing.

  Over and over he heard the far-off shots, evenly spaced and well aimed, from the sight of the beast’s quivering reactions and howls of rage and pain. Soon, the bear’s steady roars dwindled to clipped growls, then became grunts, and all the while it swayed, looked drunk, confused, and angry all at once.

  Slocum’s vision was blurring and he felt his strength waning. Would he expire along with the bear? Had he lost that much blood? Surely the bear had. And who had done the shooting? Sounded like a Sharps buffalo gun . . .