Slocum and the Yellowstone Scoundrel Read online

  He started to yell to the photographer to get down, then saw he was too late.

  “Here, look this way!” Jackson called to a band of three Crow. These weren’t hunters. They had war paint smeared on their faces, bodies, and horses.

  Slocum didn’t bother trying to stop Jackson. Let him rob the Indians of their souls, if the camera had that power. The photographer took the picture. For a moment the three mounted Crow warriors simply stared. Then they exchanged looks of pure horror. One wheeled his pony about and raced back to his camp at the other side of the draw, shrieking in fear.

  The remaining two lifted war lances and charged at Jackson. The photographer thought it was all part of the show. The Blackfoot had doubtlessly told him this had been arranged.

  Slocum whipped out the Henry rifle from its saddle sheath and began firing. The range was too great for accuracy, but he got lucky. One slug hit the lead Crow’s horse and caused it to stumble in front of the other, sending them both down in a heap.

  “Marvelous,” Jackson said, snapping another photo and working furiously to reload his camera.

  Slocum galloped ahead. His aim was a little better now, but firing from horseback at a full charge prevented much in the way of marksmanship. He emptied his rifle’s magazine and kept the Crow from mounting a new attack on Jackson. Then Slocum was close enough to draw his Colt and fire.

  He fired his first round at less than ten feet from the leading Crow. The slug caught the man just under the chin, snapped his head back, and sent him to the ground, dead before he hit. The other warrior brought his lance around and heaved it. Slocum threw up his left arm to deflect it. He winced as the tip cut into his forearm. But the deadly thrust missed him.

  He galloped past the Indian, wheeled about as hard as he could, and fired the rest of his rounds into the brave’s back as he rushed for the unarmed Jackson.

  The photographer took another picture, then moved from behind the camera to stare down at the dead body at his feet. He looked up at Slocum.

  “You shot him. He’s dead. The other is, too!”

  “Get your horse. We don’t have but a minute or two before the whole damned Crow nation is on our necks.”

  “But they were only posing. This was like a play for me to photograph.”

  “The Blackfoot lied to you. They wanted you to steal their enemies’ souls and didn’t care if the Crow killed you or not.”

  “This is ridiculous, sir. I—”

  Slocum fought to reload his Colt while his horse tried to rear. There wasn’t time to stuff fifteen rounds into the Henry. A desperate look over his shoulder told him that they had only minutes before the Crow came after them in a wave that could never be successfully repelled.

  “Mount up or die right here.”

  “My plates.”

  “To hell with them. Do they mean more than your scalp?”

  “Yes!” Jackson grabbed the wooden case and awkwardly carried it to his horse. “What about my camera?”

  “Either ride or die where you stand,” Slocum said. He got off a couple shots intended to slow the attacking Crow. He might as well have spit at them. They were fired with righteous anger, and nothing would slow them short of a mountain howitzer.

  Even that powerful piece of artillery might not be enough. The Crow were mad.

  Slocum bent low and scooped up a rifle dropped by one of the dead Crow braves. He twisted about and fired until it came up empty, which was far too soon. There had been only four rounds in the magazine. He cast the rifle aside and put his head down. Heels raking the flanks of his horse, he rocketed away. To his relief he saw that Jackson had mounted and rode like the wind. Somehow, the man held on to his photographic plate case as his horse built speed to a full gallop.

  “We can’t keep this up long,” Slocum said. “Our horses will die under us if we do.”

  “It’s miles back to the Blackfoot camp.”

  Slocum knew that. He also knew that Marlene was still being held prisoner. She might have lied her way out of being punished for her guard’s departure—but she would be tortured if they happened to find the man in the shallow grave with his throat slashed.

  “Down there, into the gully,” Slocum said. He slowed and let his horse pick its way down the crumbling embankment.

  “Why? We’ll be trapped there. No way to run if they get around us.”

  Slocum knew the Crow might reach the bank and fire down on them. The high dirt walls afforded some protection, though. As he hurried along the graveled gully bottom, he took a deep sniff.

  “Sulfur. There must be a mud pit or geyser somewhere near.”

  “What good will that do us?” Jackson fought to keep from dropping the wooden case.

  “Anything that slows the Crow down is good for us.” Slocum saw the gully wall on the far side slowly turn into open plains. Not a mile off bubbled one of the mud pits. This one had a steady spewing fountain of steam rising from it.

  “If we get to the other side, we’ll be hidden,” Jackson said. “An excellent idea, sir.”

  Slocum didn’t bother telling Jackson that the Crow wouldn’t be put off the trail that easily. But if they had a curtain of steam between them and the pursuing Indians, that made an accurate rifle shot that much more difficult and increased their chances of staying alive to see another sunrise.

  He just wasn’t sure what those chances really meant in the long run.

  His horse had begun to tire when they reached the muddy bank of the fumarole. The mare tried to rear when a new plume of steam hissed skyward. Through the curtain of white fog Slocum saw that the Crow were narrowing the distance between them.

  “That way,” he said. “Go straight away from the geyser. Keep it at your back.”

  It would delay the Crow another precious minute or two. That was all Slocum could hope for. Delay. But the eventual resolution crushed in on them like the jaws of a closing vise.

  The Crow circled the geyser and thundered down on them, not even bothering to shoot now. They had their war lances out. They might count coup first, then use those wicked spears. Or they might simply get close enough to skewer Slocum and Jackson.

  The tactics didn’t matter. The result would be the same either way.

  Slocum drew his Colt and prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible.

  12

  “We’re going to die,” cried Jackson. His horse stumbled from exhaustion. “What can we do?”

  “Go down fighting,” Slocum said. He tossed Jackson the rifle. “Load that.” He rummaged through his saddlebags and found a box of cartridges. He didn’t bother to see if Jackson knew how to do this simple chore. The Colt in his hand commanded his full attention.

  Slocum dismounted and steadied his six-shooter as the lead Crow warrior whooped and hollered, waving his war lance. With a steady pressure, he pulled back on the trigger. The six-gun bucked with familiar force. And Slocum felt the shot was good. He had developed a sense knowing when he had made a good shot and when he hadn’t. This felt like an on-target shot.

  He waited to see if the Crow reacted. The shot felt good, but the Indian rode on, as if nothing had happened. When the warrior raced past, slashing with his lance, Slocum saw the tiny red spot on the man’s war-painted chest. He had been hit but was so fired up, he didn’t even feel it.

  As the Indian raced past, Slocum turned and fired again. This time the Crow knew he had been hit. The bullet struck him in the middle of the back. From the way he flopped off his horse, Slocum had shattered the warrior’s spine. But he had no time to appreciate the second shot. Two more braves rushed at him.

  He emptied his six-shooter and missed with the remaining shots. He readied himself to grab for a lance and maybe pull the warrior off his horse. The crack of a rifle from behind saved him the need to deal with the nearest warrior. The Crow grabbed his head and fell from horseback. J
ackson had not only reloaded but had found the range. He might not be a crack marksman, but his target was close enough that he didn’t have to be.

  The third Crow hunkered down, a tomahawk swinging in vicious arcs as he rode down on Slocum. Only quick reflexes and a bit of luck saved him from having the sharp-edged weapon take off the top of his head. Then the warrior galloped past. Jackson fired several times, missing with every shot.

  Slocum considered taking the rifle from the photographer, then decided reloading his six-shooter was a better move. Let Jackson do what he could with the weapon.

  “There must be a dozen more coming after us,” Jackson said. He waved the rifle in the direction of the war party.

  “Watch the one that got past us. He’ll be coming back anytime now.” Slocum tried to find where the Crow with the tomahawk had gotten off to, but he was nowhere to be found. He would have worried about that but the approaching war party took his full attention.

  He saw his death coming at him as hard and fast as their horses could be ridden.

  More rifle reports sounded. Slocum thought something was wrong—or different. He turned to Jackson and found himself puzzled. The photographer struggled with a round that had hung in the breach.

  “Who’s shooting?”

  “Not me,” Jackson said. “I can’t pry out the punk round.”

  Reports from rifles mingled with those from six-shooters. Then the source rode into view. A Blackfoot war party had ambushed the Crow. Whether this had been part of the plan from the beginning or was simply a bit of lagniappe didn’t matter now. The Blackfoot attacked the Crow and saved Slocum and Jackson from immediate death.

  Slocum knew this would be a short-lived victory for the two white men since the Blackfoot had no reason to keep them alive.

  “Slocum!” Jackson thrust the rifle in the direction of a mortal fight not twenty feet away. The Blackfoot chief fought with a Crow warrior—and was slowly losing.

  The Crow was stronger and younger. He forced his opponent back, then hooked his leg and sent the Blackfoot tumbling helplessly to the ground.

  “Let me have that!” Slocum grabbed the rifle from Jackson’s numbed fingers.

  “The cartridge is still jammed!”

  Slocum didn’t intend to use the rifle to shoot the Crow. Swinging the rifle over his head, he ran forward. The metal barrel smashed into the Crow’s wrist, knocking the knife from his hand. Slocum recovered his balance and swung back. This time the barrel caught the brave just above his right eyebrow. The Crow’s head snapped back, and he stumbled a pace.

  The Blackfoot chief surged to his feet. With the speed of lightning, he had out his knife—and used it to devastating effect. The Crow grinned from a second mouth, his throat cut ear to ear. The Blackfoot stepped away, stared at Slocum. There wasn’t any emotion in his gaze. No gratitude, no fear, no hatred, nothing. With a loud war whoop, he whirled around and ran off to engage other Crow fighters.

  Slocum wasn’t sure if that was good. He returned to where Jackson stood, mouth agape.

  “You hit him.”

  “Knocked the jammed round out.” Slocum tossed the rifle back. The photographer caught it awkwardly, stared into the breach, and then smiled crookedly.

  “I didn’t know that was how you got a stuck cartridge out.” He laughed. He kept laughing until he was close to hysterical.

  By the time Jackson had himself under control, the battle had ended with the Crow in full retreat.

  “You be sure to tell the chief you stole many Crow souls,” Slocum said. “That’s about the only way we’re going to keep our scalps.”

  “What of Marlene?”

  “She was safe in the Blackfoot camp last I saw.”

  “You were in the camp with her?”

  Slocum silenced the photographer with a cold glare when the Blackfoot chief strutted over, his chest thrust out and a Crow scalp in his hand. He stopped in front of Slocum and stared at him with his unfathomable expression, then held out the scalp for Slocum to take. When Slocum took the scalp and shook it high above his head while he let out a whoop of joy, the Blackfoot’s expression changed. He grinned.

  “How barbaric,” Jackson muttered. Slocum ignored the man.

  Against all odds, they had prevailed. He swung the bloody scalp around to be sure all the gathered Blackfoot braves saw the trophy. Then he tucked it under his gun belt.

  “My noble companion has also stolen souls from the Crow. He has taken pictures!” Slocum wondered if anyone knew enough to translate for the ones who didn’t speak English.

  A low murmur passed through the assembled warriors, then a new shout went up.

  “You’re a hero, too,” Slocum told Jackson, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Try to look heroic.”

  Jackson hesitated, then walked about with his thumbs tucked into the armholes of his vest, head back, chin thrusting upward and hips well forward as if he led a Fourth of July parade.

  “We need to get back to the Blackfoot camp and get Marlene out,” Slocum said.

  “If they’ve harmed her—”

  “They wouldn’t,” Slocum said with more confidence than he felt. So many things could have gone wrong with his scheme. Returning her to captivity had been the only way he had seen that might work. Now that he and Jackson were considered great Crow killers, they might rescue her. If the dead brave had been found, her captivity might have ended abruptly.

  Together, riding side by side on their way back to the Blackfoot settlement, Slocum and Jackson spoke in guarded tones.

  “It’s best if I claim her as my squaw,” Slocum said.

  “She would never abide by that!”

  “Whoever lays claim to her will have to fight for her. If a brave has taken a fancy to her, he might already have her in his tepee.”

  “They wouldn’t. I won’t allow it! I’ll claim she is mine. That will settle the issue.”

  “The only way of getting property back is to fight to the death. But don’t get all hot under the collar. Not yet. It’s possible she hasn’t been claimed by any of them. They’ve been busy making mischief with the Crow.”

  Slocum wondered if the man he had killed might have taken her as his squaw, only to get his throat slit before claiming his husbandly due. With the Crow raid so soon, even if they had found the body, the Blackfoot might not have cared about a solitary white woman. With even more luck, the Indians might think the dead warrior had been killed by a Crow scout.

  As they rode into the encampment, women and children came out. A few older men came out. Those who might otherwise have been out with the war party hobbled or waved stumps about, showing their debilities. Slocum glanced at Jackson, who grinned foolishly. He was basking in the adoration of so many people, even if he thought of them as barbarians.

  To these barbarians he was a conquering hero.

  “We have to endure a feast,” Slocum said. “This might take days.”

  “Marlene is our first priority.”

  “We go along with whatever plans they have. There’s no way to sneak away from them and not have a couple dozen warriors come after us.”

  “They are rather savage fellows,” Jackson said. “There isn’t any likelihood the expedition could fight them off.”

  “We have to leave with the Blackfoot’s good wishes. We need to warn Hayden that the Crow are on the warpath, too.”

  “We are heading north, away from the other camp. Will that be to our benefit?”

  “Likely, it will,” Slocum said. Having the Blackfoot between the mapping expedition and the Crow kept the peace in ways he didn’t want to think about. The Crow would care less about a white man’s wagon train and more about another tribe intent on killing them. Only if the crow needed the livestock from the expedition would they attack.

  Slocum and Jackson were buffeted about when they dismounted. Every I
ndian in camp wanted to touch them, to share in their glory. Slocum took it stolidly, but Jackson seemed to enjoy the attention. When the chief took Jackson aside, Slocum saw the opportunity to slip away and find Marlene. She sat disconsolately in the center of the tent where he had left her. As he pushed through the flap, she looked up. Hope flared, then faded.

  “What are they celebrating? They captured you, didn’t they? They know what you did to the guard.”

  “Hush,” Slocum said. Few of the Blackfoot spoke English, but he didn’t want to risk having one of them overhear. “I don’t know if it would be smart for you to come join the feast.”

  “I won’t do any such thing. You are a terrible man.”

  Slocum wasn’t inclined to argue the point with her. He was a terrible man and had done terrible things, many of them within the past few hours.

  “I’m still your only way out of here safely,” he said.

  “I’d rather die.”

  “There are things the Blackfoot can do to you that will make you cry for death,” Slocum said. “You don’t want to find out what they are. Now follow me, stay three paces behind, and keep your head down. Don’t say a word unless Jackson or I speak to you.”

  “William! He’s in camp! Take me to him immediately.”

  “Only if you do as I told you.”

  “You’re a horrid man, John Slocum.”

  He wasn’t going to deny that. Right now, he just wanted to get out of the Indian camp with his scalp.

  Not even realizing he’d put that thought into action, he touched the Crow scalp he had tucked into his gun belt. Marlene saw the motion, stared for a second, then realized what it was. She turned pale and almost lost her balance in a faint. Slocum caught her, aware of how natural it seemed for him to have his arm around her waist, her body pulled close. She didn’t even struggle as he held her until color returned to her cheeks.

  “What else are you capable of doing?” she said in a choked voice. Marlene pointedly looked away from the bloody scalp.