Slocum Along Rotten Row Read online

  The long tongues of flame leaping toward him and the hiss of hot lead past the brim of his hat were simultaneous. He was almost close enough to smell the outlaw’s breath. Slocum kept low, raising his six-shooter only when he had a chance at a shot. He hit the outlaw’s horse. From the way it reared and then stumbled, it wasn’t a fatal shot but it would slow the rustler down if he tried to run.

  He did.

  Slocum fired as he rode after the man on the wounded horse, then his six-shooter came up empty. He tucked it away and got his rifle from the saddle sheath, but by the time he got it cocked and to his shoulder, his target had evaporated. Using his knees, Slocum steered his gelding from side to side in the arroyo but saw nothing of where the rustler had gone. Rather than ride into an ambush, Slocum drew rein and listened hard. No sounds reached his ears except the frightened noise from the cattle behind him.

  Reluctantly, Slocum wheeled about and returned to find Lonigan and Kennard busily shooing the small herd out of the arroyo.

  “You saved the Circle Bar K a pile of money, Slocum. They woulda made off with ten head,” Kennard said. “I’ll see that the boss gives you a little extra for this. Maybe a cow of your own.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said. “You need a hand getting the cows back to the main herd?”

  “Me and Lonigan can do it but—”

  Slocum worked to reload his six-gun.

  “You’re coming with us, ain’t you, Slocum?”

  “Long Drink, there are four outlaws out there. They lit out to every direction of the compass, but one of them’s on a wounded horse.”

  “You’re not going to track him, Slocum. Not in the dark!” Kennard sounded downright frightened at the prospect.

  “Might be I want a second steer. That’d be almost a herd, wouldn’t it? Two beeves?”

  “Look, Slocum, you don’t have to.”

  “There might be a reward,” Lonigan said, sucking on his teeth. His head bobbed as he thought on it a little more. “Rustlers this bold might have big rewards on their heads. You ever work as a bounty hunter, Slocum?”

  “Hate the sons of bitches,” Slocum said. “Almost as much as I hate cattle thieves.”

  “What are you going to do if you catch him?” Kennard asked.

  Slocum hadn’t thought much on this since there hadn’t been much time to reflect on the future.

  “Take him to Fort Huachuca, I reckon. Can’t believe the Army likes rustlers.”

  “That’s what I’m gettin’ at, Slocum. You take him there and the Army’d let him go. The boss and them’s not on good terms,” Kennard said.

  “That’s right. The boss said they tried to cheat him on a deal. Circle Bar K was sellin’ cattle to them, mostly them what just upped and fell down, but the quartermaster didn’t much care. Then a new one came in and refused to pay for what they’d already done et.”

  “Shut up, Long Drink,” Kennard said, irritated. “What I’m sayin’, Slocum, is that there’s no point riskin’ your life for nothing.”

  “Might be I’d just string him up.”

  Kennard laughed harshly. “You’d have to take him into the mountains to find a limb strong enough or a tree tall enough.”

  “This’ll be a bridge I’ll cross when I get to it, then,” Slocum said.

  “You want me to ride along? You know. Just in case? To keep you company?”

  “No thanks, Lonigan. I can deal with rustlers on my own.”

  “Don’t go, Slocum. I can’t be responsible if you get yourself shot up.”

  “Nobody but me’s responsible for what I do. And don’t think I’m likely to be the one getting shot.”

  “You might not have a job waiting if you go traipsin’ off like this. It’s against ranch policy to take the law into our own hands.”

  Slocum looked hard at Kennard, then laughed.

  “In Arizona Territory? The nearest marshal is over in Tombstone, ’less you call that no-account drunk in Benson a lawman.”

  “Stay, Slocum. Please.”

  Slocum wondered what Kennard’s problem was, unless he was part of the gang. Or maybe he just had a yellow streak a mile wide, and it hadn’t showed up before now.

  “I’ll be back when I finish tracking down the rustlers. Keep that cow you promised as a reward well fed, will you, Lonigan?”

  “Kin I have it if you don’t come back?”

  Slocum laughed at that as he rode off. Lonigan and Kennard started arguing and that was the last he heard of them as he descended back into the arroyo and began his hunt for the rustler’s trail.

  He found it just before dawn.

  2

  The blood trail grew larger until Slocum knew the rustler’s horse couldn’t go on much longer. By noon he topped a rise and squinted through the desert’s heat shimmer to see a man slogging along with a saddle on his shoulder and a rifle in his other hand. It didn’t take Slocum much to fit everything together. The horse had finally died, leaving the outlaw on foot.

  Slocum drew his Winchester and levered in a round. The metallic click as it cocked and slid a new round into the chamber carried farther than he would have liked. The rustler dropped his saddle and whirled around, bringing his own rifle to his shoulder. He got off a round before Slocum could fire.

  The range was too great for an accurate shot. Slocum didn’t waste any lead firing back. He put his heels to his horse’s flanks and trotted forward, keeping his rifle ready for use the instant he came into range.

  “Give up,” he shouted. “You’re on foot, and I’m not going to quit tracking you!”

  “Go to hell!” The outlaw fired several more times and then ran. Slocum wasn’t sure where the rustler could go, but since he wasn’t being shot at, it was time to gallop. He reached where the rustler had dropped his saddle and quickly found the man’s trail.

  The rustler headed for a hill, intending to use the attitude to get a better shot at Slocum. He never got the chance. Several quick rounds from Slocum’s rifle caused the man to pull up short. He turned and raised his hands. Slocum drew rein a dozen paces away. There was nowhere left to run, and Slocum had the drop on him.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  “Lose your rifle!” Slocum warily waited for the man to comply. He bent and gently placed the rifle on the ground, but when he stood, he had a derringer in his fist. He fired both barrels, but Slocum bent low and the slugs missed. “That was a damned fool thing to do. Any reason I shouldn’t just leave your corpse for the buzzards?”

  “I ain’t done nuthin’!”

  “You’re a murderous cattle-stealing son of a bitch,” Slocum said.

  “I never did no such thing!”

  Slocum stood in his stirrups and got a better idea where he had ridden while following the man’s trail.

  “The fort’s not five miles that way,” Slocum said, pointing with his rifle. “Start walking.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You were making good time carrying your saddle. Think how much faster you can walk with it slung over your shoulder—and knowing I’ll put a bullet in your damned heart if you don’t step lively.”

  “You got the wrong man. I didn’t steal no Circle Bar K cows.”

  This cinched it for Slocum. He had the right man, as if there could be any question. During the fight in the arroyo he had shot the man’s horse. The trail of blood led straight here, though he hadn’t seen where the horse finally died.

  “Walk. Fast. I want to get to the fort before sundown so I can get me some chow.”

  Slocum said nothing in reply to the man’s protests the entire distance to Fort Huachuca. He hoped the man would stop his yammering when the fort was in sight, but if anything this caused an even more impassioned plea to be let go.

  “You have a reward on your head?” Slocum asked. “Is that why you don’t want to be turned over to the Army?”

  “I ain’t done nuthin’,” the man said.

  “Only steal ten head of cattle. Might have been twelve, but a couple were missing from your little herd.”

  Slocum shut his ears to the new outpouring of alternately threatening and begging for mercy. He wanted nothing of what the man had to offer.

  “Hello!” Slocum called when he got within hailing distance of the fort. Like many Arizona forts, the walls were adobe and only waist-high to keep in the livestock. The sentries provided the first line of defense, although a couple Apaches could slit their throats and be inside the fort walls, if they were so inclined, before anyone knew it.

  Slocum guessed that the Apaches weren’t much of a threat at the moment since the guards responded slowly, and when they did, they weren’t overly alert to the situation.

  “You two wantin’ into the fort?” A youngster, hardly shaving from the look of his face, came through the opened gate, his rifle resting on his right shoulder. Slocum could have cut him down before the soldier knew there was trouble.

  “Got a rustler to turn over to your commander,” Slocum said.

  “I ain’t—”

  “Shut up,” Slocum ordered. He kicked his prisoner and sent him sprawling. “Get the officer of the watch so I can turn this owlhoot over to him.”

  “A rustler? Reckon I can do that. He don’t look like a rustler.”

  “What’s a rustler supposed to look like?” Slocum had to ask.

  “Well, he ought to have cows all around him and—”

  “What’s going on?” A lieutenant marched up and stared at the outlaw, then at Slocum. “You have a reason for pointing your rifle at this man?”

  Slocum explained the situation.

  “Very well, sir,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll deal with this. Major Tompkins will want to speak with you. You’re looking mighty tired. You can get some water and a plate of beans in the mess.”

/>   “Much obliged. You see that this owlhoot gets locked up in the stockade?” Slocum stared straight at the young soldier when he spoke. The youngster jumped to obey, only to be called on it by his lieutenant.

  “You obey me, Private, not a civilian.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Get the prisoner to the stockade.” The lieutenant shot Slocum an angry look, pivoted, and marched off. Slocum followed to the base commander’s office. The lieutenant hadn’t waited for him. Slocum didn’t bother knocking as he went in. The lieutenant was in earnest conversation with a man who looked old enough to have been a general. At one time, during the war, he might have been. His option to being reduced in rank was to be mustered out. The look of a career officer was hard to erase, no matter the rank.

  “So you brought in a rustler, eh?”

  “I did, Major,” Slocum said.

  “Whose cattle?”

  Slocum hesitated. The way the major asked put him on guard.

  “Circle Bar K cattle. Ten head for sure and maybe two more. Him and three others rustled the beeves last night, but his partners got away.”

  “So you tracked him down?”

  Slocum said nothing.

  “Is Leonard Conway still the owner of Circle Bar K?”

  “He’s the one who pays me fifty cents a day and chuck,” Slocum said.

  “Quite the cheapskate, old Conway,” the officer said. “Why don’t you get on over to the mess and get yourself some decent cavalry food? Then you can be on your way.”

  Slocum thanked the officer and had no trouble finding the mess. The only things on the post that stank worse were the latrines. The food matched the smell, and Slocum had a bellyache when he finished, but he decided it was what he had needed. It had been a long spell since he had eaten.

  He went out onto the steps to build himself a smoke. The young guard came marching by. Slocum called out to him.

  “You get the rustler locked up all good and proper?”

  The private looked at him and frowned. Then he brightened.

  “You been gettin’ some chow. That’s why you didn’t hear, I reckon.”

  Slocum stopped rolling his cigarette and stood.

  “What haven’t I heard?”

  “The major let that fellow go. No evidence, he said.”

  “He let him go because they were Circle Bar K cattle being stolen,” Slocum said angrily. After the second step toward the major’s office, he stopped and wheeled about on the private.

  “Is he still on the post? The rustler?”

  “Oh, no, he’s done gone. Bought hisse’f a swayback mule fer next to nuthin’ and lit out when the major told him he was free to go.”

  Arguing with the cavalry officers accomplished nothing. Slocum got to his horse, mounted, and headed out. It was twilight, but the stars were as bright as a cloudy day, allowing him to pick up the mule’s tracks easily.

  The man was making a beeline for the border. Once he had figured this out, Slocum rode faster. A broke-down mule was no match for the speed of the gelding. Slocum spotted the outlaw within fifteen minutes of leaving Fort Huachuca.

  Within twenty he had the rustler at gunpoint again.

  “I should have listened to my foreman,” Slocum said. “He told me the soldiers wouldn’t hold you.”

  “There’s no evidence,” the rustler said. “You better let me go. If Major Tompkins finds you, he’ll have you in stocks for this. I’m a law-abidin’ citizen!”

  “The only law you know comes out the end of a gun,” Slocum said, sighting in.

  “Wait, no, wait! I did it. Don’t kill me. I confess!”

  “I know you did it. You knew whose cattle had been stolen without me telling you. There are a half-dozen other spreads in the area but you knew Circle Bar K head had been rustled because you did it.”

  “Let me go and I kin pay you. Ain’t got much left. A few dollars.”

  “You can tell it to a judge,” Slocum said. He lashed the man’s hands behind him and turned toward the northeast. If the cavalry wanted nothing to do with a cattle thief, maybe the law in Tombstone would.

  It took three days to get to the edge of the dusty boomtown.

  “I’m telling you, you’ll be sorry if you don’t let me go.”

  Slocum looked at his prisoner and considered doing just what he asked. Only Slocum would add a bullet to the part about letting him go. He had grown increasingly aware of how much of a snake the rustler was. He hadn’t bothered asking his name since he didn’t want to know. Even if there was a reward on the man’s head, Slocum wasn’t inclined to collect it. He was doing everyone in Arizona Territory a favor by seeing the outlaw locked away in the Yuma Penitentiary for a good, long time.

  “Let me have a drink. Just one. Tombstone’s got more damn saloons than any other town between San Francisco and Kansas City. If they’re gonna lock me up and throw away the key, you owe me that much.”

  Slocum saw the man’s conjecture about the number of watering holes might be right. Along Fremont Street he saw that about every other business was a saloon. He turned down Fifth and passed Allen. If there had been dozens of saloons along Fremont, there were even more here. Finding the jail wouldn’t be all that hard since it would one of the few buildings that didn’t have a saloon in it.

  As soon as he heard the cell door clank behind the outlaw, he would wet his whistle. It had been a dry, long four days. It would take him another couple days to get back to the roundup to find if Kennard had a job waiting for him or had fired him as he had hinted.

  It didn’t matter. Slocum would collect his wages and move on if the job at the Circle Bar K Ranch was over. He seldom stayed anywhere as long as he had in Arizona. With summer coming down the tracks like a runaway locomotive, the Front Range up in Colorado might be a better place to spend the summer. Or Wyoming. There were plenty of ranches there. One of them had to be in need of his services as a cowboy.

  “There, by the courthouse,” Slocum said. He yanked on the rope he had fastened around the man’s neck. The rustler fell hard to the ground. Slocum waited for him to get to his feet. “Good thing your mule wasn’t ten hands tall.”

  “You son of a bitch,” the rustler spat out. Then he choked as Slocum pulled him along. Slocum kicked open the door and shoved his prisoner in. The deputy behind the desk reached for a sawed-off shotgun on the desk in front of him.

  “What’s goin’ on?” the lawman demanded.

  Slocum explained. The deputy scowled, then picked up the shotgun and poked it into the rustler’s ribs.

  “You git on in there while I find the marshal and see what needs doing.”

  “What needs doing is to get him in front of a judge and jury for cattle rustling.”

  “The Circle Bar K is a mite out of local jurisdiction,” the deputy said, pronouncing the word as if he had just learned it. From his look, he was a failed silver miner. He had a gimpy leg and had probably been injured in a mining accident. Waving around a shotgun as town deputy was probably the best job he could get if he wasn’t picking away at the silver chloride ore underground.

  “The Army down Fort Huachuca way don’t want to be bothered—”

  “For a reason. They know I’m innocent!”

  The deputy kicked the door between the office and the cell block shut with his heel.

  “I’ll let Marshal Sosa know. You be in town for a spell?”

  “Long as it takes me to get a drink.”

  “The Crystal Palace is a right classy place,” the deputy said, longing in his voice. “Truth is, ’bout any of the gin mills can serve you a decent beer and a sandwich. Competition is brisk.” He spoke the latter words with precision, as if repeating what he had heard someone else say. Slocum doubted the deputy had ever experienced an original thought in his life.

  Slocum walked out in the gathering heat of the day and went up to Allen Street to choose. He could have tried the Crystal Palace but Saloon Nineteen was closer. He went in, ordered a beer along with a beef sandwich, and was working on his second beer when the deputy came in, his gimpy leg dragging a little.