Slocum and the Killers Page 2

  “Ned’s been killed, too,” Charlie said.

  Slowly, Slocum laid down the lifeless head. Slowly, he stood up. He took a deep breath. “We’d best bury them,” he said.

  “Right now?” said Charlie. “Here?”

  “You got a better idea?” Slocum asked.

  “I’ll ride back to camp and fetch the shovels,” said Charlie. He mounted up and headed back for the camp.

  “We could round up that herd in the morning,” said Billy Pierce.

  “You do what you want to do,” Slocum said.

  “You mean you ain’t going after the herd?” asked Billy.

  “It ain’t mine,” said Slocum. “It was Trent’s.”

  “Well, what’re you going to do, Slocum?” Old Jan asked.

  “I’m going after the killers,” Slocum said, “and I mean to get them.”

  “They’re likely horse thieves,” said Old Jan.

  “I don’t think so,” Slocum said, “but come daylight, we’ll check the signs. Trent was still alive when I found him. Barely. He said something that sounded like ‘sloo.’ Said it twice. ‘Sloo, sloo.’ That mean anything to any of you?”

  “Sloo?” said Billy. “I don’t think so.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Old Jan. “There was a murder trial a while back. Trent was a witness. The only eyewitness. He testified at the trial and got the killer sentenced to hang. Man’s name was Sluice Godfrey.”

  “Sluice,” said Slocum. “Could be.”

  Charlie came riding back with shovels, and he and Billy started digging. The whinny of a horse sounded from somewhere across the way.

  “You hear that?” said Old Jan.

  “Yeah,” said Slocum.

  “It sounded to me like a hurt horse,” said Old Jan.

  Slocum moved to his Appaloosa and swung into the saddle. “Let’s find it,” he said.

  They rolled across the flat to the base of the hill. They heard it again. They sat still, looking around. The horse neighed yet again. It sounded like a call for help.

  “Up the hill,” said Old Jan. “There.”

  They rode up to the hurt horse and found a man pinned underneath it. The man saw the two riders.

  “Help me,” he whined.

  “Your buddies ride off and leave you?” Slocum asked.

  “Yeah. The dirty shits,” said Ham.

  “Who are they?” Slocum demanded.

  “Get this horse off me,” said Ham. “I’m hurt. I think my leg’s broke.”

  “If you don’t tell me your name,” said Slocum, “and the names of your pards, you’ll just stay there. I will put your horse out of its misery, though.”

  Slocum pulled out his Colt and fired, and the hurt horse felt no more pain. Ham flinched and shivered. He felt the weight of the animal, already heavy, now a deadweight, sink down even heavier on his wretched leg.

  “Mister, please,” he said.

  “Tell me their names,” Slocum said.

  “All right. All right,” said Ham. “It was Sluice. Sluice and Hardy and Jigs. They call me Ham. Now help me out of here. Please.”

  “I’ll help you just like I helped your horse,” Slocum said.

  “What?” said Ham. “No. No.”

  Slocum shot him in the head.

  2

  “Goddamn, Slocum,” said Old Jan. “You just murdered the son of a bitch.”

  “It was better than he deserved,” Slocum said. “He was with them that killed Trent.”

  “Yeah,” said Old Jan. “Well, I don’t know what else we can do here tonight. Can’t follow tracks or nothing till morning light.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Slocum agreed. “Let’s go back to our camp.”

  They rode down the hill and back across the way to where Billy and Charlie had finished digging the holes for the two graves.

  “I heard a couple of shots,” said Billy.

  “There was one they left behind under a hurt horse,” said Old Jan. “He was pinned under the horse and hurt, too. Slocum put them both out of their misery.”

  Charlie jabbed his shovel down into the fresh-dug pile of dirt. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

  They lowered the bodies into the graves. Slocum stood close to the one in which they lowered Trent Brady. He took the hat off his head. “I promise you, pard,” he said. “I’ll get the dirty bastards. I’ll kill every one of them. I promise you.”

  They finished the unpleasant chore and rode back to camp. The three men were soon asleep, but Slocum put more coffee on the fire. He lit a cigar and waited for the coffee to boil. He sat up all night. He did not know this Sluice, would not know him when he saw him, but he was determined to find him as well as the rest of the men who had ridden with him. That worthless shit Ham had said their names were Hardy and Jigs. He would find them, and he would kill them. He was anxious for the first light of the new day.

  He spent the night smoking and drinking coffee and thinking about Trent Brady. He could not help thinking about Sluice and Hardy and Jigs. He would find them somehow, somewhere. Interestingly enough, the thoughts that had been tormenting his nights had at last been pushed aside by these new ones. He made sure that his Colt and his Winchester were fully loaded and ready for action. He was damn sure ready for it himself.

  When the sun at last peeked over the far horizon, Slocum started saddling his stallion. He didn’t bother waking up the others. He did not care what they did. He had his business to take care of. Let them sleep. Let them go their own ways. He did not give a damn about what they did. He mounted up and rode toward the graves. When he got there, he studied the hoofprints. It looked to Slocum like there had been three riders where Trent was killed.

  He studied the tracks long and hard. It looked to Slocum like the three bastards had ridden up behind Trent, killed him, and turned to retrace their tracks. He followed them back around to where the herd had been, across the way and up the hill to where Ham was pinned underneath his horse. He took note that something had been feasting on the two bodies. He studied some more. Apparently, a fourth outlaw had not gone with the other three to kill Trent. He had stopped near where Ham had later died. From a boulder nearby, he had killed Ned with his rifle. Then the others had rejoined him, and as they were racing away, Ham’s horse had fallen. The other three had simply kept going up the hill. Without looking back, without a thought to his own three companions, Slocum continued following the tracks.

  “Sluice,” said Hardy. “We been riding the whole fucking night. These horses are damn near fagged out.”

  “We’ll trade them in for some fresh ones here pretty soon,” Sluice said. “There’s a little ranch just a couple of miles ahead.”

  “You think the rancher will trade with us?” Jigs asked.

  Sluice gave Jigs a look, as if he thought that Jigs was an idiot. Hardy laughed.

  “I ain’t never met a man who wouldn’t trade horses with Sluice,” he said, “if Sluice just asks him right.”

  “Oh,” said Jigs. “Yeah. I get it now.” He laughed as well, and Sluice joined in the laughter.

  “I reckon they’ll feed us some breakfast, too,” Sluice said.

  “If we ask them real nice!” said Hardy.

  They all broke into fresh laughter.

  They rode on a few more miles and then spotted the ranch. It was a small family place. A tiny house, no bunkhouse, a corral a few feet away from the house. Smoke rose from the chimney. A man was in the corral. The three killers rode down to the house and over to the corral. The man looked up when they approached.

  “Howdy, boys,” he said.

  “Howdy, pardner,” Sluice said. “We’re riding good horses, but they’re tired right now. Wonder if you might trade with us?”

  “Sorry,” the man said. “I got nothing I want to trade off. You’re welcome to rest them up here for a spell, though.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you,” Sluice said. “I don’t suppose you could spare some breakfast. We could pay you.”

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nbsp; “I reckon so,” the man said. “Climb down out of your saddles and come with me.”

  He led the way into the house, where his wife was busy fixing breakfast. A boy, about seven or eight years old, was in the house as well. The man introduced his wife and son. The wife poured the visitors cups of coffee.

  “Y’all run this whole place just by yourselfs?” Sluice asked. “No hands?”

  “It’s a small place,” said the rancher. “A family operation. Just us.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Sluice.

  The woman put breakfast out on the table, and they all ate voraciously. Sluice and his boys ate their fill and asked for more coffee. They finished their coffee and stood up as if to leave. Then Sluice, with no warning, pulled out his six-gun and shot the boy. Taking their cue from Sluice, Hardy jerked his gun and shot the woman, and Jigs hauled out his and killed the man.

  “Rummage around, boys,” said Sluice. “Take any food and anything else you think we can use.”

  They packed away some food, a couple of boxes of bullets, and a few dollars and change. Then Sluice had them set fire to the house. They went out to the corral and picked out three good-looking horses, switched their saddles, mounted up, and rode on out.

  Slocum followed the prints of the three horses all morning and into the afternoon, when he came across the smoldering ashes of a recent fire. The hoofprints he was following went down to the corral, which stood a short distance from the ashes. He rode down there and dismounted. Walking around and studying the tracks, he figured out that the men had changed horses there. He saw the prints of the three new horses leading away from the site. He started to mount up and continue following them, but he decided instead to investigate the fire. What he found horrified him. Slocum had seen much. He had taken part in much violence himself. But when he found the remains of the little family, he renewed his vow of vengeance against Sluice and Hardy and Jigs. He decided that he needed to get them as quickly as possible. The longer they rode free, the more victims they would have. They had to die, and soon.

  Slocum followed the tracks of the new horses away from the ruined ranch. He rode the rest of that day. When night fell, he could ride no more. He had been awake for most of two days and two nights and needed some sleep. He located a good campsite and settled in for the night—a short night, he told himself. He built a small fire, had a quick meal, and made some coffee. Waiting for his coffee to boil, he smoked a cigar. His thoughts were all on the three inhuman monsters he was tracking.

  When his coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup. He had just taken a first sip when he heard the sounds of approaching horses. Setting down his coffee, he pulled out his Colt and moved away from the fire. He listened as the horses came closer in the darkness. He pulled back the hammer on the Colt and held it ready. Then three riders came into view in the light of the campfire.

  “Slocum?” said Old Jan. “You here?”

  Slocum eased the hammer back down on the Colt and stepped out into view.

  “Coffee’s on,” he said.

  Old Jan, Charlie Gourd, and Billy Pierce all swung down out of their saddles. They started taking care of their horses for the night.

  “What brings you three around here?” Slocum asked.

  “What brings us around?” said Old Jan. “Hell, we want those bastards as much as you do.”

  “You couldn’t wait on us, could you?” said Gourd. “Couldn’t wake us up before you took off?”

  “Hell,” said Slocum. “You were sleeping like a bunch of babies. I didn’t have the heart to wake you up.”

  “Let me at that coffee,” said Billy.

  “Help yourself,” Slocum said.

  “You see what those sons of bitches done back down the trail?” said Gourd.

  “I saw it,” said Slocum.

  “We’ve got to stop them,” said Old Jan.

  “I mean to,” Slocum said.

  “We’re all agreed on that,” Gourd said.

  “How far ahead of us do you reckon they are?” Pierce asked.

  “A day’s ride,” Slocum answered.

  “We’ll have to ride hard to catch up with them,” said Billy.

  “They’ll slow down and stop before much longer,” said Gourd. “They’ll wear their horses out otherwise.”

  “That won’t slow them,” Slocum said. “They’ll just steal more.”

  “And kill more in the doing of it,” Old Jan added.

  “They’ll kill anyone,” said Gourd. “They proved that back there at that ranch.”

  A northbound stagecoach was bouncing along the road to Cheyenne loaded up with passengers, a driver, and a shotgun rider on top. Inside the coach were two ladies, one about thirty years old, the other maybe fifty, and three men, a cowboy, a traveling salesman, and a stern-faced old preacher. As the coach rounded a curve in the road, going uphill, it suddenly came upon three men standing across the road with guns in their hands. The shotgun rider instinctively raised his weapon, only to be shot dead by Hardy. As he crumpled in the seat, Sluice and Jigs both blasted the driver from the box and watched him fall to the ground.

  “Grab them horses, Jigs,” ordered Sluice as he ran to one side of the coach, Hardy to the other. They grabbed the doors and jerked them open. The passengers all had horrified looks on their faces.

  “What have you done?” asked the preacher. “Have you killed them?”

  “Something damn sure did,” said Sluice. “All of you get out on this side.”

  “Don’t hurt us,” said the older woman.

  “Shut up, lady,” said Sluice. “Hardy, climb up there and check the boot.”

  Hardy went up on top and found a box. He heaved it out and threw it to the ground. Then he tossed all the bags and boxes down from the roof.

  “Check the rear,” said Sluice. Hardy climbed back down and went around to the back. He pulled out all the luggage and threw it to the ground.

  “All right, Jigs,” said Sluice. “You can turn them horses loose.”

  Jigs turned loose the lead horse he had been holding. It did not run, so he slapped it on the rump. The horses took off dragging the empty stage behind them.

  “Here,” said the preacher.

  “Shut up,” said Sluice.

  “But how will we get to town?” said the older woman.

  “If I was you,” said Sluice, “that’d be the last of my worries. Now all of you empty out your pockets.”

  “This is outrageous,” said the preacher. “You’ll all hang, and your souls will go to hell.”

  “Shut up, you fucking Bible-thumper,” said Sluice. He cocked his revolver and pointed it close to the preacher’s face. “Empty your goddamned pockets.”

  Moving along the road, Slocum and the others came across the abandoned stagecoach.

  “Oh, my God,” said Gourd. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  They rode on up to the stage. Slocum climbed up top and found the body of the shotgun rider crumpled up below the seat. Old Jan opened a door and looked inside.

  “No one here,” he said.

  “One dead man on top,” said Slocum, climbing back down. “Cut those horses loose and let’s move along.”

  Billy Pierce and Charlie Gourd had the horses freed in record time. They remounted their horses and hurried along the road. In a few miles, they found the bodies and the scattered luggage. Each of the passengers and the driver had been shot to death. But there was one addition. The younger of the two women was somewhat separated from the others, and it appeared that she had been ravished before she had been shot to death. Slocum and his partners checked the pockets of the dead. They had all been emptied. The cash box had been emptied. Each piece of luggage had been searched. Anything the outlaws did not want had been scattered along the road. There were no guns anywhere. The killers had taken them as well.

  “More reasons for killing those bastards,” said Pierce.

  “We don’t need more reasons,” said Gourd. “We’ve got plenty already.
”

  “I think we should bury these poor people,” said Old Jan.

  Slocum mounted his Appaloosa.

  “What are you doing, Slocum?” said Gourd. “Where you going?”

  “After them.”

  “What about burying these folks?”

  “You three go ahead,” said Slocum, and he turned his horse and kicked it in the sides, hurrying away from the scene of the slaughter.

  “Well, how about that?” said Gourd.

  “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have rode off and left us with this chore,” said Billy Pierce.

  “Likely, he figures he’s got more important things to deal with,” said Old Jan. “These folks here are beyond help. Those we’re after sure need to be stopped.”

  “Maybe,” said Gourd, “but still, he could’ve stuck around till the burying was done.”

  “No, Charlie,” said Old Jan. “Slocum couldn’t have. He had to go. Now, let’s get to digging some graves.”

  Slocum rode with a fury. If anything, he was feeling the sense of urgency more than ever. Sluice and his two wild animals had to be stopped and soon. Slocum had never before wanted so badly to kill someone. And he wanted to do it in a hurry. He slowed down now and then only to make sure he was still following the right tracks. They went straight ahead as if the killers had no idea or no concern that they might be followed. He hoped they stayed that way. With so much confidence, they might stop somewhere soon to relax. That would be all he needed. He would catch them and kill them.

  Soon, he had to slow the Appaloosa. He hated to slow down, but he knew the horse could not stand too much running at top speed. It could take more than most, but even it had its limitations. He would walk it for a while, then he would run again. The tracks were still plain. The killers did not appear to be in a hurry.

  3

  Jigs rode a little ahead of his two compadres, and when he topped a rise he saw a sight he wasn’t expecting. He turned and rode fast back to Sluice and Hardy. “Hey, guess what’s just over that hill.”