Slocum and the Sonoran Fugitive Read online

  “Got shot out from under me up in Utah,” Will replied. “It was Johnny Wade Cummings who done it, the son of a bitch. Didn’t even kill him all the way. He left that for me to take care of.”

  “Sorry,” Slocum muttered. He really was, too. Pye had been a good horse, and Slocum knew how hard it was to put down a good one. Even a bad one, for that matter.

  After a while, it became apparent that somebody should have shot Will. He just wouldn’t shut up. He talked about everything, except anything that might have mattered to their current project. After a while, Slocum just let the words bubble over him while he settled into his own thoughts, which were currently centered on Bronc Dugan and his boys.

  He figured that Bronc had likely headed south, for the border. Slocum would have, if their positions had been reversed. Then again, he never would have been in Bronc Dugan’s position: sentenced to hang for not just one, but four murders. The Territory had been so mad at him that they’d taken the trouble to transport him down to the Territorial Prison and do it up right. Or tried to.

  Right,Slocum thought, snorting softly. Like their rope is better. It all came from the same hemp fields, so far as he was concerned.

  Anyhow, they had only swiped the two horses that were pulling the wagon. They’d need to pick up a couple more. Monkey Springs was probably where they’d stop. It was close, and on their route.

  He wondered about the three who were running with Dugan these days. Slocum had had the misfortune of crossing Dugan’s path back in the days when he was hustling silver miners up in Colorado. He’d already killed at least six men back then, and at best, he was a nasty piece of business. In those days Dugan ran with the Miller boys, Chad and Tom, plus Tony Ortiz and Finn Hannigan. The Millers, Ortiz, and Hannigan were all long dead, as were countless others of Dugan’s side-kicks, but Dugan had just kept on. Until he got caught and convicted this last time, that is.

  You couldn’t keep a rotten egg down, Slocum guessed. Well, they couldn’t. He had every intention of giving Dugan his just deserts.

  In spades.

  At around noon, Slocum’s stomach started to growl. At around one, he said, “Let’s stop and eat somethin’, Will. I’m starvin’. ’Sides,” he added, “the horses need to rest.”

  He must have let some of his cranky out when he said it, because Will reined in, swiveled back in the saddle, and said, “I asked you an hour ago if you was peckish, and you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry.” Slocum swung down out of the saddle. “Guess I didn’t hear you.”

  Will dismounted, as well. He didn’t look too happy.

  Slocum ignored him and got busy with his saddlebags. It was a long way down to Monkey Springs, or wherever Will was leading him. He ripped a hunk of jerky off the chuck he’d got in town, and began to gnaw on it.

  “No fire?” Will asked.

  “No time,” came Slocum’s reply. He swallowed his first bite of jerky and washed it down with canteen water before he added, “I take it we’re headed for Monkey Springs?”

  Will leaned an elbow against his horse’s saddle and said, “So you were listenin’, after all.”

  Slocum hadn’t been, but he smiled a little and gnawed another bite of jerky off his hunk.

  Thankfully, Will finished his own lunch in silence, then wandered off, probably to take a leak. Once he put the jerky away, Slocum watered the horses, then took himself a long piss. Will came walking back while Slocum was lighting a quirley, nodded at him, and swung up on his horse.

  Slocum asked, “You ready?”

  Will gave him a sidelong look.

  “I watered your horse, in case you’re interested.”

  Will grunted then moved out.

  Slocum shrugged, threw his leg over Apache, and goosed him into a jog to catch up.

  He was even with Will in no time, and dropped back down into a walk. “So, you figure they’re headin’ south, too.”

  Will nodded.

  Slocum’s brow furrowed. “Y’know, you’re awful quiet for somebody who talked his jaws off all morning.”

  Will poked a finger at his own neck and wiggled it. “Sore throat,” he rasped, then coughed.

  Slocum held back a laugh. At least it’d keep Will quiet for the afternoon ride. He said, “Well, best to rest it for the afternoon, right?” When Will nodded, Slocum said, “I know a shortcut that’ll save us a few miles and get us out of the Bradshaws quicker. C’mon.”

  Slocum turned toward the southeast, and once he was certain Will was following—and the trail allowed—he pushed Apache into a soft lope. This trip was going to take long enough without walking all the damn way there!

  Over the next few days—the time it took to get them completely out on the flat and well on their way to Monkey Springs—the two had managed to come to a meeting point on the conversation. Which meant that Will talked only when Slocum asked him a question, or when he had something really important to say. For instance, “Watch out! Rattler!” fell into the latter category.

  As far as Slocum was concerned, he only talked when he felt like it, which meant rarely, if ever. Will got used to the new situation fairly quickly, and actually slid into the new routine like a forgotten, then re-found, pair of friendly old boots. These two had ridden together before, after all, and quite pleasantly. It just took Will a day or so to remember how.

  They rode into Monkey Springs—a town not much more than a wide spot in the road, if there had been a road to begin with—and headed straight for the sheriff’s office. Turned out, after not some little searching, that it was hidden away in a back room at the town mercantile.

  The store owner, who had introduced himself as “Jennings” on the way in, said his second words just as Slocum raised his knuckles to knock on the sheriff’s door.

  “Ain’t there,” said the storekeep.

  “Where is he, then?” asked Slocum.

  Jennings nodded at the saloon across the street. “Might not be too drunk to talk to, this early in the day.”

  Slocum nodded, and Will touched his hat’s brim and said, “Appreciate it, Jennings,” as they left the store.

  They crossed what passed for a road and entered the saloon. Well, Slocum figured you could almost call it a saloon, anyhow. The place was only ten or twelve feet wide and maybe fifteen feet long, with a manned bar running down one twelve-foot wall and, in lieu of tables, another bar, set flush against the wall opposite and running down its length. There wasn’t a chair in the place, just ten or fifteen bar stools.

  “What can I get for you gents?” the barkeep asked as they pushed through the batwing doors.

  Will spoke up first. “Town sheriff?”

  The bartender nodded down to the farthest end of the bar, and the lone customer. “There he sits. Sheriff Jack O’Casey, such as he is.”

  Slocum said, “Thanks,” then added, “Two beers. We’ll take ’em down to the end, there.” He indicated Sheriff O’Casey’s location, then muttered, “C’mon,” to Will.

  They walked between the patronless bars, skirting stray stools as they went. Will scooted a few back into place. When they reached the sheriff, Slocum pulled out a stool on the far side of him, Will on the near.

  “Jack O’Casey?” said Slocum.

  O’Casey looked up, a little bleary-eyed, and nodded. He began, “Who—?”

  Slocum stuck out his hand. “Name’s Slocum, John Slocum, and that feller on your other side is Will Hutchins, late of the U.S. marshal’s office. We’re down here lookin’ for some escapees—Bronc Dugan and his bunch. They come through here?”

  Sheriff O’Casey muttered, “Dugan?”

  Will tried. He pounded on O’Casey’s shoulder until he got the sheriff’s attention, then tried asking him again.

  The bartender showed up with their beers. “You askin’ about Bronc Dugan and his gang?”

  Both Slocum and Will nodded—Slocum somewhat warily.

  The bartender added, “Then you oughta be askin’ somebody who’s got his wits about him
at least half the time.”

  Will said, “Like you, for instance?”

  “Like me,” the bartender said. “And call me Gary. Garrison Douglas is the whole of it.”

  Will shook his hand. Slocum took a draw on his beer. It had been a long and thirsty ride this morning.

  “They was in here three, mayhap four days ago,” Gary went on. “They was four of ’em altogether, and they didn’t drink nothin’ but beer. No offense.”

  Will said, “None taken. What else?”

  “Those sonsabitches stole my horse, that’s what else!” Gary yelped, and slapped the bar top with his rag. “I want my goddamn horse back! I want somebody to do somethin’ about it!”

  Sheriff O’Casey muttered, “Want mine back, too, Gary,” before his head collapsed down in his pillowing arms. “Somebody get my Daisy home,” he breathed before he passed out.

  “That’s two,” Will said to Slocum.

  “Oh, I ain’t done yet,” Gary said casually, and both Slocum and Will leaned in.

  3

  “They come dragglin’ in here, two to a horse and looking like a hunnert and twenty miles a’ bad road,” Gary went on. “Didn’t even have no tack on them horses. Looked to me like they started off with a wagon or somethin’, mebbe busted an axle and had to make do.”

  Slocum broke in, “Did you ask?”

  “Nope,” Gary said with a shake of his head. “Didn’t seem the sort to be asked questions. Seemed real rough, all of ’em.” He gave a scratch to his stubbly neck. “Anyhow, they come here first to get their whistles wet. Had several beers each, they did, and then two of ’em left. Other two stayed and had lunch. We had roast beef for sandwiches that day.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Musta been four days back that they was in, then, not three. Been outta beef four days, ’cause they et up the last of it.”

  Will coaxed, “So two of ’em left, you say? Where’d they take off to?”

  “Well, we found that out later, didn’t we?” Gary snapped.

  “Sorry,” said Will, holding up his hands. “Tell it your way, then. Don’t mind me.”

  Still visibly annoyed, Gary turned toward Slocum and continued, “Anyhow . . .” He glanced back toward Will, who raised his brows and wiggled both hands innocently. “So anyhow,” Gary began again, “’bout the time the first two finished their lunch, the two that had been gone come back. The four of ’em sat there for a while, talkin’ over somethin’ or other, then the pair what had already had lunch took off, and the second two had them some lunch. Same stuff. Roast beef sandwiches. And tater salad. Mandy—she’s the storekeeper’s wife—she makes a good tater salad.”

  “That’s real interestin’, Gary, but—” Will interrupted, then clammed up right away, once both Gary and Slocum shot him warning looks. Gary apparently wanted to tell the story his way, and Slocum was determined to let him. He wanted every detail he could get, even if most of it proved to be worthless.

  Will and Slocum were in that bar for a good hour and a half, going through beer after beer, and when they were finished listening to Gary’s story—and Gary had finished telling it—Slocum boiled it down.

  All four had come into the bar. Soon after, two men left, leaving Dugan and the fourth man to eat lunch. Apparently, the first two men to leave were scouting out the horse situation, and managed to spot what they were going to rustle when they left.

  It seemed that they came back happy, and settled down to a meal while Dugan and the other man took off for parts unknown. This later turned out to be the general store, where they made off with two handguns, ammunition, and provisions, and left the storekeeper bound, gagged, and locked up in the sheriff’s office. Gary also told them (at great length) that they made off as well with a big sack full of penny candy, so Slocum figured at least one of the four to have a powerful sweet tooth.

  When those two came back, Dugan—the only one who’d dropped his name to Gary—paid the tab for all four men, and they left. They then proceeded down the way a bit to the livery, where they made off with four horses, plus the tack for each, plus feed. They left the horses on which they’d ridden into town tied to the rail out front of the saloon.

  And the sheriff, as he had today, had slept through the entire event, draped across the bar.

  Slocum figured it was the only thing that had saved his life.

  From Gary, he got a good description of all four men and all four stolen horses, which Will wrote down on a small tablet of paper he pulled from his pocket.

  Gary also told him that the Dugan gang had ridden off to the south, something Slocum had already figured. Where else was left for them to head? It seemed that Dugan had run himself out of other possibilities.

  Once Slocum and Will had paid their tab at the saloon, they moseyed out of town, to the south. Slocum tried to pick up Dugan’s tracks, but had no luck until they were a half mile out of town. Gradually, as cart horses and saddle mounts alike turned off the main path, he made out the tracks of four different horses, all following along in a line. Headed south.

  He called back over his shoulder, “Got ’em.”

  “Me, too,” came Will’s reply. He trotted up to ride beside Slocum. “Least, I got four. Same as you?”

  Slocum pointed ahead and down at the broken brush, and the faint trail obvious only to the well-trained eye.

  Will studied the ground for a second. “Yup. Same ones.”

  Slocum allowed himself half a smile. Will was good. Always had been, always would be. Well, aside from the talking.

  Now that they both had an eye for the trail, Slocum nudged Apache up into a soft lope. Will took the cue and followed along. They rode on opposite sides of the Dugan gang’s path, Slocum to the right and Will to the left, and Slocum figured if they kept this up, they might run across the gang tomorrow, mid-morning.

  On the other hand, he hadn’t counted on Will’s horse, Duster, throwing a shoe that afternoon.

  Will was walking with his nose to the ground, going back over his own tracks, trying to find the missing shoe. “Goddamn it!” he hollered as he peered beneath a new patch of manzanita. Then “Son of a bitch!” as he walked to the next patch of scrubby foliage.

  To the tune of Will’s entire vocabulary of cuss words (including a few that even Slocum hadn’t heard), Slocum stepped back up on Apache and, leading Duster, began to amble back the way he’d come. For all of Will’s griping, he was looking in the wrong place. Slocum figured that Duster’s shoe had probably flown off to the left, maybe twenty or more feet. They’d been traveling at a pretty sharp clip.

  He saw it when he was halfway caught up to Will, and he hollered, “Got your shoe!” before he dropped Duster’s reins, ground-tying him, and Will came trotting over. Just like Slocum had figured, it was off to the left, although not quite so far. Maybe fifteen feet instead of twenty. It’d been a pretty good guess, though.

  He leaned over and snatched it up without dismounting, and turned it in his hand. Without a word, Will stopped dead in his tracks, then turned around and went back to his horse.

  Slocum could fix this. He already knew that Duster’s hoof wall wasn’t damaged—that was the most important part—and he still had nails, both a few left in the shoe and some spares in his saddlebags.

  He rode back over to where Duster patiently waited—and Will, not so patiently. He climbed down off Apache again, unbuckled his saddlebag, and began to feel around for the tools he’d need.

  Will came up behind him. “Where the hell was it?” he demanded.

  Slocum tipped his head back. “Over there, in the sage.”

  “I wasn’t ridin’ over there, I was ridin’ over here!”

  Slocum let out a little sigh. “He threw it over that way. You knew he doesn’t travel four-square, didn’t you?”

  Will snorted. “Course I knew! But that’s still too far for him to throw a shoe, even at a lope.”

  “Well, you and him argue about it. Me, I’m gonna get this shoe back on before he decides to go lame on you.”
Slocum had located some nails, his rasp, a hammer, and a pair of nippers, just in case, and with the old shoe slung over one wrist, he walked to where Duster stood.

  Will was at Duster’s head. “Way the hell over there!” Slocum heard him mutter. “How the hell’d you do that?”

  Slocum wished he’d swear some more. It was kind of entertaining. But he leaned into Duster, then pulled up his hind hoof. “You’re a lucky man, Will,” he said after he’d inspected the hoof, inside and out.

  “Bad luck, mebbe,” Will growled.

  “No, good luck, on account of he didn’t tear up his hoof any. Nails must’ve pulled clean out.”

  Will grunted, deep in his throat.

  Slocum ignored him and got down to business. Duster was calm and didn’t give him any trouble, and it looked to him as if the shoe hadn’t been nailed on right in the first place, as if the ends of the nails hadn’t been bent over, just clipped off even with the outside wall of the hoof. He did the job right this time, and finished up pretty damn certain that Duster wouldn’t be throwing that shoe again anytime soon.

  While he put his tools back into his saddlebag, Will, who had been staring at Duster, said, “You could always be a farrier, Slocum.”

  Slocum took this as a compliment, but said, “Never seen myself as a blacksmith. I’m just a patch-up man.”

  “Whatever. Nice job, though.”

  “Thanks.” Slocum rebuckled his saddlebag and stepped up on Apache. “You comin’?”

  Will looked up from his horse’s hoof. “What? Oh, yeah.”

  He mounted, and the two men set out, back on the trail. Slocum wondered, a little late, if Will’d had the horse shod all the way around by the same smithy at the same time. If so, they were likely in for more trouble. But since they’d already moved up into a lope, he didn’t ask. He’d wait until they stopped for the night, then check the horse out.

  Will looked happy as a clam, though. Slocum was just happy that Will was a competent enough horseman that he was sufficiently in tune with Duster to know when the horse wasn’t traveling right—which he wouldn’t have been after he threw that shoe. It took an experienced rider—and one who really knew his mount— to notice something like that, particularly when the horse wasn’t limping, wasn’t even favoring the leg.