Slocum and the Warm Reception Page 2

  Unlike his companion, the second Indian wasn’t crazy. When Slocum fired a quick shot at him, he hopped to one side in the hopes of avoiding incoming fire. The shot had been taken in haste, but provided Slocum with some breathing room so he could circle away from the tomahawk.

  Rather than decorate himself with war paint of any kind, the second Indian had smeared mud across his entire face and chest. His head was shaved clean and covered with mud. Because of a similar coating on his arms and legs, he’d been close to invisible while crawling on the ground. That struck a chord in the back of Slocum’s mind.

  He’d seen other Indians use similar tactics, which had forced him to deal with one hell of a mess. Rather than take the time to think if these were the same Indians he’d dealt with before, Slocum busied himself with the act of staying alive.

  That tomahawk was in very capable hands, cutting through the air in short, efficient chops. As soon as Slocum leaned away to avoid one swing, the weapon was brought up and back around to take another. He ducked under that attack and snuck a sharp jab into the other man’s gut. The Indian let out a wheezing grunt and staggered back a step, allowing Slocum to back away as well.

  “One man’s dead,” Slocum said between gulping breaths. “No need to make it two.”

  “It will be two,” the Indian replied in a voice that struck Slocum as peculiar. “When you are laid out for the vultures.” With that, the Indian lunged again.

  Slocum had been doing his best to keep track of the brave with the rifle. Unfortunately, that was tough to do when so much of his attention was focused on someone else. Knowing he was in danger by being on open ground, Slocum broke into a run that was in such a crooked line he must have appeared to be drunk. Appearances were the farthest thing from his mind, however, as he zigged one way and zagged another. The erratic strategy paid off when the brave’s next shot tore through empty space.

  Slocum was heading for his horse, and because the animal was content to let him get there, he was certain he could get to the Sharps rifle holstered in the saddle’s boot. He was close enough to smell the sweat soaked into the gelding’s coat when he heard the crunch of feet against the ground directly behind him. Slocum spun around to find the mud-caked Indian racing toward him with his tomahawk cocked back next to his ear. Slocum faced the Indian head-on while backing toward his horse. Once again proving to be more calculating than his deceased partner, the Indian slowed to a halt.

  Both men circled each other for several long seconds.

  The Indian watched Slocum carefully as Slocum did his best to watch both the man directly in front of him and the brave that was still on horseback. The brave was outside the .44’s range but well within the reach of his rifle. He had the weapon’s stock to his shoulder and glared at Slocum over the top of its long barrel. Slocum adjusted his steps to put the closest Indian between himself and the one with the rifle.

  “Leave your horse and guns and you can walk away,” the muddy Indian said.

  Slocum narrowed his eyes. “What happened to all the big talk from before? Seeing a man get gunned down take some of the starch from your collar?”

  “No,” the Indian said with a slow shake of his head. “I’ve seen plenty of men die. Looks like I’m about to watch another.”

  Instead of waiting for the Indian to make the next move, Slocum took those words as a declaration of intent. He lunged for his horse and almost frightened the gelding away before his fingers scraped against the stock of the Sharps. As much as he hated to put his back to the Indian, Slocum had to turn around so he could reach across the horse’s back and retrieve the rifle. Just as his body was stretched and his arm was extended toward the Sharps, the Indian lunged at him like a rattlesnake going in for the kill.

  Slocum sidestepped to avoid getting sliced straight down the middle. When the stone blade dug into the saddle far enough to cause the gelding to rear up in pain, Slocum almost wished he had absorbed that blow. Fortunately, Slocum was now able to take the Sharps from the boot.

  Just because he had the rifle didn’t mean he was in the clear. In fact, Slocum couldn’t put the Sharps to proper use because he still had the .44 in his right hand. He meant to holster the pistol so he could put a finger on the rifle’s trigger, but the muddy Indian wasn’t about to give him the chance. After plucking his tomahawk from where it had been lodged in the saddle’s thick leather, he came at Slocum like a whirlwind.

  From there, the fight became nothing short of chaos. Both men ripped into each other, ducked, sidestepped, and swung again in an all-out frenzy. Slocum survived the first onslaught by focusing only on the blade of the tomahawk as it came at him again and again. Every now and then, he snuck in a quick jab or a sharp knee driven into the Indian’s side. Slocum could feel his knuckles and leg pounding against solid flesh, but wasn’t able to slow the other man down. Suddenly, the Indian’s filthy face filled his field of vision. Slocum could see the Indian’s elbow and forearm as they came around in a vicious semicircle with the tomahawk trailing like the cutting end of a whip.

  Slocum dropped straight down while letting out a quick profanity along with what was left of his breath. There was a sharp clang, after which the Indian stopped dead in his tracks. When he stood up again, Slocum saw the tomahawk had become lodged in the canteen that hung from his saddle horn by a strap.

  The Indian winced with the effort of pulling the weapon’s blade from the metal container. Although he was able to free the tomahawk, it wasn’t before Slocum stood up and raised his gun. Opening his mouth to let out another war cry, the Indian cocked back the tomahawk in preparation of a strong downward chop. Before he could follow through, the Indian was rocked by the last round from Slocum’s .44.

  At point-blank range, the shot could only be heard as a muffled thump. The Indian was lifted off both feet and sent staggering backward with blood pouring from a hole in his chest as well as a much larger one in his back. By the time the Indian fell over, Slocum had tossed the .44 and was turning the sights of the Sharps rifle toward the brave on horseback. “You brought this on yourself,” he shouted. “Still want to take it further?”

  The brave stared silently back at him. Despite the distance between both men, they might as well have been inches away from each other. In fact, as he waited for a response, a word, even a flinch, Slocum swore he could see the man behind that other rifle blink.

  “What tribe are you from?” Slocum asked.

  The brave did not respond.

  “Who are your people? Where is your homeland?” Even though there was nothing to make him think he was going to get an answer, Slocum kept asking his questions. “What did you expect to do out here like this? How many others have you killed?” That last question brought Slocum’s blood to a boil. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve ambushed others on this trail. Lord knows plenty of folks use it to get across the state line into Oregon. Probably ranchers and families looking to move on up into California or maybe into Canada. They didn’t put up as much of a fight as all this, is that it?”

  Still, the brave held his tongue.

  The longer the silence went on, the more Slocum had to fight to keep from pulling his trigger. Eventually, the brave lowered the rifle from his shoulder. Soon after that, his head drooped slightly forward and he steered his horse so it was facing another direction. Once he knew he’d made it that far without being shot, he started to ride away.

  “Not so fast!” Slocum called out.

  Surprisingly enough, the brave stopped.

  Studying the other man through a stern scowl, Slocum said, “I’ll have that rifle.”

  The brave stayed put.

  “You don’t have to bring it here,” Slocum amended. “Just leave it in that spot right there.”

  Slowly, the brave extended his arm. In a motion that was surprisingly quick, he brought the rifle back up to his shoulder and took aim. Slocum already had his Sharps at the
ready. He’d had plenty of time to take aim and all he needed to do was squeeze the trigger. The Sharps barked once, sent its round through the air, and dropped the brave like a bottle from a fence post.

  Even after the brave fell, Slocum watched and waited for something else to happen. Perhaps more Indians would emerge from where they’d been hiding to pick him off with bullets, arrows, or blades. Perhaps another brave would circle around to try and get the jump on him. Truth be told, he didn’t really know what to expect. The ambush seemed strange from the moment it started and it ended in much the same way.

  Eventually, the sun beating down upon his head, neck, and shoulders made Slocum lower his Sharps so he could wipe away a trickle of sweat that stung one of his eyes. Every rustling wind he heard, every scrape of something against a rock or movement of a dry branch, made him think the attack would continue. Nothing he saw could back that up, however.

  There was nothing to see apart from the two dead men lying sprawled upon the ground.

  Slocum propped his rifle against a rock near the Indian caked in mud. Taking one knee to present a smaller target if there was anyone out there still interested in taking a shot at him, he emptied the Smith & Wesson’s cylinder of spent casings and then fed it fresh rounds from his gun belt. The movements were as common to him as drawing breath, which meant he didn’t need to look at what he was doing. His eyes were plenty busy as his fingers prepared the .44 for another fight, however. They darted back and forth, never stopping, never satisfied with all of the nothing they found.

  Finally, when the pistol was full and its cylinder snapped shut, he got to his feet and stayed there. Slocum no longer thought about making it difficult for someone to take a shot at him. On the contrary, he stayed as still as the rest of the desert . . . daring any other would-be ambushers to do their worst. His features took on a hard edge, and when he spat upon the ground, he might as well have been spitting into the faces of every one of the cowardly sons of bitches that had tried to ambush him.

  At least the first two had gone out fighting. Slocum looked down at them while holstering the .44, focusing his attention on the one covered in mud. He squatted down and turned the dead man’s head so he could look at his face. Something about him just wasn’t right. When his canteen had been chopped by the tomahawk, it had spilled its contents onto the ground not far away from where the body now rested. Slocum went over to dip his fingers into the water so he could brush the moisture against his parched lips. There was a little left in the lower portion of the canteen, perhaps enough for two or three gulps, but not enough to get him all the way to Mescaline. Instead of riding to the more familiar town, Slocum would need to stop over at one of the smaller settlements along the way. He only hoped the places he recalled hadn’t dried up and blown away like everything else in the arid climate.

  Running his hand through the spilled water was barely enough to get his fingers damp. The desert had soaked up the rest of the water already, leaving just enough for him to clear away some of the dirt caked onto the dead Indian’s face. That little bit of progress was enough to put a thoughtful scowl onto his face.

  “Well now,” he muttered. “If you were such a mad dog killer, I’m guessing someone might be looking for you. And if that’s the case,” he said while positioning himself at the Indian’s head so he could slip both hands under the corpse’s shoulders, “then someone might pay a dollar or two to the man that found you.”

  The Indian may not have been a big fellow, but he was now deadweight. It wasn’t easy bringing him to the spot where Slocum’s horse was waiting, and when he got there, Slocum was ready to be done with the entire task. The raiding party had to have horses somewhere. Even if they were tough and crazy, those Indians still needed something other than bare feet to cover miles of scorched earth. But the longer Slocum stayed in that spot, the more he wanted to leave it. There were things to be done and less time in which to do them so he eased the body off his shoulder to drape it across the back of his horse. The gelding shifted and fussed beneath the weight, but quickly settled down.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” Slocum said as he climbed into the saddle. “You won’t have to drag this extra weight for long.”

  3

  By Slocum’s recollection, there were a few towns scattered in or around the desert to the south of Mescaline, but he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find skeletal remains of a settlement instead. When he saw a hint of smoke rising like a smear being slowly dragged to the west, Slocum felt the touch of hope. If that smoke came from the stack of a steam engine, it could mean at least one of those settlements he’d glimpsed some time ago had fallen upon a bit of good fortune.

  Slocum’s good fortune came when he saw a thriving little cluster of well-maintained buildings in a spot where he’d been expecting a ghost town. He pointed his gelding’s nose in that direction and rode as quickly as he could until he reached a sign that let him know he’d crossed into the town limits of a place called Davis Junction.

  Apparently, some time during the years since he’d last made his way through the Smoke Creek Desert, a railroad line had been laid down and this town had reaped its reward. As the trail became a proper street and more businesses showed up on either side, Slocum glanced back at the load he was carrying. The dead Indian hadn’t gone anywhere. In fact, since the sun was hot enough to bake the muddy flesh into a texture similar to rough pottery or cracked clay, the sight wasn’t as bad as when they’d started riding together. Even so, it was still a sight that drew some attention.

  Plenty of folks took notice of him and his grisly cargo as he made his way farther into town. Having caught sight of the sheriff’s office right away, he steered for the squat little building down the street from the long train station that looked to be the center of Davis Junction. Even before he reined his horse to a stop in front of the office, a gnarled old-timer in a wide-brimmed hat and sweat-soaked shirt walked to the edge of the little porch outside the sheriff’s front door.

  “Hello there,” the old-timer said while hooking both thumbs over his belt. “Looks like you’ve had a hell of a mornin’.”

  Slocum looked down at him and replied, “Would you believe I feel worse than I look?”

  “Sure would, especially seein’ as how you rode in on something other than a train. Desert or no, it still seems you’re doing a whole lot better than that one right there.”

  Since the old man was pointing to the gelding’s back, Slocum looked over there as if he didn’t know what had caught his eye. “Yeah. Thought I’d let the law know about my guest before too many eyebrows were raised. So, are you the man I need to talk to?”

  For a moment, the old-timer looked stunned. He even shifted to glance over his shoulder as if Slocum had suddenly gained the ability to look straight through him. Finally, he said, “Me? I’m just a deputy.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Patrick.”

  “John Slocum,” he said while extending a hand.

  The deputy shook Slocum’s hand with vigor. “Pleased to meet ya! I heard tell about what happened in Mescaline the last time you were there. So . . . you some kind of bounty hunter?”

  Slocum didn’t appreciate being lumped in with the kind of scum that generally found work collecting bounties. Reminding himself that he’d ridden into town with a corpse strapped to the back of his horse put things back into perspective. “I’m not a bounty hunter,” he told the deputy. “I just crossed paths with this one and a couple of his friends about ten miles outside of town.”

  Another set of boots knocked against the boards in front of the sheriff’s office. The man in them wore battered jeans and a brown shirt beneath what had probably once been a fairly elegant suit jacket. Although the garment may have started off as a fine specimen, whatever dandy it had been tailored for was most definitely not the man who wore it now. He was a few inches taller than Patrick and at least ten years the deputy’s ju
nior. Coal black stubble marred a lean face accented by a thin nose that cut a straight line between a pair of high cheekbones. While he didn’t draw a gun, he placed his hands upon his hips as if to display the holster wrapped around his waist.

  “How many friends were there?” the younger man asked. His jacket may have been a bit too big for him and the buttons had lost their shine, but the star pinned to his chest sure hadn’t.

  “You’d be the sheriff?” Slocum asked.

  The younger man nodded. “Marshal.”

  “Sorry. You’re the marshal.”

  “No. I’m Sheriff Marshal.”

  “Which is it?”

  As the younger man let out a tired sigh, Patrick chuckled nervously. “Marshal is his family name,” he explained. “Funny bit of luck him becoming sheriff.”

  “Could be worse,” Slocum said with a grin,

  With patience that was clearly strained, the lawman said, “I know. I could have been Marshal Marshal.”

  “Heard that one already?” Slocum asked.

  “Many times. Tell me what happened to put you in the possession of that poor soul laying across your horse’s rump. Not that that isn’t a perfect spot for him.”

  “Sounds to me like you two are already acquainted.”

  “Could be. Depends on your story.”

  “You mind if I put my horse up first?” Slocum asked. “He’s got a few cuts that need tending and after that I could use something to drink.”

  “You came into my town with a dead body, mister. I’d say that means you owe me an explanation.”

  “All right then. The first part of my explanation is that I’ve been in the desert for a few days. Isn’t that enough of a reason for me to want to take care of my horse as well as my own thirst?”