Slocum at Scorpion Bend Read online

  “Miss Maggie hired me to watch your back. You race, I make sure no one shoots you.”

  “I’m way behind on my trainin’ schedule,” Mormon Will said. He saddled and rode out. Slocum fetched his own horse and trotted to catch up. Mormon Will’s horse was a big, midnight black stallion suitable for a man of his height and girth. With a smaller rider, that horse might run all day and far into the night.

  Outside town, Slocum asked, “Where are you training today? Miss Maggie said you might try some meadow.”

  “The road. I always ride on the road to get this nag used to the shadows and holes along the race route.” Mormon Will pointed back down the narrow canyon Slocum had just traversed getting to Scorpion Bend.

  Slocum nodded slowly. That explained the men on horses and their breakneck riding. They were practicing for the race too.

  “Can’t keep up with your horse,” Slocum said. “Don’t know how well I can watch after you if you’re out of sight.”

  “Jist follow my dust,” Mormon Will said with a laugh. He put his heels into the black stallion’s sides. The horse reared, pawed at the air, then dropped its front legs and took off like a shot. Slocum started after Mormon Will, not even trying to keep up. The man could outdistance him and his sorrel with little effort.

  Content to trot along, Slocum entered the narrow chasm and began to taste the dust from the hard-galloping horse ahead. He kept moving, feeling like the tortoise in the story about the tortoise and the hare. He didn’t push his horse—until the gunshots rang out.

  “Come on,” Slocum said, using his spurs on his sorrel. The horse raced forward, forcing Slocum to bend low and let the animal have its head. He reined back when he came to Mormon Will standing beside his downed stallion.

  “They shot Ole Rocket,” he said. “Those sons of bitches shot my horse!”

  Slocum grabbed for his rifle and pulled it from the saddle scabbard. He levered a round into the Winchester and scanned the tumble of rocks all around for the gunman.

  “Where’d the shot come from?” he asked, seeing nothing. For some reason, Slocum looked to see if Mormon Will carried a side arm. He didn’t. There hadn’t been a rifle slung at the side of his saddle either. The man was unarmed and not likely to have killed his own horse, for whatever reason. Tears ran down the man’s cheeks.

  “Up there. Ahead,” Mormon Will said. He knelt beside his horse and cradled the animal’s head. This convinced Slocum that the man had had nothing to do with killing his own horse.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Slocum said. His sharp green eyes scanned the rocks, but came up with nothing. There had been only a single shot to bring down the horse. That meant either a lucky shot, or a sniper who knew his business. Slocum had been a sharpshooter during the war, and had been one of the best. He knew how hard a shot like the one made on Mormon Will’s horse was.

  “How?” Mormon Will said. “You want me to walk?”

  “Get your saddle. We can sling that behind me, but my sorrel’s not going to support us both.”

  Mormon Will worked to get his tack off the dead horse, already drawing flies in the hot Wyoming afternoon sun. Slocum wiped futilely at the sweat pouring down his own face and causing his shirt to glue itself to his body. A sense of impending doom welled up. A single shot? Might have been an accident, he told himself. But he didn’t think so.

  “Hurry up,” Slocum said. He grunted as he wrestled Mormon Will’s saddle into place behind his saddle. The man was so tall his head topped that of the sorrel.

  “Miss Maggie ain’t gonna like this, not at all.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink when we tell her,” Slocum said. “She said you were the best rider. She can find you another horse.”

  “But Ole Rocket was the best,” moaned Mormon Will.

  Slocum saw the glint of sunlight off a rifle barrel an instant before he heard the sharp crack. The report echoed down the canyon until it vanished. He rose in his stirrups, and got off three fast shots intended to drive the sniper down rather than kill him.

  “Take cover,” Slocum cried, struggling to keep his horse under control. When he didn’t get an answer, he glanced over his shoulder. He went cold inside when he saw the giant of a man stretched out, a bullet hole in the side of his head. Mormon Will had been killed instantly with a single shot.

  “Now how am I going to tell Miss Maggie she’s lost both her best horse and her best rider?” he wondered aloud. Slocum dismounted and went to cover, worrying more for his own hide than about what to tell the saloon owner. The sniper in the rocks ahead was one damned fine marksman.

  2

  Slocum sweated in the hot sun, hunting for another hint to where the sniper lay in the rocks up the canyon. He considered mounting and galloping the hell out of there, but that would expose his back to a man who was about the best marksman Slocum had come across in years. Two shots, two deaths.

  “Or did he miss with the first shot and hit the horse by accident?” Slocum wondered aloud. It made no sense to kill the horse if Mormon Will was considered the rider to beat. Kill the rider, destroy Miss Maggie’s chance of having a spot in the top ten come Wednesday. That made a good deal of sense to Slocum.

  Whatever the target, the sniper had done some good shooting at the range. Slocum mopped sweat, pulled down the brim of his hat, and watched carefully. Then he pressed his ear to the ground to detect any vibration of a departing horse. He saw nothing; he heard nothing. That made him even edgier.

  After twenty minutes, he knew he had to make a move. He was getting to the point of having more cotton than tongue in his mouth. If he didn’t get more than a swallow of water soon and find some shade, he was going to start shooting at hallucinations. Still, the reason he had been such a good sniper for the Confederacy was patience. Others would jump around like jackrabbits on a hot griddle, giving away their positions, getting flushed from good spots through nothing but nervousness. He knew all the justifications to stay put.

  Slocum moved.

  Expecting a bullet to rip through him at any instant, he mounted and rode slowly in the direction of the sniper. Nothing. He got closer. The hackles on his neck rose, and he shivered in spite of the taxing heat. Every second he remained in the Wyoming sun, he lost a little more strength.

  Then he was past the point in the rocks where the killer had lain. Slocum considered checking the spot, hunting for spoor, maybe finding a trail. Then he held out his hand and saw how shaky he had become. He had been dog-tired when he’d ridden out with Mormon Will. Now he was thirsty to the point of passing out, as well as exhausted physically and emotionally.

  He rode back into Scorpion Bend, wondering how Miss Maggie was going to take the news that her newly hired bodyguard had failed—terribly.

  “Land ’o mercy, Slocum, you’re a fright,” Miss Maggie said as he wobbled into the saloon. He dropped into a chair. She called to Jed to fetch a bottle.

  “Water,” Slocum said, his voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper. “I can’t handle tarantula juice yet.” He took the dirty glass filled with muddy water and downed it. It tasted sweeter than any spring runoff water coming from high in the Rockies.

  “You look a fright, but I think there’s something more, isn’t there?” said Miss Maggie.

  Slocum related the story, finishing, “I left him out there. He deserves a burial. And if you can rustle up a posse, we might track down the varmint responsible.”

  “Varmint?” snorted Miss Maggie. Her lips thinned to a razor slash. “There’s not a one of these whoresons who wouldn’t kill Mormon Will. A dozen of ’em might have had it in for Will. That’s why you were hired.”

  “I’m sorry,” Slocum said.

  “There wasn’t much you could do, from the sound of it.” Miss Maggie frowned. Slocum worried she wouldn’t believe him, that the saloon owner might think he had killed Mormon Will for his own ends. With so much money floating around Scorpion Bend, any combination of money and treachery was possible.

  Slocum down
ed another glass of water and began thinking about whiskey. The way his mouth still felt like the inside of a cotton bale, he knew he had to get some more water. And his horse needed its fill too. And food. For both of them.

  “I promised,” Slocum said. “I said I wouldn’t let anyone hurt Mormon Will, and now he’s dead.”

  “So Southern gent that you are, you’re feeling mighty poorly about this?” she asked. A smile crossed her lips, replacing the one of grim determination that had been there before. Slocum wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she was going to suggest, but there was nothing he could do to stop her from suggesting it.

  Or him from accepting.

  “I furnish a horse and you ride. You said you were a cowpuncher. That means you’ve done some bronco busting in your day.”

  “There’s a difference between breaking a horse and playing jockey. I’ve raced with some Navajos at a chicken pull, but—”

  “They beat you?” Miss Maggie laughed. “You never gave up trying, though, even if your horse was dying under you? No, you didn’t,” she said, answering her own question. “I know your type, Slocum, and you’re what I need—what I want—for a rider.”

  “All I can promise is to do my best.”

  “I have a hunch it might be better than Mormon Will could have done.”

  “That was one fine horse he rode.”

  “I’ll see you get another one—and Black Velvet isn’t going to end up swayback. You’re nowhere near the weight to carry that Mormon Will was. Rocket was the stronger of the pair, so Mormon Will got him. But Black Velvet and you are a match made in heaven.” Miss Maggie laughed at this. Slocum felt tired and not a little wary of agreeing to ride in the Scorpion Bend race. But what choice did he have?

  Slocum yawned, stretched, and stepped out into the street, having slept all afternoon in the tiny second-floor hotel room. If it hadn’t been for Miss Maggie, he would have been sleeping in the stables. She was well respected and people around town did what she asked. He felt worlds better, as if he could lick his weight in wildcats as soon as he got a bite to eat. Scorpion Bend had not settled down during the heat of the day, and now that the sun was setting behind the distant peak—Arapaho Peak he had heard it called—it was downright pleasant and everyone came out to do their business.

  And talk about the race.

  Slocum had started for the small cafe down the street, one that didn’t look as if it would poison most of its customers, when he heard a heated argument from the doorway of the Ranchers Bank. A lovely young woman in a worn but clean gingham dress clutched a banker’s arm and pleaded with him.

  “I tell you, Miss Decker, there is nothing I can do.”

  “You can give me time to get the money. My pa’s laid up and can’t work. Give me more time. I can get the money, I swear.”

  “How?” asked the banker, jerking his arm free of her grip. “Bring in a crop in the next few days? Put that no-account brother of yours to work? Wait for Almighty God on High to come down and give you a pile of money? All of those are about equally likely to happen.”

  “Until after the race,” she pleaded. Slocum saw she was a handsome brunette, her wide-spaced brown eyes imploring, and she was having no luck at all with the banker.

  “So you can bet away what little money you have left?”

  “Why not? Why not let me see what can be done?”

  “I—” The banker shook his head, took a deep breath, then said, “I’m a fool, Miss Decker. There’s no reason for me to do this, but you can have ten days to raise the money. Not one second longer!”

  “Thank you,” she said, pumping his hand. “I knew you had a heart, no matter what everyone else says.”

  This seemed to please the banker. He smiled crookedly and said, “Don’t go tellin’ anyone else. They’ll want an extension on their loans too.” With that, he put on his tall silk hat, straightened the lapels of his expensive gray suit, and walked off into the gathering twilight, using his walking stick to whack at dogs in the street.

  The lovely brunette saw Slocum’s interest. She smiled slightly, nodded in his direction, and started off. Slocum matched her stride and walked alongside.

  “I hope you don’t think me too forward, but I overheard your conversation with the banker. You seem quite determined.”

  “I am.” She looked at him from the comer of her eyes. “You know anything about farming?”

  “Done a bit in my day,” Slocum said, “but the banker’s right. You won’t bring in a crop right now. Takes a lot of hard work.”

  “Nothing Frank’s likely to put up with,” she said.

  “Frank?”

  “My brother. Excuse me, sir. I am Rachel Decker.” She smiled prettily. Slocum introduced himself, touching the brim of his dusty Stetson. “My brother is a ne’er-do-well, and my father is laid up. I am in serious need of someone to help out on the farm. If you are not caught up in all this farce about the big race, I—” She bit off her query when she saw his expression. “Oh, you are involved in the race.”

  “Seems like it,” Slocum said, considering her offer. “How would you pay me if you can’t even make the mortgage payment?”

  “I ... I am facing the truth of the matter, Mr. Slocum. If I fix up the buildings, I can sell it for that much more. Payment would be out of the proceeds for the farm, the house, and everything that goes with it.”

  “That might not leave you very much.”

  Rachel shrugged. “So be it then. All I hope to do is get something for the farm before my brother gambles it all away.”

  From the saloons came the roar of boisterous drunks and games of chance running their course.

  “Bucking the tiger is no way to live, unless you know the odds,” Slocum said. He had done his share of gambling at faro, on both sides of the deck.

  “My brother often cannot remember his way home. He also drinks,” she said primly.

  Slocum considered doing some honest work, then thought of the obligation he owed Miss Maggie. He had been hired to safeguard her investment in Mormon Will, and he had failed within an hour of taking the job. He wasn’t much of a rider when it came to racing, but she held a claim on his time. And the money dangled in front of him was nothing less than astounding.

  He might win five thousand dollars or more if he bested the others in the race. From what Slocum figured, Miss Maggie stood to make a pile of money if he simply finished among the top ten riders. A ticket on him would go up almost ten times in value if that happened. From what he had seen of the others practicing their racing skills, he could beat them walking away. They were too aggressive, didn’t know how to pace their horses, and had way too much weight and way too little skill riding in their saddles.

  Slocum had to admit he had done some fancy racing in his day—mostly to outrun posses.

  But some in the race were willing to kill to win. He had seen that firsthand as he’d watched Mormon Will die in the Wyoming sun. Slocum had to be honest. Even with a strong horse, his chance of winning wasn’t too good. Working for Rachel Decker gave him a decent, if low-paying, job.

  More than that, she was about the prettiest woman he had seen in some time.

  “Why doesn’t your beau help out?” Slocum asked.

  Rachel Decker’s smile vanished, replaced by a coldness that chilled Slocum’s soul. “The Decker family is something of a pariah in these parts. No one will have anything to do with us. My pa hasn’t been the most upstanding citizen, and Frank is certainly following in his footsteps.”

  “The sins of the father carry to his daughter?” Slocum asked gently.

  “Ask around, Mr. Slocum. You’ll find the answer to that is yes. Good day, sir.” Rachel stalked off. Slocum let her go. She had spirit and seemed to be swimming against the current in Scorpion Bend. It might be better for her to make a break from her family and start over elsewhere.

  He considered her offer as he made his way to Miss Maggie’s saloon. An extra section in the tent had been opened up to take care of
the overflow crowd pressing in. Slocum edged around the flapping tent wall until he saw the owner and caught Miss Maggie’s eye. She came over, a glass in her hand.

  “You ready to sign on, Slocum?” she asked without so much as a “Howdy, how are you?”

  “Never done anything like this before,” he said truthfully.

  “The ten-dollars-a-day offer is gone,” she said. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you make it into the final five.”

  “What if I get to the final ten?” he asked.

  “Twenty-five dollars a day, use of the horse, room and board, and nothing more. You have to deliver for me to get the big money.”

  Slocum knew she would win a wad of greenbacks just on betting on a dark horse in the race. If he made the cut at the final ten, a ticket on him might go up more than ten times in value. A thousand dollars might be chicken feed.

  “Course, you can always bet on yourself,” she said. Then the woman fixed him with her steely gaze. “And if I find you’re betting on anyone else and then losing to him, I’ll cut your heart out personally.”

  “I wouldn’t throw the race,” Slocum said. “I might not take your offer, but I’m not the kind to cheat you.”

  “I believe you, Slocum. You are a Southern gentleman, under that rough exterior. But you make it sound like you have a better offer. Who made it? I’ll dicker.”

  “Wasn’t better, not in terms of money,” Slocum said. “Just appeals more to me.”

  “You can have a whale of a lot of appeal with a thick wad of greenbacks riding high in your pocket,” she pointed out. Miss Maggie finished the whiskey in her glass, then set it down on a table as if staking out her territory. “Let me know soon. I can get another rider, but it might take some doing.”

  “All right,” Slocum said. The saloon owner went to a table of gamblers, then joined in a hand of five-card stud. Slocum studied the older woman a spell, then turned to the bar and worked at sipping on a cool beer while he thought.

  Money and lots of it would be his if he reached the finals of the horse race. On the other hand, he wouldn’t get but a few dollars for his trouble if he didn’t finish in the top ten in the first day’s race. From the look of some of the men in the saloon, they were experienced riders and knew all the tricks.