Slocum and the Rebel Cannon Read online

  Slocum released his tight grip on the reins and gave the mare her head when she began getting restive. Although he had not spotted it, the horse had scented a watering hole. They left the road and meandered around dunes and into a rocky patch. He saw cottonwood trees growing, and knew he had found his oasis in the middle of this desolate land.

  Knowing dangerous animals had to water here, too, Slocum approached cautiously. He saw tracks of coyotes, rabbits, and even a lone deer in the mud circling the pond. The fact that there were only a few piles of bleached bones told him the water was probably sweet and cool. If there had been a large number of skeletons, the water would have been responsible. As it was, a handful of incautious beasts had been killed by quicker, hungrier predators.

  Just to be sure, Slocum scooped up a single cupped hand of water and sniffed it before tasting the glorious wetness. No bitter alkali taste.

  “Don’t drink too much,” Slocum warned his horse, letting the mare thrust her nose down to the water.

  “Could give you the same advice,” came a cold voice.

  Slocum reached for his six-shooter, but froze when he heard the metallic click of a cocking rifle. “Who might you be?”

  “Now, you got things all ass backward,” came the answer. “I ask, you answer. You know anything about gunfire ’bout an hour back? I saw buzzards high up in the sky earlier in the day, but not now.”

  “Sun can do bad things to a man’s eyes,” Slocum said. He looked down into the pool and caught the reflection of the man in the limbs of the cottonwood behind him. While the image was indistinct, he saw that the rifle trained on his back did not waver. It seemed to Slocum that he had had his fill of having men prodding him with questions and pointing rifles at him.

  “Not to mine,” the man said. “I was whelped by a sidewinder and raised by a coyote.”

  The ripples in the water momentarily obscured the reflection, but Slocum caught enough to see that the man was climbing down out of the cottonwood tree. To do this he had to lift the muzzle of his rifle.

  Moving fast, Slocum dropped, rolled, and went for his six-gun. He had it out and pointed in the direction of the tree, only to find the rifleman was hidden by the thick trunk.

  “You give up and drop that gun. I’m a Texas Ranger and you’re under arrest!”

  “What for?” Slocum froze. His finger was halfway back on the trigger. It didn’t make no never-mind to him if he killed a road agent or a Ranger. Anyone who pointed a gun in his direction deserved the same fate.

  “You’re a feisty one,” the Ranger said, keeping the tree between him and Slocum.

  Exposed by the edge of the pool, Slocum knew he had to get to cover before the Texas Ranger found himself a spot where he could hide and shoot at the same time.

  Slocum rolled left and then flung himself hard to the right and kept rolling. A tiny puff of dirt popped up where he had been, showing how near the bullet had come to killing him. Slocum got to his feet, feinted, and then found himself some cover behind a fallen log. It was half-rotted and a rifle slug would rip right on through it, but Slocum wanted it more to hide than for protection. He took a few seconds to get his wits about him and figure out what had to be done.

  “You’re only makin’ it worse on yourself,” the Ranger called. Slocum followed the sound of the voice. The man was retreating from the tree, going through some underbrush. The faint sound of a horse whinnying told Slocum the Texas Ranger wanted to get mounted.

  Slocum could retreat himself, but then he would have a Ranger on his tail, on top of everyone else already looking for him. Reloading, Slocum gathered his feet under him and then exploded up and out, running hard for the cottonwood where the Ranger had laid his ambush. Using the same tree for cover, Slocum spotted the lawman and fired twice.

  “Damn you, I’ll see you swing for this,” the Ranger cried. “You shot me!”

  Slocum didn’t bother to answer. If he had hit his foe, it had been little more than a scratch. The Ranger was trying to lure him closer.

  Crouching down, aiming his six-shooter, Slocum waited. During the war he had been a sniper, and a good one. He might sit for hours in a tree waiting for the flash of sunlight off a Yankee officer’s gold braid. A single expert shot could turn the tide of battle, and often had. Slocum had developed patience enough to make the ones he hunted antsy. For more than ten minutes, he held his position, breathing shallowly and keeping his eyes moving for any sign of the Ranger.

  Slocum had to hand it to the lawman. He had patience, too, but eventually he came to think that Slocum had slipped away. Foolishly, he stood up to look around. Slocum was ready when he did. His finger drew back the rest of the way on his six-shooter and sent a slug flying.

  The Texas Ranger grunted and fell back into the thicket. Slocum waited another minute, but the lawman did not move a muscle.

  It was prudent to put another slug into the Ranger’s body to be sure, but Slocum chose to slip back and find his mare. He mounted and rode steadily westward toward the Guadalupe Mountains. Finding the money had been a godsend for him, but his luck had turned bad after that. He had killed two soldiers and maybe a Ranger. No matter it had been in self-defense both times. Slocum knew Texas was suddenly no place to linger.

  It was time to see what Arizona or even California had to offer in the way of sanctuary.

  2

  John Slocum rode into the dusty, dry town of Sidewinder looking all around. He had reached the foothills and had spotted a road leading deeper into the Guadalupe Mountains. Thinking it might afford more in the way of water than continuing along the road heading for El Paso, and with his horse badly in need of rest, he had followed the winding canyons until he came onto this little town sitting in the saddle between two sheer cliffs. The residents must not have any fear of rock slides since they lived smack between a pair of hundred-foot-tall mesas. It made Slocum a mite uneasy, but he rode ahead past the town’s crudely lettered sign and down the main street, such as it was.

  He had seen a hundred other towns that looked identical. There was no good reason for Sidewinder to exist, yet it did. The ground was too rocky for crops, there didn’t seem to be any mining going on in the surrounding hills, and yet the town was here. All Slocum could figure was that this road led somewhere north and was the shortest way there.

  “From nowhere to nowhere,” he grumbled under his breath. All he wanted was to be on his way as quickly as possible. Two dead soldiers, and a Texas Ranger either dead or so close to it that it didn’t matter, lay behind him. When they were discovered, he might have not only the entire Ninth and Tenth Cavalry after him, but also a passel of Texas Rangers.

  He drew his mare to a dead halt in the center of the street, and simply stared at a sign swinging slowly in the feeble breeze. Slocum would have spat but his mouth was too dry.

  The sign read: RANGER COMPANY G. The building looked deserted, but Slocum knew better than to poke his nose inside to find out. He had found the town where an entire company of Texas Rangers called their home. It was definitely time to keep moving. If the Ranger he had plugged lived and got word to any of his partners, it would end up here in Sidewinder, maybe in this very building.

  Slocum snapped his reins and got the tired mare moving farther along the main street to a solitary saloon. It was late afternoon, and folks had yet to quit their jobs and come pouring in to swap lies and knock back bitter, warm beer. This was about perfect for Slocum. He could wet his whistle, have his horse tended to, and be a mile down the trail before anyone noticed.

  He rode farther down the street to the livery and dismounted. It took the better part of ten minutes’ haggling to pay over the two dollars for his horse to be fed and groomed.

  “That there mare’s hobblin’ a mite,” the stable man said. “You notice that? Front right hoof.”

  “Do tell.” Slocum leaned against the horse and got the leg raised. His eyebrows rose. “You’ve got sharp eyes. The shoe’s coming loose.”

  “Looks as if you’da l
ost that there shoe in a day or two out in the hills. Real rocky travelin’ from this point on, no matter what direction you head.”

  “Is there a farrier who can tend to it?”

  “That’d be my brother,” the stable man said. “He’ll be back in an hour or so. He kin git right to it. Fer another five.”

  Slocum dickered some more and paid three dollars to have his mare reshod. With so much money riding high in his shirt pocket, he fought over the price as if it mattered out of pure habit. Most times, five dollars would be a week’s pay.

  “There a restaurant in town worth the name?”

  “Cain’t say there is. You might git some victuals down at the Lone Star Emporium. Ole Man Justin’s kinda cheap when it comes to puttin’ out food, but he don’t poison nobody with it when he does. The Lone Star’s the last decent saloon ’fore you git to Bitter Springs. From Bitter Springs you kin git north to New Mexico in a day or two, and we all know they don’t have no good waterin’ holes up there.”

  “Reckon not,” Slocum said, not wanting to argue the point.

  Slocum left his horse in the stable man’s capable hands and sauntered down the street. When he spotted the stagecoach office, he veered across the dusty street and went inside. A bespectacled clerk slept, his head resting on his crossed arms as he sat behind a desk.

  Slocum did not bother waking the man. Instead, he poked around, looking for wanted posters or some evidence a stage had been robbed. There was no reason a stagecoach had come from Sidewinder—or was coming here—when it lost its strongbox, but there was a chance that news of such a robbery would be posted all along the company’s route.

  A nail had been driven into a post and used to hold a dozen sheets of paper. Slocum slowly worked his way through them, hunting for any mention of a robbery or a reward for the return of the strongbox. All he found were scribbled notes he could not read and what appeared to be receipts for boarding the teams of horses used by the stage company. A smile came to his face when he saw that he had gotten a good rate over at the livery stables.

  The clerk’s snoring suddenly turned to a snort. The man stirred, pushed his glasses up his nose, and went back to sleep without ever seeing Slocum. Satisfied that he could find nothing about a robbery, and still wondering where the strongbox and all the money came from, Slocum left the office to go to the Lone Star Emporium. As he pushed through the saloon’s doors, he felt the intense heat billowing outward. He had thought it was hot on the desert, and stifling as he rode between the towering canyon walls to reach Sidewinder, but this place was only an inch away from being on fire.

  He went to the bar and leaned on it. It took a few seconds to get the barkeep’s attention. The short, mousy man came over. Beady eyes fixed on Slocum.

  “You got the look of a man wantin’ a beer.”

  “It’s too damn hot in here,” Slocum said. “Why do you keep the stove all stoked up like that?”

  “Good fer business. Warm beer’s a nickel. Cold is a dime.”

  “You just sold me on a cold one then,” Slocum said. “What’d it take for you to stop throwing wood on the stove?”

  “More’n you got, mister.”

  Slocum took the mug and pressed his fingers against it, expecting it to be hot. To his surprise the beer was icy cold.

  “Get ice from up north at Las Vegas,” the barkeep said. “Pay through the nose for it, you gotta believe, but it’s worth it.”

  “Adds a penny to the cost?” Slocum guessed. That gave the saloon an extra four cents profit for the same brew. He lifted the cold beer and drank it slowly, steadily, until only foam remained on the mug rim. He had another waiting for him before he put the glass down on the bar.

  “You got a good head for business. Might be you’d like a job? Got another shift as barkeep to fill.”

  “Not bouncer?” Slocum sipped more slowly at the beer, wanting it to last. All the way down his gullet, it left a cold trail that spread throughout his body and made him feel more alive than he had since he’d ridden out into the hot West Texas desert days earlier.

  “No call fer a bouncer.” The barkeep jerked his thumb in the direction of four men coming into the saloon. Slocum looked and was sorry he did. All four sported badges. “Texas Rangers,” the barkeep explained. “Got ’em comin’ ’n goin’ all the time. Nobody’s gonna fool around them.”

  “A whole company? That’s a powerful lot of law for a tiny town like Sidewinder.”

  “We don’t mind. ’Bout the only business this town’s got left, other than bein’ on the sole route north through the Guadalupe Mountains. They spend their pay and keep things real quiet.”

  “Why so many?” Slocum asked again.

  “Apaches,” the barkeep said, looking sour. “Cain’t git rid of them redskins no matter how we try. Put ’em on a reservation and they’re off ’fore you can blink an eye. If it ain’t Nana, it’s Victorio and his witch sister Lozen. I hear tell she fights like a man and has the sight.”

  “The sight?”

  “She kin tell where the enemy is. And Nana—he’s older than dirt—he can find guns and ammo jist by holdin’ up his hands. They get all red and hot when he’s pointed in the right direction. Magical, they are. And too dangerous to ever tangle with.”

  “Unless you’ve got a company of Texas Rangers to back you up.”

  The barkeep laughed and said, “Nope. Better to follow ’em than lead ’em.”

  He scurried off like a rat to serve the four Rangers.

  Slocum did not want to give the appearance of hurrying, but he was getting antsy having four Rangers in the same room with him. He wasn’t the kind to sweat when he got into a tight spot, but he felt his shirt sticking to his whip-cord muscular torso because of the stove pouring out its heat. Finishing his beer, he started for the door, but a cold voice froze him in his tracks.

  “Where you think you’re goin’, mister?”

  Slocum turned slowly and faced the four Rangers seated at a table near the door.

  “Got to check on my horse, if it’s any business of yours, Ranger.”

  “Don’t go lettin’ Slim here get your goat, mister. Come on over. Pull up a chair.” Another Ranger kicked out and sent a chair sliding in Slocum’s direction. A dozen things raced through his mind and none of them ended well. The one with the least trouble attached to it convinced Slocum he ought to take the chair and bluff his way through.

  “That’s mighty neighborly of you,” Slocum said, swinging the chair around and sitting on it, a little farther from the table than any of the Rangers.

  “Justin, bring our friend another beer.”

  “A cold one,” Slocum added. He waited to see the Rangers’ reaction. He relaxed a little when they laughed.

  “You ain’t been in Sidewinder long but you figgered out Justin’s game, eh? Good fer you.” The Ranger named Slim laughed even more at this. “He’s a wheeler-dealer, Justin is. We all reckon he keeps this place hot, not to sell more whiskey, but so his customers’ll know what hell feels like.”

  “Then they’ll feel right at home when Justin serves ’em there,” finished another.

  Slim looked hard at Slocum, who did not flinch.

  “You got the look of a man I knew once. You ever been down in San Antone?”

  “A time or two,” Slocum said. “I just came from punching cattle for the Double Cross north of Fort Worth.”

  “How’s Benton doing?”

  Slocum shook his head sadly. “That’s why I rode on. Fever killed a considerable number of his herd. Storms killed even more. Benton’s balancing on the edge of losing everything.”

  “Pity,” said Slim. “I was just over in that direction. Things are ’bout as grim as you make ’em out.”

  Slocum knew he had established his bona fides. Now he just wanted to finish his third beer and clear out.

  “You come from the direction of the Pecos? Of course you did,” Slim rambled on without waiting for Slocum’s answer. “You see a gang of men anywhere along
the road?”

  “A gang? You looking for road agents?”

  “The worst,” said another of the Rangers. He leaned forward, forearms on the table, and leaned close as if he was sharing a secret. “You ever heard of the Rebel Jack Holtz Gang?”

  Slocum had played enough poker to keep his face emotionless. Or at least he hoped so, since all four of the Rangers watched him like hawks. He took a sip of the cool beer, put it down on the table, then nodded slowly.

  “Reckon I have. That’s one mean hombre.”

  “Sooner kill you as talk to you,” Slim said. “How’d you hear about Rebel Jack?”

  Slocum shrugged. “Word gets around. It might have been something Mr. Benton said about rustlers.”

  “Rebel Jack’s a rustler and a robber and a stone-cold killer. I’d as soon go up against an Apache war chief as him.” Slim kept his eye on Slocum, waiting and watching for a mistake.

  And Slocum knew why he was getting this treatment. Not only was he a stranger in Sidewinder, he had a well-worn six-shooter slung at his hip where he could get to it in a hurry. He looked like a gunfighter to these lawmen. And if he was a gunfighter, he might be one of Rebel Jack’s men come to taunt the Rangers on their doorstep.

  “No wonder you’ve got an entire company of Rangers here in Sidewinder,” Slocum said. “Wish you luck catching him and his gang.”

  “You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary ridin’ up?” The Ranger doing the questioning now sat across the table from Slocum and had both hands under the table. Slocum tried to remember how the lawman wore his six-shooter. If it was slung at his right hip, dragging it out in a hurry would be hard.