Slocum and the Devil's Rope Page 5

  “You still in one piece, Slocum?” Garvin took the rope from his mouth and held it in his left hand while still clutching the rifle in his right.

  “I am, thanks to you,” Slocum said. He looked around for sign that the cowboy hadn’t finished off the rustlers but saw no movement anywhere on the canyon floor.

  Aware of how naked he felt without ammunition, Slocum walked to the nearest outlaw and plucked his rifle from his nerveless hands. A second one had been drilled smack dab between the eyes. Slocum took his rifle, too.

  “Ain’t much use strippin’ all of ’em, is there?”

  Slocum walked back to where Garvin beamed at him. He restlessly ran his hand over the black rope with the silver thread running the length, then dropped it, formed a loop, and began spinning as expertly as any cowboy Slocum had ever seen.

  “What happened to Blassingame?”

  “He fell off his horse at the mouth of the canyon. I seen him and came in to find what the fuss was. Reckoned you needed some help.”

  “I needed more than that. I needed a whole damn company of cavalry,” Slocum said. He smiled ruefully. “Looks like I got the next best thing. That was about the dumbest thing you’ve done since trying to ride that piebald mustang.”

  Tom Garvin scowled, as if trying to decide if Slocum was making fun of him. Then an arrogance settled on him like a well-fitting coat.

  “I was what the doctor ordered. Pulled your bacon out of the fire.”

  “We have to get Blassingame tended to,” Slocum said.

  “Why don’t you find where these owlhoots left their horses and get a couple?”

  “Good idea,” Slocum said. He went to his felled horse and pulled his gear out from under the dead weight. Slinging the saddle over his shoulder, he started walking deeper into the canyon.

  “You get all saddled up and we kin take this itty-bitty herd back to the Bar M,” Garvin said.

  Slocum saw nothing wrong with that. They had to go in that direction to get Blassingame, so why not drive the two-dozen beeves along with them?

  He found where the outlaws had left their horses, chose the best, riffled through the saddlebags, and took a few dollars. But there wasn’t much else worth claiming. He saddled and rode to the far end of the canyon. As he had thought, a tall, narrow wall of rock hid an exit from what otherwise looked to be a box canyon.

  “Come on, Slocum, ’less you want me to do all yer work for you!”

  Garvin laughed joyfully, swung his black rope, and whacked a few bovine butts and got the herd moving.

  Slocum positioned himself to the rear on the far side of the herd, and they made quick work of moving the cattle back from the canyon and onto the range.

  “I’ll take care of Blassingame,” Slocum said when they got to the fallen foreman. “You go on and get the beeves to the corral.”

  “Think I kin git my job back?”

  “I’ll speak for you,” Slocum said. He heaved Blassingame to a sitting position. The foreman had taken quite a tumble from his horse but was still conscious. The foreman’s eyelids flickered.

  “Him? That Garvin? That the son of a bitch what saved us?”

  “Sure enough,” Slocum said, heaving the foreman to his feet. Once more he got the man astride his horse. This time Blassingame rode with his eyes fixed on Garvin’s back all the way to the ranch house.

  Magnuson stood on the porch, hands on his hips, watching Garvin and Slocum get the cattle into the fenced field behind the barn. Blassingame rode over. The rancher caught him as he slid from the saddle. Putting an arm around his foreman’s shoulders, Magnuson guided the wounded man to the steps.

  By the time Slocum rode over, the rancher had the story from Blassingame.

  “That wet-behind-the-ears boy, he saved you both?” Magnuson fixed Slocum with a steely gaze.

  “Can’t praise him highly enough,” Slocum said. “I was a goner. A dozen rustlers had me dead to rights, and they’d already shot up Blassingame.”

  “That’s not your horse.”

  “The rustlers shot mine. This is one of theirs. Got another, too. Garvin killed two of them, maybe more.”

  Tom Garvin rode over. He ran his hand back and forth over the black rope fastened in a loop to his saddle. Slocum was glad the cowboy understood that it wasn’t his place to say anything. Garvin sat and waited.

  “You want your job back?” Magnuson looked from Blassingame to Slocum and then at Garvin. “Jed agrees you deserve another chance. Slocum’s in agreement.”

  “Not sure I want the job,” Garvin said, “after the way I was treated.” Seeing Magnuson bristle, Garvin hurried on. “But it’s a decent offer, and I’ll take you up on it, sir.”

  “You watch your step. Saving those steers saved your job.”

  Garvin and Magnuson traded a few more remarks, but Slocum paid them no attention. He saw Christine standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, hip cocked provocatively, hand resting on it. The tiny smile she gave was just for him. Slocum found himself wanting to dismount and go tell her pa what he and his daughter had been up to. Magnuson would likely try to fire him, but it might be worth it.

  Then Christine stepped out and called, “Papa, the bed is ready for Mr. Blassingame. We can get him fixed up in nothing flat.”

  Magnuson started to say something more to Garvin, then spun and helped his foreman up the steps. Slocum envied Blassingame, the way the woman put her arm around his waist and helped him along. She gave Slocum one quick glance over her shoulder, then guided the foreman into the house and disappeared. Magnuson slammed the door with a finality that caused Slocum to jump.

  “This is my lucky day,” Garvin said, laughing. “I get fired, then I save a whole passel of cows and chase off rustlers before gettin’ my job back.”

  Slocum looked hard at the boy.

  “How’d you come to be riding by when you did?”

  Garvin shrugged.

  “That was a damned fool thing to do, too, charging smack into the outlaws the way you did. How’d you come to chase off the entire gang? They had to know you weren’t leading a posse.”

  “I told you, Slocum. Luck. You ain’t gainsayin’ it, now are you? Saved your hide.” Garvin looked at the closed ranch house door. “And his life, too. Not sure that was such a good thing.”

  “Blassingame’s not so bad,” Slocum said. “Worked for worse. He’s got a hair-trigger temper’s all.”

  “How much more does a foreman make than a range rider like us?”

  The question took Slocum by surprise. Garvin was showing ambition that had never surfaced before. He had done nothing but work hard to learn his job as a cowboy and never had mentioned any interest in doing anything more.

  “You might as well wish for Hashknife’s job,” Slocum said. “Blassingame and Magnuson have been a team for nigh on ten years. Leastways, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  During pillow talk with Christine, he had learned a great deal about Magnuson and Jed Blassingame. She had wanted to impress him with what good men they were. She obviously thought as highly of the foreman as she did her pa, maybe because he was around and taking care of her almost as much when Magnuson was traveling on business.

  “A blind leper could cook as good as Hashknife,” Garvin said. “Bein’ foreman’s a job I could come to like, bossin’ folks around and not havin’ to do much.”

  “He got shot up because we went after the strays,” Slocum said.

  “Blassingame got paid more for his day’s work than you did, Slocum.” Garvin shook his head, tugged on the reins, and got his new horse headed for the barn.

  Slocum trailed him, wondering at the change he saw in Garvin’s attitude. There was hardly any gratitude for getting his job back. Even after saving the foreman’s life, Tom Garvin might not have been rehired. Magnuson was
a stiff son of a bitch with a broomstick crammed up his ass. It was a tribute as much to Slocum as it was to Blassingame that he had offered Garvin his job back.

  “Yes, sir, Slocum, things is lookin’ up for this stud cowboy,” Garvin said, kicking open the bunkhouse door. He heaved his gear around onto his old bunk. For a moment he stared at the saddlebags resting on the bunk.

  Slocum wondered if he was going to ask for another bed. Garvin had complained before about this one being bedbug ridden. That was hardly the only infested one, but he hadn’t seen fit to burn his mattress and make a new one.

  Garvin turned and faced Slocum.

  “You got any gun-cleanin’ supplies?”

  “Why’d you want any? For your rifle? You left that with your saddle. You’d better get your horse curried and fed before you think on cleaning it.”

  “I mean my six-shooter,” the cowboy said. He opened the saddlebags and pulled out a blued-steel Smith & Wesson.

  “You take that off one of the outlaws?”

  “Why not? He wasn’t gonna need it no more.” Garvin spun it around on his trigger finger and stopped its swing pointed straight at Slocum. “Bang, yer dead.”

  Slocum batted the barrel aside.

  “Don’t ever point that gun at anybody you don’t intend to shoot.”

  “Aw, I was just funnin’ with you, Slocum. How’d you get so sour all of a sudden?”

  “I always get that way when people who don’t know how to handle a six-shooter point it at me.”

  “I kin learn. Hell, I’m learnin’ ever’thing about ranchin’. Like I said, Blassingame’s job’ll be mine real soon. Can’t be all that hard tellin’ the hands to go rope and brand and round up cows. They’re danged stupid.”

  Slocum wasn’t sure if he meant the cows or the cowboys. As cocky as Garvin had become, it could have been either—or both. For all his fiery temper, Jed Blassingame never ragged on his men as being stupid, even when they did stupid things. He wasn’t above egging them on, as he had done with Garvin to ride the piebald, but he didn’t make a point of their mistakes.

  “You know how to clean a six-gun?” Slocum went to his bunk and pulled out a box under it holding gear he didn’t want to carry out on the range. He took the wire brush and solvent, held them for a moment, then passed them to Garvin. “You need a rag. Clean out the gunpowder in the barrel, then be sure everything’s oiled, but not too much. You don’t want to drown the mechanism or you’ll end up with dust clogging the trigger.”

  “Take my horse to the barn, will you, while I clean my new piece.” Garvin spun it again, then made like he was shooting outlaws again.

  Slocum left the cowboy to his chore, gathered the reins on the horses, and led them to the barn. He unsaddled his new horse and examined the hooves, shoes, and teeth. While sorry he’d had his last mount shot down, this wasn’t a bad replacement. The brand on the hindquarters was indistinct, as if the previous owner had tried running the brand. Which he probably had. Why stop with stealing cattle?

  He had barely curried the horse and poured some grain into a nosebag when the gunshot rang out. Slocum ran to the barn door, hand on his own six-shooter, aware that he had neglected to reload. That had been on his mind until Garvin distracted him, wanting to use the cleaning supplies for his captured six-gun.

  “Who’s shooting up the place?” Magnuson stood on the porch, shotgun in his hand. He pushed Christine back into the house, then stomped into the yard to look around. “You fire your gun, Slocum?”

  “Nope,” he said, heading for the bunkhouse. “The shot came from inside.”

  “Inside? Nobody’s there. All the hands are out on the range right now.”

  “Except Garvin. He was cleaning his pistol.”

  “What consarned fool gave that greenhorn a gun? Tarnation.” Magnuson stormed to the bunkhouse, pushed open the door with the shotgun barrel, and peered inside cautiously. “Son of a bitch. He’s upped and killed himself.”

  Slocum crowded past the rancher. He sucked in his breath. Tom Garvin lay on the floor, his shirt stained with blood from the bullet wound to his heart.

  6

  Slocum dropped to his knees beside the supine man and pressed fingers into his throat. He looked up at Magnuson and said, “He’s still alive.”

  “Hell’s bells, there’s no way I can take care of a wound like that.” Magnuson poked with the muzzle of the shotgun to move part of Garvin’s bullet-holed shirt away from the wound. “During the war I worked as a medic’s assistant and learned to do damn near anything he could, but this isn’t something I can deal with.”

  “You took care of Blassingame,” Slocum said.

  “His wounds were nothing compared to this.” Magnuson shook his head. “Hate like hell to let him die here, but there’s not much else to do.”

  Slocum slid the black rope Garvin fancied so under the man’s body and hoisted him erect using it. Garvin moaned, and his eyelids fluttered but otherwise showed no sign of life.

  “Where are you going with him?”

  “To the wagon. I can get him to the doctor in town.”

  “Abbey? That old derelict?” Magnuson sucked on his teeth a moment, then nodded. “If Garvin lives long enough, Abbey’s good enough a sawbones to save him. I’ve seen him work miracles.” He heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. “I’ve seen him so drunk he could barely hit the floor with his own puke, too.”

  Slocum bent forward and settled Garvin on his back. The man’s feeble stirring convinced him it was worth the trip to town, even if it wasn’t likely to be as pleasurable as the last he had taken with Christine. The return trip was likely to be even less agreeable since he didn’t see how Garvin could survive the short miles to town, much less a doctor who tippled.

  “I’ll get the team,” Magnuson said. He rushed past Slocum and his burden.

  By the time Slocum staggered up and swung his load into the wagon, Magnuson had finished hitching up the horses.

  “Stay on the far left side of the road as you go into town. The potholes are smaller, and the sides are built up different. Makes for a smoother ride.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  “Have him buried in the town cemetery,” Magnuson said as Slocum snapped the reins and got the wagon rolling. “No reason to fetch the corpse back.”

  As Slocum passed the ranch house, he saw Christine peering from a window. She looked drawn, apprehensive. He touched the brim of his hat to her—this was all he dared do with her pa watching every bump and lurch of the wagon as it left the yard and got on the road to town. Slocum didn’t know if he eased Christine’s worry. Her pa would report back what had happened. It was odd for Slocum to find anyone who cared for him, who showed concern for his well- being.

  He’d be a damned fool not to marry her. All the way into Central City he thought of her, her soft caresses on his face and the lusty moves of her hips, the soft breath against his chest afterward. Remembering all this kept him from wondering if Tom Garvin was going to die before he reached town, not that Dr. Abbey was likely to perform any kind of miracle with a wound that severe. The only thing Slocum knew for a fact was how lucky Garvin was not to have killed himself outright.

  Nobody paid him any attention as he rolled down the middle of the narrow main street. The sun was sinking low, making driving hard, even with his hat pulled down. He had to twist his head around a mite to keep the failing light from shining through the bullet hole in his hat brim. He drew back on the reins and brought the team to a halt outside the doctor’s office. A shingle swung fitfully in the evening breeze. LLOYD ABBEY, MD, it read in flaking gold letters on a whitewashed board.

  Slocum wrapped the reins around the brake and vaulted to the ground. His legs almost gave out. All during the ride into town, he had been tensed up, his feet pressing hard against the fro
nt of the wagon box. Now that he had to support himself, those muscles refused to move right, all knotted up. Hobbling, he went directly into the doctor’s office.

  A small, peevish-looking man with thinning white hair looked up from a book open on the desk in front of him.

  “Don’t you know how to knock? Get out of here, close the door, and leave me be.” Abbey turned up the kerosene lamp to shine more light on his book as he turned back to it.

  “Man’s wounded bad,” Slocum said.

  The doctor heaved a sigh of disgust, carefully inserted a bookmark to save his place, and closed the book. He pushed back and pointed to a table in the middle of the room.

  “Set yourself down and let me look at those legs. You been crippled up like this long?”

  “Not me—Tom Garvin. Out in the wagon.”

  Abbey made vague shooing motions as if chasing away flies.

  “Can he walk?”

  “Caught a bullet through the heart.”

  This produced a look of utter disgust. Abbey turned back to his desk.

  “My cousin’s no-good son runs the undertaking parlor. On the edge of town, out near the cemetery. Convenient for him, I’d say, and it might be the only smart thing he ever did, picking that location for his store. That’s what he calls it. An undertaker’s store.” He snorted and started to sit once more.

  Slocum left, grabbed the ends of the rope around Garvin, and heaved him onto his back again. It took some maneuvering to get through the door and put the wounded cowboy onto the examination table.

  “I told you I don’t deal with dead bodies. Not intentionally. That’s—”

  “He’s still alive.” Slocum took Garvin’s wrist and lifted. The cowboy tried to feebly yank away as he moaned.

  “Then tell me that. Don’t spin a tall tale about him getting shot through the heart.” Dr. Abbey settled pince-nez glasses on the end of his Roman nose and bent over Garvin. Delicate fingers pried loose the shirt glued to a heaving chest by dried blood.