Slocum and the British Bully Page 6

  Before entering, he looked around for the other servants. He hadn’t seen any of the trio since leaving to scout for the grizzly. They had either run off or been killed. Somehow, Slocum thought it might be better for them if they were all feathered with Paiute war arrows and being eaten by bugs and buzzards. It would save them from being tortured to death.

  He went in, the canvas flap making a soft sighing noise behind him. William Cheswick looked up, a leer on his face that sent new chills through Slocum.

  “What have you done now?” Then Slocum saw the Indian squaw tied to a tent pole, stripped to the waist.

  “She is quite attractive, for being one of them,” Cheswick said. He lounged back with a drink in his hand. For the first time Slocum saw Quinton standing toward the rear of the tent. The servant looked like Slocum felt inside.

  “You’re stark raving mad treating her like this,” Slocum raged. “She has brothers and a father and maybe a husband. The Paiutes aren’t known for being too friendly. You’ve assured us of an all-out attack because of the way you’re treating her.”

  “She has nice bosoms,” Cheswick said, as if he had not heard Slocum. “The chill of evening makes her nipples into hard little copper-colored pebbles.”

  Slocum stepped between the squaw and Cheswick and put his hand on his six-gun. He stopped when he saw that the Britisher held a derringer in the hand not clutching his drink.

  “I would not like to kill you, Slocum, but I will if you attempt to thwart me.”

  “Thwart you? The Paiutes will scalp you!”

  “They already did their worst and I survived.” Cheswick raised himself from the pillows where he rested and moved his shoulder about. “Their arrow incapacitated me, but your quick attention made it all well again. Or mostly so. I still feel a twinge deep inside.” Cheswick chuckled, as if he had made a joke.

  “The only thing you’ll feel inside is the cold steel of a knife blade slicing out your guts.”

  “You are overwrought. Did you find a bear for me to kill?” Cheswick peered at Slocum over the rim of his glass, which was filled with smoky-colored whiskey. It was so potent, Slocum could smell the liquor from across the tent. Cheswick might be drinking to ease the pain he had to feel from his wound, but Slocum doubted he was drunk. That made his behavior even more infuriating.

  “No,” Slocum said.

  “A pity. It would be instructive to bag a grizzly, then have Little Flower skin it and prepare a meal in some traditional barbaric style. That would be quite the banquet, quite the celebration.”

  “Little Flower?”

  “My name for her since she won’t speak. In fact, all she does is spit at me, which is why I have her tied across the tent. No matter how she tries, she can’t quite reach me with her next dollop of spittle.” Cheswick held up his glass. Quinton hurried forward and handed his master another one already filled with Scotch whiskey.

  “Your Indian name is Half Wit,” Slocum said.

  “You no longer amuse me, Slocum. Get out of the way. I want to study her aboriginal beauty some more.”

  “Look all you want but don’t touch her. The Indians have a way of cutting off parts of anatomy that offend them.”

  “My, thank you for the warning. I am quite attached to most of my parts.” Cheswick laughed as he scratched his balls. He lounged back and continued drinking, the derringer never straying from a spot dead center on Slocum’s chest.

  “I warned you.”

  “About nothing in particular,” Cheswick said. “Go out and find a bear. Do that and I may forgive you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be holding my breath waiting for that.” Slocum left, Quinton hurrying behind him. The servant reached out and caught Slocum’s arm. He jerked free.

  “Please, do not anger him. When he gets into one of these moods, he is likely to do terrible things.”

  “He already has,” Slocum said, tilting his head to indicate the sorry spectacle inside the huge tent.

  “He humiliates people. It is how he controls them,” Quinton said.

  “Where are the other two servants?”

  Quinton’s eyes grew big. He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know. They might have run off when the aborigines attacked.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Lord William went out to hunt for grouse and came upon the Indian encampment. He saw, uh, Little Flower and took a fancy to her.”

  “A fancy,” Slocum said, getting madder by the minute. He started back into the tent to settle accounts once and for all. Quinton moved quickly and interposed himself.

  “He will get over it. He kidnapped her, and the Indians tracked him back to camp. They attacked. Burl and Charles fought well. They might have escaped. I don’t know, but I helped Lady Abigail hide, and then lost track of Lord William. He must have slipped from camp with Little Flower and tried to hide.”

  “I know the rest,” Slocum said in disgust.

  “Don’t do anything, Slocum,” Quinton said. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and looked frantic. “He has a temper. There’s no telling what he might do if he takes it into his head.”

  “There’s nothing he can do that’ll compare with a mad Paiute warrior,” Slocum said. He pushed past Quinton and walked into the twilight. He saw Abigail’s shadow against the side of her tent, and turned to stare at the larger tent where Cheswick had his Indian captive. There was only one thing that could be done.

  Slocum made sure his horse and another were saddled; then he hunkered down to wait. He dozed off several times, but when he came awake with a start, he knew it was time. Glancing at the stars told him it was past midnight. Cheswick would be asleep or passed out from so much whiskey. Slocum hoped he wasn’t alongside the squaw in bed.

  Quieter than a shadow moving along the ground, Slocum went to Cheswick’s tent and pulled back the flap. A candle guttered on a table next to where Cheswick sprawled in a chair. His head lolled to the side, and he snored like a buzz saw. Slocum let the flap drop behind him to keep a vagrant air current from rousing the sleeping British lord.

  He walked directly to the tent pole where the Paiute woman was still tied. She came alert and started to spit at him, but Slocum was quick and anticipated her move by forcing his hand over her mouth. He knew some Ute, and a bit more Navajo and Apache, but doubted speaking any of those languages would calm her. He also knew some Shoshone, but speaking that would infuriate her since the Shoshone were traditional enemies of her tribe.

  Keeping his left hand over her mouth was a chore since she tried to bite him. He drew his knife. Her eyes went wide with fear, then narrowed as she prepared to die by his hand. He made two quick slashes that cut the ropes on her hands. She tried to hit him, but had been tied so long her hands lacked dexterity.

  Slocum silently motioned with his knife for her to follow. Slowly releasing her and stepping away caused him a moment’s anguish. She started directly for the sleeping William Cheswick, her fingers curled into claws. Slocum lifted his knife and poked her in the belly with the hilt. Hatred boiled in her dark eyes, and Slocum could not fault her for that. But he wanted her out of the camp as fast as possible. He poked her again, and herded her out of the tent into the cold night.

  For a moment, she stood and stared up at the stars. The expression on her face was one of triumph. It quickly vanished and the anger returned.

  “This way,” Slocum said softly, figuring she knew enough English to understand. He hurried to where he had left his and another horse waiting. Only once did he have to stop and pull her along when she hesitated in the escape. He didn’t have to speak her language to know her thoughts.

  She wanted Cheswick dead. Slocum wondered why he didn’t let her have her way with the Brit. Then he saw the shadow of Abigail moving inside her tent as she paced about restlessly. Why she couldn’t sleep didn’t matter. Slocum didn’t want her to return to England after her brother was buried in some nameless Nevada pass.

  “Mount up. The horse is yours. A gif
t,” he said.

  She swung into the saddle and glared down at him, but made no effort to ride away. A thousand worries flashed through Slocum’s mind.

  “I’ll try to explain to your tribe what happened,” he told her. He mounted and considered which direction to head. The Indians had been encountered back in the direction of the road leading to Virginia City, so he headed that way. The woman remained where she was, stolid and glaring at him.

  “What more do you want me to do? I’m escorting you back to your family. Come on.”

  He walked his horse from camp, past Abigail’s tent and farther, but did not get away without Quinton spotting him. The servant ran from his tent half-dressed and with a six-gun in his hand.

  “Stop! I can’t let you go. My master wouldn’t like it.”

  “You ready to gun me down, Quinton? Go on and shoot me,” Slocum said. He saw that fear of Cheswick and years of otherwise loyal service could not be overcome easily. Quinton lifted his six-shooter, and would have fired if Slocum hadn’t acted first. He slid his boot from the stirrup and kicked hard, catching the servant under the chin with the toe. Quinton’s head snapped back and he fell as stiff as a board, arms flung out and the pistol in the dirt beside him.

  Slocum started to ride on, then wheeled about and galloped back in time to bend low and catch the squaw around the waist. She had dropped from her horse, intent on picking up the fallen pistol. He swung her around as she began to kick and claw until he reached her horse. Without slowing, he dropped her belly down over the saddle and caught up the horse’s reins.

  “Come on,” he said, tugging on the reins to get the horse moving. The Indian tried to slip off the saddle, but Slocum pressed her down until they were out of sight of Cheswick’s camp. Only then did he straighten up. She slid feet first to the ground and started to run back to the camp.

  “You’ve got a one-track mind, I’ll give you that. But I can’t let you kill that son of a bitch. I’m not sure why not, but I won’t let you do it.” Slocum considered doing the job himself, but Abigail kept intruding on his thoughts.

  He slid the rope from the leather thong tying it to his saddle, made a loop, and then rode after the Paiute woman as if he was ready to rope a calf for branding. If anything, roping and hog-tying her was easier. The rope dropped around her body and down to her legs by the time Slocum yanked hard and looped the rope around the saddle horn.

  He was on the ground almost as soon as she was, twisting and binding and finally having her trussed so she could only wiggle. She tried spitting at him, but her lip had been split in the scuffle.

  “You’re going back to your people—but without Cheswick’s scalp.” He hoisted her up over his shoulder, then put her back on her horse where he could lash her down like she was a sack of flour. “It’s not a diamond hitch, but it’ll do,” he said as she struggled to flop one way or the other off her horse.

  Slocum secured the reins to his saddle horn and started in search of the Paiute band. From the number he had seen high on the canyon rim, he thought there must be a dozen or more. If it had been a war party, women wouldn’t accompany the warriors. That meant the small band was migrating, possibly to a higher elevation where the deer might be more abundant. The white men would be hunting constantly to supply the miners and other settlements in the area, leaving little for the Paiutes.

  When he reached the mouth of the canyon, he looked down the road in the direction of Virginia City. He turned left and followed the road a ways, then spotted a small trail leading back in the direction he had ridden, only this small dirt track spiraled upward to the canyon rim.

  “It won’t be long before you’re with your tribe again,” Slocum told his unwilling companion. She let out a string of Paiute that had to be curses. If he hadn’t worried she would beat him back to camp to kill Cheswick, he would have let her go here and now. Instead, he took the increasingly steep trail upward to the canyon rim. By the time he reached the edge, dawn again graced the sky with pale pinks and curiously curled grays of clouds building at the horizon.

  They were in for a storm before midday, but he intended to get rid of his burden before then. What he did afterward wasn’t as clear. He had agreed to Cheswick’s offer of employment because of the tremendous amount of money offered for simple chores. Finding a grizzly in this country ought to be easy, but Slocum had other problems. As he thought of tracking a bear, he remembered the rider he had played hide-and-seek with in the distant valley. The man had been a mediocre enough trailsman, but Slocum wasn’t going to bet his life that he had escaped detection. All his skills were dulled by fatigue now.

  As he rode and peered down into the still-dark canyon, he realized that the money had been an excuse. He had appreciated what Abigail had done for him—and what they had done together after she had sprung him from jail. Putting up with her brother might be more than any woman was worth, though. He had to decide if there was any point in returning to work for Cheswick, even if only for a week or two longer.

  “Whoa.” Slocum dismounted and dropped to one knee. This was about the spot where he had seen Indians running along. He found footprints in the dust and more than one rock that had been kicked out of its earthen socket. The Paiutes had been running fast here, not caring if they left a trace behind. He judged distances and knew he was right. This was the spot.

  “You’re almost home,” Slocum said as he stood. He considered riding, then decided it might be safer to lead his horse. By now, Cheswick would be awake and realize his new trinket was no longer in camp. Quinton might have recovered from the kick Slocum had dealt to his chin, but if he had, what would he tell his employer? The truth might get him fired or thrashed.

  However that went, Cheswick would be storming around, still feeling the pain from the arrow in his back and furious. If he saw any rider along the rim, he might start shooting. Slocum wanted to sneak up on the Paiutes, then creep away after leaving the horse and its unwilling rider.

  As he planned how to accomplish this, she began caterwauling.

  “Be quiet,” Slocum said. When he saw she had no intention of stopping her wild cries for help, he took off his bandanna and used it to gag her.

  He continued walking, the rising sun at his back. Barely had he gone a hundred yards when he realized his caution had not extended far enough. Rather than worrying that Cheswick would spot him and open fire, he should have worried about the Paiutes finding him with their squaw bound and gagged.

  Rising like a force of nature in front of him was a brave with a rifle aimed at him. Slocum glanced to his right and knew he was in big trouble. Two more braves decked out with war paint on their faces and torsos pointed their rifles at him. He didn’t have to look to know a fourth stood behind him. He was boxed in on three sides by angry Paiutes, and the remaining side had a hundred-foot drop to the canyon floor.

  Slocum raised his hands and hoped they didn’t shoot him where he stood.

  7

  “I brought her back,” Slocum said. He figured he was doing all right since the Paiutes didn’t open up and fill him full of lead. “She belongs with your people.” He started to lower his hands a mite, and that brought an instant response from the man directly in front of him. The warrior worked the lever on his rifle and sighted down the barrel. Slocum stared into a rifle bore that looked big enough to ride a horse down.

  “Don’t get itchy with your trigger finger,” he said. From the style and color of the paint, he thought the warrior in front of him was the war chief. “I’m a friend. Here.” He held out the reins to the horse where the woman kicked futilely and tried to scream around her gag.

  Slocum plucked the bandanna from her mouth, and was almost knocked back a pace by the volume of her cries. She struggled against the ropes, but Slocum had worked the range too long to ever tie a knot that would come loose easily. He got to work on the ropes. If she had cooperated, he could have made short work of freeing her, but she kept up the verbal barrage and wouldn’t stop fighting him, in spite of hi
m working hard to release her. Finally done, Slocum stepped back a couple more paces and let the squaw flop onto the ground. She sat up, glared at him, then stood to face the man directly in front of them.

  His guess had been right. The man she addressed had to be either her husband or the war chief—or both. The man let her tirade continue for what seemed all day, though Slocum doubted it lasted more than a minute. With a single word, the chief silenced her and motioned for her to get behind him.

  “Here. Take the horse,” Slocum said, holding out the reins. All the Indians had to do was shoot him and they’d get both horses, but this gave him a chance to step closer.

  For a moment, the war chief lowered his rifle and started to reach for the reins. Slocum moved like a striking rattler. He lashed at the rifle barrel with the dangling reins, yanked, and moved fast to get behind the man. Slocum clamped his arm around the sinewy neck and tightened as hard as he could to choke the brave.

  “Everybody stay back,” Slocum warned. He had roped a tornado and didn’t know what to do now. The rest of the band had him in their sights. War chiefs were voted on for each raid. While the man Slocum held might be popular, chances were good he had been voted out at some time in the past and another of the warriors had been chief. This presented an easy way to once more lead the war party for any of the others.

  Kill their current chief and Slocum, claim the leadership again.

  Attack came from an unexpected direction—or one that Slocum should have anticipated but hadn’t. The squaw hit him from behind and knocked him forward. As he struggled to keep his balance, he found himself wrestling two tornadoes. The war chief fought furiously, and the squaw hammered at Slocum’s back and head with her fists. She was strong, but the brave he clung to was stronger. Slocum’s arm slipped and the Paiute warrior snaked away, hit the ground, rolled, and came up with his rifle in his hand.

  Slocum straightened and drove his elbow back into the squaw’s face. She let out a yelp of pain and staggered away, giving him an instant of breathing room. He stared at the brave holding the rifle and wondered why he hadn’t fired. Then it hit him. None of the Indians had fired.