Slocum and the Devil's Rope Page 8

  He would put an end to such talk by convincing Christine to leave with him. They could find the justice of the peace and get hitched right away. That would settle the matter once and for all.

  Skirting the edge of the crowd, Slocum hunted for Christine or the younger Norton. If they were still together, all the better. He’d make it clear to the young rancher where things stood.

  “Psst. Psst!”

  The sound stopped Slocum. A few gnarled trees, one more dead than alive, hid whoever called to him. A shadowy hand reached out and beckoned to him.

  “Christine, it’s about time you came to your senses.” Slocum walked over to have it out.

  As he ducked under the limb of the nearly dead tree, a heavy weight fell from above and bore him to the ground. He started to struggle, then found a bag pulled down over his head. Strong hands caught his wrists and he found himself hog-tied as securely as any calf waiting for the branding iron.

  9

  Slocum gingerly tested the ropes around his wrists. Whoever had tied them had secured him too well to get free. The black bag kept him from seeing where he was taken. From the noises around him, at least three men shepherded him away from the dance. The sounds of the fiddler and the caller faded and soon were completely swallowed by the burbling stream making its way across the meadow. They sloshed through the water and kept walking.

  The longer they walked, the more the knot in his belly constricted. He had made his presence known to Junior, who must have ordered some of the cowboys working for his pa to get rid of his competition. Rather than die with a bag over his head, Slocum began straining against the ropes, rubbing his wrists raw, causing blood to flow. When this happened, he knew he had very few minutes to win free. The blood would soak into the hemp strands as it dried, cause the bonds to tighten.

  But for a short while it made his wrists slippery enough to work free of the constricting loops of rope. He staggered and went to one knee when his hands came free.

  Silent hands pulled him back to his feet and shoved him along. It took all his willpower not to swing around, strike out, and try to break free. From the footsteps, he was pretty sure there were only three. He could punch out one on his left, swing around using the rope as a whip, and lash another across the face. The third one—the one trailing them by a few paces—would be the most difficult. He’d have to rip off the bag before dealing with the last captor.

  “You are an amazing fellow, Slocum,” came a voice he recognized. “Why don’t you go on and pull off that black sack we got your head stuffed into. I know you got your hands free.”

  Slocum grabbed a handful of the cloth and yanked. In the dim light he saw Wiley Pendergast sitting on a stump, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. The outlaw pointed the tip at him and nodded approvingly.

  “Yes, sir, you are a marvel. Herman there, the one behind you, is about the best I ever did see tyin’ up folks. He can throw a calf and get it ready for brandin’ in five seconds flat. Don’t take half that for a human being. Does it, Herman?”

  “Naw, boss. This one was even quicker ’n that. Real easy.”

  “He can truss you up again, if I tell him.”

  From the corners of his eyes Slocum saw the men on his flanks. They had stepped away a pace, making it more difficult to reach one and then turn on the other. Both kept hands resting on the butts of their six-shooters. A glance over his shoulder at Herman convinced him he wouldn’t be tied up if he tried to escape. He would be dead.

  As dead as he’d thought he would have been with Josh Norton kidnapping him from the dance.

  “What do you want?” Slocum asked. “If you wanted a dance, this is the wrong place. You can’t hear the music this far away.”

  Pendergast paused a moment, surprise on his face. Then he laughed heartily.

  “You are a caution, Slocum. Never doing what I expect. That’s what I want from you.”

  Slocum’s mind raced. All of Magnuson’s cowboys were at the square dance, leaving the ranch empty. Blassingame was still in bed, but he was so bunged up he wouldn’t be able to fight off a mosquito, much less a gang of rustlers.

  “You want me to help you rustle the cattle.”

  “Now that’s a fine idea. It shows you aren’t simply mooning around after that Magnuson bitch but are working on more important matters.”

  Slocum tried not to betray his seething emotions. This was worse than playing four professional gamblers and finding a royal flush in his hand. The slightest hint of emotion would ruin him. The difference was profound, though. The worst that could happen if he betrayed his hand was not win much money. Christine would be used as a lever to force him to do what the outlaw leader wanted if he played this hand wrong.

  “I won’t help you steal the beeves.”

  “A hint of honesty running through that crooked body of yours? I do declare. This is a new John Slocum I’m talking to. The one I knew robbed trains and stagecoaches and rustled a cow or two when the opportunity presented itself. You remember that, John Slocum? The old one?” Pendergast stood and stepped closer as if examining a bug under a magnifying glass.

  “Looks like the same old John Slocum to me. Might be you just need some convincing.”

  “I won’t steal the cattle for you.”

  “Well, good,” Pendergast said unexpectedly. “I don’t want you to go near those beeves, not until your boss tells you.”

  Slocum eyed Pendergast, trying to figure him out. He decided saying nothing benefitted him most until the outlaw showed more of his cards. Whatever game Pendergast played, he was enjoying it. That meant he held all the high cards. Slocum had to let him lay them down to find out what this was all about.

  “What’s worth more than a few head of cattle?” Pendergast asked.

  Slocum refused to be baited and remained silent.

  “Why, I’m sure you would agree that it’s a whole damned herd of cattle. But what’s worth more ’n that? Four herd of cattle.”

  “You’re going to rustle all the ranchers’ herds?” Then Slocum turned what he’d said around. That was absurd. It would take a hundred men, maybe more, to pull off such a crime. And what would Pendergast do with thousands of head of cattle? Driving them across the prairie would leave a swath a blind man could follow—and follow it the ranchers would. With blood in their eye, with six-shooters cocked, and with nooses tied.

  There was something else Pendergast might mean, and it was even more audacious than Slocum had thought possible to be cooked up in the outlaw’s fertile imagination. He sucked in his breath. Such audacity!

  “Ah, you are quick on the uptake, Slocum. Let the ranchers sell their herds, stuff all that money in their pockets—for a few days.”

  “They’ll put the money in the bank.”

  “Four huge herds ought to bring in tens of thousands of dollars. I’ve checked and the bills the ranchers have racked up will be paid out of the proceeds. And where do the merchants keep their money? In the same lonely bank.”

  “I have to hand it to you, Pendergast. That’s mighty clever.”

  The outlaw motioned. Herman brought around a horse.

  “Mount up. We’re going into town. We can be the first customers.”

  Slocum bit back the question. The herds were a week or more from being sold. Why rob the bank now?

  They rode in silence. Slocum counted six others with Pendergast. Trying to get away, especially in the dark, would be difficult. A horse galloping across the prairie stood a good chance of stepping into a prairie dog hole and breaking a leg. As long they remained on the road going into town, Slocum knew he could never sneak away. There simply wasn’t anywhere he could dodge and hope to get out of sight long enough to confound Pendergast and his gang.

  It was just after dawn when they rode into town. Pendergast gave quiet orders to his men. Only Herman remain
ed with him and Slocum as they rode to the bank and waited silently for a teller to open the front door.

  “Top of the morning to you, sir. Is your president in yet?”

  “He is, sir. Mr. Roebuck’s not one to let the grass grow under his feet.”

  The teller held the door for them as the three entered.

  Pendergast took Slocum by the arm and held him back.

  “Check the vault, see what it’ll take to open it.”

  “You mean blow it open?”

  “A lot depends on how we rob the bank in a couple weeks. Do we come in with guns blazing and kill the lot of them, or do we break in and open the safe in the middle of the night? You’re the expert on blasting, Slocum. I heard stories of how you—”

  “May I help you gents?” The bank president hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his fancy silver brocade vest. A long gold chain dangled across the front to vanish into a pocket, where Slocum suspected an equally expensive watch was tucked away. Roebuck was tall, thin as a rail, and wore muttonchops that carried just a hint of gray. His eyes took in Herman and dismissed him right away. They lingered on Pendergast but fixed on Slocum.

  “You, you’re one of Mr. Magnuson’s boys, aren’t you?”

  “He is,” Pendergast said, speaking for Slocum. “We’re here to reassure Mordecai that your bank’s secure.”

  “What’s that? Mr. Magnuson’s been a good customer of the First State Bank for more than twenty years! He can’t think to move his account elsewhere!”

  “He doesn’t want to,” Pendergast said smoothly. “He just wants to be assured that his money is safe in your vault.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Could we see?” Pendergast poked Slocum in the ribs and pushed him forward. “Mr. Slocum here’s taking over for Jed while he’s laid up.”

  Slocum was irritated at how well Pendergast knew the Bar M Ranch’s business. He had to have poked around finding out the names and everything that was going on for some time. Still, if a robber wanted to pull off a successful bank theft, attention to detail was vital.

  What galled Slocum most was how Pendergast used him as a pawn. Roebuck might not remember Herman or Pendergast, but he would remember Slocum being one of Magnuson’s employees. If Pendergast was successful robbing the bank, Slocum was implicated. He reluctantly appreciated how the outlaw had maneuvered him. It no longer mattered if he took part in the robbery. He was going to be accused.

  Turbulent thoughts boiled about in his head. Christine and Josh Norton. Being identified as one of the men with Pendergast, and Pendergast was sure to let it be known he robbed the bank. His arrogance knew no bounds. He would think of that as an artist signing his painting.

  Killing Pendergast didn’t seem easy. Slocum rubbed his hands on his hips. He was dressed in his finery, such as it was, and hadn’t worn a six-gun. Even killing the outlaw later wouldn’t be much good. Herman or the others would turn him over to the marshal, and standing beside Pendergast here and now damned him.

  “I’m not sure what it is you want to see,” Roebuck said, frowning. “Mr. Slocum? What is it you do for Mr. Magnuson?”

  “You might say he’s Mordecai’s agent. All we need to do is look around. Don’t even have to go into the vault, if that’s against bank rules,” Pendergast said smoothly. “There can’t be any harm in that, can there? Reassuring Mr. Magnuson that his money will be nice and safe in your vault.”

  “I suppose not.” Roebuck shot a look at his two tellers. Both men reached under the counter, going for six-shooters hidden there.

  “Excellent!” Pendergast slapped the banker on the back and made his own way toward the vault at the rear of the bank. The door stood open, and the inside of the vault was cloaked in darkness.

  Slocum took in the details of the door. It would take more nitroglycerin than Pendergast was likely to come by to blow the heavy steel door off its hinges. Locking bars seated in the heavy jamb in three places. He could not tell but thought there were three more locking bars on the hinge side. For smaller safes, the front could be peeled back like skinning a deer to reveal the innards. This vault door was too sturdy for that.

  He took as long a look around inside as he could, then turned and smiled.

  “I’ll report back to Mr. Magnuson that your vault is as secure as any I have seen.”

  “You’re an expert in these matters, Mr. Slocum?”

  “None better,” Pendergast said, slapping Slocum on the back. His fingers dug into his shoulder and steered him away from the vault. “Much obliged for your time, Mr. Roebuck.”

  Outside, the sun had risen fully above the horizon. The day was going to be a hot one. Slocum worked to loosen his collar.

  “So what do we need to break in?” Pendergast said. He tipped his hat to a passing woman, who favored him with a quick, shy smile before hurrying on. The outlaw ran his finger around the snakeskin band on the hat, reset the angle to something jauntier, then pointed.

  “Walk around the bank,” Slocum said.

  They stopped near a pile of debris. Slocum’s expert appraisal located the precise point where the vault wall was weakest. He leaned against the brick.

  “Blow through here. You’re going to need a couple cases of dynamite. Drill holes a foot apart all over this area, set it off, and you’re inside.”

  “No way of getting through that vault door, is there? Never laid eyes on anything that solid.”

  “If you don’t like the idea of blowing down the wall, you can always tunnel in, but I saw some bolts along one wall. Roebuck might have laid down a steel plate to keep out varmints.”

  “To keep out varmints,” Pendergast said, laughing. “You are a funny man, Slocum. We’re going to be rich, the lot of us.” He turned and walked away.

  “Wait a minute,” Slocum called. “Leave me a horse.”

  “You’ll be rich enough to buy one of your own soon enough,” Pendergast said. The easy smile carried a hint of cruelty now. If Slocum hadn’t known before, he did now. The bank would be robbed, and John Slocum would either be left with a bullet in his head or otherwise set up as scapegoat. Everything Pendergast had done today worked toward indelibly tying Slocum into the robbery.

  The outlaws rode away in a cloud of dust. Slocum brushed off the dirt as it settled, wondering how far he would get going straight to the marshal. If he tried that, the lawman would think the outlaws had had a falling-out and arrest him. Slocum didn’t want the marshal pawing through a stack of wanted posters. Other than the judge killing, he had a few others with rewards sizable enough to portray him as a desperado.

  It was a long walk back to the Bar M but he decided, since he was already in town, he would see how Tom Garvin fared. It didn’t surprise him that Dr. Abbey was already in his office. With a patient as seriously injured as Garvin, he would want to keep a close eye on him.

  He pushed the door open and poked his head in. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Then he blurted out, “Garvin!”

  The young man turned. He spun his rope, doing tricks. The loop danced and sang as he agilely stepped in and out of the spinning circle. With a flourish he widened the loop and lifted it up off the floor. He stood in the middle of the whirl, then let it drop.

  “Gets me tuckered out faster ’n I’d like,” he said, gathering the black rope and curling it into a large loop he held in his left hand.

  “You were half past dead when I brought you in. You shouldn’t be able to sit up, much less twirl a lariat like that. You’re doing tricks nobody does outside a Wild West Show.”

  “Do tell,” Garvin said. He dropped onto the table where the doctor had extracted the bullet from his body. Garvin idly scratched the spot, now covered with a small patch of snow white bandage.

  “Remarkable recovery,” Dr. Abbey said, coming from an inner room. “Never seen
anything like it. Wish I could take credit but I can’t.”

  “If you had more patients like me, you’d have to find another profession,” Garvin joked.

  “If I had more patients like you, the undertaker’d be out of business in a month.”

  “You come to pick me up, Slocum? I’m rarin’ to git on back to work.”

  “I . . .” Slocum gathered his thoughts. “I’m on foot. Left my horse at the square dance last night.”

  “Big times, eh?” Abbey looked at him with a bit of envy in his expression. “To be young and foolish again.” He poked and probed Garvin, then added, “To be young and able to heal like that again. You get on out of here. I’ve got to see real patients.”

  “No offense, Doc, but in spite of the good job you did patchin’ me up, I don’t want to see you again.”

  “No offense taken. Now go, go!” Dr. Abbey began putting the supplies he had fetched from the back room into a glass-fronted cabinet.

  “You weren’t joshin’ that you were on foot. If we want to get back to the ranch before sundown, we’d better start hikin’.”

  Slocum stared at Tom Garvin’s back as the young man set out for the Bar M on foot. No one would have believed he had shot himself in the chest from the strong, long stride and the way he uncurled his rope and began doing fancy tricks with it as he went.

  Slower, Slocum began the walk back to the ranch, too, not knowing what he would find when he got there.

  10

  “It ain’t fair!”

  Slocum had no time to deal with Tom Garvin’s petty wailing.

  “You’re lucky Magnuson let you ride along as Hashknife’s helper. You’re not strong enough to put in a day’s work, not in the saddle, not with riding picket at night.”

  “I am, too,” Garvin complained. “It wasn’t that bad a wound.” He pounded his chest to make his point. Slocum saw the boy wince.