Slocum and the Devil's Rope Page 9

  And he winced at the sight of the S&W swinging at Garvin’s hip. He should have learned something trying to clean the gun and accidentally shooting himself. Only pure luck had saved his life. Slocum had seen men with a bullet through the heart drop as if all the bones in their legs had turned to jelly. Garvin being on the trail drive was nothing less than a miracle.

  “Everybody on the drive shares in the bonus,” Slocum said. “What you’re doing is more important than any of us.”

  “What do you mean?” Garvin fingered his black rope and looked suspicious.

  “You’ve got to keep Hashknife from poisoning us. I swear, I never rode with a worse cook. Those biscuits he made this morning were so hard I chipped a tooth.”

  “They weren’t so good, huh?” Garvin looked rueful. “I kin cook better, and I’m awful at it. All he has me doin’ is cleanin’ them damned pots when he burns the food to the bottoms.”

  “Too bad,” Slocum said. “The grease is about the only thing that gives taste to the food. You do as he says. You’ll be back in shape by next season, and then you won’t be the tenderfoot.”

  “I’m no greenhorn, not now! I—”

  Slocum rode away. He didn’t have any more time for Garvin. Jonesy said the cattle were a bit skittish from a pack of wolves running parallel to the trail. This was the best time of year for the gray killers. Food was brought to them.

  He rode to the far edge of the herd and found Jonesy with a rifle out and laid across his saddle.

  “Don’t go taking any potshots,” Slocum warned. “You’ll start a stampede for sure.”

  “The wolf pack might do that anyway.” He pointed to a low rise. Outlined against the blue sky were three of the predators. Slocum could almost hear the wolves licking their chops as they studied the herd for the weakest, the slowest, the ones that provided the best chance for a full lupine belly.

  “Any sign of rustlers?”

  Jonesy looked at him sharply.

  “Just making sure, that’s all.” Even to Slocum the words rang hollow.

  “You don’t seem the type to get all riled. Did them rustlers spook you? Back in the canyon when Blassingame got all shot up?”

  “We recovered two-dozen head for Magnuson,” Slocum said obliquely. He wasn’t worried about being in a gunfight with Wiley Pendergast and the rest of his gang. His concern ran deeper, but he couldn’t tell the cowboy that. Of the riders working the herd, he trusted Jonesy most. And Slocum was hardly going to share more than his thoughts about the herd and the cowboys working it.

  Jonesy shrugged it off.

  “Want me to ride over and chase them off?” Five gray wolves now lined the ridge, spectators in a deadly game that might cost the Bar M hundreds of dollars.

  “Keep to the trail. I’ll do some scouting.”

  Slocum snapped the reins on his horse and trotted toward the ridge. The wolves sank back behind the crest. By the time he rode the ridge, they were nowhere to be found. He dismounted and studied the tracks. One paw print was bigger than the palm of his hand. These weren’t just big wolves; they were huge. A wolf needed a deer a week to stay alive. A pack this size—and Slocum tried to sort through the jumble of prints—might number eight or ten. For the week they were on the trail, the pack might take a dozen steers.

  He considered decoying them away with a sickly cow or two, but he knew such appeasement never worked. If anything, leaving behind a sacrificial steer would only embolden the wolves and convince them even more food was available. He touched the Colt Navy slung in its cross-draw holster and knew what sort of deterrent was required. A dead wolf or two would chase off the rest. They weren’t stupid animals, and if it looked as if the entire pack would be hunted and killed, they would go after easier pickings.

  Let them eat the entire damned Norton herd, for all Slocum cared.

  The thought of Norton and his son set off a new train of thought that he didn’t much like. There hadn’t been any time to talk with Christine after he and Garvin had hoofed it all the way back to the ranch from town. Magnuson had kept them mighty busy for the next two days preparing their gear and being sure the herd was well fed and watered. The stronger the cattle started the drive, the more hardship they could endure on the trail.

  Slocum reckoned the hazards for the Bar M drive were less lack of water and grass and more like the gray wolves. And the two-legged ones led by Pendergast.

  From the ridge he saw how Jonesy drove the cattle down into a ravine, making sure they kept moving but without rushing them. It took only one frightened steer to start the tide of beef moving inexorably. Slocum had never seen a stampede that didn’t end with dozens of cattle being killed, and sometimes almost as many cowboys.

  He considered going after the wolves and trying to bring down one or two. Skinned as a warning and left for the buzzards, dead wolves served a purpose. But he was still too close to the herd to risk a rifle shot. For more than fifteen minutes he followed the wolf tracks and then lost them on a rocky patch.

  It didn’t take any genius to figure where the wolves had gone, but Slocum wasn’t inclined to pursue them. He rode alongside the herd, watching Jonesy and the others keep the herd together as they came out of the mile-long ravine. Turning his attention more to rustlers than four-legged cattle thieves, he scanned the horizon for any trace of Pendergast and his outlaws. He might as well have been alone on the range.

  In spite of Pendergast saying he intended to rob the bank after the drive had brought in a year’s worth of money, Slocum knew better than to take anything the outlaw said at face value. Pendergast was a thinker, always scheming, always looking for the angle to play. If he could steal a few cattle along the way, that might tickle his fancy. He had been willing to rob Magnuson of a couple dozen head not a week earlier. The owlhoot’s change of mind could have come from the revelation of how much more he could steal—and how much easier it would be. Or it could be a ruse. With Pendergast, he never knew until the six-gun cleared the holster and gun smoke filled the air.

  Slocum wondered if he should have gone back to the bank and told Roebuck to strengthen the wall, to hire extra guards, to be especially alert for a robbery. The way Pendergast had lassoed him and brought him into the scheme, it might not have worked. Roebuck might have seen any warning as proof positive Slocum was intent on robbing the bank.

  An hour of lonely scouting took him back to the herd. He shouted, got a few recalcitrant steers moving with the others, then rode to where Jonesy argued with Tom Garvin. The young man sat astride one of the spare horses from the remuda.

  “I’m able. I kin do it, Jonesy. Don’t go gettin’ all—”

  “Garvin.” Slocum spoke his name with such coldness that both Tom Garvin and Jonesy looked around, hands going to their sidearms. “I want a word with you.”

  “I wanna talk to you, too, Slocum. This yahoo—”

  “Now.”

  They rode twenty yards to the side of the herd.

  “I kin do it, John. I swear it. I’m not some hothouse flower that needs to be pampered.”

  “Not saying you are, but Mr. Magnuson gave orders. You ride with the chuck wagon, not with the cattle.”

  “Why have me along if you’re not gonna let me work?” Garvin’s belligerence grew to the point that Slocum wondered if anger would drive the youngster into throwing down. One hand moved restlessly along the silver threads in the black rope. The other slipped back and forth on the holster at his side.

  If Garvin tried to draw, it would be the last thing he ever did. Slocum was a crack shot, but facing a man as wild as Garvin was always dangerous. He couldn’t control his six-gun, and he sure as hell wasn’t much of a marksman. That made him too unsafe to tolerate. He might get off a round and shoot another cowboy.

  Worse, he could start a stampede and kill the lot of them.

  “I’m not
the foreman. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m the trail boss, but I’m acting like one. Until Magnuson tells me different, I do what he says. And he said you weren’t to sit astride that horse of yours.”

  “How kin I hold my head up if you treat me as a kid?”

  “You think Hashknife is a kid because he’s cook?”

  “Naw, but he’s all crippled up. That busted leg of his keeps him from ridin’.”

  “Your bullet wound needs time to heal, no matter what you think. Dr. Abbey said so and Magnuson agreed.” Slocum took a deep breath as he studied Garvin for further rebellion. Sending him back to the Bar M wasn’t something he hankered to do, but he would. Discord on the trail only added to everyone’s stress. This was dangerous enough a job without a young snot like Tom Garvin adding to it.

  “What makes you the one to decide?” Garvin thrust out his chin, begging Slocum to land a quick left jab on it. If they had been closer, he would have been tempted.

  “You got a point there,” Slocum admitted. “Blassingame isn’t here and Magnuson has gone on to the railhead to begin negotiating for the herd. The other cowboys sort of put me in charge. That’s not something I asked for.”

  “That’s not somethin’ I go along with either,” Garvin said.

  “Take it up with Mr. Magnuson.” Slocum wished Garvin would ride ahead and have it out with the rancher. That would get him out of his hair and let him deal with the work at hand. Driving a herd of cattle, even only a hundred miles, was a chore that required all his attention. He was carrying a load of responsibility without being given the authority.

  “You—” Garvin gritted his teeth, then wheeled his horse around and rode away. Slocum wondered where he was going.

  It was too much to hope that Garvin actually went to put his complaint in front of the rancher.

  Slocum trotted back to the edge of the herd, keeping stragglers moving along until midday. He waved to Jonesy and called, “Time to get some grub. Have three hands watch the herd while the rest of us eat.”

  Jonesy acknowledged with a wave. Slocum’s belly grumbled so loud that his horse turned and stared at him, one huge brown eye questioning the sound.

  “You can crop some grass. Looks tasty here,” Slocum said, patting the horse’s neck. He had been sorry to lose his mare to the rustlers, but this one was sturdy and had heart.

  “Hashknife,” he called. “Get your witch’s stew ready. You got hungry riders coming in.”

  The cook hopped around, then dropped a big iron pot and cursed. Whatever was in the pot sloshed out.

  “Damnation, that was your share o’ the food, Slocum. You’re gonna hafta go hungry awhile longer.”

  “You might have saved my life letting you poison the others first.” Slocum dropped to the ground and went to help the cook. Only a small amount of the vile-smelling stew had spilled. Slocum caught up the wire handle and heaved. Hashknife had a small cooking fire crackling. With a grunt, Slocum dropped the handle onto the wire hook dangling from a tripod over the fire.

  “Thank you kindly,” the cook said. “You helpin’ me with the rest of the meal?”

  “Where’s Garvin?”

  “Ain’t seen that varmint. He lit out ’bout an hour back. I figgered you fired him for bein’ such a layabout.”

  Slocum considered doing just that, but he had other problems. He helped the cook get the food ready. Six cowboys rode in and chowed down, left, and then Jonesy and the remaining three settled down to plates of the stew.

  “I know I been on the trail too long,” Jonesy said. “This tastes good.”

  “You’ve only been on the trail for five hours,” Slocum said, checking his pocket watch.

  “By supper you’ll be ready to eat your own boots, and do I have a dandy recipe for ’em!” Hashknife laughed. Jonesy made a face, then continued scooping up the stew.

  Slocum looked over the herd and saw how the cattle were becoming restless.

  “Jonesy, you see those wolves again?”

  “Nope. Been on the lookout but ain’t even seen a rabbit, not that that’s so strange. They feel the ground shakin’ from the cattle.”

  “There’s something wrong. Mount up. All of you.”

  “What’s wrong? Don’t see nuthin’.” Jonesy stood on tiptoe and craned his neck. “You gettin’ the second sight, Slocum?”

  He had worked on enough trail drives to have the uneasy feeling when something bad was about to happen. Slocum vaulted into the saddle and headed for the front of the herd. As he rode, he heard lowing, as if a cow was in pain. Homing in on the anguished sound, he found his path quickly blocked by milling cattle.

  “What’s wrong?” Jonesy shouted. “I don’t see nuthin’, Slocum.”

  “There, to the side of the herd. Something’s riling them up over there.” Slocum put his heels to his horse’s flanks and forced his way through the nearest knot of cattle.

  If a steer had broken a leg in a prairie dog hole, its cries would frighten the rest of the herd. Slocum grabbed the loop of rope at his knee and swung it to swat cattle out of his way. The herd parted reluctantly. He felt the tension mounting through the herd that stretched to the horizon. The only lucky thing was finally getting the herd out of the deep ravine they had entered early in the morning. That constriction would have caused the cattle to climb over one another in their panic.

  The closer Slocum got to the bellowing steer, the colder he felt in his gut. He saw a cow with a leg caught, but he also saw the crown of a cowboy’s hat bobbing about. Somebody had dismounted and tried to free the steer from whatever had entangled it.

  “Get onto your horse. Mount up!” he shouted and knew his words were muffled under the deepening thunder as the herd began moving.

  He got closer and saw Tom Garvin on his knees, trying to pull the steer’s hoof from between two rocks where it had trapped itself.

  “Leave the cow. Get the hell out of the way!”

  Garvin looked up. His expression carried nothing but disdain. And then it changed to fear when it became obvious what was happening.

  Stampede. And he was directly in front of the herd.

  11

  Slocum yelled as he rode. The pounding of hooves grew all around him as he put his head down and raked his horse’s flanks with his spurs to get the most speed possible.

  “Garvin, dammit, Garvin! Let the steer be!”

  Tom Garvin stared past Slocum at the surging tide of frightened cattle. He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. Something broke him free of his shock, and he reached for the reins of his horse.

  The steer he had been trying to free broke away. From the way it stumbled along, it had hurt its leg. It crashed into Garvin’s horse and spooked it. The horse bolted, causing the cowboy to grab wildly for the saddle horn.

  His fingers caught the pommel and slipped away. As he fell facedown, his hand tangled in the black rope. His horse spun and lashed out with its front hooves. It knocked off his hat, but Garvin hung on to the rope. Without it, his horse would have run away, dooming him.

  Slocum saw everything moving in slow motion. Garvin got to his feet, only to make another mistake. He purposefully unfastened his rope from the saddle, letting the horse rocket off. Garvin took a couple steps and fell to his knees, clutching his rope and nothing else.

  Bending low, Slocum reached down and grabbed for Garvin. He caught the cowboy’s shirt and yanked him to his feet.

  “Climb on behind me,” Slocum grated out. He was panting harshly, as if he had run a mile. He jerked hard on Garvin’s hand and lifted him to the rear of his horse. He wasted no time seeing if Garvin was settled. He got his horse running at an angle, thinking to avoid the worst of the stampede and let the cattle rush past.

  It didn’t work that way.

  The extra weight caused his horse to falter. Sloc
um kept trying to get it turned, but the horse kept jerking in the direction of the worst danger—smack in front of the running cattle.

  “We can’t outrun ’em,” Garvin said, hanging on to Slocum.

  The feel of the young man’s arms gave Slocum something more to worry over. Garvin weakened and wobbled. Whether it came from his brush with death or the chest wound had finally caught up with him didn’t matter. He might fall to his death at any instant.

  “Hang on tighter,” Slocum shouted. His words were swallowed by the roar of the cattle.

  If his horse wouldn’t turn, he had to give it its head and try to outrun the steers. One polled horn hooked Slocum’s leg and almost yanked him from horseback. He steadied himself and saw the only hope to survive. Hashknife waved from atop the chuck wagon. This was the only possible island of safety in a sea of terrified beeves.

  He heard Garvin shout something but paid no attention. Slocum focused on the chuck wagon, on Hashknife giving him what little directions he could to reach it. Within fifty yards, his horse died under him. Slocum felt the animal stiffen, then turn to liquid. He flew ass over teakettle and landed flat on his back, staring up at the sky.

  A strong hand pulled him up.

  “Come on, Slocum. We gotta run. The cattle!”

  He saw a frightened Tom Garvin waving his rope about, as if this could brush off the full fury of a stampede. Without answering, he started running. Hashknife started to come out to help.

  “Go back, we can make it, go back!”

  Slocum’s words were drowned out. The cook hobbled out to help. And then the lead steer bumped Slocum and sent him flying. Slocum sailed past Hashknife and skidded on his belly beneath the chuck wagon.

  “Help!”

  Hashknife’s cry didn’t go unheeded. Garvin spun his rope and let it sail out in a broad loop. It came down over the cook’s body. Garvin started pulling. Slocum got to his feet and went to help, but he knew what happened an instant later. Garvin fell backward and sat down, no resistance on the rope.