Slocum #422 Read online

  The crushing weight on his shoulders, followed by a savage war whoop told him he had been tricked. Pressed facedown in the sand, he got nothing but dirt in his nose and mouth. A strong hand gripped his wrist, but he squeezed off a shot. It wouldn’t have hit anyone, but he wanted an instant of surprise to give him an advantage.

  The trap was too complete. Although the Indian atop him recoiled, two others dropped from the bank and held him down. One plucked the ­six-­gun from his hand as another smashed him in the head with a rifle stock. He sagged, stunned. He shook his head and tried to focus. All he saw was a rider on a horse coming from the east. He tried to call out for help. Then his vision cleared enough to see that astride the unsaddled horse rode the war chief. He had been duped six ways to Sunday.

  He was pulled to his feet and shoved about until his teeth rattled. Slocum knew what they did. If they kept him disoriented, it would be easier to make him talk.

  But what could he possibly know that the Apaches would want?

  A rawhide rope dropped over his head and tightened on his neck. Using the noose as a leash, a brave dragged him along. Slocum fought to keep up. The pace quickened when the brave vaulted onto his horse and started away at a brisk walk. If Slocum failed to keep up, he would be dragged through the desert by the rope around his neck.

  Hanging on to it allowed him to keep a little slack and not get choked every time the Indian urged his horse to greater speed. Slocum struggled up sandy hills and down slopes that forced him to slide, but he never gave up. By the time they reached a camp, he thought the Apaches grudgingly afforded him some respect.

  A snap on his leash forced him to his knees. The Indians spoke rapidly among themselves. He didn’t speak their lingo but identified it as Tonto. They might have been put on the same reservation with the Warm Springs Apaches and other tribes from New Mexico, but this was their territory. If any cavalry troop sought them, it would be as hard as catching smoke. The Tonto knew every rise and valley from far up north down into Mexico.

  The war chief came over, drew his knife, and laid the blade flat along Slocum’s temple. A simple slash would take off an ear.

  “How many?”

  “What are you asking?” Slocum jerked away as the knife cut off part of his ear. He gagged as the rawhide rope tightened on his throat.

  The Apache holding his rope kicked Slocum flat onto the ground.

  “How many blue jackets come for us?”

  Slocum knew they thought he was a cavalry scout. How he answered determined how long he would live. If he lied and said the cavalry was preparing to charge from over the nearest hill, he was a goner. They would cut his throat and ride away fast. Denying that he knew anything might convince them he was of no use, but they’d still kill him and ride away. If he pretended to know where the soldiers were but refused to tell, they would keep him alive so they could torture him for the information.

  “The captain’s looking for you,” he said. Slocum cried out as the chief used the knife on his chest. Burlison’s once fancy shirt had been soaked and dirtied and now sported a long, thin cut with blood welling up from the flesh beneath. “He’ll take you back to the reservation. You won’t like it any better this time.”

  “Are you a scout?”

  Slocum nodded, then resolutely refused to say or do anything more. Hints. He had to tease them with hints that he knew more. How long he could endure their torture was another matter. The sun was well past noon and sinking fast in the direction of the Colorado River. Low hills separated them from the water. Focusing on the rush of water, he realized he had come in an almost full circle back to the bridge where he had left Marlene.

  He screamed as the knife cut again.

  “They’ll be here soon enough. Riding on the railroad. Soldiers. Lots of them.”

  “You lie.”

  Slocum agreed that he was spinning a tall tale. The pain filled his body now. He would agree to anything the chief said.

  “Soldiers come on horses. How far toward sunrise? How many days’ ride?”

  “Half a day,” Slocum blurted out. It was the first answer that came to mind. He tried to keep his answers vague so they would let him live, but pain dulled his resolve. Closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the setting sun soothe him, he tried to push the pain away into a small dark corner of his mind. Denying it was impossible. If he could accept that he ­hurt—­bad!—and tried to come up with plausible lies, he would stay alive a bit longer.

  After another half hour of pain, he wondered why staying alive mattered. Death would be a relief after so many cuts. None was deep but all were painful. The chief knew the spots where his nerves protested the most from a shallow wound.

  The chief stepped away and spoke at length. Two braves hurried to gather what weeds and branches from bushes they could for a fire. Another tended the horses. The other two drove stakes into the ground and fastened Slocum ­spread-­eagle using lengths cut from the rawhide rope. When they soaked them in water from their cured hide desert bags, he knew a long night of agony awaited him.

  As the ­water-­soaked leather dried, it shrank. His arms and legs would slowly be pulled from his body. Starting the torture now when the sun was down meant the rawhide shrank more slowly. He had a night of pain ahead of him. If they had staked him out in the hot sun, the rawhide would have shrunk in minutes. Hours of being quartered lay ahead for him during the night.

  Almost as tormenting was the smell of their cooking fires. Roasted rabbit made his mouth water and reminded him how long it had been since he’d had anything to eat. The good came with the bad. He was desperately thirsty, but the Indians had no intention of giving him water. The mouthwatering roasting meat was as close as he was going to get to a real drink.

  The moon rose and cast its wan light on him. By now the cooking fire had died down and the Indians curled up under their blankets. Slocum shivered as the night took its revenge for such ­furnace-­hot days. It might not drop to freezing but it came close. As Slocum shivered, new waves of pain rippled through his body. Any movement magnified into unbearable pain.

  He watched the stars pop out. He missed the first one so he could make a wish. He was so dazed from the torture he hardly knew what to wish for. Swift death to the war party would leave him staked out to die. But if he wished to be free of his bonds, he knew how impossible it would be to fight. One of the Indians had taken his ­six-­shooter. All of them carried rifles and knives, and two had ­six-­shooters stuck into their waistbands.

  With his trusty ­six-­gun, he could kill many of them. Most. But he doubted his aim would be good.

  What should he wish for? But it was too late. Thousands of stars blossomed in the sky, but only the first star granted a wish.

  “A wish,” he muttered.

  “Shush.”

  “Wanna make a wish. Wish Marlene gets away. Thass what I wish.”

  A hand clamped down on his mouth to silence him.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Slocum thought he was. He saw hovering above him an oval face gently lit by the silvery moon.

  “Died and gone to heaven,” he said.

  “I’m no good with a knife.”

  The sound of a blade slicking through rawhide brought him back to awareness. His right leg had been cut free. He craned his neck and looked down to see Marlene sawing away at the rawhide on his left leg.

  “Hands. Get my hands free.”

  “When I finish here. ­I—”

  She yelped as an Apache scooped her up and swung her about, kicking frantically. Slocum tried to pull a stake from the ground, but he couldn’t. There hadn’t been a guard posted so he had to believe Marlene had somehow awakened the Indian. He made no sound, probably wanting her all for himself.

  She continued to fight and caused the Apache to stagger back. Slocum saw his chance and took it. He hooked his left foot in front
of the warrior’s foot and kicked as hard as he could with his right. His boot hit directly behind the Indian’s knee, toppling him backward to land flat on Slocum’s chest.

  The air rushed from Slocum’s lungs, but he kept kicking to tangle the brave’s legs. Then he felt something hot and wet trickling down his side. The Indian grunted, rolled off Slocum onto hands and knees, and a knife blade flashed in the night.

  Marlene had cut the man severely with her first thrust. The stab caught him in the back and plunged all the way through to his heart. He died instantly.

  She stood upright holding the dripping knife, staring at it in horror.

  “I killed him. I stabbed him in the back and killed him.”

  Looming behind her came the war chief.

  9

  “Duck!”

  Slocum’s warning startled Marlene, which was as good as if she had obeyed instantly. She jerked upright, stumbled over the Indian’s body, and sat down heavily as the war chief swung his rifle as if it were a war club. Missing her head caused him to stagger a step.

  With a powerful surge, Slocum arched his back and used all his strength locked in his legs to push himself to the left. The stake holding his right hand pulled free. He rolled and came to his knees, his left hand still fastened to the ground. Flexing his fingers did nothing to get the circulation back; the rawhide strip was still knotted around his wrist.

  The chief recovered his balance, looked at Marlene, and then saw Slocum working his way to freedom. He left the woman and turned to Slocum, the rifle again whistling as it traced out a silvered arc in the moonlight. His aim was off. He missed crushing Slocum’s skull. But Slocum’s aim proved better. He whipped around his right arm and sent the wood stake arrowing downward into the Apache’s face.

  The Indian shrieked and grabbed at his injured cheek. Slocum missed putting out the man’s eye by a fraction of an inch. Pulling back, Slocum whipped the rawhide cord with its attached stake around again. This time the chief caught it with one hand and tugged. Slocum lost his balance and landed facedown. Try as he might, he couldn’t yank free the stake holding his left hand. He looked up and saw the gleam in the warrior’s face as he drew a knife and prepared to gut his prisoner.

  Slocum got out of the way as the body fell forward, as if he died at full attention. Sticking from the man’s back was the same knife used to kill the other brave.

  Marlene stared at her handiwork, trembling hand over her mouth.

  “I’ve never killed anyone,” she said in a voice so low it came out as a hoarse whisper. “Tonight I killed two.”

  “Cut me free, Marlene. Marlene!” Slocum jerked hard to get the remaining stake out of the ground. His fingers felt like they would fall off at any instant. Not even a tingle in his hands hinted they were still useful for anything more than waving about.

  “Marlene?” She looked at him and lowered the hand over her mouth. “I have to tell you something, Mr. Slocum.”

  “They’re waking up in the camp. Get the knife. Cut me free!”

  She fell to her knees and with both hands grabbed the hilt protruding from the war chief’s back. She yanked it free then tossed it to Slocum as if it had been heated in a fire. Slocum scooped it up and dropped it. The circulation in his hands hadn’t returned.

  Bracing the hilt against the ground, he dragged the rawhide rope across it. Two quick swipes freed him. In spite of the need for haste with the Indians stirring in their camp, he made the effort to rub his wrists and get feeling back.

  “How are we going to get away? K-Kill them all?”

  Slocum would have done that if it had a ghost of a chance of succeeding. Dead men wouldn’t track him to the ends of the earth because he’d killed two of their war party. He hefted the knife, considered giving it back to Marlene, then slipped it under his belt. Stretching past the woman, he grabbed the chief’s fallen rifle.

  He worked the lever and understood why the chief hadn’t shot him when he had the chance. The magazine was empty. For all Slocum knew, the war party didn’t have a cartridge among ­them—­except the rounds in his Colt’s cylinder. He dropped the useless weapon beside the chief’s body.

  “I fired a rifle when I was a child,” Marlene said. “Let me take it. I . . . I don’t want to have to stab anyone else.”

  “You saved my life,” Slocum said. “Twice.”

  “You saved mine. Twice.”

  “It’s good that we’re even,” he said. Taking Marlene by the arm, he pulled her away from the camp, running east down an arroyo toward low hills not far away.

  The horses had been tethered on the far side of the Apache camp. Without horses, Slocum and Marlene had little chance of getting away, much less surviving the desert heat.

  “Wait, the rifle!” She tried to go back and retrieve the discarded rifle.

  “It’s empty. All of them might be out of ammo.”

  “Then ­we—”

  He clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her. Another brave had come to check his prisoner. Seconds later came the ululation to bring the rest of the war party to see that two of their number had been killed.

  “The last one,” whispered Marlene as they huddled close in the shelter of a boulder, “I killed. He was their leader. Won’t they give up and leave us be now that he’s dead?”

  “Apaches elect a new war chief every time they go on the warpath. A strong leader gets elected over and over, but if one dies, another election among the band chooses a new one.”

  “So a new chief will want revenge?”

  Slocum didn’t answer. Considering the questions the dead chief had asked him, the rest of the war party wasn’t likely to let him go. They thought he was a scout for the cavalry on their trail. The only way the Apaches could be sure he didn’t reach the soldiers and lead them back was to kill him. And Marlene.

  Now that she was with him, Slocum found his plans all jumbled up. To protect her, he had to lead the Apaches on a ­wild-­goose chase, but they knew of her existence now. At least one of them in camp must have seen the woman. Even in the dark they had to know someone had freed Slocum because he couldn’t have done it himself and killed two braves, including their chief.

  He hefted the knife and wished there had been time to search the bodies for another. The rifle may have been without ammo, but any weapon trumped bare hands against angry Apaches. Silently pointing, he got the woman moving through the ravines until they came to a low rise looking back down on the Indian camp. Slocum pressed Marlene flat on the ground and flopped beside her to scout the enemy position.

  “Don’t stand,” he said when she tried to pull away. “The moon is bright enough to cast a shadow. They can see your outline against the night sky.”

  “Really?” Marlene subsided, then asked, “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve come close to having my scalp lifted a few times.”

  “Oh.” She started to say something more and thought better of it.

  “They would have done more than lift your scalp. You’d have been lucky if they killed you outright.”

  “They tortured you so why wouldn’t ­they—­oh.” Realization of her possible fate at the hands of the Apaches hit her. “Why wouldn’t they hold me for ransom?”

  “This is a war party. It’s small, so they might be scouting for a larger one.”

  “Scouting what?”

  “They wanted to know about cavalry on their trail.” Slocum motioned her to silence when the Indians mounted and stowed their dead companions over horses. They rode to the east, giving Slocum the break he needed.

  “Are they taking the bodies back for burial?” Marlene asked.

  “Looks that way. The chief must have been more important than I thought. Otherwise, they would have buried the bodies here and kept scouting for the soldiers.”

  “What are we going to do, Mr. Slocum?”

&n
bsp; “Get back to the railroad tracks and wait for the repair crew. Mad Tom has to have reached Yuma by now. It’s not that far down the line.” He rolled onto his side. “Sarah Jane is with the train. Your Pullman car, the tender, and locomotive were all still on the tracks.”

  “Back there, when you were delirious,” she said, “it sounded as if you wanted to be sure Marlene was safe.”

  “It’s my job to protect you.”

  “Mr. Burlison cannot be paying enough for you to risk your life so many times.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then ­why—­oh, I understand. You’re an honorable man who gave his word.”

  “Something like that,” Slocum said. He backed down the far side of the hill before standing.

  “You would have jumped into the river and done all this for Sarah Jane, too, wouldn’t you?” When he didn’t answer, she reached up and moved his face around so she could see his eyes. “You would have, and you aren’t being paid to protect a mere maid.”

  Slocum refused to get into a discussion about where his duties lay.

  “Even dying, your only thought was to save Marlene—me.”

  “I’m doing a ­piss-­poor job of it right now unless I get you back on the Yuma Bullet and riding fancy free to San Antonio and into your mama’s arms.”

  “I have something to tell you that might affect how you see your duty. ­I—”

  Slocum threw his arms around her and used his weight to knock her off her feet. Arms circling her body, they rolled downhill, Slocum taking the brunt of punishment from rocks and thorny bushes until they hit the bottom. He put his forefinger against her lips to silence her, then drew the knife and looked around. Every sense straining, he finally caught the small sounds of rocks being disturbed nearby.

  Animals didn’t move like that in the dark. Apaches seldom went out at night, but when they did, their need was dire.

  “Stay here. If I don’t come back, head straight south until you reach the tracks. Stay out of sight if you can, until the repair crew shows up.”