Slocum and the Rebel Canyon Raiders Read online

  But that didn’t stop him from redoubling his efforts, and with a quick, clipped bark of pain and rage, he jammed upward with both hands, the knife angled away from the attacker so he didn’t kill her just yet. At the same time he managed to raise one knee and ram it into Rufus’s gut. The effect was immediate and just what he’d hoped to do—the freakish tomboy woofed, air gouted from her mouth, and her dark eyes widened and bulged.

  He’d knocked the wind from her, and after a few seconds she groaned and began moaning as he quickly rolled to the side, keeping the she-devil at arm’s length. He continued the roll, ended up on top of her, and managed to pin her wrists to the spongy earth of the patch of thicket, one of her grimy claws still clutching the big skinning knife, one grasping like the fast-flexing talon of a raptor.

  Slocum still clung to his boot knife, and where it nested between his quivering palm and her grasping hand, he pressed it hard. They stared into each other’s eyes; every part of her face but those dark angry eyes kept up a constant twitching movement of anger. But those eyes, oh those eyes, they bore into his, never once wavered, and in them he saw hate and rage and confusion and anguish and spite, boiling in the brown-black depths. This was one creature who would never know love, he thought. And this is one creature I have no interest in trying to explore those possibilities with.

  During this intense struggle, neither of them emitted much more noise than the occasional grunt, hard-expelled breath, or hushed gasp. If he didn’t know better, it could have been a fresh round of sex they were participating in. Even her bucking, thumping, writhing rhythms mimicked the power many a woman had elicited under his ministrations.

  But this was one situation that was entirely different. He had no idea what was going to happen next, but since he was in charge, at least for the moment, he knew he had to make the next move—and quick.

  But he didn’t make that next move quick enough—she did. One second, Slocum was staring down at her hate-filled eyes, formulating a quick plan to render the irate woman immobile, the next he was seeing stars. She’d rammed her head upward hard and popped him one on the forehead with hers. It wasn’t a hard enough hit to force him off her fully, but it was enough to loosen one of his clamped hands from hers. She wasted no time in lashing his face with the freed claw.

  It stung and he felt his cheek bleeding, but he counted himself lucky—it could have been his eye. And still might if he couldn’t get this devil under control again. His free hand held his boot knife, and in her thrashing haste to free herself, Rufus slid her hand across the fixed blade. She howled and pulled the hand back, her instinctive reaction. But it didn’t last long. She was waving the foul thing at him again, spraying blood and making increasingly louder noises of anguish now.

  That would bring her brothers and who knows how many others they had stashed in the woodwork around the camp, all scampering to help her. Up until she’d slashed his cheek with her dirty paw, Slocum hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But now he didn’t care. He figured it wasn’t man and woman fighting any longer, but two enemies, one bent on killing the other. And he had no intention of being killed. So he rammed his left knee hard into her gut.

  And the effect, since he had the advantage of dropping, driving weight, did what he hoped—it stopped her cold. She made a slight mewling, gagging sound. He snatched the big skinning knife from her opened hand and wedged it in his belt, then stuffed his own knife back in his boot.

  While she was still incapacitated, he peeled off her own belt, a raggedy hair-on affair, and flipped her over. Just before he did, he saw not anger in her eyes, but fear, the first time he’d seen that on her face in the last few minutes of struggle. He guessed that she wasn’t used to feeling anything akin to fear. What was she thinking he might do to her?

  He forced both her wrists behind her and lashed them together, snugging the hairy belt as tight as he could. It wouldn’t hold her for long, since there was no buckle, just floppy leather sporting patchy brown-black hairs, like the beard on a teenage boy. But it would have to do. She’d also worn a coil of greasy rope that dangled from a thong on her belt. He didn’t tie her up with that because if his plans worked out, he might need that rope. He transferred the coil to his own belt and stood up cautiously, looking around for anyone else who might be lurking nearby, but saw no one.

  Before he left her there, he bent low, but not close enough to her head to take another whack from that thick skull. “You really should try to be nicer to people. Honey will get you a whole lot farther in life than vinegar.”

  She turned her head to the side so that her left eye faced upward, all sign of that brief flash of fear gone. She thrashed and looked ready to shout, now that her wind was coming back. But since he had nothing at hand to stopper her mouth, he winked at her and loped off into the undergrowth, toward the south, and away from the receding sounds of random gunshots from the northern end of the canyon, the very place Julep was located.

  The thought gave him brief pause, but he shook his head. You can’t risk sacrificing your escape for one person, even if it is Julep, the very person who saved your life and nursed you back to health. Who tended to you with so much . . . tender devotion. No, you must move on, Slocum, he told himself. And hoping he wouldn’t come across any more of Rufus’s brothers—the craziest lot of settlers he’d come across in a long, long time. In a coon’s age, as someone from home had said a long time ago, way back in his younger days, before the brutality of the war had changed everything for so many people, including his family—and certainly this one.

  The landscape evened out, and opened up. Before him on both sides of the stream the land widened into long, grassy pastures—and in the distance he saw a sight that made his heart thump harder in his chest. Horses grazing, oblivious to the foolish men squabbling back in the little forested vale behind him.

  As he made his way forward, keeping low and hustling as fast as his battered body allowed from hummock to boulder for cover, it occurred to Slocum that Deke and his vast horde of friends and relatives had probably spent their time doing this very thing forever back in the hills of Tennessee, or wherever it was they came from. If it wasn’t one thing that made one branch of the family angry with another, it was something else. Whiskey or women or pigs or guns—none of it mattered in the end.

  He angled down to the rushing clear stream and, bending low, scooped up handfuls of the cold water. It felt good on his sore hands, and when he splashed it on his scratched cheek, it stung, but it revitalized him, too, and seemed to lift him from his aches and worries. Here was life! Here was fresh, clean water, and there . . . horses.

  He slaked his thirst quickly, and soaking the bandanna he’d had knotted about his throat, he tied it around his forehead, just above his eyes. The coolness felt good as he continued toward the horses.

  The closer he drew, the more animals he saw. Hidden in another, smaller pasture off to his right, along the western edge of the stream, a half-dozen milk cows grazed, two calves lay sprawled in the sun, their big bellies making them look for all the world as if they’d been dead for days, but their lazy flicking tails told a different story.

  Were there even any predators in the canyon? Just man, he thought, smiling grimly to himself. He hoped some of the horses he was approaching were broke to saddle and used to men. He didn’t relish trying to make his way up and out of here on foot. He knew they rode horses in and out, for Deke had as much as admitted it to him, telling him of the crews of thieves he sent out of the canyon regularly to pillage and return to the canyon to stockpile their wares. That made this a most healthy little robbers’ roost. A whole lot nicer place to live in than that unforgiving, rocky, sun-baked place Cassidy and his gang holed up in.

  Before he crossed the last span of knee-high swale grass to reach the horses, Slocum hunkered low and once again checked his back trail. He thought he saw something moving behind him in the trees, so he stayed still and squinted toward the s
pot. Anything that might move would do so soon, he reckoned. He waited a good half minute, but saw nothing, so he turned his attention once again to the horses.

  Slocum made his way slower now, taking advantage of the few seconds the nearest horse had her head down—and when she raised her head a second time, it was with perked ears. She knew something was approaching. Instinct hadn’t rid her of her need for vigilance, despite the fact that the canyon didn’t appear to have any predators.

  He pushed through the grass, now almost on his knees, a few more feet. The big bay paused—lowered her head again. Slocum made his move forward again, but she raised her head fast, one eye on him, and nickered. The nearest horses, about eight, all raised their heads, looked her way. They looked ready and ripe for spooking. So he did the only thing he could think of. He slowly raised himself to a standing position. And though the horses tensed and seemed ready to bolt, they just eyed him.

  These were broke horses, for sure. No way wild horses would have tolerated his presence this long. Hell, they’d have been halfway to China when he first emerged from the tree line.

  “Whoa, girl. Whoa,” he said in a low, soothing voice. He kept his eyes on hers, walked forward with a hand outstretched. A breeze lifted her forelock, danced in her long black eyelashes. Still she regarded him boldly now, turning her head in his direction. Her velvetlike nostrils flexed, working the air for sign that he was a danger. Apparently she found him to be less than threatening, for she stood still, awaiting his hand.

  He had to smile because of all the creatures in this canyon, only Julep and this horse appeared to regard him more as an amusement than a danger. Two strides to go, one stride, and she walked away from him, but slowly, as if to say, “Be off with you. I was perfectly happy today until you came slinking up out of the grass. And don’t think I didn’t see you the entire time you approached.”

  “Come on, girl. Indulge me, will you? I need some help here. I could really use a guide to get up and out of this canyon full of crazies. What do you say, girl? Hmm?” And it worked. She stood still this time and he slowly made his way from her rump forward, patting her, scratching along her withers, seeing her arch slightly. This was a quiet horse, well trained, no stranger to the saddle, he bet. Probably a brood mare, given her age and disposition.

  He unwound the length of greasy rope from where he’d coiled it hanging off his belt, and slowly made his way up her neck. She balked then, working her head up and down. He smelled it, too, the rope was a foul thing, slick with animal fat and wood smoke and blood and who knows what else.

  “It’s all we got, girl,” he said and, quick as he could, fashioned a crude hackamore.

  Closer to the end of the canyon, but a short ride directly before him, he hoped there would be a corral of sorts, maybe a place where they stored their tack. If not, this would have to serve.

  Getting up on the horse was going to be more of a chore than he wished, for he had been a pampered, wounded man for far too long. Now he was soft, his muscles less than used to jumping and pulling. But he knew that every second he spent dithering was another second not spent getting out of the canyon, and another second that they might find out he was among the missing and come after him. Deke had to expect it. Slocum hadn’t, after all, been very quiet-mouthed about his intention of leaving as soon as he was able.

  And though Deke never told him he wasn’t allowed to leave, the implication was that he was needed by Deke to war against the Indians and therefore he wasn’t leaving. With that grim thought in his mind, Slocum grabbed a hank of the mare’s mane, clucking to her as he did so, and pushing off a head-sized hummock of grass, pulled himself upward. He grasped the wide back of the horse for a handhold he knew wasn’t there, hoping he wouldn’t slide off. But he did.

  He was cursing even as his feet slid back to the ground. Knowing the futility of trying again, for with every effort his already diminished strength would wane, Slocum looked about him for a nature-provided mounting block. And he saw just the ticket near the stream’s bank. A gray boulder, large enough for him to stand atop and nearly swing a leg up and over the old girl. He led her to it, glancing back toward the northerly trees from where he’d come, and swore he saw movement once again, this time off to the east, where the trees merged with the tumbledown boulders more common at this end of the canyon, along the steep, rocky edges of the walls.

  Again, he paused, sharpening his gaze on the spot. And once again, nothing appeared to move. Stop wasting time, he told himself, and led the horse to the rock. She couldn’t have been more accommodating, and he half hoped she had a little more spunk, but the other horses had already loped south, pausing well away from them. Maybe they knew something he didn’t about the old mare.

  “Oh well, kid, seems you and me, we’re operating at the same speed. Let’s hope you can run faster than me, though, should it come to that.” For the first time in many days, he chuckled, a wry, dry sound. But it heartened him. He might well be close to fleeing this place.

  Once he’d mounted, he looked back quickly toward the trees, but saw nothing. “Spooks in your mind, Slocum,” he muttered, but nonetheless hoo-raahed the horse, in a rough whisper, into an unwilling gallop southward toward the only spot he could see that might hold promise of climbing up and out of the canyon. If his guess proved to be false, he’d have to explore the entire end of the canyon, not a small task, but he had a few hours of daylight left to him, he had water, a couple of weapons, and he’d once again tasted his freedom, the thing above all others that he cherished. No man was going to take that from him. Not again.

  11

  The old bay mare proved as hospitable as she’d looked, and responded well, if a bit slowly, to his urgings. He roved back and forth for what seemed an eternity. He knew every minute he spent looking for something he wasn’t sure existed was another wasted minute. But he had no choice. The sun was still high enough that he could see it above the western edge of the canyon. It beat down with particularly unrelenting force, and Slocum found himself missing his brimmed hat. He kept wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, readjusted the bandanna a few times, but it didn’t seem to help—still the sweat ran into his eyes.

  They’d made it all the way to the southwest corner of the canyon when he saw one of the reasons for the Apache’s anger and refusal to give up their fight for the canyon. The remnants of an Apache burial ground lay before him, skulls smashed as if stomped by boots, others strewn about the graveled place. A slight breeze stirred aged, thin feathers still tied with bleached, curled rawhide strips to snapped lances, the wood as pitted as the bones. Scraps of blankets poked from the dirt, as if someone had spent time trying to cover up the dead with dirt, but gave up not long into the job.

  Some of the bones were obviously those of children. Too many, he noted, and the puckered remains of small suits of beaded buckskin lay torn, curled, and puckered with wind, sun, and time. The entire scene looked as if it had been visited upon by a number of drunken, angry giants who had stomped the sacred place with abandon, as if such places deserved no reverence at all.

  The sight set Slocum’s teeth together hard, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from slipping down off the horse and making it right by restoring some sort of order, and thus dignity, to the desecrated holy site. Instead, he urged the horse to his right, turned around, and headed back the way they’d come. He would put it out of his mind, but he knew he could never forget or forgive the act. And he knew it had to be Deke’s clan. Who else? Probably the trio of crazies, Rufus and her brothers.

  Slocum had turned and almost reached the midpoint of the end of the canyon for a second time when the bay lowered her head and nudged to the left. He gave the horse her head—he had nothing to lose, after all—and it proved to be the right move.

  She nosed between two boulders standing what seemed too close together for a man to edge between, let alone a girthy old mare. But it was the angle he’d s
een them from that made them look that way. And as soon as they entered between the boulders, the sunlight’s glare was cut in half and Slocum was able to see a well-trod trail, part gravel, part churned soil, and wide enough for two or three horses to walk side by side. It led upward for a few dozen yards at a gentle slope, before switching back at a westerly angle. He guessed that happened all the way up to the rim. He sure hoped so.

  He was in for another surprise before they got to that first turn in the trail, though. To his left sat just what he’d suspected, a natural space in an open-topped grotto of sorts in the rock wall, just large enough to use as a small corral. The front of it was barred with three poles, currently leaning in the dirt, holding nothing in or out. To the side, a lean-to with a short, angled roof, shingled with layers of brush and branches, protected a long wall affixed with pegs, on which rested proper tack. He saw a few saddles, blankets, and bridles, and guided the old horse over to them.

  She seemed familiar with the setup and stood quietly nosing the tack.

  “Wish I had a carrot for you, old girl. But if things work out, I’ll see to it you get a good feed before too long.” He laid a blanket on her broad back, selected a saddle, cinched it on, and she gave him no trouble, then he slipped on a bridle. The entire time, he worked as fast as he could, hoping to get on up and out before his absence was noticed. He expected to find crazy rebels dropping down on him from rocky crevices at any moment. But so far none showed up.

  He used the slanted rails as a ladder of sorts to help boost himself up onto the horse. Once settled, he wedged one boot into a stirrup, tugged her to the right to head on up the trail, and worked to get his other boot in the second stirrup. By then they had rounded the corner to the second angled path that he hoped would lead him up and out of the canyon.