Slocum 394 : Slocum and the Fool's Errand (9781101545980) (22 page)

“So where is the key?” Slocum asked.

“I don't know, but—”

“Ilesh,” Imala said. She emerged from the tent a little farther, but pulled her head back in when another wave of gunshots crackled outside of camp. “Ilesh has your key, but I think Chief Gopan can get it for you.”

“If that's the case, you should be able to get ahold of it,” Slocum said. “Hand it over to Jack and we'll be on our way.”

“To Jack?” she asked.

Slocum nodded. “That's right. It's his key. Cha'to took it from him when he took his fingers.”

Despite the growing amount of chaos inside and away from the camp, Imala's face beamed with admiration. “So what you told me was true? You rode after Cha'to to reclaim your prize?”

“Of course it's true!” Jack said. “Why does everyone think I'm some kind of damn liar?”

Rather than point out a few obvious reasons, Slocum allowed the other man to play his part so Imala could follow through with hers. Slocum couldn't blame the other man for bending the truth to impress a woman. If Jack was going to be held accountable for something like that, then damn near every man on earth would have some explaining to do. “Just go get that key,” he said. “I'll help with whatever's going on out there.”

Jack blinked as if in a daze when he asked, “You'd do that for me?”

“It's what you're paying me for, isn't it? Just keep this gratefulness in mind when we're splitting up that money you aim to dig up.”

“You can count on it, John! Jack Halsey is a man who repays his debts. You'll get a portion of my uncle's fortune! I can guarantee it!”

“Just shut your damn mouth and get moving!”

Jack nodded fiercely and surprised Slocum again by rushing over to Imala to shield her with his body as he escorted her to the largest teepee in the camp.

From there, Slocum hurried to the space roped off as a corral. Although his horse and gear were right where he'd left them, the saddle was still on the ground, where it would do him the least amount of good. At least his Winchester was still lying beneath the rest of his rig. He grabbed the rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and then decided to run toward the commotion on foot instead of taking the time to mount his horse. The gunshots were closer than he'd guessed, which meant the shooters were closing in on the camp.

Slocum headed for a ridge of rock on the northern border of the camp and scrambled for higher ground. He made it less than halfway before a sharp voice made his trigger finger twitch.

“Are these the men Jack Halsey spoke about?” Snake Catcher asked from atop the ridge. Even though Slocum had been looking up there to see where he'd wanted to go and had glanced up several times while making his ascent, he'd completely missed the Apache, who lay like just another stone overlooking the camp.

“Don't know yet,” Slocum said.

The Apache stretched his arm down to offer Slocum a hand in climbing the rest of the way up. The ridge wasn't very tall, but allowed them to gaze down at the gulley sloping away from them. As soon as he was up there, Slocum could see the men who had taken position behind some trees about sixty yards away. After all that had happened in the time since they'd left Rocas Rojas, Slocum had nearly forgotten the faces of the men who'd come into town in search of him and Jack. Seeing them again, however, brought those memories rushing back. “Yep,” he said. “That's them.”

“Our scouts found them just before sunrise,” Snake Catcher explained. “One of those men started shooting and they've been drawing in like a noose. They killed one of my warriors and wounded another.” His mouth curled into a scowl that was filled with equal parts anger and disgust. “Shot the first one in the back and wounded the other for no reason.”

“They got reason, all right. How many men do you have left?”

“Flying Spear and one other are the only ones other than me that are able-bodied. The wounded braves remain behind to protect the elders, women, and children.”

“Some of those men could barely walk,” Slocum said as he thought about the damage that had been done to the hunting party. “And how many are still feeling headaches from last night's party?”

Snake Catcher didn't answer, but obviously wasn't pleased with what came to mind.

Slocum slithered on his belly all the way to the edge of the ridge. As he sighted along the top of his barrel, he was able to pick out the sources of the shots. “I only see two of them. Is that all there is?”

“I don't know. The shooting just started.”

And then it all snapped into focus. Slocum knew what was going on, and all he had to do was utilize an old Indian saying that told him the best way to know a man was to walk a mile in his moccasins. Without hesitating long enough to second-guess himself, Slocum stood up and waved his hat in the air while shouting, “Hey, assholes! Remember me?”

The two gunmen in the trees below poked their heads out for a moment and shifted their aim to the top of the ridge. Slocum dropped down hard enough to knock some of the wind from his lungs, which didn't keep him from rolling onto his belly so he could once again rest the Winchester upon the rocks in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Snake Catcher asked. “I need them to stay still long enough for me to attack from the side.”

Shots hissed inches above Slocum's head. He fired once in the general direction of the trees, which was intended only to give him enough breathing room to aim the next round. “I know what I'm doing,” he said to the angry Apache.

“It was foolish for me to hunt with a white man. You know only how to pull a trigger.”

“That's right,” Slocum replied as he fired again. One shot punched through a tree being used by one of the gunmen for cover and the next clipped the man who hopped away from the spot that had just been targeted. It wasn't a killing blow, but enough to quiet that shooter down for a moment or two. “Keep that shooting business in mind because that's what's gonna help us catch some real big snakes.”

The Apache wasn't in good humor at the start, and hearing the play of words involving his name didn't help matters.

 

Karl groaned after being clipped by the Winchester's bullet, tried to stay on his feet, wobbled, and then fell over like a sack of potatoes. “God damn!” he wailed when his backside hit the rocky soil.

Taking a moment to reload his Sharps rifle, Young glanced down at the larger man and said, “I told you to stay behind cover.”

“That round cut through this tree like it was butter! What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“Stick yer nose out like a damned fool! That makes perfect sense.”

“That's John Slocum up on that ridge. I seen him with my own eyes.”

“Now all we gotta do is to kill him,” Young said as he dropped to one knee so he could fire up at the ridge. “We take him out first and then all we got to deal with is a bunch of wounded, drunken Indians. From all the blood we found, I'd wager these that came out to greet us now are the only men we got to worry about.” He fired and then quickly picked out a different target. The Apache who had been approaching from the west had made it to within six paces of the outlaws, but stood up to charge when he knew he'd been spotted. He made it halfway to Young's position and was stopped dead by a bullet that hit him squarely in the chest. Still bringing his rifle around, Young looked back at his partner and said, “Much obliged.”

Karl held his smoking .44 in a steady hand when something behind him hissed. His head snapped forward and his eyes rolled up into their sockets. After a quiet moment, the bigger man slumped over to reveal the arrow sticking out of the back of his skull.

“God damn savages!” Young shouted as he pivoted around with the rifle braced against his shoulder. More shots continued to rain down from the ridge, but he was more interested in the solitary figure hunched over a stump while notching another arrow into his bow. Young sighted along the top of his Sharps and fired. The Apache archer yelped and was spun to the side by the impact of the bullet. Before he could fall, Young put another round into him. The Apache hit the ground in a heap and didn't move again.

A piercing whistle sounded from the top of the ridge to catch Young's attention. The rifleman fired toward Slocum's silhouette, only to kick up sparks as the bullet chipped some rocks. Something rustled behind him and the only thing Young saw when he turned around was the angry snarl on Flying Spear's face as the Apache rushed at him with his tomahawk in hand.

 

Jack and Imala stood in the chief's teepee as Gopan rooted through a small pouch. “Hurry up and hand over that key,” Jack said urgently. “We don't have all day!”

Imala hissed a warning at him in her own tongue. Jack didn't need to understand the woman's language to know she didn't appreciate anyone speaking to the chief of her people like that. Although Jack bit his tongue, he stuck out his hand and shook it impatiently as if that would make the key appear in his grasp any faster.

“That's right, old man,” Dan said as he stepped into the teepee and drew the flap shut behind him. “We are in a bit of a rush.” He already had his pistol drawn and pointed so he could hit Jack or either of the two Apache with the same amount of effort. “And don't waste a thought on what Slocum's doing. Him and the rest of the redskins will be too busy slaughtering the boys I brought along with me. I'm guessing my men will thin out your herd, too,” he said to the chief, “so you might as well hand over the key.”

Gopan turned the pouch over so the key fell heavily to the ground. He then stood and glared silently at the outlaw without making another move.

“Kick it over,” Dan said.

The chief remained as still as a boulder. He didn't even flinch when Dan pulled his trigger to put a round through his heart. Gopan silently fell.

“I'm in a hurry,” Dan snarled. “Since you folks ain't feeling cooperative, I'll do my own damn work.” He started moving toward the spot where the key had landed, but couldn't take half a step before he was stopped by a grip that tightened around his shoulder and pulled him back toward the tent's entrance.

“Drop the gun,” Slocum snarled from directly behind the outlaw.

Dan couldn't move more than a fraction of an inch in any direction because of the arm that had snaked around his neck from behind. As the grip cinched in tight enough to cut the flow of blood through the arteries on either side of his throat, Dan allowed his gun arm to dangle at his side.

Pressing the barrel of his Schofield even harder into the outlaw's backbone, Slocum growled, “I said drop it!”

Still hanging on to his pistol, Dan smirked while eyeing the key on the ground in front of him. “I know the sort of man you are, Slocum. You ain't about to shoot someone in the back after you already got the drop on him.”

“And you're the sort of man who throws his own partners to the wolves just to distract these Apache long enough for you to sneak in and gun down an unarmed old man.”

“Yeah, but that's me. Not you.”

Jack knew Slocum well enough to become increasingly uncomfortable with the standoff that had developed.

“Maybe you're right,” Slocum said. Then, he shoved Dan farther into the teepee while spinning him around.

The outlaw stopped just shy of tripping over the circle of rocks that had contained the previous night's fire, grabbed for the key, and snapped his arm up to put his gun to work.

Slocum fired from the hip. His eyes had been fixed so intently on his target that there wasn't a doubt in his mind he would hit it. Dan took half a step back, coughed up some blood, and kept struggling to raise his gun. When it seemed as if the outlaw might actually dredge up enough strength to pull his trigger, Slocum put him down with as much ceremony as he would have killed a rabid dog. In the end, that was all the murdering son of a bitch deserved.

By the time Slocum had taken away Dan's pistol and Jack reclaimed his key, Ilesh peeked inside the teepee to ask, “Is it safe to come in?”

Imala rushed over to the shaman with tears streaming down her face as she explained what happened in a sobbing rush. Slocum told him, “He was shot before I could get here. I'm sorry.”

“Did he die like a warrior?” Snake Catcher asked as he moved past the elder. He still wore Slocum's hat after putting it on to distract Dan's boys, but when he saw the chief's body, he couldn't take it off fast enough.

“Damn near spat his last breath into his killer's face,” Slocum said.

Ilesh nodded solemnly. “Then there is no reason to be sorry.”

Looking at Snake Catcher, Slocum asked, “I take it you passed for me up on that ridge long enough to get the job done?”

Snake Catcher knelt beside his chief and spoke in a voice that was drawn tighter than a bowstring. “The other two white men are dead. Flying Spear and one of the wounded scouts rode out to make sure no more are coming.”

“That's a good idea. Your tribe might want to find a new camp, all the same.”

The shaman nodded. “Yes. Too much blood has been spilled here for no good reason. You stood tall to protect us, John Slocum, but I will still ask you and Jack Halsey to leave.”

Slocum nodded respectfully. “I understand.” He placed his hat upon his head and said, “We'll go. There's just one thing I ask as a favor.”

“You have done much for my people,” Snake Catcher told him. “If there is something I can do for you, tell me what it is.”

“That gray wolf that was killed,” Slocum replied. “Did you bring it back to the camp?”