Slocum 394 : Slocum and the Fool's Errand (9781101545980) (9 page)

They exploded from the stable amid a chorus of hollers and thundering hooves. Slocum and Jack had their pistols ready, but refrained from firing just yet. The intention was to make noise, not waste valuable ammunition. The first group of riders who'd split off were approaching the stable from the left and immediately charged after them. Slocum could hear a rifle shot along with Oscar's voice as more hooves rumbled through the stable itself. After a few seconds, the other group of riders followed in Slocum's wake and emerged from the back end of the stable after charging through from the front.

Slocum and Jack rode south toward the town's limits. Fortunately, they could see the edge of town from just about anywhere inside it, and the cluster of trees stood like a beacon along the right side of the trail. Both of them reached the trees as hot lead began hissing around them. As Jack continued down the trail, Slocum pulled back on his reins. By the time he had enough trees around him to provide a scant amount of cover, his horse was churning to a stop and Jack was pounding straight ahead.

The first two riders were hot on their heels. One of them might have seen Slocum dismount because he slowed down. His partner charged through the patch of woods, just in time for Slocum to catch him with a well-placed shot. His bullet hit the rider high in the body, and the impact sent him spiraling from his saddle. Even though the first rider seemed to be more aware of what was waiting inside those trees, he still wasn't quick enough to avoid it. He pulled back hard on his reins, causing his horse to rear up and churn its front legs in the air. Slocum waited for the horse to drop down before firing again. Neither of the two shots hit, but they succeeded in convincing the rider to point his horse in another direction as the remaining men thundered up behind him.

As the horsemen gathered to formulate a plan, they were blindsided by a flurry of gunshots. Judging by the sick coughing sound of the gun and the fact that none of the men were hit, Slocum knew they'd come from Jack. He joined in with a few shots of his own to make the pair of guns sound like a real ambush. Just as the riders began to rally for a charge into the trees, one of them was hit and fell in spectacular fashion. His head snapped back, his upper body twisted around, and blood sprayed through the air as he toppled from his saddle. To make an even bigger spectacle, one of his feet was caught in its stirrup so he hung from his horse like a rag doll.

After that, two of the riders broke away and one held his ground. The one that stayed had a thick mane of black-and-gray hair emerging from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He spotted Slocum and was sighting in on him when the horse with the wounded man hanging from its saddle bucked in front of him to inadvertently block the shot.

Slocum holstered the Schofield and drew the Winchester from its boot. As soon as the rifle's stock touched his shoulder, he began firing in a steady torrent, slowed only by the need to lever in fresh rounds. The riders in his sights would have headed for town, but were met by another crackling series of gunshots. Those came from Sheriff Reyes's gun as the lawman rode down the trail from Rocas Rojas. With only one option that didn't involve riding into incoming fire, the attackers steered away from the path and raced into the surrounding desert.

Reyes kept riding and firing at the retreating men. The surviving gunmen pulled outside of pistol range and didn't show any signs of slowing down. Slocum kept his rifle at the ready, but the man who was left behind was in no condition to pose a threat. The only thing he was suited for was filling a hole marked by a simple wooden cross.

The lawman returned and reloaded his weapon. “What was that about?” he asked.

“They came to try and rob us,” Slocum explained. “Must have seen the money my friend here was carrying. You might want to get back and make sure they don't double back and try to stir up any more trouble.”

The sheriff's jurisdiction was so small that all he needed to do was glance back at the little town to see the street in front of his office was clear. “Looks fine for now,” he said, “but I'll head on back. Sure I can't convince you to stay on and keep watch over the prisoner until Judge Morrow comes along to hold a trial?”

“I've got some work to do away from here,” Slocum said. “Better pay. Also, taking this one far away from here would be the best favor I could do for Rocas Rojas.”

Reyes nodded and cast a disparaging look at Jack, who was making his way back to them. To Slocum, he said, “The offer for a job is still open if you like.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Slocum said. “The money I got for Bill was more than enough for now.”

“Suit yourself. You'd make a hell of a good deputy and that offer won't be goin' anywhere.”

“Much obliged, Sheriff. I need to collect my things from the saloon and then I'll be moving on.”

Reyes tipped his hat to Slocum, made a lesser gesture to Jack, and then rode back into town. Once the lawman was gone, Slocum said, “You've got the time it takes for me to get back to the Dusty Hill to convince me why I shouldn't feed you to the next bunch of wolves I find.”

Flicking his reins to fall into step beside him, Jack spoke in a rush of words that spilled out like water through a leaky bucket. “From what I saw of them tracks at the cave, those wolves were headed in about the same direction as those men.”

“What are the odds?” Slocum grumbled.

Either ignoring or missing the sarcasm in his voice, Jack said, “Exactly! When Fate reaches out to shake yer hand, you'd be a damn fool to slap it away.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I need protection while going after those wolves, and you wanna make some money without being tied down to any piss hole of a town like this.”

That was a bit extreme, but Slocum could relate to the sentiment. “Go on.”

“You think I'm crazy? Fine. You've seen my money, so you know I can pay you to ride along and humor me as I take back what's mine.”

Slocum had played more than enough poker to know when another man had accidentally given away a bit of information he'd been trying to guard. “You're not crazy enough to think you'll get your fingers back.”

“No,” Jack sighed. “But I do want to reclaim something that one of them wolves swallowed. It's a ring.”

“A ring?”

“Yes. What's so hard to believe about that?”

Despite taking a much slower pace going into town as they'd had when leaving it, the two men were still about to cross back into Rocas Rojas when Slocum asked, “What about all of that Indian ancestry talk?”

“That's not quite the whole truth.”

“And why hide it from me until now?”

“Because the ring has more than sentimental value to me. It's the most valuable thing I took from my old house, and when I sell it, I should have enough to buy a nice little piece of land and maybe even start a little farm.”

Slocum looked over to the scruffy man and had to laugh. “Now you want to be a farmer?”

“I don't know. I just want my ring back so I can sell it. If I would'a told you about it before, maybe you would have tracked down that wolf to get it yourself. It would certainly be worth the effort. Now I know you ain't the sort of man who'd do such a thing.”

“At this point, I don't even know if I can believe a damn word that comes out of your mouth. I've lost track of how much bullshit you've told me already. Is your name even Jack Halsey?”

Sitting up in his saddle and puffing out his chest, he replied, “It most certainly is! And here,” he added while digging into his pocket to pull out a small wad of cash. “As a token of goodwill, I'll pay part of your fee in advance.”

Slocum reined his horse to a stop and looked at the money in Jack's hand. It wasn't enough to retire on, but was more than enough to procure his services as a tracker or guide. “That's only part of the fee?”

“Remember what I said about those men being after me?”

“Yeah.”

“That part wasn't bullshit. If you doubt that—”

Slocum stopped him with a raised hand. “I don't doubt it. After the short amount of time I've known you, I already could see why someone would go through the trouble of hunting you down to put a bullet through your skull.”

Although Jack was relieved to be taken at face value, he wasn't so grateful once the rest of Slocum's words sank in.

“I'm guessing you want more than just help in tracking down some wolves,” Slocum continued.

“That's right. Normally I can take care my myself, but I shoot with my right hand. Seeing as you're held in such high regard by a lawman, I'm thinking I can trust you to do the job I'm paying you for without getting greedy.”

“But there will be more of that fee coming than what you're holding now?”

“That's why I said it's only part of it.”

“All right,” Slocum said as he took the money from Jack's hand. “I don't care about any Indian burial legends, tales about your family, sob stories about your jewelry, or promises about getting on Fate's good side for taking back what was stolen from you. You want to hire a scout who can watch your back along the way? Fine.”

“We got to be quick about it,” Jack said. “I figure it'll only be another day or so before what's lodged in that wolf's belly will find its way out.”

“Hold on,” Slocum said. “Is that why you had dung all over your hands back at that cave? You were sifting through wolf scat?”

“It was worth a shot.”

“If there's any more of that to be done, you're the one to do it.”

“Agreed,” Jack said as he extended his hand to be shaken.

Slocum passed on the offer.

The trading post was ten miles southeast of Rocas Rojas. Tacked on to a stagecoach stopover point, it wasn't in sight of anything other than rocks, sand, and the occasional jackrabbit. Even stagecoaches had become a rare sight, but that didn't mean the place didn't get its visitors. An old man and his wife ran the trading post and posted the schedule for coaches that would roll past on their way to better places. The old man kept a shotgun nearby and did his best to make a sale to the men who appreciated such a perfect, out-of-the-way location to conduct illicit business.

A horse thundered up to the trading post and circled the place. After reaching the front door again, its rider waved toward the north to signal the other two that had been following him. The first man climbed down from his saddle, removing his hat and bandanna to reveal a long face framed by black hair intermixed with silvery gray strands. His brushy mustache had the same salt-and-pepper coloring, and his eyes narrowed menacingly as he approached the old man behind the counter.

“You'd be looking for the Italian fella?” the old man asked.

The new arrival nodded.

Hooking a thumb toward a door in the back of the trading post, the old man said, “Him and the other one's back there. Make it quick and get out.”

The old man's wife peeked out through a window opening into a small kitchen, where hot meals were prepared for passengers waiting for the next stagecoach to arrive.

“Too late for breakfast?” the man with the black-and-silver hair asked.

“No, sir. Whatever you like.”

“Eggs and bacon. Toast with marmalade if you got it.”

“We do.”

“Have it ready soon. I don't intend on staying long.”

The old fellow's face brightened somewhat when he heard that, but became worried again when the other two men stepped in from outside.

“Still ain't no one behind us, Dan,” one of the two men said.

Scowling in a way that curled his brushy, graying mustache, Dan said, “Keep watch and let me know the moment you see anyone coming this way. I don't care how many or who it is. You let me know as soon as you see anything bigger than a coyote approach this place.”

“Don't we even get a taste of water?”

Reluctantly, Dan nodded and looked at the old man. “Don't give them one drop of liquor, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Confident that his warnings would be heeded, Dan pushed open the door to the back room and stepped inside. It was a cramped space that was just large enough to hold two chairs and a small desk littered with what looked to be the old man's accounting ledgers and a few out-of-date newspapers. Sitting behind that desk as if he owned it as well as the rest of the trading post was a balding gentleman with dark, olive-colored skin. He stood up and extended a hand across the desk while saying, “I heard you were riding with Bill Dressel these days, Mr. Walsh.”

“You look surprised to see me.”

“I am, especially since Oklahoma Bill was chased out of Texas and presumed dead.”

Dan shook the Italian man's hand and glanced over to the wall beside the door. A short gunman with a nasty scar running along the side of his face stood like a shadow in the corner. “Bill's not dead. Who's the ghost?”

“That's Zack. Do you know who I am?”

“You're filler for a shallow grave unless you tell that ghost of yours to stand so's I can see him plainly.”

The man in the corner didn't move. Even after getting a nod from the Italian, Zack took a minimum number of steps toward the desk.

“I'm Salvatore Majesco,” the Italian said. “You're Dan Walsh, but the only other associate of yours that I'm aware of was Mr. Dressel and one of his partners by the name of Edward Meeks.”

“Both of them are in jail and the rest of Bill's men are dead as far as I know.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“Only for Bill, Ed, and those dead men.”