Slocum #396 : Slocum and the Scavenger Trail (9781101554371) (3 page)

Replaying all he had seen at the fork convinced Slocum he was on Hawkins’s trail. The scratches on the stone, the lack of evidence of new tracks beyond the rocky passage on the main trail, and other small things had built up to convince Slocum he wasn’t wrong thinking the prospector had come this way.

He rounded a bend and caught his breath. His hand went to his six-shooter but he didn’t draw. Caught in a patch of prickly pear cactus, Hawkins’s broad-brimmed hat stirred fitfully in a cool, gentle spring breeze. Slocum yanked the hat free. Hawkins would never abandon it, even if a gust of wind had taken it from his head and dropped it among the spiny cactus pads.

Pulling the embedded spines out would take a few minutes, but the protection offered by the hat, its usefulness as a bucket and as a shield for the face, and all the other reasons a man wore a hat would be apparent even to a greenhorn like Hawkins.

Slocum dropped to his knees and began going over the ground. Dried blood along the trail caught his eye. He scraped some off with his fingernail but couldn’t tell how long it had been on the small stone. Wind and water might wash it away but that could take an entire season. Nothing told him this was human blood, much less Hawkins’s.

However, in his gut he knew it was. Something bad had happened to the prospector.

Stride long now, he came to a steep downward slope in the trail. At the bottom Hawkins lay sprawled facedown. Even at this distance Slocum saw he was dead.

More than this, he saw that his body had been stripped.

Skidding down the slope with tiny, loose pebbles making his descent all the more treacherous, he came to a halt beside the man’s body. His boots had been pulled off, revealing wool socks with big holes in them. Hawkins still wore his pants and a shirt but his coat and vest had been removed. Using the toe of his boot, Slocum rolled the body over. Hawkins flopped flat on his back and revealed a tiny spot of blood.

Someone had walked up, shoved a pistol into his chest, and fired. The powder burn showed that, along with some small singeing of the cloth. The small dot of blood told Slocum that the prospector had died almost instantly. He had seen this in battle too many times. Sudden death prevented more than a drop or two from being pumped out of the body. The killing shot had gone straight through Hawkins’s heart and exited his back.

He looked around, hand resting on his six-shooter, but saw nothing. Whoever had killed Hawkins had gone back along the trail in the direction he had been heading. Slocum had no desire to bring the killer and thief to justice. The prospector had been stupid leaving the group and ignorant in the ways of getting his mule through the rocky gap along the actual trail.

“The mule,” muttered Slocum. The killer had taken not
only the mule but all the supplies on it. Somehow the loss of the pack animal and all it carried bothered him more than Hawkins’s death.

Burying the man was out of the question in the rocky ground. Even if he had been Hawkins’s best friend, carrying the body back would also have been out of the question. The trail was too steep and the going too difficult before he could find a level stretch where a decent grave could be dug.

He could have used some of the dynamite Hawkins had bought to blast a grave, but that had been stolen, too.

Slocum cast one last look at Hawkins. Insects already worked on his flesh. It wouldn’t be long before the buzzards and even coyotes came in to finish off their meal. Turning his back on the corpse, he drove his toes into the steep slope and made his way back up the trail. It took less time to return than it had to find Hawkins because he wasn’t slowed by studying the rocky ground for spoor.

But he ought to have been more alert. He reached the camp where he had left the other three prospectors and found it empty. Tired, he dropped to a rock and heaved a sigh of frustration.

He had collected half his fee from each man, so he was two hundred dollars to the good if he simply went back down the mountain. He wasn’t ever going to collect the remaining fifty dollars owed him by Harry Hawkins. Was it worth the balance to find what had happened to the trio, who hadn’t bothered following his advice to stay here?

It didn’t matter. He heaved himself to his feet. Money wasn’t at the heart of his decision. He had hired on to do a job and couldn’t turn his back on it. Some small guilt gnawed at him because he should have recognized the gold fever in Hawkins and the chance he would do something stupid.

Hawkins couldn’t have been stupider. He took the wrong path and got himself gunned down by road agents. As Slocum trudged back up the trail he had already traversed twice that day, he wondered how prevalent such thievery
was. The prospective gold miners were flush with equipment and some even had a few greenbacks tucked into their pocket after escaping the avaricious merchants down in Almost There. Mules and other, heavier equipment would fetch a good price back at the base of the mountain.

A frown wrinkled his forehead as he wondered if the pick Hawkins had bought—the one with another man’s initials carved in it—had been lost in the same way. A lucrative trade could be built up if you were unscrupulous enough. A few men on the mountain trail killed the prospectors, stole their equipment, and sold it to the merchants in town, who resold it at ever higher prices to new prospectors.

He couldn’t prove it, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a lawman and had no call to do their job. A man had to rely on himself. Slocum snorted at the thought. If a man couldn’t do a chore, he hired someone to help him.

Slocum walked faster. He had been hired to guide Baransky, Young, and Niederman to the goldfields on the other side of Desolation Pass. Because they had lit out didn’t mean squat. He had to do his job.

As he walked, he saw more evidence of the trio along the trail that he had missed before. He came to the fork where Hawkins had gone wrong. The three with their mules had shown more determination and had pushed through the narrow passage. Ample signs on the far side of the tight passage proved it. When he found fresh mule flop, he knew they had come this way.

For another twenty minutes, the steep trail sapped his energy but then it leveled out. Trees clustered ahead and to both sides, hinting at water. His mouth felt like the inside of a cotton bale. He kept walking, eyes on the trail, until he came to another fork. One prospector had continued into thick woods. Dropping to his belly, Slocum stared parallel to the ground to better eye the tracks as they went across grassier terrain.

“One went on by himself, two others headed for the
trees.” He suspected the men choosing the forested area were the smart ones. They could find water and a place to gather firewood to prepare a hot meal. The one pressing on might end up like Hawkins.

Hiking alone in such rugged territory was foolhardy.

Slocum started after the solitary prospector but hadn’t gone ten paces when gunfire sounded from off to his left—in the direction taken by the two prospectors.

A million ideas about what happened flashed through his mind. There might have been a falling-out between the two. He decided that wasn’t too likely. Any gunplay would happen over nuggets and claims. They were hardly a day into their trek across Desolation Mountain.

More gunfire caused him to turn from the path leading higher into the hills and toward the copse. He identified three different reports. Even if the two men had decided to shoot it out, they would have used only two weapons. A third distinctive gunshot brought back his concern over road agents killing and robbing those on the mountainside.

Before he reached the edge of the trees, he heard another pistol fire. It might have been a black powder gun from the muffled sound reaching through the forest. The answering fusillade made him cringe. One side tried to throw enough lead to cover an attack. He pictured it in his mind. The two prospectors fearfully used their own old, rusty six-shooters as they were attacked by determined outlaws.

Slocum slid the Colt from his holster and advanced cautiously. To burst out into the middle of the gunfight was worse than foolish—it would be suicidal. Both sides would open up on him. He had to find what was happening and then choose his tactics carefully.

A bullet sang past his head, forcing him to a crouch behind a tree. He peered around the bole of the juniper and tried to make out where the gunman ahead of him lay in wait. It took a full minute to realize no one had targeted him; the
bullet was a stray slug from the increasingly noisy fight ahead.

Remaining in a crouch, he advanced, every sense alert. Another slug ripped away a splinter above him, forcing him to the ground. As he flattened out, he saw Niederman’s back not ten yards away. The prospector wasn’t moving. Slocum began wiggling forward until he caught Young’s attention. The man’s eyes were wide with fear. He clutched an old Griswold & Gunnison .36 in one hand. Slocum hadn’t seen one of those pistols since the war. Young might well have been given it as part of his inheritance from a father or older brother. In his other hand he held a Colt Dragoon.

“Slocum!” Young half turned. “Help me. Niederman’s dead. They shot him!” He held up the Colt and stared at it. “I took this from him, but I’m out of ammo.”

A bullet whined past the man’s ear, making his eyes go even wider in fear. He sat down fast to get out of sight.

“What happened?”

“I dunno. They snuck up and started shooting. Never gave us no warning or anything!”

“Why’d you leave camp when I told you to stay?” Slocum sat beside Young, pried the Colt from the man’s hand, and saw that it was empty. Hunting for ammo on the dead Niederman or locating his gear and finding a box of cartridges was out of the question. A new barrage tore at the trees all around, sending splinters and sap flying in all directions.

“No reason to wait. There’s gold a’waitin’ us up there.”

“All you’re going to find is a grave,” Slocum said. He chanced a quick look around and knew his worst fear had been realized. The sudden increase in lead filling the air meant at least one road agent was intent on keeping them pinned down while another—others—circled to get behind.

“They’re sneaking up on us, probably coming from both flanks,” Slocum said. “You got more ammunition for that old gun?”

Young lifted the G&G and stared at it as if he had never seen it before in his life.

“Reload and try not to get your head blown off.”

“Wait, Slocum, you can’t go. You—” Young gasped as a bullet ripped through his shoulder, sending a red spray out into Slocum’s face.

He shoved Young back. The man gasped in pain.

“They shot me!”

“They’re going to kill you like they did Niederman unless you fight. Don’t give up. Try to surrender and they’ll cut you down where you stand.”

Young’s mouth opened like he was a fish washed up on a riverbank. No words came out. Slocum saw that he had read the man’s mind perfectly. It sounded safe to Young to give up. Drop his pistol, throw up his hands, the outlaws wouldn’t shoot at him anymore.

“You understand? They’re not going to leave any of us alive. They are going to kill you and steal everything you have.”

“I … I’ll give it to them! They don’t have to shoot me again!”

Slocum reached out and drove strong fingers into the shoulder wound. Young screeched in pain.

“Why’re you hurtin’ me, Slocum?”

“To force some sense into your head.” He squeezed again and forced Young to thrash about and pull away from him. “It’ll hurt a whole lot worse if you surrender.”

Young nodded once, turned, and rested his old six-shooter on the top of the rock where he crouched and squeezed off a shot.

It went high, but Slocum didn’t care if Young was a marksman. Flinging lead kept the outlaws honest—a little.

He left Young and went into the woods to intercept whoever tried to sneak up from behind. Only a dozen yards into the woods, he saw a man dressed like a miner in canvas
pants and a black-and-red-checked shirt moving in fast. He carried a sawed-off shotgun like he knew how to use it.

Slocum took careful aim and fired, then cursed. His bullet had struck a twig and deflected just enough to prevent a killing shot. The outlaw yelped and fell forward but wasn’t permanently out of the fight.

Or out at all.

Knowing he had no time left to lay another ambush, Slocum pushed forward with reckless abandon. He made as much noise as he could as he yelled, whooped, and hollered.

“Charge, boys, get ’em. There’s only the one! We got ’im outnumbered!”

He didn’t care if the outlaw believed his shouted lies. All he wanted was a moment of hesitation. And he got it.

The outlaw came to his knees and looked around. As he looked into the woods to his right, Slocum came on from his left. Another shot broke the man’s wrist. Then Slocum swung his Colt Navy as hard as he could. The barrel crunched into bone. The outlaw keeled over, out like a light.

Slocum scooped up the shotgun and waited to see if the felled outlaw had a partner.

He heard nothing but the sporadic shooting from behind him. Then came another flurry of gunfire.

And then nothing. The silence was so great that it hurt Slocum’s ears.

Finally an unfamiliar voice crowed, “Got the son of a bitch. Blowed his fool head right off. Let’s get his gear and clear out.”

Slocum clutched the shotgun, wondering what he ought to do. Then it was decided for him.

“Where’s Weasel?”

“He was goin’ ’round to come up from behind,” said a second outlaw.

Slocum flinched when a third voice rang through the forest.

“Weasel! Git yer ass over here right now. We got work to do. Don’t want you out there communin’ with nature.”

Three men laughed uproariously, warning Slocum that they’d hunt for their partner when the joke wore off. They’d come out mad at him, or maybe they were crafty enough to think he had run afoul of someone with Young. He backed away, careful to keep from making much noise. His palms began to sweat, and the shotgun turned slippery in his grip when he heard them coming.

They moved as silently as he did, no joshing around now. He might get lucky and kill them one by one. More likely, he could drill one of them before the other two closed in on him and shot him as dead as they had Young and Niederman.