Slocum #396 : Slocum and the Scavenger Trail (9781101554371) (6 page)

Flies buzzing. Hot sun burning his face. Slocum moaned and tried to bat both away. The fly might have been scared off by his feeble swatting but the sun still cooked his flesh. He dropped his hand to shield his eyes and slowly opened them. Sun filtered through his fingers. For a few seconds, it annoyed him, then he realized what it meant and he rejoiced.

He was still alive.

Trying to roll onto his side proved harder than it should have. Tightness along the side of his head turned to utter pain when he moved. He stopped screening his eyes and traced the long, narrow crease left by a bullet. The pain he caused pressing into the wound focused him and brought everything rushing back.

Ignoring the discomfort, he sat up and squinted hard to keep his eyes in focus. He lay in the grassy field where he had thought to be a Good Samaritan and rescue another victim of the scavengers. Instead, he had fallen prey to them.

“That’s how they got Baransky,” he said. His voice was raspy, hoarse, his lips chapped and feeling like old dried-out rubber. “One decoyed him close and the others grabbed
him.” Slocum tried to stand but wasn’t up to it yet. He sat heavily, regaining his strength. “Why’d they kidnap him and not kill him on the spot?”

The answer trickled through the barricades that pain threw up in his brain. They had thought he was dead. The dried blood on his head and face made it look as if they had blown his brains out.

Every instant of the brief gunfight rushed back. He reached across to his holster. Empty. Swinging around, he hunted for his Colt and found it twenty feet away. When he had been shot, he had thrown up his hands and sent it spinning far enough away that the road agents hadn’t wanted to take time hunting for it.

And why should they? They had—again—stolen the mule Baransky had ridden and put close to a week’s worth of food into their larder. It was a profitable and safe robbery. Who would notice if a few prospectors never reached the area with the most recent gold strike? Even if someone awaited them, they’d think news had come of a bigger, richer strike. And many would never make it across the pass, even in the better weather promised by springtime. The way to the other side of Desolation Mountain was treacherous at the best of times.

Leave a few dozen prospectors dead along the way, stealing their animals and equipment? It was easier than dynamiting fish in a barrel. The prospectors weren’t likely to have it in mind to watch for ambushers until they reached the goldfields. Some might not even be armed.

Thinking about how easy it was for the road agents to work made Slocum even angrier. It was one thing robbing a stagecoach or holding up a bank. He had done those crimes himself when need demanded it or the temptation was simply too great to resist. But to intentionally murder men for a few paltry dollars gained by reselling their equipment at the base of the mountain gnawed at his gut like a tapeworm.

He got his feet under him and heaved. This time, other
than being a little shaky kneed, he stayed upright. Making his way to where his six-gun had fallen gave him time to recover his strength. He scooped up the pistol and held it in his hand. He tried to remember if the single shot he had fired had found a target. He couldn’t. He wanted to have shot the son of a bitch but figured he would have to save that pleasure for another day.

Looking up at the sun caused a moment’s uneasiness. When he figured out why, he became even angrier. He had lain in the meadow overnight. It was close to a full day after the ambush. That was the only explanation he had for the position of the sun. There had been only an hour or so of daylight remaining when he had found the meadow. Now there were three.

His belly growled from lack of food, and his mouth felt stuffed with cotton wool. Determining the passage of time from these clues proved elusive, but he had to think only one day had passed. If he had been out in the open for two days, creatures would have come and begun nipping away at his flesh.

Dusting off his hat, he walked back to where he had left the mule grazing peacefully. The hoofprints led toward the trail he had followed. Slocum considered trying to track on foot since it was a considerable distance back down the hill to the town. Instead, he found the faint traces of what he thought were Baransky’s toes in the dirt and began following them again. He went back in the direction he had already taken, then pushed into thick undergrowth. Traces of cloth clung to thorn bushes, giving him an easy trail to follow. He detoured when he heard a brook gurgling across rocks some distance into the woods.

When he found the water, he drank his fill. The cold, clear runoff from higher on the mountain turned to ice in his belly. He didn’t care. His backbone rubbed up against his stomach. Filling up even on water eased the hunger. Then he thrust his head into the stream and winced as the wound
reopened. He laved off the dried blood and then kept his head underwater until the flesh tightened and the bleeding stopped. When he came up for air, he shook like a wet dog, sending droplets in all directions.

He felt better than he had since getting shot. And he was even more determined not to let the sons of bitches who had shot him and taken Clem Baransky get away with it.

The determination became more frustration when he got after their trail once more. In less than ten yards he found a small clearing where horses had been tethered. The outlaws had ridden away, probably with Baransky as their prisoner.

Slocum realized it wasn’t going to avail him anything following the trail. He did anyway. Just as the sun dipped low and night turned chilly, he realized that he had taken a circuitous route back to the main track leading eventually up and over the mountain pass.

At the road, he looked in both directions, then decided. To return to Almost There a second time would be admitting failure. He had lost three men in his party. Although he couldn’t say for certain, he believed Clem Baransky to be alive. Finding him would go a ways toward validating his sense of duty. Dead or alive didn’t matter, but finding the would‑be prospector did.

Barely had he gone a hundred yards when the lack of daylight began to work against him. Like it or not, he had to camp for the night. Shivering, he scooped out some dirt from around the roots of a piñon pine and worked his shoulders down so the wood protected him. The ground was cool but wouldn’t get much colder. He wasn’t likely to freeze, but it would be a long night.

Sleep came in short stretches, and when he did fall into deeper sleep, it was populated with nightmarish figures. Slocum thrashed about, once thinking he had been buried alive. It took a few seconds after his eyes popped open to realize he was still in the pine’s wooden embrace. After that,
he slept well enough to only feel cranky when he awoke around sunrise. He knew the time was late in the day since Desolation Mountain blocked the morning sun, but he wanted to know the exact time—and couldn’t because the road agents had stolen his watch.

His brother Robert’s watch. The only legacy he had of him.

Slocum pushed free of the roots and let the anger warm him. He got to his feet and started back on the trail, his belly grumbling at the lack of breakfast. There would be time later to forage. The mountainside was covered with growth at this altitude, and bitter early spring berries and other plants might be had if he wasn’t too fussy about what he put into his mouth.

In spite of his determination, his legs weakened, forcing him to take a rest. As he perched on a rock looking ahead along up the trail, he saw a pair of travelers working their way upward. Using his hand to shield his eyes from the high sun, he still squinted. Then he found himself filled with mixed emotions. How two people could be so downright stupid was beyond him, but Stephen and Melissa Baransky had taken to the trail themselves and could be his salvation.

He dropped to the trail and began walking at a quicker clip in spite of his weariness. An hour later he overtook the brother and sister.

Slocum stopped and stared when he saw them sitting beside the road. Melissa comforted her brother, who appeared on the brink of tears. The brunette pushed a dirty strand of hair back and stared at him. For a moment, hope flared in those chocolate-colored eyes, then it died.

“You’re on foot,” she said.

“Where’s your gear? Your mules?”

Stephen Baransky looked up. Anger replaced his tears.

“You’re responsible. You tried to rob us.”

“And Mr. Gunnison did,” Melissa said. The edge in her
voice told Slocum everything he needed to know. She might appear a hothouse flower, but given the chance, Melissa Baransky would skin a man alive and enjoy it. He didn’t know who Gunnison was, but he’d hate to be the man if she caught him unawares.

“You were robbed, too,” Slocum said. “I thought I saw your pa’s trail. Turned out to be a trap, probably set by the men who kidnapped him.”

“He’s alive?” Melissa perked up.

“To hell with him. Gunnison stole
our
supplies.
Our
mules.” Stephen rocked back and crossed his arms over his chest. With such a pose, he refused to allow any argument.

That was fine with Slocum. He didn’t want to talk to Stephen.

He dropped beside Melissa.

“Tell me about this Gunnison.”

“We decided to explore on our own,” she said. “If you succeeded in finding Papa, well and good, but we would add to the chances of success. We hired him. He was recommended as a reputable guide.”

“By the gent who sold me the mule?”

“Why, yes. You two were quite friendly. We thought it would be all right to do business with him and follow his suggestions.”

“You thought that, Melly. I wanted to wait.”

“It is just as well we didn’t,” she said primly, not bothering to even glance in her brother’s direction. “Mr. Slocum has run aground, as have we.”

“Nobody passed me going back down to the town,” Slocum said, remembering what he could of the mountain terrain. “The men who dry-gulched me headed uphill.”

“No one has passed us,” she said.

“Then there’s another trail that circles the mountain,” he said. “There are plenty of meadows and game trails.”

“You know where Gunnison went?”

“Why didn’t he kill you?” Slocum looked at the woman. It wasn’t hard since she was so beautiful, even with dirty hair and bedraggled clothing.

“It wasn’t because he had a kindly streak, that’s for certain sure,” Stephen said. “He tried to kill me. Cut my throat! I swung at him until he finally ran off, like the craven he is!”

Slocum doubted the story, especially when Melissa caught her breath as if to correct her brother. More likely Gunnison had intended to take her for his own pleasure, and she had driven him off. Brother and sister might have fled into the darkness and Gunnison, maybe wounded, probably kicked in the balls at the least, had consoled himself with only taking their mules and gear.

“Bet Gunnison has a footprint about here”—Slocum grabbed his crotch—“and about the size of this shoe.” He reached down and lifted Melissa’s foot. She wasn’t in a hurry to pull back out of his grip, but Stephen yanked her arm and caused her to lose her balance. She lay in the dirt, propped on her elbows, still studying Slocum.

“What are you going to do?” Stephen demanded. “I want justice!”

“Justice is kind of crude out here,” Slocum said. “You willing to kill Gunnison?” He read the play of emotions on the young man’s face well enough to know he lied when he answered.

“Yes!”

Slocum also read the intentions on his sister’s face when she said in a low, choked voice, “Yes.”

“I’ll track him down since I have a good idea where he left the road. Might be the owlhoots who robbed me are headed to the same place.”

“Same place? What do you mean?”

Slocum didn’t answer Stephen. Instead he directed his question to his sister.

“You have any weapons?”

“None, Mr. Slocum.”

He reached down and drew the thick-bladed knife he kept sheathed in his boot. Turning it around, he gave it to the woman handle first.

“Use it if you have to.”

“Are you going to leave me your gun?” Stephen sounded put out that his sister had gotten something and he hadn’t.

“I’ll need it,” was all Slocum answered.

He stood to go but found Melissa’s hand gripping his arm.

“Are you sure you won’t need this?” She held up the knife he had given her.

“Make a shelter and stay here. Don’t go anywhere, especially back to town.” He didn’t want her running afoul of the merchant who dealt repeatedly in stolen mules and equipment. “I’ll come back for you.”

“How do we know that?” Stephen thrust out his chin, as if begging Slocum to take a swing at him.

“Because, Stephen dear, he said he would. Mr. Slocum is a man of his word. I can tell.”

“Keep the knife,” he told her, then turned and went down the trail without so much as a backward glance. If he had looked back at Melissa Baransky, his resolve might have faded. She had guaranteed that he would return by her words. He had made a promise to her, as he had a contract with her father. Both were binding.

Money might be forgotten and a business deal dissolved, but he had given his word to her. That was binding to the point he died.

Slocum slipped and slid down some of the steeper slopes in the road, but the height above lower stretches allowed him to see the faint tracks off the main trail. Several mules, maybe more, had followed that stretch.

He hoped this was the trail leading to a staging area where he could find not only Gunnison but the men who had robbed him and Clement Baransky, too. It took only a bit of skill to follow the spoor left behind. Gunnison made no effort to hide his passage, but why should he?
Two greenhorns left alone on the mountain. How the brother and sister had survived the night, much less kept walking, was beyond Slocum, but he thought it probably had more to do with Melissa’s determination than Stephen’s courage.

A mile along the trail brought Slocum to a wooded area. Another mile into it he found a junction where several smaller trails joined a large one plunging directly ahead. From the crushed weeds and trampled dirt, quite a few men came this way regularly. Since it wasn’t the trail over the mountain, it had to lead somewhere else that prospectors weren’t inclined to explore.