Slocum #422 (8 page)

“She's on the way to Yuma. Mad Tom is highballing it to let them know to send out a repair crew. If the crew we met on the western side is on the ball, the bridge can be repaired in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

“How are we going to get to the top?” Marlene looked up at the unscalable wall. “I'm sure you have a plan. You're very capable.”

“There is a set of rungs hammered onto the bridge support. We can use that to climb almost to the top.”

“Almost?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he said. He laughed ruefully. “Even if we didn't do much of a job crossing it the first time.”

“Your outlook on the world is very strange, Mr. Slocum. Now please turn your back so I can change.”

He let her strip off her damaged clothes and work into the duds she had taken from the car. While she dressed, he hiked back toward the bridge supports. The construction crew had cleared a path, making it easier to reach the spot where the rung ladder climbed up the support.

“I see where the trestle crumpled,” Marlene said. She pressed close to him. Although she had changed into decent clothing, she was as soaked through as he was from the constant spray. A little shiver hinted at how cold she was but she never complained. “Is that the way to the top of the world?”

“Back to the world,” Slocum said. He looked at her. Starlight caught water droplets in her hair and turned them into diamonds amid the golden strands. Although she was drenched and shivered like a drowning rat, he found himself liking the way she looked. It was natural and wild.

Slocum shook himself. This wasn't the time, and she was the boss's daughter.

“Should I go first or will you?”

“If I followed, I'd be forced to look up your skirt the whole way,” he said.

Marlene recoiled, then grinned a little. “Is that such a burden for you, Mr. Slocum?”

“If it doesn't offend you, your going first makes sense. My heavier weight might pull loose a rung. You'd never be able to keep me from toppling into the river.”

“But my lighter weight might not dislodge a loose rung? Yes, that makes sense. And if I fell, you could rescue me. Very well. I'll go first.”

Slocum marveled that she believed he could catch her if she fell, yet he detected no hint of sarcasm in her words. She began climbing. When he followed, he discovered that the darkness prevented him from seeing anything that would offend her modesty.

“It is a very long way to the top, isn't it?” she called back after fifteen minutes of climbing.

“Rest if you have to. We can find a cross beam and sit on that.”

“I was not complaining, just opining that it is taking so long. Why, the sky is brightening. Dawn cannot be far away.”

Slocum tried to piece together how long he had taken from the time he jumped off the Yuma Bullet to now. It all flowed together like the river below. Jefferson and the mail clerk were dead and lost in watery graves, but he had saved Marlene Burlison. Or had he really? Her legs had been pinned but her spunk and determination told him she wouldn't have simply given up and died. Somehow she would have saved herself. That presence of mind appealed to him.

“I see the top! I do!”

She scrambled up the rungs faster now, giving Slocum a better look at her legs. The faint dawn helped. And once she had reached the tracks, she was bathed in the warmth of a new desert day.

Slocum pulled himself up after her, then froze.

“They haven't come to rescue us, have they?” Marlene said in a low voice.

Slocum looked at the Apache braves decked out in their war paint. The Indians turned their horses toward him and began trotting over, waving rifles in the air.

“No, they haven't.”

Slocum stepped forward and put himself between the Indians and Marlene. The riders came hard, kicking up a dust cloud that obscured the railroad tracks. With a ­lightning-­fast calculation, Slocum realized the Apaches might not have seen Marlene. He stepped back, grabbed her around the waist, and picked her up, kicking.

“What are you doing, Mr. Slocum? Put me down.”

He did. He dropped her between the cross ties to a rocky slope beneath. Marlene yelped and lost her footing. For a frightening instant he thought she would tumble on down the side of the canyon and fall back into the river. An agile twist brought her around to slide on her belly. She found purchase with her toes and then seized a ragged hunk of metal sticking down from the tracks.

“Don't say a word. Don't move,” he ordered as he slid his Colt from its holster. The water trickling from the barrel told him there wasn't a chance in hell the pistol would fire. The repeated dips in the river had ruined the cartridges and possibly gummed up the firing mechanism. He slid it back into his holster and looked for other ways to fight.

“Don't leave me here. I can help you,” protested the woman. She scrambled up so there was no chance of falling over the cliff face into the river.

Slocum picked up a discarded sledgehammer handle. It had broken and been cast away. He swung it a couple times. Its heft was gone with the steel head but the sharp point where the wood had splintered promised a spear thrust if he got close enough to use it that way.

The dust cleared and four warriors drew rein twenty feet away. They whooped and hollered as they waved their rifles in the air. Slocum stood his ground, sledgehammer handle ready to swing. He couldn't help looking down under the tracks to where Marlene huddled. A touch of admiration came. She hid but wasn't frightened. Then the admiration faded when he realized she had no idea what they faced. A woman living in the lap of luxury had never confronted Indians who would kill her and lift her ­scalp—­or worse, take her prisoner. A pretty woman could be used for weeks before they killed her. Since this was a war party, however, Slocum doubted Marlene would be given even a week.

They would use her, then kill her right away. That might be merciful. It was better she avoid it entirely, even if he had to die defending her. Given enough time, Mad Tom would report the bridge collapse and the S&P would send back a repair crew. The workers on the western side might have telegraphed the problem in both ­directions—­east and ­west—­already. If so, help might only be minutes away.

Slocum had to make a decision right now.

The youngest of the braves lowered his rifle and raked his moccasins along his pony's flanks. The war chief let the youth attack to gain experience and honor in combat. Slocum denied him both.

As the Apache galloped down, Slocum stepped sideways so the Indian had to reach across his body with his rifle, ruining his ability to fire accurately. Rather than using his wooden handle on the rider, Slocum swung it hard and connected with the horse's left front leg. The horse stumbled from the blow and sent the Apache flying.

Immediately pressing the fight, Slocum used the ­sharp-­tipped handle to stab the fallen rider. The broken splinter sank into the man's right shoulder. Slocum leaned hard on it as the Apache writhed about. The agonized shriek brought the other three warriors galloping down on him. Twisting the handle, Slocum inflicted enough pain that the fallen Indian passed out.

Scooping up the man's rifle, Slocum got off three fast shots. All missed but they forced his attackers to veer away. He could have taken more accurate aim and shot one of the retreating Indians from horseback. Instead he went after the downed brave's horse.

The animal tried to rear, but Slocum had to get away from this spot. He pulled down the horse's head, then vaulted onto the pony's back. Giving the horse its head caused him to race away after the other three. As he thundered above her, Slocum waved for Marlene to stay low. She yelled something, but he raced past too fast to understand.

When he got onto solid ground, he veered away from the others, using the dust cloud to mask his real direction. As he pounded along, he worried that the Apaches had spotted Marlene, too. If he led them away and they didn't know she had been on the bridge, she had a good chance for survival. The S&P would have crews out right away to repair the bridge since it was their only route across the Colorado. The Union Pacific up north remained a transcontinental route, but other than this, the S&P had the only other one. Slocum had heard of others being built, but they all ran through New Mexico Territory and had to cross the Colorado River at some point.

The railroad crews would be especially alert because a vice president's daughter was part and parcel of the wreck. If she kept her head down, Marlene would be fine.

If Slocum successfully decoyed the Apaches away.

Bent down low, he chanced a look behind. Through the dust cloud came two riders. It meant death for him unless he got lucky, but Marlene was safe. He had done his job the best he could.

Slocum angled off, thinking to curve back toward the railroad tracks. What the Apaches sought other than his scalp was a poser since this stretch of desert was as barren as an old sow's womb. They must have escaped the reservation in the eastern part of Arizona and sought refuge here. Or they might have been chased to southwestern Arizona Territory by cavalry and looked to get across the border for the safety Mexico offered. Whatever the reason for the war party, the Apaches were intent on stopping Slocum.

That meant they feared he would reveal their position. Hope popped up a bit higher. Fort Barrett over on the Gila River was the closest military post. If these were Warm Springs Apaches off the reservation east of the fort, troopers might be close on their heels. All Slocum had to do was dodge about until the Indians began to worry about the soldiers finding them.

He crossed the railroad tracks and rode due north, but his pony began to flag. He slowed, alternated gaits, did what he could to keep moving without killing it under him. From the way his mouth filled with gummy cotton from lack of water, he knew the horse similarly suffered. The only sure source of water he knew in this desert roared along under the S&P bridge, but if he cut back in that direction, he risked Marlene being discovered.

Heading for low hills to the northwest, he had to slow almost to a walk. Even then the pony stumbled as it moved along. Slocum watched it closely for sign of ears pricking up or nostrils flaring at the scent of water. When nothing reached the horse, he knew he was in for tough times.

­Canyons—­hardly more than ­gullies—­began to cut through the dry land. Slocum dropped to the ground, considered his chances, and then applied the flat of his hand to the horse's rump. It snorted, reared, and trotted away. Such a trick wouldn't slow the Apaches much, but getting the horse back as booty might satisfy them and they'd stop hunting for him.

The sun hammering down from directly above might wink out entirely, too. He knew false hope from reality. Choosing a ravine at random, he ran down it until his legs ached. The soft sand and hard pebbles robbed him of stamina and bruised his feet at the same time.

When a cutbank presented a hint of shade, he dived low and crawled out of the sun. Pressing his back against the crumbling sand wall, he took out his Colt Navy and examined it. The swim in the Colorado hadn't done it any good. Fearing the war party would come across him at any instant, he stripped the pistol and used the tail of the fancy shirt he had gotten from Burlison to wipe dry the metal parts. Without oil, he had to rely on metal grating against metal not to hang up from friction.

Each cartridge was carefully dried off and then slipped back into the cylinder. Whether any of the rounds would fire depended a great deal on how long they had been submerged. Slocum had dropped an entire box of cartridges into a river once, and after drying them off, all had fired. But the immersion had been only minutes. He tried to estimate the time he'd spent being slammed about in the Colorado and decided he couldn't. It all came to him as a soggy blur.

The sound of a horse coming from the east alerted him to danger. Slocum knew he could never get to the top of the bank and escape that way. He moved slowly, trying to stay in the shadows, retracing his path. The sound of the horse grew louder behind him. He slid his ­six-­shooter from its holster and took careful aim at the bend in the ravine where an Apache rider had to appear.

The crushing weight on his shoulders, followed by a savage war whoop told him he had been tricked. Pressed facedown in the sand, he got nothing but dirt in his nose and mouth. A strong hand gripped his wrist, but he squeezed off a shot. It wouldn't have hit anyone, but he wanted an instant of surprise to give him an advantage.

The trap was too complete. Although the Indian atop him recoiled, two others dropped from the bank and held him down. One plucked the ­six-­gun from his hand as another smashed him in the head with a rifle stock. He sagged, stunned. He shook his head and tried to focus. All he saw was a rider on a horse coming from the east. He tried to call out for help. Then his vision cleared enough to see that astride the unsaddled horse rode the war chief. He had been duped six ways to Sunday.

He was pulled to his feet and shoved about until his teeth rattled. Slocum knew what they did. If they kept him disoriented, it would be easier to make him talk.

But what could he possibly know that the Apaches would want?

A rawhide rope dropped over his head and tightened on his neck. Using the noose as a leash, a brave dragged him along. Slocum fought to keep up. The pace quickened when the brave vaulted onto his horse and started away at a brisk walk. If Slocum failed to keep up, he would be dragged through the desert by the rope around his neck.

Hanging on to it allowed him to keep a little slack and not get choked every time the Indian urged his horse to greater speed. Slocum struggled up sandy hills and down slopes that forced him to slide, but he never gave up. By the time they reached a camp, he thought the Apaches grudgingly afforded him some respect.

A snap on his leash forced him to his knees. The Indians spoke rapidly among themselves. He didn't speak their lingo but identified it as Tonto. They might have been put on the same reservation with the Warm Springs Apaches and other tribes from New Mexico, but this was their territory. If any cavalry troop sought them, it would be as hard as catching smoke. The Tonto knew every rise and valley from far up north down into Mexico.

The war chief came over, drew his knife, and laid the blade flat along Slocum's temple. A simple slash would take off an ear.

“How many?”

“What are you asking?” Slocum jerked away as the knife cut off part of his ear. He gagged as the rawhide rope tightened on his throat.

The Apache holding his rope kicked Slocum flat onto the ground.

“How many blue jackets come for us?”

Slocum knew they thought he was a cavalry scout. How he answered determined how long he would live. If he lied and said the cavalry was preparing to charge from over the nearest hill, he was a goner. They would cut his throat and ride away fast. Denying that he knew anything might convince them he was of no use, but they'd still kill him and ride away. If he pretended to know where the soldiers were but refused to tell, they would keep him alive so they could torture him for the information.

“The captain's looking for you,” he said. Slocum cried out as the chief used the knife on his chest. Burlison's once fancy shirt had been soaked and dirtied and now sported a long, thin cut with blood welling up from the flesh beneath. “He'll take you back to the reservation. You won't like it any better this time.”

“Are you a scout?”

Slocum nodded, then resolutely refused to say or do anything more. Hints. He had to tease them with hints that he knew more. How long he could endure their torture was another matter. The sun was well past noon and sinking fast in the direction of the Colorado River. Low hills separated them from the water. Focusing on the rush of water, he realized he had come in an almost full circle back to the bridge where he had left Marlene.

He screamed as the knife cut again.

“They'll be here soon enough. Riding on the railroad. Soldiers. Lots of them.”

“You lie.”

Slocum agreed that he was spinning a tall tale. The pain filled his body now. He would agree to anything the chief said.

“Soldiers come on horses. How far toward sunrise? How many days' ride?”

“Half a day,” Slocum blurted out. It was the first answer that came to mind. He tried to keep his answers vague so they would let him live, but pain dulled his resolve. Closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the setting sun soothe him, he tried to push the pain away into a small dark corner of his mind. Denying it was impossible. If he could accept that he ­hurt—­bad!—and tried to come up with plausible lies, he would stay alive a bit longer.

After another half hour of pain, he wondered why staying alive mattered. Death would be a relief after so many cuts. None was deep but all were painful. The chief knew the spots where his nerves protested the most from a shallow wound.

The chief stepped away and spoke at length. Two braves hurried to gather what weeds and branches from bushes they could for a fire. Another tended the horses. The other two drove stakes into the ground and fastened Slocum ­spread-­eagle using lengths cut from the rawhide rope. When they soaked them in water from their cured hide desert bags, he knew a long night of agony awaited him.

As the ­water-­soaked leather dried, it shrank. His arms and legs would slowly be pulled from his body. Starting the torture now when the sun was down meant the rawhide shrank more slowly. He had a night of pain ahead of him. If they had staked him out in the hot sun, the rawhide would have shrunk in minutes. Hours of being quartered lay ahead for him during the night.