Slocum 428 (13 page)

“There ain't a thing I can't handle, you little rascal. So keep all that in mind when you decide to surprise me and leap to your feet. You know as well as I do you ain't got a snowball's chance in Hades, but I tell you what . . .” Jigger knew he was talking to a half-dead man, but it did him good to be able to address as he saw fit—as he wanted to—one of the men who'd nearly snuffed out his living days. He didn't care if the man would in all likelihood not live out the week, let alone walk again on that blackened gimpy pin of his. Frostbite was a hard taskmaster. But the man had brought it on himself.

Still, as many times as Jigger had seen bad cases of it—bad enough that men lost fingers, ears, noses, feet, hands, and sometimes their lives—he tried to keep concentrating on the fact that the man was a rascal. No less deserving of Slocum's gun-blazing wrath that had laid his foul partner low. But somehow he'd lived. That had to count for something.

“Hey, you . . . mister.” Jigger had hobbled over to the man's side on the length of fluffed blankets before the fire Hella had arranged for him. “I say, fella . . .” Still no response.

He leaned close, heard the man's thready, rasping voice. Still alive, still breathing, still as slow and labored as two minutes before when he had checked on him. “Dammit all to hell, fella. By all rights I should kick you out in the snow, let nature finish you off and take you as one of her own, let some mangy critter drag you off as a piss-poor meal. But . . .”

So what's the problem, Jigger? he asked himself. Has age softened your brain, made you a weak little sister? He scratched his chin. Must be, he thought, elsewise how on earth would he sit here in this same room with a man who had done all he could to profit from kidnapping him, then admitted if his plan had come to happen, he and his partner were going to kill him off anyway? Oh boy, oh boy. I have gone soft, thought Jigger.

Because the old Jigger, the real one who chewed wire and spit nails for breakfast each day, would have gotten his pins under him as fast as possible and then gone on down to Timber Hills to deal with Whitaker once and for all.

The very thought, which hadn't occurred to Jigger since his rescue, that Whitaker was at that moment running around, miles below in town, while Jigger was holed up in the mountains, made Jigger instantly enraged. He still felt like a warmed-over gut pile, but at least he could see almost straight now. And he could walk.

“And if I can walk,” he said to the near-dead man laid out before the fire, “then I can by gum get myself down to that little town and take away from Whitaker what he drove you and your worthless pal to try to take away from me.”

He shook a pointing finger at the prone man. “Don't you think I'm giving up on you. I'll do what I have to do, then I'll be back. If you're dead by then, me and Slocum'll give you a decent burial—which is more than you deserve for what you did to me. But if your hide is still warm, I'll tote you down myself on a sled to Timber Hills, wait for the territorial judge to hang you from the highest tree around. Until then . . .” He turned away, looking for gear to gather for the sudden journey he was about to make. “Until then, mister, you take care. Stay warm—and alive, you hear?” He cackled, then said, “You owe me that much, seeing as how your partner robbed me of my rightful justice. Now, where are my boots?”

It didn't take Jigger but ten minutes, even at his ailment-slowed pace, to gather up the necessary gear to head out into the dwindling storm. He figured he had as much chance as anybody in these woods. They were his, after all. Spiritually if not on a deed. Some of them, yes, but other hunks of acreage, not any longer. Still, he had enough land holdings in his purse to make him a significant threat to Whitaker.

As he finished slowly lashing on the second snowshoe, he pulled in a deep draught of bracing air. Still-falling snow pellets stung his cheeks, sneaked up his nose, felt like hot needle tips. The air felt good inside and out, but he hated to admit that it hurt, too. He'd had broken ribs in the past, so he knew the best method of letting them knit back together was time and little exertion. And he had room in his life for indulging in either. He had to make fast time, get to town. And put his shotgun to good use.

As soon as his right leg popped free from under what he was sure was a log, Slocum heaved himself with all the strength he could muster and rolled leftward. He'd regained enough sensation in his arm and hand that he felt the hard, knobby surface of the thing that held down his left side. It
was
a log—he felt the bark. And it was at least eight to ten inches around. No wonder the blood flow had been cut off to his limbs. Whatever had put it in place must be a brute. But that much he already knew. Trick was he had to get away from the brute. But he was in the dark, in this thing's den, and half his body wasn't responding.

Another clout and an accompanying growl sent him sprawling. When he piled up against what felt like a cold stone wall, Slocum immediately grabbed for his knife, felt it still there in its sheath, and lifted it free. He might still be in the dark—in more ways than one—but that didn't mean he was going to be toothless. He backed up against the stone, felt like it might be a cave wall, and worked to get himself into an upright position. He drew his legs up close, thinking he might be able to stand up easier from such a position, perhaps by using the stone wall to push against.

He still couldn't see a lick in front of him, but he held the knife with the blade thrust outward, weaving it back and forth in the dark as a snake does its tail, poised, playing, ready to strike should necessity prompt it.

Suddenly from his left came a mighty barking roar, close by, as if he'd accidentally clunked someone. And for all he knew, he may well have—he still had little feeling in his legs.

The sudden growl seemed to elicit others, as if they had all begun to wake up. Slocum had no way of knowing if it was day or night, but knowing what little he did about these so-called skoocooms, it seemed they spent much of their wakeful time roaming the countryside at night. If they were all sleeping now, it was possibly still daytime, and all this ruckus was rousting them before their time. Maybe he'd have an advantage if he could get out of there and hit the trail in the daylight.

He had no idea if any of this made sense. His head was throbbing, and his hands and feet felt as if they were afire. Another clout to his side came out of nowhere. He reacted swiftly, lashing out with the knife. He brought it down in a clumsy swinging arc, slashing and hoping it found purchase somehow in something. And it did.

The howl of pain tinged with rage was as delicious as it was deafening. Beneath the blade, Slocum felt wetness matting into hair. Blood that he had drawn? He certainly hoped so. He worked to keep his blade edges honed enough so that he could shave with them.

He knew this wounded creature was on his right side, had heard others waking up and sounding pretty grumpy to his left. And he knew, too, that he had rolled to this spot from directly in front of him, but beyond that, he had no idea what was in this place.

Sitting in one spot has never gotten you a thing, Slocum, he told himself. And at that moment, when his limbs were barely able to function, when they felt as if they had been dipped in kerosene and set alight, he felt fur brush against his face, something else swat his legs, another something—was it a paw? a hand?—snap at his head, sending it jerking to one side, a mere tap but the power behind it was great, that much he could feel.

And all along, the din of growls and barking, savage noises, of low chuffing sounds, mingling with the stink of these critters, increased in sound and intensity until he felt as if he could take no more.

“Now or never,” he muttered, not hearing his own words, barely able to keep from gagging as he took in shallow breaths, expelled them quickly, all through his mouth.

Slocum pushed himself forward onto his knees, knife still clutched tight in his fist so that he might make outward slashing moves or downward jabs. His left arm collapsed with his feeble efforts. He righted himself and kept going. If these creatures could see in the dark, why weren't they attacking? What were they doing? Playing with him? To what end?

He considered it a small gift of time, and took full advantage of it. All around him the sounds grew louder, the smells nastier, but though he sensed great warmth exuding from bulky bodies not far from him to the front, back, sides, he never ran into anything the entire time he scrambled forward. He wanted to stand upright, but he doubted his legs could support him just yet.

Another clout, then another. And rising from the midst of the grotesque sounds all around him, Slocum swore he heard something like . . . chuckling? Nah. Not even possible.

Another swat sent him sprawling sideways. He got up, the chuckling sounds increased—he was without doubt now that it was definitely a laugh-like noise—and something else pushed him from behind, sending him scuttling forward, his hands and knees barely able to keep him from falling. He nearly pitched face-first to the smooth-worn floor, when just before him he saw a dimness in the dark.

At first he kept clambering forward, expecting more punches and swats, but none came. Then he reminded himself that they were, after all, only playing with him. Had to be. That would account for the fact that they hadn't killed him when they plainly could have—or tried to. And it would also account for the fact that he had been hearing a steady and rising chorus of what he could only describe as chuckles and laughter.

Let them laugh, he thought. He didn't care. All he wanted was to get the hell out of there. And the dim glow that he'd seen was the one and only thing he headed for. He felt another seemingly halfhearted swat, then nothing else as he crawled forward, the dim glow becoming brighter with each shambling lunge he took.

Closer and closer to the light, which grew brighter and brighter the closer he drew. And then he smelled fresh air and felt it waft over him—at least it was fresher than what he'd been subjected to inside. And all of a sudden he was out, sliding into low drifts of snow, blue-white in what proved to be afternoon light. The path down which he slid and stumbled and tumbled looked well used, but was hardly in a straight line, winding as it did through snagging trees. Finally, he looked upslope behind him in the dimming day. He spun fully, squared off, and waved his knife with menace before him. He saw nothing.

No huge creatures slamming down the hillside toward him, nothing like it. If he didn't have the sore head and sides and arms and legs to prove it, didn't have the nose that still felt packed with the godawful stink of that dark, dank, cave-like place, he might not believe he'd had the experience at all. But he had.

“John Slocum!”

He turned to see the source of the shouting, downslope from him and working her way up. Hella, the wild mountain woman, hustled upward on her snowshoes, clouds of light snow rising from behind each shoe as she approached.

“You're alive,” she said, smiling at him with what looked like genuine relief. It made him feel good.

They both looked at each other a moment. It felt to him as if each knew what the other was thinking. Finally, he said, “Friends of yours, I take it,” jerking his head upslope.

She nodded. “They pinned you, eh?”

“How did you know?” he said, rubbing his arms, bending to rub his legs.

“It's what they do.”

“To what . . . or who?”

“To whoever or whatever they plan on scaring—”

“Or eating?” said Slocum, straightening and sheathing his knife.

She nodded. “Yes, I'm quite sure a bear could eat a man if he were—”

“A bear? I thought for certain you were going to tell me it was skoocooms.”

She snorted, her hands on her hips. “Skoocooms? Do you seriously think, John Slocum, that there are a bunch of overly hairy people running around the woods with no clothes who live in caves without any source of fire for cooking or warmth?”

What Hella said may have been comical sounding, but the way she said it told Slocum he had crossed some sort of thin line with her, one over which she wasn't about to argue. Or maybe she was pulling his leg again. At this point he didn't much care.

“I only meant that it's pretty unlikely, you have to admit,” she said.

“Yep,” he said.

They walked downhill in silence.

“You left Jigger alone at your cottage?”

“Not alone—he's in charge of the frostbitten bastard.”

“I'm surprised you'd leave him there. Ten to one he's gone when we get back.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's one ticked-off little man. If you were in his boots, what would you do?” Slocum watched her face in the low light of the trail. Slow realization dawned on her pretty features, and her eyebrows rose. Slocum nodded.

“Whitaker's a dead man if we don't get there in time,” said Hella.

“Yep.”

“Not such a bad thing.”

“Nope. But not something we should let happen, if only because Jigger deserves better than to swing for killing that man.”

“Especially out of anger,” she said. “And probably no proof that Whitaker was behind any of the kidnapping stuff.”

“At least his wounds will slow him down,” said Slocum.

She looked at him, then sped up as she neared the dim shape of the cabin. “Don't count on it. There's never been a man as tough as Jigger, you mark my words.”

•   •   •

Far behind them on the rough trail they had just punched from on high all the way down to Hella's cabin, a large, hulking shape peered from the trees. It advanced as they did, then stood still when it sensed they might stop and turn.

It had to be certain that the man was not harming her, had to be certain that she cared for the man. And so it had dragged the man off and waited for her to come for him. And she had.

But it was still unsure of something, and so it would follow them to make sure nothing harmed her, the one who had always lived alone in her log cave.