Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) (14 page)

He had to find Judith. He reasoned that she hadn't been found by them, or he would have heard otherwise, so she must be around somewhere. But there was no sign of the horse, nor of Judith. “Damn kid,” he said, realizing that he couldn't leave, couldn't stay. The only thing he could do was back-trail to the Bible-thumper's farm, find his horse, and do what he could to save them. If they didn't want to leave, he had to get the heck out of there while he still had his life. Mueller, he owed that man a bullet, and Slocum vowed he would trail him to the ends of the earth for every wrong thing he'd ever done.

This entire interlude had been a long, costly one. His leg throbbed with every step he took. He searched throughout the house, the front, the back, around the barn, even for the body in the bushes. But there he found only blood on the ground and surrounding rocks. Maybe he didn't kill whoever it was. No, he'd been sure it had been a throat shot. They had probably lugged him off to bury at the farm.

He limped back to the barn and took stock of his situation. Everything the women had with them was gone, including their four horses, plus his horse, their possessions. The wagon, all of it. And the heavily laden wagon's wheels cut deep grooves back eastward, toward the farm where he'd saved the sunburned men.

“Should have left them to die,” he muttered, rummaging through his saddlebags. At least they hadn't found him, which in itself was curious. But if they did, he knew he'd be dead, bet on it. He had enough water in his canteen for a decent couple of reviving pulls, confident that he would be able to fill it at the little stream he'd passed on his way here—had it only been two days before?

He changed his shirt and checked his leg wound closely this time, looking for any telltale sign that an infection was developing. There was none, though he'd have a nasty welt once the wound healed. He stuffed the rest of his jerky and two remaining biscuits, now rock-hard, into his vest pocket; loaded his other pockets with spare ammunition; double-checked his Colt Navy, his knife, and his rifle; and headed eastward.

Once on the trail, and not knowing how many animals the men rode to get there, he had a tough time reading the tracks. He eventually determined that the main group didn't have his Appaloosa. But its shoes, different from the tracks made by the shoeless farm beasts, were there, though fresher and off to the side of the trail. It was almost as if whoever rode him was working hard to keep the tracks as unseen as possible. Probably, he nodded, because the rider knew he was going to follow. Which meant it couldn't have been one of the sunburned men, for they would have just killed him instead.

So who, then? Judith, of course. She was the one who had gone off on her own into the night, not wanting anyone else to see her. He'd assumed it had been her way of dealing with the shock and instant grief of seeing her brother murdered by their father. Luke had been closest to her in age, and had probably been her closest playmate. Slocum could only imagine how hollow and sad she felt inside.

Had she known the men were about to swoop in and clear out the place? Or perhaps she'd seen it happening and kept hidden—that seemed the likelier scenario to him.

She knew that Slocum had been trussed up in the barn, probably helped to do it. And then a thought stopped him in his slow, plodding tracks. The old woman and the coffee—it had seemed uncharacteristic of her at the time for a woman who'd just had one of her sons shot to bring the man who did it a cup of coffee. But the coffee itself tasted odd, he remembered. Bitter and harsh. He'd attributed it at the time to it being chicory blend or just plain burnt. It had been hot and that was all he really had cared about. Now, though, he wondered if she'd drugged him as she'd done to the sunburned men. Maybe Ruth had been in on it, too? Exercise him? Exhaust him further? Slocum's mind raced on, making connections where there were none.

He trudged on, trying to gain as much ground before the midday heat sapped more of his strength. Tracking them was simple, particularly because he knew precisely where they were headed. And he was relatively assured, too, that none of them were expecting him. Though he still kept alert and stuck to the roadside, ready to dive for what meager cover he could find should one of them decide to double back or lay in wait to ambush him.

In a way, Judith stealing his horse had saved his neck, which was what the women had partially intended. Kind of them, he smiled grimly. With friends like that . . . The men did buy Ruth's story about him leaving the day before. That meant Judith must have made off with the Appaloosa during the ambush, but had seen it happening, and then followed, hopefully at a safe distance. Relax, Slocum, he told himself. None of it really matters. At least not until you get there.

By his figuring, he had at least a couple of days' hard walking, in the best of health. But with this limp, he suspected he'd need another half day on top of that, at least. Unless he came across a miracle, like a stray horse. He chuckled, but try as he might, he couldn't see one in any direction. So he kept on walking.

The heat was brutal, and just about midday he headed for a rocky shelf that offered plenty of shade on the high side of the trail. Problem was, he wasn't the only one who thought so. A six-foot diamondback sensed his approach and did everything it needed to warn him off. Slocum sighed, out of striking distance. Since he didn't think he'd be able to jump back with his usual speed, he stayed well back of the beast while he considered what he was going to do next. He had certainly eaten his share of snake over the years. It reminded him of chicken, and while chicken wasn't his particular favorite meat, he preferred the hell out of it over starving.

The big boy was really rattling now. Slocum wanted that shady spot and the snake didn't want to give up his perch, so he had a decision to make. Walk on and leave the snake to its own devices? Risk a shot, for the meat and for his safety? Risk the clan hearing the shot and sending someone back to sniff around, see who was on their back trail? That was what he would do if he were in their position and heard a gunshot. But he knew they wouldn't do what he would. And even if they surprised him and did, he'd be well off the road and in a perfect spot to get the drop on whoever drew the short straw.

“Sorry, chum,” said Slocum, “it's you or me.” He cocked his rifle and, with a single shot, delivered the coiled and poised hissing rattler to his maker. A couple of short minutes later found him slicing the meat of the skinned snake into chunks. He didn't want any just now, but knew his body would need sustenance at the end of the day.

He dragged himself into the shade of the overhanging ledge and within a few minutes had slipped into a light slumber. He awoke sometime later—by the sun he reckoned he'd been asleep less than an hour, just enough to refresh him. He figured he could get a few more hours in before stopping for the night. He slid out of the ledge's shade and almost put a boot down right in front of another rattler. This one raised a fuss, and just as Slocum was ready to shoot it, the snake had the good sense to slither away, into the shade of a ground squirrel's hole. Slocum was relieved—he had no urge to waste another shot on a snake and he had a trail to follow.

Sometime later, a rabbit loped across the roadway in front of him. But he was lugging snake meat, and again, didn't fancy dealing with another carcass that day. He had hoped to make it to the little stream by nightfall, but well into dusk, he still hadn't reached it. He was tired and decided to keep on for a while longer. The moonlight, as it had been the previous two nights, was still strong, and the cooler air was welcome.

Soon, with a welcome relief that drew a deep-chested sigh from him, he heard the stream. Now he knew precisely how far he was from the farm. He also remembered a cluster of boulders just off the trail that had shown signs of scorching from a previous traveler's campfire, no doubt. He'd make a small fire, cook up his snake meat, drink his fill of water, and settle in for what he hoped was a decent night's rest.

And then, in the morning, he'd light off early and hopefully make it to the farm sometime in the late afternoon. If it was much later than that, he'd gauge his distance from it accordingly and wait out a few hours, then strike hard and fast in the middle of the night. Though he'd been mulling it over all day, he'd settled on no specific plan. And that was just the way it had to be—until he knew who and what he was dealing with.

But he could go in with a general sense of what needed doing. And first and foremost, he needed to get the Appaloosa and then, if it seemed like the decent thing to do, he'd assess whether butting his nose into the family's affairs any more than he had was even worth it.

But every time he decided to just grab his horse and go, he thought of those little kids, of the desperate looks on the women's faces, and knew their lives would be hell under the old Bible-thumper—worse than they had ever been, and judging from what he'd seen and heard, that was saying something.

He dumped the armload of tinder, kindling, and branches by the stones, toed a couple of them into place, and built a fire. He struck a lucifer with his thumbnail and set it to the slivers of bark, leaves, and a frayed snatch of cloth he'd sliced from his denims. They were ruined anyway and the cloth would make lighting the fire easier.

Within minutes, he had a decent little blaze cracking and snapping. The flames' light danced and wavered, bewitching his tired eyes. He shook his head and went back for that length of dried log he'd seen just out of the firelight, then scrounged up two more branches, thin whips ideal for spearing the meat he'd carried wrapped in the cloth sack where he'd also kept his biscuits.

In no time, the meat began to sizzle and drip, and he found himself licking his lips, in anticipation of eating. He wished he'd thought to bring salt, as that would draw out the flavor even more. “Beggars can't be choosers, Slocum, my boy,” he said to no one but himself. It felt odd not to at least have the horse for company.

And as he dined, swearing to himself it was the best damned meat he'd ever had, he hunkered deeper into his vest and turned his thoughts to getting a plan formed. He wasn't quite sure just how to deal with the Bible-thumper and his band of acolytes.

He dragged the back of his hand cross his greasy lips and chuckled. Of course he would deal with them somehow. The men shot at him, shot at and grazed women, and didn't seem to care that there were children in the house. By all accounts they treated their women like cattle, mere breeding stock. Hell, Slocum had known ranchers who had more regard for their cattle, and who, while huge, solid men who brooked no lip or complaint from their hired hands, walked on tippy-toes around their wives and daughters, worshipping them and acting as if the sun rose and the moon set all for the women in their families. A far cry from the old crablike sunburned farmer.

What made a man so weak in the head that he succumbed to such savage behavior? It was one thing to believe in God, or any god, and the teachings in what so many called the “Good Book,” but it was entirely another to allow it to stunt and warp your views so thoroughly that you treated anyone else as an inferior creature.

With these thoughts on his mind, Slocum, leaning back against the smooth rock, pulled his vest tighter around him. His leg, still sore, no longer throbbed, for which he was grateful. He slid his cross-draw holster with his Colt around so it sat snug against his satisfied stomach, and rested his fingertips on its use-worn ebony handle.

His rifle lay cocked and angled across his leg, and his hat angled low over his face, resting lightly on his nose tip. It smelled slightly of sunlight and dust and trails and wood smoke and sweat. The random cracks and snaps of the fire lulled him into a deep, hard, dreamless sleep.

The snapping and yelping of a dog awoke him sometime later. It was still dark and Slocum still felt tired, unrested, but there would be time for more rest later. Sounded like he had a coyote problem. He lay still, save for his eyes, which roved left and right, but he saw nothing. The little fire had dwindled down to a few glowing coals.

Keeping his back to the boulder, he laid tinder, then larger sticks, atop the coals. All the while the yelping and snarling continued, from far to his left, then to his right. That was how they worked, he knew. He'd had plenty of experience over the years with nighttime scavengers. And the worst part of it was that he wouldn't get much more sleep that night.

They must have sniffed the cooking snake meat. That smell could tempt most meat eaters for miles around. Couldn't really blame them. If he were hungry and afoot with no food and he smelled it, he'd probably invite himself to the campfire looking for a bite or two. He just had to make sure they didn't get a bite off his arms or legs. He'd had enough bleeding from wounds for a while, thank you.

They were brazen, though, and would most likely come at him in numbers, flashing their teeth and mangy hides, darting closer all the time to his fire. Hoping for a free meal. What they'd get would be a bullet in the head or chest.

And so his night went, several more hours of feeding the log he'd dragged over into the fire. Slocum had no intention of leaving the relative safety of the big rock he was leaning against. He kept the rifle cocked and positioned beside him, the Colt Navy at hand, and a big handful of bullets in his vest pocket. He'd found them easy to grab at times such as this.

The coyotes darted in and out again, their eyes reflecting and glowing like colored glass baubles in the firelight. He hoped Judith wasn't having such troubles. He hoped the log would last until morning, he hoped his leg wasn't becoming infected, he hoped the women were not suffering too badly under that tyrant, Rufus Tinker.

He hoped Tunk Mueller was at that very moment being strung up by an irate rancher, just because he didn't like the looks of him. Slocum hoped a lot of things, and worked like hell to stay awake. But as gray light cracked the horizon, he lost the fight with sleep. His chin sagged to his chest as the last of the log reduced to cinders, and the yips of the damned coyotes trailed away toward some hidden den deep in the rocky countryside.