Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) (7 page)

11

“We have made good time in gaining on the demons.” Rufus Tinker nodded at the ground before them as if that were sufficient to explain his reasoning to his weary sons. They all could see the tracks in places as plain as day, though they meant little to them. No one had ever taught them to track anything more than a deer, and even when they had to do that, they followed animals they had plainly seen, then had shot and followed the blood trail. But rarely did they have to rely on reading sign.

Peter spoke up. “Papa, we have walked through the night and could all use a rest. We could fill our canteens at that stream, maybe nap for a spell. We are all tuckered out.” He gestured at the other three men walking behind him. The brothers looked at the old man, then looked away, slight nods showing their agreement.

Tinker halted the mule and glared at each of his sons in turn. That they were exhausted was obvious, but he also didn't want to lose even more time. If they each had a mount, they could have all been on horseback, riding day and night. For that's what beasts of burden were for.

“Very well,” he said, sliding from the mule. The old animal moaned in relief and lowered his head, fatigued. “We will stop for one hour. I will keep an eye on my timepiece. Get busy doing whatever it is you feel is so important that we must pause in this journey being undertaken in the name of God. I, for one, will not rest until those she-devils are safely trussed and accepting of the lash of the Lord's will, time and time again.” He rubbed his bony red hands together.

Tinker felt himself warming to his topic, but stopped in mid-sentence as he turned his stony stare at each of his sons. They all seated themselves at the spot in the road where they'd stopped, their weapons and packs still in their arms and slung on their backs.

“Lazy loafing idlers. The Lord will require punishment when we return to the farm. The Lord will not be cheated out of His tribute.”

Light snores were the only response.

“Pah!” said the old man. He pulled out his pocket watch and tapped the face. It hadn't worked in years, but he referred to it throughout each day because he knew it made him appear commanding, and he knew that he was nothing if not their leader. He was more than their father. He was their spiritual guide, their master, the very Right Hand on Earth of the Lord! He trembled with the thought of it. These fools and the women, nothing more than lazy, fleshy conveyances sent to test him. He would not fail.

Rufus Tinker tied the mule to a branch, sat back against a rock, and despite the fact that he had done nothing but ride all day, he soon fell asleep as well.

12

With each mile kicked off behind him, and with each new ray of sunlight from the east warming first his right side, then his entire body, Slocum felt renewed. Fleeting images of the sunburned men, the beauty of the women who had left them behind, all mingled in his mind and he decided not to force them away any longer. They were, after all, more experiences that helped make up this far-ranging life he was leading.

By the time he crested the northern edge of the valley, the sun was a full-burning thing threatening to become its old demon self. Well, let it burn. He had a full head of steam and Mueller was somewhere up ahead. He hoped. They paused at the top, and he edged the horse in among a stand of aspen, taking care that he'd not be skylined should someone look up his way, and he fished his brass telescoping spyglass from his saddle bag. He'd bought it off an old Basque sheepherder not long before, and though he'd owned other such devices in the past, this one was of exceptional quality. He vowed to try to hang on to it. At least until he got bushwhacked and robbed again. The thought of the last time that had happened still rankled him.

Within a minute of scanning the immediate countryside below him, then edging outward with each slow pass of the glass, he was rewarded with sign of what could well prove to be smoke from a campfire. A thin gray haze drizzled upward from a dense patch of trees to the northwest a good three miles below.

Can't be Mueller, he thought. Why wouldn't he be farther ahead? Just because he hadn't been here before didn't mean lots of other folks didn't travel through the region, or better yet, call it home. No, I am probably looking at someone's stove smoke.

But he couldn't afford to ignore it. As he collapsed the brass tube down into itself and reached to stuff it into his saddlebag, he heard a slight sound, and paused. Not moving his head, but scanning the gradual slope behind him. Was someone tailing him? His eyes roved, then he saw it, a jerking, flitting brown-and-black thing—a ground squirrel poked its nose in the air. He smiled at it and at himself for thinking it was tracking him, and made secure the flap on the saddlebag.

“Come on, horse. Enough foolishness.” They picked their way down the northern slope of the ridge, doing their best to keep to the shadows and trees for as long as he was able.

The farther downslope he traveled, the more convinced Slocum became that he wouldn't find too many settlers on this side of the ridge. As hospitable and green and promising as the valley to the south had been, this was arid land with only the high-summer promise of growth to offer. But he knew that never lasted long. These lush months soon passed and gave way to cold, blowing snows. And when it did rain, it came in short, harsh bursts that more often than not ran off the caked earth instead of staying and nourishing. So whose smoke had he spied? And was it smoke at all?

The landscape that spread before him was hilled and pocked with tangles of wind-twisted thickets, stands of mixed-growth trees, and knobs of jagged rock upthrust from already-browned hummocks of sparse grasses gone wispy in the heat and wind.

He managed to make his way down in relative concealment, and once in the trees, though he was still a long way from where he'd spied the smoke, the horse's ears pricked forward and Slocum reined up and followed suit, canting his head to the side in an effort to better hear . . . nothing. But the horse's muzzle quivered, its nostrils working the air. Slocum's, too. And he was rewarded with the faint but unmistakable tang of wood smoke, carried to him, thankfully, on a light southward breeze.

He doubted it was Tunk Mueller, but whoever it was might have had dealings with the outlaw, or at least seen him. And hopefully he'd left them unhurt and alive. He urged the Appaloosa forward at a faster walk. They were hidden by a slight rise—he'd take his advantages where he could get them. As he emerged from behind it, he saw a red blur moving behind trees. It looked like a shirt, someone who appeared to be moving in no hurry—puttering about a campsite maybe. He had to get up close without being seen, the red shirt all but convincing him that it was indeed a slow-traveling Mueller. But he had to be sure.

He ground-tied the Appaloosa well away from his quarry, near a patch of stringy, somewhat green grass. The horse didn't seem to mind. He set to it with a fervor Slocum himself usually reserved for large meals. Take it where you can, I guess. He shucked his rifle from its sheath and cat-footed around the gray, tumble-down boulders separating him from this mysterious red-shirted person.

He'd made it to within a few dozen yards, nearly to the curious campsite, when from behind him, a rattle of collective sounds froze him in his low-crawling crouch. What the hell was that? A mix of the sounds of nickering horse and tumbling rocks . . . He ducked down behind the boulder he was skirting. He risked a peek around the side of the nearest boulder and just caught a glimpse of something straight back behind the Appaloosa, closer to the slope they'd traveled down.

Damn if it wasn't a person. Someone in a light shirt and a skirt? No . . . and then an image of Ruth flashed in his mind. She'd been wearing pants, but . . . Oh no, it couldn't be that foolish woman! He jerked his head back toward Red Shirt and saw nothing. Great.

Caught, Slocum. You're caught betwixt a mess of rocks, a potential killer, and a cow-eyed woman. He risked another peek around the boulder and a rifle shot whanged off one far behind, near his horse. The woman let out a strangled yelp.

So Red Shirt was either Mueller or an innocent. But whoever it was, he wasn't afraid to fling lead. As if to put a wax stamp on the thought, another round did much the same as the first, and elicited the same response from the woman. Slocum's horse nickered louder and galloped off. Fortunately, Slocum knew that the beast wouldn't go far. There was plenty of graze and the horse was always hungry.

It was possible that Red Shirt didn't know he was here, trapped between him and the woman. Slocum didn't see any other horses, so whoever it was must have either walked, which was unlikely, or left her own horse back up at the top of the hill. Maybe he could belly-crawl off to the right, snake his way around in a wide arc. But that wouldn't help Ruth, if that's who it was, though he was relatively sure it was her, darn her silky hide.

A dozen feet to his right sat a cairn, the stones left by some act of nature long before man ever thought to set foot here. From there on out, it would be a smoother crawl of it, with plenty of cover for him to dash to, between where he was and Red Shirt's campsite. He wasn't risking any intrusion, which told Slocum that the mystery man was up to no good and so, probably, was Mueller. One way to find out, Slocum old boy, he told himself, and slunk forward.

The next shot rang out, spanging off a nearby boulder, sending stinging rock chips skyward, and letting Slocum know the man must know he was there. But did he know who Slocum was? He wanted nothing more than to get a clear shot at the bastard, put him down once and for all. But between the distance, the fact that he was well hidden, and the slim chance that he might not be Mueller, Slocum couldn't risk a killing shot. He had to know. He had to get closer.

He was busy dashing from the tumbledown of boulders to the horse-size cairn when, from behind him, the woman, no doubt scurrying for better cover, knocked loose a fresh tumble of rocks. Red Shirt let go another two-shot volley, then must have seen Slocum, because the next thing he knew, even as he dove for the cover of the cairn ahead, a bullet blazed a smoking, seeping red trench across his thigh. He pitched sideways and his teeth came together hard. He growled as he pushed himself forward to get to cover. Going backward—which would provide better cover—would take too long. God, but that hurt.

He'd been grazed plenty, but this was a deeper wound. And all because of that damned woman. If he ever had the chance to get his hands on her again, he'd not be so kind. Even as it welled red with fresh blood, Slocum was grateful it hadn't been an inch lower, or he might have to dig out a lead pill from his leg—if he could. Two inches lower and he'd have had to deal with a shattered bone. Mueller, or whoever Red Shirt was, was a decent shot.

For long minutes afterward, all was still. The sun soaked into everything, driving even the buzzing heat-loving insects to silence. Slocum finished wrapping his kerchief tight around his leg to help slow the bleeding, and wished he had his saddlebags at hand, and especially that flask-size bottle of bourbon he kept secreted in there, mostly for mornings when the campfire was slow to catch and the temperatures were still too nippy.

He wormed himself into a more comfortable position, then lay low, hat pulled down, leg throbbing like a locomotive churning at the station just before a journey. Waiting out your enemy was the only tactic he'd ever found effective against gun scum. He only hoped he had enough wherewithal to wait out old Red Shirt. This was one wily and patient man.

At least I don't have to worry if the woman has gotten herself shot, he thought. I'd surely have heard that racket.

Time passed slowly. Slocum would occasionally hear a horseshoe strike stone, and knew the Appaloosa was well, if fidgety. He heard nothing of the woman and had grown increasingly worried. Maybe she had taken a shot after all. From all meager indications, Red Shirt was a decent shot. He figured the better part of a half hour had passed and he knew he couldn't sit there and bleed to death. He had to do something. He bent low and craned his head, close to the ground, around the far right side of the bottom-most boulder he'd been hiding behind. No sign of that red garment.

He pulled his head back, turtle-like, and another shot spanged off the rock close by, sending a spray of slicing chips at him. He covered his face with his forearms, but the rock fragments cut his arms and showered all around him. Enough was enough. Even if it was Tunk and even if he did know Slocum was tailing him, which he'd thought was all but impossible, Slocum had to end this thing.

“Hey!” he shouted in a voice lower than his normal tone. Just in case he was still clueless, it wouldn't do to have Mueller recognize him. “You there, in the red shirt!”

The paused was long enough that Slocum thought for sure the man wasn't interested in a parley. Then the man's voice barked, “Whatta you want?”

Could well be Mueller. Sounded a bit like him, but it was raspy and frenzied, hard to tell. “I want to know why you're shooting,” said Slocum. “I'm just passing through—no call to shoot at me.”

“I didn't shoot at you, I shot you. I seen it. And you ain't alone.”

Slocum shifted, hoping to catch sight of the man. He grimaced as fresh arrows of pain lanced up his leg. He had to get up soon or he'd be too stiff to do much of anything except lie here and get blood poisoning. “You sound distrustful,” he shouted back. “Like you're a wanted man.”

Another long minute passed and Slocum was about to raise the stakes and start firing, anything to distract the man and give himself a chance to stand up, when he saw a quick burst of smoke rise up where before there had only been light smoke wafting from the man's campfire—but this was the fast rising, billowing sort of smoke you get from a doused fire. Something was about to happen. And it did—within seconds, Slocum heard hoofbeats receding. He risked another glance around the rock. Sure enough, through the trees he saw a red shirt moving away fast, on horseback. On one of the Monktons' mounts, he bet, damn him. Slocum felt sure that it had been Tunk Mueller, though why the man had chosen to stop here was beyond him. He should have been well past this point by now. Unless he truly hadn't expected to be tailed.

Great, thought Slocum, now he'll be tipped off and will move faster and with more caution than before. And I'm slowed up with a grazed, bleeding leg.

Using his rifle and the rock, he managed to get his feet under him. A wash of hot pain rose up from the afflicted limb and over him as if he were dunked in a lake of fire. It abated enough for him to lift the rifle, train it in the direction the shooter had been. He was pretty sure Mueller had been alone, but it didn't pay to take chances. He also wanted that annoying woman to see him—he was sure she'd scramble down to him.

He didn't have long to wait. Her footsteps were loud, not cautious, setting still more rocks to tumble. He kept a narrowed gaze at the copse of trees ahead, waited for her to come to him.

Finally, she was close enough to talk with, and he turned, ready for a fight. “What in the hell was that all ab—”

It wasn't Ruth at all. It was her younger sister, Judith, the one who'd scowled at him the entire time he'd been with the family. And she was still wearing her six-shooters.

As he looked at her, he recalled the few times earlier that day on the trail when he thought he'd heard something behind him. It hadn't been the horses or the squirrel. It hadn't been anything other than the damned girl. He was torn between anger and amazement. “What are you doing here?”

Judith saw his gashed, bleeding leg. “You've been shot!”

“Yeah, no thanks to you. And I lost Mueller.”

“You blame me?” She resumed her customary scowl.

“You bet I blame you, little miss.”

“How dare you say that. I been keeping an eye on you.”

“It's been long years since I needed a wet nurse, by God. Besides, you're a child. I doubt you can even handle those things.” He nodded toward her six-guns.

She tried to meet his gaze, tried to muster up her old scowl, but just couldn't do it. She looked at the ground, her hands resting on the butts of her pistols.

“Well, hell,” said Slocum. He sighed and watched as the red-shirted man finally disappeared in the distance. “Are you hurt at all?”

She shook her head. Scolded like that, she looked more like a child than a young woman.

“Good. Might as well make yourself useful and fetch my horse.”

“But you need to doctor that wound . . .”