Slocum 420 (13 page)

There was more rustling in the bushes farther ahead, followed by the impact of something heavy slamming against the ground amid a pained wheeze.

“Over here, the both of you,” Darryl shouted.

Slocum had to adjust his path accordingly, but soon caught sight of two bulky figures wrestling in the dirt. If he hadn't already seen the wild man, Slocum might have thought Darryl was fighting with a small bear. From other angles, it even seemed he was rolling around with a mess of old pelts.

Despite the chaos of the scuffle, Darryl gained the upper hand fairly quickly. He grabbed hold of the other man's crude cloak and slammed him onto his back. The instant he moved one hand to his belt to draw a hunting knife from one of the scabbards hanging at his side, Darryl was forced to defend himself from a powerful slash.

The wild man let out a trembling howl as he swung his right fist at Darryl's face. Spotting the claws extending from the other man's fist, Darryl cursed loudly and pitched himself backward in order to avoid getting his face ripped off the front of his skull. His movement may not have looked pretty, but it did the job. Not only did he clear a path for the clawed hand, but he propped himself up onto one knee with his right hand wrapped tightly around the grip of a hunting knife.

“You wanna dance, ya mangy dog?” Darryl sneered as he took a few quick jabs with the knife. “Let's dance.”

The wild man had pure savagery on his side, and all of his swings were powered by every muscle at his disposal. The attacks were unfocused, however, and Darryl avoided them with minimal effort. Each time those claws came his way, Darryl leaned or ducked without taking his eyes off the man in front of him.

Rushing at the wild man would have been akin to throwing himself face first onto one of the saws back at the mill, so Slocum held his ground. He took aim with the Remington and cursed under his breath as his target bobbed, swayed, and was periodically blocked by Darryl.

Strangely enough, tangling with a feral beast caused Darryl to be calmer than he'd been in the short time Slocum had known him. Instead of playing the wild man's game, he stayed just out of harm's way while taking the occasional poke with his knife. After tapping the tip of the blade against a thick mass of furs on his opponent's side, Darryl waited for the wild man to respond. When the wild man swung in the direction of that most recent jab from the hunting knife, Darryl leaned the opposite way and took a vicious swing at him.

If Darryl had been facing most anyone else, the slash would have opened one hell of a nasty cut. Although the blade cut through some layers of fur surrounding the wild man's torso, it was impossible to tell if any damage was done. The wild man wailed and attacked again, spurred on by pure ferocity. Any pain from Darryl's attack only added fuel to his fire.

“Down!” Merle shouted from somewhere out of Slocum's line of sight.

Whether or not Darryl could see his brother, he followed his directions by dropping straight down.

The wild man twisted around to find his prey, raised his clawed hand, and threw himself at Darryl while flailing with both arms.

Slocum recognized the report from the shot that was fired as having come from Merle's hunting rifle. A bullet hissed through the air, clipping the edge of one of the wild man's shoulders. It would have been a good shot on any other target, but trying to hit this one square was like trying to hit a moth dead center as it was blown on a stiff breeze. Even though Merle hadn't hit anything vital, the impact of his round caused the wild man to twist away from Darryl and land awkwardly on his side.

The wild man popped up while swinging his claws to meet Darryl's hunting knife amid a shower of sparks, causing both of them to recoil. While the wild man was reeling and before he could throw his entire body into another attack, he was hit by another bullet. This one caught him in the middle of his right arm, drilling through that elbow and bringing a pained cry from the back of his throat.

Slocum's Remington was smoking from the shot he'd just fired and he hurried forward while shouting, “I got him, Darryl. Stand aside.”

Darryl's eyes were set on the man in front of him and he lunged at the wild man with a powerful swing of his hunting knife. Once again, the blade raked across layers of fur padding.

“I said stand aside!” Slocum demanded.

“The hell I will,” Darryl said. “This crazy bastard tried to kill me!”

“He won't swing that arm again. Stand aside.”

Merle stepped forward with his hunting rifle at his shoulder. “He makes one move and I'll put him down,” he swore.

“It's over,” Slocum declared. “We're not executing this man.”

Looking around and taking some satisfaction from how the fight had concluded, Darryl got the last word by driving his left fist straight into the wild man's face to knock him out. “
Now
it's over,” he sneered.

All three of the hunters were in good spirits after overpowering the wild man. Merle held him at gunpoint while Slocum and Darryl hurried to get the man's wrists and ankles bound with several lengths of rope. Even though the prisoner didn't show the first hint of waking up through the entire process, all of the men worked as if he were still thrashing and swinging his claws at them. When they were finished, the three of them gazed down at their prisoner as though they still weren't sure whether he was man or beast.

“What now?” Merle asked.

“What do you mean, what now?” Darryl grunted. “We take him back to town and collect our pay.”

“You think there's any more of them?”

Slocum had been wondering about that himself. So far, he had yet to arrive at a conclusion. “There could be, I suppose,” he said. “But I would imagine any more would have come along to help this one by now.”

Giving the prisoner a spiteful kick, Darryl said, “This one's out of his damn mind. Anyone else that throws in with him would have to be just as crazy. There ain't no allegiances with crazy folks.”

“So . . . what does that mean?” Merle asked.

“It means the same as the last question you asked, little brother. We drag this one in and collect our pay. We were supposed to hunt down whatever sliced up them two mill workers. Judging by the looks of this one here, I'd say we found him. They want someone to turn over every rock and check in every stump of these damn woods, they'll have to pay a whole lot more.”

“How do we know this one hurt them other men?” Darryl asked.

“Let's just get him loaded onto a horse,” Slocum said. “It'll be a whole lot easier to do that now than when he's awake.” Knowing that the brothers needed some extra prodding before they would accept any order, he added, “Also, if there are any more of them like him out here, we probably don't want to be standing around in these woods any longer than we need to.”

“Fine,” Darryl said, “but you're helpin' me load him.”

“Let's get to it.”

Slocum grabbed the unconscious prisoner beneath his arms while Darryl lifted his legs. Between the two of them, they carried him back to where the horses were waiting and draped him over the back of Merle's tan and brown mare. The prisoner had stirred a bit during the process, but was still out like a wet lantern wick as they started heading down Fall Pass on their way to the trail that would take them back to Bennsonn.

Darryl rode at the front of the small group so he could keep an eye on the trail ahead while the other two followed him. Instead of riding single file, Slocum rode alongside Merle so he could keep close watch on the younger brother's unconscious passenger.

Although all three of them wanted to put those woods behind them as quickly as possible, they rode at a steady pace. The horses walked along as the men on their backs glanced in every direction, searching for the source of every sound that came along. Even after they were no longer riding on Fall Pass, Merle continued to look over his shoulder.

When Slocum noticed the younger man glancing down at who was strapped across his horse's back, he asked, “What's wrong? Is he starting to come around?”

“Why?” Merle asked quickly. “Did you see something?”

“No. The way you keep looking back at him, I thought maybe you felt him kick.”

“Oh. No, I didn't feel nothing.”

“So,” Merle asked quietly, “you think this is really the asshole that cut up them men?”

“I'd say so. Those blades he's holding could have made wounds in the same pattern as the ones on those men and they sure as hell look sharp enough to get the job done.”

Leaning in a bit and dropping his voice so it couldn't be so easily heard by his older brother, Merle asked, “You're certain them are blades? They sure look like claws to me.”

Slocum had had plenty of time to look at the curved weapons while tying up the wild man and carrying him to the horse. Then, like now, all he could see were curved, sharpened claws protruding from between the fingers of the prisoner's right hand, but his fist was clenched so tightly that Slocum couldn't see much more than that.

They weren't like an animal's claws since they were obviously forged from some kind of metal. The edges had been sharpened and had the scoring marks to prove it. Leaning over, Slocum held on to his saddle horn with one hand and reached for the prisoner with his other. “One way to find out for certain what they are,” he said while grabbing the wild man's hand.

Merle winced and looked up at his brother as though he was expecting to get reprimanded. Instead, Darryl was preoccupied by watching the trail ahead while drinking from his mason jar.

It was difficult for Slocum to find a spot to grab the metal weapons in the wild man's hand without getting cut in the process. The prisoner's fist was still clenched tightly shut. Finally, Slocum was able to get a grip on the weapon by putting his own fingers between the claws in much the same way that the prisoner was gripping them. From there, he pulled and twisted the claws until the fingers wrapped around them finally started to loosen. Pulling one last time with his hand as well as his entire upper body while leaning back, Slocum managed to pry the claws free.

Holding them up so Merle could see, Slocum said, “Well, I guess that answers one question.”

The claws were indeed blades instead of anything growing from the man's fist. Long knives, sharpened along one edge, were connected at the bottom to a wooden handle wrapped in leather straps. Not only was the grip contoured to match the hand that held them, but the leather was darkened and bloody after having been gripped for such a long time. In fact, considering how the prisoner's fingers were still curled into the shape they'd been when clutching the weapon, Slocum guessed the wild man rarely let his weapon go.

“Nasty piece of work,” Slocum said. “See for yourself.”

When Slocum tossed the weapon over to him, Merle was just quick enough to catch it. Even though he'd almost cut himself on the blades, he seemed more than a little relieved when he got a good look at the weapon to verify it had indeed been crafted from nothing more than wood and iron. “This is one crazy son of a bitch. Hey, Darryl! Look here at these knives!”

Darryl turned around to look over his shoulder. “You finally pry them from his hand? Thought you'd never work up the courage.”

“You were just as nervous as I was.”

“Sure, when them blades were comin' at my face! Truth is, little brother, you've always been the nervous and superstitious one in the family. I imagine you thought this whole time he had them blades popping out from his arm!” Darryl let out a long laugh that shook his entire body while his brother clenched his jaw shut tight and stared daggers at his back.

They rode awhile longer before Darryl led them down the same branch in the trail they'd taken before.

“Where do you think you're going?” Slocum asked.

“Waterin' the horses,” Darryl replied.

“We can make it back to town without watering the horses. We're losing daylight.”

“What's the matter, Slocum? Don't you like your horse?”

“I like him just fine. What I don't like is tacking more time onto this ride than what's necessary. You can't have drunk so much whiskey that you still need whatever witch's brew is in that mason jar.”

“Everything we took from there needs to be put back,” Darryl said. “Otherwise, me and Merle will just have to drag ourselves out here again to do it some other time.”

As much as Slocum wanted to argue, he knew that would only cause more grief and waste more time. Since the prisoner was strapped to Merle's horse and not his own, Slocum grudgingly went along with them as they headed for the clearing near the stream.

Darryl was out of his saddle and leading his horse through the now-familiar bushes like a kid running into a candy store. By the time Slocum and Merle had caught up to him, Darryl had already uncovered the trunk and was fishing out a bottle of clear liquor that had most likely been brewed in a bathtub.

Slocum volunteered to take the horses to the stream, and Darryl wasn't inclined to argue. After placating his brother by sharing a drink with him, Merle hurried to catch up to him. Slocum wasn't wound as tightly as he had been before, but he still almost drew his pistol when Merle rushed from the bushes to come straight at him.

“He wake up yet?” Merle asked.

Slocum moved his hand away from his holster and continued what he'd been doing before Merle had arrived. “Doesn't look like it,” Slocum said while searching the wild man's clothing for pockets. “But I'm starting to think he's just asleep. Darryl didn't hit him that hard.”

“He was pretty worked up. One of our aunts was touched in the head, and she tended to keel over every now and again to sleep for the better part of a day. She was dead to the world when that happened.”

Since Merle was trying to be earnest, Slocum kept his comments to himself regarding his lack of surprise that someone so close to the brothers on their family tree was touched in the head. “Could just be he's playing possum,” Slocum said.

Wincing, Merle said, “From the stench comin' off of this one,
dead
possum is more like it.”

Slowly, a grin found its way onto Slocum's face. “Since we're already stopped here, why don't we make the rest of our ride a little easier?”

Merle didn't know exactly what Slocum was getting at until he noticed the way Slocum was eyeing the stream. “I'll take his legs?”

“And I'll take his arms.”

“If I have to smell that stench for one more minute, I'm gonna puke up everything I ate for the last week.”

“I second that motion,” Slocum said before grabbing the prisoner once more beneath the arms. Both he and Merle were laughing as they picked up the wild man and took him off the back of Merle's horse.

As it turned out, the wild man was indeed playing possum. Either that, or he just happened to snap his eyes open while saying, “You toss me into that water and I'll kill you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Slocum grunted as he carried him toward the stream. “At least we'll die without having to smell you and that god-awful fur you got wrapped around yourself.”

By now, the wild man was suspended over the water and swaying back and forth thanks to the men holding him from both ends. He wriggled like a worm on a hook, screaming as if the stream were a cauldron of boiling oil. At the height of his third swing, he was released and dropped in. The water was just deep enough to cover him and shallow enough to give him a jarring welcome when he landed on the mossy submerged rocks.

“What in the hell are you two doin'?” Darryl asked as he charged from the bushes with his gun drawn.

Still grinning from ear to ear, Slocum replied, “Giving our friend a much-needed bath.”

“You're all gonna die!” the wild man shouted as he sat straight up and shook his head like a shaggy dog.

Darryl looked down at him and grimaced at the growing cloud of filth spreading from the prisoner on all sides. “Damn! You're gonna poison the horses.”

“Hadn't thought of that,” Slocum admitted. “Maybe we should drag him out of there.”

“Nah, leave him in,” Darryl said. “Maybe he won't be so surly once we get him out of them stinkin' skins he's wearing.”

“You can't take these off!” the prisoner said. “They're part of me! They keep me alive!”

Merle waded into the water so he could stand directly in front of the prisoner. “You know somethin'? I'd feel a bit of compassion for you if you hadn't used them blades to cut apart at least two men before trying to gut me and my brother like a damn fish.” With that, he grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair and dunked him under the water.

Suddenly, Slocum realized he'd almost forgotten a very important piece of their job out in those woods. When Merle pulled the prisoner back up again, Slocum asked, “You want out of that water?”

“Yeah!” the prisoner replied.

“You want to keep them smelly skins of yours?”

“I need them!”

“Then tell me where that third man is.”

Merle and Darryl looked at each other with vaguely surprised expressions. In the midst of the hunt and everything that had happened along the way, they must have let that detail slip from their minds as well.

“What third man?” the wild man asked.

“There was another man who was with the two that you cut up and left near the trail at Fall Pass. He was a tracker named Abner Woodley.”

“I recall that name,” the wild man said. “The fella driving the cart spoke it.”

“Where is he?”

“He went after the beast.”

“What did you do to him?” The only answer he got was a wide-eyed stare, so Slocum stepped up closer to him and said, “You can tell us now and make it easier or you can tell the law after they beat it out of you. Understand?”

Eventually, the wild man wrapped his arms around himself and said, “These skins are mine! I killed for 'em and I'll kill you, bitch bastards sons of whores goddamn—”

Darryl cut him off with a swift right cross that knocked him back into the water. When he pulled him out again, the wild man continued to spit obscenities as if they were the only words in his language. Finally, Slocum shut him up by knocking the butt of his pistol against the prisoner's temple. Once the wild man sagged backward, Merle had to hold him up to keep him from drowning in the shallow stream.

“That's about all I could stomach,” Darryl said while rubbing his knuckles. “Let's get these damn skins off'a him so we can make the rest of the ride without gagging.” Then Darryl pulled the hunting knife from its scabbard and proceeded to slice the wild man's wrappings off as if he were skinning a buck.

Since Darryl seemed content to do the job on his own, Slocum left him to it. Turning to Merle, he asked, “Did Womack tell you about Abner Woodley?”