Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) (16 page)

17

Slocum stirred, then came awake with a start to see Madeleine standing with her back to him, peering out a small window in the wall. He wanted to stay like this as long as he could. Her back was creamy smooth and flawless. Her hips were wide and her waist trim. Most of all he liked her shapely legs.

As if she sensed him watching, she looked over her shoulder and gave a smile that combined shyness with a touch of earthiness. He knew what she did for a living—and he was willing to admit she did it well. But there was a vulnerable part to her that he couldn't explain.

She bent, giving him an added treat, picked up the blanket, and settled it around her shoulders.

“It's cold in here,” she said.

“That's because you got up. You should have stayed here beside me.”

Madeleine smiled, this time with a touch of sadness.

“You have to go after them, don't you? No, don't answer. I'm good at reading people and see it in your eyes.” She went to the window, used the edge of the blanket to wipe away frost, and looked out. “I need to go, too.”

“Back to the house?”

“No, I'm going to leave Grizzly Flats. I've overstayed my welcome here.” She laughed harshly. “What little welcome I ever had. Folks here never cottoned much to me. I could never figure out why.” She shrugged. “Things like that happen.”

“Where'll you go?”

“Doesn't matter. ‘Not here' is as good a destination as any.”

“What will you do? The same?”

“Hardly. I'm good at this, but I'm good at other jobs, too. I worked as a teacher for two years. Then I dealt faro for six months. There's not much I don't know about the law, even if I can't practice as a lawyer.”

“You've led quite a life,” Slocum said, sitting up. He shivered and wondered how she kept from freezing with only the blanket around her. Her bare feet on the dirt floor ought to have sucked every bit of heat from her body and frozen her like a marble statue.

“We could compare what we've both done, what we've both seen,” she said. Her shoulders slumped. “But you have to go kill the marshal and Malone and who knows who else?”

Slocum didn't bother answering. That summed up what lay ahead for him. He got to his feet, buttoned his fly, and strapped on his six-shooter. He stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, and looked out the window. The snow wasn't as bad as the wind had suggested the night before. That suited him. Plowing through two feet of new-fallen snow was both difficult and dangerous. With the couple inches that had fallen, he might not find the trail easily, but knowing where Willingham was likely to have taken Mirabelle Comstock, he didn't need signposts to follow.

“There's plenty of food in a crate over there,” Madeleine said, pointing. Slocum followed the line of her slender arm, then bent and kissed along it. She drew back, hiding it under the blanket. He tried to part the blanket, but she held it tightly closed. “Better get on the trail, John. If you don't go soon, I'll try to make you stay. And you will and will hate me for it.”

Slocum was sure she might try to lasso him, but she overestimated her charms. He was harder to keep in one place, but she was right about one thing. He might stay a bit too long and lose Willingham and the others. For a moment he wondered why he bothered with Mirabelle after she had tried to kill him—and had killed the miner.

She was out of her head with grief, he decided, and he hadn't been focused enough on avenging her husband. Slocum's lip curled slightly into a sneer. What Willingham and the others in that gang had done to him was enough to keep him on their trail. He touched the injured ribs. In spite of the aggressive acrobatics he and Madeleine had engaged in the night before, he felt mighty good. Perhaps that was the best medicine for what ailed him.

“Go,” she said. The redhead bowed her head slightly. Slocum saw a tear on her cheek. Before he could say anything, she brushed it away and said again, “Go on. Get out of here.”

The crate with the food was more than he could ever stuff into his saddlebags. He took enough to last him a week, saddled his horse, and led it to the door. Wind had blown snow through the cracks. The morning sun lit the frozen cracks and made it look like a primitive stained glass window. Putting his shoulder to the door, he swung it open against the drift.

The blast of cold air took his breath away. He mounted, gentled the horse, and got it moving away from the barn. Before leaving the yard, he looked behind him to see Madam Madeleine watching. She waved, then turned and darted back into the barn. Settling down in the saddle, he got his bearings and headed west. The crystal clear air showed the mountains ahead and even gave him a different route into the maze of canyons.

If he intended to find the gang, he had to return to the cave where he had found the coins that still clinked together in his pocket. He almost turned and went back to the barn. Paying for the food was within his ability now, and he had simply taken it, though Madeleine had urged him to do so. He had given her a twenty-dollar gold piece earlier, and that ought to cover it.

Slocum realized he was hunting for reasons to return to the fiery redhead when duty lay ahead.

Duty and revenge.

He settled down and rode for the canyon he suspected led back into the hills where he had seen the three peaks. Mirabelle had not paid much attention when Smith scratched that in the dirt, and she wasn't about to give up any other information quickly. Knowing what Willingham and the others had done to the rest of Mirabelle's party, she would be tortured and hold out.

For a while. She would hold out until they convinced her with enough pain to reveal what she knew. What she didn't know she couldn't reveal. Every minute the killers from Grizzly Flats were delayed, the better Slocum's chance of finding them and rescuing Mirabelle.

He rode steadily, the weather finally aiding him. He kept a sharp lookout for other riders and tracks in the freshly fallen snow. It was as if he were the only man in the entire world exploring virgin territory. This settled his nerves and reminded him why he enjoyed being on the trail alone. There was a serenity out here he never found in any town crowded with noisy, obnoxious cowboys and settlers. Individually, they were decent company but together they crowded him. Out here he was free.

The wind kicked up a mite and bit at his face. He pulled up his bandanna to protect his nose and mouth. Even through the cloth he smelled the dampness. Another storm was on the way. The sky was crystal clear and scrubbed of any clouds, but he knew he had to find shelter before sundown or he might be frozen into a statue out in the open.

As he made his way up the canyon floor, he slowed, then cocked his head to listen hard. The windy whine made it difficult to be sure, but his keen ears picked out the sounds of horses. A quick look at the snowy ground assured him that the riders hadn't come this way. That meant they'd entered the canyon from another path, likely going past Smith's mine—where the gang had ridden before. They systematically hunted for the spot Slocum already found.

Ahead at the far end of the canyon he saw the three peaks rising like stony fingers prodding the sky.

A shout echoed down the canyon. The words were muffled and undecipherable, but Slocum knew the gang rode toward him. He looked down and saw no way to conceal his tracks to this point, but finding refuge might keep them from getting on his trail since the sun was fading fast behind the very trinity of peaks he sought.

Cutting to his left, he kept his horse on the rocky patches. This made the going more treacherous since a thin layer of ice turned them slippery as hell. He reached the canyon wall, looked up, and saw nothing but long shadows cast back in the direction he had come.

No obvious caves presented themselves for him to hide. Slocum dismounted and led his horse to a large rock that had fallen from above at some time far in the past. He tried to decide if there was any current danger. The ice and snow formed an overhang that could cut loose with a small avalanche at any moment. Not seeing any other spot to hide, he moved his horse closer to the boulder, then tied the reins to dead brush before sidling along the rock to get a better look into the canyon.

Two men rode along. One used binoculars to scour the canyon walls. Slocum wasn't sure what they hunted, but they would certainly spot him in a few more minutes if they kept riding.

He caught his breath as the pair stopped to argue. Snippets of their words came to him. The one with the binoculars wanted to quit hunting. The other insisted they go on. The first made an argument that set Slocum's teeth on edge.

“. . . we can use that sweet li'l thing Willingham caught in town. She looks like she'd be a whole lot of fun.”

“For you, the fun'd be over in a couple seconds,” joshed the second.

“Says you. You and that there whore—she kicked you out of a cathouse!”

This retort cut to the quick and went beyond joking, at least for the man without the binoculars.

“Go to hell.”

“Naw, I'll go back to camp. Don't freeze out here, 'less that's the only way you'll ever get hard enough.”

Slocum saw the second man reach for his sidearm, then relax. There had almost been bloodshed. That would have improved the odds for him. Depending on how good a marksman the one was, it could have removed both men. A wound, a shot back, a prolonged exchange—Slocum wanted both men to fill each other with lead.

Just like they had the miner. Just like they had Isaac Comstock's entire party.

Slocum missed what the one with the binoculars said, but the man tucked them into his saddlebags and then wheeled about to return up the canyon floor. For a moment Slocum thought the other outlaw would join him, but the man spat and kept riding.

This was the worst thing that could have happened. He came across Slocum's tracks within minutes. Stopping, the outlaw scouted the entire rocky face, then slowly homed in on the boulder where Slocum hid. The man drew his rifle and rode forward slowly, bringing the rifle to his shoulder in anticipation of firing.

Slocum was trapped. He couldn't mount up and ride. There wasn't much cover for him to launch a protracted fight. With sudden determination, he slid his six-shooter from its holster, held it just a little behind him, and stepped out, waving with his left hand.

“Hello!” He cursed the way the canyon funneled his greeting and carried it in the direction taken by the other outlaw. He walked fast in the direction of the approaching rider, needing to reduce the distance as much as possible so his six-gun would be as accurate as possible.

“My horse pulled up lame. Can you help me?”

“Surely can, mister,” the outlaw said.

Slocum lifted his Colt and fired at the same instant the rifleman did. His slug went wide, but he corrected and began fanning the hammer. Three more rounds missed, but he finally hit his target. The outlaw only got off a second shot before being hit. Worse for him, his horse reared and threatened to unseat him.

Walking steadily, Slocum knew he had only two more shots before he'd be up shit creek. The outlaw fought a wound in his left forearm and a skittish horse.

Slocum fired again. This slug ripped through the man's thigh and buried itself in the saddle leather.

“Son of a bitch!” The outlaw wobbled, then fell from horseback.

One more round rested in Slocum's six-shooter. He had to make it count.

“Don't want to shoot. Throw away the rifle.”

“You're gonna kill me no matter what.” The man flopped about, dragging himself through the snow and mud, half rolling down into a ravine.

Slocum heard the rifle chamber another round. He could take cover himself or he could attack. Without conscious thought, he let out a rebel yell and charged. This spooked the man into firing too fast. Then it was too late for him. Slocum was on top of him, his finger coming back on his trigger. The gun bucked, the man died.

Slocum charged past, skidded on the slippery slope, then came back. His bullet had gone smack through the man's hat and into his head, killing him instantly. He damned his bad luck. He could have gotten information from the man if he hadn't died like this. Slocum had no idea how many were in the gang, where their camp was, and how Mirabelle was being held.

Slipping and sliding, he went back to the downed man and searched his pockets, hoping for a map or something more he could use. Other than a few dimes and a silver cartwheel, there was nothing useful.

“What'd you find? You signalin' me?”

The echo came from the direction the man with the field glasses had ridden. In the dark, those binoculars would do him no good, but Slocum had not thought to grab the dead man's horse. It ran wildly up the canyon, toward the approaching outlaw.

He reached the spot where he had left his own horse. It pawed nervously at the ground, upset at the gunfire. Slocum swung into the saddle and decided on a frontal assault. He might just bluff his way out of this.

All he needed was a pair of brass balls and a ton of luck. He rode down the slope past the man he'd killed. He saw the dark figure of the other outlaw. He'd come to a halt a hundred yards away.

Slocum waved his hat, then slowly closed the distance between them, keeping his head down so his hat brim hid his face. In the gathering dark this probably wasn't necessary, but Slocum had to get as close as possible before revealing himself.

“What'd ya find?”

Slocum mumbled and cut the distance between them in half.

“Cain't hear you,” the outlaw said, growing restive. His horse swayed back and forth, as if unsure which direction to run.

“Found it,” Slocum mumbled.

He didn't know what gave him away. The outlaw jerked out his rifle and began firing wildly. The rounds went past Slocum, warning him not to come closer. He decided to carry out his plan of charging into the fusillade aimed at him, hoping to spook the rifleman. Just as he tapped his spurs against his horse's flanks, he saw two other riders coming to reinforce their partner.