Slocum and the Three Fugitives (16 page)

Slocum could have lain in the warm sunlight the rest of the afternoon, but he had to fulfill his duty. Marta took his mind off matters, but only for a short while. When she left, memories of Annabelle flooded back, and Tom Harris and even Marshal Donnelly. Marta's father and brothers had to be brought to justice—and maybe more.

The only way Slocum saw that happening was to wring a confession out of them. Timothy might be dead by now with a bullet lodged in his gut, but the giant of a man looked strong enough back in Taos when he and Lucas broke Slocum out of jail. Slocum didn't lie to himself why they had risked their necks freeing him. Marta had made it sound as if they had done the deed so she could be with him again. He doubted that. More likely they had wanted a cat's-paw to divert attention from themselves after planting the evil seed in Byron Locke's mind that he was one of their gang. The Deutsch gang worked on a scheme requiring the law to look elsewhere.

Slocum didn't appreciate it that “elsewhere” was in his direction.

He rode with the sun in his eyes, forcing him to pull down his hat brim. When the smell of burning wood caught his attention, he veered away and into thick woods to find Rory Deutsch's still. The fire under the pot had died down, but the curls of pine smoke still struggled to get through the canopy of limbs above and reach the sky. A quick survey told him Deutsch had left.

Of course he had. He had seen Deutsch in Taos before his boys broke into the jailhouse.

Slocum frowned when he began piecing together bits and pieces like a shattered mirror. When the reflection came to him, he swore.

“Been looking in the wrong place. Dammit, how could I be so dumb?” He started to leave the still, then lingered long enough to load two Mason jars full of the moonshine into his saddlebags. No sense abandoning such fine Taos Lightning.

He trotted to the X Bar X ranch house and saw a rider disappearing to the south. He eased his six-shooter from its holster, then went directly to the house and went inside without bothering to announce himself. He hurried from room to room. Deserted. Running out, he went to the barn. Both the paint and Marta's horse were gone.

“So her horse threw a shoe?” He went to the side yard where a farrier's forge stood, stone cold. It hadn't been fired up in some time.

There might have been a few spare horseshoes made the last time the forge had been fired up, but Slocum doubted it. Marta's horse hadn't thrown a shoe.

He mounted and turned his Appaloosa southward, intent on finding the rider's trail.

Slocum quit for the day when twilight made tracking difficult and gave up entirely an hour after sunup the next day. The trail had gone too cold for him to find. Reluctantly, he turned eastward and headed back toward Taos. He had a powerful lot of convincing to do, and he wasn't sure how to do it. But he'd think of something.

 • • • 

Judge Locke ranted and raved and finally left the Black Hole Saloon, hands jammed into his pockets and looking fierce. From inside, Pete yelled, “Don't you go accusin' my customers 'less you kin make it stick, you . . .”

Slocum didn't know if Pete finished his threat since he ducked back as Judge Locke stormed past. He started to fall in step behind the man, then hesitated when Byron Locke rode up. The judge went to his son and the two of them argued for some time, drawing attention Slocum couldn't handle. Getting the drop on both men would have gone a ways toward settling his problems, but now it was impossible. He recognized one or two of the men listening as posse members.

When the judge stepped away and the deputy sat straighter in the saddle, the crowd surged forward. From the chatter, Slocum knew the deputy wanted several men to go with him. The details were lost in the hubbub. Taking a chance, he stepped out in the street and walked to the saloon's front door. A quick look behind assured him the Lockes were still arguing and paid no attention to anyone else.

Pete looked up from behind the bar. His eyes went wide, then he smiled.

“You ready to take back yer cantina, Slocum?”

“Business good?”

“Better 'n over at my place. The Black Hole's right on the main street.”

“But your gin mill's on the plaza.”

“Nobody wants to be seen comin' and goin'. Here, well, there's the folks goin' by and a tad of privacy if they want to sneak in and dip their beak in some beer.”

“Deutsch still selling you his Taos Lightning?” Slocum watched the reaction and knew the answer before Pete spoke.

“Cain't say that's so,” the man said slowly. “From all I kin tell, ain't jist me he's cut off. We been talkin' 'bout throwin' in together and gettin' a new source.”

“If you all stand together, he can't play off one of you against the others.”

Pete scratched himself as he nodded.

“That's the way I see it. Now, you thinkin' on standin' behind this here bar again?”

“Not as long as Judge Locke wants to drop a noose around my neck.”

Pete relaxed.

“Glad you know that, Slocum. I didn't want to be the one givin' you that bad news.”

“What's he saying about me?”

“Well, sir, it's like this.” Pete put his elbows on the bar and leaned forward so he was only a few inches from Slocum. “His boy, that hothead deputy, now he says he overheard two of them what killed Tom dealin' you into a robbery down in Santa Fe. A bank.”

“So he still thinks I'm one of the Deutsch gang?”

Pete nodded solemnly.

“Nothing I hadn't figured out on my own.”

“He's got this bee in his bonnet that you and them's gonna hit the bank in four days, right after the train delivers a load of gold to the vaults.”

“Why does he want a posse to ride with him when he can let the Santa Fe marshal know?”

Pete said, “This is personal to him. And to his pa. Wouldn't do to have another lawman kill you or them, not when he thinks you already kilt his brother.”

Slocum hadn't considered this link in the Lockes' thinking. If they believed he rode with the Deutsch gang, why not add him to the bank robbery in Denver where a father lost his son and a brother saw his sibling killed?

“You keep the liquor flowing here, Pete,” Slocum said.

“Hard to do with supplies runnin' low.”

“Come around back.” Slocum went to the back room, then pulled down the locking bars Pete had added to keep the door into the alley secure. It took him a few seconds rummaging about in his saddlebags to get out the two quarts of Taos Lightning.

“Lookee there,” Pete said, holding up the glass jars to catch the sun. “This is first-rate hootch. You got more of it?”

“Later,” Slocum said. “After I clear my name.” Coldness settled in his belly when he knew it went beyond that. He had to bring Annabelle's killer to justice, too.

Pete looked sad when he heard that. Slocum knew the man thought it meant there wouldn't be any more of the potent moonshine for him to sell.

Slocum swung into the saddle and rode around the saloon, watching for any hint of the posse that Byron Locke had been haranguing. Seeing a deserted street, he rode straight for the jailhouse. Only one horse was tethered behind. Slocum caught up the reins and led the horse around to the front. This could go easy or it could turn bloody.

“Judge? Come on out.”

“What's wrong?” Judge Locke stepped out, ran into the side of his horse, and bounced back. “Why'd you fetch my horse?”

“Step up. We're taking a ride,” Slocum said. He held his six-shooter down at his side, but the judge saw the threat.

“You can't kidnap me. You try and I'll scream for help.”

“Then you're dead. Come with me, and I'll show you the real killers who gunned down your other son.”

“Byron thinks it was you up in Denver. He heard Lucas and Timothy talking.”

“They let him eavesdrop and then released him with an earful of lies. I'd have thought you would have figured that out by now. Reckon I was wrong that you or your boy was smart enough to know a lie when you heard it.”

Judge Locke turned slightly, his hand moving to a vest pocket.

“You can keep the derringer, but you try to pull it out and I swear your son'll have a judge killer to chase down.”

Judge Locke moved his hand from the hideout gun, swung up into the saddle, and glared at Slocum.

“You're making this worse. Kidnapping a federal judge is a serious crime.”

“Add it to the list. You want to find your son's killers or not?”

His silence answered as eloquently as words could. Slocum pointed to the road out of town. Locke snapped the reins and trotted away. Slocum kept close and to the side, where he could see if the judge decided to go for the derringer. They soon left Taos behind and rode straight for the Rio Grande Gorge bridge. It was rickety but better than taking the steep trails down to the river and up the far side.

“Where are we going, Slocum?”

“To the X Bar X. We'll have a talk with Rory Deutsch, and you'll see who's the real outlaw.”

“Torturing a confession from him isn't admissible in court. Not in
my
court.”

Slocum hoped that proof would be obvious without the rancher needing to testify.

“You said Byron overheard them say they were going to rob the Santa Fe bank?”

“He'll catch them. I'm surprised you're not with them.”

Slocum didn't argue the point. It was a long ride to the ranch and trying to change the judge's mind without solid evidence was a fool's errand. He just hoped taking Locke to the ranch didn't also become a wild-goose chase.

 • • • 

“The ropes are cutting into my wrists,” Locke protested.

Slocum had tied the judge up the night before when he realized he couldn't stay awake all night to prevent him sneaking away. It had been necessary to keep his wrists bound in front of him when the judge tried to shoot him. Slocum had taken the small pistol he had allowed Locke to keep as a token of his truthfulness and saw that keeping him tied up was the safest course of action when they got to the ranch house.

“We're almost there,” Slocum said.

“Looks deserted,” Locke said. “Let me go. You can have a couple days' head start before my boy comes after you.”

Slocum ignored the offer. It might have been better than he'd gotten from a lawman before, but he had killers to catch—and do so with evidence convincing to the judge. He rode forward to the house, keeping a sharp eye out. He expected to see Marta in the house. As his earlier search ended, so did this one. The X Bar X ranch house had an unused look to it.

The horses were gone from the barn, too. The entire place might be a ghost town.

“They've hightailed it,” the judge said. “I want to see the Deutsch boys in my court for what they've done, but I need proof.”

“All the proof you have I'm one of their gang is Byron overhearing them.”

“He'll catch them when they're robbing the bank.”

Slocum started to argue, then realized how everything the deputy overheard had worked together. The Deutsches were laying a false trail so Byron Locke would come after him, but Slocum knew there was something more to what the outlaws said.

“What's in the bank before the gold is delivered?”

“I don't know.”

“Get off the horse. We're going to wait a spell to see if they return.”

“Byron will stop them.”

“If they try to rob the bank.”

“I don't understand.”

Slocum led the judge into the barn and secured him to a support post. He curried and fed their horses while the judge kept up a steady barrage of invective against him, detailing how Slocum would swing.

Slocum had finished tending the horses, giving them water from a barrel outside, when he saw riders approaching from the south.

“Keep quiet or I'll gag you,” he warned.

When the three riders neared, Slocum cut the ropes holding Locke.

“Keep quiet and listen. This time they won't be lying their asses off.”

Locke glared at him, then peered through a knothole in the barn's south wall. Slocum watched the riders through a dirty window. His fingers tightened on the butt of his Colt Navy. Taking them would be hard, one against three. He had to time his attack exactly, after the judge heard damning confessions but before they discovered anyone spied on them.

“Don't let your horse drink too much, Timothy,” Lucas said. “It'll bloat.”

“We shouldn't have rode so hard. My guts are all hurtin'.”

“No reason to kill your horse. With what we stole, we can get out of here and go somewhere fancy.”

“I want to go to Frisco,” Timothy said.

“We agreed on Saint Louis.”

“You and Marta agreed on Saint Louis. I heard o' this saloon in Frisco where they let birds fly all over inside, parrots talkin' and cussin' and—”

Lucas swung around, his six-gun flashing from its holster. Slocum slammed the butt of his Colt against the pane and broke it, firing before the first shards fell away. Then all hell broke loose.

Lucas fired constantly, and Timothy grabbed for a shotgun. Slocum kicked hard at the barn wall and fell backward just as a load of buckshot ripped away where he had stood an instant before. A second blast opened the hole even more, giving him a good view of Timothy Deutsch. Slocum fired once, twice, a third time. Each round found the center of the man's body.

“Slocum, he's getting away!” Judge Locke pressed his eye to the knothole to get a better view.

Slocum rolled and got to his feet, running hard to the barn door. He spun around and fired at Lucas's back until the man disappeared. Refusing to stop, Slocum grabbed the shotgun from Timothy Deutsch's limp hands. To his amazement the man hadn't died, even with three more pieces of lead in him. Finding the box of shells in the outlaw's saddlebags, Slocum took out two, broke open the shotgun, loaded, and fired.