Slocum #422 (13 page)

Warmth covered him like a fuzzy cotton blanket. He wanted nothing more than to curl up next to the fire and sleep for another few hours before he had to get up and chop wood for the day. Slocum rolled onto his side and tried to pull up the blanket. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized there wasn't any blanket and he didn't have to get up to chop wood or do any other chore.

All he had to do was die.

He sputtered and spat dirt from his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, but the intense sunlight shining on his face caused him to squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He curled up into a tighter ball and felt the brittle ground underneath crackle and break like glass. Worse, the sharp edges of dried earth cut into him. Force of will allowed him to roll onto his belly, then come to hands and knees. This simple move took all his strength. He stayed this way, head hanging down and out of the direct sunlight for an eternity, but when he forced his eyes open again, he saw what he feared.

The family had abandoned him in the desert just as they had Cantankerous Jim. He rocked back and realized his Stetson was gone. The once fancy clothing he had taken from Morgan Burlison hung in tatters. Burning sun pouring through the rips seared his skin. He got to his knees, then stumbled to his feet. No hat mattered more to him than anything else. With hands more like blunt clubs, he pulled up the coat and fastened it in place over his head using his bandanna. Relief came almost as painfully as the sunlight.

Cantankerous Jim or his pa had taken his ­six-­shooter and hat. If his clothing had been anywhere near its former magnificence, they would have taken that. Only being as disheveled as Jim and his family had saved Slocum from being stripped naked and left in the desert. For whatever reason, they had left him with his boots.

He had his life, his battered boots, and a growing cold fury that could only be extinguished by death, whether it was his own or theirs. Slocum took a step and then another and another until he built up enough momentum to keep going without thinking about how hard it was simply to walk. When he crossed the wagon tracks, he turned and went north. The three wagons had been moving that way. He saw no reason for them to reverse course simply because they had left him for dead and taken Marlene hostage.

Marlene. Marlene. For a few steps the name bounced around in his skull but produced no picture. Who was she? Then he remembered. His step became firmer. He had a job to do. He had revenge to exact from the hides of a scavenger family.

“If you've touched her, you'll pray for me to cut your throats. If you've touched her, you'll die out here like you wanted me to ­do—­after I get done teaching you a lesson.”

He saw how the wagon tracks went around a sunbaked hill. Slocum kept moving, going to the top of the sand dune to get a better idea where the travelers had gone. Using his hand to shield his eyes, he blinked when he saw the wagons not a hundred yards off. He couldn't believe he had been in the sun long, but the wagons should have gotten farther, even in a few minutes.

Then he saw Jim and his pa with another of the sons standing by a wagon canted to one side. Slocum's ­water-­deprived brain finally pieced everything together. One wagon had lost a wheel or maybe an axle had broken. Whatever caused the short caravan to halt gave Slocum his chance. Tracking them over miles would have meant his end.

He sat heavily when Jim turned and looked in his direction. Slocum remained motionless as Jim scanned the side of the dune, then turned his attention back to the damaged wagon when his pa shoved him. This caused a minor scuffle that involved all the men. Slocum scooted down the side of the dune, knowing they would never notice him in the heat. As filthy as he was, he looked like part of the hillside.

A quick search of his clothes revealed no weapon. He knew they had stolen his Colt Navy. They had also taken his knife. Reaching out, he found a ­sharp-­edged rock small enough to rest in the palm of his hand. Using his bandanna, he wrapped it up and swung it a few times. It had heft, the stony edges were like razors, and using it like a flail added to the destruction it could cause if he landed it on one of their heads.

The sun dipped lower and cast shadows across the desert. As anxious as Slocum was to take on the family, he waited until the air turned cold. For a few minutes it invigorated him. Then the ­bone-­chilling cold worried away as much of his strength as the hot sun had. He got to his feet, walked around until he felt stronger, then lit out for the wagons.

A small cooking fire brought the odors of boiling coffee and a mess of cooking beans to torment him. His mouth tried to water and couldn't. His belly grumbled so loudly that he worried they would hear him coming.

The argument going on between the family hid any sound he might have made as he crept closer. He almost abandoned his attempts at stealth when he saw Marlene. They had tied her ­spread-­eagle to a wagon wheel. She had been stripped to the waist, her legs sticking out bare from under her bunched skirts around her waist. Her head lolled. For all he knew, she had died.

This fed the need for revenge. Four ­men—­three sons and the ­pa—­sat around the fire arguing while the old woman dished out the beans and poured the coffee. She never shut up, a constant barrage of complaints and insults issuing from her ­razor-­slash of a mouth until her husband cuffed her, then bitched about her spilling his coffee when she stumbled.

“I gotta take a leak,” one brother said, getting to his feet.

“What, you want me to hold it fer you? Don't piss too close to camp like you done before.”

“Aw, Pa, t'warn't my fault it stunk to high heaven. How was I to know that was skunk cabbage I et?”

Slocum stopped beside the disabled wagon. A quick look showed the nut had cracked, causing the wagon wheel to fall off. Fixing it was the work of a few minutes, but with these shirkers they'd likely abandon the wagon rather than work to fix it.

The man looking to empty his bladder passed within a few feet of Slocum but never noticed the unwanted intruder to his camp. He was too intent on finding a greasewood bush to water. He found one not five feet away and worked to unbutton his fly. Slocum swung his weapon around a few times to get the feel of it. The sound of the sling swishing alerted the man.

“That you, Jim? Yer bladder's as weak as mine.”

He half turned, expecting to see Cantankerous Jim. Instead he saw death wrapped in a bandanna swing up and descend. He tried to fend it off with both hands and sprayed piss all around. The dull
thunk!
as Slocum drove the rock into the top of the man's head was followed by a gasp before the man died.

Off balance, Slocum tripped over the body. He dropped down, his knee driving into the dead man's chest just to be sure he would stay down. Panting from the exertion, Slocum bent over, caught his breath, and then recovered enough to search the corpse.

A knife gleamed in the starlight as Slocum slid it from a sheath and held it high. Strength flowed back with the weapon in his hand.

He whirled about and stalked toward the dark wagons. The firelight flickered and caused shadows to dance as the men moved around the fire, shoving each other and making rude comments while the woman cleaned up after the sparse supper. Slocum dropped to his belly, crawled under the wagon, and came up behind the wheel where Marlene was bound.

“You still alive?” His whisper came out raspy, and when he got no reply, he wondered if he had even spoken. Before he could speak louder, the woman moved, straining against the ropes holding her wrists. “Don't move. I'll get rid of them and we can get out of here.”

“Free me. Please. I can't stand being like this one second longer.”

“Grab hold of the wheel so it won't look like I cut your ropes.” He waited until her fingers curled around the smooth spokes before using the knife to saw through the tough hemp bonds.

“Faster. I want to get circulation back into my hands.”

“The knife's dull.”

“So are they. They . . . they're animals.”

Slocum didn't ask what they had done to her. This wasn't the time or place, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

At last the blade dragged across the ropes enough times to sever them. Marlene sagged forward, but she held on grimly and even pulled herself up straighter to make it appear the ropes still held her.

“Kill them, John. Kill them all.”

Her tone cut through his soul. Marlene spoke with no passion at all. No hatred, no burning desire to see Jim and his kin dead. That neutral tone told him something had died within her because of this nasty family.

He scooted back and got to his feet behind the wagon.

“Zeke, where you at?” Jim came around the wagon. “You pissin' yer brains out again? I tole you what it was like gettin' the clap, but you didn't listen.”

Slocum judged his distance and struck, the knife swinging in an arc that ended in the man's gut. The impact echoed all the way up his arm to his shoulder, causing him to step back a pace. Jim grabbed his belly and bent over. He looked up, eyes wide with fear. A hand came from his stomach black with his blood.

“You! You done stabbed me!”

Slocum saw what had happened. Jim wore Slocum's ­cross-­draw holster and the knife point had cut deep into the leather and failed to penetrate more than an inch.

“Pa! He's back. Pa!”

That cry was the last sound to come from Cantankerous Jim's mouth. Slocum's second cut drew the blade across his throat. Dull, the blade tore rather than cut all the way to his spine. Jim fell away and crashed to the ground, flailing about dead and not knowing it yet.

Slocum dived down and ripped at the gun belt, unbuckling it and slinging it around his own middle. The weight of his Colt Navy on his left hip gave him new confidence that he could take the entire family. He pulled it and looked up to see the third brother raring back with an axe in his hands.

The ­six-­shooter fired. The sound told Slocum the round wasn't at full strength, but it sent the bullet tearing up and into the man's chin. The top of his head exploded and sent a rain of blood backward.

“I'll kill the son of a bitch!” The woman shrieked and ran at Slocum with the frying pan he remembered too well from his earlier encounter.

He aimed and pulled the trigger. The ­six-­shooter had given him all it could. He twisted to the side and avoided having his head bashed in again by the fiercely cursing woman. Swinging his boot back, he caught her behind the knee and sent her to the ground.

Spitting like a cat, she kept swinging the frying pan. Bits of hot grease from it spattered Slocum in the face. Each drop burned like fire as it clung to his cheeks. He scrambled to get away. She didn't retreat. Instead, she got to her feet and came after him, fingers curled into talons. The look on her weathered, haggard face wasn't human. As she hissed and spat, she clawed for his eyes.

Slocum turned half away, then unleashed a haymaker that connected with her cheek. Her head snapped back, her eyes rolled up in her head, and she fell rigidly to the ground.

“You kilt her! You done kilt her and my boys! You're a dead man. You shoulda died in the desert, but now I'll make sure you breath yer last.”

Jim's pa raised a shotgun and sighted along the double barrels in Slocum's direction. With nowhere to dodge, Slocum waited to die.

“Oh,” Jim's pa said. His finger came back on the double triggers. One barrel discharged into the ground and the other failed to fire.

He fell forward, momentarily impaling himself on his shotgun. He hung balanced, his chest pressing into the stock with the muzzle crammed into the ground. Then he slid to the side and lay still. Slocum rushed forward, kicked the shotgun away, and saw there wasn't any need for that. A knife had been sunk to the hilt in the man's back.

Slocum looked up at Marlene. She was a wild and barbaric figure, naked to the waist, her torn skirts flopping about her legs. She breathed hard as she stared at the man she had killed.

“He left his knife by the fire,” she said. “I killed him with his own knife.” She used both hands to brush through her tangled hair, straightened, and looked hard at Slocum. “I'm glad I killed him. He deserved it.” She looked past him to the woman. “But not as much as her. You kill her?”

Slocum checked. His powerful blow had broken her neck. He nodded.

“Too bad. I wanted to kill her with my bare hands for what she did to me.”

“Her? Not the men?”

“Her,” Marlene said. She tried to spit but her mouth was drier than the desert.

Slocum went to her, not sure what to do. Then she came into his arms. They clung to each other without speaking. Marlene didn't sob or quake. She had been pushed past such emotions. After an eternity, she thrust back to put a bit of space between them and looked up at him.

“What now?”

“We've got plenty of supplies. We take what we need and ride like kings,” he said.

“To the tracks?”

He wondered at her tone. She sounded as if she wanted him to say they were continuing north and abandoning the Yuma Bullet and reaching San Antonio and everything else Morgan Burlison had hired him to do.

“Help me sort through everything,” he said. He had to keep her busy, her mind off what had happened. “We'll drive out right away. Tonight.”

Marlene silently tossed what few usable items she found into one wagon, then sat in the driver's box, hands folded in her lap. She had pulled her blouse about her shoulders but was still more naked than clothed. When Slocum offered her one of the old woman's shawls, she shoved it away and threw it onto the arid ground without making a sound other than a single ­animal-­like growl.

In less than a half hour, Slocum had the team hitched, their three horses tied to the back of the wagon, and started south to find the railroad tracks and a way to return to civilization.

Marlene didn't say a word until sunup when they spotted the tracks. What she said then startled him.