Slocum 428 (2 page)

Slocum melted more snow and snapped more close-by branches, toed up more deadfall wood, and vowed to drink enough coffee to keep awake as long as it took for his own nerves to stop jouncing.

He suspected that might take all night. But he was fine with that.

“The nerve of some folks! Tellin' me—me!—Jigger McGee, that I ain't never gonna be able to get to town and back in three days.” The old man's reedy voice poked like a thin-bladed knife into the still-blowing morning air, crisp with cold and the promise of more to come. The driving snow of the night before had slowed, but the flakes were still piling up. The objects of his shouted attentions were his two horses, high-stepping well-shod Belgian-cross brutes, bearing the bulging musculature of draft animals.

He rode behind them, perched on a split-log rail, his lap and legs covered with a patchy fur robe, more skin than hair, and he gripped the thick strap-leather lines wrapped around his fur gauntlets. “That's it, boys! Take 'er like she was meant to be took! This trail's a hard bitch and we'll give her no quarter!” He loosed a long, wheezing laugh.

“Titus! Balzac! You listening to me? Those stumble bums up to camp won't know what hit 'em when we mosey on back, slick as deer guts on a pump handle, loaded with supplies and liquored up. That'd be me, not you—you understand? I can't have my boys boozin' on the job!” His long, cackling laugh spun upward on an errant shaft of breeze as a slip of yarn might in a windstorm.

It was the laugh that jerked Slocum's intent gaze from his wavering fledgling fire to glance up toward the north, the direction he would soon be headed—right after he'd availed himself of a pot of coffee and a warming breakfast. As far as his calendar was concerned—the one he kept in his head, and that was rarely off by more than a day—he was a couple of days ahead of the date he'd intended to report in to the logging camp, still a good ten or twelve miles north. He had only a crude map drawn by the foreman's nephew, the barman at the TipTop Saloon, in Timber Hills. He'd assured Slocum, as had a handful of others, some of them loggers themselves, that there had been a boom in lumber to points south along the Cali coast, so much so that the various logging operations up north were hiring.

And hearing that had been almost as nice as hearing a dove's soft cries of amorous intent. Almost. For no matter how little money Slocum found himself in possession of, no matter how much time had elapsed between paying jobs, his thoughts were never too far from time spent, or time that would be spent, with a woman.

But this cold morning, the caterwauling, even above the somewhat dissipated morning wind, reminded him of the godawful howls he'd heard the night before. “Not again . . .”

Apparently the Appaloosa thought the same thing, for he nickered and dumped a steaming pile of trail apples.

“You and me both,” said Slocum, fixing his eyes on the trail to the north and the increasing sounds drawing nearer. But this didn't sound quite like the gut-churning caterwaul of the night before. He heard chains, the telltale clopping of hoofbeats, muffled somehow by snow, no doubt. Though he could see nothing yet, he knew it was coming, whatever it was—likely a team. He stood, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, and walked the couple dozen yards back to the trail, kicking through the nearly knee-deep snow.

With a gloved hand, he pulled back the flap of his thick coat, and thumbed the rawhide thong keeper free of the Colt's hammer and let his hand hang loose. No sense not being ready. He was barely aware that he'd done so—as a wanted man, he learned long ago to leave nothing to chance. This heightened sense of caution had cost him friendships, jobs, potential trysts with fine women, but since he was still alive while a number of other men—and a few sage women, over the years—were six feet under, it led him to trust his instincts. He must be doing something right.

Presently he saw movement through the thick pines, heard the rustling and jangling of chains and the occasional rope of laughter from whoever was crazy enough to be out this early on a stormy morning, driving a team southward.

Yep, now he saw it was a team of massive pulling brutes, thick necks bulging and straining under bulky fitted harnesses, the two horses chestnut in color and topped with a steaming layer of snow.

“Ho there! Ho there, boys!” the fur-wrapped man's cries echoed down at Slocum, along with a light wash of snow spray from the great hair-fringed hooves that excitedly clomped to a begrudging halt, the horses' heads bowed, mouths champing, breath pluming into the morning air.

The teamster, perched atop the big log sledge, eyed Slocum through a slit in a hoar-frosted woolly scarf wrapping his head. Finally, just as Slocum was about to greet him, the man spoke. “Who be you? And more to the point, is that real coffee I smell?”

The man made no motion that Slocum could construe as threatening, and kept his mittened hands held tight to the wrapped lines, since the big brutes towing him seemed a mass of quivering muscle, on the verge of bolting down the trail. It struck Slocum as impressive that the slight figure above him could contain such power.

Slocum sipped his coffee, then held up the cup. “I'm the man who just made that pot of coffee.” He nodded vaguely behind him, to where his small but robust fire still crackled. “You're welcome to a cup, if you have the time.”

Since the man and team obviously were engaged in some sort of logging activity, Slocum hoped the man might at least offer him a bit of friendly advice as to where the Tamarack Logging Camp was located. Mostly he was happy to see a living soul up here in high-timber country after not having seen another human for several days of slow travel. Something about the cold—and if he had to admit it, the freakish noises of the night before—had gotten to him.

“Well, right neighborly of you to offer.” The sprightly little man was already setting the long-handled brake and coiling the lines around it, chattering like a camp jay all the way.

“Fact is, I'd about kill my best friend's best friend for a cup of the real stuff. Been a long time up to camp and we've had nary a sniff nor a whiff of the stuff. 'Bout thin on other supplies, too. That's how come I'm headed downslope. On a dead run I am, too. Made a wager with the men, you might say. They don't believe I can make the run down to town for supplies and get back in time afore they starve. Course, that ain't likely to happen, what with the deer and other critters we been chewin' on.”

He swung himself off the narrow rail on which he was balanced, hung out over the deep white snow off to the side of the trail, then dropped into it, plunging in up to his waist, still yammering, this time to his horses.

Smiling, Slocum led the way to the fire, kicking as much of the snow out of his path as he could so the shorter man might follow with less trouble. He fished his second tin cup out of a saddlebag and filled it with piping hot coffee. By the time he'd stood up from the fire, hot cup in hand, the man was nearly beside him. The stranger unwrapped the frost-crusted wool scarf to reveal a thin, patch-bearded face sporting mostly silver-white hair. Deep creases along his cheeks, around his mouth, and across his forehead seemed to surround the two glinting blue eyes.

Slocum realized with a start that this man was no youngster as he had assumed. But whatever life he lived—presumably one in and around the great logging camps of the Northwest—it agreed with him. The man's ruddy skin looked like leather stretched over a bone frame. Even under all that fur wrapping him, Slocum doubted the man carried a smidgen of fat—he looked to be made of bone and gristle, with an extra helping of grit, all topped with mischief. This man, Slocum could tell, was a genuine, bona fide character.

The little man thrust out one mittened hand for a shake, to which Slocum obliged. Though Slocum gave as good as he got, the small man's impressive grip was like iron.

“I'm Jigger McGee, rowdiest log roustabout this here country's ever seen. Normally I'm in the woods, bucking logs and scaling trees and making sure the girl-men I work with don't catch a sliver and cry too long.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McGee. I'm Slocum, John Slocum.”

Before he could continue, Jigger cut in, taking the proffered cup of hot coffee. “I bet you're up here sniffing for work. Am I right? Course I'm right. Nobody other than a fool or a logger'd be found up here any time of year, much less in a raging blizzard!” He sipped from the cup, wincing as he pulled in the steaming draught.

“You have it about right, Mr. McGee. I was in Timber Hills a few days back. The man behind the bar at the TipTop Saloon said the Tamarack Logging Camp, up this trail somewhere—”

The little man's mouth took on a sour, pinched shape.

“Coffee not to your liking?” said Slocum.

“Was . . . until you mentioned that barkeep. That little rascal is a thorn in the backside of every respectable logger in these parts. Been that way since the day he was whelped, so help us.”

“How's that?” Slocum sipped his coffee, eyeing the curious little man.

“You sure ask a lot of questions, young fella.”

“I wasn't aware I had exceeded my limit. Do you happen to know the way to the Tamarack?”

“There you go again, asking fool questions!”

“Why was that one foolish?”

“Because I'm from the Tamarack, just a few miles up yonder. Yep, that's where I come from. What do you think I been yammering on and on about since I got here?” The old man let loose with a long, slow sigh, shaking his head at the same time.

Slocum couldn't help cracking a smile. He hid it behind his cup and decided to change tactics. “At the risk of you thinking I'm some sort of crack-minded fool . . .”

That got the man's attention. He paused, eyebrows raised above the rim of his cup.

“I'd like to ask you about what I heard last night.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“Well, that's the difficult part. I don't know what it was, but I can tell you it wasn't like anything I'd ever encountered.”

“Well, out with it, mister!” Jigger growled.

Slocum regretted bringing up the subject. But he'd come too far with the silly story to back up now. “It sounded like a great howling bear crossed with a mountain lion crossed with a man—and a whole lot worse and angrier than all of them combined, too.”

McGee's entire demeanor changed immediately, much to Slocum's surprise. The old man leaned in close to Slocum and, looking around, said in a low voice, “You get a smell of it, too?” Before waiting for a response, he continued on chattering: “Reason I ask is that you ain't the first. Nor likely to be the last. It's a . . .” He leaned even closer. “A skoocoom, I tell you.” The last part came out as barely a hissed whisper through his tightly clenched teeth.

“A what?” Slocum wasn't sure he'd heard the man right. If he had, then he knew the old-timer might be pulling his leg. For he knew what a skoocoom was supposed to be—a big, hairy, wild man of the woods. He'd heard the Indian tales. But that was pure hokum, even though the thought had occurred to him the night before. And then he thought of those eyes, bright and glowing green-yellow, and looking for all the world like something that couldn't possibly exist. But they had; that much he knew.

He came back to himself and saw the old man smiling at him, nodding, and then he winked. “You know what I'm talking about, sure you do. You know just what ol' Jigger's on about. Ain't too many folks in these parts would admit it but loggers and fools. And them are one in the same, so it was most definitely a skoocoom.” He downed the last of his coffee, smacked his lips, and tossed the cup to the snow by the fire. “I best get going. I have a bet to win and a whole bunch of whining lumberjacks to make fools out of. And palavering with you ain't getting my work done, Mr. Slocum.”

With that, the man started swaddling his head with the big wool scarf once again. Before he wrapped it around his mouth, he said, “Just follow this trail up to where I come from. You can't miss my boys' tracks.” He nodded toward the now snow-covered team. Their body heat had cooled enough that the lightly falling snow laid a fine blanket on their backs.

“Obliged for the directions, Mr. McGee.” Slocum stuck out his hand and the old man gripped it once again with his firm mittened claw hold.

“Call me Jigger. Any man who shares his coffee—even if it was godawful—and admits to seeing a skoocoom is set down in my book as a trustworthy sort.”

Slocum wasn't aware he'd actually admitted anything other than hearing a strange noise.

As the little man plunged through the snow back toward his team, he shouted over his shoulder, “And tell 'em Jigger sent you. It's more than directions you got, it's a job from me, the camp boss!” He let loose a long, thin laugh, which peeled apart in a sudden gust of wind that obscured him from Slocum's view for a few seconds.

By the time the snow dust blew by, Jigger was seated on his rail-thin seat high on the great log sledge and adjusting the lines on his mittens.

“Ha, Titus! Ha, Balzac! Get up now! Get up there!” And the great team lunged into motion, their muscles straining and bulging as the sledge slid by, cutting a broad path on the snow-filled trail.

Slocum gave the cackling little man a stout wave and a nod, and wondered what had just happened, smiling and even whistling in the snowy morning as he went about the quick business of breaking his meager camp and saddling the Appaloosa.

By the time Slocum made it to Tamarack Camp, the snowstorm had dwindled to a light spitting, and veins of blue sky cracked the low raft of clouds. With it, a pressing feeling of dread mounted in Slocum's mind until he was sure he was being dogged by an unseen force lingering, tracking him from the woods. It was silly, he knew, and he wasn't normally a man given to superstition or feelings of unease, but damn, if this didn't raise the hairs on the back of his leathered neck.

A couple of times he swore he heard muffled thumping and occasional crashing, as if someone or something were following alongside him but well into the woods. Though every time he stopped, the whumping and barely detectable harsh breathing sound would stop, too, and Slocum saw nothing, despite swiveling fast in the saddle. Even the Appaloosa perked his ears up, his eyes wide and his breathing more forced, as if he'd worked much harder than he had. Slocum kept his coat open, the Colt unthonged and ready to draw.

He sighed—there wasn't much he could do about it now. Especially since he could see the long log buildings, crouched dark and low against the snow like annoyed beasts waiting to be fed. Gouts of thick wood smoke curled upward into the brightening sky. Slocum knew breakfast would have, hours before, come and gone, and the men would be back in the woods, working away at making trees into logs.

Going on the trail had been slow. The deep snow, though granular, had forced the Appaloosa to high-step his way forward. Now that they approached the camp at last, Slocum felt that earlier sense of dread dwindling down to a thin line of worry. And that, too, pinched out with each step toward the one log shack, of the six in the cluster, with packed trails leading to it.

Usually that meant the cook shack, often a separate building from the sleeping quarters in these larger camps—or at least connected by a shade porch to the camp boss's quarters. And although he seemed like a crazy old coot, the boss in this camp was none other than Jigger McGee himself.

“Ho there!”

The voice had come from somewhere off to Slocum's right, back behind what he had thought was a big drift of snow. But that was only what it appeared to be. In truth, now that he had drawn closer, he saw it was a snow-topped log pile slowly being whittled down into stove-length chunks. And probably by the person who'd shouted at him.

A stocking-capped head, red and white stripes topped with a red pom-pom, poked up from behind the snow. The sun, just now glinting off the snow, made it difficult for Slocum to see the man's face, but he swore he was being eyeballed from beneath that funny hat.

“What you doing? Who you looking for?”

The voice bore an accent, probably French—a good guess since Slocum knew that most of the loggers in the Northwest region above and below the border were of French descent, many of them
voyageurs
—French trappers—turned loggers, at least for part of the season. It had to be a long, lonely life they led, but then again, Slocum mused, his wasn't so much different. He traveled somewhat with the seasons, took his work where he could get it before moving on.

Slocum tugged the brim of his fawn hat low over his eyes, a futile effort to cut the bright glare slanting in. “I'm here for work.”

“Oh?” The hat disappeared. An axe rose up then came down hard. With a thunking sound. A few seconds later a man emerged, similar in height to Jigger, but broader of shoulder and obviously younger, given his full, bushy black beard and ruddy red face. He also carried an ample paunch, over which was spread a soot-and-food-stained apron that had at one time been white.

“Who be you, then?” said the man, striding straight toward Slocum on the well-trammeled snowy yard.

Slocum swung down from the Appaloosa. “I'm Slocum, John Slocum, and I was told down in Timber Hills that there was need of workers up here at the Tamarack Camp.”

“Well now, mebbe
oui
, mebbe
non
.”

“What's that mean?” said Slocum, offering a wry half smile.

The Frenchman nodded while he pulled out a stump of a pipe and clamped it in a corner of his mouth, jammed a thick thumb into the bowl, and worked whatever was in there with a vigorous motion before dragging a match across the stained apron and setting the pipe's contents alight. “You were told by someone to come here then?”

“Yep, that's what I said.” Slocum thought for a moment, then figured, what the heck, give it a go, and said, “I also ran into a fellow name of Jigger McGee on the trail. Told me to come on up.”

The effect of Jigger's name on the Frenchman's face was as if someone had conjured a magic trick. It brightened his glowering, drawn, black brows, and Slocum was sure there was a smile hidden somewhere in the thick bush of the man's beard.

“Well, why didn't you say so?” The man advanced and stuck out a burly hand. “Any friend of dat boss of ours is a good man, eh? I am Emil D'Artagnuile, but most folks call me Frenchy!”

I wonder why? thought Slocum, smiling. “Pleased to meet you, Frenchy.”

Within minutes, Frenchy was giving Slocum a quick tour of the log-and-snow camp. They conversed from the start as old friends, chatting all the while as Slocum stabled the Appaloosa, watered and fed him, and lugged his gear to the bunkhouse.

“Frenchy, if Jigger's the boss, why was he headed to town on a supply run on his own?”

The Frenchman looked at him as if he'd stuck a grimy hand into the stewpot. “You tink dat's any of your business, Slocum?”

“Nah, in fact, I don't much care. I'm just making conversation.” The last thing he wanted to do was ruffle feathers on his first day on the job. Especially those of a man built like a brick shithouse.

To his surprise, Frenchy looked left, then right, even though it was plain to see they were alone in the breezy outdoor cooking area between buildings. “Between you and me, the boss, he don't like nobody much to know his business.”

“But everybody does anyway, I'll bet.”

“You gonna let me talk, or are you gonna run your mouth like a steam engine?”

“Go ahead, Frenchy. I'm all ears.”

“Good. So I was thinking that maybe you was one of them chatty fellas who talks and talks but don't say nothing and everybody finally gets tired and . . .”

He kept on prattling while Slocum nosed about the small covered cooking space. The big black stove formed almost the entire back wall. From the looks of the behemoth, it gobbled a hell of a lot of wood just to keep the loggers fat and happy. Even now, at roughly ten o'clock in the morning, the sides were working up to a steady orange glow.

“So anyways, like I was saying to you, Slocum, the boss, he has other reasons for going to town on his own. But don't you worry.” Emil wagged a gleaming steel spatula in Slocum's face. He knew the Frenchman didn't mean anything by it, but anyone else and he'd likely have lost a limb by now. Slocum decided to let it pass. He wanted to hear the reasoning behind Jigger's solo trek, despite it being one of those things that seemed amiss about the operation.

In fact, since he'd heard of the Tamarack Camp back in Timber Hills in the bar, there seemed more questions about it than answers. Why was the Tamarack the only camp not filled with loggers at this late date in the season? What was it doing advertising in a bar? Why did the bartender seem to know so much about the camp's business?

And oddest of all, what was the camp boss, Jigger McGee, doing riding herd on a big ol' team down to town for supplies when such a chore was usually reserved for a teamster? Seemed like the camp boss would want to be around to tend to his men and oversee the operation of the camp. Slocum didn't give voice to any of these concerns; he figured he already had done enough of that.

“I tell you what, though.” Frenchy dropped a dollop of grease into a bubbling vat of stew. “Jigger, he's a man who knows his business. He knows logs like I know biscuits.” The big man smiled wide. “And I cook a good biscuit. You will know soon.”

Slocum was about to ask him if Jigger was part owner of the Tamarack when Frenchy continued talking.

“But there's something wrong with things here. Has been for some time.”

It was almost as if Frenchy were talking to himself as much as, or more than, he was addressing Slocum.

“What's that?”

“Dere you go again, interrupting Frenchy.” The burly cook shook his head and kept talking. “I don't know the wrong of it, but I know at least that he has some money troubles. It ain't easy keeping this camp going.”

That answers my unspoken question about Jigger being owner, or at least part owner, of the Tamarack Camp, Slocum thought.

“But the log sales are good now, so he went maybe to make deals? Maybe to visit his daughter in town,
non
?” Frenchy shrugged and fell silent, rummaging on a dusty shelf packed with spice tins and jars.

“What can I do to help, Frenchy?”

The man spun on him. “Oh yes, you are here to work! Not listen to Frenchy talk and talk,
non
?” Again the big man laughed, then said, “I hope you can swing an axe, mister. I have a powerful need for, how you say,
beaucoup
”—he spread his hands wide, his big wooden spoon dripping stew juice on the wood floor—“split firewood, eh? Lots and lots. Come, I'll show you to the woodpiles.”

•   •   •

“Well, what in hell do we have here?”

Slocum turned to see a seedy, rail-thin man, all bone and gristle, with a narrow, wedge-shaped face, in the middle of which was pinned the bulbous red-ended nose of a heavy drinker. Small, too-close eyes topped it, and regarded Slocum with a squinty stare and a half smirk, as if he were looking at a bug he was about to render flat with his hobnailed boot.

Slocum had seen this very sort of wormy apple in a hundred cow towns, mining camps, and frontier settlements, and they never changed much. He wondered vaguely if they all came from the same place, sort of like a storeroom somewhere in the back alleys of Saint Louis. He could picture them emerging at dusk from the bowels of a great, sagging, sodden warehouse along the river, all looking roughly the same. That is to say, they all would look ratlike, spineless, seedy, stupid, and desperate. But most of all, dan – gerous.

“What's so funny, kitchen boy?”

Slocum guessed he himself must have been smiling at the thoughts he'd conjured of this fool and all his ilk. He didn't respond, just sighed and rested a hand on the end of his double-bit axe.

“I said—”

“I heard you.”

Rat-face stepped closer, two long, bony thumbs hooked in the waistband of his green wool trousers held up by brown leather braces. His shirt nearly completed the traditional logger's garb in these parts—a red-and-black-checked wool affair topping familiar pink-tinged longhandles that before long wear and many washings had begun life as red longhandles.

Atop the man's head was perched a variation on the same toque Frenchy wore—a knitted wool topper—but this one was black and lacked the decorative pom-pom.

“Then why don't you answer to me when I speak?”

Slocum sank the axe into the chopping block and faced the man. Rat-face's smirk slumped a mite, and he swallowed back what Slocum was sure was a knot of regret big as a peach pit and going down mighty tough. And he knew why.

Without feeling boastful of it, Slocum knew he appeared a formidable figure to some men. In addition to his superlative skill with a gun, and being better than fair with a knife, he was also deadly when he had to be with his bare knuckles. He had been able to rely on all these skills in dodgy situations over the years. Indeed, he had always had a somewhat imposing size, at well above six feet, and with nary a wasted pound of fat on him. He was muscle and bone, wide of shoulder, and looked as if he'd been chiseled from granite.

“Let's get this straight,” said Slocum, slipping his own wool shirt back on over his muscle-tight longhandle shirt. “You are trying to tell me when and to whom I should speak. Now is that right? Can you possibly be telling me such a thing?”

“Sure he is.” And along from out behind the log pile came another rough-looking character. This one was a fleshy-faced man, dressed enough like the other man that most anyone could tell they were loggers.

He looked to be a little taller, maybe a little wider at the shoulder and heavier in the hand. But they both shared that desperate look, as if they felt the world owed them something and they'd decided to take everything they could in return. Even if it was nailed down.

The second man's appearance swelled the first man's chest enough that he regained some of his smirk and nodded. “Yeah, that's right. And—”

“And what, big boy?” said Slocum, rolling up his cuffs.

“Uh, um . . .”

The second man shifted a quid of chaw to his other cheek. “He said that you guessed right. Now tell the man who you are and what you been up to, what you aim to get up to.”

“Why should I?” said Slocum, his neck muscles flexing with each biting pulse in his jaw. Then the two men advanced on him and a thought occurred to him at the same time. And he smiled. “Oh,” he said, steadying himself. “All right, then.”

The two men strode up fast, the burlier one in the lead, Rat-face coming in close behind. Slocum could see their clenched fists, guessed that the lead man was an experienced brawler, judging from the scar tissue veining his homely face and the knobbed knuckles on his broad hands.

The lead man came in quick, almost quicker than Slocum expected. Almost. As Slocum let the man take the first swing, a round-houser sloppily thrown by someone who assumed he was going to land a hard hit, Slocum sidestepped. “I'll tell you what I'm about to get up to, since you insist.”

He pivoted on his left leg, snaked his muscled torso outward, then back in just after the lead man followed his own poorly thrown punch. Instead of driving a hard fist into the retreating side of the man's face, he let the fool's own momentum work for him and drove the heel of his palm hard against the meat of the man's shoulder. It wouldn't render him immobile, but Slocum knew it would buy him time enough to get ready for Rat-face.