Slocum 428 (8 page)

Even before he opened an eye, Jigger knew why he would get a later start than he wanted, hitting the trail away from Timber Hills and back toward his mountains and the Tamarack Camp. He'd overindulged at the bars. Hell, after the first two he didn't know where he'd ended up.

“Oh . . .” he mumbled as he dimly recalled his thoughts from earlier in the evening of stopping off at the Bluebird to give Whitaker a piece of his mind. It seemed like he hadn't ever gotten there, though he couldn't say that with full confidence. All he could recall was that people he knew—and that was just about everyone in town—insisted on buying him drinks. That was grand, until now.

He groaned again. How many had he had? Snake juice never trailed fond memories behind, much as he and every other person who'd ever overindulged in it sought to prove otherwise. He sat up in the stable—yes, that was where he ended up, thank God. By his boys—he could sense them before he saw them. They must have done the same, and knew he was waking, for they nickered in the dim light of the barn.

What time it was, he had no idea, but judging from the sunlight slanting through the gaps in the boards, it was near midmorning. Half the day wasted! No wonder his bladder pounded with each strained thud of his heart, like a cranky grizz cub stuck in his gut, trying to punch its way out. He slowly pushed to his feet and, scrabbling with shaking hands, felt for the side of the stall, found the puckered boards, cribbed slick by countless bored horses, and slowly dragged himself to his feet. Relieved to feel he still wore his boots, Jigger took a hesitant, faltering step forward, then another. Good, he was on his way.

He ambled slowly, if not entirely steadily, to the back door of the place, past ol' Amos, proprietor of the livery, who wisely kept his comments private, and relieved himself on a steaming mound of dung-soiled straw. As he made his way back inside, wincing from the piercing sunlight, he said to Amos, “Whatever I done, just tally it up. I'm good for it.”

“Only thing you done is followed the recipe for a large-size hangover. And that's one thing ain't nobody can help you pay for!” That time he didn't keep any comment to himself. He let loose with a laugh, slapped his knee, and shook his head as he tucked into a stall that required his services.

“Funny man, Amos. You're a funny man. Ha.”

It took Jigger another hour to collect his gear and his wits, and to drink a potful of hot coffee spiked with Amos's own approved solution—liberal splashes of red-eye. By the time he'd finished his third such cup, Jigger was feeling downright alive, and he never had to help hitch the boys. Amos had it done. Then the liveryman helped him hoist up into the sledge and pointed him in the direction of the mercantile.

“Bump says he has all your goods ready and waiting. Even has a boy to load it up so's you don't have to climb down.”

“Seems like everyone's catering to my every whim today,” said Jigger.

“Well.” Amos smiled. “We all figure it's the least we can do. After all, it ain't every night we all get treated to a rendition of something you called ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'—and especially not by a half-dressed logger—now is it?”

He smacked the nearest Belgian on the flank and laughed, watching Jigger's eyes widen and jaw drop as they slid away toward the store.

Jigger experienced more of the same, but not much more of the story of how he'd spent the previous night. He had been assured he'd not broken anything other than some sort of unwritten laws concerning singing and the human ear. Soon the sledge was loaded, strapped down tight, and as he was ready to slap lines, ol' Bumpy handed up a back-pocket bottle of whiskey.

“Keep the edge off and the skoocooms from gettin' too close on your ride back up into the hills!”

“I thank you kindly, Bump. 'Til next time!”

“Thanks for the warning!”

•   •   •

From high in the northward hills overlooking the little smoky town of Timber Hills, two men stood just inside a thick stand of trees. The larger of the two, wearing a crude and bloodied bandage wrapped across his swollen face, lowered a brass spyglass and handed it to the smaller man.

They melted back into the shadows of the trees as Jigger McGee's loaded sledge, towed by a brawny two-horse team, made its slow, steady way out the west end of the little town's main street, then angled north toward the foothills that led to the mountains.

Well into his day limbing freshly felled giant pine trees, Slocum had shucked his heavy wool coat and was considering doing the same for his heavy button-down shirt, when a shout stayed his axe's rising swing.

“Ho there! Slocum!” Ned shouted from a standing position on a sledge pulled by two stout black horses he remembered from the stable back at camp.

Slocum paused, grateful for the rest. “What can I do for you, Ned?”

The man pulled his pipe from its customary spot clamped between his lips. “I tell you, Slocum. Me and the boys are getting mighty jittery.”

“About what?”

“Balzac and Titus just came back to camp.”

“Who are they?”

“If you met 'em, you'd never forget 'em. They're Jigger's pride and joy, his team of Belgians. We have other teams, but he babies those two something fierce. And we heard tell there's a storm coming. Fixing to be a real whopper. Make that one we had just before you got here to look like kitten's work.”

“Has anybody set out to find Jigger?” said Slocum. “Might be he's holed up wounded alongside the road somewhere between here and town.”

“Yeah, yeah, I sent out Donny and Bert, but they came up short—empty-handed, so to speak.”

Slocum slammed his axe head into place. The blatant worry on Ned's otherwise mellow face was undeniable. “I imagine you need someone with trail experience who can take a look-see, find out where in the heck ol' Jigger might be.”

“That's the long and short of it, yep. We need someone who can find his way in and out of these woods on snowshoe. If the storm shapes up to be half as bad as ol' Fincherson's game leg is telling him—and it's never wrong—this one's going to be a doozy. If Jigger's hurt and stoved-up somewhere along the trail, we need to get to him before it hits.”

“I'll gladly do all I can to help find Jigger, but Ned, if you need someone with snowshoe experience and who knows these woods, why are you sending me out? I'm the newest one here. And I have more saddle experience than snowshoe time.”

The man let out a snort of laughter. “Don't let it bother you. You'll be helping me. We're going out together. Frenchy will be in charge of the boys. I've sent half of them back to camp to lay in more firewood, sent a few boys out to scare up some meat, and Frenchy's cooking up a storm. Those skoocooms all but cleaned us out of food stores. And now that Jigger's team come back only half-filled, as if someone had cherry-picked through it—we need all the food we can get.”

“Especially if there's a storm coming.”

“Yep.”

Slocum was only too glad to get a respite from his work. He enjoyed the steady, mindless labor of lopping off branches, big and small, but after a few hours, it truly was numbing. His arms ached and he suspected, despite the full days the men seemed to be putting in, that he was working twice as hard as everyone else. Well, no, he knew that wasn't really the case, but he couldn't help thinking it. He also was about ready to eat a whole side of beef himself.

As if the mere thought of the word “skoocoom” was enough to conjure up sounds from the beasts, roars and howls erupted from the dark woods on each side of the trail. Ned and Slocum exchanged raised-eyebrow looks, then Slocum gathered his gear and climbed onto the sledge.

With his pipe clamped fiercely between his teeth, Ned whipped the two-horse team into a mane-flying frenzy. But it didn't seem enough to outdistance them from the source of the sounds. Nor did it outrun the rocks and chunks of snow-crusted branches that rained down on them from either side.

It had been more than a day since anyone at the camp had heard from or seen signs of the creatures, but now it seemed they were making a comeback—and from the sounds of it, they were lining both sides of the trail.

Only after a few hundred yards did the sledge begin to outdistance the eerie sounds. By the time the men reached the camp, the howls had become nothing but a ringing memory. And one more thing that made Slocum wonder just what he'd gotten himself into.

“It's shaping up to be a real a corker, make no mistake, Slocum. One thing we got going for us is . . . you.”

“Me?” Slocum stared at Ned, his confidence waning by the second. “I thought you were going out there, too.”

“Oh, I am, but though I know these woods and this here river valley, I don't have a clue as to how to track a man.”

“To tell you the truth, Ned, tracking a man in the snow isn't all that difficult.” Slocum helped Frenchy stuff the last of the provisions they'd need into the pack basket, then cinched the canvas cover down tight and gave it a few extra knots for safekeeping. It wouldn't do to have their food spill out should he take a tumble on the snowshoes. He'd been on the things a few times in his years roving the West, but never in such terrain, and mixed with a manhunt.

“We'll take the black team downtrail back toward town,” said Ned. “That's a good stretch. I'm hoping he'll be somewhere along there, maybe the boys missed him the first time through. But you know what my old father used to say about hope, don't you?”

“I have no idea,” said Slocum, “but I'm beginning to see why you and Jigger get along so well.”

“Who says we get along? I can't stand the man.” Ned laughed. “But then again, he probably can't stand me either. Heh heh.”

“So what did your father used to say?”

“Oh, about hope? He'd say, ‘Hope in one hand, fill t'other with rocks, and see which fills up faster.'”

“I think I would have liked your father.”

“Nah, he was worse than Jigger.”

“Oh, I see.” Slocum couldn't help smiling. “So are we ready then?”

“Yep, the boys'll have the team watered and fed and rigged. Anson will man the team—that way he can bring them back here if need be. Or on to town, and we can hoof it back.”

On their journey down the mountainside, they took the same primary log-driving trail that Slocum had used to get to the Tamarack.

As they slid downtrail, the horses, while not the match of Jigger's Belgians, were powerful pulling beasts, up to the task of hauling loads of logs a whole lot heavier than three men and a bit of gear. The wind came directly at them, funneled through the trough the road had formed in the vale of pines. Slocum felt its cold sting on his cheeks, just above his beard. He kept his mouth clenched tight, but soon he had to rewrap the wool scarf he'd been wearing nearly around the clock, so cold and biting had the temperatures become.

“We're coming close to where the boys say they backtracked and claim they saw sign in the snow as if Jigger had stopped—or someone had stopped the team. I dunno, all we can do is try.”

Slocum nodded. “It's as good a place as any to start. We need to get cracking, because nightfall is coming—and sooner in the mountains. And this storm, as you say, is fixing to be a doozy. Once the snow starts for real, following any tracks will be that much more difficult.”

But it was still another mile or so until they spotted the “corner boulder,” as the men referred to it, because the big gray stone marked a turn in the mountain trail. As Anson slowed the team to a halt before the rock, Slocum hopped down onto the packed road surface. Following each snow, Jigger sent a team of horses and men to drag a snow roller along the surface of the trail to help keep it passable by packing the fresh white stuff atop the old.

It worked pretty well, and the newest skin of snow provided Slocum with a fresh set of confusing tracks. As he bent low to study them, he noted a number of what appeared to be huge wolflike tracks, as well as men's boots and horse prints. Then farther off to the side of the trail, the uphill, mountain valley side, he found snowshoe tracks, made by at least two men, perhaps three—it was difficult to tell, as they were hampered by new falling snow.

“We best get going,” said Slocum, pointing into the woods. “Tracks lead that way and there's no time to lose.”

Ned nodded and cupped his hands, yelled back to Anson, waiting at the sledge twenty feet away. “Give us ten minutes. If we don't return, you best head back.” He turned to Slocum with raised eyebrows, as if to have Slocum verify what he'd just told the young logger with the team.

“That sounds fair,” said Slocum, and Ned turned back toward the waiting teamster for confirmation. The man waved back and gave a vigorous nod.

Slocum bent close to Ned's ear and said, “These tracks weren't made by one man. There were at least two, and on snowshoes. I may be wrong, but all sign points to Jigger having been taken.”

“Hellfire!” said Ned. “And I bet I know just who's behind it.”

“It wouldn't be that Whitaker character, would it?”

“The one and only. I'll fill you in on more about the situation later. I expect you've been kept in the dark long enough.”

Slocum wanted to say, “Mighty big of you,” but he held his tongue. Maybe they all had good reason for being secretive. Maybe it wasn't anything more than loyalty to Jigger and a respect for keeping the man's affairs private. It didn't really matter to him just now so much as wanting to do all he could to make sure Jigger and his captors, if that was what the situation was, were tracked and found. And fast.

As if to punctuate that thought, a stray, bold gust of icy wind snaked in from the road and buffeted the two men. It pressed their heavy wool mackinaws tight to their backs, made them pull their collars tighter around their faces. Slocum finished strapping on his snowshoes, checked that Ned had done the same, then led the way, bent forward to the task at hand.

Slocum hustled, making as much time as he could following the tracks before he lost light and the tracks to snow. He had no worries about Ned keeping up with him, as the man spent a good deal of time in the contraptions. Slocum was pleased to note that he himself kept upright and didn't falter too much. The trail was easy to follow, but dark was descending.

Soon the hidden land sloped upward and their pace slowed. He gazed farther upslope and saw that their trail cut switchbacks up a steep rise out in the open, some of it uncovered with snow, the white layer having slumped to reveal a talus slope beneath. That gave the pursued away. Slocum had seen such indications plenty of times. Without weight such as from a sheep or a man to undermine the snow, it was unlikely that the layer would have slid of its own accord.

He nodded toward the slope and Ned returned the nod, no doubt seeing the same thing. But then Slocum could see that the trail cut up and over the ridge.

“What's beyond that ridge?”

Ned rubbed a mitten over his beard, softening the ice crystals formed there. “Got a boulder field there, then she picks back on up there where we can't see, with trees and such.” He reached for his pipe, but he'd tucked it away in an inner coat pocket when they'd begun their trek. He grinned. “Habit.”

Slocum nodded, then having caught his breath, he plunged on ahead. Had to make time before the light dwindled. He wasn't worried about himself and Ned—they had plenty of provisions and Ned was a savvy woodsman—but what happened to Jigger? And why?

They managed to make it to the top of the scree slope, and once they broke out of the tree cover, they gained visibility. The snowshoe tracks, three sets for certain, continued down the other side and on up to the next.

Slocum sped up his pace and just behind him he heard Ned shout, “Easy does it, boy. You snap a leg out here and—”

That was all Slocum heard, for a gunshot ripped the darkening, lead gray sky. It had come so close that Slocum heard the buzz as it sliced the air by his head, felt the very movement of air. Instinct caused him to turn, hunching low, a reflexive move honed from years of trailing and tracking and being trailed and tracked himself. He noted with eye-blink speed that his sleeve now bore a smoking gash. He felt no sting, so he knew it was only his woolen coat that had been grazed.

But not so with Ned. He had stopped speaking so abruptly because he had taken that bullet smack-dab in the middle of his forehead. Slocum had no time to do anything more than drop to his knee, crouching low over the older man, hoping against hope that the shot hadn't been fatal—perhaps he'd been somehow miraculously grazed? But his gut knew better.

He had no time for more such thinking because a second, then a third shot whipped in low, spanged off jagged rubble around him. He grabbed Ned by the lapels, shouted, “Ned! Come on, man!”

No response, but Slocum hadn't waited for one. He grabbed the front of the man's coat tighter and hurled them both downslope. They tumbled, side over side, Slocum doing his best to hug tight to the man he'd come to regard highly, even in the short time he had known him.

His goal was a large crag of rock twice the height of a man and three times as wide at the base. This, he hoped, if he had judged the direction from which the bullets had come, would provide protection from the shooters, if not protection from the wind. Anything was possible, but that would be too much to hope for.

First, though, they needed to make it down there in one piece. They tumbled like rag-doll men, legs and arms akimbo, slamming into the slope, collecting snow, and jamming into rocks, before finally colliding with the leading edge of the ragged boulder.

Slocum lay still for a moment, his breath coming in short, gagging gouts. If the bullet hadn't killed Ned, then the tumble surely did. It sure as hell hadn't done Slocum any good, of that he was certain. As rough as it had been, as he began to move, he didn't sense any broken bones. He knew he'd be covered in welts and stiff as a board the next day. But it beat being dead.

“Ned?” He held the man's coat by the front once again and, kneeling, raised the man up in front of him. Aside from a fresh cut on the man's cheek, there was no change, and now Slocum could see with certainty that the shot had killed the man instantly, coring right into his forehead as it had. A small blessing, he thought as he lowered Ned to the ground.

Judging by the fact that the shooter hadn't cranked off another round, Slocum guessed they felt they'd accomplished their task and either scared him off their tail or shot them both. Either way, he figured he was in a world of hurt. Whatever had happened to Jigger—and he presumed the scrappy little man was still alive, because of the three sets of snowshoe tracks—he couldn't worry about him now.

He hoped that he was out of the shooter's sight, because with this weather coming in, he had to make a fire, or strap on a pair of angel wings himself. And as cold as his face and hands and feet were, and as chattery as his choppers were, he had no intention of giving in so easily. He'd make a fire close to the rock face, hunker in, and kill anything that came close. But first, he thought, as the mountain night closed quickly, he'd have to figure out how much of their goods from the pack baskets had spilled out onto the snow on the way downslope.

He knew he had lost a snowshoe, and he'd heard a lot of loud clattering—he hoped it hadn't been his rifle snapping in half. But beyond that, he had no idea what sort of shape his gear was in.