Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens (16 page)

He came within two paces of Carlos when he heard the rifle shot. It cracked like a bullwhip in the still air and Carlos crumpled to his knees. Blood spurted from a dark hole in his neck. He made a gurgling sound and clutched his throat. The reins dropped from his hand.

Slocum saw a shadow off to the south. The shadow became a running man. Sunlight glinted off the stock of the Henry rifle. Slocum recognized the weapon as an old Yellow Boy, .44-40.

He knelt down to see about Carlos.

Carlos tried to speak, but bubbles of blood came out of his mouth instead of words. His eyes went wide and wild as he gazed into the blue sky where his eternity lay.

Slocum crouched low and watched Carlos's eyes cloud over with the frost of death. He twitched once and then was still.

Juan emerged from behind the stable, a rifle raised to bring to his shoulder.

Slocum clawed for his dangling reins as Ferro turned in a hard tight circle.

“Do you see him, Juan?” Slocum called out.

“I see him. But he run away.”

“I'll go after him. You keep watch here.”

Slocum pulled on the reins and stopped Ferro's restless circling. He climbed into the saddle. From his vantage point, he saw a man mount a horse and then ride over a small rise, away from the house.

Swain ran out of the house, saw Carlos lying next to the corral, and yelled at Slocum. Slocum had Ferro in a gallop and did not hear Swain call out.

He headed for a puff of dust just beyond a sloping rise in the land. He loosened his rifle in its scabbard, but let it stay in the boot.

Just before topping the rise, Slocum turned Ferro and headed on a southward path. He would either cut off the bushwhacker's escape or be able to see him before the man could get off another shot.

He topped the rise and was dismayed to see no sign of the rider. Instead, there was a deep arroyo, signs of previous flash flooding, and the shooter had disappeared somewhere in the gully.

He reined up Ferro and came to a halt.

He cupped a hand to his ear and listened.

Nothing.

Not a sound. Not the scrape of an iron hoof on stone, nor the crunch of gravel or sand. Just the low keening of a northwesterly breeze. And nothing in sight but sagebrush and cactus, mute rocks, and miles of empty sandy land.

A slight shiver ran up Slocum's spine.

Whoever had shot Carlos probably meant to shoot
him
. He thought back. He was close to Carlos when the shot rang out. In fact, Carlos had been between him and the gunman. There was no reason to kill Carlos. But someone had a reason to kill Slocum.

And whoever it was, was damned smart and knew the lay of the land.

Slocum nudged Ferro with his blunt spurs and eased the horse into the shallow arroyo. He stared ahead, but also kept glancing up to the skyline. And he watched his back-trail, just in case the shooter meant to outfox him and come up from behind.

Then he heard a noise ahead of him.

Slocum drew his pistol.

A horse was galloping toward him. The sounds became louder and louder.

Slocum cocked the hammer back and waited, hunched over behind Ferro's neck like a crouching mountain lion.

The riderless horse, a sorrel gelding, rounded a slight bend in the arroyo and headed straight for Slocum. Its stirrups flapped like leather pennants, and its ears lay flat as if it were on the attack.

Just before the horse reached him, Slocum heard a loud long whistle. The horse skidded to a stop and wheeled in a tight circle, then raced back around the bend and disappeared from sight.

Slocum ducked just before he heard the resounding crack of a Henry rifle. The bullet made a whoosh just over his head. Atop the ridge, he saw a man rise from a prone position. Sunlight glinted golden off the Henry's receiver, shooting a blinding shaft of light straight into Slocum's eyes.

He pulled his pistol from its holster, but knew the man was out of range. It would even have been a tough rifle shot, because the man turned and ran and the split second of opportunity was gone.

Slocum marveled at the sorrel gelding. It was obviously well trained. It had performed its task like a circus animal. Which might mean that its owner was pretty smart, too.

And a crack shot. One second longer, had he been sitting tall in the saddle, he would have caught that .44-caliber bullet and lost part of his head, the part that saw and thought. It was a close call.

He turned Ferro and galloped out of the gully. He rounded the opening and rode up to the ridge. He was hunched low over the pommel of his saddle, just in case the rifleman was lying in wait farther along the ridge. He kept Ferro at a quick walk, and peered along his neck and mane, watching for any sudden movement, any sign of man or horse.

He heard the muffled sounds of hoofbeats, but couldn't locate where they were coming from, either at the far end of the ravine or somewhere beyond a rise up on the ridge. He peered down at the spot where the man had lain when he fired off that last shot, and saw where the ground had been disturbed by boot tracks and flattened by a man's weight between two clumps of sagebrush and Spanish bayonets. He followed the running tracks, his pistol at the ready, cocked and in his right hand.

He heard another whistle and then more hoofbeats. They came from the far end of the gully, where the sun gilded the rocks and splayed beams along a wide flat space where the ground had been ravaged by a violent flood sometime in the past year.

Off to the left of the flood plain there was a jumbled pile of rocks that formed a small hillock. Slocum headed for that spot, an idea forming in his mind. He rode up to it and then circled it. Then, he rode Ferro to a bowl-like depression some yards away. He dismounted and ground-tied the horse to a clump of sagebrush. He slipped his Winchester '74 from its boot and walked back to the pile of rocks.

There, he set the rifle between two rocks, pointing it at the arroyo. He took off his hat and placed it on a higher pile just behind where he had placed his rifle. He drew his knife and cut some sagebrush, then carefully dragged it over his tracks leading away from the rock pile. He circled back to a low point in the land overlooking the rock pile and lay down in a narrow hollow overgrown with sagebrush and prickly pear cactus flanked by stands of yucca. He drew his pistol and lay with it in his outstretched hand. Sand and small pebbles burrowed into his legs and chest. He breathed the fine dust through his nostrils until the disturbed ground had settled.

He waited and he listened. He imagined himself as part of the landscape, lying perfectly still, much as a startled jackrabbit would hop to a large rock or clump of brush and freeze there, making itself virtually invisible.

Soon he heard the soft crunch of gravel with a slight ring to it. A horse, walking very slowly, somewhere down in the arroyo. He heard his own slow breathing, and he slowly eased the hammer back on his Colt, squeezing the trigger slightly to avoid the telltale click of the hammer cocking back. He relaxed his hand around the grip and let the pistol rest in the palm of his left hand.

A few moments later the sound of the horse ascending the slight slope leading from the gully grew louder.

Slocum waited and watched. He did not move his head or any part of his body.

The rider emerged from the arroyo. He and his horse moved with caution. The man slumped over his saddle horn, presenting a low silhouette. But Slocum could see him clearly. The man reached the plain and looked on both sides of his horse. He reined up and then sat up straight in the saddle.

Slocum, without moving his head, shifted his gaze to take in the pile of rocks, his stationary rifle, and his hat resting on a rock that filled its crown and was in no danger of blowing away with any sudden gust of breeze.

The man on the sorrel turned his head and surveyed the desolate land all around him.

As Slocum watched, the man slipped his Yellow Boy from its sheath and cocked it.

He rode closer to the rock pile, guiding his horse with his knees.

He halted the horse and brought the rifle to his shoulder. He bent his head and nestled his cheek against the stock, taking careful aim at the black hat Slocum had placed for a decoy.

The Yellow Boy spoke with a loud explosion. There was the crack of the bullet leaving the muzzle at a high rate of speed and then the whisper of its flight.

Slocum's hat flew in the air. Rocks crackled as they broke under the impact. Pieces of it sprayed out in a triangular arc, and the echo of the muzzle blast faded in the morning air.

The shooter kicked his spurs into his horse's flanks and laid the rifle across his lap. He headed straight for the pile of rocks. His path would take him within a few feet of where Slocum lay in hiding.

Slocum judged the distance and gauged the spot where he would make his move. The man did not look anywhere but straight ahead at the rocky hillock.

His mistake
, Slocum thought.

When the rider came within a dozen feet of where Slocum lay, he slowly raised his gun hand and took aim at a point just behind the horse's right leg, just above its rib cage.

He held his breath, sighted down the barrel until the rear sight was centered by the front blade. He squeezed the trigger. The pistol roared with the explosion and the recoil slammed the grip against the palm of Slocum's hand.

He scrambled to his feet. He holstered his gun and drew his knife as the horse staggered and its legs turned rubbery. Great gouts of red blood spurted from its wound and it staggered sideways before it fell in a heap. Its heavy body made a loud thud. The rider tumbled from the saddle and screamed when the horse's flank crashed down on his foot.

As Slocum rushed up and jumped over the horse, knife in hand, Adler pushed off the ground and stood up.

“Were you looking for me?” Slocum asked as he closed on Adler.

Adler's eyes were fixed on the knife in Slocum's hand and he drew his own.

“If you're Slocum,” the man said with a snarl.

“I am,” Slocum said and slashed at Adler's belly.

Adler backed up, the blade tip just barely missing him, and began to stalk Slocum in a tight small circle.

The two men, arms extended, flashed their knives and parried for position with empty slashes designed both to intimidate and keep the other at bay.

Slocum feinted to his right and Adler turned to meet the thrust that never came.

Instead, Slocum rushed to his left and kept running past Adler after leaving a gash in his shirt that drew blood from his flesh just above his belt line.

Adler did not cry out. He only grunted and steeled himself against the pain. He twisted to go after Slocum.

Slocum had not only flanked Adler, but circled to the man's left side and charged at him again. Adler turned to fend off the attack with Slocum's knife.

Slocum waved his knife, but he slammed a left hook into Adler's jaw that turned the man's head a good forty-five degrees and made his eyes cross. A pale red stain appeared on Adler's jaw and he shook off the shock of the sudden pain and lashed out at the retreating Slocum with jabs and wild arcs that fell short of their intended mark.

The sun glinted off Adler's blade, a large Bowie knife, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel on both sides of the blade. It was a formidable weapon, much larger than Slocum's blade, but awkward to handle in a close knife fight.

“My horse you killed, Slocum,” Adler snarled. “For that, I kill you.”

“Hated to shoot your horse,” Slocum panted, out of breath. “You deserved it more than he did.”

“Son of a whore,” Adler spat. Then he lunged at Slocum, his blade drawn back waist-level so that he could thrust the knife straight into Slocum's gut.

Slocum danced away, his belly drawn in.

Adler's momentum carried him a few feet past Slocum. Adler stumbled to regain his footing and swing back around for another parry. Slocum followed him and chopped Adler in the back of his neck.

Adler staggered and his knees buckled. He turned and sliced an uppercut with his knife.

Too late. Slocum drove in, avoiding the upthrust of Adler's Bowie, and jabbed the man just above his belt buckle.

Slocum buried his knife to the hilt. Adler grunted and bent over. Slocum twisted the knife and ripped a hole in the outlaw's stomach. Slocum pushed downward as he withdrew his blade and the honed edge cut into a part of Adler's intestine. A foul odor spewed from the wound in a gust of steamy and putrid gas.

Adler gasped in pain. Blood and stomach matter seeped through the hole in his belly. A blue coil of intestine pushed through the slit and gave off a terrible stench.

“You swine,” Adler hissed.

Slocum watched the man sway back and forth, his legs giving way beneath him as if they had turned to molten rubber.

“Ah, I die so slow,” Adler breathed.

He collapsed to his knees just as Swain rode up at a gallop, his pistol in hand.

“That the man who killed Carlos?” he asked as he reined his horse to a stop.

Adler sank to his knees. His Bowie knife slipped from his grasp and he held his bleeding innards with both hands, a wild look in his eyes.

“Shoot me,” Adler said. “I know I die.”

“Way too sudden, stranger,” Slocum said. “I want you to think about your miserable wasted life.”

“I am Gustav Adler.”

“I know who you are,” Swain said.

“You used to be Gustav Adler,” Slocum said. “Now, you're nothing but a piece of shit.”

Adler's eyes flashed for one last time and then the blueness paled to a dull frost and there was a gurgle in his throat as he tried to speak, tried to draw in one more breath.