Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) (3 page)

As he busied himself with what few camp chores were required, Slocum let his mind trail back to the Rocking D and the kindness of the Monktons and Hap. A sudden sneer curled his lip—he should have run off Mueller before he ever got hired. If he'd only known.

But that was the sad thing—Slocum felt he had known that Tunk Mueller had been a bad seed. Knew it from the moment Hap introduced him to the skeletal summer crew. A snapping sound pulled him from his reverie and Slocum spun, keeping low and cocking the Colt Navy even as he snaked it from the holster.

The Appaloosa looked up from the bushes, munching and looking at Slocum as if he were wondering why the man was so skittish. It resumed its feeding, happy to have stopped for the night.

Slocum saw the snapped branches the horse stood on and laughed at himself. If he'd bothered to think about it, Slocum knew that there was little chance of Mueller doing any riding back to investigate who was on his back trail. No, if Mueller knew what was good for him, he'd keep on riding northward. At least, thought Slocum, that's what I'd do.

In short order, he had a half pot of coffee on, and a small batch of biscuits and several slices of bacon in his trail pan, plus enough for a quick, cold breakfast in the morning. Later, after he'd eaten his fill, he stretched out under the clear evening sky.

4

The last thing John Slocum had expected to see the next day—or any day—was a line of naked men lashed tight to fence posts, sagged but still held upright, their sun-popped skin boiled cherry red, bare heads lolled. He reined up beside a raw knob of sandstone and eyed the peculiar scene on the roadside before him. From under his sweat-stained hat brim, his narrowed eyes scanned the tumbledown rocks to his left, but saw no sign of bushwhackers. Whoever did this had probably already moved on. Question was, why did they do it? And how long had these poor fools been this way? His first guess, of course, was that it had been Tunk Mueller who'd done this to them.

All but assuming they were dead men, Slocum kneed the Appaloosa forward at a walk. His right hand rested light upon his thigh, a half second from shucking the sheathed Colt Navy revolver. Caution was never something he could afford to live without, and certainly not while on the trail of a killer.

There had been a part of Slocum that hadn't wanted to take on the tracking job, but in the few seconds it had taken him to decide to go, he had determined that the world would surely be a better place without the likes of Tunk Mueller on the loose. And now here they both were, headed north through Nevada, into a valley that, from the looks of these poor sad cases, Mueller had most definitely been through.

As he approached the five trussed men, he noted that one was older, judging from his bald head fringed with unkempt white hair and long, bedraggled beard the color of storm clouds. He was the man in the center. Then his conversation with the Ortons back in Slaterville came back to him. Could it be this was Old Man Tinker—he thought that's what they called him—the crazy Bible-thumper? What did Orton call him, something about being beyond devout, something about brimstone? He wished now that he'd asked more about the old man and his family, if only so he knew just what he'd found here.

To each side of the old man were propped two other men, each looking younger, though three looked to be in their twenties, and the last man to Slocum's left was barely more than a boy, gangly and less haired than the grown men. Baldness seemed to be creeping up on the others, though their hair was darker than the dirty white mane on the older man in the center.

The men weren't fat, but they were a burly bunch, looked to Slocum as if they hadn't missed too many meals. Their sun-reddened bellies, legs, and arms had bubbled between too many rope wrappings. Whoever had done this had wanted to make sure the men weren't about to follow. But why not just kill them? Seemed an elaborate amount of work to get up to just to rob someone.

Hold on, Slocum, he told himself. You don't know that they were robbed, nor even if they're fully cooked yet. He reined up before them, a runnel of sweat tailed down his spine, reminding him how hot the day had turned. And as if to emphasize the point, one of the men groaned.

Slocum jumped down from the Appaloosa and wrapped the reins over a top rail. It had been the youngster who'd moaned. Slocum knelt before him, looked up at the sunburned and blistered face, lips, and forehead of the boy.

He gingerly lifted the boy's face. “Kid, hey, kid? You're going to be okay. Just hang in there.” Slocum winced at what he said. No time for jokes, Slocum. This is anything but funny. His sheath knife made quick work of the hemp wrappings, and as he sawed through them, careful not to let the boy pitch forward, another moan arose from one of the other men. Then another. Soon, there was a regular chorus of groans rising from the half-dead men.

“Hang on, hang on, I can only tend one at a time.” He talked to them as he cut the ropes, and lowered them each to a prone position on the hard-packed earth. Their backs hadn't fared any better than their fronts—all blistered and redder than any skin should be. The men's hides were steaming hot to the touch.

The old man was the last to moan, so he was the last Slocum cut free. They each sighed in a mix of relief and agony.

As he cut them down, he asked of no one in particular, “What happened here?” His question was met with moans. He tried a more humorous approach. “You don't get many visitors out this way, I take it. Good thing I came along.”

Again, more moans. But then in a low, hoarse whisper, the old man said, “Another came by. Stared at us, then laughed. Took our own water for himself and his horse, none for us . . . robbed us then rode out, laughing. A devil man.”

Slocum nodded, but this scrap of information startled him. It sounded like how Mueller would behave, yet he'd been sure this was Mueller's handiwork in the first place. He'd ask about this stranger later. Maybe he actually was the one who'd tied them up, and they were just confused. It seemed the logical explanation. And it would have been like Mueller to leave these men for whoever was tailing him to deal with, for Slocum had been assuming that Mueller felt he was being followed.

But that still didn't explain who'd done this. If it hadn't been Mueller, then who?

“Hang on there, men. I'll fetch water, then get you inside.” Somehow, he thought. But just how he would accomplish the task, he had no idea. Slocum looked beyond the fence toward a decent-size ranch house, barn, and fenced crops that, despite the searing sun of this remote stretch of Nevada, appeared to be growing well. Must have a decent source of water, he thought.

In short order, he had fetched a bucket of cool water from a well to the side of the house, halfway to the barn. The place looked decently built, tight, and tidily kept. The men all had similar characteristics in build—big, burly, though the youngest was thinner, more like a boy not yet filled out. But they were all obviously related, bearded up though the older four they were. The beards, he guessed, probably helped protect their faces from further burns.

Their bodies were crisscrossed with welts from the ropes and puckered where the ropes had bit into them and forced their flesh to bubble up.

Once he got water drizzled onto their greedy lips—careful not to let them have too much too soon, lest they throw it all up again—Slocum turned his thoughts again to getting the men to the house. A travois, that's what he'd need, then he wouldn't have to heft these beefy lads even if he could find a wagon.

He ran back to the barn, kicked two rails free from the corral fence, and dragged them back to the front fence. The men were beginning to stir, trying to raise themselves up on their elbows, their heads wobbling, still dazed.

Slocum used the ropes he'd cut from them, and lashed together a half-assed rig using his own blanket roll. He began with the old man and worked his way through the five, from what he guessed was youngest to oldest. Before a half hour was up, he had the men transported to the house, saving the youngest for last. The youth surprised him by struggling to his feet with the assistance of the fence, and leaning on Slocum, he managed to walk the distance of several hundred feet to the ranch house. As soon as they reached the shade of the low front porch, the boy sighed.

Slocum spent the next hour fetching water, and with the help of mumbled directions, he found a tub of salve that from its stink appeared to be made of bear grease mixed with something that came out of the south end of a bear. But it seemed to do the trick. He was thankful that by then the men had recovered enough that they were able to smear it on themselves and help each other. Slocum wasn't opposed to helping his fellow man, but greasing up a bulky army of sunburned men had pushed the limits of his charitable efforts for the day.

“So, you fellas related?” said Slocum, knowing the answer, but hoping to get one of them to crack a smile. It didn't work. Despite the fact that he'd saved their lives, they seemed angry, almost hostile in their looks toward him, as if he had somehow been responsible for their plight. He decided not to let them know he'd heard of them in town. Probably a sore subject, and from the looks of their raw, bubbled hides, they had enough to be crabby about.

“They're my boys,” whispered the old man. “I am Rufus Tinker, the head of the family, and they are my sons.”

Where are the women? Slocum wanted to ask, but again, held his tongue. It didn't seem the time for many questions.

As the minutes wore on, the rest of the men were able to talk, in croaking voices at first, then in less strained tones. As minutes turned to an hour, then two, they were also able to shuffle around the house, and soon had pulled on loose-fitting shirts and sagged long underwear. It seemed to make the men feel better to have covered themselves up in front of the stranger.

He didn't press them, but Slocum was curious about their story. It being late in the day, and since he was still unsure if they were fit to take care of themselves, he figured he'd stay the night in the barn. He turned the Appaloosa loose into the corral and helped himself to some of the hay. The barn sat curiously empty save for an old mule whose livelier days were long behind him. He now shuffled about his own paddock off the back of the barn in much the same manner as the burnt men inside the house.

Slocum set his gear in a heap against a wall inside the barn, a decent spot to stretch out for a few nighttime hours. He was frustrated, but there was nothing for it. If he attempted to keep on into dark, he could end up with an injured horse, afoot in the middle of a long way from nowhere. His only consolation was that Mueller would have to do the same.

He headed back to the house and found the men seated gingerly around a big kitchen table. They looked considerably better, given the short amount of time that had passed since he'd freed them. He also noticed, by the looks they shot one another, that these men were angry. And rightfully so, thought Slocum. They'd been robbed, lashed to a fence, and left to die. But something about them and their plight didn't sit right. And the warning bells that he'd felt jangling in the back of his head were gonging louder than ever now. In part because they seemed, as before, angry with him.

“How long ago did that other man come by? I ask because he is a killer and a thief, and I am tracking him. Have been since Arizona.”

The old man's knobbed thumbs worked back and forth with force over the worn brown leather cover of a thick Bible. His lips worked in a frantic, trembling, soundless speech. Slocum found nothing odd in that. Plenty of folks had a Bible around, and especially given what these men had just been through, he figured they might find a bit of comfort in the Good Book. A memory came to him, unbidden, of his mother reading her Bible by lamplight. He shook it off and figured he needed some answers. Before he could speak, the old man mumbled something.

“Pardon me?” said Slocum.

“I say I don't know more about the devil you are chasing,” said Tinker. “Except that he robbed us, took water from us. Never offered us none, nor helped us at all.”

Slocum nodded, mentally adding to Mueller's list the crime of ignoring his fellow men in a time of dire need. Not just ignoring them, but laughing at them, robbing them, before riding on. “Do you have any idea who did this to you?” He gestured toward them, assuming they would know that he was referring to their scarlet bodies.

“It was devil-sent bandits who did this to us.” The old man licked his lips and continued.

Everyone's a devil to this old man, thought Slocum.

Tinker continued. “Tied us up out yonder, took our horses, money, foodstuffs.” The old man glanced at the other four, who sat around the kitchen table looking at their hands, at the tabletop, anywhere, it seemed to Slocum, but meeting the old man's hard gaze. “And they took our womenfolk.”

That last bit surprised Slocum. “How many women?”

“Hah?”

“I said, how many women did they take?”

“Oh, the Good Lord seen fit to give us a woman each, except for Luke there.” He indicated the youngest. “Be a few seasons more 'til he's ready to spread his seed so that he might add to our congregation and bring glory to God by putting more men in His service.” As he spoke, the old man's voice quavered and rose in pitch. He seemed to be working himself up into a lather.

The young boy blushed a deeper crimson through the sunburn. The Ortons hadn't told Slocum that there were people other than the Tinker family out here. Maybe he'd misunderstood them. Or the men might well have sent away for brides, immigrant women from back East.

“And the young'uns,” the old man continued. “I don't rightly recall how many we got now. Too many, I reckon, all girls as they are.”

Slocum didn't respond to the comment, another in what was shaping up to be an odd prejudice by this man against women. He saw the other men trade glances. “How long ago were they taken?”

“Couple of days.”

“You must be anxious to trail them. Do you have any other stock? Anything at all you can ride?”

The old man made a noncommittal noise.

“I've never been on this trail before, so I'm not sure how far the next town is, but when I get there, I'll let the law know—”

The old man slammed a fist down on the table, cutting Slocum off and showing surprising force considering his weakened state. “There will be no law involved in our affairs! The Good Lord has deemed it so!” He turned to the others around the table and looked them each in the eye. Reluctantly they met his gaze. “Are we not men? Are we not made in the image of the Lord?”

They murmured an assent, which apparently wasn't good enough, for he repeated his questions in a louder, tremulous voice, and the four younger men perked up, nodding and meeting his gaze. It was obvious to Slocum that they were in fear of the older man with the flowing white beard.

Then, just as abruptly, Tinker tuned to Slocum, fixed him with what Slocum assumed was supposed to be a fear-inducing, withering glare. “We will deal with this situation ourselves, is that clear to you . . . stranger?”

Stranger, thought Slocum. After I saved your God-fearing backside? “Perfectly clear, forget I mentioned it.” Slocum opened the front door. “And rest assured, I won't let the law know of your . . . predicament.” He looked at each man, then touched his hat brim. “Good luck, boys.”