Slocum 419 (17 page)

The nearly full moon cast a pale light over the plain. Every bush, every rock bore a pewter cast, and the road was a ghostly ribbon that stretched into infinity.

Slocum called a halt when he gauged that they had covered nearly ten miles of the sixty-mile ride to Pagosa Springs. He figured that they should be able to make between twelve and fifteen miles a day, but it could very well take them longer since, when the grain ran out, they'd have to let their horses graze, and they'd also have to stop for water at the creeks and springs along the way.

He knew that Clara had to be tired.

Yet so far, she had not complained. The horses seemed to be doing fine now that they were out of the strong winds that had besieged them in the narrow gorge.

Now he saw the building clouds far to the north, clouds that were eating up stars as they blew their way on the heels of the wind that had tormented them when they were down in the gorge.

“Want to stop and rest the horses?” Slocum asked after an hour's riding across the plain.

“I see no reason to stop just yet, John,” she said. She patted her horse's neck. “Horse seems fine. She's not shivering anymore.”

“Are you?” he asked as they rode along.

“Nope. I'm not warm, but I don't have the chilblains no more.”

“You let me know, Clara. We're going to stop anyway in another hour or two, to give our horses some of that grain.”

“That'll be fine,” she said.

He wondered. Clara was tough, but she also had the man who was responsible for the murder of her daughter on her mind. Not to mention the same man who had murdered her husband and abused her for twenty miserable years.

Clara had grit, he decided. And plenty of it.

He had no idea how far ahead Wolf, Hobart, and Jessup were, but they were packing double on one horse and they had left Durango at a full gallop. Their horses were made of sturdy stock, but they would need water and feed. They would also need rest.

He had the feeling that, despite their slow pace, they might be gaining on Wolf. Slowly maybe, a yard or two at a time, but steadily, like the tortoise chasing after the hare.

Another two hours passed. Then Slocum called a halt as he caught a glimpse of something odd on the ground.

“Why are we stopping?” Clara asked.

“I want to light a lucifer and take a look at those tracks,” he said. “You stay put. Catch your breath.”

“I will,” she said.

Slocum stepped down out of the saddle and removed a box of matches from his pocket. He struck one as he squatted down and waved it slowly over the horse tracks of the men he was pursuing. He waddled a ways, with the match still lit, cupped by his hand to shield it from the north wind.

Then he let the match go out and stood up. He walked over to where Clara sat her horse.

“What did you find?” she asked.

“One of the horses is dragging one foot every so often. The other is plowing ground up with its hooves.”

“What does that tell you, John?” she asked.

“It tells me that their horses are tiring. Tiring fast.”

“And so?”

“So unless they want their horses to founder in another ten or twenty miles, Wolf is going to have to stop and give those horses a rest.”

“He won't stop,” she said.

“He's not that stupid, is he?” Slocum looked up at her face, which was still bundled with her scarf up to her nostrils.

“He doesn't care about horses or people. He'd ride a horse to death if it would get him where he wanted to go.” Her words were muffled through the scarf, but Slocum understood every word.

“He'd have a good forty miles on foot if he does that,” Slocum said. “That would be stupid.”

“Well, he might stop. He's not stupid, John. Wolf is a very clever man. Cruel, but clever.”

“So many of them are,” he said. “I've known clever men who could have made a living legitimately, but some twist in their thinking, or in their brains, makes them turn to crime.”

“Like Wolf,” she said.

“Yeah, like Wolf. Exactly.”

He mounted Ferro and clucked to him. He did not have to touch his blunted spurs to his flanks. Ferro stepped out like the obedient steed he was, and they rode on, still at that slow, relentless pace.

They stopped at the same creek where Wolf had watered their horses. Both he and Clara walked around to restore circulation in their cold legs while the two horses snuffled and slobbered in the stream, drinking the water slow, seeming to enjoy the brief respite. When they were halfway through drinking, Slocum poured oats and corn into the crown of his hat and fed each one.

Then the horses drank again.

“You didn't give them much grain,” Clara said as they both remounted their horses.

“Just enough fuel to get them a few more miles. If we don't catch up with Wolf by dawn, we'll have to make camp. Give the horses and ourselves a rest.”

“Will you cuddle me?” she said. “In your bedroll.”

“We could exchange some warmth, yes,” he said with a wicked smile.

“I could use some sleep,” she said as she rubbed her eyes.

“And some cuddling?”

“Yes, just what a woman needs.”

“Don't leave out the man. Men need cuddling every once in a while, too.”

“I had no idea,” she said.

“Like hell you didn't, Clara. If ever there was a woman who knew what a man needed, it's you.”

“Why, that's very nice of you to say, John. I'm pleased. You make me feel like a real woman.”

“You are a real woman,” he said.

The sky lightened and the eastern horizon changed into a mother-of-pearl glow, spreading a pale light over the rocky, bush-dotted plain. The mountaintops glistened a brilliant white as if they had been freshly painted, or scrubbed. The air was invigorating despite the increased intensity of the wind.

To the north, Slocum saw the bulging elephantine clouds, black as the inside of a deep underground cave. In the distance, they both heard the bass tympanic notes of thunder that rumbled clear to the mountains.

“Storm's coming soon,” Slocum said. “You got a slicker in your saddlebags?”

“I sure do,” she said.

“Better break it out. From the sound of that thunder, I'd say we have less than a half hour before we're hit by a wall of rain.”

She reached back and opened one of her saddlebags. She withdrew a blue slicker that was wadded up into a tight ball. She shook it out and her mare shied and sidestepped at the unexpected sight and sound.

Slocum removed a black slicker from his saddlebag and slipped it on as they rode on into the pale glow of the eastern sky.

He stood up in his stirrups to gaze far ahead of them. Where the road disappeared, he saw something yellow. He judged the distance to be a little more than two miles.

He eased himself back into the saddle and looked over at Clara, who was buttoning her raincoat.

“They're not far ahead of us,” he said.

She turned swiftly to look at him.

“What?”

“I see a flash of yellow slickers up ahead. Just on the rim of the horizon. That's Wolf and his boys. Has to be.”

She felt her pulse quicken. “Are you sure?”

“Unless the prairie is blossoming in great big yellow leaves, yes.”

She stood up in her stirrups. She caught just a glimpse of the yellow slickers and then they disappeared over the horizon.

“I saw them,” she said. “At least I saw something.”

“Steady. That storm's going to hit us before we catch up to them.”

He looked down at the ground. The horse tracks showed him that both horses were scuffing the ground with the front of their hooves. They were tired and not making much speed. Usually, the hoofprints would have been distinct, but these were moiled and left clumps of dirt and scrapes where they dragged the ground.

Ten minutes later, they saw jagged streaks of lightning, and thunder boomed with concussive effect. The wind picked up, and then the rain suddenly drenched them in a glimmering sheet. Tails sprouted beneath the black clouds, and there was a dimming of the light as the clouds began to block the rising sun.

“What do we do now?” Clara asked above the roar of thunder.

“Catch up to them,” Slocum said.

She huddled down when the rain hit. In moments they were drenched.

“Let's see what our horses can do,” he said, and touched spurs to Ferro's flanks. The horse stepped out in a desultory trot. Clara followed him on her Rose.

They gained ground on Wolf. When they had gone a mile, they saw the yellow slickers ahead of them, less than half a mile away.

“There they are,” Clara said, pointing a rain-soaked glove at the trio on horseback.

“Time for a showdown,” Slocum said, and slowed Ferro to a walk.

The riders ahead seemed like blind men groping for a way out of an unfamiliar room.

The rain sounded loud on their slickers. Lightning flashed in crooked staircases within the low black clouds. Thunder roared in their ears and seemed to shake the ground.

They came within a hundred yards of Wolf, Hobart, and Jessup.

Slocum drew his rifle from its scabbard and levered a cartridge into the chamber. He rested the barrel across the arch of his pommel, next to his saddle horn.

The riders ahead of them stopped. They turned their horses and waited.

The heavy rain drowned out most of the sound.

Slocum saw the man on the lone horse raise his hands to his mouth.

“That you, Slocum?” Wolf shouted above the sound of the hammering rain.

Slocum held one hand to his mouth and drew in on Ferro's reins.

“It's me, Wolf. Your time is up.”

“Like hell it is, you sonofabitch.”

Clara snaked her rifle from its sheath. She levered a cartridge out of the magazine and into the firing chamber.

“Who you got with you, Slocum?” Wolf called.

Slocum said nothing, but looked at Clara.

“It's me, you bastard—Clara,” she shouted.

Wolf roared with sarcastic laughter.

“You got a little old gal to help you, Slocum? You must wear panties, too.”

Slocum eased Ferro into a slow walk with a touch of his spurs and a squeeze from both knees. The horse moved like a black wraith toward the three men.

Jessup climbed down from Hobart's horse and started to run down the road, slicker flapping in the wind behind him.

“Slap leather, Wolf, or throw up your hands,” Slocum ordered. He slid the barrel of his rifle from the pommel and pointed the muzzle downward.

“You're damned right, Slocum. You're at the end of your damned road.” Hobart twisted in his saddle as he drew his pistol.

Wolf drew his own weapon from the holster snugged to his right leg.

Slocum put the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at Hobart, who was cocking his pistol as he raised it to his eye level.

Slocum aligned the rear buckhorn sight with the front blade sight, and when it settled on Hobart's heart, he squeezed the trigger.

The rifle blared a roaring thunder of its own and the stock bucked against Slocum's shoulder. Smoke poured from the muzzle in a shower of bright red and orange sparks. The smoke evaporated into the pouring rain.

Hobart buckled in his saddle and slumped forward.

Wolf fired his pistol at Slocum.

Slocum heard the sizzle of the bullet as it creased the air a few inches from his left ear. He levered another cartridge into the chamber.

His sights found Wolf's chest and he lowered them slightly before he took in a breath, held it, and gently squeezed the trigger.

Wolf”s pistol fell out of his hand to the ground, splashed in a rainy puddle alongside him. His horse reared up and whinnied.

Wolf slid from his saddle and hit the ground with a splash.

“You got him, John!” Clara cried. “You got that bastard.”

Slocum rearmed his rifle and rode toward Wolf. The man floundered on the soggy ground, tried to rise.

Wolf was still alive.

He groped for his sodden pistol, fingers flexing like the claws of a crab. He touched the butt and his fingers slid off.

Slocum rode up and stood over Wolf's floundering hulk.

Wolf looked up at him, his gun hand still a few inches away from his weapon.

“I wanted to see you hang, Wolf, but this is good enough. You'll die soon. I give you less than five minutes.”

“Fuck you, Slocum,” Wolf spat as blood poured from the hole just below his chest. Gushed. Spurted. There was lots of it. He coughed and tried to rise.

Clara rode up and looked down at her tormentor.

“I hope you burn in hell, Wolf,” she shouted down at him. “Forever and ever.”

“You bitch,” Wolf spat and there was blood on his words and in the spittle that dripped over his lips and down his chin. He coughed and struggled for air as blood got sucked into his windpipe. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out except a final rattle in his throat.

“Is he dead?” Clara asked.

“As a doornail,” Slocum said.

“Good riddance,” she said. Then she spat on Wolf, but the rain left no trace of her spittle.

Hobart was dead, too, his heart splintered and mashed into a bloody pulp. He gazed at nothingness as rain splashed on his open eyes.

Slocum gathered the reins of the two horses and rode a few yards as Clara continued to look down at Wolf's dead body.

“Are you ready to leave?” he called.

“In a minute,” she said.

“I'm not going back to Durango, Clara,” he said when she rode up close. He'd rescued this damsel in distress, and now she was free to make a new life for herself and her daughter. It was time for him to say good-bye.

“What?”

“I'm sorry, but I've got to go. Business. New territory.” He also needed to put some distance between himself and the bitter memories of watching Lacey die and finally losing Amy. Four women—the four damsels of Durango—had been a brief part of his life, but now it was time to ride on.