Slocum and the Thunderbird (19 page)

The storm moved closer but never dropped the rain promised by the gusty wind. Slocum rode through the night and just at dawn found the road to Overton well south of Wilson's Creek. He tried to remember how the wagon he and Linc Watson had ridden in bounced about, but he gave up when he realized he had come as close to passing out as a man could without actually losing consciousness. He had slept so heavily the bumps and potholes in the road had meant nothing to him, even as the wheel had begun working its way off.

The road turned steep as it wound into a low range of hills that mimicked their larger brothers to the east. The strata showed the distinctly colored bands so common throughout the Badlands. His horse strained to make the grade, forcing Slocum to dismount and walk the gelding up. He had kept the other horse in reserve should he need to make a quick getaway, but the men in Wilson's Creek had discovered a new problem in the night.

He thought the water released from behind the dam had flooded part of the town. All the better to destroy yet another section of Mackenzie's domain.

Slocum huffed and puffed as he hiked uphill, then he slowed and finally stared at the ditch alongside the rocky road. He let out a heartfelt laugh. The wagon would have tipped upward, causing anything in the rear to slide out. He had been asleep and clinging to the side of the wagon. Linc Watson likely had slid out here.

So had the gold dust. Lying in the ditch, half covered with dirt and debris carried by the wind, the bag holding a king's ransom beckoned to him. He brushed it off and tried to lift the bag, only to find he lacked the strength.

Working open the lacing on the top, he peered inside. The familiar smaller leather bags filled it to the brim. Sitting cross-legged, he pulled the leather cord from one and tipped a bit of the gold dust into his palm. The wind whipped it away. It caught on a rising wind current and turned the air golden. He laughed even harder now. He was a rich man, and he had done it at Mackenzie's expense.

Slocum sobered when he realized that wasn't true. This dust had been pulled from the mine by slave labor. Those working to make the mercury-gold amalgam had been driven crazy by the fumes. How many had died for this hundred pounds of gold at his feet could never be told.

He wound the leather strip back around the bag. He would figure out later how to repay those who had survived Mackenzie's predation. First he had to get to Overton. From there a telegram to the army might ensure a troop descending on Wilson's Creek and routing Mackenzie's men.

He considered how best to carry the gold and finally divided the larger bag into two sections, slinging it over the back of his spare horse. The wind spooked the horse and made it difficult for him to secure the bag, even using lengths of rope taken from his lariat.

Then he froze. On the rising wind came a distant sound he thought far behind him. His hand went to his six-shooter as the
whoosh!
of wings drowned out the wind.

A shadow passed over him, then turned to a tiny dot in the storm-cloudy sky. He went into a crouch, six-gun aimed high at Mackenzie as he banked and came hurtling down like an arrow. Slocum fired twice, missed, fired again. Then his six-shooter came up empty.

He was knocked off his feet as Mackenzie pulled parallel to the ground and thrust out his wings. One tip struck Slocum in the face. Then Mackenzie kicked out and planted a boot in Slocum's belly, knocking him to the ground.

Dazed, Slocum struggled to sit up. Then he cried in pain as talons raked his face. Blood spurted from three shallow grooves slashed across his right cheek. He pressed his hand to the wounds, turned right, and then rolled left as fast as he could to avoid a second deadly strike from the fake thunderbird's talons.

“You ruined my town. You let my slaves go free and you stole my gold! You are going to die for this!” Mackenzie let out a maniacal laugh that chilled Slocum's soul. The words were rational but the sounds escaping along with them were pure loco.

“Sorry I couldn't have done worse to you,” Slocum said, scooting along in the dirt. His back pressed against one of the rocks by the road, preventing further retreat.

Mackenzie stalked toward him. The wings snapped back, letting him use his arms freed from the rod and cloth constraints. The sharpened talons glinted in the faint light filtering past the storm clouds. The iron claws flashed when lightning lit the sky. Mackenzie advanced with a curious sliding motion. Slocum saw why. He had fastened talons to his boots, too. What parts of the man that weren't covered with glued-on feathers were deadly with the knife-sharp spikes.

Raking the air back and forth, Mackenzie came closer to Slocum. All he needed was a single hard lunge to impale his victim. Or he could let Slocum bleed to death from dozens of smaller cuts inflicted by the honed edges.

“You will suffer, then I will kill you.” Mackenzie kicked out and caught Slocum in the leg with a spike mounted on his toe. Slocum's leg gave way. He collapsed to the ground.

“I'd like to make you suffer, too, you son of a bitch, but I'll settle for killing your sorry ass!”

Slocum looked past a startled Mackenzie at Erika, aiming a rifle at the man who had held her captive.

“You cannot kill the thunderbird!” Mackenzie cawed like a bird and lunged at her as she pulled the trigger.

Even over the wind, the sound of the hammer falling on a punk cartridge echoed in Slocum's ears. Before Erika could lever in another round, Mackenzie was on her, forcing her to the ground and raising his hand for the killing stroke.

Ignoring the pain in his leg and the cuts on his face, Slocum launched himself through the air and tackled Mackenzie. The two went down in a welter of arms and talons with gaudy feathers flying in all directions, carried away by the storm winds. Slocum held Mackenzie close as they rolled over and over, going down the steep road. To release him now meant instant death. As it was, Mackenzie forced a talon into Slocum's side and sent new waves of pain into his ribs.

Slocum knew what had to be done to stay alive. He had to kill Mackenzie. But he had been battered and beaten and torn up so much that his strength failed him when he needed it most. Worse, Mackenzie's phenomenal upper body strength seemed undiminished. Mackenzie kicked him with a spiked boot and penetrated the leather just above his ankle. Slocum toppled as if a lumberjack had chopped down a tree.

Mackenzie towered above him, lines of madness and anger etching his face. He raised his powerful arms, the talons ready for a killing blow. From higher on the hill Erika cried out. Slocum looked to her, wanting to see her rather than his own death in his last instant.

He blinked and tried to make out what perched on the tall rock beside the road, back where he had found the gold. A screech more terrifying than anything he had ever heard in his life cut through the wind as immense wings spread. The creature dove straight down—heading for Mackenzie.

The madman half turned, saw the approaching juggernaut, and tried to fend it off with his talons. Legs with claws more potent than the puny ones Mackenzie wore cut into his body. Wings flapped powerfully, taking him off his feet. In seconds, his death screams vanished into the wind and thunder. A powerful lightning bolt lit up the sky for an instant, illuminating a gigantic bird with a lifeless body dangling from its claws as it flew away.

Then a sheet of rain marching from the mountains across the road hid the rest of the world.

“John, are you alive?”

“Still kicking,” he told Erika. “You showed up at just the right time.”

“You're not getting rid of me so easily. I told you I'd wait—and that I'd find you somewhere along the Overton road.”

She helped him stand. He needed her support more than he cared to admit. She looked at him, eyes wide with fear. “Did you see that?”

“I didn't see a damned thing,” he said. “Let's take the gold, get to Overton, and hole up for a week in a hotel.”

“Only a week?” she asked, a faint smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

“Maybe two,” he said. “If they have room service.”

Supporting each other, they found their horses and rode through the storm, never thinking to find shelter, because they both wanted to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the real thunderbird.

Watch for

SLOCUM AND THE LONG RIDE

417
th
novel in the exciting SLOCUM series from Jove

Coming in November!